#any doctor I haven't tagged can still do this with me

[nereidprinc3ss]

hourglass

in which spencer disappears from fem!reader's life entirely for three months, right as it seems they were finally about to make things official. when he comes back they reunite, all the while knowing things can't be the same as they were.

18+ (smut, angst) warnings/tags: oh god so many. NOT canon compliant in the slightest, i make shit up, softdom!spence, nipple stuff prob, fingering, oral f receiving, piv sex, unprotected sex, pet names, tara mentioned, depression, mentions of trauma cause its the prison arc duh, passing mentions of alcohol, mentions of spencer losing weight, reader mistakenly thinks spencer tried to kill himself BUT ONLY FOR A SECOND, where is diana reid, nobody knows or cares, probably filming glee, optimistic ending a/n: haven't posted smut in forever but this wip required it and the angst was so angsty i just had to finish it. it was started in jan or feb and subsequently added to and changed months apart and then edited so the writing quality varies from section to section which i apologize for. originally based on good guy by julia jacklin... also the odyssey by homer? can't really explain that one you'll just have to see for yourself anyway byeeee ilysm!!! PLS tell me if you liked it! or if you hated it! but preferably if you liked it! MWAH! wc <12k

It’s been about three months since you last saw Spencer Reid.

About three months since you had an early Valentine’s Day celebration (even though you weren’t a couple) complete with champagne (even though he doesn’t usually drink) and slow dancing (even though you swore you’d be terrible and he spent the first ten minutes laughing at you as you stepped on his toes.)

About three months since you finally settled your head on his shoulder and let the warbling vinyl carry you somewhere distant as the two of you danced slow circles on the parquet floor for what felt like hours.

You’d have liked him to stay later that night. You’d have liked him to stay all night if you were being honest with yourself, but at 11:45 he gently pulled away and told you he had to go.

“Curfew?” you joked, the corner of your mouth lifting a little and you hoped you were hiding your disappointment well.

“Actually, I’m going down to Texas for a few days to speak with one of the leading doctors in experimental Alzheimer's and dementia treatment. I’m going to see if he can get my mom into a clinical trial. I leave early tomorrow morning.”

“Oh my god, that’s amazing, Spencer! What are you doing still here? You should be at home getting ready to go!”

A rosy blush stains his cheeks and he looks down at the ground, laughing that little self-deprecating laugh of his. It makes your heart dance to see him so happy, makes you want to wrap your arms around him and never let him go so that he knows how much you absolutely adore him—but you settle for an affectionate squeeze where your hands have come to rest on his biceps.

“I wanted to see you tonight because I won’t be here for Valentine’s Day... but I still really wanted to spend it with you,” he admits meekly.

If before your heart was dancing, it is now melting.

The dreaded ‘what are we’ talk has been lurking in the dark corners of every conversation you have with each other lately—at least, in your mind it has. What you have with Spencer is not easily defined, and near impossible to explain to your friends—you act like a couple, you go out on dates, he introduces you to his team like you’re his girlfriend without ever putting it into so many words—but this validation that your pseudo-relationship might be evolving is better than any flowers he could have gotten you (although the peonies he brought will look very nice on your bedside table.)

“Four whole days... what will I do without you?” you whisper, brushing a hand along his face, and your chest aches with the heavy truth of it—despite the fact that he often is gone for stretches about that length. They don’t ever start to feel shorter.

“Well, you can start by reading that copy of The Odyssey I annotated for you.”

“Depressing,” you admit. “And a little ominous, considering you’re about to embark on a hero’s journey.”

“I think you’ll like this one,” he smiles.

You chew on your bottom lip, looking up at him as you think.

“Give me something to look forward to,” you say, earnestly.

“I—well, honestly, I just really want to kiss you and I’ve wanted to for a long time now and, you know, if that’s something you’re maybe also interested in then we could, uh, figure out a time to���”

“You want to kiss me?”

“Wh—you couldn’t tell?” Spencer says, like he can’t believe it.

As if on reflex, you lunge up and capture his lips with your own. It obviously catches him by surprise, but when you lower from your tiptoes he follows you, pulling you in closer and holding your face in his hands.

It’s too natural, too right, to be exhilarating. There’s no rush of adrenaline—it's more like stepping into a hot bath or warming your freezing hands at a fire. Like pieces clicking into place. It’s a relief.

You breathe into it, letting more and more of yourself melt against him. He keeps coming back to you deeper and deeper like a rising tide, and you want more than anything to keep getting closer to him—but then he stops. He stays close enough for you to breathe his air, but dodges your kiss gently before supplanting it with a gentle one to the corner of your mouth.

“I really have to go,” he breathes, before moving away from your mouth to kiss your forehead and speak softly against your skin. “If I don’t leave now I’ll be here all night.”

Which is exactly what you want, and the implication does little to make you want him less. But you care about him too much to be so selfish.

At some point, his hands found their way into your hair, and you gently grab his wrists.

“Incentive for you to come home.”

Nearly three months since that night.

At first when he stopped answering texts, you’d assumed he just had too much going on down in Texas. Which you could understand—you knew how stressful this situation with his mother was.

Even when four days came and went without even an alert from him that he was back in town, you thought, okay, maybe he’s been called away on a case. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s disappeared because of his work. But even then, he’d at least text you enough information so that you would know he was alive. Now, radio silence.

So you tried not to be clingy. You tried to act like an adult, to focus on school and your life outside of Spencer, but when Tara Lewis cancelled your weekly meeting due to an “unforeseen work-related emergency”you called her immediately. Tara was something of a mentor, and it was she who had connected you and Spencer to begin with. You had met the other members of his team by that point, yes, but none who you knew as well as Tara.

When she had informed you that Spencer had been arrested in Mexico and was now facing prison time for murder, you laughed.

Laughed until you realized her end of the line was silent.

Realized it was not at all a joke.

In a catatonic state of tranquility, you asked her for more details. Beyond assuring you of his innocence, she couldn’t (or more likely, wouldn’t) provide them. Asked where he was now. Asked all the right things that made sense to ask.

Then you hung up and had a panic attack because Tara said something about 25 years and you saw Spencer evaporate from your future like an apparition.

Slowly, you felt him evaporating from your past, too. Those memories from the night he left, became visions of you swaying with a ghost. Holding nothing but light between your hands as you kissed the peony air of your apartment.

He doesn’t want to see you, she had said into the phone one night, her tinny voice cutting in and out. You’re not on his list of approved visitors.

“You asked him about me?” you had whispered, curled up on top of your made bed in the dark.

I tried. I’m sorry. I’ll call you when I know more.

All your days melded together like a muddied smear of paint. Suddenly you felt you had nothing to look forward to. No anchor, no goal. Yes, a PhD... and then what?

The only thing that punctuated one 24 hour period from the next was the time you spent crying because Spencer was in prison and he didn’t want to see you and by the looks of things you may never see him again. When you weren’t crying, you were thinking about how your life was a big cosmic joke. An unfortunate statistical anomaly that didn’t mean anything to anyone else, and that you couldn’t do anything about.

That copy of The Odyssey, which wasn’t even bound and instead was a thick stack of printer paper organized by a single black clip, became something of a manifesto for you—a tome that your poured over, reading and re-reading each note in the margins, each word beautiful and imbued with meaning because you knew Spencer had selected every single one specifically for you. You traced the letters reverently, because in a way this was the last thing he had said to you—about Lattimore’s faith to the original text, Merrill’s strict use of dactylic hexameter, the stylings of Wilson and Lombardo, and how he thought you would enjoy Hammond’s prose just as much as he did.

Day by day it was becoming more prophetic than fictional, and you allowed yourself to sink into madness. You would rather be a deluded zealot than be nothing at all.

He didn’t want to see you.

He might as well have been dead, for all that you were grieving him. And you started to hate him, because he wasn’t dead, but wouldn’t do you the kindness of proving it. Like a festering wound, scratched open day after day so as not to ever heal, you had to live knowing he was less than an hour away. So no, you weren’t exactly over it. You lived day by day, waiting for the occasional call from Tara to keep you updated on Spencer, but either she didn’t want to share much about how he was doing, or he had specifically barred her from doing so, because she was always sparse on the personal side of things. That thought actually lifted your spirits, because it meant he was at least acknowledging your existence in some tiny way.

But your routine was becoming more regular, and so you staid on top of your classes and your non-Reid related meetings with Tara once a week, and you learned to dip your toes into existential dread and the oily black pool of depression every night without ever fully submerging yourself. You learned hope, because it was pretty much all you had, and the BAU had confidence that they would get Spencer out one way or another so you did too.

So you didn’t really think about it when you missed a couple of calls from Tara some evening in May. You were preparing for finals and had way too much on your plate academically to think about anything else which was a welcome relief so you fully embraced it. I’ll call her back tomorrow, you think, as you clean up from dinner before going back to the living room where your textbooks and papers are completely covering every available surface. Maybe I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life after school, but I’ll be damned if I don’t even make it that far.

Hours later, well into the night, you’d all but forgotten about the calls. A knock at the door takes you a bit by surprise, and you frown as you stand again, tugging your Georgetown sweatshirt down over your shorts as you shuffle to the entrance of your apartment. You’re not expecting anyone, so you crack the door, peering around the edge of it.

And you couldn’t even consider trying to hide that shaky inhalation of dead air when you see Spencer standing on the other side.

Surely you’re hallucinating.

Surely this man in front of you who looks like he just got back from a day of work didn’t spend three months in prison pretending you didn’t exist.

He looks the same. Hair a bit longer, maybe—and gaunter even more than is normal for him. 

But it's him.

You can’t think about the apprehensive look on his face—you can’t think about the impossibility of him being here. You can’t think at all. Without your explicit permission, your body surges forward into his, and he’s real, and alive, and warm, and he is an anachronism in the hallway as he accepts everything you pour into the embrace, doesn’t flinch when you move your arms from around his waist to loop around his neck and back to his waist again with crushing force because you just can’t get him close enough.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mutters into your hair, I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorry, he keeps saying, rubbing your back as you try to find a solid grip on the sleek material of his suit—try to gather all the pieces of him, already afraid he might fall apart and float away again.

“You—dis—disappeared,” you hiccup after an eternity, pulling away enough to look up at his pretty face. Tears blur your vision and darken the front of his jacket, bending the florescent lights so they form a kind of halo above his head.

Through the surreal haze you can see his throat bob.

“I know.”

He knows?

He knows?

You scoff.

“You have no fucking idea, Spencer. What the fuck is wrong with you? I—I'm—”

The hot anger is such a relief for a second, boiling the oceans of your despair into a wrathful, scorching fog, but as soon as you try to tell him how you feel, the barbed wire cuts into your throat again. You shove him away, skin burning where his hands had been.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, hands hanging uselessly at his side. There’s that kicked puppy look about him—and it’s familiar, but now there’s more damage. You don’t know anything about his time in prison, you haven’t heard a damn thing, but beneath the glassy desperation in his eyes there is an unfathomable void that seems to be preventing him from being fully present—and you realize for the first time that he is different.

It chills you.

Before, you and Spencer shared everything. There wasn’t one part of his internal machinations that you didn’t understand, nothing you kept from each other. But as you study him now from a few feet away, you realize there might as well be a yawning chasm between the two of you.

He is so different.

Those eyes look deeper. No gears turning just behind the slashes of gold and brown anymore—only an endless dark corridor that goes places you will never go.

Gone is the perpetual boyish up-turn at the corner of his lips that always made him look slightly vacant in a way that you found incredibly amusing. Something you had been so fond of, even if you teased him.

He seems to have aged ten years—if not physically, then in demeanor. And now you feel like a little kid throwing a tantrum.

You cross your arms, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

You’re embarrassed. And pissed. And relieved. Everything is worse and better. You want to fall back into his arms, but you have been jarred by the revelation that this might not be the same Spencer. It might not be the same relationship. You have no idea where you stand.

He says your name gently, with so much familiarity you’re briefly jerked into the past. It makes you wish you could look up to find him as he was three months ago. Wish this was just a bad dream. But that’s not fair to him.

“Sorry,” you mutter, studying the grey carpet fibers instead of looking at him.

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says immediately, “you’re right. I don’t—” he clears his throat— “I’m being incredibly selfish. I shouldn’t have just shown up, I’ll just—I'll leave. I’m sorry.”

A silent moment passes.

You don’t look up as he turns and swiftly begins to move down the hall toward the stairway, leaving as quickly and silently as he had come, like a few bars of a song sighed in and away on a fleeting breeze.

Your bare feet are concretely planted, imagining him jogging down the steps and speed-walking away from your building—

And suddenly you’re sprinting after him, feeling like you might puke because Spencer was just here and you let him go again—and even though you’re still so mad and confused and hurt, the realization that he is leaving again makes the entire building spin and lurch.

“Wait!” You yell, almost wiping out as you run down the stairs and whip around corners in your slippery fucking socks. “Please, wait!”

The lobby is already empty as you spill out into it, and cold dread tightens around your neck like a fist as you shoulder your way through the double doors and right into Spencer.

“Please don’t leave again, you just—I'm sorry, I really need you to not go—” you blabber, lachrymose once more, gripping onto his forearms for dear life.

“I’m not going,” he breathes shakily. “I tried to leave because I think you were right and maybe I should and maybe it would be better for you but I can’t.”

“You can’t,” you agree, more sob than spoken word. He cups your jaw, then your cheeks, wiping tears and brushing away hair like he can’t figure out how to hold enough of you between his hands. The wild kaleidoscope of his eyes, bright and alive and real as he scans you desperately captures your attention enough to slow the tears to a trickle. He notices this and stares back, entranced.

A silent agreement is made, or maybe an inevitable fate is accepted—either way, something was set in motion three months ago and it matters to see it through. Spencer kisses you and you’re ready for it. You don’t need slow or tender. You need to feel how he feels. You need to know what he knows.

You sling your arms around his neck and he pulls you closer until you almost tip backward, chasing the bruising kiss even as you regain your footing. You want to drink him in and you do your best, breathing deeply as he kisses you deeper, backing you inside and toward the elevator.

“Is this okay?” he manages, only after blindly reaching for and mashing the up button on the wall panel.

Ideally it wouldn’t happen like this, but the world you live in obviously isn’t ideal and your personal situations as they coincide are far from ideal, so this is how it has to happen. But it’s hard to explain, and you’d rather not admit that this is so far from what you wanted for both of you and follow up with the fact that despite that you need him like you need water. So you don’t say a word as the metal doors slide open promptly. Instead you pull him in and let him press you to the chrome wall as he hits your floor button, and that very hand comes back to grab your ass like you didn’t think Spencer Reid capable of. It almost aches as his fingers dig into the flesh, but it’s a good ache because it means he’s real and he’s there.

You gasp as he hitches your leg up, arching into him. The shorts that you’re wearing leave very little to the imagination to begin with, but they become downright indecent like this.

Quickly the elevator stops and the doors hiss open. You don’t hesitate to pull Spencer by the hand down the hall. When you notice you left your door wide open, you don’t even care. Neither does he, apparently—once you’re inside he slams it shut, flipping the deadbolt while his eyes are glued to you like you’re already naked. Now Spencer is shameless in the way he drags his eyes over every curve, every place your clothes and hair are disheveled from his touch and eye-fucks you so obviously it makes your face warm. Three months ago Spencer would have at least been bashful about it when he met your eyes again, but this Spencer is far from apologetic as he pins you with his burning gaze once more. His hand stays stuck to the door like he’s holding himself back.

“Is this what you want?”

There’s an undercurrent of sorrow below the gravely arousal, like this isn’t what he wanted for the two of you either. But you’re both at the mercy of fate. This is all you have, and it might be all you can do for each other anymore. So you don’t need to say that, because he understands.

“Yeah. Yes, this is what I want.”

For just a second more he watches you from his place by the door, and there’s an unexpected softness to it. He looks at you the way he would have looked at you before. Like as long as he stays there he can entertain the idea of being that person again.

Need wins out quickly, though, and he surges forward. Immediately you’re caught in the riptide of him, helpless as he kisses you all the way to your bedroom.

He’s never been in here before. You find yourself glad it’s relatively clean—one of the pastimes you’d picked up in his absence was keeping everything tidy. It was something you could control.

A lamp glows at your bedside. You lean against the footboard of your bed, hands timidly behind your back and suddenly shy to have in him in your intimate space. Both of you set aside the heaving desperation long enough to catch your breaths, and for him to scan the room like he too is being forced to reconcile with the innate and unexpected intimacy of the moment. He cuts a harsh, dark gash in your sweetly decorated bedroom, radiating something wild and powerful and unsure of himself like a chained bull as he takes in the soft, pale bedding, the paintings and photos taped to the walls, the woven rug and the sheer drapery. His breathing slows as he studies it all—eyes eventually catching on something behind you. Looking is unnecessary. You’re sure he’s spotted the dried peonies in their ceramic vase. Or maybe the now worn stack of papers that is his Odyssey, marked up and soft around the edges from constant flipping-through.

Then Spencer looks at you, and that softness seeps in again. Along with something like... fear? Grief?

In some other universe your first time with Spencer is sweet and giggly and kind and he smiles at the decor in your room and looks around with wonder because it’s another way he gets to know you. It’s a different way to learn you from the inside.

You sense that he’s caught in between universes right now as well, painfully aware of what he would have given you that he can’t anymore.

He breathes your name like an apology, and foolishly you let a second go by in which you think he might offer you one. But he doesn’t. Not with his words, anyway. His eyes tell a different story.

“It’s fine,” you say unprompted on a whispered exhale, then a little louder as you push off the footboard, crossing the space until your hands are on his chest. You focus on his tie, not making eye contact as you rush to undo it. “It’s fine.”

He lets you do this for a few seconds before finally covering your trembling hands with his own. You still can’t meet his eyes.

“We don’t have to do—”

“No! No, please. I want to. I need—I need us to be okay.”

“Hey,” he murmurs, catching your chin and forcing you to look at him. “We are okay. Me and you are fine.”

