#<- saying this myself before anyone else does

[pillow-coded]

To Have and To Hold — Chapter 12

Summary: Some absences are louder than words. Spencer can’t focus, and Y/N can’t seem to move forward—not really. Maddie keeps asking when he’s coming back. And when an old routine brings them face to face again Couple: Spencer Reid / Fem!Reader Category: Slow Burn Series (NSFW, 18+) Content Warnings: hurt/comfort, lots of yearning and regretting from Y/N and Spencer, feelings of child abandonment Word Count: 9k

Series Masterlist

I like to think I’m someone who can handle tough situations. But the truth is… I’m really not.

No matter how much I try to prepare myself for the worst, when it actually comes, I fall apart. Every single time. It’s like my brain can catalogue every terrible outcome, run a thousand simulations of what could go wrong—and still be blindsided when it actually does.

Like after Hankel… after Maeve…

I thought I’d braced for every possibility. Told myself I could stay detached, that logic would shield me. But I still ended up addicted, broken, begging for clarity in a place that offered none. I still sat in that room after Maeve died, staring at the silence like maybe if I thought hard enough, she’d come back.

And now… now it’s happening again. Not with a killer or a hostage situation—just with a four-year-old and her mother. Just with a moment I didn’t handle right. A flash of fear that turned me into someone I never wanted them to see. And I keep replaying it, like if I study it enough, I’ll find the exact second I could’ve fixed it.

I haven’t been able to read a single page in five days. Which, for me, is like forgetting how to breathe. The books are still there—lined up neatly along my desk at Quantico, stacked on my nightstand at home—spines worn and familiar. But they might as well be written in a language I’ve never seen.

I open one during lunch, stare at the same paragraph, and close it again before the first sentence even registers. JJ asked if I was okay earlier. I told her I was just tired.

But I think something broke when I walked out of that apartment. And no matter how many hours I sit at my desk pretending otherwise, I can’t seem to fix it.

I can’t stop thinking about it.

The way Maddie’s face crumpled when I raised my voice. How her lip trembled. How Y/N came rushing in like I’d struck her, like I’d become some awful version of myself I’ve spent years trying to keep buried. Like she was finally seeing it. The version I tried to warn her about. The one she didn’t want to believe was real.

I keep replaying it—frame by frame—like a crime scene I can’t solve. Maddie flinching. Y/N’s eyes widening. My own voice, sharp and unfamiliar, cutting through the air like a warning shot. I wasn’t even angry. Not really. Just scared. But fear has never excused the damage it causes, and I felt it the moment I saw them both step back. Like I’d crossed some invisible line I can’t uncross.

She told me once that I was gentle. That I had a softness most people wouldn’t expect. I didn’t say anything then, just smiled, because part of me wanted to believe it too.

But maybe I’m not. Maybe I was never soft. Maybe I’ve just been careful.

And the second I wasn’t—just one second—I proved every quiet fear I’ve ever had about myself.

Maybe I am the live wire. Exposed. Dangerous. Something that sparks even when I don’t mean to.

And maybe I was stupid to think someone like her—someone warm and real and trying her best—could want someone like me near her child.

“Spencer, you’ve been staring at that document for ten minutes,”

JJ’s voice pulls me out of my daze, briefly, but she did.

“Yeah… I’m a little distracted… I think I just need some coffee.”

Before she could say or ask anything else, I get up abruptly and practically speed walk to the kitchenette.

I can feel her watching me as I leave. JJ’s always been too good at reading me—gentle when I need it, firm when I don’t want it. And right now, I don’t want it. I don’t want anyone to look too closely and see what I already know: that I’m barely keeping it together.

The kitchenette is empty, mercifully. I go through the motions—grabbing a mug, pouring coffee that’s been sitting too long on the warmer. It tastes burnt and metallic, but I take a sip anyway, like bitterness might shock me back into functioning.

It doesn’t.

It only reminds me of her.

Of that morning—the morning after I stayed.

The apartment had smelled like something out of a movie. Warm coffee and sugar and… blueberries. I remember blinking awake to the soft clatter of dishes and the faintest hum of music from Maddie’s cartoons in the background.

She made the coffee exactly how I like it. Exactly. Four sugars stirred in before I even got out of bed—just like she’d seen me do once, at that little coffee shop. The one we went to after the park on our second date—It wasn’t a date. Not really. Just… a shared moment. A comfortable afternoon with too much awkward smiling and not enough air in the room.

And still—she remembered.

She made blueberry pancakes too. Said it was Maddie’s idea, but I saw the way she watched me take that first bite, like she hoped I’d love them. Like part of her was holding her breath until I did.

I did.

They were soft and warm and just sweet enough to undo me. I hadn’t had a morning like that in… years, maybe. Quiet. Thoughtful. Wanted.

Now all I have is this scorched office coffee and the echo of what it used to taste like when it came from her hands.

I should call her.

I should drive up to her apartment and tell her how sorry I am. How much I miss her. How I can’t sleep without imagining Maddie’s tiny hand in mine, or the way Y/N’s voice softens when she says my name. How I’d trade every book in my apartment, every fact I’ve ever memorized, just to hear her say it again.

But I don’t move.

I just stand there with this bitter mug in my hands, paralyzed by every possibility. What if she doesn’t answer? What if she does—and it’s different now? What if Maddie hides behind her legs instead of running to me?

What if I already ruined it?

My grip tightens around the handle, knuckles going white. I should call. I should.

But the longer I stand here, the more I convince myself that maybe she’s better off. That maybe silence is the only thing I can offer now that won’t make everything worse.

The door creaks behind me. I don’t turn.

“I wasn’t finished talking to you,” JJ says softly.

I close my eyes.

She doesn’t push, not right away. Just walks to the counter, leans her hip against it, and waits. That’s the thing about her—she knows silence can be louder than any question.

“I told you JJ, I’m just distracted. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“You mean last night as in the entire week? You look like hell.”

I huff out something that’s supposed to be a laugh. “Thanks.”

She shrugs. “I’m not trying to be mean. I’m trying to get you to admit you’re spiraling.”

I don’t answer.

She crosses her arms, gives me that patented mom-friend stare that somehow feels gentler than it looks. “Spencer, you haven’t read during lunch once this week. You didn’t even correct Anderson yesterday when he said serial killers and psychopaths were the same thing.”

“I was… busy.”

“You were staring at a water stain on the ceiling.”

I sigh and rub a hand over my face. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I will be.”

She softens, just a little. “Talk to me.”

And I want to—I do. My throat aches with everything I haven’t said, but the words stay lodged somewhere behind my teeth. I stare down at the coffee in my hands like it might offer a script. A way out.

“Is this about that Maddie?”

My head snaps up. “How do you know about Maddie?”

JJ doesn’t flinch. Just lifts a brow, calm as ever. “You slipped and said her name on that missing girl’s case.”

I swallow hard. “Oh yeah...”

I look back down at my coffee. The surface has gone still. Cold.

“She’s four,” I murmur, voice barely audible. “She likes sparkly shoes and sticker books and is a fairy princess.”

“How’d you meet her?”

“A couple of months back, I was at the Library and ran into her. She was lost and couldn’t find her mother, I helped her calm down until her mom came to find her,”

JJ doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches me, like she’s letting the picture form on its own.

“And her mom?” she asks softly.

I hesitate. “Y/N.”

Her name feels like something I’m not supposed to say out loud. Like if I do, it’ll make all of this more real. Harder to bury.

“She was… grateful,” I add, clumsily. “Said thank you. We talked for a bit. Then I saw them again at the library the next week.”

JJ doesn’t interrupt. Just lets me fill the silence at my own pace.

“She invited me to lunch after that because Maddie wouldn’t stop talking about me,” I say, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth before it fades again. “Said I could do magic. Really, it was just sleight of hand—coin behind the ear, that sort of thing—but she looked at me like I was some kind of wizard.”

JJ’s gaze softens. “Sounds like someone was smitten.”

I huff a breath, not quite a laugh. “Yeah. I was—I mean… am. We’ve been hanging out ever since. Museums. Parks. Pizza nights. Quiet mornings. She’s…” I trail off, words catching like thread. “She’s everything I didn’t think I could have.”

“So why are you moping around like it’s the end of the world?”

“I messed everything up.”

JJ doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t try to rush in with a fix. Just waits, like she knows there’s more I need to say.

“First, I practically slapped her in the face with a friendzone sign at the planetarium,” I mutter, my voice dry and bitter. “Then she kissed me, and I… I literally ran away. Like a teenager.”

JJ blinks. “Wait—ran away?”

I groan and rub my face, the shame crawling down my neck like heat. “I didn’t mean to. It wasn’t—I wasn’t rejecting her. I just… I didn’t know what to do. My brain short-circuited.”

“She kissed you and your brain exploded,” she says, lips twitching.

“Basically.”

“And then?”

I exhale. “Then I freaked out. I accidentally broke one of Maddie’s toys, and she started crying and throwing a tantrum. I was trying to get her to calm down, but I—I snapped. Not at her, but near her. Loud enough to make her cry.”

My voice breaks a little. “Loud enough to make Y/N look at me like I was someone else.”

JJ’s expression shifts—no more teasing now. Just that deep, steady concern I know so well.

“Spence…”

“It gets worse. I was trying to apologize, to defend myself I guess… She said…” I struggle, the words feeling like bile, even though they were true.

I don’t realize I’ve stopped breathing until JJ reaches out, her fingers brushing my sleeve, grounding me.

“She said, ‘you’re not her dad, so stop trying to be,’” I repeat, quieter this time. Like maybe saying it softer will dull the edge.

And still, it cuts.

JJ’s brows draw in, sympathy blooming across her face, but she doesn’t say anything yet. Just waits. Like she knows I’m not done.

“I know she didn’t mean it,” I add quickly, too quickly. “She was angry, overwhelmed. People say things they don’t mean when they’re—when they’re scared. I know that. Rationally, I know that. But it felt…”

I trail off, trying to find the word. None of them feel big enough.

“It felt final,” I whisper.

JJ nods slowly, her eyes soft with understanding.

“I just stood there. Completely frozen. I didn’t know what to say. I—I looked at her, and I looked at Maddie, and I couldn’t breathe. I thought maybe she was right. Maybe I overstepped. Maybe I built this entire little world in my head and forgot that I was never supposed to be part of theirs. Because she’s not wrong.”

I stop, trying to calm myself before continuing.

“I’m not her dad. I’m just the weird guy they met a couple months ago, who got too close for comfort. I have no right acting like a parent to Maddie, when I’m not. I’m not her father, and I have no idea how to be her father anyway.”

I force out a shaky breath, like saying it aloud might make the guilt a little smaller. It doesn’t.

“I don’t know how to do that kind of love, JJ. Not in real time. Not with a kid who looks at me like I’m invincible and a woman who—” I falter, the words sticking like splinters in my throat. “—who makes me want to be someone I’m not sure I know how to be.”

JJ steps closer, but she doesn’t speak yet. Just lets the silence sit, heavy but not suffocating.

“I keep thinking about all the things I could mess up,” I admit. “What if I teach her the wrong thing? What if I panic again and say something that sticks to her brain forever? What if I end up like my dad—leaving when things get hard? Or worse, like my mom—unpredictable and broken in ways she never asked for.”

The words feel ugly coming out. Selfish. Unfair.

But JJ doesn’t flinch.

“Spence,” she says softly, “I know you’re scared. I know you’ve spent most of your life believing you’re too much—or not enough—for the people you care about. But that little girl didn’t see any of that. She just saw someone who made her feel safe. Loved. Like magic was real.”

I blink fast, throat tight.

“And Y/N?” JJ adds, her voice dropping. “She let you into her life. That doesn’t happen by accident. You didn’t sneak your way in. She opened the door. And she didn’t do that because she thought you’d be perfect—she did it because she saw the way you looked at her daughter. Because you showed up. Over and over again.”

“But maybe that’s not enough,” I whisper.

JJ shakes her head. “It’s more than enough. And if you don’t believe me, then go ask them yourself. Talk to her. Apologize, if you need to. But don’t just disappear. Don’t let this fear write the ending for you.”

I stare down at the cold coffee in my hands.

“I can’t do it, JJ… I just can’t. The probabilities of her slamming her door in my face are way too high.”

My voice cracks halfway through the sentence, and I hate how small it sounds—how desperate.

JJ sighs, slow and quiet. “Since when do you let probabilities stop you?”

“I don’t… but this isn’t a case file,” I mutter. “This isn’t a statistic I can out-analyze or manipulate. It’s… it’s her. It’s Maddie. If I knock and she doesn’t open that door, I don’t know if I’ll come back from that.”

JJ takes the mug from my hands and sets it gently on the counter.

“You will,” she says. “Because you’ve come back from worse.”

I look at her, and she’s not smiling anymore—she’s not teasing. She’s just looking at me the way she always does when I forget how much I’ve survived. How much I’m still standing.

“I’ve seen you on the floor, Spencer. After Hankel. After Maeve. After prison. And every single time, you thought that was the end. That you were too broken, too far gone, too dangerous to be loved.”

