#this is dedicated to stewart. hi

[amundsenxcook]

xavier mertz and belgrave ninnis as orpheus and eurydice

Mertz & I … The Antarctic Diary of Belgrave Edward Sutton Ninnis ed. Allan Mornement and Beau Riffenburg // Ovid’s Metamorphoses Bk X:1-85 Orpheus and Eurydice // The Home of the Blizzard by Sir Douglas Mawson

[cazzyf1]

A collection of Jackie Stewart gifs

[landfilloftrash]

woe; dad doing the silly

reference image(s) location lmao

[eideticmemory]

SNAP OUT OF IT | SPENCER REID

Spencer knows he’s just a coworker. He knows he’s just a friend. He knows you’ve got a boyfriend. He just doesn’t really give a fuck!

Word Count: 5.5k

Warning/Includes: Taken!Reader, DownBad!Spencer, a little angst and a little smut.

Dedicated to wifetthew + future mrs stewart (and sidepiece) who inspire me everyday and don’t even realize it.

Spencer vividly remembers the moment he realized he was in love with you. Spencer remembers everything about you but this moment in particular, he recounts in his mind a lot. You had just joined the unit. He could tell you - you'd only been there three months, two weeks, and five days. You were flying across time zones so by the time you landed, it would be six days. Everyone else had fallen asleep or was nearly there. Save for you two. You tried your hand in a round of chess but you're shit at it so you'd taken to a game of cards. Spencer remembers thinking it was the easiest conversation he's ever had in his life. He could talk and talk and talk until he lost his breath and when he was done, you'd do the same until there was no air left in your lungs either. He shuffled the cards between his fingertips, hanging onto your every word, watching the sparkle in your eye as you spoke. He kept firing out subtle agreements between your words like, 'yeah...oh, I know...absolutely,’ not just because it's impossible to disagree with your pretty face but because you’re so smart. You get it. He actually had the thought: she gets it.

Finally, he thought, someone gets it.

And you felt just the same. You said to him, "Thank you for agreeing. No one ever gives a shit about my foreign film analysis."

"I...I give a shit."

You chuckled at the gentleness with which he swore and although his voice was soft, it was genuine. "I appreciate it. My boyfriend's unreasonably against the horror genre as a whole. I think it's his biggest flaw. I like being scared."

Because you were too busy counting up your cards, you couldn’t see the bright smile instantly drop from Spencer's face. He could feel the shift in his muscles, the way his eyes stretched wide. He promptly shifted his gaze down and cleared his throat, “B-boyfriend?"

"Yeah..." you shrugged. Very casual, very nonchalant. "Three years next month."

"Oh, wow," he replied and it sounded kind of snide but you didn't think much of it. “That's nice."

He had realized he was in love with you three years too late.

Spencer could have accepted defeat, yeah. Absolutely. If there's one thing the boy genius can do, it's compartmentalize. This is work. This is [y/n]. This is my coworker. This is our job. This is our jet. These are the cards we've been dealt. The best thing to do would be to play them as they fall. Yet, he keeps himself awake for six hour flights just to hold your undivided attention, to talk about things nobody else cares about. His eyes linger on you as you deliver a profile and he thinks: That's [y / n]. That's her face. That's her voice. That's the sweater that matches her eyes just right and the boots she wears when we travel down south. If there's one thing the boy genius can't do when it comes to you, it's compartmentalize. How could he?

He finds himself standing by the elevator at four in the morning. There is nothing exciting about being called in at four in the morning, save for the prospect of seeing you. The elevator dings and he stands up straight, poses his satchel just perfectly on his hip. He wants to be picture perfect ready. Like a model directly out of a Backup Boyfriend catalog. Although, when you step out, you don't even notice he's there. You storm through the bullpen, your phone held up to your ear and your head ducked down. You sequester yourself in an awkward corner, far enough that you feel secluded but not enough so that Spencer can't see you. He sways in place, an attempt to look casual, his hair tucked behind his ear so he can hear you better. He picks up strained words like, 'please...I don't know...okay...fine...bye!' It all comes to a sudden end, your thumb landing on the screen with such force that it could crack.

You seamlessly join the rest of the team, shoving your phone in your back pocket. Try as you might to shift your focus, the edge hasn't quite left your body so when Spencer asks, "You okay?" You respond with a curt, "Yeah. I'm fine.”

He thinks: That's fine. That's okay. I can take it. On the jet, you bury your nose in a case file and when your phone won't stop vibrating, you silence it completely. Spencer brings you a cup of coffee and you hardly even process it.

"Cream and extra sugar," he pips because he knows that's how you like it.

"Thanks.”

That's it. Spencer waits for more but it never comes. He sits on the opposite side of the jet, watching you pick up your phone, huff, and type, type, type in a rage. He thinks: I cannot take this.

The case is a good distraction. A relief for him to know that even when you are not yourself, you're still brilliant. You just can't help it. There's a moment where he just finishes the geographical profile and you stand at his side, arms crossed as you look it over. Your gasp cuts through the air like a knife and his eyes land on you instantaneously.

"Spencer Reid." You put your hand on his shoulder and oh, he almost drops to his knees. “You're a fucking genius."

You race out of the room and he exhales a breath he didn't even know he was holding. He grips onto his shoulder and his skin is still red hot.

A win is good. You needed a win. You all needed a win. Makes you feel good for something. Makes the flight home much less suffocating than its departure. On top of solving murders in a rush, the mental gymnastics your brain has endured over the week leaves you exhausted. You pull a blanket over your body and snuggle against the solid walls of the jet. You let out this big, heavy sigh just as Spencer sits down across from you.

“Close call today, huh?” he says.

“Yeah,” you nod. You look up at him with these bleary eyes and they’re so beautiful that he doesn’t think he’ll be able to talk.

But he does, “All thanks to you.”

You smile. You want to be bashful, to deny the praise, but you don’t have the energy. “Thanks for the pat on the back.”

“Oh, anytime.”

He watches you take another deep breath, your body lulling into further peace by the second. He hates to disrupt it. “You, uh…” he stutters. “You wanna share what’s been bothering you now?”

You glance over at him from the corner of your eye, “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to a profiler.”

You chuckle. He loves to make you laugh. “It’s nothing,” you shake your head.

“You…you know I’m the profiler, right?”

You sit up, another laugh escaping your throat without much thought. It feels nice. “Yeah. Right.”

“So?”

“I’m just…stressed…” you finally admit, though that part was evident.

“Blackjack?” He sets an array of cards in front of you.

You nod, “I have a stressful job. Hit me.”

He flips another card, “Five. Yeah, you do.”

“And…it’s hard when…when things at home are stressful, too. Makes it worse. Hit me.”

Another card, “Ooh, six. That makes sense.”

“Sometimes, I…I don’t know…I let myself get pulled in too many different directions,” you look over your cards, dangerously close to 21, and you take a leap of faith. “Hit me.”

He turns the final card over and it brings you right to 21. The way it unfolds shocks you, pulls you from your brain fog and you break out in a grin. “21? That’s 21, right?”

“Yeah,” he nods. He bites down on the smile on his lip and it’s a look on him you’ve never seen before. You can’t stop staring at it. “All you, money bags.”

You giggle, “Did you rig that?”

“Me? No,” he shakes his head, casually clearing the pile. “There’s no rigging in blackjack.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. I’ve heard that before.”

“Everything should be that easy for you,” he whispers. There’s a slight change in his tone that even an untrained profiler could pick up. He glances up to meet your gaze, “I’d rig it all for you if I could.”

Now, he thinks because he’s resetting the table that you’re not focused on the subliminal message in his voice. But you notice. You look down at your cards, look back at him, “Hit me.”

When the boyfriend is a concept, an idea trapped inside your phone, a mirage that you only mention in passing conversation, Spencer doesn’t think much of him. Spencer doesn’t think of the motherfucker at all. You clock into work and he’s determined to take the time he can get with you, any way he can, the only way he knows how.

You get back into DC one night and the sun hasn’t even set yet. Emily and JJ invite you out for drinks and it’s with an anxious nod that you accept. So Spencer super graciously accepts. He strides beside you on the walk from the bureau, keeping you tucked in on the safety of the sidewalk because he doesn’t know how to not shield you. From anything. You order a wine and a glass of water. Spencer sits right beside you and orders himself a shirley temple.

You gasp, “Ohhh my god, I should’ve got that.”

“Here,” he slides the glass over to you.

“Oh, no, no. It’s okay.”

“No, take it.”

“I can’t.”

“But I’m offering. I don’t even want it. Maraschino cherries, yuck, gross. You have it.”

You chuckle and shyly grab the drink, sticking a straw in. “Thank you.”

“Mhm,” he nods. And he means that mhm in the way of it’s really no big deal. He’d give you a kidney if he was a match.

He trades you for your water though he doesn’t pay much attention to it. He watches you fall into loud conversation with the other ladies, yours being the only laugh to match Penelope’s in pitch.

You lean into him, cackling, “She’s insane. Oh my god, she’s ridiculous.”

His skin buzzes where your shoulders make contact and his face is bright red from how wide he smiles at you. ���Oh, yeah. I could’ve told you that.”

Spencer’s absolutely obsessed with the joy in your eyes, the way you nearly choke on your second shirley temple. The way you’re so close to him. He cannot look away. So when your smile suddenly drops and that joy’s promptly replaced with anxiety, he’s the first to notice.

“Hey,” you whisper to the figure behind him. He turns around and looks the man up and down. “You’re early.”

The Boyfriend shrugs, “Sorry. Hi, everyone.”

