#which makes me feel all silly and happy and cared for and loved

[mercy-burning]

Here We’re In Love (Apricity)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x gn!Reader Summary: Spencer teaches you why he's become so fond of your mornings together. Category: Fluff (who am I) Content: Domestic fluff, a light dusting of erotic tension but nothing explicit, the first "I love you", happy tears Word Count: 1.2k

MASTERLIST

(AKA Mercy learned a new word and got The Feels, so she had to plug it into a fic. Obviously.)

----------------------------

There was once a time in Spencer's life when being in bed didn't generate a strong feeling of any kind. It was simply a task needed to end the day and transition into another, a means to an end, and least of all a luxury; Even when he was a child, responsibility outranked reveling in the comfort of a warm bed.

These days, though, it seems like all he wants to do is be in bed. Not because he feels depressed or exhausted in any extreme, but it's hard for him not to ache for an entire day spent solely enveloped in the warm embrace of linen, made even warmer by your presence. Since you've been with him, it brings something so normal and safe amongst the chaos of his daily life—not just in bed of course, but especially in bed. Especially in the mornings. It has quickly become his favorite part of the day, and he finds himself never wanting it to end.

His eyes open to find you already awake before sunrise, staring at him like he always gets caught staring at you. You try to remain still and calm, but the minute cinch in your expression tells him that you're probably chanting Ha-Ha! Got you! on repeat in your head, and the thought makes him huff a laugh.

"What's so funny?" you ask seriously.

Spencer's smile remains as he shifts, close enough to touch his forehead to your own. "Absolutely nothing."

"You've always been a terrible liar."

"I don't know what you mean."

The giggles between the two of you steadily increase with every sentence, until your laughs turn into lazy kisses and then to sighs.

Sunlight eventually breaches the shades, signaling a different type of warmth and the start of a new day, and Spencer selfishly begs it not to be so, his hands reaching for you as you try to escape the bed.

"Stay," he groans, successfully keeping you next to him. "You don't have anywhere to be today, and neither do I..."

Bringing one of his hands to your lips, you laugh. "I know... But I don't want to spend all day in bed..."

"Then we won't... Just a few more hours?"

Your laugh this time is a full-blown cackle. The sound makes his heart soar. "Hours?"

"Yes, hours... This is the most comfortable place in the whole world. Don't you think that deserves hours of your time?"

"I suppose..." Snuggling back into the covers and adoringly rolling your eyes as your head hits the pillow once more, you've finally succumbed to your boyfriend's charms, a feat that feeds his silly pride and also warms him to the core.

You tell him you won't fall asleep and demand him to follow suit, to which he happily agrees, and then you're talking him through your plans for the day. Your voice is just as strong of a comfort as your touch, every syllable bright and soft, and certainly more pleasant than the incessant chirping of birds that some people seem to find soothing first thing in the morning for one reason or another.

As you talk to him, Spencer feels like he's sinking further into the mattress, like your voice and your smile and your fingers absentmindedly trailing the veins of his arms as you speak are casting him into an inescapable state of magnificent solitude.

He'd begged you for hours, but the unexaggerated truth is that he could stay like this forever.

Sensing the trance you seem to have put him under, you pause and tilt your head to study him. Still, your fingers stay true to their wanderlust and dance along the surface of his skin like it's second nature.

"You're looking at me funny."

"Hmm?"

Even as he raises an eyebrow, acknowledging you acknowledging him, it's like he can't be bothered to care. The dreamy haze in his eyes as it bores into you is a comfort in itself, but it's also very... tingle-inducing.

A familiar blaze heats your insides and every surface of your skin, and even without so much as a suggestive hum from him, you still find yourself shying away. "Stop it!"

You half-expect him to argue that he's not doing anything wrong in that cheeky way of his, but he remains silent and thoughtful, studying you carefully.

"Are you familiar with the concept of 'apricity'?"

Usually when he teaches you new things, he isn't staring at you like that. His voice isn't quiet and wistful and teetering on the edge of melancholy.

Unsure of what to make of it all, you shake your head. "No..."

"The word itself comes from the early 1600s. It's archaic, but the feeling is quite beautiful, and relevant to many people whether they know it or not. Apricity defines the feeling of the sun's natural warmth in the cold, usually harsh, winter."

You consider this, and try the word on your tongue, repeating it slowly and nodding. A small smile forms on your lips. "I like it. I guess it's nice to know that oddly-specific feeling has a name..."

Spencer hums and grabs your hand. "You have no idea..."

You laugh softly again. "No, I don't... Enlighten me?"

He considers this for a moment, then smiles, pulling you close to him. "That's just it— You enlighten my very existence. Just by being here in this bed with me."

As he attacks your neck with kisses, you can't help the string of laughter that escapes you. "Oh really?"

"Absolutely." The word is a confident rumble into your skin that soaks through, straight from his lips and down into to the depths of your soul and beyond. It erases any doubt you've ever harbored, lifts you into the light, and manifests as its own form of sunshine, settled right in the nooks and crannies of your heart.

Spencer pulls away briefly to look at you, taking your head in his gentle hands. His voice is soft, but firm.

"I guess what I mean is that... My life can be really dark and frigid a lot of the time... But ever since I've known you, it's like those moments aren't really so terrible anymore, because I know what true, natural love feels like. When I'm here, with you, I truly believe that nothing can hurt me. All I feel is warmth. Your warmth... You're my apricity."

An involuntary pout accompanies your wide, watering eyes as you lean into his touch, a tightness at your throat even as you try to tell him the easiest thing in the world.

"I love you," you manage to get out through a sob. It sounds utterly lame in comparison to the poetic metaphor he's just confessed to you, but given the fact that it's the first time the words have left your mouth, they seem to have the same effect on him regardless.

Spencer matches your pout and the two of you are drawn together like a summer thunderstorm— boldly, brightly, and full of life. The tears fall between you in a heap of pouring rain, but there's nothing gloomy in the love that carries you through it.

"I love you, too," he whispers, pulling away for a moment.

You kiss him again, then tell him, "I never want to leave this bed."

He kisses you and laughs, wiping away your tears as you both fall back, head to the pillows once more.

"I'm not going to fight you on that one."

You say it's fine if it's all in my mind Oh, you look so real but it feels like a lie, so

Don't pinch me in case I'm asleep In case you're not here 'cause this is a dream And we've never met so we're not in love In case I'm asleep, don't pull the–

Don't touch me, this coma is nice Too good to be true, so just let me lie Down in the sheets, 'cause here we're in love In case I'm asleep, don't pull the-

Plug Oh-oh-oh

--Pull The Plug, Ashe

[newkatzkafe2023]

💜What If Babba Chopes Or the Nightmare Critters was Y/N pet's?

@lara-legomonkiekid

POPPY'S PLAYTIME CHAPTER 4 IS OUT!!!🥳🥳

I feel like each Wukong would have a critter he would be closest to the most😉😉😉

(Lmk Wukong) Ohhhhhhhhh wow... this should be hilarious Wukong had no idea that you have an army of rather unusual pets. Wukong found out you had pets called the nightmare critters, and they were a group of Vicious and rather rambunctious little babies that love you ever so Fiercely. Dispite them being a bit weird Wukong found them cute and not to mention fun especially when pranks wars are involved. Overall he's really cool with the nightmare critters

(Maggie Mako) she is his special little gal, you would often find the two sharing late night snacks and other Junk food. Wukong had totally won her little black heart when he snuck her a cupcake behind your back, and the two were pals ever since🦈😆

(MKR Wukong) Holy cow when you told Wukong that you had pets, he wasn't expecting a bunch of plushy like animals. Not to mention how those little critters knew how to throw down and thrown hands, especially baba chops. It turns out that the critters were Fiercely protective and caring over you, especially when you had pulled them out of a bad situation. Wukong respects that and doesn't bother them to much, however they do extend their assistance to him as well, especially in battle after all he's part of the family now.

(Baba Chops) Now Wukong loves baba chops attitude especially since she's the leader of the nightmare critters. Their are times where Wukong doesn't want to be bothered especially by the monk, and baba chops feel the same way about it being a recluse herself. So don't be surprised when you find them hanging out together quietly🐑.

(NR Wukong).........Well this is definitely something he never thought he would ever since, your telling him your little friends pets are a group of the world's most ferocious group of plushies. Now the old monkey has truly seen everything however it's not all bad, the nightmare critters got along very well with Wukong's mini monkey clones. Not to mention the critters take naps on him because they noticed how fluffy he is, just like they are In the end they definitely approve of your husband are willing to assist him if the situation calls for it.

(Allister Gator) You can't tell me this lazy gator wouldn't sleep on his head the most, which is strange because of how hyperactive wukong is. Though that doesn't mean he won't take a peak at what Wukong's doing half of the time, he'll just Quietly observe🐊.

(HIB Wukong) It was love at first sight...well for Luier and Silly girl to the nightmare critters. The nightmare critters became very fast friends with the two children, playing games, taking naps even baba chops joining in the fun. However It was a bit of a facade the nightmare critters would mess with Wukong but never in bad way, it's just how they bond with him and with each other. Over all they can be Acceptable to Wukong's Presents after all He makes you and the kids very happy and that's all that matters to them.

(Poe) Man Wukong and that bird go together like Expresso coffee and paranoia. These pair of brooders would often sit on the side and just watch everyone play or hang out. Poe would be found chilling on Wukong's shoulder most of the time, which would be handy if they spot danger before Wukong can🐦‍⬛.

(Netflix Wukong) His jaw was on the floor when be met baba chops and the others nightmare critters. What's worse he was stupid enough to go and underestimated them as well, because of their cute and cuddly appearance however They shut that illusion down instantly. Wukong could never look at children's plushies the same when he watched the nightmare critters savagely attack a man because he pushed you to the ground. Well at least he was one thing in common everybody means business whenever you're involved.

(Rabie baby) Pfffff oh my god can you imagine the Gossip they would exchange on the daily basis. The two would be on the side looking smug as they bad mouth the celestials, despite the obvious language barrier Wukong would ack like he knows exactly what she is telling him🦇. Squeak Squeak....What?! Really?! Noooo and then what happened😈???

(BMW Wukong) Ohhhhhhhhh He's not taking them seriously at all, like just look at them so tiny and Squishy. Like he knows their pets but they look ridiculous and would deliberately laugh in their tiny faces, which was his first and final mistake. Wukong Quickly learned how Treacherous and mildy violent the critters turn out to be, he also learns that the nightmare critters take your care and protection very seriously. Like they don't mess around when it comes to you and Wukong learned and respect that, and over time he got you to them and vise versa for them too.

(Simon smoke) Man those to would be bumping heads the most especially when their both megalomaniacs. It's always a competition between the two especially when it's about either you or their popularity and image. With their shared competitive nature it's gonna be pure chaos... With a hint of hilarity🐲

(Destined one) Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh the poor Destined one was so very perplexed by what was infront of him. I mean when you told him you had pets he wasn't expecting those said pets to be a group of plushies lead by a Medium size lamb. Though the Destined one didn't comment on it especially when he's seen so much weird crap, however the nightmare critters take an instant liking to the Destined one. They would be found following him around or sitting quietly whenever he would meditate, it wasn't all that creepy, as long as he doesn't make eye contact. Though they do help you and him sleep and relax with their cuddles and smells so that's always nice.

(Touilee) the selective mute and the chatterbox what a pair, Poor D.O just had to be favored by the Noisious mouse plushy . The little mouse would squeak away about anything and everything, never shutting up. The Destined one had actively covered his ears to block the sounds of the mouse plush. Touilee actually makes the Destined one miss living with Wukong.

(Lotmk Wukong) Oh boy, I headcanon that the nightmare critters can smell weakness.......that weakness thy name is Sun Wukong. Which is why they like to bully and troll him every chance they get, but not out of spite or to be mean nooooo........at least not this time. Nope, the nightmare critters were actively trying to toughen Wukong up for the late future. After all, he has you to take care of now, and the critters want him to be ready for any potential threat that may come your way. When they learn that Wukong has a powerful and dangerous temper, they help him channel it into power along with his love for you. They still think Wukong isn't ready, but he's clearly a work in progress.

(Icky Licky) Now believe it or not it's Icky Licky that takes Wukong under his much shorter arms. Icky's competitiveness becomes a might handy tool especially when he training with Wukong on a personal level, he makes sure to always put Wukong up to the challenge. The never hold back from each other as their love for you feuls them both in battle.

FEEL FREE TO REBLOG👃

[smilepilled]

a compilation of love letters (/community, familial, friendly, fellowship, etc.) from me, marcela, to many different people who have had a positive impact on me. please take your time to find your own blog, and please have a lovely day. i may update this throughout time, so keep an eye out for your blog handle here!

will not be in any particular order. ❤️‍🩹

BEFORE YOU GO, PLEASE KEEP IN MIND — I MAY NOT FULLY BE ABLE TO CORRELATE YOUR BLOG AND YOUR DISCORD ACCOUNT! that's a skill issue from me, and it doesnt mean i dont care-- its just extremely hard for me, personally. ive been trying to get better at it, but i hope my messages still manage to be something nice even if i didnt manage to link your blog to your personal discord presence. sorry, and thank you ♡

@radiomogai — 🎙📻📡🧮

i think not enough people say this, but you're a very important figure in the mogai community. your disclaimers and warnings to the masses that lurk through many tags and blogs are not only heard, but cherished. i remember being intimidated by you up until actually interacting with you, and youre a joy to be around. i still laugh at the time i made the christmas picture and added you as an actual radio; you are remembered fondly. i greatly appreciate your presence in this community beyond the archival, because you yourself are great. as in, a lovely company, a dear friend. i have so much i owe to you way above the themes or archival, but you also do a great job with your archive. i greatly respect you, and feel happy in your presence. thank you for being here, seriously. i hope i get the chance to do more to help you out whenever you need it. you're the one of the most patient and gentle people ive seen in this community, and its almost shocking with how people test patiences all around. thank you

@rwuffles — 🟩🟦🟥🟪🟨

mogaiblr jesus... indeed! you make such lovely things and you genuinely terrify me when i see that your queue is still at 400 after a bajillion posts (positively terrific). aside feom that, you are genuinely such a ray of sunshine, watching you play tetris leaves me in awe and the moments ive shared with you are very cherished to me. i like talking to you and youre incredibly kind, despite people testing you and The Horrors. i hope i can get to talk to you more, so i can properly get to communicate how cool you are to you, directly. your presence is strong and felt throughout the entirety of the spaces you're in; but don't forget, you're not a president or a professional, you're one of your fellows. should you ever need help or time to breathe, im sure your community will have your back-- i can definitely say i do. please be kind to yourself, and please take care. youre genuinely precious to be around and im sure a plethora of people agree. you are the little golden critter amongst us, and i feel like maybe sometimes you may not feel like it-- dont worry, we will always be here to remind you. youre the sun where your community basks and dances, and you're here with us too! thank you

@scr-ppup — 🪖🌫💣🥽

i genuinely love the stuff you cole up with, and the kindness that you extend to people-- the one of which youve also extended to me. maybe its a silly thing to mention, but youve helped me a lot in times where i couldnt even do a simple little descriprion for a flag. and it means a lot to me, regardless of how small this gesture may be to other people. you are genuinely so comforting to be around, i know i may be wrong but i feel like i have a huge bodyguard behind me chatting and drinking tea when im near you. i really like seeing you interact with people and im always happy to interact with you, even if it happens not so often. your creations never cease to amaze me and theres times where i squeal seeing something you make. you are truly one of the most badass, yet kindest people here. i mean it. thank you

@gender-mailman — ❤️‍🩹💌🩸🔪

you were one of the first people i had courage to interact with in mogaiblr, if i remember correctly-- back when i was themed as a velvet worm. your blog and presence SCREAMED friendliness (and BPD), and i just felt really reassured in it. regardless of your scrumptious creations (pallettes and symbols 🤌), you're such a ball of energy and you're so silly, and of course, extremely easy to talk to. it really makes me smile remembering when i was afraid to ask about when i should join the Evil Mogai Business, worried it'd be phrased poorly, and you just said that you did exactly what i was planning-- it was such a relief. despite the lack of recent "bug talking to you" activities, i want to thank you for the comfort youve brought to me, and the kindness youve shown whenever i talked to you. you're one of the most passionate and easily-talkable folks i know, bonus points for you being brazilian. thank you

