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badathumanemotions · 14 hours ago

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Marked By Fate

Spencer Reid x Fem Reader

MDNI MasterList CW: Soulmates, Awkward Soulmate Mark Placement, Accidental Groping, Slapstick, Awkward Spencer, Clumsy Spencer, BAU Reader, Awkward Romance, Smut, Fingering, Oral (f rec), Vaginal Sex, Creampie. You've always hated your soulmark, mostly because of it's placement. Knowing that's where your soulmate would first touch you left you dreading the day you'd meet. At least it'd be a funny story one day…probably. (Not Proof Read)

Spencer had always believed in soulmates. Not just in the theoretical sense, the way one might believe in gravity or quantum entanglement, but in the deep, unwavering way that only a hopeless romantic could.

His mother, an English literature professor, used to tell him stories about fate, about invisible strings tying people together across time and distance. She read him Tristan and Isolde, Chaucer, and Shakespeare, filling his childhood with grand tales of love and destiny. He had clung to those stories, even when the world made it hard to believe in them.

His soulmark had appeared the same as everyone else’s, soft, golden, shimmering like trapped stardust against his skin. It had settled onto his left hand when he was young, a delicate glow across his palm. A promise. A certainty. Proof that somewhere out there, someone was waiting for him.

But knowing that hadn’t made the waiting any easier.

The mark had been both a comfort and a quiet ache. It was proof that someone out there was meant for him, but it didn’t make the loneliness any easier. He had always felt a step out of sync with the world, his thoughts moving too fast, his words landing awkwardly, his presence somehow too much and not enough at the same time. He had been the kid buried in books while others played, the one who rattled off facts when people expected small talk.

But through it all, his soulmark had remained, gleaming softly under the light, reminding him that someday, someone would touch his palm, and they would be *his*. Someone would reach for him, hold him, connect with him in a way no one else ever had.

He had dreamed about it more times than he could count. Would it be a gentle touch, fingers slotting between his? Would it be an accident, someone catching his hand in a crowded room? Would he recognize them immediately, or would it take time?

He had spent years turning the possibilities over in his mind, longing for the moment it would happen.

—

Soulmates were supposed to be romantic. A cosmic thread binding two people together, ensuring that out of the billions of people on the planet, you’d find the one meant for you. For most people, it was a beautiful thing. Something to be cherished. Something to be shown off.

For you? It was a nightmare.

Everyone else had sweet, poetic stories about their marks. A brush of fingers across a wrist. A guiding hand on a shoulder. A reassuring touch at the small of the back. Cute, wholesome, normal. You had grown up surrounded by people who proudly displayed their marks, eager to imagine the moment their fated person would finally arrive. Kids in school would trace theirs absentmindedly, daydreaming about the love story that would unfold when they met their soulmate. You had done the exact opposite.

You had spent your whole life covering yours up, never wanting anyone to know where it was.

Because your mark—the physical sign of where your soulmate would first touch you—was right on your right boob.

And no matter how many times you tried to spin it, there was no way to make that romantic.

It was embarrassing. Mortifying, even. While your friends talked about their dream scenarios, you avoided the subject entirely. You became a master of misdirection, dodging curious questions and changing the topic whenever soulmarks came up. You kept it covered at all times, never letting anyone see even a glimpse of it. The idea of someone realizing where it was? Horrifying.

And as the years passed, the worry only got worse. How would it even happen? What kind of scenario would lead to someone’s first touch being *there*? You didn’t want to think about it. The possibilities ranged from awkward to downright humiliating, and you weren’t eager to find out which one fate had in store for you.

You had resigned yourself to dreading the inevitable. To constantly living with the anxiety of an unpredictable, embarrassing first contact.

And then, in the span of a single day, it happened and it was even worse than you ever could have imagined.

The elevator ride up to the BAU was smooth, but your nerves weren’t. You inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and resisted the urge to fidget with the strap of your bag. New job, new team, no big deal, right? You’d done this before. Well, not this exactly, but how different could it be from any other first day?

The doors slid open with a soft ding, revealing the bullpen, busy but not overwhelming. Agents moved between desks, chatting, sipping coffee, typing away at computers. The place had a steady energy, something just shy of chaotic but still purposeful.

You stepped out and caught the attention of the first person who didn’t look like they were sprinting between tasks. “Excuse me, can you tell me where Agent Hotchner’s office is?”

The man barely looked up from his coffee. “Up the stairs.”

“Thanks.”

You adjusted your bag and started weaving your way through the bullpen, eyes scanning the space as you walked. It was all standard office stuff, desks, computers, a board covered in what looked like case notes. But then, about halfway across the room, your gaze snagged on something or rather, someone.

A man, standing near a desk, gesturing as he spoke to someone. Tall, lean, with soft brown curls that curled just slightly at the ends. His hands moved as he spoke, gesturing like he was sorting through his own thoughts in real time. He had this nervous energy about him, but not in a bad way, it was almost endearing.

You didn’t mean to slow down, but your feet betrayed you for half a step. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms that were far more attractive than they had any right to be. His lips parted slightly like he was about to say something else, but then he hesitated, head tilting just a fraction as if reconsidering his phrasing.

Oh no. He was adorable.

You forced your eyes forward and picked up your pace before you could get caught staring like some kind of weirdo. You weren’t here to develop a workplace crush within five minutes of arriving.

Reaching the stairs, you made your way up to the offices, stopping at the last door on the right. Taking a quick breath, you knocked.

“Come in,” came the voice from inside.

You stepped into the office to find Aaron Hotchner standing behind his desk, his expression serious but not unwelcoming. He was taller than you expected, somehow even more imposing in person, though not in an intimidating way, more like he exuded authority without trying.

“Agent,” he greeted, extending a hand.

You stepped forward and shook it, his grip firm, professional. “Sir. It’s a pleasure to be here.”

He gave a short nod, releasing your hand as he gestured toward the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”

You sat as he picked up a neat stack of paperwork and set it in front of you. “Just a few things to sign. Standard HR documents, confidentiality agreements.”

You nodded, picking up the pen he offered and quickly scanning through the forms. The usual legal jargon, nothing surprising. As you signed, Hotch watched you with the same careful scrutiny you imagined he used in interrogations.

“So,” he said as you finished the last signature, “I trust you’ve been briefed on the expectations here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We deal with difficult cases. It’s not always easy work, but it’s important. We rely on each other here, you’ll find this team is more like a family than anything else.”

You glanced up at him. “That’s good to hear.”

He studied you for a second longer, then nodded in approval. “I’ll introduce you to the team.”

And just like that, your stomach flipped. You smoothed your hands over your pants, bracing yourself as you stood and followed him back out the door, back down the stairs, into the bullpen, where everyone was waiting.

As you followed Hotch down the stairs, you could feel a dozen pairs of eyes flicking toward you, agents sizing you up as you entered the bullpen. Your stomach did a nervous little flip, but you kept your posture straight, your expression steady.

“This is the team,” Hotch said, his voice calm but carrying enough authority to command the room’s attention.

He stopped just short of the gathered group, and you quickly took stock of them, each one distinct, each one watching you with varying levels of curiosity.

“Jennifer Jareau, communications liaison,” Hotch started, motioning toward a blonde woman with warm eyes and an easy smile.

“JJ,” she corrected, stepping forward to shake your hand. Her grip was firm but friendly. “Nice to meet you. You’re in good hands here.”

Next was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a knowing smirk that practically screamed trouble—in a good way. “Derek Morgan,” Hotch introduced.

Morgan took your hand but didn’t shake it right away. Instead, he held onto it just a second longer than necessary, flashing you a dazzling grin. “Now, how come Hotch didn’t mention we were getting someone this gorgeous?” His voice was warm, teasing, and effortlessly charming.

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “That line work on a lot of people?”

Morgan chuckled. “You tell me.”

With a playful smile, you finally pulled your hand back, and he winked before stepping aside.

Next was Emily, who smirked and gave you a firm shake. “Hope you’re ready,” she said, her tone light but teasing. “This place has a way of keeping things… interesting.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll manage,” you replied, grinning back.

David Rossi, the older man standing beside her, had a knowing smirk before you even reached him. Rossi stepped up next, shaking your hand with a knowing smirk. “Welcome to the team. If you’ve heard any rumours about me, don’t believe a word.”

“Oh?” you said, raising a brow. “Not one?”

“Not unless they’re good,” he said smoothly.

Then, there was the woman who had been practically vibrating with excitement the moment she laid eyes on you. She had neon-bright clothes, chunky rings, and an energy that could only be described as infectious.

“Oh, aren’t you just a vision?” she gushed, taking your hands instead of shaking them. “We are so going to be besties, I just know it. And if anyone gives you trouble, you just tell me, I have access to all the databases, and I’m not afraid to use them.”

You grinned, already knowing you’d love her.

And then, finally—

“This is Dr. Spencer Reid,” Hotch said.

Up close, Spencer was even cuter. His eyes were wide, warm hazel with flecks of gold, his hair a little messy like he’d been running his fingers through it absentmindedly. He had that awkward, gangly charm, the kind that made him look both brilliant and completely out of his depth at the same time.

And right now, he looked very out of his depth.

Spencer stepped forward, moving faster than he seemed to be thinking. “It’s, um—hi. I mean, I’m Spencer—”

And then, it happened.

His foot caught on the leg of a chair.

For a split second, you could see it happening in slow motion—the way his body pitched forward, the way his arms flailed uselessly. His hands shot out on instinct, and—

Oh. Oh no.

One of them landed. Squarely. On. Your. Boob.

A tingling sensation shot through you.

Not just any tingling, the kind that sent an involuntary shockwave down your spine, that made your breath hitch in a way that was entirely inappropriate for a workplace setting.

Your brain barely had time to register the mortifying zap of pleasure before Spencer, in his frantic attempt to not grope you, lost what little balance he had left.

His eyes went impossibly wide, his mouth opening in a silent oh no, and then—

Gravity won.

He collapsed onto you.

There was no graceful way to go down. One moment you were standing, and the next, you were flat on your back, crushed under the full weight of a long-limbed genius.

The bullpen went silent.

For a single, excruciating second, no one moved.

Spencer was on top of you. His face was hovering inches from yours, his body pressed against you in a way that should never happen in front of new coworkers. His breath fanned across your cheek, warm and panicked.

And worst of all?

His hand was still on your boob.

A strangled noise escaped his throat as the realization hit. He jerked his hand back so fast you half expected it to break the sound barrier. “I—I didn’t—oh my god—I swear—I didn’t mean—”

You, meanwhile, were malfunctioning. Your brain had shut down. Your soulmark—the one you had spent years pretending didn’t exist—was buzzing, sending little pulses of heat straight through you.

Your breath hitched.

Before you could even think about how to respond, something even worse happened.

A soft, golden glow lit up the room.

Not from just Spencer.

From you, too.

Beneath your clothes, under layers of fabric, you felt it glow, bright and undeniable.

You were still trying to will yourself into nonexistence when the entire team’s eyes snapped to Spencer’s hand, where his mark was completely visible, shimmering bright gold against his palm.

Another beat of silence.

Then—

“Ohhhhh my god,” Garcia shrieked.

You scrambled to get up, which only made things so much worse because Spencer was still on top of you, and in his panic, he tried to move at the same time, which led to a disastrous tangle of limbs.

“Kid,” Morgan choked, wheezing with laughter. “Did you just—”

“I DIDN’T—” Spencer’s voice cracked as he flung himself off of you like you were made of fire. He scrambled back so fast he nearly tripped again, his hands flailing uselessly in the air as he tried to word.

You, meanwhile, were dying.

Actually dying.

Because you were pretty sure your face had caught on fire, and everyone was staring at you, and Spencer Reid, your new coworker, had just met you in the most horrifically inappropriate way possible.

Your brain refused to form words, refused to process that this was how you found your soulmate.

JJ, eyes wide, pressed a hand to her mouth like she was holding in a gasp.

Emily covered her face with both hands, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Rossi just smirked knowingly, because of course he did.

Garcia practically vibrated with excitement, clasping her hands together. “Oh. My. God. This is amazing!” she squealed, bouncing on her heels. “Boy genius finally meets his soulmate, and it’s happening right in front of us! This is better than I ever could have imagined!”

Morgan, still laughing, clapped Spencer on the back. “You move fast, pretty boy.”

Spencer made a noise that was somewhere between a wheeze and a whimper.

Hotch, to his credit, remained utterly stoic as he calmly clasped his hands behind his back and said, “Well.”

You turned to him, desperately hoping he would restore some order to the situation.

Instead, he deadpanned, “That was not the introduction I had planned.”

Spencer, still wide-eyed and looking like he wanted to sink into the floor, ran a shaking hand through his hair. “I—I just want to clarify that I did not mean to—” His voice cracked, and he coughed, his hand flying up to adjust his tie like it might somehow fix the situation. “It was purely accidental. I mean, statistically speaking, the likelihood of me tripping at that exact moment, at that exact trajectory, in a way that would cause my hand to—” He floundered, gesturing wildly, “—land there of all places is astronomically low.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “You don’t have to—”

“I mean, I—I don’t go around touching people’s—” He made a vague, frantic motion toward your chest before realizing what he was doing and immediately aborting it. His face somehow got even redder. “I have never—! I wouldn’t—! Not that I don’t want to touch—NO! That’s not—”

“Spencer.” You held up a hand, your voice dangerously close to a plea. “Please. Stop talking.”

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

“I mean, obviously, I will touch them, statistically speaking, at some point in our relationship—not that I’m assuming we’re going to have a relationship! I mean, soulmates don’t have to be romantic. There are plenty of cases where soulmates are just platonic or even completely uninterested in—”

Morgan wheezed. “Kid, shut up.”

“I can’t,” Spencer blurted helplessly.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Oh my god.”

There was no coming back from this. You were going to have to quit, change your name, and move to a remote island where no one knew what had just happened.

Spencer was spiralling fast. “I just—I want to be clear that I wasn’t trying to make a first impression this way! I had a whole range of hypothetical scenarios mapped out for meeting my soulmate, and none of them involved—” He gestured between the two of you before groaning and dropping his hands like he’d officially given up on controlling them. “This is literally worst-case scenario. No—this is worse than worst-case scenario because even in my worst-case scenario calculations, I didn’t account for—” He hesitated. “Accidental second-base.”

Morgan choked. Garcia gasped like someone in a telenovela.

You, on the other hand, wanted the earth to open up and swallow you whole.

“Spencer,” Emily chimed in. “I am begging you to shut up.”

“I mean, I’m just saying that biologically—!”

You turned sharply to Hotch, your last hope for salvation. “Sir, with all due respect, can we please pretend this never happened and move on with our lives?”

Hotch stared at you. Then at Spencer. Then at the rest of the team, all barely containing various degrees of amusement. After a long, excruciating moment, he exhaled through his nose and said, “Get back to work.”

That was apparently everyone’s cue to start snickering openly as they dispersed. You, however, remained frozen, still reeling from what had just transpired.

Spencer shifted awkwardly beside you. “…So. Uh.” He swallowed. “Welcome to the BAU?”

As the team filtered back into their individual desks, you followed Hotch as he walked you through the bullpen. The sound of keyboards clacking and phones ringing filled the air, but it felt oddly... comforting. Hotch gave you a reassuring smile.

“Your desk is right here,” he said, gesturing to a spot directly across from Spencer’s.

You blinked.

“Oh,” you muttered, dread settling in your stomach. "I... I see."

To your horror, the desk Hotch had led you to was positioned directly across from Spencer’s. You were now squarely within his line of sight at all times.

Spencer, who had been sitting hunched over his desk with a pen in hand, suddenly looked up at you. His wide eyes locked on yours, and you both froze for a moment. There was a brief, awkward silence before he cleared his throat, looking more like he was trying to reassemble his entire sense of self rather than just continue working.

Morgan, who had been watching this exchange from his desk, immediately straightened up, his eyes gleaming with mischief. He threw a glance toward Hotch, then back at Spencer.

“Well, well,” Morgan drawled, leaning back in his chair with a lazy grin. “Looks like you two are gonna be real cozy, huh?”

Spencer’s eyes widened, and he almost choked on his own breath. “It’s—it’s just a coincidence,” he sputtered, clearly flustered.

Morgan only smirked, raising an eyebrow. “A coincidence, huh? Funny how that works out. So, Hotch, who’s gonna show our new friend the ropes?”

Hotch glanced over at the team, then back at Spencer. He sighed, clearly understanding where this was headed but deciding to go with it. “Spencer, why don’t you help her out? Show her around, make sure she’s settled in, whatever she needs.”

Spencer, looking both surprised and horrified, opened his mouth to protest but quickly closed it. There was no way he was getting out of this. He gave a stiff nod. “Right. Sure. I can do that.”

Morgan leaned forward, not even trying to hide his amusement. “Good choice, Hotch. I’m sure she’ll be in good hands with Spencer,” he teased, practically grinning ear to ear.

The rest of the team was barely able to contain their snickers as they returned to their work, but not before Garcia shot Spencer a wink and Emily gave him an exaggerated thumbs-up.

With a final look at Spencer, Hotch turned back toward his office.

Spencer stood there, his face as red as ever, clearly unsure whether to laugh, cry, or run for the nearest exit. He turned to you, his eyes wide. “Uh, so... coffee machine's this way, I guess?” He began to move toward the break room, clearly desperate to get something, anything, done to distract from the absurdity of the situation.

You followed as he led you through the bullpen, his posture a little too rigid, like he was manually controlling every movement. You weren’t sure why he was the one acting like he’d been groped in public, but at this point, you were too tired to question it.

The break room was empty when you entered, thank god for small mercies. Spencer exhaled like he’d narrowly escaped death and immediately went to the coffee pot, reaching for it.

You stepped forward at the same time.

Your hands brushed.

Spencer yanked his hand back like he’d been electrocuted. “Sorry! You��uh—you go first.”

You couldn’t help but notice how strong the pull between you felt just then. It was subtle but undeniable, a strange connection drawing you both closer, but the awkwardness was still thick in the air.

You eyed him. “…It’s just coffee, man.”

“Yes. Coffee.” He clasped his hands behind his back, as if he needed to physically restrain himself from further accidental contact. “A normal workplace beverage.”

You grabbed the pot before he could overanalyze hot bean juice any further and poured yourself a cup. Spencer, still standing there like he wasn’t sure how to exist in this room with you, cleared his throat again.

“So. Do you, um. Enjoy coffee?”

You turned to stare at him. “I—yes?”

“Right. Of course.” He nodded rapidly. “Most people do. Statistically speaking, caffeine consumption is highly common among FBI agents due to demanding work hours and the need for heightened cognitive function.”

You took a slow sip of your drink. “…So that’s a yes on the coffee, then?”

“Yes.”

An awkward beat passed.

“…Would you like some?” you offered.

He startled like you’d just reminded him of the reason he’d brought you here in the first place. “Yes! Right. I’ll—I’ll just—” He reached for a mug, hesitated, then grabbed a different one, seemingly putting way too much thought into the choice. You caught a glimpse of the one he’d originally gone for.

Hot Stuff was printed across the front in big, flashy letters.

He cleared his throat so aggressively you thought he might hurt himself and quickly busied himself with pouring coffee. You decided to let him have that small dignity.

Unfortunately, fate was not so kind.

Just as he turned with his full mug, you shifted toward the sugar packets, and the two of you nearly collided. Spencer flinched, jerking back too fast. His coffee sloshed, spilling right over the rim of his cup—

And directly onto his tie.

He made a strangled noise.

“I’m fine!” he blurted, already yanking out a napkin like it might somehow erase the entire situation. “This is—fine! Totally fine! Very normal, in fact!”

You watched him with a mixture of sympathy and quiet amusement, the whole situation too awkward and funny to ignore, but also... strangely endearing. You could feel the bond, the unspoken connection drawing you toward him even more as you both fumbled through this moment.

You could feel your own heart rate picking up, not from panic, but from something else you couldn’t quite place.

Spencer, still trying to dab at his tie like he could somehow make it all go away with sheer willpower, cleared his throat again. “Uh. Right. I think we should—”

He paused, his eyes darting between you and his coffee-stained tie. It was like the connection between you two was too much to ignore, but neither of you were brave enough to act on it yet.

Spencer sighed. “Okay. Let's move on. Shall we?”

He tossed the napkin into the trash, and you both decided to leave your mugs behind. There was no point in finishing them now—both of you too distracted by the moment to care about the coffee anymore.

You nodded in agreement.

It was going to be a long day.

You followed as he led you through the halls, his pace brisk, like he was trying to outrun the mortifying events of the morning.

“This,” he said, gesturing stiffly as you passed a door, “is the copy room. If you need to print, scan, or make copies, the machines are all in here.”

You peeked inside. A row of printers and copiers hummed softly, an overflowing bin of discarded printouts shoved into the corner. “Got it.”

Spencer nodded, then pivoted so fast you barely kept up. “Restrooms are down this hall, men’s on the left, women’s on the right.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Not gonna walk me in? Thought you were supposed to be helping me with everything.”

He visibly choked. “That would be highly inappropriate!”

You barely contained a smirk. “Relax, I was kidding.”

Spencer made a noise suspiciously close to a huff and muttered something under his breath that sounded like why is it always me? before motioning for you to keep following.

He led you further down the hall before stopping at a plain, unmarked door. He knocked twice, then pushed it open.

“This is Garcia’s office.”

The room inside was an explosion of colour, trinkets, figurines, and twinkling string lights surrounded an impressive setup of monitors. Penelope Garcia turned from her screens, her eyes lighting up the moment she saw you both.

“Oh, look who it is!” she cooed. “If it isn’t my favourite pair of soulmates, stumbling through the day together.”

Spencer sighed. “We’re just—”

“Existing in the same space? Yeah, I know.” She smirked. “Listen, newbie, if you ever need help navigating the BAU—real help, not whatever awkward crash course this one’s giving you—my door is always open.”

You smiled. “Appreciate it.”

Spencer, clearly done with this interaction, turned on his heel. “We’re leaving.”

Garcia waggled her fingers at you in a good luck sort of way as you followed him out.

After a few more hallways and a very dry explanation of where the case files were stored, you finally made it back to the bullpen.

Spencer exhaled like he’d just completed a physically exhausting task. “That concludes the tour.”

You gave a mock salute. “Appreciate it.”

Morgan, who had clearly been waiting for your return, smirked from his desk. “So? How’d our boy do? Make you feel nice and welcome?”

You opened your mouth, but Spencer cut in before you could answer.

“She is now fully briefed on the layout of the building and equipped with all necessary information to function efficiently in the workplace,” he rattled off in a clipped, robotic tone.

Morgan blinked. Then grinned. “Well, damn. Sounds like she got the deluxe tour.”

You snorted. Spencer scowled.

Across the bullpen, Emily and JJ were blatantly watching, thinly veiled amusement written all over their faces.

As you settled into your desk, Spencer hesitated for a moment, clearly trying to figure out how to start this next part of your “orientation.” He cleared his throat once more, probably for the hundredth time that day.

“So,” he said, pulling a chair out beside you, “this is, uh, the part where you’ll be doing a lot of the, well, paperwork. It’s not exactly glamorous, but it’s important.”

“Let's start with something simple,” Spencer said, flipping open a file with way more urgency than necessary. “These are reports from precincts around the country requesting a profile. Our job is to go through them, assess and start a preliminary profile then send it back with recommendations.”

You grabbed one of the files, skimming over the first page. “Okay, got it. So, I just—” You reached for a pen at the same time Spencer did, your hands colliding.

Both of you pulled back immediately.

“Oh—sorry—”

“No, you—go ahead—”

Spencer hesitated, then went for the pen again at the exact moment you did. Another collision.

You both froze.

From across the bullpen, Morgan let out a low chuckle. “Man, this is painful to watch.”

Emily, who had been mid-coffee sip, grinned. “It’s like a nature documentary. Two very awkward creatures trying to establish dominance over a writing utensil.”

JJ, passing by with a file, smirked. “Should we intervene, or just let it play out?”

Spencer, determined to regain some semblance of control, cleared his throat. “Right. Uh. Let’s—” He reached again, but you had the same idea, and somehow, in a tragic display of poor coordination, his elbow swung outward—straight into your chest.

You sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widening. Spencer, face going so pale it was almost impressive, snapped his arm back like he’d been burned.

“Oh my god—I—” His voice pitched slightly. “That wasn’t— I didn’t mean—”

In his panic to put some distance between you, he pushed off the desk a little too hard. The chair, already slightly unsteady from his sudden movement, tipped dangerously backward.

The chair fully went over, taking Spencer with it. He hit the floor in a spectacular mess of limbs, momentum sending him rolling straight into an empty chair nearby, which immediately toppled over onto him.

The bullpen went silent.

Heat flooded your face. Your hands hovered uselessly in the air, unsure whether to help him or pretend this wasn’t happening.

Morgan let out a wheeze before cracking up. “Oh, hell no. Did that just happen?”

Emily had a hand pressed to her mouth, her shoulders shaking. JJ, pausing mid-step, blinked. “…Is he alive?”

Spencer, from under the chair, let out a weak, “Unfortunately.”

That was enough to set Morgan off. “Man, this is gold. I’ve never seen him go down that hard in my life.”

Your entire body was burning with secondhand embarrassment. “Should I—uh—” You half-stood, awkwardly gesturing toward the disaster zone.

Spencer, seemingly deciding he’d rather die than accept help, pushed himself upright, shoving the fallen chair away. His face was crimson. “I’m fine. That was—just—another minor miscalculation.”

JJ snorted. “Looked more like a full system failure.”

Morgan grinned. “Guess soulmate proximity messes with your equilibrium, huh?”

Your stomach twisted at that, embarrassment doubling. “Okay—um—can we not?”

Spencer shot Morgan a glare that was about as threatening as a wet cat. “Yes. Let’s not.”

Morgan just held up his hands, still grinning.

Spencer, still refusing to make eye contact with anyone, sat back down—carefully this time.

You hesitated, then picked up the pen, the cause of this entire disaster, and cleared your throat. “…So. Paperwork?”

Spencer’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Yes. Paperwork.”

JJ patted his shoulder as she passed. “You’ll bounce back.”

Spencer muttered something under his breath.

You just exhaled, still trying to will away the heat in your face.

Spencer shifted uncomfortably, casting a glance over at you. He'd helped you get settled with the paperwork, but now the silence between you was becoming almost unbearable. He cleared his throat again, the sound almost too loud in the quiet office.

"Well," he said, standing up a little too quickly, "I think you’ve got the hang of things here. If you need anything, I’ll be at my desk."

You glanced up, catching the way he looked at you—still flustered, but maybe a little more composed than before. He hesitated for a split second, his eyes darting between you and his desk, before he finally walked away, leaving you alone with your files.

As Spencer made his way back to his desk, you felt the weight of the connection between you both linger in the air.

Spencer sat back at his desk, his movements careful, like he was hyperaware of every single one. He stared at his screen, fingers poised over the keyboard, but he wasn’t typing. His pen, previously abandoned, found its way back into his hands, spinning between his fingers in a nervous rhythm.

You settled into your own work, flipping through the files. Every so often, your gaze drifted, just for a second, toward him. He was pretending to focus, but you could see the way his shoulders tensed whenever you shifted in your chair, like he was resisting the urge to look over.

Eventually, he did. Just a quick glance, but enough for your eyes to meet.

Spencer snapped his attention back to his monitor so fast it was a miracle he didn’t get whiplash.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

Spencer sat at his desk, his notes scattered in front of him, trying to focus on the paperwork. The awkwardness from earlier hadn’t quite settled. It lingered in the air between you, thick and palpable. He adjusted the papers in front of him, trying to make himself look busy, but his eyes kept flicking toward you.

You felt it too. The pull, the strange connection that seemed to tie you to Spencer. Every time you looked up, you’d catch him looking at you, his gaze darting away so quickly that you wondered if you’d imagined it. Was he doing it on purpose? Did he feel it, too?

