#i was having a look through and it's basically the same as the photos he posted to 🫧 on 240215

[intoxicated-chan]

𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐬

Summary ➳ Daryl doesn’t need much to keep him whole, but the only thing that keeps him going, even during the darkest moments of his life, it’s you. 

(A/n) ➳ Inspired by “Cupid Kills” by Falling Blind. I haven’t finished the Walking Dead and so I don’t really know what goes on. So this is basically if Daryl didn’t go off to find Rick and stayed in Georgia. No taglist because I am sleep deprived 😭😭😭

Word Count ➳ 1k

Content Warnings ➳ Female reader, slight mention of torture, mention of Negan, slight smoking use, HEAVY OOC Daryl, straying away from the plot of TWD, talk of having children…

Daryl awoke in his shared bed, he first groaned as he was woken abruptly but the cause was unknown. The house was silent, save for the radio softly playing in the back, he remembered he turned it on for you when you couldn’t sleep without sound. 

But his first thought was that it was a nightmare that his brain pushed into the back of his head. It was only four years since he broke out of Negan’s prison but he was able to remember every detail of his time there. 

He grumbled to himself, he doesn’t affect him as it did years ago but the scars still linger. The paranoia was always watching, eyes to his back with no owner in sight. The sounds, taste, smell, feeling… 

Daryl suddenly sat up, his composure seemed calm but he couldn’t tear his eyes from what was in front of him. A dresser that was a mess, clothes stuck out of his, empty bullets, cigarette buds, wrappers of midnight snacks, and other items. The only thing that stood out to him was the photo of you and him, or rather drawing someone did of you and him.

Though it was rushed, he could tell every detail, of course, it was his favorite day. The first time he properly took you out on a date. It was when you arrived after a run on his bike, it was an easy run, no walkers just trading supplies from another nearby group and resting in an isolated cabin he found. 

When you both arrived, he let everyone else look over the supplies while he took you to a nearby bench to just watch everything. A teenager caught sight of you too and once they were finished, they brought their masterpiece to you both. 

Though that was the last time Daryl truly let his guard down and finally dream.

And when Daryl came back, you knew there was something gnawing at him. He truly never let himself be the way he was before. 

Your ideas of a happy home were sometimes brought down with Daryl’s realistic comment.

“Not with the damn walkers out there. Forget ‘bout a home to yerself.”

“Don’tcha get it? It ain’t ever gonna happen.”

You knew he was trying his best to be himself, but sometimes it made you rethink about you both. Maybe he had changed his mind… But it was all explained when you found him on the porch late at night, he wasn’t crying but you could tell he was. 

You brought him a blanket as winter was approaching, and the two of you sat in silence. You thought tonight was the last moment you were going to spend with your darling Dixon but you were prepared. He had gone through the unthinkable and came out of it alive, you couldn’t put blame on his trauma. 

But- 

“Don’ I make ya sick?”

You jumped. 

“What?”

“I ain’t a good man for ya. Wantin’ a home, a farm with kids an’ animals, enjoyin’ the good in life. But y’know… I dreamed of it to but ma scars, they will always be ‘ere, it ain’t ever gonna go away. An’ ma hands-”

“The same hands that protect me.” You interrupted him, which you didn’t like to do but you couldn’t listen to the man you love tear himself down. You grabbed his hands and brought them to your face. “The same hands that provided food and shelter, gave me peace and eased my fears, made me the happiest woman.”

“Ya sure ya wanna be with me?”

“If I’m gonna be lost out there, I wanna be lost with you. I ain’t afraid of dyin’ if I got you with me.”

It was you that kept him going in that cell. 

The promise of a future for him and you. 

Daryl snickered. As cheesy as your words sounded to him, it always lit a fire under him, kept him smiling and pushing. Which brought him back to you-

Wait… 

He had just noticed your place beside him empty, it was clear you were in bed before but left. Surely you would’ve been back by now. 

He got out of bed, ignoring the whining of dog, probably begging him to return and be his heater. Winter had come and he put on more comfortable clothes to head into the kitchen. The house was smaller than Alexandria’s, but it was safer in his opinion. He always preferred space and away from larger crowds.

But you guys had a sizable river, perfect to fish and woods behind, there was a settlement just a ten minute walk, so in case of an emergency, there was always an option. 

And it was home.

Daryl had entered the kitchen to find you sitting on the couch that was right by the window with a mug in hand which he presumed to be tea. But his hands come onto your shoulders, giving it a squeeze before speaking.

“See walkers out there?”

You shook your head. “Nothin’ yet.” You sighed. 

“Deer?”

“Just a mom and her baby.”

“Enemies?”

“The patrols chased them off, won’t come around for a couple of days.”

“Then come back to bed.” But you kept your place on the couch, sipping on your tea. “What’s got ya awake? Had a nightmare yerself?”

“...You didn’t make it that time.”

Daryl took his hands off you and sat next to you, cupping your face to look at him. ��Y’know I ain’t goin’ nowhere without ya.”

You then giggled a bit before drinking the rest of your tea and sighed. “You’re such a sap, Dixon.”

He grumbled again, taking your mug to put it on the ground and brought you into his arms. “Bed.” He told you, bringing you back into the room with Dog was waiting.

You were put on top of him as he laid down, he brought the covers close and Dog took his place. “The house is quiet.” You whispered. 

“Wan’ the radio louder?” He murmured in response.

But you shook your head. “I mean…” You bit your lip and sat on his lap, looking down at him.

“Ya sure?”

You nodded with a smile. “I’m ready, and I want our baby to grow up here.”

Daryl used his finger to motion you to come down, you listened and placed a kiss on his lips. “We can start tryin’ tomorrow.” He told you with a grin. “Righ’ now, I jus’ wanna feel ya next to me.” 

© Intoxicated-Chan 2025, I do not allow my work to be copied, translated, modified, adapted, or put on any other platform without my permission.

[steverogers1991]

4x09 (part2)

Carmy Carmy Carmy. You feel so much man. And you got it all from your ma.

The way she basically begs him to come in but not with words, just with her eyes. And he gives in, even though that house brings back too much shit, but he does it for her. Because he’s trying. At everything. To be better. And this is one of those attempts.

Them looking at all the old photos, and him watching his mom and really laughing at her commentary, Donna still being who she used to be but less, subdued, less loud, less crazy, less sure of herself

Jimmy’s picture. And Carmy finding out he’s trying to sell his house, knowing it’s for him. For them. And fully realizing that Jimmy has put a lot into the restaurant too.

Michael. Aaaa I can do a whole other post on the depth and gravitas Jon Bernthal brings to his characters too but that’s not for today (Side note: Seeing another close Jon and Ebon dynamic again in this show after watching Punisher S1 was absolutely amazing, ifykyk)

Donna breaking down, and bringing that letter. And as she says it, she gets more and more sure. More determined that she needs to say it, despite Carmy telling her to stop and that she doesn’t need to. She keeps going. Stellar acting by JLC.

Carmy. Ohgod. He immediately covers his mouth when she starts talking, which is what he does when he is nervous or unsure or worried. The way his eyes get more teary with every word out of his mother’s mouth. The handle trembles progessively get worse too. HAND TREMBLES. I think I felt my heart getting ripped out of my chest for them the more his hand trembled. But it stayed there the whole time. He acts this scene through micro expressions and next to no actual words. And he is absolutely magnificent. I am a JAW fan for life now.

(Side note we see some of this micro acting in 3x10 when he confronts Fields and then cries after. It’s so silent but it’s so deadly and heart shattering to see him cry that way, but also because he definitely needed to do that, and I am so glad he did)

Him immediately offering to cook for her was so endearing, and I know it’s so normal, but there is truly something so special about cooking for someone you love while they watch you, and no one more special than your mom. And for someone to whom cooking has meant what it has (despite it now not feeling the same to him anymore), just making a nice meal for his mom probably invokes the best version of him, making him realize perhaps the aspects of it he did love: feeding and serving others, especially someone who means a lot to him…and then sitting with her while she eats

There’s something so healing and peaceful about watching Carm walk through his old room (I know there were some theories about it being Mikey’s room but I think the scene would have been setup differently if it was, the background song - which is phenomenal btw, the way it’s acted, the way he treats everything in the room, it would have all been very different) touching his old stuff, and with a reverent look on his face for his past self. And then finding Claire’s sweatshirt. That’s the most vacant expression we see from him in this episode, when he looks at it. Not saying anything else but…just saying. I can’t read his face.

Him going back to the restaurant, talking to Richard, and then going into the refrigerator and leaving Jimmy that voicemail. Jimmy deserves that voicemail, did almost 2 seasons ago. Carm finally realizes someone else who has always had faith in him who he let down. And you can see the pain of that failure on his face plainly, and in the sincerity of his words. This is some of the clearest thoughts he has ever communicated through words on this show.

Carm is so soft. He is the ultimate soft, caring, loving guy who cares so much it destroys him. I’m not absolving him of being neurotic for all of season 3, but I’m just saying that when he is good….he is SO good. I hated him in season 3, but I know that was intentional. He hated himself. But this season, we see him trying, in every episode, every scene. He is trying. And he lets us in, even as the viewers, just as he lets them all in, bit by bit. Slowly, but maybe steadily.

Fantastically acted episode. Absolutely stunning and heart wrenching.

[stormblessed95]

Run BTS Ep 13 - 16

Who is the Spy in the Waterpark episodes 😂 These episodes (13-15) and episode 16 were filmed approximately in Jan of 2017 in the same place, called One Mount, at the same time frame probably.

Episode 13:

When deciding teams Yoongi says it'll be hyungs vs maknaes and while the hyungs are all busy complaining about that... Jimin wraps his arms around his Jungkook immediately 😂 that's his boy and teammate of course

After Jimin goes through the tubes and gets wet, we get his iconic wet slicked back hair look and JK immediately comments and giggles and calls it cool. Which we then get a camera full of Jimin making eyes at us with his beautiful hair 😅😍 ahem

Hobi and JK also enjoy that show with us lol

Jimin called JK the ace of their team for the next game, the balancing butt pushing game 😅😂 and then they whisper whispered together about who they should pick from the hyungs for his opponent (it was RM to no one's surprise lol) Tae is also on your team you guys, let him in on the huddle! 🤣

Both Tae and JK come over and hold/high five Jimins hand after he saves himself after almost falling during the butt push game. Lol they were super impressed with how cool Jimin looked (me too boys lol)

That's basically it for Jikook moments from this episode... We got this adorable photo of them holding hands from the behind photo drop from this episode. Because they can never high five/handshake without a brief handhold to go with it. We do see this moment right after JK beats RM in the butt pushing game. But anyway, there was no official behinds video for episode 13

Episode 14:

For the last game inside the waterpark, they rode down a waterslide 2 at a time and then did a charades question where all 3 team members had to make the same motion. Taekook went first down the slide, they failed the round. So vmin went second, and they matched but JK got his motion incredibly wrong and different causing them to fail again. lol Jimin laughingly smacks him for this and then they go down the slide together. I've seen a lot of theories going around from jikookers that JK did this on purpose so that he could have a chance to ride the slide with Jimin, but there is zero evidence to support this and is just wild conjecture 😂 they are cute though

Behinds:

We don't get this moment in any of the episodes or any of the behinds. Lmao we just get this little snapshot drop of the two of them having a sweet little moment together in the pool, hand on thigh. From the behind photos from ep 14

Episode 15:

Trigger warnings for ED/fat shaming for this episode. They play a game purposely meant to try and get a reaction out of the other, the confessions game. They want to jokingly upset the other person. Jin during this game takes it too far, I don't think intentionally, and at 5:14 he tells Jimin that anytime he asks if he looks like he gained weight, he wants to tell him he looks like a pig. Jimin claims not to be upset about this at all afterwards, but you can see and feel a drastic energy shift from him for awhile afterwards. He looked truly upset. Again, at 10:45, Jin reiterates and makes a bad joke that Jimin "got fat." Made in incredibly poor taste but it got laughs from everyone, except JK. Whose eyes got all wide, he chews on a finger and looks kinda anxious about the whole thing. This is obviously not okay and I don't think Jin's intention was to ever actually hurt Jimin. But that is what happened and it's long in the past. Jin took a game a little too far. I know he would never intentionally cause Jimin pain and we KNOW Jin truly cares for and loves Jimin, wanting to feed him and have him be healthy. Just important to keep in mind if this is going to be something that triggers you while watching.

Moving on to the good stuff and Jikook moments...

JK and Hobi are paired off for the confession game. Jimin looks a little upset while watching them and during Hobi sharing a story about JK seeing him naked and being in the shower. Hard to tell if it's because of that or if he is still upset from the weight comments from right before this. I'm kinda leaning towards the later option honestly. Simply because Jimin has plenty of his own stories shared about showers and the other members lol

Jimin then joins in with Hobi on complaining about JK ALWAYS going to their room. A habit which has NEVER changed. JK is still forever going and joining Jimin in his room. Which leads us to the likely and obvious conclusion, poor Hobi was annoyed simply because he was Jimins roommate 😅😂🤣 Poor JK was so caught off guard, Jimin was supposed to be on his team! 😂 And the copycat allegations will never end lol even down to the toothbrush

And towards the end, Jimin defends JK against the other members accusing him of being the spy. Which JK seems to appreciate 😂

Behinds:

We see a new angle of when Jimin is leaning on and cuddling up on Jin, trying to convince him to share the food. Lol and we see that Jimin is actually sitting on JKs lap the whole time and when he leaned over to get to Jin, JK places his hand on his waist and hip to keep him settled and steady on his lap. Cute

Episode 16:

Remember, the same park as the other 3 episodes, just on the winter side this time!

Jikook are finalists in the sledding round of the game they play. Jimin thanks us for our support. JK asks "what does that make me?" and then yells making Jimin laugh. Why? I'm not sure. Context? I don't have anymore than you. Lmfao but they are having fun and looking cute 🥰😂

JK helps Jimin wrangle his sled towards the end of the episode too. But that's all we really have as for Jikook specific moments in this episode

Behinds:

JK has the most adorable little bunny smile on his face and he is pushed into Jimin while sitting in the bucket on the ice lol

Not too many Jikook moments in these episodes and nothing super special. But still so much fun and nice 🥰

[chewyhanniebug]

okay so junhan said in the last fansign that he'll grow his hair out a bit longer but not as much as before. it's pretty much the length it was in early 2024 (but way thicker for some reason) so i don't think we need to fret much but it is a bit ??? for how long he wants it again considering it grows so fast 😭

[kunasthiast]

bathroom meetings

you were finally in the tub.

bubbles everywhere. hair piled up. candle lit. mood set was divine. perfect silence. peace. it was your me time. after a ridiculous week that felt like being hit repeatedly with a spreadsheet and then lit on fire, the only thing you wanted was solitude and maybe for your skin to absorb enough lavender oil to knock you out for twelve hours.

sukuna had been in full corporate tyrant mode the past few days. buried in meetings. constantly yelling into headsets like he was declaring war (he might’ve been).

there were moments you’d pass by the home office and hear him through the closed doors: “i said quarterly projections, not emotional projections. are you fucking with me?”

in that same low, terrifying voice he used when he was threatening that random guy on the street who once slapped your head thinking you were his friend. and obviously, that’s the tone that meant someone’s career was about to combust.

not that sukuna had been ignoring you, though. there were still sleepy kisses in the morning. half-asleep cuddles at night. coffee mug swaps between meetings. the quiet, steady kind of love. but you missed him. his annoying, smug, feral ass. just a little.  

so when the bathroom door creaked open mid-bath, you didn’t even flinch. you just knew. and yep, there he was.

dragging in his entire goddamn office chair. into the fucking bathroom.

yes, a literal, high-backed, leather executive monstrosity. the one he always dramatically called ‘the only chair that respects my spine.’ he wheeled it in like he was about to conduct a strategy meeting in your bubble sanctuary. and then he parked it casually beside the sink, facing you.    

you blinked at him from your lavender-scented cocoon of suds, “what the hell, babe… are you serious right now?”

