#and it becomes a source of joy for him >:)

[alltoolewis]

Love through the lens- Lewis hamilton

Requested summary- A professional Formula 1 photographer finds herself caught between love and career when she begins a secret relationship with Lewis Hamilton. What starts as stolen moments and hidden glances evolves into something deeper, but their carefully guarded secret becomes a source of tension when Lewis's insecurities about her motives threaten to destroy everything they've built.

Warnings! Crash

The paddock at Monza buzzes with post-race energy, mechanics wheeling equipment back to the garages while journalists chase down interviews with anyone willing to talk. You adjust the camera strap around your neck, scrolling through the shots you captured during the race on your camera's LCD screen. The Ferrari red stands out brilliantly against the Italian sunshine in every frame, but it's the driver in those shots that makes your pulse quicken slightly.

Lewis Hamilton had driven brilliantly today, securing a podium finish that had the entire Ferrari garage erupting in celebration. You'd been there to capture every moment - the focused intensity in his eyes before the race, the pure joy as he crossed the finish line, the champagne-soaked celebration on the podium. It's what you're paid to do as Ferrari's official photographer, but lately, the lines between professional admiration and something more personal have begun to blur.

"Great shots today," comes a familiar voice behind you. You turn to find Lewis approaching, his race suit unzipped to his waist, revealing the fireproof undershirt beneath. His hair is still damp with sweat, and there's a satisfied smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"You gave me plenty to work with," you reply, holding up your camera. "That overtake on lap thirty-seven was incredible. I got the whole sequence."

Lewis steps closer, close enough that you can smell his cologne mixed with the lingering scent of racing fuel and rubber. "Show me?"

You flip through the images on your camera's screen, Lewis leaning in to look over your shoulder. His proximity sends a familiar warmth through your chest, the same feeling that's been growing stronger with each race weekend you spend together.

"These are brilliant," he says, his voice low and appreciative. "You really have an eye for this."

"It helps when the subject knows what he's doing," you tease, glancing up at him.

The moment stretches between you, charged with an undercurrent that's been building for weeks. Lewis's eyes meet yours, and you see something there that mirrors what you've been feeling - attraction, curiosity, possibility.

"Listen," he says, running a hand through his hair, "the team's having drinks at that place near the hotel tonight. You should come."

"I don't know," you hesitate. "Won't it be weird? I mean, I work for the team, but I'm not really part of the inner circle."

"You're part of my circle," Lewis says, and the way he says it makes your stomach flutter. "Come on. One drink. What's the worst that could happen?"

Famous last words, you think to yourself, but you find yourself nodding anyway. "Okay. One drink."

The bar is dimly lit and crowded with Ferrari personnel, mechanics and engineers unwinding after a successful race weekend. You nurse a glass of wine in the corner, watching Lewis hold court with some of the senior team members. He's animated, gesturing as he recounts some moment from the race, and you can't help but smile at his enthusiasm.

"He's something else, isn't he?"

You turn to find Marco, one of the mechanics, sliding into the seat beside you. He's young, maybe your age, with kind eyes and an easy smile.

"He's a good driver," you say diplomatically.

"That's not what I meant," Marco grins. "I've seen the way you look at him when you're taking pictures. And the way he looks at you."

Heat rises in your cheeks. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't," Marco laughs. "It's okay, you know. Half the paddock has a crush on Lewis Hamilton. You'd be crazy not to."

Before you can respond, Lewis appears at your table, slightly unsteady on his feet. "Marco! How's it going, mate?"

"Good, Lewis. Great race today."

"Thanks, man." Lewis's attention turns to you, his eyes slightly unfocused from the alcohol. "And you. You disappeared on me."

"I've been right here," you say, amused by his slightly drunk state.

"Dance with me," Lewis says suddenly, extending his hand.

"Lewis, there's no dance floor."

"There is now," he grins, pulling you to your feet.

The small space between tables becomes your dance floor, Lewis's hands finding your waist as you sway to the music playing from the bar's speakers. He's warm and solid against you, and when he leans down to speak in your ear, his breath sends shivers down your spine.

"I've been wanting to do this all season," he murmurs.

"Dance badly in a crowded bar?" you tease.

"Be close to you," he says, more serious now despite the alcohol in his system.

The song changes to something slower, and Lewis pulls you closer. You can feel the eyes of your colleagues on you, but in this moment, you don't care. His hand slides up to cup the back of your neck, his thumb tracing small circles on your skin.

"Lewis," you whisper, not sure if it's a warning or an invitation.

"I know," he says. "I know this is complicated. But I can't stop thinking about you."

The confession hangs between you, heavy with possibility and consequence. You're both tipsy enough to be honest, sober enough to know what you're doing.

"Your hotel or mine?" you hear yourself asking.

Lewis's room is on the top floor, with a view of the Italian countryside that you barely notice as he closes the door behind you. The alcohol has made you both bold, but there's a tenderness in the way he touches you that suggests this means more than just a drunken hookup.

"Are you sure about this?" he asks, his hands framing your face.

Instead of answering with words, you kiss him. He tastes like champagne and possibility, and when he kisses you back, it's with a hunger that's been building for months.

The night unfolds in a blur of whispered words and gentle touches, Lewis's hands mapping every inch of your skin like he's memorizing you. When you wake up the next morning, tangled in hotel sheets with sunlight streaming through the windows, reality crashes back in.

Lewis is still asleep beside you, his face peaceful in the morning light. You slip out of bed quietly, gathering your clothes from where they were hastily discarded the night before. You're almost dressed when his voice stops you.

"Leaving without saying goodbye?"

You turn to find him propped up on one elbow, watching you with an unreadable expression.

"I thought it might be easier," you admit.

"Easier for who?"

You sit on the edge of the bed, suddenly unsure of yourself. "Lewis, last night was... it was amazing. But we work together. This could complicate things."

Lewis sits up, the sheet pooling around his waist. "It doesn't have to be complicated."

"Doesn't it? I'm Ferrari's photographer. You're Ferrari's driver. If this goes wrong—"

"Who says it has to go wrong?" Lewis interrupts. "Look, I'm not asking you to marry me. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't want this to happen again."

You study his face, looking for any sign that he's just saying what he thinks you want to hear. But Lewis has always been direct, sometimes brutally honest, and you can see that he means what he's saying.

"What are you suggesting?" you ask.

"I'm suggesting we see where this goes. No pressure, no expectations. Just... us, figuring it out as we go."

It's not exactly a traditional relationship proposal, but then again, nothing about your situation is traditional. You're both adults, both professionals who can separate work from personal life. At least, you hope you can.

"Okay," you say finally. "But we keep this between us. At least until we figure out what this is."

Lewis grins, reaching for your hand. "Deal. Now come back to bed. We don't fly out until this afternoon."

The next few weeks fall into a pattern that's both thrilling and terrifying. During race weekends, you maintain your professional relationship - you take pictures, he drives, and no one suspects that you're sharing hotel rooms and stolen moments between practice sessions.

It's in Hungary that things shift slightly. You're in Lewis's motorhome between practice sessions, supposedly reviewing photos from the morning session, when he pulls you onto his lap.

"Lewis," you protest halfheartedly, "someone could come in."

"Door's locked," he murmurs against your neck. "And I've been thinking about you all morning."

His hands slide under your Ferrari polo shirt, and you forget all about the photos on your laptop screen. It's only when there's a knock on the door that you spring apart, Lewis calling out that he'll be ready in five minutes while you frantically smooth down your hair.

"This is dangerous," you whisper as you gather your equipment.

"That's what makes it fun," Lewis grins, but you catch something in his expression that suggests he's feeling the weight of the secrecy too.

After Hungary, the dynamic between you shifts again. Lewis becomes more tactile during work hours - a hand on your lower back as he passes behind you, fingers brushing yours when he hands you something, lingering looks across the garage that make your cheeks burn.

"You're being obvious," you tell him one evening in Belgium, curled up against his side in his hotel bed.

"Am I?" he asks, trailing his fingers up and down your arm.

"Marco asked me yesterday if there was something going on between us."

Lewis's hand stills. "What did you tell him?"

"I told him he was imagining things. But Lewis, if Marco's noticing, other people will too."

"Would that be so bad?" Lewis asks quietly.

The question catches you off guard. You prop yourself up on your elbow to look at him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, would it be so bad if people knew? We're both single adults. We're not breaking any rules."

"Aren't we?" you counter. "I work for Ferrari. You drive for Ferrari. There are power dynamics here, Lewis. If this goes wrong, I'm the one who'll suffer for it."

Lewis's expression grows serious. "I would never let anything happen to your job. You know that, right?"

"You might not have a choice. If the team thinks I'm a distraction, or that I can't be objective in my work because we're... whatever we are..."

"What are we?" Lewis asks, and there's something vulnerable in his voice that makes your chest tighten.

It's a question you've been avoiding, even in your own mind. What started as a drunken hookup has evolved into something that feels significant, but neither of you has been willing to define it.

"I don't know," you admit. "What do you want us to be?"

Lewis is quiet for a long moment, his fingers resuming their gentle path along your arm. "I like what we have," he says finally. "I like that I can be myself with you. I like that you see me as more than just the driver. I like that when I'm with you, everything else fades away."

It's not exactly a declaration of love, but it's more than you expected from Lewis Hamilton, who's famously private about his personal life.

"I like what we have too," you say softly.

"Then let's not overthink it," Lewis says, pulling you closer. "Let's just... be."

The Italian Grand Prix at Monza feels like coming full circle. It's been almost a year since that first night together, and your arrangement with Lewis has settled into something comfortable and familiar. You know each other's bodies, each other's rhythms, each other's tells.

You can read his mood from the set of his shoulders as he walks through the paddock. He can tell when you've had a difficult day from the way you hold your camera. It's intimate in a way that goes beyond the physical, and sometimes that scares you more than you're willing to admit.

"Great qualifying session," you tell him as he emerges from the Ferrari motorhome after the post-session debrief.

"P2's not bad," he agrees, but you can see the frustration in his eyes. Lewis hates settling for second in anything.

"You'll get him tomorrow," you say, referring to the Red Bull driver who claimed pole position.

"Will I?" Lewis asks, and there's something in his tone that makes you look at him more closely.

"Bad debrief?"

"No, just... thinking."

You want to ask what about, but you're in the middle of the paddock with team members and media personnel walking past every few seconds. Instead, you settle for a look that you hope conveys your concern.

"Later?" you ask quietly.

Lewis nods, but he's already looking past you, his attention caught by something else. You follow his gaze and see Marco approaching, a friendly smile on his face.

"Great photos from qualifying," Marco says to you. "I saw the one you got of Lewis coming out of turn one. Incredible timing."

"Thanks," you reply, pleased by the compliment.

"You have such a good eye for capturing the emotion of the moment," Marco continues. "It's like you can see what the driver is feeling."

"That's the job," you say modestly, but you're aware of Lewis standing silently beside you.

"Maybe you could show me some of your techniques sometime?" Marco asks. "I've been trying to get better at photography in my spare time."

"Sure," you agree. "I'd be happy to help."

"Great! Maybe we could grab dinner sometime this week? I know a great place in Maranello."

The invitation hangs in the air, and you're suddenly very aware of Lewis's presence beside you. You glance at him, but his expression is carefully neutral.

"That sounds nice," you hear yourself saying. "Let me check my schedule."

Marco grins. "Perfect. I'll text you."

After he walks away, you and Lewis stand in awkward silence for a moment.

"That was friendly," Lewis says finally, his tone carefully casual.

"Marco's a nice guy," you reply, not sure why you feel like you need to defend the interaction.

"Yeah. Real nice."

There's an edge to Lewis's voice that you've never heard before, and when you look at him, his jaw is tight.

"Lewis—"

"I should go," he interrupts. "Early morning tomorrow."

He walks away before you can respond, leaving you standing in the paddock with a growing sense that something has shifted between you.

That evening, you wait in your hotel room for Lewis's usual text. By midnight, your phone remains silent. You've never gone to bed after a race weekend without at least saying goodnight to each other, even when you're in separate rooms to maintain appearances.

You try to convince yourself he's just tired, that tomorrow everything will be back to normal. But sleep doesn't come, and by 2 AM you're standing outside his hotel room door, keycard in hand from the spare he'd given you months ago.

The room is dark except for the glow of his phone screen. Lewis is sitting on the edge of the bed, still in his team polo, staring at nothing.

"You didn't text," you say softly, closing the door behind you.

"Didn't think you'd notice," he replies without looking up. "Thought you might be busy making dinner plans."

The bitterness in his voice catches you off guard. "Lewis, what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing's wrong with me." He finally looks at you, and there's something cold in his expression you've never seen before. "I'm just seeing things clearly for the first time."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Lewis stands, running his hands through his hair. "It means I'm tired of pretending this is something it's not."

"I don't understand—"

"Don't you?" He turns to face you fully. "You think I don't see what's happening here? You think I don't know what you really want?"

The accusation hits you like a physical blow. "What I want? Lewis, what are you talking about?"

"The photos, the access, the inside stories. Now you're moving on to Marco because he's young and eager and probably easier to manipulate."

"Manipulate?" Your voice rises despite yourself. "Are you insane?"

"Am I? You're Ferrari's photographer, and suddenly you're sleeping with their star driver. Pretty convenient, don't you think?"

The words hang between you like a slap. You stare at him, trying to process what he's saying, trying to find the Lewis you know in this stranger standing before you.

"You think I'm using you," you say slowly.

"I think you're like everyone else who gets close to me. You want something. Money, fame, connections, better career opportunities. The sex is just a bonus."

"That's not true." Your voice is barely a whisper.

"Isn't it? Tell me you haven't benefited from this arrangement. Tell me your career hasn't gotten a boost from having special access to Lewis Hamilton."

"You're being cruel."

"I'm being realistic." Lewis's voice is getting louder now. "You want to know what I think? I think you saw an opportunity and you took it. The shy, professional photographer act was just that - an act. And now that you've got what you need, you're ready to move on to the next target."

"Stop it." Tears are burning behind your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. "You don't mean this."

"I mean every word. You're a distraction I can't afford anymore. This whole thing was a mistake."

"A mistake?" The word comes out strangled.

"Yeah. A mistake. You want to have dinner with Marco? Go ahead. But don't expect me to keep playing along with whatever game this is."

The room falls silent except for the sound of your ragged breathing. You look at Lewis - really look at him - and see something broken in his eyes that makes you realize this isn't really about Marco or your career or anything rational.

"What happened to you?" you ask quietly. "What happened to make you think so little of people?"

"Life happened," Lewis says, but some of the fight has gone out of his voice. "Fame happened. Money happened. And I learned that everyone wants something."

"I never wanted anything from you except you."

"Bullshit."

The word is like a door slamming shut. You stand there for another moment, waiting for him to take it back, to apologize, to be the man you've been falling for over the past year. But he just stares at you with those cold, distant eyes.

"You're right," you say finally. "This was a mistake."

You turn and walk toward the door, your hand on the handle when his voice stops you.

"That's it? You're just going to leave?"

You don't turn around. "What did you expect? You just told me I'm a manipulative user who's been playing you for a year. What else is there to say?"

"You could fight for this," Lewis says, and there's something desperate in his voice now. "You could tell me I'm wrong."

"I already did. You didn't believe me." You finally turn to face him. "You want me to beg? To prove that my feelings are real? I won't do that, Lewis. I have more self-respect than that."

"So that's it? One fight and you're done?"

"One fight?" You laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Lewis, you just accused me of being a gold-digger who's been using you for career advancement. You think I'm some kind of manipulative schemer who's now moving on to my next target. That's not a fight - that's character assassination."

Lewis's face crumples slightly, as if he's finally hearing his own words. "I didn't mean—"

"Yes, you did. You meant every word. You said so yourself." You cross your arms, trying to hold yourself together. "You want to know what I think? I think you're scared. I think this got more real than you expected, and instead of dealing with that like an adult, you're trying to sabotage it."

"That's not—"

"It is. You're Lewis Hamilton. You're used to people wanting things from you, so when someone doesn't, when someone just wants you for you, it terrifies you. Because then you might actually have to be vulnerable. You might actually have to trust someone."

"Don't psychoanalyze me."

"Why not? You just spent ten minutes psychoanalyzing me, deciding what my motivations are, what I really want. At least I'm not making you out to be some kind of villain."

Lewis runs his hands over his face. "This is exactly why this doesn't work. We can't even have a simple conversation without it turning into this."

"A simple conversation? Lewis, you ambushed me with accusations and paranoia. What did you expect?"

"I expected you to understand—"

"Understand what? That you think I'm a liar and a user? That everything we've shared has been fake in your mind? What exactly am I supposed to understand here?"

"That this is complicated! That there are things at stake here beyond just us!"

"Like what? Your reputation? Your career? Because mine's on the line too, you know. You think I don't know what people would say if they found out about us? You think I don't know that I'd be the one they'd blame?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean? Because I'm lost, Lewis. I thought we were happy. I thought we had something good. But apparently, you've been building this whole conspiracy theory in your head about my ulterior motives."

"I've been hurt before," Lewis says quietly.

"So have I. That doesn't give me the right to attack you."

"I'm not attacking you."

"You literally just told me I'm using you for career advancement and now I'm moving on to Marco. How is that not an attack?"

Lewis is quiet for a long moment, staring at the floor. "Maybe I overreacted."

"Maybe?"

"I saw you with Marco today, and something just... snapped. The way he was looking at you, the way you were smiling at him. It reminded me of how this started between us."

"So you decided I was cheating on you? Or planning to?"

"We never said we were exclusive."

The words hit you like a physical blow. "We never said we weren't, either."

"You're right. We never defined anything. Maybe that's the problem."

"The problem isn't that we didn't define things, Lewis. The problem is that you don't trust me. And without trust, it doesn't matter what we call this."

"I want to trust you."

"But you don't. And I can't make you. Trust isn't something you can force or prove or earn through some kind of test. It's something you choose to give."

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that maybe you're right. Maybe this was a mistake. Not because I'm using you, but because we're in completely different places emotionally."

Lewis looks up at you, and for a moment, you see the man you've been falling for - vulnerable, uncertain, afraid.

"We are in different places. I'm falling in love with someone who thinks I'm a con artist."

