#Like I know your dream was to get three world cup back to back

[pankowcrumbs]

hi! Just saw the Will Poulter Bombay Sapphire commercial and it has me going absolutely feral for that man! 😍

With that as inspo, can I request a Will Poulter x actress/singer reader go on a romantic getaway to Italy or Greece? I imagine they have been together a while and always travel to where the other one is at. Exhausting, but love is worth it! So they decide to finally take some time to just relax and be together. Maybe it gets a little smutty? Up to you!

Thank you! I love your writings!

Greece X Will Poulter 18+

MasterList

Will Poulter Masterlist

The cicadas hummed a lazy afternoon tune as I slid the glass door open, the heat of the Greek sun wrapping around me like a silk robe. The scent of salt and suncream danced in the breeze, and beyond the edge of our private villa, the turquoise water shimmered like something out of a dream. I stepped out onto the white stone patio, a glass of chilled rosé in my hand, wearing nothing but an oversized linen shirt of Will’s the buttons haphazard, one shoulder exposed.

He was already in the pool, his arms propped against the edge as he watched me with that look. The one that said he hadn’t seen me in hours, not seconds. The one that made my thighs press together without thinking.

We’d been together three years. Met on a film set chemistry in the script, chaos in real life. I was late to my audition; he was already cast and sitting cross-legged on the floor in the hallway with a coffee and a paperback. When we finally shared a scene, the director clapped too early, thinking the tension was acting. It wasn’t.

Since then, we’d lived in airports. Trailers. Hotel rooms. We took turns flying across the world for a stolen weekend. Exhausting. But we loved each other like the moon loves the tide. Always pulled back together.

So, this... this villa in the Greek countryside with no scripts and no crew was our first time just being in a while.

“Morning, darling,” Will said, even though it was half-past two. His voice was low and warm, like honey over toast.

I padded barefoot over to him and leaned down, cupping his jaw in my hand before kissing him slowly. He tasted like mint and sun. He let out a hum from deep in his chest, eyes fluttering shut.

“I thought I’d find you here,” I said against his mouth.

“You always do,” he smirked. “Come in. The water’s perfect.”

I hesitated, teasing. “What’s in it for me?”

He pulled back, resting his chin on folded arms. “You’ll be wet and half-naked. Seems like a win for both of us.”

I rolled my eyes and unbuttoned the shirt slowly, aware of his eyes tracking every movement. I let it slip off my shoulders and fall to the ground, revealing the deep green bikini he liked. His gaze dropped lingering on my stomach, my chest, my thighs.

“Jesus, Y/n”

He looked like he wanted to devour me.

I stepped into the water, letting out a sigh as the coolness kissed my sun-warmed skin. He reached for my waist immediately, tugging me toward him, pulling me onto his lap in the shallow end. His hands found the small of my back, hot and firm, his mouth brushing my collarbone.

“You’re so bloody beautiful,” he murmured, his lips moving against my skin.

I leaned into him, threading my fingers through his damp hair. “I’m knackered, Will. But with you… it doesn’t matter.”

He held my face gently between both palms, forcing my eyes to his. “I know. We run ourselves ragged. But not here. Not this week. This week, we do nothing but adore each other.”

I smiled, but the emotion in his voice caught me off guard. I kissed him again slower this time, deeper. He responded instantly, tongue brushing mine, his grip tightening. I felt his body tense under me, the way he always did when he was holding back. His hands slid under the waistband of my bikini bottoms, tracing the edge, teasing.

“You’re playing with fire,” I whispered, breath hitching.

“Then burn me.”

He stood suddenly, water cascading down his chest, and carried me out of the pool with ease, my legs wrapped around his waist. He laid me down gently on the sunlounger, never breaking the kiss. The towel beneath me was warm, but his body was hot, skin damp and tasting of sea salt. He kissed his way down my neck, slow and maddening. His fingers slid under my bikini top, thumbs brushing over my nipples until they hardened.

“Will,” I gasped, hips lifting.

He looked up at me with such intense adoration I felt like I’d melt. “You drive me absolutely mad, you know that? Look at you”

His mouth returned to my chest, kissing and teasing, one hand stroking down my side, exploring every inch like he hadn’t already memorised me. His fingers hooked into my bikini bottoms and pulled them down agonisingly slow. I watched him from beneath heavy lids, every nerve ending alive.

“You're so reactive,” he murmured, trailing soft kisses down my stomach. “So good for me.”

His mouth found the inside of my thigh and I moaned softly, clutching at his hair. His tongue danced over sensitive skin, not yet where I wanted him but close. Every flick, every pause, every warm breath he knew exactly what he was doing. And he loved it.

“Will, please…”

He glanced up, smug. “Tell me what you need, love.”

“You. I need you.”

He kissed just below my hipbone. “You have me. All of me.”

Then his tongue finally met where I ached for him, and I cried out, arching into him. He moaned against me, hands holding my hips steady as he lavished attention like I was his favourite song and he knew all the words. My fingers gripped the edge of the lounger, and his name fell from my lips over and over.

When I finally came undone, shivering and panting under the Greek sun, he kissed his way back up my body, smiling like a man completely obsessed.

I cupped his face, pulling him into a kiss that tasted like desperation and love. “I want you,” I whispered. “Now.”

He didn’t make me ask twice.

The lounger creaked under us, his voice low and filthy in my ear, hands everywhere. When he finally slid inside me, I wrapped myself around him like ivy on stone. We moved together, slow and needy, the kind of rhythm born from knowing someone’s body like your own. It was a tangle of moans, murmured names, and the faint sound of waves crashing somewhere below.

When it was over, we stayed tangled in silence, slick with sweat and sun and sea breeze, our foreheads touching, breath shared.

“I could stay like this forever,” I murmured.

“Let’s,” he replied. “Sod the world. We’ll live off olives and wine and never wear pants again.”

I laughed and kissed his jaw. “I’d miss the pizza too much. And you’d miss making gritty films where you cry in the rain.”

He smirked. “Fair. But I’d trade it all to keep seeing you like this.”

We eventually moved inside, curled up on the sofa with towels around us and a half-eaten cheese board between us. He rested his head on my lap, scrolling through photos on his phone sneaky ones of me sunbathing, reading, laughing.

“You know,” he said, tracing circles on my thigh, “one day we should get a place like this. Somewhere we can escape to. Just us.”

I smiled. “I’d like that.”

“No cameras. No red carpets. Just morning swims and long lunches and you in nothing but my shirts.”

“And you in nothing but your smug grin,” I teased.

He reached up and pulled me down into another kiss. “You love it.”

I did. God help me, I did.

The sun dipped lower, casting everything in that honey-glow you only get near the sea. We lay there until dusk, tangled limbs and whispered promises, the villa silent except for the gentle hum of the night and the beating of two very full hearts.

[uhuhmaries]

I would love to know what Harry’s pov was for the “what once was” one shot! It doesn’t necessarily have to be a sequel but if they reunited I wonder why he just nodded?

LETS DO THIS ALRIGHT..... THIS WHAT HAPPENED FROM HARRY'S SIDE BEFORE I DO A SEQUEL OF THEM REUNITING SO YALL GET THE IDEA..... He's kinda troubled

WHAT HE NEVER SAID | Quick Recap from Harry's side (3rd POV)

He still remembers the taste of the wine on your mouth. August sun on your skin. The floral soap you used that lingered on his pillows long after you were gone.

It’s been two years, and Harry still dreams in the colors of that summer.

Not every night. But the bad ones. The ones where the world is too loud and the hotel room is too quiet. The ones where he wakes up with your name clinging to his throat like smoke.

He never called. Not once. He typed your number more times than he can count.

Typed, deleted. Typed, hovered. Typed, and stared until the screen dimmed and he was forced to see his own reflection again—confused, sunken, cowardly.

He always had an excuse.

She’s probably moved on. She probably doesn’t want to hear from me. It was just a summer thing, wasn’t it? Don’t be selfish, mate.

He tried to move on too.

Hookups. Dates. Half-hearted attempts at love. The kind of women who knew his name before he even introduced himself. The kind who asked him to sing and told him he was beautiful before he even touched them.

But none of them smelled like you. None of them tilted their head in that way when you were thinking. None of them made his chest ache the way you did just by sitting next to him.

A few weeks after you left, he tried to write about it. Got through half a verse before he crumbled.

Tried again the next week. Spilled a melody on the piano that made Mitch stop playing and look at him like he’d been gutted.

“You alright, mate?”

Harry nodded. He always tries to be neutral.

That’s the thing about Harry—he never wants to cause a fuss. Never wants to ruin a good moment. Never wants to make it about him.

He’s been like that since he was a kid. Big feelings, small voice.

The worst part is… he felt everything.

He just didn’t know how to show it without burning something down. So he didn’t.

He created a secret Instagram account six months after Florence.

He followed you.

Watched your stories without watching them. Memorized the soft curve of your smile when you weren’t posing. Saw the way your eyes lit up when you were talking to friends. Saw you holding a coffee cup he used to sip from.

You seemed… fine. Maybe not glowing. But stable. Alive.

And that’s when it started. The voice.

See? She’s fine. She doesn’t miss you. You were just a pit stop. You’ll ruin her peace if you reach out.

So he didn’t.

But he kept watching. Every post. Every caption. Every update he had no right to read.

He learned your favorite coffee shop just by the tags. Your new haircut. The name of your cat. The name of your best girl friends.

Once, on his worst day, he DM’d you from the fake account. Just a heart. Then deleted it three seconds later.

He laid on the floor for hours after that.

Sometimes, he sings those unreleased demos when he’s alone.

They’ve never made it past the first mix.

Too raw. Too obvious. Too you.

One of them starts with the line: “You left the sun in Florence, but took my fucking sky.”

His manager said, “This is too personal, H. You sure you wanna release this?”

He shook his head. “No. Keep it off.”

He’s kept a whole drive of songs no one will ever hear. Maybe that’s his way of keeping you. Not calling. Not texting. Just… remembering.

There was a night in Tokyo.

He was drunk. Really drunk.

The kind of drunk that turns your stomach into a confession booth. He stumbled back to his hotel room with lipstick on his collar and a girl in his bed who didn’t even speak his language.

She laughed like you used to.

For a second—just a second—he let himself imagine it was you.

He pulled her hair back the way you liked. Whispered words he used to say only to you.

When she came, he almost cried. Not because of her. Because of how empty it still felt.

She left before sunrise. He sat on the balcony chain-smoking, watching the world come alive without you in it.

He doesn’t deal well. That’s his problem.

He lets things rot instead of pulling them out. Lets pain collect in the corners of his chest until it spills in ways he can’t control.

A meltdown in a hotel lobby last winter—he swears it wasn’t about you, but it was.

The manager had asked about the upcoming album.

“Is it about anyone?”

He’d laughed too hard. Eyes too glassy.

“No one that matters anymore.”

That lie almost broke him.

Then came London. THE gallery.

He wasn’t even supposed to be there. His PR team thought it’d be good for image. Thought he needed to be seen out. Sociable. Stable.

He wore a white blazer and smiled for the cameras. Laughed at jokes he didn’t hear. Pretended to admire modern art he couldn’t focus on.

And then he saw... you.

It hits like a fucking freight train. Your dress. Your hair. The curve of your cheek when you turned to look at him.

His body locked. Fight or flight. He hadn’t felt that since the stage panic in 2018.

His palms went clammy. Stomach flipped.

You looked right at him.

Soft. Still. Older. Beautiful. Too much.

His mouth opened. His throat burned. He wanted to run. He wanted to cry.

He wanted to walk up to you, pull you aside, say everything he’d never said.

“I wrote songs about you.” “I watched you from fake accounts.” “I never stopped thinking about you.” “I was scared.” “I’m still scared.”

Instead—

He nodded. You nodded back.

And then.... it's over.

He didn’t sleep that night. Didn’t drink, didn’t eat. Just went home, took off the white blazer, and stared at the ceiling.

You’d looked at him with a pair of tired eyes. Not angry. Not sad. Just… tired.

And that’s when he knew— He fucked everything up.

Because you weren’t looking at him like someone you missed. You weren’t looking at him like someone you resented. You were looking at him like someone who used to matter.

A relic. A whisper. A dream you woke up from a long time ago. He was just—

A summer ghost. A soft thing that floated in and out of your life. A warm breeze that came and went. A moment.

A moment that he kept reliving. But you? You’d moved on. Maybe not all the way. But far enough.

Farther than he ever could.

He did try, though. God, he tried.

He just didn’t do.

Never called. Never showed up. Never told you what he really felt because he didn’t want to deal with what you’d say.

He thought protecting himself meant staying away.

Now he wonders if losing you was a bigger wound than rejection would’ve ever been.

He still has your photo in a locked folder on his phone—only one. Taken from the side, your hair messy from the wind, laughing at something he’d said.

It’s his favorite picture of anyone. Ever.

If you asked him now, he’d tell you he regrets it all.

Not meeting you. Not loving you. But not fighting for you.

But he won’t say it.

Not out loud.

He’s still Harry—the yearner. The avoider. The silent lover.

He’ll keep writing. Keep watching. Keep nodding from across rooms like he didn’t once whisper poetry into your skin.

Because that’s the only way he knows how to love.

From afar. In secret. With everything he has, but never enough to show.

[hoshigray]

Hellooo, I have a requesttt. Bully!Geto & bully!gojo x reader please!!

𝐚. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: didn't know how to tackle this, but I think I got it >:3

⊹ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: Geto + Gojo x afab/fem! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - modern au! college setting; satosugu + you are juniors - sex in shared space; college dorm - fingering (f! receiving) - breast fondling + nipple play - oral (m! receiving) - facials - clitoral play (pinching and swiping) - Eiffel Tower/spit-roasting position - slight degradation - pet names (baby, crybaby, cutie, good girl, plaything, pretty girl, sweetheart) - unprotected sex (doesn't shoot inside, tho) - mention of tears and drool.

⊹ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.4k

“—Gaaahh!! N-Noo, shtop! No more, no mo—Oooh!”

“Aww, don’t go cryin’ on us yet; let’s see how much this pussy can cum!”

“Satoru, keep playing with their nipples; they keep gripping my fingers like crazy…”

Being bullied seems to be an everyday thing for a wimp like you—especially in the hands of Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto.

What kind of person lets two of the hottest guys in the school bully them? You’re practically nearly a full-ass grown adult; you shouldn’t be letting people push you around like it’s middle school! And yet, you can’t seem to bring yourself to stand for yourself, too meek and reserved to step up the ladder of confrontation, even if it’s from people who’ve tormented you most of your life.

Gojo and Geto have been your bullies for nearly your entire academic life, starting from first grade. To say that your life was hell on Earth was just the surface, coming home in tears and wishing to disappear every single day. The emotional toil was too much to bear, so much so that you did everything in your power to make sure you didn’t end up in the same high school as the two, a task that you’re proud to act on as making friends and getting through the final four years of your primary education became easier to accomplish. 

However, this fulfillment was thrown out the window when you walked on campus grounds and discovered that after two years, your bullies had transferred to the same college as you! Not only in the same place but in the same dorm section and sharing the same class—had the world gone mad?! Just when you have accepted this new chapter in your life to start anew and fresh, these two spin back and the pool of anxiety swallows you back up and pulverizes your heart. There was no way for this situation to be envisaged.

“Ohaaa!! Shtooop, t’ooo fasst!!”  

And now, they have new methods to diminish your dignity.

Against your comfort, you and the two were assigned a spreadsheet to work on and have it done by Thursday, so you three were supposed to be working in the living room of their dorm apartment. Nevertheless, you don’t think lying on the couch with your back to Gojo and Geto between your legs has anything to do with the assignment…

You were squirming, Gojo’s slender hands cupping and fondling your chest, tips of his fingers tweaking your nipples roughly so that you whine helplessly. Legs spread open for your panties and bare cunt to be exposed when you were stripped from your leggings, and Geto toys your private part with his fingers. The sensation of his middle digit inside you was hard to believe, like the howl from curling onto the upper wall of your vagina.

“Uuuwww, ohmyGoooood…!” You throw your head back to the shoulder of the white-haired one whose forefingers circle the buds of your mounds. “W-We can’t be—hic—doing this…”

“Ehhh, c’mon, baby,” hearing Gojo talk to your ear so close has to be something out of a dream or nightmare. “Who says we can’t play with our favorite person, huh?”

You gulp at the lick of your earlobe. “Because…we have work to d—Aaahh!”

“Don’t think about that assignment when I’m busy shoving my fingers in you,” Geto reminds you, the pace of his digit increasing and the scrape of his fingertip having your toes curl. “Doesn’t the pretty girl wanna play us like old times?”

A hand grabs his wrist, yet that does little to hinder the raven-haired one’s diligence within your leaking chasm. “B-But…We can’t!” Jesus, it’s tough to think adequately the more Geto pushes and pulls his finger, brushing it up against your texture. Tears welled up in your eyes, your body sore from their constant touches.

“God, still cryin’ from being teased, huh, crybaby?” Gojo chuckles while cupping your cheeks. “Still a cutie, though…”

No way, there’s absolutely no way! You had to be dreaming because there is no way you’re awake to see the day Gojo is kissing you! Biting your bottom lip and shoving his tongue inside, your brain practically explodes as you moan in his mouth, and your slit contracts the rub of Geto’s finger. Did you just cum from a kiss?!

“Oh wow, they’re spasming like crazy,” Geto chortles at the sight of your legs trembling and your genitalia fluttering around the digit. “Cumming from a kiss, huh? Heh, so easy to mess with.”

Your response was deterred to that of imperceptible wails, crying into Gojo’s pillowy lips as he sucked on your tongues to hear you sob more. This was so unfair; this situation was not in your favor once you were dragged into their apartment.

Not even in the next phase of this meet-up.

Your clothes are discarded from your body to the living room floor, mounting on the couch on all fours, Geto to your front and Gojo to your back. The three of you are too far gone to think about the damn assignment—your frame too occupied by their cocks to evade them so.

Soapy lips suck on the dick of the dark-haired other, puffy cheeks making room for the limb burrowing inside your mouth. He fucks you orally with vigor, snapping his hips to your lips as your head pounds with every jab to the back of your throat. You’re not left with a second to breathe calmly, his girth overwhelming.

“Fuuuhhck, Jesus Christ,” he curses, grinding his pelvis and moaning at the feel of your tight throat. “Such a good girl, sucking me so well; got the mouth of a great cumslut.”

“Has the pussy of one, too!”

The words burn your ears, coming from behind as the guy with snowy hair plunges his length into your vagina. His hands are situated on your waist to keep you on him, the curve of his cock scratching your sweet spots too accurately that you’re forced to scream on the other’s shaft.