“hi, baby,” he said, already settling into the seat like this was perfectly reasonable. “i wanna spend time with you. so i brought my chair.”

“…in the bathroom?”

“yeah, got a problem with it? you’re hot. the lighting’s warm. the air smells like that purple crap you love. it’s a vibe. this is my happy place.”

you stared at him. “you brought your chair.”

“‘course I did,” he said, already opening his laptop (he fucking brought one) and clicking away like this was just another thursday. “i’m swamped. figured i could do my stupid shit and look at you. productivity. efficiency. serotonin. and dopamine. win-win.”

you squinted at him. he never used that many words to justify something unless he was spiraling. which meant that he’s fucking really drained for today – an oddity. sukuna never gets drained. he had the chaotic stamina of a toddler with an espresso machine. weird visual, but whatever. 

“you just wanted to watch me and pretend it was multitasking.” you teased.

“baby, i don’t need to pretend to watch you,” sukuna replied without shame, eyes flicking down over your shoulders, lingering for a breath too long. “i’m your husband. it’s practically in the vows.”

you groaned and slid lower into the bubbles. “you’re so annoying. you have zero concept of personal space.”

“bold of you to say when i was balls deep in you last week,” he muttered, eyes back on the laptop screen.

you rolled your eyes. “rude. that was emotional love-making, actually.”

“you cried after,” he added helpfully, with a teasing grin this time, looking at you.

“i was overstimulated and exhausted!”

“from all the love,” he said, voice dropping slightly as he winked. “you looked so fuckin’ pretty like that, by the way. all whimpery and soft. should’ve taken a photo. mental health purposes.” he then turned back to his laptop and continued doing whatever shit he was doing like he hadn’t just shattered your dignity. 

“god, you’re insufferable,” you sighed, watching him lean back and spread his legs like he owned the damn place (he does). shirtless. and just in his boxers. basically, a menace in soft lighting.

“only for you,” he said, then paused, dragging his eyes down again. his fingers slowed on the keyboard. “you always sit like that in the tub when you want me to look.”

you froze slightly. “‘kuna, i’m literally just bathing.”

“uh-huh. with your knees poking out of the bubbles like that. water dripping down your collarbone. are we pretending you’re not trying to make me fail this report?”

you stared him down. “you’ve been shirtless all day. i haven’t said a word.”

“you bit me earlier. for no reason.”

“you were walking around with a pen in your mouth like a chew toy!”

he grinned and stretched out in the chair, legs wide, muscles relaxed. “ohhh, my bad, madame la professeur. je m’excuse.” his voice dipped, teasing. “would you prefer I recite conjugations again?” 

you choked on a laugh, bubbles shifting. “no... baby, stop. i don’t wanna heart it,” you said as you covered your ears.

“sweetheart, you threatened to drown me with a beret when i said ‘voulez-vous coucher avec moi’ in class.”

“because you said it in front of the TA! and winked at me after saying that, who does that?”

“me, obviously. and now look at us,” he gestured vaguely between the two of you, “still conjugating. still undressing with language.”

“gross.”

“grammatical,” he corrected smugly.

“anyway,” you huffed, “this was supposed to be sacred alone time.”

“correction,” he said, typing, “this is now sacred us time.”

“i can’t believe this is what my marriage looks like.”

he looked up again, glasses low on his nose. hair messy from a full day of stress-yanking (not love-making). dark eyes locked onto you like you were another report he was ready to manhandle. “consider me your emotional support office chair. i’m quiet. i click keys. i’m shirtless. it’s a wellness experience, brat.”

you gave him a deadpan look. “remind me again why you’re still doing reports when you own the entire damn company?”

“because my exec team is full of morons and apparently need their daddy to babysit the fucking budget.” he muttered, his eyes back on the screen.

“… so you really say that in meetings? ‘don’t worry, daddy’s here with the spreadsheets’?”

he gave you a withering look. “baby, don’t make me come over there and show you why they call me that.”

you sat up straighter, mock-scandalized. “you are not turning my bath into a boardroom kink.”

“oh, please,” he snorted. “you’d let me reorganize your filing system if i said that it in that voice.”

 “try me,” you puffed your cheeks and threatened, “i will throw a loofah at you. and for the record, ‘kuna? this is ambush. i was having sacred time, you bulldozer.”

“and yet… you married me.”

“temporarily lost judgment.”

“five-year lapse?”

you rolled your eyes in annoyance. “shut up. you’re ridiculous.”

“correct. and in love.” he said easily, shifting the laptop onto his other lap. and you let out a soft laugh at that because you know it’s true. 

for a moment, he didn’t say anything. just watched you, still half-soaked in warm light and bubbles. his eyes lingered, not with hunger and mischief, but with something softer. like he was memorizing. or making sure you’re here.

“you good, babe?” you asked.

he blinked, like coming back from wherever his head has gone. “yep, just…” he shrugged. “you’re the best part of the day, baby. seriously though, i missed you,” he said voice quieter now, like it didn’t just knock the air out of your lungs.

you blinked and froze a little. not because he said it, but because of how soft he said it. you rolled your eyes again, but your heart was already melting. “i’ve been busy. you’ve been busy. it’s fine.”

“it’s not fine,” he said, not looking up from the screen. “i like working. but i like you more. well, love. whatever, you know.”

that... shut you up a little. for a whole minute, even. you stared at him as candlelights softened the hard lines of his face. he was typing again, brows furrowed, but his jaw was tight.

“… okay, damn. for someone who threatened brad from finance with a stapler, that’s surprisingly romantic, ‘kuna.” you said quietly.

he cracked a small smile. “brad’s an idiot. you, on the other hand, are my peace.”

you were silent for a second and sighed out relief you’ve been wanting to let out for the past week. “well, you’re a clingy little bitch.”

“only for you, baby,” he said without missing a beat. then he smirked and cocked his head, eyes sliding over your shoulder, chest, legs – all barely hidden under the bubbles. 

“also, this bath is really doing things to my productivity levels. like, negative productivity. you gonna stand up at some point or do i have to pretend i dropped something in your bathwater?” he added, clearly back to his cocky self.

you threw the loofah at him. he caught it one-handed. “you’re such a menace.”

“only for you, brat,” he repeated again, softer this time. then added, “also, your left boob’s out. always a ten out of ten.”

“get out.”

“i just got comfortable,” he grinned. “and again… i’m your husband. my perving is legally protected.”

––

a/n: lol i went thru a writing slump last month and i can't think of anything – and thank heavens i've maxxed out my scrolling that i was able to come out of that coping (from a failed subject and delayed grad) lol so here's another husband!sukuna just bc and this ain't proofread

[matt-murdockk]

HEYYY!! Godspeed on your semester <33!! You got this. 🫶🏼

Fic idea: Reader is Reid’s roommate and is pretty laid-back (easily mistaken for a slacker because they don’t take on rigorous tasks often) and stumbles across a stumped Reid who’s trying to solve a case. Very casually Reader makes an insane prediction, and Reid learns that they’re basically a genius… who doesn’t really know they’re a genius?? (Because when they think “genius” the reader usually thinks of nerdy and scrawny people like Reid)

I hope that makes sense vro 💔💔

Baby you have been in my inbox for a MONTH i am so sorry i hope you like it 🥀

Lazy

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader words: 1.2k warnings: Language summary: You, a chronically underachieving genius accidentally solve an active FBI case over takeout and crime scene photos. Spencer Reid blurts out an "I love you" before sprinting out the door in mismatched socks. a/n: fluffity fluff in the end for a little bit hehe <3

Truth be told, you hated that word. Lazy. You preferred efficient. Your 9-to-5 was soul sucking, much like any other 9-to-5, so you did the only thing you could to make sure this job doesn't eat you alive— the bare fucking minimum.

A report due by 5? Alright, it'll be on the desk at 5, not a minute sooner, and not a minute later. A task needs doing? Oh, it'll be done. Flawlessly, in fact. But that's it. No fanfare, no extras, exactly what is required, nothing more. Meetings? You speak only when necessary. Deadlines? Met to the second. No matter how convoluted the problem or the task, you found the cleanest, simplest way through.

You did just the right amount, never showed your true potential, and it never raised any questions. If you asked your coworkers, they'd say you were a joy to be around. With your social capital? You were never getting fired. It was the perfect ruse.

But when you reached home with takeout, took your shoes off at the end of the day, you left your job along with them at the doorstep of your house. 5-to-9 is your time. And no one was taking that away from you. Alright, maybe one person was taking that away from you. But truth be told, you didn't really complain.

Spencer Reid was an enigma. Living with him was never dull, be it because he was actually, quite literally, the best flatmate a person could ask for in all thinkable ways, or because he challenged you the way you liked best— intellectually. Today was apparently a latter kind of day.

"Reid-o. What's got you all worked up?"

"Reid-o?" he asked, looking up from the papers strewn about his desk.

"Term of endearment. You didn't answer my question."

The first thing you noticed after coming home was the pair of Converse that were clearly taken off in a hurry and left there haphazardly. The living room smelled of the strongest espresso in all of land, like a truck of coffee had decided to explode in your house, of all places. The room was relatively dark, except for the lamp burning over the desk where he was huddled over. He was so engrossed in whatever he was doing that he hadn't even noticed you come home. Ergo, he was stressed.

A heavy sigh, one hand running through his hair. You made a mental note of his stress level: medium-high. A few more hours of this and he’d either fall asleep at his desk or start quoting obscure philosophers.

"It's this case," he admitted finally, his voice sounding almost defeated. "I have been poring over the case files and the crime scene photos, and the interviews for hours, and I have basically no pattern or connection between any of the victims. So, how was your day?"

"Better than yours," you scoffed, "Can I have a look?"

“I thought you hated this stuff.”

“I hate paperwork and bureaucracy. Big difference.”

He hesitated, then pushed the files toward you, still half sceptical. “They’re all women, different ages, different occupations. Killed two days apart. Same method, no evidence left behind, nothing to tie them together. We’re missing something.”

You skimmed through the reports, flipping through pages with zero urgency. You tapped your finger on the crime scene photos, brows slightly furrowed at the gore; they were crime scene photos, after all. But you kept your focus on just the crime scene. Just the way it was staged. You tapped your finger on the last photo, humming thoughtfully.

“How did he get in?” you asked.

Spencer sighed again. “We don’t know. That’s part of the problem. No signs of forced entry, no tampering, no secondary footprints, nothing on any of the security footage. Just the victims entering their homes alone, like normal.”

“No delivery men, no dates, no door dash?”

“Nothing. Clean. Like no one else was ever there.”

You tilted your head, squinting at the arrangement of one of the living rooms. “Alright. So, let’s say the footage is legit, no one else enters or leaves the premises. The simplest explanation?”

He gave you a look. “Occam’s Razor?”

“Exactly. The simplest explanation is that no one entered because they were already inside.”

He blinked. “You’re saying the unsub was—”

“Already in the house. Yeah.”

“That would mean... he snuck in before the victims got home. Hid. Waited. Killed them. Then left... somehow.”

“Without triggering a single alarm or camera. Meaning either the cameras were looped at just the right time— which you’re saying they weren’t— or he never walked past them to begin with.”

Spencer stood now, pacing a little. “But how? Every entry point was covered.”

You leaned back into the couch, arms crossed. “Then maybe we’re not thinking three-dimensionally enough. You need to look at the architectural plans. House blueprints. Vents, crawlspaces, dumbwaiters, hell, even hollow walls. If he’s getting in and out without being seen, it’s because he’s not using the doors. Or windows.”

Spencer froze mid-step, then slowly turned to you, eyes wide.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. “Oh my god.”

“What? Did you get something?” you asked, sitting up a little straighter.

Spencer blinked, still stunned, like the gears in his mind had just snapped into overdrive.

“The houses, every single one of the victims’ homes, were renovated within the last year,” he said, more to himself than to you, “That’s why we didn’t consider construction anomalies. We assumed standard layouts, but what if— what if they all used the same contractor?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think the unsub is the person who remodeled their houses?”

“Or someone connected to the company. Maybe he installed hidden access points, crawlspaces, false walls, and vent systems wide enough to move through. Places where someone could hide for days.”

He rushed back to the files, flipping through them like a man possessed. “This would explain everything— the lack of evidence, the absence of footage, the precision in timing...”

He looked up suddenly, eyes shining like the sun just rose inside his skull.

“Did you know you’re a genius?”

You smirked, stretching your arms behind your head. “I have my days.”

“No, no, I’m serious.” He was talking fast now, gathering files, tugging his coat from the back of his chair. “You just cracked the entire case with, like, three questions.”

"Guess I've lived with you long enough for it to rub off on me, huh?"

He laughed at that, face serious for a split second. “You’re incredible.”

That actually made your stomach flip. “Yeah, well, that makes two of us.”

“I gotta go,” he muttered suddenly, stuffing folders into his messenger bag hurriedly like he was trying to stop them from escaping, “Hotch needs to see this now. But, oh my god, I love you so much right now.”

And before you could even react, he leaned over, pressed a quick, distracted kiss to your cheek, and bolted out the door, his shoes half on.

You sat there, stunned.

“…Cool,” you mumbled, touching your cheek where his lips had been a moment ago.

[ineveryfandom]

so what if bruce has a new baby now? they have OTHER PARENTS TOO

part 1

-

Barbara:

Bruce:

Barbara: what

Bruce, holding up a video game: i noticed we haven’t been hanging out lately…

Barbara: so?

Bruce, fiddling with the game: um, do you want to-

Selina, barging in: where’s my favorite girl?!

Barbara, with a wide smile: selina!

Bruce, visibly unhappy: …selina

Selina: hey, bruce. funny how we keep running into each other huh

Bruce, inching towards Barbara, glaring suspiciously: uh huh…anyway, barbara AND I are busy, so—

Barbara, already out the door: sorry b, selina and i already have plans

Bruce: but-

Barbara: y’know she always comes first, she’s basically my MOM after all

Bruce, absolutely devastated: *drops game*

Barbara: bye!

