#it’s literally not getting better from here

[nereidprinc3ss]

weber's law

in which spencer reid comforts fem!reader when she's having a panic attack at the rossi mansion

fluff warnings/tags: panic attack lol, spencer is really cute and sweet my little perfect cutie pie angel baby, classic spencer info dumps bc they're pretty much his love language, established relationship, cheesy and sweet at the end a/n: this one is for my queens with panic disorders who are triggered by literally nothing and everything i see you have this ilysm

When Spencer had invited you to a small get-together at Rossi’s, you’d imagined a small get-together at Rossi’s. 

And maybe that makes you a complete idiot. 

Or maybe Spencer is just so used to FBI work functions that to him, this really is small.

But now you’re sitting on an expensive couch in a very nice house, and you’re surrounded by FBI agents who are all milling around and talking and laughing, and you’re worried maybe your outfit doesn’t look as nice on you as you’d thought it did, and you keep having very vivid visions of spilling your drink all over a furry throw rug that probably costs more than your rent does. 

Music that could reasonably be considered relaxing or at the very least not objectionable plays over the sound system throughout the whole house and thus is inescapable—not that you’d get up from the couch even if you could, because Spencer is sitting to your right and he has his hand on your thigh and it’s the only thing that has until this point been keeping you from a full blown panic attack.

Maybe that makes you a complete idiot, too.

Regardless, you try to focus on nothing but the weight of his hand as it travels slowly up and down from knee to hip over the jeans you’re not so sure about, and the feeling of your breath coming and going, as slow as you can possibly summon it without passing out. 

Spencer is laughing at something JJ is saying as she stands next to the couch with Will and you really like JJ but her voice seems so loud right now, and nothing is going particularly wrong but everything feels so, so wrong it’s scary. 

All the buzzing tension in your body telling you to run away because you’re unsafe and at the same time locking you into place builds until you have to express it somehow. So you revert to an old habit—bouncing your leg rapidly like a rabbit thumping its foot. It’s not entirely conscious, but it feels better than being completely still. That is, until Spencer’s hand strays inward and cups just above your inner knee, where he begins fanning his thumb back and forth over the fabric. 

“What’s this?” he murmurs, head angled toward you and voice low enough to not draw attention. You force yourself to plant your heel to the ground even though it worsens the feeling of gears crunching in your chest. 

“Nothing. Sorry.”

That gets his attention. 

Because of course it does. He’s always telling you to stop saying sorry so often. 

His tone solidifies, still quiet but committed to this conversation now and no longer the whispery apparition of a quick aside. 

“Why are you sorry?” 

“I don’t know, it wasn’t—it’s nothing.”

You barely avoid apologizing again. 

For a moment he doesn’t speak, just watches you—and you make the mistake of raising your gaze to meet his. He has that curious, analytical look about him, concern tightening his eyes and knitting his brow. He’s doing that annoying mind-reading thing again, and as soon as he actually sees your eyes, he’s figured you out. 

“Do you want to go outside for a minute? Get some air?”

After examining his face for any clues that he’d rather stay in here, (not that you’d really know what to look for), you nod hesitantly. Spencer mirrors your nod and stands, holding out his hand for you to take as you follow suit after setting your drink on a side table (without spilling.)

JJ is now wrapped up in conversation with another agent and the two of you manage to abscond without attracting unwanted attention, which makes you feel slightly better as Spencer leads you deftly through rooms with high-vaulted ceilings and big windows and heavy, expensive looking oak furniture. It seems like you’ve been wandering through a maze when you arrive to a quieter part of the house and he opens a french door for you—which leads out onto an empty patio. 

A cool breeze immediately sinks into your skin, and your nervous system is so hyper-alert that it gives you chills. Spencer notices the way you shiver and steps closer after closing the door behind him, his hand finding the small of your back immediately. 

“You okay?” he asks, intentionally avoiding impeding your view of the sweeping backyard and the trees beyond. Sometimes focusing on something stationary is less overwhelming, but they’re so tall they seem imposing. Threatening, even. 

But then again, everything feels threatening right now. 

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

Spencer seems unconvinced by your monotone—when you glance over at him he’s still watching you like you’re a puzzle to be solved. 

“Are you sure? You can tell me if you’re not.”

“Why are you so convinced something is wrong?” you laugh, but it comes out too manic. You cross your arms. He looks pointedly at the motion. 

“For starters, that. Often times crossing your arms is a subconscious way of comforting yourself when you feel defensive or threatened. And you could say it’s because you’re cold, but—” he pauses, reaching out to touch your cheek. “I can feel how hot your face is, and you shivered when we came outside even though it’s 71 degrees because your nervous system is overreacting to external stimuli. The leg-bouncing is also often indicative of an activated parasympathetic nervous system. Is me touching you okay?”

Again, you nod—unsure how to deflect when he calls you out so efficiently. 

Spencer’s hand slides down to just beneath your jaw, where he rests two fingers. Each second that passes has him looking progressively more worried. You wish you weren’t quite so catatonic—the fairy lights hanging from the pergola shine through his hair and make him glow so appealingly you want to kiss his cheek. 

“Your heart rate is really high, honey.”

That would be due to the sense of impending doom. Thanks for pointing it out.

But you’ve lost your words, and along with them has gone your sense of humor. All you can manage for a 30 second span is a meaningless shake of your head as you avert your eyes, staring at the sprawling carpet of blue-green grass soaked in night as each blade doubles with your tears. 

“I think I’m dying,” you finally croak.

“Technically, we all are. Very slowly.”

Ah. There’s that social tact he’s so well known for. 

“Spencer.”

“Right,” he kisses your cheek as you stare up at him, affronted, and pulls you into his chest. “Sorry. I was actually trying to be helpful. Changes in brain chemistry and hormonal activity associated with panic attacks change your perception of time and make things feel really fast which can contribute to feelings of anxiety. But in reality time is moving just the same as it always is. One second is always one second. Sometimes remembering that helps me to slow down. Not literally, of course. My gravitational pull isn’t great enough to have any discernible effect on the passage of time.”

You sniff, pressing your cheek to his tie. His words make your head spin, seeing as you hadn't been prepared for a lecture in psychophysics—but it spins in the opposite direction than it had been going previously. It's nice.

“Change your perception of time?”

“Weber’s law of perception. Stimulus sensitivity will increase proportionally with increased stimulus intensity. You’re only perceiving time to be going faster because your cortisol and adrenaline levels are making you hyper-vigilant and sensitive to all the markers of time passing.”

“Like what?”

Spencer hums, the bass of it a comforting resonance against your ear, and strokes your hair unhurriedly. 

“Like… your internal clock. Your body measures time with your heartbeat, so when your heart rate increases, time seems to go faster. Also environmental cues, which lead you to understand that the world is not stagnant and thus is not frozen in time. Like the sound of the wind chimes…” he pauses, long enough for you to realize that indeed, you can hear the gentle, sonorous ringing and tinkling of steel chimes bouncing against each other. “And the wind itself, which is coming all the way from the Gulf of Mexico. Some studies actually suggest that wind direction can affect your energy levels and mood.”

It’s a gentle breeze more than it is full-blown wind. It feels cool against your hot skin. 

Spencer’s hand on the back of your head, still rhythmically smoothing your hair, seems to slow down the passage of time as well. You focus on that, and the sound of the wind chimes and the breeze on your skin for a few minutes, until your breathing and your heart rate slow and soon you regain your footing in the temporal dimension, exactly sure of where you stand on Rossi’s patio and in your boyfriend’s arms. 

“You tricked me into doing a grounding exercise,” you mumble into Spencer’s jacket. 

“I did not trick you,” he defends, voice quiet to match yours. “I just wanted to make you feel better. Did it work?”

You pull away from him and he lets you, watching on as you sniffle and wipe your tears on your sleeves. 

“Yeah, it did. Thank you.”

For a moment, neither of you speak as you gather yourself. He leads you by the hand to a cushioned hanging bench at the end of the patio, taking a seat next to you and gently rocking the swing. 

“Do you know what triggered that?” Spencer asks, over the gentle creaking sound. You shrug, observing the dance of the fireflies in the grass. 

“Nothing. Sometimes I just feel like everything’s wrong and scary but I didn’t want to tell you and ruin your night.”

“Hey,” Spencer murmurs, pulling you into him with an arm around your shoulder. “You are not ruining my night. I don’t want you to worry about that.”

“But all your friends and coworkers are inside, and you’re out here with me.”

He angles his head down toward you and you look up to meet his eyes, even warmer than the sticky summer night. 

“I am. Do you know why?”

“Because I suck,” you sniffle, more hot tears rolling down your cheeks as you attempt to look away. But Spencer’s not having it. He encourages you to sit up again so you can look at him properly, before wiping tears away gently with his thumb. When he speaks, it’s in soft, soothing tones. 

“No. I’m out here because if all my friends were inside having fun, and you were outside having a panic attack, I would choose you every time.”

You manage a laugh through the crying. 

“I don’t know if that’s healthy.”

“Whether or not it’s healthy is an entirely different discussion,” Spencer smiles wryly, before it melts into something softer and more sincere. “All that matters is that it’s true.”

For a while after that, you simply lay your head on his shoulder. Spencer controls the speed of the swing with his much-longer legs, kissing your head and rubbing your arm as you admire the expanse of Rossi’s lush yard bathed in moonlight and the black silhouette of the forest beyond. 

Eventually, Spencer speaks again, likely to make sure you’re not spiraling alone in your head. 

“Can I tell you an extremely classified secret that I've been trying really hard to keep to myself for three days?” he asks, and the mischievous edge to his voice catches your attention. You hum in assent, already wondering what kind of information Spencer would have a hard time keeping to himself. It could be anything. 

“Anderson is sleeping with Childers from Operational Tech.”

“What?”

Despite not working for the FBI yourself, Spencer and Penelope have you so filled in on the drama that you know exactly why that’s shocking. 

You pick your head up to look at him like do not fuck with me right now. 

His eyes sparkle as he nods.

“Yep.”

“Didn’t you tell me Childers was dating that girl in sex crimes?”

Spencer raises his eyebrows. The corner of his mouth twitches. You gasp. 

“No! What? Does Anderson know?”

“I don’t know. I certainly didn’t want to be the one to tell him.”

“Wait—Anderson told you this?”

“Yeah!” He laughs incredulously at your complete disbelief. “People tell me things! I’m an excellent confidant!”

“If you’re relaying all of this information to me then you’re a terrible confidant,” you chuckle, still watery—but feeling light years better. 

Spencer brushes your hair away from your face fondly, leaning a fraction of an inch closer. 

“You don’t count. Telling you secrets is basically the same as keeping them to myself.”

“Basically,” you tease, angling your head up by a few degrees in invitation. Spencer says nothing, does nothing for a long moment—just studies you with soft eyes, continues stroking your cheek. When he takes too long to kiss you, you get impatient. “I’m still kinda anxious, you know.”

He smiles knowingly.  

“Yeah?”

“Mhm,” you nod, looking pointedly at his lips. “You should kiss me better.”

“I think that would take more than just one kiss,” he murmurs through a smile, leaning ever closer until your noses are bumping. “I think I would have to devote several hours to that. Maybe even a whole day.”

“How does tomorrow look for you?” 

He’s laughing as he finally presses his lips to yours. The kiss is sweet and lingering. 

“For you? It’s wide open.”

[lowkeyren]

BUT YOU BELONG TO ME!

in which — some jealousy headcanons / scenarios for our favourite luofu men!

featuring — dan heng, blade, jing yuan (separately) x gn!reader

wc: total 1.8k, from req: here!, they're so silly goodbye, march + fu xuan cameo ;) reblogs w comments are appreciated, please enjoy!!!

#DAN HENG

look me in the eyes and tell me dan heng wouldn’t be the “i'm jealous, but i don’t wanna show it” (but it’s so PAINFULLY obvious that he’s jealous) type, you can’t.

definitely amusing to watch him play it cool, cus he has nothing else going on in his brain when you’re within 10 metre radius from him. 

honestly it would have to be quite specific situations if he ever gets jealous because he likes to keep you close by his side as often as possible. dating or not, he would have some sort of protective instinct —always making sure you’re secure and cared for. (and yes of course march teases him for it, he never admits it though.)

dan heng tries to focus on the book in his hands, but his mind refuses to make any sense of the words on the page —at least not when you’re standing so close to boothill. (too close for his liking anyway)

the cyborg sits at the opposite end of the couch where dan heng was, while you deftly adjust a compartment of his, engaging in small talk as he makes lighthearted jokes with you. dan heng hears your laughter ring out; the laughter that he adores so dearly, the laughter that never fails to warm his chest, and the laughter he wishes he was the reason for instead.

his eyes flicker up from the page to sneak a glance at you, the way your hands glide over boothill's body churns an ugly feeling, twisting in his chest. he shifts in his seat, trying to find a more comfortable position, but the unease remains.

his focus on you is suddenly shattered by a loud voice that belongs to no other than march, "dan heng, if you grip that book any harder, you might tear off a page." she stands in front of him, hands on her waist. 

“the way i am holding my book is perfectly fine, now if you will, i must get back to re—”

“oh c’mon! we all know your ass is not actually reading that book!” he raises an eyebrow, and march only rolls her eyes in response. “it’s literally upside-down.” she teases, unable to hold back a chuckle. 

dan heng glances down at the book in his hands, finally noticing the upside-down text, to which he quickly closes the book and puts it down. "maybe i was just testing your observational skills.”

march shakes her head, "yeah right… just admit you’re too busy staring at them!”

“no i’m n—” he begins to protest but is interrupted when you suddenly appear in front of him. “staring at who?” you tilt your head curiously, and he can only hope that you don’t hear the loud thumping of his heart. 

march giggles as she runs off to who-knows-where, he silently curses her for leaving him in this predicament. he manages to regain his composure, though his cheeks retain a faint pink hue. “ahem, anyway…” he trails off when you sit down next to him, your thighs brushing against each other.

alright you can’t keep doing this to him. he’s not a cyborg but it certainly seems like he’s malfunctioning at that moment. (though he doesn't mind if you have to “repair” him next; he considers it far preferable to having your hands on boothill anyway.)

#BLADE

this guy REEKS of jealousy. 

he gets jealous over anything —saying “good night!” to an acquaintance? well unfortunately, i don’t think they’re going to be having a very good night; a friendly smile from a passerby? the sudden chill in the air accompanied by his sharp glare is enough to make them rethink their life decisions. 

and the worst part? he knows it. he's aware of how irrational his jealousy can be, but that doesn't stop the surge of possessiveness that washes over him.

(deep down, he just wants to feel secure in your attention and affection, but it’s true that his jealousy sometimes gets the better of him.) 

blade’s “things to get rid of” list exponentially grows with each passing day, ranging from general items he sees no use of, to addresses of people who have wronged you in the past. 

but there’s one item on the list that stands out from the rest, the one item he can’t seem to bring himself to get rid of, no matter how hard he tries.

37. “blade plushie”

okay but what kind of website is “stellaron hunters fan merch for sell.com” anyway? since when do they have a fanbase, and why did you have to buy a plushie of him, of all things? 

he shoots daggers at the plushie sitting on your bed, on his side of your bed. while he can't always be by your side, surely there's no need for an inferior replacement?

blade sits down beside you, discreetly moving the plushie out of the way. just as you turn to reach for it, he wraps his arm around you and snuggles up to your side; you immediately pause at his affectionate gesture; his hair brushes against your neck as he buries his face into it.

“blade.. what are you doing?” you turn your attention to him, much to his delight. 

“why not spend more time with the real deal instead of… that.” he tightens his grip around you, at this point he isn’t even trying to hide his jealousy (over a plushie lmao) anymore. 

"you mean mr. edgelord...?" you barely manage to stifle your laughter as blade shoots up beside you. doesn’t hurt to tease him for a bit, right?

“what did you say… “edgelord”?” he scoffs, his face twisting into a scowl. he can’t believe you gave that thing a nickname, how ridiculous. he makes a mental note to get rid of it asap. 

“yeah, what about it? jealous that he’s better than you?” you smirk, leaning in close to his face. perhaps you’re enjoying his expression of pure bitterness a little too much, who knew such a handsome face could look so hilariously indignant? 

his eyes twinkle in amusement, before closing in the distance. “hah, never.” his tone tinged with a touch of possessiveness that he can't quite hide.

“really? you seem like you’re about to kill it.” you wrap your arms around his neck, his expression softens for just a split second, but you’re able to catch it anyway. “would you please spare mr. edgelord if i give you a kiss?”

he doesn’t respond with words; he presses his lips against yours, gently cradling the back of your head. (you quickly turn mr. edgelord to face the wall before blade pulls you away)

maybe he’ll spare “it” for another day or so, just don’t let him catch you hugging “it” in your sleep again, alas you want “it” to suffer the same fate as the others on his list.

#JING YUAN

hmm our beloved general… well he trusts you, and believes that you won’t do anything rash; but on the other hand there are just some things that neither of you can control, whether it’s letters sent in to ask for his hand in marriage or admires trying to sweep you off your feet (before he can). 

though not many people would approach you once your relationship goes public, given that he’s the general and all. but imagine him before the two of you became official, clinging to you to fend off your admirers, and the expression on their faces when you shake your head, denying that you’re dating at all. 

“as for the situation at cloudford— general, are you even listening?” fu xuan furrows her brows, and crosses her arms, clearly annoyed. “ah my apologies lady fu, please keep going.” jing yuan only flashes a half-hearted smile at her before glancing over to your direction again.

you feel a pair of eyes boring into your back, undoubtedly jing yuan’s; but you pay it no mind, choosing to focus on the discussion at hand. his grip on his teacup tightens when he sees the foxian talking to you leans closer to catch your words. fu xuan raises an eyebrow in concern, unaware but still sensing the rising tension; his eyes visibly twitch the moment their hand brushes against yours.

“lady fu, let’s reschedule our meeting for another time. i believe i have some… important matters to attend to.” jing yuan rises up from his seat before fu xuan can reply, swiftly making his way towards you.

you’re startled by the sudden feeling of jing yuan’s arms around you, his chest pressing against your back, as he places his chin against your head. “sorry to interrupt, what’re you two discussing about?” the foxian is taken aback by the general's sudden appearance, and especially by your current position with him. 

“n-nothing general!” the foxian seems to hesitate before continuing, “if it isn’t rude to ask, are the two of you…in a relationship?” jing yuan’s face lights up with his usual lazy smile, but this time it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

your eyes widen in surprise as he presses his lips against your nape, you shiver at his touch, a rush of warmth spreads across your cheeks. you should deny it, to say that you're not in a relationship at all, but you can't bring yourself to. instead, you divert your gaze from the foxian, hoping to spare yourself any further embarrassment.

“go on, tell them.” he whispers lowly so that only you can hear him. this bastard, you’re going to give him a stern talking to after this..! “sorry to cut this short, please excuse us.” you give a polite nod before pulling the general away.

two days later, as you’re walking along the streets of central starskiff haven, you come across a group of people gathered around a stall. curious, you head over to check out what’s happening. —you’re absolutely mortified to discover stacks of articles detailing recent events of you and jing yuan.

“breaking news! the general is secretly married?!” / “the truth behind general jing yuan’s relationship status” / “rumours confirmed: a detailed guide to the general of luofu’s relationship saga”

well at least the pictures of you and jing yuan got your good side… and your bad side, and your “i definitely did not sign up for this” side. and oh look, there’s one of you dragging jing yuan by his ponytail too, how wonderful, you’re definitely purchasing that one. 

but yeah no, you’re not beating the allegations after this. 

masterlist

[theyluvkarolina]

𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑

· . ୨୧⭒๋࣭ ⭑ ` ` I feel so much lighter like a feather with you out my life, With you out my life ` ` ⊹ ‧₊˚

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃?: Yes! (Part of 1K Event!)

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 ୨୧ Being with Carlos was magical and always made you felt as if you were on cloud 9. But him breaking everything off so suddenly and moving on oh so quick? What better way than to show him what he’s missing than with all of your success.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ୨୧ Carlos Sainz x Fem!Reader, very slight Lando Norris x Fem!Reader

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ୨୧ I use photos of Rebecca and she will be mentioned in it in here but no hate what-so-ever sent to her! (hate on her will be deleted.), no exact fc but i will only use photos of sabrina for music themed posts and the crying story ONLY (my next fic is all sabrina fc)!

𝐀/𝐍 ୨୧ still mad about the croatia vs spain game so i’m taking my anger out on carlos 😭😭. HOLY SHIT I DID THIS ALL IN ONE DAY!! NEW RECORD!!

1K EVENT MASTERLIST

Instagram

y/n_l/n has posted a story 10 seconds ago!

[1: WTF JUST HAPPEND?!] [2: well this is ironic.] [3: i hate men!!]

1,307 replies to your stories!

username1 YOU’RE ASKING WHAT HAPPENED?! WE’RE ASKING WHAT HAPPENED??

username2 DID WHT I THINK HAPPEN, HAPPEN??

username3 …the smooth operator song…? oh god…

username4 THE BOOK QUOTE TOO???

lilymunihe girl. open the groupchat rn.

franscica.cgomes do i have to kill a man???

iMessages

Twitter

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y/n_l/n ✔︎

liked by francisca.cgomes, lilymunihe, alexandrasaintmleux, and others

y/n_l/n oh i see how it is then.

2,094 comments

francisca.cgomes ✔︎ hottie mcmommy

→ y/n_l/n ✔︎ dump ur bf so we can date and run off to the country side 💋 → francisca.cgomes ✔︎ @ y/n_l/n already on it 🏃‍♀️ → pierregasly ✔︎ @ y/n_l/n that is my girlfriend??? → y/n_l/n ✔︎ @ pierregasly not anymore!🤭

alexandrasaintmleux pretty girl 🎞️ 📸

→ y/n_l/n ✔︎ so shush you’re the pretty one 🥹🩷 → alexandrasaintmleux @ y/n_l/n that’s not what the camera said when i took these photos 🫶 → y/n_l/n ✔︎ @ alexandrasaintmleux 🫣 → charles_leclerc ✔︎ @ alexandrasaintmleux 🤨

lilymunihe ✔︎ ate

→ y/n_l/n ✔︎ devoured

username5 carlos fucked up big time letting her go 🤤

username6 what kika said was so real

→ username7 FRRR

landonorris ✔︎ i can treat you better

→ username9 HELLO?? → username10 lando wtf are you doing here 😭 → username11 GIRLIE JUST GOT SINGLE 💀 → y/n_l/n ✔︎ LEAVE RN LANDO 😭😭 → landonorris ✔︎ @ y/n_l/n doesn’t hurt to shoot my shot 😞

Twitter

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carlossainz55 ✔︎

liked by vinijr, sergioramos, djokernole and others

carlosainz55 rest and relaxation 🌊 🌞

1,297 comments

username12 why did you dump our queen 😞

username13 IT WAS BARELY EVEN 2 WEEKS AND HE ALREADY MOVED ON??

username14 who is that woman???

→ username15 guys start a witch-hunt rn. → username16 @ username15 I’M ON IT!! → username17 or we can leave this woman alone??? → username18 @ username17 no → username19 @ username17 no → username20 @ username17 no → username17 oh ok → username16 @ username14 FOUND HER BECAUSE SHE WAS IN THE LIKES AND IN HIS FOLLOWING. her name is rebecca and she’s a scottish model! here is her username: @ iamrebeccad

username17 rest and relaxation my ass.

username18 how tf do you move on from a gf that fast

→ username19 a word that starts with m and ends in y

username20 i feel like carlos is about to get some karma

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carlossainz55 ✔︎

liked by iamrebeccad, carlitosalcarazz, racerbia, and others

carlossainz55 Australia is in the bag, all thanks to my amazing support! 🇦🇺 ✅

tagged ; iamrebeccad, scuderiaferrari

2,386 comments

username21 and y/n wasn’t that amazing support??

username22 no because y/n literally stopped her music career, arranged some concerts around HIM so she can support HIM.

→ username23 she never had to do that tho… → username24 @ username23 but she did. and she was amazing support.

username25 she’s cute and i wish them the best… but i really hope that he doesn’t do her dirty just like what he did with y/n.

*♥︎ by @ y/n_l/n!*

→ username25 UHM… Y/N LIKED MY COMMENT?? → username29 @ username25 she’s here to support the girls not the men that did her and others dirty. → username26 @ username25 idk… the whole relationship gives pr → username27 @ username26 EXACTLY??? out of all the photos we see, she’s the only one that seems in love :( → username28 @ username27 poor girl doesn’t even realize she’s being used for carlos and ferrari pr to make carlos back in the good books 💀

iamrebeccad ✔︎ so proud!! ❤️🥹

→ username29 it’s been a hour and he hasn’t even acknowledged the comment. poor girl.

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y/n_l/n ✔︎

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y/n_l/n might have took everything else, but left the keys to the villa!! thanks for the free trip with my girls ❤️

tagged ; alexandrasaintmleux, francisca.cgomes, lilymunihe

2,406 comments

username30 HELLO??

username31 NOT HER TAKING THE VILLA 😭😭

username32 deserved tbh. you take that boy’s villa!!

charles_leclerc ✔︎ where is my credit for driving you all around? 🥴

→ y/n_l/n ✔︎ …whoopsies..? → alexandrasaintmleux credit? mon amour you volunteered to drive us around 😭 → charles_leclerc ✔︎ @ alexandrasaintmleux sorry, i don’t trust anyone else to be driving you all around… 😓 → francisca.cgomes ✔︎ @ charles_leclerc what being a dog dad does to someone

username33 HOTTIE ALERT!!🗣️ 🔥 🚨

lilymunihe ✔︎ mwah mwah, dumping alex for you rn.

→ alexalbon ✔︎ y’know i can see this right?? → lilymunihe ✔︎ @ alexalbon even better → y/n_l/n ✔︎ @ lilymunihe tee hee

landonorris cool water (it’s not the water i’m looking at)

→ y/n_l/n ✔︎ ENOUGH OF THIS LANDO 😭😭 → charles_leclerc ✔︎ you’re just embarrassing yourself at this point 😓 → alexalbon ✔︎ mate 💀

username33 the way she also looks so much lighter like a feather in the wind.

