#first time working without a set pattern

[phaeolepiotaaurea]

Hi have you met my baby? She’s curing my seasonal depression ✨

[yourlocalmushroom]

All Seeing

DpxDc

Bruce Wayne had been many things in his life: billionaire, businessman, vigilante, father. But a long-lost uncle? That was a new one.

The SOS from a small town in Illinois had sent him racing against time, but he had been too late. An accident had taken the lives of an unknown distant cousin and their entire family—except for one. The sole survivor was a boy named Danny, left blind from the incident. When Bruce had arrived, he saw no other option but to take him in, to give him the support he needed.

Months passed, and Danny quickly found a place within the Wayne family. He was kind, gentle, and an overall bright presence in the manor. But grief had its way of clinging to people, and Danny was no exception. He had his sad days, times when he retreated into himself and let silence be his shield. Even so, the Batfamily took to him, each in their own way.

There was just one thing about him that none of them could ignore: he gives out cryptic warnings.

It had started small. He would mention the weather, and it would turn exactly as he said. He would casually hand someone an item—a band aid, an extra set of gloves, a lucky charm—and say, "Be careful." And without fail, later that day, they would end up needing it. It might have been coincidences at first, but the pattern grew undeniable.

Danny could see the future. Or, at least, something close to it.

The family, skeptics that they were, had tried to prove otherwise. They set up small tests, all of which Danny passed without even realizing he was being tested. Eventually, they stopped trying to disprove it and started trying to understand it instead. Bruce, being Bruce, documented everything. Tim, ever the investigator, compiled data. Damian remained skeptical but watched his cousin with a hawk’s eye.

Then Danny was kidnapped.

It had been a random act—a desperate group of criminals seeking to ransom Bruce Wayne’s newest ward. They had no idea what they had walked into. The moment Danny went missing, the Batfamily mobilized. It was Red Robin who found him first.

Tim had worked swiftly, dismantling the criminals with precision, tying them up before they even had a chance to process what was happening. He had moved quietly, intent on assessing Danny’s condition before alerting the others. But before he could even speak, Danny, bound and blindfolded, tilted his head slightly and murmured, "...Tim?"

Tim froze.

It wasn’t a confident statement; it was uncertain, questioning. But Danny, who should have had no way of knowing, knows.

[teaboot]

I've never had a cat before and I'm hoping to get one soon. Do you have any advice?

Treat a new cat as you would a new roommate. Give them space and time to settle, establish a pattern and a rhythm, and in time they may choose to become friends and spend time with you. Dont force a friendship.

Use simple words and repetition to establish communication. Words like breakfast, treat, snack, lunch, supper, dinner, food, and eat all basically mean, "I am feeding you; expect to be fed", but it's a lot for a little guy to remember. I just say "Dinner" when I mean "cat food is coming", and so my boy knows exactly what I mean when I say it. As a plus, using only one word for snack time means he has no idea what the other words mean, so I can talk about food in front of him without ruling him up.

Pay attention to body language. Cats all have different personalities, and you'll learn their likes, dislikes, and messages over time this way. Son boy here loves anything with plumbing but dislikes getting wet- his favourite blanket to chew and snuggle goes on his favourite chair, and he gives me a specific gesture when he wants me to kneel down so he can jump onto my shoulder.

Read into problematic behaviour. Cats pee in weird places when they're hurting, in distress, or have insufficient of unclean litter box space. Biting, attacking feet , and knocking things off tables often means they're understimulated and need you to play with them, or at least need some kind of enrichment or puzzle to tackle. Tail flicking can be frustration or irritation. Purring is usually good, but may also be self-soothing behaviour to alleviate pain, encourage healing, and relieve anxiety, like over-grooming.

Like children, "bad" behaviour isn't malicious- it usually means there's something you aren't seeing.

Learn how your cat expresses love. Loads of people think cats are uncaring, cruel, and indifferent, but the truth is, they're just not dogs. Spending time near you, showing an interest in tools you're using or projects you're working on, sitting the way you sit, laying on their back, rubbing on your legs, wiping their face on your shoes when you get home- these are signs that your cat is enamored with you. You're their family, they feel safe and protected around you, they're curious about things you enjoy and want everyone to know you're family.

Set reasonable expectations. Again, cats are not dogs.We bred dogs to desire our approval- cats walked into our lives themselves. They have no human-programmed need to fulfill a duty or perform a task to your standards.

Training cats to do tricks isn't as hard as people say, but the willingness or interest in doing the trick is more heavily reliant on personality and mood. Some cats will refuse all but the most basic requests- I'm lucky in that Ollie understands and is willing to do several, provided I don't abuse his trust and he's not crowded or overwhelmed or just bored of doing it over and over in a short period.

Ollie, for example, knows Up to stand on his back legs and hold my hand, Down to get to a surface I indicate, Out to emerge from a closed space, Come to find me where I am, Help? when I'm offering to let him use me as an elevator, Dinner when I understand he's hungry and am getting food, and when I put on his collar he knows to climb into his carrier 'cause we're going somewhere. And he'll do any of these about 90% of the time, either ignoring me or phoning it in when there's something interesting somewhere else, or if he's feeling anxious.

Lead by example. If you dread taking them to the vet, they'll see the anxiety in your body language and behaviour and likely learn to hate it, too. Again using my guy an example, I starred taking him on walks long before his first vet appointment, just to get used to his carrier and leash. Then his first checkup was relaxed and informal, with plenty of treats, and I let him explore the examination room with permission from the tech. Now he loves going, so I'm not stressed about taking him, so I don't stress him out in turn, and the vest doesn't have to deal with a stressed out cat slowing things down and fighting with them.

Make sure your sources are good ones, and also good ones for you. I will recommend Jackson Galaxy's YouTube channel for cat advice because a lot of what he does matches up with what I've learned and know to be true. I don't personally recommend Ceasar Milan because I personally find his methods distressing to recreate regardless of efficacy, so even if that advice was useful, *I'd* be miserable, and it'd just be trading one issue for another.

Have a person who can help. You never know when you might end up out of town overnight unexpectedly, or when your place may need serviced or fumigated, or if you may be called out of town. Before getting a cat, research reliable pet sitters, house sitters, pet daycares, whatever, just in case.

Consider pet insurance. No long spiel here, just think about it. Especially if you don't know your cats ancestry or potenyial health risks. An on top of that, fucking vaccinate them.

Dont let them free roam. At all.

I grew up on a farm with free-roaming barn cats. Do you know how many times child-me cried over having to bury them? Illness, disease, pregnancy, vehicles, other territorial cats, ticks, fleas, litter, poisoned prey, malicious humans, local wildlife, predatory birds, scrap metal, extreme heat, freezing temperatures, tainted water sources, poisonous or venomous critters, getting stuck in small or high places, tapeworms, loose nails, old equipment, falling branches...

I've seen some truly body-horror slasher-movie shit- just truly nauseating visual fuckery- and I'm telling you not to let your cat free-roam.

Leash training isn't hard. Supervised walks aren't hard. Even keeping your cat physically fit and entertained indoors isn't an impossible feat. Don't let your fucking cat fucking free-roam. Fuck

Also read up on foods and plants cats can't do, like every houseplant in existence is toxic it's insane

Anyhow yeah that's like. A couple things I guess

Here, have an Ollie Pic

[beloveds-embrace]

Thinking about designationless reader...

Imagine how alone she must've been for all her life. It started since she was young, her parents pushing her to the corner of the home, away from the family, and naturally, her siblings would follow their parents' lead, pointedly ignoring her, and finding any excuse available to be out of her presence. She wouldn't understand them anyway, she can't tell the difference between noises nor could she even recognize scents. It just wouldn't work.

Reader thinks that maybe she could find someone, anyone in school, but kids are like sharks, except instead of smelling blood, they smell the lack of all scents on her. Most kids have a combination of their own and their family members' scents. Reader has nothing, so everyone continues the pattern, but now with more stares and jeers and hushed giggles. Reader knows that bullying is bad, but anything would be better than simply not existing to anyone. That's what the others say, at least, that she's nothing, nobody. Never to her face, though, just in the whispers shared between friends.

She eventually tries to find others like her through the wonders of the internet. There's maybe a handful more scattered in her country, but none are her age, and all have their own families who care about them. Was it just her who wasn't deserving of love, of connection? Reader reaches out to them, and they talk a little, but before long, through no one's fault, it falls through. She was bad at talking anyway, even if she doesn't have to worry about scents or sounds that aren't there, she never knew much about context or connotation. She never had the opportunity to learn about the intricacies in communication. Reader is back alone.

The military eventually scouts her, and it's the first time anyone has ever really looked at her. Sure, they look at her like a valuable tool, but a tool is better than nothing. Reader obviously joins, desperate for crumbs. She climbs the ranks, gets the job done. She is good at her job, so people respect her. She learns how to talk professionally, emails, texts, and so one, but no one talks to her on leave. No one invites her to the pub after a good mission. No one even talks to her in the mess. But people do talk to her when they have to, and that's enough. Maybe she even gets a callsign. Doe. After Jane Doe, the placeholder name for unknown individuals, and insult if anything.

Now there's the 141. They invite her to things. They talk to her. They touch her. Reader exists for them. She isn't just an unknown person stuck in the background and invisible to everyone else, and Reader doesn't know what to do. Her speech is awkward and overly professional, even in personal settings. How is she supposed to be friends with someone, multiple someones? How is she supposed to move? To act? To express? She doesn't know, but she really wants to learn. At least now she has good teachers.

ANON YOU GENIUSSSS okay but this? Perfect. AHHHH I ADORE THIS IDEA!! Esp the jane doe callsign omg yes

You weren’t used to being seen.

Growing up, you learned quickly how to make yourself small- how to exist quietly, without taking up space, without asking for too much. Because the few times you had asked- asked for a hug, asked to be let into the nest, asked why you felt so different- the answers had all been the same.

No.

Not now.

Not you.

It wasn’t that your parents didn’t love you. You were sure they did, in their own way. But love was hard to feel when your mother flinched at your touch like you were something disgusting, when your father sighed like he was tired every time you entered the room as if you were taking up space he was saving for his other children. When your siblings built their nests without you, curling into piles of warmth and safety while you sat outside the door, knees pulled to your chest and hands balled into fists to keep them from knocking, a cold ache burrowing itself in your chest.

You stopped knocking eventually.

You stopped trying.

You used to wonder if you’d done something wrong- if maybe you could fix yourself and everything would go back to normal. But it wasn’t something you could fix. It was just… you.

Scentless.

Designationless.

Invisible.

School had been worse, perhaps the worst. At least your family had pretended not to notice how different you were. The other kids didn’t bother pretending. They stared openly, whispered behind your back, laughed when you walked by. You’d caught bits and pieces of what they said- weird, wrong, broken, as if they hoped by having you hear their words, they’d convince you to leave at last.

You’d started keeping your head down after that, slipping through the halls like a shadow. No one talked to you unless they had to, and even then they either did it with a mocking, jeering tone that echoes in your nightmares or with a meek tone; as if your lack of everything is contagious. No one sat next to you at lunch, either. When partners were assigned, you always ended up working alone per your teachers’ instructions.

It was easier that way.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

By the time you joined the military, you’d gotten good at being alone. You didn’t need friends. Didn’t need packmates. You had work, and work didn’t care if you were quiet or awkward or too stiff to laugh at the right jokes. Work didn’t care if you flinched when people got too close or froze when someone raised their voice. Work demanded to be done, and you had nothing and no one to stop you from that.

But the military also has the same teens who used to bully you so consistently. Rookies all to ready and happy to lord over you. It’s how you get your despised callsign, Doe. Jane Doe. A cruel mockery, comedy wherein you are the joke that has the world laughing.

Still, you wear it. It’s still an acknowledgment and that will always be better than never being seen. You flit from team to team, unit to unit, always an observer from afar, watching everyone around you speak a language you can’t.

But the 141 was different, when you eventually end up working for them.

They cared.

They cared in ways you weren’t ready for.

Soap was relentless, dragging you into conversations even when you barely knew what to say. He filled the silences like it didn’t bother him, kept talking for the both of you, lounging against you unbothered, until you started talking back. Gaz was gentlest, steadier. He never pushed, just lingered close enough to remind you he was there, waiting, whenever you were ready. Quiet, silent acceptance you’d never been given before, and you were yet far too afraid to so easily cling to it.

And the Alphas- Price and Ghost- were worse.

Price had a way of looking at you that made your chest ache, like he saw you, really saw you, and didn’t mind what he found. Scentless, with no designation and all. Ghost was quieter, sharper, but his eyes tracked you everywhere, presence wrapping around you like he was staking a claim you didn’t understand, like he was teying to etch every part of you behind his eyelids.

You didn’t know what to do with it.

They didn’t give you space. They sat next to you at meals, tugged you along when they went out for drinks, called you over during breaks like it was the most natural thing in the world. And it felt natural- until it didn’t, because sometimes you still felt like an outsider.

Like you didn’t belong.

You tried to hide it, but they saw through you. They always did, and they never shied away.

When you started avoiding the mess hall, it was Gaz who caught you, shoving a plate of food into your hands and dragging you to sit with him like it wasn’t a big deal. When you hung back during missions, letting the others fall into their pack dynamics without you, Soap was the one who looped an arm around your shoulders and pulled.

And when you flinched, once, at the sharp sound of someone’s voice echoing down the hall- when you tensed so hard it made your fingers tremble- it was Price who closed the distance, standing in front of you like a wall and letting Ghost linger at your back. Neither of them said a word.

They didn’t have to.

You weren’t used to being protected. You weren’t used to belonging.

But they made it hard not to.

[cece693]

Just something short I thought of—sad Bucky because he thinks reader is planning on leaving him or just doesn't love him anymore. Like, you're ignoring him (not on purpose), but that makes the man go down a spiral of doubts which leads to comfort. It's definitely shorter than my other works, but I hope you enjoy it!

Did I Do Something Wrong?

pairing: bucky barnes x gender neutral reader tags: sad bucky, misunderstandings, reader is just busy, I promise, comfort, fluff all the way, short little fic, might even be considered an imagine

Bucky tried not to let the little things get to him. The first time you brushed his hand aside, you’d been running on only a couple hours of sleep. After returning from a week-long mission, you were bone-tired—so you mumbled a distracted “Sorry,” shut your eyes, and promptly drifted off. Bucky told himself not to worry. You were exhausted, that was all.

But days passed, and the pattern persisted.

The next time he reached for you—lightly resting his palm on your waist while you scrolled through mission logs—you shrugged him off without a second glance. Then there were the mornings he woke up alone, the bed already cooling on your side by the time he blinked blearily at the clock. You were usually a late riser, but now? You were gone before the sun had fully climbed the sky. Sure, you’d told him you liked to get a head start on the day, to train or do paperwork, but it still left Bucky feeling abandoned.

And then there was Natasha.

Bucky had caught you and Nat in a quiet corner of the common room, laughing together, your heads bent in conspiratorial whispers. From a distance, it looked so intimate. He tried not to imagine the worst—he trusted you, he knew Nat was a close friend—but old insecurities, the remnants of a lifetime of trust issues, began to creep up. If you were distant from him, but so playful and close with Natasha…maybe your feelings had changed.

It all came to a head late one night when you finally tumbled into bed after a punishing day. Bucky was waiting for you, eyes filled with longing, an unspoken plea hidden in the furrow of his brow. You settled under the covers, practically collapsing into the pillows. You felt Bucky shift closer, his arms trying to wrap around your waist—but you were so groggy you hardly registered it. Without meaning to, you scooted away, giving yourself room to breathe.

It was enough to break him.

“Do I—” Bucky started, then swallowed hard, heart pounding. “Do I disgust you now?”

The sheer pain in his voice made you crack open your eyes. You squinted at him, your exhaustion making things blurry for a moment. His expression was drenched in equal parts hurt and fear. The exhaustion clinging to your brain cleared in an instant as alarm and confusion set in.

“Bucky,” you murmured, voice heavy with fatigue, “why would you say that?”

“I don’t know.” He let out a rough exhale and ran his metal hand through his hair. “You never let me touch you anymore, you brush me off, you’re gone before I wake up. Half the time, I see you with Natasha instead. I just—I can’t figure out what I did, and it’s killing me.”

Your heart twisted as you finally registered the desperation in his eyes. He looked so lost, like a man expecting the worst. Pushing yourself upright, you shifted closer until your knees bumped against his hip, your gaze locked on his.

“Bucky,” you said softly, leaning in to brush a thumb over his cheek. “I’m not—I would never want to push you away. I haven’t been avoiding you on purpose.”

“But you are,” he insisted, voice small. It cracked a little on the last word. “You keep brushing me off, you don’t let me hold you. I…I don’t understand.”

You inhaled, guilt gnawing at your stomach as you realized how it must have looked from his perspective. “I’m so sorry,” you breathed. “I’ve just been so worn down. Between missions, late-night meetings, and a sleepless schedule, I’ve been running on fumes.” Your hand cupped his jaw, urging him to look right at you.

“I wake up early because…well, I know how important rest is for you. With the nightmares and everything, you don’t always sleep that well, and I didn’t want to risk waking you. So I figured if I slipped out quietly, you could stay under for a few more hours, maybe get some real rest.”

He blinked, startled. “You—You left so I could sleep better?”