Gojo throws his head back with a sigh, “Fuckin’ shiiiit, this pussy…clamping on me so hard, you wanna milk me dry?” He bends down to your ear, “Want my load so bad like a little whore?” Squeezing on him was inevitable, making him hiss. “Fuck! Don’t do that…”

“Damn this throat, man,” you peer up to Geto. Your eyes have already released the tears stricken down your face, the lower part of your face all hot from the frequent hits. He chortles, “You look so good all messy like that, sweetheart…Holy shit, you looked so fucked out.” 

Of course you were; they’ve been toying with your body for ten minutes with no rest! Your frame was aching so bad, sobbing because of the cock busying your throat and the dick grazing your G-spot. It was too much to catch up with, especially when Gojo sneaks a hand to your clit to rub and swipe. Your eyes roll to the ceiling, and a scream is muffled, your figure submitting to the pinches on your sensitive pearl.

“Wanna cum?” Silver brows trench together at the clamp of your walls. “Do it, cum on my dick, you nasty crybaby.” 

More tweaks to your clitoris coincide with the erratic pistons of Gojo’s thighs, and you have no choice but to climax once more. Your cunt tightens around his cock with every hit of your orgasm, and he makes sure to get his raw cock out of you to ejaculate his milky fluid onto your back, painting your skin with his load.

The same goes for Geto as well, who grabs your head and roughly pulls himself off to paint your face with his essence. You whimper with every quiver and addition of his sperm, spurting to your forehead and decorating your cheeks to slide down your chin. You never felt so dirty in your life, your tongue accidentally tasting it from licking your lips. “Good girl,” he compliments with a teasing pinch to your cheek.

Gojo rubs his length on the cusp of your butt. “Man, cutie, you keep driving me crazy.” His fingers aimlessly play with your clit. “Now I really can’t leave you alone…”

Dread weighs your bones at his words, and you can only question how you can survive these upcoming semesters with these harassers. And now that they’re hooked on you, this fresh new start has become much more suffocating…

© 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲2024 – reblogs and comments are appreciated wholeheartedly ☆ header edit done by me + dividers by @/animatedglittergraphics-n-more.

[lazysoulwriter]

you look like that pedro guy - pedro pascal ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: pure fluff, loopy!reader after surgery, soft Pedro, gentle teasing, tears and giggles and love everywhere, established relationship

---

The nurse is gently patting your cheek.

“You’re waking up, sweetheart. All done. You did great.”

You blink slowly, head fuzzy and light and floaty, mouth numb. Everything feels like a dream. A weird, cotton-candy kind of dream where time moves slow and your brain is just… not cooperating.

And then you see him.

Your eyes land on a man sitting patiently by your side, hands in his lap, warm eyes locked on you.

“…Wait,” you slur. “You look… you kinda look like that Pedro Pascal guy.”

Pedro smiles, already holding back laughter. “Yeah? I get that a lot.”

You squint at him, really taking him in. “You do… you look just like him. Same face. Same mouth. Same—same little crinkly eyes when you smile.” You giggle. “Wow.”

“Wow indeed,” he says, nodding seriously. “Sounds like a handsome guy.”

Your eyes go wide. “He is!” you gasp, as if this is the most important thing in the world. “He’s so hot. Like. Objectively.”

Pedro coughs a laugh into his fist. “Well, thank you.”

You tilt your head and stare at him dreamily. “Are you taken?”

He bites the inside of his cheek. “Yeah. I’ve got a girlfriend.”

And your whole face just falls.

Your bottom lip trembles. Your shoulders sag. You look like someone just told you Hello Kitty died.

“Oh…” you whisper, heartbreak in your voice. “She’s really lucky then. I bet she’s beautiful.”

Pedro smiles gently, reaching out to stroke your arm. “Nah. I’m the lucky one.”

You sniff, pouting through the gauze and numbness. “You’re handsome and sweet. She’s definitely the lucky one.”

He leans a little closer. “Wanna know a secret?”

You nod, lip still wobbling.

“You’re the girlfriend, baby.”

Your eyes widen, full cartoon style. “No way.”

“Yes way.”

“No fuckin’ way.”

“Yes fuckin’ way.”

You gasp. “So I get to go home with you???”

He grins, brushing a hand over your hair. “Yep. You get to go home with me, where I—your very loving and handsome boyfriend—will feed you pudding, and jello, and soup, and cuddle you under three blankets.”

You’re blinking at him, eyes full of tears now. “Oh my god.” That’s it. You burst into full-on loopy tears. “You’re so nice. You’re too nice.”

Pedro wraps his arms around you carefully, holding your trembling shoulders as you cry into his hoodie like a very emotional raccoon.

“I am Pedro Pascal,” he whispers against your hair. “And I love you very much.”

You sniff loudly. “This is the best day of my life.”

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @joelmillerpascal @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512 @alltounwell @libbyaller @beaagiannelli @broad-shouldrs @oceanmcu @kysosa @melloispunk @jollycupcakeblizzard @angvlicsoulll @needz1nk @daddypascal17 @agustdpeach @mrsbilicablog @k4t13ispunk @hotdadlvr95 @lnnysnts @pedropascalfan221 @queenofklonnie22 @christinamadsen @ilovecheriies @stvr-bloom @m4yb3-k3tlyn3 @umadirectioner

[moonstruckme]

blanket fort + jily + “i’ve got you now, nothing’s going to happen to you while i’m here.” would be so incredible. congrats on 10k again mae you deserve it!!!

Thank you my love!

cw: angsty canon backdrop (everyone's in the order, no one dies though), reader has trauma-related nightmare

poly!Jily x fem!reader ♡ 634 words

“Shh, shh, it’s just me.” 

You go still at the sound of Lily’s voice. Your body is rigid, a squeeze of panic around your eyes. You tighten your grip on her hands once, as though to be sure she’s solid. 

“It’s just me,” Lily says again. She folds her other arm behind you, drawing you against her, and you both breathe out at the same time. “You’re safe, love. You’re home.” 

On your other side, James makes a mumbley sound. He isn’t as quick to rouse as Lily is, but he catches on fast. “Oh. Bad dream?” 

You nod into Lily’s chest. She can feel you trembling, adrenaline working its way out of your system. “Yeah,” you say. Your voice sounds wrecked, dry and scraping. “Sorry.” 

“Hey, what’re you sorry for, lovie?” James rubs your back. His warm hand bumps over Lily’s. “S’not your fault.” 

“Would you like some water?” Lily asks. She waits for you to nod before extricating herself from your arms. James takes over the job happily, pulling you against his front. 

There are lots of secrets in the Order. Lily knows it’s to protect you all, but there are times when she truly hates it. It requires each of you to keep things from the people you trust most, plants doubt that you can trust anyone at all, makes you quiet and furtive and isolated. The mission you came home from yesterday was one of the ones you’re not allowed to talk about. Dumbledore’s orders. All Lily and James know is that it kept you away for three days, two nights, and when you returned you were shaken and had bruises you couldn’t reveal the cause of. And now you’ve woken, in the early hours of your first morning home, strangled by a fear they know nothing about. 

When she comes back with water for you—a glass, not a cup, because this isn’t Lily’s first time seeing someone she loves traumatized by something unspeakable and she knows enough to be cautious for a while—James has you wrapped up tightly. He’s pulled the duvet back over you both, likely in an attempt to get you to stop shivering, and looks to be rubbing slow circles into your back beneath it. He has his lips to your forehead, murmuring promises that Lily would never make, that she’s worried he won’t be able to keep. 

“You’re safe,” James tells you. Your eyes are closed like you’re trying hard to believe it. “We’ve got you, yeah? Nothing’s going to happen to you while we’re here, sweetheart, I swear it.” 

As Lily moves closer, she realizes that you’re crying. Slow, silent tears, the only evidence their faint shine on your cheeks. And oh, Lily would ravage the world to ensure that never happens again. She’d ruin it all—the death eaters, the Order, all of it. 

Perhaps James senses this. He turns to look at her, a brief, silent communication passing between them, and Lily softens. For the moment, she has all she needs; you’re both home and safe. 

“Here,” she says quietly, holding your water out to you. 

You tip your lips up in wordless thanks as you take it. James helps you sit up to drink. 

“I don’t know if you recall, but that,” he says, pointing to Lily with his chin, “is the brightest witch of our age. And I’m—well, I’m less impressive than that, but no one broke into Filch’s office before me, eh?” 

His levity is enough to coax a smile out of you. James’ dimple appears for the victory, and he wipes a tear from your cheek, kissing over the spot. 

“So, basically, you’ve got the world’s cleverest witch and Hogwarts’ most ingenious wizard sharing your bed. No one,” he emphasizes, nosing at your cheek affectionately, “is safer than you.”

[verricherri]

you call and i arrive ma cherié 🍒❣️ have a couple random requests that so will spam your inbox teehee, no pressure to write tho! <3

reader gets her menstrual cup "stuck" and panics, she doesn't want spencer to help take it out but he does and fluff/smut ensues....

Just Breathe (NSFW // MDNI)

A/N: My biggest nightmare is my menstrual cup getting stuck and ending up in the ER like “hi hello I need professional help and zero eye contact.” BUT. here’s Spencer Reid — like the dream man he is. Warnings: If period talk isn’t your thing, feel free to skip, but personally? An orgasm a day keeps the cramps away Masterlist Feedback and reposts are appreciated  ☀️

You’ve been in the bathroom long enough to lose feeling in both feet and every last shred of dignity.

You’ve squatted, you’ve breathed, you’ve tried to “relax” like the forums say — but your damn menstrual cup won’t budge. It’s stuck. Like emotionally-attached kind of stuck. And the longer you try, the more you spiral.

Which is exactly when you hear it.

“Babe?”

You freeze.

Spencer’s voice is gentle, just outside the door.

“You okay in there?” “…Yeah,” you croak. “Fine.”

Pause.

“You’ve been in there twenty-three minutes. That’s 8.5 minutes longer than your average shower plus oral hygiene routine.” You groan. “Stop with the stats, Reid.” “You don’t sound fine,” he says. “You sound… frustrated.”

You lean your forehead against your palm. There’s no saving this.

The door cracks open. You poke your head out.

Spencer’s in plaid pajama pants and a worn Caltech t-shirt, hair sleep-mussed, eyes full of concern.

“…My cup’s stuck,” you admit. He blinks. “What kind of cup—oh.” You give him a look. “Yeah. That one.” “Okay,” he says simply, like you just told him you misplaced your keys. You shuffle awkwardly. “I’ve been trying. My hand’s cramping. My uterus is staging a revolt. I feel like a goddamn Tupperware container.” “Suction lock,” he nods, already processing. “Happens when the rim seals too high near the posterior fornix. Add muscle tension, it’s like trying to pull a plunger off a mirror.”

You stare.

“…Why do you know that?” “Because I love you. And because I wanted to understand everything that affects you — not just emotionally, but physically. So I learned."

You snort despite yourself.

He leans in, voice soft.

“Do you want help?” You blink. “Help… how?” “I wash my hands. You lie back. I find the rim and release the seal. No big deal.” Your face is on fire. “That is absolutely a big deal.” “Not to me,” he says. “To me, it’s anatomy. And you. And the fact that you trust me enough to ask.” You hesitate. Then: “Okay. But if this gets weird—” “We stop the moment you say.”

---

Spencer washes his hands like he’s prepping for surgery. Thorough. Focused. You catch yourself watching him — the way water glides over his wrists, the roll of his sleeves, the precision of those impossibly long fingers.

He glances at you in the mirror. “You’re staring.” “Just… mentally preparing.” “I’ve delivered a child in less-than-ideal conditions,” he says with a tiny smile. “Helping you with this? I promise — it’s not even remotely uncomfortable.” You nod. A breath. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

You’re on the closed toilet lid, towel wrapped around your hips, heart pounding in your ears.

Spencer kneels in front of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Scoot forward. And try to relax your pelvic floor — think melting butter, not steel door.” You bark a nervous laugh. “Do you flirt like this at the BAU?” “That wasn’t— I wasn’t trying to flirt. I just wanted you to have a helpful visual.” Then, after a beat, quieter: “But… if it helps, I don’t say things like that to anyone else.” He glances up again. “Still good?” You nod. “Alright. I’m going to feel for the base. Tell me if anything hurts.”

You take a shaky breath. And when his fingers make contact — warm, steady, gentle — you almost forget how anxious you were.

“Tilt your hips a little. Good. The seal’s strong. No wonder you couldn’t get it.” “I told you—” “Shh. You’re doing amazing.”

His voice is low, focused, soothing. And when he finally releases the seal and eases the cup out, you actually sigh in relief.

He doesn’t toss it.

He rinses it.

You stare as he rinses the cup at the sink — gentle, thorough, not even slightly grossed out. He’s handling it like it’s just another lab instrument. Like it’s normal. Like you are normal.

He turns the tap off and dries it carefully before setting it back in its little container. Then he looks over his shoulder, casual as ever.

“You're supposed to wash it with warm water and mild soap after removal to avoid bacterial contamination. You can also boil it between cycles, or use a 70% isopropyl solution, but it depends on the brand, and—” He cuts himself off. “Sorry. You probably know all that.” You blink at him. “No, I mean—yes, but… you’re doing it like it’s second nature.” He shrugs, drying his hands. “I’ve read before. Menstrual products. Pelvic floor tension. Cervical positioning—” You tilt your head, amused. “Spencer.” “Right. Sorry. I just meant... you shouldn’t be the only one who understands your body. I care about you, so I learned.”

That hits you right in the chest.

“I think I just fell in love with you again.”

He blinks, caught off guard. Then gives you that soft, lopsided smile that ruins you every time.

“Are you still cramping?” You nod. “A little.”

He sits beside you, drying his hands again — mostly to keep them busy.

“There’s a statistically significant link between orgasm and pain relief, particularly during menstruation. It’s the oxytocin — it spikes during orgasm, which helps reduce the release of prostaglandins, which are the primary cause of uterine contractions and cramping.” You raise a brow. “Spencer.” “Also dopamine and endorphins. Plus, the muscle contractions during orgasm help relax the uterus post-release, which—sorry. I’m rambling.” “I’m not complaining.” “Okay, good, because—” he breathes in, grounding himself “—I could get your heating pad. Or… I could use my fingers. Only if you want.” “You’re prescribing it?” “No,” he says seriously. “Prescriptions come with dosing requirements and side effects. This is just… a suggestion. Based on research. And love.”

You stare at him.

He fidgets. “Was that weird? That was weird.” You shake your head, smiling. “It was very you.” “Then I’m glad,” he murmurs, finally settling beside you. “Because I really, really want to help you feel better.”

You nod, the tension in your shoulders finally starting to melt.

He stands, then pauses.

“Would a warm shower help first? Before… anything else.” You glance up. “Yeah. That actually sounds good.” “Okay. Yeah. I’ll, uh—set the temperature.”

You watch as he turns toward the shower, rolling up his sleeves instinctively, even though they’re coming off. He adjusts the knobs, testing the water with the back of his hand like he’s handling evidence.

“Too hot can increase blood flow,” he murmurs. “But if it’s comfortable, it can also relieve muscle tension.”

Then he looks at you — and there’s something so gentle in the way he says:

“Do you want help with…?” You nod again. Quietly. “Yeah.”

He moves slow, untying the towel around your hips like it’s something sacred. Then he peels off his shirt — awkwardly, like it’s a crime scene hoodie — and drops his flannel pants next.

When you’re both bare, he offers his hand again.

“Come on,” he says softly. “Let me help you feel better.”

The water steams behind him.

And this time, when you step in together, it’s not just for relief.

It’s for all the things you’ve never let anyone else see — and all the ways he shows you he’s safe to be seen.

---

The water hits your back. The steam rises. But it’s his fingers on your stomach that make your body melt.

“Still okay?” he murmurs behind you. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m going to use my fingers. Just me and you, and how you trust me.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

He turns you gently, back pressing to the tile. His hand cups your hip, the other sliding between your thighs.

“You’re bleeding a little,” he says softly. “You know I don’t care, right?” “I know.” “Good.”

Then he presses in.

Two fingers — slow, deep, and absolutely filthy. You gasp, eyes flying open.

“God—” “Not God,” he murmurs, “just your boyfriend.”

He starts to move.

Slow thrusts. Thumb circling your clit. His other hand presses to your stomach like he wants to anchor you to the earth.

“You’re already dripping,” he growls. “Not just the water — me. You want this so bad.”

You moan, hips grinding forward.

“That’s it. Fuck yourself on my fingers. Just like that. I’ve got you.”

You’re barely breathing. Every word makes it worse — better — everything.

“This is what you needed. Not a heating pad. Not ibuprofen. Me.”

He thrusts deeper.

“You think this changes anything? You think I don’t want you like this?”

“Spence—”

“I want all of you,” he says. “Messy. Bleeding. Soft. Loud. Ruined. Always.”

Your legs tremble. Your voice breaks.

“I’m gonna—”

“Cum for me. I’ve got you. Let go.”

And you do.

Your orgasm rips through you like a wave — sharp, overwhelming, perfect. You cry out, collapsing into him as your whole body shakes.

He doesn’t stop until your knees give out and he’s catching you.

Holding you.

Kissing your temple.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs. “You’re so okay. You’re mine.”

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Twenty-Seven

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, sexual content, husband!Lando

Notes — You'll be delighted to hear that I'm no longer restricting myself to 30 chapters. We might still be going in 20 years. I don’t want to rush any of their story.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

The house they’d rented for their mini-honeymoon was tucked into the Cotswolds, surrounded by sprawling fields and winding country roads. It was nothing extravagant — just two nights, just them, before the season roared straight back into motion. A window of quiet. A pause between chapters.

Amelia stood barefoot in the kitchen, her hair loosely braided down her back, as she watched Lando attempting to operate the stovetop espresso machine. He was shirtless, hunched with intense focus, and utterly failing.

“That’s the wrong burner,” she said, not unkindly.

Lando looked up, caught in the act. “I was testing you.”

“You’re failing.” She giggled. 

He grinned and finally turned the knob correctly. Steam hissed. Outside, a low breeze rustled the leaves. The cottage smelled like lavender and toast. One of her rings — the wedding band — clicked gently against the ceramic mug she was holding, and she stilled. Amelia glanced down at her hand, turning it slowly in the light. Both rings — the engagement and the wedding band — glinted at her, new and strange. Only a tiny bit heavier than before, but noticeable.

“I’m still getting used to the feeling,” she murmured.

Lando poured the coffee and set one cup in front of her. “What feeling?”

She tapped her fingers against the side of her mug. “Two rings. It’s a lot more sensory input than one. I keep noticing them. Like a very mild version of wearing my watch on the wrong wrist.”

