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#This was just something I needed to get out of my head at 4 am

cutielando · 3 days

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maiden win ~ lando norris

Synopsis: Lando finally gets the win he deserves🧡

Words: 1.2k+

Other works: my masterlist

a/n: you guys cannot even understand how happy i am for my man right here. so deserved🧡🧡🧡

♡♡♡♡♡

You had felt something in your gut from the moment you had touched down in Miami with Lando. You had felt good about what was to come from the weekend.

Lando felt the same way, but seeing as the last time he felt that confident about his pace had been Russia in 2021, he didn’t want to jinx it.

The Sprint hadn’t quite gone the way he and the team had wanted. Being taken out before Turn 1 was always painful, especially when it wasn’t even your fault.

You couldn’t get the image of how down and sad he had seemed when he walked back to the garage, even more gutted when the Stewards fined him.

And then qualifying came and he didn’t manage to get on the front row, no matter how much he pushed the car on those medium compound tyres.

Having to settle with starting P5 in the race when he knew what he could get out of the car had not been easy on him.

“I just wish things would have gone my way” he explained to you while you laid in bed in your shared hotel room, late at night before race day.

You sighed, nodding in understanding as you weaved your hands through his hair comfortingly.

“You’ll show them how strong you are tomorrow. Now, more than ever, you need to have faith in the car, in your team and most importantly in yourself” you said, making Lando look at you with admiration.

“How do you always manage to calm me down?” he asked, which made you giggle and run a hand down his cheek lovingly.

“4 years and an engagement later” you joked, making him finally break out into a genuine laugh.

There were so many stolen moments from you guys because of the racing, you would often forget to just be with each other and let loose, forget about everything even for just a little while.

Lando has always stated that he wouldn’t be able to make it without you, claiming you were the only one that could help him unwind and completely disconnect from the races and the stress that came with it. Lately, the stress had got even worse than usual.

“I don’t think my time is coming anytime soon” he said after a couple of moments of comfortable silence between the two of you.

“Why do you think that?” you asked, your hands still running through his soft curly hair.

He shrugged, snuggling closer to your body and now resting his head against your chest.

“It feels like no matter how much progress we make or how many upgrades we bring, something just doesn’t click at the end of the day. It seems like nothing we do is good enough” he explained.

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. You could only imagine what he felt like, working so hard with the team and feeling like nothing was paying off, you sympathized with your fiancé and the entire team. However, somewhere deep down in your heart, you knew his time was even closer than he thought.

His win was coming this weekend, your gut kept telling you.

“My love, you have to keep being positive. You’ve shown impressive pace the entire weekend, and what happened in the Sprint had nothing to do with you or how the car performed. I have a good feeling about the race tomorrow, so please just indulge me and have faith in yourself and in your team” you said, kissing his forehead at the end.

He didn’t say anything else but nodded, burying his face even deeper into your body. His eyes slowly started dropping as he enjoyed the feeling of your hands playing with his hair, the only thing on his mind was doing everything he can in the race so you and the team would be proud of him.

He needed it.

♡♡♡♡♡

Being in the garage while watching the Miami Grand Prix had to be deemed as a health hazard. From the precise moment the Safety Car was deployed and Lando was leading the race, having come in to swap his tyres, the entire garage was on their toes.

The tension in the air while watching the last laps was like nothing you had ever experienced, not in all the 4 years you have been with Lando and attended the majority of his races.

Mechanics were chewing on their fingers, pulling their hair or pacing around the garage. You were listening in on the radio as he talked to Will, your heart beating wildly in your chest and echoing in your ears.

The second you saw him cross that finish line and take the checkered flag in P1, you could literally not stop crying. The tears were freely and fully falling down your cheeks, your eyes soaking in the energy and celebrations that were happening all around you.

“Y/N, he did it!! He won!!!” Jon was the one who brought you back to reality when he ran to you and scooped you into his arms, laughing in disbelief.

“I can’t believe he actually did it” you said once Jon put you down, wiping the tears from your eyes to no avail because new ones were just taking their place.

Hugs were going all around the garage, everyone hugging the nearest person to them. Zak and Andrea pulled you into a shared hug, urgently prompting you to follow them to where Lando would be.

At first you were apprehensive, preferring to wait for him at the garage, but you couldn’t deny the two men that were literally dragging you to Lando.

The moment you saw him coming towards you and the team, a whole new wave of tears starting falling down your cheeks, sobs racking through your body once he ran to you and scooped you into his arms, lifting you up over the barriers so he could spin you around.

“I fucking did it. I did it for you, baby” he exclaimed in your ear, making you laugh and nod, kissing every part of his body that you could reach from your position.

“I am so fucking proud of you. All the work you’ve done up until now has finally paid off. I love you so much and I am so proud of you for this” you said, kissing him hard when he finally put you down.

You didn’t care that he was sweaty at that moment, you didn’t care that he could barely catch his breath, you just needed him to know just how proud you were of him for what he had just done.

He certainly wasn’t complaining, squeezing your body against his like you would dissipate in the air if he let you go. The entire team was cheering and screaming all around you, which prompted you to finally pull away.

“Go and celebrate with them. You all deserve it” you said, unwrapping his arms from your waist and pushing him towards his team.

He leaned in to peck your lips once again quickly before he jumped to his team, being lifted and praised by every mechanic around him.

As you watched him interact with his team, some of them who were crying because of how proud they were of him, you realized how lucky you both were.

Lando was so loved, not only by you and his team but by the other drivers as well, who you could see were so happy to finally see him on the first step of the podium.

The Miami Grand Prix was one to remember. The day the entire Formula 1 community came together to celebrate Lando Norris.

The winner of everyone’s heart.

The winner of Formula 1.

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evidenceof · 3 days

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Winnix Country, I'll take you there.

Winnix fic recs finally! I clawed through pages 1-61 on AO3 and then scoured through Dreamwidth because I just need this ship injected into my brain.

Just so we're all aligned, I'm very much into "Classic" Winnix. And while generally I do still read AUs, much of what I keep close are the ones that are entrenched in, before, and after the war. Still enjoy a bit of the supernatural though. So please forgive the lack of non-WWII AUs. :') Ok onward.

Note: All links in blue are restricted to logged-in AO3 users! So hopefully you have an account so you can read some gold.

5+1 tag

The Way I Wear Your Hat by Muccamukk - I will consume anything Mucca writes and live in it for at least two weeks.

Let Me Be Close by armyofbees - So tooth achingly sweet, tender in post-war. Nix combing Dick's hair? I'm so.

I'm Alright Now You're Here by @stopstopstopit - A.k.a. Dick and Nix going, "Was I truly that blind???" about each other and everyone in Easy Company saying, "Yeah." So good, so, so fun. Giggled like a maniac all throughout.

Pre-War

Before the World Begins by rilla (@flomps)- The first time I read this, I cried. Then again the second, third, fourth, etc. Lew and Dick meet in NY before Benning, before everything, and it's under very different circumstances. I love the characterization of Nix and Dick in this so much and the gentleness in the midst of all the smut. A TALENT!

Lancaster County by rachelelpillo - Technically not pre-war because this is an AU where it happens without them. It's bittersweet, but emphasis on the sweet. Teenage Dick and Nix and a whole summertime of falling in love.

Bicostal by dancinguniverse - I am a sucker for anything that starts at OCS. I love this and the telegrams and letters tucked within it.

Wartime

Bird Wedding by rachelelpillo - The way she writes anything really sounds like a summer day to me. This one is very understated and just wonderful if you want something that leaves you smiling. (Highly recommend you go through her work, last she posted was in 2010. :') )

And at Your Touch, I Burn by Muccamukk- CHRIST. A SICK!FIC. God I love this for so many reasons, one of them being just the incredible way Mucca describes the field exercise, the crawl and length of it. And Dick getting sick. Nix doing what he does. It's wonderful. It's perfect.

Vampire Overhead! by joissant - There's a little Vampire!Nix AU for you. In the midst of Bastogne and hunger, there is this and it's fucking fantastic.

love divine, all loves excelling by @flanneryoconnorfanfiction - The way my heart soared all throughout this fic. Religion, for many reasons is often the point of friction for Dick, and this one turns it over its head. It's reverent and (so) joyful and honestly, probably what God should feel like. There are not enough kudos-es in the world.

Post-War

Head Trip by @ezlebe - Two lines from this fic ring in my head daily, that's how much I loved every bit of it. And I mean who isn't a sucker for Operation Varsity-adjacent fics? Harry's in this so it's automatically just extra wonderful for me. I LOVE!! I absolutely love.

Like a Bird on the Wire by semperama - Them coming home without an established relationship is always a trope enjoy. Blanche Nixon is here being cheeky, and Dick is all smiley, Lewis is stressed the fuck out. It all makes for a wonderful get-together.

More than a Team by @mercurygray - I love reading about Ann Winters and I love seeing Nix and Dick navigate those familial relationships after the war. This is short and so, so sweet. Every bit as wonderful as the ice cream.

thyme and rosemary by @oatflatwhite - Yet another one where Ann Winters makes a wonderful cameo. Dick is trying not to be miserable and he keeps writing all these unsent letters to Lew. Featuring the cutest kitten ever.

