#why is my therapist on anon | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jungwnies · 21 days ago

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f1 grid | comforting them

୨ৎ : featuring : all drivers on the grid ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : comforting your driver boyfriend after they had a bad race </3

୨ৎ : genre : romance & fluff (angsty if you SQUINT) ୨ৎ : tws : some are suggestive ୨ৎ : word count : 3902

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : a monday post cus.. why tf NOT

ʚ・red bull

max verstappen

acts like everything is fine, but you can tell by how quiet he is.

you guide him past media without a word, shielding him physically and emotionally.

cuts everyone off with a clipped “it’s fine,” but lets you stay close.

doesn’t speak much until you’re alone—just sits beside you, jaw clenched.

eventually murmurs, “it was shit today,” without looking at you.

you just nod and take his hand, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles.

you order food, dim the lights, and make him lay down while you run your fingers through his hair.

he melts slowly, letting the tension fall out of his body.

“you’re like my therapist,” he mutters.

“you’re like my emotional tax return,” you shoot back, and he actually laughs.

yuki tsunoda

starts off convincing himself it’s fine. “it’s okay, just racing. it happens.”

tries to brush it off with humor, but his eyes are a little too glossy.

sits stiffly, arms crossed, forcing himself not to cry in front of anyone.

when you ask if he’s alright, he shakes his head and says, “i don’t wanna talk about it,” voice tight.

but as soon as you wrap your arms around him, he lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for hours.

“i tried so hard today,” he mumbles into your shoulder, and that’s when the tears come.

buries his face in your chest, completely silent except for the way his arms tighten around your waist.

you stroke his back and whisper, “i know. i saw. you did everything you could.”

he doesn’t let go for a long time, just holds you like he needs you to hold the world together.

later, sniffling into your hoodie, he mutters, “don’t tell anyone i cried. but don’t go anywhere either.”

ʚ・mercedes

george russell

“well, that was a masterclass in how not to have a race,” he says, throwing his gloves on the table like he’s commentating his own downfall.

acts unbothered, sipping his water like it’s champagne. “at least i didn’t crash into a wall. small victories.”

makes a passive-aggressive joke about his strategy call, then follows it with “but it’s fine. i love character development.”

when you ask how he really feels, he smirks. “emotionally bankrupt, but thanks for checking.”

keeps pretending he’s over it, but you catch him zoning out mid-shower, forehead against the tile, just breathing.

when you hand him a towel and a soft “you don’t have to keep it together right now,” he just shrugs. “if i let go, i might not get back up.”

you sit with him on the couch, and he rests his head on your lap, finally letting you card your fingers through his hair.

“you make this day slightly less shit,” he mutters, then adds with a cheeky grin, “wanna really take my mind off it?”

you raise a brow. “that subtle, huh?”

he just smirks, pulling you down for a kiss. “come on. don’t make me beg. i’ve had a really bad day.”

kimi antonelli

throws his helmet a little too hard, then immediately panics like "oh shit did i just break it," while storming into the motorhome.

tries to act cool but ends up rage-snacking on chips mid-rant. "why the f—why do i even try?! i’m literally doing everything and the car’s like, ‘no ❤️’"

paces back and forth while voice-cracking through sentences like, "no, it’s fine. it’s cool. it’s just… my whole career. no big deal."

you sit there trying not to laugh because he’s got one sock halfway off and crumbs on his shirt but is fully spiraling like it’s the end of the world.

“am i washed at 18?! is that even possible?”

you calmly hand him a juice box and say, “you’re not washed. you’re dramatic.”

he glares, sucks on the straw aggressively, then slumps down next to you with a loud sigh.

“i hate being a prodigy. too much pressure. should’ve been mediocre and mysterious.”

you rub his back and say, “you’re allowed to have a bad day, baby genius.”

he blinks up at you, lip jutted out. “if i win next weekend can we get matching crocs?”

you nod. he grins. “sick. emotional support footwear incoming.”

ʚ・ferrari

charles leclerc

comes home way too quiet. keys in the bowl, shoes off, straight to the bathroom without a word.

you find him staring at the sink, toothbrush in hand, not even brushing—just zoning out.

“i don’t know what i’m doing wrong,” he says, voice low. “i keep trying and i still mess it up.”

you hug him from behind and rest your chin on his shoulder. he doesn’t flinch, just leans into it with a sigh.

“maybe i’m not good enough anymore,” he mumbles. “maybe they’re right.”

you turn him around gently. “you are good enough. more than enough. stop speaking to yourself like that.”

he blinks fast like he’s trying not to cry, then rests his forehead against yours.

“i just… hate letting you down. even if you say you’re not disappointed.”

you guide him to bed, tug off his hoodie, pull the sheets over both of you. he curls into you instantly like a kid.

“you’re the only part of the day that feels good,” he whispers against your skin.

then, quietly, a little mischievously, “maybe we can end it with something else that feels good?”

you laugh into his hair. “if you’re asking me to kiss it better, just say that.”

“i am. in a poetic way.”

lewis hamilton

he doesn’t storm in. he’s not loud. he just walks through the door a little slower, like the weight of the day is still sitting on his shoulders.

takes his time taking off his shoes, hangs up his coat carefully—like staying in control might keep the emotions at bay.

sits on the edge of the couch with his hands clasped between his knees, eyes distant. “you ever give everything and still feel like it’s not enough?”

you sit beside him without saying a word, letting him talk when he’s ready.

“i don’t mind the criticism. i’ve been through worse. but sometimes it’s like… no one lets you just be human anymore.”

he looks at you with tired eyes, soft but heavy. “i’m not asking to win all the time. i just want to feel like i did something right.”

you lace your fingers with his and lean your head against his shoulder. “you do so much right. more than most ever could.”

he hums low in his chest, squeezes your hand. “you always know what to say.”

eventually pulls you into his lap, buries his face in the crook of your neck like he’s finally letting himself rest.

“just stay close tonight,” he whispers, kissing your shoulder. “you’re the one thing that still feels steady.”

“you’re the one thing that feels like peace.”

ʚ・mclaren

lando norris

kicks his shoes off a little too aggressively when he gets home. “don’t ask,” he mutters before you even say hi.

slumps on the couch, arms crossed, hoodie up, eyes on the ceiling. “today was great. crashed my hopes, ran over my self-esteem, 10/10.”

you offer to talk and he just grumbles, “nope. don’t wanna. gonna repress it. very healthy coping strategy.”

pretends he's fine, scrolls on his phone like he’s not one second away from crumbling. keeps sighing dramatically every five minutes for attention.

refuses to cuddle at first. “i’m mad at the world. leave me in my hoodie cave.” but then two seconds later: “okay but like… you can sit near me. just not touching. but like… close.”

eventually ends up curled into your side, face hidden in your neck. mumbles, “today sucked. i sucked. everything sucked.”

you stroke his hair and he softens immediately. “you don’t suck. you’re just tired. burnt out. you need rest, not punishment.”

