#the protector angst

[clownwry]

Found some of my old art from my tiktoks I thought I lost when my old ipad died and I lost all my procreate canvas’s i’m SICK still abt these

[maruniee]

"self conscious werewolf boyfriend confides in you" alt. ending

-

(note: my sweetheart goes by they/them pronouns!)

[emonaculate]

Emon babbles...

This idea has been plaguing my mind, but I couldn't figure out how to write it in the way I visualize it in my brain. So, why not give you all what I have in the meantime?

Bandmate!Gojo x Readerــــــــﮩ٨ـ

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo who didn’t even want to be at this tacky-ass three-day audition. He had better things to do than wake up before the birds and the worms just to hear sob stories and half-baked songs from wannabe musicians hoping to ride the coattails of his fame.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who’s uncharacteristically… cruel? He claims it’s just because he’s not a morning person—that it has nothing to do with the reason they’re even holding auditions for a new bassist. But Gojo Satoru has always been a terrible liar. Everyone knows it. Especially Shoko.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo still manages to tower over his bandmates, Nanami and Shoko, even while slouched in his seat—absently clicking and unclicking a pen, expression unreadable behind nearly pitch-black shades. He rolls his eyes as another girl onstage gushes about how he saved her, how she loves him… blah blah blah.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who gets elbowed—hard—by Shoko. She doesn't need to see his eyes to know he's zoning out and back on his bullshit. She always knows.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo isn’t usually the bad guy. A menace? Sure. Annoying? Absolutely. Cocky? Always. But this version—this cold, detached, almost cruel version? That’s new. That’s not him.

But he doesn’t know how to go back. Back to when the band was whole. Back to when music actually meant something. Back to when Geto was still with him. with the band.

Nothing's been the same since.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo watches the girl slink offstage, dejected after failing to get her “main character moment.” He shouldn’t feel satisfied, but he does. Something is intoxicating about having that kind of power over someone.

“You’re a piece of shit, y’know that?” Nanami’s voice cuts through the silence. Calm. Cold.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who usually lets criticism roll off his back like water. After all, he knows who he is: a prodigy, a pioneer, a legend in the making. His influence will echo long after he's gone. But what unsettles him—what really gets under his skin—is when someone sees through the performance. Past the cocky smirk, the designer sunglasses, the tattoos and piercings, the curated persona. Nanami might be one of those people.

And that terrifies him.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who pretends Nanami’s stare doesn’t make his skin crawl—doesn’t make him feel seen in the worst possible way. He shrugs, casual and dismissive, but his fingers tighten around the pen in his hand until the plastic creaks.

“Nanami…” Shoko warns, her voice low. She can feel the tension thickening, like a storm about to break. This conversation? It’s been a long time coming.

“No,” Nanami cuts her off, voice gentle but firm. “He needs to hear this. The label won’t say anything, and I know you’re tired of getting dragged for his behavior too.”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo feels his eye twitch. Slowly, deliberately, he drags his gaze up to meet Nanami’s. A smirk curls at his lips, and he lets out a low, mocking laugh.

“You got something you wanna say to me, Kenny?”

“I’m glad you think all this is funny,” Nanami replies, voice steady, hands tucked neatly in his lap like he’s discussing the weather. “Let me tell you what I find really fucking funny.”

He turns his chair to face Satoru directly and leans forward slightly, manspread, not to intimidate him—but to talk to him, man to man.

“You’re a twenty-three-year-old burnout lashing out at everyone around you. You're angry at the world, but the truth is, you're the reason everything's falling apart. You’re the reason Geto dumped you.”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo shoots up from his chair, the metal legs screeching violently against the floor before the whole thing crashes backward with a loud clang. The sheer aggression in his movement makes the air crackle. That mocking smirk is gone.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who takes a single step forward, and before the second one even lands, Nanami is already moving—controlled, practiced, deliberate. In one fluid motion, he swaps places with Shoko, placing himself squarely between her and Gojo without a word.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who seethes as his chest rises and falls, fists clenched tight, turning his knuckles white at his sides. The pen, long forgotten, lies cracked on the floor near the upturned chair.

“You wanna say that again?” He growls, voice low and venomous like a snake ready to strike. His shades had been discarded during the commotion, and his gaze was nothing but a dark azure color as he glared.

Despite how scary Gojo looks at the moment, Nanami remains unshaken and firm. “I don’t repeat myself. You heard me the first time.”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who suddenly feels like he’s vibrating out of his own skin. His vision flashes white-hot with rage and—something else. Guilt, maybe. Pain, definitely. But mostly, he just wants to hit something. Break something. Make someone else feel the way he’s been feeling for months.

Shoko forcefully wedges herself between the two men and lets out a low hum as if she hasn’t just been caught in the middle of a powder keg ready to blow. She gives Nanami a reassuring smile, relieved to see the blonde ease up immediately.

“Alright,” she breathes out lowly, “who wants to explain to the label that the bassist auditions ended in a fistfight? Let's just get through the last audition and call it a night.”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who doesn’t move. Who doesn’t breathe for a second too long? His eyes still locked on his target; Nanami.

Because for all his anger—for all the pressure in his chest and heat behind his eyes—he knows Nanami is right. And that’s what pisses him off the most.

“Please… Satoru?” Her voice is soft, tired in a way that hurts way more than yelling could ever compare. And for a flicker of a second, something in him stirs. Guilt. Once upon a time, he was the guy who would tell someone off for stressing Shoko out. Once upon a time, he was the guy who would protect her.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo tears his eyes away from Nanami wordlessly, jaw tight as he forces himself to back down. The rage in his chest doesn’t vanish, but it simmers just enough to allow him to move. For Shoko.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who bends to pick up his chair with slow, deliberate movements, as though controlling the pace of his own unraveling. He counts silently in his head as a means to calm down while he moves the chair. He sets it upright without a word, the echo of metal legs scraping across the floor barely audible over the hush of the room.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who doesn’t acknowledge the crew’s concerned murmurs. If they were so concerned, they would have done more to help alleviate the situation besides just watching.

"Are you alright?" "Do you want some water?" "Should we take a break?"

He ignores all of it. Eyes forward. Shoulders squared. Like nothing happened.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo sinks into the chair again, but it’s different now. The slouch is gone. His hands rest on his thighs, clenched into fists. He picked up his sunglasses and placed them on the top of his head. They're slightly lopsided, but he makes no move to fix them.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo was sure he hated himself more than anyone else could.

Y/n, who had been waiting backstage for what felt like hours, hears her name finally called—flatly, almost like an afterthought. Damn. Maybe calling out of work to be here wasn't the brightest idea.

“Next up... Y/N L/N.”

Y/n, who walks in clutching a slightly-too-big journal to her chest, its edges worn and dog-eared from being dragged through years of lyrics and late-night thoughts. A seaweed colored bass, with various aged stickers on it as decor, is slung across her back.

Y/n, who had promised herself she wouldn’t freeze—wouldn’t fangirl or stumble or stare too hard. But when she steps under the lights and sees him in the flesh for the first time, her breath still hitches.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who barely even looks like the version of himself plastered across album covers and magazine spreads. There’s no spotlight glow here, no teasing grin or playful arrogance. He was just there.

Y/n, who felt that starstruck shimmer fade, like fog burning off in daylight. Because this close, Gojo Satoru doesn’t look untouchable. He looks hollow. Like someone who lost something or someone important and never figured out how to fill the space it left behind.

Y/n blinks, clears her throat, and adjusts her grip on her journal as she crosses the stage. Her scuffed red high-top Converse echoes with every step.

“Y/n, right? Thanks for waiting.” Shoko meekly smiles; it's clear she wants to give an explanation for the delay, but knows better.

Y/n nods absently and begins shifting her bass around to rest in front of her. “Yeah. Of course.”

She doesn’t say she’s been waiting for this moment her whole life. She doesn’t say that the only thing keeping her from throwing up backstage was the sketch she doodled of her setup in the margins of that same battered journal.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who still hasn’t said a word. Still hasn’t really looked at her. Y/n feels something twist in her chest—not disappointment, not exactly. Just the quiet understanding that legends are people, too. Flawed. Fractured. Geez, angsty much?

She plugs in. Fingers hover just above the strings.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo doesn’t bother to look up as the girl starts playing. He’s already heard enough bad renditions of their hits today to fill a lifetime. The stage lights hum. Someone in the crew coughs in the corner. The low rumble of nervous fingers plucking strings reaches his ears. He pulls his shades back down over his eyes; he could already feel a migraine coming on.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo clenches his jaw as she stumbles through the first few measures. The rhythm is off. The timing slips. Her tone’s there, somewhere, but it’s drowning in nerves and a touch too much hesitance. He hears her miss a transition—rookie mistake.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck. He finally lifts his head just slightly, not enough to meet her eyes, but enough to glare over the rim of his sunglasses.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who’s done. He can’t stand another second of it.

“Alright,” he snaps, voice slicing through the room like a whip. “Stop. Fuck. Just—seriously. Stop.”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who stands up, raking a hand through his snowy hair with visible agitation. “This is insane. Every person that walks on this stage either wants to fuck me, cry on me, or butcher my songs like it’s some kind of sick talent show. I don’t need another hopeful fangirl with a decent smile and a hobby.”

His voice rises.

“Where are the real musicians? The ones who feel it in their goddamn DNA? Who play like they’d bleed for it, not like they’re worried about hitting the right note just to impress someone they saw on a magazine cover!”

“Jesus, Satoru…” Shoko winces and mutters under her breath.

“You could’ve just said she’s not ready.” Nanami, presses a hand to his forehead.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who meets her stare for the first time. Actually looks at her. And for a moment, something about the way she’s holding her bass again—this time not as a shield, but like a weapon—makes him pause.

“…I appreciate the opportunity…”

Y/n starts and leans into the mic, her voice soft and sweet. She trails off, but her gaze doesn’t break. Something’s changed. The stage lights don’t feel so big anymore. The nerves melt right off her shoulders as she tilts her head, considers him—really considers him. Her gaze flashes from what was once starstruck to almost condescending.

Her sweet, soft tone sharpens into something sharp-edged and raspy—the kind of voice that belongs in front of crowds, under spotlights, on vinyl.

“You say all this about real musicians and what true artists are… but you don’t even look like one yourself.”

The room stills.

“I know I’m a real musician. I know I could keep up with you on your so-called ‘level.’ OR even outplay you. Hell, I could play any song you throw at me blindfolded and I wouldn’t miss a single note.”

She steps closer to the mic, wrapping her manicured hand around it as she raises her voice. The bass hangs at her hip now like it’s fused to her. Her voice is filled with pure confidence and snark.

“So go ahead and throw your tantrum, bitch. But don’t talk to me like I don’t fucking belong here.”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who lets out a sharp laugh—humorless, more reflex than joy. She really just said that. To him. He steps forward slowly, only the sound of the chains around his neck is heard with how quiet the room is.

“Oh, you’ve got nerve, I’ll give you that,” He mutters, tilting his head just slightly to the side. His voice lowers, smug and dangerous. “Big words for someone who can’t even hold tempo under pressure.”