Series

What Things We Have Heard Together by joissant (4 works) - Quite possibly required reading for Winnix enthusiasts. Feels like such a gift to be able to thread through so many points in their relationship and everyone else tangled in their orbit.

Winnix from the POV of other people Oh my god I love outsiders-looking in fics of the two of them.

Transcript by Corvid Cordelia - LISTEN. If you love Easy Company, you love Winnix, Webgott, Spierton, etc, they're all here. It's such a treat for people who fell in love with everyone's personalities in BoB.

Women in Conversation by shiveringpinkala - Ann Winters tries to surprise her brother and it doesn't go quite as planned. Blanche is in this too so it makes it extra delightful. Love this fic.

Entendre by @thrillingdetectivetales - Harry Welsh has no fucking clue what Buck Compton is implying about Winters and Nixon but he's gonna find out. Again, I love Harry Welsh with all of me.

A special mention to String Quartet No. 14 by @oatflatwhite for a HS AU that had me kicking my feet and smiling all the way to the very last word.

If you have similar favorites, PLEASE LET'S TALK ABOUT THEM. There's still a lot I'd like to re-read and revisit so this will highly likely be updated in the future. I'd love to hear your favorites too. <3

#winnix #evidenceofrecs #dick winters #richard winters #lewis nixon #band of brothers #BoB #fic rec

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meazalykov · 2 days

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Good Game, Sal

Salma Paralluelo x Barca!Reader

"enemies" to lovers, angst

Salma Paralluelo and I, both rising stars of Barcelona's Femeni team, shared more than just a common jersey; we shared a rivalry that burned hotter than the Catalan sun on a July afternoon.

Salma, with her quick footwork and innate goal-scoring abilities, was a product of La Masia, Barcelona's renowned youth academy. Her journey to the top seemed paved with gold, crowned by her recent triumph in the World Cup with the Spanish national team. Me, on the other hand, hailed from a humbled path, I considered my talent raw and untamed, molded through sheer determination and grit.

Growing up in the United States, I’ve played through many unknown summer leagues, clubs mainly filled with boys, school teams, and futsal in the winter months before I put the pen on paper with Washington Spirit at the age of 15.

After four great years with building my talent, creating new friendships, and enjoying my life in the United States Capital, my contract was expiring.

Washington Spirit offered me a renewal, but Barcelona contacted my agent with a proposal that sent my jaw dropping to the floor. The Catalan Club was my dream club while growing up. I’ve admired Alexia Putellas, Ronaldinho, Messi, and Xavi for years. So I followed my heart and denied another four years in Washington DC, so I can accomplish my dream.

However, I had to put in hard work when I arrived in Barcelona. This challenge was needed, since the challenge to score on the pitch fuels my passion. However, I didn’t expect a rivalry to happen WITHIN the club rather than the opponents I’ve played against.

First, it was a constant competition for playing time. Overtime, I’ve thought that I harbored a deep-seated resentment towards Salma, envying her success, her effortless grace on the pitch.

Against Madrid CFF, my debut game in September, I scored a brace that drove the club to win 4-0. Afterwards, I’ve held a record for scoring at least once in a game I’ve had minutes in.

However, Salma seemed to have the upper hand when it came to having a start. I had to swallow my pride every time I had to be her 67th minute substitute. She always hugged me when she would come off, but my body would tense up everytime. Nobody noticed the small resentment for her, except for Salma herself. She started to piece small things together.

“You did great today Niña, I'm impressed by your dribbling and speed in training.” Alexia, or my captain Ale, patted me on the back as we headed into the locker rooms after training. A few days ago, we won the Champions League semi-final against Chelsea. Thanks to a goal from Aitana, Fridolina, and I.

Alexia was a huge advocate for me which made my heart melt. I’ve admired her as a fan but now I am her teammate, so I express my gratitude to her whenever its possible.

“Thank you. I learn from the best people surrounding me.” I smirked and Alexia breathed out a chuckle. Something the girls noticed when I came to the club is how much I’ll compliment or support people on their skills. Aitana said that I've been a light in the dressing room when it comes to boosting morale. This is a reason why people don’t notice a small resentment I held for a-certain-someone on the team.

“Well, Don’t get your hopes up when I say this— but Jona might consider you as a starter for the final— Don’t take that as a guarantee, but your speed will be needed against Lyon's defense” Alexia’s Spanish accent poked through as she held onto my shoulder. The Spanish are very affectionate.

“I won’t get my hopes up— I do take that as a compliment though.” I said.

“Good. We’ve been looking between you and Salma as the third forward in the finale. Since Frido and Caro will have the left and right wing.” Alexia spoke. I felt my stomach turn at her name. Aware that I will have to work harder in training to start in the final, I know Salma will do the same thing.

A week later, my “animosity” towards Salma only intensified when I discovered that Salma will start in the final over me as a striker. Back at my apartment, I’ve cried myself to sleep. I’ve worked hard in training. My tears represented the fear that nobody is seeing the skills and potential I have.

“Hey Y/n” As I walked out the locker room after training one morning, I turned around and saw Salma approaching me. My eyes widened and I turned to walk away in a hurry.

“Hi.” I said quickly as Salma continued to walk beside me. What did she want?

“We should go watch The Challengers movie with Esmee on our day off Sunday. I know you both used to play tennis and such, it looks like a great movie.” Salma hesitantly spoke. My eyebrows knitted together at what she said. I did play tennis for a few years in middle school back in America, but as a hobby not a sport. Esmee told me that she could’ve gone professional at tennis in the Netherlands but chose football instead. The Dutch girl is the only person that knew about my old tennis hobby, so she had to have told Salma about it.

“Um–” I say as we both pushed the glass doors outside into the parking lot. As much as I wanted to say no, express to Salma how much I've resented her, and drive home.. I couldn’t. I felt my heart ache as I looked at the girl who had a shy smile. Wait– huh? Why am I doing that?

“I–I can go with you guys–Just have Esmee text me the details when you guys decide the time.” I said before walking away to my black SUV, my emotions not handling what Salma might’ve said or reacted to my acceptance.

The last few days before Sunday came along. I’ve talked to my best friend, Isla, about everything. She doesn’t live in Spain, since she plays football for Gotham FC, but she had a clear understanding about the community.

After my rant which lasted an hour, Isla said something which made my heart stop for a quick second.

“Are you sure that you hate Salma?” Isla asked over the facetime call.

“Well-No! I don’t hate anybody, I just hate how big of an advantage she has over me.”

“Oh– because it sounds like you’re in love with her–”

“Excuse me?”

“Well the way you’ve talked about Salma reminds me of how I started off with Esther here at Gotham. However it was the other way around. She was in love with me but refused to accept it– so she found reasons to try and hate me instead before she was forced to confront the truth.”

That part of the conversation replayed in my mind for the last few days. Throughout training, throughout the game against Granada that won us the league, it replayed non-stop. It didn’t distract me but I couldn’t look at Salma without questioning if I am in love with her. A subtle shift began to take place within my heart, even if I didn’t want it to happen.

Salma started noticing the small things too. After the Granada game which granted us Liga F champions, she noticed when I wrapped my arm around her and Esmee as we jumped around in the red-colored locker rooms. I’ve noticed that as I started to slowly accept my possible feelings for her, my “resentment” faded away with it.

“Good game, Sal.” I whispered in her ear as everyone posed for a group picture in our “Liga F Champions” shirts. She looked at me with widened eyes before smiling softly.

I found herself drawn to the challenge Salma posed as the Champions League final was coming up. Salma always craved the intensity of their encounters, the adrenaline rush of chasing victory side by side with her rival, just like I did.

By Sunday, the day where Salma Esmee and I will go to the movie theaters, I've accepted it—I finally realized the truth that had been staring me in the face all along. Due to past heartbreak, I didn’t want to fall in love again but here I am in Spain. As I stood in the mirror, looking at the nice casual outfit I've put on (imagine what outfit you want, reader <3) I knew with absolute certainty that what I’ve felt went beyond rivalry with Salma, beyond competition.

It was love.

In that moment of clarity, my resentment melted away. I knew that I couldn't keep denying her feelings any longer, but a fear started to grow inside of my heart. What if it's too late?

Salma did notice my resentment towards her. There were times where I’ve blown her off because of that. I couldn’t blame her if she started to hate me for what I've done to her.

Four hours later, The Challengers movie ended. I’ve sat in-between Esmee (on my left) and Salma (on my right) in the movie theater. The movie was good but I had the urge to look at Salma at times. Once, I looked down at her hand that wasn’t too far from mine. As much as I wanted to reach to hold her soft hands, I couldn’t do it. What if she pulled away? What if things would’ve been awkward between us? I didn’t risk it.

When we hugged Esmee as she left the theater, it was Salma and I in the parking lot. I could’ve said bye and left too, but Salma wanted to say something to me. Esmee and her gave each other an unknowing glance, so I believe Esmee might know what Salma is feeling.

“Y/n, Why do you hate me?” Salma frowned. My heart broke as I bit my lip in nervousness.

