#hes a wiser person than i am

[elizais]

"ranpo is the smartest!" this

"fyodor is the smartest!" that

asagiri is the smartest for not showing his face considering all the shit he pulls

[im-pure]

Me: its ok to be humiliating around my crush think of Till the simp king its ok to look stupid its ok

[monsterfactoryfanfic]

if I've learned anything from grad school it's to check your sources, and this has proven invaluable in the dozens of instances when I've had an MBA-type try to tell me something about finances or leadership. Case in point:

Firefox serves me clickbaity articles through Pocket, which is fine because I like Firefox. But sometimes an article makes me curious. I'm pretty anal about my finances, and I wondered if this article was, as I suspected, total horseshit, or could potentially benefit me and help me get my spending under control. So let's check the article in question.

It mostly seems like common sense. "...track expenses and income for at least a month before setting a budget...How much money do I have or earn? How much do I want to save?" Basic shit like that. But then I get to this section:

This sounds fucking made up to me. And thankfully, they've provided a source to their claim that "research has repeatedly shown" that writing things down changes behavior. First mistake. What research is this?

Forbes, naturally, my #1 source for absolute dogshit fart-sniffing financial schlock. Forbes is the type of website that guy from high school who constantly posts on linkedin trawls daily for little articles like this that make him feel better about refusing to pay for a decent package for his employees' healthcare (I'm from the United States, a barbaric, conflict-ridden country in the throes of civil unrest, so obsessed with violence that its warlords prioritize weapons over universal medical coverage. I digress). Forbes constantly posts shit like this, and I constantly spend my time at leadership seminars debunking poor consultants who get paid to read these claims credulously. Look at this highlighted text. Does it make sense to you that simply writing your financial goals down would result in a 10x increase in your income? Because if it does, let me make you an offer on this sick ass bridge.

Thankfully, Forbes also makes the mistake of citing their sources. Let's check to see where this hyperlink goes:

SidSavara. I've never heard of this site, but the About section tells me that Sid is "a technology leader who empowers teams to grow into their best selves. He is a life-long learner enjoys developing software, leading teams in delivering mission critical projects, playing guitar and watching football and basketball."

That doesn't mean anything. What are his LinkedIn credentials? With the caveat that anyone can lie on Linkedin, Mr. Savara appears to be a Software Engineer. Which is fine! I'm glad software engineers exist! But Sid's got nothing in his professional history which suggests he knows shit about finance. So I'm already pretty skeptical of his website, which is increasingly looking like a personal fart-huffing blog.

The article itself repeats the credulous claim made in the Forbes story earlier, but this time, provides no link for the 3% story. Mr. Savara is smarter than his colleages at Forbes, it's much wiser to just make shit up.

HOWEVER. I am not the first person to have followed this rabbit hole. Because at the very top of this article, there is a disclaimer.

Uh oh!

Sid's been called out before, and in the follow up to this article, he reveals the truth.

You can guess where this is going.

So to go back to the VERY beginning of this post, both Pocket/Good Housekeeping and Forbes failed to do even the most basic of research, taking the wild claim that writing down your budget may increase your income by 10x on good faith and the word of a(n admittedly honest about his shortcomings) software engineer.

Why did I spend 30 minutes to make a tumblr post about this? Mostly to show off how smart I am, but also to remind folks of just how flimsy any claim on the internet can be. Click those links, follow those sources, and when the sources stop linking, ask why.

[incognit0slut]

Crawling back to you

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Simmons!Reader Summary: You never planned on having a casual fling with your brother's friend five years ago, nor did you expect him to fall in love with you, which forced you to end things abruptly. But now he's unexpectedly back in your life—older, wiser, and fully intent on winning your heart. Content: (18+) >12k words, reader has commitment issues, he’s the softest softdom i’ve ever written, female oral, fingering, unprotected p in v, a little squirting? teeth rotting fluff and a chaotic ending because who am i without my crack humor A/n: This is for @imagining-in-the-margins FWB writing challenge and somewhat a celebration post for 7k milestone. Idk how that happened but tysm :( I hope you like this as much as I did writing it because matt simmons is so underrated??? I’m also freaking nervous with this i haven’t posted a new fic in a while so please please please be nice i feel like throwing up

Surprise has a way of stopping time. Although you're not sure you can call it that. What you’re experiencing is more than just surprise, it’s the kind of feeling that makes you freeze in place. It’s not just a jolt to the system—it’s a full-body takeover. Your breath catches, your heart skips, and your thoughts scatter like leaves caught in the wind. How could they not, when the last person you expected to see is standing right in front of you, clad in the most questionable clothes?

You almost laugh at how absurd he looks. He’s wearing an oversized hoodie with a tacky “Washington D.C.” print sprawled across the front. It’s baffling why he’s draped in that shapeless thing over his freakishly tall frame, but it’s too hard to focus on something so trivial when you’re still grasping with the reality of seeing him again. You really can’t believe it. Spencer Reid is here. The Spencer Reid.

The guy whose heart you broke five years ago.

You should have seen this coming. In fact, you kind of did, when your brother’s friends came rushing into the hospital room, their voices a chorus of “oohs” and “aahs” as they crowded around the newborn cradled in Kristy’s arms. You exchanged polite greetings when they noticed you—Penelope even pulled you into a tight hug, gushing about how amazing you looked—and thankfully, there was no sign of him.

But you’d almost allowed yourself to believe he wouldn’t show up. When the small space became overly crowded, you stepped out into the waiting room to catch your breath… only to find him standing a few feet away with JJ.

And just like that, all the air seems to vanish from your lungs.

You had a plan, of course. In the back of your mind, you always knew a chance meeting was inevitable, whether you liked it or not. And that plan was simple. You’d offer him a polite smile. Exchange a few words, nothing too personal. You’d be friendly but distant, always make sure to keep the kind of composure that says you’ve moved on, and that the past is just that: the past.

But those well-laid plans seem fragile now, almost naive as you suddenly caught his smile. Now how do you stick to a script when your heart is starting to rewrite all the lines? Or blur the lines specifically, when the past and present merge so seamlessly that you’re reminded of the first time that same smile had charmed you.

You’re suddenly thrown back to that day five years ago, when your brother had thrown a barbecue cookout to celebrate some joint investigation his team had wrapped up. You didn’t know the details—didn’t really care to, if you were honest—but Matt had called you and insisted that you join him.

You hadn't thought much of it at the time. It sounded like another family gathering with a few new faces. But that was the day you met Spencer, and what began as a simple introduction quickly spiraled into something much more complicated. Really complicated. Because as charmed as you were by his smile, he had wanted something more from you when all you could offer him was your body.

So you ran away.

Although not very far, because apparently, he’s standing a few steps away from you, five years later. And the worst part? He’s now very much aware that you’re here. You watch as his jaw slacks open as he takes a double-take. You’re rooted in place. JJ, on the other hand, tugs his sleeve as she notices his demeanor slowly shutting down. She turns around to see what’s caught his attention, and when she spots you, a huge smile spreads across her face.

"Hey! You're here!” You force yourself to look away from him as she moves forward. You reciprocate the hug she throws at you. "How are you?”

You’re not entirely sure how to answer. How do you even explain that your heart just did a triple backflip and landed somewhere near your stomach? Or that you’re seconds away from having an internal existential crisis because, of course, the universe would choose this moment to throw Spencer Reid back into your life?

There's really no good way to sum that up. So instead, you plaster on a smile that probably looks more like a grimace and reply, "Good. I’m good.”

JJ doesn’t seem to notice the strained edges in your voice. “It’s so nice to see you again! How long has it been?”

There’s a moment of silence as you try to gather your thoughts. But before you can respond, Spencer’s voice suddenly cuts through the quiet. It’s soft, almost hesitant, as if he’s been holding onto this detail for far too long, but every syllable rings in your ears.

"Five years," he says. "Five years, three months, and seventeen days."

Your stomach does another flip. JJ raises her brows, her eyes darting between you and him. You carefully meet her gaze. "Actually, you and I met up last year.”

“Oh, right!” She exclaims, her face lighting up as the memory clicks into place. “You were in town for a conference, right? I totally forgot about that.”

“You were in town last year and you didn’t tell me?”

God, he’s making it terribly hard for you to keep your composure. You throw him a sidelong glance. “I didn’t know you wanted to see me.”

His expression shifts slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. He looks at you as if your words sounds ludicrous to him.

“I always want to see you.”

You can't decide what surprises you more, the fact that he still wants to see you after all these years, or how easily he says it. The words roll off his tongue so casually, so effortlessly, as if the weight of your shared past doesn’t cling to them. And to make matters worse, he's saying this right in front of JJ, who is now staring at him, clearly scrutinizing the significance behind his words.

You quickly shift your attention to her, forcing another smile. "So, are you going to head inside?"

JJ blinks at you. “Oh, yeah, I probably should.” She turns to Spencer and gives him a quick but knowing glance. "See you on Monday, Spence."

You glance at him. “You're not going to see the baby?"

"Spencer’s got something he needs to take care of,” JJ chimes in. There’s a slight edge to her voice, like she knows exactly what that ‘something’ is, but she doesn’t elaborate. She gives him one last look before heading inside.

You catch yourself looking up at him again. “You’re leaving?”

Spencer pauses, studying you carefully, his brow furrowing just slightly like he’s trying to read between the lines of your question.

“I was,” he says softly.

There’s a sudden tightness in your chest. “Right.”

“But now I don’t want to.”

There it goes again, the butterflies in your stomach. This is exactly why you didn’t want to see him. You knew that once you looked into his eyes, heard his voice, it would stir up everything you’ve spent five years trying to bury. You’d told yourself it was better to pretend that whatever happened between you was nothing more than a stupid choice. But now, standing here with him so close, you can feel all those walls you built crumbling down with just a few words.

You finally look at him, like really look at him. It’s impossible not to notice how he’s changed over the past five years. There are faint lines around his eyes now, signs of age that wasn't there before. His hair is longer, a little messier. It curls around his ears in a way that makes him look almost boyish, yet undeniably charming which suits him more than you'd like to admit.

But even with all the changes, his smile—gentle and just a little shy—remains the same. That smile reminds you of a time when things were simpler, where it was enough to convince you that you didn't have to keep your guard up all the time. But then you remember the reason you walked away, and his smile becomes a little harder to look at.

Because while he's changed, grown, matured, so have you, and you're not sure if there's room for the person you are now in the space that once belonged to both of you.

His eyes scan you in the same way you’re assessing him. “You look good.”

Your mouth twitches at his words. You didn’t expect him to be so straightforward. “Thank you.”

“You’re even prettier than I remember.”

The sigh you let out is long and weary. He really knows how to push your buttons.

“Spencer. Don’t.”

“What?”

“You can’t just say things like that after—” You hesitate, crossing your arms. "After everything. What happened to 'Hi, how are you?’. Or maybe something simple like ‘What have you been up to? Anything new?’”

He blinks, clearly taken aback by your abruptness. “Okay. Hi, how are you?”

You cast him a wary glance. “Good.”

"What have you been up to?"

"Work."

"Anything new?"

"No."

He pauses again, his eyes searching yours before he asks, "No new boyfriend?"

You frown. “Huh?”

“Girlfriend?”

"Spencer."

"Are you seeing anyone?"

"Spencer."

He smiles sheepishly, his shoulders sagging slightly. "You're right, that was inappropriate. I didn't think I would see you again, it’s throwing me off a bit."

“You didn’t think I would be here for my newborn niece?”

His smile turns into a grimace. "I guess I wasn't thinking clearly." He shifts on his feet, fidgeting with his fingers—a small, familiar tic that you hadn’t seen in years. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make things weird.”

“It’s fine,” you reply, though there’s no real bite to your words. His nervous energy is making it hard to stay annoyed. Your eyes narrow on his oversized hoodie again, the casual, almost careless choice that seems slightly out of character for the Spencer you remember.

He seems to notice you staring so blatantly. “What?”

“You look funny.”

A hint of surprise flashes across his face. “You think I’m funny?”

“Different,” you correct. “Did you raid someone’s closet on your way here or something?”

"Oh… I had to change my clothes. I got wet at the park earlier.”

You glance towards the window with a frown. "It's not even raining."

"I ran through the sprinklers."

The cease on your forehead deepens. Even that sounds so unlike him. Spencer Reid doing something that carefree in public?

“You ran through the sprinklers? Alone?"

You notice his expression shift as the question leaves your lips, something very subtle, but you’ve known him long enough to catch it. The way his eyes flicker, the slight hesitation before he answers, makes it obvious. There’s a hint of something unspoken in the way he looks at you, and suddenly, it all clicks into place.

He wasn’t alone.

You look away. It's ridiculous, you think. To feel this somewhat… jealous when it should be the last thing on your mind because, really, what right do you have? What you had with him wasn’t even a relationship to begin with. But despite all the logic in the world, you can’t help the pang in your chest, the twist of something bitter and familiar curling in your gut.

"It's not what you think," he slowly says.

You force a small, awkward laugh, trying to brush it off. "I wasn’t assuming anything. It’s none of my business, anyway."

"No, really, it's nothing like that." he insists, scrunching his nose in the way he does when he's trying to think. "I mean, I did meet someone at the park, but it’s not like… what you might be thinking. We were just talking, and… and then there were these sprinklers and it wasn’t really planned or anything, then she—well, technically, we weren’t even alone the whole time because there were other people around, and it’s not like we—”

“Spencer, you don’t have to explain—” you begin, but then something dawns on you. “Wait, is this what JJ was referring to? Did you… Did you have plans?”

You notice his Adam’s apple dip as he swallows. "Kind of," he admits. “But it wasn't anything serious. It was just, you know, a casual thing.”

You can't help the way your stomach knots. Casual could mean anything. Maybe a simple coffee between two friends, or even a lighthearted conversation over lunch. But in your experience, at least in the book you and Spencer had written together in the past, casual had always meant sex. And now, hearing him say it about someone else feels like a punch to the gut you hadn't expected.

You suddenly feel foolish for letting your mind go there, for assuming that whatever he meant by casual was the same thing it had meant for the two of you back then. It's been five years, and so much has changed. Maybe casual means something entirely different for him now, and you're the one stuck in the past, reading into things that no longer hold the same weight.

He must have noticed the slight falter in your expression, the way your eyes momentarily cloud over with something you can’t quite hide. He takes a step forward. "It’s really nothing.”

You take a step back. “Even if it is, it’s really not my business.”

“But it’s not,” he urges. He’s suddenly so persistent, and you can’t help but feel the embarrassment gnawing you at how easily he can read your mind. It's one thing to wrestle with these feelings privately, but having them so clearly acknowledged makes it all the more humiliating. You can’t believe you let yourself get so worked up over something that shouldn’t matter this much.

You eye the exit door. “I need to go.”

"Right now?” His brows knit together in confusion. “But your family’s here."

You’ve only spent a few minutes with him and you’re already running away.

"I just remembered I have to take care of… something."

The excuse sounds weak even to your own ears, but you don’t wait for his response. You quickly turn on your heel, and when he calls out your name with concern, you force yourself to keep moving, scurrying off down the hallway.

Me: I'm heading back first Big bro: You okay? Me: Bad headache Big Bro: You didn't eat anything, did you?

You scoff. What is it about your brother always zeroing in on eating whenever you complain about feeling off?

Me: You know I did. Just not much Big Bro: That’s what I thought. There’s some leftover dinner in the fridge. And check the second drawer in the kitchen, there should be some ibuprofen Me: Yes, Dad Big Bro: Don’t get smart with me Me: 🫡 Big Bro: Drink lots of water Me: Yes, sir. Anything else on your mind while you’re giving out parental advice? Big Bro: I’m just trying to keep myself from dragging you out of my house if you collapse Me: 🙄 Big Bro: The kids are staying with Kristy’s parents, I’ll drop by tomorrow morning Me: Okay Big Bro: Call me if you need anything

You toss your phone down on the bed, then let out the most exasperated sigh. Spending your Saturday night in your brother’s guest room is the last thing you expect to be doing, let alone faking a headache just to avoid confronting a situationship from the past. You honestly thought you’d outgrown this kind of avoidance, but here you are, slipping back into old habits as if no time has passed at all.

Ironically, your mind stumbles into the past, and you remember a conversation you once had with Spencer. It was during one of those nights when you both were tangled in each other’s arms. You could faintly remember the conversation started with him talking about his work.

He never actually told you the details of his cases, but he liked to share his thoughts on the different complexities of the human mind. And on that particular night, he was rambling about the psychological concept of avoidance, which he claimed to have detected the first time he spotted the bad guy. He went on at how people often retreat into familiar behaviors to protect themselves from discomfort.

At the time, you had brushed it off with a joke, teasing him about overanalyzing everything when the situation had already played out. But now the irony isn’t lost on you. You’re doing exactly what he once explained. It’s almost laughable if it didn’t sting so much to realize how right he was.

A sharp ding from your phone pulls you out of your thoughts, and one glance at it tells you exactly who’s messaging. The name on the screen makes your chest tighten, but you don’t even give yourself a moment to consider responding. You quickly turn the phone to silent, push yourself off the bed, and head straight for the kitchen. True to your brother’s words, there’s leftover pizza in the fridge, but the idea of reheating it doesn’t seem appealing to you.

You reach for the bottle of wine instead.

The red liquor tastes like butter, or something close to it. It’s similar in the way the liquid melts over your tongue, spreading warmth through your chest and settling comfortably in your belly. By the time you're sipping the second glass, you feel more relaxed, but then the sharp sound of the doorbell ringing cuts through the calm.

You glance at the door from the position of the couch. You have a strong feeling about who it is. But as much as you're sure of the who, what really gnaws at you is the why.

You hesitantly make your way toward the door, and sure enough, when you pull it open, Spencer is standing at your brother’s doorstep. The corner of his lips turns upward in an awkward, almost apologetic half-smile as if he’s unsure of how to begin or whether he should even be there in the first place.

You lean against the doorframe. “Did Matt tell you I was here?”

He gives you a pointed look, his eyebrows raising slightly. “No, but it wasn’t hard to figure out.” You throw him the same questioning look, and he explains, “This is the only place you’d stay in town because not only do you hate staying alone at a hotel, but Matt wouldn’t let you even if you tried.”

You can’t believe he still remembers your offhand comment about sterile hotel rooms. It’s one of the reasons you used to prefer staying at his apartment whenever you were in town.

“Why are you here anyway?” You ask. “I thought you had plans.”

He pauses for moment as if deciding how much to say. Finally, he clears his throat. “Can I come in? I’d rather explain it inside.”

"I don't think you owe me any explanations about what you do with your time," you reply, crossing your arms.

"Maybe I don't owe it, but I want to give it.”

“Which isn’t necessary.”

“But appreciated, I hope.”

You find yourself caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. You tell yourself not to read too much into it, but there's a part of you that can't help but soften at his words. Maybe it's the way his eyes reminds you of melted chocolate as he stares at you that makes you want to let him in, despite your better judgment.

You pull the door open. “Fine, but take your shoes off. Kristy’s very serious about hygiene.”

He does as he’s told and tucks away his shoes on the rack by the door.

“Do you want anything to drink?”

He shakes his head slightly, offering a small smile. "I'm good, thanks."

You nod and gesture toward the living room. He follows you, and as you both approach the couch, he instinctively moves to the far end, settling down cautiously as if not wanting to invade your space. You take a seat on the opposite end.

“So, what do you want to talk about?”

He leans back slightly, resting his hands on his knees. You can tell he's trying to gauge your mood, figure out how much to push and when to hold back. "Do you remember when we went on that date at the street fair?"

You frown, remembering how you had missed your bus home in one of your trips here and ended up wandering at the fair with him. “That wasn’t a date.”

"Fine. Do you remember when we went to the street fair together not on a date?"

“I remember."

His shoulders relax a bit at your response. “You spent ages deciding what to eat and you ended up choosing that little Korean stall in the corner. We had to walk a bit further to get there even when your shoes were hurting you.”

You think back, internally scolding yourself for wearing those damn boots that day. “You thought I was being ridiculous.”

"I didn't think it was ridiculous. I just didn't get it at first. Your feet were practically covered in blisters."

"I really wanted kimchi."

"I could tell, and it took me a while to understand why you went through all that trouble. Now I do.”

You glance at him, sensing there's more behind his words. “Why are you bringing this up?"

He meets your gaze. His brown eyes looking a little more golden underneath the dim light. "I guess this is me choosing.”

“That you’re craving for Korean?”

He gives a soft, genuine laugh, the kind that starts in his chest and reaches his eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. “Not exactly,” he says and leans a little closer. “What I’m trying to say is, that’s how I feel right now. I'm here because I want to be, not because it's convenient, but because it’s you.”

There’s a subtle flutter in your chest, and your skin prickles with a familiar warmth as he speaks. Your heart beats a little faster, not enough to be alarming, but just enough to remind you that you’re not as unaffected as you pretend to be. You can feel your palms start to sweat, and there’s that almost imperceptible hitch in your breathing that you hope he doesn’t notice.

“Spencer…” You don’t even know how to start. “It’s been five years."

He nods slowly. “I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do. A lot of has changed since the last time we saw each another, and you’re here acting like we both separated on good terms? Don't you hate me?”

His brow furrows slightly. “Why would I hate you?”

“Because I broke your heart. I—" Your voice falters as you struggle to find the right words. "The moment you told me you were falling in love with me, I... I ran. I couldn’t handle it. I pushed you away like a coward.”

“You weren't a coward, you were scared. And maybe I didn’t understand that back then, but I do now.”

You shake your head. “But I hurt you.”

The sigh he lets out is heavy, yet there's something deceptively calm about it, almost as if he’s already made peace with the past. “You did what you thought you had to do, and sure, it hurt. But I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, and I realized that I don’t blame you for needing space. It wasn’t about me not being enough, it was about you needing to protect yourself.”

His words start to chip away at the wall you’ve built around your heart. “I thought you’d hate me,” you admit quietly.

“I could never hate you."

You lower your gaze, your fingers fiddling nervously with the edge of the cushion. “Alright, let’s say you choose me. Now what? What is it that you want?”

He pauses for a moment, his fingers curled into his palms. He looks away briefly, taking a deep breath as if gathering his thoughts, then returns his gaze to you. “I want another chance.”

If you were surprised to see him at the hospital earlier, this is something entirely different. There’s something akin to panic fluttering in your chest. It’s amusing, really, how the human body reacts before the mind fully comprehends as if your heart knows what’s coming before you do. You can feel it in the way your breath catches, in the way your stomach knots with a nervous energy you can’t quite shake. Because how do you even react to that?