It’s a pretty thought, but it’s not true. In fact, it’s a hideous and abject affront to the truth. Sure, maybe you’re fine in comparison to last week. Maybe anything feels fine compared to an eight by six cell. But it would be impossible for you and Spencer, for your relationship, whatever that relationship may be, to be fine. It’s especially impossible for him to make that claim, after all he did or rather didn’t do while he was gone. What you need is for him to stay anyway. What you need is to find a way to be with him, to exist with him, even when you are so clearly not fine.

“I just need you to stay,” you whisper, and he’s already nodding, wide-eyed like he’d do anything for you. You ignore all the bitter venom rising in your throat. You pretend this isn’t all happening after he cut you out of his life with a dirty switchblade. Instead you focus on his hands on yours, the familiar smell of him, which invites you to let go of each and every thought and worry. He must’ve showered before coming here, you realize. How long has he been out? What happened? 

“Okay. Okay, I can stay. What else can I do? How do I make it better?”

You sniffle and look back down.

“You can untie that for me.”

He hesitates, then nods some more, fingers working under yours to undo the tie around his neck.

“Okay.”

A moment goes by and after that final whispered word, the tension begins to build again. Spencer senses it in the way your fingertips linger on his chest and you step even closer, dragging them down to his belt. The metallic sound of it unbuckling, despite being your own doing, still manages to flip your stomach. How many times have you pictured this? When was the first time you realized you wanted it? You’re sure you haven’t stopped wanting it even once since then.

Spencer tosses the tie away and is shrugging off his jacket now, then before you see it coming he’s kissing you again, ducking down to do it. He feels taller this close up, and especially in your bedroom, where he just seems rather out of place. But you want him here. God, you want him here.

You break the kiss, forced to look down as you fumble with his belt.

“Sorry,” you gasp, embarrassed by your lack of dexterity. The light is barely sufficient to see what you’re doing, especially when he’s wearing black on black and your eyes are still bleary.

“You’re okay,” he assures you, and it’s so Spencer a fresh round of nerves electrifies the tips of your fingers. That thing is happening—the thing you’d hoped to avoid if you hadn’t lost momentum partway through, where you’re allowing your actual feelings for him to get in the way rather than getting swept up in the pathos of the moment and letting everything be easy and mindless. “Here, can I help you?”

But he doesn’t actually wait for an answer before he’s finishing off the belt for you, tugging it loose from his hips till it’s a leather coil in his hands. Your fingers brush the material and he lets you take it as if it were your prize. It’s heavier than you thought it’d be, and you just feel the weight of it in your hands for a moment, your dropped head brushing his chest.

You have a terrible feeling that if you do this now, it doesn’t mean everything will be alright. Because it can’t just go back to normal. Spencer has told you nothing of what must be an enormous trauma, and you haven’t spoken about it at all, but you sincerely doubt that after this he’s going to be ready to just jump into that committed relationship the two of you had been toying with for months before his absence. You’re almost... scared of him, now. Scared of where he’s been and what he’s endured—things you’re sure you couldn’t have taken. What that does to a person, you can’t imagine. He seems so solid and real in front of you now—but you know that’s not always enough. Maybe you’re just scared that somehow whatever he’s been through will have made him care for you less. That you were too far removed from the whole ordeal, and now you’ll never understand. If you could understand, maybe you could fix it for him. Maybe he’d stick around.

Still—even if you do end up pushing him further away in the long run—won't it have been worth it to have had him so completely, even just once?

You toss the belt to the ground, compressing all of these very complicated thoughts and feelings into a few seconds so short he can’t ask you any questions about them. Instead you find his top button, and just as you manage to undo it with relative ease he’s gently grabbing your wrists. You look up at him, immediately surrendering.

“If we’re going to do this I need you to relax a little bit.”

Gears grind in your chest. You feel need and anxiety comingling in every square inch of your body. It’s a sick buzz—a high on an empty stomach.

“I can’t,” you admit.

“Yeah, you can,” Spencer gently disagrees, slowly lowering your hands. When he’s sure you’re not going to try ripping his clothes off again, he releases, and his eyes lower to the zipper of your hoodie. His fingers follow, warm against the soft triangle of revealed skin at your chest as he grips the small piece of metal between barely shaking fingers. “You can.”

You match his eyeline, breathing shallowly and watching as he slowly drags the zipper down. You wonder if that sound has haunted his fantasies the way the sound of his belt has haunted yours. If he’s seen this hoodie on you and wondered what’s underneath, staring at you and daydreaming during movie night with you none the wiser.

Both of you have your eyes glued to the span of skin as the zipper parts. Spencer stalls with the zipper at your sternum, just below the band of your bra.

Right. No shirt.

You look up and find his eyes already on you, tinged with a curious kind of humor.

“I wasn’t expecting guests.”

The words come out shy. Spencer’s chuckle has its own nervous airy quality as he resumes tugging on your zipper, leaning down until your noses bump.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Then he kisses you again, a little sweeter now. Sweet enough to give you butterflies and for them to flutter right out of your stomach and spill from your lips in a little whimper against his.

It comes as a surprise when he pushes the fabric from your shoulders without looking or asking. Not that you’d have said no—you're just underprepared for how assertive he is in this foreign context.

Left just in your flimsy shorts and your thin bra, you feel quite exposed—but Spencer’s hands are as demanding and hungry as his mouth. They skim up your sensitive sides and sweep lower, suggesting less proper placement over your ass and pulling at your bottoms until you gently put a stop to their wandering.

“Wait. We’re... we’re uneven.”

It’s a struggle to get any words out at all when he keeps chasing your lips, nipping at you like he physically can’t stand not kissing you, but they catch his attention and he laughs airily, pulling back to let his gaze pour over your less clothed form. It lingers and catches and lights you up everywhere it touches, drops of heat soaking into your skin and making you feel all fuzzy and needy.

“We are,” he acknowledges, tone low and colored with the faintest smile. “You’re a lot prettier without your clothes on than I am.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The challenge comes immediately and thoughtlessly. Spencer’s golden eyes flash up to yours. He’s breathing a little harder than usual.

“You want me to show you what I mean?”

If that means getting him naked, then yes, absolutely.

You nod, but rather than immediately stripping, he takes your hand and holds his own open next to it. A thick pink scar bisects some pretty significant palmistry lines, but you don’t mention that. Instead you swallow—your thoughts, your words, your nausea.

“That’s new.”

You wonder how you hadn’t noticed it earlier.

He nods.

“A lot is new.”

It sounds almost like he’s challenging you—there's a kind of tremulous force in his voice, despite the perpetual softness there, like he’s inviting you to say it’s ugly. And you realize he’s referring to more than just the glowing scar cutting an asteroid trail against the flesh of him palm. The scars he obtained in prison must form a constellation over his body.

“I don’t care. I wanna see you.”

Spencer swallows, cupping your face with the scarred hand once more. You can’t feel it against your cheek but you know it hasn’t gone away.

“I’m sure you think you do,” he permits, and that’s where the conversation ends for the moment—with his hand on your face and his lips back on yours. “For now why don’t you let me worry about you?”

Obediently, you breathe, “okay.”

This is, for whatever reason, amusing to him. The brief levity dies as quick as it comes like a snuffed-out brush fire as soon as he lets his hands fall back down to your hips.

“I want... I want to give you slow. But...”

But slow is for people who didn’t lose three months of their life. Slow is for people who don’t know what it’s like to be starving. Slow is not for the desperate.

You understand the feeling.

“I don’t need slow.”

You’ll let him use you up like quick-burning fuel if that’s what he needs. You’ll go as fast and as bright and as hot as he tells you.

“But you want slow,” he murmurs, a secret acknowledged into your own waiting mouth. You’d keep it there forever. You could be the object he hides his soul in. “I know you do. You deserve to get what you want.”

“I can go fast. I want whatever you can give me.”

Spencer’s shuddering exhale is like a drug, dizzying as you inhale it and your eyes flutter at the high, pressed head-to-head with him. For so long you’ve needed him so badly. It’s overwhelming to have him now, all over you. If only your walls could breathe him in the way you are, if this room could remember what it feels like to hold him the way you will, if any inanimate object could bear witness to how you’ll give yourself, any part of yourself, over to him, so willingly.

“I’m going to try.” Spencer’s voice is hoarse as he walks backward to the bed, taking you by the hips as he goes. “I want to do it right. I want to do this the way I... the way I imagined it, before...”

Now he’s sitting, and you’re standing between his legs as he finds the clasp of your bra and undoes it, his fingers a comforting pressure where they ghost down the slope of your back. Your heart is pounding at the confession, at the way his tongue darts over his bottom lip and his fingertips journey back up to your straps, looking up at you with haloed irises as if he’d find anything other than the most dangerous kind of smoldering devotion in your eyes—the kind cult-leaders seek and spend years nurturing, and he’d earned with a mere brush over your bare skin.

The fabric slides down your arms, and as it falls to the floor, you watch something like despair flash-flood his eyes. It is a deep, distinctly human grief. The ineffable kind where something is almost too beautiful; so perfect it offends the mortal senses because it should be permanent, but nothing is, and the clash of divine beauty with unstoppable time which oxidizes copper and covers marble with vine is almost as grotesque as metal rending delicate flesh. It is the grief that drove the first poet to write and the first parents to press their baby’s painted hands to the walls of a cave. It is the desire to do the impossible—to capture ephemeral perfection and make it eternal, and the knowledge that it is hopeless. You recognize it because you’ve felt it for him.

“I thought about you all the time,” he whispers, doesn’t bother calling you beautiful but you don’t mind because he’s telling you with his hands and his eyes and the waver of his voice. “When I was gone, I thought about you—”

You’re just as quiet, just as soft.

“Don’t, Spencer.”

He doesn’t get to tell you about when he was gone. Not now. Not after he acted like you didn’t exist.

“Okay.” He swallows the things he’d wanted to tell you like you choked on the things you needed to tell him for three months. “I’m sorry.”

But his hands—his hands are perfect over your waist and his lips are perfect where they kiss your ribs like they’re his homeland. You could forgive a thousand wrongs for each kiss he puts to your skin. Light from the full moon stretches over the room like a blessing from the cosmos, and you have every intention of making the most of that gift, how the silver gilds the planes of his face and highlights curls like they were carved, and invites you to search for something in each shadow.

Some of his kisses land over the sensitive skin of your breasts though you doubt he has much intention or that there is any sort of end-goal with the trail he blazes—in fact, you have to root your hand in his hair and pull gently back when he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s making you wait again. His eyes are glassy and cheeks slightly pinkened—you weren’t expecting this wave of fondness to knock you on your ass but here you are, falling all over again.

“You don’t have to go that slow.”

A slow smile splits the heart of his mouth at your bashful tone and he’s emboldened to bring his hands higher for a moment, thumbs brushing particularly delicate though not downright indecent spots. Nonetheless, your breath catches.

“Impatient girl,” he scolds, and though it’s lighthearted it still inspires heat to dance across your face. Oh, I think I’ve been plenty patient, you itch to say, but you bite it back because it’s only sad and true and unkind.

Still, he gives you the beginning of what you want, really only the tip of the enormous iceberg that is your desire for him, by slipping his thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and tugging them down. His hands slide up the fronts of your thighs, tracing the trim of your underwear, and you’d swear he’s not even breathing. The moment one of his hand loops behind your knee and pulls forward until it’s pressed to the mattress and you’re half-kneeling, half standing, desire begins to truly cloud your mind. Manhandling never seemed like Spencer’s style, but when paired with how softly he reveals your hip, pulling gently down on the fabric of your underwear just to admire you up close, you don’t mind it.

More kisses are littered over your stomach, and he takes you by surprise a second time with a quick maneuver landing you on your back and him on top of you.

“I wasn’t doing you justice with my imagination,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I couldn’t have known.”

“Couldn’t have known what?” you pant as he shamelessly digs his fingers into the plush of your ass. You almost hope it bruises.

“How pretty you would be,” he coos like he means it, and you dissolve, slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass. “You were holding out on me.”

It’s a tease, not at all serious, but you manage to hit him with a, “Was not, asshole,” and he chuckles, placating your little hurt with another sticky kiss, and you get another disorienting glimpse of some other timeline where you’re both a little less damaged. Where it’s a little easier.

But in this timeline, his touch becomes starving and ragged and urgent, and you accept the drag of his thumb up your thigh and between your legs, gasping when he runs his knuckles up the center of you. This touch is metal on screeching metal. It does not pretend to be anything more than what it is—brute, powerful, executed to elicit sensation. You get the sense that Spencer’s never touched anyone this honestly, and while you do envy the girls who got to have him gentler, you’ll take this as the compliment that it is. A kind of vulnerability that is nearing primal.

His lips, though—always his lips—are kind when they brush and land on your skin guided by some invisible map. A dip down your neck and chest and then a plunge, his tongue dragging over your hips, chasing the fabric of your underwear as he almost pulls it off and then reroutes, making room for himself between your legs and pushing lace aside to mark the hinge of your inner and upper-most thigh. Your chest heaves and you don’t dare move for fear he’ll stop leaving signs of himself on your body and you won’t be able to reassure yourself that it was real and he was here and it was not another dream.

Because something in you knows, if only consciously recognizing it for the first time now, that he will disappear again. That this may be your only chance.

The desire to make the ephemeral eternal. An impossibility.

He’s clearly losing himself to something, eyes shutting blissfully. You wonder when the last time he let his guard down even a  little was. You’re okay with being the thing he gets lost in, even if you’re not exactly okay with him—something you are becoming more acutely aware of as each touch makes a part of you want to cry. Maybe you still have some things in common. A strange pain that doesn’t quite feel like it belongs to you, for one thing.

You slam back into your body as his nose nudges against you through fabric, and his lips catch on cotton as he drags himself up, eventually settling a kiss against the little bow at the waist of your underwear. There he stays, eyes closed, mouth pressed to you.

“Is this okay?”

You swallow, buzzing. Is this really what he wants? After everything?

“You don’t have to...”

“But is it okay with you?”

Nothing more than an airy whisper, you reply, “Yes, if that’s what you want.”

Being emotional at this point seems wrong, but it’s difficult to ignore the fact that you have thought about this before and it’s finally happening but it’s not exactly as you’d imagined it. There is an indelible sadness to it, to the way he’s so hungry for you because he’s been deprived, to the desperation with which he touches you because he’s had everything taken from him.

For a moment, before he tugs your underwear down, he pauses, and you wonder if he’s freezing one moment in time, this moment, and grieving all the other ways it could’ve been, and accepting that this is the way it is going to be. You are.

These higher realms of thought abandon you as he finally pulls the last barrier down your legs and encourages you to spread them further. You don’t have time or energy to be embarrassed, not even by his staring, or the way his eyes dart up to yours and back down again, wide and shining, as if to say, have you seen yourself? Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?

All you feel is the lack of him on you, the pull to have him closer so strong it’s almost sickening because he could be gone at any second. Maybe he understands that because he doesn’t waste anymore time before he’s kissing the most sensitive part of you. The drag of his tongue has you loosing a shuddering cry.

His mouth wanders, making connections you wouldn’t have realized the value of until you feel them on your skin. Your hips buck as he traces you and you’re unable to stop yourself from tangling your hands in his hair. Speech fails you—hell, you can hardly breathe as you watch his with a furrowed brow and parted lips, only expelling air from your lungs in the form of little cries and gasps and failing to hold your hips down to the bed.

The tip of his tongue teases around your entrance and he catches your leg as your foot rises off the bed, slinging it over his shoulder and consuming you more fervently until you have no choice but to moan though you’ve never been one for theatrics. Nobody has done this for you like he’s doing it for you. Locks of hair fall in front of his face and you hold them back for him, shuddering as he shifts his weight and presses the tip of his finger to your cunt.

“Ah—please,” you manage, your first words since he started. Spencer groans against you and the sound is so wonderfully unexpected, so much better than in your dreams. You cant your hips up in further invitation, chirping as he takes it, pushing two fingers into you at once. Your eyes screw shut and you bite back a whine at the slight stretch, unconsciously writhing your hips either to get further away or take him deeper, you’re not sure.

Spencer pulls back, kissing your hips and thighs and pumping his fingers very slowly as you adjust.

“’M sorry,” you pant, “it’s been awhile, I...”

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says like it’s simple, his own breath coming quicker. “How’re you feeling? Need me to stop?”

“No! No, it feels really good, I feel good.”

He holds your burning gaze, matching it with his own, and his hair is tousled and his cheeks are flushed as he continues to move his hand.

“Yeah?”

“...Yeah.”

This little show of obedience, of call and response, has him smiling before he occupies his mouth with something else once more. It’s a different smile than you’re used to from him, but you decide you don’t at all mind it.

Like that, with his tongue and fingers working tirelessly, your orgasm comes on quickly. The feeling is rare but not entirely foreign, and in that brief moment of utter disconnect between your brain and reality, of sheer white-hot pleasure, you don’t feel you’re missing out on anything at all. How could you be, when you are here and Spencer is here and for a moment all your neurons are lighting up and flashing neon? How could there be anything more to life than the searing feeling of him slowly withdrawing his fingers from you, than your hips between his hands like he’s cradling the world, and his lips, indiscriminate with where they kiss because every part of you is worthy of attention?

You’re reeling, and your legs are gelatinous as he so affectionately sucks the darkest mark yet onto your inner thigh like a parting gift, like he’s signing his trembling work. If you could clamp your legs shut around the almost painful aftershocks you would, but he’s climbing back up your body, so all you can do is wriggle against him and release delayed, stunted little moans. He stops to kiss your neck before he makes it to your mouth and drinks down all your sounds until you’re gentle and pliant for him like you haven’t been yet.

His voice is soft and sympathetic when he speaks. “Better?”

Wordlessly you nod, both comforted and unsettled by how well he knows you. What, exactly, has been made better, you’re not sure. Not trust. You don’t trust him anymore. Something cheaper, but temporarily effective. A sense of permanence, maybe, however fleeting it may be. You’ve completed something with him now, and he’s still here, still sweet.