He sat across from her, cradling his own mug, his legs tangled beneath the table like he belonged in every soft corner of the morning. “Is it uncomfortable? You don’t have to wear them, baby.”

“No. I like wearing them. It’s just… different,” she said, after thinking about it. “But I like that. It makes it feel real. Like a constant reminder.”

Lando smiled, gentle and full of something that felt like sunlight. “It is real.”

She looked at him, her husband, now, and felt that odd little stretch in her chest again. 

They spent the day driving lazily through villages, stopping for fresh strawberries and cream, taking photos at every stone wall and overgrown hedge. He kissed her forehead at every stoplight. She held his hand every second she possible could. 

That night, they were curled up on the tiny sofa in front of the fireplace, the embers low and warm. Amelia had her head on his shoulder, tracing invisible shapes on his chest through the cotton of his t-shirt. “I liked your vows,” she said.

Lando made a soft sound. “I, like, panicked my way through them.”

“And you cried” she added, softly smug.

“Couldn’t help it. You looked like a dream,” he whispered, kissing her hair.

“I’m glad we didn’t wait.” She told him, after a beat. 

He nodded, squeezing her, kissing her head. “Me too.”

They sat there for almost all night, the hours stretching out like soft fabric, warm and quiet and alive. The wedding day had all become a bit of a blur. Beautiful. Full of love. Their families had laughed and drank too much wine, and for one day her dad had been just that — not Lando’s boss, but his father-in-law. 

“I love being married to you,” Lando told her. 

Amelia laughed. “It’s only been a day.”

“Well, yeah, but it’s been the best day of my life,” he said.

She kissed him, slow and sure. “I like being married to you, too.”

—

The sun was barely cresting over the hills while they were packing up the car. Their two-night honeymoon had gone by in the blink of an eye. Amelia folded the last of their clothes into her duffel, zipped it closed, and watched Lando make a show of fitting the leftover snacks into his backpack.

“You could just carry the crisps separately,” she offered, watching him frown at the bag.

Lando gave her a look like she’d suggested something criminal. “The’ll fit. I don’t want to have to carry two bags through the airport.”

She sighed and leaned against the car, her left hand absently rising to adjust her sunglasses — and catching once again on the glint of the two rings on her finger. She was starting to acclimate to them. The newness was still there, but now it was becoming a kind of comfort. A tether, maybe.

They drove to Heathrow listening to a playlist Amelia had built for the car ride, songs they’d played at the wedding reception, one after another like quiet echoes. When Electric Feel came on, Lando laughed and reached for her hand. “Max dancing to this was the funniest part of the night.”

“He was off-beat on purpose,” Amelia replied, dry. 

“He says that, but I think he’s just bad at dancing.”

Amelia tilted her head. “That didn’t stop you.”

“Oh, I looked incredible on that dance floor.” He grinned. 

“You nearly dislocated your shoulder.”

“And I’d do it again,” Lando said proudly.

The flight to Austria was short, uneventful, smooth. They landed to a flurry of activity. The paddock was already humming with the usual pre-race tension and preparation, even from the carpark, they could see team trucks, personnel moving around with radios clipped to their belts, tyres stacked in neat lines like puzzle pieces waiting to be solved.

It was like re-entering orbit.

At the McLaren motorhome, people greeted them with smiles and congratulations. Someone had put “Just Married” bunting across the back wall of Lando’s garage — and the social media liaison handed her a bouquet of peonies when they walked into the paddock, filming them (for a TikTok, probably). 

“This is kind of surreal,” she said quietly, touching one of the petals. 

Lando, already redressed in head-to-toe team gear, brushed a kiss to her cheek. “You’re allowed to be a little sentimental. You’re married now.”

She nudged him. “You’re married too.”

“Right,” he grinned. “And already back at work less than a week later. Very devoted.”

“You want a medal?” She teased, 

“Yes, preferably chocolate.”

She rolled her eyes and turned to go through the pre-race engineering notes, her clipboard already full. Race week had begun, again. The season didn’t wait, wedding or not. But for a few moments more, she could still feel the softness of the last week in the curve of her shoulders and the warmth of her ring finger.

Lando jogged off toward his garage when Will shouted for him, turning back only once to catch her eye.

And she smiled. Married. Back to work. But tethered together in one certain way.

—

The walls of the Red Bull strategy room were matte grey and slightly dirty. Two screens took up most of one side — telemetry blinking in real-time, simulation models lining up neatly like soldiers. Engineers moved in and out quietly, murmuring about tyre windows and sector times.

Amelia sat in her usual spot at the table, posture relaxed but alert, tapping the cap of her pen against her notes. Max dropped into the chair beside her, dropping a bottle of water onto the table with a satisfying thunk.

"You're late," she said without looking up.

"I'm fast though,” Max countered, cracking the cap. “So it evens out."

She didn’t laugh, but her lip twitched. “You know we’re going to need to double stint the mediums if the degradation runs high again. It’s not going to be as clean as last year.”

Max leaned over to glance at her notes, one eyebrow rising. “You’ve already run the long-run overlays?”

“Before breakfast,” she said. “Softs fall off faster than predicted in traffic. If you get boxed in Turn 3, you’re going to have to stretch the second stint, or commit to three stops.”

Max hummed, nodding slowly. “And if we undercut?”

“Only if you get DRS every lap, or clean air from the start. Otherwise you’ll burn out your tyres too soon.” She pushed a tab on her tablet, flipping to a new data cluster. “You’ll need to be aggressive into Sector 2. That’s where Checo is losing time, by the way.”

“She’s so smug when she’s right,” Max said, dryly, to no one in particular.

“I’m not smug,” Amelia replied. “Don’t take Turn 9 too shallow this year. I saw your onboard. You were clipping the inside kerb last time and risking bottoming out.”

“You watched last year’s onboard footage again?” He asked. 

“Obviously.” She shrugged. 

Max gave her a long look. “When do you find the time?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I watched in on three times speed while I was peeing this morning.”

He snorted. “Multi-tasking. I like it.”

There was a knock on the open door — Hannah poking her head in. “You two ready to head over to the sim? Checo’s already in there”

Max stood, stretching. “Yeah. Think so.”

Amelia gathered her iPad and notebooks and stood beside him. “Do we have the same ride-height as last round?”

Hannah nodded. 

Max bumped his shoulder into hers lightly before they left the room together. “Wedding of the year’s over,” he murmured as they walked down the hall. “You gonna win me the championship again this year?”

She hummed. “Only if you give me a clean first lap today.”

She really liked how easy it was to joke around with Max—she could be playful and he never thought she was being mean, could always tell when she was telling a joke. 

“No promises.” He grinned. 

She smiled at him. 

— 

The fans buzzed overhead, barely cutting through the thick warmth of the Red Bull garage. It smelled like tyre rubber and brake dust and faintly of the coffee someone had abandoned near the telemetry stations. Amelia sat half-perched on the edge of the pit wall desk, ankles crossed, flipping through her iPad with methodical intent, her stylus tapping lightly on the screen.

GP approached with his headset looped around his neck, the usual controlled chaos of a race weekend thrumming behind him. He grinned at her, lopsided and knowing. “Heard you got married.”

She didn’t look up. “I did.”

“To Norris,” he clarified, eyes amused.

“Also true.”

Christian appeared just then, phone in hand, looking as if he’d just stepped away from a meeting he didn’t particularly enjoy. “I saw the photos,” he said. “Looked great. Very British.”

Amelia blinked at him. “Well, I’m mostly American, so…”

Christian held up his hands in mock surrender. “I know. Sorry. But I saw that there were scones.”

Amelia snorted. “Lando’s mom insisted.”

GP raised an eyebrow. “So you actually stayed away from the factory for an entire week? I’m impressed.”

She gave him a dry look, her stylus pausing mid-swipe. “You didn’t crash the sim server once while I was gone.”

“No,” GP admitted. “Probably because you didn’t have Max on it all day every day.”

Christian leaned against the wall beside her, arms folded across his chest. His eyes crinkled faintly. “So. Honeymoon?”

“Two days in the countryside. It was nice,” Amelia replied, not looking up. “But Austria waits for no one.”

There was a pause, a slight weight to the air.

“And after that?” Christian asked. “You thinking about doing anything nice next year?”

She turned a page in her notes. “Yeah,” she said, calm. “I won’t have to be at the factory during breaks anymore, so I’ll have more time with him, probably.”

That landed like a dropped screw in the silence.

GP tilted his head. “Wait—you’re leaving?”

Amelia nodded once. “Max and Jos have known for a while. Thought they might have mentioned it.”

Christian stood a little straighter. “Where are you going?”

“McLaren.”

The word slipped out easily. Controlled. Final.

GP let out a short breath, blinking. “McLaren?”

Christian’s mouth twitched into something unreadable — tight at the corners. Calculating. “For Lando.”

Amelia looked up then, her expression unreadable but edged with quiet defiance. “No. But if that’s what you want to think, sure.”

GP blinked at her like she’d just short-circuited his brain. “You’re really leaving us?”

“Yeah. Probably,” she said, finally setting the tablet down on her lap. “Max won’t need me next year. You’ll have the car sorted before Bahrain. I’ve already finalised the details with Adrian.”

Christian’s voice dropped. “That’s a big decision.”

“So was coming here,” she said evenly.

There was something in her tone — not defensive, not regretful, but unshakeable. The same voice she used in strategy meetings when she was right and everyone else was just taking longer to realise it.

Christian sighed, then nodded once. His jaw was tight. “You always were one step ahead.”

Amelia made a face. “I just like to plan ahead. Nothing wrong with that.” 

GP looked down at the floor, then back at her, genuine sadness flickering in his expression. “It won’t be the same without you.”

“It’s not supposed to be,” she replied, voice quiet now. “You build things. You adapt. That’s the job. That’s the sport.”

Christian glanced at her again, and some of the tightness was gone. “You know the door’s always open.”

“I don’t think I’ll be coming back.” She said plainly. 

GP gave her a nod. Christian’s eye twitched before he was walking away, murmuring something into his phone.

Amelia looked back down at her iPad. Sighed at Max’s inability to not overheat the left rear into turn one.

Just another Friday.

—

The kettle was whistling on the counter.

Amelia was curled into a kitchen chair, legs folded under her, wearing a hoodie of Lando’s that swallowed her narrow frame. The sleeves were bunched around her knuckles. Her iPad was open on the table in front of her, the screen glowing faintly in the morning light. She hadn’t typed a single word in the blinking reply box.

Lando walked in with damp hair, still tousled from his shower, his phone in one hand. “You want tea?”

“No,” Amelia said, eyes still locked on the screen. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”

He paused by the counter. “That’s a lot of answers.”

She didn’t elaborate. Just tapped the tip of her stylus absently against the wood grain of the table, small and rhythmic.

Lando made her a cup anyway. Peppermint, no caffeine. He placed it gently in front of her, then slid into the seat across from her. “What’s going on?”

She nudged the iPad toward him wordlessly.

He read the email silently. Then again, slower this time. When he looked up, his face was unreadable.

“We’d love to do a feature on you,” he read aloud, softly. “Your career path, your unique path into the engineering field, and your part in Max Verstappen’s 2021 Championship. Your openness about being autistic. And now, the public interest in your recent marriage to Lando has made you one of the most fascinating figures in motorsport right now...”

He passed the tablet back.

“I don’t know what to say,” she murmured.

“Do you want to do it?” He asked.

“I don’t know,” she said again, tone clipped this time.

“Okay. Why not?”

She sighed, brushing her hair out of her face. “Because it’s… all very personal. And I know what that means. It means they’ll ask questions about my childhood and my dad and you and Max and my autism and everything. And maybe they’ll twist it into something I didn’t mean to say, and then suddenly my entire life is summed in one terrible headline.”

Lando nodded. “Yeah. Maybe.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re not supposed to agree with me. You’re supposed to, like, tell me I’m overthinking and this is an exciting opportunity and they’ll be nice.”

“I’m your husband now,” Lando said, lips quirking. “Legally, I have to be honest with you.”

Amelia huffed, a soft laugh bubbling up despite herself. “Shut up.”

He reached across the table, gently brushing his fingers against hers. “So what exactly feels wrong about it? The autism thing?”

“All of it,” she said. Then, quickly—“None of it. I mean—” She took a breath, tugging on the sleeves of his hoodie like she needed the fabric to hold her together. “I want to tell my story. I like the idea of it. But I’m scared they’ll simplify it. Make it into a neat arc. ‘Autistic woman makes good car. Marries F1 star. Representation! Progress!’” She winced. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“Of course it is,” Lando said. “Everything about you is complicated.”

“Thanks,” she said, deadpan.

He smiled, nudging her foot under the table. “Yeah, but that’s why I love you, baby.”

Amelia didn’t smile. Not yet. Her brows pinched, eyes unfocused. “I’m worried they’ll ask about how you cope. Like I’m something hard to live with. Like I’m a challenge someone has to overcome to prove how good and kind and patient they are. Like I’m not the one making things work.”

Lando leaned forward, his voice steady. “I don’t cope with you, Amelia. I don’t endure you. I live with you. And I love you. And I respect you more than I respect anyone else in my life.”

She blinked at that. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Okay, but… what if I say something wrong? What if I let people in and they don’t understand?”

“Then they don’t understand,” he said simply. “That’s not on you.”

She was quiet for a long beat.

“I don’t want to be a mascot,” she said at last, almost a whisper. “Or a headline. Or a symbol. I just want to do good work. And be happy. And love you. And maybe go to bed early tonight.”

“You can do all those things,” Lando said, voice softening. “You’re already doing most of them.”

Amelia finally reached for the tea. It was warm. Steady. Familiar.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” he added, gently. “Baby, you can think about it. You don’t have to say yes right away.”

She looked up at him, finally meeting his gaze.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll think about it.” Then, “But if I do say yes, do you think they’ll let me read it before they post it? To make sure it’s fine.”

“I’m sure they’d be okay with that.” He nodded. 

Amelia smiled at him, her cheeks a little red. “Can we kiss for a little while?”��

He pushed his chair out and patted his lap. 

—

The interview took place in a quiet café near Paris — one Amelia had chosen specifically for the low lighting, the muffled acoustics, and the booths with high backs. The interviewer had been vetted in advance by Max’s PR team, and to Amelia’s mild surprise, she wasn’t awful. She was actually… gentle. Respectful. And patient.

Her name was Lisette, and she came alone, no assistant, no camera crew, just a voice recorder, a notebook, and a kind smile.

“Ready when you are,” she said softly.

Amelia, sitting cross-legged in the booth in a dark green jumper and her favourite wide-legged trousers, nodded once. “Okay. You can start.”

Lisette clicked on the recorder.

There was a beat of silence. Then, “Amelia, you’ve had a remarkable career already — and it’s still just beginning. Race strategist, performance engineer, design technician. You’re kind of a jack of all trades. But what I really want to know is… what’s it like to be one of the most visible women in Formula 1?”

Amelia blinked slowly. “Overwhelming. And also very cool. And also… a bit ridiculous?”

Lisette smiled curiously. “Ridiculous?”

“I work with some of the most brilliant people in motorsport,” she said. “I’m still learning every day to not cope with the constant chaos, noise, and… expectation.”

Lisette nodded, jotting a note. “And what’s the answer to that?”

“I don’t. Cope, I mean,” Amelia said honestly. “I manage. I prepare. I build systems around myself that work. And I work really, really hard to be excellent at what I do, so that no one can dismiss me.”

A long pause.

“I like that,” Lisette murmured. “Can I ask—what is the biggest misconception people have about you?”

Amelia leaned back, eyes darting to the side in thought. “That I’m delicate,” she said at last. “Because I act a little differently, and I have to wear ear-defenders more often than not, and I can’t do loud sponsor events without at-least one prep day. But I work sixteen-hour days during race weekends. I can out-logic a tyre delta problem in my sleep. Delicate isn’t the right word. I’m… I’m just precise.”

Lisette smiled. “And does that precision carry into your personal life?”

Amelia hesitated. “Sometimes.” She shifted in her seat, adjusting one of her rings — the wedding band. “I got married earlier this month,” she said, unprompted. “To Lando Norris.”

“I know,” Lisette said gently. “It looked beautiful. I saw some photos on social media. You had a lot of the grid attend.”

“It was beautiful,” Amelia agreed. “Loud and soft all at once. A sensory paradox. But it was all planned — down to the napkins. That’s how I make things manageable. We planned it for me to feel safe. And loved.”

“And did you?”

“I did. I do. All the time.”

“May I ask what it’s like, being married to a public figure?” Lisette asked. “An athlete?”

Amelia thought about that for a moment. “Well, he comes with a lot of noise.” She said, a wry smile on her face. “But he understands me,” she said finally. “Not everything, not all the time — but he wants to. And he’s not afraid of the harder parts. The shutdowns. The silences. The incessant need for structure. And I guess, in a way, I’m a public figure now, too. So we’ve evened out the playing field a little.” 

“You don’t seem uncomfortable talking about love,” Lisette noted.

“Oh, I’m not,” Amelia said. “I just don’t always know how much to share. Because once you start telling your story, people think they own it. But love… love is something I had to work very hard to understand. It didn’t come easily. So I’m proud of it.”

“Can I ask you something harder?” Lisette said softly.

Amelia tilted her head. “Um… Sure.”

“Do you ever feel responsible for being… a symbol? For other autistic people? Or young women who want to work in motorsport?”

Amelia let out a slow breath. “Yes,” she said. “And no. I want them to see me and think, ‘Maybe I can do that too.’ But I don’t want to be the only one. I don’t want to be special.”

Lisette nodded. “I understand.”

“I shouldn’t be the exception,” Amelia said.

The interview ended soon after, with soft thank-yous and a promise that Amelia would be sent a transcript to approve. She appreciated that, even though it was a pre-agreed condition of the interview.

Lando met her a few metres from the coffee shop. He was wearing a black coat and his hair was fluffy. She walked straight into his chest, fists closing around his shirt. 

He wrapped his arms around her. Squeezed. 

She exhaled a long, slow breath. 

—

The soft glow of the Parisian streets bathed the city in a warm, golden light. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the scent of fresh bread from nearby bakeries and the sound of distant chatter as pedestrians wandered through the winding alleys. Amelia and Lando walked hand in hand, their fingers intertwined tightly. 

"Paris is much quieter than I imagined," Amelia remarked, her voice soft as they strolled along the Seine, the river winding its way through the heart of the city.

Lando glanced at her, a playful glint in his eyes. “I think you’ve just gone numb to the chaos, baby.”

She smiled, a little sheepish. "Well, yeah. I guess I always compare everything to a race weekend now.”

He laughed, squeezing her hand. "Not quite like that here. It's definitely more... relaxed. Peaceful."