Y/n, however, doesn't waver. Doesn’t shift. She just watches him, chest rising and falling steadily, like she wants him to try her. The look in her eyes screams nothing if not defiant.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who sees the challenge in her eyes and decides, Fine. You want to prove it? Let's see you burn.

“Alright, hotshot.” He lifts a hand and snaps his fingers toward a crew member. “Bring me a six-string. Get the monitors live.”

“You’re seriously doing this now?”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who ignores Nanami's protests, is already pulling off his black aviator jacket and letting it fall carelessly behind a speaker. Someone hands him his guitar—a weathered custom model, black body, silver hardware, nearly as iconic as he is. His toned arms flex underneath his grey wife-beater as he holds the guitar.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who doesn’t even need to tune it. Just slings it on and strums a few warmup chords with effortless precision, muscle memory sharp from years of living in this world. He looks up at her, eyes glinting behind his crooked shades.

“Let’s make this simple,” he says, voice low. “You say you can hang with me? Prove it. ‘Charmolypi.’”

Y/n stills as she hears the title—not from fear, but sheer shock. That track was never released as sheet music. No tabs. No official breakdowns. Only the live version exists online—jagged, brutal, unforgiving. The song that reminds him of Geto. The song Gojo never plays anymore.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo watches Y/n closely now, waiting for her to fold. Daring her to.

“Blindfolded, right?” he adds with a singsong grin that’s almost cruel. “Unless that was just another line for the mic.”

Y/n slowly, silently, pulls her journal from the amp where she left it. She sets it down. Unzips a side pocket. Pulls out a black ribbon and ties it calmly around her head—right over her eyes. The room suddenly became even quieter.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, whose smirk falters for just a second. Y/n lifts the bass effortlessly and adjusts her grip, then rolls her shoulders back like she's about to dive head first off a cliff.

“I hope you’re ready to keep up with me,” Y/n says into the mic.

There's a pause in her words...

“Bitch.”

Ah there it is.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who can’t stop the sharp, stunned laugh that bursts out of him.

“…You’re insane.”

But this time, he doesn’t sound mad. He sounds alive.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo doesn’t look at her right away. He watches her in fragments. Through the slant of his lowered head. Through his lashes. Through the spaces between his thoughts, where the ghosts tend to live.

Charmolypi. A song with a name that means joy mixed with grief. A kind of beauty that hurts to hold. It was never meant for public ears, just something born between long nights, cigarette smoke, and a friendship that cracked before it could heal.

He plays the opening chords like muscle memory—because it has to be. His fingers know the way better than his heart does. That part of him got buried under too many headlines and hangovers, under too many nights he couldn’t quite remember but always seemed to end with Geto’s name stuck in his throat.

The strings hum.

And then she begins to play. Y/n, blindfolded, hands steady, pulse louder than the amp she plugs into. And yet, she starts anyway.

She comes in slightly behind him at first, just a breath too cautious. He’s already rolling his eyes in the back of his mind when she catches the rhythm mid-step, and holds it. No stutter. No flinch. It’s like watching someone walk a tightrope barefoot, terrified and trembling, but still refusing to fall. He almost respects it. Then she improvises.

Not just to show off. It’s nothing flashy. No desperate finger-speed acrobatics like the other posers who tried to impress him with technique and no soul. This? This is something else. She adds four notes. Quiet. Intentional. Mournful in a way that feels too intimate to be accidental. A deviation so subtle it would’ve gone unnoticed—except Gojo feels it; right in the center of his goddamn chest.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo suddenly looks at her. Really really looks. The blindfold. The curve of her mouth, not smirking, not posing. Just concentrating. Like she’s trying to wring something honest from a song that was never meant to see the light of day. Her hands move like she’s searching. Not for applause, but for meaning.

And something sharp pierces the haze behind his eyes. For a second, he sees Geto.

Geto, who used to press his forehead to Gojo’s back after long studio sessions and hum the bassline into his spine while Gojo pretended it didn’t make his breath hitch.

Geto, who co-wrote Charmolypi in a hotel bedroom while the rest of them slept. Who refused to write lyrics for it because he said the music should “ache in silence.”

Geto, who walked out of Gojo’s life without ever saying goodbye. No closure. No letters. Just an empty seat, and a song that no one else was ever supposed to touch.

Until now.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, whose jaw clenches. Because she shouldn’t be able to play this. She shouldn't understand the weight of it. And yet—here she is. Breathing life into something he left to rot. Y/n, who improvises again during the bridge. Adds a cascading fill that slips through his melody like water through fingers. It's like she’s not playing with him. She’s playing to him. Speaking in a language only musicians and broken people understand.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who suddenly can’t look away. There’s something infuriating about her. About the way she walks in here, green and trembling, but still braver than half the industry fakes he’s had to deal with in the last year. She’s raw. She’s rough around the edges. But she’s honest. And that’s the one thing he’s been starving for without even knowing it. The final note hangs in the air. It echoes like the end of a confession. Silence follows. But not the kind that asks for applause. It’s heavier than that. Reverent. Like something just shifted.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo exhales, and realizes he was holding his breath. He hates that she made him do that.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who speaks first, low and flat. “You improvised.”

“Was I not allowed to?” Y/n, still blindfolded, lifts her chin.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo almost says yes. Almost says she ruined it. But he remembers the ache in that bridge. The way her fingers knew where to fill the silence.

“You made it better,” he says instead, the words tasting like betrayal.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who looks at the girl still standing on that stage like it doesn’t take everything in him not to ask her to play it again. Not because he needs proof—but because he needs to feel that truth again. That ache. That joy. That grief. He’ll never tell her what Charmolypi really means. He’ll never tell her how he and Geto played the song for the first time together, as a confession for things unsaid, both of them bleeding in different ways, neither willing to say it out loud. He’ll never tell her that this was the first time the song didn’t feel like a grave.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who knows now: he’s going to keep her around.

Not for romance. Not for drama. But because something about her matters. And for the first time in a long time, Gojo Satoru wants to see what comes next.

Part II ???

[methoughtsphantom]

Danny fake guardian angel au

You know how sometimes it’s highlighted how you have to be very careful on what you say in the presence of a spirit because they can twist your words and end up bidding yourself to it?? well uno-reverse-card the spirit also has to be careful on what he says because when Danny had said he owed the dude one for coming to his rescue in a gala Vlad had dragged him to, he didn’t expect that to be taken literally.

danny: wait seriously?? i literally say that all the time!

cw: not after being crowned ghost king, you haven’t

danny: but—but I was also human when I said it. doesn’t that protect me or smth

cw: *shakes his head*

danny:

danny: omg this is a nightmare

cue timmy’s brucequest period (cuz he’s the guy) being so high strung and tired, he just wants some company, which is a so low stakes thing to want the deal Danny unintentionally goes sure we can do that and pulls him towards the guy, despite Timmy never outright saying he wants company. (tim always speaks in the sanctity of his own mind, not out loud)

So. random spirit manifesting. Tim going all who the fuck are u

and Danny panicking and saying your guardian angel

Tim not being impressed while Danny promptly blushes like a moron because that did not come off as he wanted it to.

Yes accidental dead tired where the dynamic goes from Tim trying to shake this probably demon that somehow latched to him being all like ??? dude leave me alone, and Danny being there like bitch i’m trying

to

huh. im actually being protected by a spirit like he said he would. he’s strangely an idiot but also he’s overpowered and just never leaves my side which he says it’s an angel obligation but I think it’s bullshit but also hoping it’s not because it appeals to my crippling fear of abandonment (anyways he really seems to take after those little cartoon angels that poof into your shoulder to keep from me doing wrong decisions) translate into my future boyfriend seems increasingly appalled to what i am up to

meanwhile danny

Bitch you better thank your god I’m dead because otherwise I would already been killed. I did not sign up for a assassins what the fuck I thought you were a normal civilian not a literal superhero and omg that is a fruitloop. no no back off you wrinkly raisin this is my emotional support idiot you can’t have him and what do you mean you’re messing with time whatever this way I can get back to clockwork—

[whisperedmeg]

SOME PROTECTOR ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x ex!reader

summary: it’s been 313 days. spencer still remembers the last thing you said to him. you still mean it. he’s been holding on from a distance ever since.

genre: angst (some smut & fluff in flashback scenes, but it’s mostly angst & hurt no comfort lol) | w/c: 7k

tags/warnings: inspired by the song “some protector” by role model, fem!reader, no use of y/n, yearner-in-chief spencer reid, yearninggg, like SO much yearning, minor alcohol consumption, relationship/breakup flashbacks, mutual pining, no happy ending (unresolved tho maybe?), panic attack in a flashback, sex scene in a flashback (making out, p in v, riding), 18+ MDNI

a/n: had a moment while editing where I almost gave up on this fic and deleted it but I’m pushing thru to post it anyways bc I worked rlly hard on it 🥲 recently been obsessed with this song and couldn’t stop picturing spencer when listening, so obviously I had to write 7k words to get it out of my system. obviously. also had “the way I loved you” in mind from reader’s side of things! if anyone is interested in a part 2 lmk because I’m already kind of itching over it 😶 (p.s. first pic is not indicative of reader’s appearance, just had the right dress!)

It’s been 313 days since the breakup. Spencer knows because he’d counted at first. Then stopped. Then started again.

He wouldn’t be here if not for the occasion — an engagement party for friends. One of those events where absence says more than presence ever could, so he showed up.

Now, he lingers at the edge of the room, half-shadowed by a bookshelf, pretending to care about the drink in his hand. He’d arrived a little late on purpose — a strategic delay. Fewer how’ve-you-beens, fewer questions about whether he’s seeing anyone new or if he’s talked to you. His plan was simple: blend into the perimeter, nod through a toast, and leave early without making a scene.

He hadn’t planned for you.

You walk in fifteen minutes after he does, wearing a dress he’s never seen before and a smile that almost passes for real. Your new boyfriend is beside you.

The thought had crossed his mind, he’ll admit. He met and became friends with the newly engaged couple through you, so there was always a decently high chance you’d be here tonight. But he hadn’t let himself linger on the thought long enough to plan for it, and he especially hadn’t allowed himself to consider the possibility you’d bring a date with you to a party you knew he’d be at. But nothing could’ve prepared him for it anyways. No amount of mental prep would’ve soothed the ache of watching another man’s hand find yours.

At first, Spencer can’t bring himself to look at you directly. But he tracks you in pieces — the tilt of your chin, the curve of your smile, the hand at your waist. The neckline of your dress, dipping just low enough to undo something in him.

You haven’t seen him yet. He’s not ready for when you do.

The room hums — clinking glasses, laughter pitched too loud, someone making a joke about wedding hashtags like it’s the cleverest thing in the world. But none of it reaches him. It all sounds submerged, warped by memory.

One hand tightens around his glass, the other buried in his pocket, fingers curled tight. He’s trying to ground himself, or maybe just keep himself from doing something stupid. Like walking up to you. Like saying your name. Like asking if it’s still his to say.

