#thanks for the ask super ^^ you are really super!!

[em1i2a3]

Something Human

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: Bob loves to watch you cook because he is practically incapable of making something edible–apart from baked goods. One evening you ask if he wants to help, and he reluctantly takes you up on that offer.

Warnings: No warnings, just a really small domestic fluff blurb (reader and bob aren’t in a relationship)

Author’s Note: After writing a crap ton of smut this week (and with more coming today and this weekend with RAF and my other stuff lol), I thought I’d take a little break with something cute. Maybe I’ll make it a series (Domestic Fluff Fridays! HA!) Anyways, thank you for reading as usual <3 In addition to that this one’s quite short because tomorrow’s post is super heavy and long (ha that’s what she said), and I just wanted some lightness to cut the rest of my stuff lol.

Word Count: 3,019

The garlic hit the pan first–minced fine, nearly beaten to a paste, added just as the oil began to simmer. It bloomed on contact, sizzling loud and bright, sending up an instant wave of scent: sharp and golden, the kind that made your eyes sting just slightly even before the heat reached them. The olive oil danced around the edges of the pan, spitting softly as the garlic turned fragrant and gold. You tilted the skillet just enough to coat everything evenly before adding the onion.

The thin half-moons were sliced with deliberate precision as you scattered them into the pan like fallen petals. The sound shifted to a deeper hiss, a slower sizzle as the moisture met heat. Their clean, vegetal bite softened within seconds, releasing something sweeter, something rounder. You didn’t stir right away. You just let them catch a little, the edges flirting with caramelization, until the first signs of browning peeked through the translucent layers.

The air grew heavier, denser with steam. Brown butter clung thick to the base of the pan now, dark and nutty, layering beneath the garlic and onion. You added the rosemary with a firm crush between your fingers–needles bruised, oils released–and the scent deepened, earthy and pine-sharp. Then came the tomato paste, a deep red dollop scraped onto the hot metal with the back of your spoon. It seared instantly, sticking for a heartbeat before surrendering, caramelizing into a darker, more complex version of itself.

Your hands moved on muscle memory alone.

The cutting board in front of you was already a mess of progress: stems stripped clean of their leaves, curls of lemon zest pale and waxy in the warm light, and scattered flecks of red chili clinging stubbornly to the heel of your knife. You worked through it all methodically–thunk, scrape, thunk–the rhythm steady and grounding. Your elbows stayed tucked in close to your ribs, blade gliding clean, your foot tapping gently on the tile in time with your slicing.

Every movement was its own kind of meditation. A ritual to smooth the static that lingered after hours of training and debriefs. The ache in your shoulder from being knocked into the mat still throbbed faintly beneath your collarbone, but the pain was distant now, blurred by steam and scent and focus. Here, in this space, your thoughts slowed. Here, you weren’t a weapon or a soldier–you were just someone cooking dinner.

You reached for a wooden spoon without looking, stirring the tomato paste through the softened onions and garlic, watching as the colour deepened into a rich amber-red now. The edges hissed as they caught again on the bottom of the pan, and you deglazed it with a splash of broth–just enough to lift in a single savoury cloud.

Then you heard it.

The soft scrape of metal legs against tile–hesitant, careful, and all too familiar.

You smirked, not turning at the sound, “There’s my audience of one.” There was a pause, then the slow creak of him settling onto the stool behind you, “You’re late,” You added glancing at the clock on the stove with mock sternness.

Bob let out a quiet, breathy laugh, almost sheepish, “Go–Got caught up with laundry.” You looked over your shoulder then, and there he was.

Perched in his usual spot on the other side of the kitchen island, hair damp and tied up from a recent shower, his hoodie wrinkled like it had been pulled on too quickly and was left unfixed. His sleeves were bunched at the elbows, exposing his pale forearms, as he rested them on the countertop as he leaned forward, posture relaxed but his expression was anything but that. His eyes were already locked on your hands, trailing every motion���how you stirred, how you scraped down the sides of the pan, how you worked with a kind of quiet authority that never demanded attention, but always held it.

He did this every night…Or almost every night. Sometimes you’d just be toasting bread, layering together a lazy sandwich, and you’d still catch the shuffle of his footsteps, the gentle weight of his gaze. There was something about the way you handled food–no matter how simple–that seemed to draw him in like gravity. And by now, you knew it wasn’t just hunger that fueled him to watch you, he just wanted to be around you.

Bob wasn’t watching to critique or assess. He wasn’t weighing your worth or noting your reflexes. He was just there, quietly absorbing every motion, like he didn’t want to miss a single second of something that made him feel a little more human.

You didn’t mind performing when the audience was just him.

He’d become your taste tester almost by accident, but now you couldn’t imagine cooking without handing him the spoon first. He had a good palate–gentle, observant. He always paused before answering, always really thought about the flavours. And you trusted him. Not just his taste buds, but the soft, earnest weight of his opinion.

Tonight was no different.

You felt his eyes tracking the arc of your spoon as you stirred the pan again, coaxing the sauce into silk with a slow, practiced motion. He was quiet for a long moment, hands clasped on the countertop like he didn’t want to interrupt the rhythm, even with a breath.

Then, finally:

“Wh–What’re you making?” He asked softly, like he was afraid to break the spell.

You glanced over your shoulder again, catching the faint curve of a hopeful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His brows were still knit slightly, as if concentrating on not fidgeting too much in your presence. You noticed a slight cut just below his lip–probably from shaving but you didn’t question.

”Just some pasta sauce for right now, prepping it for when everyone starts coming back from their briefings.” You returned your gaze to the pan, letting the sauce bubble low and slow beneath your spoon. It was smoothing out now, deepening in flavor with each gentle stir. Behind you, Bob shifted a little in his seat.

“It sm–smells really good,” He complimented, voice softer than the steam. You smirked faintly, turning the spoon once more.

“Well, thank you…” There was a pause. Then, without missing a beat, “Can you grab some heavy cream from the fridge for me?” You heard the soft thud of him standing–no hesitation. The familiar patter of socked feet over tile, then the subtle suction-pop of the fridge opening. You didn’t turn around, just kept stirring until the bubbling evened into a low, warm hum.

“Here you go,” He said, and you felt the chilled carton brush lightly against your hand. You took it out of his quickly, giving him a nod.

“Thank you.” You offered him the spoon. “Hold this for me?”

He blinked down at it, then nodded with a quiet, “Yeah–ye–yeah, of course.” His fingers curled carefully around the handle, knuckles brushing yours. Now that he was close, the scent of his hoodie hit you–fresh and clean and strong with lavender detergent, the kind of smell that stuck to warm fabric straight from the dryer. It made your chest tighten just a little.

He held the spoon upright like he was guarding the pan, eyes focused on you as you poured the heavy cream in a slow stream over the bubbling rue of tomato paste and fixins. The transformation was instant–the deep red turned a creamy orange, blooming in soft swirls like marble as it thickened. You gently took the spoon back from his hand, fingertips grazing his knuckles again.

Thinking that he was dismissed he turned to go back to his designated spot, before your voice intervened on his actions.

”Want to help?” He stopped mid-step, shoulders tensing slightly.

”Oh…Oh n-no, I’ll end up ruining it.” You rolled your eyes as you adjusted the heat, setting the sauce to a gentle simmer.

“You think Michelin star chefs never made mistakes while they were learning how to cook?” He cleared his throat, scratching the back of his neck, a faint blush creeping up onto his cheeks.

”Well, ye-yeah, of course they did…But I’ll end up ruining what ev-everyone else is supposed to eat.” You let out a small laugh.

”I’ll take the fall if you ruin it. I’m not gonna throw you under the bus, Bob.” That made him pause. You saw it in his eyes, the way they slightly softened at your tone–at the reassurance, like he wasn’t used to hearing that someone had his back when it came to the small things.

“Now…” You said, pointing your spoon at him, “Go grab the red cutting board and take the chicken breast out of the fridge.” His lashes fluttered, startled by the sudden promotion of responsibility.

“Yo–You’re gonna put me in charge of handling chicken when I could literally kill someone by accident because I gave them sa–salmonella if I do it wrong?” You tilted your head slowly, fighting the grin that threatened to appear on your lips.

“Bob,” You started, voice low with affectionate amusement, “I’m gonna be guiding you. Please refrain from overthinking.” He bit the inside of his cheek gently, then slowly he gave you the tiniest nod.

”Alright…” He went for the red cutting board first, gently pulling it out from where it leaned upright near the sink and setting it on the island, his lips pressed into a thin determined line. Then, he made his way to the fridge, opened it, and bent slightly–peering in with intent before pulling out the package of chicken breast still sealed in its plastic from the grocery run earlier in the day.

You watched him from your place at the stove, resting one hip against the counter, spoon in hand. The sauce behind you gave a lazy blurp as it simmered low and thick. The scent filled the kitchen now—cream and rosemary and tomato and garlic all melting into one indulgent cloud that curled through the open space like incense.

He returned, standing beside the cutting board, holding the package in both hands like he wasn’t entirely convinced it wouldn’t attack him.

“Alright,” you said, pushing off the counter and walking over, “First, we’re gonna open that up, and pat the chicken dry with a paper towel.” He nodded quickly, already grabbing the roll from beside the sink placing it next to him so it was at the ready. You couldn’t help but smile as you watched him peel back the plastic, which made a little slimy noise.

“Gross.” He muttered under his breath.

“It’s just a noise, it’s not like it was the actual chicken.” You commented. As he blotted the chicken dry, you handed him a sharp knife, resting your hand gently on his wrist for a second.

”Don’t over think,” You said again, “Just follow my lead.” You showed him how to trim off the excess fat, where to hold the blade. You stayed close, your hand occasionally ghosting over his to steady his grip or adjust his angle–but to also have an excuse to touch him in general. His knuckles were tense, shoulders hunched slightly with the weight of focus. Every now and then, you’d glance back at the sauce and give it a stir, and when you returned, he’d still be there, right where you left him–pressing through the task with quiet determination.

It was nice, watching him like this.

Helping him.

For once, you weren’t the one being watched–you were the watcher, guiding instead of performing. There was something quietly intimate about it. The soft concentration on his face. The wrinkle between his brows. The way he bit the inside of his lip whenever he wasn’t sure what came next. You tried to make small talk, asking about his training, the book you saw in his room last week

But his answers were minimal. Not unfriendly–just…Brief. Distracted. So you decided to let the silence take over for a bit, just watching as he methodically trimmed the fat off with the focus only he could have for something that could be seen as simple to others.

“Good,” You murmured, leaning in to check his work, “That’s perfect. See? You’re doing fine.”

He didn’t answer, but his ears went pink. His focus stayed locked on the cutting board like one wrong move might reset the entire process.

You turned back to stir the sauce again, watching it thicken into something glossy and rich. The scent swelled even deeper now that the cream had steeped fully into the herbs. When you turned back, Bob was brushing the last of the trimmed fat into the waste bowl you’d placed beside him.

He turned toward you slightly, still holding the knife.

“What’s next?”

You gave him a small smile. “Slicing it. Wanna do that too?”

He hesitated just for a second before nodding. “Sure…Ye–Yeah, that would be okay.”

You picked up the chicken breast and demonstrated how thick the slices should be–steady, even pressure, angled slightly for better sear coverage. Then you passed the knife back, brushing his fingers again, before heading to the sink to wash your hands. He shifted to mimic your stance without needing to be told.

As you dried your hands, you leaned your hip against the counter, watching him resume. “How come you know how to bake but you never touched the art of cooking?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard. His throat bobbed. He adjusted his grip and began cutting, shoulders rolling up with a small shrug.

“M–My mo–mother used to have a lot of recipe books in our house…” His voice was quiet, unsure, but he didn’t stop slicing. “She wasn’t a baker or anything, but… sometimes I wo–would read them. I just found that the in–instructions were easier. Less… guesswork.”

You hummed, folding your arms loosely over your chest. It wasn’t much, but it was more than he usually offered. He never talked about his family–not in a way that gave you anything solid. There were scattered mentions, the odd comment about his dad’s truck, his mom’s sweet tooth, but never anything that grounded them in the room with him.

“Because it’s straightforward, right?” You asked gently. “The measurements are right there, and if you follow them, it’s supposed to work.”

Bob let out a little laugh–barely more than a breath, but genuine.

“Yo–You know me very well, Y/N.”

You both chuckled softly. His tone wasn’t bashful so much as…Grateful. Like being known by you was something he didn’t expect to feel good but did. Deeply.

He finished the last slice and reached for the next chicken breast without prompting, his movements more fluid now.

“What about you?” he asked after a beat, glancing over. “How’d you get so good at cooking?”

You smirked, reaching behind you to stir the sauce with your wooden spoon. “Living in a house full of tactical assassins kind of forces you to be a good cook, so… I had no choice.”

He raised a brow, blade paused mid-air. “You’re talking about yo–your past team, right?”

You turned your head, a sly glint in your eye. “No, I’m talking about this team of burnouts.”

That got another quiet laugh out of him, this time with a small shake of his head. “You guys are definitely way better than them. Least you appreciate my cooking.”

You snorted as you swirled the spoon through the sauce. “They di–didn’t?” he asked, voice softer now, just a little tentative.

You shrugged, not meeting his eyes right away. “Everyone was always on the go. I was too, of course, but…They didn’t really have time to sit and appreciate it. We were all on different paths, so bonding wasn’t really put on the highest pedestal.”

Bob was quiet for a moment. You glanced over and saw that his hands had stilled, knife resting flat on the board. He was watching you now–not with pity, not with discomfort, just…With that same steady attention he always gave when he tasted something new and tried to memorize what made it special.

You didn’t mind the silence. If anything, it felt earned.

He returned to slicing, a little more focused than before.

You knew he liked learning about you–liked gathering all the little breadcrumbs you dropped, whether they were intentional or not. You were more open than most on the team, but even so, Bob never pushed. He always waited. Always listened. Like there were lines you’d drawn in invisible ink and he was afraid to smudge them by asking too much.

But you didn’t mind when he asked. You liked when he did.

“You’re doing good, by the way,” You said after a moment, voice lower, meant just for him.

His hands stilled again, and when he glanced up at you, his eyes were soft. “Thanks,” He said. “That…Means a lot coming from you.”

You smiled, warm and easy, then bumped his shoulder gently with your own.

“Now finish slicing those and we’ll get the skillet hot,” You teased. “Time to see if you can master the flip.”

“Oh no,” He muttered under his breath, but you caught the twitch of a grin at the edge of his mouth.

[sabxynsweet]

sweetheart!reader giving mattheo a handmade gift (like one of those cute d.i.y. ones) and shes all nervous to give it to him but its like the nicest thing anyone has ever gotten him :3

sweetheart!reader gives mattheo a gift

you're all so super telepathic because i have "mattheo gives sweetheart!reader a gift" in my drafts, thank you for the request angel <3

You knock on his door, shifting your weight between both your feet as you hold your hands behind your back.

Mattheo opens the door, already expecting you.

“Sweetheart.” He smirks, like it's a greeting.

“Hi.” You smile, tilting your head up to look at his eyes.

He doesn’t say anything beyond that - he doesn’t have to. He simply opens the door wider to let you in.

“How was your day?" He mumbles, arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you in.

"That's what I usually ask." You laugh, feeling floaty already from his presence.

"Sue me for copying you." He says, "You are a very inspiring conversationalist."

"It is one of my many qualities." You play along before you squeal when you remember why your hands are still behind your back.

“I made you something.” You say with a smile, he looks at you with a tilt of his head.

“Yeah?” He grins.

You hum, rolling your sleeves up to reveal four bracelets - a pearl bracelet you always wore, a silver bangle, a pink beaded bracelet with red hearts and a black one, which you slip off your wrist.

You hold it out to him and he furrows his eyebrows in confusion, not moving to take it.

“I made this for you.” You say cheerfully, he slowly moves to take it from you, eyeing it suspiciously.

“Have you never received a gift before?” You joke before your smile falls when he simply looks down at you with eyes that say 'more or less.'

It wasn't that he had never received a gift before, Theo - who was the only one who knew his birthday - always gave him a little something, whether it was book or a vintage lighter or a cologne. Technically his wand was a gift from his parents.

But this is different, he examines the bracelet, there’s an array of beads - silver, green and black - his favourite colours (though you’ve argued with him that black is not a colour) and a few pearls mixed it that match your own pearl bracelet.

It’s very unlike you but it is so him.