They paused near the Pont Alexandre III, the ornate bridge decorated with golden statues, and Lando pulled his camera from his backpack. “Can I take your picture?” He asked, already aiming it at her with a gentle grin.

Amelia blinked at him. “Now? You’re going to take a picture of me in front of a bridge?”

“Yeah,” Lando said, stepping back to get the right angle. “You look beautiful. I want to capture it.”

Her cheeks flushed, though she tried to hide it behind a playful roll of her eyes. “You’re ridiculous. I’m not even wearing a nice outfit. I’m wearing Max’s merch.”

“Exactly,” he said, already focusing on her. “And you’re still perfect.”

Amelia found herself standing still, her breath catching in her chest. 

Lando clicked the shutter. The soft click of the camera echoed in the stillness of the bridge. “Hold on, don’t move,” he said, his voice full of affection as he walked around her. “Just stay like that, okay?”

She tilted her head, amused but compliant. “What are you going to do with all these photos? I’m not a model, Lando.”

He smiled as he knelt down to get a different angle, his lens focused on her face. “Doesn’t matter. I want to remember moments like this. I want to keep them all.”

She smiled, feeling something warm spread through her chest. “Okay. Just... don’t post them on your Instagram or something, okay?”

Lando shot her a knowing glance as he snapped another picture. “Don’t worry. I’ll just keep them for myself.” He flashed a grin, his eyes lighting up with a mix of affection and mischief. “Maybe one day I’ll make a whole album for you.”

She laughed softly, walking over to him and reaching down to gently ruffle his hair. “You’re ridiculous.”

Lando stood up, pocketing the camera. “Yeah. Ridiculous for you.”

Amelia gave him a soft look, feeling the heat of his words settle in her heart. She hadn’t expected Paris to feel so intimate, so calming. She hadn’t expected this kind of quiet joy in a city that was often associated with hustle and glamour. But with Lando beside her, everything felt like it could slow down, just for them.

She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “You’re making me fall in love with Paris all over again.”

Lando laughed, his cheeks pink. “I think Paris is already in love with you.”

Amelia smiled at the pocket holding the camera. “I guess I’ll let you keep them.”

“Good,” he said with a wink. “I’m going to make a collage of you, so we can hang it on the wall when we get home.”

Amelia laughed, shaking her head as they continued walking, the streets of Paris unfolding before them like a never-ending adventure. 

—

Amelia sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers tracing the rim of her wine glass absentmindedly.

Lando was across the room, standing in front of the mirror. He’d pulled off his jacket, looking at himself for a moment before turning back to her with a soft smile. He hadn’t said anything, but she could feel his gaze on her, gentle, loving. She glanced up, meeting his eyes, and something in the way he looked at her made her heart flutter.

He moved toward her, slow and deliberate, as though savouring the moment. His presence was like a magnet, pulling her in, making her want to forget everything else and just focus on him.

“You good?” He asked softly, standing in front of her now. His hands gently cupped her face, tilting her head up to meet him. 

She nodded, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she reached up to touch his cheek, tracing the outline of his jaw with her fingertips. It was such a simple gesture, but it held everything she couldn’t put into words. Everything she felt when he was around—comfort, warmth, security.

“I’m happy we’re here,” she finally murmured, her voice soft. “I’ve needed this. Just...us. Even if it’s just one night before everything gets busy again.”

He smiled, his thumb brushing gently over her lower lip. “Me too, baby,” he said, voice low, full of affection. He leaned down, brushing his lips across her forehead, and then, with a quiet sigh, pressed his lips to hers.

The kiss was slow. She could feel his heart beating through his chest as he leaned in closer, wrapping his arms around her. Amelia let herself fall into him, her entire body relaxing as she melted into his embrace. Her hands roamed to his shoulders, feeling the muscles beneath his shirt. 

Lando’s hands moved to her waist, pulling her closer, and she let out a soft sigh. It was a soft, quiet kind of intimacy—nothing rushed, nothing forced. Just them, connected in a way that felt entirely natural.

He pulled back for a moment, looking into her eyes, his breath shallow. “I’ve needed you all day,” he said, his voice quiet, full of sincerity. “You’re everything, Amelia. Mine. My everything. My wifey…”

She laughed breathily, even as her heart skipped a beat, and she smiled softly. “Me too,” she whispered.

Then, without another word, he leaned down again, his lips meeting hers with a passion that took her breath away. Their kisses grew deeper, more urgent, as their hands began to roam, exploring the closeness they shared.

The world shrank to just the two of them. Quiet laughter, soft words exchanged between kisses, the occasional gasp as they held each other closer. Their love didn’t need to be about the fireworks or grand gestures. It was about the quiet moments—the firm touches, the way their hearts beat in sync, the way they could so seamlessly become one single person. 

It was magic, in a lot of ways. 

But Amelia didn’t believe in magic. 

So maybe it was just love.

NEXT CHAPTER

[airybcby]

જ⁀♡⊹｡° just put your sweet lips on my lips

( isagi yoichi x fem! reader )

♡ a/n — the first part in my newest series: the garden of you! (masterlist)

♡ word count — 1.2k

♡ content — isagi yoichi x fem! reader, slursagi mentioned, isagi is HEAD OVER HEELS for reader, just freaking puppy love, fluff, invasive paparazzi, established relationship ( 5 years ), reader & isagi are 25ish, not proofread!!

♡ synopsis — In the world’s eyes, Yoichi Isagi is unstoppable — the best striker alive, a two-time World Cup champion, and infamous for the brutal insults he dishes out on the field. But when the stadium lights go out, he comes home to you — still shy, still boyish, still head-over-heels. Under city lights, on the bench where it all began, he realizes that no trophy will ever compare to the way you say his name.

── .❀ we should just kiss like real people do

The world knows Yoichi Isagi in superlatives.

The best striker to ever play the game.

The man who’s rewritten soccer history—twice.

The player who turned “egoist” into a philosophy.

The boy from Japan who stunned the world and never stopped.

They know his goals. His mind. His ruthless hunger.

They know the way he screams across the pitch — brilliant, brutal, and unfiltered — flinging words that make highlight reels just as much as his goals do.

“You’re lucky I don’t play defense or you’d be in the fucking ground.*”

“Hope you brought a second pair of cleats, ‘cause I’m dragging you for the rest of this match.”

“I’m the best in the world, and you’re barely even a footnote.”

Iconic. Viral. Merciless.

But the Yoichi Isagi that walks through the front door at 9:42 p.m. on a Tuesday night?

He drops his bag by the door and calls out a little breathless, “I brought you the melon pan you like—!” before even taking off his shoes.

You’re still on the couch, wrapped up in a blanket, legs tucked beneath you, and as soon as you turn and smile at him—

He just… melts.

“Hi, baby,” you say.

And he stares. All pink ears and wide eyes and messy hair. He’s still in his training hoodie, still smells like grass and heat, but he looks at you like you’ve just told him he won the World Cup again.

“You’re so pretty,” he mumbles without thinking, and you giggle as you take the bag from his hand.

“You’re the one who’s glowing.”

“I’m sweaty,” he says bashfully.

“You’re glowing,” you insist, grinning up at him. “Like a boy in love.”

He groans and hides his face in your shoulder, mumbling something about you being unfair. You wrap your arms around his waist, and he clings back like it’s been days, not hours. 

He does this every time — like he’s scared he’ll blink and wake up to find it was all a dream.

You’ve lived together for three years now.

You’ve been his for five.

But Yoichi Isagi still gets shy when you compliment him.

Still flushes when you kiss his cheek.

Still stares at you when he thinks you aren’t looking.

When you’re out together, he gets stopped often — for autographs, photos, interviews. His fame doesn’t just follow him. It hunts him.

So when he books a quiet little dinner date at a tiny ramen shop tucked away from the city center, he hopes for some peace. Hopes for a normal night.

Hopes, selfishly, that maybe people can forget he’s Isagi Yoichi, world champion, and let him be just Yoichi, your boyfriend for a night.

But he’s not surprised when the flashes start.

You catch on quickly. He doesn’t say anything, just shifts closer to block you from view, arm resting behind you on the booth’s backrest.

“I guess someone tipped them off,” you sigh, picking at your noodles.

He shrugs like it doesn’t bother him. But it does. It always does — when people take your time like they’re owed it, when they ruin these quiet little moments he lives for.

So he looks over your shoulder. Locks eyes with the nearest camera.

And flips them off with a casual middle finger, expression still soft as he returns to you.

“Yoichi,” you gasp, hiding your laugh behind your hand.

“They’re not invited,” he says easily. “I have plans. With you.”

You lean over the table to kiss his cheek.

He blushes so hard he forgets how to use chopsticks for a full thirty seconds.

It’s only after dinner, as you’re walking hand-in-hand through the quieter parts of the city, that something shifts. He’s quieter now. Focused. Like there’s something heavier beneath the surface of his usual shy smiles.

The street is familiar. A little run-down, flickering lights here and there. You round the corner and see it before he says a word.

The bench.

Old wood, faded green paint. Under the lamp post where you met.

Where he sat beside you that night after training five years ago, heart still racing from the match, vending machine broken, unsure of how to start a conversation with someone like you.

You remember offering him a drink.

He remembers the first time you smiled at him.

And now, all this time later, he’s pulling something from his pocket.

Velvet box. Shaky hands.

And then he’s on one knee.

Your heart stutters. Your breath catches. His voice shakes.

“From the moment you said hello to me, I’ve been yours. Hook, line, and sinker.” 

He laughs through a tear that rolls down his cheek.

“You are every part of me. You consume my every waking thought. I love coming home to you. I love seeing you in my jersey. I love every part of being with you—and I want to do it forever.”

His voice drops. Barely above a whisper.

“Please. Will you marry me?”

You don’t remember saying yes out loud.

But you’re nodding. Crying.

Reaching for him with both hands, and then he’s standing, arms tight around you like you’re the only safe place in the world.

And he sobs.

Not the kind of tears that fall on the field, surrounded by roaring fans.

But quiet, breathless ones. Overwhelmed. Grateful. Real.

Yoichi Isagi.

The world’s greatest striker.

A living legend.

A foul-mouthed genius with two World Cups and a target on his back.

And in your arms, just a boy in love.

Hopelessly, deeply, forever yours.

Later that night — or technically, early morning — the world finds out.

Isagi posts just one photo to his account:

A candid shot of you in his arms, standing at the very spot where he asked you to marry him.

You’re laughing, hand outstretched, showing off the ring.

He’s holding you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched.

No caption. Just a daisy emoji.

And within minutes, the internet erupts.

By the time sunlight filters through your bedroom curtains, he’s already lying wide awake, phone in hand, blinking at the dozens of articles piling in.

Isagi Yoichi: Giving Up Soccer for Love?

Engaged! The Striker Who Won the World’s Heart Gives His Away.

A Ring, True Love, Another World Cup?

He sighs and turns off the screen. Drops his phone onto the nightstand and lets his head fall back against the pillow.

Because in this moment, he couldn’t care less what the world thinks.

Not when you’re draped over him like this — half-on, half-off, mouth slightly open and drooling against his chest. One of your legs tangled between his, one hand resting right over his heart. Right where the ring he spent months agonizing over gleams up at him in the warm morning light.

He tightens his arm around your waist. Brings his other hand up to brush through your hair, so gentle, like he’s afraid to wake you. But you shift anyway.

“Mmhm… good morning, baby,” you mumble, voice raspy with sleep.

And he’s gone. Just like that.

Heart wrecked. Soul floored.

Totally, irreversibly, eternally yours.

A soft little laugh catches in his throat.

Eyes watering all over again.

God, you don’t even know what you do to him.

“Good morning,” he whispers. And presses a kiss to your forehead like a vow. Like he’ll never stop saying it.

Not for the rest of his life.

i'm obsessed with isagi HE'S THE MC FOR A REASON

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❀ tags: ❀ @kenyuukissme ❀ @irethepotato ❀ @kiyy0mei ❀ @x3nafix ❀ @sugacor3 ❀ @ohagiyo ❀ @reigensuperstar ❀ @nevvynevnev ❀ join the taglist here !

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⋆.˚✮ 2025 ©airybcby ✮˚.⋆

[infinitydivine]

A day in your life with your future spouse/Partner

If this reading resonates with you, kindly share it to help your reader :)

Masterlist -Paid Readings-Paid Readings Reviews-PAC Readings

Choose your pile intuitively. Take what resonates and leave the other things. If you think this reading is not for you, then choose another pile. If it still doesn't resonate, then this might not be your reading.

There are Three Piles: Pile Locket, Pile Yearning and Pile Vintage.

Pile Locket

(The Empress, 4 of Wands, Knight of Cups, The Sun)

Hello, Pile 1! I hope you are excited to read your pile. Your day starts slowly. I am not sensing any urgency here, maybe it's the weekend day. There is a warm kitchen smell in your pile..like maybe you guys are making pancakes or toast, but it really it smells nice. The smell is all over your place, and I see you guys whining about it to your partners lol. They like making you breakfast, but not in a show-off way, but it's more because they love small rituals like these to see you smiling. I see them saying "You rest, I have got this", they are saying this in half-singing a song that is stuck in their head ( I heard- I would never fall in love again until I found you). Their presence is very grounding, and you don't feel rushed when you are with them. The Empress here tells me that you guys both prioritise peace over chaos. Even if you are busy people, your mornings are very special to you...kinda a sacred place. They pull you into a hug while you are brushing your teeth or randomly planting a kiss on your forehead just because they feel like doing it lol. This love is nurturing, not demanding and dramatic. In the afternoon, there is a laughter echoing in your space...maybe you guys are getting groceries or just you know joking around. The four of wands's presence here tells me that you two are partners in the truest sense like you know, you guys being together just makes sense. "It clicks". You both check in with each other a lot and there is a lot of saying of "Do you need space or attention"? That kind of love i am talking about. By the evening, the KoC enters and shows that even after years, you guys still git romance. You find a note they left in your bag or a sudden playlist they made especially for you that reminds them of you. The Sun glows in the night for you ...maybe you are eating dinner on the floor or slow dancing in the hallway. It's not about perfection... it's joy that feels simple but also honest. It's more about being seen like really seen.

If you liked the reading, book a personal reading with me or you could leave a tip for the reader.

Pile Yearning-

(6 of Pentacles, The Lovers, Ace of Cups, Page of Wands)

Hello Pile 2! I hope you guys are doing good. So let's see what this reading has to offer to you.

You two have very different energies, and yet you guys complement each other like a morning tea and sunlight (idk why i made this reference lol). Your day begins with them checking your schedule before you have even opened your eyes. They care for you in the acts of little services like bringing you coffee just the way you like it or taking care of the chores so you can just relax a little bit more and have space for yourself. You give each other what's needed without you know keeping scores. (with the 6oP)

The Lover here tells me that even on a regular day, there is this magnetic pull between you. You are talking about random things like news, childhood memories, weird dreams and wild fantasies like literally could be anything basic, and every conversation feels like peeling back another layer of each other but respectfully. There is depth, even in the normal things. Midday, the AoC reveals a spontaneous affection...hand in hands, PDA, laughter over shared meals or maybe you catch them looking at you like you are the only thing they care about in this whole damm world.

Evenings with them are very creative and fun. I also see your inner child coming out again with them and you guys doing all the silly things you have been wanting to do for a while. The PoW says they will either suggest you guys try a new recipe, painting or you know, just dancing in your living room to the 2000s or 1990s pop/rock songs. Like you know your jam and it could be anything. There is a youthful spark in your relationship that never left and is still here. They keep life playful. It's almost like the spark was always there, and you guys kept it alive in your everyday life by giving each other the space needed by not becoming too much, you know. It's like you are having a bad day and one of you understands and sees it and says, "Okay, I see that you need your me time and I get it" and just leaves the room respectfully.

If you liked the reading, book a personal reading with me or you could leave a tip for the reader.

Pile Vintage-

The Hermit, Queen of Pentacles, 3 of Cups, 2 of Cups

Hello Pile 3, I welcome you to your reading and I hope this reading will give you feel butterflies.

Your day starts quietly. You guys both love silence, and it shows in your energy. It's almost like a sacred kind and not the awkward one. You guys don't mind being silent in each other's presence. They know when you need stillness and silence, when to crack a joke to pull you out of your head and vice versa. The hermit tells me that you both are introspective souls, and you both value your me time. Mornings may involve journaling, meditating together or just you know sipping tea together without the need to fill the silence in the air while sitting in the garden or somewhere quiet.

The QoP tells me that your home feels safe to you guys. It's your safe sanctuary and safe space. Cosy corners, soft lights and mutual care are part of your daily schedule. What I mean to say is that it's your thing. They run errands without being aske,d and you smile at them in admiration. Sometimes thinking "how did I end up being with someone so perfect". They rub your shoulders when you have had a hard day, they want to be there for you like really want to be there and not just for the sake of the name.

Afternoons may involve time with friends and family. Just a few close people in your space and not the large crowd with 3oC being here. This shows a warm, supportive circle around your love and that you guys are protected by their love. You both celebrate small wins and show up for each other's people. There is this sense of community, but also a little bit different. It's like your love is a little secret the world only sees hints of (I kept hearing Taylor's song here with the lyrics..this love is cool..this love is???)

So with the 2oC, this card seals your night with cuddling, sharing your dreams or just simply resting on the couch in their arms as if you belong nowhere else but only there. With them, you don't have to perform like being someone else. You can just be, and I think that is more than enough for you guys.

If you liked the reading, book a personal reading with me or you could leave a tip for the reader.

Love, Infinity

[pathologicalreid]

merry christmas, please don't call | s.r.

in which Spencer pens an email to you, since you've already blocked his phone number

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: nondescript break up, described as spencer's fault, reader is mentioned to have worn lipstick, yearning, word count: 907 a/n: and the worst part is!!! that we both know!!!!! we are doing kind of an unofficial margotmas/reidmas! really i've just been building up christmas ideas for a while lol

To: xreader@gmail.com From: Spencer.Reid@gmail.com Subject: Merry Christmas

Hey,

Spencer shook his head, that was too casual.

Good afternoon,

Much too formal.

Hello,

Too rigid.

Darling,

I passed by the house that you told me you adored. It used to be your dream house; you’d always show me the Zillow listing whenever you were browsing. The owners didn’t put up their Christmas lights this year, and it looks like they’re getting ready to sell. I haven’t been online to check the listing, that was always your thing rather than mine.

Do you remember the house? It had four bedrooms for our kids to sleep in and a library with stained-glass windows. You always told me the stained-glass windows were your favorite feature of my apartment. I keep it covered now; the colored glass just serves as a painful reminder of you.  