“you’re being all soft and wise, it’s disgusting,” he grumbles—but his hand’s gripping your shirt like you might float away.

you kiss his temple. “still want me to leave you in your hoodie cave?”

he pulls the blanket over both of you and whispers, “shut up. you live here now.”

oscar piastri

walks into the room and doesn’t say much. just nods once, drops his bag, and disappears into the bathroom.

you hear the water running—ice cold. he always showers when he’s overwhelmed. said it helps him “reset.”

when he comes out, hair wet, hoodie half-zipped, eyes tired—he looks a little more like himself again. still quiet. still distant. but thawing.

sits next to you on the bed without saying anything, just slowly reaches for your hand and starts tracing circles on your palm.

“i didn’t know how to talk about it without getting angry,” he admits softly. “so i didn’t.”

you nod and lean your head on his shoulder. “you don’t need to explain everything right away. i’ll wait.”

he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “thanks for not pushing me. i just… hate not being enough.”

turns to you with red-tinted eyes. “it’s stupid. it’s just racing. but when it goes wrong, it feels like i’m failing you too.”

you hold his face and say, “you never have to earn being loved. not from me.”

he presses his forehead to yours and whispers, “can i just stay here with you for a while?”

then, a small smile. “also i might’ve left my sanity in the ice bath, but at least you’re here.”

ʚ・aston martin

fernando alonso

he comes home calm, like always. keys on the counter, jacket folded neatly. but there’s a tightness in his smile when he kisses your cheek.

“today was… different,” he says. not dramatic, not upset. just honest. “did everything right. still fell short.”

you know when it hits him—it’s in the way he lingers at the window, watching the sky like it has answers.

“some days you feel time catching up with you,” he says quietly. “not just in racing. in everything.”

he doesn’t need you to fix it. he doesn’t even need a pep talk. just presence.

you sit beside him on the couch, thigh to thigh, and rest your hand on his. he doesn’t speak for a while.

then, softly, “i think it just hurts more when you still want it this badly.”

you turn to face him. “it’s not weakness to want. it means you’re still alive in it.”

he smiles a little, shakes his head. “you’re too poetic for me.” but he leans in, rests his head against yours anyway.

“you help me breathe on days like this,” he murmurs. “even if i don’t say it.”

then after a pause, he smirks. “also… i might require some very specific stress relief later. for mental health reasons.”

you laugh. “is that what we’re calling it now?”

“doctor’s orders.”

lance stroll

walks in without a word, drops his stuff, and immediately faceplants onto the bed—fully dressed, shoes still on.

groans into the mattress. “everything sucks. i suck. the car sucks. media sucks. people suck.”

doesn’t want to talk at first, just grunts when you ask if he’s hungry. “no. actually, yes. but i don’t wanna move.”

you bring him snacks and he eats them off your plate like a sleepy gremlin, mumbling, “you’re the only good thing today.”

flops his head into your lap and finally breathes properly for the first time all day. “i hate how drained i get. everyone wants something. i just wanna be here.”

you run your fingers through his hair and he closes his eyes, murmuring, “i think i used my entire personality quota at the track.”

“can we just stay in here forever? like… disappear? change our names? move to a mountain town?”

you smile and nod. “sure. i’ll pack the stuff.”

he grins sleepily, then pulls your hand to his chest. “you make everything feel less loud.”

then, quietly: “you’re my safe place.”

five minutes later, fully under the blanket, eyes half-closed: “also. i’d like to make out now. for comfort purposes.”

ʚ・williams

alex albon

walks in already scrolling tiktok, earbuds in, nodding like he’s totally unbothered.

plops onto the couch, legs across your lap, and shows you cat videos like he didn’t just get roasted by strategy and a five-place penalty.

laughs too loud at dumb memes. “this is healing. this is therapy.”

you let him vibe, let him chill, until you see that slight pause mid-scroll. his thumb hovers. brows knit. he doesn’t show you this one.

“people are brutal today,” he mutters, still staring at the screen. “like… i know i joke about it, but sometimes i wonder if they’re actually right.”

you take his phone gently, set it down, and crawl into his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck. “hey. you know they’re not.”

he exhales slowly, voice quieter now. “i wish it didn’t get to me, but some days it does. just a little more than i’d like to admit.”

you press your forehead to his. “you don’t have to be funny about everything. you’re allowed to feel it too.”

he nods, lips pressed together. then, soft as ever: “can you just… hold me for a bit? like properly?”

“always,” you whisper. and he lets himself be still. no jokes. just you.

carlos sainz

he comes in with that tired-but-trying smile, tossing his bag down gently like even that feels heavy.

“it wasn’t… great. but i learned something. that’s always the takeaway, no?” he says, already slipping off his jacket.

he talks himself through it out loud, mostly to you but partly to himself. “maybe i pushed too hard. maybe the strategy wasn’t perfect. but i didn’t give up. that matters.”

you nod and hum and let him vent until he runs out of words and just stares at the wall in thoughtful silence.

“can i have a hug now?” he asks suddenly, already walking over like he knows the answer.

wraps his arms around your waist and buries his face in your shoulder. “you’re the only place i feel like i can breathe after a day like this.”

you guide him to the couch and he pulls you into his lap, burying his face into your neck like it recharges him.

“even if i’m okay… i still need this. i think everyone does, sometimes.”

he starts to drift off mid-cuddle, fingers tracing your spine lazily, voice getting slower.

“i should just speak spanish. english is too much work when i’m tired,” he mumbles against your skin.

then whispers, “gracias por amarme incluso cuando me siento roto.” (thank you for loving me even when i feel broken.)

you press a kiss to his forehead. “always.”

“te juro que voy a mejorar. para ti. para mí.” (i swear i’m going to get better. for you. for me.)

ʚ・haas

ollie bearman

bursts into the room like he just won the race. “alright! that was a trainwreck. who wants to start the post-race roast?”

keeps making jokes like, “honestly, i think i invented new ways to mess up today. f1 history books: written by me.”

you raise an eyebrow and say nothing, just letting him go off while he rants about strategy, traffic, “and my stupid left foot that forgot how to brake.”

finally crashes onto the couch, staring at the ceiling with a dramatic sigh. “do you think i peaked at 17?”

you crawl into his lap and cup his face gently. “no. i think you haven’t even scratched the surface of what you’re capable of.”

he blinks up at you, smile faltering for just a second. “yeah? even after… whatever that was today?”

“especially after that,” you say, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “you care. you fight for it. that’s what makes you special.”

he exhales, the tension leaving his body all at once as he buries his face in your chest. “okay, now i’m gonna cry like a little baby, hope you’re ready.”

you kiss the top of his head. “already holding you. already proud.”

he peeks up with a grin. “can you say that again but like, with sparkles and dramatic background music?”

you laugh. “ollie bearman, you are a legend in the making.”

“that’s the energy. now kiss me before i start doing self-deprecating tiktoks.”

esteban ocon

comes home calm, too calm, like he’s holding everything in with white knuckles and discipline.

doesn’t speak until he’s showered, changed, and had a full 20 minutes of silence. then sits beside you and says softly, “he was better today. i saw it.”

you know he means another driver—someone younger, someone faster today—and you can hear the frustration in his restraint.

