#THANK YOU FOR THE ASK ALSO THIS WAS REALLY FUN

[mona-risms]

Just figured it out. The entire Huntr/x group has a massive praise kink, most likely from their ✨shared trauma✨ of being rejected/isolated for one reason or another. Honestly I can't picture any of them responding exceptionally well to any form of degradation (again because they've already been there and done that already). Literally that one audio just:

Rumi: Give me the biggest fucking praise buff- 🤗

(Reader): You're such a good girl~

Mira: HOLY FUCK TREAT ME LIKE THAT 🫢

(Reader): Good fucking girl

Zoey in the background: YES I AM!! 🤩

Literally three losers trapped in hot bodies 😭 but you'd be absolutely right and you will be hearing NO objection from me. They've already dealt with some form of degradation in their lives (not in a fun way), and even if it IS a sexual setting and sure they're aware that some people kinda like it bc it's a form of reclamation anyway, it's. Unless it's VERY light and teasing degradation, it's really really not for them. Methinks they'd have individual preferences when it comes to it though

Rumi would respond best when it comes to being praised for her appearance, which seems shallow at base level but think about it w me for a sec. She's grown up believing that she should be ashamed, that she should hide her patterns or else she'll be nothing but a demon to everyone's eyes—even managed to convince her that Zoey and Mira would NEVER accept and understand her if she told the truth and showed them proof of her descent. If you tell her how she's such a pretty girl for you, all ruined while you fuck her brains out, and if you even target the parts that she thinks are 'monstrous' like her patterns or her eyes or literally anything? She's gone. Her entire body's shaking from the force of her orgasm and her claws might damage the bed but oh well!!!!

Zoey would LOVELOVELOVE being praised for being good, which is why in one of my earlier entries I've said how she adores petplay. She CRAVES affection AND approval, especially considering her people-pleasing tendencies—she wants to be more than enough for you, she wants to do everything you ask of her, she wants to give you everything you want, she wants you happy bc you happy and satisfied is her own reward!!! There's that small nagging feeling constantly inside her that gets her thinking if she isn't good then you won't want her anymore :( so bombard her with praise about how she's your good girl, taking everything you give her and squeezing down, all dripping wet and obedient, and those thoughts'll float away as she keeps on babbling and saying thank you with tears in her eyes

Mira wouldn't really voice it out, not really, but the way to get to her may actually be by being possessive during sex. Stay with me here, right. She's never felt like she belonged anywhere, considering her 'problem child' status that most definitely got her feeling shunned left, right, and centre. She's not possessive in general, and if YOU were like deathly possessive yourself she'll even sit you down just to kinda like have a talk w you about it. But when it comes to intimacy and kinks? Oh. Oh my god. There's something about you calling her yours and no one else's, about you gripping onto her tight as if letting go would tear her away from you, that gets her so fucking hot and bothered. Bc her whole life she didn't belong anywhere and yet now you're telling her she belongs to you??? FUCK she'd have such a deathly grip on you too, and her body's movements as it arches as close to you as possible more than speaks for her

Overall these girls def need to be praised so much :( not just in sex but in general as well. It gets them feeling a bit of heat in their core but also it makes them so happy :(((( they deserve love

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - off the record (part six)

part six ; room 1247

warnings ; none!!

prompt ; in which you’re paired with your insufferably charming ex-academic rival turned coworker to cover a congressional scandal, and suddenly, professional boundaries becomes the only thing holding you two apart.

note ; fun fact i wrote the second scene half-drunk and i actually think it turned out really well so shoutout to sauvy b for always holding it down! i hope you all enjoyed your fun one week break from these two idiots <3 i have returned with my favorite microtrope of all time, and we are FINALLY getting to this new york city trip. this trip is THEE trip. if this were a movie, you would be throwing your damn popcorn at the screen, yelling "HE LOVES YOU, YOU BIG IDIOT." but this is a tumblr fanfic, so nothing of the sort will occur. new york city holds nostalgia for them. memories of their past. some deep shit like that. but realistically it's kinda like when you pass by a place you used to go to a lot as a kid and you're like oh. oh. i remember this feeling. i liked this feeling. let me stop before i spoil my own stupid ass fic! i hope you cutie patooties enjoy (and before anyone asks, those extras are on the way i SWEAR. they are pivotal to the story and will come in due time) and as always, big big love to @httpsincity for being the best beta reader of all time (and if you🫵 are interested in being one too, hit my dm's! no experience required but you must love reading and analyzing every little crumb)

series masterlist here

playlist here

wc ; 8.4k

There’s this rollercoaster called the Cyclone at Luna Park in Coney Island. You rode it for the first time when you were eleven, clutching the safety bar with a stomach full of cotton candy and your heart thudding against the walls of your ribs.

You remember going up, up, up, and then looking out at the view at the top; your dad’s beat-up Honda Civic in the parking lot, food stalls selling funnel cakes and fried oreos, the tide of the ocean receding. 

You don’t really remember the down, down, down part. Your brain apparently decided that the sheer terror of hurtling towards earth at sixty miles per hour wasn't worth remembering. All that stuck was the high of being on top of the world for more than three seconds. 

That’s exactly what it feels like when Jenna texts you bright and early Thursday morning. “Morning, [Y/N]! This trip is important. Very senior correspondent vibes. Enjoy New York - promotion update when you get back!!”

The exclamation points feel like confetti, like when someone texts you ‘congrats!’ and your phone immediately showers you in unwarranted iMessage effects. 

Senior correspondent vibes. 

You stare at the screen, grinning like an idiot, as reality comes knocking in the form of another notification. Your Uber driver, asking where the hell you are because you’ve been standing on your sidewalk for the past three minutes, clutching your phone to your chest gleefully. 

I have a lot to be thankful for, you remind yourself as you get your legs working and head towards the red Sedan. For starters, Mark’s itinerary arrived yesterday and either Monroe's team is absolutely loaded (likely) or they’re dead set on treating you like royalty, because you’re staying at the Hilton in Times Square. You’re talking about the actual Hilton, with real room service and those little bottles of shampoo you’ll be stealing, not some sad little motel in Queens. 

You also dragged Emma out for drinks last night and made her relive every painful second of Friday night’s events. She spent most of the time doing impersonations of Paul trying to be suave, and you laughed so hard you snorted vodka, which only made her do it again. 

And because the universe decidedly doesn’t hate you after all, you’ve barely interacted with Jungkook this week. From what you heard through the grapevine, Fox has him chasing down some diplomatic crisis in Paris, so he’s been buried under deadlines and time zones. 

Zero opportunities for you to think about his smell, his cheek scar, those ballpoint pens he seems to like so much, or his absolutely criminal way of complimenting women.

Everything is blissfully back on track. 

Or, well, it would be. If your Uber was dropping you off at some solo spa retreat instead of Union Station, where you’re about to break your beautiful Jungkook-free streak.

The sudden urge to find a spoon and scoop your eyeballs out like ice cream creeps up on you. 

Pulling out your phone, you fire back a quick response to Jenna: “Thanks, Jenna! I’ll make CNN proud this weekend.”

A little strategic ass-kissing never hurt anyone’s promotion chances. 

Once the Uber finally pulls up to the station, you wrestle your overpacked bag out of the backseat (why did you bring three different blazers for a weekend trip?), tip the driver in cash because you’ve never been convinced those app tips aren’t disappearing into some void, and trudge toward the Greyhound bus. 

From the outside, the bus seems mercifully empty. Monroe’s team booked you on an early morning bus to give you time to check into the hotel and mentally prepare for her press conference. The bus driver — an older man who tips his baseball cap at you — settles your nerves a little. You clamber onto the vehicle with little to no grace. 

Window seat, window seat, window se…

You practically catapult your body toward the back of the bus, snatching up the last available window spot. Turns out half of America decided to head to New York at 5 AM on a Thursday. 

Perfect. You plop your bag on the seat next to you like an animal marking its territory and jam your AirPods in. Spotify on immediate shuffle. There will be no stragglers, no chatty commuters taking that seat. 

This is your time to stare dramatically at the passing trees and pretend you’re in an indie film. 

This press conference is kind of a big deal, you’ve figured out that much. Half your week was spent with Jenna, brainstorming questions and predicting angles that Delgado and his team might spin. 

You’re planning to stay unbiased, obviously. Journalistic integrity and all that. But… you’ve also started to like Monroe a little bit. 

On Wednesday, when you sent her a draft paragraph for approval, she emailed back “Looks good :)” instead of “Fine.” The smiley face is a victory. 

You’ve also reached this simple scientific conclusion after spending time with her: men are at the root of all evil. Men put you into scandals. Men plaster your face on the cover of the New York Times. Men are just—

Your current song gets cut short. Left AirPod violently ripped out of your ear. What the fuck? 

Your head whips in the direction of the thief, ready to commit murder, and find yourself staring at Jungkook. He’s standing in the aisle wearing a Columbia sweatshirt and gray sweatpants, hair disheveled, holding your white airpod between his fingers like some audio pirate. 

“I said your name like, forty times. Is this seat taken?”

“Yes,” you hiss, snatching your earbud back. “It’s taken by my bag.”

To emphasize your point, you pat your bag possessively and give him your most sinister smile. He grins back and starts sliding his backpack off his shoulder.  “Jeon, don’t even think about it—”

“[Y/N].” He gestures at the packed bus around you. When you take a quick inventory, you don’t think there’s a single seat open. “This whole bus is packed. There’s not a single seat left. What am I supposed to do, sit on the floor?”

Your eyes light up. “Oh my god, can you?”

“You are unbelievable.”

“I am literally not moving my bag for you.”

“Well,” he starts, and before you can stop him, he’s moving your bag to the floor and sliding into the seat beside you like he owns the place. “I just moved it for you.”

You audibly gasp. “Go ask someone to switch with you. Right now.” 

“Oh, what?” He has the nerve to look amused. “Now we can’t sit next to each other?”  

“Correct. We cannot.” You cross your arms over your chest and pout. 

“You seemed to like it just fine last—”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll hire an Etsy witch to curse your bloodline,” you interrupt, because clearly you liked a lot of questionable things last week. You also thought Red Bull tasted better than your usual Celsius, so maybe you were having some kind of out-of-body experience. Maybe you got Freaky Friday-ed.

“All I’m saying is we got along pretty well last week.” He shrugs casually. 

You’ve been actively trying not to think about that, thank you very much.  After extensive self-reflection (and a mild spiral), you’ve determined that your weird little dance-and-compliment session with Jungkook can be blamed entirely on three things: wine, lemon drop shots, and vodka sodas. It was a perfectly normal human reaction to alcohol poisoning. 

The bus rumbles to life beneath you, and your left eye starts twitching. You’re trapped. This death trap on wheels is hauling you to New York whether you like your seatmate or not.

“Last week was a fluke.” You stare out the window, fidgeting with your rescued AirPod.

“Didn’t I tell you I like it when you’re nice to me?” he teases. 

“I break out in hives if I do it for too long.” In fact, you’re breaking into them right now. 

“Well, I like it.” You don’t even need to look at him to know he’s smiling cheek-to-cheek.

“I could give a rat’s ass about what you like,” you remind him. 

“Mhm,” he hums, sounding annoyingly pleased with himself. He leans down and pulls his laptop out of his backpack. Finally, you think to yourself. He’ll leave you alone to brood in peace. 

You’re halfway to putting your AirPod back in when he goes, “So what are you planning on asking at the press conference?” 

You turn to glare at him. His eyes are particularly brown this morning, all lit up by the sunshine bleeding through the window, and they’re twinkling with mischief. “Oh, so you can steal my questions? Absolutely not.”

“I’ve got my own questions to ask.”

“Puh-lease.” You let out a disbelieving laugh. “And you think they’ll be better than mine?”

“I never said that.” He opens his laptop and starts typing in his password, and you immediately look away because you are not some kind of creep who memorizes people’s credentials. Even though your peripheral vision definitely caught what looked like numbers and maybe the word ’banana’? “I know yours will be good.”

“Compliment session expired, buddy. You’re not getting one back.”

“Not expecting one.” The laptop screen illuminates his face as he logs in. “I just think we should be working on this as a team. Technically, we’re on Monroe’s side.”

That, and you’re rooting for whatever gets you promoted. 

“We’re not supposed to be on anyone’s side, Jungkook,” you sigh, because evidently you now need to explain basic journalism ethics. Did this dude actually graduate in your class at Columbia?

“I know that, dweeb.” He rolls his eyes. “But I feel kinda bad for her. Delgado seems like a dick.”

“How so?” You don’t necessarily disagree, but you’re curious where he’s going with this. 

“I mean, he basically threw her under the bus, right?” His fingers hover over the keyboard. “If he actually liked her, he would’ve backed her in this whole scandal. Now he’s addicted to bringing her down during every press conference.”

You snort. “Welcome to men in politics. Population: disappointing.”

“Not all men.” 

You have to physically bite your tongue to keep from cackling. “Oh, right. Because you're a saint. A shining beacon of male virtue. All hail Jungkook, our feminist king."

"I'm just saying—"

"What, that you'd handle it differently?" You turn in your seat to face him fully, because this should be entertaining. "Please, enlighten me. How would saint Jungkook navigate a political sex scandal?"

“For starters, I wouldn’t be in one.” He opens Google Docs and starts scrolling through his documents. There’s one titled ‘DELGADO IS A TOOL: AN ANALYSIS.’ “I wouldn’t put someone I actually cared about through that kind of mess.”

“That’s… actually sweet.” You pause, squirming in your seat at what you’re about to admit. “Disgusting, but sweet.”

“It’s the truth.” He glances back at you. “So, yeah, excuse me for wanting her to win this thing.” 

“No, I.. I guess I get it. She does seem pretty beaten down by all this,” you agree. 

She reminds you of yourself, honestly. The whole putting-on-a-brave-face thing, hiding behind whatever armor you can find because it's easier than admitting you completely misread someone. That you trusted the wrong person. Monroe doesn't deserve to be dragged through the mud like this. No woman does.

“Hand me my laptop.”

God, your moral compass is a real pain in the ass sometimes.

“What, why?” Jungkook scoots away from you. “Are you gonna whack me with it?” 

“No, you moron.” You point toward your bag.  “I’ll share some of my questions with you. In the name of Monroe, of course.”

“Really?” His mouth does this upward quirk thing that should not be as distracting as it is. He leans down to unzip your bag, rummaging around for your laptop. 

“Don’t get cocky on me,” you warn as he hands it over. For maybe half a heartbeat, his fingers brush against yours as you both hold the laptop. His hands are warmer than you expected, and there’s a tiny callus on his thumb you can feel with your own. 

He looks up at you. Little golden flecks in his eyes appear that you've somehow never noticed before.

You yank your hands back and hug the laptop to your chest before bringing it down to your lap. Jungkook clears his throat awkwardly, adjusting his shoulders. Apparently you both are acting like 12-year olds now. 

When you finally boot up your own Google Docs, the difference between your approach and Jungkook’s is staggering. While his document appears to be a mess of bullet points and random thoughts scattered across multiple tabs, yours is an organized masterpiece called "Monroe-Delgado Case File" with color-coded sections, chronological timelines, and cross-referenced evidence. Sometimes it genuinely baffles you that this is the same man you've been calling your archnemesis since freshman year of college. 

“So, here's my strategy.” You pull up your questions document, which is obviously also color-coded. “I’m thinking I'll ease in, maybe ask some questions about her work ethic these past few months. Prove that she’s someone without him, establish her credibility.” 

You scroll down to your yellow-highlighted section. “Then I’ll ask how they got involved. Professional, personal? Who made the first move?”

Jungkook makes a sound of understanding. “And that’s where we let her paint him as the villain.”

“Not quite,” You peer up from your screen. “If I’m too obvious about leading her, they’re gonna know my stance. I want to extract from her the worst parts of him without actually trying, you know? I'll ask something like 'Can you walk us through a typical conversation you'd have about policy?' Let her own answers expose his ass.”

As your eyes tilt up to meet his, you realize Jungkook is staring at you. Your stomach decides to audition for Cirque du Soleil. Obviously that’s just motion sickness from the bus. 

His eyebrows are raised, cherry lips parted. A softness behind his orbs you haven’t seen in all your years of knowing him. 

It’s either complete bewilderment or… no, it’s definitely bewilderment. What else could it be?

You wave a hand in front of his face. “Earth to Jungkook. Thoughts? Concerns?” 

His lips split into a grin, cheeks reddening. “You, [Y/N] [Y/L/N], are a mastermind.”

A horrible flutter floats through your stomach that you want to set on fire. Since when does Jungkook recognizing your intelligence make your insides feel like a butterfly habitat? 

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“If someone told me last year that you were gonna voluntarily share state secrets with me on a Greyhound bus, I would've recommended they get a psychiatric evaluation.” He smiles at his own joke, and honestly, fair point. 

“Straight to the looney bin,” you agree, snorting. “Alright, so what about you? What’s your master plan?”

You’re not expecting much, but curiosity killed the cat and all that jazz. 

His eyes dart around the bus like he’s looking for an escape route, lingering on the trees whizzing past the window. He tilts his laptop screen away from you as if he’s a five-year-old hiding a bad report card. “Uhhh..” 

Oh, hell no. 

“Jeon, I swear to god, show me right now. “ You lunge for his laptop, trying to wrestle it towards you, but all those years of whatever sport he was playing in college actually paid off.

“It’s just… not fully fleshed out yet.” His cheeks are still crimson, bottom lip tucked in between his top teeth. 

“And?” 

He lets out a defeated sigh. “My research strategy is pretty much 'throw spaghetti at the wall and see what sticks.' I've got a note here that just says 'Delgado equals suspicious eyebrows' with no context whatsoever.”

You burst out laughing — like, actually doubled over, embarrassing snort giggles escaping before you can stop them. It’s the most Jungkook thing you’ve ever heard, so exactly what you should have expected. He’s always been like this; flying by the seat of his pants and landing on his feet everytime. You’ll never admit it to yourself fully, but you’re a bit jealous of how effortlessly brilliant he is. Intelligence just flows through him instead of requiring the blood, sweat, and tears you have to muster up. 

You also don’t notice Jungkook going completely still, completely transfixed on you as you laugh. 

“How does anyone over at Fox let you get away with this?” You finally manage between giggles.

“Mm, I’ll have you know my devastating good looks more than make up for my other shortcomings.” Jungkook attempts what might be a wink but looks like he’s having some kind of facial spasm.

That sends you into another round of giggles. “Let’s pump the brakes on that ego, Romeo.” 

“Fine, fine. It’s obviously my big brain that carries me, duh.” He taps his temple twice, a ridiculously large grin on his face. 

"Right, that famous brain of yours." You're still grinning, and without thinking, you reach over and pat his broad shoulder. "The same brain that once showed up to Professor Chen's final with notes written on a coffee shop napkin."

"That napkin had very valuable information on it!"

"It had a grocery list, Jungkook. I literally remember 'buy milk' being highlighted in yellow."

“Okay, and who still got the only A+ in class?” He crosses his arms over his chest petulantly. 

You squint at him. The little fucker. You’d almost managed to forget about the Great A+ Debacle of Professor Chen’s course. You marched right up to Chen after class and demanded to know why your meticulously researched paper only earned an A while Jungkook’s napkin-note got the A+. His response was, and you quote, “Mr. Jeon’s analysis simply wowed me.” 

Wowed. As if Jungkook was some kind of magician instead of a guy who studied for the final on the bus ride to campus. 

"Don't." You hold up a warning finger. "Don't you dare get smug about that."

"Too late." His grin is insufferable. "Already feeling pretty smug."

“I spent three weeks studying. Three whole ass weeks of research. And you probably studied the night before.”

“Two nights before, actually. I’m not a complete animal.”

You want to throw something at him, but all you have is your laptop and that seems counterproductive. “I hate you so much.”

“Do you?"

“I really, really do, Jeon.” 

“No, you just hate that I’m right.” His pearly white teeth are still on display, but a look of uncertainty flashes across his features briefly. “I swear, sometimes I think you believe I took this job just to spite you.”

The accusation hangs in the air. What the hell? Where did that come from? You blink at him, completely thrown by whatever weird turn this conversation just took. 

“I didn’t,” he continues just as you open your mouth to respond, “but it’s okay.”

“So then why did you?” The question is tumbling out of you before you can catch it, and suddenly you know you’re not talking about Professor Chen anymore. “Why did you have to follow me to the one place.. the one thing you knew I wanted more than anything?”

His jaw tightens. “Is it hard to believe that my dreams could’ve been the same as yours? That I also wanted to work in the White House? That despite my family name, I wanted to make something of myself?” 

And when he puts it like that, you sound like the most egotistical, narcissistic bitch of all time. 

“I’m sorr—”

“It’s fine.” His voice suggests it’s very much not fine. 

You study his profile as he stares behind you, past your face, out the window. There’s that scar on his cheek you keep wondering about. He has small silver hoops in both ears, ones that you want to come up with a joke for, but it never actually leaves your tongue. There’s also some perfectly placed mole just under his bottom lip. He has a lot of moles actually, some that you ponder what it’s like to trace as if they were destinations on a map with your finger. 

He is really pretty. You’ll give him that much. 

“So… you took the job to prove you could be more than just some rich kid with connections?”

“Yeah.” He’s quiet for a moment, and when he speaks again, he meets your eyes. "That, and... because I knew you'd be here. And I guess a small part of me wants to follow you everywhere you go."

You stare blankly at him.  There are approximately 1,586 different thoughts ricocheting around your brain right now, most of which you're mashing so far down they'll probably fossilize before you ever have to deal with them. You have to remind yourself they’re just words, just pretty words he probably read in a book and decided to test-drive on you for shits and giggles.

Because this is Jungkook.  The dude from college who once wore a Hawaiian shirt to your Political Theory class specifically because you'd mentioned in passing that you found them aesthetically offensive, the dude who waited outside your classes just to inform you about whatever A+ he'd gotten that week, the dude who lurks in the hallway for you after every press briefi…

Oh, crap. 

Shit. 

He really has been everywhere, hasn't he? He’s invaded every part of your life. Since freshman year. 

There’s nothing left for you to do but deflect. Start running so fast in the other direction like a chicken with its head cut off. “So, you’re admitting you’re my stalker? Is that on the record?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, [Y/N]. If that’s what you wanna call it. Then yes, I’m your stalker.”

“Great. I’ll personally deliver the restraining order papers to your home.” You close your laptop. It’s painfully obvious that no actual work is happening here. You also don’t think you would be able to work if you tried. Not with him sitting so close to you, spewing confessions like they’re Halloween candy. 

“You’d have to find my address first.” He sticks his tongue out at you humorously. 

“That won’t be hard. I bet you live in one of those high-rises with a doorman named Gerald who knows everyone’s coffee order.”

Back at Columbia, you may have heard whispers. Something about his family having serious money, like a trust fund and summer house in the Hamptons type money. You never paid much attention to campus gossip, but it was hard to ignore. 

“His name is Frank, actually, and he prefers espresso.”

You gape at him. “I was kidding, but of course you actually— never mind. The point is, you’re a terrible stalker because you’re being way too obvious about it.”

“Am I?” 

“Jungkook.” Your tone is so stern he slumps into the seat. “Stop stalking me.”

“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right?” 

