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kenzieluvsnanami · 25 days

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kenzieluvssuguru :: ☆*:.｡.o the roommate (18+) o.｡.:*☆

You were sure you hated him. From the crown of his silky, jet black hair to the bottom of his bunny-slipper clad feet. Everything he did pissed you off. Whether it’s finishing your very expensive shampoo or sneaking bites of your carefully hidden sweet treats, one thing was for certain: Geto Suguru knew how to get and STAY on your last nerve. (f!reader x suguru)

cw *:･ﾟ✧ roommate/no curses/college au, reader is overworked and underpaid 😭, auditory voyeurism? (by reader).. readers basically a cuck (unknown to suguru, sooo dubcon kinda), cheeky suguru/slight humour (cant help myself), dirty talk, OF references, description of the devils tango (but not w reader) and mastúrbation *:･ﾟ✧♡ 3.2k words // part 1 , part 2

He had become your roommate at the beginning of second year. Having an egregiously rich grandmother who liked her grandkids to earn their keep had its perks at times, one of those being the inheritance of a beautifully furnished townhouse that was only a half hour commute from your university.

However, the downside was the substantial cost of maintaining the house. Bills pilled up fast and whilst your grandmother was lounging in Turks and Caicos, you were working multiple jobs: the campus coffee shop on off-days, a drum and bass club on the weekend and tutoring whenever time allowed.

It was

Wearing.

You.

Down.

By the end of the second semester you had enough. Physically and emotionally drained, you sat down and pondered over all the possible avenues of making money - ASAP since energy companies were not necessarily known for their patience and generosity. Whilst starting an OF was firmly out of the equation, it did give you an idea. Instead of selling yourself, you could sell your home! Ok, not the whole house - but there was a spare room adjoined to yours, fully furnished with its own small terrace. A charming, spacious place where many students living on campus dorms would love to be. However, who did you know that was willing to move out this late in second year? Most had already settled into their new homes and were already accustomed to the people they lived with. You tried asking around but unfortunately it was all rejection.

Dejected, you slinked into your critical analysis class that evening, eye bags so heavy they were almost pulling your eyes shut. The tiredness must have put you you some sort of delirious state because when you sat in your usual seat as you pondered over your situation... aloud?!

"you want someone move in with you?" echoed the mild-mannered man beside you.

Confused and slightly taken aback, he asked you to repeat yourself, to make sure he heard you clearly. Rather frustrated, you grumbled out the question not even meaning to ask him about your situation and to your surprise - he actually said yes. Eyes widening and back moderately straighter, you exchanged contact information and asked him to meet tomorrow so you can discuss more.

You had left the lecture shaken out of your fatigued stupor and felt a tinge of regret already. You barely know this man. All you knew was that his name was Geto Suguru, he’s in your class and will be your new roommate in the next couple of weeks. From what you had gathered from your brief interactions, he seemed like a normal person… at least you hoped so.

You knew he was well mannered. Remembering from the time you tripped over his foot, limbs flailing awkwardly - and how he’d lunged out, firmly grasping you by the waist to stop you from falling flat onto your face. As soon as you had steadied, he apologised profusely with slightly flushed cheeks and averted eyes.

He seemed well kept, his full, shoulder-length hair was never greasy or out of place. Either in a half-up bun or flowing freely, it was definitely a cause for envy. He dressed neatly, loose jeans or joggers with a plain tee or sweatshirt seemed to be his staples. Fingernails were slender - elegant, your sideways glances during lectures providing a view of his graceful, willowy hands. Long and dainty fingers gently tapping on the laptop in front of him.

All known factors considered, when it comes to roommates you seemed to have won the lottery. A quiet and respectful man seemed like a few in a dozen in this generation. How lucky were you!

The first few weeks were like a sort of honeymoon period. Sharing a space with someone you didn’t know was as awkward as you would think it would be. Small smiles when you ran into each other in the hallway and if you were feeling bold, some small talk over breakfast before your shared class.

The ice was breaking between the two of you as you slowly adapted around each others routines. Everything seemed to be going perfectly. You were getting more sleep due to the fact that you didn’t have to work as hard to pay your bills (thanks to your dual income) and actually felt like a human being for once.

Feeling human meant that a lot of additional needs had been forgone and most importantly your dormant libido had jumped back alive. That itself was nothing to write home about but it was more so how you came to this realisation which was.

It was 3 months prior, when you had left your room for a late night snack. Wrapped in your hello kitty throw, you softly pattered down the hall into the kitchen. Treats successfully acquired, you walked back into the hall and was greeted with a mass of steam flowing out from the bathroom, a tall figure emerging.

It was your room mate (duh) but in a way you had never had seen him before. His raven hair was deliciously tousled - the messiest you had ever seen it and...

it. was. beautiful.

The towel wrapped around his slight waist exposed his athletic build, deceptively slim but a slight flex allowed you to see the unbridled power hidden within. His ab definition was exemplified by the drops of water falling from the light smattering of hair trailing down to his deep cut V line.

He was absolutely stunning.

You were frozen for more than a few seconds, marvelling at the discovery of this new side to your roommate. He was… heavenly. You didn’t even realise Suguru had fully left the bathroom until you felt a warm gust of air as he swished past you, a drop of water splashing onto your face as he teasingly poked you. You sped back into the safety of your room and slammed the door. He had you salivating like a damn dog by just a flash of his upper body?? Yes, he may have looked good (a bit more than good actually) but it wasn’t anything you hadn’t seen before.

Since that night, the dynamics of your relationship had imperceptibly changed. You couldn’t really describe how in a concise manner but Suguru had definitely changed. He was much more bold - seemingly doing everything in his power to make you flustered.

It first started with him wearing less and less clothes in the common areas of the house. You weren't completely unreasonable, leaving his room in just his red plaid PJ bottoms and those god forsaken bright pink bunny slippers could be excused. After all, this was his new home and you did want him to be comfortable. You just had to be mindful of not staring too long into his plump, juicy pectorals that were practically two small pillows that you could just face plant into. Not to mention the absolute dumptruck he was carrying from behind. During your dinners together (you always ended up cooking way more for yourself than needed), you really had to fight to keep your eyes fixed onto his face as he spoke and even then you’d find yourself being drawn further and further into his deep, purple eyes. Even his voice, calm, even and low was akin to a sirens call, causing you to be further and further enraptured with him.

Why couldn’t you just be normal about your roommate. You know plenty of people who houseshare with the opposite sex and it doesn’t seem to be as hard for them as it is for you. Maybe you just need a quick fuck? Something to get it out of your system so you can stop feeling like so…. lustful during the most regular exchanges.

It was hard to stop thinking thoughts like that when you would come home from a study group or be leaving early for a shift at the cafe to find Suguru slumped over the couch casually watching a telenovela or a 2000s sitcom. This normally would not be any kind of issue if for the fact he wasn’t practically naked par a grey set of loose Calvin Klein boxers.

The first time this happened you were almost late for work, your body physically refusing to move at the sight of his thick thighs, corded muscles tensing as he swung his legs down from resting on the cushion next to him and patted the space beside him - gesturing for you to sit. The soft smile on his face, eyes shut, eyebrows relaxed and seemingly in a state of inexplicable bliss for someone with 12 assignments due that week was all a bit too much for you to handle as you snapped out of your daze and rushed out of the door.

Suguru’s next ‘misstep’ was his use of almost all of your things and general disregard for personal space. He seemed to find joy in watching you put two and two together and realise that the reason why the whole house smells like Shea vanilla is because he “accidentally” used your body wash whilst bathing and so “just had to” grab the matching lotion, body oil and spray from your room - so he didn’t “smell confused”.

To think that this was the same man who was so quiet when he first moved in honestly is beyond human comprehension, his eyes crinkling shut as he laughed with genuine glee about how in the process of looking for the spray he tripped over your charging hitachi wand.

“Is my roommate feeling a bit pent up?” he drawled as he fake pouted, the tips of your ears burning at the fact that the object of your current infatuation knew about what you did in your… free time. “I was wondering what all that buzzing was last night.”

Suguru was comfortable at your shared house. Too comfortable. Which leads us to what happened today, what you considered to be the most egregious misstep by your roommate and would have made you so pissed if it hadn’t made you so wet.

It’s a Friday - nothing too crazy about that fact, it was just the week coming to an end. As your professor informs you of the upcoming assignments for the following week, Suguru leans down to tell you that he might be home a bit later than usual as he wanted to go to a friends houseparty. This isn’t anything too out of the ordinary, you knew that he was quite well known amongst the second years and as a result he was always flitting in and out the house midweek. You didn't really understand why he was specifically informing you of his whereabouts this time but you thanked him and made your way straight to coffee shop to start your shift.

Today was by far the hardest shift you’ve ever had, the sheer volume of people you had to serve and the few staff that were booked in to work. You were absolutely exhausted. You definitely were up for an orgasm or two to destress and your.. personal massager would be fully charged by the time you got home.

Clocked out at 7 and you were currently speed walking back to the house. A warm bath, filling meal and rewatching one of the telenovela’s Suguru had introduced to you sounded like an excellent plan. Just the action of running the bath, pouring the salts and soap and stripping off your stiff uniform silenced all the noise in your mind - you could truly feel the tension rolling off your body as you eased into the bathtub.

After an hour long soak, you made a wholesome pasta dish and binge watched TV until you started to feel your eyelids drooping shut as the day begun to catch up with you. You dragged yourself to your room, the silk sheets and quilted comforter lulling your weary body to a sweet, sweet slumber.

That was until… 1.27am according to your bedside clock. The loud bang of the front door shook you awake but it’s what you heard next that kept you up.

A bang on the hallway wall and what sounded like... kissing? Sloppy and heated, you could hear the mewls and whines of a woman coupled by occasional groans from what had to be… your roommate?

Footsteps got louder and louder until you could hear them through the shared wall between your rooms. The bed creaked as it hit the bedroom wall and you could hear the low murmur of your roommate’s voice. Almost instinctually, you carefully raised yourself up from the bed and pressed your ear to the wall to hear better.

“You’re going to take allllll of it, okay?” Suguru said lowly, the woman giggling as he retorted “Don’t get shy with me now. We both know you were begging for it.”

You knew what you were doing was fucked up. How could you keep eavesdropping on your roommate fucking another girl but somehow you were unable to tell your body, warmth pooling in your core.

The soft thud of clothes hitting the ground was accompanied by the rejoining of the pair, the loud kissing and sounds of scattered bedsheets made you ponder. This was the first time you had ever heard Suguru do anything remotely sexual. He made jokes (mainly to your demerit) about the apparent lack of sex and I mean, you appreciated that he respected the space that the two of you shared by not always having people over or at least doing it when you weren’t home but part of you just innately knew that he wasn’t seeing anyone - serious or casual. That’s why this is so unexpected.. but not unwanted.

See, it had interrupted your much needed sleep but you couldn’t deny how horny this was making you. The fact that you could hear what it would be like to fuck your roommate and the added taboo of him not knowing you could hear - you were almost soaked in your own essence, a hand snaking down to your pyjama bottoms so that you could alleviate some of your pent-up tension.

“Open your mouth” Suguru demanded. A slight pause in movements as you heard what must have been a fat, wad of his saliva splash into the woman’s mouth. “Good girl” he cooed, the woman moaning back in pure, unadulterated need.

You stifled your own whine, the delicious pressure of your fingertips on your swollen nub combined with your roommates filthy, sinful words had you so close. The woman gasped at what you can only imagine being Suguru finally pulling down those grey boxers. Another splash and a steady, slick rhythm began - probably Suguru stroking himself, long slender fingers wrapping tight around his base dragging his hand right up to the tip, thumb swirling to collect any pre-cum to lubricate his shaft even more.

“Please..” the woman pleaded. “Please what?” Suguru chided “If you are going to beg at least beg properly”. “Please..please put it in” she mumbled. “You’re still not asking properly but” A loud squelch and the woman’s even louder moan interrupted Suguru’s almost lazy drawl. He seemed so relaxed, responding back as if he himself didn’t want this as bad as she did. “I’m in a good mood so I’ll do as you wish” he punctuated his sentence with a sharp thrust, the already worn bed frame jolting into the wall as he fully buried himself into this woman.

Her mewls seemed to get even higher and higher in pitch as the two established a steady rhythm. Hand firmly placed along your slit, you toyed with oozing entrance and sensitive clit - middle and ring finger prodding into your hole, scissoring and feeling your inner walls. You gathered some more of your essence and spread it onto your thumb, applying more and more pressure as you swirled your bud. It was like you were in a freaked out flow state, your mind purely focused on achieving that high. You tuned out the shrieks of the other woman and honed in on your roommates low grunts, imaging how tense his abs would be from the sheer effort he would be putting, arms caged around you in missionary as he just plowed straight into you until you both came.

The bed creaks became more and more frequent, your hand moving faster and faster as you heard the woman cry out one last time and start sobbing. It seemed your roommate had slowed down slightly, close himself as the thrusts became more slow and tempered not hitting the wall as loudly. You were so so close, focusing on deep breathing to slow it down so that you could come undone at the same time as him.

As he got close himself, you could hear some sort of low rumble… was he.. whining? You could also hear his murmured praises to his partner “You did so good… thank you so much… your so pretty…ngh.. all…urghh….fucked out…mffh.. like this”. He seemed to be speaking through gritted teeth, so close to the edge. Even though you knew he wasn’t talking to you, all the words just melted into your brain adding to your dazed, enraptured state. You couldn’t hold out any longer, fingers moving into overdrive as you reached your peak and fell head first into the mind-numbing pleasure of release as you heard Suguru’s muffled cry as he came.

As the static from your ears started to clear and you were finally able to come back to earth from that earth-shattering orgasm, you could hear a slightly more heated conversation happening in the adjoined room.

“What the fuck was that” the woman whisper shouted while pulling on her clothes. “What the fuck do I know??” puffed your roommate as he seemed to pace around the room. “You just groaned another girls name as you came Suguru. That’s fucked up.. Seriously?” You could practically hear the sheepish look on his face as the door banged for a second that night.

How can he moan another girls name whilst he’s balls deep inside of her? I mean thinking back you may have heard him say your name but that was just because you were in a freaked out flow state, right?… right?

And that’s why at 3.09am you had come to the solid conclusion that you hated Geto Suguru. He was obnoxious, used your stuff AND had the cheek to mock you for what’s in your room but most importantly he fucked a girl and said your name whilst he came. Not only did he hurt this poor girl but he left you even more confused. Where do you even go from here? Did he know you heard the whole thing? Even if he did what does this change? Your hot roommate maybe does want to pipe you? This should be a good thing but for some reason you know it’s going to be more complicated than that...

part 2

a/n *:･ﾟ✧♡ :: credits to @/cafekitsune for the dividers! part 2 shld be done by the 10th (no promises 😭) but i lowk do want to drag it out to a three parter.

likes and reblogs make me squirt!

#kenzieluvssuguru #kenzieluvs #jjk x reader #jjk #jjk smut #getou suguru x reader #geto suguru #jjk x you #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x y/n #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen suguru

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watermelonsugacry · 8 months

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harry's 30th birthday blurb with 1d!yn?! 👀

Birthday Surprises

SUMMARY: Harry celebrates his 19th and 30th birthday with the person he loves.

GENRE: 1dbandmember!yn, married!ynrry

Since 2010 masterlist

Not to sound ungrateful, but Harry thinks that this was one of the worst birthday celebrations that he's ever had.

Tonight, he just wanted to spend his last year being a teenager having fun with friends—not be completely embarrassed and uncomfortable being strip teased and danced on by strippers.

Not to mention that afterwards, One Direction’s management team had booked him to do a relationship stunt for the night. So as he walked out of the club and into his security team’s Range Rover, a tall, blonde model was by his side. As bad as it sounded, he couldn’t remember the girl’s name for the life of him.

Nothing was going to happen with her anyways. All they had to do was a couple of paparazzi pictures of them together before they’re driven off into the night. The driver would discreetly drop her off at her own hotel before escorting Harry back to his.

So there's not an ounce of uncertainty that when Harry comes out of the elevator, he's absolutely tired and wants nothing more than to be left alone.

He waves his card key in front of the lock and once he hears the little "beep" sound, he pushes the heavy door open.

His irritation and tiredness might have just peaked over its breaking point when he begins to hear rustling from inside. He’s already extremely worn out that he doesn’t even want to put in the effort into putting on a nice face to whoever’s inside his hotel room. But the smile that appears on his face is effortless when he sees YN flicking the wheel of the lighter over some birthday candles sticking out of a chocolate cake.

“Fucking fuck—oh, surprise!” She hops, extending her arms out beside her in what she hopes to look like a grand gesture.

“What’s going on?”

“We’re celebrating your birthday.”

Anyone a mile away can tell how uncomfortable he was during the whole stripper fiasco. It sucked to have to stand off to the side, a faux smile on her face to see her bandmate in that type of situation. As much as she wanted to stay with him for the other “fun” festivities the night had to offer, she knew that she couldn’t let his birthday end the way it was heading. So she took the chance to leave the club a bit early and hoped that he would be up for one more celebratory, late night hang out.

“But, but it’s already past midnight,” He blinks, still a little dumbfounded at the kind surprise before him.

"Oh come on, we only have—err—three, ah! Two more minutes until your birthday is officially over." YN pulls Harry over to the small dining table and sits him down in front of his freshly lit cake. It's then that he notices the shaky lettering on the cake that reads, “Happy Birthday Harry!” Letting him know that she went more out of her way for him than she initially let on.

She comically clears her throat before beautifully yet quickly singing the infamous Happy Birthday song. The song isn't being yelled at to him by a big group of people, and the room isn't jam-packed with people he doesn't know. When he leans over to blow out his candles, he isn't fearful of hands going to the back of his head to stuff his face into the cake.

He doesn’t think twice about wrapping her up in his arms. He squeezes the tops of her shoulders tightly and she nestles into his chest. He presses a kiss to the top of her head, “Thank you.”