There was no way to avoid it. He was your soulmate. The bond was there, shimmering between you, even if neither of you was ready to admit it out loud. He was just as awkward as you, maybe more so, which somehow made the whole situation even more complicated.

You tried to focus on the papers in front of you, but Spencer was impossible to ignore. The more you tried to get lost in the task at hand, the more aware you became of the pull between you. Your thoughts kept straying back to him, wondering what he was thinking, whether he was struggling with the same feelings you were. What did he think of you? Did he feel as attracted to you as you did to him?

Spencer shifted in his seat, turning his attention back to his papers, but the tension in the room was too much to ignore. He cleared his throat, glancing up just as you happened to do the same. His eyes met yours for a split second before you both quickly looked away, as if the gaze itself had burned.

The silence continued on between you, both of you trying to pretend that everything was fine, that there was nothing to this strange, electric pull you were both feeling.

At one point you both stood at the same time. The movement was so synchronized it almost felt rehearsed, but neither of you had planned it. You both glanced at each other as you pushed back from your desks, eyes widening in surprise.

Spencer hesitated for a moment, standing awkwardly in place. “Uh… coffee?” he mumbled, as though he needed to confirm the very simple action.

You nodded, a little too quickly, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was. “Yeah… coffee.”

Neither of you moved right away, both standing there awkwardly, like you were trying to figure out what to do next. The whole moment felt ridiculous, and neither of you seemed willing to take the first step.

Finally, Spencer cleared his throat again, a sound that seemed to break the tension just enough. Prompting you both to move.

For a few moments, neither of you spoke, both of you walking side by side but not quite together, the space between you almost suffocating. Neither of you had said a word, but the attraction was there, simmering just beneath the surface, as if the bond had wrapped itself around you both without either of you willing to acknowledge it just yet.

As you entered the break room, the sense of awkwardness only deepened, and you both stood there, pretending to be focused on something as simple as making coffee. You avoided making eye contact, each of you trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy while the rest of the world hummed around you, completely oblivious to the tension that had overtaken the two of you.

The entire thing felt like an elaborate dance. One that neither of you knew the steps to, but somehow it was drawing you closer, whether you liked it or not.

The coffee break didn’t last long. Both of you seemed to realize at the same time that standing in silence, avoiding eye contact while sipping coffee, wasn’t doing either of you any favours. So, with an awkward shuffle and a few too many polite nods, you both turned back toward the bullpen.

The walk back to your desks was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of movement as you each settled back into your respective spaces. You slid into your chair, exhaling slowly as you picked up a pen, trying to will yourself to focus. Spencer did the same, tapping his fingers against the desk, his leg bouncing slightly beneath it.

For a while, you both managed to maintain the illusion of productivity. The tension hadn’t disappeared, but at least it wasn’t suffocating.

At some point, you stood up to grab a folder from the nearby cabinet, stretching slightly as you reached for it. And that was when it happened.

Spencer didn’t mean to. He really, truly didn’t. But his eyes betrayed him before his brain could catch up. His gaze dipped lower, drawn to the curve of your ass, the way your slacks fit just right. It was a fleeting look, barely a second, but in that second, his brain short-circuited. His grip tightened on his pen, his face burned, and a thousand panicked thoughts flooded his mind at once.

Then, horror of horrors, you turned.

You caught him.

The second your eyes met, his face went completely red. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out. He looked like he’d been caught committing a federal crime.

You raised an eyebrow, fighting the smirk threatening to creep onto your lips.

Spencer made a strangled noise, immediately ducking his head down, suddenly very interested in the absolute nonsense scribbled on his page. His ears were burning, his entire body stiff with the sheer force of his embarrassment.

You let the moment stretch, watching him squirm for just a beat longer before finally deciding to take pity on him. With a small hum, you sat back down, not saying a word.

Spencer, still looking anywhere but at you, cleared his throat—loudly. “I—I wasn’t—uh—I just—” He exhaled sharply and gripped his pen tighter. “Never mind.”

The next hour dragged on in a haze of forced focus and pointed avoidance. You worked through your files, sneaking glances at Spencer just to see if he had recovered. He hadn't.

Spencer was sitting impossibly still, his entire body rigid with what could only be described as a masterclass in sheer mortification. His eyes were glued to the papers in front of him, but he wasn’t reading them. His pen hovered over the page, unmoving. It was as if he had decided that any sudden movements might make the ground swallow him whole.

You bit back another smirk.

At some point, you had to stand again, stretching your legs and reaching for another file. This time, you did it slowly, just to see if he’d risk another glance.

He didn’t.

If anything, he overcorrected so hard that his head turned in the opposite direction, eyes trained on the most uninteresting corner of the room like it was the key to solving life’s greatest mysteries. His hand twitched, gripping his pen so tightly you were mildly concerned it might snap.

Alright, maybe you shouldn’t be enjoying this so much. But after everything, the fall, the soulmate marks, the tension—it was kind of nice to be on the other side of the awkwardness for once.

You sat back down, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. He still refused to look at you.

The bullpen had settled into a steady rhythm, but Spencer still looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. The stiffness in his posture remained, his eyes locked onto his paperwork like sheer focus alone could erase the last hour.

For you, everything still felt off. The quiet murmur of the team working, the soft rustle of papers being shuffled, the distant sound of a printer. It should’ve been easy to focus. It wasn’t.

Across from you, Spencer sat at his desk, his eyes flicking between his notes and his paperwork in a clear attempt to look busy. He wasn’t. You could tell. Every few moments, his pen stilled, his fingers drumming absently against the page like his mind was anywhere but on the work in front of him.

You weren’t doing much better.

The awareness of him had settled over you like a weight, something pressing at the edge of your thoughts no matter how hard you tried to shake it. It wasn’t just the fact that he was there. It was the bond, the pull, the quiet way his presence wrapped around yours like an invisible thread you couldn’t loosen.

You could feel when he looked at you.

And sometimes, you caught him.

It wasn’t obvious, not really. It was quick, subtle. A flicker of movement as he glanced up, his gaze barely landing on you before darting away. But the more it happened, the more you noticed. He wasn’t doing it on purpose. It was like his eyes had a mind of their own, betraying him before he could stop himself.

And every time it happened, your stomach tightened.

It was getting harder to ignore how attractive he was. You’d thought it from the moment you met him, but it was different now. More intense. He had this way of being awkward and endearing all at once, like he was constantly fighting against himself, caught between wanting to hide and being unable to look away.

And it was affecting you.

Every time he adjusted his tie, every time he ran a hand through his hair, every time his lips parted like he was about to say something but didn’t, you felt it. A pull, an ache, something unspoken that settled deep in your chest.

You were so lost in your own thoughts that you almost didn’t notice when Spencer shifted in his chair, exhaling sharply like he was trying to physically shake himself out of whatever was going on in his head.

And whatever was going on in his head… was a mess.

Spencer had given up on pretending to focus. He knew it was useless. His mind had been running in circles all day, stuck on an endless loop that always brought him back to you.

It wasn’t just the soulmate thing, although, God, that was enough to keep his brain short-circuiting. It was everything. The way you moved, the way you talked, the way you existed in the space across from him like you’d always belonged there.

The bond was pulling at him, making him too aware of you.

Every time you shifted, every time you sighed, every time your pen scratched against the paper, he felt it. It was like his entire body had attuned itself to you, responding to the smallest movements without him meaning to.

And the worst part? You were beautiful.

He’d noticed before, of course. He wasn’t blind. But now, it was like his brain refused to let him think about anything else. Every detail was burned into his mind, the shape of your lips, the curve of your cheek, the way you furrowed your brow in concentration.

And then there was earlier.

Spencer swallowed hard, forcing his eyes down to his papers.

She caught me staring at her ass.

His face burned at the memory, the mortification still fresh. He had looked for one second. One stupid second, and now it was all he could think about. He hadn’t even meant to! His brain had just… done it, and now he wanted to disappear into the floor.

Had you noticed how red he’d gotten? Had you thought he was a creep? God, what if you thought he was a pervert—

No, no, no, stop.

He clenched his jaw, inhaling sharply through his nose. He needed to get it together. He needed to focus.

He picked up his pen.

It immediately slipped from his fingers.

Spencer closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if pleading with the universe to give him a break.

It didn’t.

Because the second he opened them, his gaze landed on you again. And this time, you were already looking at him.

His heart stopped.

Your eyes met, and neither of you looked away.

It was so brief. Barely a second. But in that second, the air shifted, something unspoken settled between you.

Then, just as quickly, Spencer tore his gaze away, his entire body stiff.

His mind was a whirlwind, and his breath caught. He couldn’t afford to focus on this right now. The bond was already too much. It was making it harder to get through the day.

So he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out everything except the work in front of him. The one thing he could still control.

The rest of the day passed without further incident. You focused on your work, occasionally catching glimpses of Spencer doing the same, both of you settling into the rhythm of the office. The initial awkwardness lingered, but with the steady hum of productivity around you, it was easier to push aside.

Now, as the workday wound down, the bullpen grew quieter. Desks were cleared, conversations turned to evening plans, and the weight of the day began to lift.

You gathered your things, telling yourself you had officially survived day one. But even as you slung your bag over your shoulder, a feeling of unfinished business settled over you, lingering like an unspoken question.

Across from you, Spencer was… lingering too.

His bag was packed, his work was done, but he wasn’t moving. Instead, he hovered near his desk, shifting his weight, fingers twitching like his own thoughts were betraying him.

He wanted to say something.

He needed to say something.

But every time he tried to open his mouth, his brain helpfully supplied the worst possible ways to start this conversation.

'So, about earlier when I—uh—accidentally groped you…'

No. Absolutely not.

'We should discuss our predestined spiritual and emotional connection…'

Nope. Horrifying.

You glanced up just as he let out a slow exhale, rubbing at his temple like he was trying to force his thoughts into order. The way he kept fidgeting made you pause.

“You okay?”

Spencer startled like you’d caught him committing a crime. “What? Yes! Completely. Totally.”

A beat.

“Actually… no.”

He shifted from foot to foot, adjusting the strap of his satchel like it might give him confidence. “I—uh—I was wondering if we could talk.”

You blinked. “Aren’t we talking now?”

His throat bobbed. “Yes, but—I meant tomorrow. Before work. Somewhere private.”

Your stomach flipped. “Oh.”

“Not that—uh—! Not that it has to be—” He made a flailing gesture, his face going red. “I just want to have a conversation. A real one. So I can—um—gather my thoughts first.”

You studied him. He looked so nervous, but there was sincerity behind it. A genuine desire to approach this properly.

The bond between you hummed—like an unspoken thread pulling you closer.

You found yourself nodding. “Okay.”

His relief was immediate. “Okay.”

“Where do you want to meet?”

He hesitated, then straightened slightly, as if he’d just remembered an important fact. “There’s a coffee shop a couple of blocks from here. It’s quiet in the mornings. We could meet there before heading in.”

You nodded. “That works.”

Spencer exhaled, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. “Great.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “It’s a date.”

Spencer froze.

“Not a—!” You backtracked, laughing at his full-body panic. “Not a date-date. Just… you know. A conversation.”

Spencer let out a breath like he’d been holding it for an hour. “Right. Of course. A normal, casual discussion between two people who happen to be soulmates.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Super normal.”

“Completely.”

You shook your head fondly. “See you in the morning, Spencer.”

He swallowed hard, nodded stiffly, and then practically bolted before he could embarrass himself further.

You drop your bag by the door and kick off your shoes, rolling your shoulders as you step into your apartment. Day one was over. You survived. You should be relieved. But as you move through the motions of settling in for the night, your mind refuses to let go of the one thing that has lingered with you all day.

Spencer.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair as you flop onto the couch. You should be exhausted, but instead, you’re restless. Too aware of the way his presence still clings to your thoughts. The way he fidgeted when he spoke, adjusting his bag strap like it might hold him together. The way he tapped his fingers against the desk when he was thinking. The way his hair curled at the ends, falling into his eyes when he forgot to smooth it back.

And the way he looked at you.

It was subtle, but you caught it more than once. A flicker of his gaze before he forced himself to look away, like he was fighting something he wasn’t ready to face.

Maybe you were, too.

You exhale, stretching out against the cushions. He wants to talk tomorrow. In private. The thought sends a nervous thrill through you. What is he going to say? What does he think about all of this?

Because for all his awkwardness, all his nervous rambling, one thing is clear—he feels it, too.

Spencer stares at the ceiling of his apartment, arms folded behind his head, willing his brain to slow down. It doesn’t. It never does.

Today was a disaster. Well, not a complete disaster. He could have done without the public soulmate revelation via accidental groping. Could have done without the mortifying moment when he got caught staring at your ass. Could have done without the entire day feeling like an out-of-body experience.

But still. There were moments. Little things that kept looping in his head.

The way your lips pursed when you were focused. The way your fingers skimmed absently over the edge of your notebook as you listened. The way you smiled when you talked to the others, easy and warm.

The way you looked at him when you caught him staring.

You didn’t look annoyed. Or uncomfortable. If anything, you seemed just as caught in this strange, magnetic pull as he was.

Spencer continues to stare, unseeing.

What is he supposed to say to you tomorrow?

He rubs a hand over his face. He needs a plan. He needs to say something that isn’t completely humiliating.

'Hey, so, I’ve been thinking about you all day—'

No. That sounds obsessive.

'I believe we should establish an open dialogue about the nature of our soulmate connection—'

Too clinical.

'I don’t want things to be weird between us, but I also can’t stop thinking about you, and I don’t know what to do with that.'

Too honest.

Spencer groans, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. He’s overthinking. He knows he’s overthinking. But how could he not? You’re his soulmate. He’s spent his entire life wondering about his soulmate. Fantasizing about the moment he'd meet you, the way it would feel, the certainty of it.

And now that you’re here, he has no idea what he’s doing.

Tomorrow. He’ll figure it out tomorrow.

…Hopefully.

The coffee shop is quiet, just as Spencer had promised. It’s the kind of place meant for lingering, for hushed conversations and slow sips of something warm. You step inside, your stomach tight with nerves, scanning the space until your eyes land on him.

He’s already here, seated at a corner table, hands wrapped around a to-go cup of coffee that’s barely been touched. Another cup sits in front of him, waiting. His fingers tap anxiously against the cardboard sleeve, a restless rhythm that betrays the thoughts undoubtedly racing in his head.

When he spots you, he straightens instinctively, like he’s bracing himself.

You take a breath, steadying yourself as you make your way over and slide into the seat across from him. Your eyes flick to the second cup, and he follows your gaze.

“I, um—” He clears his throat. “I got you a coffee. The way you like it.”

Surprise flickers through you, quickly followed by something warmer. You reach for the cup, fingers curling around it. The heat seeps through, grounding you. “Thanks,” you say softly.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. There’s an odd weight between you, something unspoken but impossible to ignore.

Spencer forces himself to take a steady breath. He spent all night overthinking this conversation, running through a hundred different ways it could go, and yet, now that you’re sitting in front of him, he feels utterly unprepared.

Then Spencer clears his throat. “Thanks for meeting me.”

You nod, wrapping your hands around your own drink, grounding yourself in its warmth. “Yeah. I think we need this.”

He exhales, shoulders rising and falling as he gathers his thoughts. “I don’t want to rush into anything just because of the soulmate bond,” he says carefully, like he’s testing the words as they leave his mouth. “I want to get to know you—really get to know you—before we decide what this means for us.”

Your eyes study him for a moment, unreadable, and for a brief second, doubt prickles at the back of his mind. What if you don’t feel the same way? What if you expected more, something immediate and undeniable? What if he’s already ruining this.

But then you exhale, nodding slightly.

“I do too,” you admit. “Honestly, I’ve always been worried that my soulmate would expect something right away. That they’d take one look at where my mark is and assume that’s all this is supposed to be about.”

Spencer’s chest tightens.

You hesitate, fingers pressing into the side of your coffee cup. “I was afraid of being seen as just… a cosmic guarantee of sex instead of a person.”

Spencer inhales sharply, something in his expression twisting. “I would never—” His voice catches, and he shakes his head, forcing the words out more carefully. “I don’t see you that way. I never would.”

You look at him then, really look at him, and something in your gaze softens.

“I know,” you say quietly.

And the worst part? You do know. Because Spencer Reid, for all his fumbling awkwardness, has done nothing but try to keep his distance—to not make this weirder than it already is.

Still, the fact that you had to carry that fear at all…

Spencer grips his cup a little tighter. “I always wondered what meeting my soulmate would be like,” he admits, voice quieter now. “I spent a lot of time thinking about how it would happen, how it would feel.” He lets out a small, breathless laugh. “I didn’t expect it to be—” He gestures vaguely between you. “—this.”

You laugh too, because what else can you do?

“You and me both.”

Spencer exhales, but the tension in his shoulders doesn’t completely ease. “I guess part of me was scared I wouldn’t live up to whatever expectations you might have had.”

Your brows pull together. “Spencer…”

He shakes his head quickly, like he doesn’t want you to try and reassure him. “I just—I don’t want this to be something dictated by fate alone. I want it to be our choice, not just something that’s happening to us.” His fingers tap against his cup. “And I don’t want to mess it up.”

Your breath catches slightly, because that, that is something you hadn’t realized you needed to hear.

“I get it,” you say softly. “I don’t want to mess it up either.”

He looks at you then, eyes searching, like he’s trying to make sure you really mean it.

And you do.

Because even though there’s a pull between you, something almost magnetic, you don’t want to rush into it. You don’t want to make this something predetermined. You want it to be real.

You let out a slow breath. “Friends first?”

Spencer blinks, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it first.

But then his shoulders loosen, just slightly, and he nods. “Friends first.”

The words settle between you, a quiet agreement, but the bond doesn’t lessen its grip. If anything, you’re more aware of it now. The way the air between you crackles, the way every glance lingers just a little too long.

But at least now, you know you’re not alone in this.

Spencer watches you, his fingers still tapping absent patterns against his coffee cup. He wants to say something else, something reassuring maybe. But instead, he just nods, more to himself than to you.

As you both move to stand, your hands nearly brush, and for a split second, Spencer wonders what it would feel like to just give in. To let the bond take over, to find out exactly what fate has tied him to.

But he clenches his jaw, stuffing his hands into his pockets like it’ll stop the impulse.

You smirk slightly, amused by his obvious effort.

“See you at work, Spencer.”

His ears go red.

“…See you at work.”

You step out of the coffee shop, the cool morning air a stark contrast to the warmth lingering in your chest. As the door swings shut behind you, you take a breath, steadying yourself. That conversation had been… good, you think. Necessary. And yet, the undeniable hum of the soulmate bond still lingers beneath your skin, a quiet reminder that no matter how much you both insist on taking things slow, something bigger than either of you is already in motion.

You glance over your shoulder but the coffee shop window only shows Spencer still sitting at the table, his hands wrapped around his cup, staring at it like it holds all the answers to the universe. You smirk to yourself. For all his brilliance, he’s painfully obvious.

Still, you appreciate the effort. You both knew walking to work together would’ve been too much. Too soon. So, instead, he’s staying behind, waiting until enough time has passed for you to be comfortably apart by the time he leaves. It’s thoughtful in the most awkward way possible, so distinctly him that you find yourself shaking your head, amused.

With one last glance at the coffee shop, you turn forward and start walking. You don’t know what today will bring, but one thing is certain.

This thing between you and Spencer? It’s not going away anytime soon.

The bullpen hums with the usual morning energy. Agents shuffling papers, murmuring about last night’s game or the latest headlines, the scent of coffee lingering in the air. It should be like any other day, except for the way Spencer’s mind keeps circling back to you.

He tells himself it’s fine. He got here on time, sat down at his desk, and started working just like he always does. No one suspects a thing.

Except when he glances up, you’re there, sitting at your desk, sipping from the drink he ordered for you that morning. The sight of it in your hands sends a strange sort of satisfaction curling through him. He looks away fast, focusing on his paperwork.

Normal. He just has to act normal.

But the universe seems determined to make that impossible.

The bullpen moves around you like a well-oiled machine. Phones ringing, keys clacking, agents exchanging gossip and weekend plans between mouthfuls of burnt coffee. On the surface, it’s a normal morning. But the moment you sit down and take a sip from the drink Spencer ordered you, the illusion cracks.

You don’t even look up right away. You feel him.

When you finally do glance over, he’s at his desk, head down, flipping through a case file like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. Which might be believable, if he weren’t holding the pages upside down.

Your lips twitch.

You’d laugh, but you’re not doing much better. Your brain keeps looping back to the coffee shop, the almost-touch, the way he looked at you like he wasn’t sure if he should say goodbye or sprint into traffic to avoid it.

He showed up after you. Purposefully, obviously. It doesn't take a profiler to spot a man avoiding awkwardness at all costs. And really, you don’t blame him. It was weird. You're both still pretending it wasn't.

But pretending only gets you so far.

You make it a whole ten minutes before you need something from the filing cabinet. It’s tucked against the back wall, awkwardly close to the corner of the room, and when you get there, you tug open the heavy drawer, scanning rows of neatly labelled folders.

You hear footsteps behind you and shuffle to the side without looking. A breath later, Spencer slides into the space beside you. He’s reaching for the same drawer, his fingers brushing against yours for a heartbeat before both of you yank your hands back like the other was made of fire.

You glance sideways. He’s staring at the folder like it just insulted his mother.

“…Morning,” you say.

His jaw ticks. “Morning.”

The silence stretches.

You tilt your head, watching the way he’s very pointedly not looking at you. He’s rigid. Like someone wound him up and forgot to let him out of the packaging. You can’t help but wonder if he's always like this, or is it just around you?

Eventually, you grab your folder and step away to spare him whatever internal malfunction he’s experiencing. His relief is palpable.

It’s barely past ten when it happens again.

You step out from behind your desk at the exact same time he does, and you almost collide. Your bodies halt a breath apart, close enough that you can smell the soap on his skin, see the way his pupils flicker wide before he flinches backward in alarm.

This time, he sidesteps so hard he nearly knocks into Rossi.

“Easy there, kid,” Rossi mutters without missing a beat, brushing past with his coffee. Spencer’s halfway to combusting.

You smile, far too amused. “Smooth.”

Spencer opens his mouth, then closes it. His ears do the talking—burning a deep, unmissable red as he mutters something that sounds like an apology before making a swift exit down the hall.

You watch him go, biting back a grin.

By the time you’re back at your desk, you’ve decided the universe must be bored. That’s the only explanation. There’s no way this many accidental run-ins can happen naturally. Not with an office this size. It’s like fate is running a slow-burn sitcom, and you’re the unwilling stars.

You try to focus on your work, but the quiet hum of conversation around the bullpen pulls you in. Morgan’s voice carries first.

Morgan’s voice cuts through first. “Okay, hear me out: stranded on an island, you get to bring one thing. What are you taking?”

“Not this question again,” Emily groans, though she’s already leaning back in her chair to join in.

JJ chimes in without looking up from her notepad. “A book. Something long. Preferably with a happy ending.”

“You’d be bored in five minutes,” Morgan shoots back. “Give me a hatchet or something useful.”

Rossi strolls past, coffee in hand. “I’d bring a bottle of scotch and a box of cigars. If I’m going down, I’m going down in style.”

That earns a round of amused groans.

You glance up just as Spencer looks over. He’s sitting across from you, posture perfect but his fingers are fidgeting slightly, tapping against a closed file. Listening.

Morgan raises an eyebrow in your direction. “Alright, your turn. What’s your one thing?”

You pause, glancing up from the file in your lap. “A survival manual I probably won’t read.”

That earns a few laughs from the bullpen.

You shrug, settling back in your chair. “It’ll make me feel better just having it. False confidence is still confidence.”

Spencer huffs something that might be a laugh, and when you glance at him, he’s watching you. Not mockingly, but with this soft, surprised kind of curiosity.

He speaks, voice measured but soft. “I’d bring a collection of classic literature.”

You raise a brow. “That’s ambitious.”

“It’s practical,” he replies. “You’d want something that lasts. Long narratives. Complex characters. Enough variation to keep your mind engaged.”

That piques your curiosity. “So you wouldn’t get tired of rereading the same stories?”

He shakes his head. “Not if they’re good ones. The kind that let you see something different every time. They grow with you. Or maybe you grow into them.”

You tilt your head. “You sound like someone who’s read them more than a few times.”

He glances down, like he’s not sure whether to be embarrassed or not. “A fair assumption.”

You smile. “So, what’s the appeal? Isn’t a lot of it just old language and people with too many names?”

He laughs, a short, surprised sound. “Sometimes. But that’s not what makes them last.”

You watch him now, genuinely curious.

“Most people approach them academically,” he says. “But that strips them of what makes them human. They’re not puzzles—they’re full of longing and desperation and hope. That’s the point. The imperfections, the contradictions.”

You’re not sure what you expected, but it wasn’t that. You watch him for a moment, struck by how earnest he is. How unselfconscious. There’s something quietly compelling about it. His passion laid bare like he didn’t think twice about offering it.

“That’s a lot of feelings for a stranded island situation,” you tease lightly.

He huffs a laugh, ducking his head. “Sorry. I know it sounds dramatic.”

You shake your head. “No, it doesn’t. Just unexpected.”

He looks like he wants to say more, so you let the silence stretch comfortably.

“I’ve always wanted to be the kind of person who liked the classics,” you admit. “But I never really connected with them. It felt like I was waiting for them to make sense, and they just… didn’t.”

“That’s not your fault,” Spencer says. “A lot of them weren’t written to be accessible. But sometimes, all it takes is the right one. One that just clicks, and suddenly everything makes sense.”

You smile a little. “You make them sound worth another shot.”

He shrugs, then nods, a bit softer this time. “They are.”

You rest your elbow on the desk and lean in a touch. “Alright, then. What’s your pitch? If I was going to give one a chance.”

Spencer pauses, considering, and there’s something warmer than thoughtfulness in his eyes now. Something quietly delighted.

“I’ll get you a list,” he says.

You grin. “A curated reading experience?”

“Exactly.”

You glance down at your file again, but it’s useless now. The energy between you has shifted—warmer. Quieter. Easier.

Across from you, Spencer doesn’t go back to reading either. He just stays there, like maybe he’s not quite ready to stop talking yet.

And for once, neither are you.

The conversation between you and Spencer seems to flow effortlessly, like two people who’ve known each other for years, even though you’ve barely scratched the surface of your time together. With each laugh, each shared moment, the tension fades a little more. You feel more comfortable, more familiar.

“Wait—hold on. You can remember everything you’ve ever read?” you ask, your voice caught somewhere between awe and playful suspicion.

Spencer shifts in his seat, clearly bashful about it. “I… yeah. I have an eidetic memory. It means I can recall written material almost perfectly.”

You blink at him. “So, like… if you read the back of a cereal box once, it’s just in there forever?”

He gives a sheepish little laugh. “Unfortunately, yes. Even the part about riboflavin.”

You shake your head, grinning. “Okay, so you’re either a genius or a really charming liar.”

Spencer stumbles over his words, his face flushing a bit as he tries to recover. He looks away for a moment, his lips twitching like he’s not sure whether to laugh or be embarrassed. There’s a slight pause before he glances back at you, his eyes narrowed just a little, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re being serious or teasing him. The corners of his mouth pull into a half-smile, but it’s clear he’s still trying to make sense of the situation, clearly flustered but not in an uncomfortable way.

Around you, the office moves with phones ringing, agents chatting, soft shuffling of papers and footsteps. But through it all, the conversation between you and Spencer doesn’t really stop. It shifts and changes, slipping into new territory without either of you needing to steer it. He’s already picked up on how quick you are with a joke, how you tilt your head when you’re genuinely curious. And you’re noticing him too. The way his hands move when he’s explaining something, the way his whole face gets animated when he’s caught up in a thought. Somehow, talking to him feels natural, like you’ve been doing it forever.