Emily called me last week. I suppose no one told her that we weren’t together anymore because she asked what our holiday plans were. I haven’t made any since you left. I’m finding myself hopeful that we get called on a case over Christmas so that I don’t need to be surrounded by the world celebrating while I continue to wallow in the memories of you and me.

That’s all I have now: memories. We made so many of them over the course of three years that I don’t know what to do with them. I’ve always had the sneaking suspicion that having an eidetic memory is a curse just as much as it is a blessing, but with you gone, I know it’s more of a curse. I see you when I close my eyes as if your features have been permanently tattooed on the back of my eyelids, but when my eyes are open, everything is exponentially worse.

You left in such a hurry, so you were bound to leave a few things behind. When I went to make a cup of coffee and found one of your mugs in my cabinet, JJ and Penelope had to practically scrape me off the kitchen floor. There was still a lipstick smudge on it, a piece of our history the dishwasher couldn’t quite wash off. Your necklace was on the bedside table, though maybe that was left behind on purpose. I wish we could go back to the day I gave it to you, you could wear the same green dress, and maybe work wouldn’t get in the way. If I could, I’d call you to ask why you left it behind, but you’ve blocked my number.

There was no need for you to leave me things to remember you by, how could I ever forget you?

I’ve been finding myself grateful that you got so close with Garcia during our relationship, she doesn’t give me any explicit details on your life when she updates me. I never ask, but she knows I want to hear.

It’s a rather odd phenomenon to have once had someone who you shared everything with, only to one day find they want nothing to do with you. I always find myself reaching for my phone to send to a message, or leaning over to show you a line in my book, but you’re not there anymore. I don’t hold any malice in my heart for you, even after you called it all off. My biggest regret is that I couldn’t be the boyfriend that you needed, and I’m proud of you for realizing you wanted someone better. I’m sorry I couldn’t be better.

Maybe I still have some growing up to do. There might be some sort of emotional stunting as a result of my less-than-orthodox upbringing and education, which makes sense when you consider two of my most common nicknames, “boy genius” and “kid.” One day I could find myself in the same place you were, ready for more, but maybe then I’ll be with someone who is ready for the same things as I am. She’ll never be you though. You’ll always hold that special place in my heart.

Speaking of my upbringing, my mom keeps asking about you. Each time we talk on the phone, she asks if she can talk to you, but I’ve been telling her that you’re still working or are otherwise preoccupied. I know I shouldn’t lie to her, but if I tell her, she’ll inevitably forget, and I’ll be forced to recount the story of how I lost the best thing to ever happen to me forever. That would be my eternal damnation. There’s Sisyphus and Tantalus and Spencer Reid, slowly becoming nothing but a myth. I wonder if I’m a story that you tell your friends at O’Keefe’s.

I go there sometimes, just to see if I can catch your gaze, but you’re never there.

I know this is your favorite holiday, and I don’t intend to ruin your holidays with my message. I suppose I just needed to see if you still dream about that house. To see if you still dream of me the way I dream of you.

Merry Christmas,

Spencer

He clicked send nervously, ready to snap his work-issued laptop shut when it chirped with a notification. Surely you hadn’t responded that quickly. Spencer opened his inbox once more, checking the latest email.

To: Spencer.Reid@gmail.com From: mailer-daemon@googlemail.com Subject: Delivery Status Notification (Failure)

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[thunderbolt-ing]

Three Roommates and a Loft [3]

PREVIOUS | NEXT The One Where You Get Romanoff'd: A lifestyle adjustment, a bed-rotting intervention, a surprise guest, and a rebound roster. Yeah, you'll probably regret this later. Warnings: none, just pure silliness and slight (stupid) sexual innuendo. I'm sleep deprived when I'm writing this, so this is just pure crack. Word count: 6.6K (sorry for the mistakes, i dont proofread as you already know)

You were jolted awake at exactly 6:30 a.m. on a Sunday by the unmistakable sound of an old-timey trumpet muffly blaring through the ceiling, specifically, a World War II-era jump blues song. 

��� He was a famous trumpet man from out Chicago way,

He had a boogie style that no one else could play,

He was the top man at his craft,

But then his number came up and he was gone with the draft,

He’s in the army now, a blowin’ reveille, 

He’s the boogie woogie bugle boy of Company B! 🎵

There was only one possible culprit: Steve Rogers. 

His room was directly above yours, and apparently so was his nostalgia-fueled alarm clock. The song continued at full volume for a solid two minutes before Steve finally got up and shut it off. 

Unfortunately for you, that wasn’t the end of it. 

Next came the footsteps. Then the light stomping. Then… counting… and grunting…? 

Was he doing pushups? At six-thirty-five in the morning? On a Sunday? 

You buried your head under a pillow and groaned. The realization settled slowly and painfully; the walls in this loft were way too thin. Adjusting to life here was going to take time and possibly noise-cancelling headphones. Or earplugs. Definitely earplugs. 

Eventually, you managed to fall asleep again, though it was more like drifting in and out of consciousness while dreaming about WWII-era trumpets. Still, your body naturally woke up at your usual weekend time of 9:00 a.m., groggy but functional. 

Noise was already filtering in from the living room—voices, at least two of them, mixed with the clatter of dishes and the unmistakable sound of someone being way too enthusiastic for a Sunday morning (suspects are either Steve or Sam. You’re leaning towards Steve). 

You stared at the ceiling and sighed. 

This was your life now.

With the weight of reluctant acceptance, you braced yourself for the horror of human interaction. You got up from your bed and mentally prepared yourself to walk out of your room looking like a witch who’d just crawled out of a bog. Your oversized t-shirt was twisted halfway around your torso, your hair was an unruly mess, and you were certain that your face bore the imprint of your pillowcase. 

You didn’t even bother to make yourself look presentable. What was the point? 

You needed caffeine. You needed breakfast. And most of all, you needed to not be spoken to until at least a cup of coffee had been fully consumed. 

You sluggishly dragged yourself out of your room, your first stop being the bathroom. You just wanted to splash some water on your face and pretend to be alive. Instead, you opened the door to find a near-naked Bucky Barnes hunched over the sink, towel slung low on his hips, mid-shave. 

Your brain short-circuited, but he didn’t flinch. He just met your stunned silence with a deadpan stare. 

“Do you know how to knock?” he asked coolly, eyes narrowing like you’d just ruined his entire day. 

You blinked, fighting the instinctive downward glance that, traitorously, happened anyway. It only made everything worse. 

“Sorry,” you muttered, slamming the door shut as your heart pounded loudly in your chest. Your face burned with the mix of rage and embarrassment, and now, thanks to him, you were fully and disturbingly awake. 

From inside the bathroom, you heard him mutter just loud enough to be heard: 

“Unbelievable.” 

“Oh, fuck you,” you snapped through the door, patience running thin with the lack of caffeine in your system.  

“No thanks,” he called back flatly without missing a beat. 

You were two seconds away from throwing the door open and escalating when Sam’s voice rang out from the kitchen: 

“I told y’all to come up with a bathroom system.” 

You huffed and stomped your way into the common area, still fuming. 

Sam was at the stove flipping pancakes that were definitely a little burnt, but pretending not to notice. Steve was already seated at the newly placed dining table (thanks to your charitable donation), sipping coffee like this was a perfectly normal, drama-free Sunday morning. 

“Hey, sunshine!” Steve greeted you as you stepped into the room, entirely too cheerful for someone who caused your 6:30 a.m. trumpet wake-up call. “How was your first night?” 

“What is wrong with him?” you shot back, completely ignoring Steve’s question. “Does he not believe in getting dressed after a shower? Is that not a thing for him?”

Sam’s laughter echoed through the loft. “Wait—did you see him butt-ass naked?” 

Steve choked on his coffee, but being Steve, he tried to play it off with a composed nod and a sip like nothing had happened. 

You gave Sam a withering glare. “Toweled, but barely. It was an assault on my morning.” 

Sam was practically doubled over now. “Man, you and Bucky are gonna kill each other before the month’s out.” 

“Yeah?” you muttered as you poured yourself a cup of coffee. “Well, I’ll make sure I get to him first.”

“Doubt it,” Bucky said unenthusiastically, stepping into the room fully clothed this time. 

“No one’s killing anyone,” Steve cut in with a chuckle. “We just need time to adjust. There are four of us now, it’s gonna take a little grace.” 

You and Bucky locked eyes over your mugs. Clearly, there was no grace, only war. 

——

After breakfast, the guys headed out for a Whole Foods run, arguing over oat milk versus almond milk as they disappeared out the door. You stayed behind, however, choosing to confront the disaster that the loft turned into from your move-in yesterday. So, with Japanese Breakfast on Sam’s speaker, you got to work. 

You hauled your boxes to the center of the living room, then tore through them with the determination of a woman who was about to perform a miracle. Blankets, candles, books, and years of collected knick-knacks found their homes. A patchwork quilt over the chaise. A vase of bodega flowers on the dining table. Your Princess Diaries poster now hung proudly beside Bruce Willis, which perfectly summarized the loft’s new look. 

In the kitchen, you replaced the single wooden spoon with actual utensils, alphabetized the spice rack (because who was stopping you?), and stuck a whiteboard on the fridge that read Weekly Chore Rotation — TBD in teacher handwriting. You almost changed your alphabet magnet message from HELLO ROOMIES to HELLO FUCKERS, but you figured you’d soft launch your personality and have them get used to the harmless kindergarten teacher first. 

Perhaps you were getting carried away, but you even cleaned the entryway. Now there was a shoe rack, jacket hooks, and a key bowl because you weren’t a barbarian. You felt very smug about your work… until you opened the hallway closet and discovered the mini-armory. 

Mounted neatly on the back wall was an array of throwing knives, each blade gleaming despite the dim light. Steve’s old, battered shield leaned against the corner, the once bright paint chipped and scratched raw to the vibranium. It looked like it had been through hell, probably had. Maybe he kept it for emergencies, or maybe out of sentiment. Above the shield, resting on a shelf, sat a worn military grade duffle bag with WILSON embroidered on the front. You didn’t dare to open it, something told you that it didn’t hold gym clothes. 

And then, there was the bundle. It was tucked in the far corner, hidden enough that it could be overlooked. Before you could even begin to think about unwrapping it, keys jingled outside, and the front door swung open with a dramatic slam. 

“Guess who survived Whole Foods!” Sam’s voice rang through the loft, followed by the telltale thud of grocery bags hitting the floor. 

You quickly shut the closet door, forcing a casual smile despite your heart hammering in your chest. “Hey! So, who won the milk debate? For the record, I was team oat—”

“Hold up,” Sam cut in, eyes widening as he entered the living room. He gasped, hand clutching his chest theatrically. “Is that Amelia Mignonette Thermopolis Renaldi, Queen of Genovia next to John McClane?!”

You followed him into the living room with a shrug. “Don’t they look cute together?” 

“Who the hell is that?” Bucky asked, breezing past with grocery bags and heading straight for the kitchen. 

“Princess Diaries,” Sam and Steve answered in unison, though Steve was a beat slower and slightly more ashamed about knowing. 

Steve bent to pick up the remaining bags, but paused as he took in the living room. His eyes did a slow sweep across the space before he broke into a pleased, golden-retriever grin. “You redecorated.”

“Holy shit, you did,” Sam added, spinning in place to look around. “No more hostage bunker, frat house adjacent. This place has… character now.”

“There’s a key bowl,” Steve noted in delight, pointing to the entryway like you’d just placed a national treasure. 

“I’m ignoring this,” Bucky cut in from the kitchen. He scowled at the whiteboard magnetized to the fridge. “Weekly Chore Rotation? This is not elementary school.”

“Also, where are the tongs?” he asked, rummaging through the newly organized drawer with increasing irritation. 

“The rusty ones?” You asked, joining him in the kitchen. “I threw them out before it gave someone tetanus, but don’t worry, I replaced them with new ones.” You opened the other drawer and showed him the new tongs. 

Bucky turned to you, arms crossed. “So you’re in charge now?” 

You smiled sweetly. “Someone has to be a functional adult out of the four of us.” 

Steve chuckled as he dropped the last bag on the counter. “She’s not wrong.” 

Bucky muttered something about “whiteboard dictatorships” as he walked off, but not before you caught him glancing at the newly filled bookshelf. 

That was the closest thing to approval you were probably ever going to get. 

——

Adjusting to your new life at the loft with three superhero roommates was… messy at best. The only man you’ve ever lived with before was Adam, and while that came with its own set of issues, chaos had never been one of them. Adam had been neat, predictable, and quiet. The exact opposite of the three men you now shared a loft (and very thin walls) with. 

The loft wasn’t perfect. It was loud, unfiltered, and filled with clashing personalities. But oddly enough, it was exactly what you needed right now. You wouldn’t admit it out loud, not to them at least, but the chaos helped. It distracted you from thinking about Adam and from falling back into the life you’d walked away from. 

Monday started off strong. 

You were in the kitchen, half-asleep and clinging to your coffee before work, when Sam practically sprinted down the stairs looking like he’d already finished at least three marathons.

“Morning, miss girl,” he beamed, already reaching for your mug as if you didn’t need it to survive. “What’s your sign by the way? Wait—don’t tell me. You’re a Virgo aren’t you? You alphabetized the spices.” 

You stared at him. You didn’t even get a word in before he declared you his ‘platonic soulmate’ three times and tried to convince you to join him on a sunrise run. It was 5:07 a.m.

Later that day, after work, you found Steve in the living room, utterly absorbed in The Great British Bake Off. You expected him to switch to something more macho when you sat beside him, but instead he turned to you with a frown.

“I just think he could’ve decorated that cake better…” 

You blinked at him, unsure how to respond at first. “You know what, you’re right. It’s lacking something and the sponge looks dry.” 

“You wanna make something better?” 

“...Sure?” 

By the end of the hour, you were in the kitchen covered in flour, while Steve was making frosting. You two were making something completely unrelated to the show, and the smell of vanilla filled the loft. Steve wore an apron that said ‘Be Patriotic & Kiss the Captain’ with an arrow pointing toward himself. You didn’t question it, but you had a sneaky feeling that Sam was the one who gave it to him. 

Steve and Sam were surprisingly easy to get along with, but Bucky on the other hand, was the human equivalent of a locked door. 

On Tuesday, he glared at you for leaving your clothes in the dryer. 

On Wednesday, you got into a five-minute shouting match because he was using your shampoo. 

On Thursday, he accused you of “hogging the hot water” like you’ve just committed crimes against humanity. 

But on Friday, your shampoo was replaced with a fresh bottle, and when you walked into the living room later, he was reading your copy of Anne of Green Gables. You didn’t say a word. Instead, you just baked the cookies that Steve offhandedly mentioned Bucky liked. He didn’t say thank you, but the cookies didn’t last a day. 

Midweek, the boys left on an impromptu mission. It was a quick recon, nothing too dangerous according to Steve, but the silence in the loft was jarring. You wandered around in your fuzzy socks, grading math quizzes with background noise from a sitcom rerun just to fill the void. 

You actually missed the chaos. 

They came back home a day later, exhausted and grumpy. You didn’t say anything, but you had grilled cheese and tomato soup ready for them. Steve muttered something about being “blessed,” and Sam dramatically asked that you platonically marry him (whatever that meant). Bucky just gave you a curt nod, which, in his language, might as well be a hug. 

On Saturday, Steve and Sam insisted on helping you grade a stack of your kindergarteners’ spelling tests while eating cereal straight from the box. 

“Why does this kid spell ‘banana’ like ‘bunahnuh’?” Sam asked. 

“Gwen spells phonetically,” you replied, like it was obvious. 

Steve, squinting through his reading glasses with a red pen in his hand, held up a paper. “What’s turlul?”

“Turtle,” you replied with a grin.

Then Sam, looking deeply concerned, held up your lesson plan. “You’re teaching them Romeo and Juliet with puppets?” 

“What? They’re five and they love tragic romance.” 

Steve chuckled. “New York kids… gotta love ‘em.” 

The week ended with you, curled up on the couch, blanket over your legs, grading kindergarten science homework while Steve sat beside you, quietly sketching. Sam DJ’d badly from the kitchen while Bucky was silently fixing the crooked picture frame you meant to fix days ago. 

“You hung this badly,” he muttered.

“I’ll fix it later,” you replied without looking up. 

“It’s going to fall.” 

“Aw,” you looked up and smirked at him. “So you do care.” 

His lips twitched just a little, but you didn’t point it out. 

Living in the loft was a mess, but it was home. 

Your home.

——

Two months into living with the boys, a rhythm had settled in. It was morning coffees with Sam’s unsolicited astrology takes, quiet evenings grading assignments with Steve, and your usual snark-filled cold war with Bucky. Against all odds, the arrangement was working. And yet, even with all the laughter and distractions, the sinking feeling hadn’t gone away. If anything, the stillness between the noise made it even louder. 

You missed Adam. Terribly and painfully, in spite of the hell he put you through. Some wounds didn’t announce themselves with aching pain, they crept in during the quiet, slipping through the cracks when you were doing everything to keep moving forward. 

You thought you were hiding it well, smiling when you needed to, laughing when expected. But somewhere deep down, you had a feeling that the boys were starting to catch on. 

It started with Sam. One afternoon after work, he appeared at your door without knocking, flopping onto the edge of your bed with a bag of chips and zero introduction. He didn’t pry or asked how you were, he just talked about nothing. He complained about the subway system. He argued about why almond milk was better than oat milk. He recalled the dream he had where Steve ran for mayor and lost to RuPaul. 

Then Steve started stopping by too. He’d sit in the armchair in the corner, sketchbook in hand, half-listening to Sam’s ramblings and occasionally offering stories about old missions and silly anecdotes about his teammates. He talked about the Avengers often that you were starting to feel like you knew them, even though you hadn’t met any of them in person. Steve never asked what was wrong, he just stayed just like Sam did. 

Bucky never set foot in your room, but the arguments with him stalled. The sharpness between you dulled just a bit. He still glared, still muttered under his breath when you used the last of the coffee, but he didn’t pick fights the way he used to. It was as if he didn’t want to add more weight to what you were already carrying. 

At one point, the quiet sadness that had been simmering beneath the surface tipped into something heavier. A mini depressive episode, maybe. If you could even call it that. It crept in gradually at first and was barely noticeable, but soon your behavior shifted in ways the boys couldn’t ignore. 

You started locking your bedroom door after work, claiming you were just tired. You bailed on loft game night more than once, always with a vague excuse about lesson planning or needing to grade your students’ assignments. Even when you didn’t have a stack of spelling tests to get through, you stayed tucked away in your room, lights dim with Pride and Prejudice looping in your TV just to feel something. 