“I don’t.” I said I looked at her with a sad smile.

“Yes you do. Every time I wanted to talk to you at practice, you always ran away to talk to someone else. I’ve noticed that you’re the only person that never congratulated me separately after a goal. I’ve seen the way you’ve brightened up people’s days with your compliments, love, and hugs. Why can I not have that Y/n? Did I do something to you for you to hate me? Just tell me because I don’t want to start off next season knowing that you might hate me for something I might’ve done.” Salma took my left hand and held it with both of her soft, moisturized hands as she looked me in the eyes.

A tear fell out of my left eye as I felt guilty. I’ve fucked up. I’ve hurt Salma and she doesn’t know why— I need to tell her how I feel.

“Salma, I don’t hate you at all. I am so sorry for what I've done to you. All you did—really—was be great on the pitch. When I came to Spain, I noticed how loved you were by everyone. You had the minutes, skills, awards, and recognition that I could dream of having. However— I’ve admired you more than everyone else at the same time. I know that's hard to accept due to what I've done to you, but I felt like you were too good for me. I look at you more than everyone else. I wanted to hug you and congratulate your success with you but the vulnerability scared me. I’ve been hurt before so in order to protect my feelings, I’ve covered it up with resentment— Salma, I am in love with you.” By the time I told her that I love her, tears poured down my cheeks and Salma held me in a hug, tightly, as she cried too.

“Y/n, I am in love with you too. That's why it hurt me when I believed that you might’ve hated me.” Salma said through her tears.

“I am so sorry–seriously. I don't hate you. I love you. I will never hurt you like that again, I swear.” I said.

After that night, we started over and became lovers. Our undeniable bond blossomed between us. The team adored our relationship and were happy for us. I did keep my promise, I never hurt her again. I’ve found love in giving my love to her without the fear of getting hurt. After the debut game in the 24/25 season, we walked off the pitch hand in hand, my heart fluttered as I know this is the beginning of our longtime relationship.

#barcelona femeni #salma paralluelo #woso community #fc barcelona #woso fanfics #woso x reader #la roja #aitana bonmati

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desultory-novice · 1 day

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Vent Post: I feel hamstrung by how bad I am at forms and light...

Tried to work on a nice picture for Apologies One Year (!!) anniversary in five days. The concept is okay, I think. (?) But after the lineart and base colors, the picture is clearly missing something.

It looks flat and lifeless. Probably lineweight is to blame. I tried that new technique I learned where you lower the opacity on your rough so you're not just tracing but drawing something new, but I'm just not all that good at estimating where the lineweight should even be, and tricks ("Heavy where the lines intersect!" "Objects in the front!" "Objects in the back!") can only get me so far...

But I flail through that part. Maybe I can salvage it? It needs shape, definition, and form. Some of the things I'm the worst at. I stared at it, trying to mentally calculate where those forms are in space, I even used 3D models to simulate the lighting. When I tried to give it a bit of shading and highlight, everything ends up looking WORSE...?

...Ugh, I loathe this. I put in all this work and it's not at all like the vision I had in my head. I even tried to keep in mind aspects of other art I liked to try apply to this, soft shading and colored lineart, but it's really like that didn't matter. The CORE of the piece was flawed?

Why can't I understand these very basic concepts the way other artists can, four years in? ... sob... I feel in a rut...

And lets not even get into attempting a background :digs a hole to die in:

TLDR: I shot too high with this and didn't like where I ended up...

...

I'm not posting this for the anniversary. I still have fondness for the idea, but this version of it is pretty unsalvageable so... enjoy. (This was my last attempt at a shading layer, btw. I did try something stronger and it didn't look any better.)

What I hate the most is that I knew it wouldn’t turn out good the whole time I was working on it. Why did I even think to do something like this in the first place? It was so misguided. Just stick to drawing sketchy Marxolor plushies and taking 3/4 head comics, Dess

POST-SLEEP EDIT:

I hold to what I said but I do have some more clues about where my dissatisfaction comes from. The minimalist bg doesn’t do this style of lineart a lot of favors and a stronger one could have grounded them better. The lineart also detracts from the soft, airy fantasy mood somewhat, and doesn’t let the outfits/fabric, which form a key part of the “party” mood, get to shine.

#Dess Personal #cw: depression #Apologies AU #They say insulting your own art is insulting the tastes of the people who like it and no...#...this is not the worst thing I've drawn. It's better than my earlier stuff but...#...it is so far from what I WANTED it to look like that I feel like crying right now...

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pepprs · 1 year

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i will try very hard for this to be my last personal post tonight buti think my problem is that even the slightest conflict or issue or whatever throws me into i-am-about-to-be-abandoned-or-rejected mode even if it’s not my fault. and it sucks soooo bad. i wish i had emotional object permanence i wish i wasn’t deathly afraid of ppl i love and need turning on me over the smallest things especially when they tell me they wont. like it is really truly ruining my life. but i don’t want to jsut liek stop thinking it and pretend it isn’t happening anymore. that’s just ignoring a problem and i need it to go away. i have to ask for comfort. reassurance. a signal a symbol a tether something i can hold that will tell me you (speaking generally) still love me and you are not going to abandon me over this. and as long as i still have this object that means that is true and if you take back the object then that means it is no lo ng er true. like i need a baby blanket basically. to wrap around my shoulders at all times. i need kangaroo care. and i don’t know how to ask for that but iwhave to. because that is how i heal myself out of this. it will fucking kill me if i don’t.

#purrs #it’s been a full week sinde i found out and i still am just staggered every time i think about it. about how PROFOUNDLY damaging it was not #to be held as a newborn baby for the first like 4-5 days of my life. like omg im fucked in the head forever? over something that happened to #me when i weighed three pounds and was hooked up to wires when i should have been safe and warm and loved? i can never get back the first #ten days of my life and they will scar me forever in ways i can heal my best from but will never fully overcome? despair utter despair #delete later #like everythi ng in my life for the rest of my life has to be how do i hold newborn baby me. how do i go back in time and be there for her a #and let her know there was someone there who knew she lived and who she could be safe with in her very first primal moment. i cry if i think #about it too hard like it just um. it fucking sucks. it’s literaly not a big deal but it fucking sucks #also not to be blasphemous but this explains why i need hugs so bad and why phys*cal t*uch is my love language. lol #also explains why my nervous tic is rocking slowly from side to side. like 😐

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deadsetobsessions · 2 months

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Sea Cryptic! Danny AU- Pt.3

[Pt.1] [Pt.2] [Pt.4][Pt.5][Pt.6][Pt.7]

“Aquaman.” Batman swept into the room, beelining straight for the suddenly apprehensive Atlantean king.

“Batman. What can I do for you?”

“Phantom. Does he pay taxes?”

“Pardon?”

Batman makes a low noise that had Aquaman’s danger senses buzzing.

“Does Phantom have to pay taxes. Towards Atlantis.”

“No…? Why?”

“He wanted money, in exchange for… information, of a delicate sort,” Batman said, diplomatically avoiding the topic of Phantom bargaining for the identities of corpses in exchange for a measly $100 dollars per identity. Like a flea market dealer, that one was.

“You encountered Phantom again?” Aquaman perked up.

“Yes. Gotham’s bay is… polluted.” Batman paused. “With victims. Of murder.”

The entire area quieted as heads turned towards the Dark Knight.

“Yes, I am… distantly aware of Gotham’s waters.” By that, Aquaman gets green around the gills whenever he turns his awareness in that direction. There’s a reason he doesn’t enter Gotham, and the Dark Knight’s ban is only half of that reason. “Ah, but you’re correct. For what purpose would Phantom need mortal currency?”

“Hn.”

“Maybe he needs some stuff?” Flash zipped to a stop next to Batman, feet tapping as he dug into the pile of snacks cradled in his arms. “Us mortals are always coming up with new things, maybe he wants to try some games or something?”

Batman tilted his head down, seriously considering Flash’s suggestion. “It’s plausible.”

“Barry, Barry, Barry. He’s old as hell, right? He probably wants to try the new booze!”

“Hal, my man!” Flash fist bumped Green Lantern, who came up. “You’re back! What happened to John?”

“Dunno. He got called somewhere that way,” Green Lantern waved a vague hand towards the left. “Had to deal with a politician or something from that area.” He shrugged, swinging an arm over Barry’s shoulders to put him in a headlock and stealing a chip.

“Huh. Anyways, would our mortal alcohol even work on a demi-god or something?”

“We should ask!” Hal turned towards Batman. “You should ask if he wants to go for a drink, spooky!”

“He’s a child.”

“He’s been around for more than a millennia, Bats.”

“Informational gathering, right, Hal?” Flashgot out of the headlock, quickly munching on his snacks to stop Green Lantern from stealing them.

“Totally. Yup.”

“…Fine.”

“Wait, are we just gonna ignore that Gotham’s waters are full of bodies?”

“Yes.”

——

“What?” Danny asked, mind half on the bags he’s dragging out of the water and the other half on the essay he has to submit in about four hours.

“Green Lantern wanted to invite you out for a drink.”