“maybe i’m not doing enough,” he mutters, barely above a whisper. “maybe i’m the weak point.”

you try to stop him, but he just shakes his head. “i’m not fishing. i just… feel it. and i hate it.”

he’s not angry. he’s just disappointed in himself. his brows stay pinched even when you’re stroking his hand.

“i’m scared that if i don’t prove it now, no one will believe in me later.”

you climb into his lap and hold his face gently, forcing him to look you in the eye. “you don’t need to prove anything to be worthy of love. or respect.”

he leans into your touch, eyes closed. “i want to believe that. i do.”

you kiss his cheek. “then start here. start with me. i’ve always believed in you.”

he lets out a shaky breath and whispers, “merci…” then rests his forehead against yours like he’s anchoring himself back to solid ground.

ʚ・racing bulls

liam lawson

walks in tossing his hat onto the kitchen counter and mutters, “well that was a steaming pile of absolute crap.”

jokes about it in that dry way. “should’ve just driven a shopping trolley. might’ve gotten better results.”

he’s pacing while he talks, voice calm but clipped. “not even mad at anyone specifically. just… the whole bloody universe.”

you lean on the doorframe, arms crossed. “want me to fight the universe?”

he smirks, shaking his head. “nah. that’s my job. but i appreciate the backup.”

doesn’t take it out on you at all—in fact, he’s more affectionate. keeps reaching for your hand while he vents.

“i know it’s just one race. i do. but it builds up, y’know? starts to feel like you’re yelling into a void and it’s all echo.”

you guide him to the couch and let him rest his head in your lap. “you’re allowed to yell. i’ll hear it. even if the world doesn’t.”

he sighs and looks up at you with that soft, slightly crooked smile. “you’re dangerously good at this, you know that?” “at what?”

“loving me out of a bad mood.”

then he tilts his head and adds, completely casual, “might need a little… extra cheering up later though.”

you roll your eyes. “that what you’re calling it now?”

he grins. “what can i say? i’m a man of simple needs.”

isack hadjar

bursts through the door like a tornado. “I AM RETIRING. I’M QUITTING. I’M GOING TO OPEN A BAKERY. OR JOIN A CULT. SOMETHING PEACEFUL.”

flings his bag across the room, misses the couch, and nearly knocks over a lamp. doesn’t even blink.

“do you know how humiliating it is to be passed like that? i was driving my heart out and the car was like, ‘no...NOPE..NOOOO.’”

keeps fake-dramatizing it like a one-man soap opera. “isack hadjar: the fall from grace – coming soon to a streaming platform near you.”

you play along for a bit until he finally plops onto the floor at your feet and just… sits. quietly.

“i was actually trying today,” he mumbles, not looking at you. “like properly trying. and it still went to shit.”

you sit down beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and he leans into you slowly like he’s deflating.

“sometimes i feel like people are just waiting for me to fail so they can say they knew it.”

you turn to him gently. “they’re not. and even if they were… you’ve already proven them wrong just by showing up the way you do.”

he rests his head on your shoulder with a sigh. “you’re annoyingly good at this whole ‘being nice to me’ thing.”

you grin. “want me to stop?”

“no,” he mutters, snuggling closer. “never. might need it tattooed on me actually. in comic sans.”

ʚ・alpine

pierre gasly

slams the door just a little too hard. doesn't say anything at first—just kicks off his shoes, throws his phone on the table, and heads straight to the kitchen for water like it personally wronged him.

“they don’t listen. doesn’t matter what i say. it’s like talking to a fucking wall,” he mutters, pacing like he’s ready to punch a pillow.

you try to say something gentle and he snaps a little too fast—“i’m fine, okay?” but it’s not sharp. it’s exhausted.

he keeps moving around the room, hands on his hips, jaw clenched. “maybe i should stop caring. maybe that’s the trick.”

you don’t respond—you just walk over and wrap your arms around him from behind. he tenses for half a second. then sighs.

“you always do that,” he mumbles, not pulling away. “just… hug me until i stop being mad.”

you press your cheek to his back. “because i know you’re not really mad. you’re tired. and hurt.”

he turns around and buries his face in your neck like it’s the only safe place he knows. “i hate that they make me feel like this. like i’m not enough.”

you kiss his hair. “you are. always have been.”

he holds you tighter, breath shaky. “i don’t say it enough, but… i need you. especially on days like this.”

then, muffled: “also if you kiss me again i’ll probably forget what i was mad about. just sayin’.”

jack doohan

in front of the team? stone-faced. cool. collected. “yeah, not the best day. we’ll move on. it’s fine.”

comes home? immediately sighs the second the door closes. rests his forehead against the wall for a solid ten seconds before moving.

tries to act chill around you too. “it’s just one of those days. happens. i’m fine.”

he is not fine. but he’s doing that thing where he says he’s okay while avoiding eye contact and changing the subject every 3.2 seconds.

“you hungry?” he asks, even though he’s barely eaten since breakfast. “we could order something. or not. i don’t care.”

you eventually pull him onto the couch, and he lets himself flop next to you, arms crossed like a sulky cat.

he won’t say it outright, but his knee is bouncing, his fingers are twitching, and he keeps glancing at you like he wants permission to crack.

“i just hate looking like i don’t belong here,” he finally mumbles, voice low. “like i’ve got something to prove every second.”

you crawl into his lap and cup his jaw, making him look at you. “you belong. you’re not failing. you’re learning. that’s what makes you good.”

his lips part like he wants to argue, but then he just exhales and wraps his arms around you like you’re the only thing holding him up.

“it’s stupid,” he whispers. “i didn’t want to need comfort today. but here i am.”

you smile. “i don’t mind. i like being the person you let your guard down with.”

he looks at you with soft eyes and the tiniest grin. “well… if i’m already emotionally vulnerable and pathetic… might as well make out about it?”

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cinnamorollcrybaby · 2 days ago

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Can’t live without your love inside me now

Tags: sextherapist!Nanami x fem!reader, nocurse!au, taboo romance, heavy topics such as sexual assault, dead dove due to the power imbalance and heavy conversation, is this considered angst? idk

Synopsis: In which Kento Nanami is a sex therapist, and his client is a young neglected wife with an emotionally absent husband. He teaches you what love is really all about.

An: Just another warning that this fic deals with heavy themes. It’s honestly been so therapeutic for me to write due to my own history. If it’s not for you, I have plenty of other Nanami fics that are more lighthearted. For the anons in my requests asking for more Nanami, this is for you.

Part one. |

“With those things in mind, I’m interested in what has brought you into my office today.”

“I’m not sure… Sex just doesn’t appeal to me much anymore.”

Being a sex therapist, Kento Nanami has heard it all. He’s seen this same presenting problem again and again. He’s counseled young and older men with erectile dysfunction. He’s counseled persons of the LGBTQ+ community come to terms with their sexuality and how that relates to sex. He’s counseled so many people who come from purity culture and struggle with sex. He’s counseled couples who can’t seem to get it right in the bedroom. He’s counseled sexual assault survivors.

Kento Nanami prides himself on upholding the ethics of counseling. He keeps the code of ethics proudly sat upon his shelf. His goal as a therapist was to give everyone a safe space to divulge their most vulnerable inner thoughts to him.