@lovesse — 💥🎀💄💗

you are THE "popular IT girl" figure in this community, to me (unsure if you're a girl, im going purely from vibes though). as in, i've looked up to you since the very beggining. your presence is strong and assuring, and your creations are the fucking peak of this realm. some of your terms resonated so well with me that i wondered where the cameras were (jokingly of course). but aside from that, you've always been a very positive figure to me, and i'm always very happy seeing activity from you. i know you've been through a lot in this community, and i hope you don't mind bringing your presence in it up, but you've done so much for it and i need people to acknowledge it. we don't know eachother very well, and we haven't talked much outside of tumblr evil business, but your presence makes me glad. thank you for always being such a great lighthouse for the seadwellers in this community. youre a greatly inspirational figure and you are charm-maxxing (/platonic, "girl you rock!" coded?). thank you

@laughdiamond — 🌻🌿🌾🌱

you!!!! youuuu started ALL of my curiosity or this community. if i had someone to thank for making me deep-dive into goodfaith, mogai and community, its you. your blog was the first i found after the times i lurked in pinterest for the time i hoarded xenogenders and microlabels-- a linked post, and i found my way to your blog. the yaoyao conductor theme, extremely eyecandy-ful, i remember getting sparkly eyed at your blog and creations. i think i know a good amount of them from memory (but its always difficult to remmeber the names, thats my skill issue whatsoever), which goes to shoe just how much of an impact your presence around these parts had. and im not trying to be parasocial, you genuinely did help me, eye-to-eye telling you this. im sorry i never properly expressed to you my appreciation, up until it was far too late (seen as youve left this place, with rightful motive). you're always gonna be a fond memory to me, you're the nostalgia blog of this community for me. i full-heartedly thank you to no end for what your blog has done to help me, regardless of being < the blog that got me into mogaiblr >. dont ever apologize for it, either, i knoe theres negative aspects to this space but YOU are a part of the good aspects. once again, thank you for your lovely creations, thank you for what youve done for me, and thank you for your presence in times before. thank you

@lunentity — ✨️🔮🌙🪩

YOU! the moon in its mystique magnificence, giving terms to people like meteors with fun gifts from the cosmos. you are such an ICON to me, genuinely such a huge inspiration as well. talking to you is also never scary or the like, youre such a kind and easy-going person. surely im not the closest to you, but it doesn't take away from what i say, you are extremely easy to be around, and thats something i really appreciate. im always happy to tag you in a post with the moon mentioned, or something that i see and go "OH! MOONY WOULD LOVE THIS!" on the spot. you are extremely kind and sweet, like a cold day when youre wrapped in 4 heavy blankets playing animal jam with a bag of snacks and soda. your presence is felt in what is reassuring and friendly. i have not checked up on you lately, but i hope you're okay, and all is well for you. you're such a kind and heart-warming person, i am grateful for our interactions and convos. thank you

@kiruliom — 🧸🌸🌊🩸

we may not interact a whole lot, but YOU are so whimsical. no, seriously, you are so joyful its astonishing. and you always manage to keep your cheermaxxed status despite speaking up on multiple important topics, which i find very balance pilled and awesome. youre not scary despite your ghostface motifs, and i think youre like a uncle/aunt figure (whichever word you personally would use), a kind of distant yet kindly relative in the eyes of the liomogai community; which i also strive to be, so its nice to see YOU recreate it so well. we havent talked (much?) personally, so i think this is more how i view you currently havent spoken not to you in personal. you remind me of the animal jam Crystal Sands OST, and thats one of the biggest compliments i can give-- its very directly related to you being comforting, so i hope you know your presence is very welcoming. your terms are a CHEF'S KISS to me, and i feel very happy whenever you post. i think

@buntress — 🐇🧨🔪🔗

i look up to you like an autistic little thing staring up with HUGE bug eyes. i am to this day so sorry and apolocheeseful for the pride star incident, but i know youve since understood that i made a mistake and youre chill about it. i LOVE your terms, and i swallow your posts without chewing on them like a sucuri giant brazilian snake. genuinely feel very happy when i see a post from you, or when interaction occurs. youre so so cool and kick-ass to me, youre like the big sibling that i see being punk rock and cheer on. i dont even know if youre older than me, probably so, but regardless youre SUPER cool. like the punk rock hare of the punk rock club. despitw that, you're super kind and nice to talk to, and i want to make sure i get some more interaction action (/caseoh phrase) with you, because you're genuinely super friend coded. im sorry i didnt say much, but i hope its enough to at least make you smile, you definitely deserve it. thank you

@the-astropaws — 🥀🪶♥️🧸

prepare for trouble, and make it double... to the two QUEERS running this blog, you two are too kind to be real sometimes. i genuinely love the stuff made around these parts (the blog), and how you speak up about issues in the community with eloquence and well-put wording. i appreciate this blog and the two persons behind it; you two are super swell to be around. i still remember the purple theme and it makes me happy to remember that i remember the theme, becahse it means you two made your way into my head properly. thank you for your presence so much, its so stress-free to send an ask or talk to you, and i know we may not have interacted a whole lot but i appreciate your presences greatly. thank you so so so much for being around, and for your gentle words. thank you

@rabidbatboy — 🪰🩸🦴⛓️

alright... who's SLURRING it up around here? okay, anyways, your posts and creations have given me so much closure and happiness. and thats that. your roachgirl, muttgirl, roachdyke and gay flags are so good it makes me want to recite popular tiktok phrases like "DROP ANOTHER COINING POST, AND MY LIFE IS YOURS!!!!!" or the like. your presence is INCREDIBLY strong and felt whenever you're around-- i can easily, immediately go "oh thats the fightclub guy! thats the uncledyke! ohhhh thats the punk ass dude from tumblr! oh hell yeah!" when i see you talking. and despite the fact you are a very strong figure, you're ironically really easy to talk to! i actually used to be very intimidated by and < Oh My God You Can Actually Kill Me If You Decide To Do So Please Spare This Bug> towards you, but noe you're just... fellow uncle. fellow dudebro. i feel very happy whenever i see you because it means youre out there rawdogging life, and that means i've got a chance too. i love your fight club references and your entire vibe, you are very positively what i can describe as "the type of person that makes me want to get competitive". but even with that, youre incredibly patient and generous (despite how people test your patience). thank you

@nqvo — 🦢🪞🌫🪷

my nephew. my sweet nephew. oh you absolute struggler, you NEED to make more terms that people will love instead of assets that people will steal. you get so rightfully pissed at the things ed*tblr has going on, and i think you would profit from a change of space, because holy hell does it hurt when i get close to editblr instead of coinblr. you're always so fucking angry and i'm HERE for it! i love listening to you complain and make the points you make, because SOMEHOW you're always correct about things, and it baffles me that your rage is contained despite the horrors you witness and endure. but aside from that, i treasure you as family and im so glad to know you and be able to share a GROUPCHAT with you. whenever i hear you talk of your interests and when you have the faggotry episodes, i feel very happy. your happiness is important to me, and i better fucking see you start being nicer and nicer and nicer and nicer to yourself. youre unbelievably well put together considering how much people push your buttons, sometimes i wish i could send meteors to the people bothering you, or that you give them a piece of your mind. but you and i know its not worth it, so i'll also be glad to hear what you have to say in the < melancholic rupture far deep into the sea >, amongst our friends. people like you a lot, son (/like a old dude talking to a young lad), and i hope you see that its all because you're YOU, not anything else. your bravery and your perseverance make me hope for better times, and i hope you can let yourself ask for help whenever you need it-- to me, or in general. your friends love you, and we all got you. thank you

@praysia — 🎧💠🎀🔌

tranny... faggot... dyke... slur-a-tron... my best friend in slurhood. the slurmaxxer. you are such a lovely friend and i love to hear your yap sessions, and i absolutely adore when you talk about your manmade horror yaois. i love slinging slurs at you and when you use the :pathetic: emoji. you are genuinely such a great friend and your presence makes me raise my arms into the air and go "THE SLURS ARE HERE!!!!". please never ever shut the fuck up or im gonna die miserably like a slug with salt on it. please never give up. youre very motivational to me because youve been through so many life-ending things and still you persist. i like to punch you and stuff haha cool dynamic, but i also genuinely appreciate when youre around. i may not know you all too well on the idyera iceberg, but i sure as hell appreciate you regardless. youre like if the phrase "man's best friend" was a person, because youre a stupid dog and one of the best friends i have, even if you havent unearthed your most horrifying life stories near me. i dont need you to, i just know youre my good friend fagalo. dearest fagoba seradykei mutual. i will hase you with hammers and hold you up into the air. thank you for being here to this day, you fucking liberal!!!!!! youre a joy to be around and i always smile when im near you. youre like a fountain of joy, despite being a mentally ill bitch; youre seriously a lovely person to be around, and i hope you feel like you can rely on me when you need help, even if youre more of a haf than me. thank you

@arachnwife — ⚙️🌈🔪🎉

you are so correct all the time it almost makes me angry (positively). i love seeing you in convos and i love the stuff you make, and im SOOO fucking happy you made a icon blog because ive been complaining about exclusionist icon makers for the past months, and youre like jesus christ coming back for making a icon blog without being a prick... i love conversations with you, and whenever i spot you its like the animal jam best guess game and im winning the spider questions. i also have a passing feeling, a slight suspicion that you might like ticci toby (just a mere impression HEHSHRHKRKTK). youre so chill its almost like eating ice cream and getting brainfreeze-- without the agony though, positively chilling. thank you for being around. i really really want to talk to you more so sometimes i show up and say something and pray for god to bestow a convo upon us. but i'll keep putting more effort into talking to you, because you are PAWESOME! very nice to be around you. keep up the good shtuff up dude, i really appreciate it. thank you

e

@icwdtea / @puriette-archived — 🐶🧣🍰🍁

OUPY!!!!! THATS OUPYYYY!!! THATS OOMPHIEEEE!!!! MY OOMPHIE OUPYYYY... THE MUSIC MISER!!!! you are the physical manifestation of the autumn season to me. i can layer clothes, get nice and cozy, feel the chill fresh breeze on my face, but never will i have to freeze, overheat, or be uncomfortable around you. you've gone and you go through so much, and it only ever seems to make you be kinder to defy bitterness-- and thats something big. something special, shiny, precious, and i think it perfectly represents you; youre warm like < three fluffy blankets > during a freezing winter night, a sweet and soft slice of cake with tons of chocolate involved (icing, filling, etc.), youre like a hug from a old friend you havent seen in forever. you, too, are like the word "man's best friend", much like our slurmaxxing canine friend; you are the peace after a horrible storm, you are the tbeautiful things in life, a smile exchanged between one and a stranger. you are the sweet melodies of music without vocals, the gentle humming of a loving familiar, the warm air around a fireplace. your kindness and your loveliness may be accompanied by rabid behavior, but that will never take away from your love-natured self. you are so many goof things i cannot say, and i hope you know it goes beyond just being perceived-- its something you are, and im grateful for you being around to this day. i hope we can talk more often. thank you

[5typesoftrash]

MumScott Week Day 1: Overworking / Lazy Mornings

Mumbo’s pushing himself too hard. Scott’s been watching his gradual decline. He’s so engrossed in his latest redstone project, it’s all he really seems able to talk or think about even when he’s not up to his elbows in repeaters and dust. Scott loves him dearly, and he’s been missing his beautiful boyfriend.

Thus, his plan.

Mumbo wakes up around 0900, and is usually gone when Scott finally drags himself out of bed. So Scott sets himself an alarm for 0845. (Spoiler alert: he regrets it.)

He groans at the cheerful ringtone, blinking his bleary eyes open. He mumbles something foul and profane, his hand fumbling for his phone. It takes him several tries to slap the Stop button, but once the irritant alleviates, the lines in his forehead smooth out and he sighs happily, rolling over in bed to drape himself along Mumbo’s side. Mumbo makes a soft and exceedingly British noise.

“Morning,” Scott mumbles into his boyfriend’s collarbone. Mumbo’s large, warm hand comes to rest on the back of his head.

“Morning,” Mumbo breathes. “What’s got you up so early?”

Scott smiles against his skin. “Wanted some time with my handsome gentleman caller before he disappears to his true love for fourteen hours.” The words are slightly barbed, but he knows Mumbo will recognize his playful tone and won’t take it as an insult.

True to form, Mumbo huffs a laugh, gently stroking Scott’s cerulean hair. “Darling...” he replies, the smile evident in his voice. Scott lifts his head to meet Mumbo’s eyes, resting his chin on his folded hands, and pouts.

“Come onnnnnn,” he pleads. Mumbo rolls his eyes fondly.

“I love you,” he promises. “It’s just... a surprise.”

Scott’s eyebrows fly into his hairline. “A surprise?” he repeats. Mumbo smiles.

“A surprise,” he agrees, but refuses to elaborate.

Scott pouts even bigger, making Mumbo laugh. “I’ll tell you when it’s done.”

“But I wanna see it now,” Scott protests.

Mumbo’s warm fingers brush through his hair, his hands worn from years of working with redstone. Scott likes to kiss his callouses and feel Mumbo’s skin against him. Mumbo’s always so gentle and he cares so much, even when he’s a bit preoccupied with work.

“Do you want some tea?” Scott murmurs. Mumbo smiles, his moustache brushing against Scott’s forehead.

“I would love some tea, darling,” he replies. Scott groans, disentangling himself from his love, and pulls on some trousers. He glances over his shoulder to find Mumbo leaning up on one elbow, watching him appreciatively, the duvet bunched around his waist. Scott winks, and Mumbo gives his happy laugh.

“You’re very silly,” Scott informs his boyfriend, and Mumbo grins.

“You love me,” he replies, which is not a statement that conflicts with Scott’s assertion at all, but Scott definitely can’t argue with it.

Scott sets about making two cups of tea, and just as the water is boiling, Mumbo appears behind him, wrapping his arms around Scott’s waist. Scott tips his head back to rest against Mumbo’s shoulder.

“Good morning,” he says happily. Mumbo hums happily against him.

“Morning, my love,” he replies. Scott twists in his arms, holding tea.

“For you,” he says happily. “Just a touch of milk.” Mumbo nods at it but doesn’t take it, his hands resting on Scott’s waist. Just to tease him, Scott takes a sip of his tea, which elicits a mildly irritated face from his boyfriend. Scott smirks. “Well, if you want your tea, you’ll have to take it.”

Mumbo gives a put-upon sigh and lifts one hand to take the mug. He brings it to his lips, taking a sip without breaking eye contact. Scott smiles, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to Mumbo’s cheek, then pulls back to collect his own tea.

“If you give me two hours to work, I can show you your surprise,” Mumbo offers, apropos of nothing. Scott meets his eyes.

“Are you sure?” Mumbo smiles.

“Yeah,” he replies. “Just let me run out and pop some finishing touches on it, then I’ll come get you and I can show you.”

Scott pouts, taking another sip of his drink. “Alright, fine,” he agrees. “But I’m calling you in two hours, and if you’re not done, you’re showing me anyway.”

Mumbo takes another drink. “Promise,” he replies.

Mumbo keeps his word. One hour and fifty-eight minutes later, just as Scott is finalizing some designs for his latest build, the door unlocks and swings open. Mumbo enters, looking thrilled. “Alright, it’s done,” he declares. “Come on.”

He grabs Scott’s wrist, grinning from ear to ear, and pulls him off the couch. Scott laughs, smacking save as many times as he can and trying to keep his laptop from toppling onto the floor. “At least let me put a shirt on,” he requests. Mumbo rolls his eyes affectionately.

“Very well, if you must.” Scott blows him a kiss, then disappears into the bedroom to put on some real clothes. Mumbo is clearly vibrating with excitement, bouncing in place and wringing his hands when Scott returns. As soon as he catches sight of Scott, fully clothed and looking enthused, he brightens, takes Scott’s hand, and pulls him out of their base.

It’s a bit of a walk to the location of Mumbo’s surprise. They make their way through a savanna, a mesa, plains, and finally to a small flower forest. Mumbo puts his hands over Scott’s eyes, leads him into... somewhere. There’s a slight drop in temperature, so he gets the idea that it must be a cave or other natural formation of some kind. Finally, Mumbo lifts his hands away, and Scott takes it all in.

It’s... a little flower farm. But it also doesn’t look like a farm, it’s aesthetic. Mumbo has decorated it in pale blues and reds and pinks, an S on one side and an M on the other in white concrete. It’s beautiful.

“You made this for me?” Scott asks, astonished. Mumbo nods.

“You like flowers,” he says quietly, awkwardly, and Scott huffs a laugh. “And I know you’ve been looking for lots of dyes for your new build, and... I dunno, I just wanted to give you something nice that you could actually use.”

