#i try to draw him without copy

[ded-lime]

[lcvemiyuki]

“when they get jealous” | hq

𓂃𓂃𓂃𓊝 ࿐𓂃𓂃𓂃

content: haikyuu boys x reader, when they get jealous over someone else

warnings: disgustingly cute, ushijima x reader + oikawa x reader are established relationships, fem!reader

characters: kageyama, oikawa, ushijima

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Tobio Kageyama

'his pettiness would slip out unintentionally'

You and Kageyama often helped each other with studying, so it wasn’t surprising to find the two of you in a coffee shop with notebooks laid out on the wooden table. Kageyama was focused on his work, his brows furrowed in concentration as he scribbled notes in his notebook. You had given him your neat and organized notes to copy down since the ones he took were the complete opposite.

He was having a good time until this guy, claiming to know you, approached the table. While Kageyama isn't the most socially astute, he couldn't miss the way this guy’s hand occasionally grazed yours or the overly familiar tone in his voice. Every laugh and lingering touch made Kageyama's jaw tighter, his pen digging harder into the paper.

You clearly looked uncomfortable with his pursuits, attempting to let the guy down nicely with an awkward laugh here and there.

“So, I was thinking we should hang out sometime—” The man’s flirtatious invitation was abruptly cut off by a loud, deliberate slurping noise coming from across the table.

You turned to see Kageyama, still focused on his work, but now obnoxiously trying to suck up the last remnants of his coffee from the glass cup. The sound was grating, loud enough to draw annoyed glances from nearby customers.

Each time the guy tried to speak again, the slurping noise grew louder and more exaggerated, making the man visibly frustrated.

“Do you have a problem, man?” he angrily spat, now glaring at the nonchalant guy across from you.

Kageyama took his time to calmly put down his empty glass, his fingers lingering on the rim momentarily before he shifted his gaze to the intruder. His eyes, usually so focused and intense, now burned with an unmistakable, cold irritation.

“I don’t know, do you?” Kageyama’s voice was flat and unyielding, his stare piercing through the man.

You could feel the tension in the air, the intensity of his harsh and cold eyes making the man shift uncomfortably.

“Because she hasn’t said yes to a single thing you’ve said since you got here,” Kageyama continued, his tone blunt and unforgiving. “So I suggest you leave.”

The man hesitated, clearly taken aback by Kageyama’s directness and the unspoken threat in his eyes. Without another word, he turned and walked away, mumbling something under his breath.

Once the guy was out of earshot, you turned back to Kageyama, who was already picking up his pen and resuming his work as if nothing had happened. A small, amused smile tugged at your lips.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” you said softly, a hint of gratitude in your voice.

Kageyama glanced up, his expression softening slightly as he looked at you. “I didn’t like how he was talking to you. It made me uncomfortable.”

You reached across the table, gently placing your hand over his. “Thanks, Tobio. I seriously mean it.”

A faint blush tinted his cheeks as he nodded in response, trying to focus back on his notes.

But, he simply couldn't as his attention kept drifting back to you.

𓇼𓆉𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆉𓇼

Tooru Oikawa

'he'd try to one-up the person with blatant rudeness'

Oikawa loves spending time with you. When a festival was happening in your hometown, it was a given that he’d go with you. The vibrant atmosphere, the colorful stalls, and the joyful crowd made it a perfect date. He left you alone for a split second to buy some takoyaki.

When he returned, he saw you stopped in the middle of the crowd, awkwardly laughing with some other guy. His smile faltered slightly, a hint of annoyance flickering in his eyes. He playfully nudged your shoulder, interjecting himself into the conversation and cutting off whatever unfunny joke the guy was telling you.

“Hey, sorry for the wait,” Oikawa said, snaking an arm around your waist and pulling you closer to him. His smile was charming as always, but his eyes held a sharp glint as he did a quick look up and down at the guy.

“Wow! Y/N, I didn’t know you snagged a boyfriend while you were away!” the guy laughed with a strain.

Oikawa didn’t miss the way this guy’s gaze shifted slightly, revealing a brief flicker of distaste towards him. His own smile turned to a sneer at the sight of it.

‘Huh, this little prick,’ Oikawa thought, recognizing him as the classmate who had a crush on you in high school. That memory only fueled his irritation, making him want to pull you away from this conversation even more.

As each second passed, the more Oikawa showed how much he didn't like this guy. “Wow, it sounds like you had a great time in high school. But I’m sure nothing beats the fun we have now, right, love?” He directed an innocent smile at you, but you could feel the air thickening with intensity.

Turning back to the guy, Oikawa continued, “It’s so cute how you still remember those high school days. I guess some people never move on from their glory years.”

Your eyes widen at the jab and side-eye your smiley, 'I didn't do anything wrong' boyfriend next to you. You didn't know if you wanted to laugh or pinch him for making this even more awkward than it is.

You curtly said goodbye to your classmate, not wanting to drag this out any longer. Without waiting for a response, you grabbed Oikawa’s hand and dragged him away.

Oikawa's disdain towards your friend was clear, his expression contorted with thinly veiled annoyance. He stuck out his tongue in a childish display of disapproval, causing the classmate to stand there, taken aback, and scoff in response.

As you both silently walked beside each other, Oikawa’s demeanor softened, realizing he might've overdone it a tad with this one. “Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said, his voice gentle and sincere. He squeezed your hand, looking at you with an apologetic look.

“No, I'm sorry,” you sighed, glancing up at him. “I should've told him I had to go right when he approached me and look for you. Instead, we were put into an awkward situation."

Oikawa frowned slightly. "You don’t have to apologize. I just—I didn’t like the way he was looking at you."

You stopped and turned to face him, placing your hands on your hips. "Tooru, you need to stop being so childish. Sticking your tongue out? Really?"

His eyes widened in surprise. "You saw that?"

You raised an eyebrow, a mix of amusement and exasperation on your face. "Of course I saw that. You think I wouldn't notice?"

He rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "Okay, okay, I admit that might've been a bit much."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help the smile tugging at your lips. "A bit much? Try a lot. You can’t keep doing that."

His pout returned. "But he was—"

"No buts," you interrupted, playfully poking his chest. "I can handle myself, alright? And you definitely don't have to worry about any other guy. You're the only one I want."

His eyes sparkled at your reassurance, his smile widening. "You know, there's no one else I'd rather have but you~" he playfully coos back, earning a soft slap to the chest from you.

𓇼𓆉𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆉𓇼

Wakatoshi Ushijima

'he barely gets jealous, but when he does, his reserved demeanor slips with subtle signals'

You frequently showed up to Ushijima’s practices to support him, admiring his dedication and skill. Today was no different, but what you didn’t know was that there was a new player on the team. He was quite charming and flirtatious, so when he saw you, he couldn’t help but make a move.

“Hey sweetheart, are you lost?” the new player approached you, his hair matted with sweat and a cocky grin on his face.

“Oh no. I’m Y/N, Ushijima’s—” you started to explain, but he cut you off.

“Fan?” he guessed, leaning closer.

“Um, no—” you tried again.

“Sister?” he interrupted, his eyes scanning you with obvious interest.

Before you could speak again, a deep, familiar voice cut through the conversation, “She’s my girlfriend.”

Ushijima’s imposing presence seemed to cast a shadow over the new player as he gently placed his hand on your shoulder, his touch light yet protective. You felt a slightly sweaty chest lightly press against your back, sending a shiver up your spine. His olive eyes, usually calm and composed, held a steely intensity as he assessed the situation.

“Is everything alright, Y/N?” Ushijima asked, his voice steady but carrying an underlying edge.

You nodded, feeling a mix of relief and warmth at his presence. “Yes, everything’s fine.”

The new player, clearly taken aback, tried to recover his composure. “I didn’t know, man. Just thought she was lost or something.”

Ushijima’s gaze didn’t waver, and his grip on your shoulder tightened ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. “She’s here to support me, as always. I’d appreciate it if you respected that.”

The new player nodded, mumbling a quick apology before retreating to the court. As he walked away, you could feel the tension slowly dissipate from Ushijima’s body, but his eyes remained on the player for a moment longer, his gaze eyeing him like a hawk. Ushijima never shows his emotions normally, but seeing you flustered and a bit uncomfortable by someone else had his jaw set tighter than usual.

Turning back to you, Ushijima’s expression turned non-rigid once more. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that.” The lines of tension in his face smoothed once he met your gaze.

You smiled up at him, the warmth of your hand over his on your shoulder conveying a silent understanding. You plant a light peck on his hand, a gentle affirmation of your gratitude. “It’s okay, Toshi," you whispered softly, your voice carrying a soothing tone. "You should go back to practice."

He nodded, his lips curling into a rare, small smile. “Just let me know if anyone bothers you.”

You leaned into him, feeling the solid reassurance of his presence. “I will. Thank you.”

As the practice continued, he kept a close eye on the new player, making sure there were no further incidents.

𓇼𓆉𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆉𓇼

want more?

⤷ masterlist.

[rafesangelita]

So I just read after hours with dilf rafe and I NEED a fic for the next day aka the day spend at the country club, I am so curious to see how bitchy!kook!reader and the kids interact!

warnings: none really just some fluff <3

a/n: read ‘after hours with dilf!rafe’ here ! and read more about bitchy!kook!reader and dilf!rafe’s dynamic here ♡ also just for reference, i’m envisioning rafe has two kids in this fic; one girl who’s eleven years old, and one boy who’s five years old

you were still getting used to being around rafe’s kids, having never had any siblings of your own, you were learning how to interact with them by watching how they talked to each other and studying them the best way you could. what made them laugh? what kind of stuff did they like talking about? what kind of things did rafe get after them for? rafe could see how devoted you were to getting to know them and he loved that you had opened yourself up to not only letting him love you, but his children as well. despite this whole thing being new to you, you were a doing a damn good job.

everyone was currently at the country club, rafe and his son out on the golf course, and you and his daughter sitting comfortably underneath the shade at a table not too far away, both of you sharing a mocktail as she let you in on all the fifth grade gossip. “she told everyone that i copied her party theme but i had already been planning my birthday party for months! and of course everyone believed her because she threw her’s first..” you scoffed, shaking your head at the pure audacity.

“as if you needed the inspiration,” you rolled your eyes, “people— especially girls in competition with you, are always going to find something to grab onto, whether it be your party theme, your style, your personality.. you just have to remember as long as you’re true to yourself in a world full inauthentic people, they’re always going to try and take what you come up with, so the best thing you could do is just pick your friends wisely and don’t surround yourself with absolutely everyone. that’s what i did, and now i only have bestest friends in my circle.”

she looked at you like she was having an epiphany, her eyes slightly wide as she pondered over your words. “wow, that’s probably like the best advice i’ve ever gotten.” she hummed, taking a sip from the virgin piña colada in your hand. rafe smiled to himself, having heard your entire exchange. “you know what that means?” you asked with a teasing smile, “we’ll just have to throw you a bigger and better party next year.” rafe felt his heart stir at the mention of ‘we’— the adam’s apple in his throat bobbing as he cleared his throat.

drawing your attention to rafe and his son, you saw the way his little cheeks were bright red from the blazing sun beating down on him, his hair sticking to his forehead as he swung his miniature club the way rafe taught him. “ray!” you called after the little boy, “come get you some water, let’s take a little break real quick.” without hesitation, baby ray dropped the club and ran straight into your lap where you held the ice cold water bottle up for him to drink from. rafe all but melted at the sight, the corner of his lips twitching as he watched the you smiled down at his boy.

helping his daughter up from her seat, he fixed her in his lap so he could sit next to you, his lips coming down to plant a kiss on your temple. ray pulled away from the water bottle with a gasp, his legs working to climb up so he could give you a kiss too. you just about died when you felt his lips on your cheek, your arms wrapping around the little boy as he rested his head on your chest. “so what do you feel like eating for lunch?” rafe asked his daughter, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear as she leaned back against his chest. “why don’t we go back home and make something? y/n made these super good sandwiches yesterday and she took the crust off.”

rafe laughed, looking over at you to make sure you were okay with making the kids something to eat. “i can definitely do that, how about this time i show you how to do it so you can make them whenever you want?” at your words, she nodded frantically, shooting up to her feet and tugging on rafe’s arm so all of you can leave. laughing softly at her excitement, you adjusted ray on your hip before you and rafe followed her out of the country club gates. helping rafe put ray in his booster seat, you put his seatbelt on before booping his nose and shutting the door. “hey—” rafe stopped you as you were rounding the truck to get to your side, “you’re doing amazing with them.”

[vanteguccir]

── ୨୧ !　5 TIMES CHRIS AND Y/N WERE CAUGHT KISSING

chris sturniolo x reader

SUMMARY: Where a fan creates a 5-minute video with all the times that Chris and Y/N were caught kissing.

WARNING: Making-out.

REQUESTED?: Yes, by anon.

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

　　　༻✦༺ 　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

Chris and Y/N sat side by side on the plush couch in the living room. They were half-watching a movie that had been playing for the past hour, but neither of them was truly invested. Chris's arm was draped lazily around Y/N's shoulders, his thumb drawing idle circles on her upper arm. It was one of those rare, peaceful evenings where they could just relax and enjoy each other's company, without the usual hustle and bustle of filming or the pressure of content creation hanging over Chris head.

Y/N was scrolling through her TikTok, a small smile playing on her lips as she came across fan edits and posts dedicated to Chris and his brothers. Her fingers stopped suddenly, her eyes widening as she stopped on a video with the caption: "Top 5 Times Chris and Y/N Were Caught Kissing in the Background." She let out a small laugh, nudging Chris's shoulder to get his attention.

"Baby, look at this." She muttered, her voice filled with a mix of amusement and shyness. She turned the phone screen towards him, and his brows shot up in surprise as he read the title.

"Are you serious?" He asked, a grin spreading across his face as he leaned closer to get a better view. "I didn't even know we were caught that many times."

Y/N pressed play, and the screen lit up with the fan edit.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

1. Baking Blind, Deaf and Mute. (Two Times)

The first clip was from a Baking Blind, Deaf, and Mute challenge, recorded when the triplets had visited their parents in Boston for their birthday.

The video opened with Nick standing in the foreground with Matt by his side, leaning casually on the marble table, his hands gesturing animatedly as he explained how that video would be with the participation of Y/N. His voice was filled with that signature mix of enthusiasm and sarcasm as usual.

As Nick continued to lay out the idea, the camera caught slightly Chris and Y/N in the background, standing by the fridge. Chris was holding a spatula in the air like a sword while staring at Y/N, trying to look serious but failing miserably as a playful grin tugged at his lips.

Next to him, Y/N was meticulously reading the ingredients list, ignoring his playful manner successfully, her brow furrowed in concentration as she tried to memorize the steps, fully aware that she wouldn’t be able to see anything in a few minutes.

The atmosphere was light and filled with anticipation, the kind that comes with knowing things were about to descend into playful chaos. Matt and Nick were already debating loudly over what constituted a valid ingredient while picking the necessary ones from the cabinets, their voices a blend of mock seriousness and barely-contained laughter.

But then, probably with the hope of being hidden behind his brothers' back, Chris leaned closer to Y/N, his shoulder brushing against hers. The gesture was subtle, almost as if he were seeking her out in the midst of the noise, a quiet connection just for them. Y/N looked up from the list, her eyes meeting his, and a soft laugh escaped her, the sound so gentle that the camera barely picked it up.

Listening to his favorite sound, Chris, with his eyes sparkling with mischief, turned fully toward Y/N. He leaned in, whispering something in her ear that drew another quiet laugh from her - just like his goal -, her smile wide and genuine, the kind that made her eyes crinkle at the corners.

And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Chris dipped his head and pressed a quick, tender kiss to her lips. It was brief, a mere brush of lips, but the affection behind it was palpable. Y/N’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink, and she ducked her head, pretending to be engrossed in the ingredients list once more, though the small, secretive smile playing at her lips betrayed her.

Meanwhile, Matt started trying to talk to the camera, his voice raised to make sure the viewers could hear him over Nick's teasing.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

2. DTI

The second clip was from a particularly memorable livestream that Matt and Chris had done from Matt’s room. They had recently started playing a game called Dress to Impress, and after recording a small video for their YouTube channel where they played the game for the first time, it quickly became their newest obsession.

Y/N had been hanging out in the room during the stream, perched comfortably on Nick's chair off-camera. Although she wasn’t actively participating in the game, her presence was felt in subtle ways; every now and then, a hand would appear on the edge of the screen, holding out a bottle of water, an energy drink or a bowl of snacks for the boys. Each time, Chris would glance away from the screen just long enough to offer her a grateful smile or a quick thank you before returning to the chaos on Matt's monitor.

On this particular moment, the livestream had taken an amusing turn. Matt was deeply engrossed in a competition against another player who had, to his disbelief, apparently copied his entire outfit design. His face was a mix of shock and indignation, his voice rising with every word as he expressed his frustration.

Chris couldn’t help but laugh loudly. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes crinkling with amusement as he listened to his brother’s angry words, his eyes focused on the screen.

It was in this moment that Y/N leaned forward, her face suddenly appearing in the corner of the camera. She moved quietly, almost as if she was sneaking up on Chris, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She leaned in close to him, her lips brushing against his ear as she whispered softly - something about 'knowing that Matt would win either way, since he - Chris - was the creative mind who helped creating the outfit'.

Chris’s reaction was immediate. The playful grin he had been wearing just moments before softened into something warmer, more affectionate. He turned his head slightly, meeting Y/N’s gaze with a look that was full of amusement. Without a second thought, he leaned in, catching her lips in a quick, sweet kiss. The kiss was fleeting, lasting only a second before Y/N pulled back, her cheeks tinged with a faint blush as she disappeared back into the background.

The moment was so brief that it could have easily gone unnoticed, especially with Matt’s voice still rising as he ranted about the blatant theft of his outfit. But their fans were nothing if not observant. The chat lit up almost instantly, viewers flooding the comments with a mixture of excitement and teasing.

Despite his attempts to play it cool, Chris couldn’t help the faint blush that crept up his cheeks. The tips of his ears turned pink as he tried to brush off the attention, focusing back on the game with a slightly embarrassed laugh.

"Alright, alright, focus on Matt, not me." He said, trying to redirect the conversation, though his smile never wavered.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

3. Fortnite Late Night

The third clip captured a moment during one of Matt and Chris's late-night gaming streams, "Fortnite Late Night." Each brother was in his own bedroom, Chris’s camera angled perfectly to frame his upper body, revealing a glimpse of his bed in the background, the soft light from his monitor casting a cool, blue glow over the room.

Meanwhile, Y/N had been upstairs, finishing up in the kitchen. The quiet house amplified the sound of her soft footsteps as she went to the stairs, heading towards the room she shared with Chris.

When Y/N reached the end of the steps and stepped into their bedroom, she found Chris completely engrossed in the game. His posture was tense, shoulders slightly hunched forward, eyes fixed on the screen with an intense concentration. The dim lighting highlighted his features - his lips were slightly parted, pink and plump, forming a small, unintentional pout, and his dark brown eyebrows were knitted together in focus.

He didn’t notice her at first, his mind fully absorbed in the game, but Y/N couldn’t help but smile at how adorable he looked in his concentrated state.

She was ready to crawl into bed, exhausted from the day, but there was one thing she had to do before she could even think about sleep. It was a nightly ritual at this point. No matter how tired she was, Y/N couldn’t fall asleep without saying goodnight to Chris.

Moving with sleepy steps, she walked over to where he sat. Chris didn’t need to look up to know she was there; he could sense her presence. As she leaned over the back of his chair, he could feel the soft brush of her hair against his neck, a comforting sensation that made him momentarily forget about the game.