→ y/n_l/n ✔︎ lighter..? feather…? hm. i like your thinking.

Instagram

y/n_l/n has posted a story 26 seconds ago!

[1: back in the studio 🤭🤭] [2: taking a small break] [3: tee hee stay tuned]

1,049 replies to your stories!

username34 OMG???

username35 Y/N IS BACK IN HER MUSIC ERA

username36 we hate you carlos but thank you for bringing her back to us 🫶

username37 LETS FUCKING GO??

username38 LET’S GO?

Twitter

Instagram

y/n_l/n ✔︎

liked by spotify, laufy, youtubemusic and others

y/n_l/n Surprise surprise! Listen to my new song Feather, along with my album ‘Emails I Can't Send!’ 🤍

3,059 comments

username39 WHAT

username40 THE RANDOM ALBUM DROP???

username41 POSSIBLE ALBUM OF THE YEAR??

username42 miss girl saved summer single handedly.

→ username43 “fine. I’ll do it myself.”

username44 ALKSHJDFLIAKDJFH:WIOH:FKWN

→ username45 me too.

lilymunihe ✔︎ AAHHH IM SO HAPPY!! SO PROUD OF YOU!!

→ y/n_l/n ✔︎ LILY!!! IM SO HAPPY THAT YOU WERE THERE WITH ME WHILE MAKING THIS 🩷🩷

alexandrasaintmleux my girl 🩷 your songs were absolutely amazing! so honored to be one of the firsts to listen!!

→ charles_leclerc ✔︎ wait, you listened before me?! the one who does music?! → alexandrasaintmleux @ charles_leclerc 😅 → y/n_l/n ✔︎ @ charles_leclerc alex is my special girl!! dw charles i still love you, my adoptive brother 🩶

francisca.cgomes ✔︎ I COULD LISTEN TO IT ALL DAY 🫶🥹

→ y/n_l/n KIKA!! SENDING KISSES ALL THE WAY TO PARIS WHILE YOU’RE WITH THE FRENCHIE!! ILYSM 🥹❤️

landonorris ✔︎ congrats you muppet 🙃

→ username45 lando not thirsting for once?? → landonorris ✔︎ @ username45 hey i can be proud of my friend 😒 → y/n_l/n ✔︎ @ landonorris 🥹🫶

Twitter

Instagram

y/n_l/n ✔︎

liked by spotify, vouge, applemusic and others

y/n_l/n I’m so sorry for your loss! What a wonderful first concert!! Thank you so much to everyone that showed up! ❤️✨

2,986 comments

spotify ✔︎ songs of the summer??

username56 I WANT THE DRESS 🥹🥹

→ usernme57 it’s a need. not a want

username58 not even joking she’s the prettiest woman ive ever seen.

username59 NO FR BECAUSE HOW DID CARLOS DUMP HER??

lilymunihe ✔︎ screaming.

→ francisca.cgomes ✔︎ crying. → alexandrasaintmleux @ francisca.cgomes throwing up. → username60 i love them all being so supportive 🥹

landonorris ✔︎ need help removing that dress? looks sorta heavy.

→ username61 aw hell nah man → username62 HE HASN’T GIVEN UP YET → username63 @ username62 HOW??? 😭😭 → y/n_l/n ✔︎ lando. the only heavy thing you’re getting is my heavy hand against your face → landonorris ✔︎ @ y/n_l/n kinky??? → y/n_l/n ✔︎ @ landonorris i’m not talking to you anymore wtf 😭

username64 “I FEEL SO MUCH LIGHTER LIKE A FEATHER WITH YOU OFF MY MIND!”

→ username65 “FLOATING THROUGH THE MEMORIES LIKE WHATEVER, YOU'RE A WASTE OF TIME!!” → username66 @ username65 (AHHHHHH)

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y/n_l/n has posted 5 seconds ago!

y/n_l/n ✔︎

liked by landonorris

y/n_l/n You want me? I'm done. You miss me? No duh.

5 comments

landonorris ✔︎ …so… dinner?

→ y/n_l/n ✔︎ fine. only so you can shut up. → landonorris ✔︎ @ y/n_l/n 😋😋 → y/n_l/n ✔︎ @ landonorris ur such a dork. → landonorris ✔︎ @ y/n_l/n and you love it 😚

[maplesyrupsainz]

˖⁺｡˚⋆˙written in the stars | DR3˖⁺｡˚⋆˙

pairing: daniel ricciardo x fem y/n reader (she/her)

genre: social media au

warnings: age gap!!

summary: in which you both meet after break ups and mend each other, or in which the world focuses on the wrong things about your relationship

a/n: kind of an old request i never got round to but i fear i need to break up all the charles reqs with some daniel 🙏 hope u enjoy LOL

request!!!: can i req daniel ricciardo age gap fanfic pls plssss

my masterlist

fc: ruby lynn

twitter ->

instagram ->

yourusername

liked by yourbff, friend2, and others

yourusername girl's night 🍕

view all comments

yourbff girl what happened last night 😂

yourusername u know im the last person you should be expecting to remember that

yourbff oh okay valid

friend1 so much fun

yourusername ilysm

friend2 single life suits you babe

yourusername 😀 dont remind me

friend3 miss u wish i could've made it

yourusername soon u lil busy body!!!

yoursister interesting coping mechanism

yourusername learned from the best

yoursister 🤨 who me or mom

yourusername ...both

messages ->

/

instagram ->

yourusername posted a story

liked by yourbff, yoursister, and others

yourbff so is he hot

yourusername YES. SO HOT

yourbff YESSSSS I TOLD U SO

yoursister and this is?

yourusername just a friend 😇

danielricciardo posted a story

liked by landonorris, f1gossip, and others

user1 helloooo???

user2 didnt u & heidi break up??

user3 is this heidi or a different girl

user4 i knew u & heidi didnt break up!!!

user5 so cute

landonorris and who is this?

danielricciardo 🤫

twitter ->

messages ->

instagram ->

yourusername posted a story

liked by danielricciardo, landonorris, and others

yourbff HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

yoursister happy birthday my angel :)

friend1 haps baps gorgeous

friend2 hbd

friend3 cant wait to see u later!!!

danielricciardo happy birthday❤️

messages ->

txts between daniel & lando !!

instagram ->

yourusername

liked by danielricciardo, yourbff, and others

yourusername it's my party i'll cry if i want to

view all comments

user14 omg??? @.user15 look at this

user15 wtf how did u find this

user14 i jus noticed lando AND charles both followed her recently

user16 yo we got a detective over here

user17 SHE'S 22 YRS OLD???

user18 wowwww so young happy birthday i guess

user19 daniel is dating a 22 yr old...?

user20 kind of weird no

yourbff the most gorgeous girl

yourusername i love u

friend1 WOWWW im in love with you

liked by yourusername

danielricciardo hope you had the best time ❤️

yourusername oh i did, tysm for coming!!

user21 what if they're just friends

user22 😂 yea righttttt

twitter ->

instagram ->

f1gossip

liked by user20, user3, yourbff, and others

f1gossip daniel ricciardo spotted with rumoured new partner 22 year old y/n y/l/n. the two have sparked controversy recently due to their large age gap.

tagged: danielricciardo, yourusername

view all comments

user31 oh so they are dating.....

user32 who even cares abt their age gap as long as they're happy!!!

user33 frrrr they're both adults soo?

user34 right and they obviously just met recently

user35 im jus glad to see daniel moving on from heidi

user36 i kind of love them together

user37 we should just leave them alone

user38 agree it's literally none of our business

user39 sooo cute he's whipped for her i fear

user40 i love them ... LOL

danielricciardo

liked by yourusername, maxverstappen1, and others

danielricciardo life's been a bit of a whirlwind 🌪️

view all comments

user41 omg sooo cute

user42 the candid pics of y/n omg he's obsessed

yourbff you cuties

liked by danielricciardo, yourusername

user43 awww he deserves to be happy tbh

user44 still not convinced on the age gap looool

user45 get over it...

landonorris ur new better half

danielricciardo shut up loser

yourusername yup🙂‍↕️ lando right for once

landonorris feels like ur bullying me but i'll take it

user46 maybe daniel is her sugar daddy

user47 wtf is wrong with you LOL

yourusername 😂😂😂😂😂😂

landonorris HAHAHAHA

danielricciardo hahahaha no way

maxverstappen1 sugar daddy daniel 🤨😨

yourusername 🩷🩷!!!!! my loveeee

danielricciardo 😍 you fixed my heart

yourusername and you mine🥹

user48 SOOO cute i love that they went thru break ups together

user49 they were meant to be

user59 written in the stars ✨

THE END 🩷

[munson-blurbs]

Summary: A missing key and a terrible storm leaves you and Eddie stranded in the back of his van. What ever shall you do to pass the time?

WC: 1.6k

Warnings: smut (18+ only, minors DNI), unprotected p in v, friends-to-lovers, kinda sub!Eddie but he's mostly just a simp.

A/N: This will be my last 1k+ fic for a while, as I'll be focusing on writing blurbs for Corroded Coffin Fest throughout July. Why not go out with a (literal) bang?

--

“What do you mean, you forgot your key?”

Your eyes widen as Eddie flicks through the keyring. He shakes his head in frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. 

“I was switching keychains…I thought I put them all back…” He huffs out an irritated laugh. “Must’ve left the house key on the table.”

A warm breeze siphons through the humidity, gray clouds rolling in. August in Hawkins is unbearable as it is, and the sticky heat before a storm is downright brutal. 

Eddie jiggles the doorknob once more, to no avail. “Jesus H. Christ.” He rakes a hand through his curls, frizzy and knotted from the hot weather. “Back to your place?”

Before you can agree, lightning flashes and is swiftly accompanied by booming thunder. Your heart leaps into your throat and you jump. 

“Scared the shit outta me, too.” Eddie laughs nervously. A fat raindrop falls from the sky and plops on his nose, rolling off of the side. Another lands on his cheek, then one lands on yours, until rain pours in a steady sheet. 

Eddie grabs your hand, tugging you off of the trailer’s front steps and pulling you back to his van. He flings open the back doors, always kept unlocked unless he’s hauling concert equipment. 

“Get in,” he orders, and you follow his instructions without a second though. Rainwater pools in the grass, dirt turning into mud beneath your sneakered feet. His hands grip your waist, steadying you as you climb up. “We’ll wait in here until the rain dies down.”

You ignore the lingering flames that his touch leaves behind and the way he’s now sitting right next to you. “It’s like a monsoon out there.”

“Yeah.”

The two of you sit in silence for a few moments, listening to the storm raging outside. Raindrops sound like drum beats against the van’s exterior, a song you’ve heard many times before. 

A chill sweeps over you, reminding you of the wet cotton of your t-shirt clinging to your torso. Your miniskirt hasn't fared much better, the light-washed denim now dark. 

“Do you have a blanket back here?”

Eddie shakes his head. “That’s, like, the one thing I don’t have.” He gestures to the cluttered space. 

You offer a half-smile. “S’okay.” Your palms glide up and down your goosebump-covered arms. 

He notices this, frowning. “Here,” he says. “My hands are bigger than yours.” He clumsily positions himself behind you, knees knocking against your sides. His grasp is strong but gentle, hands warming you up from the outside in. 

“Thanks.” He’s close—so close—yet it feels like he’s never been farther away. Without thinking, you scoot back until your ass brushes against his fly. 

“Sh-Shit.” Eddie inhales sharply. “That’s, um, dangerous territory.”

You raise your brows, though he can’t see them. “And rubbing my arms isn’t?”

Eddie peers around, chin resting on your shoulder. He looks up and says, “it doesn’t turn you on though.”

“Says who?”

He breathes out a laugh, stopping immediately when he realizes that you’re not joking. His voice is barely above a whisper when he asks, “This…this turns you on?” 

You nod, suddenly shy at the admission. 

“How about this?” Eddie’s lips press against the back of your neck. One calloused hand reaches for the collar of your shirt, tugging it down to expose your shoulder. He kisses that, too, his teeth grazing your sensitive skin. 

“Mhm.”

“Fuck.” His other hand snakes around your throat, holding it firmly but being careful not to squeeze. “We shouldn’t do this. S’gonna ruin our friendship.”

Gently, you turn to face him, legs straddling his waist. “I’m fine with ruining it if you are.” The words are murmured, muffled by the proximity of your lips and his. 

Eddie swallows, Adam's apple bobbing with trepidation. “Just want you. Fuck, I want you so bad.”

He grabs your ass and pulls you closer until you can feel his erection straining against his jeans. You roll your hips, eliciting a moan from him. 

“You—I gotta—” He unbuckles his belt, tossing it amongst the van’s clutter. “I’m so hard it hurts.”

You reach for his pants button, but he shakes his head. “I’ll bust if you touch me,” he sheepishly explains. 

He takes off his own pants, which is much more of a chore than usual because of the rain-soaked fabric. He doesn’t bother to remove his Hellfire shirt, but you hardly notice. His tented boxers hold your focus, and despite his warning, you strip them away. You need to see what’s beneath them. 

The sight before you is nothing less than glorious. 

His cock is hard, curved slightly left, the pinkish-purple tip already leaking pre-cum. Your thumb traces the vein that runs along the shaft, and he shivers at your touch. When he looks at you with wide, wet eyes, you nearly melt on the spot.

“Is…Is this what you want?” Eddie’s voice is so soft you can barely hear it above the pouring rain. “Because…I want this so bad. So fucking bad.” Pleading, desperate, bordering on pathetic. Everything he showed outwardly, you felt on the inside.

You lean in, capturing his lips and pouring all of your desire into one searing kiss. “Don’t just want it. Need it. Need you,” you reassure him, feeling his length twitch against you. Taking it in your hand, you move your panties out of the way and rub the head against your clit. Every nudge sends a wave of pleasure crashing through your body. “Mmmph, please, please.”

Eddie wraps his hand around yours, guiding his cock into you. “There you go,” he whispers, hissing as you sink down. He fills you completely, bringing a pinch of pain as you adjust to him. “You okay?”

“Mhm. M-More than okay.” You grip his shoulders, curling your fingers into the shirt’s cotton fabric.  Moving your hips, you work him deeper until he’s bottomed out, sheathed within you down to the curls at his base. 

Everything is Eddie, and it feels so good. 

“Can’t believe I’m inside you.” He tries to kiss you, the action hindered by a small laugh. “I’m actually—we’re actually doing this. Fuck, you feel so good!” The last sentence is a growl, raw and primal. 

You hold on to him, knees scraping against the van’s worn carpet as your movements find their rhythm. There’s no more time for self-control. Only Eddie, his hips bucking to meet your core. 

“Might…might not last long,” he admits, swiping at a bead of sweat dripping down his temple. “You’re even better than my fantasies. Never knew you’d feel this f-fucking warm. Tight. Like you’re m-made for me.”

“Maybe I am.” You swoop down to suck on his neck. “Maybe I am made for you, and I’ve been waiting for you to realize it.”

Eddie groans, throwing his head back and exposing more of his neck, which you dutifully continue marking. His thoughts are clouded by lust; neither of you speak for a while, the only noises are moans and the van squeaking on its axles. 

“It’s always you.”

Your eyes meet his. “What?”

“In my fantasies. It’s always you. Every time I jerk off, I imagine your hands, your mouth, your perfect pussy—”

“Eddie.” His name is barely a breath. You clench around him just as he kisses you, and his teeth sink into your lower lip. It’s not hard enough to draw blood, but it produces a twinge of pain that has you skyrocketing towards climax. “Yes, yes, yes!”

He grabs your hips harshly, keeping you flush against him. The denim waistband of your skirt digs into your skin but you don’t care. Nothing matters, only Eddie, Eddie, Eddie…

“I’m coming. Fuck, I’m coming.” He thrusts upwards in short, punctuated strokes, heaving as he spills into you. 

The two of you stay like that for a few moments, catching your breath and processing what just happened. You confessed that Eddie’s touch turned you on, you rode him in the back of his van, and then he confessed that he thinks about you when he touches himself. 

Oh, and he gave you an earth-shattering orgasm. 

As if reading your mind, Eddie says softly, “you came…right? Because if you didn’t, I can—”

“Yeah.” You can’t help but giggle, silencing him with a kiss. “I definitely came.”

His chest sags with relief. “Good. Me, too. I mean, obviously. It’s right…” He withdraws, cock softening, his cum trickling down your thigh. “Holy fucking shit.” 

There’s no masking his grin, visible through the t-shirt’s thin fabric as he pulls it over his head. With a careful touch, he wipes away his mess. 

“I think I owe you a new shirt.”

“Nah.” He shakes his head, tossing the shirt aside. “I have a million of these. Not the first time one’s been, uh, stained.”

Eddie’s cheeks turn crimson at his admission. He averts his gaze from you, bringing his attention to the foggy window. The condensation squeaks under his forefinger as he draws a smiley face through it. 

“What do you wanna do till my uncle gets home?”

You, you think, but the last thing you need is for Wayne to find the van a-rockin’. “Maybe I could hear more about those fantasies of yours? And I could tell you some of mine?”

Eddie looks back at you, his spent cock still managing a small twitch. “Mmm.” His lips find your throat, sending vibrations through you when he speaks. One hand snakes between your bodies, his middle finger landing on your clit. He makes small, deliberate circles as he murmurs.

“Ladies first.”

--

[shanastoryteller]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY GRANDMA MY ONE TRUE LOVE!!! CAN I HAVE SOME PERCY AND TONKS CONTENT TO MAKE MY SOUL CONTENT PLEASE ✨✨✨

There are several titles that fall under the auror. When the ministry was first established, it was just inferior and superior, meant in the Latin way, but that fell out of favor rather quickly for obvious reasons. There was some talk of adopting the ranks of a legion used by the Romans, but since such ranks are still in practice in magical Italy, it didn’t the smartest idea. Tonks thinks that it was probably a Zabini who suggested it. Now their ranks are just numbered, from fifth to first, and junior, standard, and senior.

Everyone starts the same – fifth ranked junior auror – and works their way up one by one. Training is a year and if they make it through that, they’re a junior agent who better make it up to the first rank by the end of their third year, otherwise they’re likely getting cut.

There’s a track to speed through the junior phase and get to the land of securely employed standard auror, but that’s for people that have combat or specialized experience, usually for people who aren’t entering auror training straight of school like she is. Or for when they’d needed to replenish their ranks during the war and those applying had been fighting anyway.

Which is why she’s looking in confusion at the thick roll of parchment that Shackbolt has shoved under her nose. She’s only a couple months into training and while she thinks she’s doing pretty good, she’d also tripped over her literal two left feet during the first week of boot camp. Sometimes she changes in her sleep and doesn’t notice for a while, okay? It’s not like she did it on purpose. She’s pretty good at dueling, her mother made sure of that, but they haven’t even gotten to that part yet. “I’m confused.”

“Fill this out and give it back to me by the end of the week,” he says, already turning away from her.

She makes her arm extra long so she can grab his elbow before he gets too far away. “But I don’t have anything that qualifies me! There’s no way Bones will approve this.”

He raises an eyebrow and looks down at her arm. “Are you sure about that, Trainee?”

Oh. But she hasn’t really gotten a chance to show those skills off either, and being a metamorphmagus is impressive, but not that impressive. But she does as she’s told, leaving it on his desk and trying not to think too much about it.

Bones approves it.

Being on the advanced track has it advantages – blessed job security – but it also means she just gets a jump on desk duty, really. Apparently they don’t just send newly minted aurors out to battle dark wizards to the death, for some reason.

She sighs. She’s never been very good at paperwork.

How very not good she is at is proved when during her very first week when Percy Weasley shows up at her desk, looking even more sleep deprived than he had as a runty fourteen year old, which is impressive. He’s a lot taller now. Late growth spurt, perhaps. Or maybe she just wasn’t paying that much attention. He drops a stack of paper on her desk and she recognizes her own messy scrawl. “These are filled out incorrectly. I can’t process them like this.”

Her shoulders slump. She’d tried to pull other reports and fill them out the same way, but it was all so confusing. How she’s supposed to know how to categorize these things? Why are there thirteen different codes for a house robbery, anyway? And there are so many different sections, and she wasn’t even there, she just has other people’s notes to go off of, and they take notes like she did in History of Magic.

She’s going to be here all night redoing them and they’ll probably still be wrong and Kinglsey will regret ever pushing her through the advanced track and her mother will have been right, which is really the worst of all –

“Hey,” Percy says, and she blinks several times before looking up at him so she doesn’t embarrass herself. “I can – if you’re busy, I can just,” he reaches for the papers he’s dropped on her desk.

She slaps her hand over them to stop him, but instead his hand ends up trapped beneath hers. “No! No, it’s okay, I have to learn how to do this. It’s important.”

He stares at her with a look she can’t explain. “It’s just paperwork.”

“It’s my job,” she says stubbornly, “it’s all important. I’m going to be a great auror – the best auror. And that includes my paperwork.”

He smiles at her, which is suitably distracting from her own ruined night. She doesn’t know if he’s ever smiled at her before. He’d always seemed so stoic, nothing like his brothers. “All right. If you’re sure.”

“Yes,” she says, freshly determined, finally lifting her hand off his. Everyone else has figured out how to do this. She can too. She will. “But thanks.”

“No problem,” he says, then, “My dad has a muggle coffee pot in his department lounge. If you want. The password is rubber duck.”

She does prefer coffee made the muggle way. That’s how it’s made in her house, of course, with her muggle father, and there’s something to the taste that she thinks coffee loses after it’s third hour of being charmed hot or squeezed through by magic instead of just hot water and a little patience.

How does Percy know that?

Before she can ask, he’s already turned and walking away from her, and she barely has the chance to shout, “Thanks!” before he turns the corner.

[lavenderspence]

Missing the happy hormone | S.R.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Content warning: emotional reader, period mention, fluff

Word Count: 1.8K

Summary: Apparently Spencer Reid could make anything better - even the emotional disaster of being on your period

A/N: First, huge thank you to the cutie that sent in this request, you literally caught me while on my period so this was born. Also, here’s to my inability to write short fics, this is your only warning that i can make and will make anything long, lol. Also, my titles suck omg. And shoutout to my crazy bestie for making me a Mamma Mia girly, she rocks.

But also, happy one month to this blog! When I carved out this little space for myself a month ago I wasn’t really sure how I’d feel being back here and writing again, but so far it’s been a treat. A huge thank you for all of your support and love and thank you to my mutuals and everyone that interacted with my blog. 💕 Here’s to many more months to come!

Request: spencer x fem!reader on her period/ovulating and shes in tears all the time?? Im ovulating and have been crying for hours and keep calling my mom lmaoo he’d been so lovely and sweet I know it I can feel it in my bones

It was a slow day at the BAU. The most exciting thing in the 6 hours Spencer had spent at work was Rossi’s invitation to dinner the following weekend. 

Paperwork had piled high after their last 2 cases, so every team member was hunched over their desk, writing and revising reports. It was a never-ending cycle - finish a report, close the file, open a new one, and start all over again.

His eyes had started getting tired after four and a half hours, his hand had started cramping and he was down two pens so far, yet there was still a prominent pile on his desk.

He suspected Morgan and Emily might have pushed a file or two from theirs onto his load, seeing as he was getting done the fastest. Regardless, every few hours JJ was bringing even more to pile on top of everything that wasn’t finished, so buried in paperwork they stayed - no matter how fast he wrote or read, or how used to the load he was.

He was just thinking about getting up to prepare a fresh pot of coffee so he could function properly for a few more hours when his phone started ringing. He felt around the pockets of his suit jacket, where it sat draped on his chair, and then pulled it free. 

His display showed an incoming call, a picture of you as he hugged you, hands around your middle and face almost buried into your neck, a soft smile gracing both your faces. A scenery rich with reds, browns, and yellows stood behind you, the beauty of fall was nothing short of spectacular. 

The picture you’d taken last year when the team spent a weekend at Rossi’s cabin in the woods, surrounded by the beauty of landscapes and leaves, nature for miles. 

He accepted the call right away, a small smile on his face. 

“Hey sweetheart.” His voice was gentle, if a little raspy from misuse. He hadn’t talked much in the last few hours - just a distracted short answer here or a hum there. He was happy you were calling, though, welcoming the reprieve from the most recent report. 

It was silent for a few seconds, and he wondered absentmindedly if maybe you hadn’t called him on accident, and then there came a tiny little sniffle from your side. 

“Sweetheart?” He prompted, “Are you there? What’s going on?” Worry was starting to creep into the base of his spine, but he still remained calm and kept his voice gentle. 

“I’m here. Hi.” Another small sniffle, “All’s good. Just…I was just wondering how much longer you’d be gone.” Your voice was small,like you thought you might upset him by asking, and a little crackly, like you yourself were upset about something. 

His eyebrows furrowed, and he checked the time quickly - 3:57 pm. 

“Probably about two more hours, there’s a lot of paperwork we need to go through.” His eyes met Emily’s as she sent him a curious, questioning look. 

“Oh, okay.” The resignation was clear in your voice, “I’ll see you later then.” The call ended abruptly, and it took him a second to catch up.

He couldn’t help but feel like not everything was as good as you claimed it was. For one, you rarely called to ask when he’d be home - you knew his work could span into the late hours, or even stretch for days. You let him update you on any changes in his work schedule. 

In your interactions, your voice was usually upbeat and teasing - especially on the phone. Your kindness was always evident in your voice, as was your mood. You were a sunshine person, if he ever met one, that’s probably why you and Penelope formed such a close bond upon meeting. 

There was something that nagged him - a change in your mood he could pick up on just by your voice - too low, too small, and the cracks that he could now identify as he replayed your conversation in his head. You were keeping yourself from crying out, and yet there was nothing more apparent than the tears in your voice. And that made him worry. 