The sentiment doesn't, can't go by unnoticed, but it doesn't seem totally out of the norm. This is Harry. A sweet and affectionate person whose love language is undoubtedly physical touch. If anything, it'd be YN feeling the one out of place in this situation. And maybe it was a change of heart towards her anti-touchy feelings or maybe it was because of his birthday. Either way, he's grateful for the way she's letting him hold her. If it were anyone else, she definitely wouldn't wrap her arms around his torso, humming at the warmth he brings.

"Well the night doesn’t have end here,” YN blinks up at him. As if they both realize their close proximity, they slowly pull away to give each other some space. “If you're still up for it and not too tuckered out, I rented that one stupid rom com you like. The one with the guy standing outside with the signs."

"Love Actually? I thought you didn't like that movie."

"Well to be fair, I actually have never seen it. But it’s your birthday and this is sort of part of my gift to you. You know, if you even wanna see it. If not, I can just fuck off and you can sleep because I know you probably had a pretty eventful day—”

She’s rambling. YN’s rambling—a quality she was never prone to particularly show, but it’s cute. He thinks she’s cute.

“YN,” He chuckles, effectively cutting her off. “I’m down to watch it.”

“Really? Okay, cool. Because I already have the film on queue in the room so that would have been real fooking embarrassing.” Annnd she’s back.

He watches with curious eyes as she carefully slides the heavy cake plate onto her hands.

She throws a nod towards the kitchenette, “Mind grabbing the forks.”

As much as Harry tries to resist it, he can’t seem to wipe the smile off his face. He quickly grabs the two utensils before following behind her to the open bedroom. YN quite literally steps onto the foot of the bed before carefully sitting down, balancing the cake in her hands.

He sits down next to her, handing her the fork just as she begins the movie. They both dig their forks into the middle of the cake, taking out a chunk.

“Happy birthday, Harry,” She says, clicking the ends of their forks together. She happily hums at the delicious dessert but it quickly turns into a groan at the opening aong of the movie. “Ah not this stupid song again. I felt like this was all i was hearing just the other month.”

He’d be lying if he said he was watching more of the movie than her. His cheeks hurt from chuckling at her witty commentary and he tries not to make a big deal about the way she actually started to get into the film. So as he eats cake and spends the rest of the night with his best friend, he thinks that this might be the best birthday he’s had in a long time.

• 11 years later ●

YN stumbles through the front door as Harry cradles her in his arms, his mouth feverishly pressed to hers. They smile through their kisses, and he hums as she runs her finger through his growing curls. Harry kicks the door of their shared home behind him and blindly tosses the keys haphazardly in the general direction of the bowl by the door.

“Okay, okay,” YN pushes against his shoulders, finally getting a breath in, the pair still walking further into their home without separating. “So I know you said you didn't want any more presents—”

“Baby,” the grown man playfully whines. “You've already given me everything.” In all sincerity, she really has in his eyes. He’s been in love with the woman before him since they were sixteen. He wanted to be with her since their time in the band, through the making of their solo albums and everything in between. Even though it’s been a little over a year now, it still brings an explainable peace and warmth to his heart that she’s now his wife; not his friend with benefits, secret lovers, or merely a couple, but married.

And today couldn't have gone better. YN had the whole day planned. They started the day with lazy morning sex that turned into breakfast in bed. They spent the afternoon down by a secluded beach, having an impromptu dip in the water just before eating the lunch she packed for them. Then, after a plane ride to their private villa in Italy, they've just got back from having a beautiful dinner at his favorite restaurant.

“There's nothing more I could possibly want. Ooo, unless you're hiding some sexy lingerie under this fine ass dress you got here.” He says into her the crook of her neck, already sponging kisses onto her skin.

YN lets out a laugh, especially as his fingers begin to bunch up her silk dress. “No! Well, not no but—”

“So you do,” Harry says with excitement, the creases in his eyes appear when he hears her laughter.

“Just hang on a sec. Your present is upstairs.”

“So I get to unwrap my last birthday present in the bedroom,” He teases her further. Her husband relishes in the way she lets out a girly squeal when he dips down and effortlessly lifts her over his shoulder to bring them into the master bedroom.

“Wait, wait,” She pushes as Harry plops them down on the bed, already trapping her underneath him. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a sec.”

Once she's managed to wiggle herself free (with great effort, no thanks to Harry) she scurries off to the connected bathroom.

He sits himself down on the bed, undoing the cuffs of his button up before rolling up his sleeves, preparing himself to see if wife in lacy undergarments that are only begging to be taken off by his teeth. Or torn off. Either one would work.

“H, close your eyes.” YN says from behind the door. “I mean it, no peeking.”

“Alright, alright.” He complies, already feeling a childlike sense of giddy anticipation.

“Are they closed?”

“Yeah.”

“...are you sure?”

“Yes! For fuck sake’s woman. Being so mean on my birthday,” he laughs.

He feels the bed dip next to him before a kiss is pressed to his lips. Before he can bring his hands to her jaw to deepen the sweet kiss, he feels something being placed in his hands.

“Okay, open them,” she says against his lips.

He pulls back and sees a red box tied with a bow on top.

“Lovie, you really shouldn't have.”

“Last one, I promise.”

Just to tease her, he brings the small box next to his head and shakes it slightly to hear the contents rattle inside.

YN makes a strategic move by placing one of her hands behind him so her thumb can twist at her rings, knowing that that's her dead giveaway for her nerves.

When he opens the lid, it's only then his face gets serious—lips slightly parted with soft eyes. On top of the pile of confetti lies a pregnancy test. The small, red plus line stares back at him clear as day.

“YN?” When he looks to his love, she begins to hold back her tears at the sight of his watery eyes and pink nose. “Is—wha—are you sure?”

“I took like five of them just to be sure,” she lets out a chuckle.

“We’re having a baby?” Words can't describe the warmth and happiness that fills her chest at his excitement. It's not like they haven't mentioned having kids before. It's been brought up a couple of times, most recently these past two years, but the timing was never right. They were always working; whether it be on making an album, working on themselves, and for the longest time, tour was their babies. But now that their 2 year world tours have ended and they've finally had time to go MIA for a couple of months, it didn't feel like a better time.

The couple wasn't setting up a schedule or anything technical to have a baby. Especially since going on their second honeymoon had been occupying their schedule right after touring was done, they decided that baby making would happen naturally. Whenever their baby decided to enter their lives, that would be the perfect time.

YN nods and before she can say the words to verbally confirm, he has her wrapped in his arms. Harry lifts her off the bed and gives her a little twirl.

As quickly as he picked her up, he's on his knees before her and puts a gentle hand on her tummy.

“Hi, bubba,” he says softly. YN beams at the sight, already wiping at the happy tears running down her cheeks. “I'm your daddy, and I love you so so much.”

After placing a gentle kiss on her stomach, he finally takes his wife's face in his hands and kisses her. It isn't rushed or filled with a sexual need. It's soft and filled with so much love and passion.

“We're gonna be parents, baby. You’re gonna make the best momma," he says sincerely, getting more emotional at the thought of holding a mini YN or a mini him in his arms in less than a year from now.

"And you're gonna make the best dad," she hums. He wraps his arms around the tops of her shoulders, pulling her close to him as she cuddles into him. He presses a kiss to her forehead and sniffs back his tears.

"I love you so much."

“i love you, baby. Happy birthday, Harry.”

taglist:

@ashtongivesmebutterflies @cacapeepee @thurhomish @armystay89

(Let me know if you wanna be added 💚)

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reasonsforhope · 24 days

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"Millions of Australians just got official permission to ignore their bosses outside of working hours, thanks to a new law enshrining their "right to disconnect."

The law doesn't strictly prohibit employers from calling or messaging their workers after hours. But it does protect employees who "refuse to monitor, read or respond to contact or attempted contact outside their working hours, unless their refusal is unreasonable," according to the Fair Work Commission, Australia's workplace relations tribunal.

That includes outreach from their employer, as well as other people "if the contact or attempted contact is work-related."

The law, which passed in February, took effect on Monday [August 26, 2024] for most workers and will apply to small businesses of fewer than 15 people starting in August 2025. It adds Australia to a growing list of countries aiming to protect workers' free time.

"It's really about trying to bring back some work-life balance and make sure that people aren't racking up hours of unpaid overtime for checking emails and responding to things at a time when they're not being paid," said Sen. Murray Watt, Australia's minister for employment and workplace relations.

The law doesn't give employees a complete pass, however...

"If it was an emergency situation, of course people would expect an employee to respond to something like that," Watt said. "But if it's a run-of-the-mill thing … then they should wait till the next work day, so that people can actually enjoy their private lives, enjoy time with their family and their friends, play sport or whatever they want to do after hours, without feeling like they're chained to the desk at a time when they're not actually being paid, because that's just not fair."

Protections aim to address erosion of work-life balance

The law's supporters hope it will help solidify the boundary between the personal and the professional, which has become increasingly blurry with the rise of remote work since the COVID-19 pandemic.

A 2022 survey by the Centre for Future Work at the Australia Institute, a public policy think tank, found that seven out of 10 Australians performed work outside of scheduled working hours, with many reporting experiencing physical tiredness, stress and anxiety as a result.

The following year, the institute reported that Australians clocked an average of 281 hours of unpaid overtime in 2023. Valuing that labor at average wage rates, it estimated the average worker is losing the equivalent of nearly $7,500 U.S. dollars each year.

"This is particularly concerning when worker's share of national income remains at a historically low level, wage growth is not keeping up with inflation, and the cost of living is rising," it added.

The Australian Council of Trade Unions hailed the new law as a "cost-of-living win for working people," especially those in industries like teaching, community services and administrative work.

The right to disconnect, it said, will not only cut down on Australians' unpaid work hours but also address the "growing crisis of increasing mental health illness and injuries in modern workplaces."

"More money in your pocket, more time with your loved ones and more freedom to live your life — that's what the right to disconnect is all about," ACTU President Michele O’Neil said in a statement.

The 2022 Australia Institute survey... found broad support for a right to disconnect.

Only 9% of respondents said such a policy would not positively affect their lives. And the rest cited a slew of positive effects, from having more social and family time to improved mental health and job satisfaction. Thirty percent of respondents said it would enable them to be more productive during work hours.

Eurofound, the European Union agency for the improvement of living and working conditions, said in a 2023 study that workers at companies with a right to disconnect policy reported better work-life balance than those without — 92% versus 80%."

-via GoodGoodGood, August 26, 2024

#right to disconnect #australia #auspol #work #work life balance #workers rights #good news #hope #labor #labor rights #un

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aohisworld · 25 days

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Please do not buy tickets to the WALK THE LINE tour.

Enhypen don’t deserve just a month break. They deserve a long, relaxing break. They deserve to be treated like human beings, they deserve to relax, to not be disoriented by a new time zone every other hour, to not sigh when they have to travel another day.

They deserve to breathe, to relax, to sleep, Enhypen are human beings, please, belift, just let them rest.

I think a lot about the members, those who have hurt themselves performing to the best of their abilities for ENGENES, but why can’t we try harder to vouch for a long break of relaxation? How come they try so much for us but we won’t even try for them?

I think about how Jay has exhausted himself constantly because he wanted to be there for the concerts despite physically exhausting himself.

I think about Jake who can barely open his eyes during concerts because despite his tiredness he wants to see engenes.

I think about Heeseung, who gets hate for being exhausted, being told he’s lazy because he cannot afford to extort any more energy towards his dances because he’s that tired.

Jungwon, Sunoo and Sunghoon who’s staying strong for the rest of their members, trying their best to keep the energy up as the other members try to catch their energy.

And Ni-ki, who’s the same age as me, who’s been mentally challenged during the tour, where he’s stated openly how tired he is. He’s the same age as me, I’m out enjoying myself, hanging with friends, finding new opportunities for me to grow as a person.

I get to relax, to sleep in as much as I want, to have the ability to snooze through my alarms and do nothing for the entire day and just relax.

He can’t do that, he’s working tirelessly. He’s only a teen like I am, how could I sit here and just let them do that?

Please, boycott the tour, don’t contribute to it, do not promote it, pay no mind, and pressure belift into a longer break.

They don’t deserve just a month, they deserve longer.

Boycott the Tour. If you call yourself an ENGENE, have a human heart, or just an ounce of compassion, boycott WALK THE LINE.

#˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ it’s mintie!#enhypen members #enhypen niki #enhypen jake #enhypen sunghoon #enhypen heeseung #enhypen sunoo #enhypen ot7 #enhypen x reader #enhypen

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ccsainzleclerc5516 · 8 months

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Taking care of his girls (part 1)

Pairing: Carlos Sainz x reader (y/n)

Warnings: none

a/n: another girl dad Carlos because I just can't get enough

Y/N's pov

The newborn stage is extremely challenging. Sleep deprivation caused by countless sleepless nights, lack of energy, baby crying even though she ate half an hour ago, trying to figure out the cause of her crying, colic, baby not latching, painful feedings or lack of milk production - all that and much more comes when you step into motherhood. Trust me, it is exhausting both physically and mentally and anyone who says otherwise is lying!

However, not much is talked about how demanding and tiring and difficult it is when you are burning with a fever and can barely stand on your feet, and you have a two-year-old daughter who also has a flu and who, in addition to all of that, is a very stubborn daddy's little girl and doesn't really like to listen to anyone except her dad. That two-year-old is our little girl Bea. Bea is a very stubborn and smart girl who is very attached to her dad and loves spending time with him. She is completely enchanted by him and whenever Carlos returns home from the race, she does not separate from him.

We've only recently started taking her to the races, but since she tends to run around the paddock and starts screaming when it's time for Carlos to get in the car, we've decided that we won't be able to follow Carlos everywhere he goes.

This time we could not attend the Grand Prix in Italy for another reason, and that reason was because I caught a flu, which almost knocked me off my feet, and two days later Bea was burning with a fever as well.

Being alone with her while I was sick, doing all the housework, cooking and taking care of her was very difficult and exhausting. I was very worried about her because she had a high temperature, she was very weak, she didn't want to eat much, she was crying all the time and she just wanted me to hold her in my arms and cuddle her.

Carlos returned from Italy to our home in Madrid yesterday and we both couldn't wait to see him. When he came back I could finally breathe a little, sit down and rest because he decided to take care of both of us.

It was the same today, even though I felt a little better, Bea was still coughing a lot and her nose was blocked, so I decided to go to the pharmacy to get a children's inhaler. Carlos decided to stay with her and fulfill all her wishes, and today the wish was cuddling and watching cartoons in the living room.

It took me quite a long time to get to the pharmacy, make the purchase and get back home, so I only returned after 45 minutes. The sight that greeted me when I entered the living room brought tears to my eyes, but happy tears full of gratitude.

Bea was lying curled up on Carlos' chest, his arms wrapped around her as his head fell back against the back of the couch his lips slightly parted as both of them were fast asleep while Dora the explorer begged for help in the background. Carlos tied her hair into a small ponytail on top of her head while her baby hairs were messily sticking out. For a moment I just stood next to the couch and watched them smiling and thinking how did I get so lucky?

"Babe" I approach Carlos from the back of the couch and whisper into his ear. "Babe, wake up." It took him a minute to realize they had fallen asleep and to wake up.

"Ay dios mío.." You could also hear the tiredness in his voice because he didn't sleep at all last night. He demanded that I rest and that he would look after Bea overnight.

"Let's take her to bed okay?" I say quietly trying not to wake her up.

"What time is it?" He asks.

"It's only 7 p.m. I'll take care of her tonight, you get some sleep okay?" I say caressing his cheek.

"No, no I'll do it You still haven't fully recovered amor and I want you to." He says leaving a kiss on my thumb. Just as Carlos slowly straightened up from a semi-lying position on the couch, Bea startled and started crying.

"Shh cariño, no llores." (shh darling don't cry) Carlos immediately began gently shushing her and rubbing her back as I sat next to them.

"Do you want to go sleep in mommy and daddy's bed baby?" I asked her placing a kiss on her hand. She doesn't usually sleep with us, but when she is sick we always let her.

"No" She rubbed her eyes nervously, still crying and burrying her head into the crook of Carlos neck. "Papa, mama" She whined extending her little hand towards me, but not wanting to leave Carlos' embrace.

"Está bien mi amor, mamá y papá están aquí, no te preocupes." Carlos said tightening his grip around her with one arm and with the other pulling me closer to them.

We quickly gave up on trying to talk her into going to bed because we realized it would only upset her even more so we both decided to curl up to Carlos.

"Mis princesas." I leaned my head against his shoulder wrapping my arm around our little bean as Carlos kissed both of our foreheads.

Part 2 here

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monzabee · 10 months

Text

what you do to me – lh44 (+18)

masterlist

Summary: The one where Lewis returns home to you – the one thing he desperately wants, but won't let himself have completely.

Pairing: lewis hamilton x fwb!reader

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: angst, feelings, friends with benefits relationship, smut!, slight choking, unprotected sex (wrap your willy, don’t be silly!), slight manhandling?, pwp, minors dni!!

Author’s Note: hi, hey, hello!! my boyfriend forced me to watch hellraiser the other day, and there was this one scene that i could just not thinking about so i wanted to write something inspired by it, and who better to write it about than sir lewis hamilton?? also, i reaaaallly wanted to write a friends with benefits thing and it was so much fun, i honestly wasn’t expecting. the title of this fic is actually a john legend song that i love and i think it fits the vibes for this fic, so please feel free to give it a listen if you're interested! i hope you guys enjoy! good morning, noon or night wherever you are, xoxobee

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms.

It’s a shame Lewis doesn’t spend more time in his Monte Carlo penthouse during the season because it’s a space he enjoys spending time in so much. He doesn’t mind being alone in his home – if anything, it’s refreshing after spending so much time being the focal point of so many cameras during the season. Also, technically, he is not alone he supposes; he has Roscoe to keep him company when he’s home, after all.