"Goodnight, honey." Y/N whispered softly, her voice low and gentle, meant only for his ears. But her words, though quiet, were picked up by his sensitive microphone, echoing faintly through the livestream, reaching the ears of the hundreds of fans watching.

Without hesitation, and without any regard for the live audience, Chris tilted his head back, silently asking for his goodnight kiss. It was an instinctual, almost automatic gesture. Y/N, smiling at his adorable demand, obliged him, leaning down to press her lips against his in a tender, familiar kiss.

The angle was a bit awkward, the kiss upside down, but it didn’t matter, it was soft and unhurried.

On the other end of the game, Matt was fully aware of what had just happened. The sudden silence from Chris’s side was enough of a giveaway, and when he glanced at the small preview screen showing Chris’s camera, he saw it all. Matt smirked but kept his eyes on the game, unfazed by the interruption - he had grown used to these moments.

"Dude." Matt finally spoke up after Y/N’s figure disappeared behind Chris’s back, his tone dripping with teasing exasperation. "Can’t you keep your PDA for when we’re not live?"

Chris didn’t even flinch. With a lazy grin spreading across his face, he shrugged, entirely unapologetic.

"Sorry, couldn’t help it." He replied, his voice light and carefree. The grin on his face said it all - he wasn’t sorry at all.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

4. hello world

It had been a late-night gaming session - again -, one of those times when Chris and Matt were fully immersed in it, talking to fans while navigating through Dress to Impress. The energy in Chris’s room was electric, with his monitors casting a blue glow that bathed everything in a dim light. His headset was on, and he was deeply focused, his eyes glued to the screen.

But the concentration was constantly broken by Chris’s rumbling stomach and the string of complaints that followed.

"Ugh, I’m so hungry." He groaned into the mic, making a face. "Seriously, I could eat a whole pizza right now."

Matt laughed on the other end of the line, his voice crackling through the headphones.

"Dude, we just had dinner like three hours ago."

"Yeah, and?" Chris shot back, pausing for a second to take a sip of his energy drink. "That was hours ago. I’m starving. Hey chat, send food!" He laughed at his own joke, glancing over at the live comments.

Little did Chris know, Y/N was watching the livestream from the living room. She’d been lounging on the couch, scrolling through her phone, when she heard his complaints. A smile spread across her face as an idea formed in her mind. She knew Chris’s favorite takeout place just down the street and decided to surprise him.

She slipped on a pair of sneakers, grabbed her keys, and headed out. The whole trip took barely fifteen minutes. When she returned, the aroma of Chris’s favorite meal wafted through the bag she was carrying, and she made her way quietly up the stairs to their room.

Chris was still completely absorbed in his game, his back to the door. He didn’t notice when she slipped in, the door clicking softly behind her. Y/N could hear him talking to his brother, still complaining about his hunger, completely oblivious to her presence.

She smiled to herself, holding back a giggle as she crept closer. She set the bag down on his desk next to his keyboard, the movement catching his attention. Chris looked up, his eyes widening in surprise when he saw Y/N standing there, holding out the takeout bag with a grin.

"Hey." She whispered, leaning in close so the mic wouldn’t pick up her voice - unsuccessfully. "I heard you were hungry."

Chris’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. He pulled off his headset, letting it hang around his neck, and stretched out his arms to catch the bag from her.

"Oh my God, you’re the best." He said, his voice low and filled with genuine affection. He opened the bag, inhaling deeply, and let out a content sigh. "You got my favorite!"

Y/N nodded, her smile growing wider.

"I know you too well."

Without another word, Chris set the bag down and reached out, pulling Y/N into his arms, forcing her to bent her upper body. He didn’t care that the stream was still going or that his brother and the fans were waiting. In that moment, all he could think about was how thoughtful and sweet she was. He tilted his head up, capturing her lips in a deep, grateful kiss.

Y/N kissed him back, her hands resting on his thighs, feeling the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his sweatpants.

It wasn’t until they broke apart that Chris remembered they were still live. He glanced over at his screen, the chat scrolling so fast it was a blur, and he could see the comments exploding.

Chris laughed, picking up his headset and sliding it back on.

"Sorry, guys." He said into the mic, a huge grin on his face. "Got a little distracted there. Y/N just brought me food, so, uh, I’m gonna eat while we keep playing."

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

5. We became dad's for 24 hours!!! (to eggs)

The last clip was one of a quiet, intimate moment captured during one of the boys' more absurd challenges: taking care of an egg as if it were their own child for 24 hours.

It was the middle of the early morning, the clock barely ticking past 3 AM, when the sound of three simultaneous alarms pierced the stillness of the house. The sharp, grating beeps echoed through the rooms, signaling that it was time for them to wake up and "feed" their eggs.

The absurdity of the situation was only amplified by the ungodly hour, the boys' groggy voices muttering incoherently as they stumbled around, trying to remember where they had left their fragile "children".

Y/N, who had been curled up in bed, still wrapped in the warmth of sleep, found herself jolted awake by the noise. Her eyelids were heavy, barely lifting as she pushed herself up from the bed.

Dressed in one of Chris's oversized T-shirt that hung loosely over her frame and a pair of soft pajama shorts, she looked the very picture of someone who had been dragged from sleep far too early. Her hair was tousled, a wild halo around her face, and her eyes were half-closed as she shuffled out of the room.

She used the commotion as an excuse to get a drink of water, her feet moving on autopilot as she padded quietly into the kitchen. The house was dimly lit, with only the soft glow of the moon filtering through the big window and the faint blue light of the fridge as she pulled it open.

The boys’ sleepy voices floated to her from the living room, muffled but distinct, each of them trying to outdo the other in their groggy banter about their "kids".

Chris was sprawled out on the couch in the living room, his body sinking into the cushions, looking cozy yet disheveled. His legs were stretched out, feet propped up on the coffee table, and his head was tilted back, his eyes blinking slowly as he tried to stay awake. He was mumbling something about the challenge, his words barely coherent.

Y/N, still in her sleepy haze, wandered toward them, her footsteps soft against the hardwood floor. The coolness of the water bottle in her hand provided a small comfort as she made her way toward Chris, passing by Matt’s legs, narrowly avoiding his outstretched foot, and maneuvered around the coffee table until she stood in front of her boyfriend.

Chris’s gaze followed her movements, his tired eyes lighting up slightly as he watched her approach. His arms opened wide, almost instinctively, inviting her into his embrace without needing to say a word. There was a small, sleepy smile on his lips, one that matched the one Y/N gave him as she stepped closer. The moment was quiet, almost dreamlike, the world around them fading into the background as she climbed over his legs and nestled into his lap.

She settled herself against him, her legs folded up on the couch as her body molded against his. The right side of her body pressed against his chest, and she could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath her. Her head found its place on his shoulder, her nose nuzzling gently against the exposed skin of his neck.

Chris’s arm wrapped around her, pulling her closer, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on her back. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head, causing Y/N to smile against his neck, feeling the warmth of his breath on her skin, and she tilted her head back just enough to look up at him.

Almost automatically, Chris leaned down again, their lips meeting in a soft, lazy kiss. It was gentle, a mere brush of lips, but it was enough to make Y/N’s heart flutter.

When they pulled back, Y/N let out a small sigh, her eyes fluttering closed as she nestled back into the curve of his neck. Chris held her close, his hand resting on her back, his thumb stroking gently up and down in a soothing rhythm, letting his brothers finish what they wanted to say before going to bed again.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

The video ended, and Y/N hit pause before it replayed again by itself, looking up at Chris, who was leaning back with a satisfied smile.

"Wow." She started, dragging out the word. "Look at you, Mister Romantic."

Chris shrugged, unabashed.

"What can I say? When you've got a girlfriend as amazing as you, you just... can't help yourself."

Y/N, sitting up and adjusting her position, rolled her eyes but smiled, her cheeks tinged pink.

"You’re such a dork." She muttered, but there was affection in her voice.

"And you love it." Chris shot back, leaning down, pressing a kiss to her temple, and Y/N couldn't help but smile, leaning into his touch.

"I really do."

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

extra - comments:

"this compilation was the perfect one to prove what the boys said about chris being the only one who would make-out with his girlfriend in front of everyone 😭"

"stop, the way chris looks at Y/N in every clip???? ugh, I NEED this 😩"

"forget the baking, chris and Y/N's little kiss right there? too cute omg"

"okay but that livestream moment when Y/N brings chris food 😭 she's so thoughtful and caring ;(("

"chris and Y/N in the background just being all lovey-dovey while matt and nick are doing their thing is EVERYTHING!!! they’re so in love it hurts 🥺"

"honestly, I’m all here for how they’re always caught kissing like they forget the cameras are on 😞"

"chris couldn't even focus on the game anymore after Y/N kissed him LMAOOO, he's down bad, guys"

"STOP IT RIGHT NOW!! Y/N laying on chris lap while they do their thing with their eggs omg 🤧🤧 they're so precious"

[requiemforthepoets]

you just pulled a verstappen! 𖦹 LN4

PAIRINGS: lando norris x female!reader

SUMMARY: you played a sim racing before, but not really on an actual sim racing setup like lando’s. so when you had the chance, you decided to try it out.

REMINDERS: this is purely fiction, the way how the character is portrayed in my story does not reflect the person that is portraying my character in real life. always separate fiction from reality, and do not repost or copy my work in any way.

WARNINGS: no use of y/n, fluff, and a little bit of cursing

WORD COUNT: 820

AUTHOR’S NOTE: found this on my drafts. i have a lot of lando one shots, but never really posted it bc i think it was poorly written, so i decided to fix this one up and post it. i hope you’ll enjoy this one!

Your and Lando’s apartment was unusually quiet. Lando had been out all day, caught up in a string of meetings, and being alone in a big apartment, the boredom had started to creep in. You sighed, glancing over at Lando’s pristine sim racing setup, which sat there like a tempting invitation calling out for you. It wasn’t like you had not played sim racing before, but using his rig, specifically with Lando’s custom settings and all his tweaks? That was something else entirely.

“Eh, why the hell not?” You muttered to yourself with a mischievous grin.

You quickly booted-up Lando’s setup, and you were off. You found yourself in the middle of a tense Grand Prix, the roaring of the virtual engines filling up the headphones as you become very absorbed with the race. Time flew by, and you were too focused to even notice when Lando came home.

“Hey, baby! I’m back!” Lando’s voice echoed faintly from the hallways as he called back to you, and you never responded. All you could hear and think about was the hairpin turn coming up on the circuit, and nailing the turn. “Babe, where are you?” He called out to you again, but you were still glued to the screen, the intensity of the race drawing all of your attention.

A few seconds later, Lando still got no answer from you. So when he checked every room in the apartment, and saw that you were inside his gaming room all along, he entered immediately, but when he saw you, he stopped dead in his tracks. There you were, fully immersed in sim racing, eyes locked on the screen with his headphones on and hand deftly handling the steering wheel. He blinked, half in disbelief, before grinning like a little kid on christmas morning.

“Are you on my sim setup right now?” He asked, voice full of shock, but you were too busy overtaking another car to reply.

“Okay, that was a decent corner,” Lando said with a playful smirk as he walked over to you, leaning against the back of the chair. “Not bad at all.” He added, folding his arms, and watching in awe as you navigated through the pack of cars.

You heard him, of course, but you were in the zone. The next thing you knew, you pulled off a move that would have made Max proud, sliding past two cars with precision that even caught Lando off guard.

“Whoa, that was a Verstappen move!” Lando exclaimed, wide-eyed. “You just did a Verstappen! Are you sure you don’t want to join F1? Because honestly, what the hell was that?!”

A smirk just tugged at the corner of your lips, definitely proud of yourself, but you remained focused, determined to finish the race without breaking concentration. Lando couldn’t help but laugh at your intense expression.

“Alright, I need to record this one,” Lando chuckled, pulling out his phone. “No one’s gonna believe me if I told everyone on Thread that my girl just pulled a Verstappen move, unless I post it.”

“Look at this! My girl’s out here stealing my setup and driving like she’s been on F1!” Lando began as he started filming, making sure to capture the moment as you powered through the final lap, and zooming in on your face, grinning the whole time. “Guys, I’m telling you, I’m not really making this up. She’s actually faster than me on some of these corners!”

You barely heard him as you crossed the finish line, finishing in P1, and the sound of the crowd roaring through the headphones as you finally relaxed in the chair. You let out a squeal of happiness and looked over at Lando, who was still recording and shaking his head in disbelief.

“Okay, what was that?” He laughed at you, turning off the camera. “I leave for a few hours, and suddenly you’re doing Verstappen-level moves on my rig? Are you secretly practicing whenever I’m not home?”

“Maybe I’m just naturally talented, ever think of that?” You looked at him smugly, and wiggled your eyebrows as you teased him.

“You know what?” Lando grinned at you, gently pulling you out of the seat and wrapping his arms around you. “I believe it. I’m just saying, if McLaren ever needs a backup driver, you should really think about it.”

“Babe, that’s Pato’s job, and I won’t take that away from him,” you joked, causing Lando to laugh, and you leaned into his embrace. “I’m just kidding! But…I might steal your sim setup more often.”

“Deal,” Lando chuckled, kissing your forehead. “Just don’t make me look too bad, alright?”

“No promises.” You said cheekily, then grinning up at him.

“Alright, alright,” he smiled at you. “Now where’s my kiss.” You leaned in, and kissed him softly on the lips.

[cryptidcasanova]

Charcoal Smudges

Robert "Bob" Reynolds/The Void x Reader

Summary: Bob thinks he's in control. At least…until you get involved. 

Warnings: Angst, cannon level violence, mutual pining. I'm a sucker for a happy ending.

Words: 5k

I've been foaming at the mouth. Someone sedate me.

The Watchtower was spacious. It was a beacon of hope where the Avengers once stood. But you felt you were drowning.

The missions weren’t going as smoothly as the team had hoped. When it came to news headlines, everybody was catching strays. Everyone was a critic.

Bob may have had a point all along. It did feel like a void.

Your myriad of thoughts was dark, expansive, and all-consuming. You were helping people, sure, but you were tired…not that you would tell anyone. You didn’t push it down the same way Yelena did, nor did you have wild outbursts like John.

But on difficult nights, you would pull out an old tobacco tin from under your bed. Your dad used to make the prettiest charcoal pictures. But you took time to try and recreate his old drawings from memory, and it kept the demons at bay. Sometimes, you kept at it until your eyes burned, until you were slumped over the old sketchbook.

You weren’t any good at it. The lines were too dark, and the pictures were smudged in the wrong places. But you kept trying. The cleaner your hands, the better the day. But some nights were real bad, and the charcoal would dig into your fingerprints and smear across your cheek. What you were trying to scrub away, you wouldn’t name.

On those nights, you could swear the shadows in your room were darker.

You made an effort to participate with the group. You joined in on late-night movies where Alexi was bound to burn the popcorn. You guided Ava through technical documents, relaying the best ways to bypass encrypted files and store copies of data without the risk of frying the system. Even Bob, who was careful and reserved, offered to help pick up the latest take-out order. You would be a monster not to accept his help.

Even with Valentina keeping the group in the spotlight, you preferred the old Buick for late-night errands. You had a hard time breaking out of keeping a low profile. Bob was still skittish. His memory teeter-tottered on a knife’s edge, and even in those uncertain times, you could rely on the careful smiles and quiet observations. Bob was sincere. He was kind.

“Drawing anything good?” he whispered from the passenger seat.

Bob’s eyes flitted to your hands before settling on the old tape player. You took a moment to look at your hand on the steering wheel as you peeled through a green light. You hadn’t had the time to think about washing up before your late-night run. A sad smile stole at your lips.

“I don’t remember,” you offered just as quietly.

And truly, you didn’t. Overwhelmed with the week as a whole, you were blindly drawing lines and sketching in dark spaces. Everyone had their nightmares. Everyone had their battles, and you tried to relax your shoulders. Little drawings couldn’t harm you. You shrugged as you pulled up to the curb.

“Just feeling it out. Maybe one day I’ll have a masterpiece to show you.”

“Oh. R-right, yeah,” Bob muttered.

But you missed the hint of something in his eye as he turned away, his hands tugging at the lap belt. And you missed it again while you handed him the box of fried rice, your fingers brushing against his.

It was a bad night. You remembered dozing off while laying on your belly and drawing on your bed. You shouldn’t have been surprised that the midnight snacks and fucked up sleep schedule gave you bad dreams.

Well, not bad dreams. Just one. One dream that made your insides ache. You were lost and in the dark, the pitch black cocooning you. There was no place for light or peace; all you had were your lonely thoughts. You could reach out and touch, but there was nothing there. Your hands were shaking as you clasped them together. There was no point in walking around, no point in calling out. You were alone. Helpless.

Maybe you were meant to be. That thought stayed with you.

You were enveloped in the darkness, fatigue tugging at you even in your dreams. And then, right when you were on the cusp of oblivion, you heard the rustling of fabric.

It was in your head. You were finally losing it. You were all alone-

Until the weight of a cloak dropped around your shoulders.

An empty feeling lingered for days.

Bad guys were busted, justice was served, and you were on autopilot. You offered to hang back on the next mission and thought it would be the perfect time for redecorating. Something to distract yourself.

“You mean, like painting?” Bob asked, stopping his pacing in the kitchen. He had been looking for a box of Wheaties you knew John threw out the night before. “We…we can do that?”

The owlish tilt of his head caught your attention. Your nose scrunched with mild amusement. You had been noticing those little mannerisms of his more and more.

“Hmm?” You hummed, the hint of a question in your tone. “Well, it’s not like anyone can stop us.”

Bob stood there for a moment, almost mumbling under his breath. “I didn’t think about it like that.”

And a lightbulb flashed.

“Do you wanna come with me?”

There was a flicker of color in his cheeks. “Oh, uh, you don’t have to. I mean -”

But your growing smile and unwavering gaze pulled him out of his spiraling thoughts. Bob finally pushed his hair back, taking a steadying breath.

“Yeah, that’d be nice.”

And that’s how you two ended up comparing paint swatches at the hardware store. Shoulder to shoulder, you debated the fundamental differences between cream and eggshell.

You noticed how Bob kept gravitating to a stormy blue. Funny. It was akin to how his eyes looked after long days of staring out the Watchtower. Not that you had noticed.

But you could see anxiety rippling through him as he looked at the tape, different primers, and finishes on the paint. You could see the compounding impact it had on him in real-time.

“I thought it’d be easier,” he whispered with a frown. “It’s - it’s too much.”

You stepped forward, letting your paint swatches scatter to the ground.

“Hey,” you urged, reaching for his shoulder. “We can just pick a color.” Bob’s shoulders were rounded in, and his head dropped slightly. He was warm, probably warmer still with a sweatshirt on. “It doesn’t have to be perfect, yeah?”

And his eyes danced from one of yours to the other. Oh. And the storm in his eyes was uncanny.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect.” He repeated at last.

You hummed out a sigh of relief.

“In fact,” you urged, “I hope it’s not perfect. Then we can come back here and try again. It’ll be fun.” You shrugged. Bob thought about it, debating with a question long enough for you to notice his fingers twitching.

“You want to come back here?” he thought. “With me?”

His eyes drifted down to the toothy smile you offered. His look was like you had unlocked some secret treasure. You didn’t hesitate to seize the moment.

“Who else would I invite? Alexi has no taste. He’s been wearing the same red suit for decades.”

Bob huffed out a hint of a laugh at that. You almost forgot about the aching, empty feeling in your chest. A moment of quiet passed between you, glancing down at the stack of swatches covering the ground and the disgruntled sales associate walking your way.

“You good?” You thought to ask.

Your hand was warm-no, he was warm. Noticing you were still holding to him, you let your hand slip down his arm before letting go. You cleared your throat. He watched the movement before taking his own tentative step back.