He’s not at all like Spencer imagined him. He’s taller. Not as much of a little bitch.

You rise from your seat and wrap your hand around Boyfriend’s bicep. “Uh, this is just some of the team. That’s Emily, Penelope, JJ and, uh, Spencer. This is my boyfriend.”

They all dole out polite waves and smiles. Except for Spencer. He stands up tall and ha, just as he thought, they’re the same height. He gives Boyfriend a stern handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too. Spencer? Heard a lot about you.”

“Oh, that’s nice. Haven’t heard that much about you.”

The ladies exchange confused glances and you exhale a quick breath to cut the tension.

“Well, we’ve been together a while. Too much there to sum up in words, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Spencer nods and here is another smile you’ve never seen on his face before. It’s not genuine. That, you know.

“You ready to go?” Boyfriend asks and you nod.

“Mhm. Bye, you guys!” you wave, falling into the grip of the possessive hand around your waist.

Emily glares at Spencer as he lowers back onto his stool, his eyes not leaving the door even when you’re long out of sight. “You done swinging that thing around?” she mutters.

“Hm?” he hums. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Mhm.”

As Boyfriend opens the car door for you, he can’t help but comment, “So that’s Spencer, huh?”

“Yeah?” you buckle yourself in and it’s an anxious few seconds before he’s buckled in beside you.

“Well, it makes sense now.”

“What?”

“The little toothpick’s in love with you.”

Spencer doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that the time you spend on your phone at work becomes more frequent after that. That you come in looking drained and pale even at ten o’clock in the morning. That, carefully, you distance yourself from him. It’s not a coincidence. It just hurts.

As he reads over a case file, he builds a tower of cards. You can’t help but admire the way his brain splits in two, one side reading and the other stacking each piece just right. It’s cool. You think it’s cool, but there’s not a kind bone in your body today and you snip, “Got nothing better to do?” as you sit across from him. “People are dying.”

“People are always dying. Kind of how we get a paycheck.”

“Mm. How altruistic of you.”

“I’m just passing the time,” he continues to stack. He’s very near the top of the pyramid. “People do all sorts of things to pass time.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, you know. They spend hours, days, weeks, years…building something. And you know, you would think that would ensure some type of stability or longevity or…anything, right?”

“I guess.”

“But sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes no matter how much time passes or…how much effort you put in,” he places the final two cards on top. “It’s just not meant to last.”

And with a tiny flick of his finger, the whole pyramid comes tumbling down. You can’t help but watch the picturesque scene, the way they float down onto the table in a big mess.

Spencer doesn’t think there’s a chance in hell that you don’t know what he’s talking about. You’re smart. You get it.

You don’t acknowledge it, though.

That night, you can’t sleep. For some reason, you’ve got this idea in your head that if you force your eyes open for a few hours longer, you can make yourself useful on a case that, so far, has no end in sight. The hotel accommodating the team is a nice one. There’s a library on the first floor that they leave open 24/7, perfect for a profiler on the hunt. You flip through the files in the near pitch black, curled up in a chair beside the tiniest lamp in the world. Despite your eye for detail, you don’t even notice when Spencer walks in. Not until he clears his throat.

You look up at him, startled, until you see his face, “Oh,” not the reaction he was hoping for. “Should’ve known you’d find me here.”

“I like to think I’d find you anywhere,” he shrugs. He sits down in the chair beside you and looks over your shoulder. You can smell him from just a foot away but it doesn't affect you. It can’t affect you. “Any luck?”

“No. Care to help?”

“Not at all.”

“Oh, great.”

“[y/n], it’s late. Nothing you can do without brain power.”

“I just hate…” you start, the exclamation coming out before you can hold yourself back. Spencer watches you intently, hanging onto your voice. “T-the detergent they use on the linens. Gives me a headache.”

He sighs, “Yeah. Me too. I swiped some extra pillow mints. Want one?”

“Mhm,” you hold your hand out and unwrap the candy instantly. It helps your anxiety.

Enough so that you open up just a bit more, you tell Spencer about the headache that’s been bashing against your skull all day. “But maybe I’ve just had too much coffee.”

“Or not enough.”

You laugh, “Yeah, no, that must be it.”

Your phone pings in your lap and you check the message very quickly, the small smile that once sat on your lips dissipating in thin air. Just when he wrangled a laugh out of you, Spencer thinks. Of course. He watches your entire mood change in the blink of an eye and he fucking hates it.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Yeah…tired. Should probably head to bed.”

“But the detergent?”

You chuckle, “I’ll survive.”

On the elevator ride up to your floor, you rest your back against the wall, Spencer perched right beside you. You keep your eyes closed, your hands gripping the bar for balance. The motion doesn’t help your headache. You gulp, clear your throat, and when you open your eyes, Spencer is staring at you. Shamelessly. You furrow your eyebrows at him, tracking his eyes as they focus in on your mouth.

“Are you looking at my lips?”

He nods, “Mhm.”

“Can you read them?”

“Mhm.”

“I have a boyfriend.”

“Oh,” that snaps him out of his trance and he stands up straight, shaking his head. The elevator dings and he walks off, exasperated, exhausted, exclaiming, “[y/n], who cares?”

Your jaw drops in shock and by the time you step out to follow him, he’s already marched into his room. You scoff as you burst into your own suite. You crash in bed and you lay there tossing and turning for what feels like hours. In reality, it’s only thirty minutes but it’s long enough. Long enough for this unbridle, illogical rage to build within you. Long enough for your mind to fill with thoughts like: who the fuck does he think he is? What the fuck does he know? Oh, I’ll tell him what he doesn’t know. And you hop out of bed. You storm down the hall in your slippers, knocking on Spencer’s door like, ironically, the feds.

Lucky for you, he was nowhere near asleep yet. He swings the door open and he opens his mouth to speak but you beat him to it.

“Listen, Einstein.”

“I’m listening.”

“Just…just because you don't get it doesn’t mean you have the right to shit on my relationship.”

“Who was shitting on your relationship?”

“Stop it.”

“Fine, I was shitting on your relationship.”

“And that’s not fair.”

“But you’re…” and he enunciates this next word very clearly. “Not happy.”

“Don’t tell me what I am. You don’t know anything. You don’t know me or my life. You don’t get to cast judgement.”

“Oh, okay. Okay. Well, then, I’m so happy for you, [y/n]. I am.”

You’ve said all you need to say and you have no interest in hearing any more. You turn around and march away but he persists, “Hey, I really am. I’ll be the first one to buy something off your wedding registry!”

There are no more card games on the jet for a while.

And that sucks, but you’re trying to prove a point here. Spencer knows nothing. Maybe no one’s ever told him that before and maybe that’s why it stings. Maybe that’s why he can hardly look you in the eye, but you’re trying to prove a point here.

You’ve drawn a boundary that should’ve been drawn long ago. Not even because you wanted to but out of spite. Spite can carry you a long way. It has before. The nature of your work makes it easy to clock in and think of nothing else. Focus on nothing other than getting the job done. It’s the moments in between that are hard.

Like tonight, as you’re typing up case notes at your desk. It’s too quiet. It leaves too much room for opportunity. Taking full advantage, Spencer sets a small gift bag in front of you. You tilt your head as you look up at him, your face etched with inhibition.

“I…” he stutters. “I got it a while ago. Thought it’d be a nice birthday present and I won’t see you tomorrow, so…”

You give him a small smile. The ice doesn’t just thaw, it melts. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to. Happy birthday.”

“Thank you,” you dive into the bag, pulling out the hardcover book and holding it flat between your palms. You release a small gust of air from your nose. You touch the textured font of the lettering along the cover. “Oh, Spencer.”

He has to act like the tone in your voice doesn’t have the biggest effect on him. Hearing his name in such a gentle whisper. He just shrugs, “I recognized the limited edition cover while I was in this library near the art museum. It’s a nice library, you’d like it.”

“I love it,” you breathe before you can censor it. “The book. I love the book. It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

“I’m glad.”

There’s so much more to be said. The weight of it all vibrates behind your teeth and you grind them together as you gaze at Spencer. He can see your mouth aching to open but he knows it won’t.

“Well…happy birthday.”

“Thank you.”

“I hope it’s a great one.”

“Thank you.”

And you watch him disappear. You feel your heart sink to the barrel of your stomach, like all the words you’re destined to scream out to him are making you sick.

This nausea lasts well into your birthday. No matter the sheer amount of fuss. No matter the amount of texts or calls or gifts that arrive at your door. You’re sick. Even when you put on your fanciest dress for dinner, you curl up in your office with your new book, finally and for no reason, gathering the courage to open its pages and read the quote recounted on the first page.

“And here you come

with a shield for a heart

and a sword for a tongue”

Happy Birthday, [y/n]

Spencer

You slam the book shut and trap it in the drawer of your desk. You’re sick.

You still eat at your birthday dinner. The love and affection reserved for a day like today helps settle your stomach. You think: I am [y/n]. It’s my birthday. These are my gifts. They are from people who love me. This is my boyfriend. This is my birthday cake. It works, it’s working.

Then he pulls out that fucking ring.

The angle at which he kneels in front of you catches the light just right and the diamond blinds you in the eye. Your mind, along with the entire room, falls silent. For the first time in what feels like a lifetime - silence. When his voice cuts through the thick air, you can see his lips moving, you can hear the vibrations going wah wah wah wah wah. But nothing is as loud as the sound of your own breathing, heavy and rapid. Your hands are over your heart but just to keep it from forcing its way out of your chest. You’re sick.

You’re sick.