“You have how many PhDs?!”

Spencer shifts in his seat, suddenly preoccupied with aligning the edge of a folder. “Three,” he says, quiet but clear.

You blink. “Three. As in... actual, real PhDs? Not like honorary ones they give celebrities sometimes?”

He gives a sheepish nod.

Your lips twitch. “I don’t think I’ve ever committed to anything long enough to earn three of anything.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, ducking his head like he’s trying to hide the way his cheeks go a little pink. He’s not quite sure what to do with your reaction, but there’s something about the way you say it that leaves him slightly off balance—in a way he doesn’t hate.

It’s easy, somehow. The way your conversation keeps going, without effort or awkwardness, like you’ve skipped over the small talk and landed somewhere comfortable. Spencer isn’t quite leaning in, but his shoulders have lost their stiffness, his eyes tracking yours with soft focus. He listens like it’s an art form, picking up on every nuance, every half-smile and curious glance. You catch bits of him in return—how he thinks before he speaks, how he seems both shy and excited when something genuinely interests him. There’s a rhythm forming between you, unspoken but steady, like you’re both tuning into the same frequency.

“You know magic?” you ask, eyebrows raised in open delight. “You have to show me a trick.”

Spencer hesitates, blinking once, twice, like he’s recalibrating. “O-okay,” he says, a little cautious, a little sheepish, as if revealing this part of himself is somehow more vulnerable than anything else he's shared. “Just—don’t laugh.”

You don’t. You couldn’t, even if you tried. You nod, eyes wide, suddenly aware of how close the two of you have drifted without noticing.

His fingers skim the air near your ear, smooth and sure, and your breath catches at the sudden closeness. The office falls away, not literally, but enough that the hum of conversation, the tapping of keys, the distant ring of a phone, all of it fades into a soft, irrelevant blur. It's just you and him.

And then—there it is. A flower in his hand where there hadn’t been one before. Then, without a word, he offers it to you.

Your eyes widen. Your lips part in surprise. You know it’s a trick. It has to be a trick. But for one suspended second, it feels like real magic. You take it carefully, fingers brushing his for the briefest moment. The stem is cool, the petals soft—real. Your brows pull together as you glance down at it, then back up at him. “Wait… this is actually real. How did you—?”

He just smiles, that small, knowing one that doesn’t give anything away. “Magician’s secret.”

And he keeps looking at you, like watching you hold that flower is the best part of the trick. Like you’re the magic he can’t explain.

The flower stays in your hand long after Spencer’s fingers leave it, soft petals warm from where his touch lingered. You glance at it again, half-expecting it to vanish like the illusion it seemed to be. But it’s real and the memory of how it got there keeps playing on a loop in your mind. The look in his eyes, the weight of his focus, the slight curl of his smile like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

You’re definitely not imagining the way things have shifted.

Every glance between you now seems to last a second too long. Every brush of proximity, every slide of his arm as he reaches past you, the heat of him when you lean over the same file, feels electric. There's an unmistakable awareness pulsing in the space between you, something neither of you names but both of you feel.

Spencer is different now. Still the same stammering, brilliant, endearingly awkward man but there's a spark under the surface. Like he knows what effect he’s having on you and is maybe, just maybe, starting to lean into it. He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize every flicker of expression on your face, like he’s mentally cataloguing the sound of your laugh, the way you bite your lip when you’re reading.

And you’re not exactly innocent in this either.

You ask questions you don’t need answers to, just to hear him speak. You tease him for fun, for the way it makes his ears turn red. You pass him things just so your fingers will touch.

It’s subtle the way it builds, slow, simmering, and sweet. But beneath all the half-smiles and sideways glances, there’s something else brewing. Something hungry. The kind of tension that coils low in your belly and makes you hyperaware of every little thing. The timbre of his voice, the slope of his neck, the way he licks his lips when he’s thinking.

You catch him looking at you more than once, his gaze slipping from your eyes to your mouth and back again. And each time, he looks away like he’s been caught but he’s not exactly apologetic about it.

Neither are you.

Because whatever this is, whatever it’s becoming, you don’t want it to stop.

You're trying to focus. You're really, honestly trying. There’s a case file open in front of you, a half-finished note jotted in the margins, and a perfectly good pen in your hand, but none of it is getting through. Your body is warm all over, tingling with leftover tension from the moment Spencer pulled a flower from behind your ear. The petals had brushed your cheek like a kiss. He hadn’t touched you then, not really, but it still felt like he had. Like something had passed between you, unseen but tangible. Electric.

Despite it all, you both manage to get back to work. The pens, the papers, the case files, they’re all still there, demanding your attention. But you’re both distracted, even if you don’t openly acknowledge it. You look back at your notes, trying to make sense of the information in front of you, but your thoughts keep straying back to him, to that moment. And it’s the same for Spencer, you can tell by the occasional glance he throws your way, the brief flicker of his eyes meeting yours.

You push through it, focusing on the task at hand, but there’s an undeniable tension between you now. It’s subtle, but it’s there, building with every shared glance and every small gesture that feels just a little too charged. It’s as though the space between you both has narrowed without either of you realizing it.

It’s been a little while since the moment with Spencer, but things still feel different. The way he looks at you, the way you can’t quite shake the feeling that something’s changed between you. You’re walking down the hallway, file in hand, but your mind is somewhere else. You’re not sure where, really. Just caught up in the way things are now. How it feels like the air between you is a little heavier.

You’re not paying attention to where you’re walking.

You stumble forward, foot catching on the floor, and the momentum pulls you ahead before you can stop it. Your heart leaps. Gravity tips you into motion, too fast to recover. But then, just as the floor rushes up to meet you, he’s there. It’s as if he appeared out of thin air, like some force pulled him into place in the exact second you needed him.

Spencer.

He catches you like he was always meant to be there, like something beyond either of you decided he would arrive in the split second you needed him. One arm loops around your waist from behind, firm and unshakable, halting your fall and drawing you back into the warmth of him. His other hand grips your upper arm, anchoring you, steadying you, like he’s done this before in some forgotten dream.

Then, he moves. Slowly. Purposefully. He turns you in his arms until you’re facing him. The world blurs for a breath as he guides you, but the moment you settle against his chest, everything sharpens. Your chest brushes his, your breath tangling with his. You can feel the strength in him, the control he’s holding onto, the tension thrumming just beneath the surface. His hand slides lower, from your waist to your lower back, moulding you to him with a kind of certainty that makes your stomach flip.

The hand at your arm lingers. His fingers twitch slightly, like they’re reluctant to move on. Then they do. Slowly. Like he's testing the water, like he's giving you every chance to stop him. He traces up the line of your shoulder, so lightly you almost wonder if you imagined it. But you didn’t. Your skin tingles under the weight of his touch, nerves lighting up as his hand drifts across the curve of your collarbone.

When his palm finally cradles your cheek, it feels like the world stills. His hand is warm, fingers curling just slightly, thumb brushing the edge of your cheekbone with a tenderness that feels almost impossible. He touches you like he’s afraid he’ll break something, but still needs to feel every part of you. Your breath catches in your throat, not from the stumble, not from surprise, but from the sheer intensity of this moment. This touch. This nearness.

This is the kind of moment you wish had been your first. Not the clumsy mess of limbs and apologies. Not the heat of humiliation or the accidental touch that made your heart sink instead of soar. You wish it had been this. The quiet awe of being seen, the way he steadies you like it matters, the feel of his arms around you like they belong there. Held like you were always meant to find your way to him. Like letting you fall was never even a possibility. Held like you were something he didn’t want to let go of. The closeness. The heat. The kind of moment that people write about, dream about, crave without even knowing what they’re craving.

Your eyes find his, and the moment shifts. Not soft. Not sweet. Heavy.

The tension that had simmered under the surface all day crests, slow and inevitable. It winds through you now, not subtle, not hidden, but full and real, like the charge before a summer storm. You’re wrapped in his scent, something warm and clean that pulls you in without trying. It clings to your skin and slips beneath your ribs, making it harder to breathe, harder to think. Your hands ache with the need to move, to reach for him, to follow the path his fingers traced and answer it with your own. Every inch of you feels pulled toward him, like your body is already making the decision your mind is still catching up to.

His gaze never leaves yours. There’s something in it that steals the breath from your lungs. Something hungry. Something tender. A kind of longing that makes your throat tighten. His thumb slides along your cheekbone, barely a touch, but your knees still threaten to give. You have to lean into him just to stay upright, and maybe that was the point all along.

Neither of you speaks. It would ruin the moment. There are no words big enough anyway. Just this: your bodies pressed together, the hallway holding its breath around you, the quiet hum of something that has been building and building and has finally found its place.

His forehead nearly brushes yours. You can feel his breath, the tension in his jaw, the slight tremble in the hand on your back that betrays the calm he tries to hold. Your own heartbeat pounds, steady and hard, loud enough to drown out the world. Your lips are so close you could lean in without thinking, could kiss him and fall and never look back.

You wonder if he’s thinking about it too. If he’s standing this still because if he moves, he’ll close the gap. Because he wants to. Because he almost can’t help it.

You don’t know how long you stand like that. Held. Gazing. Wanting. But it’s long enough for the rest of the world to fall away. Long enough for everything else to feel like static.

This is the moment you never thought you’d get. The one that feels like it was written for you.

The silence stretches, hanging between you, fragile and full. His hand is still on your cheek, and your heart is still racing, and you can’t quite believe this is real. You watch the way his lips part, the quiet flicker in his eyes like he’s trying to figure out how to hold onto this just a little longer.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice low and careful, like he’s afraid of breaking whatever this is between you.

You nod before you find the breath to answer. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m alright.”

Your voice doesn’t sound like your own. It’s too soft, too quiet, but it makes something flicker in his eyes. His hand lingers just a moment longer, brushing once more against your cheek before he finally begins to pull away.

“Thank you,” you say, voice trembling.

The space between you shifts as he slowly lets go, but there’s a reluctance in it, a hesitance like neither of you truly wants to break apart. His fingers are the last to fall away, brushing your waist like they might change their mind at the last second.

Neither of you moves. Not right away. You’re still in it, whatever this is. The moment hangs between you, soft and charged, like it doesn’t want to end just yet.

Eventually, Spencer steps back. You follow suit. There’s no rush to the way you part, just a quiet understanding that you both have to move, even if neither of you wants to.

You make your way back to your desk, feeling every inch of space that grows between you. It doesn’t settle the way it used to. There’s something different now, something alive beneath the surface. Spencer sits across from you, same as always, but it doesn’t feel the same. Not even close.

You try to focus. You open the file you meant to bring with you, scan the lines, click your pen, jot something down. Your fingers go through the motions, but your thoughts are still there in that hallway. Still tangled in the way his hand moved so gently, so slowly. The way he looked at you like you were something worth catching. Worth holding onto.

Across from you, Spencer doesn’t speak. But every so often, you catch him glancing up. Not obvious, just quick flickers of his gaze, almost like he’s checking to see if you’re still feeling it too.

You are.

The hours pass. Meetings blur. Paperwork piles up. You answer questions. You nod at the right times. But your awareness never quite leaves him. It’s like there’s a hum beneath everything now. A frequency only the two of you can feel.

When someone speaks to him, his voice is just a little softer than usual. When you stand, he notices. When you sit, he shifts. Nothing obvious, nothing anyone else would pick up on, but it’s there. In every small moment. In the way your bodies move in relation to each other. In the looks that pass too quickly to be caught.

And you feel it. The way the tension doesn't fade. It stretches with the day, quietly building. There's a pull in the air between you, subtle but steady. A current. It winds through each breath, each glance, each pause that lasts a beat too long.

By the time the sun dips low enough to cast golden light across the desks, the air feels warmer. Thicker. Not uncomfortable. Just aware. Your chest is tight, but not in a bad way. It’s anticipation. Something waiting at the edge of all this stillness.

You don’t know what happens next.

But the workday is ending. And whatever this is between you hasn’t gone anywhere.

If anything, it’s only just begun.

You don’t know what happens next.

But the workday is ending. And whatever this is between you hasn’t gone anywhere.

If anything, it’s only just begun.

People start to move around you, gathering their things, saying quiet goodnights. Chairs roll back, computers power down. Someone laughs faintly down the hall. You hear it all like it’s happening underwater. Distant. Muffled. None of it really touches you.

You stay seated. So does he.

Neither of you seems in any particular rush to leave, and maybe that’s the point. Maybe you're both hoping the other will wait long enough to make this more than just a day filled with glances and charged silences. You tidy up slowly, stacking papers, capping your pen, adjusting things that don’t need adjusting. Across from you, Spencer shifts his chair back just slightly, like he’s about to stand, then doesn’t.

It’s not choreographed. You don’t plan it. But somehow, you both stand at the same time.

That same quiet beat hits again, that tiny pause when your eyes meet. His bag hangs from one shoulder. Your fingers clutch your strap. The hum between you hasn’t gone anywhere.

You fall into step without speaking.

The office is quieter now. The buzz of fluorescent lights hums low overhead. The faint sound of someone typing carries from far off, but the main floor is mostly cleared out. Just a few stragglers wrapping up the last bits of their day.

You don’t speak as you walk. The silence doesn’t need filling.

When you reach the elevator, he presses the button with the same ease he does everything else, controlled, precise, but there’s a certain tightness in the set of his jaw. Like he’s holding back again. Like there’s something just under the surface he isn’t saying.

The doors slide open with a soft chime. You both step inside.

And just like that, you’re alone. The quiet feels louder now. The close walls, the faint metallic smell, the mirror-polished surfaces that reflect more than you want them to.

The doors close.

You glance at him.

He’s already looking at you.

The air shifts.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it happens at the exact same time, a silent agreement neither of you speaks aloud. One second you’re standing still, and the next your back is pressing against the wall of the elevator and his mouth is on yours.

It doesn’t feel planned. It doesn’t feel like either of you made a choice. It’s instinct. Reaction. The natural conclusion to everything that’s been building between you. His hands frame your face, not gentle but not rough, like he needs to be sure you’re real while he’s kissing you like he already knows exactly how. And you don’t hesitate. You’re already reaching for him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, closer still, because distance doesn’t make sense anymore. Not when it feels like your body already knows his.

It’s not just desire. Not just chemistry. It’s something deeper. Something that settles into your chest like recognition. Like you’ve been looking for this without realizing it.

His hand drops to your waist, anchoring you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. But you’re not going anywhere. Your hands slide higher, over the slope of his shoulders, into his hair, threading through the soft strands like you’ve done it a thousand times. Like you were always meant to.

You gasp against his mouth, and he swallows the sound like it belongs to him. It does. It all does. This doesn’t feel new, not really. It feels inevitable.

There’s a hum under your skin, like something golden and electric threading through you both, faint but steady. It’s not the mark. It’s something else. Something internal. Like your soul just leaned forward and said, finally.

His mouth slows against yours, just slightly. Enough for breath to return in shallow, uneven pulls. His forehead presses gently to yours, and for a second, neither of you moves. His thumb brushes along your jaw, slow and grounding, like he’s trying to catch his breath and memorize you at the same time.

You don’t open your eyes. Not yet. You just feel. The weight of his hands. The heat in your chest. The way everything around you has faded into something quiet and golden.

When he kisses you again, it’s different. Softer. Not because the want is gone, but because now it’s threaded with something else. Curiosity. Wonder. That ache that says I could get lost in this if you let me.

Your hand slides back down to his chest, resting over his heartbeat, and you finally look up at him.

“Spencer,” you breathe, your voice quieter than you mean it to be.

His eyes flicker open, gaze already on you. There’s nothing rushed in the way he looks at you. Nothing uncertain. Just that steady, focused kind of attention that makes it feel like you’re the only thing that exists.

“Can we…” You trail off, but he doesn’t press. He waits, his hand still resting warm and steady on your waist.

“Can we go to your place?”

There’s a pause, not hesitation, just a beat where everything between you goes still. Then he nods, slow and sure, like the answer was always going to be yes.

“Yes,” he says, and the word settles between you like a promise.

You don’t move right away. Neither does he. The yes still lingers between you, warm and certain, and your bodies stay close like they haven’t quite figured out how to separate yet.

Then your brows pull together, just slightly. There’s something off. A quiet that doesn’t feel right.

Your gaze shifts over his shoulder, past him, toward the panel on the wall.

“Did we…?” you start, and then you see it. All the lights on the buttons are dark.

Spencer glances back, following your eyes. “We didn’t press anything.”

You both stare at the panel for a second before the absurdity of it sinks in, and your lips twitch, the beginning of a laugh bubbling up in your chest.

He exhales a soft breath of disbelief, a crooked smile forming as he reaches over and presses the button. “Right. Small detail.”

The elevator hums to life at last, and your laughter lingers in the space between you, quiet and breathless.

But the moment doesn’t fade.

It just folds back in on itself, warm and wanting, as he turns back to you. You don’t waste the time. His hands find you again, yours reach for him, and this time when he kisses you, it’s with that same promise in it. That same yes.

You don’t remember the ride. Not really. Just flashes. His hand brushing yours in the car. The quiet tension sitting between you like it might combust. The shared glances that said everything words couldn’t.

The door clicks shut behind you.

You don’t speak. You don’t need to. You turn toward each other at the same time, like you were pulled by the same invisible thread. And then his hands are on you and yours are on him and it’s like the hallway all over again, only more. No more stopping yourselves. No more reason to.

He kisses you hard enough to make your knees buckle, and you stumble back into the wall behind you. You don’t care. You grip the front of his shirt and pull him closer, needing the weight of him, the heat. He presses into you with a low sound in his throat that you feel more than hear, something rough and quiet that makes your breath catch.

You’re not thinking anymore. Not really. Just feeling. Want. Heat. The ache of being this close and still not close enough.

Your jacket slips from your shoulders, his hands helping it off in a way that feels impatient and reverent all at once. He doesn’t throw it. He lets it fall, then his fingers are back on your hips, your waist, your jaw. Like he can’t choose where to touch you first. Like it’s all too much and still not enough.

His mouth moves to your neck, slow and searching, and your head tips back instinctively. One of your hands finds the back of his neck, the other drifts lower, slipping beneath the hem of his shirt to find skin. Warm and tense and real. He exhales hard at the contact, his hips pressing into yours like he’s already forgetting what space is.

You manage to drag his shirt up, your hands clumsy with urgency, and he lifts his arms to help you pull it over his head. It catches for a second, tangled around his wrists, and you both laugh, just once, breathless and surprised, but then it’s gone and so is the pause. His mouth crashes back onto yours and your hands are everywhere again.

He walks you backward through the apartment, guided more by instinct than memory. You bump into a side table, the corner of a bookshelf, and he steadies you with one hand while the other stays pressed between your shoulder blades. You’re trying to get his belt undone, fumbling with the buckle, and he’s got your shirt halfway unbuttoned, his fingers brushing your skin with every movement.

By the time you reach the bedroom, your shirt is hanging open and his trousers are unfastened, and the air between you feels like it’s on fire.

You don’t fall into the bed. You sink, slowly, together, hands still exploring. He kisses you softer now, but it’s no less intense. It’s layered. Tender, hungry, searching. Every brush of his mouth feels like it means something. Like he’s learning you one kiss at a time.

Your fingers thread into his hair again, tugging gently, and he groans against your lips like he’s been waiting for that sound from you. You part long enough for your clothes to come off piece by piece, tossed somewhere you’ll both forget about for now.

There’s no rhythm yet. No plan. Just heat and breath and the kind of touches that feel like they’ve been a long time coming. Like the path to this moment was always winding toward here.

He settles above you, one hand braced beside your head, the other tracing along your ribs like he’s memorizing you. Your hand finds his face, thumb brushing his cheek, and his eyes close at the touch. Not because he’s overwhelmed. Because he’s home.

You don’t say it. You don’t have to. It’s there. In the way your bodies move. In the unspoken understanding that this is more than just lust. More than just timing. It’s whatever has been humming between you since the second your marks aligned, now unravelling in real time.

When he lowers his forehead to yours again, your noses brushing, your breath mingling, he whispers your name.

You whisper his back, and it sounds like a vow.

Then he kisses you again, and you let yourself fall.

He finishes removing your open shirt, his fingers sliding along the fabric until it’s pooled around your waist. The cool air hits your skin, and you shiver, but it’s not from cold. It’s from the heat of his gaze as he looks at you.

Then, with the same kind of awe that had coloured his voice earlier, he unclips your bra. It falls away, revealing your chest to him for the first time. You hold your breath, waiting for his reaction. But instead of shock, his eyes fill with something like wonder as they trace over the gold mark on your right breast. It’s a perfect mirror to the one on his palm, a shimmering constellation of flecks of gold that dance together in the dim light of his room.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin as he leans in to press a gentle kiss to the mark. It’s not sensual, not yet. It’s almost reverent. Like he’s worshipping something sacred. His thumb traces the pattern, sending sparks of sensation along your nerves. You bite your lip to hold back a whimper.

You’ve been so self-conscious of this part of you, always hidden away, and now here he is, treating it like a treasure. His eyes never leave the mark as he kisses it again, and then again, like he can’t get enough.

It’s strange, but as he worships this piece of your skin that’s been a source of fear and embarrassment for so long, something shifts within you. You feel your self-consciousness slipping away, replaced with something new. Something like... power. Like you’re not just a person anymore, but something divine.

Your hand slides down his bare back, feeling the muscles shift and twitch beneath your palm. You trace the line of his spine, down to his hip, and you can feel his body tighten with need. You know he’s trying to be gentle, trying to take it slow, but the bond between you is a livewire, electric and demanding.

You arch up to meet him, your skin brushing his, and he groans, the sound vibrating against your mark. It’s like he can feel it too, the power pulsing between you, urging you closer. His kisses become more frantic, his touches less tentative.

Suddenly, it’s not enough. The need to feel him everywhere overwhelms you, and you both rip the rest of your clothes away with the same fervent intensity. It’s a symphony of desperation that fills the room, and you don’t care about the mess. You don’t care about anything except for the warm, bare flesh pressed against yours.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he doesn’t resist. He slots himself against you, his erection pressing into your heat, and you can’t help but rock upward, seeking more contact. Spencer’s eyes darken, and he lets out a shaky breath. His hand slides down to the juncture of your thighs, and you spread them wider in silent invitation.

When his fingers touch you, it’s like a spark catches fire. You arch off the bed with a gasp, your hand flying to cover your mouth. His eyes never leave yours, watching the way your pupils dilate, the way your cheeks flush with colour. He explores you gently at first, learning the shape of you, the way you respond to his touch. You’re soaking wet, and he groans at the slick heat of you, his thumb circling your clit with a pressure that’s just right.

You want to watch him, but the sensation is too much, and you drop your head back, eyes squeezed shut. You can feel the way your body responds to him, the way it’s been waiting for this. His mouth follows the line of your neck, kissing and nipping as he works you closer and closer to the edge. His other hand slides up, cupping your breast, thumb stroking over your soulmark. The feeling is indescribable—like he’s touching your very soul.

When he finally pushes two fingers inside you, you bite down on a moan. It’s perfect. He fills you just right, and you can feel yourself clench around him. He starts to move, slow and deliberate, and it’s all you can do not to scream.

You open your eyes to find Spencer watching you with an intensity that’s almost feral. His pupils are blown wide, his eyes dark with desire. His hand is a blur between your thighs, his fingers moving in and out of you with a skill that’s surprisingly gentle for someone who seems so lost in passion.

Every stroke of his fingers sends waves of pleasure crashing through your body, and you can’t help but rock against him, silently begging for more. He reads you like a book as he adjusts his touch just enough to send you spiralling closer to the edge. You can feel your muscles tighten around his digits, the tension in your belly coiling like a spring about to snap.

Spencer’s gaze remains on your face, his eyes devouring every flicker of emotion that passes over your features. It’s like he’s peering into the very essence of your soul, and it’s a heady, exhilarating feeling. It’s as if he’s come face to face with the universe and found it in you. The intensity in his stare is almost too much to handle, but it’s also the most incredible feeling you’ve ever experienced.

And then he shifts down, needing to taste you.

His mouth follows the path his hand has set, kissing your stomach, your hips, and then finally, finally, he’s there. He looks up at you, question in his eyes, and you nod, desperate for him to keep going. So he does, his tongue swiping over your folds in a teasing lick before focusing on your clit.

You bite back a cry as he circles it with the perfect amount of pressure, his fingers still working inside you. It’s like he’s unlocking some secret part of you, something that’s been waiting just for him. You’ve never felt so open, so exposed. So wanted.

His mouth is hot and wet, his tongue a masterful dance that’s driving you insane. You can feel yourself getting closer, closer, until you’re not sure you can hold on anymore. And then he adds another finger, stretching you just enough to make you gasp.

Your nails dig into the sheets, your hips rocking up to meet his mouth. He seems to understand your unspoken pleas, his tongue swirling around your clit in a pattern that’s making your vision swim. You’re so close, so, so close, and all you can do is whimper his name over and over.

The sounds you’re making are obscene, desperate and wanton, but he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, they only spur him on. His tongue flicks and laps, and you can feel the pressure building, building, until it’s a crescendo that’s going to shatter you into a million pieces.

And then he angles his fingers just right, rubbing against your g-spot, and it’s like a dam breaks. You cum with a scream, your body arching off the bed as pleasure crashes through you like a tidal wave. Your eyes squeeze shut, stars bursting behind your eyelids, and you clench around him, waves of ecstasy rolling over you.

Spencer’s mouth doesn’t leave you as you come down, his tongue gentle now, soothing. He kisses your thighs, your hips, his way of saying sorry and thank you all at once. When he pulls away, his eyes are bright with satisfaction, a smug little smile playing at his lips.

You lay there, panting, your body humming with aftershocks. It’s a strange sensation, like every nerve ending is vibrating in perfect harmony with your racing heart. You feel alive in a way you haven’t in a long time.

Spencer’s weight shifts, and you feel his body settle beside you. He’s looking at you with a soft smile, his eyes filled with something you can’t quite place—it’s a mix of satisfaction and wonder. He reaches out, his hand hovering over your skin, as if afraid to break the spell.

But you don’t let the moment linger. You beat him to it, grabbing his arm to pull him back on top of you. Your kiss is fierce, demanding. It’s like your bodies are speaking a language that’s been forgotten, and you need to relearn it with every touch, every caress. His mouth crashes against yours, and you revel in the feeling of his warm, firm body pressed against you. The scent of him, the taste of him—it’s intoxicating.

Your hand slides down his back, then lower, cupping his ass and pulling him closer. You can feel his erection, hot and heavy against your thigh, and it sends a bolt of want straight to your core. You need him inside of you. To fill you up. To complete this connection that’s been building between you since the moment you met.

You reach down and wrap your hand around his cock, stroking it with the same urgency he had used on you. He groans, his hips jerking against your palm. You can feel the heat of his breath against your neck, the gentle nibbles turning into kisses, turning into love bites. He’s lost in the sensation, his body responding to yours.

And then he’s moving, aligning himself with your entrance. You can feel the tip of him, pressing against you, and you lift your hips, silently begging for more. He pauses for a moment, his gaze searching yours, making sure you’re okay. You nod, and with one swift thrust, he’s inside you.

You both groan, the sensation of being filled so completely stealing your breath. He’s thick, and the stretch feels incredible. You tighten around him, and he stills, his eyes closing for a moment as he fights for control. You can feel him, all of him, and it’s like your body was made to fit around him.

When he starts to move, it’s slow and deliberate. He’s not taking this lightly. He’s not rushing. It’s like he’s savouring every inch of you, every gasp and shiver that runs through your body. He’s watching you, reading you, learning you like he’s memorizing a new language.

You wrap your legs around his waist, locking him in place, your ankles crossing at the base of his spine. You don’t want him to stop, don’t want this moment to end. You want to live in the feeling of him inside you forever. His strokes are deep and sure, each one hitting that perfect spot that makes your eyes roll back in your head.