You're trying not to laugh, but honestly, he's such an idiot. "You never even apologized for watching my press pools so you can copy me, you dweeb."

He rolls his eyes. “How will we ever live?”

You clutch your chest dramatically. “We won’t.” 

“In what form would you like your apology, your royal highness?” 

“Oh fuck you, Jeon.” 

“Apology's coming,” he promises. “One of these days.” 

You highly doubt that.

“I won’t hold my breath. I’d like to live to see 30.”

You let your gaze drift back to the window, watching the world blur past in streaks of green and gray. The early morning sun keeps catching on random things — car windshields, road signs, some poor jogger's reflective gear. Your abandoned AirPod sits on your lap, reminding you of all the work you have left to do and definitely aren't going to accomplish with Jungkook sitting there being... whatever this is.

Just as you're considering reopening your laptop and pretending to be productive, your bladder decides to make its presence known. Damnit. You were so comfortable. 

Sighing, you turn toward Jungkook. “Move. I gotta pee.”

“What happened to please like a civilized human being?” He smirks, cocking his head. 

“Please move before I pee on you.”

“Okay, ew.” He shifts his legs approximately two inches, which creates a gap roughly the size of a Pop Tart. "There you go."

“That’s not… you know what, fine.” It’s definitely not enough room but whatever. You stand up, eyeing the bus for the bathroom. The bathroom is located in possibly the worst spot imaginable — right in the middle of everything, next to the emergency exit, like they wanted to make sure everyone could witness your walk of shame.

You begin to step over his legs, halfway through the maneuver (you note his legs are freakishly long and bulky) when the bus hits what must be the Grand Canyon of potholes. Your head smacks the ceiling, your balance goes to hell, and you’re about to face-plant into the aisle before two warm, firm hands plant themselves on your hips, anchoring you. 

Looking down, Jungkook is staring up at you with those expressive brown eyes. You become incredibly aware that your outer thighs are bracketing his and his hands are spanning across your hipbones, and that this is probably the most compromising position you’ve ever found yourself in on public transportation. 

Never mind the fact that his hands fit so well around your hips you want to keep them there forever. 

“Careful, sweetheart.” He knows calling you that is going to piss you off, and the way your face contorts shows him he’s hit the mothership. 

“That restraining order is calling..” you joke, trailing off as you pry his hands from your hips and finally step into the aisle. 

You make your way toward the bathroom, gripping seat backs for balance and trying very hard not to think about the way his hands felt. As you walk, your chronic nosiness gets the better of you, and you start peeking into the seats you pass.

There’s actually… a lot more empty seats than you thought there were. Rows and rows of empty aisle seats, unoccupied. 

Your heart buzzes for a millisecond, reverberates through your entire being as the realization hits you: he lied. 

The bus wasn’t fully packed. He chose to sit next to you.

He wanted to sit next to you. 

You’re supposed to hate him. You need to hate him. But standing here in a swaying Greyhound bus, staring at rows of empty seats, you're starting to think you might be the biggest liar of them all.

So, Monroe’s team wasn’t kidding about the whole ‘all expenses paid’ thing, because this hotel has absolutely no business housing someone who still shops in the clearance section at Target. 

When you finally stumble through the revolving doors after your four-and-a-half-hour journey to hell, you're pretty sure you've accidentally wandered into the lobby from Home Alone. Massive crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, marble floors reflecting off your scuffed up sneakers. Men in three-piece suits roam around the space, attending to guests who probably spend more on room service than you make in a month. 

“Woah.” you breathe out, and your bag slides off your shoulder. You make zero effort to catch it. 

The past four and a half hours might as well have been some kind of fever dream. You accomplished exactly nothing work-wise, spent a good hour critiquing every political op-ed ever written, and then promptly passed out against the window for the remainder of the trip.

Well. Not exactly the window. 

Your head may or may not have migrated onto Jungkook’s shoulder at some point, and he may or may not have just… let it stay there. You woke up groggily to find a small patch of drool on his sweatshirt and his inquisitive chocolate eyes watching you. It was deeply unsettling. 

“Heavy sleeper, eh?” He had said, and you’d jerked upright so fast you nearly put yourself in a neck brace. 

But he also didn’t push you off. 

And that would all be mortifying enough on its own, but then he went and paid for the Uber to the hotel before you could even open the app, waving off your protests with a “Don’t worry about it” that made bile rise up in your throat. 

Too many acts of service in one day from Jungkook Jeon. Your world order is officially in shambles.

“Are you gonna stand there all day, or…?” Jungkook's voice breaks through jokingly. He’s already heading towards the check-in desk, his shoulder brushing yours as he passes — which should not make your skin feel like it’s been hit with a small electrical current, but clearly today is just full of things that should not be happening. 

Yes, you think to yourself, watching him walk away. Standing here forever is a viable option, considering the fanciest hotel I've ever stayed in was that sketchy motel outside Hershey Park when I was fifteen and my dad got a Groupon. 

You shake yourself back to reality and follow him, trying not to gawk at the fact that there are fresh flowers arranged on every surface. Jungkook already has his ID out and is giving his information to the desk clerk, a woman who looks like she stepped out of a magazine ad. 

Zoning out a little, you half-listen to their exchange while taking in the absurdity of your surroundings. There's a sitting area with leather chairs, and — oh god —  is that a piano? An actual grand piano just sitting there like it's normal?

“Perfect, Mr. Jeon. You’re all set with room 1247.” The woman’s voice snaps you back to attention. She slides a key card across the counter, an overly excited smile plastered on her face. “The elevators are just past the concierge desk.”

“Thanks,” Jungkook says, pocketing the card. He turns to you, eyebrows pointing in the direction of the desk. “Your turn.”

Right. Yes. No more ogling. You are an adult. You step forward, fumbling with your ID while trying not to feel intimidated by the woman’s flawless makeup and perfect French manicure. “Checking in. Should be under the name ‘[Y/N] [Y/L/N].”

Her fingernails clack against the keyboard, expression slowly shifting from pleasantness to mind confusion. “I’m sorry, could you repeat your last name?”

You spell it out slowly, watching as her frown deepens as she clicks through whatever fancy system this place probably uses. A habitual swoop of anxiety forms in the pit of your stomach. Of course something would go wrong. Of fucking course you would end up having to sleep in Penn Station or Port Authority Bus Terminal.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, tone genuinely apologetic. “I’m not seeing a reservation under that name for today's check in. Let me check if it was perhaps booked under your organization?”

“CNN,” you supply, and Jungkook glances over at you, concerned. 

More typing. More frowning. Wrinkles scrunch up on her forehead. “Hm. I do see a CNN reservation but it appears to be…” she swallows, looks between you and Jungkook. “Well, this is unusual. It looks like there’s only one room with a king bed booked under the CNN account.”

Your laugh, when it finally claws its way out from the depths of your chest, is unhinged. No. No no no. You've read this exact scenario before in those terrible Harry Styles fanfictions you used to devour at 2 AM during your sophomore year — the ones with titles like "Snowed In with My Enemy" or "One Bed, Two Hearts" — but this cannot be happening to you. This is real life. 

You are a serious journalist with a 401k, not some protagonist in a story written by someone named dreamersparacosm.

“That is literally impossible. I,” you point dramatically to yourself, “work for CNN.”

You switch gears and gesture wildly in Jungkook's direction. “He works for Fox. Fox News. Disgusting, right? We are competitors.”

The woman blinks calmly, like she’s trying to process whether you’re having some kind of breakdown. “I… see. Let me double check the reservation details.”

“Please do.” You’re begging now, hands clasped in desperation. “Because there is no universe in which they booked me a room with him.”

You swivel to face Jungkook, who’s looking suspiciously amused by this whole debacle. “This is hilarious to you, isn’t it?” 

“A little bit, yeah.”

“I’m going to murder Mark,” you mutter under your breath. “I’m going to take his calendar and shove it up his—”

“Ma’am?” The clerk interrupts, gulping. Oh dear lord. “I’m afraid the reservation is quite clear. One room, one bed, two guests, booked under Monroe’s team with CNN listed as the primary contact.”

You stare at her. “Monroe’s team? Booked this?”

“It appears so, yes.”

“So,” and now you’re just trying to piece it together yourself, “Mark booked it for us…”

“Together.” Jungkook supplies, grinning as if this is the best thing that has happened to him all week. 

"This is against HR!" you shriek, causing several well-dressed hotel guests to turn and stare. "This is violating every HR policy that has ever been written! There are handbooks about this! Seminars!"

The aforementioned woman starts looking around frantically like she’s getting ready to execute a search warrant for her manager. “Ma’am, I’m not sure how our hotel bookings relates to our HR—”

"Not your HR, my HR! His HR! All the HRs!" You're gesticulating wildly now. "We work for competing networks! What if he sees my notes? What if I talk in my sleep and reveal my next piece?”

“Do you often talk journalism in your sleep?” Jungkook asks, enthralled. 

“That’s not the point!!” You stomp your foot on the marble floor, and it echoes throughout the lobby. 

“Ma’am,” she tries again. She has this look on her face that tells you she’s seen people like you before. Great. You have become the stuck-up guest you’ve always loathed. “I understand your concerns, but unfortunately—”

“Can we call someone? Can we call the State Department?  The FCC? Anyone with authority?” At any moment now, someone is going to start filming you and post it on TikTok for the world to see.

Jungkook is doubled over in hysterics now. “The FCC doesn't regulate hotel stays.”

“They should!” you snap at him. “This is a clear conflict of interest.”

“Oh my god.” You turn back to the woman. It’s pretty apparent she’s documenting every second of this in her brain so she can recap this to the team later in the break room over coffee. "Is there another room available? Any room. I'll take a broom closet. A supply closet. The roof."

“I’m afraid we’re completely booked today and tonight. There’s a medical conference a few blocks away from here.” She bites her lip, eyeing you apprehensively. 

“Wonderful.” You throw your hands up in exasperation. “That is just lovely.”

She starts typing rapidly into her computer, fingers flying across the keyboard like she’s defusing a bomb. (Technically, she is. The bomb in question is a girl named [Y/N].) You can practically see her internal thoughts: Please let me find something, anything, to get this crazy woman away from me. 

“The best I can do,” she starts, “is put you on the waiting list for a separate room. If we have any cancellations, I can move you first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning?” Your voice cracks like a boy going through puberty. “Tomorrow morning? As in, not today? As in, I’m stuck with him?”

He waves cheerfully behind you, and the clerk bites back a smile. “I’m afraid so.”

You whirl around and face Jungkook, who’s vibrating with glee. “This is not happening.”

“It definitely is,” he says, looking like Christmas just came early. 

“I could sleep in the lobby,” you suggest desperately, turning back around. “On one of those fancy leather chairs. I bet they’re comfortable.”

“Ma’am, I’m afraid hotel policy doesn’t allow—”

"What about the business center? Do you have a business center? I could just work all night. I don't need sleep. Sleep is for the weak."

Jungkook snorts. "You literally drooled on my shoulder on the bus ride for two hours."

You glare at him from the peripheral of your vision. 

The woman looks between you both, eyes ping-ponging. “So… will you be taking the room?” 

On one hand, this is absolutely mortifying and probably violates several HR policies you didn't even know existed. On the other hand... maybe you could use this to your advantage. Plant some fake evidence of journalistic misconduct. Find all his sources and set them on fire. Steal his laptop and replace all his documents with pictures of cats.

You kind of like your chances.

“I guess I don’t really have a choice, do I?” you sneer, inhaling deeply through your nose. It’s fine. Everything is fine. You’ll march back down at exactly 6 AM tomorrow morning and camp out at this desk until they give you your own room.

She tentatively slides the key card across the counter with visible relief, probably thrilled to be rid of you both. You snatch it up and gather your bag, walking past Jungkook wordlessly toward the elevators. 

His footsteps follow behind you, and you can smell the smug satisfaction radiating off his body. 

“So,” he says, sidling up way too close as you wait for the elevator. “You, me, a whole bed? Who gets which side of the bed?”

You take a step away from him. “I will light myself on fire before I share a bed with you.”

“That seems extreme.”

The elevator dings and the doors slide open. You step inside and press yourself against the far wall, the frigid metal cooling your warm skin. 

“What about a pillow wall?” he inquires, hitting the button for the twelfth floor. “Super traditional, super safe.”

“What about..” you pretend to be deep in thought, “you sleeping in the bathtub?”

“I’m 5’11. I don’t think I’d fit.”

You bat your lashes at him sarcastically. “Then we’ll chop off your legs.”

A ridiculously joyful grin emerges on his face. “You know, most people would consider this a stroke of luck. Stuck in a fancy hotel with someone really sexy…”

You stare at him in complete disbelief. “Really sexy?”

“C’mon, look at me.” He gestures at his entire being with both hands. 

“I’m looking. I’m not seeing it.”

“Really? Not even a little bit?” He pouts. 

The elevator continues climbing the floors, and you’re beginning to wonder if you’re trapped in the world’s most ridiculous comedy. “Your ego could have its own zip code.”

The elevator dings at the twelfth floor and you launch your body out the doors, speed-walking down the hallway while checking room numbers. 1241, 1243, 1245…

“I have to say,” Jungkook trails behind you like a lost puppy, “your reaction to all this is really entertaining. Very you core.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you murmur, stopping in front of room 1247. The key card is heavy in your hand. 

“I feel like we should make the best of the situation, like most people would. We could order room service together, watch a movie, have a deep conversation about life…” He swings back and forth on the balls of his heels. 

You glance over your shoulder to scowl at him. “Most people don’t have to share a room with their nemesis.”

“Nemesis?” His eyes light up in delight. “That’s sooo much cooler than rival. I’m your nemesis now?”

“You’re my sleep paralysis demon.”

“I’ll take it.” He’s smiling that dumb, pleased-with-himself smile that makes you want to punt him down the hallway like a football. "So are you going to open the door, or are we setting up shop out here? Because this carpet looks expensive but not particularly comfortable."

You slide the key card into the slot forcefully. It’s barely 24 hours in one room. You’ve done worse. “I’m establishing ground rules the second we get in there.” “Ooh, I love rules. I’m good at follo—”

“Please, shut up Jeon.” The lock clicks green and you push open the door, stepping into what is undoubtedly the nicest hotel room you've ever seen in your life. 

The space is huge. Gleaming hardwood floors, a sitting area paired with a couch and coffee table, and a minibar stuffed to the brim with all types of liquor. A flat screen TV is mounted to the wall, bathroom door cracked next to it so that you can catch a glimpse of the bathtub that’s legitimately the size of a small swimming pool. 

But none of that really matters. You step into the room fully, past the threshold and the floor-to-ceiling windows make your jaw fall slack. The curtains are pulled back to reveal a glorious view of Times Square, billboards and screens creating a kaleidoscope of color, even in the morning light. 

And then you see it. 

That stupid singular bed. One large, fluffy, lone bed. 

You both drop your bags at the same time, your own shoulder reddening from the amount of time you carried that massive thing. His bag — to no one’s surprise — is one of those sleek black bags that probably has compartments for everything. Yours is a battered duffel bag that you’ve had since college and is literally held with duct tape in some places.  

“Okay,” you announce, spinning around to face him once you’ve shoved your bag into the corner. “First rule. You stay on your side of the room. I don’t care if there’s a fire, you do not cross the invisible line I’m about to draw down the middle.”

“What invisible line?” He runs his hand through his unruly hair, and you try not to pay attention to the way his sweatshirt rides up a little. 

“The one I’m drawing right now.” You draw an imaginary line with your finger. “From the door to the window. Your side, my side. Like the Berlin Wall.”

He raises his eyebrows. “The Berlin Wall was torn down, you know that, right?”

“I won’t let history repeat itself.”

He flops down on the bed — his side, thank god — and stretches his arms behind his head. You stand there like a deer in headlights, hyperaware of every breath he takes. Suddenly the room can’t be big enough.

“Second rule,” you continue on, “no walking around in your underwear. Or, walking around undressed in any capacity.”

"Aww, and here I was planning to really let loose." His eyes are twinkling with mischief again. "What if I get hot in the middle of the night?"

Your brain comes up with several unhelpful images that you shove down so hard they probably reach your shoes. "Then you suffer in silence like the rest of us."

“What about you? Same rules apply?”

“Obviously.”

“Shame.”  He clucks his tongue, and your cheeks flame hot. 

You check your phone to avoid looking at him any longer and realize it’s already 11 AM. Monroe’s press conference is at 1, so you should probably head over soon to scope out the venue and grab a decent seat. 

“We should get ready.” It’s not lost on you that your voice is higher than normal. “Monroe’s thing starts in two hours. You should probably change into something more… professional.”

He glances down at that stupid Columbia sweatshirt like he’s just now remembering that’s not press conference attire. “Good call.”

Turning toward your duffle bag, you dig around in there for the blazer you packed. Hopefully it’s not too wrinkled from being stuffed between your shoes and your toiletries. “I’ll just grab my stuff and change in the bathroom.”

There’s a soft grunt behind you as he gets up from the bed, followed by the sound of a zipper and rustling fabric. You’re still facing your bag, noting what you’ll need to bring to the conference, when you whip back around to head towards the bathroom. 

You freeze. 

The man is shirtless. Jungkook Jeon is standing in the middle of this ludicrously fancy hotel room, completely shirtless, rifling through his bag as if he didn’t just break rule number two. 

And now you can see the full extent of his tattoo sleeve, intricate black ink winding from his shoulder all the way down to his wrist and fingers in patterns you'd never been able to make out when it was hidden under dress shirts and blazers. There are what look like snakes and words mixed with geometric designs, and — hold the phone — is that a chest tattoo spawning across his pec?

It's not even just the tattoos that are making your brain malfunction. It's the fact that his biceps are absolutely ridiculous — like, absurd in their definition — and all you’re thinking about is how those arms would look wrapped around someone. Around you, possibly. Around your nec—

You have officially lost your sense of self. 

You’ve interviewed senators, covered international summits, and you are not going to be affected by something as frivolous as your archnemesis’ very real, very unfairly defined everything. 

Except you absolutely are. 

“What the fuck?! Don’t get changed in front of me, you dimwit!” You flail your hands wildly in the direction of his shirtless situation. “There’s a bathroom! With a door that closes!”

“Okay, calm down.” He doesn’t bother to look up at you. Just keeps digging through the pile of clothes in his bag.

“You should not be standing there half fucking naked, Jeon. We established rules," you croak, voice barely functional.

He finally looks up, unbothered. "You said no walking around shirtless. I'm not walking. I'm standing perfectly still."

"That's not—that doesn't count as a loophole!"

"Technically, it does."

You spin back around so fast, facing the window where people rush by like ants on a playground, pressing your hands to your burning cheeks. "Put a shirt on!"

"I'm trying to! You're the one who said I needed to look professional."

Okay, breathing techniques. You try to remember what your therapist said. Everything is fine. You're not going to dwell on the fact that he clearly uses cars as weights at the gym, or wonder what those shoulders would feel like under your hands, or have any thoughts whatsoever about the man currently half-naked ten feet away from you.

Oh, no. You are so completely screwed.

Clutching your blouse and blazer in your right hand, you sprint to the bathroom and slam the door behind you. You knew he was buff. You knew he was in shape underneath all those dress shirts he wears. But there's a difference between knowing something and having it burned into your retinas in high definition.

You stare at yourself in the mirror. You know what it is — it’s because you haven’t gotten laid in a while. Your body is just confused by the presence of an attractive male specimen. 

You change into your outfit as quickly as humanly possible. It’s pretty challenging to do since your hands are made of jello now.

When you finally work up the courage to crack open the bathroom door, his sweatshirt is neatly folded on the bed and he's — thank you, universe — wearing a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to hint at those tattoos.

“Better?” He asks, adjusting his cuffs. 

“Yeah. Whatever.” Nonchalance is what you’re going for, but you sound undeniably chalant. “Much better.”

“I like your outfit.” 

That catches you off guard. Your eyes meet his, and your stomach flips as you become cognizant of the genuine look on his face. 

Because you guess that’s what you two do now. You compliment each other. 

"Oh. Thanks."

"That color looks good on you."

You glance down at your red blazer. You noted some senator wearing it the other day and practically flew to Aritzia to snag your own. "It's just... red."

“It’s a nice red.” This exchange is more troubling than when he was half-naked. “Brings out your eyes.”

"Are we really doing this now? The compliment thing?"

"I guess we are." He shrugs, grabbing his press badge from his bag. "Is that okay with you?"

"I don't know. It's weird." Like, frightfully weird. 

"Good weird or bad weird?"

You stare at him for a moment, trying to figure out if this is some kind of elaborate joke. "I haven't decided yet."

He nods, and then checks his watch. Must’ve run out of things to fight you on. “We should head down. I want to grab a good spot before all the other vultures descend.”

“Vultures?” You’re grateful for the return to familiar territory. “I prefer ‘information enthusiasts’.”

“Right, because that sounds so much better.” He’s beaming now, and you can feel the weird tension from earlier dissolve into the ceiling fan. “Still sticking to your strategy?”

“Depends on what she gives me to work with.” You grab your notebook from your bag. 

“Smart.” 

“Always.” You study his face, hugging your book to your chest. “What about you? Please tell me you came up with an actual plan while I slept peacefully on your shoulder. You can’t possibly think you’ll get by on charm.”

“Hey.” He crosses his arms over his chest, “That strategy has worked pretty well for me so far.”

"Has it though?" You tilt your head, forming your words slowly in the hopes they’ll sound more daunting. "From where I'm standing, it looks like you've been following my lead for the past few years."

He goes quiet for a second, and you can tell you've hit something. "Is that what you really think? That I've been copying you?"

“Haven’t you?”

Duh, he obviously has. You caught him watching your press briefings, taking literal notes on your questioning style. He's not nearly as slick as he thinks he is.

“I’m just trying to keep up.”

There’s something buried there, in the words. A muted truth you’ve been trying to dodge since the gala, when you were multiple glasses of vodka soda past responsible and he'd said something about always knowing what questions to ask. When your guard was down and you couldn't be trusted to keep your walls up properly. He'd made it clear then, hadn't he? That he'd been studying you, trying to figure out your methods?

“Hm, something like that,” you retort while heading for the door. 

“You think you’re better than me?” 

"Nah," you say, lifting your chin. "Just smarter."

You barely catch his response, but you swear you hear him mutter, "Damn right you are."

And that's enough to send you right back up, up, up — except this time, you're not eleven years old clutching a safety bar at Coney Island. You're twenty-six and terrified, because you know, deep down, you never actually wanted to remember the drop. Possibly avoided it on purpose. 