Spencer knows who your boyfriend is. He’s heard his name dropped casually by mutual friends. He’s done the requisite, ill-advised Google stalk with Garcia’s help. He’s memorized the basics: Ian Lockhart. Works in marketing. Graduated top of his class from UPenn. Youngest of three. Allergic to shellfish.

But that doesn’t stop the question from forming:

Does he truly know you?

Does he know you hate mint in desserts and prefer dark chocolate over the overly-sweetened milk variety? That you dog-ear the pages of whatever you’re reading instead of using bookmarks, even though you own at least fifteen of them? That you sleep with one hand curled under your chin like a child, hum under your breath when you feel safe, get hiccups when you’re anxious, and apologize for things that aren’t your fault?

Does he know the way you sound when you say Spencer’s name?

He hopes not. He hopes so. He doesn’t actually really know what he hopes for.

You’re smiling up at Ian like the weight of the room hasn’t doubled. Like this is just another party, not a place where Spencer’s body remembers every single version of you it ever loved.

And then — you spot him.

Over someone’s shoulder, through the blur of motion and candlelight, your eyes meet Spencer’s.

Something shifts in your face — a memory breaking the surface too fast to hide from. A flicker of something that looks a little like wanting, followed by restraint. You don’t look at him like a stranger. You look at him like before.

You tilt your head — a trace of kindness tugging at your mouth. But it only lasts a second before you turn away.

Spencer can’t breathe.

He’s still stuck in that second. He feels it like a match struck behind his ribs.

—

By the time the first toast of the night is over, you’ve disappeared down the hallway towards the kitchen. Spencer lets his gaze follow you just long enough to punish himself for it.

You still tuck your hair behind your ear the same way you used to, he notices. That quiet, automatic gesture like you’re not even thinking about it. You’ve always done it that way, like muscle memory.

And now he’s thinking about September, nearly three and a half years ago. Your first fall together.

It had been raining that day — that steady kind of rain that makes everything feel like it’s underwater. You’d been sitting on his couch with your legs tucked under you, a book splayed open in your lap, your thumb idly tracing the edge of the page. Spencer was talking too much, as usual. A fact spiral he hadn’t meant to fall into, born out of habit and the way you made the room feel safer somehow just by being in it.

“And there’s this theory,” he’d said, glasses pushed up too high on his nose, hands fidgeting with the frayed edge of the blanket between you, “that we can smell the weather changing — like, literally smell the oils and sugars released by leaves breaking down. That’s why autumn feels so…”

He trailed off, embarrassed, suddenly sprung back into hyper-awareness of how long he’d been speaking. But you just looked at him and smiled, that full-faced kind of smile you didn’t hand out easily. “So you’re saying you can smell fall coming?”

He nodded, sheepish. “Sort of. Yes. And I like it — the smell, I mean. It kind of reminds me of being a kid. Like old books and new pencils and being a person who still thought the seasons changing was like magic. Not that the seasons changed much in Vegas, but… still.”

You laughed. Not a sharp laugh, not mocking, but a delighted one. The kind of laugh that only shows up when someone says something completely true and completely weird and you’re so completely glad they said it.

Spencer looked at you like he didn’t quite know how to process how beautiful you were in that moment. Not just physically (though yes, that too), but emotionally. You didn’t flinch away from his oddities — you leaned toward them. Like maybe you were made of the same quiet strangeness he was.

You closed the book in your lap after folding down the corner of the page and laid it gently on the coffee table. “Tell me more things that remind you you’re a person.”

He blinked. “What?”

“That’s what you meant, right? That the smell of fall makes you feel human. Tell me more things like that.”

He hadn’t realized it, but that’s exactly what he meant. And so he did. All night.

Little things. Soft things. Things no one else ever asked him about. The sound of his mom reading him Chaucer and Kempe when he was still too young to really process what the stories meant. The hot sting of seatbelt buckles in the desert sun. The click of a lamp turning on in a dark room. The way library cards used to be made of paper and crinkle at the corners. The feeling of your hand in his.

You listened like every one of them mattered. And every one of them did, to you at least.

He didn’t remember falling asleep. One minute you were curled beside him on the couch, both your heads tipped toward each other like magnets. The next, the sky outside had gone black and your fingers tangled loosely in the drawstring of his hoodie like you’d nodded off while trying to keep him from drifting too far away.

He never told you this, but when he woke up — before you stirred, before the world returned — he’d studied you. Every tiny detail. The part in your hair. The sleep-creased edge of your cheek. The way your mouth twitched when you dreamed. He counted every last freckle splayed across your cheeks. Drew constellations between them in his mind.

That was the night he knew he’d fallen hopelessly in love with you.

He blinks, and all of the sudden he’s back in the present, back at the party. You’re walking towards your date, two glasses of wine in your hands. The one you hand Ian is red. The one you sip from is white — you’d always preferred a colder, crisper Sauvignon Blanc over a full-bodied Chianti or Merlot.

You glance towards Spencer, and in that look, he swears he can see it. The ghost of that night. The version of you who laughed at the way he thought autumn smelled like #2 pencils and old books. The one that fell asleep easily with your body pressed to his side because you trusted him not to move.

He doesn’t look away.

Not yet.

Someone calls his name across the room and he answers with a vague nod. His body is here, but his mind is hovering somewhere else. Caught in the gravity of your glance, still trying to make sense of the soft exhale it pulled from his lungs.

—

You find him before he can decide to leave.

There’s a stretch of seconds as you weave through the room when Spencer wonders if he’s imagining it. If he’s hallucinating your trajectory out of want.

But no, it’s real. You’re coming toward him — slowly, carefully. Like you don’t trust what might happen when you finally get close.

“Spencer.”

His name falling from your lips still sounds just as gentle as it always had. He straightens. Not because he needs to — he’s never felt like he needs to perform for you — but because his body can’t help but brace when you look at him like that.

“Hi,” he manages, his voice quiet, like too much sound might make the moment collapse. “You look…”

Beautiful isn’t neutral. Radiant is worse.

So he lands on a very lame, very simple, “You look well.”

Your smile tilts, crooked and familiar. “Have you been avoiding me tonight?”

Spencer hesitates. He doesn’t look away, but something in his expression shifts — like he’s been caught doing something he didn’t realize was visible.

“I wasn’t trying to,” he says carefully. “Not intentionally. I just… I thought it was better to keep my distance. I didn’t want to intrude on you and...”

You nod once, like you expected that. You look across the room towards where you’d left Ian.

“He’s getting another drink,” you say, mostly to fill the space.

Spencer only nods. He doesn’t ask about him. He’s already heard enough from others. And what would you say, anyway?

He studies the curve of your wrist as you lift your glass. He used to press his mouth there — absentmindedly, in greeting, in gratitude. He blinks the memory away.

You glance down at your feet, then up again. There’s something almost sheepish about it. “You cut your hair.”

His hand grazes the back of his neck. “Yeah. A while ago.”

“I like it,” you say softly.

There’s no teasing in it. No flirtation. Just something honest. Small and steady, like the thrum of your voice used to be in the mornings, not yet fully awake, legs tangled beneath the covers.

“Thanks,” he says.

Another silence. Not awkward, not exactly. Just… weighted. Like you’re the only two people in it who remember something that’s no longer allowed to exist.

You wet your bottom lip, the way you always do when you’re thinking too hard. Spencer looks away. It feels dangerous to look for too long.

“I saw you on the news last month,” you offer. “That case in Pittsburgh.”

His gaze flicks back to you. “Yeah. That was…” He lets out a sigh. “Long week.”

“You looked tired,” you murmur. “More than usual.”

It’s not an accusation. It’s not even concern, not exactly. Just observation. You always did that — noticed things he didn’t say out loud.

He shifts his weight. “We’ve had worse.”

You nod, but you’re still watching him, seeing right through him. He used to hate that. He used to love it, too.

There’s a long pause. Then, voice soft: “You still forget to eat when you’re anxious?”

Spencer huffs a breath — almost a laugh. “I still forget almost everything when I’m anxious.”

You smile, but it’s a sad thing.

“Your mom still calls me sometimes,” you say so quietly he almost misses it. “Thinks we’re still together.”

His breath catches. “She forgets. I’m sorry. I’ve told her a bunch of times.”

You shake your head, silently telling him the apology isn’t necessary. “She always asks if you’re eating. And if I’m making sure you sleep.”

Spencer nods and swallows, hard. He can’t bring himself to answer right away.

“I never correct her. She’s always so happy when I say yes.”

That lands somewhere deep — deeper than it should. Maybe it’s easier this way. To pretend, in some small corner of the world, you’re still his.

The silence creeps in again, fuller this time. You step an inch closer, not on purpose, not consciously. He doesn’t step back. The space between your arms hums with memory.

There’s a ring on your right pointer finger, the same one you always wore — a vintage, gold band from your grandmother’s jewelry box. Spencer used to twist it mindlessly while you read.

He wonders if you let Ian do that now. He wonders if he even notices it.

“I like the dress,” he says with a nod towards your outfit before he can stop himself. “The color.”

You tilt your head. “You always liked lavender.”

“I still do.”

Internally, you start to wonder: Did you wear it because you knew he’d be here tonight? Subconsciously, did you pick this dress out of your closet with Spencer in mind?

You look down again. Then up. You meet his gaze a second too long, and for a moment, it’s like everything falls away — the party, the boyfriend, the reasons you shouldn’t still care.

Then Ian calls your name from somewhere behind you.

The sound breaks whatever thread had been holding you there. You blink, eyes clearing, and step back half an inch — enough to remind yourselves what year it is. Where you are. What this isn’t anymore.

You glance over your shoulder, then back at Spencer.

“I should—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in gently. “Of course.”

You hesitate. Just for a breath. And then: “It’s really good to see you, Spence.”

Spence. He nods, slow and careful. “You too.”

You walk away. Spencer stays where he is, heart knocking unevenly in his chest, eyes fixed on the place you’d just stood like maybe you’ll return if he waits long enough.

You don’t. But you do turn around, just once, halfway through the room. Your gaze finds his again.

It’s brief, that look. Barely a second. But it says enough:

You remember everything.

—

Somewhere across the room, you laugh.

It’s not at him — Spencer doesn’t know what was said or why it was funny — but it’s the sound that stands out to him. That specific cadence. The one that always tumbled out of you just after midnight when you were tipsy and barefoot and glowing with affection you never tried to ration.

Your hand lands on Ian’s arm, light and familiar, fingers curling just slightly.

And that—

That’s what undoes him.

Because you used to do that to him. You used to touch him like he belonged to you.

Images swirl in his mind — your palm against his skin. That sweater. That night. That look on your face when you pushed him down onto the couch like you didn’t need words to tell him you wanted him. The memory ambushes him, full and bright and dizzying, like it’s been waiting all evening for the right moment to strike.