She takes a breath, her voice thickening. “And every time, you proved yourself wrong.”

I blink hard, jaw tightening.

“She’s not slamming the door,” JJ adds. “She’s probably sitting behind it right now, hoping you’ll knock.”

That catches something in my chest. I don’t let it show. Not much.

“I don’t know what I’d even say.”

“Start with ‘I’m sorry,’” she offers. “End with ‘I missed you.’ Say the rest with your eyes if you have to. Just… go.”

Silence settles for a beat.

I wish it were that easy. I wish all it took was showing up and saying the right combination of words. But it’s not. Not for me.

I’m too much of a coward to do that. I can’t just go up there and apologize. Not when I know she’ll look at me with that same expression she had that day—like she didn’t recognize me. Like maybe she never really did.

“I… I have to get back to work.”

JJ shifts like she wants to stop me, but I’m already moving. Before she can say anything else, I bolt—quietly, but abruptly—back to the bullpen, making a beeline to my desk.

I sit down, open a file, and pretend I’m reading.

The words blur instantly.

Across the room, I can feel her still watching me. Not in judgment. Just… in that way she does when she knows I’m lying to myself.

And maybe I can lie to her. Maybe I can even lie to the team.

But I can’t lie to the ache in my chest that sounds a lot like a four-year-old saying my name.

I sit there for a while, motionless behind my desk, the file still open in front of me like it means something. Eventually, my hand drifts toward my wallet.

It’s tucked inside the smallest pocket, folded once to protect the edges.

The photo from the planetarium.

The three of us, crammed behind that cardboard astronaut cutout—Maddie in the middle, popping her head through the smallest circle with stars on her cheeks and a juice stain on her collar. Y/N stood to one side, her expression soft and caught mid-laugh. And me… visibly unsure of what to do with my hands, but smiling anyway.

One of the staff had offered to take it. Maddie giggled out “moon cheese.”

It was stupid. Silly. One of those tourist-trap moments meant to be forgotten in a week.

But I carry it like it’s sacred.

I smooth my thumb across the top edge—careful, reverent. The ink from the date I scribbled at the corner was already starting to wear where Maddie’s head is, just a little from how often I’ve handled it. She looks so happy. So safe.

And I look… happy too.

Not just pretending.

Happy in a way I didn’t think I could be again.

It hits me like a quiet wave. The kind that doesn’t crash so much as pull.

I could have had this. I did have this. And I let fear take it away from me.

“Are those them?”

The voice is quiet, cautious.

I startle slightly and look up. JJ’s standing a few feet away, not intruding—just there. Her expression is soft, her arms crossed loosely over her chest like she already knows the answer.

I don’t say anything at first. Just glance back down at the photo in my hands.

“They look happy,” she says after a moment.

“They were,” I murmur. “We were.”

She takes a step closer, eyes flicking to the picture. “You wrote the date on it?”

I nod, almost embarrassed. “I didn’t want to forget. It felt… important.”

She doesn’t tease me for it. Doesn’t smile like it’s cute. She just nods, like she understands exactly why I’d do something like that.

“I think they still are,” she says gently.

“Still what?”

“Happy. Or… waiting to be.” Her voice drops, like she’s afraid if she says it too loud, it won’t be true. “You didn’t lose them, Spence. Not unless you stay here pretending like that picture’s the only part that was real.”

I blink hard, forcing the tears back.

JJ takes a breath. “It’s Saturday, right?”

I nod.

“Then I think I know where they are.”

My week was rough. Not in the usual tired-mom, no-sleep, too-many-dishes kind of way. It was the kind that settled in my bones—quiet, constant. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. About the way his voice cracked when he snapped. About the look on his face when I said what I said. About how fast he walked away, like he couldn’t get out fast enough. Like leaving was easier than looking back.

And I just let him.

I shouldn’t have been so hard on him. I should’ve let him explain himself. Should’ve taken a breath, sat down, talked to him instead of throwing my pain at him like it would somehow make mine feel smaller.

I let my resentment over the planetarium and the kiss get to me. Let it fester. Let it convince me that pushing him away would protect us—protect Maddie. But it didn’t. It just left a hollow space where he used to be.

And the truth is… he didn’t mean to scare her. Of course he didn’t. He panicked. She had something in her mouth that could’ve choked her, and he reacted. Loud, yes. Sharp, yes. But not cruel. Not violent. Not dangerous.

He was scared. And I turned that fear against him.

I saw the look on his face when I said it—“You’re not her dad, so stop trying to be.”

It was like I’d hit him. Like I’d taken everything tender between us and burned it to ash right in front of him. And the worst part is… I knew it would hurt him. I said it to hurt him.

Because I was hurting too.

Because it was easier to lash out than admit I cared. That I cared too much. That he mattered in ways I wasn’t ready to say out loud.

I spent so much time guarding myself, convincing the part of me that started to hope that it wasn’t real—that it was temporary, that he’d leave eventually. I was so focused on bracing for the fall that I didn’t let myself enjoy the flight.

I hadn’t realized how much I liked the light.

I just focused on how it burned.

And now he’s gone. And I don’t know if he’s coming back.

And it’s my fault.

The worst part is he’s everywhere, but he’s not.

I see him in my couch, laying down, sleeping with my daughter in his arms. I see him in Maddie’s princess tea parties—how she carefully pours pretend tea into an extra cup she still sets out for him. I see him in the park, helping her feed the ducks, crouched beside her like the world slowed down just for them.

Monday, Maddie wore his cardigan. She said that this way he would feel how sorry she was for making him angry, and he would come back.

I could only bring her to my arms and tell her he wasn’t angry at her.

She asked me when he’d come back… I could only say soon, but I knew that wasn’t true.

Because he hadn’t called. He hadn’t texted.

And still, she believed in him. In us. More than I did.

I didn’t know how to explain to a four-year-old that sometimes adults get scared too.

That sometimes love can be terrifying, not because it’s wrong, but because it’s right.

Because it asks you to stay when everything in you has only ever learned to run.

Because it feels too good, too fragile, like one wrong word might shatter it.

So I lied.

I told her soon.

And she smiled, like that was enough.

Like the world made sense again.

And I just held her tighter, trying to stop the crack in my chest from splintering any further.

On Tuesday, Maddie drew a picture at daycare.

Stick-figure me. Stick-figure Maddie. And a tall stick-figure in a sweater vest with wild brown hair labeled, in shaky crayon handwriting, “Spensr.” There was a sun in the corner—orange and pink with a smiley face—and a little speech bubble above his head that read, “I’m not mad.”

The teacher handed it to me during pickup with a big grin. “She worked so hard on this one,” she said, like it was a masterpiece.

I smiled back the best I could. With my mouth, not my eyes.

We didn’t talk about it on the way home. Maddie chatted about snack time and how someone brought stickers, but the picture sat quietly in her backpack, burning a hole through the zipper.

I waited until she was in the bath before I pulled it out again. Spread it on the kitchen table like it was fragile. Holy, even. Her tiny, chubby fingers had colored the whole background sky-blue. She’d even drawn in his .

She remembered everything.

I stared at it until my eyes blurred.

I almost put it on the fridge.

But I couldn’t.

Instead, I folded it—carefully, like it might break—and slid it into the back of the drawer with the batteries and the scissors and the coupons I never used. Not because I didn’t love it. But because seeing it every day might have destroyed me.

Maddie drew us as a family.

She believed he’d come back.

And I didn’t have it in me to take that hope away from her. Even if it felt like holding it was slicing me open, piece by piece.

That night, as I tucked her into bed, she looked up at me with her bunny pressed to her chest and said, “I want to give the picture to Spencer.”

My heart stopped for a second.

“We can leave it at the library,” she added quickly, like she’d been planning this. “That’s where we found him, remember? So he’ll find it again.”

I smoothed her hair away from her face, tucking the strand that always fell over her forehead behind her ear. “I don’t know if he’ll be there, baby,” I said softly.

She just shrugged. “That’s okay. If he comes back, he’ll find it.”

She said it with so much certainty, like it was a fact. Like it was already written in the stars.

I didn’t answer. Because I couldn’t lie again. And I couldn’t say the truth either.

So I kissed her forehead, pulled the blanket up to her chin, and whispered, “Goodnight, baby”

Later that night, I sat at the kitchen table again. The drawing was back in my hands.

My thumb traced the little speech bubble—“I’m not mad.”

And for just a second, I let myself pretend I believed it.

Pretend he’d come back.

Pretend he meant to.

On Wednesday, Maddie asked if we could make blueberry pancakes again.

It was the first thing she said when she woke up—before “good morning,” before asking for her usual bunny cup or her show. Just, “Can we make pancakes like we did with Spencer?”

I hesitated. “You really want pancakes today?”

She nodded, serious. “The blueberry kind. He liked them.”

So we did.

She dragged her stool over to the counter, and I let her pour the milk and crack the eggs, even though most of the eggshell ended up in the batter. She giggled through the whole thing. Said she wanted them to taste exactly the same, so he’d come back faster.

When they were done, she asked if we could save a plate for him.

I told her I didn’t think he’d be stopping by.

She frowned but didn’t argue. Just put one on a napkin and wrapped it in foil anyway.

“He can have it tomorrow,” she said, placing it carefully in the fridge.

I didn’t throw it out.

Not even when it started to go soft at the edges.

I just kept opening the fridge, staring at it like maybe it meant something.

Like maybe it could bring him home.

On Thursday, Maddie asked for magic.

It was during her bath, when the bubbles were starting to disappear and her fingers had pruned into little raisins. I was sitting on the floor beside the tub, scrolling mindlessly through my phone, only half-listening as she babbled about mermaids and sparkly castles and how the rubber duck was now the queen of the underwater kingdom.

Then, out of nowhere, she looked at me and asked, “Mommy, can you do the coin trick?”

I blinked. “What coin trick?”

“The one Spencer does. When it disappears and then shows up behind my ear.”

I set my phone down slowly. “Oh, baby… I don’t know how to do that one.”

She frowned, confused. “But you’re a grown-up.”

I smiled, small and tired. “I know. I’m just not that kind of grown-up.”

She sank a little lower into the water, her expression thoughtful.

“Do you think I can do it?” she asked after a moment.

“I bet you can,” I said. “But you’ll have to practice a lot.”

“Can I practice with Spencer?” she asked quietly, like the question itself might break something if she said it too loud.

I didn’t answer right away. My throat had gone too tight, and the steam from the bath felt suddenly suffocating.

“I don’t know, sweetie,” I said softly. “Maybe. If he wants to.”

She went quiet after that. Just let me rinse the bubbles from her hair without another word.

Later, when she was in her pajamas and tucked into bed, she whispered, “I think he’s magic, too.”

I paused in the doorway.

“What do you mean?”

Maddie rolled onto her side, hugging her bunny close. “Spencer. He made the coin disappear, but also… he made me feel better. That’s magic, right?”

And I had to leave the room.

I had to walk into the hallway and cover my mouth with both hands.

Because yes.

Yes, that was magic.

And I let it slip away.

Friday was the worst out of them all.

Not because anything dramatic happened. Not because I broke down or screamed into a pillow or finally worked up the courage to call him. No—Friday was worse because of how quiet it was. Because it snuck up on me.

Because Maddie asked me to read her the storybook Spencer made for her.

We had just finished dinner—mac and cheese with carrot sticks, one of the few things I could get her to eat without complaint—and I was cleaning up the table when she padded over in her fuzzy socks, the book clutched tightly in her little hands.

She didn’t even say it right away. Just held it up, eyes wide and hopeful, the way kids do when they already know the answer they want.

“Can you read it?” she asked softly. “Please mommy?”

“Baby, we’ve read this one a lot, are you sure you don’t want a different one?”

“No, mommy, I want this one. Spencer knows when I read it, he can tell with his magic,”

I froze. Just for a second. My hands still smelled like soap and pasta cheese, and I had a damp dish towel clutched between my fingers. I remember the way her voice sounded when she said it—so sure, so matter-of-fact. Like this wasn’t a wish or a maybe or a game. Like it was truth.

Spencer knows when I read it.

He can tell with his magic.

I could’ve told her that wasn’t how it worked. That Spencer didn’t have magic. That books were just books, and people didn’t come back just because you missed them hard enough.

But I didn’t say any of that.

I just dried my hands. And nodded.

“Okay,” I said gently. “Let’s go get ready for bed.”

She ran up the stairs, clutching the book to her chest like it was sacred.

And maybe it was.

It kind of is.

I followed slowly. My legs felt heavier than they should’ve, like every step pulled more memories to the surface—him in the hallway, balancing a tray of pancakes; him sitting cross-legged on the floor, letting Maddie decorate him in stickers; him on the couch with that book open in his lap, reading in silly voices, pausing after every sentence to let Maddie ask why.

When I got to her room, she was already tucked in, holding the storybook between her hands like it might disappear if she let go.

I sat beside her. She crawled into my side without hesitation, cheek on my arm, bunny in hand.

“You have to do it the way he does,” she whispered.

I nodded again.

And I tried.

“Once upon a time, in a world made of books and stars and peanut butter toast…”

But it didn’t sound like Spencer.