Spencer had just gotten in bed. He made it the entire day without allowing himself to call you and now he figures he can force himself to sleep. That is until there’s a booming knock at his door. Now he’s wired. He springs into action like it’s not a potential threat and he throws his body against the door to glance out the peephole.

When he opens it, you are still out of breath. Your chest is heaving and you wheeze with every exhale. His eyes travel down your body, the pretty dress and your beaten and bare feet, the heels dangling from your fingers. The look in your eyes is a mystery to him. It’s laced with exasperation and desperation and he furrows his brows trying to figure it all out. Nonetheless, when he sees you moving towards him, he wraps his arms tight around your waist, opens his mouth and gasps as you kiss him.

He’s quick to close the door behind you, stumbling when you drop your shoes to the ground, but only for a moment. No time for stumbling here. He moans at the sudden grip you take of his hair and his body pushes into yours even more, directing you to his bedroom with just the pressure of his chest.

Never expecting this to happen, let alone tonight, Spencer is quick to swipe away all the books that have piled up on his bed. He promptly takes their place and grabs your waist to pull you back into the kiss. You have to hike your dress up your thighs to properly straddle him but once you, he swears he can feel the warmth all the way to his toes.

Your eyes roll back as he licks all over your neck, attacking your chest with sloppy kisses and sudden bites. You feel his erection raise between your legs and the pressure of it has you moaning directly in his ear. The vibration scratches just the right spot in his brain and he bunches your dress up in his hands, the veins along his arm straining through his skin.

You huff, pull back to look at his face, his eyes hooded and hungry. “What…” you pant. “What am I doing?”

Caught off guard, Spencer can’t do much but blink. And shrug. “What…are you doing?”

You stumble over your words, if that’s what you could even call them. It’s more a collection of whines and one short whimper before you simply carry on. Grab his face, catch his mouth and let it go. Perfect for Spencer, because he didn’t really need an answer.

He follows your lead as you undo the tie on his sweatpants. He pushes and you pull until his throbbing cock is free. You don’t mean to gasp, but you do. It just all feels so unreal, like a dream, like a fantasy. Except it’s not, it’s tangible. You can feel it. You can touch him - and you do. You wrap your hand around him and shudder as he grips onto your forearms. His teeth are clenched tight so it makes it harder for him to kiss you, harder for him to breathe but he keeps you locked in place. If he could talk, he’d beg please don't stop, please. Please, please, please.

And it’s like you can read his mind. Through the ferocity with which he pushes his face into yours, the way his hips buck underneath you, you get it. You’ll give it to him. You pull your panties to the side and just the tip pressing against you sends a visual jolt through your body.

“Yeah?” You whisper. More like - right? This is right? Right?

Almost immediately, Spencer grunts, “Yes. Yes. Yeah,” he could say it in a million other languages if it would get the point across but english is good enough. You lower yourself down on him and thoughtless, he yelps, “Yes!” as he falls back on the bed.

Even though he’s transcended his own body, Spencer keeps his eyes locked on you. His gaze follows your jaw as it drops wide open and both of your moans fall in sync as you start to roll your hips. Spencer’s hand clamps down on your thigh, the other reaching up to touch your face. The tender contact makes your vision blurry but you can still see the way he’s looking at you.

He touches your hair and your jaw and takes a soft sweep over your cheekbone. His thumb runs over your bottom lip. He can feel your breath coming out hot and quiet each time you land on him, the rhythm of your body taking the air out of both of you.

Is this really happening? he thinks. This can’t be happening. But you increase your speed, lower your inhibition, send a shock of pleasure through him so good that he has no choice but to believe it’s real. You catch his thumb between your lips and he grunts, whines out for you, “[y/n]…”

“Mm, yes?” you lay your body flat against his, your hands intertwining with his amongst the bedsheets and he clenches his fist tight, tight, tight, tight. It’s all so much. Stimulation coming from everywhere at once. From your chest rubbing against his, from your pussy tightening around him like you’re nearly swallowing him whole. From the messy kiss your lips tangle in and the ever increasing volume from you both.

Spencer bends his knees behind you, supporting your body when your movements become rushed and uncontrollable. With your hand pressed to his chest and your head thrown back, he’s emboldened enough to grope your breasts, losely place his hands around your throat.

“Oh…” you whimper. “G-god…” and Spencer hangs onto the broken sound of your voice, enamored by the way your eyes cross over one another. He feels like he’s not doing much, like his body is still in shock and most focused on keeping himself grounded. As you crash down on him, he bends underneath the pressure, overwhelmed as each bounce grows more deliberate than the last. Each collision accompanied by a throaty, “Mm…mm…hmm.” Until your thighs come to a grinding halt and latch onto him, the orgasm radiating from your belly to your chest and directly to your head. He responds to your boisterous moan with a breathless gasp, catching you in his arms when you land on his chest.

He peppers your shoulder with tiny kisses, licking his way to your neck, biting your throat because he absolutely has to. Your hips continue in this mindless rhythm, draining every last twitch from your body as he whispers, “[y/n]…”

“Hm?”

“[y/n]…I, mm,” you catch his voice in your mouth, pushing your tongue between his lips. You attack his neck. You push his shirt up his torso just to move down his body and kiss his stomach.

“[y/n]…ah!” and though you love the sound of your name on his lips, you love to hear him scream even more and after you suck his cock into your mouth, he can’t stop screaming. Mouth open, body trembling, ear ringing moans. He reaches down to keep your hair out of your face and his hips jolt a bit rougher than he means to. He wants to look at you but his body is too taut. He wants to hold you in the palm of his hand, to call out your name one last time to make sure this is real. But he shoots into your mouth, his legs flailing around your frame, and all he can do, still, is scream.

You hum. You swallow. You slide off of him with a sharp pop. You crawl off of his body and drop as soon as your head hits the pillow. Spencer’s hand keep track of you, grazing your thigh, sad to feel you leave, begging to keep you close. Even as he struggles to breath, he balls up the edge of your dress in his fist. You lean back against the headboard, looking up at his ceiling fan, your body finally exerting all its energy and unable to move any further. The room has settled into nothing but the sound of heavy breathing and catharsis.

Spencer looks up at you and when you make eye contact with him, there are so many more complicated thoughts you could have. But the only thing that swims in your mind is the slow bead of sweat dripping down his forehead. You rest your knuckles on his cheekbone and he promptly grabs your wrist, peppers soft kisses all over your hand.

You owe him something. He has every right to ask. As he opens his mouth, you’re prepared to tell the truth. You will give him nothing but the truth.

“Did you see they’re adapting another Stephen King novel into a movie?”

You exhale a small laugh. Partially because you weren’t expecting it and partially because you had been dying to talk to him about it. “Yes. And I think it’s stupid.”

“Me too! I mean, the premise is promising, I think it can be done, but it’s the…”

“Supernatural element.”

“Yeah!”

“It’s hard to pull off. Major chances of it turning out cheesy and robotic.”

“Yes! Thank you! I’m still going to see it.”

“Oh, me too,” you laugh and his laughter blends in just perfectly.

It can wait. There’s a lot to catch up on. A lot of questions to ask and answer but for now, it’s easy. This, Spencer thinks. This is it. This is actually the easiest conversation he’s ever had in his life. And he’s not gonna fuck it up now.

Author’s note:

Ahh 😝 thanks for reading!!! Like, reblog, comment, all the things!! Just wanted an excuse to post this meme. Stay safe out here 😚

[the-joy-of-knowledge]

Becoming an Intelligent Woman

My Dears,

There is no greater goal than being a fine woman who is intelligent, kind, and elegant. As much as we all want to be described with these adjectives, it takes a great amount of discipline to get there. It is very doable only if you are ready to put in the work.

Here are steps you can add to your routine in the next 4 weeks that will make you 1% more intelligent than you were before. This is a process that should become a habit not a goal. It is long term, however, I want you to devote just 4 weeks into doing these steps first and recognize the changes that follow.

Watch documentaries: This is the easiest step, we all have access to Youtube. Youtube has a great number of content on art, history, technology, food, science etc that will increase your knowledge and pique your curiosity. I really did not know much about world history especially from the perspective of World war 1 & 2, the roaring 20s, Age of Enlightenment, Jazz era, monarchies etc but with several channels dedicated to breaking down history into easily digestible forms. I have in the last 4 weeks immersed myself into these documentaries. Here are a few I watched:

The fall of monarchies

The Entire History of United Kingdom

The Eight Ages of Greece

World War 1

World War 2

The Roaring '20s

The Cuisine of the Enlightenment

2. Read Classics: I recommend starting with short classics so that you do not get easily discouraged. Try to make reading easy and interesting especially if you struggle with finishing a book. Why classics? You see, if you never went to an exclusive private school in Europe or America with well crafted syllabus that emphasized philosophy, history, art, and literary classics, you might want to know what is felt like and for me this was a strong reason. Asides that, there is so much wisdom and knowledge available in these books. In these books, you gain insights to the authors mind, the historical context of the era, the ingenuity of the author, the hidden messages, and the cultural impact of these books. Most importantly, you develop your personal philosophy from the stories and lessons you have accumulated from the lives of the characters in the books you read. Here are classics to get you started:

Animal Farm by George Orwell

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë

The Great Gatsby by F Scott Fitzgerald

Candide by Voltaire

Paradise lost by John Milton

3. Study the lives of people who inspire you: I dedicate one month to each person that fascinates me. I read their biography (date of birth, background, death, influences, work, style, education, personal life) For this month, I decided to study Frank Lloyd Wright because I was fascinated by the Guggenheim Museum in New York. I began to read about his influence in American Architecture (Organic architecture, Prairie School, Usonian style), his tumultuous personal life, his difficult relationship with his mentor (Louis Sullivan), his most iconic works etc. By the end of the year I would have learned the ins and outs of people I am inspired by through books and documentaries. Here are other people I plan to learn more about:

Winston Churchill

Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis

Ada Lovelace

Benjamin Franklin

Helen Keller

John Nash

Isabella Stewart Gardner

Caroline Herrera

Ernest Hemingway

Catherine the Great

Ann Lowe

My dears, I hope you enjoyed this read. I cannot wait to write more on my journey to becoming a fine woman. I urge you to do this for four weeks and see what changes you notice. Make sure to write as well, it is important to document your progress.

