#it’s my birthday and all I want is for people to tag me when my posts help you because I want to read them!!!!!

[bunny-jpeg]

sinful sentences (sixteen)

kimi räikkönen - "i believe i could make you do it."

tags: smut/pwp, dom/sub dynamics, dom!kimi, sub!reader, temperature play (ice), age gap (30s/40s), safe sane & consensual, non-penetrative sex

a/n: and that's a wrap! thank you to those who read sixteen fan fics over sixteen days of smutty goodness! i hope you enjoyed all of them and maybe i'll do something like this in the future! (probably around my birthday). thank you for the love and support and i'll see you in the next one!

sinful sentences catalogue

it wasn't that you thought much about the finnish. for most of your life you didn't know exactly where it was on a map. you knew the general area, but not the exact borders. it felt like a far off place where winter nights seemed to go on forever.

but when your heart was captivated by the iceman himself, you became more familiar with the country and its people. you became fairly intimate, especially when kimi had his hands all over you every night. and you quickly came to a conclusion, the finnish were a bunch of kinky freaks.

with a shake on the ice tray in his hand, he chuckled lightly, "i believe i could make you do it." and his smile grew a little bit, "make you do anything i ask."

nothing much else to do a friday night. it was cold, so you wondered why kimi wanted to play with ice in the bedroom. it was like him tossing you in the snow outside naked then fucking you until it melted under the heat of your skin.

when you said that to him, he simply chuckled and replied, "there is always next time." then gave you a small wink. you learned quite early on that the stoic, icy driver ran hot in two places; the track and the bedroom. you made quite a pair because you were eager to try new things, and with a slightly older dom with a bit more experience, you felt safe to try new sexual endeavors with him.

he guided you to the bedroom, nudging your hip with his as he carried the ice tray and a few paper towels in his hand. he loomed close to you as if you were going to dart in another direction. instead your pussy was already feeling wet. slick dampening your panties.

maybe you were just as much of a sexual freak as kimi was. you asked as you stood in front of the bed, you could feel him behind you, "and what if i said no?"

he kissed the side of your neck gently, "i don't think so. but we would do what we promised if we had an issue with any kind of play we had together. but when you came into my life you told me that you wanted to try everything. so i know you'd be good for me and let me use ice on you."

"i guess it is fitting for the iceman after all." and shuddered when he pressed the cold try against your lower back, a sweet spot of yours. you let out a moan, this did feel exhilarating.

he pulled away slightly to allow you to undress. he placed the ice tray and the paper towels on the bed. his cold hands helped get your sweater off of you, when his palms touched your inner thighs you felt goosebumps from the sensation of cold skin against the hot skin of your inner thighs.

"kimi."

he made a displeased noise.

"sir."

he kissed the side of your head, "good girl. now get on the bed, on your back." then watched you get into bed and lie up against the pillows. you were more than just a sex toy to him. he loved you, he felt a connection with you. you were exclusive, and he liked that.

he admired you as he got some of the ice cubes out of the tray. he started to explain, he wouldn't leave you in the dark about it. he wrapped the cubes in a paper towel, "i will run them across your middle. i will not touch your pussy with it until the ice melts a little. it is wrapped in a paper towel so it does not stick to your skin." he cupped the bottom of the wrapped ice cubes, "we do not want unwanted injuries, right?"

you nodded, "we don't, sir." and then felt very exposed when he got into bed with you. he was still clothed while you weren't even wearing earrings. stark naked for him. you tensed up for a moment and he pushed your hair back to kiss your on the face before he leaned in further to trail the ice across your skin.

"there." he said softly. the iceman using ice to get his partner off. quite the sight, especially when you started to squirm from the feeling of it all. it was quite beautiful. his cock strained in his sweatpants, but that would be dealt with later. for now, his focus was on you. he said lowly, "see, i can make you do whatever i want. i have quite a bit of power over you."

his words were hot, but the sensations on your skin were cold. and it made your stomach twist in tights knots as you felt your pulse quicken. you were getting off to this.

"you like that?" he asked, his voice heavier with lust. he enjoyed the sight of you coming apart as the ice melted across your skin. he watched your jolt when it grazed your hard nipples. he said, "look at that, someone is very sensitive." he acted like your nipples weren't painfully sensitive sometimes. as if he didn't once spend an hour sucking and biting on them until they were rubbed raw, then made you wear one of his t-shirts so they'd rub up against the fabric while you rode him.

you squirmed a little more and panted. you wanted to cover your face from the embarrassment of coming apart so easily under his cold touches. beads of water dripped down as the ice melted, leaving trails of cold water across your heated flesh. there was something about it that aroused you, it made you feel stirs of pleasure in your core as he continued.

unable to find the words for your pleasure, you let out a small moan. you tensed up as he rested the ice over top over your pussy. he said your slit was the hottest part of you and it was only apparent when cold water danced closer to your sex. you choked out a string of curses and kimi silenced you with a heated kiss.

there was something undeniable about him. you remembered seeing his poster in your brother's room when you were younger. there was about a decade of age gap between you two and you remembered his icy stare on the poster. arms crossed and imposing. closed off completely. but in bed with you, as he pressed himself against you as he rubbed the ice over the top of your pussy. he felt hotter than ever.

he kissed your lips once more and you squirmed further under his touches. he broke away quickly and said, "don't make me tie you under next time."

the idea of a next time made you swallow, your eye fluttered shut as he kissed you once more. the feeling made you run hot. hot to the point that not even the chill of the wrapped ice could calm down the inferno in your soul.

you knew you were going to cum from this. kimi knew that too, he understood your body in such a way that your sweet whimpers and heated gasps as he played with your body meant that you were getting off to this.

he continued to drag the ice across your skin until it all melted, you given a moment to breathe before he got more ice into the soaked paper towel and you tensed up when he dragged it across your sides. he could feel his heart pounding as he watched you edge closer to your orgasm. he asked you, "are you going to make a mess of yourself?"

you meekly nodded and kimi gave you another heated kiss, the combination of temperatures made your head hazy. the pleasure was a vice around you, it made you pulse leap as you laid out there on the bed. it was soaked from warming water under your back. you were covered in goosebumps and shivering a little.

kimi replied, "good, i want you to finish for me. i don't even need to touch you fully and you finish. so good for me." he could see you tensing up and the pleasure rolled of you like a heavy fog. his words were a lull in your lust hazy mind, "show me what you can do."

and with a few more drags of the ice across your skin, the pleasure was mounted on top of each other and soon you climaxed around only the feeling of ice on your skin.

maybe you were a kinky freak too. your pussy clenched around nothing as the pleasure swamped your body and you soon relaxed against the covers and panted heavily.

kimi looked at you with total affection as he watched you relax, near melt into the covers from the intensity of your climax. he chuckled lowly before you let out a small pleasurable noise.

it was cute.

you laid on your side in bed to catch your breath. your face pushed into the pillows as you tried to pull yourself back together. quite the feeling, you had never gotten off from just being toyed with. it was quite the heightened feeling, you rubbed your thighs together as you still felt fuzziness in your mind. you held onto the pillow tightly.

when kimi touched your behind with the cold hand you twitched and he leaned in to kiss you on the cheek. at least his lips were warm. he said softly, "i'm going to put this back in the kitchen. do you need anything?" no matter what kind of play

you looked up from the pillows and said softly, "i think i'm going to need a hot bath after this." then chuckled lightly, "but i'm afraid you might melt."

kimi looked away for a moment and smiled a little before he turned his attention back to you. he got the covers over your bare shoulders and said, "well, i think i have already melted a little for you. but i will happily have a bath with you." and watched you relax further under the covers.

he put away the ice tray and the paper towels. he wondered if he could get a little relief himself with your hot pussy wrapped around his cock. while he was the iceman, you were his little fire. <3

[chanranghaeys]

☀️ here, there, and everywhere

This journal belongs to: me. If found, please contact this number. (And please do not read it—unless you want to read the ramblings of a person who fails to deny their feelings for a certain someone.)

pairing: lee chan x gn!reader word count: 2.5k+ genre: fluff for (belated) happy chan day and carat day! rating: pg tags: college friends, they grew up, time skips between entries, mutual pining, happy (open) ending, stream of consciousness, excessive italics, please read the whole thing as if it were a private journal of sorts warnings: mentions of alcohol, death of a family member (brief mention, off the page)

a/n: this is a self-indulgent piece on my ultimate crush and the love of my (kpop) life, lee chan. i can’t keep denying you, so here we go. in an alternate universe, you would’ve been my best friend that i loved to hate and hated to love, until one of us finally gave in to our feelings and hoped for the best. happy birthday chan! you’ve given me nothing but color in my life ever since i became a carat. i wish you all the beautiful flower paths ahead ✨

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ masterlist . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

Dear Chan,

You must think me pathetic if you ever found one of these letters.

It sucks…this little crush I’ve discovered I have on you. And I am only saying this ONCE on the page. And to no one else. Because when you talk about a crush, it only grows, right?

So I'll just talk about it to myself.

I hate crushes because they are so unexplainable. They’re unexplainable feelings that latch on to you so hard and never let you go until you fumble and mess up and just make an utter fool of yourself.

I first found out I had a crush on you last month.

I had long admired you from afar through your dancing. You’re beautiful when you dance—in the zone, focused, bursting with energy. I’m genuinely jealous of how you can do the things you do with your body, how you tell such beautiful stories with every little move you make.

But it was that time during a production runthrough—the simultaneous evaluations—where you made that one mistake almost fatal to your team on that one sequence you spent weeks perfecting.

Yet there you were onstage, just laughing it off. So instead of your team being anxious or frustrated, they just laughed along with you.