“Yeah,” you said, your voice soft with apology. “You’re not disgusting to me. Far from it. I’m just so drained that half the time I don’t even realize I’m brushing you off. I’m on autopilot.” You sighed, pressing your palm against the place where his flesh arm met his shoulder. “As for Nat, we’re just close, like you and Steve. She’s been checking in on me, and I’ve been venting to her about mission stress. That’s all.”

Bucky’s posture loosened. You could see the confusion in his eyes giving way to fragile relief. Still, the ache in his voice lingered as he asked, “So, you’re not fed up with me? You’re not looking for a reason to leave?”

“No,” you vowed. “I love you. I’m sorry I made you think otherwise. I’ve just been overwhelmed—no excuse, I know, but I promise, it’s not you.” You gently pulled him closer, letting him lean against you. “I’ll always need you, Bucky. Never doubt that.”

He closed his eyes, exhaling the breath he seemed to have been holding for days. Quietly, he brought a tentative hand to your waist, as if checking if it was really okay to hold you. Instead of moving away, you leaned your weight into him, letting your body mold to his.

You pressed a kiss to his temple. “I’m still tired, but not too tired to show you how much I care.” Wrapping your arms around him, you rubbed slow circles between his shoulder blades, hoping to soothe his lingering fears. “Just let me make it up to you, okay?”

Bucky managed a small, wobbly smile, eyes burning with unshed tears of relief. “You don’t have to make up anything,” he murmured. “Just let me know what going on. Even if you have to leave in the morning, wake me up first. Tell me, so I know it’s not because you don’t want me around.”

A rush of warmth spread through your chest. “Deal,” you agreed, brushing your nose lightly against his.

With that reassurance hanging like a comforting blanket between you, Bucky allowed himself to settle into the bed, your arms wound safely around him. Soon enough, your shared warmth and the quiet of the night eased the frantic anxiety in his chest. He pressed his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling that familiar scent that reminded him you were his—and that no amount of exhaustion or misunderstandings could ever truly sever the bond you two shared.

In the morning, you did wake him up, gently this time. You had a briefing in a few hours, but before you left, you let him know—forehead pressed to his, your heart full of affection. Bucky watched you go with a subdued smile, heart so much lighter than it had been before.

[plethorawrites]

Habits they break for you.

Bruce: His worst habit is the fact that he's utterly and completely unable to stop working for longer than 4 hours. And that's only because that's how long he sleeps each time. Learning to put down a file or let one of his kids handle something kills him at first, but for you, he learns.

Dick: His worst habit is his sleep. It's obscure. Unlike most of his family, who at the very least have some set pattern, he can never fall asleep at the same time two nights in a row. He'll go to sleep at 3 am one night, 6 am the next, sometimes pull an all nighter altogether. Learning to set his alarm and actually get up at the same time each day is frustrating as hell, but it's worth it if you're actually there when he wakes up instead of already at work.

Jason: His worst habit is smoking. Well, really it's the self destructive nature he embodies so well. But second to that, it's how many packs of cigarettes he goes through a week. You hate it. It gets to the point you cough when he tries to hug you. So, despite the withdrawal of it, he quits. And he thinks you don't even notice, at first. But you do. You hold him tighter, kiss him more often, and get to breathe him in without the smell making you wrinkle your nose.

[darkmatilda]

𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐟𝐟 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: spencer needs your help examining a crucial piece of evidence...but the moment he sees you, his mind goes blah blah blah...proper name, place name, backstory stuff...

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist! female reader, same reader as in pick your poison but you don’t need to read that first—there aren’t any major references, suggestion that the reader engages in casual hook ups, reader has a belly button piercing and a described outfit, spencer's pov only

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 2k

𝐚/𝐧: requested by @trulymadlydarling it was slowly gathering dust in my inbox 😭 sorry!

"I think the threshold of my lab isn't exactly the best place for camping."

A woman's silhouette cast a shadow over Spencer as she appeared right above him in the dimly lit hallway.

Spencer sighed in frustration and hauled himself to his feet. As he brushed off his pants, he kept his eyes off the woman in front of him.

"Well, I didn't think you'd make me wait fifty-eight—"

"Oh, just say the hour. Is rounding numbers really that hard for you?" she scoffed, her voice carrying a trace of genuine curiosity. She swiped her access card, unlocking the door to the lab. With her back turned to him, he took in her appearance—an oversized fur coat draped over her shoulders, a designer handbag hanging from one arm. His gaze drifted downward, and to his surprise, he noticed…pajama pants and slippers?

"You should be grateful I even bothered to show up at this hour," she added.

"This is really important," Spencer replied as she led him inside.

She moved through the space with effortless familiarity, heading straight for the light switch. Well, this was her domain, after all—the place where she spent most of her days.

"I don't care," she replied. "Unless you've found proof that Marilyn Monroe was the Zodiac Killer all along—then, well, I care a little. Honestly, you have no idea how much you owe me for showing up..."

He rolled his eyes.

"Should I be thanking you on my knees, or...?"

"I could have been busy. I could have been out with the girls at a club. I could have been having the night of my life..."

"I get it, you made a huge sacrifice answering my request, but can you now—"

"I could have been in bed already. My own. Or not my own," she glanced at him over her shoulder. "Though in that case, I wouldn’t have picked up."

Spencer simply sighed. By now, he was used to it—the way most of their conversations followed the same pattern. How she always set the pace, steering the direction as she pleased. How she sometimes deliberately ignored his words and didn’t care if it made her seem rude. How, in general, she didn’t care what impression she left on others.

He had witnessed it countless times, found it irritating every single time, and yet—every single time—he kept the conversation going. Funny.

She switched on only one of the lights, leaving the room bathed in a soft twilight. Her handbag landed on the long counter beside one of the microscopes, and she tossed her fur coat next to it, completely unconcerned about knocking something over.

Sometimes, he watched her with quiet fascination—the effortless confidence in her movements—and wondered if she had ever, even once, smacked her hip against a doorframe. Or stubbed her toe on a cabinet. Those small, mundane humiliations and everyday mishaps simply didn’t seem to fit with who she was.

He tightened his grip on the plastic bag he had brought with him, the one containing something that needed to be examined. The team didn’t know about it yet.

The thought, the theory, had quite literally yanked him out of sleep. He couldn’t function without checking this lead immediately. But he knew that if he went through the lab, he’d have to wait until morning for the results…so he decided to ask for a friendly favor.

Okay friendly was a big word.

They had known each other for a few months, worked together on several cases, gone on a date, slept together.

Not necessarily in that order.

He was just about to open his mouth, say something, hand her the bag… when, for the first time, he actually saw her in better light than the dim glow—or rather, lack of it—in the hallway. Against his own will, his gaze started its journey over her.

From the slippers on her feet, up the loose pajama pants that ended just below the piercing in her navel, the black camisole with thin straps, to her face—completely free of makeup.

Until now, he had only seen her in two versions. One was her usual, elegant work attire. The other was her evening look—form-fitting, designed to turn heads and keep them there.

On second thought, there was also a third version. Without clothes.

But he had never seen her like this. Casual, comfortable, dressed for nothing more than wandering the walls of her own apartment.

She lifted her arms to tie her hair into a ponytail, and her shirt rode up slightly.

“If my piercing fascinates you that much, I can give you my piercer’s number,” she offered dryly, a fleeting smirk on her lips as she caught his stare. He immediately snapped his gaze back to her face, cursing internally when he realized he probably looked like he had been caught staring. Which, of course, he hadn’t been. “Excellent work. Full professionalism. Experienced hands…”

"I need you to check this stain," he interrupted, raising the bag.

They had been talking too much, and he really needed to know if his suspicions were correct.

She stepped closer to take the bag from him.

“Is this a crucial piece of evidence, or can I touch it?”

“You can touch it…”

She stopped just a step away, shifting her weight onto one hip and tilting her head to get a better look.Spencer instinctively straightened, feeling a strange tension along his spine.Earlier, he had been looking at what she was wearing. Now, what caught his attention was how she looked.

There’s a certain kind of beauty you never quite get used to, no matter how often you see it. The kind that, every time, knocks the air from your lungs for just a second—that fleeting disbelief that someone like this actually walks the earth.

She had it. She radiated it.

And she was just a step away.

She took the garment out of the bag. It was a red turtleneck sweater. She lifted it higher toward the light, furrowing her brow as she examined the stain.

Spencer’s gaze fell on her beautiful face, her eyes shimmering slightly, her lower lip slightly pursed in thought.

Suddenly, she scoffed, snapping him back to reality.

"Mystery solved, and I didn’t even need a microscope," she said, shoving the sweater back into his hands. As he took it, his fingers brushed against hers, catching him slightly off guard. "It’s foundation. I’d recognize that stain anywhere. So, hooray, happy to help, no need to put me in the case report, have a good night, and see you—"

He grabbed her wrist before she could step away, stopping her in place.

"This isn’t a joke," he said, his voice dropping, tinged with sudden irritation.She raised an eyebrow at both his tone and the way he—unintentionally—closed the distance between them. As usual, she looked him straight in the eyes, and as usual, it was hard not to be drawn in. But he tried, because this case was really consuming his thoughts. "Listen, I called you because I need someone to actually test it. Not just glance at it. It'll only take a moment, and then you can go back to crawling into bed with whoever you want. Can you do that?"

The second-to-last sentence made her expression shift slightly.

For a moment, they stood there, unwavering, eyes locked without so much as a blink. Then, the corners of her lips tugged upward—just barely. But it felt more like a forced gesture, an attempt to maintain her carefully practiced expression, rather than a sign of genuine amusement.

"Alright," she replied softly. Not to be mistaken for shyly. There was nothing shy about her, a fact he was reminded of constantly.

"I’ll test it, since it matters so much to you. And then I’m going back to bed." A slow blink before she yanked the sweater from his hands. "With whoever I want."

Why did swallowing suddenly stop being an automatic reflex and turn into something he had to consciously work through?

"That’s great," he said shortly, dryly. He could feel himself slipping into the trap again, letting her toy with him. "Have fun."

"I will."

With that simple assurance, she walked away, and the very particles of air around him seemed to loosen, finally allowing him to breathe again. He turned after her instinctively, the way a swivel chair spins when someone sets it in motion.

She crossed the lab table and leaned over an empty workstation—empty, like all the others. The entire width of the counter separated them now, along with the return of cool detachment to her face. Slowly, Spencer rested his hands on the smooth surface, watching as she got to work. Watching as her hair bounced slightly with the shift in position. Watching as her jaw tensed in concentration. Watching as she leaned over the workstation slightly.

"So," she began flatly, not pausing her work or even looking at him.

Spencer gave his head a small shake, realizing that this time, he really had been staring. At least she hadn’t seen it.

"What exactly am I testing?"

His gaze drifted to her again.

"Something related to the case."

"Wow, I never would've guessed."

He was too distracted to mentally slap himself for how pathetic he was. 

"Uh, it’s not exactly groundbreaking," he began.

He could focus—he just had to try hard enough. He just had to clear the lingering trace of her scent from when she’d stood so close. Had to shake off the echo of her words. With whoever I want, she had said. The more he thought about it, the more accurate it seemed. He firmly believed she could have whoever she wanted. With that confidence. With that face. With that body…

"That’s why I’m checking it after hours. Just, you know…backstory stuff…"

A sound escaped her lips—somewhere between a scoff of disbelief and a startled laugh. She looked at him—no, she pinned him with her gaze.

"Backstory stuff?" she repeated, her lips curling into a smile. Not even a mocking one anymore. She was genuinely amused. "Did you, Doctor Spencer Reid, when asked what the evidence pertains to, actually respond with backstory stuff…?"

“No, I…I mean…”

“Oh God, it’s a good thing they don’t put you in front of cameras. Imagine you, at a press conference. Just casually dropping backstory stuff on national television…”

“I can handle myself in front of cameras,” he clarified, feeling an odd warmth creep up the back of his neck. “But there aren’t any here. And besides, I didn’t realize you wanted me to recite the entire case file from memory…”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said with another amused snort. “Backstory stuff is actually a surprisingly accurate term. You know, very professional.”

He rolled his eyes, feigning irritation, though what he really felt was more akin to embarrassment.

“Speaking of professionalism, maybe you could get back to work?” he suggested.

“I don’t have to,” she replied, flashing him a sweet smile. “I already checked everything. And I was wrong. It’s not foundation—it’s nitroglycerin.”

Spencer’s jaw practically hit the floor.

For the first time since stepping into the lab, his mind was running at full capacity.

"Nitroglycerin? Are you sure?"

"Well, I don’t get these things wrong," she said, almost offended.

"Nitroglycerin," he repeated in a whisper.

Oh, for heaven’s sake. Suddenly, everything made sense.

She leaned her elbows on the table, watching him with interest.

He wanted to kiss her.

No—he did not—

"Thank you," he blurted out, her words becoming background noise as his thoughts raced. "Thank you for coming. This…this really helps. I have to tell the team—"

He turned toward the door, dazed by the realization.

Something stopped him.

"Spencer," she called gently.

She didn’t seem angry that he was leaving so abruptly. If anything, there was a certain soft glint in her eyes, a quiet fascination with his sudden revelation. Standing in the doorway, he looked at her one last time, feeling himself freeze in place again. He said nothing, sensing that she wanted to say something instead.

She tilted her head slightly.

"You owe me a favor," she said.

There was something about the way she said it—something that sent a slow, deliberate shiver down his spine. Not even a shiver. More like a careful march of cold fingertips down his vertebrae.

So, naturally, he did what any grown man with an IQ of 187 would do.

He parted his lips slightly and nodded.

[wileys-russo]

(Ik it’s not a player but I love them) Solfresa “I could just take a tiny nap?”

oc x oc from my filling the void universe and @girlgenius1111 family line series

world class II fresa putellas + solstråle engen

"sol, no mi amor you cannot sleep now." fresa returned to the bedroom and noticed the norweigan starting to drift off, shaking her ankle as she groaned and opened her eyes.

"why?" the brunette sighed deeply, rubbing her face and crossing her arms over her chest with a small scowl, fresa pausing the nature documentary her girlfriend had been falling asleep to.

"the point of the schedule is to train your sleep pattern so you are well rested at all times, so you are fit to work once you start nights. which means no naps and only sleeping at the times you are supposed to mi amor." the younger girl smiled sympathetically as the norweigan groaned louder.

it had been a long grueling process for the tattooed firefighter to become qualified as so, one that the spaniard currently shaking her awake had not always been supportive of.

solstråle had failed fitness testing twice, both her sister and girlfriend trying to talk her into what they deemed a much less dangerous career path.

but solstråle had never wavered, only spending more hours in the gym and less time talking to those who she didn't think were helping her along the way.

so with a wall of silence in response to the pushback, and the lack of belief only driving solstråle harder into her training and to start developing some unhealthier habits, fresa and ingrid changed tune.

both had come around to helping solstråle instead of wasting time trying to change her mind, but the help wasn't without constant reminders that she needed to be at her most prepared as to avoid any sort of injury while on the job.

so now with fitness testing complete and all of her training finally starting to feel as if it was paying off, the girl was set to swap over from shadow shifts to a real roster, which included staying two nights a week at the station on call.

"fres, baby i could just take a tiny nap? then i will still sleep early on time tonight!" solstråle tried to bargain, pinching her thumb and pointer finger together to make a minuscule gap as fresa firmly shook her head. "not part of the plan amor." fresa smiled in amusement at the girls persistence, gesturing for her to sit up.

"you are no fun today putellas. first you have to study and i have to sit here alone to watch my show because i 'distract you'. now you come back and i am tired but you will not let me sleep?" solstråle huffed with a deepened scowl as the younger girl shook your head.

"you might not think i am fun engen, but is it fun cleaning the big trucks all day because your sister or your chief hears you are too tired to be cleared for the real work?" fresa warned lightly quirking an eyebrow and crossing her arms, solstråle's eyes widening a little in response.

"you wouldn't!" the norweigan sat up properly now with a scoff. "i would, if it meant you did not get hurt bebé." fresa promised softly, her girlfriend sighing and running a hand through her hair.

"snitches get stitches." solstråle mumbled grumpily, laying back down as her eyes began to once again feel heavy. "well you are great company today. go to sleep then, i do not care!" fresa rolled her eyes, knowing just how stubborn her girlfriend could be but not having the patience for it today, turning to leave as a hand quickly grabbed the back of her top.

"sorry! i'm just tired, and i missed you. i hate when you have exams and you have to ignore me." solstråle huffed, pulling fresa down onto the bed with her and trapping the shorter girl in between her arms and legs in a tight bear hug.

"i do not ignore you solstråle, i answered all your texts today amor, and there was a lot of them!" fresa laughed at the sudden switch in attitude from the girl, twisting her neck to sweetly peck her lips which were grumbling some sort of moody comment in norweigan.

"will you play fifa with me? i thought i was good but they have a tournament going at the station, and i haven't won a single game!" the brunette huffed, forever hotheaded and fiercely competitive as much as she could also be the softest sappy pile of mush at times too.

"do we have to? i do not have a clue how to play. in fact you and alexia told me no more playing because it was...what did you say? eh 'too hard to watch' remember?" fresa narrowed her eyes as a guilty smile curled into her girlfriends features.

one of the rare times her eldest sister actually spent any time with sol was playing fifa after a family dinner, granted that was silent bonding as alexia still refused to say more than a few words in response to solstråle's chatter.

"fresa that was ancient history, i am a much more patient woman now." solstråle grinned as the spaniard in her arms let out a loud sarcastic bark of laughter and tapped at her forearms to be let up.