Coming home from a successful season is rewarding, he feels as if he’s deserved the rest he looks forward to. On the other hand, coming home from a not-so-successful season? Well he feels like shit – both mentally and physically. That is not to say that he doesn’t appreciate the time off, though, he is more than happy to not drive for weeks and just enjoy the winter break. Coming home is also always kind of bittersweet. He catches up with some of his friends he didn’t have time for during the season, his family who always support him through thick and thin, but most importantly he tries to make time for you and your… well, arrangement.

He knows something is wrong the minute you reply to his text about him being home. A simple okay is not a response he is used to getting from you. Alas, he shakes off the unease and chalks it up to a hectic day on your end. The pitter patter of Roscoe’s paws on the hardwood floors is enough to distract him from the situation, given the fact that the puppy is impatient for his dinner and is looking at the driver with pleading eyes.

“Okay ‘Coe,” he mumbles as he motions the kitchen with his head, “let’s go.”

The way Roscoe wobbles towards the kitchen brings a small smile to Lewis’ face even though he is still hung up on your answer. After he’s done feeding the puppy, he decides to grab a quick shower to ease the tiredness that comes from a long travel day. The hot water cascading down from the rainfall shower does a good job of taking care of his sore muscles, and he is more than happy to stay under the warm water if it means the soreness will go away. That is until he hears banging coming from his front door. He has every intention of just ignoring the person on the other side of the door; however, as the knocks get more and more persistent, he gets out of the shower with a groan. Wrapping a towel around his hips, he marches towards the front door, and looks through the peephole only to end up opening the door quicker than he would’ve liked.

His voice is confused as he mumbles out, “Lovey?” But you just straighten up from your position of leaning against the wall and throw your bag on the floor as you push your way through his apartment and wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him into a hug. He doesn’t miss the way your breath hitches as you attempt to hide yourself in the crook of his neck, and he is not sure what he’s supposed to do with his hands for a moment. “Hey,” he calls out softly, “what’s wrong?”

You pull back slightly to look into his worried eyes, “Just kiss me.” Your voice comes out somewhere between a whisper and a sob, and you can see the hesitation in Lewis’ eyes, but you just pull him towards you as you press a soft kiss on his lips, “Please.”

“What happened?” He tries once again to get an answer from you, but you shut down his attempt as you press your lips against his once more, more assertive this time. And who is he to deny you your wishes? So, like the perfect gentleman he is, he reciprocates your kiss with a one of his own as he wraps his arms around you to signal you to jump. Thankfully, you are so tuned with each other that you end up jumping up anyway, and he picks you up as you wrap your legs around his hips. Closing the door, he starts walking back towards his bedroom as your lips start moving more frantically against his own. “Slow down,” he warns, pulling back to give both of you a chance to breathe, “we have all night.”

Whining at the loss of contact from his lips, and you let your dissatisfaction known by attempting to roll your hips against his bare stomach, “Don’t wanna.” There’s still a lingering sob in your voice, but it is more reflective of the neediness you feel now that you have him between your arms – and legs. Lewis lets his hands roam down towards your ass to give you a warning squeeze – a one, maybe you would’ve been threatened by it if you weren’t so lost in him at the moment. You try your best to ignore the look he gives you, one filled with sternness; so instead, you move your lips downwards towards Lewis’ neck with another roll of your hips. “I missed you.”

He stills the movement of your hips as he simultaneously releases an appreciative groan at the way your lips feel on his skin. “I missed you too, lovey.” He is careful as he approaches his bed and sits down on the plush mattress with you still in his arms. Wrapping a hand around your hair to tilt your head back so he can look into your eyes again, he attempts to keep himself from becoming hard from the mere prospect of you wrapping your body around his. His eyes search yours for answers as to your sour mood, “Tell me what’s wrong, bad day?”

“Try bad month,” you scoff, letting your hands slide over his, somehow, still damp torso. “You weren’t here,” you explain as you free yourself from his hold on your hair and take off your sweatshirt, “don’t wan’ to talk about it.”

“Well, I’m here now.” A sudden realisation that you are not wearing anything under your top comes to Lewis, and he has to mentally restrain himself from doing something rash. “Not wearing a bra?” He asks, one of his eyebrows raised.

You let out a confirming hum, “Not wearing any underwear either.” Giving him an innocent smile at the groan he gets out, you shrug your shoulders nonchalantly, “Thought they’d get in the way.” His hands feel warm on your bare skin as he drags them up on your body to gently cup your exposed breasts, causing you to brace yourself by hanging onto his shoulder for support. Whining as you feel his thumb make contact with your sensitive nipple, you decide to pull him in for another kiss, mumbling a breathy, “Kiss me,” against his lips.

He obliges your request, of course, but he doesn’t let you control the kiss like you would’ve liked to. Instead, he stops the kiss by gently biting down on your lip before you can deepen it. With a small pat to your hip, he mumbles, “Get up, let me see you.” The look he gives you is just so full of adoration that you have no other choice to get up from his lap with the slowest moves you can muster. His eyes never leave you when you take a step back so that he can see you, all of you, and with the small nod he gives you, you begin taking off your leggings and shoes. That’s the thing about Lewis – for someone who is in the spotlight most of their time, he loves watching. And it is not only limited to the bedroom, you realise, he watches you even when you are doing mundane things together, like grocery shopping or walking Roscoe, domestic things that couples do together. But you can’t think about that, no, because both of you agreed that this was only physical and nothing more. Shaking the thoughts away, you straighten up from your bent position only to find Lewis looking you with a much darker look in his eyes. He’s dangerous, when he looks like that, you realise, he could break you into pieces with just his words, and the worst part is that you’d absolutely let him. “Pretty girl,” he whispers into the distance between you, and you take the hand he extends towards you for him to pull you against himself. The feeling of his lips on your skin almost feel feverish, and you find yourself releasing a gasp. “You’re the prettiest girl ever, lovey.”

“Lewis,” you brokenly whisper, your voice would be bordering on whiny with all the neediness that comes with it, “please, I need you.” The pleading look you give him is vulnerable, if not desperate.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your skin, his lips leaving another open-mouthed kiss, this time closer to your lower belly. His voice does a good job of soothing your erratic mind, his arms envelope you as he promises, “Whatever it is I’m here now, tell me what you want.”

He does a good job of putting you on the spot, you think, but unlike your usual self, you don’t have the patience for teasing tonight. “I want you to fuck me,” your voice comes off stronger than before, but it wavers as you also add, “please.” The last word brings a small smirk to Lewis’ face, and you let out a shriek as he quickly throws you onto the bed. “You almost scared me to death,” you complain, pushing out your lower lip in a pout.

“You’ll be fine,” he lets out a breathy laugh while quickly getting rid of the towel still, miraculously, hanging on his hips. The smirk on his face grows as he watches you shamelessly checking him out, but he never breaks his gaze from yours when your eyes meet as he wraps a hand around his cock to jerk himself for a few times. You spread your legs to accommodate his body as he leans over your lying figure by using his free arm as support. Rubbing the tip of his cock through your slick slit a few times, you can feel his breathy chuckle hit your skin while his lips run over your jaw to leave small kisses. “You’re so wet for me,” he mumbles, and the whimper that leaves your lips when he makes a point to rub his tip over your clit wins another chuckle, “you’re gonna be good for me?”

“Uh-huh,” you mumble as you nod frantically, “yes Lu, I’m gonna be good, I promise. Please, just fuck me.” You try to tempt him by wrapping your legs around his hips and pulling him closer – either you are successful and he gives in, or he is just as desperate to get inside you as you are desperate to feeling him because he complies with your movements as he nudges the tip of his cock into you in a slow push forward. The stretch is burning every single time, and usually he gives you enough time to accommodate his size before proceeding to fuck your brains out. But this time, he doesn’t waste any time as he pushes himself fully into you until he’s buried inside you to the hilt. The gasp you begin to let out turns into a silent scream as the feeling of being full consumes you, “Fuck, Lewis–”

“Shh, it’s okay,” he soothes you through the initial pain, “you’re alright, just breathe th for a bit.” And you do what he tells you to because… well, you know he won’t do anything to hurt you. He brings his free hand towards your face to cup your cheek, which you respond by turning your head towards the warmness. “Tell me when the pain goes away,” he whispers against your skin – he finds he absolutely loves the way your skin flushes every single time he fucks you, and the thought makes him freeze for a second. Love? That is not something he should be thinking about, not especially when he’s buried inside you, because you both agreed–

Deciding to respond wordlessly, you press a soft kiss in the middle of Lewis’ palm, whilst also attempting to roll your hips, but then whining because of the additional pressure, “Please, Lewis, please move.”

That must’ve done the job of breaking Lewis out of whatever trance he was in, because once he hears your whiny voice pleading him to move, he starts thrusting his hip in and out of you in a rhythm that simply leaves you breathless in mere seconds. It’s the stress of the season, you think to yourself, but Lewis’ movements just get faster and deeper until he hits that one spot inside you that makes your whines turn into a scream and has you arching into him. You can’t see his reaction with your eyes fluttered close, but he stills his movements for a few moments as he looks at you as if you’re the most precious thing in his life. He waits until your erratic breathing to get back to normal before he starts rolling his hips against yours again, but this time the tempo he adopts is much slower, sensual, and almost… too intimate for it to only be considered physical between the two of you.

Your eyes flutter open as you look at him with confusion, “Wha– What are you–?” But he only cuts you off by pressing his lips against you to swallow your question in a kiss. The slower tempo is surprisingly more pleasurable then his usual style that you’ve dubbed fast and furious, and every time his hips roll at a certain angle, he brushes your clit in a way that makes your feet curl in pleasure.

He is breathless when he pulls away from the kiss and rests his forehead against yours, but then again, so are you. The way he seems to gaze into your eyes make your breath hitch, and if you thought that was Lewis showing his emotions, he decides to put them into words. “So good for me, lovey,” he moans, yes moans because one thing you’ve learned from the start is that real men moan, “you were made for me, weren’t you?” His accent gets thicker, which is a tell that he’s getting there, but he won’t let himself come before he makes sure you’re taken care of. “Look at how you’re taking me, reckon I can feel myself if I place my hand on your belly?” It makes him laugh when you whine as you attempt to slither your hand towards your stomach to test his theory, but one deep stroke of his hips and your arms envelope them around his shoulders to use him as a support. “Perfect, you’re just perfect for me, hm? My perfect, pretty, little girl.”

“Please,” you whimper out, the tears that form in the corner of your eyes threatening to fall, “I’m so close.” It’s been such an emotional day, and a shitty month that all you wanted was to be consumed by him – and now that you have him in your arms, acting like you are more than just two friends who use each other for something so trivial and human as urges, you don’t want to let him go. Especially not when he makes you feel like you could love him for the rest of your life. Even if just the thought of it is enough to make your heart race. Needless to say, the sob you let out is unexpected on both of your ends, and you know he’s about to stop when he slows down even more, but you give him a stern look through your tears, “Don’t you dare stop.” You moan, loud enough for his neighbours downstairs to hear, once he picks up the pace again, but it’s still slow enough for it to be considered love making and not fucking by both of your standards.

He knows you’re close when your walls start clenching around him, which makes it much harder for him to compose himself. So, being the perfect gentleman he is, he starts rubbing your clit with one of his hands, his fingers work hard to bring you even more pleasure. He watches in amazement as you trash around under his body and as your whimpers and moans get louder gradually – until you are coming undone around him, starting to sob because of the pressure gets released in your tummy, that is. His hips still continue their languid movements, just like the faster movement of his fingers, as he fucks you through your release, mumbling sweet nothings and encouragements into your ear. Lewis does his best to kiss the tears that escape from your eyes, his breath fanning over your feverish skin.

“So good,” your moans get softer as you get calmer after a while, though your voice is still scratchy, “wanna feel you more, Lu.” Sliding your hand between your bodies to take his hand away from your clit, the loss of his touch makes you whine softly and he watches you in confusion while still continuing his movements slowly, but you see the way his eyes light up with a dark look when you wrap his fingers around your throat, and thankfully he understands the message as he tightens his hold just the way you like it. “Yeah, just like that,” you moan, encouraging him to pick up the pace. This time, it’s your turn to whisper praises riddled with encouragement, and you know it gets to him, because every single stroke his hips deliver end up making him fill you more and more, as if that was possible. The sobs coming from your lips transform into ones of pleasure, bringing Lewis closer and closer to his release.

“Look at me,” his voice is sharp, and it makes you immediately fix your eyes on his. There is an immense sense of wanting to please him, or rather make him proud within you, and he rewards you with a burning kiss that leaves you panting and wanting more as he spills himself into you. As he pulls away to moan out your name, his thumb dragging down your bottom lip. You gently bite down on his thumb while you manage to get out a satisfied moan, eyes closing ever so slightly as you feel him spill into you, and he keeps pulling you even closer to himself when he lets his body fall next to yours.

You have no idea how he manages to still stay inside you, but you can feel his lips pressing gentle kisses across your hairline, and brushing away the sweaty strands. “You feel better now, lovey?” Smiling at the tiredness dripping from his voice, you hum airily, a satisfied smile on your face while you move your neck to look at him. “Good,” his whisper brushes your lips as he nudges the tip of your nose with his, earning a giggle from you while he wipes away the dry tears on your cheeks.

“Do you have to leave?” There is a whiny undertone to your question, and it makes him give you a gentle smile.

“Not for a while,” he assures you, then he presses his lips softly on yours in a small kiss, “I promise.”

He grabs your hand to weave his fingers through yours, pressing gentle kisses to your knuckles as he keeps silent for a moment – because he knows at that moment, just because you asked, he’ll cancel every single plan he’s made, just to spend more time with you so that he can make you smile like that. “Until you get sick of me, that is.” Your tired laughter fills his ears until it is interrupted by a yawn. He carefully moves you so that he gently takes himself out of you, and rolls you sideways so he can wrap his arms around as he pulls you close to cuddle. “Go to sleep, lovey, we’ll talk in the morning,” he mumbles as he presses soft kisses to your bare shoulder. You close your eyes with a smile on your face, burying yourself into his chest as much as you can, and hear him mumble, “My lovey,” before promptly falling asleep.

You pretend you didn’t hear him in the morning because the arrangement the two of you made was about keeping things causal.

But you respond by squeezing his hand three times in return anyway.

And he responds.

#monzabee #requests open #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 smut #formula 1 #fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 x y/n #lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #imagine #fluff #angst #smut #lewis hamilton smut #lewis hamilton fluff

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astraystayyh · 11 months

Text

Echoes of love

"to love someone is firstly to confess : i am prepared to be devastated by you."

Chapter i. to forget

genre : memory loss trope. angst. slow burn. unrequited love except you were in a loving relationship and everything changes overnight.

pairing : minho x reader.

summary : if given the choice would you love minho again? yes, you would've once said in a heartbeat. but now, you aren't sure of your response anymore.

cw : depiction of a car accident. mention of blood and physical wounds. depiction of a nightmare and anxiety attack. reader has she/her pronouns.

word count : 14.8k words.

song recs : the night we met/terrible love/black friday/cover me.

a.n: she's here, she's yours, i hope you'll enjoy reading one of the most challenging things I've ever wrote :') your feedback is highly appreciated <3

special thanks to @forlix for going through this journey with me, i love you thank you, seriously, you mean the world to me. and to @dorisnumber1fan for listening to my initial rants about this fic, and all the ones i ever write. i love you and appreciate you so much, more than i could explain <3

quotes series masterlist. next chapter.

Day 1.

You're floating in a dark void, save for the specks of light swirling around you. A peculiar serenity fills your being, a tranquility unlike any you’ve ever known. It’s as though your body isn’t your own; but rather an otherworldly vessel, calmly traversing the cosmos, dancing in constellations with the stars that encircle you.

A sudden electrifying warmth surges from your hand, traveling down the contours of your knuckles, melting into the lines of your palm. It pulsates within your being as if you’re holding the Earth's very core between your fingers. You stir from your ethereal orbit, longing to break apart from the celestial lights, to reunite with your body once again.

The warmth intensifies, causing your fingers to involuntarily clench. A deluge of radiance enfolds you, drawing you into a luminous hole. You squint your eyes, drinking in the light- your first breath.

Your eyes flutter open in a daze, your throat parched, rasping like sandpaper against your vocal cords. White encompasses you yet again, from the high ceilings to the pristine bed you’re lying on. It takes you a few blinks to grasp your new environment- an unfamiliar hospital room. You wearily close your eyes, hoping for the stillness to return, aching for the peace you felt within your bones mere moments ago.

But to no avail; only the tingling sensation remains.

You tilt your head, eyebrows shooting upwards as you notice a hand clasping yours. A figure lies their forehead beside your body, black disheveled locks tickling your palm.

The warmth, you understand where it comes from now.

You attempt to slip your hand out of theirs, prompting the man to awaken with a jolt, surprise dancing across his features as his gaze meets yours. Dark circles adorn his face- testimonies to days of fatigue imprinted upon every feature of his. Yet, all of it dissipates as he gazes at you, lips slightly parted, bunny teeth peeking out. His face transforms into a radiant smile, stirring a mysterious longing within your soul- it brushes against your fingertips before slipping beyond your reach.

"You're awake," he whispers in awe, and your tiredness renders you mute. You point to your throat, hoping that he'll understand what you need. "Water? Is- Is that what you want?" he asks, a touch too eager, fingers running through his hair in sheer disbelief. You nod and he rises swiftly, pouring you a glass of water and bringing it to your lips.

You sip diligently as his hand caresses the crown of your hair, the warmth now traveling to the top of your head. You feel lightheaded as if the blood in your veins has thickened, the very life in you slowed to a faint whisper. Yet, a timid relief emerges as your thirst is finally quenched.

"I'll- I'll go call the doctor," he tells you, his beaming smile unwavering. It’s too bright, everything around you is, and you feel a throbbing headache growing at your temple’s base.