“Yeah,” he assured. There was a hint of color in his cheeks. “All good.”

Blue paint was speckled all over your clothes. It was on your arms. Hell, it was probably in your hair. And in the quiet, you listened to an album that Bob put on while pushing all his furniture to the middle of the room. It was a trainwreck, an absolute disaster. You should have had supervision. And you were having the best time.

And you two painted in silence, listening to the rock tunes.

“Sorry,” he mumbled at some point, but you waved it off.

“I don’t mind,” you hummed, pulling a rogue paint bristle off the wall. “I don’t mind if there’s not much to say.”

And Bob didn’t quite know how to show his appreciation. In his head, it was loud enough already.

That night, you didn’t have to reach for the sticks of charcoal under the bed. There were no demons to keep at bay. Your paint cans lie abandoned in a pile next to the door, with an unspoken promise behind who would help you paint your room.

It was inevitable that your light-night thoughts drifted back to careful eyes and brown curls.

The dream came back.

Dread didn’t tug at the corners of your mind this time. Shame didn’t grab root and drag you into despair. But the darkness was welcome, a quiet, constant companion. This time, you didn’t fear what you couldn’t see. You stood, feet on solid ground, and started walking around in the vast bleakness. At first, your strides were careful. You didn’t know what you would run into. But there was nothing. In the dark, there was nothing. There was nothing to fear.

Silent steps turned brave. Brave strides turned to running, wanting to feel the burn in your lungs. And you ran until - until you couldn’t touch the floor anymore. That, too, was gone, and walking was meaningless. There was no point, no need to waste your stamina.

Were your eyes open? Closed? Did it matter?

You were suspended in nothing. You were nothing.

And…and it was okay. It was alright. There was a tugging feeling even, and you reached out, not expecting something to reach back.

But something did. Fingers entwining with your own, grasping firmly but not too tight. Your eyes searching, but not seeing. And finally, the fall of a breath. Low, quiet even in the dark. Golden eyes peering back at you.

You woke up with your face pressed against the page of the sketchbook. A piece of charcoal was loose in your grasp, your hand darkened with markings. And you felt…well, you felt like you were missing something.

The rasp of a soft knock at your door stole your attention. After a moment, you pulled yourself up, shuffling to the door with a yawn.

“H-hey.” Bob smiled as the door swung open. And a curious expression lingered on his face as he took you in. “Did you just get up?”

“Good morning,” you replied, a sleepy grin on your cheeks. He noted it, his lazy grin threatening to reel you in.

“I was gonna see if you wanted lunch. I making sandwiches. Didn’t know if you like bologna. Uh. Do you?”

You pulled the door open wider, leaning against the frame. Bob’s eyes moved away from you, tilting his head into view of your room.

“I don’t know the last time I’ve had bologna.” You thought, rubbing your eyes. Was it already lunchtime? You couldn’t remember the last time you slept in so late. It felt like you had been hit by a truck.

“Oh, it’s awful,” Bob warned, but it was with a smile. Charming. He was charming. “But I grew up with it, so it’s something of a comfort food…And I might have already made you one.” He admitted, sheepishly pulling one hand through his hair. The other, which had been cleverly hidden behind his back, pulled forward a plate with two sandwiches. “B-but I can come back later, you know. So it’s no big -”

“I’d love one.”

It was quick, more to yourself than to him, but he heard it all the same.

You were more embarrassed to think it was because Bob liked it. He liked it, and he thought of you while making it. Was it getting warm in here? Clearing your throat, you pulled back.

“Come on in,” you offered. “I’ll clean this up,” you put your palms up to show off the crime scene before pointing your thumb toward the bathroom. “And I’ll be right out.”

You stepped away and closer to the bathroom before you could embarrass yourself further. No, no. You were fine. Everything was fine.

But everything was not fine.

Because you couldn’t see the delicate way Bob stepped into your room, his heart fluttering. You didn’t see his hands clench up or watch his eyes scan over the open sketchbook on your bed. And you didn’t see the dark reflection staring back at him, practically jumping off the page. The subtle glow of gold in his eyes wasn’t so subtle now. Something was happening.

And Bob was…well, Bob did what he did best. He panicked.

He was long gone when you turned off the sink and left the bathroom. You let the towel in your hands drop. The only things that remained were the untouched sandwiches and a sketch smeared into nothing.

Little did you know it was the start of something much bigger.

Bob avoided you. Like the plague. He kept to himself and his books. He was talking to himself again.

He ignored you until the others returned, basking in their loud, abrasive attitudes. The ache in your belly only grew as you watched him walk by you, skirting around you while you tried to say hi.

Did you have the heart to confront him? Had you done something wrong?

“Give him time,” Yelena offered one night. “He is like a wet cat now. No use trying to capture him.”

Not that it made you feel any better.

It didn’t help that you knew that everyone else knew. How could they not with your rag-tag bunch? And no one felt qualified enough to intervene.

Bob…he didn’t want to hurt you. He just didn’t know what to do. He hung around Ava and John more, handling their snarky digs and half-assed attempts at including him because it was easier than admitting he felt something he shouldn’t. He felt something he couldn’t afford.

And you were the collateral damage.

He didn’t mean for it to cause you to throw yourself back into your work. And he didn’t mean for it to get you captured.

“Bob?” Yelena yelled, bursting into his room in the middle of the night. He jumped from a dead sleep, foggy as he came to. “Bob!”

“What’s - is there a fire?” He mumbled with those doe eyes.

Why else would she be so alarmed? He could hear the commotion outside his room, hear the shuffling of gear. What time was it?

“No fire. There’s no fire.” Yelena shushed him, but he was more distraught by the different voices talking over each other in the hall. Something was thrown. “Here, shush. Listen -” She persisted, pulling herself over to him to keep him calm.

But it was too late. Bob heard your name among the ruckus. Your recon mission with Ava fell apart; Ava was the only one who checked in. Something about being outnumbered. Something about being all alone. And that’s all he could hear.

You were all alone.

And he pulled himself up, only for Yelena to push him back down again.

“Hey, hey,” she snapped. “It’s going to be okay. We’re gonna find her.” Her voice was softer.

But Bob knew a lie when he heard one.

“W-where?” He panicked. Adrenaline spiked, his blood turning to ice. “Where are they?”

“What?” Yelena asked harshly.

“Where?”

“The check-in was somewhere outside Vegas-” And her words fell short, not realizing the change in his cadence.

His eyes were...well, she wasn’t looking at Bob anymore. And in a blink, she wasn’t looking at anything anymore.

And all that was left behind was the imprint of a shadow fading into the sheets.

You didn’t think twice about pushing Ghost outside when the sirens went off. Her powers would be useless if she got too close to the noise. But it meant she was locked outside the gated campus, and you were locked inside.

You could still hear the sirens as the door closed in front of you. But Ava had the data, and dammit, you were proud that she was able to collapse their network from the inside. She really was listening to your advice.

The smuggler’s den was crude, but they were tough.  They brought in all kinds of military-grade equipment and gear from outside the states. And you could hear footsteps closing in.

You were locked in. Trapped.

Time to get going.  Leveling your gun, you scoured the hallway for another exit strategy. There were so many rooms, a puzzle of pathways and ventilation tunnels if you could just -

“We’ll smoke her out.”

“No, we need her alive. Get the lights.”

No. Shit -  you took to the closest room when the building went dark. You bashed your thigh against a table and stopped. There were no emergency lights overhead and no red exit signs. This place was definitely not up to code.

But it was familiar to you in its way.

In the dark, you had found bitter solitude and unspeakable fear. You had felt an overwhelming peace and notion of comfort. It was calming, like the strokes of charcoal against the page. Filling in the empty space with shadows.

But now, all you felt was anger. This was different. The darkness was an adversary, and you could hear the clunk of footsteps coming down the hall. In the dark, you were trapped like a mouse in a cage, waiting for the cat - heavily armed smugglers - to strike you down.

Cowards.

You were out in the open. Feeling around blindly, you scowled at the obstacles. Chairs lined a long table, and there were cabinets against the walls. Nothing big enough to climb in. Nowhere to hide. But you kept searching, feeling around. And when you felt another door at your back, you turned the handle before hearing voices at the other end of the room.

“We have a visual -”

And stumbling through the door, you made a blind run for it. And you were frustrated, bashing into more chairs and tripping over your feet.

When footsteps rushed in, you blindly shot out in the direction of the noise before more shots echoed through the room. And your heart ached. You couldn’t go down without a fight, not now. Not against some brutes with shipping data. Not after everything you had done.

Not when this was your idea - when you needed to get as far away from the Watchtower as possible.

Not when - a renegade shot struck your shoulder, reeling you back. You were frantic, emptying your gun into the dark. The bastards.

But even with your aim and your anger, the thugs could see with their night vision goggles. And you couldn’t. You heard it over the roar of your own breathing; one man got too close. You lunged on instinct, rolling around and landing a punch to his throat, feral for escape, before being pulled off.

“No!” One man commanded. “Alive - we need her alive.”

But the man you hit was angry. In a cowardly display, the man charged, coughing and staggering, landing a hit to your stomach. You struggled for breath, clawing back and fighting for footing.

“Alive!” The other man ordered.

There were too many of them. There were too many of them, and a fear bubbled up your throat.

This was your idea. It was your idea to throw yourself into the mission and distract yourself from...Well, there was no use in denying it now.

Your belly ached. Your heart was in ribbons. You did this to try to forget how desperately you missed Bob. You missed the scrunch of his nose and the meticulous way he ate popcorn one kernel at a time. You missed his bad jokes and the clumsy way he filled the dishwasher. You missed the smell of his mahogany shampoo and the underlying ozone that wouldn’t wash away.

Goddammit.

You couldn’t die down here.

But your spiraling thoughts had to come to a messy halt. In this case, it was in the form of the building shaking all around you, like it had been struck by a meteor shower. The men called out with fright, then screamed.

You knew this part. The lights would come on, and Ava would come barreling in at any moment. So you waited. And waited.

But it never came. The screams stopped mid-breath. The handprints digging into your arms were gone in a flash. The heavy breaths and stomping steps disappeared. Perking up with a groan, you dragged your feet forward. What was this?

And then déjà vu jolted through you.

You were dreaming. You must have fallen asleep or maybe been knocked out cold.

You were in the dark, but you weren’t alone.

“Where are you?” You called out bravely, squaring your shoulders. You knew what was lurking in the shadows. “Show yourself!”

But the emptiness stretched on. You stepped around in a circle. Your feet were still firmly planted on the ground. This was your dream. This was your attachment latching into the hooks of your subconscious. You were losing it.

“You’re reckless.”

It was a simple observation. One you dared laugh at.

“Reckless,” you mirrored with a snicker. “Hopeless. Delusional. Desperate. Isn't that why you're here? Isn't that what you feed on?”

Listing off your inner thoughts, feelings you wouldn’t admit when awake. You were comfortable, too comfortable. Engaging now wouldn’t make any difference.

“No.” It was a warning. “I feel it.”

The slow timber of words carried a weight all their own. Each syllable was intentional, pronounced. But feel it? Feel what? You turned in the dark.

“I’m not naïve to what he feels.” But this wasn’t Bob. It was the other closing in.

“Oh, Robert. He has hero dreams. Dreams of pushing me away. Thinking you could forget about me.”

His words were tormenting, chastising his counterpart.

In your dreams, this monster never spoke to you. You were used to quiet, lingering touches. You were used to watching from the rafters. And then there was a firm pause. Your fingers flexed. The reverberations of his words in your head were heavy.

“He will fail you. He can’t keep you safe.” he continued.

He was riling you up, and the proximity was not lost on you.

“Your shame is harrowing. Ongoing. Buried, deep in your subconscious.” The swish of fabric behind you was intentional. He was urging you to tilt your head. He was close now, hovering right over your shoulder. And then a whisper. “It’s precious. Don’t you want to know what it is?”

Goosebumps littered up your arms.

No.

“You do.” He coaxed.

No.

“You know. You already know why I can’t leave,” and feeling hot under the collar, uncomfortable at the bluntness, you gave in. Tilting your chin up, two pinpricks stared back. Unblinking. Unfazed.

He was frightening.

“You care for him,” he pressed. You couldn’t hide even if you wanted to. “All of him. And that means you care for -”

“Void.” Your call was a warning.

Raising your hand defensively, you turned to face him head-on. And where your hand should have caught nothing but air, it rested against the hard expanse of his abdomen. You took a sobering breath. It was too close, too human.

He closed his eyes briefly, satisfied, before finding yours again. There was no heartbeat. But there was a flex of movement, of his silhouette under your fingertips.

“And why wouldn’t you?” He tormented. “When my name is so sweet from your lips. You're reckless," he reminded. "You care.”

And shame zipped up your spine. That was it; he was your shame.

“You hurt him.” You deflected, thinking of Bob.

“We hurt each other.” Void acknowledged carefully, head tilting ever so slightly. Then, shifting closer, added, “But I am not the one who left you.”

And it felt like another jab. You were waiting for the pin to drop, for you to wake up from this dream. There was no other explanation for it. It wasn’t real.

You pulled your hand back, embarrassed and nervous, only to be stopped as his grip clasped over yours. He wasn’t warm, not like Bob. He wasn’t cold, like the ice in your veins. Your eyes looked where you could imagine his hands were before letting them drift up.

Gold light peered back. Where a face should be. Too human. And your free hand carefully reached up, grasping where you could imagine the curve of a jaw. Your breath caught in your throat when you found it. The touch was grounding.

“And he is not the one who found you.”

Silence.

“Then why are you here?” You challenged, prodding for an answer. “You could have left me in the dark.”

Pinhole eyes narrowed.

“You called for me. Not him,” The admission held a heavy weight. “You called. For me.”

Your cheeks were warm. He spoke it like it was a siren's call. And it was dangerous.

“You care.” You realized, whispering now. “You feel.”

“What I feel is irrelevant.”

But that wasn’t true. You were convinced he could see your smug expression even in the pitch-black room.

“You’re bleeding.”

Ah. Deflecting again. You knew that game but were through with the charade.

“Fine,” you conceded. “I do care. You win. I care about Bob. I care about his fucked up mind. So sure, I care about you - even if you destroy and create loathing and shame. Perhaps that’s my shame.” You admitted, pulling your hand away from his face.

It wasn’t real.

And it was time to wake up.

“This has been nice,” you admitted. “But if I’m going to die alone in the desert, I better face it.”

The Void offered no words of comfort. You weren’t expecting any. And as you stepped back and out of his hold, the cold seeped in.

Your breathing was uneasy, and the dull ache in your shoulder bloomed into hot pain. You were bleeding. The lights flickered on. The lights��

And he was still there, a dark figure in an empty room. Where there had been men, dark shadows cast along the ground. There was a tick in your jaw. You felt seasick.

And you realized then that it wasn’t a dream. Stoic and observant, the Void was still. His curled hair and the shape of his nose were too uncanny. Pinhole eyes stared back at you even then.

You hiccupped out an uneasy breath. Emotion pummeled into you. Fear. Abandonment. Solitude. Pain. Hope. No. NO.

He didn’t make a move, but observed. And then, at last, the low call of your name had you buckling at the knees.

He had been there all along, skirting around your mind. He met you in the dark, draping his cape around you and holding you in the quiet moments between sleep and wakefulness.

The Void was real. A tangible threat. Bob knew it. And then it clicked; that was why he pushed you away.

A hand reached out.

You had borne witness to the destruction and affliction it caused, and yet…

“You’re bleeding.”

And as you looked down from where his hand extended, red blossomed from the top of your shoulder down to your navel. Oh god.

“Let me,” He stopped, grounding the words. “Let me in.”

It was an offer of help, and you didn't think. You didn’t look up as you nodded. The movement was slow, slight, but deliberate. And he took action before you could blink.

A firm hand to the wound was all it took, the other wrapping around your hip to keep you planted. And in front of your eyes, inky tendrils replaced the bloodied stain. Where the Void’s touch lingered, it mimicked the charcoal smudges from your sketches.

He was your bad dreams and late nights. He was there the whole time, carving a hole for himself. And it left behind an imprint for you to remember.

He will fail you. He can’t keep you safe.

But now you could read between the lines.

“You can’t keep me safe either.” You whispered. He was no hero. No savior - he said it himself.

The grip tightened at your hip, his hair clouding your peripheral vision. He was pulling closer, the hand at your shoulder moving to hook under your chin. He was forcing your attention on him. Bob might have put up a fight, but the Void was inevitable. He wasn’t going anywhere.

And as he drew closer, you smelled it.

Mahogany and ozone. Bob was there, too. The visage changed.

In front of your eyes, the Void flickered in and out of focus. You could see all of them like frames in a set of photos.

The Void. Bob Reynolds. Sentry. Powerful blue eyes, golden eyes, and pinhole eyes locked in. They were drawing closer still until you were a breath apart. And before you were swept under the current, the three of their voices overlapped in unison.

It was not a kiss, but just on the cusp. It was a promise.

“You don’t know what I am capable of.”

[lazysoulwriter]

right where he belongs. - Pedro Pascal.

requested! thank you. ♡ content: Pedro Pascal x reader (established relationship), Pedro bonding with reader’s two kids (a boy and a toddler girl), found family feels, proud stepdad energy, wholesome moments, emotional softness, bio dad is absent but not villainized

---

Pedro had never set out to become a father figure. But life didn’t care about his plans. It gave him you — and by extension, it gave him them.

Your son was seven, sharp and sweet with the kind of brain that never stopped moving. Your daughter had just turned three — all curls, dimples, and chaotic opinions. And somehow, in the beautiful mess of your life, Pedro had found a home.

He didn’t try to replace their dad.

That man was still around — technically. The occasional birthday call, the missed soccer games, the promises that always fell flat. Your son had learned not to ask. Your daughter was too little to understand yet.

But Pedro was there.

He showed up. Every single time.

He was there in the bleachers at every Saturday game, clapping way too loud and yelling “THAT’S MY GUY!” anytime your son so much as kicked the ball in the right direction. He wore the team T-shirt, brought snacks, and took a hundred blurry action shots on his phone.

Your son beamed every time.

He was there during school drop-offs and pickups, holding your daughter’s tiny hand and crouching to let her show him which sticker she got from her teacher. He always asked her what she learned. He always kissed her forehead before buckling her into the car.

And he was proud.

God, he was so proud.

At the parent showcase for your daughter’s daycare, he stood in the back of the room, arms crossed, phone out, absolutely beaming while she clapped off-beat and danced like a jellybean. He didn’t care that other parents were confused — whispering, wondering.

“That’s her dad?” one woman had asked you, a little too nosy.

You smiled without hesitation. “He’s her everything.”

That night, after the kids were in bed, you found Pedro in the living room — holding one of her drawings, a mess of pink scribbles with “PEPO” scrawled in toddler handwriting at the bottom.

He looked up at you with tears in his eyes.

“She wrote my name,” he whispered.

“She knows exactly who you are.”

He swallowed, brushing his thumb over the crayon lines. “I just want them to feel safe. Like they matter. Like someone is always in their corner.”

You crossed the room and curled into his lap, arms around his neck. “They do. Because of you.”

Weeks later, at your son’s school event — a science fair — Pedro was the one helping him carry in the project board, adjusting his little collared shirt, high-fiving him before he stepped up to explain the volcano model.

He watched like it was an Oscar-winning performance.

When your son looked out into the crowd mid-presentation, scanning the faces for someone, his eyes locked on Pedro.

And he smiled.

Not because his dad showed up — he didn’t.

But because Pedro did. Just like always.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @kellyxo1 @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure @barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512

[cuzxai]

challenger - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: need this real bad… spence fucking the smart out of you in the bureau bathroom

You’re exhausted but sharp. The kind of exhaustion that lives in your shoulders but doesn’t quite dull your brain. It’s the third day of a case that’s left the team running in circles—three abductions, two confirmed murders and a ticking clock no one can afford to ignore. The fluorescent lights in office hum above your head like a warning tone. You’re all gathered around the case board and Spencer is talking.