He looks into your eyes, then, for a moment—and there is just enough light in the room for you to tell yourself that the shadows dancing there as he looks at you are love.

They morph as you watch into haunting, wild hunger. Pained even now.

He sits up abruptly and so do you, scooting back against your headboard and pulling your knees to your chest to protect your pounding heart as Spencer takes you in with darting eyes and quick breaths. His fingers find the collar of his shirt and he begins to unbutton.

“I need you to remember it’s all going to heal.”

He swallows, and you hardly have the wherewithal to study the way he unbuttons his shirt, a way he exists in the world that you had previously not been privy to. The words are too distracting.

“What?”

Sometimes he reminds you of a deer, with those big brown eyes that can’t help betraying anxiety. Moreso in those old pictures he’d shown you from his early days at the BAU—but it shines through occasionally even now. It’s reassuring to know that something inside of his has remained soft.

“Just...” his fingers don’t stop at their task, and you come to the disturbing realization that his knuckles are bruised. “Please don’t freak out, alright?”

Your mouth goes dry, eyes glued to the lengthening span of revealed skin.

And before he even has his shirt fully undone, something isn’t right.

He’s like a Pollack of bruises—starbursts and watercolor blots of discoloration blooming over his side and stomach.

You’re glad the light is off for two reasons: one, being that you don’t think you could handle the bruising in all its glory, and two, you hope the look of horror painted on your face is at least partially obscured from Spencer.

But you can’t. You simply don’t have the gas in the tank to freak out, as he’d said—at least not externally. Those bruises shouldn’t be there, but 96 days is a long time to be gone.

You drag your eyes back to his—nervous, deeply insecure and mistrustful. A deer. Just like those pictures of a 24 year old Spencer in an FBI jacket that was too big for him.

It’s enough to have you scooting on your knees across the mattress to him. Those big eyes stay glued to you as you draw near, falling as you carefully push open his shirt, cautious not to bump any tender spots as it falls to the bed. A flash of white gauze wrapped around his forearm that makes your stomach flip. How? You want to ask. Why?

He doesn’t seem to know what you’re going to do, and neither do you, until you’re grabbing his hands, bruised knuckles and all, and just... holding them for a minute.

“I lost weight,” he says quietly, as if that’s the most shocking thing about his current appearance, though it is noticeable.

“You’re still pretty.”

He smiles at this—a true Spencer Reid smile. Flattened lips, eyes tinged silver with sadness, voice quiet and anxious and wavering.

“I didn’t have a lot to spare.”

A moment goes by.

“I’m not going to ask you about them,” you promise, though you care so much and you want to know but you already understand that he won’t want to tell you.

Another moment. It doesn't surprise you to watch the shiny vulnerability in his eyes to freeze over completely. But he squeezes your hands once in thanks, and you know it’s still the same Spencer.

“Lie down.”

Oh. Right.

This.

You do as he says, taking a deep breath to try and exhale the concern twisting your stomach like a poison. Somehow your room feels so unfamiliar, so new with him in it. Even the whorls on your ceiling look different as you study them, trying to time the pattern of your breathing with the pattern of the paint and plaster and not let the sound of Spencer further undressing quicken your heartrate too much.

Soon he’s coaxing your legs apart again, reverently, and kneeling between them, studying every part of you—lingering not on the parts you’d expect. He traces the scar on your knee with his thumb, follows a line down your thigh to the freckle on your hip. The scrutiny is unnerving and warms you everywhere. Perhaps he senses the microscopic clench of your thighs as you imagine pushing them together, if he weren’t in the way.

“You alright?” He asks, still stroking your hip. Tender again. It’s so hard to keep up.

“I...”

Suddenly your heart beat is a deafening echo in your own ears. The tide of your breathing is too powerful, too in and out and whooshing, leaving you always too empty or too full but never comfortable.

Maybe he’s changed, and he’s harder to know now, but he is the same Spencer. He is the Spencer you’d fallen in love with. The hard part is knowing that now you may never get a chance to tell him that. You don’t know if he’d be able to hear it.

There are things you can’t have with him anymore. Not now, at least. Maybe not ever. But you can have this. It will be different, but you’d rather him be different and here than the same and only in your memory.

You swallow.

“I’m good.”

Tangling your hand in his hair once more, you pull him down into a kiss. It’s hesitant, at first—maybe he can taste your thoughts, where they’d been balancing just on the tip of your tongue. But the uncertainty fades and he kisses you deeper, harder, in a way that is hard to keep up with. You like the messy overwhelm of his lips, teeth, tongue. That’s the only way he knows how to want you.

When you go to wrap your leg around his waist he catches it, running his hands over the soft plush of your thigh. The hard line of him presses against you like memory foam and you gasp and he breathes it in deeply as your brain short-circuits, as you realize this is really going to happen, that you’re going to have him like you’ve never had him before and in ways you’ve only imagined and immediately felt ashamed for.

“Spencer,” you whisper. He ducks to leave open-mouthed kisses along your neck and your eyes flutter shut, craning your neck but not losing sight of your objective as you reach down blindly. When you find what you’re looking for he freezes, groans against your neck at the same time as you breathe the tiniest whimper. Just in your hand he feels impossible, hot and imposing and hard. Your heart palpitates.

Without thinking, you angle your hips up and encourage him closer, until the tip of him is smearing through your folds, and you both go utterly silent like the breath had been stolen right from your lungs. The moment crystallizes, time around you hardening like preserved amber to keep you frozen there forever.

And then he rolls his hips, catching the underside of his cock on the crux of you, and then he does it again, and you choke out a moan and so does he, and it’s beyond perfect—it's nirvana, more than you could ever have conceived of, with his weight pressing you into the mattress, arms caging you in, his heavy breaths hot against your neck and vice versa as you twine together like serpents on a rod, your foot floating in the air as you widen your legs to make more room for him.

And you’re not even fucking yet.

“Oh my god,” you whine, just for him, barely audible under the heavy cloak of night, the thickened air in your bedroom and the sound of panting and fabric shifting. It’s like your heart is trying to reach through your chest to his own where they’re pressed together—that is how hard it’s beating.

Spencer only breathes a long, low curse and shifts so he can grasp himself. Your fingers drift down the shaft of him as he slots himself at your entrance, notching half an inch in and you hold your breath, and you brace yourself—and then he’s kissing you again, but gentler this time. Reassuring. You soften, you can’t not, releasing all your air in a soft gust through your nose, and then he’s pushing in.

Your lips part at the stretch as it fuzzes your mind, but he stays right there, nose pressed to your nose, lips ghosting over your own. He’s not going anywhere, you think, and you’re glad for it, when it burns ever so slightly, and the tiniest whine escapes your open mouth.

“Shh,” he soothes immediately, low and soft, only fractionally louder than you had been. “You’re okay.”

Spencer. Your Spencer.

For a moment, you’re living in that alternate universe. The kinder one. The flash of pain you feel then has nothing to do with the way he’s opening you up.

This is the closest you have ever been, and in some strange way, the furthest apart.

Together, fingers brushing, you guide him until he settles at not quite your deepest point. You can feel that he’s not giving you everything yet, but you’re okay with that, as you adjust to the full feeling. Spencer again senses your desire to close your legs against the deep intrusion, and gives you the best he can by encouraging you to wrap your legs around him.

“Good girl,” he whispers tenderly, nudging at your jaw with his nose and dragging kisses along the ridge of it. Your stomach flips at the moniker and your brain turns to warm sludge as your eyes flutter shut. It makes you feel all light-headed and you flutter around him. Spencer chuckles into the junction of your neck and shoulder and the vibrations send a chill down your arching spine. “I thought you might like that one.”

“Mhm.”

“Mhm. How are you? You okay?”

“’M ready.”

“You’re ready?” His tone is dripping sarcasm and faux-disbelief as he pulls back the slightest bit only to push right back in deeper, this time. Your toes curl, one thigh sliding higher up his waist as you cling to him.

“Fuck,” you manage, a pitiful, high pitched curse tossed to the wind. He echoes the sentiment.

“Oh, my god,” he groans, continuing with that slow pace, “you feel so good, angel.”

You grapple at his back, searching for purchase as your brow knits. “Faster.”

This inspires another breathy chuckle, but he obliges, and you cry out softly. It’s almost unreal, your head buried against his neck, drunk on his scent and the drag of him like a shock felt in the far reaches of your body, again and again.

There’s nothing you can say that will accurately demonstrate what you’re feeling, so you elect not to speak, to remain silent and try to get a grip on this cacophony of sensation and emotion. But it’s too much to be alone with. You feel you have to get it out, to seek understanding. You can’t do it alone.

“Spencer.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know...” the sentence trails off into a gentle keen. He moves to kiss you, speaking against your lips.

“You don’t know?”

Shyly you shake your head. Spencer sighs wistfully.

“Do you know how much I missed you?”

It’s like he can sense your need for comfort. For something grounding.

And while this topic was off-limits earlier—you're softer now. The stone walls that form your boundaries have been chipped away and lowered.

Spencer continues unprompted.

“I thought about you every day. Every night while I was falling asleep. You were always on my mind, angel girl.”

You whine. Whether it’s pleasure or distress is anyone’s guess—including your own.

“You were gone so long,” you whisper, eyes shut.

At this, Spencer slows again, and the tension that was building settles back to a simmer.

“I know. I wish I could—I wish I could change that. But I’m here, okay? I’m right here with you.”

Then he makes sure you feel every last inch, and it takes your breath away. If your thoughts were any more coherent, they’d be something along the lines of: but for how long? How long until you leave again?

“You’re here.”

You say it like a mantra, once out loud, and then again and again in your head, timed with every clash of your hips. With each repetition he becomes more real. Every little ache, every tingling, head-emptying brush against that most sensitive spot inside proves to you that he could not be any closer. This can’t be faked. It can’t be another dream to wake up in tears from.

“You’re here,” you gasp as it hits you, as it truly sinks in.

“I’m here,” he breathes.

There’s so much you want to say—three months of words you need him to hear, of things you need to talk to him about, things you need to yell at him for and things you can only say crying in his arms and things you can only say laughing or whispering or drunk or half-asleep—and in this moment you can’t manage any of it. Every word condenses into one drop of salt water, drifting away from your eye and down your cheek. Spencer doesn’t tell you to stop crying. He only kisses the tear away, and murmurs I’m here I’m here I’m here over and over again against your skin until he’s not even speaking it out loud anymore. But you feel it. With every brush of his lips, every breath, every movement, you feel it.

Soon he’s adjusting his angle, gradually picking up the pace but retaining that unforgiving depth, and your nails bite into the skin of his back as your jaw drops. Spencer hisses, pressing impossibly closer.

“I’m sorry!” you squeak.

“Do it again.”

“Wh—what?”

“Please,” he begs, low and hot against your jaw, just beneath your ear. “Do it again, honey.”

Honey.

You’d do anything for him if it meant he calls you that again.

When he shifts his weight to one arm and reaches down between your bodies to play with your aching clit in exactly the right way, you don’t really have a choice. You arch and moan wantonly enough to feel embarrassed as your nails scratch down his back. At the same time he’s making noises of his own, and you almost feel guilty for marking him up like this only you think he likes it. The most perfect and troubling tension is building in your core, so taut you almost fear the inevitable rebound when it snaps. But you’re driven to be exactly what Spencer needs right now, and to let him try and be what you need. Even if it scares you. Even if you’re not sure how.

Spencer groans, head tucked to the bend of your shoulder. “I’m not gonna last.”

Any response you might’ve been about to muster is annihilated by a sudden, deep bolt of pleasure.

“’M gonna cum,” you mewl like it’s a secret.

“Are you?” he asks, coming up breathless. If your eyes were open, you’re sure you’d see him above you.

“Mhm.”

“Look at me. Look at me.”

It is unmistakably a command—one you fight to follow.

You cry out as you meet the intensity of his gaze, those shadowy corridors suddenly ablaze and alive. They are not unending, like you’d thought. They are a door thrown open to let the light in, or maybe to let the fire out. They’re open in this moment for you.

No more words are spoken after that—you cum hard, gasping as you fall and spin. Spencer follows very shortly after, like he was holding it together just for you, and your eyes are still locked though everything is a bit bleary.

“Fuck,” you whine as he continues to fuck you for as long as he can, despite your writhing hips, but you’re entranced by him, unable to look away now that you’re hooked. Until he slows to a halt, glances down at your mouth, and you just have time to pray that he’ll kiss you before he does. You whimper against his lips—a plea for understanding. A plea for him to stay, even though this is over. He kisses back so soft and sweet it’s like he can read your mind. Echoes of I’m here I’m here I’m here still buzz across your skin. His eyelashes tickle your cheek. Your heart stops beating quite so quickly, melting and warm like the rest of your body.

Soon the kissing ceases and you’re just breathing together, trapped and faced with the knowledge that it must end just the same as you had waited for it to start.

Eventually the air between you becomes mostly carbon dioxide and you let your head fall to the side, dizzy and giggling breathlessly as you nearly avoid asphyxiation. Spencer laughs too, letting his head fall to your shoulder once more, and you finally let your eyes flutter closed. To do something as simple as laugh with him again is its own small euphoria. It’s unexpected, and a soft landing once all that tension breaks underneath your combined weight.

It can’t last forever, you know that well. But the slow fade of it makes the next parts a little easier.

Spencer presses a kiss to your neck. “Is your bathroom through that door?”

You hum a confirmation and are only slightly disheartened when he pulls out and rolls off of you. You’re further disturbed when you see there’s gauze around his thigh, matching what’s around his arm, and you wonder how you missed that. Spencer scoops up his clothing and disappears into the adjoining restroom, assuring you he’ll be right back and leaving you alone with your thoughts and the whorls on the ceiling which have seemingly shifted into entirely new constellations.

He leaves the door cracked which is oddly reassuring—the sliver of warm light and the sound of the sink running. Only a few moments pass before he’s returning clad in boxers once more to sit on the edge of the bed, pushing away the sheet you’d just pulled over your chest and pulling one of your legs over his lap. Your face warms as he brings a washcloth between your thighs. As soon as he glances up at you and catches your eye you’re looking back to the ceiling.

“I should’ve asked first,” he says quietly as he cleans up the mess he’d made of you.

You speak just as softly, like you’re both afraid of disturbing some peace, of waking some sleeping giant. “It’s okay. I would’ve told you if I didn’t want it.”

His reticence, his unreadable face, make you nervous.

When he’s done, he rises to toss the dirtied cloth in the laundry bin, and with his back to you (as scratched up as it might be) you feel braver.

“Are you gonna, like... hate me now?”

It was a mistake. That’s clear by the way he turns around, brow knit deeply and grimacing slightly like even the suggestion offends him.

“Am I going to hate you?”

Again you pull the sheet up, and again you look away, studying the pattern of moonlight stretching out over the floor and scooting to make room for him when he steps in it.

“Not hate, I just...” the bed dips beside you and you are indescribably glad he’s not immediately running out the door. “I’m not dumb. I know what this was.”

He pulls you into him and you settle against his chest. It feels good. “I never thought you were dumb.”

This is your first real conversation since he’s gotten back, you realize. And how quickly you’re falling into familiar patterns, familiar syntactical beats. You know when to speak. You know when to bite your tongue and keep him talking.

The silence goes on longer than you’re used to. Maybe he got good at not speaking while he was away.

Eventually your eyes wander, falling to the white strip over his thigh where it is parallel to yours on the bed, only over the sheets.

“What happened?”

You said you wouldn’t ask, but that was then, and you’re upset again. You almost want to hurt him. To piss him off. You don’t know.

But it doesn’t work.

“Do you really want to know?” There’s a note of something heavy in his voice, and you look up at him. It’s a privilege to have him this close—his beauty is a constant surprise that you’d become unaccustomed to over the months. You say nothing, and he takes that as the yes that it is. “I... I did it to myself.”

He may as well have reached down your throat and grabbed for fucking heart for all its clenching. Tears well almost immediately, though they’ve been waiting in the wings all night.

“What? Did you—were you trying to—”

His eyes widen.

“No! No, honey, no.” You wilt as he gathers you closer, a deeply confused frown still contorting your features, too heartbroken even to cling to him, or to appreciate the ease with which honey slips past his lips again. “No. I was—it's complicated. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to hurt myself, but I had to—I had to do it before someone else did something worse.”

The bruises covering his abdomen.

You sniffle and pull back enough to look up at him tearfully. “Why would they want to hurt you?”

Mist fills his eyes even as he’s looking down at you, a layer of separation, as if he’s two places at once. Even as he goes to brush your hair behind your ear, to stroke your cheek.

“I’m... not... the same, as I was.” It’s not an answer to your question—but it’s the beginning of the answer to a question you’d been too afraid to put into words.

“Don’t say that,” you beg, because you know where this is going. He keeps smoothing your hair like it’ll make this easier.

“But it’s true,” Spencer says gently, the slightest waver betraying his own emotion.

“You’re just going to leave again.”

And you’re losing to the tears.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you will,” you insist, like a child crying to a parent come to comfort them after a bad dream.

“Not right now. Right now I’m here.”

I’ll stay until you fall asleep again.

For now, maybe that has to be enough. 

You cry on his shoulder. He kisses your head and doesn’t tell you to stop. 

Eventually, you sniff and wipe your eyes. 

“We were so close. Before you… we were almost there.”

You’re sure of it. You’re sure that if he hadn’t gone when he did you would’ve been a real couple. You would’ve told him you loved him. 

“We’ll get there again,” he promises, rubbing your arm. “I just… I need a little bit of time. I think you do too. But we’re going to get there again.”

Maybe it will never be like it was. 

But as so often is the case—Spencer is right. Difference doesn’t mean it won’t ever be good again. 

You have to believe that, just as you had to believe you’d see him again. 

You look to The Odyssey on your bedside table. 

The sun has been obliterated from the sky, and an unlucky darkness invades the world. 