The words hang in the air between you, raw and honest. Lewis's eyes widen, and you see something crack in his expression.

"You're falling in love with me?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Was. I was falling in love with you. But I can't love someone who thinks so little of me." The tears you've been holding back finally spill over, hot tracks down your cheeks. "Do you have any idea what this year has meant to me? What you've meant to me?"

"Don't cry," Lewis says, taking a step toward you. "Please don't cry."

"Why not? Because it makes you uncomfortable? Because it doesn't fit your narrative about who I am?" You wipe at your face angrily. "You want to know what I wanted from you, Lewis? I wanted you to hold me after bad days. I wanted to wake up next to you and not have to sneak out. I wanted to be able to touch you in public without worrying about who might see. I wanted a real relationship with someone I was falling in love with."

"Stop," Lewis says, his own voice thick with emotion.

"Stop what? Telling you the truth? Showing you what you're throwing away?" You're crying freely now, months of hidden feelings pouring out. "You think I wanted your money? Your fame? I wanted your terrible jokes in the morning. I wanted to hear about your day, your fears, your dreams. I wanted to be the person you came to when the world got too heavy."

"You are that person," Lewis says desperately.

"No, I'm not. That person would trust me. That person wouldn't assume the worst about my every interaction with another man." You move toward the door again. "That person would know that when I said I cared about you, I meant it."

"I do know that. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I was jealous and scared and I said things I didn't mean—"

"You meant them when you said them. That's what matters." You reach for the door handle, your vision blurred with tears. "I can't do this anymore, Lewis. I can't keep pretending that what we have is enough when you clearly think I'm capable of betraying you at any moment."

"Please don't go. We can work this out."

"How? How do we work out the fact that you don't trust me? That you think I'm using you?" You turn back to him one last time, and the sight of his stricken face almost breaks your resolve. "I love you, Lewis. I love you, and it's killing me that you can't see that. But I won't beg you to believe in my feelings. I won't spend my life trying to prove that I'm not the person you think I am."

"I don't think you're—"

"Yes, you do. Maybe not all the time, but when it matters, when you're scared or jealous or feeling vulnerable, that's where your mind goes. And I can't live like that. I can't love someone who's always waiting for me to show my true colors."

You open the door, pausing in the doorway without looking back.

"For what it's worth," you say quietly, "I would have chosen you. Over Marco, over anyone, over career opportunities or money or fame. I would have chosen you every single time. I'm sorry you couldn't see that."

The door closes behind you with a soft click, and you lean against it in the hallway, sobbing silently as you hear Lewis call your name from inside the room. But you don't go back. You can't go back.

Not this time.

The next race weekend in Singapore feels like navigating a minefield. You arrive at the paddock early, hoping to avoid the worst of the crowds and any chance encounters with Lewis. Your camera bag feels heavier than usual as you make your way through the Ferrari garage, nodding politely to the mechanics who greet you.

"Morning," Marco says, appearing at your elbow with two cups of coffee. "You look like you could use this."

"Thanks," you murmur, accepting the cup gratefully. The caffeine is a welcome distraction from the knot in your stomach.

"You okay? You seem... I don't know, different since Monza."

You force a smile. "Just tired. Long season, you know?"

Marco studies your face for a moment, but doesn't push. "Well, if you need anything, I'm around. That dinner offer still stands, by the way."

Before you can respond, you catch sight of Lewis entering the garage. He's talking to his race engineer, but his eyes find yours across the space. The look he gives you is intense, searching, and you quickly turn away.

"Actually," you hear yourself saying to Marco, "dinner sounds great. Tonight?"

"Really? That's fantastic. I know the perfect place."

You're aware of Lewis's presence growing closer, his conversation with the engineer wrapping up. Without looking back, you follow Marco toward the other side of the garage, your heart hammering against your ribs.

The morning practice session is torture. Every time you raise your camera, Lewis seems to be in your viewfinder. You capture him climbing into the car, his hands gripping the steering wheel, his eyes focused and determined behind his visor. Through the lens, you can pretend this is just work, that he's just another driver, but your hands shake slightly with each shot.

During the session break, you're reviewing images on your camera when a shadow falls across your screen.

"Can we talk?" Lewis's voice is quiet, careful.

"I'm working," you reply without looking up.

"Please. Just five minutes."

"I have nothing to say to you."

"Then just listen. Please."

You finally raise your eyes to meet his, and the raw pain you see there almost breaks your resolve. His face is drawn, exhausted, like he hasn't slept in days.

"I made a mistake," he says quietly. "The biggest mistake of my life."

"Lewis—"

"I know you don't want to hear this, but I need to say it. I was wrong. About everything. About you, about us, about what you wanted from me."

You glance around the garage, aware that people are starting to notice your conversation. "This isn't the place."

"Then where? You won't answer my calls, you won't come to my room. Where can we talk?"

"We can't. There's nothing left to say."

"There's everything to say. I love you."

The words hit you like a physical blow. You've waited months to hear them, and now they just feel like salt in an open wound.

"No, you don't," you whisper. "You love the idea of me, maybe. But you don't love me. You don't trust me enough to love me."

"I do trust you. I was scared and stupid and—"

"Lewis, stop." You stand, slinging your camera bag over your shoulder. "I can't do this here. I can't do this anywhere. We're done."

You walk away before he can respond, but you feel his eyes on you as you leave the garage. The weight of his stare follows you all the way to the media center, where you lock yourself in a bathroom stall and try to compose yourself.

The afternoon brings no relief. During qualifying, you're positioned at turn three, far enough from the Ferrari garage to avoid Lewis but close enough to do your job. Through your telephoto lens, you watch him push the car to its limits, securing pole position with a lap that's nothing short of brilliant.

As he climbs out of the car, pumping his fist in celebration, you capture the moment of pure joy on his face. It's the kind of shot that will make the front page of racing magazines, the kind of image that reminds you why you love this job.

But when Lewis's eyes find yours across the track, his smile falters. Even from a distance, you can see the question in his expression, the hope that maybe this moment might bridge the gap between you.

You lower your camera and turn away.

That evening, you stare at your reflection in the hotel bathroom mirror, trying to summon the energy to get ready for dinner with Marco. Your eyes are red-rimmed from crying, your skin pale and drawn. The thought of sitting across from him, making small talk and pretending to be interested in photography tips, feels impossible.

You reach for your phone and type out a message: Hey Marco, I'm so sorry but I'm feeling really unwell. Can we raincheck on dinner? I think I'm coming down with something.

His response comes quickly: Of course! Feel better. We can do it another time.

You set the phone aside and sink onto the hotel bed, still in your work clothes from the day. The relief of not having to pretend to be okay for an entire evening is overwhelming. You order room service instead - soup you barely touch - and spend the night staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of your conversation with Lewis.

By morning, the Singapore heat feels oppressive even in your air-conditioned hotel room. You drag yourself to the circuit, moving through the motions of race day preparation like a ghost. The Ferrari garage buzzes with pre-race energy, but you feel disconnected from it all, like you're watching everything through glass.

Lewis finds you during the drivers' parade, when you're positioned trackside to capture the ceremonial lap.

"You look terrible," he says, appearing beside you so suddenly you nearly drop your camera.

"Thanks. Really what every woman wants to hear."

"I heard you canceled dinner with Marco. Are you sick?"

You adjust your camera settings without looking at him. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You look like you haven't slept in days."

"I haven't. But that's not your concern anymore."

Lewis is quiet for a moment, watching as you photograph the other drivers waving to the crowd. "It is my concern. It'll always be my concern."

"Don't." Your voice cracks slightly. "Please don't make this harder than it already is."

"I can't just stop caring about you because we're not together anymore."

"You have to try. Because I can't keep doing this - these conversations, these moments where you act like you want to fix things. It's killing me."

Lewis steps closer, lowering his voice. "What if I could fix things? What if I could prove to you that I trust you, that I believe in us?"

"How?" The question slips out before you can stop it.

"I don't know yet. But I'll figure it out. I'll do whatever it takes."

"Lewis—"

"Just... don't give up on us completely. Not yet. Please."

Before you can respond, he's walking away, heading toward the grid for the race. You watch him go, your heart breaking all over again at the hope in his voice, the determination in his stride.

You know you should feel nothing. You know you should be moving on, protecting yourself, building walls he can't breach. But as you raise your camera to capture the start of the race, you can't shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, this isn't over yet.

The fever hits you like a wall the next morning. What started as exhaustion and heartbreak has morphed into something physical - chills that make your teeth chatter despite the Singapore heat, a headache that pounds behind your eyes, and a weakness that makes even lifting your camera feel impossible.

You call in sick to the team, your voice hoarse and barely recognizable. The race weekend continues without you, the distant roar of engines from the circuit serving as a reminder of the world you're missing. You drift in and out of fevered sleep, dreams mixing with reality until you're not sure which is which.

The knock on your hotel room door comes in the early evening. You ignore it at first, assuming it's housekeeping, but the knocking persists - gentle but insistent.

"Go away," you croak, your voice barely carrying to the door.

"It's me." Lewis's voice is muffled through the wood. "I brought soup."

"I said go away."

"I'm not leaving until you open this door. I know you're sick."

"How do you know that?"

"Marco told me you canceled dinner because you weren't feeling well. And you missed the race today. You never miss races."

You drag yourself out of bed, wrapping the hotel robe around your shivering body. When you open the door, Lewis is standing there with a bag from what looks like a local restaurant, his race suit replaced by casual clothes. His hair is still damp from what was probably a post-race shower.

"You look awful," he says, and despite everything, there's such genuine concern in his voice that you almost start crying again.

"I told you I'm fine."

"You're burning up." He reaches out as if to touch your forehead, but stops himself when you step back. "Can I come in? Please?"

Every instinct tells you to say no, to protect yourself from more hurt. But you're too tired and too sick to fight anymore.

"Fine. But only because I don't have the energy to argue with you."

Lewis follows you into the room, setting the bag on the small table by the window. You collapse back onto the bed, pulling the covers up to your chin despite the fever making you feel like you're on fire.

"I brought chicken soup," he says, unpacking containers. "And some of that ginger tea you like."

"I don't want anything."

"You need to eat something. When's the last time you had a proper meal?"

You can't remember. The past few days have been a blur of room service picked at and then abandoned. "I'm not hungry."

"I don't care. You're eating." There's a firmness in his voice that reminds you of the Lewis you fell for - the one who takes care of people whether they want him to or not.

He sits on the edge of the bed, holding out a spoonful of soup. "Come on."

"I can feed myself."

"Can you? Because you look like you can barely sit up."

You want to argue, but he's right. The simple act of opening the door left you dizzy and weak. Reluctantly, you let him feed you a few spoonfuls of soup, the warm broth soothing your scratchy throat.

"Why are you here?" you ask between sips.

"Because you're sick and alone in a foreign country."

"That's not your responsibility anymore."

"Maybe not. But I couldn't stay away knowing you were suffering."

"I'm not suffering because I'm sick, Lewis. I'm suffering because of what you did to us."

His hand stills, the spoon halfway to your mouth. "I know. And I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

"Sorry doesn't fix anything."

"I know that too." He sets the soup aside and looks at you with those dark eyes that have always seen too much. "But I had to try. I had to do something."

You close your eyes, too tired to keep fighting. "I can't do this with you right now. I don't have the strength."

"Then don't. Just let me take care of you. No talking about us, no trying to fix things. Just... let me help."

Maybe it's the fever, or maybe it's the exhaustion, but you find yourself nodding. Lewis disappears into the bathroom and returns with a cool washcloth, gently pressing it to your forehead. The relief is immediate.

"Better?" he asks softly.

You nod weakly, your eyes drifting closed as the cool cloth soothes your burning skin. Lewis adjusts the washcloth, his touch gentle and careful, and for a moment you can almost pretend things are the way they used to be.

"Get some sleep," he murmurs. "I'll stay until you're feeling better."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to."

You're too exhausted to argue further. Sleep pulls you under, and you're dimly aware of Lewis moving quietly around the room, refreshing your water glass, adjusting the air conditioning, checking your temperature with the back of his hand when he thinks you're unconscious.

When you wake, it's dark outside and Lewis is asleep in the chair by the window, his long frame folded awkwardly in the small space. There's a bottle of fever reducer on the nightstand that wasn't there before, along with fresh tissues and another cup of tea that's gone cold.

You watch him sleep, taking in the familiar lines of his face, the way his hair falls across his forehead. Even in sleep, he looks troubled, like whatever dreams he's having aren't peaceful ones.

"Lewis," you whisper, your voice still hoarse but stronger than before.

He wakes immediately, instantly alert. "Hey. How are you feeling?"

"Better. What time is it?"

"Just after midnight. Your fever broke about an hour ago."

"You've been here all day?"

"I said I would stay." He stretches, wincing as his neck protests the awkward sleeping position. "Are you hungry? I can order something."

"I'm okay. You should go back to your room. You'll be sore sleeping in that chair."

"I'm fine."

"Lewis." You struggle to sit up, and he's immediately there, helping you adjust the pillows. "Why are you really here?"

He's quiet for a long moment, his hands still on the pillows behind you. "Because when I heard you were sick, all I could think about was that night in Monaco when you had food poisoning. Remember? You were so stubborn about not wanting help, but you let me take care of you anyway."

You do remember. It was early in whatever you were calling your relationship then, and you'd been mortified to be sick in front of him. But Lewis had been patient and gentle, holding your hair back and bringing you water and never making you feel embarrassed about it.

"That was different," you say quietly.

"Was it? Because it felt the same to me. It felt like taking care of someone I—" He stops himself, running a hand through his hair. "Someone I care about."

"You were going to say love."

"Yeah. I was."

The admission hangs between you, heavy with everything you've both been avoiding. You lean back against the pillows, suddenly exhausted again.

"I can't do this," you whisper. "I can't just jump back into what we had before. Too much has been said. Too much has been broken."

Lewis nods slowly, his eyes never leaving your face. "I know. I'm not asking you to."

"Then what are you asking?"

"Nothing. Maybe... friendship? If you can manage that. If you can stand to have me around without wanting to throw things at me."

Despite everything, you find yourself almost smiling. "The urge to throw things has passed. Mostly."

"That's progress."

You study his face in the dim light from the bedside lamp. The desperation from before has been replaced by something quieter, more resigned. Like he's finally accepting that some things can't be fixed with determination alone.

"Friends," you repeat, testing the word. "Can we do that? Can we be friends after everything?"

"I don't know. But I'd like to try. If you'll let me."

You consider this. The idea of cutting Lewis out of your life completely feels impossible - you work together, travel together, exist in the same small world of Formula 1. But the thought of pretending the past year never happened, of going back to purely professional interactions, feels equally impossible.

"Okay," you say finally. "Friends. But that means no more declarations of love, no more trying to fix us. Just... friends."

"I can do that."

"And no more taking care of me when I'm sick. Friends don't sleep in uncomfortable chairs all night."

Lewis glances at the chair and winces slightly. "Right. Noted."

But even as you say it, you're pulling back the covers on the other side of the bed. "The bed's big enough for both of us. And you look like you're about to fall over."

"I thought friends don't—"

"Friends don't let friends sleep in torture devices when there's a perfectly good bed." You pat the space beside you. "Come on. We're both adults. We can share a bed without it meaning anything."

Lewis hesitates for a moment, then kicks off his shoes and slides under the covers, careful to maintain distance between you. The bed is king-sized, but somehow he still feels too close and too far away at the same time.

"This is weird," he says after a moment.

"Yeah. But good weird or bad weird?"

"I'm not sure yet."

You turn onto your side, facing away from him, and close your eyes. "We'll figure it out. Friends figure things out."

"Friends," Lewis repeats softly, like he's trying to convince himself.

Within minutes, you're asleep again, the fever and exhaustion finally winning. You don't see Lewis lying awake beside you, staring at the ceiling and wondering if friendship with you is possible, or if it will just be another kind of torture.

But when you wake in the morning, he's still there, and somehow that feels like a start.

The friendship experiment lasts exactly three weeks.

Three weeks of carefully maintained distance, of professional conversations that skirt around anything personal, of Lewis bringing you coffee in the morning like he always did but now with a polite smile instead of the soft intimacy you'd grown accustomed to.

Three weeks of pretending that sharing a bed in Singapore meant nothing, that the way he'd watched over you while you were sick was just basic human decency, that the careful space he maintains between you now doesn't feel like a constant reminder of what you've lost.

The breaking point comes at Silverstone, of all places. Home race, packed grandstands, the kind of energy that makes everyone in the paddock feel electric. You're positioned at Copse Corner with your telephoto lens, capturing the battle for the lead when it happens.

Lewis takes the corner at full commitment, wheel-to-wheel with the Red Bull. For a split second, it looks like a standard racing move. Then the cars touch.

The Ferrari launches into the air, spinning violently before slamming into the barriers with a sickening crunch of carbon fiber and metal. The car bounces, rolls, and comes to rest upside down, smoke pouring from the engine bay.

Your camera falls from your hands, forgotten, as you watch in horror. The world goes silent except for the ringing in your ears. Lewis isn't moving.

"Red flag, red flag," crackles over the radio, but you're already running, your press credentials getting you past the first barrier before security can stop you.

"Ma'am, you need to stay back—"

"That's my—" You stop yourself before you can finish the sentence. What is he to you now? Friend? Ex-lover? The man you're still in love with despite everything?

The marshals are swarming the car, trying to get Lewis out. It feels like hours but it's probably only minutes before you see movement, see him being helped from the wreckage.

Your legs give out, and you sink to your knees on the grass.

"Hey, hey, you alright love?" A gentle hand touches your shoulder. You look up to see Anthony Hamilton, Lewis's father, his face etched with the same terror you're feeling.

"I'm sorry," you gasp, trying to pull yourself together. "I shouldn't have—"

"None of that," Anthony says firmly, helping you to your feet. "Come on, let's get to the medical center. See how he's doing."

You walk together in silence, both of you shaken. At the medical center, Anthony paces while you sit in a plastic chair, your hands still trembling.

"He's going to be fine," Anthony says, more to himself than to you. "Tough as nails, that boy. Always has been."

"I know," you whisper.

Anthony stops pacing and looks at you really looks at you. "You're the photographer, aren't you? The one who's been making him miserable for the past month?"

"I'm not trying to make him miserable."