You finally turn to face him, leaning your head against the back of the couch. This moment feels like some sort of déjà vu, and just like the last time, your mind is already bracing itself, preparing to give him the same answer you did back then.

“You know it’s never going to work.”

He mirrors you, but instead of the frustration or sadness you half-expected, there’s a gentle smile on his lips. “You sound so sure.”

“That’s because I am,” you reply. “I know what you’re asking for right now, and we don’t function like that. Not in the past, at least.”

“How did we function?”

“Based on sex.”

“And what do you think I’m asking for now?”

“More than sex, which isn’t going to work."

“Why not?”

“Because—” you start, but the words catch in your throat. You’re not even sure how to explain. The fears, the doubts, the past... all of it feels too big, too overwhelming to articulate in a way that makes sense.

“Because the idea still terrifies you?”

You frown, caught off guard by the directness of his question. “No.”

The smile stretches even more across his face. “Then give me one good reason why you think so.”

"Oh I can name a few."

He studies you, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he’s trying to read every thought racing through your mind. “Let’s make a deal then. You give me those reasons why we can’t work, and I’ll give you reasons why we can.”

You’re quiet for a moment, considering his offer. It’s bold, almost reckless, and yet... there’s something in his eyes that makes you want to accept the challenge.

"And if your reasons aren’t good enough?"

“Then we’ll deal with that when we come to it,” he replies softly. “But I’m willing to bet we won’t have to.”

"You really think you can convince me?"

"I can try." He leans a little closer, just enough for you to feel the warmth radiating from his body. "So, what’s your first reason?"

That’s too easy, too obvious. “You’re one of my brother’s closest friends,” you point out. “What happens if this doesn’t work out? I don’t want to put him, or us, in that position.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “That didn’t stop us in the past.”

You scoff. “Spencer, we were sneaking around behind his back. It’s not exactly the same thing. This… whatever this is, it would be out in the open, and that’s a whole different level of complicated.”

“It would be different, yes. But that doesn’t mean it has to be a problem. If anything, it shows how serious we were then, and how serious we could be now.” You scrunch your nose at his response. “Now what’s next on your list?”

"Uhh.. the distance! You’re in D.C., and I’m not. It’s not like I can just drop everything and move closer.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re a three-hour drive away, maybe two if I take the expressway. And honestly, with how much we both travel for work, I don’t see how that’s an issue.”

His reasoning is so undeniably logical you feel a flicker of annoyance, not at him, but at how easily he’s dismantling your arguments.

“You didn’t even want to visit me back then.”

"You were the one who didn't want me to. You kept saying it was easier for you to come here.”

His words hit harder than you expect. You remember all the times you insisted on making the trips yourself. You'd convinced yourself it was about convenience, but with him calling you out on it, you realize it wasn't about convenience at all. It was about keeping things on your terms, maintaining a safe distance even when that distance wasn't physical.

"Well, I had more flexible hours," you claim. The excuse is flimsy, and the way Spencer looks at you—patient, but not fooled—makes it clear that he sees right through it.

You try to think of your next reason, although the words seem to get stuck before they even form. You know you can easily rattle off more excuses, but something about the way he’s looking at you makes it harder than it should be.

“That’s it? You’ve only thought of two? I was expecting a bit more of a challenge.”

You scowl at him. "I didn’t say I was done."

"Take your time," he comments, leaning back slightly, still wearing that infuriatingly patient smile.

You huff softly, trying to regain your footing. "Okay, how about this? Sex."

There's a beat of silence. "What about sex?"

You feel the words forming, but they sound ridiculous even in your own mind. Still, you force them out of your mouth. Your subconscious is urging you to come up with more excuses to keep him at arm’s length. "That was all that we had. What if… what if we just fall back into the same patterns?"

“Don't you think that's a reason why we can work? If we were only ever about sex and we're still here, doesn't that show there's something more between us?"

“Or it just means we had a strong physical connection. That doesn’t necessarily mean there’s something more.”

“You really believe that? That all we had was just physical?”

“Yes,” you retort, though the confidence in your voice wavers slightly. Your eyes flicker away for a split second before you meet his gaze again. “That’s all it ever was and I don’t know if it can turn into something you’re trying to imply.”

He lets out a low, amused sound, as the corners of his mouth twitches upward. “You’re deflecting.”

“I’m being realistic,” you shoot back. “What if we try, and it doesn’t work? What if everything falls apart because we weren’t good at anything but the sex?”

His eyes light up, and suddenly he’s wearing the most boyish grin you’ve ever seen on him. “So you're admitting the sex was good?"

You stop yourself from rolling your eyes.

“You know what I mean. What we had was...” Wild? Passionate? Crazy-hot-mind-blowing sex? “…intense. But intensity isn't enough for a relationship. What if the rest of it doesn't hold up?"

He leans in closer, his hand hovering near yours on the couch.

“But what if it does?”

All you can do is stare at him.

“You’re giving me all these reasons to push me away again,” he continues. “But I’m here because I’m not afraid of those doubts. I’ve always wanted to give you more than what we had because you deserve something real. I want us to be real this time, and I think you do too, even if you’re scared to admit it.”

His words are affecting you more than you like to admit. You can slowly feel it in the tension building between you, it’s surprisingly not the uncomfortable kind, but the sort that pulls you in, that makes you want to move closer even though every instinct tells you to stay put.

And then it happens. You feel a slight tremor in your leg, an involuntary movement that causes it to brush against his. The contact is so light it's almost like it didn't happen at all, but it did. He notices—Of course he does—and now there’s a certain gentleness in his gaze like he knows exactly what's going on inside your head. He doesn't push, doesn't rush, just watches you with those impossibly kind eyes.

And in the softest, most careful voice, he asks, “Can I move closer?"

Your heart is pounding now, the rhythm echoing in your ears, in your chest, in the pulse at your throat. The sensation travels downward, a slow, steady beat that moves through your body, inching its way down your spine, tightening in your stomach before it settles low in your abdomen. It’s a heat that spreads outward until it reaches your core, leaving you acutely aware of every inch of space between you and him—and how much you want to close that distance.

You find yourself nodding. He shifts closer. “Can I touch you?”

You really want to say something witty, something that might deflect from the weight of the situation, but the words won’t come out. You can only manage another nod. He moves slowly, carefully, giving you every opportunity to pull back. But you don’t. You can’t. You’re rooted in place as his hand reaches for you.

His palm gently rests on your jaw. Your eyes flutter closed against your consciousness, and the tension that’s been coiling in your chest slowly unwinds, replaced by a sense of calm. When his thumb slides across your cheek, he speaks again. His voice is so close it's as if the words themselves are brushing over your lips.

"Can I kiss you?"

You inhale sharply. The word "Yes" hovers on the tip of your tongue, but you don't need to say it out loud. He can already see the answer in the way you’re leaning into him, and his mouth is on yours in an instant.

The reality is, you’ve kissed Spencer before. Plenty of times, actually. You know the feel of his lips, the way they can be both gentle and demanding, the way he tastes faintly of coffee or something sweet when he’s had a treat. You also think back to those hurried kisses in the past when time was short and the world was pressing down on you. Or the playful pecks that came with laughter. Even the desperate, heated moments when the need to feel something, anything, was too overwhelming to resist.

This kiss, however, isn’t like any of those. This one is slow, and achingly tender. His movements are unhurried. The way his lips glide over yours carries a deep sense of care, like he’s trying to memorize every soft curve. Just as you begin to melt in his arms, he pulls away slightly, not very far, but enough to hover close that you can still feel the heat of his breath on your lips.

There’s a tense silence as the tip of his nose brushes gently against your cheek. You can tell he’s giving you the space to decide what happens next, and there are a lot of scenarios running in your head. You could push him away, repeating history all over again. You could be in denial and pretend all of this never even happened. But something inside you snaps.

Maybe it’s the way he’s holding back, so gentle, so careful, too afraid of pushing too far. Or maybe it’s the realization that you don’t want him to hold back, that you need more, that you’re tired of resisting what you’ve both been dancing around for so long. Before you can second guess yourself, you’re clutching onto the fabric of his hoodie, tugging him closer.

He tenses for a moment, but the hesitation is gone almost as soon as it appears. His mouth finds yours again, and he lets out a deep, relieved sigh. You feel the soft, insistent push of his tongue against the seam of your lips. You hold onto him, parting your mouth eagerly before he slips his tongue with a desperation that catches you off guard.

Then his hands seem to be everywhere all at once, tracing the curve of your spine, sliding down to the small of your back, and brushing along the edge of your jaw. His fingers then tangle in your hair, tugging gently while his other hand skims over your waist. But when his hand slips inside your shirt, calloused fingers brushing your soft skin, you slowly pull away. “W-Wait.”

His eyes widen slightly, and you can feel the shift in his body. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no,” you say quickly, tugging him closer again. “I just… I think we should continue this conversation somewhere more… private?”

He pauses for a moment. “Really?”

“If you want to.”

A subtle smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Are you trying to seduce me for sex?”

You’re oscillating between being incredibly turned on and equally mortified. In a sense, yes, that’s what you’re asking. But you didn’t expect him to be so blunt about it. You don’t think he’s ever been this direct in the past, and now you’re wondering if you missed something before, or if he’s just tapped into a level of confidence you’re struggling to keep up with.

“Would it be inappropriate if I said that I am?” you ask hesitantly, and you can’t help but wince a little as the words leave your mouth.

“Since when have you been worried about being inappropriate with me?”

“Well, Spencer, if you haven’t noticed, there’s a five-year gap since the last time we slept together.”

His hand on your waist tightens slightly. “Five years too long, if you ask me.” Then he pulls you closer until there’s barely any space left between you. “You do realize this is you giving me a second chance, right?"

In a way, you do. You've spent so much time convincing yourself that you were better off keeping your distance. Walking away in the past was easy, but now… now it feels different. The years have stretched on, and the excuses you’ve made have started to wear thin. Especially when just being near him is starting to stir memories you thought you’d buried—some good, some less so—but all intense, all Spencer.

Maybe he's right. Maybe five years is too long to pretend that whatever was between you didn't matter.

You slowly meet his gaze. “I realize.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

You hesitate, not out of doubt, but because of the sheer gravity of what you're about to say.

"Maybe."

His sigh is audible when he hears your answer, and without missing a beat, he brushes the barest, lightest, most gentle of kisses on your lips. “Maybe is good.” Kiss. “I can take—” Kiss. Kiss. “—maybe.”

You think you should say something more, but all coherent thoughts scatter the instant his lips meet yours again. You return his kisses, hesitant at first, but quickly falling into a rhythm that feels achingly familiar. It doesn’t take long until his lips move into something more urgent. There’s a hunger there, a pent-up longing that he can no longer hold back. His tongue flicks against yours, teasing, coaxing, and you know you need to stop him before he starts to undress you right there on the couch.

You reluctantly pull back. “Bedroom. Now.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He pulls you to your feet, and you’re practically dragging him to the guest bedroom. When the door closes behind you, he’s quick to guide you toward the bed, his hands firm on your hips as he steers you backward. The moment your legs hit the edge of the bed, he pauses, his hands lingering on your waist, and for a moment, he just looks at you.

“Having second thoughts?” You tease. The sarcasm drips sweetly in your voice, knowing full well he’s been trying to win your heart the entire evening.

“No,” he mutters. “I’m trying to see if you are.”

You draw back from his arms just enough to climb onto the bed and lay down in the middle. “Does it look like I am?”

He shakes his head with that cute, bashful smile. Although there’s nothing bashful about the way he pulls off his hoodie and tosses it carelessly onto the floor. The shirt underneath is crumpled, and his hair is even messier, sticking up in ways that make you want to run your hands through it.

“Come here,” you motion for him. Without hesitation, he crawls between your legs and leans in for another kiss. His hair feels like the smoothest silk when you finally reach for it. There’s a slight dampness from the faint sheen of sweat on his skin, the way it curls just slightly at the ends, brushing against your forehead as he dips his head to capture your mouth.

You don’t think you can ever get tired of kissing him. There’s a familiarity in the way he moves. His lips mold perfectly to yours, soft yet demanding, as if he knows exactly how to draw out the deepest parts of your desire. And you feel it everywhere. In your pulse, in your veins, all the way down to the spot between your legs.

It intensifies even more when his lips begin to trail down your neck. You feel the first warm rush of arousal pooling in your panties when he presses an open-mouthed kiss to your throat, the fluttering veins below your jaw with so much intensity as if he's taking every one of your heartbeats for himself. Your grip tightens in his hair as he marks another spot near your collarbone.

“I’ve missed this so much,” he murmurs as he slowly nips down your neck. “I’ve missed you.”

You can only hum a reply, your voice catching in your throat as your head starts to spin from the way his hands are now trailing down your side. He reaches the hem of your shirt and pauses, fingers lightly tugging at the fabric.

“Can I take this off?” He asks, pulling back slightly just enough to look down at you. With his messy hair falling into his glossy brown eyes and swollen wet lips, how can you possibly say no to him?

Without a second thought, you nod, your fingers already moving to help him with the fabric. His eyes never leave yours as he slowly lifts your shirt. It slides up over your skin, and you raise your arms to let him pull it off completely, tossing it aside without a care. Your bra comes off next, and when that follows to the floor, his eyes sweep over your body.

There’s a certain look in his gaze. Devotion would be too strong of a word, but it’s something close—something softer, yet just as intense. You’ve seen desire before, felt it in fleeting touches and heated glances, but this is different. This feels different. It’s as if his gaze is reaching into the spaces between your thoughts, gently pulling at the threads that hold you together to unravel you in the most tender of ways.

He kisses the spot between your breasts.

“You’re always so pretty.”

He gives a soft peck just above your heart.

“So incredibly beautiful.”

Then his tongue flicks along the delicate curve of your chest, making a slow, teasing trail upward until he takes one of your nipples into his mouth. He sucks gently, rolling it around with his tongue, and you’re mesmerized by the lewd scene of him drawing your flesh between his lips. Your fingers instinctively find their way back into his hair, tugging on the soft strands as he continues to lap at your sensitive skin.

He then shifts slightly, his mouth releasing your nipple with a soft, wet sound before moving to give the same attention to the other. While he suckles and nibbles on one hardened peak, he rolls the other between his thumb and forefinger, sending a rush of pleasure straight to your core. If you thought you were wet before, you’re certain you’re drenched by now. Your panties cling uncomfortably and the growing desire makes you ache to peel them off.

He must sense your growing need because his kisses trail lower, down to your stomach, while his fingers toy with the waistband of your leggings. His touch is teasing, slipping just under the elastic, and you instinctively lift your hips, silently begging for more. He takes his time as he slides the fabric down your legs, his knuckles brushing against your skin before discarding them somewhere in the room.

Your attention is on him as his palm dances along your inner thigh, and the closer he gets to where you ache him the most, the more your breath hitches in your throat. When his thumb brushes over the wet patch on your panties, your hips buck against him. “Spencer…”

He glances over at you and lets out the most appreciative sigh. You really are beautiful. Eyes full of lust, skin flushed with his marks. You’re a vision of longing, and every part of him is consumed by the sight of you. “Yes?”

You squirm under his gaze. “Aren’t you… going to take them off?”

A slow, teasing smile spreads across his face. “What, these?” He gives a playful tug at the edge of your panties, his fingers just barely slipping beneath the fabric before pulling away. “Are you sure you want them off?”

You try to hold back your groan when his thumb finds your clit. “Yes. I-I’m sure.”

He grins, clearly enjoying the effect he has on you, but instead of giving in immediately, he begins to circle your clit slowly with his thumb, watching your reaction closely. “On a scale from one to ten, how sure are you?”

Now he’s starting to get on your nerves. You can’t hold back the small huff falling from your lips. He simply laughs then slowly takes off the last piece of your clothing. The cool air instantly hits your skin as he grabs your knees, spreading your legs apart. He skims along your naked body and when you notice where his gaze settles, you swallow hard, suddenly feeling very shy.

It's kind of ironic, you think, how you've gotten this far, and now, of all times, you're suddenly blushing like a damn teenager. It's as if your brain is catching up to everything your body already knows—that this is real, and it's happening. You can't help but laugh at yourself a little. Here you are, all tangled up in each other, practically begging him to get you naked and yet you're acting shy now?

He seems to notice the shift in your mood, his hands pausing on your thighs as he looks up at you with concern. He tilts his head slightly, his brow furrowing. “Did I do something wrong?”

You quickly shake your head. “I’m suddenly feeling very self-conscious.”

He studies your face for a moment. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No!” you blurt out, more forcefully than you intended, your hand instinctively reaching out to grab his wrist. “I… I guess I’m not used to feeling this exposed in front of you.”

He shifts slightly, moving closer so he’s eye-level with you, his hands still resting gently on your thighs. “We’ve done this countless times before.”

“I know, but that was years ago. Things feel different now… like there’s more at stake, maybe?” You let out a sigh. “It’s silly.”

“It’s not silly,” he reassures you. He soothes the skin behind your thighs. “But you don’t need to feel self-conscious with me. You’re beautiful, and I just want you to feel as good as you make me feel.”

If he keeps talking to you like that, there’s no doubt you’ll end up giving him your heart on a silver platter by the end of this. He shifts lower down your body. “We can go as slow as you want,” he continues, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another. “Just tell me what you need.”

You take a deep breath as his soft stubble grazes your skin. “I need you.”

“Then you’ll have me.”

You watch with heavy lids as he drags his lips along your skin until he presses the most tender kiss on your cunt. He really wasn’t lying when he said he could go as slow as you want because every kiss is achingly gentle, barely more than a feather-light touch. It’s the kind of softness that makes you writhe beneath him, and before you know it, your fingers are tangling in his curls while your hips buck against his face.

There’s a slight vibration on your skin—it could be his laughter, or maybe just a hum of contentment—but you don’t bother deciphering it. You’re too lost in the sensation as his tongue breaches your folds. You peer down and watch as he trails the tip of his tongue through your wetness, slowly tracing up and down your slit until he flicks it against your clit.

You’re honestly gone after that. You’re not surprised, though. If there’s one thing Spencer Reid is good at, it’s knowing exactly how to use his mouth. Sure, he’s a bona fide genius who spouts off random facts and quotes obscure literature, but his mouth? His mouth is a whole different level of expertise. It’s almost unfair how good he is. It’s like he’s studied you, memorized every little thing that makes you go crazy, and now he’s putting all that knowledge to devastatingly good use.

And it’s not like he’s doing it just for your pleasure. It brings him the same deep satisfaction. His eyes are closed, and he seems to lose himself in the act, savoring every taste, every reaction, every subtle shift of your body beneath him. It’s as though he’s completely immersed in finding an almost insatiable need to drink in everything about you. His tongue delves deeper, swirling around your entrance before sucking gently on your folds, pulling the soft skin into his mouth.

You find yourself pressing his head closer to your heat. His eyes flickers up to you. “You’re back.” Your response is simply another push of his head. “Oh. Needy, are we now?”

"Mhm," you manage to squeak out, feeling a rush of wetness seeping out of you. He leans in, his tongue catching a bead of moisture before it drips further, dragging it between your slick folds.

Your grip in his hair tightens.

“Spencer…”

“I know, I know,” he murmurs, his lips curling into a smile before his mouth descends again, this time focusing on your clit. His tongue flicks over the sensitive nub before he gently sucks, pulling it into his mouth with a slow rhythm that has you gasping. Each motion is perfectly timed and you feel yourself growing even wetter under his attention. His tongue swirls, then flattens before he sucks a little harder.

It doesn’t take long for you to feel that familiar coil in your stomach. The pleasure builds steadily, the tension winding tighter and tighter until it slowly overwhelms you. Spencer seems to sense it too, his hands gripping the back of your thighs a little tighter, pushing them further apart as he continues with unwavering focus. He’s not rushing, though, he’s savoring it, but his slow motion is enough to make you snap.

Your hips jerk against his mouth, and he doesn’t miss a beat, holding you steady as he continues his ministrations. He’s relentless in his gentleness, coaxing every ounce of pleasure from you, even as you’re left gasping for air. When you finally come down from the high, Spencer finally lifts his head and places a final, soft kiss on your inner thigh.

“Do you still feel self-conscious now?”

It takes you a moment before you can answer. You smile lazily at him. “Not after that.”

He grins and pulls you up into a sitting position. “Do you think you can give me another one?”

“Spencer,” you breathe out. “Even if you gave me thousands of orgasms, I’d probably ask for more.”

The laugh he lets out is warm and infectious, the sound vibrating through you in a way that makes you smile even wider. “Well,” he starts, slipping his hand down your thigh. “The human body is capable of experiencing multiple orgasms in a relatively short period of time, especially for women. So technically, you could keep asking for more, and I could keep giving them.”

“Even up to a thousand?”

“Maybe not to that extent.” He pulls you close, and you lean your weight against him. “Hold on to me.”

You do as you’re told and somehow you find yourself in a new position. When he spreads your legs apart, your senses go on high alert again. “Spence?”

He kisses your cheek, your jaw, then the corner of your mouth. “Try to relax.”

A gasp escapes your lips as his fingers dive between your thighs. Try to relax? Try to relax? Men and their audacity to tell you what to do, especially when they're the reason you're so wound up in the first place. Because how are you supposed to relax when his fingertips are brushing ever so gently over your clit? How are you supposed to calm your breathing when he’s spreading your arousal up and down your folds?

And how are you supposed to keep your composure when he suddenly fills you with, not one, but two of his fingers?

You feel yourself slipping and he tightens his other arm around your waist. “Told you to hold on.”

He’s starting to annoy you, but you listen to him and bury your face in the crook of his neck. You take a deep breath as he starts to move his fingers. Soap, you decide. It must be his soap, because he smells clean and crisp, almost like fresh linen and a hint of something peppery. It’s almost distracting if it weren’t for the way his fingers are curling inside of you.

Then you feel that sensation again, the kind that ripples through every nerve of your body. At first, it’s manageable, an intensity you think you can handle. But when he suddenly changes his technique, everything shifts. His entire hand moves in a fast, up-and-down motion that catches you completely off guard, and before you know it, you’re whining, your grip tightening on him as your head falls on his shoulder.