—

One month into dating, you wore a loose red sweater on a date with Spencer — one that hung off your shoulder and drove him to the edge of restraint. He’d never say it aloud, but that sweater still haunts him. The curve of your collarbone. The bare sliver of skin at your hip when you lifted your arms. The softness of it. Of you.

You hadn’t slept together yet. Spencer had been so careful about it — cautious in that way he always was when something really mattered to him. He wanted to be sure this thing between you was real first (it was). Wanted to be sure you were ready (god, you were). Wanted to be sure he was ready, too.

You’d come back to his apartment after dinner, your thigh pressed against his in the cab, your voice syrupy and laced with secrets, low in his ear: “You gonna keep being shy, or are you gonna do something about it?”

He kissed you the second the front door closed behind you. Harder than he meant to — sloppier, too. But you moaned softly into it and fisted your hands in his jacket like you didn’t want to waste anymore time being polite about this.

It was a little frantic at first. Your back hit the wall. His belt clattered to the floor. You laughed into his mouth, breathless and giddy, hands everywhere — threading through his hair, yanking at his shirt, skimming down the front of his pants like you already knew exactly how he liked to be touched.

He walked you back into the couch, then you took the reigns and pushed him down onto it. You climbed onto his lap, straddling him, grinding down in a slow, devastating rhythm that made his vision blur.

Within minutes, you were undressed from the waist down, the sweater still on. That somehow made it even more intense — or maybe it would’ve been that way regardless, he couldn’t really say for sure. All he knew was the skin of your thighs, the heat of you moving against him, the breathy way you said his name when his hands cupped your ass and pulled you tighter into his lap.

“Spencer,” you gasped, mouth against his jaw. “Please.”

He remembers the exact moment you said it — the way your breath caught, the stutter in your hips, the way your fingers curled at the back of his neck.

You leaned in, pressed your forehead to his, so close he could feel every shake of your inhale. And then, barely above a whisper:

“I’m yours, Spence. Okay? Don’t be gentle.”

And that was it. Spencer Reid — always careful, always afraid of taking too much — finally let go.

That night, he told you he loved you with every part of his body. He didn’t say it out loud, but he knew you heard it anyway.

He fucked you slow and deep from below, gripping your hips as you rode him and matched his rhythm with every grind of your body against his. Not tender, but not rough either — just real. Like every motion was a word he couldn’t bring himself to say out loud. You clung to him, nails pressing into his shoulders, moaning softly as his lips found every part of you he could reach — your throat, your collarbone, the delicate skin just below it. He mouthed at the place your pulse fluttered hardest and stayed there until you broke.

And when you did — when you came around him with his name caught in your throat like something sacred — he followed, buried deep inside you, your name spilling from his lips like a prayer only he knew how to recite.

After, you collapsed on his chest, the red sweater twisted around your ribs, your legs still tangled with his. You were quiet in that way that only happened when you were fully content. One hand traced over the back of his — slow, barely there — like you couldn’t stand to not be touching him, even in sleep.

Meanwhile, he didn’t sleep at all.

Just lay there memorizing you: the shape of your mouth, the curve of your waist, the warmth of your bare skin under the blanket, the rise and fall of your breath.

Spencer had been with others in the past. But he’d never touched someone quite like that before. Never been touched like that either — not with that kind of need or care or want.

And now?

Now you’re across the room with someone else’s arm around your waist, yet he still can’t stop thinking about that night. About your mouth. Your hands. Your voice when you begged him not to hold back.

You catch him looking with a twitch of your lips like you’ve caught a secret.

For a second, he thinks you know what he’s remembering. Maybe you’re remembering it too.

And then, just like that, the moment passes. You look away and turn slightly toward Ian, laughing again — softer this time. But something about it’s off — you smile too quickly, blink too long, seem too practiced.

And god, Spencer feels it now — an ache that starts behind his ribs and spreads. He knows that look. The forced composure. Your tight little nod. The way your shoulders curl inward, just enough to seem invisible.

You’re tired.

Not just from the party or the heels. Not even from the fact that Spencer is here. No, you’re tired in a quiet, cell-deep way. The kind of tired that creeps in when you’ve been holding everything too tightly for too long. He used to see it in your posture before you ever spoke. In the way you��d knead at the back of your neck. In the sound of your keys hitting the kitchen counter just a little too hard.

His whole body aches with the memory of it.

Because he can’t touch your elbow now, can’t draw you into a hallway and press his hand to your spine and ask, Is it bad today? in a voice soft enough to disappear into your skin. He can’t guide you to the couch and take your shoes off for you and rub slow circles into the arch of your foot. He can’t be that version of himself for you anymore.

But he remembers. He remembers it all.

—

You’d had a rough shift.

Spencer knew before you said a word. He heard it in the way your bag hit the floor when you’d walked into his apartment — not thrown exactly, but dropped with too much force. Watched it in the way you kicked off your shoes in the hallway like they’d betrayed you. You didn’t kiss him hello. Didn’t even meet his eyes.

You just paced the kitchen in your scrubs, hands trembling slightly. Your voice cracked when it finally came. “She was just a kid, Spence. She died right in front of me.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just crossed the room, took your phone gently from your hand, and set it down on the counter.

You looked at him like you weren’t sure if he’d understand. Like some part of you expected him to step back.

But then, you broke.

It happened all at once, because panic doesn’t slow down or ask permission. One moment you were upright, breathing, trying — and the next, you were not. Your breath hitched. Your eyes went wide. Your hands clawed at your chest like you needed to open it, like the air in your lungs wasn’t enough.

“I can’t— I can’t—”

“I know, baby,” he said, already reaching.

He slid to the floor with you, back against the cabinets, his body folding around yours to hold you steady. His hands were firm but gentle — one at your shoulder, one at the base of your spine.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You’re okay. You’re right here.”

You let out a single, ragged sob and collapsed against him, clutching his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you from falling through the floor. He didn’t flinch — just tightened his arms around you, voice soft and measured in your ear.

“Five things you can see,” he murmured. “Just try for me.”

You shook your head, breath shallow, shoulders tight. “Can’t.”

“Okay. Okay. Just look, then.” His hand moved slowly along your back. “The floor tile. The fridge magnets. The photo of us in Vegas framed on the wall. That stupid spiky plant you named Steve. Me. I’m right here.”

You gasped — air, finally — and he held you through it.

“You’re not alone,” he said, steady as a heartbeat. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

It took seven minutes for your breathing to settle. Even longer for your hands to stop shaking. But he didn’t let go.

Later, when you were curled against his side in bed — voice scratchy, eyes raw — you said it like a confession:

“I’m sorry, Spence. I…I don’t want to be too much.”

He turned toward you and answered without hesitation as he pulled you closer into him.

“There’s no such thing as too much. Not with you.” He pressed a soft kiss to your temple before adding, “You’re just enough, all the time.”

—

The memory lingers long after it fades.

Spencer exhales, slow and shaky, chest tight with the ghost of it — your voice in his ear, your fingers curled into his shirt, the unbearable tenderness of that night on the kitchen floor. He can still feel the imprint of you, sharp as breath in cold air.

When he blinks, the present returns in pieces: music pulsing, voices laughing, people moving all around him. But it’s your absence that hits harder: You’re gone. You’re not near Ian, not near the party hosts, not near anyone. You’ve slipped out of the crowd, vanished discreetly like you always could when your shoulders got too heavy to hold up.

He knows where you’ve gone before he even moves. Knows the way you seek out quiet. Knows the exact rhythm of your retreat.

And so he follows.

—

It’s started to snow.

Not hard — just flurries, soft and inconsistent, the kind that hover before deciding whether or not they want to stick. String lights stretch across the balcony railing, catching in the wind.

You’re alone. Or trying to be, at least.

One hand rests on the railing. Your thumb circles the condensation on your wine glass, which you’ve long stopped drinking from — just holding it now, mostly for the sake of keeping your fingers occupied.

Spencer finds you like gravity. Like an orbit he never quite escaped.

You don’t turn when you hear him step outside. You don’t have to — you already knew he’d be the one to track you down.

The door hushes shut behind him. He doesn’t speak, not at first — just stands there for a moment in the doorway, watching your silhouette outlined against the snow-smeared sky.

You exhale through your nose. “Ian talks too much when he’s nervous.”

Spencer steps closer. “You used to say the same thing about me.”

You look over your shoulder. Not smiling, but not not smiling either. “Yeah. But it was different with you.”

He doesn’t respond, but you hear the way his breath catches. He shrugs out of his jacket without thinking — an instinct time hasn’t yet pulled from him. It’s the same instinct that used to make him drape it over your shoulders on late walks home, or leave it folded at the foot of your bed after an argument, still carrying the shape of his body. He eases it around you gently, and you let him. You hold it closed at the collar with one hand, and for a second, Spencer swears you lean into the warmth of it — the him of it.

“Has it always been this cold in January?” you ask with a laugh, eyes on the city skyline.

Spencer’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Yeah. But I think we just didn’t notice it the last few Januaries. Or at least I didn’t.”

You turn your head to look at him, slowly this time. “Why not?”

His eyes don’t leave yours. “Because I had you.”

And just like that, the wind cuts through the silence between you. You both shiver, but neither of you move.

“Some nights I still wake up thinking I heard your voice,” you say quietly.

He blinks.

“I don’t know what it says. It’s not really words — just… the shape of them. I think my brain fills in the rest.”

Spencer swallows, hard. “What does your brain imagine?”

You shake your head. “All kinds of things, I guess. But it definitely misses how you used to say my name.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His hands twitch at his sides. His throat works around something sharp.

“You know,” he says softly, “I still talk to you sometimes. In my head. I still tell you about cases, and books you’d hate, and little things I see that remind me of you.”

You blink quickly, but not quick enough to hide the sheen in your eyes. “Do I ever answer?”

He nods, his voice rough, a sad smile pulling at his lips. “Yeah. Sometimes you do.”

A beat passes. The snow starts to stick in your hair.

You both move at the same time. Just a half-step closer, your bodies angled toward each other like two halves of the same thought.

His hand brushes your wrist on the railing. Yours lingers at the lapel of his jacket, still clutched around you like armor. Your eyes drop to his mouth then flicker back up. You’re not smiling. Neither is he.

The city exhales around you. Somewhere inside, a champagne cork pops. But it feels like you’re the only two people on the planet.

Spencer leans forward — just barely. His forehead nearly touches yours, close enough to feel your breath warm the space between you. His voice, when it comes, is barely a sound:

“I would’ve done anything to keep you.”

You don’t flinch. You don’t cry. You just whisper, “I know.”

And you do. You know. You’ve always known.

A full minute passes like that. Eventually, you pull back and shrug the jacket from your shoulders, hold it out with an unsteady hand. Spencer takes it slowly, without a word, fingers brushing yours for a half-second too long.

You step towards the door and turn slightly, just enough to get a look at him. “Do you remember the last thing I said to you?”

Spencer watches the snow catch in your hair. “Of course.”

You nod once. “I meant it.” You pause, blink back a tear before adding, “I still mean it.”

You look at him then — really look, as if you’re expecting him to say something in response, but he doesn’t. And so, after one more tremble of hesitation, you’re gone.