"it was last week engen." fresa sat up and hovered over her girlfriend with a shake of her head, suddenly pulling back as sol tried to sit up and connect their mouths. "hey! give me a kiss." the norweigan demanded impatiently, tapping her puckered lips expectantly.

"no." fresa smiled sweetly, standing and heading out of the bedroom to make some food, not at all surprised at the sound of footsteps hurrying after her, her mami on an evening shift at work meaning the pair of them had the house to themselves for a couple more hours at least.

"solstråle!" the younger girl squealed as a body barrelled into her, almost taking her down to the floor before the well built norweigan grabbed her girlfriends hand, spinning and dipping fresa, holding her up just from falling to the floor as her heart raced.

"don't do that! its not funny." fresa hit at her girlfriends hoodie covered chest with a loud smack as she only laughed and the youngest putellas merely scowled.

trying to move past her before fresa could take another step a mouth was pressed against hers, feeling the firefighter to be smile into the kiss when fresa made no move to push her away

"you are a child sometimes. tonta!" fresa finally broke away and bonked her girlfriend on the head with a magazine that was handy within reach on the counter, only causing solstråle to smile wider, clearly proud of herself.

"food can wait, one game? it will help keep me awake." the norwegian tugged fresa gently away from the pantry with her best puppy dog eyes as fresa sighed.

"if you are turning down food, it must be serious." "please?" "fine. one game engen!"

~

"joder! how do you defend? i forget the controls!" fresa cursed in annoyance, only having had possession for about two seconds this entire half as her girlfriend knocked in goal after goal.

"solstråle!" she protested as the norweigan made her player do a backflip after another goal and cheered loudly in fresa's ear, kissing her cheek apologetically from where fresa lay between her legs, elbows resting on her knees and her back pressed to solstråles front.

"you said this would be easy." fresa complained as the game stopped for half time. "no, babe i said i would put the match settings on easy." her girlfriend corrected as fresa pinched her thigh unimpressed with the answer.

"amor you are winning 8-0 you can give me five fucking minutes to show the controls again?" fresa demanded before sol could click to resume play. "i like when you swear in english." her girlfriend mumbled, a lazy kiss pressed to her jaw as sol dropped her remote and her hands settled over fresa's.

"when you attack you click this to pass, this one to sprint. you click this one for a head pass or a short ball, and this to shoot." solstråle explained slowly, pointing out the different buttons as fresa nodded, eyebrows furrowed with concentration.

"when you defend it is this one to chase, this one to tackle, this one to slide tackle, this one to clear. then when it goes to your goalkeeper, just click this or this." the taller girl explained as again fresa nodded, doing her best to follow along but she'd already forgotten half of what was said, making a mental note to just button mash and hope.

"so does this mean you will let me have a pity goal mi vida?" fresa asked hopefully as the girl pressed behind her grabbed her own control and chuckled.

"not a chance elskling." sol stole a kiss and clicked play again before fresa could bite back with a remark, eyes widening as she hurried to rapidly click at any buttons she could reach on the controller much to her girlfriends amusement.

the second half fresa played a little better, but still failed to score and conceded another five goals making it so solstråle won with a whopping 13-0, the final whistle blowing meaning she let out a war cry of victory.

"eso fue humillante!" fresa scowled tossing the remote to the side onto the lounge and rolling her eyes, arms crossed and shoulders slumped.

"that is life no? you win some, you lose some. i feel a lot better about my games at the station now! thank you baby." the norweigans large hands settled either side of fresas face and tilted her head back so she could press kisses across the flushed skin.

"you are welcome." fresa rolled your eyes, gently tugging her hands away and sitting up, glancing to the screen only for a moment as her head snapped back to it and she frowned.

"world class? you said you put it on beginner sol!" fresa turned to glare at her girlfriend who shrugged, quickly turning off the tv and sitting up on her knees.

"did i? guess i must have clicked the wrong one babe, sorry." the norweigan grinned, pushing the shorter girl to lay down again as her smug face hovered over her girlfriends, not an ounce of remorse in her eyes.

"mentirosa! i cannot believe i like you." fresa grumbled with a scowl, solstråle pressing her face into her neck, lips scattering kisses across the warm skin.

"only like?" the norweigan whispered teasingly, tugging on fresa's earlobe with her teeth as her fingers danced across bare skin where her shirt had rode up.

"barely tolerate." fresa mumbled but all of the fire had dissapeared from her tone making solstråle smile against her neck.

"oh now what happened to love?" "maybe if you were not a dirty tramposa, you might get some engen."

[noorpersona]

Pregnancy: Sakusa

You’ve tried the pillows. The pregnancy belt. The heat pad. You’ve leaned forward, leaned back, sat on the edge of the couch with your feet planted just right like the blogs say. You’ve even tried that ridiculous looking yoga ball that Kuroo swore helped his sister. Nothing works. Not really.

Your lower back has become a constant, pulsing drumbeat of dull pain, like your spine itself is growing resentful. The weight of your belly pulls forward like an anchor strapped to your hips, and every time you shift, you swear you can hear your vertebrae protesting. There’s no sweet spot anymore, just a rotation of tolerable positions. You grit your teeth through them, muttering curses under your breath.

You’re laid sideways on the couch now, a pillow stuffed between your knees, one arm tucked under your bump, the other flopped over your eyes like you’re shielding yourself from the end of the world. It’s not even late. The sun’s still up, golden light filtering through the blinds. You just couldn’t take being vertical anymore.

This is the part no one talks about. Not the cute baby kicks, not the weird cravings or the glow everyone swears you have. It’s this—sore, swollen, and tired in a way that sleep can’t fix. Even breathing feels like it takes effort.

And through it all, Sakusa is there.

He’s been steady. Quietly doting. Not the type to coo over baby socks or rub your feet with oil while humming lullabies, but the kind of man who starts carrying hand sanitizer in your favorite scent just in case you need it. The kind who keeps snacks in the car, reminds you to hydrate without making it sound like a chore, who started going to prenatal appointments not because you asked, but because he wanted to understand everything. Who reads parenting books with sticky tabs and highlights and pretends he didn’t.

He’s not loud about it. He doesn’t post bump photos or narrate your journey in grand poetic terms. But he’s shown up every day in ways that matter. Never once flinching when you sobbed over dropped pickles or had a breakdown in the baby aisle because you couldn’t decide between two swaddle patterns. He holds the pieces when you feel like you’re falling apart. He never makes you feel like you’re too much.

You hear the front door click open, then the quiet hush of it swinging closed. You don’t move. Just listen to the familiar sound of Sakusa’s footsteps coming in—soft, always measured, always deliberate. No keys clatter. He always puts them in the bowl on the shelf. No shoes squeaking either; he wipes them, every time. You know it’s him without having to look.

He pauses in the entryway, no doubt clocking the mess of your position. Then, his voice—calm and even, with that velvety weight that always makes your heart twitch even when you're annoyed.

“Back again?”

“Mmh,” you hum noncommittally, eyes still covered. “Felt like someone took a crowbar to my spine. So I gave up.”

There’s a beat of silence. You imagine him there, eyes scanning you—your hunched shoulders, the tension in your jaw, the deep set crease between your brows. He’s not the type to hover. Not the type to fuss, at least not where you can see it. But you know him well enough by now. If he could physically fight your discomfort, he would’ve by now. With gloves on.

You feel the couch dip near your legs. Then the rustle of a bag being set down.

“I read about something,” he says slowly.

You lower your arm just enough to peek at him. He’s still in his work clothes—jacket slung over the armrest, sleeves rolled neatly past his elbows, forearms bare. His mask is off, stashed away now that he’s home. You catch the faintest crease of worry between his brows, like he’s weighing the next words carefully.

“Can I try?” he asks.

You blink, too tired to be curious. “Whatever. Go for it.”

He tilts his head. “You have to stand up first.”

You lower your arm further to shoot him a flat look. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

You huff, but he’s already sliding a hand beneath your arm. Gently, steadily, he helps you sit up, then rise to your feet with the kind of efficiency that speaks to practice. He’s been doing this for weeks now—helping you in and out of bed, out of the car, off the floor when you insisted you could pick something up by yourself.

“I swear to god, if this is another stretch video where I end up looking like a tipped cow—”

“It’s not.”

“Because if I fall, I'm taking you down with me.”

“Duly noted.”

Once you’re upright, he steps behind you. You feel the warmth of him, close and focused. One of his hands briefly trails up your spine in a slow, soothing pass—a single stroke meant to coax your muscles into releasing some of their stubborn tension.

"Relax," he murmurs, voice low and steady, his breath brushing the shell of your ear.

Then his hands brush your hips and slide slowly beneath the swell of your belly. One palm anchors, the other adjusts. It’s deliberate, the kind of precise contact that could only come from research and repeat watching. Then—he lifts.

Just an inch. Maybe two. But it’s enough.

The relief is instant.

Your lower back uncoils like a spring released from tension. That hot, grinding ache that’s lived there for weeks just… lessens. Not gone entirely, but dulled. Blurred. Like someone finally turned the pressure dial down from an eleven to a manageable hum.

You let out a sound you weren’t expecting—a breath that shudders out of you with more feeling than you meant to show. Like your whole body’s been waiting for this and didn’t know how to ask.

“Oh,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut. “That’s… holy shit.”

You hear him exhale, and the barest hint of a smile follows in his voice.

“Guess it works.”

You nod, or try to. “What even—how’d you think of that?”

“There’s a forum,” he says. “A bunch of people were talking about it. Said lifting the weight can take pressure off the sacroiliac joint. Sounded reasonable.”

Of course it did. It’s so— him. Reading about biomechanics like it’s no big deal. Quietly researching ways to ease your pain without saying a word. You picture him in bed at night, phone dimmed, scrolling through medical threads while you snored beside him.

You lean back slightly, weight shifting into his hold like you’re trusting it—trusting him—with more than just the curve of your belly. His hands adjust to steady you.

Then you feel him begin to lower your bump back down.

“I didn’t say you could stop yet,” you murmur, voice hushed and wry.

His hands still immediately.

There's a pause, not because he's unsure—but because he’s listening. Because when it comes to you, Sakusa never rushes.

You feel his thumbs move slightly, drawing slow circles near your hips as he steadies the lift again, as if to say, I’ve got you.

"Should’ve tried this ages ago," you mumble.

You’re still basking in the quiet relief of his hold. Your back doesn’t feel like it's screaming anymore, and for the first time in hours, your body feels like it belongs to you again—like maybe you're not just a vessel walking around with sore feet and too many hormones.

He shifts slightly, adjusting the lift with a faint grunt.

"He’s heavy," Sakusa murmurs. There’s no complaint in his voice—just quiet awe.

You smile faintly, placing a hand over his. "That’s your fault."

"My fault?"

"You’re six-three, with legs like telephone poles. What did you think was gonna happen?"

He huffs a soft, amused breath behind you. "Could still be your fault. Maybe you manifested it."

You snort. "Yeah, I manifested a linebacker. Great job, me."

"He’s not even here yet and I already feel outnumbered," he mutters.

You squeeze his hand. "Don’t worry. He’ll probably inherit your poker face. You two can be brooding and beautiful together."

A beat. Then, so quiet it barely makes it to your ears:

"He’s going to be perfect."

You close your eyes, feeling everything swell in your chest all at once.

"He already is."

And there’s something so simple, so steadfast in the way he says it that you have to bite your lip against the warm rush crawling up your chest.

You rest your hand over his where it cups your belly. "Kiyoomi?"

"Mm."

"I love you."

His thumb strokes once, slow and deliberate. You hear the breath he draws, steady as ever.

"I know," he says quietly. "I love you too."

And just like that, in the stillness of your living room, with the soft glow of daylight bleeding through the windows and his arms supporting you from behind, you feel the kind of full-body peace that no prenatal yoga class has ever given you.

You don’t move. Neither does he. Because for now, this is enough.

[laceyhearts]

౨ৎ THE HOODIE ; LUKE HUGHES

➪ summary: she'd always thought she wasn't pretty enough for luke, but that all changes with an invitation to the hughes' lake house and luke's hoodie

➪ pairing: luke hughes x fem!mid-size/plus-size!reader

➪ warnings: reader is insecure, uhhh i think that's it? not proofread (what's changed)

➪ word count: 3.6k

➪ emma's notes: the first fic back 😛 PSA: this is not to shame any of my mid-size or plus-size readers, especially because i am one, this is personally just my experience with how i’ve gone through my journey with insecurities and whatnot. be proud of your body, but it’s okay if it gets a little hard at times 🫶🏻 this is one of my favorite fics i've ever written so of course it was the first one i rewrote. speaking of that, i rewrote this fic HEAVILY so if it seems like a totally different fic, it basically is! thank you guys for understanding the blog switch, and i hope to see you all in the future <3

© laceyhearts ; do not copy, repost, translate, or put my work through ai generators. do not copy or remake my themes, graphics, or layouts.

It didn’t matter how many times she walked into a room, how many times she twirled her hair as a distraction, how many times she broke the ice; everyone’s eyes defaulted to the obvious - her stomach, her cheeks, her thighs, her hips. 

It felt like once you looked a certain way, a way that made you conventionally not attractive to the male gaze due to your size, it was the only thing people noticed about you. It didn’t matter if you could make people laugh with the simplest of jokes, didn’t matter if you could copy a landscape perfectly with a set of paint and a canvas, didn’t matter if you could look at a problem and solve it within 10 seconds, it was the fact that you were “curvy”, “on the heavier side”, “full-figured” - or whatever way society wanted to skirt around saying overweight to make it seem like they didn’t want to offend you. 

And maybe it started in high school when she sat down, and the chair creaked, causing everyone to snicker softly. Maybe it started in middle school when she couldn’t run the mile in the “desirable” amount of time. Maybe it started in elementary school when other parents would ask her parents in a worried tone about her physique. 

Or maybe it started in her head.

She couldn’t tell you when the insecurities started, somewhere between losing her child-like innocence that allowed her just to be and health class when they talked about which foods you should be eating and how you should stay within a certain weight limit.

But she could tell you when they lessened, when she stopped obsessing over them the moment she woke up until the moment she went to bed, when she threw on an outfit and went out with her friends without so much as a second thought. 

The whispers of high school hallways when she accidentally brushed up against someone, the whispers in stores when she’d pick out a small bag of cookies because she’d been eating like she was supposed to that week, were left behind once she left for college. 

It was a new start, new people, new experiences that would allow her to feel comfortable in her own body, get away from the negativity that was her hometown, filled with people straight from a teen romance movie. 

It happened fast, meeting Luke, in a way that she could tell you every little detail of the moment. The color of his shirt (dark blue, yellow Michigan written across it), the shoes he was wearing (black gym shoes), how his fingers twitched when his hand brushed hers as he picked up her book from the concrete beneath their feet. 

Unbeknownst to her, he could tell her every detail too, the exact day it happened (September 3, 2021, 6 days before his birthday and 27 days before hers), the pattern on her socks (white with black polka dots because they were the only ones she could find that morning), the book she was reading (Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix), how she tucked her hair behind her ear.

And ever since then, they’ve been best friends, attached at the hip. She went to his games, he went to bother her during her shift at the dining hall. She went to his place to watch their show, he went to hers to get her help with homework. She made him soup when he was sick, he bought her soup when she was sick. She stayed up late to call him after an away game, he woke up early to send her a “good morning” text before she woke up. 

For a moment, she didn’t think about how she looked, didn’t notice the way people looked at them with a curiosity-filled gaze, didn’t hear the laughs behind her back when she walked by. It was like being with Luke helped her block out all the noise, like she could be herself around him. 

⎯⎯⎯ ౨ৎ ⎯⎯⎯

She hadn’t expected him to ask her to the lake house, not in the slightest. Her decision was hesitant; she wasn’t sure if she could spend a week or two with Luke, his brothers, and his friends in shorts and tank tops, things that made her uncomfortable even in her own room. Yet, if she didn’t, she wasn’t sure she could take the wrath of Luke’s constant text messages that would leave her to give in anyway.

So there she stood, in the airport, waiting for any sign of Luke as her thoughts raced. It’d been a while since she’d last seen the boy, almost 6 months since she hugged him goodbye at the Newark airport and left for Michigan for the start of a new semester.

Her leggings hugged her tightly, pressing against her stomach just enough to leave indents of the seams. Her sweater hung loosely on her, a size or two too big to cover the width of her hips, creating the beads of sweat that dripped down her back. 

It didn’t take long for her to find him, towering over almost everyone else surrounding him. He spotted her, too, his lips subconsciously turning upwards into the grin that could make her melt more than the summer sun could. 

Luke’s eyes did a once-over, scanning her from head to toe, eyebrow raising, “Aren’t you hot?”

She hesitated for a second before shaking her head, “No. I run cold.”

“Right… and that’s why I used to have to turn the fan on every time you stayed at mine because you complained you were too hot.”

“Shut up, I was nervous I’d get cold on the plane.”

“Mhm, sure, y/n/n. Sure.”

He grabbed her bag, slinging it over his shoulder and reaching for her hand as if they’d done this multiple times before, like it was natural.

The walk to the car wasn’t long, but with the sun beating down on her, it felt like every step she took lasted 5 minutes. And without even asking, Luke turned the AC on full blast, knowing damn well that if she lasted another minute without cold air on her, she’d pass out.

⎯⎯⎯ ౨ৎ ⎯⎯⎯

They pulled up to the house not long after, Luke grabbing her bag from the backseat before opening her door, leading her up the steps, and into the lake house, shutting the front door with his foot. He didn’t even blink an eye as he shot his hand out, easily catching the football that was being hurled at the two of them. 