It's a mere minute before the man returns, a doctor and two nurses on his trail. You float within a haze as the nurse shines a beam of light in your eyes. The response of your pupils seems to please her.

"Do you remember what happened?" the doctor inquires and you frown. You've been racking your brain for an explanation as to why you're here, but to no avail. You shake your head.

"What's your name," he proceeds, lips growing into a thin line.

"Y/n, Y/l/n," you respond, your voice sounding foreign to your ears, as though it hasn’t left the confines of your throat for ages. You miss the darkness; you want to sleep again.

"What date are we?"

Your eyebrows knit together as you try to think of an answer. "The 20th or maybe the 21st September."

"What year?"

"2022."

An eerie silence falls upon the room, a stillness resembling the one of your dreams; but it isn’t comforting, on the contrary, it fills your being with an unsettling dread, one that trickles inside you with each second spent in silence. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. You close your eyes to avoid the sorry ones of the nurse.

"We need to run you an MRI scan," the doctor finally speaks up, tone somber. "It appears you're suffering from retrograde amnesia. But we have to make sure."

It takes time for the words to permeate your consciousness, for the syllables to settle in and start to make sense. Amnesia.

What have you forgotten?

“What…” you chuckle warily, fingers reaching up to soothe your throbbing forehead. “What year is it?”

"It's the 24th of September 2023. You were in a severe car accident two days ago, a drunk truck driver rammed into your car on your way home. You have a fractured rib and extensive leg injury, but no broken bones thankfully. We'll get you to the scan shortly, okay?" he speaks easily as if announcing that you've missed the rain while asleep. As if it’s not a year’s worth of memories you’ve seemingly forgotten, erased in the span of a blink, akin to footprints on sand washed away by the waves. Nothing of importance.

"So, you don't... remember me?" a soft voice quivers, barely above a whisper, and your eyes meet those of the man who’s been at your side, temporarily forgotten in the conversation.

His question is laced with a grave fear, evident in his dilated pupils and trembling hands. A lump blooms in your throat, its thorns pricking at your voice. You aren’t sure you want to answer that question.

"I- I don't."

"Oh."

You’ve never known that a human could crumble in silence, in an imperceptible gasp, so small you almost did not hear it. A crestfallen expression materializes on his face in the span of a heartbeat, features coming together in the rawest expression of anguish you’ve ever seen. You bite your lip.

"Who- Who are you?" you implore, urgency inflecting your tone, hoping that he's no one of importance. Someone who helped you when you got into a car accident. Someone minor who you wouldn't fault your brain for forgetting.

"I was... I-I am your boyfriend. Minho," he utters his name like a broken plea, eyes slightly widening to gauge your reaction. As though those two syllables hold within them a myriad of memories, ones you simply cannot forget.

You don't remember.

The doctor was right in his diagnosis. The scan showed unusual activity within your brain, characteristic of post-traumatic amnesia. You listened numbly as he cited the precautions you should take to heal your physical wounds- to rest, not carry anything heavy, ice your lungs, and go on walks. But you did not care for the state of your body, you’ve bruised it before and it has healed in its own time. It will do it again; it is a familiar path you’ve already undergone. But what about your memory? Your mind that robbed you of a year of your life? How do you get it back?

“There is no guarantee you’d remember. There is also no treatment for amnesia. We advise that you focus on healing first. Do not strain your mind,” your doctor smiled, before leaving the room. His silver wedding band shined mockingly underneath your eye. He doesn’t know what it’s like to forget the lover awaiting you at home.

Minho dutifully sat by your side, nodding along to the doctor’s words. He signed your discharge papers and settled your bills before you could protest, and he was now pushing your wheelchair through the hospital's corridors. You didn’t know what to say to him- how do you talk to a stranger who uttered your name with love dripping between its letters?

In the hospital’s parking lot, Minho pauses, squatting before you. His eyes are puffy, red veins contrasting against the pristine whites, betraying the tears he must have shed when he excused himself to the toilet.

You suddenly want to beg for a reprieve; it is too much pain for one day, too much for one soul to bear. But it is only six p.m. and Minho's gaze holds you captive, a new emotion dancing in his brown irises- grief. He's looking at you as though you're a phantom, gone when you are still very much breathing.

“We've been together for eleven months, and we moved in together two months ago,” he licks his lips nervously. “You have a two-month medical leave, and I- I don’t want to leave you alone, while you recover. So, you can think of us as… as roommates.” The word felt heavy on his tongue, a fresh wave of tears brimming in his waterline. He swiftly blinks them away.

Your parents are in a faraway city, so is your best friend. You were the one who decided to move somewhere so far, to flee from the skeletons threatening to spill out of your closet. You don't want to burden anyone. You just want to rest.

You nod in agreement and Minho attempts to smile. It is a useless effort; one he quickly gives up. There was nothing to be joyous about.

Minho takes your hand, gently helping you to your feet. He opens the door to his car, and you settle into the passenger seat. It smells pleasant, an apple-scented diffuser dangling from the rearview mirror. Yet, as Minho closes the door, the scent suddenly suffocates you. Your lungs ignite, consuming your oxygen to douse their rising flames. You can no longer breathe inside, panic rippling in your heart violently, pushing at your ribs, begging for an escape. You open the door, collapsing to your knees as a violent coughing fit overtakes you. You blindly clutch at Minho’s arm and he tumbles to the ground with you.

The ugly sob that had been trapped within your throat finally escapes, and passersby pay you no mind. It must be usual to hear gut-wrenching cries in a hospital parking lot. But Minho seems to care, as his hands soothingly rub your back, undergoing a steadfast path from the nape of your neck down the base of your spine. He’s not panicking and his touch appears to instinctively know how to speak to your sadness, how to soothe your sorrow with unheard words.

You imagine it's not his first time comforting you, and the thought only forces another sob from the depths of your soul, as Minho pulls you up once again. He sits your shaky figure on the wheelchair, closing the car doors.

“We can walk,” he tells you gently, and despite the quietness of his voice, it manages to break through your raging storm. A singular sun ray parting the gloomy clouds.

“It’s okay, I’ll... I’ll suck it up”

"You've been through a terrible car accident, and I won't let you sit here and panic, especially when your wounds are still fresh and your mind is trying to protect you."

His tone is resolute, eyes blazing with determination as he looks at you. You can only nod in response. So, Minho pushes your wheelchair to his house. He doesn’t huff, nor complain about the autumn sun scorching his skin, the effort to push you for the entirety of the road, and then inside his building. He only smiles when his eyes meet yours in the elevator mirror.

He’s tentative as he opens the door to his apartment, hand tightly gripping the keys before turning them, as if preparing himself for a bigger heartbreak, one that lies within what was once his sanctuary- yours too, you suppose.

Minho pushes you inside, pausing near the entrance as your eyes drink in the interior. He seems to await something, perhaps for you to remember the place you’ve called home for the past months. A few seconds pass, and he clears his throat, holding your arm to guide you forward. He avoids your gaze as you both venture in.

“This is the kitchen,” he points to a small kitchenette, where a flower bouquet seems to have wilted, much like the man near you- his emotions now diluted, eyes dimmed as they glaze over the walls. You spot your favorite mug on the racks, one that resembles a fairy mushroom. The sight of it makes your heart clench in your chest. So, this is your home, after all.

You leave the kitchen and walk down a narrow hallway when you stumble on your feet. “Easy, honey,” Minho cautions, and your hold on his forearm falters. He blinks at you before gazing up at the ceiling. “I’m sorry, force of habit.”

“It’s okay,” you reply in a small voice.

Minho leads you to the living room, cream-colored sofas with a navy blanket on top, multiple fuzzy pillows scattered all around. A tulip field painting graces the accent blue wall- your favorite flower, two matching slippers rest by the couch, racks of your novels adjacent to his collection of cookbooks, you assume.

It is all the more evident to you that you’ve both lived here, lives intertwining so seamlessly into one another. The place radiates comfort and warmth, but it refuses to penetrate your being, as if you’re harboring a shield of oblivion, ricocheting off any touch of remembrance. You’re an intruder, standing in stark contrast to the inviting coziness that envelops you.

“I like that wall,” you say in an attempt to lighten the stuffy atmosphere.

“We painted it together,” Minho smiles sadly, and your remorse seems to liquify, blending in with the blood running through your veins.

From the corner of your eyes, you spot three furry masses bolting towards you, small paws clawing at your feet. You feel another dent add to your heart, so much you are sure it would blow away at the tiniest gust of wind. Just how much have you forgotten?

“We… We had cats?” you ask breathlessly, eyes widening as you take in the two orange felines, and the gray, much smaller one.

“These are mine, but you also adopted them, in a way,” he explains, crouching down to pet his cats, scratching the sensitive spot behind their ears. He is tender with them and they appear at ease in his presence. You realize you’ve felt the same since you’ve woken up.

“Hey, my babies,” he coos softly. “Mom- I mean y/n- is tired so let’s give her some space, okay?” he quickly corrects, before gently pushing the cats away from your feet.

Minho shows you the bathroom before leading you to the bedroom- it's a bit untidy, worn clothes thrown on the ground, some of your accessories tossed on top of the vanity. As if the room was also frozen in time, awaiting your return to resume its familiar course.

“You'll sleep here and I'll just take the couch,” Minho interrupts your thoughts as he gently sits you atop the bed.

"But-"

"I’ll make you dinner so you can take your medication, okay?” he ignores your objections, adjusting two pillows behind your back to help you sit up straight, just like the doctor cautioned. His necklace, adorned with your initial, brushes against your cheek. “Try to sleep meanwhile. You need to rest.”

“Minho this is too much-"

“It’s not. If you need anything just call me over, I’ll leave the door open,” he says, tucking you in beneath the blanket.

“I don’t want to burden you,” you finally admit, voice slightly raised so he’d finally listen.

“Y/n, I love you.” He speaks so suddenly, fists balled on either side of your body. “And this is what I do for the person I love. I… I don’t know how to not care for you, don’t take that away from me, please. Please,” he repeats, voice faltering under the weight of his plea.

"Okay," you concede.

You can't quite remember that first night, the morphine injected into your veins made you ebb and flow out of consciousness, only recollecting small fragments of the hours flowing by.

But you remember the dull pain settling into your bones, one you knew would accompany you for the following weeks. You remember the thoughts swirling in your mind like a tempest- your near brush with death, how she almost trapped you into her icy hold; the year of memories gone with the wind, as if they were never yours to begin with; and the stranger whose home you are in now, the very one who took care of you throughout the night.

And you can't perfectly recall it, but you swear Minho stayed by your side until the early hours of the morning, warm hand pressed to your forehead to check your temperature, cold tears falling on your arm as he laid his head next to your sleeping body.

Day 2.

You miss being asleep the second you wake up in.

Every fiber of your being aches, as though pain has latched itself into every muscle, its grip unrelenting now that the morphine's comforting veil has lifted. You drag a hand tiredly across your face, tears of frustration welling like dewdrops in your eyes. It's only 10 a.m. Far too early for one's spirit to crumble.

A bright post-it note on the bedside table catches your weary gaze. "I went to drop your medical leave at your work. I've made you breakfast it's in the kitchen. Don't forget to drink your medicine, I'll be home soon"

What home was Minho referring to, exactly? Because this one wasn’t yours, and neither was the one back in your hometown. Were you destined to be a passerby in temporary places, always lingering near the door, ready to put your shoes back on and leave at any moment?

10:03. Still too early.

You find solace in having two months off of your work. You couldn’t bear being somewhere where everybody knew you for months, while your memories of them span but mere weeks. The expectations they would have, the pressure to conform, to mirror the footsteps of your past self was an unbearable burden. What if she was better than you? Made better choices, spoke more eloquently? What if you couldn't live up to the image they had conjured? What if you couldn't face the repercussions of your past actions?

10:07. You need to shower.

You slowly ease yourself off the bed, careful not to put pressure on your injured leg, avoiding even the slightest exhalation. You pretend as if nothing’s happening as you pick up a pair of pajamas that you recognize from the closet – a familiar relic from the life you’ve always known.

It's a charade, you’re aware of it. You're but treading on fragile ice, your pain threatening to shatter the frozen façade beneath your feet, plunging you into the frigid truth at any given moment.

You walk into the shower, attempting to rinse the day's tiredness away. But moving your limbs is a strenuous task, and you can't reach over your head to wash your hair. You let out a dry chuckle as the water runs over your back, splattering across the white tiles.

Your heart swells in your chest, an uncomfortable weight pressing against your fractured ribs. Still, it beats, and you cling with all your might to this one silver lining.

Minho has made you pancakes, not the most nutritious meal but the only one you can stomach on your sick days. He's also brewed you tea, a singular sugar cube resting at the bottom of your cup, just the way you like it. Your grip on your fork tightens, knuckles paling. You wish he had put three sugar cubes, or that he made you anything but pancakes, something to reassure you that he didn’t know you so intimately. That your mind hasn’t stolen a love where every detail of you was known.

The door opens, keys clinking on a solid surface. The sound of it tugs at your heart ever so faintly, a distant bell ringing somewhere far- it quiets down before you even realize it is there.

“Good morning,” Minho greets, the corners of his mouth curving upward although his eyes remain downcast, redness tinging its outlines. You look down at your cup, unable to hold his wounded stare.

“Good morning. Thank you for the breakfast and for going to my work. I really appreciate it,” you say.

“It's nothing. Your coworkers wish you a speedy recovery.”

“Mm,” you murmur. “That's nice of them."

“Here,” he slides a phone across the table. “I bought you a new one since your phone’s screen was smashed in the car accident, but I took it to a repair shop. Maybe they’d manage to fix it.”

You go to protest when he shakes his head, silencing you. “Don’t say It’s too much.”

A surprised giggle escapes your lips at his accurate prediction, momentarily halting Minho in his tracks. You swallow the sound down as Minho clears his throat, dissipating your laughter into thin air. “I put my phone number there. Also, the ones of your family that I have. Always call me if you need anything, okay?” he pauses, locking your eyes with his. “Anything.”

“It's okay, I really don't want to bother you. You might be busy."

“I’ll still answer,” he quickly responds. “I’ll always answer you.”

There is a certain sincerity that coats Minho's words, one that softens the edges of his letters, making them easier to permeate your being, to sink into the seas of your soul.

“Minho,” you call out gently.

“Yes, hon- " He inhales deeply, eyes looking anywhere but at you. “Yes, Yn?”

“Thank you, for everything.”

“Of course.”

The ensuing hours blur into a hazy dance, in which you’re only awakened by Minho’s warm hand on your shoulder, as he brings you lunch, then dinner to your room, paired with the medicine you need to take. He doesn’t talk to you, only carrying out the tray outside when he deems you asleep- as if tiptoeing near your existence, afraid he’d slip into you again, knowing you won’t be there to catch him.

It's nearly midnight when you leave your room to use the bathroom. You pause near the door when you spot Minho petting his cats. You don’t even know their names, you haven’t dared to ask, still foolishly holding on to the hopes that this is but a horrible nightmare, one clawing at your tender skin even after you rose.

“You’re sad, aren’t you?” he coos softly, and the cats respond with plaintive mewls as if understanding his words. “Mm. I’m really sad too,” his voice is barely above a whisper, as though it’s a confession he isn’t ready to speak out loud. The pain in your ribs intensifies.

“But it’s okay, she’ll remember us. We are her family, she can’t forget us forever, right?” your breathing hitches. “Right,” he adds softly, as if to reassure himself; to inflate hope in a heart deserted by you.

Day 3.

Minho threw away the wilted flowers, leaving the vase bare at the center of the kitchen table.

You almost wish he hadn't- those lifeless blooms were the sole reflection of your faded spirit within this home. Now everything in the house seemed alive, grand windows ushering in daylight to cascade upon the living space, causing the ivory walls to glisten. Everything, except for you and Minho, two ghosts skirting along the existence of one another.

There is, was, love imprinted in this house. You could sense it though you couldn’t feel it anymore. By the two cat mugs that connect through their tails, your products intermingling with Minho's in the bathroom sink, the notes you found hung on the fridge- some with his handwriting, most with yours, reminding Minho how much you loved him.

Where did all that love go? Did it dissipate into thin air, gone as if it had never existed? Has it turned into something else, lurking beneath the surface of your skin, waiting for you to remember?

You can’t find the answers, and as Minho finishes up his breakfast, you find yourself longing to ask him about the past year. Who you were and what you’ve lived. But you know it’ll feel like salt on a wound, akin to bringing a mirror before his face, reminding him of all that's been lost.

So instead, you offer to wash the dishes. He refuses, not that you expected anything else given his attentiveness to you.

“It’s only two plates and two cups, I can do it,” you insist, but he just stares blankly at you, before motioning to your ribs, and your swollen ankle. “It’ll be quick, please. I-I want to do it.”

“Fine,” he concedes, gaze softening. “But if you feel pain you'll stop.”

“Okay,” you smile tentatively, eager for the sense of normalcy that this mundane act would bring. You haven't forgotten how to wash a cup, at least.

Five minutes pass, and you suddenly freeze, plates drying in your hands. You have no idea where the dishes go.

This was your home, yet you can't even remember which cupboard holds the plates.

Silent tears flow down your cheeks and you wipe them away angrily. You clutch the plate in your hands so tightly you’re surprised it hasn’t shattered. You selfishly wish it did- you were tired of being the sole broken entity in this house.

A small whimper escapes your lips, startling Minho who was mindlessly scrolling through his phone. He rushes to your side, brows furrowed, concern woven into his face.

“What’s wrong? Are you in pain? Should I call the doctor?” he questions; eyes raking through your figure anxiously.

You shake your head as your tears double over. You can feel your heart constricting in your chest, longing for comfort, for a missing piece that was snatched from you, the void it left behind pulsating achingly within your being.

“I-I don’t know where the dishes go, and yesterday I tried to w-wash my hair and I c-couldn’t do it,” you admit through hiccups, plate still in your hands. Minho gently takes it from your tight hold, and your pinky brushes against his palm. He flexes his hand at the touch.