Sex was too often treated as a taboo, offensive subject, which is why Nanami got into sex therapy in the first place. He wanted to change the stigma around it. Sex was a basic need for the majority of individuals, and many times, people have poor experiences with sex since it’s not normalized and hardly talked about.

“Okay, so is it fair to say you don’t often feel like you’re in the mood for sex?” he asked as he looked towards his client. A pretty young lady sat across from him on his couch. His “office” was in his home, finding that people often didn’t want to talk about sex in what they considered to be a “public” space like a therapist’s office.

“Yeah, I mean… I just...” your voice trailed off. You already felt like this might be a mistake. Your arms crossed over your chest as it felt like you were naked in front of your incredibly handsome counselor.

His office was nice, serene almost. He had different seating options and all kinds of fidget items around his office. He also had a plethora of books on a shelf behind his desk.

It seems he enjoys spending his time reading up about the art of sex. You can’t help but feel your face warm from thinking about him reading those sorts of things in his free time.

The walls were painted a nice soft blue grey color, and the office smelled like fresh linen from the aroma diffuser in the corner of the room. Several different houseplants were also scattered about. They all looked healthy, assuring you that Nanami paid attention to detail. He was responsible and consistent.

“Take your time,” Nanami assured you as he sat back in his chair. “The first visit is always the hardest. Don’t feel pressured to get down to the bottom of why you’re lacking a sexual drive. These things take time and trial and error.”

That was… almost reassuring. You took a deep breath as your fingers absentmindedly twirled a strand of hair behind your ear. The familiar ministration worked to calm your mind.

“I’m young, and I’m recently married. I have no kids. I feel like I should be… I don’t know— at my sexual prime or something.”

“What gave you that idea?” Nanami probed as he continued observing your small nervous habits. He found his lips trying to curl into a smile, but he kept his face meticulously trained as a look of interest.

“Well, girls talk, you know? My girlfriends talk about their lack of a sex life stemming from other obligations or from a lack of a connection…” you explained as you briefly looked up at Nanami. Each time his hazel eyes met yours, you had to look away immediately.

When you found his information online, you didn’t think he’d be this handsome. You just saw all of his credentials, and you had heard good things about him on different websites centered around “rating” therapists.

Of course, you had done some digging on him. There was no way in hell you were going to go to some strange man’s house to talk about sex. That sounded ridiculous.

“Do you compare yourself to these so called ‘girlfriends’ often?” Nanami asked calmly. His voice was even and smooth, allowing you feel even more safe to open up.

“I mean, no. They’re just all I have in terms of what’s normal for sex.”

“Okay, so let me make sure I understand this right. You lack a sexual drive. You feel guilty that you lack sexual drive because you believe you don’t have a good enough reason to not want sex on a regular basis, and you think that you’re not normal. Does that cover it?”

You winced a bit as it was all laid out on the table for you. Your eyes squeezed shut, trying to hide from how pathetic you sounded. You sheepishly nod in response.

“Y/n, open your eyes for me,” his voice spoke gently, coaxing you to slowly flutter your eyes open to look into his. Once he had your gaze, he went on, “These are all normal feelings to have. I can blab on and on to you about how our society is blatantly misogynistic when it comes to sex, but I’ll spare you the details since I’m sure you’re painfully aware. We’re going to figure this out together, alright?”

You took a deep breath, letting his words wash over you as a security blanket. It was nice to have someone to just talk about these things freely to. You felt a glimmer of hope shine through.

“Okay,” you said with a small nod, feeling more confident now.

“So, you mentioned earlier that you're recently married. Tell me a little bit about that."

You try not to have a physical reaction when Nanami brings up your husband. It was a topic that felt too raw.. too close to home. You’re supposed to be a dutiful wife, right? So, why would you feel that way when talking about your husband?

“Oh, uh… well,” you stammer, looking away from Nanami as you suddenly came up blank on your own marriage. “We got married about a year ago. Some say we’re still in the honeymoon phase, but…”

Nanami perks up a little in his chair. Some therapists take notes or record their sessions. Nanami doesn’t believe in it. He thinks it takes away from the moment. He’d much rather be present with his client rather than jotting down notes.

“But..?” he urges you to go on.

“But… I guess it just doesn’t feel that way.”

“What is your idea of the honeymoon phase? What does that look like to you?” Nanami asks, clasping his hands together in his lap as he relaxes into his chair.

You take a moment to process his question. What does the honeymoon phase look like?

“For me, it looks like the movies where couples do things for each other without being asked. They’re attuned to each other’s emotions, and they make a conscious effort to be sensitive to their partner’s feelings.” Your eyes meet Nanami’s once again, and you let out a deep breath. No one told you that counseling would be this mentally strenuous.

“Okay, what about in your current life? Do you feel like that’s how it is now?”

You nearly laugh from the question. You mentioned that sort of love being in movies because you’ve never seen it in real life. You’re nearly convinced that it doesn’t happen in real life, and anyone who claims to have that type of love must be lying.

“No, I feel like we’re both focused on our own lives… We just happen to also be in a marriage together.”

“That doesn’t seem like an active partnership,” Nanami responds as he searches your face thoughtfully. He can feel his heart ache for you. This is by far his least favorite presenting problem to work with because he can’t just tell you that you need to leave your husband. All he can do is inspire you to seek the changes you need. “What are you focused on in your own life right now, y/n?”

You feel the tension set in your shoulders and neck as soon as you hear that question. Just thinking about what all you have to do is enough to stress you out. “For starters, I work full-time. It’s a standard corporate job from eight to five, but it can be a lot.”

“That’s not easy, y/n. Just because that is what’s considered to be standard, doesn’t mean it’s easy. I’m sure that’s a lot on your plate.” His voice was low and calm. His presence felt so warm in the room; you feel like you’re finally able to open up a little.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I also take care of the house and our pets.”

“The housework… is that all your responsibility?” Nanami asks as his eyebrows knit together slightly. He feels like he’s already scratching the surface of why you don’t have any sex drive.

“Yeah. If I want him to do anything, I have to delegate the work to him. My husband always says to just tell him whenever I want something done, and I should be grateful that he’s willing to help—“

Nanami couldn’t help himself. He doesn’t like to interrupt clients often, but the more you talk about tour husband, the more he’s having to hold himself back. “That’s the bare minimum.”

You’re slightly taken aback, and you look away from Nanami. A part of you knows that he’s right, but… you didn’t want to bad mouth your husband. A large boulder of guilt settled into your stomach.

“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Nanami’s voice returns to that gentle tone. “That probably wasn’t appropriate for me to say. I apologize.” He knows he shouldn’t have said that, and he knows he has to appropriately handle this if he wants you to feel comfortable enough to open up again.

“I guess I just… It feels wrong talking negative about my husband to another man. It just feels different when I’m ranting with my girl friends.” You straighten your posture and take a deep breath. It feels good getting that out in the open.

Nanami slowly nods his head. He can see why you view that act as troublesome. “So, you’re feeling tense because of our opposing sexes? Tell me. Does your husband know where you are right now?”

