#instead of like a little notebook and pen

[lush-escape]

The Vigilante's Guide to Grief

wc: 1.6k a/n: I listened to the kpop demon hunters soundtrack while writing this. Soda Pop has me in it's CLUTCHES. Bruce is a softie in this chapter bc me and my daddy issues say so. Also Christy? She's my irl therapist and we LOVE her here okay? prev: denial next: bargaining

Stage three: Anger

Jason sat on the couch, his worn journal in his hands. Despite only being written in a few times he continuously toyed with the edges of the paper - fraying them. He stares out the window, his mind a jumbled mess. He just got off the phone with Bruce and now he was in a worse mood than when he had woken up.

hi I miss you

it's the 17th. B just called. Wish you could've been here to hear it. Think he was guilt tripping me. Told me it's been almost a month since I've been to the manor. What does it even matter?

Jason pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.

I can't. Feels like it gets harder every time I go over there. Yeah it's been a few months since

Between the call with Bruce and remembering your death, your funeral, the tombstone Bruce had placed for you in the family cemetery on the manor grounds Jason was at the end of his rope for the day. 

“Fuck!” 

It's loud, angry. Something that would have made you jump - he hates himself for it. His notebook flies across the room and smacks against the wall. His pen is broken in half. As he stands from the couch he pushes the coffee table out of the way with his foot, hitting the tv stand knocking over a picture frame.

The sound of broken glass makes Jason stop. It's like his heart is breaking all over again. It hurts. He feels his heart skip a painful beat, he feels his breath catch in his throat.

“Stop it!” You yell at him from the bedroom door.

It had started as such a stupid argument. So many little things during that day that resulted in heightened frustration between the two of you. 

“Don't tell me to stop. I didn't fucking do anything.” Jason snaps at you and you stare at him in disbelief for a split second before your expression turns hurt.

Jason knew he had some anger issues he needed to work on and he hated that he was taking it out on you even if it was subconscious. He hated himself for it.

“You're in here slamming stuff for no reason!” You shoot back when he tells you he hasn't done anything.

“Oh, boo-hoo.” Jason grumbles as he rolls his eyes. He can't stand the way he's treating you but he can't stop it.

“Jesus Christ, I can't have sunshine comin' outta my ass every second of the day for you. Fuck, you're so sensitive sometimes, you know that?”

You stop.

Jason stops.

Your disappointed scowl falters and your lips pull downward into a trembling frown. You've both said worse to each other before, more scathing biting insults. There was just something about this time that hurt.

Jason sees the way your eyes turn glassy with tears and the way you begin to frown. That's all it takes for all of his anger and frustration to completely melt away. He rubs his hand down his face and sighs.

“Baby, I'm sorry-”

You shake your head to stop him. You know that if you try to talk now you'll end up crying.

“No, no, please. Baby,” he takes a step forward and you take one back, making him stop in his tracks. He stares at you like you just burned him. With his mouth parted he watches as you turn and close the bedroom door behind you. It only takes him a second to register what happened.

He doesn't try to open the door knowing that if it was locked he might as well just rip his heart out of his chest and let you physically step on it in front of him. Instead he stands in front of the door with one tentative hand on the handle.

“Baby, please. I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. You know I didn't mean it. I'm sorry for being such an asshole.” He begs for your forgiveness through the door.

You stay silent. You know you need space, he knows you need space but he also has a codependency issue that makes it hard for him to stay away from you.

Jason's not sure if minutes or hours pass by. All he knows is his back hurts and his legs are stiff from sitting on the hardwood floor with his back to the door. Waiting silently for you to come out. Silently listening to you sniffle and cry, dying a little bit more inside knowing he can't do anything to comfort you yet.

But eventually you do. Slowly and quietly you open the door. You sniffle quietly and if you weren't still upset with a headache from crying you would've laughed at how ridiculous Jason looks as he scrambles to his feet.

“Hey,” your voice is hoarse and raspy from your much needed crying session.

“God, baby, I'm so sorry.” Jason whispers. He's on you immediately. Big strong arms wrap you in a warm hug. Jason sighs audibly in relief. He buries his face into the top of your head, eyes closing as he breathes you in. Your nose presses into his chest and you let him hug you, too tired to reciprocate just yet - wanting to soak in his warmth.

He repeats a flurry of “I'm sorry” and “I didn't mean it” against you. You can feel the way his heart thuds in his chest and you can feel your bottom lip tremble again. You squeeze your eyes shut.

“You're perfect. You're not too sensitive. I mean- okay. You are. But it's not a bad thing. I love that about you. I love you. I love you so fucking much, I'm so sorry. Please I'll do anything-” He was panicking because even though you've fought and argued before - as any couple does - he's never made you cry.

“I let my anger get the better of me, I should have never-”

“It's okay…” You interrupt him and turn your head to the side to rest your cheek against him, your ear against his heart. 

“No, it's not.” He kisses the top of your head.

You're quiet again, “Okay.. it's not… but we both weren't being the best. I'm sorry, too.”

“Don't apologize. Ever. You could shoot me and I'd never want you to apologize.”

Jason remembers how downright scared you looked that night when he slammed the kitchen drawer shut. He hates himself all over again. He walks over to the notebook and picks it up.

“Sorry…” he mutters. He's not sure if he's saying it absentmindedly to the notebook, himself, or you. Either way he exhales roughly and sits back on the couch. He looks over his journal entry and slowly gets back to it.

It's been a few months since I've been there. It's harder now with your headstone there. I wasn't at my best when Bruce had it put in. I was angry. You would have hated it. You were never afraid tho just gave me that damn disappointed look. That hurt more than anything. I <u>hated</u> that. I deserved it though I was such an asshole when I was mad

“What the fuck is that?” Jason asks as he stares out the floor to ceiling window. It's such a small thing, your tombstone being added to the family plot. But Jason notices immediately as he walks by, the way the number grew overnight.

“Hm?” Bruce hums as he positions himself near Jason.

“I said, what the fuck is that?” Jason's voice is laced with venom at this point.

Bruce finally inhales and opens his mouth to answer.

“Without my permission?” Jason asks with quiet outrage.

“I didn't know I needed your permission.” Bruce says quietly but firmly.

“Not even a warning?”

“She was part of the family-”

“Oh don't give me that shit!” Jason turns to Bruce with a look that could kill. “You didn't even ask! She didn't want to be buried, didn't want a headstone! That's why I put her in a fucking urn.”

Bruce is silent. Perhaps he was in the wrong on this one, he thought.

“What's it say, huh? Who'd you put her by?” Jason's breathing was ragged. He knew he was overreacting, deep down he knew, but with something so big to memorialize you - it made it all the more real to Jason.

“Al-” Bruce begins to answer but Jason cuts him off. He's crying. It's the first time he's cried in days but there's a small part of him that feels safe, comfortable, doing it in front of Bruce.

“Don't. Fucking don't-” Jason's voice cracks as he pushes Bruce's shoulder. “You shouldn't have-” He points a finger at Bruce. “She didn't fucking want-” Jason's crying now. Fat tears stream down his face, his eyes tired and heavy and red.

“Come here,” is all Bruce says softly, offering an open shoulder to Jason.

He stands defiantly for a second before his resolve finally crumbles. With a shaking sob he pulls Bruce into a bruising hug and cries into his shoulder.

“I'm so sorry,” Bruce murmurs as he hugs his son.

“S’not fair,” Jason cries.

Christy says I'm doing better with managing my anger. I tried so hard for you. To be better. I'm so fucking sorry I didn't do it sooner. Or try harder. I think you would be proud of me. You always said you were but this time I know you would be

Jason wipes at a tear in the corner of his eye. He mumbles a curse under his breath and grabs his phone from his pocket. He can feel his emotions beginning to overwhelm him, he sees the warning signs now and knows how to cope. 

Maybe therapy isn't as stupid as he thought, he thinks.

He sends a text to Dick asking to meet him at the gym.

taglist: @thy-crimson-king @vellichor01 @theendofthematerialgworl @tinasdcstuff @4rachn3 @cecebookworm

[yeokii]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄 ───── 𝝑𝝔 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐎𝐎

⪩⪨﹒각자의 염원이 바래고 𝟣𝟢ㅤ· 𝖲𝖢𝖤𝖭𝖤 " 𓈒𓏸 𝖮𝟣. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝒇. ͏ ❨ ��𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐊 ❩ daily !

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀''𝗴𝗼 𝗮𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗱, ──𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗮 𝗯𝗶𝘁𝗲 ''

【 𝐈𝐍𝐋𝓲𝐍𝐄 】 ⠀𝗯𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘁 ! nerdsun& fmr ﹒ᗢ﹒ 7OO wrds / fluff 善禹 ──── reader is a troublemaker! kissing + CREATOR'S BOARD liek&reblog!

𝖸𝖤𝖮𝖪𝖨𝖨'𝖲 𝖳𝖱𝖠𝖢𝖪𝖲 ── & happy sunoo day!!! next time I see him hes getting it

you were here for messing with the speakers during the school announcements. sunoo was here to watch over you while the teacher was in the next room marking a pile of tests.

all you could hear was the faint hum of the ceiling fan and the relentless taps of sunoo's pen against his notebook.

sunoo was sitting a few seats in front of you, his back hunched while his eyes darted to the questions in front of him.

this nerd was seriously doing a maths paper in detention, when he wasn't even in trouble. what a loser.

you thought.

a cute one─ kinda. your eyes gazed over him. his hair was fluffy and his uniform was neatly tucked in. you caught the little crease in his eyebrows as he read whatever was on the paper in front of him. somehow your eyes fell on his lips, pouty and kissable.

a sudden warmth fluttered in your chest. it was annoying and unfamiliar─ the kind that made your throat dry.

you would never like this loser, but why couldn't you take your eyes away from him?

"i can see you staring."

busted─ not that you cared.

"i can't look now?" you tilted your head as he turned his back to face you.

fuck, he looked even more handsome.

"not when you're drooling." his eyes darted at yours.

you laughed, "you're pretty full of yourself, huh?"

he ignored you, looking at the blank piece of paper that rested on your desk, untouched.

"at least try to do your work instead of gawking at someone."

you huffed, crossing your arms. "easy for you to say, i can't even understand this."

sunoo sighed, "you would if you paid attention. it's basic calculus."

can he stop shutting down your excuses?

you rolled your eyes, "okay einstein. help me then." you said, leaning forward.

sunoo blinked. without saying another word, he walked over to you and pulled out a chair, sitting in front of you.

he sat close enough to make your heart beat but not enough to see the heat rising in your cheeks. your eyes flickered down─ his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing his arms. you looked up, hoping he didn't see you gawking at him, but you couldn't help but notice how one button of his shirt was undone, his collarbone peeking out.

this was unfair.

sunoo's hand grazed over yours as he tried to take the pen from your hand and started jotting down some random question you weren't bothered enough to memorise.

you leaned your face against your palm, only looking at sunoo, not sparing a glance at the paper.

"you're not even looking." sunoo sighed, trying to hide his smile.

"i am looking." you said, a visible grin on your face. "at you."

he looked up, his breath hitched.

"has anyone told you you look really kissable?"

sunoo choked.

"wh─what?!"

you grinned, holding back your laugh. "you should learn how to take compliments." you were shamelessly looking at his lips, not caring that sunoo would catch you.

kim sunoo was blushing─ from his ears to his cheeks, everything was stained in a faint pink. "you can't say stuff like that."

"then, what can i say?" you looked back up, his eyes meeting yours. you leaned a little closer, trapped in his gaze. "what could i do?"

he didn't say anything. there was a prolonged silence between you two. but it didn't feel awkward. it felt anticipating. the silence was left unsaid. the feelings were ready to pour out, the words were at the tip of your tongue. yet you stayed still, and so did he.

sunoo leaned in, his eyes shifted. something in him shifted. and you noticed it. he pulled you into a kiss.

kim sunoo, the president of the student council, was kissing the infamous troublemaker.

and he didn't regret it one bit.

he didn't care about how his friends would tease him endlessly for how he was with the troublemaker. or how his nosy peers would whisper and stare. he didn't care how everybody would stare wide eyed at the golden boy sunoo falling for someone like you.

he wasn't afraid of the remarks, the stares. he wasn't afraid to take a bite.

his hand cupped your face, closing the gap between you even further as he lightly bit your lower lip.

it felt soft and careful. neither of you wanted to pull away. then so be it. you fell into his arms, sank into his warmth. his lips were on yours in a moment that felt like forever. and now you were his, a secret dear to his heart.

tags. @zuyairus @bubblytaetae @yenqa @voikiraz @miumura @haechansbbg @taejaysreads @shinunoga-iie-wa @teddywonss @naespas @isoobie @dimplewonie @jennaissantes @aishigrey @firstclassjaylee @rikislove @hynjinnnnnnnn

⠀⠀𝖺 𝗒𝖾𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗂 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽. do not copy, repost or translate my works

[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

[crimsonkenjii-writes]

Does anyone know a really good reminder/notes/timer app for adhd??? 😵‍💫😵‍💫

[megumismyhusband]

bakugo never meant to get this distracted. seriously. it wasn’t his fault.

it was yours.

because every damn time you sat in front of him, every time you rested your chin on your palm, every time you furrowed your brows while scribbling something in your notebook—he got stuck. like, full-on, brain-short-circuiting, totally-useless kind of stuck.

he should be paying attention. should be listening to aizawa’s lecture. should be taking notes instead of memorizing the way the sunlight caught in your hair or how your lips pursed when you were thinking.

but no. instead, he was sitting here, burning every little detail of you into his brain like some lovesick idiot. the curve of your nose, the way your fingers absentmindedly twirled your pen, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when it fell into your face.

he was so screwed.