“It’s okay, it’s my fault. I should've shown you,” his voice is gentle, reminding you of how one soothes a child during a tantrum. You're embarrassing yourself but you can't find it in you to care.

“I’m so sorry. I couldn’t p-put them back in their place,” you choke out, head turned down, tears ricocheting off sage tiles. You’ve always wanted a green kitchen. You’ve gotten it and you can’t remember.

“It’s okay, I’ll put them back. Shh, yn, please don’t cry.” He’s slightly panicking, hands tightly fisted near his body as if he’s afraid they’d act on their own accord, reaching out to touch you the way they’ve done the past few months. He sighs softly before taking a cautious step toward you.

“I’ll wash your hair for you,” he offers, smiling tenderly at you, knuckles brushing ever so gently against your cheeks. “Hm? You can sit in front of the sink and I’ll wash it.”

“You’d do it?”

“I’d do anything for you.”

There is a softness that emanates from every atom of Minho, flowing from his fingertips, molding everything he touches. You were sure of it as he stood beside you, pouring shampoo over your hair with you sitting on a stool, head tilted back to the sink, your favorite song playing in the background. As he dried your hair with a warm towel, and then settled behind you on the bed, gently lathering your hair with your familiar serum, brushing your strands with care, avoiding any tugs that might pain you.

Everything Minho does is not to hurt you.

You went to sleep with the ghost of his fingers lingering on your scalp, his warm breath still caressing the back of your neck. You found slumber came much easier to you that night. You account it to your hair finally being clean.

Day 4.

“Yn?” Minho calls out gently, his head peering through the bedroom door. “Should we go on a walk? Just around the block, the doctor said it’d be good.”

“Sure,” you nod, glancing at the bedside clock. 9:43 p.m. it reads.

“Dress warmly, it’s cold outside,” he advises softly before leaving.

A few minutes later, you're clad in a gray university hoodie that drapes slightly past your thighs and a pair of matching sweatpants. Minho halts in his tracks upon seeing you, his eyes racking furiously over your figure. He shakes his head, swallowing a growing lump of despair.

“Wait here,” he whispers, vanishing into his room, leaving you fidgeting in place. An orange cat sidles up to your feet and you slowly bend down to scratch its ears. “I’m sorry I don’t remember you,” you smile sadly and he purrs in response, as if forgiving you for forgetting.

You wished you could forgive yourself too, one day.

Minho comes back, a red scarf in his hands. He steps forward until only a few inches are separating your bodies. With attentive care, he wraps the scarf around your neck, securing it in place. His brows furrow as he loops the fabric through and you release a small, shaky exhale.

There is a fog dissipating before your eyes, a misty veil lifted off your irises. In the four days you've known Minho, you always willed yourself to not look at him for too long, afraid of the pain you'd discern brewing over his figure, the shadows cast across his face.

But now, he stands so near that you cannot help but look at him. Wispy black bangs fall on top of his forehead, framing his rich honey eyes. His long eyelashes flutter with each blink, pupils dilated like a constellation-laden night sky. The smooth bridge of his high nose, dotted with the smallest mole; a well-defined cupid's bow outlining rosy, plump lips. He’s beautiful, even in his sadness; with sunken cheekbones and darkened eye circles, the hunch of his back, and the shake in his hands as he gently frees your hair from underneath the scarf.

Was it wrong of you to find beauty in his pain?

His gaze softens when it finally meets yours, his hand still holding your scarf tightly, as if it's a lifeline tethering him to you, one with which he verifies your existence, suddenly so elusive now that it no longer entwines with his.

It must be strange, surely, to grieve the loss of someone who’s still alive, breathing in the room next to yours.

Minho smiles at you, his fingers hovering above your head, as though he wished to smooth down your hair. He retracts his hand back, burying it deep inside the pocket of his black sweatpants, physically trapping it, stopping it from reaching it out to you once again.

You’ve noticed his reticence to touch you, even when he wakes you in the morning to drink your medicine. His hand never fully rests upon your shoulder, it is only his fingertips that delicately graze your skin. It's as though he’s convinced you're but a figment of his imagination, and he fears that once he touches you, his hand will pass right through your body, shattering the illusion he foolishly held onto.

You blink and Minho’s already three steps away, grabbing his keys and opening the door.

Despite cautioning you against the cold, Minho doesn't say no when you ask for ice cream, paying for it before you can reach the counter. It's an unfamiliar brand, one that he advised you to try, and you don't regret following his choice. It’s a sweet mixture of vanilla and caramelized almonds, coated in rich milk chocolate- you can't stop the happy smile that graces your lips upon tasting it.

You glance at Minho to find an unprecedented softness coloring his expression, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards. It isn't a smile directed at you, but rather an uncontrollable display of his feelings, splashing across his face like paint on a canvas.

You expect him to swallow this mark of affection down, to conceal it with a placid expression, but he doesn't. He only tilts his chin forward, gesturing to the ice cream.

"Do you like it?"

You hum in agreement, a grin stretching wider on your lips. "I do."

"You did too, back then, when I showed it to you," he says, almost casually, as if referring to a childhood memory that turned out to be more important to him than to you.

"You have good taste," you reply, scrunching your nose playfully at him. The smile slips away from his face, his voice somber when he speaks again. "I really do, don't I?"

Walking with Minho isn't as awkward as you had imagined it might be. He shows you the neighborhood- the nearby playground, the hidden flower shop tucked away in a corner and you make a mental note to visit it later. You point at closed shops inquiring about them- he answers each of your questions diligently.

Your accident is never brought up, and you both tiptoe around the topic, skirting the edge of a dark forest where the light no longer seeps through and dark vines cover the sun.

You both refuse to venture into the unknown.

"Just down the road, there is a bookstore. They have really great deals and I bought most-" Shouts erupt from somewhere nearby, loud slurred voices of two men under the influence. Your hand instinctively wraps around Minho's forearm, while his hand moves in front of your body, acting as a shield.

You freeze, letting out a shaky breath. "I- I hate yelling."

"I know," he responds simply, lowering his hand.

He knows you- it is a comforting thought, to realize that you exist beyond the confines of your own mind.

Day 5.

Minho’s staring blankly at his phone, your conversation shining dimly before his eyes. You’ve just sent him a text reassuring him that you indeed took your medicine since he wasn’t home today with you- his three days off work passing by in the blink of an eye.

In his mind, the past week felt like a mirage, a nightmare woven with intricate threads of his deepest fears- losing you, never getting to see the glimmer in your eyes again, and then looking at it and realizing it is no longer directed at him.

He exhales softly, tucking his phone into the pocket of his navy trousers. The salty breeze from the nearby lake grazes his senses, and he closes his eyes, yearning for a fleeting respite.

He purposely avoids watching the sun's descent into the water, which paints the sky in hues of yellow and orange. He no longer finds the sunset unfolding before him captivating, or any other scenery, for that matter, even those he once deemed beautiful. The world, in his eyes, has become lackluster and devoid of vibrancy, overshadowed by a profound sadness he never fathomed would reside in his heart.

He still doesn’t know how he managed to remain strong until now, tending to you, holding your gaze, and breathing near you when you don’t even remember him.

You’ve survived, he reminds himself, you were lucky enough to be able to draw these breaths. The thought of any other outcome sends uncomfortable shivers down his spine. You’re alive and you’ll be home, he clings to this truth as he starts making his way back to his apartment.

For how long will this knowledge offer him solace? How long will it push him to face a new day? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he wants to.

It is much deeper into the night, the sound of the TV playing softly in the background. Minho has given up on slumber since the day of your accident. He was used to the feel of your fingers playing with his hair, your goodnight kisses planted on his forehead, then his on yours.

He doesn't know how to sleep without burying his head in your neck, your chest, your stomach, wherever he saw fit that day. And he was used to your warmth- the warmth of your body as he pressed it tightly to his, the warmth of your love as you whispered goodnight to him. And the living room feels immensely cold in your absence.

He fixates his gaze on the ceiling, resolute in his effort to avoid scanning the room. Since every corner he dares to inspect serves as a poignant reminder of the life you both once shared, a life whose echoes still reverberate in the air around him. The sound of your laughter, the memory of your annoyed whines when he teased you a bit too fervently. Vivid recollections unfold before his eyes- your tender kisses exchanged under the fridge's light, warm hugs by the front door after a particularly long day, none of you willing to let go first.

He remembers your delighted giggles the first time you entered the house. It was still unfurnished, save for a floatable mattress and two empty cups of ramen beside it. But you were happy, immensely so, and your joy seemed to fill every room, painting it with shades of your love. Now the house feels empty- you're here and yet you aren't, and he is still on the sidewalk where he received that fateful call from your hospital.

The moonlight filters through the window, and Minho looks at the light without truly seeing it. It's as if darkness surrounds him entirely- a bottomless sky where the stars of your affection have fizzled out, so suddenly, leaving him alone to wander blind. He can't help but feel guilty- had he not given you a love worth remembering?

Minho sighs loudly once again, trying to coax the reluctant breaths to escape his body. He pulls himself to his feet to check on you, knowing that you had to sleep upright for the first few days so your ribs would heal properly, which is why he often found himself readjusting your body at night.

He peeks through the door, the light from the hallway casting an ethereal glow on your body. He frowns when he notices you fidgeting in your sleep, eyebrows knitted together. A soft gasp escapes your lips and Minho hurries to your side. He's witnessed your nightmares before and he knows that this one must be particularly terrifying to elicit such startled sounds from you.

“Y/n,” Minho coaxes gently, but you don’t respond. He presses his palm to your shoulder, shaking you slightly. “Y/n, wake up.” You writhe in your place, fear evident in your features, and Minho grabs both your shoulders, growing more urgent in his attempts to wake you. “Y/n, come on wake up!” he speaks louder, and you startle awake, pushing his arms away.

“I’m... Where am I?” you ask frantically, hand running through your hair. A sharp pain seems to surge through your ribs as you clutch your chest, slightly doubling over.

“Take it easy, Y/n. Deep breaths,” he wills gently and you raise your head, meeting his eyes. Recognition shines in them, but not love, not anymore. He never knew affection could alter someone’s gaze this much.

“Minho… I- I remember,” you gasp, tears trailing down your face at an alarming rate. He freezes in place, tongue thickening in his mouth, unable to move it.

“What... what do you remember?” he asks carefully, sitting on the edge of your bed.

“The accident. I remember driving and I… I was going in my lane, I- I didn’t… I wasn’t driving fast, but a truck came out of nowhere and its lights blinded me, and then… it rammed into the passenger seat side of the car and-" Your hands shake as you bring them to your face. “The blood, there was so much blood coming out of me, that’s- that’s the last thing I remember, it was in my hands and my arms and-" You’re wiping frantically at your skin as if erasing remnants of the red liquid only you can see. “I bled so much but I was… I- I don’t-"

“Can I hold your hands?” Minho cuts you off, needing the panic to dissipate from your being.

“Please,” you stutter, and he promptly grabs your hands in his warm ones, intertwining your fingers together, rubbing his thumb soothingly across your palm.

“You are safe now. You are alive and you are breathing and you are safe.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong, I drove safely, why… why was I hit?” you ask in a small, broken voice, overwhelmed by the unjust reality of the world. Minho swallows his own tears, throwing them down the pits of his pain. The one thing he wished you’d never remember was your accident, the sight of your unconscious body for those three days nearly driving him insane.

“He was drunk. And he’s in jail now. It wasn’t your fault you couldn’t have prevented it."

You remain silent, gaze lost on the wall. “Hm? It wasn’t your fault, right?" he presses, squeezing your hand lightly.

“Yeah.” You sigh, unconvinced. Minho reluctantly drops your hand to pour you a glass of water, and you diligently drink it, before curling around yourself in a ball.

“No, you can’t sit like this,” he gently reprimands and you pout.

"My heart hurts. The pressure helps."

“I know it does,” he smiles in understanding, “but we have to make sure your ribs won’t hurt more, alright?” he explains as he pulls you upright, tucking pillows beneath your arms. He grabs a hoodie from the closet and rolls it into a ball, placing it gently on your chest.

“Here, you can hug this instead.” You giggle quietly at the makeshift plushie, but your laughter suddenly morphs into fresh tears, catching him off-guard.

“I’m so tired, Minho. And I’m so frustrated and mad and sad. Is it possible to f-feel all these things at once?" You hiccup, burying your face into his hoodie, soaking it in tears.

“It is,” he hums gently, “Do you think it’d help if you talked to a therapist?” He feels you tense up beneath the comforter. “Only if you want to, on your own terms.”

“I’ll think about it,” you whisper.

“Of course,” he says. “Try to sleep again, mm?”

“I don’t think I can,” you chuckle quietly, wiping your tears away with the sleeves of your cardigan. “Do you have work tomorrow?” you ask.

“I do.”

“What do you work as?”

“Computer programming. I’m also a dance teacher on the side,” he adds quietly, feeling a bit vulnerable at revealing this bit about himself again.

“How do you manage both?” you ask in awe and he shrugs.

“My IT job leaves me a lot of free time. And I’ve always loved dance, so it doesn’t really feel like a job, you know?”

“Mm, you must work very hard at it. That’s why your body’s so toned,” you say almost absentmindedly, as Minho lets out a surprised chuckle at your words.

“You think my body is toned?”

“I mean- I didn’t ogle you I just… you know, you wear these fitted shirts it’s hard not to notice your muscles and-"

"You are sick and yet you’re staring at my body?” he tsks. “I feel used.”

“Hey,” you hit him with the hoodie he gave you. “Forget I said anything,” you pout.

“It’s okay, I work very hard for these, thank you very much,” he flexes slightly, and genuine laughter bubbles up from you both. This might be the one thing he misses the most.

You both quiet down, silence filling the room once again, but it isn’t awkward, it’s comfortable, almost as if you're the same person he's always known.

“What’s your favorite color?” you suddenly ask.

“Purple.”

“Did my favorite color change over this past year?”

“No,” he chuckles, “it’s still that obnoxious orange.”

“It’s not obnoxious, it’s peculiar.”

“it’s weird and it hurts my poor eyes,” he whines, covering his face as if wounded by the mere thought of it.

“Hey, what if it can hear us and now you just hurt its feelings?”

“Colors have feelings now?” he asks, amused.

“Everything has feelings,” you nod matter-of-factly.

“Okay then think of the feelings of this bed we are both squishing with our weights.”

“Don’t say that. Now I’m sad for it,” you pat the comforter gently, a slight pout tugging at your lips.

“I think you should sleep,” he smiles and you fake a gasp. “Is my convo boring you?”

“Yes. Now sleep, Yn,” he brings the comforter up your body, sliding away from the bed. “You’ll be okay, right?”

“Can you… can you sleep here too? I saw the inflatable mattress in the storage room. If that’s not… too much to ask for.”

"Of course not. I'll be back."

"Thank you, Minho" you smile, lower lip slightly quivering. "Thank you for not being mad at me."

Just how many cracks can one heart bear before breaking beyond repair? Minho thinks he's close to finding out.

Day 6.

The lights of your dreams have returned, but they are no longer comforting, nor warm, they glare harshly, searing your eyes as they announce your impending doom. Each second draws out in slow-motion and you find yourself counting the breaths you inhale, fearing they may be your last. One in, one out, one in, one out. The moment you dreaded unfolds- the truck collides with your car, flipping it upside down.

However, this time, flames rage within. You know that your car wasn't burned, but they feel terrifyingly tangible as they latch onto your skin. The heat becomes unbearable, you are no longer sure that this is just a mere dream. You try to scream but smokey air fills your lungs instead, robbing you of your ability to speak.

You need to wake up. You need someone to rouse you from this nightmare. Minho. You try to utter his name, but it escapes your lips in a strangled whisper. The lights won.

A cool hand clasps your own, yanking you from the fiery dream, dissolving it like sugar in a hot cup of tea. You startle awake to find Minho hovering over you, brows knitted in concern, his hand tenderly cradling yours.

“Are you okay? Another bad dream?” he inquires and you sigh in response, nodding as your head falls back onto the pillow.

He brushes your hair back, some damp strands still clinging to your sweaty forehead. "You screamed my name. Was I in your nightmare?” he ventures carefully, afraid he was one of the sources of your fear.

“No, I… I thought of you, in my dream,” you reassure, although your words seem to have the opposing effect, making Minho pause in his tracks. You’ve noticed his habit of freezing around you as if needing time to process what you just said. You wonder if you’ve ever came to learn the meaning behind each of his silences, what his blinks convey in ways his tongue fails to.

“You are heating up,” he clears his throat, pressing his hand against your forehead. “Do you wanna shower? I’ll make you tea meanwhile.”

“Okay, yeah. I’d like that,” you nod, glancing at your phone- 3.47 a.m.

Twenty minutes later, you find Minho sitting on the inflatable bed, legs crossed, two steaming mugs of tea before him. He appears drowsy, eyes shutting and reopening as if fending off slumber. It’s almost an endearing sight- the way his bangs fall before his eyes, obstructing his vision, the sleeves of his pullover dangling over his hands, hiding them from your view. He brought the mattress without you asking him to. The attention brings a smile to your face.

“Hi,” you greet softly and Minho looks up, a tender smile on his face. “Hey. Here is your tea.”

“Thank you,” you beam at him, settling on the edge of your bed, legs crisscrossed to mirror his. “I’m sorry that I woke you up.”

“It’s okay. I wasn’t really asleep, just resting my eyes.”

“Isn't that what sleep is?” you snort and he chuckles, shaking his head.

“I was still conscious, you know. I can’t really sleep these days.”

“Is the couch uncomfortable?” you ask, worried, fidgeting with your lower lip.

“It’s not the couch,” he says as his eyes lock on yours, a stare so intense it forces you to look down at your cup. ‘it’s you’, you read in his gaze. You have no answer for that.

“What's your favorite food?” you suddenly wonder.

“Pudding.”