The real scary part is when you're suspended at the very top, heart thrashing in your chest, when you finally stop looking at the world spread out below and start wondering what it feels like when you fall. 

masterlist + ask

taglist ; @somehowukook @lovingkoalaface @moroe-blog2 @almatiarau @hanamgi @yooniepot @strawberryberrygirl @rossy1080 @libra04 @kenzierj11 @senaqsstuff @dtownbae @xumyboo @bellefaerie @chimchoom @satisfied18 @arcanekookz @vintagemoonsstuff @brokebitch-101 @taolucha @songbyeonkim @oopscoop @mochibites00 @whatevevrerr @lessthantmr @nesha227 @mar-lo-pap @jazzyb22 @lachesismoonmist @indyuhhhhh @sky-23s-world @swimmingweaselzineegs @jiminshi20 @khadeeeeej @withluvjm @anishasingh1233 @jksusawife @btstrology @youphoriajk @jadestonedaeho7 @diamondjeon @sharplycoldpaladin @annafarrr @tteokbokibyjk @prxdajeon @tatzzz-25 @magicalnachocreator @younhakim29 @purplelanterns @134340-kr @amarawayne

[foxtrology]

inertia (1)

reed richards x reader

star sailor series | ao3 link

notes: hi. so i’ve been writing this fic over the last three weeks (yes, three entire weeks, i know) and honestly it would not exist in its current form without my best friend, who is a literal physics major and walked me through so many of the equations and techy parts so reed didn’t sound like a fraud. i love her for that.

also, fun fact: reader is neurodivergent (i borrowed some of my own neurodivergent tendencies to shape her), so if you pick up on that... you’re right. thanks for being here!

word count: 12k

─────

You’ve always preferred rooms with humming machines to those filled with people.

It wasn’t shyness, not really.

Just an overwhelming awareness of your own rhythm, too far removed from the world’s noisy metronome. You knew early on you understood things differently—less about feeling out what someone meant, more about isolating the structure beneath their words, the pattern in their tone, the physics of an interaction.

Most people called it brilliance. You called it survival.

The Baxter Foundation didn’t feel like survival at first.

It felt like exile.

A postdoctoral placement handed to you like a sealed fate—"promising," "potential," "gifted." Euphemisms for "difficult," "obsessive," "odd."

They said Reed Richards might know what to do with you.

You assumed they'd meant “handle.”

But he didn’t handle you. He saw you.

Reed Richards wasn’t what you expected.

The name carried weight: prodigy, theorist, treasured in the scientific community. You imagined arrogance, an aging wunderkind with a room full of accolades and a voice like static.

But the man who stood waiting for you at the base of the Baxter Building's elevator looked almost misplaced—rumpled in a navy button up, absent-mindedly smearing graphite on the sleeve as he scribbled into the margin of a battered notepad.

He had those lines around his mouth—the kind that softened a face rather than hardened it. A sharp nose, brown eyes, and that unmistakable streak of grey curling through otherwise dark hair.

At first, you assumed it was dyed—it looked too perfect. But it was real. Of course it was.

You hadn’t realized you were staring until he tilted his head.

“You're early,” he’d said, voice warm and textured. Then, a smile that lit up his whole face—eyes first. “I like that.”

That was two years ago.

You’ve since learned Reed keeps a second toothbrush for you in his private quarters upstairs, though he’s never pointed it out.

You discovered it one night after a double shift, when he gently steered you towards the bed in his guest room instead of letting you fall asleep under your desk again. He didn’t say, “Stay with me.” He just adjusted the pillow, handed you a glass of water, and made sure the bathroom light stayed on.

It’s quiet love. A sustained frequency. A knowing.

On Tuesdays, you both eat lunch in the server room because it's the only place in the Baxter Building that maintains the kind of white noise you can disappear into.

Reed brings you a sandwich without tomato—he learned after the first week that you can’t stand the texture—and sets it beside your research without interrupting your thought process. You don’t thank him out loud. You just leave the crusts in the pattern he finds funny, concentric squares, always precise.

Sometimes, he laughs at that. Sometimes, he files it away like data.

Today, the two of you are working on a stabilization algorithm for experimental gravitational anchors—Reed's theory, your math. The simulation keeps failing, and Reed mutters something under his breath about quantum decay before turning to you.

“Show me again how you’re quantizing the drift interval,” he says, pushing his chair slightly closer to yours.

You don’t flinch. He always asks to see your work like this—not to correct, but to understand. He thinks your brain is a mystery worth mapping. And maybe it is.

You pull up your calculations, annotated with your usual shorthand that no one else in the lab pretends to follow. Reed doesn’t blink. He reads your annotations like they're a shared language.

“You inverted the modulus,” he says quietly, quite in awe. “God, that’s...elegant.”

You look down. Compliments still stick to you like static. You’ve never known what to do with them.

“It was obvious,” you murmur, tapping the screen once to clear the render.

“Not to me.”

His voice carries something like reverence. Not the kind people fake when they’re talking to someone younger, or different. His is heavier. Sincere. Measured.

You chew the inside of your cheek.

“Can I show you something?” you ask.

That’s how you always start, even though Reed never says no.

The observatory lab is empty when you both arrive.

He unlocks it with his palmprint, but you go in first, navigating in the dark by memory. You’ve had an idea simmering for days—a tweak in boundary calibration using harmonic frequency overlap, something even Reed dismissed initially as too unstable.

But last night, at 2:43 a.m., your model ran clean for the first time. No drift. No bleed. Pure coherence.

You bring it up on the projection wall, fingers moving fast. Words tumble when you’re excited—sharp, fast, too much for most people. Reed doesn’t interrupt. He never has.

When the model stabilizes on the fourth run, you glance over your shoulder.

Reed is watching you.

Not the simulation. Not the math. You.

You freeze.

He steps forward slowly, like if he moves too fast you might vanish.

“You didn’t sleep last night, did you?”

You look back to the projection. “No. But it was worth it.”

He exhales a soft breath, close enough now that you can feel the warmth of it on your temple.

“You can’t burn like this all the time,” he murmurs, but his voice doesn’t hold judgment—only concern.

“I can,” you reply simply. “And I do.”

He lets out a low laugh, almost involuntarily. Then, more gently, “Let me take care of you. A little.”

He says it like a hypothesis. Something untested.

You don’t answer. Not out loud. But you lean into his shoulder—not quite a nod, not quite an invitation—and he stays there. Long enough that the simulation cycles again, quiet and steady in the background.

Later, you’ll find that he’s updated the cafeteria schedule in your calendar to make sure no one disturbs you between 12 and 2 p.m. on Tuesdays. You’ll notice that he’s ordered extra noise-cancelling panels for the lab, without ever saying why. That the lights outside your lab space dim slightly when you stay past midnight.

All Reed’s doing.

He never says it out loud.

But this is how he shows you.

In recalibrated thermostats. In cups of tea left cooling on your desk. In letting you be silent when silence is the only thing that fits.

The world outside moves too fast. New York never sleeps, never softens. There’s always construction in the distance, always an ambulance shrieking down Fifth, always people spilling from cafés and rooftop bars like they’re late for something invisible.

But in the Baxter Building—six floors above the ghost of the old Avengers Tower—the hum of your controlled environment remains undisturbed.

For now.

It’s the kind of phrase that hangs in the air longer than it should, like steam after the kettle's been lifted, like the echo of a chord when your fingers already left the strings.

You don’t hear it, of course. Not consciously. But the sensation trails you anyway, ghost-like, as the day folds open and the building shifts around you.

You return to Lab B-3, where a data stream from the gravitational anchor prototype pulses in pale blue on the screen. You prefer this room to the others—less foot traffic, colder air, fewer variables. The walls are lined with the modular panels you installed yourself, after three months of fighting sensory burnout from the old fluorescents. The air purifier in the corner hums at a frequency you can tolerate.

It smells faintly of dust and ozone, like a server farm on a rainy day.

You’re cataloging the last ten hours of micro-interference logs when the door hisses open behind you.

“Hey.”

You don’t turn. It’s a mistake, maybe, but you assume whoever it is has entered the wrong lab.

You’ve put the sign up: DO NOT DISTURB — QUANTUM MODELING IN PROGRESS. A laminated shield between you and the rest of the building’s noise.

The voice cuts through again, sharper. Louder.

“Hey—don’t ignore me.”

You blink at the screen. Your heart doesn’t race. It clenches, tightens like your ribcage is shrinking inward. You turn slowly.

It’s Dr. Ian Delmont. One of the senior engineers. Jacket unzipped, badge swinging loose around his neck like a noose that can’t make up its mind. His face is already red, already pulled taut around the mouth.

You recognize the body language...shoulders set forward, hands ready to gesture. Angry people always move in patterns. You learned this years ago, the way some people learn fire drills.

“Why the hell did you rewrite my core schematic without logging the revision?”

You stare at him.

“I didn’t rewrite anything. I optimized the redundancy logic. It was bottlenecking the chain reaction model.”

“That’s rewriting.”

Your voice stays steady, your mouth forming the words in the exact order they should go. “No, it's not. It’s a correction. The existing code couldn’t handle parallel iteration under dual-load conditions.”

“You didn’t clear it with me.”

“It was a bottleneck,” you repeat.

Ian’s voice raises. “I don’t care if it was a goddamn chokehold, you don’t get to touch my work without authorization.”

He says it loud enough that it ricochets off the walls. Too loud.

Your neck goes hot. You feel it in your jaw, down your arms. Your hands twitch just enough to knock your stylus from the table and you bend down to retrieve it—too fast. You bump the corner of the desk, hard. The pain doesn’t register, but the sound does.

Too loud. Too loud.

Ian takes a step forward.

“Every time I turn around, you’re sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong—”

“I was fixing it.”

“You were showing off.”

That does it. You freeze.

This isn’t about the code.

You blink. You don’t blink. You can’t remember. You try to open your mouth, but your tongue sits wrong in it. The sound you try to make stalls halfway up your throat. Your hands curl into themselves like you could fold out of sight.

The lights feel wrong. The texture of your sleeves is wrong. The hum of the purifier is gone, replaced by the jagged, ugly timbre of yelling.

“I don’t care what Richards says about you,” Ian mutters. “You don’t run this place.”

“Hey.”

The sound comes from the door. Not a shout. Not sharp. But it cuts through everything like glass through butter.

You both turn.

Reed Richards steps into the room like he’s always belonged there, like his presence is not new or sudden or charged with a heat you’ve only ever felt in gamma pulses and untested energy chambers.

His mouth is tight, drawn. There’s nothing soft about his expression now.

“I suggest,” he says slowly, like each word has been smoothed against the edge of a scalpel, “you take your tone down. Immediately.”

Ian hesitates. Then his jaw sets. “With all due respect, Dr. Richards—”

“No,” Reed interrupts, walking further into the room, voice calm and sharp all at once. “Don’t. Don’t try to play seniority. This isn’t about protocol. This is about how you just cornered one of my lead researchers and yelled at her while she was running live code on a multivariable anchor model.”

“I was confronting—”

“You were posturing,” Reed cuts in. “And you were wrong.”

Ian blinks. Reed’s voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to.

“She didn’t rewrite your schematic. She corrected a critical flaw that should have been caught weeks ago.” He stops beside you. Not in front of you, not shielding—beside. “The only reason that anchor hasn’t destabilized is because she stepped in.”

Reed turns his head slightly, glancing down at you. His eyes soften, fractionally. He doesn’t touch you, but he lets the silence hang, as if waiting for you to reclaim your voice if you want to.

You don’t. Not yet.

“Ian,” he says without looking away, “I want you out of this lab. Now.”

Ian’s mouth opens, then shuts again.

Then he leaves.

You’re still breathing too fast. You know you are. You can feel the microtremors in your fingers, the irregular skip of your pulse. But the room feels real again. Your body is slowly remembering where it ends.

Reed waits until the door hisses shut.

Then, “Can I sit?”

You nod, once. He pulls a chair close—closer than he usually would in a shared lab space—and sits beside you with the kind of silence that doesn’t ask anything from you. His knees are angled toward yours. His forearms rest loosely on his thighs. His whole posture is a quiet question you don’t have to answer.

You stare at the screen. 

“I wasn’t showing off.”

Reed lets out a sound between a sigh and a laugh. Not at you. With you. “I know,” he says gently.

“I just…saw the error. It was obvious.”

“I know.”

He pauses.

“You don’t need to explain yourself to anyone in this building. Least of all him.”

You press your thumbnail into the meat of your palm, grounding.

“I’m not good at…tone.”

“That’s not a flaw.”

“I always think I can just fix it quietly and not deal with the…other part. The confrontation.”

He nods once, his eyes still fixed on you. “The way the world expects communication isn’t the only valid way to exist in it.”

Something in your chest cracks open at that. Quietly. Invisibly.

You lean back against the chair, your breath finally settling into a rhythm.

Reed stays where he is. His presence doesn’t press against you—it anchors. He’s always been like that. Dense and still, like a planet with just enough gravity to make sense of things.

You glance over at him.

“Thank you,” you say finally.

He shrugs. “I don’t like mean people.”

You look down at the table. You trace a line in the condensation ring your tea left behind earlier.

“Are you going to fire him?”

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But I’m going to make it very, very clear who’s indispensable here.”

You don’t ask who he means.

You already know.

Later that night, you’re still in the lab, long after the rest of the building has gone dim.

Reed comes back with a takeout container—your favorite, though you don’t remember ever saying it aloud. He doesn’t mention the incident again. Just passes you the food, leans back in the corner chair, and starts updating his lab journal aloud, knowing you like to listen to the way he thinks.

Outside, New York glitters like a malfunctioning galaxy. Inside, the lights are low, the air quiet, the world small and manageable.

Just you, your notes, and the man with the grey streak in his hair who watches you like you built the constellations from scratch.

A quiet love, not yet named.

But it’s there.

Always has been.

It’s late now, nearly eleven, but the labs on the upper floors of the Baxter Building don’t abide by clocks. Here, time stretches. Pools. Slows down when the work is good. Speeds up when the math gets too beautiful to let go of.

You and Reed are the only ones left.

Everyone else has long since clocked out, their departure announced by the usual symphony of zipping backpacks and elevator chimes. The security team downstairs knows better than to check on you. You’re a known variable—an equation that balances best in silence, after dark, with only the man beside you and a cooling takeout container between you and the void.

Reed is sketching something in his notebook—a systems flowchart annotated with arrows that curve and overlap like a child’s drawing of a galaxy.

He’s humming, under his breath. Just a few bars of something he’s probably not even aware of. It’s familiar, not because you recognize the tune, but because you’ve heard him do it before, under the same kind of fluorescent moonlight and the same clean, ticking quiet.

You finish logging the day’s simulation data, close the terminal, and pull up your schedule for the upcoming weeks. The glowing display casts faint shadows over your face, which you don't notice but Reed glances at, once, over the edge of his notebook.

Monday. Field trip.

You hadn’t forgotten. Not exactly. It had just sat at the bottom of the week like a pebble in your shoe—felt but not seen.

You stare at the words for a beat too long.

VISITOR OUTREACH: 9:30–11:15 — RICHARDS / YOU

Group: PS 22 — Grade 2

Your fingers twitch at your side, a muscle memory of anxiety without the adrenaline to match. You don’t say anything, but your mind is already running the old loop, quiet and tight, like rewinding a tape you didn’t want to play in the first place.

You’d been paired with high school seniors last time.

They came in loud, late, and bored. One of them had a vape pen tucked into their hoodie drawstring.

You remember the boy in the back who asked if you “did anything real” or if you just “sat in rooms with graphs all day.” Another mimed falling asleep when you began explaining atmospheric coding inputs for small-scale gravitational fields.

You hadn’t raised your voice. You hadn’t snapped. You just shut down the projection early and handed the rest of the presentation off to the intern whose voice sounded like she smiled even when she didn’t mean it.

Afterward, you’d sat on the roof of the Baxter Building and stared at the clouds. Told yourself they were just kids. Told yourself they didn’t know.

But it stuck. The way they laughed when you said you worked on electromagnetic resonance feedback models. The way one of the girls whispered “so basically nothing” to the boy next to her like you weren’t even there.

They didn’t know.

That your work stabilized quantum harmonics in the kinds of silicon they tap on all day, every day.

That your programming makes the screen light up when their crush texts them back.

That the interface delay they complain about in video games used to be twenty seconds instead of two, and you helped design the equation that closed that gap.

They didn’t know you once pulled Reed out of a theoretical blind alley and into a breakthrough he’d later call elegant, a word he doesn’t use lightly.

They didn’t know how much you cared. That the caring was the point.

So after that, you asked to be reassigned.

“Elementary school kids,” you’d told Reed in his office one morning, already chewing at the inside of your cheek. “They’re too small to be cruel yet.”

He didn’t laugh, but you remember his eyes. How they softened. How he nodded and said simply, “Okay.”

And now here it was. Monday. Second graders. A classroom full of kids with juice boxes and velcro shoes and hands that still shoot up when they’re curious.

You can handle that. Probably.

You close the schedule tab. The screen goes dark.

Reed looks up from his notebook. “Everything okay?”

You nod once.

He doesn’t press. But he waits.

You speak without looking at him. “Monday's outreach.”

He leans back in his chair, notebook on his lap. “Right. You’re with me.”

You nod again.

“I asked for the younger group this time,” you add quietly, almost like you’re confessing something. “The older ones were…”

You trail off.

You don’t finish the sentence, but Reed catches the thread anyway. Of course he does.

He doesn’t say they were cruel. He doesn’t say you didn’t deserve that. He doesn’t fill the silence with anything easy.

Instead, he says, “You’ll be good with them.”

“Because they’re not old enough to be bored yet?”

“Because you care,” he says, looking directly at you. “And kids remember that. Even if they can’t say it.”

You pick at the corner of your sleeve. You’re still thinking about Monday. About the fear that your voice will tremble again. That the wrong word will come out. That your quiet will make them fidget and giggle and whisper.

But then you think about the last time a kid visited the Baxter—seven years old, wandered away from the main tour. Found his way into your lab by accident. You showed him how magnets repel in zero gravity fields and he tried to high five you with both hands at once.

You’d smiled for hours after that.

Maybe Reed is right.

Maybe caring is enough.

By the time you both shut down your stations and gather your coats, it’s nearly midnight. Reed holds the elevator for you without asking. It’s just the two of you, the soft gold of the lights reflecting off the brushed metal doors as they slide shut behind you.

You watch the numbers tick down.

Reed stands beside you, shoulder not quite brushing yours. Quiet, like always. Present, like always.

“Do you want me there?” he asks suddenly, softly, as the elevator hums downward. “Monday. With the kids.”

You blink. “You’re already scheduled for it.”

“I know,” he says. “But do you want me there?”

It feels like a trick question. But it’s not. It’s just Reed, offering steadiness in the places you don’t always know you need it.

You nod.

He nods too.

Outside, the city glows like it’s forgotten how to sleep. Yellow cabs streak past in lazy arcs. Rain clings to the pavement like it’s not ready to let go.

You stand under the awning of the Baxter Building, both of you half-heartedly pretending to check your phones, neither of you quite moving to go. It’s a ritual now—this lingering. Like the day doesn’t want to end, so you don’t let it.

Reed finally speaks, his voice low and near your ear.

“You know…you do more than keep this place running. You are this place.”

You glance at him. He’s looking at the sky like it might answer back.

“And if some bored teenager can’t see that, it’s only because they’re too young to understand the shape of things.”

You swallow. The city smells like damp concrete and neon and early summer.

You don’t reply. But the words lodge somewhere behind your ribs.

And they stay.

In the space between you and Reed, that sentence hums like background radiation—silent, but measurable.

He doesn’t look at you, not directly, but the softness in his posture says enough. The kind of softness he reserves only for you. For late nights and unsaid things. For quiet field trip fears and tired bones after thirty-seven straight hours in the lab.

You shift your weight from foot to foot under the awning, fingers fidgeting at the edge of your sleeve. The city is wet and warm and humming in that uniquely New York way—trash trucks groaning down Sixth Avenue, a taxi horn blaring three blocks over, the subway beneath your feet thrumming like some subterranean heartbeat.

Reed checks the time on his phone, but it’s performative. He’s not really looking at it.

“You can stay upstairs if you want,” he offers. Voice neutral, like he’s suggesting you borrow a pencil.

You know what he means.

His quarters above the Baxter labs—spare and quiet and clean, like an extension of his brain. You've stayed there before. Once after a storm knocked out the subway, once when you got a migraine so bad you couldn’t walk home without throwing up. The guest room is always ready, with a weighted blanket you know he ordered just for you. The lights dim at 30% automatically, and the fridge always has tea.

Still, you shake your head.

“I don’t want to bother you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

You shrug one shoulder.

“But I’d feel like I was bothering you.”

There’s no irritation in your voice. It’s just a fact. A line drawn lightly in pencil, not ink.

He doesn’t argue. Reed knows better than anyone that pushing you when you’re already overstimulated only drives you deeper into the quiet.

“I’ll walk you,” he says.

You almost tell him it’s not necessary.

That you’ve done the walk a hundred times alone. That it’s late and he must be exhausted too. But something in the way he says it—low, certain, without any edge—stills your protest before it can take shape.

You nod once.

The streets are emptier than usual, rain thinning to a mist that catches in your hair and softens the world around the edges. You button your coat up to your chin. Reed tucks his hands into his pockets, his long strides slowing instinctively to match yours.

You don’t speak for the first few blocks. You don’t need to. It’s not awkward—it’s companionable. Your silences have always been functional. Built like scaffolding. Structural.

You pass a late-night falafel cart and the warm, oily scent of fried chickpeas folds around you. Someone’s playing Miles Davis through a cracked open window above a bodega. A cab splashes through a puddle without slowing down.

You glance at Reed. His hair is slightly damp from the rain, curling a little at the edges. The grey streak catches in the streetlamp glow and glints like metal. He looks tired, but the good kind—brain-tired. Soul-deep contentment worn like a worn-in coat.

There’s something in the way he carries himself now that feels looser than it used to. Since you.

You think about that sometimes. The before of him.

You’ve seen the photos.

You’ve read the papers.

The man with ideas too big for gravity, with headlines like The Modern Da Vinci and Richards' Law stapled to his name before he was even out of his twenties.

You used to resent those profiles.

How they smoothed over the things that mattered.

How they all insisted on brilliance and ignored what he really was...careful. Constant. Gentle in ways that science rarely rewards.

He wasn’t always like this. He told you, once, in a rare moment of openness, that he used to believe love would only slow him down. That affection dulled the edge of genius.

He doesn’t say things like that anymore.

But he doesn’t say the other thing either.

You know what you are to him—friend, confidant, collaborator.

His mind matches yours, nearly. But not quite.

You run faster. Not always more elegantly. But faster.

You see the equations before he does.

You make intuitive leaps he can only reconstruct in hindsight.

He admires that. You see it in the way he watches you work, the way he lets you lead without hesitation.

And still, he hasn’t said the thing.

Because once it’s said, it can’t be unsaid. And Reed Richards has never risked a variable he couldn’t account for.

“You know,” he says softly as you cross Park, “when you rewrote that module today… I think that was the first time I felt—” He pauses. “Old.”

You glance at him. “You’re not old.”

He chuckles. “My knees would disagree.”

“That’s not science.”

He smiles. “No. But it is gravity.”

You snort.

He watches you carefully. Then says, “You don’t realize how good you are, do you?”

You look down at the sidewalk. The rain has turned the concrete slick and mottled.

“I do. I just don’t know how to be proud of it.”

He nods like he understands. “Because pride implies…audience.”

You don’t answer. But your silence agrees with him.

A block later, you say, “You’ve taught me how to be better without making me feel small.”

It slips out before you realize it. The kind of truth that rarely finds a voice.

Reed stops walking.

You look back at him. He’s staring at you like he’s memorizing the moment.

“You’ve done that for me too,” he says quietly.

It should be more than that.