He can't remember the last time he's truly cried but as he thinks about you threading the beads together - carefully curating them to match him - he applauds himself internally for being so brave holding it together.

He doesn’t say anything, he can’t say anything, you take his silence for distaste.

“You don’t have to wear it!” You rush to say, “I was just in Hogsmeade the other day and I saw these in the bead store and I thought they were perfect, I know it’s not really your thing-”

He cuts you off with a kiss, one that you melt into very quickly.

“I really like it.” He says earnestly when he pulls away, he thinks about how much he really likes you.

Mattheo slips on the bracelet without another word.

You smile, your cheeks hurting with how wide your smile was.

“I never thought I’d see the day Mattheo Riddle wears a friendship bracelet.” You tease.

“Friendship bracelet,” He raises his eyebrows, “Is that what we are?”

He pulls your body flush against his, gazing down at you with his full focus.

You look up at him with wide eyes, your head spinning a little, he smirks at your reaction.

"I'm messing with you," he murmurs, his mouth inches away from yours before he leans in to kiss you.

You never expected him to like your present enough to wear it and you can't help but feel proud of yourself.

"I'm happy you like it." You mumble along his lips.

"I really do." He promises when he pulls away fully.

There's a pause of silence.

"How was your day?" You murmur, he laughs before kissing you again.

He wore his bracelet for the rest of the night and the day after that, then the entire week and if he never took it off after that, well, everyone was too scared to comment on it, anyway.

taglist: @fallingwallsh @espressqe @theodoresvalentine @fanfictiononly4 @genuinelyfloatingsouls @fayezasstuff @glittervame @wxnterwidow333 @thalibaby @cminoko @blainea98 @randomfanpage

[all4yoi]

𝓣he 𝓓addy 𝓓iaries

!? . . ★ 𝓜ood 𝓢wings — wherein they realize just how real pregnancy mood swings are and how they try (and fail) to survive them.

➹ enhypen hyungline x fem!reader ✦ cw: fluff fluff fluff super fluff !! some crying (ofc), pregnancy, and that's it?? just fluff really, lmk if i missed something. not proofread

➹ taglist 2: open! SEND AN ASK — SERIES MASTERLIST

LEE HEESEUNG

Heeseung has heard about the eventual mood swings you'd go through, specifically now that you're pregnant. "Take her easy." his mom has said to him hundreds of times. No matter how many times he has seen you cry over the littlest and silliest things, he couldn't get used to seeing you cry.

Just like now.

"Baby? What happened?" Heeseung asked upon seeing his pregnant wife sniffling quietly on the couch. He sat down next to you, placing his hand instinctively on your lower back and rubbing.

Your glassy eyes looked up at him and he could hear his heart cracking. "They got it wrong." your voice cracked as you whined, gesturing towards the box of chicken nuggets on the coffee table. Heeseung frowned, opening the meal and looking at you with worry and confusion.

"What's wrong baby? Did they give the wrong sauce? Should I go get-"

"They gave me twenty-one instead of twenty!"

Heeseung blinked.

Wait.. shouldn't.. that be a good thing? Nevertheless, he nodded solemnly as if it had offended him too, wrapping his arms around you. "That's okay, baby. I'll eat the extra one." and before you could say anything, his hand reached towards the box and put the lone nugget in his mouth.

Big mistake.

Heeseung flinched when you suddenly slapped his shoulder, glaring at him. He raised his arms in confusion, his eyes wide like a bambi's.

"That was for me! The twenty nuggets were for the baby!"

Yeah, Heeseung could get used to this. Maybe. — more under the cut!

PARK JONGSEONG

You were only ten weeks pregnant and yet your moods were all over the place, and ever since then, your husband has been walking on egg shells.

A single misplaced glass on the kitchen cabinets can either trigger a meltdown or a full-on crying session. Jay had even stopped making eggs for breakfast after you once yelled at him for "stinking up the whole kitchen," only to burst into tears seconds later because you felt bad for snapping at him.

Despite all that, he still found you charming. He'd coddle you, calm you down, and kiss you breathless just to bring your mood back up.

But there were times where he let his guard down, just like now.

"Baby, can you please fetch me some water.." you whispered sweetly into his ear, pleading politely and softly. Jay didn't answer but merely sat up from his position on the bed with a grunt.

A grunt.

But you didn't hear a grunt. You heard a groan and a heavy sigh. A sigh that only an annoyed man would do.

"Are you mad? Why are you mad?" you furrowed your brows. "I just asked for water from the fridge, you should be thankful I'm not asking for fresh spring water that you'd have to get from a waterfall."

To say that Jay was taken aback was an understatement.

"Baby, what are you talking about? I'm not mad." he said gently with a frown, looking at you in confusion. His confusion deepened when you slapped his hand away when he tried to touch you.

You shook your head and turned your back towards him. "You are. Don't hide it. You sighed."

He raised his brows in amusement but didn't let it show in his tone. "What?"

You turned your head at him, lips pouting and eyes narrowed. "You sighed, Jay. I heard it." you whined in annoyance.

He hadn't. But he wasn't about to argue with a hormonal woman carrying his child.

Instead, Jay pursed his lips before planting a soft kiss on your temple while his hands stroked your hair. "Okay, I'm sorry baby. It's not gonna happen again, okay? I'm so terribly sorry-"

"So you admit you were mad!"

He really wasn't, but if it meant seeing you smile at him again, he'd apologize a hundred more times.

SIM JAEYUN

Despite being only ten weeks pregnant, Jake had been treating you like your due date was just around the corner. He'd help you up the stairs, one of his hands would always be on your back when you'd sit up, and he didn't let you do any chores even though there weren't any physical changes in your body yet.

After long talks with each other and both families, you'd decided to keep the baby, especially after getting nothing but love and support. It felt like a weight had been lifted from your chest when your mom simply hugged you through tears and when Jake's mom embraced you just as tightly, apologizing for her son with a laugh.

Jake was over the moon. He's always wanted a family and to build it with you? He could die a happy man.

He was enjoying himself too much, even through your mood swings.

Jake watched you spread butter on a toast with heart eyes, utterly lovestruck. His attention averted to his phone when it vibrated, notifying him of the food you asked for being delivered.

Really, he only took three minutes max to get the food from the front door before walking back to the kitchen to see you kneeling and sobbing on the floor with a fallen toast beside you.

"Lovely, what happened?" he asked with a smile, kneeling down beside you to wipe your tears with his thumb. You hiccuped a few times before you spoke.

"That was the perfect slice, Jake! It was golden on the edges, it was for our baby," your hand cradled your still-flat stomach. "Now it's dirty and... unhealthy."

Jake widened his eyes, his jaw dropping. "The baby's toast?!" he gasped. "That's no good!" he exclaimed, gathering you in his arms and helping you up.

Jake knew that telling you it wasn't a big deal and that it was fine because it didn't fall on the buttered side was inevitable. He could tell you. Instead, he let you cry to your hearts content while he held you, his lips pecking your temple at every hiccup.

"Shh, look at the brighter side," he murmured as he pulled away gently, just a tiny bit to look at your red, swollen eyes. "Your requested chicken tenders just arrived, fresh and hot." Jake smiled when you paused mid-sniffle, your eyes flicking towards the paper bag on the counter.

"...Yay," you mumbled, before curling back into his embrace and kissing his neck.

"I love you, Jakey."

"I love you too, baby."

He'll clean the floor later.

PARK SUNGHOON

After two whole years of yearning for a baby and now finally having it, Sunghoon was sure that he was prepared for the long journey ahead. That included the morning sickness, your cravings, and your mood swings.

Or so he thought.

"Im hungry." you suddenly said from beside him on the couch, pouting while rubbing your still-flat stomach. Sunghoon hummed, pausing the movie and turning to you with a gentle look.

"Yeah? What would you like this time, baby?" he asked, waiting for you patiently as you looked towards the ceiling as if it had the answer to his question.

"Um.. I don't know." you mumbled, ashamed as tears started to form on your tear ducts. Sunghoon sat up straight, both hands cradling your face as he cooes at you softly. "Shh, don't cry. We'll figure it out together. Let's go to the kitchen."

He helped you up, pressing a sweet and warm kiss on your cheek as you both walked towards the kitchen hand-in-hand. He helped you sit down on a stool before walking across the counter and looked at you with a determined look.

"Okay baby. Bring it on. I'll do anything."

You giggled, watching your husband in awe and began thinking.

Ten minutes passed. Your smile had faded, now replaced with frustration as your lower lip was caught between your teeth. Sunghoon stayed patiently, one hand holding yours  and giving it gentle squeezes

"I want.." you hesitated. "Something sweet. No, maybe salty? Or crunchy- Ugh! I don't know, baby." you rambled, voice cracking in guilt and frustration.

Sunghoon merely nodded. "It's okay, I got you baby."

Those were his last words before he disappeared from in front of you and into the walk-in pantry. Minutes later he came out with a tray filled with chips, sliced pickles, strawberries and a spoonful of peanut butter.

You looked at it in disbelief. "This isn't what I wanted, Hoon!"

Sunghoon paused mid-step. "..Okay. Um.. do you know what you do want now?"

He shouldn't have talked and just came up with something more appetizing because now you're full-on crying. Sunghoon panicked and rushed towards you to pull you in a warm hug and murmured apologies profusely against your hair.

"Sorry, sorry. I'll come up with something new. I'll fix it baby, shh."

Sunghoon thought he was prepared, turns out he wasn't. He just needed more creativity (and yummy) ideas in the kitchen.

taglist 1! bold can't be tagged — @stawberri @saphiranishimurashan @strxwbloody @heesexual74 @jooniesbears-blog @ayablogsblog @teddybeartaetae @gandaengene @snowprincehoon @e-r-i-15 @ijustwannareadstuff20 @maveysoup @hhyvsstuff @tobiosbbyghorl @anushkaaaiaiiaiaia @lostwonderwall @starlit-rin @luciathcv @kkamismom12 @1-hypegirl @50-husbands @talesofthegreatest @kristynaaah @izahere @aeri-shi @shawnyle @riribelle @storeyz @17ericas

[whateveriwant]

I don’t know if I’ve ever really mentioned it before, but one of my favorite AUs to see Simon in is a butcher AU – especially one where he completely forgoes the military route and instead stays with his butcher’s apprenticeship until he has his own shop one day.

At the same time, one of my favorite ways to see Simon depicted is when he’s really really awkward (which, let’s be real, is basically canon lol). Like where he’s super embarrassing, totally incapable of reading social cues, borderline “Is this your first day interacting with another human being?” levels of awkward.

And so when I mash those two ideas together, it creates this whole new beast that I can’t get enough of.

Just the thought of Simon running his little neighborhood butcher shop like any other day, simply minding his business, when in walks one of the prettiest things he’s ever had the honor of laying eyes on. Instantly, there’s a voice in Simon’s head screaming, ‘Them! That one! Where’s the nearest jewelers so I can put a ring on it ASAP?!’, but the second he opens his mouth to try to lock it down, he’s making the interaction painful.

Like Reader will be asking him what product he has in stock, and in response Simon will say something like, “Got some fresh lamb in the back. It sort of… reminds me of you 😏.” This, of course, will immediately set off alarm bells in the reader’s head like, ‘Does this guy want to disembowel me and hang me from a hook in his freezer?!?!’ Meanwhile, Simon meant it in a ‘you have soft, gentle eyes’ kind of way.

Or maybe something happens where Simon gets close enough to the reader that he’s able to smell the fragrance they’re wearing. Completely unprompted, he would smile and go, “You smell like my mum,” which to him is just about the highest compliment he can pay someone, saying they remind him of his late mother, but to the reader it’s like okay can you relax, Norman Bates? At least ask for my name first before going all Oedipal on me 😭

But imagine if somehow, by some miracle, Simon is able to charm the reader to the point that they start developing a little crush on him. Any attempts to flirt back would be met with an ice cold reception because Simon wouldn’t know the signs of a reciprocated attraction if they slapped him across the face.

Like maybe one day something breaks or gets spilled all over the floor of the shop and Simon has to swoop in and lift the reader off their feet (swoon!) before dropping them somewhere safer. Reader would try to gas him up by saying how impressive it was the way he lifted them, how he must work out a lot since he’s so strong, etc etc. In response, Simon would just shrug and go, “‘S nothin’. ‘M used to handlin’ big carcasses,” like he didn’t just unintentionally deliver the insult to end all insults.

Or maybe the reader comes in one day with a plate of homemade muffins or something as a thank you for all the great cuts of meat Simon’s been giving them lately. Simon would take one look at the thoughtful gift, go, “Mmm, don’t really like walnuts,” and hand the plate back without an ounce of hesitation or realization of what he’s just done.

Yeahhh awkward!butcher!Simon who is totally clueless about the art of seduction has been living rent-free in my head, and now I’m making him your problem too 😌

[whisperofaflame]

♡ Collision Course ♡

Chapter 16: I don't know who I am, when I am with you

WandaNat x [innocent, femme] reader

Collision Course – Masterlist Link to full fic (so far) on AO3

Chapter Summary: The three of you sit down together, to discuss your wellbeing and needs. After the intensity of talking about your feelings, Wanda and Natasha make sure to take extra care of you.

Word count: 8.9k (y'all deserve a long one after waiting for over a month 🙈)

Featuring: slow burn, emerging D/S dynamics, mommy kink, praise kink, copious pet names, non-sexual intimacy (but also with hints of sexual feelings at times), suggestion of sub-drop, elements of aftercare, hints of age-regression maybe? (You decide.)

Heads Up: This chapter contains passing reference (literally blink and you'll miss it) to self injury and disordered eating thoughts.

A/N: I am so, so sorry for the ridiculously long wait for this chapter. The last month has been insane. I've been super busy in my personal life, so it was a challenge finding time to think about the story, let alone write. Plus, I was struck by ADHD burnout (a long time coming, I suppose) and the worst bout of writer's block I've had in a long, long time. Anyway, writing has been hard, but it's finally here. Thank you to everyone who has waited for this, and to those of you who have left lovely comments and asks about Collision Course. Even if I don't reply straight away, please know that every one warms my heart and gives me a little boost, pushing me a bit closer to the next chapter. I really hope you enjoy this one ♡

As you wait, you feel the cold begin to creep through your skin. It draws you into hiding on the patio beneath the balcony, where you curl up on a wide cushioned seat, draping a blanket awkwardly over your body and tucking your bare feet underneath. 

Worries swell and crash like waves in your head, and you’re consumed by thoughts of being thrown out, driven back to your arid apartment and left to languish alone.

There is no distraction, no reprieve from this. There is only waiting. Only enduring. 

———

You hear the door opening a little wider to your side, and you simultaneously turn and shrink into yourself, body balling up beneath the blanket as if this will somehow hide you from her.

Wanda.

There’s fear, but also something else. A swooping feeling at seeing her, which doesn’t entirely surprise you. You missed her today. And it’s silly; it’s only been hours and you’ve only known her for a few days — but this was the longest you’ve been apart since the accident, aside from sleep. You’ve missed her kindness, her warmth, her touch — but you’re also scared that they’ll be withheld from you now, after everything that has happened today. Although, paradoxically, a small part of you feels like you’d deserve that. That you deserve some kind of punishment for what you’ve done, for how you’ve been. 

But now she is there, sending you a soothing smile as she slips past the door. It doesn’t quite break through the icy shell that has crystallised around you, but it’s warm against your edges. Maybe it will melt you, over time. 

“Hi sweetheart,” she greets you quietly, stepping towards you with care. Your whole body begins to shake, and you’re not sure if it’s a shiver from the cold or a tremble of fear. Wanda sits down on your left side, her face full of concern as she draws her legs up to sit cross-legged, facing into you. She studies you for a moment, resting her elbow on the back cushion and tilting her head to lean into her elevated right hand. Then, very slowly, she reaches out with her other hand. You watch it approach, trying desperately to slow your breathing and still your limbs. She places it on the rise of your knee, easily located despite the blanket that covers you, and she presses down, gentle but firm. Wanda doesn’t seem hesitant or unsure. It’s like she knows you now, knows her touch will ground you though you’re nervous.

She’s right. The small but assured link between her body seems to pull you to safety, like she’s thrown a life-ring out to you and is plucking you out from the waves. They still crash somewhere deep inside you, but your head is above the water now, and you can breathe.

“Nat said you’ve had a difficult day,” Wanda tells you softly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help, myšička.”

