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[idea-explorer]

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[hana-bobo-finch]

DOOM POSTING CANCELED

DAGGER MOTH I THINK. I’m FREAKING THE FUCK OUT OHHHHHH

[the-shedevil-writes]

Polaroids (Bob Floyd x Reader)

DESCRIPTION: Bob keeps your relationship private, but he doesn't try to hide the dozens of Polaroids of you all over his locker and truck. He has a daily routine of taping his favorite Polaroid of you to his jet's console, but when it goes missing, things get chaotic. Luckily, you're there to make everything better. WORD COUNT: 2.3k WARNINGS: Bob gets angry in this one, folks. Cussing. Fighting. Hangman's an asshole- sorry. MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3

Bob didn’t like talking about his relationship. It’s not that he wasn’t proud of her, or that he felt ashamed. But in fact, the opposite. He’d seen these animals, he’d call co-workers, and how they’d treat girls. Granted, the squadron he was with now wasn’t so bad. Rooster, Hangman, and Fanboy were hard flirts, but they had basic decency. He never felt embarrassed by their behavior when they went out to the bars, and they’d try and pick up a girl. If they were successful, they celebrated. If they weren’t, they’d walk away and move on. 

But it was his past experiences with other pilots. Locker room talk always rubbed him the wrong way. He did his best not to judge these guys. He had those thoughts, too, but he had heard too many dehumanizing things said about women he knew and didn’t. So he preferred to keep his gorgeous girlfriend, Y/n, under wraps, even if he did trust his current friends.

They preferred to keep their lives separate anyway. With Bob having his work and friend group, and Y/n having hers. It kept their conversations interesting, as they had their own lives to discuss, not just their shared one. 

The Dagger Squad, of course, would try and pry any information out of him. All they knew was that he had a girlfriend. Half the time, they’d forget what her name was because they had never met her, and Bob preferred not to talk about her, for fear they’d ask to see her. 

He was surprised they didn’t notice the Polaroids. Taking pictures of his girl was his favorite thing to do besides flying. He wasn’t exactly a photographer. But he made good use out of the instant Polaroid camera she got him for Christmas. It was so much better than taking pictures on his phone because he could hold the memory in his hand. The light and the moment were captured and printed instantly just for him. 

They were stuck everywhere. Photos over the years were plastered all over the inside of his locker. In his phone case was a picture of her wearing his glasses. And in the fold-out mirror of his truck was a photo of her taken off guard in the kitchen that she hated, but he loved. The one of her kissing his cheek was usually tucked in the front pocket of his flight suit. They all served as reminders of what he had waiting for him once his shift was over. His best friend and the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his whole life. 

His favorite was the photo he taped to his control panel every day. It was a little beat up, naturally, but he made sure to keep that one in the best condition it could be. It was his good luck charm- the first Polaroid he had ever taken of her. It was Christmas morning, and she sat next to the lit tree, in his old Lemoore High School shirt that she had stolen for herself. She hugged the frankly huge teddy bear that he had gotten her. While the lights on the tree sparkled in the photo and cast a golden glow on her smiling face. For some reason, when he had it, the missions went better. The days went by more easily when he got to see his girl’s face after a stressful hiccup in flight. 

It had been a long and grueling day flying under the sweltering sun. They had been training for a strike mission, and the dogfighting exercises had left him drenched in sweat, and owing Maverick 200 push-ups. Thanks, Payback, for the BRILLIANT idea. And thanks, Hangman, for doing what he did best- leaving him in the dust and pushing his buttons. 

After an almost embarrassing amount of time, he walked back to the locker room with biceps so sore they screamed. He unzipped his flight suit and took his glasses off, using the white shirt underneath to clean the fog and sweat off them. He couldn’t wait to go home and find his girlfriend in her study, working. And he especially couldn’t wait to bug and distract her from all of it. 

That’s when the sense of dread hit him, and he realized. He quickly checked all his pockets. Yes, the one of her kissing his cheek was there. But his lucky charm wasn’t in any of the other pockets. He rushed to climb out of his flight suit and scrambled to throw on a random shirt and shorts from his duffel. He couldn’t leave it in the jet. Who knew what maintenance would do if they found it? They’d probably just throw it away. 

Throwing on his backpack, he sprinted back down to the hangar. He didn’t even notice the whole squadron standing around talking. He didn’t care. All he wanted was his favorite picture and for this horrible day to be over with. 

The sunset shone on his forehead, exacerbating the glistening stress sweat. He quickly climbed the ladder onto the Super Hornet and looked inside the backseat interior. The only place it could be. And when he looked at the spot between the radar and the comms control, he put his face in his hands. It wasn’t there. The memory of the Christmas lights and the bear was missing. 

“Fuck.” He said to himself. It was hard to get Bob to curse, but this felt like an appropriate occasion.

Then Hangman’s voice rang out behind him. 

“Hey Baby on Board! You sure this isn’t a picture you found on Google?” 

Bob’s head whipped back to find Jake Seresin holding the photo. On one hand, he was just grateful that someone had found it. On the other hand, out of all the pilots, he wished so deeply that it wasn’t Hangman. 

He quickly climbed down the ladder. “Give me it back, please.” He said exasperated, and walked towards him.

Jake held the photo up so that Bob couldn’t get it. Neither of them was short, but Hangman was just slightly taller. 

“I’m not kidding.” He said, trying his best to keep his cool. It took a lot to make Bob angry. He was typically level-headed and able to logically think things through. That’s why he was a WSO Top Gun Graduate, and not necessarily a pilot. But right then, his whole day had been building up inside him, and this was the one thing he didn’t mess around with. 

“I just can’t believe that a babe like this is with a guy like you. Really, you should let me call her up.” He said teasingly with a smile. After leaving Bob and Phoenix stranded, AND doing this, Bob was at the end of his rope.

“Hangman, just give him back the photo,” Phoenix voiced with her arms crossed. She and Rooster watched the whole interaction, which just made him feel worse. This was humiliating. It was like they were boys in a school yard- which Bob would say was an apt description of most of the people he had worked with in the past.

He reached up for the photo and finally got a grip on it, but Hangman didn’t let go. 

“I just think it’s funny! I wanna look at it. I think there’s more in his locker, too.”

“Just let go, Hangman.” His voice was less whiny and more serious now. 

“No!” He grinned.

The two tussled and grabbed at the photo. It felt like a moment that was way too long. Until eventually they each pulled in a different direction, twisting it. It completely bent. Thankfully, it couldn’t rip because of the type of film, but the photo itself was fairly distorted. Bob’s heart beat out of his chest, and it was like his stomach twisted the same way the photo did. 

He suddenly let go of the photo and pushed Hangman so hard he stumbled back, surprised. The photo slapped onto the pavement. 

“YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE,” Bob said, following after him, ready to beat the shit out of him. Even though at first glance, most people would believe that Hangman would win in a fight between the two. It didn’t quite look it at the moment with the anger in Bob’s eyes and his arms pumped from the earlier push-ups.

Rooster quickly ran over and grabbed his shoulders, pulling him back. “HEY HEY HEY!” 

Phoenix ran over and did the opposite, pushing her hand against Hangman’s chest, though he didn’t try to move forward. He knew he was in the wrong here, and it was clear by his guilty expression.

“Bob, man, calm down,” Rooster said. They all looked at him, surprised. Timid, awkward Bob was… kinda scary when he was pissed off. His glasses slightly crooked and red in the face. Maybe it was just strange to see him so out of control.

He slowly pushed Rooster off of him and walked over, grabbing the crumpled photo on the ground. After a failed attempt at straightening it out, he put it in his pocket and walked off, steaming. 

That night, when he got home, he slammed the door. He was never the type to do that, but he felt so defeated. His duffel bag dropped to the floor uncaringly. 

“Bob? Is that you?” Y/n called out from the study.

He sighed, a little relieved. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me.” He said, his voice almost completely flat. That wasn’t normal. He’d usually meet her in the study, but at the sounds of distress, she quickly came out.

She walked out to find him hanging up his sweatshirt with a depressed look on his face. His usual smile was replaced by a small, tense frown, and his shoulders were high and stiff. Something was very wrong.

“Oh, baby.” She said, walking over, “What’s wrong?” Her voice was so gentle.

He sighed and quickly wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry. I need to shower,” He said, not having gotten the chance to on base. But he still squeezed her, needing the support dearly. 

She shook her head against his chest. “What happened?” She knew he was trying to avoid it. 

He stepped back and pulled the bent photo out of his pocket. “Hangman happened.”

She gasped at the sight of it in his hand. “Oh no… Is this a man or a dog we’re talking about here?” She asked confused, and that made him laugh a little. He was already so grateful to be home. 

“Man. Though he definitely acts like a dog.” He groaned.

She gently took the photo from his hands. “I can try and fix it. Straighten it out. There might be a crease still in it, though.” She tried her best to flatten it out like he did, but to no avail.

He shook his head. “You can try, but I doubt it’ll be okay.”

That answer was so depressing, she looked up and tilted her head. “Hey, we’ll get it back to normal. I’ll look it up. How about you go shower and eat? I made pasta cause I was too lazy to be a real chef tonight.” She tried to lighten the air. “Then you can tell me all about your day.” 

He sighed in relief. “You’re too good to me.” He said softly, pulling her in for a much-needed kiss.

And that’s exactly how they ended up sprawled on the couch, each with bowls of penne and vodka sauce. On the coffee table, the photo lay on a piece of wax paper and was buried under some thick fighter jet manuals Bob had. 

“It was just like the whole day had been building up in me. Payback’s bet. Hangman leaving me and Phoenix dead in the water. The two hundred push-ups. And the photo going missing in the first place drove me crazy. So when he bent it, I just… exploded a little.” He admitted, almost ashamed to have lost control.

She sighed. “That’s okay. It was natural after all of that.” She reassured gently, reaching for his calf and squeezing it. “This Hangman guy sounds like a real douche.”

“Understatement.” He said, but he was feeling better talking through it all with her. “I just hope that the photo is okay. You know it’s my good luck charm, and if it’s not flat, it won’t stick to my console very well.” 

A small smile appeared on her face. “It’s under some of the thickest books I’ve ever seen. If it’s not flattened, then that’s just defying gravity.” She said. 

He exhaled again, relaxing, and it was like the tension in him completely dissipated. “You’re right.” He said gently. 

“Hey, maybe after today he’ll leave you alone.” She suggested.

He scoffed, “Hangman? I give him less than a week before he starts using you against me.” 

She chuckled and set her bowl down so she could lie down against him. “Hmmmm, gotta get you enrolled in anger management classes then.” She teased.

He kissed the top of her head. “You’re funny.” He said sarcastically.

The next morning, he woke up at the crack of dawn per usual. He slowly slipped out of his girlfriend’s grasp, and she whined, half asleep. Their typical routine. He gently leaned down, ran his hand over her hair, and kissed her forehead. “Go back to sleep.” He whispered, and she subconsciously did so.

He got ready in his khaki uniform and walked out to the living room. On the table were the stacks of manuals. He very carefully took them off one by one and set them on the couch to soften the noise. Checking on the Polaroid, he sighed in relief as it was flat again. A small crease was across the middle, but at the very least, it was flat. He turned it around and saw something new. On the plain white back of the photo was a lipstick kiss mark over the folded line. In the tiniest pen was ‘A kiss to make it better’. 

And the biggest smile grew on his face. This was better than he could’ve asked for. 

Now he didn’t just have a good luck charm, but also a kiss to remember her by. 

[matt-murdockk]

Nine-Nine!

an extremely self indulgent brooklyn 99 and criminal minds crossover

pairing: spencer reid x reader (with a tiny bit of almost jake peralta x reader for funsies)

words: 3.0k

warnings: none, this is fluff and comedy <3

summary: Spencer Reid’s grip on sanity? Loose. (Y/n)’s patience? Tested. Jake Peralta? Accidentally in the middle of a romcom finale with no snacks. There’s banter, jealousy, a tasered vending machine, and one (1) emergency love confession.

a/n: crossover episode my beloved; this was extremely fun to write lolllllll, hope you like it <3

Spencer was already three tangents deep into the geographic profile, talking fast, hands moving like the words were trying to escape faster than his brain could handle. (Y/n) had learned years ago to just let him go. He’d loop back around eventually. Usually.

“The spacing of the disposal sites suggests he’s sticking to a routine. All within a tight radius— three miles or so. That kind of pattern almost always means it’s familiar territory. Could be work, could be home base. Most likely night shifts, given the dump times— between 2:10 and 3:30 a.m. Which means fewer witnesses, less traffic—”

“Or he just likes moonlight and solitude,” (Y/n) said absently, scribbling something in her notebook. “Creepy guys tend to romanticize the weirdest stuff.”

Spencer didn’t look up. “That’s… statistically consistent with other narcissistic or compulsive offenders, actually.”

She glanced over at him. “You know you could just say ‘you’re right.’ It won’t kill you.”

He did look at her then, quick, with the faintest smirk pulling at his mouth. “I’m not sure I’ve tested that hypothesis thoroughly enough to risk it.”

She snorted. “Tragic. I thought you loved me.”

Spencer didn’t miss a beat. “I do. But not enough to sacrifice academic integrity.”

“Wow.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Wounded. Devastated. Utterly betrayed.”

“Noted,” he murmured, turning back to his screen with an annoyingly smug look.

Derek leaned forward from his seat across the aisle. “Are y’all gonna do this the whole flight?”

JJ didn’t even look up from her file. “They’re gonna do this the whole case.”

“I’m sitting right here,” (Y/n) called over.

“And yet, you keep doing this,” Emily muttered, sipping her coffee. “Every case. Without fail.”

Spencer turned his tablet toward (Y/n), pretending not to hear them. “There are five possible buildings inside the comfort zone. Abandoned commercial spaces, all accessible. No cameras.”

She leaned closer, squinting at the screen. “That one. Tucked behind the construction site. No visibility from the road.”

He nodded. “I had that ranked third.”

“I outrank your list.”

“You outrank logic?”

“I outrank you, Reid.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Bold claim for someone who once tripped over their own shoelaces during a takedown.”

“You’re never letting that go, are you.”

“Absolutely not.”

(Y/n) sighed, grabbing her coffee and slumping back in her seat. “You’re lucky I find your chaos charming.”

Spencer, without looking up, murmured, “You’re lucky I find you charming.”

And just like that, she paused.

It wasn’t even the words— it was the way he said it. Like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t meant to land the way it did.

Her fingers stilled on the coffee cup. Just for a second. Then she shook her head, eyes narrowing. “You trying to throw me off before we hit the ground? Because that’s a dirty tactic, Reid.”

He smiled, faint. “If I wanted to throw you off, I’d bring up that time you accidentally used your taser on the vending machine.”

“That was one time.”

“I still have the video.”

Derek threw up his hands. “Okay, I need noise-canceling headphones or a fire alarm. One or the other.”

“Let them have their foreplay,” Rossi grumbled from behind his paper. “Just as long as it doesn’t slow down the case.”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes, but she didn’t stop smiling. Not even a little.

And Spencer? He didn’t say anything else.

But his knee brushed against hers under the table.

And he didn’t move it.

——————————————————————————————————

The precinct was pure, barely-contained chaos. Phones ringing, printers jamming, someone yelling “I said decaf!” from the breakroom. (Y/n) stepped in behind the team, her eyes scanning the flurry with the kind of calm that only came from years of being thrown headfirst into crime scenes that smelled like old pizza and adrenaline.

Then— like he was summoned by the gods of caffeine and chaos— a voice cut through the noise.

“FBI? Oh thank god. Tell me you’re the FBI. If one more lieutenant hands me a case file on raccoon-related vandalism, I’m going to start speaking in riddles.”

The guy had two coffees in one hand, a folder under his arm, and the kind of face that said yes, I’m sleep-deprived, but I’ve made it part of my personality now.

“Detective Jake Peralta,” he added, stepping forward and immediately handing one of the coffees off to a passing officer. “You must be the reinforcements. Welcome to our deeply unfortunate circus.”