“bakugo.”

his whole body stiffened. aizawa was staring at him, unimpressed.

“what?” he snapped, maybe a little too defensive.

“i asked you a question.” aizawa sighed. “maybe if you stopped zoning out, you’d know the answer.”

a few people chuckled, and bakugo’s face heated up—not because he was embarrassed, but because you turned your head just a little, just enough to glance at him.

for half a second, your eyes met his.

and fuck, that half-second nearly killed him.

then you turned back around, totally unaware of how wrecked he was, how his heart was still beating too damn fast, how his hand was gripping his pencil like it owed him money.

this was getting ridiculous.

[halfgirl-halfdolll]

They aren't themselves when you go on vacation.

It's sad, really. Almost pathetic.

Price wished you were under his command, so he could just order you to stay. You wouldn't have to worry about a thing, you wouldn't need to work at all, you'd just need to be there, with him and his men.

But no. Your job was created by a carefully crafted contract. There were clauses both him and you had to follow in order to have you keep your place as his lovely secretary and one of them was reassuring you'd take some weeks off on vacation.

So you had to leave. Leave their side, leave your quarters, leave them all in their lonesome without their pretty little bird to brighten their days. And it wasn't enough to leave the base temporarily, no. You just HAD to go on a trip, huh? You torture them so, doll.

It was hard to tell who took it the hardest. Price was grumpy, Johnny was sulking, Ghost was even moodier and Kyle was snappy. Each one enduring your absence in their own emotionally constipated way.

Sometimes they would raid your bedroom. It was easy. You had locked it before leaving, like a responsible good girl, but it's not like Johnny didn't know how to pick a lock in mere seconds (he's done it before time and time again when you were around just to explore your room, after all).

They'd look like a bunch of mutts feeling the scent of proper food for the first time as soon as they stepped inside your pretty room. Your smell, the ghost of your presence inundating their senses, made your absence just a little bit more bearable.

They stand out like a sore thumb between the purples and pinks and blues of your room, amongst the plushies and the faint clouds of lavender room spray.

Johnny rushes to your bed, plopping onto it unceremoniously and curling himself on his side with one of your plushies held tightly in his arms. It's a jarring sight – a tall, muscular man holding onto a black bunny as if he would die without it.

Simon snatches your blanket from under Johnny's legs and brings it to his face, inhaling your faint scent mixed with fabric softener as if he needed it instead of oxygen. He rubs the fleece plush on his face, feeling it caress his scars and his roughed skin.

Kyle runs to your desk, rummaging through the mess of stationery and notebooks, reverently touching your handwriting as if he could touch you through the disarray of notes and glittery pens. He revels in the little peeks of the depths of your mind with every little note he finds.

Price just chooses to stand in the middle of your room, basking in the atmosphere of your place; the remnants of your presence. He wishes he could will you into coming back sooner, before he or any of his men go mad. It definitely feels like it could happen at any given moment.

They're so fucking dramatic. Four gigantic velcro dogs you don't even know you own.

But how can you blame them? You are everything they never thought they could have. Peaceful, soft, tender, sweet. How can they keep themselves from being addicted to you, love? It's impossible.

It's why they hang by the thinnest thread when you have to leave.

Won't you come back, doll? Come on. Please?

[arkaiveofurown]

he overheard you saying you love him

Pairings: Sabo x Reader, Ace x Reader, Law x Reader, and Zoro x Reader

Word Count: ~1,000 - 2,000 words each character

tags: pre-relationship, fluff, confession

my masterlist here ♡

——-

Sabo

You weren’t sure when it had started.

Maybe during that first mission with Sabo—when he pulled you out of a collapsing tunnel with smoke in his lungs and soot in his hair. Or maybe it was the way he looked at you during meetings, when everyone else spoke over each other and his eyes quietly sought yours like they were the only steady thing in the room.

Regardless, you’d never told him.

Instead, you wrote letters. Quiet, aching, folded-up things in the corners of notebooks and between pages of Revolutionary Army maps. Pages filled with things you could never say aloud. Sometimes it was just a sentence. Sometimes full confessions. But you never gave them to him. You didn’t need to. Writing them was enough.

Tonight, the base was quiet. Outside, a soft breeze shifted through the trees, and the only sound in your room was the scratch of your pen.

You were curled up at your desk, writing again. Candlelight flickered beside you. You didn’t hear the knock. You didn’t notice the door creak open.

“Y/N?”

You jolted. “Koala—!”

She froze in the doorway. Her eyes dropped to the open page on your desk before you could hide it.

“Wait. What is that?”

“Nothing.” You slammed the notebook shut, your voice too sharp.

Koala blinked. Then her eyes narrowed.

“…That’s your handwriting.”

“So?”

She stepped in, shutting the door behind her. “So that was definitely Sabo’s name.”

You groaned. “Koala—please.”

She raised a brow. “Is that a letter to him?”

You turned away. “It’s not for him. I mean—it is, but—I wasn’t gonna give it to him.”

A beat of silence passed.

“…You’ve written more than one, haven’t you.”

You didn’t answer.

She came closer, her voice gentler now. “Y/N.”

Your shoulders dropped.

“It’s just… easier to write it than say it,” you whispered.

Koala sat on the edge of your bed. “You really like him, don’t you?”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah. I do.”

Your voice cracked a little when you said it. You didn’t even mean to. You covered your mouth, eyes burning suddenly with tears you hadn’t expected.

You hated this—how hard it was to hold it all in sometimes.

“I like him so much it hurts,” you confessed. “And he doesn’t even know.”

Another voice answered:

“Yes. I do.”

⸻

Your head whipped toward the door.

Sabo stood there, hand still on the knob. He looked as if he’d frozen in place. Behind him, the hall was dark—he’d come alone. No footsteps, no warning. Just his silhouette framed in low light.

You stared. “Sabo—?”

He stepped in slowly. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I came to return Koala’s map notes. I wasn’t—” He cut off, brow furrowed, and looked at you. “You really meant it?”

Your throat felt tight. “I—I didn’t know you were listening.”

“I was,” he said softly. “Every word.”

You turned to Koala, but she was already slipping out the door with a sheepish shrug. “Sorry!” she mouthed before vanishing.

Now it was just the two of you.

“I didn’t plan to say that,” you said, voice trembling. “I just… It’s been a long time. I’ve been trying to keep it in.”

Sabo’s steps were slow. Careful.

“How long?”

You couldn’t meet his eyes. “Since Baltigo.”

��That long?”

You nodded.

He moved closer. You felt him pause just beside you.

“…Why didn’t you tell me?”

You hesitated. “Because we’re in the middle of a war, Sabo. And you’re important. And brave. And reckless. And always getting yourself into danger—”

“That’s not a reason not to tell me.”

You looked at him then.

His eyes were soft. No teasing, no judgment. Just that same steady, thoughtful Sabo you’d always known—only now closer than he’d ever felt before.

“I was scared it would ruin everything,” you said quietly.

He gave a small, almost broken laugh. “I’ve been scared of that too.”

You blinked. “What?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve liked you for a long time, Y/N.”

You stared, stunned.

He gave a small, sheepish shrug. “I never wrote letters or anything, but… if I had, I probably would’ve filled a hundred pages by now.”

Your breath caught. “You really mean that?”

He looked away, ears turning red. “Yeah. Every word.”

A laugh broke from your lips—half disbelief, half relief. “You idiot.”

He looked back at you with a faint smirk. “Says the one who actually wrote letters.”

You let out a shaky laugh.

And suddenly it felt all real.

——

A few days later, Sabo knocked on your door. When you opened it, he was holding something out.

Your notebook.

“The one with the letters,” he said with a grin.

Your eyes widened. “Where did you—?!”

“I didn’t read them,” he promised. “I swear. But… if you want me to, I will.”

You stared.

Then you reached out—and flipped to the last page. Your handwriting was still there. The ink fresh. The one you’d been writing the night he overheard.

You tore it out, folded it neatly, and handed it to him.

He blinked. “Just this one?”

“For now.”

He looked at it like it was something precious. “Can I read it in front of you?”

You nodded.

He opened it slowly.

You watched his eyes move across the page—watched the flicker of a smile, the subtle shift of his expression. By the time he finished, he was quiet.

Then, carefully, he looked at you.

“Do you want a letter too?”

You blinked. “You’d write one?”

He leaned in, closer than ever before. “I’d write one every day.”

And when he kissed you, it felt like the answer to every unsent word you’d ever written.

——

Ace

It was a quiet afternoon on the Moby Dick. The sun hung lazily above the sea, casting golden warmth over the deck. Laughter echoed faintly from the other side of the ship, but Ace wasn’t with the others. He sat alone near the back, arms crossed over his knees, a troubled expression clouding his usually bright face.

He’d overheard a few new crewmates whispering—again.

“Roger’s son, huh? No wonder he’s so reckless.”

“I still don’t get why Whitebeard lets him wear the mark.”

Their voices replayed in his head, sharp as knives. No matter how far he came, how hard he fought, those words always lingered. Was he just his father’s shadow? Was he even supposed to exist?

You found yourself talking to Marco later as you leaned against the rail, eyes watching the horizon.

“You think Ace is okay?” you asked softly.

Marco raised a brow. “You’ve been watching him all day.”

You hesitated, then sighed. “He always looks like he’s trying to prove something. Like he doesn’t believe he’s enough. I just wish he’d let himself feel… loved.”

“You’re in love with him, huh?” Marco said with a smirk.

You didn’t even deny it.

“Yes. I love him.” Your voice dropped. You hadn’t noticed Ace was nearby—standing still behind the corner, frozen as the words sank in.

——

Ace kept tossing fire between his fingers like nothing happened, but his heartbeat wouldn’t slow down. She loves me? The words played over and over in his head.

He approached casually, as if he hadn’t just overheard something that shook him to his core.

“What are you two whispering about?” he asked, flopping down beside you, a teasing grin on his face.

You jumped a little. “Ace! Uh—nothing really. Just… talking.”

Marco snorted and walked off, giving you two space.

Ace tilted his head, pretending to look bored. “Sounded like something deep.”

You hesitated, then offered him a gentle look. “I just… worry about you sometimes.”

His smile faltered slightly. “You don’t have to.”

“But I do,” you insisted. “You’re always trying to be the strongest, the most reliable… You don’t need to carry it all alone.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes dropped to his hands.

“Sometimes I wonder if I should’ve been born at all,” he said quietly, voice barely audible over the waves.

Your heart clenched. “Ace…”

“I hear the things people say. About my father. About me. It never really stops.”

You touched his arm gently. “You’re not your father.”

He glanced up at you, eyes guarded.

“You’re you, Ace. I care about you because of who you are—not because of your name, and definitely not in spite of it.”

⸻

Ace couldn’t sleep that night. He paced the deck in the dark, wrestling with your words. He’d heard so many lies in his life. So many people who wanted something because of the blood in his veins—or wanted nothing to do with him because of it.

But your voice was different.

He found you in the galley, wrapping up a late-night snack. You turned, surprised.

“Ace? You okay?”

He looked… unsure. And for someone like Ace, that was rare.

“I heard what you said to Marco earlier,” he admitted, leaning against the doorway.

You froze, eyes wide. “You… you did?”

“Yeah.” He chuckled, but it was hollow. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Just… kinda happened.”

You shifted awkwardly. “Well… I meant it.”

He looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

“I’m not my father, Y/N. But sometimes I think people only ever see him when they look at me. Like I’m just waiting to become him.”

You walked up to him, eyes soft.

“You’re not him. You never will be.”

Ace stared at you, caught in the sincerity of your gaze.

“I love you,” you said, voice steady. “Not because you’re Gol D. Roger’s son. Not because you’re Whitebeard’s commander. But because you’re Ace. And that’s enough.”

Ace stared at you, his eyes flickering with something raw and real. Then he leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours.

“I love you, Y/N,” he breathed. “Not just because you see me… but because when you do, I finally feel like I deserve to be here.”

Your heart swelled as you wrapped your arms around him.

“You do, Ace. You always have.”

And for once, he let himself believe it.

——

Law

The Polar Tang was unusually quiet that evening, save for the hum of the ocean against the hull. You sat in the galley with Shachi and Penguin, half-listening to them banter while organizing mission notes. A familiar name drifted into the conversation.