It turned out to be the best performance of the night, your laughing played off as banter and camaraderie by the guest audiences.

That’s when I first felt the intense grip of this thing called feelings on my poor little heart.

Absolutely disgusting.

Anyway.

This “writing letters I'll never send to you” is all just for me to really process all these feelings I’ve discovered for you. No other reason aside from that. In my head, this is a form of acknowledgment so I can easily get over whatever this is.

So yeah. Feelings. A crush. On you—someone younger than me—of all people. I can’t believe it.

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

We were crossing the street when you suddenly held my hand. You did that to pull me to the other side of the road farther from the direction of the car.

“Be careful,” you said.

I shouldn’t feel special. Maybe you do this with everyone else anyway.

I hate how I can’t help but feel just a teensy bit special. Indulge me on this.

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

I hate how you’re so stubborn. I hate how you’re so passionate. I hate how you’re such an amazing dancer. If I didn’t know better, I’d be so goddamn jealous of you.

Well, maybe I already am.

But above all that, I feel so in awe of you.

I hate how amazing you are in everything you do.

I hate how you’re actually inspiring me to be a better person. Little by little.

You’re inspiring me to be more diligent, to work harder, to believe in myself and my artistry way more than I ever thought I could—even through the infinite doubts.

Because that’s what you do to me.

“You can do it!” you said. “I’ll be right in the audience cheering for you, too. Because you’re my number one supporter, I’ll also be your number one supporter.”

I hate how you’re right. Why do you always have to be right?

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

I don’t get it. I really don’t.

I don’t understand why you would do such things to me and for me.

It was such a simple and offhand remark.

“Is that a new necklace?” you asked.

“Nah,” I replied.

“It’s pretty. I don’t usually see you wearing that necklace. Where's the other one? The silver one with the daisy pendants?”

It was only because that one—my favorite one—broke and I didn’t have the time to have it fixed yet. Too busy with org scheds.

And you know what you said?

“Give it to me. I’ll have it fixed.”

What in the actual—

You didn’t have to do it, Chan.

Yet there I was, handing over my most prized possession...to you, my...friend.

You better give it back to me fixed, or else.

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

We’re in the library pretending to study for this godforsaken exam. I’ve practically given up on it.

(lol just kidding I can’t do that)

So we’re on a break. You’re sitting right in front of me, writing something down in your own notebook. Good thing the tables are a bit wide. I really wish that you won’t be able to see your name plastered on top of this page.

I never pegged you for someone who writes. In my head, I will take this as my own influence over you after my constant stories of how journaling and writing is such a simple thing that can heal you so easily and thoroughly.

Maybe my influence, and Seungkwan’s as well. At least he’s a good influence.

It was so funny, even, how you made a huge show of showcasing your little black notebook. When you opened it, I saw that it was already bookmarked at the halfway point.

So you do write. You have been writing.

Stop making my crush on you grow. Stop.

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

You were so drunk last night. I don’t think you’ll remember any of it today.

But I remember everything crystal clear.

You’ve had how many bottles of soju at that point. You slung your arm around me and leaned your head on my shoulder. Never mind how fast my heart was beating at that point. Whether from alcohol, or you know what, I will never know.

You told me, “You’re my best friend. You know that, right?”

Your best friend.

A friend.

A stake to the heart would’ve hurt less, in my opinion.

But then again, better a best friend than nothing at all.

I wish I was as drunk as you were last night. Maybe I could forget that one sentence and just carry on living as if this thing between us is nothing.

As if us holding hands the entire night last night under the guise of you “needing a steady hand to hold so you wouldn't fall because you were drunk as hell” is no indication of any thing.

Whatever this thing is.

Sincerely,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

I promised not to write anymore—believe me I tried. We’re best friends, right?

Best friends meet up for breakfast before going separate ways for the day, right?

Best friends make sure to ask if you’re home at the end of every day, right?

Best friends have random snacks or your go-to pick-me-up drink delivered to you when they know you’re having a terrible day, right?

Best friends do that, right?

Even if they’re both in separate relationships already?

I’m so confused. I shouldn’t be, but I can’t make it make sense.

Maybe it’s just me and these lingering and unresolved feelings. I hate them.

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

Thank you for meeting me as soon as I called. Thank you for holding me as my world fell apart. Thank you for comforting me even as my tears fell. Thank you for being reliable. Thank you for giving me my comfort ice cream. Thank you for helping me through this breakup even though I know you’re on the brink of your own.

Thank you for being a friend—my friend.

Thank you for always catching me whenever I fall.

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

I’m sorry about the breakup…or am I?

I’m not too sad about it, I’m sorry. I always knew they were a bit off for you. But I hope I’ve been the right kind of friend that you need right now.

Or however you need me. I'll be here for you, the same way you were for me. You know that right?

I know you held back a few tears when we were at the cafe earlier. You loved them, for sure. I know how far you go for love—that's how true your love is.

But you should've seen the look in your eyes. It tells me you’re not too too sad about it either.

Or maybe it’s just me.

Yeah, definitely just me.

Maybe it was more of me wanting to see the spark in your eyes again after you kept denying that it had been gone for so long.

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

You should've seen your face earlier. It was so…

With all of your hip-hop and R&B playlists, I never pegged you to be one to appreciate any of the oldies.

“This is my favorite Beatles song,” I said.

You immediately stopped scrolling the phone hidden behind the book reading the book in your hand to listen to “Here, There, and Everywhere” playing from the cafe's tinny speakers, straining to make it out above the chatter of the establishment.

You said you'll pull up the lyrics to read, and as you did, the smile on your face grew ever so slowly with every word that your eyes traveled to. You started to slightly bob your head to the beat while mouthing some of the lyrics as the song continued on.

Okay, fine, I was watching you. You didn't notice anyway.

“It’s a great song,” you said. You looked up with this sense of meaning in your eyes. I feel like mine had a look of question marks in them.

Your fingers danced on your phone. I’m sure you added it to one of your playlists. Well, I hope.

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

This is the last letter I’ll write. I promise.

It’s graduation tomorrow. If you give me nothing and nothing happens within the next month of tomorrow, I will stop this nonsense and maybe try to finally get over these feelings I seem to have for you.

Whatever it is.

I just…don’t think I can bring myself to do it first.

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

This is so random but you just suddenly crossed my mind. And I remembered this notebook full of so-called "unsent letters to you."

I wonder how you are and if you're doing okay. I don't know why we grew apart after graduation. I just...I don't know. I can't even think about it without my head aching.

It does kind of feel like there's a hollow void in the shape of you somewhere in my body, particularly somewhere around my chest area.

(nope, I won't say it)

I hope you're doing alright.

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

I can’t believe you came. It's been five years since we saw each other, three since we last spoke, yet you came—the person I least expected to see in the wake.

I never thought there'd be another letter but how could I not write anything?

I didn’t realize how painful and heavy it was to lose my grandfather until you hugged me. You were the first one to see my tears. You were the only one brave enough to hold my broken pieces without caring if you'd get cut by my sharp edges.

How you were able to do it even after all these years will forever be a mystery to me.

Thank you for catching me before I further shattered myself.

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

I’m still reeling from recent events.

It was so nice to see you again last night, though. Thanks for dragging me out of my apartment. It’s been so long since we went out like that, just for some frozen yogurt, which naturally turned into a few drinks because after all, it’s still the two of us together.

But good lord help me, I’m still in a daze. How can I be normal when I just dropped the biggest truth bomb of my life thus far?

I told you, “Maybe I’ve always wondered what it would be like if we ever tried before.”

But you know what you said? You know what you frickin’ said?

“I wish you told me earlier. Why didn’t you?”

Well, why didn’t you??????

I swear I could’ve combusted on the spot if I could. I swear I just said that so I could finally let go of this weight from my chest.

But you know what you did?

You walked me home. You made sure I was safe.

And then you visited this morning with coffee and breakfast to nurse the drinks from last night.

You’re just outside my room right now, sitting on my small couch, playing Beatles songs from the speakers. You’re waiting for me to finish whatever I’m doing here because you’re taking me out to see this movie I told you I wanted to watch. Why?

“We have to make up for lost time,” you said.

Chan, what are you doing? Just tell me so I know what I should do.

What do I do with you now?

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Happy Chan Day!

I hate you.

I wish you told me about your party earlier! I mean, even hours earlier, not like an hour or two right before.

Okay, I know it’s a spontaneous birthday party and all—I GET IT. But please tell your friends to at least invite your other friends beforehand? So we can also prep stuff for you, okay? I moved around so many schedules for this—for your party. How could I not?

So I hope you’ll forgive me for not preparing your gift yet. I was planning to get it in the coming days when my sched was relatively freer. Still, I’m really, truly sorry for not getting you a gift. I know you like getting gifts because you like giving them as well.

You know, it’s your birthday, yet you were the one who said something that was almost like a gift to me.

You said, “Don’t bother with the gift. As long as you’re here with me, I don’t really need anything else.”

Chan, I still hate you. I think.

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

I’ve come to the harrowing realization that I’m in love with you.

No scratch that. I love you. Throughout all these years, I’ve always loved you.

How’s that for a hit-me-with-a-firetruck realization?

Yours truly (I wish),

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

Do not laugh at me. Do not be condescending. Do not dismiss me—your best friend. Do not leave me hanging. Just…do not.

When I show you this, just don’t.

Just read it.

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Hey, you.

If only you knew how many pages I’ve written about you. Glad to know I’m not the only one doing so.

It started on that day we were in the library. I’d already written about so many things, but that was the first time I ever wrote about you. I’ve never stopped writing since.

And even in pages full of you writing about me, I still write about you.