It didn’t sparkle.

She didn’t interrupt at first. Just listened. Quiet. Still.

Then, maybe three pages in, she said, “You forgot the part where the flower giggles.”

“What?”

“Page three. Spencer makes it giggle”

I looked down at the illustration. A little bluebell with a smiley face.

“I’m sorry, baby. I forgot.”

She nodded, but I felt her curl in tighter. Like maybe she was trying to make herself smaller. Like if she folded up enough, the ache would be easier to carry.

I kept going.

Tried my best.

Used the voices. Sang the galaxy song. Pointed out the bunny constellation in the sky like he always did.

But it wasn’t working.

She didn’t laugh. She didn’t smile.

She just stared at the page, her little brow furrowed, lips pressed into a straight line.

Like something was missing. Like someone was.

After a long pause, she whispered, “That’s not the voice.”

I tried to keep my smile steady. “I know,” I said gently. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re supposed to say it like Spencer,” she murmured, lower this time. “He makes it sparkle.”

I set the book down in my lap, just for a second. “I’m sorry, baby… I just can’t do it like he does.”

She went quiet again. Then, so soft I almost didn’t hear it:

“Can you ask him to come and read it to me?”

My heart dropped like a stone in my chest.

“I can’t, sweetheart. He’s… he’s busy.”

She looked up at me then—really looked. Her eyes were glassy, bottom lip trembling. “Mommy, you’ve been saying that all week.”

“I know but—”

“Is he mad at me?”

Her voice broke. Just a little. Just enough to destroy me.

“No, no, honey—no,” I said instantly, setting the book aside and gathering her into my arms. “He’s not mad at you. Not even a little.”

“Then why did he leave?”

She sounded so small. Like she was trying so hard not to cry. Like if she stayed quiet enough, maybe the answer wouldn’t hurt as much.

I blinked hard, holding her tighter. “He just needed time to think, baby. That’s all.”

She pulled back to look at me. Her face was pinched, confused. “But I’m sorry about the tiara. I didn’t mean to scream. I just— I was just sad.”

“I know, sweet girl,” I whispered. “He knows, too.”

“But if he’s not mad, why won’t he come back?”

I didn’t have an answer.

Not one that wouldn’t make everything worse.

I just kissed her forehead and pulled her close again, like holding her tighter might somehow keep all of it from falling apart.

She curled into me, clutching her bunny like it was the only thing left holding her together.

“Maybe he doesn’t like me anymore,” she said into my shoulder.

And that’s when I broke.

That’s when the first tear slipped down my cheek and landed in her hair.

“No, Maddie. No,” I said, firmer now, willing her to believe me. “He loves you. So, so much. Okay? This isn’t your fault.”

She didn’t respond. Just let me rock her slowly, breathing in shaky little bursts that made her back tremble against my chest.

I stayed like that long after she’d fallen asleep.

Just thinking.

Of him.

Of us.

Of everything and anything.

And I decided—somewhere between guilt and exhaustion—that maybe if we slipped back into our old routine, the one before Spencer, we could go back to how we were. Back to something that didn’t ache when I blinked. Something safe. Familiar. Something I could control.

Saturday morning.

I woke up early and made chocolate-chip pancakes for my Maddie.

She used to call them “happy cakes.” We made them together almost every weekend before he came into our lives. I’d let her stir the batter while I handled the stove, and she’d always sneak chocolate chips when she thought I wasn’t looking. It had been our thing.

She woke up to the smell.

Came bounding into the kitchen with sleepy hair and pajama pants twisted sideways, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. And for a moment—just a moment—she looked like she did months ago.

Long gone was the sadness from yesterday.

She smiled so wide it made my chest ache. “You made pancakes!”

“I did,” I said, forcing a smile of my own. “Chocolate-chip ones. Just like we used to.”

She climbed into her chair and kicked her feet under the table. “Does that mean we’re going to the library, too?”

I froze for half a second.

But I nodded.

Because what else was I supposed to do?

“Yep,” I said. “Library day.”

I served her a stack shaped like a clumsy heart. She giggled when the syrup dribbled down the side like a river. For ten whole minutes, it felt okay. She talked about which books she wanted to check out, asked if she could wear her fairy skirt, wondered if they still had the stuffed dragon in the reading corner.

She didn’t mention him.

Neither did I.

But I felt it—how the space he left still hovered in the room. In the way I grabbed two travel mugs instead of one. In the way Maddie reached for her favorite storybook and then stopped herself, as if remembering that it didn’t sparkle the same without him.

Still, I packed up our bags. Brushed her hair. Tied her shoes.

We were going to the library.

Because that’s what we did on Saturdays.

Because routines were supposed to make things better.

Because pretending we were whole was easier than admitting we weren’t.

The walk there was quiet. Maddie held my hand the whole time, skipping every few steps like she was trying to shake off the last of her sadness. The sun hadn’t fully broken through the clouds yet—everything still looked soft and pale, like the world hadn’t quite woken up either.

When we reached the library steps, she stopped short.

“Do you think the fish tank is still there?” she asked, squinting through the glass doors.

“I’m sure it is,” I said, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “You can check while I return the books.”

She nodded eagerly and ran ahead, her little shoes tapping rhythmically against the floor. I followed behind slowly, my hands suddenly clammy against the borrowed books I clutched to my chest.

It felt strange walking in without him. Without hearing the quiet sound of his voice beside me, telling Maddie about whatever constellation was on the ceiling mural that day. Without his fingers brushing mine as he took the book bag from me, always too gentle, always careful.

I tried not to think about it. I made myself focus on the way Maddie waved at the librarian, the way she crouched down to say hello to the turtles in the tank. I reminded myself why we were here—to prove to myself that we were okay. That I could do this without him. That we could go back to before.

But then I saw him.

He was in the fantasy section, crouched by the graphic novels. His back was turned, but I knew it was him instantly.

I stopped breathing.

He looked exactly the same—messy hair, sweater sleeves pushed halfway up his arms, a paperback in one hand. I would’ve known him anywhere.

And then Maddie saw him too.

She gasped. Loudly. Gasped like she’d just spotted Santa Claus on Christmas Eve.

“SPENCER!”

She was already halfway across the room before I could blink.

She launched herself into him so hard he nearly dropped the book.

He caught her—of course he did—stumbling back a little but smiling, stunned, like he hadn’t believed this was real until her arms were around his neck.

“Whoa—Maddie,” he breathed, hugging her back instantly. “Hi.”

Her voice was muffled against his sweater. “I missed you. I missed you so much.”

I couldn’t move.

I just stood there at the edge of the aisle, clutching the strap of my bag so tightly my knuckles turned white.

He looked up.

Saw me.

And everything in me stilled.

There was so much in that look. Apology. Fear. Longing. All of it.

I didn’t know what to do.

I didn’t know if I should walk over or walk away.

Maddie leaned back and put her hands on either side of his face like she needed to make sure he was real. “I thought you were mad,” she said. “I thought you didn’t like me anymore.”

Spencer looked like he’d been stabbed.

“No,” he said instantly, shaking his head. “No, Maddie. Never. I’m not mad at you.”

“Why were you gone?”

“I just… I had a lot of work, sweetheart.”

It was the gentlest lie I’d ever heard.

And she almost believed him.

She blinked slowly, still holding his face, and said, “You didn’t answer when I talked to you in my head.”

Spencer’s mouth parted—just a fraction. I saw it hit him. That she really had been calling for him. In her thoughts. Her dreams. Out loud, even, when she thought I wasn’t listening.

“I tried to,” he whispered. “I wanted to. I just— I didn’t know how.”

“You could’ve come.”

“I know.” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry, Maddie.”

She nodded against him. Her arms wrapped tighter around his neck.

And then she whispered, “I wore your cardigan. It still smells like you.”

I almost turned around.

I almost left.

Because the sound Spencer made—somewhere between a laugh and a sob—broke something in me. He clutched her closer and kissed the top of her head like it was instinct, like he’d been missing this as much as she had.

My throat felt like it was closing.

I didn’t know what I was walking into when I came here. I thought maybe we’d pretend not to see each other. Maybe he’d nod politely and slip out the back before I could say anything. I thought I could shield her from it. Protect her.

But here they were.

Wrapped up in each other again like no time had passed. Like no silence had ever cracked them apart.

And suddenly, Maddie looked up and saw me.

Her eyes lit up like Christmas morning.

“Mommy, he came back!” she shouted, twisting in Spencer’s arms. “He came back!”

I nodded, swallowing hard. “I see that, baby.”

“Can he come to the fish tank with us?” she asked, already bouncing. “Please?”

Spencer’s eyes met mine over the top of her head.

There was something there—uncertainty, guilt, maybe even fear. Like he was waiting for me to say no. To shut it down. To walk out with Maddie’s hand in mine and leave him behind for good.

But I couldn’t.

Not after this week.

Not after last night.

“Actually, baby,” I said gently, “why don’t you go wait for us in the kiddie section? I have to talk to Spencer for a minute.”

Maddie tilted her head. “But—”

“Just for a little bit,” I promised. “You can pick out books, but don’t leave that section. Okay?”

She looked between us, eyes narrowing the way she always did when she sensed something grown-up happening. But eventually, she nodded.

“Okay,” she said softly. Then she turned to Spencer and added, “Don’t leave again.”

His whole face folded.

“I won’t,” he said. “I promise.”

She squeezed his fingers once before letting go and skipping down the aisle toward the children’s corner, where the low shelves and beanbags waited.

I watched her until she disappeared around the bend.

Only then did I turn to him.

The second I met his eyes, the mask slipped.

He looked tired. More than tired. Like he hadn’t slept all week. Like he’d been trying to outrun something that kept catching up.

“Hi,” he said.

It broke something in me. That word. Simple. Fragile.

“Hi,” I echoed.

We stood there in the middle of the library, the weight of everything pressing down on the space between us. All the things we didn’t say. All the things we shouted without meaning to.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said after a moment, voice low.

“I didn’t either” I said, though it didn’t sound as sharp as it should have. “This is our Saturday routine. It was before you. I was just… trying to go back.”

He nodded, slowly. “Did it help?”

“No,” I said honestly. “Not even a little.”

He looked down at his hands. They were trembling. Just slightly.

“Y/N… you have no idea how sorry I am… about everything. The planetarium, the… the running away, the yelling.”

His voice cracked on that last word. It landed somewhere in my ribs, sharp and unrelenting.

He didn’t look at me when he said it. Just stared at his hands like they were something dangerous. Like he didn’t trust them. Like he was afraid of what they’d done, or what they could still do.

“I never meant to hurt her,” he continued, voice low. “God, I never meant to scare her. Or you. I just… I panicked. I wasn’t thinking. And when you said what you said, I—”

He finally looked up.

“You were right. I’m not her dad,” he said, almost to himself. “You were right. I’m not. I’m just some guy who reads her storybooks and brings her stickers and I had no right to snap at her like that.”

“Stop,” I said, sharper than I intended. “Don’t do that.”

He blinked, startled.

“I didn’t mean what I said, Spence. I was just angry… I mean you aren’t her dad, but you’ve been there for her more than anyone else… you know besides me.”

He stared at me, eyes wide like he didn’t quite believe it. Like maybe he couldn’t.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you like that. I was butt-hurt, and you didn’t deserve it.”

“Y/n—”

“No, I mean it. you have no idea how much she’s— we’ve missed you, how sorry I am, how terrified I was that we’d never see you again.”

“You never called,” he said, not accusing—just… stating it. Like a fact he didn’t know what to do with.

I winced. “I was scared. I was embarrassed.”

He nodded, jaw tight. “So was I.”

We stood there for a beat, not looking at each other directly. It was too much. Too bare.

“I thought about it every day,” I admitted, voice low. “Picking up the phone. Just… hearing your voice. But I didn’t know what I’d say.”

“You could’ve said anything,” he murmured. “I would’ve picked up. I would’ve just listened.”

“I didn’t think I deserved that.”

That made him look at me. Not harsh, not wounded. Just there. Fully present, eyes searching mine like he was still trying to figure out if any of this was real.

“You were angry,” he said after a moment. “You had every right to be.”

“Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I wanted you to go.”

“I didn’t want to go.”

“Then why did you?”

He hesitated. Swallowed.

“Because I felt like I’d broken something I couldn’t fix. Like the second I raised my voice, I lost the right to be in her life. In yours.”

That hit harder than I was ready for. My throat tightened.

“You didn’t lose anything,” I said, voice soft. “Not really.”

He looked at me for a long moment, then nodded—once, like it hurt.

“Do you want me to go?” he asked quietly. Like he already knew the answer, but couldn’t stand not hearing it.

It took me a moment to answer. But when I did, it was the easiest thing I’d said all week.

“No.”

I watched the relief flood his face, slow and cautious, like he didn’t fully trust it yet.

“We… I want you in my life. I need you in my life.”

His eyes searched mine, slow and stunned, like he was trying to memorize the moment. Like he wasn’t sure he’d get another one like it.

The air between us shifted—quieter, heavier, but in a way that made it easier to breathe. And for the first time in days, we just looked at each other. No fear. No anger. Just everything that had been left unsaid filling the space between our breaths.