Danny turned to the stoic Gotham knight, who had his wrist computer out to log the bodies’ info the moment Danny gave him the information. Some of them even told Danny who murdered them, so Batman could start building cases with solid leads.

Danny’s only twenty. He’s not legal yet but he doesn’t want to give any clues to who he is. How is he supposed to…

Ah!

“Can’t.” Danny shrugged. “I’m not legal. I died when I was fourteen so…” Danny trailed off, speechless at the drowned puppy face Batman was giving him. What the fuck.

“Anyways, fork over my payment.”

Batman wordlessly hands him a wad of hundreds.

“What do you need cash for?” Batman suddenly asked.

“Huh? Isn’t it obvious?” Danny tucked it in. “Material things, obviously. I need a blanket,” because holy shit, Gotham is damn cold this time of year. “Anyways, see you same time next week, litterer.”

“I don’t litter.”

“Tell that to the batarangs I found under the water,” Danny grumbled. “But I’ll stop calling you that if you get a signature from Poison Ivy. I have a friend who loves her.”

“An alive friend?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, weatherboy?”

Danny snickered and disappeared. He’s gotta cram that essay.

——

“There’s a possibility Phantom might be homeless.”

“Batman, I mean this in the nicest way, but for the love of Atlantis, please stop giving me headaches. It’s time like these I wish I stayed a lighthouse keeper.”

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prettycottagequeer · 2 months

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ok maybe I'm a little late to this BUT I'm gonna do a to-do list motivation thingy because I've had the worst two weeks since I started college :)

SO these I should start on asap:

50 I make the snack I really want but I haven't had the motivation to make

100 I clean my dorm. another thing I've been meaning to do for a week

150 I do the presentation about mid-victorian fashion I've been putting off (due Monday)

200 I start memorizing the monologue that was due a week ago (now due Tuesday)

these can wait longer:

300 I spend time outside. It's so nice but I'm getting stuck scrolling because I feel like shit. vicious cycle ect

500 I start setting a better weekend routine (aka getting up before noon)

1k I start working out again. I was doing a routine to get more masc and build muscle and I liked it but life hit me like Crowley driving the Bentley and I've missed like 3 weeks

2k I buy my first binder. I've been coping with sports bras for almost a year now and I haven't been able to justify spending $50+ on a binder even though I know I'd love it and use it everyday.

Do I tag people? I don't know but I'm going to. @the-globe-theatre-maggot @weirdly-specific-but-ok @howmanyholesinswisscheese

here's just some context if you want to read, feel free to skip. some of this I've talked about in the maggot server, some I haven't, but I really just need a place for this to go that's out of my head. tw homophobia, transphobia, car crash(??)

How I Have Been Run Over By The Bentley Going 90 In Central London What Feels Like 50 Times In The Last Two Weeks

I'm going to college about 4 hours away from my parents, and it's been really nice. They.. suck, to say the least. transphobic/homophobic ect, super traditional conservative catholic, racist, all of it. so i tried to move somewhere where I wouldn't have to think about them and I could be myself and do what I can to be happy. March 1st was the start of my spring break, which meant going home because the dorms close. I was already not excited, but I was prepared. the problem with being away from home is I forget just how bad they are. My optimism gets the better of me and I think maybe this time they'll be better. so I decided to not hide my septum piercing.

that was a mistake. it starts a whole fight where they say we know you're trans, you're actually a girl and you always will be, we have the bones argument, they think I'm being influenced by demons or something (if only they knew about crowley) because I want to change my name, and they tell me that going on t will completely ruin my body and give me cancer and other things. They're also mad about my dyed hair, septum, and general style, and say I'm setting a terrible example for my (5) younger siblings and make it a point to tell me just how much of a disappointment I am. I think I'm pretty cute and fun but y'know, whatever. very fun time. I lie so much, don't give them any more details about my identity, and say I'm not planning to go on t to save my ass. which is all on instinct which makes me feel worse because if I'm really trans I should be able to stand up for that, right? maybe I'm faking the dysphoria.

the next morning I wake up really sick, and spend the rest of the week sick and feeling like shit because I'm home and back in the same place and situation I was a year ago that I thought I escaped. at one point I pretty much lose my voice but also kind of get gender euphoria from it. it's weird.

On Friday it's time for me to drive back 4 hours to school, and I make it about 3/4 of the way when google maps takes me on a random gravel road and I crash my car, really crash my car, like sideways-in-a-ditch-windows-broken-crawling-up-out-the-door crash it in the middle of nowhere. (I was fully paying attention to the road, it was raining and super slick) I call my parents because I have no one else to call and I sit in a Subway for 3 hours while they drive to get my car. when they get there they're (understandably) really mad, and they tell me that I'm not mature enough to be going to school so far away and I need to get my shit together and stop depending on them. which. is probably true. but made me feel even more stupid about the fact that I crashed my car. I get back to school and I'm still Very Sick with no energy or motivation to do anything. So I've spent the last week trying to get better and honestly to do anything. it hasn't really worked. I'm a lot better health-wise (Not emotionally), still sick but I have a lot of work due, so I really need a push to get started

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chuluoyi · 7 months

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࿐ ࿔ 🕰️ 「 04:18 A.M 」

it’s just a pure sugary comfort fluff brain rot accumulated after writing protect—

a part of gojo's love entries

imagine at 4 in the morning, you woke up to this sudden wave of nausea not long after finding out that you were six weeks pregnant with satoru’s baby. the world seemed to spin as you retched the contents of your stomach—the meager bites you had forced down as dinner due to your lack of appetite—to the toilet bowl, tears pricking your eyes and shivering in the cold night air at the discomfort of it all.

your husband was on a mission in kyoto. he wouldn’t be here and you were glad he didn’t have to see you in this state.

you chalked it up to your ears playing tricks on you when you heard the sounds of the keys being turned and the door of your home swinging open and shut. the lines between dream and reality blurred as you staggered while painstakingly making your way back to the bedroom.

but the dizziness overtook you when you swayed dangerously to one side, almost losing your consciousness if it weren’t for a strong grip on your figure that held you firm. you heard satoru swear and shout something at you in pure panic, before lifting you in his arms.

you woke up not long after in his embrace on your marital bed, feeling the cool air conditioning graze your face and gentle pats on your back—the kind of pats one would do to get babies to sleep—and looked up to him.

“hey,” he greeted with a sleepy grin. “feeling better now?”

you blinked. “…you are back.”

“i am.”

“i thought you’d be in two days.”

“how could i? you need me here.”

“i can take care of myself.”

he eyed you sharply. “no? you almost fainted.”

you nuzzled your head on his chest, breathing his scent. “ah, just the morning sickness. have to manage it somehow.”

“exactly, and me being here would help.”

it was stupid, but you felt really warm at his insistence to be beside you.

“definitely your kid, alright. he’s bullying me already,” you pouted. “i can’t eat anything without throwing up these days.”

he put a comforting hand on your still-flat belly. “hmm? so little gojo is making mama unwell this much already? what about when she’s ballooned up?”

you swatted his hand playfully, couldn’t help a smile on your face.

“satoru,” you drawled. “thank you for coming back as fast as you could.”

you felt him squeezing you closer, pressing the lightest of kiss on your forehead. “well, my baby is having my baby. of course i am. i should be the one thanking you.”

#𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 #gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jjk imagines #jjk drabbles #jujutsu kaisen x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru fluff #jjk fluff #gojo x you #satoru gojo fluff

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nereidprinc3ss · 10 days

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do you believe me now? | 4

in which spencer reid and inexperienced fem!reader are interrupted at the most inopportune of times. he calls you on the first night of his case. dirty talk turns into a hard conversation. we get a glimpse into spencer's past, and we finally learn why he's so hesitant to sleep with you.

part one | part two | bonus chapter | part three

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: dirty talk, phone sex/mutual masturbation, softdom!spence, obligatory he talks u through it, lots of graphic discussions of sex, established relationship, angst (sorrryyy!) a/n: so remember how i said you'd need the bonus chapter to fully appreciate/understand this part? i was wrong!! it will come in handy probably in the next part tho:) also idk how these parts keep getting so long im sorry! anyway, i love you all so bad. thank you for bearing w/ my craziness. PLEASE let me know your thoughts on this part!! i adore hearing from you!! kisses

(also special thank you to @fliesforeyes who convinced me phone sex w/ spence could be done!! i will link his phone sex blurb here :)) thank u binx!!

“Three million six hundred eighty four thousand three hundred thirty two times fourteen million seven hundred sixty one thousand nine hundred seventy one.”

You’ve lost count of how many stupid math questions you’ve asked your human calculator boyfriend, just to see if he can actually do them. Spencer is silent for a second, and you think you’ve finally stumped him.

“That one is complicated.”

You sit bolt upright in his bed, looking down at him and pointing an accusatory finger. His brows raise at the manic look in your eye.

“You don’t know.”

“I do know. I meant it would be hard to explain if you aren’t a math person.”

“Bullshit!” You scoff, “you don’t know!”

“It would display on a calculator as five-point-three-eight-eight-E-thirteen. It’s a really big number.”

“Oh, really big, huh?” you mumble, searching for your phone blindly in the sheets and scrambling to open the calculator app. “Um… what numbers did I say?”