“I’m just saying,” Shachi smirked, “if Captain has a secret admirer, it’s gotta be someone on board. Who else could handle that grump 24/7?”

“Yeah, right. Can you imagine anyone confessing to Law?” Penguin snorted.

Your hand froze over the page, heart thudding. You gave a weak chuckle, trying to stay casual.

“…I think he’s different than people think,” you said quietly.

The two fell silent, glancing at each other before looking back at you. “Different how?” Shachi asked.

You stared down at your notes, unsure why you were still speaking. “He’s cold sometimes, yeah, but there’s a reason. He’s… carrying a lot. But underneath that, he’s kind. Steady. I admire him. I love him, actually.”

You didn’t notice the door slightly ajar—or the shadow that had paused just outside. Law, on his way to the infirmary, heard every word. He didn’t move. Just stood there, stunned, your voice echoing quietly in his chest like a scalpel carving into old scar tissue.

——

Later that night, you found yourself sitting near the back of the ship, watching the stars shimmer through the porthole. You didn’t expect company—until his footsteps neared.

“Working late?” Law asked, standing behind you.

You turned, startled. “Oh. Hey. Yeah. Just… couldn’t sleep.”

He didn’t sit. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and added, “Neither could I.”

You nodded slowly. There was something unusual in his gaze—measured, intense. Like he was holding back words with every breath.

“I heard you,” he said bluntly. “In the galley.”

Your heart stopped. “What?”

He didn’t look away. “You said you loved me.”

The silence stretched long between you. Your breath caught in your throat.

“I didn’t mean for you to—”

“You meant it though,” Law interrupted. “Didn’t you?”

“…Yeah,” you whispered. “I did.”

He stepped forward. Just one step, but it felt like a line being crossed. His voice softened. “Why?”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Why me?” His tone was flat, but his eyes betrayed the storm behind them. “Why would anyone… love me?”

You swallowed hard. “You’re strong. Not just in power—emotionally. You always show up. You carry so much but never drop any of it. And you… you protect people. You saved me more than once, Law. You care, even when you act like you don’t.”

He looked away sharply.

“You don’t have to earn it,” you added quietly. “Love doesn’t work like that.”

His breath hitched.

Law didn’t answer for a long time. Then, quietly:

“You sound like him.”

You blinked. “Who?”

He sat down at last, elbows on his knees, eyes far away. “Corazon. He told me once, I didn’t need a reason to be loved. That someone could love me just because.”

“…He was right.”

Law’s hand twitched. “I hated hearing it back then. Thought it was a lie. After he died… I convinced myself I wasn’t meant for that kind of thing. Not after what I did to survive.”

You looked at him—truly looked. His jaw was tense, but his shoulders were slumped like someone carrying too many ghosts.

“Sengoku told me, after everything… that Corazon loved me like family. And I kept asking myself why. Why me? Why would he care so much? I’ve been so bad to him. Even now, I still don’t know.”

Law leaned back against the wall, head tilted up toward the ceiling.

“You know,” he said, “I used to think if I kept everything locked up, it wouldn’t hurt. That if no one knew what I felt, no one could use it against me.”

“That’s a lonely way to live,” you whispered.

“It was.” His voice was quieter now. “Until you.”

You inhaled sharply, heart catching in your throat.

“I’ve been watching you too, Y/N. I always noticed when you sat closer during meals. Or brought coffee when I was holed up for hours. You always knew when to say something—and when not to.”

He looked over at you now, eyes unreadable but softer than you’d ever seen.

“You’re not a secret I want to keep locked away anymore.”

The words hit you like a wave. “Law…”

He stood slowly, stepped in front of you, and reached out—hesitating just for a breath—before his fingers gently cupped your face.

“I’m not good at this,” he said. “But I want to try. With you.”

Your eyes stung with tears you hadn’t realized were forming. “You’re already doing just fine.”

His lips brushed against yours, tentative at first, then fuller, deeper. You melted into him, and he kissed you like someone who finally let the gates fall. When he pulled away, he stayed close, forehead resting against yours.

“No more secrets,” he whispered.

——

Zoro

The fight had been brutal. Zoro, despite his immense strength and endurance, had taken a hit he couldn’t recover from quickly. Blood stained his clothes, and the crew had rushed to stabilize him, quickly patching him up as best they could on the ship.

You were a wreck. Despite being part of the crew for so long, despite the battles, seeing him hurt like this… it was too much for you to handle. You were pacing back and forth near the medical room, your heart in your throat as your mind raced with worst-case scenarios. Nami and Robin stood nearby, trying to comfort you, but nothing could settle the growing panic inside.

“I—I can’t do this,” you muttered, wiping away the fresh tears that had formed. “What if—what if he doesn’t make it?”

Robin placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her voice soothing, but there was an undercurrent of concern there too. “Zoro’s strong. He’s not going anywhere.”

But you couldn’t stop. You couldn’t stop worrying, couldn’t stop the tears from falling. Your chest ached at the thought of him not making it through this.

Nami’s voice, usually so steady, was now quieter, though there was still a reassuring edge. “You need to calm down. He’s tough. Zoro will pull through.”

But no matter how much they tried to comfort you, the fear was too overwhelming. You couldn’t stop thinking about the worst outcome—what it would be like to lose him. How he was always so strong, always so dependable, and yet, this time, you weren’t sure it would be enough.

“Please,” you whispered through your sobs, barely audible but full of pain. “Please don’t leave me, Zoro. I love you… I love you so much. I can’t lose you.”

You didn’t realize how loudly you’d said it. You were too caught up in the panic, in the fear of losing him, that the words just spilled out without thinking.

In the shadows of the hallway, hidden from your view, Zoro had heard everything. He had been leaning against the doorframe, trying to muster the strength to stand up on his own after the injury, when your words reached him. At first, he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you correctly. But when you repeated it, in that broken, desperate tone, he felt the weight of your confession hit him like a freight train.

He stood there, frozen for a long moment, a strange mix of emotions swirling within him. His heart thudded in his chest, and for a moment, everything felt overwhelming—more so than the injury itself.

——

Zoro had managed to make his way to the deck quietly, not wanting to disturb you. He needed a moment to process what he’d heard. But it wasn’t just the words that had shaken him—it was how much they revealed. How deeply you cared, how much you were hurting, how afraid you were for him.

He’d always known you cared for him. You had always been there for him, quietly supporting him, and he’d grown fond of your presence more than he ever intended. But hearing it like this, in a moment of vulnerability, brought something to the surface that he had spent so long suppressing.

The wound on his side throbbed painfully, but it wasn’t the physical pain that weighed him down. It was your words. The quiet admission that you loved him. Zoro leaned against the railing, trying to clear his head, but the ache in his chest wasn’t going away.

Meanwhile, you had secluded yourself in your room. The crew had calmed down enough to leave you some space, but you couldn’t stop thinking about Zoro. You kept replaying the words over and over in your head, cursing yourself for letting them slip. You didn’t want to burden him.

But what if he didn’t feel the same? The uncertainty gnawed at you, and you hugged your knees to your chest, your face buried in your arms.

——

It wasn’t long before there was a knock at your door. You didn’t want to face anyone, but the soft voice that called your name made you hesitate.

“Y/N? It’s me. Can I come in?”

Your heart jumped in your chest. You didn’t have to ask who it was. You stood and opened the door to find Zoro standing there, looking tired but determined. His clothes were stained with blood, and his usual carefree posture was slightly off, but there was something in his eyes that made you freeze.

“You shouldn’t be up yet,” you said, voice cracking. “You’re injured. You need rest.”

Zoro smirked, but there was no usual arrogance in it—just a tired, soft kind of affection. “I’m fine. I’m not the type to stay in bed when I’m still breathing.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Zoro cut you off before you could speak.

“Listen,” he began, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, “you don’t need to apologize for what you said earlier.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Zoro, I didn’t—”

“Don’t deny it.” Zoro took a step closer, his hand reaching out and gently lifting your chin so that your eyes met. “I heard you.”

You swallowed, heart racing. His gaze was intense, but it wasn’t cold. It wasn’t distant. It was something more—something you hadn’t dared to hope for. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t want to make you feel awkward.”

Zoro’s fingers brushed lightly against your skin, his touch warm and reassuring. “You don’t have to apologize. I just—” he hesitated, his usual tough exterior faltering for just a moment, “I need to say it too.”

You blinked, your heart thumping painfully in your chest. “Say what?”

Zoro’s eyes softened, his usual guarded nature slipping just slightly. “I’ve known for a while now. I’ve just been too stubborn to admit it to myself. But I care about you too. I think… I think I love you.”

The words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You were both standing there, both finally facing what had always been there but had remained unsaid.

“I—I love you too, Zoro,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “I was just too scared to say it.”

Zoro’s lips tugged into a faint, almost shy smile. Then, without another word, he closed the distance between you and kissed you softly, his hand still gently holding your face. The kiss was slow, tender, filled with everything that had been left unspoken for so long.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath shaky. “I’m not going anywhere. Not if you’ll have me.”

And at that moment, everything fell into place.

——

a/n: my first ever multi-character fic phew that’s challenging! haha hope you guys like it ♡ feedbacks are greatly appreciated xoxo

[iris-qt]

Are we getting more of theo whom has a staring problem

The Boy Who Folded First

-> Part Ⅰ - The Boy Who Stares

You’re halfway through outlining your Arithmancy essay, peacefully nestled into your usual spot in the library (the cozy alcove by the window that smells faintly of dust and lavender polish) when you hear the faintest sound of someone… hesitating.

It’s the sound of feet shuffling. A bag being adjusted. A breath being held.

You glance up, expecting Madam Pince or maybe a first-year in crisis.

Instead, you get Theodore Nott, frozen like a deer caught mid-scheme, holding a stack of books and trying very hard not to look like he’s here for you.

He is.

You blink. He nods. It’s weirdly formal, like you’re about to conduct business negotiations.

Then, very carefully, he slides into the chair across from you. He places his books on the table with reverent precision. Doesn’t say a word.

You go back to your essay. Or try to.

It’s been twenty seconds. He has not opened a single book. He has, however, started watching you with the expression of someone seeing a rainbow for the first time.

You glance up.

He quickly looks away. Opens the wrong end of a book. Realizes it. Flips it. Doesn’t read it.

You pretend to focus, but your quill slips. “Theo.”

His eyes flick up, startled. “Yes?”

“You’re not even pretending to study.”

He freezes. Then, slowly he flips a page in the upside-down book and says, “I am.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Your book is in Latin.”

“It’s a universal language,” he replies, far too quickly.

You try not to smile. “Are you here to read or stare?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then he rests his chin on his hand, looks at you, and says, very softly, but with complete sincerity

“Both.”

Cue the butterflies. Stupid, ridiculous, flapping butterflies.

Your face warms before you can stop it. “That’s not very productive.”

He leans in slightly, his voice just a whisper above the quiet: “It is for me.”

Silence. Except for your heartbeat, which is now doing some kind of interpretive dance in your ribcage.

You look away, biting the inside of your cheek. “You’re very weird, Theodore Nott.”

He gives you the softest, smallest smile, one that tugs at just one corner of his mouth like it’s shy about being there.

“I know,” he says, eyes never leaving yours. “You make me that way.”

You drop your quill.

And for once, he doesn’t panic. He just picks it up, sets it gently in front of you, and goes back to flipping pages in his very, very upside-down Latin book.

And you, utterly doomed, go back to pretending you’re not falling for the boy who stares.

…

You don’t expect to find anything strange in your Arithmancy notes the next day.

You really don’t.

You sit down in the library like always, armed with a steaming cup of tea and the vague hope that numbers will one day make sense.

You flip open your notebook.

And there it is.

A folded piece of parchment tucked right between your notes on logarithmic spell sequencing and wand length correlations. Neat. Crisp. Very much not yours.

You pause. Pick it up. Look around suspiciously, like the paper might explode or insult your handwriting. No one seems to notice.

Your name is written on the front in tight, slanted script. Theodore’s script. Oh dear.

You unfold it carefully.

And you gasp.

Because it’s not a note. It’s a letter. A dramatic, charming, deeply earnest letter, written with the kind of emotional intensity that could only come from someone who once stared at you in class for thirteen entire minutes and forgot how to blink.

To the girl who doesn’t know she’s being watched, I should clarify: not in a terrifying way. Hopefully. Just… in a “you exist like sunlight through old stained glass and it’s very distracting” way. You sit there, every day, with your quiet focus and your ridiculous pens and your little crease between your eyebrows when you're thinking too hard. I’ve watched the way you annotate like you're solving a mystery. I’ve watched the way you smile to yourself when you get something right. I’ve watched the way you make silence feel like a conversation. And I’m utterly, irrevocably— (Ridiculously, foolishly, sincerely) —smitten. You make it very hard to concentrate. You make it very easy to feel seventeen and doomed and soft all at once. I’ve rewritten this five times. Probably because I’m terrified. You’re very smart. I’m mostly composed of sarcasm and dramatic eye contact. But if you’ll have me, even just for a walk by the lake, or a shared study table, or something unspeakably wild like holding hands, I’d very much like that. —Theo (P.S. I know you saw me walk into a door. I’m trying to block that memory out. Please let me have this.)