Y/n stood, slightly awestruck and shocked, blinking slowly as she turned to face the culprit who threw the ball, only to find a sheepish-looking boy, no more than 3 years older than her, with slightly shaggy brown hair and a resemblance to her best friend. 

“Heads up?”

“She’s here for two seconds and you’re already trying to kill her.” Quinn walked in only a few steps behind, smacking him upside the head, “Nice to meet you, y/n. I’m Quinn, that’s Jack.”

“Yeah, I uh- kind of got that. I mean- Luke always says you’re the calm one, so I just assumed- Yeah, I’m not much of a talker…” She trailed off, cheeks heating up from embarrassment instead of the heat for once.

The three boys just smiled at her, trying not to fluster her more than she already was. 

“Trevor and Cole are around here somewhere, but don’t pay too much attention to them, I try not to. I’ll take you to your room and then… I actually don’t know what we’re doing tonight.”

“Boat,” Jack replied simply, grabbing a water from the fridge, all but chugging it, and leaving the half-empty bottle on the counter. 

“That settles it, then.”

Luke led her to her room, placing her bags on top of her bed, “Here you are, m’lady. You can nap, shower, get settled, whatever you want. I’ll come get you when we’re about to go.”

Y/n nodded, slight panic flashing in her eyes as she turned to start unpacking, hoping he didn’t notice her change in demeanor. 

⎯⎯⎯ ౨ৎ ⎯⎯⎯

It was two hours before she saw anyone again, and in those two hours, all she had done was lay out her outfit choices and try them on over and over again until she determined she didn’t bring any good outfits with her on this trip. 

Finally, a few minutes before she knew Luke would knock on the door, she settled on a pair of light-washed jean shorts that were long enough to pass as “classy” but short enough to draw people’s gaze to her thighs, and her oversized dark blue UMich hockey shirt Luke had gotten for her a while back, the lettering fading due to the number of times she’d put it through the wash.

She’d just begun braiding the right side of her hair, her left already done in a simple 3-strand braid and a few pieces pulled out to frame her face as always, when she heard the knock, Luke opening it after he heard no protest. 

“Hey, you ready to-” He froze, eyes trailing over her frame, unsure where to look.

Y/n flushed, her hands itching to drop the hair they held and wrap her arms around her waist to avoid his gaze. She focused her attention on the task at hand, trying not to glance up at him through the mirror, trying not to envision the disgust written across his face.

“What?”

Her voice snapped him out of his trance, eyes finally finding hers, a small smile spreading across his lips, “You look…”

Her mind instantly spiraled, maybe I shouldn’t have come, maybe I should change into leggings, maybe I should-

“Pretty.”

Huh? She blinked a few times. “What?”

“I said you looked pretty.”

“Oh.” She didn’t say much else, securing her braid with a small hair tie as she reached to grab her bag, no doubt filled with her favorite book and her Kindle, just in case she ended up locking herself in her room the next two weeks.

“You're seriously bringing your Kindle? Aren’t you gonna go in the water?”

She followed him out of her room, closing the door behind her after slipping her gym shoes on. “I hate the water.”

“You hate the water?”

“I- yeah, it’s fine. I’ll just read, you guys can swim, cannonball, whatever you guys do.”

“Y/n/n, we can do something else if you don’t want to go out on the boat. We don’t have to do what they do.” His voice softened, stopping in the hallway, a few feet shy of where everyone was waiting in the living room. 

She couldn’t help but feel butterflies erupt in her stomach; the thought of him changing his plans just because she was uncomfortable with the thought of being around water - even if it was for a different reason than what she said - was enough to have her swooning. It was something small, something that many people wouldn’t bat an eye too, but to her? It meant more than she could explain. 

Her fingers laced with his, gaining courage to brush her lips against his cheek, “I appreciate it, Lukey, but I swear it’s fine. I just don’t want to go in.”

A faint blush covered his face at her action, but he played it off and nodded, “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

⎯⎯⎯ ౨ৎ ⎯⎯⎯

Time flew by on the boat, y/n reading her book, eyes occasionally looking up to see one of the boys jump into the lake, or to see them splashing around in the water like immature middle school boys, or just in time to see Luke walk by before plopping down next to her, his arm finding its way to rest behind her.

As the fun increased, the temperature decreased, and the breeze left goosebumps on her arms. She didn’t notice it at first, or tried not to let it show, nose buried in the pages, too interested in the same plot she’d read thousands of times before.

But after a while, a few rays of sunlight were all that was left of the day that passed, the cold finally settling around them, y/n shivering more than she was mere minutes ago. She closed her book, unable to continue to make out the black ink across the pages, opting for her Kindle instead. 

That was all it took for Luke to realize how cold she felt, her hand brushing against the skin of his arm where his sleeves were rolled up, her hand somehow even colder than the wind blowing through the air. He pulled his sweatshirt off with ease, handing it to her without another thought, “Here.”

She looked between his face and the fabric in his hand, weariness settling in her mind as she shook her head, “I’m okay.”

His eyebrows knitted together, head nodding to her arms, “You have goosebumps, I think that qualifies as being ‘not okay’.”

“I like the breeze, it’s nice.”

“Y/n/n, please.”

She relented, setting her Kindle beside her, taking the hoodie into her hands as she looked at its size inconspicuously. She never thought about fitting into other people’s clothes as an option, she knew she wouldn’t, they knew she wouldn’t, so why would she ever think that she would need to? 

Luke was taller than her, as he would like to say “by a mile”, something she was acutely aware of since the moment she met him. Something that she never really thought would be her saving grace until now. Because hopefully, the several inches he had on her was enough to counteract her own body.

She slipped it on, arm after arm, pulling it over her head, baseball cap being pulled into the hood. He watched as she fixed it, tugging on the front of it to create more space between the fabric and her skin. He frowned slightly. “Is it uncomfortable?”

Y/n shook her head, because it wasn’t uncomfortable, she was. It was baggier than she thought it would be, not as much as she would’ve liked it to be, but just enough to become one of her favorite hoodies she’s ever worn, and no, that was not because it was Luke’s.

“You sure? I can always ask Quinn or Jack for theirs-”

“Luke, it’s perfect.”

He just nodded, slightly skeptical at the look on her face and the way she kept tugging lightly on the hoodie like it was suffocating her. She avoided his gaze, trying to memorize the lines on the boat floor through the last bits of light on the horizon. 

“Y/n/n, can you please just tell me what’s wrong? If it’s not the hoodie, then-”

“Fine, it’s the hoodie!” She raised her voice just slightly to get her point across, but not enough to attract the attention of the others.

“Is it the fabric? Is it itchy? Is it-”

“It’s the size, Luke!”

He frowned, still confused, “It looks fine.”

“That’s-” She sighed, playing with the frayed edges on her shorts, “That’s not the point, Luke.”

“Then what is the point, because I’m struggling to see it.”

“I’ve never been the skinniest girl out there, Lu.”

And that got him to pause, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to gather his thoughts, unable to form any coherent ones, because to him? She’s always been the prettiest girl he’s seen. Always been the one who his mind defaulted to when his brothers asked if any girls caught his eye. Always been the one he described when someone asked him who his type was.

“Y/n…”

“It’s okay, Luke. I’m not trying to hide from it or anything.”

“I know you’re not, but you didn’t let me finish.” He slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her into his lap as if it were a common day occurrence. 

Her eyes widened, her body stiffening as her legs straddled his, trying to shift her weight off of him. But Luke, being Luke, his hands tightened around her hips, anchoring her in place and giving her a smug look, daring to challenge him.

“Let me go.”

“No.” His voice was stern as he spoke. 

“Please, Lu.” 

“I’m not letting you go until you see yourself how I see you. I am not letting you go until those negative thoughts are expelled from that beautiful head of yours.

“Listen, y/n/n. I know it’s hard, believe me, I’ve dealt with my fair share of insecurities myself, and I know it can’t be exactly what you’re going through, but… my point is the same. You are the most gorgeous person I have ever met, and I love every single part of you there is to love, okay? I cannot tell you a moment that I have thought you were ugly.”

Her mind barely registered the “I love” portion of his speech, already trying to find a moment to prove him wrong, “What about that time when-”

“Nope, doesn’t exist.”

“Oh! How about when you showed up, announced-”

“No.”

“That time-”

“No.”

“Fine, what about-”

“You can keep trying to grasp at straws there, pretty girl, and my answer is still going to be the same.”

She flushed at the nickname, finally relaxing into his hold, but her thoughts were still stuck on a negative loop, “Why?”

“Why, what, beautiful?”

“Me. Why me?”

“You wanna know my favorite memory of you?” 

She nodded hesitantly, eyes finding his.

He removed one of his arms from her waist, wrapping his fingers around the back of her neck and rubbing his thumb against her cheek before continuing, “Freshman year. First game you ever went to. I had just bought you your first-ever Michigan hockey shirt and used a Sharpie to write my name and my number on the back. It wasn’t the prettiest thing in the world, couldn’t hold a candle to you, but it made sure everyone knew you were there for me.

“You wore it with jeans the same color as these,” he tugged on the belt loop of her shorts with his free hand before flicking the brim of her hat. “This hat, your hair in two pig-tails, and you wore the same beat-up black Converse that you’re wearing right now. 

“And every time I looked up at you, you looked a little tired, probably because you had pulled an all-nighter beforehand, but you stood for the whole game with this little pompom thing in your hand, cheering every time we got a goal and booing every time OSU got one.

“After the game, I met you outside where you proceeded to tackle me in your infamous bear hugs, all because I got a lousy hit on some player. Then, we went out for ice cream, and you got vanilla with sprinkles. We sat on a bench, and I kept eyeing your bowl until you finally gave in and let me try some.

“We went back to your dorm once we were done, and you stole my beanie, which you didn’t give back for another two weeks.”

Her eyes watered at how detailed his memory was, hanging onto his every word like she was a little girl listening to her mom read her the most magical bedtime story about a princess and a prince. 

“You can’t cry on me yet, I haven’t finished.” He wiped a stray tear from her cheek, smiling as she let out a choked laugh filled with emotion.

“You made me watch The Little Mermaid because you like singing 'Part of Your World’ and then you fell asleep for the first time in my arms and I don’t think I’ve ever looked back.”

Her breath hitched because she remembered that, remembered how Luke grinned at her whenever a song came on and she started singing it, whenever she’d quote a line or make a random, out of pocket comment because Ariel said something that made her think of something else, whenever she would explain to him how stupid or thoughtful an action was. She remembered everything about that day, just as well as he did. 

“That wasn’t the first moment I thought you were gorgeous, not even the second or the third or the fourth, but- it’s my favorite one because you looked happy, you looked like you couldn’t care what anyone else thought, and that is infinitely more beautiful than anything else.”

“Luke…”

“Yeah?” He played with the end of one of her braids, twirling the hair around his fingers.

“You really think that?”

“There’s nothing that I think that is truer than that, pretty girl.”

Their eyes met again, and he couldn’t help but lean in, his lips pressing against hers softly. 

The kiss didn’t last long, y/n barely getting a chance to kiss back before splashes of water hit her, both of them jumping in sync to see the three 22-year-olds staring at them with innocent expressions. 

“Whoops.”

“Leave it to them to ruin the moment,” Luke grumbled, leaning his forehead against her shoulder, causing her to laugh and tangle her fingers in his curls.

LH43 MASTERLIST ; NHL MASTERLIST ; OTHER MASTERLISTS

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[lowkeyren]

TWO CAN PLAY THAT GAME!

in which — sunday, realizing he fell head over heels for you, tries to push you away, only to have his efforts backfire, which leads to a heated confession.

pairing — sunday x gn!reader

wc: 2.3k, arranged marriage, hurt/comfort, woooo tension!!!, takes place before penacony quests, sunday fumbles everyone cook him rn, apology scene ib maxton hall, reblogs r much appreciated! from event req: here + art by @/hanahanayart on x

the first thing sunday noticed about you was how you consistently avoided meeting his gaze, how your eyes seemed to wander, frequently darting to the ground. 

even now, as you’re sitting across the table from him, you’re fidgeting with your hands, fingers nervously twisting the small charm on your bracelet. your eyes flit from the patterned tablecloth to the rim of your teacup, never settling on him for more than a moment. 

you’re tense, he notes.

as you both go through the marriage contract, he finds himself distracted by the way your eyebrows furrow in concentration, and how your fingers fidget with the edges of the document; a soft smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he observes your gestures. 

the moment you notice him staring however, you stiffen and abruptly shift in your seat. he watches as the flush on your cheeks grows more pronounced, and your words come out in awkward stammers as you try to continue the subject.

though he catches on, quickly averting his gaze to spare you any further embarrassment. the corner of his mouth twitches as he shakes his head slightly. 

right, you must be the type to be easily swayed by looks and status. 

of course he’s aware of his own charm, and even more so, the effect he has on others —evident by the multitude of pursuers vying for his hand in marriage. 

but something is different about you, different enough to intrigue him, different enough to distinguish you from the rest of the crowd, different and compelling enough for him to entertain the idea of marrying you.

sunday is a busy man. 

his schedule is packed with a myriad of tasks ranging from managing various negotiations to organizing the upcoming charmony festival. his desk is cluttered with intricate sketches of the festival’s layouts, post-it notes with scribbled annotations, stacks of detailed itineraries, and reminders of… you.

you have a knack for surprising sunday with unique gifts that inevitably end up on his desk. 

for instance, the delicate keychain that’s shaped like a tiny halo dangling just of reach, or the hand-knitted coaster he sets his mug on, or a handwritten note reminding him to take a break with a small doodle of him in the corner, or the sleek pen he’s using right now, personalised just for him (he complained about pens having grips that were too slippery or uncomfortable once.)

somehow, you never fail to invade his thoughts at every given chance. the worst part? he actually started looking forward to your presence —much to his dismay.

he doesn't know when exactly it started, but he’s certain “it’s all your fault” because he finds himself checking his phone much more frequently, eagerly awaiting your messages. he’s also become attuned to your daily visits, recognizing the distinct sound of your footsteps as they approach his office. heck he even finds himself rearranging his schedule to make sure he’s free during your usual visit time.

you plague his mind to the extent that it distracts him, where he finds himself unable to focus on his work without your voice suddenly echoing in his thoughts; the sound of your infectious laughter, the warmth of your smile like a siren’s call, and the endearing stutter in your words when you say his name —which all seems to linger and sway with every thought. 

sunday fears that he may have loved you more than he will ever allow himself to.

sunday gazes at his reflection in the mirror, running a hand through his hair. his brows are furrowed, and a deep sigh escapes him as he tries to calm his turbulent thoughts, gripping the edge of the sink for support.

his current dishevelled appearance bears a striking resemblance to that of a fallen angel; stunningly attractive, yet marred by a decadent edge that whispers of turpitude.

as the head of the oak family, he shoulders countless responsibilities and maintains a careful distance from those around him. so is it wrong when he feels a twinge of insult, almost as if it's shameful to be powerless to resist you, when you entered his life with a mere marriage contract but seamlessly wove yourself into the deepest, darkest corners of his heart?

“sunday, are you okay? you’ve been in there for a while!” your voice echoes from the other side of the door, tinged with worry and care.

he’s confounded by your unwavering concern, unable to fathom as to why you continue to pour your heart into him, even as he remains cold and indifferent. he appears detached to you, often aloof and devoid of any intimacy —yet you never seem to mind. 

you make him want to tear down the carefully constructed barriers he’s built around his heart and hold you close. even now as you soothe his back and gently preen his wings, he finds himself lost in thought, contemplating the possibility of abandoning his old ways and allowing himself to be vulnerable with you.

but he thinks you don't have to be so insistent on winning him over, really. because he has already belonged to you in a way that’s intrinsic, a devotion deadlier than hell. 

perhaps he just hasn't come to accept it yet.

walking along the streets of golden hour, sunday is painfully aware of the stare you fixate on his figure, even though you try to be discreet about it. when his hand lightly grazes against yours, you freeze momentarily, your body tensing before you quickly adjust your pace to match his long strides, positioning yourself at his side.

you notice that his face is etched with a grim expression, lips drawn tight; he appears visibly stressed, a noticeable contrast to his usual calm demeanor. 

“ahem…” you clear your throat, “y’know,” you begin, your voice soft with an attempt at comfort, “whenever i feel upset, i've found that treating myself to something nice to eat always helps lift my spirits.”

your words hang in the air as he remains silent, his gaze fixed ahead; undeterred, you continue speaking.

“there’s a new restaurant robin told me about yesterday, would you—”

“—stop talking.”

his words seem to have escaped louder than intended, drawing the attention of bystanders who now stop to observe the scene. murmurs ripple through the crowd as they exchange curious glances. 