Cheers to a very prosperous 2024!

[fayes-fics]

Kinktober: Frottage

Kinktober 2024 Masterpost

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, modern AU.

Summary: Sometimes, you don't have to take your clothes off to have a good time...

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, fully clothed frottage, frottage against an item, frottage against another person, orgasms, cumming in clothing. Unsanctioned use of a yoga roller.

Word Count: 1.7k ('drabbles', Faye, you LIE to yourself)

Authors Note: Anon request fill that I saved for Kinktober. It's not that filthy, but it was fun to write. Thanks to Jermaine Stewart for the summary (none of you kids will get that reference, ah well). Dedicated to @chaoticcalzoneranchsports for a number of reasons. ;) Unbetaed. Enjoy! <3

It's all his fault. 

Since entering a relationship with him, you have been insatiably horny all the time. Even when he is not around, a need bubbles under the surface all the time, simmering on a low flame.

Like tonight. You try a yoga session to try and calm your mind, perhaps reset your libido. You are almost successful until your traitorous mind serves up a searing mental image of that crooked smile between your legs as he teases you mercilessly. And suddenly, your whole pelvis is thronging, a need that will only get worse unless you address it. 

So, almost defeated, you grab your foam roller and place it on the sofa, straddling it and, still fully clothed, start to rub upon it, your thoughts only of him, his handsome face, his skilful hands and tongue. The raised ridges of the roller drag just perfectly on all the right aching spots, even through your yoga pants, tilting your hips down, closing your eyes and throwing your head back.

And that is when he chooses to return home. Slipping in unheard via the front door as you practically ride the roller now. 

“Oh, I see… it’s that sort of Tuesday, is it?” 

Benedict’s rich, teasing baritone rings out across the room. 

You can hear the victorious smirk his face carries even before your eyes pop open, naturally pausing in your motions. He saunters closer, that smile you were just fantasising of here in the flesh. He’s dressed casually in grey sweatpants and a navy blue t-shirt, looking freshly showered, likely after a gym visit.

“Please don't stop on my account,” he adds playfully, raising a provocative eyebrow as he kicks off his shoes and leans against a pillar, crossing his arms and ankles casually.

“You could help,” you suggest plainly, not ashamed of your desires, starting to move again, loving the way his pupils dilate a fraction as you do.

“But I'm enjoying the view entirely too much…” he volleys back, watching you intently, the drag of your body over the roller. “Does that work? To get you off?” He clarifies when your brow knits.

“Yes, sometimes a good pelvic orgasm is just what's needed,” you respond, getting a fraction breathier with each gyration you make, loving the rapt audience he provides.

“What were you thinking about? Before I interrupted?” He inquires, his incisor hooking over his bottom lip, likely without him even realising, his eyes never leaving you, pinging between your lap and face.

“I think you know…” you exhale, rolling your hips in a circle, a mewl of enjoyment as you hit new spots of pleasure.

“Maybe…” he flirts, the quiet confidence he oozes at this moment just heightening the delicious thread of tension between you. “But tell me anyway,” he adds silkily, pushing off the pillar and drawing closer, hands flexing at his sides as if he is tamping down the urge to reach out and grab you.

“You. Your face between my legs, your tongue buried in me,” you fire back, loving how riled up he gets when you state such things plainly, his nostrils flaring slightly. 

With a quiet growl, he sinks to his knees right in front of you, and you gasp as his large hands land on your thighs, then slide heavily up to your hips, pressing down with a firm curl of his fingers into your flesh. The strength he exerts makes you squeak, the roller creaking quietly under you.

“Don't pretend you don't love it when I hold you down like this,” he challenges, his eyes flashing dangerously, knowing your mind is flooding with flashbacks of him doing just that: holding you pinned on his cock, eyes rolling, pussy fluttering from how good it is to be impaled on him. It makes you clench involuntarily, tacky dampness seeping into your underwear. He always intuits what you need before you even realise it yourself. “Keep going,” he adds, and it sounds closer to an order than a suggestion.

And so you do, riding a little harder, loving the sensation of his hands clamped onto the flare of your hips, his breath gusting warm onto your cheek as he leans in now, staring you down. 

“That’s it,” he encourages; a frisson runs down your spine at the low, smokey cadence he has slipped into. 

You swallow thickly and change motion, a back-and-forth rocking that has your knees bumping into him rhythmically.

“What about you?” you breathe, nodding to the swelling you can see now straining in the soft fabric of his sweatpants. “This could work for you too, you know…” you trail off, a sudden want to have him humping against you as he huffs excitedly right into your hair.

You peel his hands from you and flip around so your back is towards him, grabbing the sofa back, shifting yourself and the roller forward so there is room behind you. Knowing the sight of your behind in tight lycra right in front of him will be a temptation he cannot resist. Surely enough, you don't even need to guide him; those hands land on you, grasping and kneading your bum cheeks.

“Your arse is fantastic…” he growls, a wave of viscous desire at how much he wants you as his grip slides back up to your hips, forcing your pelvis down onto the roller, again just as you need.

“Show me. Come rub up on me,” you simper with a come hither look over your shoulder, placing your hands over his, lacing your fingers together.

You can’t prevent your victorious smile as the sofa dips with him climbing on behind you. The smell of his woodsy, fresh shower gel clinging to his skin as he envelopes you, his lips sliding over the shell of your ear.

“You want me to cum in my underpants like a teenage boy?” he gusts, and you nod enthusiastically, loving that idea. “Well, sorry to disappoint, but I’m not wearing any…” he adds in a heated whisper. It's then he grinds his pelvis into yours, the heated outline of his cock insistent through the thin layers between you.

“That's even hotter…” you confess shakily, loving the idea of his cum pooling stickily on the material of his sweatpants. 

He groans softly, his fingers flexing on you, shuffling closer so his whole clothed body is pressed into yours, so much heat and power. He slides his rigid mass into the cleft of your bottom, and you moan lightly, the motion compounding the crush of the roller into your pelvis. You curse and tip your head back onto his shoulder, wrapping a hand behind you to hook around his neck.

“Give it to me, Ben….” you goadingly murmur. 

Then it's just the most delicious sensation, his thrusts against your bottom, driving your clit to drag over the roller wedged between your legs. A closed loop of sensation you both don't want to end, his hips snapping a little more forceful with every thrust, the string of his waistband tickling the flash of exposed skin on your lower back.

“I fucking love how untamed you are,” he rumbles into your ear as you grasp onto his closed fist, your nails sinking into his knuckles.

“All your fault…” you banter, craning your neck to look back at him. “If you aren't actually fucking me, I'm thinking about your fucking me…” The heated confession tumbles from your lips as you build towards something electric.

His eyes flash in that hypnotic way, and he redoubles his efforts, caging around you, holding you down, frottaging into you in a way that jerks your whole body. The delicious outline of his cock searing against your tailbone. One of his strong hands slides up from your hip and winds under the hem of your cropped t-shirt, growling as he realises you are braless, nipples pebbling as he flicks his thumbnail against one.

He mutters words of encouragement as you start to go faster, aiding and abetting him, the pinch of his fingers around your nipple a beeline right to your core. Part of you wants him to rip off all the clothes you both wear and split you open with his cock; part of you wants just this, the heady delight of something proximate but not quite there. The beguiling fantasy of innocence where penetrative sex is taboo, both learning from each other and doing things you likely shouldn’t be.

You plead for him not to stop, hovering closer with each stroke you take together, moving in sync, little grunts from the effort, damp skin from the prolonged undulation. He clamps both of his hands back around your hips and pushes you down onto the roller hard, just what you need, your breath catching in your throat. Sensing he is as close as you, you turn your head to the side, burying your nose into his jaw and panting filthy things you want from him, knowing it will rocket him just as fast, his movements becoming erratic but vigorous.

He senses you are skating the edge and twists to bite your neck, just a light hold, but it's enough to send you flying. Wracking moans as you crest that wave, every sound dulled behind the rush of blood in your head and the tingle radiating out from your core to every cell. Your cunt fluttering around nothing, wishing it were gripping onto his cock as you feel him take two more rough thrusts, then still, his groans a staccato as he peaks too, a shudder you feel against your bum as his cock convulses inside his sweatpants.

He slumps onto your back, pressing you wholly into the sofa cushion, a weight that feels wonderful, pinning you in place as you both huff for breaths, coming back down from your highs.

“Well, that was sublime… But now I need yet another shower,” he remarks wryly, and that has you giggling under him. “Care to join me?”

There was only ever going to be one answer.

masterlist • wips • taglist (follow this blog to be tagged)

Benedict taglist Pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @ferns-fics @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @hanji-emo-blog @sya-skies

[gremlinmodetweeker]

König vs Reality TV

So, König is not a reality TV fan. In general he doesn't like tv, he considers it lowclass hogwash and prefers reading books or watching horror movies, but he has his weaknesses.