“Well, yeah… He was honestly the one who told me I needed help since I don’t feel any sort of sex drive.”

Nanami’s teeth subtly clench together, but he keeps a stoic expression as best as he can. The thought of your husband claiming that there’s something wrong with you absolutely repulses Nanami.

“How does that make you feel?”

Your fingers twitch a bit as you look down to the ground. You should be honest with Nanami if you really want the help that you came here for.

“I guess it makes me feel like I’m not good enough for him. Every time we have sex I try to cater to him, but it just feels like it’s never enough. If he had it his way, we’d probably have sex everyday, but I just don’t have that kind of time, energy, or desire.”

Nanami feels his chest tighten while he listens to you. This is why he hated working with this presenting problem. This man is ruining your confidence and self-esteem, and your low sex drive is either completely natural or it’s because of him.

If Nanami could show you what it was like to be truly loved, he would. Then, you’d probably open your eyes and see that your husband is the one who isn’t good enough for you.

He shakes those thoughts out of his head. He knows he’s bound to a code of ethics. He can’t pursue you romantically or sexually. It’d be morally wrong.

“That’s heavy.” He nods, allowing silence for reflection. He then speaks up again after a pregnant pause, “Let’s break down what you said sentence by sentence, okay? First, you have said that you feel guilty and not good enough in terms of sex.”

You slowly nod, still avoiding eye contact with Nanami. Why didn’t anyone tell you that this would be so emotionally exhausting.

“Do you put a lot of pressure on yourself to perform?”

That question alone opened up the floodgates. Tears bit into your eyes, and you covered your face with your hands. “All the time,” your voice cracked, betraying how deep this affected you.

“Oh dear,” Nanami says softly. He grabs a box of tissues, and he hands them to you. “Sex is meant to feel natural and progressive. It’s understandable that you don’t feel any drive if you’re constantly pressuring yourself.”

You nod as you take the tissues, dabbing your eyes gently.

“I just,” you let out a deep shaky breath, trying to calm your nervous system. “It’s easier to just do it and get it over with rather than to hear him ask multiple times.”

Nanami clenches his jaw. His hand gently finds your shoulder, and he makes you look up at him. “Listen to me. If you take nothing else away from this entire session, take this. Asking multiple times even though the answer was clearly a no is coercion. Whenever he asks multiple times, he’s hoping that you get tired of telling him no and just give in.”

Your eyes meet Nanami’s, and your eyebrows furrow a little. Coercion? No.. no, that can’t be right. He’s your husband. He’s just asking to make sure you hadn’t changed your mind. He wouldn’t coerce you into anything you didn’t want to do…

You slightly pull away from Nanami. “I don’t think that’s right… He wouldn’t do something like that. He’s not abusive.”

Nanami leans back. He chides himself internally for going in too deep too quickly. He’s grateful that you’re giving him grace right now. You definitely could’ve just left the session after he blatantly told you that your husband was a conniving piece of shit.

He takes a deep breath. “I apologize. I must have it wrong,” he says as he regains his posture. He knows he needs to make you understand. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Oh—? Uh, no.. no I’m okay, thanks.”

“Are you sure? It’s good tea.” Nanami leans in slightly, not breaking eye contact with you.

“Yeah, I’m sure… I don’t really think I can stomach it..” you respond, confused as to why he was suddenly wanting to make you tea.

“Tea is good for digestion. It might help your stomach. You really don’t want any? I can make it quickly with an electric kettle I bought the other day.”

You slouch back a little, a frown covering your lips. “I mean.. I guess tea would be okay.”

Nanami then gives you a knowing look, and the realization hits you. “Did you actually want the tea, or were you just going to accept the tea because I kept pestering you?”

Goddammit. This therapist is good.

Taglist: @theuniversesnepobaby @airandyeah

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fanfic #fanfic #jjk suggestive #jjk fic #jjk au #jjk nanami #nanami fic #nanami x y/n #nanami x you #nanami x reader #jujutsu nanami #nanami kento #kento nanami #kento x y/n #kento x you #kento x reader #jjk angst

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hrrtshape · 3 months ago

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anyways. i’m going to be so real because i am sick to death of people treating shifting/loa creators like personal therapists, servants, or human manifestation calculators. at what point does it click that we are actual people? not some floating concept meant to guide you through your entire existential crisis. not some customer service hotline for your shifting woes. you are not owed endless hand-holding and free labour just because you asked nicely (or, let’s be honest, didn’t).

and god, the entitlement of some people. no, it wasn’t funny when i was asked for explicit information about my dr boyfriend WHO IS SEVENTEEN AND A REAL PERSON. no, it wasn’t funny when someone asked if we have angry sex ?????. no, it wasn’t funny when someone literally told me to get r4p3d for being a ‘liar’ and then not even specifying exactly what i was lying about. or asking me to manifest that you die. or telling me that i'm your s/o. do you hear yourselves? do you see how deranged this is? i am a seventeen-year-old girl, i have said this multiple times, to go ahead and click on my profile, then on my little inbox box, proceed to type that, proceed to turn on anon, and proceed to send that is full on insanity.

i’m sick of it. i’m sick of babying you. and i can fully understand why some people turn into tough love creators, because you can discover everything by just going to my masterlist. i’m sick of explaining theory in dms, then in asks, then in comments, only for you to turn around and say, ‘but i still can’t shift, i still can’t manifest.’ i’m sick of posting an in-depth breakdown of why something isn’t working, only for you to ignore it and repeat the same complaint. if you don’t want to help yourself, i can’t help you. no one can help you. if you refuse to engage with the material, then that’s on you.

i am not a prophet. i am not your personal shifting coach. i am not your mother, your diary, or your emotional support system. i am someone who also doubts. who also struggles. who also has days where nothing works. i have over 580 asks right now, and do you know how many of them are just variations of the same question? how many of them are cruel, entitled, coy little jabs meant to bait me into giving some grand confession that shifting isn’t real? or trying to find some tiny detail to run me off the site? it’s exhausting. we are not required to keep going when you make this an unsafe space. the implication that we owe you proof, that we owe you our experiences, that we owe you some kind of public performance of shifting so you can sit there and scrutinise it for cracks. the entitlement is staggering.

shifting and loa creators are people. we cannot and will not manifest or shift for you. we are not responsible for your progress, and we are not responsible for giving you infinite, unpaid emotional labour while you refuse to actually put in effort yourself. stop being weird.

#shifting #reality shifting #shifting motivation #reality shift #loassumption #loablr #loa blog #desired reality #realityshifting #shifting realities #shifting community #loa tumblr

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piastriprincess · 9 days ago

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hold on and hope ⸻ lando norris x reader .

featuring lando norris , exes to ??? , angst , hurt / comfort word count 3k author’s note requested by anon ! sorry i had to tweak it a bit because i’m such a slow writer . ummmmm this is my first time writing angst and i’m not sure it’s good . i hate putting lando in this situation … personally that’s my baby and i need to tuck him into bed and give him a kiss on the forehead ! however i also am obsessed with exes who can’t get over each other so if lando has to go through a little emotional pain for that then so be it <3 come tell me what you think — as always , my inbox is open for requests . title is from about you by the 1975 !