(Y/n) stepped forward with a polite smile. “Agent (Y/l/n), BAU.”

Jake looked at her and forgot what vowels were.

“Oh. Cool. Yeah. Wow.” He blinked. “Hi. Sorry. That was… a very professional reaction to a federal agent. I’m super normal.”

(Y/n) raised an eyebrow, amused. “Totally. You look extremely normal.”

Jake pointed at her like he was confirming her existence for himself. “And funny. She’s funny, too. Great. Just awesome.”

Spencer, two steps behind her, tilted his head the tiniest bit. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough that Emily, walking next to him, noticed immediately.

“So,” Jake said, already spinning on his heel and motioning them toward the evidence board, “we’ve got three victims, matching M.O., a dump site triangle, and a ton of questions. I’d love to walk you through it. Bonus: I also know where the best snacks are hidden in this precinct. Critical intel.”

“Let me guess,” (Y/n) said, falling into step beside him, “you keep gummy bears in a murder folder?”

Jake gave her a wide-eyed, deeply serious nod. “Listen, I can’t solve murder with low blood sugar. That’s just biology. Forensics and fruit snacks— two pillars of modern justice.”

She actually laughed, bumping her shoulder lightly into his. “That’s what you’re going with? Fruit snacks and felony charges?”

“Look,” he said, glancing at her with a grin, “some people have badges, some have instincts— I have a snack drawer and a vibe.”

(Y/n) shot him a look. “And a lot of confidence, apparently.”

“It’s the only thing holding me together.”

Spencer, still watching from behind, clenched his jaw and stared very intently at the murder board— as if sheer willpower would make Jake Peralta spontaneously combust.

Derek leaned over slightly. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” Spencer said. Way too quickly.

“Uh-huh.”

(Y/n) looked over her shoulder, smiling. “Spencer, you coming?”

Spencer blinked. “Right behind you.”

Emily raised an eyebrow as he passed, giving him that look— the one that meant I know, and I’m about to say it out loud.

He walked faster.

Behind them, Emily whispered to JJ, “We have now entered full-blown Jealous Spencer territory.”

JJ winced sympathetically. “He doesn’t stand a chance.”

——————————————————————————————————

The dump site was taped off, abandoned and eerie in the late afternoon light. A narrow alley backed by cracked concrete walls, discarded furniture, and silence— except for the occasional buzz of Spencer’s pen clicking in his pocket. Repeatedly.

Jake and (Y/n) were walking ahead of the rest of the group, ducking under the tape, their steps crunching through gravel.

“Okay,” Jake said, scanning the alley. “I know it’s not exactly a five-star view, but I promise this is the cleanest murder site we’ve had all week. That’s a weird sentence.”

(Y/n) laughed. “It’s fine. We spend half our lives in parking lots and basements. Honestly, this is kind of charming.”

Jake pointed at a tipped-over dumpster. “Ah, yes. Classic small-town ambiance.”

She crouched near a drainpipe, tilting her head. “He’s dumping at night. No cameras. But the dumpster’s too obvious— too accessible. He’s not just hiding the bodies, he’s watching them.”

Jake blinked. “Okay. That’s… both creepy and very insightful. You do this a lot?”

She looked up at him, playful. “Solve murders? Yeah. Flirt at them? Not usually.”

He smirked, a little lopsided. “Hey, I haven’t even started flirting yet. That was just me being charming.”

“Oh, just charming?” she teased.

Jake leaned against the wall, watching her. “Let me know when you’re ready for the full Peralta experience. It includes sarcasm, emotional baggage, and an impressive knowledge of Die Hard trivia.”

(Y/n) stood, brushing off her knees. “That’s a lot to take in on a first crime scene.”

He grinned. “So you’re saying there’ll be a second?”

A beat. Just a pause. She didn’t answer right away.

Spencer, across the lot with Derek and Emily, had stopped mid-sentence, his entire expression shifted from mildly focused to openly horrified.

“She’s laughing,” he said flatly.

Emily glanced up from her notes. “Yeah, that tends to happen when people are enjoying themselves.”

“With him.”

“Oh no,” Derek muttered. “We’ve lost him.”

The rest of the team returned to the SUV, but Emily stayed behind, as if she knew this wasn't done yet.

“She’s laughing at his jokes,” Spencer repeated, eyes still locked on the two figures across the alley.

“She laughs at yours,” Emily said.

“That’s different. She knows mine are objectively not funny.”

“Okay, you know what?” Emily snapped her folder shut. “We’re doing this now. Let’s go, Genius.”

Spencer blinked as she grabbed his elbow and dragged him toward the SUV.

“What? No— I’m working.”

“You’re spiraling,” she corrected. “And doing it in a crime scene, which is new.”

Behind them, (Y/n) was still talking to Jake, standing closer now, arms crossed and leaning in like she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

Spencer’s voice dropped. “Emily, I’m fine.”

“You’re jealous,” she said, eyes sharp. “And for a guy who can read microexpressions from thirty feet away, you are shockingly bad at clocking your own.”

“I don’t get jealous,” he said, almost insulted.

She gave him a look.

“…Okay, I am jealous,” he admitted under his breath. “But I don’t know what to do about that.”

Emily leaned against the SUV, watching Spencer like she was trying to figure out whether she needed to slap sense into him or hug him. Maybe both. Probably both.

He was pacing. Not frantically, just… tightly. Hands in his pockets, jaw tense, doing that thing where his eyes tracked the ground like the answers were written there.

“I mean, it’s fine,” he said finally, like he was trying to convince the air. “She’s allowed to laugh at someone else’s jokes. I’m not— entitled to anything.”

Emily stayed quiet.

He glanced back at the alley where (Y/n) was standing with Jake. She was leaning on one foot, comfortable. She looked happy. And it gutted him.

“It’s just— he’s charming,” Spencer muttered. “And funny. And he’s got that whole casual swagger thing going on. I mean, who even has swagger in 2025? Apparently, Jake does. And she’s… she’s smiling.”

“You’re allowed to be upset,” Emily said, her voice soft, even.

Spencer didn’t answer. His hands were twitching in his pockets now.

“I’ve had… crushes,” he said finally, like it was painful to admit even that much. “A few. Not a lot. But some. And usually they’re easy to understand. You think someone’s cute. You like their voice. You want them to notice you.”

He shook his head.

“This isn’t that.”

Emily just watched him.

“I notice everything,” he went on, his voice quieter now. “Not because I’m profiling her. Not because I’m analyzing anything. I just… do. I know when she’s about to make a bad joke because she gets this look— like she’s proud of it already. I know she only pretends to like black coffee when we’re around local PD because she thinks it makes her look tougher.”

A pause. His voice dipped even lower.

“I know the sound of her laugh when it’s real. I know when she’s tired, even if she’s smiling. I know when she’s faking being okay. And I know when she’s actually okay. And I know that right now…” He looked up, eyes fixed on her across the lot, where she and Jake were still talking, still laughing.

“…She’s really okay. With him.”

Emily stepped closer, gentle. “Spence.”

He didn’t look at her.

“I think about her all the time,” he said, like he was just realizing it out loud. “Not in a way I… planned. Just— suddenly I’m at a bookstore and wondering if she’d like the cover of something. Or I hear a song and I can’t tell if I like it until I know if she would. It’s— constant.”

He laughed once, breathy and humorless. “And statistically, I know crushes fade. The brain adjusts. The novelty goes away. But this? This has been over a year. Maybe longer.”

Emily tilted her head. “And?”

Spencer blinked.

“…And I think I’m in love with her.”

A pause. Then—

“Oh,” he breathed. “Shit.”

Emily smiled, just barely. “Took you long enough.”

He ran both hands over his face. “I don’t— what am I supposed to do with that?”

“You tell her,” she said gently.

“What? No, I can’t.”

“You can.”

“Emily, she's quite possibly the closest friend I have. What if it ruins everything?”

Emily didn’t answer for a second. She just looked at him— really looked at him— and said, “Spencer. You're already miserable. At least ruin it with some dignity, damn it.”

He looked back at (Y/n). She was saying goodbye to Jake now, walking back toward the team, tucking her hair behind her ear like she always did when she was distracted. She looked like home.

Spencer exhaled. “Yeah. Okay. I’m completely screwed.”

Emily nodded. “Yeah. You are. Oh, and for the record, I thought I was your closest friend, and honestly, I feel so attacked right now."

"You'll live."

"Hey!" retorted Emily, followed by a smack to his arm.

——————————————————————————————————

The sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the precinct lot. The case was wrapped, files turned in, media dodged. (Y/n) was leaning against the SUV, arms crossed, sipping from her now-cold coffee like it was still doing something.

Jake jogged up to her, slowing as he approached. Not suave. Just… trying.

“Hey,” he said, offering a lopsided smile. “So, weird question for the end of a triple homicide, but— any chance I could take you to dinner sometime?”

(Y/n) blinked. “Oh.”

She smiled, a little surprised. “Jake, you’re— great. I had fun working with you.”

Jake’s grin faltered just enough to be human. “But…?”

“But—”

“Wait!”

Both of them turned.

Spencer was standing about ten feet away, looking like he had sprinted here but didn’t want to show it. His hair was windswept, his shirt slightly crooked, and his expression somewhere between resolute and deeply alarmed.

(Y/n) blinked. “Spencer?”

Jake glanced between them. “Should I…? I can come back.”

“No, no,” Spencer said quickly, stepping forward. “You’re fine. I mean— not fine, you’re not staying. I mean, yes, you’re staying right now, I just—”

He looked at (Y/n), all the air gone from his lungs.

“I need to say something.”

(Y/n) tilted her head, cautious now. “Okay…”

Spencer glanced at Jake. Then at her. Then back at Jake.

“This is going to be weird with him here,” he muttered.

“I can pretend to be a lamp,” Jake offered, backing up slightly. “I’m excellent at furniture-based camouflage.”

“Jake,” (Y/n) said, half-laughing, “you don’t have to—”

“I really think I do,” he said, hands raised. “There’s a lot of emotion in the air and I don’t want to get hit by it.”

Spencer ignored him. His eyes stayed on her.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he said softly. “I told myself it wasn’t the right time. That we had too much to lose. That maybe I was just… projecting.”

He swallowed. “But then I watched someone else get to make you laugh. I watched you lean in, and talk like he already belonged in your world. And I realized— I’ve been pretending that I didn’t already live there.”

(Y/n)’s breath caught.

Spencer took another step closer. “I know the way you look when you’re solving a puzzle you don’t know you’ve solved yet. I know how you take your coffee differently when you’re pretending you’re fine. I know that you hum when you’re reading case files, and that you’ll always find a way to make the worst days seem funny, just to keep us all going.”

He paused, voice low. “I notice everything about you. Not because I’m profiling you. Just… because it’s you.”

Jake mouthed oh my god to himself, backing up another step.

(Y/n) stared at Spencer, wide-eyed. “You— you’ve never said any of this.”

“I didn’t know how,” Spencer admitted. “But I’m in love with you. And it took me way too long to say it. So if you’re going to say no— please do it fast, before I combust.”

Silence.

Then—

“Spencer,” she said softly, stepping toward him. “You’re an idiot.”

His face fell— until she reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket and kissed him.

It was fast. Then slow. Then somewhere in between. Like they’d been waiting for years but were still trying to catch up.

Jake, standing off to the side, made a quiet choking sound.

“I am so intruding,” he muttered. “You know what? I’m gonna go. I’m gonna walk into the woods and never come back. I’ll start a new life. Join a wolf pack. Change my name. Just... yeah.”

They didn’t hear him.

(Y/n) pulled back just slightly, forehead still resting against Spencer’s.

“You’re in love with me?”

He nodded, breathless. “Deeply. Disastrously.”

She let out a laugh— half relief, half disbelief— as her forehead rested against his. “Oh, thank God. It was killing me thinking it might just be me.”

Jake was halfway to the sidewalk when Spencer called out— without looking—

“Thank you for not asking her out.”

Jake froze. “I did. You just… intercepted mid-sentence.”

Spencer blinked. “Oh. Sorry.”

Jake clapped once. “Well, that was the best romcom finale I’ve ever witnessed. I’m gonna go cry in my car.”

He turned again, walking toward his car like a man who had just lost a bet to fate.

God, I’m never gonna hear the end of this from Rosa.

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCXDP fanfic idea: Cold Case

Bruce Wayne has worked on many cold cases over the years of being Batman. The ones shelved away after all efforts to find justice have run out. He's seen many of them be challenging to solve for the detectives assigned to them years ago. Others were obviously not investigated as thoroughly as they should have.

A rare few were purposely ignored for one reason or another. Bruce tried his best to stop current crimes, but as someone whose own parents' murder was not solved until he brought the man to justice, he knows how much closure could mean.

He worked on them whenever possible, trying to find the missing pieces to explain what happened. Usually, his kids also picked a few up here and there, but no one put in as many hours to solve closed cases as Bruce. (Tim came a close second)

That's why he clicked through an old file with his morning coffee one Saturday instead of enjoying a sleep-in. His eyes rapidly fall over the words of the police report, then the following investigation reports, witness statements and a few pictures. This file is surprisingly thick, but having no valid leads made Bruce suspicious that foul play was a t work/

It's about a young teenage boy who vanished from a small town in Illinois before his body was discovered stuffed into a rotted locker in Gotham three years later.

Daniel Fenton was last seen dining with his friends at the local burger restaurant, Nasty Burger, after school. He was seen parting with his friends two hours later. Samantha Manson's parents arrived to pick up Samantha and Tucker Foley for an art show.

Daniel had not gotten permission to go; he had been grounded due to his grades, but although Mr. Manson offered to drive him home, and the man even called the boy's sister to pick him up, Daniel insisted on walking.

The town had been relatively safe enough that most teens walked around, so the four had driven off to beat the traffic. Daniel had turned towards his house, vanishing from the restaurant's CCTV camera's sight soon after.

The walk should have taken him no more than thirty minutes, but he was an hour late. Daniel's mother frantically called all his friends after failing to contact her son within those thirty minutes. The boy's friends send messages and calls, but the boy does not respond.

Another hour later, Mr. and Mrs Fenton phoned in a missing person report. They drove around looking for Daniel as the police slowly walked through the town, and word spread quickly that the youngest Fenotn had gone missing. By the seven-hour mark, a search party of Daniel's schoolmates and a few neighbors had been formed.

Police and one hundred and three civilians were on the hunt for Daniel.

Neither Samatha's nor Tucker's messages were marked as read, although a chilling fact was that Mrs. Fenton, Mr.Fenton, and Jasmine Fenton's text messages were opened. That pinged within a block of the Fenton's residence.

Two witnesses claimed to have seen Daniel at the corner shop one block from his house, where he stopped to buy a drink. A man in a trench coat approached the boy to ask for his opinion on the chip flavors.

Daniel could be seen chatting with him for a few minutes while standing in line to pay for their purchases, as the witnesses were the cashier and one other customer. After being rung up, Daniel left the man at the counter. The police could track this man down after the boy had gone missing for twelve hours.

However, it was concluded that he had nothing to do with the disappearance, seeing as the man had ordered a cab straight to the airport and gotten on a flight right. He had even waited inside the small corner shop, sitting idly at a table until his cab arrived.

The cab camera, airport security, and plane ticket confirmed his alibi. By the seventy-two-hour mark, a new clue appeared. Daniel's backpack was half dug in a hole five miles outside the city limits when a hiker spotted the slight gleam of the strap's decorative pin.

This was seven miles from where he had disappeared. Inside his backpack were his broken phone, school supplies, the clothes he was last seen in, and a framed photo of Daniel sleeping in his room.

Sadly, the investigators could not find any clues from the sight due to the heavy rain the previous two days. Even the items within the bag were half destroyed from the rain and mud ( Bruce thought that was a ridiculous claim. He would need to break into the evidence archives, steal the backpack, and run some tests. He would ask Barry for help if he had to.)