Spencer doesn’t go inside right away. He watches the snow collect in the grooves of the railing, in the spaces between bricks on the balcony wall. Watches his breath fog in the air like smoke. He can still smell your perfume on his jacket. Still feel the shape of your voice in his chest.

And god, if you’d asked him, if you’d reached, if you’d said come with me, he would have, without question.

But that’s the thing about moments — they pass. And once they do, all that’s left is the before. And the after.

He presses his palms to the cold railing. Breathes deep. And then, the darkest memory comes.

—

You weren’t angry. That was the worst part.

You were quiet. Controlled. A little too still — like someone who’d already cried in the car then reapplied her makeup and practiced how to sound fine. Spencer had been reading when you showed up, a case file open beside him, a mug of tea cooling untouched on the coffee table.

He hadn’t been expecting you.

But the second he looked up and saw you in the doorway — your jacket still zipped, your eyes dim, your shoulders pulled back like a wall — he knew. Even before you spoke, he knew.

You sat on the edge of the couch without a word. You didn’t take off your shoes. Didn’t reach for his hand. Just stared at him, quietly. Like you were still deciding whether or not to break your own heart.

“I don’t want to do this,” you said softly once you finally got yourself to speak.

Spencer’s breath hitched. “Then don’t.”

But you shook your head, eyes glassy. “It’s not that simple.”

And he felt it then — that slow, precise tear in the fabric of something he thought he could still fix. The moment peeling open like skin beneath a dull blade.

“I love you,” you said. “That hasn’t changed. I need you to know that.”

His lips parted. He said your name — soft, small — like maybe saying it would anchor you both back to solid ground.

But you went on. “I just don’t know how to be with you when you won’t let me in.”

He blinked, confused. “I let you in.”

“No.” You shook your head again, more tired than anything else. “I know you wanted to. And you thought you did. But… you didn’t. Not really.”

Spencer looked down. He knew you were right.

He’d been quietly withdrawing for months — not in big, obvious ways, but slowly. Case after case. Canceled dates, sleepless nights, long silences between texts. Promises made in touches instead of words, apologies offered in the form of forehead kisses and new books and please don’t ask me to talk about it.

You’d stayed anyway.

You kept showing up — with dinner, with warmth, with hope. And he kept failing to reach back the way you needed him to.

He wanted to believe you knew that he loved you, even if he didn’t always know how to say it when the weight got too heavy. But he never really told you where the weight lived. Never let you see what it cost him just to hold it all together.

“It’s not you,” he said, the words spilling out too fast, like they were trying to outrun the inevitable. “It’s just— I’ve been… I’ve been trying not to make it worse.”

Your brows knit in confusion. “Worse?”

“For you,” he said softly. “I didn’t want to drag you into my darkness. I thought… I thought I was protecting you.”

That was the moment something shifted in your face. Not anger. Not even disappointment. Just that quiet kind of grief that comes from loving someone who keeps pointing you to a door without handing you the key.

“I didn’t need protecting, Spencer,” you said. “I just needed you.”

He reached for you then, without thinking. Not to fix it — he already knew it was too late for that — but to hold on to you one last time.

You almost let him, but then you pulled away. The moment had already passed. The truth had already landed.

“I keep waiting for you to let me all the way in,” you whispered. “Keep hoping. Keep thinking if I just love you a little harder, maybe you’d stop holding back.”

He wanted to tell you he never meant to. That he never meant for the silence to feel like distance, or for his grief to become a barrier. But he couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t even lift his eyes to meet yours.

“I didn’t realize you felt that way,” he choked out.

“I know. That’s the worst part.”

And then — like a wound coming undone at the seam — you stood.

He stood too — reflexive, as if maybe just the movement would change your mind. But you were already reaching for your bag, already curling into yourself, one arm tucked across your ribs like you were barely holding your body together.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I can’t do this anymore. I need to feel like I can breathe again.”

He nodded. Because what else do you do when the person you love more than anything else in the universe is asking you to let them go?

You turned toward the door and took a few strides before hesitating and looking back.

Spencer was still standing there, frozen in place, eyes red and rimmed with tears, shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller — like if he could just shrink the hurt, maybe you’d stay.

You reached into your coat pocket and pulled out a key — your key to his place, the one you’d already taken off your keychain as you cried in the car. You set it down on the entry table, and your fingers lingered over the shape of it for a second too long before pulling back and reaching for the door.

You steadied yourself enough to speak, but your voice still broke as you did. The kind of words that echo louder once the silence sets in:

“I’ll love you forever, Spencer. Even if I have to do it from far away.”

Despite your best efforts, you froze once more before you could bring yourself to step outside. “I’ll never stop,” you added in a whisper.

Then the door closed behind you.

—

The snow’s falling heavier now. Slow, deliberate flakes, shapeless against the sky.

Spencer stays outside long after the cold has sunk into his hands, long after the balcony door clicks shut behind him. Somewhere behind the glass, people are laughing. A new song is starting. But all of it feels miles away.

You’d asked him — softly, like it might break if you said it too loud:

“Do you remember the last thing I said to you?”

He’d thought it was just nostalgia. A prompt for some shared memory, a fragment you wanted him to hold with you for a final moment before moving on.

But it wasn’t.

You weren’t asking if he remembered — no. You were asking if he still believed you.

I’ll love you forever. I’ll never stop.

I still mean it.

He grips the railing tighter. Because now he understands: you weren’t reaching back into a memory. You were reaching towards him. Tentatively. Hopefully. Asking if it still means anything. If it’s still real.

You’ve moved on, at least that’s what you tell yourself. Maybe Ian — solid, safe Ian — is more than just a placeholder. Maybe it’s still the wrong time for you and Spencer. But maybe some small, stubborn part of you is still tethered to him by a thread neither of you has had the courage to cut.

Maybe that look you gave him tonight wasn’t just nostalgia. Maybe it was permission. Or forgiveness. Or both.

Maybe it’s not too late.

Or maybe it is.

But maybe — just maybe — if he reaches, you’ll reach back.

And for the first time in 313 days, Spencer can’t bring himself to just wonder from afar.

He needs to find out.

—

The warmth of the party hits him too fast once he steps back inside.

It's jarring, like surfacing through ice. Noise and light and heat pressing in on all sides.

He moves before he knows where he’s going. Not calmly. Not with logic. Just instinct — pulled forward like a tide. Past the hallway. Past the bar. Past an acquaintance calling his name.

He’s scanning the crowd now with something closer to desperation than hope. Looking for the lavender of your dress, the curve of your mouth, the shape of a future he once held in both hands.

He thinks he sees your hair by the fireplace, but it isn’t you. Just someone with the same soft tilt of the head. Another not-you in a sea full of not-yous.

He checks the hallway. A guest bedroom. The stairwell. The far end of the kitchen.

You’re not there. You aren’t anywhere.

The edges of the room start to blur. For a moment, he thinks he’s too late. Thinks maybe you’ve already slipped through his fingers for good.

But then — he sees you.

Near the front door, coat draped over your arm, ready to leave. Ian’s standing beside you, saying something low near your ear. You’re nodding, distracted. Your fingers tighten around your purse strap.

Spencer stops moving.

His whole body goes still — like someone hit pause mid-scene. Like the universe has given him one last, final frame to memorize you before you’re gone.

He could go to you. Reach for you and pull you into him, Ian be damned. Say your name. Tell you the truth — that it’s been 313 days since you left and he’s loved you for every single one of them. That when you turned to him on the balcony and said I still mean it, he should’ve said I never stopped, either.

But he doesn’t.

Because the part of him that’s always loved you best — the part that curled around you on the kitchen floor, the part that kept you at a distance thinking it was safest — knows what it means to protect someone.

And sometimes it means letting you walk away, even when it feels like it might kill him.

So he stays where he is. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

He just watches.

Watches the way you pause at the door like something intangible is tugging at you. Watches the moment your head turns, as if your muscles knew he was there before your heart could catch up.

Your eyes meet Spencer’s across the foyer, and for a second, the rest of the world vanishes.

Neither of you smiles. Neither speaks.

But everything is said.

It’s in the way your mouth parts like you might call his name and then don’t. In the way you look at him like you remember it all. Like you never stopped remembering. Like you never stopped wanting.

He wants to go to you. God, he does. It takes every ounce of strength in him to hold back.

And after one long, fragile heartbeat, you look away and leave with Ian’s hand pressed against your back.

The door closes softly behind you. Spencer doesn’t move.

He watches the snow blur the windows. Watches the space you left behind.

And in the quiet, he holds it all. The ache. The memories. The weight of a love he never stopped carrying. The feeling of caring so deeply for someone from the outside of a life that used to be his.

Because that’s what he is now — an outsider.

Not your partner. Not your future.

Just some protector.

And maybe — for now — that can be enough.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[aventurineswife]

Running in the Shadows

Summary: Caught in a chase under the moonlit sky, you believe you can outrun Moze, the elusive Shadow Guard of the Yaoqing. But Moze quickly catches up, only to surprise you.

Tags: Moze x Reader(can be read as platonically) Chase scene, Hurt/Comfort, Protector, Slow Burn, Tension, Fluff with Angst, Emotional Vulnerability, Barefoot Running.

Warnings: Mentions of panic and fear during the chase, Slight physical restraint, Mild emotional tension.

Feel free to send in your requests!

Original Idea

The moon hung high in the sky, casting an eerie glow on the deserted streets of the city. You sprinted down the narrow alleyways, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you glanced back over your shoulder. The sound of footsteps echoed ominously behind you, but you believed you could outpace your pursuer. After all, you were nimble and fast, and this was your territory.

You turned sharply, weaving through the shadows, your breath quickening as you picked up speed. However, the footsteps only grew louder, each step punctuating the air with an unsettling promise. Who was chasing you? You didn’t have time to think about it; you needed to escape.

As you rounded another corner, the alley widened, and you felt a rush of hope. Perhaps you could find a place to hide, a chance to lose whoever was behind you. You pushed your legs harder, ignoring the sting of your bare feet against the cold pavement, the gravel digging into your soles. You were almost there—just a few more steps.

Suddenly, a shadow loomed ahead of you, and instinct kicked in. You turned to run the other way, but in an instant, the figure emerged from the darkness—a tall, muscular silhouette with gray hair cascading over one shoulder. You recognized him instantly.

“Moze...” you gasped, feeling a mix of fear and an inexplicable thrill.

He moved with a predatory grace, closing the distance between you with ease. Panic surged through you, and you quickened your pace again, but it was futile. With a swift motion, he reached out and grabbed your waist, effortlessly lifting you off your feet.

“Got you.” he said, his voice low and steady, but there was no malice in his tone—only an unsettling calm.

Before you could react, he lowered you gently onto something soft. Confused, you looked down to find your shoes—waiting for you. The act was so unexpected, so disarming, that you almost forgot about your fear.

“Why were you running?” Moze asked, his violet-blue eyes locking onto yours, a hint of concern flickering beneath his stoic demeanor.