The rapid pace makes your head spin. It feels like he’s pulling the control right out of your hands, leaving you questioning your own limits. You’ve seen yourself getting wet, you’ve felt yourself become drenched before, but you’ve never experienced anything like this. You never realized your body could produce this much liquid. It’s not an overwhelming amount, but more than you’ve ever seen from yourself, and it splatters against his hand, dripping down your thighs.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even flinch when your nails claw into his shirt. He keeps going, and going, and going, until the only thing you hear is your rapid breathing against his neck and the slick, wet sounds he’s coaxing out of you. You’re overwhelmed (in the best way, of course) but you can’t stop yourself from cursing as the sensation intensifies, multiplies even.

It's not until your body starts to go limp that he finally takes pity on you. He slows down, his fingers pumping lazily inside you. “Good?”

“How did you—when did you—” you exhale a long breath. “I can’t feel my legs.”

He slowly withdraws his fingers out, only to rub your essence over your puffy clit, and your hips jerk once more before he finally stops. You're a trembling mess once you sink into the mattress.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you do that before.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever done that in my life.” Your eyes suddenly feel incredibly heavy that you can't resist letting them flutter close.

He kisses the tip of your nose. “Still up for another one?”

You peer through one eye, and when you catch him starting to undress himself, your other eye shoots open. The nod you give him is eager. His smile widens as he shrugs off his shirt, and you can’t help but let your gaze drop to the line of hair trailing down his stomach. You wonder what it would feel like under your tongue.

"Wait."

Your eyes snap back up to meet his. "What?"

His face twists into a grimace. “I don’t have a condom.”

Shit. Neither did you.

You roll onto your side, propping yourself up on one elbow and resting your head in your hand. “And you’re realizing this just now?”

“I was too focused with you."

And by that, he means giving you the most intense orgasm of your life. You watch as his fingers hover over his belt. “You really didn’t think of bringing one when you decided to come over?”

“My intention coming here wasn’t exactly for this.”

“Well, it would be great if you at least considered the possibility." You study his face and blurt out the first thing on your mind, “I don’t want to stop.”

He shifts his weight on the bed. “Me neither.”

“I mean… we could have sex without using one. We’ve done it before. Once.”

He recalls what you're referring to and lets out an amused laugh. “Are you sure? Didn’t you freak out when you realized your period was late?”

“That was a coincidence! I was stressed out at that time, but I’m safe now—I think.” You pause, brows furrowing as you start calculating your cycle in your head. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m not ovulating.”

“Pretty sure?”

You give him a look. “No, I’m actually sure. I know my body, and I’ve done the math. See?” You gesture vaguely, as if the numbers and facts are floating in front of you. “No ovulation in sight.”

The corners of his mouth twitches into a smile. “Alright then,” he murmurs, and leans down to plant a soft kiss on your lips. “No ovulation in sight.”

“None,” you confirm before tugging his belt. “Can you please take off your pants now?”

He complies—with incredible speed—and when he’s finally as naked as you, your mouth waters at the sight of him. His cock is painfully hard, thick, with a bead of arousal glistening at the tip. You try to reach for him, but he has other plans. He crawls over your body and slips between your legs. He then grips the back of your thigh with one hand, pulling it up slightly to open you to him, while the other holds himself from the base.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The moan you let out is lewd. “Fuck, Spencer.”

An airy laugh slips out from him as he rubs the head of his cock around your clit. “So needy.”

You wiggle your hips. “Hurry up.”

He only hums in response, before easing his hips back just enough to drag his swollen tip through your slick outer lips. The underside of his cock splits your folds open with each stroke, and your head is spinning. It’s almost sweet how he’s taking this slow, but at this point, you’re so close to just shoving him inside you. You let out a frustrated whine when he pulls back, only to thrust forward just enough for the head of his cock to nudge at your entrance.

Your walls squeeze around him.

“O-Oh…” His mouth falls open slightly as he stares down at where your bodies meet. “I… I don’t remember you being this tight.”

You follow his gaze, watching the way your outer lips swallow him inch by inch. “I-It’s been a while.”

He pushes further, and your nails dig into his shoulders as he stretches you in a way that feels almost too much, and you can't help but tense when he thrusts further. He wraps your leg around his waist before leaning down, propping his weight on his elbows.

“Need you to relax,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over the pulse fluttering wildly in your neck. You do as he says. Breathe in, breathe out. Clench, unclench. And then you feel him easing inside you, oh-so-deliciously slow, until you squeak out a gasp when he finally fills you completely.

Because fuck, he stretches you—wrenches you open, and you’re consumed by his heat, the pressure, the sheer size of him. It overwhelms your senses, and all you can do is sing out a filthy moan. He follows your tune with a melody of his own, though his voice trembles, sounding more like he’s in pain as if he’s trying to hold himself back.

“You’re so warm,” he groans, his breath hot against your skin. “You okay?”

You nod and wrap an arm around his shoulders. “More than okay.”

“Do you think I can move?”

“Please.”

There’s no hesitation in the way he pulls back, only to sink into you again. His hips roll against yours in a way that feels both achingly slow and unhurried, like he’s savoring every second to memorize the way you feel around him. It’s like he can’t quite believe this is happening, that you’re giving him the chance to be tangled up with you in this position again.

And truthfully, neither can you.

But here you are, two bodies moving in perfect harmony, intertwined in the most primal, human way. Flesh against flesh, breath against breath. Even your heartbeats sync in the same rhythm. The world beyond seems to dissolve, leaving nothing but the pull of desire that draws you deeper into the moment, into him, until the boundaries of where you end and he begins blur into something undefinable.

It’s nonexistent. You’re glued to him, fused in a way that feels as if this is exactly where you belong.

No more running away, you decide.

“Kiss me.”

He’s in no position to decline, and within a heartbeat, he captures your lips in the sweetest kiss—well, as sweet as it can go. Because even though he tastes like honeyed warmth, his hips continue to pound into you, hitting that deep, tender spot inside. You whine against his lips. A needy, breathless sound that has him faltering for just a second, his hips stuttering against yours.

“You feel so—” he chokes on his words. “God, you’re so perfect.”

You’re perfect, you want to say, but you stop yourself, biting down on the words before they escape. It’s not that you don’t believe it. You just can’t bring yourself to admit it out loud. Not yet. Instead, your need wins out, pushing past everything else.

“More,” you gasp between shallow breaths.

He rests his forehead against yours. “Yeah? You want me to go faster?”

You whine in approval.

The instant he pulls back, his tip barely teasing your entrance before slamming into you again, a sharp gasp escapes your lips. He repeats the motion. Once. Twice. By the third time, he doesn’t hold back, driving his hips hard and fast, the wet sound of your bodies slapping together echoing off the walls.

You turn into a putty mess. You can barely think, let alone form words, your mind clouded with nothing but the feeling of him—inside you, around you. Your whole world narrows down to this moment, to the way he fills you so perfectly. His forehead stays pressed against yours the whole time, his lips hovering above yours he murmurs, “Tell me if it’s too much.”

But it’s not. It’s everything. Maybe even not enough. “I…” you gasp when a certain angle from him hits a deep spot inside you. “Oh, Spencer… harder, p-please.”

He’s more than happy to oblige.

He shifts slightly, then snaps his hips forward with a sudden, forceful thrust. He repeats the motion. Over and over again. His pace is relentless now, and he starts to pant, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts, every exhale brushing against your lips. There’s a tension in his body, a taut strain in muscles, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. And you can’t help but moan softly into his mouth, swallowing each of his gasps as his control starts to slip away.

“Where do you want—” His voice falters. “Can I—inside—”

You nod frantically. “Yes. Yes.”

It’s enough to push you both over the edge.

The sensation starts as a gentle warmth in your fingertips, slowly winding its way through your body. It weaves through your limbs, spirals up your spine, before gathering intensely at your core. You’re shaking, trembling, and you instinctively reach out for something to ground yourself. One hand threads into his curls, the other clutches his jaw.

Then it happens. His cock moves in a frantic rhythm, sending you spiraling deeper into intense pleasure for the third time tonight. Your inner walls tighten around him as your orgasm crashes through you, gripping him so tightly that it pulls a raw, breathless groan from his lips. He slams into you with uneven thrusts as he presses your body flat onto the bed, until he stops and shudders, spilling hot, white liquid deep inside you.

You don’t think you’ve ever felt something this intense before—not even with him in the past. Every inch of your body is buzzing as his warmth spreads through you, reaching places you didn’t even know existed. You cling to him, your nails softly grazing his back as he finally lets out a satisfied hum, his lips moving to pepper kisses along your face.

He starts with your left cheek. Two gentle kisses. He moves to your right, giving a light peck that lingers just a moment longer, almost as if he’s blowing a warm breath against your skin. You giggle as the air tickles you. Then finally, he settles on your lips with a sigh that merges into a kiss. It’s soft, sweet, and tenderly slow.

You let out another laugh when he finally pulls away.

“What?”

His curls fall messily on his forehead and you reach up, brushing it back. “You’re starting to grow on me.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “I grow on you?” You simply nod. “Like fungus?”

Your fingers pause in his hair. “Like what?”

"You know, fungus. It grows on things. Like mold or mushrooms,” he explains and gives you a smile. "Am I growing on you like that?"

You’ve been apart for so long that you almost forgot how his brain works. His unexpected comparison sparks your amusement, so you decide to humor him. “Depends on what kind of mushroom you are.”

He looks thoughtful for a while. “There's this mushroom called mycorrhiza. It forms a symbiotic relationship with trees and helps them grow by improving water and nutrient absorption."

“And that makes you what, exactly?”

“Essentially indispensable.”

“So you’re claiming you’re good for me?”

A slow, confident grin spreads across his lips. “I’m saying I’m exactly what you need.”

You burst out laughing. Your cheeks might actually ache from smiling this much. “That was pretty smooth.”

He looks incredibly pleased with himself. Then after a quiet moment, he buries his face in the curve of your neck. You close your eyes, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against yours, and a sigh escapes your lips. It’s like all the time you spent apart melts away in that single breath, and something inside you relaxes, as if he’s managed to sneak back into the parts of you you’d forgotten existed.

Maybe he is right. Maybe, after all this time, he’s exactly what you need.

You wake up to the sound of clatter. It’s loud, jarring, and it echoes around the house. You stir in bed, stretching your limbs before tensing when you feel something poking your back. Your hazy mind immediately snaps into alert, and you open your eyes fully, glancing toward the window. Sunlight is already pouring into the room, far too bright for how early you thought it was.

You quickly turn over to the other side.

“Spencer. Spencer!” you hiss, shaking his shoulders urgently. “Wake up! We overslept!”

He groans softly but doesn’t move. Another loud clatter bounces off the walls, and your heart pounds wildly in your chest.

“Spencer,” you whisper sharply, eyes widening. “I think Matt is home.”

That finally gets his attention. He blinks his eyes open. “Wha—?”

You’re already halfway out of bed, rushing to the window to peek through the curtains. Sure enough, you spot your brother’s car parked in the driveway. “Yep, he’s here,” you mutter under your breath, the panic rising as you turn back to Spencer. “And now he’s going to kill us.”

“He’s not going to kill us,” he mumbles, but even by his voice, you can tell he’s not entirely convinced. You watch as he finally slips out of bed, scrambling to pick up his clothes scattered across the floor. “We talked about this last night. It’s not going to be as bad as you think.”

You shoot him a look before quickly pulling on your own clothes.

“There’s a big difference between telling him, and him finding out that his sister is sleeping with his friend while he was away taking care of his wife and baby.” You yank your shirt over your head. “In his freaking house.”

When you put it that way, Spencer’s heart sinks a little. Although Matt isn’t a violent person, he has twice the muscle he does, and it’s not hard to imagine him being a lot less forgiving in a situation like this. He can’t help but picture the worst-case scenario even though Matt’s always been the reasonable type.

Until now, maybe.

“Do you think I should climb out the window?”

You stare at him in disbelief. "Spencer, you’re not sixteen.”

“Actually, I’ve never been in a situation like this,” he admits, pulling up his pants. “My biggest concern when I was sixteen was getting my first PhD.”

You forgot how ridiculously smart he is. Smarter than most people, definitely smarter than you. “Well now you’re getting firsthand experience.” You start pacing around the room. “Let’s just try to stay calm.”

“That’s kind of hard to do when your brother could walk in while I’m half-naked.”

You look at him in horror. “Then put your damn shirt on!"

Before he can reply, there's a noise from outside the room—a quick shuffle of steps, light and rapid, as if someone’s rushing down the hall. You barely have time to react before the door is wrenched open.

But it's not your brother.

It's far worse.

You feel your stomach drop when your eyes lands on the small figure of your nephew, standing there with wide eyes. His gaze shifts back and forth—from you, disheveled and clearly flustered, to Spencer, whose bare back is facing the door, still fumbling with his pants. From little Jake's point of view, it must look like the most confusing sight, because he quickly retreats, bolting down the hallway.

“Dad! Help! There’s a strange man in Auntie’s room!”

You don’t know whether to laugh or panic. The fact that Jake didn’t recognize Spencer without his usual suit is almost comical. You glance at him, noticing how his body has tensed, his back straightening in alarm.

“Who was that?” he whispers, turning to you with wide eyes.

"Jake.” You blow a strand of hair that falls across your face. “Who apparently thinks you're an intruder."

The blood seems to drain from his face. “He didn’t recognize me?”

Your eyes flick over his appearance—his wild, tangled hair sticking out in all directions, bare chest still slightly flushed from sleep, and pants barely zipped. “Not when you look like this, no.”

But before he can respond, you hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps echoing down the hallway, heavier this time.

Your heart leaps into your throat.

“Shit.”

“I should have climbed out the window.”

The idea of him dangling from the window is even more absurd. You glance toward the door. "Okay, wait here. Let me talk to Matt first." Your eyes flicker to his bare chest again, and you let out the most exasperated sigh. "And please, for the love of God, put on your shirt."

You don’t have time to wait for his response as you rush out of the room, quickly closing the door behind you. You take a second to catch your breath, trying to compose yourself, when a noise down the hallway draws your attention. Only then do you notice Matt cautiously advancing towards your way, his back against the wall.

That’s when you spot the gun in his hand.

“Seriously?” you hiss, staring at him in disbelief. “What the hell, Matthew!”

He looks at you, equally surprised. “Jake said there was a strange man in your room!” he replies defensively, tightening his grip on the weapon. “What was I supposed to think?“​

Your eyes shift toward your nephew, who’s peeking around the corner, his little head barely visible as he watches the scene unfold. This is definitely not how you expected your morning to go. A simple, awkward conversation was one thing, but having to disarm your brother while explaining this mess was an entirely different level.

“There’s no intruder, Matt. Put the gun down.”

He looks past you, his eyes zeroing in on the closed bedroom door. “Then who’s in there?”

You bite the inside of your cheek. There’s no easy way to explain this. How do you even start? That Spencer is standing half-naked in the guest room, trying to gather his dignity after being mistaken for an intruder by a six-year-old? You never thought you'd have to introduce Spencer to your brother this way, in his own house, under these chaotic circumstances.

You can feel Matt's eyes boring into you, waiting for an answer. All you can think is how ridiculous this all must look, and how there's no good way to smooth over the fact that, yes, Spencer Reid, his friend slash teammate, is behind the door. And the most absurd part? A part of you is more worried about the look on Matt's face than the fact that he's holding a gun.

“Please don’t be mad.”

You hold your breath as you slowly reach for the doorknob. You push the door open and let out a small, relieved sound when you see Spencer fully dressed, looking almost presentable, except for the wild hair that refuses to settle. He gives you a small nod before stepping out of the room.

“Uncle Spencer?” Jake’s small voice cuts through the tension. Matt’s gaze darts between you two, his jaw tightening as he puts the pieces together. You can see the moment realization hits him full force.

“Reid?” Matt’s voice is incredulous, bordering on betrayed. “What the hell is going on?”

“I can explain,” you say cautiously. “It’s not exactly how it looks.”

“Not exactly how it looks?” Matt echoes, his eyes narrowing at you, then shifting back to Spencer. “You’re in my guest room looking like you just rolled out of bed—”

“Fully clothed now,” Spencer cuts in quickly, which only earns him a frown from Matt.

“Not helping,” you mutter under your breath, shooting Spencer a look before turning back to your brother. “Fine, it’s exactly how it looks like. So… uh, surprise?”

You watch so many emotions flashing in his eyes. Matt’s always been a good brother. Sometimes annoying, but always reliable. He doesn’t usually get angry at you—quite the opposite, actually. He’s calm, level-headed, and more prone to offering advice than raising his voice. But now? The frustration is clear in his eyes.

He’s not mad exactly, but he’s definitely not happy either.

“Surprise?” Matt repeats, his voice flat. His gaze flick back to Spencer, who’s now shifting his weight awkwardly beside you. “This is how you decided to tell me?”

“Okay, it’s not how we planned it, obviously.”

“Clearly,” he deadpans.

You put on the best, innocent-looking face you can muster.

“Maaatttt,” you try again, deciding to use a different approach by being cute this time. “Don’t be so harsh.”

To your relief, it actually works on him, like it usually does whenever you try to charm your way out of trouble. His tough exterior falters because, no matter what, you’re still his baby sister. His face softens for a moment, shoulders dropping as he lets out a sigh.

“I’m not mad, okay? But I am your brother. And you,” he adds, pointing at Spencer. “You’re supposed to be my friend. I feel like I should’ve known about this before… well, before finding you like this.” Your shoulders slumps at his words. “How long has this been going?”

Now that is a tricky question. Explaining that you and Spencer occasionally had sex five years ago definitely isn’t something your brother needs to hear right now—or ever, really. You can almost feel Spencer tense beside you, probably having the same thought.

You clear your throat. “Last night.”

"Last night?" Matt looks at you as if you’re crazy. It might be the most disapproving look he’s ever given to you. "You're telling me this just started last night?"

"But—" you quickly add, holding up a hand to stop his train of thought. "We’ve been talking for a while, it’s not like it happened out of nowhere. Last night was just the first time we decided to actually do something about it."

“Right under my roof?” Matt’s brows pinches upward. “You lied about having a headache, didn’t you?”

“Wait, you had a headache? Why didn’t you tell me?”

You’re not sure you can handle two men pestering you at the same time. You focus on your brother instead.

“Look, we didn’t plan anything yesterday. Things just… happened,” you say, trying to explain without making it sound worse than it already does. “But it’s not only about last night. For what it’s worth, we were planning to tell to you. Just not like this.”

Your brother cocks an eyebrow. “So this isn’t a one-time thing?”

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. “God, no,” he says. You feel an arm snake around your waist. “I care about her. A lot.”

Matt stares at Spencer for a long moment, his face a mixture of frustration, concern, and something else. Acceptance, maybe. He looks back at you. “Is this what you want?”

You feel Spencer’s grip tighten on your waist. He’s also waiting for your answer.

“It’s what I want.”

Spencer’s thumb brushes over you as Matt lets out a long breath, his grip on the gun finally relaxing. “This feels weird.”

“In a good way?”

“In a bizarre kind of way.” Matt’s falls falls on Spencer again. “I’m still trying to process this, but if you hurt her—”

“I won’t,” Spencer promises. “I swear.”

“Good, because you know I can put you back to prison if you do.”

Oh, he knows. Spencer understands exactly what he means, after all, Matt was one of the few people who helped clear his name during one of the most horrific moments of his life. Even if there’s a slight jab in his words, Spencer can tell he’s being dead serious. Especially with that gun still attached to his grip.

You, on the other hand, are hearing this for the first time. “Wait, what?” you blurt out. “Prison? You went to prison?”

Spencer merely shrug. Matt finally lowers his weapon, shaking his head as if he can’t quite believe this is happening. “I need coffee,” he mutters, turning toward the kitchen.

“Wait…” Jake finally peeks out from behind the wall. You blink your eyes, forgetting he’s even there. “Does this mean Uncle Spencer is your boyfriend now?”

You feel three pair of eyes on you. Matt’s gaze is sharp. Spencer’s expression is cautious. And then there’s Jake, looking up at you with the straightforward curiosity only a child can have. To him, things are simple. Either you are, or you aren’t, and in hindsight, it really is a straightforward question. But nothing about this situation has been straightforward.

You look at Spencer for a fraction of a second. You can see the nervous hope reflected in his eyes. Maybe Jake’s question isn’t just his… maybe it’s Spencer’s too.

And sure, maybe it doesn’t have to be so complicated. Maybe it really is as simple as saying—

“Yes.” You can feel your heartbeat in your ears. “I suppose he is.”

If you’ve ever seen Spencer being happy, it pales in comparison to this. His eyes light up, and he looks at you like you’re the only person in the world. A genuine, almost boyish smile spreads across his face as you feel his warmth seep into your skin. There’s so much affection in his gaze it makes your chest tighten. He’s not just happy. He’s beaming.

Matt clears his throat awkwardly. “Come on, kiddo, let’s grab what your mom needs and get back to the hospital.” He glances back at you. “You guys coming?”

You nod absentmindedly. “Sure.”

He throws you both a look. Not hateful, but definitely not warm either. You see him grip his gun from the corner of your eye, more out of habit than necessity, before steering his son away with a firm hand on his shoulders.

“That went better than expected,” Spencer mutters the moment your brother is out of earshot.

“‘It’s not going to be as bad as you think’,” you mock, reciting the words he said to you half an hour ago.

“It wasn’t.”

“Spencer, he held a gun.”

“He thought I was an intruder. I would’ve done the same thing,” he points out, his tone surprisingly calm as he holds you by your waist. “Relax, okay? He’ll come around us. Eventually.”

“You’re awfully optimistic about this.”

“He likes me.”

He does have a point. Matt has always had a soft spot for Spencer, but you’re not sure how far that can go after what just happened. “I think you might have lost a few brownie points today.”

He considers the truth in your words. “Maybe,” he admits with a shrug. “But at least I earned a few with you.”

“Because of the boyfriend thing?” He’s grinning so wide that his eyes practically disappear into crescent moons. You poke the slightest dimple on his cheek. “Don’t act so smug. I’m still trying to process the fact that I’m dating an ex-felon.”

“I was framed,” he explains, and the way he says it so nonchalantly only deepens your confusion. He tries to smooth your frown with a kiss. “I’ll tell you everything on our first date.”

“Who said I’ll go on a date with you?”

“You will,” he simply says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“And what makes you so sure?”

Because he’s always been sure. The man who doubts everything, who overanalyzes every situation, looks at you with a certainty that makes your heart swell. You’ve seen that look before—the one that says he’s considered every possible outcome and decided this is the one that matters most. There’s something magnetic about it, the way he seems to know exactly what he wants, and right now, it’s you.