He was immune to the Kardashians. The Housewives of New Jersey could kiss his ass? Honey Boo Boo? Honey Boo Who? Honey Boo Hoo Fuck You. He couldn't care for any of it. The next time Horangi tries to get him hooked on a K-Drama he's going to put the remote through the TV. Nobody could get through to him.

But then he met his match in the form of one British chef.

Yes, König is a sucker for Kitchen Nightmares. That was König's gateway drug for reality tv.

You were just playing it in the background while working when König stepped into the living room. He was gonna ask you something, but then he started watching the show. You eventually had to ask him what was wrong, but he completely tuned you out. Later, he subtly asked you about the show.

"What is this slop you're watching?"

"What? Kitchen Nightmares?" you smirk, "you really are watching it, aren't you?"

König doesn't tear his eyes away from the screen as he says, "I'm not watching it."

He stands there for ten minutes when you ask him what he came to you for. He admits he forgot. He refuses to admit that he's watching. You already know.

Late at night König looks up the show on his laptop and in an instant he's hooked. In one night, König becomes Gordon Ramsey's biggest fan (both literally and figuratively). He's obsessed. It's an entire show dedicated to food. He can't get enough of it. And, despite himself, the drama gets to him. He lives for the drama. Every now and then you'll hear König mutter something like 'My name's NINO' under his breath but you can't be sure.

The thing is that for all of König's media literacy, for all his skills at psychological warfare and his incredible understanding of psychology, König becomes a sucker for the show. He's the same brainless housewife as the next. Not that that's a bad thing! Everyone needs a show to turn their brain off to. It's fun to just chill and watch some brainless slop. But being brainless is a hit to his pride. It doesn't stop him from being completely hooked though. He's watching the show and every time they bring out a dish to Ramsey König looks at it and goes 'Oh wow that looks so good'. Then Gordon Ramsey says, 'it's overcooked, bland rubbish' and then König goes 'That looks so gross. How can anyone eat that slop? Couldn't be me'. It's incredible. It's like clockwork. Somehow, this show works its way through every one of König's defences and he becomes a complete and total sucker.

But Kitchen Nightmares is only the gateway. König learns about the entire world of the food network. He watches Masterchef seasons from multiple countries, he watches Bar Rescue with John Taffer, he eats up all the food tv out there.

Eventually, you come back to him cooking along to Martha Stewart and Snoop Dogg. On one hand, he looked like such a massive dweeb that it bordered on being an ick. On the other, his already phenomenal cooking has only been getting better and it's not slowing down any time soon.

Konig Dump

Headcanons

[silveryhill]

Alain Prost: Still, even as it turned out, it was a fantastic story, don’t you think? And I think, in a way, we’re missing a little of that today. (Motorsport, 1998.10)

There's a metaphor abt Senna's helmet in the vid. Inspired by an interview from Nuno Cobra(his coach)

it's possible to say that Senna had that kind of split personality. On the one side you had Ayrton, who is sensitive, loving, sweet, poetic, romantic, wise and careful. On the other side, there was Senna, who is explosive. Senna was very nervous, very agitated, stressed, bad tempered. He was often compromised and challenged. I think Ayrton suffered a lot in the hands of Senna.

So Ayrton was the human side of Senna. When he put the helmet on, he turned into a “stranger”, the ruthless Senna.

And before the imola accident, Senna took off his helmet in front of Alain.

On Saturday, after Roland Ratzemberger's fatal accident, that was not the Ayrton I used to know, he was really worried...

On Sunday, at lunch time, he went to see me and simply didn't say anything important. Everybody was watching that in slience. It looks like he just wanted to get close to me. And I really feel that he's so weak. That was the first time I saw him like that...

On that Sunday I thought, that's not Ayrton. He's fragile. He wasted five or ten minutes to come to me and say nothing. And then he went back to the garage.

So I finished my lunch and went to his garage...

Ayrton's ritual was to be completely focused on his thing in the car. He never took off the helmet, it was the first time he took off the helmet(before the races). He was doing some stretching in the garage...

I didn't want to bother him too much but he wanted me to stay, it seems that he just want to share a time with me.

he was happy that I came there to talk to him, and that was the last time.

In their last six months, Alain met the REAL Ayrton.

"There were three Ayrtons for me: the one before F1 when he was looking at my races, at everything I was doing, the way I was doing it; obviously the one when we were together, inside or outside the same team; and then the one when I retired." It was this last version that Prost says he grew to like adding he wouldn't have believed it existed "if I had not known this person myself."

But Ayrton was Senna, Senna was Ayrton. They're the same person after all. So still, he put the helmet on and went to his fate. As Ron Dennis said, "it's his obligation." Like an addiction, and he "can't drop it."

Jackie Stewart once said:

Ayrton Senna was the most dedicated racing driver I have ever met. He was totally immensed in his life of being a driver. It was what he lived for. I would say that in a high 90% range of Ayrton Senna's focus on Motor Racing. Stirling Moss, when he drove, was a man who had other likes in life. Niki Lauda had passions in life, Jackie Stewart had, Juan Manuel Fangio had. Ayrton Senna, I believe, was more focused than any of the names that I've just mentioned.

So I think for Ayrton Senna, life, or love, is seldom enough, and that's why we admire him so much as his pure spirit of racing. It's a beautiful paradox. He's different.

*thank you for reading my way too long thoughts <3

*please don't repost it to any other platforms(like ytb), on tbr is absolutely welcome!

[lellalombardiapologist]

actually I will elaborate on why didier and gilles are such a tragedy: when you think about it, they're the only iconic duo in which both are dead.

Jackie Stewart lost François Cevert and retired immediately after that, devastated by the pain of his loss, but he's still alive even if he was born in 1939!

Nigel Mansell lost Elio de Angelis and dedicated his next victory to him, he's still alive and still remembers him dearly.

Ayrton is dead, but Alain is still there.

But Didier, Didier is not here. He is not walking around paddocks with a cane, old and grey-haired, remembering Gilles at official events. In virtue of him being still alive the weight of the guilt on his shoulders would have settled off, and maybe not many people would still call him a traitor to his face. He would deserve the same pride, the same spark in his eyes Alain has when talking about his unique relationship with Ayrton, but talking about Gilles instead. About how their souls were made of the same material, how deep their friendship was and how sad it was they never had time to talk. But he would have his unique memories, and his sons, and his name would be cleared.

But he's not there. His name is still dragged in mud to this day.

Be grateful that your favourite drivers (retired or not) are still alive, that they can talk, they can spend time together. Because Didier and Gilles cannot do that anymore.

[blingblong55]

Merry little Christmas-141

Photo credits:(twitter/X) @/bigmikemw

A/N: Have yourself a merry little Christmas -Kasper <3

---- GN!Reader, platonic!relationship? fluff/comfort? ----

After so much loss, blood, tears and sweat, Task Force 141 found themselves in a cabin, a Christmas tree decorated, a fireplace lit and much laughter filled the room. The once empty and cold cabin now hosted the fond memory. It was the night before Christmas when not a soldier was awoken by night terrors, not even a gun used to inflict harm; the camouflaged stockings were hung by the Chimney with care, in hope that peace would soon be brought to their lives; The soldiers all nestled in their beds; Smoke from cigars now gone as even the eldest of them all slept well.

By morning, the soldiers woke up, Gaz, Price, Soap, Ghost and R/N and to their surprise, Kate Laswell had gifts that greeted them all. Price sat int he sofa first, Soap and Gaz smiling like they won the war. Ghost and R/N walked in with mugs for all to have and through the early morning, they read the letter that sat upon the chimney, opened gifts and smiled to know someone out there thought of them with care.

Gaz received a new hat, multiple actually, one that was happily decorated with the word 'Soccer' the same one he would wear to taunt his best mate for some time. Soap received a football signed and dedicated to him from his favourite team and a letter from his family back home. This of course brought the young soldier to tears as he smiled at the letters his mother so lovingly wrote for him. R/N, received a letter as well, written by Laswell, thanking the young soldier for their sacrifice when they helped Laswell in some past operation and then, the small box held a mask, made just for them. "Just like the one I lost." You recall a past operation, losing a mask and also losing part of yourself. "To the memory of the late R/N and here's to the new R/N, may they live forever." The embroidery read.

Ghost, receiving archived photos of his family, tea bags and Kentucky Bourbon. He chuckles as he remembers sharing a drink with Laswell many years ago and how he found himself sharing his life with her and Price. He holds the bottle, staring at it and smiling, someone remembered him. Price laughs, two boxes of cigars, all from the brand he adores and hidden behind a mug that read, "Soccer lover." He groans a laugh and shows it to Gaz who laughs and shows him the cap that was given to him. "Don't dare," Price points a finger only to have Gaz laugh, "I'm not missing a chance to wear this and annoy you." Now, Price has a gift idea for Gaz's birthday.

A knock on the door and when opened, they find Santa herself, wearing a Christmas hat and her wife behind her. "Good morning, hope you are all hungry for some homemade meal?" She shows the large trays of food, made the night before and for this occasion only. Kate's children run around, playing with the young soldiers as Price helps the two ladies with the table. "You didn't have to, Kate." She shakes her head, "Nonsense, you five deserve this and take it as a thank you for what you and the team have done for me." Kate's wife passes by Price, "Trust me, just take the food and eat, she won't take no for an answer."

Kate sighs, "Just eat, trust me, Martha Stewart helped me make this meal." "The book did, honey," Kate's wife corrects her from the kitchen. "What she said." Price chuckles, "Might as well do that." Throughout the cabin, the children ran around, showing off what Santa had brought them the night before to the young soldiers. Gaz and Soap are stuck playing with Nerf guns and the occasional Barbie break. R/N ran around the dining table, chasing the youngest child of Laswell. "Never seen Ghost so…happy and excited," Price mentions as he observes Ghost have a tea party with plushies and the little girl of Laswell.