"No, but you are. Both of you, walking around like ghosts. Thought you two had something good going."

"We did. Until we didn't."

Anthony sits down beside you, his expression softening. "Want to tell me what happened? I've got time, and Lewis is too stubborn to give me the real story."

You find yourself spilling everything - the fight, the accusations, the way Lewis convinced himself you were using him. Anthony listens without judgment, occasionally nodding or making small sounds of understanding.

"That boy," he says when you finish. "Sometimes I think all that success made him forget how to trust good things when they happen to him."

"I tried to show him. I tried to prove that I wasn't what he thought I was."

"You can't prove love, darling. You can only live it. And sometimes that means loving someone enough to let them figure out their own mistakes."

Before you can respond, the medical center door opens and Lewis appears, looking shaken but walking under his own power. His race suit is torn and dirty, there's a cut on his forehead that's been cleaned and bandaged, but he's alive and whole.

"Dad?" His eyes find Anthony first, then shift to you. The surprise on his face is immediate and raw. "What are you doing here?"

You stand up quickly, suddenly feeling foolish. "I should go. I just wanted to make sure—"

"No." Lewis's voice is sharp, stopping you mid-sentence. "Don't go."

The three of you stand there in awkward silence, the weight of everything unsaid hanging heavy in the sterile air.

"I'll give you two some privacy," Anthony says diplomatically, squeezing Lewis's shoulder. "Glad you're okay, son."

After Anthony leaves, Lewis sinks into the chair beside you, wincing slightly as he moves.

"Are you hurt?" you ask, your professional composure cracking.

"Bruised ribs, mild concussion. Nothing serious." He looks at you with those dark eyes that see too much. "You were scared."

It's not a question, and you don't bother denying it. "Terrified."

"Why? I thought we were just friends now."

The question hangs between you, loaded with everything you've been avoiding for three weeks.

"Because friends worry about each other when they crash at 180 miles per hour," you say, but your voice wavers.

"Is that all?"

You close your eyes, feeling the careful walls you've built crumbling. "No. That's not all."

"Then what?"

"You know what." You open your eyes and meet his gaze. "Don't make me say it."

"I need to hear it. After everything I said, everything I accused you of, I need to hear it."

"I love you." The words come out broken, desperate. "I love you, and watching that car flip, thinking you might be... I can't be just friends with you, Lewis. I tried, but I can't."

Lewis's face crumbles at your words, and suddenly you're crying - great, heaving sobs that come from somewhere deep in your chest. All the fear, all the love you've been holding back, all the terror of those moments when you thought you might lose him forever.

"Hey, hey," Lewis murmurs, pulling you into his arms despite his injured ribs. "I'm here. I'm okay."

"I thought you were dead," you sob into his shoulder, your hands fisting in his torn race suit. "When the car flipped, when you weren't moving, I thought—"

"Shh," he whispers, his hand stroking your hair. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

You continue to cry against him, your tears soaking through the torn fabric of his race suit. Lewis doesn't complain about his ribs, doesn't pull away even though you can feel the tension in his body when you press too close to his injuries. He just holds you, one hand tangled in your hair, the other rubbing slow circles on your back.

"I'm sorry," you hiccup against his neck. "I'm getting you all wet and you're hurt and I shouldn't—"

"Stop," he says firmly. "Just stop. Let me hold you."

So you do. You let yourself fall apart in his arms, let out all the fear and love and heartbreak you've been carrying for weeks. Lewis's grip tightens around you, and you hear him make a small sound of pain, but when you try to pull back, he doesn't let you.

"Lewis, your ribs—"

"I don't care about my ribs." His voice is rough, strained. "I almost lost you. I almost lost you because I was too scared and too stupid to trust what we had."

"You didn't lose me," you whisper. "I'm right here."

"Are you? Because these past three weeks have felt like losing you. Watching you pull away, seeing you try to be professional and distant... it's been killing me."

You finally lift your head to look at him, taking in the cut on his forehead, the exhaustion in his eyes, the way he's looking at you like you might disappear if he blinks.

"I was trying to protect myself," you admit. "I was trying to move on."

"Did it work?"

"No. Not even a little bit."

Lewis cups your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears on your cheeks. "I love you," he says, and the words are raw, desperate. "I love you so much it scares me. I love you so much I convinced myself you couldn't possibly love me back."

"That's the stupidest thing you've ever said."

"I know. I know it is." He rests his forehead against yours, wincing slightly at the movement. "I'm sorry. For everything I said, everything I accused you of. I was wrong about all of it."

"You were terrified," you say softly. "I understand that now."

"That's not an excuse."

"No, it's not. But it's an explanation." You trace the edge of the bandage on his forehead with gentle fingers. "We both made mistakes."

"What mistakes did you make?"

"I gave up too easily. I walked away instead of fighting for us."

"You shouldn't have had to fight for us. I should have trusted you from the beginning."

"Maybe. But relationships aren't about should haves. They're about what we do now."

Lewis's eyes search your face, hope and fear warring in his expression. "What do we do now?"

"I want to try again," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "Not as friends. Not as whatever we were before when we were too scared to define it. I want to try with you, Lewis. Really try."

"What does that mean?" he asks, his hands still cradling your face.

"It means I want to be yours. Completely, openly, without hiding or pretending or protecting ourselves from getting hurt. It means I want to wake up next to you and not sneak out. It means I want to hold your hand in the paddock and not care who sees. It means I want all of you, even the parts that are scared and broken and convinced you're not worth loving."

Lewis's breath catches, and you see something shift in his expression - the last of his walls crumbling.

"I want that too," he says. "God, I want that so much."

"Then let's do it. Let's stop being afraid and just... be together."

"Together," he repeats, like he's testing the word. "No more hiding?"

"No more hiding."

"No more assuming the worst of each other?"

"No more assuming the worst."

"No more pretending we're just friends when we're both dying inside?"

"Definitely no more of that."

Lewis's smile is soft and real, the first genuine smile you've seen from him in weeks. "I love you," he says again, like he's making up for lost time.

"I love you too."

He leans in to kiss you then, slow and careful and full of promise. It tastes like tears and relief and new beginnings, like coming home after being lost for too long. You're both crying a little, both holding on too tight, both afraid this moment might disappear if you let go.

The kiss deepens, and youei forget about his injured ribs, forget about where you are, forget about everything except the way Lewis's mouth moves against yours like he's trying to memorize the feeling.

"Well, it's about bloody time."

You break apart to find Anthony standing in the doorway, grinning widely despite the tears in his eyes.

"Dad," Lewis groans, but there's no real embarrassment in his voice.

"Don't 'Dad' me," Anthony says, walking over to pull you both into a careful hug. "I've been waiting months for you two to sort yourselves out." He pulls back to look at you, his expression warm and welcoming. "Welcome to the family, love. Officially this time."

You look up at Anthony, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. "How did you know? About us, I mean. We thought we were being careful, keeping it quiet."

Anthony chuckles, shaking his head. "Love, you two weren't hiding anything. Maybe from yourselves, but not from anyone else."

"What do you mean?" Lewis asks, his arm still wrapped protectively around you.

"I mean anyone with eyes could see you were mad about each other. The way you looked at her during interviews, son - like she was the only person in the room. And you," he turns to you with a knowing smile, "following him with that camera like you were documenting something precious instead of just doing your job."

You feel heat rise in your cheeks. "We were professional—"

"Professional my arse," Anthony interrupts gently. "I watched you two dance around each other for months. The little touches, the way you'd light up when the other walked into a room, how you'd find excuses to be near each other. Hell, half the paddock was taking bets on when you'd finally admit you were together."

"They were?" Lewis looks mortified.

"Course they were. You think people don't notice when Lewis Hamilton starts smiling like a lovesick teenager every time a certain photographer shows up? Or when said photographer starts taking pictures of you like you're a work of art instead of just another driver?"

You bury your face in your hands. "Oh god, we were obvious."

"Obvious and beautiful," Anthony says firmly. "Love like that - real love - it's impossible to hide. It radiates off you both. Even when you were trying to be 'just friends' these past weeks, anyone could see you were both miserable without each other."

Lewis tightens his hold on you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "So much for being discreet."

"Sometimes the best secrets are the ones everyone already knows," Anthony says with a wink. "Now, let's get you both out of here before the media circus starts. Something tells me you two have some catching up to do."

You reach for Lewis's hand, intertwining your fingers with his. "Let's do it together," you say, squeezing gently. "Your turn to be looked after."

Lewis raises an eyebrow, wincing slightly as he shifts in his chair. "I'm fine, really. Just some bruises."

"Uh-huh," you say, standing and tugging him up with you. "That's what I said when I had that fever in Singapore, and you still spent the night in a torture chair watching over me."

"That was different—"

"No, it wasn't." You turn to Anthony, who's watching this exchange with barely concealed amusement. "Can you help me get him back to the hotel? Someone needs to make sure he actually rests instead of trying to analyze telemetry data with a concussion."

Anthony grins. "Oh, I like her already. She's got your number, son."

"I don't analyze telemetry with a concussion," Lewis protests weakly.

"You analyze telemetry with everything," you and Anthony say in unison, then look at each other and burst out laughing.

Lewis shakes his head, but he's smiling. "I'm being ganged up on by my own father."

"And your girlfriend," Anthony adds cheerfully. "Get used to it. We're a package deal now."

"Girlfriend," Lewis repeats softly, testing the word. His eyes find yours, warm and wondering. "I like the sound of that."

"Good," you say, "because you're stuck with me now. Concussion and all."

As you help Lewis toward the door, Anthony calls out behind you: "Oh, and Lewis? Next time you want to impress a girl, maybe try flowers instead of nearly killing yourself at Copse Corner. Just a thought."

Lewis groans, but you can feel him laughing despite himself, and you think maybe this is what happiness feels like - messy and imperfect and absolutely worth fighting for.

The hotel room feels different this time. Not like the careful distance of Singapore when you were sick, or the professional politeness you've been maintaining for weeks. This feels like coming home.

Lewis sits on the edge of the bed while you dig through your camera bag for the first aid kit you always carry. His race suit is unzipped to the waist, revealing the purple bruises blooming across his ribs, and you have to take a steadying breath at the sight.

"It looks worse than it feels," he says softly, catching your expression.

"Liar." You sit beside him with the kit, your fingers gentle as you check the bandage on his forehead. "This needs changing."

"I can do it myself—"

"Lewis." You cup his face in your hands, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. "Let me take care of you. Please."

He melts at your touch, leaning into your palm. "Okay."

You work in comfortable silence, cleaning the cut and applying a fresh bandage. Lewis watches your face as you concentrate, his eyes soft and full of something that makes your heart flutter.

"There," you murmur, smoothing the edges of the bandage. "All better."

"Not quite," he says, catching your hand before you can pull away. "I think it needs a kiss to heal properly."

You laugh despite yourself. "That's not how medicine works."

"Are you sure? I'm pretty certain I read a study about it somewhere."

"Oh, did you now?" You lean in, pressing the softest kiss to his forehead, just beside the bandage. "Better?"

"Much." His arms come around you, careful of his ribs, pulling you closer. "Though I think there might be other places that need attention too."

"Lewis Hamilton," you say, trying to sound stern but failing completely, "you have a concussion. You need to rest."

"I am resting. Very restfully. With you."

You settle against his side, your head on his shoulder, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. "I was so scared today," you whisper.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize for racing. Just... promise me you'll be careful."

"I promise." He presses a kiss to your hair. "I have too much to live for now to be reckless."

You tilt your head up to look at him. "Yeah? What's that?"

"This. Us. Sunday morning breakfasts and late-night conversations and watching you work behind that camera like you're creating magic." His voice is soft, reverent. "I want to wake up next to you every morning and fall asleep holding you every night. I want to take you to meet my mum properly, not as my 'friend' but as the woman I'm completely mad about. I want to hold your hand in the paddock and not care who's watching. I want all of it."

"Lewis," you breathe, overwhelmed by the intensity in his voice.

"I love you," he says simply. "Not just the idea of you, not just when it's convenient or safe. I love your terrible morning hair and the way you hum when you're editing photos. I love how you argue with me about camera angles and how you always steal my hoodies. I love that you see me - really see me - not just the driver or the celebrity, but me."

You're crying again, but these are good tears, happy tears. "I love you too. So much."

"Good," he says, wiping your tears with his thumb. "Because I'm never letting you go again."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

You kiss him then, soft and sweet and full of all the love you've been holding back. When you break apart, Lewis is smiling that real smile again, the one that makes your heart skip.

"So," you say, settling back against his side, "what do we do now?"

"Now? Now we order room service, watch terrible movies, and I hold you while we fall asleep. And tomorrow, we figure out the rest."

"That sounds perfect."

"It does, doesn't it?" Lewis's voice is getting drowsy, the adrenaline from the crash finally wearing off. "Hey, love?"

"Mmm?"

"Thank you. For not giving up on us. For being here when I crashed. For loving me even when I was too stupid to see it."

You press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "Always."

"Always," he echoes, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

As you drift off to sleep in his arms, you think about all the photos you've taken over the years - thousands of moments captured and frozen in time. But this, right here, with Lewis's heartbeat steady beneath your cheek and his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back, this is the moment you wish you could photograph. Not for any magazine or website, but just for you. Just to remember that sometimes the most beautiful shots are the ones that exist only in memory.

"Hey," Lewis murmurs, half-asleep. "What are you thinking about?"

"Just... this. Us. How I wish I could take a picture of this moment."

"Why can't you?"

"Because I'd have to move, and I'm too comfortable."

Lewis chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. "I have an idea." He reaches for his phone on the nightstand, wincing slightly at the stretch. "Come here."

You lift your head to look at him questioningly, and he holds up the phone, angling it to capture both of you - him with his messy hair and bandaged forehead, you with your tear-stained cheeks and sleepy smile.

"This is going to be a terrible photo," you protest.

"It's going to be perfect," he corrects, and snaps the picture just as you're laughing at him.

When he shows you the result, you have to admit he's right. It's not technically perfect - the lighting is all wrong, the angle is awkward, and you both look exhausted. But there's something in your faces, something soft and real and completely in love, that makes it beautiful.

"There," Lewis says, setting the phone aside and pulling you back down to his chest. "Now we have proof."

"Proof of what?"

"That we're disgustingly happy."

You laugh, pressing another kiss to his chest. "The most disgusting."

"Absolutely revolting."

"Completely nauseating."

"I love you," he says, and even though you can't see his face, you can hear the grin in his voice.

"I love you too, you ridiculous man."

And as you finally drift off to sleep, you think that maybe some moments are too precious to capture anyway. Maybe some things are meant to be lived, not photographed. Maybe the best love stories are the ones that exist in the space between heartbeats, in the quiet moments when no one else is watching.

Maybe this is enough.

[boycottthetestaments]

🧷 They Call It an Adaptation — But What Happens When a Showrunner Rewrites the Author’s Vision?

When Hulu acquired the rights to The Handmaid’s Tale, Bruce Miller claimed he was “telling Margaret Atwood’s story.”

That is a lie.

Yes, he had the legal rights to adapt her work. Yes, he had creative control to expand the world. But when a showrunner uses those rights to reshape the author’s message, reframe her characters, and rewrite the core themes to suit his own agenda — that’s not adaptation.

That’s revisionism.

And it’s a betrayal.

✂️ What Bruce Miller Legally Owns vs. What Margaret Atwood Created

Adaptation rights grant the ability to bring a story to screen. But with that power comes responsibility — to honor the spirit of the source material.

Atwood’s Handmaid’s Tale is a feminist warning. It’s about systemic control, reproductive violence, and how patriarchy turns women into weapons against each other.

But look at what the Hulu series has become in later seasons:

• A redemption arc for Serena Joy, one of the architects of Gilead

• A character assassination of Nick Blaine — a man who represented subversive love, resistance, and survival

• The glorification of Luke — a figure who, in the book, was deeply complicit in Offred’s subjugation

In Atwood’s novel, Offred says of Luke: “He doesn’t mind this, I thought. He doesn’t mind it at all. Maybe he even likes it. We are not each other’s anymore. Instead, I am his.”

That is not a romantic ideal. It is a feminist critique.

🪞They’re Not Telling Margaret Atwood’s Story — They’re Distorting It

Bruce Miller, Yahlin Chang, and Elisabeth Moss have each tried to reframe this narrative — turning Nick into the villain, romanticizing Serena, and rebranding June as a woman torn between two men instead of a leader of a revolution.

But here’s the truth:

• June choosing Nick — a man who never owned her, who honored her agency, who loved her without demanding anything in return — would have been a feminist arc

• June forgiving Serena — a woman who helped write the laws that stripped her of her name and body — is not subversive. It’s betrayal wrapped in false sisterhood

• Nick’s erasure — and the gaslighting of fans who saw him as a symbol of resistance — is a deliberate dismantling of one of the few emotionally grounded, feminist male characters in the entire series

⚠️ This Isn’t Just Creative License. It’s Cultural Erasure.

When showrunners elevate oppressors and discard rebels, rewrite agency as obligation, and use press tours to reframe protest as delusion, they’re doing more than “shifting the narrative.”

They are erasing Margaret Atwood’s message.

They are erasing Nick’s legacy.

They are underestimating the audience’s intelligence.

📣 Follow @boycottthetestaments_official to join the campaign holding them accountable.

[anony-man]

Chubformers drabble #257!

Characters: Megatron & Optimus (TF Go! Go!)

Word count: 1.7k

Food had become the source of Optimus’ problems now, just like it had been the source of newfound joy and possibilities early on. That, of course, had been before Megatron got involved, and when Megatron got involved, Optimus knew nothing good would follow.

The traps were tasty, and the food was delicious. He couldn’t help himself, and he didn’t stop himself—not until he was halfway through eating another plate of the human world’s cuisine when he heard the familiar cackle of his longtime arch nemesis from afar. It was a terrible time, but wonderful all the same, because no matter how hard Optimus tried, he simply kept gaining and gaining.

His plating was warped now, and his belly stuck out far. His frame was round like a balloon, and his patience for Megatron’s antics were slowly running thin. It should have been easy to catch the ‘Con in the act and put a stop to all of this mess, but no matter how hard he tried, he was always slipping up. One hot meal here and a tantalizing dessert sitting there… one good plate of food this way and another assortment of tempting treats that way. Megatron was practically unstoppable, the brute, and Optimus’ feeble attempts at shedding off the pounds and regaining his old size kept coming to a screeching halt as he slowly backtracked in his progress.