“Because I’m your mushroom.”

He’s so silly, yet there’s something so perfectly Spencer about it that makes the idea of not going on a date with him feel impossible. You shake your head, unable to suppress your smile.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, but the warmth in your chest tells you he’s already won your heart.

And you don’t mind him keeping it.

[keepingitformyself]

older (and wiser): i

synopsis: in which time could have never undone what she left.

A/N: FIRST WANDA FIC!!! had this idea long ago when i was crushing hard on this girl from the theatre program at my uni; around that time i had also seen ‘past lives’ and i wanted to do something similar with that film. also at my core i know wanda maximoff would’ve totally been a theatre kid, this is me paying ode to that. while this specific part doesn’t go into that, i am gonna work on a sort of prequel to this Short Series…anyways enjoy!!!

pairings: wanda maximoff x reader

genre: angst?

warnings: it’s sad. but it gets hopeful…

MASTERLIST part ii

please do not repost my work anywhere for any reason at all. if you do see this happen to any of my stories, please let me know. thank you x.

it had been years.

wanda had finally decided to take a breather. she’d been working non-stop ever since she left for work all those years ago after college.

she didn’t think she’d get so lucky off that one job, that it’d immediately get her into another, or another, and so on and so forth.

she loved her work, sure, but now it was catching up to her. everyone in her life, her manager, her agent, her family had all begged her to slow down.

“take some time off, wanda.” her agent, daniel had said to her during a meeting. wanda’s eyes traveled between daniel and her manager, samara.

the meeting had all been a set up. what wanda thought was supposed to be a discussion on a new project, was actually a ploy. she had no idea the meeting was meant to convince her to take a break.

“yeah right.” she scoffed. not believing in what they were saying.

“we’re serious, wanda.” samara stated, her eyes stern but with genuine care. “when was the last time you had time for yourself?”

wanda remained silent at the words. all of a sudden she felt like a kid being scolded by their parents. and she wished to be anywhere else but in the room with them.

“really.” daniel starts. “go be a real person. smell the flowers, meet people, fall in love, take in the view—”

“i meet people all the time, daniel.” wanda quickly cut in.

all daniel could do was shake his head, a sigh escaping his lips as he tried his hardest to make the woman in front of him understand.

“you know that’s not what i meant, wanda.” he gives her a pointed look.

with a jaw clenched, she crossed her arms over her chest and looked off to the side. the windows overlooking los angeles now seeming more interesting than this conversation.

“we know how much it means for you to work, we know how much you enjoy it, but you’ve been doing it for so long. we just want you at your best.” she hears samara say. and as much as she hated to admit it, daniel and samara were right.

wanda hadn’t stopped working since she started. in fact, it’s all she can think to do. she didn’t have anyone outside of work—no partner, no obligations except to her family. why stop when there was nothing waiting for her?

wanda knew the answer but wouldn’t admit it. she might as well never have fully faced it.

the truth was, she’d loved someone once. she’d loved you. and no matter how much time had passed, the thought of you still gnawed at her.

though everything was perfect for a while, her career was well off, she was successful, and her family was proud.

but wanda couldn’t help asking, is this really it?

of course, she tried meeting people. she really tried. she didn't like being miserable over someone she hadn't been in contact with for years. but even that wasn't enough. it was honestly a bit pathetic. it had happened years ago. four years, to be exact. wanda should’ve been well moved on by now, but she isn’t. at least not entirely.

so, she poured everything into her work to distract her from that gnawing feeling inside her. the one that had been lit up all those years ago. the one that was tamable with you around.

but you’re not around, and wanda couldn’t help but throw herself into more work hoping she could get rid of it, get rid of you. but she hasn’t.

“listen, wanda,” daniel cuts her train of thought. “your work is important and people need it, but to keep it up to that degree, you need to go out and just be a human.” he finishes.

wanda sighs. she leans forward on her knees and drops her head into her hands. daniel was right. they were both so right.

wanda never properly dealt with things. maybe it's time she finally did.

she looks up from her hands, a look of defeat yet understanding, with pursed lips she finally says,

"fine."

and now, two months later, wanda finds herself back in los angeles, in an empty home, eating expensive sushi.

she had gotten off the phone with her brother, pietro, who had just joined her on the recent trip she’d been on.

a trip that he insisted he’d join her on to make sure wanda would do all the resting and touristy things she should.

she had done all the traveling she could do in the last two months, jumping from plane to plane. talking to strangers, being a tourist in european cities, and befriending random people in planes.

now, wanda actually had time for herself, time with her brain. a thing she honestly didn't want to face. because even thinking about anything made it even more real.

but now wanda was bored, and the movie playing on her eighty-inch television wasn't doing much to entertain her. and it also didn't help that it was eleven pm on a thursday night and all wanda could do was feel bad for herself.

so she does the next thing she had been really trying to avoid,

stalking your social media.

wanda herself wasn’t much active online these days. she had much to do day-to-day and week-to-week, rarely would she ever have the patience to sit down and scroll through her phone much. that and she honestly tried to stay off of it.

but now she has the time. and the patience. and honestly, she’s a little scared at what she could find.

she tells herself it doesn't have to mean anything. just a little check-in to see how you were, after that she'd really work on trying to forget about you altogether.

and with the simple type in of your name, wanda finds your instagram. your profile picture, a professional headshot of you, and a bio that reads,

editor in chief.

New York Times contributor.

something that shouldn't have made wanda's chest burst with joy, but it does. and as she scrolls further and further, she finds that you now reside in new york city, that you've moved on well without her and that you have a cat and a boyfriend.

boyfriend.

she shouldn't care so much, but she does.

you were living your best life. the one you had always wanted.

just not with her. not with wanda.

but she doesn't stop there, and she ignores the lump in her throat as she exits your profile and searches for your mother's name.

and maybe she feels her heart break a little when it turns out the boyfriend you had is actually your fiancé. she finds out through a photo your mother posted.

the picture shows you, and a handsome man next to you. you’re both sat outside some restaurant in the city, his arm is thrown over your shoulder while your right hand clutches his left, and there it is. in all its glory—with the diamond on it catching the suns light perfectly. the ring on your finger.

it doesn’t help that he looks so in love with you.

out for lunch with y/n and paul again! i promised them an engagement lunch and we were NOT disappointed. make sure you try Jack’s Wife Freda if you are ever in SoHo!!#motherinlaw #NYC #loveinnewyork

is what the caption reads.

wanda freezes at the fact and immediately throws her phone on the empty seat beside her. she stares at it like it had just offended her.

many things go through her brain. how did you meet him? was it shortly after you broke up? was it really him you wanted to spend forever with? how long did it take for him to ask?

wanda had always loved your mother. a sweet woman who always had your best interests in mind. she had always pushed you to do what you loved. and wanda had always seen that some of her favorite traits of yours had come from her.

after the break up, your mom made sure to check in on wanda. without you ever knowing, wanda and your mom kept in touch, until eventually wanda had cut her line for the sake of fully moving on.

though, she never really fully did.

wanda evaluates what to do next. was this her sign? she doesn’t want it to be sign.

wanda doesn’t want to admit that it seems like you had moved on so completely.

on impulse she looks up your fiancé’s name. “paul” is all she had to type out in your mother’s following before she found his account.

she finds that paul is just as successful as you are. he’s an investigative journalist, born in ireland. he briefly worked at a publication in london but transferred to a firm in new york after a year.

he’s gorgeous, she thinks. he has blue eyes, a kind smile, and he has an accent. it would make perfectly good sense why you would choose him.

wanda’s stomach twists with a mix of happiness and regret.

“fuck!” She whispers to herself.

“of course, you’re happy. of course the man you’re engaged with is actually a decent man! fuck.” wanda says to no one in particular. in frustration, she burries her hands in her hair.

wanda is annoyed at herself.

“i need a drink,” in an instant she’s on her legs making her way to the kitchen. she finds a bottle of wine that has been kept cool in the fridge and she wastes no time in popping it open, she pauses briefly, debating on whether she’d need or glass or not.

to hell with a glass. she thinks, and makes her way back to the couch, she holds the bottle by its neck and takes a long swig from it.

it’s all so perfectly miserable. wanda maximoff stalking her ex-girlfriend on social media while she gets wasted. the self loathing has got the best of her. she finds it all ironic.

wanda maximoff could have anyone she wanted. she knew this. she has everything she could ever want or need. she has credibility, a nice home, the luxury of traveling at any moment she wants.

yet, her mind kept coming back to one thing. the one thing she’d decided she’d leave behind all those years ago. it isn’t fair, she thinks. wanda was young and stupid back then, but she was so so in love. she knew that for sure.

but sometimes…sometimes she really wishes she had fought harder.

briefly, wanda wonders if your number was still the same. if you had ever changed it or at least tried calling her. she wouldn’t know, she had changed it years ago once she started getting more attention for her work.

wanda was really drunk at this point. her better judgment had gone away as soon as she’d picked that bottle out the fridge. there was no better time than now.

she taps on her phone until she lands on the number keypad. her fingers hover over it, would she regret it if she didn’t? probably. would she regret it if she did? probably.

but if there was one thing wanda had, it’s that she’s got nerve and audacity.

so she types in the number that she doesn’t think she could ever forget, and lets it ring.

your fiancé answers the call.

“hello?” an irish accent sounds through the speaker. paul. wanda’s blood runs cold and she stays silent for a moment. all of sudden she feels incredibly sober and regretting making the call.

“hi.” she pauses. “uhm, i’m looking for y/n?” wanda manages to squeak out.

“right! who is this? your number isn’t saved.” paul says,

“an old friend. i changed my number a while back.” wanda replies smoothly.

“oh! let me pass her to you, she’s just in the kitchen.” the line goes quiet for a few moments, and she’s able to hear a few words exchanged between you and paul.

“hello?”

wanda freezes again, a hand covers her mouth as she tries not to shake at the sound of your voice. it’d been so long. she grips her phone tighter.

“hey…” her voice shaky and unmistakable. you know it’s wanda.

“wanda?” your voice betrayed the surprise you felt. from the couch paul caught your eye, a raised eyebrow on his face. everything okay? he mouthed.

you shook your head.

“i wondered if your number was still the same.” wanda says after a moment. her tone light, but with an undercurrent of something else.

your mind raced. why was she calling you? why now? your fiance was in the other room, you were getting married soon. you’d built a life perfectly fine without her in it. so why was she calling you now?

“how have you been?” her voice cuts through the line again. wanda holds the phone close to her ear, wanting to make sure she could hear every word you say.

and all you can think of is how confused you were.

“i- i’m fine. i’m good. yeah.”

“that’s good—”

“i’m sorry, uh…why are you calling?” you find yourself cutting her off. your fingers press against your forehead in act of trying to understand what was happening.

wanda pauses. she realizes just how impulsive this whole thing was. she’s on the phone with her ex of four years, while your fiancé was probably in the other room. she goes silent again. her words have to be carefully measured.

she gulps,

“uhm…i just—i just wanted to know how you were. heard you’re based in new york now...so…” wanda trails off. you don’t miss the tone in her voice as she says those words. the familiar rasp, the lowness of her voice, she’d used it many times on you when she wanted something.

you close your eyes with a sigh, “yeah. yeah, i live in new york now, engaged and everything.”

wanda smiles through the phone, her eyes almost prick with tears at the corners.

“i saw," she says just above a whisper. "congratulations, you…you’ve always wanted that.” and she means it. she knows better than anyone how much you’ve wanted this.

suddenly a wave of nostalgia hits you, and you’re brought back to when you were both in college. so young, so dumb, but god, it was one of the best times of your life. you try not to let it affect you, how much this call seems to be doing for you. you haven’t yet figured out if it’s a good or bad thing.

“thank you." your voice softens. "how have you been?” you find yourself asking her next.

wanda smiles at your question, “life has been…insane, you know?” she pauses on the line. “still missing some pieces, but overall i’m doing well,” you pretend not to hear the sudden shift in her voice when she said that.

you exhaled quietly, unsure of what to say. the air between you felt charged with unspoken words, old memories stirring to the surface.

“can i see you?” she asks, her tone hesitant. “catch up in person? i’d really like to see you.”

with your bottom lip between your teeth, you contemplate your next words. paul notices your tick from the other his seat on the couch, despite you telling him it was okay he couldn’t help but worry. he’d heard enough of the call to know something was wrong. still he knows you had it down, so he waits until you need him.

you struggle to find your words for a moment, the question being so…why?

“oh, wanda, i don’t know if—”

but wanda ever the stubborn woman she is, doesn’t relent.

“please. Just for some coffee and conversation.”

your mind is torn between keeping your peace or taking wanda up on her offer. but you were curious.

with a sigh you finally decide.

“where and when?”

you can hear wanda’s smile through the phone,

“i can fly to new york anytime you’re free. you can pick a spot and i’ll be there.”

you think for a few moments.

“okay, meet at caffe reggio in greenwich. i’ll be in touch with when.”

wanda’s heart stutters, something she hadn’t felt in a while. her eyes flutter closed, she breathes in— out. her eyes open again. and though you can’t see it, there’s a new look in her eyes.

“i’ll be there.”

[nathaslosthershit]

Teen Dad (OP81)

(Part 1 of the Blind Item Series) (Part 1 of the Teen Dad OP AU)

Summary: Rumors are flying about a young driver with kids

Seeing the rumor, and various other tweets commenting on the matter, first thing this morning was like getting a bucket of ice water dumped on him. Oscar immediately sat up, frightening his fiancée who was asleep next to him a moment before.

“What? What's wrong? Are you okay?” she asked, sitting up.

“Fuck this is not good.” He mumbled as he looked through more tweets. He knew he had minutes before his PR team started messaging him on how best to proceed. 

“Osc, you are really scaring me. What is going on?” His fiancée asked again. After 5 years together and two kids, she knew him well enough to know that Oscar isn’t easily woken up. While he usually wakes up early to train or help the kids, on days like today where he has the chance to sleep in, he will usually take it. But the amount of notifications he started getting were enough to get him to check his phone and once he saw the severity of the situation he was awake and alarmed. 

“A blind item about a ‘younger f1 driver with two kids he had as a teen’ just went up. No confirmation on who but it seems they have gotten it down to only a few of us. They don’t know yet but I am sure they will know soon.” 

He was grateful they hadn’t clocked in on him but Oscar was sure with a bit more time to dig people would put two and two together. He wasn’t ashamed of the fact that he was a teen dad, not anymore at least. When he was even more so an up and coming driver, he kept it hush because he was nervous being 18 with two kids would lead teams to reconsider where his priorities were, his family or his career. That wouldn’t have been crazy of them to do though, as important as racing was to Oscar, he would always pick his family first. Luckily, though, he had a great enough support system so he didn't have to choose. 

Most people in Oscar’s life knew. Any teams apart from Prema, Mclaren, and Alpine were none the wiser but why would they need to know? Not all drivers knew either, some who he had become closer to were let in on the secret, especially Logan, who had been there the entirety of his kids' lives. Annoyingly, at least in Oscar’s opinion, he has been titled ‘the cool uncle’ from day one. 

“What do we do?” his fiancée asked, snapping him out of his spiraling.

“I imagine it is up to my team to figure that one out. I’ll message them now. Get the kids ready and I’ll be done in time to help with breakfast.” He said as he got up.

After a long, pretty impromptu, call, it was decided Oscar would make a statement about it before it was revealed to be him. He wasn’t too happy about not getting to really do it on his own terms but this is the way it worked out, and hey, Oscar would be lying if he said he wasn’t already planning which race he was going to bring his kids to first.

oscarpiastri

liked by mclaren, logansargeant, landonorris, and 518,294 others

oscarpiastri This is of course not how I wanted to do this. I had hoped to have more time before I had to let the peace of privacy go but these things happen when you are in the spotlight. So yes, I am a father of two great kids and I have been since I was 18. I am not ashamed by the fact I was a teen dad, and am certainly not hiding my kids out of anything but love. I hadn’t realized I could truly love anything or anyone more than racing but then these two came into my life and I realized I would give it all up for them. Luckily, with the support of their mother (who is my fiancée) and my family, I didn’t have to give it up. My four person family means more to me than anything and I count my lucky stars each night that I have been blessed with them. I ask that you please respect our privacy. This isn’t the end of you seeing the Piastri twins but I, being the over protective father I am, am not ready to throw two 3 year olds into the chaos of the motorsport world just yet.

Comments disabled on this post

Part 2: A Much Needed Interview out now!

[rowdyluv]

ᴄʜʀɪsᴛᴍᴀs ʟᴏᴠᴇ - ǫʜ⁴³

summary: in which Quinn and Y/n go to her childhood home for Christmas.

word count: 2.6k

warnings: fluff, fem!reader, mother misunderstands reader’s reaction, [trigger warning: alludes to loss of pregnancy, minor/brief discussion of fertility complication], use of random names for characters (sister, brother-in-law),

notes: if I missed any warnings please kindly tell me I don’t think I missed any but always possible. picture at the end will make sense once read. ☺︎︎

© property of rowdyluv ; do not copy and re-upload as your own - anywhere. do not place my work inside AI codes, do not translate.

“Oh I can’t believe Dad did all this!” Y/n gasped and grabbed at Quinn’s upper arm as he was pulling into the driveway. The outside of Y/n’s childhood home was adorned with Christmas lights and the yard had an inflatable Santa with Rudolf. “He used to do this for me and Leora growing up.” Her eyes were crinkled in the corners from smiling so brightly.

Quinn grabbed their bags out of the car and headed up the walkway to the front door. None the wiser that she had stopped to take a picture to send off to her older sister of the old blow up that graced the front yard. He soon realized she wasn’t by his side when he was first greeted with hugs making him tense at first, a bit uncomfortable.

"Merry Christmas, Quinn!" Y/n's mother beamed as she pulled him into a warm embrace. The smell of gingerbread wafted from the kitchen, mingling with the signature comforting perfume of her mom. “We are all so happy you could join us here this year! We are so excited to have you two home for Christmas.” Quinn felt the tension ease from his shoulders and relax from her greeting.

“Merry Christmas, Momma!” Y/n yelled from behind Quinn trying to shuffle around him to get to her.

Her mother released Quinn and wrapped her daughter in her arms. “Look at you two all dressed alike for your travels!” she exclaimed, her eyes shining with joy as she pulled back to look at them both. “Look sweetie, they have matching Christmas sweaters!” Her mother yelled over her shoulder towards Y/n’s father while also ushering the two in. “Do you remember when we were their age, just two kids so in love we couldn’t stand it?”

Quinn took a moment to appreciate the warmth of the house, the soft glow of the Christmas lights reflecting off the family photos lining the walls, framed certificates that had been earned by Leora or Y/n through the years, and low hanging taped coloring pages. He watched as Y/n disappeared into the kitchen to help her mom, her need to catch up with her mom showing. It wasn’t long after that her sister, and co arrived. Their ever curious two-year-old daughter toddled over to Quinn, her eyes wide with curiosity towards the stranger. He knelt down, offering a gentle smile.

“Hi! Bye!” She said loudly into Quinn’s face, waved nearly smacking him before toddling off to her grandpa.

“I am so sorry about that, she is in a “there is no stranger danger” phase right now. Name’s David, Leora’s husband.” David apologized and stuck his hand out to Quinn to shake. Quinn, the ever socially awkward person shook his hand but forgot to introduce himself. “I’m going to guess that you’re the ever famous Quinn we hear about all the time?”

“Right. Sorry man, yes. M’Quinn, I’m Y/n’s boyfriend.” Quinn cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck.

He searched the room for his girlfriend hoping he could meet her eyes and plead with her to come to him, but she was yet to resurface from the kitchen. He couldn’t help but feel a bit out of place amidst this flurry of familial affection. He had only been able to meet Y/n’s parents a few times, and while they were very welcoming, he was still the outsider at their intimate gatherings. Her parents loved him and accepted their relationship, but with the two of them living in a different country than the rest of her family, it hinders the process of getting to know them better.

David had to sprint off after his toddler to keep her out of the presents and Y/n’s sister was now in the center of the living room, cradling her freshly changed and back to sleeping three month old son.

“Quinn, do you.” Y/n’s eyes caught a hold of her older sister and her baby nephew.

The sight of Leora with the baby boy brought a new level of excitement to Y/n’s eyes. She nearly squealed and rushed over.

“Lee, can I?” Y/n’s voice was soft, warm, but held a hint of longing buried deep behind it. Her sister handed over the tiny bundle of joy with a knowing smile, and Y/n's heart swelled.

Y/n’s soft gasp spread across the room as she took her nephew into her arms. Y/n's eyes searched for any sign of resemblance between Leora and the tiny baby, her fingers tracing the soft lines of his face. He stirred slightly at her touch, his tiny eyes blinking open to reveal the same shade of brown as his mom’s. Y/n whispered a proud, "Hey there little man, I’m your auntie," and his eyes locked onto hers. At the most perfect time his muscles twitch causing him to smile at her.

“Quinn, come look.” Y/n called and he moved cautiously. He was already taking in so much, feeling so much in that moment. It was a moment that seemed to freeze time for Quinn, watching his girlfriend hold something so tiny and fragile like it was the most precious thing in the world. Watching her mask how badly she wants that life for herself. Quinn was feeling the weight of this moment in the millions multiplied by his Christmas gift for her.

"Honey, why don't you two go sit in the rocker?" Y/n's mom suggested, noticing the way Y/n's eyes never left the baby. She knew that look all too well, it was the same look she had when she finally held her daughters for the first time. “It’s down in your all’s old room.”

“Can I?” Y/n asks her sister hopefully, after all the small human in her arms isn’t hers.

With a simple smile and a nod of approval y/n carried him into the room that used to be hers and her sister’s sanctuary. The rocking chair, a well-loved piece of furniture that had seen countless bedtimes and stories, sat back in its rightful place in the corner. Y/n settled into it, her body moving automatically with the gentle sway as she held her nephew close.

Quinn slowly followed her down the hall, unsure if he could handle another sight of her so domestic.

In the room, Y/n's voice was a soft lullaby, humming the familiar tune of "You Are My Sunshine." The rocking chair creaked rhythmically, echoing the steady beat of her heart. She sat in the glow of the Christmas lights that had been strung across the ceiling, casting a warm, nostalgic ambiance over the space. The baby's eyes grew heavy as he listened to the sweet melody that had filled this room so many times before. Y/n's mother looked on from the doorway with a knowing smile, her own eyes misting over with tears.