But it isn’t. Not yet.

Your building is a brick structure tucked on a quieter side street. Sixth floor, walk-up. Rent-high, because New York is cruel and physics has been paying you back a lot recently.

Reed’s been here before—once when you locked yourself out, once when you were sick with a stomach bug and couldn’t get out of bed to pick up your prescription.

He always waits at the foot of the stairs.

Tonight is no different.

You fish out your keys and glance back at him.

“I’m okay,” you say.

He nods. “Text me when you’re in.”

You hesitate. Then, a beat later, “Thank you for walking with me.”

“Always.”

You step inside. The door swings shut behind you with a soft click.

Reed watches the rectangle of light shrink until it’s gone.

Only then does he turn.

He walks back slowly, hands deep in his coat pockets, rain heavier now. The city is hushed, its noise folded in on itself. His shoes splash through puddles he doesn’t try to avoid.

He thinks about you.

The way your voice tightens when you talk about the things you care about.

The way you never apologize for being brilliant, just for being visible.

The way you notice every small thing—every decimal, every gesture, every change in temperature—and store it away like evidence that the world can be read if only you learn its language.

Reed Richards has spent his life searching for patterns. For the math behind miracles. He’s found some. Lost others.

But you?

You remain his favorite unsolved equation.

He doesn’t say the thing. Not yet.

But it lives just under his tongue, waiting.

The next morning you wake up earlier than you meant to.

Not by choice. Not by discipline.

But because your upstairs neighbors, despite living in an apartment complex with allegedly soundproof walls, have spent the last six and a half hours making the most expressive use of their vocal cords.

Moans.

Laughter.

Something you’re fairly certain was a vase being knocked over around 3:12 a.m.

You’d counted.

You’d logged the minute it started—12:49 p.m.—and the moment it finally slowed to quiet again, or at least to something muffled enough that you could hear yourself think.

There was nothing logical about it, and therefore nothing you could fix. No formula to solve thin drywall. No algorithm to isolate human behavior into something quiet, contained, reasonable.

So you’d stared at the ceiling. Then at your wall. Then at your ceiling again.

And now it’s 5:47 a.m., and your alarm hasn’t even gone off yet.

You sit up.

The air in your apartment is slightly too warm—residual heat from the radiator you can’t adjust. Your mouth is dry. The muscles in your back ache in the specific way they do when your sleep’s been interrupted just enough to confuse your circadian rhythm but not enough to explain it to anyone else.

You don’t bother lying back down.

Your morning routine is exact. Not out of compulsion, but out of necessity. A lattice structure of steps that keep the rest of the day from collapsing.

Boil water. Black tea, no milk.

Brush teeth—no mint toothpaste, only the kind with baking soda, because you hate the artificial sweetness.

Shower. Warm, not hot. You step out and wrap the towel tightly around you like armor.

Dressing is harder. The shirt you wanted to wear feels off today—too scratchy, too bright. You change into the navy knit Reed once said brought out your eyes.

That memory shouldn’t matter, but it does. You feel steadier when you put it on.

Bag. Notebook. ID. Keycard. Noise-canceling headphones, just in case.

You skip breakfast.

You always do when you’ve been overstimulated. It makes your stomach feel like wires have been crossed.

The subway is half-empty this early. The kind of silence particular to Friday mornings—the city not quite buzzing yet, just flickering. You stand near the doors and stare at your reflection in the opposite window, your face hovering over the tunnel blur outside like a ghost.

You think about the model you left open in Lab B-3. About the field trip on Monday. About whether or not you remembered to reroute the final data loop in the harmonic anchor sequence.

You think about Reed, and then try not to.

By the time you arrive at the Baxter Building, it’s just before seven.

You enter through the side entrance, swiping your badge through the sensor and waiting for the familiar mechanical click. The lobby is dark except for the ambient lighting that glows along the baseboards. The city hasn’t reached in yet.

And then you see him.

Reed.

Sitting on the bench just inside the front hallway like someone who forgot what time it is—or didn’t care.

He’s wearing the same navy coat from the night before, his hair still slightly damp from whatever morning shower he took before stepping into the day. His notepad is on his lap, open, but untouched.

He looks up at the sound of the door.

“Hey.”

You blink.

“You’re early,” you say.

“So are you.”

“I didn’t sleep.”

He stands slowly. “Your neighbors again?”

You nod, already tugging your bag strap higher on your shoulder.

“I’m thinking of writing them a formal request to conduct their mating rituals at a lower decibel range.”

That makes you snort, despite yourself.

“They’d probably just find that hot.”

Reed’s laugh is soft. “You’re probably right.”

He falls into step beside you without needing to be asked. You head toward the elevators together.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” you say as you press the button. “You're never this early unless there’s a test run.”

“I was hoping you’d show up early,” he admits, sheepish but not apologetic. “You didn’t text last night.”

You look down. “I forgot.”

“Neighbors really did a run on you, huh?”

You ket out a breathy laugh meeting his eyes.

Soon the elevator arrives. You both step in.

He doesn’t say anything else, but the quiet settles around you like a blanket. You don’t have the words for it, but you know he does this often—positions himself near you, close but not invasive, like a planet finding the right orbit. Something about it always makes you feel tethered.

The elevator stops on your floor.

As you exit, he doesn’t turn toward his own lab. He follows you.

“I figured I’d sit with you for a bit,” he says simply, “if that’s okay.”

You nod. You don’t say thank you, but your body does—shoulders uncoiling, pace slowing, your breath evening out.

Your lab still smells faintly of ozone and the synthetic lemon Reed always insists on using in the electronics-safe cleaning spray. You flick on the under-lighting instead of the fluorescents. It’s quieter that way.

He watches you unpack, the same way he always does when he’s not pretending to be distracted by his own work. You can feel his gaze—clinical, affectionate, reverent.

You settle at your station and glance over.

“Did you get any sleep?”

“Some.”

He sits across from you at the small corner table, flipping open his notebook. “I kept thinking about the field trip Monday.”

You groan softly.

Reed smiles. “You’ll be fine.”

“They’re going to ask me if I built Fortnite.”

“Just say yes.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s unethical.”

He shrugs. “You do kind of power their world.”

You chew the inside of your cheek.

“I know you’re dreading it,” he adds, more gently. “But you’re going to surprise yourself. I’ve seen you explain quantum turbulence to a twelve year old. You used two chairs, a glass of water, and a slinky. It was borderline performance art.”

You allow yourself the smallest smile.

He studies you for a beat.

“I waited this morning,” he says, voice lower now. “Because I wanted to see you before the day started. I figured if you didn’t sleep, you’d need a buffer.”

You look up at him.

“A buffer?”

“For the noise. The world. Everything.”

You don’t answer for a long moment.

Then, “You’re good at buffering.”

Reed closes his notebook. His eyes don’t leave yours.

“Only for you.”

You look away too quickly. Your stomach flips, your thoughts scatter like dropped dice.

This happens sometimes.

The intimacy of Reed. The nearness of what he doesn’t say.

The feeling that he’s handing you something fragile and invisible, and asking you to decide whether to name it or leave it untouched.

You pull up your simulation model and begin reviewing last night’s logs.

He watches you for another minute, then opens his notebook again and starts annotating something beside you, close enough that your knees brush once, and neither of you moves.

The morning settles.

Quiet.

Unspoken.

Waiting.

The building wakes slowly, like a body stretching into motion. The light outside the lab windows tilts, warmer now, brushing across your workstation and catching on the rim of your teacup. You don’t drink it, but it’s there—heat fading, a symbol of routine more than comfort.

One by one, the others begin to arrive.

Keycards beep. Footsteps echo off tile. The rhythmic click of heels and the soft, buzzing shuffle of rubber soles on linoleum fill the air in the way only a scientific institution ever sounds. Conversations start up in clipped, caffeinated tones. Someone’s talking about a failed simulation in Lab A-2. Someone else is complaining about the elevator skipping floors again.

You don’t look up.

You’ve already built a wall of focus, exact and methodical—three simulations running in parallel, an error log cycling in your periphery, two graphs comparing harmonic distortion levels under varying environmental noise inputs.

Reed hasn’t moved far from you since you sat down.

Every now and then, he leans slightly over to ask a question—never invasive, always curious. He taps the edge of your screen to point out something and waits for you to explain it in full before speaking again. His voice stays low. His body language remains small.

He is very, very careful with your space.

At some point, you adjust the variables in one of the testing loops. Reed notices before you explain why.

“You brought down the feedback tolerance?”

You nod. “I think it’s overcompensating for impulse drift. If we calibrate to a slightly lower resilience threshold, we might expose the weak nodes in the structural harmonics.”

He lets out a low hum of appreciation.

“I wouldn’t have caught that.”

You glance at him.

“That’s because you were trained to trust the tolerances.”

Reed raises an eyebrow, amused. “And you weren’t?”

“I was trained to notice what doesn’t belong. Even if it doesn’t make sense yet.”

He leans back in his chair, studying you with something just shy of awe.

That’s when the others start to notice.

There’s no whispering. No gossip. That’s not the culture here. Baxter doesn’t reward spectacle.

But still, people look.

It’s subtle—an extra second of eye contact, a glance exchanged between postdocs in the corridor. Even in a building dedicated to research and theoretical physics, attention has a shape. You feel it.

You’re used to being watched when you speak, but this is different. They’re watching him.

They’re watching how Reed stays near.

How he lowers his voice when he speaks to you.

How he doesn’t interrupt when you’re mid-thought.

How he laughs at things you don’t mean to be funny.

How he tracks your gestures with the full, unguarded focus of a man trying to memorize not just the content of what you’re saying, but the rhythm of it, too.

You register the attention. You don’t engage with it. You would get too flustered.

Instead, you pull up a different dataset.

Across the room, someone’s looking at you over their glasses. You minimize the screen and adjust your chair slightly so your back is to the rest of the lab.

Ben Grimm arrives around 9:15, coffee in hand, hoodie pulled up like armor against the morning.

You like Ben.

You liked him even before you knew him—when all you had was a list of his mechanical engineering contributions and the curious note in his file that simply read “Reed’s oldest friend. Trustworthy. Not academically inclined. Smarter than he lets on.”

He sees you before you see him.

“Hey, Doc,” he calls out, his voice gravelly but warm.

You glance up and, for the first time since the building really began to fill, smile openly.

“Hi, Ben.”

He walks over slowly, avoiding the edge of the test rig you have set up. His eyes sweep the table, reading the mess of wires and calibration notes without actually processing them, which is part of his charm—he doesn’t pretend to understand your work. He respects it anyway.

“You eat today?”

You blink. “Not yet.”

“You want half my bagel?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“It’s everything seasoning.”

He grins. “You’re too sharp for your own good.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I’m just observant.”

Reed, still beside you, chimes in dryly, “She’s also allergic to sesame.”

Ben winces. “Oh, right. My bad.”

You wave it off. “It’s not lethal.”

Ben hands you a sealed granola bar from his pocket instead. “From Alicia. She said you looked pale last week and told me to keep snacks on me in case I ran into you.”

Your mouth twitches.

“Tell her I said thank you.”

“Tell her yourself. She’s coming by Monday.”

You nod, then return to your screen, not rudely, just efficiently. Ben doesn’t take offense. He pats the table lightly and leaves you to your work.

Once he’s gone, Reed glances at you sidelong.

“You like Ben.”

“He doesn’t talk to hear himself speak,” you reply.

Reed smirks, folding his arms across his chest. “So I guess I should be worried.”

You don’t answer. But something in your cheek lifts. A small, unspoken response. Reed ntoices it. Files it away like he does everything about you.

By late morning, you’re too deep in the math to notice anything else.

Three out of five anchor simulations fail—but not catastrophically. The new feedback threshold is revealing the pattern you hoped it would. Reed asks if he can run his own version of the loop. You nod without turning, already exporting the baseline parameters to his terminal.

You hear someone outside the glass wall whisper, “Is Richards still in Lab B-3?”

And then, “I think he’s shadowing her today.”

“He shadows her every damn day.”

You pretend not to hear. You shrink slightly into your collar. Not from shame. Just to stay small.

Reed doesn’t respond to the comment. But you notice that he reaches over and very quietly pushes the door shut.

Not to hide.

But to give you quiet.

The rest of the morning passes like this—like a film spooling out in perfect rhythm. Reed occasionally types beside you. Sometimes you work in parallel, other times in sync. You don’t speak unless necessary, but the air between you is charged in a way you can’t name. Not love, not yet. But a proximity to it.

And even though others look—at him, at you, at the space between—you don’t notice anymore.

You’re too busy trying to catch the shape of something hidden in the data. Something just out of reach.

Like truth.

Or a confession.

Or gravity.

Fridays at the Baxter Building settle into their own kind of orbit.

Every lab has its rhythm—Lab A-2 always wraps their protein sequencing early, because Dr. Lyman likes to jog at 1:15 on the dot. Tech Ops syncs their systems for overnight updates before noon. Environmental Engineering runs its daily dehumidifier diagnostic with exaggerated ritual, a kind of inside joke no one explains to the interns.

It’s been that way since you arrived. It wasn’t written anywhere, but you learned it all the same.

And the unspoken tradition...Reed Richards forgets about time.

By now, everyone has made peace with it.

On Fridays, he’ll get caught chasing some quantum trajectory through a dozen notepads and open tabs, muttering to himself about temporal flux interactions or pattern resonance mismatches. If someone reminds him what time it is, he’ll blink, check his watch as though it’s betraying him, and then wave his hand vaguely in the air—“Take two hours, go. Ben, order something greasy.”

And everyone will. With relief. With a kind of reverent affection for their slightly scattered, brilliant leader.

Except you.

You stay.

Always.

It’s nearing 12:45 when the lab thins out. Ben claps his hands once, loudly, to announce, “Twenty-four-inch from Mario’s. I got half with olives, don’t fight me about it.” Someone cheers from the hallway.

You don’t look up.

The simulation in front of you is finally stabilizing under increased pressure loads, and Reed’s scribbling new hypotheses across his tablet at a manic pace—“If we compensate for decay acceleration by adjusting the sequence resolution window down to 10 seconds, the cross-bridging might resolve on its own—”

You hum without meaning to, fingers typing out the updated code.

“I’m serious,” he says, pushing his chair closer to yours, legs brushing under the desk. “We’re so close. This could finally solve the vibration decay issues in the dynamic anchor builds.”

“It won’t,” you reply calmly, running the next set. “Not unless you account for the spectral density shift around the 170 Hz mark. It’s going to collapse again.”

Reed pauses.

“You already ran this model.”

You nod.

“When?”

“Last weekend.”

He looks at you like you’ve handed him a paradox.

You let the silence stretch, then: “Try adjusting the constraint to reflect a Gaussian distribution, not linear. The peaks are too soft, and the algorithm’s compensating for noise that isn’t actually noise.”

Reed exhales slowly, reverent. “How does your brain do that?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have the words for how you see things. You just do.

He smiles like he’s in the presence of something sacred.

He leans in again, close enough that his shoulder presses lightly into yours. You shift slightly to give him access to your terminal, and he doesn’t pull away.

He’s always been tactile like this—with you, at least.

Hands brushing yours when you pass equipment.

A palm steadying your wrist when you’re assembling small, sensitive components.

Once, you found yourself gripping his forearm without realizing it during a particularly volatile magnetic resonance test. He didn’t mention it. Just let you hold.

But today, it’s different.

Today, something lingers.

You're both staring at the screen. The simulation is stabilizing now, running longer than it has all week. Your throat tightens with something like triumph, or relief, or maybe just fatigue disguised as euphoria.

Then, softly—soft enough that it catches you off guard—Reed reaches up and brushes his thumb across your cheek.

You freeze.

Out of disbelief. Out of awe.

His hand is warm. The pad of his thumb gentle.

The touch isn’t performative. It’s not even decisive.

It’s hesitant. Like he needed to check that you’re real.

That this moment isn’t just one of his half-formed ideas scrawled into the margins of a late-night notebook.

Your eyes flick toward him.

He’s already looking at you.

Something unspoken and heavy passes between you. It hums underneath the fluorescent buzz of the lab lights, underneath the whirring fans of the machinery, underneath the working theory you’ve spent days fine-tuning.

You don’t lean in.

But you don’t lean away.

He doesn’t move his hand.

You don’t say a word.

Ben opens the door a few feet down the hall, holding a pizza box in one hand, a Coke in the other.

He sees you.

Sees Reed.

The hand. The closeness. The moment.

And just as quietly as he entered, he steps back. Sets the pizza down on the nearest desk. Walks away without a word.

You and Reed don’t notice.

The simulation pings complete. For the first time in eleven models, it doesn’t fail.

You blink.

Then breathe.

Reed drops his hand, slowly, like it doesn’t want to leave but knows it has to.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

But something has shifted.

In the lab’s stale, climate-controlled air. In the simulation still pulsing faintly on your screen. In the trajectory of two minds moving dangerously close to each other’s center of gravity.

You get up first, walking to the sink in the corner to splash water on your face. The cold helps. Reed stays in his chair, scribbling, though you can tell his mind isn’t entirely on the notes.

You find the pizza box. It’s already cold. You bring two slices back to the workstation.

You don’t mention the moment. Neither does he.

But all through the second hour of your “break,” you work with that electric tension still threaded between you.

You pass him a slice. He accepts it.

He says your name, once, softly, like an answer to a question you haven’t asked yet.

And you don’t look up. Not yet.

You’re afraid that if you do, everything will change.

Or maybe—it already has.

“Hey,” Reed says again, this time your name folded into it, spoken low and careful, like he’s afraid of breaking it. Like he’s afraid of breaking you.

You don’t answer right away.

Because you know what he’s asking without asking.

And you know that if you answer—if you meet his gaze now, if you name the thing humming between you—it won’t go back in the box. It will take shape. It will have mass. It will alter the gravitational field between you forever.

You chew the edge of your lip and keep your eyes on the simulation results, blinking too fast.

He doesn’t push. Reed Richards never pushes.

But he stays there, watching you like a question he’s been trying to answer for years. Like a proof that’s always been just outside the edge of comprehension.

He wants you.

You can feel it in the heat of his gaze, in the way his hands twitch with unspent energy, in the way he shifts closer every time he speaks. He wants you the way he wants knowledge, reverently. With hunger and hesitation in equal parts.

But more than that—he respects you. And that respect builds a boundary he’s too careful to cross without your invitation.

So he doesn’t speak again. Not yet.

Instead, he clears his throat gently and leans back into the moment he knows how to inhabit best—the work.

“You were right about the Gaussian window,” he murmurs, eyes returning to the data on your screen. “The mean deviation narrowed just enough to stabilize the micro-vibrational bleed. Look.”

He tilts his tablet toward you.

You peer at it, grateful for the anchor. “The variance dropped below 0.0003. That’s lower than the threshold for secondary echo.”

Reed nods. “It’s still not perfect. But it’s holding. For now.”

You echo it before you can stop yourself. “For now.”

He smiles at that—soft, and only for you.

The tension doesn’t break. But it shifts. Warms.

You pull up the residual energy pattern charts and begin comparing them to your older models. Reed swivels his chair to face you fully, chin resting lightly on his knuckles as he watches you work.

Your voice steadies.

“I think we can reduce the decay rate even more by using a layered harmonic buffer. Not just a single envelope. Something like... like a tri-modal stabilization frame.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Using phase-offset looping?”

“Yes,” you say, eyes lighting up. “But slightly desynchronized. So each frequency compensates for the loss in another—like an algorithmic relay. Less like a barrier, more like... a conversation.”

You feel him watching you, not the charts.

There’s a kind of electricity in your blood now, not from caffeine or adrenaline but from being understood, seen at the level you need to be.

And for once, the way you talk—fast, disorganized, precise, too much—feels like the exact shape of something he’s been waiting to hear.

You meet his gaze finally.

He’s smiling.

That soft, quiet, wrecked smile of his. The one he only wears around you.

“You know,” he murmurs, “you say I taught you how to be better without making you feel small. But you make me feel like I don’t have to be better all the time. Like just being...with you is enough.”

You don’t know what to do with that sentence.

It sits too heavy in your chest. It rearranges your molecules.

Reed notices your hands twitch—how your fingers twitch at your sleeves when the air gets too loud inside you. He leans forward just slightly.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” you say too quickly. “You didn’t.”

Then, after a breath, “It’s just... I don’t know what to do when people say things like that.”

“Okay,” he says. “Then we don’t have to do anything. We can just stay here. With the work.”

But there’s softness in the offer. No withdrawal. No hurt.

Just the way he always gives you room.

It’s quiet again.

The others are still gone. Outside the lab, Friday spills forward in lazy arcs—someone arguing about where to eat next week, a song playing faintly from someone’s portable speaker. You can hear Ben laugh somewhere near the stairwell.

Inside, Reed starts sketching again. You realize, after a while, that it’s not a schematic. He’s drawing the harmonic layering you suggested, but not in code—in lines and waves, almost like music. It’s abstract and a little chaotic and not how he normally works.

It’s your method. Translated.

You watch him for a moment. Then you reach over and pick up a stylus of your own.

You add to it without asking. Adjust one arc. Shade one line.

He doesn’t flinch.

This is your intimacy. Shared language in waveform. A courtship of the mind.

The pizza gets cold. No one bothers you. Not even Ben, who peeks through the glass once more and then nods to himself like he's witnessing a rare solar event—better not to interfere.

And Reed…

Reed reaches over again at one point, softly, thumb brushing your cheek once more. This time he doesn’t look away when he does it. And you don’t freeze.

He doesn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

But you both feel it coming.

Not like a crash.

Like a calculation converging.

Like an inevitable, elegant solution.

Friday settles into its soft descent.

Outside, the city shifts into its end-of-week hum. That specific kind of tonal change—less frantic, more languid. Like the buildings are exhaling.

But in the lab, the world is still quiet, contained in the steady blinking of data streams and the near-inaudible whir of cooled processors.

You sit on the floor now, legs crossed beneath you, a cluster of components spread around you like offerings. The modeling station sits nearby, quietly compiling your last run.

Reed is at the console, sleeves rolled up, hair curling faintly at the temples from the humidity that’s crept in through the vents. He’s biting the corner of his thumbnail absently—thinking.

You watch him.

And then you remember.

“Did you finish the sensory-feedback demo for the field trip?” you ask, voice soft but cutting clean through the air between you.

He blinks up from the console, eyes going immediately bright.

“I did. Mostly. I was going to test it tonight.”

You tilt your head. “Can I see it?”

He smiles—a real one, unguarded and boyish. The kind he only wears with you.

“You can help me run it.”

He gets up, walking to the supply cabinet in the corner, pulling down a heavy black case the size of a carry-on. You follow, standing now, hands folding in the sleeves of your sweater as you watch him unlock the case with the smooth familiarity of a man who designs entire universes and still finds joy in the click of good mechanics.

Inside, a scatter of wires, motion sensors, a series of spherical objects that look like oversized ping pong balls, each one patterned with conductive filament and dotted with touch points. You recognize the layout—a modular, reprogrammable interface system with haptic feedback, originally built for mobility therapy.

“You modified the base algorithm,” you say, eyes narrowing with appreciation.

“For kids,” he replies. “It runs a simplified tactile-reward loop. Kind of like a visual puzzle—kinetic memory reinforcement. Color-coded neural feedback.”