It was impressive work, he had to admit. Optimus would have never considered using the tasty treats and delicious dishes from the human world to slip up his opponent. But then again… it was starting to seem that the more he gained, the quicker Megatron followed suit. Their food was just too good not to try, after all, and Optimus could almost guarantee Megatron was too tempted by his own schemes to not give in here and there and test out his own traps for himself.

The tricks were soon to end now, and their next big fight was starting. After finally catching a trap early, Optimus had managed to pull back the metaphorical curtains and track Megatron down right in the middle of the childish scheme. As expected, his evil opponent was already half bent at the waist (or as far as he could possibly bend, given the massive uptick in his size) and cackling over Optimus’ pudgy pout.

“Finally figured it out, have you now?” Megatron teased, his words peppered in between laughter as he wiped the tears from his optics. “What a glutton of a mech you are, Optimus. I would have never guessed!”

“And yet here you stand,” Optimus countered, his servos buried in the fat on his hips as he stood unamused and accusing. “Fattened up to the same size and criticizing me for falling for your tricks again. I may be a glutton in your eyes, Megatron, but I’ll never purposefully be so hypocritical of my own actions.”

Their impending fight came immediately after. Megatron charged forward with a furious shout, his belly jiggling and his pedes bearing the brunt of the weight with loud, thundering steps. Optimus met him right in the middle, and as they crashed together—one wall of steely fat on a seasoned frame meeting the other similarly bulking build—the ground shook beneath them.

The tray of carefully assorted sweets and other sugary treats went forgotten as the two tussled their way through grunts and groans and poorly thrown fists. Things were different now, they quickly realized, and it wasn’t just their impaired fighting skills that were affected.

Every blow Megatron managed to land on Optimus’ frame was stopped by walls of fat that jiggled back and gave out from underneath his weakened force. Even Optimus couldn’t get a good grip on his opponent, as the rolls of chubby mesh covering his frame were more than the few remaining slabs of hard, heavy metal that still desperately clung tight to his fattened build. They went back and forth for some time, their efforts morphing into panting and their blows turning into pitiful swings that hit nothing but the empty air.

Things were definitely different now, Megatron realized. Optimus had agreed, if only silently, and after the first few agonizing minutes of struggling to gain traction over the other, the Autobot leader decided to call it quits and give in.

“Enough,” he panted, his servos already wiping the condensation forming around his face. “We’re getting nowhere in this state. Let’s take a moment… and regroup.”

Megatron stood silent and entranced as his chubby opponent gasped for breath and waddled towards the tree-line. Against his better judgment, he followed suit, and within seconds their brief corral was replaced by the two fat leaders slumping to the ground and cycling hot air through their vents. It was hard to say what he was supposed to do now, especially considering that nothing like this had ever happened before. He was too tired to keep fighting, and his trap had clearly served him for the last time. He paused, his own panting intakes going quiet for a moment, and glanced up to the neat display of goods lining the table beside them.

“Perhaps…” he said, hesitant to suggest anything he worried Optimus might decline, “perhaps we should fill our time with finishing off the foods I’ve gathered. It would be a shame for it all to go to waste, right?”

Optimus hated to agree to such a terrible plan, but Megatron did have a point. If they didn’t eat it, the food would be useless… and he hated the thought of letting such delicious treats go to waste.

“Fine,” he said as he scooted himself closer and reached across Megatron to snatch up a plate of flaky, jelly-filled biscuit sweets. “But only because I would hate the idea of throwing any of it away.”

“As would I,” Megatron muttered under his breath.

They fell into silence for a time, their attention fixed on sneaking bites of treats in and refilling their starving, angry bellies. The silence didn’t last long, however, and between snacking and sneaking, the two also took chances at snatching up discreet little glances at the other the longer they sat. Megatron was the first to imitate, and Optimus had been quick to follow. Their bellies were being filled, at least, but their minds were elsewhere… and their attention was heading with it.

“So,” Megatron said as he gently poked a finger into the curve of Optimus belly. It was soft to touch, and it gave way underneath his palm—which, of course, he touched Optimus with next. “How does it feel?”

Optimus swallowed, his optics on Megatron’s palm. The ‘Con was getting braver now, and he had moved to feeling up his belly with a gentle, sweeping servo.

“Different,” he said, nodding to Megatron. “You?”

Megatron paused. “Same,” he nodded. Then, tilting his helm towards the food sat on a plate next to Optimus, he asked, “and these treats? I hadn’t gotten the chance to try them before you discovered me.”

“Sweet,” Optimus said, “very sweet, but good. Here—“ he lifted a tart—his next treat of choice—and held it up for Megatron to take. “Try it.”

It was an intimate act, and neither bot denied it as Megatron careful nibbled at the tart held out for him. He took the rest a moment later, his lips brushing just barely against Optimus’ fingers as he popped it into his mouth, and chewed slowly.

“Mm,” he said, “sweet indeed. Very sweet.”

“But good, right?” Optimus asked. “Would you like another?”

Megatron didn’t respond. His blushing cheeks, however, gave away his answer.

The silence stretched, and the food was devoured. Optimus’ careful feeding quickly shifted into Megatron offering up little bites of his own, and before they could stop it, the two opposing leaders were pressed up close, belly-to-belly, and tenderly holding out the last remnants of each sweet treat stacked across the table’s surface. The touching had led to feeding, and the feeding to more touching, but it felt nice sitting together, their frames pressed close and their fingers sticky with crumbs and small streaks of saliva from the other’s mouth.

Megatron had busied himself with stroking Optimus’ belly into settling down when the Autobot leader reached for the last treat with a frown.

“We’re down to one last biscuit, I’m afraid,” he said, twisting the cookie between his fingers. “Would you like the honors?”

“Perhaps,” Megatron said, a small smile lifting at the corners of his lips. “But only because that is shortbread, not biscuits.”

Same thing, Optimus would have scolded. He would have, too, and he would have snatched the thing back… but Megatron was slotting it between his teeth, pressing up close against his frame and pushing their bellies together, leaning in until their foreheads were touching, and beckoning for him to take the second half.

Against his better judgement, he did. And against his own instincts, he stayed there. He pushed back, too, and gave in happily when munching the last little treat turned into pecking each other on the lips and interlocking in a deep, desperate kiss. Megatron’s servos were still rubbing, and still stroking his belly. In turn, Optimus did same… but it surely wasn’t as good—not when he was distracted by the deep, passionate make out session that had crept up on them both.

To no surprise of either of them, the little fight turned stuffing session became something of a regular routine—just without the fighting, and with more of the stuffing. Tending to each other’s aching frames and nervously feeling up the new changes had sparked something strange and deep, and through it came a hesitant alliance that allowed for their unexpected changes and softening frames to become something they both enjoyed exploring on a more regular occurrence

The mutual gaining had begun, and it continued on as they grow closer, gentler and a bit more intimate. The relationship aspect quickly followed, and instead of fights, they took breaks from their responsibilities to feed and soothe each other.

It was a shocking change for certain, and not one either of them were super inclined to share… not at first, at least. Unbeknownst to them, the changes were crystal clear. Everyone was already bound to know (and everyone did eventually know), especially once the relationship became official.

[quatregats]

I'm rereading Master and Commander and I'm deeply in danger of just posting every single passage from it ever but I did love the way that the capture of the prize in Chapter 6 was framed on either side by the logbook's entry, and also the way he transitions out of it to set the scene and tone:

Sunday, July 1 … Mustered the ship’s company by divisions read the Articles of War performed Divine Service and committed the body of Henry Gouges to the deep. At noon dº weather. Ditto weather: but the sun sank towards a livid, purple, tumescent cloud-bank piled deep on the western horizon, and it was clear to every seaman aboard that it was not going to remain ditto much longer. The seamen, sprawling abroad on the fo’c’sle and combing out their long hair or plaiting it up again for one another, kindly explained to the landmen that this long swell from the south and east, this strange sticky heat that came both from the sky and the glassy surface of the heaving sea, and this horribly threatening appearance of the sun, meant that there was to be a coming dissolution of all natural bonds, an apocalyptic upheaval, a right dirty night ahead. The sailormen had plenty of time to depress their hearers, already low in their spirits because of the unnatural death of Henry Gouges (had said, ‘Ha, ha, mates, I am fifty years old this day. Oh dear,’ and had died sitting there, still holding his untasted grog) – they had plenty of time, for this was Sunday afternoon, when in the course of nature the fo’c’sle was covered with sailors at their ease, their pigtails undone. Some of the more gifted had queues they could tuck into their belts; and now that these ornaments were loosened and combed out, lank when still wet, or bushy when dry and as yet ungreased, they gave their owners a strangely awful and foreboding look, like oracles; which added to the landmen’s uneasiness.

[...]

Jack leant back against the curved run of the stern-window and let Killick’s version of coffee down by gulps into his grateful stomach; and at the same time that its warmth spread through him, so there ran a lively tide of settled, pure, unfevered happiness – a happiness that another commander (remembering his own first prize) might have discerned from the log-entry, although it was not specifically mentioned there: 1/2 past 10 tacked, 11 in courses, reefed topsail. AM cloudy and rain. 1/2 past 4 chase observed E by S, distance 1/2 mile. Bore up and took possession of dº, which proved to be L’Aimable Louise, French polacre laden with corn and general merchandise for Cette, of about 200 tons, 6 guns and 19 men. Sent her with an officer and eight men to Mahon.

[spoopieere]

Asa Headcannon lol

To me, Asa is a homebody. He likes domestic things: Stay home, cook a nice meal for himself , make some tea, read a book & pin insects...

But his other "hobby" that involves: Meticulously planning & traps/ murder, Going through lengths to capture new victims, Taking care of the hotel & his collection, Torture, etc...

Results in him having two lifestyles that are directly against each other. Though he enjoys both, he can't enjoy each things without sacrificing the time he could've had with the other.

Do I think Asa hates himself enough to have things that are contradictory that only affect him in his life? Not entirely. But *that* amount of trauma & psychopathy can NOT be normal growing up (plus my hc of homosexuality and autism).

What I'm trying to say is:

Asa being a serial killer is a form of self-harm.

(It's not the entire reason why he kills, but I think it's a part of the reasons. Or maybe he's just that nuts lmao.- read tags)

[yujateaandpi]

Hi guys! Yujatea here! If you enjoy my work, I’d like to please ask for a moment of your time to consider helping this family I’m supporting! Shaima is a mother of four children, Abdul Rahim, Walid, Majdi, and baby Amal. Shaima is struggling to support her children since her husband disappeared, and needs urgent help with providing food and resources for them, especially as winter sweeps through Gaza! This family’s fundraising campaign (@familgazaamal1) is completely vetted and I’m trying to use my platforms to raise awareness on their behalf. I’ll be opening my commissions to raise funds for their campaign so keep your eyes peeled! I’ll also post their fundraiser link in my highlights as well! Thanks guys! Let’s do our part to reclaim kindness and uplift each other!

Here's a message from the family:

In Gaza, where conflict looms over daily life, children’s dreams remain a ray of hope. Abdul Rahim, a young boy, dreams of becoming a famous artist, using his drawings to tell the world about the beauty of his homeland. Walid, on the other hand, dreams of playing football in a big stadium, representing his country despite the obstacles around him. Majdi, a cat lover, dreams of becoming a kind person and helping children. Majdi, who dreams of opening an animal shelter to care for animals in Gaza. Even in the midst of war, these children cling to their dreams, believing that one day, despite the difficulties, they will achieve their goals. Their dreams are not only about personal success, but also about shedding light on a world filled with darkness. These dreams symbolize the resilience of Gaza’s children, showing that hope and determination can survive even the most difficult circumstances.

In the heart of the ongoing war, Shaima lives with her four children, constantly struggling with pain and waiting. Her husband, who was once the source of security and happiness, left a long time ago, facing the challenges of war far from them. Every day, Shaima makes earnest efforts to keep life going despite the hardships. She strives to provide food and shelter while trying to instill hope in the hearts of her children, who are still waiting for their father’s return, a father they know little about other than his absence. Her four children, despite their young age, carry great hopes in their hearts. The eldest, who everyone sees as the "little father," dreams of their father returning to embrace them as he did in the past. The youngest, on the other hand, wakes up at night searching for his father's voice, wishing for his return to feel safe again. Shaima's dream is every mother’s dream in this war: for her husband to return safely so they can live together again in peace and security. She dreams of the days when her husband filled their home with joy, and she prays for the end of the war so their family can reunite once more. Yet, amid the destruction and tears, hope remains their strength. Shaima knows that her patience and resilience are what keep the family going. Despite the difficult days, she continues to resist, dreaming of the moment when her family will be whole again, with her husband and the father of her children back home.

[huda-pls]

Save What's Left of My Family in Gaza.

In the heart of Gaza, where daily life has become a constant challenge amidst the siege and continuous bombing, we experienced unforgettable moments, filled with love and hope despite the pain. This is my story, and the story of my family, which may not differ from hundreds of other families in Gaza, but it holds special memories that will forever be etched in our minds.

Yazan, my dear nephew, was always a symbol of courage and joy in our family. Since childhood, he loved to wear his elegant blue suit, always made sure his hair was neatly styled, and smiled at the world as if to tell us that tomorrow would be better. On the day of a family member's wedding, Yazan stood proudly beside us, radiating happiness, sharing his smiles with everyone, as if he knew that these moments would be among the last memories we would have of him. Just a few days later, in a merciless airstrike, we lost Yazan. He left us while dreaming of a tomorrow filled with peace and joy, leaving behind a void and indescribable pain.

As for Suheir, my beloved niece, she is the sun that rises in our lives every day. Suheir is still with us, full of life and hope, dreaming of wearing her white dress on her special day and living a life filled with joy and success. Despite the harsh circumstances, Suheir carries the spirit of childhood and is the source of hope that we cling to amidst all this pain. Every time I see her, I feel that life still offers us a chance to witness its beauty and happiness.

We lost Yazan, but we thank God that Suheir is still with us. She is a symbol of hope and resilience. Although life has become more difficult and harsh, I believe there is always light at the end of the tunnel. We have endured these bitter experiences together as a family, but we still carry in our hearts a passion for life, seeking safety and the opportunities that can grant us a new beginning.

For this reason, I have launched a fundraising campaign to help my family escape this harsh reality. My goal is to secure a better future for those of us who remain, especially the children who deserve to live their lives without fear of bombings and airstrikes. All I ask for is a chance to give them a future filled with peace and opportunities, far from wars and destruction.

With hope and faith, I ask everyone who reads these words to contribute to our cause. Together, we can build a better future for our children, keep Yazan's memory alive as a symbol of courage and hope, and continue to support Suheir so that she can live the life she dreams of, filled with safety and happiness.

Vetted by @gaza-evacuation-funds @nabulsi @irhabiya @bilal-salah0

Sorry for mention you

@claudiasescapesubmarine @neptunerings @malcriada @timetravellingkitty @magnus-rhymes-with-swagness @northgazaupdates2 @rhubarbspring @watermotif @kyra45-helping-others @gaza-evacuation-funds @appsa @emathystg @transmutationisms @lonniemachin @retvolution @rairikka @a1m3v @bookn3rd-cartoons

@chronicschmonic @feluka @halalchampagnesocialist @ihavenoideashelp @irhabiya @jezior0 @kordeliiius

@komsomolka @kit-today @laurapalmerss @mushroomjar@mahoushojoe@mothblossoms

@orchidvioletindigo @pcktknife @planetgraves @vetted-gaza-funds @turtletoria @the-bastard-king @three-croissants @tortiefrancis @sleevesareforlosers @grapejuicedragoon @girlinafairytale @lovewontfindherwayhome @rooh-afza

@unfortunatelyuncreative @vakarians-babe @wellwaterhysteria @xinakwans @hametsukaishi

@afro-elf @officialspec @prinnay @khanger @bilal-salah0 @a-shade-of-blue @kaereth @acepumpkinpatrick @ana-bananya @heir-of-the-chair @sar-soor @dlxxv-vetted-donations @punkitt-is-here @walcutt @heritageposts @sayruq @prokopetz @triptrippy @zigcarnivorous @ot3 @gryficowa @schoolhater @postanagramgenerator @prinnay

@appsa @a-shade-of-blue @a1m3v

@transmutationisms @nightydraws@mimiqyu

@grapejuicedragoon @boostpOwer @ohwarnette

@mothblossoms@zigcarnivorous @xzbat-loverzx

@degenderates @briarhips @bunnie-the-idiot

@brutaliakhoa @claudiasescapesubmarine

@commissions4aid-international @doug-dimmadumb

@deepspaceboytoy @feluka @flower-tea-fairies

@girlinafairytale @halalchampagnesocialist

@hametsukaishi @irhabiya @kordeliiius @killaltrock

@kyra45-helping-others @kit-today @laurapalmerss

@lovewontfindherwayhome @malcriada

@mushroomjar @neptunerings @planetgraves

@pocketsizedquasar-2 @queerstudiesnatural

@rhubarbspring @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @s8n66

@strawberrysnipes @schoolhater@sawasawako

@the-bastard-king @three-croissants @tortiefrancis

@wellwaterhysteria @xinakwans

@neptunerings @claudiasescapesubmarine @northgazaupdates2 @gaza-evacuation-funds @rhubarbspring @flower-tea-fairies @postanagramgenerator@chronicschmonic

@blackgoliath @sharingresourcestorpalestine @60309 @malcriada @jeziorO @retvolution @raydiantgarden @emathyst9 @mothblossoms @pile-of-anxiety @brutaliakhoa @alm3v@magnus-rhymes-with-swagness @schoolhater @lesbiandardevil @devilofthepit @lizlives @transmutationisms @kit-today @appsa @hametsukaishi @vetted-gaza-funds @gazagmboost @heritageposts @timetravellingkitty @a-shade-of-blue @lovewontfindherwayhome @ohwarnette @nightowlssleep

@pretendingtobeaperson @laurapalmerss @im-living-under-your-basement @komsomolka @dvanaestmrva @lonniemachin @heliopixels @zigcarnivorous @turtletoria @opencommunion @wellwaterhysteria @queerstudiesnatural @grapejuicedragoon

@mangocheesecakes @kyra45-helping-others

@7bitter @tortiefrancis

@toiletpotato @fromjannah @vague-humanoid @criptochecca

@aristotels @komsomolka @xinakwans @heritageposts @nibeul

@ot3 @amygdalae @ankle-beez @communistchilchuck @dykesbat

@watermotif@stuckinapril@mavigator @lacecap @yugiohz

@socalgal @chilewithcarnage @ghelgheli @sayruq

@northgazaupdates2

@vakarians-babe @wayneradiotv

@psychotic-gerard @mavigator @communistkenobi @socalgal @chilewithcarnage

@ghelgheli @determinate-negation @papasmoke @omegaversereloaded

@xinakwans @givemearmstopraywith @loombreaking

@killy @deathlonging

@palms-upturned @blackpearlblast @littlegermanboy @loveaankilaq @sar-soor

@fridgebride @27-moons @tamarrud @familyabolisher @fleshdyk3

@appsa @malcriada @gryficowa

@postanagramgenerator@bilal-salah0@son-of-gaza @somospoesia @buttercuparry @beserkerjewel @neptunerings @ot3@schoolhater @o@dormimi-zzz @violetellipse @good-old-gossip @apollo@prinnay @brutaliakhoa @prokopetz @turian @heritageposts @magnus-rhymes-with-swagness

@mangocheeseships @communistchinaaesthetic @northgazaupdates2 @nasa@triptrippy

@transmutationisms @kitty @khanger@pomodoko @shakira @determinate-negation @a-shade-of-blue @therealmsdarling @opencommunion

[alaakhaled]

Hello my friends...

🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨

Alaa lives in Gaza City, where life before October 7th was filled with hope and hard work. Ali, who lived with his family, led a simple yet stable life. They had a home that sheltered them and a source of income that provided for their basic needs. They shared joys and sorrows with their neighbors and friends, planning for a better future.

But in a single moment, everything changed. War struck the city mercilessly, destroying homes and shops, leaving Ali and his family with nothing but beautiful memories of a life that had become part of the past. They found themselves homeless, jobless, and clinging to hope under a small tent that could neither protect them from the cold of winter nor the heat of the sun.

In these harsh conditions, Ali tries to hold on to hope. Despite the pain and loss, he still believes that life can improve, and that he can rebuild a home that will provide his family with safety, as well as a source of income to restore their dignity. He seeks help from anyone who can extend a helping hand, not just to build a new house but to reclaim the life that was taken from him and his family.

In conclusion, Ali’s story is one of many voices from Gaza, a message that carries both pain and hope, calling on the world to unite in building a better future for the displaced and those in need.

.

The Story of My Child Khaled

The youngest member of Khaled's family is a child no older than two years. This little boy was the source of joy and happiness for the family, but war robbed him of a healthy childhood. After our home was destroyed, his health began to deteriorate due to the harsh conditions in the camp. The lack of clean water and the absence of basic health services led to painful skin diseases.

"My child cries day and night from pain, and I am helpless to do anything for him. There is no clean water to wash his body, no medicine to ease his suffering. Seeing him suffer without being able to help him has broken my heart."

Despite the pain, Khaled clings to the hope that his child’s plight will reach those who can save him. "Please, help me treat my child; he is innocent in this war. I just want to see him smile again."

This little child’s story is not just an individual tale of suffering but a human cry to save the children of Gaza, who endure silently under these harsh conditions.

This child is in Gaza, and he is crying because there is no food, milk, or diapers for him. His parents are asking for help from everyone to provide these essential supplies for the child. I don’t have money, and the child’s father is also struggling. We need donations to help provide for our baby.

We need your help to support our family and provide the basics of a decent life. Every donation, no matter how small, will make a big difference in our lives.😭🇵🇸🙏💔

A child is suffering from severe rashes and infections in sensitive areas of his body due to the use of unsuitable cloth diapers. His condition is getting worse, and his family is desperately seeking treatment for his skin and relief for the sensitive areas affected. They are in urgent need of help to provide the necessary care and medications for their baby. They are pleading for assistance to help give their child the relief and comfort he desperately needs.💔

We are struggling to find clean water, and the available water does not meet safety standards. With no access to clean water in our homes, we are facing a serious crisis. We are making an urgent plea for help, as the lack of water is putting our lives and health at risk.💔🙏

We are forced to cook our🇵🇸 food over firewood, and as a result, the food is often unhealthy and harmful. The lack of proper cooking resources is making it difficult to provide safe and nutritious meals, putting our health at risk.😭

Our home was destroyed by the Israeli occupation, and we no longer have a safe place to live. We are left without shelter or access to proper healthcare, struggling to find safety and basic care for our family.💔

🚨🚨🚨

We are a simple family from Gaza, and we have suffered greatly from the difficult circumstances we live in here. The difficult economic conditions and the unstable security situation have made daily life very difficult. We need your help to support our family and provide the basics of a decent life. Every donation, no matter how small, will make a big difference in our lives. Thank you for your generosity and solidarity. Our prayers for peace and well-being for you and your families.

@irhabiya @commissions4aid-international @wellwaterhysteria @junglejim4322 @kibumkimxap @kibumkimxap @kibumkims @neechees @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @heritageposts @heritagepostsbot @heritagepostswithjax @toiletpotato @fromjannah @omegaversereloaded @vague-humanoidot @evillesbianvillainarchive @ot3-old @ot3-old @ot3showdown @ot3showdown

We need your support; even a small donation can make a big difference. Thank you to everyone who has helped us. 😞💔🇵🇸

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

ALL TOYS REACTIONS TO FINALLY HAVING A FRESH BATH AND MANY FRESH FOODS AFTER ESCAPING THE FACTORY

Along with them getting bandages and such for the wounds, etc. They'd be crying with tears of joy and thanking their angel a lot for it

(Prototype and Doctor is dead in that forsaken factory)

This! This ask is the kind of stuff that makes me love writing!

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me :)

Player who helped the toys in Safe Haven escape the factory

★ After the Player brings everyone into their house, an uneasy silence fills the room only drowned out by quiet murmuring. Nobody is sure what to do. Most had forgotten the warmth of a real home, having spent so long in a hostile environment.

★ Poppy is the first to speak. "Are…are you sure we can stay?" The Player nods, their gentle smile providing the comfort everyone needs. One of the other toys shyly asks, "Do you have snacks?"

★ They are all hungry, starving even. Fortunately for them the Player has a pantry stocked up with snacks. The toys, who had been surviving on scraps, are overwhelmed by the sight of so much food.

★ Since none of the toys know how to cook, the Player takes the lead in preparing a proper meal. It's been so long since they've had actual food. Not raw, questionably sourced, meat.

★ The kitchen becomes rather crowded, with the smaller toys peeking over countertops to watch the Player cook. Doey cried when he got a plate of food all to himself. It's been so long since him and his friends could all eat there fill without worries. No empty stomachs or dirty, unwashed plates.

★ Kissy was one of the last toys to enter the kitchen. She's hesitant, her eyes darting around the room, still not fully believing that they are truly safe. she examines each item in the room, curiosity getting the better of her.

★ She can feel her body relaxing for the first time in ages. The feeling of safety and comfort is almost surreal. Several of the other toys lean on her while getting comfy after their meal. A small cuddle pile forming.

★ You hate to ruin the fun, but all of them where in desperate need of bath. You couldn't let them stay dirty. By the time everyone is done getting washed up the bath water is a murky brown and the Player has run out of towels

★ The Player tends to any wounds, applying bandages when needed. Doey helps them with the band aid part. He doesn't think it's fair for the Player to do everything alone.

★ There is a lot of work to do before everyone feels some semblance of okay. Some of the scars won't fully heal, but that's a problem for tomorrow. It's been a long day and you need rest. Tonight, everyone is safe and sound, curled up in all the blankets you could find.

[wilwheaton]

Q: My wife, “Sarah,” always wanted to be an actress, but it never happened for her. We have a daughter, “Bianca,” and the trouble is that for years, Sarah has been trying to push her into acting. She has auditioned Bianca for parts in commercials and TV shows since before Bianca could talk; she’s had a handful of spots, but nothing significant. When our daughter was 4 years old, Sarah signed her up for acting lessons. Now Bianca is almost 7, and it’s become abundantly clear she does NOT enjoy acting (she wants to play soccer more than anything). She has told her mom directly, but Sarah refuses to listen. Bianca is growing increasingly miserable and has gone to such lengths as hiding or pretending to be sick when it’s time for her acting lessons to avoid going. [...] A: ...you need to find a way to get through to your wife, because I think you have very valid concerns. (Wil Wheaton, of Stand by Me and Star Trek: The Next Generation fame, has discussed in books, podcasts, and various articles throughout the years what it was like to experience his mother’s problematic desire to live vicariously through him. Jennette McCurdy’s I’m Glad My Mom Died offers a similar sobering tale.)

Family advice: My wife is pushing her former failed dreams on our daughter. I need to stop her.

I just need to add that Bianca’s childhood does not belong to her mother, and she has no right to take it away from her. If Sara cares at all about her daughter, if she cares at all about her happiness, and the relationship between them, Sara better drop this right now, and APOLOGIZE.

Sara needs therapy to understand why she is willing to ignore her daughter’s pleas, why she doesn’t care that she is hurting her daughter, and why chasing some kind of fame as an actor is more important to her than her daughter’s life and happiness and childhood.

Bianca is a child. She deserves to be a child. She will never get to be a child again in her life, and if Sara successfully steals it from her, Bianca will carry the wound for her entire life.

If Sara does not put her daughter’s interests and her daughter’s joy ahead of her own selfish desire to be a successful actor, she is as terrible a mother as mine.

Sara needs to decide if she’s going to be Bianca’s mother, or if she’s going to be the source of unimaginable pain for her daughter.

I applaud Bianca’s father for reaching out to Slate for advice. I will always wonder how different my life would be if the man who was my father gave a single shit about how much my mother was hurting me. Unfortunately, he was too busy being my bully to notice.

[multific]

A Husband's Duties

Marcus Acacius x Reader

Summary: After a small injury, you decide it is better to not burden your husband, and hide it from him. But of course, when he finds out and he is less than impressed. 

As you prepare dinner in the warm glow of the kitchen, a sudden surge of pain shoots through your body. 

In an instant, you feel a sharp pain in your side, causing you to wince and clutch at the source of the discomfort. 

As you try to shake off the pain, you can't help but worry about how Marcus will react when he comes home and sees what you've been hiding.

The minutes tick by slowly, each second feeling like an eternity as you desperately try to compose yourself. 

You know that Marcus will be upset if he finds out you've been injured and kept it from him. But deep down, you also know that you were only trying to protect him, to spare him from unnecessary worry.

Finally, the sound of the front door opening echoes through your home, signalling Marcus's return. Your heart races as you continue to work in the kitchen, your movements becoming more strained with every passing second. 

You can hear his footsteps approaching, growing louder with each step.

"My Love, I'm home," Marcus calls out, his voice filled with a mix of fatigue and excitement. 

But as soon as he catches sight of you, his eyes narrow, and concern replaces the joy on his face.

"What happened?" he asks, his voice tinged with anger, his eyes fixed on the pained expression etched across your face. 

You take a deep breath, struggling to find the right words to explain yourself.

"I... I didn't want to worry you," you stammer, your voice barely a whisper. "I thought I could handle it on my own."

Marcus' anger softens, replaced by a mixture of worry and frustration. He crosses the room in a few strides, gently taking your hand in his. 

"I appreciate your efforts, My Love, but you should never have to face something like this alone. Tell me please, what happened?" he says, his voice filled with a tenderness that reassures you.

You let out a long sigh.

"I fell. I took the wrong step and fell up the stairs. I hurt my side when I fell on the stone steps."

He carefully tends to your injury, his touch gentle and comforting. As he wraps a bandage around your side, you can feel his relentless support, his love flowing through every action.

"My Love, I might just have to follow you everyone to make sure you are safe and sound."

"I do not wish to keep you from your duties."

"Being your husband is my greatest one." he said and you smiled at him.

For the next couple of days, Marcus becomes your rock, taking care of you with such love and care. 

He cooks, cleans, and ensures that you have everything you need to heal. But more than that, he listens to your fears and worries, offering a steady hand to lean on during your recovery.

Through it all, you learn the importance of openness and trust in a relationship. 

You realize that keeping secrets, even with good intentions, can only lead to misunderstandings and unnecessary distress. 

Marcus's anger reflected his concern for your well-being, a reminder that the strength of your bond lies in open and honest communication.

As you heal, you grow closer and closer, cherishing the deep love between you. 

In the end, your injury becomes a trigger for strengthening your relationship, reminding both of you of the power of compassion and teamwork in overcoming any challenge that comes your way.

Taglist: 

@castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou 

@mandoloriancookie @deliciousfestsalad @lilliumrorum @asgards-princess-of-mischief 

@fallout-girl219 @dracaryxzs @snowtargaryen 

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE, TO STEAL OR TO REUPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[troublesomesnitch]

Meeting Vhagar - Drabble

Aemond x Wife!Reader

Much to your dismay, Prince Aemond insists on bringing your little son to Vhagar. Set sometime during the Dance.

Contents: Just a little practice thing... Dad!Aemond, Targaryen parenting, subtle fluff. Little bit of subtle angst too. No filth this time..

Words: 3000, and very sloppily proof read.

The carriage can only take you so far as to the Iron Gate. 

Beyond its massive doors, the Rosby Road winds North, poorly maintained and full of potholes, as it is the shortest of the main roads, and thus the least important. It is not as busy as others, and the gate is not guarded as well - clearly, as the men who should be protecting it are presently engaged in a game of cards, laid out on top of a large, flat rock.

That is where the driver will wait, but it is not your destination. 

There is another little trail. One that runs in the opposite direction, scarcely used and partially hidden, visible only to those who know it. No horse or wagon can make the journey, and there is no option but to walk - first along a narrow, trodden path, and then further still, down treacherous steps, carved into the very rock the city rests upon. Past the watchtower, and across the Northern beach, to the vast caves of Maegor the Cruel, where Vhagar has made her nest.

You walk alone, just the two of you. The prince in his coat and boots, and yourself in attire much less suited for the occasion. Fine shoes, fine skirts, and with your little son cradled in your arms. 

The gentle rocking of the carriage has lulled him to sleep. Four months old, he is, and a source of such joy that your poor heart can scarcely contain it. From his first high-pitched cry when you brought him into the world - oh, the pains of labour were all but forgotten, as was the threat of the raging war. And when the prince came to see his son, you could hardly even bear to let him hold him. 

He wanted to bring the boy much sooner, but both you and the dowager queen staunchly put your foot down against that. Children should not be brought outside the home until they have at least lived through the first perilous weeks, and possibly even their first fever. And even then, most would argue, they have no business being around ferocious animals. 

“I don’t like it,” you say, for the umpteenth time, taking the hand offered to you by the prince to help you cross a treacherous stretch. “It is mad, bringing an infant to such a beast - ” 

“Vhagar should know him,” he says, steadfast and determined. As he has done whenever you voiced your concern. 

It does nothing at all to calm your nerves. But it is his most compelling argument, and the only reason you have allowed this lunacy in the first place. So the dragon would recognise the boy as his, and as one of her own. So she would know to protect him, if - something should happen. 

You make it halfway across the pebbled beach before the prince pauses. And you do too, lifting your gaze to follow his line of sight; see what he is looking at. 

An enormous, greyish mass, some yards away, that at first you thought was a moss-grown rock, or years of washed up seaweed. But the mass makes a rumbling noise and begins to shift and lift itself, slowly and carefully, as though with much effort. Part of it becomes a leg, another part unfurls into a great wing, and the rock nearest to you becomes a head, with a mouth full of jagged teeth, and two eyes opening slowly. Amber in colour, and with slitted pupils staring straight at you. 

“She can sense me,” the prince declares, with no small amount of pride, lifting his chin and straightening his back. 

You, however, are paralysed, utterly shocked by her vastness. You have never seen Vhagar this close before, and though you knew of her impressive size, it is one thing to see her soaring across the sky, and quite another to be right next to her, unprotected and vulnerable.

It seems to you that the span of her wings could cover half the city, that entire buildings could fit in her mouth. And certainly, she could end all three of you with her fiery breath, or with a single swipe of her claw or her massive tail. One wrong move, even if accidental, even if she did not mean to - you would all be dead. 

“Come,” the prince says, pushing at the small of your back. But you stall, digging in your heels, frozen in place at the sight of her. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” you stammer. “We should go back - it is not safe…”

The prince gives an overbearing, if somewhat irritated sigh. 

“Dragons are loyal beasts,” he reassures. “Vhagar is loyal to me, she obeys me - ”

“She is a beast,” you hiss, hugging your drowsy son closer to your chest. “She cannot be trusted. It is too dangerous - I won’t let you bring him any closer - ”

Prince Aemond does not like to be challenged. He turns around to look at you coolly, his voice low and scornful as he speaks. 

“Is your opinion of me so unfavourable, wife, that you think I would risk harm to my own son?”

“No,” you respond, quietly, but truthfully. Since you were married, your opinion of the prince has only risen, slowly but surely. And it continues to do so, still - though perhaps not right now. “I don’t like it - ”

“Mhm - so you said,” your husband says dryly, all but wrenching the swaddled boy from your arms. 

He does not complain, the boy. Prince Aemond comes to visit often, at least once a day, and sometimes more. He sits with the child, reads to him, lets him fall asleep in his arms - not for very long each time, but it is at least enough for the little boy to recognise his father’s low voice and stern face as something safe and comfortable. As is evident from the way he now settles against the prince’s leather-clad chest, tangling his little fist into a lock of his hair. 

The beast remains still, pensive as her rider approaches, her serpent’s eyes fixed on the thing in his arms, on what he is bringing her. Your most precious treasure, your life’s very purpose, completely at the mercy of the greatest dragon in the world. 

You might have felt more at ease if the soft, sparse hair on his head had been silver like his father’s, but alas, it is not. It is exactly like yours, and only the bright violet of his eyes gives away his true inheritance. 

And that seems like too little a thing for such a large creature to notice. 