“oh… well i just wanted t—”

“just, leave me alone for once,” he interrupts sharply, each syllable from his lips like a drop of acid, eroding the walls of your heart until nothing is left but a hollow ache.

a flash of regret crosses his face the moment he sees your face drop. he watches in silence as you nod curtly before pushing your way through the gathering crowd, the haunting image of your hurt expression only further exacerbates the stress he’s already grappling with. 

you gaze at the chat screen with sunday’s name, your fingers hesitantly hovering over the send button; his words from a few days ago echo relentlessly in your head, replaying over and over again.

you sigh before putting your phone down. he probably doesn’t want you bothering him, right?

in that case, even if he was 'annoyed' by you, why did he have to say it in front of everyone? sure he was cold to you at times, but you thought he cared for you at least a little. and if he intended to push you away, why accept your gifts in the first place? 

regardless, you’re not about to forgive him so easily. your dignity demands that you maintain your distance for now, not merely out of pride but also to give him a taste of his own medicine. 

sunday hasn’t received your usual “good morning” text today… the day before, and the week before. actually, he hasn’t seen you at all either. (but robin has, she mentioned that she noticed you seemed a bit down. when she asked about it, though, you didn’t give her a clear answer.)

his office feels eerily quiet without your timely “interruptions”; his desk, once cluttered with your little gifts and notes, now sits noticeably emptier. most importantly, your absence only serves to distract him more than your presence ever did.

he has lost count of the times he’s run his hand through his hair, a familiar gesture of frustration that has become all too common lately. what he said that day, was purely “in the heat of the moment”, a lapse into uncharacteristic harshness he now deeply regrets. 

he envisions the hurt in your eyes, the way your expression crumpled as his words pierced the air, the weight of his own words gnaws at him, and he feels a pang of guilt so sharp it almost physically hurts.

he may have been reserved with his affection, but he never intended for his words to wound you so deeply. ultimately, he was only trying to guard the vulnerability he rarely reveals; but now, his facade has crumbled. and even he can no longer convince himself of the cold indifference he once tried to project.

it’s a bitter irony that he thinks you shouldn’t try so hard to win him over, when he tries just as hard to resist you. 

his efforts would have paid off,

—if only his heart is as cold as he pretends it is. 

he hears your footsteps for the first time in two weeks.

as you enter, he tries to mask the relief on his face, but his eyes betray him, softening as they lock onto you; his pulse quickens, and he rises from his desk almost instinctively. as usual, you keep your eyes averted, but today, the familiar shyness has been replaced by a palpable tension that he can’t ignore.

you set the stack of documents on his desk before turning to leave in silence, but his hand reaches out and gently grasps your wrist, halting you in your tracks. 

“—wait, please,” his voice trembles.

you turn around, finally meeting his gaze. the steady rhythm of his heart quickens into an erratic flutter, almost like a caged dove desperate to escape.

“i apologise… for what happened that day.” 

“a simple ‘sorry’ would suffice for the embarrassment you put me through, but it doesn’t erase the sting of your words or the way you belittle my feelings,” your voice quivers slightly.

you shake your head and let out a frustrated sigh. “listen, i’m not a pawn for you to play with. just tell me how you really feel, not what you think i want to hear.”

you pause, searching his face for any sign of genuine emotion, but all you find is the same frustrating distance. “i mean it, i’m truly sorry, please let m—”

“you can’t just say you're sorry and expect everything to be fine." you scoff and wrench your hand away from his grasp with a sharp jerk, “cut the crap, you’re seriously driving me insane!”

there's a pause before he responds. “im driving you insane?” his eyes narrow, his expression growing intense as he steps closer. with each step he takes towards you, you retreat until your back hits the edge of a bookshelf, the cool wood pressing against you. 

“but do you know what you do to me?” his hair tumbles messily and hangs over his forehead. “do you think it’s easy for me to keep my composure when everything you do makes it harder for me to hold it together?” 

his hands, which were previously clenched at his sides, now grip the edges of the bookshelf on either side of you, closing the space between you even further. 

“maybe i’ve been distant,” his voice, though strained, holds a desperate edge. “but it’s not because i don’t care, it’s because i'm terrified of what i might feel if i let myself get too close.”

“it’s because you drive me insane —and i can’t get enough of it.” 

you pause, taking in his raw confession before burying your face into his shoulder; a damp patch forming on his clothes. “but it’s not fair, sunday.” your fingers dig into his shoulder, but he couldn’t care less.

“you can’t push me away and then pull me back in with your words.” your words are muffled; he tenderly runs his hand along your back, his soothing touch calming you down.

he sighs before saying, “i know i’m sorry, please give me some time, i’ll make things right.”

“promise?” you ask, lifting your gaze to meet his. he gently cups your cheek with his hand, his thumb softly caressing your skin.

he presses a kiss to the crown of your head, “i promise.” 

and this time, he lets himself sink in your embrace, holding you tighter than before. it’s then he realises just how much he had missed out on. 

extra:

“darling...” 

“hm?” you gently stroke his wings, smoothing out the feathers with delicate care. 

his wings flutter slightly under your gentle hands, softly rustling as you brush through the layers of plumage.

“why were you delivering documents to me that day?” he asks, voice laden with curiosity.

you let out a soft chuckle as you recall the nervous expressions of the staff on that day when sunday walked into his office. his wings had fluttered with every tentative step someone took toward him, a clear sign of his agitation. 

“i don’t know,” you reply with a hint of amusement. “maybe none of your staff dared to come near you, so they asked for my help.”

he subconsciously leans into your touch, a soft smile playing on his lips. “well i’m grateful you came by,” he murmurs, though he can’t quite hide the way his wings quiver in response to your tender caresses.

“it turns out, i got more than just a set of documents that day."

you raise an eyebrow playfully. "oh? and what might that be?"

he leans in closer, his forehead gently touching yours, “a reminder of how much i need you."

MASTERLIST ; EVENT M.LIST

[urdreamgirlangel]

a soft exit from doom scroll culture 𐙚🧸ྀི

Life wasn’t created to be lived through a screen, it was created to be lived through experiences ₊˚⊹ ᰔ michi

I constantly feel like I’m missing out on life. I’m never physically doing anything but I am always.. always scrolling. And for what? To be entertained. For those weak ass dopamine hits. To distract myself from my thoughts and my mental state. To have an excuse as to why I’m not doing something.

Neglecting yourself? Doomscrolling? Having trouble sleeping? Eyes always tired? Unhappy? Always feeling drained and tired?

Don’t you guys ever feel like you’re missing out? I mean you must since you’re here.

So I decided to try a digital detox.

Not in some extreme, delete-everything-and-vanish kind of way (I actually tried that many times and failed each one). I just wanted to see what would happen if I gave my brain a break. If I stopped reaching for my phone the second I felt bored, uncomfortable, or lonely. If I actually let myself sit with things instead of escaping into a timeline that never ends.

It was weird at first.

My brain kept telling me to “check something,” whether it's Instagram, TikTok, even Pinterest like ?? girl for what?? I realized I’d trained myself to need noise. Constant noise. And without it? I felt unsettled. Quiet. But underneath all that static, there was something else too. A kind of peace I didn’t know I missed. My mind actually started to feel like mine again.

Because the truth is, I don’t want to live a life I’m watching from the sidelines. I don’t want to be so overstimulated I can’t even hear myself think. I want to choose what I consume. What I feel. What I do with my time.

I want to remember that I don’t have to perform every moment. I don’t have to be productive to be worthy. I don’t have to post everything to prove I exist.

Sprinkles ˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪

I thought to myself I should have rules. I should try setting rules and boundaries because, as I said, social media isn't the problem, but rather how we use and interact with it is.

When you do scroll, do it purposefully (because you’re looking for something specific rather than because you’re just bored and you’re trying to entertain yourself quickly)

Delete and uninstall any apps you no longer use & make note of the ones you use too much - a lot of similar posts I’ve read on this topic always talk about keeping tumblr because it’s not that bad blah blah.. But can you really say you don’t scroll mindlessly on here? People use tumblr as an escape from all those other apps, but at the end of the day, it’s still social media.

Set time limits for screen use

Reduce use bit by bit

be careful with what you consume

Don’t be afraid to be bored. You are going to be bored and lonely.

Silence your notifications

Realize it’s okay to have social media but it shouldn’t be abused

Be in the moment. You don’t need to have a hot girl walk with a podcast playing in your ear. Bitch, be the podcast. Yap to yourself and look fucking crazy because I do. And it’s fun.

Find something to do with your free time, in my post Pretty Girl Content, you will find some hobby suggestions, or even in my Enhance Your Whimsy posts.

Tech-free zones - keeping your phone out of the bathroom, kitchen, bed, dining area

Check-in windows: only check social media during scheduled times

A ‘why I opened this’ list - every time you open an app, ask yourself why and write it down. Write it down. After a few days, review it to see your patterns and learn from them. nd if you wanna share thats ok too!

Dopamine Menu - a list of things that gives you pleasure or satisfaction a healthy way. instead of reaching for your phone when you feel lonely, bored or restless, pick something off the list and then do it.. They start easy with the first course, then require more effort and engagement as the course goes up.

Angel’s Dopamine Menu ꒰ঌ ໒꒱

🧁 Sweet Treats (Low-Effort)

Light a candle and practice breath work

Make a cute warm drink

Do mobility routine

take a shower

say affirmations

style dream closet mentally

cuddle blanket and/or pet

stand in sun for 3-5 mins

change into favourite cozy outfit

🍱 Comfort Courses (Medium Effort)

journal with dreamy prompts or about something i’m curious about

write a letter to my future self

Walk around the block

Bake something cute and simple

read a book

Reorganize space a bit (clear bed, fluff pillows, wipe mirror)

Watch a comfort show, no snacks, no other screens

have a tea party with plushies

🥘 Soul meals (High Effort)

solo adventure

Deep clean space

write letters to past you, present you and future you

go to a concert

choose a topic that fascinates me and go full research mode

start a new cute slice of life anime/kdrama

work on a hobby (start a scrapbook, upcycling an outfit, etc.)

write or continue writing a post

sign up for a workshop/class that excites you

learn a new skill (writing, language etc)

host a themed night for yourself (cottage core evening, 2000s movie night)

Plan my dream life

But now that we’ve got that out of the way, I have a question for you

What do you want from these apps? ೀ

𖹭.ᐟ Is it validation?

𖹭.ᐟ To feel seen without having to do much?

𖹭.ᐟ A distraction?

𖹭.ᐟ Community and connection?

𖹭.ᐟ Inspiration?

𖹭.ᐟ Entertainment?

𖹭.ᐟ Self-expression?

𖹭.ᐟ FOMO?

Are you actually getting it? Or are you just stuck in the loop, hoping the next scroll will finally give you what the last hundred didn’t?

People say cons of not having social media is not knowing what’s going on “in the outside world” but.. to me that’s a pro because I get to focus on myself and my mind and loa. So nothing else really matters to me since I’m focused on building the life for me starting with myself. Which I really need right now given my mental state. When i deleted tiktok, I feel good about not downloading it. Whenever I need it, I redownload it. Hair content. That’s about it. Then I delete. I dread even redownloading it because I’m kind of impatient. But I also do the same for tumblr. If I need a little pick me up, a sweet post and I know I have no one around give it to me and I really need to hear it from someone else, I redownload. I use it on my pc mainly now and I don’t find scrolling on my pc interesting enough to do it all the time.

So let’s get to the more philosophical, harsher side.

₊˚ 🦢・₊✧ Modern life encourages consumption, rather than understanding and contemplation - challenge yourself, learn about something that honestly doesn’t seem that big of a deal, like learning random facts about random things. Remember libraries and book shops exist.

₊˚ 🦢・₊✧ One thing about social media it will give you unsolicited advice and opinions, it will try to make you feel like you have to listen and believe what is being shown to you. It could cause you to stray from your own beliefs if you aren’t strong in them. People’s opinions being thrown at you left and right when you aren’t even comfortable and strong in yourself is… jarring. “You shouldn’t do this bc..” but what if I want to? And why are people mad that I want to? Or don’t want to? Realizing I don’t wanna hear anyone’s opinions before I was grounded in mine was a big reason for my detox and regulation.

₊˚ 🦢・₊✧ You pick up a lot of stuff you consume online unconsciously. For instance, I watched a lot of American and Canadian tv growing up.. now I react to certain situations in certain ways (just like a lot of the characters I saw on TV) and I literally didn't notice until like a few days ago. That's the result of repeatedly consuming the same kind of content. So guess what- the thing people call ‘brain rot’… is actually rotting your brain. Surprise, surprise.

₊˚ 🦢・₊✧ Social media constantly exposes you to other people’s timelines, and it quietly convinces you that you’re behind in life. But most people are only sharing fragments- the polished, curated parts. And when we forget that, it’s easy to start holding ourselves to unrealistic standards or feeling like we’re not doing enough. You are not late. You are not less. You are unfolding, slowly and softly, in your own time. And there’s something quietly magical about that.

₊˚ 🦢・₊✧ And on that note… influencers really do be scamming sometimes. Like, a lot of it is just the same old stuff, just prettier now. They take outdated ideas and wrap them in pink ribbons and call it healing or empowerment. Suddenly, being “feminine” means looking a certain way, acting soft and quiet, never taking up too much space, and spending money just to seem effortlessly perfect. But don't get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with liking pink, or soft things, or wanting to feel pretty. But when femininity becomes a performance—when it’s reduced to a list of aesthetics you have to buy into to be “the ideal woman,” that’s not empowerment. That’s marketing. They just dressed it up and made you feel like you chose it. But it’s still about control. About shrinking yourself into something small, sweet, and palatable. It’s not just influencers because some of them genuinely believe in this and don’t realize what they’re doing. In the end it just leads back to men trying to be in control... Ew. You might not even realize how much of what you like or think you like is just what society has convinced you need to like to be worthy of love or attention. This is not to say you can’t enjoy this stuff because I most definitely still do. But do so mindfully. This is also not to say that life can’t be aesthetic and pretty because it can and anybody that says not is just.. boring I guess. Just be mindful.

So I’m detoxing. To control the identity I’m building for myself and making sure it’s something I like, something I’m doing for me rather than for the algorithm. This is not to say that social media- or rather, how we use it- is to blame for everything. Because it’s not. People around you can genuinely suck. You have to pull away from that. The point is, if it’s not benefiting you, it’s depriving you.

Log out. Go outside. Touch the real world. You deserve to feel real again. -`♡´-🧁

follow @urdreamgirlangel 444 more

inspired by:

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ michi goodbye TikTok, hello living

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ xiao's you don't have to be that girl

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ denee you'd be hotter if you logged out

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤMET GALA 2025 * CHRIS STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　where Y/N, worldwide famous singer, goes to the Met Gala 2025 and brings Chris as her pair for the first time.

FEATURING　Chris Sturniolo x singer!reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　some fashion talk because I'm a fashion student whipped for the fashion world.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

A/N²: This happens in the same universe as my 'Grammys 2025' fanfic. You can find it on my Chris’s masterlist.

There was gold on her collarbone, roses stitched into the hem of her coat, and Sol de Janeiro lotion all over her palms.

Y/N stood frozen in front of one of the many full-length mirrors scattered across the grand penthouse living room of The Surrey Hotel, her fingers nervously pressing the creamy shimmer from her hands into the plush, regal fabric of her coat.

The scent of salted caramel and pistachio danced around her in a tentative to calm her down, but it only made her mind feel fuzzy.

It was her third Met Gala, so why does it feel like it was her first?

Was her clothes too literal for the theme? Was it edgy enough? Too sharp? Too structured? Too obvious?

Her mind raced in loops, bouncing off every invisible standard she’d set for herself. The theme, Tailoring Black, was nothing short of genius. But as the minutes ticked closer to the Met Gala carpet, her stomach churned with anxiety.

Everyone always expected her to be the "best of the best". What if this time... she wasn't?

"Y/N, babe, stop rubbing the cream on your coat." Her stylist, Harry Lambert, chided in his signature playful tone as he ducked past the makeup station with a handful of safety pins and a cappuccino. "You're gonna stain it white."

She looked down, her eyes comically widening when she noticed the small pattern of glitter left behind from her hand cream.

"Alright, Harry? I think I’ve ruined it." She mumbled, voice trembling, palm now pressing over the fabric of her coat with even more strenght. "Like actually ruined it."

"You did not ruin it." Harry talked back, walking closer to take a better look at it. "We can just say that you were moisturizing your nerves. Very couture of you, huh?"

Y/N shot him a glare through the mirror, lips parted in half-exasperation, half-laughter.

"I’m literally shining. This coat is going to have body shimmer forever embedded into it. Daniel, I’m so sorry."

Across the room, a soft string of chuckles floated in from the open double doors of the main bathroom. Daniel Roseberry - the mind behind the art she wore tonight - was bent over a steamer, carefully working out the last crease on the matching tailored pants.

"Darling." He said without looking up. "My design was made to hold a woman’s essence, not reject it. You look divine. Let the shimmer stay. It’s yours."

Y/N turned to the mirror again, slowly dragging her gaze from the tip of her velvet-covered hat down to the gold-accented buttons of her coat, down further to the rich gradient of crimson and magenta pooling into her trousers like royal ink.

Daniel had outdone himself. This ensemble was historical, theatrical, and utterly hers. The old-world glamour of Jacques Fath’s Fall/Winter ‘92 had been revived by Schiaparelli's modern surrealism, made to fit her figure like a poem written in silk and courage.

But her heart still pounded like crazy, her plump lips pressed into a soft pout.

The room bustled behind her: makeup artists reapplying lip liner, her manager Josh frantically scrolling through emails while mumbling about red carpet call times, someone adjusting the velvet sash that trailed behind her.

The playlist Harry had queued hummed through the Bluetooth speakers – Madonna, Nelly Furtado, and Britney Spears – influenced hips to move slightly.

Then the main ensuite door creaked.

And out stepped Chris.

Y/N didn’t turn, raising her eyes to the mirror first, her pout fading away, and an automatic smile taking over it.