And through it all, you’re staring into each other’s eyes. It’s as if you’ve found a new way to speak—a silent language that’s more intimate than any words could ever be. You can see his love for you in those hazel depths, the way they darken with passion and burn with a fierce possessiveness that makes your heart race.

You hold on to him like you’ll be ripped away at any moment, like he’s the only anchor keeping you tethered to this world. Your hands dig into his shoulders, your nails leaving little half-moons in his skin, and you can feel the power of the bond pulsing between you like a heartbeat.

“Faster,” you moan, your voice barely recognizable. It’s a demand and a plea all at once, and Spencer seems to understand. His eyes never leave yours as he increases his rhythm, his hips moving in a steady, punishing rhythm that has you crying out with every thrust. He’s not just taking you, he’s claiming you.

You can feel your orgasm building again, the tension coiling in your belly. His hand slides between you, his thumb finding your clit and applying just the right amount of pressure. It’s like he knows exactly what you need before you do. Your hips buck up to meet him, your body begging for more.

With a sudden shift, Spencer rolls you over so you’re straddling him, his cock still buried deep inside you. The new angle sends a bolt of pleasure through you, and you gasp, your hands braced on his chest. He’s watching you with a fiery gaze, his chest heaving with every breath.

You take control, grinding down onto him with a primal need. The new angle has him hitting places that send sparks racing down your spine, and you can’t help but lean forward to take him even deeper. His eyes widen slightly, but he doesn’t protest. If anything, he seems to enjoy the way your body moves, the way your breasts sway with every thrust.

Leaning down, you brace your hands on his chest. You start to set a brutal pace, riding him like you’re afraid it’ll end before you’ve had enough. Your hips move in a frenzied dance, each grind and bounce sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. Spencer’s grip on you tightens, his fingers digging into your hips as he tries to keep up. His eyes are dark, his teeth bared in a grimace that’s part pleasure, part pain.

Suddenly, his hand slides up, his thumb brushing over your soulmark again. The contact sends a jolt of energy through you, and you throw your head back with a guttural moan. It’s like a switch has been flipped. The room seems to pulse around you, charged with more than just heat and hunger. It’s the bond, the soul-deep connection that’s been growing between you since the moment you found out about your soulmate status.

His other hand moves to play with your breasts, his thumbs circling the sensitive peaks. Each touch feels magnified, the soulmate bond acting as an amplifier for every sensation. The pleasure spirals through you, making your movements erratic as you ride him harder.

Spencer’s eyes never leave yours, even as the sweat gathers on his brow and his breathing turns ragged. His grip on your hip is firm but gentle, guiding you, urging you to take what you need. The way he watches you, with such fierce concentration and care, makes you feel cherished. It’s like he’s worshipping you, and you can’t get enough.

You lean forward, burying your nails into the taut flesh of his chest, and he gasps, the sudden sharpness of pain mixing with pleasure. You revel in the feel of his heart racing beneath your fingertips, the way his abs contract as he thrusts up into you. Your movements become more erratic, driven by a need so intense it’s almost painful. You’re so close, so very close, and you know he is too.

With each stroke, you feel yourself getting lost in the feeling of his cock inside you. The friction is perfect, the angle exquisite. You can feel him everywhere, inside you, on you, all around you. It’s like you’re drowning in him, and you never want to come up for air.

And then, almost as if he knows you’re on the edge, his hand moves. His fingers tease over your clit, and your eyes fly open in surprise. The sensation is intense, a spark of pleasure that ignites your nerves.

You lean back, bracing your hands on his thighs, and you start to move again, your hips rolling in a sensual rhythm that’s all for him. You can feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter, your body on the edge of something massive. You’re so wet, so ready, and every stroke is pure agony in the best possible way.

He groans the second your body shifts, the new angle sending a jolt through him. His hands slip from where they had wandered, only to find their way back to your hips, gripping tighter this time like he’s trying to ground himself, but it’s no use. The view of you above him, flushed and open and moving with purpose, sparks something raw in him. Something primal. His breath stutters, eyes locked on where you take him in again and again, and he can’t look away. It’s not just the way you move. It’s the way you look doing it. Every nerve in his body lights up, hunger curling hot and deep in his gut as the pace you’ve set pushes him closer to the edge.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, the words a rasp torn from his chest. It’s a whisper, but it feels like it echoes around the room. He can feel you tightening around him, and he knows you’re close. So close. His thumb traces lazy circles around your clit, and your hips jerk in response, your eyes fluttering shut. He loves the way you look when you’re lost in pleasure. It’s like watching the stars align.

“I’m... I’m... so close,” you groan, the words dragged from you with each movement of your body. Your voice is thick with need, and the sound of it sends a thrill through him. You’re riding him like you’re trying to outrace your own pleasure, and he can feel it building between you, a storm that’s about to break.

“Cum for me, sweetheart,” Spencer whispers, his voice a hoarse rumble that makes your skin prickle. His thumb presses harder against your clit, his hips jerking up to meet your downward strokes. The way he says it, the desperation in his voice, it’s like he’s begging you, and it’s the most erotic thing you’ve ever heard.

You can feel it building, the pressure in your core reaching critical mass. Your eyes fly open to meet his, and you realize he’s watching you, his gaze intense, his pupils dilated with lust. “I want to feel you cum on my cock,” he says again, the words a command that sends a shiver down your spine. You can see the anticipation in his eyes, the way his jaw clenches with restrained need.

With a final, purposeful stroke of his thumb, you shatter. The world goes white, and you scream, the sound echoing off the walls. Your vision swims, and all you can feel is the white-hot pleasure ripping through you in waves, stealing your breath. Your body clenches around him, muscles tightening and releasing in a symphony of ecstasy.

The orgasm feels like it lasts forever, your skin a live wire of sensation. Each pulse of pleasure sends a new tremor through your body, making your muscles quiver and your toes curl.

But even as your climax crashes over you, Spencer’s not done. He’s holding on, his eyes begging for something more. “Please,” he whispers, his voice strained with the effort of not letting go. “Can I cum inside you?”

You nod, the word a breathless gasp that’s barely audible. It’s all the permission he needs. Spencer’s eyes clench shut as he starts to move again, his strokes becoming more urgent, more demanding. You can feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles tighten with every thrust.

And then it happens. He cums with a roar that fills the room, his release hot and thick inside you. It’s a claiming, a bonding, a promise of forever. You feel yourself contract around him, milking every last drop of pleasure from him. It’s a moment of pure unadulterated connection.

As your orgasm subsides, your body goes limp, and you collapse against his chest, breathless. Your heart is racing, your skin slick with sweat, your body still trembling from the intensity of your climax. Spencer’s arms wrap around you, his embrace strong and steady, as if he’s afraid to let go. You can feel his heart pounding in his chest, in sync with yours, and it’s like your souls are dancing together in a rhythm that only you two know.

Your body is still pressed to his, skin damp, breath slowing as the last of the tremors fade. Neither of you moves. It’s not laziness, not really. It’s more that shifting feels like it might break something delicate that’s settled between you.

Spencer’s chest rises under your cheek, steady but uneven. One of his hands is on your back, palm spread wide, the other tucked gently around your shoulder. His thumb starts to move in slow, absent strokes, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

You sigh, soft and almost sleepy, though your mind is anything but quiet.

He hums in response. Not a word, just a sound that rumbles from deep in his chest. It vibrates through your cheek, soothing in a way you didn’t expect.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence feels easy. Not awkward. Not full of things unsaid. Just full.

“I think I forgot how to move,” you mumble into his skin.

Spencer lets out a quiet breath that might be a laugh. “You don’t have to. We can stay like this.”

You tilt your head just enough to glance up at him. “Forever?”

He looks down at you with that little smile of his, the one that’s more genuine when he’s not thinking about it. “Or until we get hungry.”

You huff a soft laugh and let your eyes fall shut again, your fingers curling gently against his ribs.

There’s no rush. No pressure. Just the warmth of his body under yours, his hand on your back, and the quiet, shared understanding that whatever this is, it’s real.

Eventually, the rise and fall of your breathing starts to match his. The world doesn’t feel like it’s tilting anymore. Just warm and quiet, like everything’s settled in its place. You shift slightly, not to move away but just to get a better look at him, your chin resting lightly on his chest.

Spencer’s eyes are half-lidded but focused on you, soft in a way that makes your heart tug a little. His hand is still on your back, thumb brushing lazy lines over your spine. The kind of touch that feels like it’s always been there. Like it belongs.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt this…” You trail off, searching for the right word.

He doesn’t press you to finish. Just watches you, patient and open.

“…content,” you say finally. “Like I can actually breathe.”

Spencer smiles, small but honest. “Yeah. Me too.”

You trace a slow, aimless circle with your finger against his chest. “I used to wonder what it’d be like. Finding my soulmate. I thought it would be terrifying. Or overwhelming. Some huge moment I wouldn’t know how to handle.”

“It was a little overwhelming,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

You laugh, quiet and real. “Okay, yeah. It didn’t exactly start smooth.”

He lifts a hand and tucks some hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering a second longer than necessary. “I used to think I’d be too much. That maybe it wouldn’t happen. Or that if it did, the person on the other end wouldn’t want anything to do with me.”

The softness of his voice hits you more than the words.

You shake your head, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “That person would be an idiot.”

Spencer huffs a breath that’s almost a laugh, but it catches on something more. His hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb brushing just beneath your eye.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this,” he says quietly. “I didn’t know it could.”

You let the moment settle between you, full and warm.

“I feel like I’ve known you longer than two days,” you murmur.

“I know,” he says. “It’s strange, but it’s not. You just… fit.”

You nuzzle into him, and he shifts slightly to make room, as if your body was meant to settle right there all along.

“I’m really happy it’s you,” you say.

His arms tighten around you, not possessive, just sure. “Me too.”

You lie there for another beat, your cheek pressed to his chest, feeling the soft rise and fall of his breathing as it finally begins to settle.

“Hey,” he says after a moment, his voice quieter now, but not heavy. “I know we’ve only known each other two days. And most of that involved some level of either humiliation or aggressively avoiding eye contact... but I like this.”

You smile into his skin. “Yeah. Me too.”

Neither of you says anything else for a while. There’s no need. You’re wrapped in the kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled.

“I should probably get dressed,” you say eventually, not moving at all.

“You should definitely not get dressed,” Spencer replies, his voice dry.

You laugh, turning your face into his neck. “We can’t stay like this forever.”

“Why not?”

“Because eventually I’m going to need water. And food.”

He hums like he’s weighing the pros and cons. “Fine. But I’m still going to sulk about it.”

You finally push yourself upright with a sigh. “My legs forgot how to work.”

Spencer stretches beside you. “I’ll carry you to the kitchen if you want.”

You give him a look. “Bold of you to assume I’d let you carry me anywhere after how we met.”

His laugh is easy, warm. “In my defence, I was tripping over the laws of physics. Not my own two feet.”

“You fell directly into my boobs, Spencer.”

He groans and pulls a pillow over his face. “Please never say that again.”

You’re still grinning as you both get up and pull on enough clothes to be considered decent. The air feels different now, looser somehow. Like the two of you have finally caught up to whatever this thing between you is.

Spencer bumps your shoulder as you make your way to the kitchen. “You haven’t eaten since lunch. I should probably feed you.”

“You say that like I’m a stray you found sniffing around your porch.”

“You asked to come over,” he points out, giving you a look.

“Yeah. Because I was trying to be polite about jumping your bones.”

“Exactly,” he says, smug. “Stray behaviour.”

You stare at him.

“I have cereal,” he offers.

“That’s not food. That’s a cry for help.”

“I have three kinds of cereal.”

“You’re not making this better.”

“I also have microwaveable rice.”

“Do you have anything to go with the rice?”

A pause.

“…I have a drawer full of granola bars?”

You groan, leaning your forehead against the nearest cupboard. “I cannot believe I just had sex with a man who lives like a feral academic.”

“I’m very resourceful,” he says, clearly too proud of himself.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Spencer leans against the counter, smug. “I’ll take it.”

You shake your head, still smiling as you pull yourself up. “Guess I’ll have to take over your kitchen. For your own safety.”

“Please do. I’ve been meaning to clean out the fridge, but I’m afraid to open it.”

You pause, halfway to standing. “You’re joking, right?”

Another pause.

“…mostly.”

You both eat something that barely qualifies as a meal, pieced together from the scraps of Spencer’s fridge and the questionable remains of his pantry. It ends up being better than expected, mostly because you’re both too busy laughing to care.

You end up on the couch, not so much by decision as by natural drift, like gravity knows where you belong. The television flickers quietly, casting silver shadows over the room while an old film murmurs in the background. Neither of you picked it out. Spencer just pressed play on something and then handed you the remote like it was a peace offering. Or maybe a thank you.

His fingers trail slowly along your arm, light and absent like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. You think maybe you wouldn’t have liked that before, the mindless closeness, the way he keeps reaching for you even when there’s no need. But with him, it just fits. Like the silence doesn’t need filling. Like the stillness between you is full of something instead of empty.

“I feel weirdly… settled,” you murmur, not quite sure why you’re whispering.

“Me too,” Spencer says, lips brushing your hair as he speaks.

The movie carries on, a slow-moving plot that neither of you fully follow. It’s just background now. A reason to stay exactly where you are. Not that either of you needs one. The blanket shifts slightly as he pulls it higher around you both, like that’s all he needs to protect. Just this one corner of the world, this one soft moment.

You don’t mean to say it. The words just slip out, tucked between a breath and the shift of his fingers against your skin.

“I used to hate my soulmark was.”

Spencer doesn’t flinch. He waits, just like he always does.

“It always felt like a joke,” you go on, your voice soft. “Like someone somewhere decided to brand me in the most humiliating spot possible. It was always this… looming thing. Something I had to guard. Something I couldn’t even talk about without it sounding like a punchline.”

Spencer doesn’t speak. His thumb presses a little firmer against your skin, grounding you.

“But now,” you continue, your voice catching just slightly, “it feels... different. Like it’s just a part of me. And you—you're just... you’re more than I could have ever imagined.”

His thumb stills for a moment, but his gaze never leaves yours. “I’m glad it’s not a joke to you anymore. I don’t want you to ever feel like that again.”

You smile, the warmth of it spreading from your chest. “I’m don't. Not anymore.”

His lips press against the top of your head, gentle and steady. He doesn’t rush it. He lets the moment stretch out between you both, filling it with everything unspoken. And you don’t need words now. Not when everything feels so right.

The movie on the screen is forgotten. Time slows down, and in its place, there’s only this: the rhythm of his breathing, the way his arm tightens around you, the sound of your heartbeats blending in the quiet space between you. This ,the two of you together, is enough.

You turn your head to look at him, your eyes meeting his. The faintest smile pulls at the corner of his lips, and you feel your own heart swell with a warmth you hadn’t expected to find. A tenderness, a trust, something deeper than you thought you’d ever feel in such a short time.

“I’ve been thinking,” you say softly, the words almost surprising you as they slip out. “About the future.”

He raises an eyebrow, his hand brushing lightly against your arm. “What about it?”

“About how... how this feels like the start of something. Something real. And how, every day, I’m going to fall more for you. I know that now.” You hesitate for a moment, then add, “I could see us—well, I could see myself... building something with you.”

Spencer’s eyes soften, the depth of his gaze catching you off guard. “You’re not scared of that? Of all the things that come with it?”

You shake your head, a small smile curving your lips. “No. I think I’m ready for it. For whatever comes next with you.”

Spencer’s thumb traces slow circles against your arm, as though he’s still processing what you’ve said, but you can see the certainty in his eyes. “I think we’ll be good at it. At building whatever comes next,” he says, his voice low, but steady. “I want that too. More than I ever thought I would.”

You nestle closer, feeling the steady warmth of his embrace, a comfort that feels like it’s going to last. It’s not just about this moment, but everything that could come after. And for the first time, you realize that this is exactly where you’re supposed to be.

“You know,” you say, the words almost playful as you lean against him. “I never thought I’d be sitting here with my soulmate. Definitely not this quickly.”

Spencer chuckles softly, the sound warm and reassuring. “Yeah, neither did I. But here we are.”

You pull the blanket up a little higher around you both, the room settling into a soft quiet. You know that no matter what happens, tomorrow will be just as good. Every day will be filled with moments like these, moments of connection, of laughter, of love growing quietly between you.

For once, you’re not afraid of the future. It feels like a promise, and all you have to do is keep going, together. You glance up at Spencer, and in his eyes, you see the same certainty you feel in your own chest.

“I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you,” you whisper.

Spencer’s voice is full of quiet intensity as he responds, “I’ve spent my whole life imagining this. Imagining you. All the little things I didn’t even know I was waiting for. And now that you’re here... you’re more than I could have dreamed. You’re everything I never knew I needed.”

And, as the old movie plays on in the background, neither of you needs anything more than this moment, wrapped up together on the couch, knowing that the days ahead will only bring you closer. That each day, each smile, each touch, will only make you both fall further in love with each other. And for once, you know this is exactly how it’s meant to be.

#criminal minds #masterlist #spencer reid smut #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #mgg #mgg smut #soulmate #soulmate au #bau reader

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wayward-stardust · 1 day ago

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been thinking about how none of the adults in the isat party really had any plans for after defeating the king. it wasn't just siffrin! even as early as acts one and two, it's hinted at if you pay close enough attention to the dialogue.

isabeau brings up his dream of becoming a clothing designer exactly once: in loop zero. before fighting the king. when the thought of actually winning is still a hope rather than a reality.

as soon as that happens, his story changes.

he plans on taking up his old job again. the one he quit to support mira. the one he said he wouldn't go back to, in a timeline that's been long since overwritten. which may feel like a contradiction, but a) this isabeau never had that first conversation with sif and b) the atmosphere's completely shifted with everything else that's happened over the past day.

isa's supposed to be the rock of the party (pun intended). the emotional support. and now, he's supposed to be celebrating their victory, and ruining the mood by admitting he's not going back to anything meaningful would be breaking the persona he's worked so hard to craft. (also this dialogue occurs immediately after isa fails to confess to siffrin, which might have affected his mindset)

and even in that first scene, back at the favor tree in loop zero, isabeau's still unsure of himself.

he willingly admits to sif that he, too, doesn't have anything else planned for after. (in act one, where it's so easy to forget by the time sif actually succeeds). why would he? his closest friends are traveling with him. he's not particularly close with his blood family (especially after his change, i imagine, although he never talks about them enough to say for certain.) he abandoned his career that he no longer likes.

mirabelle, on the other hand, is very committed to staying a housemaiden. her original plan (in act one) for after is to start traveling again and go on her own pilgrimage. but, to me, it's never really felt like that's what she wanted to do, but more like what she felt she had to do.

she needs to go on a pilgrimage to change. because she's a housemaiden, which means prioritizing change, and she's already not dating and not getting bonded and not capital-c Changing so she has to make up for that elsewhere, and if even this whole journey to save vaugarde didn't change her she has to try harder, (and what she wants is to keep traveling with her friends but she's not going to admit that,) and... and so she has to!

even so, like isabeau, those initial goals fade away once she's actually defeated the king.

her dreams of continuing to travel and see the world and change things are replaced with just... staying at home. living in dormont. going back to her normal life. maybe, we can hope, part of that's because of the conversations she's had along the way — either her friendquest with siffrin or the whole "not being blessed by the change god" snack room discussion, alongside euphrasie's praise of her. maybe she's grown more comfortable with her relationship with her faith and her home (particularly in a friendquest run).

or maybe she's like isabeau and siffrin, wanting more out of her future but being unwilling to potentially sour the mood by asking for it. i suspect it's both, actually: she gets some character growth from the finale of her journey, but there's no way all her feelings of inadequacy can be erased in a day. she knows better than to actually admit that, though: after all, everyone else seems happy with their plans! they're the odd one out here!

madame odile’s the only one who keeps her story straight between iterations — no matter when siffrin asks her, she's still deciding whether to keep traveling or go home to ka bue.

(act 1 "what will you do after" conversation)

(act 2/3/4 end room conversation)

but, as she brings up at the end of act 5, that's not the whole story. she'd prefer to keep traveling with at least some of the others, but the whole group’s a bunch of blinding cowards she hasn’t found the right time to ask yet. unlike isabeau and mirabelle (particularly the post-King versions of them), odile's not hiding the fact that she's unsure of her plans. after all, she's more confident in herself and her goals: in fact, she's already succeeded at her goal of learning more about vaugarde.

like the two of them, though, there's still the uncertainty. the not being confident in what to do next. the thought of going home feels like an afterthought, almost. isabeau even says it, in act five.

it's what they "should" do next. what they're expected to do. what they all think everyone else wants to do.

but none of them really want to go home.

not siffrin, without a home to go back to. not odile, both ka buan and vaugardian by blood but never finding a true home in either. not mirabelle, growing beyond the home that she never felt comfortable in. not isabeau, leaving behind his home because he didn't like the person he was there.

or maybe they do want to go home — or more precisely, to stay there.

home is where your family is, after all.

#and then there's bonnie who's one (1) post-king goal is more than all the adults combined #isat #in stars and time #isat spoilers #isat thoughts #hopefully this didn't end up *too* rambly

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lukolathoughts · 2 days ago

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Miss Nicola - supporting LGBTQI rights

Dearest gentle reader,

I have been itching to write a blog post now for a few weeks, but not really knowing where to begin. There have been frenzied weeks and days of activity, but then silence and the fandom meanders like a lost boat at sea. We are often rudderless without the reassuring presence of our ship captains - Luke and Nicola. This also tends to get the sub fandoms spouting nonsense claiming to have seen Nicola in Birmingham or some ridiculous crap. I didn't want to bother her by asking for a photo! No photo, no proof my friend.

I'll talk about me for a moment. I had a week from hell last week. There was something so upsetting for me to deal with, I couldn't go into work as I was crying that much. Try to explain this to your manager: that nasty comments on YouTube made you late for work. Luckily, she is an understanding person and I have told her about my YT channel. Saying some things out loud to real life people make me sound barking mad. But it is the price you pay for being public on YouTube. It also makes me an easy target. I am used to online trolls and people who hate me for saying that Jake is gay and believing in Lukola, but when the stab in the back comes from a supposed friend, it really is the ten of swords. My phone blew up that much, I opened my eyes that morning genuinely thinking Lukola had launched. My hope turned to ash, when I saw what was really happening. I share this with you all because, I have had to have a reckoning with myself the last week. My online life and my real life are not the same. My real life is way more important and I actually need my job, so messing it up because I've got people I don't really know online saying mean things about me, that are not true, shouldn't matter. But it still hurts. But I also realise, they are trying to stop me sharing and trying to ruin my credibility and reputation in order to send me off into my discord crying never to return again.

Well think again. No one tells a Sagittarius woman what they can and can't do. I am made of stronger stuff. Love will always conquer hate. No one puts Baby in the corner, and I will not stand for it. I have scaled back most of my online life now. It had helped me cope with the last year and losing my friend, but sometimes you have to go back into reality. I'm never leaving the ship though. You'll have to chuck me overboard and I'll still jump back on like Rose from Titanic. "I couldn't go, Jack! You jump, I jump, right?"

Anyway, enough about me. Let's talk about Nic. I love Nicola by the way and nothing I say here is a criticism of her or her choices. I see what you're doing though, miss Nicola. I said in my last blog that the shit would hit the fan when Jake has to start press for his new upcoming BBC3 drama What it feels like for a girl. I will admit I have not read the book. Regardless of who Jake is playing, it is reportedly an all queer cast, a queer director and at least one queer writer that I know of. Why would the director of an all queer cast hire a straight man in a homosexual role? If this show is as big as It's a Sin, that aired on Channel 4 a few years ago, then there will be press and a lot of it. There will be press from queer magazines also. Jake is currently in an awkward position, because some press believe he is in a romantic relationship with Nicola Coughlan, a woman who is also 14 years his senior. So, what will Nicola and Jake do?

Jake is holding onto his cash cow with both hands and Nicola needs Jake to continue to pose as her boyfriend to stop the media digging. But honey, they know. It was clear all the press at the SAG awards knew exactly what was going on and they were not afraid to say it. The 'happy ending' comment levelled at them directly by a reporter, had Nicola stunned and Luke smiling like all his Christmases' had come at once.

Nicola knows what is going on. She knows there is a deadline and she knows if she doesn't extricate herself from the narrative she is dating a gay man, she is screwed basically. What is she doing? She's getting out her, I love gays!! T-shirt, hats, scarfs, sunglasses, whatever. She is doing it. Look at me, I love queers! I love her for this and I already know she is an advocate for LGBTQI rights. She has a ton of gay friends. The fandom knows this of course, but do the general public?

At the Neutrogena event on 27th March 2025, there was a very tall drag queen doing some MCing. We know Nic loves drag queens and has been to many shows, so this is nothing new to us. I'm not being overly cynical that the drag queen might have been there for a reason, right? Neutrogena is a product that is targeted at women mostly for their skin products. What has that got to do with a drag queen? I just found it odd.

Next up we have Nicola's Pink Pony Club Post that she shared to both her Instagram stories and grid last Thursday 10th April. The song by Chappell Roan is synonymous with the gay community and one that Jake danced to at her concert last year in a pink cowboy hat. "You guys, remember when my old flat was a gay hotspot!" Nicola, posts 4 polaroid's of her looking fabulous in pink and lays them on a pink blanket. What made you feel so nostalgic, Nic? Or are you sending a message? Look at me, I have loved my gay besties for donkey's years. Prominent gay friends such as JVN and Jack Rooke commented all in agreement, that indeed, Nic's flat was the place to be. And, no I do not think Nicola is coming out herself as gay. Get real, she is supporting her friends and peers.

Then there was yesterday's selfie of Nicola wearing her black - 'I just wanted to say if you are trans and reading this, I love you and so do all my mates' T-shirt. There a few other details in that post that other bloggers such as @toriaaniin have covered beautifully, so I won't go into it here. My eyes sprung wide when I saw this post. I know she advocates for the charity Notaphase.org and I commend her for doing this, but two queer posts in a few days seems to be a lot for Nic, when lately she hasn't been posting at all.

There is also the male hairdresser Halley Brisker in her Opalex video on her Instagram, They make a big deal of letting us know he flirts with male makeup artists. Nicola is clearly good friends with Halley and it is an endearing watch. But to me this seems like a lot of overkill in the last few days for the general public to look at her Instagram and instantly know, yes Nicola does love the girls, the gays and Luke Newton. (FYI Halley Brisker is married to a woman and has children, but to the general public this conversation is implying Nic is comfortable with these conversations).

This, in my opinion, is setting the stage for the final act. I can see Nicola doing some sort of article or interview where she clears a certain narrative up. If you notice, Douglas has also been quite forceful again in implying certain things about Jake and Jake himself does not stop others from posting suggestive posts and videos of him. Nicola must remove herself from this mess in order to move forward with her own career and life. Hanging onto old connections are no longer serving her personally and professionally. Her engagement on Instagram is down by a lot, so I'm told and she is losing followers. She has done all she can career-wise for Jake now, he has to make his own way.

If this does not happen and we remain in this weird heteronormative bubble, I fear the press for What it feels like for a girl, will be a shit show. The truth will come out eventually and it will drag both Jake and Nicola down with it.

#lukola #nicluke

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itzpookiepooh · 21 hours ago

Text

Dump Him!

You ask them for relationship advice

“I need advice.” You huff falling onto the couch where Caleb sat. Your head was in his lap as you pout, he looks down at you in confusion. He adjusts his position taking his ankle off his knee.

“Shoot pipsqueak I’m all ears.” He assures you making you take a deep breath. This was like a mini therapy session you guys had every once in a while. Too often for you not often enough for him.

“So he’s always running to help his best friend and I mean running. She called him to stay at her house because she’s going through a break up.” You explained as Caleb nodded slowly. He didn’t see the big deal because he always comes running when you call.