“Accessible interface?”

He nods. “Built for neurodivergent learners. Adaptive texture mapping. It reacts to the user’s input in real time. No static pathways. No performance grading.”

Your chest tightens a little. Not painfully. Just precisely.

“You built a toy.”

Reed shrugs. “It teaches basic physics concepts. Friction, acceleration, force vectors. Just…disguised as fun.”

“That’s not just a toy,” you murmur.

He watches you closely.

“No,” he says. “It’s not.”

You set it up together on the floor of Lab B-3, moving the tables back, laying the tiles out in careful rows. The modular touch-nodes blink softly as they come to life—first red, then green, then a low, pulsing blue.

The algorithm kicks in after calibration. Reed holds the interface tablet, flipping through the menus. You hover close behind him, watching how he reprograms the environmental variables on the fly.

“Want to try it?” he asks.

You nod.

He sets it to manual mode. The first node lights up in your periphery. You move toward it, tap it lightly with your finger. It flashes yellow, then blue, and vibrates beneath your touch.

You laugh, just once—quick, surprised.

“Positive reinforcement,” Reed says softly. “Each node has a different tactile response depending on approach angle, velocity, and touch pressure.”

“So they learn physics by playing.”

He nods. “Exactly.”

You test the next one. And then another. As the nodes light up, the floor becomes a low-lit constellation, flickering gently around your movements. It’s beautiful. You crouch down near one, tracing your fingers across the filaments, letting the haptic buzz hum beneath your fingertips.

“Reed,” you say quietly. “This is... really, really good.”

He kneels down beside you.

“I just wanted to build something that made them feel like science was listening back.”

You look over at him.

That sentence hangs there, too delicate to touch.

Your hand moves before your brain registers the decision—slowly, instinctively—and you reach for him.

You had reached for his hand but landed on his thumb.

Just his thumb.

You wrap your small hand around it gently, like it’s the only part of him you can hold without consequence.

Reed freezes.

Not from discomfort. From something else.

He turns his head toward you, slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too quickly. His smile is soft, stunned. As if he can’t believe you’re doing this. As if he’s afraid that if he acknowledges it too directly, it might stop.

You don’t look at him. You just hold his thumb in both your hands, watching the floor blink beneath you.

It’s a strange gesture, almost childlike in its simplicity. But to you, it’s everything. It’s grounding. Permission. Trust.

Reed lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for years.

He doesn’t move his hand away.

Instead, he uses the other to reach forward and adjust a setting on the control interface without looking. The lights shift. The nodes pulse in a new pattern. You follow them without letting go of his thumb.

He’s smiling now, wide and quiet.

Completely and utterly gone for you.

You test every mode together—gravity simulation, frictionless slide, kinetic echo. Reed talks softly through each setting, explaining how he rewrote the original code to simulate Newton’s Laws in modular intervals, adjusting for sensor latency so kids could trigger reactions with slower or less precise movement.

You ask questions. Not because you don’t understand. But because you do. You want to understand it his way.

He answers everything.

By the time you’re done, the lights in the lab have dimmed into their evening cycle. Reed packs up the demo system slowly, like he’s folding something sacred.

You’re still holding his thumb.

Finally, gently, he uses it to tap the back of your hand.

“You know,” he says quietly, “you don’t have to hold back around me.”

You look at him, expression unreadable. You squeeze his thumb once, then let go.

“I’m not,” you say.

And you aren’t.

Not anymore.

The lab is dark when you both leave.

Outside, the city has begun to cool. You walk beside him in silence, shoulders brushing once, then again. Not by accident.

You don’t talk about the moment on the lab floor.

You don’t have to.

It happened.

It exists.

Like an inevitable, elegant solution.

The sky has turned the color of television static. Not black, not gray, just faded. Soft enough to feel unreal. Streetlights flicker on in stuttering intervals. A breeze curls up the avenue and catches at the hem of your coat.

You and Reed stand just outside the Baxter Building entrance, neither of you moving to leave, as if there’s some invisible membrane between the lab and the world you’re not quite ready to pierce.

You should go home.

That’s the next step, isn’t it?

That’s what people do when the day ends. They go back to the place with their name on the lease and try to remember who they are when no one’s asking them questions.

Except your place has neighbors.

And thin walls.

And you're too tired to pretend your own exhaustion doesn’t vibrate at the same frequency as their pleasure.

You shift your weight from foot to foot, knuckles tucked deep into your sleeves. You can feel the buzz of the day behind your eyes—not anxiety, not anymore. Just too many thoughts stacking on top of each other like tetris blocks, and you don’t have the energy to make them fit.

Reed stands beside you, hands in his coat pockets, quiet as ever. The edge of his sleeve brushes yours every so often, an unspoken rhythm that makes you feel here.

Not tolerated. Not managed.

Just here.

Ben soon exits the building. Hoodie zipped to his throat, a half-eaten brownie in one hand. He slows when he sees you both.

“Well, well,” Ben says, raising an eyebrow. “You two finally gonna leave the building or should we start paying you rent inside the lab?”

You glance at Reed.

He shrugs, noncommittal.

Ben smirks. “Alright. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Then he gives Reed a look. “Which ain’t much.”

Reed doesn’t respond, but his smile is quiet. Affectionate.

“Goodnight, Ben,” you say softly.

“Night, genius.”

He walks off into the dark.

You stay.

Reed doesn’t ask if you’re going home.

You don’t say anything for a while. You just look at the sidewalk. The cracks in it. The faint smudge of oil near the curb. The headlights of a cab bending light across Reed’s cheekbone, catching on the streak of gray in his hair.

Finally, you say, “Can I stay?”

You don’t explain. You don’t need to.

He doesn’t ask why.

He just turns to you, and for a split second, something in his expression softens so completely it’s almost painful. His eyes widen like he’s been caught off guard, but then his entire face warms, lips parting slightly, like you’ve just handed him something fragile and beautiful and unexpected.

“Yes,” he says immediately. “Yes, of course.”

You nod once, eyes down, and he opens the glass doors for you with his keycard.

Reed’s private quarters are located on the top floor, built into the architecture like a quiet secret.

The space is sparse but intentional. One long wall is lined with windows that overlook the city—lights shimmering like data points, static and alive at once.

You’ve been here before. The air smells like him. The surfaces are all smooth, clean, designed for function rather than comfort—except the guest bed, which he quietly upgraded after the second time you stayed, replacing the stiff mattress with something memory foam, orthopedic, weighted blankets in navy and grey.

He never mentioned it. But you noticed.

Now, you step out of your shoes and move instinctively toward the small kitchen alcove, placing your bag on the counter where you always do. You hear Reed behind you, taking off his coat, the soft clink of keys being set in the ceramic dish by the door.

“I didn’t want to go home,” you say, very quietly.

“I know,” he replies.

He fills the kettle without asking. He doesn’t ask if you want tea. He just knows that the ritual helps.

You settle on his couch while he prepares everything. There’s something deeply intimate about watching him move in this space—not as a scientist, but as a man who’s built a life designed for quiet. For stillness. For you.

“Did you finish that secondary circuit loop in the interface?” you ask, voice small.

“I did,” he says, turning toward you with two mugs. “Replaced the original buffer with a superconductive braid. Reduced the thermal variance by thirty percent.”

You take the mug with both hands.

“That’s going to make it more stable in hands-on mode.”

He nods. “Exactly.”

You sip the tea. It’s perfect. Rooibos, no caffeine. Subtle and warm.

You look down at your knees.

He sits beside you, not too close, not too far. Just right.

“I’m still thinking about that tri-modal stabilization relay you suggested,” he says. “It could actually be used in more than just the interface model. If we layer it into the resonance prototype, it could compensate for secondary harmonic bleed without adding mechanical dampeners.”

You glance at him. “It wouldn’t even need a power supply. It would just borrow from the existing vibrational field.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

You smile faintly. “We should test it this weekend.”

“We should,” he agrees.

But neither of you move.

You sit there in the dark, the city lights flickering behind the glass, the tea cooling slowly between your palms.

And then, Reed shifts slightly closer.

His fingers brush the side of your hand where it rests on the couch cushion.

You don’t pull away.

“I’m glad you asked to stay,” he says, quietly.

“I don’t always know what I need,” you admit.

“You don’t have to,” he says. “Not with me.”

You turn your hand palm-up.

He hesitates—barely a second—and then sets his own hand into yours. Warm. Long fingers. Calloused thumb.

You wrap your hand around his thumb again.

It’s small. Stupidly small. But it feels like precision.

Like the alignment of orbitals in a new chemical bond—unexpected, improbable, but somehow inevitable.

He stares at your hands like they’re a proof he’s just solved.

And you can feel it now, radiating off him.

That Reed Richards is completely, irrevocably in love with you.

It sits in his stillness.

In the way he lets you hold him without needing to be held back.

In the careful cadence of his breath next to yours.

In every half-finished sentence he doesn’t speak because he’s still calibrating the right moment to say it.

You close your eyes.

The lab can wait.

The world can wait.

Because here, in this quiet room on the top floor of the Baxter Building, the noise of the city fades into static, and two brilliant minds sit side by side, slowly, carefully falling into something that even physics doesn’t have language for.

Yet.

You’re still holding his thumb.

The weight of it feels small and ordinary and terrifying, in the way intimacy always is when it sneaks in sideways—quiet, soft, patient.

The tea between you has gone slightly cold, but neither of you moves.

Reed glances at your hand in his again like he’s not sure it’s real. Like he’s afraid any shift in air pressure might break whatever this is.

He doesn’t want to lose it. You can feel that. It lives in the quiet of his body. In the way he breathes more carefully now, like your closeness has changed the atmospheric composition of the room.

You can’t explain it.

Not exactly.

But you know the moment has arrived—like a threshold has been crossed without either of you noticing when.

You lift your eyes.

Reed is already watching you.

And then you kiss him.

There’s no warning. No lead-in. No poetic pause.

You just lurch forward and kiss him like your brain caught fire.

You cup his face with both hands—awkward, determined, imprecise. You feel the stubble on his jaw beneath your palms. You feel the soft surprised puff of his breath as you press your mouth against his with more force than you intended.

Reed makes a startled noise.

You pull back slightly, embarrassed, but he surges forward like a current finding its charge.

His hands find your waist, anchoring—not possessive, not demanding, just present. And then his mouth is on yours, properly this time. He kisses you with a slowness that makes your skin buzz, then deeper, until you forget how to think.

You chase it.

You chase it harder than you meant to.

You end up half in his lap, straddling his thigh on the couch. He grunts softly in surprise as you pull him closer by the collar of his shirt. Your hands roam. One settles in his hair, the other at the base of his neck, grounding yourself in the shape of him. His body is warm and solid and older than yours in a way that feels deeply comforting—experienced, steady.

“Wait—” he whispers into your mouth, breathless but laughing.

You pause.

“I—God, I didn’t think—” he tries to say, and then you kiss him again.

It’s clumsy and desperate and real. Your teeth bump once. Your nose is probably smushed too hard against his.

But Reed groans quietly like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

Because it is.

Because it’s you.

Eventually, you slow. Not because you want to. Just because you run out of breath. You ease back a little, your forehead resting against his, both of you flushed and dazed.

His fingers trace up your spine, slow, careful, reverent.

You say nothing for a while.

Then, softly, eyes still closed, you murmur, “I need to take a shower.”

He blinks, dazed.

“Oh,” he says, voice rough. “Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

You make no move to get up.

He doesn’t push.

Then, without looking at him, you say, “Will you come with me?”

Reed stills.

It’s not a seductive invitation. Your voice is too quiet. Too vulnerable.

You mean with you. Not to see you.

There’s a difference.

A difference he understands immediately.

He exhales once, very slowly.

“Yes,” he says.

The bathroom in Reed’s quarters is clean and understated. No clutter. Neutral tones. A single towel folded perfectly on the heated rack. The kind of space made by someone who needs things to stay quiet, even in private.

You peel off your clothes with your back to him. You don’t ask him to turn away. You just move, deliberately, like someone trying to stay present in their own body. You don’t rush.

He undresses behind you.

You don’t look.

Not because you’re afraid.

Just because this isn’t about looking.

When you step under the water, he follows. The spray is warm. Steam begins to rise immediately, curling around your shoulders, softening the edges of the room.

You don’t speak for a long time.

He helps you rinse shampoo from your hair.

He rubs a towel gently across your upper back, washing you between passes of the water.

You stand in the quiet, eyes closed, while he reaches for the soap, his hands careful and broad. You’ve never felt so heldin a room without touch. Even when he does touch you, it’s so measured. Like he’s calibrating pressure in real time.

He never touches more than he needs to.

He never looks longer than you let him.

You begin to wash him in return—his arms, his back. Your fingers map the ridges of his shoulders. The plane of his chest. 

He smiles at you when you look up at him.

You smile back.

Afterward, you towel off side by side. You slip into the oversized sleep shirt he keeps in the guest drawers—the one you claimed without asking the second time you stayed over. Reed pulls on a soft cotton shirt and gray sweatpants, hair still damp, curls a little unruly.

You both brush your teeth in silence. The kind of silence built on trust, not absence.

You spit and rinse and then, leaning over the sink, you say, “You’re not what I expected.”

Reed glances at you in the mirror.

“I’m not?” he asks, toothbrush in hand.

You shake your head. “You’re a better equation.”

He stares at you for a moment, then leans over, presses a kiss to your temple, and whispers, “So are you.”

You fall asleep in his bed, facing each other.

You don’t touch—not at first. But at some point, your foot slides across the sheet and brushes his calf.

He doesn’t bother to move.

You drift off like that.

And he stays awake for a while longer, just watching you breathe, memorizing the sound of it, calculating the half-life of the moment in real time.

He doesn't think there's a formula for this.

But if there were, he’d already be solving for you.

taglist: @totallynotshine @the-curator1 @christinamadsen @imaginemixedfandom @randomuserr330 @princess76179 @little--spring @mielsonrisa @he-is-the-destined @in-pedros-smile @aysilee2018 @stormseyer @or-was-it-just-a-dream @strawberrylemontart1 @lovetings @peelieblue @just-a-harmless-patato @lizziesfirstwife @princessnnylzays @stargirl-mayaa @vickie5446 @everandforeveryours @jxvipike @sukivenue @neenieweenie @i-wanna-be-your-muse @sonjajames2021 @fxxvz @indiegirlunited

[natsswife]

I kinda wanna kiss your girlfriend if you dont mind<3

pairings: nat x fem!reader

summary: nat is head over heels and kinda obsessed w you but thinks you have a boyfriend:(( (u dont)

cw: nat hatesss your “boyfriend”, brief mention of alcohol and cigs, “cheating” on ur bf from nats pov

notes: just something silly a wrote in one sit while listening to after midnight by chappell<3 *starts blasting it*

men&cishet ppl dni ty

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆˚

༘⋆ obsessed!Nat who loves to sit next to you during classes everytime she has the opportunity and that ugly rat- i mean boyfriend of yours isnt near bothering and taking all of your attention, because these little moments are one her biggest opportunities to talk to you, gossip about anything and try to see if there's at least a small chance that you like girls???

༘⋆ obsessed!Nat whose favorite time of the week is when the team have soccer match because that means she can shower u with lots of compliments without sounding weird (so in love with you) cuz for her you're one of the best players in the team, and also take it as an opportunity to ask you for advices and why not? train together everyday after classes so nat can improve her game (pass more time with you) <33

༘⋆ obsessed!Nat who sometimes finds her obsession with you weird because how comes the most “i dont give a fuck abt anything” girl is now giving too much fuck about someone and is now tracking down that ugly boyfriend of yours to see if hes cheating or something so she can tell you and enjoy how you break w him on front of everyone, cuz that means she will a chance with you.

༘⋆ anddd obsessed!Nat who got bored of tracking him down because she now discovered a whole new level of nerd thanks to your ”boyfriend” she almost finished her packs of cigs and he was still stuck at the library reading and reading some boring shit and not talking to anyone, not even some girl that help her caught him red handed or something, but the real question is how can *you* the coolest girl ever, be with such a loser?? how did you never got bored of just hearing him yap about some nothingburger comic?? maybe that's why she never saw you kissing or closer with him, and thanks to that Nat now knows that you need some real fun and she’ll make sure she is the one making you have it, because Nat needs to steal you from that man who’s making u lose your time and be with someone who really loves you and that's her!!!!

༘⋆ so its all set up, during that party some random is gonna throw in a few days Nat's gonna confess her feelings, and she's confident, not because shes kinda obsessed with you and tired of waiting (she is) but also bc it never went unnoticed to her how sometimes you looked at her while she was writing something during class, it always made her sweat and fuck up whatever she was writing, but she never moved because you looking at her made her feel that god heard her non existent prayers and made her feel like she might have a chance? whatever mixed signals you were giving her had nat jumping full of joy mentally

༘⋆ and when the day comes, everyone’s wasted and as soon she spot you with Tai and Van, Nat takes her last shot of whatever deadly combination of drinks kevyn made for her bc for sure she will need some alcoholic encourage to express her love and how she capable of kissing the floor you walk.

༘⋆ she just takes you to a more "safe of men and that ugly rat you have as a bf" space and lets everything out in a kinda “im sorry doll dont hate me but you look way too gay to be with a man, especially that ONE” way while looking at your bf who is talking with jeff and his group (how did he managed to not get bullied by them? she doesnt know and doesnt care lowk)

༘⋆ Nat’s heart did a 180 backflip inside her chest when she saw your beautiful smile just got wider after her confession and a “oh my.. nat are you serious” from you made her sweat like she has been in a marathon, were you expecting this orr…

 “yeah why would a lie” she let a nervous giggle out and with that something she never expected happened

༘⋆ you just threw yourself into her arms?? and started kissing her??? It was a short, nervous but sweet kiss, both of you nervous as hell but Nat is now confused because why are you cheating on your rat in front of everyone??

༘⋆ but anygays would he mind if she kinda wanna kiss his girlfriend? again after she made the first move?

“NONONO HES NOT MY BOYFRIEND DUMBASS” you let that out almost yelling, do you really look that straight??

༘⋆ u couldnt even hide your excitement because you’ve been waiting for her to make the first move, since you were such a pussy to do that, especially in the toxic world you're all living but now who give a single fuck, the beautiful girl you have been crushing for ages, the one who isnt afraid of showing who she is, dont give a fuck about anything (she now do and thanks to you) is now confessing how much she loves you, and ofc you wont miss the opportunity to kiss her again and again and again, after all everyone is wasted right now.

༘⋆ Nat couldnt believe when you told her that he’s just your childhood friend who got recently transferred and thats why you were close, helping him adapt to the highschool and everything, nat now knows she kinda fucked up by calling him names, tracking him down and deliberately hating him but thats on another topic.

༘⋆ but what she REALLY can't believe is when you confessed that you liked her as well!!! 

“I dont know if it's maybe the moonlight who have horny powers, this moment or whatever but… wanna go to my house?” Nat just kissed you as an answer, she’s not gonna waste the opportunity to have you all for herself this night and is gonna make sure you wake up in her arms everyday by now<3

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ��｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆˚

Do not translate w/o permission, copy or use for AI training, train ur useless brain instead<3

[maxinehufflepuffprincess]

Sleep

BangChan x fem! reader. 9th member.

Taglist. Masterlist. Progress Update. MamaBear Collection.

Summary: Turns out you're a pretty good pillow for the guys.

You were often told by the guys that you were the best pillow. It was just one of the many titles you held within the group. It didn’t matter where you were or what you were doing, the boys always managed to fall asleep on you. Granted, you also did use them as pillows. Some more than others, but they had all had a moment when you had fallen asleep on them, too. You were just happy that the boys were getting sleep.

—--------

After you had recorded your lines for one of the newest songs, Chan had invited you to stay and help out, or just listen. Today you sat beside Chna, helping him to work. There was a gap between Changbin and Seungmin’s sessions. So whilst Han and Binnie went to get food for you all, using your card, you and Chan had decided to stay behind and look through the takes that had already been done.

Chan laid his head on your shoulder and let out a small huff of air. He ran his hands over his face and looked at you for a moment. 

“You okay?” You asked as you placed a kiss on the top of his head.

Chan shook his head. “Struggling to keep my eyes open. But we still have the rest of the team to go.”

“Chris. You can sleep. I can help. I’ve seen you boys use all this enough times to know what I’m doing.” You told him with a small nod of your head.

Chan shook his head once again. “No, I can do it.” He told you, but his eyes fluttered close. You didn’t move, you just let it happen. He was falling asleep, and you weren’t going to stop him. Your boyfriend was asleep for ten minutes before Seungmin came in with Binnie and Han trailing after him. 

“Hi, babies.” You spoke quietly. 

Seungmin walked into the booth and began his vocal warm-ups. Han sat on the couch and immediately began to dig into his food. 

Changin walked over to you and put your card back into your phone. He placed your favourite drink in front of you. Of course, you thanked him. Binnie quickly noticed Chan was asleep. “At least he’s finally sleeping.” He pulled up a chair, ready to help you with whatever you needed. 

You placed a hand on the red button, allowing Seungmin to hear you. “Are you ready, sweetheart?” You asked him softly.

Seungmin nodded and gave you a thumbs up. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

“Alright. We’ll go from the hook if that’s okay with you?” You asked him, not wanting to control everything. You still wanted Minnie to have his own input. 

And so you sat there and took on Chan’s role. Letting your love get some rest. Seungmin finished his session pretty quickly. He left you with a kiss on the head and a compliment. “You should do this more often. It’s fun seeing you in producer mode.”

Next came I.N. and then Felix. Changbin took over for Felix, but you still stayed, not wanting to move. Not wanting to wake Chan. 

He finally did wake up, though, as you were listening to Hyunjin perfect his line and Han was gearing up to go in. At first, he couldn’t believe he missed so much of the recording, but he gave you a soft kiss and whispered a genuine ‘thank you’. 

—--------

You had been lying on the floor. You were looking through your camera roll as everyone took a break from dance practice. You let out a startled yelp as you felt a hand slap your ass. You turned a little to see Minho cackling. He shook his head and flopped down on the ground beside you. 

“You did well.” He told you as he turned his body and lay down, his head lying on your back. His voice was slower than normal.

“Thank you. You did an amazing job. I know this was a tough routine. I’m proud of you.” You told him with a smile. You turned your head to look at him, only to see Minho’s eyes closed. A small snore left his lips. He must have been really tired. So you decided not to disturb him. You just kept scrolling through your camera roll. 

Chan noticed, though. About five minutes after Leeknow fell asleep, he noticed. He grabbed a pillow off the couch and walked over to you. 

“For your elbows.” He said as he helped you to move so the pillow would go under your arms. You couldn’t help but smile at him. Whilst you were busy making sure Minho slept, here Chan was, making sure you were okay. He ran his fingers through your hair gently. 

“I don’t have the heart to wake him. I know we should be practising, but he’s exhausted. They all are.” You spoke quietly.

Chan nodded his head in agreement and gently took your hand in his. He brought your hand to his lips and gently kissed your knuckles. “We all are. We can call it a day. Come back tomorrow?” He suggested to you. 

You nodded your head. “Yeah. We have the rest of the day cleared. I want the boys to go home and sleep. I’ll stay here until Min wakes up.” 