Scott tears his eyes away from the farm, turns to look at Mumbo, and kisses him deeply. “It’s perfect,” he promises. “I love you.”

Mumbo smiles back at him. “I love you too, Scott.”

--

@mumscottweek2025

[le-velo-pour-dru]

My feelings surrounding asexuality are so complicated XD

[ghostofsnails]

so did you guys know theres this character called tristan vik disventure camp and

[piko-rose]

My Personal Headcanon On Why Amy's Love For Sonic Died Down Lately (and their dynamic)

When they were younger, Amy's love for Sonic was pretty extreme, and Sonic was, understandable, uncomfortable for the most part. He knows she means well, but that girl needs to calm down.

She can fight, but sometimes her hammer could only stun her enemies for a while. (It took her a long time to get rid of that robot that has been chasing her around Station Square.) She wasn't fully independent yet, even if she fought on her own a couple of times.

She often follows Sonic and his friends around. She is part of the team, but she was not a strong as she is now at the time yet.

She admires Sonic. A LOT. And Sonic knows that. Obviously, he could only run away from something like that, since he is NOT ready for that kind of thing, and whether Amy takes the hint or stop, she still loves him.

...BUT, I think things were slightly starting to change between her and Sonic after Lost World.

Remember this line?

You remember that? Okay, okay. Here's another totally unrelated question:

Before the events of Lost World, when was the last time Amy said "I love you" to Sonic out loud?

...YEP. 😈 (Unless I'm missing something, let me know lmao)

As more games and adventures come out, the characters get slightly older, and Amy is 12 to 13 now, and she is most certainly at that age where her body starts to change, but especially on how she views Sonic.

She knows she loves Sonic, but it was this moment during her change where she actually wanted to admit that she loves him.

I believe that Amy was all about sharing her affection to him not through confessions, but through obvious hints. Sonic totally got it, and there was no need to confess. Sonic knows she loves her.

...But she never said it. And she almost did, but she never did again for a while.

I think this was the moment in her life where, oh, God, she actually loves Sonic. SHE LOVES HIM, WHAT.

And she was looking back at all the times she had with Sonic that she can now see were unpleasant to Sonic (At least that's what she thinks) and that's probably why she isn't so expressive about her love to him than how she used to back then.

She wasn't sure what to do with this realization, and sets aside it for a while, and nearly stayed as her casual, peppy self... until the Eggman War happened.

During the 6 months of being with the Resistance, fighting Eggman's army all day and all night, all she can think of was Sonic.

She dreams that he still with not just her, but with her friends. She just wanted to see Sonic again, she just wants to be with her hero again.

But I'd like to think that she was also thinking about how she used to treat Sonic back when they were younger, how Sonic would almost always run away from her whenever she asks him out, or always look so uncomfortable whenever she gets so close to him.

Cringing at those memories big time, she wanted to change and hopefully when Sonic is okay and comes back, she can be better for him.

...Or will he still find her uncomfortable regardless? Would he even be happy to see her at all if he did survive?

But, hold on! She can't just give up her love for Sonic! He made her who she is today! A peppy, nature-loving, hammer-swinging, confident, brave... loud-mouth... annoying... Sonic obsessed... weak... pathetic... lonely little girl.

If she gives up on Sonic, it'll be like she gave up on the one hedgehog who saved her life. If she didn't she'll still be the same ol' Amy.

I also like to think she had parents a long while before she met Sonic, and was even expecting a little sister, but a robot invasion happened from where she was and attacked her parents and instead of trying to save them, after getting hurt, she ran away, hoping that they'll come back okay. But they never did.

She was all alone, and needed someone, a friend, a new family, someone who will hold her hand, anyone, to be there for her. But she was ignored by lots, and at that point, she's better off by herself, but still longed for company.

Eventually though, her tarot cards told her her future hero, and there might be hope after all. She encountered Sonic, held onto the belief of the cards tight, and the rest is history.

So, with that headcanon in mind, not only did Amy loose her parents that she didn't save because of her cowardliness (she was only so little at the time that happened) and also Sonic, who she thought will be her only hope, but now gone.

She doesn't even care if he did come back, he'd probably hate her now after everything she did to him, always talking about their "future wedding" or forcing him to go to Twinkle Park.

For the last few months of the war, it was nothing but Amy mentally beating herself up for either refusing to change or moving on, and they are both not fine choices.

She loves Sonic, but he does not love her, and she finally, finally realized it. And it's probably for the best if no body loved her at all.

But of course Sonic did survive and all of her worries wash away in an instant, she's just not expressive about her love for Sonic AT ALL now, since she's still worried about it but rather not mention it to Sonic because it doesn't matter.

If Sonic doesn't love her, then her feelings don't matter to him, and according to Amy herself, that is okay.

But also, I'd like to think that Sonic was thinking about his friends a lot up in the Death Egg for the past months, sometimes it's Tails (worried for his safety), sometimes it's Shadow (because he's wondering why he would join Eggman.) At some point, for a few days, Amy was in his mind the longest, and he felt bad about how he thought he was rude and pushy to her.

He wondered if she's not thinking about it too much, and if she is, will she give up on him? Yeah, he doesn't feel the same and still not looking for a relationship, but it's so strange but interesting how anyone could ever like someone like Sonic the Hedgehog. Amy was never afraid to show that, and she probably might be now.

He couldn't help but feel guilty. They were kids when she was like this, but he was so... arrogant at the time too. Not a lot happened at the time yet. He'd always have trouble expressing how much he value his friends, until he shattered the Paradox Prism. (I'd like to think Prime took place before Forces. It makes sense.)

She is such a sweet girl, and he probably made her believe that he didn't care for her. Just because he doesn't feel the same, that doesn't mean he hates her at all.

He wished he never ran away from Amy... Worrying for his little bro and wishing to be a good person for Amy was when Sonic cried in the Death Egg for the first and only time.

Frontiers, in my opinion, is kind of confirming their dynamic now. Sonic is a lot more sincere and kinder to Amy and she is not all hyperactive and lovey to Sonic. There is probably a real reason for this now.

They are both hiding their feelings from them, and they are both unaware of this. Amy, hiding her mental issues from Sonic, and Sonic, hiding his guilt away from Amy.

None of those things are important now. Sonic is with Amy and Amy is with Sonic. They are here with each other. They can be finally be better for each other now.

They don't care if they'll ever be something more when they get older. None of that matters anymore. They are here with each other. They can be finally be better for each other now.

Maybe someday they'll both talk about it, but for now, the present is important. They care about each other too much to think about it right now.

It's the kind of love that is unbreakable. It doesn't even have to be romantic. It's just love. Love is important for everyone, in any form. It's something Sonic and his friends need. And especially Sonic and Amy.

Amy Rose is the living embodiment of love, and without her, a lot would go downhill for Sonic and co. Heck, if it weren't for her, Shadow wouldn't have never remembered Maria's promise, which lead him to save the world with Sonic, before he temporarily disappeared from their lives for a while.

She is always there to lend a helping hand for anybody, even bad guys like Metal Sonic, and despite what she had been through, both in Forces and headcanon wise, she still fights back, even without her hammer.

She will pick you back up on your feet, reminding you that you are important and that you are loved, and that you should never give up. It's pretty much the words of encouragement she herself needed also...

She is still the happy, hyper, butt-kicking hedgehog we all know and love, but she still need someone to pick her back up on her feet after so long. Thankfully, she has her friends and her blue hero. The hero who made her who she is today.

I think Amy has no idea how important she thought she is, but Sonic does. Sonic knows fully well how important she is to a lot of people. It's about time he returns the favor to her. It's his turn to remind her how much a lot of people love her.

How much he loves her.

And I feel like The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog was the moment where their dynamic really shined, but also the starting point of their relationship not only healing, but also the next chapter of what's to come for them.

Everyone, friends old and new, gathered around for a special birthday. A birthday for the confident, unshakable, and radiant Amy Rose.

It was such a special moment in Amy's life. After years of chasing and following the people she look up to, she is part of the team, but most importantly, she is part of the family.

She is fully realized as someone more than just a fangirl, but someone strong, courageous, creative, kind and a big inspiration for others.

I feel like this moment here...

-is where Amy is eternally grateful to call her friends her family. A family she thought she'll never have again. She's not alone anymore, and as long as they're by her side, she'll never will be again.

Her chasing days are over. She's finally caught up to them. She's finally home.

And it's all thanks to Sonic.

If it weren't for him, she'd probably be alone forever. Her past moments with Sonic might be embarrassing to look back on for a while, but they are good memories regardless, because they involve him.

Sonic saved her life in more ways than one, and despite everything, he's grateful to have her too.

He cares about her. He really does... And in her eyes, that all she needed to know. As long as Sonic loves her in his own way, she'll be happy.

Amy hasn't given up on Sonic. As long as Amy always supports him, he'll be happy.

Maybe sometime in the future, they can talk about their problems, but that's a story for another time. At this point, they need to. Right now, they are happy. They are okay.

They are here for each other. They are finally better for each other now.

"You guys won't ever leave me, right?"

"Wouldn't dream of it."

[vaguely-concerned]

just going about my day idly contemplating how some of the ways hawke can interact with a romanced anders are not at all unlike how they interact with leandra (and a bit of carver too, especially with a purple hawke), and then thought about my hawke in the timeline where he romances anders and was hit straight in the face with 'was he ever actually in love, or was he just desperately trying to renegotiate with his mother's ghost in any way he could' and now i need to lie down. this is the power of dragon age 2

[ame-to-ame]

Oh on last rb's note my friend actually read love bullet per my recommendation hehe and she likes it and it makes me so so happy hehe

[girl-bateman]

Feeling a debilitating sense of dread and despair 🤨 Which probably means nothing😍👍

[kanene-yaaay]

Nothing better than to think about Mob Pyscho 100 and how it is a story about self acceptance and love and how you are able to impact everyone around you just like everyone can change you as well and then when I realize I am already crying about that awesome anime once again literally twice because it's *beautiful*

[e77y]

[dollzites]

⏦ﾟ♡︎ “YOU’RE INSANELY ADORABLE LIKE THIS”

୨ৎ pairing: boyfriend!seunghyun x fem reader

୨ৎ genre: fluff! slight suggestiveness

୨ৎ from myeong: ahhhh!! my first ever love. I’m so happy to be writing for him. thank you for requesting and I hope you can enjoy x

a soft sigh left your lips when you turned to look towards the smaller clock that was neatly placed on the wall, something that seunghyun just had to have for some odd reason. something about ‘it makes the room pop!’ which you never understood his artistic ways. all that mattered to you was him coming home soon from his long hours of shooting for squid game season 2. although you were insanely excited about this opportunity he had to come back into the spotlight and show off his acting skills, you missed him dearly. finding yourself going through your camera roll of all the pictures you’d taken of him mostly off guard doing whatever it was that he enjoyed doing and some of them he took of himself on your phone just so you could have them—which was your favorite. a smile tugging at your lips when you heard the familiar sound of the passcode being punched in and you knew it was him. quickly turning off your phone and tossing it to the side you lifted your body and ran towards the door where he would be coming in at, slightly jumping up and down from the excitement that was running through your veins. getting a glimpse of his tired eyes your lips formed a frown but was quickly turned upside down when he smiled at you, shyness coming over you.

“well? is my girl gonna come hug me or not?” and without another word spoken you ran into his arms and wrapped your legs around his waist knowing that he would catch you and keep you safe within those strong arms you adored so much. what seunghyun loved the most about you was your caring, affectionate, and shy personality. although you two had been together for almost a year now it was something new with him every single day and that’s what kept the relationship alive and well. you both learned something new about each other and so far? his favorite? was your shyness. you kept your face hidden in the warmth of his neck while his hands stayed put on your waist. feeling him take off his shoes and walk into the living room where you just were moments before. he took a seat on the couch and leaned back against the soft cushion with a sigh, gently pulling on you to look at him.

“you know I like it when I can see your face, hm? you’re being so shy right now.. missed me?” all you did was nod but kept your arms wrapped around his neck, wanting to keep close to him as much as you could. taking in your favorite scent of his cologne and shampoo. “I missed you so much. I know you’ve been busy shooting but I can’t help but to miss you and need you here with me.” you softly whispered not even wanting to say such a thing in the first place. his deep chuckle filled the room and you whined in response knowing he was about to tease you for being such a needy girl. slowly but surely you finally lifted your head to look at him which was a mistake because once your eyes found his beautiful large ones it felt like you were stuck. couldn’t move but it was the greatest feeling. every single time you were like this and all you could feel was shyness and embarrassment come over you. seunghyun knew it and lifted a large hand to cradle your face keeping you right where he wanted you to be, “you’re insanely adorable like this.” is all he said before leaning in to press his lips against your own in a sweet but passionate kiss. your smaller hands found his warm wrists and held onto them tightly as if he would disappear once you let go. once he pulled away you went to hide your face in his neck again but he quickly stopped you from doing so and that’s when you felt his warm soft lips against your neck. you squirmed from the feeling and he kept you in place on his lap.

“stop squirming silly, you’re so cute did you know that? such a cute girl. you’re my girl. all mine and only I can make you like this.” he said in between kisses that he continued to place against your neck, which was correct—only seunghyun could make you feel this shyness. “seunghyun..” is all you could say not wanting to embarrass yourself any further and that’s all he needed to hear to stop and stare at you for a few moments wanting to take in the cuteness that he was seeing. it only made you feel more flustered and shy and he knew that, that’s why he did such a thing. looking away from him he quickly grabbed ahold of your jaw and forced you to look at him again his head shaking with a slight ‘tsk’ leaving his lips. “want to see my cute girls face. especially when you’re so flustered like this.” is all he said before pulling you into another kiss, lifting you and himself off of the couch and heading into your shared bedroom.

[pucksandpower]

Second Heart

Happy Nation: A Series of Standalone Fics

Lewis Hamilton x Senna!Reader

Summary: all you’ve ever wanted was to be able to race just like your Papai … no matter the cost (or in which always going for a gap that exists runs in the Senna family)

You sit cross-legged in front of the TV, shoulders hunched, the remote clutched tight in your little hand. The screen crackles, and there he is — Ayrton. Papai. His yellow helmet blazes under the bright afternoon sun, the car flying down the straight, smooth as a bird on water.

Your eyes don’t blink. The sound of engines growls through the speakers, vibrating all the way to your heart. It’s like he’s right there. Alive.

And so fast. So, so fast. You almost feel like you’re in the car with him, that if you close your eyes, you could taste the gasoline and the rubber, the wind whipping across your face.

“Papai …” you whisper, pressing the volume button louder.

Adriane steps into the room, the clink of her bracelets soft but steady. She pauses when she sees you, arms crossed, one hip jutted out.

“I thought you were doing homework.”

You don’t answer, too lost in the footage. The video cuts to a slow-motion shot of Ayrton weaving through the rain, tires spinning in the spray like magic. They call it genius — what he did at Monaco, at Suzuka, at Donington Park. To you, it’s just your Papai being Papai.

“Turn it off.” Your mother’s voice sharpens now. She hates it when you watch these tapes. You’ve heard her say it before, more times than you can count — It’s not healthy. You shouldn’t keep living in the past. But you don’t feel like you’re living in the past. You feel like you’re meeting him for the first time, every time.

“Just five more minutes,” you plead without looking away.

“No.”

“But I-”

“I said no, agora!”

Her tone makes you flinch. The remote slips from your hand onto the floor with a dull thud. But you still can’t tear your eyes from the screen, where Ayrton’s car crosses the finish line, the Brazilian flag draped over his shoulders as the crowd roars. Your heart beats faster. There’s a strange energy in you, like the buzz before a storm. You push yourself up to your knees, your voice small but determined.

“I want to race.”

Adriane’s laugh is immediate and sharp, like glass shattering. “Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not being silly!” You twist around to look at her now, the words spilling out. “I wanna race, Mãe! Like Papai!”

Her face changes. The air shifts, heavy and strange. You see it happen — the tightness in her jaw, the way her smile falls away like it was never there.

“No.”

“But-”

“No!” She snaps, louder this time, and it makes you shrink back. “Absolutely not. Never.”

You bite your lip, feeling the burn at the back of your throat. But you don’t stop. Not yet.

“Why not?” You whisper.

Your mother exhales sharply through her nose, as if the question alone is an insult. She crosses the room in two quick strides, crouching down until her face is level with yours. Her hands, delicate but strong, grip your shoulders tighter than usual.