The water level rises then, pooling in your eyes. A gentle stroke to your knee with her thumb coaxes out the tears, which begin to trickle silently down your cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and it comes out in a choked whisper. “I-I didn’t… I wasn’t…”

“Shh…” Wanda soothes, and she reaches out with her right hand to carefully wipe the tears from your cheeks, and tuck a loose lock of hair behind your ear.. “It’s okay, honey. I know. You’re not in trouble.”

“But I lied,” you stammer out. “I sort of knew I might do it… I planned it. And I almost left.”

“Almost,” Wanda repeats, emphasising the word as her fingers find your cheek again, cupping it and very slightly brushing her thumb over the tear tracks. “But you didn’t, did you sweetheart? Instead, you found Nat, just like I asked you to.”

The words seem to seep through your skin; they trickle through your veins, finding the guilt and settling in the same space. Not fighting to overrule. Just there, a silent alternative. Maybe the day wasn’t all bad. Maybe you aren’t all bad.

“Nat only let me use the bike because I pressured her so much,” you tell her, feeling obliged to explain fully, to shoulder the blame. “I just… I couldn’t bear it any more.”

“Myšička, no one is in trouble. Not Nat; not you. Nat explained to me, and I know you needed it.”

There’s a hollow, sick feeling in your stomach, and you can’t understand why. Wanda has told you twice now that you’re not in trouble, but you still feel like there are invisible strings pulling at all your limbs from within, the tension aching and shameful. Your head keeps revolving back to her words this morning, and the way they hooked some unknown chain inside you, like you were always meant to be attached like this. God, you just want to be good. And it’s silly, but you need her to know that. To know that you intended it, and that you still intend it to be true.

You turn your head away from her, forcing her hand to slide off your cheek and instead rest upon your shoulder. You can’t say this while looking at her. 

“I wanted to be good for you,” you whisper, and you count the red bricks on the wall beneath the staircase, mentally tracing the lines like beads of a rosary. The action taps into that ancient habit; it scratches the scab and unearths the urge to repent. 

“And you were,” Wanda assures you, finding your chin and gently redirecting your gaze back to her. It hurts a little, to look at her. You want her reassurance so badly, but it feels sinful, somehow, to accept it. It feels like you are bypassing the confession, skipping past the penance. “I asked you to find Natasha if you needed anything, and you did. You went to her, and you told her what you needed. That was all I asked you to do, hm?”

It’s hard to respond to that, because technically she is right — that is all she asked you to do this morning. But it misses everything else: every implicit expectation that compels you in their house, in their presence. And how can you express those in words? Those urges, those obligations that don’t even seem to originate from a clear source… Maybe it’s just you. Maybe you’ve created this all in your head, a bizarre alternate reality in which your decorum would matter so much to them. Fuck, it’s so confusing. So you just blink dumbly at her, unable to answer at all. And Wanda simply smiles at your stupor, renewing the gentle stroking of your knee and making you feel a little fuzzy in the soft glow of her full attention. 

“I’m proud of you for opening up to Nat, myšička,” Wanda murmurs, her hand brushing some stray hair behind your ear again, then moving behind your head to gently stroke the baby hairs at the bottom of your neck. A shiver runs through your body, triggered by the electric touch of her fingers and the cool sensation of her rings as they brush against your skin; the fluttering feeling finishes in your half-frozen feet, leaving little prickles in its wake. 

Proud. It feels undeserved, but you bat away the doubt and cling to it like another blanket, desperate for the security it can offer you when the rest of you feels so evil, so unworthy. Wanda’s arm feels warm where it rest against your shoulder and her fingers brush against your neck. Would it be so bad to lean in? 

You give in, and the slow descent feels so sweet. Like with every small yielding movement you are rejecting the bad feelings, and replacing them with Wanda’s gentle alternatives. It feels like the longer you stay here, the more you lose yourself. Every part of you is being rewritten. And you can’t always find it inside you to care. Her fingers respond to your movement, moving down to hold your right waist as you lean down to rest your head on her shoulder. Your body tips, bent knees rocking over to rest every so slightly against Wanda’s crossed legs. A part of you wishes you could curl up there, with both of your limbs tangling together. Wanda’s left hand has moved to cup the back of your right knee, and you imagine her using the hold to lift you into into her lap.

You close your eyes, breathing out and letting go of the last little bits of reserve. One more admission. Not from guilt, but from hope.

“I missed you,” you whisper, the statement barely audible as it slips from your lips and catches on the gentle breeze. But she hears it; you know she does, because she hums a little, the sound happy and soft, and she pairs it with a gentle squeeze of your waist. 

“I missed you too, sweetheart,” she whispers back. “I thought about you a lot while I was at work, wondering how you were doing.”

“Really?” you ask, the question slipping out desperately, your need for reassurance no longer contained by shame or reason.

“Really, myšička. I even texted Nat at lunchtime to check how you were doing. And when she said you were having a hard time, I wanted to come right back. But I had two more lectures to give, so I had to stay.”

You sigh a little in her hold.

“That’s okay,” you murmur, “I understand.” You’re not sure why you feel the need to say it. To reassure her? That seems strange. She shouldn’t need to come back to you. She shouldn’t need to explain herself.

“You’ll have me all day tomorrow,” Wanda tells you quietly, giving you an extra little squeeze, tightening the embrace just slightly, so she doesn’t hurt your shoulder. “And then we can figure out the rest of the week, okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper.

You stay like that for a few minutes, your breathing slow as you gaze out to the garden and feel her thumb rubbing gently at the skin between the waistband of your shorts and the hem of your vest top, which rides up slightly because of your sideways lean. 

“In a moment, we’ll head in and sit on the sofa, okay?” Wanda tells you, and you relax a little more when you hear her gentle direction said in such a soft tone. You love it when she tells you what to expect, what to do. It makes you feel safe. “Natty will join us, and we’ll have a little chat together. Just about how you’ve been feeling, and what you need from us. Nothing bad, little one, I promise.”

The prospect of talking — or that nickname, you’re not sure — pulls out a small sound from your throat. A tiny whine, luckily muffled by the way your face is pressed against Wanda’s shirt. You can tell that she hears it though, because her left hand strokes the back of your leg gently, reassuring you with her touch. 

“After we talk, I think a bath would be good for you, darling. You can get into comfy clothes for dinner, and then we can just relax after eating. Maybe we could watch some more She-Ra, hm?”

You make a small sound of consideration, of approval, and Wanda gives you a little kiss on the forehead in response.

“Let’s get you inside, myšička. Your feet are frozen.”

You make no move at first, your fuzzy brain still catching up, still figuring out the fact that you have to move yourself, that Wanda can’t carry you. Then she gives you a soft pat on the back of your thigh. A reminder, a signal. 

You sit up, wiping your eyes with your freed left hand, then using it to unravel the blanket from your body and place it on the side. Wanda keeps her hand around your waist for a moment, then she lets go and moves to stand. She doesn’t say any more, she just holds out her hand, and you take it without hesitation, letting her lead you back inside. 

When Wanda reaches the sofa she lets go of your hand and gestures for you to sidle between the sofa and the coffee table to take a seat in the middle. Once you’re seated, she sits down next to you, on your right, and places her hand on your leg, just above your knee.

“I’m just going to message Nat,” she tells you, pulling her phone out her pocket with her right hand, “to let her know we’re down here.”

In reply, you give a small nod. You like that she explains, that she keeps you informed even when you don’t ask. 

It doesn’t take long for Natasha to arrive. She moves around the left side of the sofa and then side-steps round to sit on the coffee table right in front of you, holding up some fluffy socks.

“Wanda said you might need these. What do you think?”

You look to Wanda, who smiles reassuringly at you. Then you look back at Natasha, her smile gentle, hopeful. Slowly, you nod.

“Yes please.”

Natasha’s smile deepens, and she places one sock on the table next to her, so she can use both hands to open the other up, bundling the fabric so it can be pulled on it one motion. Shyly, you raise one leg, and let her slide the fluffy fabric over one frozen foot. Then you both repeat the process for the other side. The gesture makes you feel a little warmer inside, more from her kindness than the extra clothing. 

“Thank you.” It comes out small but Natasha looks pleased as she stands up, turns, and sits down on your left side, shuffling herself back until she’s situated in the corner of the L-shape and she can see you and Wanda without twisting. Then she lifts her legs up onto the sofa, tucking her feet in close and hugging her raised knees.

“I know you’re a bit worried about this, lapushka, but we just want to have a chat with you, now that you’re feeling a bit more like yourself,” Natasha says, but despite her reassuring words and Wanda’s gentle stroking of your thigh, you shrink back into the cushion behind you. 

Do you? Feel more like yourself? You’re not so sure.

“Wanda and I like having you here, Y/N,” Natasha continues. “And we want you to stay with us for a while. At least until your arm is better, and you can manage things more independently. How do you feel about that?” 

“I’d like that,” you say quietly. “As long as it’s truly okay with you.”

“It is,” Wanda reiterates, moving her left hand to the back of your neck, fingertips playing with your baby hairs again. “We mean it, myšička.”

“Can I give you anything in return?” you ask. “I mean, I feel bad that you’re feeding me, and I’m using your spare room… I could give you some money for food, maybe?”

“No,” Natasha replies, her tone blunt and unequivocal. “This isn’t transactional, Y/N. We don’t need anything in return — not now, not ever, okay?”

You gnaw at your lip. You’ve paid for yourself for years; even when times have been tough and your parents have offered to send you money, you have refused, and found a way. It’s partly a point of pride, but mainly it’s an obligation you have placed upon yourself. Your childhood problems and ailments have cost the world, cost your family enough. In a way, your financial independence is a form of penance. It feels strange, foreign — wrong — to accept help for free. 

“In case you haven’t noticed, darling — we have more than enough space and food to share,” Wanda tells you lightly, leaning forward a little so you can see her playful grin. “We don’t want you to worry about that, okay?”

“Y/N, all we need from you is honesty, alright?” Natasha says, and you turn to look at her again, feeling Wanda place her other hand above your knee, as she continues to stroke your hair in a slow rhythm. “Just let us know how you’re feeling, and tell us if you ever feel uncomfortable. Can you do that?” 

Tears prickle in your eyes. Honesty. It sounds so simple when she puts it like that, but they don’t know what’s going on with you, not really. They don’t know how you’re fighting the feelings and fearing the fall.

You’ve spent so much time, so much energy over the years trying to paste up your cracks and build yourself into something stable, something independent and unbreakable. The scaffolding they have erected to support you is chipping through the cladding, and you fear it will expose the structural damage within, the ugly joins and uneven stitching where you’ve made hasty, inexpert attempts to pull yourself back together. You’re afraid to let them see. And you’re scared that you’ll learn to rely on their help, and then lose them.

“Sweetheart, what’s upsetting you?” Wanda asks, her voice no longer playful. She sounds concerned, sympathetic. Her hand squeezes the flesh above your knee, and the action encourages the tears to flow.

“I don’t wanna be a burden,” you choke out, squeezing your eyes tight shut in an attempt to both stem the tears and avoid their gaze. “And I… I like being here, I like you both so much, but also I… I…” Your words trail off as your thoughts spiral and fail to align in your head. What do you want to say? What do you need to say? It feels like you’re spinning, flung about in space, and you need to still yourself, you need to ground yourself. The fingers of your left hand, which already lays on your lap, tense into claws. When you can’t run, this is what you are reduced to. Small doses of acute pain, to locate your limbs, to reassert your position in space. Even this tiny pinch helps. It helps you centre yourself on the immediate moment, helps you prioritise calming your breathing first, reminds you to wait for the raging winds to pass, before attempting to speak.

They wait for you, their presence heavy at either side, but also equal. Stabilising. 

You find yourself speaking, the words arranging themselves on your tongue.

“I feel like… like I don’t really know who I am, when I am with you.”

The statement surprises you, but you know it’s true. You hardly recognise yourself, at times. So many parts of your personality are gone, with some pieces were left behind in your homeland, and others ripped away in the accident. The only parts of you left are needy, clinging. Not new, just unfamiliar, forgotten. And though it feels nice to lean into it, at times — especially with them — this isn’t all of you. It can’t be. 

You release your grip from your thigh, and wipe your eyes. Then you turn to Wanda. She looks worried: her head is tilted, and her hands are still, frozen against the back of your head and you right leg. When you look into her eyes, you notice that they look a little more shiny than usual. Have you made her upset?

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly, voice panicked and trembling. “I don’t mean to… I’m sorry.”

“You’re not a burden,” Natasha’s voice assures you. “And it’s okay to share how you’re feeling with us. It’s important.”

Reluctantly — because you really want to see her, and make sure she’s okay — you turn away from Wanda, and look to Natasha. She looks serious, and her arms move to cross over her chest, then loosen, and fall to her lap again. 

“Is there anything we can do to help?” She asks, then she pauses, her jaw tightening ever so slightly. One of her eyebrows lifts quizzically as she adds another question. "Or anything you want us to stop doing?”

You look down to your lap again. You don’t want them to stop being that special kind of soft with you, even if it would probably resolve all the confusing feelings it brings. You just maybe need an outlet. A way to balance it out with other pieces of yourself. A way to remind you — and perhaps remind them — that you’re still yourself; still smart and strong and capable.

“You don’t need to stop anything,” you whisper, feeling your cheeks blush at your answer, and all it entails. The admission that you like them at their most gentle, that you like the hugs and the nicknames and even the slight hint of condescension which imbues their affection with an additional dizzying aura. At your words, Wanda resumes her gentle stroking of your hair, and she deepens the pressure above your knee. Like she was waiting for your confirmation. Like she wanted it. 

“Okay,” Natasha acknowledges quietly. “We won’t stop anything. But we want to help, lapushka. Can you think of anything we can do? Or anything you want to do?”

You try to think, fidgeting with the hem of your shorts as you attempt to reorder your thoughts. But nothing comes. You frown at your lap, frustration building. You want to answer her, you want to supply an idea, and please her. But you can’t.

Natasha’s hand finds yours, interlocking your fingers together. You look up at her, and she smiles gently.

“It’s okay,” she reassures you. “I can help with ideas. What about if we think about exercise first? Is that something you need?”

“Yes,” you whisper, grateful for the prompt. 

“Tell us,” Natasha encourages, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. You nod, and take a deep breath.

“I need to get outside,” you say quietly, your words slow at first, but gradually gaining rhythm and confidence as you continue. “At least once a day, for a bit. I need the fresh air, and the movement.”

“Okay,” Natasha agrees, smiling and nodding in a way which bolsters you even more. “What else?”

“Sometimes I might need a bit more,” you admit, biting your lip briefly, but continuing when Natasha continues to nod. “I know I should be resting, but sometimes I just get so overwhelmed, and when I do, exercise is kind of the only thing that helps.” You turn to look at Wanda. She doesn’t seem upset, like you feared she would. In fact, she gives you a little smile. She seems proud. It makes your cheeks feel warm again. 

“Would using the gym help?” she asks you, and you nod shyly, grateful for her understanding.

“Yes please. If that’s okay. I won’t use it without your permission, I promise.”

Wanda nods at that.

“As long as Natasha or I can supervise, then it’s okay with me, myšička. But if you feel like you’re getting to that point, can you talk to one of us, please? I don’t want you struggling on your own, and reaching that point of overwhelm. We need to have other strategies, too.”

You nod, both embarrassed and touched by her request.

“I… talking is hard, sometimes,” you admit quietly. “But I’ll try. I promise.”

“That’s all we ask for,” Natasha tells you, squeezing your hand again. “Even if you can’t find the words, just find one of us, and we can be with you. We can go for a walk, or do something together to distract, if that helps.”

Your eyes fill with tears again, but happy, relieved ones this time. You’ve never felt so seen, so understood. So held.

“Thank you,” you whisper. Natasha smiles at you, her gaze so soft, so far from the stern demeanour you first associated her with. 

“You said being busy helps,” she reminds you. “Do you want to go into college? Do you feel ready?”

You squirm slightly in your seat, a little overwhelmed by the direct question, and the reminder of your meltdown earlier today.

“I think so,” you breathe, biting your lip and looking down at your lap, trying to focus on what you want, rather than what you think they want to hear. “I think it would help, to have something to do. But I maybe need to start with just a little bit, and see how it goes.”

“That sounds sensible,” Wanda agrees, and her accepting tone reassures you enough to look up at her. “Darling, I don’t want to hold you hostage here, or force you to rest. I just don’t want you to overdo it, and hurt yourself.”