“Reid, are you okay?” Emily’s voice snapped him from the hard stare he’d been giving his phone in the last several minutes since the call ended. 

“I…I don’t know.” His eye twitched, and he cleared his throat before he tried and failed to articulate exactly what was happening - he himself had a hard time understanding. One thing he knew was that he needed to get home. “I..um, I need to go. Can you, please?” He asked, gusting at the remaining three files on his desk before he pulled his suit jacket on and grabbed his satchel. 

Morgan and Emily shared a mildly concerned look before they both nodded their heads, “Yeah, go. Text to let us know if everything is okay.” Morgan reminded him before he exited the bullpen with a fast step and tried to keep calm.

He was aware the situation wasn’t anything that he needed to be incredibly worried over - if something was really wrong, he knew you would have let him know. Yet, he couldn’t help the way his heart constricted by the sound of your voice, or the overwhelming desire to come home and gently hold you, see what could have caused this behavior. 

You were curled up on the couch, watching as Donna helped Sophie get ready for her wedding, the gentle melody of “Slipping through my fingers” filling the empty apartment. Your eyes were watering, to the point that everything was starting to get blurry. A shaky exhale left your lips.

Today has simply been a rollercoaster. Kissing Spencer goodbye this morning was the highlight of the day. What followed was nothing short of an emotional disaster. 

You’d teared up during breakfast, images of picking berries with Spencer flying through your mind. The desire to make it a reality was strong. 

Following that had come the overwhelming urge to bawl your eyes out, for no apparent reason whatsoever. Just cry and cry until you had it all emptied out and you could take a deep breath and continue with your day. So, cry you did, and then you’d finished with your chores for the day. 

Apparently letting it all out and emptying your tear supply hadn’t happened. Seeing as around 3:30 you’d started missing your boyfriend so much, the need to hear his voice had won out, so you’d called him. You felt the need to have him home to hold you because this month’s visit from mother flow was making you feel like a crybaby.

But then there was disappointment at the notion that you needed to wait close to 3 hours before that could happen. So you quickly ended the call before he could pick up on the tone of your voice, and then you shed a few tears. 

Now here you were, rewatching Mamma Mia because you really needed a pick me up, and once again, eyes shining as the tears started falling. At this point, it was a losing battle, so you let them fall, humming to the song with a broken voice. 

That’s exactly how Spencer found you, not a minute later. His keys were in his hand, the satchel on his shoulder, and he was just a little bit out of breath. 

The moment his eyes met you, they softened as he dropped everything and sat down next to you. His hand reached up and he cradled the side of your face, wiping your tears away. 

“Hey, sweetheart. What’s wrong?” He asked in a whisper.

“Look at Donna painting Sophie’s nails, it’s...” You hiccuped, another wave of tears washing over you. “And you’re home, why are you home?” Your question was met with a furrow in his brow, as his thumbs continued wiping underneath your eyes. 

“You called.” He answered simply. 

“But you said-” He stopped you before you could finish your sentence.

“I did, yes. But you sounded off and sad, so. Want to tell me what’s going on?” He prompted you gently as he pushed your hair back and pulled you into his lap after, feeling like you needed the physical contact. 

You weren’t ashamed to admit it, per se, but you were ashamed that your hormones had caused him to leave work and race home to be with you. 

“It’s my period,” you mumbled, hands wrapping around his neck as you hid your face in his chest, too tired to prevent your eyes from watering again. “It’s been going on all day. Randomly, I’d just get so emotional, and the tears would start. I was missing you so much too, and then hearing the song, bam, tears again. I’m so done with this Spence.” You sounded barely coherent, with your face pushed as close to him as possible. 

It all made sense now, you’d been cranky a few days ago, and then you’d told him last night your cramps were unbearable, so he knew you were on your period, but right now he felt like an idiot for not figuring it out himself. 

“It’s okay, everything is fine. The drop in estrogen and progesterone, following your ovulation triggered this. This in turn reduced the production of serotonin, your happy hormone. So, we just need to boost it a bit.” He whispered into your ear as you played with the hairs at the nape of his neck. 

“How?” You sighed into his chest, almost being able to pick up on the sound of his heartbeat.

He got deep in thought for a few seconds as you breathed in his scent, and a sense of calmness slowly overtook you now that he was home and holding you. One of his hands was running soothing circles on your back as the other held your hand, fingers interlocked. 

“How about we take a trip to the store and get you some snacks? We’ll pick up dinner on the way home and then I'll hold you some more and you'll pick a movie for us to watch.” He suggested, kissing the crown of your head once, twice, and many more times until you gave him an answer. 

“Yeah, yeah, I think that would help, but just having you here has done wonders.” You finally laid your head against his chest, looking up to meet his eyes. He smiled, and so did you. Having him here really had helped immensely, and when had it not? He was your other half, your rock, and even when your emotions ran rampant or you were feeling down, just his presence, his touch, and his understanding were enough to make it all okay. 

Later in the evening, Penelope sent you a photo of Sergio sleep-hugging a little plushy you’d gotten him, and the waterworks started all over again. Luckily, Spencer was there, wiping your tears and kissing your head, saying a thousand things without actually speaking a word.

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

Requests are open for both Spencer and Hotch if you want to send any!

[helluvathings]

It's interesting that the episode description straight up warned for Stolas lacking self-awareness. It's more or less a confirmation that Stolas and his character arc aren't finished, and between that and the content of the last couple episodes, I ended up going back through the series and looking at the path he's taken so far. Warning now, there's a lot of 'deconstructing' Stolas at first, but I do think he's on a positive trajectory and the set up serves as foundation for future character development.

Anyway for anyone interested in a from-the-beginning rundown of Stolas's arc, full post is below.

From his first conversation with Blitzø, you have Stolas in his bath making the favors for favors offer, while Blitzø is working and in a life-or-death situation. The language Stolas is using is too formal; it causes communication issues, and Blitzø has to tell him to stop using "rich person talk." The scene that sets up their whole dynamic is 1. Stolas establishing the transaction (given he could've straight up punished Blitzø for stealing or just taken back the book, this isn't bad; it just is), 2. Stolas at leisure while Blitzø's job has him in danger, and 3. the class/education difference resulting in Blitzø having difficulty understanding what Stolas is saying.

Move forward to Loo Loo Land. The language Stolas uses with Blitzø gets a lot of attention already, as does Stolas's rather poor grasp of social cues/difficulty seeing outside his own perspective causing him to clash with Octavia. One point I don't see raised as often is that Stolas hiring Blitzø to spend time together, when he doesn't need a bodyguard, and then sexualizing Blitzø while he does his job, is both condescending, and doesn't show much respect for what Blitzø actually does. He pays him more or less to put on a show, so Stolas can indulge a fantasy of them having a relationship (not because he's evil, because he doesn't know better).

Then you've got Stolas in the newest episode, getting annoyed with Blitzø for saying he thought Stolas couldn't be hurt because he was immortal. That if I.M.P. could handle Striker, Stolas surely could. Stolas's sarcastic, "It's not an imp's place to protect a Goetia, is it?" comes across different when considering Stolas literally once hired them as mock bodyguards. It just... escapes him, why Blitzø would think the idea of Stolas needing their help is outrageous. Never mind how clear Stolas's rescue in Truthseekers made their power disparity. Stolas often has trouble putting himself in other people's shoes, and it shows here.

The Harvest Moon Festival brings in Striker, who's basically a "class problems" mouthpiece, exaggerated for emphasis. He even remarks directly on how Stolas's treatment of Blitzø can look from the outside. There's also the episode's opening bedroom scene, where Stolas's idea of flirty talk is copious use of microaggressions, plus the later scene with Blitzø snapping about Stolas not using his proper name. It's likely not an accident that these things happen the same episode Striker appears.

Truthseekers has "impish little plaything," with honorable mention to Stolas pinching Blitzø's cheek and scolding I.M.P. like children. But it also has Blitzø's vision all but screaming how Stolas makes him feel. On the one hand, it's Stolas who brings him back to himself. He washes away the muck. He's something beautiful amidst the ugliness. But he's on a pedestal, he has Blitzø in chains. He has shadow Blitzøs fanning him like servants, and Blitzø stumbles away from him blind and mute, smothered by feathers.

Ozzie's is actually good for Stolas's development, because he gets his first reality check when Blitzø makes it clear he thinks Stolas only wants sex. (It also shows how Stolas feels about Blitzø behind the bad erotic-novel scripts he's been using, which is the first time the audience sees this outright). After that, Stolas realizes his relationship with Blitzø was problematic. He sees the transaction and gets rid of it, and he senses something off with his behavior that has him start calling Blitzø by name and stopping with the 'plaything' type remarks.

But the past two episodes have made it evident he'd made those realizations in a vacuum. His broader class awareness is basically nonexistent, and when Blitzø tries raising the issue, he groups Blitzø with Striker by default, as if any criticism of his status/wealth/privilege is unreliable and antagonistic toward him specifically. He refuses to sincerely consider that Blitzø isn't merely judging him, and that he might be saying something with legitimate basis.

The Circus is especially interesting. Aside from the commentary underlying the 'buying Blitzø' plot, the episode shows Stolas getting scolded by Paimon like a dog for showing respect to an imp; that likely wouldn't have been an isolated incident. It's played somewhat for humor ("I'm so good at daddying"), but it also shows why he'd have so much trouble with things like microaggressions. He has literally been trained to hold himself above others. And just going off the way Stolas is framed at Stella's party, isolated and alone, being laughed at by Stella and her friends, I suspect Stolas may see himself as a "good rich person," because he doesn't seem to fit well with the Goetia either; he's laughed at and bullied, he lacks privilege in his own ways. He identifies more with other demons than his own class--and it blinds him, I think, to the fact that he is still part of his class, and isn't immune to the problems that come with that.

Even in Seeing Stars, there's the moment with Stolas all but strangling that poor butler and hardly seeming to notice. In an episode that's almost entirely focused on father-daughter relationships, that still gets tossed in. Regarding the Octavia plot, Stolas lacking self-awareness comes up again; it's understandable that he's distracted with the divorce, and we do see him try to resolve the issue, but it feels like a quiet alarm indicating hey, you might have a recurring problem where your daughter is concerned.

Western Energy is another 'Striker shouting that class issues matter in this show' moment. While I think Stolas going the 'well, you're part of the system, so you can't complain' route when Striker tries bringing it up is loosely relevant, I also don't blame him for that one. Poor guy is being tortured, he deserves some slack. Oops, in my opinion, shows Stolas at his best; he's just been turned down by Ozzie, but he still sticks around and helps. We even see how sincerely happy he is when Fizz returns. It's a good example of how decent Stolas can be beneath it all, as well as his sense of romance appearing in a healthier way.

Then come Full Moon and Apology Tour, where most of the Stolas subtext gets screamed and/or bitterly snapped in his face by Blitzø. It's stated directly by the main character that those things matter, in a way that imo portrays Blitzø as at least partially sympathetic. And of course the Apology Tour episode description, yelling it for the folks in back.

What all this is trying to say is: 90% of Stolas's time on screen has set him up to have a 'getting more self aware' arc. I see a lot of accusations of the show babying Stolas, but I think it's more that it hasn't gotten around to doing what it wants with Stolas. There are 4 seasons. We're in the second. We've had Stolas's post-Ozzie's revelation, and now he's getting a lot more "you're part of the problem" feedback thrown his way. It's implied Octavia is going to contribute to that as well.

Anyway!! My personal guess so far is that if the "loses his powers and/or titles" theory that's been going around has any merit, that's going to instigate the start of actual, substantial change. Will that actually happen? No idea. But Stolas's flaws have been as articulated and developed as Blitzø's, and at this point, if the consequences aren't explored in the same way, it'll be dropping a ball that's already well in the air. I also think this isn't going to be a "fixed by the end of season 2" thing. Stolas problably won't appear again until Mastermind, and then there's just Sinsmas. There isn't time for him to change in two episodes. There is, however, time for him to have some big realizations, and for the change to happen next season.

[thelastofhyde]

hit the road, jack!

pairing. ex!jack daniels x fem!reader synopsis. the last time you sat in jack’s infamous bronco, you broke his heart. now, a year later, you’re sitting in it with a mud-stained wedding dress and he’s driving you back to the man you left at the altar. is one night, a thousand miles, and a well-timed car radio enough to remind you of the love you shared? warnings. road trip au, exes to lovers, runaway bride!reader, mutual pining, miscommunication/no communication, idiots in love, exes in love, minor character death, infidelity, one ( 1 ) comment regarding food restriction, mentions of period, smut ( unprotected piv, dirty talk, sex in public spaces, implied creampie, fairly non-descriptive ) the reader of this fic is mostly non-descript, with mentions of having hair long enough to stick to her neck when wet and hands smaller than jack's. word count. 14.7k hyde's input. quick disclaimer that this fic was admittedly better in my head, but i tried my best :') it unfortunately never got to reach it's full potential as my friends dragged me off on an unexpected trip on friday for my birthday (which is today aka the 23rd). because of that, i've not had time to finish the last few scenes as well as i'd hoped to (it's literally 5 am as i'm editing it bc it's the only chance i've had) but i don't want to post this any later as this is my entry to the #SummerLovin'24 event, organised and hosted by @pedgito, @chaotic-mystery & @amanitacowboy , a massive thank you to them for creating such a fun event. i really enjoyed taking part and i can not wait to sink my teeth into the other amazing fics from this event. if you care to listen, here is a playlist of songs mentioned/featured in the fic.

INTRO — silver springs.

“Time cast a spell on you, but you won’t forget me.”

Stevie Nicks et al chant out of old speakers, a bass blown out over time and an intruding static that demands to play alongside the band. Perched upon the bar counter, they sit adjacent to a cash register that shakes each time it opens, a slam seemingly the only way to close it. The swish of a mop over chequered vinyl flooring and the squeaks of a waitress’ coffee-stained sneakers play to their own tune. The passing of time turns it all to background noise.

Through lunch, through dinner, and two shift changes you’ve survived. Out in the parking lot now sits only a semi-truck, its drivers, two men in scuffed boots and jeans that fray at their seams, the only other customers that remain. One tucks into a Sloppy Joe, the other has fallen asleep against the table, his coffee turning as cold as your own.

You ordered the coffee for nothing more than an excuse to sit a while longer. Time for figuring out what’s next. What you’ll do, where you’ll go, how you’ll get there. The elderly couple who’d been kind enough to take you off the side of the road, moving luggage into the trunk to make space for you in the backseats, are now long gone from the roadside diner.

It wasn’t a sorrowful departure. You were quite happy to see them leave, and take their pitiful glances and unasked questions with them. The looks still linger on in others. Each pair of eyes you’ve encountered, dragging over the expanse of your messed up hair, and your smudged eyes, and your mud-stained gown. It’s not hard to imagine the scenes they play out in their heads, of a bride scorned and abandoned on what was meant to be the happiest day of her life, a day meant for vows and first dances twisted into one of heartbroken wandering and roadside pit-stops.

You wonder if any of them know you’re not the victim, but the aggressor. The one who fled, leaving behind a bouquet of striped carnations, marigolds, and purple hyacinths.

Tires crunch on gravel as a car rolls into the parking lot. Whichever fool sits behind the wheel has their full beams on. A light flickers over your head. It’s been doing so for the past hour, an irritating reflection in the window that steals your attention back into the diner.

The waitress is eyeing you again, a weary look on her face that tells you she wants to approach but doesn’t know how. Maybe she wants to ask if you’re okay, or enquire about the events that led you here, deep in the middle of nowhere. Or maybe she just wants you to close your tab and leave. 

The bell above the door rings as it opens. It’s been a while since you heard it do so. A smile comes over the waitress as she greets the newcomer. Her eyes seem to take them in, slowly. From top to bottom, and right back to the top. Innocent, if not a little flirtatious. She’d not looked at either of the truckers that way. Perhaps this is her lover, here to wait about and keep a watchful eye as she works the night shift. You can’t imagine it’s the safest place in the world for a woman to find herself working through the twilight hours, nothing but open road and sky-rise trees surrounding the diner.

A sip from your coffee. It’s as cold as you expected. Bitter too, having not found your voice in time to ask for sugar. Your stomach growls, a plea for a meal. If you’d only stayed at the venue, you’d be full of vanilla frosting, and smoked oysters, and… had it been the coronation chicken or the roast sirloin the wedding planner had gone with in the end? You can’t remember. What you do remember is her unwanted advice: just stick to some light bites, no bride wants a food-baby in her pictures.

In retrospect, you’d disliked her from the moment you met her. But you had no desire to plan a wedding. And no time either, much to your future mother-in-law’s chagrin. So out she’d gone, a cat on the hunt, dragging home some mousy-brown haired wedding planner as a sacrificial lamb. Better it be her than you who stresses over the shade of napkins, and the taste of merlots, and the seating arrangements.

Footsteps thud against the floor. Slow, deliberate, not a stumble in the way they move. You stare back out the window and spy a cowboy hat reflected in it. It belongs to the waitress’ lover, who by now is likely making his way over to pull her in real close and swoon her with a kiss only men blessed by southern charm possess.

A different version of you, a happier version, used to be kissed like that every morning.

“Are you lost, sweetheart?” The voice of a man echoes. Softly spoken, yet loudly heard in the quiet of the diner. In the window, the cowboy hat stands right behind you. You turn slowly, let your eyes dance over its owner. Like a sculpture plucked out of ancient Rome, he’s a fine art only the most delicate hands could shape. He’s brown-eyed affection. He’s an aquiline nose. He’s a well-groomed moustache. He’s Jack. “Think it’s a few miles up north they’re expecting a pretty bride.”

Leather jackets and well-fitted jeans have been traded in for a suit. Simple, classic. White shirt, black tie, a trademark cowboy hat you’d never failed to spot amongst any crowd. There’s a crinkle where a cheeky grin meets eyes framed by full brows and lashes, a scar on his right temple a reminder of the kind of man he is. Dauntless, righteous, brave. An undercover agent, posing as the CFO of one of the largest whiskey distilleries in the world. 

An illusion plays out where no time has passed and his is still the face you come home to each night. A lot can change in a year, however, like the bed you sleep in, or the ring upon your finger.

He welcomes himself into the seat across from you. The protective barrier of a water-ring stained table keeps a safe distance between you both, yet you still feel his knee knock against your own as he makes himself comfortable. One arm stretched over the backrest, the other rests against the table and drums a nervous tune with his fingers.

“You’ve worried a lot of people, darliln’,” his gaze studies you. You wonder if it’s the same look he used to give his targets. The thought sours the sweetness of seeing his pretty eyes after all these months. “Runnin’ off like that, not even a hoot or a holler to let your daddy know you’re alright.”

Your dad. He’d slipped off to the bathroom, a kiss to your cheek and a promise he’d be back in time to walk you down the aisle. What must he have thought, rounding the corner to the sight of a bouquet, abandoned a la Cinderella and her glass slipper. Before you stew in guilt for too long, the rest of Jack’s words catch up to you.

He knew you ranaway. That glimpse of a cowboy hat amongst the pews had not been an illusion.

Jack was at the wedding.

“What happened?” His hand seeks you out. Warm as you remember him to be, large enough to engulf your smaller palm in his. “Why’d you run?” You stay quiet. Shrug your shoulders, eventually, and stare down as his thumb brushes over your knuckles. “You gonna give me a proper answer, sweetheart?”

Another shoulder shrug leads Jack to a sigh. There’s a pause in the quiet tension brewing between you, in the shape of the smiling waitress, pen and pad in hand. Her eyes seem to dart between you both, and you can almost hear her wondering who Jack is, if he’s the man you were meant to meet at the end of the aisle. There’d been a time when yes was the only possible answer to such a question.

“A glass of your finest whiskey. Neat, of course. And how ‘bout somethin’ to please a sweet tooth, hm?” His foot bumps yours beneath the table, calling you to look at him. You meet his eyes, watch him raise his brows in question. “Spied a pretty mean lookin’ cherry pie on my way in. That sound good to you, darlin’?” Your mute staring continues. Your stomach takes control, answers him with a disgruntled growl from within. His head turns to the side, laughing, and he nods at the waitress. “Think she’s gonna need a slice of that pie, miss!”

The right to speak returns to you at last, as you watch the glass of liquid caramel be placed down in front of him, head turning to stare out the window, a familiar Bronco sits poorly parked, obnoxious in the way it treads the line of two parking spaces.

“You shouldn’t drink and drive.”

Surprise flashes over his face, but he recovers quickly, untensing his shoulders as he sinks further into the booth. “Didn't order it for me,” he slides the glass of whiskey over to you. “Eat up, drink up. You need it.”

Though it kills you to admit it, the first bite out of the pie feels like heaven in your mouth. Tart, sweet, with pastry so golden it’s as if King Midas baked it under the heat of his own hands. A sip of the whiskey isn’t so great, but you stomach the burn and accept the erasure of nerves it promises. Your eagerness to clear the plate and empty the glass has nothing to do with the approving smile Jack watches you with.

“How did you find me?” 

“You doubtin’ my skills?” He’s teasing. You know this. Still, you fall into the trap of a panicked head shake, a cough over the final bite of cherry goodness. “I stopped at a gas station. Runnin’ on an empty in the middle of nowhere ain’t on my list of wants, you see. Overheard two kids talkin’ about some bride sittin’ at a dinner a few miles down. Don’t take no Hercule Poirot to figure it was you”

“Oh.”

You shouldn’t feel disappointed by his answer, there’s no reason a man you hurt so deeply would have any vested interest in finding you.

The last you’d seen of Jack was through your car’s rear-view mirror, his tear stricken face watching you drive away, five years of clothes, and shoes, and memories stuffed into your car. He’d begged you not to leave your shared home; offered to sleep in the spare room, give you both time to work things out between you. You’d been the one to declare it useless.

“This isn’t something we can fix, Jack!”

“But, darlin’, I love you.”

“A happy coincidence, I was lookin’ for ya anyway. You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on inside that head of yours yet?” At least this time your mute stare is paired with a head shake. “Look, I mean well when I say this, but darlin’, you’re lookin’ a mighty mess. Now, a pretty mess that may be, but a mess all the same.” His hand is back on yours, squeezing with enough strength to ground you and keep you from floating off into the landscape of your own conflicted mind. “So here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna take a trip to the gents, then I’m gonna square up whatever we owe this fine establishment, and then we’re gettin’ that pretty caboose of yours up'n out of here.”

Frozen where you sit, it takes a few moments for the warmth of whiskey to settle in your bones, lurching you forward when it does, a gasp and a tight grip at his wrist, holding him back before he can stroll away from the table.

“Where are we going?”

“For a drive, sweetheart.”

TRACK 1 — vienna

You and Jack are no strangers to a late night drive.

An entire love story, told within the confines of four wheels and a chassis. The very night you met, you wound up in his passenger seat, arms up in the air and the wind blowing through your hair, the charming cowboy next to you taking every joyful laugh as a plea to go faster, nothing ahead but the open road and a southern voice crooning out of the radio. Too lost in your own head, that’s what he’d claimed you to be, having strolled up to a lonely-you in a crowded bar, lamenting over a glass of bitter white wine, freshly fired and with no real clue of what you were going to do next. Never one to entertain a stranger, you’d tried to brush him off, but he flashed that smile and invited you, so tenderly as the intro to a Bruce Springsteen song began to play, to just give him one dance.

One dance led to unimaginable love.

As time passed, a relationship burst into full bloom, the imprint of you carved into the car’s leather. Jack insisted you grow accustomed to the life of a passenger princess. He picked you up from work, drove you to all your girls’ night outs, sacrificed hours of necessary sleep to drop you at airports, and train stations, and whatever other public transport your work trips demanded you to travel upon. But how could you dream of saying no when you got to ogle the view of him, one hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh, effortlessly manoeuvring his beloved vehicle. 

The car came on couples' vacations, too, road trip getaways. Up north, past the Canadian borders, and down south to the skyline of Mexico City. Out west, a trail up to the Grand Canyon, the Empire State Building in the east. But the late night drives, those were your favourite. Times when life felt too much, with work stressing you out, or your parents giving you grief, or a stress headache gnawing away at your remaining sanity, Jack would tug you wordlessly out into the driveway, buckle your seatbelt, and drive off into the night. Roof down, radio on, the cool breeze clearing your mind.

The only breeze you feel now blows in through an open window.

Pulling away from the diner, Jack turned the wheels south, out into the dark of the night. Trees wall the road in, a never ending sea of pine-green lit by headlights, the looming presence of a dark, dangerous, rumbling sky above. A storm brews ahead, awaiting the perfect moment to crack open and drop a downpour on the world. Little words have been exchanged between you, most of them spoken by Jack, as he tells you about the nightmare he had checking in at his hotel, and the difficulty he had finding the venue, and just how beautiful you look in your dress, tears tracks and messy hair aside. Softly playing over the radio, Billy Joel seems to speak to you, pleading that you slow down, you crazy child.

“D’you remember our trip to Vienna?”

Your head snaps over to Jack. His eyes remain on the road ahead, and a part of you is thankful, unsure of how you’d fare gazing into them as melancholy tangles itself in their shades of brown. The other part misses how it used to feel to catch him watching you from the driver’s seat, affection incarnate as his loving gaze burned heat into your cheeks, your own voice pleading him to pay attention to the road, the light’s already green, Jack!

“How could I forget you almost getting us kicked out of Saint Peter’s church?”

“Hey, now darlin’, let’s not start playin’ the blame game!” His head turns once in your direction, a teasing smile splashed upon his rosy lips. You try not to think about how you’ve felt that very smile pressed against your mouth, memorised the shape of it so perfectly you could draw it with your eyes shut. “You knew what you were doin’ wearin’ that pretty little sundress.”

The dress in question had been a purposeful attack, an attempt at getting payback for the night prior, in which Jack found pleasure in reducing you to tears, begging for release hour after hour, after hour of edging touches. Never the best at putting up a fight against his pouting lips, pleading eyes, and filthy tongue, you’d caved into his hands the moment they skimmed their way up the length of your thigh, the watchful eyes of any Lord above be damned.