“I mean that is his best friend and think of us—“ You cut him off before he could say anything stupid. “The best friend is a girl and he spends the night. No matter what we’re going through he runs to her.”

“You should kill him.” He states bluntly before unpausing his show as if he solved your problem entirely.

“Caleb!”

You just got done arguing with your boyfriend again. Rafayel just watched with a bored expression, he was use to the bickering. He just wished you would dump him already. He watched you pace as you screamed at him which was out of character for you, in his mind at least. You hung up slamming your phone on the counter.

“Ugh! He’s insufferable. What should I do?” You ask more out loud but Rafayel was going to answer anyway.

“What did he do this time?” He asked taking about bite out of a grape from the bowl. You pout putting your chin on your fist. You know Rafayel and you also know he loathes your boyfriend.

“Ditched our date tonight for his friends.” You sigh, Rafayel on the other hand glares at you. He then got an idea.

“You should invite him out here to make up. It’s beautiful and quiet.” Rafayel counts on his fingers before your face fell flat.

“I’m not bringing him out here for you to kill him.” You deadpan making him drop his act and shrug.

“Worth a shot.” He throws a grape into his mouth.

Your leg bounced as you stared at your phone waiting for a text back. Sylus looks over his glasses to watch your leg bounce. You were shaking the couch with these nerves of yours. He couldn’t focus on a single word with all this bouncing. He knew you were arguing with that no good boyfriend of yours. He grabbed your leg without looking away from his book. Your gaze snaps over to him.

“Sorry.” You mumble, Sylus closes the book with a sigh, “What is it now?”

“He’s jealous because I spend a lot of time with you. Which is bullshit by the way! He spends a lot of time with his friends too!” You ramble as you wave your arms around. Sylus just watches you as you express yourself.

“What should I do?” You groan leaning into him. Sylus hums before rubbing your arm.

“We could give him something to be jealous about.” Sylus suggests, his smirk widening as he looks at you.

“You’re never serious.” You deadpan making him chuckle.

“Worth a shot.”

You get in Zayne’s car in a hurry accidentally slamming the door. You were so irritated that the night felt ruined because your boyfriend wanted to argue. He hated whenever Zayne was around but you make sure to remind him this is your childhood friend. His jealousy was ugly and Zayne would tell you constantly. The boy thought you were sleeping together for goodness sake! Not that you would mind. You explained all this to Zayne knowing he’d probably say what he usually does. You were just waiting for it.

“Maybe I can fix him…fix us y’know?” You fall back into the seat as Zayne stops at a red light. He looks over at you with the most serious face ever.

“Did he defecate on himself?” He asks seriously, you blink at him as if he was confused.

“No?” You question more than answer. Zayne hums as he nods his head slowly, “then why would you change him?”

You narrow your eyes at him. He’s as sassy as ever but he was right.

Your boyfriend and you had a huge fight. It was so big that you left and went to Xavier’s who could hear it from his apartment. You apologized for the noise which he didn’t care about. Your wellbeing was what mattered most to him after all. He made you tea and waited to hear what the arguing was about. You explained he accused you of cheating on him which wasn’t true. Xavier knew this since you guys spent so much time together.

“What should I do?” You sigh sadly. Xavier blinked slowly as he gave you a once over.

“Leave him.” He bluntly said. No hesitation, no pauses, nothing.

“Xavier I can’t.” You groan falling into the couch as he takes the cup from you. He places it on the coffee table and then turns his attention back to you.

“Why not? He’s not a good person and has zero redeeming qualities. He chews with his mouth open, he burps obnoxiously loud—” He lists and if you hadn’t stopped him he would go on and on all night. You put your hand over his mouth and nod as you look at the ceiling.

“You’re absolutely right.” Leaving the conversation at that.

“Want me to kill him?” He mumbles looking at you. You swiftly turn your head to look at him with genuine concern. Maybe you heard him wrong.

“What?”

“What?” He repeats now looking at you confused.

I couldn’t wait to get to Zayne’s but imo his Caleb’s and Rafayel’s are the funniest 😭 I also forgot what I was gonna write mid Caleb’s because I left my mind palace (the shower).

Have this while I concoct Sylus’ bday special 💋

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mickyschumacher · 1 day ago

Text

[MEANS I CARE!]

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: isack is entirely confused why his best friend is avoiding him. or in which you realised you're in love with your best friend.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: childhood friends to lovers, mostly angst, bits of fluff, a reader with dismissive avoidant attachment, reader struggles with her emotions, initial anger from confrontational!isack but overall caring!isack, cute love confession at the end! // poorly proof read as usual

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: isack hadjar x bsf!fem!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2.2k

𝐀/𝐍: poured a bit of myself into this one! it's hard to tell from my writing, but i struggle with expressing my emotions and telling people i care for them. i've heard it's quite common for older sisters to have avoidant attachment issues so... i guess i check the box ◡̈ anyway, this one might be a tad bit dramatic but lmk what you think! ♡︎ // also miss mcrae's album has a lot of avoidant attachment!!

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

You and Isack were opposites in every sense that mattered.

Where one would claim he was too expressive, you couldn't bring yourself to show you cared.

Where he was indecisive, you held all rationality.

And where he trusted freely, you locked yourself up.

But nevertheless, you had been childhood friends since he moved next door to you. Neither of you had a problem with the way you both acted. It was sort of like give and take: where you lacked, he made up for it and vice versa.

It never really mattered. At least that's what you thought anyways.

This year was different from every other. There would be no other like it. Because Isack was debuting as a Formula One driver. His life long dream. And you couldn't be anymore proud.

You didn't outright say it–you couldn't. You remember smiling when he told you and saying congratulations before Isack simply rolled his eyes and pulled you into a hug.

You remembered him thanking you when you pulled away, stomach churning at the lengthy hug. You were confused. Eyebrows furrowed, you asked why.

"For believing in me," he said with the most beautiful smile and the warmest brown eyes holding your own.

That was the defining moment... the moment you realised you were in love with your best friend.

There were signs. There were always signs.

Your extensive care for him and only him. The constant worry every time he went out on track. The small skip in your heart beat when he'd return home with your favourite ice cream. Your slight amusement when you'd pretend to be cross with him and he'd think you were being serious. The little trinkets he'd bring back from every race to put on the shelves in your bedroom. Or the way he lowered the volume of the TV before you'd even ask him to because he knew you didn't like it.

They were always there. But the line between best friends and whatever... it was so similar... so blurry. How could you've ever known?

But that day... it was like a bucket of cold water had been thrown over your head and reality had finally been opened to you.

You loved Isack. Not liked. Not admired. Not fancied. Loved. And you had been for years.

God it scared you. It terrified you.

People never said it to you but you knew how you were.

When you invested too much of yourself into one thing, you stopped it only moments later. You didn't want to stick around to see if something would be good. It was the assumption it would hurt. So if you could dismiss it before it even had the chance to... that's the only way you could ever relax.

You never understood how people did it. How you could give so much of yourself away. What happened when it all inevitably failed? Why wouldn't you protect yourself first? Why did you have to deal with the mess of emotions?

Loving Isack... it meant showing the most vulnerable sides of yourself. And it's not that he didn't know you. He was your best friend, of course he knew you. But that made it worse.

In your years of friendship, you had cried twice in front of him. And you hated it every single second of it. That he could see you break down. That you weren't the strong friend he normally relied on.

Loving Isack was going to fail.

You knew it.

You knew it when he crashed in the formation lap on Australia and it felt like a part of you had been ripped and torn into pieces when you saw him cry on the screens.

You knew it when he came to you, thought to be out of tears, but almost on his knees, hands immediately wrapping around you for a hug, asking you why this had happened to him and you couldn't do anything but apologise to him and tell him he'd come back stronger while you cried so silently.

When his parents thanked you for being there for Isack... fuck, you knew it would all backfire.

So you slowly stopped. Like you always did.

Fewer texts. Fewer jokes. More lies. Forcing yourself to do something–anything–else but care too much.

You hated it. You hated that it was bringing you some calm despite your body screaming at you.

It was getting difficult to keep it up. How many more times would you blamed it on the time zones? As if you hadn't memorised them the moment they came out. As if you hadn't been doing this his entire career.

But the small break after the Saudi Grand Prix meant Isack was back home. After you had missed your usual good luck text.

You had forgotten actually. You were in your room, studying quietly, unaware anyone would be home as your workaholic parents were out like normal.

Consequently, the thumps up your staircase were loud, almost deafening. Your ears perked up as the door of your bedroom went wide open.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Isack's shrill voice echoed in your bedroom, chest heaving as he stood in front of you, arms firmly to his side.

You turned from your desk. You eyed his attire briefly. The hoodie and sweatpants, the bags under his eyes... he'd probably just come from the airport. The one where you'd usually be waiting for him. "Excuse me?" You asked, throat dry from not speaking in hours.

Isack blinked, swallowing. He took a step forward to you, eyes flickering over you rapidly to see if you were okay. "Is something wrong? A-Are you sick? Are you stressed? Tell me what's wrong so I can fix it."

You could feel it. The tear in your heart growing while annoyance boiled under your skin. He didn't need to fix you. That was your job.

"I... I don't know what you're talking about," you sighed out, standing from your desk before you walked to your shelves. You chewed on your lip, nervously eyeing the trinkets Isack had brought you.

You needed this conversation to be over before it went somewhere else.

"Putain de merde," Isack swore, running a hand through his hair. He walked to you again. "Like hell you don't... you don't talk to me for a week and avoid my calls and you don't know what I’m talking about? Like I'm crazy?" He asked with a small scoff.

You sucked in a sharp breath, turning to face him. "I told you with the time diff–"

A loud groan interrupted your sentence. Isack breathed slowly, fingers pressed on his nose bridge. "I swear to fucking God, if you mention that stupid fucking time difference again, I will lose my mind."

You stayed quiet. You weren't sure what to say. You wanted to peel out of your skin, you were so uncomfortable. You hated confrontation. Isack knew you hated confrontation. And yet...

Isack sighed quietly. He stepped closer to you, holding your hands with his gently. "Please, ma moitié. Please tell me what's wrong. Did I do something? Why... why won't you talk to me?"

Your eyes burned at the crack in his voice. Fuck, this sucked. You hated yourself for feeling like this. It was like it was on the tip of your tongue but you could never get it out.

"I..." you said shakily, forcing yourself to remove your burning hands from his while you pretended like you didn't see the hurt flash in his eyes, "It's nothing. Nothing is wrong."

"So it is something. Something has been bothering you. Since last year... since I told you about my seat... something's been wrong. What is it? What happened?" Isack queried softly, brown eyes searching yours so deeply for an answer.

He noticed. Of course he did.

Shit.

"You know you can tell me anything."

But I can't! You wanted to scream it. You just couldn't tell him.

"Isack, please... just– you know how I am. I'll deal with it, hmm?" You said, trying to muster up a smile.

He stared at you quietly and you were scared he was seeing too much of you. The debate in his eyes... the way he chewed his lip... he also couldn't tell if he should say it.

"You want to cry," he stated, making your eyes widen. "I can see it in your eyes. The redness. Your red cheeks. You want to say something so just say it! I'm worried for you."

"Stop saying things like that." You let out an exasperated groan. You brushed past him, clambering into his shoulder. "I don't understand how you do it," you murmured angrily more to yourself than him.

The tears were freely flowing down your cheeks before you knew it. You glared hard at your desk, eyes hot as though it would stop you from crying.

You couldn't see it but Isack could feel his heart breaking at the sight of your figure shaking. You could feel him gently lay his hand over your shoulder. "It's okay to cry," he mumbled, "I wish you wouldn't hide it."

You felt sick. Like your stomach was churning. It felt like his hand was leaving an imprint on you, searing you. Exhaustion was clouding your body. Exhaustion that had built up over the course of the past few weeks.

"I can't do it like you, Isack. I can't show I care. It's so hard. It's like I have to constantly fight myself," you quietly said, unable to bear this any longer.

"Hey," Isack murmured, hand travelling to your face to turn you to him. His eyes softened at your wet cheeks. Wiping them with the pads of his thumbs, he held your chin with his thumb. "It's okay. You don't have to do anything like me. Take your time. Do what you want when you want."

You breathed quietly while you stared at your best friend. He was right. It wasn't as easy as he made it sound, but you were so tired of feeling like crap. You focused on his encouraging smile and opened your mouth.

"I... you were right. I was avoiding you," you admitted, eyes falling to the floor in embarrassment. You could feel he wanted to say something but he stayed quiet, waiting for you. "I was avoiding you because I care."

Isack furrowed his brows. "I don't understand."

You chewed on your bottom lip, contemplating how much you wanted to say... how much you could say. "Last year... when you told me you got your seat, you thanked me."

He nodded in agreement. "For believing in me. Because you always do," he murmured, his free hand rubbing your own softly, comforting you.

You smiled gently at his words before taking in a sharp intake of air. "It just made me think, well, realise that I'm in love with you. And I always have been," you breathed out, the weight slowly lifting off your shoulders.

You could see Isack's eyes slightly widen but you continued. "And that terrifies me, Isack. Because it means I care. I care a lot for you. And I'm scared that because I care, something will go wrong. I-I didn't mean to shut you out. It's not what I want. It's just all I know. So I'm sorry. And I'm sorry I'm dumping this on you when you don't feel the same way and–"

"Wait, wait, wait," Isack interjected, hands both reaching to hold your face gently. He held your eyes with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. "Who's says I don't feel the same way?"

You mouth felt dry, heart speeding. "I... You do?"

Isack smiled, laughing softly as he nodded. "I thought it was obvious. That maybe you just didn't feel the same way."

He watched a dark expression fall on your face. You were in that same dreadful space you had just been in. "Hey, ma moitié, what's wrong?"

Your eyes fell to his once again. "What if I can't love you enough?"

It sounded strange but he knew what you meant. Even with all your care... what if you couldn't show you loved him enough? What if you couldn't express it?

"Not possible," Isack retorted, casually shrugging.

"But I–"

"I see it," Isack firmly told you, quietening you easily. "I see it when you're at my races and you stand on the side, letting me go to my parents first. I see you and your camera taking pictures of us when you think I don't. I see your heart. I see all of it."

You blinked, eyes burning all over again. For the first time in forever, you stepped forward, hugging him tightly. "Je t’aime, Isack.

His arms wrapped around yours, holding you closer to him. Isack smiled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Je t’aime, ma moitié."

"Did you bring me any souvenirs?" You mumbled against his shoulders, sniffling slightly.

You could feel his body rumble with a chuckle. "Depends. did you even watch my race or were you busy 'sleeping?'"

You pulled away, making a face, guilt still swirling within you. "I did watch it. You know I watch it even when I'm mad at you," you pouted.

Isack grinned. "Then of course I did."

#formula 1 #f1 #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 x you #f1 imagine #isack hadjar x reader #isack hadjar

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chamomiletealeaf · 1 day ago

Note

Lying awake thinking about babying Simon. I need to take care of him when he comes home from work, make him forget he exists lmfao. Sweet baby boy, ugh 😭 give him the sloppiest head of course 🤲🏻 I want HIM dependent on ME HSHSBWJWFJSN exploding sorry omg uggghhhh

I think about this every day anon omg…

Warnings: sub! Simon, very slight mommy kink (mentioned once), a really sloppy, gross, messy blow job, things I would never do for a man in real life unless it was Simon, Simon begging and pleading, slight choking, little bit of edging, reader just wants to take care of Simon

He’d come home from training recruits on base. A pout on his face every time he did exhausted from the energy it takes to put those rookies in place.

He trudges in through the door where you stand in the kitchen cooking his favorite meal, some assortment of steak, potatoes, and veggies, knowing he’d be at base longer than usual today.

You turn to him as he sets his bags down, turning down the heat on the stove and running up to meet him.

“Hi baby!” You say enthusiastically.

You grab his face, kissing him all over his cheeks, nose, jawline, wherever you could reach, and finally kissing his lips where he sighs and releases some tension he has built up from the stresses of today.

“Hi love.” He says with a tired smile. “Missed you.”

“I missed you too baby. Come on sit down honey I made you some food.” You say, helping him take off his jacket.

“Oh love I got it. Thank you.” He protests.

“Uh-uh, you’ve been working so hard recently the least I can do is help you take your jacket off honey.” You say, making him laugh.

He sits down at the table, relenting to your advances attempting to make him feel as comfortable as possible.

You see he still has eye black stained over his eyes and you click your tongue in disapproval.

“Oh honey you got your eye black on still.” You say from the kitchen.

“Yeah I’ll wash it off later.” He says, matter of factly.

Without a word you turn the stove down and make your way to the bathroom. You come out with some micellar water and cotton pads and stand next to Simon who sits at the table.

He looks at you, puzzled, until you reach out to lift his chin towards you.

“C’mon, up.” You grip his jaw lightly to angle his head up towards you to remove the eye black off his face with the cotton pads.

"What y'doin?" He asks, pulling his head back.

You pout when he pulls back

"I'm helping you baby." You say softly, as if he said something mean to you and he immediately regrets it.

Simon unfurrows his brows and reaches out to you, pulling you into his lap.

"I'm sorry love. Go ahead. Thank you." He says with a smile, trying to make you feel better. After all, you just wanted to take care of him after such a long tiresome day.

You straddle his hips and he runs his hands up your thighs, keeping them there.

You grip his jaw lightly again as you use the cotton pad over his eyes.

"Close your eyes honey." You say, and then swipe the micellar water soaked pad over his eyes, removing the eye black.

"There you go. Isn't that better?" You ask.

"Mm. Much better lovie. Thank you." He responds, smiling at you like you've just saved his life. And in a way you did, in more ways than one.

You lean in to kiss him and he kisses you back. It's soft and sweet and overdue. Just what he needs after a long long day.

You kiss him again and start to run your hands through his hair, deepening the kiss.

You cradle the side of his head with one hand as you kiss down his jaw, making him sigh in content. You move your lips and tongue along his jaw until you suck on his pulse point, making him moan.

"Mmm. Fuck baby. You know that's my spot." He chuckles, eyes closing with the pleasure.

You giggle, continuing kissing him all over until you make your way down.

Down over his chest, his stomach, licking over his happy train, until you lean your head on one of his thighs looking up at him innocently with a smile.

He laughs again, seeing where this is going.

"Now what are you up to little miss?" He accuses.

"Just wanna make you feel good honey. My big strong man been working so hard all day. Wanna show him how much I appreciate him." You tease, rubbing your face against his inner thigh covered by his work jeans you love on him so much.

"Aw dovey, you done more than enough for me. Don't have to if you don't wanna." He reaches down to brush his knuckles against your cheek, admiring your pretty face.

"I just said I want to." You said deeper, more seductively, making Simon raise his eyebrows a bit, catching him off guard from your sweet giggly demeanor from a second ago.

"Wanna make my sweet boy forget he exists. Been workin' so hard. Comin' home all tired and pouty needing mommy's warm mouth around his pretty fucking cock."

You rub your face against the growing bulge in Simon's pants, watching as his cheeks turn red from the sudden dominance you're now exuding.

"C'mon baby. Let me take care of you hm?" You beg him with your puppy dog eyes that he just can't resist and he nods his head.

"Mhm. Yeah. Of course. Please." He whispers breathlessly, his response coming out weaker than he intended.

You stand up and he looks up at you confused. Weren't you just about to suck him off?

"C'mon to the couch. Want my handsome man to be comfortable while I make him cum in my mouth." You say, pushing him down to sit on the couch.

He looks up at you speechless. You've never been this dominant before and he fucking loves it. He's always been so on guard, looking over his shoulder and after everyone every 3 seconds. It was so nice to just be. Especially when his pretty little girlfriend was about to give him the best blowjob he's ever had.

You kneel between his legs as you run your hands up his thighs to grab at his belt buckle.

"There. You comfortable baby?" You ask, and he nods, his eyes now half lidded with his lips parted. He's already looking fucked out and you haven't even touched him yet. So cute.

"Mm. Good." You hum in approval.

"Now. You gonna let me make you feel good? Gonna let me help you finally relax baby?" You ask, watching how he adjusts his hips, pushing up against your hands and how his breaths get shallower.

"Yes. Please. Fuck love I need it." He says with a breathless laugh.

You smile and start to unbuckle his belt, zipping the zipper down with your teeth while maintaining eye contact.

Simons moans at the sight.

You pull his jeans and boxers down just enough to pull him out and pump him a few times, making him throw his head back.

"God fuck." He grunts.

You laugh. "That's it baby just relax."

You spit on his fat tip before wrapping your lips around it, suckling him lightly.

He hisses and grips your hair, pulling it into a makeshift ponytail.

"Fuck." He strains out.

You start to sink further down his shaft slowly, making sure he feels your mouth take his thick cock as far as you could.

You take him further and further until you gag, making him smile and chuckle darkly with his eyes still closed and head still thrown back.

He looks down at you with a sly smirk, knowing that he was still too much to take all the way.

With his cock in your mouth, you furrow your brows and reach up with one hand to grip his jaw and push, forcing his head back against the couch.

He moans at the action, loving how you take control again.

You remove your hand and wrap it back around his shaft. You were determined to make this man cum and wipe that smirk off his face until the only thing on it was pure bliss.

You start to suck faster and deeper, your hand moving along his shaft to swipe at his slit making his hips jerk.

"Fuck just like that baby." He moans, head tilting back down to watch you.

You look up at him making eye contact while you suck him off, drool starting to drip down over your hands as you gagged and slurped around his cock.

Nice and messy. Just the way he likes it.

You bob your head faster, eyes beginning to water as his cock hit the back of your throat making you gag.

You take him down as far as you can and hold it, your throat contracting around him while you sputter making him moan loudly.

You pulled up for air, coughing and gasping while you smiled. Simon was a fucking mess already. He finally let go and let himself moan like that. Loud and unfiltered. Just the way you liked it.

But, you could "fuck him out" further.

You continue to pump him, smearing your spit and his pre cum all over until it dripped over your fingers and his thighs.

"See? Isn't this nice honey? So much better than being all stressed out on base all day huh." You mock pity with a pout.

Simon nods, panting, needing more.

"S- so much fucking better. God you don't even know love." He whines.

"Hmm. Can make it better though." You say to yourself, and you wrap your lips around him again, really starting to suck him down, practically making him throat fuck you.

You continue to twist your wrists around what you couldn't fit, occasionally thumbing his slit while you gave him the messiest, sloppiest, dirtiest blowjob of his fucking life.

He grunts and moans, thrusting his hips up and gripping your hair tighter in his fist. Every time he jerks his hips you push them back down, wanting to stay in control.

"Fuck. Oh my god lovie yeah. Just like that. Fuck please don't stop. Keep going please. Fuck don't stop. Please. Need it- love how fucking sloppy you are with it. Yeah that's it. Please-please- gonna cum- fuck" He rambles on and on, voice getting higher pitched and whinier with each word and you practically have to press your hands as hard as you can into his hips to keep them from jerking up, your tits sitting all pretty and squished between his thighs, drool coating them as well.

Then, all of a sudden, you quickly pull your mouth off of Simon. Making him gasp.

"Wh- what-" He starts, watching as you move to straddle his thigh, one hand wrapped around his cock and the other around his throat.

You press your cheek against his as you jerk him off, looking down at where you stroke him. Your other hand squeezes just tight enough around his throat to make him roll his eyes back in pleasure.

"C'mon honey beg for it." You say. "Beg me to make you cum. Admit you need it." You begin to grind against his thigh, leaving a wet patch on his jeans.

"P-please. I need it. Need it so bad. Need you so bad." He whines.

"Yeah? Been working too hard? Just needed my nice warm mouth wrapped snugly around this fucking cock hm? Make you dumb?" You tease.

"Yes- God yes need you to make me not think. Wanna forget I exist. Please fuck make me cum. Put me back in your mouth please wanna cum in your mouth." He rambles. He's so fucked out that you can't tell if he's talking to you or to himself. But you don't care. You've acheived your goal.

Well, almost.

You remove your hand from his cock and bring it to squish his cheeks together.

"Ooh that's a good fucking boy. Don't you worry baby I'll make you cum good." You coo.

You quickly resort back to your previous position between his legs, and you both maintain eye contact again as you drool around his cock, sucking and slurping him like he's the last popsicle on earth on the hottest summer day.

You can't believe how fucking messy it is. His jeans are now a shade darker around his crotch from the drool dripping onto it and all over your face and hands, and your fingers are practically pruning from the moisture of your spit. His cock glistening from it while your mouth makes obscene slurping and gagging noises.

And it's so hot.

"Fuck- I'm cumming. Yeah just like that. Please- Fuck-" Simon whimpers, and he cums in your mouth with a moan as he throws his head back.

He tries to thrust his hips up but you shove them back down, letting his cum leak out of your mouth and onto your tits while you continue to suck him dry.

You hum around him and roll your eyes back in approval and pleasure as you feel his warm cum fill your mouth.

After he comes down, you pull off of his cock with a pop noise.

You smile up at him panting. Your face, tits, and hands covered in spit and cum.

He smiles back down at you, also panting, as he cradles your face, smearing the mess on your mouth around your lips with his thumb.

"I love you so much y/n." Simon says.

"I love you too Simon." You respond.

"Look so fuckin' gorgeous." He says, and you giggle.

"You look so handsome when you cum. Didn't realize you blush when you do though." You say teasingly, and Simon laughs, turning his head embarrassed.

You reach for a towel from the laundry you just folded earlier on the couch to clean the two of you up.

After you're both clean enough. You climb into his lap, straddling him again while you hold his head in your hands.

"Just want you to relax a bit. Always so stressed. Need my handsome boy to feel good every now and then." You say before kissing him softly.

"I always feel good when I'm with you love." He smiles. "Now. How about that dinner. I'll heat it up for us. You've done enough."

"Uh uh. You go sit at that table. I'm not done spoiling you yet." You say with a smile as you get up.

Simon cannot believe how he ever got so lucky.

#call of duty #cod #cod mw #cod mw2 #cod mw3 #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #ghost cod #ghost x reader #ghost #ghost cod x reader #ghost call of duty #ghost call of duty x reader

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noredemptionhere · 3 days ago

Text

𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 ✧˖°.

pair: sevika x nurse!reader

warnings [may be spoiling for some readers]: fluff, heavy angst, graphic injury, amputation—[non-consensual], gun violence, drug usage—[shimmer], hostile environment, description of blood. do not interact with this post if you’re sensitive to graphic content.