But the sun has a habit of rising, time and time again, after the longest nights, after the darkest storms. 

You feel the beginnings of its rise, see the golden tips of it lighting the room as he holds you. Even now. 

[viennakarma]

Satisfaction [Part 2]

PART 2 OF SATISFACTION

Summary: Four times Lewis tried to apologize, and one time he didn't need to.

Word count: 4.3k

Tags: female!reader, apologetic!Lewis (finally), physiotherapist!reader, a little bit of romance, Lewis is trying, reader is more forgiving than the author would be, cursing, a bit angsty, happy ending, not beta read

Relationship: Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Note: I'm so sorry for taking so long with this! I had a writer's block specifically with this one. For everyone who sent me asks about it, I read everything, sorry if I didn't reply to all! Luckily, one dramatic anon sent me an ask saying they would graduate college with a doctorate before this came out, and it made me laugh out loud BUT it actually sparked something in my brain and I managed to write, lol. So, thanks, Dramatic Anon, I owe you one :D

I'm sorry if it's rushed or full of mistakes (haven't had the time to proofread).

Find me on Twitter!

I.

“Hey, Lewis! How are you doing?” Angela said as soon as she picked up his call, and Lewis held his breath before answering.

“Yeah, uh, I’m alright-”, he scratched his face nervously.

“I hope you’re not giving Y/N a hard time anymore, yeah?” Angela joked a little, her voice light.

“Oh. You know about that?”

“Yeah, I called her a few days ago to check in how’s the work and she mentioned you were not very receptive,” Angela said and Lewis noticed that, even saying that, you didn’t call him what he was. A complete prick. “And since she didn’t call again, I assumed things got better between you two.”

“Well, about that-” Lewis sighed, not knowing.

“What?” Angela paused, her voice suddenly serious again.

“She resigned. And it was entirely my fault.” He ripped the band-aid off.

“Lewis, what the actual fuck?!”

“I was awful to her. Way worse than I assume she told you. And before you call me every name under the sun, I need to contact her and apologize. Unfortunately, she blocked my number now, so if you can kindly let me know her address, so I can apologize.”

“You better fix this mess, Lewis.” Angela said before ending the call, as less than a minute later, a text popped up on his screen, your address. Which was in London, not very far from his own neighborhood.

Lewis sent flowers to your place with a small note apologizing and asking you to unblock him. When you didn’t answer and didn’t unblock him, he called the florist he had ordered to double check if you had received the flowers. You did. So you just didn’t want to talk to him. He kept sending a bouquet every day for the next three days. On the fourth day, as he was back home, he decided to go to your place himself.

He brought another bouquet, ringing the bell in your house. He rose the bouquet to cover his face, and he heard your voice, opening.

“Hi there, buddy! If I give you a hundred pounds, would you not bother bringing these flowers here? Just- throw them on the bin or something-” You stopped abruptly as the flowers lowered revealing not the young delivery man who’s been bringing flowers to your place every single day, but Lewis Hamilton himself.

“So you’re not even receiving the flowers?” He asked, sounding hurt.

“I got the first one, and I have no interest in anything that comes from you,” you managed to say, looking him straight in the eyes.

You looked exhausted, your hair was messy and your face lacked any makeup. But worse of all, you looked hurt and angry. 

“Wait, let me just- let me apologize, I can explain even if it’s not-” He dropped the bouquet, pleading.

“Just fuck off, ok? You have not a single reason to be here today.”

“I was an ass to you and-”

“And now we’re nothing. We are just strangers, nothing more, nothing less. Fuck off!” You said and didn’t even give him a second before slamming the door on his face.

II.

So the flowers were a no.

And he wasn’t sure where to go from that, since he couldn’t come up with any other way to make you at least give him a chance to talk.

He was still trying to think of something when he crossed paths with Oscar Piastri during media day. Lewis stopped dead in his tracks as he saw the rookie driver munching on a little protein bar, the package showing it was the same as you had offered him weeks earlier.

“Hey, there, Oscar!” Lewis greeted him, “if you don’t mind me asking. Where did you get this?” He pointed to the little package in his hand.

“Oh, Lando’s new PT! She’s covering for Jon as he’ll be a few weeks on paternity leave.”

“Oh, is she here?”

“At McLaren, yes.”

Lewis nodded, going straight there, not bothering with explaining why he was there just walking in. He found you in a small room with Lando. You were guiding him through a stretching session with a silicone stretching. Lando was telling you something and you were laughing, a hand on his shoulder as Lando pulled his arms in and out.

“-no way you said that! Poor thing, she must have been scared!” You said, then you two laughed.

You were looking healthier than the last few times he had seen you. You looked like you had been sleeping well, and your hair was pretty, and you were wearing make up.

As Lewis approached, and you noticed his presence, you stopped laughing, face getting serious and focused on Lando.

“Oh, hey man!” Lando greeted him, smiley and unaware of the thing between you two.

“Hi. Y/N, can I talk to you? I just need one minute then I’ll leave you alone.”

You scoffed but didn’t look at him, and Lando looked from your face to Lewis’ confused with the tension suddenly so thick he would be able to cut it with a knife.

“Y/N, can you just-”

“You’re all good, Lando. Tomorrow we do another session an hour before Free Practice, and then a stretching session between FP1 and FP2.”

Lando nodded, unsure of what to do so he just watched as you turned away and packed your bag, leaving with long strides through the door. 

“Mate, I don’t know what the fuck you did, because I’ve never seen her be mean ever since I met her. Good luck, though, seems like you need it.” Lando said, leaving to the opposite side.

Lewis muttered “fuck” before going after you. He found you outside the motorhome, and ran up to block your path, but he miscalculated and you ended up running straight into him.

“What the fuck? Dude, just leave me alone!” You tried walking past him but he blocked you again.

“Please, I’m so sorry! Really, I am, I was such a dick to you and you didn’t deserve any of that.”

You didn’t look at his eyes, adjusting your bag as you sighed.

“I just- I don’t understand why you are doing this. I’m no one, I’m nothing. Just go on about your life.”

“No, no- You’re not nothing. I’m really sorry for the way I treated you when all you offered me was kindness.”

“Fine! Ok.” you muttered, seemingly exhausted, “Can I go now?”

He knew you didn’t actually forgive him, so he just let you go because he didn’t want to pressure you into something you were visibly not ready for. It didn’t mean he would give up, just that he needed a different approach.

III.

Lewis managed to find out that you’d stay a few more weeks working with Lando, so he arranged a well crafted plan to have you listen to him.

Desperate times asked for desperate measures.

So he managed to talk Lando into letting him drive you to the track that weekend, you two would have time to talk on the drive. He waited behind the wheel watching as you went to the backseat to leave your bags, then you opened the passenger door, smiling and chatting. But you stopped smiling as soon as you sat down and noticed him.

“What are you doing here?” You asked, sounding more annoyed than angry.

“I’m your ride to the track today.”

“I’d rather not,” you muttered, removing the seat belt you had just put on.

“There’s no one else to take you there, please, just let us go,” he asked softly. You sighed, putting on the seat belt again and he smiled reaching the cup holder and offering you a cup of coffee, “got you a coffee.”

“Thanks,” you took it begrudgingly, but as you took a sip, you noticed it was your favorite, “how do you know I like this coffee?”

“You told me, during one of our sessions.”

“I thought you weren’t listening to a single word I said,” you scoffed, almost disdainful. He took it, because taking your anger was little compared to what he did to you.

“I listened to you.”

“Weird way of showing, then.”

You stared at the road he was softly driving. You didn’t like his company, that much was clear, but he was on a mission, and he would be damned if he wasn’t going to properly apologize. 

“I don’t even know why you treated me like trash,” you muttered suddenly, sniffling like you were trying to contain the tears, “just- I was so happy, you know? I’ve always been a fan of Formula 1, watched it growing up and everything. Then I get here all happy to achieve the greatest dream and I just get treated like shit from day one. I tried to be funny, I tried to be kind, I tried to be silent, and none of it worked. I don’t understand what you want from me now! I’m a person too, ok? I get sad and frustrated, and I have my own problems, but I don’t go around making everyone else’s lives shit just because I’m mad!”

“Yes, you are right. I treated you like shit when you never deserved it. I really regret it, for what it's worth,” He sighed, looking at you for a moment before focusing on the road, “my life was shit. I know it’s not an excuse, but it’s the truth. I was just coming out of a relationship that I thought meant a lot to me, and I just lost Angela, who is one of my closest friends, and I was on the verge of losing my seat. It felt like everything was going wrong for a few weeks.”

That made you pause, turning to stare at him.

“What do you mean, losing your seat?” You sounded genuinely curious, and even a little worried.

“The negotiations for a new contract weren’t going ahead, and I was really worried Mercedes was going to get rid of me.”

“But you’re like- one of the GOATs! Why would they lose you?” Now you sounded exasperated, like you couldn't believe that. 

“Well, now everything is alright and signed, but it felt like I was really at risk back then.”

You stayed silent for a few minutes, mulling over his words, trying to wrap your head around his excuses. You were thoughtful the rest of the drive, until Lewis pulled up in a parking lot at the track. Finally, you nodded to yourself.

“I forgive you, Lewis. Just- Don’t do that to anyone ever again, it’s not cool,” you said, unlocking the seat belt, “thank you for the ride and for the effort in apologizing. Goodbye, Lewis.”

You took your bags from the backseat and left after waving at him again. It felt like a closed chapter to you, and you could bury whatever resentment you felt towards him. It was freeing in a way.

IV.

Lewis didn’t see you for a couple more race weeks, despite casually walking in front of McLaren’s garage and hospitality. He couldn’t catch a glimpse of you and he genuinely worried that your last goodbye was definitive.

Fortunately he saw you again late at night after a race. Almost everyone had left already, and Lewis had a long debriefing meeting with his team, so it was sheer luck to find you on the way to the parking lot, where you were standing against the wall, hugging yourself under a big coat and holding your bags. You seem worried and unwell.

“Hey,” he said, trying to sound like he wasn’t ecstatic to see you again, “are you ok?”

“Yeah, um- I missed my ride back to the hotel, so I’m trying for an uber or something,” you said, but Lewis unnoticed how you were pale and your lips looked dry.

“Are you sure you’re ok? You look like you’re about to pass out.” He pointed, and you breathed in, slowly. You felt very, very cold, with shivers up your body that you miserably trying to contain.

“I’ve got a little fever,” you mentioned, finally. Lewis raised his hand and touched your forehead, feeling it way more warm than a little fever.

“Little fever? You’re burning!” He exclaimed, putting his own Mercedes coat over you, then taking your bags and putting them over his shoulder, “Come on, I’ll give you a ride back.”

“You don’t have to, really-”

“I’m not leaving you here in the late hours of the night while having a fever! Now, come on!”

He held your forearm, worried you’d stumble and fall or something. With a big umbrella to face the rain, he guided you to his car, where a driver was waiting. The two of you sat on the backseat as Lewis instructed the driver to take you to the hotel.

“Should we take you to see a doctor or something?” Lewis asked.

“No, don’t worry, I already took an antipyretic. It should work soon.”

Back in the hotel, Lewis accompanied you up to your room even when you wanted to refuse, but he said he was worried, and it felt honest, so you let him take you up. He didn’t let you say anything as he pushed the door of your room and walked you inside.

“Are you still feeling cold?” He asked.

“Yes,” you put your bags away, but you watched as Lewis went into your luggage, “um- excuse me?” you crossed your arms, annoyed at him going through your things.

“Change into this, it will keep you warm,” he tossed you a sweater and matching pants, “I’ll ask room service for soup, so you can warm up.”

Huffing, you went into the bathroom and changed, glad because you were in fact a little bit warmer. You wore socks for the cold and got into bed, where Lewis helped tuck you in, pulling the duvet tight around you.

“Why are you doing all this? We’re just strangers, Lewis.” You shook your head, watching as he walked around the bed and sat beside you over the duvet.

“We’re not strangers, and I wanted to help,” he shrugged.

“We are strangers, we know nothing about each other,” you muttered.

“Well, I’m Lewis, my favorite color is purple and I have a dog named Roscoe,” he said which made you chuckle a little, “there, not strangers anymore.”

“Well, I’m Y/N, my favorite color is yellow and I don’t have a pet yet, but hopefully soon.”

Lewis eyed you carefully.

“I know you’re with McLaren on a temporary contract, so I was wondering if you’d be willing to come back to Mercedes after that,” he said, slowly. You sighed, shaking your head.

“I won’t go back, Lewis.” You said softly, for him to know you weren’t angry anymore, but the world had spun, life went on…

“But- Ellie said you were such a big fan! It’s ok if you don’t want to work with me anymore, I’ll understand. But I don’t think it’s fair that you lose your chance in such a big dream because of an asshole like me!”

“There are always other dreams to have, Lewis. When a door closes, others may open,” you untucked your arm so you could hold his arm in comfort. He held your hand, and when he felt your cold hand, he rubbed it softly, to warm you up.

“It’s not fair-”

“Lewis, I’m moving to Madrid in a few weeks.”

He stopped, visibly deflated hearing your words.

“I’m so sorry, I should’ve never-”

“Lewis, it’s not because of you,” you pushed the duvet, freeing yourself so you could sit up beside him, backs to the headboard, “I got an amazing offer from Real Madrid. I’m gonna join their PT team.”

“Oh.”

His stomach dropped once again, thinking that life would lead you two different paths, new future, new plans, and Lewis won’t even be able to make it up to you through time as he was hoping for. Lewis expected that, with you coming back to Mercedes, he would have time to apologize with actions, more than just words.

“They’re my favorite football team, and I’ve always dreamed of getting there,” when you noticed how down he was with the news of your departure, you pressed his hand a bit more, “I told you there are many dreams to achieve.”

“You wouldn’t have to worry about it if I hadn’t been so-”

“That’s enough, Lewis, it has nothing to do with you. This is my choice, something that I also dreamed of. It’s not the end of the world. If anything, there are lessons in what we went through.”

He wanted to ask you to stay, to give him and the Mercedes dream one more chance, but he knew it would be selfish of him to ask that. And he wasn’t willing to be selfish with you anymore. He would only have maybe a few more weeks with you, that he intended to nurture a friendship with you.

When your soup arrived, he stayed and watched you eat, and you thanked him profusely as the meds started working and you felt the fever dissipating.

V.

Lewis ended up going back to McLaren to find you all the time. Sometimes he brought a coffee for you, some other times he just wanted to invite you to lunch, or he wanted a protein bar, and after almost two weeks of that, his excuses ran dry and he only said he wanted to check on you. and he had been checking on you for a couple more weeks now.

“So…” Lando muttered with a knowing smirk, “you and Lewis, uh?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, as you spotted Lando from behind, analyzing his squats.

“You went from hating him to becoming his friend pretty quickly,” Lando pointed.

“And…?”

“I don’t know but he’s here all the time to see you.”

“Nah, he’s just passing by.”

Lando let go of teasing you and switched topics to talk about something else for the remainder of your session. After you finished and Lando went for the post race debrief, you were getting ready to leave when Lewis found you again.

“What do you want?” You squinted your eyes at him. Lando’s teasing voice still in your head.

“Moody, are we?” Lewis joked, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall.

“Lewis.”

“Fine, fine! I’m taking you to dinner later today, ok?”

“Are you asking me out or demanding?” You frowned, pretending to be moody.

“I’m inviting you and implying I’m not taking no for an answer,” He winked.

“Lewis, I don’t think we-”

“Think of it as a farewell, celebratory dinner, yes? You’re leaving so soon to Madrid! Pretty please?” He joined both hands like he was begging.

“Fine. Stop pouting.” You rolled your eyes and he giggled, before leaving.

He texted you two hours later saying he was coming to pick you up. You dressed cozy and comfortable, since it was absolutely not a date. He texted you to let you know he was downstairs when you were finishing with your hair. As soon as you got in the car, you checked Lewis’ outfit.

“Is this ok?” You asked, pointing at yourself.

“It’s perfect.”

Lewis drove for forty minutes to the next town over. In the end, he took you to a cozy restaurant, small, a little cramped but so familial and cozy. You two sat in a corner booth, far from the windows. You went over the menu as Lewis explained that this place’s food tasted homemade and they also had vegan options, so he always went there whenever he was in that part of Italy.

You told Lewis everything about your move, how you had found a great apartment close to work, how you had enrolled in Spanish classes to start a month after your arrival, and everything.

After a hearty meal and chatting a lot, you two decided to go for a walk to eat some ice cream. The air was windy but not very cold, so you just walked side by side a little late at night.

“Are you sure nobody will see us?” You looked around to see if anyone had recognised him or had taken pictures.

“Yes, it’s very discreet in this part of town. Besides, it’s a little late, so not many people are around.”

“This is a very good gelato, Lewis! Thanks for taking me out today.” You muttered as the two of you walked around a big, dark park. You stood under a lamp post, finishing the last of your ice cream.

“How are you feeling about Madrid?” He asked you, looking interested.

“Nervous. Excited. I don’t know.” You whispered, smiling, you held the lamp post and let it take your weight as you flung around, all smiley because of the bit of wine you had at the restaurant, “It’s like a new adventure. You know when you’re about to do something that might be risky but gratifying? You’re scared but you have to-”

As you completed a full 360 around the lamp post, you were met with Lewis walking up to you and kissing you. He pressed his lips to yours, firm but tender, and it took you a while to assimilate what was happening. You held his coat and pushed him away only enough to break the kiss. The lime gelato kiss that had your stomach full of butterflies, and your heart beating almost out of its cage.

“Lewis-” you shook your head, still confused.

“Sorry, I- I just couldn’t pass on the opportunity,” he sighed and his breath fanned your cheek.

“We shouldn’t,”

“Why not?” He raised one hand to cradle your face, his thumb running your cheek.

“Because we started too messy. And- and I’m leaving soon. We don’t need to complicate things.”