You stopped lounging on the couch. Stopped making dinner for the loft. Stopped bickering with Sam over his abhorrent snack combinations or baking with Steve for fun. You slipped in and out of the kitchen like a ghost, only entering when the coast was clear. You timed your showers to avoid Bucky, dodging eye contact in the hallway like it was a full-time job. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t care. You did. It was that everything suddenly felt unbearable. Every noise, every conversation, every mundane task, it all felt too much. 

The worst part? You didn’t even know how to explain it to yourself or the boys. 

By the time the weekend rolled around, you’d all but vanished into your room. The door stayed closed, the lights stayed off, and not even the smell of Steve’s buttermilk waffles managed to lure you out. 

Sam, in an attempt to get you to talk, slipped a piece of paper under your door:

Are u mad at me? Yes or no. Circle one pls <3. 

You saw it, but you didn’t pick it up. 

Later that evening, the three boys were sprawled on the couch, half-watching a terrible action movie and working through their respective takeout containers. The dialogue on the screen was awful, the explosions louder than necessary, but no one bothered to change the channel. 

Then, casually, as if tossing in an afterthought, Bucky asked, “What’s going on with her?” 

He didn’t look up from his food, he just stabbed a piece of broccoli with his fork. “Last night, she had this song on repeat. Something about a girl sitting in a restaurant, waiting or something. Played it for hours. I didn’t say anything. Kinda liked it.” 

Sam froze mid-chew. Slowly, he lowered his chopsticks. “Wait. Was she playing Right Where You Left Me?” 

Bucky shugged. “How should I know? I wasn’t paying attention. Her room’s next to mine, I just heard it.” 

Sam immediately placed his food on the coffee table like it had become irrelevant. “Oh hell no. That’s the emotional paralysis anthem.” 

Steve frowned. “You got all that from a song about… a restaurant?” 

“It’s not about the restaurant, Steven, it’s about the metaphor,” Sam said, deadly serious. “It’s heartbreak, it’s what you play when you’re stuck. And she’s got it on loop? Oh, I’m gonna kill that Adam guy.” 

“Who the hell is Adam?” Bucky asked, brow furrowing. 

“Her ex,” Sam said, crossing his arms. “Steve and I met him briefly. Bad vibes, stank aura, absolutely zero stars.” 

“Not a pleasant man,” Steve added diplomatically. “Didn’t seem to appreciate her.” 

Bucky went quiet for a moment, then muttered. “Figures.” 

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Figures what, Barnes?” 

“Nothing,” Bucky replied, too quickly. He refocused on his takeout with exaggerated interest, stabbing the piece of beef in his plate half-heartedly. 

Steve sighed and looked toward your room, his features softening. “I should try checking in on her again.” 

Sam was already on his feet, grabbing the extra box of chow mein from table. “Nope. We’re doing this together. This is a group effort.” 

Bucky didn’t move. 

Steve glanced at him. “You coming?” 

Bucky groaned, dragging himself up with zero enthusiasm. “Do I have to?” 

“Yes.” Sam and Steve said in unison, leaving no room for argument.

Reluctantly, Bucky followed them down the hallway. Sam knocked first, rapping his knuckles gently against your door. 

“I know you’re alive in there,” he called. “I can hear Mr. Darcy monologuing through the wall.” 

No response. 

Bucky shifted awkwardly. “Wanna insult me? Could be therapeutic. I’m an easy target and I used up all your conditioner again.” 

Still nothing. 

Steve gave the door handle a patient turn, but it didn’t budge. “We just wanna check in. No pressure.” Steve said, his voice low and gentle.

Sam held up the box of food like you could see it through the door. “We brought noodles… and poor emotional boundaries.” 

“Speak for yourself,” Bucky muttered. 

Steve side-eyed him. “You offered yourself up for verbal abuse two seconds ago.”

“I’m just trying to help!” Bucky snapped, crossing his arms. 

Another beat of silence followed. Then, from inside the room, you spoke up, your voice muffled, “Is it chow mein or lo mein?” 

Sam grinned triumphantly. “Chow mein.”

You shuffled to the door and creaked it open an inch. 

“Fine,” you sighed. “But only because I’m hungry and you guys are loud.”

As you stepped back to let them in, Bucky was the last to follow, but not before glancing at your TV, the frozen frame of Pride and Prejudice paused on Darcy’s rain-soaked confession. He didn’t say anything, just slipped inside and quietly straightened the crooked calendar by your door as the others made themselves at home. 

Sam looked around your room, eyebrows raised at the unmade bed, scattered tissues, and the lopsided stack of grading papers on your desk. “I love you,” he said as he handed you the box of chow mein, “But this is just… a mess, and I will be cleaning while we talk.” 

You gave a weak laugh as he started picking up the empty cups on your nightstand like he lived in your room, too. 

Steve sat gently on the edge of your bed, his tone soft. “I’m sorry you didn’t feel like you could talk to us.” His brows pulled together in concern. “I know we’re not… the best at this kind of thing, but we care and we want to help.” 

You looked down at the box in your hands, fingers digging into the paper. “It’s not that I didn’t feel comfortable with you guys,” you said, voice tight. “I just didn’t know how to explain it. And honestly, it’s stupid. I’ve been crying over Adam.” 

The words felt small and pathetic once they were out in the open. But the silence that followed wasn’t judgmental.

From the doorway, Bucky shifted his weight, arms still crossed tightly. His gaze stayed on the floor, then he mumbled, barely loud enough to hear. “It’s not… stupid.” 

You glanced up at him in surprise, but he refused to meet your eyes. 

Sam looked between the two of you with a knowing expression. “Well damn. If Barnes is offering moral support, then you’re officially at rock bottom.”

Bucky glowered at Sam while you flipped him off. “Whatever, Wilson,” you muttered in mock annoyance. 

Steve smiled, looking relieved that they were somehow helping. “Why don’t you go and spend a day with your own friends?” He suggested kindly, his tone gentle. “Not us, you know, like… women. People who get it more than we do.” 

“Sure! That’s cute,” You said dryly, bitterness bleeding into your voice. “Except all my friends were Adam’s friends, and when we broke up, he turned them all against me. They blocked me, every single one of them.”

“That motherf—“ 

“Okay,” Steve cut in quickly, shooting Sam a look before he could finish. “I’m calling Nat. She’ll know what to do.” 

“Nat?” You echoed, confused. “Who’s Nat?”

“Natasha,” Steve clarified, pulling out his phone.

“You know… Natasha Romanoff,” Sam clarified further, seeing your confused expression. “Black Widow…? Come on, keep up.”

“Oh no, no, no,” You sat up a little, alarmed. “I am not meeting her like this. She’s going to think I’m a loser. I mean, she kills men for sport, and I’m here sobbing into my pillow over one. I’m literally crying over someone who owns a mug that says ‘Rise and Grind’, I am beyond pathetic.” 

Steve raised his brow, but you kept going.

“It’s already embarrassing that you three know,” you muttered, tugging your blanket higher. “Just give me one more week of bed rotting and I swear I’ll bounce back.” 

“You’ve been rotting,” Sam said bluntly. “We’ve hit the compost stage.” 

“Advanced decay,” Bucky chimed in, arms still crossed. You shot him a glare. “Nat won’t judge.” Steve reassured, patting your shoulder gently. “She’ll understand more than we do.” 

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “She’ll actually be gentle, like surprisingly gentle. You need someone who gets it, because if it were me? I’d just deck the guy and move on.” 

You groaned, flopping back onto your bed dramatically. “If I end up crying in front of Black Widow, I’m changing my name and I’m leaving the country.”

“She cried during Marley and Me, you’ll be fine,” Steve reassured as he pressed Natasha’s contact on his phone. 

——

The next morning, you shuffled out of your room in an oversized t-shirt and mismatched socks. Your only mission for the day: retrieve coffee without making eye contact with anyone. 

You failed instantly. 

All three of your roommates were seated around the dining table, and sitting casually among them, as if she hadn’t just completely caused your soul to leave your body, was her. 

Natasha. Romanoff.

The Black Widow. 

Former Assassin. Legendary Avenger. Threat to all men. 

She was drinking her coffee from one of your ridiculous mugs. She wore no tactical gear, no combat boots, just jeans and a fitted black top, with a posture so immaculate that it made you stand up a little straighter. 

Her red hair was braided loosely over one shoulder, and her gaze met yours the moment you entered. She didn’t smile, she didn’t frown, she just looked. It was as if she was quietly assessing whether you were dangerous or just a sad little mess Steve had guilted her into babysitting. 

You, of course, chose to freeze like a deer in headlights. 

Flattening your sleep-matted hair instinctively, you stood awkwardly in the doorway, wondering if you should apologize for daring to set foot in front of her presence. You didn’t understand why she was here. There was no way someone like Natasha Romanoff wasted time on strangers. She must’ve owed Steve big-time if she came to the loft immediately after he called yesterday. 

“Good morning,” Natasha said smoothly, voice low and unreadable. It was a statement, not a greeting. Like a poker player declaring her turn.  You stalled in real time, your brain shutting down in a panic. And then, you opened your mouth despite every survival instinct begging you not to embarrass yourself: 

“Hi. Wow. Is being hot a requirement to be an Avenger because… damn.” 

Silence. You could even hear the birds chirp outside. 

Sam snorted into his coffee. Steve blinked slowly like he was rebooting. Bucky coughed to hide what suspiciously sounded like a laugh. 

Natasha tilted her head, still expressionless. “Yes,” she said simply, and took another sip of her coffee. “That’s why Sam didn’t make the cut.” 

Your laugh came out before you could stop it. It was your first real laugh in weeks, and it caught everyone off guard. 

“Okay, first of all, I just didn’t sign the papers, Romanoff,” Sam shot back, pointing his fork at her like it was a weapon. “I was recruited! There were negotiations!” 

“Yeah,” she replied dryly. “Negotiations to keep you off the roster.” 

Steve hid a grin behind his coffee. Bucky didn’t bother hiding his smirk, though he kept eating like he wasn’t paying attention. 

Sam turned to you with a hand over his heart. “I’m being dragged in my own home. Do something,” he said, turning to you with pleading eyes. 

You dropped into an empty seat next to Bucky, grabbed a piece of toast, and casually stole a forkful of eggs from his plate. He shot you a look, brows knitting in mild disapproval, but he didn’t stop you. 

“Not too much on Sam,” you said with a grin. “He’s an emotional guy. He cried during Paddington 2.” 

“He went to prison!” Sam cried, throwing his hands in the air. “Why would you incarcerate a cute little bear who just wanted to make marmalade?!”

Steve nodded solemnly, like he was testifying in court. “It was deeply unfair.” 

Natasha raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “You’re all unwell.” 

“This is my life now,” Bucky muttered, sliding the rest of his eggs your way with a resigned sigh. You beamed at the gesture. 

Natasha took a sip of her coffee, eyes scanning you like she was running a background check. Then, finally, she nodded. “Okay. I like you. You’ve got potential.” 

You blinked at her, your fork halfway to your mouth. “Potential for…?” 

Natasha stood up from her chair, already grabbing her keys off the counter like this was a done deal. “Not sure yet, but you’re coming with me today.” 

You choked on your eggs. “What—why?” 

“Does it matter?” she said, already halfway to the door. 

You looked around the table like someone might save you, but Steve just gave you a thumbs up and took another sip of his coffee. “You’ll be fine.” 

“Fine or maybe dead,” you muttered. ‘What’s her idea of fun anyway?” you asked in a small, horrified voice as Natasha opened the front door. 

“Get dressed,” Natasha called. “Ten minutes. I leave with or without you.” 

Sam leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Congratulations. You’ve been Romanoff’d.”

Bucky, now taking back his eggs, gave you a flat look and a lazy wave. Then, with zero sympathy, he nudged your chair with his foot. “Go. Now.” 

You groaned, already standing. “God help me,” you muttered, fast walking to your room like your life depended on it because with Natasha Romanoff waiting at the door, it just might. 

——

Spending the day with Natasha Romanoff was nothing like you’d expected, but exactly what you needed. She didn’t drag you to brunch to get bottomless mimosas or ask how you were feeling. Instead, she tossed you into the passenger seat of a black Corvette Stingray, drove like every red light was a suggestion, and took you to an underground boxing gym in Brooklyn where she taught you how to properly throw a punch. You expected sympathy, but she gave you bruised knuckles and a protein bar. 

Later, she made you walk through the city with her, mostly in comfortable silence, stopping only to grab overpriced lattes and people-watch like spies on a stakeout. At one point, she handed you a pair of sunglasses and muttered, “Put these on. We’re stalking your ex.” You tried to protest, but she was already leading the way, reciting tire-slashing tips like they were ancient wisdom. “Don’t worry,” she added coolly, “I’ll make sure there’s no trace.” You still don’t know how she found Adam’s car, but you did it, and oddly enough, it felt like therapy. 

By the time you got back to the loft, your head felt a little clearer, your shoulders a little lighter, and for the first time in weeks, the tightness in your chest had eased. You didn’t feel fixed, but you finally didn’t feel like rotting for the foreseeable future. 

Now, the five of you were sprawled across the loft’s living room, half-watching The Princess Diaries play on the TV. It was Sam’s idea, of course. He insisted that Bucky had to be cultured, and no one else had any other suggestions. 

Steve sat on the floor with a bowl of popcorn, fully invested. Bucky was squinting at the screen like he was trying to solve a murder. Natasha, lounging in the armchair with her legs propped on the ottoman, glanced at you. You were pitifully curled up under a blanket with a bowl of ice cream. She gave you a once-over, then turned to Steve. 

“She needs a rebound.”

Steve opened his mouth to say something, maybe to disagree, but instead he gave Natasha a thoughtful look and decided to keep his mouth shut.

You choked on your spoon. “I’m sitting right here.” 

“Exactly,” Nat said coolly, not missing a beat. “You’re sitting, you’re sad, and you haven’t been laid in…?” 

“Do not answer that,” Sam interjected, hands raised. “Please, I beg.”

Unfazed, Natasha went on. “You need someone pretty who’ll tell you your hair looks good and you know… absolutely ruin you in the best way.” 

Your face flushed an alarming shade of red as you stared hard at the TV. “I need to get struck by lightning.” 

“Whatever you do,” Bucky said flatly from the opposite end of the couch, “Do it at his place. I’m not hearing that.” 

Sam gagged dramatically. “Can we not talk about her getting defiled during Princess Diaries?’ 

“Uh-uh,” Natasha cut in smoothly, already pulling out her phone. “No talking unless you’re volunteering, I need to focus.” 

Before anyone could argue, she cast her screen onto the TV, replacing The Princess Diaries entirely. Sam let out a horrified gasp as the screen flickered. 

“Nat! Princess Mia was about to give a speech!” 

“Shhh,” Natasha waved him off. “This is more important.” 

On the screen, three crisp photos appeared in a neat row. 

“These,” she said, gesturing toward the candidates like she was presenting a PowerPoint presentation, “are all people we know. Which means they’re not losers… not really. Low emotional investment, good hygiene, passably good-looking. All solid rebound options.” 

The screen displayed the following candidates: 

Johnny Storm — Shirtless in a bathroom mirror, abs flexed, sunglasses on indoors. There was a 99% chance this selfie had originally been sent to someone else, or possibly everyone else. He looked like the human embodiment of a “wyd?” text at 2 a.m. “This guy? Really?” Bucky sighed, genuinely disappointed. “Slim pickings, huh?” “I’d steer clear with this one,” Steve added with a grimace. 

Sébastien Noir — A S.H.I.E.L.D agent with a sleek black-and-white headshot, clearly pulled from a classified S.H.I.E.L.D file (because, of course, Nat had access to that). Dark hair and a darker smirk. Very French, very suave. “Could be the next James Bond,” Natasha said casually. “Or a complete poser,” Bucky muttered under his breath.

Matt Murdock — The Avengers’ lawyer. Crisp navy suit, tousled hair, holding a cane and leaning casually against a brownstone like he walked out of a Jane Austen adaptation if it was directed by Scorsese. “I like this one,” Sam said with a thoughtful nod, “Lawyers have money.” 

After much deliberation and a fair amount of peer pressure, you begrudgingly settled on Sébastien Noir. Johnny had given you nothing but red flags, and you didn’t hate yourself enough to fall for a walking thirst trap with the romantic depth of a frat boy.. 

Matt Murdock, on the other hand, was too much. Too handsome, too smart, and too put together. You weren’t emotionally stable enough to be perceived by someone that kind, and to be honest, it felt borderline disrespectful to label him a rebound. 

So… Sébastien it was. 

Tall, French, and suspiciously charming, he felt like the safest terrible decision. There was a certain relief in choosing someone who came with low expectations and virtually no risk of actual feelings. If it all went up in flames, you could just blame it on ‘cultural misunderstanding’... or Natasha. 

“Are you sure about this…?” Steve asked cautiously, like he might step in and offer a better alternative if you gave him even a hint of hesitation. 

“Not really,” you admitted with a frown. “I feel like I’m setting feminism back a few decades.” 

“That’s how you know you chose the right rebound,” Natasha nodded while typing something on her phone, probably texting Sébastien himself. 

Bucky didn’t even bother commenting. He just sat there, slowly shaking his head like a man watching a car crash. 

“What? No notes?” you asked him, raising an eyebrow. 

“This is just… unbelievable,” He simply muttered, shoveling another handful of popcorn into his mouth like he was trying to eat away his disapproval. 

“To your slut era, I guess,” Sam said half-heartedly, raising his beer before switching the TV back to Princess Diaries like nothing life-altering had just occurred. 

——

Later that evening, on your way out of your room to brush your teeth, you caught a glimpse of Bucky standing by the hallway closet you jokingly dubbed the mini armory. The door was open, and dim light spilled out over the floor. He was unraveling a black bundle you vaguely remembered seeing months ago, back when you were just trying to store your cleaning supplies. 

You paused in your room’s doorway, unsure if he’d want company. 

The cloth slipped from his hands to reveal a silver prosthetic arm with a red star near the shoulder area. 

“So that’s what it was,” you said softly, stepping out just enough for him to hear. 

Bucky froze. His head turned slightly, shoulders tense. “You were looking around here?” 

“I just thought it was a normal closet, okay?” you said quickly, holding your hands up. “I was just looking for somewhere to stash my Swiffer and boom… murder closet.”

That earned the smallest twitch of his lips. Barely. 

“I should throw this thing out. Make room for your junk.” 

You smiled just a little at the jab. “I don’t know…” You said, tilting your head. “I kinda think you should keep it.”

He gave you a look. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because it’s good to have a reminder of how far you’ve come,” you said, meeting his eyes. Then, with a wry twist of your lips, you added, “And also, maybe we can use it as a talking stick. In my class, we pass around this glittery baseball bat to stop the kids from yelling over each other. This could be our version.” 