Chris carried an awkward posture that only made him look even more handsome, adjusting the cuffs of his sculptural black and white suit from Alexander McQueen's, the sharp angles of the tailoring hugging his frame in ways that were sinful.

But it wasn’t his clothes that made Y/N’s heart skip a beat. It was the way his bright blue eyes widened when they landed on her.

Always his eyes.

"Holy shi-" He whispered, stopping in his tracks.

"No swearing, Christopher. Vogue is literally on this floor." Josh walked by behind Chris holding his iPad.

Chris blinked, then laughed under his breath, like the sight of her was short-circuiting his brain.

"I... I think I just blacked out for a second. You look-" He waved his hands helplessly in front of him, searching for words. "You look like... like some art. No- like a painting. Those rich ass paintings we saw in Milan."

Y/N’s cheeks flushed.

"You’re so silly." She said, breathlessly, biting back a smile.

He stepped closer, eyes drinking her in like a man starved.

"Jesus- that’s illegal, what you’re doing-"

Daniel, crouched nearby and still fussing with fabrics, gave Chris a soft grin.

"She is an artwork, no?"

Chris just nodded, pink tongue wetting soft chapped lips.

"What? Yeah. Shit- yes!"

Y/N turned around now, finally facing him fully, hands still nervously toying with the buttons on her jacket.

"You don’t look too bad yourself, Sturniolo. Very jazz player from the 70's."

"I’ll take that." Chris grinned, cheeks pink, but his eyes softened when he noticed her wringing her fingers, nails nervously playing with her commitment ring. "Hey." He muttered gently, stepping in closer, his voice dipping quieter. "You okay?"

Y/N reached for Chris’s hand, and he instantly laced his fingers with hers, ignoring her sweaty palms. He gently pulled her toward him, his thumbs brushing her knuckles, free hand carefully meeting her hips, pressing her flesh in a grounding way.

"You nervous?"

She nodded silently, her other hand still twitching at her side.

"So much. My chest’s doing this weird thumpy thing, and my makeup’s probably melting already, and I don’t know if I can do the stairs in these heels. And there’s all these cameras and Vogue livestreams, and you’re here, and I just..."

Chris smiled, one hand coming up from her hips to touch the side of her neck gently, thumb brushing along her jaw.

"That’s supposed to make you less nervous, not more."

"It’s just." She sighed, leaning slightly into his touch. "You’re like... this whole different part of my life. My comfort, my normal. And now you’re stepping into the chaos part. I just-" She paused, voice trembling. "I want you to love it. I want it to be good."

Chris frowned.

"Baby, I don’t care if we get swarmed or if I look like an idiot mid-carpet. I get to walk up those stairs holding you. That’s already the best part."

Y/N’s eyes glossed, and Chris leaned in to press a soft kiss to the corner of her lips, barely there, just enough for her to feel it.

"And if it helps." He added, lips still close to her skin, breath fanning over her mascara covered eyelashes. "I’m terrified, too. Like, super terrified. I’ve watched Met Gala videos on TikTok all week. Matt told me to bring mints. Nick said to suck in my cheeks. I don’t even know what that means."

Y/N let out a loud laugh, forehead falling to his chest, her hat bumping against his skin and tilting to the side.

"God, I love you."

Chris kissed her covered shoulder, breathing in the strong scent of her perfume.

"You’ve done this before. You’re a pro. Everything will be okay."

She let out a long breath, muffled against the fabric of his lapel.

Harry poked his head dramatically from behind the mirror.

"Okay, lovebirds, wrap it up, Vogue’s getting the pre-carpet shots in twenty in front of the hotel, and I need to fix that jacket crease. Daniel, tell me she’s allowed to sit."

"She is, carefully." Daniel smiled, leaning over to fluff the hem of her coat once more, voice gentle now. "Y/N, you’re not just wearing a gown. You’re making a statement. You’re bringing heritage and power and joy to that carpet. Remember that. Every button on this look is telling a story. You just have to let it speak."

"And if the story includes a little sweat under the armpits?" Y/N asked, half-smiling, following Harry's directions, who chimed in, snatching the glass filled with freshly made dry martini from the coffee table and holding it out to Y/N.

"Then it’s high fashion sweat."

The whole room laughed, and Chris reached for her waist, his fingers intertwining around her covered skin.

Her pulse slowed instantly.

"I got you." He whispered in her ear as a stylist passed them with a steamer.

"I know." She whispered back, taking the glass from Harry and gulping it down.

Maybe she hadn’t ruined it after all.

The second her heel touches the first petal-strewn step of the Met Gala carpet, Y/N feels like she’s stepped into a dream designed by a hopeless romantic with a billion-dollar budget.

Everywhere she looks is a sea of daffodils and dreamy blue, like she’s walking through a field of flowers under a velvet night sky, complete with soft starlight. The entire ceiling above them is dotted with tiny glowing stars, and she can’t tell if it's the LED panels or just magic.

Probably both.

Chris's hand tightens slightly on her waist as the crowd ahead of them suddenly roars with excitement, and even though he’s smiling with brows lifted in amused awe, she can feel the tension in his grip.

He’s not used to this kind of spectacle.

Not like she is.

But still, the moment feels too big for even her to pretend like she’s not overwhelmed.

She barely has time to process the first flash of cameras before they’re being whisked to the center of the chaos by a poised woman in a head-to-toe black dress with a clipboard and a headset. She smiles like she’s done this a thousand times (she probably has) and gestures for them to pause in front of the press line.

"You look incredible." The woman says to Y/N with a quick wink, then glances at Chris and grins. "And don’t worry, they’ll love you too."

"Am I that nervous for even her to notice?" Chris's high-pitched voice echoed close to her ear, but before Y/N could respond, the wall of photographers ahead erupts.

"Y/N, sweetheart, give us that over-the-shoulder shot!"

"Chris, look this way! First Met Gala, man, how’s it feel?!"

"Y/N, turn to the left- no, left! There you go!"

It’s chaos, overwhelming and loud, and yet Y/N handles it with an elegance that makes her seem untouchable, clutching Chris’s hand tighter for a second.

They continue climbing the daffodil-drenched stairs, pausing every few steps at the designated posing spots. Chris has stopped flinching at the camera flashes, though he’s still squinting like the whole thing is just slightly unreal.

Which, fair.

Chris leans in subtly.

"Is it just me, or do all these photographers sound like seagulls fighting over some bread?"

Y/N breaks into the warmest laugh, her hand flying to her lips just as the cameras go wild, capturing the moment like it’s staged.

It’s not. Not even a little.

She tilts her head toward him and whispers back.

"You’re the bread."

Chris grins, full and unfiltered. The night doesn’t feel so scary to him anymore.

"Miss, over here- no, to your right!"

"Stunning! Absolutely stunning!"

Y/N turns gracefully, refusing to let the heat faze her even though she can feel it building beneath the fabric of her coat. She focuses on keeping her expression soft, her movements fluid, her posture strong.

Halfway up the flower-drenched staircase, Y/N’s eyes sweep across the crowd and then freeze.

Her heart skips a beat.

Because just a few steps above stands Kendall Jenner beautifully dressed in a gray tailoring set, her best friend since she could remember, the one person who knows every version of her.

Y/N gasps softly, her eyes wide, her smile blooming in real-time.

"Oh my- Kenny!" She calls out over the noise, breathless, one hand instinctively lifting as if pulled by pure gravity.

Kendall’s head turns, scanning, and the second her eyes lock with Y/N’s, her whole face lights up like someone flipped a switch, her serious gaze melting away.

"Y/N?!" She beams, her grin going impossibly wider as she carefully steps closer.

They both reach across the velvet steps, fingers finding each other in the middle of the carpet, paparazzi catching every movement. They giggle as if they haven’t seen each other in a decade instead of a few weeks.

Suddenly, a photographer shouts.

"Y/N! Kendall! Together, please!"

Chris immediately steps aside, grinning from ear to ear, pride practically radiating off him.

"Go, babe." He says under his breath, eyes warm as he watches her light up.

Kendall throws him a friendly wave with a glowing smile.

"Looking good, Chris!" She beamed before sliding right into place beside Y/N.

Cameras go into full chaos mode as they pose, linked at the hip, shoulders back, smirks, and sweetness. Kendall leans in just before the next click, whispering against Y/N’s hair.

"You look absolutely unreal. I loved that color."

"Daniel's magic, babe." Y/N laughs softly.

Meanwhile, the same woman in black from minutes before appears again, smiling gently while gesturing for Chris to step back and pose alone to the other side full of paparazzi.

"Are you- are you sure? I don't know if they even know me." He whispers to the woman, blue eyes traveling to the wave of photographers.

"Christopher, what are you wearing?"

"Chris, to your right."

"Mr. Sturniolo, right here! No- to your left."

"Okay, they proved your point." He mutters before stepping back, letting Y/N keep the spotlight with Kendall and walking to the area where the woman pointed, throwing his girl a soft look behind his shoulder.

She’s glowing, absolutely glowing, and Chris... Chris looks like he’s watching a star come to life, his attention snapping back to the photographers as his name was shouted again.

Joana, Y/N’s publicist, is suddenly at the girl's side, effortlessly chic in a black sheath dress, sunglasses perched on her head like she’s immune to the absurdity of the moment.

She leans in close.

"You’re killing it. Keep smiling. Be you. Don’t overthink it. Let them eat it up."

Y/N nods, grateful for the grounding voice, and not even a second after, Joana is already pulling Chris gently back toward her, smiling when Kendall understood and stepped aside.

"I'll see you inside!" Kendall winked, blowing a kiss toward Y/N before walking to the other side of the stairs.

Joana nodded, adjusting Chris and Y/N side by side, making sure they stood just close enough for the camera to catch that he's her date without overshadowing her look.

He falls back into place beside her naturally, hand ghosting along the small of her back again before he leans in, lips brushing just behind her ear, and murmurs low enough that only she can hear.

"You look so fuckin' good it’s making it hard to think, y’know? Looked kinda dumb to those paparazzi back there."

Y/N’s breath catches in her throat, her body reacting faster than her mind can process. She doesn't flinch, doesn't let it show, except for the subtle shift in her smile.

The cameras go off in a frenzy.

Chris straightens up with the most innocent look on his face.

After some more steps, they reach a floral archway signaling the final stop before the inside interviews begin. A guard in a sleek suit gives them a nod, and the clipboard lady reappears, guiding them up the final stretch of the staircase.

"Ready?" Chris murmurs, his voice quieter now that the roars have dulled behind them.

Y/N exhales slowly, a mix of nerves still swimming in her chest.

"I think so." She says, and then turns to him, softening even further. "You’ve been amazing. Thank you."

He shrugs in that careless Chris-way that always makes her heart flutter.

"All I did was stand next to you and look good."

"You did both very well." She replies with a small smile, brushing her fingers against his hand.

The grand staircase faded behind them, the soft golden glow of the Met’s interview platform shining ahead. The plush carpet beneath their feet muffled the paparazzi chaos.

Up ahead, Emma Chamberlain stood in that signature interview nook, stunning in her custom look and microphone in hand. She was mid-conversation with someone from the Vogue crew when her eyes wandered and then locked in.

Her mouth parted slightly, then her whole face lit up.

She turned fully, barely containing her excitement.

"Oh my god." She whispered with a gasp, already stepping forward just a bit, her hand waving subtly toward her team to make space. "They’re here!"

As Y/N and Chris got closer, Emma beamed like she’d just spotted her favorite people in the world. Which, honestly, she kind of had.

"Hi!! You guys-" She laughed, caught halfway between giddy and stunned. "I’ve been waiting for you two. Please come over."

Y/N broke into the biggest smile, face instantly lighting up like she’s been plugged into a charger.

"Emma!" She gasps, turning slightly to look at Chris, but he was already watching her with the softest, most adoring look. "It’s Emma."

"I can see that." Chris chuckles, soft and low, already steering her gently with a palm to her lower back. "C’mon, doll."

They stepped up into the interview space, and Emma leaned in for a hug, air-kissing each side of Y/N’s face, being extra careful with her hat and makeup.

"You- what?! You look insane. Like, unreal. Both of you. I- hold on... okay, wait- microphone." She babbles, fumbling as she resets herself and stands before them. "Okay. I’m collected."

Y/N giggles, looping her arm around Chris’s.

"You also look insane." She replied, a little breathless. "You’re glowing."

Emma lifts the mic toward them, still beaming.

"Thank you! Okay, so, obviously, hi, I love you both. Now, what are you wearing tonight? Because this." She motions to Y/N’s look. "Is actual fashion history, and I’m gonna need, like, a full rundown."

Y/N laughed softly, brushing a hand down the side of her coat.

"I’m wearing a revival of Fath’s Fall/Winter ‘92." She said, glowing. "It was brought back to life by Daniel Roseberry from Schiaparelli, and he just... he really understood the balance between strong and soft. I fell in love with it the second I saw the sketch."

"I mean, I get it." Emma said, genuinely. "It’s literally art. Daniel always does art." Then she turned to Chris, who subtly adjusted his cuff with a smile. "And you, Mr. Chris?"

Chris chuckled, nodding slightly.

"Yeah, so, this is Alexander McQueen Spring ‘23... but it was customized for me by Harry Lambert. He’s a wizard. I didn’t know I could feel cool and classic at the same time, but somehow, he made it work. He adjusted every little detail to make it personal. Like, the fabric has this texture I’m crazy with. It’s just- yeah. I feel good."

Emma leaned in like she was letting the viewers in on a secret.

"They both look unreal in person, by the way. The camera does not do this justice."

Y/N laughed, mouthing 'stop' while visibly glowing under the compliment.

Emma took a small breath, then grinned.

"Okay, let’s talk theme. This year’s is Superfine: Tailoring Black Style. When you first found out about it, what did you think?"

Chris glanced at Y/N again, giving her space to speak first. She caught the cue and smiled, turning to Emma with that same euphoria in her voice she always had when talking about things that mattered.

"I was honestly really emotional about it." Y/N started, her voice gentle but sure. "It’s a beautiful theme. Because this isn’t just fashion. It’s history. It’s identity. It’s... pride."

She glanced toward the museum for a second before looking back at Emma.

"When you think about the Black community and what it means to take something like tailoring, and flip it, and make it theirs, it’s powerful. It’s this mix of strength, creativity, confidence... even joy. There’s this attitude of, like, 'I know who I am, and I’m gonna take up space loudly, beautifully, and on my own terms'. And that’s what fashion should be, right? Expression. Celebration. Defiance."

Emma visibly softened, her eyes slightly misty.

"Okay. See, this is why I needed to talk to you tonight. You always get it. Thank you for saying that. That’s everything."

Y/N just smiled shyly, glancing down.

"It’s a theme that deserves to be honored properly." Chris slipped his hand into hers briefly, giving it a squeeze, smiling when catching her eyes.

Emma nodded, her eyes traveling from Y/N to Chris and back.

"Alright, I won't be holding you back any longer, but I have to know... are you guys going to the afterparty tonight? Or is this the big finale for you?"

Y/N let out a little giggle, shaking her head.

"No afterparty for us. We’re going back to our hotel room, ordering room service-"

"Probably some pizza." Chris added. "I've heard that our hotel has the best one."

Emma's eyes light up, moving her mic a bit higher against her lips.

"If it's The Surrey, I can assure you that what you heard is the truth."

"It is!" Y/N nodded excitedly. "And we’re gonna FaceTime Matt and Nick and just talk about this night until we fall asleep."

Chris hummed lowly.

"It’s tradition now, since the Grammy's."

Emma laughed with affection.

"That’s so unreasonably adorable. I love it. Honestly, that sounds better than most afterparties."

"I know, right?" Y/N grinned. "And we have an early flight back to LA tomorrow."

Emma sighed dramatically.

"Ugh, you two win. Please go be soft and stunning somewhere else before I start crying."

They all laughed again, and as the camera crew gave the okay to wrap up, Emma leaned in one more time, hugging them both gently.

"I love you guys. You always make my night. Thank you for stopping by."

"Wouldn’t miss it." Chris said genuinely, hand falling naturally back into Y/N’s as they turned to walk toward the museum’s grand entrance.

Their night was just beginning.

liked by kendalljenner, christophersturniolo, ynfan1 and 63,528 others

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[clockwayswrites]

Birds and wings and hope Part 13

Masterpost

Danny had thought hat if he finished with Frostbite early that he would spend a few days in the zone to catch up with some of the other ghosts. He hadn’t wanted to with the wings. It wasn’t that Danny was ashamed of the wings, not from the fact of having different features, but Frostbite had seemed certain that Danny was in a heavily mutable state right then. The more people that knew Phantom with wings, the more likely they were to stick as they cemented in consciousness and identity.

Or something like that.

Danny had a whole stack of reading tucked away in his chest to go through later.

Just wanting time alone, Danny had given himself somewhere between an hour and a day (time was hard to tell in the zone) to sulk among the sparks and dust that were long dead stars before forced himself to get a grip and go home. He was an adult for, well, him sake he guessed. He could deal with this.

The reading set on the left side of the coffee table with a fresh notebook next to it. It wouldn’t do to mix up this work with his actual work, so Danny was sure to pick out one with a green cover from the stash that he kept on hand of his favorite dot patterned paper notebooks. He’d draw a blob ghost or something on it later. A few color pens and a highlighter joined the little pile, set in a battered and chipped Amity Park tourist trap mug.

Sam had gotten it for Danny as a present due to the so hideous it was funny caricature of Phantom on it.