You stare at the letter for a full minute, brain short-circuiting, heart doing small backflips.

And just as you’re about to burst into tiny flustered sparkles, you hear the soft scrape of a chair.

You look up.

Theodore Nott is standing there.

He looks like he wants to flee the country.

“Hi,” he says, voice unusually hoarse. “So. You found it.”

You hold up the letter with both hands like it’s Exhibit A in a very dramatic trial. “You left me a love confession in my Arithmancy notebook.”

His ears go red. “You weren’t supposed to find it until after exams. I was buying time to work on…bravery.”

You raise an eyebrow, suppressing a giddy smile. “You rewrote it five times.”

“I panicked,” he says solemnly. “And I was out of parchment.”

You try to hold back your smile, but it breaks through anyway, soft, real.

“I’d very much like that walk by the lake,” you say.

Theodore’s eyes go wide. Then soft. Then stunned.

“You would?”

You nod. “On one condition.”

“Anything.”

You grin. “You have to stop pretending your upside-down French book is useful.”

He groans. “I knew you noticed.”

And just like that, the boy who stares officially becomes the boy who blushes, babbles, and very gently takes your hand like it might be the most important thing he’s ever held.

Spoiler: it is.

A/N: manifesting this, big thank you to everyone for all the love :)

[ninisdollie]

pinky promise - park sunghoon 𓈒ིུ ❤︎

‎ ₊ㅤ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Ⳋ᧙ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺

"In which Sunghoon is completely obsessed with his dumb, beautiful, sparkly girlfriend"

‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ❤︎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⊹　₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ͏͏✧ Content: +18MDNI

fem! reader x sunghoon, bimbo! reader, established relationship, i made reader extra bimbo so she has a boob job and a nose job, fluff, crack, not a full smut scene but dumbification, humiliation, unprotected sex, creampie.

hate comments will be deleted and blocked!! likes and reblogs are appreciated.

notes: this was on my drafts for so long omg, my bimbo reader x member saga continues, who should be next? let me know <3

The first time Sunghoon saw you, he didn’t really like you, he thought you were a walking headache.

You were in his economics lecture, twirling a glittery pen and chewing pink gum like it was a full-time job. You wore a tiny top which was definitely inappropriate for college, with the word “PRINCESS” bedazzled across the chest, your notebook filled with hearts and sparkly stickers instead of actual notes. You were staring at the ceiling probably thinking about which shade of pink was your favourite. He thought you were ridiculous.

He also couldn’t stop looking at you.

Your perfect blowout, impossibly shiny and curled at the ends like you'd just stepped out of a salon. The soft swoop of your lashes. The way your perfume, something sweet and expensive, lingered in the air whenever you walked past. The sound of your gum popping mid-lecture. It was maddening.

When you waved at him across the hall the next day, he looked behind him like you had to be talking to someone else.

You started sitting next to him in class. Talking to him between lectures. Asking him dumb questions like, “Do you think cats get embarrassed when they fall?” or “What if my lip gloss is too sparkly for school—like, legally?”

He tried to ignore you. He really did. But then you started bringing him little things, an extra coffee, snacks with cute sticky notes that said “Don’t forget to eat, cold boy” and before he knew it… you were just there all the time. 

Everyone knew who you were, daddy’s girl, had a nose job at sixteen  and a boob job at eighteen. Everything about you screamed money, privilege, and zero shame. You parked your bubblegum-pink convertible outside like you owned the damn place, engine still purring, music blasting some sugary pop anthem. Designer sunglasses perched on your nose, lips glossed and shiny like a reality show.

And Sunghoon hated girls like you. 

Until he didn’t anymore. 

You drove him fucking crazy.

And nothing pissed him off more than the fact that no matter how many times he rolled his eyes at you or snapped at you to “use your brain for once,” he always ended up with you curled up on his lap by the end of the night, pouting, giggling, and completely unaware of how obsessed he was.

The bowling alley lights glowed neon pink and blue, a dreamy haze over the slick floor and rows of plastic seats. You bounced up to the lane, pink ball cradled in both hands, wearing a pleated micro skirt that had absolutely zero business being worn in a bowling alley.

Sunghoon already had one hand to his temple.

“Okay, okay—watch me this time,” you chirped, sticking your tongue out with confidence that was completely unearned.

He watched. Unfortunately.

You swung horribly. The ball dropped with a loud thud that made a few kids in the next lane flinch, then rolled with tragic optimism straight into the gutter, again.

A long, painful silence.

You turned around with a hopeful smile, one acrylic nail to your bottom lip, your brows sticked together 

“Did I hit… like, any of them?”

Sunghoon stared at the untouched pins. 

“You hit my will to live. That’s what you hit.”

You burst out laughing, completely unfazed, trotting back to him with a giggle and zero shame. 

“It’s not my fault the ball’s heavy! And slippery! And the floor is so weird, like, what even is oiling the lane? Is that real?”

Sunghoon blinked, already regretting choosing bowling for your weekly date. 

“Yes. That’s real. It’s literally part of the sport.”

You leaned dramatically onto his shoulder, rolling your beautiful eyes decorated with pink shimmery eyeshadow. 

“Ugh, sports.”

He side-eyed you, lips twitching like he was trying very hard not to smile. 

“You are unreal. Actually brainless.”

“Brainless and beautiful,” you hummed proudly.

He handed you a bottle of water with the calmness of someone who had already accepted defeat on every level, of someone that loved his girlfriend so much even if she was getting on his nerves. 

“At this point I’m surprised you didn’t throw the ball backwards.”

“Oh my god, is that allowed?!”

He closed his eyes. 

“I’m going to need a refund on this date.”

You gasped, playfully smacking his chest. 

“You love this. Don’t lie.”

“I love winning. You’re making that impossible by association.”

You let out a dramatic whine and flopped down into the seat next to him, pink gloss shining under the lights. You looked up at him through your fake lashes, blinking innocently. 

“You could let me win…”

He turned to you, full deadpan. 

“Not even if I was dying.”

You pouted. 

“What if I kissed you?”

His expression faltered. Just slightly.

He hated how easily you got to him, how ridiculous you were, with your glitter and your fake tan and your complete inability to understand basic physics, and how despite all of that, his stomach still flipped like a middle schooler every time you leaned in close.

“…Still no,” he mumbled, avoiding eye contact.

But his ears turned just a little pink.

You grinned. 

“Okay. One more try. Watch this.”

Sunghoon leaned back with a long, suffering sigh, arms crossed as he watched you approach the lane like you were about to do a runway walk, not a sport.

You tossed the ball.

This time… it clipped the edge. Wobbled. And one lonely pin wobbled, wobbled…

Then fell.

You screamed. 

“I got one!”

You spun around, throwing your arms up like you’d just landed a triple axel in the Olympics.

“Babe did you see that?! I got one!”

Sunghoon clapped once, dryly. 

“Congratulations. You’ve reached the motor skills of a toddler.”

But when you threw yourself into his arms, giggling with pride, he caught you instantly, hands settling at your waist like second nature. Your breath was warm against his cheek, your lip gloss a little smeared from all your shouting, and god, you looked so proud of yourself.

So happy.

He couldn’t help it. His jaw softened, and his eyes flicked down to your lips. You noticed, grin stretching a little wider.

“Still not letting me win?” you whispered.

He groaned softly, then finally leaned in, brushing your lips with his, warm, slow, and just a little smug. His kisses were always the sweetest, but also the neediest, like he couldn’t resist tasting your cherry gloss on his tongue and how your plump lips - natural, because your father refused to let you get another thing done - moved against his. 

“You’ll never win,” he murmured against your mouth.

“But I got you to kiss me,” you whispered back.

He pulled away with a tiny smirk. 

“That doesn’t mean you’re not terrible at bowling.”

You beamed. 

“So you admit I’m good at something.”

Sunghoon sighed, defeated.

“Yeah. Being annoying.”

Later that night, your legs were draped lazily across Sunghoon’s lap as you half-watched a rerun of Gossip Girl on his TV, spooning pink-frosted ice cream into your mouth with the tiny gold spoon you refused to let go of. Sunghoon had tried to take it from you earlier, saying it was impractical.

You nearly bit his hand.

Now he sat there, half-annoyed, half-smitten, poking at the remote and occasionally shooting side-eyes at your terrible taste in TV, which he was definitely not going to admit he had started following.

“I still don’t understand how someone could bowl that badly,” he muttered out of nowhere, shaking his head like he was personally offended.

“I have delicate wrists,” you said simply, licking ice cream from your spoon. “I’m not built for violence.”

“You’re built for chaos.”

“You’re built for being rude.”

“I’m built for reality,” he muttered.

You grinned, wiggling your toes against his thigh, until you suddenly sat up with a little gasp.

“Wait—I forgot!”

“Oh no,” he said immediately.

You bounced off the couch, your fuzzy pink slippers flopping, and grabbed your oversized Juicy Couture tote.

“I got you a present!”

Sunghoon looked like he was preparing for war.

 “A what?”

“A little something,” you said brightly, pulling out a small, glossy pink box wrapped in a glitter ribbon. “A sexy thank-you gift. Because I’m sweet like that.”

So, he opened it.

And immediately froze.

Inside was a pair of black boxer briefs. At first glance, normal. But upon closer inspection, covered in little high-res photos of your face.

Pouting. Blowing kisses. Winking. Tongue out.

He held them up in horror.

“What the actual hell—”

You squealed.

“Aren’t they adorable?! Look, I picked the kissy face from my summer vacation selfie. That one’s your favorite, right?”

His jaw dropped slightly.

“You put your face on underwear.”

“Your underwear,” you corrected proudly. “It’s a custom print!”

He blinked again.

“You seriously expect me to wear these?”

“You’re gonna love them.”

“They’re deranged.”

“They’re personalized.” You pouted, staring at the boxers on his hands so proudly “You’re so ungrateful. I almost ordered the thong version.”

His nose scrunched.

“Why is that worse?”

“They had hearts that said ‘Daddy’s Favorite’ all over the front. You would’ve looked so cute.”

“I’m going to take your access to online stores.”

“You’re in love with me.”

He groaned, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

“I feel like I’m in a relationship with a walking pop-up ad.”

You rolled onto your side and propped your chin in your hand. “You say that, but I caught you smiling. Admit it.”

He looked down at the boxers again, defeated.

“I’m going to burn these.”

“You’re sooo going to wear them to bed.”

“I am not.”

“I’m going to take a picture when you do.”

He looked at you with genuine concern.

“You should donate your brain to the science, i genuinely have no idea how the fuck it works.”

You grinned wider, then crawled into his lap and tugged the boxers from his hand, holding them up between you like a trophy.

“You know,” you said playfully, brushing your lips against his jaw, “you’re kind of hot when you’re annoyed.”

His hands settled instinctively on your waist, and despite the chaos, despite the insanity of your gift, he didn’t push you away. His fingers tightened slightly, eyes narrowing.

“You’re insane,” he muttered again.

“And you like it.”

You kissed him softly, sugary-sweet and smiling against his mouth, and he let out a low breath like he was surrendering to a war he’d already lost.

“Thank God you’re cute and have fake boobs” he said under his breath.

“I’m gorgeous,” you whispered, kissing him again. “And you’re obsessed with me.”

He sighed, resting his forehead against yours.

“Unfortunately.”

You laughed, nuzzling into his chest as he wrapped his arms around you, and somewhere on the coffee table, your face-covered boxers sat like the world’s most deranged declaration of love.

And the next morning, when you woke up early and peeked under the blanket?

He was wearing them.

In the bedroom, Sunghoon worshipped you 

He spoiled you, yes. Bought you pretty things, let you crawl into his lap just to be kissed, whispered soft pet names against your throat like they meant something sacred. But when it came to sex, he didn’t just spoil, he ruined.Constantly. Proudly. He loved how soft you got under him. How pliant. How you went quiet and fuzzy the second he touched you, all that usual chatter melting into breathy gasps and broken whimpers like you’d been made to be used.

It wasn’t just sex. It was a ritual.

That was the part that made his blood run hot, the way you gave in so easily. Like your body had memorized what he needed before he even asked. Like you were wired to fall apart for him.

You were perfect for him. Sweet. Obedient. Dumb in all the ways he liked.

Sometimes you wore lace just to catch his attention. Sometimes you whined for his hands in that sugar-sweet voice you knew drove him crazy. And sometimes, like that night, you were already breathless before he even undid his belt, squirming under his gaze like you needed him more than air.

And Sunghoon? He lived for it.