Spencer’s hand twitched slightly at his side. I saw it. Felt the way his fingers wanted to move. To reach.

So I reached first.

Only a little—just enough to brush my fingertips against his. A soft question. He answered by curling his hand around mine, tentative but sure.

My heart climbed up my throat.

He stepped a little closer. Close enough that I could see the freckles on his cheek. The exhaustion in his eyes. The ache. The hope.

“I’m tired of pretending,” he said, voice low and raw. “Pretending I can just be normal around you. Be your friend. Act like I’m not thinking about you all the time.”

I swallowed, stunned still.

“I’ve been so scared to say it,” he went on, almost breathless now. “I keep overthinking it—telling myself it’s too fast, that we only just met a couple of months ago, that I’ll ruin it if I say the wrong thing…”

He looked right at me then. No hiding, no flinching.

“But I like you, Y/N. I like you a lot.”

The breath caught in my chest.

“I like you too, Spence… a lot.”

His gaze dropped to my mouth.

And for a second, we just hovered there—suspended in something quiet and unfinished.

His nose brushed mine.

My lips parted.

And just as I started to lean in—

“Mommy! You’re taking too long! I want to see the fish tank!”

We both flinched like we’d been caught committing a crime.

Spencer blinked rapidly, stumbling half a step back, and I turned my head so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash.

Maddie was standing at the end of the aisle, arms crossed, already tapping her little foot in mock impatience.

“We’re coming, baby,” I called, my voice catching somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

She huffed and spun around dramatically, her pigtails swinging as she disappeared back toward the aquarium.

I turned back to Spencer.

His cheeks were flushed. So were mine.

But the smile tugging at his lips—god, it was real.

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning too wide. “That was…”

He laughed softly. “Yeah.”

I squeezed his hand—tender, grounding. And with that, we turned toward Maddie, already marching ahead with purpose.

Toward the fish tank.

Toward something that felt, finally, like forward.

Together.

Previous Chapter |

Taglist: @Tokalotashiz @livbonnet @jakiki94 @23moonjellies @saskiaalonso @ellaomalalaalala @deltamoon666 @person-005 @reidssoulmate @quillsandcauldroncakes @blog-du-caillou @codedinblack @imaginationfever13 @measure-in-pain @lunaryoongie @Marcelaferreirapinho @Reidrs @tiredqueen73 @scarlettoh @reidsjuno @un-messed @Happydeanpotter @ravenclaws-stuff @Ortega29 @rhinelivinglife @Skye-westwood @xxfairyqueenxx @pablopablito01 @Frickin-bats @alrat13 @ozwriterchick

[aromantichc]

Aromantic Character of the Day (27/7/24 BONUS) is.....

Hobart "Hobie / SpiderPunk" Brown (ATSV/Spiderman comics) !

Admin headcanons thon as arospec. Grr does NOT use labels, but he is on the aromantic spectrum somewhere. They feel attraction in theory, but typically become repulsed by romance when things get too close. He is allosexual. They would describe hirself as queer and punk dislikes the term unlabelled for zeirself. It likes anyone sexually and romantically (in theory) and he is transsexual (ftm) and uses any pronouns EXCEPT she/her. He is also AuDHD and has BPD and POTS. Xe uses a mobility aid at times.

Part of this post is CANON Hobie CANONICALLY does not like LABELS in any way. Everything else mentioned is purely HEADCANON.

[800db-cloud]

spare some spy hcs? 👀

OKAY. ok. so i have been putting off answering this ask because i’m admittedly very shy and very afraid of sharing my headcanons. and also because i have A LOT OF THEM.. but here we are!

here are my headcanon spies :) René works for RED and Jacques works for BLU!

where to start, where to start… i have a LOT of headcanons for them, i’ll be talking for FOREVER here. i’ll just start with story because why not! xP

René’s parents were also agents/spies, so he was always destined to be one as well. And he lives up to his parents’ legacies! He’s most notorious for destroying gangs and mobs and the like from the outside in. He was brought to America years ago to take out a dangerous mob boss, but unfortunately found himself infatuated (and involved) with the boss’ daughter. Luckily for him, the boss’ daughter wanted the guy dead, too.

René’s story is honestly a lot more fleshed out than Jacques’, but here goes anyway:

Jacques’ father was a very rich and powerful man in politics. Jacques himself was the result of an affair, and to keep it hush-hush, his father decided to raise him. Raise is a strong word, though— but he did help his father gain intelligence and blackmail on opposing political parties. Jacques proved to be a promising spy since childhood.

If anyone has any suggestions/ideas for Jacques’ story, let me know haha x) he didn’t have the greatest upbringing per se…

last thing on this section i wanna talk about is the Scouts. René is related to both of the Scouts; he’s RED Scout (Jeremy)’s biological father, and he’s BLU Scout (James)’ adoptive/step-father. Jacques has no relation to either scout, but acts as a guardian figure to BLU Scout.

anyway, this is the part where i continue talking about other miscellaneous headcanons! and these come with doodles :)

You couldn’t catch René DEAD without his mask, or his suit! He’d neeever take them off around other people (‘other people’ is mainly just Scout. For obvious reasons.) Meanwhile, Jacques is pretty lenient in letting his teammates see his face! Everyone on BLU’s seen his face at least once.

A big part of why René refuses to strip down is also due to the fact he has a LOT of tattoos. No doodle for this one because I’ve yet to decide on what tattoos to put on him (ideas are very welcome!!), but yeah! Most of the tattoos were ‘forced’ onto him/he had to get for jobs and ‘fitting in’ with bad crowds, but a good few of them were of his own accord, too.

Jacques doesn’t have tattoos, but he has a myriad of another thing: scars! Lots and lots of scars on this guy. Faded and old, sure, but they’re there. Most prominent ones are the one around his neck (from when the RED Medic beheaded him) and the ones on his forearms (those are from the LAST time he was imprisoned— looong story…)

René doesn’t cook very often for his team, but when he does, everyone’s always BLOWN AWAY by this guy’s cooking! René’s really bad at taking compliments, though— (“Cooking food that’s remotely edible isn’t a compliment, it’s basic survival.”) —but rest assured he’ll be thinking about it for the next month. Jacques, however… Do NOT let this guy into the kitchen. Ever. The BLU base has a special fire extinguisher “In Case Spy Decides To Turn On The Stove”

oooh, this one is an hc and a HALF to me. René much prefers working alone. It’s just in his nature, being isolated and whatnot. He likes to deal with things by himself– maybe he doesn’t want to burden others? On the contrary, Jacques NEVER works alone. It’s a trait he’s had even before being hired to BLU. You never know when things could go wrong, so it’s best to have someone else to fall back to… or someone else you can blame!

these hcs both have something to do with how René and Jacques show their trust in other people :) it’s a bit convoluted but it gets there:

René is, amusingly, very bad at remembering names. Almost laughably bad. There have been many-a-story of his days before RED where he’d get a target’s name wrong, even after he’d repeated it in his head dozens of times over. Names are difficult for him, so if he remembers yours, it means you mean a lot to him! He prefers using his teammates’ names rather than their titles. René is unaware of how charming this specifc trait is to his coworkers (they saw how much work and effort it took for him to memorize their names, they’re just happy with how far he’s come!)

Jacques has a… to put simply, very complicated relationship with food. But the one thing he’ll never turn down is sweets. His favorites especially being chocolate bonbons. Jacques has a hard time eating in front of others, let alone sharing his food! But if he genuinely likes and trusts you enough, he’d have half the mind to share with you. Admittedly, he hasn’t brought himself to share with most of the members of his team yet, except for a select few. Mostly BLU Medic and BLU Sniper.

—

and of course, eventually, EVENTUALLY, these two also become friends! it took a little bit but believe me, they both respect each other’s skill in their job :)

AHHg i could go sooo much longer about them— from things like their physical traits (how much teeth they have? it’s a pressing question) or different periods of their life (why did rené have to leave his family? why was jacques imprisoned for the last time?) BUT this post is so… so, so long. My fingers hurt from typing

If you’ve managed to read through this Beast, THANK YOU RAAHH!!! thanks so much for asking this, too. i hope to spare more hcs someday. hehe ^_^

[b-blushes]

thursday quest - no physical therapy today - make and eat lunch sooooo early but i can do it!!!!! - get ready for wedding - attend wedding! yay! (: - decompress well when i get home <3

[lunarharp]

er... extreme amount of dragon age: the veilguard scribbles to soothe my heart🐦‍⬛💀

[my-current-obsession]

To be fair, the whole, “I’ll come back to you even if you don’t promise to wait,” is a line pulled directly from OG FFVII. It’s mentioned late game by Cid (who hilariously went to see a showing of loveless in Midgar but fell asleep then woke up just in time to view this ending scene 😂). But if you wanna deep dive on the meaning of this line, it’s worth noting that a version of the line is used in FFVIII in reference to the main ship of that installment — Rinoa and Squall — who also happen to be another mage/swordsman pair. And if you wanna go big brain square enix energy, there’s also the famous, “I’ll come back to you; I promise…I know you will,” between Sora and Kairi in Kingdom Hearts when he goes off on another journey while she awaits his return. If you go down those rabbit holes, it seems square really has a type for their main pairs, no?

I don't remember that line in OG FF7, but it's been years since I played it so I'll take your word for it. But you're right that similar lines/sentiments pop up frequently in other FF and KH games, so yeah, Square has a type. I still think the conversation between Cloud and Aerith in KH2 is the quickest and easiest parallel to make here though, considering the same pair can have basically the same interaction, in an entirely different game. Yes, Cloud could also have this conversation in the play with T or Y. But only Aerith's would have the added depth of being a potential callback/reference to another moment the pair shared.

And considering this game liked to callback to several moments between Cloud and Aerith in the previous game (him remembering their first meeting being what snaps him out of Sephiroth's control, the "will you be okay getting back", "if I said I wasn't" in the ending...) I think it's totally reasonable to assume that Square might have subtly referenced at least one Clerith moment from outside the compilation.

[turtleduckmocha]

wolfwood brainrot interrupted by the arcane trailer. i'm afraid i'm gonna be screaming about mel medarda until we FUCKING SEE HER AGAIN.

[shrinevandal]

one thing that's frustrating but also really sad about the "queer isn't a slur nowadays and has never been one, actually" crowd is the way they completely miss the point of reclaiming it. if queer is a benign word and always has been (provably false obviously, but just to play their game for a second) then what's even the point of identifying with it? you're taking an act of courage and bravery by flipping the meaning of a word used against us on its head, by standing up loudly and proudly and going "yeah guess what? i AM abnormal, i AM unconventional, and there's nothing wrong with that", and instead watering it down to "heh... i'm just such a weirdo aren't i.... i'm not like other gays.... teehee" like it's honestly just really sad to me. the point of reclaiming queer should be to denounce the cisheteronormative fallacy that there is a "right way" to exist, and to honor the people that came before us who were called that and much worse and didn't let it stop them from fighting.

but saying that fight didn't even happen... to me that's somehow worse than using it against people who are uncomfortable with the word. because harassing people and not listening to their boundaries is awful obviously, but what's even worse is denying your own pride and spitting on the efforts of the people who came before us. you go from being shitty to one person to being shitty to an entire community. i just honestly don't get it. does this fulfill you?

[arcade-confetti]

They are trying to convince me Jason was always reckless and angry and impulse and tbh that fact is worse than them killing him

[vanishintoyou]

if i dont see my friends tomorrow i will literally die

[arolesbianism]

Alright boys pack it up no more rain world posting new oni dlc is coming out in less than a week

[earlgreylatte]

Unyielding

You’re usually at his mercy.

Omni Mark

It was hard to believe that there was once a time where Mark would unwillingly flush when just your shirt would ride up, especially now when he has you reduced to a trembling, overstimulated mess, every thrust slamming the bed post into the wall. You at least appreciate his restraint, knowing he could have ruined another bed frame.

With your brain feeling like mush, the only thing you could do was push yourself up by the elbows and attempt to crawl away from his unrelenting pace, only for him to press his hand between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned as your moist cheeks rub against the covers.

You let out a noise of protest, Mark audibly scoffing in return above you.

He doesn’t falter, simply pressing down harder when you squirm, “Don’t back down now, you asked for this, after all.”

“It’s,” you gasp, burying your face into the sheets again when a particularly sharp roll of his hips has you blanking out, “too much! Mark—“

He hushes you, hand reaching out to brush against your forehead before moving down to grip your chin, fingers digging in your cheek as he lifts your face up to prevent you from suffocating yourself, “Breathe. We’re not done until I say we are.”

You whine pitifully, the ever present storm in your body growing, slack body tensing up.

“You still have more to give. You can cry and complain, but we both know that you want this; to be used by me until I’ve taken everything—“ his voices becomes more strained, cutting off into a shaky exhale when you tighten around him, “there she is…”

You jerk when his other hand slides down and draws taut circles on your clit, “I-I’m going to…die!”

He laughs, something you’d savour under any other circumstance, before pressing a kiss to the back of your head, “Then die.”