On the right side of the coffee table went a box of protein bars, electrolyte drinks, suck’em candies, and Danny’s well stocked pill container. He moved the coffee table a little closer to the couch, turned the TV on to a playlist of Mythbuster episodes, and made sure he had his favorite blanket in hand before he transformed back.

And fuck that hurt. Pain shot up Danny’s back, radiating up through his shoulders, and shooting along his Lichtenberg scars so intensely that they burned. Danny collapsed inelegantly onto the couch with a defeated whimper.

Maybe it was the wings? Did having a different set of limbs as a ghost cause transfered muscle aches to his human form? He didn’t even have muscles as a ghost, not really, but the mind was a very powerful thing and not even Frostbite was entirely sure of how exactly the two parts of a halfa effected each other.

After the worst of the pain had dulled slightly, Danny managed to toss back his medication (missing doses while Phantom never did him any good) and pulled the candies close enough that he could use them as a distraction for his senses. Slowly the muscle relaxant worked its magic and Danny became a boneless lump. The episodes of Mythbusters idly distracted him as he just let his thoughts drift over what Frostbite had said.

Frostbite was sure that there had to be a reason— or several— that Danny’s form had shifted into a bird and after retained the wings still. Frostbite felt the first step to this all, if Danny was determined to either control or to get an understanding of where this all was going, was to understand the subconscious or symbolic particulars of the change.

The why Frostbite felt was clear: Danny had been without a haunt for too long now. Yes, he accepted, the pollen may have certain accelerated matters (hence the full bird then and only the wings now), but Frostbite was admit that the change wouldn’t have been occurring at this stage if Phantom had still been the protector of Amity Park.

Phantom had a purpose in Amity Park. Phantom was a protector and guardian. That guardianship extended to a very limited range. Now that Amity Park was many, many years behind him and Danny was living in a place already full of its own protectors, the Phantom part of Danny was left adrift which allowed for this new stage of ghosthood.

Why couldn’t his ghost half just be happy with a nice long nap?

“Fuck you, Phantom,” Danny grumbled as he watched a car be vaporized upon impact on the screen. Idly Danny wondered if he could get an object up to that speed if he flew fast enough.

Several hours and several protein bars later, Danny was managing to sit up enough to start going through some of the reading Frostbite had sent and make notes. Two more episodes and delivered Indian food later, Danny scrawled on the top of a fresh page ‘The Subconscious & Symbolic Particulars of Wings’.

Why on earth and beyond did he have wings?

‘Flying’, Danny wrote first and then as many reasons he could think of why he loved flying from the freedom of it to space to the way that it felt to move through a cloud. ‘Freedom’ branched off into movement and escape and getting to become his own person without the weight of Amity. ‘Gravity’ and ‘Identity’ sprawled into transformation and his death and the million of ways that it had changed everything about his life.

It was hard to think about.

Danny turned the page.

‘Wings’. Wings and feathers. Birds. Pigeons and crows and ducks and robins. And Robins. Biblically accurate angels who created the cosmos. Hope. And always hope.

“‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers — ”

Hope and Robins and Bats.

And always hope.

Was Gotham his haunt?

Was he the thing with feathers?

---

AN: shhhhh I've been writing as my wind down before sleep. Also special prize for @stoiczee. I promise we'll see more batfam next part. Danny just needed some time to react!

[elixirfromthestars]

Tangled Up In You

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Avenger!Reader

Summary: When you and Steve get tasked with decorating the living room of the Avengers Compound, it seems like the perfect opportunity to spend some time with your crush. However, a certain tangled mess of lights would prove to make decorating a bit more difficult than you had anticipated.

Word Count: 1.5k

Warning(s): none. pure fluff. established nickname -> angel

Prompt/Event: @the-slumberparty december daze -> putting up christmas lights isn't as easy as it looks

a/n: And the secret is out! ₊˚⊹☆ This little winter drabble event was started because I wanted to do some gift giving for the holiday season. ˚୨୧⋆｡ So this fluffy fic is my holiday gift to you my dear Jo!! @neverthatsirius-jo ♡ I know how much you adore Steve, so I knew I had to write something for him just for you!! Thank you for reading! ₊˚⊹♡ Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ♡♡♡

main masterlist ♡ || fluffy winter drabbles masterlist ❆

You grumble an incoherence under your breath, stepping back and looking at the piles of cardboard boxes littering the living room of the Avengers Compound. Each one is filled with various holiday decorations you and Steve have been “tasked” adorning the living room with. 

Last night, during the team’s weekly game night, it was decided that the two people who lost the most games by the end of the night would be stuck with the responsibility of decorating the only undecorated room left in the Compound—the living room. 

Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately for you—you and Steve were the two losers of the night. You didn’t mind having to decorate on your day off, and you certainly didn’t mind spending the afternoon with Steve. He was one of your closest friends—a friend you have been secretly crushing on for months. You were hoping that this time together could help you muster up the courage to finally ask him out on a date.

Fingers crossed that, unlike last night, luck would be on your side when asking him. 

While Steve brought in the remaining boxes from the storage room, you were going through each of the cardboard boxes to try and get an idea of what you had to work with. This was your first holiday season at the Compound, so you didn’t have last year's decor to reference back on.

You make your way over to one of the larger cardboard boxes, one whose height goes up to your waist. You notice the word lights scribbled on the side of it in black permanent marker before you open it. Inside, as you expected, are an abundance of Christmas lights. All an extensive tangled web of cords and bulbs. You couldn’t tell how many sets of lights were inside, but you did know whoever stored them previously did so without a care in the world. Now, they were left in a mangled knot you’d have to find the patience to undo.

Maybe luck wasn’t on your side today…

You huff as you begin pulling the strands of lights out of the box. Your eyes go wider by the second as they appear to be never-ending. Almost as if you were pulling the lights from a magician’s hat, yards upon yards of string poured out. It made you wonder if Wanda had enchanted the box for it to have been able to fit so much.

By the time the box was empty, you were in the midst of the pile of lights, carefully trying to make a path by sweeping the cords on the ground with your foot. This backfires on you quickly as the cords end up around your ankles. When you try to free them, your wrists somehow end up joining in on the vine-like restriction.

The pattern of you trying to free yourself from the web of lights only to end up getting more entrapped by them continues until you can no longer discern where you start and where the lights end. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry at the ridiculous situation you have gotten yourself into.

“I think there’s only—” Steve's words freeze in midair along with himself as he walks into the living room and sees the predicament you’re in. The Christmas lights cover you from head to toe as if you had been decorating yourself in them. His eyes sparkle with amusement, but he keeps his lips in a tight line to stop himself from laughing. 

“Y/n, how did you…?”

“Please help.” 

Embarrassment bubbles within every ounce of you—to say the least—and with no dignified explanation of how you got like this, you look everywhere but at Steve. Staring intently at the ground when he sets down the boxes in his arms and carefully makes his way over to you. 

“I think you took out the lights Tony used last year to outline the roof. That’s why there’s so many of them,” Steve explains kindly as a way to make you feel better, delicately pulling at the lights around your body to find the ones easiest to take off of you first. Your eyes slowly make their way to meet his baby blue ones. Your embarrassment melts away at the gentle way he’s staring at you—no judgment in sight. However, you don’t miss the way the corners of his lips twitch as he holds back a smile.

“You can laugh, it's okay. This is pretty funny.”

“I’m not going to laugh at you, angel.” 

“Laugh with me then.”

The nickname he uses only for you is enough to bring a smile to your face, but when a few light chuckles leave his lips at your permission—your smile widens until your soft laughter joins his.

What happens next will forever be unexplainable to both of you. Somehow, in the midst of trying to untangle you, the string of lights find themselves around Steve’s chest constricting his movement. You try to help him, but you’re not in the best position to. So from here on out, you go back and forth trying to help one another only to end up enveloped further by the lights. 

You both laugh it off until you realize how close the lights have tangled you to each other. If you step any closer you’d be pressed up against Steve, the mere possibility sends your heart racing. Your nerves get the better of you, attempting to step back only to almost slip backward if it weren’t for Steve reaching out to catch you before you did. 

Ultimately, pressing you up against him so you wouldn’t fall. 

“You alright, angel?” He asks you tentatively, scanning you over as if you had fallen. 

You nod slowly, the words getting caught in your throat at his proximity. The scent of his cologne, an earthy spice that is mixed with something that is entirely him fills your senses, causing the butterflies in your stomach to flutter dreamily.

Your eyes gravitate to his lips and when they do his breath hitches. Your gaze shoots up to meet his and in his pretty blues you swear you see the same desire you hold. 

You’re dying to kiss him, and you think he is too.

Steve’s eyes lock on your lips, and that’s all the confirmation you need to gather the courage to pull him in for a kiss. It starts hesitant, yet sweet, both of you testing the waters of what it feels like to kiss one another. It doesn’t take long for Steve to deepen the kiss, wanting to pour his feelings for you out in the open. The dilemma of the lights is long forgotten as the kiss consumes all of your thoughts. 

The snapping sound of a phone camera isn’t enough to break the kiss, but the flash that follows it is. You look over to see Bucky smirking proudly at the sight of his best friend kissing you and Sam making fun of Bucky for not knowing how to take a photo without the flash on. 

“Seriously, you two?” Steve shakes his head at his friends, his cheeks rosy with a hint of bashfulness at the way his best friends are acting. You can feel your face getting hot as well, knowing there was no way you were ever going to live down getting tangled up in Christmas lights with Steve. 

As for the picture of the kiss…you were definitely going to ask Bucky for a copy later.

When you tune back into their conversation, Sam has a shit-eating grin on his face, “You should make that this year's Christmas card.” 

“Sam!”

You giggle at Sam’s teasing and at Steve’s attempt at scolding him. Steve seems mortified until he notices the way you don’t seem to mind the teasing. He stares at you with a fond expression, wanting more than anything to be alone with you again.

“Don’t you two have chores to do? Y/n and I are kind of busy here,” Steve motions to the web of lights that cover you and him from head to toe. Despite that, the twinkle of mischief in Sam’s eyes tells you he’s not done with either of you yet. 

“Kissing or decorating?”

“Sam!”

After a few more rounds of teasing that leave Steve wondering when the earth will swallow him whole, Sam and Bucky finally retreat—leaving him alone with you once more.

“I’m sorry about that. I’ll make it up to you angel—I promise,” Steve apologizes to you, an endearing embarrassment on his features. You shake your head with a soft smile, intending to tell him not to worry about it until an idea pops into your head. 

“How about you make it up to me tomorrow? We can check out that new coffee place down on Orchard if you’d like,” you suggest, your heart beating wildly in your chest as you await his answer. He lights up at your suggestion, “I’d love to. It’s a date then?” That last part comes out as a whispered question, wondering if you’d see it the same way he did. 

“It’s a date,” you confirm, moving against the restricting lights enough to place a soft kiss on his cheek. 

So it seems luck was on your side all along after all.

[kiwriteswords]

Why I've spent my whole life trying to put it into words [Aaron Hotchner x Best Friend!Reader]

Masterlist|| Ao3||Word Count: 5k|| AN: This is inspired by the song You are in love by Taylor Swift...legit...my favorite piece I've written <3 Tags/Warnings: female reader, established relationship, sexual themes, mdni, no smut, but mentions of sex, yearning!Hotch, in love!hotch, best friends, Intimacy, this is INTIMATE, Hotch's POV, Sad!Hotch, Jack Hotchner is mentioned, Haley Hotchner is mentioned, 5+1, alcohol tw, ROMANCE IS NOT DEAD PEOPLE, Reader cannot cook to save her life, free-spirit!reader, reader struggles to open up sometimes Summary: 5 Times Aaron Hotchner realizes you're his best friend + 1 time he tells you.

I. 

The bullpen had long since emptied.

Desks abandoned, lights dimmed. The hum of the vending machines below, the faint buzz of the overhead fluorescents—

Those were the only sounds keeping him company now.

Aaron sat in his office, perched over files like they held secrets no one else could see. The rest of the team had told him to go home, told him the case was done. Closed. Wrapped neatly in bureaucratic red tape.

But something still gnawed at him.

Something still didn’t sit right. He didn’t often get this feeling, but when he had an itch, he just had to scratch it.

Obsessively, almost. 

He rubbed at his temple, willing the creeping headache to back off. His eyes burned from staring too long at reports that no longer blurred together but formed patterns he wasn’t convinced were coincidence.

Rossi had chuckled earlier, slapping a heavy hand on his shoulder, "You're overtired, Aaron. Let it go."

Morgan had shot him a grin, all charm and ease, "Man, you're gonna drive yourself crazy if you keep picking this apart."

Emily, exasperated but fond, had tossed over her shoulder as she left, "Get some sleep, Hotch. You’ve earned it."

He almost believed them. 

Almost.

Until you walked in. Quiet, unassuming—

But so damn steady.

You didn't say much at first. Just nudged open the door with your hip, balancing an entire pot of coffee like it was some peace offering. 

Like you already knew he wouldn’t leave. 

Knew he wouldn’t rest until whatever weight clung to his shoulders shook free.

“I figured,” you said simply, setting the pot down beside his untouched cup. “If you’re going to obsess over this all night, you’ll need caffeine.” Settling in across from him, still in your clothes from the jet. Your blouse slightly wrinkled, “And company.” You smiled

He couldn’t help the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You always knew exactly how to read him—

Without making him feel like a project. 

Like something broken that needed fixing.

You didn’t ask questions or try to talk him down. Instead, you grabbed one of the files strewn across his desk, slid into the chair across from him, and got to work.

He watched for a second longer than he should’ve. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear absentmindedly, the soft furrow in your brow as you read, lips parting just slightly when something caught your attention. There was no complaint, no impatience—

Just that quiet, unwavering presence you always seemed to bring.

Time blurred. Reports shuffled between you both, punctuated by the occasional sip of coffee and the rustle of paper. Midnight came and went.

And still, you stayed.

Eventually, Hotch leaned back, pinching the bridge of his nose. His gaze drifted back to you. You looked up then, catching him mid-thought, eyes curious.

“What’s with the funny look?” you asked lightly, a small smile playing at your lips.

He swallowed.

Shook his head, “Nothing,” he said softly, almost too quickly.

But the truth sat heavy in his chest, undeniable.

Because somewhere between the case files, the stale coffee, and the quiet understanding you offered without asking for anything in return—

It hit him.

You were his best friend.

Not just his partner, not just his girlfriend. 

His person.

The one who stayed. Who understood. Who saw every sharp edge, every obsessive tendency, and chose to be here anyway.

He wondered briefly if it showed on his face—

If you could see how the realization cracked something open in him.

But you just smiled again, tilting your head, and went back to the file without pressing.

That was another reason why.

He exhaled, forcing his eyes back down to the paperwork, but his focus was already elsewhere.

"You're my best friend."

He didn’t say it aloud.

Not yet. 

But the thought lingered—

Settled somewhere deep, where it would stay warm until he was ready.

II.

Saturday mornings had never looked quite like this.

Aaron stood leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, coffee cup in hand, as he watched you work. Or—more accurately—watched you try not to set his kitchen on fire.

You’d insisted. Insisted that after the week they’d all had, you’d cook breakfast. 

Something nice, you promised.

He hadn’t reminded you of that conversation months ago, where you admitted with no shame whatsoever that cooking wasn’t exactly your strength.

You were nothing if not determined.

And now, as he watched from a safe distance, Aaron wondered if it was possible to burn bacon and undercook it at the same time.

The smell of something acrid mixed with the faint scent of coffee as you plated… well, whatever attempt had survived the pan. Eggs scrambled into something that resembled the theme of a Dr. Suess novel. Bacon blackened on the ends, yet suspiciously soft in the middle. And the toast—charred just enough to set off the smoke alarm if you weren’t careful.

Jack, ever the polite little man, sat at the table with his fork poised, eyeing the plate in front of him with the same caution he reserved for vegetables.

You, for your part, plopped down beside him, trying valiantly to act like the mess wasn’t as bad as it looked.

Aaron bit the inside of his cheek, lips twitching, fighting back the laugh threatening to bubble out of him.

You poked at your eggs, then braved a bite—

Only to grimace so subtly he almost missed it.

Jack glanced between you both, unsure whether to risk saying anything.

The silence stretched—

Until you finally gave up, setting your fork down dramatically with a sigh.

“I think I’ve just committed a crime against breakfast,” you muttered, looking at your plate like it personally offended you.

You glanced over at Aaron, catching the barely-contained amusement in his eyes.

“I like it better when you cook anyway,” you added, soft but sweet, as if it were some confession.

That did it.

The laugh escaped before he could stop it. A real, genuine, rare laugh—

Deep, warm, and unguarded. 

He hadn’t even realized how tight his chest felt until it loosened.

Jack blinked at him, then giggled too, relief flashing across his face.

“We should’ve had ice cream,” Jack piped up, earnest as ever. “For breakfast.”

Without missing a beat, you nodded, “You know what, you’re right. We should’ve.”

Aaron shook his head, still smiling, still trying to school his face into something more neutral but failing miserably.

You reached over, ruffling Jack’s hair as he beamed at you, already forgetting about the eggs.

And there it was again—

That look. 

That tightening in his throat. 

That weight in his chest.

He’d known for a long time now that he loved you. That much had settled quietly between you both, something unshakable and steady.

But sitting here, watching you laugh with Jack, watching you fold so seamlessly into the spaces of his life—the messy, imperfect spaces—hit differently. 

Hit harder.

It wasn’t just love.