Two towns over, another witness claimed to have seen Daniel walking by the side of road, being led by a woman in a grey dress. His picture had been shared by frantic schoolmates at a football game where the new witness recognized him.

This was one week after Daniel's disappearance. The witness had claimed to have captured the pair on her dash cam after she had saved the clip because the two had appeared from the shadows "like ghosts," and she had screamed when her headlights shone on them.

The witness was driving through the back roads to her aunt's house, and the lack of street lights, alongside the dense trees lining the roads, made it hard for anyone to see at night. The clip was no more than seven seconds.

It is just as the car turns onto the dirt road that Daniel can be seen turning towards the car, his right wrist trapped in a woman's hold. He stares into the camera while it passes by, not showing any signs of distress.

The woman is turned away from the vehicle, seemingly peering into the trees as if she thought something had caught her attention. The pair's outfits are peculiar- they seem to be dressed from the early eighteen hundreds, which was why the witness had gotten such a fright.

After searching the area where this sighting was held, the police could not find any evidence that Daniel had passed through there. The case went cold for six months before a concerned man called his local authorities about a young boy standing on the edge of a bridge. He had accidentally spotted the boy while filming a wide landscape video of his hotel room.

By the time the man had raced down to the lobby and gotten to the bridge, the emergency operator in his ear, Daniel, had vanished. When the police collected the video, they could identify the same woman wearing the same dress standing by a white van in the background. Thankfully, its license plates were in full view.

The van was later found to have been reported stolen two years before Daniel's disappearance. However, a common link existed between five other missing people investigations that spanned those two years. Sadly, the van was never seen again, and police assumed it was scrapped.

Daniel's case went cold for three years until his body was discovered during a renovation effort funded by Bruce himself. All work on the old buildings was halted as Daniel's death was confirmed, the investigation was underway, and Wayne Enterprise working entirely with the police to find out what happened to the young boy. His body was sent back to his family after the autopsy had been completed.

Daniel Fenton's cause of death was ruled to be suffocation. Physical indications on his body indicated he had attempted to fight off whoever had left those marks around his neck, but in the end, Daniel had not won. Despite the many tests they conducted on the locker and the area, no other clues could be found of how, when, and by whom Daniel had wound up there.

Bruce didn't appreciate the entire lack of clues. He had searched and done his own testing as Batman the same night Daniel's body had been found. Nothing had appeared on his tests until he had attempted to use one of Constantine's runes.

This one had flared up for a mighty ghost. Bruce had gotten the idea to check for the paranormal after rumors spread of a ghost fitting Daniel's description through the nearby neighborhood children. Constantine claimed that it was not the murder victim, Daniel Fenton, but rather something far older and far more dangerous.

Something prone to luring humans away. Bruce believes the woman seen near Daniel in the last few years of his life was not a human.

Bruce sighs, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his eyes. He's gone over the file five times, yet nothing seems to jump out at him. His coffee had gone from pipping hot to lukewarm, and his children were slowly tickling into the room.

He raises his mug at them in greeting, hiding a smile behind his cup as Cass leans over to side hug him. His daughter is always more physical in her greetings, which makes him so happy that he ignores how her eyes have launched onto his screen with intense concentration.

"A cold case?" Tim asks from around a yawn. Bruce's head barely finishes the nodding motion before the boy leans closer to the table, eyes sharp. "What's it about?"

"The body was found in the restoration affordable housing project that was canceled," Bruce replies. He begins summarizing the case to his children as the rest finally settle around the table, looking at the usual amount of exhaustion Bruce has long ago been able to push through.

He can spot the moment they all start theorizing or analyzing the presented information while he scrolls up to see Daniel's smiling face. Bruce is just about to flip the tablet around so the rest of the children can see when his daughter leans closer to the tablet.

Cass's hand spams as she hisses. "Not Dead."

It takes a moment for Bruce to process her sharp words, blinking up at her. "What was that sweetheart?"

"Not. Dead," She repeats, pointing an accusing finger at Daniel's photo. "Not Human. Lures victims to death. Almost got me."

Well, that complicates this already confusing case a bit.

[formulakracing]

"my hero" - m.v.

pairing: social worker!reader x max verstappen

word count: idek tbh (i’m posting this on my lunch break hehe)

warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, max in bf mode, long distance couple, cursing here and there, mentions of mental health, mentions of mental health disorders, mentions of physical health, yada, yada, yada

a/n: i know i said i was working on requests but this idea would not leave my brain all day. i couldn't stop thinking about it so i had to write it. (it's def a little self-indulgent) i hope y'all enjoy!

"ah! there you are. i can see you now!""

a giggle bubbles up in your throat, your lips forming a wide smile, "hi baby, how are you?"

he shrugs, the image distorted for about a millisecond. he comes into frame once again, slightly pixelated. however, you can make out the sleepy grin plastered across his face, and the twinkle in his eye as he looks into the camera.

max verstappen, three time world driver’s champion, is on facetime with you, donned in nothing but a black cotton tee and his boxers. you can tell from the background that he’s in his motorhome, settled in his room.

his hair is a disheveled mess, sticking up haphazardly. he more than likely just got out of the shower, as the fabric of the tee clung to his toned frame. underneath his eyes were two faint circles, the skin slightly puffy.

yet, here he was, calling you at god knew what hour just to hear the sound of your voice.

"tired. very fucking tired."

"i can imagine so," you nod, typing along at your laptop, "what time is it there?"

he hums, leaning over his phone, "it's about eleven thirty?"

"max!" your eyes widen, "you need to get some sleep. it's qualifying tomorrow!"

"and?" he counters, arching a brow, "i wanted to hear how your day went. from your messages, it seemed like it was quite eventful."

"i'm just wrapping up my notes now," you exhale, your shoulders slumping slightly, "it was a long day."

"i can imagine my baby," he coos, settling underneath the covers, "tell me all about it."

"i can assure you being a case worker is not nearly as riveting as a formula one driver," you snort, shaking your head, "you go first."

"nope," he was not budging, his attention still fixated solely on you, "tell me about your day, and then i'll share about mine. it's only fair."

"well," you wrinkle your nose, glancing over the open document on your laptop screen, "my day started with one of my clients experiencing a small crisis. she was without food so she called me, asking if i could take her to the nearest pantry. while i was with her, another client of mine called asking if i could transport him to his appointment.

i probably could have, but he reached out to me only fifteen minutes before his appointment time. i received my new staffing form today. i have a couple of clients who are in need of housing so i had to make some calls to some local agencies."

"and how did that go?" you can't help but feel heat flourishing into your cheeks at the intrigue laced in his tone, "were you able to make some progress?"

"not really," you inhale sharply, "housing is really difficult to find right now. it's sort of like when your tires are giving out, but you need them to last a few more laps. you have to remain hopeful so that you can keep pushing."

“i like that analogy,” he fights a yawn, but continues regardless, “that’s a good one. i’m going to use that.”

“as long as you credit me,” you muse, clicking your mousepad as you finalize your note, “how was practice today?”

“so-so,” he chirps, “i missed you a lot today. thought about you nearly every second of the practice session. you’re flying out next week, right?”

you nod, shutting your laptop, “yes. i’ll be leaving wednesday evening and catching a late flight. hopefully when i land, there will be this insanely handsome dutch man waiting for me.”

“is that right?” max’s dimples appear, causing your heart to skip a beat, “i’m hoping that my good luck charm arrives safe and sound. i can’t wait to see her.”

“counting down the minutes are we?”

“you have no idea,” carefully, he plucks his phone from his makeshift stand, bringing you closer into the bed with him, “will you stay on till i fall asleep?”

at his request, there’s a tug at your heart. fuck, if only you were with him. then he would have been able to lay on you until he dozed off. his head would have been snuggled into uour collabone, your hands tangled in his hair, playing with it as his chest steadily rose and fell.

if only you were there. if only you were an influencer or a model. if only you could take work with you, dropping everything to fly all over the world. if only you weren’t separated by time zones, where you had to carefully coordinate facetime calls.

if only you weren’t long distance, then maybe you wouldn’t feel like this.

if only.

“hey,” max’s voice is merely a whisper, “are you okay?”

your lower lip trembles, tears welling up, threatening to spill over. there’s a choking sound, as you attempt to suppress a sob.

yet, it was too late. they were streaming down your cheeks now, your hands instinctively shielding your face.

“baby,” max murmurs, “what’s going on?”

“this shit sucks,” you shake your head, the words strained, “i hate that i’m not with you right now. i hate that we’re long distance. i hate that i have to stay here and—“

“but your clients need you,” his tone is delicate, “you’re the one person they can count on when everything else is going to shit. they need you like i need you. i can tell you had a long day baby, but i’m here. i’m here for you, no matter what.”

“i-i love you,” you manage to sputter out, wiping your cheeks, “i love you, max.”

“and i love you more than you’ll ever know,” in the frame, a pillow is held against his chest, “i’m even cuddling this pillow right now pretending that it’s you.”

“i can’t believe you fell in love with some plain girl from the states,” you sigh, resting your head against the couch cushion, “out of everyone in the world, you happened to fall in love with me.”

“you’re not just any girl from the states,” for a moment, you’re shocked at the firmness in his tone, “you’re my girl. it takes someone special to do what you do. you’re my hero baby. i aspire to be as strong as you.”

“i love you,” the corners of your lips curl into a quaint smile, “am i really your hero?”

“of course,” it doesn’t even take him a second to respond, “like i said, you’re the strongest person i know. you inspire me.”

“i can’t wait to see you,” you murmur, taking note of the way his eyes were drooping, “i’ll stay on till you sleep, my love. it seems like you need it.”

“hey,” one eye opens, barely a slit, “i know this shit sucks right now, but we’ll make it. okay? one day you’ll get to come home to me and tell me all about your day rather than calling. it’ll be worth it. i promise.”

“i hope so. i love you, maxie. sleep well, my love. i’ll be there before you know it.”

“try to have a good evening,” you could barely make out the statement, as he was beginning to doze off, “just end the call when i’m asleep. i’ll message you in the morning.”

“i’ll be here,” opening your laptop, you prop it against the screen, “goodnight, maxie.”

“night, night, baby.”

as sleep takes a hold of the dutch driver, you remain on the call, opening youtube. cautiously, you click on one of your favorite videos. it’s a montage of all of max’s wins, starting from the 2016 spanish grand prix.

the video begins to play, the volume carefully adjusted so that it doesn’t wake him.

as your gaze shifts to your phone once again, you can’t help but hear his words ringing in your ears.

one day this would all be worth it.

and one day, max verstappen would be able to be with his hero.

every single day for the rest of his life.

[scoupsakakitty]

LOOOOOVE YOUR BLOG i'm literally obsessed with idol!scoups fics and u r soooo good in writing them <333

not sure if you are open to requests but in case that you are, i'd love to see an angsty one with idol!scoups, maybe one where they fight ??? and cheol has to go on tour or work or something so they're not okay for quite a while and make up once he gets home :(((

Silent Apologies | idol!Scoups x Reader | angst, fluff

The argument had started over something small—something stupid, really—but it had escalated far beyond what either of them expected.

"You always do this, Seungcheol!" Y/N's voice wavered with frustration as she stood in the middle of their living room, arms crossed tightly over her chest. "You shut me out, and then you expect me to just be okay with it!"

Seungcheol ran a hand through his hair, his patience already frayed. "Because I don’t want to fight with you, Y/N! I’m exhausted, I have so much on my plate, and the last thing I need is another argument!"

"So what? You think I don’t get tired too? That I don’t have feelings?" Her voice cracked slightly, but she refused to let it show any weakness. "You act like you're the only one who has problems, but you're never here anymore!"

His jaw clenched. "You knew what you were getting into when we started this! My schedule isn’t something I can just change!"

"I'm not asking you to change it, Seungcheol! I'm asking you to at least talk to me about it instead of pushing me away!"

He exhaled sharply, looking away. "I can't do this right now."

Y/N scoffed, hurt flashing across her face. "Of course you can’t. You always run away the second things get hard."

That was the last straw. His temper snapped. "You think I run away? I do everything I can to keep this together! I'm trying my best, Y/N! But maybe my best isn't enough for you!"

Silence followed his outburst, thick and suffocating. The words hung between them like a wound neither could take back. Y/N swallowed, blinking away the sting in her eyes. "Maybe it’s not."

The finality in her voice made Seungcheol’s stomach drop, but he was too proud—too angry—to reach for her. Instead, he turned on his heel, grabbing his jacket. "I have a flight to catch."

Y/N watched as he walked to the door. "Fine. Go."

The door slammed behind him.

The flight to Indonesia felt longer than it should have. Seungcheol sat in his seat, staring blankly at the screen in front of him, but all he could think about was her. The look in her eyes before he left. The way her voice had cracked. The way he had let his anger win instead of fixing things.

His chest ached with regret.

By the time the concert rolled around, he was running on autopilot. His members noticed. His energy was off. His mind wasn’t there. Even as he stood in front of thousands of fans, singing and dancing like he’d done a hundred times before, his heart wasn’t in it. Because his heart was somewhere else.

With her.

When the final song ended and the cheers filled the venue, Seungcheol barely let the sound settle before he rushed backstage. He ignored the cameras, the staff, the lingering adrenaline. He needed to get home.

Y/N had spent the last two days drowning in her own guilt. She hated the way they had left things, hated the last words they had exchanged.

What if something happened to him while he was away? What if those words were the last thing they ever said to each other?

The thought alone had made her sick to her stomach. So, instead of wallowing in regret, she did what she could to make things right. She cleaned the apartment from top to bottom, made sure everything was perfect. And then, she cooked. She made all of Seungcheol’s favorite dishes, the ones he always craved after long flights. Because she knew that he would come back to her.

And then, as if her heart had called out to him, the front door swung open.

Seungcheol stood there, exhausted and breathless, his suitcase slipping from his fingers and hitting the floor with a dull thud. But Y/N didn’t care about that.

She ran to him.

His arms were around her in seconds, crushing her against his chest as if he was afraid she might disappear if he let go. "I'm so sorry," he murmured into her hair. "I shouldn't have left like that. I shouldn't have said what I did."

Tears pricked at her eyes as she buried her face in his shoulder. "I was so worried about you. I hated the way we ended things."

"Me too," he admitted, pulling back just enough to cup her face in his hands. His thumbs brushed over her cheeks, his gaze soft but filled with remorse. "I never want to fight like that again."

She nodded, leaning into his touch. "Me neither."

A small smile tugged at her lips as she grabbed his hand, pulling him toward the kitchen. "Come on, I made your favorite."

Seungcheol's eyes softened even more when he saw the food on the table. "You really made all this?"

She bit her lip, suddenly shy. "I just… I wanted to do something for you."

His heart swelled with affection. "You didn’t have to, but thank you."

They sat down together, the tension of the past few days melting away as they ate. Seungcheol kept reaching for her hand between bites, as if he needed to remind himself that she was still there, that they were okay.

And they were.

Because no matter how bad the fights got, no matter how far apart they were, they always found their way back to each other.

[xjulixred45x]

Mark x male viltrumite reader. Where reader is sent to earth instead of Anissa since he is closer to marks age. With orders to get close to mark and spy on his progress. But starts to grow closer to mark and the earth.

WOOOOOOOooo-DRAMA! I LOVE THIS!

Also, unrelated, but defo Mark (of the series at least) give me HUGE Bisexual vibes

Mark Grayson/Invencible x Viltrimite! Reader

Genre: Headcanons

Reader: male

Warnings: spoilers from Both the comics and the series of Invencible, Reader has ISSUES and problems, but gets character devemplot, Viltrume culture, violence. Comfort/Fluff in the end.

• The Viltrumite empire was going through a great crisis. Well, maybe not to the same level of crisis as the plague, but it was definitely enough to make a big fuss. The reader found out because it was the most interesting thing they had had in many years.