No Goggles Mark

If he wasn’t so unfairly good at sex, you’d have kicked the freak out ages ago.

Even after what felt like hours of him hammering his dick into you until you could feel him in your cervix, his eyes were still wide open, glued to your face, watching you pant and moan pathetically, legs straining and shaking from having them tossed over his shoulders.

“I’d fucking kill someone before I let myself be pulled away from you,” he grins, and if your mouth wasn’t already agape, you’d have groaned at the fact he was still saying crazy shit even while fucking you. “Are you into that? Feel proud you have a pussy that could start wars? Like Helen of Troy, but hotter—“

“Please,” you pant slapping a hand over his mouth, feeling him smile against your palm, “shut up.”

He only grabs your wrist, and presses his face against your hand harder, groaning into it with a satisfied look in his manic eyes. You try to glare at him, but his hand reaching down to press against your stomach as you writhing. Why does his dick have to be big enough to cause a tummy bulge? His ego is already insufferable enough.

He pins your trapped wrist to the mattress, stupid grin now fully revealed again, “After I’m done with you, you won’t even think about fucking anyone else because I’m not stopping until my cock leaves an imprint—“

He can’t even finish his rant before he succumbs to his urge to attack your mouth with his, licking and sucking until you’re even more lightheaded.

“I’m going to ruin you,” he whispers excitedly against your neck. Weirdo.

Omni mark…vote Omni mark the in the poll

Why are my top posts all for invincible, this was a dc blog😭

Masterlist

[stvrkeysgal]

casual enough? — rafe cameron

— what happens behind closed doors after rafe sees you hanging out with a different boy? with no exclusivity, what you had with rafe cameron was an absolute blur. until tonight.

warnings: smut! (piv, rafe does it ROUGHHHH) squirting, swearing, "slut" mention

you knew better than to mess with rafe. you were well aware of his jealous tendencies, anger issues, and how he acts when you so as much look at another guy when he's around.

but he's been testing your patience way too much for your liking as of the moment.

he had one arm wrapped around a blonde, smiling at what she said but clearly wasn't interested in what she was saying. you knew rafe—you had him wrapped around your finger, but the idea of him actually hanging around with a different girl (when he himself doesn't want you doing the same) had you seething mad.

so here you were, skin-to-skin against jj motherfucking maybank. his hands on your waist and your hips swaying to the beat of the music that traveled across the whole bar. you laugh at what jj says, and all that could rafe do is watch as you had fun with someone—someone that wasn't him.

rafe and you were nothing exclusive, that he always made sure of. but he could feel that deal slowly slipping away each time he sees you with anyone else. it was getting hard for him to ignore the pang in his chest every time the idea of you getting with someone crosses his mind.

tonight was no different.

rafe did his best to keep his cool, ignore the way you were pressed against jj's body, the two of you so close that your ass grinded against his fucking crotch every time your hips so much as swayed. rafe could see that clearly, and it was killing him.

the final straw, though, was when jj's hand snaked from your waist to your chest and then to your neck. he held you there for a few seconds, which had you turning back to him with a smirk. the original plan was to make rafe jealous, see how much it takes until he finally cracks. you decided to go along with jj since you knew how much the two despised each other. and judging by the way rafe's eyes bounced back from you and jj, a scowl present on his face, you knew the plan was working.

though, what you didn't expect was for rafe to walk towards you and jj, the blonde girl previously in his arms now forgotten. "i need to talk to you, right now." rafe says, standing in front of you and jj. you smirked instead, dancing once again. "sorry, cameron. i'm clearly busy here."

rafe scoffs then pulls you away from jj rather harshly, which had you glaring at him. "not a fucking fan of repeating myself, baby. either you come with me or i fuck you in front of everyone—including your boy right here." rafe had you pressed against him, his lips against your ear as he whispered.

he had you so speechless, that you just blinked at him slowly. your heart thumps against your chest rapidly, which has you sweating underneath his gaze. you look back at jj, but he already understands what you meant. he just winks at you before walking away with a smirk.

rafe seems to be satisfied by that, which brought him to grip your arm a little bit tighter. "if you know what's best for maybank, you're coming home with me."

✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭

"please, rafe. just give me a second." you were choking on your spit at this point, as rafe fucked you to the point of overstimulation. his hips slapped against the back of your thigh rather harshly, the skin already turning red due to his movements.

"you just don't want to admit it, but you know you love this dick too much to get me to fucking stop." rafe had your face buried in his pillows as he fucked you mercilessly from behind. he was proven right when you clench around his length, his words running through your mind.

"and i was right. got so fucking tight the moment i said that. you love this, don't you, baby?" you were a gasping, moaning mess underneath rafe. and all you could do was take his harsh thrusts.

your eyes rolled back, tears spilled from them as he kept the same pace while he fucked you through yet another orgasm. his thumb was hooked into the side of your mouth, the action keeping your head in place as he kept on thrusting into you.

you could only moan pathetically in response, eyes rolling back into your head while his cock practically tore you in half. rafe wasn't quite pleased though—he wanted to hear you talk, not moan. "i asked you a goddamn question, didn't i?" a spank landed on your ass then, which earned him a mewl instead. "you better fucking answer when i talk to you," he leans down then, mouth leveled with your ear as he spoke. "just a simple yes, slut. that's all i'm asking."

your hands gripped the sheets beneath you as you fought the urge to make a mess and squirt all over the sheets. but rafe had other plans. he flipped you over so you laid on your back, your eyes immediately meeting his. "fuck, yes! i love it, rafe. i love it so much." you managed to breathe out in between sighs and gasps, which had him smirking. "that's about right."

he could feel you clenching around his length once more, which he hissed softly. "shit, you gonna cum again? that's three times in a row, baby." his fingers moved to your clit then, rubbing the sensitive bud in fast, and hard circles. "come on, cum for me. wanna see you make a mess all over this dick."

after three particular thrusts, you gushed all over rafe's length, making a mess on the sheets and his stomach. "that's it, baby," he leans down until he was in level with your neck, in which he kissed and sucked slowly. "love it when you squirt all over me."

you could tell rafe was close, judging by the way his hips seemed to lose rhythm by the minute. "gonna fucking cum inside you, baby. gonna fill this pussy up." rafe fucks you through another orgasm, his mouth latched onto your neck while he did so.

what you don't expect are the words that come out of his mouth next. "don't want anyone having you like this, you get that? i'm fucking yours. i was always yours." rafe says through gritted teeth, while you stared at him with wide and teary eyes.

"fuck, i'm gonna cum." rafe finishes inside you after he says it, and he pulls away to watch him drip out of you slowly.

"in case it's not clear yet, i fucking love you so much. seeing you with jj like that killed me earlier. i want you all for myself, baby." rafe lays beside you, chest heaving up and down as he caught his breath.

"i love you too, rafe. you're it for me."

first actual rafe smut i wrote??? holy shit

drew / rafe's masterlist

[cheftsunoda]

Would you consider doing something with a quiet/ reserved reader. I love the idea of a reader who's an up and coming driver but isn't about the press or media at ALL. Like dodging cameras and running away from interviews, and maybe a boy (I don't mind who you pick) misunderstands and thinks that she's running away from them? Maybe add some drama from f1 update twt accounts escalating the situation and painting the reader in a negative light for being "rude" or "impolite".

Thx!! (Sorry for any confusion, English is not my first language but I hope you get what I mean)

miss misunderstood— op81

smau + blurbs

oscar piastri x !quiet/shy driver reader

yn has a lot of pressure on her shoulders— she is the only female driver in f1 and that leads to her consistently having to prove herself to not only her team, who took a chance on her, but the press who are constantly there hounding her. she has always been very shy and reserved— especially around people she does not know. when fans notice how she skips out on interviews and hides from big crowds, the hate pours in, especially after she is seen avoiding a conversation with the grids other most quiet individual— but he is persistent and wont give up on her.

(a/n) : such a cute idea anon! i understood you perfectly fine my love. i hope you enjoy this. i thought it would be fun to pair reader with someone who is also rather quiet and reserved.

fc : amna al qubaisi

—

f1gossipgirls

257,087 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Almost all of our favorite drivers have touched down in Barcelona for media day. Some of our first arrivals include YN LN, Charles Leclerc, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Lando Norris and George Russell.

—

view 32,057 other comments.

username0 : george not dressed properly for the weather pt 899

liked by f1gossipgirls

username10 : yn always looks like she doesn’t want to be there. why is she even in f1 if she hates to do the job??

username15 : everyone is smiling, waiving, talking to fans and press and then there is yn who immediately books it to the paddock and ignores everyone

username22 : ill say it once and i will say it again— f1 is not a silent film. she either needs to speak up and play the role or step aside. good driver or not. that job comes with more responsibilities than just driving around the track.

username5 : she gives off “im better than everyone else” energy and im sick of her.

username00 : every time i try and like her, she gives us absolutely nothing. cold and awkward isn’t a personality, babe.

↳ username9 : yet you guys eat it up when oscar does it. the double standard is insane.

liked by f1gossipgirls

username11 : its always the quiet ones y’all tear apart for not being loud enough. she’s there to drive. not entertain you.

liked by f1gossipgirls

username17 : you guys are extra hard on her because she is a female. and it is sick.

username101 : she minds her business, she’s fast, and she is unproblematic. you guys are just finding reasons to hate her. jealousy is a disease.

liked by f1gossipgirls

—

They say I’m cold. Unfriendly. Standoffish. Like I’m trying too hard to be mysterious or above it all. But they don’t know me. Not really. Because if they did, they’d know I used to be warm. I used to talk too much. Laugh too loud. Hug people without thinking twice. But that was before. Before the phone call. Before the hospital room. Before the person who knew me better than anyone else—who loved me without needing me to be anything but myself—was just… gone.

Losing a parent is something people talk about like it’s a passage. A sad inevitability. But they don’t talk about what it does to you when it’s sudden. When it’s brutal. When the last words you said were something stupid because you thought you had more time. My dad was my safe place. The only person I could fall apart around. He was the reason I started racing. The reason I believed I could do anything. And when I lost him, I didn’t just lose a person—I lost myself. I haven’t spoken about it. Not to anyone.

Not to my engineers. Not to my teammates. Not to the drivers who think I’m just “shy” or “quiet” or “moody.” Because once I say it out loud, it becomes real in a way I’m not ready for. It becomes the thing people pity me for instead of the thing I’ve survived. So I stay quiet. I keep the noise out. I protect the stillness inside me. People don’t understand it, and that’s fine. They think I’m emotionless when really, I’m overflowing and just trying not to drown. I hear what they say. The fans. The media. That I don’t engage. That I don’t give enough. But I didn’t come here to be their favorite. I came here to race. I came here to honor my father. To survive something else. To find moments of peace between the chaos and the grief that still sits like stone in my chest.

They’ll never understand why I am the way I am. Because they never saw me before. Before the silence felt safer than the world ever did. And I don’t owe them an explanation for that.

—

The air in Barcelona is thick with heat and noise—press cameras clicking, fans shouting driver names like spells, a thousand voices layered on top of each other. I keep my head down but offer a small smile, lifting my hand in a quiet wave. They cheer anyway. Some scream my name. Others don’t. Some just stare, waiting for me to trip or ignore them or give them proof I’m “as cold as they say.”

I smile again, even if it doesn’t reach my eyes. It’s not fake—it’s just not loud.

Security walks with me as I cross the paddock. My eyes flicker over the cameras stationed outside team motorhomes, the reporters already calling out names, hoping for a quote. I tighten my grip on the strap of my bag. Just a few more steps.

I keep walking. Fast, but not suspiciously fast. Just enough to dodge the press circling like hawks, waiting for a moment of weakness, a headline, a clipped quote that can be turned into whatever version of me they want to sell this week.

Finally, I step inside Red Bull. The air conditioning kisses my skin. The silence—relative silence—is heaven. I make it to my driver room, push the door shut with my shoulder, and lean against it for a second. Eyes closed. Deep breath. The chaos is muffled now, like a storm just beyond the walls. Then the door opens again without a knock.

“Nice escape,” Max says, completely unfazed. He shuts the door behind him like he owns the building. “You only almost ran over two photographers. New record?”

I huff out a laugh—quiet but real. “Felt like twenty.”

He drops into the chair across from me like he’s been doing this his whole life. Which, to be fair, he basically has.

Max studies me for a second, unreadable as always. “You look like you’re about to vomit. That your media day face?”

“Shut up,” I mutter, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.

He shrugs. “Just saying. You do realize they can’t eat you alive on camera, right? Legally.”

“I don’t know. I think one of the Sky guys has sharp enough teeth.”

He chuckles, dry and quiet. “You’ll be fine. Say as little as possible. Give one-word answers. Scowl a little. That’s what I do.”

“You give plenty of one-word answers.”

“Exactly,” he says, proud. “It’s an art.”

He leans forward, resting his arms on his knees, face softening just slightly.

“They don’t matter, you know. The journalists. The fans who think they know you. The Twitter freaks. You’re fast. That’s what counts. That’s what wins. Let them think you’re a robot or a villain or a Bond girl or whatever mood they’re in this week.”