"I think this is the first time he likes someone else's tea," Price jokingly says and watches Ghost get a fake tiara on his head. The little girl giggles any time Ghost pretends the tea is too hot and he sighs in relief when her younger brother plays doctor and helps Ghost with the pain.

And now, it is safe to say that for the first time in their lives, they have a photograph that celebrates how for a moment, war stopped, smiling all genuinely portrayed and all in Christmas sweaters as the photo was taken. 'Christmas of '23, TF 141 and The Laswells' the photo has written on the bottom. At this moment, is commemorates a new tradition, Christmas dinners at that cabin, where life is peaceful.

To the team, Thank you for your help and support in operations I have given throughout the years. It is my understanding you all will share a cabin this Christmas and in classic fashion, I have sent gifts for you to open the morning of December twenty-fifth. Times haven't been the greatest to you all but I promise that for at least this very moment, you shall be granted time to care for the other. It is also my understanding that you all consider yourself a family, which is why, by the time you read this letter, you'll get a knock on the door by the very family that considers you all a part of their family. And for all that I love, watch your words amongst my kids, all of you.

May you have a merry little Christmas, Kate Laswell.

Tags:

@eicee @loviie-stuff @liyanahelena @cinnamon-cola @sadieesssss @kitschaosden @wrathofcats @johfaam0 @frazie99 @spicypicklesoh @vampsquerade @tiredmetalenthusiast @jinxxangel13 @enarien @luvecarson @willowaftxn83-87 @saoirse06 @ikohniik

[thewalrusespublicist]

Hi! What are your thoughts on Paul's relationship Jane Asher? It seems very not affectionate, and even that Paul didn't care about it at all, Jane a little bit more than him but also not really? So a PR relationship? But if yes, why? It's pretty bizarre to me when I look at it . What do you think?

Hi anon!,

I think there’s a bit of a misconception about their relationship that lingers because neither of them have talked about it and it ended terribly (iconic break-up though Jane just amazing). Linda's illness meant that Jane was also airbrushed from MYFN out of respect for her (Peter Cox keeping a copy of Jane's cookbook to pull out and set Linda off about her own autobiography is both worrying and hilarious). All of that makes it seem like she was a blip.

The reality was that Paul and Jane were sweethearts who were deeply loving and affectionate. There's been a lot of really good compilation of quotes and lovely images which I'll link here and here. In short though, Paul lived with the Asher's for years, took time to spend on just her, alludes to missing her on Sgt Pepper and were remarked on as being a lovely couple by people like Ray Connolly, Cynthia and Patrick Stewart weirdly. I can't remember where I saw it but there was this article after Paul was with Linda where he's says something like 'Jane and I are still in love with each other like you are with exes but hey ho!' (I remember it clearly because it was a huge WHAT moment, please if anyone has it I'd be so grateful.) When they split Paul spent weeks crying on Alistair Taylor's shoulder about how he'd lost his 'closest friend', the one he told everything to and he could be himself around. Jane loved him for him and showed him a whole new world and scene. She was a huge part of his life, to the point he dedicated part of 'Eye of the Storm' decades later to her.

So if they were this big love story, why did they split? Well aside from the tinnnyy little cheating issue, they just weren't suited at that life-stage. They met when she was 17 and he'd just turned 21 and broke up when she was 22 and he was 26. People change a lot as they get older and suddenly life plans get in the way. Jane didn’t want children then and wanted her own career whilst Paul is one of the most instinctively paternal, baby-crazy men I’ve ever heard of and had at the time a view of a ‘traditional’ wife that stayed at home with the children. Those two alone are deal-breakers for any relationship. In the Hunter Davies bio it seems they are trying to work the career thing out but there is no way on gods green earth that Paul would give up on the prospect of children.

Then there were the other problems. According to Ray Connolly, Jane didn't like Paul’s drug taking, the affairs, his preoccupation with the Beatles and that he seemed closer to John than her and prioritised their relationship over her (💀). Jane quite fairly wanted to be number one and Paul did try to prioritise her with weeks alone after India in Scotland. However at the end of the day Paul was too enmeshed with the Beatles and especially John to give her that starring position.

So yeah, Jane played a really important part in Paul's life in the 60s, they had a deep and cherished relationship but ultimately they wanted different things and really no one could come between Paul and John ... except themselves.

(Also ngl if you wrote 'we can work it out' about me I would have throttled you Jane has some patience goood god.)

[hatosaur]

i realized that i hadn't said anything here so this is a bit belated but i'm super unhappy with the casting choices of tlou hbo, and just the general direction it's going toward.

in abby's case, it's been well-pointed out at this point her body type is a narrative device, a catalyst for showing just how her dedication and obsession with tracking joel down and killing him. i don't doubt that kaitlyn dever will be working out for this role but i can only imagine she'll end with a sort of lean muscular physique that will hardly illustrate the point of the body type, rather than one that takes fat into consideration. dever is far too small to achieve it, and what's more is, i think it's super unethical to bank on someone working out in order to fit a role. the announcement of the casting came about a month after the trailer for that new kristen stewart movie, the one where she falls for a bodybuilder, came out. there are fully actresses who lift and bodybuilder and have similar body types, and yet their choice leaves us wanting.

dina's case feels a lot more sacrilegious. isabel merced isn't jewish, nor has any of dina's defining features. granted, i'm well-aware that neither cascina caradonna, her face model, nor shannon woodward, her voice actor, are jewish, but i feel like this is what made the casting choice matter all the more. dina's a character whose heritage matters to her character, and there was such a clear chance to have her be portrayed by a jewish actor.

like a lot of people, i think that they chose the more palatable route, considering the massive backlash against both abby's body type and dina's more prominent features, which is both incredibly sad to see but also infuriating. particularly with the issue of neil druckmann's batting for jewish rep under the veil of his allegiance with israel. i obviously can't speak for the feelings of jewish fans but i imagine to pull the rug out from underneath us on a character that he has said is a connection to his jewish like this would be like spit in the face.

the whole thing has just made me disinterested with season 2 of tlou hbo. there are already issues with the games' representation of people of color, and seeing as i could tell there was a small (i cannot stress how miniscule) attempt to "fix it, i'd held out hope prior to this but...no.

IN ALL HONESTY, i'd already been content to not engage with s2. i was skeptical enough from the get-go when it was announced, but truth be told, too many red flags are cropping up. obviously, there's the zionist stuff that i think, right now especially, literally everyone can do without (though i'm sure neil and craig are rubbing their hands together over how the people NEED a great "both sides are bad, completely and totally biased view of the conflict in palestine" story), but even to like pirate is a no-go for me.

all of this to say, since i've already gotten some people asking, you shouldn't expect me to draw or indulge in any of the content from it.

[cazzyf1]

Some facts about Niki Lauda

Five years since he left us today 💔

As a kid, he was bullied for coming from a well-off family and for having an overbite. He and his brother would be chauffeured to school, and Niki would beg to be dropped off around the corner so the kids wouldn't see him arriving in the car.

Niki failed his school degree but forged the certificate so his parents wouldn't know he had failed.

Niki's first job was working at a garage, but he was demoted to 'food runner' when he accidentally broke part of an expensive car. All the mechanics would chuck things at him from then.

One of his first cars was a car his friend's dad owned that he went out joyriding in and then crashed. He knew he had to buy the car before his friend's dad found out so ran to his grandma and told her if she didn't give him the money, he would go to jail.

Niki was always at odds with his grandad as he felt his grandad was very hypocritical. His grandad didn't want Niki to be racing and actually stopped one of the banks giving Niki money for his racing career but Niki got around his grandad in the end. Sadly his grandad died before Niki achieved any big success in Formula One.

He met his girlfriend Mariella skiing, when he fell down a slope and ended up lying in a star fish position beside her. As soon as he got up he invited her to a dance. They arrived and found the dance rather boring and left not long after.

As soon as he could, he moved out of his parent's house, determined to try and make his way in life without their help. This meant going into debt to try and fund his racing career. He even took out life insurance on himself.

After driving for March, he was let go and he felt incredibly depressed because he was in a lot of debt with no seat. He knew of a dead end road with a brick wall near to where he was driving and he debated driving into the wall but quickly got rid of those thoughts. He thankfully got a seat with BRM.

Niki would joke with his receptionist, where he would ask if Ferrari had called. One day the receptionist told him they had.

Mariella was popular among the driver wives, and she got along with Helen Stewart and Bette Hill, though she never really liked the sport and believed once Niki had won his world championship, he should retire to focus on things that would actually bring in money. Niki had no intention of retiring. When Niki suddenly broke up with her, the other drivers' wives tried to conspire to get Mariella and Niki back together, though he was now dedicated to Marlene.

Niki got along really well with Luca Cordero di Montezemolo and even named his first son, Lukas, after Luca.

Niki was raised with manners which included kissing a ladies hand. When he won the Monaco gp for the first time he kissed Princess Grace's hand which wasn't allowed. He was very confused as to why everyone was making a fuss about it.

Niki was attempting to dig out ground with a tractor for his own swimming pool when he accidentally flipped it and got crushed under breaking three ribs. From this he was introduced to Willi Dungl who told Niki he would have to travel to Vienna to be treated by him. Willi didn't believe he would but when Niki did turn up he agreed to treat him, and there, their friendship started which would be useful for when Niki had his bad crash at the Nürburgring because Willi helped him recover quickly

Niki has no memory of the crash after he left the pits, but when he was being transported to hospital someone ran up to him with a phone and asked him to give an interview for a Brazilian show. He has no idea what he said.