Y/n’s mom had sensed something was different. She just couldn’t quite put a finger on what it was with her daughter. She could sense that something has shifted in her in the last year or so and seeing her with her nephew only solidified her thoughts.

“When were you all going to tell me?” Her mother softly asked, grabbing ahold of Quinn’s hand giving it a comforting squeeze. “I would have been on the next flight to Vancouver. I’m sure she told you I had tro-.”

With wide eyes and nearly choking on his intake of air he startled her quiet mid-sentence when he looked at her so fast.

“No, no, this is just her longing for her own family..She wants her own family so badly and I want a family with her.” Quinn explained. “I will do whatever it takes to give her whatever she wants, we’ve discussed it. Even been to a specialist to ease her mind.”

Y/n’s mother nodded, she was shocked she misunderstood what her daughter was portraying, she thought she knew that look in her daughter’s eyes well, she was so sure it was the same one she had before she finally had her own children. Watching the different looks cross Y/n’s mother’s face Quinn took a deep breath before his next words fell, “I talked to your hu..”

She cut him off this time. “I know honey. Hard part is talking to her.” She patted him on the back and headed back down the hall, sending y/n’s brother in law after the baby. “Don’t wait any longer!” She whisper-yelled back to Quinn.

David poked his head into the room, “Hey, you okay?” He nodded towards the baby in Y/n’s arms, “He’s probably looking for a bottle, he’s usually hungry around this time.”

“But he’s asleep?” Y/n countered.

“Oh yeah.” He racked his brain for a different reason than a bottle. “Let me take him and check his diaper at least. Momma sent me in here don’t want to come out with out the baby.”

Y/n looked down at her nephew and her heart swelled. She didn’t want to let him go, but she knew her sister would let her have him again before her and Quinn left. She kissed him on the forehead and passed him over to his daddy.

Quinn took a deep breath as he leaned against the door frame. He admired the warm glow from the Christmas lights and the way they cast a soft halo around Y/n once more.

“Hey sweet girl, how about you come with me?” Quinn asked her.

She looked up from her lap and met his soft gaze and smiled at him before meeting him in the doorway.

Quinn led her to the formal living room that had been left untouched by the Christmas chaos of the toddler. The large Christmas tree in front of the window was the only thing that took up space in the room. They sat down together on the plush couch, the colorful lights from the tree casting a glow around them. Y/n leaned into him and took a hold of his hand playing with his fingers like she always does when they cuddle on the couch, basking in the comfort of his presence.

He took in a deep centering breath before starting to spill his heart out.

"You know, I'm not very good at expressing how I feel or remembering to tell you just how much you mean to me," Quinn began, his voice low and earnest.

"That was a constant struggle for us, wasn’t it?” She whispered and pinched his hand for effect. Quinn let out a little yelp of pain before continuing what he was trying to say.

“But I need you to know you’re the other half of my heart, the one that keeps me going even when I'm miles away from home." His words were met with a soft sigh from Y/n as she nestled closer. "I can't imagine a Christmas without you by my side."

He paused and sat her upright so he could look her in the eyes.

“No. Not just Christmas without you, but New Year’s, Valentine’s Day, uhm uh, what comes next?” He started to stutter and stumble over his words. “Whatever it is, I don't want to do it without you. I haven’t had to in a while now and I don’t want to start now, okay?”

“Quinn, where is this coming from?”

“From my heart, where you’ve been living in since the first day we met.” He replied, his eyes never leaving hers. His thumb traced the line of her jaw as he continued. “You’ve given me more joy, more comfort, more love than anyone I’ve ever known. And every time I hold your hand, or kiss your forehead, or see your smile light up the entire rink when we see each other at warmies. God how you just were with your nephew, how I know you’re going to be with our. I know that this is where I’m meant to be, with you, forever. And I want to make that promise to you, in front of everyone who loves you, who loves us.”

Her eyes searched his, looking for any doubt, but there was none to be found, only love, pure unadulterated love. Quinn was moving to the floor to kneel on one knee when she grabbed at his face.

“Yes. A thousand times over. In a different universe yes. In a different time period yes. God you could have asked me 24 hours after we met and I would’ve said yes.” She felt her heart beating faster than ever before she was talking so fast and not taking a break in between her words.

“Sweetheart you didn’t even let the poor boy ask!” A sweet frail female voice rang out. Quinn looked over his left shoulder and Y/n peaked right his shoulder.

“Hi Granny.” Y/n giggled.

Her grandmother’s announcement got the attention of the rest of her family giving Quinn an audience. “Alright young man, get on with it I’m hungry!” A huskier, grumpier voice huffed out.

“Pappy! Let him be.” Leora scolded. A couple “shhhs” rang out and finally the silence was deafening. Quinn was positive his heart beat could be heard.

He readjusted himself to down on the carpet on one knee taking in a calming breath. Looking into Y/n’s eyes.

“Y/n, I’ve love you. Your spirit, your heart, your soul, they’re all so bright and beautiful. You light up any room you walk into, you make me want to be a better person. You’re the one who’s always been there for me, through every up and down. You’re my best friend, my partner, and the love of my life. Will you marry me?”

Much to her Pappy’s satisfaction he finally popped the question, his voice shaky although he knew that she already said yes before he asked, as he opened the small velvet box to reveal a sparkling sapphire gemstone aside an opal gemstone in the shape of hearts.

Without needing to answer again she still whispered a soft yes with a bright smile as Quinn slid the ring on her finger. She fell to her knees and once again grasped his face. She kissed him softly and with as much love as she could convey in one simple kiss.

“Quintin Jerome Hughes, I love you with everything that I am.”

[rivalsispunk]

Beneath The Surface (Chapter 2 of ongoing series When We’re Alone)

Best friend’s dad!Declan O’Hara, boss!Declan O’Hara x AFAB reader

Series summary: Journalist Declan O’Hara is in need of a personal assistant as his Corinium career skyrockets, and his daughter Taggie has the perfect candidate: her best friend. What seemingly starts as a professional relationship soon snowballs into something both Declan and reader were never expecting and are no longer able to deny.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, (eventual) smut, cursing, age gap romance (reader is a few years older than Taggie), mention of male appendages (IYKYK), more warnings added per chapter

Word count: 3.6k

Chapter summary: Declan grapples with the risk of hiring you while you grapple with whether or not you're good enough. Once the verdict is in, you both realise you may have jumped in feet first a little too hastily.

A/N: Things are heating up in more ways than one and I am soooo ready for you guys to meet the silently unhinged Declan... Oh, and in this universe, Declan did end up interviewing Margaret Thatcher. Also not entirely proofread so may be some mistakes. Happy reading!

© rivalsispunk please do not steal, copy, or translate any of my work onto other platforms!

Chapter Two: Beneath The Surface

“A promise of secrecy was of course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence burst forth in such very direct questions on his return as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was longing to publish his prosperous love.”

You’ve spent the last half hour reading, then rereading, the same page of Pride and Prejudice, your creature-comfort book since you were a young teenager. Normally, you’d be able to recite the passage from memory by now, but your mind has been elsewhere than focussed on the words in front of you. It’s been over a week since your interview with Declan and you’ve heard nothing. Zilch. Nada. For days, your brain has been stuck in a constant loop of questions you’ve no answers for.

Why hasn’t he called? 

Why haven’t you heard anything? 

Did he find someone better?

That last one has been the most burning question of them all, coupled with the memory of Declan’s gravelly voice telling you, I’d be lucky to have ya.

So, why hasn’t he called?

It’s not lost on you that you sound more like a needy girl hanging out for a guy after a date than someone waiting to hear back about a job you weren’t even sure you wanted until the moment you were sat in his office. But you do want it.

The job, that is.

Taggie was none the wiser, too. She’d told you her father had barely given her an inkling of where his head was at, and that he remained suspiciously mum on the outcome of the interviews he’d had in the days succeeding yours. “I think he’s just been busy,” she countered, mentioning that Declan had been on edge in the lead up and preparation for his televised interview with Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher. You were well aware, and knew how much the opportunity meant to him, so you’d made a conscious effort to stay away from The Priory, as not to overwhelm Declan or put any additional pressure on him to make a decision about the assistant position. Instead, you’d met Taggie in town for afternoon tea on the days she wasn’t preparing for an event, or a meal at Bar Sinister when time called for a catch up. But the Thatcher interview was days ago now — a roaring success with both viewers and ratings — and you were getting restless for news.

Slamming your worn out copy of Pride and Prejudice shut, you reach for the phone by your bedside and dial your best friend for what feels like the fiftieth time this week. You’ve called The Priory so often in recent days that she doesn’t even say hello when she answers.

“Still no word yet,” she sighs down the line. “He’s in an awful mood tonight, though. Went straight up to his office when he got home, refused dinner. I think Mummy being away is getting to him.”

You hum in agreement, not that you have any real insight on the matter. “I’m sure he’s fine, Tag. Probably tired of putting up with that Tony Baddingam’s shit. I told you what a right arse he was to your dad when I was there, didn’t you?”

“You did. Honestly, I didn’t think about anyone else at Corinium when I suggested you work for Daddy. It’s one thing for you to be under him, but to be at the beck and call of Lord Baddingham, too?” You practically hear Tag shudder down the line. “Makes me feel ill the way he treats the women who work for him.”

You push aside any runaway thoughts elicited by Taggie’s mention of you under Declan and shrug. “It’s fine, Tag. I’ve dealt with enough Baddinghams in my time to know to tread carefully.” You pull the phone cable taut and pluck it with your finger. “Besides, I don’t think I’ve got the job anyway. I should have heard by now.”

In the room above Taggie, Declan stubs out his cigarette, reclining in his office chair as he listens to his daughter’s voice reverberate through the house. One final plume of smoke emerges from the pile of ashes and butts that have accumulated in the tray over the last twenty-four hours. He ought to be prepping for his next TV interview, a fairly benign chat with a local farmer who has grand plans for the land on the outskirts of the Cotswolds. A piece of cake, he’d told Tony earlier today when he was asked how his preparation was coming. However, he’d flicked through his notes and research God knows how many times this evening, yet couldn’t recall one lick of fact about his upcoming subject. Instead, he’d spent hours — no, days — agonising over whether he should hire you. His producer, Cameron Cook, was breathing down his neck for him to hire someone so he was spread less thin, but it’s not an easy task. On paper, you’re the perfect choice. Hell, in reality, you’re the perfect choice. Still, he prayed that one of the interviewees after you would prove better candidates (and notably male), but no one measured up to you. Sure, they were intelligent. Passionate, somewhat. But then there was you; intelligent and passionate, and looking far too delectable in that bloody skirt that belongs to his fucking wife. Yes, his wife — that’s if she still even wants to be called that — who’s been gone for weeks without as much as a phone call or letter to the house. Their son, Patrick, had mentioned that she’d phoned a couple of weeks ago to inform him she was back in the city, but spared their university-bound child the details of her whereabouts. Declan loves Maud, despite her shortcomings — of which there are many — but he couldn’t help but resent his wife for her absence, and moreover, for the constant dull ache that had been burdening his cock since seeing her skirt on you. He rationalised that if Maud was here, he wouldn’t be up at night thinking obscene thoughts about his daughter’s best friend who had showed up to his office all smiles and curves in his wife’s long-forgotten hand-me-downs. Every time Declan closes his eyes he sees the shallow dimple that adorns your left cheek. He gets random flashbacks of that black lace bra he imagines holds perfect breasts, if he just allows his mind to wander.

He flexes his hand in an attempt to rid it of the itch that’s been daring him to relieve himself ever since you left his Corinium office. There have been countless instances over the last week where he wondered if he just gave in — just a little, just a stroke, something, anything — that the ache will go away. But there’s a bigger part of him that’s afraid that once he starts, he won’t be able to stop, and then how will he ever be able to face you again? Face Taggie again, knowing the pure filth that’s taken him over in the moments when he’s alone?

Cameron had demanded that afternoon that he chooses someone to pick up his slack by the weekend so help her God or she’ll stick him with an intern with more boobs for brains, and he knows — he knows — he can’t be stuck with someone with the same level IQ as a stale loaf of bread. He’d combust. So, against his better judgement, he decides as he lights yet another cigarette, that he’ll offer you the job as his assistant.

So help him God.

The phone rang just after half seven as you took your first bite of marmite toast. “Do you want the good news or the best news first?” You wince at Taggie’s chirpiness so early in the morning.

“Umm, best ‘til last,” you option. “Good news first.”

“Well, I’m making shepherd’s pie for dinner and you’re coming over.”

“Alright,” you giggle. “And the other news?”

“We’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating you making shepherd’s pie?”

“No, you nitwit! We’re celebrating you! You got the job! Daddy just told me on his way out this morning.”

Your chair whines against the floorboards of your flat as you shoot to your feet. “I got the job?”

“You got the job!” Taggie shrieks down the line. “Daddy said he was going to phone you when he gets to the office but I couldn’t wait to tell you myself. I know you’ve been anxious waiting to hear back.”

“Oh, Tag, I can’t believe it! I really thought he’d found someone more suited,” you express, cheeks pinching with a grin.

“He said he was very impressed with you,” your friend continues, voice laced with pride. “He also suggested we go shopping for some new officewear.”

“So, he hated my outfit, is what you’re saying.” Him and everybody else at that bloody station.

“No, it’s not that. I think him seeing you in Mummy’s clothes freaked him out a little, is all,” Taggie confesses. “He’s been a bit all over the shop since she’s been gone and I suppose when it comes to her, out of sight, out of mind is best.”

You think back to Declan spluttering his tea everywhere during your interview, and his little explosion afterwards. It makes sense that he doesn’t wanted be reminded of the woman who stepped out on him. You were just glad his reaction wasn’t to something you had done.

You and Taggie chat for a few minutes more about potential shopping destinations and your plans for the day before she rushes through a goodbye, eager to get to the market to pick up groceries for your celebratory meal. An hour later, Declan calls.

“Morning, it’s Declan,” he says, words stifled by the cigarette between his lips. “Declan O’Hara.”

You bite down a smile at the unnecessary clarification. You do the same to thwart your enthusiasm at finally receiving his call. “Hiya. It’s nice to hear from you. How’re you this morning, Declan?”

“Yeah, good, good. Tony’s riding my arse as per usual but other than that, good.” Silence reigns as you wait for Declan to relay the good news. After a moment, he clears his throat like he just remembered you’re on the other end of the line. “Look, I don’t have long, but I wanted to give you a bell to let you know the assistant job is yours. If you want it.”

Although you were already aware of the job offer, you do a happy jig in your kitchen. “Yes, thank you! Of course, I accept.”

“Great. Does Monday work as a start date?”

“Absolutely. I’ll be there. Thank you, Declan.”

“Welcome. Chat soon.”

The line goes dead not second later, and while you’re still overcome with excitement about the new job, your chat with your new boss seemed off. Declan seemed off. Far removed from the chatty, friendly man you sat across from at Corinium just days ago. But like he said, Tony was on his back. He’s probably just… tense.

It becomes clear to Declan as he watches you and Taggie move seamlessly around the kitchen while clearing up after dinner that you’re effervescent. Far more than he’s ever noticed, in all the times you’ve visited his daughter over the recent months, and it bothers him. He hated how his pulse quickened at the sight of you on his doorstep two hours earlier, David Bowie T-shirt peeking out from beneath your checkered coat. If you were at least the tiniest bit irksome or slow-witted or just plain dull, he’d be able to reckon with the fact that his reaction to you was purely chemical. Just another man taken by a young woman’s good looks. But then again, if he found you any of those things, he wouldn’t dare allow you anywhere near his work, near his research. Nor would he be impressed with his daughter adopting a friend as such, either. 

Your laughter trills, egged on by the celebratory champagne Taggie had provided, and Declan catches the tailend of his daughter flinging a handful of dishsoap suds in your direction. You were a good girl, a good friend, being there for Taggie in the last few months. Always willing to lend a hand, or an ear, certainly a shoulder to cry on more than Declan liked to think about or admit. But you were just that: a girl. A girl who was now his assistant. He’ll be damned if he were to become another man at Corinium taking advantage of that power imbalance, which is why he replaces his glass of bubbles with a whiskey and retires to his office after supper, pressing a kiss to his daughter’s forehead as he goes.

You decide to sleepover at The Priory after consuming a few too many glasses of champagne for it be considered safe to drive home. Although, sleepover may be too generous of a word because you’ve barely slept a wink since sinking into bed beside Taggie over an hour ago. Your friend, however, had no trouble drifting off, only to start snoring so loudly the whole bed vibrates. You’ve already tried covering your head with a pillow and the counting backwards from one hundred trick to coax yourself to sleep, but it’s no use. You slide out from under the poppy-printed covers and tip-toe downstairs in a sweater hanging on the back of Taggie’s bedroom door. You’re swimming in the woollen brown garment. It falls to mid-thigh and is sleeves are at least half an arm-length too long, but it keeps the chill at bay when you swing open The Priory’s back door. You slide on a pair of Wellington boots that sit on the doormat and step out into the biting air. In it, the inches of skin between the hem of the sweater and your long socks prickle with goosebumps, and your breath forms a fog under the soft glow of fairy lights leftover from a garden party the O’Hara’s hosted in the summer. Somewhere in the distance, a owl twoos and foxes rustle through shrubbery. When you lived in the city, the nights were overrun with sirens and drunken hooligans singing football chants down the alleyways and other racket that made it very difficult to hear yourself think. Meanwhile, out here, in the countryside, you could just be.

“Nice sweater.”

“Fuck!” The sudden verbiage shocks your shoulders to your ears. There’s no mistaking that voice, yet you have to scan the area to see where the Irish lilt is stemming from. It’s not until you hear the swish of water that you realise he’s in the hot tub that’s tucked away from the courtyard, his silhouette barely visible against the night. “Declan. You gave me a fright.”

“Sorry,” he croaks. “Can’t sleep?”

You shake your head. “Taggie’s snoring like a freight train.”

As your eyes adjust to the dark, you just catch Declan’s moustache quirk with a lazy smile. “Just like her mother.”

The comment coaxes you closer to the tub, waiting for Declan to elaborate, but whatever story he might’ve spieled evaporates with the steam from the water. The heated pool was just another of Maud’s extravagant buys, and Declan hated the addition when it showed up in a delivery van, during summer, of all seasons, because he knew it would be forgotten about in a matter of days once she’d found something new to obsess over. There was always something with Maud. If it wasn’t an extravagant purchase to distract herself with, it was a lover, and if it wasn’t a lover, it was a trip far, far away from the Cotswolds. Her recent truancy being case in point.

There’s hardly any light in this corner of the yard, aside from a small golden glimmer beneath the hot tub surface, but it’s enough for you to take in Declan’s form. He’s lax, whiskey in hand, with his head reclined against the lip of the pool. You notice the thick smattering of chest hair across the breadth of his torso, dark and unruly. The few men you’ve ever been with have been around your age, either trimmed or unable to grow body hair where its desired. But then again, they were just boys in the scheme of things. Declan has always been so fucking manly. His already dark hair black with water, pushed away from his face like he’s slicked it back with his hands. It hasn’t stopped miniscule curls frizzing to fruition at his temples. Declan takes a sip of the amber liquid in his glass.

“If I’m being honest, I thought you’d be a tad more excited when I spoke to you this morning.” The subject change surprises you.

“Oh, trust me, I was! But–“

“But Taggie had already broken the news to you by then, hadn’t she?”

You look down at your feet, not wanting to give your friend away, but Declan knows his daughter has a hard time keeping a lid on her excitement. “It’s alright,” he chuckles. “She means well.”

“She’s a good friend. They’re hard to come by.”

You’re telling me, Declan thinks, taking a one-handed inventory of his own close companions.

The frosty air hugs you and your toes seize under its bite, even through your socks and boots. “Do you mind?” You point to the hot tub. It takes a moment for it to click in Declan’s brain that you’re asking if you can join him. It would be rude for him to say no. Stupid for him to say yes. Instead, he gives a non-commital shrug and whispers Lord, help me into his glass. Over its rim, he watches you perch on the edge of the tub to while you toe off your wellies. They land with a thud on the pavement and you giggle to yourself, oops, when one ricochets into a nearby shrub. Muscles zip up the back of your leg when you peel off your socks, and Declan has to force himself to look away when the hem of your sweater — no, his sweater, one of many Taggie had stolen away — rides dangerously high on your thighs as you swing your legs over the lip of the heated pool. He’s thankful that only one of the lights below the surface is in working order because his prick rouses when a satisfied hum seeps from you as your feet kiss the warm surface. Declan’s jaw ticks. The devil on his shoulder probes that you’re purposely torturing him and his conscious bites back that he’s a sleazy bastard for thinking as much. You’re not doing anything. You’re just here.

Get a grip on yourself, O’Hara, he scolds, and chases it with a swig of whiskey he only hopes will burn away the filthy thoughts you manage to conjure for him.

“You got another one of them?” When he faces you again, you’re pointing at the glass that’s fogged up in his sweaty palm.

“The champagne not enough for ya?”

You roll your eyes. “If you don’t want to share, just say so.”

“You can’t handle this.”

“Are you really going to sit there and tell a girl what she can and can’t handle?” you press, eyes locked in on his. “You’d be surprised what I can handle, Declan.” You don’t mean for it to sound so provocative, but challenging him has set your whole body ablaze. For good measure, you quirk an eyebrow at Declan, and the subtle move has his cock doing the same in the confines of his striped swim shorts. Without another word, Declan floats across the hot tub to where you’re seated and presses his glass into your hand. You offer a thank you in the form of a gentle smile before pressing your full, blush lips to the rim. Tilting the glass to the sky, you can feel Declan’s heavy gaze on you, watching. Waiting. You allow your eyes to fall shut as the bitter prickle of the whiskey waves over your tongue, so you don’t see him slide a hand to the back of his neck. His nails dig crecsents into the skin there, both as punishment for and distraction from the fact his mind is trekking to dark places where your lips are pressed somewhere far more sinister. He can’t keep his eyes off you while you drain what’s left of the whiskey, your eyes fluttering open when you realise there’s nothing left.

“I told you I could handle it,” you tell Declan, ignoring the slight burn that stings at the back of your throat. You both reach your hand into the small space between you, fingers grazing as you pass the glass back to Declan. 