*door closes*

Selina:

Barbara:

Selina: how many more times are we gonna do this

Barbara, gleefully: until that stinking baby of his dies of old age

Jim, walking by: why is this my life

Batman: justice league, partner up. this is unfamiliar territory.

Batman, turning to Nightwing: okay chum, let’s—

Nightwing, hanging off of Superman’s arm:

Batman:

Superman, sweating: i-i didn’t consent to this!

Nightwing, climbing on his back, putting on the saddest puppy eyes known to man: what are you talking about papa? you dont wanna hang out with me anymore? did you only like me as robin?

Superman:

Superman: nightwing and i will take left

Batman, staring dead in Superman’s eye, kryptonite in hand, miming a slit throat:

Talia: beloved, i am here to bond with our child

Bruce: perfect timing, damian’s just right over—

Jason: im ready ummi

Bruce:

Talia, hugging him: how do you fare, habibi?

Jason, hugging her back: good, but im hungry

Talia: perfect. i have just the restaurant in mind.

Talia, to a frozen Bruce: i will bring him home by eight. we will see you then.

Jason: *doesn’t even look back*

Cass: im going out with new friend. his is name is minkhoa

Bruce: okay princess, text me if you—

Bruce: what did you just say.

Cass, fixing her hair, not paying attention: khoa helps me with training. and buys me ice cream.

Cass: sometimes he goes to my recitals

Cass: he is like a dad

Bruce, about to have an aneurysm: i change my mind, you can’t go

Cass: too late, he’s here.

Cass, by the door: bye...bruce.

Bruce:

Bruce, muttering, eyes wild: bruce? not dad? my little princess?

Bruce, pacing: bruce? bruce? BRUCE?

Alfred, slowly backing away: im too old for this

Bruce, tearing up his and Minkhoa’s only picture they took back in the league: minkhoa khan...consider yourself my enemy...!

Outside

Minkhoa: did you get it

Cass: *nods*

Cass, holds out the original copy of the photo Bruce just tore up: same time next week?

Minkhoa, pocketing the picture: so long as he doesn’t get to me first

Ra’s: detective, i am here to bond with our child

Bruce: who the fu-

Tim: im ready

Bruce:

Ra’s, holding out his arms: come to my embrace, timothy

Tim:

Tim, walking away: i can’t do this. i can’t. it’s not worth it.

Ra’s, following him: ah yes, this is the most accurate portrayal of a parent-child relationship. well done, timothy.

Tim: kill yourself

Steph, slamming the door open: i need an adult!

Bruce, sighing, but already getting up with a smile on his face: what did you do this-

Harley, breaking in through the window: im here!

Bruce:

Steph: quick, my mom found out i bought beer! i need an excuse!

Bruce, with a frown: that’s very irres—

Harley: tell her your favorite adult asked you to buy it for them!

Bruce:

Steph: good idea

Bruce: stephanie, your mother wouldn’t believe that i asked you to buy beer for me. i don’t drink.

Steph: literally what are you talking about

Steph, dialing her mom: mom, bruce asked me—

Bruce, shaking his head with a smile:

Steph: —to tell you that harley asked me to go buy beer for her and pam

Bruce: 😟

Bruce, helping Duke with his powers: and if you use it like this, you might be able to cut off all the lights. now try.

Duke:

*room darkens*

Bruce:

Bruce, looking out the window:

Bruce: did you just dim the sun

Duke: *turns invisible*

Bruce:

Duke: *creates new colors*

Bruce:

Duke: *makes holographic animals*

Bruce:

Zatanna:

Bruce:

Zatanna: so what do you think of my ward

Bruce, immediately exploding: he is MY ward you—

Wonder Woman: batman, i require a favor

Batman, giving her all his attention because this was this was a first: of course

Wonder Woman: recently, i have gained a child

Batman, befuddled: you’re PREGNANT?

Wonder Woman: no

Batman: oh

Wonder Woman:

Batman:

Wonder Woman: he has come to me of his own volition. and i took him in for he possesses skills unlike any other.

Batman, not knowing where she was going with this: ...hm

Wonder Woman: he also has a sword, you see

Batman, still confused: okay...

Wonder Woman: so you understand?

Bruce, not wanting to admit how clueless he was: yes

Wonder Woman, sighing in relief: wonderful. now, i only need you to sign this

*hands him adoption papers and a transfer of custody, damian’s signature already signed at the bottom of both*

Batman:

Batman, pulling out a katana: you have three seconds

[whosmariaaa]

— part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7 !

college! sukuna spend that same night in his bed, searching for your instagram. your account was a hard find. it took him 60 minutes of his life to even find one of your friends, who had coincidentally tagged you in their recent photo dump. in that same photo dump was a cute picture of you and your friend. you were glowing, a pretty smile on your face, and sukuna immediately took a screenshot to save for himself.

then, he went to your account. you hadn’t posted a single thing, and your profile picture was black. he had spend 30 minutes searching for basically nothing. but, he still followed you.

the notification “r.sukuna is now following you” popped up on your screen around 1 AM. how the hell did this guy find you? you were genuinely confused.

you didn’t have any classes with him the next day, so you came up to him at lunch. not caring about the girl placed in his lap, kissing his neck. sukuna looked awfully disinterested in her.

“did you do your part of the project?” you asked suspiciously. he turned his head to you, and rudely pushed the girl off before getting on his feet. the girl looked at him in shock, and then shot you a glare, as if you stole her man. that girl could definitely have him, for all you care.

“nah, but you don’t mind, do you?” sukuna replied condescendingly, “besides, it’s only due in three weeks.”

you simply sighed. you can not with this man. he was purposely getting on every single one of your nerves. “it’s due in three weeks because it’s a big project half our grade, you massive dick,” you scowled. a stupid smirk made a way on his face.

“so? you’re smart, right? you’ll figure it out,” he responded.

his comment somehow doubled your irritation. “you’re either helping with this, or i’m asking the professor to kick you out. take a pick,” you hissed back. then, his smirk disappeared ever so slightly.

“you’re really a fucking bitch about this, y/n,” sukuna huffed. he broadened his shoulders slightly, narrowing his eyes in irritation. you rolled your eyes back at him, “go cry about it. take a fucking pick.”

he watched you a for a few moments in silence as he straightened his back slightly, seeming even taller. he looked threatening, sure, but you were too pissed off to care.

“…fine, but don’t expect me give a shit about it,” he decided. another beat of silence, of the both of you glaring at each other. you decided now would be a good time to mention him suddenly following you, since the silence was getting a little too intense for your liking.

“oh yeah, why did you follow me on instagram? how’d you even find me?” you asked.

his smirk returned, and he raised his eyebrows in amusement. “just came across your account. am i not allowed to, sweetheart?” he taunted. he spend an hour looking for it, but you didn’t need to know that. you just scoffed, “weirdo.” and then walked off, making sure to shove him with your shoulder.

sukuna stared at you until you left through the doors of the cafeteria. the girl that was in his lap before, got up from her seat. “who was that?” she asked in irritation. he returned his eyes to her, but then a disgusted scowl added to his expression.

“mind your own fucking business, you bitch. and why don’t you get the fuck out of here while you’re at it?” he snarled. the girl flinched slightly at his harsh words, but then muttered something under her breath before getting up and leaving.

“damn, what crawled up your ass and died?” toji asked. sukuna stared at him, his expression dangerous.

“i think he’s still down bad for that girl. what was her name? y/n?” gojo laughed, “y’know what, if you don’t get with her, i will,” he added tauntingly. for some reason, him saying that made sukuna even more pissed off than before. why the hell was he suddenly in his business? you were off-limits, he had made that very clear before.

“watch your fucking mouth, gojo. i won’t hesitate to make an end to your pathetic life,” sukuna threatened.

“man, you’re pussy whipped. what’d she do to make you all in love like this?” gojo teased. sukuna just scoffed and sat down again, ignoring his infuriating friends while in thought.

yeah, what did you even do?

──★˙🍓̟!! hi guys, i’m so sorry i’m still figuring out tumblr, but maybe in the future i’ll be doing a taglist!! ☺️ and @elizabeth-von-winken-universe in my inbox, yes i’ll definitely be doing more parts for sukuna, thank you sm!!! and for the other person in my inbox, i love you to death may God bless u too and keep u and ur family safe💗

[sweet-halsey]

The wrong girl

lando norris x reader

summary: lando has a new girl but the internet realized it might have been barking up the wrong tree...

warnings: none just fluff stuff.

It started like most things in the off-season did with blurry photos, shaky assumptions, and Twitter threads longer than most race strategies.

The first shot surfaced in early December. Lando, half-covered by a hoodie, standing backstage at a Tate McRae concert in London. Arms crossed, mouth tilted in that familiar smirk. A laminated pass dangling from a lanyard around his neck.

No tag. No context. Just one tweet and a caption that read:

@/formulafeed:

lando at a tate show?? explain yourself king

💬 12.4K likes • 4.3K retweets

The second photo came three days later: Amsterdam. This time, a fan video showed him laughing near the sound booth, talking to someone off-camera. The camera panned too quickly to catch a clear shot of the person beside him, but that didn’t matter. The story was already forming.

By the time he showed up in Paris, seated casually in VIP with a drink in hand and the same backwards cap he always wore on travel days, the internet had already decided.

“Tate McRae and F1 star Lando Norris spark dating rumors after multiple concert appearances”

— PopBuzz UK, Dec. 9th

You had laughed when you saw the headline, halfway through stretching in the cramped dressing room at the venue.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, holding up your phone so the other dancers could see. “He’s going to lose it.”

Riley, one of the other girls, leaned over your shoulder. “Wait, they think he’s dating Tate?”

You just nodded. “Because he’s been at, like, every show.”

“Well… he has,” Riley grinned. “He’s basically part of the crew at this point. You sure you don’t want to just tell people?”

You gave a half-smile and tucked your phone away. “Not yet.”

Because it wasn’t about hiding. Not really.

It was about keeping something for yourself.

The thing was, it hadn’t started with some whirlwind celebrity crossover or a dramatic meet-cute.

It had started at rehearsals. Quiet. Simple.

You’d been dancing backup for Tate’s upcoming winter mini-tour nothing big, just Europe, a few major cities, back before the holidays. Lando had come to rehearsals once, tagging along with one of Tate’s producers he’d met through mutual friends. He didn’t say much that first day. Just watched. Asked a few respectful questions. Made a joke or two. And then, somehow, he kept showing up.

By Amsterdam, you’d gone on your first real not-date, pizza and cheap beer in the back of a production van.

By Oslo, he was pressing kisses to your shoulder before you went on stage.

And by Madrid, when the two of you were spotted swaying together at the afterparty, a little too close, a little too in sync, the internet realized it might have been barking up the wrong tree.

@/slowmoF1:

okay but who IS this girl and why does he look at her like THAT 😭

💬 19.7K likes • 6.2K reposts

@/dancersoftiktok:

so you’re telling me lando norris has been following the WHOLE tate tour not for tate, but for one of the dancers??? i love this romcom

💬 11.3K likes

Back in the hotel, Lando was lying on your stomach, tracing lazy patterns on your back with one hand while scrolling with the other.

“I mean… do we let them keep thinking it’s Tate?” he asked, deadpan. “Should I start dropping subtle hints in my stories? Like a single red flag emoji. Or a cryptic lyric.”

You rolled your eyes, flipping your pillow over to the cool side. “You already posted a story with us wearing the same shoes. Isn’t that soft-launching?”

He smirked. “That was fashion.”

You reached back and flicked his thigh. “Post whatever you want. Just… don’t tag me.”

Lando tilted his head. “You sure?”

“I like this,” you said quietly, turning your face back into the pillow. “Just… us.”

There was a long pause. Then his lips brushed the top of your spine, soft and sure.

“Okay,” he said. “Just us.”

Of course, that didn’t stop the media from digging.

By the time January rolled in, the headlines had shifted from rumors to theories.

Who is Lando Norris really dating? New mystery girl spotted backstage in Milan. — The Daily Whisper , Jan. 8

Tate McRae laughs off dating rumors with F1 driver: “He’s just a friend, promise!” — Rolling Stone UK , Jan. 12

It should have felt invasive. And part of it did. But the rest… it felt surreal. Like living inside someone else’s life.

You kept dancing. The tour kept moving.

And Lando kept showing up.

He brought you lunch between sets. Sent you stupid voice memos from the hotel gym. Carried your bag when your ankle flared up after a long show in Rome.

Never flashy. Never loud. Just present. And kind. And there.

One night, when you were curled up under a hotel duvet watching The Office reruns with room service fries between you, you looked over at him and said, “You’re not what people think.”

He blinked at you. “That sounds ominous.”

“I mean it,” you said, softer now. “You’re not just some fast car, loud laugh, party-boy headline.”

Lando tilted his head, his expression unreadable.

And then, with complete sincerity, said: “You think I have a loud laugh?”

You threw a fry at him.

Lando and you made it all the way to Berlin before things almost fell apart.

It was the last show of the winter tour. The crew was half-exhausted, half-hyper, the kind of jittery energy that comes from surviving long flights, cold dressing rooms, and choreography that left bruises in strange places.

Lando had been unusually quiet that night. He hadn’t said why. Just kissed you behind the curtain during soundcheck and whispered something about you "killing it tonight" before vanishing into the crowd.

You figured he just didn’t want to distract you. He always knew when to disappear, like he had an internal clock that counted down to your next call time.

But then you opened your phone after the encore and saw it.

A photo. Grainy. Clearly shot with a zoom lens.

You were laughing in the hallway, half-dressed in sweats and a sports bra, one hand buried in Lando’s hoodie, his hoodie, unmistakable, McLaren logo on the sleeve, and he was leaning in, eyes soft, mouth close to your temple.

There was no mistaking the look. Or the closeness.

@/celebwatch:

BREAKING: New photos surface of Lando Norris and an unidentified dancer backstage in Berlin. Not Tate. Developments ahead.

💬 42.7K likes • 18.3K retweets

Your stomach dropped.

The post had gone up thirty minutes ago.

You barely made it into the green room before your phone buzzed with a message from Lando:

saw it.

do you want me to say something?

You hesitated for a full minute. The whole room buzzed around you, people changing, laughing, talking and all you could hear was your own heart thudding in your chest..

you:

not yet.

just need a sec.

He didn’t push.

He never did.

That was the thing about Lando. For all his confidence, all the swagger people assumed came with the job, he never once made you feel like you owed him access to your thoughts. He waited. Always. No pressure. No ego.

You found him an hour later outside the venue, leaning against a van, hoodie pulled low, hands stuffed into the pockets.

“You okay?” he asked, before you could say anything.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly. “It just… happened so fast.”

He nodded like he got it. “We can wait longer. Keep it quiet. I don’t care.”

“I know,” you said. Then: “But maybe I’m tired of hiding.”

That made him look at you, really look. Eyes soft. Searching.

“You don’t have to do anything just to protect me,” you added quickly. “But I don’t want to pretend I don’t know you when I’m with you.”

Lando stepped forward. His hands found your waist like they belonged there. “Then we don’t pretend.”

You laughed, just once, small and tired. “That simple, huh?”