APRIL 1st — 10:47 PM

the smell of betadine… again.

sevika walked into the clinic like she had before, like she belonged there. a place barely holding itself together, where the walls bled rust and the floors reeked of sweat, sickness, and old blood. this wasn’t a place for healing. it was a place for keeping people alive just long enough for them to stagger back out into the filth of zaun. the air was thick with suffering, bodies pressed too close, and the low groans of the half conscious filled the spaces between the flickering overhead lights. no one in this ward was gentle, least of all the doctors. medicine wasn’t cheap, pain was expected, and death was nothing worth whispering about.

her injury ran too deep this time. muscle torn open, blood spilling sluggish and sticky, she needed more than the shimmer fixes she was used to. the usual sawbones were nowhere to be found, but she knew the place well enough to navigate its decay. yet when she stepped inside, she saw you. someone she hadn’t seen before.

sevika saw you in a room of cots, half hidden in shadows, where the dim, buzzing lights overhead sputtered like they were warning of something. you were sitting at the edge of a stained mattress, cradling a man who barely held himself together, his head pressing into your chest as he mumbled something wet and incoherent. apologies. to whom, no one knew. sevika believed they were probably to you. your hands were careful, so soft.. almost painful to watch. a cruel kind of softness. the kind that let people die gently. the kind that gave a moment of peace before pain ripped back in.

she saw all of it. pathetic, she thought. so fucking soft, she also thought. two different thoughts about two different people.

she sat back on the cot across from you, legs spread, forearm pressing against her thigh, fingers drumming once against her knee. you hadn’t noticed her yet, too lost in whatever tenderness you were wasting on the half conscious man slumped against you. sevika exhaled through her nose, watching, waiting. she wasn’t in a rush. not when there was something new to peel back and study.

she was even patient. just sat there, stretched out on the cot, fingers absently tapping against her knee.

you were now sitting on a chair near the far wall, head bowed, eyes downcast. the dim light carved sharp shadows beneath your lashes, but she wasn’t looking at your face. she was looking at your feet. the white fabric of your shoes. thin and useless. already blooming with red. small drops of blood seeping out, staining through.

you curled your toes. a small, almost subconscious movement. like you were trying to hide them. like it even mattered in a place like this. blood was just another thing the floors absorbed.

you exhaled, slow and heavy. your head tipped back, exhaustion dragging down every line of your body. but it only lasted a moment. then you pushed yourself up, shoulders straightening, feet shifting against the slippery floor.

she watched as you finally turned toward your next patient. her.

the corner of her lips curled up, you were now finally looking at her.

up close, you were even softer than she expected. not just in the way you moved. calm and deliberate, but in the way you carried yourself, like you still believed your presence could make a difference in this shithole. your uniform clung to you in places, stained in others. not a single part of you was untouched by the weight of exhaustion, and yet, when you reached for her, your hands were steady.

sevika let you touch her. let you peel back the bloodied layers, let you press cool fingers to the gash running too deep into her flesh arm. she barely flinched. it wasn’t the pain she was focused on. it was you. the way your breath hitched, just slightly, when your fingers brushed too close to her ribs. the way your lashes flickered when you realized she was watching you.

“something wrong?” her voice came rough, low. if you two weren’t in this ‘calm’ situation; you probably would have thought she was threatening you.

you didn’t answer at first. not with words, anyway. instead, you shook your head, and smiled coyly.

“good job for holding up, other patients would’ve been wheezing by now.”

good job..?

if you weren’t a literal fucking nurse, doing your noble, righteous job or whatever… if you weren’t standing there, stained with blood but still looking at her like she could be saved.. she would’ve bent you over the cot so fucking hard you’d forget how to breathe.

but you were, so she didn’t.

your hands faltered for just a second.

barely, but she still noticed.

your fingertips grazed too close to the edge of her ribs again *either by accident or by some trembling, buried instinct* and sevika let the silence thicken between you, her gaze still locked on yours, heavy, unreadable.

“steady hands,” she muttered, voice like gravel. “but you shake when i look at you.”

you didn’t deny it.

didn’t speak at all, just dipped your head, hair falling slightly forward as you reached for the gauze after disinfecting her wounds and stitching them. your breath had grown shallow, your eyes not meeting hers anymore, not after the heat in that look, not after what she’d said. you pressed the bandage into her wound, firmly.

but she could feel the way your fingers trembled against her skin.

“you scared of me?” she asked. quiet and simple.

your wanted to answer, but nothing came out.

you cupped her face in your hands, careful, reverent.

sevika went still.

your palms were warm against the coarse stubble of her jaw, thumbs skimming the tension curled beneath her skin. her first instinct was to pull back, to swat you away. but she didn’t. she just let you hold her.

you tilted her face toward the light, eyes narrowing at the faint orange smear across her cheek. “this isn’t blood,” you murmured. “is that… rust?”

your thumb brushed over it, gentle, like you were afraid to press too hard.

sevika’s mouth twitched. her gaze flicked toward her fresh wounds, then back to yours.

“yeah,” she said, voice a little rough. “you could say that.”

you dropped your hands. your eyes searched hers with sudden concern, something naive flickering just beneath the surface.

and for some reason it made her smirk.

“you’ll need tetanus booster,” you said softly. “four injections. one each day.”

“but you’re not going to take them, are you?”

sevika’s smirk deepened. “milady,” she drawled, “—i live in zaun.”

“just take the shots, please.”

please.

lord have mercy.

her gaze remained the same. refusing.

she knew you wouldn’t push it. you were too tender.

you pouted.

literally pouted.

and then huffed. dramatic, exasperated, sweet.

she liked it too much.

“fine,” you muttered, turning away, “die of tetanus for all i care.”

her eyes followed you as you disappeared through the doorway, still mumbling under your breath. she caught every word—stupid patients, no one ever listens, why am i even doing this if shimmer exists, everyone in this ward’s a goddamn nightmare, DIE-

sevika chuckled to herself. not loud, not really. but it slipped out, soft and unexpected.

you came back a few minutes later, syringe in hand, shimmer catching the light in that deep, unnatural purple.

you held it like you hated it.

held it like you were about to cut a piece of yourself.

“arm.” you said, more curt than before. less nurse, more someone who knew how to bite.

her brow rose slightly.

“yes, ma’am.”

she gave you her arm, steady and unflinching, but her eyes never left your face.

you didn’t meet her eyes when you slid the needle into her arm. you kept your gaze on the skin, on the muscle that barely gave beneath the pressure. she didn’t flinch. didn’t even blink.

but you hesitated-just for a second-once the plunger was down. you let the needle linger, like you didn’t want to pull away yet. like something might change if you just held still long enough.

you could already see the wounds closing, scratches on her cheek knitting together. they were still there, but still all of your precious stitching wasn’t as appreciated now.

“wasn’t so bad, was it?” you said, quieter this time.

sevika tilted her head, watching you as you finally pulled the syringe free. the sting of it didn’t matter. you were too close now, too warm, smelling like antiseptic and exhaustion and something faintly sweet beneath it all.

“you always reward patients with praise?” she asked.

you gave her a look. tired, unamused. “only the ones who don’t bite.”

“mm,” sevika hummed. “shame.”

you blinked, unsure if it was a joke. unsure if you were supposed to laugh. so you didn’t. you just turned to grab the disposal bin, muttering something about protocols under your breath.

but she didn’t stop watching you.

there was something about the way you moved—like every gesture came with weight. not just from fatigue, but from care. people didn’t move like that in zaun. not unless they still thought something could be saved.

and maybe… that’s what got to her.

because she shouldn’t have said it.

but she did.

“what’s someone like you doing in a place like this?”

your hands stopped midair, and then slowly, you glanced over your shoulder, brows lifting. “that’s the most cliché thing i’ve ever heard.”

sevika smirked. “still want an answer.”

you stared at her for a beat too long. then: “i wanted to help people.”

“wanted?”

you exhaled. “i still do. it just hurts more now.”

and there it was—that softness again. not asking for pitifulness. it was just a trait that you couldn’t physically knock off no matter how hard you tried, no matter how much zaun tried to snatch it from you. sevika couldn’t decide if she admired you or pitied you. maybe both.

“hurts how?” she asked, quieter now.

you didn’t answer right away. your eyes flicked toward the hallway outside, where someone coughed so hard it shook the walls. someone else was screaming in a far room, the sound muffled but constant.

you looked back at her.

“hurts when i realize i’m not enough.”

sevika didn’t respond. not with words.

she stood up instead, slow, towering, her frame casting a long shadow across the floor between you. she didn’t close the space. didn’t reach for you. just looked down at you with something unreadable in her eyes.

a tone in her voice shifted. “you don’t have to be enough,” she said. “you just have to keep showing up.”

you blinked—and for a second, just a second, she didn’t look as ‘scary’.

your mouth parted. maybe to thank her, maybe to argue… but before either could slip out, the overhead lights flickered again. the kind of flicker that usually came before the power cut completely.

she turned away before you could say anything.

“see you around, nurse,” she muttered, already walking off.

and just like that, she disappeared back into the dark.

but her presence didn’t.

it lingered.

in the scent of rust and blood.

in the heat left behind on the cot.

in the way your hands still trembled, even after she was gone.

APRIL 9th — 12:01 PM

the clock had just passed midnight.

you were sitting at the end of the corridor, fingers sticky with dried saline, the faint tang of blood still clinging to your bare fingers. the clinic was quieter than usual… though that never meant calm. just… waiting. waiting for the next injury, the next gunshot victim, the next overdose dragged in by screaming friends who wouldn’t stick around.

the overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting shadows over your exhausted figure. you rubbed at your eyes with the heel of your palm, bones aching from the inside out. another shift with no end in sight. another night of trying to keep people alive in a place that barely qualified as a building.

the two doctors—both older men, both worn down by years of seeing too much—were sitting nearby. one of them was nursing bitter coffee. the other leaned against the wall, arms crossed, head tilted like he was trying not to doze off.

you’d stopped speaking hours ago. there wasn’t much to say.

until the sound started.

it began faint, like distant machinery shifting gears, but it didn’t stop. the noise rolled forward, mechanical and uneven, like something was crawling up from the underbelly of zaun. you froze midmovement, heart skipping. one of the doctors straightened, listening. the other put down his coffee.

then came the shouting.

not pain. not panic. something else. orders barked. sharp and aggressive.

you rose to your feet automatically, gaze darting toward the hallway. the sound of boots hit the concrete—too many, too fast—and the screech of something metal dragged hard against the floor, like someone had kicked through the front entrance.

“what the fuck..?” the doctor near you started, but he didn’t get to finish.

the doors slammed open.

men poured in, hard faced and armed, their movements too practiced to be anything but organized. some wore masks, others had metallic implants flashing purple with low frequency power. the clinic was swallowed up in seconds, filled with the stench of sweat, gun oil and gun powder.

you didn’t move.

one of the men raised his weapon, pointing directly at your head.

“back the fuck up,” he snapped. “all of you. hands where we can see them.”

the two doctors obeyed immediately, stepping back and raising their hands. you followed, your arms trembling as they lifted into the air. you were pressed close behind them now, the three of you forming a small, defenseless line.

another gang member slammed open the ward doors. more shouting. patients—injured, unconscious, barely stitched together—were dragged out of their cots. screams echoed as bodies were shoved and thrown. you flinched when you heard someone’s head slam into the metal edge of a gurney. another man was slapped awake, his IV line torn from his arm as he was yanked to the ground.

“what are you doing?!” one of the doctors yelled, voice hoarse.

“clear the fucking clinic!” one of the gang members roared back. “now!”

they weren’t just forcing people out. they were brutalizing them. pushing them into the street like garbage. you tried to move, to step forward, to help, but a hand caught your arm, yanking you back.

“don’t,” someone hissed into your ear. cold. angry.

then everything shifted.

the crowd parted, and you saw deckard.

you knew him—the volatile one. drugged up, twitchy, always too eager to draw blood. he stood taller than anyone else in the room, posture tense, eyes almost bored-looking . but he wasn’t alone. in his arms, limp and bloodied, was… sevika?

not unconscious. her head rested against his shoulder, eyes still open, breath shallow—but she was awake. her left arm looked like it was burnt with something glowing, blood smeared her face, the same glowing substance was smothered on the cheek that faced the air.

she looked… lost.

and in pain.

deckard stepped forward, still holding her between his arms, like some terrible parody of a rescue. he said nothing. he just waited for orders.

silco walked in behind them.

his presence swallowed the room whole.

cool.. untouched by the chaos. he didn’t even glance at the—now—empty and bloody cots. he didn’t look at the blood smeared across the floor. he only looked forward. toward the two doctors standing stiff in front of you.

“fix her up,” he said.

the words were soft.

but they still shook something in you.

silco didn’t raise his voice. he didn’t have to. the two doctors—who only minutes ago were dragging their feet through a dull endless shift—snapped to attention. one moved toward deckard, hands up, cautious. the other stayed rooted in place, eyes locked on Sevika’s arm.

you couldn’t move.

from where you stood, partially obscured behind them, you could see everything. her body slack against deckard’s chest. the way her brow twitched every few seconds in quiet agony. her arm—if you could even still call it that—was limp. flesh torn. bone exposed. her entire arm was glowing with something blue… you’ve never seen anything like this before. the ruined limb looked like it had exploded from the inside out.

she was trying to breathe through it. mouth tight. jaw clenched.

she saw you.

just for a second, her eyes flicked up and found yours. blood in her lashes. she looked… defeated. tired.

you wanted to run to her. you wanted to say something. do something. but your feet wouldn’t move.

“she needs surgery,” one of the doctors said quickly. His voice was shaking. “now. but this- this is beyond a patch up.”

“what do you mean?” silco asked.

the doctor looked between silco and sevika’s arm, visibly sweating. “i mean it’s done. the limb’s dead weight. her nerves are crushed. circulation’s cut. that thing’s poisoning her body as we speak. we remove it or she dies.”

a pause. Silence. the kind that crushes your chest.

silco turned his head slightly toward deckard. “put her down.”

deckard did as told, lowering her onto the nearest table with gentleness. sevika winced, her good hand curling into a fist. her blood smeared across the surface like oil.

she didn’t scream. she didn’t make a sound. but her body trembled.

the doctors sprang into motion, scrambling to prepare the most basic tools. no proper machinery here—just what the clinic had. you stepped back, back again, pressing yourself into the wall to keep from collapsing. you were just a nurse. you’d assisted before, sure, but not like this. not when everything was this raw. this… disgusting. this doomed.

one of the doctors shouted your name.

“vitals. keep track of her pulse and breathing.”

you nodded shakily and rushed to her side, slipping in close. she was barely conscious now. her breathing ragged. her eyes fluttered open again as you touched her forehead gently, brushing back a sweat-soaked strand of hair.

“i’m here,” you whispered, voice trembling. “i’m here. i’ve got you. just stay with me, okay?”

she didn’t speak. just stared.

the doctors were shouting again. prepping tools. arguing over where to make the first cut, how far the that blue thing had gone. there was no painkillers. no anesthetic strong enough for what they needed to do. not here. not now.

you gripped her good hand and leaned in closer.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered, breaking.

your tears fell fast, hot and silent, splashing against her cheek, her temple, her closed eyes. she flinched just slightly, more from the wetness than anything else. maybe she thought it was blood. maybe she knew it was you.

the first incision was made.

you felt her jolt beneath your hands, a strangled grunt deep in her chest.

“i’m sorry,” you repeated, over and over, voice cracking, your mouth close to her ear now, “i’m so sorry.”

one of the doctors fumbled with a vial from the emergency shelf, his hands shaking as he held it up. shimmer, but barely a dose left.

“we give her this,” he said, voice strained, “she stays conscious. stronger. enough to keep her stable through it.”

the other doctor spun around, furious. “you give her that and her heart will beat straight out of her chest. look at the blood she’s already lost. she’ll bleed out in minutes.”

“we don’t have minutes if she goes into shock!”

“she’ll go into shock either way!” he yelled.

they stood over her, arguing like she was already gone. the shimmer vial trembled in the air between them, a silent threat. you stood frozen by her side, your heart hammering in your chest like it wanted out.

“she needs to stay calm,” the second doctor snapped. “conscious or not. no shimmer. we cut now.”

silco said nothing. he only turned to look at sevika—and whatever passed between them in that brief glance was final.

no shimmer.

the doctors moved fast after that.

metal clanged. gauze unrolled. one of them lifted the saw.

you tightened your hold on sevika’s hand, whispering her name over and over like it could anchor or ground her in some sort of way. she still wasn’t speaking. her skin had gone cold with sweat. you leaned in closer.

and suddenly-

her hand you were holding snapped up, fingers tangling in your hair.

she yanked you down, roughly, firmly…desperately, and pressed your forehead hard against hers, as if trying to ground herself. her breathing was wild now, every exhale damp and shuddering against your cheek.

you wrapped your arms around her head and held her tighter, your tears dripping down between you. one of them slid into the corner of her eye.

the saw began to turn.

sevika’s body jolted, not just from the sound, but from the memory her nerves carried. somewhere in her splintered brain, they still screamed that pain was coming. that it wouldn’t stop this time, and it didn’t.

the moment the metal met her ruined flesh, she bucked hard against the table, a guttural noise ripping from her chest. half snarl, half scream. you held her tighter, forehead still pressed to hers, your hands cradling her face now like you were trying to protect her from something neither of you could see.

but it was too much.

her hand left your hair and grabbed at your shoulder, then your neck. fingers curling tight in the collar of your scrubs. her breathing broke into choked gasps, sharp and wet.

and then she bit you.

hard.

her mouth clamped down on the curve where your neck met your shoulder, teeth sinking in through the sweat damp fabric until you gasped. until you mewled.

but you didn’t even flinch.

you let her do it.

because it was the only thing she had.

her teeth bore down, deeper, brutal.. drawing blood now, you were sure of it. but you still didn’t move. you stayed locked to her, whispering helplessly: “i’ve got you. i’ve got you. i’ve got you..”

the table shuddered violently beneath her. her legs kicked out, one heel catching the rolling tray of tools and knocking it sideways. metal crashed to the floor. a doctor cursed. another stepped in to pin her down by the thighs.

still, sevika thrashed.

still, she bit down harder.

“hold her!” someone shouted.

but it wasn’t just her body fighting.

it was everything.

the pain. the humiliation. the heat of the saw grinding through what used to be part of her. the helplessness, the shame, the rage. it all clawed its way out of her in the form of violence. of defiance. of teeth and muscle and resistance.

her jaw trembled against your throat.

then it loosened just a little.

a sound escaped her that wasn’t rage or pain—it was something caught between a sob and a broken breath. a sound you never thought you would hear from her. It was raw. real… sad.

her teeth let go.

your skin stung, slick with her spit and your blood.

“i’m here,” you repeated, your voice cracking now. “i’m not leaving. i’m right here.”

she didn’t speak.

didn’t need to.

because her fingers stayed tangled in your collar, and her forehead stayed pressed against yours, and even as the saw cut deeper, breaking through the bone, you could hear it… she didn’t let go. didn’t scream again, she just held on, and you held her back. like maybe if you held hard enough, neither of you would fall apart.

the saw hit the bone again. a deeper sound this time. rougher. final.

you felt the shudder go through her entire body as it broke.

she gasped, and her body collapsed right after. but not away from you, just into you.

her weight sagged forward, her bloodied forehead sliding off yours to rest against your shoulder, her grip loosening. not gone, but not the same. her whole body was going slack. breath fading. like her last thread had finally snapped.

“she’s losing too much!” one of the doctors shouted.

“clamp it! pressure now!” the other yelled.

hands rushed past you. gauze, tubing, something shoved into the stump where her arm had been. blood poured down the table in thick rivers, pooling beneath her, slipping off the sides in slow drips. you reached to hold her up, to keep her from falling entirely. her skin was clammy. she was so fucking cold now.

“she’s out,” one of the doctors muttered.

you looked up slowly.

“she needs to be stabilized. you need to let us-”

“no.” silco’s voice cut across the room like a blade. “we’re taking her.” the doctors immediately protested. loudly. the word fatal was used more than once.

“she’s lost too much blood-“

“she won’t make it without further support-”

“take her now, and you might as well kill her yourselves!”

silco’s jaw tensed, but his voice didn’t rise. “give her shimmer. when she wakes. just enough to keep her lucid.”

“lucid?” one of the doctors snapped. “that woman won’t be lucid when she wakes. not after that. she’ll be in shock. she’ll be feral.”

silco looked at you. his gaze was still the same as he first entered the clinic. “then you’ll stay with her.”

you blinked. “huh?”

“she knows you.” his eyes flicked down to your shoulder, where blood had soaked through your scrubs. “…clearly.”

you didn’t respond. you probably didn’t want to. not while sevika was still breathing that shallow, ghosting breath that felt like it could vanish any second.

“she’ll need real care,” one of the doctors added tightly. “that arm’s not just gone—it’s trauma. psychological. physical. she needs to be checked by actual medics.”

silco didn’t disagree, but he still stepped closer, and motioned for the others to lift her from the table.

“she gets shimmer when she wakes,” he said again. “she needs to be up and moving as soon as possible.” he then turned to you. “make sure she doesn’t die.”

that fucking cocksucker.

APRIL 10th — 8:27 am

you haven’t slept all night, just waited outside sevika’s room. silco has taken you and one of the doctors to stay with her until she wakes up.

your back is pressed against the door, legs stretched in front of you, still wearing your bloody scrubs. you couldn’t stay in the same place with her anymore, couldn’t help your gaze always traveling to where her arm used to be, couldn’t help how your throat clenched so tightly as you kept your tears in.

the doctor stayed inside. probably sitting on the floor next to sevika’s bed, waiting to administer the shimmer dose.

the past eight hours are still so vivid in your mind, playing over and over like a film reel.

how silco didn’t even attempt to comprehend anything the doctors were saying.

how his gang members brutalized the patients out of the clinic.

how everyone watched her lose what she had fought for her whole life.

how sevika was breathing against your skin; like you were the only thing keeping her sane.

how she bit you so forcefully that you can’t even turn your neck properly.

a tear fell from your eye.

you hated all of it, despised it with every ounce of your being.

you suddenly heard your name from inside the bedroom. your heart almost sank to your feet, but you still got up far too quickly.

sevika was awake.

awake and sitting on the edge of the bed, legs parted like she owned the ground beneath you. her gaze snapped to you the moment you stepped inside.

there was blood dried into the corner of her mouth. her jaw was clenched. her whole body looked like a broken machine trying to keep running. but she was awake, and her eyes stayed on you.

“i need you to help me hold her,” the doctor muttered, standing up. sevika’s eyes didn’t move. but her voice cut through the room.

“get the fuck out,” she growled.

the doctor froze.

“i’m not taking that shit,” she added, quieter this time, but no less final.

you moved closer.

the doctor gave you a look. half pleading, half exhausted. “these were silco’s orders. he said-”

“i said fuck off,” sevika snapped.

the doctor hesitated. he looked at you again after walking your way. “medically, she’s right,” he muttered, voice low. “shimmer isn’t made for this. it’ll make the bleeding worse. she could go into shock again. but-”

but it didn’t matter.

he pauses beside you, like he wants to add something else. then he sees your face and decides not to.

the door shuts behind him and the silence stretches between you and sevika. not heavy, not awkward. just… there.

her eyes flick to your neck, then your face.

you wait for her to speak. she doesn’t.

instead, she leans back slowly, palm dragging across the sheets until it finds a spot beside her. a quiet gesture. nothing obvious. just space.

you sit down next to her.

her hand doesn’t reach for you. but her fingers brush your thigh when you shift. deliberate.

you don’t say anything either. you just sat there, your back hunched and your head bowed, knees pulled up just enough to rest your arms on them. the floor was cold beneath you, but your mind was too loud to care. you didn’t know what to do. you wanted to apologize, to reach for her, to tell her that she didn’t have to go through any of it alone. you wanted to hug her, kiss her, bury yourself in her embrace like it would make all of this easier. but you didn’t know if touching her now would just make everything worse. you didn’t know if she wanted that… if she wanted you. you hated that thought. you hated not knowing how to help her, how to fix this. so you sat there with your head down, feet kicking slightly at the floor, waiting for something or anything to give you permission.

and then you felt her fingers on your neck.

they were warm. steady. her thumb brushed against the exact spot she had bitten, slow and deliberate, like she was claiming it again. or maybe checking if she’d gone too far. you weren’t sure what it meant, but it wasn’t angry. it wasn’t apologetic either. it was complicated, heavy. like she was reminding something you didn’t know about.

you looked up, and she was already staring at you.

there was something in her eyes you’d never seen before. not fully. not like this. she looked exhausted, gray, and still so goddamn strong. even with one arm. even with her body broken down. she looked at you like she could read your every thought. like she knew you were falling apart on the inside, and it was pissing her off.

her hand slid up under your chin and tilted your face to her without asking. you didn’t resist. you couldn’t. her grip was rough but careful, and your breath caught the moment her eyes fell to the bruised skin on your throat. she stared at it for too long. her jaw tightened, and her lips parted..

“does it hurt?” she asked, voice hoarse, low.

you shook your head immediately. it was a lie. it hurt like a bitch.

she didn’t seem convinced. her fingers slipped lower again, this time wrapping around your waist. she gave a single, wordless tug, and you followed without hesitation, crawling forward on your knees until you were right between her legs. she didn’t say a word. just kept her eyes on you, letting her arm settle around your back and hold you there, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

you didn’t know what to say. everything inside you was tangled and loud, screaming for comfort, for closeness, for a sign that she wasn’t angry at you. that she didn’t hate you for watching her like this.

“i didn’t know what to do,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “i wanted to help- i wanted to stop it… i wanted to-”

“stop.”

her voice wasn’t loud, but it shut everything in you down at once

you blinked, your throat tightening as she leaned forward and pressed her forehead to yours. her breath was warm. her fingers slid under your top to touch your spine, it almost felt like she was counting your vertebras.

“you did enough,” she muttered. “more than enough.”

you closed your eyes, and your body sagged against her, forehead falling to her shoulder. she didn’t flinch. didn’t pull away. her arm just wrapped tighter around you, and her lips grazed the top of your head.

she didn’t need to say anything. not really. everything she was trying to tell you was already there.. in the way she held you, in the silence between her words, in the weight of her touch. you could feel her heartbeat against your cheek, strong and calm and real. you could feel the way her fingers dug in just a little, like she needed the reminder that you were still here, still warm.

“i can feel it moving.”

her voice was… distant. not fragile, but something about the way she said it made your stomach clench. she wasn’t looking at you now. her eyes were fixed on the opposite wall like she was speaking to something only she could see. you stayed quiet, already knowing what was coming, and how bad it would hurt to hear.

you closed your eyes and buried your face into her shoulder. your hand curled in the fabric of her top. you didn’t say anything—you couldn’t. the weight of her words was already pulling the breath from your lungs.

“i almost swore i felt it stretch when i first woke up.”

you flinched before you could stop yourself.

she didn’t notice, or maybe she didn’t care. she was somewhere else now, stuck inside her own body, stuck inside the phantom echo of what used to be there. what would never be again.

“i reached for my lighter,” she went on, voice stripped bare. “i swear I reached for it. i could feel my fingers closing around it. i could feel the fuckin’ thing in my hand.”

you didn’t lift your head. you didn’t try to comfort her. what could you possibly say to that? there was no fixing it. no stopping it. no easing it. you could only hold her tighter and listen as she said the things no one else would ever get to hear.

you pressed your forehead deeper into the crook of her neck and bit down hard on your lip to stop the noise rising in your throat. she wasn’t asking for comfort. she was just trying to make sense of it out loud, and she’d chosen you to say it to. that meant something. you didn’t want to interrupt.

but your silence must’ve said more than your words ever could, because her hand found the back of your neck again, fingers curling slow, firm.

“i ain’t tellin’ you this to make you cry,” she murmured, finally looking down at you. her voice was lower now, rough with something softer. “i’m just tellin’ you what it is.”

you nodded, your face still hidden. “i know.”

“i don’t need you to fix it.”

you nodded again. “i know.”

“i just…” she stopped, teeth clenching for a moment. you felt her jaw tighten against your temple. “i don’t want you lookin’ at me like i’m broken.”

you pulled back—just enough to look at her. your hands moved to frame her face before you could second guess it, thumbs brushing the edges of her jaw.

“i don’t,” you whispered.

her eyes searched yours, hard and slow. looking for a lie. you let her.

“i swear to God, sevika, i don’t.”

she didn’t answer, but something shifted in her face. her gaze dropped to your mouth, and when it returned to your eyes, it was heavier. the flicker of disbelief was still there, but it was buried beneath something warmer, hungrier, something she didn’t bother to hide anymore. her hand slid from the back of your neck to your jaw, rough fingers tipping your face up, holding you still.

then she kissed you… and it wasn’t soft.

it was raw, full of all the things she couldn’t say; grief, fury, longing, relief. her mouth moved against yours like she needed it to hurt a little, like she needed you to feel just how wrecked she was inside. you let her. you kissed her back without hesitation, fingers gently touching the back of her neck, anchoring yourself to her the same way she’d done to you.

she breathed hard against your lips, and when she finally pulled back, her forehead pressed into yours.