The air between the two of you is charged. You wouldn’t be surprised if someone lit a match and the whole world went up in flames taking the pair of you with it. That same pained look that took Declan’s expression over during your interview rears its head again. Before you get the opportunity to put a name to it, a door creaks in the distance and your name echoes into the night.

“Are you out there?”

Taggie.

Taggie.

There’s a flurry of movement as Declan slides to the opposite side of the hot tub again and you all but catapult yourself onto the pavement as if you’d been caught redhanded. Doing what, you weren’t entirely sure, but you were certain it wasn’t a good look. You yank your socks over your damp feet, followed by the wellies and make a start for where the kitchen light illuminates your friend in the doorway.

“There you are!” she sighs, almost relieved, when you meet her at the step. “You alright? I thought you might’ve driven home after all.” “God, no. I’m fine! Just…” you glance over your shoulder to where the blaze of a cigarette burns in the darkness. “Just getting some air.”

Loved writing this chapter, and things are just getting started!! Reblog, share, comment: it all means the world to me!! <3

Previous chapters: Chapter 1: The Interview

[entheognosis]

TREES By Hermann Hesse "For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like 'lonely' persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farmboy knows that the hardest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow. Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life. A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail. A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that 'God' is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live. When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all. A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one's suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother. So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.

Hermann Hesse

[pullupinarari]

Who I am away from the lights [LH]

author’s note: this season was hell, but this is just a little something about the end of an era. I keep crying like a bitch so don't mind me, just wanted to write a little something about today.

‼️ disclaimer: this is a work of FANFICTION, I don't mean, by any way, to try and describe Lewis how he might or might not be in real life. 90% of what you are about to read is a product of my imagination. This isn't an essay, I'm not stating facts, I am just writing what comes to my mind without the intention of causing any harm. All the descriptions that you're about to read were just made up by me!

• masterlist

wc: 4646 - english is not my first language! feedback is always appreciated

Lately, Lewis’ mind has been working as an album made of memories. Every single movement makes his brain search for a reminder of every thing that he has lived for the past years of his career. 

Feeling more thoughtful now than ever, he finds the need to be alone for a minute, away from all the noise, from all the eyes. 

Lewis knows he isn’t the same person today that he was when he first got to F1. As the years pass by, the man finds himself continuously growing, in a never ending learning experience through life. 

Nowadays, the man often finds himself remembering the bold Lewis from 2007, who got his chance in Formula 1 to prove his worth. The adrenaline rushing through his veins would fuel his brain during every race, almost in a reckless way, making him show everyone how hungry he was for that opportunity. 

Walking around his trophy room, each award triggering a memory - and when his eyes land on his first World Drivers’ Championship trophy, a soft smile plays in his features. Winning his first championship in his second season in F1 really must mean something, no?

Looking back on 2013, the 28 year-old who moved from McLaren to Mercedes only had one purpose: to follow his heart, to be part of something that had the ability to grow and become special.

He knew he had it in him to make a change, to help create something bigger, something historical. And no words can describe the feeling of pride, joy, and even melancholy spreading through his chest when he looks at everything he conquered at Mercedes. Six world championships for his personal account, eight constructor’s championships for the team - alongside an uncountable number of pole positions, podiums, and victories. The move that everyone considered to be crazy, a take so risky into the unknown, became something historical. 

Apart from all the trophies, the numerous champagne celebrations, the glory, there’s something bigger that was built over time: the sense of being surrounded by a newfound family. 

Eleven years ago, Lewis felt like he had found his place, the team he would retire with. And, until recently, it would have never even crossed his mind that he would be getting ready to say goodbye to Mercedes - bidding them farewell, only to meet them on track, while wearing a different color, driving a different car. 

The truth is, as years went by, Lewis grew up and developed who he is while inside this sport. Today, he is not as bold as the 22 year-old Lewis was - he makes sure to make more thoughtful decisions, to try and manage his own feelings in a much wiser way - even if, sometimes, that feels impossible to him.

He needs to remind himself that his decisions don’t just influence his own life anymore. Now, he has you - to be accurate, you have been a part of his life for eight years now. And a love as strong as yours couldn’t fit just inside your hearts, creating the most important piece of your lives: your three year-old daughter Grace, who is now the reason for every single one of Lewis’ decisions. 

Lewis is absolutely devoted to his family, finding his safe haven in your arms, in Grace’s laughs. 22 year-old Lewis would find it hard to deal with all the problems and anger that would burst into his veins after a bad day. The 39 year-old Lewis feels eager to get home after a bad day, so he can smell his daughter’s hair, watching the way she smiles while he hugs her tight - only to end up cuddled in bed with his wife, the one who makes life seem so much easier when he is next to you, surrounded by a comfortable silence, just allowing himself to melt at your caring touch. 

The driver finds in his family the protective bubble to wrap himself in when things get tough. It has always been like this: you are the shoulder he cries on, you are the one who makes him laugh, caring for each other like your lives depend on it. 

To tell the truth, the last few seasons have been rough: on the team, on Lewis, and on your family. 

Ever since that fateful end of the 2021 season in Abu Dhabi, it feels like things just started crumbling down, piece by piece. The next few seasons seemed like nothing was working out, none of the solutions were making sense. 

But still, Lewis - the devoted man, the devoted driver, was dedicated to work alongside the team, firmly believing that Mercedes would be able to overcome the surfacing problems. 

There’s only so much one can take, though. Weekend after weekend, first a terrible qualification, then a bad race, Lewis would have to pretend like everything was fine, forcing himself to lie to journalists, doing his part until the front door of your house closes. 

It’s only in the safety of your arms that your husband lets his cover down, allowing the biggest of sighs to leave his body, letting all of his anger, guilt, doubts out of his frame, watching them hover in the air, almost creating a cloud on the ceiling of your bedroom, that seemed to chase him everywhere he went. 

Every weekend it’s the exact same: Lewis tries his best to put his feelings to the side, focusing on pretending that everything is okay, playing his part in this theater act that he is a part of now, feeling like a puppet in the other's hands. 

Apparently, he is very good at seeming that way, since everyone appears to buy every one of his words. However, the man can’t stop feeling like everything he does is a lie. 

Who is he, when he is away from the lights? He is a caring husband, a dedicated father, and he wishes he could have more time for you and Grace - and no other weight leans as heavily on his shoulders as the guilt of constantly being away from his family, losing so many important moments of his baby growing up.

Lewis keeps fighting a silent battle with himself: whether he should keep racing or retire - dedicating himself more to his family and his other projects, or whether he should take the offer he has on the table or stick with Mercedes. 

He knows your opinion about it - it’s his decision, and whatever he thinks is best for him, you will always be by his side to support him. You can’t deny that you would love for Lewis to finally slow down, to spend more time at home, just so you could stop holding your heart in your hands every time you watch him hopping into a race car. 

But you know he won’t do it just yet. He still has it in himself, and you see it every time you look into his eyes: the fire that keeps glistening inside of him, that passion that drives him to keep going, the wish to fight for an eighth title. You are just patiently waiting for him to understand that, deep down in himself. 

Even if he has been acting like he is fine, he allows his real feelings to show when his head is hidden in the crook of your neck, the vulnerability pouring from his form while you hold him close, hearing the small whimpers leaving his body as he sniffles quietly. His mind has become a whirlwind of thoughts, questions, doubts, insecurities, not knowing what to do anymore - his real state contrasting so heavily with the unbreakable persona that talks to the cameras. 

Tired of feeling like he keeps falling even further behind, your husband uses the silence to do some introspection. Sitting down in his home office, he rubs his hands together soothingly, as his eyes travel across some of his prizes, pictures, memories of his career so far.  

The realization of everything that has been happening from the past few seasons kills him: seeing the team that he helped put on top, not making it; seeing the struggles, the miscommunication, the never-ending problems that don’t stop piling up.

As much as he tries, Lewis feels like it’s not enough: he can’t take the weight of everything that happens on his shoulders, it’s not fair. He shouldn’t be the one trying to come up with answers about all the problems surrounding an entire team when he is just a piece of the puzzle. 

He shouldn’t feel like he is on the edge of a knife every time something goes wrong - as he should definitely not be the only one giving his chest to the bullets, getting little to no support from his own team, nowadays. This is the reason why he believes that, the longer he stays, the further his salvation slips away.

Over the years, he has met the conception of a family in Mercedes. And it hurts to find himself analyzing the possibilities of going to different teams. But sometimes, we need to let go of what’s holding us back, give a step back to be able to move forwards. 

Lewis understands that, there’s moments in life when we have to be selfish and put ourselves first, before anyone else. And that’s what he keeps in mind while making his decision: he can’t continue putting a team first that hasn’t been able to give back to him, lately. 

On the other hand, the man knows that he won’t be driving for much longer. He is nearly 40 now, and still holds an uncountable list of dreams yet to fulfill, outside of F1. He wants to be a more present father, he wants to have more babies with you, he wants to develop more projects with the ideas that keep swirling around his brain at night. 

Your husband wants nothing more than to continue opening the way to people that hold a story similar to his own, he wants to make a difference. But, inside the sport, he still has one childhood dream to complete: driving in Ferrari red. 

Spending most of his time trying to make a decision, deep down, Lewis knows what he has to do. Even if everyone doubts his move, even if everyone wants to give their opinion: this is his decision and no one else's.

After putting Grace to bed, you and Lewis meet amongst your bed sheets, your limbs intertwining as you have the night time just for yourselves. Lying your head on his chest, his fingers play with your hair as he kisses your forehead softly. 

You usually use this moment to talk about your daughter, about your days, and even about the future. But tonight, you can see it in your husband’s eyes, in his body language, that he has something to say. His muscles feel tense, his breathing is deep, his replies to you sound shallow, like his mind is somewhere else. 

- What’s wrong, Lew? Come on, spit it out. - you encourage him, dedicating your entire attention to what he has to say. 

Taking a deep breath, he finally speaks up.

- I have made my decision, love. - he quietly says, his hand still caressing your scalp. 

Nodding your head, you signal for him to continue his train of thought. 

- I’ve decided to go red. It’s a dream that I’ve always had, and now I have a chance to go for it. I know you want me to stop, but I need to write this page in my book, love. I know I still got it, and I know this opportunity didn’t reach my hands in vain. - his eyes examine your features, searching for a reaction from you. 

Lewis was anxious to tell you, afraid that you might be hurt by his decision - putting the sport in front of everything else, once again. But instead, he is met with a loving smile on your lips. 

- I knew it, baby. I knew from the beginning that you were going to choose Ferrari. I know it was a tough decision to make, but honestly, I think it’s the best one for you now. You deserve another chance, my love, and I’m glad you finally realize that inside of yourself. It was only a matter of time. - your lips connect with his in a kiss of security, protectiveness, shushing away all his fears. - And even if things don’t go as planned, you know you will never be alone. You have your two biggest supporters right here. Plus, I look better in red anyways. - Lewis giggles at your words, hugging you closer as your hand caresses his features. 

There’s a feeling of comfort in your heart, knowing that your husband has made the decision that he finds best for his future, but it’s also a weird sensation. Looking back, ever since you started dating Lewis, he was already at Mercedes - so, in a way, Mercedes has been your family for the past eight years as well. 

They were there when you and Lewis got married, they were there when Grace was born - they’re still there when you take her to some of the races, playing with your toddler, showing her around, teaching her everything about the racing world. So, even if you act like it’s not, it will be hard for you to let go of every moment you have shared with the group as well.

Saying goodbye to a team that has been his family for over a decade will definitely not be easy, but tonight, under the light of your bedside lamp that gently illuminates your bodies, Lewis knows that he will be alright. 

And as the season comes to an end, reality starts hitting him: it is really coming to an end, and he will really have to say goodbye to the team that he considers his family, to the garage that he considers his home. In just a few months, everything will be completely different. 

The last few weeks have been emotional for Lewis - he doesn’t regret the choice he made, but there’s a bitter feeling in saying goodbye to Mercedes, after conquering so much together. 

So, when the driver sits next to his daughter, he takes a look at what she is drawing. 

- Daddy, look! That’s me, mummy, you and Roscoe! - the toddler says, her tiny fingers fidgeting with the pencils in front of her as she points to every member of your family. 

Lewis takes a moment to inspect the drawing, noticing how the little girl even tried to draw him wearing his racing suit, the purple and yellow over his head signaling that he had his helmet on.

- That’s so beautiful, princess! You are such a talented artist. - a genuine smile plays on Lewis’ lips, his arm easily wrapping around the girl’s small figure, hugging her as he leaves a kiss on her cheek. 

Grace giggles at the compliment, giving her daddy a kiss back, before a frown appears on her face.

- I was trying to draw your car, but I can’t, daddy. Can you help me? - the three year-old shyly asks, earning another kiss from her daddy as he scoots closer to the table, grabbing a pencil as well.  - Do you want to draw daddy’s racing car? - he confirms, getting a nod from his baby. 

Handing her the pencil, his hand holds her little one, helping her trace the lines of something similar to a racing car. These are the moments that he cherishes, that he yearns to have more and more of as he senses time ticking by. 

He looks at Grace, and he notices how fast she is growing, developing her personality and interests in front of him, and he just prays that he won’t miss much of her life while he is away. He hopes that, somehow, she can wait for him to grow, so Lewis can be the father that he always dreamed of being, being faithfully by his girl’s side.

- Are you excited to go to daddy’s last race before Christmas? Yeah? - he asks, smiling as his princess excitedly nods her head. She hasn’t been to many races yet, but she seems to love the paddock, the garage, and everything surrounding the races. - Is this the one when we are saying goodbye, daddy? - the girl absently asks, leaning her head on her dad’s chest, her big eyes looking up at him. 

After a second of silence, Lewis replies. 

- Yes. Yes it is, love. - he kisses his daughter’s forehead, reality hitting him. This is it. - Can we still be friends with everybody? I like them, daddy - the kid innocently says, making Lewis’ heart feel tight in his chest. - Of course, my love. We will always be friends. - with another kiss to her hair, the driver feels how the toddler’s words sink in his chest.

And after a brief moment, an idea pops in his mind. 

- How about we write a message to Mercedes on your drawing, baby? Do you think that would be a good idea? - he suggests. - Would they see my drawing, daddy? - the girl curiously asks, and Lewis nods at her words. He will personally make sure that everyone will get to see it. 

Grace chooses a pink pencil, and while Lewis holds her hand again, they carefully write each letter together: ‘Thank you, Mercedes’.

In that moment, Lewis realizes that this won’t take a toll only on him. It will also affect his family, his close ones that were used to meeting him at the same garage for the past eleven years.  

When the final weekend of the season arrives, it takes a lot of emotional strength for everyone to stay in the right frame of mind, to deal with the suffocating emotions that hover in the air. 

Lewis makes sure to be as present as he possibly can, wanting to enjoy each moment, each person to the fullest, experiencing every detail of this team for the last time.

He wants to do everything he can to enjoy his time. That’s why he takes every single person from his team on a hot lap, sharing one final moment with each face that he grew so familiar with for the past years. 

After the entire group had their portion of hot laps, your husband stops the car next to you and Grace, signaling for you two to enter. Sitting your daughter safely in your lap, locking the seat belt around her body, you and Lewis share a smile - one of love and companionship: in the end, you are his team, the one he keeps running to in the good and the bad. And you know what this weekend means to him and to you as a family.

- Are you driving, daddy? - Grace nudges his arm with the tip of her finger, making Lewis’ eyes focus on his mini-version. - You want to go for a lap, love? - he giggles as the girl chants ‘YES!!!’, nodding and clapping at her dad’s offer. 

Starting the car, Lewis starts driving around the track with the utmost caution, barely pressing the throttle of the vehicle, just so his daughter could have a look at the views her daddy has when driving around the track, while the sun is slowly hiding in the horizon.

The little girl doesn’t look impressed at all, and Lewis continues to study her facial expressions. 

- Aren’t you enjoying the drive, baby? - he asks. - The car seems to move a lot faster on the telly - she explains, looking almost disappointed by how slow the car is actually moving.

You and your husband laugh in unison at her complaint. 

- It’s camera magic that makes us look faster, baby. - he gently explains with a wide smile, amused by his daughter’s reactions. - How dangerous was it if daddy was driving around super fast? We can’t do that, love. - he tries to reason with her now, while the girl has no idea of speed. 

The toddler just wraps her small arms in front of her chest, patiently waiting for the ride to come to an end, as her big, curious eyes still look around the track, memorizing every detail. 

Holding Grace safely in his arms, he brings you into the garage after the hot laps, gathering his team to show everyone his new helmet for the last race with Mercedes. Uncovering it, the helmet shows his daughter’s drawing of little Grace, Roscoe and you cheering on Lewis - who’s ready to race with his car beside him. Under the drawing, the words ‘Thank You, Mercedes’ that Lewis had helped his little one writing, stand. Holding it in his hands, he proudly shows it to the group, a joyful smile splattered on the driver’s face. 

The toddler’s eyes wide immediately, her mouth agape as she covers it with her small hand - surprised to see the figures that she drew, on her dad’s helmet. In fact, he wasn’t kidding when he said he would make sure that everyone would get to see it.

- That’s my drawing! I did that! - the girl points out, repeating the words more than once, so everybody can know that she is, indeed, the artist of that masterpiece.  - You were the one drawing this amazing helmet, Gracie? - Bono asks, nudging the kid while smiling. - Yes! - the girl nods. - My daddy isn’t a good artist. Daddy helped me draw the car, but I don’t think it looks like the real one - the entire group laughs at her words, while Lewis puts a hand over his heart, pretending to be hurt by his child’s words, playfully. 

Amongst the laughs and smiles, some warm tears appear on the corners of your eyes. There’s a mix of different emotions diving inside of your chest: it’s sad to leave the group who knows you so well behind, but it’s also exciting to know that your family will enter a new, important phase soon. 

And there’s a feeling of familiarity here, at this moment: it’s your family, thanking the group that took you in, that supported your husband and nestled him so many times before - the family that you found in F1. 

After another disappointing qualification, Lewis was still trying to keep his spirit high, just wanting to enjoy his last time with the car. You spent the entire weekend feeling emotional, always on the verge of tears as things started to feel more and more real. It’s sunday, now. This is it, this is the moment when one of the most historical partnerships in Formula 1 would come to an end.

Your husband reaches for you and Grace, the traditional ‘good luck’ kiss shared between you two as Lewis hugs his princess, who also wishes him a good race. Seeing your other half climbing, for the last time, into a Mercedes car, is enough for the burning sensation in your eyes to come back - your mind reminding you of all the races, all the stress, the victories, the chants, all the stories and memories that you have in this team’s garage. 

Even if the last few seasons haven’t been good for your husband, both of you decided to leave with a feeling of gratitude, knowing that a part of yourselves will always belong in this group, after sharing such a huge chapter of your lives with all these people. 

Picking on the skin on your lips, on your nails, trying to find ways to relieve the usual stress that creeps through your body while you watch Lewis racing, you feel like every sensation is heightened by how fast your heart beats in your chest today.

Lewis is starting from p16, and your hands shake slightly as you try to hold Grace close to you, almost unable to contain the anxiety running through you now - analyzing the chaotic start, your heart sinking for some of your dear friends that didn’t get to finish their last race before leaving F1 - and, looking at the leaderboard on the side of the screen in front of you, a warm smile spreads across your features when you see Lewis’ performance. From p16 to p4 with a passion and talent that he, undoubtedly, still has in himself. 

From the donuts, to the crowd chanting his name, the team radios, to the way he stays inside the car a minute longer to try and calm down his cries - to say that you are a mess now, would be an understatement. 

Immediately running to hug you, the man hides his face in between you and your daughter’s figures, merging himself in the most healing, safe hug that he has ever known. 

Lewis feels the love - emanating from his body, receiving it back from everyone around him, the fans, the team, and he knows that everything that he conquered with Mercedes was real, it was the result of a true, mutual partnership. 

But Lewis can’t keep setting fire to his soul to warm up the team, so the group won’t burn alone. He gave his soul, sweat, blood and tears to Mercedes - and he doesn’t regret it, because he also got a lot back from them. However, the only person Lewis would burn his entire self for, is his daughter.

Savouring every moment, your husband makes sure to speak to every single person in the crew, having a proper farewell from the ones who helped him the most when he was on track for so many years. Pictures, hugs, some tears, this is a moment that will forever be engraved in his mind.

- We dreamed alone, but together we believed. - your husband confesses, breathing as he tries to wrap his own brain around what this moment means.

It’s the end of an era, a door that closes but that, in reality, will always have a crack open - due to everything that ties Lewis and Mercedes together, a duo that will never be forgotten. 

It’s with pride in his heart and a light spirit that he leaves the silver arrows family now, knowing for sure that he leaves a significant part of his legacy connected to the team - whether it’s titles, or changes within the sport that he managed to draw attention to. 

Thanking Mercedes “for all the courage, determination, the passion - for seeing him and supporting him”, Lewis is, more than ever, ready to hold your hand as he takes another challenging step into the future, into a new era of his career: Hamilton in red.

Now, it’s time to stop pretending. It’s time to embrace a new phase that will test him even further, to delve into a new team, surrounding yourselves with different people, with a glimpse of hope for what the future holds for you and your family. 

It will definitely feel strange to hear his next team radios without having Bono guiding him, without hearing the iconic “Lewis, it’s hammertime”, it will definitely feel weird to see him in the same context, but with a whole new crew beside him. But that’s what you’re here for. 

Because, just like your husband said: 

- What started out as a leap of faith, turned into a journey into the history books. 

And that will never, ever be forgotten. 

Kissing Grace on the cheek, holding her close to his heart as his fingers intertwined with yours, Lewis is ready to move forward with the most important piece of his entire life: his family. 

With the legacy he keeps building, he thinks about the 2007 Lewis when he first got to Formula 1, the 2013 driver who tried his luck at Mercedes and succeeded. He couldn’t be prouder of himself, and it’s a feeling that you two share. 

For 2025, the future is bright, brighter than he thinks, as a new team is ready to welcome him with open arms, ready to continue writing his name in history, while a new baby Hamilton will be born in this upcoming, Ferrari era - he just doesn’t know about it yet. 