Chan couldn’t help but let out a small, soft sigh. You were so perfect in his eyes. “I love you.” He told you and placed a kiss on your forehead before standing up. 

“I love you, too.” You replied, the love clear in your voice.

“Alright. I think that’s enough for today. I want you all to go home, shower, eat and get a lot of sleep. We’ll continue practising tomorrow.” Chan told them all. The boys cheered and quickly moved to grab their things. 

Han paused, though, seeing that you, Chan and Leeknow weren’t moving. “Aren’t you three coming?”

“No, sweetheart. We’ll be home later. Min is asleep, and I don’t want to wake him.” You explained to the male. Having heard your words, Han nodded his head. He then looked at Chan. 

“I’m staying to keep her company. I’ll text to let you all know when we’re heading home. Now go.” He ushered the boys out of the room. Though Hyunjin was able to get a quick picture of you and Minho. He claimed it was for blackmail purposes. But the picture found its way as your and Hyunjin’s new contact picture for Minho. 

And so there you stayed. On the floor, with your eldest’s head on your back, fast asleep. The love of your life is lying in front of you. The two of you are playing on your phones, writing a new song together and just talking. Both were patiently waiting for Minho to wake up. There was no rush. Just two people hoping for their seven boys to get all the sleep they needed. 

—--------

Changbin had fallen asleep with his head on your thigh. You had all been chilling at the beach. Having fun, swimming in the ocean and making sandcastles. You had laid down on your side, on the blanket. Seungmin was taking pictures, and you had decided to pose. It was during this little photoshoot that Changbin made his way over to you. He had placed his head on your thigh and had grinned for the camera. 

The thing was, after Minnie was done, Binnie didn’t move. The two of you chatted for a moment, and you fed him some food. Then you began to realise that he hadn’t answered one of your questions. You turned your head to look at him, only to see Changbin fast asleep. His hand was half holding the bottle of water that you had given him. 

You let out a small giggle, grabbing your phone to take a picture of the male. Your hand came to play with his hair for a little while until the position got a little uncomfortable. In the meantime, you decided to enjoy watching the rest of the boys play and have fun. Seungmin was having fun taking pictures. Hyunjin, Felix and Chan were all in the water. Han and I.N. were trying to have a sandcastle competition. 

Minho made his way over to you and sat down beside you. “Sit up.” He said, causing you to frown. But you did it anyway, careful for to disturb Changbin. Leeknow moved so that when you lay back down, your head and arm would be on his lap. 

“Thank you.” 

Leekow just smiled at you and shrugged. “You’d do it for us. Just making sure you’re taken care of too.”

—--------

Hyunjin had decided to crawl into bed with you. You had all got the week off and had decided to get away. So you rented a nice house near a lake, away from everything. It was just the nine of you. You and Chan were lying in bed, watching YouTube. You were watching a YouTuber reacting to some Stray Kids stuff. It was something you enjoyed doing. 

The door to the bedroom opened, causing you and Chan to look over at who was coming in. Hyunjin closed the door behind as before he walked over to the bed. He lifted the covers and crawled into bed beside you. 

“What are we watching?” He asked curiously, and he lay back, his head on your shoulder as he relaxed. Your finger gently ran over his hair lightly, ready to pull away if he wanted you to.

“I thought you were sharing with Changbin tonight?” Chan asked him in confusion. 

Hyunjin shook his head. “No, he’s with Felix tonight.” He shrugged as he looked at the TV. He let out a laugh at something the guy said. “He’s funny.” He clapped. 

You and Chan shared a look. You simply shrugged and relaxed. Chan followed your lead, and the three of you continued to watch the TV. Slowly, as time went on, Hyunjin’s tiredness was getting the better of him. His head moved from your shoulder to the crook of your neck. His breath began to steady out, letting you know that he was slowly falling asleep. Thankfully, you were in a comfortable position. You didn’t want to risk disturbing him. 

One of Hyunjin’s hands was gently gripping your shirt. He slept soundly. Chan turned to look at you and smiled. “You’re so soft with them all.”

You gave him a sweet smile. “I know. But how can I possibly say no to our boys? I like taking care of them. Even if it is just using me as a pillow.” You told him genuinely. 

Chan chuckled. “When we get home, no one is allowed in our room for a week. Just us. No late-night cuddles with the boys for a week. I want you all to myself.” He kissed your cheek and turned off the TV via the remote. He lay down and wrapped his arms around you. 

“Good night, my love.” 

“Sweet dreams, my heart.”

—--------

Jisung was tired. It had been a day jam-packed with dance practices and interviews. Han was starting to feel tired by the time you all went to the studio. You all still have a few more things to do. So the boys went about their business. It was just three more hours, and then you could all go home. 

You stood in the recording booth. The headphone was on your head as you sang into the microphone. You wanted to get your lines over and done with. Chan had perked up a little, hearing you sing. Changbin was drinking coffee and cheering you on. Whilst the three of you were still tired, you managed to create a fun atmosphere. Eventually, you were finished. You exited the booth, giving Chan a soft kiss as you did so. 

You sat on the couch just as Han walked into the room and let out a yawn. You opened your arms for him. “Come here, honey.” 

Han walked over to you. He moved so that his back was against your front, though his head lay on your stomach. Your fingers ran through his hair. 

“Get some sleep, lovely. I’ll wake you when it’s time to go home.” You continued to stroke his hair. As you did this, you softly began to sing ‘Once Upon a Dream’ from ‘Sleeping Beauty’. Han snuggled closer to you as he slowly drifted off to sleep. You continued to sing to him until you were completely sure he was asleep. 

Whilst you had been cuddling Han, Chan had gone into the booth to record his lines, Binnie had, of course, played his role as producer beautifully. You listened to Chan singing and rapping, and a smile found its way on your face. You had always truly adored his voice. Truly and wholly.

Once he stepped out of the booth, he walked over to you and let out a chuckle. “We’ll get to go home soon. I just need Minho to go over his lines, and then we should be done for the day.” 

As if on cue, Leeknow walked into the room. He had previously just been cleaning the dance routine and helping some of the members with the moves. He was tired, but he was adamant about getting his lines done with. He gently stroked Han’s hair before heading to the booth, 

You would all be done soon. For now, though, you were happy to just let Jisung continue sleeping. You didn’t mind being a pillow for him. As long as he was getting the sleep he needed, you were happy. 

—--------

Felix walked into the kitchen. He silently watched you as you cleaned up. Technically, you shouldn’t be the one cleaning as you, Chan and Minho had cooked for the group. Every week, you all always had what you called a ‘family meal’. It was normally held in your, Chan and Innie’s dorm. But the family dinners were important. Whilst yes, you all spent a lot of time together, family dinners were a no-work zone. It was the same day every week, and everyone always made time for it. It was a chance for the nine of you to unwind and just enjoy each other’s company. 

You finished cleaning up and turned to look at Felix. “Are you okay, baby?” You asked him softly as you walked over to him. He looked tired, really tired. 

“I was wondering if we could cuddle?” He asked hopefully, then let out a yawn and covered his mouth. 

You nodded and walked over to him. You gently took his hand and led him to the free couch. You lie down. Felix carefully lay on top of you. His head comes to lie on your chest, his legs between yours. Your fingers gently ran through his dark hair. You felt his body relax into you. Your free hand came to gently rub his back. 

You began to hum ‘Blue’ by ZeroBaseOne. Slowly, Felix was beginning to drift off to sleep. The rest of the world didn’t matter. He ignored the sound of Changbin flirting with Hyunjin. Of the sounds of Seungmin and I.N. giggling over something Minho and Han were doing. What he didn’t miss, though, was a second hand gently stroking the nape of his neck. The last thing he heard before he let sleep take him was you, your voice softly singing to him.

“I wanna run, into your world of bright blue, whoa, touch the clouds.”

Chan had watched you and Felix when you had entered the room. He had watched as you let Felix snuggle into you, using your chest as a pillow, as he often did. His arms wrapped around you as you wrapped your arms around him. Your hands are moving from muscle memory. One gently stroked his hair, hoping to get him to relax. Your other hand wants to comfort him, but still being careful.

Chan got up and walked over to the two of you. He grabbed a blanket. It was cold, so he wanted to make sure you were both warm enough. Chan gently placed a hand on the nape of Felix’s neck, hoping for him to have a good sleep. 

You looked up at Chan and smiled softly. “Hi.” You spoke softly. 

“Hi, sweetheart.” He leant down and placed a kiss on your forehead. He put the blanket over the two of you. “Let me know when you want me to move him to the bed.” He ran his fingers through your hair. 

You gently nodded your head and smiled. “I will.”

Chan sat down on the floor in front of the couch you were on. He leaned back, enjoying getting close to you. He could be all lovey-dovey with you around the boys. You could be near and just be. They didn’t mind. They would tease you both, but the guys allowed a space where the two of you could be together freely and wholeheartedly. 

The evening continued on, and Felix was still fast asleep. The boys had fun playing games and just talking. Eventually, though, sleep was creeping up on everyone. You had somehow found yourself fast asleep during the chaos, though not before you invited Seungmin to stay the night, since Felix wasn’t going anywhere, you had offered for Minnie to stay so he wouldn’t have to be in the dorm on his own. Innie had offered for the two of them to share his room, with Minnie accepted. 

When you woke up the next moment, you found yourself in the same position as you had been in that evening, only now you and Felix were in bed and Chan was sleeping peacefully beside you both. 

—--------

You were all filming for a new SKZ Code episode. You were all having a lot of fun. You had all played a lot of games and done a lot of fun activities. However, the day was slowly coming to an end. The camera crew had left, allowing you and the boys to spend the rest of the night how you wanted. Of course, there were cameras in more a less every room, and also pointing outside. 

You were sitting next to Chris. Your head on his shoulder as you snuggled close to him. You were all giggling and just having a good laugh. Han stood in the middle of the room. He had been trying to make a joke, only to completely lose his train of thought after watching Felix throw a marshmallow to I.N., who caught it in his mouth. 

You suddenly felt pressure on your lap. You looked down to see that Seungmin had lain down beside you, his head on your lap. 

“Tired puppy?” You asked him curiously as you gently stroked the hair by the shell of his ear.

Seungmin nodded his head as he slowly closed his eyes. You moved your attention back to the group. You continued to stroke Seungmin’s hair lightly. It was a habit of yours. One that you didn’t notice at first, but Hyunjin had been the one to point it out to you, whenever one of the boys fell asleep on you, you’d play with their hair if you could reach it.

Seungmin wasn’t the only one to fall asleep, though, as Felix had fallen asleep on Hyunjin. However, the rest of you stayed up a little longer, talking and discussing what challenges you all thought would happen tomorrow. 

Chan was the one who eventually sent everyone to bed. “It’s getting late, and we all need to get some sleep.” He said. The rooms had already been chosen earlier in the day due to some games. 

“I don’t want to wake either of them up just to go upstairs.” You said as you bit your bottom lip softly. 

Changbin stood up and walked over to you. “I’ll carry him up. Which room is he in?” He asked as he carefully scooped Seungmin into his arms and lifted him. The sleeping male let out a small whine but stayed asleep. 

“Thank you. He, Lixie and Innie are sharing a room. Upstairs, second door on the right.” You explained as you stood up. You placed a gentle kiss on Seungmin’s forehead. “Sweet dreams, Puppy.” Changbin then made his way upstairs, with the second youngest in his arms.

You turned to Hyunjin. “Are you up for carrying Lixie upstairs?” You asked curiously, causing the taller male to nod his head. “Thank you, hun.” You walked over and repeated what you had done with Seungmin. You kissed his forehead and smiled. “Sweet dreams, baby.” You stepped back, allowing Hyunjin the room to stand up, lift Felix and carry him upstairs. Soon enough, everyone said good night to each other, and some hugs were exchanged. But eventually you were yourself were fast asleep with your head in Chan’s chest and his arms around your body.

—--------

Jeongin looked out of the window. Changbin was driving with Chan in the passenger seat. In the back were you, I.N. and Seungmin.  Leeknow was driving the second car, with Hyunjin in the passenger seat and the Sunshine twins in the back. 

You were on your way home after having a fun day out. I.N. was slumped in his seat. He was tired, and the movement of the car was not helping him to stay away. He was slowly nodding off. He didn’t notice that he had begun to lean into you. His head lay on your arm at a weird angle. So, you carefully moved his head to your shoulder, not wanting him to wake up with a stiff neck. 

The music in the car played quietly. The sound of Chan and Binnie talking filled the space, but not in an overbearing way. They were mainly discussing where to stop off to get food before going home. Chan was texting Hyunjin the details. Seungmin was watching something on his phone, but he too found himself leaning on your shoulder. You closed your eyes, not falling asleep but just enjoying the atmosphere. You spoke up whenever you were asked a question or when Chan or Binnie included you in the conversation. 

You were happy, though, letting the two youngest members of the group use you as a pillow. With one fast asleep and the other in his own world. You would never complain about being the group’s pillow. Because it meant they were comfortable with you. When asleep, a person is at their most vulnerable. And then sleeping on you showed they trusted you. They trusted you to let them sleep, to keep them safe, to keep them comfortable. You were to be that person for them, because you knew they’d do the same if the roles were reversed. 

 

—------------

Everything Taglist: Thank you for supporting me. @thecheshireprincess @potato-vagina @spanish-delulu-23 @deliciousmagazinequeen @myblovedjyh @alex--awesome--22

SKZ Taglist: Thank you for supporting me. @jinnie-ret

[mitchelimarns]

wait i saw ur trevorjamie? post and i am INTRIGUED what is that?? who are they? what is the backstory? please enlighten me??

hi op!! thank you for asking this question that i am Completely Normal about it. sending this ask is like asking the Cocaine Guy for some cocaine. of course i have some! now come take my hand and engage in ethically gray fandom practises with me. warning: this is going to be overly long (it is actually so long, i'm SO sorry). you might feel like i am actually a Cocaine Guy at some points because of the euphoria you will achieve (or because of how insane you might think i am). another warning: 99% of this based in fact and the other 1% is based in that beautiful gay area between fact and fiction.

trevorjamie is the hockey rpf ship between former (!!) anaheim ducks and now current (!!) philadelphia flyers forward trevor zegras, (drafted 9th overall in 2019) and former anaheim ducks and current philadelphia flyers defenseman jamie drysdale (drafted 7th overall in 2020)

an aside on trevor zegras

before we go into the backstory, i think the key to understanding the appeal of trevorjamie is to understand the appeal of trevor zegras. when i say appeal, three reasons come to mind:

his career can, as of right now, be divided into two parts: Trevor Zegras, Wonder Kid and Trevor Zegras, Wasted Potential. trevor the wonderkid spans his his first two (and a half if you count 20-21) seasons: back-to-back 60+ points (that's Really Good for a rookie/young player). finishes second in the rookie of the year voting. also appears on the 2023 NHL EA video game cover, which is A Big Deal, especially for such a young player. even makes a guest appearance at the 2022 NHL All-Star Game where he scores a goal blindfolded in the ugliest red and yellow get-up i've ever seen while NHL team mascots pelt him with dodgeballs (no, i am not making this up.) here's the video. throughout his first two years, he makes insane plays, including multiple michigans (a lacrosse style move that's really hard to land in hockey, much less NHL-level hockey). here's a webweave about trevor and Hockey that i think about Every Day. here's a video of his frankly mind-boggling highlights from his first two years. here's another. here's a webweave with quotes on how talented he is. from 2021 till 2023, trevor zegras is, for all intents and purposes, the young, sexy and talented face of the nhl. Trevor Zegras, Wasted Potential starts after he injures his ankle in 2024 and his goals/assists production falls off majorly for the next two years (we shall go more into why & how of Trevor Zegras, Wasted Potential later.) but either way, his hockey is always in the spotlight for being creative and unique.

the second reason is his personality. nhl players are notoriously criticized for being boring "robots" with no emotion and so when trevor zegras, the Lover Boy who wears his heart on his sleeve comes along, people are captivated by how open and genuine he is. he’s like that frat boy who was always admired and never loved. here's a post about a coach talking about how much trevor talks. here's a youtube compilation of his interviews (very old but it's all i could find). fun facts: he once tried to pick a fight with sidney crosby, probably the Most Respected hockey player on earth. he dated dixie d'amelio for a bit. he went to the 2022 & 2023 montreal grand prix (and repped mclaren with his nhl friends!) his instagram username is 'Z' and he posts like an influencer. in conclusion: he's just a twink tiktoker and tattooed greek man from the suburbs of new york who is occasionally Haunted By The Demons. and we love him for that!

the third and final reason that i personally love him is because he is a part of the 2019 U.S. National Team Development Program draft class (the 2001s.) the USNTDP was started as a junior program for elite highschool hockey players across the US, meant to foster team-bonding between american players from a young age and also give them a taste of the pro-life before the NHL that isn't college hockey or a foreign minor league. it is famous in the hockey rpf fandom for spawning some of the most codependent homoerotic friendships, from dylan larkin & zach werenski to will smith, ryan leonard & gabe perrault and of course, trevor zegras and his friends: jack hughes, cole caufield, alex turcotte, etc. the reason that this particular group/USNTDP class is so famous is because they are soo co-dependent that jack hughes (and his brothers who are also elite NHL players, luke & quinn hughes (quinn has the funniest beef with trevor)) bought a lakehouse in michigan (where the program is located) so that the boys can summer there every off-season. the lakehouse has now expanded to include a revolving door of The Hughes Friends, including umich (luke & quinn hughes' alma mater) & other college hockey players. this has, of course, spanned many fics across many ships and is an integral part of The Lore. the lore behind cole, jack and trevor's friendship is also insane (please peruse @/whirlpool-blog’s jhtz tag), but that's a problem for another day (if it intrigues you, have a scroll through the usntdp tag generally too). but yes, the dynamic between trevor & his friends is another fan favourite, with countless interviews and instagram #moments, if only because all rpfers yearn for one direction. (jack is zayn, trevor is harry and cole is niall. no i don't take constructive criticism).

tldr: trevor zegras is a loud, controversial, talented and loved player. now, in my opinion jamie drysdale - in contrast - is quiet, sweet and soft-spoken, aggressively canadian, a guitar player who also likes to cook and hates mornings. however, there are other takes out there like this one that beg to differ and make for an even more interesting dynamic. either way, together, they compliment each other. one is Insane and the other is So Nonchalant. we must fundamentally understand that to understand the appeal of trevorjamie.

now onto the actual question: the trevorjamie backstory.

now before we begin, i have taken a lot of help from the wonderful primers of @/somewhatinvested, linked here. i highly recommend a scroll through their blog, (esp their tzjd lore tag) as well as @/whirlpool-blogs, @/teex, @/bliksemflitsenblog, @/f1vegas, @/sergeifyodorov and @/zeegras because i am but an amateur and they are phd experts conducting their second thesis.

but here's my take, which includes Recent Happenings A.K.A. trevor is traded to philly A.K.A. the greatest moment of my life A.K.A. yaoi always wins.

the beginning: 2020-2021 season

even though they were drafted in 2019 and 2020 respectively, trevor and jamie first actually met when they played against each other in the 2021 world junior championships (which is A Big Deal for young hockey prospects) where trevor (who played for the US) was spotlighted for two reasons:

winning MVP of the tournament, after leading the tournament in scoring (and actually tying the all-time US world junior record)

making the most cocky comments, including saying this about the canadian team: "i don't think they've been tested by a real time yet.” right before the highly anticipated US-canada final.

jamie plays for the canadian team. the usa won the final. trevor had 2 goals and 1 assist in the final. jamie was, understandably, Pissed. now this was A Problem because they are going to be teammates and are also flying to anaheim together on the same plane (along with other californian prospects but that's irrelevant.) jamie allegedly did not want to talk to trevor at all on the flight. trevor forced them to make amends over chick-fil-a after. hence began the most epic enemies-to-roommates-to-lovers arc in 2021 as they roomed together in a hotel in irvine. they spend this time mostly playing for the minor league affiliate of the ducks, the gulls (if you do not know what a minor league is, think gulls is the f2 team of the ducks, an f1 team).

throughout the (shortened) 2020-21 season, they bounce back & forth between the ducks and the gulls. the whole time, they stay together in a hotel in irvine (along with two other prospects) even though they only overlap for 13 NHL games over the course of the 2020-21 season (they are called up at different times to the ducks). one of their other roommates, perrault, says that the two of them were the closest between the four roommates. when trevor is first called up to the NHL, he wears the suit that jamie wore to their US-canada final game (insane). despite playing only 13 NHL games together, they score their first NHL goals in the same game (jamie's first NHL game), only minutes apart (breaking the record for the closest NHL debut goals). jamie has a secondary assist on trevor's first goal. jamie is interviewed after the game and says that "it was a good night for our household." the photo of them celebrating trevor’s first goal is re-created by a fan. the painting is later hung in their shared apartment by trevor. they wear matching rose pins on the anniversary of their first goals a year later. #gay

jamie Panics: 2021-2022 season

when the new season starts in 21-22, trevorjamie have established themselves. they are ready to move on from the land of Hotel Nomads and Buy A House. trevor said that he assumed jamie and him were going to live together. however, jamie is asked by an older teammate to live with him and says yes. i wonder Why.

trevor ends up first living with two other teammates for a week and then later moves in with cole york, the older brother of one of USNTDP cult bros, cam york (remember the name because it will come up later). during this time, trevor adopts a lizard. no, i am not joking. i can only imagine the Yearning reached catastrophic levels. HOWEVER! the Hockey Gods intervene and jamie's roommate is traded halfway through the season. it is confirmed that trevor moved in with jamie at the end the season. #lovewins

the 2022 offseason is incredibly famous because of the troy terry (one of their teammate)'s wedding, where we had some prime trevorjamie moments. see @/somewhatinvested's primer. take particular notice of this photo, allegedly taken after the wedding when they are both hungover in a ski-lift in aspen:

boyfriends: 2022-2023 season

2022-2023 is notable because yes, trevor & jamie live together in an apartment (yes, that apartment where trevor hangs the fan painting of their celebration). but also because jamie gets injured after playing only eight games and instead of going home back to canada, like a normal player would, he stays with trevor in anaheim. for the rest of the season (a solid five months). truly insane. this gives us some amazing Domestic content, such as jamie cooking for them both, jamie playing the guitar for trevor, watching sunsets together on the rooftop connected to their apartment (including jamie allegedly taking the most romantic sunset trevor photos), cuddling on valentine's day together and of course, the infamous shared rooftop playlist (preluded by the apple music JamieTrevor playlist), which trevor and jamie both confirmed they listen to while watching the sunset together. some of the music in this playlist is truly insane. (side note: i highly recommend checking out jamie's spotify (it's actually his mom's spotify) playlist "California" because it is. insane. listening to those 11 songs with the implications of trevorjamie is a Crazy experience. also jamie has only added like 13-15 songs to the “Rooftop”playlist and the summer trevor got a girlfriend he removed “Lover” by Taylor Swift and added it to his “California” playlist. god they make me unhinged)

in the 2023 offseason, trevor, jamie and USNTDP buddy cam york (there he is again!) go to stagecoach together. trevor and jamie are, predictably, weird about each other. trevor sets up him and jamie up with two models. stuff gets messy. here's a primer. here's more lore about trevorjamie being weird about their girlfriends. here, i put my rpf goggles to speculate that perhaps trevor Panicked this time.