“I know,” you whisper, feeling small. Wanda watches you, breathing in deeply through her nose, then releasing it in a slow, silent exhale.

“How about you email your supervisor and see about rearranging that meeting?” she suggests, giving you a smile.

“Are you sure?” you check, and she nods. Her permission means the world to you, and you want her to know that. You wish you could hug her, touch her — but you have no free hand, and you can’t even lean against her in this position, as it would hurt your shoulder. So all you have to offer are your words, your smile, and your grateful tears. “Thank you, Wanda.”

She beams at you, and moves her hand from your neck to wipe your tears away with her thumb. 

“You’re welcome, sweetheart. When you have a time, let me know, and I can make sure to get you there.”

You nod, and your smile has to suffice as thanks this time, because you feel far too choked up with gratitude and relief to speak.

“Is there anything else you want to talk about?” Natasha asks then, and you shake your head. “Okay. We can leave it there for now, then. Thank you for talking to us, lapushka. We appreciate it.”

You feel your body relax a little, making you realise how much tension you were still holding. This conversation has been built up in your head over the last few hours, as some terrifying, earth-shattering thing — but it’s over now, and you feel better, not worse for it. 

“Do you want to take a bath now?” Wanda asks you, and you nod. Words have escaped you. You feel so tired, so spent from all the emotions. 

“Okay,” she whispers, cupping your cheek and squeezing above your knee before standing up and holding her hand out to you. You’ll accept it in a moment, but for now you turn to Natasha. Checking her face, checking for something. She smiles, and gives your hand a squeeze. 

“It’s okay, lapushka,” she reassures you softly. “You go with Wanda, and I’ll finish getting dinner ready. When you’re ready, we can eat at the table, and then come down here to watch some TV before bed. Does that sound okay?”

You nod silently, your lips quirking up into a small smile of relief. You didn’t know what you needed, when you looked to her. But whatever it was, she gave it to you.

Natasha lifts your hand to her lips, and gives it a little kiss.

“Go on, kroshka moya. I’ll see you soon.”

She moves your hand to Wanda’s, facilitating an easy transfer. Wanda helps you stand, guiding you out the narrow channel between the sofa and the table, then out the living room and up the stairs. 

Together, you all the way to your room, where she says something to you. But her words sound muffled, like you’re underwater. You blink at her, lost in a daze. Wanda just smiles adoringly at you, then guides you to sit on the end of your bed. And you watch her find clothes for you, taking them out the drawers. She builds a little bundle, then returns to you and guides you back out, back down the stairs, through her bedroom and into the bathroom. 

It takes a while for your brain to catch up to the movement, to the changes. You watch the water flowing out the taps, mesmerised and missing Wanda’s words. She captures your attention with a hand cupped under your chin, gently turning your head to look at her.

“Myšička?”

You watch her lips move, unable to find meaning in the muffled sound. But you feel her. Taking your hand and squeezing it. Brushing her thumb over your cheek. Her touch, pulling you back to her. 

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” she asks you, her expression wavering between worry and something else, something almost… pleased. 

“Wanda…?” you whisper, wanting her closer, but unsure how to say it. Your lips wobble with the effort, but you can’t produce the words.

“I’m here,” she tells you, looking deep into your eyes, like she’s searching to find out what it is that you want to say.

Everything feels so heavy, and you just want her to take the weight from you, to hold you in her arms and make everything feel better. Your head droops and leans into her, falling to rest on her shoulder, face turning into her neck. Wanda’s arms waste no time in moving to embrace you. Even without words, she knows what you need. 

“It’s okay, little one,” she soothes you, as you whimper in her skin. “You’re safe here. Safe with Mo… with me.”

Her words blur in your head, the sounds melting together, coalescing into something new. You’re too dazed to register it properly, but it settles there, the idea embedding itself in your brain. Stored in your subconscious. Saved for later.

Wanda rocks you slightly in her arms, as she whispers sweet nothings into your ear. You melt into her, your left hand finding her shirt and taking tight hold near the hem. Clinging to this piece of her, scared she’ll let go and set you adrift.

“I’m so tired,” you tell her, and it comes out in a sad little whine.

“I know, honey. Just let me take care of you now, okay? Let me do the thinking.”

“Okay,” you whisper, and the word feels like an exhale, like letting go. 

It feels good to let her. It feels good to give in.

Wanda hugs you for a few moments longer, then unravels you from her arms, placing one hand under your chin, and the other on your vice-like grip of her shirt, stroking it and coaxing you to release her. 

“Let’s get these clothes off,” she murmurs, smiling reassuringly at you, then moving both hands behind your neck, to release the sling. It’s no more sore than usual, but you feel so sensitive right now, and you wince and whimper as she removes it from your arm. “I know it hurts, baby; I’m sorry,” Wanda coos sympathetically, and it makes you feel a bit better, hearing her words. Just a little. 

Wanda carefully takes your tank top off, sliding your good arm out, taking it up over your head and then sliding it bit by bit down your bad arm, which she holds carefully at the same right-angle. She has become your sling, your protector. 

She sighs sadly, and you look up at her in worry, afraid that you’ve done something wrong.

“Oh sweetheart — I shouldn’t have let you choose this bra this morning. Your poor shoulder must be so sore from the tension…” 

Your lip wobbles, and you open your mouth to apologise again, because you feel so awful, and it’s all your fault, not hers…

But Wanda’s free hand takes your chin quickly, and she presses her forefinger against your lips in a shushing gesture.

“You don’t need to apologise,” she tells you, her voice back to calm, rather than regretful. “I know for next time — I won’t let you wear it for the whole day. Just if you need to exercise, okay?” Her finger brushes down over your lips, and your breath catches a little as you stare up at her avid gaze, your eyes flickering down to her own lips, which press against each other in a very small rolling motion, then curl into a smile. You look away, afraid that she’s noticed your wandering gaze and the heat in your cheeks. “Hold your arm steady for me, please,” she directs you gently, and you obey, staring down and trying to avoid glancing at her chest as she comes a little closer to reach the bra clasp on your back. When she unlatches it, the relief is immediate. Your skin prickles in the place it has left, and you realise, too late, that you’ve been overstimulated all day, the tension of your sports bra a constant drain on your energy and resilience since Wanda helped you put it on this morning. All these things about yourself, that you never notice. The reminder of your uselessness pokes at you, the jabs of self-loathing so prominent in your mind that you barely register your half-naked state. 

Wanda takes hold of your bad arm again, then reaches to turn the taps off. You glance over and see there is a thick layer of bubbles on the surface, enough to cover you completely once you’re in.

“Let’s give your shoulder a proper rest, tonight,” Wanda says, cupping your cheek with her right hand and tilting her head slightly as she speaks to you. “We'll leave the swimming costume, and the shower. Just a bath, and then I can get you straight into some pyjamas, hm?”

You blink at her, the words sinking in slowly, and meeting no resistance inside your mind. So you nod, and are rewarded with her smile. 

“Good girl,” Wanda praises, making you smile back happily. “Can you take your shorts off for me, sweetheart? Then I can get you in.”

You blush when your brain catches up, but still you don’t feel scared or uncomfortable at the prospect. It makes sense, to save time and pain and pressure on your shoulder. Wanda’s already seen so much of you, and she’s never stared or acted weird around your body. So what does a little more skin matter, really? You trust her. 

You move your left hand to the top of your shorts and tug them down, pushing the elasticated waistband down your thighs until it meets no more resistance and the shorts fall down to your ankles. You step out carefully, then push the fabric with your foot to meet the crumpled bundle of your vest top and bra on the floor, followed by the socks which you pry off with your toes. Your shorts have built-in briefs, so you’re entirely bare now, no fabric nor willpower left to hide any part of yourself from her.

“My beautiful, brave girl,” Wanda whispers, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your forehead. She keeps her gaze on your face, never straying to your naked body. It calms you. It makes it feel natural to be like this, with her. “Let’s get you in now.”

You let her take hold of your left hand and guide you to step into the bath. The water is pleasantly warm, not too hot that you’re hesitant to sink in. You crouch down and then sit, feeling the water lap against you and the bubbles press and burst at your edges. It’s a relief to be engulfed like this. Although the exposure was brief and Wanda entirely discreet, you still have enough grip of your faculties to know you ought to be embarrassed, even if you don’t exactly feel it branded on your skin right now. 

Wanda moves to the shelf and finds a hairbrush, then returns to your side, crouching down so she’s not looming over you. 

“I’m going to brush your hair out first, myšička,” she explains, her voice soft and soothing. You nod pliantly, unconcerned. She could probably say anything right now, and you’d agree. 

Wanda brushes your ponytail first, holding the bunch near the top to prevent pulling. She works out the tangles, then takes the hair bobble out and continues to tease out the remaining tangles, starting with small strokes at the bottom, then working up until she’s brushed it all the way through. You feel your eyes drooping, the repetitive strokes against your scalp lulling your deeper into the haze. 

“I’m turning the shower on now, sweetheart,” Wanda tells you, and you just hum in recognition. You hear it turn on, feel the water splash behind you as she tests the temperature. “Okay. Lean back for me, honey.”

Wanda rinses your hair, then massages in the shampoo, making your eyes flutter shut in contentment. 

“Keep your eyes shut for me, sweetheart, while I wash out the shampoo,” Wanda advises, before turning the shower on again and rinsing out the suds. You keep your eyes tight shut until you hear her turn the shower off, and feel her hand squeeze your left shoulder gently. “All done.”

You open your eyes and turn to see her. She smiles at you with such sweetness in her eyes. So kind, you could almost call it loving. 

“Let me get your loofah, and I’ll help you with your arms and back,” she says quietly, standing up and walking away. You frown, your brain seeing her leave before you’re able to process her words, the panic overriding your comprehension. Don’t go, you think desperately. Don’t leave me. Wanda walks to the shower cubicle and slides open the door, reaching in. Her arms returns holding the pale-green loofah she bought you. Her other hand slide the door shut again, and then she turns back to walk towards you. Your body relaxes in relief, and she tilts her head as she approaches, her lips curling up as she considers you. 

“Did you think I was leaving?” she asks you, her nose scrunching up with amusement as she crouches down at the side of the tub and gives your nose a gentle boop with her finger.

“Nuh-uh…” you protest, looking away and blushing at your stupidity. Wanda chuckles quietly, and you poke at the bubbles on the water with your left hand, embarrassment washing over you and spilling out in petulance. Wanda stops laughing then, and brushes her thumb against your cheek.

“I’m not leaving you, miláčik,” Wanda assures you, the mirth gone from her voice, leaving only her heartfelt words. “I promise.”

You breath out, the action halfway between a huff and a sigh of relief. Your hand settles on the surface of the water, your movements slowing and shifting from destructive to explorative on the foam.

“Will you let me wash your back and arms?” Wanda asks, the first real question in a while. She waits patiently for your response, clearly wanting an honest answer this time.

“Okay,” you whisper, after considering. You glance up at her, see her soft smile, then turn back to the bubbles. You’re caught between the realistic need for consent, and the desire for her to just take control — because it’s easier, then. You prefer it when you don’t have to think, don’t have to perform the charade of handing over your control every time. In truth, you’d let her control just about any part of your life without question. If she gave you a direction, you would follow it. Happily. When she asks your permission, it just draws attention to your yielding nature, and makes you doubt if she wants it. 

Wanda moves to the end of the bath again, soaks the loofah in the water behind you, then starts to wash the back of your shoulders. It feels a little scratchy against your skin, but she’s gentle, and the warm water is doing a little to soften the rough texture. Still, the coarse sensation seems to awaken you, and unearths a niggling doubt inside you.

“W-Wanda?” you ask quietly, nibbling at your lower lip as you wait for her response. She stops what she is doing at once, moving back round to the side of the bathtub and crouching down so she can see your face. 

“Yes, darling?”

“Is — is it weird for you?” you ask, voice wobbling. “Having to help me like this?” You try to look at her, but have to alternate between her eyes and the water, because her gaze is too intense, too attentive for you to meet.

“Not at all,” she tells you, and when you look back at her you see the worry has melted from her eyebrows, and her lips have curled into a smile. She reaches out with her free hand, cupping your cheek and stroking her thumb over your cheekbone. “Honestly, little one… I really like it. I like looking after you. I like when you let me.”

“Really?”

“Really really.”

You consider her words, watching her for a while, like you might see a crack in the act. But she holds your gaze, maintains her smile. She means it. You can see that she’s telling the truth. But that doesn’t mean that you understand. 

“But… why?” you ask, struggling to accept it, struggling to believe that she’d want to do all this for you. 

“Because I care about you,” she says simply, never stopping the soothing motions of her thumb against your cheek, “and I like to look after the people I care about, myšička, and make them feel safe, and happy.” She studies you as you take this in. “Do you like it when I look after you?”

You blush, because the answer is obvious, and yet she wants you to say it.

“Yes,” you whisper shyly, holding her gaze even though you want to hide. Wanda smiles.

“Then that’s all that matters,” she says quietly. “Okay?”

You nod in her hold, and she leans forward and presses a kiss against your forehead.

“Good girl.”

And with that, she moves to the end of the tub again, and continues to wash your back. You slide your feet towards your body, raising your knees and pressing them together. Beneath the water, you ache.

Wanda washes your arms and carefully wipes your underarms, then hands the loofah to you and directs you to wash yourself while she readies the towel. You do, blushing and staring resolutely down at the water, feeling thankful for the staying power of the bubbles tonight. Once you’ve cleaned yourself all over — as much as you can, with one arm available for use and one pinned painfully beneath your chest — you squeeze out the loofah, and place it on the rim of the tub. 

“Finished?” Wanda asks, and you nod shyly. She smiles, and raises the towel with both hands, ready to cover you. “Can you stand by yourself?” 

You nod again, glad she’s allowing you to do so, and preparing to preserve your dignity as swiftly as possible when you rise. With your left hand pressing against the rim, you push yourself up to stand, and let Wanda wrap the towel around your body, placing it over your right shoulder and under your left armpit, to keep your bad arm safely compressed and your good arm free. 

“Not too tight?” she checks, and you shake your head. “Alright, let’s get you out safely.” She keeps hold of the towel with one hand, and takes your free hand in her other, helping you step out onto the bathmat. The change in temperature makes you shiver, and Wanda, noticing, doesn’t waste any time in trying to get you dry. She’s careful of your arm and she makes sure not to linger too long or too close in certain areas, but overall she’s clinical and efficient. When she’s done, she rearranges the towel in the same way, so she can clasp it together at your front with one hand. She leans down to pick up the socks from the floor, then gives you a gentle tug with the towel, moving you two steps towards the shelf to add the bundle of clean clothes she picked out to the pair of socks in her hand. The she leads you towards the door, out into her bedroom, where she gently guides you to sit on the edge of her bed, and moves your left hand to replace her grip of the towel. You stare at her expectantly, brain completely blank and waiting for instructions. Your hair drips onto the towel, and your shoulder feels sore from the strain of holding it up without the sling, but you can’t find it within you to care or complain. All you can think of is Wanda, because she crouches in front of you, sliding your dangling feet through the holes of your underwear, and gently sliding the fabric up over your knees. Then she does the same with a pair of pyjama shorts, and finally she replaces the fluffy socks from before. 

“Pull these up, baby,” she tells you, giving you a little pat on your knee. Every time she uses that nickname, it makes you feel so flustered and needy. But it’s a nice feeling, somehow. You wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

You stand up slowly, and fumble awkwardly to shuffle the underwear and shorts up beneath the towel. When you finish,  she smiles praisingly and takes over holding the towel again. She readies the sling behind you on the bed, then holds up one of your oversized t-shirts and gives you a moment to process, before unwrapping the towel from around you and placing it down on the floor. She’s quick to cover you, sliding your bad arm through the sleeve then letting you wriggle your other in before slipping it over your head. The feeling of the soft, loose t-shirt calms you. You’re covered, but not compressed. After a day of emotional upheaval and physical tension, this is what you need.

Wanda carefully pulls your hair out where it’s been tucked beneath the t-shirt, then she starts putting your sling back on. It’s a relief when it’s over, and you can relax your arm muscles again. 

“Now, my darling — I’m going to get changed out of my work clothes and into something comfy too. Would you like to go downstairs and see if dinner is ready?”

You stare at her. She’s worded it as a question, and it confuses you. If she’d given it as an instruction, you would have obeyed, albeit reluctantly. But she’s asked you, and your honest answer would be no. 