You stammered, “I… I thought you were after me.”

“I was,” he admitted, a faint smirk teasing the corner of his lips. “But not in the way you think.”

His hands remained on your, grounding, you as you tried to catch your breath. There was a vulnerability in his gaze, a flicker of something deeper beneath the surface—a connection that transcended the chase.

“Put your shoes on,” he said, his voice softening. “You’ll hurt yourself running around barefoot.”

The warmth of his hands lingered on your skin, and you nodded, slipping your feet into the shoes. The fit offered a sense of security, a reminder that despite the shadows surrounding you, there was someone watching over you.

“Thank you,” you said quietly, looking up at him. “I didn’t expect you to… uh help me?”

“Neither did I,” he replied, his expression unreadable. “But you shouldn’t have to run alone.”

In that moment, as the city around you buzzed with the life of the night, the world felt a little less chaotic. Moze, the enigmatic Shadow Guard, had pulled you from the edge of fear, reminding you that sometimes, the shadows held more than just danger; they held unexpected allies.

Just then, a distant siren blared, cutting through the stillness of the night. Moze’s expression hardened, the vulnerability replaced by a shadow of tension.

“We need to move.” he said, suddenly alert.

“Where?” you asked, glancing around nervously.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his eyes scanning the dark alley as if he could sense something looming just beyond the edge of the shadows. “Anywhere but here.” he replied, a cryptic urgency lacing his tone.

Before you could question him further, he reached for your hand, pulling you toward the darkest recess of the alley. The grip was firm, yet the moment felt surreal, as if the very air around you was thickening with unspoken truths.

As you ran, the weight of uncertainty hung heavily in the air. Just ahead, you spotted a narrow doorway that led to the unknown. With a fleeting glance over your shoulder, you caught a glimpse of movement—a flicker of shadows beyond the light.

Just as you reached the door, the echo of hurried footsteps filled the alley behind you—voices, angry and demanding. Moze’s grip tightened, and in one swift motion, he yanked open the door, revealing an inky darkness that swallowed you whole.

“What’s back there?” you asked, your heart racing.

“I don’t know,” Moze replied, glancing back at you, a shadow of doubt crossing his face. “But we don’t have time to find out.”

You hesitated at the threshold, the fear of the unknown clashing with the urgency of the moment. “Moze, wait—”

He turned, his violet-blue eyes piercing through the dark. “Trust me,” he urged, an intensity in his voice that sent a shiver down your spine. “We can’t let them catch us.”

And in that moment, as the door creaked open wider, you were faced with a choice. You could step into the darkness with him, leaving everything behind, or retreat to the light where you might be safe but alone.

As you weighed your options, the footsteps grew louder, and the shadows began to close in around you. The last thing you heard before the door swung shut was Moze’s voice, a whisper that echoed in your mind: “Sometimes, the darkest paths lead to the brightest futures…”

The door slammed shut, and the world around you faded to black, leaving you to wonder what awaited in the unknown and whether you would ever find your way back.

[kumiaku]

If Capitano ever lost the ability to hear the screams of his comrades, I don't think he'd be relieved or calmed or anything like it. I think he would deeply unnerved, I think he would be worried, I think he might even be scared.

As much as Capitano mourns his lost comrades, I believe that he finds comfort, finds solace, in his ability to carry them with him. He values the fact that he can still hear them and hold onto them, only if it's often the last snapshot of their lives.

So if Capitano were to loose the ability to hear them, possibly loose their soul entirely, I think he would be devastated inside - because as much as he could fall asleep, as much as he would have the ability to sleep in peace - he would feel so empty without them because he wouldn't be able to assure the fact that their souls are safe.

[demigods-posts]

percabeth + grover in tartarus actually makes so much sense. because of course annabeth's deeply-rooted pride and percy's unwavering loyalty landed them in tartarus. but it is grover's role as the protector to shield them from everything fatal. including themselves. so of course he'd jump after them. not to mention that he understands fate well to know how cruel it can be. and no doubt would he make a promise to do everything in his power to make sure fate plays out in their favor. to make sure these kids get a chance to live the life they deserve. even if it means holding the button and making the ultimate sacrifice.

[shaylogic]

Anyone else hung up on the part where Esther captured the ghost boys in that glass box?

What were they feeling/thinking in that state?

Forced proximity, raw souls touching, scared but together just before being separated in peril, already emotionally tender from Crystal leaving.

Knowing the last time they survived Esther, it was only because Crystal was there to save them, and for all they know in that moment, she's gone and unaware of their plight