You’ve always been here, there, and everywhere to me.

Yours, truly and only yours,

Chan

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

NOW PLAYING: seventeen's playlist - song # 2

“To lead a better life / I need my love to be here // … // will be there and everywhere / Here, there and everywhere”

[optimisticgrey]

Well well well, if this isn't the consequence of my own actions, haunting me

Tumblr has voted.

So, here it is. Follow along for one hell of a weird story.

✨In another life, Chapter 2✨

masterlist | requests? | ao3 | kink encyclopedia |

summary: You wake at the beach after attending your friends birthday party last night and realize, you have a tadpole in your head. Welcome to Faerûn!

author's note: Drastic rewrite of Chapter One to fit the Tumblr voted narrative.

darling tags @waterdeepwife @worfs-glorious-hair @dekariosclan @astarioffsimpmain @swordsbardkat @sweetgemberry @jeneralmischief (Let me know if you want to be on/off this list)

content warning: Spoilers. All of them.

word count: 2,4k

Song recommandation: Asking Alexandria - Nothing Left

AO3 Link

divider by @sweetmelodygraphics

“I…” You start but your voice trails off. Your mouth is too dry, your tongue too heavy and sitting up so quickly has made your head somewhat dizzy.

You blink several times, trying to steady your vision, but the sand beneath your shoes remains hazy.

Shoes. You glance down, only now registering that you're wearing your Doc Martens, paired with black skinny jeans.

Huh. You could have sworn to have undressed last night, before dropping into bed.

“I am not sure,” you manage at last, lifting your gaze again. You blink rapidly, opening and closing your eyes in quick succession.

Nope. Nobody is glitching or moving or hovering or any other strange thing they could be doing.

They are not dropping out of existence; your bedroom does not materialize around you in some surreal twist of logic.

They are just standing there, eyeing you.

And they are more stunning than you could have ever imagined. Not the pixelated versions of imaginary people – videogame characters -  you have come to care, fantasize about.

They are real. Alive. Breathing. Staring.

Your eyes dart back to the man who introduced himself as Gale.

He might be the most beautiful thing you have ever seen in your life.

Admittedly, you have read your fair share of smut written about him. About all of them. It’s your masturbation company and inspiration after all.

Thank fuck for AO3.

You’ve pored over screenshots, watched animations, dissected every subtle shift in their expressions through content creators’ videos. But none of it has ever come close to the sheer presence of him crouching before you now.

He frowns, a crease forming between his brows. You remember reading about that line, the one that deepens when he’s lost in thought or troubled and you nearly break into laughter, as you notice it.

His eyes aren’t as dark as you had imagined. They are a warm, gentle brown, lacking the deep, unreadable mystery you had expected. The lines curling up his neck and toward his eye are more gray than blue. The orb at his chest, less concealed than you remember.

Huh. Interesting.

Your mind spins, but you push through the haze, focusing on what’s in front of you. Ir rather, who is in front of you.

They are stunning and achingly familiar. The creeping, suffocating sense of recognition claws at the edges of your mind, fighting against the impossibility of it all.

The toned muscles of Lae’zel’s arms nearly make you afraid. She is breathtaking, in her own, harsh way.

Wyll’s scars are softer than you expected, less defined, more a quiet accent to his already striking face. His red eye catches the light. The sending stone looks more like a piece of polished wood than anything arcane. His smile, is warm and sincere.

Shadowheart is…. She is, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful women you have ever seen. That first impression does not falter. If anything, it solidifies the longer you look at her.

Astarion clears his throat, his arms crossed, and when your gaze finally flicks to him, there is a faint glow behind his crimson eyes that is both unnerving and oddly familiar. The smile playing on his lips is somewhere between amusement and disdain, and you know — you know — that if you let him, he will tear you apart with words sharper than his fangs.

And Gale.

He’s beautiful. Nearly too beautiful, if such a thing exists in Faerûn. Not the pixel-perfect Gale you have seen through your monitor, but something far more real.

You realize they are waiting for you to speak.

“But I am a little dizzy. And my head hurts,” you mumble.

The words feel slow, syrupy as they leave your mouth.

“As presumed, yes. Do you feel a sharp pain at the back of your neck?”

Wyll taps a bottle against Gale’s arm, he takes it with a nod and removes the cork, before offering it to you.

“I do,” you manage as you take the bottle. “Thank you.”

“Sadly, it is to be expected result after the insertion of a mind flayer tadpole. You can drink this; it is not poisoned.”

You had started to lift the bottle to your mouth but let it sink again.

“Nice of you to point that out before I drink,” you mutter way harder than intended and Astarion snorts.

You grin at him before you take a sip. The water is cold and tastes vaguely off metal. It seems to be clear enough though.

It helps. At least a little.

The world remains a mess of sound and light and confusion, but your thoughts begin to steady.

While you drink in slow sips, you look around.

It’s all here. The burning nautiloid. The dead man lying under one nautiloid tendrils, curled over two broken rocks.

The Chionthar to your right.

Why are they all here, though? If Wyll is recruited, have they already been to the Grove?

You decide not to care for the moment.

One step at a time.

Headache. Water. Standing up.

Handing the bottle back to Gale with a quick thanks, you stand up. He rises with you, steadying your arm when you knees wobble.

Your body finally reacts to the shock of all this; the overwhelming impossibility, the absurdity of standing among them. Your stomach churns, your throat tightens, and before you can stop it, you throw up.

It hits Gale’s robe and boots in an unforgiving spray of bile.

You stagger, coughing, bracing your hands on your knees, utterly mortified.

“I am… sorry,” you manage, voice hoarse.

Gale takes a startled step back, then calmly casts a cantrip, cleaning himself with a flick of his wrist.

The spell catches your eye, despite still retching. You can see the air rippling around him. For the fraction of a second, he is glowing.

“Happens to the best of us,” he offers gracefully. “We have a camp set up nearby. Would you care to accompany us?"

You turn around, still coughing, wiping your mouth, wildly gesturing at him.

“Do that again,” you order while you try to steady yourself. Your knees are still weak and your stomach hurts from cramping. “Please.”

His head tilts slightly. “You are speaking of the cleaning cantrip, I presume.”

You only nod, shifting your feet to regain solid grounding as you try to stand up. Your head still threatens to burst but you cannot deny the fascination.

"This is all terribly quaint and cozy, truly. But might we head back? The sun is setting, and we really ought to start considering... dinner."

You ignore him, focussing on Gale. He is amused and somewhat charmed by your interest.

He flicks his wrist again and there it is. A faint glow around him, a halo, the way you always thought an actual aura would look like. Cloaking him in a soft glow, not purple, not blue, something in between, clinging to his silhouette. It only stays for a brief moment but you are certain, you have been sensing, for the first time in your life, what magic looks like.

“Can you do it again?”

He chuckles. “Although it comes to a surprise even for myself, I agree with Astarion. Accompany us. You do not… quite offer the impression of someone stable enough to travel alone.”

“I will be fine.” You blink as you carefully rise. You are still afraid your head might explode but that might be due to the tadpole. There is something in your head that is not supposed to be there, after all.

Or possibly the travel through time and space. Have you travelled through time though? There is no way of knowing, really.

Or the fact that you could turn into a mindflayer.

Or the fact that Gale fucking Dekarios just cleaned your vomit of his robe with an actual cantrip.

How the hell did you – of all people - end up in Faerûn?

You follow them to their camp. The fire is lit with a firebolt casually cast by Gale and you watch him attentively.

Once again, you notice the glow when he performs the spell, something you are pretty sure is what they call the Weave here.

Lae’zel snorts, unimpressed, while the others manage to set up an additional tent for you. You barely have the energy to acknowledge it, slumping down near the fire as Gale hands you a cup of thin broth.

It’s more of a battered tin mug than a proper cup, the metal dented and worn, but you don’t mind.

The warmth of the broth is soothing, the salt and whatever faint seasoning lingers in it doing wonders to settle your nausea. You assume it has electrolytes. You’d kill for an Ibuprofen, you think to yourself.

The broth doesn’t fix the headache entirely, but at least the pain is no longer blinding.

You feel less half-dead.

You are grateful they took you in. In your weird clothes with literally no useful skills and with exactly nothing to offer, they might as well have left you there.

When Lae’zel realized you have never held a sword or any form of weapon in your life, her disdain had become quite obvious. The fact that you might be able to see magic but have no clue how to wield it, was not helpful.

Shadowheart offered you a spare robe, simple gray wool. It is quite itchy, so you decided to keep your top and bra but at least you are look like you belong here.

As everyone settles around the fire, it becomes painfully clear that they are still strangers to one another. The conversation moves slowly, awkwardly, filled with hesitant exchanges and too long pauses. This is their first night together.

At some point, breaking the silence, Gale speaks. “I never asked your name.”

You have noticed Astarion was gone the moment the sun had set. You are painfully aware the others have no clue he is a vampire. Or vampire spawn. You forgot the difference.

Lae’zel went after dinner, briskly thanking Gale for cooking.

“Tav,” your lips say and you freeze, fingers tightening around your mug. Your eyes dart onto the fire as you concentrate.

“Tav,” you say again.

That is not your name.

Why the fuck are you not able to say your own name?

“Tav,” you attempt once more, but confusion builds in your mind.

Gale watches you with growing interest.

Shadowheart chuckles. “We heard you the first time.”

Wyll shifts uncomfortably, clearing his throat before looking away.

“It’s not my name. I cannot tell you my name. Why can I not say my name? When I say it, all that comes out is-“

“Tav,” Gale concludes. He moves a little closer on the log, eyes darting in on you.