I nod. A slow exhale.

“Thanks, Max.”

He shrugs again. “Just don’t cry on camera. I already have a reputation for being emotionally unavailable. Don’t need yours adding to the Verstappen Cold Front.”

This time, I laugh out loud. He grins. Mission accomplished.

“Go be scary,” he says, pushing himself up. “And if you panic, just pretend they’re all standing in front of your car at turn one.”

“I’d drive through them.”

“Exactly.”

He leaves without another word, and for the first time all morning, I feel like I can breathe.

—

I answer with the same even tone I always do. I deflect, redirect, smile where I’m supposed to. I’ve trained myself not to flinch. But it still chips away at me, a little at a time. I finally escape outside, tucked behind one of the Red Bull displays near the fan zone—close enough to be seen, far enough to feel like I’m not drowning. I sip from a water bottle, hoping the air might settle in my lungs again. That’s when I see her.

A girl, maybe twelve, in a handmade cap with my number scribbled on it in glitter glue. She’s holding a small notebook and a marker, standing with her dad and hesitating like she doesn’t want to bother me. I almost keep walking. I’m tired. Overheated. Ready to shut down for the rest of the day. But something in her eyes stops me. She doesn’t look like the others—she looks like she’s trying to be brave. So I walk over.

Her eyes go wide when I stop in front of her. “Hi,” I offer, voice soft.

She blinks. Then holds out the notebook with slightly trembling hands. “Um—sorry, I just—could you sign this? I know you don’t really like talking to people a lot, but you’re my favorite. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want.”

My chest tightens. Not in a bad way—in the way it does when something hits a nerve you didn’t know was still exposed. I take the notebook and sign it carefully.

“You know,” she says, voice quiet, “I get nervous talking to people too. But I think you’re really brave. I like that you don’t try to be loud just to fit in. You make me feel like that’s okay.”

I blink fast. It’s not the kind of compliment I get. It’s not about speed or podiums or stats. It’s about me. The parts I’ve always kept hidden because the world made me feel like they were wrong. I smile—genuinely this time—and crouch a little so we’re eye level.

“Thank you,” I say softly. “That means more than you know.”

Her face lights up like I just handed her a trophy. We take a photo. I sign her hat. She hugs me before I even have time to react—but I don’t mind. Not even a little. As I walk away, I feel lighter. Like the weight pressing on my shoulders loosened just a little. Maybe I’ll always be the quiet one. The misunderstood one. But to that one girl? I was seen. And that’s enough.

—

The moment I cross the line, the radio explodes.

“P1, YN! That’s P1! You did it! You absolutely nailed that last stint—what a drive!”

I don’t say much. I can’t. My throat is tight and my hands are shaking around the wheel. The pit wall is screaming, my engineer shouting through the static. The grandstands blur into one giant roar. I slow the car down and guide it into parc fermé, P1 board waiting. The marshals are waving, cameras already turned in my direction like hungry mouths. I sit still for a beat. The engine is off, the world is loud, but in my cockpit it’s just… quiet. Then I hear it—Max’s car pulling into P2.

“Let’s go,” I murmur to myself and start the slow climb out.

But my limbs feel heavy. Every emotion I’ve buried all year starts clawing its way to the surface, and I’m suddenly not sure if I’ll make it over the halo without falling flat on my face. And then—there’s a hand. Max, already out of his car, standing beside mine like it’s the most casual thing in the world. He holds his hand out without a word. Just a look that says, Yeah, I know. Take it. I take it. He helps me out of the car, firm but unshowy. As soon as I hit the ground, I sway a little, overwhelmed—but I don’t fall.

He leans in, dry as ever. “You know you’re supposed to breathe when you win, right?”

I huff out something between a laugh and a sob. “I’ll try next time.”

Our helmets clink together briefly as we hug—quick, tight, familiar—and then he nudges me toward my team. They’re already there—Red Bull crew surrounding me, cheering, hugging, spraying water. I let myself fall into it for a moment. I smile, genuinely. I hug back. One of the engineers lifts me off the ground and spins me, and I let them. Because this is theirs, too. Ours. But just as the broadcasters and press start pushing through the sea of mechanics, I slip away—ducking behind the barrier, walking briskly toward the cooldown room before they can catch me.

I hear a few voices behind me—“YN, one word for Sky? Just a few seconds?”

I keep walking. The cooldown room is blissfully empty. Cold, quiet, white walls and a table with water and towels. I sit, press the bottle to my forehead, and finally breathe. No cameras. No questions. No pretending. Just silence. Just peace. Just… me. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like enough.

—

The water bottle sweats in my hands, condensation dripping slowly onto my race suit. I haven’t said much since sitting down, and Max hasn’t asked me to. He’s lounging across from me on the other bench, head tilted back, eyes closed like he owns the room. His suit is halfway peeled down and his hair’s a sweaty mess, but he looks… content. Neither of us are fans of the overexposed post-race routine. The lights. The forced questions. The soundbites that get twisted a dozen ways before the sun even sets. So we sit here, in the eye of the storm, letting the world knock on the door without answering.

Max finally cracks an eye open. “You going to do the interviews?”

I lean my head back against the cool wall and sigh. “Eventually. Maybe. If they don’t forget I exist by then.”

He grins slightly. “You just won. They’ll send a SWAT team if you don’t come out soon.”

Before I can answer, the door opens — fast but tentative — and in walks Camille, my press secretary. She’s breathless. Her clipboard’s half tucked under her arm, and she looks like she’s been fighting off wolves outside.

“YN,” she starts, trying for calm but clearly begging on the inside, “I hate to interrupt, but they’re getting antsy. Sky, F1TV, everyone’s lining up. They want quotes, a soundbite—anything.”

I nod slowly. I expected this. It doesn’t make it any easier.

“I’m not doing the scrum,” I say. “Not the pen. Not the mixed zone.”

Camille looks like she wants to scream into a pillow. “Okay. Fine. What will you do?”

I glance at Max, who’s watching like it’s the most entertaining episode of Drive to Survive he’s seen all year.

“One interview,” I finally say. “That’s it.”

Camille’s already flipping through her mental rolodex. “Okay. Sky? F1TV? Maybe something for social? Martin Brundle is waiting and—”

“No,” I cut her off, gently but firm. “If I do one, it’s with Lissie. No one else.”

Camille blinks. “Lissie—Lissie Mackintosh from Sky?”

I nod.

“She’s the only one who doesn’t make me feel like I’m under a microscope,” I explain. “She’s kind. And she actually listens.”

Camille softens a little. “Okay. I can work with that. But they’ll push back.”

“Let them,” I shrug. “I don’t owe them anything else today.”

She studies me for a moment, then exhales and heads out, already dialing her phone as she goes.

The door shuts again, and I fall back into the silence like it’s a blanket.

Max raises a brow. “Lissie, huh?”

“She doesn’t try to make me a headline,” I reply.

Max gives a nod of respect. “Smart. Wish we all had a Lissie.”

I glance down at my fingers, still slightly trembling from adrenaline. “I just need someone who sees me.”

“You just won a damn Grand Prix,” Max says, standing and nudging my foot with his. “They’re gonna have to see you now, whether they like it or not.”

—

yn's post race interview with lissie mackintosh- barcelona

—

third person pov

YN steps down from the small stage, fingers tugging at the collar of her suit as if she’s trying to breathe easier now that the lights are off. She’s walking fast, already focused on making it back to the safety of the garage. She doesn’t see Oscar until she turns the corner, he is halfway through his own interview with a different outlet. He’s smiling—tired, but still upbeat—and when he spots her, his expression brightens like he’s been waiting for a chance to say something. Oscar turned to YN as she passed by.

“You should really be talking to the winner, huh?”

His voice is friendly. Joking. The kind of throwaway line that’s meant to show camaraderie, not pressure. YN pauses just for a second. She offers a small, polite smile—closed-lipped and barely there. No laugh. No response. Just a nod. And then she’s gone. Quiet steps, fast retreat.

Oscar watches her disappear down the corridor, his smile faltering slightly. His interviewer says something, but he doesn’t really register it.

“…Did I say something weird?”

He turns back to the camera, eyes a little more unsure. In the back of his mind, the question settles in— Does she just not like me? But the truth is simpler. And sadder. She doesn’t dislike him. She just doesn’t have room for warmth in the places where the world watches too closely.

—

twitter!

f1gossipgirls : Race Winner, YN LN, only gave 1 two minute interview with @/skysports Lissie Mackintosh. Oscar Piastri who was P3 today, was also doing an interview when LN happened to walk by and made a joke to which YN just walked off. He then asked the interviewer if he said something wrong. Thoughts?

view 120,004 comments.

username00 : imagine winning a race and still managing to have the personality of dry toast 😭 poor oscar was just being NICE

username22 : as someone who watched the full interview with Lissie — she was genuine and soft spoken. maybe what she needs is respect, not attention.

username08 : i love Oscar but this isn’t that deep. she clearly has boundaries and isn’t fake about it. that’s kind of refreshing.

username09 : she didn’t even thank the fans today. one interview and vanishes? okay ice queen 🧊

username17 : not her making Oscar second guess himself when he was literally just being sweet? i would NEVER recover.

username20 : this is why she’s boring. no charisma, no interviews, no interaction. i said what i said. 🥱

username30 : are y’all ignoring the interaction she had with a younger fan today?? she is such a sweetie, she is just camera shy.

—

ynfromredbull

liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri, redbullracing and 1,7005,002 others.

ynfromredbull : good shit.

—

view 74,032 other comments.

lissiemackintosh : Honored to have been the one to share part of this day with you. Congratulations again, YN! ✨

liked by ynfromredbull

username0 : i feel like max is the only one that understands her.

maxverstappen1 : good shit indeed.

liked by ynfromredbull and redbullracing

oscarpiastri : Insane drive today, YN. 💪🏻

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ username0 : oscar is much better than me bc id be a hater rn

alexalbon : can someone pls nerf the redbull team. i am tired.

liked by maxverstappen1, ynfromredbull and redbullracing

username10 : can y'all shut up now- she is literally taking pictures with fans.

↳ username0 : wowww one time in her whole career.

carlossainz55 : such a beast. congratulations yn

liked by ynfromredbull

—

I don’t like nights like this. Too many people. Too many lights. Too many eyes that don’t know me but swear they do. I don’t stop for cameras, I don’t pose, I don’t even slow down when someone calls my name. I just head straight inside the theater like I’m late for something, even though I’m not. I keep my eyes low, find the row I asked Max to save for me, and drop into the seat beside him with a quiet exhale. He glances at me, unimpressed but amused.

“Nice entrance. Scared three PR people on the way in.”

I almost smile. “Was aiming for five.”

He snorts, and just like that, I feel a little more human. Max has always understood the value of silence. He never pushes, never demands more than I can give. We talk a little—about the ridiculousness of the event, the car updates, the championship—but mostly, we just sit. It’s enough. Until I feel a shift. I don’t even have to look up. I can sense someone walking toward us with too much hesitation, like they’ve already decided I’m going to run. When I do glance up, I’m met with wide brown eyes and a nervous smile. Oscar.

“Hey. Sorry—YN? Can I talk to you for a second?”

Max raises a brow. I pause, heart twitching in my chest for reasons I don’t fully understand, and then I nod. I follow Oscar into the hallway, the noise of the event fading behind me like static. The lighting is dimmer here. Softer. Still too bright. He turns to face me, shifting on his feet like he’s rehearsed this five times already.

“I, um—did I do something to upset you?”

My stomach drops.

“What?”

“After the race. I made that joke and you just… walked off. And I get it if you’re not a fan of me or something, I just—” He laughs nervously. “I keep thinking I said something wrong.”

I blink. I want to laugh, but I don’t. Instead, I look down, ashamed.

“No. You didn’t do anything wrong.” My voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. “It’s not you. It’s just… me.”

He looks confused. Still gentle, though. Waiting. I don’t know why, but I want to explain—just a little.

“When I was younger, I lost someone. My dad. He was… my person. The one who made the noise of the world feel a little less loud. And after it happened, I kind of… shut off. I don’t like being watched. I don’t like being asked to smile when I don’t feel like it. I just… exist better in the quiet.”

Oscar doesn’t speak for a long moment. But his expression softens in a way that makes my chest ache.

“You don’t have to explain,” he says eventually. “But thank you for trusting me.”

I nod, throat tight. Then, a flicker of guilt. “And I’m sorry for walking off like that. You didn’t deserve it.”

He smiles, shy and genuine.

“So… you don’t hate me?”

That makes me laugh. Just once, but it’s real.

“No,” I say softly. “I don’t.”

There’s a pause, and for the first time since I got here, I feel something shift in my chest. A crack of light.

He nudges me lightly with his shoulder. “Cool. Friends, then?”

I think about it. About how hard it is to let people in. About how much it scares me.

Then I nod. “Yeah. Friends.”