• A Viltrum agent had not only withdrawn from his assigned mission on a primitive planet, but his son (an almost pure Viltrumite) seemed to refuse to continue with the mission (it seemed due to some kind of affection towards the species of that world. How absurd)

• For the same reason, there was a debate about who should be sent to check the boy's progress (if he made any progress in conquest) on the Earth.

• One of the first choices was Anissa, an elite warrior who everyone respected. However, the reader could not miss the opportunity to see such a unique case, curiosity was killing him. He then used his best charms to convince Thragg to let him go.

• Much to Anissa's chagrin, the quest was designed for the reader.

• However, what they didn't take into account was the peculiar way in which the reader planned to monitor the young Viltrumite.

• The earth was… .primitive. not Bad. Just primitive . It was what he expected, but it was suitable enough to blend in among the humans Grayson loved so much. From there, he would form his plan...

• Mark was having the worst week of his life.

• First the whole situation with Armstrong, his father, and now the Viltrumites may be coming after him and his family, his girlfriend broke up with him, he decided to leave school to focus solely on being a hero and he honestly felt miserable.

• Until one day, things changed.

• He was waiting for William at the fast food place, just wanting to have a “normal” time before getting back to the action. However, William seemed to be “fashionably late.”

• In those moments, while Mark was simply staring into space, thinking about his things, someone spoke to him. Or well, it seemed like he had already tried to talk to him and he hadn't realized. He was so tired...

• "-Hey! Are you okay man?”

• When Mark realized this, he turned to see a boy around his age, who looked confused at his lack of response, almost worried.

• Mark apologized for that and he and the guy (who is called “reader” apparently) had a friendly chat while he waited.

• He seemed like a very positive boy, a bit of that enthusiasm rubbed off on Mark. Reader said he came from out of state, wasn't on very good terms with his family, and wanted to basically start over in the city.

• Even if Mark was a little worried about the detached way the boy talked about his family, it felt good to talk to him. So when he offered to exchange numbers, he didn't really put up any resistance.

• How bad can it be to have a friend? At least he wanted to have one that wouldn't get screwed because of his superhero job...

• William eventually arrived, but when Mark was about to introduce him to the reader, he had already left. Queer. But then again, he was so tired lately that reader could have left while he didn't notice.

• Meanwhile, reader looked from the top of a water tower, playing a little with his phone's camera to focus on Mark and William leaving the premises, smiling to himself, before taking flight as quickly as possible in the opposite direction.

• Oh, Mark, you're in big trouble~

• From there, Mark and reader would chat relatively often, reader making sure to have a context consistent with his “situation” on earth. Whether it's to see some place in the city, to try some kind of food, even reader discovered that human sports are fun to watch! The more Blood, the better.

• Mark didn't really think Reader's behavior was strange, I mean yes, he ate a lot more than the average person, and he loved to scream in contact games (and scream very violently) but those were normal things in NORMAL guys, right?

• What was definitely not normal was that every time he and Reader went out in public, almost always, something happened where they needed Invincible, Mark swore it was just his damn luck again. Like when he was on dates with Amber, now was when he finally had a social life—

• The thing is that, it wasn't like that, the reader thoroughly studied all the villains in the city, memorized the possible dates of their robberies, and so he could see Invincible in action, it was incredible. His own source of entertainment (WHILE accomplishing your mission!)

• What he don't expect, though, was that at some point, this would stop feeling... good.

• There was one time, when they went to a park, that a villain was especially rude to Mark- I mean, to Invincible. Reader could see how the villain almost pulverized the bones in his left arm, the pain on Mark's face.

• And he no longer felt satisfaction.

• He felt guilt.

• Why was he putting him through that? Clearly this Viltrumite cannot carry out the invasion, he should have noticed that immediately (no, he NOTICED it immediately, but he was so into it out of curiosity and now he got attached--) and go back to the Viltrumites.

• Why did he feel that way? Why now?

• Why did he now feel empathy when Mark told him how conflicted he was about the future?

• Why did he get excited about these silly human activities?

• Why did he start avoiding places where Mark could get hurt when they went out again? Why did he feel bad lying to him?

• Oh no…no no no no no NO-

• Mark had seen many, many strange things, but seeing his new friend, fly through the skull of a sea monster, was definitely a lot to take in one day.

• But that wasn't even the worst thing, the worst thing was that he was wearing a Viltrumite uniform.

• And his whole world stopped. He didn't even feel angry or betrayed, just disappointed. He wanted to be disappointed. Stay away from him even if he was calling him, calling him by his name.

• Despite this, he did not resist when reader grabbed his hand trying to stop him, when he looked up, he did not see a crazy bloodthirsty warrior, not even someone like his father.

• He saw someone sad, regretful, a reader with the world in pieces...

• Because he realized that everything he ever learned, believed in, was wrong.

• Mark had been there before, in his position.

• he couldn't hate him, he couldn't leave him. He wouldn't do it.

• If we jump to the relationship headcanons directly, leaving aside the rocky start, you can bet there would still be drama.

• First of all, Debbie is quite skeptical about letting the reader live with her, Mark and Oliver, but seeing that he was now reduced to a kicked puppy made it easier.

• Mark tries to guide the reader in aspects of Earth culture that he couldn't before, now that he knows his context he can better teach him those concepts (things like his childhood memories, entertainment, ways of getting energy that don't involve killing the other person , etc.)

• To no one's surprise, Mark is very insistent that the reader not talk to Russel, he knows that if he finds out that there is another Viltrumite they will most likely want to open him up to see his weaknesses, so no.

• I think one of the best ways to bond with these two is to play video games, since then the reader can “fight” without really having to hurt themselves and thus learns to change their competitive nature.

• Reader is definitely the more flirtatious of the two, I don't set the rules, Mar doesn't really know how he does it until he remembers that Reader is probably much older than he looks (now he would like to forget that).

• Since they're both super humans, they get to spend a lot more time together (other than missions) and Mark honestly likes seeing the reader's expressions when they visit a new country. He was so used to all the planets looking the same, he didn't expect so much culture from such a small planet!

• Of course, just because the reader is working on being less violent does not mean that he has stopped fighting completely, sometimes Mark calls it as reinforcement, sometimes they both decide to train together.

• Ironically the greatest strength of their relationship is in domestic acts.

• Mark has taught the reader how to cook! Something like that, at least he doesn't cut the entire cutting board anymore. They even have a race to see who eats the fastest. Needless to say, the reader usually wins.

• At first, reader is very, very confused with physical affection, Mark would try to hug him from behind and he would Suplex him. But that is precisely the consequences of growing up with the Viltrumites.

• Now, ironically, reader is stuck to Mark like a tick, and Mark honestly adores him, he seems like a clingy dog. Except that said dog will rip your hand off if you insult Mark in front of him (he still finds it cute).

• There are times when the reader can't sleep, Mark feels like he walks from one side of his room to the other, how he sometimes falls out of bed, and he honestly doesn't blame him. He also has night terrors.

• sometimes Reader just looks behind and regrets EVERY day he didn't get away before, before he did those things, before he destroy so many's peoples lifes. No matter how many times Marks tell him he didn't know better, the Blood is something he NEVER loses ...

• So sometimes they just go into the living room, with a big bowl of ice cream, and cuddle until they're asleep. A nice domestic moment.

• Wow, no wonder Nolan left the mission. Love feels great.

• In general, a couple that has many battles ahead of them, but they will know how to resolve them. Together.

Shares, reblogs and comments are very welcome!

Mark really said "i can fix him" and it worked💀

[letsbangts]

baby, please come home || jjk

⤷ summary: when he's the only thing you want for Christmas

⟶ pairing: jungkook x reader

⟶ word count: 1.2k+

⟶ genre: fluff, angst (just a sprinkle), married couple au, established relationship au, christmas themed

⟶ content: husband!jk, dad!jk, pregnant!oc, oc is a slightly emotional expecting mother (eight months along), and koo being a deticated expecting father

⟶ warnings: none just some fluff with a dash of angst to make it sentimental because it's the holidays

↬ a/n: this isn't what I thought I would write for this request and I wasn't going to do it so soon but I got inspired & I thought it would make cute drabble so to everyone who reads hope you enjoy and let me know what you think! :) angel xoxo

˖⁺. ༶ NOW PLAYING ༶ .⁺˖ christmas (baby please come home) mariah carey 01:43 ─✮───── 03:07 ⇆ ⊲ II ⊳ ↺ ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮

masterlist ˚.⋆˚.⋆˚.⋆ join my taglist

The snow is coming down all around you as if encased in a snow globe. You watch it fall around you as it makes its way to add to the thick layer already accumulated on the ground beneath your feet. You walk through the Christmas market, looking at the stalls and decorations. Your eyes glance at the bodies around you: families, friends, lovers — surrounded by many people, except for the one you want beside you the most.

The church bells ring, blending with the happy sounds of the town’s excitement buzzing in your ears. You finally make your way to the heart of the town square; the carolers begin singing ‘Deck The Halls’ just as you arrive. The usual holiday cheer you would feel is absent, along with the person who brings that joy.

Your mind takes you back to this day last year and all the fun it held, all the memories made together. Sipping hot chocolate with his arm wrapped around you, the hand-holding with both your hands stuffed in his coat pocket, and your cold lips pressed against each other to warm them with sweet kisses.

As you gaze up at the enormous Christmas tree adorned with pretty lights like those shining all around the town, the loss of the new memories you should be making together this year creates a lump in your throat. He should be here with you, with both of you.

You pull out your phone and tap his contact; the phone rings for a few seconds before Jungkook’s face appears on the screen. A bright smile on his face that rivals all the lights around you. His face is so close to the camera that you can’t see anything behind him, but the snowflakes in his hair, paired with his red cheeks and nose from the cold, just like yours, show that he is also outside.

You can’t help but smile back at him, although it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. As much as seeing him brings you happiness, you can’t help but feel a touch of melancholy that his presence can only be through the phone.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

“Hey, baby. I wanted to show you the tree this year; it keeps getting bigger, I swear.”  

You hold the phone out and lower it, trying to fit the whole tree behind you in the screen.

“Whoa, that thing is massive! I’d hate to be the person who had to wrap the lights on it; there must be at least ten thousand on it.”

You giggle at Jungkook’s remark as you raise the phone to speak to him.

“It’s so pretty here, Kook. I wish you could see it in person,” you say with a sad smile.

“I doubt it’s anywhere near as pretty as you, but I wish I were there too, darling. I tried everything I could to find a flight back in time, but as you can imagine, I wasn’t the only one trying to make it back home for the holidays.”

“I know, but it’s unfair for them to send you away for work so close to Christmas. Then, to extend it even more, it’s as if they were plotting to keep you away,” you pout.

“It is unfair, and trust me, I pleaded my case to the airline agents to please let me get home to my adorable pregnant wife for Christmas, but it didn’t seem to work on them. They’re all Grinches, I swear,” he tries to lighten the mood and continues, “Speaking of which, how are my two favourite girls doing? Let me see!”

You hold the phone out again to angle the camera to show your eight-month-pregnant belly. You sigh as you rub a hand over it.

“We’re good, just missing you. She hasn’t been kicking as much; I swear she knows that Daddy isn’t here.”

“I miss you both, too, but I’ll be back before you know it, and we can celebrate then.”

“But it’s Christmas Day; I need you here. It is our first one as a family, and we’re not whole without you. I wish there were a way for you to come home, baby,” your voice cracks as you look away from the screen, trying to hold back tears.

Jungkook catches a glimpse of your tear-filled eyes gleaming under the lights and sighs. The cold weather allows you to see his breath as it floats in the air.

“Hey, you know I would do anything to be there with both of you.”

You catch him glancing up over his phone before he continues.

“Now, don’t cry. You look too beautiful standing by the tree, surrounded by all the decorations like a Christmas angel, to feel sad. The old man selling cookies will be offended; he’ll think you don’t like their smell if he sees you,” he smiles to cheer you up.

You wipe your tears and sniffle as you softly laugh. You look around, trying to find said man, until you eventually spot his stall emitting the delicious aroma, selling gingerbread and sugar cookies.

You furrow your brows once everything processes in your head. You look back at Jungkook on the screen.

“Wait, h-how did you know that?”

“I’m quite aware of how beautiful my wife is,” he chuckles.

“No, I mean, how did you know there is a cookie stall in front of me, and an old man is running it? You can’t even see it. Did the camera flip, and I didn’t notice?”

A hand taps your shoulder, and you jolt at the sudden touch before turning around. Your eyes widen, and a gasp escapes your mouth as you come face to face with Jungkook. Your husband’s smiling face is no longer on the screen, but right before you, and your hand holding the phone falls to your side. He opens his arms wide for a hug as you stare at him like a deer caught in headlights.

“But you just—when—how did you get here?” you stutter in shock.

Jungkook laughs, and when he sees you make no move to come into his embrace, he steps forward and pulls you into his arms. You snap out of your daze and immediately wrap your arms around him.

He kisses your forehead, “I told you I would do anything to be here with both of you,” he whispers in your hair.

“But there were no flights,” you mumble into his chest.

“Yeah, but there were still some bus tickets available. It might have been a much longer journey, but I had to be sure I was here,” Jungkook pulls back, holds your stomach with both hands and leans down and kisses it before looking up at you, “There was no way I would miss spending Christmas with my family.”

He returns to a stand, and you run your fingers through his hair before your hands settle at the nape of his neck. You gaze into each other’s eyes and lean in for a long-awaited kiss.

You break apart just enough to whisper over his lips, “I love you so much. Merry Christmas, Kook.”

“I love you, too. Merry Christmas, Y/N,” he whispers back, lips brushing over yours.

You lean back in for a passionate kiss but are interrupted by a kick to your belly. You both break apart with a gasp.

“Did she just?” Jungkook asks with a smile.

“It seems we’re both happy that you came home,” you laugh.

Jungkook joins your laughter as he takes your stomach back into his grasp and leans back down, giving it another peck before he whispers, “And I love you, too. Merry Christmas, my little angel.”

↬ a/n: there you go just a little drabble for you all to snack on before mutt pt2 ;)

[saetoshi]

i know who my first call will be to — sae misses home more than he thought he would

Itoshi Sae’s heart stays behind in Spain whenever he leaves for overseas matches.

An absurd notion, most certainly. Ridiculous, in every sense that exists to the word. So unbelievable, in fact, that he still has a hard time believing it himself.

Nevertheless, it remains the only explanation behind the ache in his chest whenever he goes to sleep in an empty hotel bed. It’s why his meal times are dull and monotonous; why he finds himself pushing past his bedtime to remain glued to his phone, listening to you recounting your day.

Sae isn’t sure if you know it — how he desperately yearns to remain by your side. And if you do, you’re good at hiding it (he likes to think it’s for his sake).

His grip on his phone tightens just enough, a soft hum rumbling in his throat as he absentmindedly agrees with something you said.

When you lean closer to the screen, Sae nuzzles into his pillow, holding it tight as he pretends it’s you instead. You cup your chin with your hand, looking away as you trail off mid-sentence.

“I miss you,” he says, quiet and soft and so, so unlike himself, filling the faintest gap of silence.

Your eyes flit back, meeting his own through the screen. Sae has to strain to catch the soft exhale that leaves your lips. Then, you smile — gentle and (somehow) pitying at the same time.

“You’ll be home soon enough,” you say, your tone full of warmth.

“I want to be home now,” he replies, almost petulant as the pillowcase slightly muffles his words. His gaze softens when you do. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” you whisper, lightly poking the camera in a manner that has him instinctively scrunching up his nose. You tilt your head to the side, studying half of his face as best you can through a phone.

“My flight back is on Saturday,” Sae says, studying your face in return.

“I know. Want me to pick you up?”

“I land around midnight,” he mumbles. “I don’t want to keep you up—”

“Sae.”

The tips of his ears burn, embarrassment painting his cheeks red when your eyes meet. After a beat, he huffs in complaint, his brows furrowing. Still, your gaze softens; and he melts almost instantly.