“Because racing is dangerous,” she says, enunciating every word like she’s trying to hammer them into your skull. “Do you understand me? It’s not a game. It took your father from us.”

Her voice wavers on the last sentence, but you don’t care. There’s something stubborn growing in you, something you don’t quite recognize yet.

“Papai loved it.”

“And look where it got him,” she shoots back, her voice sharp as a knife.

You blink, stunned by the words. She’s never said it like that before. She sees your expression — hurt, confused — and her face softens, just for a second.

“Sweetheart …” She sighs, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “I know you miss him. I miss him too. Every single day. But I won’t let racing take you away from me.”

“But it won’t-”

“Enough.” Her voice is final, the way grown-ups’ voices get when there’s no more room for argument. “This conversation is over.”

You open your mouth, then close it again. She’s already standing up, brushing invisible dust from her jeans. The TV hums in the background, the commentators babbling about pole positions and podiums.

Adriane snatches the remote from the floor and jabs the power button. The screen goes black, as if Papai never existed at all.

You feel hollow.

Your mother stands there for a moment, the silence thick between you. Then she crouches again, her hands cupping your face this time, thumbs brushing over your cheeks.

“Listen to me.” Her voice is quieter now, almost pleading. “I lost your father. I can’t-” She stops, swallows hard. “I can’t lose you too. Okay?”

You don’t nod. You don’t speak. You just stare at her, your little heart breaking in ways you don’t fully understand yet.

“I’m serious,” she whispers, her forehead resting against yours. “No racing. Not ever.”

And then she kisses the top of your head, soft and lingering, as if that alone could erase the conversation, the dream, everything. She walks out of the room, her footsteps fading down the hall.

You sit there for a long time, staring at the blank TV screen, fists clenched in your lap. Your chest feels tight, like something inside you is being squeezed too hard.

You think about Papai. About how he smiled in the cockpit, how the car seemed to dance under his hands, how the crowd chanted his name like a song. He wasn’t afraid.

And neither are you.

You pick up the remote again. Your thumb hovers over the play button, hesitant for just a moment. Then you press it.

The screen flickers back to life, and Ayrton is there, flying through the rain like a miracle.

You smile.

One day, you think.

One day, you’ll race too.

***

The front door clicks shut behind you as you step into the house, dropping your school bag with a heavy thud. You bend down to untie your sneakers, already rehearsing what you’ll tell your mom — how your science project earned a gold star, how you managed to trade a snack with João without getting caught. You have it all planned, down to the way you’ll grin when she offers you that after-school snack.

But as soon as you straighten up, the voices hit you.

Loud. Sharp. Angry.

You freeze, one hand still on your shoelace.

“You have no right — none — to tell me how to raise my daughter!” Your mother’s voice is sharp, like glass breaking. She’s in the living room. You can’t see her from the hallway, but you don’t need to. You can imagine her perfectly — the tight set of her mouth, the way her arms probably cross over her chest.

And then, another voice, familiar in a strange way. Low and hard. “I’m not telling you how to raise her, Adriane. I’m telling you what she told me — how she called me crying because you refuse to let her chase the only thing she’s ever wanted.”

Alain.

Your heart skips. You know him. Everyone knows him. Papai’s fiercest rival — and, in the end, his friend. The man from the stories, from old photographs your mother keeps locked away. Alain, who came to the funeral and cried even when the cameras weren’t on him.

Why is he here?

You step closer, drawn by their words like a thread pulling you tight. You press yourself against the wall and peek around the corner, just enough to see them.

Adriane stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed exactly like you pictured. Her blonde hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, but her face is tight, her jaw locked in anger. Alain stands across from her, looking just as frustrated. His hands move as he talks, fast and insistent, like he’s trying to grab hold of the air between them and shape it into something that makes sense.

“She’s seven!” Your mother snaps, her voice cracking at the edges. “She doesn’t understand what she’s asking for.”

“She understands better than you think,” Alain fires back. “She understands perfectly. She called me in tears — tears, Adriane — because you shut her down without even listening.”

“I listened.” Her voice drops, low and furious. “And I said no.”

Alain scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “You said no because you’re scared.”

Your mother’s eyes flash. “Of course I’m scared! She’s my daughter! You, of all people, should understand-”

“I do understand.” Alain’s voice softens, but only just. “I carried his casket. I watched you cry over him. But that’s exactly why you can’t do this to her.”

Adriane’s face crumples for a split second, so brief you might have missed it if you hadn’t been watching so closely. “He’s not here, Alain,” she whispers, and it sounds like a confession and an accusation all at once. “He’s not here to see this, to say if it’s right or wrong. And he’s not here to save her if something goes wrong.”

Alain’s voice drops, steady and determined. “And you think Ayrton would want you to stop her? You think he would want her to live her whole life wrapped in fear because of what happened to him?”

“She’s my child.” Adriane’s voice cracks like a whip, but there’s something desperate underneath it now, like she’s fighting to keep her footing in a conversation she knows she’s already losing. “And I will not lose her.”

Alain’s eyes narrow. “You’re not protecting her. You’re imprisoning her.”

Your mother stares at him, her breath coming fast and uneven. For a moment, everything goes still — so quiet you can hear the ticking of the old clock on the mantel.

Then Alain steps forward, his hands on his hips. “If you won’t help her, I will. I’ll teach her to kart myself if I have to.”

Adriane barks out a bitter laugh, but it’s laced with pain. “You can try,” she says, her voice brittle. “But don’t expect me to come watch. I refuse to set foot at a race, and I won’t look at her as long as I know there’s a chance she won’t come back.”

Her words hang in the air, thick and suffocating. You feel like you can’t breathe. You press yourself harder against the wall, your chest tight with emotions you can’t name.

And that’s when the floor creaks.

Both of them turn at the sound.

“Meu Deus …” your mother whispers, her hands flying to her mouth. “You’re home.”

Alain’s face softens instantly. He kneels down, arms open. “Come here, sweetheart.”

You hesitate, just for a moment. Then, without thinking, you bolt from your hiding spot and run straight into Alain’s arms. He catches you easily, wrapping you in a hug that feels like safety. Like warmth.

Adriane stands frozen, her hands still over her mouth. Her eyes are wide, filled with a mix of heartbreak and anger and something you don’t fully understand.

Alain pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands resting gently on your shoulders. “Hey,” he says softly. “I’ve got a question for you.”

You blink up at him, your heart pounding.

“How would you like to come to Switzerland with me?” His voice is calm, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. “You could learn to kart there. I’ll teach you myself. What do you think?”

Your heart races. Switzerland. Karting. Learning to drive. It feels like a dream, one you didn’t even know you could have.

But then you look at your mother.

Adriane’s face is pale, her hands still clutched tight over her mouth like they might stop her from saying something she’ll regret. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears, and there’s a kind of pain in them that makes your chest ache.

You know what this means to her. You know how much it hurts.

But you also know what it means to you.

You’ve wanted this for as long as you can remember — for as long as you’ve been able to understand what racing is. And here it is, right in front of you. A chance.

You swallow hard and look back at Alain. His expression is kind but serious, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“It’s your choice,” he says quietly. “No one can make it for you.”

You take a deep breath. Your hands shake a little, but you ball them into fists to steady yourself.

“I want to go,” you whisper.

Your mother makes a soft, choked sound — like someone punched all the air out of her.

“Minha filha …” Her voice breaks.

You look at her, and it feels like your heart is splitting in two. “I have to, Mãe.”

She closes her eyes, pressing her hands tighter to her face. For a moment, she just stands there, trembling. Then she drops her hands and wipes her eyes with quick, angry swipes.

“Okay,” she whispers, her voice raw and broken. “Okay. Go, then.”

The words sting, sharper than anything you’ve ever felt. But you nod. You have to.

Alain gives your shoulders a gentle squeeze. “We’ll call every day,” he promises, glancing at Adriane, though she won’t look at him. “Whenever you want.”

Your mother doesn’t answer. She just turns away, her shoulders hunched like the weight of the world is pressing down on her.

Your heart feels heavy, but there’s something else now too — something lighter. Hope.

You glance up at Alain, and he smiles, soft and warm.

“Switzerland, huh?” You say, trying to sound brave.

Alain chuckles. “Switzerland.”

And for the first time in a long while, you feel like you can finally breathe.

***

Life in Switzerland feels like a dream. Every morning, the mountains rise outside your window, peaks dusted in snow even as the spring sun warms the air. The international school Alain enrolled you in is small, the kids friendly. They speak a mix of languages — French, German, Italian — and though it’s strange at first, you like how every word feels like a little puzzle to solve.

But school is just the beginning of your day. The real magic happens afterward.

Every afternoon, Alain picks you up in his car — a sleek, silver Audi with leather seats that always smell faintly like coffee — and takes you straight to the karting track just outside town. There’s a rhythm to your days now: school, then the track, where the scent of gasoline and hot rubber fills the air.

“Come on, petite championne,” Alain says every day as you hop into the kart, the nickname slipping off his tongue with an easy smile. “Let’s see if you can make me proud today.”

The kart rumbles beneath you, a buzz that shoots from your hands to your heart. The moment your foot touches the pedal, the world falls away. The wind rushes against your face, the engine purring with every twist of the wheel.

Here, in the kart, you feel free — like nothing can catch you, not even the pieces of your life that feel too big or too broken to understand.

Alain watches from the sidelines, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his face calm but focused. He takes notes every time you race, shouting tips when you pull up to the pit lane.

“Don’t wait so long to hit the brakes before that hairpin, you lose too much time,” he’ll say. Or, “You’re getting faster through the straights. Don’t get greedy on the corners, though — you’ve got to feel the grip.”

You listen to every word, hungry to learn. And when he grins after you complete a lap, clapping his hands like you just won a Grand Prix, your heart swells.

By the time you drive home, your body hums with exhaustion, but it’s the good kind — the kind that comes from chasing a dream.

And every night, after dinner, there’s dessert.

“Glace au chocolat tonight?” Alain asks one evening, pulling two tubs of chocolate ice cream from the freezer.

You grin. “With whipped cream?”

“Obviously,” Alain replies with mock seriousness. “What kind of barbarian do you take me for?”

He adds a mountain of whipped cream to both bowls, handing one to you before plopping down on the couch with his own.

As always, an old race plays on the TV. Tonight, it’s Monaco — 1988, the race your father dominated, right up until the moment he crashed into the barrier. The screen flickers as the cars glide through the tight streets, their engines howling between the stone walls.

Alain leans back against the couch cushions, spoon in hand. “See that?” He says, pointing at the screen with a mouthful of ice cream. “Your papa’s line through the Swimming Pool section — perfection. Like poetry in motion.”

You tilt your head, studying the way the yellow helmet zips through the narrow chicane. “How did he do it?”

Alain smiles, scooping another spoonful of ice cream. “He just knew. Ayrton could feel the track better than anyone else. It was like … like he was connected to the car in a way no one else could be.”

You lick your spoon thoughtfully. “Did you hate him?”

The question catches Alain off guard. He freezes, then chuckles, shaking his head. “Hate him? No.” He pauses. “Not really, anyway.”

“But you fought a lot.”

“Oh, we fought.” Alain smirks, a mischievous glint in his eye. “He drove me absolutely mad sometimes.”

You giggle. “Why?”

“Because he never gave up. Not even for a second.” Alain gestures toward the TV, where your father’s car rockets through the tunnel. “Ayrton wasn’t just racing other drivers — he was racing himself. Always trying to be faster, better. It was exhausting.”

He says it like a joke, but there’s warmth in his voice, too. You can hear it.

“And that drove you crazy?” You ask, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear him say it.

Alain laughs, a soft, fond sound. “Completely crazy.”

You curl deeper into the couch, your ice cream bowl balanced on your lap. “But you were friends, right? In the end?”

Alain’s smile fades a little, but it stays, softer now. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “In the end.”

There’s a silence between you, filled only by the hum of the TV and the occasional scrape of your spoons against the bowls.

You glance at Alain, his expression lost somewhere between memory and regret. “Do you miss him?”

Alain looks at you, and for a moment, you’re not sure if he’ll answer. Then he gives a small nod. “Every day.”

You nod, too, even though you didn’t really know your father — at least, not in the way Alain did. But somehow, you miss him all the same.

The race continues on the screen, the cars weaving through the streets of Monaco, chasing the perfect lap.

“You’ll be just like him one day,” Alain says suddenly, breaking the quiet.

You blink, surprised. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Alain replies, nudging your shoulder with his. “You’ve got the same fire in you. The same stubbornness, too, I think.”

You laugh, and Alain grins, pleased with himself.

“You just need to tweak your braking,” he adds with a playful smirk. “You brake like me, not like him.”

“Hey!” You protest, shoving his arm lightly.

He chuckles, holding up his hands in surrender. “What? I’m just saying! Ayrton would fly into corners like a madman. Me? I was always a bit more … sensible.”

“Sensible is boring,” you tease, scooping up the last bit of ice cream.

Alain pretends to be offended, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Boring? Sensible is what win me four world championships, thank you very much.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re grinning.

The credits for the race coverage roll, but neither of you makes a move to turn off the TV. These moments — curled up on the couch with Alain, the scent of whipped cream still in the air — feel like they could stretch forever.

And maybe, just maybe, they do.

***

Four years blur by like the laps on a familiar circuit. Days turn into months, and months into seasons. You grow taller, sharper, and faster. The kart becomes a second skin, every turn and apex something you know instinctively, like breathing. The track is your playground now — your sanctuary.

Alain teaches you everything: not just how to drive but how to think, how to be patient when you need to be and ruthless when the moment calls for it. He tells you about strategy and racecraft, how to listen for the slightest change in the engine’s pitch, how to make yourself invisible in the slipstream until the perfect moment to strike.

Some lessons come easy. Others, not so much. Like when he makes you practice for hours in the rain, your hands frozen, your kart slipping through puddles. Or when you spin out during a practice race and Alain doesn’t even flinch. He just waves his hand in the air.

“Again!” He shouts from the pit lane. “You have to get comfortable with making mistakes, petite. No champion gets there without a few bruises.”

And so you go again. And again. Because this — this dream — is the one thing you want more than anything.

Now, after all those years, the day has finally arrived. You’re old enough to compete in the FIA Karting Championship. This is what you’ve been working toward.

But Alain surprises you one quiet evening at home. No ice cream, no old races on TV — just you and him, sitting across the kitchen table with two mugs of hot tea. His face is serious, but kind.

“There’s something we need to talk about,” he says, tapping his fingers lightly against the mug. “You have a choice to make.”

You lean forward. “What kind of choice?”

Alain tilts his head, his sharp hazel eyes studying you carefully. “Your name.”

You frown. “My name?”

“Yes. You’ve been racing locally for a while, but things are different now.” Alain takes a sip of tea, gathering his thoughts. “The FIA Karting Championship is international. There will be journalists, scouts, team representatives. If you race under your real name, everyone will know exactly who you are.”

You sit back, the weight of what he’s saying slowly sinking in.

“You can use a pseudonym if you want,” Alain continues. “Plenty of drivers do it, especially when they want to build their career on their own terms.”

You blink, caught off guard. You’ve thought a lot about racing — how fast you want to be, how badly you want to win. But this? The idea of hiding your name? It’s a curveball you didn’t see coming.

Alain gives you time to think, his hands wrapped loosely around his mug. “There’s no shame in it, petite,” he says gently. “It’s not about denying who you are. It’s about deciding how you want the world to see you.”

The words hang between you. He’s not pressuring you — Alain never does that — but you can feel the weight of the decision anyway.

You toy with the edge of the mug in front of you, tracing the rim with your fingertip. “Do you think … if I use my real name, people will only see Papai?”

Alain shrugs, but his expression is thoughtful. “Some will. There are people who won’t be able to separate you from Ayrton. They’ll compare you to him before you’ve even taken a proper lap.”

You nod slowly. You’ve known this would happen — how could you not? But hearing it out loud makes it more real.

“At the same time,” Alain adds, “it’s not something to be ashamed of. Ayrton was … well, he was Ayrton. If anyone has the right to be proud of their name, it’s you.”

You bite your lip, the edges of uncertainty fraying inside you. “What would you do?”

Alain smiles softly. “It’s not my decision to make, ma chérie. This is about you. Your future.”

You stare into your tea, watching the steam curl toward the ceiling like tiny ghosts. A part of you aches at the thought of hiding your father’s name — like you’d be denying him, pretending he didn’t matter. But there’s another part, quieter but insistent, that wants to know what it’s like to stand on your own. To earn your place without the shadow of a legend following you everywhere you go.