Spencer repeats them back to you and you press the equals sign.

You look at it.

And then you set your phone down.

“I was right, huh?” he smiles up at you, probably reveling in your pouty wrongness.

Too proud to admit it, you collapse on top of him, burying your face in his shoulder.

“I don’t like this game anymore. What the fuck even is an e? Why are we doing algebra?”

Spencer laughs, brushing your hair aside.

“The e stands for exponent. It’s to the power of ten.”

“Ever heard of a rhetorical question?”

“Yes, I have.”

It’s hard not to snort even at his dumbest jokes.

“You’re annoying. Let’s do something else.”

You roll over onto your back again, letting your head flop over to look at Spencer, whose hair is exactly the right amount of messy after a long day, falling in impossibly soft waves over the perfect lines and contours of his face. Despite lounging, he’s still in his suit from work—he’d left Quantico and immediately picked you up. There were no solid plans for the evening, so after both of you pretended that you wanted to go out for a while, you ended up back at his apartment.

He looks good. Almost too good.

“Something like what?” he smiles lazily, reaching over and tracing his fingers over your cheek.

“Something… naked?”

His grin widens and he shakes his head.

“Me naked or you naked?”

Pretending to think about it, you roll your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Mm… why not both?”

“Hm. Why do I feel like I know where this is going?”

The mattress sinks underneath your elbow as you prop yourself up, dropping your head over Spencer’s to kiss him.

“Because you’re so smart, and you think it’s a great idea.”

He entertains your kiss for a moment. Just a moment.

“You sound sure of yourself.”

“Because I am!” You finally give in to your impulses, tangling your fingers in his hair and looking at him meaningfully. “It doesn’t make any sense for us to have not had sex. I don’t care about any of your weird, cryptic moral reasoning.”

He grabs your wrist carefully.

“It is not moral,” he scoffs. “We haven’t even talked about it yet.”

“Really? Because I feel like we’ve talked about it a lot.”

He begins to reply, but you realize you don’t want to get into a debate over whether you’ve technically talked about it yet. “I don’t even care! If that’s all that’s standing in your way, then let’s talk about it. Right now.”

Spencer sighs, his eyes darting between yours as he reaches up to cradle your cheek.

“Fine. But I have things to say you’re not going to like.”

“So business as usual?”

He rolls his eyes. You allow yourself a tiny self-satisfied smirk, forever relishing in his poorly-hidden soft spot for your constant teasing. Spencer ignores this. Which is probably for the best.

“I know you probably won’t see it this way, but—sex is different than everything else we’ve done so far. It can be really fun, obviously it feels good, it facilitates deeper feelings of connection—that’s all true. Which is why, in my opinion, it’s incredibly important that you be selective with who you sleep with. Because it’s so easy to do something you regret, and sex is vulnerable. It should always be with someone you trust and—and… care about.”

A pink flush stains his cheeks like watercolor as he stumbles over the last few words. It makes your heart flutter against the confines of your chest.

Maybe best not to think about the absence versus presence of certain four-letter words and what they may or may not mean. You’ll move on to more pressing matters and pretend like it doesn’t ache just a little in your whole body.

You cover his hand with your own.

“Are you going to break up with me anytime soon?”

Spencer’s eyes widen, filling with genuine horror and confusion.

“What? No!”

“Are you going to cheat on me?”

“Absolutely not, I—”

“Then I’m not going to regret it. Issue resolved. Moving on.”

“Honey, I just want you to be 100% sure that I’m what you want.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, flopping onto your back once more. “I have begged you to sleep with me on multiple occasions. We have been dating for months and I liked you even longer before that. I think about it literally every time I see you. I don’t know how to be any surer.”

It’s quiet for a moment as you study the imaginary pattern on the ceiling. The rebuttal you’d been anticipating doesn’t come—instead, the mattress shifts next to you. Spencer enters your field of vision, now leaning over you with a little smile on his face that gives you butterflies.

“Every time?”

“…yes, every time,” you agree, voice considerably thinner than it had been a moment ago. Spencer glances at your lips as he speaks.

“Interesting. And what is it that you think about exactly?”

You groan again, attempting to roll facedown, but he pins your shoulder to the bed. The way he’s sweetly kissing down your cheek and jaw is infuriating because you know it’s a false pretense.

“Ugh, I don’t know! Don’t make me answer that!”

“You said if talking about it was all that was standing in my way, we would talk about it. Now I want to talk about it. Come on,” he says, voice low and cloying against your throat as he attempts to tease the answer out of you. “Tell me what you think about when you think about us having sex.”

You let out a shaky breath at the feeling of his lips skimming your neck, hating how easily he can reduce you to this.

“I… I always wonder what it will feel like. Sometimes I wonder if it will hurt.”

Spencer sighs, interrogation by way of seduction momentarily forgotten. You silently curse yourself for saying something so un-sexy.

“It might, sweetheart. That’s one of the reasons we’ve held back. I… really don’t want to hurt you. I don’t even know if I can.”

You grab his face in both hands, forcing him to look at you with more confidence than you feel.

“Sometimes I worry about it, too. But I like you a lot more than it scares me. I still want to.”

He kisses your palm.

“You’ll be okay. It doesn’t hurt for everyone, and even if it does, you’re resilient.”

“Exactly. So you have to get over yourself.”

Spencer laughs like he wasn’t expecting to, eyes sparkling as he regards you.

“Yeah. Yeah, maybe I do.”

He’s smiling again as he leans down and kisses you—a slow, lingering thing which tastes like spearmint as you part your lips for him.

“Please?” you whisper against him after a long moment. He hums, keeps kissing you.

“What is it that you think you want? You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”

“Tell me,” you beg, chasing his lips. “Tell me what you’re going to do with me. We can talk about it. This is talking about it.”

Spencer exhales deeply, wedging a thigh between yours. Immediately you clamp around it, trying not to grind against him too overtly.

“You want to know what I’d do to you?”

“Yes—” you paw at his jacket. Surprisingly, he doesn’t stop you from pushing it off. Your heart pounds.

“Well… we both know how anxious you get,” he muses, pressing his lips so delicately to your fluttering pulse-point in emphasis, and then back to your mouth. His thigh pushes harder against you to supplant the absence of his lips as he speaks, though he kisses you sporadically and between sentences. “You’re hard to get out of your head when you’re nervous, you know that? I watch it happen. One minute you’re with me, and then you start overthinking, and getting self-conscious. The only thing that seems to relax you is letting me touch you—so first I would touch you like I’ve touched you before. I’d make sure you know how pretty you are and how good you deserve to feel.” You whimper inadvertently at his words, arching into him and grinding against his leg as he pauses to kiss the sensitive soft spot below your jaw. “You’re going to need to be really ready to let me in. Do you know what I mean by that?”

As he asks, he pushes his thigh against you harder. Your body responds immediately, arching into him and seeking more friction. When you squeak, he takes it as a no.

“I mean I need you relaxed and wet. You’ll excuse my crude language.”

You pull at his tie, breathing heavier now and so turned on it’s almost painful.

“What are you gonna do after that?”

“What else is there to do but fuck you after that?” he breathes. “You want me to tell you how I’d fuck you?”

Something about it makes you whine salaciously. You’ve heard him curse—you’ve even heard him talk about fucking you. But it feels more real now; when it’s low in your ear and you’re covertly undressing him and he’s pushing your shirt over your stomach promisingly.

“Yes, please.”

He hums against your jaw, nipping and brushing his lips over the skin as he considers. Leaves you waiting.

“I would have to take my time with you. You’ll be overwhelmed. I know you think you won’t, but you will. I’m going to have to be so, so careful with you, angel. It’s going to drive me insane. But it will feel good for you.”

“Why careful? I don’t want that.”

He chuckles. A chill runs down your spine.

“Yeah, you do. You’re going to want me to be careful when I’m—” he pauses, pressing his thumb to your bare lower tummy and dragging up to a spot below your belly button. He presses down lightly again. “Right here. Approximately.”

The surface of the sun has nothing on the temperature of your skin in this moment, as you writhe underneath him in both arousal and embarrassment. Mostly, burning need. You feel almost sick with it.

“Please don’t make me wait anymore. Just do it, please, Spencer. I need it to be you, I don’t want it to be anyone else. I promise I’m ready.”

It’s silent for a moment. Your heart quickens. You sense his walls wearing away, his instinct to keep you intact for god knows what reason crumbling. He’s finally going to give you what you’ve been begging for.

Spencer opens his mouth, eyes glimmering—

And then his phone rings.

You both freeze—he melts dejectedly before you do, more accustomed to an ill-timed phone call and realizing the finality it can present.

He’s breathing heavily against your neck, as if maybe whoever it is will just hang up. But the phone keeps ringing.

“I’m sorry.”

Your stomach sinks as he sits up, grabbing his phone from the side table and rubbing circles on your inner thigh as he answers.

“This is Reid,” he says, lackluster.

If you wanted, you could hear what Penelope is saying—but you don’t bother listening. It’s going to be a case. Spencer is about to leave. The details are his problem.