He sniffles, lightly shifting onto his side. “I want you to pick me up from the airport,” he clarifies, trying to will a little firmness into his voice.

“Hm,” there’s a fuzzy feeling in his chest, fluttering and clinging to every corner at your soft hum. It further roots itself into him when you grin. “I’ll think about it.”

“What’ll it take for you to say yes?” he asks, trying to bite back a smile. He nuzzles into his pillow when you lean back, pretending to be deep in thought.

God, he misses you so bad. He misses being near you with every bone in his body.

“A kiss, maybe. If you want.”

Sae rolls his eyes, fondness buzzing in his chest. “I thought you were going to be more ambitious than that.”

You shrug, nonchalant, “I’ll max out your card when you get home.”

“Mm.” Sae rolls onto his other side, switching his phone to his free hand. “That sounds more like you,” he mumbles, soft.

The corners of his eyes crinkle when you guffaw, quickly defending yourself against his claim. His expression softens impossibly so — he’s sure the press would have a field day if they saw him like this. (Part of him thinks he wouldn’t care if they did; you’re the reason behind it, anyway).

“I wanna go home.”

“You’re staying in France for, like, two more days. You’ll be fine, Sae.”

He rolls his eyes, picking at the edges of his phone case. “Have you washed the bedsheets yet?”

“Yesterday,” you reply, absentminded. “Why?”

“Just wondering,” Sae murmurs, hushed. “Did you use the detergent I like?”

“Yeah?”

He makes a soft noise, “I hope you know I’m collapsing on our bed when I get home.”

“I don’t—”

“And I’m bringing you down with me.”

A soft, amused huff leaves his lips at your expression. His eyes narrow just a little, the action fond and affectionate in nature. When you sputter, Sae scrunches up his nose. He wishes he could kiss the frown off your lips.

“Whatever,” you grumble, softly clicking your tongue. “You’re lucky I miss you.”

“I miss you more,” Sae whispers, soft and gentle and so, so unlike himself. He supposes his demeanor is your fault — his heart turned to mush the moment he gave it to you. The thought is stupid and utterly asinine, truly.

Still, Sae doesn’t mind. He believes it more and more, letting it take root in his soul every time you brighten up at his tender, ‘I love you’s.

[idea-explorer]

[sunsetcupid]

IN SWEETNESS ; IH6.

synopsis: In a moment of pure coincidence, Y/N L/N discovers a hidden box under the bed, with photographs of Isack Hadjar from when he was a child.

trigger warnings: Use of Y/N; Use of feminine pronouns from the reader’s perspective. Other than that, pure fluff.

a message from the author: This actually just happened to a friend of mine, and she told me about it. Inspiration struck and this basically wrote itself. I love Isack Hadjar. The title comes from “Robin” by Taylor Swift; I was listening to it while I wrote this. Hope you enjoy reading this!

You would swear in front of a judge and jury if you had to, but you swore you didn’t mean to find it. Honestly.

You wanted to turn on the season finale of Stranger Things, and had accidentally knocked the remote off of the bedside table. With a beleaguered sigh, you had set upon your quest to recover it from the void. And suddenly, your fingers had touched a mysterious plastic surface – the lid of a faded brown box, which had been tucked under the bed where you slept with your boyfriend, Isack Hadjar.

There was a heavy layer of dust that suggested that it had been left undisturbed for a very long time. 

When you discovered this secret treasure, your curiosity was piqued. Not to mention, you were incredibly surprised. Isack was typically so open with you in every aspect of his life, even the uncomfortable parts. So, it begged the question: what did Isack have that was so secret he felt that the only spot safe enough was hidden below the bed, where chances were extremely slim that you would unearth it?

You did a quick, furtive glance behind you to see where Isack was, but he was still unaware of what mischievous activities you were engaging in. Your boyfriend was busy chatting away on the phone in rapid-fire French; probably about the latest football match that he had nearly pulled out all his hair from. (It was hilarious, and you thought you might have broken a rib from laughing so hard.)

Quickly, you peeled back the protective case, wincing when the sharp edge snagged at your skin. You eagerly began rifling through the box’s contents. Obviously, there was a mountain pile of more dust, which made you sneeze twice and warranted another check over your shoulder. Somehow, Isack was still oblivious, and you stifled a chuckle.

A fan of papers were wedged at the bottom, some glossy and others matte. You picked up the first one your fingers touched, your eyebrows shooting up when you realized what it was. 

A photograph, from probably a dozen years ago. Isack had to be at least eight or nine years old, with his curly brown hair spilling over his forehead like a bowl of pasta and chubby cheeks that made you squeal with joy. His hands were on his chin, and he was gazing at something you couldn’t see in the photograph. He was absolutely adorable, and you pressed the paper against your chest.

The other photos you had found were from other stages in Isack’s life, but none crossed his teenage years. One was of Isack lifting a golden trophy that was nearly taller than him, a medal slung around his neck, a grin splitting his face as he cheered in victory. It was like he was glowing, positively radiant, as if he were the Sun. Two other boys stood to the sides of him, more muted in their excitement. 

The next photograph you inspected was a young Isack with a camera clasped in his hands, a scarf obscuring part of his face, his chestnut brown puppy-dog eyes peeking through. You fumbled through the box, searching for more, and then –

“So. You found it.”

Your heart jackrabbited in your chest, and you jumped so high you almost took flight. “Oh my God! Isack. I didn’t mean to – it’s not what it looks like – I wasn’t trying to –” you stammered, unable to form a coherent sentence. You were caught red-handed, and your cheeks blazed in a mixture of embarrassment and guilt.

Isack kneeled down, propping himself up next to you. “I forgot about this box. My father gave it to me as a birthday present years ago.”

“Yeah?” you murmured softly, looking at the picture you still had in your hand. “You look adorable in each and every one of them. It should be illegal.”

Isack kissed you on the forehead, lips feather-light. “Vous le pensez?”

“Of course.” You picked up a leftover photograph – one you hadn’t seen yet. Isack was sitting in a bright crimson go-kart, his eyebrows furrowed as he focused on the upcoming race. His father was angled beside him, giving him advice in his ear. “Look at this, Isack. It’s so precious. I have a horrendous case of cuteness aggression right now.”

Isack laughed, his expression slightly wistful. “I remember when that photograph was taken. It was right before my second race, and I was terrified.”

“Yeah, and then you kicked everyone’s ass,” you shot back. “Like a little French speed demon.”

Isack cocked his head. “I’m not exactly sure I did, but thank you.”

“Always.” You pecked him on the cheek. “I’m sorry, though. This could have been sensitive stuff, and I just intruded without caring.”

Isack shook his head. “Don’t apologize. I wouldn’t have been mad anyway; I don’t want to have secrets between us.”

“I know, that’s why I was surprised.” You bit your lip. “But this is a lovable secret to have kept. I’ve seen loads of them, but it’ll never be enough. Your baby pictures are the sweetest thing ever.”

Isack scoffed. “I’m not a baby in this. I have to be at least ten years old.”

“You’re tiny! I could pick you up in my hands and cuddle you!” you protested loudly.

“Then prove it,” he said as he puffed his chest up. 

You dropped the picture, letting it float down to the ground like a loose flower petal. With your arms outstretched, you jumped on his lap and crashed your lips against his. “I love you, Isack. I think all of these photos – they really solidified what I already knew about you.”

“Oui? And what was that?” Isack inquired, his voice gentle. 

You met his eyes. “That you’re an angel, and I don’t know what I would ever do without you.”

“Merci, ma chérie.” Isack hummed in the shell of your ear, breath tickling hot against your skin. “Je t’aime. But! Now you have to show me some more of your photos. Then we will be equal.”

“Deal!”

Credits: Dividers — @thecutestgrotto

[ixloom819]

Showdown (P3)

Here’s the next part of the Yan!Sylus series! Please look at past posts for trigger warnings :)

The next few weeks have felt like hell for you, more than usual.

You wanted to stay in ignorance. You wanted to pretend that murder wasn’t happening outside the walls of the base, murder that wasn’t brought to pass by your information.

But you needed to make sure Sylus kept his word. You needed to hold him accountable. And maybe it was a way to keep yourself accountable too, to make clear to you your sins. Sylus protested at first, but you two shared the same weakness: you couldn’t say no to the other for long.

It didn’t take long for Xavier to confront Sylus. He had approached the base, clad in the visage of Lumiere. You had watched the scene through the camera feed. Sylus tried to persuade you from it, but it was the only way you could be sure what happened. You didn’t dare leave it up to your imagination.

Xavier demanded to know what happened that day. You couldn’t decide whether it was kindness or cruelty that led Sylus to tell Xavier the truth.

But to his credit, Sylus didn’t taunt him like he could have, given the knowledge you had given him. He did offer him mercy: a chance to walk away and live the rest of his life the way MC would have wanted him to.

But you both had known he wouldn’t take that offer. A man with an unfixable deadline doesn’t fear death, and Xavier didn’t run from this fight.

It was one thing to see the love interests fight against Wanderers with MC. It was another thing to see two different love interests fighting against each other with the intention to kill.

There were some things that Xavier did that you hadn’t known about and you did feel a spike of anxiety when he seemed to get an upper hand on Sylus.

But Sylus was stronger now than he was in game. What he didn’t know from you, he was able to improvise on the spot. Watching him in a fight helped you realize how Sylus ruled the N109 Zone.

At the end, Sylus was victorious, Xavier on the ground and unable to get up. You had watched the video with bated breath. Would Sylus break his word? Would the video cut out, leaving Xavier’s fate unknown to you?

But no. Sylus had pulled out his phone and minutes later, Luke and Kieran had come with a stretcher, loading Xavier on it and carting him away.

Sylus explained to you that they had flown Xavier back to Linkon to receive medical attention. He even showed other video footage and records of the helicopter flight and medical bills.

At that moment, your heart swelled for him. Sylus truly was going against his violent nature to appease you, even if it might make problems later. How could you doubt that love, no matter how twisted it may be?

Caleb’s elimination was more subtle. Sylus had contacts and important figureheads under his influence within the Farspace Fleet (of course he did). Not only that, but Onychinus helped provide weapons, both by legal and illegal matters. It wasn’t difficult to get the higher ups in the Fleet to dismiss Caleb’s concerns and demands for action.

Sylus would get reports regarding Caleb; incident reports about his increased aggression, unauthorized use of surveillance equipment, and his increasing insistence to reopen the case on Onychinus. Though you could only see it through an official filter, the conflict seemed to grow and climax-

Until it stopped. According to the reports, Caleb went from being incredibly unstable to the perfect soldier, doing every mission effectively and not diverting his attention anywhere else.

That scared you more than the previous reports. An outwardly hostile Caleb could be taken into account. But a Caleb where everything seemed normal when it shouldn’t be? That spoke danger to you, something that seemed like it would hit you when you least expected it.

It didn’t help your paranoia that Rafayel didn’t seem to be very active either. There’d be sightings of him, sometimes very near the base, but they wouldn’t last long, and he’d be gone before anyone got to him. You knew he wasn’t going to let this go - the only exception to Rafayel’s hatred for humanity was MC after all. So that meant he was either playing a long game, or he was much better at going undetected than he’d have you believe.

You had a constant creeping feeling, like there were eyes on you. It wasn’t hard imagining Caleb watching you through whatever spyware he used to keep track of MC. Every flickering shadow caught your eye and took the form of a silhouette, making you tense up each time. It got to the point where you avoided the windows and all but clung to Sylus when he wasn’t busy dealing with security threats or regular business.

You considered this place your new home, the safest place for you in this world. Yet even that didn’t feel safe now.

Sylus easily caught on to your fears and was always there to reassure you. He’d spend any time he could afford in your company. He’d constantly reassure you of the base’s security and any progress he and the twins had made. He even joined you in some activities, like making treats and cuddling during a movie.

It had been hard imagining things going back to the way they were when Sylus had told you that he had killed MC. Such a thing should be unforgivable, especially for the one he had waited lifetimes to be with again. Yet, when he looked at you with such tenderness and love, when everything he did was for the purpose of protecting you, when he went against his violent nature and what he thought would best eliminate the problem for your peace of mind? You found it nigh impossible to hold a grudge against him, to avoid melting into his embrace.

Somehow amid all the chaos, you found yourself loving him more than ever.

There was nothing to signify anything happening today. Sylus and you were on your way to the kitchen, hand in hand, to get a little snack after he’d been on his computer for a few hours. It was a brief moment when nothing weighed on your mind.

That’s when you felt it. The base rattled a bit. A second later, you heard something. Was that an explosion?

Sylus was instantly on high alert, head turned towards the sound. He looked back at you, and you could see the conflict in his eyes. You had the same going through your mind. You knew he needed to go there, that whatever caused the explosion needed to be dealt with. But you were also scared and didn’t want him to leave you.

Finally, he placed a kiss on the top of your head. “Go to our bedroom,” he said quietly, “I’ll be back soon.”

Swallowing your fears, you did your best to put on a brave face and nodded.

He hadn’t even made it ten steps before you felt a foreign body against you, quick as the wind, and something thin and sharp pressed against your throat. Your body froze, your breath hitched.

“C’mon, don’t do that…” a familiar voice drawled. Your heart quickened. Rafayel?!

Sylus instantly whirled around. You saw his eye widen, taking in the scene behind him, before they narrowed, resembling smoldering embers ready to set the ground ablaze.

“You’ll miss all the fun,” Rafayel finished, pressing the blade a bit harder against your throat. If his tone was anything to go off of, you’d say he was smiling. You tried to move away from it, but he kept you in place with his body.

“I suggest,” Sylus said slowly, “that you let her go. Now.” His voice seemed calm and controlled, yet you could hear the tension in it. It was the voice of the calm before the storm, a great force pressed against the barrier, ready to burst.

Rafayel hummed as if considering it. “No, I don’t think I will.” The playful tilt drained from his voice. “I’ve been watching you for a while. I’ve seen how much you care about this girl. You took my heart.” He pressed the blade further into your throat. “I think it’s only fair if I take yours.”

You felt a trickle of blood run down your neck.

You had thought a lot about what might happen if you died here. Maybe you’d go back to your own life, finding out this whole thing was a coma dream. Maybe you’d be brought to a different world. Maybe you’d go to whatever afterlife existed. Maybe you’d simply stop existing.

But in this moment, you couldn’t find yourself caring about any of that. You just knew that you were about to die, and you didn’t want to.

You were terrified.

You had to do something, anything, that would stop him.

Think, think-

“So you do remember!” you said loudly, far too loudly for the tension in the room.

Four eyes looked at you with utter confusion. It made you want to falter, to stop. But you couldn’t.

“Do you know what time it is?” you continued, hoping your voice didn’t betray your fear. “It’s been eight hundred years.” How did that stupid line go?! “Jellyfish are… walking naked, sea turtles are climbing trees, and sharks are eating grass for free. And now finally, finally you remember.”

Sylus was understandably looking at you like you had lost your mind. But if the growing tension in his body was anything to go by, Rafayel recognized your words. He pressed the knife harder against your throat.

“How do you know that?” he growled deeply.

You swallowed, which was hard with the knife against your windpipe. “…Because I was there. I can’t explain it in a way that makes sense, but I was there at the hospital. With her.”

The shift in his body should’ve told you to stop talking. But you had to keep going, had to get it all out. “I saw all your moments together. I know your past with her. I know that she was your heart and the one you’ve loved for centuries.”

Doing your best to ignore the knife, you turned your head upwards to meet Rafayel’s gaze. He was wearing his assassin’s outfit, so only his gorgeous pink-blue eyes were visible.

“I know how much you loved her,” you told him, trying to convey all your sincerity into your face and voice, “and I’m so sorry. I’m sorry because… I’m the reason she’s dead.”

You heard Sylus inhale sharply. “Don’t,” he said warningly.

Rafayel’s eyes narrowed, searching your face. “What do you mean?” he demanded.