That earned you a real smirk this time, brief but genuine. “You’re weird.” 

“Not the worst thing I’ve been called,” you said with a shrug, just as your phone buzzed. 

You glanced down at your phone to see a text from Sébastien. Bucky noticed, and his smirk immediately faded. 

“You’re going through with Romanoff’s idea?” He asked, crossing his arms. 

“Why not?” You replied, shrugging your shoulders. “It could be fun.” 

“You’re going to regret it,” he warned, putting his old prosthetic back inside the closet like he was wrapping up the conversation. 

“Probably,” you called over your shoulder as you turned to the bathroom, “But at least I won’t be looping Pride and Prejudice in my room anymore.” 

Bucky didn’t say anything, he just gave you one last unreadable look before retreating to his room and closing the door with a soft click.

—————————————————————————————————— End Notes: this was so dumb i cracked myself up writing this one. oh and for some reason, when i was writing this i kept imagining Sébastien (original character) as Sebastian Stan when he was the mad hatter in ONCE hashsdhasdhahdfh i need to sleep oh and i will be changing the summaries to look like friends episode titles because why not

tags: @projectjuvia @vibraniumavenger @mommymilkers0526 @iyskgd @pllwprincess @hiraethmae @b1pan1cg1rly @starstruckfirecat @soupiemeowmeow @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @cherrypieyourface @lasnych @okbutiambabygorl @herejustforbuckybarnes @ilistentotayswifttocope @s-sh-ne @ficmeiguess @alagalaska

[arieslost]

MIAMI | ln4

summary: lando won for the first time :))

word count: 834

masterlist — join my tag list here!

© arieslost 2024. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.

you feel like you’re in a dream. walking on sunshine. on cloud nine. all the good, amazing things in the world.

lando has won his first ever grand prix. his first career win. right in front of your eyes.

in all honesty, it feels like you’re floating. you can’t imagine how he must be feeling as the team comes rushing out of the garage to meet him as he parks the car in front of the first place banner.

“come with me!” zak says the moment he catches up to you from the pit wall, immediately reaching for your hand so he can help you navigate your way through the crowd. “he needs to see you front and center!”

you don’t think that’s necessarily true, that he would certainly rather see the team and catch up with you afterwards, but you’ve learned not to argue with zak. you just hold on tight and allow him to guide you to the front of the barrier separating everyone from the top three finishers and their cars.

your throat quickly grows hoarse from cheering as he proudly stands atop the car, and you can’t even hear yourself over the cheers of everyone else around you and in the grandstands.

you would happily go deaf in this moment, because the sound of hundreds of thousands of people cheering for your boyfriend would be the last thing ringing in your ears. if you dreamt this moment up, it wouldn’t even sound this good.

you’re quick to take out your phone and record as lando gives himself a running start to leap across the barrier entirely and into the waiting arms of the mclaren team, who immediately swarm around him, hugging him and patting him excitedly. at some point he gets flipped around, everyone’s hands supporting him from below so the world can see the beaming smile on his face.

you don’t know when they started, but you can feel the tears on your cheeks as he’s placed back on his feet on the other side of the barrier. he’s pulled into enthusiastic hugs by a few more team members, and then he starts calling your name, eyes frantically searching for you amongst the sea of papaya.

“lan!” you yell as loudly as you can, pressing yourself right up against the barrier and leaning forward.

he spots you from over zak’s shoulder as they embrace, his smile somehow growing impossibly wider the moment your eyes meet. your happy tears begin to fall even faster after he hugs andrea and immediately makes a beeline for you.

all the words you want to say to him get stuck in your throat as you throw your arms around his neck. he’s sweaty, but so are you, courtesy of the miami heat, and neither of you care. you yelp in surprise when you feel his arms go around your waist and lift.

“what are you doing?!” you laugh, clinging onto him with all your might regardless.

“i’m not gonna have a fucking barrier between us when i do this,” is all he offers as an explanation before he’s kissing you, cupping your face with one hand and holding the other above his head, his pointer finger extended up to the sky.

you don’t see it in the moment, of course, but you’ll see plenty of pictures of it later.

you kiss him back with equal fervor. it’s definitely not the most perfect kiss; you’re crying and he can’t stop smiling so your teeth knock together a couple times, but that doesn’t dim the passion between you both as you hold each other. the crowd chanting his name fades into background noise when you break apart for air and he rests his forehead against yours.

“i love you,” he says, over and over. “i love you, i love you. i’m so glad you’re here with me.”

“lan, i’m so proud of you,” you’re in hysterics, laughing as tears continue to fall down your face even while he gently wipes them away. “you deserve this. every single second.”

“i love you so, so much. thank you for not giving up on me,” he says, his words so sincere that you could fall to the ground right here and now.

“stop making me cry more!” you exclaim, hands covering his as you reach up to wipe your eyes. “don’t you have the top step of a podium to get to?”

“can i bring you with me?”

“absolutely not,” you giggle, pulling him into another tight hug.

“alright, but i told will to get you on his shoulders so i can see you perfectly while i’m up there.”

it doesn’t click in your head why he would bother telling you that until you’re on will’s shoulders and lando is spraying his champagne down at you from the top step with surprising accuracy. and when he finds you after it’s all over and kisses you again, you decide that champagne is your new favorite taste in the whole world.

note: i don’t even care that i’m posting this late or if this sucks it doesn’t matter it needs to be posted today !!

my inbox is always open for comments, criticism, and conversation!

reblogs are greatly appreciated <33

dividers by @/saradika

tags: @venusacrossthestars @67-angelofthelordme-67 @emails-i-can-send @nelly187 @cixrosie @fangirl-dot-com @sainzluvrr @imheretoread @mellowarcadefun @yourbane @monsieurbacteria6 @c-losur3 @papayatori @ssprayberrythings @namgification @maih23 @evlkking @witchycarmen @ilovethispookie @maxverstappenfan79 @sya-skies @sweatrevenge5436-blog @kimis-gloves @mia-rrrs @decafmickey @customsbyjcg-blog @bigheartsthings @tania2748 @scuderiadevils @iloveyou3000morgan @ctrlyomomma @hiireadstuff @daemyratwst @arian-directioner @evelyn-ny @avg-golden-retriever @likedbygaslyy @vintagefucksstuff @piastorys @jisungstuff @personwhoisther @bernelflo @ahgase99 @ferrarisfailedstrats @levidazai

[theodorenmyth]

Oh my gosh, can we please get a part three of a sky without you fic or a drabble, perhaps? I love your writing so much 🤞

Like Theo and reader gotta go on a little date at hogsmeade when it's time to go on the trip after those weeks without each other and maybe their friends watching them? The golden trio seems to like teasing them lol

If your request are still open, of course. Love you and have a nice day!

The cold air smelled like butterbeer and snow.

Your gloved hand swung lightly between you and Theodore’s, your fingers just barely brushing his. You weren’t holding hands yet—not quite—but the air between you was thick with the warmth of something rekindled.

Hogsmeade looked like something out of a painting, all snow-dusted rooftops and strings of fairy lights tangled between shops. Couples huddled close. Laughter spilled from the Three Broomsticks.

But none of that mattered. Because you were smiling.

Laughing again—really laughing, that wide, bright grin that made your eyes crinkle and your nose scrunch. The one Theodore used to dream about when you weren’t speaking. The one he was scared he’d never get to see again.

“I still think the snowman I made last year was better,” you teased, sipping your butterbeer as you leaned against his arm.

Theodore rolled his eyes. “That ‘snowman’ looked like a melting pudding.”

“It had personality!”

You laughed harder when he choked on his drink. Across the street, not-so-subtle whispers rose from a group of students loitering by Honeydukes.

“I give them five minutes before one of them kisses the other,” Ron muttered.

“Four,” Hermione corrected, eyes gleaming behind her scarf. “Look at how Y/N’s leaning into him.”

Harry just smirked. “Mate’s glowing again.”

Back by the fire outside the tea shop, Theodore finally gave in. He reached out and gently slid his fingers through yours. This time, you didn’t just let it happen—you squeezed back, smiling into your cup.

“I missed you,” he said, voice low and a little hoarse.

You looked up at him, golden in the light, eyes full of warmth. “I know. I missed you too.”

And when you leaned in to kiss his cheek, cheeks flushed pink from the cold, Theodore swore the stars couldn’t hold a candle to you.

The moment you pulled away, you spotted the little enchanted photo booth tucked between Zonko’s and the post office, your eyes lit up.

“Theo. Theo, look,” you gasped, tugging on his sleeve like a kid in Honeydukes for the first time.

Theodore blinked at it. “You want a picture of us?”

“Duh. It prints in Polaroid style and the frame is literally covered in stars.” You tilted your head, flashing him the grin he hadn’t seen in what felt like lifetimes. “Please?”

He didn’t say anything. Just opened the curtain with a little sigh like he was being so put upon, even though his heart was doing flips. “Alright, alright. Come on, stargazer.”

You practically skipped inside.

The seat was tiny, barely big enough for the two of you, which meant you ended up practically in his lap, laughing as the curtain swayed behind you. The booth whispered a countdown—“Three… two… one…”

Click!

You grinned wide, holding up a peace sign, your cheek squished against Theodore’s. He didn’t smile in time, caught mid-blink, but he didn’t care. Because your laugh filled the space like music.Click!

You poked his cheek this time, teasing. “Smile, Theo. You’re supposed to look like you like me.”

He scoffed, but his grin gave him away. “I like you too much. That’s the problem.”

Click!

The last frame caught it—your face still and soft, looking at him like the stars were behind his eyes, and Theodore looking right back. That frame printed slower. The border twinkled.

You pulled it out of the slot and stared at it in silence.

“Merlin, we’re cute,” you whispered, then gasped. “I’m putting this in my journal.”

Theodore flushed. “You're not going to—”

You kissed his cheek again before he could finish. “Too late. It's already my favorite photo in the world.”

And it was.

Because for the first time in weeks, you looked golden again. And Theodore Nott finally got to keep a memory that didn’t hurt.

[lazysoulwriter]

three in this bed - pedro pascal ── .✦

content: fluff, softness, established relationship, reader has a stuffed animal from childhood, and Pedro is absolutely smitten about it.

---

You didn’t mean for him to see it.

It was supposed to stay tucked under the pillow, safely hidden from the eyes of the world—especially his. But after your weekend trip, you were exhausted and distracted, pulling off your sweater and tossing yourself into bed with an ungraceful thud, forgetting entirely about your tiny, timeworn secret.

Pedro walked in just a minute later. You didn't even notice, too busy mumbling about your sore back and the shitty car ride and how next time he was driving. He chuckled softly, then went quiet.

"Baby," he said, and you froze. You knew that tone. That gently surprised, amused one.

You turned your head slowly.

He was holding it. The stuffed animal. Your oldest friend. A floppy, beige bunny with one ear permanently bent and a pink bow you sewed on when you were eight. Worn down to near transparency in some places, eyes a little lopsided.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Pedro looked down at it with something like wonder. Like he just found the last piece of a puzzle he didn’t know he was missing.

"You've had this since you were little?"

You sat up, groaning internally. "Okay, yes, but—don’t tease me."

He didn’t. He walked over slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed, still holding the bunny carefully, like it was made of glass.

“What’s her name?” he asked, totally serious.

“…Bun,” you muttered, hiding your face in your hands.

“Bun?” he repeated, smiling now, clearly trying not to laugh. “Bun. That’s adorable.”

“She’s been through a lot,” you mumbled. “I’ve had her since I was, like, four. She helped me sleep. I still—sometimes—sleep better when she’s around.”

Pedro didn’t say anything right away. When you peeked at him through your fingers, he was looking at you like you just told him you still believed in magic. He reached over, gently moving your hands away from your face.

“Mi amor, that’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard,” he said, voice low, filled with warmth. “Are you kidding me? You think I’m gonna tease you for this?”

You didn’t answer, still too flustered.

He leaned in, nuzzled your cheek with his scruffy jaw. “I love that you kept her. I love that she’s been with you through everything. And now she sleeps next to me too, huh?”

You let out a weak laugh, melting. “Shut up.”

“Never.” He kissed your temple. “Can we make it official? She gets a spot between us now?”

“Pedro—”

He was already climbing into bed, placing Bun on your pillow with exaggerated care. Then he pulled you into his arms, sighing as if everything had just clicked into place.

“That’s better,” he whispered. “Me, you, and Bun. The dream team.”

You giggled into his chest. And that night, like so many nights before, you slept soundly with your stuffed animal in your arms—but this time, with Pedro wrapped around you too.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @joelmillerpascal @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure@barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512 @alltounwell @libbyaller @beaagiannelli @broad-shouldrs @oceanmcu @kysosa @melloispunk @jollycupcakeblizzard @angvlicsoulll @needz1nk @daddypascal17 @agustdpeach @mrsbilicablog @k4t13ispunk @hotdadlvr95 @lnnysnts @pedropascalfan221 @queenofklonnie22 @christinamadsen @ilovecheriies @stvr-bloom

---

[neilissevered]

Hiii! Can i req a drabble for Baku again? Maybe fluffy and comforting Baku wherein he finds reader drunk (But reader doesn’t drink so it’s unusual for reader to be that way), and he just takes care of the reader?

Yk those ones who pull up their hair when they throw up, etc. U can experiment on this one I really don’t mind but that’s the gist of it!

- Anon 🧃 (I’ll send in as this one! I’m the one who first requested for Baku ❤️)

ˋ°•*⁀➷DRUNK ON YOU!

You got drunk for the first time. Hu-Min found you, stopped you from puking in a bush, carried you like a bride, and crashed on your couch like a man with morals. Drabble, whc2, reader has long hair, accidental confession, soft and flustered Hu-min Park Hu-min (Baku) x gn! reader wc: 1k+ tw: mentions of vomiting, but it's not descriptive. masterlist

The alcohol hits harder than expected.

You can tell… but at the same time, you can’t.

The world spins lazily around you, like it’s floating just out of reach. Your body feels weightless, but your head is filled with cotton, and your ears are ringing with a dull buzz. The shot glass in your hand is warm, slick, almost melting in your grip.

You don’t drink. Everyone knows that. You know that.

And yet, here you are—slumped against the back wall of a convenience store, half-hidden behind a row of boxes, nursing your second (or was it third?) bottle of soju like it’s a lifeline.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

You had other plans tonight—study a little, rest your brain, maybe even sleep early. But the week had chewed you up and spit you out, and with exams looming over your head like storm clouds, you cracked.

A bottle won’t kill me, you had thought.

Just this once.

You’d read the posts online. Those who said alcohol numbs the stress, softens the edges of a bad day, and makes things quieter, if only for a little while.

They weren’t wrong.

You feel… floaty. Unanchored. Like you’re laughing at nothing in particular—maybe at the absurdity of it all. Maybe just because it’s easier than crying.

Your phone buzzes again. For the fourth time in the last five minutes.

It's the group chat with the boys.

Bakutastic🏀: "seriously dumbass WHERE are u??" Si-genius: "you okay?" GoTank: "if you don’t reply, I’m tracking your phone. Not joking." JUNNIE💕💗🐰🐰🐰: "So…Baku ran off😭😭"

You stare at the screen, lips tugging into a crooked smile.

Always so worrisome, those three. Like they weren’t getting into fights every day.

You don’t reply. Not yet.

Right now, you just want to stay in this haze a little longer, where nothing matters, and everything feels far, far away.

Then suddenly—

A hand wrapped gently around your arm, pulling you out of the hazy fog you’d been drifting in. Before you could even process it, you were moving—

No… falling.

Straight into someone’s arms.

Warm. Steady. Familiar.

Hu-min.

He held you tightly, like he’d been holding his breath the whole time and could finally exhale. You felt the rise and fall of his chest, still a little frantic, like he’d been running. And he had searched every convenience store he knew you liked, desperate to find you.

And now he had.

He pulled back just enough to see your face, his hands coming up to cup your cheeks. His thumbs brushed gently against your skin, tapping lightly as if trying to wake you from a dream.

“Hey,” he murmured, worry tightening his voice, “you should’ve called me if you were planning to get drunk.”

A soft scolding, but his touch never left your face.

Then, with a small, helpless huff, he pinched your already flushed cheeks.

“Idiot,” he added, quieter this time. “What if I hadn’t found you?” His voice was a lot softer than usual.

You only hummed out in response. Smiling lazily up at Hu-min as your vision came in waves. He looked funny. You laughed, wrapping your arms around his waist as you grinned up at him

“Join me, Hu-min.”

“Are you seriously trying to ask me out right now?”

“They say it’s best to share soju with a lover!”

“You—“

Hu-min looked away. Face turning red at your very sudden, bold attitude. Your words were slurred, and you hiccuped with each syllable, but the way you were grinning up at him like a lovesick fool made your intentions pretty clear.

You just confessed. Accidentally…

“Okay, you’re completely drunk, and I’m teasing you about this in the morning.” He huffed, fixing your messy hair and your jacket that was slipping off one shoulder. 

You only laughed, almost falling further, but Hu-min already had an arm wrapped around your waist. Supporting your body with his while he walked back to your place.

Soju definitely worked with escaping your academics

Your relationship with Hu-min will, however, turn very interesting in the morning.

Hu-Min managed to get you home with surprisingly little trouble, which was impressive, considering you were leaning your entire weight against him like your legs had given up for the night. He tried to match your unsteady footsteps, but it was a lost cause. You kept wobbling unpredictably, veering into his side like a very affectionate shopping cart with one broken wheel.

Still, he held on, one arm locked tightly around your waist, the other hovering protectively in case you decided to face-plant into the sidewalk.

It was a quiet night. Just the crunch of gravel under your shoes, the soft buzz of faraway streetlights, and your off-key humming something vaguely familiar, possibly the theme song of a children’s show.

He should’ve been annoyed. Embarrassed, even. But all he could think about was the words you slurred earlier:

“They say it’s best to share soju with a lover!”

His ears were still burning.

Then—

“Hu-min. Hu-min.”

He blinked out of his thoughts. “Hm?”

“I think I need to vomit.”

“What.”

He came to a dead stop. Your apartment building was literally right there, glowing like a finish line in some twisted, drunken marathon — and you were about to throw up next to a shrub like a tragic K-drama extra?

“Hey—HEY! Keep your mouth shut!” he shouted, nearly tripping over his own feet as he scrambled to stop you from bending over the nearest bush. “Don’t even look at that hedge!”

You groaned. “But I’m dying.”

“No, you’re not! You’re just dramatic and full of bad decisions!”

You slumped harder into him, breathing through your mouth like a medieval damsel. He muttered a string of curse words under his breath, then looked up at the second-floor balcony of your building.