When your phone rings this late, you know something’s wrong.

It jolts you out of your sleep, ensconced in your warm duvet as the London rain falls softly on your roof. No one calls you this late anymore, you think, still half-asleep as you fumble for your phone. The artificial light slices through the darkness, knifing at your heavy eyes. Not since —

LANDO NORRIS, the phone reads, and suddenly you’re wide awake.

You don’t remember when you changed his contact back to his full name. Sometime in the blur of weeks after the breakup, probably — something your friends or your therapist had told you to do, something to create emotional distance. Something that wouldn’t bring on a fresh wave of tears every time you remembered three years’ worth of silly texts and marathon FaceTimes from lan 🧡, before the nickname stung like salt poured into a wound you couldn’t stop reopening.

Your phone keeps buzzing on your nightstand. You watch it like it’s a ticking time bomb, like if you pick it up it’s going to explode and shatter your heart into a million pieces all over again.

You tell yourself you’ll be fine, letting it go to voicemail. You’re doing the right thing. You’re protecting your heart. This is growth. And tomorrow, when you wake up and remember this wasn’t all some awful dream, you’ll be proud of yourself. Lando won’t call you again.

The phone buzzes a final time, the screen dimming slightly, and something coils tight and ugly in your chest at the sound. Not relief. Not peace. Just a sharp, suffocating panic. Lando won’t call you again.

You don’t think. You just lunge for the phone and press the Answer button.

“Lando?” It’s the first time you’ve spoken his name in six months. You hate the way it still flows off your tongue.

For a moment, static is all you hear. The thought crosses your mind that it was a butt dial, and it makes your heart sink in your chest.

Then he clears his throat, and a sweet, horrible hope burns in your stomach. “Hey.” His voice is low and rough, like he hasn’t spoken to anyone in hours. “Sorry. I shouldn’t’ve called.”

“It’s okay,” you croak. Your voice feels heavy somehow, months worth of questions resting in the space between you.

“No, really, it’s late for you, and I wasn’t thinking —”

“Lando,” you say again, sharply but not unkindly. “Why are you calling me?”

“Fancied a chat,” he says, like it’s normal, even though you haven’t spoken since that final conversation where you both agreed to walk away and guard your hearts before the damage became unfixable. “No reason really.” Somewhere in the middle of the sentence, his voice starts cracking around the edges. It unfolds some of the wariness stuck in your chest.

“You wouldn’t be calling me at 3 AM for no reason,” you sigh gently, sitting up and resting your back against your headboard. “What’s wrong?”

“Fucked it, didn’t I?” Lando sniffs, and then starts crying.

It’s not the way he used to cry last year, when the championship race loomed large, when the distance between you started getting too wide for you to cross. Back then the tears were quiet, restrained, like he thought if he showed you how fucking scared he was you’d run away and never come back. He’d roll over and turn his back to you in bed, press his hands to his eyes, pretend he wasn’t unraveling. It was like he was locking you out of a door you wanted desperately to go through; it broke a tiny piece of your heart every time he didn’t let you in.

This is different. This is him crying in earnest, cracking open for you, unfiltered, like he doesn’t care if you see the damage anymore. Like some part of him hopes you will.

“Just — ‘M never fucking good enough,” he mumbles through the tears, and your heart shatters all over again.

“Like. Jeddah last week. Qualified P-fucking-10. I got the car up to P4, but —” he pauses, hiccuping through the tears. “Couldn’t get podium, and lost the WDC lead. And I thought Miami would be better, but it’s not.” He laughs wetly, though nothing about it is funny. “Osc outqualified me again. Kimi put it on pole. A fuckin’ rookie.” He sniffles again, shifts on an identical bed three thousand miles away. “I just... I dunno what’s wrong with me.”

You tuck your feet under yourself and hum like you’re taking in new information. Like you didn’t watch Jeddah from start to finish two weeks ago, hands clammy with nerves as you watched him fly. Like you don’t still have alerts on your phone for his press conferences, like you didn’t watch the way his eyes dropped and flattened today when he said he wasn’t good enough. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Lan,” you say, holding the phone a little tighter against your ear.

He doesn’t answer right away. You can hear him breathing, ragged and shallow, like he’s trying to hold himself together. “You don’t get it,” he whispers finally. “You were always the one who believed in me. Even when I didn’t.” His voice hitches, and the sound scrapes against your ribs. “And now you’re gone, and —” he swallows tightly. “I don’t know how to believe in myself without you.”

The words hit like a blow to the chest, your eyes pricking with hot tears. You open your mouth to speak, and nothing comes out. It’s like you’ve had the wind knocked out of you at the simple truth of it. He called because he needed you; you picked up because you needed him, too.

“Shit,” Lando says, and your stomach drops when you realize you’ve been silent for too long. “M’sorry. That was — too much, probably. I, um… I shouldn’t have called.” His voice sounds small, brittle. Closed-off, again. The ache you feel at the sound is all too familiar.

“Lando,” you try feebly, but it sounds pathetic even to your ears. He just bared his soul, and what did you give him in return? Silence on a phone line, three thousand miles away.

“It’s fine. I’m okay, really,” he says, and you don’t need five years of knowing everything about him to be able to tell he’s lying through his teeth. “Just — needed to hear your voice. I should get some sleep, probably. Let you get some rest, too. Lo- Bye,” he croaks into the phone, and you just catch the beginning of an open-mouthed sob before the line goes dead.

You don’t think. You just pull up a new tab and search next flight to miami with shaking fingers.

An hour and a half later, you’re sitting in a plane seat, sending a frantic text to Oscar for Lando’s hotel and room number. The pilot crackles through the radio as the crew prepares for takeoff, informing you about the temperature and time zone at your destination.

According to the intercom, it will still be 3 AM in Miami when you land. You hug your knees to your chest and try not to think about what it means to travel back in time, about whether you’re flying back to a past where the two of you were still everything to each other.

—

Lando doesn’t know how long he’s been staring at the ceiling. Long enough for the sky to darken from sunset to twilight to inky blackness, at least. He hasn’t slept. Just laid there and cried, clutching his phone to his chest like if he holds on hard enough, he can conjure the soft sound of your voice again.

It was selfish of him, really, to have called you. He knows it was after 3 AM where you were, saw it plain as day on the stupid timezone widget that he can’t bring himself to delete off his lockscreen. But — everything feels like it’s falling apart around him, and you always know how to talk him off the ledge.

Knew how, he thinks bitterly. Before he stopped letting you in. Before he fucked everything up with no hope of fixing it. Before he let you walk away.

Drivers tend to overthink their decisions, and Lando’s no exception. What if I’d taken that turn a little wider? Tried to overtake at turn 12, instead of 13? Mostly, as his new mindset coach reminds him over and over, it’s a losing battle. You race how you race. You can’t change it after the fact, and one bad decision doesn’t outweigh the good ones. He knows that, even if he can’t quite accept it.

But Lando knows this, too: out of all the bad decisions he’s made in his life, letting you go was the worst.