You stood a steadying breath. “I’m… not supposed to be here. But I am. And I ended up being very selfish. I… took Sylus’ love that he had for her. If it wasn’t for me, he’d be happy with her. He also loved her in another life, and he would’ve been fine with being whatever she needed him to be as long as he could be by her side. I came and changed that.

“And that wasn’t even enough for me. I couldn’t… accept him while I believed there was another source of happiness… of love for him. So… he killed her. And I ended up taking your love too.”

The air was still, as if the fabric of the universe was taking in your confession.

“…Why tell me this?” Rafayel finally spoke. “Do you want me to kill you?”

Why were you smiling at that? “No,” you responded truthfully. “Even after knowing what I caused, I’m still selfish enough to want to live.” C’mon. “And… I think MC would want that too.”

Rafayel’s sharp breath was a warning. But you pressed on. “I got to know her for a little bit. Not super well, but enough to know she’s a kind individual. She wouldn’t want you killing me to avenge her. That’s just not how she works. So please… just set down the knife, and we can all walk out of here, okay?” Please.

A beat. Another.

“Do you really think I’d just let you go?” Rafayel spoke in a low tone, waves of pain carefully hidden. “If what you said is true, I have even more reason to kill you. You tell me you’re responsible for her death, then dare to say she wouldn’t want this? You dare beg for mercy?”

His eyes were slits of unforgiveness. “Choke on your own blood. On your arrogance.”

His hand pushed down into your neck.

Another force pushed back.

Confusion, then distress flickered in his eyes. He pushed against the force, but it was stronger. Red tendrils of energy pushed his hand away from your throat, giving you an opening to run away from him.

Sylus walked forward, eyes locked on Rafayel with his hand outstretched. “Good work, darling,” he said, walking past you. “Now turn around and cover your ears.”

Part of you wondered if you deserved to. You had purposely stalled for time so Sylus could save you. You had traded your life for Rafayel’s. Shouldn’t you face the consequences of your actions?

But you never lied in your words to Rafayel. You were indeed selfish. So you kept your back to them and closed your eyes. You pushed your antitragus into your ear canal and you hummed.

Not a melody that would distract you or sooth you, but a singular note. One who vibrates in your head and blocks out any noise from the outside world. Your entire focus was maintaining that note, not giving yourself room to wander and imagine what was happening behind you-

Something tapped your shoulder. You jumped a bit and whirled around to face it, your nerves a mess.

It was Sylus. His face showed impassiveness, but it was a practiced look, one that he put on when he didn’t want to show how bothered he was.

His wings were outstretched, blocking the view of the hallway behind him. Was that done on purpose?

His eyes flicked to your neck. His eyebrows narrowed a sliver, his gaze clouding a bit. “We should get that patched up,” he said in a purposefully calm manner.

Your first instinct was to brush off his concern. It didn’t hurt much and it didn’t feel deep. But you didn’t have much knowledge about wounds, so perhaps it was more serious than you thought.

Not only that, but it was a sign of what almost happened, what reality may have manifested if one of you had acted differently. Maybe he needed it treated more than you did.

So you nodded and let him guide you through the base. He only diverted his attention from you for a moment to order a cleanup where you had come from.

As you walked, you waited for the grief and guilt you felt when you heard of MC’s death. Yet, you reached the medical wing and you still felt nothing as the onsite doctor patched you up. Had you already become desensitized to death?

Maybe it was because you hadn’t gotten to know him. Sylus, Luke, Kieran… you knew them as game characters at first, but then you grew to love them as people. Even with the little time you had with MC you found her to be very kind and, while you were envious of her place with Sylus, you couldn’t bring yourself to hate her.

But you hadn’t gotten that chance with Rafayel. All you had of him in this world was the shadow of the knife you still felt on your neck, and pink-blue orbs of pain and hatred. Other than being your attempted killer, Rafayel was just a love interest in a dating sim. Maybe that separation made the loss mean less to you.

You hadn’t realized the doctor had left until Sylus reached out and gently held your hand. You snapped back to reality to find you were alone together. “Hey,” he spoke softly. “Are you alright?”

You took a moment to assess yourself, to make sure you would be truthful when you spoke. “…Yeah, I think so,” you responded. “I am now anyway.”

Sylus nodded and fell into a contemplative silence. You could tell he had something on his mind, but you didn’t want to push him. It had been a hard day for him too. So you waited for him to gather his thoughts.

“…Did you mean what you said back there?”

You hadn’t expected that question, though you probably should have.

You had the opportunity to backtrack. You could say that you were just saying whatever popped in your head to buy time and try to dissuade Rafayel. You had that out and he probably wouldn’t push it further.

“…Sometimes,” you admit. “It’s hard not to, knowing what your life would be like with her… without me…”

Silence, as both of you took in your words.

“…My last life with her was… wonderful,” Sylus finally spoke. “It was rough, messy, and tragic, but beautiful in its own way. And it gave me a chance to live another life. I won’t pretend it wasn’t great when it happened.

“And maybe my life with Miss Hunter would be as wonderful as you saw it in your world. Maybe I could have grown to love her despite our rough start and found a special happiness with her.

“But this is a new life for me, and that means I get the chance to make new choices. And this is a life where I got to meet and know you. And in this life, I choose you.” His grip on your hand tightened.

“You loved me despite what I’ve done. You were willing to back away for my happiness. You constantly gave love and attention, but never asked for anything in return. Even now, when you’ve been struggling with what I’d done, you never got mad at me or tried to run away.

“I choose what I do with this life and I choose to love you. You never stole anything. I freely give it to you.”

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes. How couldn’t they with such sweet, sincere words? “Sylus…”

He put his hand behind your head and pulled it forward so he could kiss your forehead. “I love you, my treasure.”

Little author’s note: this was not how I originally planned this post to go. I was going to write three peats detailing each of the love interests, where Xavier died in battle and Caleb got so unstable that Ever wiped him completely with the Toring chip. This didn’t end up happening because I can’t write fighting scenes to save my life (as you could probably tell) and I wasn’t confident enough in the hypothetical inner machinations of the Farspace Fleet/Ever to write Caleb’s part properly, so I went with this. I changed Xavier’s fate because I figured it’d be better for Sylus’ character to do his best to keep his promise, and Caleb’s ending stayed the same but hopefully I made it a more subtle presentation. The reader and Sylus aren’t going to know what happened to Caleb so they’ll still be wary of him, but I’m not planning on him being a threat anymore. I hope you’ve been enjoying the series!

[hamilton-here]

Hiiii! Can you do a post-breakup fluff with Lewis? No heavy reason like cheating for the breakup. But then they end up in bed again (Idk how but maybe after getting their own things from their apartment or something). I thought this was pretty funny. Thanks a lot!

𝒲𝒽𝑜 𝒮𝒶𝒾𝒹 𝒢𝑜𝑜𝒹𝒷𝓎𝑒, 𝑅𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉?

Authors Note: Hi all! Here’s another request completed! Literally finished this while watching Monaco FP3. Enjoy! Lots of love xx

Summary: A quiet breakup leaves Lewis and the reader aching in silence, still deeply in love.

Warnings: sexual content, mild swearing

Taglist: @nebulastarr @hannibeeblog @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It wasn’t a dramatic ending.

No shouting. No slamming doors. No sharp words flung like knives across the room.

Just silence.

The kind that stretches and settles into your bones, like winter. The kind that feels like the aftermath of something you can’t name until it’s already broken.

You sat on the edge of the bed, legs tucked under you, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, fingers twisting the soft cotton. You couldn’t meet his eyes not yet. The weight of the moment pressed down on your chest like a stone, making it hard to breathe, to speak, to think clearly.

Across the room, Lewis stood with his back to you, posture tense, arms folded so tightly across his chest it was like he was trying to keep himself from splintering. He was staring out the window, but his eyes weren’t really seeing anything just the hazy, golden blur of city lights bleeding across the glass, blinking like faraway signals neither of you had time to answer.

“I’m not angry,” you said finally. Quiet. Barely audible.

The words felt raw, scraped from the bottom of your throat.

“I don’t think I even have the energy to be.”

He breathed out slowly, shoulders sinking an inch. It sounded like surrender. Like he’d been holding that air for far too long.

“I know,” he said, voice low and dull. “Me neither.”

That somehow hurt more.

Because anger could’ve meant there was something left to fight for. Something to throw your hearts against, something worth the storm. But this? This was just tiredness. Two people who were still in love, but too drained to keep going. Too burned out to find each other in the chaos.

You looked down at the small, half-hearted pile of clothes you’d folded more out of habit than intention. A pair of leggings. Two t-shirts. Your favourite hoodie, the one that always ended up on Lewis’s side of the bed when you weren’t home. You hadn’t even touched your skincare stuff in the bathroom. You couldn’t bear the image of wiping yourself completely out of the apartment, like you’d never existed here. Like you hadn’t once been part of everything.

It was all too fast and too slow, at the same time.

“I kept thinking things would calm down,” you murmured. “That we’d get a week or a weekend just something. But it never came.”

Lewis finally turned around. His eyes were darker than usual, ringed with exhaustion and sadness. His mouth opened, then closed again like there was too much to say and no good place to start.

“We just lost the rhythm,” he said eventually, voice thick.

Like that was enough of an explanation.

“I don’t know when it started. One missed call. One rescheduled dinner. Then it was all the time.”

You nodded; lips pressed into a thin line.

“We stopped showing up.”

It was true. He was always flying off to Bahrain, to Monaco, to press tours, to test tracks. And you were buried under case files, essays, deadlines, trying to meet expectations neither of you had set but both felt bound to. It got harder to find the space where just you two existed no cameras, no laptops, no flight itineraries.

There were no screaming matches. No dramatic accusations. Just long stretches of not talking, not touching, falling asleep with your backs to each other because exhaustion kept replacing intimacy.

“I’d wake up and the bed would already be cold,” you whispered. “And by the time I got home, you were on the other side of the world.”

Lewis looked down, jaw clenched.

“And when I’d finally land, I’d watch you sleeping on the couch in your work clothes, papers still in your lap,” he said. “I didn’t want to wake you. You looked so tired.”

You blinked, your eyes burning.

“I was. So were you.”

Neither of you said it, but the word hovered - breakup. It clung to the walls like dust. Not space. Not a pause. Not a trial.

This was the end of something you hadn’t wanted to end.

Just then, the soft clack of nails on the hardwood echoed in the room. Roscoe trotted in from the hallway, his tongue hanging out slightly, ears perked.

His gaze moved between the two of you, then landed on the bag.

He stopped.

He tilted his head, confused, like something was off but he couldn’t make sense of it.

Then he padded over to you and nudged his nose into your thigh.

You inhaled sharply, the ache in your chest tightening like a vice.

“Hey, Ros,” you said, voice cracking. You bent down, burying your hands in his fur, your face pressed into the warmth of his neck. “Oh, my sweet boy.”

He whined, low and distressed, and pawed gently at your leg, then sniffed your bag and let out another, longer whimper the kind he made when you left for too long.

He knew.

He didn’t understand why, but he knew this wasn’t just a weekend trip.

Lewis crouched beside you, one hand resting on Roscoe’s back, the other brushing yours for half a second before retreating like it had never happened.

You didn’t move away.

“I’ll take care of him,” he said softly, like a promise. “I’ll make sure he’s okay.”

You nodded, swallowing the sob rising in your throat. “Tell him I love him. That I’ll - I’ll see him again. One day.”

Lewis looked up at you. His eyes were glassy, his lips parted like he wanted to say something else, something big, something meaningful. But instead, he offered a small, broken smile.

“He’s going to wait by the door. Every night.”

Your face crumpled.

You imagined it too vividly of Roscoe sitting patiently by the door, tail wagging when keys jingled outside, only for them not to be yours. Curling up in your old spot on the couch. Sniffing around the apartment for your scent. Carrying your sock between his teeth because it still smelled like you.

That did what nothing else had managed to do.

It shattered you.

You pressed one final kiss to his head, murmured something just for him, and stood up on unsteady legs. Lewis rose too, walking you to the door, silent beside you. He didn’t touch your arm. Didn’t ask you to stay.

Because he knew, too.

It wasn’t about love. That was still there, raw and aching. But sometimes love wasn’t enough when time kept running out, over and over again.

You reached the door and hesitated, your hand on the knob. Every part of you screamed don’t go, but none of it was louder than the part that whispered this isn’t working anymore.

Behind you, Roscoe let out one final, low whine. The kind that sounded like goodbye.

You turned the knob. The door opened with a soft click.

And then you stepped through it.

The sound of it closing behind you was louder than anything.

You stood in the hallway, frozen. Pressed your forehead to the cool wood, let your eyes fall shut.

And for the first time in months after all the near-misses, all the half-finished conversations, all the long-distance ache - you cried.

Not the quiet, restrained kind.

You cried like you meant it. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

One Week Later

The apartment was too quiet.

Not the peaceful kind. Not the kind that meant rest or calm. No, this was the kind that hummed with absence. That settled into the floorboards and echoed in the walls, like a house holding its breath.

Lewis stood in the middle of the living room, barefoot, still in the same joggers and hoodie he’d worn to the gym hours ago. A mug of tea sat cooling in his hand, untouched. The steam had long since faded, leaving behind a bitter sip he wouldn’t drink but couldn’t throw away.

His eyes wandered to the couch.

The throw blanket was still there - the soft, knitted one you always stole from his side. It was folded, but unevenly, one corner tucked into the cushion like it had been caught mid-movement. It still smelled like your perfume. Subtle. Clean. Comforting. The way you used to smell when you curled up beside him after a long day, your limbs tangling into his like puzzle pieces that had always belonged together.

He hadn’t had the heart to move it.

Roscoe lay curled up by the front door again, just like he had the night you left. His head was resting on his paws, ears twitching slightly at every footstep or rustle from the hallway. He no longer barked. Not even a whine. Just waited. Quiet. Still. Like he didn’t want to miss it, in case this time finally it was you coming home.

Lewis exhaled, slow and tired, sinking into the couch like it took effort just to sit. He rested his elbows on his knees, cradling the now-lukewarm mug between his hands. His fingers were shaking, but not from exhaustion. It was something heavier. Something that lived in his chest and pressed into his ribs every time he thought about you.

His phone lay face-down on the coffee table.

He hadn’t turned it off he wasn’t ready for that level of finalitybut he couldn’t bear to look at the screen anymore either. Every time it lit up, his heart jumped, only to crash when it wasn’t your name. Every hour he hadn’t heard from you stretched longer than the last. Each day felt like trying to breathe underwater.

You hadn’t texted.

He didn’t blame you. If he were being honest, he didn’t even know what he would say if you had. But that didn’t stop the aching hope that maybe you’d appear anyway. Just your name. One message. Something.

Anything.

You weren’t doing much better.

Your flat was a mess of half-unpacked boxes and untouched routines. There was a small pile of laundry you couldn’t bring yourself to fold. A half-eaten bowl of cereal on the kitchen table, soggy and forgotten. Mugs lined the counter, mostly filled with cold tea you never finished.

You hadn’t slept well in days. Not really.

The bed was too big without him. Too cold. You kept rolling over expecting to bump into the solid, familiar warmth of his body. His arm slung around your waist. The sound of his slow, steady breathing. But there was nothing. Just your own heartbeat and the hum of the fridge in the kitchen.

Your Spotify kept betraying you.

No matter how many times you tried to curate a new playlist, some old song always snuck through. The one he used to hum while brushing his teeth. The one that played the first night you danced in the living room barefoot, wine-drunk and laughing. The one that made him smile so softly you fell in love with him all over again.

You skipped it. Then the next. And the next.

Eventually, you turned the music off completely and sat in silence. But even that wasn’t safe.

Your silence had a shape now. And it looked like Lewis.

Lewis stared at the photo frame on the shelf the one he hadn’t been able to bring himself to move. It was a candid; one you didn’t even know he’d taken. You were sitting on the balcony, hair a mess, wearing his hoodie and squinting against the sun, a cup of coffee in your hands. You were laughing at something. Probably something dumb he’d said. But it was real. You looked happy.