You whispered, still not pulling away fully. You wanted it, so bad. But you knew you couldn’t get tangled in a messy situationship right before leaving. He was tempting, but you weren’t willing to risk whatever time was left of your silly little friendship.

So you took a step back. Still, you took his hand in yours, letting his warmth engulf you.

“Sorry,” he cleared his throat, but you just smiled at him, seeing how he was memorizing your face, and how your eyes were shining bright for him.

“It’s ok. Just, wrong place and wrong time, right?”

He gulped, nodding.

You didn’t kiss again, but Lewis held your hand the whole drive back to Monza.

Understandably, Lewis didn’t come back for your last week at McLaren. Despite being a little hurt about his absence, it didn’t really upset you, deep down you knew that it was better like this. The distance would make the goodbye easier for the man who wormed his way into your life. The whole team at McLaren gave you a farewell cake, which was sweet considering you were just a temporary hire.

You had tears in your eyes saying goodbye to the team and to the formula 1 track.

After that, you went back to London to finish packing, and shipping a few of your furniture and belongings. The dinner with your family and closest friends was filled with tears, and you finally caught up with Angela, explaining everything that had happened.

When the day came, your parents and siblings took you to the airport and you said goodbye with teary eyes and a heavy heart.

You were about to board when a sudden commotion caught your attention, and from between the crowd Lewis Hamilton emerged, running towards you as if he were in a marathon. Confused and shocked, you waited for him to get closer, and as soon as he stopped in front of you, he held your face with both hands and pulled you in a kiss. After two seconds, you returned the kiss, deepening it by opening your lips. He devoured you for a couple more seconds, before pulling away when you were both panting.

“Lewis? What the fuck?”

“This doesn’t have to be a goodbye, right? We can- I don’t know, we can figure it out,” He muttered, face close to you.

“Lewis,” you hesitated, “I’m moving away. We’ll spend most of out time in different time zones-”

“Wouldn’t you like to try? It’s better to try than spend our lives haunted by what ifs” His argument was convincing. And the fact that he was just centimeters from your face, and the fact that you had just kissed and his cologne was divine… Very tempting.

“Lewis, the next time you cause a scene in front of an entire airport, I’m killing you,” you whispered, pecking his lips once more as the crowd dissipated of people boarding the plane.

“I wanted it to be memorable, like a romcom.”

“You’re annoying, that’s what you are. You’re lucky you’re handsome” You rolled your eyes, but Lewis could still see the big smile on your face, eyes glinting.

“Is that a yes to my question?”

“One date, Hamilton. And we’ll see where it will go from that” You smiled, pushing his chest, taking a step back.

“I’m going to Madrid as soon as the triple header is over,” He promised, pulling you close again by the waist.

“You better! I don’t know, maybe I will meet a handsome Spaniard,” You joked, playing hard to get. You closed the distance so you could whisper in his ear, “You better work if you want any prize, pretty boy.”

He gasped at your seductive words, and you pushed him away. He smiled at you. Pulling one of his necklaces, he put it around your neck, a pearl one, very beautiful. The airport called all the passengers for the flight.

“A promise. Yeah?” He said, holding the necklace softly.

“Yeah. See you soon?” You nodded.

“See you soon.”

He watched as you walked away, and before boarding, you turned around and blew him a kiss. He laughed, pretending it hit him right over his heart.

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[tinydefector]

This just hit me but there is sort of an inherent impact play to fucking a cybertronian! Like their metal frame probably makes it sting a little when they make contact with human skin every time they thrust. I can just image some mech seeing their humans sore little butt from taking a beating from their robo pelvis

Ahhh gods!!!. All I can think is the amount of bruises I get from bumping into things, all I can think is the bruises that would be left on my legs from large fingers. But also that each mech leaves different bruises and outlines in your skin from the plating of their digits.

You know for a fact that the human is going to be sore afterwards. They are sprawled out on a berth, table, or any surface a bot can take them on. And you know for a fact they are going to be limping, tender and sore after fucking. Yet it's almost addicting. you always find yourself back on their spike, whether it's a soft love making session or a brutal fuck fest, your always going to have marks, bruises and tenderness.

But like the amount of bruises left over, at first the cybertronians are so worried because 'oh frag I've hurt my lover' but then it turns out their human seems to rather enjoy the marks left over, tho the first few days they are rather tender and sore form it, so it turns into the next few days after a session that the bot is just watching them, checking on them.

But over time, the cybertronian starts to really enjoy the bruises, and he loves the fact that their digits are basically bruised into their lovers body. Watching the way the blues, reds, greens and yellows swell together on flesh, on one hand they hate the fact they are responsible for the injuries, but on the other they adore the colours and knowing the fact they they are the ones who did it.

If it was from anything other than interfacing or from someone else it would be a very different story, but for the fact you trust them enough to know how much strength this giant metallic being has, yet you still trust them, seek out their company and curl up against them afterwards.

_____

-Imagine getting so into it with a bot to the point they accidentally break your pelvis but your not willing to go to a medic and have to explain what happened.

- human doctor thinking your being abused due to the about of bruises on your body when they are doing a full health check.

- bot your with having a full blown panic first time they see the bruises and they scan you and realises the marks line up with their frame. And they are nearly sobbing becuase 'I've been killing your blood and skin cells and you haven't told me!?!?'

- you looking yourself in the mirror and going. "Fuck today's going to be hell" realising how much walking your going to have to do, and the fact that sitting down is going to hurt just as much.

________

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[gardenofnoah]

it was never ending (pt. 1)

wc: 5.3k (pt. 1 only) tags (whole series): bakugou x reader, oc character death (not reader), grief, healing, found family, getting together, slow (medium?) burn, child rearing, descriptions of pregnancy, morning sickness, friends to lovers, confessions, eventual smut

notes: i've had the idea for this in my drafts for the last 82 years. i blacked out and wrote this whole thing in like 12 hours. fingers crossed for the same motivation demon to visit me in my sleep for part 2.

summary: when the father of your child passes away suddenly, you get by with a little help from your friends (and a really intense Bakugou).

There was a part of you that already knew, as soon as the phone rang. At 7pm, there was no reason to assume it wasn't benign, like your mother calling to confirm what you'd already told her you'd bring to brunch the following weekend.

It wasn't, though. You knew it wouldn't be.

The drive is something that happens to someone else. You see it in flashes. Distantly, you think that it's probably not safe, driving in this state with an infant in the backseat. But you don't really have another option—or at least not one that occurs to you.

A nurse—a young woman, who can't be any older than early twenties—meets you in the lobby. She's practiced in her stoicism. There is no forced smile, no apologies—just a quiet invitation to follow her. She leads you with a hand on your elbow, like she's expecting you, too, to collapse, down a series of hallways that you don't bother to notice. You wonder how long she's been doing this, and what the impact of it might be on someone so young.

A doctor is waiting for you in the room. He immediately launches into a lengthy, medical term-laden explanation of the two hours prior to your arrival. You hear none of it, and you're not even looking at him.

Behind him, a thin sheet covers the body of the father of the child in your arms.

-

You turn your phone off.

You have to, really. The barrage of well-intentioned but poorly timed (and often poorly worded) texts and calls and emails renders the thing unusable.

The number of days that've passed between today and the hospital are of little consequence to you. You've survived on autopilot for however many have passed but the bone-deep exhaustion you feel has spread deeper still. Through the wall, Kaede cries, but there's nothing left in you to get your body to move. Kaede, named so at her father's request.

She was an angry thing, born with no small amount of indignancy at the act of bringing her earthside, against her will. She was red and raging for the first several months of her life, and while it exhausted you, Takeshi had taken it in stride.

"My darling girl," you'd hear him through the monitor, cooing to your daughter as she pitched a fit for the umpteenth time that night, "it won't always be so bad."

How would you convince her of the truth in that now?

The sound of knuckles against your front door jars you out of your half-consciousness. It seems it's only a courtesy, though, because you hear it open immediately after. It dawns on you that you haven't thought to check if it was locked since you've been home. Regrettable, especially now. Some distant alarm ringing in your mind tells you that should be concerned that someone has just entered your home, but there's a wall up right now. In an effort to keep you safe, your brain has blocked out everything.

Through the wall, a voice coos to your daughter. You recognize it as Mina's, and you let out a quiet breath. You brain loosens its grasp for an instant and relief floods you. You'll get up and thank her, when you can.

There is a chorus of voices, telling you that there is more than one person in your house right now, but in the absence of a threat, your eyes flutter closed. The door to your bedroom opens, and you blink hard at the light that seeps in over the massive body in your doorway.

The door closes just as quickly, and in the darkness, the body moves around the room to the other side of the bed—the empty one. There is a weight—your body dips with it minutely, and then settles again. You close your eyes, this time to relieve the sting you feel for the first time since getting home. With another breathing body as its witness, the grief hits you so suddenly you can taste it.

"Katsuki," you whimper, feeling him at your back. Familiar arms reach for you, pull you in.

"Y'r alright," he murmurs, pressing the underside of his jaw into your hair. The pressure on all sides squeezes something loose in you. You suck in a gasping breath, and then it leaves you—broken apart and limp. He holds you while you cry—keeps you there, tethered only to him in this storm.

_

Once the hurt comes, it lingers.

You suppose you can be grateful for that. People do crazy things under the burden of pent up emotion, and you can't afford to come unglued. Not like that, anyway. But while grief pulls you apart in different directions, your friends flit around your peripheral. You'd feel guilty if you could—for not being able to do what you should be able to—but few things get past the mountain of mourning that keeps you pinned to your bed.

They seem to have worked out shifts among themselves. Mina in the morning to get Kaede up and fed, Kirishima and Denki in the evening to get her bathed and ready for bed. Izuku comes around most afternoons with rattle toys and books to keep her engaged, talking and playing to keep her brain developing in your absence. Shielding her from this.

Katsuki doesn't leave.

He sleeps on the couch. Or you assume he does—you've not ventured out of your bed for much of anything. He's in and out of your room during the day, always with little meals or water or reminding you to shower, to get up and walk around the room if you can. It's hard and you cry often, but right now he's not his brash, abrasive self. He's gentler than you've ever seen him, a hand at your back to steady you, his voice low and grounding.

Your relationship with Katsuki is complicated, but not in a bad way. You'd met him, along with the rest of the group, in college. The civilian track at UA landed you a cushy office job—one you promptly turned down due to Katsuki's outrage at you working anywhere that wasn't with him. He'd gotten you a job as a resource coordinator at Jeanist's agency—which was something you found you really enjoyed. Your quirk was less than impressive—similar to Shouto's but not nearly as powerful, you could really only bring tea just shy of a boil. It certainly wouldn't be saving anyone's life, but in this role, you could help. Displaced families needed temporary housing, victims of violence needed access to affordable counseling, the injured needed connected to hearing aids and wheelchairs and prosthetics, ongoing care.

It was hard work, but you felt a certain privilege in being the one to do it. It was an honor to walk along side someone in their most vulnerable moments, and you tried to do it with as much grace and compassion as you could. When Katsuki was big enough to start his own agency, you followed him there. He gave you room to grow, and now, you head a team of community crisis response workers.

You haven't thought about work since the hospital. It's fascinating, how quickly something that matters so deeply to you can leave your mind. Katsuki hasn't mentioned it—in fact, he's not said much of anything, aside from his quiet prompting every few hours. You know that he's only doing what seems so inherent to him, and if you had the energy to, you'd tell him to go home—to take a break. The energy isn't there, though—all you can do is follow his directives to keep yourself alive.

Katsuki has always been protective of you. You're not sure when it started. You'd always been drawn to him, and there was seldom a time when you were somewhere that he wasn't. Your mother took to making up the spare bed for him when you'd come home for weekends and holidays, because it was a guarantee that he'd follow you through the screen door like a shadow. In your third year, she started asking, not so in jest, when the wedding would be.

When you met Takeshi, it was a surprise to everyone. But he was kind, and personable, and the newly-pro heroes adopted him into the fold.

Takeshi knew what Katsuki meant to you, and you were grateful for his patience. While his relationship with you was neatly defined, a specific box in your heart with his name on it—Katsuki was not. He was in everything that you were, and it was something that Takeshi chose not to interfere with. You're certain it was difficult, but he took it in stride.

He really was a kind man.

Within a year of being together, you found out you were pregnant. It was a shock—but what news filled you with terror, Takeshi received with utter delight. You were only a year out of college and in no way financially stable, but his joy left an impression on you. With each day, your child grew, and so did your tentative excitement. Takeshi was through the roof—as were your heroes.

Katsuki was the one to figure it out first. You'd been absent from a few of the group's weekly dinners at the bar in town. When you finally showed up, dressed in a big hoodie that covered most of you, you'd politely declined all offers of beer and stuck to stealing fries off of his plate.

"You pregnant?" he'd asked, not bothering to lower his voice. You blinked up at him, caught of guard.

"I—uh. Yeah."

You could've heard a pin drop, with how silent the table had fallen. You lowered your eyes—uncomfortable, unsure how to proceed—and reached for another fry. Mina broke the silence first.

"Oh my god!" she'd shrieked, already in tears. The rest of your friends followed in suit, cheering and reaching for you across the table in some strange attempt at a hug, at comfort.

You'd looked back up to Katsuki, who'd been strangely quiet. His eyes held a question—something undeniably concerned.

"It's okay," you told him, smiling softly. Squeezing his knee under the table, you couldn't miss how tense the muscle felt under your hand. "Honest."

_

A month crawls by, and you find that you can't sleep in your bed anymore.

After a few, agonizing hours of tossing and turning, and pointedly avoiding the other side of the bed, enough is enough. You stumble in the dark to the living room, trying your hardest to be quiet. It's your sniffling that wakes him up.

"Y'alright?" slurred, endearing. It would make you smile if you weren't crying. You shake your head, though his eyes aren't open to see it.

"Move over," you whisper, already pulling the blanket out from under his hip. Katsuki shifts, rolling to his side and lifting an arm for you to slot yourself underneath.

His heart beat, steady and slow, taps against your temple. You close your eyes and imagine the shape of it—the chambers that expand and contract and keep him alive. The wave of gratitude is immense and sudden and brings another sting to your eyes.

He doesn't go back to sleep—you can tell by his breathing.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, watery and broken. The arm around your waist tightens.

"Enough." His voice is gravely with sleep, but that's not all that's there. There's an edge to it, and you know that he's worried. "Try t'sleep."

_

Takeshi had made it a habit to talk with Kaede before she was born.

Each night, he would shuffle down the bed and speak softly to your growing stomach, filling her in on the events of the day.

"We wanted to go on a picnic today, but you made your mother sick." He'd pat your belly, shaking his head with a tsk. "That wasn't very nice, little girl."

Pregnancy was hard. You'd wished to be like those women that glow—that love being pregnant, that feel all connected to their bodies and the earth and the universe and whatever—but it was awful. Your ankles swelled and your back ached and you were sick all of the time.

Takeshi worked a 9-5 job outside the city, so Katsuki would stop by to check on you. It became something like a routine. You'd spend all morning throwing up, and then Katsuki would stop by and spend most of the afternoon here, feeding you anti-nausea medication and small bites of food (you'd really only wanted toast, which would launch Katsuki into a several minute tirade about how you'd kill yourself and the baby if you didn't eat a god damned vegetable. This was also part of your routine).

Katsuki's quirk was surprisingly helpful. It took some convincing ("You're not going to fry the baby Katsuki, Jesus Christ,"), but you found that if you had a layer between you, his hands could act as a high-powered heating pad. He'd sit behind you on the floor, one hand on your lower back, the other scrolling through his phone. You'd keep your head between your knees to stave of the nausea.

"You nervous?"

It was the first time he'd really asked. You rested your cheek on your knee, looking back to catch the blonde spikes of his hair in your peripheral.

"Honestly? Yeah. Really nervous."

He'd hummed, something noncommittal and gruff. You let the silence stretch on for another moment before breaking it again.

"I'm worried I'm going to poop on the table."

He'd snorted, and you could feel the eye roll from behind you. "That's what y'r worried about?"

"I mean, yeah. And the possibility of irreparably fucking up my child, I guess."

He'd gone quiet again, and you'd let your eyes close. Content for the moment.

"You'll do fine," he'd said, too quiet for him. The heat spread wider, his other hand joining the first at the small of your back. Kneading softly. "Kid's got a good mom."

_

She sits in front of you now, her chunky legs kicking wildly inside the cloth seat of her jumper. You watch her little toes feel out the ridged bottom, curling around the textures. It might be the first time since Takeshi died that you have really spent time with your child.

Kaeda grunts around the teething ring in her mouth, gurgling happily as Mina sits next to her—pink fingers pressing light up buttons on the tray to catch your daughter's eye. It works for a few seconds, but you sniff, and Kaeda's eyes find you.

"Dah!" the teething ring goes flying as she reaches for you, her head not quite catching up to the jerky movements of her body.

You smile at her, and the stretch of it feels foreign. "Hi, my baby."

It's effort, but you stand, reaching to grab under her armpits and hoist her out of her seat. Her fingers tangle in the strands of your hair. She seems bigger—heavier than she was before. It makes your chest ache. She sits on your hip as you spin her slowly, a sort of sashay around the perimeter of the rug.

"My big girl. Have you had fun with Mina?"

Katsuki watches you with lazy interest from his spot on the couch. Mina immediately busies herself with another task—folding blankets, cleaning up toys. You don't waste your breath telling her she doesn't have to. You'd already tried once, and she waved you off like a pesky fly.

"I'm not doing this because I have to, honey," she reminded you, not bothering to look up from pulling clothes out of the washing machine. "I want to."

At seven months, Kaeda has started to crawl. Or, sort of. It's more like an army crawl, with her little legs propelling her, in a way, across the ground. She gets antsy in your arms, and fusses to be put down.

"I hear ya, I hear ya," you murmur softly, bending to guide her to the soft ground. "Go nuts."

She does, squirming her way across the rug—right to Katsuki. She reaches where his arm hangs over the edge of the couch—and gives it a good, solid smack, her little palm splayed open across his skin.