“There’s a pattern here,” he says, eyes flicking across photos and timelines like they’re just numbers on a chalkboard. “All of them were taken on a Tuesday, between 5 and 7 p.m. Each one from a public area—a park, a parking lot, a bus stop. I think the unsub’s operating in a comfort zone that’s tied to routine. He’s not escalating, he’s repeating.”

You shift your weight onto your other foot, arms crossed. “Or,” you counter, “he’s desperate and trying to regain control by mimicking his own methods. The injuries aren’t the same. Look at the restraint marks on the last victim—they’re erratic. Sloppier.”

Spencer’s head turns slightly, jaw tightening. “That could be due to external pressure. Media coverage, police presence—there are other variables.”

“Sure,” you say, voice even, “but you’re assuming external pressure. What if the pressure’s internal? What if this guy’s unraveling and trying to hold it together by copying his own process?”

Morgan leans back in his chair, muttering something like “here we go,” but you don’t look away from Spencer. He’s bristling. You can see it—subtle but there. His fingers twitch near his temple like he’s restraining the urge to rub at it.

“I’m just saying,” you add, “you’re so focused on the statistics, you’re ignoring the behavioral inconsistencies.”

“And you’re so obsessed with profiling the emotions,” Spencer says, turning toward you now, “that you’re missing the quantitative signs. You can’t draw a conclusion from three data points and call it behavioral science.” Your heart rate ticks up—not from the argument but from him. From the way his voice raises half a decibel, from the way he always assumes he’s right until you force him to consider otherwise. It’s infuriating. It’s also kind of hot. But you’d rather die than admit that.

JJ glances between the two of you with raised brows and Emily mutters under her breath, “This is getting academic.”

“No,” you say firmly, stepping toward the board and pointing at the newest photo. “This? This is him slipping. The duct tape placement here is completely different. Look at the angle—it’s hasty. Rushed.”

Spencer steps closer too, too close really but neither of you move away. “That doesn’t prove unraveling,” he replies. “It proves a change in circumstance.”

“You mean the same thing.”

“I mean exactly not the same thing.” His tone is clipped, your glare sharp. It’s quiet for a beat.

Then Hotch looks up from his tablet and says dryly, “You two. Step out, now.”

Your eyes widen just slightly, heat crawling up the back of your neck. Spencer’s brows shoot up like he didn’t expect to be reprimanded. Morgan smirks into his coffee. Emily lets out a low whistle, not even trying to hide it. “Go cool off,” Hotch adds.

You both leave the room in tense silence, walking too fast, too stiff. The door clicks shut behind you and you’re in the hallway—alone, fluorescent lights buzzing again, echoing against tile and drywall. Spencer’s breathing is tight. Controlled. “You didn’t have to challenge everything I said.”

You blink at him. “I wasn’t challenging. I was correcting.” That’s when it turns. His head tilts slightly. His voice drops low.

“You’re incapable of letting me finish a thought without interruption.”

You raise a brow. “Maybe if your thoughts weren’t so half-formed.”

“Oh, that’s rich—coming from someone who once claimed impulse control was a myth while eating licorice for breakfast.” You step into him without realizing, your shoulder brushing his chest.

“That was one time. And I stand by it.” Spencer exhales, sharp and disbelieving like you’re somehow both beneath and above him. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something but then he doesn’t.

He just looks at you. Really looks. Like he’s trying to study you, like you’re suddenly not the opponent but the hypothesis. Like he’s trying to profile you. And that’s when you both notice the door to the staff bathroom is half open. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t say a word. He just turns and walks in. And you follow.

The door clicks shut behind you and the silence is thick. Spencer’s already facing you, his expression unreadable—tense, a little breathless, like he’s not sure who’s going to make the next move. So you do. You step up until there’s barely space between your chests, your chin tilted just enough to meet his eyes. “You were saying something about impulse control?” you ask, soft and taunting. His eyes flick to your mouth, fast. Like he didn’t mean to, like it betrayed him.

“You’re impossible,” he breathes, but his voice has lost all edge.

You smile slowly. “You don’t sound like you hate me.”

Spencer exhales a shaky breath through his nose. “I don’t.” There’s no more talking.

His hands are on your face, your waist, your back—everywhere at once. His mouth crashes into yours like he’s been biting his tongue for years and now it’s all spilling out, heat and frustration and something deeper. You grab the front of his button-down, half pulling, half clawing at it, and he groans into the kiss like he’s starving. You spin him until his back hits the stall door. It creaks under the weight and he barely manages to flick the lock shut before you’re pulling at his belt. Your fingers are frantic, fumbling but he stills them with one of his own—curling over your wrist, grounding you. “Let me,” he says, low. “You’ll stretch the leather.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter but you let him. And when he works it open with those long, practiced fingers, you barely notice that your back is now pressed to the wall, cold tile seeping through your clothes. Then Spencer drops to his knees. You gasp. “What are you—”

“Don’t stop,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up as his hands move to the waistband of your pants. “You’re always so good at talking back. Keep going.” You open your mouth to say something smart, something biting—but all that comes out is a breathy moan as he pulls your pants down your legs with precision, lips brushing your thigh on the way. His mouth is warm. Skilled. Unrelenting.

You slap a hand over your own mouth, back arching, one leg trembling against his shoulder as he holds it steady. His fingers dig into your thigh, hard enough to leave bruises. And when his eyes flutter shut, he moans like this is about him, like you’re his favorite meal and he’s been starving for weeks. You tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging hard and he groans again—like praise. “God,” you pant. “I—I should’ve—”

“I know,” he whispers against your skin. “You should’ve argued with me earlier.” You let out a shaky laugh. He smiles, going back down. You slap a hand against the tile behind you, the other gripping his hair like a lifeline.

“Fuck—Spencer—” His hands grip your thighs, spreading you just enough, holding you steady as his tongue laps slow, then firm, then teasing again. He shifts a little, then locks eyes with you as he seals his mouth around your clit and sucks.

Your head knocks against the wall. You bite down on a moan so hard your lip might bleed. He doesn’t stop. If anything, the sounds you make just fuel him. He’s greedy with it—licking like you’re a problem he’s solving, a theory he’s proving, something he won’t give up on until you’re falling apart in his hands. One of your legs starts trembling.

“Spencer—God.” your voice breaks as your hips buck against him. He groans again, mouth dragging slow and wet over you, nose brushing where you’re most sensitive. His grip tightens. You can barely stay upright. And just when you think you’re about to come—he pulls back. You whimper, flushed and panting and glare down at him.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, lips glossy and red, smirking like the bastard he is. “You’re not getting off that easy,” he says, low and smug. You barely have time to curse him before he stands, kisses you rough and lifts you back into his arms like he never left his knees at all.

He kisses you hard—sloppy and eager, like he can’t decide whether to savor you or consume you whole. His tongue finds yours, tasting the echo of you still lingering on his lips, and you moan into his mouth because god, he’s not playing fair. You barely register the way he lifts you until you feel the cold counter under your ass. His hands are firm on your thighs, dragging you forward until your legs are bracketing his hips. The friction makes you gasp. Your shirt’s still on but your bra is shoved up, his button-up hanging open, his belt clinking with every shift. It’s messy and loud and rushed but the tension between you has been simmering for months—this was never going to be slow.

“You still think you’re smarter than me?” he growls against your neck, nipping hard enough to leave a mark. “Still think you can walk around acting like you know better?”

You choke out a laugh, tilting your head to give him more access. “I am smarter than you.” He bites down harder. You yelp but it turns into a moan as he lines himself up, pushes in—slow, deep—you both gasp. “This is so,” you whisper, breath caught in your throat, “so inappropriate.”

He grins, eyes wild. “Technically we’re on a mandated break.”

The thrusts start slow. Deliberate. Like he’s memorizing the feel of you, like he wants to make this last longer than he knows it can. Your hands grip his shoulders, nails digging in and his breath stutters when you bite down on his jaw. “You’re so—” he groans, “God, you’re insufferable.”

“You love it,” you whisper.

He replied without hesitation, “I really do.” It’s a rhythm then. Heated, sloppy, completely unprofessional. You both know someone could walk in. That there are voices in the hallway, that the lock isn’t strong—but none of it matters. Not when he’s like this. Not when you’re like this. And not when every thrust makes the wall groan behind you. “Oh my—fuck, Spencer.”

“Say it again,” he grits out, hips snapping into you. “Say you’re smarter.”

You’re breathless, half-laughing through the haze of it all. “You—fuck— need me to stroke your ego that bad?”

He slams into you harder in response. “Need you to shut up before someone hears you.”

“I don’t think you care if they do.”

He doesn’t deny it. His hand snakes up between your bodies, thumb dragging over your clit in tight, perfect circles. You jolt in his grip, hands flying to his hair, your thighs trembling where they’re locked around him. It’s dizzying, relentless, the heat curling low in your stomach growing unbearable. And just when you’re sure you’re about to unravel again—he pulls out.

You blink, dazed. “Huh—?”

He turns you around before you can catch your breath, bending you over the counter. His hand flattens between your shoulder blades, holding you there as he kicks your feet apart and sinks back in from behind. You can see yourself in the mirror. You cry out at the stretch, fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth surface.

He’s fucking you now—deep and fast, every thrust knocking the breath out of you, every slap of skin against skin echoing loud in the small bathroom. His hand slips around, rubbing your clit again in sync with his thrusts, you see stars.

“Spencer—” Your voice is shaking, half-strangled with need as he pounds into you from behind, every slap of his hips sending jolts of pleasure down your spine. Your hands are braced on the counter, knuckles white but it’s not enough to keep you steady. Not with the way he’s fucking you like he’s got something to prove. And maybe he does. Maybe this is him trying to one-up you in the one arena where he knows he doesn’t have to compete—because you’re already falling apart under him. But he doesn’t let you go over that edge. Not yet.

“What’s wrong?” he breathes low and smug. “You were so confident before and now you can’t form a sentence? Thought you had all the answers.”

You jerk your body up to meet him, head spinning, breath coming in sharp gasps. “Shut up,” you bite out, muscles tightening as you force out a laugh, defiant even as his dick keeps dragging that perfect angle.

“Don’t want to hear me talk, huh?” he mocks. “But you can’t help but listen, can you?”

You try to move your hands but his grip is too tight, fingers digging into your wrists as his pace quickens. His thumb slips under your chin, lifting your face just enough for him to look at you with that insufferable smugness, his own arousal written all over his features.

“Are you really going to argue with me now?” he mutters, voice thick with want but still that level of condescension. “Because last I checked, your body’s telling me everything I need to know.”

“Fuck you,” you manage to snap, even as he angles his hips to hit deeper and it knocks the breath out of you. You almost choke on your words. He doesn’t let up. Instead, he pulls your hair just hard enough that your head tilts back and your throat is exposed.

“You’re dripping for me and you want to tell me you hate me?”

You don’t even know why you answer but you do. “Yeah, I fucking do. I hate you.”

“You don’t,” he mutters, tugging on your hair again, forcing you to look him in the eye. “You can’t hate me when your pussy’s telling me otherwise.” Your jaw clenches, a frustrated growl escaping your lips. You’re so fucking close but he’s pulling back just enough that you can’t come. He’s in control now. He’s always in control. And you hate it. Spencer leans in, his breath brushing against your ear. “I know what you want. Don’t act like you’re not dying for it.” He shifts again and suddenly you feel his fingers slide into your mouth—uninvited but not unwelcome. It’s messy as you suck on his fingers, the taste of him coating your tongue but the position he has you in—helpless, needy, at his mercy—makes it hard to care.

“Still hate me?” he asks again, the words almost teasing.

“I’m so close,” you breathe, and your voice is breaking. “Just let me—”

“You need to ask for it, don’t you?” He pulls his fingers from your mouth, wiping them on your cheek as he watches you, his mouth falls open slightly. “You can’t finish without me telling you to.”

“Let me,” you almost whimper, your body shaking, on the edge of something. “Please. Please.” He grins like he’s won, his grip on your wrists loosening just enough.

“You’ve got such a dirty mouth, I kind of like it,” he mutters, then he finally lets go, his fingers back at your throat, not quite choking, just keeping you where he wants you. “You don’t get to finish just because you ask,” he says, thrusting hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. “Not yet.”

It’s a mix of sweet relief and pure frustration, your body writhing under him. Every angle is perfect, every inch of him dragging you closer to something you can’t control. He’s fucking you through your angry little comments, through the way you fight him even as you beg for more. Spencer leans in to bite at your neck, growling in your ear as he pulls your hair again, tighter this time.

“God, you’re so fucking stubborn,” he hisses and suddenly, he’s fucking you harder, faster, like he’s punishing you for every dumb word you’ve ever said to him.

“I hate you,” you gasp, hands desperately trying to grip anything to steady yourself but it’s futile. He’s the one in control and you’re too far gone to care about anything else. But when his hand snakes back between your legs, fingers finding your clit with practiced precision, you lose it. You’re falling apart and you don’t care that you’re still supposed to hate him. You don’t care that you’re both too stubborn to admit it.

“Don’t come yet,” he growls. “Not until I say so.” You bite back a scream, his voice still ringing in your ears.

“Fuck, Spencer.” His grip tightens again, fingers digging in and you know he’s close too. He’s holding you, using you and in this moment, you have no power. And you fucking love it.

You don’t know if you ever hated anyone this much. You don’t know if you ever wanted anyone more. Spencer’s breathing is shallow now, hot against the back of your neck as he drives into you from behind, both of you falling apart together—his hand spread over your lower stomach to keep you from moving, his other hand tangled tight in your hair.

“Jesus, you feel so good like this,” he groans, low and rough. “So fucking wet. You gonna come for me now?” You barely manage a response—something choked and shaky, some version of his name that sounds like begging. Your face is red, mouth parted, flushed and panting and he doesn’t slow down. He wants to ruin you. “See?” he murmurs, his voice shaking with effort but his mouth still so fucking smug. “I knew all that attitude was just overcompensation. You were dying for this.” You shake your head weakly, more from the overwhelming heat and pressure than actual disagreement.

“You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore,” he says, thrusting deeper, harder, one hand sliding up your body. “Just so cock-drunk.”

“Fuck you,” you breathe but it comes out weak. Your legs are trembling, fingers scraping against the counter, mind clouded by nothing but the pace of his thrusts and the filthy rhythm of his voice in your ear.

“Mm. You are.” His lips brush the edge of your jaw, voice dark and breathless. “You’re so fucking close, I can feel it. You’re pulsing around me. You wanna come, sweetheart?” Your head nods instinctively, a small sound tumbling from your lips. “You need it, don’t you?” he keeps going, fucking into you like he’s trying to mark his territory, like he wants to fuck the fight right out of you. “You’ve been giving me shit for months and now you’re so dumb on my dick you can’t even talk.”

You’d hit him if your arms weren’t shaking. You’d argue—tell him to shut up, tell him he’s full of shit—but all that leaves you is a needy, whimpering sound. “Come on,” he mutters, his hand sliding down to your clit again, rubbing rough, desperate circles. “Come for me. You want to.”

It only takes a few more thrusts before you’re unraveling, your body arching back into his, a sharp cry caught in your throat. Your orgasm hits you hard, hot and fast and blinding and you’re squeezing around him so tight it forces a moan from his chest. “Fuck, just like that,” he groans, slamming into you once, twice more before he follows, burying himself deep as he spills inside you, panting through clenched teeth, his fingers bruising your hips as he holds you still.

The only sounds for a few seconds are ragged breathing, your heart pounding, and the faint, distant hum of a case still happening outside that locked bathroom door. Then he slumps forward slightly, letting go of your hips and leaning his forehead against your shoulder.

“Well,” he breathes, hoarse and wrecked. “That escalated.” You don’t say anything for a moment—still catching your breath, still trying to convince your legs to hold you up.

And then you mutter, “I still think your theory was bullshit.”

Spencer lets out a laugh, soft and disbelieving. “Jesus Christ.” His hands are still on you. You don’t move. Neither of you do. Because as much as you hate each other, neither of you wants to stop touching. It takes a moment before either of you move again.

You’re still pressed up against the counter, legs shaking, heartbeat trying to slow down, when Spencer finally steps back. He’s quiet about it, gentle even, his hands catching your waist like he’s afraid you might tip over. You tug your pants back up, spine still curved, bracing yourself with one hand against the counter. He fixes his pants with shaking fingers, running a hand through his hair like it’ll make any difference. It doesn’t.

You glance over your shoulder, your voice still raw when you say, “You’ve got a scratch on your neck.”

He gives you a look—half amusement, half disbelief. “From you.”

“You were asking for it.”

He huffs. Rolls his eyes. Tries not to smile but fails anyway. You grab some paper towels to clean up, stealing glances in the mirror over the sink. Your mascara’s slightly smudged, your lips kiss-bitten. He’s worse—hair mussed, lips swollen, eyes a little too glassy.

“We look insane,” you mutter.

“We look like we just had sex in the Bureau bathroom,” he says flatly.

“Same thing.”

He catches your eye in the mirror. For a second, it’s awkward. Just enough for the realization to hit—you just fucked Spencer Reid. During work. In the middle of a case. He clears his throat, straightens his tie like that’ll fix anything. “We should get back.” You blink at him. “You think we’re not gonna get ripped to shreds the second we walk in there?”

He shrugs. “We’re both excellent profilers. We’ll gaslight them.”

You smirk despite yourself. “You’re the most unhinged person I’ve ever met.”

“And you’re the most competitive person I’ve ever had sex with.”

You tilt your head. “That wasn’t a competition.”

“It was absolutely a competition.” He opens the door first, checking the hallway. When it’s clear, you both step out like two spies post-mission—subtle, casual or at least trying to be. The bullpen is busy again, everyone preoccupied.

You walk in together, acting natural and you swear no one’s paying attention—until Morgan looks up from his desk with a slow, knowing grin. “Ten bucks says I’m right,” he mutters to JJ, who groans and rolls her eyes.

“Children,” Hotch calls from across the room, not even looking up from his file. “Back to work.” You slip into your chair. Spencer sits beside you, flipping open the nearest file like nothing happened. And maybe nothing did—except now you know exactly how good he sounds when he falls apart for you and he knows exactly what you look like when you’re coming on his cock.

You cross your legs under the desk and he glances at you sideways. You don’t speak. But the tension’s not gone. It’s just different now. And you’re not done fighting yet.

[mixolya]

ᓚᘏᗢ — megumi fushiguro: distracted !

megumi fushiguro x reader ⭑ fluff / drabble likes & reblogs are appreciated <3

note: this was sitting in my drafts for forever!!

wc: 553

megumi fushiguro wasn’t one to get easily distracted, but you had a talent for bending his focus in your direction without even trying.

the two of you sat on the steps of a quiet park, the fading sunlight spilling golden rays over the grass. the breeze carried a hint of jasmine, and your laughter echoed softly in the stillness. you'd been recounting some funny story from earlier in the week, your hands moving animatedly as you spoke.

megumi, on the other hand, hadn’t heard a word.

he tried. he really did. but the way the light hit your face, highlighting the curve of your smile, was impossible to ignore. there was a brightness in your eyes that seemed to draw him in, and he felt like the world around him had blurred into irrelevance.

“megumi?” you called, tilting your head.

he blinked, realizing you’d stopped speaking. “hm?”

“are you even listening?” you teased, a knowing smile tugging at your lips.

he cleared his throat, looking away to hide the warmth creeping up his neck. “yeah, of course.”