"You are not of this world," Gale deduces, his gaze sweeping over you with measured curiosity. "Your attire alone marks you as an anomaly. The way you speak, the way you move… it all serves to further solidify the notion. You bear no visible sigils of deity or profession, no markers of allegiance nor craft. And then, of course, there was your fascination with a mere cantrip—a spell so rudimentary that even the most hesitant of apprentices would scarcely spare it a second thought. You have never truly seen magic before, have you? And yet, most curiously of all—you cannot even speak your own name."

His lips move into a grin, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Now that, I daresay, is a mystery most worthy of unravelling."

„I am glad my misery is able to intrigue you,” you snap before you can stop yourself and Shadowheart chuckles again.

“You will get along just well. As agreed, we move to the Grove at first light? We need a healer.”

You only nod, as she rises.

“Good night,” she murmurs with an underlying tone of hidden feeling and descends to her tent. Somehow, you know she will be praying before sleep.

You are feeling a little uneasy under Gale’s most delighted stare. He notices and averts his gaze but you are sure, this is a discussion that cannot be delayed.

After all, your survival might depend on it.

“I am not….from this world, as you put it. I do not know how I ended up here. Or why.”

“What world are you from?”

You shrug. “I do not know what you call this. My reality is different. Really really different.”

"Can you name the planet? A galaxy? Offer a time frame? Anything that might indicate how it aligns with our world?” Gale asked curiously. His eyes start to wander while his mind is racing. You are not sure how you know but you are certain. "Surely, there must be something—some point of reference, however small—that might bridge the chasm between where you were and where you are now."

“The galaxy is called Milky way and the planet is called-“

"Earth," he nods, briskly rising to his feet. He starts to pace, gesturing mostly to himself. "I have read about it. A world beyond our own, spoken of in rare tomes and whispered theories. Few, very few—only the most powerful of Archwizards—have mastered the advanced techniques required to glimpse its distant shores, let alone set foot upon them. And yet, here you are. Curious, most curious indeed."

When he catches the confusion on your face, he smiles. As if his curiosity alone might somehow fix everything.

How the fuck is that supposed to help? You don’t even have a clean set of underwear.

Or a toothbrush.

"We shall find out," Gale assures you. "Tomorrow, we shall make our way to the Grove—to seek a healer, first and foremost. They may be able to assess our condition. And their library—if fortune favours us—may house rare tomes that grant us our first true insights." He offers a small, thoughtful smile. "A mystery such as this deserves a careful unravelling, after all. Good night, Tav. Wyll."

With that, he dips into a small bow before retreating to his tent. Wyll raises his cup in acknowledgment and follows, pausing for a brief moment as if to say something but then deciding against it.

You empty the cup and drink two additional cups of water, just to be sure. To shit in nature will be a challenge you realize, as you crouch behind a bush.

You have always hated camping and your dislike has not improved since you turned thirty. The insects crawling everywhere, the constant dampness creeping into every pore, the moldy smell of used tents and the fact that you are sleeping on the actual floor – why would anyone do this for fun, when smart people invented hotels?

Sadly, the advantages of modern life will be missing here.

With a resigned sigh, you shed the scratchy robe and use it as an extra blanket, bitterly acknowledging, one point to capitalism.

[it-was-summer]

Nevertheless (I'm In Love With You) 〰 2

A/N: I like to pretend that Spencer is a wanderer?? Like he thinks of a place and just starts walking without thinking twice. Just like me fr. Two grown adults... struggling with their emotions. Yummy... yummers to those who use that word (my bf). I actually proofread this bitch. Happy late Valentine's Day!!!! Hope you guys like it!

Link to the Ao3: Nevertheless (I'm In Love With You) Link to the: Yee olde masterlist Link to the: Nevertheless (I'm In love With You) Masterlist

Previous chapter: Enemies (If You Can Call It That) You are on: Friends (Associates at Best) -> (Better off as) Lovers Tags: Use of She/Her pronouns (I apologize), talk of forensic science, norovirus mention!!, the flu... my enemy, spencer has a 'oh shit,' moment, Spencer being a little oblivious to jokes and his feelings, gossiping students, something else?, this is a very soft and light fic.

Genre: Slight Enemies to friends to lovers. ForensicsProfessor!Reid x ForensicsProfessor!Reader

Plot: Two professors run into each other at a museum. One invites the other to coffee. They enjoy each other's company, and a friendship blossoms—a friendship teeming with affection.

Word Count: 6,414

Friends (Associates at Best)

Serial killers seldom rest during the holidays. Spencer has spent countless Halloweens, Christmases, and Birthdays working BAU cases. This is the first time in a long time that he can sit at home and not hover around waiting for his phone to ring… and he’s bored. 

Considering how fast his mind runs, the boredom comes and goes, but it’s still there. He feels lazy, like he should be doing some work. He’s planned out a rough outline of his lesson plans for the Spring Semester, updated his syllabus, and sent emails to his cohorts two weeks in advance. 

Now, he was just killing time for another week. Years ago, he would have begged for this kind of solitude. He could always catch up on some reading. However, the need to engage in some sort of social activity won’t leave him. 

He almost finds it laughable when he pieces it together. He isn’t bored. He’s lonely, and he blames all those hours spent surrounded by students and faculty. 

He pulls on his trench coat, tucks a technical book in the pocket, and pulls gloves on as he haphazardly drapes his purple scarf around his neck before heading out the door. He tries to think of things he’s never done in the city– everything he’s held off. 

He’s done the sightseeing, the occasional movie in the park, and trains to New York City; maybe he just needs to be out of the apartment. After all, he’s technically already seen seven people— mission complete. 

Spencer sighs as he pushes on. His feet take him to the metro, where he takes the Red line that will eventually take him to the Smithsonian Museum of American History. There are patches of ice on the sidewalk as he walks toward the entrance, happy to take his gloves off and stuff them in his pocket as he checks for new exhibits. 

He enjoys the electricity hall; it was a nice way to kill time. If he was being honest, there wasn’t a plan. He’s still debating the activity as he heads down to the second floor, his eyes scanning for something new, hoping it will catch his eye when he sees a familiar head of hair— or at least he hopes it is. 

He watches as you pace outside one of the exhibits on your phone and finds himself smiling as he sees the exhibit’s topic— Forensic Science on Trial. He wonders if you’re here just for this one exhibit, and that makes you better than him because he doesn’t have anything resembling a plan for his day. 

He watches you briefly, silently debating approaching you and saying hello. He’s sure you won’t want to see him, but when you hang your phone up and look up, you spot him almost instantly. Your eyes widen, and your brows furrow momentarily before glancing back at the exhibit, smiling, and walking over to him. So much for thinking you wouldn’t want to see him. 

Spencer can feel his lips start to twitch upwards as you walk over to him. You’re wearing a trench coat frighteningly similar to his, and your gloves peek out of your left pocket— purple. He finds these accidental similarities amusing, and it’s clear on his face as you stop in front of him. 

You notice his gaze falling on your coat and follow it, looking slightly confused before you realize it's the same dark brown as Spencer’s. Your head snaps up, and you point at his coat with a goofy smile. “Woah, we should get Dr. Matthew in on this matching action. It’ll be like a faculty spirit day.” Then you pause. “Or a cult.” 

Spencer scoffs a little at the idea, a look of confusion in his eyes, “Cult for what exactly?” 

“Trench coats?” 

“Are you feeling alright?” 

“I apologize for being enthusiastic about something. It’ll never happen again.” With that, Spencer gives you a playful raise of his eyebrow before shaking his head. You chuckle, your cheeks warm. “Are you here for the exhibit?” 

Spencer’s eyes leave yours to look at the exhibit steps behind you, silently debating lying and telling you yes– a vain attempt to hang around you a little longer– but the idea sours the longer he thinks about it. With a shake of his head, he lets out a little, “Not exactly, I was…” He trails off briefly, not wanting to say he feels bored. He’s sure any sane professor would hate him if he says he misses work. 

“Bored?” You finish for him, watching his cheeks turn pink. You give him a tentative smile, silently wondering how fast that mind of his works. Of course, he’d be bored. You got stir-crazy after having a few days of nothing to do. Spencer probably got cabin fever in a few hours. You gave him a shrug of your shoulders, “I get it.” 

Spencer drew his lips into a small line, nodding. “But I would love to accompany you. If you’d… let me?” 

He watches as your nose scrunches up, acting as though the idea perturbs you before you let out a soft chuckle, “If you insist.” Then, you turn on your heel and walk back towards the exhibit. 

Spencer happily follows, hands in his pockets as his long legs soon surpass you with long, easy strides. He watches as you walk a little faster to catch up with him, and he’s trying not to find the action funny– honest! But he can’t help the grin that stretches across his face. 

You groan, and then you do something surprising. He watches as you look up at him, your eyes pleading silently, brows furrowed just a bit, and his heart clenches in friendly adoration. He gives you a mocking look of exasperation before slowing down and settling into a stride beside you. He doesn’t miss the smile you give him as the two of you start to explore the exhibit. 

“So, it’s split into three sections.” You hold up three fingers, “ ‘Of people,’” He watches as you put down one finger, “‘By people,’” Then another, “‘For people.’” Then you put down your hand. Your eyes focus as you walk toward an ancient-looking polygraph machine. 

Spencer's eyes linger on you as you admire the machine silently. Organic conversations and reading rooms were always difficult for him. Whenever he tried to be conversational, his words came out awkward—too forced. That didn’t stop him from trying anyway. “Do you come here often?” 

Your back straightens with that, casting him a judgmental look over your shoulder, “Are you trying to hit on me?” 

His cheeks quickly set ablaze, a deep red against his pale skin as he stutters, “W–What? No! No, I meant, do you come to this museum a lot? The American History Museum.” He stammers out, heart pounding.