Niki didn't like the fact that people kept staring at his scars rather than at himself when they spoke to him, and so Willi grabbed a hat and put it on Niki's head. Niki then realised he could earn money by getting sponsors to pay him to wear a hat with their logo.

After 1976, the Ferrari team were trying to push Niki out as they felt after the crash he wouldn't be as good. But he had already signed the contract and made sure he was going to race for 1977, won the world championship and then left as he didn't want to deal with Ferrari's politics. It would take a few years before he and Enzo Ferrari reconciled.

Niki Lauda and James Hunt were friends and had lots of fun together. Niki invited James to a party and then offered to fly James to the GP practise the next day. James almost missed Niki's flight as he was still up partying in the morning.

When Niki Lauda retired, Marlene was so happy that when she found out the first thing she did was call Niki's grandmother to tell her and then went to the local bar where they lived and paid for all drinks to celebrate.

Niki is one of the few drivers that read the new terms for the 1982 super licence and organised to go on strike. He was one of the main leaders and one of the older drivers reassuring everyone else.

He wasn't happy when John Watson was let go and Alain Prost came in for Mclaren. He was suspicious on how nice Alain was and how fast he was but eventually he warmed up to Alain taking a mentor role.

Willi Dungl put Niki on a strict diet for his racing and overall fitness which is where Niki's obsession with having strawberries and yogurt every morning. Niki would try and cheat the diet all the time though including running across fields to his neighbours house to have schnitzel.

Dr Sid Watkins once caught Niki cheating his diet by having an English breakfast. When he confronted Niki, Niki replied 'Do you want me to die hungry?'

It was a close battle between Niki and Alain Prost but eventually Niki won. Niki could see Alain was upset though and told him this was his year and next year would be Alain's year.

Niki didn't care for his trophies and gave them to his local garage for free car washes. He eventually got them back when the man passed away, and his son Lukas sold them on eBay to earn money to fund his younger brother Mathias racing career.

When he first started working at Mercedes, him and Toto Wolff did not get along as there was a power struggle. They were called in to talk to the Mercedes bosses about it, and before the meeting, Niki confronted Toto in the toilets, and they agreed to get along.

Asshole was Niki's favourite word. He became known around Mercedes for saying the catchphrase 'Give it assholes'

During Lewis Hamilton and Nico Rosberg's rivalry, Niki invited them to his home in Ibiza and tried locking them in a room together to discuss their issues.

Niki once went to Toto when they were at a hotel complaing about the pay for view at the hotel not working. Toto had to show Niki how he could get 'action movies' on his phone.

A reporter once asked Niki how he prepared for the film 'Rush' he replied that he had prepared the barbecue.

On my Instagram account dedicated to Niki Lauda, @niki.lauda.tribute, today (20th), on my stories, I am hosting the opposite to submit anonymous messages about Niki Lauda. If you would like, you can send anything, like your thoughts on Niki, what he means to you, what an impact he has had on you, ect.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1950 Oldsmobile Polynesian Coupe

It’s the early 1950s, and the world of custom cars is booming with excitement. In the midst of this automotive frenzy, one car stands out—the Polynesian. Crafted in 1952 by the talented folks at Valley Customs in Burbank, California.

1950 Oldsmobile Polynesian Coupe

This special car was ordered by Jack Stewart, a car lover from Canton, Ohio. Fresh from military service, Stewart fell in love with custom cars when he saw Dunn’s Ford at the Motorama show in Los Angeles.

The Exciting Transformation

1950 Oldsmobile Polynesian Coupe

Completely captivated, Stewart got in touch with Neil Emory and Clayton Jensen of Valley Custom. He had a dream to transform his ’50 Oldsmobile 88, and over nine months, the car underwent an incredible makeover.

The changes included a 4-inch body section, a redesigned front, unique fender skirts, and a cool front bumper/grille made from a ’47 Olds bumper. The headlights got a special touch, and ’52 Studebaker taillights were treated the same way.

Emory and Jensen, who were true experts, used hammer-welding and metal-finishing to make the car look fantastic, ending with a beautiful orchid metallic finish.

In the Limelight

1950 Oldsmobile Polynesian Coupe

Debuting in Hot Rod magazine in September 1953, the Polynesian became a star. It even won ‘best of show’ at the first Michigan Auto Rama in 1953, proving it was a showstopper. The car appeared in many magazines and books, becoming famous in the world of custom cars.

A Mysterious Disappearance and a Glorious Comeback

1950 Oldsmobile Polynesian Coupe

But like many classic cars, the Polynesian disappeared mysteriously, hiding away in storage for a long time where it faced the effects of time. It wasn’t until 2005 that a dedicated owner decided to restore it to its former glory carefully.

Under the Hood

1950 Oldsmobile Polynesian Coupe

Beneath the shiny exterior is the powerful heart of the Polynesian—a strong 324 cubic-inch Oldsmobile V8 engine. With a .030 overbore, egge cast aluminum pistons, and a 9:1 compression ratio, this engine brings the iconic custom coupe to life.

In essence, the Polynesian tells a story of a time when people put their hearts and skills into making timeless cars.

With its triumphant return, this Oldsmobile 88 Holiday 2-door coupe keeps capturing the imaginations of car lovers, showing that classic custom cars will always be fascinating.

1950 Oldsmobile Polynesian Coupe

[docgold13]

Heroes & Villains The DC Animated Universe - Paper Cut-Out Portraits and Profiles

Elseworlds Addendum - Black Lightning

Jefferson Pierce grew up in the impoverished neighborhood of Metropolis colloquially known as ‘Suicide Slum.’  After his father was killed by criminals, Jefferson’s mother did her best to raise him into an honorable and dedicated young man.  A gifted athlete, Jefferson excelled at track and field and ended up winning a medal in the decathlon at the Olympic Games.  He later went to college and earned a degree in education, returning home he became a teacher at his local high school, ultimately becoming the school’s principle.  

Sadly the violence in the neighborhood continued on and one of Jefferson’s students was murdered by men working for the mob boss known as Tobias Whale.  With the police unable or unwilling to do anything about it, Jefferson decided to take matters into his own hands.  Jefferson was a metahuman possessing eletrokinesis (the ability to manifest and control powerful surges in electrical energy).  He had kept this gift a secret fearing use of his powers might accidentally hurt someone.  Yet now he felt compelled to use his abilities to bring about justice.  

He fashioned a costume to hide his identity and ventured out as ‘Black Lightning.’  After numerous adventures, Black Lightning encountered Batman and the two became allies.  Shortly thereafter, Batman recruited Black Lightning into his covert team of heroes, The Outsiders.  Some time later, Black Lightning joined the Justice League, proving an invaluable member of the team.  Jefferson was briefly married to Lynn Stewart in his younger adulthood.  Although the marriage did not last especially long, the couple had two daughters, Anissa and Jennifer.  Both daughters inherited their father’s meta-gene, endowing the sisters super powers of their own.

Although a pivotal character in the DC Comics pantheon, intellectual property rights and cost-cutting so to avoid paying royalty fees resulted in Black Lightning being left out the original DCAU.  Although the character did finally feature in the second season of the Young Justice animated series, becoming a central character in the series moving forward; voiced by actor Khary Payton.  

The hero first appeared in the pages of Black Lightning #1 (1977)    

[alphabetboyluvr]

back to you | knj

REQUEST | @btsgotjams27

VIBES | angst 

SOUNDTRACK | back to you - alexander stewart

HOLLY'S NOTE | tense jaw namjoon gets me feeling a certain type of way so thank youuuu for requesting this!! no warnings - references to shagging cos ofc and approx (1) questionable reference to Saint Augustine lmao. also joonie is 25 in this!! don't shout at me!! i know he's not 25 irl!!

WORD COUNT | 2.5k

Namjoon watches the metronome on his desk tick... tick... tick..., ignoring the glare of the monitor screens in front of him.

There are two. One's open on the definition of a word that's been lodged in his frontal lobe for months, now, and the other is crammed full to the brim with dark grey producing software that he's sick of seeing. The windows open encase remnants of love songs that he can't seem to finish. 

It's not for a lack of trying. Just impossible, he thinks. 

They're an amalgamation of a love he never thought he'd lose, and the hopes of a future basking in it; notes of adoration dedicated to a devotion he didn't realise was quite so delicate, until his clumsy hands got a hold of it. 

Mementoes for memories he can't bring himself to relive, they sit; solemn, unchanged. It's been like this for months. They're artefacts, now. Relics. Souvenirs. Trophies of a conquest he never entirely won; a bygone era in which his hair was lighter and the sun shone more frequently. Eventually, they'll be laid to rest in the paper waste icon down in the far corner of his screen. 

No good. Not fit for use. Discarded before they've reached full maturity. 

"Maturity," he mimics the screen with great contempt. He's 25. Brain's developed. Science says so. 

And yet the loss he's mourning is all thanks to his perceived 'maturity,' or lack thereof. 

It's not like you're dead, or anything dramatic like that. He knows he's being irrational. Knows his immaturity is shining through as he wallows in self-pity, four empty takeout cups of coffee waiting to be thrown away on the edge of his desk. He only leaves the studio to shower. 

Doesn't even really sleep much these days. Has grown a little stubble; wonders if maybe that would make you think he was more mature. More grown-up. He sneers a little as he jots down a lyric idea; something about fine wine, how it ages, and how it was ironic you preferred cheap-as-shit soju instead of the bottles in his cooler.