“oh really?” you said, raising an eyebrow. “then what was i saying?”

megumi's silence was answer enough, and you laughed, leaning forward to lightly nudge his shoulder.

“you're hopeless,” you said, though there was no malice in your tone.

“sorry,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “i guess i got… distracted.”

“by what?” you asked, genuinely curious.

he hesitated, his eyes flickering to yours before darting away. “nothing. it's not important.”

your gaze softened, and you leaned a little closer, your voice dropping to a gentle murmur. “you can tell me, you know.”

megumi's breath caught. you always had this way of breaking through his defenses, of making him feel safe even when his own thoughts felt too heavy to share.

“it's just… you,” he admitted quietly, his words barely audible.

your eyes widened slightly. “me?”

he nodded, his gaze fixed firmly on the ground. “you're distracting. in a good way, i mean.”

a soft laugh escaped your lips, and you reached out to brush a stray strand of hair from his face. “i'll take that as a compliment.”

megumi looked up then, meeting your eyes. for a moment, the world seemed to pause, the only sound the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze.

“you should,” he said simply, his voice steady despite the nervous flutter in his chest.

as the evening wore on, the two of you stayed there on the steps, the conversation flowing easily between moments of quiet. megumi found himself relaxing in your presence, the usual tension in his shoulders easing with every passing minute.

at some point, you shifted closer, resting your head against his shoulder. he froze for a moment, his heart skipping a beat, but when he glanced down at you, your eyes were closed, a peaceful smile on your lips.

he let out a soft sigh, leaning his head slightly against yours.

the warmth of your presence, the gentle weight of your head on his shoulder; it was overwhelming in the best way. megumi wasn’t good with words, but he hoped you could feel everything he couldn’t quite say in the way he stayed by your side, in the quiet way he let himself melt into you.

because for once, he didn’t mind being distracted.

© mixolya 2025. do not copy, remake or edit any of my works.

[thewitchblue]

"Are you... reading Twilight?"

You had asked Jason, who broke into your apartment while you were gone grocery shopping. He only gave you a hum and continued reading as you set your grocery bags on your kitchen table.

You watched him turn the page and felt a sense of dread. It was your copy from when you were 13 years old. It had notes and doodles in the margins. Did he read your notes? Of course he would. He reads the annotated versions of Jane Austen he has for fun. Why wouldn't he read your notes? The world seemed to be against you this day.

You were so mortified you didn't even hear him laugh at a doodle you had of Edward biting a dog with the word "nom" next to it. He was almost done with the book.

You've only been dating for a handful of months. Would the notes break up your relationship? You don't remember the majority of them.

You haven't touched the trilogy since school, and you originally didn't even want to read it. The social pressure from your friends became to be too much, and it felt like a religious experience at the time.

You had forgotten about the book entirely in the years you've had it crammed in a bookcase next to the rest of the series, which, with great horror, you saw he also pulled out to read.

"Don't tell me you're enjoying the book."

You said in disbelief. The memories run through your head of your blushing cheeks at simple words on pages while the girls ganged up on you to ask which team your on. What team is Jason on? Or has he read this before behind closed doors? He shrugged and simply replied,

"I am."

You wanted to bolt out the door, but you had melting limited addition candy cane ice cream in your grocery bag.

Instead of running away, you bravely start putting away your groceries with your eyes trained on Jason. He seemed to genuinely enjoy your trashy romance book that's so incredibly dated. This is so bizarre to you. He's a fan of the classics and loves books that he can revisit without cringing.

The book appeared partially destroyed by the abyss of your backpack with a torn cover and a broken spine, but it drew Jason's attention. Of course, it would draw his attention. He always said a well loved book is one you take everywhere. A book with a broken spine and torn cover is going to make him curious.

He never had the normal teenage phase, so he's never read the book. He was curious, and he was rewarded so far. He understands now why teenagers like the trilogy so far.

You decided to break into the ice cream. You tensed at every page turned. What did you write in there? You tried to remember. You vaguely remember writing "yummy muscles" on a page. You cringed. Oh, the horrors of a horny teen.

The ice cream was as delicious as you expected it to be. How could you look him in the eyes ever again? Will he tell the whole family? You were stress eating.

Jason finished the book and went to pick up the next one, but you plucked it out of his hands before he could open it and grabbed the final book as well.

"I'm seriously going to throw these in the shredder."

Jason smirked at you. He enjoyed your little doodles and notes. It was as if he was meeting you when you were kids. He pointed out,

"I think they are too big to shred, pipsqueak."

You pouted, which only made him more amused. He pulled you into his lap and kissed your cheek. You huffed,

"I can still try."

He laughed. You were so adorable. He might have to embarrass you more. He murmured to you,

"I especially enjoyed your note of 'delicious dog meat.'"

You groaned and held your face in your hands, making the books fall to the floor. You hated your past self in this moment. Why did you keep those books? For Jason to show up and read them?

The feeling of dread eventually went away the more he kissed you. You filed away the fact you can know for a fact Jason read Twilight now, and part of you wondered if he'll spiral into the hellscape of fanfiction as a result. You are going to burn those books.

You like to think you ended up with a better love story than Twilght. Sure, you may be dating a zombie instead of a vampire or werewolf like teen you had wanted (if we can have Superman, we can have a sexy vampire or werewolf), but your zombie is perfect in his own ways.

[notlongtolove]

to be an accountant of the heart

because it’s utterly, bone-deep terrifying. to look into the eyes of the person you love most in the world and feel the weight of a possibility that you might love them more than they love you.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: angst-ish, fight and makeup

content: established relationship fight and makeup woof woof rookie bau reader feels insecure about how much she loves spencer, worries she's too clingy, spencer reid best bf ever

word count: 5k

note: this was haunting me in my drafts for the longest time... please be nice my heart can't take it (psa guys don't ever tell ur partners that they love you more than you love them bc 5 years down the road they'll cope by writing deranged spencer reid fics like this)

a line: You’ve always been this way—more flame than moth, more lightning than thunder. It’s one of the things he loves most about you.

and then it is hundreds of hours later, and you are still hunched over your flowcharts and abacus, trying to decide if you have gotten enough. This is the loneliest job in the world: to be an accountant of the heart. - tony hoagland

The English language draws a neat line between many and much. It divides the countable from the uncountable.

The word many is meant for things you can count. How many cups of coffee have you had? How many days will you be gone for? 

The word much belongs to what cannot be counted, what cannot be numbered. How much longer do we have in bed? How much did you miss me? How much do you love me? 

How much?

It’s an innately impossible question. Love, after all, is supposed to be infinite, unbound, unquantifiable. Any attempt to measure it—to reduce something so sacred to a number, a unit—is to taint it. And why would you want to do that? Why would anyone? There shouldn't be any need to measure something so inherently immeasurable. 

Deep down, you know there's no actual way to count love. You suppose this instinct to measure has always been there, to wonder if the love you received can be tallied like time. It’s buried deep, old as the child you once were. 

Still, the question begs itself. How much? How much more? How much less? If comparison is the thief of joy it’s only because it leaves you with the revelations nobody asked for, the truths nobody ever wants to see. 

Put love on a scale, wait and see—Will it balance or won’t it? 

“Glaring at the clock isn’t going to make time pass any faster,” Elle teases from two desks away, her eyes locked on the report she’s skimming.

You don’t bother hiding your sigh as you glance up from where your chin rests heavily in your palm, elbow propped against the desk. The pencil in your other hand twirls idly, betraying your impatience. “He said they landed an hour ago,” you grumble. Only the faintest trace of a pout slips through.

“Working hard or hardly working, ladies?” 

Your head perks up at that. Trust Derek Morgan to know how to make an entrance, arriving right on cue, grin wide and swagger intact. 

JJ, seated beside you and noticeably more amused by your restlessness than concerned, spins her chair around as she asks, “How was the convention boys?”

“It was great—more than great actually,” Spencer says, appearing from behind Morgan. He’s lugging a bag that seems twice as heavy as when you’d helped him pack it five days ago. “All the speakers were incredible. I got to talk with Lonnie Athens himself. He gave me a signed copy of his latest book.” His grin widens tenfold. “It’s not even out in stores yet.”

You’re halfway out of your seat, ready to pounce on Spencer the moment he sets his bag down. But instead, he offers a halfhug and a light squeeze to your shoulder. It’s understated, but it’s Spencer. Public displays of affection aren’t his thing, and you know better than to expect more. Still, five days without him makes you ache for just a little more.

“It was alright,” Morgan interjects with a casual shrug as he takes a seat at the edge of your table, narrowly missing your nth mug of coffee. “Great sandwiches though.”

“Yeah, you sure seemed interested in the sandwiches,” Spencer says dryly, the kind of tone that suggests sandwiches were not the main attraction.

Morgan smirks, unbothered. “New York, man,” he says with a grin. “New York.”

You turn your attention back to Spencer. “How’d you sleep?” you ask, your question aimed entirely at him.

“Surprisingly well, actually,” Spencer replies, “Despite the snoring.”

Morgan’s response is immediate—a light thwack to the back of Spencer’s head. “How’d he sleep? More like, how’d I sleep. Lover girl over here had him on the phone half the night.”

“I wasn’t that bad,” you shoot back, narrowing your eyes at him. But then your gaze drifts to Spencer, searching for confirmation. “Was I?”

Spencer hesitates, his lips pressing into a faintly sheepish line. “I did wake up late for one of the panels,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck.

“Oh, you think you had it bad? I’ve never seen someone go through so much coffee in a week,” JJ says, nodding in your direction, “She wiped out the entire stock.”

“Almost bashed her over the head with a cup of coffee myself when I had to settle for the instant stuff,” Elle chimes in. A collective shudder goes through the group. “No offence, Reid,” she adds.

“None taken,” Spencer replies smoothly, just in time to earn another smack on his arm, this time from you.

You’ve endured more than your fair share of teasing—it comes with the territory when you’re part of a team like this. You, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, three years his junior. Him, more comfortable rambling about the number of kernels on an average cob of corn than talking to any girl, let alone one with a smile like yours that could make his knees buckle. What had been an odd match to some, made perfect sense to others—Though Spencer would argue that Garcia just liked seeing him with any girl who could make him laugh the way you could, especially within three days of meeting him. It’s a feat nobody else has yet to achieve in the year you’ve been on the team. 

“Missed you,” you murmur, just loud enough for him to hear.

Spencer flushes as his lips part, maybe to respond, but Elle cuts in before he gets the chance. “Save it for later, lover girl. Some of us want to hear about those sandwiches.” 

“Oh, they really were better than last year’s,” Spencer begins, now distracted, completely oblivious to Elle’s sarcasm, “Probably because the annual reports showed an increased budget for the global initiatives.”

JJ raises an eyebrow in amused disbelief. “You read the FBI’s annual budget breakdown?”

Spencer looks genuinely surprised by the question. “You don’t?”

Chuckles echo throughout the group and though you smile faintly, it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You just can’t help it as the tally marks start to stack up in your mind. One for the way his attention is just a little too distant, his excitement seemingly aimed at everyone but you. Another for every time you wait for his gaze and it doesn’t come. He’s too absorbed in recounting a discussion about deterministic causality he’d had with a keynote speaker. 

Compared to Spencer, who was often so reserved, it was easy to feel like your emotions were too big, too eager. Dragging him, wide-eyed and stammering, up the stairs to Hotch’s office six months ago had been nothing short of a test of strength and sheer determination. You’d been the one to silence him with a gentle kiss to his knuckles, promising him that everything would be okay. You were a live wire compared to him, everyone knew that. Lover girl, they teased, though never cruelly. In the field and out of it—Clingy to a fault, always wearing your heart on your sleeve. 

Lover girl through and through, you wait patiently for Spencer to look your way. 

He doesn’t. 

“Yours or mine?” Spencer asks as you stand side by side on the curb, bags in tow. 

“Think I’ll go to mine,” you reply curtly. You don’t trust yourself to say anything else right now.

“That’s fine. I’ve got an extra day’s worth of clothes with me.”

“You can go home,” you say, cutting him off. It comes off sharper than you intended. Then, softer, as if trying to backtrack, you add, “If you want.”

He looks at you, baffled. “Why would I do that?” 

It’s not a rhetorical question, he genuinely doesn’t understand. Weekends apart have never really been your thing. 

“Because—” You cut yourself off mid-sentence. What could you even say? Because you seem so perfectly fine after 120 hours apart. Because the tally marks said so. Because the scale said so. Instead, you huff an exhale and settle for, “No reason. You look tired. Thought you’d want to go home or something.”

“Again sweetheart. Why would I do that?” he repeats, incredulous. 

You fight off a resigned sigh, though you’re sure he catches it, and pull out your phone. “I’m calling a cab,” you mumble, thumbing at the screen. “Are you coming or not?”

“Yeah, I’ll come with you,” he says, still calm but clearly confused.

“Fine.”

The ride home is quiet, save for the driver’s rambling complaints about freeway traffic at this hour. Normally, you’d be the one to humour any conversations with strangers, chiming in with polite nods and oh, reallys while Spencer watched, bemused by your ability to make small talk with anyone. But today, you’re just not in the mood, leaving poor Spencer to fend for himself.  

Which to his credit, he does—By turning the conversation into a tangent about how traffic patterns correlate with certain hours and commuter behaviour, and delving into a detailed explanation of the queueing theory. He does this till eventually, even the driver goes silent, though whether it’s out of confusion or exhaustion, you’re not quite sure. 

You can feel Spencer’s eyes on you in the silence, flicking toward you every now and then. The concern in his attention does nothing to soothe you. If anything, it only fans the flames of your irritation. When the car finally rolls to a stop outside your building, you hand the driver a $20 bill, wave off the change, and stride toward your door without another word. You’re out before Spencer can even pull his door open.

Inside, you drop your things on the couch resignedly and kick off your shoes without so much as a care. They land in a scattered heap that you don’t bother to fix. Spencer lingers behind you, ever patient.

“What do you want for dinner?” His voice is soft, tentative, as he bends down to pick up your discarded shoes, lining them neatly by the door. “We could order something. Chinese, maybe?”

Spencer knows you well—knows how your mood sours when you’re running on fumes. Particularly on days like this, when your only sustenance has been cups of crappy coffee and a few stale crackers he’d coaxed you into eating earlier just before you left, bribing you with a quick kiss on the cheek—After checking that nobody else was in the break room, of course. 

Sullen as you are, you can recognise the offer for what it is. It’s sweet. A thoughtful acknowledgement of how well he knows you, how much he cares. He’s offering you a lifeline, a quiet invitation to let the storm pass without forcing you to name it, something you’re evidently trying not to do. 

But tonight, it feels almost patronising. It’s a spotlight on the hurt you can’t quite temper, like he’s trying to fix something you’re not yet ready to admit needs fixing.

“I can run down to the—”

“I’m not hungry.” 

You walk straight into your bedroom without another word, leaving him standing there in the doorway. You hear him exhale quietly, not quite a sigh but close. Probably one of resignation. Another tally mark falls on the scale. 

“Sweetheart,” he starts. You know he’s testing the waters, trying to find an opening. But you don’t look at him, don’t give him anything to work with. “Can we talk?” he asks, his fingers brushing yours as he takes a seat at the edge of your bed.

“Talk about what?” You’ve always been good at feigning ignorance, but the way you pull your hand away from his is anything but subtle. Spencer sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he closes his eyes briefly. He’s clearly exhausted. This is exhausting. You’re clearly exhausting. You can’t help but wonder why you always do this. 

“Was it Elle? Morgan?” he ventures cautiously. “The teasing?”

“They always tease me,” you say with a shrug, your voice dismissive. “I don’t care.”

It’s a half-truth, and you both know it.

Spencer nods slowly as he tries to piece this together. He knows you’re not usually one to let things fester. You’re never angry for long, and even when you are, you laugh it off, always quick to join in on the joke. He knows better than to profile you—it's an unspoken rule within the team and, more importantly, within your relationship. But Spencer’s anything if not desperate to understand.

He watches you slip into the bathroom with a sigh, shoulders dipping. The light flickers on, but you don’t meet your own gaze in the mirror. You’re not angry. That would be easier. There’s something quieter in your eyes. Defeat, maybe. 

“I missed you,” he offers, stepping into the doorway. His tone is softer now, pleading.

“Did you?” It’s almost sarcastic, but not quite. Irritable but undercut by something raw, as though you don’t really believe he did.

Spencer swallows. “You don’t think I missed you?”

“A little hard to tell between the fawning over Lonnie Athens,” you say, wiping mascara from under your lashes. “Or was it the in-depth analysis of sandwich platters?”

It’s a snap, all sharp edges and fire, and for a second, he forgets the minefield he’s meant to be tiptoeing through. Has to bite back a smile. You’ve always been this way—more flame than moth, more lightning than thunder. It’s one of the things he loves most about you.

“Is that what this is about?” The words slip out before he can stop them, and the second they do, he knows. Rookie mistake. Your spine straightens, your jaw sets, and he wants to take it back, rewind, try again.

“This,” you echo, turning to face him. “What exactly do you mean by this?”

Spencer reminds himself that fire is never snuffed out with ice. You douse a flame gently, carefully. So, he steps forward, quieter now, fingers grazing yours before he takes your hand in his, guiding you toward the bed. He doesn’t pull, doesn’t rush, just leads you toward the bed with the same patience he knows you need when you’re fragile and burning.

Regardless, you try to resist, to hold yourself upright. You’re fighting the urge to sink into it—His touch, the bed, all of it. 

“Sweetheart,” Spencer murmurs, taking a seat beside you. “I know you’re not angry. You’re sad. And I’d really like to know why. Tell me, please?”

Deep inside, you know you’re just clinging on to the last embers of your frustration. But it’s hard—impossible, really, when you’re a fire with no kindle left to burn, and Spencer is all soft whispers and gentle hands, featherlight and soothing. 

You hesitate, twisting the fabric of the duvet between your fingers. “I just—I—You were being mean.”

Spencer lets out a slow, quiet breath. Relief, almost. Not because he agrees—He knows himself well enough to be sure that ‘mean’ isn’t the right word. But he knows you well enough to understand what it means when you say it.

Mean is what you say when you’ve been hurt and don’t know how else to put it. 

So he follows your lead. Doesn’t fight it.

“M’sorry, sweetheart,” he mumbles stroking your hand with his thumb. His touch is warm as it is gentle. 

Because it���s not about whether he was mean or not. Spencer knows that. Knows you. Knows that kindness has never been a given for you, knows that you wouldn’t recognise patience if it came knocking. And he knows you well enough to know that you think in some twisted way, that you’ve brought this hurt upon yourself, that you deserve it. 

What matters is that you were hurt. And that’s the one thing he never, ever wants to do.

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Can you tell me how I did?”

“You just kept going on and on about the stupid conference. You didn’t even hug me or—And then you—” 

You don’t continue. You can’t. You feel ridiculous. Stupid, even. Mopey and small over something that shouldn’t matter this much. Over the realisation that he doesn’t need you. And why should he? It’s not Spencer’s fault. Not at all. 

His indifference is what it is and what it was. Indifference. It sits like a weight on your bones—Cold, sharp-edged, piercing. He can go 5 days without you. You can’t. The tally marks accumulate, unbidden.

“And then I…?” Spencer prompts gently, prying your fingers from the duvet and replacing the tension with his thumb, tracing slow, soothing circles into your palm instead.

“You ignored me, and I just—” Your voice wavers, frustration bubbling over. "I just felt so—so ignored!"

Wonderful vocabulary. Of course, your words would fail you now.

“And the teasing—I know, I know, I can be impossible sometimes, but I just—I just really missed you! And I get it okay? I’m clingy and you’re not and god forbid anybody else is but it’s because I love you!” You inhale sharply, your hands slipping from his to curl into fists in your lap. “And you didn’t react at all, you didn’t even care! You made me feel like—I thought that you—” 

You cut yourself off before the flurry of tears take over and drown you out. 