Is that even okay? For your answer to be no? 

“C-can I stay?” you ask meekly. Then, realising that this sounds weird and intrusive, you amend your request with haste. “Or — can I wait outside for you? Please?”

Wanda smiles, that nose-scrunching smile that tells you she’s happy, amused. She takes your hand and gives it a little squeeze.

“Of course you can stay, my love. Take a seat and I’ll be quick.” With her hold of your hand, she pushes you back a little until your thighs touch the edge of the bed. You sit, staring at her and mourning the loss of her touch as she lets go of your hand, picks the towel up from the floor and moves to her walk-in closet. When you look down at your lap, you feel that same ache inside. Along with a dampness between your legs, that you can’t entirely blame on the bathwater.

Wanda emerges a minute later in a plain blue t-shirt and light grey joggers, holding a small, thin towel in her hand. 

“For your hair,” she tells you quietly, as she sits down on the bed beside you. “So you don’t get cold, during dinner.” She wraps your hair in it, then gently dries it off. At one point, you feel her chest press against your shoulder as she leans to reach the other side of your head. You bite the inside of your cheek, willing your body not to betray you, but feeling the warmth and the ache blooming anyway.

“Good enough, I think,” Wanda decides, standing up again and walking to the bathroom you watch her walk in and hang the bathmat over the side of the tub, before picking up your running clothes. She brings them and the towel back to her closet, where you assume she must have a laundry basket. “Okay,” she says then, offering her hand as she approaches, “let’s go down and see Natty. Dinner must be ready by now.”

———

When you reach the kitchen, the table is already set, and Natasha is already standing up from her stool at the counter, smiling in greeting.

“Ready when you are,” she says warmly.

Wanda guides you to sit in your usual seat, but then she sits down on the chair at the end, not her usual place opposite you. Natasha doesn’t seem to bat an eye at this, she just rearranges the place settings, moving the plate, glass and cutlery from where she normally sits, to the space in front of Wanda. Then she sits down in Wanda’s usual seat, and smiles reassuringly at you. She doesn’t seem bothered by Wanda’s closeness to you. In fact, she seems happy. It undoes the knot of worry before it can tug itself tight.

You don’t feel hungry at first, and you expect to struggle through even the small plate Natasha serves you, but find yourself pleasantly surprised by your appetite, once you start eating. The food is good, really good, and it’s perhaps also going down better tonight, because you actually did a bit of exercise today. Whenever you look up, Natasha seems to be pleased. And though Wanda doesn’t draw attention to your improved appetite with her words, she grants you an affectionate touch every so often, conveying her approval with a stroke of your hair, or a light squeeze above your knee. 

When you finish your plate, you nibble your lip and look up. Natasha watches you for a moment, still chewing. 

“Would you like some more?” she asks once she’s swallowed. Her voice is neutral; her smile is soft and unassuming. You do want more, but there’s that familiar tug in your brain, holding you back. Natasha tilts her head, but her expression doesn’t change. You know she’s figuring you out, though. She’s good at reading you. Maybe even better than Wanda, at times. “You know, I gave you a small portion to begin with,” she says casually. “Just to see if you liked it. It’s okay to have more, if you want.”

You look down at your plate, thinking. Fighting. 

“Yes please,” you say quietly, looking back up at her and feeling the tension ease in your chest as you breathe out. She nods, her face unchanged apart from the smallest little twitch at the left corner of her lips. A tiny, hidden smile. A smile she’s containing, so she doesn’t put pressure on you. Knowing that makes it seep in through your skin, warm like a hug.

After dinner, the three of you move downstairs to the sofa, and Wanda presses play on the next episode of She-Ra without pre-amble or discussion. You tuck your feet up beneath you for a bit, your left hand lifting to your mouth and the fingernail of your forefinger pressing against your lips until you notice the habit and move your hand back to your lap. You feel so tired but also there’s still that familiar, constant buzzing in your body that won’t still. The longer you spend around them, and the more comfortable you feel in their presence, the harder it is to hide. You cross your legs and shuffle back against the cushions. But that stance only lasts for a minute, before you have to try another, sliding forward to dangle your legs over the edge again. 

“Y/N, would you like me to braid your hair again?” Natasha asks. You turn to face her, sitting cross legged in the corner and waiting patiently for your response. You nod.

“Yes please.”

“Alright,” Natasha says, with a smile. She reaches forward, and pulls a hairbrush out from the shelf beneath the coffee table. Then she opens her legs into a V, placing her feet flat on the cushions at either side so her knees can lift up and form a clear space for you to sit. She pats the empty spot expectantly, and you stand up, left arm curling around your stomach as you approach. You sit down, and she gives you a gentle squeeze on your good shoulder.

“Same braid?” she asks you, and you nod. “Alright. Just focus on the screen to keep your head straight. If it hurts, let me know, okay?”

“Okay,” you agree.

There’s a pause, in which you curl your fingers a little deeper into your waist, trying to contain the buzz, and the urge to move. Natasha seems to be considering something, considering you.

“Can you hold this for me?” she asks, holding something out in her left hand, and forcing you to unravel your anxious hold of your torso to accept the hair tie she holds out to you.

Natasha starts brushing your hair then, and you look back to the screen. You roll the hair tie between your fingertips, twisting and stretching it subconsciously as you tune back in to the episode. The combination of watching the show, fidgeting with the hair tie, and feeling Natasha’s fingers pull your hair into a tight braid — it settles you, muffling the buzz like a weighted blanket, until finally it fades away completely.

A/N: Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed this, and I wish you well ♡

Taglist: (comment below if you'd like to be added to this) @nessheartnat ; @valerie-lexi ; @bishovapls ; @redheadsinmybed ; @electric-guillotines ; @naominanuq ; @alpalpym ; @dreaming-potato ; @snowazul ; @deathbylesbianwitches ; @queen-of-chaotic-surprises ; @loverluzer ; @methealt ; @theslutoflasignora ; @godhatesgoodgirls ; @absolutelyregal

[pedroscurls]

Hii love. Can you please do something about Harry or Joel. He has some type of insecurity and it gets worse one night when you are out at an activity or party maybe. You looked beautiful and lots of guys kept talking to you and trying to make a move.

So after you finally realize what is wrong with Harry/Joel, you make sure he feels loved and understands you only have eyes for him.

Something like that, thank you!

no one else comes close (one-shot)

pairing: harry castillo x fem!reader content warning(s): spoilers, so please beware!!!, harry POV, harry's super insecure, established relationship, no physical descriptions of reader (we're all beautiful here!!!), no use of y/n. word count: 1.9k a/n: shout out to you, anon for this incredibly sweet request! i don't usually take requests, but i loved this idea so much and i've been obsessed with harry that i couldn't not write it. hope you enjoy this and ty for sending this in <3 (btw this isn't proofread lol, i wrote this in like 2 hrs bc it's just such a good idea! so if there are errors, sorry in advanced!)

Harry was never a jealous man—at least not until he was in a relationship with you. It was ridiculous really because you had never given him the reason to feel this way. Whenever you both went out, he had gotten used to the lingering glances that would come your way. You were always so polite, so kind to everyone you met. 

But tonight, he wasn’t sure why the scars on his legs were making him insecure. It was one of the first things he told you—he didn’t want any secrets between either of you. You had looked at him with such a sad look on your face that Harry wasn’t sure if you were pitying him or embarrassed for him. It had taken him by surprise when you told him that you were sorry he felt that way, that he felt so strongly about increasing his height that he had to endure all that pain. 

Harry knew he loved you at that moment. You had always been different from the women he dated, but you never did care about his money or any of the materialistic things he had to offer you. You had been hurt in the past and the only thing you asked of him was to be completely and truthfully honest with you—about anything, about everything. 

Even now, as the men at the bar are casting glances in your direction, Harry couldn’t help but curl his hands into fists against the counter of the bar. It shouldn’t bother him, especially since there’s a pretty decent-sized engagement ring sitting on your finger. He tried to smile at what you and his brother were saying, but he couldn’t help but continue to look around the room. 

He had to wonder if he hadn’t been the height he was at now, would you even be interested in him? Would you have even gone on a first date with him? Said yes to marry him? Harry knew the answer to all of the questions that nagged at him—yes. 

Yes—you would still have been interested in him, would still have gone on that first date with him, and you certainly would have said yes to marry him. Harry knew that you didn’t care about looks, about height—you loved him for him. The good. The bad. The ugly. You accepted him entirely, even embraced parts of him that he tried so hard to push aside because it just never worked in the past. With you, Harry felt like himself. 

Harry heard you whisper into his ear that you were going on the dance floor with Charlotte—his sister-in-law. He didn’t have time to object, to instead tell you that he wanted to go home. You were already halfway to the dance floor, body swaying expertly to the beat of the music. He watched you vigilantly, keeping a careful eye on you. Even from afar, you made sure to glance in his direction and smile at him—a smile so big that it met your eyes and Harry, for a brief moment, forgot the lingering insecurity and jealousy that he felt all night. 

Harry winked at you and then decided to look away. You were going home with him, so he had no reason to be jealous. His brother clasped him on his shoulder and they ordered another round of drinks, casually talking about work. It hadn’t been five minutes before Harry felt the urge to look at you again. He looked over his shoulder casually, caught a glimpse of your smile before he turned back around. Slowly, he felt more comfortable—the jealousy and insecurity now an afterthought. 

Leg lengthening surgery—as painful as it was—had been the best decision of his life. Harry felt more respected, more valuable. No one else needed to know that he had gone through great lengths just to add six inches to his height. It bothered him though, how other men who were naturally six feet and above would just take it for granted. He tried not to think so materialistically, especially since you had told him that you never had an issue with dating someone under six feet, but there were moments where he couldn’t help it. He had grown up around that kind of thinking—the way you presented yourself mattered. 

“Oh shit,” he heard his brother whisper under his breath, pulling Harry out of his thoughts. 

Harry’s brows furrowed in confusion until he followed his brother’s gaze to the dance floor. A man was trying to dance with you and there was a look of discomfort in your features that he noticed immediately. Through your discomfort, Harry noticed how you had gently taken a step back from the other man—to distance your body with his. He wasn’t sure what you were telling him, but from the look of disappointment on the other man’s face, Harry had an idea.

“She can handle herself,” Harry replied to his brother, though he hoped that saying it out loud would convince himself that he didn’t need to intervene. 

Harry met your eyes and he gave you a single nod, which you returned instantly. You were ready to go home and Harry was more than willing to leave. As you were walking back to the bar though, several men tried to come up to you and strike a conversation. You forced a smile and politely declined, oblivious to their lingering eyes on your body. Harry’s jaw tightened and he downed his drink in one gulp before excusing himself to meet you halfway. 

“Yeah, think it’s time to go,” he heard his brother say from behind him. 

Harry didn’t bother to respond. His main focus was to get to you. Once at an arm’s distance, Harry reached out for you and took your hand, immediately pulling you into his chest. His strong arms wrapped around your waist, forehead leaning down to rest against your own. To you, Harry was being sweet, but to him—he was telling every man in this bar that you were off-limits. 

“Can we go home?” he asked quietly, hand coming up to rest on your cheek. 

“Yeah, let’s go home.” 

Back at Harry’s penthouse, he had already changed into a black t-shirt and sleep pants. He was in the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water as his mind drifted again. Tonight had given him a glimpse of a life that he didn’t want—a life without you. You could have been with any other guy in that bar, could have said yes to someone else other than him and again, he wondered if you would have even said yes if he was at his actual height of 5’6. 

Harry didn’t hear you come into the kitchen, but he felt your soft touch on his shoulder. He cleared his throat quietly and turned around to face you—his insecurity written all over his face as his deep brown eyes softened at the sight of you. 

“Hey,” you whispered, hands coming up to rest on his chest. “You okay?” 

Harry nodded, kissed your cheek, and then pulled away. “Just tired. Ready for bed?” 

You furrowed a brow. Harry knew better than to lie to you. “Yeah, I am,” you answered. “But something’s wrong. I can tell.” 

Harry shook his head. “Nothing’s wrong, baby,” he lied once more. 

You sighed and moved to sit on one of the stools at the counter, arms crossed over your chest. Harry bit the inside of his cheek nervously and rested his forearms against the counter as he leaned against it, staring into your eyes. 

“If I wasn’t six feet tall, would you still be with me? Would you have even said yes when I asked you out on a date?” Harry blurted out.

“What?”

“If you met me and noticed that I was actually 5’6, would that have made a difference? Would we even be here?” He repeated.

You reached out for his hand and leaned forward to press your lips against the back of it. You never looked away, just held his gaze. “Yes, we would be right here where we’re meant to be even if you were 5’6,” you answered. “Your height isn’t the reason why I said yes. You know this.”

“I know… I just—” Harry sighed. “A lot of men like to stare at you. No matter where we are—bar, restaurant, even at a fucking family party. And tonight, it just got to me. All these men were just gawking at you,” he finally looked away—embarrassed that he was even feeling this way. “And then some even had the audacity to ask you to dance or even for your number despite the engagement ring you’re wearing.”

“Harry,” you whispered, climbing off the stool to stand next to him. You gently released his hand, only to have him turn his body to face you. You reached up and cupped his cheek—his eyes filled with so much sadness. “I chose you because you make me laugh, make me smile… We can talk literally about anything and nothing at the same time. My favorite place to be is in your arms. You’re my best friend, six feet or not. Rich or poor. You’re the only one I have eyes for,” you continued. “I chose you before. I’m choosing you now. And I will continue to choose you for the rest of my life.”

Harry’s eyes softened instantly, glistening with tears that threatened to spill over. He moved a hand to your hip, gripping it tightly under his grasp as he pulled you flush against him. “I’m just in my head and—”

“Stop,” you interrupted. “You have every right to feel the way that you do. Your feelings are valid, baby. But I’m here to tell you that if you need a reminder, I’m more than happy to tell you just how much I love you—how you’re the only man for me. No one else comes close, Harry.” 

Harry nodded and moved his other hand to your hip before wrapping both arms tightly around you to pull you into a tight embrace. His face buried against the crook of your neck as he let out a heavy sigh when your hands moved to rub his back soothingly. He hadn’t ever felt a kind of love like this before. 

“I love you,” he whispered. 

“I love you too,” you answered instantly, pressing a soft kiss against his temple. “Now, let’s go to bed so that we can cuddle.” 

Harry smiled and pulled back to look down at you. “Yes, ma’am.” He lifted you into his arms and carried you back to the bedroom. Once he set you on the bed, he pulled off his sleep pants and set it aside before climbing onto the bed and underneath the sheets. Harry immediately spooned you from behind, his arm draping over your midsection as he held you close to him. 

“You know you can tell me anything, right?” you whispered. 

Harry nodded against you, face buried against you. “I know, baby. I just didn’t want to bother you with all of the things that were going on in my head.”

“Hmm,” you mumbled, moving a hand over his and lacing your fingers together. “You’d never bother me, Harry. Besides, if the roles were reversed, I know you’d tell me the same thing.”

He chuckled and kissed the side of your neck. “Okay, fair point.” 

You smiled proudly and leaned back against him. Harry tightened his grip around you and shut his eyes. “Good night, Harry.” 

“Good night, baby,” he whispered. Harry knew that his insecurities wouldn’t magically go away, but he felt safe and heard with you by his side. He brushed his thumb across your engagement ring and he let out a contented sigh. “Thank you for choosing me,” he said quietly. 

[nostalgiaforplacesweneverknew]

It could be a headcanon of Lewis Pullman's characters reacting to his girlfriend's (who has vision problems) new glasses because the new ones look good on her.

As a girl who wears glasses, I love this <3 thank you for sending this in!

Lewis Pullman characters x fem!Reader | 2.0k | Headcanon, tons of fluff <3, a little bit suggestive but nothing explicit (still, 18+/MDNI).

You could be doing something so mundane, like sitting at the dining table going over some mail or personal documents or something, and Rocco Gauthier doesn’t really understand it himself—but he is ready to wife you up. You absentmindedly push your glasses up your nose when they slide down and he's like, “Oh my god, marry me.” And you’re so puzzled? But also like, “Okay???” not thinking he’s serious. But then he’s giving you a ring and telling you he wants a fall wedding. Next step? Baby making, of course 😏

I love the idea of Bob Reynolds finding you asleep on the couch after watching TV or something, and he’s just like smiling wryly to himself like, “oh, silly girl, she did it again”. He goes over to maybe gently wake you up so you can go sleep in your bed, or maybe he’s about to princess carry you back to your room… but then he notices them, your new glasses. And for a minute, he’s just… really soft? He’s suddenly overcome with this really quiet, swelling affection for you. He sits on the couch right next to you just to look at you for a few seconds, brushing some hair away from your face near the temples. You stir under his touch, and when you open your eyes and smile at him, he’s whispering, “you’re beautiful”. 