the horrible, very bad, no good trade: 2023-2024 season

in 2023-24, they are not living together. maybe stagecoach has something to do with it, maybe it doesn't. either way, 2023 continues to give us content, such as trevor posting a photo of jamie with a winky face emoji after Contentious Contract Negotiations and dedicating his michigan goal to jamie.

but then on january 8th, the news breaks that jamie drysdale has been traded to the philadelphia flyers.

now, this is shocking because both trevor and jamie are good players: they're high draft picks who are faces of the franchise, touted as part of the ducks' rebuilding core and they just signed contract extensions. but it is even more shocking to trevor zegras, who is going to be separated from His Guy.

now hockey trades are famous for Being Chaotic but this was next-level: the ducks were on a week-long roadtrip, preparing for a game against nashville. trevor and jamie were allegedly together in a dive bar in nashville when jamie got the call. jamie's mind "was in a daze." he flew out of nashville at 5:45 a.m. trevor allegedly reached out to his USNTDP bro on the flyers, cam york (there he is again again!) to connect with jamie. jamie moves in with cam york (!) and another teammate. he picks #9 to play with the flyers, the same number trevor wore on the US world juniors team. which could mean nothing.

the day after the trade, trevor is supposed to be interviewed before the nashville game but allegedly refuses. a rinkside reporter stated that "trevor is the person who will miss jamie the most..was visibly glum... was his very best friend... I don't think he has fully processed it this morning...he said it doesn't feel real yet...they're going through it, they're going to remain close friends for the rest of their lives." trevor is uncharacteristically silent throughout the whole ordeal: no goodbye post, not even a story. later on, he states that him and jamie "peed together, got injured together, slept together," which goes viral. trevor likes a post of the quote.

in his first shift in his first game after jamie leaves (which is also trevor's 200th NHL game), trevor immediately breaks his ankle and is helped off the ice. he misses the rest of the season. he later says that the injury hurts less than the trade.

jamie's first game is flyers' pride night. afterwards, trevor likes the flyers post of the game and reposts it, with the same winky face emoji that he used when jamie got resigned to the ducks. here's screenshots of the two stories (the second one is the flyers story. yes that’s jamie wearing a dog mask. no, don’t ask.)

danny briere, fujoshi extraordinaire: 2024-2025 season

now before we move on to recent events, we must go back to trevor. specifically, Trevor Zegras, Wasted Potential. so i mentioned that after the ankle injury in 2024 (the one he got immediately after jamie was traded), trevor’s goals and offensive production drops massively. his name comes up in trade rumours throughout 2024 and 2025, including a trade to the flyers. critics point to his defensive game as a back-end liability. people say he takes shifts off and takes games off, which basically mean he plays with no heart. they say he’s rude and disrespectful in his chirps. he hardly celebrates after goals anymore. people say he's lazy and overconfident, all flash and no substance, too scrawny to play in the league and annoyingly talkative to top it off.

all of this stems from many reasons, including his head coach, greg cronin, having an old-school style of hockey that encourages "grit" and none of the showboating and puck handling trevor is good at and loves. during this time, the ducks general manager pat verbeek (trevorjamie fandom’s Resident Evil Man) moves trevor from his natural, life long position of centre to right wing, which is another factor in his dropping production. gone are the days of trevor zegras, all-star rookie. people call him washed up and a draft bust. rpfers say he is broken-hearted.

this is worsened when he, just starting to find his groove and show flashes of defensive capability in 24-25, suffers a torn meniscus and has to undergo surgery for six weeks, missing majority of this season. when he comes back, he violates player safety rules despite and is suspended for six games. in first game after the suspension, he immediately tries to fight someone (which he never does) and loses very badly.

in contrast, jamie is thriving. he is maturing and growing defensively, he buys his own house in downtown philly, he hard launches his long distance gf (the one who trevor introduced him to at stagecoach) and spends his time with his philly best friend, cam york (the one who trevor introduced him to). during this time, jamie hardly mentions trevor, except for a flyers social media video where he says the most famous person on his phone is trevor zegras (full government name).

him and trevor also allegedly have dinner together after a ducks-flyers game in philly in 2025. trevor did not play in the game due to his injuries but still waited outside the flyers locker room “quietly and patiently” and later said the dinner was like “jamie never left.” fun fact (said with the air of a Crazy Person): due to trevor’s injuries and the distance between the two teams (they are in separate conferences), trevor has actually never played an NHL game against jamie.

in the beginning of the offseason, trevor also did this sponcon. which. No Comment. but what was shocking was he reposted the cover photo and then immediately reposted a reel of… jamie playing golf. here’s the two stories side by side to establish how crazy that was:

trevor was also allegedly updating The Rooftop Playlist for the first time a few days in two years before Recent Events. some people speculate it was during trade talks and he was Thinking about jamie. which is also Crazy.

this all brings us to today, when trevorjamie fans across the world collectively lost their minds when it was announced that the flyers had acquired trevor zegras.

trevor's only public acknowledgement about the trade (besides liking a bunch of posts) is this photo of him & jamie posted to his instagram, no caption and no acknowledgment to his other buddies on the team such as cam york (there he is again again again again!). nope, trevor needs everyone to know that this trade is about His Guy and His Guy Only.

you may notice some similarities to a certain pic on a ski lift in aspen. but whilst they were Just Bros in that one, they are definitely Not Bros in this one. just the semantics of taking a pic from two years ago, when we know trevor has pics of him, jamie and cam york at stagecoach... oh trevor zegras, you are the biggest idgaf war loser.

besides this photo, trevor also did a virtual press conference (video here) and went on a local philly podcast. jamie has only liked the post saying goodbye to the teammate that they traded for trevor and no posts related to trevor at all. he has also not posted anything on instagram.

but that doesn't matter because trevor zegras is So Back, baby. he will be playing under #46, the number he used to play on the gulls (he used #11 on the ducks). he is free of his Demons (the #11, pat verbeek and playing right wing). he is going to the land of brotherly love, matvei michkov (known for doing michigans, trevor's MoveTM) and travis konecny (known for being a yapper like trevor).

so where does this leave us now? well, both jamie and trevor will be playing the next season together (!!!!!!!). hopefully, we shall see trevor have a breakout year, a la dylan storme. both of them will be on the last year of the 3-year contracts they originally signed with the ducks. we don't know if either will resign with philly. but one thing can be sure: they will definitely, definitely Be Weird About It.

TLDR: trevor and jamie are insane about each other. i am insane about them. come join us!

if you've made it to the end, congratulations! i hope this enlightened you! if you have more questions (either about trevorjamie or anything else mentioned here), my ask box is always open! have a great day!!

[beevean]

Hey! Just wanna say I LOVED your short Tenna story. My characterization of him has been missing something for a while now, and you helped me realize what it was— he was WAY too nice. It’s difficult to balance a villain being manipulative and cruel yet tragic and sympathetic— and not only did you do it amazingly, you gave me a lot of confidence in trying my hand at it! Tenna and Kris make me oh so very ill and I’ve been wanting to write about them even before I watched the entirety of chapter three. Please keep writing if you so wish— it’s so good!

(also I loved reading your IDW Sonic deconstructions back in the day)

Awww thank you so muuuuuuch 🥺 I'm so happy that you sent me this ask!

I want to write something about Tenna, but I'm not really sure what (and ngl I'm intimidated by trying to imitate such an iconic character lol). My only thought was, I am in utter love with the Doom Board section, and how uncomfortable it is to witness Tenna's breakdown, and I felt the need to jot my interpretation down - my one mental image was Tenna noticing that Kris is not looking at him at all and feeling outright hurt at being ignored by his first watcher.

I think most fanworks nowadays paint Tenna too much as a lil flustered pathetic wet boy tragic babyboy bean. Which he is. But he's also a manipulative conman not above taking advantage of his employees, and a massive mood-swinging unhinged control freak not above hurting the kid he "raised" for the sake of soothing his own ego. I read a Japanese comment who called him a yandere, and yeah, that fits!

I think Tenna is the kind of person who does kind things for selfish reasons. His one desire is to feel loved and useful. The main way he has to get what he wants is to make people happy, so that they're drawn to him. This means that he's mostly a very nice person who genuinely enjoys entertaining others... but what he truly wants is the recognition that makes him feel worthy. And when he feels abandoned or shunned, when his Berserk Button over being called "old" (which to him means obsolete, worthless, to be thrown away) is hit, he grows desperate to prove himself, and starts putting himself above others, because he wants things his way, he needs to feel in control and in charge and like he matters.

But even he knows that force can only get him so far. If you keep playing his games in the Doom Board, eventually he gets to the point where he no longer believes you're honest. But he still won't let you go. That would be a defeat. The confirmation that you don't love him after all. And that would kill him inside. As Kris says if you CHECK him during the battle, despite his size, he's surprisingly quite fragile :)

One of Tenna's biggest strengths as a character is that he combines these villainous traits with not just a heartwrenching backstory that most of us can relate to, but a really lovable personality. Not only he's chipper and charming, but he really enjoys being a positive force in people's lives. The two sides don't cancel each other, but complement each other in a complex, compelling character, that personally I think it's almost unfair to reduce to the innocent sniffling babyboy lol

I guess this is the best advice I can give? Tenna is kind but self-centered. His ego is big but brittle, and inflated by making people happy. When angry, he gets high on his power and can get manipulative and violent, but deep down he's incredibly sad and doing the equivalent of saying "please tell me I'm good 🥺". It's like, he wants his audience to feel any emotion, even pain or sadness if it has to come to it. As long as he affects them.

Good luck with your writing! If you are posting it somewhere I'd be happy to check it out <3 I'm also so very normal about Tenna and Kris' relationship, I need all the "fun uncle shielding lil Kris from the Divorce and being hurt that his nibling has grown apart from him" content I can get my hands on <3

[chow0w]

I would love to see darkstalker in your style :00 your redesigns are so neat

Never in my life did I think I would redesign Darkstalker and Hatsune Miku in the same weekend, but here we are.

@oli-bird , @natureforlife and a few anons also asked for this redesign. Sorry anons, I would tag you if I could.

In spite of how often (very often) I make fun of Darkstalker on this channel, I don't actually hold some insane grudge against him at all. I harbor a lot of resentment towards how the fandom tends to treat him, But I think Darkstalker himself is probably the best written villain in WoF. (It's either him or Queen Scarlet, but there's a few reasons I won't get into as to why I think comparing them is unfair.)

Onto the art! Redesigning Darkstalker was one of the more challenging things I've done on this blog, mostly because I already really like his canon design and I feel like there are a lot of good takes out there too. Nonetheless, I make my attempt. The red/blue contrast from his cover art is definitely what I like the most about his general design, and I wanted to try and emulate this as best as possible - especially because I often see him redesigned on a solid red or blue background (which is fine, but inconvenient because it kind of pitfalls Darkstalker into a world where he only looks good in red lighting.) Anyways, I took the red/blue pallet from his cover art and slapped it right onto his scales. Problem solved!

As for the patterns themselves, I was going for a stained-glass type of look: even though religion isn't particularly relevant in Darkstalker's story, I still think it's interesting to try and illustrate how he views himself as superior/almost 'godly' in comparison to other characters. I wanted to carry that theme onto his wings, but ended up deciding with a simpler starry pattern because the design was already super detailed. Everything else kind of speaks for itself... his ribs are more pronounced because of his time under the mountain, and he has longer claws/spikes as a result of the icewing genes. Don't ask me where those white icewing spikes went.... I think they grew legs and walked away... (Real talk, I've just always preferred blue hybrid darkstalker over white hybrid darkstalker. I think the contrast is nicer)

As always, thank you so much for reading down this far! I'm glad you made it! My inbox is as open as ever, and you can find all of my other redesigns through my pinned post which has them linked! My Discord server is right here, for anyone looking to chat/draw/enter in my art contest!

later (o´∀`o)

[serve-cunt]

|˶˙ᵕ˙ )ﾉﾞ 60.Truth Serum/spell or 4.mind reading for the prompt game

thank you for not giving me a pairing for this, v low stress prompt I just let it sit until inspiration struck.. the inspiration in question?? listened to Sue Me by audrey hobert until my brain melted

— —

sue me I want to be wanted (galex, truth serum)

It’s a bad idea, but it's been a bad weekend and Alex is sick of being careful. George is across the room at the bar, squinting at a bill. Alex thinks fuck it and makes his way over.

Halfway there somebody he’s pretty sure he recognizes hands him one of the two drinks she's holding, clinking her own glass to Alex's and shouting something Alex can't hear over the music. “Thanks,” Alex shouts back, hoping that it’s appropriate or, alternatively, inaudible, and shoots it back in one swallow. Then he hands the glass back empty, claps her on the shoulder, and keeps walking. 

“Hi Georgie,” he says directly into George's ear when he's behind him. George jumps, and his signature skids off the receipt slip with his pen. “Saw you and realized I didn't want to talk to anybody else.”

It isn’t what Alex had been planning to say; he hadn't worked out what exactly he was going to say but he'd been leaning towards something more casual. He and George haven't spoken properly since—well, in a while. George doesn't respond immediately, his eyes skittering over Alex’s face. “Well,” he says finally, “Here I am.” 

“Heading out?” Alex asks, nodding at the bill.

George hesitates. “No,” he says, and Alex laughs. Trust George to pay for his round immediately instead of starting a tab and forgetting his card at the bar when he left like a normal person. 

“You look good tonight, George.” Huh. Also not what he had been planning to say. He had been going to make fun of George's outfit: grey and unadorned. The outfit, unfortunately, does look very good. Alex is more drunk than he thought. 

George's hand goes spasmodically to his collar, then to his drink. His fingers are long; they wrap around the glass and George takes a sip, glancing at Alex and then away. Alex smiles. Sometimes when he's sober he feels badly about this: how much he likes being wanted by George. How easily he can soak this up—this, what can he even call it? attention? affection?—without intending to let it go any further. 

“Where's Lily?” George asks, and Alex answers breezily: “She left. We had a row, actually, I think it might have been a bad one.” Then he blinks. He really hadn't intended to say that. God. He must be loads more drunk than he thought. But he didn't feel it; he was still walking. Felt clear-headed. Didn't need to be sick, et cetera. 

George frowns. “Why are you still here, mate? Go talk to her.”

“Need the ego boost,” Alex says. “I figure if you’re still giving me fuck-me eyes I can't be a total troll.” 

What the fuck. George goes bright red, visible even in the dim light. Alex has a moment of panic. They've never, ever talked about it. Alex doesn't care that George is gay. He's flattered that George has—whatever, a crush on him, or something. He knows that he shouldn't let it go too far—probably shouldn't let George jerk him off anymore, for example. One time was probably too many times, to be honest. Three times would be inexcusable. 

“Sorry,” Alex says, stupidly, and tries to think how to rescue the situation. “It's okay that you're in love with me, or whatever. I like it. It makes me feel good.”

Alex needs to shut up, what the fucking fuck, what the fuck is wrong with him? He puts his hand over his mouth, and laughs a panicked laugh. “I didn't mean to say that,” he says. “God, I’m sorry—I don't know what's wrong with me—George—”

But George has put his drink down on the bar with a clatter and turned away. He heads for the door, head down and shoulders tight. Alex looks after him, heart pounding. The drink he’d been handed a few minutes ago is still coating his throat, sickly sweet and medicinal, unlike anything he's ever tasted before. 

[wlwsoccerfics]

My mommies are Princesses! (EllieCarpenterXDaniëllevandeDonk)

A/N: small Fic One of Like 5 in Honor of making it to 400 followers.

Summary: your mommies got married and you Tell your Friends all about it during a Play Date at the park.

"my Mommy saw pictures of your mommies looking like Princesses!" Your friend Frida said. Sitting in the Playhouse with you. You and your Friends had a Play Date at the park. Playing at the Playground.

"my Mommy and my Daddy saw it as well." Your friend Liam informed you.

"my mommies got married! That's why they looked like Princesses!" You explained. You were only four years old but always had alot to say.

"so was it princess themed?" Your friend Riya asked.

"No. They just looked like Princesses. My mommies are just so pretty!" You explained to them. Smiling softly. You were really proud of your mommies. For many different reasons.

"what was the wedding like?" Frida wanted to know.

"it was magical! But there were no unicorns. So that was a bit disappointing." You let them know. Sighing softly to yourself. Like unicorns were serious Business for you. You had a unicorn themed room even.

"unicorns would have been fun!" Riya answered.

"true. but we had lots of food and most of my aunties were there! We are moving to England soon for my mommies to Play football! So it was a big get together." You explained.

"i Love food!" Liam announced. "But gonna miss you when you move." He quickly added.

"i promise i will visit. My mommies already said it's okay!" You let them know.

At Dinner the same day you looked at your Mama(Ellie) and then at your Mommy(Daan).

"Mama? Mommy? Why weren't there any unicorns at your wedding?" You asked, looking all serious. Your mommies both were kind of caught of guard.

"uh, Babe...why didn't we have unicorns at the Wedding? Cause that would have been fantastic!" Your Mommy stated and looked at your Mama. Your Mama gave your Mommy a weird look and playfully rolled her eyes before looking at you.

"unfortunately all the unicorns were busy." Your mama explained.

"busy? Busy with what?" You wanted to know.

"they had to bring Magic to people that aren't as lucky as us!" She told you. You nodded your head softly. Cause that made alot of Sense to you.

"nice save!" Your Mommy whispered out and looked at your Mama. Making sure you didn't hear it.

"thank you!" Your Mama whispered back. Which you also didn't notice cause you currently were munching on a piece of Broccoli. You loved Broccoli.

"that makes a lot of sense!" You admitted. "I hope the unicorns made Lots of people Happy! Especially Kids without parents or mean parents. Cause every Kid deserves amazing mommies and daddies. Just not my mommies . But Mommy & Mama? I wouldn't mind a sibling."you informed them. Your Mama was laughing softly.

"why thanks for letting us know! We will keep that in mind!" Your Mommy said and joined in on the laugh.

For your future Wedding you would love a unicorn though. So you could ask it for a sibling. The unicorn didn't Show Up any time soon but to your pleasent surprise two years later you became a big sister to a Baby Brother. Which you helped name. His Name was Lio.

[2000sangel]

What about tenna losing power during a thunderstorm? Or maybe being in pain from a severe power surge? I mean, it’s not like he has the modern conveniences built in of surge protectors, and it’s probably pretty scary to suddenly turn off/“faint” with no warning! Even if nothing happens, I imagine this would make tenna pretty scared of storms… a little comfort would go a long way I’m sure 💖💖💖💖

-✨

Hellow!! This was a very fun idea that I decided to make HCs for: I slightly tweaked the prompt though, and made it into general thunderstorm comfort HCs...power surges usually impact electronics quite badly and I have another request for something similar to the other idea you provided, sooo...winks, keep your eyes on my blog for updates °_^

And enjoy!! <3

P.S. - does anyone recognize this image that I used...? Eheh...

Tenna x Reader - Thunderstorm Comfort Headcanons

>It takes you a little by surprise when one stormy day, upon deciding to visit the Dark World, you find Tenna more nervous than usual; at the beginning he simply tries to brush it off, but as the storm picks up he becomes visibly more and more agitated until you finally connect the dots: Tenna is…afraid of thunderstorms, and not for stupid reasons! His Light World counterpart could very easily get damaged during one, and you actually recall it happening and having to call an electronics technician for repairs.

>You suggest willingly putting things on hold whenever a very heavy storm happens, it’s not like you really mind if he takes some time off, and he actually thanks you for this and ends up accepting your idea later down the line.

>This however doesn’t completely solve the issue; his shows might be under control, but he isn’t. He’s on edge the entire time, you can see it even though he tries to act like his usual eccentric self. So you bring up the idea of activities that only require a low amount of energy and to do them together, for example thinking up TV Time themes or playing board games.

>Tenna sounds immediately more excited upon hearing your ideas, and is glad that you’d be interested in helping with his show and just spending some chill time together; he’s a little flustered, even, that you’d consider doing all of this just to calm him down.

>Your visits end up becoming a must whenever the weather is even slightly bad, and over time Tenna becomes a little less jumpy whenever it happens. He stops worrying about what might happen so much and starts looking forward to the comfort of your presence instead; he even prepares everything himself when he notices the weather getting bad, hoping you show up every time. 

>When it eventually does happen that you don’t show up, an uneasy feeling settles in his chest until you can finally visit him and explain your reasoning: maybe you were outside, or maybe you got caught up in something or even in the storm itself, which is very understandable however it takes him a little while to shake the thoughts that you did it on purpose from his wicked head. 

>As he gets used to getting reassurance whenever you can’t physically be there for him, he eventually realizes that you’re not just going to up and leave, especially if something like a storm is going on. Storms actually kind of…help him in a sense: they help him build trust in your relationship, they help him take a much needed break once in a while…they help him connect better with you and with his subordinates, who secretly understand where his fear comes from and are willing to play those board games with him -he would never admit to the reason why he always suggests playing those during a storm, but it still makes for a fun time once in a while!-.

>You also change your habits a little back in the Light World, just for Tenna: whenever the forecast gives a storm warning, you hurry to shut off all of the lights and electronics in your house. More power and lives saved, you often joke with your friends when they ask you why you do it…! You also install surge protectors, as you guess that if something like that ever happened it’d be painful for Tenna. And then, if you don’t have anywhere extremely important to be, you warn everyone that you’ll be unavailable until the sky is clear again and run to your partner. 

[reginaphalangelobster]

Draw

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: Spencer asks you about your drawings.

Warnings: mentions of death, implied past domestic violence (reader), reader's mother died, a bit of pining.

Word Count: 2k

A/n: The moodboard is mine but the sketches are not, gorgeous though!

After every case you would pull out your little book. Whether it was to take notes about the day or write a shopping list, no one knew. You always kept to yourself and never really socialised, the team knew that and they left you be. All except Spencer. He knew what it felt like to be left out he'd never wish that on any of his friends, but especially not you. He often managed to be around, not talking your ear off or trying to get you to do something but just, around. He sat next to you in the car, stood close to you in briefings and worked with you whenever possible. You didn't think much of it, he was often being made fun of and even though it was by his friends, mostly Morgan, you could tell he didn't always find it funny. You didn't make fun of him, you barely spoke unless necessary but you never made fun of him and it was something he appreciated.

After most cases everyone would play cards or go to their own corners of the jet, you always opted for the latter. You'd sit there in silence and bring out the little pencil and notebook that you kept in your jacket pocket, always there, never moved unless you were using them. After a particularly rough case everyone was quiet, most listening to music or sleeping if they could. There you were, trusty pen and notebook in hand as per usual when you felt a presence beside you. No one ever sat next to you on the plane so of course the first person to do it would be Spencer. He didn't say anything at first. You tilted your notebook to the side a little, not to be rude but just because you liked your privacy. A hot commodity at the BAU.

The two of you sat there for a solid twenty minutes in complete silence before Spencer couldn't help but peak over your shoulder. He saw the soft lines your pencil made as your hand flicked back and forth forming a face.

"Are you drawing?" He asked, trying not to startle you with the sudden sound of his words.