“But that’s dessert?”

“I really like the one you used to make me.”

“I cooked for you? and you liked it?” you giggle. “I’m not really good at it, usually.”

“I taught you some basic skills,” he smirks, raising his eyebrows proudly at you.

“Too bad your effort is now wasted.”

“It’s not a waste if it was done with love,” he pauses, licking his lips. “And I remember it.”

A bittersweet fog shrouds the air- he remembers that memory, but you don’t. Perhaps you will never bridge that gap, no matter how much you want to. The room in your heart may remain forever locked, the gateway to that chamber brimming with your stolen memories. Maybe you're condemned to merely stand before the closed door, straining to hear the echoes of the love that resonates behind, forever just out of reach.

You don’t fall asleep again that night. And as Minho’s quiet snores fill the room, you rummage your mind in search of a pudding recipe, hoping to retrieve the memory he spoke of so tenderly, shaky hands holding his mug tightly. Silent tears trail down your cheeks and you try your best to stifle the sound of your cries.

You want to make pudding. You want to make him pudding so badly.

Day 7.

It’s been a week since you woke up anew. Seven days adrift in a vast sea where waves of your memories lap at the shores of your mind, unable to breach the walls guarding your recollections of the past year.

Minho took you to the hospital for your weekly check-up. He sat by your side as the doctor reassured you that your ribs were healing relatively well, but you still needed time to recover, time for your body to mend, time for your memories to return. You loathed the waiting, the wasted days slipping through your fingers. You wanted a now.

But you kept all these thoughts to yourself, thanking the doctor as he exited the room.

Minho rented a bicycle to drive you around since the thought of being in a car made your anxiety spike. He installed a little seat for you, in that bright, obnoxious orange color you love very dearly. The sight of it nearly brought tears to your eyes this morning.

Minho idly pedaled around, choosing a scenic route, one he knew by heart from the looks of it. You closed your eyes, savoring the last sun rays of the year. Autumn was fading, winter clawing its way into the seasons slowly. You weren’t sure you could handle both the cold and the grief.

Miho took time off work for your doctor's appointment, and you both spent the day around one another, side by side on the couch, a new book in your hands, and an anime playing on the TV for Minho.

You could see him casting occasional, nervous glances in your direction, as you flipped the pages of the book. You didn’t understand why at first.

But then you did.

You only brought it up at night, when it was past 2 a.m. and you knew that Minho wasn’t sleeping either, the screen of his phone illuminating his face. He left the inflatable mattress in the room, no longer waiting for a nightmare to occur. You weren’t complaining. You desperately needed company.

“Minho,” you call out gently.

“Mm?”

“How did we meet?”

You can hear Minho suck in a deep breath at your question, before placing his phone down, the only light source in the room fizzling out. It made talking easier that way, when only your voices were heard, carried around, as if emitting from two entities that weren’t you both.

“We met… near your old apartment block. I was going to the kimbap place near yours, you remember that one, right?”

You hum in response.

“And I saw you crying, crouching near an injured cat. Some car had run over her leg, and she couldn’t walk anymore. And you didn’t know what to do, so I helped you. You insisted on coming with me to the vet where I take my cats. So, we caught a cab. And you were so worried, you didn’t stop crying, so the cab driver thought I did something to you,” he chuckles faintly.

“Then, the vet put a cast on her leg and reassured us that she’d be okay. And I told him I’d take her home and bring her for check-ups. But you were so worried, you begged me to send you updates about the cat. So, you gave me your number. And we talked.”

“What happened to the cat?”

“I took her to a rescue store I trusted since I couldn’t take her in. and we still visited her from time to time. And then, she found a good family.”

“And what happened to us?” you inquire softly, hoping that if your voice was quiet enough then your question wouldn't hurt Minho as much.

“We kept in touch," he said. "And it was… easy to talk to you, I felt as if I had known you for my entire life. When you found out I had three cats, we Facetimed a lot so you’d see them, but then we just kept on calling, every day, for nearly two weeks. Being with you felt natural, you know? I didn’t overthink it. I never did."

“And then three weeks later you came over to see Soonie, Dori, and Doongie. We ended up watching three movies in a row, and you were so tired you slept on my couch.”

“That’s embarrassing,” you chuckle.

"Yes," he laughs and you reach over to swat his shoulder playfully. "But it was also cute, and endearing. Then you came over a lot, and we just cooked together. Well, I cooked and you watched.”

“Right, that sounds more like me," you instantly agree.

“We hung outside too, whenever one of us had free time. We had a lot of common hobbies and interests so we never ran out of things to talk about. We made time for each other too.”

“How did we start dating?”

“You made the first move.”

“I did?” you shoot up from your place, hissing when the abrupt movement causes a twinge of pain in your ribs.

“Take it easy,” he giggles, as he illuminates your face with his flashlight. “You did.”

“Did you put a spell on me? I swore I’d never make a first move again after I was rejected in third grade. That was my most sacred oath."

“Well… you were ranting about this book. The one you were reading today,” he adds, and your excitement fizzles out, as the pieces of the puzzle finally fall into place. “You were sad because you had no one to talk to about it. So, I bought the book and read it. I gave you my copy, complete with highlighted passages and notes. And when I did… you kissed me, without warning,” his voice is softer now, as he fiddles with the tip of his blushing ears. "You said it was the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for you.”

“It was. It is,” you whisper, heart caught in your throat. “I saw the photograph of us both lodged between the pages of the book. Did we take it that day?”

“Yes, we weren’t dating, not yet. Because I told you I wanted to take you out on a proper date. But you wanted us to take a picture holding the book… So you’d remember.”

“So I'd remember,” you repeat, voice quivering. What good was it for in the end?

“I looked so happy in the photograph,” you whisper, tears welling up your eyes. “I looked so happy with you,” your voice breaks as you utter that last part. "Did I love you, Minho?"

"You did," he nods softly, blinking away his own tears.

“And did you love me?”

“I did. I still do, very much.”

“Thank you, for loving me. It sounds like I’ve lived a happy year with you.”

Minho's pain is akin to a polite guest; it lingers by the corner, speaking in whispers, hardly ever raising its voice. You'd never really notice it, unless you strain your ears, as you're doing now. Only then would you discern the tremors of his quiet sobs- broken, stifled, determined not to make themselves known, only escaping his lips when he thinks you've fallen asleep.

Day 8.

Whenever an overwhelming emotion ran freely along the corridors of your soul, you'd often find yourself curled in a fetal position, knees drawn to your chest, like a fragile leaf.

Your teacher once explained that it reminds us of safer times in the wombs of our mothers, when the cruelty of life hasn’t yet reached us.

It is the way you’re resting now, upon the cold, hardwood floor, dozens of books surrounding you. You decided to go through each book in Minho’s library, the need to satiate your curiosity overtaking you. You didn’t know what you were looking for, exactly. Other photographs, surely, in the hopes that one of them would spark up your memory, ignite the flame of remembrance.

What you didn’t expect was to find Minho talking to you through books. Within the pages, amid the words, scribbled in small, dainty handwriting, threads of his thoughts all relating to you. Quotes he thought you’d appreciate, highlighted segments that reminded him of you. And dedications, so many dedicated lines you felt like you could drown in them. It felt as if Minho was on a quest to find love within every line, only to inscribe your name beside it.

Putting down the last book, you were left with a huge void, akin to a black hole eating away at your heart. So, you laid on the floor, one arm underneath your head, knees held tightly to your chest- as if trying to create borders for your sadness, to stop it from spilling out of your body, drowning the house in even more sorrow. Those four walls have had enough, more than they could contain. And so did you.

You suddenly longed for the very beginning of your life, when time was but a tranquil stream, when you were unaware of the hurtful years it would carve into your existence. Back to when your spine was still curled around itself; for it was never meant to be straightened. Your spine was never strong enough to bear your pain.

You wanted to talk to someone, but you didn’t know who you could turn to. You didn’t know how to articulate these emotions into words, tangible enough for someone to understand them. And you couldn’t talk to Minho about it, not when he was hurting on his own.

Because he smiled down at his cats, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards. His laughter echoed around the room when he talked to his friends on the phone. And sometimes, he even hummed under his breath while making you breakfast. But this happiness never reached his eyes, behind his pupils the sadness seared itself into his veins, casting a gloomy shadow that followed him everywhere he went. It was a palpable ache, one that filled the very atmosphere with the metallic taste of grief. Making it almost impossible for you to breathe in. Even more so when you remember it was all your fault.

These are the thoughts that haunted you all day, as they have been doing for the past week. Minho must have noticed that you were feeling gloomier than usual, a silent storm raging by his side, since he put up a romcom for you. “It made you laugh a lot when you watched it months ago.”

“How do you remember all of these things about me?” you ponder, scratching the fragile skin near your nails, easily torn, just like you.

“Does it make you uncomfortable? Should I stop?” he asks quietly, deflecting your question.

“No,” you say the truth. “It'd be weird if you were an actual stranger, but… you knew me. And I knew you. and I still feel safe around you.”

He nods silently, but something in his gaze compels you to keep talking.

“I mean, I never felt uncomfortable around you these days, which surprised me too. I just… I suppose that even if my mind doesn’t remember, my heart does, in a way?”

“My heart will always remember you,” he whispers, gaze adrift in a faraway memory.

A gear shifts in your mind, a sudden light flooding your vision. You find yourself within a grand canopy bed, its pure white curtains swaying to the rhythm of a whimsical breeze, their delicate fabric brushing lightly against your cheek. It’s slightly cold from the wide-open windows, but then it’s warm, as a gentle hand finds its place on your thigh, kindling an ember deep within, setting your very soul ablaze.

The curtains sway with the wind, obscuring your view, but you can still discern the sound of your laughter, echoing like distant chimes. And a tenderness, so delicate it seemed almost otherworldly, trailing along your skin, as warmth caresses your cheek and gently traverses the curve of your collarbones, peppering it with the softest kisses. You can't quite behold it, but it is unmistakably there, an ineffable presence that threatens to burst your heart at the seams—a memory of your love for Minho.

It is a blurry sight, like peering into a worn-out photograph, its details softened by the sands of time. But you clutch to it- to your fading laughter and hushed conversation, and then your voice ringing clearly in your mind, the promise you made to Minho.

'My heart will always remember you'.

You startle back in a jolt; the light and warmth have extinguished. They are now dull, withered down, sitting next to you with their head hung low.

It takes you an inhumane effort to swallow down the lump in your throat.

Day 16.

This week has been particularly cold. Not temperature-wise, October has always harbored these same frigid temperatures and you've gotten used to them, to the relentless winds brushing against your skin. Only this time they pierced right through your soul instead.

You knew what had changed. You had felt the sadness, the frustration, the guilt- all blending into one sorrowful symphony, pulling at your heartstrings the way one does to a harp. Yet, amid these familiar emotions, a new feeling loomed large this past week- anxiety.

It arrived in sudden, icy bursts, cold beads of perspiration cascading down your spine, feet suddenly freezing no matter how fuzzy your socks were- the physical telltales, then came the emotional ones. The shadows of dread, for we fear the unseen more than that which we can touch. The growing panic gnawing at your heart, hinting that something profoundly disastrous lurked on the horizon.

Anxiety held you suspended in the air, bound by invisible ropes that compelled you to watch from above as the days drifted past you. You were a ghost haunting an empty shell, hollow and resonant with anxiety's clang, akin to an empty can's descent to the ground.

Your appetite had fled, leaving you alone to grapple with the chore of feeding yourself, mechanically ingesting food only to pacify Minho’s concerned gaze. The TV’s volume blared, since you desperately needed the voices of other people to invade your mind, to render your thoughts merciless, forcing them to put their sword-like tongues down.

And the exhaustion, not accounted to your broken ribs, for Minho had meticulously overseen their recovery. It was an emotional fatigue, a weariness that clung to your every breath, trapping them within your ribcage, far beyond their time, until they tethered on the brink of exploding in your lungs- a supernova of darkness devouring your essence. Only then did the breaths release their hold on you.

So, you patiently awaited the inevitable unraveling, because you knew this wasn’t an ordinary anxiety. Your soul whispered to you in a language your mind could no longer translate, throbbing with a message you couldn’t quite recollect, striving urgently to jog your memory of a monumental truth.

But you didn’t remember– you should have.

You should've known it was Minho’s birthday.

It is near midnight when you venture out of your room, the inflatable bed by your side unusually vacant. A dim glow draws you to the kitchen, and as you stand by its entrance, an intensified cold grips you. It chills the blood in your veins, transforming it into splintered shards that prick uncomfortably beneath your skin.

Minho is sitting by the table, a small, muted cake before him, a shoebox by his side. A solitary candle flickers in front of his face, casting elongating shadows on his chiseled features. The flame is about to fizzle out- you feel like your heart will closely follow suit.

"Minho..." you call out gently, careful not to startle him from the trance ensnaring him. He doesn't react to the sound of your voice.

"Minho, I…"

"Today was my birthday."

His tone is cold, like the darkening clouds before a stormy night. His words feel like lightning bolts piercing your core.

"It would be stupid to blow this candle out, wouldn't it? Because you and I both know my wish won't come true. Maybe it never will. And it's killing me, yn." His voice quivers as it utters your name, a slight shake taking over his lips. His cheeks are tear stained- glimmering reflections under the golden flame. You've never seen him this sad. You don't know how to comfort him in his sadness.

A rush of nausea overwhelms your being, a yearning to expel every emotion, methodically, until your heart transforms into a tranquil organ, solely pulsing life's crimson essence through your frame. Nothing more, nothing less.

"This shoe box is yours. You kept it under the bed, filled it with everything that reminded you of me. You told me..." he pauses, taking in a deep breath. "You told me that you wanted to remember everything about us, every single detail. But I... I don't care if you don't remember every date we went to. I just-" his forehead rests on his palm, as he squeezes his eyes shut. "I just want you to remember that you love me."

Hot tears are rolling across his cheeks, splattering across the table like a broken mosaic. He doesn't try to hide them or wipe them away. He's had enough.

"Minho, I’m-"

"I mean- that's not too much to ask for, right?" he finally lifts his head, locking his eyes with yours. A black abyss, a dark void. You are the one who sucked out all the light.

"You- you said you loved me. And I- I felt it, y/n, when you looked at me, when you touched me. I felt it, it wasn't- it wasn't just words, I-" he pauses, running a hand through his hair, tugging at his black locks furiously. "You loved me," his voice breaks. "Why- why can't you remember that you loved me?"

Your tongue bursts to flame in your mouth, its grey ashes choking you from within. What could you even say? How do you stop the bleeding of a heart when you carry knives for fingers?

Minho abruptly stands up, his chair scraping loudly across the floor. "We talked about marriage, a-about kids, you said- you said you'd choose me to be the father of your children, you said you wanted a big house w-with me and you-” he points at you, chest heaving, eyes rimmed red. “You said you wanted us to sit at the patio when we're eighty and you wanted us to hold hands still," he chuckles bitterly, his arms falling limp by his side incredulously. "And now you don't even remember me."

He grabs the box, rummaging through its contents furiously. "You see this?" he waves dried flowers before your eyes, their petals falling to the floor from the force of his agitation. "These are the flowers I got you for our first date. You dried them and put them here because you- you said you wanted to preserve it, to remember."

"And this, the cinema tickets from our first movie date. You were so tired you just slept on my shoulder all the time and then I- I carried you home and you kissed me." He's growing more frantic, rifling through the shoe box in a frenzy. You remain rooted by the kitchen's entrance, a sense of powerlessness holding you captive, an unbreakable vice around your being.

"This is the napkin from our favorite cat café, and look," he grabs your hand, clammy palm pressed to yours, pulling you toward the table." This is the receipt of the first time we went grocery shopping together and-" he waves it in the air, before slamming it onto the table. "And, you e-even kept this stupid rock I gave you right before I told you I love you for the first time, because you said it was the happiest day of your life, my god Yn how can you not remember?"

A broken, sob-laden chuckle escapes his lips, a sound so heart wrenchingly human, so painfully poignant that for an instant, it fills you with a bitter aversion to your own humanity- it was never meant to inflict this much pain upon someone else.

Your thoughts shatter as Minho tenderly cups your face, urging you to confront his turbulent gaze. He seeks something within your eyes, and you desperately hope he'd find it, whatever it may be, anything to stop the tremor in his hands as they anchor you in place.

"Why did you- why did you keep all of this if not to remember me.” He asks, unblinking, lip quivering. “Please, please, remember me, just- just try, okay?"

"I’m so sorry-"

"No. No. Don't- don't apologize like it's final like you could never love me again," his hands glide to your shoulders, shaking you slightly in place. "Don't you understand? I-I don't want an apology I want you to remember me."

"Minho..."

"Just look through this, it's our happiest memories y/n, okay?" he let goes of you, circling the table before shoving the box into your hands. He smiles- attempts to, it is an unnatural presence amidst his tears, so out of place it sends shivers down your spine. "Look at it, yn, please," he pleads as your hold on the box falters. "I can’t remember us alone. I’m crushing under the weight of everything we lived it’s exhausting me!"

His voice ascends pitch, the end of his words hanging into the air, searing themselves into the particles you breathe. His voice leaves a painful echo on his trail. You’re exhausting him.

You put the box down, taking three cautious step forwards.

And then you hug Minho.

He can't even hold you back, body trembling with the sobs rippling through him as soon as your chest presses to his. He sinks to the floor and you follow suit, arms enfolding his concaved shoulders tightly, his face buried in the crook of your neck. "Im sorry, I'm so sorry Minho. I- I wish I could remember."

You want the kitchen to collapse upon itself. There is too much grief in such a small room- it stains the walls like blood droplets, absorbs his cries like a saturated sponge.

You don’t think you could ever sit at this table again.

He finally clasps your back, drawing you even nearer to him. "Can- can you pretend, just today, please? For my birthday. Pretend you still love me."

"Of course. It's okay, I’m here, honey. I'm here."