[landograndprix]

Birthday boys ✾ l.n

summary: reader celebrates the boys by personal messages, some might enjoy it more than others

requested: yes!

follow up (sorta) from this post

☆☆☆☆☆

☆☆☆☆☆

y/nusername

liked by danielricciardo, heidiberger, landonorris and 7,824 others

y/nusername happy birthday to the one and only love of my life! Honestly feeling bad for the people who don't get to have a best friend like you– i'm so happy we got to grow up together and terrorize the neighborhood and everyone in our way. I love you babes even though you set me up on a date with your weird coworker. also thanks for the job, sorry you got fired before me ❤️

tagged: @/danielricciardo

view all 826 comments

dannyricric lando & heidi who? I only know daniel & y/n

tifosiredbull the first and the last picture 😭

leclerccc_ the last one is too cute!!

danielricciardo can't wait for your birthday babes, got the pictures ready

y/nusername shaking in my boots right now

teammclaren 😂 😂 😂

landohnorry the first one is doing it for me tbh 🤣

☆☆☆☆☆

y/nusername

liked by alex_albon, mercedesamgf1, georgerussell63 and 8,723 others

y/nusername don't be down and turn that frown upside-down. Happy 30th birthday to the most British man I've ever met– crickey, you're getting old. Best wishes from one bad bitch to another bad bitch 🎂

tagged: georgerussell63

view all 812 comments

grussell63 what is this and why is this the best thing I've ever seen? 😭

georgerussell63 why are you like this?

y/nusername I ask myself that question at least ten times a day 🥰

maxiel13 put this on my grave please :')

mercedesamgf1 truly iconic 🙌

☆☆☆☆☆

y/nusername

liked by isahernaez, carlossainz55 and 9,076 others

y/nusername older? yes. wiser? debatable. Some things are better with age, too bad you aren’t one of them. Happy birthday to my favorite spaniard 🌶

tagged: @/carlossainz55

charlos55 ah yes I love the Jonas Brothers

y/nusername joe is my favorite obviously

charlos55 asjklsas i love you!

scuderiaferrari thank you for perfectly capturing our chili 🌶

gaaaslyyy happy b-day to Carlos and let's thank y/n for her services ☺

carlossainz55 I can't wait to see you on the track this weekend

y/nusername is that a threat?

carlossainz55 keep your eyes open

sainzie my goal in life is to be as close with every driver as y/n is 😭

☆☆☆☆☆

y/nusername

liked by landonorris, alex_albon and 8,003 others

y/nusername happy birthday to the guy who can never do anything wrong in his life, the guy who became the little brother I've never had, thanks for being such a great time. (Don't be fooled, I still like your girlfriend more.)

tagged: alex_albon

view all 307 comments

maxmaxmax he truly can't do wrong, protect this men at cost!

🤺🤺🤺🤺

alex_albon thanks y/n, it's okay I too like my girlfriend more than you 😀

alebonooo like you should 😇

lilymhe hey could you intruduce me to this guy, he's cute

alex_albon 👋👋

☆☆☆☆☆

y/nusername

liked by charles_leclerc, danielricciardo and 10,897 others

y/nusername Smart, funny, beautiful..but enough about me, happy birthday to monaco's (and my) favorite. Here’s to another year of questionable fashion decisions. Happy birthday queen. ♥

tagged: charles_leclerc

sharllekler not charles questioning his life in these pictures 😭

lestappen_ I would too if my team was ferrari 💀

leclerc16 bestie the least thing you could've done was take those pants away from him

y/nusername friend if this man wants to embarrass himself, who am I to stop him?

charles_leclerc thank you queen ❤️

checooop don't known if I want to be charles or y/n

☆☆☆☆☆

y/nusername

liked by landonorris, carlossainz55 and 9,726 others

y/nusername Happy birthday to the guy who always knows how to make me laugh, who matches my weird, to the most good-looking guy I've ever met, to my best friend, to my person and to the one I love. I hope i get to spend many more birthdays with you..anyway, who needs a gift when you have me? Love you always, muppet 🧡🧡

tagged: landonorris

view all 910 comments

norris4 the difference between the birthday post of the other guys and lando's one is insane 😭

mercmartin the last picture will always be my favorite, thanks for sharing it once again

landonorris love you, muppet ❤️

Bottassv will I ever get over the muppet thing? Probably not

danielricciardo best friend?

landonorris people change their minds, daniel

scottyjames31 feeling rather betrayed right now

y/nusername guys please, I can't stand y'all equally. No need to fight.

[grimm-writings]

chomp

…ft! boothill x gn! reader

…tags! fluff, silly, biting, arguing (petty and not serious), reader is significantly shorter than boothill

…wc! 612

…notes! hiiii guess who’s alliiiiiveee. um advice for anyone out there do NOT become a teacher it will take up all your energy haha!! here’s something to prove i am in fact still living!!

“Youuuuu little… SHIT!”

Boothill turns on his heel to face you, expression blank.  He looks left, then right, then points a finger at himself, as if there were any other little shits of note.

Meanwhile, you stand in front of him, practically steaming with rage.  If you were a kettle, you’d be whistling at a pitch high enough only dogs could hear.

“...I get the feelin’,” Boothill starts, placing his hands on his hips and preparing for a lecture, “someone is mad at me.”

“Oh!  How intelligent!  Should we call the Genius Society?  Nous THEMself?”  You bat your eyelashes, but the smile you plaster on your face makes you look more like a monkey ready to pounce.

Boothill rolls his eyes, his hands held up in surrender.  “Alright, alright!  I get it.  I forked up—”

“Oh, you forked up, you say?”  You interrupt.  “Yes, that’s what I call pulling me out in the middle of a road when there was oncoming traffic then suddenly letting go of my hand!  Yes, what a fork up!”

Boothill’s eye twitches at your outright mockery of his censorship.  “I’m sorry, ‘kay?  I know it was a jerk move, but it’s not like I shot ya!”

You can only bite your lip to suppress your scream, instead letting out a loud grunt in frustration.  As you pace, you reach up your two hands and approach Boothill briefly, they shake in the air as if pantomiming the great strangle you’re going to give him later.  You drop your arms and began to pace once more, continuing your berating.

Boothill doesn’t do anything except stand there and take it.  By now, he’s used to your scoldings.  In one ear, out the other.  In fact, if he just ignores what you’re saying, he could even say you look just adorable right now.  Yeah, look at you, trying to look all intimidating when you can barely reach his neck.

He could just eat you up.

“And another thing!”  You exclaim, continuing your lecture with Boothill none the wiser.  You stop in front of the cowboy once more, thinking of another thing to criticise with your finger held up in the air, just below his chin.  Boothill goes slightly cross-eyed following it.

“You are just—”

Chomp.

You stop short of what you’re doing, jaw slack as you look up at Boothill.  He has leaned down, and his shark-like teeth are now enclosed around your finger.

And he’s smirking up at you.  Bastard.

You begin wiggling your arm around like a crazy person as soon as you process the slight pain of the bite, like Boothill was a rabid dog you were trying to shake off.  “What the Hell?!  I’m trying to have a serious talk with you!”

Boothill replies, but his teeth are still latched onto your finger, so it comes out gibberish.  In fact, you think his grip only got tighter.

People are definitely staring now, but what’s more grating to your senses is how much fun Boothill seems to be having.  This isn’t fun– this is you trying to reprimand him!  Why does he have to be so…?!

Once you finally get him off you, he cackles as you cradle your poor, poor finger.  Those teeth marks will be there the entire day…  People are going to ask so many questions…!

“Sorry, darlin’,” he says, ruffling your hair as you mope.  “I tried to hold back, but I just couldn't help myself.”

You look up at him weepily and he smirks back.  He tilts his head in a way that makes him even more handsome from your angle as he gazes down at you.

Frustratingly charming.  That’s what he is.

[slyscoutess]

paring: sebastian vettel x fem!singer!reader summary: pilots should learn not to comment on their favorite artists . . . or maybe this is their tactic to get what they want writer: the oldest thing in my drafts, it clearly had to be my first passion in formula 1, one of the reasons I liked watching it, listening to Florence + The Machine, I just wanted to leave my love for sebs on record

liked by sebastianvettel, jessalexander, christinanadin and 4.636.585 others

yourusername I came for the pleasure, but I stay for the pain . . . New album DANCE FEVER. Out April 19 💙

store.yourname.com

📷: alvarezcamila

view all 32.075 comments

yournameupdate MOTHER IS BACK!! THIS IS NOT A DRILL

ynlnthinker EVERYBODY AND THEIR CHILD FREAKING RIGHT NOW

ynlnandthesiix not her coming back after years with new music and pretending to be normal

vettelchild somebody please check on sebs, i think the man is dead right about now

leclerccough just saw sebastian vettel himself in the likes, she posted it like 2 min ago???

patitowifey father is a hardcore fan just like us fr carlandomind I didn't even know he had Instagram??? pastryf2piastri pretty sure is a fanpage, there is nothing published yet

yournamecuunt Rumors of her divorce emerged in 2020 and she disappeared from the map and now appears with an album out of nowhere

andthesixburner queen behaviour???

liked by vertappwifey,rosinglovers, vettelbabs and 8.585 others

lovingwags New wag in the paddock?

seen at the Australian GP with some friends and members of the band that makes up her shows and team, yn ln was present at the Australian GP, ​​we cannot confirm which garage she was in, but I think we all have a certain hope of one in specific ( Sebastian please makes us proud

view all 475 comments

strollmothering That one blueyfever on twitter beign right all along

blueyfever OF COURSE I FCKING WAS formulaonfacts CAN'T FREAKING BELIEVE IT

ynthinker SCREAMING, CRYING AND THROWING UUUP

minivettel5 This woman is a freaking goddess

vettelhamm Sebastian must be just killing himself right about now

33tororoso Do we, Sebastian Vettel's children, finally have a mother?

maziemillian Isn't he like . . . married? blueyfever yeah! to her!!!! formulaonfacts okay grandma let's get you back to bed

whatamaxemmil I can't wait for blueyfever to be right

liked by sebastianvettel, charles_leclerc, lovingwags and 6.569.019 others

yourusername for years and years the words you didn't let me write suffocated me, the art you never let me see blinded me, the places you left me humiliated me, but finally my Graceland gained a different meaning and I'm no longer stuck in the bathroom with the same headache, everything you wanted from me didn't belong to you and I finally found someone who would give me the pen and not cut out my tongue, all my love, my affection, my future and my choices belong to him.

Because of him I have Dance Fever every night.

DANCE FEVER is yours to listen now.

view all 48.371 comments

yournameupdate OMG IS THAT????

ynlnthinker THAT IS SEBASTIAN VETTEL HIMSELF

vettelmemes OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG

vettelchild WHAT DOES THIS MEAAAAAAN

formulaonfacts BLUEY WAS RIGHT WT???

lecfosi BLUEY THE OLDER WISER SIBLING charles_leclerc no? that would be me maxverstappen1 you are neither charles_leclerc I am her favorite lance_stroll keep dreaming

yournamecuunt the grid competing more for her mother's love than for the world championship

georgerussell63 You haven't seen them in person.

sebastianvettel posted a new video.

liked by sebastianvettel, charles_leclerc, lovingwags and 6.569.019 others

yourusername It's been three years and a pandemic of an intense creative process, four years of silently recording every movement of my life until dance fever came to me and was finally delivered to you, four years surrounded by incredible people, and as a thank you for me Wait patiently over the last four years, I'll be sharing a little of what I've been going through.

the Dance Fever bts is now on YouTube, I'm sorry for the length, it's been four years of recording.

view all 48.371 comments

charles_leclerc it's 2 in the mornig

yourusername and why aren't you sleeping, pretty sure already put you in bed?

maxverstappen1 I just stopped my sim race to watch something I basically live? yeah

vettelchild my god the amount of content from yn and sebastian, now I have diabetes and i'm still at 2019, they weren't even dating

lecsainzfosi wait . . . WHAT?

lance_stroll I will assume you got to 2020 and 2021 charles_leclerc often sleep on the sofa in their house during these landonorris you and practically everyone on the grid, even Lewlew charles_leclerc yeah but i am her favorite lance_stroll still on this?

yournamecuunt Now that you are intertwined in the world of F1, do you think Lance should just leave?

yourusername Hell no, that is my child, giving my life for him to be happy, never did anything wrong, will never do , everyone who complains about him just wants to make noise and distractions and isn't worrying about the race tsunodaaaa on my way to make a fanpage for this mother and son duo

The soft tendrils of dawn's first light seeped through the curtains, casting a warm, golden glow upon the tranquil morning. Sebastian, now retired from the racing circuit, still grappled with the novelty of no longer being tethered to the demanding schedules of tracks worldwide. Yet, awakening beside his wife, cocooned in the serenity of their home, provided a deeply soothing sense of contentment.

As Sebastian nestled closer to his beloved, he could feel her gentle warmth radiating beside him. She slept peacefully, her worries and the frenetic pace of everyday life momentarily suspended. Ever since Bee came into their lives, their nights had become a balancing act between tending to their child's needs and stealing moments of rest. But on this particular night, they had slept deeply, as though replenishing themselves from an extended bout of weariness.

Her locks cascaded like silken waves over the pillow, delicately shrouding her serene countenance. The soft curves of her features bespoke the tranquility she had discovered in that fleeting moment of repose. A fond smile tugged at Sebastian's lips as he recalled the countless nights spent awake with her, cradling her in his arms as she delved into the depths of her creative musings. The restorative embrace of a full night's sleep had invigorated Sebastian. He savored a newfound sense of peace and autonomy, a luxury he hadn't known since bidding farewell to the adrenaline-fueled world of racing. Now, he could devote more of himself to his growing family, witnessing Bee's milestones and relishing in the simple joys of marital companionship.

As the world beyond their bedroom gradually stirred to life, the couple remained ensconced in their private sanctuary. Yet, the tranquil ambiance was momentarily shattered by the soft whimper of Bee, captured by the electronic monitor stationed nearby. With a reluctant sigh, Sebastian's wife stirred beside him, bidding farewell to the depths of slumber.

"Sebastian, your daughter wake up . . .", she groaned, as Bee's gentle cry pierced the stillness of the morning, the woman instinctively buried her face into her husband's chest, seeking refuge from the beckoning call of their daughter. Her soft sobs muffled against the warmth of his embrace, a silent plea for a few more moments of respite.

Sebastian couldn't help but chuckle softly at his wife's playful attempt to evade the inevitable. With a tender affection, he ran his fingers through her hair, soothing her frazzled nerves with each gentle stroke. Her muffled laughter reverberated against his chest, a testament to the enduring bond they shared, even amidst the chaos of parenthood. As Bee's cries persisted, Sebastian's wife reluctantly peeled herself away from the sanctuary of his embrace, a resigned smile tugging at the corners of her lips. With a loving glance exchanged between them, they silently acknowledged the shared journey of parenthood, filled with its moments of exhaustion and boundless love. With a whispered promise to return, Sebastian's wife slipped out of bed, ready to embrace the day and tend to their beloved daughter.

As the soft hues of morning bathed the room, casting a gentle glow upon their cozy sanctuary, the woman returned, cradling their precious Bee in her arms. Each step she took seemed to echo with the tender rhythm of maternal love, her eyes alight with a serene radiance that mirrored the dawn's gentle embrace.

Sebastian's heart swelled with affection as he watched his wife approach, the ethereal beauty of motherhood emanating from her every movement. With each delicate sway, Bee stirred slightly in her mother's arms, her angelic face still adorned with the remnants of sleep. As his wife drew nearer, Sebastian's eyes sparkled with an unwavering adoration, a silent testament to the profound love he held for both his wife and their darling daughter. In that fleeting moment, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the tender bond that bound their family together.

Bee, with her tiny hands outstretched, reached eagerly for her father, her sleepy gaze melting hearts with its innocence. Sebastian's heart skipped a beat as he eagerly scooped her up, enveloping her in a warm embrace that radiated with paternal love. With a contented sigh, his lover gently lowered Bee onto the bed, where the little one wobbled unsteadily before finding her footing. With a gleeful giggle, Bee propelled herself into her father's waiting arms, her laughter filling the room with its infectious melody. Sebastian's heart swelled with pride as he cradled their daughter close, showering her with affectionate kisses that elicited a chorus of delighted squeals. In that moment, surrounded by the warmth of their love, Sebastian's wife couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the family they had created together.

As she reclined on the bed, a gentle hand instinctively drifted to her burgeoning belly, where new life stirred with the promise of tomorrow. With each fluttering kick, her heart overflowed with anticipation, a silent prayer whispered for the blessings that lay ahead.

In the tranquil embrace of their shared love, Sebastian's wife felt as though she had finally found her own personal Graceland—a haven of warmth, purity, and boundless affection. And as the laughter of her husband and daughter echoed through the room, she knew that their home would forever be filled with the sweet symphony of love's enduring melody.

liked by yourusername, charles_leclerc, lovingwags and 569.019 others

sebastianvettel My Dearest,

As I sit down to write these words, I find myself immersed in thoughts of you, my heart overflowing with emotions that words alone cannot fully capture. Each day spent by your side feels like ascending to a throne, where you reign as my sovereign, my King. Your presence in my life has granted me a sense of liberation, a feeling of being truly Free from the constraints of the past.

Our journey together has been a whirlwind of joy and passion, a dance of souls caught in the frenzy of love. In your arms, I've discovered a rhythm unlike any other, a Choreomania that consumes us, leaving us breathless yet exhilarated. Whenever I find myself away from you, it's as if I've returned to familiar grounds, back in the embrace of a familiar town. You are my anchor, my sanctuary, my safe haven — a feeling encapsulated in the phrase Back In Town.

Together, we stand united against the odds, defying conventions and societal norms. We are rebels, fighters, Girls Against God in a world that seeks to confine us. In the depths of night, you are my beautiful paradox, my Dream Girl Evil. Your essence is both enchanting and mysterious, a captivating blend that keeps me endlessly intrigued.

Within the walls of our home, our love becomes a sanctuary, a Prayer Factory where we offer our hearts and souls in devotion to each other. It is here, in the sacred space we've created, that I find solace and strength. You possess a wisdom and insight that transcends time, a gift akin to that of the mythical Cassandra. Your intuition guides me, leading me towards a future filled with hope and promise.

In your arms, I've found my heaven, my nirvana — for Heaven is Here, whenever I'm with you. Your presence alone is enough to transform the ordinary into something extraordinary, turning mundane moments into memories I'll cherish forever. Your smile, like a radiant daffodil in a field of blooms, brings light and warmth to even the darkest of days. With you, each moment becomes a celebration of life, a testament to the beauty of love.

My love for you knows no bounds, transcending the limits of time and space. You are my guiding star illuminating the path before me with your boundless affection. Even in moments of separation, I exercise restraint, longing to hold you close yet savoring the anticipation of our reunion. Distance may test us, but it only serves to deepen my love for you, fortifying the bond we share.

Together, we are a force to be reckoned with, a Bomb waiting to explode with passion and desire. In your arms, I find solace, security, and an overwhelming sense of belonging. You are my muse, my inspiration, my Mermaid of the depths. Your allure is irresistible, drawing me in with your ethereal beauty and grace.

My dearest, these words pale in comparison to the depth of my affection for you. You are the beating heart of my existence, the light that guides me through the darkness.

With all my love,

Sebastian

tagged: yourusername

view all 48.371 comments

charles_leclerc alright gonna wrap it up, never gonna be this kind of romantic

carlossainz55 not even shakespere thought about writing something like that, mate

maxverstappen1 When will it be my turn?

kellypiquet what? maxverstappen1 when will it be my turn to be this romantic

lance_stroll MAMA AND PAPA

fernandoalo_oficial beautiful letter, really big, not gonna read but it's wonderful

jensonbutton I've never seen anyone who had so much to say, my god lewishamilton stole all the romance of the century landonorris That's why we live in the century of whoredom

yournamecuunt DID HE JUST MAKE A LETTER WITH ALL HER SONGS IN ORDER?

aussiegrit he's crazy romantic sentimental like that

motheryourname why hasn't yourusername commented yet?

lance_stroll She's here crying like hell at Sebs' farewell party alex_albon She's been really emotional today, with the party and everything. landonorris It's the hormones of this new pregnancy ynthinker THE WHAT sebastianvettel Lando??? yourusername FOR FUCKS SAKE landonorris sorry, sorry SORRY MOTHER

[withleeknow]

minho and https://open.spotify.com/track/4gAIUEY7VkeiKQOPwIYaYb?si=oZNdDS-aTUm9V7bEycscDQ 🩷🩷

flower.

pairing: minho x reader genre/warnings: established relationship, fluff, a teeny bit angsty?; minho's pov word count: 0.7k note: i am very sorry if this is bad i wrote most of this while half asleep so please forgive me kshdkfhsk

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

main masterlist / request masterlist / ko-fi

one day if a flower blooms in your heart would you be able to understand me?

Flower - DANIEL

minho has been up for a while now, just lying here with you as you snuggle close to him like you can't help but gravitate toward him even in your sleep. one of his hands slips under your shirt where he gently traces the smooth skin of your waist, careful not to rouse you from slumber.

he fails though. maybe a particular swipe of thumb over your body was too ticklish.