Spencer waits a beat, choosing his next words carefully. 

“You thought… that I don’t love you?” His voice isn’t laced with sarcasm, nor does it carry incredulity. It’s a genuine question, as though he’s retracing the moments between you, trying to understand how you could possibly come to such a conclusion.

“No, it’s not that—” you’re quick to say, desperate to correct him. You know Spencer loves you. Of course, you know that. How could you not? It’s Spencer. He loves you like it’s his life mission to show you just how much he loves you. “I know you love—I know that. I just—” 

You bury your face in your hands, fingers pressing into the hollows beneath your eyes—A feeble attempt at hiding.

Because it’s utterly, bone-deep terrifying. To look into the eyes of the person you love most in the world and feel the weight of a possibility that you might love them more than they love you.

To want to shout: Love me. Please love me, and please feel it with every fibre of your being as I do with mine. The kind of love that makes you want to scream from rooftops, to etch it into the sky, to burn the world down just to prove its enormity. 

Because then the question comes: Which would be worse?

To shout into the vast, open air and hear nothing in response? No echo of the same intensity. Or to stand amidst the smouldering ashes only to look into their eyes and find they don’t recognise you anymore? To see confusion or pity where love used to live.

You blink your watery eyes open, but you can’t bring yourself to look at him. Instead, you settle on the knobs of your knees, tracing their shape with your gaze. 

Anything but Spencer. Not right now. 

You take a sharp breath, steadying yourself before continuing.

“Sometimes, I feel like you don’t need me as much as I need you and that scares me. And I know it’s stupid, even I feel stupid thinking about it. I don’t even want to be codependent or whatever but I—I just can’t help but think that sometimes—” 

Your breath shudders out of you, long and uneven, “I love you more than you love me.”

To say Spencer feels his heart break would be an understatement. It’s not a clean break, not a single, shattering moment—it’s a slow, relentless unraveling. It’s a gut punch, pain and duress packed tight, failure laced in every syllable. His heart shatters, splintering into pieces so sharp they lodge in his throat, in his lungs, in every part of him that has ever loved you. 

Silently, he’s always known the teasing would hit a breaking point. You’ve worn that insecurity for as long as he’s known you—too young, too green, too desperate to prove yourself. He just didn’t think it would carve its way between you the two of you like this. He’s watched you lean into it, let the jokes land, let them chip away at you. Newbie. Rookie. Lover girl. As if laughing along might soften the edges of it all. 

You flop onto your back on the bed, boneless, the confession stealing the last of your fight. There’s a splotch of blue paint on the ceiling from last month, when you both tried to repaint the room and got distracted halfway through. It doesn’t make you smile, not even  a little.

“That’s not true.” The mattress dips under Spencer’s weight as he settles beside you, thumb tracing your hairline. His arm moves, coaxing you to toward him, gentle in the way only he knows how to be with you.

“You’re not impossible, sweetheart, you never are. And I know they tease,” he murmurs, fingers of his other hand grazing over your knuckles, “but I also know for a fact that you don’t fall apart without me when I’m gone. That would be co-dependency. And I know that’s not you. You passed your requalifications with flying colors while I was away,” he says. “Garcia sent me the records. You know you even beat Morgan’s old score?” 

You sniffle, startled. That had been your surprise. You’d wanted to tell him yourself. 

“She told you?” 

He shakes his head. “I asked. I always ask for updates on you when I can’t be there.”

A small “Oh,” is all you can get out. 

With every other guy you dated, you’d attempted to play it cool, dialling down your enthusiasm, biting back your texts, and pretending to care less than you did. But every relationship seemed to end the same way: you were “a lot” and they weren’t equipped to handle it. It never quite stuck though, and thank god for that. 

Because then you met Spencer.

Sweet, steady Spencer, who didn’t just tolerate your spark but cherished it. Spencer, who had let you cling to his hand during every takeoff and landing on the jet the first week on the job. He never flinched, never teased—Even when everyone else casted him sympathetic looks, the kind that silently acknowledged how your grip was probably cutting off his circulation. Spencer who has kept every scrawled doodle and note you’ve ever given for him, even the ones scribbled haphazardly on napkins or receipts. He knows carbon prints fade within months so he stores them in a shoebox tucked away in his cupboard—Just so they can last that much longer. 

Spencer didn’t just accept the parts of you others found overwhelming. He singlehandedly brought them back to life. Every bit of your spark that had been dimmed or snuffed out by someone else had found new light in his presence.

Spencer’s fingers tighten around yours, a quiet kind of reassurance that draws you back to the present. 

“Being clingy is not the same as being codependent. I know you know that. There’s a clear psychological difference in brain chemistry.” His lips twitch, the smallest hint of a smile slipping through. “You’re clingy, yes. But I love that about you. I love coming home with you. I love coming home to you. I love how hard you love me, how proudly you love me. I know I haven’t been the best at reciprocating that around the team, and I’m sorry. I hate that I made you feel like I didn’t love you, or miss you.”

He shifts closer, eyes searching yours, open and earnest. “Because I did miss you. So much. I nearly blew a month’s paycheck in the gift shop. Spent half of it stocking up on those jelly crackers you told me about.” He shakes his head, like he can’t believe himself. “Morgan said I was whipped when I paid thirty bucks for a pair of souvenir socks.”

With a raise of your eyebrow you ask tearily, “and exactly how many pairs did you buy?” 

“Got you three pairs.” A sheepish little laugh escapes him as he ducks his head. 

And just like that, you’re smiling too. Albeit a small one, but that’s progress nonetheless. “And I don’t think you quite understand how much I love you when you say you love me more.” He leans in, his voice dropping, teasing. “I don’t know if you know this about me, but I’m very competitive.”

“Oh, so I’ve heard Doctor Reid,” you quip, eyes rolling. Spencer’s lips curve, just slightly. You don’t even notice the way you press closer to him, but Spencer does. He takes the opportunity to go on.

“In a way, you’re right. I don’t need you,” Spencer says. Whiplash doesn’t even begin to describe the way your head snaps toward him. Flame and lighting, no doubt. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says quickly, his expression already twisting in regret. “I shouldn’t have phrased it like that.”

“I don’t see what other way you could possibly phrase something like that,” you snap pettily, already pushing yourself up to stand. 

“Hey, hey.” His hand reaches out, not quite grabbing yours but close enough to make you pause. “Lie back down, honey. Please.” 

Against your better judgment, you relent, sinking back into the bed. “What I meant to say was, I don’t need you,” he repeats, slower this time, deliberate.

You scoff, a bitter laugh slipping through your lips as you swipe harshly at your damp lashes. “I get it, Spencer. Clearly you don’t.”

“No, I don’t think you do,” he says, his voice unwavering. “Biologically speaking, I wouldn’t cease to exist without you. My heart would continue to beat, my lungs would continue to expand and contract, my brain would maintain its synaptic functions. I would survive.” He pauses then, eyes searching yours, “And can I tell you something?”

You don’t answer, but you don’t pull away either. He takes that as permission to go on. “You don’t need me either.” 

Your lips part, the beginnings of a protest forming, but he cuts you off gently.

“I know you said you do, but your autonomic nervous system would still regulate your breathing, your neurons would still fire, your body would persist.” He swallows, voice dipping lower. “But that’s not the point, is it? Love isn’t about biological necessity. It’s not about survival. It’s about choice.” 

The word “choice” feels almost ironic when it comes from Spencer Reid. You knew that the moment you met him. It was never really a choice, not for you. It was him, or nothing. Desperately, you'd like to think it was the same for him, too.

Your answer comes in the form of his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. He’s patient, always, even when you aren’t. Kind in a way that sinks deep—Like you deserve it. You’re all sharp edges, brittle and worn, and he’s five days off a lumpy hotel mattress, yet the only thing he cares about is brushing away the tears from your skin. 

“Sweetheart, I don’t love you because I need you. I don’t think that would be love at all. That’s survival. I love you because I choose to,” he continues. “Because you are the strongest person I know. Because you are kind, even when the world hasn’t been kind to you. Because you give so much of yourself without hesitation, without ever expecting anything in return.” 

Spencer smiles, shaking his head. “Because you’re the only person I know who will spend thirty minutes on a call recounting every little thing everyone did in the office that you think I’d like to hear about—before you even think to tell me about your own day.”

“It was funny! Since when has Hotch ever tripped on the stairs?”

It’s unfair really, how easily his laugh breathes life back into you. Your heart stumbles over itself as his hand brushes tenderly along your jaw. 

“I’ve spent every day in awe of you since the moment I met you. And I fall more and more in love with you with each one. Even on the days I’m not with you. Even on the days I’m miles away. Even then.” Spencer presses his lips against the back of your hand as he adds, “Especially then.” 

“Really?”

You can’t help it, the quiet little thing in you that wants to hear it again. 

Your tears have dried, but their traces still shimmer faintly on your skin. Spencer presses a kiss to your forehead, his fingers tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. He’d say it again. A hundred times. He’d make that speech a thousand times over, if you needed him to. If it meant you’d never doubt it again.

“Really, my love.”

And just like that, a million tally marks fall at your feet.

A million for the way he presses another kiss to your lips, unrushed. A million more for the way his nose bumps against yours, lingering, breathing you in. Another million for the spark that creeps back into your eyes. 

It’s infinite, unbound, unquantifiable—The way he loves you, the sheer depth of it. You feel foolish for ever having questioned it. You thank your lucky stars—all of them—for Spencer Reid. For the way he’s looking at you like you strung the constellations together yourself. For the way he chooses you, again and again, even when you don’t choose him, when you shut down, when you go quiet. 

Because love to Spencer isn’t desperation, isn’t need—it’s choice. The deliberate, unwavering act of reaching out, of staying, and of saying over and over: I choose you. 

Not because he has to, but because he wants to. To be the one to put you back together again when you’re all embers and ash, to cradle you back onto earth when stare past him into the ceiling, to remind you that there’s still warmth in you left to hold.

To breathe the spark back into your eyes—It’s a choice he made the very moment he met you. It’s a spark Spencer swears he’d spend his whole life keeping alight.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you so much for reading! likes, comments or reblogs are very much appreciated!

ᯓ★ song recs if you feel like it: daylight by taylor swift intrapersonal by turnover

[daryltwdixon]

Daryl x Reader fluff

prompt: "You can stop hugging me now." | "No, I don't think I can." @creativepromptsforwriting

Summary: Daryl returns from a long trip with something he found, quietly revealing that you’ve been on his mind all along. fluff. drabble.

a/n: just trying to get the writing juices flowing again, been feeling a little bit of a block so thought I'd try this prompt!

The sun hangs low, painting the woods over the fence of the watchtower in warm amber hues. You're peering through your binoculars as Alexandria stretches out behind you, quiet except for the occasional clatter of someone working on the fences. You have one earbud in, listening to your Walkman that's strapped to your hip. The tiny device is temperamental, but it still works, and it’s the one thread tying you to the world before everything fell apart. The music is just low enough that when you adjust your stance, scanning the perimeter again, a distant rumble draws your attention.

You lower the binoculars, squinting against the light until you spot it. The familiar shape of Daryl’s motorcycle cuts through the dusty road leading to the gates. A smile tugs at your lips as you turn to look over the railing down at the gate.

“Sasha,” you say, snagging your earbud out by the wire, “Daryl’s back. Open the gate.”

“Copy that,” she replies, composed and straight faced.

You watch as the gates roll open and Daryl rides in, the low growl of his engine fading as he kills the ignition. He swings off the bike, crossbow slung over his shoulder, and pauses, his eyes lifting to meet yours. Even from this distance, you catch the flicker of something in his gaze—relief, maybe, or something warmer.

“You just gonna stare, or you comin’ down?” he calls, his voice carrying easily in the still evening air.

You smile as you shout down at him, "I'm on duty!"

You watch as he shakes his head and makes his way over. Backpack in hand, he starts climbing the ladder to your perch. By the time he reaches the top, you’re already leaning against the railing, looping your ear buds up to put away. You really hope he can't see how your heart hammers in your ribs when he is near.

There’s something about him that always pulls at you, no matter how much you try to ignore it. Maybe it’s the way he moves, like he’s part of the world but never tethered to it, or the way he notices things without ever calling attention to himself. It’s in the roughness of his voice, the quiet steadiness of his presence, and the flashes of something softer beneath all the grit. You’ve caught yourself watching him more times than you’d like to admit—how his hands move when he works on his bike, the way his brow furrows in thought, the rare curve of his lips when he smirks. And now, with him this close, the familiar tug in your chest feels undeniable.

“Got somethin’ for ya,” he announces when he reaches the top, his voice hoarse from not seeing people for days. He crouches down in front of you, awkwardly pulling something from his bag. A small, rectangular cassette tape catches the light as he holds it out.

Your breath catches when you see the cover. It’s your favorite artist, one you thought you’d never hear again.

“Figured....well, you’re always listenin’ to that thing,” he says, gesturing toward your Walkman. His voice is gruff, but there’s a nervous edge to it, like he’s not sure how you’ll react. “Saw it. Made me...made me think of ya.”

You take it from him, fingers brushing over the cracked plastic of the case, lingering on the edges as if holding it too tightly might make it disappear. Flipping it over, you see the album cover, worn but intact, its familiar image bringing an ache to your chest. Your thoughts stumble, scrambling for something to say, but all you can focus on is the fact that Daryl thought of you. 

He thought of you.

While he was out there, risking his neck for the group, scavenging scraps of the old world, searching for strangers who might one day be allies—he thought of you. The image of him out there, surrounded by danger at every turn, with walkers and worse waiting in the shadows, and still having a moment to think of you, makes your chest tighten. Despite the chaos, the noise, the relentless fight to survive, you were on his mind. Not just as another member of the group, but as someone he cared about enough to bring back this small, fragile piece of comfort.

The thought is overwhelming, pulling the air from your lungs, leaving you dizzy with the weight of it. Because in a world where everything is fleeting, Daryl Dixon thought of you.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re moving. Your arms wrap around his neck, catching him off guard. He stiffens, his hands coming up to hover over you, almost unsure if he should touch you. After a heartbeat of not letting go, you feel his voice vibrating in his chest.

“You can stop hugging me now,” he grumbles, though his voice wavers just enough to betray him.

You tighten your grip, pressing your cheek against the warmth of him, breathing in the smell of musk, of pine and leather and cigarettes--so uniquely Daryl, “No,” you whisper, the words soft but sure. “I don’t think I can.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. Then, slowly, his hands settle on the small of your back, tentative but steady. The air between you shifts, quiet and charged, the unspoken things you’re both too afraid to say hanging in the space.

When you finally pull away, his cheeks are tinged pink, and he’s looking anywhere but at you.

“Thank you, Daryl,” you say, holding up the cassette tape like it’s the most precious thing you’ve ever owned, "Seriously."

He shrugs, his eyes flickering to yours for just a second before dropping. “Ain’t nothin’.”

But the corner of his mouth quirks up, just a little, as he turns to climb back down the ladder, leaving you with the music, the sunset, and a heart pounding harder than it should.

[hischiershoe]

─── SECRET SANTA

─── QUINN HUGHES X FEM!READER

[ Word count ] 1.7k

[ Summary ] With a little help from your friends, you and Quinn finally realize that it was all a big misunderstanding.

[ Warnings ] Not really any, I don’t think. Not proofread.

Ficmas masterlist

When you drew Quinn’s name in the Secret Santa drawing, you couldn’t help but feel a surge of panic wash over you. Of all of the pieces of paper in Brock’s hat, you just had to pick the one person that you harbored a teeny crush on. From the moment you met Quinn last year, you were drawn to him, but you knew the sentiment would never be returned, so you tried to keep your distance from him as much as you possibly could. Now, you were forced into buying him a gift and the last thing you wanted to do was get him something he didn’t like. The thought alone made you want to throw up. 

With the help of Brock and Bella, you managed to find something that they said Quinn was sure to enjoy, and you’d be lying if you said you weren't insanely excited for him to open it. He’d been raving about this one particular book, telling anyone who would listen that he’d been on the hunt for it for the last few months, but he always came up empty in his search. Somehow, you managed to find a first-edition copy of the book at the bookstore down the street from your apartment, and you snagged it without hesitation.

By the time everyone was sat in a circle around Brock’s dining room table with their gifts in front of them, you were feeling far more anxious than you thought you would be. Despite your friend's reassurance that Quinn was going to love his gift, you couldn’t help but wonder if he still wanted the book as much as he said he did. Or maybe he’d already gotten it and you were going to have to see the disappointment on his face when he opened it up. You don’t think you candle that kind of reaction from anyone, let alone Quinn. 

It was almost Quinn’s turn to open his gift, and you had nearly chewed a hole in your bottom lip from the nerves. Bella kept trying to distract you with passing comments or talking about how cool the other gifts were, but it only worked for a fleeting moment before it came rushing back to you in sickening waves.

“Your turn, Quinn,” Petey announced from next to him.

You can’t hear what he mumbles to his friend, but the second he starts to tear into the paper, you can’t hear anything except for the sound of blood pounding in your ears. Your hands were clasped together in your lap, relentlessly squeezing each a other as you held your breath when he pulled the book out of the shredded gift wrap. 

“Holy shit,” He breathes out, staring down at the book in awe. Almost as if he didn’t really believe what he was holding.

“What is it,” Tyler calls out, leaning forward to get a better look.

“It’s that book he’s been wanting,” Petey juts his lip out in subtle astonishment.

“It’s a first edition of the book I’ve been wanting,” Quinn corrects, carefully glancing around the room to gauge everyone’s reactions in an attempt to see if he can figure out who it was.

He catches your gaze for a brief moment, but you’re quick to drop your eyes to your lap. Your stomach was already twisting itself into knots and your heart felt like it was going to burst out of your chest. You didn’t need the added effect from his stare on top of everything else.

You had successfully managed to avoid meeting Quinn’s gaze by the time it was finally your turn, and now you could distract yourself with the realization that everyone was going to be looking at you. You picked up the small box that you had placed in front of you, taking quick note of the way it was wrapped like your brother had done it. You slipped your finger under the fold in the paper, carefully tearing it back to reveal a black, labelless jewelry box. 

“Oh my god,” You gasped when you flipped the lid open, your other hand flying to your mouth and tears lining your eyes. 

Sitting inside the box was a pair of earrings that looked almost identical to a pair you had lost last year. You were a wreck when you realized they were gone because they had once belonged to your grandmother, and they were the only thing you had left of her. Taped to the top of the box was a small piece of paper with a note scribbled on it: ‘I know nothing can ever replace the others, but I saw these and thought of you.’

“Next year, we should have a price limit. They’re making me look bad,” You hear someone playfully retort, followed by a round of laughter.

Your fingers delicately ghost over the jewelry, memories of your childhood flashing in your mind before you begin to take guesses as to who could’ve given you such a meaningful gift. There were only a few people in the house who knew about the whole ordeal that had occurred, but the handwriting told you that it wasn’t any of the girls. It was most definitely a guy's handwriting, you just weren’t sure whose. 

“Okay, everyone,” Brock loudly spoke, “I’m not really sure how this is going to work because I didn’t really think it through, but go to whoever you bought for!”

Your heart sank to your stomach as you glanced towards Bella, who had a knowing smile on her face before she left you to find Ariela, and panic filled your veins all over again. The world began to spin around you, your breathing labored as you rubbed your palms against your thighs while you internally yelled at yourself to get up. However, your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat in front of you.

Snapping your gaze up, you found Quinn standing in front of you with his book tucked under his arm and his hands in his pockets. He had a small smile on his face, and he looked just as, if not more, nervous as you were. You took a shaky breath, returning his smile with one of your own as you stayed frozen in your seat. 