"I love you. I love you so much," he whispers, lips pressed against your neck. "And it hurts to love you, so much." He brings your hand to his heart. "It hurts so much right here."

He doesn't let go of your hand, softly caressing your knuckles. His breath hitches as his thumb hovers over your ring finger. "I... I was going to propose, you know? I even bought the ring, stored it away for when the time is right. Do you think you would have remembered if you woke up wearing it?"

He knows your answer would've been yes. You know that too, in the matching cat mugs and the book annotations and the way Minho gently held your face, even in the depths of his despair. Everywhere you look, your answer echoes back- yes, the home chants in unison, that's what you would've said. Yes, yes, yes.

Day 17.

In the cracks of concrete sidewalks, tenacious flowers manage to sprout. Just how in the depths of Minho’s pain, small joys bloomed, nestled in the vacant spaces between you and him.

You'd greet him each time he opened the door, your voice resonating through the apartment like the sweetest sonnet. And he would always pause by the doorknob, basking in the sound of your voice that hadn’t changed in the slightest. Your tone still held that same dulcet timber, a golden honey that once dripped freely upon his soul.

But today, Minho swung open the door and an eerie hush greeted him instead. He ventured in, calling after you, only to be met with utter silence. He anxiously checked the rooms, opening the doors hastily one by one. But you weren't there. You weren't home.

Minho felt the familiar tendrils of worry coiling around his heart, constricting it with each passing moment. He quickly grabbed his phone, dialing your number, only to fall into your voicemail, the robotic voice chilling him to the core.

In the past two weeks, you had made sure to text Minho each time you went outside- a precaution you took due to your fractured ribs which came with frequent fits of dizziness. It was a safety measure for one person, at least, to know where you are.

But you didn't text him today. And he had no idea where you might’ve gone to.

Minho tried to suck in a deep breath, willing the fear to relinquish its icy grip on his body so he could think properly. Maybe you had simply forgotten, he reasoned. Yet, he knew that you never back out on your promises. They were sacred for you since they were once senselessly broken.

For the second time in a mere three weeks, Minho’s deepest fears unfurl like a nightmare before him, ensnaring him in a tapestry woven with the bloody threads of everything that went wrong yesterday.

He carried his shame akin to heavy bricks on his shoulders, causing them to hunch forward- a coward, leaving the house before you even rose, and on his trail, your breakfast and a hastily written note. He couldn’t fathom eating at that kitchen table with you, not when his sobs still echoed around those sage walls, as did your quiet voice as you tried to soothe his cries, holding him between your tender arms.

Minho was scared. He was terrified you’d never come back home after everything that had happened, the words he said and the way he pleaded, nearly at your feet, consumed by a sadness grander than anything he’s ever known.

So, he storms out of the apartment in a hurry, scouring the nearby playground. But you aren’t there. The grocery store is next, the library, the flower shop, the cat café tucked in a corner that you may have stumbled on.

You were still nowhere to be found.

A dreadful sense of foreboding overcame him, akin to how he felt when his phone rang two weeks prior- the unfamiliar number of the hospital shining before his eyes. What if something happened to you, a fit of dizziness but no one was around to help? Life doesn’t grant you a second chance. No one has ever brushed against death’s shoulder twice and lived to tell the tale. What if he receives another call?

He couldn’t survive another call.

Minho stands in the midst of the road, clutching his head with a tight grip, desperately searching his memory for the places that once brought you solace during the months he spent knowing you. However, he quickly remembers that you no longer know of those places.

So where could you have gone?

An epiphany dawns upon Minho- the bridge you had pointed out to him from a distance on one of your walks, the first place you claimed as your own in the city. It towered above the ocean, suspended several meters in the air. He couldn't accompany you there that day, bound by a paralyzing fear of heights.

He prays with all his might that he's right.

He dashes towards the bridge akin to a madman, the desperate rhythm of his pounding feet mirroring the urgency in his heart. It looms tantalizingly close, a mere 15 minutes away, and Minho, in a state of disarray, knows he's not fit to drive right now. He was never fond of running, he didn't enjoy the searing ache in his lungs, robbing him of his ability to breathe. But he welcomes the pain today- it means that he's running fast enough to reach you. He hopes, he prays.

Minho spots you from a distance, a mere silhouette standing at the bridge's edge, your figure unmistakable with the red scarf tightly wound around your neck. Relief nearly brings him to his knees - you're alive.

Minho doesn't think as he sprints to you, eyes solely focused on you and not the void beneath his feet.

"Yn!" he calls out from afar, and you startle, snapping your head back to look at him. He wonders what he must look at you, disheveled hair, the wind knocking down his jean jacket. But he doesn't care.

Minho stands before you without pause, instantly pulling you into the shelter of his chest, his hand cradling the back of your head. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling the familiar smell of your shampoo, a constant through the months of knowing you. He clings to it, to the familiarity of your scent and the way your heartbeat seems to pour from your body to his, speaking in a language only your souls can comprehend. His arms clutch at you tightly, rugged breaths escaping his body, dew tears gathering in his eyes and dropping down your shoulders.

Your arms hang limp by your side, confusion etched across your face at the urgency, the frenzy in which he pulled you to his chest, an emotion you hadn’t known in him in these past weeks.

You tentatively raise your hands, patting his back slowly. "Minho, what’s wrong?" you whisper, and he shakes his head.

"You weren't home. I- I thought something happened to you."

"No, I just went on a walk and lost track of time," you reassure him and he pulls away, warm hands cradling your cheeks.

"You're okay, right? Tell me you're okay," he pleads and you smile, nodding your head. “I'm okay, don’t worry.”

Minho drops your face, embarrassment flooding his being at his outburst. It morphs to panic as he realizes the expanse beneath—nothing but the vast ocean, the wind slamming into his body, making him lose his footing.

"Are... you okay?" you ask cautiously. "Minho, you're shaking," you point out, a frown tugging at your lips. "Are you cold?"

He stays silent, unable to place a word beyond the stutter of his lips.

"Here," you hurriedly unwrap your red scarf, enclosing it around his neck. "You're shivering, Minho," you grab his hands, rubbing his fingers, blowing warmth into them, an attempt to kindle fire into him.

"I'm not- not cold. I- I’m scared of heights," he admits through a stutter, eyes tightly closed.

"Then why are you here?" You ask, surprised.

"Because you are."

His confession comes out quietly, softened by the blow of his fear. His eyes remain closed, missing the tears gathering in your eyes, the ones you swiftly try to blink away.

"Let's go, just keep your eyes closed. Hold my hand," you entwine your fingers with his, squeezing it lightly to signal you're there, as you walk across the bridge.

You don't let go until you finally regain solid ground.

"You're safe. you can open your eyes," you say quietly.

"You're okay, right?" he inquires again, stepping closer.

"Why are you asking me this when you're the one shaking?" you chuckle, almost exasperated, nothing funny in the sound.

"I was worried about you, and I thought you left… after yesterday."

"Why would you- My god Minho why would you even come running across this bridge? Why would you do something like that when you're afraid?"

"Because I love you," his voice is resolute, soft as a whisper, as he states a simple truth. It only makes yours reach new heights.

"But why- why do you love me? Why would you still love me after everything I put you through?"

"You didn't put me through anything," he shakes his head, and you take a step back, facing away from him. He can see your body heaving up and down, the weight of unspoken words making your heartbeat race. And then you snap.

"You broke down yesterday," you pivot back, pointing at his chest. "You broke down in my arms because of me. Why would you still love me after all this Minho I don't- I don't understand."

"I shouldn't have done that, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, I know I probably made you uncomfortable and I shouldn't have asked something like that out of you-"

"No, no, Minho, you don't understand, you shouldn't apologize, I should. I’m the one who hurt you-"

"You didn't hurt me. It's something out of your control, you didn't choose this."

“Stop- just stop being so nice and understanding for a minute. I don’t deserve it!" you shout exasperated, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. "You can't look me in the eyes half of the time you can't even fucking breathe in your own home. It's now a- a cemetery for our memories and it'll soon become yours too because I suck the life out of you, can't you see that?"

"I'm not asking you to remember me,” he holds his hands up, in surrender, “I was wrong yesterday, you don't have to remember us."

"There is no us!” you yell, hands thrown in the air, “Not anymore, Minho, maybe never."

You suck in a deep breath, shutting your eyes, willing your voice to ebb and flow into calmness.

"I thought about it. It'll hurt less if you don't see me, time will pass and you'll get used to it, I'm not worth this."

"You are,” he interjects. “You don't get to pick for me, Yn."

"Stop- stop talking like this is normal, stop being so complacent with your pain, Minho you shouldn't love someone who hurts you!"

"Then make me stop loving you. Spare me. Tear open my heart and bleed it dry at your feet or else it won't stop beating for you. Don't you understand? If you are near or if you are far, I will still love you. The only difference is that I'd worry more about you. I'd worry if you're eating, I'd worry if you're taking your medicine, I'd worry if you're drinking out of your favorite cup or if you have a spare shampoo in your drawer because you hate running out of it. I'd worry out of my fucking mind, Yn don't leave."

It had been an encompassing sadness that made his true feelings surge yesterday, breaching the myriad of cracks in his heart. But today, it was fear that cast a revealing light upon his feelings, hidden in the recesses of his being. They surged forth in a transparency you were still not used to, the way the ocean throws on its shores the debris of sunken ships, allowing the grieving families of sailors to finally discover the terrible truth.

Still, his honesty, his soul bare at your mercy isn’t enough to make you stay.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I just... I can't- I'm sorry."

You take three steps back, before turning your back to him and walking away. A numbness, like icy talons, seizes his limbs, his gaze fixated on your diminishing figure—carrying away everything he's ever loved. Paralysis envelopes his very essence, a haunting realization that the distance between you is more than a mere physical space. You're vanishing beyond the horizon of his reach, slipping through his desperate grasp. The fear of never seeing you again fractures the stillness, snapping Minho out of his trance.

"To love someone is firstly to confess, I'm prepared to be devastated by you." He shouts, making you pause in your tracks. "Isn't that your favorite quote, Yn? You told me this is what love is about. To place your heart in the palm of the person you love. And your hands are soft, Yn. I don't mind if I'm bruised by them."

"I lied then!” You yell back, tears cascading down your cheeks akin to a waterfall, “Belcourt lied and I lied when I told you this and when I promised that I'd always remember you in that canopy bed-"

"What did you just say?” Minho quickly walks to you, chest heaving. “What canopy bed?"

“It doesn't matter now,” you speak in a small voice, avoiding his eyes, seeking refuge in the ground beneath. Yet, Minho, gentle and determined, cups your face, guiding your gaze to meet his.

“It matters to me, Yn, please. What do you mean?"

“We were in that white canopy bed, when I told you that my heart would always remember you.”

“We were,” he whispers, eyes glazed over as the memory washes over him too. “Did you remember?”

“Not clearly, it was really hazy in my mind. But I remember that the windows were open, I was supposed to feel cold but… your hands on me, and they were warm. And I…” you suck in a deep breath and Minho smiles encouragingly, running his thumb in a tender caress across your cheek.

“I remember feeling that I loved you,” you finally confess. “Even though I couldn’t see you. That's why I said that I'd always remember you. Because you filled every chamber in my heart, so much that it'd still hold your name even if you left it…that's how I felt.” You pause, as Minho forcibly swallows the lump down his throat.

“But it didn't unlock any new memories and I-”

“It's okay, it’s okay. You still remembered,” he smiles and the gesture brings you to his lips, rosy, plump. Were they still as warm? Still as soft?

“I did…” you trail off. “You also kissed me, in my memory. Your lips were everywhere and… they were soft.” You add quietly, eyes fixated on his mouth, the smile that once adorned it slipping away.

A tentative warmth courses through your being, a subtle blaze that ignites your cheeks in a shade of crimson. In this moment, a need unfurls within you, a yearning that eclipses the delicate boundaries of restraint. The memory of his lips on your skin becomes a beacon, standing tall amidst the tumultuous winds of uncertainty. You want to taste the warmth again. You want to kiss Minho.

“I kissed you.” His hands, once gentle on your cheeks, now slip down with purpose, cradling your jaw in a gesture that speaks of both reassurance and longing.

“You did.”

“And my lips were soft,” he repeats, his red scarf brushing against your throat.

"They were," you respond, breathless. His mouth stands electrifyingly close, a mere hairbreadth away, as you contemplate the simple act of tilting your head, closing the tantalizing gap. All that stands between you and the echoes of the love that was is the lift of your head, a movement that could breathe life into the dormant embers of your heart.

"Yn," Minho speaks softly, his words a gentle brush against the canvas of your shared vulnerability. His minty breath tickles your nose, as you hum, a wordless acknowledgment that hangs in the air. Your eyes remain closed, your heart beating loudly in your ears, drowning out the sound of the waves nearby.

“Use me. Use me to remember.”

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reiding-writing · 10 months

Text

melatonin and oxytocin [ s.r ]

Summary:

You and Spencer pair up in an inn room that just happens to have one bed. Oh, and did you know that physical contact promotes better sleep? Well, that’s what Spencer says anyway. And he’s always right.

WARNINGS: literally none, crazy i know

pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader

genre: pure fluff, friends to lovers

wc: 5.1k

masterlist!!

a/n: here’s my official apology for all of the angst i put you through in erotomania 😭 i dont write pure fluff like ever so please bare with me if it’s a little stunted 😭🫶 also this is very very loosely based of off 05X21 - Exit Wounds.

The team was currently in Alaska working on a case, set up in a small inn during their stay. The issue was, they could only provide 4 rooms despite there being 8 members on the team, meaning that everyone had to double up for the night.

Spencer’s first instinct was to turn towards Morgan, but before he even had the chance to open his mouth Morgan was profusely shaking his head. “Absolutely not,”

“Wha-” Morgan held up his hand before Spencer could question his decision. “Never again. You are some kind of vampire I swear,”

Spencer furrowed his eyebrows in Morgan’s direction, met with a shrug. “This man needs his beauty sleep,”

“Dibs!” Garcia leaned over the back of the couch she was sat on so she could grasp at Morgan’s forearm. “I call dibs.”

Morgan chuckles at Garcia’s enthusiasm, leaning over to place a kiss on the crown of her head. “Alright, me and you babygirl,”

Garcia’s soft giggle is joined by a yawn from where you’re sat next to her, and you rub your eye with your knuckle as you lean your head against the back of the couch. “Can we just all choose quickly? I’m exhausted-”

The end of your sentence is cut off with another yawn, only further emphasising your point. Your words were definitely more blunt than usual, your tiredness most definitely making you more irritable.

“I uh- You can share a room with me if you want,” Spencer’s voice is timid as he speaks, and if he wasn’t stood directly behind you you’re not sure you would’ve heard it.

"Sure great, let’s go-" You drag one of the room keys off the small table in front of you as you stand, throwing your travel bag over your shoulder and walking around the couch, placing the palm of your hand flat on Spencer’s back to push him towards the stairs up to the rooms. “Goodnight.”

Your call back to the rest of the team is more of a custom than a genuine wish for them to get a good rest, and if you were more alert you’d probably hit yourself over the back of the head for being so blunt. But politeness wasn’t on your mind right now. You just wanted to sleep.

You fumble with putting the key in the door through your drowsiness, but eventually manage to push the door open to the room.

It’s about what you’d expect from somewhere small like this in the middle of nowhere.

The flooring was dark, with a small rectangular rug in a wine red colour in the centre, the walls an off-white with a slightly suspicious looking water stain in one of the corners. There was a dark-brown leather armchair leaned against the wall next to an ajar door leading to a bathroom, with a decorative pillow of the same shade of red as the rug on the floor. The arm of the chair had a noticeable rip, most probably from a child who’d got bored whilst staying there.

The room was warmly lit from the two lamps on the two side tables, the only other thing on them a basket-weaved mug coaster. The over head light was notably turned off, unable to be used at all seeing as it didn’t even have a bulb in it.

And of course, there was a single queen-sized bed in the centre of the room, it’s frame the same dark wood as the floorboards and definitely just as worn.

Although, the duvet and its pillows seemed brand new, a clean, sparkling white that stood out against the dis-colouring of the wall behind it, a throw blanket over the end and two decorative pillows on top, again matching the other decorative pieces in their dark red colouring.

You didn’t even have to look over at Spencer to know that he was definitely a little perturbed.

With a sigh your drag yourself into the room, dumping your bag on the armchair and unzipping it to pull out a pair of shorts and a t-shirt to change into.

Spencer however, remained stood in the doorway, seemingly considering whether it would be a better option for him to go out and sleep in the SUV.

His rational brain told him to just suck it up and get on with it, but he couldn’t help that subconscious voice in the back of his head that rattled on about how unhygienic hotel rooms are, especially in small rural areas like this.

Not only that, he was also battling the reality that he would inevitably have to share a bed with you, even if it was large enough to house both of you without any unintentional physical contact; He was at least grateful that it actually looked clean.

“Can I- leave the light on?” He breaks his own train of thought as he pushes the door closed with his foot, surrendering to the inevitability of spending the night in this dingy room with you.

You give him a short nod as your answer, joined by your third yawn in the span of five minutes. "God I genuinely think I could fall asleep standing up right now-"

Spencer chuckles at your yawn and nods at your words, leaving his bag on the floor as he takes a seat on the left edge of the bed, pulling out a copy of Les Fluers de Mal and flipping through it until he found the page he’d left on.

“It has been scientifically proven that it is physically impossible to fall asleep while standing, as your cerebellum would be triggered in response to the lack of stimulation which would cause a reflexive response to make you sit down.”

Of course Spencer would know something like that.

You rifle through your bag to find your toothbrush and travel toothpaste. "So what I’m hearing is I could fall asleep standing, but then i’d just end up sitting down," You zip your bag shut again once you’ve retrieved everything you need, pushing open the door to the small en suite bathroom, which thankfully, was much newer than the bedroom. "That sounds like falling asleep standing up if you ask me,"

Your voice muffles ever so slightly as you shut the door behind you.