You’re surprised at how easy it is to make him flustered, and you hate that you enjoy the sight much more than you should. He frowns softly, almost pouting, as he watches the wicked smile that consumes your previously judgmental glare. “Stop that.” He hisses out, his voice cracking with embarrassment. 

“But it’s so easy.” You whine. Spencer gives you an annoyed look, his head tilting to the side to look down at you with displeasure. You sigh and throw your hands up dramatically. “Fine, take away all my fun.” 

“Thank you,” he chirps back, the warmth in his cheeks fading remarkably slow. “So, do you?” 

You move your head side-to-side, trying to count up all the moments you’ve been in this museum as he follows you to another artifact on display. Your voice is low, trying to be courteous to the small group of older women on your right. “Not often, no. What about you?” 

“I like the electricity hall.” 

You groan a little, a hint of amusement in your misery. “You would.” 

“What’s wrong with the electricity hall?” His brows furrow, his eyes flitting over to an arsenic kit. 

“Nothing! It’s simply not the best thing in this museum.” 

“Says the sporadic visitor.” 

“Yes, well, the sporadic visitor is right.” You scoff out, eyes studying a microdynameter carefully. 

Spencer's eyes stay on you, studying your side profile before he bites, “Well, what is the best thing here?” 

“Entertainment nation.” 

He rolls his eyes; that’s everyone’s favorite. He feels surprisingly stubborn as he starts to list other exhibits. “There’s Inventing in America,” 

You shake your head. “Nope.” You pop the ‘p,’ “Entertainment Nation.” 

“American Democracy?” 

“Enter–” You pause, pretending to think. “-tainment nation.” 

He frowns at your stubbornness. “The Star-Spangled Banner?” 

You sigh, turning to face him and narrowing your eyes. He raises his hands and nods, “Entertainment nation, fine.” He laughs. He then pauses and snaps his fingers, “Oh! The First Ladies.” 

You look off towards the ceiling, a low ‘mmm’ coming from your closed lips before you shake your head. “No, it’s Entertainment Nation.” 

Spencer sighs, walking around you to examine a framed court document. “Uninspiring,” he jokes a little. 

He smiles when he hears you let out an annoyed grunt, turning on your heel to walk closer to him. “I’m sorry, Dorothy’s red slippers are uninspiring?” You scoff out in a whisper of disbelief. 

He waves his hand with a mischievous look, “Apologies. Mainstream.” 

“It was the first technicolor movie!” 

“Actually, the first technicolor movie was in 1917 called, ‘The Gulf Between.’” He corrects you, his eyebrows shooting up with surprise at the playful glare you’re giving him. 

“Well, it is still an American Classic." You cross your arms over your chest. “I thought we were friends.” 

Spencer smiles, a laugh bubbling up in his throat. “If I remember correctly, the last time I called us friends, you called us associates. " He then licks his lips quickly. “At best!” Then, Spencer’s breathy laughter fills the exhibit, and you’re more than happy to shush him. 

-

The weekend before classes start, Spencer is deep cleaning his apartment. The thought of deep cleaning his apartment hadn’t left his head all morning, so he started the process at noon. He’s scrubbing down his bedroom door when he hears the familiar ‘ding’ of his –often neglected– cell phone. 

He scrunches his nose, trying to ignore it, his hands stuttering slightly. Then it dings again, and he’s sure it’s the team. He sniffles softly, the smell of pine sol fresh in the air as he pulls off the rubber gloves Garcia had gifted him four Christmases ago. 

The screen doesn’t display Penelope’s contact, nor Emily’s; instead, it shows yours. His fingers scramble to open the message, his eyes reading the text you’ve sent him at the speed of light, ‘Are you a fan of coffee?’ 

He feels his lips quirk into a light smile as he reads the following text directly beneath. ‘This is me asking you to coffee. Say yes so we can keep pretending to be friends.’ 

Despite feeling a little taken aback by the fact that you thought the two of you were simply pretending to be friends, he lets out an amused scoff. With a shake of his head, he sets his phone face down and picks up his gloves. However, just as he’s about to slide them back on, he finds himself tossing them on the table and reaching for his phone. 

He doesn’t feel like himself as he texts back a hasty, ‘Where?’ 

The ‘where’ in question is a small coffee shop two blocks away. Spencer knows he could have ignored the text and finished his cleaning, but for some reason, he’s happy –concerningly so— to abandon his half-cleaned apartment. 

The cold bites at the tips of his ears, and the wind wildly whips against the sensitive skin until he’s in the shop. He doesn’t spot you immediately, his eyes watering a little due to the cold gusts of wind on the street. After a few blinks, his eyes land on you. You’re wearing that same trench coat and thick knitted multi-colored scarf, your eyes transfixed on the window. 

He wonders if you were watching for him. Maybe you were nervous about him not showing? Though that possibility seemed slim. He clears his throat softly as he approaches the counter-height chair next to yours. When you hear it, your chin immediately tilts up toward him, your eyes shining, “Smells like snow,”

No hello. No greetings. Just “‘smells like snow.’” Nonetheless, the seemingly random comment makes him grin, slightly lopsided, as he sets down his messenger bag on the seat next to you. “Petrichor.” He says simply. 

You snap your fingers. “Yes! I always forget the word.” Then you take him in, your eyes trailing up towards his incredibly tousled hair. Your lips form an understanding smile. “The wind did a number on you, too, huh?” 

Spencer scans your appearance for imperfections but finds none, “Too?” 

Your smile broadens with that, finding that you like how he always looks into your eyes when he’s talking to you. “Well, I carry around a brush.” You explain, patting your bag gently. 

His lips form a silent ‘oh’ before he hears your name being called by the barista. Your face brightens as you slide off the seat and happily walk over to get your cup of coffee— a sweet, warm latte. 

You turn to tell Spencer to order something, but he beats you to the punch, already walking up to the front counter to order a drink. You hum softly as you head back to your previous seat in front of the window. 

Honestly, you weren’t sure why you invited Dr. Reid to coffee. You had plenty of other friends you could have reached out to, but after spending a whole day with him at the Smithsonian American History Museum, you found his presence calming. Being around him made something inside of you become still— quiet. It was… nice. 

You wondered if you had the same effect on him, though you knew that you’d rather die than ask him the question directly. For now, it would have to be a mystery to you, and you simply hoped that you weren’t annoying your coworker. 

He didn’t seem annoyed. His hazel eyes held yours in conversation, his body leaned into yours, and sometimes —when he couldn’t hear you well enough— he would lean his head down a little with a gentle ‘I’m sorry?’. A nagging voice inside you noted how attractive that action was, yet you attempted to shove the thought into the deepest recesses of your mind.

Nevertheless, seemingly against your will, your eyes slowly left the window’s view. You peer over your right shoulder, watching Spencer as he pulls out his card to pay the barista behind the counter. You notice the polite smile dancing on his lips, strands of brunette hair slowly falling into his eyes. 

Your lips form a smile as you watch how he pushes the hair out of his face, and— that’s enough! 

You blink rapidly, turning your face back toward the window and forcing yourself to stare at the windy winter streets of DC. You prop your elbows up on the wood counter, leaning your face into your hands to rub out the growing tension between your brows. 

“Everything alright?” Spencer’s worried voice spooks you, eliciting a tiny gasp from your lips. A gasp he seems to find amusing as he carefully sets his cup of coffee down on the wooden countertop with a smile. 

“I’m fine, just a headache.” You groan, picking up your latte and taking a delicate sip. 

“Have you been getting enough sleep lately?” 

You lick some foam off your lip, eyes trailing up towards the ceiling as Spencer sits beside you. “I believe so. I’m sure it is just the thought of the Spring Semester beginning in two days.” 

Spencer’s eyes linger on you, how you look down at your cup and then at him. He’s sure something is on your mind. He doesn’t know you well enough to determine what it is, and he wants to accept your answer with a simple nod, but he can’t help the urge to pry.

The following silence seems slightly tense, “You don’t strike me as the type to be nervous about teaching new students.”

Your lips spread into a slow grin as you shake your head. “No, I’m not.” Your fingers slowly trace the handle of your cup. “I don’t know, it's just a feeling I can’t shake— foreboding.” You chuckle at that, rolling your eyes a little at your words. “It isn’t important, just first-day jitters.”

Spencer let out an appreciative hum, the sound low and soft, as he compared your feelings toward the semester starting to his own. He’s always loved school, and learning new information brought him immense comfort. Teaching was a newer passion, but a passion all the same. He loved it. But he could still understand some of what you were feeling. 

Before he can express his understanding, a long sigh escapes you. “You ever miss it?” Your voice sounds far away as you stare out the coffee shop’s window. 

“What?” 

“Profiling. The BAU.” 

Spencer’s eyes follow your gaze, watching a young woman clutch her partner's hand. A slight ache in his chest makes him think of everything he’s gained… everything he’s lost. “I miss certain aspects of the job, yes.” 

“Such as?” You turn your head to look at him. 

“My team. I still see them, but not as much as I used to.” Spencer blinks, finding the words strange to say out loud. Adjusting to teaching was easy, but he missed his friendships. He missed his family. He missed their laughs, easy touches, and dependability. He missed being silently understood. “It’s hard for me to connect with strangers. I’m not exactly a social butterfly.” 

He can hear the smile in your voice before he sees it. “I think you’re turning it around.” 

You watch his head turn to face you, his warm honey eyes looking particularly amused. “Yeah?” he rasps out in a shy tone. 

You nod happily, “Yeah.” His smile grows at that, and you can feel your heart squeezing inside your chest. “Dr. Reid, I’m proud to bump your title to work, friend.” 