You tap your fingers against the table, the rhythm matching the beat of an engine in your mind. And then, suddenly, the answer clicks into place.

“I think …” You take a deep breath. “I think I want to use a different name. Just for now.”

Alain raises his eyebrows, curious but approving. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nod, more certain now. “It’s not because I’m ashamed. I’m not. I want people to know one day. Just … not yet.”

Alain leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “So what’s the plan?”

You grin, the excitement building in your chest. “I’ll race under my mother’s last name. And when the time’s right — maybe after I win a few championships — I’ll tell them.”

Alain chuckles, shaking his head. “You think they’ll like the surprise?”

You laugh, a full, bright sound that feels like relief. “Can you imagine their faces?”

Alain grins, clearly amused. “I can already hear the headlines.” He adopts an exaggerated announcer voice: “The karting prodigy who stunned the world by revealing she’s Ayrton Senna’s daughter!”

You burst out laughing, the tension from the conversation melting away. “They’ll lose their minds!”

“And you’ll love every second of it,” Alain adds with a knowing smirk.

You grin, unable to hide the spark of mischief in your eyes. “Maybe a little.”

He shakes his head fondly, ruffling your hair as he stands up from the table. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Comes with the territory,” you say, beaming.

Alain gathers the empty mugs and places them in the sink, still chuckling to himself. “Well, I think it’s a smart choice. Gives you time to find your own rhythm.”

You nod, feeling lighter than you have in days. “Yeah. It feels right.”

Alain leans against the counter, crossing his arms as he looks at you. There’s pride in his eyes — quiet, steady, and unmistakable. “Your papa would’ve been proud of you, too,” he says softly.

Your throat tightens, but you smile through it. “Thanks, Alain.”

He nods once, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Come on,” he says, nudging his head toward the living room. “Let’s celebrate with some dessert. I think we’ve got tarte au citron in the fridge.”

You follow him, your heart light and your steps easy. The road ahead is still long — there will be races, wins, and losses. But for the first time, it feels like it’s yours to drive.

And that? That’s the best feeling in the world.

***

The drive from Switzerland to Imola is quiet. You sit with your thoughts, the hum of the engine beneath you and the road stretching endlessly ahead. Alain offered to come with you, but you declined. This is something you need to do alone.

It’s not that you didn’t want his company, it’s just … how do you explain to someone — even someone who knew your father so well — that you need to meet this place on your own terms?

For eighteen years, you told yourself you weren’t ready. Maybe you never would be. But here you are, taking deep breaths as you steer your way closer to the circuit where it all ended. Where everything about your life changed before it even really began.

When you finally arrive, the gates to the Imola track feel strangely peaceful, nestled under a canopy of autumn leaves. The air is crisp, and the sky is that soft, pale blue you only get in early fall. You park the car and head toward the Ayrton Senna memorial, your footsteps crunching through the leaves littering the path.

Each step feels heavier than the last, your pulse loud in your ears. You try to steel yourself — this is just a monument, just a place. You’ve been to a thousand race tracks in your life. But this one is different. This one holds pieces of someone you never got the chance to know.

As you approach the monument, you expect silence. You expect to be alone. But then you notice someone sitting there — another figure crouched near the bronze statue of your father.

The man shifts, startled by the sound of your footsteps on the gravel. His head turns, and you recognize him almost immediately.

It’s Lewis Hamilton.

He blinks up at you, clearly not expecting company either. There’s a moment of awkwardness, both of you standing there, caught off guard in a place meant for solitude.

You clear your throat. “I’m sorry,” you say softly. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

Lewis waves off the apology, his face softening. “No, no. You’re not bothering me.” He pulls himself up a little straighter, brushing leaves from his jacket. “I always stop by here before Monza. Helps me … I don’t know. Reset.”

You nod, unsure what else to say. There’s something strange about seeing him here — Lewis Hamilton, one of the biggest names in motorsport, sitting quietly in front of your father’s monument like he’s just another fan.

“I came for the same reason,” you admit. “I’m Brazilian. Wanted to pay my respects.”

At that, something shifts in Lewis’ expression — understanding, maybe. “You’re Brazilian?” He repeats, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That explains it. Every Brazilian racer I know carries Senna with them like … well, like a second heart.”

You laugh softly, kicking a stray leaf with your shoe. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Lewis shifts, resting his forearms on his knees as he looks back at the monument. The wind stirs the leaves around your feet, scattering them across the ground.

“He’s always been my hero,” Lewis murmurs, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “Even before I really understood what racing was, I just … knew he was special.”

You don’t respond right away, your gaze fixed on the familiar features of the bronze effigy — your father’s intense, focused expression captured in metal. It’s strange, standing here with someone who feels the same reverence you’ve always felt but never quite known how to express.

Lewis glances at you again. “What do you race?” He asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.

You tuck your hands into your jacket pockets. “Formula Renault 3.5.”

His eyebrows lift, clearly impressed. “That’s a serious series.”

You shrug, trying to play it cool, though there’s a flicker of pride in your chest. “Yeah, it’s been good so far.”

“Good enough to think about Formula 1 one day?” Lewis asks, a knowing smile on his face.

You grin. “That’s the plan.”

He chuckles, the sound warm in the cool air. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for you. What’s your name?”

For a split second, you hesitate. But you remind yourself — he doesn’t need to know everything. Not yet. “Just … Y/N,” you say casually. “For now.”

Lewis tilts his head, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, but he doesn’t press. “Y/N. Got it.”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, unsure how to fill the silence. But it’s not uncomfortable — just … quiet.

“You said you come here every year?” You ask after a moment.

“Before Monza, yeah,” Lewis confirms. “It’s become sort of a ritual. Helps me feel grounded, I guess. Reminds me why I do this.”

You nod, understanding more than you expected to. There’s something about this place — this simple, quiet memorial — that strips everything else away. The politics, the pressure, the noise. It leaves only the pure love of racing behind.

Lewis stands then, brushing dirt from his pants. “Well,” he says, “I should probably get going. Got a long weekend ahead.”

You nod, though part of you wishes you had a little more time to talk to him. There’s something easy about the way he carries himself — no arrogance, no pretense. Just a racer who loves what he does.

Lewis glances at the monument one last time, his gaze lingering on your father’s face. “He would’ve loved to see how many of us still race because of him,” he says quietly.

Your throat tightens, but you manage a small smile. “Yeah. I think so, too.”

He gives you a nod, something warm and reassuring in his expression. “Take care, Y/N. I’ll be watching.”

With that, he turns and walks down the path, his footsteps crunching through the leaves. You watch him go, the wind stirring around you again, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and autumn.

For a long moment, you stay there, standing in front of the monument, just you and the bronze figure of your father. You don’t say anything — there’s nothing that needs to be said. But in the quiet, you feel a strange sense of peace.

Maybe it’s the years of racing, the laps you’ve turned, the lessons you’ve learned. Or maybe it’s just knowing that people like Lewis exist — people who carry your father’s spirit with them, even though they never knew him.

You brush a hand over the cool surface of the monument, tracing the edge of the plaque with your fingers. “I’m gonna make you proud,” you whisper.

And this time, you believe it.

The wind picks up again as you turn away from the monument, heading back toward the car. Monza is waiting. And so is the rest of your story.

***

The paddock feels like a world unto itself — buzzing with life, engines roaring in the distance, team personnel hurrying from garages to pit walls.

You’re barely a day into your first GP2 weekend with DAMS, and it’s already overwhelming. The DAMS crew is friendly but businesslike, and the constant stream of engineers, mechanics, and journalists passing by your garage is a reminder that you’ve officially stepped onto the big stage.

Your heart pounds as you adjust the collar of your race suit, nerves crawling under your skin. You spent the morning doing seat fittings, debriefs, and media duties, but now you’re finally free for a few minutes before the next round of meetings.

Alain walks beside you, calm and collected as ever, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. He’s been like a steady lighthouse in the chaos of this new chapter, guiding you through the storm with quiet assurance.

“Remember,” Alain says as you both weave through the paddock, “it’s just another race. Keep your focus. Don’t let the noise get to you.”

“Easier said than done,” you mutter, scanning the sea of faces for anyone familiar — or anyone dangerous, like a journalist with too many questions.

Alain smirks knowingly. “That’s why you have me.”

You can’t help but grin, a flicker of relief easing the tension in your chest. Alain’s been by your side for so long now that the idea of navigating a race weekend without him feels unthinkable.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot someone you weren’t expecting: Lewis.

He’s walking toward the McLaren motorhome, surrounded by team personnel and a PR officer trailing closely behind, clipboard in hand. You see the moment recognition flickers in his eyes — he stops mid-step, gaze locking on you like he’s just solved a puzzle.

“Y/N?” He calls, eyebrows raised in surprise.

Alain glances sideways at you, bemused, but you can’t help the small, slightly guilty smile tugging at your lips. You wave at Lewis, feeling a little awkward but genuinely happy to see him.

Lewis strides over, his PR officer groaning softly but trailing after him anyway. “I thought I’d see you around here eventually,” Lewis says with a grin. “Didn’t think it would be so soon.”

You shrug, playing it casual. “Surprise.”

His eyes flick to Alain, standing quietly beside you. “And you … know Alain Prost?”

Alain raises a polite eyebrow, but there’s an amused glint in his eye, as if waiting to see how you’ll answer this one.

You shift on your feet, aware of Lewis’ confusion. “Yeah, he’s … been my mentor for years.” You keep your explanation vague, not ready to drop the full truth just yet.

Lewis frowns slightly, processing the unexpected connection. “You’ve been working with Alain Prost?”

You nod. “Since I was a kid.”

Lewis lets out a low whistle, looking between the two of you with new appreciation. “Wow. That explains a lot.”

Before you can respond, his PR officer steps in, clipboard clutched tightly in one hand. “Lewis, we really need to-”

Lewis waves her off without breaking eye contact with you. “Five more minutes. It’s fine.”

The woman hesitates, then sighs in frustration and backs away to give him space. Lewis turns his full attention back to you, his easy grin returning.

“So, GP2, huh?” He asks, hands on his hips. “How’s it feel to finally be here?”

“Terrifying,” you admit with a laugh. “But also kind of amazing.”

“That’s how you know you’re in the right place,” Lewis says, his tone encouraging. “The nerves mean you care.”

Alain watches the exchange quietly, and you can tell he’s measuring Lewis, sizing him up — not in a competitive way, but in that protective way he’s always had with you. It’s subtle, but you know Alain well enough to see it.

“I’ll make sure to catch the feature race,” Lewis promises, his grin widening. “I’ll be cheering you on.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to show how much that means to you. “Oh yeah? You sure you have time to slum it with us junior drivers?”

Lewis laughs, genuinely amused. “Come on, now. I started in GP2, remember? I know exactly how tough it is.”

“Guess I’ll have to put on a good show, then.”

“You better,” Lewis says, mock-serious. “Otherwise I’ll never let you hear the end of it.”

The two of you share a quick, easy laugh, and for a moment the chaos of the paddock fades into the background. It’s just two drivers, standing in the middle of it all, sharing a moment of understanding.

“You’re going to crush it,” Lewis adds, his voice low and certain.

Something in his tone makes you believe it — makes the nerves that have been simmering all day settle, if only for a moment.

Alain clears his throat softly, a reminder that time is ticking. “We need to get back to the team,” he says, his voice gentle but firm.

Lewis nods, taking the hint but not before offering you one last smile. “Good luck, Y/N. I’ll see you out there.”

You return the smile, feeling lighter than you have all day. “Thanks, Lewis.”

He gives Alain a respectful nod before turning to leave, his McLaren team falling into step around him as he disappears into the paddock.

As you watch him go, Alain leans in slightly, his voice quiet but laced with amusement. “Friend of yours?”

You smirk, still watching Lewis disappear into the crowd. “Something like that.”

Alain chuckles, and the sound is warm, familiar — like the engine note of a car you’ve driven a thousand times.

“Come on,” he says, nudging your shoulder gently. “We have work to do.”

You follow Alain back toward the DAMS garage, the nerves still there but tempered now with something else — excitement, anticipation, maybe even a little confidence.

Because this is your moment. Your chance to show the world what you can do. And with people like Alain and Lewis in your corner, you know you’re not facing it alone.

***

The Bahrain sun beats down relentlessly, the heat pressing against your skin even through your race suit. Sweat clings to your brow, mixing with the overwhelming, heady cocktail of fuel, rubber, and victory. You’re breathless, exhausted — but none of that matters.

You did it. You won.

The feature race trophy feels almost weightless in your hands as you stand on the podium, the sound of the Brazilian anthem thundering in your ears. The cameras flash, the crowd cheers, and for the first time since you entered GP2, you allow yourself to savor the moment. You close your eyes for a second, letting the anthem sink deep into your bones, and think of your father.

When the rose water sprays, it feels like you’ve broken through a barrier — proof to yourself and to the world that you belong here. That you’re not just someone chasing the shadow of a name, but a racer in your own right.

The post-race chaos is a blur — interviews, debriefs, more interviews. It’s not until you’re finally allowed to step away from the DAMS garage, damp with sweat and floral liquid, that the realization hits you again: you won your first GP2 race. The adrenaline still courses through your veins, but beneath it, there’s a quiet hum of contentment.

You round the corner of the paddock, searching for a quiet moment to collect yourself — when a familiar voice calls your name.

“Y/N!”

You turn, and there he is: Lewis, dressed casually in his McLaren team kit, that signature grin stretched across his face. His eyes are bright under the paddock lights, and his presence feels like a cool breeze against the heat of Bahrain.

Before you can say anything, he’s already jogging up to you, wrapping you in a quick, spontaneous hug. The smell of his cologne lingers in the air between you — spicy and warm, like cedar and citrus.

“That was incredible!” Lewis says, pulling back to look at you. “Seriously, you drove like a pro out there.”

You grin, still catching your breath. “You saw the whole race?”

“Of course I did.” He says it like it’s obvious, as if there was no way he could have missed it. “I told you I’d be cheering you on, didn’t I?”

“Guess I didn’t disappoint, then,” you say, teasing.

“Not even a little.” His grin softens into something warmer, more personal.

The way he looks at you — like he’s genuinely proud — makes your chest tighten, but not in a bad way. It’s strange, but comforting, the way he’s here, grounding you in the whirlwind of it all.

“Come on,” Lewis says, gesturing toward the paddock hospitality area. “You deserve a proper celebration. We’ll grab something to drink, at least — water, preferably, because you look like you’re about to melt.”

You laugh. “Thanks for the concern, but I’m not passing out just yet.”

“Still,” he insists, walking beside you. “Gotta take care of the winner, right?”

You follow him, your steps lighter than they’ve felt all weekend. It’s easy with Lewis — talking, walking, just existing in the same space. You can’t tell if it’s the lingering buzz of the win or something else entirely, but there’s a sense of ease between you that you haven’t felt with anyone in a long time.

He leads you to one of the quieter corners of the paddock, where a small group of McLaren personnel are relaxing. Lewis grabs two water bottles from a nearby cooler and tosses one your way.

“Catch.”

You catch it easily, the cool plastic a relief against your palm. “Thanks.”

Lewis leans against the back of a chair, his posture relaxed, but there’s a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. “So … how does it feel?”

“To win?” You twist the cap off your bottle and take a sip. “Like … I don’t know. Like I can finally breathe again.”

He nods, like he knows exactly what you mean. “First win’s always special. But there’ll be more. I can feel it.”

You tilt your head, amused. “You think you’re a psychic now?”

Lewis chuckles. “Nope. Just good at spotting talent.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but there’s no denying the warmth his words spark inside you. You glance away for a moment, trying to shake the strange flutter in your chest.

“So,” he says after a beat, “what’s next? A second win in Spain?”

“I mean, that’d be nice,” you say, grinning. “But I’ll settle for finishing with all my wheels intact.”

“Good plan,” Lewis agrees, laughing. “That track’s a nightmare.”

The conversation drifts easily from there, flowing from racing to random paddock gossip to stories from his early days in GP2. You’re both standing close — closer than two people probably need to stand. But it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. In fact, it feels … nice.

He pauses for a second, watching you with that thoughtful expression he gets sometimes, like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on beneath the surface.

“You’re really something, you know that?” He says softly, almost like it’s just for you to hear.

The words catch you off guard, and you feel your cheeks warm under the intensity of his gaze.

“Just doing my best,” you say, trying to play it off, but your voice sounds quieter than you intended.