It wasn’t just partnership.

It was the way you’d become part of his family without ever asking him to be anything other than himself.

It was the way you burned toast and still made Saturday mornings feel lighter.

The way you looked at Jack like he was yours too.

The way you looked at him like all of this—the chaos, the quiet, the sharp edges—was enough.

"You’re my best friend."

The thought lodged somewhere deep, solid and true.

You caught him staring again, gave him a quizzical look, eyebrows raised.

“What?” you asked, playful. “That bad, huh?”

He shook his head, still smiling, voice soft,  “No. Not bad at all.”

You didn’t press. Just gave him one of those grins that could unravel anyone if they let it.

Aaron glanced at the mess of plates, the laughter still hanging in the air, and decided he didn’t care if breakfast had been a disaster.

He had everything he needed right here.

III.

The case had wrapped, mercifully.

Suspect caught. Papers signed. Local PD…satisfied. As satisfied as they can be.

What should’ve been a relief, though, left Aaron gritting his teeth as he loaded into the car.

The jet was down for maintenance.

A mechanical issue, they'd said.

Nothing serious—

But serious enough to leave the team stranded with no choice but to drive back.

Hours on the open road, split between borrowed cars, all scattered in twos.

Rossi had made a crack about how it was probably some cosmic sign they all needed to "slow down and enjoy the journey."

Aaron didn’t find that amusing.

The idea of spending hours locked in a car didn’t exactly relax him. He liked efficiency. Control. Time maximized, not wasted. He would’ve preferred the jet.

But as it turned out, the universe had one mercy left:

You were the one riding with him.

Something about lovebirds sticking together, Derek encouraged. 

At first, the quiet settled easily—

Your presence something familiar and grounding, the way it always was. He focused on the road, tuning into the faint hum of classic rock spilling from the speakers. Something he'd put on more out of habit than anything else.

Five minutes in, he noticed.

The soft, off-key hum coming from the passenger seat.

He flicked his eyes over briefly.

You were singing—

Badly.

And you weren’t trying to hide it, either.

So unapologetically you. The you he loved. 

Adored.

The corners of his mouth threatened to tug upwards.

This wasn’t your kind of music. He knew that. But you’d asked once what he listened to on long drives, and he’d told you. And now here you were, nodding your head to the rhythm, mouthing lyrics. 

He let himself glance at you longer than he should have, the road stretching ahead endlessly.

The way you tapped your fingers against your thigh, how you kept stealing glances at him between verses to see if he was paying attention.

You made the hours not so bad.

Actually—

You made them...good.

His best friend. 

The thought slid in again, unbidden, familiar now. 

His grip on the steering wheel loosened slightly.

Hours passed. Conversation came easy with you—

Quiet stretches filled with comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional sarcastic quip or comment that had him biting back a smile.

Eventually, at some point well into the drive, you insisted they switch. He pulled off at a rest stop without much argument, trusting you with the wheel.

For a while, he buried himself in a case file, pen scratching, his brows knit as the miles slipped by. 

Until something small tugged at his attention.

The GPS.

You weren’t following it.

He glanced up. Frowned slightly.

“Where are you going?” he asked, tone calm but curious, almost suspicious.

You shot him a grin, eyes fixed on the road, “Trust me.”

Those two words.

They had more weight than you probably knew.

Aaron almost replied, almost protested—

Until he saw you slow, flicking on your blinker, pulling into a near-empty parking lot.

His frown deepened.

The ocean stretched out just beyond the sand dunes, gray and shimmering under a setting sun. The air still held that early spring bite, not warm enough to be here, not really. The waves looked brutal, frothy, cold.

You parked, throwing the car into park before looking at him expectantly.

“Come on,” you said, already reaching for the door handle.

He blinked,  “Are you serious?”

You didn’t answer. Just slipped out of the car like it was the most natural thing in the world, gravel crunching under your feet. He watched, momentarily stunned, as you kicked off your shoes without hesitation and darted toward the sand.

It took him longer to move.

You were already down the slope, the wind catching your hair, your jacket flapping behind you. You ran—

Ran like no one was watching.

Spinning in lazy circles, arms stretched wide, laughing at nothing at all.

The sky was streaked in pinks and blues, the sun kissing the edge of the horizon.

And there you were.

So carefree, so alive—

As if the week you’d just had hadn’t happened at all.

Aaron swallowed thickly, pulse strange in his ears.

You looked like something he’d forgotten he could want.

Youthful. Joyful. Unburdened.

How the hell did you always know?

Finally, he shoved open the door, hands in his pockets as he made his way toward you.

You caught sight of him as you turned—grinned—and without warning, ran straight back, crashing into him like a force of nature. A ball of warmth and energy, breathless and glowing.

“You’re insane,” he muttered, but there was no heat behind it.

You looked up at him, wind whipping strands of hair across your face.

“So I’ve been told.”

And before he could offer some other dry remark, you leaned up and kissed him—

Quick but firm, like it was the only logical response.

It was. 

He felt himself smile against your lips despite the cold. Despite everything.

I love you, you’re my best friend. 

The words echoed loud in his chest, clearer than ever before.

You had dragged him out of his head, out of the grind and exhaustion, into this moment. A simple, ridiculous detour—

But perfect in its absurdity.

He held you a little tighter, burying his nose in your hair, breathing you in.

Yeah.

You knew exactly what he needed.

You always did.

IV.

You didn’t fight often.

Rarely, in fact.

It wasn’t necessary.

You understood him—

Almost unnervingly well. 

The rhythms, the silences, the unspoken things he kept close to his chest. You moved alongside him like you'd been doing it your whole life, sidestepping the need for arguments before they ever gained traction.

Which made it all the worse when it happened.

He could still hear the edge in his own voice, the sharpness he never liked to use with you. It had started small. A briefing after a long case. You’d been quiet—too quiet—until finally you told him.

The Bureau had offered you a temporary undercover role.

A weekend. One week, tops.

A specialized operation, short turnaround.

You were perfectly qualified. More than capable. He knew that. Respected it.

And still—

He’d felt something ugly twist inside.

It wasn’t rational.

It wasn’t professional.

It was personal.

But instead of telling you that, instead of stripping down the mask of pride and control he always wore, he’d deflected. Asked if you were sure. If it was worth it. If you understood the risk—questions he had no business asking, because you knew damn well what you were doing.

You bickered—

Circling each other in familiar patterns, but the undercurrent felt different this time. 

Tense. 

Frustrated.

He wanted to tell you not to go.

He wanted to tell you he couldn’t stand the idea of you gone, out there without him, without knowing if you’d be safe.

But what came out instead was clipped remarks, deflections.

And pride. Always pride.

He'd watched as your expression shifted—tired, maybe even a little hurt—but resolute. You were going.

You had to.

And he couldn’t blame you. Wouldn’t.

Not when he respected the hell out of who you were and what you were capable of.

But God, he’d looked at you then. Looked at you with something you didn’t seem to recognize.

That look.

The one he’d caught himself giving you before.

The one you hadn’t figured out yet.

I love you. You're my best friend.

He hadn't said it.

Couldn't.

Thought it juvenile, silly. 

What grown man confessed something like that out loud?

So he let the argument fizzle, let you walk away to pack, and found himself alone in his apartment, staring at the ceiling like it might offer him some clarity.

It didn’t.

The bed felt empty without you.

The space beside him cold, unfamiliar.

He tossed. Turned. Listened to the muffled sounds of traffic outside, wondering where you were at that exact moment—

What role you’d slipped into, how you were carrying yourself, who was around to watch your back.

He didn’t like feeling powerless.

Didn’t like this ache in his chest that he couldn’t quiet, no matter how many case files he’d tried to bury himself in earlier.

And the longer he laid there, sleepless and restless, the more one thought threaded itself deeper:

You’re my best friend.

He couldn’t shake it.

He thought about Haley, briefly.

How much he’d loved her. His wife. Jack’s mother. High school sweetheart. First…everything, pretty much. 

But it wasn’t the same.

This—you—felt different.

With you, he never had to stop being himself.

You never asked him to shrink or soften the sharp edges. Never expected him to be anything other than exactly who he was.

You laughed at his dry, quiet humor—

The kind that others barely caught.

Matched it sometimes, firing back quips that no one else would dare say but always made him bite back a smirk.

You knew his next move before he did.

 Knew the reasons behind the things he didn’t verbalize.

And you let him be.

You got him.

He wondered, lying there, when exactly you’d become his person.

Wondered if he’d ever really had a best friend before you.

The age difference between his brother and him. The forced parentified self he became around his brother, never allowed room for friendship. 

Sure, in passing there were coworkers he trusted--relied on--the job pretty much called for it. But he’s not sure he’d consider Derek Morgan his best friend. He’s not sure he could call up a former body from his prosecutor days and expect them to put the type of smile you put on his face. 

It was so much more than just love, romance, and companionship with you. He’s pretty sure he will spend the rest of his life trying to put into words what it is you do to him. For him. 

His best friend. 

It felt childish, stupid even, to think of it in those terms.

But there it was.

 Simple.

True.

You were the one he wanted to tell everything to.

The one whose absence left something hollow in his chest.

The one he loved.

The one who knew him.

His best friend.

And somehow, that realization cut deeper than any argument ever could.

V. 

He hadn't expected moving boxes and takeout containers to feel this monumental.

It was simple, really. Tiring. The kind of day that usually left him cranky and sore, mind already drifting to paperwork or tomorrow's responsibilities.

But tonight?

Tonight was different.

Your things were here now—

Intermingled with his. Coats hanging beside his in the closet. Your books tucked beside his on the shelves. Your toothbrush next to his in the bathroom, like it had always belonged there.

Aaron sat slouched on the living room couch, one arm lazily draped across the back, the other holding the nearly empty wine glass he’d been nursing. You were curled beside him, legs tangled with his, eyes heavy-lidded but bright. The bottle and a half of wine you’d worked through sat forgotten on the table next to the half-eaten boxes of Chinese food, now cold.

Jack had fallen asleep easily hours ago, his laughter still lingering faint in the air. Like the whole apartment felt lighter just from the two of you being here, together, as if something had finally clicked into place.

The music played low, some soft jazz station crackling through the speakers.

Neither of you said much for a while. Just occasional glances. The gentle brush of your foot against his calf. Comfortable silence.

Until you broke it, voice soft and a little slurred at the edges.

“Tell me something I don’t know about you.”

He quirked a brow, glancing over at you,  “Haven’t we covered all the bases?”

You smiled, lazy and loose, shaking your head, “Humor me.”

So you traded stories—

Small things at first. 

Embarrassing childhood memories. Weird quirks. The first concert you ever went to. He laughed at that, genuinely, the wine and exhaustion making it easier to let go.

And then you asked.

“What’s your biggest fear, Aaron?”

The question knocked something loose in his chest.

He blinked, caught off guard, searching your face.

You watched him carefully, but there was no pressure there. Just curiosity. Openness.

He hesitated. Briefly. 

And you caught it.

You shifted, sitting up just slightly, balancing your wine glass on the armrest. There was something in your eyes now—

Not just the buzz of the alcohol, but that same steady, fearless look you had walking into danger. 

Brave. Direct.

You licked your lips, almost nervous, but not backing down,  “I’ll go first,” you said, voice quieter now.

He didn’t interrupt, letting you have the space.

You took a breath.

“My biggest fear is losing you.” Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, eyes fixed on some invisible spot on the floor, “or Jack.”

You laughed under your breath—wet, almost self-deprecating—but when you looked back at him, your gaze was raw.

“I’ve never had this before,” you continued, voice cracking just slightly. “Never had…someone who sees me. All of me. Good, bad, messy. And it scares the hell out of me how much I don’t want to lose it.”

His throat felt tight, the words catching somewhere. It wasn’t the wine making him feel choked up—

It was you.

The sheer honesty of it. The fact that even after all this time, you still managed to surprise him.

He set his glass down carefully, reaching over to catch your hand, fingers threading through yours.

“It’s the same,” he admitted, voice low. Rough. He swallowed, “losing you. Losing this. I never—” He paused, trying to find the right words, the ones sitting heavy in his chest. “I never want to lose you. And I’ll do everything I can to keep you. To keep both of you.”

You smiled softly at him, eyes glassy from the wine, the flush on your cheeks making you look impossibly angelic, impossibly his.

“You’re stuck with me now,” you teased, voice playful but laced with something tender. Then, almost mischievously, you added, “You know…you’re kind of my favorite person.”

He huffed a quiet laugh at that, shaking his head, but the weight of it—

God, it hit him hard.

You leaned in without hesitation, lips finding his, and the kiss tasted like fruit and something deeper.

Something permanent.

It wasn’t hurried.

It wasn’t messy.

It was moving.

All the weight of the day, the exhaustion, the vulnerability, poured into it.

When you finally pulled back, breath warm against his cheek, he stayed still—

Eyes opening slowly, wanting to just look at you.

Soak you in forever. And even after that. Even after forever ended, he’s sure he’d still want more. 

You smiled, lazy and soft, and asked, “What’s that look for?”

He almost told you.

Almost let the words slip—

The ones he’d been feeling for months now, lodged deep in his chest every time you smiled at him, every time you laughed with Jack, every time you made his world feel brighter without even trying.

My best friend.

But instead, he shook his head faintly, voice quiet. 

“I’m just thinking about you.���

You grinned, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw, before pulling back, eyes glinting mischievously despite the wine haze.

“Well…” you murmured, voice dipping lower, lips brushing against his ear. “Now that we live together…want to go try out the bed properly?”

His breath caught.

Yeah.

He liked that idea.

Very much.

+1

The bedroom was dark, save for the faint orange glow of streetlights filtering through the blinds. The occasional sound of a car passing below, the whisper of tree branches rustling against the windowpane—

Small things grounding him in the moment.

Aaron lay still, one arm wrapped tightly around you, the sheets tangled somewhere near his waist. Your head rested against his chest, breath steady, soft against his skin. The warmth of your body pressed close, leg draped lazily over his, completely relaxed in sleep.

It should’ve been easy for him to follow you there.

Sleep usually came fast after nights like this—

Hours spent wrapped up in you, nothing held back, every piece of himself laid bare.

But tonight…

He couldn’t.

Not when it felt like something inside him might split wide open.

Because he had never had this before.

Not like this.

He stared up at the ceiling, his fingers trailing absently along the curve of your back, and let the thoughts come.

You.

God, you.

These days, that’s what lived in his brain rent free. 

You’d slipped into his life like you’d always been meant to be there, like some force had been quietly working all along to bring you to him when he needed you most.

He never imagined things could line up this perfectly.

Never imagined that after everything—loss after loss, disappointment after disappointment—something so good, so magnetic, would land right in front of him.

Aligning everything. 

And stay.

You saw him.

You understood him in ways that no one else ever had. You didn’t flinch at the sharp edges, didn’t ask him to be softer or less guarded. You laughed at his dry, humorless jokes. Knew when to challenge him, when to let him be.

And the longer he lay there, the more it hit him:

You made him better.

Not by changing him.

But by showing him how to be—

How to trust, how to let himself breathe, how to love without the weight of past mistakes crushing him.

He swallowed, feeling it heavy in his chest.

You were his best friend.

His person.

His love.

The words sat so close to the surface he could hardly contain them.

And as if you sensed it, felt him turning them over in the dark, you shifted slightly against him—

Your hand tightening faintly on his chest, head nuzzling into his neck.

Your voice came out low, rough with sleep, but soft, “Aaron…why are you awake?”

He looked down, catching the faint outline of your face in the shadows.

The way you smiled at him—

Groggy, tender, like he was something precious.

That look.

The same one you always gave him when you caught him staring, trying to memorize this exact feeling.

He brushed his hand up to your cheek, thumb tracing along your temple.

For once, he didn’t hesitate.

“I was just thinking,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. 

You hummed softly in question, eyes still half-lidded, waiting.

He swallowed.

Felt the words lodge in his throat, thick and almost too big to say—but needing to be said all the same.

“You’re my best friend,” he finally said, voice low and sure. His hand cradled your face gently, as if he needed you to feel the weight of it.

You blinked at him, surprised, brow furrowed slightly like you didn’t quite understand what he meant—

Why it sounded so much more significant than it seemed.

He continued, his voice quieter but unwavering, “I love you. You know that. But it’s more than that.” His thumb brushed beneath your eye. “I’ve never met anyone who made me want to tell them everything. Who I wanted to know me—all of me. And you…you do. You know me. You handle me better than I know how to handle myself sometimes.”

You stared at him, eyes glassy, lips parted faintly, breath catching as he went on.

“I want to know everything about you. Every story, every thought you’ve never told anyone.” He swallowed, pulling you a little closer. “I never want to stop.”

There was something shining in your eyes now, even in the dim light. Something soft and stunned, but glowing.

“You make me a better person,” he whispered finally, voice almost breaking. “You’re my best friend.”

For a moment, the silence stretched—

Nothing but the sound of your breaths mingling in the dark.

Then you smiled.

So big, so full of something unspoken, eyes glassy but sure.

You leaned up, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that was equal parts gentle and fierce. Like you wanted to pour all the words you couldn’t form right now into him.

When you pulled back, you gave him a lazy, flirtatious grin despite the emotion lingering behind it.

“Well…” your voice was thick, teasing but tender, “...how about we make use of that bed again, now that we’re a couple who shares absolutely everything?”

He laughed softly—really laughed—and let himself kiss you like he was holding the whole world in his hands.

Because maybe he was.

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