—

3 month time skip

ynfromredbull

liked by oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1, lando & 2,409,001 others.

ynfromredbull : as my counterpart @/maxverstappen1 would say— these last few months have been simply lovely. 🏆💪🏻

—

view 127,002 other comments.

username0 : this caption is the most personality i’ve seen from her all season.

username14 : i can’t believe she is leading the wdc rn

maxverstappen1 : id sue for copyright infringement if i wasn’t so proud

liked by ynfromredbull

oscarpiastri : very artistic post yn

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ ynfromredbull : thank you mr. piastri

liked by oscarpiastri

↳ lando : OMG SHE SPEAKS

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ lando : yn i didn’t mean that in a bad way pls don’t drive me off the track

liked by ynfromredbull

georgerussell63 : it is against fia regulations to have a teddy bear in the car. RACE BAN (she is still destroying all of us— it would not help save the season)

liked by ynfromredbull

—

f1gossipgirls

428,023 likes.

f1gossipgirls : For the first time in her F1 career, YN LN has not walked into the paddock alone. She walked in with none other than Oscar Piastri himself. Not only did she walk in with him but the two stopped for the press multiple times and stopped to talk with fans. Many people say that this is the most they’ve seen her smile in her whole career. Thoughts?

—

view 15,539 other comments.

username00 : from Oscar “did I do something wrong?” to Oscar walking her in and making her smile… the arc is so insane

username15 : f1gossipgirls is finally being NICE about her. this is how powerful love is

username17 : i haven’t seen her this relaxed since she debuted. i’d cry if i wasn’t already crying.

username22 : this is NOT a drill. she SMILED. she TALKED. she STOOD STILL for the PRESS. what is happening

username0 : So now she wants the attention? Pick a side. Either be private or don’t.

username14 : she’s literally only tolerable when she’s standing next to a man. that’s so sad lol

username20 : i’m sorry but this whole “she’s just shy” thing got old last season. f1 drivers are public figures. she knew what she signed up for.

—

It happens slowly. Like sunlight through tinted glass — warm but filtered, creeping in without permission. Oscar’s been around a lot lately. Not just in the paddock, where we’re both supposed to be, but everywhere in between. Track walks, post-race debriefs, long flights, short layovers, dinners in quiet towns we don’t name on social media. He’s become part of the background noise of my life, and for once, that doesn’t scare me.

I notice it when we’re sitting side by side in the sim room, not speaking, just existing. The silence between us feels easy now. Familiar. Like I don’t have to earn my space — I just have it. I notice it when he hands me a coffee before I’ve even asked, the way he always remembers I take it black with a splash of oat milk, no sugar. Or when he throws a hoodie at me because I always forget I get cold before FP3.

I notice it most on the plane ride. He’s asleep beside me, his head tilted toward me, headphones slipping. I’m staring at the clouds and thinking about how close I am to the title. Closer than I’ve ever been. I should be terrified. But I’m not. Because he’s here. And for some reason, that grounds me.

He mumbles something in his sleep and leans slightly toward my shoulder. I freeze. Not because I’m uncomfortable — but because I’m suddenly too comfortable. My heart stutters. It’s a dangerous thing, comfort. I’ve avoided it for years, convinced it would disappear the moment I reached for it. But Oscar—he never asked me to reach. He just stayed.

Now I’m sitting in row 8F of some transatlantic flight with a soft-voiced Aussie curled up next to me and a World Championship lead in my lap — and all I can think is... God, I might actually be in love with him. And that’s scarier than any press conference I’ve ever dodged.

—

I could already feel the heat of the Monaco sun pressing down as we stepped out of the car. The walk to the paddock always felt long, even when it wasn’t. My palms were tucked into my jacket pockets, nerves dancing beneath my skin like they always did. But this time, I wasn’t alone.

Oscar walked beside me, chatting softly about absolutely nothing — the weather, the coffee at the hotel, the chaos of the Monte Carlo grid. I appreciated it. His voice was grounding. I didn’t have to say anything, and he didn’t expect me to.

I kept my eyes low, used to the flashes of phones and the buzz of people trying to get my attention. Normally, I’d keep walking. Fast. Direct. No room for error. But then I heard it.

“YN!”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t aggressive. Just… hopeful. I slowed down without thinking. Oscar noticed instantly and stilled beside me.

“You good?” he asked quietly.

I nodded. “Yeah. Just… give me a sec.”

I turned toward the barricade. A young fan was holding a poster of my car from Australia. I’d won that race. My name was scrawled across the sidepod in sharp lettering — a moment frozen in time I’d barely let myself process. I took the marker from their hand, signed it quickly but neatly.

“Thank you for today,” the fan said, eyes wide. “You’re… amazing. You’ve always been amazing.”

The words hit me somewhere in the chest I didn’t know was sore.

“…Thanks,” I said, almost too quietly. Then louder: “Thanks for saying that.”

They smiled like I’d handed them gold. I took one photo — just one. And then I stepped back beside Oscar, who gave me a subtle smile. Not too proud. Not too over-the-top. Just there. Solid. Steady. We weren’t even halfway through the paddock before a Sky Sports reporter called out.

“YN! Oscar! Over here?”

I froze.

Oscar looked at me. “Wanna skip it?”

I shook my head. “Just one.”

We walked over together. I didn’t say much — I never do — but I stood there. Present. Listening. And when they asked how I was feeling going into the weekend, the words came before I could edit them.

“Focused,” I said. Then, after a breath: “And a little less alone today.”

Oscar glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. There was a flicker of something soft there, something understanding. It felt… safe. When we finally reached the Red Bull garage, I exhaled for what felt like the first time in twenty minutes. I peeled off my jacket, tugged at the brim of my cap, and tried to disappear through the back. But Max was already leaning on the pit wall, headset half-on, watching me with that unreadable Verstappen face.

“You smiled,” he said, completely monotone. “Terrifying.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t start.”

He smirked just slightly. “I’m just saying… if you become media friendly, I’m going to have to be the difficult one now.”

“You already are,” I deadpanned.

Max laughed under his breath and tossed me a bottle of water. “You did good, LN.”

And for once, I let myself believe it.

—

The world was quiet around us. The kind of hush that only existed in moments like this — between heartbeats, between stares. Monaco’s lights flickered just beyond the windows, gold threads pulling through navy silk. I could hear the sea in the distance. Oscar lay beside me, legs stretched across my duvet like he belonged here. He wasn’t touching me, not yet, but he was close enough that I could feel every inch of space between us — and it made my chest ache.

“You’re quieter than usual,” he said softly, barely above a whisper.

I turned my head toward him. “That’s saying something.”

He smiled, tired and tender. “Fair. Still true.”

I didn’t answer. Because truthfully, I was scared. This was all new. The closeness. The comfort. The way he looked at me like I wasn’t hard to figure out. Then he said it — no fanfare, no buildup, just a simple truth.

“I think I’m falling for you.”

It should’ve terrified me. But it didn’t. Not really. It cracked something open.

I stared at him, eyes burning, heart folding in on itself. “I think I already have,” I breathed, voice barely there.

The silence that followed was thick — not heavy, not awkward. Just real. He reached over, his fingers grazing mine so gently it made my skin buzz. It wasn’t a grab. It was an invitation. And for once in my life, I accepted. I laced my fingers through his and sat up, pulling open the drawer next to my bed. There was only one thing inside — an envelope. Worn at the edges, the flap taped down three times because I’d opened and closed it more than I should have. I handed it to him. His brows furrowed as he opened it slowly. The photo slipped into his hand.

Me, at six. All tiny teeth and wild hair, grinning up like the sun had never set. Standing next to a man in a racing suit. His hand was on my shoulder. The same eyes. The same smirk. My father. Oscar looked between the photo and me, and I saw the shift happen in real time — confusion to understanding to quiet reverence.

“That’s… is that who I think it is?” His voice cracked just slightly.

I nodded, swallowing hard. “My dad.”

I didn’t say his name. I didn’t need to.

“He died when I was eight. It was… it was violent. Sudden. One second he was there, and then he wasn’t. He was my safest place. My everything. After that, I… broke. I stopped talking for months. And when I started again, it was never the same.”

He didn’t move. Just stared at me like I was something delicate, like if he breathed too loudly I might fold in on myself.

“I never told anyone,” I continued, voice barely holding. “I didn’t want pity. I didn’t want to be treated like some ghost of his shadow. I wanted to be me. Just me.”

Oscar’s fingers tightened around mine — not too much, just enough to remind me I wasn’t alone anymore.

“You are,” he whispered. “You’re everything.”

I looked at him then, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like hiding.

“I think he’d like you,” I said, smiling through the burn in my throat.

Oscar leaned in, resting his forehead against mine, and whispered back, “I like you more than I should.”

And in the soft glow of the Monaco skyline, wrapped in the quiet I used to fear, I finally let myself feel it all. Love. Safety. Peace. Him.

—

f1

liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing, ynfromredbull & 8,029,003 others.

f1 : Your 2025 World Champion, YN LN! Incredible drive this season, YN. This is well deserved.

tagged : ynfromredbull

—

view 239,492 other comments.

username00 : MY QUEEN! CONGRATULATIONS YN.

username15 : gonna be insufferable about this for the next 40 years ok????

susie_wolff : YN has made history. I am forever proud of her.

liked by ynfromredbull and f1

username30 : people doubted her, the press dragged her, and she STILL smoked them all. cold-blooded. we love a quiet assassin 💅

lissiemackintosh : I’ve seen your journey up close. You are everything this sport needs. Congratulations, champion. 💫

liked by ynfromredbull

oscarpiastri : No one more worthy. What a season, YN. 🏆🤍

liked by ynfromredbull

lando : MY GOATTTTTT LFGGGG

liked by ynfromredbull

lewishamilton : It’s been inspiring watching you come into your own. World Champion sounds good on you. 🔥

liked by ynfromredbull

maxverstappen1 : Couldn’t be more proud. YN deserved this more than anyone.

liked by ynfromredbull

—

ynfromredbull

liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri, lando and 12,037,024 others.

ynfromredbull : this is what it is all about. thank you all. it is an honor to be your 2025 world champ. i hope you grow to love me as much as i love all of you.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

We were far from everything — the noise, the cameras, the endless headlines. Just a small coastal town somewhere in Portugal, sun-drunk and slow, the kind of place where people didn’t care about championship points or last names. Oscar and I had spent the day walking through sleepy markets, eating too much gelato, and laughing at nothing. Now, the two of us lay tangled together on the bed in the little apartment we rented, the linen sheets kicked down to our ankles and the windows cracked open to let in the salt-kissed night air. His hand rested on my stomach, thumb drawing slow circles over the hem of my shirt. The world outside our window was quiet, but my mind wasn’t. Not tonight.

“I want to do it,” I said into the stillness.

He turned his head, his voice a low murmur against my temple. “Do what?”

I hesitated, even though I already knew he’d understand. He always did.

“The interview. I want to finally say it. Talk about… him. All of it.”

Oscar sat up slightly, enough to look at me properly. “You’re sure?”

I nodded, throat tight. “It’s time. I’ve hidden behind the silence for so long. And I don’t want to anymore.”

He searched my eyes, then gently tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “You don’t owe anyone your pain, you know. You don’t have to justify who you are.”

“I know,” I whispered. “But I want to tell the story. My story. People have made it for me for so long — all the gossip, the assumptions. I’ve let them believe I’m cold or arrogant or just awkward. But the truth is…” I swallowed. “The truth is, I’m just someone who lost the one person that made the world feel safe.”

Oscar’s hand found mine under the sheets, his fingers warm and steady.

“I think he’d be proud of you,” he said softly. “For everything. For surviving. For being brave enough to do this now.”

I blinked hard, staring up at the ceiling to stop the tears from spilling.

“I miss him so much, still. Every day. Sometimes I think that little girl in the paddock died with him — the one who used to talk to everyone, who smiled without thinking about it.”

He pulled me into his chest, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “That girl’s still in there. I see her every time you light up after a race. Every time you laugh when you think no one’s listening. You’re still her. Just… grown, and stronger.”

I breathed him in — the cologne I’d come to associate with safety and something close to peace.

“Will you be there? When I do it?” I asked quietly. “When I finally say his name?”

“Every step,” he said without hesitation. “Always.”

And in that moment, with his arms around me and the stars blinking somewhere above the rooftops, I knew I wasn’t alone anymore.

Not in the silence. Not in the truth. Not ever again.

—

‘hey lissie— its yn. i want to do an exclusive interview with you. if you’re willing.’

’omg hey champ— obviously id be willing to. where do you need me?’

’my house. next week? i can send a plane your way.’

’ill be there. i am honored, yn. truly.’. 