“I still dream of the garden’s at Schönbrunn Palace,” a sigh floats out of you as your brain hits play on a kaleidoscope of memories of strolling the grounds, hand in hand with a man you’d imagined yourself being with for the rest of your life.

If I asked you to marry me, would you say yes? He’d asked, as you watched a couple get engaged before your very eyes.

Promise me we’ll get married here, and I’ll consider it.

“I still have nightmares of the boat.”

“The boat!” The patterns in the kaleidoscope shift into images of a viennan skyline reflected upon glassy waters, a city cruise dragging you down the canal. “I still can’t believe you fell off it!”

“I jumped.”

“Backwards? Just admit it, you fell into that water!”

“I jumped, to make you laugh!”

“Oh, don’t worry, me and the coast guard were definitely laughing!”

A silence settles between you both. Jack drums his fingers along to the closing notes of the song, your foot does the same. It crosses your mind that this, in itself, may very well be a dream. Sitting back in the Bronco, staring over at Jack as he drives you both into the aimless night. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s visited your dreams.

You watch him inhale, deeply. With a blink, his eyes reflect the moonlight, glassy with unfallen tears, the image of him too beautiful to be fiction. 

“Sometimes I wish we’d never left Vienna.”

His words cut you deep, the sorrow he speaks them with cuts you deeper. Barely a week back in your own home, suitcases still unpacked, pulling into the driveway hours after the unexpected funeral of a friend, you broke both your hearts.

All that goes up must come down and, in the very same place your relationship started, it ended. Sat across from him, rain beating down on the windows, tears trailing down your face. He begged you to stop before those words came out of your mouth, tried his best to switch the engine back on and pull out into the road. You’re just stressed, darlin’, he’d said, a deceptive whine in his voice cracking his straight-faced facade. Just need to clear your head, right? Lemme take ya for a drive. It was too late, your own hand curling back around the handle and forcing the door open, the water from outside flooding in. I’m sorry, I can’t be with you. Not anymore.

“Yeah,” you exhale, shaky. Swallowed emotions, a tight lipped smile, eyes that search for sanctuary out the window. “Me too.”

In the wing-mirror, lighting crashes amidst the sea of pine-green.

TRACK 2 — purple rain

A perfect summer’s storm.

Mother nature’s mid-June release of pent-up heat, making space amongst the skies for what’s yet to come in the scorching months of July and August, the last of any rain to be seen until September brings back the sombre skies and cooler weather. The rain falls heavily, a persistent thump-thump-thump of water that bounces off the car’s roof, bonnet, windows. In the sky, thunder roars an angry sound, each one louder than the last, followed by an even brighter flash of lighting that electrifies its surroundings, turning the black night into shades of violet, and midnight, and indigo, and purple.

“You’ve not bought any new albums? None at all?” The question comes as you flip through Jack’s collection of discs, a notable lack of change in his roster since the last time you’d sat in his car.

This lack of change is likely not without good reason, like the lack of time to go CD hunting between secret missions to save the world, or a general lack of interest in newer records. He’s always been a fan of the old fashion, after all, the home you’d once shared made up of collections of vintage whiskeys, and classic records, and faded wallpaper that he convinced you gave the kitchen charm.

“Nothin’ new since…” His eyes shift over your way, the look in them enough to wordlessly end his sentence. “You were always the one buyin’ me music. Said you didn’t want me get-”

“Getting bored on missions,” impulse seems to be what forces you to speak, an honest smile sent his way. “I remember.”

It had been a while into your relationship, with i-love-yous and apartment keys exchanged, until the truth of Jack’s job came up.

On your first date, he’d told you he was a businessman. A few dates later, he specified that he was an investor, dipping his fingers into the honey jar of some classically Texa whiskey distillery. Only a half lie, and not one that was hard to believe. Every fibre of his being, stitches and loose threads included, made sense as a man in the business of selling whiskey. The overzealous amount of Statesman whiskeys occupying the shelves in his apartment, the photos he’d send of the view from his high-rise office, the endless number of suits and ties that occupied his wardrobe, even his damn name, Jack Daniels. 

Then, out came the truth.

A phone call from one of Jack’s co-workers, Ginger, lasting no more than five minutes and of which only three words mattered: Jack’s been shot.

A bullet through his head. Any ordinary man would have died. Yet there was your Jack, eyes open, a measly bandage over his temple, and standing up-right. To your own credit, you managed to keep a grasp on your sanity long enough to drive him home, cook him dinner, and sit yourself down across from him at the table. But when he pricked his finger on the tip of his knife, the rivulet of blood dripping down his finger was enough to send you over the edge. Open mouthed sobs, hands clinging to him the instant he sank down on his knees at your side, tears staining every inch of his white cotton t-shirt.

You could’ve died, Jack.

Now how could I go dyin’, when I got such a pretty reason to live for?

You begged with questions, he promised with answers. Hands intertwining with your own, a gentle voice guiding you out the apartment, the soft slam of a car door closing. He turned the key in the ignition, pulled your hand up to his mouth for a kiss, and drove you both off into the night. Under the melodic fall of rain beating down on the car, you came to terms with three facts: Jack was involved in the business of selling whiskey; Jack was otherwise known as agent Whiskey, esteemed senior agent to the Statesmen secret intelligence agency; and Jack was not often shot- at least not in the head.

Arriving home that night, with the rain falling heavy on your front lawn, you’d tried your best to dash from the car and into the house but Jack had other plans. He’d gripped your hand, and pulled you close, and kissed you under the flash of lighting. And when you dared whine that your clothes were soaked, he held you tighter and let himself guide your body into a gentle sway, two lovers under the moonlight and the storm. That night had ended with a fatal promise from Jack, your limbs entangled upon a shared bed, his lips pressing into your forehead.

I promise I’ll always come home to you safe.

“Don’t need no discs anyway, already got all I need right here,” Jack’s impeccable timing, seemingly sensing the shift in your demeanour. It’s like he knows what you’re thinking about, and trying to drag you out of the past and back to the present, his fingers stretching over to turn the volume up. A familiar set of haunting chords plays over the radio, a grin instantly appearing on his face. “Shit, they even got Princ-”

“Stop the car.”

“Huh?”

“Just pull over, Jack!”

Despite the confusion, he abides by your words, foot pressing down on the break, hands steering the wheels off-road, fingers switch the car off. Without the hum of the engine, the rainfall grows louder, the view out the windscreen suddenly blocked behind a wall of flowing water. The radio plays on, the voice of an angel singing lyrics that so aptly match the purple shades painted across the sky by the storm above. There’s a cautious echo of your name, and, for a moment, it’s easy to forget this is the first time you’ve heard him actually say it in over a year. It feels like just yesterday he was calling out to you, begging with solutions you weren’t willing to give.

Your heart beats with a longing to escape your chest, hard and steady against the cage that is your ribs. Your eyes fill with emotions from the past and of the present, as every version of yourself that’s sat within this car comes together as one. Your hand curls around the silver grip of the door, pulling it open and lunging yourself out into the pouring rain.

Under the storm's wrath, you’re reborn. Baptised by mother nature, a soul cleansed of all its prior troubles, returned to you brand new and free of heartbreak. As the rain soaks your face, your neck, your dress, it washes all the pain away. Breathing easy, head tilted back, eyes closed. It's the feeling of being alive, an anomalous euphoria found only beneath a thunderous sky. The tears that dare fall here mean little, a known comfort that they’ll mix with the rain and be swept away.

Enthralled under the moonlight and barefoot, you drift on through the trees that line these woods, chasing the sweet promise of petrichor. You’re unsure if it comes from the sky, or the trees, or Jack, but something calls your name. A fallen tree trunk becomes your own personal tightrope as you dance over the length of it, one careful foot in front of the other, arms stretched out to the heavens above. All it takes is one misplaced step and you lose your footing, slipping over moss and bracing for impact that never arrives.

“Heaven to Betsy, darlin’!” Jack’s hands, warm as a summer breeze, catch you by the waist, your shoulder socking him square in the face as you fall back into his figure. He makes no complaint of pain, taking it like a champ and placing you back down on steady ground, upon unsteady feet. “Did’ya sneak a few extra whiskeys when I was takin’ a leak?”

You open your mouth to reply, to deny, but the rain comes to a stop, and the thunder no longer rumbles, and the moonlight breaks through the parting blanket of clouds, and you’re suddenly so aware of how close you both are.

Like his hands, do his lips still feel the same? Soft as a feather, pillowy as a cloud, as sweet as a peach? It’s not something a married woman should be thinking about another man, about the man another version of her had loved.

But you’re not a married woman, are you?

Wet to the bone, it's as if your wedding dress has shrunk, possessive linen meant to warn you away from leaning forward till your face meets his.

“Careful where you point those eyes, sweetheart. Don’t go givin’ me a reason to make a dishonest woman out of you.” His warning only makes you want to lean in more, test just how dishonest he’s willing to make you, in a dress you wore for another man, upon a forest floor covered by moss, and mud, and rainfall.

He’s stepping back and holding out his hand before you can even try, saving you the trouble of mixing up your head even more. 

Careful steps back to his car, where the radio plays on as Prince’s voice slowly fades out. The headlights are back on, the key sits in the ignition, and you half wonder just how quickly he chased after you, abandoning his precious car so carelessly at the side of a darkened country road, free for any Tom, Bill, or Sally to claim for themselves.

“You’re lucky I got spare clothes in the back,” Jack’s voice echoes out from where he stands, bent at the waist, and rummaging through the floor of the back seats. You want to think he’s not going this on purpose, putting himself on display so obviously, but it feels easier on your conscience to blame him for your own inability to stray your eyes away from how snugly the soaked dress pants hug his behind. “Ain’t no hope in hell I’d let you in my car, all drippin’ wet.”

“You never used to complain about me being wet in your car.”

It’s a quickfire response, the kind you don’t quite get the chance to think over before you say it. Though it may shock your own ears to hear, it seems to shock poor Jack more, the smack with which his head hits against the car’s roof loud enough that you almost feel it in your skull.

You rush over to his side, dress dragging through more mud, and more leaves, and more broken gravel. No chance to even rest your hand upon his arm, Jack’s already pulled himself out the car to face you, a splash of pink brewing across his cheeks and a hand soothing over the back of his head. In the backseats, his hat lays abandoned, knocked off in the commotion.

“Can’t just be sayin’ things like that, darlin’,” he says as he holds out a change of clothes for you, smugness in his voice yet a shake in his hand. “Not unless you’re tryin’ to give old Jack over here a heart attack.”

In silence, you both turn your back on each other. Jack does so in spare of your modesty, and you, in search of someplace dry to lay down his clothes. You do so upon the passenger seat, hands immediately contorting every manner of way they can to reach the dress’ buttons that span down the length of your spine, each more finicky than the last. You manage to free only two, in the very centre, before you sigh and wonder if the entrapment you feel in the white gown could get any more literal than this.

“Jack,” it only feels right to seek out his aid, you tell yourself, the sooner the buttons are undone, the sooner the dress will be off, the sooner you’ll be changed, and the sooner you’ll both get back on the road again, destination unknown. It only makes sense, really, so who could blame you when you say, “come help me out my dress.”

No reply comes your way.

At first, you think he’s not heard you. Then, you worry that he has, and is choosing to ignore such a request, thinking it best he keeps his hands away from any act that involves undressing you. Then, fear that you’ve given him that heart attack after all. Fingers brush wet hair off your shoulders before you can turn to check on the cowboy.

Cicadas scream out into the night, and some faceless host rants over the car radio about the rising conspiracy theory of spycams in childrens’ toys, and your heart beats louder than any set of drums could ever hope, but all you can hear is the steady breaths Jack pulls in and blows out behind you, so close you feel each exhale brush your skin. His fingers do so too, with each button they pop loose, each inch of skin he reveals.

Before you can ask him to touch you with more than just his mouth and breath, his own voice fills your ears.

“I used to dream about doin’ this someday.”

“I think we both know this isn’t the first time you’ve gotten a girl out her dress, Jack.”

“Is your mind ever anywhere but the damn gutter?” A pinch delivered against your left side, a chastising tsk accompanying his words. “I meant that I dreamt about this, me helpin’ you take your weddin’ dress off.”

There’s an audible hitch in your breath, one that perfectly tells Jack everything your own voice seems to fail to. Air stings at your eyes, yet you refuse to blink, too aware of the tears building within them. His warm hands dance back up your spine as the final button is loosened, tracing slowly over skin he’d once memorised, a missionary returning to the land it once knew.

Your dress falls to the floor.

“‘Course I never thought I’d be doin’ it on the side of the road, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

TRACK 3 — lover you should’ve come over

“Wait, are these pyjama pants?”

The realisation dawns upon you twenty minutes after you hit the road again. Confined to the small space of the Bronco with little to look at— besides Jack, his clothes still damp and smelling of summer rain, a towel laid over his seat— you’ve resorted to the finer details, picking apart the scraps of clothing he’d handed you. A plain white t-shirt that, when paired with one of his tight-fitting jeans and a corduroy-lined leather bomber jacket, becomes a Jack Daniels staple. You find it best to ignore how it smells of campfire, and sweat, and the cologne you’d bought Jack on your last anniversary. He’s paired it with a pair of blue chequered pyjama pants, loose-fitting yet tied securely around your waist by a fraying draw-string.

“Took myself and the old gal up to Alaska a few weeks back, chasin’ after a view of the Northern Lights.” There’s a flash of something hot, bright, green as you register his words, myself and the old gal, tamed and dampened only when you remember that’s what Jack calls the Bronco, his old gal. “I was livin’ out my car the whole trip, figured it was easier than trynna find some inn out in the middle of the Alaskan woods. In fact, if you check down there, pretty sure you’ll find some uneaten energy bars I packed for the trip.”

He seems to point aimlessly down at a space around your legs, hand back on the wheel and guiding the wheels around a harsh bend before you can truly pinpoint what he’s referring to. You settle on the glove compartment, sitting upright and reaching a hand out to pop it open.

Then you remember what it houses, the weapons Jack carries in there. The lasso, the whip, the pistol, the bullets. A sickness burns your throat, your eyes unable to even glance down at the opened compartment, instead searching for Jack’s own eyes that stare back with equal amounts of surprise.

“I forgot those were in there.” He steals the words right out your own mouth, a nervous chuckle following them. You’d known to never touch the dreaded compartment, for your own sake, too eager to forget about the parts of him that made him an agent, the parts of him that put him in danger. “You can read ‘em, if you want. They were written for you anyway.”

Confusion floods the soul, curiosity winning over survival and dictating that you muster the courage to turn your head, take a peak at what sits inside the glove box. When you do look, you find there’s no whip nor pistol, no piece of Agent Whiskey in sight. What is there are the energy bars he’d promised, a hiking guidebook of sorts, a map, and a stack of wrinkled envelopes.

One glance back at Jack, he encourages you to take them with a nod, and so, you do. Feel the weight of them all in your hands, do your best to not drop any as you pull them out onto your lap. They scatter all over you, each a different shade of white, unopened and all sporting a red return to sender stamp. All appear addressed to the same place, and it takes only a moment of wondering why it seems so familiar for you to realise.

It’s your old address.

“They’re all labelled with dates, I wrote the first one a few weeks after you left. Wasn’t sure where you’d moved to, I figured there was a chance you’d gone back to your old place. I never forgot about how much you loved that apartment,” he says, and you did. Leaving it behind had been hard, the first real home you’d made for yourself since moving out of your parent’s place, the first space you made your own in the world. The idea of making a new space with Jack, a place you could build together, share together, had outweighed the pain of saying goodbye to your little one-bed apartment. “Wrote the second one because you didn’t reply, and I was missin’ you. Then I just kept writin’ em, and sendin’ em, and waitin’ on you writin’ back, even if just to tell me to get lost. I got a note back, along with the letters, but it wasn’t from you. Some older couple moved in to your old place, told me they’d been keepin’ em all safe incase you ever came round to collect your old mail, but they figured it was time I stopped writin’ to a ghost.”

Attentive to his every word, you search for the letter with the earliest date. Sent two weeks after things ended, with a colourful stamp and a seal that’s slightly opened at the edges, the glue’s hold loosening with time and neglect. You tear it open completely and unfold the sheets of paper found within, eyes drawn immediately three quarters down the page.

I saw our friends tonight for the first time since you left. They asked how you’re doing and where you were. I thought they were just being cruel at first but no, they didn’t know about the break up. I told them you weren’t feeling well, that you decided to stay home tonight. I guess I just wanted one more night where you were still mine, even if it was just in the eyes of our friends. I will tell the truth next time I see them.

You feel as though you’re invading his privacy, reading over words he’d written months ago, despite being the intended audience. That doesn’t mean you have the willpower to stop, however, eyes diving deeper down the page.

Or maybe I won’t have to tell them. Maybe, next time I see them, you’ll have come home. There’s still a chance for us. I believe it because I love you. You said this wasn’t something we can fix. I think you’re wrong. There’s never been an issue we couldn’t solve by talking it through, why should this one be any different? Let’s get coffee, darling. Our usual place, our usual time, next Tuesday. We can get through this, you just have to let me know it’s something you want, that I’m something you still want. 

Jack’s quiet in the driver’s seat, forgiving with the time he gives you to read over his letters. When the turning of pages and the ripping of envelopes rings too heavy in the car, your shoulders tensing up in a discomfort of disrupting the peaceful silence, he wordlessly turns the radio back up and the voice of Jeff Buckley greets you both.

You return to his letters, the second he’d sent already open in your palm.

I went to our usual spot. You never showed up. Your lack of reply to my letter should have been enough to tell me that, but I still had hope. Maybe I really am a fool. Our friends seem to think so. I told them about us and they immediately asked what I’d done wrong. There was no answer I could give them. The worst thing isn’t just that I’ve lost you, it’s that I don’t even know why.

You open the next envelope, and the next one, and the next one, paragraphs melting together into a heartbroken shape.

I tried to sleep in our bed. I lasted half an hour before crawling back to the guest room.  Our room just feels too empty without you. I smell you everywhere no matter how many new sheets I buy.

Eggsy and Tilde got married. It’s the first wedding I’ve been to without you. I’m doing a lot of firsts without you recently. I hate it. Our friends (am I wrong to call them our friends? I’m not ready to just call them mine) tried setting me up with someone new. They showed me a picture and she’s beautiful, but I just kept comparing her to you. Against your beauty, she’s nothing.

Your mother was at the Statesman ground tour today. I was surprised to see her, she already done the tour years ago. I tried not to talk about you too much, I didn’t want her knowing how desperate I am to hear about you. Congratulations on your promotion, I always knew you’d get it. I’m so proud of you for finally applying for it. I heard you’ve started seeing somebody, a veteran turned mechanic. Your mother was kind enough to give me his name. I hope you understand that I don’t want to invade your privacy but I had to make sure you’re safe. The guy’s got a clean slate, other than a sketchy trip down to South America with some other vets. He seems like a good man. I want you to get your happy ending. Are you happy? I’m not. 

Only one envelope remains unopened. The weight of it sits heavy in your lap, a fear settling in that has you not wanting to open it. You study the front of it, find out it was mailed three months ago. The radio moves in sync with you, it seems, the song that plays reaching its climatic moment at the same time as you do, tearing open the final letter. Next to you, Jack clears his throat and wrings his hands over the steering wheel.

This last one, you read the letter in full.

Darling girl,

Spring came faster this year. The daffodils you planted bloomed in early March. I’ve been tending to the garden, I know how much love you put into it. The flowers are coming up alright, the fruit and vegetables not so much. If only I had your green thumb.

I visited Tequila last week. I don’t know if it’s right to call him that anymore. Champ’s still not named his successor, part of me thinks he wants to retire it. That’s not what Tequila would’ve wanted. He would’ve wanted Ginger taking on the mantle. The grounds he’s on are beautiful, if not sombre. They overlook a lake, and the grass is cut everyday, and the sun shines on his grave from sunrise to sunset. I didn’t say much to him, just sat and enjoyed the view. Thought about a lot of things, and finally realised why you left.

You were scared. For me. I thought you were being selfish, breaking my heart like that, but I finally understand how awful that day must’ve been for you. We’d just buried my comrade, our friend, and you had to watch Tequila’s wife say her last goodbye, knowing it was almost me in that casket and you on the podium. That was my mission he went on, I could’ve been the one who didn’t come home to the woman I love.

I’m sorry I took so long to understand. I retired from my position at Statesman. I’m agent Whiskey no more. I’m coming to find you, and hope you give me one last real try at fixing us.

Love always,

your Jack.

“Your wedding invitation found me first,” Jack says, foot off the accelerator, eyes off the road, hands on the wheel.

The weight of his stare drags down to your lap, where the heap of papers now all sit, piled atop one another and rustling with every movement you make. Your own eyes have welled with tears that slip down the apples of your cheeks and splash the papers below, smudging the ink.

The confirmation of his invite knocks out the questions of how he wound up in the pews.

“I didn’t invite you,” you’re unsure if the truth is crueller than fiction. No part of you wants him to think you’d be so spiteful, so hurtful as to invite him to a day you’d once promised to share together. “I didn’t invite anyone. I was… busy, with work. My mom dealt with the invites, she must’ve written you down by accident.”

Your lips may be the ones to say it, but your own ears struggle to believe. Your mother’s always been a meticulous woman, practical, with her affairs eternally in order. The only mistakes she makes are the ones she means to.

“Yeah,” Jack sighs out from the driver’s seat, resignation in his voice. “I figured you didn’t invite me.”

TRACK 4 — 50 ways to leave your lover

Jack drives deeper into the night.

Out the car window, you watch as the world flies by, a blur of unlit trees and unmarked road signs. Earlier’s storm has rolled away and revealed the blanket of stars above, twinkling alongside a full moon. The road is long, and winding, and seemingly never ending. There’s no discussion of destination, no sanctuary you’re waiting to reach. You feel no urgency for it, either. So long as you sit right where you are, passenger in a car, you don’t have to take the wheel, you don’t have to choose where to go, or what to do. You can just exist within this liminal space, where no wedding lies in the balance and no hearts lay broken.

It’s just you and Jack, like the old days, going for a drive.

“Ask me,” permission comes off your tongue as you observe the driver and his less than subtle glances your way. “I can see the wheels turning in your head. Everything you wanted to know in the diner, I promise I’ll answer this time.”

“I guess I’m tryin’ to put myself in your shoes, figure out what was runnin’ through that pretty head of yours,” Jack is, at his core, a gentleman. For hours, he’s let you sit beside him, biting his own tongue and fighting back his own curiosity, a trait so vital to his existence it led him into a world of spies, and guns, and movie-esque kinds of evil. Even now, with your promised approval, he eases his way into his questioning, the part of him that knows you better than your own self dictating that this is something he must address with care.  “How’d you do it?”

“I just slipped out the back, Jack,” there’s a chuckle of sorts that welcomes itself out the depths of Jack’s chest, your choice of words going hand in hand with that of the Paul Simon record reaching its end over the radio. As quick as the humour appears, it goes, leaving nothing but the unfortunate reality of the situation. “Someone left a door open, it led out onto the back gardens. The further away I got, the faster I started to run. I made it all the way past the highway on foot before an older couple pulled over. They dropped me off at a diner, and that’s where I stayed until-”

“Until I found you,” it’s a reminder you shouldn’t want, the image of Jack setting off to find you in the midst of the commotion of a missing bride. It’s not healthy for your poor psyche, already at odds with what it wants, no need for further complications brought on by unresolved feelings. You can’t help but smile at him, however, no filter strong enough to cover your subconscious’ joy. “Why did you run away?”

Your smile fades.

The promise you made is already at threat of being broken. You thought there’d be more questions, more time until he hit you with the heaviest of them all.

Why did you run away?

You know the answer. Of course you’ve known the answer, from the moment you decided to turn on your heel and sprint down the halls, in search of an escape. As much as you can pretend otherwise, and feign naivete, you can’t change the truth. That doesn’t mean you’re ready to admit it out loud, and so you refute it with a question of your own: “Why did you come to the wedding?”

It would be easy to forgive Jack for getting irate when faced with your avoidant response. He doesn’t even acknowledge it. Instead, he spins the steering wheel and shoots you a smile, the kind that used to keep you warm at night.

“I wasn’t goin’ to come at first,” comes his admittance. You can’t say you blame him, really, a picture of yourself in his shoes, receiving an invite to his wedding. The thought conjures a painful throb from your heart. “Nearly tossed the damn thing into the fireplace when I got it. A few weeks later, I met with Champ for a drink. Drank myself blind, till I started tellin’ him all about the invite. He told me I had to come.”

A lift of your eyebrows, a snap of your head towards him. There’s a desire to have his full attention on you. There’s also the awareness that the road acts as a buffer for the tensing heartache that swells and lulls between you, each exchange of words a game of painful chess. You make the choice to bring forth a pawn this once, a simple why?

“He said I’ve been livin’ with life on pause since you left, maybe watchin’ you marry another man would be the thing to help me hit play at last.”

INTERLUDE — go your own way

Like tires upon gravel, time rolls on.

No matter how easy it is to forget about the world outside, look out the window and pretend you’re simply on a train, trapped in a constant onward motion, there’s no ignoring the orange glow that begins to grow on the horizon, nor the red lights on the car radio that read 05:38. A new day grows fast upon you and, where you remain mute to it, Jack can not allow the fantasy to go on any longer.

The tires screech against the gravel and everything comes to a stop.

“Thinkin’ time’s up, sweetheart,” his hands retreat from the wheel, finding purchase on his thighs. You try not to follow their descent over the tailored suit, try not to think about the thick muscles that sit hidden beneath the black trousers. It’s not your place to think about them anymore. “Where are you goin’?”

Decision has never been something you’ve struggled with, much less when the choices are so simple and limited. Either you go back to the wedding venue, and meet whatever fate awaits you of scornful mothers, and disappointed fathers, and abandoned fiances. Or, you can go anywhere.