Prince Aemond calls out in that strange language of his, with the open vowels and the rolling R’s. It is beautiful, especially in his mouth, and the dragon responds at once, contorting herself to let him touch her wrinkled neck with affection. Which is a strange sight, but what is even stranger is the way she grumbles - as though she likes it. He speaks to her as if she was another person, in long, full sentences that are much too complicated for you to even attempt to understand. There is only one word you can make out, for the sole reason that he says it twice - yoreliatzeh, or yorelatzya, or something akin to that. You haven’t a clue as to what it means. 

Vhagar snorts once, and the prince steps back to give her room to move, to rise up onto her legs and bring her head closer, her nose almost touching his hip. While you stand at a distance, staring at the utterly bizarre scene playing out in front of you. A fearsome, vicious beast, sniffing the child like a dog would. Gently and carefully, only she is so big that each of her cautious breaths is like a small gust of wind, making your husband’s hair billow about his face. When she makes a grunting noise, he carefully unwraps some of the swaddlings, holding the child up to let her see him better, smell him better. 

He is bright, your darling boy, and curious, like all babes and children. His eyes are wide as they take in Vhagar’s scaly form, and he gives a soft squeal of surprise or wonder, kicking his little feet under the blankets. Reaching his arm towards the beast's massive head, her massive teeth -

“Aemond, please - ” you gasp, clutching your hands to your throat. 

The prince turns his head to give you a stern look, one that clearly shows he is running out of patience. And maybe this time it is justified, because your fearful outburst startles the boy, who begins to squirm unhappily in his father’s arms. Fussing and whimpering; a sound that is as painful to you as salt to an open wound. 

“Bring him to me,” you plead, “can’t you see that he is frightened - ” 

“He is frightened because you are frightened,” the prince says, as soft spoken as always, but with a hint of something sharp underneath.

He cradles the boy closer to his chest, bouncing him gently, holding his head and murmuring soothing words. Exactly as you would do, and to the same effect. It calms him down, and his big, round eyes start darting around again, taking in his surroundings. The dragon, the grey sea, the fine silver clasps on his father’s clothes. It does seem that the latter intrigues him the most. 

Vhagar lifts her neck and tilts her head just slightly, seemingly very interested in the child, in this tiny little creature; the way he moves his little limbs, and his soft coos and noises. There is an almost… thoughtful look in her eyes, or at the very least a curious one. 

It makes you wonder about the extent of her perception. Whether she truly knows that this is Aemond’s child, that it came from him, from his body, his flesh. If she can sense it somehow, through the bond they purportedly share, or if she understood it when he spoke to her. 

How intelligent is a dragon? Are they like dogs or horses, able to learn the meaning of certain words, but not the full breadth of language? Or do they think as people, with nuance and emotion, and a mind as vivid as your own. 

You do not know. You suppose no one really does. 

“Come,” the prince calls, reaching his arm towards you, beckoning you closer. However, a single glance at Vhagar, whose mighty gaze is now focused on you, is enough to inspire disobedience in even the most well-behaved wife.

“I would really rather not - ”

“She must know the both of you,” he insists. 

“Is that - necessary?” you squirm, wringing your hands, very much aware that you are not a dragon rider, that you haven’t a drop of Valyrian blood. “Vhagar has no reason to think fondly of me…”

The prince scoffs. 

“Are you not the mother of my child?” he says. “Now, come.” 

You must go to him. He is your lord husband, and he is a prince, and such is the way of things. But you are not at all glad to, and you walk with shaky, reluctant steps, gripping onto his elbow and cowering behind him like a frightened child. 

You close your eyes when the dragon lowers her head once more, bringing it towards you. A sudden, low-pitched growl makes your heart tremble, but the prince speaks a soft command. Lykirī, Vhagar. Lykirī.

It has a calming effect on you too. As does the arm he keeps outstretched in front of you - solely for your comfort, you assume, as it would make no difference whatsoever, should Vhagar decide that she does not like you. But you appreciate the gesture nonetheless.

The air is warm, this close to her, and your skirts move around your legs when she breathes, slowly and deeply, while the prince speaks to her in soft tones. That word again, the one from before, and many others. You know the words for wife, for king, for father, brother, sister, even for dragon, but he says none of those now, so you have no guess as to what he is telling her. Or if she understands. Or what he would call you, if not his wife. 

This woman is my - spouse? lady? lover?

You do have a kind of love for him, and sometimes you think he does for you, too. Sometimes. One can never be sure of anything with the prince, who keeps himself so closely guarded. Even after more than a year of marriage. Even now that you have given him a child. 

The birth went mercifully well, but your recovery was long, and he has only recently begun to come to your bed again. And so far, only a handful of times. The first time, it was so painful for you that the act could not be completed, and the second time, he finished so quickly that it barely even counts. The third was better. Pleasurable for both of you, but still strange after going so long without it - at least for you. It is both likely and possible that the prince satisfied his urges elsewhere while your body was indisposed. You do not know. Nor do you wish to. 

The ground shifts beneath your feet, and the heat around you lessens, as does the heavy smell of burned flesh and brimstone, the very same one that so often clings to your husband’s clothes. When you open your eyes it is to the sight of Vhagar, settled onto her belly, her head laid atop her claws. Calm and docile, and with a deep rumble coming from her chest - one that is probably a sign of contentment, even if it sounds utterly terrifying. 

“Touch her,” the prince commands, giving a gentle push to your back. “You have nothing to fear, touch her.” 

It is quite clear that Vhagar is unruffled by your presence, that she is resting. But with her eyes heavy and half-closed, it makes her look so menacing, so evil - even though you know that evil does not exist inherently in any beast. Only in those who train it. 

You draw in a steadying breath, gathering up your courage, reaching your hand out - only to then think better of it and let it fall. 

“I am afraid to,” you whisper.

The prince sighs. But his hand closes gently around yours, bringing it to rest on the side of her nose, first the tips of your fingers, and then your whole palm. 

It is like nothing else you have ever felt, her scales. You always imagined that a dragon’s skin would feel like leather, but Vhagar’s skin is so much tougher, so much rougher, like running your hand over little rocks. And she is warm - so warm, as though a fire is always burning somewhere in her throat. 

She does not object at all to your touch, even when the prince withdraws his own hand, leaving only yours. Only you and Vhagar. The largest, oldest being in the world. 

To think, the things she has seen. The conquest, the Dornish Wars, the very founding of the realm of the Seven Kingdoms. Dozens of castles have crumbled in her fire, and thousands of people have perished, and she has fought and won hundreds of battles; torn through stone, rock and earth as though it was boiled jelly. 

It is at once terrifying and romantic, like something from a fairytale, or stories of ancient times. A creature of such myth and legend that you almost feel as though you should bow down to her, as one does before a great matriarch.

Vhagar the Conqueror. Queen of all Dragons. 

She closes her eyes when you draw back. 

“He might ride her too, some day,” the prince says quietly. Wistfully. 

“But dragons only have one rider - ” you protest, cutting yourself off when you realise what he meant. What he left unsaid. 

This is war. The realm is at war. Death is everywhere; at the end of a blade, in the point of an arrow. And if not on the field of battle, then in tainted water or plague-ridden camps; empty bellies or festering wounds.

“You shouldn’t say such things,” you mutter, looking down at your feet. Your dirtied shoes. 

The prince does not answer. A heavy mood has settled over the rocky beach, something vast and bleak and empty, only compounded by the surroundings. The colourless sky, the sombre crashing of waves. Even Vhagar gives a doleful sigh, as though she too is weary of what is to come.

She has been the prince’s companion since childhood. He was born to the queen, but Vhagar made him what he is, made him ruthless, made him brutally ambitious. Made him Aemond One-Eye, Aemond the Kinslayer. Prince Regent, Protector of the Realm. She has known him boy and man, as well as any, and better than most. She has known him in life, and she may yet know him in death.

You push that thought away as forcefully as your mind allows. You shouldn’t think such things. 

A coo from your son breaks the tension, and his eyes turn to the sky, where a large heron is flapping its wings. The afternoon is turning to evening, and soon the bell will ring for supper - something warm and comforting, you hope. You are cold, your breasts feel sore, and you have most certainly had enough excitement for one day. For several days, in fact.

“Can we go, please,” you breathe, looking up at your husband with wide, pleading eyes. 

“She is tired,” he says, with a soft glance at Vhagar’s terrifying face, and a gentle touch to her side. “Yes, we should.”

—

You walk slower on the way back. Uphill, with sore feet, and your boy now fast asleep in your arms. Safe and snug where he belongs. 

“My Prince,” you begin, sweet and innocent. “What does… yoreliatzeh mean?”

There is a sly little smile on his face when you look at him, a self-assured look in his remaining eye.

“Jorrāeliarza,” he corrects, with an artful pause before he continues. As though to keep you in suspense. “It means dear. Or… beloved.”

If he sees the sudden blush on your face, he does not let on. 

“Jorālitzeh.”

“No,” he says. “Jor-rāe-liar-za.”

“Jor-rāe-liar-za,” you repeat, trying your very best to mimic the exact movements of his mouth, the way he gently rolls his tongue. “Jorrāeliarza.”

“Better,” he nods, and then you round a corner, just in time to see the guards hastily hide their cards away, and the driver shuffling back towards the carriage, eagerly shoving his winnings into a pocket. 

Jorrāeliarza. Jorrāeliarza. Jorrāeliarza. 

Dear. Beloved. 

You like that very much.  

Please feel free to come into my asks or DMs with critique of my fics! Constructive is preferred, but not required.

Tags. @arcielee, @targaryen-madness, @aemondsbabygirl, @qyburnsghost, @blackswxnn

I am a mess with the tagging, I'm so sorry if I forgot or wrongly tagged anyone. Let me know, I will fix it.

[mercy-burning]

Father Figure (1/2)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Summary: Spencer becomes an unlikely source of comfort after his son breaks up with you. (PART 1 of 2) Category: Mature (18+) Content: Adults w/age gap, perv!Spencer strikes again, masturbation, drinking, kissing. Word Count: 6.2k

MASTERLIST

NOTE: Pushing the hot old man agenda once again, I'm not even sorry about it. Smut will be in Part 2, which I'm almost done with--I just have to workshop the end a little bit. And remember, pals: If he wanted to, he would. And if he won't, then his dad will (AKA the quote I saw on TikTok that inspired this fic lmao) Also, I apologize if adding a real song with real lyrics in the middle of this is cringey, but I had A Vision, and I needed it to be realized, okay? Let a girl have some fun!!!

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

...THE COFFEE SHOP

Spying on his son was never exactly a pastime of Spencer's, even less so now since the kid is not really a kid anymore. Still, when that kid breaks up with his long-term girlfriend of four years and then goes on a first date a day later, a father is left to wonder...

He feels bad especially for the ex-girlfriend, who had been nothing but an absolute joy; always bringing gifts and snacks to the house, celebrating the Reid boys' birthdays with extra love and care, and bringing a warm and happy energy that demanded love and care right back.

He can't imagine how you must be feeling.

Your face dances in flashes behind his eyelids as he pokes around the corner of the coffee shop, wondering what could possibly be so enticing about this other woman that his son would throw away something so extraordinary.

Even as he spots Cameron, beaming and eagerly listening to the beautiful young woman in front of him, it pains Spencer to imagine the other side of the coin.

He sighs and turns away, wondering what could have changed his son's mind, but understanding that ultimately it's not any of his business. From what he knows about the breakup, Cameron had been kind and forthright through all of it, offering his father the simple explanation of, "I don't dislike her at all, she's a nice girl... I just don't love her anymore. That's all."

That's all...

When you've spent the first half of your young adult life with the same someone, that logic isn't impossible; Inevitably you'll meet new people and feel bright, new feelings, and old feelings can dissipate just as quickly.

On every logical level, there's nothing inherently wrong with this situation, and still, Spencer can't fight off the uneasy tension in his chest as he sits with it.

As he turns the corner and begins to try and place where exactly that feeling might come from, a loud gasp stops him in his tracks.

His eyes take a moment to look you over, looking to anyone else like he might need some time to process that it's you, but really, his brain knows it right away. Admittedly, he's just glad to see you. Though right now you're visibly shocked and perhaps a little embarrassed, you still radiate that undeniable warmth that brings a slow smile to his face. The tension he feels doesn't fade so much as it shifts, from uneasy to something more electric. More problematic.

What the fuck is your problem? his inner-voice barks, so loudly he almost thinks he's said it out loud.

Spencer shifts direction quickly, reminding himself how to act like a normal human being, and more importantly, how to act when faced with his son's ex-girlfriend, who is clearly doing the same thing he's doing.

"What a pleasant surprise," he beams reaching forward to offer a hug, which you take. Perhaps a dumb move considering the funk he just had to snap himself out of, but if he can carefully guide you in the other direction to save you the spiral of spying on your ex-boyfriend's new date, then so-be-it.

You pull away and he does too, his hands lingering but not touching you. Still, he feels you just as vividly.

"Doctor Reid, what are you doing here?" you ask, trying to hold his eye contact but ultimately succumbing to the urge to glance at the window behind him.

He sighs, offering a sympathetic smile. "The same thing as you, I'm afraid..."

The horror on your face makes his stomach churn, but then it's gone in an instant, replaced by an eye-crinkling laugh that takes him by surprise.

"What? I don't know what you're talking about!"

You're trying so hard to convince him, and probably yourself as well, and it unfortunately amuses him. Your smile doesn't quite reach your eyes, not bright and genuine like he's always known, but it's still beautiful. His gaze lingers a little too long on it before he meets your eyes again, watching them flash with something petrified as he grins.

"Clearly..."

You cross your arms, jutting your chin out and attempting a new tactic. "Look, I'm not that pathetic, okay? I don't like what you're implying. Besides, why are you spying on Cam, huh? It's not like he broke up with you to be with your best friend..."

The smile slowly disappears from his face as you speak, that sharp sense of unease creeping back into his system and curling up through his lungs like cigarette smoke. "What?"

You don't bother trying to hide it anymore, a sad shrug weighing down your body as your face softens into something melancholic and distant. Your voice is barely there when you speak, the sound of nearby traffic nearly drowning you out. "Guess he didn't tell you that part, huh..."

"No, he didn't."

You sigh and tighten your arms, seemingly holding yourself together as not to fall apart at the seams. "Did you see them? Did they look happy?"

Spencer's stomach churns again, and he shakes his head incredulously. "Hon, maybe you should—"

"Did they?" you ask again more desperately, your voice cracking between words. He can hear the sadness in it, the devastation and the confusion, the need to understand...

An irrational anger starts to brew somewhere in the depths of his being, even though he knows he doesn't have the whole story. But he firmly decides that he can grapple with Cameron and his choice of a girlfriend at a more appropriate time, and probably even have a man-to-man conversation with him about the whole thing... He also firmly decides that the arrival of these indescribable tense feelings should also be dealt with, though preferably in his next therapy session and not right this second.

Because right now, there's a bright young woman on the verge of tears right in front of him, her sparkle dulling with each passing second, and the best thing to do is to get her away from the problem at large—Not to do anything that will only make it worse.

Spencer rushes to you and gently scoops you into another hug, your body nestling into his with an exhaustion that he fears he knows all too well. As you squeeze his shirt and start to cry, he leads you away from the building and down the sidewalk, wondering if you can hear how loudly his heart is breaking for you.

Eventually he leads you away from public eye, a small clearing about three blocks away and beyond some trees. Being late August, they've started to change color, but not by much. By now you've removed yourself from his full embrace, but still cling to his arm as you find the room to calm down, looking up at the trees.

He walks silently beside you, giving you the space to breathe and think. To rest. The sun is high in the sky, bright beams poking through the leaves and limbs, and when you finally stop walking, one of them catches your eye. It glistens with tears that haven't fallen yet, and when you stare up at the sky and close your eyelids, a small droplet finally strolls down your cheek.

Your arms tighten around Spencer's and he fights the urge to wipe the tear from your face with his free hand.

"I'm so sorry," he says instead. "I wish I knew what to do."

You open your eyes then, a small breeze picking up and rustling the trees. He can hear wind chimes in the distance, he thinks, or maybe it's just a figment of his imagination—a manifestation of the dulcet, melodic comfort you've brought to his life over the years. In a strange way, he supposes you do somewhat feel like home to him. Normalcy. Softness. Beauty.

He hadn't even realized it until your sadness had overwhelmed him.

"Thank you," you tell him, pulling away finally to look him dead-on. You smile again, and though it's sad, and still beautiful, this time it finally reaches your eyes. "You're a good man, Doctor Reid."

He certainly doesn't feel like a good man.

Not when you reach up and hug him with your arms draped over his shoulders. Not when his hands feel right at home at the small of your back. Not when he can hardly breathe as your mouth murmurs another, "thank you," into the crook of his neck. Not when you start to pull away, sliding your soft hands down over his shoulder blades and tilting your head. Not when your thankful lips make contact with his cheek, featherlight and heavy all the same. Not when, even after you pull away completely, your presence is still with him, making him warm and fluttery and stupid.

Not when he misses you, hours later, still buzzing from your touch...

And when Cameron comes home that evening, practically walking on clouds and beaming with lovesick stupor after his day out with your best friend, that tension and irrational anger starts to grow stronger, muddled with confusion.

No. Spencer Reid is convinced that he is not a good man.

If he was, he wouldn't be laying awake at night, absentmindedly caressing his face where your lips had been hours before, staring at the photo on his bedside table of the three of you just a year ago.

Right after you and Cam had graduated college, you all took a road trip to the Grand Canyon and a stranger offered to take your photo. You were happy and in love, holding on to Cam's arm the same way you held onto Spencer's earlier today. The sun was shining on your face, though back then it wasn't illuminating drying tears. Your smile reached your eyes, but it wasn't masking profound sadness.

If Spencer Reid was a good man, he would be letting it go and moving on instead of vowing to spend eternity trying to mend a heart he didn't break. He wouldn't be exacting his own twisted form of vengeance under the covers, stroking himself to the thought of you—to the thought of treating you right.

If he was a good man, he certainly wouldn't be staring at your photo on his bedside table as he did so, calling out your name in a hushed whisper—a prayer.

And yet, here he lays, the thought of you bringing him to completion.

"He didn't deserve you, sweet girl," he confesses breathlessly, right at the precipice. He comes in hot ropes over his bare stomach, visions of your bright eyes and warm, beautiful lips helping him right along.