“you know,” you whispered, brushing her cheek with your thumb, “i think you’re gonna end up with a really cool prosthetic.”

she opened one eye, dry and unimpressed.

“maybe one that injects shimmer straight into your veins when you’re pissed off,” you added with a small, tired grin.

she snorted softly—barely—but it was there.

“end of the day, you’ll be terrifying. maybe hotter, even.”

she didn’t laugh, but her gaze stayed on you like she wanted to. like she didn’t know how to, not yet, but if you kept talking, kept looking at her like that, she might remember.

she might try.

#sevika #arcane #sevika x fem!reader #sevika x y/n #sevika x reader #sevika arcane #arcane sevika #sevika x you

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writingwithcolor · 2 days ago

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The protagonist of my story is pressured into killing, should I refrain from making her Jewish to avoid stereotyping?

@run-remi-run asks:

Hello, I'm developing a teen character living in Michigan and have been considering making her/her family Jewish; however I'm worried they'll fall into the evil Jewish person stereotype. The teen is the protagonist of her story, but she is pressured into killing at least one person. I understand that villains in media being portrayed as Jewish or with Jewish features has furthered antisemitism, and I understand my character isn't exempt from this just because I see her in a positive light. Should I refrain from making her Jewish?

This doesn't fit the stereotype

If the whole idea is that she’s pressured into doing bad things, that doesn’t fit the stereotype or trope at all because the trope has us as evil masterminds but in your scenario she’s the one being manipulated. The negative trope isn’t just “Jewish person does something bad” it’s a lot more specific than that. -Shira

Any Michigan influences?

Commenting strictly as a Michigan resident: is there any reason why you included the character’s Michigander origins in your question? Is there something about Michigan that’s influencing how you think a Jewish character might be depicted or viewed by others in your story? I’m asking not to be interrogatory, but out of curiosity and need for clarification.

–Jess

Evil Jewish person stereotype

Shira’s answer speaks directly to this and a lot more concisely, but I wanted to take a minute and go deeper into the phrase “Evil Jewish person stereotype,” for the sake of helping break down what’s actually happening and why it works the ways that it does.

There are two forces at work here, not unrelated to each other but not identical either. One is the portrayal of evil characters using tropes that suggest Jewish coding, and the other is a cultural suspicion of Jewish people’s motives and actions. They’re two sides of the same coin, perhaps, but I’d like to look at them separately, since the difference--that one refers to fictional characters and the other to actual people--matters in the context of reading and writing fiction.

Jewish coding in Villain characters

There are aspects of a character’s physical appearance that can suggest Jewishness even as we acknowledge that Jewish individuals don’t necessarily match those looks. Those might include a hooked nose, hair that is curly or red, a sallow complexion, an angular face. These attributes are not inherently bad: a text portraying them is antisemitic when these attributes are a visual signal of bad motives or are only present in bad characters and not good ones. Although not at issue here, it’s worth noting that these attributes can also raise questions in settings where all Jewish characters have them, because the flip side of these attributes being used to denote Jewishness is the erasure of Jewish people who don’t have these looks.

There are also aspects of a character’s personality that are repetitions of historical accusations against Jews, justifications for violence or persecution rather than reflections of genuine events. These might include greed, arrogance, bloodthirstiness, and a willingness to hurt or kill children for personal gain. These tropes have accrued over centuries in spite of the fact that every single one of them runs counter to any genuine Jewish values because ultimately, they’re not based on real-world actions by real-life Jewish people, but a product of leader after leader over time riling up their followers into dehumanizing a minority population, for the usual reasons people have for dehumanizing minority populations.

Jewish coding in villain characters is not necessarily the same as stereotyping Jewish people as being evil. It does however support and maintain unconscious antisemitic biases. That is to say, when you meet someone who is Jewish, you’re not necessarily thinking “Mother Gothel was coded with Jewish tropes so this Jewish person probably is evil,” but if someone shows you a picture of a person with a hooked nose and curly hair and says “this person is greedy and hurts children,” exposure to Mother Gothel and other fictional villains on the same model might make you less likely to say “That doesn’t sound right.”

Meanwhile, back in Michigan

Like Shira said, your character is not the mastermind of the murder she’s being forced into. Rather, she’s a victim of whatever character or circumstance is forcing her into it. As long as that’s apparent in your narrative, you’re not supporting an existing harmful trope or stereotype. I would treat the concept differently if this were, for instance, a dark narrative of a remorseless killer. In the current climate I would also advise against any imagery of a Jewish person of any age or agency killing a child or person of color of any kind, as that is the latest iteration of the medieval blood libel in modern times. I would even have pause in this situation, where she’s not the author of her own act but does commit it, if she does not experience remorse or if she enjoys doing it. What matters here is her motive.

If this character is Jewish, then that’s going to affect her approach to the incident in certain ways. While Christian and Christian-influenced secular culture regard “good” and “bad” as the ultimate thing to worry about, even at the cost of martyrdom or murder, Judaism places life as the highest value. There are very few of the laws and customs of Jewish life that one is not expected to break in order to avoid death, but one of those is murder. Now, Jewish characters make choices that aren’t perfectly consistent with Jewish law all the time, so what I’m asking is not to not write this, but to write it on purpose.

What does it do to your character?

Who is she before and after?

How many of us could truly choose to die rather than kill in her situation?

Does she own perhaps a necklace or decor item with the word “חי” on it?

What does seeing it do to her?

In what other ways does her Jewishness make her interesting and relevant as a character?

If it’s just curly hair and matzah ball soup on an otherwise Christian character, why bother. But if you’re willing to put in the time to research Jewish attitudes toward life and death and how they differ--even and especially in a teenager’s schema--from the Christian and Christian-influenced majority conception, then there’s room for an interesting narrative here.

-Meir

#Jewish #villains #Jewish stereotypes #Jewish tropes #Characterization #representation #Jewish coding #description #asks #Murder tw

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caxasy · 2 days ago

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caleb x male reader, based off of the card stage oberver bc i played it and ltr smirked the entire time bc mc is soooo me

-> implied childhood friends (atp assume every caleb x male reader is a childhood friends trope tbh), mc's name is lily, caleb is #gayaf <3

“oh my god, no way!” lily’s voice exclaimed, knelt over caleb’s belongings. “you won’t believe what i just found!”

“hm? snooping doesn’t get you anywhere, lily,” you chide her, not entirely interested as you help put away his belongings.

”snooping does in this case!” she bounds over to you with a smile on her face, “look what i found!”

“a piece of paper?” your eyes watch her expectantly, “and that is significant because…”

“because it’s not just a piece of paper! it’s a love letter, without a doubt!” she points at it, “look it’s got his favorite stickers plastered all around it!” she points to the little figures. an airplane, apples, oranges, and even some cute animal stickers.

“did you open it?” you ask, not out of curiosity, but more so in a warning way.

she shakes her head, “of course i wouldn’t actually read a love letter to caleb-oppa, that’s so weird! but, look at the evidence, it’s all pointing towards a love letter! it was even stuffed in his planner, the one written with all his assignments, which means he kept it there because it was something of utmost importance to him! what else would it be besides a love letter!” her rambling continued on as she followed you around his room. it seems she had given up cleaning and organizing in favor of trying to convince that what she had found was truly groundbreaking.

“hm, maybe it’s all those coupons he kept from you that you wrote when you two were kids,” you muse, not putting it past caleb to keep things like that. no, he definitely did, “it probably is, honestly. you know how he is and how he loves holding you to your word like that,”

she pouts, shaking her head, “he’s already used up all the ones i’ve given him…i think, or at least, that’s what it feels like,” she murmurs the last part of the sentence in a dejected tone, looking tired at the memory, “i swear he’s used countless coupons in the past couple months, just for stupid stuff too!”

“you’re the one that wrote them,” you comment, ruffling her hair to see her expression screw up in even more annoyance. “and if it isn’t coupons, then i have no clue what it is…or why we should even care,” you try subtly reminding her that caleb’s love life, if it was even that, isn’t necessarily your guys’ business.

“you don’t care? what if someone steals caleb from us? he’s already graduating — learning that he’s getting into a committed relationship just means less time for us!” she reasons and you almost chuckle at her obviously, very serious concerns.

“who’s stealing who exactly?”

speak of the devil and he shall appear.

lily nearly squeaked before she hurriedly shuffledso that your taller figure was blocking her body from caleb’s view, hiding what she was doing, quite literally, behind your back.

“nothing, lily just has a raging suspicion-”

the girl had immediately covered your mouth with her hand, standing on her tippy toes to do so. you tilted your head in confusion, widening your eyes at her as if silently saying “what gives?” but she just shushed you with her finger to her lips.

“nothing, i was just saying…how messy your room is! and how you have so much stuff! like, how are you even going to fit this all in one suitcase?” she starts rambling, a habit that she has when she lies, but caleb doesn’t press on further. instead, he opts to wave his hand at her dismissively.

“i can sort through the most of it by myself,” he says in a matter-a-fact tone.

“oh, so you just invited us here days earlier from your actual graduation to show off then?” you tease, looking around at his room, “i mean, look at all the photos on your desk of the friends you’ve made, its cute how much of a social butterfly you are, caleb,”

he looks at the stray photostrips and pictures he has on his desk, sheepishly scratching the back of his neck, “well, those photobooths always give extras, so i can’t just not take them,”

”it’s good to see you were well acquainted, they all look so friendly,” you say, a smile on your face as your eyes trace over the photographs.

your words seem to snap lily out of her stupor as she rushes forward and begins observing the photo, scanning all of the faces in the pictures.

“wait, tell us about all of them! i want to know more!” her enthusiasm seems off-putting to both you and caleb, but the latter doesn’t say anything and decides to appease her. he lists off of a lot of names, noting their relationship to him with simple words like “classmate” or “study-buddy”.

“why didn’t you have any girl friends? girl, space, friends?” now this made caleb falter slightly, confusion written across his face.

”uhm, i don’t know? they just weren’t in my social circle like that,” he says it casually, as if it’s really not all that important. but to lily, and her mission in proving that caleb has a secret, hidden girlfriend, it’s of all the importance.

“you’re such a liar! all the girls in highschool would woo over you, you mean to tell me they didn’t even try being your friend in college?” she scoffed at the idea, showing how unbelievably a bad liar caleb was being. but he was telling the truth.

“i’m not interested in girls anyway!” he exclaims in defense of himself, eyes flickering to you in realization of what he said before he corrected it, “er- i mean! getting to know girls like that! ugh, pip-squeak! you and your silly questions are really making my mind melt!” his gaze looked at your reaction for a split second, but he snapped his head away from your eyes when they made eye contact with his. the reaction made you quirk your brow up in intrigue.

meanwhile, lily just giggles behind her hand, enjoying the way her interrogation is playing out, “hm, your reaction says otherwise! i think maybe you have a secret you’re not telling me and oppa,” hearing yourself be dragged into the conversation, you lazily look over at the two. “i’ll get it out of you eventually, dummy caleb!”

“why do you even care that much? weirdo…” caleb murmurs, walking away from her and to get some of his things off of his bed, which was scattered with a bunch of belongings.

he reaches for his planner, spraying the pages open in fluidity. he repeated it a couple of more times before dropping it onto the bed and looking through the other stuff in front of him.

if you hadn’t known him better, you would think he was just looking for something underneath all of his junk. but you and lily could see it; the hint of franticness and panic in his movements. without even seeing his face, he seemed to be more frenzied than a couple seconds earlier.

“uhm, are you okay, caleb?” you ask, walking over and seeing his face, eyebrows pinched together in worry.

“i’m, uh, fine. just looking for something,” he explains in a rush, “you guys haven’t touch the things on my bed, yet, right?”

you shake your head, speaking for yourself before looking over at lily, who you know for a fact did. that’s where she got that “love letter” from anyway, that planner that caleb just flipped through about 10 times.

“nope, not yet,” you deadpan at her lie, but caleb seems to believe her. he runs his hand through his hair before shaking his head.

“nevermind, i’ll look for it later,” he turns around to face you properly, taking your wrist in his hand and pulling you with him, “let’s head out for some fresh air, i have to do some shopping for dinner,”

you and lily share a look of confusion, wondering what got caleb all jumpy. hurriedly, you grab onto her wrist as well, caleb now dragging the two of you out of his dorm room and onto the streets of skyhaven.

when you arrive at the supermarket, lily glues herself to your side to continue gossipping about the supposed love letter she found, “see? he wouldn’t act that way unless it was a love letter! i kind of want to read it now,” there’s a mischievous glint in her eyes, but you flick her forehead in disapproval.

”why don’t you just ask him, lily?”

“but there’s no fun in that! i want to hear him say it,” she whines, punching your shoulder, right before holding your arm close to her body. the two of you walk in sync with each other, as she pressed her cheek to your sleeve. “it’s interesting to think about caleb getting a girlfriend, isn’t it?”

your face makes an expression she can’t read, “not really, he’s charming and like you said before, he’d always get attention in highschool,”

“yeah, but highschool isn’t even serious,” she waves her hand, eyes rolling, “didn’t people confess to you all the time too? and look where you’re at now! still single!” she sticks her tongue out at you, teasing you.

“haha,” your mocking laughter makes her giggles even louder, “don’t speak as if you know everything either, lily, you graduated from highschool, like, last year,”

“i know enough,” she says with finality, “i know that caleb was super worried about that letter and he was super flustered explaining his girl-friend situation earlier. he’s probably thinking of her right now,” she sighs, dreamily almost, as if she’s envisioning caleb and his secret relationship. “one of you needed a girlfriend sooner or later, i’m kind of glad it’s caleb! means that he can stop hogging you all to himself, finally some lily and [name] time together!”

“nobody hogs anybody,” you try to reason, but she just rolls her eyes and pouts, “plus, i’d be happy for him too, but you’re beyond excited,” you laugh, finding her investigation equally odd and endearing.

“what are you two talking about over there? stop making me look like a guy that’s here all by myself,” caleb halts in his step, waiting for you two to catch up before he grabs your hand, “c’mon, hyung, i need help picking what meat we should have for dinner tonight,”

“hey! i was just talking to him!” lily cries out, following after you as caleb tugs you away.

“yeah, and you’ve been talking to him for the entire day — my turn, pip-squeak,” he says, tone light and not that serious, but his expression doesn’t have a hint of a joke being told. you’d call it a warning glare, but it wasn’t that hostile…right?

“ugh, just like i said, hogging,” lily comments to herself, busying herself in looking at the snack and chip section. “i’ll be waiting here!”

”that wasn’t very kind, caleb,” you chide, once again playing peace maker between the two. he just shakes his head, grip on your wrist only tightening.

“you guys are only here for a couple of days before i have to be sent off to that program, even farther away from home than skyhaven. you two spent the entire day yesterday and today together. meanwhile, i haven’t even been able to spend more than 10 minutes with you — alone,” caleb’s ramblings make you affectionately ruffle his hair, a sad smile on your face.

“okay, well, we’re here together now so it’s okay. don’t be so mean to lily next time, though,”

he rolls his eyes at the mention to mind his manners again, “she knows what she’s doing and she always gets away with it because you let her!”

“careful how you speak, one would think you dislike her — which we both know is the opposite. you adore lily,” you say as if reminding him, but he just groans.

“only don’t like her when she takes away my time from you,” he says, leaning more into your figure. the height difference between you two wasn’t much, the shoes you were wearing making you only a couple of centimeters taller than him. but when he was hunched over, into your frame, it made him look shorter and smaller than he actually was.

“oh, you big baby,” you run your hand through his dark hair, tugging at the roots at the base of his neck, “c’mon, tell me what you want to eat and i’ll choose the best ones,” you coax him, making him unbury his head from your neck and look at the selection.

“pork belly,” he says simply, before turning his head back into your skin, breathing you in.

“oooh, you have a grill in your dorm? we can have samgyeopsal,” it was almost mouth watering to think about.

“hm, we will have to use the shared kitchen but no one would mind, so it’s fine,” he leans more of his weight on you, making you chuckle slightly at his clingy behavior, “it sounds yummy. promise to grill my meat for me?” he asks gently, making you smile at his childish request.

“of course i will. should we leave lily to fend for herself then?”

he laughs as if the joke you told was too funny, but that’s only because he knows that lily would never grill her own meat, relying on one of you two to do it for her, “yeah, just wait to see how that’ll play out,”

“probably another fight between the two of you,”

“probably,” caleb hums, watching you with a dreamy smile on his face.

he’s been trying to keep his need to be near you to a minimum, but he’s feeling a bit too angsty to hold back. ever since you’ve arrive, as he told you earlier, he’s barely had any alone time with you. he thought that the three of you were going to sleep in his dorm room for the entire stay until his graduation day, but the academy wouldn’t let him.

so, an unfortunate solution was you and lily rooming together in a hotel that was a couple of blocks down. and since the school was being strict on curfews and staying out anywhere that wasn’t your own dorm, he wasn’t able to stay the nights with you guys. he assumes the academy is just paranoid of the big graduation ceremony being ruined, but it just annoyed him to no end.

he was only able to spend, what felt like, passing moments with you. so he was really trying to soak in the alone time you two would get now, even if it was in the supermarket.

it didn’t help that he couldn’t find one of his most prized possessions earlier. the thing that was hidden in his planner, that he strategically kept there so he always knew where it was. his fingers twitched in anxiety at the thought of it being currently missing. he swallowed harshly, reminding himself to turn his room upside down until he found it. he wouldn’t leave until it was back with him, safe.

the letter he thought was missing when it was currently sitting in lily’s purse that was slung over her shoulder.

only because it was a letter you had written for him to only open once he graduated from college. what was written inside, he had no idea. and he had been so patient — for years since you had handed it to him — to not open it and take a peak at it. but now that it was time for him to properly unravel and read it, it goes missing.

it was enough to make worry and anxiety creep into his mind every couple of seconds. he had to find that letter. it was the one thing that kept pushing him along on nights where the assignments became too much, when the exams were so stressful. it was his grounding anchor to keep going until he was finished. he thought of it as his ultimate reward coming from you.

he needed that letter.

... should i make a pt 2 ...

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highlyentropicmind · 1 day ago

Text

Your idea inspired me to write

Rematch

But life survived, and humanity survived, if only in one small group. Over the years their suffering turned into community, their survival turned into life, and eventually they thrived

“Let's make a tower to reach the heavens, so that we don’t spread over the Earth again,” one of them said one day “Last time we tried that God punished us,” one of them warned them. “I remember, from the old stories.” Indeed, only she among them was old enough to remember “Oh?,” he replied, looking at her, processing her warning. “How did God punished us back then?” “God confused our languages so that we couldn’t work together” “Languages…” he said and went to a corner of the house, were the old books were kept, relics of the past. “People had mastered the science of languages back then” “That came after,” she explained. “By then people were already divided and could never work together again. God had achieved its goal” “But we have the science of languages now,” he insisted, waving the book around. “It won’t be the same, we know what to expect”

And so they planned ahead and prepared themselves. They learned every aspect of the science of languages which the old ones had sent them through time in their books. They learned the parts that were clear, and the parts that were obscure and esoteric. They made no distinction. From Semiotics to Kabbalah, they made no distinction

Then they finally started building, and eventually God noticed

The confusion didn’t come all at once. It permeated them, confusing small phrases and simple greetings. Two friends would say hi to each other only to realize with horror the sounds weren’t quite right, and they couldn’t remember which one was right, and to each other the other sounded wrong

At first writing was enough to keep this at bay. They made dictionaries, they used clear symbols for the sounds, if there was disagreement they could consult the book and follow it. But the confusion became more and more common, so people began writing the words in their clothes, writing them on their skin. The confusion floated among them, but they were swimming through it

And the tower grew taller

Then the structure of sentences began to change, people felt compelled to put verbs at the end of sentences, or they felt they made no sense if the verb wasn’t at the start. They felt a noun had to change forms somehow if it was a place, or the subject of an action, a thing being posses always had a slightly different word that something that wasn’t possessed, right? And the time… How did we use to talk about time? Actions can be complete or incomplete, or in the past and the future… Or the present, or even more the present… What do you mean even more the present?

For this reason every night a person would be chosen at random, they would stand in the dinner, and they would tell everyone about their day, about their work, what they had done and seen. Everyone had to listen carefully and the next day they would have to immitate this way of speaking, no matter how odd it sounded to them. It was always familiar to what everyone already spoke, they just had to get used to the ways in which it was different. This way they would understand each other for another day

And the tower grew taller

That was the secret, wasn’t it? Talking to each other

They noticed that people who worked together would be confused in similar ways away from the others. The same was true for friends who kept in touch, and families

God could only separate them from the people they were already distant from. The people they didn’t work with, the strangers they didn’t know. By making an effort to know everyone, at least a little, God couldn’t pull them apart

Until eventually that of course wasn’t enough. The confusion would reach deeper into their minds until everything was foreign. A person would discover in horror they couldn’t understand anyone around them, whether spoken nor written, and they would speak with new words they didn’t know

Then the new rabbis, and gurus, and druids and dervishes and linguists would come. They would hear the person speak in this new language, and they would marvel in its beauty, they would chant the words, they would recite the phrases, they would twirl in contemplation of the sounds, and they would analyze the grammar

Each new language was a gift

The confusion was not something to be feared

As they came to understand the new languages they had been blessed with, they realized they could do new things, think new thoughts, sing new songs, divide the universe in new ways

Some would never forget the position of North, South, East and West, some could talk just by whistling, or humming, some could talk in complete silence, with their hands….

Still, communication was hard, so they encoded a new language, one not made by God, but by them. Every time someone was blessed with a new language they could just learn this one again. It was difficult, and yet, it was easier every time

And the tower grew taller

Eventually they learned to protect themselves from God’s confusion

They found that a circuit of a hundred rabbis chanting the secret names of the angels would ward of the confusion. Something similar could be achieved by chanting sacred mantras, or reciting new vedas

Writing also protected them. The walls of the tower were adorned by spiraling lines of sacred poetry in all the languages God had gifted them. The poems began at the base and they continued spiraling up as the tower continued to grow, past the mountains, past the clouds, past their air itself, into the darkness where stars could be seen at any hour of the day, the tower continued to grow

They did not spread over the Earth, they worked together and eventually they reached God, and greeted him with their smug smiles

“Best of three?,” God asked

(I put it in Wattpad, if you care)

Computer game where you're building a tower level by level and the closer you get to heaven the harder it becomes to fight off God.

#linguistics #philosophy #tumblr writers #writing prompt #babel

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cinnamongrl2006 · 2 days ago

Note

what if…. English Major nerd!jason tutoring bimbo!reader… and reader’s entire mission is to just annoy him / flirt with him so he’ll do her course work so she doesn’t have to

* ⊹₊⟡⋆ mdni 18+ * ⊹₊⟡⋆

a/n: My queen @ditzydoe444 has some stuff about this that are soo scrumptious, so defo check her blog out, THAT BEING SAID— here’s my interpretation of it, enjoyy. Also, do we like the new format or was the three picture banner thing cuter? Also, this gave me war flashbacks from my uni lit class, that was WAR *

Warnings: fingering (idk, nothing else happens, guys)

When you were assigned Jason as a tutor for your English lit course you thought it'd be easy to get him to do all the work, a bat of your eyes and an empty promise and he'd be scrambling behind you like a lost puppy; however, you soon found it wasn't like that.

At first he didn't think much of the lingering touches and fleeting glances, of the way you'd rest your hand on his thigh and leaned over his hips to see the glowing laptop screen better, or how you’d chew on your lip, looking up at him with wide eyes; but then came the bolder touches, the flirting and pouting your glossed lips at him when you didn’t want to do the coursework.

And Jason, sweet and doting, smiled back with his cheeks and ears red and a boner in his jeans.

You prided yourself in the fact that you could get him hard nearly as quick as he got you soaked, you’d always had a thing for nerdy guys.

Jason was anything but stupid, and he quickly realized you were trying to lure him to do all the work, so when you put your hand over his clothed cock that day— running it up and down his half hard shaft while you spoke about the reading with feigned innocence— he didn’t stop you, instead he angled his hips up into your palm and groaned, smiling at your flustered look.

You recovered quickly, manicured hand gripping his clothed cock harder, complaining about how you just didnt get the coursework.

“Come on…you do get it, we’ve gone over it before. It’s just— metaphors.” His voice came out strained, breathy.

“No, Jay, I swear I don’t— can’t you just…do it so I can see what it is?” You whined, body angled towards him, buzzing at the proximity; your tits pushed up enticingly close to his face.

He could give in easily, reach out and—no. He’d voluteered to tutor you, not fuck you (no matter how much he wanted to do the latter).

All his resolve came crumbling when you spread your legs slightly and placed his hand on your inner thigh.

“You can at least explain it again, no?” Your fingers wrapped around his wrist, pulling his hand closer to where you wanted it.

That’s how you ended up with his thick fingers playing with your clit as he quizzed you. Whenever you’d get a question wrong his movements would halt, if you staggered or didn’t know the answer, he’d slow down.

“I don’t know, Jay, I swear!” You whined, hips pushing up against his hand.

“Babe, you do know. Come on, I told you less than an hour ago.” His tone didn’t have that usual veil of stoicism you’d once confused with shyness, he was almost patronizing.

“Let’s do this,” He ripped his hand off your panties, his fingers glistened with your arousal when he pushed them past your lips. “If you get the question right, I’ll put a finger in.”

You whined, sucking his fingers clean. “Fine.”

“Okay, use your pretty little head, what do you think?” His words were sweet, calming as he snaked his hand up your skirt and under your panties again.

“It’s…lady Macbeth?” You whined, his hand now so close to where you needed him.

“Such a smart girl,” He pushed a finger in. “See? You just needed an incentive, didn’t you?”

────୨ৎ────

* I’m sooo considering doing a part two for this of just smut because I lovedd writing it, so if the anon who sent this wants it lmkkk!!

masterlist

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rex-rambles · 18 hours ago

Text

➤ YOU ARE HERE | OSCAR PIASTRI

pairing: oscar piastri x soulmate!reader

summary: you and oscar discover that you're soulmates when randomly, once a year, you trade places for five minutes. it goes about as well as you expect for an f1 driver.

wc: 6.1 k

warnings: angst with a happy ending! mentions of minor injuries and hospitalization

➤ MASTERLIST

2019

Waiting to figure out how you're going to meet your soulmate can be exhausting.

For some people, it's simple: a red string around their pinky, a timer on their wrist, not seeing colour until you finally lock eyes, but for you? Since you've turned eighteen, there have been no signs at all. No magically appearing footprints, no mystery injuries to match your soulmate.

Nothing.

You had tried to figure out what strange, hidden thing it could possibly be, but nothing made sense. Perhaps your soulmate would be someone else with no symptoms; perhaps you didn't have one at all.

That's why, when you wake up in a strangers bed, your first thought isn't about soulmates. It's the middle of the night, or at least it should be, yet the sun faintly shines through the curtains, an unfamiliar alarm clock blaring on a nightstand, which, rolling over to look at, is not your night stand, and is not your alarm clock, and this most certainly isn't your childhood bedroom.

It takes a moment to realize that you haven't been kidnapped, whipping off the covers and standing in the middle of the rather messy room, and rather, you've been transported...somewhere. The notepad on the bedside table explains that it's a Hilton hotel, and slowly, picking up the few pieces of dirty laundry scattered about, you realize you must have traded places with your soulmate.

Swapping locations wasn’t exactly uncommon, but it was a strange thing to wake up to in the night. You quickly move through the drawers of the tables and desks, trying to find something to write down your personal information with before you return to normal. You're not sure if it was a permanent thing, or a matter of minutes, but you're also a bit too tired to care right now. Instead, you write down your name, begin to write the first digits of your phone number, and in a blink, you're standing before your own bathroom mirror.