“So, I drew your name,” He awkwardly started, clearing his throat as he rocked on his feet, “I don’t know if you saw the note, but I want you to know that I know they won’t replace what you lost. I saw them when I was in LA and thought of you so–”

“Wait,” You interjected, leaving the box on the table as you rose to your feet, “Quinn, you were in LA last month. Before we even drew names.”

“Uh, yeah,” He nervously rubbed at the back of his neck, “I know. I didn’t know how to give it to you since you don’t really like me all that much. But I was happy I got your name so I could finally give them to you.”

“What do you mean,” You knit your brows together in confusion, briefly catching Brock’s wandering eyes before you found Quinn’s gaze again, “That isn’t true. I like you.” Probably a little too much. 

“You do,” Quinn draws out, tone disbelieving and hesitant, “You don’t talk to me much when we’re around each other, so I thought you didn’t.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me,” You weakly admit, looking everywhere but at him as you nonchalantly shrug your shoulders and chew on your bottom lip. 

“Hey,” Quinn gently calls out, grabbing your elbow to get you to look at him, “Why wouldn’t I want to talk to you?”

He was holding your stare so intensely that it made a shiver run down your spine and your heart thud in your chest. Your eyes were wide and pliant, soaking up his every word and movement like you always did before, but this time he was right in front of you. Looking right through the thin veil of indifference you tried to keep up around him at all times. 

“Don’t know,” You bashfully mumble, taking a deep breath before forcing yourself to continue, “I was worried you wouldn’t like me.”

“Well, I do,” He rushes out, slightly cringing out how desperate it sounded, “I do like you. I actually like you a lot.”

You visibly perk up at his words, and you have to fight off the smile tugging at your lips as he steps towards you. Your awareness of watchful eyes dwindles as Quinn crowds your space, his fingertips trailing down your arm to delicately take your hand in his own as your body shudders under his touch. Everyone was watching and you both knew that, but neither of you cared in the moment.

“You like me? A lot,” You test, letting him nervously toy with your fingers.

“I do,” He assures you before he clears his throat, “I’m not very good at this whole thing. My brothers are the smooth talkers, but I do like you a lot, and I was wondering if you’d want to go out sometime? On a date? With me?”

“I’d love to,” You shamelessly blurt out, not bothering to hide your giddy smile any longer, “I’d love to go on a date with you, Quinn.”

Quinn lets out a puff of air, sighing in relief as he lets his shoulder relax and you can’t help but tease him for his dramatics. He playfully points his eyes at you before he asks if you want to join the others in the living room, which you reluctantly agree with. Now that you knew Quinn miraculously felt the same way you did, you wanted to spend the rest of the evening wrapped up in talking to him, but you reminded yourself that there was time for that down the road. On your date. 

“By the way, thank you for the earrings.  I really love them. They’re probably the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever gotten. Also, I was your Secret Santa, too,” You finally told him as you settled on the couch beside him. 

“Really? How’d we manage that,” He chuckles, throwing his arm over the cushion behind you. 

“I think I might have an idea…”

[whateveriwant]

Can you please do Task force 141 finding out they’re having quintuplets! I’d imagine that they wouldn’t plan to have that many….at least not all at once 🧍‍♀️

Ghost

When the technician points out the five distinct dots on the ultrasound, he immediately goes dead silent

I mean, he's always pretty quiet anyway, but this is like quiet quiet

He doesn't utter a single word for the rest of the appointment, nor on the ride back home for that matter

This has you more concerned than you care to admit because you know that, not that long ago, he didn't think he'd ever have (much less want) kids of his own some day

So now that he's learned he's about to have five? You can't imagine what's going through his mind right now

It isn't until you're walking through the front door that you're being stopped with a gentle hand tugging on your wrist

You turn to look at him and, without a word, he drops to his knees before you, rolling up the bottom of your shirt to expose your belly

He'll press the softest of kisses just beside your navel, before looking up at you with expressive eyes that convey the foremost thought in his head: Thank you

Soap

Nearly shits a brick the moment the words leave the technician's mouth

All the color swiftly drains from his face and he has to sit down before he keels over right in the middle of the office

It's not so much fear that has him going paper white but pure shock at hearing the unexpected (yet not unhappy) news

While you'd already discussed having a big family together one day, you didn't think you'd get it done in one fell swoop

However, maybe you should've seen it coming since you both come from families that have had multiples

The possibility of this happening was decently high, so in a way, you're not all that surprised by the revelation

Once he's composed himself and is a little less ghostly pale in the face, he's eagerly requesting the technician to print out an excessive number of copies of the ultrasound

Why? Well, he's gotta send them to everyone, of course! His family, your family, all the lads at work. Hell, maybe your neighbor Charlie would like one too. Better print several just in case

Gaz

"C– Come again?" He thinks he misheard the technician at first

However, even hearing it a second time, he has to stand up, round the bed, and get about an inch away from the monitor to confirm for himself

It's almost comical the way his eyes widen at the screen, darting around the black and white image like he can't comprehend what he's seeing

It'll take some coaxing to get him back in his seat, and as he does, you hear him mumbling to himself – something about nappies, never sleeping again, and *shudders* University

At some point, out of the corner of your eye, you see him messing with his hands

He's putting his palm in front of his own stomach then drawing it about a foot or two away, as if trying to visualize the size your belly is destined to grow

Even when you get back home, it's like reality hasn't fully hit him yet

It's not until you find him at 2am looking up double decker prams that you realize it's finally starting to sink in, and he's more than ready for the challenge ahead

Price

Seems awfully calm when the technician breaks the news to you two

Based on his reaction – a light smile and mere "Oh, that's wonderful" – you'd think he'd just been informed of the weather or something

To be honest, his reaction (or lack thereof) is a little disarming, but you don't comment on it until you're buckling up in the car, mentioning his seeming total lack of nerves about the future

He chuckles and jokes that he already has to look after three big kids at work. What's five little ones at home to compare?

Though you think you can see what he's getting at, his cool-headedness about it all still has you in a bit of a tizzy

Is he not even a little surprised by the news? After all, it's not every day that people fall pregnant with quintuplets

At your question, he smiles and leans to press a bristly kiss to the back of your hand. When he pulls back, he's smirking, giving you the smuggest look you've ever seen from a man

"Told you I've got strong swimmers, love"

[moonchild9350]

Still Life and Nude Surprises

Summary: you need to prep for an art show and sign up for a class for extra practice. the model you’re assigned however turns out to be someone you know very well.

Pairing: best friend!Felix x fab!reader

Genre: friends to lovers au, fluff, smut-18+MDNI

Word Count: 4.8k

Warnings: nude modeling, mutual masturbation, dirty talk, mention of overstimulation, clit play, unprotected sex (don't), creampie, implied multiple rounds

Notes: another fic from when I was feral sorry not sorry lol this was fun to write though and it’s Felix so…. lol

If you enjoyed please consider a like, reblog, or comment as it keeps me motivated ♡

Divider by @cafekitsune

Please do not copy, translate, modify, use, or repost this work elsewhere without my permission. ©moonchild9350 (2024)

"Hold still!"

You chastised the blonde who was at the moment wiggling around in his seat, his eyes focused on his computer screen as he blasted god knows what on the latest game he acquired.

"Y/n! Lemme just finish this round, then I'll do anything you say," he responded as he showed off his biggest pouty face.

You sighed, not being able to say no to that face. Felix smiled and went back to his game, his fingers tap tapping on the keyboard.

Felix is your best friend, he has been since you were neighbors as a kid. You've done everything together, from attending dances as each others dates, sleepovers as kids, endure heartbreaks, and even live within the same building as adults.

You couldn't live without him, your relationship going beyond your wildest dreams.

Now, you were trying to sketch your best friend as you were trying to improve your still life skills, preparing for an art show that you had signed up for. Everything was going well until he received a text from a gamer buddy, wanting to go for a round on a new game he recently started.

You set your sketch pad down and watched your friend as he scrunched his face in concentration, his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth as he shot down enemy after enemy. It was pretty humorous to watch, as everytime he missed his target he'd scream "noooo!" before concentrating once more.

You knew it was a lost cause, understanding once he started gaming, it would be hours until he would stop. You gathered up your stuff, packing it into your bag.

You got up and walked over to Felix, ruffling up his hair, obscuring his view of the computer screen.

"Y/n!" he exclaimed as he blew his hair out of his face, the strands framing his face haphazardly as a result.

"I'm gonna go home, it's getting late. I"ll see you later ok?"

Felix took a chance and looked away from the screen to you, "I'm sorry, I'm a horrible model."

You chuckled and slapped his arm, the boy yelping at the sting. "No you're not, you just get distracted easily."

You continued to laugh as you walked to his door, listening to Felix mutter under his breath something along the lines of "that's not true."

Closing his door, you walked the few doors down to your apartment, dropping your bag on the hallway table. You really did want to practice your skills as the show was getting closer day by day and you were banking on using Felix to start.

You grabbed your laptop and plopped on the couch, propping your feet on the table in front of you. Opening up the search engine, you began to look for classes that you could attend to help you practice.

You came across a particularly promising site, the company offering a variety of classes from group sessions to private ones. You clicked on the private session info bar, as the prospect of it just being you and the model seemed appealing.

You noticed they offered private nude modeling sessions as well, your eyebrow raising in interest. This would be the perfect opportunity to study the human body and to improve your skills on drawing it.

The company had a few sessions open over the next few days which would be perfect as you were free. You clicked on the time slot for tomorrow's private session, your mind running over the pros and cons.

You've never sketched anyone nude, the prospect seeming a little embarrassing to you, but how would you get better if you didn't step out of your comfort zone? Plus, these models were trained for this, and it was with a reputable company.

The cost of the class wasn't much either, definitely within your budget. You filled in your information, whatever they asked for. Once done, your hand hovered over the book button, as you considered what to do.

"Fuck it," you said, bringing your finger down to press book.

A confirmation page popped up saying your session was successfully booked and they'd see you tomorrow. You let out a breath and closed your laptop.

This was really going to happen. You wondered if you'd have a male or female model, noticing there was no option to choose. Shaking your head, you decided not to think about the session until the time came, opting to go in with a fresh and unbiased mind.

You went about the rest of your night, prepping everything you would need for tomorrow. Settling into bed you pulled the covers up to your chin.

You were ready for tomorrow and whatever it were to bring.

--

It was a beautiful day, the sun shining, the weather warm but not too hot. The walk to the art studio wasn't too far away, the building being within walking distance.

You were giddy with excitement, your anxieties gone about the details of the session. You texted Felix to let him know you would be occupied today and would be over later on. He didn't mind as he apparently had something to do as well.

You approached a chic building, the outer walls appearing old yet charming to fit the town. You opened the door and walked in, met with the scent only an art studio can provide, from the scents of paints to fresh canvases. The scent of coffee drifted in the air as well, as there was a fresh pot that seemed to have been brewed in the corner of the reception area.

You approached the front desk, greeting the worker behind it.

"Hi, my name is y/n, I'm booked for a private session at 10:30?"

The lady looked in a book on the desk, her manicured fingers running down the page to the appointed time. She tapped her fingers on the page, finding your name as expected.

"We have you all set, would you like to pay now?"

You nodded and pulled out your card. She took care of the payment and then smiled.

"Have a seat, someone will be with you shortly to take you to the studio."

"Thank you," you said, walking towards a comfy looking chair in the corner.

You sat down, cradling your bag to your side. The atmosphere was quiet, the occasional sound of chatter meeting your ears. You watched as people walked to and from, their focus on getting to their destination.

Not long after sitting down, a young woman appeared calling your name. You hurriedly grabbed your bag and walked towards her.

"Ready?" she asked with a smile.

"Absolutely," you responded as you followed the lady down the hall.

She stopped at a door, the placard reading studio eight. It was more secluded than the other studios, the room being near the back of the hall. The lady opened the door and stepped in, you following right behind her.

As you crossed the threshold, you took in the surroundings of the room. It wasn't too small but not too big. The walls were covered with sketches and paintings, portraying various body types. Each painting was beautiful, the artist capturing the details of the human body in intricate detail.

There was a ceiling to floor mirror along one wall, the whole room visible in its reflection. In the center of the room, there was a chair next to a series of boxes, linen draped over it to make a makeshift bed. You eyed the stool next to an easel, which you assumed is where you would be sitting.

"So, this is where your session will take place. You have this space for four hours. If you need assistance of any sort, just press this button here and one of the staff members will assist you."

You followed her hand as she pointed to a blue button next to the door. You nodded and faced the lady again, waiting for her to continue.

"You have opted for a nude model for your session correct?"

"Yes, I have," you replied, feeling your cheeks flush at her question.

"They will enter after I leave. If at any point you feel uncomfortable, you can ask them to robe again, they will not mind. I think that's all. Any questions?"

You shook your head no, as everything was pretty straight forward.

"Great! Go ahead and get settled, your model will be in shortly!"

You thanked the lady and walked over to the easel. Setting your bag down, you began to pull out your sketch book and various pencils, setting them up accordingly. You sat on the stool, crossing your legs as you waited for your model to arrive.

It didn't take long until a different door than you came in opened, a person stepping in within the room. It was a flurry of movement as they walked into the room with their head down.

"Sorry, I'm a little late," the person said in a deep voice.

Wait...you knew that voice. Shocked, your head snapped up to look more closely at the person. You couldn't believe it, that person was...

"Y/n?!"

"Felix?!"

Your model was Felix? Your best friend? What the fuck?!

You were confused and shocked. Felix seemed to be as well as he stared at you with his mouth wide open.

You eyed your friend who was prepped in a white robe, the material seeming soft and cozy on his skin. His long hair was in a ponytail, framed away from his face, his numerous freckles on display.

"What are you doing here?" you asked in disbelief.

"I could ask you the same thing," Felix responded as he came closer to you.

"I uh...I signed up for a class to work on my skills since you know..." you said, your voice trailing off at the end.

The atmosphere was tense, neither one of you knowing what to do. You never expected to see your best friend here, especially since he never mentioned he modeled for an art studio...nude at that.

Felix nodded at your response, "I work here as a side gig...make some extra cash you know?"

You nodded, accepting his answer.

"Why did you never tell me you did this?" you inquired, curiosity getting the best of you.

Felix fiddled with the strap of his robe, his gaze anywhere but yours. After a moment he cleared his throat.

"Well, I thought you'd find it weird. I mean I'm naked in front of people and they draw me in the nude. How would I bring that up with you?"

He had a point. That would definitely make for an interesting conversation. Now the question becomes do you go on with the session? Sketch your best friend nude? You could make him keep the robe on.

"Do you...do you still want to proceed with this?" Felix asked, his hands gesturing toward the makeshift bed in the center of the room.

"I'm ok if you are," you said shrugging.

Felix cleared his throat, surprised at your answer. Recovering quickly, he said, "Of course."

You nodded and watched as he padded toward the bed, stopping in front of it for a moment. His hands went to the strap of his robe, his fingers fiddling with the knot before he stopped.

"You ok with sketching me nude?"

"Yes Lix, I've seen you naked before."

You really have and with years of being best friends, it was bound to happen.

Felix nodded before he grasped the strap again, this time untying the knot.

You watched as the knot fell away, the straps now dangling at his side. He brought his hands up, to grab the soft material and slide it off his shoulders. With a flurry of movement, he let the robe fall, the fabric pooling at his feet.

You gasped, your eyes glued to your best friend as he stood in the center of the room, his back to you. Taking the chance, your eyes roamed his back, taking in his muscular frame, down to his lithe waist, which you've always admired. You smirked at seeing his ass wanting to reach out and smack it.

Felix took a deep breath and slowly turned around to face you. You watched with bated breath as he now stood facing you, his eyes on yours.

Your eyes drifted down his torso, eyeing his nipples, the pinkish-brown buds perky in the cold room. You eyed him further down, down, down until you came to his pelvis, a happy trail of hair leading down to his cock.

You subconsciously licked your lips, your eyes glued to his soft cock lying amongst a smattering of hair, his balls hanging nice and delicate. You couldn't help but admire his cock, wondering how it would feel in your hands, how it would feel...

"Earth to y/n! My eyes are up here pervert!" Felix exclaimed while snapping his fingers to get your attention.

You snapped your eyes up to his face, feeling your cheeks flush in embarrassment. You definitely were just checking out your best friend, the feeling in your panties a little more wet than when you came in.

You cleared your throat and gestured toward the bed, "Umm, wanna get started?"

Felix nodded, "How do you want me?"

"You can just lounge on the bed for now."

Felix nodded again and sat on the bed, swinging his legs up to rest on the linens. You walked over to your best friend and stopped in front of him, your hands reached out. You hesitated for a moment, looking into his eyes asking silent permission to touch him.

"Go ahead, position me how you want," Felix chuckled.

You took his hand in yours and draped it across his face, his fingers dangling delicately on the side of his cheeks. You angled his head to look toward where you would be sitting. You looked at his legs, taking a breath before propping one of his legs up.

Once finished, you quickly took a step back, eyeing your work. Satisfied, you sat down on your stool and grabbed your sketch book.

You picked up a pencil and began to sketch, easily getting lost in your work. You looked up at Felix every now and then, to get some details solidified in your head before you translated it onto paper.

It was silent in the room, neither one of you speaking. It was not as awkward as you thought it would be, but rather comforting.

Time passed and you got more of your sketch done, the outline being nearly complete.

Felix was staring at you, watching your hands dance across the page, sketching his frame. He couldn't take his eyes off of you, admiring how you got lost in your work, that not even your best friend posing naked for you can distract you.

He loved how you let out a small smile when you got a detail just right or how you scrunched up your face and bit your lip when something did not seem right.

You were beautiful, that he couldn't deny and you were even more beautiful in this moment, sitting on a stool in an art studio underneath the dim lights.

Felix started to feel warm, despite laying right under the air conditioner, the feeling spreading down his belly and settling at his cock. He could feel the blood slowly fill out his cock, the appendage slightly harder than before, laying haphazardly against his pelvis.

He willed himself to breath, to cool down, not wanting you to see the effect you have on him. He could never live that down. He tried to look everywhere but your face, especially when your head was down. But to no avail, the feeling increased, his cock twitching slightly in response.

You looked up at your friend to get another look at his torso for shading the area on your sketch, but froze at what you saw. Felix seemed to be in turmoil, his breath shaky, his eyes darting everywhere around the room.

Your eyes traveled to his cock, noticing how it seemed to have hardened some since you last took a look at him. You thought you would feel embarrassed, however, you felt quite the opposite.

You lingered on his cock a little longer, a a pleasurable shock traveling down your body and straight to your core. You pressed your thighs together in response, feeling your slick slowly seep into your panties.

You cleared your throat and went back to your sketch, not wanting Felix to catch you staring, not let him know that you were aware he was hard while you sketched him.

Felix was turned on, that was the brunt of it. He tried to stop his reaction to you, but he just couldn't do it. He felt his cock hardened until it stood fully at attention, the tip pressing up against his pelvis.

It was torture laying there, only a few feet away from you, his cock so hard it was starting to hurt. He wanted to touch himself, relieve the ache, and maybe just maybe you could help him out too.

He watched as you lifted your head up once more, gasping at the state of him.

You were in shock, noticing now that Felix's cock was fully hard, the member seeming angry and red at the lack of attention it received. You could see something shiny glistening on the hairs littering his pelvis. You watched as a drop of pre-cum oozed from his tip, the liquid dripping down his shaft until it reached the hairs, getting caught in the thickness.

Looking at Felix's face, you could tell he was miserable, as he breathing was shallow and he was clenching and unclenching his hands. You knew he wanted to touch himself to relieve himself of the ache he was feeling.