He lived for the way your thighs twitched when he called you his dumb little doll. For the way your breath hitched when his voice dropped and he ordered you to spread your legs. For the way you sighed his name like a prayer every time he said, “Good girl.”

He teased, he degraded, he controlled every second,  and yet never once crossed your boundaries. Even when he was deep inside you, voice low and filthy in your ear, hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, the care never left his touch.

And when it was over, when you were limp and trembling in the sheets, too blissed out to speak, he always gathered you into his arms. Always pressed a kiss to your temple. Always whispered soft, quiet things while he cleaned you up and tucked you into his chest.

But tonight, you knew you were pushing it.

The second you made that little comment — pouty and venom-laced — about him forgetting his wallet at brunch, you felt the air shift. Saw that flicker in his eyes. Not anger, not quite. No, Sunghoon never wasted energy on petty things.

It was something darker.

And now, your wrists were pinned above your head with one of his hands,  fingers wrapped snug around your wrists, his rings cold against your skin. Your legs spread wide, your body flushed and trembling, caught in that hazy place between bratty resistance and desperate submission.

“Still got that attitude, baby?” he murmured, voice low and slow as his free hand traced a path down your torso, nails grazing just enough to make you twitch. “Or did I fuck it out of you already?”

You opened your mouth, maybe to whine, maybe to say his name, but all that came out was a gasp when his fingers slid between your thighs, two slow strokes over your soaked panties. He smiled like a man who knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“God, look at you. All that attitude earlier and now you’re fucking dripping.”

His hand cupped your sex through the fabric, warm and heavy. His palm pressed down, applying just enough pressure to make you buck into it, and he tisked, shaking his head like you were being difficult again.

“Didn’t I say you don’t get to be in charge tonight?”

His fingers gripped your jaw, turning your face to meet his. The heat in his eyes made your breath catch.

“You know the rules, baby,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip. “No thinking. That pretty little head of yours belongs to me tonight.”

You whimpered. Nodded. Your voice barely worked, hazy, pliant, floating somewhere between arousal and surrender.

“Mhm… yours.”

And fuck, did that make something snap in him.

He released your wrists only to grab your hips and flip you onto your stomach, not bothering to be gentle. His hands gripped your ass, kneading the soft flesh as he leaned over you, breath hot against your ear.

“That brat from earlier?” he growled, rutting his hips against your ass. “She gone now?”

You nodded frantically into the sheets, muffled moans escaping your lips.

“You sure?” He dragged his cock, hard and leaking, along your soaked slit, just enough to tease but not enough to satisfy. “Because if I hear another whine outta that mouth, I’m not gonna let you come. Understand me?”

“Y-yes—” you managed, though it came out as more of a sob. “I’m sorry…”

He chuckled darkly.

“That’s better.”

And then he was inside you — deep — all at once. No warning. No slow stretch.

Just a sharp, claiming thrust that knocked the air from your lungs and left you shaking. You gasped, nails digging into the sheets, tears prickling at your eyes from the overwhelming fullness. He stilled for a second, letting you adjust because even mean, he never hurt you, and then he began to move. Hard. Every thrust deliberate, punishing, meant to remind you of exactly who was in control.

“There she is,” he whispered, dark eyes eating you alive. “My sweet, stupid girl.”

He set a brutal rhythm, one hand gripping your thigh while the other held your jaw in place so he could watch your expression crumble.

“Stay dumb for me,” he growled, voice ragged now, hips slamming into yours. “Don’t think. Just take it.”

“This what you wanted?” he hissed between clenched teeth, skin slapping against yours with a filthy rhythm. “Act like a brat so I fuck you stupid?”

You couldn’t answer,  your mind was blank, body on fire, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of him. He leaned down, pressing his chest to your back, lips at your ear. 

“You’re such a fucking mess for me. So easy to break. Just a few minutes and I’ve already got you drooling on the sheets.”

His hand slid under you, between your thighs again, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles in sync with his thrusts. You choked on a moan, loud, needy, helpless.

“Look at that. Can’t even form words anymore,” he mocked, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “My dumb little doll. All that sass earlier and now you’re too fucked-out to talk.”

Your thighs were trembling violently now, breath coming in shallow pants as the pressure built, your orgasm looming, cruel and inevitable.

Sunghoon knew. Of course he knew. He groaned, low and rough, hips slamming into you deeper.

“You close, baby?”

You sobbed something incoherent.

“Use your words. Come on.”

“Y-yes—yes, I’m—please—!”

He didn’t let up. Not for a second.

“You gonna come all over my cock after being a fucking brat in public? You think you deserve that?”

You shook your head, didn’t trust yourself to speak, but your body betrayed you, tightening around him as the orgasm hit. It crashed into you hard, like lightning through your veins, and you screamed, stars bursting behind your eyes. You didn’t even register him groaning your name, hips jerking as he came inside you moments later.

The room spun. Your limbs felt heavy. Your brain buzzed with static. And yet, even as your body trembled in the aftermath, Sunghoon’s touch softened, his voice dropped.

“Good girl,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your spine. “Took me so well. You did so good, baby.”

His hands rubbed slow, grounding circles into your thighs and lower back.

“You okay?”

You managed a nod, dazed, boneless, but safe.

Because no matter how rough he was, no matter how mean he got when you pushed his buttons, Sunghoon always took care of you after.

“Hoonie?” You whispered, soft voice after a while.

He stroked your arm, kissing softly on your shoulder before looking at you.

“Yes, babygirl?”

“Do you love me?” You batted your fake eyelashes, still perfect on your eyes even after the intense sex session.

He looked at you with shiny eyes, as if he couldn’t believe you were asking him that.

“Of course, baby. I love you.”

“Pinky promise?” You put out your hand, sticking your pinky and he laughed softly before locking it with his.

“Pinky promise.”

[pythonmoth]

cw: anxiety. post-traumatic stress disorder (torture). reader is traumatized. reader is a bit unreliable. military inaccuracies. hurt/comfort (I guess?).

× framed traitor f!reader x lt ghost. poly tf141..

Part 7

Being home is incredibly boring, especially if you can't move much.

Your brother's been taking care of you, making sure you're eating, that you let your injuries breathe, and soon enough, the cuts on your feet allow you to move around on your own. It takes a whole month for your brother to leave you alone for longer than a few hours. It's a good thing, really, because if you want to spend hours just laying in your bed and crying in silence as you stare at the ceiling, you can. He would only come whenever you needed a ride, anyway.

Despite being able to move around and now even managing to use your sensitive fingers, you dread the idea of going outside. You have to wear sandals and loose pants, because your toes cannot, by any means, be touched by any kind of fabric yet, or else you're grimacing in pain. Feeling defenseless hasn't been a thing ever since you became part of the team. Not even your skills could take down Simon, but you could put up a fight with them all, easily; never won, but you were confident with anyone else on the street.

No doubt you could still beat them up, your skills are still there, but the idea of someone somehow restricting your movements felt like torture all over again. The idea of anyone getting a hold of you makes you want to throw up. Your mind and body betray you, making you remember those awful moments, and you don't realize you're pulling a face.

"You're spacing out".

You look up at the therapist, giving her a little nod as an apology, getting comfortable on the seat. Restless, you can't help but look around for a moment again. The office is incredibly white, clean, filled with mirrors for whatever fucked up reason, and the only thing that isn't grey or white is one of the cushions on the couch on the other side of the room. It's deep purple. It looks awful.

Seemingly realizing you won't be of much help with the question she just asked you, she gives you a smile. "How are your nails? I can see you're using your hands a lot more".

"They're healing" you reply, looking down at your fingers instead of focusing on the cushion. "I can use my hands pretty normally now, but I can't use the stove for long".

"Because of the heat". An affirmation. You've already mention it before, and you're not surprised she remembers that. Probably read it on her notes.

"It hurts, yeah".

"And how are your feet?" she asks, looking down at the way you absentmindedly drag your hands on your pants from your thighs to your calves in slow movements. You only realize what you're doing because you can hear the way her pen drags across the paper, distracting you.

"Well... I can only wear sandals. Doctor said I should be okay to move around with real shoes in three months".

"And what do you think?"

"He's the doctor. I want to believe he knows what he's doing, so I can't really question it. I do hope it heals sooner, though".

The therapist writes down on her notebook. With an uncomfortable feeling, you desperately want to know what she's writing, your eyes drifting to the movement of the pen, but you can't make out a single letter.

"So you trust the doctor, right?" she questions, moving one of her erasers to the other side of her desk. Your eyes are fixed entirely on it, on the little thud the eraser makes when she sets it down.

"He knows best, that's for sure. If he's there, must be a reason" you answer, tilting your head as she keeps moving her things around, making them fit somewhere else on her desk. The pencil goes to the left, then to the right, the eraser from top to bottom of the notebook, as if she's as antsy as you are.

"Do you apply that thought somewhere else? Like... at work? Or if you need help at a store and find an employee, maybe?"

The therapist's eyes are on you all the time, your hands, your anxious feet; your little habits coming to light with a single look. The way you bite the inside of your lower lip, the little double blink you make when she moves something in her desk yet again, even if you don't say anything.

"Of course. If they know their way around, it's only right that I ask for help, and trust that" you answer, frowning. You don't think that question is relevant at all, but she keeps writing, and writing.

"I see. Thank you. Now, you mentioned you've been texting G- Simon. Can you tell me how it makes you feel?"

You go silent for a moment, your fingertips dragging across your arm, so softly you can barely feel it. "It's better now".

During the first three months of being home, Simon would text you nearly every single day. He didn't expect a text back and you knew that, because you told him you wouldn't promise to be responsive. Simon would send you pictures of their plain meals, of Gaz sleeping on your bed, Johnny posing next to Price with their thumbs up, or terrible selfies of himself. Always without a mask.

Tuesday

11:27

"Price scolded Johnny because he had crumbs on his uniform. It was hilarious"

Saturday

03:26

"Just got back. Everyone ok"

Even Johnny would text you from time to time. It was mostly memes, awful stickers or ridiculous, random photos of Gaz mid talking, his face weird, or Price smacking Simon's head, or the entire team posing for a picture, Gaz' arm hovering to the side as if to hug your shoulders. You didn't even need to wonder why Gaz hadn't texted you; that man hated technology with a passion.

Still, you never texted back.

You didn't really pay attention to the texts, or the little voice notes, or the selfies. You didn't feel like reading them properly, always leaving them on seen or just grunting to yourself whenever you heard their distinctive tone. Why you didn't change it in the past few months, you don't know. Maybe that's a question for your therapist.

But then, the texts stop.

Monday

16:49

"Tough job"

"We leave at midnight"

23:42

"Text you when we're back"

Only, Simon doesn't text back. For days. For weeks.

You can't pretend you're not worried. It's impossible, really. You're half-tempted to call him, but you can't, you don't know how it will feel to hear his voice again. He said he'd text you and he hasn't, so he isn't back yet, and you don't want to feel vulnerable by opening up. Yet.

You go through Simon's chat, actually paying attention to whatever he sent you. You realize he sometimes sent you long texts, apologizing, accepting what he did, and even a few voice notes that you didn't notice before. They made your heart race as you listened.

"I hurt you, and I'm sorry. I love you, and you don't have to forgive me"

"Garrick told me to tell you that if you aren't eating he'll go and— shut the hell up, Johnny, I'm talking!"

"Tell her we'll go visit her by the end of the month".

That's Price's voice, you realize.

Feeling incredibly choked up, you check Johnny's chat next. You're expecting to find nothing but memes, as you've seen in passing, but when you see he sent you long, long texts, you finally let yourself cry properly.

He's been apologizing since the day you left, too afraid to face you but his texts are so poorly written you know he was in a rush, or crying, or both. His voice notes, however... they just make you break.

"I'm so sorry. I can't undo what we did. You don't owe me anything, I just... really hope you can at least tolerate me. If not, please know I'll always care for you. I love you. Goodnight".

Something inside of your chest eases, maybe moved to the point of forgiveness, even if just a moment. Your therapist has been helping you unveil whatever you missed during that day— during the torture. It's been a tough process, and she insisted you visited twice a week instead of once, but it helped. You could now understand.

Still, understanding the situation only makes your worry grow.

"Text you when we're back"

For two long weeks, there's nothing, from nobody. Only silence and fear. For the first time since you left, you're scared for them. Scared you'll have to open the door one day and it'll be Price, or maybe not even him, telling you the team is dead.

On the second week, your therapist says you can give them a call, or text them if it's more comfortable. When you say you can't, she advices you to write them letters.

"Tell them whatever you wish to say. If you're angry, write it. If you're worried, write it. There's no good or bad feelings, and it's only right to feel them. Write them for yourself, and then you can choose to give them to your team, or not".

And you did.

A whole notebook of messy writing, some tears staining the paper, and your hate slowly turned to understanding. Real understanding. Not forgiveness, not yet, but it's progress.

By the third week with no news, you just can't handle it anymore. You press call without a second thought and your heart squeezes painfully in your chest when it rings, and rings, and rings.