Well, at least your soulmate would know your name. Considering the whole swapping thing, your soulmate must have woken up in your room too, luckily much tidier than his hotel room was, but it's still an embarrassing thought, the stuffed animals nearby, the old posters on your walls. Finally recognizing why you're standing in front of your mirror, you realize whoever your soulmate is has tried their best to get a message across, lipstick smeared on your mirror in what you realize are words:

Oscar Pi

Seems he got cut off by the timing the swap, the lipstick now laying open in your sink, but with a growing smile, you find that you don't really care, because your soulmate does exist.

Oscar.

It's a good name, you think.

2020

The second time it happens, Oscar is on vacation, and he's not really prepared for it. He'd biked up a cliffside trail, overlooking the small, coastal Australian town where he and his family were staying. He'd stopped to take a break when suddenly, he was standing in the middle of a grocery store in nothing but his bike gear.

At least, he thinks, you hadn't been standing in the freezer section.

Ever since your first swap, Oscar had tried everything in his power to recreate it, the way he had fallen asleep, everything he had done that same day, but he was starting to think your swapping was a once-a-year type of ordeal, or maybe you were in charge of it. If he could ask, maybe he could know, but it had been difficult trying to figure out how to contact you, considering all he got was a name, and he was travelling so often. At least you'd have a nice view, when you teleport to where he was. If his parents are quick enough up the trail, you might even meet them.

Oscar stares down at the basket in hand, a rather strange mix of mostly junk food, and without thinking, he turns to the nearby fruit stand and places a few oranges and apples in for good measure. Then, as he moves towards a banana, he realizes he should be trying to get his number to you in some way. There's even less nearby for him to possibly write with than your room, and considering the few people staring at him, he can't exactly walk up to someone to relay the message.

Everyone had told him he had time to meet you, to get your number, but knowing you existed after questioning it for so long meant that Oscar wanted forever to start now. Finally, an old woman takes pity and offers him a smile, and with a deep breath, he approaches her. "Excuse me?"

"Riding? In this weather?" The woman says, eyeing him up and down. "You're a brave one, dear."

"I've just swapped places with my soulmate," He manages to get out, "Could you take a message?"

"Oh, how sweet! You know, it took me four years to find my soulmate after I turned eighteen. We shared reflections in mirrors, made it pretty tricky to get ready for the day!" Oscar nods along as happily as he can, trying not to rush the poor woman, but also desperately needing to get his message out. "Sorry, what did you want to say?"

"Tell them I'm from Australia, and my phone number is-" He blinks, and finds himself back on the trail, and he curses so loudly that when his sister rides up to him, she looks rather shocked.

Hattie pauses, lowering her bike as Oscar forces himself to sit on the ground, bringing his knees to his chest. "What, you crash your bike?"

"I traded places with my soulmate, and couldn't tell them my phone number, again." Then, he finds his phone in the grass beside him, and for a joyful moment, he thinks you might have left a message, and finds something only marginally better: a photo. You're pretty in a way that shocks him to his core, that you're his, that you're supposed to be together. You're turned to show the distance in the background, a thumbs up as if to show you approve of his vacation location. Then, in the sand beside the path, he finds your number scrawled, only for it to be blown away in the wind.

When you return to the grocery store, you find yourself in front of an old woman, and far more fruit in your basket than a human should need.

2023

For the next two years, it goes on about the same. You end up outside some racing track in Barcelona, and the workers don't understand what you're drunkenly asking, and Oscar ends up at a bar where everyone's too gone to relay the message. You end up walking dogs in Australia in a snowsuit while Oscar ends up in the middle of a ski hill, wiping out before he can even think of giving out his number.

You've sort of given up hope, at least for now, that you and Oscar could finally coordinate it. You carry sharpies wherever you go, just in case you end up somewhere you can actually write it down. All that preparation doesn't help, however, when it happens again in the middle of the night.

You end up in some orange room with nothing but a massage table, and when you step out into the hall, you find yourself among people dressed in orange who look just as surprised to see you as you are surprised to see them.

"What are you doing back here?" It doesn't help, you realize, that you're just in an oversized t-shirt. "Get out!"

"I'm Oscar's soulmate!" You quickly try to explain, though the few people around don't seem to believe it.

"Sure, you're Oscar Piastri's soulmate, and you're here like that?"

Piastri. You should probably be more worried about what's about to happen, but you can't really focus on that.

You have a last name. "We trade places. That's our thing. You have to give him my number-"

"Can we get security to escort them out? I don't buy it." Someone says, snapping their fingers at a guard. "I've never heard Oscar mention trading places with a soulmate before." A security guard, larger than any human you've ever seen before, tries to corral you backwards as you helplessly explain, over and over, but it's not use.

You're shoved out an emergency door, and with a blink, you're standing in your bedroom.

Oscar Piastri.

Never mentioned trading places with a soulmate. You slowly sink onto the edge of your bed, trying to figure out why he'd never say anything, and all the answers don't seem right. Maybe he was just a private person, but still, trading places with your soulmate, potentially at any time, is the kind of thing you mention to people.

Oscar Piastri. You grab your phone, before realizing that Oscar must have been in your room, must have left something behind, but despite the way you tear your room apart, you find no note, see no number, not even a selfie on your phone.

Never mentioned you, never tried to give you his number.

Maybe all this time, he was avoiding you on purpose, and sinking back into your bed, you finally google his name.

Oscar Piastri, F1 driver.

Maybe someone that famous didn't need a soulmate.

Maybe someone that famous didn't need you.

2025

Oscar's pretty sure, after his security team threw you out in 2023, that you had to hate him. He hadn't been able to leave behind a number yet, hadn't been able to find you on any social media, but you must've been able to search for him by now. That night, when he blinked back to stare at a very confused security guard through tears, he realized he'd sobbed his way through your last swap, unable to do anything but stand there.

It was pretty pathetic, all things considered. 2024 wasn't any better, another hotel room swap as Oscar ended up in the bathroom of some university, surrounded by women who screamed and chased him out and ruined his chance of leaving his number, again. You hadn't left a number or anything on your end, but you had finished folding his laundry, which is the only sign that you might still want to find him.

This year, he had a feeling it wasn't going to be any better. In fact, ever since extending his contract with McLaren, he's had this deep-seated fear that refused to go away. If it was possible to trade places in beds, on bikes, and when skiing, then it would be possible in cars. Not just any cars, either.

In his racing car.

And you might die in a fiery wreck before Oscar even gets the chance to meet you, to give you his number, anything. You'll die hating him, and he'll have to go throughout life soulmate-less.

"You alright, mate?" Lando says quietly beside him from the driver's parade. "You're just...tense."

"I have a bad feeling today," He says, and maybe because he said it, maybe because he always knew, maybe because the universe hates him, it happens. He's just pushing out into a straight when he blinks and finds himself in all his gear at the front of a lecture hall, and the world goes silent for a moment.

You're in his car. For what Oscar can gather about you, you're most certainly not trained, you're not wearing any protective gear, and you are in one of the fastest cars on the planet, hurling toward your death at any second. "Well, I can't say I've seen this before." Someone he assumes to be your professor says, "An adventurous soulmate swap."

Four minutes. He rips off his helmet and the sleeve under it, and trying to calm his breathing, all he can think to say is, "You need to call an ambulance."

"What?" The professor looks at him in shock, and Oscar gestures to himself.

"I'm an F1 driver, a racecar driver." What could he possibly say? That a potentially mangled corpse is about to teleport into this room? "My soulmate...oh god, they've been swapped with me, in my car, without protection. If they can't control the car, they're going to crash and end up back here." Finally, what he's waited for his whole life is before him: a pen and paper. He scribbles his information down quickly, phone number, name, address, social media handles, anything and everything. "I need you to be prepared for it to be bad."

“I need everyone out of the room, now.” Immediately, the students are up and out of their seats, and Oscar pulls his helmet back on and waits.

You’re a student. He has no way of knowing if you can even drive, and he’s just chucked you into an F1 race, broadcast for everyone to see, and he has no idea what to do with himself. How does he possibly apologize for this? For maybe ruining your life? Who wants a soulmate who kills them before their first date? Tears spring to his eyes before he can stop it, and vaguely, he recognizes a phone being shown before his face.

“They seem to be okay?” A student says, extending a phone to him as he watches his own car choppily slow down, but it's not enough. You could hit a barrier, you could hit another car, and you'd be dead.

Instantly.

"What...what university is this?" He says, muffled by the helmet.

"University of Oxford, England. This is a conference, to showcase student work." Oxford.

You must be smart, then.

And he's the reason your brain is going to break.

You knew Oscar was an F1 driver, but it had never occurred to you that you might swap during a race. For a moment, when you open your eyes, you don't really believe it. The steering wheel in hand, feet on the gas, it's like a dream, and then every sense hits you at once that this is not what you're supposed to be doing.

You try to slow down, but the car isn't like a normal car, the force of it pressing you back into the seat as you force your eyes shut, the sound of it deafening, the weight, the car, the movement, it all spirals into a sensation that you can't control. The gas pedal itself is the hardest thing it feels to push, but you grunt your way through it as the car slows, the feeling of the ground underneath it changing, but you still can't bear to open your eyes, can't stand the thought that you're about to die without even meeting the stupid owner of this car, who probably doesn't even want to meet you.

You're not sure how long it takes, but finally, the car stops. The world stops. Your chest heaves, your head rolls, but the car is not moving, and you are alive, albeit unable to move, or hear, or function at all, really. Your eyes blink up to stare at a helmet peering over you, your own reflection staring back from its visor. If the driver is saying something, you can't hear. They take off their helmet, revealing a head of curly hair and a very, very concerned expression.

It's Oscar's teammate.

Lando, you think. He's quick to try and get you up out of the car, arms coming to undo the clasps keeping you in, and your arms very loosely manage to work their way around his neck.

As he tries to get you up, however, the world spins and you think you might be sick. He's saying something, you can tell he must be saying something, but it doesn't register. All you see is the dread on his face as you slip back down, hitting the lecture hall floor before you pass out.

Oscar comes to hugging Lando.

"No no no-" Lando's voice is shrill, obviously scared, and Oscar doesn't want to think of how hurt you must've been for Lando to stop racing and try to pull you out of the car. "Oscar? Your soulmate! Why the fuck wouldn't you tell us you swap places-"

"Are they alive?" Oscar shouts, ripping off his helmet as he manages to get out of the car, and Lando nods. "They didn't...they didn't crash?"

"Mate, they fucking steered the thing eyes closed." Lando and him stand on the grass for a minute, just taking in the moment before Oscar realizes you're back in Oxford, probably collapsed, injured, heaven forbid dying, and it doesn't take him long to get moving.

No one really knows what to do, and Oscar doesn't blame them. He never told anyone, until that fateful day, that he and his soulmate swapped places. It would be a hazard, something that would hold him back from F1. He refused to allow anything to stop him from what he'd dreamt of his whole life, but today, all that advice makes perfect sense. Because of him, because he wanted to go farther, to do more, he put his one true love in harm's way, and if you die, he's not sure how he's going to live with himself.

Passing flashing cameras, he finds that he doesn't care what the headlines say, doesn't care that he just threw the race for McLaren, he needs to be on the first plane to England as soon as possible, because he truly has no way of knowing if you're alive.

He's not waiting another year to find out.

For the past two hours, you'd folded the paper Oscar left you perhaps a hundred times, carefully into a perfect square before unwrapping it again. It was on the back of your script for your presentation, the contents of it now long forgotten for the frantic writing.

It begins with I'm so sorry.

It lists his full name, his phone number, his mother's phone number, a man named 'Mark Webber's phone number, his instagram, his twitter, both of which you'd already found. His address in Melbourne, his address in Monaco. Everything to identify himself with, finally in the palm of your hands, but you had yet to contact him. He was probably still racing, you found yourself arguing. Probably busy. It's all excuses that hold you back, but you wouldn't know what to say if you tried in the first place.

Hi, it's your soulmate you almost killed?

"How's the dizziness, darling?" A nurse asks over you, and you're broken from your intense folding of the paper to look up at her, and the room only spins a tiny bit.

"Better than before, still a little...woozy." She hums, writes something down.

"I think you might take the cake for patients today. Teleported into an F1 car by your soulmate," She muses, "What a world we live in. And your leg?"

"Sore, but survivable." Apparently, F1 cars' braking systems take a ridiculous amount of force to push, and while the adrenaline had let you brake, the aftereffect was that your whole left leg hurt, from hip to the tips of your toes. "Are you sure I'm fine to just leave? I'm not going to collapse on the street?"

The nurse flips through your papers. "You have no concussions, no ear damage from the car, no sprains or tears, I think it was just a mix of exhaustion, adrenaline crashing, and shock that made you pass out. Does anything still feel wrong? Anything out of the ordinary?"

The paper in your hands folds itself into a neat little square as you think. The world just sort of feels slow, or maybe suddenly too fast for things to make sense, that you were in that car, that Oscar had told them to call an ambulance for you, that you survived it all. That you were barely even hurt.

"There's a madman running through the parking lot." The room of patients turns to look at the elderly man in the bed closest to the window. His pain medication had made him quite the entertainment for the two hours you've been in and out of scans and tests, but this time, he seemed adamant. "Someone stop him. Looks like he's set himself on fire."

"What?" The nurse is gone from your side in an instant, before quickly sighing and placing a hand over her heart. "He's just wearing orange, Paul. He's not on fire."

Just wearing orange.

For the first time unaided in two hours, you rise from your bed and join them at the window, dragging your left leg as you walk, and watch Oscar slide between cars like some sort of action star, standing out amongst the grey weather in a neon orange hoodie before he manages to sprint inside, and the paper in hand suddenly feels so overwhelming that you're not really sure what to do.

He's here.

For you.

You don't know where he was racing, but considering he was here in two hours, it couldn't have been that far, or maybe he had a private jet, or maybe the the world was both too slow and too fast for you to keep up. Without thinking, you move out the hall and into the central area with the nurses desk as the elevator dings open, and for the first time, you see Oscar.

He's surprisingly dishevelled, considering you're the one who just got transported into one of the world's fastest cars. His hoodie seems a bit too big on him, and taking him in as he quickly approaches the nurses' desk, so are his pants. If you didn't know better, you wouldn't think they were his, and you're not really sure what to do with that information.

He just grabbed the closest thing to get changed to get to you? "I'm sorry, I can't understand what you're saying." One of the nurses says to him, "You need to slow down."

"Soulmate," He says between gasping breaths, "Not a car accident, but teleported into my car, hurt-"

"Oscar." You say before you can really stop yourself, approaching his side, and he just sort of waves a hand in your direction.

"I don't know if they're alive, or dead, or-"

"Oscar?" You realize he doesn't know the sound of your voice, like you do his. As gently as you can, you reach out and place a hand on the back of his neck, the closest exposed skin to you. The final step of a soulmate connection was touch, and you had heard so much about it: how sparks fly, how you've never felt more in love, how it changes the world, but it was just Oscar.

It was just you. Gently placing a hand on the back of his neck, to comfort him despite all that you had been through today, was just where you were meant to be. It was right, and it was normal, and you gently spread your fingers into the back of his hair as he slowly turned to you, your hand drifting now to hold his cheek. "I'm right here."

"You're here." Oscar breathes out slowly, quickly scanning you for any sign of injury, and without even knowing, his eyes settle on your sore leg, staring at it intently. "You are actually here."

"You're a hard person to track down, you know." Then, without much ceremony, Oscar slumps into you. It's as if all the weight he'd been carrying his entire life had been let go from his shoulders, practically folding over you. He buries his face into the side of your neck as his arms latch around you, pulling you tight to his chest. It's a desperate sort of thing that has you realizing how terrifying it must have been from his end of the swap, of hearing that you were in his car, knowing you would be hurt. You hold him back just as tight, hands gently smoothing against his broad shoulders as if to show that you're here, and you're safe.

"You have no idea." He grumbles softly, and you can feel the heat rise to your cheeks at the feeling of his lips so close to your skin, now pressed into a smile. "Worst soulmate trait ever." He pulls away slowly, and this close, you take in all the details you never could before. He's almost growing stubble, in need of a shave, a soft spattering of freckles across his face and neck. You find yourself stuck on the fact that he's yours, that he's staring at you, that he's real. "I'm so sorry," He tries to say, and you rush to cut him off.

"You didn't have any control over this." That's the sort of thing, with soulmates. It's meant to be, but you have no control over who it is, how far they are, what you have to do to find each other. The most important thing is that you did find each other, and if you get a ridiculous story to tell out of it, then you don't mind the hardships it took to get him here. Despite it all, however, there is one question that remains in your mind. "Why didn't you tell anyone?" Doubt comes creeping back in, so ingrained in your mind that even when holding your soulmate, you couldn't quite let go of it. "Seems important for an F1 Driver to mention someone else might swap into his car."

Oscar's eyes don't quite meet yours, returning to stare at your leg. Maybe it's a special soulmate ability to tell when the other is hurt. Maybe he just needs someone else to look at besides your eyes. "I didn't want them to think it was a liability. Not that you are a liability, it's just...you can see why they might not let me race if they knew this would happen." Then, without so much as taking a breath, he begins again. "I'm so sorry-"

"Oscar." His name feels right, on your tongue, and based on the way his eyes light up, it sounds right to him, too. "It's okay." You can understand why he'd do it. Not the smartest thing in the world, but then again, you didn't need some genius for a soulmate, you just needed Oscar. A small, perfect, ridiculous smile finally grows on his face, and you find yourself grinning up at him. You suppose it's your turn to apologize now for whatever damage you did to his car. "I'm sorry for making you lose the race."

"Lose?" Oscar echoes with a soft laugh, the kind of sound that makes you hate all the near misses before ten times over. "You didn't crash, you even got onto the grass safely. Ever considered a future in F1?"

"Well, I’ve considered a future with an f1 driver, does that count?"

Curled up in your hotel bed, Oscar begins trying to sort through the information he'd learned today. You were pursuing your masters, in a subject he can't really put his finger on currently, but he has the rest of his life to figure it out. Whatever it was, it was important enough that you were at Oxford presenting about it when you swapped into his car.

When you swapped back, you passed out, and woke up being brought into the ambulance. It was confusing, they ran a million tests, but you're okay, if just exhausted.

You were okay.

You were alive.

And you were currently taking a shower while Oscar sat on your hotel room bed and tried not to die himself. You had watched his races, kept tabs on him. Now that you weren't just passing by in the night, he had your number, every social media account. He had even introduced you to his mom, who tore a strip off of him over Facetime for not telling McLaren sooner about the soulmate-swapping thing, but that was all over now.

You were alive.

You were here. The shower turns off and Oscar stares intently down at Lando's pants, the closest thing he could find before rushing out, where the McLaren team let him use their private jet to get over to the closest airport in record time. He makes a mental note to thank Lando for his clothes, but that all goes down the drain when the door opens and you're standing in just an oversized t-shirt, haloed by the light of the bathroom, and Oscar rediscovers how attractive you are all over again.

You were staying the night together, seeing as Oscar had time, and the jet had already left back to the race. He wouldn't have tried to leave anyway. You needed someone to be here after everything that happened, and Oscar needed to meet you.

You limp slightly as you approach the bed, the only sign of the day you'd had, and the way the left side of your shirt rides up unevenly with your step makes Oscar blush in a way he didn't know was possible. This must have been what you looked like when you swapped into his hotel room for the first time, his. brain supplements as he forces himself to look back down at his lap. He remembers waking up to your childhood bedroom, the soft twinkling lights, the stuffed animals. It was so sweet, knowing you existed, and then he frantically tried to find a way to contact you, and ended up smearing make-up over your mirror.

Then, it was the grocery store, a bar, a ski hill. Always missing each other to lead to this moment now, and seeing how you're looking at him when you kneel on the bed, Oscar can't even be mad it took so long.

Because you're here.

You're alive. "How do you think they pick?"

"What?"

"How do you think the universe picks soulmates?" You ask, curling up next to him. Despite the fact he basically refused to let go of you when you first met, he's now hesitant to touch. After all, you were still just getting to meet each other. You hadn't even had a date yet. "Like what makes you my soulmate? How does the universe even pull off the swap?"

"No one knows." One of life's great mysteries, unfortunately. Oscar's pretty sure there's a science that goes into it, but right now, it doesn't feel like science: it feels like fate. "I suppose the universe just has a way of tying people together who are meant to be."

You yawn in response, leaning back against the headboard and kicking your legs out, and Oscar's hands rest on the edge of Lando's hoodie. You just sort of nod at him and he pulls it off, not quite able to meet your eye, and you can't seem to do the same, suddenly very interested in the ceiling. "I have another sleep shirt, if you want. But you have to promise not to be weird about it."

"Weird about it?" You slip from the bed to root through your suitcase, and Oscar quickly takes off his pants before he can think too much about sitting in front of you in his underwear. You toss something at him, and Oscar catches it midair, unravelling it to reveal one of his own shirt designs for the Austin Grand Prix, and his brain sort of breaks.

You bought one of his shirts.

You sleep in it.

And he hadn't even heard your voice until earlier. "Couldn't afford to go to a race to see you," You say softly, standing awkwardly in the dim light of the hotel room. "Got the next best thing."

"I think," He answers dryly, letting the shirt fall to his lap, "The next best thing is actually right here."

"Wow," You say, a laugh bubbling out of you that makes Oscar thinks that maybe, just maybe the universe really knows what they're doing. "Really?"

"All I'm saying," He says as he pulls the oversized shirt over his head, "Is that who needs an Oscar Piastri shirt when you have Oscar Piastri?"

"That's the last time I spend money on your merch," You answer resolutely. "I get free stuff for the rest of time."

Then, with a soft glint to your eye, you launch yourself onto the bed, falling backward with another laugh, and Oscar looms over you, giddier than he thinks he's ever felt before. You were all his, and you were right here. You weren't going to teleport away, weren't going to disappear. He had your phone number, and he was debating getting it tattooed on his forearm for good measure. "You can have whatever you want after what I've put you through."

"That's a dangerous declaration, Oscar." Your voice saying his name still seems so strange, but it's right. He's just going to have to get you to say it a few more times to get used to it. Your hand gently smooths up his chest, waiting right over his pounding heart, and your eyes flicker up to his at the feeling of how fast it's racing.

It should be weird, really, for two strangers to be suddenly soulmates. There's an adjustment period everyone has to go through, the first dates, the first hundred questions needing to be asked about favourite colours, about life goals, but all of that stress, that awkwardness, slips away with your hand on his chest, your eyes on his, because the chase is finally over. Oscar might be good at racing, but going slow, with you, with the rest of his life, doesn't seem so bad.

"I think," He finally says, "The universe figures out what someone needs in another person, and picks that way."

"And what do you need?" Then, as cheesy as it is, as much as he knows the others will groan about it when he tells them every vivid detail, he very gently says,

"You. Here." Then, to be more serious, "Someone to keep me calm. What do you need?"

You don't answer him, but rather lean up to gently press your lips to his, and Oscar tries to thank every individual star, every planet, every galaxy that makes up the universe for putting you here, for him, forever. It's soft and sweet and hesitant, the kind of thing Oscar needed this to be. It's you, here, with him, and it's every mile over the speed limit Oscar's ever driven, and it's slow and it's steady like everything Oscar didn't realize he needed in his life.

2025, Again

It was a very different experience, being on this side of the race.

You had only seen it from screens, and then the grass, but being in the paddock was like its own little world. If you were alone, you're sure you could exist here on your own without anyone noticing, but considering you were walking in beside Oscar, hand in hand, people were starting to pick up on who you were very quickly.

"You know, that's a first in F1 History," Someone with a camera says, pointing at you and Oscar. "A soulmate swap into an F1 car! We're quite happy you turned out okay, but have you considered ever getting into a car again? Maybe following in Oscar's footsteps?"

Oscar looks at you, checking to see if you want to answer, and you smile up at him. "I am happy to never set foot in a race car again, actually. I don't know how you do it, or how anyone does it."

"You didn't do that bad," Oscar says, shaking his head. "You just need the right protection and the right training."

"The closest I am ever going to get to a race car is here," You joke softly, offering a small wave to the camera operator. "I'm happy to enjoy the comforts of the paddock."

"Your loss," Oscar says before pressing a kiss to your temple, and it hasn't gotten any less thrilling since your first kiss. It had been four months since you'd finally met, and it had been a lot of strange negotiations to get you here, date nights spent with Oscar flying out to you to get to know you, and in return, Oscar flying you out to get to know him, and see Monaco, and finally, now, his races.

You were worried it would bring back some sort of traumatic memory, but if anything, it was exciting. You were here with no threat of being shoved in a car or crashing, but rather to watch Oscar in his element. He guides you through the day, stopping into hospitality, meeting people, meeting Lando again. You'd already sort of met, considering he was trying to haul you out of the car, but now you could actually talk and thank him without a racecar in the way.

Oscar suits up eventually, about to start the race, and he corners you just before he goes out. "If it gets too overwhelming, just let someone know, okay?"

"Oscar, I'll be fine. I want to see you race." He presses a quick kiss to your forehead, and you choose to grab the front of his fireproofs, pulling him down to kiss him properly. "Now go win so I can finally hold a trophy."

"That's what you want? A trophy?" He asks with a laugh, putting his helmet on. "Not me getting the points?"

"After my race? I want my participation trophy." Then, because you can't ever truly ignore him, "And obviously I want you to win to do well too. Trophy just comes first." He shakes his head, moving away from you, and thought muffled, you can make out him saying three words neither of you had said yet, something you hadn't known how to. You freeze in the hallway of the paddock, watching him go, and it's a blur as people try to find you a headset and a monitor to look at, but it doesn't last very long.

You were soulmates. You knew that, obviously, but it still felt strange to think about what it really meant, how you really felt, what the future held.

Your mind drifts to those thoughts as easily as Oscar makes his rounds. He's got a second-place start, which is good, but watching the cars goes around and around on the screen isn't what you came here for. You could do that anytime, any place.

So, against all better judgment, you don't stay put with the thoughts of what might be, what to do, what to say. Instead, you make for the stands, and sit and listen to the cars whip by, feel the force and the wind, and it's everything you thought a race would be before you had accidentally partaken in one. It's fast, it's loud, and it's distracting, but it's good, intoxicating as the fans cheer, the cars almost too quick to make out their movements.

At some point, Oscar gets the lead, and you think you and the McLaren fans around you lose your voices as you scream for him, and despite how hard you try, you find yourself wondering why the universe picks soulmates like it does. Why it would in the first place? Love can be so many things, loving sports, loving family, but with Oscar, it's something so wholly new that makes you think the universe was onto something.

Because the universe figures out what someone needs in another person, and picks that way. That's what Oscar had said.

When the race ends, and you're ambling down the stands and back to the paddock, it's the universe guiding you. When you get to where they park the cars, and Oscar is standing on top of his, he keeps looking around, helmet already off as he's squinting at the crowd forming nearby of McLaren workers, because the universe figures out what someone needs in another person, and picks that way.

And Oscar needs to find you, in the crowd, to know you're there, to know it's real.

And you need Oscar, who's rushing to you like a man on a mission, like how he was that day at the hospital, and without thinking, your hand finds the back of his neck, pulling him in for an indentical hug as his face presses into your neck, and the universe congratulates itself for putting two pieces back together again.

"I was watching in the stands," Is what you mean to say to Oscar, and you do, but maybe it's the universe, maybe it's him, maybe it's the adrenaline still pumping, but you find yourself adding something to the end before you can stop yourself. "I love you."

And though you can't hear it, over the sound of the crowd screaming around him, the sound of your own heart, the sound of the fireworks, you feel the way he says the words back to you, and what it really means.

I love you.

You are here.

a/n: returning to my fanfic roots with a soulmate au + my first time writing for oscar!!

#➤ rex works #➤ op81 #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri fic #oscar piastri angst #oscar piastri fluff #f1 x reader #f1 fluff #f1 angst #formula one x reader #f1 imagines #reader insert #soulmates

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