“Okay. I’ll be there in an hour.”

He hangs up, tossing the phone onto the mattress and not speaking for a moment, just continuing to rub your leg apologetically. Watching you almost mournfully—taking in your disheveled hair, your likely blown-out pupils, the shirt pushed almost over your chest.

“I have to go right now,” he finally manages with a heavy sigh, gently pulling your shirt back into place.

You sit up, shedding all the hopes that had been building for the evening, and try to sound chipper—though all you feel is bitter disappointment that goes deeper than you understand.

“I know. Go ahead, I can get a cab home.”

He frowns, running his hand over the back of your hair.

“I don’t love the idea of you standing on the sidewalk waiting for a car in this part of town so late. Do you just want to stay here for the night and go home tomorrow?”

You force a smile. Great. So you’ll be spending the night in his bed after all—just without him.

“Sure. Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of you are feeling particularly grateful.

Soon you’re walking him to his own door. Both of you come to a stop in front.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs again.

“Spencer, it’s fine. It’s your job. You don’t need to apologize. You were very clear about this part when we started dating.”

“I know, but… it’s easier in theory than in practice.”

You smile. If Spencer is a reflection of you, it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. His hair is still messy from your fingers running through it and he’s missing his tie. You hope all his coworkers see and feel bad about taking him away from you.

But it’s not their fault. You just want someone to blame.

Instead you mould yourself to his body, wrapping around him like you belong there. He returns your embrace, pressing his lips into the crook of your shoulder and rubbing your back in that way he always does with you.

In that moment, your affection for him becomes so profound it’s like a chemical reaction—everywhere he touches burns and you love him so fucking much it aches in every inch of your body the way your muscles do when you have a bad fever. Love is the most terrible of afflictions, you realize. It is a fever dream. It’s every fiber of your being screaming to tell him how you feel, to beg him on your knees not to go because you love him like a child loves a parent or a bee loves honeysuckle or the ocean loves the horizon. Pared down to your most basic components, the barest version of yourself, you require him. Your soul needs his soul.

“Spencer?”

“Hm?”

It’s nothing more than an absentminded hum against your skin.

“I…”

Should you be looking him in the eye when you say this? Should you say it right before he has to leave? Just because you say it doesn’t change the fact that he’s about to be gone for several long days. Maybe this is a terrible time to admit something that suddenly feels so true and so consequential.

He senses your internal conflict, pulling back despite your resistance and holding your face between his hands.

“You what?” He murmurs, soft eyes bouncing back and forth between your own. Fuck—you feel so observed, now. Like he can read your mind.

“I forget.”

FUUUUUUCK.

Spencer blinks. Processes. You watch the disbelief crystallizing over his eyes like ice freezing over a lake.

He knows.

He knows you didn’t forget, and he probably knows what you were going to say, and he’s going to tell himself he was wrong to spare your dignity.

Everything hurts when he kisses you. You wonder what regret tastes like.

“Well, let me know if you remember.”

It’s too gentle and at the same time he can’t hide the edge with all the tenderness in the world. You nod as if in a trance, already looking forward to dissociating as you lie in bed and stare at the dark ceiling.

Two small goodbyes are exchanged, slightly stifled now, as if shared between drunk strangers who have sobered up and are mutually embarrassed about how candidly they’d interacted before.

You close the door behind him, doing up all the locks, and meticulously flick every light switch in the apartment off before climbing into his bed—though you don’t really feel like you deserve to be there anymore.

But perhaps this is all an overreaction. It’s not like you owe it to him to say I love you, or anything—it was bad timing, anyway. And why can’t he say it? In fact, why hasn’t he said it?

Maybe you have it all wrong.

Maybe he doesn’t feel that way about you.

You fall asleep before you allow these questions to make you sick.

24 hours go by.

24 hours go by and you really had meant to leave his apartment—it was just that you woke up late, and your phone was dead so you couldn’t call a car, so you charged it while you made breakfast, and then you ate, and then you decided to take a shower and wash your clothes, and then it was two in the afternoon and you hadn’t left yet and you decided to walk to the store and replenish the groceries you’d used up.

Maybe you got a bit distracted looking at flowers and other beautiful things at the market and by the time you got home it was 5:00, so you decided to wait until seven to skip rush hour. And then eight, just to be sure.

Before you know it, it’s midnight, and you’re dozing off in his bed again (teeth cleaned with the brush you’d bought at the store—maybe this whole situation hadn’t been entirely unwitting on your part.)

Throughout the day, you tried to let all your anxiety about the previous night melt away. If it’s something that needs to be addressed, Spencer will address it. Everything will work out in the end. That thought is how you’re able to doze off.

You’re almost asleep when your phone lights up and begins buzzing on the side table. You wince as your eyes open, not adjusting well to the harsh bright display and unable to discern who’s even calling you at this hour. Stupidly, probably because you’re half asleep, you answer without checking.

“Hello?”

Your voice is groggy, quiet with sleep.

“Shit, did I wake you?”

“Spence?” you whisper, stomach flipping at the sound of his voice on the other line. You feel caught, still sleeping in his bed.

“… yeah,” he chuckles. “Did you not check who was calling before you picked up?”

“I was asleep,” you pout. “Kinda.”

“Okay. Go back to sleep, honey. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

You sit bolt upright, phone balanced between tense fingers and speaking directly into the microphone.

“No! No, I’m awake. What’s up? Why did you call?”

A longer stretch of silence—you’re too sleepy to comprehend what it might mean, though never too sleepy to worry about it. With a pang of pain, you recall your strange goodbye, the words you hadn’t said.

“I just needed to hear your voice,” he sighs. You frown, staring at nothing in particular in the pitch black room.

“Oh. Is everything okay?”

“As much as it can be.”

“Right.”

More quiet. You chew on the inside of your cheek, stricken with a sudden feeling of awkwardness that you haven’t had with Spencer in a while.

“I’m sorry… I don’t really know what to say.”

“That’s okay,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice which makes you feel a bit better, “why don’t you tell me about your day? Or you can absolutely go back to sleep, if you’re too tired.”

“Don’t ask me about my day,” you whisper, flopping down on the bed once more. Shame seeps into your voice. He laughs.

“What? Why?”

“Because if I tell you you’re going to think I’m super weird and you’re going to break up with me.”

Laughter tapers off into gentler tones.

“I already think you’re super weird. It’s actually one of your most attractive qualities.”

Blood rushes to your cheeks.

“But it’s like… borderline crazy.”

Immediately, he replies, “for better or worse, I also frequently find myself attracted to crazy.”

“Thank you for calling me crazy and super weird,” you grumble.

“I also called you attractive twice. Tell me.”

When his tone takes on that easy, assertive quality, and it’s sort of raspy and low because it’s late and he’s been talking all day, and you can hear the lazy smile on his face—you imagine him laying on his hotel bed, arm slung over his eyes in the dark as he grins into the microphone—you have a very difficult time saying no.

“Fine. Guess where I am right now.”

“Um, I would hope you’re in bed?”

You smile to yourself, basking in the victory of successfully throwing him off his game even slightly.

“Guess whose bed.”

Silence.

“What an interesting question.” That cocky smile, the low drawling is back, and you chew on your lip, ignoring the shiver that runs down your spine. “If it’s not mine or yours, we’re going to have issues.”

“But if it is yours? You’re not going to call the police on me?”

“Why would I call the police? To tell them there’s a pretty girl in my bed and I don’t want her there?”

“To tell them your psychopathic girlfriend broke into your apartment and might be holding hostages there.”

Spencer laughs; a brittle, drawn out thing, flat and quiet as the desert.

“If you were a psychopath, calling the cops would be a waste of time. I would handle you myself.” The idea of being handled has your thighs clenching. “But—yeah, don’t invite anyone else in.” More humor finds its way into his voice, momentarily relieving some tension that had sneakily begun to build. “Having people in my space makes me anxious.”

“But not me?” Your whisper is half flirtatious, half insecure. Spencer’s reply is soft, as if he’s picking up on this from hundreds of miles away.

“No, not you. You are always the exception.”

“Good,” you say, cheeks aching as you half-bury your warm face into his pillow. “Because I made myself really comfortable. You have a nice shower, by the way.”

Spencer groans.

“You’re killing me.”

“What? What did I do!”

“Don’t talk to me about my bed and my shower. I might start to think you’re intentionally being a brat.”

“You asked me about my day! I’m just telling you what I did!”

But you’re also intentional teasing him for sure. After a pause, he sighs in defeat.

“You’re right. I did do that. Tell me what else happened.”

“Well,” you begin, all too eager, “I had to put my clothes in the dryer after I got out, so I borrowed some of yours. But then they were way comfier than mine, so after I went to the store I put them back on, and—”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?” you frown.

“Tell me what this is.”

“I—I don’t know what you mean.”

Lying to a profiler is usually pointless.

“I’m not stupid, sweetheart. Tell me why you keep talking about my shower and my bed and my clothes.”

Caught red-handed. Your skin heats up.

“I don’t know. I miss you.”

He hums in a way that blurs the line between sympathetic and patronizing. Even through the phone you can feel the bass of it in your bones. It changes the frequency you’re vibrating at. It’s hypnotic.