Lewis’ eyes linger on yours for a moment longer, and there’s a flicker of something between you — something unspoken, but not unwelcome.

Before either of you can say anything more, a loud cheer erupts from a nearby group of mechanics, jolting you both back to the present. You laugh, the moment slipping away like sand through your fingers.

“Guess the celebration’s already started,” you say, motioning toward the rowdy crowd.

Lewis grins. “Looks like it. You coming?”

You hesitate, not because you don’t want to celebrate, but because part of you likes this quiet bubble you and Lewis have found.

“I think I might stay here for a bit,” you say, leaning against the wall and taking another sip of water.

Lewis doesn’t move to leave. Instead, he stays where he is, like maybe he feels the same pull to stay in this moment, too.

“You know,” he says after a beat, his voice low and a little more serious, “I meant what I said earlier. About you being something special.”

You meet his gaze, and there’s no teasing in his expression now — just quiet sincerity.

“Thanks,” you say softly, the word not nearly enough to convey what you’re feeling.

He holds your gaze for a second longer, then gives you a small, crooked smile. “Guess I’ll just have to keep watching and see what you do next.”

“Guess so.”

And just like that, the air shifts between you — charged with possibility, like the moment before a green flag drops.

You don’t know what’s coming next, but for the first time in a long time, you’re not afraid of it. Not when Lewis is standing here, smiling at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world.

And somehow, you think, this might just be the start of something worth chasing.

***

It’s late in the evening, and the Monaco paddock has fallen into a rare lull. The energy of race day — mechanics scrambling, journalists hounding drivers, engines screaming — has settled into a quiet hum. Most people have retreated to their yachts or hotel rooms by now, leaving only the occasional team member wandering through the maze of garages and hospitality areas.

You sit with Lewis on the edge of the harbor, the two of you tucked away from prying eyes. The water laps gently against the docks, and the principality’s golden lights reflect across the surface like scattered coins. Neither of you say anything for a while, content to let the quiet fill the spaces between you.

It’s been like this more often lately — stolen moments between races, conversations that drift into the small hours of the morning, and the unspoken pull that keeps you near each other, even when there’s no real reason to be.

Lewis shifts beside you, resting his forearms on his knees. “You ever just sit somewhere and wonder how the hell you got here?” He asks, breaking the silence.

You glance at him, the glow of the streetlights catching the sharp angles of his face. “All the time.”

He gives a small laugh, running a hand over his braids. “Monaco’s something else, isn’t it?”

You nod, hugging your knees to your chest. “Feels like the kind of place people dream about … like it’s not even real.”

He looks over at you then, his gaze lingering a moment too long. “Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Not sure what’s real sometimes.”

There’s something heavy in his voice, something unspoken. And for the first time tonight, the quiet between you doesn’t feel as comfortable. It feels loaded, like you’re both waiting for the other to say something neither of you know how to say.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. “You okay?”

Lewis exhales slowly, glancing out over the water. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

He hesitates, like he’s not sure how to begin. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately … about the future. About what I want, and where I want to be.”

You shift closer to him, sensing that this isn’t just idle talk. “What do you mean?”

He leans back on his hands, staring at the water like it might hold the answer. “I’ve been with McLaren my whole career. Since I was a kid. But … I don’t know. Lately, it feels like I’m stuck. Like I’ve hit a wall.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

He looks at you then, and there’s something raw in his expression — something vulnerable. “I’ve decided to leave McLaren at the end of the season. I’m signing with Mercedes.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and unexpected. You blink, trying to process what he just said. “Mercedes?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“But … McLaren’s your home.”

Lewis shrugs, but there’s a sadness in his eyes. “It was. But things change. And if I don’t take this chance now … I think I’ll always wonder what could’ve been.”

You stare at him, your mind spinning. “Do people know yet?”

He shakes his head. “Not many. Just a few people on the team. I wanted to tell you before it got out, though.”

You chew on your bottom lip, absorbing the weight of his words. “That’s a big decision, Lewis.”

“I know.” He looks at you, his gaze steady. “But it feels like the right one. Even if it’s scary as hell.”

You let out a breath, feeling a strange mix of emotions — pride, worry, something you can’t quite name. “Well … if it’s what you want, I guess it’s the right move.”

He smiles, but it’s a small, almost hesitant thing. “Thanks.”

The silence stretches between you again, but this time it feels different. Like something has shifted — not just because of what he said, but because of the way he’s looking at you now.

“You’ve been there for me a lot lately,” he says softly. “I don’t think I’ve said how much that means to me.”

Your heart beats a little faster. “It’s no big deal.”

“It is to me.” His voice is low, and there’s something in his gaze that makes your breath catch.

He shifts slightly closer, and suddenly the space between you feels impossibly small. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle brush of his shoulder against yours.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

You look up at him, and the world seems to narrow down to just this — just the two of you, sitting on the edge of the harbor, the night air thick with something electric.

And then, slowly — almost hesitantly — he leans in.

For a split second, you think about pulling away, about the million reasons why this might not be a good idea. But before you can overthink it, his lips brush against yours.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll pull away. But when you don’t, he deepens it, his hand coming up to cup the side of your face.

It’s not the kind of kiss that demands anything — it’s the kind that promises everything.

When you finally pull back, your heart is racing, and your mind feels like it’s spinning in a thousand different directions.

Lewis looks at you, his forehead resting gently against yours. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he admits, his breath warm against your skin.

You smile, feeling a strange mix of exhilaration and disbelief. “Yeah?”

He nods, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you move, caught in the quiet aftermath of the kiss. The world around you feels distant, like it’s just the two of you, floating in your own little bubble.

Finally, Lewis pulls back slightly, though his hand lingers on your face. “So … what now?”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound light and easy. “I have no idea.”

He grins, and it’s the kind of smile that makes your chest feel warm. “Guess we’ll figure it out, then.”

You nod, your heart still racing. “Yeah. I guess we will.”

And somehow, even though nothing feels certain — his future, your career, whatever this thing is between you — there’s a strange sense of peace in the not knowing.

Because whatever happens next, you know you’ll face it together.

***

The air in the McLaren garage is thick with anticipation. Cameras are set up, media personnel are adjusting their equipment, and there’s a palpable buzz in the air as the press conference prepares to start. You stand just behind the curtain, your heart racing. You can hear the hum of voices in the room beyond, reporters murmuring to one another, waiting for the big reveal.

The past few months have felt like a whirlwind — a blur of contract negotiations, meetings with McLaren’s team principal, and the quiet, creeping excitement of finally getting the chance to do what you’ve always dreamed of. But now that the moment is here, the weight of it is settling in. You’re not just about to become the first woman in F1 in decades, you’re about to step into the spotlight as Ayrton Senna’s daughter.

You take a deep breath, glancing down at the McLaren-branded polo shirt you’re wearing, the crisp fabric somehow making everything feel more real. This is happening. After all the years of hard work, all the sacrifices, you’re about to make history.

Alain stands beside you, his face calm, but his hand on your shoulder is firm and reassuring. “You ready?” He asks, his voice low, but steady.

You nod, swallowing down the nerves. “I think so.”

“Just remember why you’re doing this,” he says softly, his eyes meeting yours. “This is about you. Not your father. Not anyone else. You.”

You offer him a small smile. Alain’s always been good at grounding you, at reminding you that you’ve earned this, regardless of who your father was. He’s been there through it all — your highs and lows, your victories and failures. And now, here he is, standing beside you as you take this monumental step.

The curtains part, and the team principal, Martin Whitmarsh, steps onto the stage. The room quiets as he approaches the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us today,” he begins, his voice carrying through the room. “It’s not often we get to announce something of this magnitude. Today, McLaren is proud to welcome a new driver to our team for the 2013 season. Not only will she be the first woman to compete in Formula 1 in over 20 years, but she’s also someone with a legacy that speaks for itself.”

There’s a murmur of curiosity from the crowd, and you know the moment is coming. The reveal. The truth that you’ve kept hidden, even from the people closest to you.

“Please join me in welcoming, Y/N Senna.”

The sound of your name, followed by your father’s, echoes through the room like a ripple of shock. For a brief moment, there’s stunned silence. Then, the cameras start flashing, the murmurs turn into a roar, and all eyes are on you.

You step onto the stage, trying to steady your breath. The weight of the announcement, of who you are, feels heavier than you expected. But you push through, meeting the gaze of the journalists, the photographers, the team members standing off to the side. You can’t see him from here, but you know Alain is watching from the wings, his quiet support steadying you.

Whitmarsh continues speaking, but the words blur together as your mind races. It’s not until you hear the murmured whispers in the back of the room that your attention snaps back.

“Senna?”

“Ayrton’s daughter?”

“Why didn’t anyone know?”

As the press conference wraps up, and you’re led off stage, the questions start flooding in. Journalists swarm, desperate for a quote, for more insight into the mystery that you’ve kept hidden for so long.

But before you can respond to any of them, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“Y/N.”

You freeze, your heart dropping. You know that voice. You turn slowly, and there he is — Lewis, standing just a few feet away, his face unreadable.

The PR team tries to shuffle you away, but you shake them off, making your way over to him. “Lewis …”

He cuts you off, his expression dark. “You’ve been racing for all these years, and you never thought to tell me? Not once?”

The sting of his words catches you off guard, and you open your mouth to respond, but he continues, his voice low but sharp. “I thought we were close. I thought we were-” He stops, running a hand over his face. “You let me fall for you, and you didn’t even tell me who you really are.”

You feel the blood drain from your face. “Lewis, it wasn’t like that-”

“Wasn’t it?” He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours, hurt and confusion written all over his face. “I get it, okay? You didn’t want people to treat you differently because of your name. But me? I thought we were past that.”

“I didn’t want to use my father’s name to get ahead,” you say, your voice trembling slightly. “I wanted to make a name for myself, first. And I didn’t tell you because … because I didn’t want it to change how you saw me.”

“Well, it’s changed everything now,” he snaps, his voice tight with anger. “I thought I knew you, but clearly, I didn’t.”

You take a step back, the weight of his words hitting you harder than you expected. “Lewis, please. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Didn’t mean to hurt me? You’re Ayrton Senna’s daughter, and you never even mentioned it once. How could you keep something like that from me?”

You bite your lip, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to spill over. “I didn’t want it to come between us.”

“Well, it has,” he says, his voice quieter now, but still laced with pain. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

You stare at him, your chest tightening. The distance between you feels insurmountable now, like a chasm that you don’t know how to cross.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

Lewis looks at you for a long moment, his expression softening slightly, but the hurt still lingers in his eyes. “I need some time,” he says finally, his voice rough. “I just … I need to figure this out.”

You nod, the tears finally spilling over. “Okay.”

He turns and walks away, leaving you standing there, your heart heavy and your world spinning.

As you watch him go, you can’t help but wonder if things will ever be the same between you.

***

The air at Imola is still. The late-summer heat clings to your skin, and the only sounds around you are the distant hum of cicadas and the soft crunch of leaves underfoot as you shift your weight from one foot to the other. You stare at the stone memorial, the bronze relief of your father’s face, the flowers people have left here over the years. Some are wilted, some fresh. There’s even a small Brazilian flag tucked against the base.

You exhale slowly, your hands stuffed deep into the pockets of your jacket. It’s been exactly a year since you first stood here, heart in your throat, hoping to find some kind of connection, some kind of clarity. The weight of the past year presses down on you now — signing with McLaren, the media frenzy, the fallout with Lewis.

And Papai. Always Papai.

You kneel, brushing a hand over the smooth stone, fingers tracing the engraved letters. “I made it,” you whisper. “I’m almost there.” Your voice catches on the words, a lump forming in your throat. “I wish you were here to see it.”

You close your eyes, trying to imagine what he’d say if he were standing beside you. Maybe he’d be proud. Maybe he’d tell you to push harder, go faster, never settle. Or maybe he’d tell you to slow down, to find a way to reconnect with your mother before it’s too late. But he’s not here. That’s the problem, isn’t it?

A soft rustling sound pulls you from your thoughts. Footsteps, deliberate but hesitant, approach from behind, crunching through the dry leaves scattered on the ground. You turn, and your breath catches in your throat.

It’s Lewis.

He’s wearing a hoodie, hands tucked into the front pocket, his brows peeking out from beneath a baseball cap. He stops a few feet away, his dark brown eyes meeting yours. There’s something guarded in his expression, but there’s warmth there, too.

You straighten slowly, your heart hammering in your chest. “What are you doing here?”

Lewis shrugs, his gaze flickering to the memorial and back to you. “Monza’s coming up. Thought I’d stop by first … like I always do.”

The tension between you feels like a wire pulled taut, ready to snap at any second. For a moment, neither of you says anything, the silence stretching out like a canyon.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” you finally say, your voice quieter than you intended.

He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours. “I didn’t think I’d see you here, either.”

You bite your lip, looking away toward the memorial. “I needed to. Before the race. I … I haven’t been here since last year.”

Lewis shifts, the soft scrape of his shoes against the ground. “I remember.”

The air feels heavy between you, thick with all the things you haven’t said to each other. The words are right there on the tip of your tongue, but they feel tangled, impossible to untangle without breaking.

Lewis is the first to speak again, his voice soft but steady. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About what happened. About everything.”

You swallow hard, your hands clenching into fists in your pockets. “Me too.”

“I was angry,” Lewis admits. “Hurt, too. But … I get it now. Why you didn’t tell me.”

His words catch you off guard, and you glance at him, surprised. “You do?”

He nods slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “I know what it’s like to feel like you have to prove yourself, like the world’s already decided who you are before you even get a chance to show them. I just … I wish you’d trusted me with it.”

“I wanted to,” you say, your voice cracking slightly. “I did. But … it’s complicated.” You look down, kicking at a stray leaf with your shoe. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to figure out how to be his daughter without being defined by it. And now … now it’s all out there.”

Lewis steps closer, closing the gap between you. “You’re not just his daughter, Y/N. You’re you. And that’s who I fell for.”

The warmth in his voice makes your chest tighten. You blink quickly, trying to keep the tears at bay, but it’s no use. They spill over anyway, and you wipe at them angrily with the sleeve of your jacket.

“It’s not just about the name,” you whisper. “Racing … it’s all I’ve ever wanted. But it’s also what took me away from my mom.” You take a shaky breath, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “She can’t even look at me without seeing him. I haven’t had a real conversation with her in years. The last time we talked was my birthday. And it was just a two-minute call.”

Lewis’ face softens, and he reaches out, gently brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, sniffing quietly. “It’s not your fault. It’s just … hard, you know? I love racing, but it feels like it’s cost me everything else.”

He takes another step closer, his hand lingering on your cheek. “You’ve got me,” he murmurs.

You look up at him, your breath catching in your throat. “Do I?”

He smiles softly, his thumb brushing along your jaw. “Yeah. You do.”

The world feels like it tilts for a moment, everything narrowing down to just the two of you standing here, beneath the shadow of your father’s memory. And before you can think too hard about it, before the doubts can creep in, you lean in, closing the distance between you.

The kiss is soft at first — tentative, like neither of you wants to break the fragile peace that’s settled between you. But then his hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and the kiss deepens, the weight of everything unsaid dissolving in the warmth of his touch.

When you finally pull away, both of you are breathing hard, foreheads resting against each other.

“I missed you,” Lewis whispers, his breath warm against your skin.

“I missed you, too,” you admit, your voice barely audible.

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world fading away.

Eventually, Lewis pulls back slightly, his hand still cradling the back of your neck. “So … what now?”

You smile, a small, genuine smile that feels like the first one in a long time. “Now … we go win at Monza.”

He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Damn right we will.”

You laugh softly, the sound light and free, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the weight on your chest lifts.

As you stand there, hand in hand with Lewis, you glance back at the memorial one last time. “I think he’d be happy,” you say quietly.

Lewis squeezes your hand gently. “I know he would.”

And just like that, the knot in your chest loosens. You’re still Ayrton Senna’s daughter. But you’re also yourself. And that? That feels like enough.

***

The crowd roars so loudly that it feels like the earth itself is shaking. São Paulo is electric, the grandstands packed with people draped in green and yellow, waving flags, and chanting. You’ve been in big races before, stood on podiums, and tasted victory. But this … this is different.

This is Interlagos. This is home. And for the first time in your career, you’re leading an F1 race in front of your people.

“Alright, Y/N,” your engineer’s voice crackles over the radio. “Five laps to go. Everything looks good on the telemetry. Just bring her home.”

Your heart pounds against your chest as you navigate the tight curves of the circuit. Every bump, every rise, every dip feels familiar. You’ve studied this track since you were a child. This is where your father was a legend — and now, it’s where you can make your own history.