You looked like home.

He reached for the frame, thumb brushing against the glass. He missed you in stupid, mundane ways. In the way you filled up space just by being in it. In the way his mornings felt brighter when he woke up beside you, even if he had to leave for a flight at 5 a.m. In the way the air in this place felt lighter when you were around.

Now it just felt heavy.

You missed him in fragments.

The way he would instinctively reach out for your hand whenever you crossed the street, even if it was empty. The quiet hum of his voice when he read your notes aloud to help you study. The smell of his cologne lingering in the hallway long after he left. The way he always knew when you needed space and when you needed him to pull you closer without asking.

You missed the man behind the headlines.

The one who carried your groceries when your back hurt. Who took Roscoe to the groomer because you couldn’t deal with the shedding. Who left notes in your textbooks during your exam season, each one sillier than the last.

You didn’t just miss being in love. You missed being known like that.

Neither of you had said the word breakup out loud. But the world had moved on like it had been decided. Like the silence between you had sealed it.

He gave a vague excuse about needing to stay close to London. They didn’t question him, but they noticed.

You hadn’t gone to the study group you organised. Just stared at your laptop screen, the words on the page swimming, meaningless. Every essay felt like it was asking the wrong question. Every sentence led back to him.

Time was supposed to make things clearer. To soften the edges.

But every passing day only made it more obvious this wasn’t the life either of you wanted. Not like this. Not without each other.

You were just tired people who let the exhaustion win. Who let silence do the talking because talking hurt too much. But the truth was simple:

You still loved him. He still loved you.

And in the stillness that followed everything else, you both began to understand:

Silence wasn’t healing.

It was punishment.

It was regret with a slow heartbeat.

Lewis turned his phone over.

His thumb hovered over your name in his favourites list. Not to call. Not yet. Just to look. To remind himself you were still out there. That maybe, in your own quiet corner of the world, you were thinking about him too.

You stared at your phone for the tenth time that hour. Your thumb moved to open a blank text.

Just a few words. Nothing huge. Just...

“Are you okay?”

Or maybe...

“I miss you.”

Or maybe just...

“Come home.”

You typed. Deleted. Typed again. Then stopped.

Somewhere, not far away, Lewis was doing the same thing.

Two people. Two screens. Two broken hearts still beating for each other.

Neither of you hit send.

But both of you were almost there.

And maybe tomorrow...one of you would. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The door to your former apartment groaned open, the familiar weight of it pushing against your hip as you stepped inside. Your keys clinked into the little bowl by the entrance like they always had even though this wasn’t your place anymore.

It still smelled like him.

That warm, signature blend of clean linen, bergamot, and whatever cologne Lewis always wore that made strangers lean in and ask, “What is that?” You used to tease him that it was somehow infused into the walls and now, standing here again after weeks apart, it hit you like a punch to the chest.

You paused, halfway out of your shoes, letting the silence wrap around you. The quiet wasn’t cold, it wasn’t empty, but it hummed with the weight of familiarity. The kind that settled into your bones. Your fingers hovered on the laces before you gave up and stepped out barefoot, the hardwood cool beneath your feet.

Muscle memory guided you even now. You dropped your tote bag by the arm of the couch, tugged your sleeves down past your palms like you always did when your hands itched with nerves, and padded toward the hallway.

And stopped dead.

He was here.

Lewis was in the bedroom, back slightly hunched as he bent over a cardboard box. His broad shoulders were bare because apparently heartbreak had robbed him of a shirt but not his dedication to early morning workouts. His curls were still damp, clinging to the nape of his neck like he’d just showered. He hadn’t heard you yet.

But someone else had.

A skitter of nails on hardwood echoed down the hall, and then Roscoe came flying around the corner, a streak of fur and sound. He barked a single, sharp cry before launching himself at you with a kind of desperate joy that cracked something inside your chest.

“Ros—” you barely managed before you were hit by sixty pounds of pure loyalty and emotion. He whined loudly, circling your legs, pawing at your knees, trying to climb up into your arms as if he could physically pull you back into his world.

You dropped down instantly, burying your face into the thick folds of his neck. The smell of dog shampoo and something distinctly him - Lewis, this home, this chapter of your life filled your senses.

“Oh, baby,” you whispered, voice breaking as your eyes stung. “I missed you so much.”

Roscoe whimpered in return, nudging your cheek with his snout like he was checking to see if you were real. Like he had been waiting every day for this moment just like you.

Your fingers curled into his fur as he pressed closer, his body trembling with excitement. You stayed there a moment longer than you should have, grounding yourself in the only thing that hadn’t changed.

And then Lewis turned around.

He was still holding the box, forgotten in his hands, his eyes fixed on you like he wasn’t quite sure if you were real either. His expression was unreadable for a second then it cracked, just a little, like something in him had softened the second you walked through the door.

“I didn’t think you’d come by today,” he said finally, voice rough, like it hadn’t been used in hours. Or maybe like he hadn’t said much since you left.

“I texted you,” you murmured, still on the floor, one hand buried in Roscoe’s fur. “You left your charger…and like, half your sunglasses in my car. And I forgot some of my necessities…”

“You’re right. Can’t leave without my personality.”

A huff escaped you startled and involuntary. Of course he was still funny. Of course, he still had that timing, still knew exactly how to slip past your defences like nothing had changed.

But everything had changed.

“I was packing up the rest of your stuff,” he added, gesturing toward the bed. “Didn’t want you to have to dig through everything.”

You glanced over. Inside the box were your favourite sweatpants, the tea you always kept hidden in the pantry behind the protein powder, your pillow the one he used to hug to his chest when you were out of town. The one he used to claim still smelled like you, even when you hadn’t stayed the night in weeks.

The care he’d taken with it all made your throat ache.

“Thanks,” you said softly, rising to your feet.

Roscoe stuck close as you moved, leaning into your leg like he was scared you’d disappear again. You absently ran your fingers through his fur, your gaze flitting back to Lewis. He crossed his arms over his chest, almost like he didn’t know what else to do with them.

Like if he didn’t hold himself together, he might fall apart.

“You want tea?” he asked suddenly, breaking the silence with something so simple, so him, it caught you off guard. “I, uh…I still have that depressing chamomile you like.”

Your brows lifted, just slightly. “You mean the one that’s calming and perfect?”

His smile was small but genuine, a hint of that dimple teasing at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. That one.”

And maybe you were still raw. Maybe it was the smell, or Roscoe, or just seeing him like this quiet, familiar, Lewis. But you nodded.

And stayed.

Five minutes later, you were both on the couch, mugs in hand, the distance between you carefully unmeasured. Roscoe had wedged himself between your feet like he used to, his heavy head resting on Lewis’s thigh, tail occasionally thumping in half-hearted approval. It was like he couldn’t decide who he was more loyal to or maybe he didn’t care, as long as you were both here.

You talked about nothing at first.

Monaco’s weird weather. His latest race how the wind had played tricks on turn eleven. How your friend Kayla had finally dumped the guy who made her do juice cleanses and talked about Bitcoin at parties. Lewis laughed at that in that deep, familiar way that made something flutter and ache all at once.

The kind of laugh that had once made you feel like the only person in the room.

Then a brush of knees. Bare skin grazing bare skin beneath the hem of his shorts and your cuffed joggers. Neither of you moved.

The silence that followed was different. Still warm. Still soft. But quieter. More fragile.

“I missed this,” he said quietly, almost like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say it out loud.

Your fingers tightened around your mug. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Me too.”

And for a moment, the ache between you wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t something jagged or broken it was soft, lived in. Like an old favourite shirt. The kind you could still wear, even if it didn’t fit quite right anymore.

You looked over at him, really looked and his eyes were already on you.

And in them was something you recognised. Something like love, but older. Tired. Softer. But still there.

Still his.

“Roscoe’s not the only one who’s been waiting, you know,” he said, voice rough again, barely above a whisper.

And you couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe around the lump in your throat. So instead, you leaned your knee back into his. Let yourself tilt just a little closer.

Let yourself believe, just for tonight, that maybe not everything had to stay broken.

And then like gravity didn’t care about breakups, like time and pain and pride meant nothing you leaned in at the same time.

The kiss wasn’t soft.

It was desperate.

Clumsy.

Rough.

Like neither of you had eaten in weeks and had just remembered what hunger felt like.

His mouth crashed against yours, and the breath punched out of your lungs as months of unspoken words, unshed tears and late-night aching exploded between your lips. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful. It was needy his teeth catching your bottom lip, your nails digging into his shoulders, both of you breathing like you were trying to crawl inside each other.

Your fingers dove into his curls, yanking just enough to make him groan into your mouth a guttural, low sound that vibrated through you. His hands were already on you, sliding beneath your shirt like they were chasing something lost. He gripped your waist, rough and reverent all at once, like he didn’t know whether to hold you together or tear you apart.

He pressed you down into the couch, his body heavy and warm over yours. You didn’t care that the cushions bit into your spine, didn’t care that your knee hit the coffee table. All you cared about was the way his mouth dragged across your jaw, down the column of your neck not soft, but claiming. His stubble scraped along your skin, his lips biting and sucking like he was making up for every day you spent apart.

You gasped, back arching into him. “Lewis—”

“This—” he panted, mouth still on your throat, voice rough and full of something broken, “this is not what I planned.”

You blinked up at him, lips kiss-bruised, heart racing. “You want me to stop?”

His laugh was a rasp in the dark. “God, no. I want…I want you.”

That was all it took.

Your clothes came off in frantic, fumbled movements shirts tossed over shoulders, pants kicked away in the hallway, socks forgotten. His hands were everywhere, greedy and unforgiving, squeezing, stroking, tugging you flush against him as he stumbled you both toward the bedroom.

He pushed you back onto the mattress, hard enough to bounce, and then he was on you teeth on your collarbone, fingers digging into your thighs as he spread you open with zero hesitation.

“Missed this,” he muttered like a prayer as he kissed a trail down your stomach. “Missed you.”

When he sank to his knees and dragged his mouth up the inside of your thigh, your breath hitched so sharply it was almost painful. His grip was bruising, his tongue relentless licking, sucking, teasing until your hips were shaking and your hands were in his hair again, pulling without apology.

He didn’t stop. Not when you cried out. Not when your thighs threatened to close. He held you open, held you there, watched you fall apart on his tongue like he needed to ruin you, to prove you still belonged to him or maybe that he still belonged to you.

By the time he finally came up for air, your body was wrecked and trembling. And still, you reached for him.

He crawled over you slowly, eyes dark, jaw clenched like he was barely keeping it together. His hands framed your face, and his thumb brushed your cheek like he hadn’t just pulled you apart piece by piece. Like he was seeing you for the first time again.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, voice hoarse and raw.

You stared up at him, your chest rising and falling with sharp, shallow breaths. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

His mouth crashed into yours again, and this time when he pushed into you deep, hard, all at once you cried out against his lips, nails raking down his back. It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t soft.

It was rough.

It was real.

It was everything you’d been craving.

He fucked you like he missed you. Like he hated that he missed you. Like the only way to make sense of it was to bruise your hips with his grip and kiss you so hard it felt like penance.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, your body arching to meet every thrust, every grind of his hips. He buried his face in your neck, breathing harshly, voice cracked with emotion.

“I thought about this every night,” he gasped. “Every fucking night. Your voice. Your hands. The way you looked at me.”

You clung to him like you might fall apart. “I never stopped thinking about you.”

And that did something to him. He slammed into you harder, deeper, like he wanted to carve himself back into your skin, back into your life.

You didn’t stand a chance.

You came with a cry that punched from your lungs, shaking so hard you thought you might break. And when he followed moaning your name like a promise, his body trembling as he spilled into you it wasn’t just release. It was something bigger. Something heavier.

It was every unsent text. Every almost-call. Every time you’d gone to bed cold and alone.

And then silence.

The kind of silence that only happens when two people have been completely undone.

The sheets were a mess beneath you, twisted and damp with sweat. Your skin was flushed and marked with his lips, his hands, his teeth. He didn’t let you go. One arm locked tight around your waist, the other buried in your hair like a tether.

Your heart was still thudding. His was, too. You could feel it where your chests pressed together, still wild, still aching.

He kissed your forehead. Just once. Quiet. And you closed your eyes because if you looked at him now, you might shatter.

Because this wasn’t a mistake.

Wasn’t a relapse.

Wasn’t just about the sex.

It was grief.

It was love.

It was two people who hadn’t stopped needing each other even when they’d tried.

It was gravity.

It was inevitable.

And it wasn’t over.

It was quiet for a long time after.

The kind of quiet that doesn’t need to be filled. Not with words. Not with apologies. Just the sound of your breaths beginning to slow, your hearts trying to catch up with everything your bodies had already admitted.

You were still wrapped around him, limbs tangled beneath the sheets, the room dim with late-night shadows. The only light came from the hallway soft and golden, casting just enough glow to catch the sweat still clinging to his temple, the rise and fall of his chest.

Lewis had shifted onto his side, propped up on one elbow, just watching you. Like if he blinked, you’d disappear again.

You stared up at the ceiling, your body still warm from the aftershocks. The air smelled like lavender, like skin, like him. But your heart - your heart was louder than anything.

Eventually, your voice broke through the silence, small and uncertain. “This doesn’t mean anything, right?”

You hadn’t meant it to sound like a challenge. But it did. Defensive, like you were already bracing for impact. Like if you said it first, maybe it wouldn’t hurt when he agreed.

He turned to look at you, brow furrowed. “It means I’m an idiot.”

You blinked. “…What?”

“I thought we needed space,” he said quietly, eyes steady on yours. “That maybe we were better off focusing on work. That maybe time apart would fix something. But every time I walked past your mug or looked at your empty side of the bed, it just felt wrong.”

His voice cracked, just slightly. Not enough to fall apart but enough that you heard the truth in it.

“I don’t think I ever stopped loving you,” he admitted. “I just got too tired to show it right.”

Your throat tightened.

You’d spent weeks pretending not to care. Ignoring the ache. Filling your schedule. Telling Kayla you were fine even when she saw right through it. But hearing him say it hearing that he hadn’t let go either made something collapse inside you.

“Lewis…”

He shifted closer, brushing his knuckles gently along your wrist like he was grounding himself. Like the touch was the only thing keeping him real.

“I’m not saying we figure everything out tonight,” he said. “I know it wasn’t perfect. I know I wasn’t perfect. But maybe we try again. Slower. Smarter. With better tea and more time for each other.”

You looked at him really looked. Not the world’s version of Lewis Hamilton. Not the champion. Just him. The man who used to sneak chocolate biscuits into the grocery cart when you weren’t looking. Who always fell asleep five minutes into a movie but insisted he didn’t. Who kissed your temple before every flight like it was a ritual.

There was a softness in his eyes now fragile and hopeful. Like he wasn’t asking you to fix everything. Just to let him try.

“Do I still get the good tea mug?” you asked after a beat, your voice a little thick.

His smile returned, tugging at the corners of his mouth smaller than the ones he gave cameras, but more real than any you’d seen in months.

“Only if you promise not to ruin the vibe.”

You huffed a laugh, your chest loosening for the first time in what felt like forever. “No promises.”

He rolled onto his back, arm looping around your waist and pulling you in without another word. You went willingly, your head tucking beneath his chin, your fingers tracing idle patterns on the bare skin of his chest.

The duvet rustled as he pulled it higher around you both. The room was warm now, full of shared breath and the slow return of comfort. Not perfect. Not yet, but honest.

And for the first time in weeks, the apartment felt like home again.

Not just because the lights were dim or the sheets smelled like him or because you were wrapped in his arms. But because he was there. Because despite the space and the silence and the break-up that had kept you apart, you’d still found your way back to each other like magnets, like muscle memory.

Like gravity.

“I kept your book on the nightstand,” he murmured suddenly. “The one with the dog-eared pages and the underlines. I didn’t, I couldn’t move it.”