His grin returned, crooked and warm. “We’ll make it simple.”

@/lando

📸 carousel:

1. blurry hallway mirror selfie of you and Lando, both laughing

2. you on stage mid-jump, spotlight cutting across your face

3. coffee cup with your name sharpied on the lid

4. his hoodie tossed over a chair beside a pair of battered dance sneakers

📝: "she danced, I fell. you know the rest."

💬: View all 83,495 comments

@/gridtea:

OH MY GOD THE HARD LAUNCH

@/tayloryn_03:

they’re so real for this. I literally screamed.

@/f1gossipgirl:

this is a romcom. he followed her ACROSS EUROPE. are you kidding.

@/tatefanacc:

we all owe tate an apology lmao

You didn’t even open the app until the next morning. By then, your phone was at 3% and your WhatsApp was a mess.

Riley had texted you five times.

bestie

BESTIE

I HOPE YOU WOKE UP TO BEING A LEGEND

did you see the tiktok of the girl crying over you and lando?

because same

You buried your face in the pillow and groaned into the cotton.

Lando stirred beside you, one arm curling lazily around your waist. “What time is it?”

“Too early,” you mumbled.

“Too famous,” he countered, voice thick with sleep.

You rolled over to face him, hair tangled, cheeks still flushed from the night before. “You’re sure you’re okay with this?”

He blinked at you, still half-asleep, then smirked. “I soft-launched you with a coffee cup and a blurry mirror selfie. You think I do that for just anyone?”

You laughed and it felt like breathing for the first time in weeks.

The next week, you came to Bahrain with him.

No one expected you there. The pre-season buzz was already thick car launches, new liveries, fan theories about every driver’s form.

But when you appeared in the McLaren hospitality suite wearing a team jacket two sizes too big and sunglasses you definitely didn’t pack yourself, the photographers clocked it fast.

@/gridreport:

Lando Norris brings rumored girlfriend to Bahrain paddock sources confirm she’s not part of the team, but might be part of his heart 🧡

💬 65.1K likes • 17.8K retweets

Lando didn’t say anything to the cameras.

But after testing, when he passed you in the garage, he gave you a smile that said everything.

You’d been on plenty of stages.

You’d danced in front of thousands stadiums, arenas, televised award shows. You’d slipped, recovered, missed a cue, even once threw up backstage mid-costume change and still went out smiling.

None of that prepared you for the paddock.

It wasn’t the cameras that got to you. It was the eyes: curious, calculating, some kind, some not. You could feel them on you as you stepped through the McLaren hospitality suite with a lanyard around your neck and nerves like static beneath your skin.

A photographer had already tried to call you “Tate” before someone from McLaren gently corrected him.

You stayed mostly quiet during the day, tucked into corners of the motorhome, sipping whatever iced drink Lando dropped in your lap and scrolling idly through your phone.

The TikToks were everywhere.

🎥 “He brought her to BAHRAIN?? This isn’t a soft launch, this is marriage.”

💬 122.7K likes

🎥 “Y/N laughing with Oscar Piastri and Lando in the garage = me melting into the floor”

💬 88.9K likes

And then there were the takes the hot ones, the bitter ones, the speculators with Wi-Fi.

@/griddrama:

I don’t know… it just feels fast? Like she’s cute, but Tate made more sense PR-wise.

💬 14.2K likes • 3.9K reposts

That one stuck in your chest more than you wanted to admit.

You weren’t here to make PR sense.

Lando found you sitting on the edge of a small couch just after the second free practice ended. He was still in his race suit, sweat-damp and glowing from adrenaline, unzipping the top half and tugging it down to his waist as he grabbed a water bottle and dropped beside you.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said.

“I’ve seen TikTok,” you replied.

“Worse,” he deadpanned.

You leaned your head back against the couch and exhaled. “Do I look out of place?”

He turned toward you, expression unreadable.

“You look like my girlfriend,” he said plainly. “That’s all I see.”

That would’ve been enough on its own but he wasn’t finished.

“And for the record,” he added, “I don’t date people because they ‘make PR sense.’ I date people because I like them. Like you. A lot.”

You gave a small, crooked smile. “Even if I spill things? And walk into doors? And accidentally wear the wrong credentials to the hospitality lounge?”

He grinned. “Especially then. You keep life interesting.”

You laughed, and the tension melted away just a bit.

Then he lowered his voice and nudged you with his elbow. “Also, Oscar thinks you’re cool. So. Official paddock approval.”

You groaned. “Please tell me I didn’t embarrass myself in front of Oscar Piastri.”

“No,” Lando said with mock seriousness. “That was in front of Zak.”

“Oh my god —”

He was still laughing when you shoved his shoulder, then curled into his side anyway, letting the sound of the paddock buzz around you like background music.

That night, he posted a story.

@/lando

📸: You, holding a McLaren water bottle and wearing his team jacket

🎶: “Woman” – Harry Styles

📝: “Out of her league? Nah. Out of mine.”

@/f1cringe:

lando please I’m already on the floor from testing don’t do this to me rn

@/formulaspice:

every man with a girlfriend needs to be this publicly obsessed. I’m serious.

@y/ndancerfans:

I love that she’s just… normal. talented. lowkey. and he’s just head over heels. this is perfect.

You saw the story while brushing your teeth in the bathroom of your shared hotel room.

“Out of your league?” you said, leaning against the doorframe. “Really?”

Lando looked up from where he was lying across the bed, one socked foot still hanging off the edge. “It’s true.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re a literal Formula 1 driver.”

He pointed his toothbrush at you. “And you’re hotter than a V6 engine in Abu Dhabi. Don’t argue with me.”

You snorted and tossed a towel at him.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m right.”

“You’re in love with me.”

“Obviously.”

•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•

English is not my first language and I don't want it to be. Any mistakes are made out of pure hatred and disrespect for this language. The English have taken enough from this world, I will not let them have my tongue as well.

Thank you.

[dearlenore]

AN ‘I FEEL’ STATEMENT. / S.REID / SUMMARY - Spencer and you interrogate a suspect

PAIRING: bau!reader x spencer reid / w/c: 1.7K / ???

a/n: guess who this is based on and win a cookie

Spencer didn’t even look up when you barged into the motel room.

“Don’t say it,” he said, flipping a page in the case file.

You froze in the doorway, still halfway through pulling off your FBI jacket. “Say what?”

“That the crime scene smelled like expired deli meat and failure.”

You made a face. “Okay, rude. That’s classic FBI fieldwork ambiance.”

He looked up and smirked. “You’re predictable.”

You tossed your jacket on the chair and flopped onto the bed beside him. “You like me because I’m predictable.”

“I love you in spite of it.”

You stuck your tongue out and stole the file from his hands. “Alright, Dr. Sass, what do we know?”

“Third victim, male, 30s, found in an alley behind a gas station that sells ‘hot dogs’ that may or may not be actual meat,” Spencer replied with a snarky tone , leaning back against the headboard. “Ligature marks, same positioning as the first two. Garcia’s running facial rec now.”

You flipped through the photos. “This guy looks like my ex.”

Spencer tilted his head. “Which one? Also…You dated a guy with a neck tattoo that says Loyalty Over Everything?”

“He had a motorcycle and a soft spot for cats. It was a phase…. And the tattoo said ‘I’m a dick’ in Chinese.”

“I sincerely hope your standards have risen.”

You gave him a smug look. “Please. I’m dating a literal genius with three PhDs. I upgraded.”

He hummed. “Four soon.”

“Whatever,” you said, nudging his arm. “You’re basically the FBI’s version of a trophy husband.”

He blinked. “Are you saying I’m your trophy husband?”

“Yeah. Except instead of a yacht I got… trauma and access to crime scenes. I guess?”

Spencer rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his lips. “Romantic.”

You snickered. “That’s what they all say.”

For a while, you worked in comfortable silence, both reading over the files. The motel TV buzzed in the background, playing a rerun of some bad soap opera where the acting was worse than your last polygraph subject.

“So,” you said eventually, “you think this guy’s trying to make a point? The symmetry, the posing, the weird ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’ energy of it all?”

Spencer looked thoughtful. “He’s definitely performing. But it’s subtle. Less drama, more… statement.”

“Like a TED Talk, but make it murder.”

“Exactly.”

You laughed. “I fucking hate Ted talks, people who talk for hours like that are so annoying.”

He glanced sideways at you. “Speak for yourself. I’m adorable.”

“You’re adorable in a ‘my girlfriend wants to kick my ass daily’ kind of way.”

“To be fair, you want to kick everyone’s ass. Some more sensually than others.”

“HEY! Me and Emily had a deal. Have you seen— actually don’t answer that I’d have to kill you.”

“I find you so oddly attractive.” He said, looking a bit perplexed by his own taste.

You bumped his shoulder gently. “You always say that like you’re surprised.”

Spencer gave you a soft look, the kind he saved for when the world got too heavy. “I’m not. You’re annoying and incredible.”

You grinned. “Aw. You’re such a sap when we’re surrounded by homicide photos. You should be more mindful of the dead,”

“Don’t ruin it.”

He leaned in to kiss you, brief and warm. Then he stole the case file back like the nerd he was.

“Fine,” you said, standing up and stretching. “I’ll go see if Morgan found anything useful, or if he’s just flirting with the local deputy again.”

“Tell him if she has a cowboy hat, he has my blessing.”

You grabbed your jacket, pausing at the door. “If I get shot, tell the team I died being hotter than all of them.”

Spencer looked up with a totally deadpan expression and whistled. “That goes without saying.”

You blew him a kiss and shut the door behind you, already drafting what you’d say to Morgan when you saw him.

Eventually , you’d caught the guy.

The suspect sat cuffed to the table, arms crossed, expression somewhere between cocky and confused. He’d asked for a lawyer three times. The team knew it. So did you. But now he was suddenly cooperative—and you had a feeling that had less to do with his conscience and more to do with the fact that Morgan had promised he’d be “dealing with Dr. Reid next.”

What he didn’t know?

He was getting both of you.

You stepped into the interrogation room, Spencer behind you, both of you in sync like you were about to perform a synchronized FBI ballet—but with more psychological warfare.

Outside the one-way glass, Morgan muttered, “This’ll be interesting.”

Inside the room, you dropped into the chair across from the suspect and offered a sugary smile.

“Hi, Marcus. Love the scowl. Very tough guy who definitely has never cried in a 90s Honda civic. Or was it a Toyota?”

Spencer sat beside you, calm and collected, opening the file in front of him like he was about to politely destroy a man’s entire worldview.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “So they sent the nerd and the girlfriend?”

You smiled wider. “Aw. You think I’m just the girlfriend. That’s cute.”

Spencer didn’t look up. “Statistically, assuming a woman is less competent in a professional setting increases the likelihood of public humiliation by seventy-three percent. But don’t worry, we’ll keep it between us.”

“For real? You just know that?” The suspect hissed.

“No asshole, I made it up…” Spencer mumbled, still looking at the file and reading it closely.

You slid the photo across the table—victim number two. “Let’s talk about this guy. You were seen outside his apartment the night he was killed. Coincidence, or did ya get the first time murder jitters?”

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

Spencer’s voice was deceptively light. “We didn’t say you did. You said that. Interesting.”

You leaned in, resting your chin on your hand. “Also interesting? That your fingerprints were on the door handle, and the doormat has your boot tread on it. You’re either involved or you’re just deeply nosy.”

Marcus shrugged. “Maybe I was there. Doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, honey,” you said, voice syrupy-sweet. “People like you never do things for no reason. You can’t even microwave instant soup without making it about your masculinity.”

Spencer coughed like he was covering a laugh.

“Also if you’re microwaving soup shame on you. Put it in a damn pot on the stove like the rest of us.” You groaned, knowing damn well you did it yesterday.

“Look,” Marcus said, sitting up straighter. “I don’t have to say anything to you.”

You looked around the room , faux confusion on your face. He literally asked for you?

Spencer tapped the table twice. “Totally fair. You’re exercising your rights. But just to clarify, you’re not denying you were there. So if we subpoena your phone, we’re not going to be shocked by GPS data, right?”

You leaned toward Spencer and whispered loudly, “Is this the part where we pretend we don’t already have that?”

He nodded seriously. “Yes, for dramatic effect.”

Marcus shifted. “You’re bluffing.”

“Buddy,” you said, leaning back. “The FBI does two things really well: crush dreams and ruin lives. And my boyfriend here’s got a PhD in both.”

Spencer added, “Technically only one, but I did minor in destroying egos.”

“Oh for real? That’s fine I have a masters in being better than most people and humbling men. I think that’ll suffice.” You replied.

Outside the glass, JJ blinked. “Are they… flirting? In the middle of an interrogation?”

Hotch muttered, “I think it’s working?”

Back inside, the suspect was starting to sweat, his earlier confidence deflating like a balloon at a sad birthday party.

You pulled out another photo—this time of Marcus’s ex, who had filed a restraining order last year. You dropped it gently on the table.

Spencer’s voice was quiet. “She’s scared of you.”

“And she was like 16.”

Marcus looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor as Spencer flipped to the next page in the file.

“Her name was Emily,” he said calmly, tapping the paper. “She filed for a restraining order at sixteen. Updated it again when she turned seventeen.”

Marcus scoffed. “She was—she acted older than she was.”

You blinked. Spencer’s jaw twitched.

“Oh wow,” you said, leaning forward. “Do you have an I feel statement about that?”

Spencer didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, like—‘I feel like I want to date children’?”

You nodded thoughtfully. “That’s the vibe I’m getting too. Really leaning into the predator energy.”

“I’m not a predator,” Marcus snapped, defensive now, angry. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Spencer arched a brow. “We literally read your search history.”

You added, “And the restraining order. And the texts. And your very creative Reddit username.”

“Subtle wasn’t your strong suit,” Spencer muttered.

You leaned back in your chair, folding your arms. “So here’s what we do know about you, Marcus: you’re insecure, violent when women say no, and very interested in people who are still in Algebra II. That about cover it?”

He opened his mouth—then shut it again.

“That’s what I thought,” you said sweetly, before glancing over at Spencer with a grin. “See? We’re so good at this.”

He smiled back. “Terrifyingly good.”

“You think this is funny?” Marcus snapped, finally rattled. “This little good cop, bad cop thing?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Good cop? You sweet summer child.”

“We’re not good cop, bad cop,” Spencer added helpfully. “We’re bad cop, worse cop.”

“I’m worse,” you chimed in. “Obviously.”

Spencer nodded. “That tracks.”

Marcus was silent, jaw tense.

You leaned in again, tone shifting. “Look. You talk to us, you get some control back. You don’t, and we throw this entire file at the prosecutor and let them tear you apart. Your call.”

Spencer added, “Statistically, cooperating suspects receive lighter sentences. Not that you seem like a man who cares about consequences, given your stunning history of rage texting and unpaid parking tickets… and dating children.”

You smiled. “Seriously, ten tickets? What are you, allergic to parallel parking?”

Marcus stared at the table, finally cracking.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” he muttered.

You and Spencer exchanged a glance.