In fact, when he really thinks about it, Namjoon thinks you were fucking mad to cite 'maturity' as a reason for you to break up. 

He's old before his time; grew up quickly cause he didn't have a choice. Took it as an insult when you said 'we're at different stages in our lives.' Knows damn well he'd have stood on any stage with you. Fuck Wembley, fuck Jamsil, fuck SoFi. Fuck 'em all if they meant he couldn't have you.

But Namjoon would never give it up. You knew this at the time, and truthfully, so did he. 

You would have never asked him to - but you can't dictate your life around him, and his plans, and his obligations. You've desires and goals of your own. Five years his senior, the impending pressures of your friends settling down - celebrating milestone anniversaries, moving back to your hometown to raise their families after their wild twenties spent in the big cities - was getting to you. It felt like you were lagging behind. 

Whether either of you liked it or not, your relationship was a huge factor in that. You couldn't even tell your friends you were dating him. It's not like you ever wanted a huge legacy, but the erasure of your history together hurt. 

A year of your life has been lost to a relationship that you can never speak of. There's an NDA. And even if there wasn't, you've too much respect for him to ever go against his wishes, or put him in a situation that could implode everything he's worked so tirelessly for.

So yeah, maybe you were out of line when you said he was immature, but no adult woman wants to live her life in hiding.

Nor does he - but he thinks the fact he that makes the conscious choice to live his life so privately is mature. Thinks if you were ever to call him, he'd block you. Show you what immature really looks like.

But you never do, so he never will.

Instead, he just scoffs again. "Immature," he mutters, shaking his head as he slouches into his desk chair. It spins ever so gently, Namjoon too irritated to stop it - but then he's facing the sofa and he's right back where he started.

See, Namjoon has been thinking a lot about you lately. It's time to submit his mixtape to the company; time for them to approve it for release. Trouble is, he hasn't been able to work on it since you left. 

You've been in California for eight months. Since last August. Eight fucking months, and he hasn't touched a single thing, because it's all tainted with you. Stained. Ruined. 

It's your favourite classical symphony sampled beneath the opening track; your lyrical suggestion in the bridge of his third track; your name he wordplays into obscurity on his fifth track. No one would ever be able to decipher it. It's just for him.

A little bit of you preserved forevermore; from a time when you were still his.

Kind of like the folder his mouse is hovering over. 

It's password protected. Called 'drafts'. Looks inconspicuous. Just another plain folder icon. Nothing interesting. At least, it looks that way. 

He can't bring himself to get rid of it - and yet the tick... tick... tick... of his metronome becomes the click-click-click of his mouse as he follows the electronic pathway back to you.  

Namjoon enters the password. Knows he shouldn't. Knows he should also change the password, because typing in your birthday is fucking painful at this point.  

There are six files in the folder. Voice notes. Audio files marked with dates and time stamps of last summer. 

Above anything, he knows he shouldn't press play.

But he's 'immature'. Of course he'll do what he shouldn't - or at least that's how the voice in his head taunts him as he presses down on the play icon.

"Is it going?" Your voice echoes into the room. You giggle. Namjoon hears himself confirm that it is. He can picture it now. Remembers the shirt of his you'd been wearing after he'd snuck you into the company building. Knows exactly which part of his studio sofa you'd been on. "Okay, okay. Cool. What do you want me to do?"

"Just speak."

His voice sounds tender. Far softer than it does these days. He thinks he's grown since back then. Thinks he's matured. Thinks maybe if you'd have met him now, instead of then, perhaps it would have lasted.

"About what?" You had said with a laugh, and Namjoon finds himself burying his head in his hands at his desk.

"Anything. Everything. Your mind fascinates me, gorgeous."

"You're the one with genius-level, IQ," you had fondly teased him. "No one more fascinating than you. Did you really have to wear those sweats, though? You know they turn my mind to jelly."

"I can take them off, if it'll help."

"Keep them on," your voice had lowered. In the studio, Namjoon groans into his hands. Knows what's coming next. "Wanna see how much of a mess I make when I ride your-"

His nimble fingers race to the space bar, pausing the audio clip. Has listened to it enough times to know exactly what happens afterwards. 

It's not like he needs the recording to remember. He remembers it all. 

Remembers the semi he'd had at the time, and how the way you'd looked at him had him growing to full stiffness. Remembers the way you'd carried on talking nonsense when you were straddled across his thigh; and the way the conversation had dissolved into you being incredibly vocal about exactly what you wanted him to do with you. To you. For you.

And so it had become a goal: he'd been after the perfect moan to hide deep within the layers of his closing track. Would record you every now and again in the midst of a fuck. Would tell you how good you sound, how much he wants the world to hear you. Would say shit like 'you've got a voice that'll ruin lives, gorgeous,' or something about Augustine, and how he'd have never converted to celibacy if he'd have met you. Would whine along with you, and thank the lucky stars his apartment spanned over two floors - his poor neighbours probably would have complained, otherwise. 

He puffs out his cheeks and sighs. Tilts his head back against the top of his chair, and lets his hand fall to his crotch. He palms it slightly; firm from the thoughts of your clammy body sticking to his, and the musky scent that he wished he could have bottled up for times like these.

"Get a grip," he berates himself, and spins back to the desk. He needs to get his feelings out. Speak them into existence. Admit that he misses you, and that he's been a bit of a mess since you've been gone. His mental block isn't going away anytime soon, so he may as well try a little honesty in its place. 

He opens up the software for the mic that he keeps on his desk for rough recordings, and clicks on the red circle. Kind of feels kind of like a stop sign to him.

"Stop what?" he questions into the void. "Thinking about her? Avoiding her favourite coffee shop, even though it was mine too? Wasting all this fucking space in my brain like it's a storage unit for memories of her? I don't want them. I don't need them. Why can't I let them go? Why is she still in my head? And why am I scared of the day she won't be?"

He rambles and he rambles. Cries not once but four times.  Goes on and on about why you're the fucking worst, and then he spirals into how much he loves the way you laugh, and how he's never felt anything better than your arms wrapped around his waist. Gushes about how committed you are to your work, and how much he's in awe of the way you prioritise yourself. Is proud when he mentions your achievements; is pissed off when he mentions the little quirks of yours he didn't love.

They're lies, of course. He loved everything you did - but it makes him feel better to feign hatred.

Makes him feel like it was his choice. Like he's the one who left. 

He's pulled from his thoughts when his phone begins to ring. It's on loud, so he lets it ring for a bit. Knows it could sound good on the recording. He reaches over for his phone and rubs his spare hand over his face to psyche himself up. 

It's probably just Yoongi, he thinks, like it normally is, wondering if he's at the office building. He doesn't check the caller ID - just answers it and automatically switches to speakerphone. 

"Wassup?" He says into the receiver, far chirpier than he was during his rant. He's still a little dry, but he's performing now. Pretending like everything is fine.

There's a moment of silence. Namjoon's eyes flick to his phone screen. Checks the caller ID. Blood runs cold.

And then, there's a 'hey.' 

Namjoon is the silent one, now. Doesn't know what to fucking say - and thankfully, you hate empty spaces in conversations. 

So you fill it. 

"I quit my job," you tell him. 

Why you think he would care is beyond him.

But the last he knew, you loved your job. Something feels... uneasy within him. He remains silent. Lets you speak.

"There's a red-eye flight that leaves in four hours. LA to Seoul. I know it's..." You cut yourself off, struggling to find the right words to say. "Look, I know it's been eight months, and I know it's been rough. I thought I could do this whole 'life' thing without you, Nam, but... Fuck. I don't think I can. I... I think maybe I was the one who needed to mature. I know I put you through hell, but if I get on that flight, will you be there at the other end?"

It's a simple question, really - yes or no - yet it feels so much heavier than that. Feels like commitment. Feels like something he isn't ready for. Feels like something you rescinded your right to a long fucking time ago.

And so Namjoon laughs. It's cold. Is guaranteed to make you cry. He doesn't care.

"No."

The call ends, his finger forcefully tapping on the red button of his phone. He knows it'll hurt. Thinks 'good'. Reckons you deserve it. 

But then he's scrambling; dialling your number back, holding his phone to ear, stomach in his throat, heart in tatters, swallowing back tears that threaten to fall on his part. 

Being a cunt was much less satisfying than he thought it would be. In fact, if anything, it makes him feel even fucking worse. 

All he wants is to see you. It's the only thing he wants.

You take a while to answer. He was right. It did make you cry. Mainly because you know you do deserve it. 

There's no 'hello' when you answer. You say sorry, instead. "It was out of line for me to ask."

"Yeah," he says. "Kinda was."

"I just... I had to know. Eight months is a long time, isn't it? It's really fucking long."

Namjoon pauses. Bites down on his lip as it shakes. Sighs. "The flight... when does it land?"

"Nine-thirty."

"A.M.?"

"Yes."

"Into Incheon?"

"Uh-huh."

He can hear the tears you're fighting. Wonders if you can hear his. 

"Get the flight," he finally says. "I'll meet you there."

"Wait... are you sur-"

He doesn't let you finish. He's had eight months of fucking torture without you. Eight months to think about all the things he wishes he could have done differently, eight months to play scenarios in his head. Eight months. 

He can't go through it again. Can't be without you. It's too fucking hard. 

"Get your ass on that flight," he says, stern in his tone. 

"It's one-way," you warn him.

And even though you can't see him, you know there's a dimple in his cheek. Know he's smiling. Know it feels like a weight has lifted from his chest, because it feels that way for you, too.

"It better fucking be."