"This is it" Edwin may be thinking, unable to articulate it verbally

Charles desperate to break out and protect Edwin, unable to move or speak, utterly helpless again, and heartbroken that he just lost Crystal, and now he's going to lose Edwin, too

~~~~~

Omg can you imagine Charles somehow gets out and reforms, but Edwin is still stuck as a soul orb, so Charles has to grab him up and run with him

Charles is so protective and caring but scared and baffled and sometimes rough and clumsy

Edwin is the one who comes up with the plans and Charles is the one who takes risks and swings the bat

Charles: *cupping Edwin's soul to his heart, hands shaking* it's gonna be okay, mate, I swear! I'm gonna fix this

[mellohiizz]

i need some of your parrot art very sad. like, make him very very sad, as sad as you can make it. horribly sad. depressingly tragic sadness.

oops. sorry, i think i traumatized your bird.

[practicalsuccubus]

Fantasy Thoughts~

Chase stumbled his way to the dark building. Everything hurt. He was pretty sure his arm was broken. Or dislocated. He wasn't sure. His breath was coming out in short bursts. He knocked on the wooden door with his good hand before stumbling back to the wall, and sinking down. He carefully reached up to his head. His hair felt...stiff. Sticky. His vision was blurring. The door opened, and a familiar figure of black and grey quickly made his way towards him. kneeling down, and holding his face gently. "Chase...?" Chase opened his mouth, but he couldn't get his voice to work. Deacon and Prunella were in trouble, he needed to say something! Anything! Nox hadn't been expecting that knock. At first, he thought it was someone from Ex-Libris, but then. That was impossible. Anyone from Ex-Libris would just barge in. They wouldn't knock. Nox cautiously went to the door, and opened it a hair. Blond hair that was turning pink from blood. Bruises, rips, tears on his skin and clothes. Chase was sitting on the ground, shaking. Nox quickly made his way to Chase's side, holding the blond's cheek carefully.

"Chase...?" Nox couldn't believe this. Sure, Ex-Libris weren't....okay. They were all that bad. Yet. He...He never expected this!

Chase opened his mouth, but no sound was coming out. If Chase was in this bad of shape, then. How did his friends...that boy, Deacon, and that child...

Nox pushed the horrendous thoughts to the side for the time being. Chase was leaning into his touch. Letting out soft whimpers. Nox saw tears forming in the blond boy's eyes. Chase was so hurt. So..so trusting. Of him. "B-Buddy..." Nox's heart screamed. Chase sounded so scared. So hurt. "Chase....who did this to you?"

[kharmii]

Art credit: まのまに@manomani888 Twitter.

[laurancezvahlslefteyebrow]

The real reason Aphmau can’t love them back

Keep in mind this is referring to my rewrite <3

The “them” in question is Garroth and Laurance

Garroth is the descendent and incarnation of Esmund the Protector: an admirer and great friend of Irene/Aphmau’s.

Laurance is the incarnation of Xavier the admirer: guardian, friend, and lover of Irene/Aphmau.

She loved them both dearly, they, along with the rest of the Divine Warriors meant the world to her.

But, in order to seal Shad away for good, she had the use the life forces of the warriors, killing them. And although Xavier was not a Divine Warrior, he was still lost in the final battle.

Esmund and the others were essentially incinerated, there were no bodies to tend to. But Xavier wasn’t.

The blast wounded him, more than Irene herself could heal. All she could do was sit with him, hold him. Until he could hurt no longer.

Some years after, she’s unable to move on. She can’t. It was her fault. She still tries to help people, but she’s so tired. And so, she locks herself away for 900 odd years.

When she returns without memories, it’s a fresh start for her. But each time she encounters a Divine’s incarnation, she can feel it. She doesn’t know what it is exactly that she’s feeling, only an overwhelming sense of trust and love.

And she feels it strongest with Garroth and Laurance. She assumes purely that this is due to them being her guards.

But along with those feelings and trust and love, comes a pit in her stomach. A sense of guilt. A sense of doom.

She can’t help but feel like she’s only hurting them by letting them get so close. She can’t love them, not the way she wants to. The way they want her to.

Because that’s how they get hurt. That’s what gets them killed. Again.

[glitter-stained]

Currently writing an UTRH AU with 17 years old Jason deciding to kidnap the batkids to protect them from Batman, so of course I need a playlist. Does anybody have song recs?

[adventuringblind]

Drive With You Forever

Chapter Four: Charles is confused

Max verstappen x lando Norris x Charles Leclerc x reader

Chapter summary: Charles leclerc has always known he's weird. Maybe it takes someone just as weird as him to discover he's not alone.

Warnings: Reader discovers sexuality is a thing, almost a car crash, injury description, allusions to past abuse

Notes: Yay! Charles content! This chapter is wicked long, btw. I got carried away... oops.

Previous <-

Masterlist

Charles Leclerc had always known he was different. He just got a confirmation during his rookie season with Sauber.

He tried to keep his head down and show his talent, yet things never went to plan.

He was glad to be racing with Max again. His rival until Max practically flew up the ranks and Charles was stuck moving at the same speed he always had. Far to slow for his liking.

Now he’d achieved his dream. It’s 2019 and he’s driving for Ferrari alongside Sebastian vettel.

Everything seemed to be okay for now. Aside from his weird attraction to his stupid rival and his girlfriend who spent majority of her time in the Ferrari garage.

He noticed it last year and made it a point to stay as far away as possible from them. And for some reason it felt like fate was laughing at him because he always ran into the two.

Awkward. Stumbling. Stuttering.

He hated himself for this. He hated that he couldn’t just be normal. Fall for someone he actually had a chance with. Not the two most taken people in the paddock.

It didn’t help the Pierre constantly talked his ear off about them. Complaining that Max never shuts up about her. A lovely nail in the coffin.

Now at Ferrari he spent so much time around her that he was mentally hitting his head on a rock.

She’s weird and doesn’t get human interactions sometimes. She literally talks about the car all the time. She’s told him a few times what the strategy should be and not to listen to Xavi. Somehow she always knows what advice he’s going to need for a race.

Max, on the other hand, was something he’d not expected. It came out of nowhere during his teenage years. They’ve known each their for so long and yet Charles had yet to hold a semi decent conversation with him.

Max is a good driver and everyone knows it. He’d blamed it on respect at first but now they are 20 and Charles can’t help but memorize every stupidly little detail about him.

He determined that he must be mentally I’ll. Or bisexual. Or both.

“Your eyes are going to get stuck if you keep staring like that.” Teases Sebastian. Charles hadn’t even realized he’d zoned in on the happy could. Max dancing poorly with her to some imaginary music. He just moves he’s eyes to the table. Hoping the German doesn’t think much about it.

“Why so glum?” Asks the older male. Charles sucks in through his teeth. He definitely doesn’t want to explain that he’s attracted to both his daughter and her boyfriend. He’d probably thing he was crazy.

“Jealous, I suppose.” He settles for.

“Of which one.” Charles snaps his head up to Sebastian. A cheeky grin spreading across his face. Surely he can’t be that easy to read, right? “Don’t worry, I’ll keep your secret.”

Charles is stumbling over his words. Questions of how he knows attempt to come out but sound like gibberish. Thankfully Seb understands him.

“You make puppy eyes at both of them all the time. You should be glad they’re both oblivious. It took her and Max years to figure it out.”

The first time he’d been relieved since this conversation started. Neither of them had noticed him. His friendship with the two was as close as he was going to get and he planned to keep it that way.

~

She’d been staying with Max that night. It was hard to find time to just be in each others presence during race weekends. Her mind was racing this weekend for some reason. Her nightmares had been getting worse recently, so she opted to keep herself awake and let Max sleep.

Her head was absolutely throbbing. She’d already stopped a few nose bleeds. She even tried levitating around random objects to get some of her energy out. Nothing was working.

Her vision was going now. She didn’t want to wake Max, but she couldn’t help the cries of pain the wracked her chest. The feeling of the floor. Then a person?

This was definitely a vision. Not a small one by the looks of it. She’s had a few of these before. Where she sees more then a moment and is able ti get a clearer picture.

She’s following around Charles. The Monegasque is racing. It’s the same track they are at now. She looked at the clock. Tomorrows date. Some time around 4.

Charles’ car has a rear tire explode. His car sending him into the wall. She can see his body dangling as the car flips itself.

Then she’s back. The white hot pain still searing her veins. Max holding her gently in his lap. Why does she feel like it’s still going?

She loses sight of Max one again and is thrown into another image. Her and Max sharing an intimate moment embracing each other.

She can’t help the smile that creeps onto her face.

Someone else joins them now. Their intimate moment now being shared.

She’s confused. She’s scared. And she’s in so much pain.

~

Max held her as the pain dies down. He already had a wet rag in hand to hopefully help cool her rising body temperature and wipe away the blood that was stuck to her.

“Do you want to talk about what you saw?”

“Charles is going to crash tomorrow.”

“But you’re not going to let that happen are you?” There is a smug smile on his face. He already knows what she’s planning. Her and Charles had become relatively close since he’s been at Ferrari. Max actually thought their relationship was oddly cute in a way.

“I saw something else, also.”

“Yeah?”

"We were hugging and smiling. Then, someone else showed up. But it didn't ruin it? Like - they joined us, I guess."

Max ponders for a moment. It's not something he would've considered. It's definitely not something he would've seen himself doing.

The girl panicking on the floor makes him think she probably has no idea that it's actually pretty normal for that to happen nowadays. She's spilling words about how she'd never do that to him.

"Shush. I think we can figure this out in the morning." Max heaves her off the floor and into bed. Continuing to stroke her hair until she falls asleep.

~

She was on edge all day. She repeatedly warned Charles about his tires. She warned Seb about his tires and Charles.

It was nearing four o'clock now. She was watching the tire degradation, and Charles was getting close to not having anything left.

She ran. Ran to get on the radio and tell someone about his tires.

Thankfully, they listened. She hadn't been wrong about things yet. Charles came into the pits and got new tires.

The relief that washed over her when he crossed the finish line in one peice was immense.

Check didn't care he finished sixth. She ran to him regardless.

Charles was shocked when she jumped into his arms. She'd done this before. she always hugged him him when he was done racing. He learned early that she likes physical contact over words.

This hug was different. He could feel the tension actively leaving her muscles.

He just embraced her. Letting himself relax into her hold.

~

She was pacing in Sebs hotel room. Max had been attempting to get her to relax her body. Seb was sitting at the table watching the two go back and forth. Then there was Lewis.

Max had told him the interesting predicament they'd found themselves in. Seb had not really understood everything about it, and Max was doing a terrible job at trying to explain it to him. So he had asked Lewis to attempt.

Lewis had explained the idea of polyamory. The same idea Max was trying to explain. The same thing the girl pacing the room was not understanding.

"geliefde, we don't have to think about it."

"Why are we thinking about it exactly?" Pipes Lewis. He'd been quiet since she started pacing. After his explanation of something she'd never heard of.

All of them freeze. What are they supposed to say? She had a vision of the future and saw them with another male? A ridiculous notion.

Lewis looks between them all. The other three look between each other.

Seb looks at her. His face is caring and gentle. "She's been having some revelations about the world recently."

Lewis either is just nodding in understanding because it's the truth or he knows their lying and doesn't want to push further. Either way, at least he dropped it.

Back in Max's room, she'd finally been able to calm down. It still didn't make any sense to her, though. Why was Max so okay with this?

Max, unbeknownst to her, was pondering the idea. He'd learned to just flow with her visions. It wasn't set in stone but sometimes it was okay to just let it happen. This was one of those things that he was genuinely open to try if she saw him doing it.

Somewhere in his brain, he could find thoughts that he locked away. Things he thought were weird and decided never to open the box to that again.

Obviously, she wasn't opposed to the idea either. She saw herself in that vision. Her feelings are much different than Max's, though. He could see the shame in her eyes every time she looked at him.

Finally, he'd gotten her here. He's kneeling down in front of her while she sits on the bed. His hands are placed on either side of her thighs.

"I'm going to tell you how I feel about this and then I want you to be completely honest about your feelings, okay?"

She nods her head. Still avoiding his eyes. The guilt to much for her.

"I'm willing to see where this goes. We don't have to try to change anything. From what you saw, we're both happy. I quite like seeing you smile." His pointer finger quickly moved upwards, and the pad just barely touches the top of her nose. "Now, explain to me what you're feeling because unlike you, I am no superhero."

Superhero. A nickname she earned a year ago when she first showed him. He ranted about how she was like a few comicbook superheros he's seen. She wasn't fond of it at first, but now it feels endearing.

"I don't understand it yet. I'm not saying it's a bad thing. It's just that Hanna and seb had told me that it's two people, not three or more, like Lewis was explaining earlier."

Max nods his head in understanding. His hope is that it helps her keep going. He keeps up comforting little touches along her body.

"I'm not going to try to change anything, but I also don't want you to he upset. I've seen relationships at the paddock end because of someone else getting in the way."

"Well, those relationships were not meant to he three people. Maybe ours is. I've seen you with far too much love to give. I feel it would only be natural to let others in."

~

Charles couldn't help staring at her. Her stupid smile was making him swoon.

She was trying to tell him about something she's working on. Yet his mind was too far away to heat what she's saying.

She grabs his hand. Her attempt at pulling him back to earth. "Charlie? Are you okay?"

"Yes, sorry. I'm a bit out of it today." He laughs. His stupid nervous laugh.

"Want to go for a walk to clear your head?"

"That sounds amazing."

Their in Silverstone this weekend. A place he knows fairly well. This walk made him see things he hadn't before.

"Is Max going to be upset you're walking alone with a different guy?" Charles is very aware that Max is protective of her. Mostly from people she doesn't know, cameras, and the media, but it still doesn't change the fact that he could get punched for this.

He takes note of how she bites her lip. "No, I texted him you were having a rough day and needed a friend."

He hums. The only response that feels appropriate.

He didn't notice how he kept walking, and she had stopped. Her hands rubbed her temples. "Are you alright?" Concern is etched into his face.

Somehow, he'd missed the car speeding towards him. He curses how quiet electric engines are. He thinks it might be the end. The way he attracts tragedy finally catching up with him.

He feels his body being thrown to the side. He thought the hit would be more painful. Maybe the pain just hasn't registered yet. The little patch of grass on the side of the road catches him. The fall felt abnormally slow.