“But that’s not really why you’re being intentionally provocative, is it?”

“No,” you admit quietly. “I’m still upset you had to go last night.”

“So you’re frustrated and you’re taking it out on me?”

Your brow furrows. Well, when he puts it like that…

“I’m not taking anything out on you.”

“I think you are. And I don’t appreciate that, because I’m on your side, honey. Do you think I prefer being in a hotel bed by myself or being in my bed with you?”

Somehow, he makes you feel like a scolded child. But he makes it appealing in ways you don’t understand.

“Your bed with me,” you murmur, skin prickling with the coldness of his absence even as you curl under the blanket.

“Right. So why don’t you tell me what I can do for you right now, instead of punishing me for things that are beyond my control?”

“I wasn’t punishing you,” you mutter.

“No? You weren’t intentionally talking about using my shower and sleeping in my bed and putting on my clothes so that I’d have to think about what I can’t have right now?”

“I—”

“Believe me when I tell you I have been thinking about what I can’t have, all day. Your efforts are entirely redundant and you can’t say anything about yourself that is even close to as dirty as the frankly disrespectful thoughts I’ve been having about you for seventeen hours.”

The lack of air is making you so dizzy your vision goes gray at the edges.

“What… what thoughts?”

“None that you need to concern yourself with.”

“You can’t just say something like that and then not tell me!” you insist. He’s obviously giving you a taste of your own medicine and it’s fair but it doesn’t mean you have to like it.

“I can do whatever I want,” Spencer corrects cooly in a way that pisses you off beyond belief because he’s right. It triggers some adolescent immaturity within you—a desire to get back at him, so to speak. He wants intentionally provocative? He can have it.

“Fine. Then so can I. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it even if I could.”

“Spencer,” you warn. “If you don’t tell me what you were thinking I’m gonna—” you look around the room for ammo. “I’m gonna look through your nightstand!”

“Go ahead. I’ll warn you, it’s not very interesting.”

“Sounds like what someone who has something hide would say,” you mumble, crawling across the mattress through tangled sheets and using your phone flashlight to open the drawer.

Spencer is patient and silent as you take in its contents—a small blue leather-bound notebook (full of what looks like Russian), a fountain pen, a glasses case, various kinds of vitamins, and—

“Spencer Reid,” you say, dragging out his name and pretending nothing is fluttering in your stomach, “what are these?”

“I don’t know. I can’t see what you’re referring to.”

“Take a wild guess.”

“Oh, I have one. But I’d like to hear you say it.”

You realize you may have gotten yourself in deeper than you meant to by going through his stuff. Well—they don’t say karma is a bitch for nothing.

“What are you doing with a box of condoms?”

He chuckles and you feel it in your whole body, warm as you stretch across his mattress and eye the box like it might jump out at you.

“Those are years old. I’ve used three since I bought them.”

“Don’t tell me that,” you whine. “I don’t wanna think about all the other women you’ve seduced.”

“You wanted them to be for you, huh?”

You flush. Honestly you hadn’t even thought about that.

“I… I don’t know. I kind of just assumed…”

It’s silent for a second and you frown, realizing you hadn’t even considered protection when you’d imagined sleeping with him before.

“You assumed what, honey?” he asks, voice soft.

“It’s dumb. I can’t tell you.”

“You can tell me anything. I’m not going to think it’s dumb, I promise.”

You chew on your lip, letting your eyes unfocus on the box as you muster the courage to be honest.

“Whenever I imagined it… we didn’t… use anything.”

The words make you cringe even as you’re saying them. So does the quiet that follows.

“When you imagine us sleeping together, we don’t use a condom?”

“Ah!” The phone drops to the mattress as you cover your ears and roll onto your side, curling into yourself once more. “You didn’t have to say it! You make me sound so weird!”

“It’s not weird,” he laughs, because he can probably imagine exactly what you just did, “I just wanted to make sure I was understanding you. That said… we would definitely use protection.”

“Do we have to?”

The quiet words take even you by surprise—and they seem to stun Spencer as well. Several false starts are punctuated by a sigh as he gathers his thoughts.

“We really should, baby. That’s the kind of thing we need to take seriously.”

“But you’re… you’re good, right?”

Thankfully he picks up on your meaning.

“I am. I wouldn’t touch you if I weren’t.”

“And I’m good. So...”

“Hm. And has anyone ever explained to you where babies come from?”

You groan in frustration.

“Spencer, I’m being serious! There are ways to negate that.”

“Honey,” he murmurs, “I understand that. But it would be irresponsible of me to say yes. We can talk about it in the future, but—”

“I’m telling you it’s already dealt with. The chances of an accidental pregnancy are slim to none.”

The new information hangs in the air for a moment until Spencer speaks—to your surprise, his voice is low and humorous.

“That is… good to know. But even so—I’m setting a dangerous precedent if I always let you get exactly what you want.”

“Is it such a bad thing that I just wanna—I wanna know what it feels like? You don’t want that?”

“That’s not what I said. I want to know exactly what you feel like. I’m just hesitant to give in so quickly because it makes me look weak.”

You laugh breathlessly, caught between being turned on by the first part of his sentence and amused by the sarcastic second half. Your thighs clench and your hand absentmindedly wanders between them.

“You know what I was thinking about?” you ask. Spencer hums curiously. “I was thinking about when you let me, um… when you let me touch you how you touch me.” He hums again, but you can hear the amused curve of a smile in it now.

“When you had your mouth all full of me and you looked so pretty?”

“When I—yeah,” you agree, too caught up to deny his compliment as your fingers brush your most sensitive spot through clothing. “And how you got me all messy after. And I was wondering what it would feel like… inside me.”

He sucks in a breath. Your legs brush against each other and you twist slightly as you pretend like you’re not touching yourself just a little bit.

“You want me to come inside you?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, brain short-circuiting at the way those words sound in his voice.

—

On the other side of the line, Spencer isn’t doing a fantastic job of thinking clearly either. His dick is half-hard already and it’s only getting worse with each little noise you make that you don’t seem to realize you’re making.

“Really? That would be very messy, baby. I’m surprised that’s what you want.”

“But I really want it,” you breathe. He’s not even looking as he slips his hand under the waistband of his pajamas and palms himself, his other hand rubbing tiredly over his face as his phone rests on his chest. This was not how he intended for this call to go, believe it or not—but he’s here now.

“Yeah? Is that why you’re touching yourself right now?”

You go silent—which is more or less exactly the reaction Spencer had been expecting. Patiently he waits for you to deny it, in three, two—

“’M not.”

Now, he could explain how he knows that’s a lie. How your breathing pattern changed, and your voice got softer and airier, and how you started speaking with smaller words in fragmented sentences. But he doesn’t feel like explaining any of that.

“I know that’s not true,” he murmurs. “You know what? It wasn’t fair to get you all worked up last night and then leave. I don’t want you frustrated, honey. I want you to do whatever you need to do.”

You make a little gasping noise, and Spencer can imagine the way your back would arch when you did it. His own hips buck slightly as his dick twitches under his fingers.

“Where are you touching?”

“Um—over my clothes.”

Cute.

“Go under them for me. Tell me how it feels when you’re touching yourself like that.”

It takes a moment, in which all he hears is the rustling of fabric, until you’re whispering, “feels… it feels good. I wish you were here.”

He inhales, freeing his cock and squeezing the base.

“I know. Just listen to my voice, pretty. I’m right here.”

Spencer allows himself a few slow tugs as he imagines what’s happening in his bed. You make a squeaking noise, like a held-back moan, and his eyes screw shut.

“I need them inside,” you whine, and he knows you’re referring to his fingers—the ones currently stroking his own leaking cock.

“You can use your own, just give yourself a minute first. Remember what I said about needing to be ready?”

“I am ready—” judging by the surprised chirp you interrupt yourself with, you’ve proven yourself right. What surprises Spencer is the weak sound of disappointment you make next. “Spence, it doesn’t feel the same.”

“We’re different sizes, honey. Your hands aren’t as big as mine. But you can still make it feel good.”

He almost says, 90% of the nerves in the vaginal canal are located in the lower third—in other words, within approximately 2.36 inches from the opening, which you can most certainly reach—but he refrains. He’s not sure if that’s good dirty talk.

“You have a really sensitive spot about three inches up, right in front. It’s going to feel a little different than the rest of you when you touch it. I want you to try and find it for me, okay?”

“Okay,” you breathe, ever-eager to please even from a great distance. There’s a quiet moment. “I can’t—I don’t think I can r—oh,”

The moan is so pretty Spencer can’t help speeding up the motion of his hand, hissing slightly as his fingers brush against the angry tip with every pump.

“Did you find it?”

“Yeah,” you whine, a weak, high-pitched thing. “Oh my god.”

“Be gentle,” he warns with some effort as his own hips jump slightly. “You’re really sensitive there. If you’re not careful you’ll make yourself sore.”