“Yes, that is a fairly logical conclusion,” He nods slightly as he reads, not taking in the fact that you can’t see him from behind the door.

“Although I still believe it doesn’t quite count as 'falling asleep standing', as when you sit down your brain then activates its natural response to the loss of stimulation in order to put you to sleep. You see, it is impossible to enter the first stage of the sleep cycle within that split second between standing and sitting down, meaning that your body would still be awake.”

You chuckle lightly as you stick your head out of the bathroom once you’ve finished changing, toothbrush in your mouth as you dump your work clothes over the arm of the chair.

“The act of falling asleep occurs when your brain begins to transition from a state of wakefulness to a state of deep sleep. This is signalled by a spike in alpha-waves, which creates a relaxed feeling leading to…” He trails off as he watches you walk past him, figuring you’re not listening to him anymore.

"Why’d you stop?" You straighten your posture as you stop momentarily in your tracks, turning your head towards him.

“Oh, I- thought that you weren’t interested in listening to what I was saying.” His reply betrays his surprise at your engagement.

“I was simply going to add that when you are sitting and the spike in alpha waves occurs and you begin to fall asleep, your brain will automatically trigger a response that causes you to slump forward, hence causing you to sit down.”

Your body subconsciously mirrors your brain’s interpretation of what slumping over means as you walk past him again to spit out your toothpaste.

"Oh- like when you’re in a car and your head falls forwards-"

“Yes, that is a fairly similar example actually. Your brain receives the sign that you are beginning to fall asleep when your head starts to nod forward, and this causes a trigger within the brain’s automatic control system that in turn activates a response that makes you sit up straight so that you don’t fall asleep at the wheel.” As Spencer speaks, he shuts his book, leaving it on the side table as he unpacks his bag so he can also change.

“It’s actually rather surprising how the brain is capable of performing such complex tasks that we sometimes don’t even realise,” He said with an astonished gleam in his eye.

"Huh, the more you know-" You give a satisfied nod at Spencer’s little exposition, taking a seat on the right side of the bed and leaning over to turn the lamp off, allowing Spencer to leave his on as he retreats into the bathroom.

You’d never express it verbally, especially not to Spencer’s face, but you quite liked when he’d ramble about topics he was interested in and knew a lot about, it was both educational and weirdly charming.

You let out another yawn as you pulled back the duvet to lie down, extremely grateful that the mattress of the bed was just as new as the bedding itself. Looked like you might be able to get a good night’s sleep after all.

"Did you know that the human brain has over 100 billion neurons making over 100 trillion connections between them. Each second, a 100 billion electrical messages pass from one neuron to another. It is really quite fascinating." Spencer continued his tangents as he exited the bathroom, now clad in a black t-shirt and a pair of tardis pyjama pants that you found oddly endearing.

"That’s a lot of electrical signals…"

"A lot is an understatement" He chuckled, moving over to the left side of the bed and carefully laying himself down, making sure he wasn’t accidentally making any contact with you.

"It is so complex that it is believed that only a portion of our neurons actually fire each second, meaning that there is potentially trillions of more electrical messages going to unused parts of our brain." He seems to get lost in thought, staring up at the ceiling as he considers the idea further.

You hum softly with a small nod at his assessment, turning to lie on your side so you were half-facing him as he looked up at the ceiling, and you couldn’t help but find yourself tracing his jawline with your eyes as you studied how the dim lighting from the lamp besides him gave it even more definition.

Spencer turns to look at you after a few moments and notices your sleepy expression, feeling a tinge of guilt at keeping you awake since you are clearly exhausted. “I should probably shut up and let you get at least a little sleep. “ He chuckles awkwardly, “Sorry for rambling on, I kind of got carried away.”

"It’s okay… I like listening to you…" You rub one of your eyes with your knuckle as you struggle to keep them fully open, eyelids fluttering as you blink repeatedly to keep them from closing shut. You weren’t done looking at him yet.

Spencer’s cheeks turn a light shade of pink at your confession of enjoying listening to what he had to say.

He then starts to talk again, his voice quieter as he tries to accommodate it to your tiredness. “It’s not the brain’s electrical signals that dictate if you sleep or not, by the way. It is actually a neurotransmitter called melatonin.”

“Melatonin is the hormone responsible for controlling your sleep cycle, and it’s responsible for that sleepy feeling we get when we're tired.”

"Mhm…” You nod softly against the pillow, that was one fact you were definitely familiar with thanks to the joys of university, although hearing it come from Spencer’s mouth just made you want to go along with what he was saying like it was brand new to you.

“Melatonin also helps to regulate your body’s circadian rhythm, which is basically your daily schedule,” Spencer explained.

“Our bodies are naturally conditioned to go through a cycle of sleep and wakefulness. During the day your body will release cortisol and adrenaline for stress management and focus, and during the night your body will release melatonin to help you relax, making you feel sleepy.”

“Well i’m certainly feeling the effects of melatonin right now…” You try to keep up your responses to what Spencer is saying without falling asleep, but you can’t help closing your eyes as you focus on the softness of his voice.

Spencer smiles at your response and nods as he looks at you and notices your eyes are closed. “I should probably stop rambling then, since I don’t want to keep you awake for any longer…” He spoke even softer if that was possible, his eyes trailing over your forehead and down the bridge of your nose.

"I like your voice Spencer, it’s calming…" Your words are half muffled as you mumble them against your pillow. "And your facts are interesting…"

“Huh?” He asked you with a raised eyebrow, having not quite heard what you’d said.

"I like hearing you…" You simplify your words a little bit as you repeat what you’d said, a little louder this time, and you force your eyes back open again to look at him.

Spencer’s cheeks immediately turn pink at the compliment, and his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. He is then quiet for a moment as he tries to process what you said.

“You… like hearing my voice?” He asks, a tinge of confusion evident in his voice, to which you reply with a soft nod and a small hum of affirmation. "I hate it when people interrupt you…"

Spencer’s cheeks remain a light shade of pink as he tries to process what you said, and he stays quiet for a while, trying to think of how he could respond to your little confession.

“I… Well… thank you-” he replies, trying to stay calm whilst also hiding his flustered smile.

“No problem…”

Spencer smiles at your response, eyes studying your expression in an attempt to better understand your feelings. All that he can make out however is your hair, and your tired and half-closed eyes.

“You know, you should probably go to sleep.” He chuckles softly, “It’s quite late after all,”

“Yeah… that’s a good idea…” Your voice is quiet as you mutter out an agreement, but you can’t help from feeling a mild disappointment that your small conversation with Spencer was coming to an end.

“Did you know it takes an average of 7 minutes to fall asleep?” You murmur out the fact as a last resort, half-hoping that it will encourage Spencer to keep talking to you.

“Well, it depends on the person actually” His reply is soft and non derogatory, and his eyes remain locked on the peaceful tiredness in your expression. “On average it takes about 15 minutes of lying down in a relaxing environment to fall asleep, however for some people it might take 20 minutes or more. On the other hand, some people can fall asleep much quicker, with one study finding that it only took an individual 65 seconds to fall asleep.”

“I wish I was that person,” You shift slightly to make yourself more comfortable, pulling your right leg upwards towards your chest and incidentally brushing it against his in the process.

Spencer is lost in his emotions as he stares at you, and it takes you turning your head against the pillow for him to realise that he wasn’t fully listening to what you’d said. “Oh- Yeah, pretty lucky huh?”

His eyes avert from you after that, suddenly very intrigued by the water stain in the top corner of the wall opposite where you were laying down, trying to remind himself that it is inappropriate to stare at his colleagues like that.

But despite all the rationalisation, his heart continues to beat at an accelerated pace and he begins to feel strangely excited seeing you move around the bed. You might be tired, but he certainly wasn’t. Not anymore.

Spencer turns to look at you again as you cover your face with your arm, seemingly protecting your eyes from the light of the lamp on his side table.

He’s silent for a moment as he finds himself staring at you again, mentally punching himself for finding himself getting so lost in your facial features.

"Do you want the light off?" He asks you, keeping the tone of his voice gentle.

“No it’s okay,” Shake your head underneath your arm, “You can keep it on…”

You knew about Spencer’s phobia of the dark. The whole team did. It was pretty much a given after what he went through a few years ago with Tobias Hankel. And you wouldn’t mind sacrificing your comfort of sleeping in pitch black darkness if it meant that Spencer wouldn’t be uncomfortable or afraid.

Spencer gives a nod at your answer, and you can tell he’s relieved that you didn’t want him to turn it off. After a few seconds he speaks again.

"Can I ask you something?" He says, keeping his voice soft.

“Mhm?” You move your arm from your face to rest against your forehead so that you can look at him as he speaks.

Spencer's cheeks immediately turn a light shade of pink again as he meets your eyes. “It's… uh… Well, it's a strange question,” He replies awkwardly

“Would… you mind if I… uh….” He pauses, struggling to find the right words. “Would you mind if I put my arm around you?” He eventually manages to say, keeping his voice soft.

“Huh-?” You let you arm fall back down to your side as you process his question, eyes blinking more awake and Spencer’s cheeks only turn more red as he sees your surprised expression.

“Well… You see… I- it's a common thing that people do when sleeping… to… uh… to hold one another..” Spencer replies, still keeping his tone soft and gentle. He begins feels incredibly stupid for even bringing up this topic, hastily trying to explain himself before it has the opportunity to become awkward.

“Is it?-” Your eyes flicker around his face, your eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly as your exhaustion seems to momentarily disappear.

“Uhm… well… usually it’s for romantic reasons,” He replies, his face turning a light shade of pink yet again. “But… uh… I’ve … heard… that some people like to cuddle in a… platonic way… to help them fall asleep…” His voice threatens to waver slightly as he speaks, and he hides the lower half of his face in the bedsheets in an attempt to hide his cheeks, not wanting you to see how red he’s gone.

“Oh- Uh- Well, if you think it’ll help…” Your subconscious mind knew that Spencer was pulling those facts out of his ass, but you didn’t have the mind to care, not when he was practically openly inviting you to drape yourself all over him.

Spencer perks up when you give him the go-ahead, gently wrapping his arm around you and lightly pulling you closer to his body as he turns to look at your face. “Is this okay?”

His expression screams nervousness as he stares at you, praying that you don’t find his actions uncomfortable.

“Mhm…” Your response is short and direct as you nod, adjusting yourself to lie with your head resting under his chin, allowing your arm to drape over his torso like he’d done yours and bringing your leg up to rest over his waist.

Spencer can’t help but smile as he feels you make yourself more comfortable, sliding one of his arms underneath you and moving the other to hold the inside crease of your knee.

“Do you know that physical contact has a calming effect on people’s minds?” He keeps his voice gentle, as he always does.

You give a soft hum that gently vibrates against the skin of his neck, sending a small shudder down Spencer’s back.

He carefully adjusts the position of his head so that he can keep looking at your half-closed eyes, figuring that considering the two of you were practically intertwined like a pretzel that it would be okay for him to gaze at you again.

“You know that skin-to-skin contact promotes the release of oxytocin…. It… uh… it can help to make you feel calm and comfortable,” He says softly.

“Oxytocin…” You mumble the word under your breath as you try to remember what the hormone is, “…the love hormone..?”

Spencer’s voice turns to a whisper as he responds. “That’s correct. A lot of people refer to it as the ‘love hormone’ because it is released at high levels when people engage in romantic activities or are falling in love.”

“It is also responsible for the feeling of trust and comfort,” His hand on your leg begins to draw small circles against your skin, barely feathering over you to the point where you can hardly feel it.

“Would you believe me if I told you that we were producing this hormone right now?”

You sigh softly against his neck at the ghost of his fingers against your leg, only half listening to what he’s saying as you try to focus on the feeling, and Spencer responds with one of his own as he feels the warmth of your breath against his skin, leaving small goosebumps in it’s wake.

Spencer’s fingers slowly widen their ascent up and down the side of your leg, brushing along your thigh as his fingertips gently skim your skin.

“Comforting, isn’t it?” His voice is low and gentle as he feels just how comforting your presence is, slightly shocked by how excited he feels when being this close to you.

“Yeah…” You muster up as much of nod under his chin as you can, giving his torso a slight squeeze from where your hand is around it.

Spencer smiles at your gentle squeeze of his torso, noting how light it is as you barely manage to add any pressure at all.

“Do you know that physical touch also triggers a person’s serotonin and dopamine production?” He asks you softly.

As if to test his fact himself, he moves his thumb up and down your thigh with a little more pressure, his fingertips leaving behind a trail of almost unnoticeable goosebumps.

“Yeah… Yeah I knew that…”

Spencer smiles softly at your confirmation. “Then you know the feeling they’re giving you right now?”

You give him another small nod as he pulls you a little closer to him, stroking his fingers a little higher up your thigh. His arm underneath your side shifts to your mid back and starts to gently massage at the tense muscles formed over your last few days bent over a desk to work on the case’s profile.

The slow pressure elicits a soft groan from your lips, a pleasant release from all of the tension you’d been carrying over the last few days, slowly dissipating as his fingers worked their magic over your t-shirt.

Spencer can feel you starting to relax into his body as his fingers work against your skin, and his breath threatens to catch in his throat as your hand moves from resting around his torso to up over his shoulder, fingers curling closed against the fabric of his t-shirt.

Spencer leans his nose against the crown of your head, the trace scent of lavender entering his nose as he took a slow breath in, most likely a trace from when you’d last washed your hair.

By this point, the two of you were very aware that the position you were in was anything but platonic, his hand tracing patterns into your thigh, your head pressed into the crook of his neck, and your hand slowly tracing over the curve of his shoulder to take it’s place cupping his cheek, your thumb pressed against the front of his ear with the rest of your fingers splayed in the soft curls gracing the side of his head.

“I’ve run out of facts…” Spencer laughs nervously at his confession, breaking the small silence between you.

“you’ve run out of facts…?” You force your eyes to blink open again as you repeat his statement as a question, pulling your head out of it’s position under his chin to look up at him curiously as you arbitrarily trace your thumb over his jaw. It wasn’t at all like Spencer to just not have anything to say.

Spencer’s face turns a dark shade of red when he hears your question, made much worse at the feeling of your thumb on his jaw, the feeling sends a shiver down his spine. “I- Yeah….” He says quietly.

Suddenly a thought passes through his brain.

“I… actually…. I do have one more fact…” his voice turns to a whisper as he speaks, a tinge of nervousness still lingering in his tone.

“Hmm?” Your expression brightens a little, and he catches the small glisten in your eyes as the dim light from the lamp reflects off of your irises.

There’s a short pause.

Spencer then clears his throat before speaking.

“...Do you know that right now... at this very moment... I want to kiss you…?”

He remains facing away, his hands trembling ever so slightly against your skin as he mutters out his confession, trailing off at the end to the point where if you were any further away from him you wouldn’t have heard it.

“...Is that okay…?” His voice was barely a whisper, scared that if he were to speak too loudly he’d scare you off and you’d never want to speak to him again.

“You want to… kiss me..?” His confession spurred you further awake, no longer struggling to keep your eyes open as you scanned his expression, your hand halting its movement against his jaw.

The sight of you gazing up at him makes his heart skip a beat and causes butterflies to flutter in his stomach. Spencer then looks down at the space between your noses, and speaks nervously.

“…I- Yes, I want… to kiss you…” His eyes quickly dart over to your lips and back again as he waits for any signal of acknowledgement or refusal.

“Will it help us fall asleep?” The question leaves your mouth instinctively as a way to try an alleviate the mild awkwardness between the two of you, and you internally berate yourself for not taking the situation seriously.

Spencer laughs a small, nervous laugh when you ask if it would help you both fall asleep, moving his hands back over to your thigh and gently brushing his fingertips against it.

Spencer then looks down at your lips again as he speaks. “No, I don’t think so…” He says, his tone once again turning to a whisper. “…if anything it might actually wake us both up further…”

“Just say it will so I can kiss you-“ Spencer remains silent for a moment, face frozen in shock. He then lets out a nervous sigh as he looks down at your lips again.

“…It- Yeah- Yeah it’ll help us fall asleep…” he whispers, his voice barely audible, and he gives you a nod that’s a little too eager.

“Then there’s no harm in trying right?” Your hand cups the side of his face, gently encouraging it down towards yours so you can finally place a kiss on those perfect pink lips of his.

“Yeah…” He slowly leans forward towards you, taking in your faint scent, the warmth coming from your breath, the softness and moisture of your lips.

Spencer’s lips slowly press against yours, just barely ghosting them with the tiniest bit of pressure. He then slowly pulls back, his eyes darting all over your face before again settling on the stain in the corner of the wall. It was just so interesting.

You take his chin in your hand gently to turn his face back towards your own, your thumb gently tracing the line under his bottom lip as your eyes scan his cheeks, pouring over the extremely faint spotted freckles over his cheeks. You’d never noticed them before. But then again you’d never been close enough to.

“I’m not quite sure it worked… Maybe we should try again…” You watch as Spencer’s face erupts into a beautiful pink flush, a soft breath resembling a laugh leaving his mouth. “Yeah, we can try again-”

Spencer nods as he speaks cutting his own sentence short as he leans down to kiss you again, adding a little more pressure this time as he seemingly grows in confidence. The kiss remains chaste and short, and as he pulls away for the second time his eyes remain fixed on you, smiling alongside his mouth.

“Is it working now?” He laughs softly as he speaks, eyelashes gently fluttering as he places a kiss on the bridge of your nose, his fingers slowly sliding into your hair at your temples.

“I’m not sure yet…” You respond with a kiss of your own placed against the curve of his chin. “Maybe we should keep going…” You place another kiss right in the corner of his mouth, and Spencer sighs softly as it misses his lips by a hair. “For research purposes…”

He smiles lightly when you mention it being for ‘research’, and his voice grows even quieter as he speaks.

“Yeah… research purposes…”

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #mgg #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fluff

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