His first exhale of breath as the high subsides comes out as a form of maniacal laughter; Not only is he now stuck with a mess he has to clean at almost two in the morning, but he's also devolving, clarity smacking right into him like a freight train.

Spencer swears, wishing he'd simply ignored the feeling that urged him to follow Cameron on his date earlier that day. He wishes he'd let it go.

He looks at your picture again and sighs, laughing to himself. "I don't deserve you either."

...THE BAR

Two weeks and two therapy sessions later, and Spencer doesn't feel any better, really.

He hasn't seen you since that day at the coffee shop, but it's like he sees you every day anyway. You're there when he sleeps, mostly. He meets you in dreams, wiping your tears and kissing you better. Each time, you gladly return the favor, kissing him back and subsequently healing some deep part of him he hadn't even realized was ailed.

But obviously that's just a product of this strange, pathetic, fucked-up obsession he's spiraled into, and not anchored to the truth in any way.

That's what he tells himself, at least... no matter how badly he wants there to be truth in it.

Still, it's hard when even the time and distance between you can't seem to shake your effect on him.

Though, perhaps Cameron's role in all of this could be the key to this lingering feeling. He is a common denominator, after all, and the knowledge that he'd chosen to be with your best friend instead of you so soon after breaking it off still rubs him the wrong way. Which, in all honesty, is a conversation he doesn't want to have just yet; It would probably be best if he had a clear mind, one not constantly plagued by daydreams of railing you under the trees in the clearing where you last touched him.

Spencer sighs and takes his glasses off, tossing them aside. He presses his palms into the sides of his face, squeezing his eyes shut as hard as he can until he sees stars, and promptly decides that he needs to leave the house.

Fresh air usually does the trick, but for whatever reason, this long walk to the park is not doing him any favors. The way the leaves rustle in the wind only brings him back to that fateful moment with you in his arms, seeking comfort, and quite frankly, the August heat is making him more irritable.

So, he wanders off to uncharted territories: a random bar that should be pretty dead on a random Wednesday mid-afternoon. He's not exactly sure what it is he hopes to find, but as long as it's a good enough distraction, or even some peace and quiet, he'll gladly take it.

The place isn't very busy, or bright. Neon signs and dim table lamps are about the only sources of light, but compared to the sun outside, Spencer finds it more than comfortable. Some Country duet he doesn't recognize booms over the speakers, low-tempo and sad, but not horrible. The melancholic melody swims nicely through his brain, setting the scene as he sits down at a random table somewhere near the back.

A hostess is quick to ask him what he wants to drink and offers a menu, but all he orders is a glass of water. Whether she questions it or not, he doesn't pay attention. But when she returns about a minute later with his glass, he does notice that the song has finished and started over.

"Hope you don't mind the song," the hostess says with a sigh, noting his quiet curiosity. "Poor thing over there requested it on a loop until she got drunk enough to forget about it..."

Spencer's eyes follow her head-nod towards the corner of the room, where a girl sits slumped over the table with her chin in her hand, the other hand tearing at a napkin.

His heart sinks and skips at the same time as recognition strikes him like lightning.

The hostess has walked away by now, and his still gaze can't seem to wander anywhere else. The odds of him going somewhere random to distract himself from thought of you, only to be graced with your presence, feels too coincidental. It's too good of an excuse to just ignore, consequences be damned.

Right?

Should he say hello? Should he offer to get you home before you truly do become too drunk to be aware of your surroundings?

Regardless of how he feels about you, that would be the responsible, parental thing to do, right?

Jesus fucking Christ, he sighs to himself, downing his water before getting up to see you.

As he gets closer, he hears you humming along to the song, sighing dramatically in between breaths, until you look up to finally meet his eyes and it becomes a gasp.

"Doctor Reid!" you exclaim, sitting straight up and thrusting your arms out in welcome. Your smile is tired, but life has ever-so-slightly begun to creep back into your features. The thought of being a familiar face, and a pleasant one at that, to bring you that life does more to him than he should admit out loud.

A warmth settles into him as your eyes rake over his figure, half-like you can't quite decide if he's real and half-like you might be checking him out.

Don't be weird, he scolds himself, though he's still unable to keep the amused grin from his lips as he greets you gently. Cautiously. "Hello again, sweetheart."

"I'm not spying on Cameron this time, what's your excuse?"

It doesn't entirely make sense, but he understands what you mean. Still, it's not like he can tell you that he was trying to distract himself from thinking about you, so he simply shrugs. "Felt like a change of scenery. I don't get out much."

You giggle a little and slump back down, resting your chin against your hands, still smiling. "Yeah, I know. Are you sad about something, too?"

Spencer shakes his head. "No... Just... bored, I guess."

"Well, you're welcome to join me! I'm not much fun like I used t'be, but the company'd be nice."

How could he deny your invitation, when you're exaggerating a toothy, tipsy smile and batting your eyes like you want something? It charms him almost as much as it scares him.

"Oh, I'm sure that's not true," he tells you, pulling up a chair across from you and sliding in. His leg accidentally bumps into yours, and it sends a chill through him. He tries to keep himself calm and collected, but wonders if he looks spooked, because you give him a look.

Turns out, it's just an inebriated look of disbelief. "No, I really am pathetic these days... You don't have to be nice to me, I know it's the truth."

He knows better than to argue with a woman, especially on a subject so sore, so he takes a different approach. "Well, pathetic or not, I still care about you anyway. So I'm more than happy to sit with you for however long you need the company."

You consider his words and then pout, finishing off your drink before you loudly wave your desire for another drink. "And bring one for my new best friend, too!"

Spencer can't help the laugh that leaves him, though you're too caught up in your own little world to notice it.

The same hostess brings over two drinks, eyeing him suspiciously, but before she walks away, you laugh. "It's okay, Anna! That's Doctor Reid, he's my best friend now. My old best friend is out screwing my ex-boyfriend."

"Who happens to be my son," he offers as a more clear explanation as to why he's taken to 'befriending' this drunk woman in a near-empty bar.

Anna looks between you two and nods, amused but not questioning the drama. "Gotcha. If you need anything, just holler."

The song has started over again by this point, and though Spencer's had a bit more excitement than anticipated, it's not enough to forget about it. He recalls Anna's words and the pitying tone in her voice, and tilts his head, watching as you take another sip of your drink. "How many times have you heard this song today?"

"Dunno," you sigh. "Lost count. Cam and I used to sing it together all the time. Not very well, but it was our thing..."

"Hmm, I didn't know that... I don't think I've heard it until today."

"Yeah, well you don't get out much."

A laugh bubbles up out of him involuntarily once again, your charm—even influenced by alcohol and misery—a natural harbinger of joy. The fact that you probably don't even know it only adds to the experience.

Even the way you laugh at his laughing is infectious, until the two of you are mutually giggling and sipping your drinks, and while the song is not forgotten, it's at the very least drowned out by the sound of laughter. Alcohol still may be involved, sure, but where you'd been tired and lost before, the weariness has been lifted by his hand, if only for a moment, and so for now that would have to do.

Eventually, there's a rather quiet moment between you, a lull in conversation that isn't driven by awkwardness or boredom, but by something else that Spencer can't quite put his finger on. He's not entirely convinced that you've sobered up at all, but the hazy look in your eyes isn't so much drunkenness as much as it is mystified. By what, he doesn't know, but it's making him warmer inside than a singular ounce of any alcohol could ever accomplish.

The thought makes him set down his glass; Perhaps he's had enough.

"What's that look for, sweetheart?" he asks quietly, a little too afraid that he should have omitted the nickname. Where it'd been intended innocently before, this time it comes out entirely different, his enamored, lust-drunk curiosity getting the better of him before he can think differently.

His stomach twists.

Still, that look on your face intensifies, and your head tilts thoughtfully, eyes studying him again. Their trail winds everywhere, from his mouth to his hands to his neck... When you finally meet his gaze again, you lean back in your chair. A smile unlike any other he's ever seen adorns your face and sends a jolt through his nervous system.

"I like when you call me that, you know..."

"Yeah?"

Stop it, Spencer...

You nod slowly, never taking your eyes off of him.

If he were a good man, he'd blame it on the drinking and tell you to get home safe, being on his merry way, considering the fact that you're probably just hurting and desperate to get back at Cameron somehow, and that he's a convenient means to a sweet, revengeful end.

He lets the moment hang in the air for a while, holding your stare and feeling his resolve start to crumble beneath the weight of it. That damn song still drawls out beneath the sharp, distant clatter of dishes and late-lunch conversation, and your pretty eyes are easily the brightest source of light in the whole place, begging him to make a move and singing just as loudly, too. They're waiting. Eager. Hungry... All of it is almost too much to take at once.

And then...

"Let me take you home, sweetheart."

He knows it's mean. He also knows that it's going to hurt. But if he doesn't, he knows he'll end up regretting it.

Spencer helps you out of the building and gives Anna a twenty-dollar tip on the way out.

You're more stable than he thought you'd be, walking in a straight line and not stumbling at all as he takes you to your car. He holds his hand out for your keys, to which you oblige without problem, letting your touch linger. As he helps you in the passenger seat and buckles your seat belt, he notices your eyes are closed, but that you're smiling.

"Something funny?" he asks, getting the buckle in place. Still he remains there, arms trapping you into the seat.

You shake your head and open your eyes, searching the features of his face and sinking further into the upholstery. Your smile softens, but doesn't waver in its genuine joy, which is why it breaks his heart when you reply, "Nope." The word is quiet. Serious. The moment is everything he wished it could be, your eyes swimming with some form of devotion that calls to him like a sirens' song.

Only, he can still smell the inebriation on your breath, potent and grounding him to reality, and so he must continue to be mean.

He smiles at you before pulling away and closing your door, then walking to the drivers' side while taking the deepest breath of his life. It's courage and disappointment and humor all in one fucked-up intake of oxygen, but it gives him the push he needs to finally open the car door and begin your journey home.

The ride is mostly quiet, though, save for your humming. The haunting melody will stick around in his head for weeks, he's sure, just another thing to constantly remind him of you, and another thing to break his heart every time he sees his son's smiling face.

Even though he can feel the fury and confusion and lust swimming around in his body like a whirlpool, Spencer manages to walk you up the stairs of your apartment, and to your door, without losing any ounce of control. He leads you gently through your home until you've reached the bedroom, and even then he doesn't falter.

It does make him nervous though, feeling your hands on him. You're a little more unsteady now, though he attributes that to the soon-to-be broken, unspoken promise of sex. It pains him, knowing he used your influenced in-the-moment attraction to him as an excuse to get you safely home. But had he simply left you there to suffer alone, at the mercy of substances and strangers who might not have been so kind, he would have felt worse.

He helps you take off your shoes and puts your belongings on the bedside table, feeling your eyes on him and hoping you won't remember enough of this later to hate him or hate yourself after the fact.

When Spencer turns around, you're already sitting on the bed, and while the sight of it entices him more than words could accurately say, he refrains. He puts on his most fatherly face, crosses his arms, and braces himself for the blow.

"Come on. Under the covers."

"It's only like noon."

Not quite the response he was expecting, but he can work with it. He smiles, just a little. "It's almost Three-PM. You should really get some rest. You look like you haven't slept in days."

Your eyes drop to the floor, and Spencer can feel his heart drop there, too, when you say quietly, "I haven't..."

Against his better judgement, he steps forward and catches your attention again, your head lifting to meet his eyes.

"I know, sweetheart. Sleep."

Your response is a shaky breath and big, watery eyes, the last few weeks of sadness catching up to you. Watching it unfold in real-time is utterly heartbreaking, so much so that when you ask him an unexpected question, he doesn't have the heart, or the brain, to say no.

"Will you sing me to sleep?"

"Of course."

You lie down then, shuffling your way under the covers as Spencer sits down beside you, helping you settle in. His hand instinctively reaches out to gently massage your scalp, something that had always put Cameron to sleep when he'd wake up with nightmares.

Though, he never sang to him. He never was good at it...

Still, because he can't seem to resist your charms, he tries anyway, singing the only thing he can think of at the moment. A newly familiar smoky tune that he now knows every single word to.

"Every woman deserves a moment of weakness. Last night with me was yours, I guess. I must have whispered what you wanted to hear. And when I asked you, you probably said yes."

Softly, you hum along with him on the next part, a duet of desperation and longing that definitely sounds better over the bar speakers, but feels more accurate in this small, sorrowful bedroom.

"Cause it sounds like something I'd say, in the midst of lonely and the Marlboro haze. It sounds better in the dark than in the light of day, but it sounds like something I'd say."

With your eyes closed, you smile, breathing a small laugh through your nose. "You're better at it than he was."

Spencer is surprised by your words and how much they twist this serrated, beautiful knife. They only remind him of the gravity of the situation at hand—at how badly he shouldn't be here right now... He shouldn't care so much, he shouldn't revel in the fact that you're actively feeding into this fantasy where he's healing you and fixing the mistake that his son made...

He shouldn't be falling in love with you.

Of course, he refuses to even consider that possibility, even though he's feeling things around you that he's only ever felt for a few others.

Still, it rattles him enough that after you've finally fallen fast asleep and he walks home, he schedules an extra session with his therapist and takes a long, hot shower, hoping to wash away any lingering trace of you.

Naturally, no amount of scorching water, soap, or steam seems to do the trick.

He wonders if it ever will.

...THE CLEARING

Your heart pounds rapidly in your chest, and in your brain, and in your fingertips... You can practically feel it thrumming in every part of your body as you sit on a log and soak up what small rays of sunshine manage to find their way through the trees.

Thank you for bringing me home earlier... I'm sorry if I made your day weird or inconvenient.

The world around you is beautiful, bright, and lively, though something nameless is missing. You know whatever it is will appear with vivid recognition when he shows up, but there's a small lick of fear creeping up the back of your neck and finding its way into your brain that wonders if he won't... That somehow you've fabricated this whole thing—plucked out imaginary moments of warmth from a desperate place in need of comfort, and neatly placed them in the massive hole left in your heart by Cameron and Danica and their betrayal.

It's not a problem at all. I'm glad you got home safe. Rest, and remember to take your time. These things don't heal overnight.

You hadn't expected Spencer to text you back right away, given that it was just after midnight and you'd never really known him to be much of a night owl. Not to mention you probably should have deleted his phone number after the breakup in the first place. Sure, he had been kind to you after everything which was a relief and a comfort, but there had to be some unspoken rule about late-night texting your ex-boyfriend's dad and expecting a response, much less right away.

But then, your phone lit up with his message almost immediately, and there was an odd clenching in your stomach that refused to subside even long into the early hours of morning.

Your fingers moved in response before your brain had a chance to think it over.

Did you sing to me or did I make that up?

There was a bit more time after that until he responded, and you swore you'd fucked it all up. You threw up and downed a glass of water, but when you picked up your phone again, his name was there. You were suddenly nauseous again, but at the mercy of something else, something familiar and foreign all at once.

I don't know if I'd call what I did "singing"... But sure. Ha

God, you hadn't smiled so hard in... Could you even remember how long it had been? Even now, you think on it and can't even come up with a ballpark answer, which should sadden you but only makes your heart flutter once more. In that moment, reading his words, memories came flooding back. Flickers of your drunken afternoon with Spencer started to string together, feeling more like a movie and less like a silly revenge fantasy.

Without even thinking, you texted him with the truth, even if you didn't quite know what it meant yet.

Either way, I like hearing your voice. It'd be nice to hear it more often.

His response made you laugh so hard you almost threw up again.

Are you still drunk?

You weren't, and you aren't, but you may as well be. Merely the thought of him has you dizzy, and every day it grows worse and worse as you text and talk on the phone like you're best friends.

This morning's message still sings in the back of your mind as you wait for him, melodically bright and filling in the gaps of silence where the trees don't rustle.

Is it weird that I really want to see you again?

You replied, Is it weird that I don’t think that’s weird at all?

And since then you’ve wondered, is it even weirder that you’d go so far to say you’re so incredibly flattered by his words that your entire body pulsates with a violent wave of heat just thinking about seeing him face-to-face again?

The gentle breeze does nothing to cool you down, the sweet, damning effect of Spencer Reid burying you alive even hours later.

When you spot him, the world stops rotating. He’s bright smiles and warm eyes and long, fluid limbs, and as he makes his way towards you, you forget how to stand. Your ass is completely glued to its resting spot on the log, and your legs are of no help. All you can do is stare at him and feel your heart flutter rapidly in your chest. You’re not even sure if you’re smiling, though the thought of being caught just staring at him with your tongue practically hanging out is embarrassing enough to pull one from you anyway.

Only when his hand extends to help you up do you finally snap out of whatever dream-world you’ve put yourself in and clear your throat with an avoidant laugh.

“Hi,” you greet him stupidly, still too overwhelmed by him to try anything more interesting.

Spencer grins down at you, your gaze trailing softly upwards along the length of his face until you meet his eyes, and only then does he reply, “Hi.”

The word is infinitely more interesting coming from his well-spoken, experienced lips. They even go the extra mile, twitching up into a larger grin at your silence.

You’re lovesick, he’s amused, and this is entirely fucked.

“What were you up to today?”

Thankfully, even your poor attempt at small talk is merely a small embarrassment scrawled in sand and violently washed away by the tides of his voice. When he speaks, it cleanses you. Clears your mind. Offers a clean slate.

“Nothing special… Read a couple books, made some lunch… If I’m being honest, I mostly just tried to occupy my mind while I waited to come see you.”

Despite the clear setup for him to be cheeky or smug about it, Spencer’s words only exude comfortable honesty. He doesn’t tell you this to get you blushing or to take advantage of this situation. No, every word is spoken without an ulterior motive at all. Though, his sparkling eyes seem to tell a different story.

“Same,” you confess through a small laugh. “I know I joked about you being my new best friend at the bar, but these days it really does feel like it.”

“So you do remember that day…”

“Most of it, yeah. Kind of embarrassed about that to be honest…”

Spencer doesn’t say anything, only hums consideringly as he squeezes your hand. The small gesture suddenly reminds you of his physical presence, and a rush of warmth pulses at your fingertips.

“Truthfully, I am, too.”

This takes you by surprise. “How?”