“Okay,” you said, sitting back. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

[nerdygirlramblings]

continued adventures of omegaverse!141

previous

an: the idea of separate task force and pack comes directly from @dragonnarrative-writes and their amazing 'Autumn Embers' series

You leave breakfast feeling both lighter and heavier. An invitation to join the 141 is a dream come true, and the idea that someone other than Captain Price was speaking favorably about your skills is intoxicating. You only know the members of the 141 by reputation, so you don't know who'd seen you on the shooting range. You wish you knew so you could properly thank them.

When he'd made the offer, Price said he'd like to speak to you more formally at 1600. You've never been anything but basic infantry, so you wonder what needs to happen to ensure your transfer into the 141. To keep yourself circling around things you can't control, you focus on leading your squad through basic land nav maneuvers.

After land nav and lunch, it's sparring and workouts in the gym. The room is busier than you like, especially as you aren't here for yourself. The constant eyes on you and your squad throw them off, but you use it to remind them all how important it is to focus despite the pressure. It certainly isn't an active battlefield, but the fight - flight - freeze reaction can help train them out of that headspace.

When it's finally time to meet Price, you dismiss your squad for the day and head to the base office complex. He told you where to find him, and you're knocking at the door a few minutes early.

"Punctual," he rumbles when he opens the door. "'s a good sign." He gestures you into his office and you notice it's spartan nature. There are only a few items in the wall: mostly awards and commendations. There's a single photo frame on the desk but positioned so only Price, or someone on his side of the desk, can see it. You wonder what it is. It must be special to be one of the few personal items in the room.

The space is dominated by a large walnut desk meant to intimidate. As if his leading 141 isn't enough. As though being an alpha, and a large one at that, wasn't already nerve-wracking for anyone sitting across from him.

He must know how the optics of the space works because he comes and sits in the chair left open next to you. He has a thin folder in his hand as he sits.

"I wanna clear the air 'bout something first. I'm sure ya know the 141's an elite task force. But we're also a pack. I know lots 'a military packs form 'cause 'a proximity: always stationed tahgether or 'round one another all the time without really bein' compatible. But that ain't us. We're compatible as a task force an' a pack. But, and I wanna stress this, being pack ain't necessary to be on the task force. Task force wan's yer skill. 'owever, if ya do join the task force, we've already decided we're open at courtin' ya, if yer open ta bein' courted."

You reel, feeling like the ground has opened underneath you. Price must notice the panic in your eyes because he forges on.

"What I got 'ere," he lifts the slim folder, " is transfer orders. Effective immediately, or as immediately as I submit 'em. They've already got my signature. Once ya sign, if yer interested in bein' on the 141, ya'd train wi' us, run drills an' simulations wi' us. Like squads, we eat tahgether an' have the same R&R. Only thing ya wouldn' do is move inta the barracks wi' us. Not unless ya decided ya wanted to be part 'a the pack. Ya'd still work wi' recruits, but ya wouldn' 'ave a specific squad."

"Wait," you interrupt, "what happens to my soldiers then, if I don't have a squad?"

Price smiles wide at that. "Lookin' out fer 'em's good. Important to the unity of the task force ta look out fer one another. But no task force sergeant has their own squad 'cause we could be sent out at any time. Tha' lack 'a consistency would be worse fer 'em. So, yeah, someone'd take yer squad."

He watches you contemplate all it would mean to become part of his task force. It's a lot, and he hopes you're still up for the challenge, because the more time he spends with you, the more he wants you on the task force and in his pack.

You finally shake off the fog in your head and ask Price for some time to think about it before fully committing. "An' I'm sorry, sir. Because I know I said yes just this morning, but I never thought I'd lose my squad." You pause for a moment before quietly adding, "An' I never imagined the offer included being part of a pack."

He catches your eye and reminds you, "Ya'd only be pack if ya wanted to be. And we'd court ya the right way. If ya wanted."

In the end he gives you the folder and says there's no official deadline for the offer, but he would appreciate a firm answer - either with signed or voided papers - within two days.

You nod, already thinking through who you wanted to consult about this when Price pulls you from your thoughts again.

"Can I make one small request?" he asks politely.

You nod, adding, "If it's reasonable, sir, absolutely."

He gifts you another smile as he leans forward and says, "Join us in the mess tonight? I'd like to officially introduce you to the lads before you make your decision."

next

series masterlist | main masterlist

[theemporium]

ok so in quinn x luke’s bsf ellen says quinn has been crushing on her since they were kids could you do a little blurb basically quinn confirming that to her?

thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

series masterlist

.

“Awww, look at this one!” 

Your eyes shifted away from the album currently sitting on your lap, turning to look at the picture Ellen was holding out to you with a fond smile. Your face instantly softened at the sight of your boyfriend when he was a child, around four or five years old, standing in ankle deep water with armbands and goggles on. 

“God, he was so cute,” you commented, taking the picture from her hand to inspect it closely. “What happened?” 

“Geez, thanks.” 

You grinned at Quinn from his spot on the other couch, arms crossed and cheeks red like he wasn’t enjoying the impromptu walk down memory lane with the old photo albums Jim had found in the garage earlier that day. 

“I guess you’re not too bad now too,” you added. 

He rolled his eyes, but you could see the smile tugging on his lips.

“Oh, look at this one! God, you and Luke must have been, what? Nine? Ten?” 

You couldn’t help but snort at the photo, staring back at a younger version of yourself who was stuck on a tiny bench with all three Hughes brothers and a melting ice cream in your hand. “That must have been before Luke broke his ankle.”

“I thought Luke was thirteen when he broke his ankle,” Quinn muttered, his nose scrunching up. 

“No, it was around that age,” Ellen agreed, nodding her head as she smiled down at the photo before looking towards her eldest son—a glint in her eyes that made him sit up straight. “That was the same summer he almost broke your wrist with the crutches when you—”

Quinn quickly sat up. “We don’t have to—” 

“Oh yeah!” You laughed, shaking your head. “He said it was because Quinn kept rubbing it in that Jim was letting him drive the boat.”

Ellen snorted. “Oh, sweetie, it was never because of that.” 

“Mum,” Quinn gritted through clenched teeth, his cheeks starting to burn up. 

Your brows furrowed. “What? I swore that was what Luke said.” 

“That’s because he didn’t want you to know that Quinn had spent the weeks before your family visited doing odd jobs for the neighbours to save enough money to buy two tickets for the cinema,” Ellen stated, her own amusement growing as she watched your confusion grow. “Two tickets for you and him.” 

“Oh my god,” Quinn grumbled. 

Your head snapped around. “You were gonna ask me out to the cinema?” 

“Privacy does not exist in this family,” Quinn muttered, pointedly ignoring your gaze as he stared at the photo albums on the coffee table.

“Honey, he was smitten for you,” Ellen teased. “Luke hated it. Honestly, it’s a surprise he didn’t catch onto the two of you earlier with the way Quinn was obsessed with you.” 

“Obsessed,” you repeated, a fond smile on your lips as you stared at your boyfriend’s side profile. 

“This is evil,” Quinn retorted, his eyes narrowed at Ellen. “You’re doing this on purpose.” 

“It was a sweet memory I thought deserved to be told,” Ellen countered with a knowing smile.

“Does the cinema date offer still count?” You asked, a slight teasing tone to your words but the smile was genuine.

“As long as you don’t bring Luke along,” Quinn replied, grinning when you rolled your eyes in response instead. 

“I think I can get rid of him for a few hours,” you laughed. “We clearly have a lot of dates that he blocked to catch up on.”

.

[numinousher]

OO1. pretty little mouth

pairing: stalker!jungkook x stalker!reader

summary: OF creator, jungkook, loves showing off his assets to his supporters who pay to see his exclusive videos and photos—faceless. but fans wonder why he never has a girl on his videos and why he never interacts with any other girl. they don’t need to know, though, he’s been obsessed with the pretty girl who live streams on her own OF account and who he recognizes as his enemy’s ex-girlfriend. she doesn’t need to know he’s the one who tips her the most with the money he earns from his own OF account, and who loves watching her from a distance. as for him? he doesn’t need to know she stalks him, too.

warnings for this chapter: masturbation, dirty talk

Is it bad to have an obsession with a man who will never know who you are and will never have an idea?

You didn’t know the answer to that.

Your fingers were moving swiftly through the bundle of nerves between your legs as your eyes were casted on the man on the screen of your phone. He was jerking off, his tattooed hand moving up and down the thickness of his cock while he spewed such dirty words from the lips his tongue kept running over to wet them.

His neck, so pretty, was thrown back here and there, moans and gasps and whines escaping his lips while he let out breathless chuckles at reading the comments.

Is it bad to feel jealousy?

“God, you’re fucking filthy, aren’t you?” He chuckled before biting his lip, his lip ring glistening. “You love watching me stroke myself imagining you’re tasting my cock? Smearing my cum on your pretty lips?”

You shivered at hearing his words, your hand moving faster.

“And I bet you’re touching yourself like a dirty fucking slut, huh?” He breathed out, a small moan escaping his mouth. You hear the slick noises of his hand moving up and down; his pre-cum and spit as a substitute for the stupid lotion he used to use. “Yeah, baby, move those fingers. Imagine them as mine. Imagine my tongue tasting you.”

You let out a small muffled whine at his words.

“I’m gonna cum,” he whined so breathlessly. You moaned at how he sounded. “Yeah, baby, I'm gonna cum for you and you’re gonna be a good girl and cum for me, aren’t you? Begging me to breed you. Begging me to pound into you until my cum is spilling out of that pretty cunt of yours.”

The squelching of your fingers inside you got louder as you began to get closer.

His moaning got louder, his hips jerking up into his hand. “Cum for me, baby. Cum. I want to hear my name from that pretty little mouth of yours. Cum.”

You whined and moaned at feeling yourself clench around your fingers, finally climaxing at the same time as Jungkook did. Spurts of white escaped him as he groaned so softly it was almost as if he was breathing into your ear—you had your earbuds in so he basically was.

“That’s it, baby. Such a good girl for me, hmm?” He softly hummed. He chuckled as he read the comments. “Oh, you guys are so sweet, thank you.”

He spoke so softly in comparison to the way he was talking not even two minutes ago.

You looked at him. Looked at the way his lips tilted up in a smile at reading the comments that said between “wish you could be here with me instead“ and “wish you came inside me daddy”.

You smiled in amusement before you leaned over to wipe your hand away with a wipe.

You fixed yourself, heading towards the bathroom when you typed: “Missed your lives :( you always do your best” with money attached to the message. He deserved it.

As you did your business and washed your hands, you heard his small laughter. “I recognize that cute little username. I missed you as much as you missed my lives. You came with me, baby?”

Your heart stuttered.

Did he really recognize you?

No, no, he couldn’t have. Right…?

After all, you didn’t use your main account. You used some burner account so he wouldn’t know that you of all people watched him. You’d be embarrassed if he found out you were watching him. You heard from so many others he didn’t really interact with female OF creators and as a creator, you don’t think he’d be really happy if he knew you were an avid watcher that gave him money and complimented him like he was the only man alive.

You looked at your screen and typed again, just to really test it out. You hoped he did recognize you. Even if it were your burner account. Was that too parasocial of you?

“ofc i did, you have that effect on me <3”

He smiled almost immediately, leaning in closer while his free hand pinched his bottom lip.

“I’m happy to have that effect on you,” he softly said as he wiped himself clean. “It’s a bummer I don’t know what you look like. I just know I’ll immediately want to come on that face.”

You gulped.

He did read your message. He read your message.

“Holy shit,” you whispered to yourself.

You eyed the bottom half of his face considering he was faceless. He had never shown his entire face—the upper half since he had said he liked the secrecy and loved the mystery of his persona. His username—that you considered amusing—said it all: facelessjk.

“I spoil you guys so much, hmm?” He asked, leaning a bit closer so everyone could see his pecs and his abs poking out from out of screen. “Too much. My spoiled brats.”

Everyone commented even more. They all wanted his attention. Just his. Because this faceless guy was the epitome of attractive, handsome, and someone they could all fantasize about without feeling shame because he didn’t know who they were. They all yearned for him in a way they never yearned anybody. They all just wanted a small taste and they needed it.

You went back to bed and plopped on your back. You looked at your phone and eyed him. Eyed his smile. Will his eyes crinkle? Does he have any moles on the upper side of his face?

There was something so endearing about him that you wouldn’t find attractive in other men. If any other guy said the words he said, you’re pretty sure you would’ve cringed without a word and left. But, he was so good.

“Thank you for the love on the recent video by the way,” he grinned, taking a sip of his water. You watched the way his Adam’s apple moved with every gulp. “I’m hoping you guys had a lot of fun with that one. I might post some more videos next week. Will that be okay with you guys?”

Everyone almost agreed immediately.

“Good,” he said. “I’ll go live tomorrow, especially since a little someone mentioned they missed them. So, I’ll come back tomorrow. What do you guys want to see?”

Your heart fluttered again. Did he really remember your comment? No… maybe he remembered it because you gave him money and this was fanservice. But was it bad to think he remembered because he wanted to?

Your fingers immediately typed a message with another $100 tip: you haven’t used your fleshlight in a while :(

You mentally facepalmed. Was that too much? Was too cringe?

“My fleshlight?” He read with a small smirk. “Hmm… you’re right, I haven’t used it in a while. I’ll use it tomorrow. You want that, baby?”

Oh, yeah… you’re definitely gone. Just that word made your thighs clench subconsciously.

He chuckled as if he knew the effect he had on you.

“I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” he muttered under his breath, already leaning over to turn off his camera. “Don’t miss me too much, yeah? Everyone of you. Come back to me.”

With an amused little laugh, he ended his live and you were left on your bed surrounded with silence.

You groaned.

“All this for one faceless man…”

[lazy-ahh]

﹌⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆⊹ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆﹌

Have you ever thought how Mark would react if he had a boyfriend that's husband material? 🤔

Imagine the reader likes to help Debbie out whenever he feels like it, and Mark is watching him help Debbie and thinks to himself, " I NEED husband him up ASAP. "

﹌⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆⊹ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆﹌

This is kinda related to the fic that was about my request but eh!!