Miles Miller loves them, of course. He spends that first day just staring at you while you talk, maybe quietly reaching out to touch them like he’s still getting used to them, like he loves that there’s something new about you for him to memorize. And when guests at the hotel comment on them, he gets this tiny, proud little smile on his face, like yeah, he’s the one who gets to kiss the pretty, glasses-wearing dream girl behind the front desk.

Bob Floyd can’t stop sneaking glances at you, eyes flicking up to your face and then darting away. Then back again. Then away again. “You look… different, is all,” he says shyly when you ask him what’s wrong, and then his cheeks turn pink, “Not bad different! Like, good different… really good.” He also thinks it’s really funny because, before, you could just kiss him without a problem but now one of you has to take off your glasses first so they don’t crash into each other—so now whenever you take off your glasses, even for totally innocent reasons, he’s already licking his lips in anticipation.

I don’t think Calvin Evans would gush or make any grand declarations. We know Calvin doesn’t place a huge emphasis on looks, so his reaction is much more subdued, but of course he still notices right away. “You got new glasses,” he’d say, a bit flat, more observational than anything else. But then his gaze lingers for a little longer than usual, like he’s studying you. “I like how you looked before, but I really like this too.” And it’s such a simple, quiet statement, but it makes you warm and fuzzy on the inside anyway. He doesn’t say much more about it, but occasionally he reaches out to brush your cheek near the frame whenever you’re standing close. And of course, because he’s a doting husband, he carries extra microfibre cloths for you in case you need something to clean your glasses with. Or you can just use his sleeve, no big deal.

“You changed something,” Thomas Keefer says when he gets home one day, just back from the gym or from a run, all sweat-tousled and pink-cheeked. You point to your new glasses and he just nods once, still staring, still catching his breath. “You don’t like them?” You ask, but he’s shaking his head, “Didn’t say that.” And because he’s a reserved military man, all buttoned-up, disciplined and emotionally in control all the time, he says something super clinical like,  “They’re nice. Sharp, clean lines.” You just give him this unimpressed look before he exhales through his nose, maybe on something of a laugh.  He leans in close and drops his voice to something quiet and low, just for you, “Damn, that look is lethal.” Then he kisses you, slow and deliberate, and you’re much more satisfied with that answer.

Jordan Weaver pretends not to notice at first just to mess with you, because he’s such a little shit. You walk in and he doesn’t react, not even a glance. You step into his line of sight and he briefly looks up from a magazine he’s flipping through, then back down again, casually asking, “Hey babe, what’s up?” And you’re like, “Well? What do you think?” He looks up again to give you the world’s most exaggerated once-over… “About what?” You throw a pillow at him and he finally laughs, “Okay, okay! Damn.” Then he’s pulling you close to give you a real look, one that’s a little cocky and soft all at once. “You look like a sexy teacher… I’m into it. Like, way into it. You gonna teach me somethin’, honey?”

Todd Stevens does a double take, and then he’s coming closer to get right up in your space. “Damn, sweetheart, are you tryin’ to start something, or…?” And he goes on about how you’re giving off sexy librarian vibes and it’s giving him ideas—“Can I come see you after class, ma’am?” and the next time you dress up for nighttime shenanigans you’re wearing a knit cardigan and your glasses are hanging off a beaded necklace and Todd is just so flabbergasted but he’s kind of into it? And also, “You look so hot, I’m gonna have to fight off other boys now. You gonna make me get violent?” And I just—I’m weak.

Rhett Abbot is in front of the house tinkering with his truck, when you walk up wearing your new glasses. He glances up when he hears your footsteps and just freezes, doesn’t say a word for a good five seconds. Then finally: “That look’s dangerous, sweetheart... reckon I’ll be gettin’ in trouble all week because of you.” And he’s just looking at you like the sun’s just come up behind you and he’s never seen anything prettier <3 

Harrison Knott pauses mid-step when he sees you, then clutches his chest like he’s been shot. “Are you trying to kill me? How am I supposed to function when you’re so dang cute?” But you’re still unsure, and when you’re staring into a mirror wondering out loud if you should’ve just gotten contacts instead, Harrison’s protesting immediately. He showers you with like five different compliments in under five minutes, telling you how obsessed he is with the new look. “I don’t look like a nerd?” You ask him, and he’s like, “Are you kidding? That’s why it’s hot.”

Major Major falls in love a little more, thinks you look so sophisticated and elegant. He’s so smitten, maybe stops talking mid-sentence, his eyes going a little wide and his mouth hanging open. He blushes adorably when he realizes he’s staring, when he realizes the whole room just heard him say, without realizing, “…So pretty”. When someone else compliments them, he’ll lean in and mutter something like, “I told you they look nice.” In fact, he likes them so much that sometimes, when you take them off, he’s flustered and asking, “Wait—put them back on for a second… please?”

Ben Mears keeps glancing at you over his computer screen, smiling because you’re giving off more writer vibes than he is. You’re holding your new glasses by one of the temples, the tip tucked between your lips as you read over a draft of his latest manuscript, brows furrowed in concentration and he’s suddenly overwhelmed with the urge kiss you silly. Instead, because you’re trying to be productive and he wants to respect that, he has you come sit in his lap—maybe it’ll inspire him to write something fun. Well, soon he’s kissing all over your neck and your shoulders anyway so it backfires.

𝐉𝐎𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐕𝐈𝐕 ༊*·˚

[pheastinyworld]

it takes time ❀•°•───────•

request: Omg i really love your writing ❤️❤️❤️ but may i request a fluffy with Bedsy pleaseee he deserve to be happy too 🥹

Word count: 2.4k

Warnings: um, none? oh not super proof read yet

author's note: accidently deleted this, you didnt see that. okay okay so there's angst SORRY... BUT just for a bit, it ends fluffy dw. this is also for my darling @belli5 cause she hit 300 yesterday and im so so proud of her!!!

| phe's main masterlist |

you really hadn't meant for it to get this bad. you couldn't pinpoint exactly when it had all started going downhill, but wherever you were at in your relationship wasn’t healthy anymore. you couldn't stay, you were only hurting yourself.

you had known each other since you were kids, growing up next door, your parents relatively close. 

you had known him long before he was considered as ‘connor bedard number one overall draft pick.’ when his family moved into the house next door, your mom sent you over with a freshly baked batch of cookies, ones which you were annoyed about giving away. 

putting on your hoodie to combat the awful weather outside, you only needed to walk a few steps before your spare hand was knocking on their door. within a few seconds, the it swung open with such speed you stumbled back slightly, being met with a wide eyed boy.

“who are you?” he seemed so excited it threw you off a little before you finally said your name.

“i live next door, my mom told me to bring you these.” you shoved the tray of cookies forward with a shy smile. the boy took them like he was given a million dollars.

“thank you.” before stuffing a cookie into his mouth and continuing, mildly incoherently, while chewing, “i'm connor by the way. how old are you?” 

“seven, how old are you?” you asked back, already feeling oddly comfortable around him. his eyebrows shot up and a grin spread on his rosy cheeks.

“me too!” 

you two have only gotten closer since that afternoon. you attended every game of his you could. no matter what, you stayed close. connor moved to play in the whl and you finished high school. both your parents were nervous about what the distance might do to your friendship. luckily on one random saturday morning, after conor had been drafted by the blackhawks, you facetimed him, chicago university acceptance letter in hand. 

you were both new to the city and sticking together made both your parents happier. so, you did what any childhood friends would do and moved in with each other. and somehow, like anyone else would in that situation, you ended up falling in love with your best friend. stupid, right? oh but he just made it so easy.

you would be exhausted, hunched over your textbooks and laptop, the white computer light shining into your bloodshot eyes. connor would rest against the door frame, sighing before walking with careful steps over to you, gently closing your laptop and shushing your whines at him. 

“no, con, i really need to study.” you said, trying to push his hand away, head not even turning towards him once. 

“yeah, but you’ve done so well already, you’ve been studying all night and you look burnt ou-”

“hey!” you scowled at him, pulling the glasses off your face and dropping them on the table. 

“you know i didn't mean it like that,” connor chuckled, holding his hand out with a warm smile. sighing, you took it and let him lead you out and onto the sofa. 

connor let you choose the movie to watch and pulled you close to him, playing with the ends of your hair and rubbing circles on your shoulder. 

and it would go like this all the time. you were just as bad; it takes two to create the mess you found yourself in. 

back-to-back losses for chicago blackhawks and connor was over it; his body felt overworked and his morale was low. dropping his bag down in the entry of your apartment with a thud, you already knew how his mood was going to be, watching the game at home and feeling the sad pang in your chest for him.

his hair would still be damp and his body hugged by a hoodie. you walked towards him, holding gentle expression and opening your arms out for him. connor accepted your embrace without a second thought. 

“come on, let’s get you into bed.” 

you would lead him into his own bedroom, sitting yourself against the headboard so he could rest his head on your stomach.

“played like shit.” he finally mumbled after not speaking. he had always gone quiet when he was upset, ever since he was young. 

but you hated when he did this, because to you, he was the best player you had ever seen, inside and out. “no you didn’t, you played your best. today wasn't your fault.”

it went pretty silent for a while as you ran your fingers through his damp hair. he slowly relaxed, the adrenaline and tension finally releasing under your touch.

“thank you,” and even before you had time to respond, connor quickly added, “love you.”

you shut your eyes, feeling a small pang in your heart. this is probably when you started noticing it. the feelings. voice almost cracking, you responded, “love you too darling.”

he would never say much else, just snake his arm around you and snuggle into your warmth, humming as you stroked his hair and lulled him to sleep. 

but best friends didn’t look at each other the way you two did. best friends didn't react like that when they were told i love you. 

and the day connor walked into your room, holding up two shirt options and asked which one would look better for a date with a girl he had just met, you broke. everything you had been holding in came crashing down.

“the black one looks the best on you.” you just let your mouth talk as you tried to focus your mind on not letting yourself cry.

you tried to do anything to distract you after he left. you baked, you tried watching a show, you tried sleeping. and then you tried reading a book. oh what a mistake. pulling the novel from your bedside table, your bookmark fell out and onto your lap. glancing at it you began to tear up, and at some point tearing up became full chest wracked sobs. it was the customized bookmark connor had bought you at your request; it detailed a very old picture of you two, both eight years old, lying next to each other on the bedard family sofa and dead asleep.

you had given connor all of yourself. every boyfriend you had was short lived because you could only ever look for connor in whatever poor guy had asked you out on a date. you were happy when he was happy, your heart broke when his did, you felt the tight pull in your chest whenever he was upset about a game. you would bend over backwards to put a smile on his face. 

you dropped the bookmark, the edges streaking with a cocktail of inky colors that had mixed with the liquid from your salty tears. you moved without thinking, you couldn't think. maybe if you had, you may have acted in a different way. mindlessly packing a bag of overnight clothes, calling your close friend you had met from school and asking if you could crash at hers to collect your thoughts.

connor came back to an empty apartment and no girl on his arm. he hadn't felt any connection. but he didn't care about the date anymore. no, now he was frantically rushing around the apartment looking for you, pacing up and down the hallway outside your empty room, phone in hand as he called you. 

when you finally picked up, he let out a relieved sigh, huffing out a laugh, “i thought something had happened, you all good? where you at?” 

“connor, i can't live in that apartment anymore.” your voice cracked at the edges; you felt like a coward doing this over the phone. connor knew when you were about to cry, he could always sense it coming by the way you spoke.

his heart dropped, a bit confused, “huh? why?”

you paused for a second, “because connor… oh god… because you'll never feel the same way about me, and i'm breaking my heart being so close to you but just not enough. i- i can't live with you anymore con, i'm sorry.” 

the line went silent for what felt like lifetimes. you almost hung up, embarrassed that your lifelong best friend couldn't even form words at your confession. 

“come back and we can talk about this.” connor finally said, voice low and careful, his mind still racing. “please, baby.”

your breath caught, he heard it too, “don't. don't call me that. please don't.”

you sighed, head dropping, “ill come by at some point to get my things.” 

“no that's not what i mea-”

you couldn't take it. you felt embarrassed, upset. you hung up and turned your phone off for the rest of the night.

you stayed at your friends house for three days. three long days in which connor had felt horrible. he moped around at practice and go straight to sleep once he got home. he couldn't bare being in the apartment too long or else he was reminded about how much he missed you and how big he fucked up.

you felt just as bad. you realized you had never really gone this long without at least texting. and it hurt. 

connor was supposed to be at an early morning skate, you knew his schedule. entering the quiet apartment, swiftly making your way to your room to pick up some of your study materials. but you halted in your tracks, stopping right at the threshold of your room.

your best friend was lying on your bed, face nuzzled into your pillow; the one on the side of the bed you always slept on. he looked so peaceful, but even asleep he looked exhausted. 

you tried your best to pick out your books without making a sound, but the universe just wasn't on your side. 

“hey.” you shut your eyes when you heard his voice, back still turned away from him. what could you say? ‘yeah con so still very much in love with you, fuck you for waking up’ maybe you'd steer clear of that.

“hey.” was all you got out, continuing to place your notepads in your bag. 

connor sat up and rubbed his eyes, seeing you again made his heart ache. he couldn't believe you were actually here. getting up quickly, he scrambled to stand beside you, hands on your shoulders and forcing you to turn towards him, eyes full of purpose. 

“please look at me,” connor was almost begging, he didn't know what else to do. 

you knew that if you looked at him, looked into the eyes you loved so much, you'd break into tears. but you did it anyway, because it was him. you'd always say yes to him.

“i know you're hurt and embarrassed, but please let me explain, i just need you to listen.” connor said carefully. “please?”

everything in your chest hurt, but you nodded, looking up at him as he sighed, swallowing to try gain some composure. 

“i never wanted you to feel the way you do, please know that. i had no clue you felt that way and i feel like an idiot now becau-”

“i know con, i didn't expect you to love me back the same, it was stupid, i ju-”

“no, it's not stupid!” connor exclaimed, his hand going to hold your cheeks. 

you blinked, not knowing what to do.

“it was never stupid.” his voice was smaller now, shy in a way that threw you off. “it was stupid i didn't notice it. any hope i had that you did, i told myself it wasn't because i didn't want to ruin things. you've been my person for so long that i'd hate myself everyday if i made things difficult.” 

it was like your ears were ringing, you weren't really sure what was happening. he was talking so fast you could only fully process bits and pieces. 

“you… what?” you let a tear slip past your eyes and connor was quick to wipe it away, smiling at you softly.

“baby i fell in love with you the second you knocked on my door with that tray of cookies. and i've only fallen more in love with you since.” connor felt like a weight was lifted off his shoulders as he wiped away your tears. 

you on the other hand, couldn't even form words. so you did the only thing you could do, reaching up to place your lips against his. immediately you both melted into the kiss.

when you two finally pulled apart, connor kept you close, pressing his forehead on yours, stupid smiles tickling the edges of both your lips.

“i really wish you'd have told me sooner.” you said, giggling as he rolled his eyes.

“you could've done the same. and maybe not left me stranded in this empty apartment to sulk.” he responded, nudging your nose with his, making you smile even more, warmth spreading across your entire body.

“got you to confess though didn't i?” he chuckled at you, pressing one more kiss on your lips, never wanting to let go of your.

“sure did.” 

[svt-ara]

go through ara's miumiu bag thanks to an interview made by vogue korea!

ᯓ★ 𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦 mention of food, mention of health conditions (asthma) | ๋⸝⸝⸝⸝ 𝗪𝗖 2.1k | ๋⸝⸝⸝⸝ 𝗔𝗡 literally loved making this, it's so funny. i tried to fit the members in as much as i could without making it too forced, hope i did my best 😭. not proofread

italics is the staff, [ additional subtitles ]

꒰୨ 𝓜asterlist ୧꒱

«hello, this is ara from seventeen. it's such a pleasure to meet everyone— today i'm here with 'vogue' to show you what's in my bag and what i never leave the house without» ara comfortably sat on a dark brown couch, her posture relaxed and her tone sounded warm as she spoke.

the room around her was minimalistic— white walls surrounded the space, the light was bright and a low glass table that mirrored the color of the couch sat in front of her. ara was clearly the focal point, dressed in a soft pale pink top adorned with a black lace around the neckline, elegant black trousers flowing down her legs and a pair of classic louboutins on her feet. beside her rested a sleek black miumiu bag— simple and cozy.