Hopeless, you lay in your bed, your mind working overtime as you stare at the ceiling.

A muffled dinging sound startles you awake, shifting on the bed to find your phone because that's Simon's tone. Adjusting your vision, you realize it fell from your hands to the ground when you fell asleep. You dive for it, grimacing when your sensitive fingertips brush against the carpet, but to see his name there is enough for you to endure it.

Thursday

01:22

"Safe. Couldn't text you earlier"

01:22

"You called me. Are you hurt?"

01:22

"Safe. Call me"

"Now"

His name pops up not even a moment later, his ringtone filling your ears. When you pick up, he's barely breathing, and you wonder if you're about to be told bad news.

Simon explains they were on a very tough mission, and that that was why he couldn't text you, or communicate with you at all. You could hear him shift, move around. Restless.

They got caught in enemy territory, surviving the best they could for two weeks, Simon tells you. Johnny was shot in the leg and Gaz was the one who helped him out, since Simon was too busy dragging Price, who was bleeding out because someone decided it would be fun to put a bullet through his left shoulder.

"I wasn't any better. Dr. Wilson called me a dick, and then made me lay down because I was shaking. Ridiculous" he grunts, his voice hushed on the other side of the line. "Got shot on my side, I just didn't feel it, but I was better than the other two".

He doesn't seem to expect you to speak, huffing and shuffling. You can tell he's in the clinic room, the echo incredibly familiar by now.

Of course, he doesn't tell you that the reason why he didn't text you the whole past week, is because he's been asleep, drugged out of his mind because of the pain.

"Everyone's okay. No risk. Garrick's the only one who didn't get hurt. I think—"

"I was worried, Simon. I'm glad everyone is okay".

There's silence for a long moment. Simon takes a deep breath from the other side of the phone, sighing deeply. You could hear the smile in his tone. "I wouldn't let myself get killed, luv. I'm sorry I couldn't text you before. We're safe now".

You two spend the rest of the night on the call, with you mostly staying in silence and listening. You can't believe how scared you've been for all of them, for Simon. You know it's gonna be hard to fully forgive them, if at all, but you can't help the way your body relaxes as you hear him breathing against your ear. You can't help the way your arms curl around the pillow, seeking his warmth. As before.

The call goes on for long hours. When your soft hums as he speaks stop coming to his end, Simon goes quiet, realizing you've fallen asleep. He sighs and shifts to look at the ceiling, holding the phone against his ear. Focusing on your soft breathing, he let's himself fall asleep, the gunshot wound completely unimportant if he gets to listen to you sleeping again.

He just wishes you were there.

-ˋˏ✄——————————————————

Masterlist | Part 8

Buy me a coffee

im so sick y'all, my head hurts, but I obviously couldn't resist! also, you guys like Marina? her new song is so good! mowgli's road's vibes.

the therapist's room I'm describing in the story is actually my therapist's old room. I hated it so BAD. the mirrors were a terrible decision. also, if you can't relate to this type of therapy, that's fine. it's just my experience.

again, styling is fully intentional. can y'all tell how our reader is feeling?~

taglist: @euphoricn @lilg101010 @enfppuff @carolchaotic @silas-fanfic-favs @nina-from-317 @an-ever-angry-bi @kittygonap @dorothy-rainbird-deactivated202 @adventurerabby @defronix @sheepispink @iambuttwodaysold @blackhawkfanatic @malevolentghoul @thriving-n-jiving @literallegendicon @echo9821 @angel-bugz @ssc7514 @clickbait-official @hades--baby @blackhawkfanatic @sirbonesly @saki---chan @skeletonsucker @nnsissys @kukavittu @tessakate @honestlymassivetrash @s-a-v-a-n-a-34

(we're so many now, wow! thank you all ♡)

[seumyo]

thinking about the aftermath of the final war with bakugou.

It’s more often that you and Bakugou are the only ones left in the dorms after the war. The others chose to go back to their homes when the school’s implementation of mandatory dorm living lifted, and some decided to stay a little longer.

“Taste this.”

Bakugou raised a brow but didn’t protest as you walked over, spooning some curry towards his mouth. With a slight huff, he leaned forward, lips parting just enough to take the spoon. The moment it hit his tongue, his nose scrunched slightly.

“Careful, it’s still a bit hot.”

“Mild,” he muttered after swallowing. “You could barely even taste the richness of the sauce, too.”

You let out an exasperated sigh, frowning. “Are you serious? I followed your recipe.”

“Still mild; you brought shame to my recipe.”

You gave him an unimpressed look before turning back on the pot. “Wow, then maybe you should’ve been the one cooking here. I’m gonna check what went wrong.”

“I would if I could, dipshit.”

“Just get over here and check, too.”

“Nuh-uh. You said you’d cook tonight.”

“And you’re the one who keeps on complaining that I didn’t do your recipe justice!”

“That’s a fact.”

“Starve.”

He huffed, shaking his head as he went back to his writing practice, but there was something in his expression—something almost amused.

-

Bakugou sat by his study desk, his left hand gripping a pen tightly as he tried to force his stubborn fingers into writing something readable. His handwriting had always been sharp and textbook-pristine penmanship that you could mistake it for being printed, but now, with his right hand still recovering, it looked… awful.

You sat a good distance next to him, watching with an unreadable expression.

“Oi,” Bakugou grunted, not looking up. “The hell are you staring at?”

“Your letters look like a baby bird scratched them out,” you said bluntly, not even bothering to hold back on your words.

He clicked his tongue. “Like I don’t already know that.”

You reached over, grabbing his notebook before he could protest, flipping back to his first attempts from a few weeks ago. The letters were uneven, practically illegible. Then you held it up next to his latest attempt.

“See? You’re getting better.” You turned the notebook toward him. “You can actually read this one.”

He scoffed but didn’t deny it. Instead, he reached for the notebook, but you yanked it away at the last second, grinning.

“You don’t get this back until you admit I’m a good teacher.”

Bakugou glared at you, debating whether this was worth a fight. Finally, he sighed, leaning back against the chair.

“Fine. You’re not the worst teacher.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Don’t get too cocky.”

“Me? Never. That’s more of a you thing and not a me thing.”

“Like hell it’s only me.”

You laughed. “Let’s try numbers this time; I even bought a tracing book.”

“That shit’s for kids,” he scoffed.

“It says three and up,” you argued. “You’re three and up, are you not? And—who knows? Maybe after this you’ll be ambidextrous.”

“Shut up.”

-

“Run.”

That was the only warning before Bakugou grabbed your wrist and bolted.

The sound of rapid footsteps and excited squeals filled the hall behind you. A group of first-year girls was hot on your trail, giddy with the thrill of chasing UA’s most popular second-year student.

“Why the hell do they keep following me?!” Bakugou barked as you rounded a corner, his grip still firm on your wrist.

“Because you’re literally their idol,” you said between breaths, peeking to see as the girls went the opposite direction. “They see you as some kind of bad boy heartthrob ever since the Sports Festival. It’s kinda cute.”

“It’s not cute—it’s annoying!”

You found an empty classroom and slammed the door shut. Both of you stood there, panting. Outside, the sounds of giggling and footsteps faded down the hall, the first-years continuing their search elsewhere.

You let out a breath and leaned against a desk. “Could be worse. They could be chasing you with cameras like the paparazzi did.”

Bakugou groaned, rubbing his temple with his free hand. “Don’t even joke about that.”

You nudged his shoulder, smiling. “You didn’t have to drag me with you, y’know? Or is this an excuse to be alone in a room with me?”

He glared at you, opening his mouth to argue—but then he caught the teasing glint in your eyes and scoffed, shaking his head.

“Fucking idiot. You’d get trampled over by that mob.”

“Sure, sure. I’ll tell Iida to see if he can scout the area to make sure no one’s going to jump at us when we leave.”

You laughed, and despite himself, Bakugou didn’t find it all that annoying. He actually found it... familiar and worth something he can’t put into words.

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[subbing-for-katsuki]

🧡💚🖤🧡💚🖤

There's nothing quite like the look Katsuki gives you when he's fucking you.

His brow is furrowed, which isn't unusual. It's not in the set of his jaw, either, or the punishing tempo of his hips slapping against yours. Pinning you down effortlessly, almost in a mating press.

What's nearly etheral are those deep red eyes trained on you. Watching you, picking you apart. Even with his breath growling out of him, the bass vibrates between both your chests. Makes your heart flutter.

He's watching you. For as much shit as he gives his old childhood friend, he is just as observant, just as meticulous in gathering information. In some ways, perhaps more so. Instead of penning it in a notebook, he sears it into his mind, his soul. From the slack of your jaw to the arch in your back, the way your eyes lose focus when his cock angles juuust right in your plush walls. The cute little tears gathering in your eyes, the pleading arches of your brows informing him that you're almost there.

You gurgle out a pathetic, whimpering moan. Such a delicate thing - he captures the sound with his lips, wanting to taste your sweet release on his tongue just as he feels your pussy gushing with slick around his cock.

He chuckles, biting your lower lip softly. A warning nip.

"Y'know, I'm not even close to done with you yet, pretty."

🧡💚🖤🧡💚🖤

[almostwisegalaxy]

Mama's boy Her boy.

Yeon Sieun x fem!reader

The reader has a shy character in this story

..................................................................................

The following Monday, it was raining.

Not a heavy rain, but that constant drizzle, almost annoying, that makes the air heavy and humid, as if the sky itself was caught in a silence filled with unshed tears. Yeon Si-eun was waiting, his back against the worn wall of the school's annex. He wasn't supposed to be there, but he had volunteered for the tutoring program. Not out of altruism. He had simply thought it would fill the void in a useful way.

Then she entered the room. Y/n. She was wearing an oversized sweatshirt, the sleeves covering her hands, and her bag seemed to almost slide off her shoulder. She didn't say anything, just nodded, her eyes avoiding his. But Si-eun had already noticed the slight tension in her fingers, the careful handling of her notebook, the way she stood between presence and erasure.

That was his way of observing.

The first sessions were silent, almost cold. He explained, she nodded. Sometimes she asked a question, her voice soft but firm, never looking at him for too long. He pretended it didn't bother him, but his mind, usually as orderly as a strategy game, began to fall apart.

He didn't understand. Why, when his eyes met y/n's, did he feel as if he was truly seen for the first time? Not as a smart or distant boy, nor as a tool for knowledge or controlled violence, but simply as a boy. Just a boy.

And that was the beginning of the obsession.

He began to look forward to these sessions like a starving animal. He noted everything: the way y/n paused to think, the way she switched pens while nibbling on the old one, the little smile she allowed herself when she understood something. He even started to hang around the community center where she sometimes came with her younger siblings.

He watched her take care of them with a tenderness almost fierce. They pulled at her arms, climbed on her back, knocked over her bag. And she, instead of getting annoyed, laughed softly. A laugh so discreet, yet so alive, that it took his breath away.

Si-eun, on the other hand, had never been held in loving arms.

Not even by his mother. Especially not by her.

The rare times she was around, she would stand in the kitchen, looking at her phone. She would nod when he spoke, but her eyes were always elsewhere. He remembered, as a child, tugging at his mother's sleeve to get a glance, a word, a gesture. But she was always too busy. Too absent. And eventually, he had stopped asking. What was the point?

So, when y/n occasionally brushed against him without thinking – a light touch of an arm, a hand brushing – it felt like a soft burn, an unbearable warmth he longed to replicate.

And he did.

One day, he pretended to have a headache. He staggered as he sat down. Y/n, concerned, placed her hand on his arm, then gently on his forehead.

He closed his eyes.

He wanted time to stop.

When he opened them, she was looking at him. And there was no fear. No pity. Just sincere concern.

Then, little by little, he allowed himself. One day, he leaned in, testing the waters. Another, he asked if she liked kids, feigning indifference. Then he dared more: he stayed after class longer. He walked her to the bus stop. He got into the habit of waiting for her.

Then, one night, he cracked.

It was raining again. Still that fine rain.

She had offered him an umbrella, and without really knowing why, he stepped closer. Too close. She smelled like soap and wind. And he held her. Against him. Against his chest. Barely, just enough.

He didn't say anything. He couldn't.

But his hands were shaking. He buried his face against her, like a lost child. And she didn't push him away. She even held him tighter.

That night, he cried.

Not loudly. Not sobbing. But those silent tears, almost shameful, that come from too far. From too deep. The ones that never find their way except in a moment when everything breaks just a little.

Y/n didn't say anything. She just kept her arms around him. Like a port. Like a refuge. And Yeon Si-eun thought: is this love?

Or was it simply the desperate need to finally feel loved?

Sometimes, when she laughed, he felt a hole in his chest. As if something wanted to get out, but he didn't know how. He wanted to tell her everything: the loneliness, the silences at home, the lack of attention. But he couldn't. So he just looked at her. With his sad eyes, those that silently said: love me. See me. Welcome me.

And she did.