You make a mistake, let your mind wander to places it shouldn’t, and end up asking yourself where will Jack go. He still lives in the home you once shared, this you know. Will he go there, pour himself a drink, and try to forget this night even happened?

You can still picture it all. The coffee table Jack hand-carved, both your initials engraved on the side. The picture frames all along the wall, a mural of memories shared between you. The matching set of mugs, eternally sitting on the drying board, waiting for Jack to stagger his way down the stairs and fill them with boiling coffee. If you walked through that door again, would you find everything just the way you left it? Or, has he gotten a new table, changed the pictures in the frames, bought new mugs? Is there someone there, right now, sleeping in his bed and waiting on his return?

A bitter taste overcomes your tongue at the thought, your insides twisting up like you’ve not spent the past few months sleeping next to someone else and saying yes to proposals you weren’t expecting.

“What do you think I should do?” You don’t want him to tell you to go home, you want him to say come home.

“You can’t ask that of me. My answer’s gonna be nothin’ but selfish.” Would it really be so bad, you wish to ask, if Jack was selfish? Maybe life would be easier if he was. He clears his throat, like he clears his mind, and gone is your moment to tell him you want selfish. “I can say this, though… Your fiance’s a good man, a kind man. Kind enough to trust your parents words and let me, a stranger, go searchin’ for you. He deserves to know what decision you make. It ain’t just your weddin’, it’s his too.”

He’s right, and you hate it.

There’s no way you can tell him now that you were even contemplating not going back, of disappearing into the sunrise with him, driving till life leads you down the right roads to find a new home, your old home, Jack.

The muddied wedding dress seems to call to you from the car boot, a whispering of your name that tells you to put it back on, go back, and walk down that aisle. You owe that much to your fiance, if he’ll still have you. With him, you’ve never had to worry about him coming home safe. With him, you could live a happy enough life, keep yourself busy enough to ignore all the what-ifs your mind would try seduce you with.

Besides, that’s what Jack needs, right? To see you marry another man, a final nail in the coffin named us, so he can finally move on with his life. You owe him that much, at least.

With a nod of your head and the straightening of your spine, you set your choice in stone, “drive me back to him, Jack.”

The engine shudders to life and the radio sets itself back on course, some upbeat voice that demands you go your own way, a musical slap delivered upon your face. Jack turns the steering wheel, rerouting the car’s course with an effortless u-turn before he presses down on the accelerator, propelling you forward down the paths you’ve already travelled.

You tell yourself you’re doing the right thing, even if a familiar dread starts to settle in the pit of your stomach, brushing them off as rational nerves. Who wouldn’t be anxious when facing a man they left at the altar?

A yawn escapes you.

“We’re a few hours out from the chateau.” There’s something in his voice that weighs on him, the tone between you shifting to something of desperation. Goodbye is a few hours away. This time, for good. “Sleep, it’s late.”

“Aren’t you tired?” Pull over, you want to say. Let’s sleep. The wedding can wait a few more hours.

How unfortunate that he cannot read your thoughts, understand the intentions behind your staring as you recline your chair, turn to face him on your side, hands crossed protectively over your abdomen.

One blink, and your eyes are already fighting to stay open, dragging you down into the depths of slumber.

“I’m fine. Don’t sleep much these days anyway,” the sound of Jack’s voice fades slowly into the background, melting away with the hum of the engine, and the turn of the wheels, and the voice on the radio. “Never got used to the feeling of an empty bed.”

TRACK 5 — i’m on fire

When your eyes next open, the sun’s warmth is caressing your face.

The sound of children’s laughter fills the air, and the smell of smoke fills your lungs, and the feeling of resting against Jack’s shoulder fills you with dread. Fearful to move, you take in all of him that you can see from this angle.

There’s no suit upon him, replaced with the casualness of a cotton t-shirt and a pair of faded denims. The hat’s back on his head, the curls of ungelled hair that peak through dry as a bone. A cigarette rests neatly between fingers on his left hand, the right one grasping at the neck of a beer bottle. No wheel sits in front of him, no gear shift keeps space between you. The Bronco’s been replaced with the view of your parent’s backyard and the comfort of a well cushioned outdoor couch.

You know this memory.

You’ve lived this memory.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” just like you remember, Jack’s stubbing out the half-smoked cigarette the moment he notices your open eyes. “How you feelin’?”

“Like my uterus is trying to carve its way out of me,” your mouth plays along with the dream, speaking the same words it had years ago.

“That good, huh?” A beer stained kiss meets the corner of your mouth, another follows up to your forehead, as Jack’s free hand reaches into his pocket, reemerging with silver foil between two fingers. “Got these off your mother. Let me go get you somethin’ to eat, then you can take two, hm?”

You remember thinking that you love him. You didn't dare speak it, however, simply nodding as you took the blister packet of paracetamol out his offering grasp and uncurled your legs back down onto the floor, stretching your arms. Jack bends down, presses his lips against the crown of your head, and then he’s off, venturing over to where your father stands grilling another round of burgers on the barbeque.

Jack’s always been a confident man. He carries himself with a head held high and a careless smile on his face, no chip on his shoulder and no flare for anger in his bones. A southern gentleman, who knows his own charms and, most dangerously, how to use them. Place him alone with your father, however, and watch how he crumbles like a house of cards. To the untrained eye, it’s unnoticeable, but you don’t miss the glances he spies your father with each time he throws out a joke, nor the way his hands can never seem to relax, a nervous tic of drumming against his thighs or balling into fists as he makes conversation with the older man. He’s desperate for the approval of your monotonous father, so desperate he fails to see he won it months ago, 

“Eat up, drink up, you need it,” he says as he hands you the paper plate, and his half-drunk bottle of beer. He settles back down on the couch, pulling you into him once more. “Your old man was sayin’ we should probably head off soon, ‘fore it gets too late. Think he’s startin’ to warm up to me, he’s even worryin’ bout me drivin’ in the dark.”

“Oh, he loves you,” you take a bite, break two of the pills out their casing, wash them down with a swig of bitter beer. The summer sun burns in the corners of your eyes, forcing them into a squint. “He kept looking for you at the dinner table at my mom’s birthday, you should’ve seen his reaction when I told him you were stuck in New York slaving away in your office.”

Months later, you’d come to find out he wasn’t in New York, surrounded by mountains of paperwork, but somewhere in the south of France, hunting down some billionaire wine-maker with plans to poison the crops of surrounding vineyards, leaving only his wine safe to consume.

In your memory, Jack plucks the hat off his own head and rests it gently upon your own, a shaded barrier against the bright light in the sky. You thank him, he watches on quietly as you continue to eat, gaze not peeling itself away from you the whole time.

“What? Do I have ketchup on my face? Or, in my hair?” You’d asked him, mid-chew. No answer, more staring. Panic made a debut in your mind, suddenly alert to his unusual behaviour. “Wait, is it a bug? Jack, is there a bug in my hair?”

“I love you.”

No build up, no grand-speech, no overly romantic setting.

He said it like one shares the weather, or the time, or what they’re wanting for lunch. He said it like it was something he always said, would always say, despite it being the very first time you’d heard him do so. Tears had flown in quickly, your hormones already gone haywire with the unexpected arrival of shark week earlier that morning. There’s a vague assurance that you told him you loved him too, through tears, and he teased your weepy face with kisses down your cheeks and full-chested laughter.

“Bless your cotton socks, my sweet girl, cryin’ all cause old Jack says-”

“Tell me now baby, is he good to you?”

You jolt awake.

Jack’s by your side, suit on, hair air dried, one hand on the wheel, the other rests out the window. The roof is down, letting the sun shine on you and his caramel eyes. An old Springstein song plays in the background, the very same thing that coaxed you awake. Just like the dream, he takes a few minutes to notice your opened eyes, head turning your way as another car shoots off ahead of you both, overtaking him.

“You were mumblin’ in your sleep. Were you dreamin’ of somethin’ sweet?”

“I was,” too quick comes your reply. Too honest. Nerves have you stumbling over words, scrambling to pick them off the floor of your mind and spew out the first thing that doesn’t involve Jack and his easy-going professions of love. “About the first time my fiance told me he loves me.”

You regret it as soon as you speak, the visible halt to his smile. He overcorrects it, forcing a grin that stretches the corners of his mouth so tight it almost looks painful. “Well, c’mon, don’t go keepin’ it to yourself!”

“He, uh, wrote it in the sky.”

“How romantic. Pricey too, I bet.”

“It was his best man who did it, an ex military pilot.”

As you try to reminisce on the day, little memories blossom in your mind. Instead of vivid motion capture, the day is black and white, no sound. You don’t remember where you were, what he was wearing, how you felt when you read those words up above.

It happened only two months into your relationship, that you do remember. You also remember being parked in your old neighbourhood the night before, twenty minutes spent trying to will yourself to go knock on the door to your old home. The Bronco was in its usual spot, parked outside. No lights were on as you pulled away and willed yourself back to rational thinking.

“Jeez, if that’s how he’s tellin’ you he loves you, I can’t imagine how he proposed.”

You wonder if this is as tortuous for him as it is for you, listening to you detail the life you’d gone on to live just months after walking away from five years of love. “In a restaurant,” you can’t remember the name, or what you ate, or what you wore, as if the memory is one that doesn’t belong to you, never belonged to you. “I ordered dessert, ‘will you marry me?’ was written on it in cherry sauce.”

“You must’ve said yes immediately.”

“I did.”

You leave out the part where the whole restaurant had watched him get down on one knee, or the part where you rushed to the restroom right after accepting the ring, spewing your guts out in a stall. By morning, you told yourself it was fine, you were just feeling nervous. 

After all, you loved him enough to spend time with him, so why not spend the rest of your life with him?

TRACK 6 — she’s always a woman

It had been too easy to forget the thing you loved most about road trips with Jack.

It wasn’t his constant commentary of interesting facts on sites you’d drive past, or his love for taking the long-way to anywhere and everywhere, or his ever-present need to drag your hand up to his lips with every few miles.

The thing you loved most was listening to his voice, unfiltered, unashamed, outloud, singing along to his favourite songs. The voice of a crooning angel and the shyness of a bashful fox. Every so often, when he’d catch you watching him a little too fondly as he sang along, he’d throw in a voice crack, or twist up a lyric into a sickly innuendo.

In the present, it’s you who interrupts his spirited rendition of a Billy Joel classic.

“You were right, in the letters,” the leather of your seat squeaks as you fix your posture, sit yourself up straight if only to force yourself to stop observing the way his lips fall into a natural pout and, instead, focus on memorising the licence plate that drives ahead. “I’m sorry.”

“Right about what?” As though nothing has changed, his hand extends towards your own, effortlessly intertwining your fingers, beginning an ascent to his mouth before mind takes over instinct and he’s letting you go, setting you free.

You give up on the licence plate ahead, turn your face once more towards Jack and his pouty lips.

“I couldn’t be with Agent Whiskey anymore.” A relationship made up of a man, a woman, and an agent. Whiskey would kiss you goodbye in the morning, while Jack would be the one to come home to you. With the passing of time, three became a crowd, and so you removed yourself. “I didn’t want to break your heart, Jack, I swear. But I also didn’t want to let you break mine. And you did, every time you walked out of our home and left me wondering if you’d ever come back. Then, when Tequila… You loved your job. You loved being Agent Whiskey. How could I ask you to leave that part of you behind?”

“Darlin’ if you think there’s any world where losin’ you was easier than losin’ Whiskey, you’re out of your mind.” Like his first I love you, he speaks words that flow out of him as easily as an exhale, as though they carry no weight to them. As though they do not momentarily flip your world on its axis and have you wishing he’d turn the car around, driving you both off into the forever you never got.

Yet another car overtakes the Bronco, its driver angrily pressing on his horn. You both continue to ignore the speed at which Jack drives. Up ahead, everything you’ve been dreading comes into view, an unmissable billboard. Clearview Manor.

50 miles to go. 50 miles till goodbye. 

“I’m hungry.”

“Those energy bars should still be in there, if you’re wantin’-”

“Jack, I’m hungry,” you say it louder, hoping he’ll pick up what you’re laying down.“Can’t we stop somewhere for breakfast?”

His answer comes in the form of a left blinker switching on, wheels cutting over gravel and carrying you off the main road. Then, as if to break your heart some more than his last declaration, he turns to you. “If it had been me waitin’ on you at the end of the aisle, would you have ran?”

You try to picture it.

Jack, in his suit and tie, hands clasped behind his back to keep him from drumming nervous fingers over his thighs, eyes brimming with tears as you take your first step down the aisle. Would the panic have settled in? Would you have felt that same wrongness as when you’d been sneaking a peak at your fiance waiting down the aisle?

Would you have ran?

“It’s not something I planned, y’know? Running. I didn’t think it was even an option,” you’re laying your final card on the table, a truth you couldn't bring yourself to admit earlier at last coming out to play. You’re unsure if it dismisses or further condemns you for your runaway crimes. “I took a peak, at the ceremony hall, while waiting for my father. I needed to see what I was about to walk into. I guess I thought the nerves were just from that, the unknown. Then I saw you, a few rows from the back. At first I thought I was hallucinating, that you were just a man who happened to be wearing a cowboy hat. But then I saw my mum pulling you in for a hug, and I caught a glimpse of your face. That’s why I ran. I couldn’t… marry another man, not with you standing in the crowd.”

“You’ve not answered my question,” it’s the first you’ve seen Jack put his foot down since he dragged you out the diner, the seriousness etched into his frowning forehead and stamped onto his lips. “Would you have ran?”

“No.”

Jack just keeps driving.

TRACK 7 — dancing in the dark

“You can’t be serious!”

Squeezed into the corner booth of a dingy, run-down bar, you and Jack sit across from one another, digging into a stack of pancakes lathered in maple syrup.

The bartender and two of his patrons glance at you both every so often, and you have to wonder how odd a pair you and Jack must make. One dressed to the nines, if you ignore the dried mud at the bottom of his dress pants and his loosening tie, the other wearing yesterday’s make-up paired with cotton pyjama pants. You prefer it to the stares you’d gained in your wrinkled gown.

“Deadly. I’m a serious tap-dancin’ student,” his fork stabs into the fluffy goodness, dragging it along the plate, soaking the pancake in as much syrup as possible. You try not to think of mornings that used to be spent like this, sitting at your own table, flour in his hair and eggshells in your own, both of you ignoring the disastrous mess in the kitchen begging to be cleaned as you tuck into your homemade pancakes. “Retirement breeds weird hobbies.”

“Before long, you’ll be playing bingo at the old folks home.”

“I just have to ask, I really do,” a dread you haven’t felt since stepping out the car— with the help of Jack and his offering hand, the other holding your door open— creeps back in. You don’t want to talk about your own current reality, not when it’s been so easy to pretend none of the wedding fiasco happened and, instead, you’re simply catching up with Jack after bumping into each other in this bar.  “This fiance of yours… is he bigger than me?”

As quick as it inflates, the tension pops. 

“Oh my god, Jack!” You laugh, a little too loudly, and dip your head as other tables turn their heads your way.

“What?”

“You did not just ask me that.”

“Oh, but I did.”

“You can’t just say things like that!” In mock surrender, he throws his hands up. Your own grab ahold of your knife and fork once more, an ironclad focus on the near-empty plate as you will the shameful heat away from your face, mumbling over your words. “But, no, he isn’t bigger. Happy?”

“You’ve no idea.” As though you’re being haunted by music, a song begins to play over the speakers. You’re not the only one who takes notice, Jack’s eyes lighting up with a devious look, his legs already rising out of his seat. “Think that’s our queue, darlin’.”

“Sit back down.”

“Oh, c’mon now, don’t be so uptight,” he lays out his hand, begging for you to place your own in it. Flashes of a memory, six years back, the very same song playing as the very same man attempted to coax a dance out of you. “One dance, sweetheart, then I’ll leave you in peace.”

Just like your younger self, you’re incapable of resisting his baby cow eyes, letting him guide you out onto a makeshift dance floor before it’s too late to run back and hide in your seat, the eyes of strangers already piercing you with their questioning stares. If you weren’t deemed a strange pair with your attire alone, you certainly are now, feet stumbling awkwardly along with Bruce Springstein.

“This song was playin’ when we met,” he says it like you don’t know, like you don’t remember, like you aren’t replaying that night as you speak, pretending you’re both in that same crowd of swaying bodies, young, and naive, and on the cusp of experiencing the greatest love you’ll ever know, rather than here, on an empty dance floor, stumbling blindly through the hardships of holding each other so close, mutually aware you’re dancing on borrowed time and, soon, you’ll have to go. “Knowin’ now how it ends, if I was sent back in time, I’d still ask you to dance. I’d do it all again.”

“This gun’s for hire, even if we’re just…”

He spins you, drags you closer, sways you. It’s far less care-free than the first dance you shared, no alcohol to dull the shame and a whole lot of history packed between your bodies.

The first dance had been the thing you had dreaded most about your wedding, dancing with your husband, to a whole room of loved ones watching. Dancing now with Jack— even through all the embarrassment you feel as an elderly couple point over at you— feels easier, less daunting, so much so that you can’t help the way you start to laugh, arms loosening around his shoulders, hips moving less abashedly.

The two of you inch closer, and closer, and closer as the song reaches its end. Like a happy couple finishes their first dance, Jack’s mouth lands atop yours.

A gentle kiss, innocent of sin, it begs you to give back, to press your own mouth against his. You answer its calling, hand clasping at the back of his neck, holding him safely against you, less he drifts away and reveals this all to have been a dream, a nightmare, a delusion. Like coming home after a cold winter’s day, his kiss is the comfort of knowing you’re exactly where you belong.

And it’s absolutely terrifying.

You rip away from him, flashes of your fiance’s face blinding you as you stumble off, doing what you do best: running away. You miss the way the patrons all go back to their own drinks, and the way a new song comes on, and the way Jack chases after you, stopped only by the slamming of a bathroom door.

You come up for air when you find yourself faced with the image you paint in the mirror.

Never has there been a more heartbroken girl, eyes a mess of tears, and faded eyeliner, and smudged mascara, hair a nest fit enough for any bird to build its home in, body draped in the clothing of an ex-lover. It’s almost as frightening as the image you made yesterday, wedding gown freshly laced and make-up pristinely done.

A knock rings against the door. 

It’s followed by a gentle call of your name.

You switch on the tap, welcome the cold splash of water over your face. Pray that, if you scrub hard enough, you’ll wipe away the taste of him, forget the shape of his touch, purge yourself of the desire to follow anywhere he may go. Your hand slips down your face, the dim bathroom light catches on something.

Your engagement ring, a tight shackle that binds you to someone else, reminds you of the closure you owe to Jack.

He calls your name again.

“Darlin’,” it’s muffled behind the door, but the regret in his voice is all too clear. “I just got caught up, I’m sorry. Come on out and we’ll get back on the road-”

The hinges creak as the door opens, only a crack, and your hand shoots out, grabbing a hold of Jack’s tie before you can will yourself to be rational.

He lets you invade his space with little protest, mouths returning to the dance they never got to complete. Hands move, slipping off ties, and undoing draw strings, and locking doors. There’s a mumble, are you sure, followed by a moan, please.

All hope of forgetting his skin is lost, a leg hooked around his waist, fingers tangled in his hair. He bites at your neck, and kisses along your jaw, and pants into your ear, all the while his hips rock back and forth against your own, filling you inch by inch. Mouth covered by your own hand, muffling a cry of his name as you feel him brush against that spine-tingling spot inside you. Your head falls back, eyes slip shut. Jack’s quick to rectify it.

“Watch, darlin’,” he whispers, a hand tilting your eyes down to where your two bodies meet. “ Want you to see how perfectly your lil’ pussy takes me.”

You do as he says, hypnotised by the sight of his cock, glistening in your own arousal, sawing in and out of you, each thrust deeper than the last.  

“He can’t fuck you like this, can he?” Despite his ego-fueled words, there’s a desperation in his voice, a soul lost in a sea of darkness, searching for a life jacket. “Tell me he can’t.”

He can’t, you tell him, clinging onto him tighter, needier, begging him to never leave.

Any minute now, you worry, someone’s going to knock on the bathroom door, kick you both out. Instead, the music that plays outside the door seems to increase in volume.

“Fuckin’ made for me, meant for me,” both of you grow increasingly desperate, fingernails digging into flesh, and mouths rejoining in a frenzy of kisses, and the tightening of an invisible string, drawing you nearer and nearer to the edge. “My sweet girl.”

An end that comes all too soon, both of you exhausted, and spent, and collapsing against one another, a sticky mess left between your legs where his hips continue to rut into you through his own overstimulation.

“I’m sorry,” his head falls against your shoulder, burrows into the warmth of your neck. There’s a press of his lips against your skin, and a million apologies that follow. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I love you, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I love you.”

“It’s okay, Jack,” you lie, sooth a hand over his back, ignore the tears you feel falling against your skin.

TRACK 8 — hit the road jack

The clock reads 13:18 as Jack brings the car to a stop.

A set of stairs lead up to a grand double-doored entrance, a sign post declaring the extravagant building as Clearview Manor. Rented for the whole weekend, the wedding party isn’t cited to leave until late Monday evening. Though all cars remain parked in the driveway, no familiar faces await your arrival.

“I hope you get your happy ending,” the two of you step out of the car in sync. A voice whispers that it’s the last time you’ll step out the Bronco, you brush it off and follow Jack as he makes his way over to the boot. “No one deserves it more than you, Jack.”

“No promises, darlin’,” he extends his arms to you, you almost move in for a hug.

The sight of your wedding dress, no longer porcelain white, stains of brown upon a greying fabric, reminds you of why you’re here. You try your best to smile earnestly as you take it off his hands, but fear it only heightens the distress that dilates your pupils. “I’ll see you inside, right?”

The boot slams shut, and it’s an awful reminder that your time together is coming to a close, Jack dons his signature smile, cowboy hat back on his head, a head that’s shaking no.

“The mighty fool that I am, thinkin’ I could stomach watchin’ you get married to another man. After this little road trip of ours… well, I guess I just ain’t ready to hit play yet.” A tongue made of lead, shoes filled with weights. Moving feels impossible, talking even more so. You want to say his name, tell him you don’t need to marry another man, crawl back into the Bronco and beg him to drive off. “Go’on, get! There’s a good man in there, waitin’ to give you everythin’ you deserve.”

Instead, you just turn on your heel, take the first step towards the rest of your life. A life without Jack.

Halfway up the stairway, the sound of Jack’s engine reaches your ears, followed quickly by the obnoxiously poignant car radio, giving its final performance for you both.

“Hit the road, Jack, and don’t you come back, no more, no more, no more, no more!”

Eyes meeting where Jack sits, back in the driver’s seat, you share one last laugh.

OUTRO — everywhere

“Thank god you’re okay.”

Two arms, strong and secure, wrap around your waist.

On the other side of the bridal suite door stands both your mother and your mother in law, ushered out by your fiance upon your return the moment he noticed the panic on your face as questions and fingers prodded at you.

You block out the thought of the scowling faces, burrowing your own into the space between his shoulder and neck, whispering your inquiry on, “how bad is the damage?”

“We told everyone you were suffering from food poisoning. All our guests think you’ve been spewing out of both ends the past few hours, but I think that’s justified for the bruising you’ve given my ego.”

“Santi,” the shape of your fiance’s name feels foreign in your mouth, the taste of it sour on your tongue, so much so that you can’t say it in full. “I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t be, what matters is you’re here now.”

Jack was right, your fiance is a nice man. A good man. A man anyone would be lucky to land in the arms of, the kind of man people dream of, and romance authors write of.

But to you, his arms just feel like a cage you’ve lost the key for. “Why did you ask me to marry you?”

“I don’t know. We just… make sense.”

“We do,” you pull apart, at last, nodding your head along to his answer. “But is that all marriage should be? Two people who make sense?” You stumble a few steps back from him, feet needing space to begin pacing back and forth as your filter slips and the word-vomit begins to spew itself out onto the pristine carpeted floors. “Do you really love me enough to spend the rest of your days with me? Because I don’t think you do, and I don’t think I love you like that either.”

Santiago is calm, collected, and completely unresponsive.

The longer he watches you pace and rant, the quicker you do each thing, as though you’re racing ahead to escape the fear of breaking his heart more than you already have, his love possibly more intense than you make it seem. He ends that fear in one foul swoop of words.

“When you didn’t walk down the aisle, I felt relieved. I also slept with someone at my bachelor party and the guilt has been eating me alive.”

“I just fucked my ex in a bathroom!” In an almost paradoxical response, the pair of you keen over in laughter, any expected animosity thrown out the metaphorical window and leaving you both no choice but to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. “God, we’re a mess.”

“Wait, the cowboy’s your ex? I should’ve known, your dad told him you were gone before he even bothered to tell me.” Santiago had little luck at winning over your dad, though admittedly it was no fault of his own but, rather, your father had yet to move on from Jack. There’s a sudden commotion as Santi rushes past you, peeling back the curtains and peering down out the window. “What car is it the cowboy drives?”

“A Bronco.”

“Well, you might wanna hurry, because he’s just pulling out of the parking bays.” It’s more than just a warning. It’s a blessing to leave. Overcome with emotion, you dive back into his arms and find there’s no fear of goodbye, not like there had been with Jack. An engagement ring that slips off with no resistance, no longer a shackle that ties you both together. You hand it back to him gently. “Go, before it’s too late! I’ll take care of this mess, see if I can spin this in a way that’s heartbreaking enough to get our deposit back.”

There’s more you want to say, but now’s not the time. Apologies and thank-yous can wait till you pick up your things from his apartment, right now you’re too busy rushing to the door.

A call of your name comes when you’ve got one foot out it, treading into the now motherless hallway. You face Santiago with a smile, ready to say that magic word. 

Goodbye.

“Promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t invite me to your wedding.”