“I don’t care—holy shit—” the way your voice rises and tightens to a squeak at the end has Spencer moaning as he fucks his fist. A black hole forms and warps time, turning every minute into a second and every second into an infinity until he has no idea how much time is going by. He drags his thumb over the tip, smearing precum over his cock and whining as his jaw drops at the feeling. “Oh my god, Spencer,” in that same strained, high voice. “’M gonna—ah!”

He gets the general sentiment.

“What, baby? You’re gonna make yourself come all over your fingers? Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

“Mhm!”

“Yeah, I bet you are. It feels good, huh?”

“Yes,” you cry.

“See? You don’t need my fingers to feel good. Mine barely fit, you know that? I have to hold your fucking hips down whenever I put my fingers in you because you can’t stop squirming. I don’t know how you think you’re going to take my cock.”

“Spencer!”

He knows.

“Come, baby. Let me hear you.”

The delicate sounds you make as you bring yourself to orgasm tip him over the edge of his own—grunting as he comes all over his fist.

“Jesus,” he strains under his breath, the word dragging out into two long syllables as his hips buck involuntarily and cum drips down his knuckles. He’s lightheaded and he’s created a mess and it all happened so quickly. “Fuck,” he breathes, a rasping chuckle as he reaches for the towel he’d dropped on the bed after his shower earlier. “You conscious over there?”

“I’m conscious,” you slur, breathing heavily. “I’ve never had an orgasm by myself before.”

“Are you proud of yourself?” Spencer smiles, wiping his hand off and making sure he’s otherwise clean. “You should be. I am.”

He’s barely kidding.

“I’ll be proud when I can do it without your help,” you tease.

“But I’ll always want to help you with that.” His already warm face flushes further as he goes over what he’d said. “Sorry I was so vulgar.”

You laugh. He blushes even more.

“Are you? I think you secretly love being vulgar.”

“I don’t know why! I have no idea where it comes from. I would never speak that way in any other context. I should probably work on that. Sometimes I look back on the things I say and I’m genuinely appalled.”

“Well, don’t stop on my account. Personally I enjoy it.”

“Yeah, I think I’m corrupting you. You probably shouldn’t enjoy it.”

The truth of it weighs heavy on his mind, but he’s pretty sure his voice alone doesn’t betray that and you can’t sense it through the phone.

“Oh, my god. Do not do that falling on your sword shit. I like being corrupted by you. If you stop I’ll be very upset.”

“Well god forbid you get upset,” he teases gently. Idly he wonders if the reason he’s suddenly feeling so depressed is because his cortisol levels were already high from the case, and then he jarred his system with an orgasm, spiking his dopamine and ultimately causing it to plummet without the oxytocin release that post-coital physical contact would usually provide.

Or if it was something else. It could also be something else.

For the millionth time, he wishes he was with you. Part of him also wants to go to sleep. But mostly he wishes he was with you.

—

A comfortable silence settles over the conversation. In the ditch between words, you’re mapping constellations in the texture of Spencer’s ceiling. If you squeeze your eyes almost shut, you can imagine it really is the night sky. You can imagine he’s really here.

You think about what he said—his apparently mindless vulgarity. Did it mean anything? Or was he just rambling to get you off?

“Spencer?” you murmur.

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

He sounds earnest, perhaps a little tired, as he replies, “always,” through the little metal rectangle on your chest. He likes me and my questions are important to him, you repeat to yourself silently as you work up the strength.

“If Penelope hadn’t called, last night… were you going to have sex with me?”

Your lip tastes like his toothpaste as you chew it. Spencer sucks in a breath of air like he’s about to speak—and lets it fizzle out like foam on a carbonated drink.

“I don’t know,” he finally admits, lamely. “That wasn’t my plan, but you can be extremely convincing when you want to be.”

“But why can’t it be your plan?” It’s an almost whine, pouty and childish—but the next words are quiet and pained. “Is it something I’m doing wrong?”

“No, no! It’s not you. You’re perfect. It’s—it’s complicated. It’s a me thing.”

Such trite words—such a ubiquitous, simple excuse sounds almost comical from his mouth when you know he’s capable of all the eloquence in the world. It’s not you, it’s me. It’s ridiculous.

“Okay. Let me simplify this for you,” you begin with an uncharacteristic assertiveness that surprises even you. “I want to have sex with you. Either we are going to have sex or we’re not. So your future branches in two diverging paths. In one, we have sex, and then we keep having sex. In the other we never have sex ever. If you want to ever have the privilege of fucking me, then we just have to do it. Otherwise it simply will never happen. And I’m not eternally patient, Reid.”

Go me, you think, slightly breathless from your monologue.

“Watch your mouth,” he says dryly. Something about the chastisement makes your stomach flip and your whole body tingle. “When you talk to me you call me Spencer. I will also accept Doctor Reid.” You wrestle down a smile, refusing to let him change the subject. A delayed sigh from him sobers up the conversation. “You know what I want. I’ve been very clear with you about that. But…”

“But…?”

Another sigh. A deeper, shuddering sigh, like his breath is searching for balance. Like Spencer is in a precarious position for which he was unprepared.

“But—but to be completely honest… I worry that you’ll regret choosing me. And I know virginity is a social construct and I’m not implying that your worth will somehow be diminished if we have sex but regardless of my views on virginity as a construct, having sex for the first time can be weird and scary and it’s incredibly intimate and I don’t want you to regret your first time like I regret mine because you chose the wrong person.”

The words come at you so rapid-fire it takes you a moment to process them. And aside from all the ways you want to reassure him that you will not regret choosing him—that you could never, ever regret anything about him—one thing stands out.

“You regret your first time?”

Something between a scoff and a sigh travels through the line. You can tell he’s not annoyed at you for asking so much as he’s flustered himself with all his own words as he occasionally does.

“Yeah. Yes. Sometimes I do. The person—she didn’t… like me as much as I liked her. And I was really, really in love with her, and she knew that and she knew she wasn’t in love with me—or maybe she was, I don’t know—but my point is, when one person likes the other more than the other person like them, things get complicated. And however you feel about me—that’s fine. It’s fine. I don’t want you to feel bad if we don’t feel exactly the same way about each other. I understand that this is newer for you, it’s different, I—I just don’t want us to do something we can’t undo because I don’t want to relive that. And I’m not saying it will never happen but I just don’t want you to make this choice when… when right now, I think we’re in different places emotionally. Regardless of that, I want you to choose the right person. I don’t want you to choose me and then find out that we feel differently after we sleep together and leave you feeling like you signed up for something you didn’t understand. I’m sorry. Maybe telling you this is selfish. But I’ve been thinking about it and trying to ignore it and I think I just have to be completely honest.”

Your ears ring like Spencer just fired a blank right into the microphone. Like you just got backhanded across the face and now you have the world’s worst case of whiplash.

Every finger is numb and your blood is so cold it feels blue as it slithers thick through your veins.

What you want to do is scream. What you want to do is go back to last night and stop yourself from almost telling him I love you, slap yourself and keep your cards a little closer to your chest. Because now he knows, and he doesn’t feel the same.

You want to scream bloody murder.

But when you try, when you unhinge your jaw and part your chapped lips and expect a bellow to come hurdling up the corridor of your throat with so much force it rattles your bones, all that falls out is a small, “oh.”

Maybe that’s worse.

Spencer doesn’t reply. You hate yourself for feeling obliged to fill the silence.

“I didn’t realize you…”

I didn’t realize that you don’t love me back.

I didn’t realize I like you more than you like me.

I didn’t realize you’d tell me to masturbate in your fucking bed and then drop this not even five minutes later.

If Spencer Reid was able to talk to you over the phone with the same amount of affection and familiarity as always, like everything was still okay, knowing you love him and he doesn’t love you the whole time, he is not who you thought he was.

“I’m sorry,” he lamely says again, like it could ever help.

More silence. Now you can’t bring yourself to speak, so Spencer does.

“I realize how awkward this is. I really didn’t mean to put you in this position. Especially not over the phone when I—god, I’m stupid. I’m sorry. But can we—can we talk about this in person when I get back? Please?”

Is that what grownups do? Is the proper etiquette for him to take you out to dinner and explain why he’s not in love with you? Is he going to break up with you?

What does one even wear to a breakup date?

“Okay,” you whisper. Your eyes sting, your everything stings, like you’ve been wrapped in a shroud of briar. Sheets that were soft a moment ago feel like sandpaper on open wounds. You feel like an open wound.

Spencer sighs. It’s a sound of relief that confuses and hurts you even more.

“Okay. I—okay. Thank you. Um—I’ll let you go back to sleep, now.”

“Okay,” you repeat—as if any of this were okay. But you can’t keep being that stupid girl who feels it all so much harder, who loves easily and begs to be loved in return, too naive to assume that someone who treats her so kindly might not reciprocate her feelings. It has to be okay, because if it’s not, you’re silly and dramatic and you’re just proving him right.

“Goodnight,” Spencer whispers, and you can’t help but feeling that it’s the last time you’ll ever hear those words from his mouth while you’re in his bed. And he’s not even fucking here.

So you pull the blanket a little higher. You let your tears stain his pillow because they’ll be invisible by the morning. It will be like they were never here. Like you were never here.

“Goodnight.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid fic #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #criminal minds #criminal minds smut #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fic

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