He became dependent. On her arms. On her presence. He loved lying against her when he could. Once, she had run her fingers through his hair, thinking he was asleep. He wasn't asleep. He carved that moment into him like a promise.

But a persistent fear remained.

What if she left? What if she looked at him one day the way his mother looked at him? Without really seeing him?

So he became a little colder, a little more distant. To protect himself. But she, she didn't give up. She held on. She came back. Again and again. Each time.

And little by little, he thawed. Not like in the movies. Not all at once. But over time. With her.

He loved her. No, he was crazy about her.

It wasn't a loud love. It was a feline, gnawing, vital love. She was everything he had never received. Everything he had never dared ask for.

And every day, he silently prayed: let her stay.

Let her keep looking at him.

Let her keep loving him.

Because in her arms, for the first time, Yeon Si-eun was a loved son, a protected boy, a young man in love.

Finally alive.

---

Si-eun found himself in a place that, once upon a time, would have seemed nonsensical to him. A place that had no place in his cold, controlled world. At y/n's house. He never thought this could happen. Not him, the forgotten child of a constantly absent father, the cold silhouette of a rejected son. But reality was there. In her arms. In her breath against his. In the familiar sounds of the evening, the soft light of the entrance to her home.

He had never wanted to go, but she had invited him, insisting with a tone that allowed no objection. "You deserve to relax. You don’t come enough." And so, he had come, the first time. He stayed. He left. But his mind never left that place.

y/n lived in a house full of children's laughter, hurried footsteps, and voices that never stopped. She had two younger brothers and a sister. Every time he came, they greeted him with raw enthusiasm. He remembered their first glance. They had studied him, this strange boy who seemed so different from their older sister. But they had become attached to him, like children do with a protective figure. He, who had never had that.

y/n’s parents were rarely around. Often gone for work or other obligations, like invisible shadows in y/n's life. This left a void that she filled with her kindness, her patience. Si-eun had once seen her take care of her siblings after a long school day, her hands constantly moving, her gaze always gentle and reassuring. But when she saw him, she became something else, calmer. She didn't need words to express how she felt about him. And him... he no longer needed to pretend.

The first time he had nestled against her, he hadn’t thought. He had simply given into the warmth, this warmth he had never known. She was lying on the couch, her legs curled up, and he had sat next to her, then slowly, like a child seeking protection, he had leaned in until their bodies were almost touching. y/n hadn’t said anything, but her arms had surrounded him. And, suddenly, the world stopped spinning for him. All that mattered was the beat of her heart against his own. This connection, silent but meaningful.

It became a silent ritual. After school, he spent more and more time at her place. Sometimes, he just came to be in the same room as her. Sometimes, he lay beside her, closing his eyes. Their conversations were simple, but so full of unspoken words. Talks about trivial things that, somehow, seemed to resonate with a depth he had never known.

One evening, after playing a game with her siblings, he sat next to y/n on the couch. She was reading a book, but her fingers barely touched the pages. He watched her, his eyes never leaving her face. A slight smile played on her lips. "You have tired eyes." She looked at him, a little surprised, but didn’t say anything. Then she turned toward him. "It's because I worry about you."

Her words struck his mind like a cold wind, piercing the barrier he had built. Why would she worry about him? Her, the light in his life? Her, who knew how to give without asking? Why would she have empathy for him, a boy no one wanted to see?

She felt his silence. "You know, Si-eun, I’m not that naive. I see what you’re hiding. I see that you’re tired, that you carry all of this alone." She placed a light hand on his thigh. "You don’t have to carry it all alone."

It was strange. Her words, simple, hit him with such force that it hurt. She wasn’t rejecting him. She wasn’t fleeing from that dark side of him. She accepted him. She accepted him as he was. For him, it was nothing short of a revolution. No one had ever accepted him. Not even his mother. He looked up at her, his lips trembling slightly. "I... I don’t know how to be... the person you want."

She shook her head gently, her hair swaying slightly. "I don’t want anything from you, Si-eun. I just want you. All of you."

He swallowed. She didn’t understand. Or maybe she understood more than he thought. He pulled back slightly, embarrassed. But she didn’t let him go. She gently pulled him back toward her. And, without a word, she held him in her arms. This time, he didn’t pull away. He nestled against her, tighter, longer. He let her hold him. Her arms around him were a silent promise of protection. He allowed it. He had never had this feeling of being at home, of being truly at home, in someone else’s arms.

She rocked him gently, almost as if she had known him forever. She blew softly in his hair, her hands sliding slowly over his back, soothing. "I’m not going anywhere, Si-eun. You are my home. I’ll always be here."

He felt the warmth of her breath. His heart raced in his chest. He closed his eyes, a weight on his shoulders slowly dissipating. He didn’t need words. This contact, this simple embrace, was more than anything he could have asked for. The fear of abandonment, of rejection, melted into the air. He was no longer afraid. Because y/n was there.

A kiss. Soft, light. But everything changed. Her lips met his, at first timidly, like a question with no immediate answer. Then the kiss became more urgent, more essential, as if they had both been waiting for this moment without ever daring to say it. He gave himself to her, to this warmth that had always been missing in his life.

They stayed there, in that gentle silence, in that refuge. Si-eun had never wanted to be loved. But he had needed it so much. And there, in y/n's arms, he was no longer that cold and distant boy. He was just a man, a man in love, who had found his home.

She stroked the back of his neck, slowly, without haste. He didn’t move, enjoying every second. No need for more. Just to be here, with her. She kissed him again, her lips brushing his. A kiss to tell him he wasn’t alone. A kiss to tell him he was loved.

That night, he slept in her arms. Not out of desire, but to hear her breath, to feel her warmth. He had never wanted to sleep anywhere but here, in this place where he was welcomed, loved. He didn’t have to be anyone else. He could just be himself. And he knew, deep down, that he would always be with her.

At her place. At home. Together.

Forever.

..................................................................................

Requests are open. Enjoy!

[yujisdreamgirl]

“i don’t get it.”

kuroo looks up from across you, putting his pen to the side to look at your paper. “hm?”

you furrow your eyebrows and huff, “how the hell do you balance this damn equation?”

“let me see?” kuroo makes his way to the seat beside you, leaning in closer to look at the question you’re stuck on. “this is like.. the basics.”

you groan at his remark, laying your head flat on the table. you tell him off for making you feel dumb and encouraged him to teach you instead. little does he know, you only wanted to get closer to him;3

kuroo sighs, leaning over on the table to write the equation out and break it down for you in simpler steps. he starts explaining and you act focused, but all you could concentrate on were his biceps laying right in front of you. it doesn’t help that he’s wearing a compression shirt too😵‍💫

you let out small mhm’s and nods, letting him know that you’re listening. or in this case, pretending you are.

of course, kuroo’s not dumb—he’s a damn nerd for god’s sake.

“and H in the periodic table stands for oxygen, isn’t that right?” he holds a chuckle back in once you agree with his statement, side-eyeing you side-eyeing his biceps him.

he puts the pen down, crossing his arms and turning to face you, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“what?”

“if you wanna touch my biceps you could’ve just asked.” you let out a small hiccup and looked away immediately.

“the fuck? I wasn’t looking at that.”

“yeah? were you looking at my abs then? my, y/n, how scandalous!” he laughs. you immediately shush him once you noticed everyone in the library was staring at you and even the librarian gave you warning stares.

you glare at him, cheeks burning, and swat his arm—not the bicep, though you’re painfully aware of how solid it is. “you’re the worst,” you whisper harshly, eyes darting back to the textbook in a desperate attempt to seem unbothered.

kuroo leans in, lowering his voice so only you can hear. “you’re blushing. don’t think i didn’t notice.”

you roll your eyes, flipping a page a little too aggressively. “i’m red because of secondhand embarrassment. everyone’s staring because you’re loud and obnoxious.”

he hums, clearly unconvinced. “mhmm. sure. not because i caught you eyeing me like a protein bar after leg day?”

you choke on air. he beams.

“you’re not even studying,” you mumble, trying to redirect the conversation. “what was that about hydrogen being oxygen?”

“i was testing you,” he says with full confidence. “making sure you’re paying attention. you passed, by the way. i’ll allow you to celebrate by finally admitting you’re totally into me.”

you meet his smug gaze and raise a brow. “i’ll celebrate by shoving my foot down your throat. how ‘bout that?”

“feisty.” his grin widens, “just my type.”

you shove your notebook between you two like a shield, muttering something about regretting every life choice that led you here—but your smile gives your true feelings away.

and kuroo knows it.

͙͘͡★ dividers by @enchanthings & @hyuneskkami 🏐

[3verythingiknowaboutlove]

the limit does not exist!

how spencer helps college!reader understand a little calculus and therefore understand how he loves her.

MDNI | smut word count: 1931 warnings & tags & stuff: fem reader, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), lil bit of overstim hehe, pure unbridled affection, LOVE, FLUFF, hugging, reader cries, this was in fact meant to be written for spence's birthday... sorry about that school is kicking my butt lets just pretend it's october! author's note: this one is for my folks who HATE their calculus class and want spencer reid to give them head instead <3 maybe this can help you romanticize it a bit. i think this is classified as self indulgent…like REALLY self indulgent… hah... anyway i hope you enjoy! let me know your thoughts if u have any, i loveeeee you!! have a great day my hands are shaking posting this smut is so scary!!!!!

You sat in bed, staring down your notebook, eyes narrowed. Limits stared back at you. You were just about at your own limit, if you were being honest. 

Your brain, however sharp and witty it may be, is absolutely not one designed for calculus. A literary analysis essay? Done in half an hour. In depth scientific research project? Easiest months of your life. But there’s something about finding the instantaneous rate of change of a curve at one point in time by finding the slope of a tangent line that hasn't clicked yet. 

A slew of other papers- notes, practice worksheets printed from obscure websites, and formulas- surround you, a sea of unfinished thoughts from the past month of the semester.

You bite on the end of your pen, the little hope you had for a good grade in this class slipping further and further away with each passing moment, like the last ember dying in the remains of a fire.

What you really wanted to be doing was celebrating Spencer’s birthday with him right now. A chocolate cake lay on the kitchen counter and pasta simmers on the stove, but you and your boyfriend had agreed to do a solid hour of work before the celebrations ensued.

You were never particularly strong willed when it came to following through on such agreements.

“Teach me calculus,” you say, a very impressive three minutes later, flopping down on the couch. Your head makes its way to its forever resting spot, Spencer’s lap. He raises his eyebrows slightly, thumb reaching out to trace over the slope of your nose. His eyes flit between you and the file to the side of him. 

“I thought we agreed on an hour.”

“Yeah. But it wouldn’t be a very productive hour if I didn’t know how to do what I have to do. And I missed you.” 

He sighs quietly, closing the file next to him. 

“What do you not understand?” You smile at that, loving how quickly you won.

“Related rates. Like, conceptually.” 

Spencer hums in response.

“It’s October. You’re not even supposed to know related rates yet.”

“Fine. Then let's open presents,” you respond, smiley. His eyebrows get impossibly higher, hand stroking your cheek delicately.

“No. I want our night to be a little more stress free when we celebrate, okay? How about you think about that lovely cake you made for me. What if I decided to squash it so that the diameter would get bigger, going from…let’s say, 20 centimeters to 26 centimeters in 3 seconds, and the height would get smal-”

“That wouldn't be nice. It took me like four hours,” you interrupt, grumbling. He cracks a smile.

“For the sake of the example, let's say I was an awful boyfriend and really wanted to ruin all the hard work you put in for me.”

You roll your eyes.

“Hey,” he says, hand moving down to touch your jaw softly. “Don’t do that. Don’t be difficult. I’m helping you.”

“Sorry. I guess I need you to zoom out a little. I don’t really get why I’m learning this as a whole.” Spencer’s eyes pore into yours, staring down at you adoringly for a small moment as he comes up with an answer.

“Calculus helps us begin to explain the unexplainable by harnessing what we can,” Spencer says simply. “Einstein once said that, ‘Pure mathematics is, in its way, the poetry of logical ideas,’ which makes it simple in practice, but I actually like to think about it as the opposite philosophically. Trying to find logic in the more poetic ideas.”

You cuddle deeper in his lap.

“Think he would agree with that?” you ask. “I do answer to Einstein before you, unfortunately.” Spencer bends down to kiss your hair.

“I think so. He also had a really nice quote where he remarked that, ‘Gravitation cannot be held responsible for people falling in love.’ He said, ‘How on earth can you explain in terms of chemistry and physics so important a biological phenomenon as first love? Put your hand on a stove for a minute and it seems like an hour. Sit with that special girl for an hour and it seems like a minute. That's relativity.’”

Spencer takes a deep breath.

“Math doesn’t explain how I love you. It can’t. But I love the fact that it tries to. It kinda makes you wanna learn it as best you can.”

You process that for a long second and nod. He keeps talking.

… 

Presents get opened, and cake gets eaten before dinner. Of course.