«should we start?» she smiled, though the tension in her body betrayed her— her hands were lightly rubbing the fabric of her pants. ara was used to having cameras pointed at her face all the time, but usually, there were other thirteen of them to share the spotlight. this time she was alone— all the eyes, the lights, the focus were on her and no matter how many years had passed, she still wasn't quite used to it.

«so, this is the bag i use the most. it's from miumiu, made of leather, and i really love how it's big but super fashionable at the same time. i can basically carry my whole house in there and still look cool» of curse, it was the frist thing she reached for. ara proudly showed it to the camera, it wasn't just for sponorship as the global ambassador of the brand. she genuiely loved that purse, carrying it around every chance she got.

«the frist item is my phone» she pulls out a white iphone 13 pro max with an adorable semi-trasparent case, decorated with sightly raised pink-ish sheeps. «i usually don't carry my phone in my pockets because i have this phobia that i will lose it, so it's always in my bag. it's a bit annoying to open the bag everytime i need to check the time or see if i got notifications, but it's better than losing everything i have on it» one hand held the phone, showing it to the cameras, while the other ran her fingers over the little sheeps. it was some kind of stress reliever.

«also, look how cute the case is. jun bought it for me when he was in china, he said it reminded him of me» she smiled softly, running her fingers over the little sheeps again. «honestly, the members always find the weirdest things that remind them of me. i'm still deciding if that's a sweet comment or if he was making fun of me. either way, it worked— i haven't changed it since» she ended with a soft smile, remembering the exact moment he had given to her.

«have you ever lost your phone?» a voiceover asked, making ara lower her head in embarrassment as soft giggles escaped her lips. that question should have been expected. «yes, i actually did one time, it was a long ago tho. when i was a traniee, i lost it and didn't find it for almost a week. i couldn't contact my parents and they got seriously worried. turns out, it was in a forgotten corner of the building the whole time. that's how i developed this phobia» she was grateful the lights were so bright to the point they could barely notice her flushed cheeks.

«okay, i think we can go on with the second item»

[ escaping the funny story ]

«oh...» a small sound escaped her lips as she was seen reaching for something, but seemed to be stuck inside the bag. her fingers fumbled for a moment, eyebrows furrowing in mild frustration before she let out a quiet— and embarassed— laugh. «hold on, give me a second. this always happens to me» after a few more second of gentle tugging, she finally pulled out a pair of white earbuds. «they're stuck with me, basically glued to my ears at this point. i can't survive without music, but they get tangled so easly-» her attention was somewhere else while she talked— her hands buried in the bag, fishing out a pair of airpods.

«-that's why i also bring a pair of airpods, they are comfier» she said, holding up the small white case now far from plain. it was proudly decorated by her with some tiny stickers— like some hearts, a tiny peach right in the corner or a bear sleeping. «but the most beautiful part is the case. i decorated myself out of necessity— one time i accidentally switched them with one of the member and spent the past three days trying to figure out why they didn't connected to my phone» ara chucked, admiring her own case until she came across her favorite sticker. «i really like this one, wonwoo said it looks like me when i nap backstage» she finally placed the case next to her phone, a quiet smile still lingering on her lips at the memory of his words.

[ sudded sentimetal moment ]

«the fourth item i never leave the house without is my hand sanitizer. i think i could actually go insane if i forgot to pack it in my bag» ara held up a small pink bottle with a white cap, turning it sightly so the camera could catch the sparkles inside. «but the regular smell really bothered me, tought. it used to give me headache. that's when i discovered they make it in so many scents— this one smells like strawberries, that's why it has a pink cap» she explained innocently, opening the bottle to smell it. her nose crinkled a little in satisfaction. «yeah, that's it. strawberry is one of my favorite scent» the satisfaction in her tone clear as she dared to put some on her hands.

[ because regular sanitizer is too basic 🍓 ]

«top 3 scents?» the voiceover asked, making her laugh. her hands clapped togheter as she threw her head back in amusement. she thought about it for few seconds after speaking again «hmm... the frist one is absolutely strawberry, it remindes me of my home and it's so comforting. then, maybe cotton candy and vanilla» she smiled, clearly enjoying sharing this little detail of herself.

«and right after the hand sanitizers, comes the profume» the giggled softly, a genuine smile lighting up her face. she reached into her bag again and pulled out a small, elegant bottle— it's the miss dior absolutely blooming. holding it up carefully, she explained «dare to say i'm not the biggest fan of profumes in general, but this one is so lovely» she gave the bottle a gentle spritz into the air and took a small, satisfied smell. «it's like... flowery, it lift up your mood» she took a moment to find the right words, her eyes sparkling in joy at the little trasure she found. «if out there there are people who hardly finds profumes they enjoy, that's the perfect one» she said as she placed the little bottle near the other things on the low table and smiled. «alright, that's enough scents for today. let me show you something more pratical»

«this is my wallet» she pulled out a pink wallet adorned with some cutw bows— completely the opposite from the sleek black bag it came from. «i know people matches their wallet with their bag. well, clearly i'm not one of them. when i saw this wallet i fell in love, it was too cute to not buy it even if it didn't matched with my black bag at all» she smiled admiring the stones on the wallet. «sometimes is nice to have some contrast, don't you think?»

[ completely the opposite ]

she began to open the wallet, eager to even show the inside, but then she hesistated for a moment. tucked in one of the clear pockets, sat an untouched polaroid of her and hoshi. it was from a casual night when they had gone for a walk, and when they saw a polaroid machine, hoshi insisted they had to take one. the photo captured something really genuine between them, and she loved it so much she had do keep a copy in her wallet. the original one belonged to the back of hoshi's phone «i can't show you, i'm sorry» she giggled, gently closing the wallet once more.

«is this the seventh item?» she asked, her voice was a mix of concern and amusement as her eyes scanned the sea of staff members in front of her. her eyebrows furrowed sightly while her hand continued to search throught the the bag. she almost looked suspicious at the amount of things had already come out, she even lost the count. «i swear i didn't think a packed this much today» she almost whispered to herself before letting out a quiet laugh. «my bag is surprising me like it's surprising you» she smiled one last time before taking another item.

«my lip liners and a lip balm» ara smiled at the camera as she finally pulled them out of her bag. she held them proudly— two small pencils in netural tones and a soft-looking balm with a minimal package. «i think lip liners are honestly the best beauty item, and those two are my favortie ones. can't go around without them» she twirled one pencil around her fingers while her head slightly tilted on the side. «no matter how messy i fell, if i have my lip liner i feel a little more putted togheter» she added with a quiet laugh.

[ proof it's all in your head ]

«we're finally leading to the eight and last item» ara said with a playful sigh, glancing at her almost-empty bag and all her perfectly allined items as if saying bye to her little advenutre. her tone was light but with a hint of fondness— this whole thing turned out more fun than she'd expected. «you know, i didn't know i carried around so many things until i had to sit down and explain each of them» she added with a chuckle, her fingers already inside the bag reaching for the final item.

«and last but not least— gummy worms» she announced, pulling out a small, slightly crinkled packet from her bag with a big smile. the colorful candy peeked out the trasparent part of the packaging immediatly adding a playful vibe to the items lined on the table. «this used to be my secret weapon— none knew about them. then, i don't know how, one of the member discovered and the day after everyone were going throught my purse to search them» she said, shaking the pack a little before leaning forward sightly. «now i have to hide them, if i leave my bag unattended for too long, they just magically disappear» ara laughed at herself and then placed the candy next the other items, everything is perfectly lined up. «anyway, i have them just in care— you never know if you'll need a sugar boost» and with that, she smiled at the camera one last time before the staff asked her some questions.

«which item would you save frist if your bag caught in fire»

ara sightly widened her eyes at the random question, lips twiching into an half smile «that's such a dramatic scenario» she laughed, shaking her head «but okay, let me think... well, definitely my hand sanitizer— especially if it's the strawberry one» she added, playfull difensive and then continued with her little list «then we have my phone, because... it's my phone and lip liners, i need at least one of them to survive emotionally» she joked, nodding seriously like it was a matter of life and death.

[ priorities, but make it pretty ]

«if you had do dye your hair a crazy color tomorrow, what would you choose?»

«that's actually a good question, let me think» her fingers tapped the table few times as her eyes galanced upwards. after few seconds, a grin curved her lips. «i feel like half lavander and half light blue, is this crazy enough? i don't know» she laughed, tilting her head sightly already imagining it «i think it would look so pretty under stage lights, like glowing candy foss or something— maybe i should consider it for real» she joked, brushing a strad of hair behind her ear.

«do you think your bag matches your personality?»

she paused toughtfully «i think it's actually the opposite. the outside it black and simple while the inside it's a mixing of colour and personality» she shrugged lightly «but in real life, i'm kinda of in reverse. i look bright and bubbly outside— and, hey, inside i'm like that most of the times, but sometimes it's not»

[ looks can be deciving ]

«what's a thing no one knows about you?»

ara thought about it for a moment and then responded. «no one ever knows i have athsma, it isn't something i struggle with everyday fortunately— it's not that bad. but it can get very challenging during long perfomances, like concerts, my stamina definitely gets affected»

«if you could switch lives for a day with someone else, who would it be?»

«i think it would be s.coups. i'm curious about what its like to be the leader— is it that stressful? or maybe woozi, i'd love to try his producing skills and see life from another point of view— like that of an introvert»

«who do you trust the most to leave your bag with?»

«i think... vernon. he's the kind of person who barely even galances at it, so i'm sure noting would ever get stolen»

[ trust level : vernon ]

COMMENTS ⁸⁶⁴

not the gummy worms being stolen 😭

wdy she would rather save some hand sanitizer rather than her wallet, that's a crazy work

╰┈ girl, she has a diagnosed ocd ☠️ have some respect

the lip liners are the realest thing i've ever seen

og already knew she has asthma

the way she smiles when she is talking about the other members makes me wanna choke, i love them

the black bag ISN'T so her

how can someone lose for a week their phone inside a closed space 🥀

girl thinks we can afford a dior profume

the contrast between the black bag and the pink wallet got me

what does she has in that wallet we can't see 🤨

can we talk about how perfectly simmetric those items were on the table

we need to see a what's in my make-up bag next because her make up it's always soo good

this is for the people who says she doesn't deserve her main dancer position because of her stamina, hope they can stfu now

my junRa heart is so weak rn 💔

who knew lip liners were emotional survival tools?

if vernon barely pays attention at the bag, then a thief gonna steal it lol

in the late 13 years old i'm discovering that hand sanitizer existed in different scents

╰┈ it ain't that old 🙏

[imtryingbuck]

Book fair and confessions

~ gif not mine credit to owner ~

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Summary: you want to go to the book fair, and ask your favourite super soldier to go with you - it turns out to be the best decision ever.

Word count: 2,278

Warnings: fluff. slight angst (reader puts herself down).

A/N: thank you for the request🤍

Masterlist

It couldn’t have been more obvious even if you tried. Unfortunately everyone knew that from the second you met Bucky you were smitten. Fortunately he didn’t.

You had convinced yourself that the super soldier would never look at you the same way in which you did him, especially after hearing the history he shared with Natasha, she was everything you weren’t - strong, brave, in your eyes more beautiful than yourself, she was exactly the one Bucky would definitely pick if it came down to him having to choose.

Not that you would ever allow that to happen, you knew your heart wouldn’t be able to handle the rejection and humiliation.

Yet that didn’t stop you from pining after the beautiful human that is Bucky Barnes.

“Steve?”

Turning to the sound of the soft voice behind him, a smile instantly broke out on his tired face. “Hey, what’s up?”

“I- I was just wondering if you happened to know what Bucky’s favourite cookies are? Or-or if he even likes cookies but everyone likes cookies… right?”

A soft look over took his features as he listened to you ramble as your fingers twisted against each other. “You like him, don’t you?”

“N-no, yes, no, don’t be silly- that’s ridiculous.”

“You like him.” The blond smirks before chuckling as your face pales. “Don’t worry, he likes you too. He loves chocolate chip ones, always has, I’ve got to go alright, see you later for movie night, yeah?”

He likes you too kept replaying over and over, Steve wouldn’t lie to you, right? Especially not about this, surely. Before you could even ask him if he was being truthful or not he had already left. “O-okay, bye.”

Bucky found you in the kitchen the next morning covered in flour - as he wiped the sleep from his eyes he couldn’t stop the smile from creeping onto his face as he watched you make more of a mess in the kitchen then Sam whenever he was let loose in there. “Mornin’ doll.” The scream you let out caused him to flinch and hold his hands up in mock surrender. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I nearly- my heart is pounding now!”

“Sorry. Are you okay?”

“‘M fine.” It was only then when you looked up did you notice that he was standing just a few feet away from you without a shirt on, you knew for a fine fact that he caught you staring at his naked chest - being subtle wasn’t exactly your speciality. With bright red cheeks and three attempts of clearing your throat you managed to speak up, although it came out much more high pitched then you wanted. “C-coffee?”

A deep chuckle breaks past the plumb lips that you had imagined what they would feel like against your own - on more occasions than you cared to admit. “I can make it, doll. What you up to, anyway? Other than destroying the kitchen.”

Playfully rolling your eyes at him then frowning when your eyes traveled the countertops that were covered with flour, egg shells and other mess, you hadn’t quite realised how messy you had been. “I’m making cookies.”

“At half six in the morning?”

“Yeah.”

“Do I get one?”

“Well… you- well the thing is you get a tray full o-only because I want to ask you for a favour.”

As his head tilted to the side your cheeks burned, you had no idea how to really ask the question, if he said no then that meant you had been up since five trying and failing to make the perfect cookies for him - then you would have to run away and never be seen again, okay maybe thats a bit to dramatic but still it would be absolutely embarrassing. “Doll? Y/n? You alright?”

“Huh? Yeah I’m fine, why?”

“Well you’ve just been standing there for the past five minutes just staring at me- well not as much staring but squinting, like this.” The half naked beautiful man standing in front of you with a cup of freshly done coffee in one hand whilst the other went to his hip and mimicked not only your facial expression but your stance.

Much to your annoyance.

“I did not look like that!”

“You really did doll, I thought you were broken for a minute there.” As you roll your eyes at him, again, he chuckles. “What’s the favour anyway?”

“What? Oh yeah, I was wondering- you can say no if you want too but I was wonder- and again please know it’s okay to say no but would you like to come to the bookfair with me? Today? Leaving in two hours, earlier the better and all that.” By the time the words come out and register in your own ears you wince. That was so painful. What's worse is that he’s just staring at you with a hint of amusement on his face. “It’s okay, it’s stupid, you can still have the cook-”

“You just want me to carry all the hundreds and thousands of books back for you, don’t you?”

“Firstly, it won’t be hundreds and thousands. And secondly… yes.”

“And you thought you could bribe me with cookies?”

“Yes… that’s- it’s stupid, I’m sorry.”

“Doll you don’t need to bribe me with anything, I’ll happily carry anything for you for free.” He tells you truthfully. Never in the few years he had known you had he ever lied to you, and he wasn’t going to start doing it now. “But I still want the cookies. Make sure you shower unless you want to go with flour in your hair.”

As you made your way towards the car where Bucky was leaning up against a shy chuckle left your lips as the man commented on how delicious the cookie was that he had just eaten - using his flesh hand to get rid of the few crumbs that had fallen into the stubble on his face.

The car ride was mostly silent with only the radio playing filling in the air quietly as Bucky drove down the road, he wouldn’t admit it but he had plans with both Steve and Sam but quickly mentally cancelled on the pair the moment you had asked him for a favour.

He enjoyed spending time alone with you - cherishing each time you both sat in silence reading a book or strolling through the park with you by his side as he listened to the back stories you gave each person you saw.

He would never admit that every time you had a smile on your face and it was directed at him, his heart would always skip a beat. He truly would listen to your rambles about your hobbies or your retelling of how your day had gone in full detail forever without complaint if you let him.

When he officially joined the team the last thing on his mind was the possibility of falling in love with someone, then he met you. He tried to keep his distance at first, not quite liking the feelings he had developed so quickly for someone that he barely knew yet no matter the distance he put between you both he couldn’t help but search for you in every room he went in - listening intently in hopes he could hear your voice or infectious laugh that always have his stoic expression to crack as a smile formed on his lips.