The tires hum beneath you, vibrations pulsing through your hands and feet. The sky is dark with heavy clouds threatening rain, but the track is still dry, for now. Behind you, Sebastian Vettel is chasing hard in second place, his Red Bull a glimmer in your mirrors, but you don’t think about him. Not now. This is about you. About crossing that finish line first.

Four laps. Then three. Every second feels like an eternity. You can hear the crowd over the sound of the engine, their voices rising every time you fly past the grandstands. “SENNA! SENNA!” they chant, over and over, as if your name — your real name — was always meant to be called alongside your father’s.

“Two laps, Y/N. Gap to Vettel is two seconds. Stay focused.”

Your grip tightens on the wheel. You shift gears, your mind and body moving in perfect sync with the machine around you. The wind whistles past your helmet as you race up the hill toward the final turn.

On the final lap, it starts to drizzle — just enough to slick the track and make things dangerous. Your car twitches as the tires search for grip.

“Be careful, Y/N,” your engineer warns. “You’ve got this. Just stay calm.”

You breathe in. Breathe out. And then the chequered flag waves ahead of you, and the world explodes into color and sound.

“P1, Y/N! P1! You’ve won the Brazilian Grand Prix!” Your engineer’s voice is hoarse with excitement. “That was incredible — you just won at home!”

Your heart leaps as tears spring to your eyes. You punch the air, screaming into the radio, not caring who hears. “YES! YES! WE DID IT!”

The car coasts into parc fermé, the engine humming its final notes as you switch it off. You rip off your gloves and helmet, letting the cool air hit your damp face. The grandstands are still shaking with the cheers of thousands. Your name — Senna — is on every banner, every poster, and every fan’s lips.

You climb out of the car, adrenaline still surging through your veins, and jump onto the chassis. The crowd roars even louder as you throw your fists into the air, pointing toward the sky. The thought flashes through your mind: This one’s for you, Papai.

You jump down and make your way to the barriers where your team waits, already celebrating with hugs, fist bumps, and slaps on the back. You push through the throng of mechanics, your heart so full it feels like it might burst. And that’s when you see her.

Among the sea of McLaren team uniforms, standing stiffly with her arms wrapped around herself, is your mother.

Your steps falter for a moment, shock flooding through you. She’s here. She’s really here. You blink, wondering if the tears in your eyes are playing tricks on you, but no — there she is. Adriane.

She’s thinner than you remember, her hair streaked with more silver now. She looks out of place among the mechanics, but she’s here. Her eyes, so much like your own, are filled with something you haven’t seen in years — pride. And something more. Regret.

For a moment, you just stand there, frozen. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry or run the other way. Then her face crumples, and she takes a tentative step forward, her arms reaching for you like she used to when you were small.

That’s all it takes. You close the distance in an instant, throwing yourself into her arms.

“Mãe!” The word leaves your mouth in a sob, and before you know it, you’re both crying, clutching each other like you’re afraid to let go.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into your hair, her voice trembling. “I’m so sorry, minha filha. I was wrong. I should’ve-”

You shake your head against her shoulder, holding her tighter. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

She pulls back slightly, cupping your face in her hands like she used to when you were little. “I didn’t think I could do it,” she admits, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I was so afraid I’d lose you too. But then … then I watched you out there today.” Her voice cracks, and she brushes a strand of hair from your face. “And I saw him. I saw Ayrton. But more than that, I saw you. My daughter.”

You can’t speak — your throat feels too tight, and the tears won’t stop. So you just nod, leaning into her touch as the noise of the paddock fades into the background.

Adriane pulls you back into a hug, and for the first time in years, you let yourself feel it — the warmth, the love, the mother you thought you’d lost. And somehow, standing here with her in your arms, it feels like you’ve come full circle.

After a long moment, she pulls back and wipes her tears, a shaky laugh escaping her. “Look at us. Crying like fools.”

You laugh too, sniffling as you wipe your own face. “It’s okay. It’s a good day to cry.”

A voice cuts through the noise — your team calling you for the podium ceremony. You glance over your shoulder, feeling the weight of the moment settle on you. You turn back to your mother, hesitant. “Will you stay?”

She smiles, her eyes still glassy with unshed tears. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You nod, squeezing her hand one last time before you let go and jog toward the podium. The crowd’s roar is deafening as you step up to the top step, your name flashing on the giant screens around the circuit. The Brazilian flag rises slowly, and as the national anthem plays, you close your eyes and let the moment wash over you.

It feels like home. It feels like peace. It feels like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Later, after the champagne has been sprayed and the trophies have been handed out, you find Lewis waiting for you in the paddock, a grin stretching across his face.

“Not bad, Senna,” he teases, pulling you into a warm embrace.

You laugh, pressing your forehead against his. “Not bad yourself, Hamilton.”

The two of you stay like that for a moment, the chaos of the paddock swirling around you, but all you can feel is the steady beat of his heart against yours.

“Your dad would be proud,” Lewis murmurs, his voice soft in your ear.

You smile, closing your eyes. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I think he would be.”

***

The sun is setting over Monaco, casting the apartment in soft golds and pinks. You let yourself in quietly, the cool metal of the front door clicking shut behind you. Training was brutal today — your arms ache, and every muscle feels like it’s been wrung out. All you want is to find Lewis, maybe curl up on the couch together and recover with some takeaway.

You kick off your sneakers, already untying the knot in your ponytail, when you hear voices from the living room. You pause mid-step.

Lewis is talking to someone — no, two people. You creep forward on silent feet, heart quickening as the voices grow clearer.

“-I love her more than anything,” Lewis says, his voice low but certain. “And I want to spend the rest of my life with her.”

Your breath catches. You flatten yourself against the wall, just out of sight. It feels like you’ve stepped into some kind of dream, one where the pieces of your life are rearranging themselves into something both surreal and perfect.

Then you hear your mother’s voice — gentler than it used to be, softened by time and the walls you’ve slowly chipped away.

“You want my blessing?” Adriane says, her words slow, as if she’s tasting them, feeling their weight.

“I do,” Lewis replies. “I wanted to ask both of you. It felt right.”

Both of them? You inch closer, daring to peek around the corner. And there they are — Lewis, sitting on the couch, his elbows on his knees, looking more serious than you’ve ever seen him. Across from him sit your mother and Alain, side by side like a pair of mismatched bookends.

Alain leans back, arms folded, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he’s trying not to smile. “You realize what you’re getting into?” He asks dryly. “She’s more stubborn than Ayrton ever was.”

Lewis chuckles, but it’s a little nervous. “Yeah, I know.”

Adriane tilts her head, studying him like she’s trying to see through to his soul. “And if she says no?”

Lewis’ face softens, a quiet kind of love settling into his expression. “Then I’ll still be with her. Because I don’t need her to marry me to know she’s it for me.”

Something cracks open inside you. It feels like standing on the podium in Brazil all over again — overwhelming and humbling and impossibly full. You press a hand to your mouth, as if that will steady the emotion threatening to spill over.

Your mother leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. There’s a moment of silence so thick it hums.

“When Y/N was seven,” she begins slowly, “she told me she wanted to race. I told her no. I thought if I kept her away from the track, I could protect her from the same thing that took Ayrton from me.” She sighs, her gaze dropping to her hands. “But all I did was push her away.”

Alain clears his throat, glancing sideways at her. “It’s not easy,” he murmurs, more to Adriane than to Lewis. “Loving someone who belongs to the track.”

Your mother nods, her eyes glassy. “But you’ve made her happy. You’ve given her the space to be who she’s always wanted to be.” She pauses, blinking quickly. “And I see Ayrton in that. In you.”

Lewis rubs the back of his neck, clearly moved but trying not to show it. “That means more than you know.”

“And you promise me something,” Adriane says, her voice gaining strength, as if she’s gathering all her fears into this one request. “That you’ll never try to stop her. Not when things get hard. Not when it scares you.”

Lewis leans forward, looking her dead in the eye. “I swear. I’d never take that from her.”

Your mother exhales, like a weight she’s carried for years is finally lifting off her shoulders. “Then you have my blessing,” she says quietly.

Alain smirks, slapping Lewis on the back. “Looks like you’re in for the ride of your life.”

They laugh softly, the kind of laugh that comes with hard-won understanding.

And that’s when the floorboard under your foot creaks.

All three heads whip toward the sound, and you’re caught, frozen halfway between hiding and stepping forward.

Lewis’ eyes widen, and then a slow, guilty smile spreads across his face. “How long have you been standing there?”

You step fully into the room, arms crossed but fighting back a grin. “Long enough to hear that you’re plotting something.”

Alain chuckles, standing up and brushing off his jeans. “I think that’s my cue to leave.” He winks at you, patting Lewis on the shoulder as he makes his way toward the door. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, Alain,” Lewis mutters, rubbing his palms against his thighs, clearly nervous now.

Your mother rises as well, hesitating for a moment. She looks at you, her eyes soft. “I’ll call you later,” she murmurs, reaching out to squeeze your hand briefly before following Alain out the door.  

And then it’s just you and Lewis, standing in the golden light of your apartment, the door clicking shut behind your mother and Alain.  

You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep your voice light. “So … what was all that about?”  

Lewis steps closer, and suddenly the nervous energy from earlier melts away. He takes your hand, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your palm.  

“Y/N …” he begins, and there’s something so tender in the way he says your name that it makes your heart skip a beat. “I wanted to do this the right way. To ask the people who mean the mos to you.”  

Your breath catches as he drops to one knee, right there in the middle of your living room.  

He pulls a small box from his pocket, opening it to reveal a ring that catches the light like starlight on water. It’s simple, elegant, and perfect.  

Lewis looks up at you, his dark eyes filled with love, nerves, and hope. “I love you, Y/N. I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you at Imola. And I want to spend every day from now on making you as happy as you’ve made me.”  

You cover your mouth with your hand, tears already welling up in your eyes.  

“So,” he says with a smile that’s both warm and a little crooked. “What do you say? Will you marry me?”  

For a moment, all you can do is nod, words caught somewhere between your heart and your throat. Then you finally find your voice.  

“Yes,” you whisper, your smile breaking wide and free. “Yes, I’ll marry you.” 

Lewis’ grin lights up the room, and he stands, slipping the ring onto your finger before pulling you into his arms. You kiss him, slow and deep, and in that moment, it feels like everything — the years of struggle, of loss, of love — has brought you to exactly where you’re supposed to be.

When you finally pull away, breathless and giddy, Lewis leans his forehead against yours, his hands cradling your face.

“Guess Alain was right,” he murmurs, grinning. “This really is the ride of my life.”

You laugh, pure and full, wrapping your arms around him tighter. “Buckle up, Hamilton,” you tease. “It’s only just getting started.”

[deathbyday]

𖥔not so gen. mouthwashing relations headcanons.𖥔˚

Written By: DeathByDay

TW - death, SA.

Includes: Captain Curly, Daisuke, and Anya

__________

Captain Curly

• This man is 100% a sucker for romance

• I’ve seen some people say that they think that he’s one to be into PDA, but honestly I just don’t see it

• Maybe a few pecks on the cheek or light hand holding, but nothing more

• He just doesn’t seem that type of guy to me

• But in private? That’s a whole different story

• He’s all on you whenever you want him to be or not, especially in the mornings

• I feel like he’d love to hug you from behind while you sleep, his nose pressed against the back of your neck while his arms are wrapped around right underneath your chest

• Would 100% wake up first like c’mon he’s literally a captain, he needs to (much to your dismay)

• But while you’re still asleep he’d plant small kisses on the back of your neck to try to wake you

• If that doesn’t work, then he’d leave the room before coming back soon enough with a cup of your favorite morning drink. Coffee, tea, milk, water, you name it

• If you came to him during a bad day, rest assured he’s gonna take care of you

• He’s running a bath with the exact temperature you wanted, laying out pajamas for you, along with towels. Probably would put bath salt in there too (if you aren’t allergic and like the feeling of it)

• Acts of service and words of affirmation are his love languages, prove me wrong. YOU CANT

• You don’t understand how bad he would feel after the crash

• Like he can’t be there for you and you need to be the one taking care of him. He just feels pathetic

• You sometimes make Jimmy let you give him the painkillers. You wouldn’t be as harsh as him, of course. Just gently slide it on his tongue and help him swallow, not shoving or pushing it down

• Anyways back to pre-crash Curly

• I think he would adore it if you ever planted kisses on his cheek, neck, or forehead (or honestly anywhere else)

• If you’re shorter than him, you’d have to grab his jawline and bring him down to your level to properly kiss. Trust me when I say he would never recover from it

• Loves kissing your neck, especially before you two begin the day together

NSFW

• Y’all cannot tell me this guy isn’t the most gentlest man in bed

• Always asking if you’re comfortable, moving at a reasonable pace until you’re ready, praising you for taking him so well, etc

• He 100% presses down on your stomach to feel how deep he is inside of you

• Gives you neck kisses while he praises you

• #need that

• I think he’d end up being more serious than silly

• Although he would occasionally chuckle at your whimpers and moans, I don’t feel like he’d actually crack a few jokes

Daisuke

• Ten thousand percent blushes at the slightest contact. Even from your hand accidentally rubbing against his he becomes a flustered mess

• Adores PDA, he doesn’t care

• But of course if you don’t, that’s fine

• Just hold his pinky finger and give him a kiss on the cheek from time to time and he’s good to go

• 100% does puppy eyes whenever he wants a kiss

• You guys could just be laying on the lounge area’s couch and he would give you those eyes. Obviously you gave him what he wanted because who wouldn’t

• When you cuddle, I don’t really see him having a favorite position. He could be the big spoon or the little spoon, he’s happy with both

• When he’s the little spoon, he’d have his arms loosely wrapped around your waist. His head would be smushed into your chest, snuggling close

• When he’s the big spoon, he’d almost always have an arm wrapped around your shoulders while being in a starfish position

• Not to mention the snoring. He snores so loud you can’t prove me otherwise. He would sleep with his mouth open, which makes it even worse

• At first, it was tricky getting used to his snoring. But after a month or two of sleeping together, you couldn’t sleep without it

• Definitely not the one to wake up first. Most of the time, you have to drag him out of the bed to get him up and get ready for the day, leading to him whining and groaning

• Physical touch has this man in a chokehold

• Whenever the two of you actually have to work, he’d be so sad to leave you alone

• But after you two finally met up after, he would blabber about what he did, who he talked to, etc. and you would listen to every detail

• 100% the one to say “gyatt” whenever you pass by him. Even if you have a flat ass he still says it

• If you ended up dying before him, this guy would actually become depressed

• We all know he started getting drunk due to the mouthwash, but that is nowhere near how much he drank when you passed away

• If he ended up dying before you, he would promise you a thousand times while he’s bleeding out that he’d wait for you

• But back to fluff

• Whenever you have a bad day, this guy is definitely not leaving you alone

• He’d cuddle you until you literally explode

• If you were to ever kiss him anywhere on his face, he’d be a blushing mess no matter how light it is

• He genuinely doesn’t know what he’s doing and just wings it with you, knowing you’d love him no matter what

NSFW

• He’s definitely a whiner

• You’d have to shut him up by either making out or keeping a hand on his mouth to muffle him

• Soft sex soft sex soft sex

• There’s no way he can take it seriously when you two are in bed. Of course he would try if you were into that, but he’d end up giggling at the end of each sentence

• 100% has a praise kink

• Please tell this man how good he’s doing at keeping you satisfied. He’d be way too embarrassed to do anything more with you if you don’t

Anya

• My poor baby

• She isn’t the best at expressing her love for you, but it’s obvious she loves you so much

• Not very big on PDA, but you do sometimes get a hug or a light peck on the cheek whenever you walk into a room she’s already in

• Will rant to you about how dumb it is that Daisuke won the game in Sorry!. She could honestly go on for hours on end

• You have to calm her down and tell her that it’ll be okay. Never tell her “it’s just a game” because then she’ll get even more upset

• When she found out she was pregnant, she felt terrible. Not just for herself but for you

• What would you think? Assume she’s cheating on you with her assaulter?