You smiled against his skin, something warm blooming in your chest. “I kept your hoodie. The grey one you always said was cursed.”

“Because I crashed the car twice wearing it.”

You both laughed, soft and sleepy, and the sound felt like an exhale.

It hit you then not all at once, but in slow, quiet waves: this wasn’t a fluke. It wasn’t about sex or timing or a moment of weakness. It was deeper than that. Older.

No matter how far apart you drifted, no matter how stubborn or tired or lost you both got, something in you would always pull you back to him.

And something in him would always wait for you.

It didn’t happen all at once.

You didn’t wake up the next morning with everything magically healed, with every crack smoothed over by the soft press of his lips on your shoulder. But you did wake up wrapped in him in the warmth of his body, in the steady rhythm of his breathing, in the quiet certainty that you were both still there. Still choosing this. Choosing each other, even through the mess. Even through the past.

And that was more than enough to start.

The first week back together felt like something between a honeymoon and a soft, cautious reboot. Like trying on your favourite sweater after weeks in storage familiar and warm, even if it still smelled faintly of distance. You kept bumping into the old rhythms, finding traces of the life you used to share, but everything felt sweeter now. More intentional.

Lewis cooked breakfast on the second morning or tried to, anyway.

You padded into the kitchen barefoot, your oversized hoodie hanging off one shoulder, only to find him shirtless in a cloud of smoke. The toast was blackened to a crisp, Roscoe was licking pancake batter off the floor and the smoke alarm blared above his head like it was auditioning for an action movie.

He was waving a dish towel wildly at the ceiling, his curls frizzing at the edges from the heat. “This was supposed to be romantic,” he croaked through a coughing fit, eyes wide and sheepish.

You leaned against the counter and laughed a real, belly-deep laugh that echoed off the cabinets. “Is this the part where I swoon?”

“Please don’t,” he grumbled, voice muffled by a tea towel. “We might both die in here.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth anyway, soft and grateful and pulled out your phone to order pancakes from your favourite brunch place. As you placed the order, he wrapped his arms around your waist from behind and rested his chin on your shoulder, whispering against your skin, “I swear, I’m gonna learn how to poach an egg if it kills me.”

You tilted your head toward him, smiling. “Please don’t die over eggs.”

“I would for you,” he whispered dramatically, and you laughed again, leaning into him.

That afternoon, you made a list together.

Literally.

He pulled out his Notes app while you were curled up on the couch with a blanket wrapped around both your legs, Roscoe sprawled across your feet and titled it: Operation: Don’t Mess This Up.

“I’m being serious,” he said, his voice lower now, thumb moving steadily across the screen. “We’re not going back to what broke us. We’re going to build better. Starting with time. And space not that kind of space, I mean like…room to breathe. To show up for each other without sacrificing the stuff that makes us, us.”

So, you carved it out for real, this time.

You blocked off days on your shared calendar. Colour-coded them. Tuesdays - Us. No interviews. No calls. No late-night scripts or early meetings. Just wine, or tea, or matching face masks if the mood struck. If he was home, you cooked together or at least, you tried. He got better at the eggs. You taught him to dice onions without crying. He taught you how to make his nan’s ginger tea.

When he was traveling, you FaceTimed from hotel beds and airport lounges, the screen lighting up with sleepy smiles and “I miss yous” whispered between yawns. You watched him eat room service pasta in Rome while you folded laundry in London. You watched Love Island together, muting the audio and providing your own commentary.

And you laughed. God, you laughed so much.

He started leaving you notes.

On the bathroom mirror:

You looked too good this morning. Kind of rude, honestly.

Tucked into your tote bag before a long day of classes:

Don’t forget to breathe. You’re brilliant, even when you doubt it.

And once scribbled on a napkin and left on your pillow after a long week —

I missed your laugh. Please don’t ever take it away from me again.

That one made you cry. The kind of tears that come when you feel safe enough to let it all out. He found you curled up on the bed, napkin still in your hands, and he just held you. No questions. Just his arms, steady and sure, wrapped around your ribs like he was holding your heart in place.

You started showing up more, too.

Before, you'd always told yourself you didn’t want to get in the way of his schedule, his team, the media, the noise. But now you knew better. Now you knew that love doesn’t take up space. It makes it.

So, you surprised him at the garage before a race in Spa. You wore one of his old hoodies, your hair tucked under a cap, a shy grin playing on your lips.

His eyes found you instantly, even through the crowd.

He crossed the paddock in four long strides and tugged you into his arms like he was afraid you might vanish if he waited a second longer. “You’re here,” he murmured into your hair, arms wrapped tight around your back. “Feels like I can breathe again.”

And when he stepped into the car, helmet tucked under one arm, he kissed your forehead through the visor and said, “Don’t go anywhere. You’re my good luck charm.”

You didn’t go anywhere.

You stayed. You cheered. And when he crossed the finish line in second not first, he still smiled like he’d won everything, because you were there. You were always going to be there.

You bought matching mugs for the apartment. One said Let’s Stay In, the other said Let’s Go Racing. You fought over who got which depending on the day.

You reorganised your shared calendar with stickers and colour codes and a little smiley face next to every Us Day.

You signed up for a pottery class together. You were both terrible at it. You made lumpy bowls and weird, tilting cups, and your hands were always covered in clay. But it didn’t matter because every class ended with your fingers tangled together, laughing over your disasters, stealing kisses behind the spinning wheel.

One night, lying on your backs in the living room with Roscoe curled between you and dried clay smudged across your cheeks, Lewis turned to you and whispered, “This feels like us.”

You turned your head; cheek pressed into the rug. “Yeah?”

He nodded slowly. “Like the real us. Not perfect. Just good. Just right.”

And there was so much love.

In the way he pulled you into his hoodie when you got cold, whispering, Come here, sweetheart. You’re freezing.

In the way you always reached for his hand, under restaurant tables, in elevators, a silent signal: I’m here.

In the way you both said I love you like it meant something brand new every time.

“I love you,” he’d murmur when you got overwhelmed by exams, pressing a kiss behind your ear.

“I love you,” you’d whisper into his shoulder after long flights, when his body ached and his eyes barely stayed open.

And once during a completely normal trip to the grocery store, he looked at you in the cereal aisle, cereal in one hand and your fingers in the other, and said with quiet awe, “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”

You laughed so hard you nearly dropped the oat milk.

But it was true.

You weren’t perfect. You still bickered about directions. He still left his chargers everywhere. You still forgot to take your vitamins unless he reminded you in that tone. But now? Now, you forgave faster. Loved louder. Paused longer. You knew how to hold space for each other how to say what you needed before it broke you both.

One night, wrapped up together on the couch, rain whispering against the windows, his voice broke through the stillness.

“Thank you,” he said softly, thumb brushing the back of your hand. “For coming back.”

You pressed a kiss to his collarbone. “Thank you for waiting.”

He pulled the blanket higher, tucked you under his arm, and held you like a promise warm, steady, whole. And in that golden quiet, with Roscoe snoring at your feet and the scent of tea lingering in the air, you realised something:

You weren’t just healing.

You were home.

Still, you and him.

Still in love.

And this time? This time forever meant something different not a promise without flaws, but one you’d keep choosing, again and again.

Slower. Smarter. With better tea.

And love - the kind that stays.

[digitalsymbiote]

Cockpit Exposure

There’s a terrible screeching of metal as your cockpit is rent open, exposed by a glancing blow from your opponents weapon. Suddenly your senses are muddled, two sources of data now vying for the attention of your shared mind. Your external cameras shift and refocus, as light streams in through the semi-transparent visor of your flight helmet.

Your partner is screaming in the back of your mind, and the terrible phantom pain in your chest tells you exactly why. It’s a huge strain on your mind to try and decipher between the information coming from your metal body, and the information coming from your flesh one. Your cockpit was designed to mimic a sensory deprivation chamber for this exact reason, most full-immersion frames are. The sensory deprivation of the pilot makes it easier to settle into the skin of the mech, fewer external distractions to remind you of your flesh body nestled under all that metal.

All of that is gone out the window now though, as the sounds and sights of combat assault your organic form through your breached cockpit. Distantly you recognize that you’re hyperventilating, and the safety systems are struggling to compensate. You guess this is because your partner’s panic is bleeding through the neural bridge. She did just get a huge chunk torn out of her front, after all.

With a monumental effort, you wrench control back from your panicking IMP, and you feel her systems settle down a bit as you enforce some order on things. The cold air and biting wind howling in your cockpit are doing all they can to distract you, but you’ve got a fight to finish and you’ll be damned if you end up gutted in your own cockpit.

Metal strains as your synthetic body stands and pulls the giant sword from the sheath on its back. You fire the boosters in your legs, feeling the g-forces slam your body back into the pilot’s seat as you charge your opponent. Blade strikes blade, and your damaged servos strain against theirs. A shot of fuel into your boosters breaks the stalemate and you pull back, circling around the opposing mech. You have to be extra careful to protect your cockpit now, one more hit to your chest and you’ll be pulp on your enemy’s blade.

Something shifts inside you, and you feel your IMP having off-loaded some of its processing into your wetware. She’s moving the limbs on your flesh body inside the cockpit, rooting around for something, piloting you the way you’re piloting her.

The lights on the front of your chassis flicker red in glee as you realize what she’s searching for. You send a mental acknowledgment over your shared link and hunch over, preparing for another bout. You’ll get your partner her opening.

According to regulation, mechs are required to have certain items stocked in their cockpits in case of emergency. Rations, a medical kit, an emergency radio, and most importantly: A flare gun. The standard flare gun had always seemed a bit superfluous to you, what difference is a meager flare going to make in spotting a 10-story tall Mech? But you’d convinced both your CO and your IMP to let you keep a few High-Explosive rounds for the thing stored alongside it, for a rainy day like today.

So the next time you clash with your opponent, blade grinding against blade, you feel your organic body move again. Your IMP makes use of the gaping hole in your chest, and manages to plant a high explosive round directly into the emergency hatch on your enemy’s chest, blowing it clean off, and disorienting their pilot in much the same way they had done to you only moments ago. You, however, will not squander this opportunity.

You drop your weapon, slam a hand through the breached hole in your opponents chest, and pulp the bleeding heart within it. The massive weapon of war you’ve been fighting slumps to the ground, the trauma of losing it’s organic half rippling through its systems. You grab the mech’s head and pull, metal screeching and cables snapping as you tear it free from the rest of the metal corpse. You find the glint of the enemy data core and crush it between two of your massive fingers, putting the enemy IMP out of its misery.

And suddenly it’s quiet again.

The faint sensation of wind upon skin echoes over the link, and you realize your IMP has removed your flight helmet. She’s half out of the pilot’s seat, and you can sense wonder radiating through the link as she looks out at the carnage through organic eyes. You decide to let her, regulation be damned.

You’re looking out at it through her eyes often enough, it’s only fair to return the favor.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Injured (Alexia's Version) VII

Alexia Putellas x Child!Reader

Summary: You get sick again

For matches that aren't important and are played outside of Spain, you don't go with Mami.

You spend time with Olga and Jaume at home and watch Alexia on the tv.

Currently, she's in Germany for a friendly. It had been a good match, a draw that helped the staff work out rotations and different on-pitch chemistry between players.

Now though, Alexia has dipped out of dinner early to give her family a call.

Olga picks up, obviously. It's late in Spain but still a little too early for Olga to be dressed in her pyjamas.

"Hi," Alexia says," How are you? How are the kids?"

Olga gives her a little tight lipped smile. "We've got the case of the sniffles today."

The camera flips to display you and your brother.

Jaume has gotten older now and is developing at an alarming rate to Alexia. You hadn't hit your milestones for ages while Jaume seems to be hitting all of his early.

He's sitting up by himself and babbling and trying to crawl now and Alexia hates how quickly he's growing up.

He's in his pyjamas too, one of your very old train-patterned onesies, and he's sitting right next to you as you run one of your electric trains around the track.

Your hair is messy and sticking upright and your nose is all red and you keep sniffing and wiping at it.

Alexia's eyes dart to Jaume and she notices the red flush to his cheeks.

He sneezes suddenly and it seems to spark you into your own round of sneezes.

Something in Alexia's stomach curdles and she sits upright in bed.

"How bad is it? Are they okay? Have you taken them to the hospital yet?"

Flashes come to Alexia's mind, of that horrible time when you both had meningitis and all the horror that came with it.

"It's just the sniffles," Olga assures her but the swirling of her stomach doesn't stop," And some sore throats. They've had some medicine and we've been having a pj day today."

"I'll come home," Alexia says. She props her phone up on the table and starts packing. She doesn't even fold her clothes, just callously throwing them back into her suitcase.

"Alexia...We're fine here, I promise."

"No." Panic creeps into Alexia's body now, coursing through her veins like adrenaline. "No, I'll come home. It's fine. You can't be expected to take care of two sick kids at once and-"

"Olga?"

Your sweet voice on the phone cuts Alexia off and she falls silent.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"My head hurts."

"Oh, I'm sorry, bambi."

The phone moves until it's propped up on something and Alexia is greeted by the sight of Olga sitting down on the floor, pulling you into her lap.

Her hand immediately goes to check your temperature.

"We've got another hour before I can give you some more medicine," She says," Do you think you can last until them?"

You nod, picking up your controller and making your train whizz around the track again.

Jaume cocks his head to the side, looking between you and Olga before he bum shuffles even closer and attempts to clamber into your lap like you're sitting in Olga's.

It's a sweet scene and Alexia would have loved to coo over it had she not been racked with guilt at leaving while two sickly children were still at home.

She can't even understand how Irene leaves Mateo like this and he was more prone to illness than you and Jaume ever were.

The call lasts for hours and Alexia remains mostly silent.

You get to hold the phone while Olga takes Jaume to bed and you look at the screen with Alexia's face on it with a little frown.

"When are you coming home, Mami?"

You sound so hopeful that Alexia almost bursts into tears that instant, already feeling her throat closing up slightly.

She pushes through the feeling though and replies," Soon, bambi. I'm going to get on a flight as soon as it's your bedtime and I should be home by the time that you wake up."

You sniff though it only serves to make your nose feel even more stuffy. "Mami," You say," Are me and Jaume gonna have to go to hospital? I don't want to see the mean man again."

"No, bambi," Alexia assures you," You're not going to see the mean man. It's just the sniffles. You take your medicine and you'll be completely fine."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Despite Olga's words, Alexia makes her excuses to the staff and gets the first flight back to Barcelona.

It's dark when she gets home and she orders a taxi to bring her right to the doorstep. She fiddles with her keys for a bit, completely missing the keyhole multiple times in her haste to get in.

Jaume's bedroom is first on her way up the stairs so Alexia dips into his room to check on him. He's peacefully asleep, cuddled up with one of the stuffed trains you gave him a few weeks ago.

His cheeks are still a little red and his nose is definitely blocked but apart from that he looks healthy enough and Alexia heads straight into your room.

It's dark so she picks her way through it carefully only to find that you're not in your bed.

You're sick and not in your bed.

Blind panic settles under Alexia's skin as she looks around wildly, tripping over your train track in her hurry to wrench open your wardrobe door.

You're not there either and Alexia stubs her toe as she forces your door open to burst into her own room, intent on telling Olga that someone's broken in and kidnapped you.

"Alexia?" Olga's wide awake, sitting up in bed with a book. "What is it?"

You're lying next to her, fast asleep though you look a tad distressed. Your hand is tight around the fabric of Olga's shirt and you're breathing heavily out of your mouth because your nose is all stuffed up.

"I came home," Alexia says.

"I know," Olga replies," I waited up."

"I checked on Jaume. He looks better."

"He is. They both are. Little miss just needed someone to sleep next to tonight. She was scared the doctor was coming to take her."

Alexia changes quickly, slipping into bed on your other side and curling around you.

"And you swear it's just the sniffles?"

"Just the sniffles," Olga says," They'll be good in a few days."

And you are.

Though Alexia hovers incessantly for almost a week afterwards.