“Spencer,” He interjects, and you can’t help the butterflies that stir inside your stomach at how soft his voice sounds. 

You lick your lips slowly, ignoring your growing nerves. “Spencer.” 

And Spencer tries to ignore how much he likes the sound of your voice calling his name. 

-

Madeline Anderson was a dutiful graduate student. She was always happy to plan study dates with her cohort, ask questions openly, or visit a professor during office hours. However, despite a twenty-four-year-old's diligent efforts, she was still a person.  And, like most people, she never turned down a good story. How could she when there was a story as good as this one unfolding in front of her very eyes? 

Dr. Reid was a favorite of hers. He explained topics thoroughly, and sure, sometimes, he rambled about a different, unrelated subject, but he wasn’t dull. Halfway through his lecture, the hall could hear the eerie creaking of doors that slammed closed with a significant thud. Madeline’s hand kept writing her notes, ignoring the doors until her seatmate, Sadie, kicked her shoe softly. 

Once she had Madeline’s attention, Sadie glanced to the back of the room, silently pleading with Madeline to look that way and fast. Madeline scoffs, slightly amused, shaking her head, but she looks anyway. She was a little caught off guard when she saw you shuffling into an empty seat in the back row with a sheepish smile. 

Sadie nudges her, a mischievous look in her brown eyes. Madeline raises an eyebrow and mouths a tiny, ‘No way.’ 

Madeline steals another look over her shoulder to look at you, and your eyes are trained on Dr. Reid as he talks with his hands. Gossip!

Once the lecture was over, the two girls could be seen packing up their items terribly slow. Madeline watches as you stand, waving at a student or two before beelining it for Dr. Reid’s podium. The same podium that Dr. Reid was leaning against and looking down at you like you were a creature of captivating beauty. 

Wait! No! His gaze resembled that of a love-struck man in a painting! No, still not good enough. It resembled a love-lorn man pinning over a muse, a creature so close and far away. She finds she can’t look away as you drum your fingers on the edge of his podium, your body leaning toward his.

Sadie is the first of the duo to stand; her steps are small, and Madeline is close behind. Just before they leave the lecture hall, they stop by the door and openly stare. They watch as you pick up Dr. Reid’s messenger bag, holding it out for him to take. The way Dr. Reid smiles at you, the corners of his eyes crinkling sweetly as he thanks you. Then they watch how his hand hovers at the small of your back, leading you away from the podium, and how you tilt your head back to flash a winning smile. Then they’re out of there. 

-

Spencer couldn’t place his newfound friendship with you. It lacked —naturally– the familiarity that the BAU gave him, but it still managed to make him feel at home. He never dreaded coming to work, but lately, he’s found that if he doesn’t see you, the work day feels rather lackluster. 

He wonders how you would react if he told you that. He pictures you laughing a little at his confession, or maybe you’d get flustered like you did when he told you he liked spending time with you two weeks ago. 

That was another thing; he had never imagined his old coworker’s reactions to something he’d said before. Sure, there were moments in the past when he sat wondering what Derek or Emily had meant in their responses to his comments here and there. But this level of contemplation never occurred with his friends. 

He’d never sit at his desk like he is now, wondering how Penelope would react to an invitation to lunch or if she’d laugh at one of his jokes. Spencer couldn’t help but chalk it up to knowing precisely what Penelope —or anyone from the BAU team— would say to the invite. Hell, he even knows the jokes he would share with Penelope. He could easily say it was because he was still getting to know you, but something about that explanation didn’t sit right with him. 

That uncanny, familiar rush of excitement that courses through his veins whenever he hears your voice across the hall doesn’t sit right with him. The euphoric feeling he gets from making you laugh. And now, this excessive daydreaming. It’s an emotion he’s previously felt, yet he’s struggling to conceptualize it— frustratingly on the tip of his tongue. 

His foot anxiously taps against the carpet under his desk, and he fears that if he keeps it up, there will be a hole where his right foot naturally rests. He pushes his chair away from his desk, stands, and walks across the hall to your office door, gently rapping his knuckles against the wood. 

He can hear the faint sound of music coming from your office, and you don’t bother turning it off as you open the door, and Spencer gets an earful of something from the 80s. Spencer tries to suppress the giddy feeling that completely consumes his body when he sees that giddy look in your eyes. 

You always had the prettiest eyes, but when you were having fun? They just lit up the room— the universe. He’s seen people brighten or perk up when they are excited, but nothing matches the look in your eyes when you are excited. The last time he saw those eyes shine the way they are now was at the beginning of the semester when Spencer brought in some cookies that Penelope had given him that first week. 

You gasp softly, leaning against your door slightly, your head resting on the wood slowly. Those shining eyes stare at him almost dreamily. “Spencer Reid, my esteemed neighbor.” 

Spencer tries to ignore the saccharine tone of your voice and the way it makes him feel like he is melting into a puddle of goo. “May I borrow a cup of sugar?” He sounds slightly awkward as he jokes with you, and his head dips down in a vain attempt to hide his growing embarrassment. 

Despite his awkward attempt at being funny, he can hear the melodic sound of your laugh in seconds, and a surprising rush of reassurance settles in his chest. “You tried.” You state with an empathetic look on your face. “You looking for a lunch buddy?” 

Spencer’s eyes always have this puppy-like look when he wants something. Whenever he’s after something, his eyes —unbeknownst to him— become irresistible. Those honey and green hues in his eyes mix into a pleading look that has your stomach twisting into knots and refusal dying on your tongue. It’s terribly distracting and, if you’re being honest, disturbingly attractive. You’re huffing out a mocking sigh of frustration as you grab your bag, shut your computer off, and lock your office door. “I believe it’s my pick this time.” 

“It was your pick last time,” Spencer replies, walking beside you, his head tipping to the side to look down at you. 

“I thought you were a gentleman.” 

“What prompted this conclusion?" Spencer taunts as his hands reach for the door handle, holding it open with a warm smile. 

You walk past him with an incredulous look, “A hunch.” You can see the confused look on his face even when his face isn’t in view. The mental image makes your insides turn to jelly, and a small voice in your head begins to wonder what’s wrong with you. 

Before you can dwell in that house forever, Spencer reappears at your side. “At least hear me out,” He pleads softly, and for a brief moment, his slender fingers brush against yours. 

Your throat feels slightly dry. “Fine." 

Spencer brightens at that, leaving you dazed, “That café you like does specials on soups and sandwiches on Wednesdays.” 

It does? Why is it that Spencer knows that about your favorite café and you don’t? The notion that he took time to look up the weekly specials makes you feel —momentarily— warm all over. Then, a nagging voice reminds you of his eidetic memory. Of course! He didn’t take the time out of his week to look up something as silly as the specials at that café you like. He probably just remembered it from last time. 

The fact should calm you down and give your pounding heart a reprieve, but it doesn’t. Instead, you can feel your chest tighten with disappointment as you give Spencer a lackluster nod of approval. “Sounds great.” 

He notices the subtle shift in your body language, his fingers nervously tugging the frayed edges of his cardigan into his palm. “Unless you’d like to eat somewhere else?” He remembered the weekly specials the last time you took him there and was waiting for an opportunity to present itself. 

He doesn’t know if he’s said or done something wrong, but the brightness in your eyes has seemingly deflated. “No, I’m fine! That sounds good.” A tight smile forces its way onto your face as you walk toward the café in question. 

–

It’s not uncommon for campuses filled to the brim with students, such as this one, to experience outbreaks of various diseases—the flu, stomach bugs, the occasional case of mono. According to you, they posted pamphlets about norovirus last year— a germaphobe's worst nightmare. 

Spencer swears that he’s gotten better at handling germs; prison wasn’t the cleanest place. He got through the Fall semester without catching a single cold, and so far, he is accomplishing the same goal with the Spring Semester. 

Unfortunately, you have a different fate. You’ve canceled classes two days in a row now, and the last time he talked with you over the phone, you sounded terrible. Spencer offered to help you grade some papers or take over a class or two, but you vehemently declined. 

You trusted that Spencer would do a good job, but the guilt of him doing twice the work would eat away at you as you sniffled, shivered, and coughed roughly on your couch. You’ve slept through half of the day. Your fever is still going strong. Your hands blindly search for your phone, scrambling on your couch until you feel it in your hands. 

You wince at the time, six o’clock in the afternoon. Your appetite went out the window yesterday, alongside the ability to breathe through your nose. You groan, back hitting the back of the couch, slumping over a little. You need to eat, but your fog-filled mind and weak limbs struggle to get up and cook something. 

A knock at the door spooks a yelp out of you, but it quickly turns into a thick cough. Wrapping your quilt around your body, you hobble to the door and peek out the peephole. Your head reels back at Spencer Reid standing outside your apartment door. “Spencer, I’m sick!” 

Watching him through the peephole, you see him grin, “I know, I come bearing gifts.” 

You lean your forehead against the door, sighing out at the feeling, “Leave them on the–”

Spencer cuts you off with a rather loud, somewhat embarrassing, “No!” He clears his throat, shifting his weight on his feet. This isn’t his comfort zone, and while he hates germs, he cares about you. It was a feeling he was starting to piece together– tender and true. Not hearing your voice these past two days has felt oddly similar to torture. “No,” He continues, “I’ll heat it up for you, and don’t say no because you sounded terrible on the phone-–” 

His sentence is cut off as you swing the door open, and his heart clenches at the sight. Your hair is messy, you have a red nose and pale cheeks, and the look is complete with some baggy pajamas. You groan softly, motioning for him to come in with a wave of your hand as you trudge back over to the couch, laying down with a rough oof. 