– Number 1 fan!! 🌊 anon

HUSBAND MATERIAL

pairing mark grayson x male reader

in which mark grayson realizes two things: (1) his sharp-tongued, emotionally constipated boyfriend is absolutely husband material, and (2) he might actually combust if he doesn’t put a ring on it soon.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro , @cynvia

the first time you met debbie, mark was a mess. not because he thought you wouldn’t like her—no, he knew you’d love her, because debbie was impossible not to love—but because his brain kept conjuring up worst-case scenarios. what if she brought up that time he cried during titanic when he was twelve? what if she mentioned his weird phase where he tried to grow a mustache and failed spectacularly? what if she pulled out the baby photos?

he could already see it—debbie grinning, oblivious, while you slowly turned to him with that razor-sharp look of yours, the one that said "i will never let you live this down." your eyebrow would arch, just slightly, and mark would have to resist the urge to phase through the floor in embarrassment.

but instead, you surprised him. you shook her hand with that same quiet confidence you carried everywhere, offered her a rare, barely-there smile, and said, "it’s nice to finally meet you, mrs. grayson." your voice was even, polite, but there was something underneath it—respect, maybe even warmth.

and just like that, debbie’s eyes lit up. "oh, sweetheart, call me debbie," she said, already pulling you into a hug you didn’t stiffen away from (which, coming from you, was basically a declaration of love).

mark exhaled, watching as you let debbie fuss over you without so much as a sarcastic remark—which, coming from you, was also basically a miracle. there was something painfully tender about the way you tolerated her motherly instincts, how you didn’t pull away when she fixed your collar or how you actually listened when she started rambling about mark’s childhood like it wasn’t the most embarrassing thing in the world.

his chest felt too tight. you were always so guarded with everyone else, all sharp edges and dry comebacks, but here you were—letting his mom drag you into the kitchen to "help" (which really meant her talking your ear off while you chopped vegetables with terrifying precision). and the worst part? you liked her. he could tell by the way your shoulders relaxed just a fraction, by the barely-there quirk of your lips when she laughed.

god, you were going to be insufferable about this later. not because you’d tease him (though you definitely would), but because now you had leverage. now you knew exactly how to make him melt—just by being nice to his mom, of all things.

mark was so, so screwed.

mark leans against the doorway, watching the way your hands move with knife-sharp efficiency against the cutting board. the afternoon light catches the silver band of your watch—the one debbie gave you for your birthday—as your wrists flick in perfect rhythm. there's something intimate about seeing you like this, sleeves pushed up to reveal those faint scars across your forearms, the ones you never explain but he's traced with his lips countless times. your brows knit together in concentration, but your mouth is softer than usual, not quite smiling but... settled. at peace. it's a good look on you, mark thinks.

debbie bumps her shoulder against yours, flour-dusted fingers gesturing wildly as she recounts mark's pancake disaster. "the smoke alarm went off three times," she giggles, and you make that sound—not quite a laugh, just air rushing through your nose as you keep chopping carrots with military precision. but then you surprise mark by muttering, "he still burns toast at least twice a week," without even looking up, and debbie gasps like you've just handed her classified information.

mark's mouth falls open. you're gossiping. with his mom. the same you who usually communicates in grunts before coffee is now quietly adding, "last tuesday he tried to make grilled cheese in the microwave," and debbie leans in closer as if you were whispering the secrets of the universe. "let's just say i have to buy a new one."

"markus sebastian grayson!" she shrieks, while you finally glance up just to shoot him that smug, knowing look—the one that should annoy him but just makes his pulse stutter instead.

it's terrifying how easily you fit here, between the chipped tiles and his mom's laughter. the same way you fit into mark's life without him even realizing—leaving his favorite energy drinks in the door pocket of the fridge where he always looks first, or how you "accidentally" buy too many of those awful snacks he likes whenever you grocery shop. you pretend it's coincidence when you throw his wrinkled shirts in the dryer before school the next day, when you leave ibuprofen and water on his nightstand after particularly rough patrols.

and god, the way you take care of his mom too—replacing her favorite spatula when it breaks before she even notices, memorizing how she takes her tea (two sugars, splash of milk, in the robin egg blue mug because it "tastes better" that way). you roll your eyes when she hugs you but never actually dodge it, and mark's pretty sure you've developed some kind of silent communication system where you just know when the other needs coffee or space or someone to listen.

your knife hits the cutting board with steady thunks, the rhythm syncopated with debbie's laughter as she dramatically recounts more of mark's childhood failures. you're not smiling, not really, but there's something unbearably soft in the way your shoulders relax, in the quiet "tch" you make when she tries to sneak more vegetables onto your cutting board. mark presses his temple against the doorframe, overwhelmed by how badly he wants to freeze this moment—you in his mother's kitchen, sunlight catching the silver in your watch, looking for all the world like you belong here.

mark presses a palm to his sternum like he can physically hold in the swell of emotion threatening to crack him open. it's too much. you're too much. this version of you that exists between the space of his childhood home and his mother's affection, this you that lets yourself be soft in ways no one else gets to see. it makes him want to fold you into his arms and never let go, makes him want to kiss the frown lines between your brows until they smooth out forever.

debbie wipes her hands on her apron, glancing at the clock. "oh! i almost forgot! i need to send some documents to a client," she says, already moving toward the stairs. "don't burn the kitchen down while i'm gone." the wooden steps creak under her hurried footsteps, leaving just the two of you in the warm, spice-scented kitchen.

the rhythmic tap of your knife against the cutting board fills the silence. mark watches the way your fingers curl protectively around the onion, how your wrist flicks with each precise slice. he pushes off the doorway and drifts closer, drawn to you like gravity. when he reaches to steal a piece of carrot from your neat little piles, you smack his hand away without even looking.

"you're staring," you mutter, the knife flashing as you dice the onion into perfect slices. your tone is flat, but mark doesn't miss the way your ears have gone slightly pink.

"can't help it," he grins, crowding into your space anyway. his chest presses against your back as he peers over your shoulder. "you're cute when you're all domestic. look at you, so caring and nurturing."

you elbow him in the ribs, but there's no real force behind it. "shut up. if you're just going to stand there, make yourself useful." you jerk your head toward the pile of unpeeled potatoes in the sink.

mark makes a show of sighing dramatically but grabs the peeler anyway. he bumps his hip against yours as he takes up position at your side, close enough that your sleeves brush with every movement. "so," he says, scraping at a stubborn potato eye, "you and my mom, huh? trading my deepest secrets even though i'm right here?"

you huff, but he sees the corner of your mouth twitch. "she started it." the admission comes grudgingly, like you're confessing to a crime. your knife stills for just a second before you add, quieter, "she's... nice."

the simple words make mark's chest go tight. he watches the way your shoulders relax when you think no one's looking, the careful attention you pay to making each vegetable slice even. when he bumps your shoulder gently, you don't pull away—just grumble something about "personal space" while continuing to let him lean against you.

the potato peelings pile up in the sink as mark works, his movements slower than yours but just as focused. every so often, he'll "accidentally" flick water at you, grinning when you scowl but don't actually move away. the kitchen fills with the sounds of sizzling oil, the scrape of knives, and the quiet, comfortable silence that only comes when two people know each other down to their bones.

mark's voice comes out softer than he means it to, fingers stilling against the half-peeled potato in his hands. "i wasn't lying though," he murmurs, letting his temple rest against the curve of your shoulder. he can feel the warmth of you through the fabric of your turtleneck, can smell that stupidly expensive cologne you pretend you don't care about. when he tilts his head up, you're already looking down at him—and there it is. that fleeting, unguarded expression you only ever wear when you think no one's watching, all quiet wonder and something painfully tender. your knife has stopped mid-chop, fingers frozen around the handle.

"you look relaxed and handsome like this," mark whispers, watching with delight as your ears go pink. you open your mouth, no doubt to deliver some scathing remark, but all that comes out is a flustered huff before you pointedly return to decimating the vegetables. mark doesn't miss how your shoulders hunch slightly, how you're suddenly very invested in making sure each carrot slice is perfectly even. he grins, pressing a quick kiss to your flushed cheek before going back to his potatoes, cheeks warm.

the moment shatters when debbie sighs dramatically from the doorway, arms crossed over. "look at the two of you," she coos, leaning against the counter with a smirk that spells trouble. "peeling potatoes together like some old married couple. should i start calling you my son-in-law now, [y/n], or do i have to wait for the official paperwork?"

you nearly slice your finger clean off. "mrs. grayson," you hiss, voice strangled, while mark chokes on his own spit. but debbie just waves a hand, eyes sparkling as she takes in the way you're both flushed to the tips of your ears, how mark's fingers have tangled unconsciously in the hem of your shirt.

"i'll be looking forward to the day you two get married," she continues breezily, nudging mark with her hip as she steals a slice of cucumber. "that way [y/n] can't make any more excuses as to why he can't call me mom." she pops the vegetable in her mouth with a wink, utterly pleased with herself when you make a noise like a deflating balloon.

mark watches, equal parts horrified and endeared, as you stare at debbie with wide eyes, knife dangling limply from your fingers. your mouth opens and closes several times before you finally manage a strangled, "that's—you can't just—" before giving up entirely, turning back to the cutting board with enough force to worry about the structural integrity of the vegetables.

"mark," you finally grit out after a long pause, shoulders tense, "control your mother."

but mark's too busy pressing his face into your back to muffle his laughter, arms wrapping around your waist as debbie cackles in the background. he can feel your heartbeat rabbiting against his cheek, can feel the way you're trying (and failing) to suppress your own smile. and when you eventually elbow him halfheartedly, muttering something about "insufferable graysons," it's with the same careful gentleness you reserve just for them.

his mom's words echo in mark’s head long after she’s left the kitchen to relax and drink wine. married. son-in-law. the concepts should feel too big, too soon, but they slot into his chest like they’ve always belonged there. the knife slips in his grip, nicking his thumb—invincible, brought to his knees by the mental image of you rolling your eyes at him over shared tax documents.

and that’s when it hits him, sudden and certain as sunrise:

i need to husband him up asap.

because you’re it for him. the way you patch up his wounds after missions with clinical precision but trembling fingers, how you always know exactly where to aim your grapple hook to catch him when he’s falling. the way you pretend to hate his terrible jokes but he’s seen the way you scribble them down later in that little black notebook of yours. you fit against his life like a puzzle piece he didn’t know was missing—grumbling through morning patrols together, bickering over takeout containers in the fridge, your pinky secretly linking with his under movie theater armrests.

mark wants it all. wants to memorize the exact shade of your scowls and loving looks at 6 AM, wants to keep finding your bobby pins (for emergencies like picking a lock according to you) mixed in with his spare change, wants to grow old—

the thought stutters like a skipped record.

because he can't.

you can. you're human—all fragile bones and fleeting heartbeats, temporary in ways that make his ribs ache. the knife slips again, drawing a thin red line across his knuckle, but he barely registers the sting. not when the realization crashes over him like a tidal wave: he'll still look like this when time etches silver into your hair, when laugh lines frame your mouth like parentheses around all your secret smiles. he'll order your stupidly complicated coffee (double shot, chocolate dusting, exactly three ice cubes) for centuries after you're gone, and the weight of that knowledge leaves him breathless.

but then your hands are there—always there—pressing a bandage over his careless wound with that familiar scowl. "idiot," you mutter, but your fingers linger against his pulse point a second too long. and mark thinks—if forever isn't written in the stars for them, he'll carve it into every moment you share. he'll love you with the desperation of a sunflower clinging to sunlight, memorizing the way your eyelashes cast shadows at noon and how your throat moves when you swallow your too-sweet tea.

"what's that look for?" you grumble, swiping a thumb across his cheekbone. there's flour in your hair (from you helping with baking dessert earlier), he notices, dusting your strands like premature gray, and the sight punches a wounded noise from his chest.

mark catches your wrist, pressing his lips to the delicate bones beneath your skin. "nothing," he murmurs against your knuckles, tasting salt and dish soap. "just thinking about how much i love you."

you make that tch sound he adores, but your fingers slot between his like they were made to fit there. "sentimental fool," you mutter, but the way your thumb strokes absent circles against his wrist betrays you.

he chuckles, nosing at the sensitive spot behind your ear—the one that makes you shiver—and you immediately shove at his face with your free hand. "don't you dare—" but it's too late; he's already mouthing at your jugular, teeth scraping just hard enough to make your breath hitch. you taste like home and that bergamot shampoo you pretend you don't carefully select. when he soothes the bite with his tongue, you groan but tilt your head to give him better access, fingers tightening in his hair like you can't decide whether to push or pull. good thing for you (and for him or else you would've kicked his ass), your turtleneck can hide the love bite that was forming.

"asshole," you mutter halfheartedly, but you're leaning into him anyway, the side of your head resting against his when he finally settles for wrapping his arms around your waist and his chin on your shoulder. he can feel your heartbeat against his chest, steady and alive and here.

after a quiet moment, you clear your throat awkwardly. "i... reserved that table at le bernardin. tomorrow. seven sharp." you won't meet his eyes, focusing very intently on rearranging the chopped vegetables into unnecessarily precise lines. "don't be late. again." the unspoken 'i know you've been stressed lately so i got us a table at your current favourite restaurant' hangs between you, soft and vulnerable in ways you rarely allow. good thing mark's good at speaking your language.

mark's throat tightens. this is how you love—in practical gestures and gruff concern, in remembering his favorite comics and hyper fixations and pretending it's no big deal. he presses his smile into your shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of your detergent and that faint metallic hint from your throwing knives. "yes, dear," he teases, just to watch your ears turn pink. now he's thinking if gold would look good on you. of course it would, everything would look good on you. he just needs to find out which one you'd prefer.

and as he watches you meticulously wipe down the counter—always cleaning up his messes, always staying—mark thinks, yeah. he's definitely going to put a ring on it.

heyyy 🌊 anon! finally got to your request and i’m so glad you asked for this because god, we all need more of this soft, domestic fluff in our lives. spent two hours pouring my soul into this 2.8k one-shot and loved every second of it—like, please, i need this. i need markus sebastian grayson’s dumb ahh in my life. and debbie?? absolute queen. would let her adopt me in a heartbeat. would literally lover her as a mother-in-law :']

[always-just-red]

hii! i have a request!

the mc/reader has a pet cat and adores cats so rafayel will have to accept that his beloved bride has a furry little companion bc them and the cat are a 2 for 1 deal and the cat is basically their baby and there’ll alway probably be a cat in the home forever

ty!! adore ur writing!

Aww thank you anon!! As a devoted cat-person, I'm THRILLED to finally be sharing my vision of cat-dad Raf. 🙂‍↕️ This fic felt so personal in the end, I swear I can't write Raf without it accidentally becoming this window into all the intimacy I want but don't have 😭 Anyway!!! Dedicating this to my babies, Floof and Velcro!

Cat-Sitting

Rafayel x Reader 🎨

Summary: Was it really a good idea to leave Rafayel and your cat unsupervised?

Genre: Fluff + humour

Warnings/Additional tags: gn!reader, established relationship

| Word count: 2.5k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

Captain Jenna indicates the large, glass monitor behind her— a finger dragging across it, zooming in on a smaller section of the virtual map. “There’s been an insurgence of Wanderer activity here, and—” another swipe of her finger— “here, so we’ll be increasing patrols in these districts. While public safety remains the priority, we should be investigating any unusual fluctuations of…”

You’re so, so tired. Your chin is resting on your hand and your leader’s briefing is starting to sound like a bedtime story. Sat beside you, Xavier is looking similarly uninspired. The blue of his eyes is glazing over. His eyelids are drooping. When he blinks, it’s slow and unfocused.

Your phone buzzes and it feels like you’ve been doused in cold water; your heart jumps. Glancing around, thankfully no-one but Xavier noticed. His gaze flits over to you with lazy interest as you reach into your pocket, checking your phone under the table. It’s a text from Rafayel: your cat is broken??