• You two were in bed when she finally broke the news to you about Jimmy and the baby. And oh my god you actually almost fought that man

• She had to hold you back from getting up from your spot. After that night, you shot daggers at that man every time you passed him. You didn’t speak to him once, no matter the situation

• You held her in your arms that night, whispering praises into her ear before she finally fell asleep

• Speaking of sleep, she adores being the little spoon while cuddling with you

• Her face smushed into your chest? Your arms wrapped around her, fingers twisting around her hair? It sounded like heaven

• I feel like Anya would be the one to wake up first

• She won’t leave you alone until you did, so it doesn’t take long for you both to be up and ready

• She would mutter petnames against your neck, pleading with you to wake up from your slumber

• 100% makes your favorite drink in the morning and makes it perfect every. single. time

• If you can’t cook, she’ll teach you

• She’s a wonderful teacher and chef. She explains everything to you correctly and soon you actually catch on

• You bake cookies by yourself (under her supervision) and if you burn them, she still praises you like you did everything right

• Whenever you get hurt, even if it’s just a scratch that’s barely bleeding, she cares for you as if you’ve broken a bone

• Both of you are each other’s protectors. She watches out for you, and you watch out for her

NSFW

• She wouldn’t be very talkative, but she would occasionally speak if you ever asked

• Ex: “Use your words, baby.” “Y/N-.. Please..”

• I feel like she’d shed a few tears whenever she becomes overstimulated, or if it’s your first time together

• Let her go as slow as she wants. She’ll eventually become comfortable enough with you, but it’ll take a few attempts

• I’m literally begging you, don’t slam your fingers, dildo/strap, or dick into her. She won’t talk to you for ages

• Don’t do anything harsh while having intercourse. I feel like she’d rather you be soft with her

• She’d be a mix of silly and serious. Drop a few occasional jokes to get her to laugh. But only do that when you two are actually moving at a good pace

• At first, I think she would be serious. If not nervous. But when you guys are finally adjusting to each other, it’s always nice to see her giggle

__________

authors note

I sincerely apologize if anyone was hoping for swansea.. I just couldn’t think of anything for him. Still wanna kiss that grumpy old man though!!

but nonetheless, I hope you all liked this<3

[nereidprinc3ss]

slumber party

in which there's only one bed. fem bau!reader x spencer reid

fluff! warnings/tags: dark humor, (the word molest is used jokingly once but in my defense your honor its completely on brand for early seasons cm humor, if u cancel me u have to cancel the whole cast those are the rules, its just a joke cause reader always flirts w him aggressively, pls don't come for me i have a wife and children and three boyfriends to take care of,) mutual pining, bullying and death threats as flirting, they love each other so much and bicker like children, glasses spencer, (moans), emily and rossi are mentioned bc canon means fuck all to me, i think thats it but this is my most out of pocket duo so if i'm wrong lmk a/n: just a silly little thing that i cooked up, not a masterpiece but i think its cute!! I hope u enjoy!! lmk what you think!! looooveee youuuu

“Oh, there is no way.”

Your duffel bag hits the dingy carpet as Spencer is still closing the door behind you. 

“What? Is it—”

You give him a look over your shoulder, eyebrows raised as if to say, what are you going to do about this?

But he only manages to meet your eyes for a split second before they’re back to the singular queen bed, darting over the white sheets and pillows like he might find another mattress if he looks hard enough. 

Sharing a room with Spencer, you can handle. You've done it before. Whenever the team has to pair up at a hotel, you two are an obvious choice. And while you occasionally butt heads, mostly you adore each other and it's great.

But sharing a bed is a whole other situation.

One you were not prepared for. And evidently, neither is he.

Watching his big anxious eyes flit around the room nervously, you feel sort of bad for your reaction. You know you can be a bit… abrasive, sometimes. 

“It’s fine, I’ll just—I’ll see if I can share a bed with Emily or JJ in their room—”

Just then there’s a knock at the door. Spencer looks relieved to have something else to focus on, turning back around and quickly undoing the latch again before opening the door to reveal your favorite raven-haired SSA. Emily leans past the doorjamb, eyes immediately honing in on the awkward sleeping arrangement. 

“Oh my god! You guys too?”

“What?” You and Spencer ask at the same time. Emily raises her eyebrows at this and glances between you, but otherwise doesn’t comment. 

“Me and JJ only have the one bed. I thought it might just have been us.”

You frown. There goes your plan of sharing a room with them. 

“What about Morgan and Garcia?”

Spencer snorts.

“Something tells me Penelope wouldn’t be too torn up about it if that's the case.”

“Hotch and Rossi?”

The room goes quiet and a little chilly as the thought disturbs everyone equally. Emily frowns deeply.

“I don’t even… I can’t picture that.”

“Can we please not try to picture it?”

“Great. Okay, well. I just wanted to make sure everyone is suffering equally. Good luck, champs.”

“Thanks,” Spencer mutters dryly. Emily smiles, eyes darting between the two of you for just a moment too long, before pushing off the door frame and disappearing from sight. Once the door is closed again, a heavy silence ensues. “I’ll… I can take the floor—”

“It’s fine, Spencer. I’m not going to make you sleep on the floor. We’re both grown-ups. Besides, we like each other, right? It’ll be like a slumber party.”

“I’ve never had one,” he admits. His glasses slip further down his nose as he frowns. Your fingers itch to push them back up. 

“Then I’m happy to be your first,” you tease, facing him fully with your hand on your hip and barely resisting the urge to add, I’ll be gentle. “Do you want the shower first or can I?”

Spencer has a habit of looking you up and down like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. Some might find it odd, but his utter lack of social graces is, lucky for him, incredibly endearing to you. 

“You can have it first,” he says, meeting your eyes again. “Just don’t do that thing where you get the entire bathroom soaking wet.”

“Aw. But I love doing that. It’s my favorite part,” you tease, scooping up your bag once more.

Twenty minutes later you’re emerging from the bathroom with damp hair, clad in loose shorts and a college hoodie. 

“Nice outfit,” Spencer says from the spinny-chair at the desk, examining your outfit choice with a scrutiny you wish you’d been prepared for. Really, you wish you’d known ahead of time you’d have a roommate and brought some alternate sleeping clothes. “I had no idea you felt so passionately about… Scooby Doo?”

“Shut up right now,” you grit, tossing your bag into the corner of the room and tugging your hoodie down over your cartoon-patterned shorts as far as you can. 

“What?” He’s laughing as he brushes past you on his way into the bathroom, bearing his own bag. “It’s a good look for you.”

Your face is burning as you choose the side of the bed furthest from the door. Springs creak underneath your weight as you sink down, sitting with your legs hanging off the side for a moment before swinging them up onto the mattress, leaning against the headboard and side-eyeing the empty space next to you. There’s really not very much of it. The bed feels even smaller than it looks. 

From the bathroom you hear the sound of the shower squeaking and starting up again—a cacophony of droplets against tile on the other side of the wall. You try not to be nervous as you imagine Spencer filling the space beside you in just a few minutes, hair wet and in pajamas. And yet you spend each second wondering if he’s almost done, wondering if the shower will finally sputter to a halt, and once it does, wondering how long it’ll be before he’s out again. It’s ridiculous how impatient you're getting—and by the time you finally watch the door knob twist you feel crazy. 

“I think that was your longest shower yet, Dr. Reid.”

The teasing affords you a moment to ogle him head to toe, taking in his choice of pajamas—tonight, familiar plaid pants and an MIT crewneck—as well as his hair which has already begun to dry. Briefly you wonder if he does that thing guys do, where they lean down and haphazardly dry their hair with a towel because they have no concern for its texture whatsoever. But you kind of doubt it, because his hair always looks so soft. 

“You were sitting here waiting for me?” He chuckles, and honestly you’d been expecting a shyer response. But you adapt quickly. 

“Maybe I was. Big spoon or little spoon?”

“Ha-ha.” He opens a drawer in the dresser and begins unpacking his clothes into it. It's a funny habit of his. You never unpack your duffel. “You took the better side of the bed.”

“Uh, yeah. I’m the woman. I get to do that.”

“Well you should know that if an intruder breaks in, I’m not fighting him off. You’d probably have a better chance than me.”

“And my chances will be even better if he’s distracted with you first.”

“So I’m just bait?” He scoffs, looking back at you. Strands of wet hair hang so prettily around his face, like the perfect frame around a work of art. You smile sweetly from your spot on the bed before playfully biting at the air in his direction. The message goes unspoken but reads loud and clear. Of course you are. You make such good bait. 

That gets a blush out of him and he has nothing else to say as he turns back to his drawer. Happily you lean back against the headboard, stretching your legs out and bouncing slightly in place. Beneath you the mattress springs groan and squeak in protest. 

“I hope you're not going to be this irritating all night.”

It's clearly lighthearted, but you promptly stop and frown at his back. 

“Call me irritating again and see where you end up sleeping tonight.”

“I just don’t see how you’re even more hyperactive than usual right now. Has anybody ever told you that you’re crepuscular?” Spencer asks, finally sliding the drawer shut and going to shut the overhead light off. Your eyes narrow. 

“Obviously nobody has told me that.”

“It means y—”

“I’m most energetic within the few hours around dusk and dawn. Contrary to your belief, Dr. Reid, other people are also capable of looking up words in a dictionary and remembering what they mean. Are you going to stand in the corner all night or are you gonna come to bed?”

“I am,” he scoffs, clearly embarrassed and shy and embarrassed of being shy. “I’m just… you look like you kick in your sleep. And hog the blankets.”

You shrug, folding your knees to your chest and hugging them quaintly. 

“I’ve never had any complaints. In fact, you should be so lucky to share a bed with me. All five star reviews, baby.” 

You toss a suggestive wink in at the end, which seems garish enough to break the tension so that Spencer can stop lingering in the corner like a sleep-paralysis demon and move to carefully take his place next to you. He almost mirrors your position, but his legs are too long to quite manage your level of compactness and so they simply fold underneath him. A few silent moments go by, in which you have the dumbest smile on your face and you keep glancing over to the side, waiting for him to be looking back at you. 

“This is already the least relaxed I have ever been in a bed.”

“Good thing we’re not going to sleep yet.”

Finally he looks at you, a casual mix of hesitance, concern, and moderate curiosity coloring his features. 

“We’re not?”

“Oh, my god, Spencer,” you snort. “I’m not gonna molest you. We have to do slumber party stuff, remember?”

He flushes again, glancing at the digital clock in his bedside table. 

“But it’s late. We should go to sleep.”

“At slumber parties you have to stay up until you literally can’t keep your eyes open anymore. Those are the rules. I don’t make them.”

Still, your insistence that you follow the international code of sleepover law goes unabided by Spencer. He simply leans over to flick off his lamp, bathing the room in darkness. 

“I appreciate the effort,” he says, and your eyes haven’t adjusted but you can hear the rustle of sheets and blankets as he gets under them, “but unfortunately we have to be awake and alert in five hours.”

“You’re no fun,” you huff, but climb under your own side of the cover and scoot down until you’re flat on your back, covered in blanket and hands folded on your sternum. 

Spencer doesn’t respond. 

It’s silent for maybe five minutes, during which your brain doesn’t slow down at all. Maybe you are crepuscular. Or slightly nocturnal. You have nothing but energy. 

In an attempt to get comfortable, you try adjusting your position.

The mattress squeaks. 

You do it again. 

Another squeak. 

A second goes by, and now you’re intentionally jostling about, squeaking the mattress as much as you can. 

“Would you stop that?” Spencer says, voice already gravelly with sleep. You manage, but you’re already devolving into a fit of giggles. “I’m going to smother you with this pillow,” he threatens, but you hear the disgruntled smile curling his words. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m just not in the mood to rest.”

Another moment passes. He sighs deeply. You smile into the dark. 

“What are you in the mood for?” He asks flatly, and you’ve won. 

“Tell me a secret,” you immediately demand in a hushed tone, flipping on your side to face his back. “Something you’ve never told anyone else.”

“I don’t—”

“Shh! You have to whisper it. Those are the slumber party rules.”

“I don’t have any secrets,” he whispers, clearly flustered, and to your delight, rolling to face the ceiling. “None that you’d want to hear.”

“Oh, now that’s just not true. You’re an enigma, Spencer Reid. You fascinate me.”

You’re only sort of kidding. 

“I… fascinate you?”

“Completely. You know, ever since you moved your desk across from mine I get distracted just staring at you and wondering what you’re thinking about. But you’re very… hard to read, sometimes. I think it’s because you’re a Scorpio.”

“The position of the stars at the time I was born has no bearing on my personality.”

“Fine,” you concede, still in a glorified stage whisper. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t display the archetypal Scorpio traits. You’re all brooding, mysterious. Kinda, I don't know... intense and sexy and unknowable…”

“Sexy?” He laughs, breaking the whisper rule. You grin and let it slide. You’d hoped he would catch that one. 

“Hey,” you snap, losing the smile immediately and lightly shoving against what you hope is his shoulder. “You’re supposed to be telling me a secret, damnit. I won’t let your wiles and charm distract me from getting what I want.”

“When have you ever let anything stop you from getting what you want?”

Truly, your cheeks are going to start aching with this constant back and forth between poker-faced and huge Cheshire smile. 

“Stop flirting and answer my question, Reid.”

With the amount of times you’ve made him sigh tonight he must be dizzy. You chew your lip apprehensively in the silence, picking a loose thread on your pillow. It’s so pitch black in the room, you can’t see him where he lies only a few meager inches from you. But you can feel his presence. You can feel the unexpected bass to his voice when he’s tired and speaking this lowly, which you’ve never heard before.

“All the secrets I’ve never told anyone are just… depressing.”

Your heart sinks a little at the way he swallows between words, like that in and of itself was hard to admit. Unthinkingly your hand slides into the small gap of white cotton between the two of you. 

“Not very good slumber party material, I think,” he laughs self-consciously. 

“You’d be surprised.” 

The sentiment comes quieter and more serious than you’ve been all night. If only you had the words to tell him that he can tell you anything. That you want to hold his secrets for him under lock and key. That you would never, ever do anything less than offer him kindness and support—even if it doesn’t always seem that way when you’re teasing him. 

“Do you have any secrets you’ve never told anyone else?” He murmurs eventually, so soft it could kill you. 

And you do. There are plenty of dark ones, probably not all dissimilar from those he’d elected not to share only a moment ago. 

But you don’t bring those up. 

Instead, you decide to admit to something silly. Still, it makes you nervous as you feel it coming loose in your chest. You’ve really never told anyone this, and it’s perhaps more vulnerable than you’d realized before the words were already leaving your mouth. 

“I, have…” You pause to laugh at yourself, and continue on. “I have a stuffed dragon that I take with me on every single case.”

“You do?” Spencer laughs, so loud and unexpected it almost hurts your ears, angling his head toward you. Blood rushes to your face. 

“Yes. He usually sleeps in bed with me. He’s an excellent listener and has been the origin of several of my most genius breakthroughs. You remember Gibson Cooper?”

“Family annihilator from Houston?” 

“Correct. He’s in prison because Oscar helped me make the Cook Creek Campground connection between the O’Hara and Diangelo families.”

“You have a stuffed profiler dragon named Oscar? Is he here?”

“He’s—I mean, I wasn’t expecting to share a room with someone.”

“So he’s in your bag.”

“Yes,” you seethe, “and I will not be introducing you to him. He doesn’t do well with men.”

“You are genuinely psychotic.”

You huff.

“Fine. I’m sorry I told you anything.”

You’re about to roll over onto your other side—but Spencer surprises you by catching the hand that had been outstretched in his direction. He carefully intertwines your fingers and squeezes gently. 

“You’re right. That was mean. Thank you for telling me about Oscar.” His tone is surprisingly teasing, and you’re so uncharacteristically flustered by this rare show of physicality and affection that you can’t muster an adequate comeback. Spencer doesn’t seem to mind filling your silence, though, sounding a little more solemn now. “I’m sorry I don’t have any secrets for you.”

The way his voice gets all thin and scratchy sometimes—it’s like the earnest sincerity just pours out of him. He can’t control it. He can’t be anyone other than who he is. Maybe that’s a part of why you love him so much. You wonder if he knows how much you love him. It’s not exactly a secret—anyone on the team would be able to tell as much. You’ve been relentlessly teased for the way you are with him. For your batting lashes and your lingering touches and your unabashed flirting. But beneath it all is true affection, and nobody doubts that. 

“It’s okay,” you decide with a squeeze of your own, after a moment of deliberation. “You’ll think of something. ’Cause, y’know—you’re stuck with me for at least a few more days.”

“Oh, god,” he laughs, and releases your hand, rolling over to face away from you. But you don’t mind. You’ll get lots more time to invade his personal space over the coming week or so. “Goodnight.”

“Sweet dreams,” you sing-song, turning away to face the wall with what is perhaps your biggest, stupidest smile yet.