He still remembers the balm of being loved by you. The soothing, quiet steadiness of it, like a warm blanket dulling all the noise, tethering him to something real. You had this way of seeing him, even when he didn’t know how to show you the worst parts of himself. And God, he tried so hard to keep those parts hidden, to be enough for you. But he wasn’t. Not back then.

Maybe he still isn’t. He’s trying, but he’s selfish. Weak. Pathetically in love with you, even now.

The room feels too still in the hours after the call, like it’s holding its breath with him. The only sound is the muted crash of the waves breaking on the beach outside and the echo of the phone call lingering in his brain, your voice calling him Lan tucked somewhere precious in his memory. He wonders if he’ll ever get to really hear you again.

That’s when he hears the knock. Two taps, one long, one short. Your knock, from what feels like a million lifetimes ago. A little more hesitant than he remembers, but. It’s yours.

He doesn’t think. He just scrambles to the door, throwing it open like he’s hoping he’ll see a ghost on the other side. And there you are.

“Hey,” you say cautiously.

He just drinks you in for a moment. He’s seen you since the breakup, of course. Stalked your Instagram more than he cares to admit, watching your life slowly morph into something he didn’t recognize. First you left Monaco for London. Then you cut your hair. Got a new job. Started smiling in photos again, even when it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Lando remembers a particularly embarrassing moment a few months ago where he practically begged Max to ask P to ask you if you were seeing anyone based on what he thought was a male forearm in the corner of photo 18 in a 20-slide carousel.

All this to say: even though you were changing, he thought he remembered you. What you looked like, how you moved.

But seeing you in person — eyes heavy and red-rimmed, fingernails bitten to the quick, hair flattened on the side like you’d leaned against the plane window — it guts him in a way he didn’t expect. He’d forgotten how visceral your beauty is. How it cuts into him like a shard of glass.

“You came,” he finally says hoarsely, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

You just shrug, running a hand through your hair the way you always used to, and the sameness of it lodges into his chest. “You called.”

It shouldn’t knock the air out of his lungs the way it does. But it does, because for a second, it sounds like before. Before, when you smiled at him like you were already halfway to forgiving him for things he hadn’t fucked up yet. Before, when you whispered his name like a promise, not an ache.

He stands there stupidly for a beat, you in the hallway, him inside the room. The doorway in between the two of you. The chance to let you in, one more time.

“Come in,” he says, stepping back, and when you walk in it’s like the air shifts. Like the place has stopped holding its breath, even though Lando’s still holding his. He watches you place your bag on the ground, walk to the window and stare out at the vast expanse of beach and ocean below. The silence yawns between you two.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” he says, and it sounds stupid even to his own ears.

You don’t look at him. “Neither did I.”

He tries to ignore the way the words feel — like you’ve just pressed your thumb into a fresh bruise just to make him feel the ache. “Probably shouldn’t have called,” he mumbles to the carpet, head down and humiliated. He can feel the tears pricking at his eyes again. He’s probably cried enough tonight to fill up whichever ocean it is you’re looking at right now.

“Glad you did,” you say quietly, and something like hope surges suddenly in his chest. When he looks up, you’re not looking at the ocean anymore. You’re looking at him with those beautiful eyes, walking slowly towards him like he’s a wild animal you don’t want to spook. “I saw the interview. I was worried about you.” You swallow thickly, and Lando’s eyes catch on your lips. “I never stopped worrying about you.”

He doesn’t think. Just surges toward you, wrapping his arms around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear like a specter if he doesn’t hold on with both hands. Your arms come up like a reflex, one smoothing the curls at the nape of his neck, the other around his waist as he buries his face in your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he tries to say, but the words come out somewhere between a sigh and a sob, like the weight of everything he’s wanted to say to you for half a year has finally found a place to land. “I’m so fucking sorry,” he tries again, whispering it into your skin over and over like he can thread the two of you back together with it.

“Oh, Lan,” you sigh, shaking your head gently, and Lando’s knees nearly buckle when your lips brush against his temple. “You don’t have to —”

“I do,” he insists, pulling back just enough to look at you. Your eyes are glassy, lashes clumped together. “I’m sorry I called you. I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I shut you out when all you did was love me.” He rakes a shaking hand through his curls, like it might bring him back down to earth. “I’m sorry I acted like I didn’t care. I’m sorry I thought if I stayed that I’d drag you down with me. I’m sorry I thought not having you would be better than missing you every single minute of every single fucking day.” A single tear drops down your cheek, and Lando has to fight the insane urge to kiss it off, to taste the salt on his tongue.

“I’m sorry I don’t know how to stop loving you,” he says, finally, voice breaking around the words.

“You hurt me,” you whisper back, but your eyes are still trained on his. You don’t look away, and neither does he. No one’s running now; it’s just the ugly, naked, raw truth bared between you after six months of hiding from it.

“I know,” he says, and he can feel the wet on his cheeks. Your fingers make their way out of his curls, slide around his face to cup his cheek and brush the tears off.

“I still love you,” you admit, pressing your forehead against his. The words, the contact, it fucking dizzies him. It’s everything he hasn’t dared to hope for. “I wouldn’t have flown here if I didn’t. But love isn’t enough if you’re still the person who let me walk away.”

“I’m not,” he blurts immediately, the words rushing together almost as fast as the correction. “I mean, I’m trying not to be. I’m still figuring it out,” he stammers out. His voice would be shaking a lot more if he couldn’t see the hope in your eyes. It steadies him a little, knowing that you still believe in him. “But I want to be the version of myself who deserves another chance with you. And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make up for how I hurt you, if you let me.”

There’s a long, aching pause.

Then: “Okay,” you say, like you’re testing the weight of it on your tongue. “Okay.”

He leans forward, tentatively, like he’s not sure you’ll let him move much further, afraid that he’ll break whatever this fragile thing is between you. His eyes search yours one last time for permission, and when you don’t pull away, when your lips part just the slightest bit, he closes the space. His mouth brushes against yours, featherlight at first, more question than certainty. You answer him with a soft exhale, your hand against his cheek anchoring him there. The kiss is careful and reverent, like he’s relearning the shape of you. Your fingers curl into the fabric at his shoulder, pulling him closer to you, and the moment feels like the first sunlight after a long winter — warm and golden, almost too good to believe.

You end up curled together on the bed. Not saying much, just existing in the same space again. At some point, you drift off, but Lando can’t quite follow you. He’s afraid to fall asleep in case it’s a dream, scared to blink and find the bed empty again. But when the sun starts peeking over the horizon, your fingers are still wrapped around his, grounding him.

It’s not all fixed. Not yet. But as Lando watches the steady rise and fall of your chest as you sleep, your fingers still intertwined with his, all he can feel is relief that he’s finally, finally done something right.

#f1 #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris #lando norris angst #f1 driver x reader #f1 driver x you #lando norris x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #❀ my work .