You frown, ever so slightly. Before your mind has any time to run away with that ominous message, another notification comes through:

[Silly fish <3 has sent an image]

With one more furtive check that no-one’s watching, you tap at the screen, opening up your messages. You squint down at the photo. It’s your cat, perched on the arm of your sofa. She looks perfectly content, and decidedly unbroken.

Rafayel texts: it had legs before, right?

Again: where

And again: where are they???

You have to consciously hold back your smile. Your cat’s legs are tucked away underneath her; you can’t see them in the photo. ‘Loaf’, you surreptitiously text back.

Rafayel responds: ???????????

You close your phone as more messages come through. You don’t have to read them to know it’s the same emoji, over and over: artsy birb, lying in a puddle of tears. You’ve silenced your phone so it no longer buzzes. Jenna is drawing patrol routes on her map. Xavier leans over to you, whispering: “How’s the first-time cat-sitter?”

Without saying a word, you move your phone under the table so he can sneak a peek at it. There are now twenty-three unread messages. Twenty-four. Twenty-five.

Xavier chuckles under his breath, and this time, you can’t help but smile. Jenna turns, locking both of you in a steely-grey stare. Xavier gives her a grin, and you give her a double thumbs-up. With a sigh, she goes back to her presentation.

…

“So I said, ‘what am I supposed to do? Not kill the Wanderer? Y’know, the Wanderer tearing its way through a street full of people— just because it’s a tiiiiny bit different than normal?’ And get this! He says, ‘yes.’ He says, ‘you should have taken some time to study it, brought me data and samples.’ Can you believe that?”

You laugh quietly as you finish up typing your latest report. You can believe that, actually. If a Wanderer broke in through the window of this building right here, right now, you’re pretty sure Nero would be sat with a clipboard, taking notes. “C’mon, what did you expect?”

“Uh… some empathy, maybe?” your colleague frowns.

“Yeah, that’ll be the day.” Your phone rings in your pocket, and you whip it out with business-like efficiency. You’re on autopilot. “Hello?” you ask, opening up the next set of gloriously exciting blank text boxes on your screen.

“Cutie!”

It’s basically a yell. You narrow your eyes at your monitor, inputting your name, your badge number. “Raf,” you return apathetically. “What’s up?”

“Code red. Code red!”

“Mmhmm?” You don’t know what that means.

“You have to come home. Right now. It’s an emergency!”

“Is it, though?” Your keyboard clacks, only stopping when you have to check today’s date before filling it out on your form.

“Are you even listening? I said code red. Does that mean nothing to you?”

“Yup! Gold star for Rafayel.”

“Seriously?! I’m trying to tell you that your precious little angel’s in trouble.”

Was that supposed to be your voice? You don’t sound like that. “I’m sorry you’re in trouble, Raf.”

“No!” he squeaks. “Not me! The— oh for the love of the ocean, the lobsters, the sharks and the crabs— can you just get here? Please?!”

For the love of all of those things, hmm? You chuckle. “Okay, okay. I’m on my way. Hang in there. Okay, angel? Little angel fishie. Ooh! Angelfish!”

There’s silence from the other end. “…You done?”

You hit enter on your keyboard. “Please, we both know you’re blushing right now.”

…

You stand at the door of your apartment— home early from work, courtesy of the old ‘family emergency!’ card. It’s sort of nice, honestly; you can’t remember the last time you got to play it. Family emergency… You think of you and Rafayel, your little cat, and Reddie. There’s a warm feeling in your heart as you open the door.

That feeling is gone when Rafayel snatches you by your arm.

“Quick,” he says, dragging you towards the lounge, “quick, quick, quick!”

No ‘welcome home’ kiss means something’s wrong. Actually wrong. Your bag tumbles from your shoulder; you have to skirt around the coffee table to keep from crashing into it. “Whoa,” you mumble, “Raf, slow down. What happened? Tell me what happened.”

“Look!”

At last, your arm is released. Your heart is in your throat as you do look, and—

You’ve got to be kidding.

Your cat has moved from the arm of the couch, but she didn’t make it far. She’s snuggled up like an adorable croissant— one paw over her face. You realise, fairly quickly, that the ‘emergency’ lies in what she’s found a nest in: a crumpled heap with a criss-cross pattern. Cream, navy, and red wool, all squished up beneath her. It’s Rafayel’s cardigan.

“Aww!” you coo.

“Aww?” Rafayel echoes. “That’s all you have to say— aww?”

You’re not listening. You crouch down beside the couch, leaning in close. “Hi baby,” you coo again, tickling at your cat’s paw gently. She lifts it, one eye half-opening. You smile, and the eye widens more— filling with your reflection. “Has the big, bad fishie been bullying you today?”

She makes a tiny chirp as she stretches her front legs.

“That’s a lie!” Rafayel snaps.

“Oh no!” you sympathise— pointedly not with the man behind you. “What did he do, huh? This is a safe space. You can tell me.”

Both of your cat’s eyes are open now, still heavy with sleep. She speaks back to you: matching your tone with a soft-spoken meow.

“I see,” you tut, nodding. “And then what?”

She meows again. You gasp.

Suddenly, Rafayel is on his knees beside you, jabbing a finger towards her face. “You traitor! We had a deal.”

Your cat stares at the finger. Yawns— briefly an eldritch horror: all sharp, shining teeth— before curling a paw over it. Rafayel goes still. His eyes shine with the quiet panic you see when you brush a hair away from his forehead, or sweep a tear from his cheek with your thumb. It’s so soft; he doesn’t know what to do with it. You smile knowingly. He sees you and clears his throat, his hand slinking back.

“Okay,” he mutters to himself, “I have an idea. Lemme just…”

He pinches an edge of the cardigan. “What’re you doing?” you ask.

“You ever seen that magic trick? With the tablecloth? I’ve just gotta…”

“No!”

He’s biting back a grin as he adds: “But if I’m fast enough—”

“No, Raf!” you giggle as you intercept him. He laughs in a small, genuine way too, his hands shooting back to the cardigan every time you manage to wrestle them off of it. You have to pry at his fingers. Catch them before he sends your cat on an unscheduled flight across your apartment.

Inches away, she watches your scrabbling hands, completely unperturbed. When Rafayel gives up— his fingers relaxing in their tangle with yours, his laughter dwindling— she blinks drowsily.

Time feels slower, and somehow forgiving. You lay your head down on the sofa. “Do you really want your cardigan back?” you murmur, because your cat is asleep again.

Rafayel slumps, mirroring you as he pulls your hand close to his lips. “Nah.” His voice is like warm, orange light, and he kisses the tip of your forefinger. “It’s okay. What’s mine is yours, cutie. And what’s yours is—” he falters, looking towards the bundle of fur beside you.

You hum appreciatively, letting him plant one, two more kisses before you pull your hand away. “Wait here,” you breathe, pushing yourself back up onto your feet.

One expedition to the kitchen later, you return with a small bag of treats. You find your previous seat on the floor, then reach into the bag— pulling out a small, fish-shaped biscuit. “Look,” you chuckle, wiggling it through the air like it’s swimming, “it’s you.”

“Ha, ha.” Rafayel rolls his eyes, cheek still squished against the couch.

He needs more convincing, so you make the fish swim in his direction, stopping just short of his nose. It floats patiently before him, persisting even when his face wrinkles. You wiggle it one way. Then the other. This earns you another eyeroll, but he does at least smile.

You flick the fish over to your cat. She’s awake in an instant, mouth snatching it up: teeth splintering it with a crack. You swear you see the colour leave Rafayel’s face. You hand him the bag of treats, and with a pout, he starts to set up a trail of them: leading across the sofa. There’s a mournful sigh for each he lays down. Even the odd, whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“Give it a rest, will you?” you huff. “I watched you eat an entire seafood platter last night.”

He narrows his eyes at you, holding your gaze as he puts the next treat down deliberately slowly. Behind him, your cat has stood, stretched, and is now pottering along, crunching away without a care in the world. Rafayel reaches for his cardigan, giving it a shake before threading his arms through the sleeves.

When the crunching stops, he turns— another treat caught between two of his fingers. Your cat takes it carefully, delicately, and she chirps as those same fingers tickle the top of her head. A contented purr underscores the moment. Rafayel smiles as he plays with her ears.

Then he catches you watching him, your eyebrow raised. “What?” he asks self-consciously.

You scoff. “Code red my ass.”

…

Rafayel doesn’t really know when you fell asleep.

Your head is on his shoulder, and his pencil moves mindfully slowly: a quiet scratch, scratch as it waltzes over his sketchbook. The room has gone dark. Tangerine light has stopped spilling from the windows, and he can’t reach any light switch, so he settles for the bleedings of the TV. Cool blues. Pale greens. The space around him flickers, and there are voices, too: broadcasters, droning on.

He hears it, even though he’s trying not to. “Another Wanderer attack”, they report. “Indicative of a recent, worrying insurgence of incidents.” Updated statistics. Civilian casualties. Hunter casualties.

Rafayel’s pencil has stopped. After a moment, he sighs— pressing a kiss to the top of your head you don’t feel, and will never know the weight of. He forces himself to look back down. Draw the shapes and the lines of the things that distract him from that feeling in his chest.

Someone is watching him.

His gaze wanders up, finding eyes across the room. Your cat is studying him from afar, sat with her tail curled neatly around her paws. He pokes his tongue out at her. She chirps back. He returns to his sketches, and half a minute later, she lands on the arm of the couch beside him, having pounced gracefully up. She doesn’t deserve any more of his attention. His pencil moves up and down, up and down, and she’s transfixed by the end of it. She lifts a paw, and—

“Nuh uh,” Rafayel warns, his eyes still on the page.

The paw waits. Rafayel chuckles. He raises the pencil, waggling it in the air between them, and her pupils go wide as she bats at it. With one sweep, she brings it closer to her mouth— bites down. Crunch.

Rafayel tuts: “Monster.”

Thankfully, she’s soon bored by the game. She sits, watching him expectantly, like he must have another one lined up for her. He doesn’t, so he turns his sketchbook towards her instead.

“What d’you think, little co-conspirator?”

The page is full of sketches, mostly of you. There’s one of you sat at your kitchen island, sipping some tea and looking like you wished you were back in bed; your hair was a mess. There’s also Reddie: soft, flowy lines and shimmering, monochrome scales. In one corner, your cat is sleeping with her legs tucked underneath her. ‘Loaf’ he’s written next to it, with a crude, tiny sketch of some bread.

Your cat isn’t looking; she’s staring past the page, at the real you. With a half-formed meow, she leaps onto his legs, making a beeline for yours. “Nope!” he says, blocking her path with the sketchbook. “Sorry, kitty, but our brave hunter needs to rest.”

She tries to get past him, but for her every movement, his sketchbook moves too: always one step ahead. With another, more indignant meow, she starts to tread circles on his lap. Then she kneads at his leg, claws sinking in. “Monster,” he whispers again, drawing air through his teeth. “Relax, will you? Jeez.”

His thighs are still being treated like pincushions, so he lifts her gently, his other hand reaching behind him. He knows what she wants. His cardigan is draped over the back of the sofa, and he drags it onto his lap—straightening it out as he grumbles, “this is extortion, you know.”

The cat is lowered back down, and she curls up in the wool of his cardigan, like that had always been the plan. A purr begins to rumble, deepening as Rafayel pets at her head, running fingers— aching from sketching— through the warmth of her fur. Her eyes are sleepy. Rafayel yawns, his head drooping to rest against yours.

His fingers move mindlessly, enjoying the softness while the television talks of tragedy, and he doesn’t notice.

[cbeargyu]

Hiii if reqs are still open can I ask for a coworker Doyoung finding out you're an onlyfans model....😭✋♥️

miss erotica

summary: you and doyoung are coworkers who maintain a strictly professional relationship… until he accidentally discovers your secret life as a lingerie model on onlyfans. tension builds, desires unravel, and when the truth finally comes out, you make him a filthy little offer he can't refuse.

pairing: coworker ! doyoung x coworker (of model) fem! reader

genre: smut, coworkers to lovers, slow burn tension, light dom!doyoung, lingerie kink, secret double life reveal.

warnings: 18+ minors dni, explicit sexual content, thigh riding, lingerie modeling, unprotected sex, rough sex, oral fixation (male receiving implied), cumshot on stomach/lace lingerie, cumshot on face (briefly mentioned), possessive behavior, light praise/degradation, slight overstimulation, photo taken for onlyfans post, doyoung jerking off alone at the end

wc: 3,6k

notes: omg, incredible request anon, i hope you enjoy it! thank you all for your requests, remember that they’re open, though it might take me some time to get to them due to my schedule🩷

working with doyoung had always been... easy. despite your desks being placed directly in front of each other, just a breath apart, the relationship stayed strictly professional. you weren't sure if it was because he was a workaholic who barely lifted his head from the screen, or if it was simply the nature of two people who lived parallel lives — polite, distant, untouched by anything messy or personal.

you knew the basics. he was single, lived alone, probably married to his job. you weren’t that different either — renting a cozy little apartment not far from the office, sharing your space with your two cats: milo, a silver tabby with a mischievous glint in his eye, and luna, a cream-colored ragdoll with lazy, half-lidded stares. you had exchanged bits of your life over small talk, shallow conversations at best. never more. never deeper.

what you didn’t know, what nobody knew, was that doyoung had a secret obsession — paying for content on onlyfans. not just any content. he was a loyal subscriber to a certain "miss erotica", a woman who never showed her face but showcased her body in ways that blurred the lines between art and temptation. he didn’t tell anyone. how could he? it was his private addiction, the one thing he allowed himself outside the endless deadlines and excel sheets.

then, one morning during a rare group breakfast at the office, the conversation drifted to pets. casual, harmless. you, smiling, pulled out your phone and showed a picture of your cats lounging by your living room window. milo, sprawled like a king, his silver fur shining under the sun; luna, tucked next to him, her cream coat like a spilled glass of milk against the dark wood floor.