Charles lifts his head to inspect his body. He feels fine. Better than fine, actually.

He drags himself up and glances at where his friend is. Panic immediately rises as he sees her on her knees with blood running down the side of her face.

He thinks the car might have hit her. But she looks perfectly fine aside from that. A car would have cause more frontal damage, and she probably would have hit her head.

Then again, he felt better then perfect right now.

He runs over to her and drops to his knees. His hands reach to gently cradle her face. She's panting and trying to get to her phone, but her hands are so shaky she can't type anything.

"Can I?"

She just nods and hands the device over to him. She was trying to call Max.

~

Max is almost flying out of the paddock. Yelling to Christian that he'd be right back.

He found Charles only a few blocks away. Keeping the head of his girlfriend elevated. Her face seemed paler, and there is a trail of crimson on the sides of her face.

Oh. Oh no.

Max pulls over and gets out of the car. "What happened?"

"A car came out of nowhere, speeding. I thought I got hit, but I don't know now, and she's like this, but I don't think it hit her either." Charkes spills in one breath.

Him and the Monegasque had been friends for a while. Well- as close of friends as rivals can be.

She's still awake and mildly coherent. She'd overexerted most likely.

"Schat, can you tell me what happened, please? I need to know how to help you."

Charles is confused by the question. Obviously, from what he'd explained, she'd most likely been hit by a car.

"Couldn't let gim get hurt." She mumbles. Somehow, Max knows exactly what she said, and Charles is left to decipher the meaning. Is it an English thing?

How could she have stopped the car? She wasn't even close to him!

~

Before Charles has a chance to ask anything, he's helping haul a female body through the 'secret' paddock entrance. The one usually used for emergencies. Max and Charles both figured this could constitute as one.

Charles was still confused why they weren't taking her to the medical center. Or anywhere else that would be able to help her better than they could.

Seb met them outside the Ferrari motor home. The door to his room open and waiting.

"What happened?" He looks at max expectantly for an answer.

"She over exerted herself, I think. Possibly moving Charles and healing him simultaneously."

"I'm sorry, what?" Charles is eyeing the two of them. The two only stare at him.

"Dies he know?" The German asks Max. The Dutch shook his head no and bit his lip. Seemingly giving away some secret.

Charles is confused, frustrated and concerned. He let's out a string of French words that neither can understand.

"I'm going to see if I can't clean her up and see if she'll wake up. Can you take Charles to his room and explain to him what happened?"

"Like- explain explain? Or explain?"

"He's seen it, so there's no use in hiding it now. By the looks of it, she was also willing to out herself for him."

Then Charles is being dragged off once again. Now to the comfort of his room instead.

The Dutchman practically forces Charles to sit down. "I'm going to explain to you, and you have to promise you will never speak a word of it."

~

Charles is still shocked by it all. Even in the evening after he's done all his media chorse, he still doesn't get it.

He knew there were some things about her that were weird and that her childhood was shit, but this is just insane.

He makes his way up to Max's hotel room. His brain still trying to process.

He thinks about turning around when he gets to the door. However, it's like they are reading his mind or something because Max opens the door as soon as he steps in front of it.

"Welcome!" Max moves aside to let him in. Charles takes cautious steps forward. His eyes landing on the bed where his friend lay.

She looks better now. Her face has some color back to it. The blood is gone. He's happy about it, but now he feels awkward.

"It's okay, Max told me that you know now." She sits up but doesn't look him in the eyes.

Max let's them have space yet remains perched on the corner. The guardian he's used to seeing.

Charles sits on the edge of the bed closest to her. She looks panicked.

"It's a lot to process."

She shakes her head. Her eyes find Max for some sort of support. It was easy with him.

"It doesn't mean that I'm going to stop loving you or anything. It's just information to take in and understand because it's new." He rambles. Not even realizing he let the L word slip.

Now her eyes find Charles'. They look for understanding. Charles then knows his mistake. His hand flies over his mouth in embarrassment. Cheeks are now growing red and warm.

"I'm so sorry. That wasn't meant- I-"

Charles stands up and is about to bolt before Max rudely blocks his way out.

He looks back at her as Charles tries to find a way through. "Is the face less foggy now?"

Charles is now confused, frustrated, awkward, and embarrassed. It's a combination that can't get any worse.

~

She's staring at him. Her eyes bore into his soul. The worst part is that Max is laughing about it.

Somehow, they had a feeling this could happen. She had a vision where they were not a couple but a trio. Now, she was trying to see if she could recall a resemblance. Charles adds insecure to his growing list of unpleasant emotions.

"I don't remember." She confesses. Guilt creeps onto her face.

"Well, the question is, do we want to try this?" Max asks with such confidence.

It throws charles' head into a tizzy. The two people he thought were the farthest out of reach are actually the closest? It seems unreal. "Have you two already talked about this?" Charles is hesitant in asking.

"After her vision, yes. There's been some discovery on our end, and it's something we're willing to try."

The girl nods her head in agreement. Her eyes light up now that Max has taken control of the conversation.

"Okay, I'm willing to give this a shot."

"I can't read minds, I need your open and honest feelings. If we're going to do this, then you're going to have to be vulnerable."

Max takes Charles hands in his. Their arms now stretch the length of the small table.

It's the touch that gets him. He'd seen Max do it to her a thousand times and constantly longed for it himself.

"I've actually been crushing on both of you- for awhile now." He admits.

The two look up at him with both surprise and warmth. They were glad to hear this. Relief floods through Charles allowing him to continue speaking.

"I thought I was broken or something because I wanted to be with both of you at the same time. I thought it was impossible, but here we are." Charles looks anywhere but at them.

Then she's next to him. Her lips pressed against his forehead in an endearing way.

It's weird that her powers had somehow managed to help her get two partners.

~

They take things slow. They keep open communication between the three of them. They double-check everything until they learn comforts and boundaries.

They are almost through the season now. They've come to Abu Dhabi.

Charles is an anxious mess. He jas a chance to help move the team up, and he wants it so bad.

It's the night before, and he can't sleep for the life of him. He checks his phone, sending a quick text to their group chat. Mostly filled with funny cat videos from Max.

It doesn't take long to get a response, and he's on his way.

Charles has gotten used to the fact that she will always be able to open the door as soon as he gets there. He barely bothers slowing down as he enters the room and falls face first on the bed.

"Rough night?" Asks Max.

"Like you wouldn't believe."

The girl playfully lays herself across the two. The weight of her body comforting to them both.

Max dosen't let it stay that way, though, as he rolls them all over and peppers both of their faces with chaste kisses.

It doesn't take Charles long to fall asleep with them. His and Max's arms tangled up with the girl in between them.

~

Tags: @styles-sunflower @purplephantomwolf @boiohboii @reblog-princess-blog @jjsprobablywrong @Ipab @jayda12

Next ->

4.5 ->

[swordlux]

The Command | Cú Chulainn x Reader

A romantic reimagining of the scene from EP 19 of Fate/stay night: Unlimited Blade Works, "Idealism's End", with you in place of Tohsaka.

Major spoilers ahead for the anime.

To Lancer with love <33

***

I could feel the loyalty in his stance—and it made my heart break. I knew Lancer would do all he could to resist the order, but even he wouldn’t be able to disobey a command written in his soul. It was like the cruel hands of fate had wrapped around both our necks.

*** The Command

The ropes bit into my skin. I turned my head away from Shinji’s taunting face, doing my best not to show my distress. Anger flooded me from the tips of my toes; how I wanted so badly to punch this young fool. I bit my lip instead, near snarling as his uncouth hands explored my thighs.

“I love a girl with nice legs,” he said, running his hands further up my thigh.

That comment and the fact that he was practically drooling were enough to push me past my limit.

I pulled against my restraints, ready to snap.

Then, all of a sudden, as if my thoughts made it appear, an invisible fist flew into the air and smashed into the side of Shinji’s face.

I watched my long-time rival’s cheekbone cave as the rest of his body caught up with him, and he went flying across the room.

For a second the only explanation I could think of was that I had tapped into some undiscovered talent, or that the air itself had adjusted to my will.

That was when he appeared—the tall, bright, handsome blue form attached to that fist.

“Lancer!” I cried.

Lancer’s expression was that of smug disinterest when he punched Shinji, but he turned now to me with concern flickering in his red eyes. “Are you alright?” he said.

“I am now.” It was the truth. Seeing Lancer standing there brought such relief to my limbs. I didn’t even notice the bounds around me anymore. It also brought up a deeper feeling that had been stirring in my chest every time I saw the man as of late. I wanted to throw my arms around his strong waist. The sight of him there confirmed all the feelings that remained unspoken in the air between us. It was clear he was stepping out of orders being here.

“Quite the situation you’ve got yourself in there,” he said, smirking now. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say the look suits you. Allow me—” He reached his spear for my binds, about to release me from captivity when a deep voice rang out in the dim chamber.

“Hold up, Lancer.”

The voice stopped us cold.

A man appeared in the shadows behind Lancer—a man whose sight would’ve made me feel sick on a normal day, and in this situation, it made me feel as if I was about to fall off the edge of a roller coaster.

He stepped into the light. The sight of the gold cross hanging on the front of his chest nearly made me hurl.

Kirei Kotomine. Lancer’s master.

I looked at Lancer with panic. He tried to reassure me, but I could see fear mirrored in his beautiful rubies.

He turned to Kirei. “What are you doing here?”

“I should be asking you that,” Kirei said, never breaking his composure. “I don’t remember ordering you to come to this young maiden’s rescue.”

“I don’t need an order to do something any honest knight would do.”

“Oh, is that what this is?” Kirei looked between us with amused curiosity. “You’re telling me you have no personal feelings here?”

Lancer bit down on his tongue. It was taking everything for him not to reveal the truth.

Kirei continued. “It’s true I ordered you to cooperate with them, but I never ordered you to get emotionally invested.” The love of my life’s master closed his eyes and sighed. When he opened them, I saw nothing but malice in those bottomless pits, and I knew exactly what would come next. “Well, seeing that it’s too late, there’s only one thing to do now.” Kirei turned and looked me straight in the eye. “Kill her,” he said.

Lancer’s face turned white at the order. In it, I saw an absolute dread that must’ve been mirrored in mine. My stomach sank. Just as we’d reunited, just as I was sure we’d get to explore more of whatever this was between us. Our time was cut short by the knowledge that what would happen next was inevitable.

I looked into Lancer’s eyes—those deep, passionate, loving eyes—and knew this was a fate I could accept. I had to accept. No matter how painful, if I was going to die, at least it would be at the hands of one I loved.

I knew it would wreck Lancer, so I tried to show my acceptance in my gaze. Go ahead, don’t get yourself in trouble because of me. I’ll love you always.

But Lancer had already made his decision. His resolution was apparent in the strength of his warm voice. “I refuse,” he said. “If you want me to, you’re going to have to use a command seal.”

I could feel the loyalty in his stance, and it made my heart break. I knew Lancer would do all he could to resist the order, but even he wouldn’t be able to disobey a command written in his soul. It was like the cruel hands of fate had wrapped around both our necks.

“Lancer,” I pleaded.

“Very well,” Kirei’s words rang out, trumping my pleas, and the chamber grew colder with their resonance.

And then came the words I never saw coming—the words that struck me right in my core and made me feel as if the sun had fallen out of the universe—

“Kill yourself, Lancer.”

“No–!!!” My heart dropped to the bottom of my stomach. The order seemed to shake the walls—every part of my being resisted this dreadful fate.

My death, I could accept. But this…

Lancer resisted the order as best he could, but even his strong hands couldn’t slow the turning of the spear toward his own heart.

I screamed and pulled against my bounds, but the rope held me in place. And so I reached for Lancer the only way I knew how.

I reached for him with the whole of my being, with my will, with my desire to keep him alive so strong it could burn all of me. I screamed his name with every fibre of my being—every ounce of my soul. I felt at the red tips of his existence. I reached for him through the darkness, ignoring all worldly restraints, so his spirit would have no choice but to feel mine.

And then the chant spilled out of my lips, smooth as a summer song, as if I’d been rehearsing it for this moment. And through the words I bled all of the passion I felt inside me.

“My fate shall be your sword… If you will submit to this will and this reason, then answer!”

I could feel the moment Lancer caught on. The force that was tied around him loosened.

I pulled him closer, both of us now working to fight the order that still tore at his soul. We fought together. I sang the enchantment until my throat was sore.

And then–

I felt it break. Kirei’s hold on him snapped.

With a violent backswing, Lancer's spirit tumbled toward mine.

I caught him, the force knocking all the air out of my lungs.

The red marks of allegiance on Kirei’s arm shattered and disappeared as if they were always as delicate as glass.

The same marks appeared on my arm now, but they felt strong and burned with red life and passion.

Lancer was mine.

I looked down at the new command seal with a strange feeling of completion. The connection between us glowed like a warm amber in the air. It was the feeling of reaching nirvana. A connection so wonderful it seemed too good to be true.

I locked eyes with Lancer.

Lancer was mine, and I was his, but more than that, he was saved from that awful fate.

Before the emotions of joy overwhelmed me, I reached for Lancer’s spear—the one that almost killed him—and turned it on the one thing that could threaten that joy.

Kirei was still looking at his arm in shock as I approached him.

It was at the last moment that he looked up. He only had a second for recognition to dawn before I pierced the spear into his heart.

The man who was once Lancer's master fell to his knees.

I pulled the spear out and watched him choke out his last few breaths in confusion.

"Sorry, but some fates are meant to be twisted." 

I turned back to Lancer and threw my arms around him.

He returned my tight grip, and for a second, I thought we were going to squeeze the life out of each other.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” he said. He pulled away and tilted my chin up to him. “Be mine, forever.”

“Forever.”

He kissed me. The kiss was deep and hot, combined now with the sensation of our connected souls. I felt it tingling in the center of my forehead.

“I love you, Lancer.”

“I love you too.” He laughed. “I guess I should call you my master now.”

“Master, partner, whatever you need me to be”—I grabbed both his hands—“I’m yours. And I’m sorry. I used your spear without asking.”