"What th—y'little brat—"

He peers over the couch at her, and she squeals, clearly enamored by the game she's forced him into. She tries it again—winds up, determined, with her arm up by her head—but he snatches it up before it lands. This time it's a screech that leaves her, all of the air pushed out of her lungs to make room for the belly laugh that she dissolves into when he makes a big show of eating her grubby little fingers.

It was never a surprise to you that Katsuki was so good with Kaede. It was unexpected, though, how much he wanted to be around her. You'd asked about it once, after spending several moments watching him carry her around like a football and seemingly enjoying it, and he'd only shrugged.

"She's cooler than you, so."

You'd laughed, only a little indignant, shoving him lightly. He'd hissed at you to be careful, don't you see the fuckin' baby here, which made you laugh harder. It was absurd, this wall of a man toting around a tiny, slobbering infant.

She was just as enamored with him. She would seek him out anytime he was in her line of vision, often fighting her way out of your grasp to get to him. It reminded you of the way cats seem to flock to the one person that doesn't like cats—she'd picked the meanest looking man in the room and latched on.

Like mother, like daughter, you suppose.

_

"Do you have a name picked out?"

It was late—your head hung off the edge of the bed, which seemed to be the only position that didn't send acid reflux straight up your throat, oddly enough. Takeshi sat up at the other end, your feet in his lap while he pressed his thumbs into the soles of them.

"No," you told him honestly, "truthfully, I'm drawing a blank."

He'd hummed, hands moving up to get at your swollen ankles. "What about Kaede?"

"Kaede," you rolled the syllables around in your mouth, testing the shape of it. It felt nice. "How come?"

"I just—want her to be strong." It was thoughtful as it left him, hanging around in the air above your heads. "I want her to be like a maple tree."

"Like a tree," you repeated dryly, making him snort.

"You know! Like, rooted and strong. But able to change and sway in the wind, all that."

"Wow," you breathed, smiling, "you are so corny."

He sputtered, trying to defend himself, "It's not corny—!"

"Alright, alright," you reached down to pat the duvet, trying to placate him from afar, "Kaede. I like it."

_

Katsuki was the first one in the room after Kaede was born.

It was—unconventional—and you were made well aware of that by the open gawking of the nurses, but Takeshi didn't mind. You felt some guilt, fueled by the reaction of those around you, and told him as much.

"I'll have the rest of my life to hold her," he'd said. "I'll go grab him."

How sad it was to remember that moment now.

You'd closed your eyes for only a moment before you were stirred by a familiar hand on the crown of your head. You'd blinked and were startled to find him visibly concerned.

"You look like shit," he'd said, tilting your head to each side, as if to check for injury. It made you smile.

"Yeah, well, you push a watermelon out of the smallest orifice in your body and let me know how you feel."

He'd gagged, which made you laugh, which hurt.

"Oh, don't do that," you exhaled, long and controlled, "Everything hurts."

He'd gone quiet for a moment, watching you shift and settle back into the bed, wires and leads twisting and clanging off the plastic railing.

"Y'r okay?"

It made you smile. "I am. She's so beautiful, Kat. I can almost forgive her for totally wrecking me on the way out."

As if on queue, the child in question let out a grunt from her spot in the little plastic cradle—moving like a grub, swaddled. He looked at you for another long moment before rising to see for himself. He stopped, too far from the crib, and bent at the waist for a better view. You snorted.

"You can get closer, Katsuki. It's fine."

Another step toward her and he'd stopped again, clearly maxed out on his own comfort. The smile pulled at your cheeks so tightly that it ached.

He looked back at you, and then again to her. It was comical, how fascinated he'd seemed by the tiny person in front of him. And then, over his shoulder—

"You shit the bed?"

You groaned, bringing your hand up to cover your face, mindful of the IV. "I think I did."

His laugh was a crackling thing, echoing around the sterile walls of your room, and Kaede didn't stir at all.

_

When you step foot outside, it's immediately apparent how long it'd been since you last did.

It's a sort of sensory overload—the bright light and the birds and the passing cars and the knowledge that someone has been keeping up with your lawn while you rotted away inside.

From the shaky lines that cut into the grass at odd angles, you have a hunch it was Denki.

Mina accompanies you to the mailbox, as requested. Her arm, strong and assuring, looped through yours as she all but drags you down the short drive to the edge of the road.

You open the box, and immediately shut it.

All of it is for Takeshi.

"Oh sh—sugar," Mina hisses, as if you were not an adult with a fully formed (and often colorful) vocabulary. "I'm sorry, babe. I didn't think about that."

You shake your head. It's an inevitable thing that you don't have the energy to waste the tears on. "Will you sit with me?"

You end up on the porch swing, the metal springs above your head creaking with each suspended shove of your toe off the porch. It's a nice day, you think, trying hard not to find that particularly egregious.

Inside, you hear the squeal of your daughter, followed by the grumbling of Katsuki. It sounds a bit like a lecture that Kaede seems to think is hilarious. Another laugh—this time Denki.

"I'm really glad you're all here," you say eventually, quiet under the buzz of the world around you. "I know it's hard to put your own lives on hold."

She reaches for you, threading your fingers together and pulling them into her lap. "It's not hard at all. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else right now. I know the boys feel the same."

You lean your head against her shoulder, the gentle swaying lulling you somewhere else—on a beach, maybe. With the wind in your hair and salt on your lips. Anywhere but the home that your child's dead father haunts.

"Has Bakugou left at all?"

You snort. "I don't think so."

She sighs, shaking her head. You can hear the smile in it. "He's a real mother hen, that one."

You smile, feeling fond. A mother hen, and your protector.

The breeze turns colder, and Mina shivers. You focus your quirk into the hand she holds—the first time you've used it in quite some time.

She sighs. "God, that's nice. Way better than Blasty's in there."

Her chin presses into the crown of your head when she opens her mouth to speak, and then closes it again. Suddenly she's a little tense, like she's trying to build up her nerve.

"You can say it," you offer gently.

"I was just wondering if you'd stay here."

You've thought about it. It's been hard not too, with the way you can barely get yourself to open your bedroom door at this point. You'd spent every night on the couch with Bakugou since that night.

"No." You speak quietly, as if it's a secret between you. It feels strange to say it out loud. You think, if Takeshi is lingering, you don't want him to hear this. "I just—I don't know where to go. We'd planned to raise her here."

Here, in the home that you love. In the home that you can't bear to spend one more night in.

"Did he have..." She trails off, reconsidering. "I mean, did you get a..."

"Yes," you say, already knowing what she's asking. "I was paid out last week. I put all of it away in an account for Kaede." You sigh, sitting up to straighten out the kink that now exists in your neck. "With my job, we're fine. It's more...the principle of the thing. This is her home."

Mina squeezes your hand gently. "She's a baby, honey. She won't remember it. This was your home."

You tilt your head back, willing away the sting of fresh tears and the irritation you feel at having done so well today until this point.

"Yeah," you sniff, closing your eyes, "it was."

_

Time passes in waves. Slowly, creeping, and then all at once.

The longer you're in the house, the more you realize you can't stay. You are certain of it, the first time you're left alone.

Katsuki had stepped out to grab dinner. You'd all but shoved him out the door, assuring him that you'd be fine for the 20 minutes it took to pick the food up.

"Y'need anything, you call." It was the fourth or fifth time he'd said it to you.

"Alright, alright," you tell him, trailing down the front steps behind him. "I will, I promise."

When you shut the door behind you again, there's a feeling of lethality to it—a debilitating silence that you haven't heard in four months.

You don't want to go any further into the house. You do, only to grab Kaede, and then you're right back outside. It starts to rain, and it feels fitting. You sit under the awning behind your daughter as she sticks her toes out into the drizzle, curling them with each drop that falls on her skin. You think about how overwhelming it must be as a baby—how new everything is.

It's less than 15 minutes later when Katsuki pulls into the driveway. He's out of his truck and in front of you in record time, frowning at you like he already knows something's wrong. Kaede reaches for him, and he scoops her up like it's muscle memory. He waits for you to talk. A moment passes.

"I can't be here anymore," you whisper, shaky. He looks at Kaede for a long moment, like she could have something offer on the topic.

"Alright," he says, reaching for the front door with his free hand, "pack a bag."

_

It takes you longer than you thought it would. You'll be back—you have to come back, because you can't take everything right now—but it feels final. The beginning of the true end. There's a framed picture of you and Takeshi at your baby shower on your nightstand. You consider taking it with you—instead, you turn it face down and move on.

By the time you manage to shove a hoodie, some shorts, a few pairs of underwear and your toiletries into a bag, Katsuki has already packed two bags for Kaede and put her in her carrier. You just look at him, wholly dumbfounded.

"You good?"

You look at him for another beat. "Yeah, fine."

_

The drive to Katsuki's isn't long. You follow him in your car, not wanting to leave it in your driveway. Kaede is with Katsuki, something you didn't fight him on.

You spend 10 of the 15 minute drive flipping through radio stations before you finally turn it off. You're left in silence, and you're now well and truly alone for the first time since Takeshi died.

You suck in a breath, trying to dislodge the thing that has lived in your chest everyday since.

"You knew something was wrong," you say, out loud, to no one. "You knew something was wrong, and you didn't tell me."

You picture him next you—mouth opening to respond, to defend himself. You beat him to it.

"It was preventable," your heart breaks again. "There was no reason—"

You'd tried to keep this at bay—the knowledge that Takeshi's death was meaningless. You hadn't heard a word the doctor said, but you'd read the pathologist's report. It was too hard, too much to process with everything else that needed tended to, but your brain seems to take advantage of every quiet moment you get.

"You left her without a father," your breath comes ragged, both hands gripping the steering wheel tightly to make up for the tears that threaten to block out your vision, "you—you left me,"

With impeccable timing, no sooner than you pull into Katsuki's apartment complex and park do you dissolve completely, curling in on yourself in your seat. It's crushing, this grief and this anger together inside a body that surely cannot hold all of it.

You don't see Katsuki when he approaches your driver's side door. You don't see him when he hesitates, one arm holding Kaede and the other outstretched as if you grab hold of you and pull you from your suffering himself. You don't see when he decides against it—when he turns around to leave you to do what you need to do on your own.

_

In a way, you start to feel lighter. Like something has shifted, like the boulder in your chest has fragmented just enough to let a breath through.

You get Kaede up on your own today. You let yourself linger over her, leaning on the side of the pack-n-play to watch her as she sleeps. Her little eyelashes frame her round cheeks, fluttering with whatever dream she's in the middle of.

The upturn of her nose, the slope of her forehead—these are things she gets from Takeshi. The curve of her eyes, the shape of her fingernails—those are yours. She is the most even mix of two people you’ve ever seen, and something about that makes losing Takeshi a little easier. It would’ve been a lot harder if she had simply taken his face. 

She stirs as if she’s felt your thorough examination. “Hey, sweetheart,” you coo, reaching down to pull her up. She lays her head down on your shoulder, sleepy, and something about it brings tears to your eyes so suddenly that you startle yourself. 

This tiny person that relies on you for everything. This little girl that fits so easily in your arms. She is yours, to keep safe and happy and content. She is a promise you made, both to Takeshi and yourself. She is the thing that will keep you going, even when you’re certain you cannot take another step. She is the thing you have to show up for, no matter what. 

“I’m so sorry, baby,” your voice is tiny as it is watery, whispered into her hair, to her already sleeping form. You stand there, in the middle of Katsuki’s spare bedroom, rocking your child and letting the tears fall down in fat drops—and it feels like the most normal thing in the world. “I’m so sorry. I’m here.”

It’s only when you turn your head that you see Katsuki lingering in the doorway. You open your mouth to tell him that you’re alright, but you only manage something wounded, something pathetic and broken and painful. He’s in front of you in an instant, unwinding Kaede from your hold and putting her back into the pack-n-play, still sleeping. It’s only another second before he’s dragging you to him, nearly crushing you to his chest. It pulls another wave of tears from you, because it feels good. To be held, and to be held by Katsuki, who would reduce every source of your pain to ash if he could. He holds you like he means to keep you intact—to put you back together the best he can. The only person who has ever held you like this, meant it like this.

Six months, 13 days, and 11 hours after Takeshi dies, something changes.

part 2 soon. thanks for reading, love u. <3

[eris-snow]

𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥

Tags: bakugou x gn!reader, fluff, I forgot how to tag things

So I haven't done a story in this format for months now, so I figured that I'd do it again in case people were missing it.

Bakugou hates fall.

He resented the cooler weather for purely practical reasons. His Quirk isn't as effective, and the multiple layers he has to wear are a pain in the ass to get off.

But you? Oh, your eyes just light up when you see the leaves change to red. You celebrate the fact that the season of lower temperatures has arrived. You cherish the feeling of bone-chilling wind whipping past your face.

"I don't fuckin' get you." Bakugou iterates as he opens the door one-handed. Your arms are full of groceries, and he's fresh off his shift, so you both are hungry and tired.

"It's cold, daylight peaces out at 4 in the fucking afternoon, and you have to deal with more villains 'cause of the festive seasons. What's there to like?"

"Everything." You deadpan, kissing his cheek. "Now put away the toilet paper or I ain't giving you dinner."

"You wouldn't do that to me. I know you and you wouldn't do that to me. You love me way too much."

"Try me, and see where that gets you," You breeze past him and kick off your shoes, beelining to the kitchen to put the groceries away.

"Fall was the season you confessed to me, dumbass!"

Bakugou pauses by the glass cabinets, toilet rolls in hand.

Oh.

You'd been in a major fight that day, tossed straight into a building with glass etched in your skin. Bakugou almost thought you wouldn't make it. There, holding you in his arms as red colours everything he touched, he almost lost it when you'd closed your eyes.

He thought he lost you.

"You were so frantic," You chuckle, grabbing leftovers from the fridge. "And then when I woke up, and you called the doctor, you told me that you didn't want any regrets."

Bakugou rolls his eyes at the memory as he slams the cupboard shut. "You know, if you got your ass kicked by some D-listed villain now, I'd be laughing my ass off, right?"

"Oh hush, you'd be crying like a little bitch."

Bakugou hears the oil cracking, and he's glad. He's hungry.

With a growling stomach, he strides back into the living room and watches you fire up a meal for the both of you. This year moved so fast. Your new apartment, his break into the Top 10 Hero Rankings...he's...

Happy.

He's actually happy.

"I love fall, because it's when you showed me that I'm not alone." You hum. "That if I was ever on that bed again, I'd have someone there to cry for me. That if I have to walk through this shithole called life, I'd have someone to walk through it with me to make shit suck just a little bit less."

You don't even flinch when you feel him up behind you, hands around your waist as he buries his head into your shoulder. It's so domestic, and it's something that Bakugou never thought he'd have.

Someone to put up with him. Someone to hold like this. Someone cooking for him and someone to share a home with.

"When you put it like that, you make me want to start liking fall too," He mumbles, voice muffled by your clothes.

Bakugou still hates fall, mind you. But if it meant that he gets to cuddle up with you and sip on hot coco, if it meant that he'd see you with that crazy happy grin and hear your stupid laugh, then fall can keep on going, thank you very much.

[xxchumanixx]

heyy love, could you do some john nolan x fem reader are dating but then he saw grace sawyer again for the first time after 20 years, so now there is tension between him and reader as she was there when he saw grace again. at the end they make up and reader is also a officer

Jealousy

John Nolan x reader

Warnings/Tags: jealous reader, fluff

Word count: tba

Authors note: Hello love, thanks for the request! I hope you like it and it fits your expectations! I might have changed it a little bit, so I hope that's okay!

I'm finally back, and I can't wait to write again!

Enjoy!

You couldn't stand her.

Her perfect face, her perfect hair and that perfect toothpaste smile she always sent his way.

She was like a virus that slowly made its way between you and John.

It all started, when you met Grace Sawyer at the hospital. She and John knew each other, which should have been a warning right at the beginning.

That they used to date, having a lot of unspoken things still between them after their nasty break up, was something he only told you afterwards.

She was nice, there was no denying it - something you hated even more.

She managed to wrap someone around her finger in just a matter of seconds, sinking her fangs into their flesh.

Yet, it only took a few hours for you to already hate her.

"You know that I love you, right?" he asked, tilting his head at your behavior since you met Grace. "Sure." you simply retorted, continuing your work on the cake in front of you.

John couldn't help but roll his eyes, shaking his head at you. He knew you didn't like his ex, yet he didn't understand where your hatred for her came from.

"We just talked." he tried to scratch the topic yet again, glancing at you, as he searched for his keys. "Whilst she practically undressed you with her eyes." you retorted, sprinkling the chocolate chips onto the frosting of the cake.

You didn't even bother to hide your frustration anymore, not when he wouldn't catch onto it anyways.

"Are you gonna stay angry at me?" He strolled over, looking down at the cake. He seemed to contemplate something, and when his hand sneaked forward and towards the cake, you glared at him.

Biting his lip, he pulled it back, instead leaning on his elbows on the counter.

"Try it and I'll kill you." you threatened, the chocolate sprinkles in your hand already starting to melt.

He huffed. "Is there any reason you're baking a cake?" he wanted to know, tilting his head as he watched you. "No, but if you want to, we can give it to Grace as a 'welcome back in John's life' gift."

He exhaled loudly, groaning afterwards. He was starting to get frustrated as well.

"If you're jealous, then say it." he challenged you, causing your eyes to snap up to his. "Pardon?"

He smirked, fueling the raging fire inside your belly even more.

"Jealous?" you fumed, throwing the sprinkles back into their container. "I'm jealous? You are the one that's eye fucking your ex, being too speechless at her beauty or whatever. I'm not jealous, John. I'm just not blind."

He seemed taken aback for a moment, as the coin must have finally dropped for him.

"You think I was-" he had to cut himself off, not believing you actually said that. Eye fucking - His ex.

"Is that the reason you're like this since yesterday? I was just friendly, after all I haven't seen her in twenty years! I told you what happened back then."