"Felix?" you questioned, your eyes reaching his. "Do you wanna touch yourself?"

Felix's eyes widened at the question, disbelief written on his face.

"I'm..I'm sorry y/n, I just couldn't help it," he stuttered, lowering his eyes in embarrassment.

"It's ok," you responded with a smile. "You can touch yourself, make yourself feel good. I'll continue to sketch."

Felix stared at you for a moment more before he took his other hand that was at his side and placed it on his chest.

You watched as he gripped his aching cock and gave it a squeeze as he moaned lowly. He shifted his hand upwards, his thumb pressing on his slit before gathering up some of the leaking pre-cum.

He began to stroke his cock, steady but slowly, his fist reaching the base just to travel back up and circle around the head. Felix kept eye contact with you, your sketching forgotten, as you took to watching your best friend pleasure himself.

He increased the speed of his wrist movement, wet sounds from the aid of his precum filling the room. With each moan he let out, you felt your pussy clench over nothing. You were soaking wet, your panties stuck to your skin by now, your clit throbbing to be touched.

"Y/n," Felix said, his voice raspy as he continued to stroke his cock. "Can you touch yourself? Pleasure yourself for me?"

You looked into Felix's pleading eyes, watching as he licked his lips and swallowed. You didn't give a moments thought at your friend's request, instead ridding yourself of your leggings.

You stood before Felix, your fingers going to the band of your panties. You watched Felix's eyes drag to the piece of cloth, his eyes widening at the wet patch present on your panties, the material sticking to your skin, leaving nothing to the imagination as the outline of your lips could be seen.

You slowly slid your panties down your legs and set them aside. Felix let out a groan at the sight of your pussy, his cock twitching in his hand.

You sat back down on the stool and spread your legs, your wet folds separating to show him your entrance. He kept his eyes glued to your pussy as you brought a finger to your clit, flicking the bud and the rubbing it gently.

You sighed out as you dipped a finger lower into your hole, gathering your slick that was pooling there before bringing it back to your clit. You circled it gently, applying the slightest pressure, a jolt of pleasure causing your pussy to clench.

Time passed as you both sat there, eyes on each other as you pleasured yourself, the room filled with wet sounds and the mix of both of your moans.

You matched Felix's pace as he stroked his cock, harder and faster, his hips bucking up into his hands. You let out a whimper as you felt the tightening within your belly, the coil tightening, filling your core with warmth.

"Felix, m'close," you moaned as your fingers slipped and slid around your clit, your pussy getting wetter by the minute.

"Yeah? Cum for me? Will you cum for me like a good girl?" Felix cooed. "I'm close too, fuck."

Your breathing increased as the coil expanded in your belly, the feeling getting larger and larger until you tipped over the edge, your walls spasming, clenching down rhythmically as you rode out your high.

You didn't stop rubbing your clit, watching as Felix let out a groan as he bucked his hips, spurts of cum landing on his belly creating a painting with its pearly white sheen.

You pulled your hand away, the feeling of overstimulation settling in. You looked at your best friend, both of you breathing hard as you came down from your highs.

You chuckled as you noticed Felix was pretty much in the same position you put him in, his resolve at staying true to his role admirable.

"You um...you can keep sketching if you'd like," Felix said, his voice soft with uncertainty.

"We literally just got off together and you want me to continue sketching?" you asked incredulously as you cocked your eyebrow.

Felix cleared his throat, his body slighly shifting on the makeshift bed causing his softened cock to jiggle.

"Well...yeah, you paid and all..."

You stared at your best friend in disbelief. You hated that he had a point, you did pay a pretty sum to be here today. But here you were, nude from the waist down, your nether region a mess. You sighed and picked up your pencil, moving your hand to start sketching again.

There was silence once more as you got into the zone, focusing on shading in your sketch. You began to hum to yourself, adjusting yourself sligthly on the stool.

Felix returned to staring at you, watching you get lost in your work. He tried not to remember that you were naked waist down, your pussy seconds away from being on display if you decided to open your legs.

The thought caused arousal to seep through his body once more. He cursed silently as he felt his cock twitch. Why does he have to be turned on by you? He's never had this reaction before for any other client.

Maybe it was because they were strangers, people he didn't know, while you were his best friend, his life line.

He couldn't help it as his thoughts wandered, wondering how you would feel wrapped around him. He wondered how you would sound as he pounded into you, making you feel better than any of your little flings ever could.

He peeked down to look at his lower half as he silently groaned noticing his cock was fully hardened, resting against his belly once more.

You looked up to gather reference and noticed Felix's cock was hard, more of his precum leaking out and onto his belly. You squeezed your thighs together at the sight as your tongue darted out and licked your lips.

"Fuck this," you said, tossing your sketch book to the side.

You stood up and walked towards Felix, lifting your shirt up and over your head in the process. You unclasped your bra and let it fall to the floor, your tits spilling out and on view for your friend.

Felix scrambled up quickly and grabbed you by the arm, pulling you toward him until you stood right in front of his face. He grasped your waist and smashed his lips to yours, letting out a moan as your lips moved with his.

Your hand reached down to grasp his cock, giving it a squeeze. Felix moaned against your lips, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips.

"Can I fuck you y/n?" Felix asked with hope in his eyes.

You've both come this far, why stop now you thought.

"Sure," you agreed as more arousal gushed out of your pussy and onto your thighs at the thought of his cock filling you up.

Felix helped maneuver you onto the makeshift bed as he hovered above you. He spread your legs and pushed them upwards, giving him a clear view of your wet pussy, your slick coating your folds and dripping down your ass.

He brought his thumb down to press against your swollen clit that was peeking through your folds. You let out a whine at the sensation, your pussy clenching around nothing.

"I've waited for this moment for a long time y/n," Felix said, his eyes lifting up to your face.

"Me too," you confessed, your heart swelling at the thought that you both have liked each other probably for years.

He really was your person, your everything, and you would love nothing more than to give yourself fully to him.

Felix smiled down at you before swiping his finger over your clit again, watching as you wiggled your hips at his touch.

"I'm gonna give you my cock now," he grunted, grasping the appendage at the base.

He rubbed his cock through your folds, collecting your slick before pressing against your entrance, his eyes glued to how his head disappeared within your hole.

You mewled as he withdrew his cock just to press into your entrance again as he fucked you with just the tip.

"Felix, please," you whimpered, holding your legs open even more.

"Want my cock hm?" Felix asked, his eyes on yours. He watched as your mouth hung open, soft moans falling out as he teased you, spreading your folds open with just his head.

He was faring no better as he felt a shutter run through him, every time he sunk his tip within your warmth.

"Fuck me," you commanded, your eyes snapping open and staring Felix down.

You reached for his cock, your hand wrapping around the shaft. You wiggled your hips attempting to take more of his cock, ignoring how Felix was laughing at you.

"Ok, ok, don't get your panties in a twist," Felix chuckled. "Oh wait, you lost those hours ago, so desperate for my cock y/n."

Without any other warning, he slammed his hips into yours with a groan, sinking his length within your walls until bottomed out.

"Fuck, so warm and tight," he grunted as he began to thrust his hips into yours, withdrawing his cock just until he was all the way out and pushing back in.

You pussy clenched around him, the feeling of his cock stretching you out causing waves of pleasure to settle in your pelvis.

Felix grasped your legs, pushing them further to your chest as he pummeled his hips to yours, his heavy balls slapping against your ass with each thrust. He couldn't believe how tight you were, how your walls molded around his cock perfectly, like you were made for him.

His moans mingled with yours, as you both chased your highs. Felix licked his fingers and brought them back down to your clit, the digits slipping and sliding along the nub, causing shocks of pleasure to wreck your frame.

"Shit, I'm close, gonna cum. Can I come inside?" Felix panted, his thrusts becoming more erratic.

"Please, need your cum!" you whimpered as your pussy contracted at the thought of his cum within you.

Felix slammed his hips into yours once more before stilling, ropes of his cum flooding your walls.

"That's it, take my cum," Felix cooed as he continued to finger your clit.

You let out a loud moan as you came, your arousal seeping out of your pussy, coating Felix's cock as he thrusted his hips into yours a few more times to help you ride out your high.

Felix peered down at you, his eyes searching yours as you panted, your hands running down your body. He slowly withdrew his softening cock, his eyes glued to how his cum leaked out of your pussy, a smile gracing his face.

He leaned down to press a kiss on your lips once more as he whispered "I love you."

You carded your fingers through his hair, eagerly returning the kiss.

"And I love you Felix," you cooed.

You both laid there a little longer, exchanging soft kisses, neither one of you in a rush to move.

After a while, Felix perked up, mischief in his eyes.

"Wanna keep sketching? You still have another hour."

You smirked at the suggestion, knowing exactly where it will lead, and that was definitely ok with you.

"Sure thing, let's go for another round," you teased with a grin.

Taglist: @jehhskz @jeonginsleftcheek @simpforleeknaur @armystay89 @palindrome969 @slut4hee @ivydoesit23 @amarecerasus @kaysungshine @fun-fanfics @baby-stay92 @velvetmoonlght

[cyberjam]

E!42 MILES DATING A SHY!SOFT READER . . . ☆

warnings - black fem!reader in mind but you can imagine it however you'd like, miles having a soft spot for you, pink coquette vibes from reader, profanity, slightly suggestive.

word count - 2.2k | lowercase intended.

main masterlist | proof read?: kinda😭

song rec for fic?: yo love - from "queen and slim: the soundtrack - vince staples, 6lack, mereba <3

ᘏ⑅ᘏ

. . HOW YOU FIRST MET . .

ఇ . . . you two were assigned as partners for a science project that would play a big part in your final grade. you knew of each other but never fully interacted until now.

ఇ . . . miles knew you as quiet, only speaking when spoken to. you were an approachable person with a warm smile. you carried yourself well, and treated others kindly, even if they were undeserving. he was entranced by you to say the least. with how things were currently going in new york, he was surprised that the city hadn't dimmed your light. miles wanted to know more about you and this project gave him the perfect opportunity to do so.

ఇ . . . you knew of miles as well. he had the reputation of being an unapproachable person. easily intimidating others without trying, and keeping his circle of people small. you took a small interest in him as well. you'd catch yourself glancing at him every now and then, trying to break down his character. he didn't seem as mean as everyone claimed but now was finally your chance to see for yourself.

ఇ . . . that project was only the beginning of your and miles' relationship.

ᘏ⑅ᘏ

. . CRUSHING STAGE . .

ఇ . . . miles protectiveness increases the more your relationship grows. he'll cut into situations and defend you before you can fully form a thought. he never hesitates to step in-front of you as a human-shield and tell someone off with a simple phrase.

"ay, watch yo mouth." | "huh? repeat yo'self." | "i know you not talkin'-"

ఇ . . . he starts eating lunch with you. his friends get on him for being a simp but he brushes it off every-time. he enjoys the convos you two have during lunch and would rather sit next to you than a rowdy group of boys who use the lunch food as science experiments.

ఇ . . . he seeks you out. during school, after school, on his nightly patrols, etc. without even fully knowing it himself, miles is always looking for you no matter where he is. he just naturally gravitates towards you. you bring something to miles life that he hasn't had in a long time. peace.

ఇ . . . let's you mess with his hair. when he's over your place he'll let you put your cute baby pink hair clips in his braids and even tie in some hair bo-bo's at the end of them. but only if you take them out as soon as you're done and don't take any pictures. (you still take pictures)

ఇ . . . let's you draw on him. you can't remember when it exactly started but it's became a routine for you to doodle and write on his hands in every class you two share. he'll return the favor, if you ask nicely. he copies whatever drawing you did on his hand to yours so you'd be matching. (he dreams of getting matching tattoos with you.) <3

ఇ . . . scares classmates away. whether it be a glare from across the room or an arm slung around your shoulders, miles is always scaring your classmates away. even if they show the smallest romantic interest in you.

ఇ . . . maintains eye contact. he's always looking for your eyes and trying to remain in contact with them when you talk. he just loves staring into your pretty doe eyes while you ramble about something you like.

ఇ . . . nicknames. miles doesn't want to scare you off by being too forward, so he'll limit his nicknames. the ones he does call you while crushing on you are ma and princesa.

ఇ . . . passes notes in class. he's a bit of a "model student" in class (not talking back, not interrupting or disrespecting classmates, turning in his work early on time. he just wants to be left alone lmao) but he's more than willing to pass notes with you throughout the entire period. you'll catch him up on the newest gossip and he'd update you on the stuff him and his homeboys get into.

ఇ . . . he'll help you study. if you don't know spanish or you're just a struggling student, he'll teach you everything you're having a hard time with at a comfortable pace. he'll quiz you every once in awhile just to make sure you fully understand and don't feel behind in anything. if you've shown a significant amount of improvement he'll treat you by taking you out for your choice of dessert. (it's really just an excuse to take you out on a date without using the word date)

ఇ . . . there's an unspoken rule that you are his. classmates know, your friends know, his homeboys know, hell, even the teachers know. you're the only person miles gives the time of day. you're the only one who gets to walk around with his arm on your shoulders, have his undivided attention, as well as be the reason for his smile. you are his and he is yours.

ᘏ⑅ᘏ

. . DATING STAGE . .

ఇ . . . late night facetime calls. you two are truly never apart. when you're not together physically you're on facetime with each other. he loves when you call him and showcase the cute things you bought for yourself using his card. he also just loves the comfort those calls bring him. seeing you engulfed in a warm blanket fast asleep while he's doing his own thing just makes him feel content. you're able to be there for each other without physically being there and that's enough for him to wait patiently until he's able to hold you again.

ఇ . . . clingy as hell. although, he'll never voice out his wants for your touch he will initiate it. miles will be the one to commence 80% of affection. partly because you're shy and mainly because he can't keep his hands off of you. miles is always touching you in some way. whether it be an arm around your shoulder, a hand resting on your thigh, or a hand rubbing your ass while you're cuddling. he can't resist kissing you either. his lips always finding any available part of your skin to kiss when he feels like it.

ఇ . . . compliments. every chance he gets he'll remind you how good you look. always hyping you up and telling you how beautiful you are. whenever you get overwhelmed by the flow of affectionate words that smoothly flow out of his mouth, you'll cover your face with your hands and turn away from him. it only gives him more fuel in the long run because he loves to see his girl get all shy and cute for him. sometimes he doesn't even use his words. a simple look up and down while licking his lips will leave you weak in the knees.

"that's all mine right there."

ఇ . . . genuinely hates arguing with you. he hates when you're upset with him. there are plenty of times where miles has provoked you to the point you've gotten upset with him and that's usually when he knows he's gone too far. you're his girl, his everything. he can't have you sulking because of him. although, miles does have a bit of a short-temper, he remains calm throughout these situations. he lets you both voice your sides and he won't let the situation go until you come to an agreement. he tends to avoid arguments at all costs. usually murmuring a "you got it, ma." before it turns into something more. after settling long disagreements, he'll engulf you in a hug and give you a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"love you. don't want my girl goin to bed mad at me."

ఇ . . . nicknames! his nicknames will consist of mi vida, mi reina, ma, mami, baby, etc. any term of endearment you can think of he's most-likely called you. usually consisting of 'my/mine'. he's very possessive. your contact name in his phone is 'mi corazon 💘' and you're the only one with an emoji next to your name.

ఇ . . . spoils you. you want it? you got it. although, miles isn't incredibly wealthy, he does have money. he uses it to take care of you and his mom, providing help for the both of you. he helps rio with actual necessities, while with you he provides you with gifts. ranging from shoes, eyelashes, lace fronts, plushies, clothes, or electronics. the most expensive gift he's gotten for you is an ipad and apple pencil. it was for your birthday and he knew he had to get it for you after hearing you fangirl about it nonstop.

ఇ . . . lets you do his hair. he usually only lets rio do his hair, he's a major mama's boy. so, when you were granted the privilege to do his hair you felt honored. he also just loves when you take his braids out and give him scalp massages. he's fallen asleep on occasion because of how gentle and soothing your hands are. he's also tender-headed as hell so, please be careful or you'll get a earful of him complaining.

"damn, ma. why you gotta pull so tight?"

ఇ . . . buys matching sets. he buys you both matching shoes, clothes, and jewelry. he likes the simplicity of being able to match with you and show everyone you're his without voicing it. you two are the couple that matches on christmas. matching christmas tree pants, and santa hats...rio thinks it's adorable. for your 5 month anniversary you were gifted a gold necklace with his name written in cursive and once he helped you put it on he revealed the necklace that was under his shirt that had your name in gold written in cursive. only time you two take it off is when you're in the shower/pool. he'll take it off during prowler business as well, he doesn't want to disclose any of his personal business at work, it's very dangerous for the both of you.

ఇ . . . cant sleep without you. once miles gets a taste of what life is like keeping you close and holding you to sleep, it's hard for him to go without it. he loves cuddling with you and if there were any instance where you two wouldn't be together he would toss and turn all night and look at the ceiling until his body physically shut down itself. it's not the healthiest way to go by so when he starts to show up to school with deeper eye bags than usual, you decide to give him a plushie of his own. he'll buy the plushie little clothes and change them every now and then. he names it after you, and he even bought the exact perfume you wear and sprays it on the stuffed animal before going to bed and cuddling it. he's embarrassed to admit it, so he'll never tell you how much he pampers it. (you don't need him to tho, you've caught him kissing the top of the stuffed animals head before cradling it in his arms and murmuring 'goodnight, mi vida.')

ఇ . . . will go to the barbie movie with you. he'll thrown on a pink hoodie, black jeans, and pair it with some jordan's while you're decked out from head to toe in pink. he's gonna cry at one point during the movie and you have to pretend you didn't see. when you ask him if he liked it he'll shrug his shoulders while sniffling. he def gave his mom a big hug when he got back home. :')

"yeah, yeah...it was alright, i guess."

ఇ . . . talks about you to his mom. mile's didn't speak much of you when he had a crush on you, but he really didn't have to. his mom knew there was something or more so someone occupying his mind whenever he'd come back from school with a slight dazed expression and the tiniest smile.

ఇ . . . graffiti's your initials together. whenever he's bored and has a little extra time on his hands he'll graffiti his and yours initials together. sometimes replacing your last initial with an 'M' for Morales..

ఇ . . . treats your stuffed animals like they're your children. he scolds you if he catches one of them on the floor, he'll name them future child names he has in mind because he def wants to get married and start a family w/ you, he gives them hugs and buys cute little tutu's for them. lowkey will throw a fit if he finds out you gave some of them away.

ఇ . . . buys/sends things that reminds him of you. he'll buy you your fave bag of chips if he sees it in the store, he'll pick up a keychain with your name on it and attach it to his bookbag, he'll send you memes or recommend a tv show because the character reminded him of you. you're really on his mind 25/8.

ఇ . . . bakes with you. he loves baking with you. you two will bake the hell out of some chocolate chip cookies or some brownies. nothing that takes too long or a lot of preparation though, he'll get antsy and kinda touchy which leads to burnt products and a ruined cake pan.

ఇ . . . shows you off/brags about you. his friends and close family members know all about you and your achievements. if you play sports he'll cheer you on and brag about your wins, if you're an artist he'll post your artwork, if you have a small clothing brand he'll wear it and tell people to buy from your store if they ask, if you knit/crochet he'll ask you to make him a bucket hat or a mini version of you and him, if you dance he'll stay up all night on the phone while you show him your new choreography. it doesn't matter what you do, miles will continue to support you and brag about any and every achievement you accomplish. big or small.

ఇ . . . miles morales loves his sweet soft significant other.

currently re-writing my miles morales fic that was 6k words because tumblr decided to randomly delete it 🥲 i'll try to get it out soon! <3

also sorry for inactivity, i've been busy w/ school and work but i'll try to shoot out fics faster when i get the time :) !!