Spencer's feet hesitate for a second, hazel eyes studying your messy living room– tissues on the coffee table, empty mugs on practically every surface. He swallows roughly, his Adam’s apple bobbing against his throat as he takes the plunge, taking a comically large step into your apartment and gently shutting the door behind him. 

‘This is a terrible idea. I’m going to get sick, and then we’ll both be out of the office, and then–’ A sneeze from you pulls him away from his panicking thoughts, and he looks down at the items in his hands with a sudden purpose. 

He can feel his cheeks warm as he looks down at the bouquet of daisies in one hand and the container of noodle soup in the other.  He can hear your labored breathing from the couch as he awkwardly finds your kitchen. As he searches for a vase, it dawns on him— this is his first time in your apartment.

His anxiety gets the best of him as he manages to find a pretty-looking vase. He silently wonders if he should stick the soup in the fridge, leave the flowers in the vase, and take his leave. He finds a pair of scissors, carefully cutting the stems as he anxiously chews on his bottom lip. He’ll heat the soup, take care of the flowers, and get out— yes!

He fills the vase with water absentmindedly, arranging the daisies with gentle hands before moving on to the soup. He shakes his head at his anxious thoughts, thousands of reasons to get out, escape routes overlapping in his mind. He finds that he’s already done everything he said he would do. So, why was he still here? 

Spencer rolls out the tension in his shoulders as he grabs a spoon from the kitchen drawer. He can hear a soft cough from the living room as he carries the warm soup with extreme care. Setting the soup bowl and spoon on your side table, he looks down at you as you stare up at him tenderly. “Thank you.” Your voice is hoarse as you carefully sit criss-cross on the couch and hold the bowl of soup in your left hand, your right hand using the spoon to search for the best-looking egg noodle in the bowl. 

Your eyes stray toward Spencer, who flashes you a warm smile. His nervous eyes look around at the tissues on the coffee table just before he disappears into the kitchen. 

You barely have time to ask him what he’s doing when he comes out wearing your hot pink cleaning gloves, holding a plastic bag in one hot pink gloved hand, “How did you–” 

“They were by the kitchen sink,” He hurriedly explains as he gets work picking up the dirty tissues around you and tossing them into the plastic bag. 

You sniffle as you sip on some broth. “You don’t have to clean. I know how much you hate germs. I won’t be mad if you leave. You’ve already been so helpful–” 

“I want to help.” His head turns to look at you, his hazel eyes filled with determination. You let out a soft laugh, covering your mouth as your laugh turns into a shaky cough. Spencer smiles at that, feeling a warm burst of pride in knowing he can make you laugh, even now. 

You continue to watch Spencer as he tidies up your living room, his eyes and hands concentrated on the task at hand. You feel your body growing warm, and you’re unsure if it’s because your fever is breaking or because of how sweet he’s being. You shift on the couch, taking small bites of the soup and smiling softly. 

If you didn’t feel so terrible, you would be talking more, but you’re finding that this is a comfortable silence. Spencer leaves your view again, the living room now clean of dirty tissues and empty tea cups, as he carries the mess into the kitchen. 

When he returns, he’s carrying a vase full of daisies— did he have those when he came in? Your eyes widen at the sight, and you quickly set the bowl of soup back on the side table. “You got me,” A sneeze followed by a short sniffle. “Daisies?” You ask him, cheeks burning with emotion.

Spencer’s pale cheeks are tinged pink as he sets the vase of daisies on your now-clean coffee table. He watches with a warm, giddy smile as your fingertips reach out to brush the petals. “I– well, yes. Did you not see them in my hand when you let me in?” 

You shake your head, glancing up at him with a beaming smile. There those eyes are again, big and bright with joy. He’ll buy out flower shops if that’s what it takes. He watches as your gaze drifts back to the flowers, and he can feel a slight shiver of realization slither into his heart. He loves you. 

His calm demeanor dissipates rapidly, praying that you don’t look over at him as he stares at you with a shell-shocked expression.  

How? 

When? 

His shell-shocked expression morphs into one of slight panic, and his breathing begins to sound slightly erratic. He’s got to get out here. He needs to… what does he need to do? He can’t think straight. He can’t tell you, no. No, no, no, you’d be appalled. 

Well, would you?

As he steadies his breathing, he decides he needs time to think. He can’t reach a healthy conclusion with you three feet away from him on the couch. He’s searching for a good enough reason to leave when you announce, “I love them.” Your eyes flit over to him, and he feels like he could melt. 

“I–” He sighs, swallowing against the lump in his throat, “I’m so glad.” 

You notice the tension in his shoulders and, resting your back against the couch, “Thank you for everything. You’re the best friend a girl can have, honest.” You lick your lips, a mischievous look in your eyes. “However, I fear I must force you out.” 

Spencer starts to protest, but you shush him quickly. “Nu-uh, I won’t hear it. You’ll get sick if you stay here a moment longer.” You stand, sniffling softly as you gently motion to the door. 

When Spencer doesn’t immediately move, you groan and gently press your right palm on his shoulder, pushing him weakly toward the door. His feet work against him as he looks over at you, “At least let me–” 

You shush him again, earning an annoyed look from the tall brunette man you’re bossing around. You open the door for him, leaning against it as you watch him step out into the hall. He looks utterly confused, stuttering softly, “Well, I can bring you lunch tomorrow?” he suggests weakly. He doesn’t understand why he feels so disappointed at his leaving. He had just decided to leave, so why did leaving feel so… melancholy? Despite his confusing new revelation, he wants to stay and care for you— even if it means catching a cold. 

But you persist. “I’ll call you if I need your assistance.” 

He wants to tell you you’re being unreasonably stubborn, but he bites his tongue. His lips form a slight frown. He’s on the verge of a pout as he throws his hands up.  “Fine.” 

Your pale, sick cheeks have a little color in them now as you wave. “Goodnight, Spencer.” 

He swallows, feeling the desperate urge to beg you to let him stay. “Goodnight.” Spencer remains standing in the hallway as you slowly close the door. He groans out in frustration, shaking his head as he mournfully makes his way down the hall. He needs to call someone. 

Unbeknownst to him, you’re sitting on your couch again, admiring the daisies with a soft smile. You let out a weak sigh, shaking your head a little as the thought crosses your mind. As you slowly lie back on the couch, you mutter to an empty room. “How am I supposed to get over my feelings for you when you do things like this?” Maybe you need to phone a friend, too.

[heartorbit]

find another role, carry on the show

[xxplastic-cubexx]

BIRTHDAY HAUL courtesy of a very lovely friend of mine 🥺

bonus goofy pics of a bday snack i had earlier with my favorite menace …..

[thatsrightice]

F-14 TOMCAT ISSUES AND ACCIDENTS

The following is a compilation of issues with the F-14 Tomcat that have been encountered by pilots throughout its lifespan due to both mechanical and other reasons. Some are based on individual accidents and some cover epidemics in which many aircraft were lost to the issue *cough* compressor stalls *cough* basically it’s a bunch of ways you can hurt your fav characters in your fics so if you write something pls let me know cause I want to read it!!!

The issues range from minor hydraulic leaks to an explosion where pilots survive but the aircraft is literally in a million pieces.

LAST UPDATED 10/25/2023

Added some links to relavant FFFOTDs

Side note, the F-14 was a frickin massive tank of a fighter jet. She has taken damage to major components and still been able to land safely, so every situation is pretty unique.

Water Damage- Any type of water intrusion would cause issues with the electrical systems. It was a very common thing, so much so that they would have to duct tape anywhere water might be able to enter as a precaution when they knew it would rain.

Hydraulic Fluid Leaks - The F-14 did leak hydraulic fuel fairly often. There was a joke going around that if there isn't a bucket leaking hydraulic fluid underneath the plane then you are out of hydraulic fluid.

The Staple - On F-14 As and Bs, they would limit the jet to 4Gs maximum for three months and then they would install a metal staple to the bottom of the aircraft just forward of the tail hook. The point of the staple was to prevent severe bulkhead cracks and fuselage delamination by reducing the torquing moments caused by material fatigue. The staple is described as being a 1 foot-long and 1 inch wide solid steel part that looks exactly like a staple. As a part of their pre-flight checks, pilots would have to hang on it to ensure it wouldn’t fall out.

Airbags - Now and then, the airbags would rip and they would have to fix them.

Hydraulic Failures - Hydraulic failures happened somewhat often, but not often enough to be a prevalent issue. Generally speaking, it was common knowledge that if an F-14 wasn't leaking hydraulic fluid then it was out of hydraulic fluid. They would place buckets underneath to catch the liquid when the aircraft was not flying.

An incident from 1988 resulted from a complete hydraulic failure of both the main and the backup systems. They ruled the accident to be caused by the combination of failure of a relief valve and material failure. The Commander of the Pacific Fleet at the time believed that it could have possibly been the result of entrapped air that had been introduced into the hydraulic system through minor system maintenance.

AICS Programmers - They would have to start the airplane and then run the intake ramps aka would have to cycle the intake ramps otherwise they wouldn't be able to get off the ground.

Flap-Slat Lockout - If the flaps on either side of the jet didn't program at the same rate, it would cut it out and lock them up. They were then unable to move them as the lockout was a precaution to prevent asymmetry. This forced pilots to land without flaps, requiring an extra 22 knots during landing. It was difficult to land when they were locked out, and in many situations the end result would be pulling up next to the carrier and ejecting. Flap-Slat Lockout was a consistent issue throughout the Tomcat's life.

Unreliable Fire Warning Light - Sometimes the fire warning light would just barely start to flicker on and steadily become more prominent. Overall "just a bad system." You never actually know if there's a fire or not.