The elevator was out. Of course.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he hissed to himself. Then, louder:

“Okay. This is happening.”

With a grunt, Hu-Min bent down, swept your legs up, and lifted you bridal-style into his arms. You yelped in surprise, then immediately wrapped your arms around his neck.

“Oh my god,” you giggled, voice muffled against his collarbone. “Are you finally sweeping me off my feet?”

“Shut up,” he huffed, already halfway up the stairs. “You’re literally seconds away from puking, and I’m saving your dignity. Barely.”

Your head lolled against his shoulder, but you looked up at him with that same dazed, lovestruck smile from earlier—the one that made his heart beat a little too fast.

“…You’re strong,” you murmured.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“You smell nice.”

“Do NOT throw up on me.”

He made it to your apartment door in record time, panting and slightly red-faced—though whether it was from physical exertion or your constant drunk compliments, even he wasn’t sure.

When he finally set you down, gently leaning you against the wall to unlock your door, you sighed dreamily and said, “This is the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me.”

He snorted.

“Then your standards are tragically low.”

Finally, after some fumbling with your bag and a lot of muttering under his breath about why you carried five pens but no water, Hu-Min managed to fish out your keys. He nudged the door open with his shoulder and kicked it shut behind him, heading straight for the bathroom like a man on a mission.

He gently set you down by the sink, supporting your body with one hand while reaching for a towel with the other. Then, without a word, he grabbed your toothbrush, ran it under water, and squirted on your toothpaste like it was part of some practiced emergency routine.

You groaned and leaned forward, and he was already there, brushing your hair back from your face, gathering it in his hand like it was second nature. He held it gently but firmly, thumb stroking the back of your neck with a feather-light touch you were almost too drunk to notice.

“There,” he said softly, crouching a little to meet your eyes. “You’ll feel more sober once you rinse off.”

You blinked at him, swaying slightly as you stared at his face, all soft lines and furrowed brows and the kind of worry that couldn’t be faked. Before you could say anything else, though, you vomited into the sink, and Hu-min waited patiently for you to finish.

“You okay?”

“You’re reallyyyy good at this,” you mumbled, eyes half-lidded.

“At holding your hair while you puke?” he laughed 

You nodded slowly. “Mm-hmm. Husband material.”

He froze for half a second, toothbrush still in his hand. Then:

“Brush your teeth before you say stuff like that.”

But even as he said it, his ears turned pink again. It’s ridiculous how soft he gets with you. His voice turns down a notch, and instead of his loud and boisterous attitude, he can’t help but feel calmer and relaxed around you.

Hu-min stayed the entire time. He helped you brush your teeth and wash your face. 

“C’mon, your highness,” he grumbled as he gently steered you out of the bathroom, one hand on your back. “We’ll talk in the morning, when you’re more sane, okay?”

You dropped onto the mattress like a sack of potatoes, face-first. “You’re my favorite person.”

“That’s the soju talking.”

“Nooo,” you mumbled, voice muffled by your pillow. “The soju would never lie to you.”

Hu-min laughed under his breath, but it came out more fond than amused. He pulled the blanket up over your shoulders and gently tugged your tangled hair out from under your face.

Just as he stood to leave, you cracked one eye open and reached out lazily, catching the hem of his shirt.

“…Stay?”

He froze.

A beat passed.

“…No,” he said, more gently than expected. “You’re barely sober, I'll stay at your couch." He bent down, carefully swiping away stray strands of hair from your face.

You pouted. “But my bed’s cold.”

“I’ll turn up your heater dumbass” he laughed, prying your fingers off with great care.

You flopped back dramatically, already halfway to sleep again. “You’re no fun…”

“Righttt…” he muttered, walking out, “that’s definitely the problem tonight.”

He grabbed a spare blanket from your cabinet and made his way to your couch, shaking his head to himself as he lay down, arms behind his head.

Silence filled the room, broken only by your soft breathing.

Then— “…Hu-min?”

He groaned. “Yes, your highness?”

“…Don’t forget to dream about me.”

He stared at the ceiling. Then covered his face with the blanket.

“You’re so annoying.”

But under that blanket, he was smiling like an idiot.

an: Hello again, anon! I'm sooo sorry this took a while to post! Got a bit busy! But anyway, I feel like this scenario would also apply to a platonic relationship with Hu-min! (minus the romantic stuff, ofc) He's a really caring person and would definitely want to make sure his friends are okay when black out drunk.

[im-not-a-ghost]

Who has a secret crush on you?

Right before I started the readings, I just had this song playing in the back of my mind on loop so I thought maybe it was relevant to all groups. I will try to get as many details as I can to help you figure out who this is.

Group 1

Tarot | 10 of cups, 9 of cups, Knight of cups, 9 of pentacles, Queen of cups

My god there's a lot of water energy here. I wouldn't be surprised if this person had a water sign in their big three (Sun, Moon, Rising). This person just loves you so much, this is so cute. This is someone that is incredibly gentle and sweet. They speak kindly to you, they always take their time and make sure you're okay, they have no problem expressing their feelings in general but I feel like they may get really shy around you. This is someone that, in a friend group, has a very mature and parental energy. They're the kind to make sure everyone gets home safe, to tell their friends to send them a text when they're home and stuff like that. If people get drunk they'll watch over them quietly. I feel like if this person identifies as a man, they have a lot of feminine energy and women feel super safe around them. They may have a lot of girl friends because of that. They're just incredibly nurturing and giving. Their heart is so pure. This is someone that may be described as naive or too kind by others. This person is just in their own world, doing their own thing, loving everybody and wishing them well. I'm getting the message that this person could be a part of your friend group. You most likely already know them. This could be someone you also have a crush on. You could share a lot of common dreams and aspirations with this person, or you have common hobbies. Seeing how emotional this person appears to be, this could be someone that is pretty empathetic and sensitive. They may easily tear up, feel worried about other's situation. Like let's say they learn a friend's pet has passed on, this person would easily cry over the passing of the pet. Children may like this person a lot because of how kind and genuine they are. This is someone that tends to be alone, though they can be pretty sociable. For some reason, this person just likes their peace and quiet. They love every body dearly but I feel like they find it hard to find people that they really match with emotionally. This person needs depth in connections. This may be someone that likes to grab a drink with friends from time to time, after work or during the holidays to catch up and just relax. This is someone that is extremely patient, hard working and because of that they tend to be succesful in what they do, no matter what it is.

You may feel deeply connected with this person emotionally. They may bring out your inner child a lot and one way to identify this person would be that when you're around them you just feel so at peace and safe that you tend to "overshare". Like you may tell them about past memories nobody knows of, talk to them about your fears or your wildest dreams, share with them your quirky side. And because this person is just so kind and accepting, it encourages you to open up more and let it all out. You may feel unhinged with them because they naturally create a safe space for you to be yourself. You just have a lot of fun with them and they make you laugh and smile a lot. I really feel like they may already have expressed that they liked you. But for some reason maybe things didn't take off or their confession went unnoticed. Maybe at the time you didn't believe them and so you brushed it away. Or maybe it was the other way around. You confessed your feelings and they didn't react. But with time they fell in love with you. This is someone that you may have partied with or celebrated some kind of event. With the 9 of pentacles, I got that college graduation vibe for some reason. So that may be relevant to some of you. But more than that, I feel like you and this person just bonded over some sort of learning. Like maybe you witnessed each other's growth and supported each other and so you kinda rejoiced together about your respective progress. This really feels like a friendly connection that's evolving into a romantic one. This person is really playful and romantic and also very subtle with how they interact with you. They don't feel pushy at all, which maybe kinda confuses you because to you it feels like the limit between their friendliness and flirtiness is too blurry. But maybe that's just part of this person's love language and dating style. This person needs to have a partner that is like a best friend. They want to create a solid bond with you before they dive deeper and so they try to be your friend first. Maybe they feel like if they become too passionate too soon the love will just die out eventually.

Oracle cards | The Seeker, Versatility, Destruction rx, Death, Love & Emerald, Azurite, Amethyst

This person has been through a lot of heartbreaks in their life, which you may or may not know. They are very vulnerable. They just understand that life is all about change and there is no point in resisting it. They've learned that the hard way. This is someone that now goes with the flow and goes through life with an open heart and an open mind. They just want to love and be loved. Again, I get a lot of water sign energy here, especially Scorpio. They wear their heart on their sleeve. Honestly, I would be surprised if you didn't know this person but most importantly I feel like their interest in you is just too obvious. It's not even a secret anymore at this point. I feel like this person is just not good at lying or pretending. Their facial expressions are a dead give away. Like, when they're around you they just can't control their smile or their gaze automatically sets on you. They have that spark that you just can't mistake. If you were doubting someone's feelings for you, I feel like you shouldn't second guess them because they're genuinely fond of you. With the color theme of the three crystal cards, I got a bisexual vibe from this person. Maybe this isn't something that they openly express, maybe they aren't even fully aware of their own preferences but I feel like this person just loves people in general and would be okay with loving men and women alike as long as the feelings are mutual. So maybe if you know this person and you know this fact about them, it could be a confirmation sign for you. Other than that, I get a very spiritual vibe from them. They have a lot of love to give and they strive to be a good person. Other signs that were mentioned in these cards were Leo and Pisces. This person could be described as a hopeless romantic, dreamy, meditative, authentic, naturally beautiful. There's just something that's very fluid and light about them. Like they just take things and people as they come and go.

Confirmation signs : -> number 9, stars, ravens, red, pastel colors (pink/blue/purple), letters D & A, Scorpio, Pisces, Leo, Come as you are by Nirvana, LBGTQIA+, teeth, butterflies, owls

Group 2

Tarot | Knight of pentacles, 10 of pentacles, The Star, 6 of wands, 6 of pentacles, king of swords, back of the deck 8 of swords

This person has a very sharp mind and is laser focused on their career and what they wish to achieve in life. They tend to worry a lot about the future and overthink. They may currently in a phase where they feel like they’re creatively blocked or things aren’t progressing as they wish. They tend to be in their own bubble a lot. Also, they are very successful in their life at the moment. They worked really hard to get where they are. This person is a workaholic. You may know them through work, whether that’s because you work in the same environment or because you had to be in their working environment at some point in time. Like, think of a patient going to the hospital or a customer doing their shopping. Work is the common thread that sparked this meeting is what I meant. This person takes a lot of time to warm up to people. They’re a bit uptight sometimes but they’re very kind and understanding. They are respected by many. People tend to admire them. You may have interacted with them through social media. This person is also very generous and giving. They could do a lot of community work or acts of service. That may be something they are known for. Like, they could publicly advocate for a humanitarian cause or use their social media platform and influence to help people. This person could have major Taurus and Aquarius placements. But more than that, I get the feeling that they’re just very graceful and they set the example. Like they have a lot of principles and a strong moral code which impresses people. They just are naturally bold and confident but they may not be aware of it. They are very good communicators. They could speak many different languages. They are educated and very smart. This person likes debates, philosophy, history. They have a bit of a competitive side.

One way that you could recognise this person is that they are really blunt. They don’t filter their words which sometimes may get them in trouble. They always say what they think and mean what they say. They put a lot of thought and heart into what they do. They just love to learn and improve. They are extremely dedicated and patient. They definitely have a good income. This person could be physically attractive. I get the message they have the eye for aesthetically pleasing things. And that is reflected in how they dress and appear to others. They may come from a wealthy background for some of you. Or like their wealth has been built from generation to generation. This person may be slow to make a move but they definitely understand everything before anyone else does. They are observant and witty. They can be quite sarcastic at times. I feel like this person tends to be alone a lot. They may not have a lot of friends or have a hard time connecting with people. They look quite intimidating to others. Especially their eyes. They have an intense gaze. They see right through people. They have strong boundaries. This is also someone that may enjoy being in the spotlight even though they may tell you otherwise. They are humble and reserved but they definitely thrive the most when everyone is watching them. This person may have a following on social media. Like, maybe they do it for fun but it actually worked really well and now a lot of people follow them. I feel like this person doesn’t really grasp their full potential and the impact they have on other people.

Oracle | The Magi, The Revolutionary, Shadow, Get Curious, Play & Shungite, Apophyllite, Kyanite

This person is very spiritual, may be religious but most importantly they're into the esoteric. They could practice meditation often, maybe they pull their own tarot cards or practice some form of divination. One thing is sure, their intuition is on point. They always speak from the heart and work hard to stay true to themselves. They have a "if you don't know, don't talk" type of mentality. This person only speaks up to deliver the truth. Other wise, they'll keep quiet. They go deep. They're not afraid to be alone. They may even purposefully seek solitude. They are quite playful and innocent, very kind and open minded people, but they'll make sure you're worth their time and energy before they let you see that side of themselves. This person does not joke around. You either love them or hate them, no in between. They have a bit of a ride or die attitude. This is someone that may have struggled with mental health issues. They are thus very protective of their own space and peace of mind. They spend most of their time educating themselves, trying to become a better person, connecting with the divine. Material matters don't interest them. It may be difficult for them to remain grounded in reality. They are constantly thinking, trying to anticipate and plan their future. They have a very good perception of people and themselves. They're highly conscious of their own limits and shadows. They've done a lot of shadow work and they make it their life goal to purge whatever shadow they have. This person is really intense. I get strong Scorpio vibes from them as well as Aries for some reason. They can definitely be stubborn and opinionated. But this person just wants to be the main character of their own story. They want to be in control of their own fate and that may be because they didn't have the possibility to express themselves before. They are really powerful and influent. I feel like a lot of people would get impacted by their words and mindset, and this person would be like "what? what's going on?". They don't realize how inspiring they can be to others. They're a natural born leader. They just intuitively know what to do and what to say at the right time. They just instantly get it, which may scare people a lot. Their job could involve being in the public eye or talking a lot. Like, making speeches and uplifting people. With that play card I also get that very childlike energy. So maybe they work with children.

Confirmation signs: -> Parted hair, mistletoe, butterflies, crystals, letter S, grey and lilac, birds, bats, dolphins, Russia, India, Scorpio, Aries, divination

Group 3

Tarot | 9 of cups, Hierophant, 7 of swords, High Priestess, 6 of cups, 8 of cups, back of the deck 4 of cups

I get a strong past life / past energy from this group so for some of you this could be an ex lover. I also heard, as I got the two first cards, "a person that you dream of marrying". They are a soulmate of yours. They could be a childhood friend. You could have had a child with this person. As of now, you and they are not together that's for sure. There's a separation energy here. This is someone that you either could not be with or you had to hide your relationship for a time. One of you eventually cut ties with the other. This person is still in love with you. They lie to themselves about that and try to pretend that they are over the break up but even after all this time they still think of you and they miss you. For some of you, this person is now in a committed relationship and they're trying to move on but they still reminisce about the past and wonder what things could have been if they gave your connection another try. I get that they have a lot of regrets. I pick up on another energy of two people loving each other greatly but being unable to make their connection official. That may be for those of you that have a specific person in mind that you wish to marry someday. You and this person are both heartbroken over the fact you can't be together right now. Your attraction for each other is kept hidden. This person is downplaying their feelings for you. They pretend to be your friend. They may have purposefully friendzoned you, thinking it would make things easier but it just made it worse. In reality, this person was thinking about marrying you too but they can't. I'm picking up on religious and cultural differences that scare them. I get the message that they are feeling pressured by their family's expectations. They feel deeply connected to you, both spiritually and emotionally. There's a lot of water energy here. They're deep in their feelings for you. They are wearing a lot of masks around you. Maybe for some of you, they're already engaged. Or they promised to marry someone but then they met you and it completely wrecked them. They've tried to forget about you but they just can't. You're not in contact with them right now but you may intuitively pick up on their energy. Specifically, you may get messages from them through music. Like, you turn on the radio in your car and suddenly you hear a song that maybe you used to listen to together or the lyrics just remind you of them. That's very specific but they may have a little moustache.

Both of you think a lot about each other, no matter your situation. I feel like you may also reminisce about this person a lot. This is someone that you have a lot of affection for. Maybe you've hidden your attraction for this person for a long time because you feared rejection. I feel like deep down you know that you and this person are meant to meet again. But the timing just wasn't right and you've accepted to let them go, even though that was a difficult thing for you to do. Both of you have come a long way but there's still a lot of healing to do in your connection. And this person could potentially be coming back into your life for that exact reason.

Oracle | Connect to heart, The Seeker, Transmute, Movement, The Pillar & Sodalite, Apophyllite, Astrophyllite

Again, I get that friend vibe from this spread. This may be someone you felt very comfortable and safe with. You maybe started out as friends but quickly became lovers. This person is very giving and generous. They wear their heart on their sleeve. They may be the puppy lover type. They are pretty active. They like to use movement as a way to detox and release stress. This is a person that is very grounded and mature. They made you feel safe and they really have that spouse energy. I feel like this is a solid person, with an open heart and an open mind that really matches you in terms of what they expect from life and what their goals are. You may have had a similar perception of love and relationships. Maybe you both wanted kids and a house that you could live in. This person is physically attractive and I feel like when you were in contact with them it may have been very hard for you to keep your hands to yourself lmao Like, they're just so sensual you may have felt really horny around them. And vice versa. This could be someone you had sex with. Again I am picking up on something really specific so that might not be for everyone. Also, this may be triggering to some of you so I want to apologize if this makes you uncomfortable, but I feel like I have to say it. You can skip this part if you wish.

For some of you, if this was someone you met when you were younger like a teenager or something, you may have had unprotected sex with them and got pregnant. But you could have hidden that from them. I'm getting the message that you didn't keep the baby. Or if you did, you never told this person that this was their baby. Again, that is very specific so I don't think it will resonate with everyone. Or maybe just you were really afraid of getting pregnant if you kept seeing this person and you were in a position where you couldn't allow yourself to be in such a situation so you decided to part ways with this person. Maybe you just were too young and thought this wasn't a good idea. I wish to point out that the person we're talking about is a very respectful person. I don't pick up on an abusive or toxic energy. This is someone that really treated you well and was very understanding of your limits. I don't see this person forcing you to do anything, I don't feel like they didn't know what they were doing. This person was very genuine and conscious of their feelings and desires. They truly loved you and envisioned a future with you. And I feel like if you had told this person that you got pregnant, they would have been okay with it and been a responsible person. I get a very soft vibe from this person honestly, they're just such a sweetheart. They may have been a bit immature but this person definitely wasn't egotistical and careless. I feel like they would have loved to be a parent and go through this experience by your side.

Confirmation signs : -> pet dog, snakes, bees, Pisces, Taurus, Scorpio, Virgo, Norway, Quebec, India, Colorado, Rihanna - Shine bright like a diamond, Selena Gomez - Can't keep my hands to myself