"they're beautiful," someone cooed.

doyoung looked at the screen. and froze.

something pricked at the back of his mind. the silver tabby with the green collar... luna's cream fur... it looked familiar. almost too familiar.

he had seen them before.

but not here.

his heart stuttered, his throat going dry. he stayed silent, watching as you scrolled through more pictures, laughing, showing off your babies to the group. you didn't notice the way his eyes stayed glued to your screen, how his mind reeled.

because in one of miss erotica's most memorable posts — a shot of her ass in black lace panties, arching perfectly against a leather chair — there had been a cat in the background. a silver tabby. with the exact same green collar. and another fluff of cream lazing by a window.

doyoung’s stomach twisted.

no, it couldn't be.

he hadn't saved the picture. it had been months ago. it could be a coincidence. right?

he spent the rest of the day distracted, replaying the image in his mind, trying to grasp at details, trying to reason with himself. people had cats. cats could look similar. it didn’t have to be you.

and he almost let it go.

almost.

until summer came.

you traded your usual long-sleeved blouses for casual short-sleeve shirts, your skin kissed golden by the sun, the curve of your arm now exposed to his line of sight. that day, when you leaned across the desk to pass him a file, the hem of your sleeve rode up. doyoung’s eyes — traitorous, hungry — caught something.

a tattoo.

small, delicate.

a slender vine of wildflowers, curling around the back of your arm, the ink fine and dark against your skin.

he stared.

he knew that tattoo.

he had spent hours tracing it with his eyes on his screen, had memorized the way the petals twisted, the slight flaw in one of the leaves. miss erotica had that same tattoo. he had noticed it countless times while she modeled those sinful sets of lingerie — crimson silk, ivory lace, black leather.

doyoung’s heart slammed against his ribs. it wasn’t just a theory anymore. it was you.

he looked up slowly, meeting your eyes across the desk. you gave him a small, polite smile, unaware of the war raging inside him.

he swallowed thickly, his hands curling into fists under the desk.

fuck.

you were miss erotica.

and now, he couldn't unsee it. couldn't pretend he didn't know. every time you bent over slightly to pick up a file, every time you tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, every time you laughed low and sweet — it all layered itself with the filthy, burning images he'd paid to see at 2 a.m.

it was you.

doyoung hadn’t just stumbled across your profile. he had been looking for something — something specific, something that scratched a very particular itch deep inside him. lingerie. but not just anyone posing in cheap lace or overexposed shots. he liked the slow burn, the tease, the art of it. miss erotica was perfect. you had perfected it.

your content wasn’t explicit in the obvious sense. no faces, no messy, desperate angles. it was the suggestion of sin, the elegance of a body wrapped in silken temptation. intricate corsets, delicate garter belts, sheer stockings stretched over soft skin. sometimes, he thought the way you positioned your hands was even sexier than nudity — subtle, knowing. you wore lace like it was a second skin, posed in ways that made his mind work, made him imagine peeling each layer off inch by inch.

he had a thing for thigh-high stockings. for black lace that hugged curves and hinted at forbidden places. and miss erotica — you — had a way of making every single photo feel personal. like you were posing just for him.

he had spent too many nights gripping the sheets in frustration, whispering your name under his breath, not even realizing it. miss erotica. miss erotica. it was stupid how deep it went.

and now...

you were sitting across from him at your shared desks, tapping away on your keyboard, completely unaware that the woman who had made him lose sleep, made him ache with need, was breathing the same office air as him.

it felt wrong.

it felt so good.

he was drowning in it.

the realization clung to him like static electricity. he watched the way your fingers danced across the keys, slender and sure, the same fingers he had imagined curled in the waistband of delicate panties. he watched the way you tilted your head slightly when you read something intently, exposing the soft line of your throat, the same throat he had dreamed of marking.

he couldn't focus.

he couldn’t fucking breathe.

you had no idea.

the days after the realization were torture.

doyoung tried to act normal — professional, polite, like he hadn't spent half the night with your photos burned into his eyelids. but it was impossible. now he noticed everything. the slight sway of your hips when you walked past his desk. the way your fingers sometimes absentmindedly played with the hem of your blouse. the shape of your mouth when you sipped your coffee. it wasn’t fair. it wasn’t fucking fair.

he needed a release. he needed you.

so one evening, as you both packed up your things, the office mostly deserted except for a few lingering coworkers, he cleared his throat and said casually, "hey, y/n... you doing anything tonight?"

you looked up, a little surprised — it was rare for doyoung to initiate anything that wasn’t strictly about work. "not really," you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder. "why?"

he shrugged, forcing nonchalance. "thought maybe we could grab a drink. just... you know, decompress a bit. long week."

you smiled — a soft, genuine smile he didn’t usually get to see — and nodded. "yeah, sure. that sounds nice."

it was a simple moment.

ordinary.

but his pulse hammered against his ribs like he had just won something forbidden.

the bar he picked wasn’t far from the office. dimly lit, cozy, tucked away enough that no one from work would accidentally stumble in. he watched you under the low lights, the way you peeled off your jacket, revealing more of your arms — more of that tattoo — and he felt his mouth go dry.

you ordered something sweet. he ordered something strong.

conversation started off light. movies, weekend plans, the weather.

but as the drinks flowed, the distance between you seemed to shrink. your laughter got a little looser. your glances lingered a little longer. he leaned in, elbows brushing yours on the tiny table, and he could smell the soft, clean scent of your shampoo. he could imagine burying his face in it, breathing you in as he pressed your body against his.

"so," he said after a pause, voice a little rougher now, "you live alone, right?"

you nodded, swirling the ice in your glass. "yeah. just me and my two little troublemakers."

"the cats," he said, a smile tugging at his mouth.

"mhm." you tilted your head, curious. "you remembered?"

he chuckled lowly. "hard to forget."

especially when those cats had haunted his fucking dreams alongside your lace-clad body.

you leaned in a little closer without realizing it, your knee brushing his under the table.

doyoung’s hand twitched, desperate to touch, desperate to confirm that you were real, that you were here, that he wasn’t losing his goddamn mind.

"you ever feel like people don’t really know you?" you said suddenly, voice soft, almost vulnerable. "like... you have this whole side of you no one even sees?"

you didn’t know what you were doing to him.

or maybe you did.

he set his glass down, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.

"i think," he said slowly, voice dropping, "some sides are meant for only a few lucky ones to see."

the air between you crackled, thick and heavy.

you swallowed hard, heart beating too fast.

you hadn’t realized how close you had leaned in. how close he was.

or maybe you had.

the space between you buzzed like an invisible wire pulled too tight. every time you shifted, his eyes flickered down, tracing the subtle lines of your body. you were painfully aware of it — of him — of the way his fingers curled against the edge of his glass, the way his jaw tensed whenever your knees brushed under the table.

you sipped your drink slowly, tongue darting out to catch a drop at the corner of your mouth. his gaze followed the movement like a man starved. you could practically feel the heat rolling off his body in thick, stifling waves.

the conversation faltered. it didn’t need words anymore. everything was felt.

"y/n," he said finally, voice low, rough around the edges.

you looked up, heart skipping.

there was something dangerous in his eyes. something that told you he wasn’t going to play pretend anymore.

"those cats of yours," he started, almost casually. "i swear i’ve seen them somewhere else before."

you smiled, slow, almost coy. "yeah?"

he leaned in, his breath brushing your cheek. you could smell the bourbon on him, feel the warmth of it seeping into your skin.

"yeah," he murmured. "in a... very specific place."

a pause. a deliberate, loaded silence.

you set your glass down carefully, the ice clinking sharp in the quiet. "where, doyoung?" you asked, voice sweet, teasing. but your heart was hammering against your ribs, adrenaline and arousal twining together into something electric.

he watched you, pupils blown wide, fingers flexing like he was holding himself back from reaching across the table and dragging you into him.

"onlyfans," he said finally. barely a whisper. a confession.

the word hung between you, scandalous and heavy.

you didn’t flinch. didn’t look away.

instead, you tilted your head, a slow, sinful smile curling your lips.

"miss erotica," he said, the name coming out like a prayer he had whispered a hundred times in the dark.

you leaned in, so close your knees were fully pressed together now under the table.

your voice dropped to a purr.

"so," you breathed, "you’re a fan of lingerie, huh?"

his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

"yeah," he rasped. "fuck, y/n... more than a fan."

the confession hung in the air like smoke, sweet and thick.

you let the moment stretch, savoring the way his body tensed, the way he shifted like he was seconds away from snapping.

"lace?" you murmured. "stockings? garters?"

he nodded, unable to look away from you, like you were the center of his whole fucking universe.

"all of it," he said, voice almost breaking. "i... i can’t get enough."

you licked your lips slowly, leaning back just a little to give him a view of the curve of your body under your blouse. teasing. tempting.

his fingers twitched like he was holding onto the last shred of his self-control.

"poor thing," you whispered. "must be hard, wanting something so bad and not being able to touch it."

his hands fisted in his lap, knuckles white.

"y/n," he warned, voice wrecked, pleading.

you smiled, wicked and soft all at once.

you leaned closer, so your mouth was right by his ear, your breath warm against his skin.

"what if," you whispered, so quietly it was almost obscene, "i modeled for you?"

he sucked in a sharp breath, his whole body shuddering like he’d been struck.

you pulled back just enough to see his face — the desperation there, the hunger, the need.

"real life," you said, your fingers ghosting along the hem of your skirt under the table, just enough for him to catch the motion. "no screens. no distance."

he was trembling. you were trembling.

the world outside the little cocoon of the bar didn’t exist anymore.

there was only this — the heavy beat of your hearts, the unbearable pull between you, the promise of something dirty and sweet hanging in the air.

"you’d model for me," he said, disbelieving, wrecked.

"if you’re a good boy," you teased, wicked and tender all at once.

he let out a low, broken noise, half-growl, half-whimper, and you knew — you knew — that tonight was going to change everything.

you barely made it through the door before he was on you.

doyoung kicked the door shut behind him, hands everywhere, breath hot against your skin as he pressed you against the wall.

"fuck," he muttered against your neck, voice low and trembling with restraint. "you drive me insane."

you laughed softly, threading your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan.

"patience," you whispered. "you still want me to model for you, don't you?"

he pulled back, eyes dark and wild, chest heaving.

"yeah," he rasped. "fuck, yeah. show me, baby. show me everything."

you slipped out from under him, sauntering toward your bedroom with a slow sway of your hips, feeling his gaze burning into you.

you could hear him curse under his breath, could hear the faint clink of his belt as he adjusted himself, trying to keep it together.

you left the door slightly ajar, just enough for him to peek in as you changed.

slowly, languidly, you stripped down, sliding the soft fabric of your blouse over your head, shimmying your skirt down your thighs.

you chose one of your best sets — a delicate black lace bralette and matching thong, the garter belt hugging your hips, sheer thigh-high stockings clipping into place with a soft click.

you posed in front of the mirror for a moment, adjusting the straps, making sure everything sat just right, teasing yourself as much as you were teasing him.

"come in," you called sweetly.

the door creaked open and there he was, standing there, jaw clenched, eyes practically black.

his hands fisted at his sides like he was seconds from losing every ounce of control.

you turned slowly, letting him take you in — the curve of your ass in the sheer lace, the tight lines of the garter straps, the soft swell of your breasts barely contained by the delicate fabric.

"holy fuck," he breathed, voice wrecked. "you're gonna kill me."

you sauntered up to him, slow and deliberate, your fingers trailing up his chest, feeling the tremor beneath your touch.

"sit," you commanded, voice like velvet.

he obeyed without hesitation, sinking onto the edge of your bed, legs spread wide, hands gripping the sheets.

you climbed onto his lap, straddling one strong thigh, feeling the hard muscle flex beneath you.

your soaked panties pressed against him as you started to rock your hips, slow, grinding motions that sent sparks shooting up your spine.

his hands gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your skin, guiding your movements as you rode his thigh like it was the only thing keeping you alive.

"fuck, look at you," he groaned, tilting his head back, eyes fluttering shut for a second before snapping back to you, dark and hungry. "so fucking pretty, so fucking wet."

you rolled your hips against his thigh, your soaked panties dragging delicious friction along the hard muscle beneath you.

doyoung watched you with a look that was pure hunger, his hands locked on your waist, controlling your pace, forcing you to grind harder, deeper.

"fuck, baby," he rasped, his voice a wreck of desire. "you’re fucking yourself on my thigh like a desperate little thing."

you whimpered, grinding harder, feeling the rough fabric of his pants rubbing right against your clit through the thin lace.

"please," you gasped, not even sure what you were begging for anymore — more, faster, him.

he growled low in his throat, grabbing you by the hips and flipping you onto the bed in one smooth, desperate motion.

"can't wait anymore," he muttered, tugging his shirt over his head, undoing his belt with trembling fingers. "need you. now."

you spread your legs eagerly, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes as he shed the rest of his clothes, his cock thick and leaking, curving up toward his stomach.

he crawled over you, one hand sliding up your thigh, tracing the garter strap, hooking his fingers under it and snapping it playfully against your skin, making you gasp.

"keep it on," he ordered, voice dark and low. "i wanna fuck you in this."

you nodded frantically, hips canting up toward him, desperate for any kind of friction.

he lined himself up and pushed in slowly, groaning deep in his chest as he filled you inch by agonizing inch.

"so tight," he breathed, forehead pressed against yours. "so fucking good."

you clung to him, nails digging into his back, moaning brokenly as he started to move — slow at first, grinding deep inside you, savoring every second.

the lace scraped lightly against his skin, the garters tugging with every thrust, the whole thing messy and desperate and perfect.

he fucked you like he couldn't get close enough, couldn't get deep enough, like he wanted to crawl inside your skin and live there.

then he slowed, grinding deep instead of thrusting, fucking you slow and filthy, making you feel every inch of him.

he pulled back just enough to look down at you, his cock still buried deep inside, his hands rough on your hips.

you cried out, legs trembling, the pressure building fast and brutal.

"wanna see you cum," he growled, fucking you harder, faster, making the bed creak beneath you. "wanna feel you."

your orgasm hit like a freight train, ripping through you with a force that left you gasping, clinging to him as you shattered apart.

his voice was low, almost a growl against your ear: "where do you want it, baby? tell me."

you whimpered, meeting his eyes, feeling the heat of your own desperation mirrored in his gaze.

"on my face and... my lingerie," you whispered, voice shaking with need. "i want you to ruin it."

his eyes darkened impossibly further, his thrusts turning erratic, brutal.

"fuck. fuck, you’re gonna kill me," he muttered, pulling out at the last second.

he pulled out quickly, fisting his cock with a few rough strokes, and then he was painting your face with hot, sticky ropes of cum, groaning your name like a prayer.

you moaned softly, licking a drop from your lip, watching him through hooded eyes.

but he wasn't done yet.

he stroked himself back to hardness almost immediately, grabbing your hips and flipping you onto your stomach.

you arched your back for him, showing off the perfect view — the lace barely covering your ass, the garters framing your curves beautifully.

he jerked himself hard and fast, the obscene sounds of slick skin filling the room, until he came again, thick and messy across your lower back and ass, the cum soaking into the delicate lace.

you stayed like that for a moment, panting, letting it drip down your skin.

you watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, heart hammering, feeling every hot splash land on you, branding you, claiming you exactly the way you asked for.

he collapsed onto the couch beside you, chest heaving, watching you with a dazed, satisfied grin.

you lay there for a moment, catching your breath, feeling the slick mess cooling on your skin, the ruined lace clinging to you obscenely.

and then, with a wicked little smile, you reached for your phone. you angled it perfectly — the sticky, creamy mess glistening across your stomach, the black lace sheer against your flushed skin.

click.

you uploaded it to your onlyfans with a simple, filthy caption:

"he made me a mess tonight."

hours later, doyoung sat on his own bed, phone in hand, heart pounding.

he opened your page and there it was — your body, still trembling, still glistening with the evidence of his obsession.

his cock twitched violently, already leaking, already aching.

he groaned low in his throat, unable to stop himself from palming his cock roughly, needing relief, needing you all over again.

he came in seconds, harsh and hot across his stomach, your name a broken whisper on his lips.

and he knew.

he was never going to survive you.