You huffed, wiping your hands on a towel.

"Yeah, I just never thought I'd get to meet the infamous Grace Sawyer." you gave back, starting to clean the counter angrily. "Who's a doctor, looks like a goddess and smiles like she's making advertises for toothpaste."

Now he huffed, fingers tapping on the counter. He tried to stay calm, he really did. But it was like he talked to a wall.

"And now you think that I'd leave you for her?" he wanted to know, secretly voicing what you thought, but never would have dared to say out loud.

"Reignite an old flame? Baby, I love you, and only you."

He stepped around the counter, as you stopped in your movement, sighing to yourself. You knew holding onto your anger and jealousy wouldn't get you far - in fact you were walking in circles with it.

But you were too damn stubborn.

"Come on, Y/N." he spoke softly, turning you around to face him. "I love you. Please don't say things like that. Do you really think I'd prefer her over you?"

Cocking a brow, you looked up at him, crossing your arms over your chest.

He mimicked the action, tilting his head.

"She's a doctor? Great for her!" he continued, huffing. "You're a damn cop. You're the only one that understands me - this life. I love you for who you are, I love you more than anything. I'd marry you on the spot, if you'd want that."

Your eyes widened in shock, hip banging against the counter, as your body jerked back at his words.

His own eyes widened as well, as he realized what he'd just said.

But he'd never take it back.

"You want me to marry you?" you breathed, a feeling cursing through your veins that you couldn't quite place yet - but it was a good one.

A very good one.

He scratched the back of his neck, before he nodded slowly. "Yes, even though I'd intended to propose in a more romantic way."

Swallowing, your eyes filled with tears of happiness. Biting your lip to keep them at bay, you waited for him to continue.

Clearing his throat, he dug through his pants pockets, before he held up a finger. "Hold on a sec."

Giggling, you watched him disappear into your shared bedroom. Something heavy fell to the floor and he cursed, before he returned, fumbling with something small in his hands.

He inhaled shakily, tapping the small box against his palm a few times. Then he exhaled deeply, sinking onto one knee, looking up at you.

Tears streamed down your face, as your lips split in a broad smile. The sight calmed John's nerves a bit.

"Y/N Y/L/N, you're the love of my life." he began, holding the small, velvety box in his hands, slowly opening it. "I want to spend the rest of my life with you, so please will you do me the honor and marry me?"

Laughing in glee, you nodded. "Yes- yes, I would love to!" you spoke, falling down onto your knees to hug him.

He sighed in relief, hugging you back.

"I only want you, Y/N. Please never question that again." he pleaded, grabbing your upper arms and holding you at arms length to look in your eyes.

"I don't care about Grace. I hope you know that now."

Your cheeks flared up in embarrassment, nodding, but still smiling at him. "I know, John. I'm sorry I was so jealous."

He smiled back, one of his hands slowly sliding the beautiful ring onto your finger. "Don't worry about it, I'm glad you were."

Rolling your eyes, you huffed.

"Sure you were."

Tag List

@laheysfilm

@newobsessionweekly

@augustvandyne

@rookietrek

[natequarter]

🔭 the--adventurer3 Follow

Liveblogging my regeneration, block the tag #regeneration lb if you don't want to see it

#shut up doctor #aughaufuufaughoeifh <- me regenerating

21 notes

🔭 the--adventurer3 Follow

Liveblogging my regeneration

Last time it was so simple, all I had to do was be sentenced to the torture chamber... this time I get to die properly. 0/10 so far. ow

🔭 the--adventurer3 Follow

Augh my bones

🔭 the--adventurer3 Follow

my teeth too

🔭 the--adventurer3 Follow

Everything huets

🔭 the--adventurer3 Follow

Ow ow ow

🔭 the--adventurer3 Follow

ican;t see

🔭 the--adventurer3 Follow

Why did I not just get injh with thsdhfvjtd

🔭 the--adventurer3 Follow

OW

🔭 the--adventurer3 Follow

my sjkeektion

🔭 the--adventurer3 Follow

oain

🧣 the--adventurer4 Follow

wwwhy an i

🧣 the--adventurer4 Follow

teeth

🧣 the--adventurer4 Follow

i fucking hate hieghts

🏏 the--adventurer5 Follow

Well this aged poorly

378 notes

⚰️ themaster Follow

they hated him for his nice kindness

⚰️ themaster Follow

also for the killings i guess but that seems unlikely

💣 commiedyke Follow

ok catboy

🩺 adoctoraday Follow

I was about to type up a whole response to this but I have to ask.

Catboy?????????

💣 commiedyke Follow

he turned into a cheetah this one time

#it was a whole thing

575,389 notes

👔 the--adventurer10 Follow

ifeel maybe the worst anyone has ever felt

👔 the--adventurer10 Follow

took a shower + scraped the corpse of god off me, feeling better 👍

👔 the--adventurer10 Follow

hopital

17 notes

📑 anordinaryjournalist Follow

He missed our date :/

📑 anordinaryjournalist Follow

Actually has anyone seen Harry? I haven't heard from him lately

🪖 unit-official Follow

We regret to inform you that Lt. Harry Sullivan is MIA.

📑 anordinaryjournalist Follow

Why would you do this on a Timeblr post??

🔫 thebrigadier Follow

Apologies, Miss Smith, but at present we can't say anything more. Top secret government business--you know how it is.

📑 anordinaryjournalist Follow

Thanks, that's really reassuring and not terrifying at all

#please just email me.

26 notes

🪨 vislorturlough Follow

does anyone want my musicwire playlist

✈️ donewiththisshit573 Follow

What is musicwire

🪨 vislorturlough Follow

ever heard of spotify?

✈️ donewiththisshit573 Follow

No

🪨 vislorturlough Follow

well it's a bit like that

#fucking ass backwards planet #still 300 years away from adopting musicwire........ #i'd kms i think

52 notes

🩺 adoctoraday Follow

Can I just say, I DO NOT understand how people from the 60s can be using this website at the same time as people from the 2010s

💎 sundaymondaytuesday Follow

"from the 2010s" oh you sweet summer child

💎 sundaymondaytuesday Follow

wait how is this post showing as 2 days ago if it was posted in the 2010s

🩺 adoctoraday Follow

See? Doesn't make any sense, does it?

🚬 fitz-crier Follow

wait you guys are from the 21st centruy?

#hwat #ihave a headache

92,356 notes

📘 bossycontrolfreak Follow

got hit by a car today!

🖋️ edwardianadvcnturess Follow

Oh dear! Are you quite alright?

📘 bossycontrolfreak Follow

lol yeah it happens all the time. thanks for asking though!

#last time it was a rolls royce #classy #(i should mention i'm functionally immortal)

83 notes

🚬 fitz-crier Follow

ineed him toshtoot me poiint blank.

#helpme

0 notes

🌈 ijustwanttobeabotanist Follow

🪨 vislorturlough Follow

fool. it is maths

✈️ donewiththisshit573 Follow

This is still about Adric isn't it

🌈 ijustwanttobeabotanist Follow

...maybe

60 notes

[lemonandpie]

Hiiiiiiiiii Ok I just finished The Doctor is In and it was like.... my literal actual dream fic. Do you think you'll every write more in that world, or something similar? I hope this isn't rude to ask an author, but do you have any recs for other Teen Wolf sex training and/or medical kink fics? All my AO3 skills haven't turned up much :(

This has been in my drafts for a worryingly long time. Anon if you ever see this I'm so sorry 😅

It's one of my favorite tropes. The specific premise seems to mainly be a Supernatural fandom thing, but here's my personal reclist:

Disclaimer: Due to the nature of this trope, all of these fics contain consent issues to varrying degrees. Sex is not a replacement for SSRIs and other medical treatment

We Are All Works In Progress by @gemjam (Teen Wolf) Stiles gets kidnapped by a trafficking ring by accident. Peter buys him, and tries to train him into the perfect pet. This fic is an emotional rollercoaster. It got me so good it made me take up yoga.

Room 27 by @udunie (Teen Wolf). Stiles hears an urban legend about a motel where you will get turned into the owner's plaything and decides to sign himself up. This is a classic for a reason. It's not medfet, but has the perfect blend of sex training and dub con therapeautic BDSM. Still one of my all time favorite fics. I recommend checking out @udunie's other works, that have similar vibes.

Below are fics that are beyond the Teen Wolf fandom

Nearest Thing to Heaven by Wandalust (Supernatural). Probably the fic that most inspired The Doctor is In, with a similar premise and vibe.

Stiletto by AtomicFrond (Supernatural). Biologically Necessary Submission is my favorite tag, can you tell?

Surrender by Coragyps (Supernatural). Sam gets kidnapped from his bed and informed he is a natural submissive, who is slowly killing himself by ignoring his natural instincts. This was my introduction to the genre, and Coragyps has written similar fics like All In The Timing (also Supernatural) and Black Collar (White Collar).

A Different Kind of Coaching by Nomanono (Yuri on Ice). This fic focuses primarily on the sex training, and does so beautifully.

Author RedSnowWhite has written about this topic so extensively and wonderfully that I struggle to link to individual works. Thankfully, the author has an amazing and comprehensive system where they link to similar fics of theirs in the endnotes. To start you off, A Harsh Lesson focuses on a boarding school of sorts where young men are taught discipline via submission. Spoons and Ginger is set in a world where any disorderly behavior is punished sexually, and one first time shoplifter learns a lot about himself during the experience

Underline The Black by @not-poignant (original work). I haven't actually read this fic yet, because on of my favorite authors doing one of my favorite fics was too much for my poor brain to handle 😅. While you're there, you may as well give the breath taking Fae Tales a go. Elements of this trope crop up in between the insane amounts of world building and incredibly tangled relationships.

An Appropriate Education by Anonymous (MCU). Peter has to get an alpha guardian after the death of his parents, and Tony is determined to train him the way an omega should be.

Plan B by Anonymous (MCU). Peter collapses from heat sickness in the lab, and his bosses take it upon themselves to tend to his needs. Genuinely one of the hottest things I've read.

Beyond the fanfic world is the manga Dangerous Drug of Sex and it's live action adaptation. This is about a suicidal man whose life is saved by a deranged doctor, who decides to use BDSM to teach the man to enjoy life.

And of course, there is pretty much everything I've ever written ;) Apparently BDSM isn't accepted therapeutic practice in real life, but it isn't going to stop me from jamming it in there every chance I get. The Governor is even a deconstrution of it! I'd also love to write more in the Doctor Is In verse (if my brain ever stops being an asshole).

[roxannepolice]

Do you have some tensimm fluff fanfics? I love the angst & the pwp but I also need them being silly and in love for my mental health's sake

Good to know I'm not the only one who looks at these two manic messes specifically and thinks "it would heal me at a deep level if they cuddled"!

The Courtship and Marriage Rituals of the Time Lords: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582688

@veraynes-blog Small Weird Loves: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25690750/chapters/62374852

your kiss and i will surrender: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30257064

Hunger: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179272

Self-Help: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14517021

Cocoa, Cuddles and Coyotes: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584794

Two Hearts: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3362783

The one where the Master turns into a cat (for all my fellow meowster enjoyers): https://archiveofourown.org/works/23713210

The Doctor Doesn't dance: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24050293

morally bankrupt shenanigans: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51967594/chapters/131413723

Fire: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49869301/chapters/125892082

chilly cuddles: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50891611

can't help falling in love: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2140581

@hobgoblinns and i would like to spend: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49606927/chapters/125204509

Crack some eggs, make some omelette: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8161846

Pas de Deux: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19270951

Reconciliation: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29185431

Post-traumatic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14084520

Remastering: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28503729

Perfect: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109764

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5662491/1/The-Master-Cuddles

I guess some of these veer into some angst or crack (special shoutout to Remastering for my all time favoutire DW fanfiction sentence "Maybe that arse was bigger on the inside? The Master was still too weak to be this stupid."), but the general sense is always very married and fluffy. If anyone has any other suggestions, please share (and also if you see your work but I haven't tagged you let me know too so I can start following you on the hellsite)!

[iicheeze]

BOWL CUT'S FAMILY

birth giver || Raiden Ei

Kabukimono's mom

retired Sensei of Raiden Martial Group

horrible cook

but also kicked out Kabukimono out of the household when he reached 17 because uh

he was an accident

Yae suggested Ei to abandon him without him knowing but thought of it as too cruel so instead she just kicks him out when he's at an appropriate age

ye

anyways uh

uses flip-phones too much to the point that she gets confused when she was given an actual, newer phone brand on why there's no keyboard

never gets contacted by Kabukimono anymore

for a valid reason tbh

birth giver's shitty wife || Yae Miko

a menace

never liked Kabukimono

never liked any of Ei's children tbh

the only person allowed to cook in the Raiden household

CEO of Yae Publishing Inc. (also chief editor of it, very judgemental too)

did i say she's a menace?

she is.

both at work and at home

even tho she doesn't like Kabukimono, she sometimes contacts him for a spa date

does Scara answer?

no

but he still comes anyways

birth giver's abandoned daughter || Raiden Senshi

The new Sensei of Raiden Martial Group

Raiden Martial Group basically teaches all kinds of Japanese Self Defense, Swordsmanship, Bowmanship, etc.

very skilled in Martial Arts, Kenjutsu (Japanese Swordsmanship), Naginatajutsu, and more

a very strict teacher

if you want to hire her as a mentor, you're practically asking for torture

merciless as HELLL

if she breaks your bone and you whine to her about it, she'd basically just stand there and go

" weakling! "

and say that you haven't trained enough

is she still in contact with the Raiden family?

kinda

but she's just

yk

there

scara doesnt like her, says that she's like a living robot with no personality

is also the youngest sibling of the Raiden family

Aunty Makoto || Raiden Makoto

Ei's twin sister that's actually sane in the family

a humble doctor

lives in a different house than the Raiden family

when she was informed that Kabukimono was kicked out, she called him to see if he's alright and offered him to stay in her home for a while until he gets his life back up.

the only reason why scara is alive back then tbh

is still in contact with Scara

basically while Kabukimono was staying with her, she taught him all kinds of stuff to do to help her around the house

all his househusband skills are taught by her

shout out to Aunty Makoto fr

TAGLIST || @stellakito @crueldinasty @hysteriablues @hoesaria @dreamsofminnie @caffeine-mess @alatusorrow @lunaeclipsethesimp @lxkeeeee @myaaones @withloveminnie @shewolfniko @aeongiies @qwnelisa @liliumaraneae @candlebathwater @seirin-eyy @feiherp @nxsh30 @loivre @imdeadlyboredhelp @hotgirlshit5 @worldhardtibbysoft @mitsu-moshi @mono1606 @zomzomb1e @vvyeislazzy @crucnhice @omlxlaure @iethairs

@ownedbythescribe @mishtae @aloflapse @divinechicha @thefandomcrow @d4y-dr3am3r @tjjjrsj @certaindreampost @minninr @angelkazusstuff @zyilas @lumpywolf @haruaikawa @xiaosonlybeloved @reconaiise @yuyan @myoreiii @lordbugs @theaudacitiedmentose @scaravibe @exphhoria @venusflwers @ohmyfinggod @niyaiiz

BOLD MEANS I CAN'T TAG YOU! IF THERE'S ANY CHANGE TO YOUR USERNAME, PLEASE TELL ME!

SUMMARY II in which, a sassy and bitter househusband, and his beloved, idiotic streamer of a lover got married! what a lovely occasion. now, for the married life in a newer, and bigger apartment.

PAIRINGS || Househusband Scaramouche x Gaming Streamer GN Reader

MASTERLIST || IDIOT GAMER!

FUN FACT !

yeo is tired of typing yalls usernames

yall r very thirsty and they can see that

but since yall like it they still wanna type the rest of the usernames that still wanna be tagged but tumblr cant allow them to mention more than 50 ppl <//33333

until repost is allowed

HEHEHEHHEHEHE

[theink-stainedfolk]

Writer Questionnaire Tag

Thank you @drchenquill @the-golden-comet and @paeliae-occasionally for the tag

how long have you had your writing tumblr/writeblr? a fast and loose estimate is fine!

It's been at least 6 months or more I believe.

what led you to create it?

I actually had it from before but i never really posted anything. The thought that there might be people willing to read my works more than my own family and friends led me to create it. I was done shying away.

what's your favourite thing about the writeblr community?

I absolutely adore the supportive and inclusive nature of the writeblr community! It's a space where writers from diverse backgrounds and genres come together to share their passion for storytelling. I love how everyone encourages and uplifts each other, offering constructive feedback and celebrating each other's successes. The community's enthusiasm is infectious, and it motivates me to keep writing and improving my craft. I also appreciate the wealth of resources and knowledge shared within the community, from writing tips and prompts to editing advice and publishing insights. It's amazing to see how writers willingly share their expertise and experiences to help others grow. Most of all, I cherish the sense of belonging and connection that comes with being part of this community. Writeblr feels like a virtual writing group, where we can discuss our projects, share our struggles, and rejoice in our triumphs together

what's one thing you'd like your mutuals to know about you?

That i really love talking about my WIPs and OCs aand everything related to my story. I feel happy, seen and appreciated. If you like anything i woorte, please don't hesitate to ask or just tell me how you feel.

is there anything you'd like to see more of on your dash?

Uh..memes? More aisan drama related things? More HSR stuff everything about my interests etc.

which wips or writing projects are you noodling about, lately?

Very wrong question lol. I've been going back and forth between my WIPs. But the most recent one I've done, or am thinking about is The Masque of Murder .

how long have you been working on them?

Hahaha.... Since months, years and i still haven't even written a chapter for some of them. I hate myself for that. But since The Masque of Murder is recent, it's been a week or so.

do you remember what inspired them/ what got you started?

Yeah i remember reading a manhwa which had this crazy but mad genius doctor as a minor villan. It got me thinking that it was a waste of his abilities and damn good looks and he would have been surely protected by the plot armour had he been the main character instead. This forced me into making it lol.

how much time, in your best estimation, do you spend thinking about them?