You make it out the double-doors, which slam loudly shut behind you, before you spot the retreating shape of Jack’s car and an anxious glee commands you to break out into a sprint, legs kicking faster than they ever have before.

Don’t speed up, you think, watching as the Bronco slowly creeps down the driveway.

“Jack!” You call out to him, hoping that, with the open roof, he’ll somehow hear you over the radio. Pushing your feet to move a little faster, your arms join the mix, waving wildly to the wind, a careless attempt to catch his attention in the rearview mirror. “Wait!”

The car breaks with a squeak, the blaring music comes to a halt, and Jack turns to face you with his own eyes, as though he can’t trust the mirrors. When you reach the car, you pull at the door handle and find he’s already unlocked it. You slide in with ease, back into the seat you’ve always belonged in: by his side.

He can’t seem to move, frozen with his eyes focused on nothing but you.

“Drive, jack,” you finally proclaim, asking him what you should’ve the moment you saw him in that diner, in the pews, in the heartbreaking hours post-burying a friend.

“Where to, darlin’?”

“Anywhere, everywhere!” You can’t help the smile that overcomes you as he pulls your hand up to his mouth, planting a familiar kiss upon it, before the engine hums back to life. “It doesn’t matter, as long as I’m with you, all roads lead home.”

Like old times, you lean forward and turn up the radio, a familiar tune filling the air as you sink back into your seat, the wind back in your hair and an open road laying ahead, ready to lead you both wherever the wheels may take you.

“Oh I, I wanna be with you everywhere.”

bts with hyde. this is just a little reflective commentary that i put down here, to avoid flooding my author's note with too much rambling. please feel free to skip this!!

this fic is a compilation of firsts for me. it's the first challenge i've taken part in within the pedro fanspace, which has been equally exciting as it has been daunting. i struggle immensely with writing on a time schedule, and so i'm pretty proud of myself for not posting this (too) late.

this is also my first time writing for jack. admitedly, i'm not sure if i've done justice to him, as his character is somehow incredibly strong and, yet, so open for interpretation that i found myself struggling to connect with him in my writing. i have no plans to write for him in any future wips, but that might change. it was definitely fun to push myself out my comfort zone and write for a new character!

something i want to praise myself for is the attention i put into smaller details of this fic. for example, each flower mentioned in this fic has a very specific symbol/meaning attached to it, fitting with the themes of the scenes in which they're mentioned. the other place i hyperfocused on very unimportant details is the playlist. it opens and closes on the only two songs fronted by a female vocalist, with my intention being that these songs are a representation of the reader's inner turmoils and thoughts in the opening and closing scenes. the rest of the playlist is full of male vocalists, giving a peak into jack's mind despite the entire fic being told through the reader's eyes.

okay, i've given myself enough delusional and unnecesary praise, i'm going to sleep now. please don't be mean if you didn't like this fic, it's literally my birthday 🫡

if you've read this far, ily, i hope you have a good day !

[dokries]

sweetest thing

pairing: chwe hansol (vernon) x gender neutral reader

genre: fluff, strangers/uni classmates to lovers, bakery worker!reader x window shopper!vernon

word count: 7.5k

warnings: lots of food mentions, mutual pining, vernon is down bad, emergency room/hospital visit for an injury (don’t worry, it’s not super bad!), seokmin and seungkwan best wingmen, forehead kiss near the end, let me know if i need to add more!

synopsis:

when you finally find out the name of the cute regular who never buys anything, you don’t expect to get to know him better, and for him to be so sweet.

author note: yeah i really have no idea how i wrote so much 😭 my first vernon fic, and it’s a huge one…anyway, this fic wouldn’t be possible without seungkwan so everyone say thank you seungkwan 🫶 lots of love, and i hope you enjoy reading ♡

masterlist

running a small business is hard.

you know this from experience, seeing your boss run pang! sweets all by himself before you came along—mingyu’s a strong one, that’s for sure. well, he’s strong literally as well; he’s always at the gym if he’s not checking in on the bakery. 

though you only started at pang! for the money—you’re a university student; there’s always something you have to pay for—you have to admit you’ve gotten a bit attached to your part time job, finding solace in the arms of the small lot mingyu rents out. 

and that love for your job is exactly why your eye is twitching and your voice is strained as you talk to the regular customer in front of you—well, he would be, if he actually bought anything the bakery offers. “do you need any assistance?”

the man in front of you raises his head to look at you before shaking his head, turning his attention back to the croissant in front of him. 

yes, he’s cute and seems to be around your age but he also comes in every morning and buys absolutely nothing. he stands there in front of the display stand, and analyses every single detail in the cinnamon rolls you make early in the morning on the weekends, as well as the assorted pastries mingyu bakes up. 

you turn and walk in to mingyu singing along to the radio as he finishes up decorating his third batch of cupcakes for the day. in signature mingyu style, there’s frosting everywhere; he may be a good baker but he’s a messy one.

he grins at you, wiping frosting off his cheek before tilting his head and frowning at your stiff expression. “is something wrong?” 

“the window shopper’s back,” you simply say, gritting your teeth and biting the inside of your cheek so you don’t end up yelling in frustration.

mingyu sighs before wiping his hands on a nearby towel and fixing his posture, slapping his biceps to seem bulkier than he already is. “okay then. it’s time for operation scarecrow, isn’t it?” 

you nod at him seriously before holding the curtain separating the kitchen and the front open for him, giving a clear view of the opposite light pink wall. (mingyu always corrects you when you call it that, saying “it’s rose quartz, for god’s sake!”)

mingyu walks by you with the scariest expression he can muster and falters as he takes a step out, looking out to the front door. he turns back to you, confused. “there’s no one here. i guess he left.”

you go out to join your boss, and let out a silent scream at the lack of customers, annoyed at the fact that he got away again.

operation scarecrow hasn’t worked yet—a fancy way of saying that mingyu intimidates the window shopper to get the hell out of his shop—because the damn guy never stays around long enough. 

mingyu rolls his eyes in amusement before coming over and patting your head, getting leftover frosting on you. “it’s okay! we’ll get him next time, partner.” 

you can’t help but huff out a breath to calm yourself down at mingyu’s smile. “wait, did you get frosting on me? mingyu! what—” you’re cut off when mingyu races into the back, and holds the curtains closed so you can’t tell him off. 

“mingyu! this isn’t fair!”

you’re running late, and barely surviving on two coffees since you woke up in a rush after helping mingyu the night before finish up a huge order for, funnily enough, the university you’re making your way hurriedly to now. 

you get in the lecture hall just as the professor makes his way up to the podium, and pick a random seat in the middle to get comfortable in, the class already starting; professor kim has a habit of droning on and on about things that appear on his tests, according to the school forums, so you can’t miss anything he says.

you don’t notice the people next to you until the professor tells everyone to take a break after he goes through the first set of slides, and you look up to see a red haired man beside you and next to him is…oh my god. it’s the damn guy you’ve been looking for, peering over his glasses down at his laptop.

 you smile politely at the guy closest to you first, introducing yourself. thankfully, your excitement at finding the window shopper is disguised as one stemming from potentially making a new friend. he grins at you before fixing his sweatband. “i’m seungkwan! and this is my friend,” he leans back so you can see the man beside him properly, “hansol.”

“you can call me vernon though,” hansol—vernon, you suppose—says without looking up from the screen in front of him. 

you stare at him for a second, giddy on the inside because you finally have a name to the face you’ve seen way too often in the past weeks. since vernon hasn’t looked up, you’re guessing he doesn’t know it’s you yet, and you’re thankful for that—you can’t have him running off on you before exacting revenge, can you?

you excuse yourself from talking about the course work with your new acquaintances, and pull out your phone to text mingyu excitedly.

you ❙

KIM MINGYU.

i found him. 

mingoowner ❙

not the full name lol

???

you ❙

THE SHOPLIFTER

HAHAHA WE GOT HIM NOW

mingoowner ❙

OH that’s great!

lmk details when you come for your shift later

oh also where’d you put the egg substitute? i can’t find it 😭

you ❙

should be in the second cupboard to the left of the sink

mingoowner ❙

okay found it thanks

i’ll see you later ;)

you put your phone on top of your notebook, and notice seungkwan staring at you with a smirk on his face. “ohohoho, does our new friend have a partner?” he says, singing the last word. 

vernon pauses as he types, giving seungkwan a weird look before finally noticing you.

he blinks at you, the same expression on his face as always, as if he’s daydreaming all the time. he breaks eye contact, putting a hand on his best friend’s shoulder, causing seungkwan to jump a little at the contact. “it’s not our place to ask that seungkwan, we just met them.” 

huh. you suppose he’s a decent guy after all—or at least abides by social norms. 

seungkwan grumbles under his breath about vernon being no fun, and smiles at you sheepishly. “sorry if that was too much. you are cute though, so i wouldn’t be surprised if you did have a partner! right, vernon?” seungkwan nudges his friend, who’s already back to his work. 

vernon nods without looking up, but his face seems brighter than before. eh, it’s probably just the blue light emitting from the screen he’s staring lasers into. (when did blue light turn someone’s face more red though?)

you laugh and shake your head, your attention back to seungkwan—you don’t notice how vernon looks at you through the corner of his eye, and that his eyes crinkle a little when yours do.

“no, i don’t have a partner. i was just texting…” you shoot a cautious glance at vernon before mumbling, “my boss at the bakery i work at.” 

vernon tenses slightly as seungkwan looks at you in admiration, and claps you on the back in approval. “wow, you’ve got a job at a bakery? that’s so cool!” seungkwan winks at you, continuing. “you should let us have a discount because we’re your friends, right?”

you look at the red haired man in front of you in astonishment. you just met each other? why is he…so friendly already, as if you’ve known each other for ages? you're not lonely at school; you have friends from other classes but…maybe being friends with seungkwan won’t hurt, especially because he seems to be besties with the guy you’ve been hunting for the past month or so.

you roll your eyes before nodding, looking pointedly at vernon. “yeah, if you guys come by and actually buy things, i’ll give you a discount!”

vernon flinches slightly at your words, caught off guard. seungkwan looks at vernon before he seems to realize something, his hand hitting his friend’s shoulder excitedly. 

“OH MY GOD, IS THIS—” seungkwan only goes so far before vernon cuts him off with a slap over his mouth with an apologetic expression on his face—wow, this is the most expressive you’ve seen him.

“sorry, he can be a bit…loud at times,” vernon says in your direction before glaring subtly at seungkwan, telling him to shut up before he spills too much. 

you see them exchange another look before seungkwan pulls vernon’s hand away from his face, and smiles at you knowingly. “hey, do you work at pang! sweets?”

you nod, and vernon mumbles a few curses under his breath before pinching seungkwan’s thigh desperately, whose grin only becomes bigger. 

“i’ll make sure i visit then!” seungkwan says. when the man beside him clears his throat, seungkwan adds on with a smirk, “well, with vernon, of course. he would hate me if i didn’t take him with me because he has such a huge—” 

“sweet tooth!” vernon yells, not letting seungkwan finish his sentence, his exclamation catching the attention of everyone in the hall. 

“well, vernon, is it? it’s…nice to know your preference in food but we really should be covering this next topic instead,” professor kim says with a raised eyebrow, moving back to the front and putting the next set of slides on the screen for everyone—right, you’re still in class.

seungkwan giggles under his breath as vernon rolls his eyes at his friend’s antics. he glances over at you, analyzing your confused expression before letting out a breath in relief. you don’t know anything, do you? he prefers it that way, at least until he’s ready.

“hey, seokmin! what’ll you have today?” you ask the regular in front of you, now at your second home. 

“oh, just my usual, thanks!” seokmin smiles at you brightly as he slides a crisp bill over to pay. 

despite only knowing him through mingyu, you clicked with seokmin easily when you first met, and have since made sure to remember his order, considering he visits quite often.

you ring him up, pull out a pizza bun from the display case in front of him, and give it to seokmin with extra napkins, like always. you call out to mingyu in the back when you take inventory of what’s left to be displayed. “gyu, we got any more croissants? there’s only three outside.”

mingyu brushes aside the curtains with a flourish as he walks to where you are. you wait patiently to make his way to you as he waves to his imaginary fans, even though there’s no one to wave to other than you and seokmin—tuesday afternoons aren’t usually busy. you’re used to his dramatics, having worked with him for a while now but seokmin still claps in admiration, as if he isn’t a musical actor himself. 

mingyu brushes his bangs back before smiling when he’s in front of you. “you called?”

you stare at him silently, pointing to the croissants on display. “we need more, your highness.”

mingyu scoffs before going into the back once more and bringing out a tray of fresh ones, and he squats down to place them meticulously on the wooden tray for displaying, relying on seokmin to tell him if he’s doing it right.

mingyu doesn’t look at you when he speaks, focusing on placing a chocolate croissant on top of another. “so, you never explained what’s up with finding the window shopper.”

you snap your fingers, suddenly remembering that you forgot to tell him, and start talking rapidly. “okay so basically, it turns out he’s in my class? like the one with professor kim, and he looks like some sort of nerd with his glasses on? like it’s cute but i didn’t expect that from him.” 

mingyu and seokmin exchange a look through the glass separating them, and seokmin advises mingyu to sprinkle sugar on the pastry on the edge on the tray eventually, and mingyu agrees before they nod in unison for you to continue.

“and so i made a new friend i guess? his name is seungkwan, he’s sweet and i think they’re besties? they gave off that vibe, and to be honest…the guy, vernon—or hansol, or whatever! he seems like a nice enough guy? i mean, he was decent and maybe…he’s just really indecisive or something.”

seokmin laughs wholeheartedly at your conclusion—he’s filled in on the drama, of course; you always complain about this mystery guy whenever he comes by—and mingyu gets up, putting the now empty tray onto the counter, making you groan at how you’ll have to clean it up later. 

“i—i thought you hated this guy?” mingyu says your name in disbelief, holding your shoulders and staring into your eyes. “have you fallen in love or something and that’s why you’re switching sides so fast? cause this is…not very normal of you.”

you stare at him, pushing his hands off you lightly before laughing, and the two guys in the shop join you before they get weirded out by how long you continue. seokmin says your name uncertainly before stage whispering to mingyu, “i think they’ve gone mad!”

you stop laughing maniacally at this before gasping loudly at your friend’s accusation. “no, i haven’t! i haven’t fallen in love or anything either lol.”

your friends look at each other slowly and mingyu stutters on his words, as he puts his hand on your shoulder again, mostly to ground himself as seokmin looks on with horror. “did you…did you just say lol out loud? like—like the letters out loud?” 

you pause, realizing you’ve slipped up, and maybe your friends are right. you’ve gone mad, lost your sanity even. over a man? you put your head in your hands, trying to figure out where it all went wrong. when vernon first came into the bakery, four monday mornings ago, with his leather jacket and pushed back hair? was it when you saw him wearing a varsity jacket earlier, his glasses perched on his nose as if they’d been made to fit him? you have no idea.

seokmin looks down at his cold bun and then at the two of you, this time not even trying to soften his words. “yup, they’ve gone mad.”

“oh also, can one of you warm this up once they’re done with their mental breakdown? it’s cold,” seokmin adds on, pouting when mingyu shoots him a sharp glare. 

after your…madness the other day, you can’t even look at vernon for more than a few seconds.

seungkwan definitely knows something is up; you’ve only known each other for a little bit but he’s in tune with your body language already, which is why he invited you to get coffee with him in class earlier. of course, he had invited his best friend but vernon had declined, saying something about how he needed to finish an assignment—even though he’d never say it, he was slightly disappointed that he couldn’t spend time with you outside of class for once. 

seungkwan animatedly recounts his day to you as you walk to the coffee shop together, and you order quickly. he insists on paying for you and you relent when his whines cause the other customers to look at the two of you in confusion. you’re about to sit down at a small table inside the falling for u cafe when your phone dings multiple times. 

pizza bun ❙

ummm mingyu did something weird…

he told me to text you cause he says that only you know how to tame the oven?? whatever that means 😭

you ❙

WHAT 

IM ON MY WAY RN

SEOKMIN WATCH MINGYU DON'T LET HIM TOUCH ANYTHING.

pizza bun ❙

OKAY GOT IT BOSS 🫡

you hurriedly put your phone in your pocket before explaining quickly. “my boss is gonna set the bakery on fire, i have to go, i’m so sorry!”

you run to pang! which is thankfully only half a block away, leaving a dazed seungkwan behind.

“KIM MINGYU WHEN I FIND YOU—oh,” you yell as you walk in, quieting with an apology when you find startled customers sitting at the tables inside. 

seokmin peeks his head out when your voice echoes off the walls, and waves you in quickly, updating you on what exactly happened. “so basically, i think he accidentally whacked the side of the oven with his whisk while he was trying to make meringue, and then he got water in his meringue bowl, so now he’s…” seokmin gestures towards the bakery owner as you draw closer, who’s crouching on the ground, a mixing bowl held protectively in his hands. “he’s like this.”

mingyu looks up when he notices the two of you, and pouts. “i made a dent in the oven…”

you close your eyes, trying to control the urge to tell mingyu off. 

“mingyu,” you start, leaning down to give him a hand so he can get up and face you at his full height. “you are a strong, wonderful man but OH MY GOD GYU, I TOLD YOU TO BE CAREFUL AFTER LAST TIME!” you yell, reaching up to pull his ear down as you scold him. 

“last time” was when mingyu had somehow dented the old oven, and you had to replace it because it was just that bad—somehow all the buttons stopped working when you pressed them, and he had to pay for a new one, which you had now. 

mingyu yelps out in pain as you pull him down more, and calls out to seokmin for help, not realizing that his so-called friend went back to his table to finish up his pizza bun for the day.

you let go of his ear when you realize the customers may be able to hear you and speak in an authoritative whisper. “you will not touch anything for the time being. i’ll call up the repair people because someone,” you give him a look, making the bakery owner flinch, “has made sure that they know pang! sweets on a first name basis.”

you turn and walk out without looking at the pitiful man behind you, plastering a smile so the customers don’t think anything is wrong—the walls are thin; the couple near the counter heard everything and were trying to keep from laughing. 

after a short call to the repairperson from last time, you look out to the sunny street and the people walking along the sidewalk, a familiar redhead in the mix—wait, is that seungkwan?

you squint to make sure, and the familiar figure waves through the window, dragging along…oh my god, he’s brought the window shopper.

a familiar twinkling from the bell attached to the door accompanies the two as they walk in, and seokmin gets up to greet them warmly, giving seungkwan a hug and a soft smile to vernon. he drags them over to where you are, and when you look at him confused, he explains. “oh, i know these two from before! i’m really close with seungkwan because the two of us and soonyoung—well, you wouldn’t know him because he’s always in his practice room but i’ll bring him over sometime—are best friends!”

seungkwan nods as vernon looks at you and waves, as if he hasn’t seen you for multiple weeks at this exact same spot—though he hasn't been coming ever since you formally met him. “hey.”

“…hey,” you reply, and seokmin and seungkwan exchange a wince at the awkward air surrounding the four of you—mingyu’s still sitting on the kitchen floor in timeout. 

you busy yourself with making sure the counter is clean, inspecting the marble as if you hadn’t just cleaned it mindlessly while on call with the repair place as the three men talk.

“oh, isn’t it your birthday soon?” seungkwan says to vernon, loud enough for you to hear, and quickly corrects himself when seokmin clears his throat. “and yours too, of course, minnie.”

you raise an eyebrow. “they share a birthday?” seokmin nods and you continue. “that’s pretty cool actually! seokmin, you should’ve told me.”

seokmin only shrugs before grinning. “wait, you’re baking something for me like you did last year, right?” he lowers his voice to a whisper as he continues. “i know i’ve known mingyu for longer and should technically trust him more but like, i feel like your baking is a lot more…clean compared to his, you know?” 

you nod before staring at vernon, who’s back to talking to seungkwan on the side about…bears? you don’t even know, and frankly, you’re not sure if you want to know.

maybe you should make something for him too, considering it’s his birthday and you know, you’re making something for seokmin anyway.

seokmin smirks as he follows your line of vision and moves to join his friends. “he’s allergic to peanuts by the way,” he nonchalantly says on his way, shooting you a wink before he drapes an arm over seungkwan’s shoulder. 

well, one thing’s for sure: you’re not planning on making peanut butter cookies for the eighteenth.

mingyu would’ve been mad at you for sitting at the counter if you hadn’t closed already, it being past nine pm—actually, he couldn’t be mad at you anyway, considering how much you do for him.

he walks over to you scribbling ideas down in your notebook and crossing them out right after. well, so much for keeping his gift to you aesthetic. 

so far, you had thought of nothing for vernon’s—and seokmin’s, of course—birthday gift. even though you don’t know him that well, you want to see him happy with a huge grin on his face like when he was talking to seungkwan in professor kim’s about chan, their friend, and smacked his best friend's shoulder, to seungkwan’s annoyance. you groan as you straighten your back, your spine aching from bending over to write. 

mingyu pats your shoulder from behind and looks over at your list. “need any help?”

you turn to look at him, sighing deeply. “yeah. do you think i should text seungkwan to see if he knows anything?”

“seungkwan knows everything, trust me. but yeah, i think you should. maybe then you’ll be able to notice the cookies i baked just for you, my favourite worker.” mingyu teasingly says, giving you a wink before pulling out the small container of your favourite cookies, fresh from the oven that apparently, had nothing wrong with it despite the dent made on the outside.

you take a huge bite out of the one he hands you before taking out your phone to text the friend who’s on your mind—okay, maybe his friend is the one on your mind.

you ❙

hey kwannie <33

um do you know what kind of cookies vernon likes? 

or like any type of treat at all that i can make at the bakery

kwannie 🍊 ❙

OH MY GOD I KNEW IT

someone’s got a crushhh

you ❙

i’m just asking in advance just in case he comes by !! and actually wants to buy things lol

kwannie 🍊 ❙

sure…🙄

anyway he likes choco cake and cheesecake 

always see him munching on them after finals

oh he’s allergic to peanuts btw so be careful

wouldn’t want to hurt your bf before you’re official am i right 😓

you ❙

BOO SEUNGKWAN. 

kwannie 🍊 ❙

yes this is he

you ❙

…no comment.

seokmin alr told me about the peanuts thing 🙏

okay thanks for the info ily <3

you put your phone down before sighing. you know what, that made sense; vernon always used to pay extra attention to mingyu’s phenomenal cheesecake and chocolate cake slices out front, as if he needed to memorize the placement of each particle on the wooden trays. 

mingyu looks at you curiously and you show him seungkwan’s messages. “oh yeah, that makes sense. i say make chocolate cake cause seokmin will like it too! that way you’re only using one recipe—i'll lend you my book so you can look through it.” 

okay, chocolate cake. you can do that. right?

you take a look at the time, and realize that it’s probably a good idea to go home, considering how late it is. you pack up your stuff quickly, and wave to mingyu as he locks up the shop. 

“i’ll see you day after tomorrow, gyu! be safe!” you call out as you walk backwards towards the way home, and turn to face the lit up sidewalk…and the slightly menacing person walking towards you, with an all black outfit and hood up, a mask covering most of their face (also black of course, they have a theme going on). 

you’re not too scared though because they’re walking normally—although a bit…uniformly, hands not moving from their position by their hips—and don’t seem to be under any influence, at least from what you can see. they also seem distracted by their phone and you can see their headphones on. 

that doesn’t mean you don’t walk quickly, suddenly remembering all the stories of ghosts of previous university students haunting the grounds they stayed at before their passing.

 as you pass them and let out a breath you had been holding before feeling a soft tap on your shoulder. you turn to face the person you saw before, and you see yourself stare back in their big brown eyes—wow, those are some nice eyelashes. 

“hey, i didn’t know you were gonna be here,” they say, muffled enough by their mask so you can’t recognize their voice. you take a step back from them, clutching the straps of your work bag on your shoulder. 

“i’m sorry, do i know you?” you say confused, taking another step back, and the person in front of you chuckles, taking off their mask. 

oh god, of course it’s the man who’s been plaguing your thoughts. you smile awkwardly and wave. “oh…hi vernon.”

he raises his eyebrow as he smiles back, his voice soft as he calls your name. “hi…did you really think i was gonna hurt you or something?”

you nod your head seriously before gesturing to your surroundings: a barely lit entrance to the alleyway that leads to a small neighbourhood before you hands end up pointing at his mask. “have you seen where we are right now? also, this is an awfully suspicious get up, dude…i was kinda scared.” 

vernon’s hands go back to the nape of his neck as he chuckles, embarrassed. “sorry ‘bout that. i just—i didn’t see you until you passed by because of the…” he trails off, realizing that what he was distracted by is a little too cute for the image he’s trying to build up to impress you. 

you frown, and he finds you adorable as he clears his throat and mumbles, “cat videos i was watching.” 

you sputter, moving forward to leave a hand on vernon’s shoulder to ground yourself as you laugh lightheartedly. “you—why are you so embarrassed by that?” 

your eyes shine in the dim light the streetlamp over the two of you provides, and he can’t help but appreciate them for a few seconds before he looks away, his hand automatically going back up to his neck. 

vernon laughs awkwardly before responding. “well, uh…i was worried it would ruin the whole ‘cool guy’ thing i’ve got going on, according to seungkwan.” 

you raise your eyebrows before chuckling and vernon finds himself joining in, the two of you smiling at each other softly before you break eye contact and look away, the yellow light from above doing little to hide the red creeping up both your faces. 

his phone dings multiple times before he takes it out of his jacket pocket and he sighs, showing you the contact name. “speak of the devil.”

you shrug before giving him a sneaky look. “well, you can’t keep him waiting, can you?” 

vernon nods before he smiles at you shyly, clearing his throat. “hey, would you want to come over? we’re having a little get together actually.” he shakes the plastic bag in his other hand to bring attention to it—huh, you hadn’t noticed it before. “we’re having ice cream…” he sings, looking at you expectantly. 

you yawn involuntarily and give vernon an apologetic look. “i think i’ll have to pass, isorry. i should probably go home and knock out for the rest of the night, it’s been a long day.”

he agrees with you, nodding even though you can see how his face falls slightly—is this just because you’re paying way too much attention to the way his eyes smile more than his actual mouth? maybe. 

vernon sends you on your way home with a promise to text him, and inputs his number into your phone so you can actually contact him (he hopes you don’t notice his hands trembling just the slightest bit). 

as soon as you enter the doorway of home sweet home, you toss your things to the side and grab your phone, sitting down on the couch in the living room giddily. you smile at his name in your contacts before debating on what to text him. you decide to introduce yourself first, making sure he can save your name as well.

you ❙

i made it home! 

vernon ❙

sweet

we have an early class tomorrow so sleep well

i’ll see you in kim’s

you ❙

see you then vernon! 

oh dear god, you feel so awkward. however, just the fact that he responded (and wished you a good sleep!) is enough to make you weak in the knees, and get up to your kitchen, texting mingyu for the recipes he mentioned earlier. as you look at the measuring equipment spread neatly on the counter, you take in a deep breath. 

time to make the best chocolate cake vernon’s ever had in his life. (and seokmin!)

at first, he only wanted to see the selection of the fairly new bakery near campus.

it had good reviews online, and vernon expected it to be nice—which it is; his opinion isn’t different from the online forums he read in advance—and was pleasantly surprised by how much he could buy, considering that it was fairly priced as well. 

he was leaning down to see the cinnamon rolls (maybe he could get one for seungkwan…he should ask) when he heard your voice for the first time. “do you need any help?”

he looked up and had to do a double take, disguising it as him seemingly making sure nothing was on his sleeve. 

were all bakery workers supposed to be this cute? 

vernon couldn’t help but freeze under your warm stare, and even though he knew you had a customer service smile on, he wanted to know what your real smile was like. 

you had giggled awkwardly when he didn’t respond and he immediately stood up properly, hand rubbing the back of his scalp—seungkwan says it’s a habit vernon does when he’s nervous, and he’s probably right. 