He seems to regret saying anything, a quick flash of panic in his eyes before he sighs and squeezes your hand again. “Knowing it was my son who did that to you, and not understanding why… You have no idea how much I… I hate that I can’t figure it out.”

“Oh, that’s… that’s not your responsibility… I guess that’s mostly why I’m embarrassed about the whole thing. You shouldn’t have to fix something that you didn’t break.”

“Didn’t I, though? In one way or another?”

The intense emotion swirling in his eyes takes over you like a tidal wave, and suddenly you’re heartbroken for another reason entirely.

“Don’t get all philosophical on me over this,” you say firmly, squeezing his hand back. “Cameron made that decision, not you. You’re not him.”

“But he’s part of me.”

“So? You didn’t break my heart, he did. And I don’t care what you have to say about that. You are a good man and a good father, and you shouldn’t doubt that.”

You aren’t sure what you expected as a response, but it surely wasn’t the bitter laugh that tumbles from his lips.

“What?” you ask sharply in desperation, grabbing his other hand and practically begging him to listen to you. “What’s so funny?”

Spencer sighs, pulling you flush to his body and taking your breath away in one second flat.

“I doubt those things every damn second I’m with you…”

Not only is your breath gone, but now the ability to think has gone with it. All you know is Spencer. His eyes are pulling you in and daring you to look away. His hands are sliding up the expanse of your arms, and chills erupt in their wake. The world around you has faded to a nothingness that isn’t even scary. It’s just forgotten. Irrelevant.

The only thing that feels natural is the way you tilt your head to brush your lips over his. Just lightly, barely even a touch at all. Still, the intimate contact shocks you at first, bringing you to life in a way you hadn’t thought possible. Slowly, you lean into it, and he does, too. With each second that passes, this one press of your lips against his becomes stronger, the two of you drawing more and more near until it’s all there is.

And then, when his mouth parts, inviting you deeper, it’s like he swallows you whole. Your body melts into his as he welcomes you into his entire world, hugging and kissing you at the same time. Behind closed lids, your eyes flutter to the back of your head, a soft whine escaping your throat and feeding Spencer’s desire until it becomes heavy.

A slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue into your mouth and the sudden press of his erection to your thigh is what jolts a sense of reality into you, and as much as your body is screaming at you to indulge, you know there will, in fact, be consequences.

You pull yourself away from him, just enough to disconnect your lips and remove yourself from the world of lust he’s opened for you. Still, his arms embrace you, loose and comforting and ready to conform to however you see fit.

Spencer stares at you, waiting, studying your kissed-out, panting lips and the panic settling in your eyes as the reality of the situation catches up with you.

“I’m so sorry,” you gasp, still clutching onto his shirt and then letting it go to smooth it out. “I… I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

When you meet his eyes again, they haven’t changed. A vibrant chill runs through you again, but you’re still cognisant— Still worried about how fucked it is that you’ve just made out with your ex-boyfriend’s father. Still praying to whoever or whatever is listening that you didn’t just ruin this beautiful friendship you’ve started to form—the one thing that was beginning to pull you out of the darkest period of your life thus far.

You’re scared, you realize, as you stare into Spencer’s eyes, charged, unresolved need hanging thickly in the atmosphere around you. 

You’re terrified, and yet something urges you forward.

Whether it’s insanity or stupidity or desperation to feel something, you don’t know, but the way he practically catches you and welcomes you back without stumbling is satisfying enough to quell the need for answers.

Besides, his lips are the only answer you want, frankly.

You lunge and kiss him with a fervor that makes you question everything about your previous relationship and this new bond you’ve started to form with Spencer after the fact, but only for half a second before his own fervor only rivals it. In fact, the way his mouth possesses yours—coaxing your submission from you with just a few meticulous strokes of the tongue—has you wondering if perhaps he’s going through a similar dilemma.

How long has he wanted this? Has he dreamt of it? He sure as fuck kisses you like he has, but how much of that is truth and how much is merely a product of your unspoken, deep-seeded desire to get Cameron back for what he did to you?

And would he actually be willing to offer you that satisfaction, if you asked?

Perhaps you’ll ask him these things another time, but at the moment, your brain is more than ready to grow numb at the mercy of Spencer’s kisses.

[tom-whore-dleston]

Can I Keep You?

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x barista!f. reader

Word Count: 1.3k

This fic includes: minor spoilers from Thunderbolts*, fluff (so much of it), Bob playing with dogs, flirting, Bob is awkward baby boi until he's not, Bob and reader hold hands

Summary: You loved working as a barista at a dog cafe and Bob gives you another reason to love your job.

Notes: ahhhh the chokehold this sweet man has on me sadjgahgsg Bob is gonna be my new favorite to write for bc I had so much fun with this piece! Please continue to feed my growing love for Bob by sending requests, thots, concepts, literally anything and everything!!

request: Saw your thunderbolts post and just wanted to say - me too!! Could I have a piece on Bob x Reader at a Dog Cafe (if it’s ok) because he needs all the cuddles he can get! Thank you -@blackbat05

Being a barista at the new dog cafe has already brought so much joy to your life. You found purpose in combining two things you love, coffee and dogs, into a profession. A fun profession that didn’t feel like work to you. 

You had already anticipated today to be like any other Saturday with the typical rush of caffeine-driven dog enthusiasts waiting for their turn to play with pooches with their favorite drink. While your predictions came true, you had not expected to become flustered when a tall, brown-haired man approached the counter upon calling the name ‘Bob’. He flashed a smile so stunning, you could have fainted as he stopped in front of the counter.

“Hi!” you blurted with a toothy grin. “Vanilla latte with oat milk?”

Bob nodded, “Yep, that’s me.” His hand reached out for the styrofoam cup and you gulped upon noticing how large and veiny it was. You hid your nervousness behind another trained customer service smile. 

“Awesome! Hope you enjoy your drink and have fun with the pups.” The world stopped around you as his fingers brushed against yours as you extended the drink out to him. Your face warmed up feeling the softness of his fingers, imagining them interlaced with yours. As he gingerly held the hot latte, you desperately wished that you had more time to memorize the feel of his fingers against yours.

“Thank you!” Bob responded cheerfully before turning to find a dog to curl up next to him. You watched as a corgi and maltese ran towards the tall man, giggling to yourself as the energetic dogs attempted to jump as high as they could but only getting as high as his knees. He beamed upon noticing the dogs fighting for his attention, his voice raising a pitch to match their little yaps. You snapped out of your intense gaze on Bob when your supervisor called your name for the third time.  

“Huh, what?” You turned towards them dumbfounded, and you realized they had been needing the can of whipped cream on your side.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize you were asking me to give you the whipped cream.” As you fetched the item, you peeked a glance at Bob through the glass. The corgi and maltese were licking his face, causing him to burst into a fit of laughter so contagious you couldn’t help but laugh yourself. You didn’t pay attention to your supervisor finding the source of your distraction, responding with a knowing hum.

“Go ahead and take 30.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, no worries, I’ll cover for you. Just go talk to him instead of gawking like a love struck teenager.” The other baristas eavesdropping snickered while exchanging glances with one another.

“Who?” You asked, playing coy.

“Oh my gosh, just go before I put you on dish duty!” Your supervisor jokingly threatened and you scurried to rip the apron off your uniform while walking towards the employee door.

Once you clocked out and removed your apron, you walked out onto the cafe floor, a herd of dogs racing towards you in hopes to receive treats. Amongst the adorable chaos, you caught Bob’s attention who was rubbing the tummy of the corgi laying across his lap. You fought against the thought of being the one with your head in his lap while he smooths your hair. Behind the counter, you could sense your coworkers spying on you while pretending to be busy. Ignoring them, you gathered the courage to join Bob on the floor, keeping your eyes on the corgi starting to doze off from Bob’s petting.

“I see you met Maggie,” you started, causing Bob to meet your gaze. 

Bob smiled, “Yeah, I think I’m her new best friend.” Now that Maggie was fast asleep in his lap, Bob seized the opportunity to take a sip of his lukewarm latte. “By the way, this is the best coffee I’ve ever had. I give my compliments to the barista.”

Your cheeks warmed up again, heartbeat thumping a little faster. “That would be me.”

“I know, I watched you make it.” Your head tilted to the side, studying if he was serious or not. Bob gave a bashful look, letting out a short, nervous laugh. “Sorry, that must’ve sounded weird to you. I didn’t expect someone so pretty like you to come talk to me, let alone even see me. I mean, I’m having a blast with the dogs, especially Maggie. I’d have never guessed I’d be sitting and talking with the cute barista that made my latte.” As he blabbered on, your smile grew, and you chuckled at how his cute face became a tinted pink.

“Gosh, I’m so sorry, I-”

“No need to apologize. I think it’s sweet.” You reassured him, gently caressing his hand over Maggie’s rising chest. “If it means anything to you, I’m taking my break now so I could talk to you. My supervisor caught me getting distracted by you…but in a good way.”

Bob sighed a breath of relief, then cleared his throat before extending his hand out to you. “I’m Bob, by the way.”

“I know.” You responded before taking his hand in yours and sharing your name with him. A gesture as simple as a handshake felt electrifying between you two. You hoped this moment with Bob would never end so you wouldn’t have to hear your coworkers’ endless teasing. On top of that, 30 minutes wasn’t enough to learn about the man you and Maggie have grown a soft spot for.

Nevertheless, you spent the remainder of your break getting to know each other, actively listening to what stories you both had to share. You held your composure upon learning that Bob was now a part of The New Avengers, as you have become a fan of them from reading news articles and listening to podcasts about them. It even broke your heart after he shared parts of his past with you. He allowed you to take his hand in yours, giving it a comforting squeeze. 

“I liked this. I wish you didn’t have to go back to work so soon because I really enjoyed getting to know you.” Bob frowned, head bowing down towards his empty coffee cup. 

“Me too. You’re like the dogs here, just want to keep them all and spend all the time in the world with them.”

“I’d keep you too. And spend all the time with you.” The background noise drowned out around you as your eyes got lost in his. Suddenly, Bob removed the sleeve from his cup, tearing it in half with ease. It was the hottest thing you have seen in a while. 

“Let’s exchange numbers. I’d like to take you out on a date tonight and I’d hate to keep you from work.” His voice sounded so confident and cool that your stomach did flips inside you.

“Yes, I’d love that!” You fished around in your pocket for a permanent marker, jotting down your name and number for him. You gave him the marker and your torn up part of the coffee cup sleeve. After he finished writing his number down, he handed you his portion of the ripped paper and your marker.

“Well, I better get going. Bucky and Yelena are gonna send a search party for me and I think your boss is side-eyeing me.” You glanced over at the counter, and your supervisor whipped their head around whisking a matcha in their bowl. Bob was already standing, and he helped you to your feet. You could never get tired of feeling how soft his hands were. 

“It was nice meeting you, Bob!” Your hand was still attached to his, neither of you ready to let go.

“Likewise, sweetheart.” You wanted to melt into the floor. “Thanks again for the coffee.” He swiftly brought your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles lightly. You were speechless as he gently dropped your hand to your side, winked at you, and headed towards the exit. Everything happened so fast, you didn’t get a chance to react until you were in the bathroom washing the hands that were once touched and kissed by Bob. Once you were back behind the espresso machine, you felt your phone vibrate in your back pocket, smiling to yourself already knowing who the text notification was from.

Navigation | Fic Masterlist | Robert 'Bob' Reynolds Masterlist

[emacrow]

Bats don't know what to do as The Mockingbird and Time Mock them

That Edward Nygma wasn't a real person in the database or that the riddler actually got won one battle over Batman. Batman had tried to snoop through the apartment, but there was mostly always a person there alongside children.

Then there was a trigger of other rogues break out when there actually nobody in the apartment.

Not mentioning the real person behind riddler

Eddie Mockingbird Walker was born out of a 6 year affair between Edwin Walker, strict borderline insane Prisoner Warden, and beautiful red haired Judy Mockingbird, a former cleaning lady who was fired by the wife of Walker after finding out the affair.

Three years later, Judy Mockingbird was later a victim of a break-in and homicide, the only witness being a 3 year old traumatized Eddie hiding in a toy chest doodle with hand drawn puzzle murals, unfortunately that case was later put in the cold case files with not enough suspects.

Eddie was thrown through the wringer of several orphanages for 4 years, only to be refound by his grandmother Grethen Mockingbird, a former retired pianist who was unable to play anymore due a severe case of tendonitis.

A bright Prodigy to music and puzzles boxes made by his grandmother, a rare talent in school to the point the music teacher begged his grandmother Grethen to signed him in a tournament which later led to Eddie into the spotlight with the youngest pianist to make he audience weep with joy that catapult him all the way through several tournaments, winning each one, talkshows, interviews from age 9 to 22 year old.

He was known as Rose Thief of Hearts in the music community, the next living Beethoven they cried out, especially on how many ladies and guys fallen for his sweet, obvious charms and bright red hair that flow down his waist.

Becoming best friends with his half-sister, Madeline Walker, that he rarely met.

Tragedy struck when on The Chopin Competition, Gretchen Mockingbird died from cardiac arrest in the middle of her grandson's performance.

Eddie disappeared, being dragged off by Edwin Walker during the private funeral, which led many people to the theory of the whereabouts of the music Prodigy.

Then, the rest of the data file went missing until a year ago when Eddie Mockingbird appeared once more during a shocking news of adopting his niece and nephews who will stay anonymous after explaining a rather shocking tale with enough explanation on why he was away from media was extremely popular in the music culture.

Batman could only stare at the photo capture by Red Robin on the Batcomputer, tired bag eyed soft smiling Eddie Mockingbird at family diner. His black hair and eyebrow were gone, revealing a natural red hair that had grown down to his neck, wearing casual clothes with his niece, Jasmine Fenton, a teenage red-haired girl speaking with a soft look

A large massive man, named Jack Fenton that looks too alike to Bruce clumsily and failing feeding a little 2 year old baby girl in a toddler chocolates banana fudge ice cream with green bitd, while trying to stopping her twin brother flinging soft sweet peas at a giggling 5 year old toddler trying to air bite the peas.

A disgusted looking young entrepreneur who discoverered a much better energy source for phones that went world-wide, Tucker Foley, who was gagging at a Sam Manson, had a beyond burger and a salad, her middle finger pointing at him saying something to him.

Batman couldn't get near someone like him, or get a hint of his music albums that were also sold out even from 10 year ago to now with new albums that not even Jim Gordon would help him that Riddler is the famous pianist that he had a collection of his music, and he wouldn't let him 'borrow' them.

Jason had just started dating Jasmine, but he wouldn't tell them about what the riddler's plans were to the point of disconnecting and disabling all the trackers on his phones, even the backup ones with Cass and Babs!

He tried booking for Mockingbird concerts only to find out they were all booked to 20XX for the past 6 months after The Chopin Competition, not even attempting bribes, would shorten a 15 mile long waiting list.

This was driving Bruce a little mad as if time itself was mocking him!!

Part 3 here <-

[comicaurora]

Why did ignans decide to colonise the volcano in the first place, before they’d Adapted to its heat and fumes?

After the Nightless Day, the planet's seasons were notably thrown out of wack for a few years, and the island and other northern locations suffered from what they called the Long Winter where the cold lasted for multiple years and escalated to bitter, deadly temps in the heart of winter.

The people of Rakhn had once built their home around the Fireseed, relying on its influence for unseasonal warmth, but after the awakening of Fire, Rakhn in an earthshaking instant was transmuted from a simple island to a boiling caldera of fury that only sought to subsume the Fireseed into itself, and the Fireseed's firemage priestess in the same moment had become a humanoid pillar of awakened flame. She warded off Rakhn's efforts to consume the Fireseed for three days and nights of battle that tore the island apart in catastrophic eruption, driving the rest of the people to shelter in the shallow waters around the island. The priestess raised high obsidian walls in defense of the ancient shrine, drawing it away from the forming caldera that sought to consume her people's only source of warmth in the bitter winters.

Nobody knows exactly what was said or done between them, but at the end of the three days, Rakhn's eruption ceased and the priestess returned to her human form to tell her people that the Fireseed was safe, and its warmth would be theirs to shelter in. But Rakhn himself was to be left alone, as he had become something new, with dangerous whims and moods and no attachment to the shape or structure of his island, and the fireseed sheltered in the core of his caldera.

But this had all been long ago, and as the long winter deepened, the fireseed could not warm the island's soil. The freeze was tightening its grip.

To survive, the people finally worked up the nerve to petition Rakhn with a deal: he would let them shelter in his heated caverns until the Long Winter ended, and in return they would provide him with something new every day - a new song, story, physical work of art, etc. Rakhn agreed. He stilled his volatile rumblings and even paused his eternal war with Winter so that the collateral damage would not destroy the fragile beings that now called him home. In exchange, they broadened his horizons.

The people quickly learned that ephemeral creations like songs and stories were the way to go, because Rakhn admired physical works of art, but after the first blush he would immediately burn them for the joy of seeing how they changed in the process. The children saw this as an absolute win, but the adults found it rather disheartening.

Cold years crawled on. Bundled-up hunters would venture out onto the slopes, then quickly return to the safety and warmth of the caves. They adapted to life in Rakhn's domain, basking in the Fireseed's radiance and power.

Then came the day that the snow melted, and the ground softened and sprouted again. The people were overjoyed to walk under the sun again. But compared to the radiance of the Fireseed, they found it cold and inadequate. The plants and animals thrived, but the people did not. They had become too much something of the fire down there in the dark. Now the lack of it sickened and drained them.

Their emissary returned to Rakhn with another petition. He did not ask Rakhn to return to their previous deal; he knew Rakhn's patience was pushed to the breaking point already, having to still his destructive nature to shelter them for several long years. The people did not ask for his shelter this time. They only asked for his warmth. Rakhn was a destructive force, temperamental in his moods; they could not ask him to forever become the sort of guardian force that would never harm his own. Instead, they would build structures of their own within the deep places of the island, harness the lava, build their own way to live with the skills they'd refined over the Long Winter - and if he chose to knock it down, they only asked to be able to build it back up again.

Rakhn considered how much more boring his life would be without these little mortals, and set his price. Once a year, every year at the onset of winter, the people would honor their first deal. They would shelter in his halls and regale him with stories, so they never forgot the deal they had made that joined their fates so inextricably. It was a small price to pay for the hearth.