"Yes" You whispered, subtly signalling him to lower his volume, of course, it didn't work but at least you tried.

"What are you drawing?"

"Not what, who"

"Okay, who are you drawing?"

"Lena"

He stopped and thought for a second "The fifth victim?"

"No. Lena, the seven year old girl who loved her cat and the colour orange"

"Oh" He said poignantly. Silence fell between the two of you again before Spencer spoke up.

"It's very good"

"Thank you"

He paused before asking his next question "Why are you drawing her?"

"I draw everyone"

"Everyone?"

"After each case, I draw every victim. Every hurt person, devastated parent and dead child"

Spencer went quiet again, thinking he'd struck a nerve. You could tell.

"I draw them because I remember them, I know what has happened to them. I saw their wounds and I found their bodies and they don't deserve to be remembered that way. So instead, I draw them happy, the way they should be remembered"

After a small silence passed Spencer looked at you again "That's very you, of you"

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing bad. It's just, I've seen you. You pretend to be all dark and mysterious and intimidating, and you are but, you're also very caring"

You scoffed "You're getting better at that humour thing"

"I'm serious. You see how much we all hate notifying the victim's families and you do it instead. You hold their hands and tell them that their daughter has been murdered and you comfort them every time. You pour yourself into every case and work yourself to the bone all while showing no emotions, never faltering. You don't just do it when we're on a case, you're always like that. You do the paperwork everyone dreads, you deal with administrators so Hotch doesn't have to, you pay attention to every little detail. Like when Morgan was talking about the first time he met Jordan, you remembered his coffee order and brought it in the next morning. You remembered that Jack had to be picked up from daycare an hour early and reminded Hotch. You told Kevin about an obscure collectable Garcia had been looking for so that he could give it to her as a present. You covered for Prentiss when she didn't want to talk to her mom. You helped Rossi with that case he could talk about and you never asked a single question. You broke, I'm guessing a lot, of laws when JJ was in labour and you were hours away. When I called you late one night and told you that my mom was sick you were in Vegas by the morning and you didn't even say a word, you just brought me a coffee and sat with me when I was scared. You're always there for everyone even if you won't say anything"

You looked down, letting his words sink in then you looked back up, smiling. It was small but it was still a smile nonetheless.

"Thank you Spencer. It means a lot to know that someone notices"

He looked at you fondly before looking back at the paper.

"So how many people have you drawn?"

You let out a half laugh at hearing the question "A lot"

"How many's a lot?"

"Hundreds, maybe thousands"

"Wow"

"I've been drawing people, not just people from cases, since before I started working at the BAU. I always have"

"How come? I mean, I know why you draw the people from each case but what got you started?"

"I don't know really, I've always drawn, since I was a kid. I think my mother taught me"

You looked down at the mention of her and Spencer's gaze followed. You never mentioned your mother before, or any of your family for that matter, but he knew she had died a long time ago.

"What was she like?" He asked carefully.

"I don't remember her much, I was only five when she died"

He avoided your gaze, he felt awful for drudging up the past that you had left behind, presumably for a reason.

"I do remember one thing though, her smile"

You flicked through your little sketchbook, the black leather cover was worn and greying. When you stopped on a page you stared at it for a second, your finger hovering over the paper, the edges torn and bent from being turned so many times.

"Here" You said just above a whisper as you presented the book to Spencer. He observed the drawings, pages upon pages of a woman's mouth smiling. So many of them looked the same but just a little different. The soft curve of her lips, the faint smile lines.

You began to speak again, so softly with an air of caution "She smiled all the time, I could tell when they were real, even at that age. I got used to the fake smiles, she taught me those too but the real ones, they were magical"

Your fingers brushed lightly against his as you turned the page. He felt your feather-light touch course through his body like lightning.

You showed him your sketches of random women, all smiling. They all looked different, your guesses at her appearance "I've often wondered about what she looked like, I drew these just to guess I suppose"

Spencer wasn't thinking about his words, just soaking in yours while he stared at the marks in lead "You have her smile"

You stopped and looked up at him, you looked into his eyes as they scanned the pages. He didn't think anything of his words but they were some of the kindest you'd ever heard.

"Thank you Spencer"

The sincerity in your tone was loud. The way your voice cracked for a split second, almost unnoticeable, but not to him. You had never been compared to your mother before, you had rarely been complimented in general but to hear that your smile was hers? It was truly the best thing you had ever heard.

Spencer looked back up at you and he saw your face. He saw the slight tremble in your bottom lip and your eyes, your beautiful eyes. He'd noticed them before, on many occasions actually, but never like this. The colour darkened, he wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't memorised every detail of your face. He wasn't sure at first but after looking closer he was certain, tears glossed over your eyes, tears. No one on the team had ever seen you anywhere near crying and here you were, on the brink of tears after he had said just four words.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean t-"

He was cut off by the gentle press of your lips to his. He was shocked, to put it plainly. He had harboured these feelings for you for so long and he was near certain that you didn't think twice about him. He barely had time to obsess in his mind over what this meant, did you love him back? Were you dating? Did this all mean nothing to you, just a thank you? before the kiss was over. You pulled back, ending the kiss as quickly as it began.

"Thank you Spencer"

You began turning the pages back to your drawing of Lena when a particular sketch caught Spencer's eye.

"I-Is that me?"

You blushed ever so slightly, you didn't think he was paying attention and you were just flicking pages quickly.

"Yeah"

"Can I see?"

"You're not gonna let me say "no" are you?"

"Not really"

You regretfully handed him back the book and he looked at the drawing of himself. Most of the others were just sketches, amazing ones but fairly quick, this one thought, of him, was a perfect capture of his likeness. He could tell you had spent hours on it.

"It looks like me"

"That was kind of the point"

"No, I mean, it looks perfectly like me. I can't believe you drew this"

"I-It's no big deal or anything, I've done the whole team. Doesn't mean anything" You said dismissively, trying to get your sketchbook back before he found that yes, you had drawn the others a few times but there were at least thirty sketches of him, in this book.

"Can I see those too?" Spencer asked as he tried to mask his disappointment. It was silly of him, to think he was special to you.

"Sure, just let me find them"

You took the book back and flipped the pages to reveal similar drawings of JJ, Hotch, Emily, Morgan, Rossi, Elle, Gideon and Garcia.

"Why do we ever hire sketch artists?"

You laughed lightly, the smile staying on your face.

"They're all...breathtaking. But why am I looking down?"

Spencer noticed the confused expression that spread across your face.

"Everyone else is looking straight ahead or off to the side a little, I'm the only one looking down. Why?"

"I can't draw your eyes"

"Are you kidding? JJ and Prentiss' eyes are gorgeous, they look so real"

"I can't draw your eyes"

"What's so different about mine?"

"Everything" The word slipped out of your mouth before you could catch it.

"What do you mean, everything?"

You decided you may as well answer him, there was no way you could get out of it now.

"Your eyes are so full. So full of you. Sadness, happiness, dorkiness. They turn a deeper, walnut kind of brown when you're sad or angry. When you get all excited about a fact you're telling us they have the slightest golden tint and shine. When you're happy, really happy, they practically glow. It's hard to draw that"

He stared at you, just stared.

Tags

@pinkthick @craftytacopiecash @meryuniverse @aliljaybird @macbaetwo @castielshunterwife @scarletluvsdanno @twentyonetornmyheart @neospacedoctor @destiel-1967-sammy @yigashimei @something0193 @ursamajor17 @colorfulavenuecollection @fairytailnerd1024-blog @daithideolishmer18 @am-i-the-villain-co @mameeta @bblessed @maximum-uwu @bbywonu @nepobabyg @horselovers2016 @muichirolover

[stygiansun-totaleclipse]

Hello??? Where are the horny asks??? Don't tell me you've succesfully tamed this fandom

Of course I have. Never underestimate me ☝️The new shock collars have been very successful in keeping all of you dogs at bay 🫵 (I say, as I am currently getting mauled).

(nsfw ask answered under the cut)

Kieran: sensitive along the scalp; pulling their hair is sure to make them groan and turn their eyes dark and glazed over. They prefer a more romantic setting—sincere expressions of devotion will get you far; they like knowing their feelings are requited. They’re a hopeless romantic. But they also like the build up foreplay/impassioned tension brings, so an argument is a great set up to get them right where you want them 👍😏 They are also veeeery sensitive along the bare skin of their lower stomach—touching there would have them biting back a moan/whimper to their own embarrassment and would make them weak in the knees.

Nihm: they’d shiver if you trailed your fingers along their spine and would get weak if you pinned/cornered them from behind. Gotta be careful with them bc if you come on too strong too fast their soul is gonna leave their body and leave them just a gibbering mess or incapable of speech entirely. So. You know. Maybe leave that until after you’ve gently coaxed them into very stiffly following you to bed like a little penguin. Which you can do by being forward with your intentions (they’re very oblivious) and also being a gentleman/woman/person. Kiss the back of their hand like a prince/ss/ps would. :3 Anything with the hands, really. They are most vulnerable with their hands so being very sweet/gentle with their hands would give them butterflies. 🦋

Lilith/Lucien: I mean they’re a horndog so they’re pretty much always in the mood and will very easily get turned on by a LOT of things but if you wanted to get them aroused in like a flustered sort of way, you’d have to take them by surprise—so like i.e. a very cool and collected or gentle mc suddenly getting very dominant and backing them into a corner/forcing them into a more submissive role (pet play 👀), or like if they were having a more sentimental moment with mc on their lap or vice versa and they suddenly got aroused without meaning to. 😰 If they get aroused without meaning to, they’ll get very embarrassed and hide their face and hope to gods mc doesn’t notice their arousal. They also will get embarrassed by headpats and very sincerely given thanks/praise no matter what.

Samira: sensitive along the back of the neck—touching there would make her shiver; also carding your hands through her braids would make her weak in the knees/swoon. Also anything to do with her blood bond with mc—if she lets you you can literally use that to MAKE her physically turned on or feel your own arousal, among other things. Very versatile. 😳 Post relationship (after much time), she’ll get a bit devilish if mc expresses interest in something very kinky spoilery >:3

Aurynn: very difficult to arouse pre relationship; he’s used to a fine degree of control over his own arousal and will only get turned on if he wills it. Post relationship, he still has that control but can still play along with more fun/kinky stuff for sure and will initiate it/abuse MCs turn ons when he is reeeeeaaaaally in the mood to get railed, but if you want to make him just melt and be at his knees despite himself, he’ll be weak for body worship and declarations of love/devotion and just a hopeless romantic of an mc who reassures him when he gets insecure.

Parim: doesn’t get super easily turned on—it takes him time to build up to that. Foreplay 👍 But if you wanted to speed things up you’d probably really have to throw yourself at him. Just straight up can’t-wait-any-longer-get-your-clothes-off-now desperate type of horny. Which would be difficult for him to handle at first cuz woah this is a lot but if you take over and start kissing his stomach then yeah. Ok. 😳

Aurora: depends on the day—she’s aspec and her sexuality fluctuates so some days she is entirely impossible to turn on, tho don’t think she doesn’t know exactly what you’re trying to do. Other days, your efforts to trail your fingers over her bare shoulders and around to the back of her neck will work and she’ll catch your naughty little hands and now the punishment begins 👍 >:3

Castor: Also difficult to arouse. Don’t try anything in public cuz he’s not into pda and greatly prefers privacy for intimacy. If you really want to get him riled up, get into an impassioned argument and then flip things into being tense in a different way—either by shoving him into the wall or goading him into backing you into one to set up the position ☝️—and then get sentimental on him :3 ❤️💕 youre mad bc you love him 💕💕🥺

Ember: pretty easy to get him in the mood; you can just start suggestively teasing him by touching him or yourself, or talking dirty or just bluntly telling him etc. They prefer straightforwardness to subtlety and might miss some hints, so they’d prefer not to dance around the topic. If you’re trying to fluster or torture them, you can be mean and toy with them by getting them riled up and then playing the innocent card like you thought you two were just having innocent fun teasing and wdym, why would anything you just said have a double meaning?? Explain. You don’t get it. :3 ☺️💕❤️

[nicheshameless]

Niche Shameless: Intro Post

The goal of this account is to share and promote the parts of Shameless US fandom that tend to get less love and focus. Both by hosting events and reblogging creations (art, fic, vids, gifs sets, meta, crafts, etc.).

I want to encourage people to create more things about the niche aspects of Shameless. And, in return, to make those creations easier to find so we can support creators with reblogs, likes, kudos, and comments.

As a bonus, I'm hoping this account makes it easier for followers to find others who love the same character, pairing, sibling duo, etc. There's nothing better than finding people with the same obsession so we can hype each other up!

What do you mean by "niche"?

Currently, that means everything other than Ian/Mickey* as a pairing.

There's a great variety of events in the fandom, but all of them are focused exclusively on Ian/Mickey. It's similar when you look at the fics posted under the Shameless US fandom on AO3: 91.9% are tagged with Ian/Mickey (yes, I did the math).

So, as a result, the "niche" side of fandom becomes everything else. I wanted a place to talk about those aspects of the show where they wouldn't get drowned out.

*This account will still have some Ian and Mickey, but the goal is to focus on them as characters (not as a couple), and on their other relationships. Those relationships can be sexual, romantic, or platonic. They can be canon or not. So if you have fanart you've been dying to share for Mickey/OC Mexican boyfriend, that's welcome here!

Can you give me some examples?

A non-exhaustive list of "niche" topics:

Gen (as in: not focused on a sexual or romantic relationship)

Friendships

Mentor & mentee

Familial relationships (found family included)

Canon ships

Non-canonical ships

Plot-focused works

other? Maybe you really love that rooster mug from the Gallagher's kitchen and want to make a gif set about it? (To be fair, it is very cute.)

Wait, so no Gallavich?

Not here, sorry.

But there's tons of fun events specifically for the pairing sprinkled throughout the year. @gallavichthings has a calendar up in their pinned post for easy access.

And on AO3, there's currently over 18000 fics for the pairing. If that's what you're looking for, there's plenty to enjoy. (Don't forget to leave kudos and a comment!)

I have more questions / something wasn't clear.

If you have questions: great! The ask box is open. Also, I'll try to put together a FAQ in the next week or so.

If anything was unclear, please let me know and I'll see if I can clarify in my answer and/or edit this post to make it easier to understand. Small disclaimer: English isn't my first language. If anything is unclear, or if I use run-on sentences, I'm sorry. I re-read this post at least a dozen times, but grammar was never my strong suit. I'd love if anyone else wanted to contribute to the admin of the blog, even if it's just beta-reading my posts so they're clear to English speakers.

💙 🐓 🥱

If you've read this far, thank you. Here's a cute photo of sleepy-morning-toussled Kev and that rooster mug as a reward.

[yandere-sins]

As the person who is the most yandere writer to ever yandere, may I humbly ask the following? How the different kind of yanderes react to darling cheating on them? (While they're still in a normal relationship and she doesnt know they are yandere yet. Tho i think for at least one of these possibilities, her cheating is what turns them into a yandere iykwim) I'm talking pathetic ones who forgive, freaks who get turned on, those who get physical etc...

I am not deserving of such honorable titles, but thank you for requesting! :D

I'm going to do the regular types, not the advanced ones, hope you don't mind! I also put some stereotypes below each type!

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

❥ Obsessive Yandere, who sees you leave that other person's house with a mix of heartbreak and jealousy while still adoring you intensely. You are positively glowing, happy, and satisfied after your one-night stand, but they can't feel as happy for you as they want. Not when it wasn't them you spent the night with. Obsessives want you to be happy—with them. They want you to have fun and do things that delight you—with them. They want to do these things to you! They are so incredibly jealous that anyone else got to touch you in ways they've been imagining for months. That someone got to make you scream and moan when it's all they ever wanted to hear from your mouth. That they got to kiss your lips, caress your skin, and fill you with pleasure—all things they've wanted to do for you!

❥ Yet, obsessives can't help but climb through your window once you come home and steal your clothes while you're showering. They smell like you, happy, sweaty, aroused. The stench of another person is almost unbearable. Yet, they keep smelling you while they get themselves off to the scent, wishing it was their own smell that stuck to your clothes. They'd never wash themselves again if they got to do what you did to a stranger last night! They would give you all you want and more, but you don't even know they exist. They are just a yandere who cums on top of your bed while you are showering peacefully, unaware that they are in your room, getting off to your stinky clothes like the pathetic dog they are. And in their foggy, orgasm-ridden mind, they think it's a good idea to wait under your bed for you to go to sleep that night so they can crawl out and show you just how good of a choice they'd be the next time you need to take the edge off.

Pathetic Yandere, Stalkers, Fans, Your new co-worker, ...

❥ Possessive Yandere, who are absolutely furious. Have they not done everything for you? Been at your beck and call for every shit you needed, and yet, you chose someone else to satisfy your sexual needs? Have you lost your mind?! Sure, you look happy, but your yan can't really find it in them to be happy for you. They annoy you with questions about who it was, how it was, and what you did until you roll your eyes and slam a door in their face to get some privacy from their invasive questioning. It should have been them, they decide, chewing their nails as they stand in front of your room's door. They should have had the privilege to be with you that night, make you scream their name through ecstatic moans, and have you swear your complete and utter devotion to them, just like they would have, you two finally belonging together both body and mind.

❥ But instead, they have to put their feelings into something else. Something soft and squishy once they beat up that asshole that dared take you home last night. Something like that bastard's face. Possessives don't care how bloody they get unless it is your blood, so there's no stopping them from thoroughly beating up the poor person who got to taste and enjoy you before they did. They put their hands on what belonged to the yandere—so they get to pay the price. Depending on how angry they are, they might even come back to you with a little price that reads like a threat. A finger or a head that they throw at your feet, they themselves completely covered in blood as they warn you to be careful who you choose next time and that it better be the yandere to fulfill your fucking needs. You get your cheeks squeezed by bloody hands, their kiss rough and brisk before they leave to go shower, hoping you learned your damn lesson while they leave you behind nauseous.

Bullies, Mafia, Bosses, Roommates, Spoiled Nobles, ...

❥ Manipulative Yandere, who knows where you've been last night. Who is waiting for you to approach them, stumbling over your own words as you try to make excuses, knowing fully well they disapprove. But they just shrug, telling you to do what you want, but underneath their breath, they mutter that you're a slut. They keep making small remarks to you over the day to chip away at your self-worth and confidence. No hunger? Obviously, considering you were busy getting filled up last night. Your bones popping when you stretch? You should really start stretching after sex, or your muscles might shrivel up as much as your brain that said it was a good idea to get down and dirty with some stranger. Maybe you should ask for money next time to get some operation to be a better whore?

❥ Sentences like those and other attacks about your body and intelligence really take out the fun of the last night. The yan won't be surprised if they wait a set amount of time before "accidentally" stumbling over you crying. You, a blubbering mess, telling them how mean they are and how bad you feel, makes them smile internally. They'll kneel down and shush you, hugging you even though you aren't comfortable with it, telling you it's okay and your feelings are valid. They'll admit they might have overdone it but that they were just so hurt that you'd not tell them the truth and not come to them before doing something so stupid. You could have died, meeting up with that stranger, damnit! Or gotten an STI or other diseases! What if they were some creep that would now stalk or hurt you? (Ironic, I know.) A manipulative yan will give you the comfort you need after a whole day ruined by their own comments while also showing you that they "care". You'll think twice about betraying them again, won't you?

Therapists, Someone you idolize, Step-parent, Doctor, ...

❥ Delusional Yandere who just doesn't believe you. You could be standing in front of them, rubbing in how great the sex was last night, and they'd still be staring at you with wide, doe eyes, not knowing what to say. They might even tear up when you insist, cupping their hands over their ears and telling you to stop and that it isn't true. That the you they know would never do such... impure and disgusting things. Maybe you were kidnapped and forced, or it was all a dream, but this didn't happen! You love the yan! You love them so much, you'd never do that! Your love is the reason why you kept asking about how they were and hung out with them when nobody else did! You're a pure, beautiful, unreachable angel that no one can defile in their eyes. Human sins are beneath you as you have the biggest heart and most beautiful personality.

❥ You two are meant for each other! No one but the yandere should put their hands on you, so what could that all mean? Were you unsatisfied with your relationship? Do you want more? Is that what you're trying to tell the delusional? They want that too... to be one with you, to love you with all their might. Maybe it really is time to progress in your relationship. They come to this conclusion all on their own while you talk to them about your hook-up, suddenly speaking up to invite you to their home that afternoon. The yan had never invited you before, so sure, why not? And they smile ear to ear, happily, taking this as you agreeing to take the next step before they tell you they have to prepare some things before you come over and bounce off. There are lots of tools and equipment to buy, new sheets, ropes, cup noodles, blindfolds, a toothbrush for you, a pretty gag, and so much more! Finally moving in together is so exciting!

Childhood best friend, The loner/weird person, Someone who idolizes you, ...

❥ Protective Yandere just goes silent as you fess up what you did last night. They are so quiet and still it really concerns you, so you reach out to them, only for the yan to slap away your hand. They have never pushed you away before, nor have they hurt you either. They've always been so good to you, kind and helpful, always there when you needed them. Now, you can't even read their expression, their face completely blank as they process what you did. After all they sacrificed for you, how they protected and cared for you... you go and betray them like this? Is this how it will always be? Are they just a second choice to you? Isn't it their task to keep you comfortable? To provide? To love you? Why would you look for it with anyone else? Let anyone put their dirty hands on you and put you in danger without the yan there to protect you from?

❥ They apologize for lashing out before getting up, needing to get away from you for a moment and sort their thoughts. What did they do wrong? Why did you do that? What is happening? Why does it hurt so much? And most importantly, what now? They obviously can't trust you to make your own decisions. You have terrible judgment. And they can't trust anyone else either, not your friends (that they never liked) because they left you with some stranger or society who'd take advantage of your naivety and impulsive desires. If they can't let you go without you doing something so stupid... then you can't leave at all. They need to take better care; they let you down once already. It's the yan's whole life purpose to protect you, and they can do that best when keeping you locked up and safe from outside curiosities that would attract such a fragile being like you. You need them, and they promise not to repeat their own mistake and fail you again.

Bodyguards, Soldiers, Your benefactor, any kind of platonic yandere, Someone who feels indebted to you, ...

[flm-linkedfissures]

hi hi hi hi i hope ur days been good!!! So I wanted to know if u’re ok with voice overs being done on ur comic? I saw someone on TikTok doing so and wondered if u were okay with that (and if so, i also plan to do a little voice over for fun and i’ll probably keep that to myself) i also LOVE ur work like the way u draw is immaculate hello???

Went on TikTok to look for the voice over you were talking about to find that, I’m assuming we are talking about the same vid bc it’s teh only one I found, it was voiced over by ai which I do NAWWTTT ❌❌❌❌ fw at all !!! I left a comment to please delete it so I hope that’ll be enough but I am saying this here now, do not get my content even close to artificial intelligence ever, yeah? I’m not talking to anyone specifically here, I want this to b know by everyone!

I do NOT mind voice overs ! I think that is really fun and I’d be honored, I just want to be asked for permission first, credited correctly and I don’t want it to be ai 🙂‍↕️

Thank you for the kind words and feel free to share anything you end up doing if you want ;) can be in private too if you want , but all cool of no , smilesss