🎵Every hour, every minute, every second. And night after night, I'll thinking 'bout you right, 7 days a week.🎶

name any characters you created. side characters, protagonists, antagonists, characters who've never been written, the first original abomination you ever pulled from your ass; whomever you'd like!

Uh... every single one of them? I created everyone, if that's what you're asking haha.. I'm not sure if i understand it correctly but i created everyone on my own. I'll mention the one that comes to my mind first then.

Side character- Emrys from In The Silence, Strength

Protagonist- Dr. Phineas Abel Thorncroft from The Masque Of Murder

Antagonist- Dante from Beyond The Pages (but he is also the protagonist)

And i can't really remember the last two.

when someone asks the dreaded, "what do you write about," question, what do you usually say?

Yknow, fantasy stuff with magic and murder mystery with actual murder and blood and stuff and all that hahah none of the stuffs that you like or understand or are interested in right? Hahah it totally doesn't have queer peoples. Just fictional stuff you don't wanna know hahaha.

Deadass.

who's the most unhinged?

Dr. Phineas Abel Thorncroft (from The Masque Of Murder), Acheron (from Legacy of Creation), Dante (from Beyond The Pages) and Eitenne Lumiere( from Wicked Games, Wicked Fates) from what i remember .

who comes the most naturally for you to write?

Vesperine, Cleo, Pareen

do you ever cringe at them?

Hahaha... sometimes..

how much control do you feel you have over your characters? do they ever "write themselves," refuse to cooperate, or do things you didn't expect? to what degree? are some less cooperative than others?

I feel like i have 70% control and 30% is something they do it themselves because i give them the freedom to do so. Because that is the story of my character and not of me, even if I am the one who wrote it. Sometimes the decision i make for them is not what they'd do.

do you enjoy people asking questions about your characters? and do you have a preferred means of receiving said questions? for example, as asks, as replies, as reblogs, as tag notes, as comments on ao3, etc.

Yes i absolutely love it please ask. Doesn't matter how just ask♡♡♡

what makes you want to follow another writeblr account? do you follow 'em as you see 'em, or take time scoping out the blog to make sure you align with its content? do you follow based on wips, or vibes?

I take time scoping out the blog to make sure i align with it's content. And i follow based on both, wips and vibes but mostly vibes.

what makes you decide against following?

If i don't align with the content or i don't fond the story interesting, i don't follow.

do you interact with non-mutual often?

Not often but i do.

do your mutuals' characters occupy space in your noodle?

There are so so many characters of my mutuals that i love love loveee but my memory rn isn't functioning at its best so i will just write whom i can remember rn.

The Madness, the lady and that guy from Foliè written by @drchenquill, my friend. Whose writing always leaves me with surprises and cliffhangers. She supports me so much i almost feel guilty 💕💕💕💕 i love you so much💖💖💖

@paeliae-occasionally Xanren, Marsh and Paeliae. I love their stories it captivated me. I hope you can tag me on their journey 👍, @cssnder, my first mutual whom i talked with so much courage that i almost didn't open tumblr the next day due to embarrassment and nervousness. Her works are like renaissance paintings, truly mesmerizing and beautiful. Thus Saith The Lord is truly a work of art and i hope i get to read it soon.😭 And also, @roarintheheavens , my new friend, I'm so happy. Vron Carson, he is very interesting and i can't wait to know more about him. And of course, @the-golden-comet, I'd very much like to read more about peter hart.

Just because i didn't mention everyone doesn't mean i don't appreciate your works, it's just that i haven't read them yet. I hope you all can send it to me. I'll definitely read it.

I'll tag @finickyfelix @willtheweaver @ascotwriting @agirlandherquill @leahnardo-da-veggie @illarian-rambling @winglesswriter @graveyardshift111

[a-little-bit-of-ravioli]

20 questions for fic writers

Tagged by @the-real-azalea-scroggs! Had to wait until I was of my phone because doing these is a nightmare on mobile lmao

1. How many works do you have on A03?

18 as of a few days ago!

2. What's your total A03 word count?

157,937! Which is. Only a fraction of the word count in my Docs folder. Be prepared.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

I mainly write for The Legend of Zelda; specifically Linked Universe! In fact, that's all that's posted on my Ao3 currently, since my fall into that fandom began with me uploading there! Pre-Ao3 I wrote for Black Cat (Anime/Manga), Megaman NT Warrior, various Pokémon things, Assassin's Creed, Yugioh, Final Fantasy XIV and Octopath Traveler! Some of these I still write privately, but I haven't gotten around to re-posting any.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Whistling on Deaf Ears - My longest fic on Ao3, focusing on Wild and Twilight's friendship and how good intentions can lead to disaster.

Iconoclasm - Warriors deals with the room full of portraits in Cia's palace. The Chain also deals with it, but with a bit more fire.

Deserving - Twilight finally tells Rusl that he was the wolf in the village during TP, but that also means dealing with some heavier topics. Colin half overhears them and forms his own conclusions.

Something Greater - The start of the "Hyrule can see magical auras" series! In this one we deal with Legend and his many rings.

Ocean Magic - Mermaid Legend and Zora Time have a race and then fight one of the Big Octos from WW! Fun times.

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Every single one!! I love comments, they give me an excuse to ramble about my fic more!! I am always down to ramble about every single insignificant detail of any line and/or section. If you ever want more background info about one of my fics, look to the comments!

So please, I adore comments, I treat them like treasures, not responding to them would be a CRIME.

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

There's no contest; Inevitable, my (so far) only MCD fic.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Hmmm, that's hard to quantify. I usually try to end fics on a hopeful note regardless. I'd say possibly either Deserving, where Twilight reconnects with his family, or Shimmering Blue, Striking White, where Time meets the Fierce Deity settled down on Satori Mountain and they both get closure.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Thankfully, no! I've been blessed with mostly amazing and patient readers, even when my upload schedule isn't the best.

9. Do you write smut?

No, not really. I've attempted it, but I'm too asexual for it lol

10. Do you write crossovers?

Very, very rarely. Mostly privately, and only very specific ones. Only a single one has had an actual plot, so far (more on that one in question 15!).

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Nope!

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Also a nope! I tend to write for smaller fandoms, where these things don't tend to happen a lot!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I have! But it's been a while. Over a decade, in fact! I tried to find the fic to link it here, but it was on the German fanfic website fanfiktion.de, and my friend who posted it back then must have deactivated her account, because it's nowhere to be seen (I still have the Word file though!). It was a Multi-Crossover that started as an RP in a forum, and we took turns turning the RP into prose one chapter each. "If a Hero Turns to Dark" was its title. We were edgy teenagers.

14. What's your all-time favourite ship?

Hissssss. Bad question. Shoo. They are all equally important!!

But it's probably TenRose from Doctor Who.

15. What's the WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

One of the very few crossovers I've ever worked on; a crossover fic between Assassin's Creed and Doctor Who, that I have mapped out in both chronological and timeline order, and yes, those are different. I only ever wrote about a quarter of it, since my primary audience of it disappeared when we graduated. I doubt I'll ever pick it back up properly, and if I do it'll probably go through heavy rewrites first since it's so old. Finishing it is a nice thought, but realistically, after 9 years it'll never be high priority enough for it to actually happen.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue, especially arguments, and emotional impact. I've been told I do really well making characters feel alive and believable! Also I like to believe I'm decent at setting a scene and giving it the vibe I want it to have!

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I struggle with dialogue tags when nothing much is happening besides the talking. I always feel it's too bland, and fall back on the same phrases. My scene transitions could use some work too.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I've done this with Japanese phrases, because I was a massive weeb. Usually I followed them up with their own translations, though; I'm not the biggest fan of footnote translations, unless they are properly linked to. Simple dialogue tags are my favourite way of indicating a language switch.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Black Cat the Manga/Anime! It's a series about an assassin turned bounty hunter trying to live a life separate from his murdery past, but getting dragged back into things by still wanting to avenge his best friend's death. The series has a special place in my heart and my bookshelf, it left an imprint on 13-year-old me that will never leave.

20. Favourite fic you've ever written?

Probably Jailbreak, uncharacteristically enough! It's one of the only fics I never got stuck in once. Writing it was a great feeling from start to finish. I love writing all of my fics, but that was a special few days.

Tagging @ahrva @nowhere-to-go-but-down @silvercaptain24 and @aeghina! And anyone who wants to do it, really, go wild

[idledreams4]

Putting the "Goth" in Gotham

yeah so I'm assigning a bunch of people subcategories of goth. And not just the characters where this would be something reasonable to do. Its been a while since I did something like this and I'm having fun with it!

If any artists want to draw the characters in the styles I give them, feel free, just tag me so I can see it!

Bruce: Baby Bat

Yes this is mostly because of his nickname. (Baby Bats, in case anyone hadn't heard someone call him that)

Selina: Mall

Girl would rob a Hot Topic or a Spencers blind ok. Y'all gotta be with me on this one.

Ecco: Romantic

its Ecco. Need I say more? This would ABSOLUTELY be her style. She's one of the ones I think would be more than happy to dress up according to their subcategory. She would just love it! Well Season 5 Ecco would idk about S4... She was a little less fun before that bullet. But trust me, she would be romantic goth.

Jeremiah: Vampire

this one was actually pretty difficult to decide. I jumped around alot before finally settling on Vampire goth. Me and Persephone had actually talked about this a while ago and I think we said Nu goth, and I was considering Victorian Goth for this. He likes to look put together, but still flamboyant, and with some of the outfits I've looked at, this is the one for him. Also, it's Jeremiah. Tell me he doesn't have eccentric vampire energy?

Jerome: Deathrock

His cult basically decided this for him lol. They already have a very punk style and I think if Jerome's life had gone a little differently he would have spent his teenage years in a heavy emo phase. This would be one of the subclasses he'd be all for.

Jonathan: Mopey

no I'm not calling him mopey, I'm saying mopey goth would be his style. Its very layered. I'm seeing a lot of long coats, scarves, boots, all in black. It could easily be combined with either medieval or Victorian styles to give a plague doctor-y appearance. But trust me, look it up yourself and tell me that's not Jonathan's style.

Jervis: Steampunk

you know what, Jervis would vibe with steampunk goth. Originally I was just thinking "ok what's one I haven't said yet that would involve a top hat" but then I remembered that in BTAS Jervis was working in some kind of engineering. What is literally characterized by tophats and engineering? Steampunk. So this feels like a good fit.

Oswald: Glam

almost gave this to Riddler but the fashions are more Oswald.

Ed: Nu

He's a little more reserved and timid, so I think he'd fit with some of the softer looks of nu goth.

Riddler: Cabaret

yeah I'm doing him seperate from Ed. They'd have very different styles. Riddler is all about the glitz and glamour so I gave him cabaret goth.

Lee: Gothabilly

her makeup was already pretty Gothabilly, and I think she could vibe with the fashion. She totally had goth vibes in the later seasons though I just don't know what to classify her style as (please feel free to give feedback!)

Gordan: none

well he sucks so he actually doesn't get one. Like everyone else would kinda be like "ok fine yeah whatever" (or totally into it) if I asked them to dress up in the category I gave them. But Jim? He's a party pooper. So he just wouldn't.

Barbra: Perky Goth

I think she'd be a perky goth. It leaves room for some bright colours, which I think she'd like, but it's not pastel goth. Its very fun and idk I just think she'd vibe with it. (Specifically like... Season 2 era though. In later season I think corp goth might be more her thing. Fetish goth could also work as an overall but I didn't really want to label anyone with fetish goth... 😅)

[aguineapigcouldntdothis]

More sets of reminders for ppl with sensory nerve damage! Idk if this'll be a regular thing i do but probably bc it's super helpful to write these things out. and i hope it helps other ppl too bc i dont think nerve damage is talked abt enough in physical disability spaces (or i just havent seen it!)

are you wearing tight clothes, jewelry, scratchy fabrics, etc. on your affected areas? are there any abrasions?

is there any pain in those areas? is that pain typical or atypical for you?

is moving around easier, harder, or as difficult as it usually is?

are there any external injuries you haven't seen before? can these be treated at home or do you need to see a doctor?

check any healing tattoos/piercings in those places. infection is so easy to miss with sensory nerve damage even if you have partial feeling

if you are someone that experiences nerve pain, is that worse, better, or just the same as it usually is?

If you are someone like me that still has partial feeling then poke and prod at yourself a bit. see if anything feels or looks different than normal and decide if those things are concerning or not.

I hope everything is ok as possible! If there are any problems I hope they are easily managable and if you need to see a doctor then best of luck to you. may the guinea pigs be supporting you through this. <3

also totally unrelated but im gonna start including the cripple punk tag in my disability posts. ive been meaning to for weeks i just legit keep forgetting:(.

[neptune-lover]

Pregnant? Pt5

Tag list: @hauntedpostpersona @moxkindagirl @babybatlover

Tw: talks of pregnancy, mentions of death and miscarriage, mentions of vomit/throwing up and mentions of sex, use of their real names

It have been 10 minutes and almost like deja vu here you were sitting with your partners in a circle around the faced down pregnancy test but this time it was Rhea's instead Y/n's. "Ok it should be time to flip it over now" Y/n said "I'm nervous I mean I know ow I haven't had any symptoms but still what if it is positive"Rhea said in a shakey voice. " It's okay Demi I already have a doctors appointment to double check that the test was correct and I am actually pregnant. That's actually why I hadn't told you guys"Y/n had said . "I would like that to come with you and get checked also" Rhea said sheepishly " Of course baby" Y/n said "I'll flip it over for you Dem" Damian said. "Thank you Luis" Rhea sighed in relief "of course" Damian said as he picked the test up and turned it so it was face up but only so he can see it. He kept a straight face almost like Becky had yesterday he passed it to Finn who passed it to you who passed it to Dominik. All of you kept straight faces Dominik handed the test to Rhea and she gaps "holy crap it's positive". You all get smiles on your faces when Y/n start crying but not from happiness but sadness " What's wrong bunny" Rhea asks. "I'm just scared the last time I was pregnant it ended up being a miscarriage. I'm scared it might happen again." Rhea hugs the Y/n and says"Bunny it's gonna be okay we know what happened last time but I promise we will do everything in our power to keep both the baby and you safe we won't let anything happen to the baby or you that could affect the baby." "Ya we won't let anything bad happen to our little beans" Dominik said "Little beans really" Finn said "What that's about what they are the size of right now" Dominik stated "that's true" Damian chimed in. All this bickering between the boys made Y/n chuckle. "There's that smile" Rhea said "Our appointment is in 3 days so we have a few days till then so can we just chill for the rest of today " Y/n said. "Sounds good to me you guys wanna have a movie day then" Damian asked "YES" Rhea and Y/n shouted at the same time. "Can we watch the greatest showman(AN: you can change this to a different movie if wanted) " Y/n asked "Ofc we can Princess" said Finn. And with that you guys snuggled into bed and watch movies for the rest of the day.

I hope you guys enjoyed part 5 I have so many ideas for this series and feel free to keep requesting stuff for me to write

[the-anon-scp-confessions]

INTRODUCTION

Welcome to the SCP Anon Confessions blog. Where you anonymity matters! Annoyed about a character? Like-like a character? Have a head canon that you're admittedly too shy to post on your on blog? Well this is the blog for you! Send a confession in! But first: read over the rules!

RULES

Do NOT harass anyone, whether it's replying to the posts, sending anon hate or messages. I will not stand for it. If you have an issue with someone: block, directly make contact and speak to them in private, or ignore each other. I will not be a messenger bird for drama. 💥 If you want to show evidence about something, feel free to PM me the images/chat logs! Everything will still be kept anonymous. Unless you send death threats to me, gore, or something of that nature: I will call you out on it (unless you're a minor) (Note: If you're concerned about a user in the replies please curate your own experience by blocking them. I only block others if they attack me directly or outed and proven to be not a good person).

Avoid mentioning anyone by name, especially if they are a minor. This about the characters, canons, timelines, and similar aspects. Not to the people behind the screen. (Yes, you may post about your kin-memories, or struggles as a fictive so long as it doesn't involve the fandom related drama. This also not a source call blog as we personally don't believe in source calls or source dating).

No threatening people. This includes things such as: “I want to kill all Clef fans”. Or, "I think (USER) should rot in jail" is also not allowed. And similar. Threatening the characters themselves may be a case by cases basis.

What I share does not truly represent my opinions. This is just an inbox for anonymous confessions. For most asks, I will reply with a "." unless I believe it needs further explanation, or if I feel it warrants me talking.

Keep all confessions SAFE FOR WORK. I will not accept confessions that are in relation to sexual content. While I cannot stop anyone from doing this just note that I will not share them and delete them.

All asks will be anonymous even if you haven't toggled anon on. How? All non-anon comments will turn into separate posts* unless it involves media then I may just send it as is if you're 100% okay with that.

Questions:

"Are you 'Luigi' from the last anon blog?" - No, I'm not Luigi. The original guy. however, does have access to this account, as he did make the account some time ago when he felt right in returning but felt it was best to pass it on to a close friend of his, that being me. Please refer to me as Snippet, my pronouns are he/him!

"When does this blog update?" - I log on this account on the Sunday/Monday typically (or sometimes throughout the week) then I put everyone on queue on a 'three times a day' setting. Then rinse and repeat. This means I will not see any anons or messages regarding anything till said days. I do have a life outside the internet so sometimes I may miss these dates.

"Can we submit posts about Doctor Bright? Or confessions about Shaw, or other rewrites?" - So long as it relates to the character of Bright: Yes! Please, just avoid anything in relation to AdminBright / TheDuckMan, your confession will be deleted if it references them. This blog does not approve of the AB or their horrid actions. Again, keep drama out. Confessions based on Elias Shaw and Rewrites are also allowed so long as you are not harassing the rewrite itself, its creator(s), etc. To me, they all exist, multiple canons/timelines, and what not. They'll be tagged accordingly.

"How many asks can I send at once?" - Multiple, I don't care. Spam the blog!