You’re now in bed, on top of the covers, forcing Spencer to give you a fashion show of the new sweater vest and tie you got him. He turns to you after putting it on, and you beam. 

“I really like it. You look great. Do you like it?” you ask. He nods, smiling back at you.

“I’m gonna wear it to work tomorrow.” 

You beckon for Spencer to come closer, sitting up in bed. Your hands go out to the tie, tugging at the knot softly. He stares down at you until eventually interrupting your motions with a slow kiss, hands cupping your face.

“You’re so pretty,” he mutters.

He pulls away and finishes what you started, folding the tie neatly and setting it in the drawer. Then comes the vest, and soon enough, he’s just in his boxers.

“You’re the pretty one,” you say quietly. “Come to bed.” He crawls on next to you, tugging you into his arms. “Happy birthday, Spence. I love you.” He dips his forehead to your shoulder.

“I love you.”

Before you know it, he’s shifted on top of you, moving down. Fast. You blink, hard, trying to rid your head of the hazy endorphins as you register what he’s doing.

“What? No, I was gonna do that. It’s your birthday. You don’t have to,” you protest.

“But I really, really want to, darling girl,” he murmurs back, kissing your knee and softly pushing it to the side.

You fluster and Spencer just looks at you, fingers tracing shapes on your waist, waiting for you to be ready. 

“Well. Um. Okay. If you insist. I can’t really deny the birthday boy.” Your voice is small, and a little giddy smile grows on your face. Of course Spencer Reid would want to give you head on his birthday. 

He smiles a little against the bare skin of your hip where your top meets your shorts. Then he meets your eyes. 

“You know you can, though, right?” he asks, voice a little more serious. You reach out to touch his hair softly. 

“Yeah. I know.”

Fingers hook your shorts, gently pulling them down. He presses a kiss to your thigh, and then he suddenly looks down at it. 

“Soft,” he murmurs, like he’s making a mental note. He presses another, and another, incrementally going closer and closer to your soaked through underwear. His eyebrows scrunch when he sees the wet spot. “All this from a few kisses?” 

You blush, unable to respond. 

Spencer’s fingers hook a centimeter of your underwear. “These?” he checks.

“Yes, please,” you manage. He tugs them down, silently noticing the slickness of your sex, and exhales shakily.

“How many times on average does it take for a guy to call you pretty on a given day before you get annoyed?” he murmurs, soft smile playing on his face. You smile too, head cloudy from his words, but it immediately drops when his lips press directly against your pulsing clit, kissing it softly.

“Fuck,” you say (Spencer would argue moan) softly (loudly). You let out a content sigh, and he moves to suckle it, actions becoming less and less delicate. 

It’s not harsh, but incessant. Spencer knows what you can take. He knows exactly what you can take. You’re both quiet for a bit, save for your breathy moans. 

“Spencer,” you say softly, ripping you both out of your individually hazy and dirty and distracted minds. “You’re too far away.” He looks up to you, face parallel to your aching core, hair beautifully messy and mouth glistening.

After a second, he grabs your hips, gently pushing you up against the pillows so you’re propped up at a better angle. He then shifts his body up wordlessly so he’s more above you, dipping his head down to give you a soft kiss. You taste yourself, tongue darting out to lick your lips.

His hand takes over where his mouth was, sliding in between your folds with a practiced ease. Spencer looks down at you, eyes wide and flitting between yours, searching for a reaction.

You reach out and wrap your arms around him, holding him close. “Holy shit, I love you,” you murmur.

His fingers lightly graze your clit again before one slides into you. “Angel,” he breathes out, so quietly. “I love you too. This okay? Are you okay?”

You nod feverishly and lift your hips to meet his hand, always in a perpetual state of wanting more, to be closer. Your bodies are melded so close together, barely giving him room to push his hand into you. He doesn’t even bother to ask you to use your words or keep your hips down, like he might on a regular night.

He pulls his head back to watch as he pushes another finger into you, stretching you just a little. “There we go. You always feel like heaven around me.”

Your eyes flit up to his face as he says those words, now having a little more room to observe him. You focus on the slope of his nose and curve of his mouth. 

“You’re so perfect,” you say quietly, adoringly, before you even realize it was true.

You blink at that thought. Spencer Reid is perfect, despite whatever universal odds deeming that impossible.

Those graphs, those formulas, now laying discarded & crumpled on the ground. They click, a little bit. You understand why Albert Einstein wanted to spend his life developing theories of relativity.

This is how Spencer sees you? What he was talking about earlier?

This is how he sees you?

The thought is almost too much.

Spencer sees your face, and not knowing what's going on in your head, slides down his free hand from your cheek to your carotid, feeling your racing pulse. “Take a deep breath for me, okay? You're about to come, huh?”

You inhale and are met with peace. Then your orgasm hits you like a wave. You clench hard around his fingers, and he just watches it happen, fascinated. “Baby,” he coos softly at you.

It wasn’t just your sensitivity he’s currently maximizing on or the little kisses he dips down to leave on your neck that sealed the deal, but the very thought that you could be loved in a way that is so perfectly impossible.

You exhale breathily as Spencer pushes you through the last trails of your climax, fingers not caring one bit that you just had your world tilted on its axis. 

“Spencer. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod,” you say eventually, overstimulated.

“You’re okay. Did so good.” he murmurs, fingers slipping out of you. 

His thumb brushes your cheek, wiping away a tear you didn't even realize was dripping down.

“Don’t cry, you always cry. It’s my birthday. Don’t cry on my birthday,” he whispers soothingly, affection lacing his voice.

“I’m not.” 

Another one falls. 

You reach and press out that perpetual little slope between his eyebrows with your thumb, gentle, like you might break him. “I’m not crying.”

Spencer lets you lie.

[heirloomgem]

Infatuation Series

Summary: Small snippets and cute scenes on your crush on Sung Jinwoo and how Sung Jinwoo courts and wins over you in high school after using the cup of reincarnation.

His sole purpose in this life is to win your heart, become your faithful husband, and have you be the mother of his children. No one else but you. (Mini chapters)

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything except for my characters and plot.

Warning/Genre: OOC, Romance, fluff, high school life (Sorry for the miss grammar)

Chapter 1: Chances

Lately, you have been too flustered for your own good but that’s because you’ve started liking someone.

In a classroom filled with students, the sound of pens scratching on paper echoed as students took notes while listening to their teacher.

Some people were diligent, some were dozing off and some were distracted, and you were among them.

Twirling your pen in one hand and leaning on the other, you did your best to listen to the lesson.

However, the calm spring breeze coming through the window seemed to lull you, and your mind gradually began to drift away.

Slowly, your eyes were closing.

Just as you were about to nod off, you caught yourself and quickly straightened up. Opening the back of your notebook you opted to doodle so you won't fall asleep.

It begins with a flower, followed by a bear, a knight's helmet, dragon wings, a dagger and various other unusual and unrelated items until finally you unconsciously draw a chibi version of him.

You felt your cheeks heat up.

Sung Jinwoo.

A second-year student in your high school, whom you started liking recently.

He was your senior by a year as you were in your first year. He was one of the handsome, popular and competent students in your school that most girls fawn over and for boys to idolize.

Like most girls in your school, you were no different from them, who accidentally glanced at him and were instantly smitten.

Foolishly and stupidly smitten.

You didn't know why, but after catching a glimpse of his soft black hair reminiscent of the night, his slender yet beautiful grey eyes, framed by long eyelashes, and his lips, which had a slight reddish tint.

That day, a deep sense of familiarity surged within you. Those feelings captured you and he entangled you with his very being without hesitation.

Even to this day, just remember that moment and how your eyes met made your body heat up, your cheeks flush and a deep aching echo inside you.

Finishing your doodle, you took a moment to admire your drawing of him.

Even though it's just a silly drawing, you couldn't help but caress his small face. A sweet smile appeared on your lips before shaking your head, catching yourself.

Looking at the front, you let out a sigh of relief when you saw that the teacher and your classmates didn't catch you making a silly face out of nowhere and were focused on the lesson instead.

You didn't want anyone, particularly your teacher, to catch you daydreaming especially when your mind wandered toward your silly little crush or else with just a slip everyone in your school would talk about it no doubt and soon he would hear about it.

Just imagining his uncomfortable expression made you shudder, scared and embarrassed.

There's no way you would be able to endure such humiliation if such a thing were ever to happen.

Slapping yourself awake, you flip your notes back and resume jotting down points.

Soon the bell rang, signalling for a break.

You gratefully took the time to stretch your stiff body, worn from sitting in class for almost half of the day. Hearing your bones crack, you let out a sigh of relief, you turn toward your friend before happily inviting her to go out and buy some snacks.

Walking down the hallways while talking to your friend, you furtively give a few glances at his classroom as you pass it. Hoping to catch a glance of him.

However, it seems that luck wasn't on your side, as you didn't even see a glimpse of his clothes. A sense of sadness envelops you, leaving you disheartened.

Unfortunately, you weren’t in the same class or year as him so there were only a few times when you could see him.

Although you envy the students that were in the same year as him, that didn’t dismay you from time to time to wander the hallways of his classroom to try to catch sight of him.

This was one of the few times you hoped to see him, but it seemed the gods were not in your favour today.

You haven't seen nor heard of him at all throughout the morning and now it's already past noon.

You were hoping to at least even just once, you would see him.

Glumly choosing some snacks, you paid right away and waited for your friend's turn before the both of you walked back to your classroom.

Your head hung low as you considered the rest of the day would be unmotivated and restless due to not seeing him.

You wonder why you weren't born in the same year as him. If you had been, you might have had the chance to be with him that year or, even better, have him as your classmate instead of your senior.

Probably because you were too busy weeping childishly, you didn't pay enough attention to where you were going, causing you to crash into someone.

Expecting the painful impact, you held your breath when suddenly, you felt a strong hand holding your waist and pulling you into a warm embrace, steadying your fall.

With your heart racing from fright and still dazed from the incident, it took you a moment to come to your senses before you looked up, ready to apologize.

But your eyes widened instead, your tongue stuck in your throat, and not a word came out.

You felt your face blush uncontrollably, and your whole body trembled. This time, you knew your heart was racing not from fright, but from the nervousness of your crush's sudden appearance.

Standing face to face with your crush, Sung Jinwoo, you could feel his breath as your faces were close to each other, his head bent down, looking at you.

“I’m sorry. Are you alright?” He asked as he gave you a worried look while you, in turn, could only look at him with your mouth wide open.

Both of your friends, who saw the whole situation stood frozen.

For one, your friend knows who your crush is while the other was bewildered with the whole situation.

Lifting his eyes, Sung Jinwoo’s eyebrow furrowed, concerned in his beautiful grey eyes, then brought a hand to touch your forehead which was now red from the earlier collision with his back.

“Your forehead’s bruised. We should go to the infirmary.” He murmured as he caressed your forehead.

Feeling his gentle touch, you snap out of your bewilderment and start rambling nonsensically, your arms flailing, your voice squeaking, and your face all messed up.

You couldn't help but cry in your heart.

Of all times, your bad luck just has to kick you when you least expected it and now you're making a fool of yourself in front of him.

Worst of all you just showed him yourself gawking at him unreservedly.

Not taking it anymore and embarrassed from head to toe, you immediately took your friend’s hand, apologizing before dashing away from the awkward situation.

You’re sure not only your face but your whole body is red as a tomato. Your back sweating profusely.

You’ve always imagined countless scenarios in your head. If you ever got the chance to talk to him, you would act smoothly and gracefully, ensuring that not a hint of your crush would show.

But now! BUT NOW!

You cried in despair.

God! You wish you could burrow yourself in a hole.

You were just grateful that only the four of you were in the hallway; otherwise, not only would you be mortified by your embarrassment, but you were certain that his fans would be furious with you for getting too close to him. And for sure you would be dead meat by the end of the day.

You were so grateful that wasn't the case.

As you and your friend were still running toward your class, a shameless thought popped into your mind, causing your once-red face to turn even redder.

Even though it was but a moment, you shamelessly recalled how his body felt against you.

His body was hard and built.

If you bet with anyone that he absolutely has abs even though he's only a high schooler, you will surely win.

With your mind clouded by immoral thoughts, you didn't notice the classroom door was closed, resulting in you running into it.

A loud sound echoed down the hallway, causing your friend to yelp in concern at your unhinged state.

You muttered a whole storm of curses under your breath.

You're certain the gods intended for you to die in shame today, leaving no corpse behind.

Meanwhile...

As Jinwoo watched you run off, he chuckled, his ears turning red from your cute reaction. After all this time, he had finally reunited with you.

He is eagerly looking forward to the days when you two can finally be together again.

A/N: Ahh, the taste of high school crushes! It’s so fresh but SO cringe at the same time, I couldn’t help but look back at my past crushes. SO CRINGE AND YET SO BITTER AND SO GOOD! Lol!🤣

Anyway, Sorry for the late post. Life has been too busy though I hope you enjoyed this fanfic!

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