—

world champion, yn, sharing her truths from her home in monaco with lissie mackintosh - 1/2/2026

—

ynsenna

liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing, oscarpiastri & 17,023,004 others.

ynsenna : i’ve spent most of my life trying to be quiet enough not to be noticed. not because i didn’t have anything to say—but because grief took the words from me before i ever had the chance to speak.

this season changed my life. not just because of the results, but because i finally stopped running from the part of me that hurt the most. my father was everything to me. and losing him the way i did shattered something i didn’t know how to rebuild—until recently. the truth is- i’m proud to be his daughter. but i’m also proud of the woman i’ve become, entirely on my own.

to those who’ve seen me when i couldn’t see myself—thank you. to the ones who stayed kind even when i stayed quiet—you mean more than you know.

and to the person who reminded me i’m allowed to be loved, messy and whole—i love you.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

twitter!

f1gossipgirl : YN just did an interview from her home with Lissie Mackintosh going into detail about her childhood and revealed that Ayrton Senna is in fact her father. She spoke about how her father’s tragic death left her emotionally shut her down for most of her life— and she chose silence as form of self protection. She led Lissie through a room in her house which held a large collection of her father’s helmets and trophy’s and she shared a few photos of them on her instagram today— which her new instagram handle is @/ynsenna. She also revealed in this interview that she is indeed dating Oscar Piastri. Oscar was behind the camera silently supporting her during the interview. Thoughts?

—

view 802,482 comments.

username0 : i’m crying real tears. she carried the weight of that legacy in complete silence. absolute warrior.

username14 : Oscar being behind the camera and just silently supporting her???? marriage. immediately.

username20 : now it all makes sense. the silence, the eyes that always looked a little sad. she’s been carrying so much. proud doesn’t even begin to cover it.

username15 : she didn’t win the championship for the world. she won it for her dad and for the little girl who lost her dad. i’m not okay.

username17 : everything about this interview was raw and honest. we don’t deserve her but god do we respect her.

username30 : the fact she said nothing for years and let people think the worst of her, just to protect herself?? she’s not cold. she’s human. and she deserves peace.

—

oscarpiastri

liked by ynsenna, maxverstappen1, lando & 10,273,005 others.

oscarpiastri : proud to know you. proud to love you. you are the strongest human i know. you made him proud, sweetheart.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

The interview with Lissie had gone live less than twelve hours ago. I’d barely blinked since then. I was curled up on my couch, hoodie three sizes too big, hair in a bun, face completely bare. Oscar sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, his back leaning against the couch between my legs. I absentmindedly ran my fingers through his hair while he scrolled through TikTok with the volume low. My phone buzzed every five seconds on the table, but I ignored it. Oscar didn’t ask questions. He just stayed. And he was quiet in that way that felt like peace.

The soft hum of city traffic below filled the silence until—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Someone was knocking on my door like it owed them money. Oscar and I both jolted.

“Are you expecting someone?” he asked, twisting to look at me.

“No—wait. Shhh. Listen.”

BANG BANG BANG.

Then—“YN! OPEN UP! YOU OWE US A DAMN EXPLANATION!”

That voice. That unhinged tone.

“Oh my god,” I whispered. “Is that—Max?”

Oscar looked up at me. “Should I get the bat?”

I was still laughing as I padded to the door, the sound of voices growing louder.

“Carlos, stop pressing the buzzer, it’s annoying.”

“She’s probably ignoring us—”

“She probably moved to Brazil, bro.”

“Shut up, George.”

“YN, IF YOU DON’T OPEN THIS DOOR I’M GETTING THE SPARE FROM CHRISTIAN!”

I opened the door. And immediately got hit with a wave of chaos. Max was at the front like the ringleader. Behind him stood Charles, Lando, Carlos, Pierre, Yuki, Lewis, George, and Alex, all staring at me like I’d just casually announced I was royalty.

“Hi,” I said blandly.

“‘Hi’?! That’s all we get?” George sputtered.

Max shouldered his way in first, eyes wide. “You—YOU—” He pointed at me. “Are Senna’s daughter and you didn’t tell anyone?!”

“I told Oscar,” I mumbled, leaning against the door frame.

“Yeah, okay, Oscar gets a free pass,” Lando said dramatically, waving a hand as he walked in. “Since he is the boyfriend.”

“I can’t believe you’re his,” Pierre said, mouth open as he stared around the apartment.

Yuki beelined for my kitchen. “Do you have snacks?”

Carlos gave me a look that was half stern, half soft. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Lewis stepped forward, eyes kind. “You didn’t have to. But… damn. That was powerful, YN.”

“Yeah,” Charles agreed, nodding slowly. “I cried, but that might’ve been the wine.”

The room was buzzing. Full of movement, questions, half-jokes, too much cologne, and disbelief so thick I could feel it crackling in the air like electricity. And yet, through it all, I just… Chuckled. I mean — this was my life now? Eight world-class athletes pacing my apartment like it was a race strategy debrief while Oscar, my boyfriend, my soulmate, looked like he wanted to protect me from the emotional onslaught with nothing but a throw pillow.

Max stared at me. “What’s funny?”

I smiled — wide and honest. “You guys are all losing your minds in my living room. Like I’m a unicorn or something.”

George raised a finger. “To be fair, you are. We just didn’t know it.”

Lando turned toward Oscar. “You knew. You absolute sneaky bastard.”

Oscar held up his hands, all innocence. “She told me. I didn’t say anything. Not even in the group chat.”

“I’m so proud of you, and also I hate you,” Pierre muttered, clapping Oscar’s shoulder.

And then — without warning — Max said, “Alright, that’s it. Everyone shut up.”

I blinked. “What—”

He lunged. Then Lando. Then Charles. Then George. Before I could even think to protest, I was being dragged into a ridiculous, suffocating, all-limbs, too-many-colognes, full team group hug. My face was squished between Max’s shoulder and Pierre’s head. Oscar laughed and wrapped his arms around all of us from the outside.

Someone yelled, “We’re proud of you!”

Someone else yelled, “She’s a Senna but she’s our YN!”

And I think it was Alex who shouted, “WE LOVE YOU, WORLD CHAMP!”

I couldn’t breathe. Not from the pressure of the hug — from the feeling of it all. Acceptance. Support. Love. After years of walls, of silence, of solitude, it all rushed in like the wave I didn’t know I’d been bracing for. And I let myself sink into it. Maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have to carry the legacy alone anymore.

—

[ilibelle]

Imagine that your uniform is made up of several layers of different types of fabric and bulletproof shields. In addition to the extra fabric, you wear a mask and helmet that cover your entire face. Your costume makes it impossible to identify whether you are a woman or a man, and to top it off, you never speak. This leads people who aren't part of your squad to believe that you're just a short man who never speaks.

You work for the squad led by Colonel König. Recently, there were some situations that resulted in Kortac temporarily joining Task Force 141, two squads united to capture a terrorist.

You are not and have never been a sociable person. You don't talk to people you don't know and you always let someone else do the talking for you. As much as you are an adult woman, mature enough to make decisions on your own, you are shy. Very shy.

It's not unusual for other people to ask your teammates about you, always wondering why you don't speak up. They ask about the many layers of fabric that make up your outfit, whether you don't suffocate from the excess cloth and pockets.

And these people always refer to you in the masculine.

Always.

Soap is a bit of a curiosity when it comes to mysterious people who don't interact much with others in the room and who just stand in a quiet corner, far away from any living thing in the room. No wonder he made Ghost his best friend.

So believe me when I say that he's intrigued by you. The mysterious, masked guy in the dark corner of the room, who so far hasn't interacted with anyone since he arrived. You've caught his attention, but he won't talk to you because something inside him tells him not to come up to you out of the blue.

Something inside him tells him to take it easy this time, because that something inside him thinks that the outside of that guy should be molded slowly to reveal the inside. Does that make sense?

The first person Soap will ask about you is König, because them strangely hit it off, much to the unhappiness of Ghost, who didn't like König. Perhaps it's because he's taller and has stolen the role of being the tallest in the room from Ghost.

And also because he saw König talking to you about something, but you didn't use your voice and just nodded. Which led him to think that maybe you were mute.

Soap approached König with a smile, bringing up some other subject before starting to ask questions about you. He doesn't want to sound weird.

"Hm... You know, I keep asking myself..." Soap begins, waiting for a signal to continue.

"What is it?" König asks, crossing his arms and smiling beneath his mask.

"That guy in the corner... Why doesn't he join the others?"

"Oh." König straightens his posture and looks at you, standing in the corner of the room and staring at an interesting spot on the floor. "She's a bit shy, don't worry."

The gears turned slowly in Soap's head after this information.

"IT'S A WOMAN?!!??!!!!?"

It wasn't Soap's intention to draw the attention of everyone in the room, Including you, to him and König. But it just happened.

Hello:)) it's my first time posting something written by me and my English is terrible, but I tried my best with a translator 😞

[readwritealldayallnight]

im on my knees begging for jealous Simon headcanons 🧎🏻‍♀️

The thing about Simon is, he really has no reason to get jealous when it comes to you, and he knows it

He knows there isn’t anyone else who could make you smile so much your cheeks hurt, no one else who could make you laugh until you claim you’re going to pee your pants, no one else who could make you feel as good as he does, in oh so many ways, because you tell him so

You tell him that those same feelings of being loved, understood, appreciated, and wanted, those very feelings that you make him feel each and every day, he gives them back to you a thousand times over

He knows when you look in his eyes and tell him that you love him, that there isn’t a doubt in your mind that he is the only one for you, and nothing or anyone could ever change that

You’re as smitten with him as he is with you

Still though, Simon does have eyes

And while the logical part of his brain is telling him that he’s got no reason to be gritting his teeth and clenching his fists underneath the table, he can’t help but grow more and more frustrated with the way Soap and Gaz continue to flirt shamelessly with you

To be fair, you had warned him that keeping your relationship a complete secret from everyone would likely result is moments where Simon would have to watch you get hit on, and simply have to grin and bear it

That didn’t mean it was any easier, watching his only best mates try and work their charm on you, all while he sits at the same table and watches you roll your eyes at their advances

“Aw, come on love, just one chance, s’all I ask for!” The handsome, young sergeant practically whines to you, cheeky grin plastered across his features as he tries in vain to convince you to let him take you out some time

“Pfft, ye’d be nothin’ but a waste o’ her time, Garrick. We wouldn’t even ‘ave to to leave base for me to show ye a good time, bonnie.” The Scotsman winks at you, pointedly ignoring the way Gaz elbows him in the ribs at his comment

Throughout the entire exchange, Ghost’s gaze has never left your face, watching every time you scoff and roll your eyes at the men’s antics, reminding himself that you’re his, and he is yours, and the two sergeants are nothing more than pains in both of your asses

Finished with your pitiful meal from the dining hall, you stand from the table with your tray gathered in your hands, flipping your hair over one shoulder as you look towards the men trying to win your affection

“Once again, gentleman,” you say to them, knowing that they’re listening to your every word and watching your every move. “I don’t fraternize with colleagues. At least not the Sergeants.”

The two men groan in feeble protest at the mention of their ranks, having heard this reasoning from you before

“Ach, what if I get myself demoted, lass? I ken I could do that, easy!” Soap teases you, only kind of joking

“Mmm, don’t think that’ll work.” You reply, beginning to slowly walk away from the group, but not before glancing over you shoulder to lock eyes with Ghost and add, “You might have to become a Lieutenant. Those are more my type.”

The two Sergeants are staring after you, slightly gobsmacked, while their Lieutenant hides an overly smug and satisfied grin beneath his mask, shielding the pride that spread through him at your words

“Shite, sounds like you might ‘ave a chance, LT.” Soap laughs, smacking Ghost across the shoulder in a playful gesture, thinking that the larger man would never actually pursue you, let alone sleep in your bed almost every night

It’s a few weeks later when you and the rest of the 141 are all out for drinks at a nearby pub however, when Simon finds his instincts growing stronger than his insecurities

Because that’s just it isn’t it? He’s not feeling insecure when he sees you walk towards the bar by yourself to order a new drink, at least a dozen pairs of eyes watching you weave through the crowd in hopes of making a move on you

He’s not feeling insecure when he watches some tipsy idiot try and pretend he’s drunker than he really he is when he ‘accidentally’ bumps into you, apparently feeling the need to put his hands on you as he apologizes

He’s not feeling insecure when he watches you shove the guy off, reading your lips he knows so well as you tell the guy you’re not interested, nor is he insecure when he knows the idiot won’t give up that easily, likely asking if you’re here alone before you point over to where the 141 have overtaken a booth in the back

No, he certainly isn’t feeling insecure when he sees that the man never bothers glancing back to the table, still trying to land a hand on your body somewhere, when Simon’s instincts take over, rising from his seat without a word to the men who glance his way and ask where he’s going suddenly

He’s acting on pure instinct as he stalks over to you, the crowd parting for his large frame to move by without hesitation, locking eyes with you just as he lands a massive skull gloved hand on the tosser’s shoulder, wringing him around to face him

Your would be admirer isn’t feeling so confident now when he’s staring up at a 6’4” wall of muscle donned in all black apart from the white markings of his skull balaclava

If he were a more jealous man, Simon might take more time to admire the way you can practically hear this idiot gulp over the loud sounds of the music, the way his eyes bulge out of his head and how he looks nearly ready to piss himself on the spot

But your man knows who he is to you, and so instead he shoves the geezer away, turning to face you as one hand lifts up the bottom of his balaclava, just far enough to swoop down and meet your lips in a passionate tangle of tongue and teeth, tasting the alcohol on each other’s breath and the desire in your systems, a kiss that says to everyone else watching, including the bewildered Captain and Sergeants gawking from across the room, that you are his and his alone