"you're so warm."

the words come out a little slurred, a little muffled from where your face is tucked into the crook of his neck, safe and sound on this chilly saturday morning. you stir awake for long enough just to say that, and before he knows it, you're off to dreamland once more, from where you probably won't return for at least another hour or so.

minho halts instantly. you're none the wiser, still sleeping peacefully with your soft breaths fanning his collarbones.

cold, mean, unwelcoming, standoffish, callous. you could name any synonym of these words and he's probably been called that before, by friends and by strangers alike. some of them didn't utter it with malicious intent, but rather it was only a passing comment said in a teasing manner, with a lightheartedness that they didn't think he would mind because, well, apparently he just didn't have enough heart to take it as anything other than a joke.

he's used to it, he's gotten numb to it. somewhere along the way, minho accepted that maybe his name is merely one of those synonyms. it's fine, it doesn't matter. he doesn't really mind it because at the end of the day, none of these people could ever be you.

you're the only person whose opinion he cares about. when all is said and done, he doesn't care if the rest of the world thinks cold and heartless, as long as you know who he is. you're the only thing that matters; everything else just simply... falls away.

he's always struggled with opening up, even if the person on the receiving end is you. it doesn't come naturally to him at all. minho was never raised to be openly affectionate, and it just isn't an inherent trait that he possesses. he's not the kind of guy that tells you he loves you every hour of every day, nor is he the type to smother you with gifts and kisses and grand gestures on a daily basis.

no, minho's love comes quietly, rooted in almost every mundane aspect of life that it's often easy to miss if you don't know where to look. his love comes in the form of packed lunches and home-cooked dinners, of a blanket draped over your form after you've fallen asleep at your desk while working on a project for work. of his hand holding tightly onto yours when you get overwhelmed in crowded places. of his eyes always looking at you as though you're the eighth wonder of the world and he'll never get tired of being mesmerized by you. of texts asking if you've eaten. of sporadic videos of soondoongdori simply sleeping or munching on treats, accompanied by no other message or explanation.

there's a million ways that minho cares for you; he doesn't have to shout it from the rooftops for you to know. you do know, and that's enough for the both of you.

but it's not until you uttered those simple words just now that minho realizes how much he needed to hear them out loud. he's well aware that you didn't mean it like that. you meant it quite literally, because sometimes he does run hot and you've always loved that. your personal human furnace to keep you nice and toasty whenever you wanted. he knows it and yet, he still lets the words wiggle their way inside his ribcage and make a home there. they settle somewhere beside his heart and mend something in him that he didn't notice was cracked and chipped, worn away after years and years of people telling him he was callous.

minho isn't sure how long he's been holding his breath, but the very second he inhales again, everything feels lighter, like he's finally leaving behind some of the weight that he's been carrying with him his whole life.

his fingers resume their ministrations on your soft skin as he presses a kiss to your forehead. he holds you a little tighter, and everything feels like it's going to be okay.

even in your half-asleep state with your mind completely elsewhere, you still manage to take his breath away. maybe you really are the eighth wonder of the world after all.

all rights reserved © withleeknow. reposting, translating and/or modifying is not permitted by any means. [posted 19.05.2024]

[keepingitformyself]

older (and wiser): ii

A/N: second chapter! i don’t know when the next time will be that i update. i start uni in a few days and i also am working through a personal issue i have to deal with. anyway— every place that’s mentioned like coffee shops, restaurants, etc..are real so if you’re ever interested in looking into those you can! cus they’re real! ALSO in case anyone hasn’t noticed the face claim for paul is paul mescal. please also keep in mind that this is based off of “past lives” meaning it will follow SOME key moments in the film. not all, just SOME. so if you haven’t seen it i’d recommend it, it’s a great film!

synopsis: you and wanda meet for coffee.

pairings: wanda maximoff x reader

genre: angst, some fluff

warnings: oh gee

part i

please do not repost my work anywhere for any reason at all. if you do see this happen to any of my stories, please let me know. thank you x.

you don’t know what to make of it when you hang up the call.

walking back into the living room, phone in hand, you gulp down your feelings, trying to process the aftermath of what had just happened.

paul looks up from the book in his lap, already closing it and setting it aside as you come into view. his eyes immediately catch the scrunch of your brows.

“talk to me,” he says softly, reaching for your hand and gently pulling you to sit next to him.

you want to escape the moment, but there’s nowhere to go.

“it was wanda.” you admit, your voice laced with an uneasiness that made you feel unsure of what he might say.

paul’s lips part slightly as quiet consideration washes over him. his gaze shifts to the side, and he seems lost in thought.

after a few seconds, he finally says, “oh.”

of course, paul had previously known of who wanda maximoff was to you. it was brought up fairly early in your relationship, both of you drunk on cheap whine, over a lazy night in when it felt like it was easier to be honest than anything else.

he knew there was an ex. he knew that much. an ex that had left you with the unbearable weight of what once was and how good it could be. something in you told you he deserved to know. so you did, you told him and you ended in tears laying against his chest.

fortunately, that night did very little in scaring him off.

wanda was your first—and last—real relationship in college, and coincidentally the one that also impacted you the most.

having her at your side built you up in so many ways. she inspired you so much during your time together. creatively, emotionally, or spiritually. you felt so much around her, so much for her, and she was just as equally showing of that.

there were so many sides of her that you enjoyed experiencing, so many sides of you that had come out because of her. it was something so equal in tenderness and intensity.

to you, wanda maximoff was like a paradox of ideas you felt you could actually understand.

but it wasn’t perfect. the end of your relationship with wanda had been devastating. you were both just months away from graduating when everything began to come apart at the seams. wanda had been cast for the lead in a series that would require her to go overseas for six months, while you had been offered an internship to shadow journalists abroad. you were both doing things you loved, and maybe not together, but you knew this was needed.

and despite your insistence that you could make it work long distance, wanda wasn’t sure she could handle being so far from you. for nearly three years, the two of you had been inseparable. the idea of such a drastic change felt impossible to her.

you agreed it would just be a break—nothing permanent. you promised you’d be back together in no time. but the distance only made things harder. wanda became incredibly hard to reach, always busy, always consumed by work.

it took a toll on her, and she became emotionally unavailable in a way that left you feeling more alone than ever.

determined to salvage what was left, you decided to fly out and see her. wanda had promised to meet you, had said she’d gotten the day off just for you.

you planned a whole dinner in your hotel room, excited to finally see her again. but wanda never showed up. you waited and waited, your heart sinking with every passing hour. when you finally heard from her, she chalked it up to being busy, apologizing profusely.

but it wasn’t enough. her inability to show up had made something clear: the relationship you both claimed to have cherished wasn’t there anymore. so, you ended things for good.

“why did she call?” paul finally asks. his voice careful where you feel like your answer to his question is one he isn’t fully sure he wants to know.

you put your hand over the one that holds yours, biting your lower lip as you find the words to say what you need to. how does one say that their ex misses them? and wants to see them?

“she wanted to see how i was doing,” you start. “i told her about everything, us being engaged, she said she saw and congratulated us.” you smile faintly, recalling the words, but it falters as you contemplate your sentence. “she wants to see me. she was…pretty insistent on it.”

“and what did you say?” paul’s curiosity is evident, though his tone remains measured.

“i said yes to meeting up with her.” you admit. you grip his hand tighter, bringing his palm to your lips and kissing it, as if letting him know that he has a say in this too. “but if you don’t want me to, i wont meet with her.”

paul remains deep in thought as he stares at your entwined hands. he could say no, could ask you not to go, but he knows that’s not who he wants to be. he wouldn’t want to keep you from something that might heal a part of you you’ve never fully recovered from—especially when it’s a part so closely tied to who you are now.

looking at you through his lashes, he smiles softly. your thumb hasn’t stopped rubbing the back of his hand. he’s certain none of this could ever truly hurt what you’ve built together. not when he has you now, so wholly.

“i want you to go see her.” he says finally, his words tinged with a gentle lilt. his eyes soften, and he adds, “if there’s even a chance that it’ll give you closure, or just help you carry less weight, then i think you should. i trust you.”

your eyebrows rise in surprise at his words. “you want me to?” you repeat.

“uh…well, no. it’s not that i want you to. it’s that i wouldn’t want you not to, d’you see? does that make sense?” he pauses, running a hand through his hair.

“look we’re gettin’ married soon, and i love you. from what i’ve heard about wanda, she meant a lot to you.in a way, she led me to you. i wouldn’t want to hold you back from somethin’ that might be good for you. if seein’ wanda is that, then you have my full support.”

your eyes lock with his, a grateful smile on your face at his understanding. you lean over to kiss his cheek,

“than you,” you murmur softly.

——

wanda was the first to arrive at the café you’d picked out. you’d agreed to meet by 2:15, but wanda had been restless, unable to stay in place once she reached her hotel just hours earlier.

caffè reggio felt enigmatic in its own way. the compact space, with small tables scattered across the room, gave it an almost congested feel, but the patrons kept to themselves, creating an atmosphere of quiet solitude.

the low lighting added an intimate touch, the kind wanda found herself grateful for; a setting that made sense for seeing you after all these years. still, she hadn’t expected you to choose a place that felt so…secretive. not that she was complaining.

as soon as she sat down, a server approached her with a gentle greeting and offered to read her the menu. she listened half-heartedly, her mind preoccupied, and eventually settled on an espresso martini and a dessert she barely registered.

“will that be all?” the server asked politely.

wanda hesitated, glancing at the watch on her wrist. it read 1:57 pm.

“actually,” she said, chewing the inside of her cheek, “i’m meeting someone in about fifteen minutes. could you come back in ten and fix me a vanilla latte for them? double shot, please.”

the server nodded, jotting it down before retreating.

the minutes felt like a drag as wanda waited. each minute passing made her heart feel heavier. she’d waited in the quiet corner she’d picked for the both of you. alternating between anxiously biting her lip as she stared out the window, or checking her phone for the time.

for a second, she feels grateful no one has seemed to notice her, making it easier to revel in her own anxious energy in peace.

when you finally entered, wanda exhaled quietly, her chest tightening as everything seemed to slow. she took in the sight of you, cataloging every detail. your hair was longer, your features more defined, carrying a depth of experience that hadn’t been there before her. for a moment, wanda froze, torn between wanting to disappear completely or letting you see her as she was.

but then your eyes met hers, and you smiled. a smile that was so familiar, it sent a deep ache through her chest. she rose quickly, her arms stiff at her sides, unsure whether to offer a handshake or reach for a hug.

you decided for her, stepping closer and wrapping your arms around her shoulders. your left hand brushed slightly against her back as you said, “it’s good to see you, wands.”

wanda tries not to break into to tears immediately at having you in her arms, of seeing you, of breathing you in. it’s all overwhelming in it’s familiarity.

you pull away first, looking up at her with a soft smile until you decide to sit on the chair across from her. wanda remained standing a beat longer, awkwardly smoothing her pants before sitting down.

“how…how are you?” she asked, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap.

“i’m really good.” you replied, taking a sip of the latte she ordered for you.

“that’s good.”

the words hung in the air for a moment, and you both began speaking at the same time.

“what have—”

“it’s really good—”

you both broke into quiet laughter, the sound cutting through the nervous energy. it felt shared, familiar, like all those years ago.

“you go first,” you offered, tone light.

wanda smiled nervously, glancing down before meeting your eyes again. “i just wanted to say…it’s really nice to see you again.” her voice was soft, almost hesitant. “and…you look good.”

“thank you,” you replied sincerely. “you do too.”

there was another pause, and you leaned forward slightly, gaze steady. “how have you been?”

wanda shrugged, a faint smile playing at her lips. “working. that’s really all i know how to do.”

you frowned at the self deprecating comment, shaking your head slightly. “you know, i’ve actually kept up with your work over the years.”

her brows furrowed in surprise. “really?”

“oh yeah,” you said, grinning triumphantly. “paul and i caught an early screening of his three daughters. it was incredible. it even brought him to tears—more than me, actually.”

wanda couldn’t help but smile, though she faltered slightly at the mention of his name. “he knows about us?”

you nodded, your expression gentle. “yeah. he’s a fan too, by the way.”

“that’s…kind of strange,” she admitted with a soft chuckle. “but also really flattering.”

the moment of levity passed, and wanda hesitated before asking, her voice quieter now, “when’s the wedding?”

your smile shifted, still warm but with a hint of wistfulness. you looked away briefly, as though picturing the scene in your mind. “next september, ideally. paul’s parents have this farm in ireland. it’s got these sprawling green fields and so many goats.” you chuckled lightly, glancing back at her. “it’s beautiful that time of year.”

wanda nodded, a faint smile on her lips as she absorbed your words, though her chest felt heavier with each one. “that sounds…lovely,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“i’ll send you a postcard,” you joke, a light laugh escaping your lips. wanda forces a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. she wishes the context were different, that the distance between you wasn’t so vast, so final.

the silence lingers for a beat too long. it’s palpable, heavy with everything that’s been said—and everything that hasn’t.

you don’t why the next words come out of your mouth.

“you should come over for dinner.” you offer, your smile easy and disarming. you don’t want this to be hard for wanda. anyone could see there’s something still there. and you know wanda—you know her tells. there’s something she wants to say but can’t. this is your way of making her feel better about feeling it, regardless of if you can even help it.

“pardon?” her brows furrow. “to your place?”

you nod as casually as you can. “when do you leave?” you ask.

wanda looks away for a second, clears her throat. “i haven’t booked a returning flight yet,” she admits sheepishly. “was kinda hoping i’d find a reason to stay.”

you nod, smiling knowingly, but you don’t comment.

“come over for dinner,” you say again. “paul is an excellent cook.”

wanda almost smiles, recalling all the times you tried to cook for her but failed miserably. she was usually the one that did the cooking. it’s strange—comforting, even—to think that someone else is now treating you that way.

still, she hesitates. the idea of being in the same space as him, in the home you’ve built together, feels almost unbearable.

“only if you’re sure,” she says.

you sit up straighter in your seat. “it doesn’t have to be weird. i think you’ll like him. he’s a really good man, and i’d really love for you to meet him. and he already thinks you’re talented.”

wanda looks down at her hands, still processing your offer. “you’d really want me there?” she asks, voice above a whisper.

“of course,” you reply sincerely.

wanda shakes her head, her expression caught between hesitation and yearning. “i don’t know.” she says. “that kind of sounds like a lot… and i don’t want to make things awkward. for you or for him.”

you shake your head as if she had just said something silly. “it won’t be. paul knows about us, and he’s one of the most understanding people i’ve ever met. he’s never been anything but supportive.”

wanda let’s out a short laugh, the kind that almost cracks. you think you see tears forming, glinting faintly in the windows light.

“he sounds perfect.” she murmurs, a hint of sadness evident.

“he’s not perfect.” a soft chuckle. “no one is. but he’s perfect for me.”

wanda smiles sadly. “okay.” she nods. “only if you’re okay with it.”

“i’m more than okay with it.” you assure her.

a faint smile tugs at her lips and wanda nods. “thank you,” she says softly.

“thank you,” you reply, warm and firm. “for coming all the way to new york. for wanting to talk.”

you start to gather your things, ready to head out. “i do have to leave now,” you say with an apologetic smile. “i’ve got a meeting with an editor in half an hour.”

once you’re standing, you look directly into wanda’s eyes. “thank you for the latte. it was great seeing you.” you say, and mean it. “i’ll be in touch.”

and with that, you’re already on your way out the door.

[ravennawritesfanfiction]

Imagine Being a Loyal Patron of the Theatre des Vampires and Catching Armand's Attention

Pairing: Armand x Reader

Word Count: 1933

Summary: You visit Theatre des Vampires and you notice things are exactly what they seem. You catch Armand's attention.

For months you had watched Santiago come out on stage and tell everyone what they were about to see was real and that he loved them for it. Every night, audience after audience was splattered with red syrup. Every night ending with a murder, a couple of hundred witnesses none the wiser. Assured by the same man that had previously stated that it was real, now telling them it was fake. Patrons convinced that the victims were part of the cast. Willful denial. 

You had been one of them once. However, you quickly realized you couldn’t fake that kind of terror. The fear that was palpable in the air. The look of impending death. In the end, Santiago had them greeting death like an old friend. It was not natural and you were hooked. 

You started watching the cast more intently. Their eyes were unnatural. The way that Santiago spoke to the victims, still he wasn’t the most interesting theater cast member. Each night he would “fly” up to the catwalk, the man up there never failed to meet your gaze. At first it seemed coincidental, like he was looking in your general direction making it appear as though he was looking at you. Then it didn’t matter where in the audience you were, he found you. You stopped watching the shows. Your eyes searching him out in the darkness. His calling to you. 

You attended every performance for two years. You had learned a few members' names. You had met Sam in the ticket booth; he sold the tickets to the shows he wrote. He always had your stubs waiting for you, the spot expertly tailored to your mood of the day. Each offering a new view of the shows you had memorized. It didn’t matter where you were sitting, you were still in view of him. It was as if Sam could read your mind. 

You had met all of the cast over the years. They were all particularly nice to you. It was hard to tell if it was the frequency of your patronage or if there was something more sinister at foot. After all, you knew they were actively killing people every night. Did they know that you had figured it out? That Theatre des Vampires wasn’t just clever or avant garde? 

Tonight was different. Sam wasn’t alone in the ticket booth. He didn’t have your ticket waiting for you. And as you approached, you were met with four unnaturally alluring eyes. The man for the catwalk.

“Would you accompany me tonight?” no introduction. Just an inquiring look that felt like a challenge. “We mean you no harm.” he softened his approach, likely noting that you shifted your weight towards the door. 

“On the Catwalk?” you were confused. Perhaps there would be a terrible accident resulting in you falling to your death. The only one that could tie the theater to the string of missing persons plaguing Paris.

“Yes, on the catwalk. No, you will not fall to your demise.” He smiled both breathtakingly stunning and terrifying. They knew. You had to realize how monumentally bad this was for you. 

“You never have anyone up there with you, save Santiago occasionally. So, why me?” you weren’t digging your heels in exactly, but you weren’t entirely ready to follow a vampire into the dark without knowing so much as his name. 

“We have been doing this for a hundred years. And no one had figured it out. If they did, they never came back, let alone returning every night.” He looked at you as if you belonged under a microscope, fit for study.

“So am I more of a curiosity or a threat to you?” your posture was as far from at ease as one could get. 

“Neither, Ma Cheri. You are more special than you know,” his eyes looked earnest.”Now, will you join me tonight? Otherwise we have a regular ticket for you.” you wanted nothing more than to say yes. It was an uncontrollable impulse. 

He led you into the theater, through the crowds of patrons and vampires. Celeste eyed you suspiciously. Santiago looked like a cat that was about to eat the canary. You were both mystified and terrified. As you approached the stairs to the catwalk, the actors were now far scarier than you had ever thought them to be. 

“Enjoy the show.” Santiago purred into your ear as you passed him, the hair on the back of your neck stood on end. He who had not yet been named led you up the stairs to the area you would be spectating from.

He stood there in silent appraisal, looking out over a sea of fresh spectators. You sat there appraising him. Even in his outward youth, you could see all of his countless years. You had so many questions but made no move to voice them. He volunteered nothing. 

The show began as it always had. Santiago addressed the audience and started his monologue that wound up with him flying up to the catwalk. This time, when the spotlight shifted, you were in it as well, and you saw something that both blew your mind and completely disarmed you. Santiago was not truly harnessed in. It was clipped to a random loop that looked like it could have been a harness, but in the end you realised that Santiago really was flying about the theater. Your dawning realisation was met with a wink before dropping back down to the stage. Your head was spinning. 

The rest of the play passed in a monotonous blur. You memorized the lines, knew all the queues. The only difference was now you could watch the mystery man up close. He was unmoving. He has a script with him, though he didn’t reference it much. The director?

The night’s victim was brought out and from here you could see the glimmering fangs. The screams echoed up here. The blood that made it onto the stage was visible where you had never seen it before. The body was dropped through a trapdoor and you could see down below the stage. You felt your legs give out. The ringing in your ears overpowered Sanitago’s closing remarks. You never felt the ground. Rather, two strong arms wrapped around you breaking your descent. 

“I told you you wouldn’t fall.” he offered you a soft smile as you fought back the tears of your own panic. You wanted to pull away, You wanted to puke. Too many feelings fighting to be the first released. “I’ll let you go if you promise to stay calm.” You looked at the theater, still full of patrons, and nodded.

“I need air.” you were gasping and your vision was fading to black around the edges. Like a brain shortcircuiting. You were gasping, panicking and grasping at anything to try and stay grounded. As it happened, the only thing for you to cling to had been him. 

“Let’s get you outside.” He helped you down the stairs, all but carrying you. You passed the theater vampires who appeared amused by your reaction to tonight’s show.

“I don’t understand.” you stated once the cool air of the night pricked your skin, reviving you into the nightmare your brain attempted to escape.

“Of course not. You were just faced with the impossible. All of the things you were taught are fiction just became fact.” he shifted away to give you space and was intrigued to see you moved with him, having to be near. 

“Why show me at all?” you looked at him as though this answer would solve all of life’s greatest mysteries. 

“Because you saw and accepted what no one else would. You saw a coven of vampires , pretending to be human, pretending to be vampires and called bullshit. But you kept coming back anyway.” He was the supernatural being, but looked at you as though your existence was the impossible one. “No it’s my turn, why?”

“Ummm,” did you lie and risk him calling you on it or answer honestly?

“Honestly.” he laughed as you jumped. It wasn’t the first time he had done this, but this time it was unnerving. 

“Two reasons I guess. First, I was curious about the impossibility of it all. And then there was you.” you glanced his way to gauge his reaction, but you found none. 

“Me?” It was a mock surprise. “You risked being right and possibly dying for it because of me?” the more he pondered the admission, the more confused he became. Surely he had known what your answer would be, but knowing and understanding did not equate the same thing.

“Yes, I guess so. Though the possibility of death didn’t occur to me until tonight.” he stood there looking at you slack jawed.

“Maybe you are a bit of a curiosity.” he joked, you relaxed.

“Two impossibilities?” You looked at him and made eye contact for the first time. He was saddened that this may not have happened. If only you could have known that Santiago had been the first to realise you knew. It had taken Him and Sam both to stop Santiago from following you home that night and draining you. 

“My name is Armand.” he offered, still searching your eyes for a flicker of home. “I have a question, if you’d permit me.” he looked so young, your heart felt like goo in your chest. You nodded for him to continue. “Would you ever consider joining me?” he looked slightly to your side, breaking eye contact.

“For a show or joining you more definitely?” Big difference.

“As my companion. You’ve called to me every night just as I have called to you.” he returned to your gaze.

“What does it mean to be a vampire’s companion?” even the world felt supernatural.

“The closest thing humans have is a spouse. Though a companion is far more than that. The life of a vampire is a lonely one. A companion is a shelter from that loneliness. A comfort in the dark painful existence.” for the hundredth time tonight you asked yourself why you. You hardly felt qualified for the task, though you understood the loneliness Armand described. 

“I do not wish to rob you of your mortality. I only long for your companionship for as long as you'll grant me.” It wasn't as if you had anything to lose. You had your flat and your own suffocating loneliness. 

“I accept. I will join you as your companion along with everything that comes with it.” maybe you were signing your own death warrant, but you quickly realized that you  didn’t care. “How does this work?” Armand closed the miniscule distance between you until your noses were touching. 

“However, you are comfortable.” he smiled as he stroked your hair. “But first, there is one thing you have to see.” He stepped back from you far enough for you to see his whole face. Out of nowhere, two sharp fangs appeared. 

Your response was unexpected. You pulled him in for a kiss, fangs bared and all. And he let you. 

“I agreed to be a vampire’s companion and you thought that your fangs were going to be the deal breaker?” you giggled and he just shook his head at you. Taken by the complex little creature you were. “I do have one question.”

“Anything.” he looked at you like you were the entire galaxy.

“Your place or mine?” you found yourself in a strange apartment before the syllable died on your lips. “Yours I guess.” You answered your own question.