Wings Won’t Come Out - This happened at NAS Oceana. The airplane landed at a speed of 230 mph, so very close to the F-14’s stall speed. When the wings are stuck back, you can't hit the brakes during landing because there is no anti-skid and you would overheat them, if you pulled the stick back you would rotate, and with the wings back you have no spoilers so there is nothing to slow you down. In this particular incident, the pilot was able to take the long landing, but if this issue was encountered at sea it would require an ejection or divert to an airfield nearby if possible. No big explosions or fires though, it’d be a fairly calm procedure and the plane could fly into range of the ship for easy retrieval after ejection.

Low Fuel (Barricade Landing) - Bad weather at night combined with air traffic personnel being too occupied with diverting tons of airplanes, launching tankers, etc. can cause an aircraft to get low on fuel. There was a situation covered in the F-14 Tomcast episode called "F-14 Barricade" where they were unable to refuel using a tanker and were forced to do a barricade landing for their safety. They were almost forced to pull up alongside the carrier and eject. After the landing, one of the crew calculated based on the amount of fuel left that they only had about 90 seconds of flying left. This is literally the only night F-14 barricade landing ever I am pretty sure (in real life Maverick's doesn't count lol). I like it because the pilot and RIO had to tell the aircrew straight up "You have to take us now" because the pilot could no longer see the tape on the fuel gage. The crew tells their story really well and it’s really funny to listen to, especially considering the fact that they had to keep sending them around because they fucked up setting up the barrier.

Hitting the Canopy (During Ejection) - Goose's story is based on a real story in which a RIO hit the canopy during ejection and broke his spine. The reason the pilot does not also hit the canopy is because the ejection sends the RIO out first. The canopy is ejected after a couple of seconds after the handle is pulled, then the RIO is ejected after a second or two, and then the pilot another second later. The ejection seats also launch them in different trajectories so the pilot and the RIO do not collide in the air, meaning they may or may not end up in the same area. The solution would be to wait for the canopy to clear before ejecting but sometimes your don’t have that luxury.

Front Landing Gear Failure During Takeoff- While launching off of the catapult of the aircraft carrier, the nose gear attached to the shuttle broke. The landing gear and shuttle proceeded to the end of the runway without the jet, hitting the end of the ship at 305 knots and damaging the front of the carrier. The jet went off the ship with far less speed than necessary (at barely 60-70 knots) and began falling into the water as it was not enough to get the Tomcat in the air. They ejected to barely 50 feet high and were in serious danger of getting run over by the aircraft carrier. In the accident covered on the Fighter Pilot Podcast FPP004 - Ejection Seats, the RIO tells the story of his survival and the tragic loss of the pilot.

Radome (Nose Cone) Detachment - An F-14 Tomcat lost its radome during a flight due to the failure of the latching mechanism. The radome crashed into the canopy, shattering te glass of the windscreen. The pilot could only see out of a 3 inch hole in the windscreen due to the cracked windshield. He couldn't hear anything due to the noise of the wind in the cockpit, so he was unsure of the state of his RIO but assumed he was unconscious because he hadn't ejected them. The pilot flew over the carrier three times before successfully landing the plane, despite having glass in both eyes and a broken collarbone. It turns out that the RIO had been completely unharmed but with comms down he was unable to tell the pilot such. Upon landing the plane, the pilot was medevaced for eye surgery and then returned to the US.

Midair Collision - F-14A BUNo 159832 was a midair collision between two F-14 Tomcat. In this particular situation, one of the airplanes was able to divert to a nearby airport due to losing part of the right wing whereas the other crew was forced to eject. Obviously you could probably picture a situation where both jets went down.

Landng with Damage - Tomcats are a very sturdy aircraft, often described as being a tank both due to how much fuel they were able to carry and the sheer size of the aircraft. There has been an incident where an F-14 landed without one of its vertical stabilizers. In the Radome Deatchment section, the pilot was able to land the plane. The following video shows an aircraft, although not an F-14, landing aboard an aircraft carrier with significant damage on its right right side.

Single Engine Cat Shot- There was an incident where an aircraft had engine issues the moment it left the carrier. Immediately after the launch, they lost the left engine, and the first thing the pilot did was go through engine failure procedures, wingman at their side. They set up for an engine start using normal air before they attempted a cross-bleed air start using bleed air from the right engine to rotate the starter in the left engine, but neither worked. The pilot addressed the fuel distribution situation by feeding the right engine with fuel from the left to even them out and then they began dumping fuel to get to the "max trap" weight. Upon successfully landing, the Commanding Officer initially believed that the pilot had allowed the left engine throttle to roll back to idle during the acceleration of the catapult stroke, however, after maintenance personnel spun up the engine to troubleshoot, the engine spun well past its normal rpm immediately without the mechanical load it usually carried by the tower shaft meaning that something was very, very wrong. An image of the aircraft after launch can be seen below. Note the singular engine lit up.

F110 Afterburner Failure - The new engines installed were great, but they initially had a problem with the afterburner. In one recorded accident, the pilot lit the afterburner, damaging the afterburner can's lining and leading to an explosion. The Navy prohibited use of the afterburner below 10,000 ft on the F-14+/B/D until the problem could get solved but it took nearly a year to remedy.

"Thump Bang" - The easiest way to incorporate any sort of accident is to call it what the Naval Aviators call a "thump bang". A "thump bang" refers to a series of events that occur when an aircraft experiences some sort of issue they described as a "thump" and then an explosion. It's kind of hard to describe what is like in the cockpit during this sort of accident as it could have happened quickly or could have been a delayed explosion, and it could have been caused by any number of reasons. If they don't know what actually happened, they'll call it a "thump bang" and can only hypothesize what occurred. The likely scenario would have been an issue with the TF30 engines.

TF30 - The "Turd in the punch bowl, " the TF30s had two specific issues that were kind of intertwined.

Throwing Fan Blades - One of the largest issues with the TF30s was that they were with the fan blades. When the fan blades become eroded or damaged over time, they no longer compress the airflow efficiently, potentially leading to an engine stall (see Compressor Stall below). Additionally, the TF30 was known for "throwing" fan blades. This is when the fan blade becomes detached and is shot out to the side into the interior of the aircraft. Not good. Pretty bad actually. They didn't initially know they were throwing fan blades until after a couple of accidents. when they started to be more common they would retrieve the aircraft from the water (if in large enough pieces and then investigate the cause.

Compressor Stall - The actual biggest issue with the F-14 Tomcat and its TF30 engines is the compressor stalling. They literally happened all the time from a variety of different causes. Generally speaking, the compressor stalls were the result of disruption to the airflow into the compressor of the engine. The compressor has fan blades that require the airflow to be undisturbed for maximum efficiency. It was theorized to be the result of foreign object debris (FOD) ingestion into the engines. They check religiously for loose objects on the airplanes as a result, oftentimes having a crew member dive into the intake ducts to check for loose bolts. Additionally, compressor stalls could be caused by operating the aircraft outside of its limits, improper handling, etc.

The F-14 had a gated afterburner, meaning it had 5 “gates” inside of the afterburner and each one lit up a flame rack. There was no variable thrust, so it had to be either on or off. Each of the five racks was labeled as a zone. Zone 3 is what they were allowed to take off with. Coming in or out of afterburner with any angle or attack would cause the compressor to immediately stall. This was mostly due to poor design of the intake.

In general, approximately 30% of F-14A losses were attributed to high-altitude compressor stalls. When one engine stalls, more often than not it will induce the other engine to stall as well. There is a procedure to counteract the compressor stall, the specific protocol was to ease the amount of Gs, slow down, the T.I.T. would go crazy and you shut it down. Or in fighter pilot slang, “ease, slow cook it, shut it down.”

One incident in particular that was assumed to be caused by engine failure resulted in an explosion that looked so bad it was a miracle the pilot and RIO survived (see image below). The pilot escaped with minor burns to his hands, face, and neck and was able to fly within a couple of weeks. The RIO sustained more serious burns on his hands but was flying again after several weeks.

Not Touching Them For Two Days - True story; they flew best when they were used a lot.

[moinsbienquekaworu]

Devastating news: my brother is a normal person. It doesn't run in the family, I'm just a weird freak for no reason

[weezerlvr228]

they look half dead ☹️

[mul71v3r53-is]

6 years of creating <3 happy birthday BB and Rasp!!

[life-is-lifeing-hard]

life lifes hard when your birthday aligns with the busiest days of the school year that celebrating feels really awkward and time-consuming. Your friends would like to, but they're also busy so you have to figure out how to mention it. Your family drags it out for too long that you end up being irritated about the 5 full assignments due in 3 hours. You get weirdly existential but you can't mention it to anyone, really, so you're feeling all that as you go through the day.

Then life lifes harder when you look back to see the fading magic of your birthday from your childhood. You wish it to return, really.

[boygirlctommy]

ive decided that andoras almost always has crazy makeup and wigs on simply bcus its fun for him. and everin doesnt see him without any of it on until after the birthday party debacle and loses it slightly bcus she thought that was his real hair the whole time wdym youre BALD (hes not bald his hair is just short)

[temeraire]

i need something niceys im having such a bummer time rn

[ellistocracy]

spent all your money on christmas and now have no money for my birthday present? not to worry! here is a short list of just some of the things you can give me for absolutely free!

a fucking break

[voidlitmoon]

A reminder this blog will not post/reblog anything jumpscaring/sudden flashing/suprise horror/etc on or around April Fools day without propper tagging (if at all). I will be tagging anything that is related to April Fools with #April Fools. I generally don't like those kinds of posts so expect just funny and goofy doodles/edits and dad jokes. Stay safe out there :)