“oh, uh…i’m good, thanks,” he says quietly, looking at the floor instead of your face, which was suddenly too bright to look at. 

thankfully—well…vernon did want to look at your face more but it was probably better when you moved away from him, satisfied with his response, and started to wipe the counter, making sure the slightly dirty spots were clear enough to see your face in, the same face he was staring way too much at. 

vernon brought his attention back to the pastries in front of him but his mind quickly wandered to…well, you. 

oh my god, is this what they call love at first sight or something? he shook his head, and your head snapped up at the motion to look at him. 

he mumbled under his breath, “no, no, it’s probably just being attracted or something, that’s all.”

so why did he keep coming back into the shop…just to see you? 

“and that’s how vernon fell in love,” seungkwan says, giggling as vernon finishes telling his story of how he met you to seokmin.

“wow.” seokmin’s hands go up to cover his mouth as he gasps, surprised by vernon’s words. “that’s pretty romantic actually…”

seungkwan agrees, almost jumping up and down as they stand around seokmin’s kitchen island, where the small birthday party for seokmin and vernon—affectionately called the 218 bros—is being held.

vernon sighs, his face red, not being able to lie to his friends. “yeah, yeah…whatever seungkwan said.”

seokmin takes out his phone, looking at it thoughtfully before at vernon. “should i call mingyu to tell him to close the bakery earlier so they can be here before we cut the cake?” 

“no need. they’re not working today, so i think they’re just a little late,” vernon says, shaking his head.

and he’s completely right because you’re rushing to pack the treat you’ve made him in time to leave with mingyu, who swears he’ll leave you behind if you take more than five more minutes. 

“but gyu!” you whine, balancing your phone in between your ear and your shoulder before making sure you don’t get frosting all over your clothes. “you can’t leave me, i’m your only employee!”

mingyu sighs over the phone before pausing. “hey, do you think i should hire seungkwan instead of you? that’d be a nice change.”

you snort, taking the two large boxes in your hands and putting them down so you can lock your door. “you could never replace me, and you know it.”

mingyu hangs up as you make your way to his backseat to deposit your gifts and grins when you settle into the passenger seat beside him. 

“yeah, yeah…” he rolls your eyes as you put your phone into your pocket, pausing when you see a notification from one of the men of the hour. 

vernon ❙

hey are you on your way?

we’re gonna cut cake soon

wait nvm we don’t have the cake

you ❙

yeah i’m almost there! 

just got a little late, me and mingyu are on our way

vernon ❙

sweet me and seokmin will meet you out front if you need help ?

apparently the cake is with you guys 

you ❙

yeah sure! thanks :D

vernon ❙

of course :)

you squeal, clutching mingyu’s arm as he looks at you before back at the road immediately. “hey, i’m driving here!”

you apologize, and grin when you pull up to seokmin’s home. mingyu gets out and opens the backseat door as you wave to vernon, who’s out waiting for you on the lawn. 

vernon moves to help mingyu with the boxes but the other man only winks as he carries the two cakes in his hands easily.

you smile as you join vernon on the grass and start to go in for a hug before pausing and patting him on the shoulder awkwardly. “happy birthday, vernon!”

he raises an eyebrow before patting your back in a similar way to mock you, and smiles. “thanks.” vernon gestures towards the front door. “should we go in?”

you’re greeted with a big hug from both seokmin and seungkwan as you enter, and vernon smiles at your excitement to see your friends before immediately deadpanning. he can’t get caught, especially not by seungkwan—he would be teased forever.

seungkwan casually wraps an arm around your shoulder and smirks at vernon’s slightly clenched fist before saying your name loudly. “did you really make the cakes all by yourself? wow, that’s so impressive, they look so good!” 

you nod sheepishly, a small blush forming on your cheeks as vernon blinks and claps you on the back, subtly replacing seungkwan’s position beside you. “wow, that’s really cool of you. i appreciate it a lot, dude.”

you grin at him, and vernon doesn’t even notice how his friends scooch away to marvel at your sweet creations in the kitchen because he’s too busy focused on the way your eyes are somehow brighter in the lit entryway of his friend’s home. 

“vernon?” you call out concerned, waving a hand in front of his face. “you there?”

he blinks, and his hand goes back up to the spot on his neck that it always does. “uh, yeah, i’m here.”

you smile at him again, and he’s entranced. “right, so the cakes have a ton of chocolate, and i didn’t know what you and seokmin liked best so—!” 

vernon immediately puts his hand around your back, shocked at how you almost fell while taking a step towards him. you wince, and he looks up, locking eyes with mingyu before he looks down at you, calling your name in a panic. “are you alright? did—did you twist your ankle?”

you groan, gripping onto vernon’s arm as you pull yourself up to stand on your right foot, as putting pressure on your left hurts. 

you breathe heavily and look down at your foot, already seeing an angry red forming as your ankle swells underneath your sneaker. 

“okay, okay, uh…” vernon thinks out loud for a second before calling over mingyu and telling him to start his car. he squeezes the arm he’s still holding, and gives you a nervous smile. “you’re gonna be alright, okay? um—i’m gonna take you to the hospital and we’ll be with mingyu and—”

he gets interrupted by seungkwan grabbing your other arm so they can help you walk out the door, and onto the lawn. seungkwan looks at you concerned as he helps you into the backseat of mingyu’s car, and to your surprise, vernon sits down in the seat beside you. 

you’re not the only one surprised, as mingyu gapes at vernon through the rearview mirror. 

“what?” vernon looks at the both of you weirdly before sighing. “come on, mingyu, we need to hurry!”

as mingyu pulls out of seokmin’s neighbourhood, you think you’re going mad, just like he said you were only a few weeks ago. you start to giggle incessantly, unable to stop even when vernon glances at you worriedly and pulls you into his shoulder so you’re supported. 

“i—i’m so sorry,” vernon says suddenly, his knee bouncing up and down as he frowns at you. “this is all my fault.”

you stop giggling and frown as well, groaning in pain as you shift to face vernon better—god, this hurts. 

“what are you talking about?” you ask vernon before another giggling fit comes on, and you manage to squeeze out, “i’m the one who went whoops! and fell down, not you!” 

vernon stares at you, realizing that this…is probably just your body’s way of distracting yourself from the throbbing of your ankle, and he moves to remove your sneaker so that the nurses don’t struggle with it later.

you giggle again, and you try to push the wrinkle in between his eyebrows away, the adrenaline getting to you and making sure you have no self control at all. “the only thing you did to make me fall was stand there with your beautiful face—oh, and your long eyelashes and nice voice!”

vernon’s eyes widen and you can count every vein in them, coursing with the same liquid that’s now flooding his cheeks. “uh—i…”

your moment is ruined as mingyu sputters, trying to hold back his laughter, and vernon goes to look at him as he fails. wiping his tears, mingyu gestures to the building on the left, not trusting himself to speak just yet, and—oh, you’re at the hospital already. 

to be completely honest, vernon doesn’t know what he’s doing here, sitting in the chair beside you, and listening to the person on the other side of the thin screen separating the beds in the emergency room. all he can do is stare at your intertwined hands as you sleep, the adrenaline high from before wearing off—thank god, because he doesn’t think he could take more of the cheesy pick up lines you’ve thrown at him.

he still can’t believe you said he was so beautiful, you fell for him—quite literally, as your swollen ankle shows it.

mingyu comes back, the necessary paperwork in his hands and pauses, raising an eyebrow in concern. “vernon? you’re really red, do you need to get checked out too?”

vernon raises the hand that’s not being held tightly by yours to his cheek, and realizes that his friend is right—he’s burning up, but he’s pretty sure that’s an after effect of your words, and not because he has a fever.

he shakes his head at mingyu, and the other man excuses himself to make a call to seokmin to explain, and vernon can hear seokmin and seungkwan screaming at mingyu through his phone speaker to the point where his friend’s phone is a good few inches away from his ear. 

vernon squeezes your hand, and pushes a stray strand of hair back from your forehead to plant a soft kiss—hopefully, that would speed up your recovery and wake up sooner, like his own version of sleeping beauty.

it’s been a few weeks since you twisted your ankle—and basically ruined seokmin and vernon’s birthday party, though both of them don’t blame you for it—and you’re finally back at work, actually feeling useful for the first time since you got back from the hospital. 

of course, mingyu’s a good boss, and a caring friend but that should be common knowledge, and he just about tied you down to the rolling chair he forced you into at the beginning of your shift, and he now makes sure to watch you so you don’t get up, not even once. 

you sigh, cleaning the counter without thinking and wonder what the hell vernon thinks of you now.

apparently, according to mingyu at least, you were flirting with him on the way to the hospital, and vernon didn’t know how to respond at all. you groan, putting your head into your hands before the bell at the door tinkles, signalling a new customer.

“hi there, what can i—” you falter when you see…of course, it’s vernon. “hi!”

he nods at you in greeting, holding a bag in his hand as he comes up to the counter. “hi.”

you raise an eyebrow at vernon with a chuckle. “are you actually going to buy something for once, vernon?”

when he nods again, you’re surprised. does he mean he’ll no longer be a window shopper and actually contribute to the bakery?

he sputters, unable to hold his laugh in. “you…you have such a shocked look on your face, i’m sorry.”

embarrassed, you compose yourself, clearing your throat. “well, i didn’t expect you to upgrade from window shopper to actual shopper anytime soon, so i’m pleasantly surprised.”

“well…for that i have to make a purchase, right?” he smiles at you softly. “can i have a slice of cheesecake, please?” 

you nod eagerly, and roll to where the slices are kept, taking one out carefully. as you put it in a paper bag for him, vernon fidgets nervously with the handles of the bag he’s holding, and you ring him up.

he pays with his card—and tips you generously; you shoot him a grateful smile. vernon puts the bag he brought earlier down on the counter to grab the one with the cheesecake and wipes his free palm on his jeans. “uh, that—that’s for you.”

you put your hand in the bag carefully and pull out a small box, opening it carefully as vernon watches you. 

it’s a…cupcake? you pull a cupcake that’s a bit flat, and has something written on it with frosting.  though you can’t tell what it says exactly, you make out a question mark at the end and look up at vernon. “uh…thank you? sorry, i can’t read what it says.”

vernon’s mouth turns into an o as his cheeks heat up, and now you’re even more confused. 

“i um…” vernon says quietly before he blurts the rest of his sentence out. “i’m asking you on a date.” 

your jaw drops open as he continues and by now, you both are a deeper shade of pink than the walls surrounding you.

“i’ve actually liked you for a while now.” vernon continues nervously with a chuckle, rubbing the nape of his neck as he looks down at his sneakers. “that’s why i kept coming back here, even though i couldn’t afford to buy anything—i was here for you.”

“i really like you too, vernon.” he looks up and smiles nervously at you, and you can’t help but grin. “and i’m happy we both feel the same way.”

vernon pretends to wipe sweat from his forehead, saying, “phew, i’m glad that’s over with.”

he folds the top of the paper bag holding his cheesecake and bites back another grin. “so…wednesday at six? i’ll pick you up if you’re working from here, and we can watch shrek or something at my place, so you can sit comfortably.”

you grin, taking vernon’s hand in yours gently. “i would love that.”

a/n (again): thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed and if you did, please tell me :D i would love to know <3 lots of love, moon.

[matchaverse]

Logan with secret Kpop idol wife and then their comes out and everyone is like why is she with him and that she deserves better and she shuts them up with a instagram post defending her husband and announcing that they’ve got twins. I love your smau’s so much it’s not even funny ❤️🥰

Idol Life | LS2

pairing: logan sargeant x fem!kpop!reader

summary: from the ask

faceclaim: lisa (from black pink) and other pictures from pinterest

type: smau

[instagram] yourusername

liked by logansargeant, blackpink, and 729,693 others

yourusername | had a wonderful time in New York!! you guys are amazing 🤍

username: you’re so pretty!!

username: that show was literally one of the best you all have done!

logansargeant: woah! 😍

username: logan???

username: now why is an f1 driver in the comments of miss y/n

username: logan is a k-pop stan!?

three years later

[instagram] logansargeant

liked by yourusername, oscarpiastri, and 648,638 others

tagged | @/yourusername

logansargeant | my wife is so pretty 😍🙌

yourusername: aww baby!! you’re so sweet 🥺🤍

username: married????

username: when. was. this????

username: how is our queen dating a w-white man 🤮

username: u think they’re cute!!

two years later

[instagram] yourusername

liked by logansargeant, yourbff, and 638,936 others

tagged | @/logansargeant

yourusername | hm didn’t know my personal life was anyone’s business to judge? 🤔 but anyways! here’s life recently, spending so much time off from your with my loving husband and our two beautiful twins 🤍 couldn’t ask for anything better

logansargeant: i love you so much

logansargeant: our children are so lucky to have you as their mother

yourusername: baby 😭

username: stop! they twins???

username: yall have children???!

username: we missed so many chapters

username: y/n has always been private and honestly good for her!!

username: THE LITTLE GIRL IS A COPY OG Y/N!!

username: AND BOY LOOKS LIKE LOGAN😭

oscarpiastri: i love those kids but please i cannot babysit again!! they are just like you two!

yourusername: you’re godfather for a reason

logansargeant: deal with it buddy

a/n: pretty short!! 🫣 i’m sorry but i wanted to get something easy out for now, working on the other asks don’t worry!! just getting my ass kicked from school and work. thank you for the patience 🤍🤍

[tealvenetianmask]

How Blitz and Stolas figure out how they feel: external vs. internal processing

I've been in therapy a ton (feeling like I'm not alone in that in this fandom), and one of the things I've learned from it is that I like to process my thoughts and feelings externally- by talking about them. It turns out not everyone is like that. I'm like Blitz in this way.

I first got on this topic when I was thinking about how Blitz flip flops in Apology Tour. When he goes to see Stolas at the beginning of the episode, he goes in with an idea he's trying out- a narrative he's committed to FOR NOW, insisting that he's there to reinstate the full moon deal with TONS of undue and shaky confidence.

Is this plan something he's actually confident in? Absolutely not. But he's going to commit to it damnit and see how it plays out. Does he believe it? I think he does in the moment. He's convinced himself anyway, and when Stolas wears him down and he understands that he's not doing himself any favors . . .

He starts processing the real shit aloud.

I don't think Blitz has ever admitted this to himself, at least not this articulately and accurately. He needs to say it aloud in order for it to be real. Oops too real.

He's SCARED because he didn't even KNOW he felt this way, but things are becoming very clear and dangerously close to the heart of the matter . . . so he pivots again back into comfortable territory (conflict).

By the end of the conversation, he arrives at a new mission, one that's sort of an equilibrium between his realizations about his honest feelings and his need to have a mission he feels confident in. He's not all confident or all honest- he's still in flux.

There are SO many more examples of Blitz realizing how he feels BY TALKING (later in Apology Tour when he's talking to Stolas, and then when he's talking to Verosika . . . but then also back in Oops, etc.), but I'm going to leave it at one for brevity here. What's important is that we NEVER see Blitz processing alone. Even in his part of the duet (more on songs in a sec), when he's technically singing to himself, he's consoling himself with a narrative rather than really processing the things that need to be processed.

Blitz needs a person to process with.

But Stolas is an internal processor. We know this already because he made the plan to give Blitz the Asmodean crystal and sat on it for literal months, procuring the crystal, ironing out what he would say, trying to initiate conversations with Blitz, but never explaining how he felt to anyone before it was time- and absolutely NEVER in a way that was half baked.

The way Stolas sings his feelings actually gives us a really clear and beautiful picture of how he processes and figures things out. I forget who said it, but someone on the Helluva creative team referenced a broadway truism that in a musical, characters sing what they can't speak. I think for Stolas it's often what he can't YET speak because he's still processing. He has full honest conversations with himself (Stolas Sings, Just Look My Way), and then when he's face to face with Blitz, he knows exactly what he wants to say. His feelings and beliefs actually progress from song to song- he expresses his awareness of a problem in Stolas Sings and gets more precise about how he feels and what he needs to do about it in Just Look My Way.

By The Full Moon, for better or worse (kind of both), Stolas knows exactly what he wants to say to Blitz and how he wants to say it.

Even when he's upset, angry, and then drunk, when Stolas speaks about his feelings, he's consistent. He's decided. He loves Blitz. He wants a real relationship. From his point of view, he doesn't care about social class, so he can't understand why Blitz is so stuck on it.

But he's missing something key (it's the social class thing- it's definitely the social class thing), and internally, he's cooking, and we see that (again) when he sings.

This is the rawest and most in flux stage of his thought process that we've seen. Because this is how he figures out what he thinks and feels- with himself, in song.

Okay- so interesting psychoanalysis- why does this matter to the story?

Well, I think that Stolas doesn't understand that when Blitz speaks in these super emotional, fraught conversations, he doesn't go in knowing what he thinks and feels. He's figuring it out on the fly. He's figuring it out BY talking, and needs to be allowed to do that. Should he do this with a therapist instead of with the person most likely to be hurt by the ideas he flies through on his way to his true feelings? For sure, but this is Blitz.

In turn, Blitz doesn't understand that when Stolas acts absolutely certain and doesn't seem to take in the things Blitz is saying, he's not talking to a brick wall. He's talking to a moveable person who, once he's alone (or singing) is going over and over everything and breaking his thoughts down and reformulating until he arrives at something new.

So . . . it might be a little much to ask these two to understand each other's different processing styles- but they're coming along in their own ways. And I'm looking forward to them understanding each other. Someday. Maybe. Fucking sit down and talk. Slowly. AGH.

[sen-ya]

CONGRATS FOR 1000K FOLLOWERS!!! YOU DESERVE A MILLION MORE!

checking your page has literally become part of my daily routine and your lawlu content will always warm my cold, dead heart (and also shatter it). love everything you do from your silly sketches to your recent more in depth art. so fun to watch you grow and get better and better every day.

ty for being my beloved mutual and being the best. <3

MINNIIIIII 😭😭❤️❤️ we are shaking hands I refresh ur ao3 page every morning!! You and your beautiful writing will always occupy my heart, thank you for being an integral part of this joyous fandom experience! I have sent u this before but for anyone else pls enjoy this diagram that I drew for a friend to explain why I have so much fun here

[ywpd-translations]

Ride 778: “Hakogaku's sprinter”

Pag 1

1: Izumida-san!!

2: I'll use it

“Hurakan”!!

Pag 4

1: This year's May

2: Ibaraki Prefecture

West Tsukuba

3: Tsukushiba University, located at the foot of the sacred eastern mountain, Mount Tsukuba, at 887m above the sea level

4: In front of the second dormitory building on the campus

5: Basically, Doubashi

You mean you want to race me in a serious sprint battle...

Pag 5

1: Yes, please

This might be a weird way to say it, but

2: In Hakone Academy... among our team, there's no one who can be my opponent!!

3: Alright, then I'll gladly accept!!

4: I, Izumida Touichirou of Tsukushiba University racing club!!

First year at Tsukushiba University, department of science and engineering, former Hakone Academy captain

Pag 6

1: Former Hakone Academy ace sprinter

2: The area around the university is a town, but if you go out of it it's really easy to ride, Izumida-san

3: There's both flats and mountains, it's a good place for biking

4: Did it take long to come to Ibaraki?

5: Coming here from Kanagawa, you have to cross Tokyo, so... yeah

Honestly, I had to change so many trains...!!

Pag 7

1: Is Manami doing alright?

Yeah, he's so carefree, but sometimes he says something serious too!!... I guess?

Sounds like Manami

2: Ngh....!!

3: Dammit.... this is so fun!!

What's this!! We're just riding our bikes and talking, but I've missed this feeling!!

4: When I was a second year and Izumida-san was a third years, we practiced like this every day!!

5: Sometimes Izumida-san was the one who attacked, sometimes it was me, and we pushed each other to our limits

7: It's not the time to smile about this!! I've come here to become stronger!!

Pag 8

1: Sorry, Izumida-san!!

I got too relaxed for a moment!!

3: It's good to relax

That's important, too

5: There's as many roads to ride as we want!!

So, which one is better? You can choose

For today's menu!!

6: An easy course with a 100km run along the roads of Ibaraki and a sprint at the end

Pag 9

1: Or the hard course, cut into section, with a final sprint when we're giving our all!!

4: Of course!! The hard one!!

6: Since it's you

Pag 10

1: I knew it would come to this!!

Abs, read?

2: Go!!

Pag 11

1: Abs, abs, abs, abs, abs!!

Buoooorah!!

Pag 12

1: Buah!!

2: Doubashi!!

You've really gotten stronger!!

3: If it were you from last year, you wouldn't have been able of getting ahead on a short climb like that before!!

4: Izumida-san, you're the one who has powered up!!

I seriously think I'm gonna be torn apart right now!!

5: But this is what I wanted

Pag 13

1: An opponent to race against in a fierce and close battle!!

During that you become stronger, and move to the next stage!!

2: Abs, Doubashi!!

Rise!! With that body!!

3: More....

4: Give me more, Izumida-san!!

6: Alright, I'll show you a sprint that will make you regret those words!!

Pag 14

1: Abs!!

Come!! Masakiyo!!

2: Buooorah!!

Izumida-saaan!!

4: Today was fun

Pag 15

1: Thank you

Well, I'm beat, Izumida-san

2: In the end, I lost at the final sprint

You rode well, you drove me in a corner until then!!

3: Did you see it? Your next stage

Yeah... well, little by little, but...

4: But I'm just a little closer, I feel like I can grasp something, but I can't

5: That's because you're too serious

6: And you're an hardworker

7: You know, there are two types of “right”

Huh

Pag 16

1: There's what's socially right

And what's right for yourself

3: Rules and norms, things that must be observed when living together, are what's socially right

The other

4: are the feelings in your heart you won't give up

6: Actually, both of these are “right”

Pag 17

1: But, sometimes these two go into conflict

2: Feelings....!!

“Feelings are strength”.... Izumida-san said that before

3: When something wrong happens, you end up resorting to violence, you reflexively curse at people

However, what should be restrained is the “action”

4: Not the feelings themselves

5: If you don't like something, you can get angry

6: No but, Izumida-san, if I just blindly do that.....

7: And when you're happy

Pag 18

1: you can honestly smile

2: I got too relaxed for a moment!!

4: There's no need to deny it

Those obvious “feelings” that are boiling inside you!! You can smile because you've missed something

5: The feelings that came out amidst of your own study and research and suffering

Where is the mistakes in that?

6: Even if you took a detour, there's no lie in your hard work!!

8: Release yourself more

Lead the path of your own heart

Pag 19

1: Polish what's right for you!!

2: What's “right”.... for me....!!

3: I understood it riding together with you today

You're already good enough for the next stage

You

Pag 20

1: will become much stronger!!

Buoooo!! Smash through!! “Hurakan”!!

[ananxiousgenz]

HEY YOU GUYS KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS????? JARTHUR COWBOY AU TIME!!!!!

this one also comes with a bit of info for the beginning:

@percymawce-arts and I have finally given this monster child of ours a name!! from here on out, this fic shall be known as "When the Land was Godless and Free" (a lyric from the song foreigner's god by hozier)!

the chapters we are posting are like. severely out of order. we've just been going crazy behind the scenes (we keep getting good ideas and then discussing/writing them for literal hours, it's a great time). percy basically wrote all of this and i just did some minor edits and left all caps comments screaming about how fucking GOOD this is, so any and all compliments should be directed at him <3

and some trigger warnings: this chapter contains alcohol and some suggestive themes!!

@izel-reblogs and @ellamenop (if you guys want me to stop tagging you please lmk)

“Here’s to John and Arthur! Arthur and John!” Noel shouted, stepping up onto the bar and raising his beer, some of it sloshing over the side of the cup with the motion. “Freaky-ass, sharpshooting, vigilante crime-fighting extraordinaires! Without you two, those gangsters would still be shooting up this charming little town.” He flashed a wink and a gaggle of girls seated behind John giggled. John rolled his eyes. “To John and Arthur!”