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gghostwriter · 3 months ago

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Hi!! I saw your requests are open for fluff and I love your writing and have an idea currently plaguing my mind if you are interested (but no worries if not!) 🩵

There’s this girl on tiktok who does rejection therapy where she makes little requests to strangers with the expectation of being denied, but sometimes the outcome is super sweet. I think it would be cute for a kinda shy reader to be doing rejection therapy and ask Spencer (or any of the BAU) to like play rock paper scissors or hold their badge or something with the expectation of being rejected, only to be pleasantly surprised when she isn’t rejected

Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader Trope: Fluff! Just fluff w.c: 1.33k A/N: Slowly defrosting my request box purely for fluff. I do feel a bit rusty in writing again, it's a muscle I've forgotten to exercise on the daily. I am no chess player so I honestly don't know how to write a game. Anon, I hope this still lives up to your imagination! Main masterlist

Intermezzo. // Spencer Reid

Hushed adult chatter and boisterous children’s laughter filled the greening park, once cold and barren from the winter past. The sun, as if still shy to take center stage, peeked behind a cloud of white curtains. Vibrant hues of picnic blankets scattered all over the green grass, books and wicker baskets keeping them from going with the windy breeze.

Over the past few weeks, you’ve gotten comfortable in the new city you now call home. Bringing the tumbler of coffee against your moistened lips, the corners of your mouth lifted to form a soft smile, marveling from how far you’ve come. This city now contained your coffee shop down the block, your bookstore tucked between alleyways, and your park nestled in the middle of the bustling city.

Your therapist was excited for this new chapter of your life, coaxing you to take baby steps away from your cocoon and enjoy what it had to offer. Filled with slight trepidation a few weeks ago, you sat on the exact same bench, back rod straight and hands wringing from the unknown when a group of men, ages of all varying degrees, had caught your eye. They were gathered under the shade from two great trees, seated and hunched over, playing various states of chess.

Fascinating.

They kept to themselves, something you could relate to. As Saturdays and Sundays passed on, you found yourself wondering why there seemed to be no women or any newcomers, to be exact, that join in the fray. Do people not feel the draw? Is it only you who found them intriguing?

Movement caught the corner of your eye.

A new face walking towards the gaggle of men—or to be exact, hobbling towards with crutches under his armpits, to an unoccupied chess table. His eyes scanning along the throng of players before briefly looking down and tapping his uninjured foot to an inconspicuous beat.

You observed him with fascination and anticipation, wanting to see if any of the usual faces would join in on his table, allowing him to be absorbed into the otherwise impenetrable group.

Five minutes.

Then ten, the seat in front of him remained empty.

You briefly wondered if you could do it—you weren’t after all bad at chess, being a past player in high school. Not that you won more than three competitions, joining the team was purely an excuse for extra credits and to get out of physical education.

Could you do it?

Could you walk up to a complete male stranger and ask for a game?

Could you take the rejection that may come with it?

Gnawing on your lip, you found yourself moving closer and closer, steps quiet and hesitant but each shuffle ringing in your ear. His eyes, feeling the change in the wind and your upcoming presence, met yours—both wide-eyed and unsure.

He seemed to be just like you, a doe-eyed deer stepping out of their hiding for predators lying in the wait. A gust of breath escaped your lips, a measly amount of strength returning to your tightly strung body.

“H-hi,” you whispered.

He blinked before clearing his throat. “Hi, how can I—” his gaze tracking the path of your gaze, the opposite black pieces on the chess board. “Do you, do you want to play?”

You timidly smiled. “If you’d have me, yes.”

“Yes,” a smile forming on his face, hands fighting to push the wayward curls behind his pinking ears. “Of course, please.”

Gingerly seating on the marbled seat, you muttered a ‘thank you’ under your breath, one you were sure he didn’t hear.

No words were exchanged further as he moved his white pieces with grace. It was a complete contrast to yours, rusty and unsure even to that moment as to what you were actually doing seating in front of a chess genius. That was who he was, you realized, as he ate another of your pawn. Perhaps this was why no one dared to occupy the seat. He was no outsider or meek prey, he was the king (or prince) and the predators of all chess enthusiasts in the group.

You could feel the heat from the gazes of the spectators, other tables long abandoned to view and scrutinize the eventual downfall of the challenger. Whispers of strategies under their breaths and shakes of their head as they predict the next thirty-seventh move.

Briefly you wondered if you should just call it quits, wanting to hide from the pressure. But isn’t this a prime opportunity to take further steps away from your comfort zone? Isn’t that was your therapist would have wanted? Perhaps, you were expecting rejection in the beginning and now that you were in the thick of it, you wished that it had come instead. The sweet ‘no’ from his handsome stranger’s lips rather than feeling your nerves fray from the trap laid in front of you—a pawn in perfect position to take his queen on c1.

“Would you like to take a break?” he asked, expecting his voice to be filled with mockery and superiority, but rather was coated with the sweet, worrying tone you’d expect from a doting grandmother.

Shaking your head no, moving your king away from endangerment—g8 to h7.

Your opponent smiled before quickly taking his turn with a pawn.

The game continued on in such manner, give and take, between two strangers turned opponents. You could feel the end coming as his moves further stalled, now requiring the handsome stranger to assess the remaining pieces on the board to his gain. In turn, you studied him.

The ends of his hair brushing against the middle of his long neck. Its’ roots sticking to his forehead, shiny from perspiration. Sleeves of his button down haphazardly folded to expose his forearm and one subtle vein that disappears and appears as he moves. You doubted he was any older but the underlying confidence brimming underneath his humility made you think he’d been exposed to the underbelly of the world, long before you did.

Seven moves later, he flashed you another smile—bigger and more joyous than you’ve seen. “Draw.”

The spectators stilled into silence. A rarity, one of the older gentlemen whispered under their breath before everyone brought into an applause.

It happened in a flash causing breath to be caught in your throat. You’ve done it. The game was over. You’ve gone above and beyond from what your therapist had asked you to do—her “rejection therapy” leading you to an unknown you couldn’t wait to explain.

“Good game,” he breathed out.

You nodded, watching as his right hand reached out in between, casting a shadow on his knocked over king. “Oh—” lifting your hands in front of you to act as a barrier. “I’m not much of a—the number of pathogens passed during a handshake—”

“Is staggering. It’s actually safer to kiss,” he continued on before chuckling to himself, hand still extended out regardless of the trivia being shared between you two. “Not that I’m saying we should but yeah, I’m not much of a ‘handshake-r’ myself.”

Giggling, you slowly reached for his awaiting hand, giving him a way out before both palms met and fingers locked around it.

It was warm, like the sun that was no longer hiding behind the curtain of clouds, like a tumbler of freshly brewed coffee made by your favorite barista.

“I’m Spencer. Spencer Reid.”

Your cheeks heated. “Nice to meet you, Spencer Reid. I’m Y/N.”

Hands still firmly connected across the chess game long forgotten, both of you seemingly unwilling to let go of the physical connection.

He cleared his throat. “Would you like to play again sometime?”

“If you’d have me again, yes.” Briefly biting your lip before taking another brave step, creating another ‘rejection therapy’ moment. “Or we could have coffee or tea sometime?”

You waited with bated breath.

The corners of his eyes crinkled and another breathtaking smile painted his face.

“I’d like that. I’d really like that.”

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