“To John and Arthur!” the bar echoed, jovial sounds of conversation and rowdy drinking soon filling the space again. John smiled into his drink, only to choke and nearly fall out of his chair when Noel clapped him on the shoulder. 

“Get ready for a lot of free drinks,” he said, hopping down to the floor. “This town’s full of generous rich folks just waiting for a chance to throw some money around.” 

John groaned. “Does that mean I have to talk to people?”

“I’m afraid so, darlin’,” Noel said, all easy charm and swagger as he leaned up against the bar next to John. “Uh oh. Don’t look now, but there’s one coming up behind you.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” John swore under his breath as a young blonde woman in a pink (and startlingly revealing) dress came up to the bar beside him. “That was fast,” he whispered to Noel, who barely managed to hide a snigger.

“Hi!” the woman squealed, her pitch akin to metal nails on glass. John winced. Voice aside, her general disposition was the near equivalent to staring straight into the afternoon sun, and the neon pink of her dress didn’t help matters.

“Can I buy you a drink, cowboy?” she crooned, gently brushing a hand over his shoulder as she smiled far too brightly (the whole blind sharpshooter gig tended to work better when only one of them was blind). 

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Oh, I don’t-”

“It’s on the house for you, sweetheart. I’ll pay for everything, don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. So, how about that drink?” She moved in closer beside him, her hand drifting up his neck and along his jawline. John was only beginning to think of how to politely decline when he felt a looming presence over his shoulder.

“Only if you buy for all of us,” Arthur said, not unkindly. But John had been traveling with him for long enough to recognize the hint of something else beneath the politeness. Not what it was, just that it was there. The woman giggled.

“Well, of course! Anything for our dashing heroes!” John glanced over his shoulder at Arthur. His face was set in stone, watching the woman like a hawk on a rabbit as she slipped a few coins into the bartender’s hand and waited for drinks in return. He looked… tense. Like he was a piece of rope, stretched to the verge of snapping, and if that annoying woman made one wrong move, he would.

Noel raised an eyebrow at Arthur. “You must be a real hit with the ladies,” he murmured into his glass, looking Arthur up and down as he did so. Arthur paid him no mind.

The sunshine woman was not the last to buy them a round of drinks, not by a long shot. Plenty of flirtatious ladies (and a few flirtatious men), thankful patrons and impressed watchmen approached them, hoping to show their gratitude by buying them a shot or a glass of whiskey. Arthur didn’t leave John’s side the whole night, quick to shut down any attempts at seduction by feigning ignorance to the intentions of anyone who approached them. But John knew better. John could see the hard set of his jaw, how he gripped his glass too tightly whenever a scantily clad lady twirled her hair around her finger, or a rambunctious young cowboy leaned too far into John’s personal space. It made John’s heart flutter wildly in his chest. 

The drinks only slowed as the saloon emptied out, leaving Noel, Arthur and John three sheets to the wind, laughing uproariously at something stupid as the morning sun came over the horizon (Oscar had retired hours before, drunker than anyone at the bar much, much faster. Arthur had squeezed his shoulder and bid him goodnight with an expression of concern that made John’s heart clench).

Noel wiped tears from his eyes and looked over John’s shoulder, out the window behind him. When he saw the beginnings of daylight creeping over the horizon, he sighed. (He watched them, Arthur and John, engaged in a quiet but passionate discussion about something he couldn’t parse. They were both flushed and leaning in too close, chuckling at every other word that passed between them, oblivious to the rising sun or the empty saloon or Noel’s hands on their arms, steering them towards their room at the inn upstairs).

John chuckled (he did not giggle, he chuckled) as Noel tossed him into their rented room, with Arthur following soon after. He tripped over a trunk near the foot of the bed on his way in, falling forward onto the mattress with a gentle oof. Arthur laughed at him much too loudly for whatever time it was. 

“Alright, you two,” Noel said, trying to hold back a laugh, “wash up and go to bed. God, I should’ve never given that toast, you’re both insufferable drunks.”

“Oh, shhhhhhh,” Arthur hushed, pulling John out of bed by his wrist. John leaned fully against Arthur in an effort to stay upright. It mostly worked. “You loooooove us,” he laughed. Noel smiled.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, rolling his eyes but unable to keep the fond expression off his face. “You keep telling yourselves that.” He wiped his nose and tipped his hat to them. “Goodnight, you two.” Then he closed the door, and it was just them. John and Arthur, Arthur and John. 

“Okay, come on,” John said after a long stretch of silence, inelegantly turning Arthur in the direction of their shared washbasin and mirror. Arthur giggled a bit as John tried to move him forward, mumbling some drinking song under his breath that John didn’t recognize (maybe it’s a British one, John thought lamely). They tripped over each other's feet a few times, but ultimately made it to the edge of the sink without completely falling over. 

When they did, John braced his hands on either side of it with a tired sigh, watching his reflection in the mirror. There was a thin sheen of sweat across his forehead and a flush to his cheeks from the alcohol, but otherwise he seemed in decent condition. A few cuts and scrapes, some new and some old, and his braid was a little out of sorts, but nothing really concerning–

Then all the haziness of the alcohol and the late night was gone because Arthur’s full weight was at his back, his warmth permeating the fabric of John’s shirt and vest. His hot breath fanned across John’s ear and jaw, his eyes fluttering closed with the weight of inebriation. John inhaled shakily, suddenly brought back to shifting bodies and whiskey and fireworks with such vivid clarity it could have been real.

But it wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. John was drunk. Arthur was drunk, he could barely stand up straight, for fucks sake. He was just using John for support, falling asleep on his shoulder, and… 

And pressing his nose behind John’s ear, ghosting his lips over the back of his jaw. Breathing his name with a pained expression. John’s own expression matched, half lidded eyes never leaving the mirror, tense and pained and wanting, oh-so deeply, for the one thing he knew he couldn’t have.

Despite himself, John’s eyes slipped closed. His shoulders relaxed, tension leaving his body as Arthur hands came up to rest on his hips. His head tilted, granting Arthur access to more of his jaw and neck. And Arthur took it. He didn’t kiss, but he skimmed. Barely there, almost not real, deniable. Like a spirit. Like a gut feeling. Like instinct.

“John…” Arthur breathed. John felt a shiver work its way down his spine at the sound of Arthur’s voice at the base of his skull, reverberating in his head like it was meant to be there. It took every ounce of will that John had to keep the small moan building in the base of his throat from escaping.

“Arthur,” he answered, voice hoarse and quiet. He wanted to open his eyes. Wanted to see himself in the mirror with Arthur over his shoulder, arms around him, nosing at his neck and shoulder, resisting the urge to press warm kisses into his skin. Or maybe to bite. To draw blood. John had never been shown a difference between violence and love. Maybe they weren’t so different. He hoped so. He wanted… 

He wanted to see the look on Arthur’s face. Would it be like it was that day in the cabin? Shocked and a little confused but mostly needy. Yearning for something. Yearning for John. Or would it be darker? Dark like the clouds before a storm, the kind of storm that drowned you with rain and filled the air with electricity. Would it be dark like he was holding back? Like John was? 

But John didn’t open his eyes, no matter how badly he wanted to know. If his eyes stayed closed, he could pretend Arthur’s gentle, delicate touch wasn’t there at all. Just a taste of something more, enough to leave John wanting. Enough for him to imagine. Enough for it to stay a pleasant, alcohol induced dream. If he opened his eyes it would be real, and it would have to stop. And John did not want it to stop.

“John,” Arthur murmured, his voice just above a whisper now. “Open your eyes.” The timbre of it was deep, so much deeper than John had heard it before. How could he have possibly known? How could he know John so well in so little time? So completely? The moan John was holding on to finally slipped past his lips when Arthurs grip on his waist tightened, ever so slightly. “John,” Arthur choked. 

“I can’t,” John whispered as Arthur’s fingers moved from his hips, leaving a burning heat behind in the shape of Arthur’s palm. They trailed up and up, tugging at the buttons of John’s shirt as they went, making his breath hitch. Up to his open collar, nails dragging across John’s collar bone and hollow of his throat. Until they wrapped ever so gently around his neck, the thumb coming up to guide John’s jaw this way and that. John was breathing hard, now.

“Why?” Arthur asked, pressing himself closer, still, to John. John whined.

“I…” I want to. God, I want to. Make me. “Please, Arthur, don’t make me. Please, just–”

John gasped when he felt Arthur’s teeth scrape lightly over the skin of his neck, his hand flying up to grip Arthur’s hair, his shoulder, something. To hold Arthur. But he was stopped by a strong grip on his wrist, which guided his hand back down to the edge of the sink, holding it there. Pinning it. 

“John,” Arthur whispered. John’s chest was rising and falling like Akke’s after a long sprint, his heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s. Arthur’s thumb caressed his knuckles, white with the strength of his grip on the sink.

“Please,” they said at the same time. John’s brow furrowed, his lips hung parted in anticipation. His mind swung wildly from the present, between Arthur and the mirror with a hand around his throat, to the cabin, pressing Arthur to the wooden floor, pinning his wrists above his head. The burning momentum between them suddenly halted by John’s fear, like a landslide on the track before a train. Now the train was out of control again, brakes screeching against wheels that just wouldn’t stop, sparks flying. Sparks like fireworks. Sparks like live wires. Sparks like exploding gunpowder.

But then the warmth at his back was gone. Along with it the hand at his throat and the one  pinning his own to the sink. The teeth at the junction of his neck and shoulder and the hot breath on his skin vanished, leaving only a stark coldness where they’d been before. John sighed, whether in relief or disappointment he didn’t know, and opened his eyes.

The flush on his face had migrated down his neck and chest, which was exposed now (when had Arthur done that?) and heaving. The ‘light sheen’ of sweat was beading at his temples and brow now, falling in drops down to his jaw, along the bridge of his nose. His lips were parted and his eyes were wide and his neck was bare. 

And Arthur, leaning drunkenly against the wall behind him, arms crossed, expression chilly. He was breathing heavily too, and his face was red like the first hints of daylight in the sky. But it was the hard set of his mouth and brow that made John shiver.

“We should go to bed, John,” he said, voice still raspy. A needy, sad little sound rose from John’s throat then, and John’s hand flew to his mouth, as if to force the offending sound back in. Arthur swallowed and turned, ready to head back to one of the twin beds awaiting them. Side by side and yet still miles apart. “And don’t worry.”

“It’ll all feel like a dream, tomorrow.”

[quincy-clover]

The longest list of anti-endo sources I've ever seen

While trying to find something else using Tumblr's infamous search engine, I came across this absolute gem:

NINE SOURCES!!! That's a record!! This is incredible!

@radpocalypse, listen. I am about to tear these to shreds, but before I do, I want you to know that you have my respect for not only compiling the longest list of sources I have ever seen an anti-endo provide, and not only doing so seemingly not directly prompted, but typing out every single link by hand, on mobile, without making a single mistake. Incredible work.

And also, to be completely honest, if I had nine sources supporting a belief, I almost certainly wouldn't look into them this closely. But, hey, that's what strangers on the internet with opposing views are for.

One more thing before the debunk: Endogenic systems do not claim to have DID etc. without trauma. They just don't. Whether it could be possible is often debated as an edge case, usually just to win an argument against someone of the opposing side, but really, it's irrelevant for 99% of the community. A good chunk are questioning OSDD based on later trauma, but as far as I am aware, no one on this website is claiming a completely endogenic plural disorder.

However, I don't want to dismiss entire pages based on this alone without further commentary, and it's a fun intellectual exercise regardless. So, whenever I use green text, I'm just playing Devil's Advocate under the premise of "If I was claiming to have DID without trauma (which neither I nor anyone else afaik is), would this source actually debunk that claim?" My syster will also occasionally pop in with purple, since she was cocon while I was writing this.

My dad just walked into my room and literally said "hey how it's going". You know, like. Like that one post. Amazing.

Anyway, civility established. Now come along with me on this long long journey of ten minutes of reading. Maybe put some music on in the background, if that will help you get through it. I had Near's Theme on while writing.

Here we go.

Link 1: McLean Hospital

Ok, main thing that caught my eye was

According to a 2010 Psychiatric Times article, only 5% of people with DID exhibit obvious switching between identity “states.”

Very interesting! Even with all of the "idk who's fronting" memes, 5% is really not that high. Though maybe online spaces like these help train the ability to identify it? The reference trail leads back to a book by Kluft but I don't really feel like going through dozens of pages for this. Definitely making a note of this though; I wonder if there have been any follow-up studies on this.

Not much to say here other than that. No mention of plurality outside DID.

DID is associated with long-term exposure to trauma, often chronic traumatic experiences during early childhood.

Dissociation—or disconnection from one’s sense of self or environment—can be a response to trauma.

Dissociative identity disorder—a type of dissociative disorder—most often develops during early childhood in kids who are experiencing long-term trauma. This typically involves emotional, physical, and/or sexual abuse; neglect; and highly unpredictable interactions with caregivers.

Why "associated", not "is caused by"? Why "can", not "is"? Why "most often", etc.?

Why such weak language?

Not that it couldn't be weaker.

I vaguely remember McLean getting into some hot water regarding a video they posted about DID, but didn't find anything concrete. Half-remembered anecdote aside, the author seems well-qualified.

C-tier debunk of this position. It's not nothing but it could be a lot better.

Link 2: Psych Central

It occurs in women 9 times more often than in men.

Very interesting statistic, but no citation provided.

Alters can show striking differences. For instance, one alter may speak with a different accent or have a softer way of speaking. They might have different opinions or a different gender identity, and even physical differences — like left- or right-handedness, or the need for a glasses prescription.

That's quite a stark difference here compared to the McLean article. What happened to "alters aren't that noticeable"?

But whatever, these are just interesting tidbits. None of this has anything to do with endogenic plurality. Nothing like "this is the only way to be multiple", no comment whatsoever.

DID is usually associated with adverse experiences in someone’s past and traumatic memories.

Dissociative identity disorder (DID) is a mental health condition with strong links to trauma, especially trauma in childhood.

Bruh. This again?

In fact, the American Psychiatric Association reports that 90% of people with DID have a history of childhood abuse and neglect, based on research from the United States, Canada, and Europe.

Bruh. Seriously? 90%? You know what that leaves, right?

According to your own source, 10% of DID systems are endogenic.

But let's break this down. There's a big difference between the system being endogenic, and the DID being endogenic. This statistic is specifically referring to childhood trauma.

The wording's plenty vague though. This can absolutely be read as completely endogenic DID.

One review article from 2017 about the causes of DID noted that there was relatively little research on the condition to date.

The authors said researchers hadn’t yet investigated potential genetic and epigenetic factors. With epigenetic factors, the experiences and behaviors of your parents and ancestors can influence the function of the genes they pass down to you.

The authors of the review said scientists needed to do more research to investigate whether a person with DID might carry genes that can influence if they develop the condition or not.

This is particularly promising because studies have already shown that genes can influence dissociative disorders in general.

So you're telling me DID might be able to be passed down one or two generations? Wow. Again, this still has nothing to do with endogenic plurality, but I'm really glad I decided to play with this second angle, because it's so much more fun. We're certainly not at intentional self-inflicted DID here, but we are at this point a long way from certainly needing childhood trauma in all cases.

And also the reviewer is a military psychiatrist who specializes in ADHD. So uh. Not bringing our best here.

Link 3: Mayo Clinic

Gotta love an article that's nice and short. This is just a brief summary of a bunch of dissociative disorders. Again, nothing about endogenic plurality.

Starting to run out of things to say about this. This whole post could probably be a fifth the length if I didn't feel like playing on hard mode.

Formerly known as multiple personality disorder, this disorder involves "switching" to other identities. You may feel as if you have two or more people talking or living inside your head. You may feel like you're possessed by other identities.

Each identity may have a unique name, personal history and features. These identities sometimes include differences in voice, gender, mannerisms and even such physical qualities as the need for eyeglasses.

Hey, that reminds me of someone.

There also are differences in how familiar each identity is with the others. Dissociative identity disorder usually also includes bouts of amnesia and often includes times of confused wandering.

Again, McLean looking really odd with its declaration of DID's covertness against great detail like this. However, its author is so far the best qualified. This one just says "Mayo Clinic Staff". Can't even know which of them worked on this. Some of them are psychs, but if any of them specialize in dissociative disorders, it doesn't say so.

Dissociative disorders usually arise as a reaction to shocking, distressing or painful events and help push away difficult memories.

I won't bother quoting even more wishy-washy language because this post is already at an ungodly length (about 1300 words so far) and we're barely a third done. But yeah, suffice to say, no nail-in-the-coffin 100% link to trauma.

Link 4: Rethink

We are a trusted information creator and accredited by the Patient Information Forum (PIF).

Their bold, for once. That's an alarm-ringing corporate phrase if I've ever seen one. Also, first thing on the PIF's website is "balancing the risks and benefits of AI in the production of health information". So this article might've been written by GPT. Awesome. And yeah, a lot of this whole website looks to me like a bunch of interconnected pages with stupidly long articles written by stitching together LLM generations. Does pass GPT0's test though.

This one is so long. I'll take the ten minutes to read through every word, which I don't think @radpocalypse did, just to make sure there's nothing here, but one thing that does catch my eye scrolling down to near the bottom is that they misspelled their first citation.

A quick look at this Carolyn Spring shows a lot being sold and credentials nowhere in sight. Awesome.

So already I don't need to read this. The information here is not at a high level of trustworthiness. It's maybe better than nothing, but seriously, one can and should do better. But I'll read it anyway, just for bonus points. Thanks to AccelaReader for making this bearable.

Many people will experience dissociation at some point in their lives. Lots of different things can cause you to dissociate. For example, you might dissociate when you are very stressed, or after something traumatic has happened to you.

Some of the symptoms of dissociation include the following:

You may have clear multiple identities.

It‘s important to remember that you could have the symptoms of dissociation without a dissociative disorder.

So according to this, multiple identities can be caused by intense but non-traumatic stress, and might not necessarily be a disorder. So, while I admit this is a little bit of a stretch, we're four links in and this is the first mention of plurality in general, so I'll take it. One point for endogenic plurality. (And again, none of this really matters anyway because this is the worst source so far.)

Dissociative identity disorder (DID) is sometimes called ‘Multiple Personality Disorder.

If you have DID you might seem to have 2 or more different identities, called ‘alternate identities.

Two missing closing quotes. Really not a good sign.

They suggest that DID is caused by experiencing severe trauma over a long time in childhood.

Aha! Finally, something concrete against endogenic DID! Too bad it's buried in the worst source yet. If we believed we had DID, we would absolutely not reconsider that based on a sketchy webpage with suboptimal syntax and no credentials.

Ugh, finally done with that one. What a slog.

Link 5: DID Research

Aha! The infamous psych student's blog! That's what Sophie said, anyway. Not taking her word for it though. Let's see what we can find here, independently.

Dissociative identity disorder (DID) is the result of repeated or long-term childhood trauma

Why wasn't this first? First sentence, so crystal clear. No two ways about this, transDID destroyed right out of the gate.

DID cannot form after ages 6-9 because individuals older than these ages have an integrated self identity and history.

Why wasn't this first? It's so plain, so refreshing after four pages of strategic ambiguity. Nothing left here for green. But still no mention of non-disordered plurality.

The author is impressively credentialed but doesn't seem to specialize quite near this area. She's certainly better than most, high above any random Tumblr user talking out of their ass, but the good stuff would be to get a DID specialist to explicitly spell out that endogenic systems are not possible.

Also should make note of this big fat legal disclaimer:

While the author strives to make information on this website as complete, reliable, and accurate as possible, the author makes no claims, promises, guarantees, or warranties about the accuracy, completeness, or adequacy of the contents of this site and expressly disclaims liability for errors and omissions in the contents of this site.

If we did claim to have DID, this would rattle us a little but could ultimately be brushed aside.

Link 6: SANE

As usual, literally nothing about endogenic plurality. I'll just greenmode this.

The majority of people with DID have been through severe trauma in early childhood

And now back to our regularly scheduled nondefinitive language.

Fun fact: highlighting text on this website turns it invisible. Awesome.

A person needs to meet the following criteria to be diagnosed with DID:

- Two or more distinct identities or personality states, each with its own way of thinking and relating. - Amnesia and gaps in the recall of everyday events, personal information or traumatic events. - The experiences are not part of normal cultural or religious practice, or part of childhood imaginary play. For example, a child having an imaginary friend does not mean they have DID. - The symptoms are not because of substance abuse or other medical conditions.

Ah finally, a direct quote from the good ol' DSM. Notice the lack of a trauma requirement.

Funny enough, using only these criteria in isolation, we actually would count as having DID due to our grayout memory gaps when switching. DID is also listed in the dissociative disorders section of the DSM, not the trauma disorders section, so there is no implied criterion there either. However, there still remains the universal criterion of distress, which we do not fulfill. We are quite happy with ourselves.

DID is caused by severe childhood trauma, such as physical, verbal or sexual abuse.

Well, which is it?? Is it a majority association or a direct cause? Why the contradiction? Or is the emphasis on early childhood trauma?

Eh, whatever. Point is, green is once again shut down. But there is still no mention of endogenic plurality anywhere here!!

And no indication of who wrote this article, though the citation for direct cause is a dissociative disorder specialist. Does he actually say that in the cited paper, though?

Dissociative identity disorder (DID) is multifactorial in its etiology. Whereas psychosocial etiologies of DID include developmental traumatization and sociocognitive sequelae, biological factors include trauma-generated neurobiological responses. Biologically derived traits and epigenetic mechanisms are also likely to be at play. At this point, no direct examination of genetics has occurred in DID. However, it is likely to exist, given the genetic link to dissociation in general and in relation to childhood adversity in particular.

I hope you have a dictionary on hand. That sure is a lot of big words that aren't in Firefox's built-in spellchecker. Still, after making sure I got everything, it's clearly not so cut and dry here. And we're back on the "it could be genetic" point.

Tangentially related: I do like the dismissal of the iatrogenic model on the basis of the brain scans.

Neurobiological differences have been demonstrated between dissociative identities within patients with DID and between patients with DID and controls. Given the current evidence, DID as a diagnostic entity cannot be explained as a phenomenon created by iatrogenic influences, suggestibility, malingering, or social role-taking. On the contrary, DID is an empirically robust chronic psychiatric disorder based on neurobiological, cognitive, and interpersonal non-integration as a response to unbearable stress.

Anyway, we're not even on the original page anymore, so I'll call it here. No mention of endogenic plurality, and the citation that claims to dismiss endogenic DID doesn't.

Link 7: NAMI Michigan

While the causes [of DID] are unknown

I'm tired. Aren't you tired?

Treatment for DID consists primarily of psychotherapy with hypnosis.

Yeah I'm calling BS on this one

And no citations on this entire page, nor even the author's name.

Statistics show that DID occurs in 0.01 to 1 percent of the general population.

Research has shown that the average age for the initial development of alters is 5.9 years old.

No sources listed. This is definitely the worst link. Literally on the same level as a rambling Tumblr user in terms of credibility.

Doesn't matter that it says

This disorder is believed to be triggered by physical or sexual abuse in childhood

Couldn't even get this dogshit source to be firm.

This one gets an F.

Link 8: The Psychology Practice

Got scared for a moment there that it said ai. No, that's AL, a name. Also this was written in 2022, so we're definitely safe. Can't actually find any other info on this AL character, but at least we can look up the co-author.

Hm, can't find anything on her, either. Well, at least this is a step up from the previous link. Let's see what it has to say.

According to the Dissociative Identity Research Organisation (2018), DID is formed in childhood due to repeated trauma in early childhood (before age 10) before the personality is fully integrated.

I do like that these later links are direct with this. They don't seem to have a citation for that DIRO, though. Unless...

No. Oh no.

Ok, so this one was written by a couple of clowns who definitely didn't do their homework. Cool. I'm getting tired of humoring awful sources like this, so moving on to the grand finale.

Link 9: NAMI

Wait, this is the same group behind the zero-citation article from Michigan! But that was just Michigan. Maybe the main site can do better.

Ugh, it's just another list of dissociative disorders instead of DID specifically.

The symptoms of a dissociative disorder usually first develop as a response to a traumatic event,

Aren't you tired? Aren't you tired? Aren't you tired?

Often these identities may have unique names, characteristics, mannerisms and voices.

Often? Wow. Sure is a far cry from 5%.

Dissociative disorders are managed through various therapies including: - Psychotherapies such as cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) and dialectical behavioral therapy (DBT) - Eye movement desensitization and reprocessing (EMDR) - Medications such as antidepressants can treat symptoms of related conditions

No mention of hypnosis, allegedly the primary method of treatment?? (/sarc)

and there was no mention of plurality being exclusive to dissociative disorders

Oh, and no listed authors either.

So, after three thousand words of analysis, all we've come up with are nothing burgers, dogshit, and dogshit nothing burgers. Out of nine links, only one briefly and indirectly touched on endogenic plurality, and it was in favor. Even the argument against the traumaless DID strawman is weak at best. These sources are bad, to put it lightly.

@radpocalypse, if you're reading this, firstly, thank you for powering through your ADHD and dyslexia to read thousands of words dunking on your masterpiece. Secondly, if you have any more sources that you think are backing you, feel free to send them my way. Just uh, maybe read them more closely next time?

And that goes for everyone here. If you think you have a better source, or if I made a mistake or missed something here, I am open to correction. I am open to the idea that I'm wrong and I have some unknown trauma to work through, but I certainly won't go digging unless I have good reason to believe it's there, and I haven't seen any good reason. And if you haven't either, maybe it's time to reconsider your position.

One last thing before I go.

Have you ever actually seen a pro-endo carrd, let alone one cited in standalone? I haven't.

Here's a much longer list of much better sources than yours supporting endogenic plurality compiled by the traumagenic Guardians System. I don't expect you to read anywhere near the whole thing; just pick a few links at random. And yes, while many of them are peer-reviewed papers, some of them are Tumblr posts, but those Tumblr posts cite peer-reviewed papers, so it's all good.

Thanks for reading.