He had often wondered what would happen if he ever spoke up and actually told you how he felt - every scenario that played in his head always ended with him either being smacked across the face, laughed at or being left completely humiliated by you telling him that you felt nothing for him.

Bucky would never let himself believe that you could actually like him back, at least not in the way he did.

“Bucky?”

Your soft voice broke him out of his thoughts, blinking a couple of times before looking over at you. “Yeah?”

“We’re here. Want to come in with me?”

“Of course, who's going to carry the billion of books you're going to get?” Before you could respond he had gotten out and made his way to the passenger side door and opened it. “M’lady.”

“Why thank you, my good man.” You bowed causing him to roll his eyes as a chuckle left his lips. “Also it’s not going to be billions of books.”

“Liar.”

Sticking your tongue out at him, you hold out your arm for him to link arms. “Let’s go and get me a billion books.”

With each book that was placed into Bucky’s arms he complained.

A lot.

Yet each time you tried to remove them he moved away from you, telling you that he was only messing around. Happily accepting another that got added to the pile.

Just to complain again.

By the time you were finished Bucky joked that his arms were about to fall off - a loud laugh fell from his lips startling those around the two of you when you tried and failed to push him away.

“Do you- are you hungry?” Making sure the books were tucked away safely in the boot of the car, you turned to face the super soldier. “We can go and get some food. My treat, promise.”

“Sure but I’m paying.”

“No it’s fine, I asked so I pay.”

“Absolutely not, doll.” Squinting his eyes at you as you try to argue back, he grins as you nod in agreement. “Want to walk or?”

Shaking your head. “Let’s walk, it’s a nice day out.”

Bucky’s the one that holds his arm out this time, smiling softly to himself as you link arms with his. The two of you walked down the street with him making sure he was closer to the road and unbeknownst to you glaring at anyone that stared at you for longer than he deemed necessary as you talked happily about the books you had picked up.

In your favourite little restaurant Bucky being the gentleman that he is pulled your chair out and pushed it back in once you were settled, your cheeks ablazed at the action, the pair of you spoke quietly before the waitress came over to take your orders - he doesn’t even bat an eye when she openly flirts with him.

“So, are you happy with your new collection?” He asks once the food arrives.

“I am, though I have no idea where I’m going to put them because my bookshelves are full already.”

An amusement chuckle leaves him as he shakes his head. “And you just keep adding to it?”

“Obviously.” You grin.

“What’s your favourite book?”

Watching your face light up as you spoke so passionately about a book that he had to admit he has never heard off, it was in that moment that he knew that he would happily spend the rest of his life listening to your voice.

“The night is still young, want to head back or go to the park?” Bucky asks as the two of you walked arm in arm down the street, leaving the restaurant nearly three hours after the food was eaten - the two of you lost in your own world to the point that neither one of you were picking up the subtle hint coming from the waitress until she placed the bill on the table, which led to a playful argument about who was going to pay, he won by distracting you with the help of a dog walking past the window.

“Park! But can we go and get some seeds for the ducks?”

“Seeds? Thought they like bread?”

“No, bread is bad for them.”

“Oh… didn’t know that but of course we can.” The smile that you gave him made his heart thump loudly that he was sure you could hear it.

Sitting on the bench in front of the large pond where you were both surrounded by the ducks that called the pond home, Bucky couldn’t contain his laughter as you told off two ducks fighting over the food.

Even when the food was gone and the ducks had moved away the two of you sat there watching as the world went by with a conversation that flowed so effortlessly and never felt uncomfortable.

“Y/n?”

“Yeah?”

“I- I-” Shaking his head as his cheeks turned red, his eyes looking anywhere but at you. “It doesn’t matter.”

“What is it?”

“It’s stupid, honestly.”

“Are you sure? Whatever it is-”

“I like you.” He cut you off, wincing once the words that he had been wanting to say for so long blurted out. “I mean I like you as a friend and something more-” Jumping up, you watched as he paced up and down as his hands dragged down his face. “That sounds so stupid, now I’ve ruined things, I’m so sorry Y/n. Just forget I said any-”

“Do you mean it? T-that you like me?”

Hearing the slight tremble in your voice had him spinning around to face you. “More than anything. I’m in love with you.”

Your heart thumped painfully hearing those words. Bucky Barnes is in love with you. Smiling softly as you stand from the wooden bench, his baby blues stayed trained on your face as you got closer. “I’m in love with you too.”

Walking into the common room where everyone sat no one batted an eye at seeing the two of you holding hands or the stack of books in Bucky’s left arm, the only reaction they had was Steve holding his hand out nodding in thanks when everyone placed money into his palm.

Tags: @bycinnamoons | @pigeonmama | @capsbestgirl77

[therobotsarestuckinmyhead]

Hey, are you doing okay? Could you write a Transformers: Animated headcanon with Optimus, Bumblebee, and Ratchet being friends with a reader who's super unlucky? Like, they're constantly getting into accidents or being flung across the room, yet somehow they always survive? As if the universe is playing a big prank on them XD

☆ [TFA] BOTS w/ an Extremely Unlucky Reader

i am doing fine anon! thanks for asking, i had a lot of fun writing this request :3 i think a reader with comically bad luck is interesting— each bot would have a very different way on dealing with it. i couldn't stop thinking of 'Wonder Of U' from JoJolion for some reason when i saw this request. reader is a victim of calamity lmao

scenario: your crew is trying to help you despite a few of them thinking you might be cursed. reader is a lot younger than Ratchet, like the rest of the crew.

including: Optimus, Bumblebee, Ratchet

Optimus:

— Optimus isn't really sure what's up with you, or how you even manage it. You're always the first to find a Decepticon, you're the first to get attacked by the Decepticons, you're getting tail-swatted away by Grimlock half the time out of sheer bad luck because that T. Rex doesn't seem to like any of them and you get it the worst.

— Now that he's thinking about it, you get everything the worst. He can't leave you alone for ten minutes. If it's not the Decepticons coming to offline you then its your surroundings. He suspects that you might have the environmental awareness of a rock. But that changes pretty quickly when he realizes you're just that unfortunate.

— One time, you drove into a cement pit and nearly got buried alive with cement if it weren't for Bulkhead interrupting those construction workers. The other time, you wandered into a demolishing ground and almost got flattened by debris. You're like a character from that Earth film Sari watched with Bee… a ‘Final Destination’ protagonist with the way you barely survive your day-to-day life. Optimus doesn't know how a single bot can get so much bad luck, it isn't even funny to him (it is to a certain someone else though). He may or may not be concerned.

— So, Optimus being the leader that he is, puts you under his supervision all the time. You're right where he can see you and nowhere else. But it takes a downhill turn.

— He ends up getting stuck in precarious situations with you. As if your misfortune is communicable and he can tell you don't mean it with the way you're looking at him as if you might explode into tears with absolute frustration. You don't mean for any of this to happen and it makes him feel... bad in a way.

— After being in a lot of near-death situations with you, he's gotten to know you a lot more better now so Optimus is a bit more protective over you and he can tell all of these repeated almost-encounters with Primus has definitely left you paranoid with a pessimistic streak. But hey, Optimus is trying his best to make you feel better and more hopeful about the next fight. Usually with a pep-talk or a pat on your pauldron. He is a bit protective over you, mostly because you seem to have the highest chance of getting dying and he doesn't want to lose a good Autobot.

— Eventually, he decided to keep you in the base at all times because of you being, and i quote, “a walking natural disaster surviving on mere gambles” only for a Decepticon to crash the base when the rest of the crew were out on the very same solarcycle.

— Optimus did this not only because of safety concerns but also because your bad luck is unpredictable; it could either be tripping when you're trying to run or get shot at point blank with a fusion cannon (and somehow miraculously survive). He thinks it's a liability for the team. Optimus is still figuring out how to be a leader here, he's figuring things out just like you are.

— Despite everything that goes down, your wit helps you survive all of these near termination situations that you get thrown into so Optimus is kind of impressed with your quick thinking. If only you weren't cursed with such bad luck, you might’ve made a wonderful addition to the Elite Guard. Or so Optimus thinks. Your case is unfortunate.

— He is definitely hesitant about letting you near Sari way too often when Optimus isn't there to make sure that you don't trigger the end of the universe by just existing. Primus knows what chaos would ensue with you and Sari in the same room.

— Optimus feels bad for you but he isn't sure what he's going to do with you. At all. He eventually realizes that your bad luck is just inevitable and the team has to push through it, especially when you start using your bad luck against the Decepticons.

Bumblebee:

— At first, this mech had absolutely no hesitation about laughing his aft off at every single one of your misfortunes as if there was a reality TV show unfurling in front of him. Bumblebee was borderline insufferable.

— But then, it slowly gets more concerning. Especially after the whole Allspark incident. He still gets a laugh every now and then, don't get him wrong but he may or may not be a teensy bit concerned now.

— Watching you getting flattened after Bulkhead tripped and fell right on top of you was pretty damn funny but at the same time, you being nearly made into molten metal by Blitzwing wasn't exactly something to laugh at. Or the fact that Megatron grabbed you and almost crushed you into bits with a single servo. That was painful to watch.

— Bumblebee feels genuinely sorry for you when Optimus basically grounds you saying that its for your safety and everyone else's safety. Sure you got a lot of bad luck but it can't be that bad!

— So Bee went against the big bot and helps you sneak out of base with Sari. You're not supposed to be around the human but Bumblebee thinks thats scrap!

— Bee pretty much stands up for you when Optimus decides to beach you and you seem clearly upset with it. He may be an aft sometimes but that doesn't mean he is one all the time. Bumblebee just likes cracking way too many jokes than he should.

— Has nominated you, without your consent to be bait to lure in Decepticons. You're a trouble magnet. Bee is pretty sure that if you were kept tied to a post, all the Decepticons in the vicinity would instantly be drawn out to the area. He clarified it was a joke.

— Bumblebee & Sari theorizes that your bad luck might just be your ability. Optimus Prime has his grapples and foam, Ratchet has his EMP burst, Prowl has his ninja skills, Bee has his stinger and Bulk has his ridiculous strength. You don't really seem to have any particularly special abilities.

— At some point, even some of the Decepticons (Blitzwing) notices how particularly unlucky you are and mocks you mid battle because you're stuck under a boulder that seemed to have come from absolutely nowhere. Bee stands up for you and says something like, “HEY, THREE FACE! I’m the only one who gets to make fun of ‘em!”.

— He goes from consistently making fun of your mishaps to "hey, dont take it too hard" after getting closer and closer with you. When he helps you sneak out, the two of you have gotten into a lot of mishaps together and almost died but Optimus doesn't need to know that part.

— Bee is more of a “We can work through your unfortunate circumstances together because I care about you!” type mech than a “I care about you as well as everyone else on the team so I'm going to set you aside so no one gets hurt." like Optimus is initially. So he doesn't really think you should avoid doing something just because you're basically cursed by Primus.

Ratchet:

— Out of all of them all, he probably pities your misfortune the most because he's the one repairing you afterwards.

— You and Ratchet are really close because of your repeated visits to the medbay back when you guys were just a usual Space-Bridge repair crew. You somehow managed to get yourself hurt even in that.

— The fact that you're alive is a medical mystery with the sheer amount of damages your endoskeleton has suffered. He remembers the first time he looked into your internals and his optics practically widened into bulbs. Theres cracks nearly everywhere and it took nearly forever for him to fix them all.

— To make sure he never has to spend cycles soldering and rewiring your frame, Ratchet makes regular check ups on you after a battle. Just to make sure you haven't sustained any damage trigged by your mythical levels of misfortune.

— You're capable, he can clearly see that. Ratchet also makes sure to teach you some basic repairs so that in the situation that you're on the battlefield and your stupid luck nearly gets you offline again, you can pick yourself back up.

— Ratchet can see how disheartened you are when something goes awry during a mission involving you and he isn't the best at comforting you so he just goes "it'll go better next time.". Implying that there will be a next time because you're practically a tenant in his medbay with how often you get injured.

— He's also pretty strict about you resting after a battle because you've sustained the most damage almost all the time. Ratchet wants you to be fully recovered before you go off to have another near-Primus-meeting incident again. But Bee sometimes sneaks you out regardless because you need to have fun! Despite what Ratchet says.

— He's very concerned but hes not really saying a word. Just raising his optical ridge, questioning Bumblebee when he says that you should come along to do something he perceives as reckless. Then he says something real snarky which makes Bee shut up near immediately and regret even suggesting that.

— He's your supportive yet very concerned grouchy grandpa. You're probably the only one who actually listens to some of his stories he talks about while repairing because when you're in the medbay, its usually for a longer time considering the amount of damages you sustain. So you really have nothing better to do.

[devinescribe]

The Kind of Guy To…

Snotlout Jorgenson

He's been one of my childhood crushes for forever (I literally was able to go to the first movie in theaters) it has been my favorite franchise and the live action did him so good :((( my babyyyyy

- He’s flirty to everyone, you might say, but when he falls, he actually falls and pays attention to you and only you.

- When you get together, he’s so scared of messing up, literally terrified.

- He’s an acts of service giver, but in a way that’s kind of scary. He thinks that to earn your love he has to do things for you and EARN your affection. His dad messed him up. In his life affection has never been given freely.

- Always offers to carry your stuff, even when you can handle it. Often picks you up as well because his “loving future wife shouldn’t have to be on her feet all day”

- Give him praise and he will melt. He’s never been praised, so when you say things like “you’re so strong!” Or “wow that was so cool!” Or “Thanks… I appreciate you.” He’s literally melting like a puppy for you.

- If you told him to kneel at your feet he would. When he’s with someone, I feel he’s devoted to the point of forgetting his pride a little bit. Legitimately thinks ‘pride be damned I love her…” Just don’t do it in public. He’d still do it… just maybe a lil embarrassed

- Kept confessing to you, and you through it was a joke until he finally asks you, “Why don’t you like me back?” You’re shocked. But it showed you he was serious.

- His type is badass women warriors with strength and courage, especially those with leadership capabilities. Don’t get him wrong, he loves being in charge, but he doesn’t mind when his woman is the one bossing him around… Also, as a strong, Norse Viking man… oh there’s nothing more he loves than a girl that’s on the plus sized side. You’re so plush, and so soft and so cute and hot and he can pick you up like a ragdoll and oh- . He loves it. He says that stretch marks “are something only FOOLS would call imperfections.”

- When you first start dating he’s scared to even hold your hand for fear of being too rough, too clingy, too much and too little at the same time. He seems like a prideful and scary guy, but when you get to know him, he’s scared and a little damaged.

- Often times, when Spitelout is involved, he just… keeps his head down, doesn’t really talk back and agrees… but when you defend him???? Oh boy, he is like yep this is the one.

- On that note, he won’t talk back against Spitelout UNLESS he’s talking badly about you. Then he goes against everything his mind is telling him and protects you, defends you, against anything his dad is saying.

- Not super big on physical touch. Sure he’s touchy, but it’s not his preferred way to feel loved or give it.

- At the edge, he often says that you two should have just had one singular home, because you have your own space, but you’re always in his anyway.

- Uhm the monstrous nightmare is the most heavy metal Viking proving dragon right? Yeah thats his dragon. He has to be one hell of a dragon rider, brave too. Hookfang and him have their moments but at the end of the day, they love each other like no other.

- Speaking of Hookfang is always so nice to you. The first time you were trying to decide who to ride with for something (you didn’t have your own dragon yet) you were scared Hookfang wouldn’t like you. Snotlout thinks you didn’t hear him when he said “He’ll care about you because you’re important to me…”

But you did.

- Always trying to be useful in one way or another. Like I said, he’s damaged from years of Spitelout on the brain, that you have to re-wire him into believing he’s worthy of love, and that he doesn’t have to earn it or pay you back.

“I just… I have to be useful I-i have to prove I’m worth your attention and your love and-“

“Snotlout… you don’t have to prove anything… you’ve already got me…”

“But I want to keep you… I-i don’t wanna mess up.”

- Late night flights, because then you’re both alone and he can be mushy and not think his pride is at stake. Yes, he still has that.

- Nicknames he calls you include: Babe, love, future wife, N/N, my heart.

- Knows absolutely everything about you, likes dislikes, even down to every mark on your body, he knows you like a map I swear to the gods-

- Whenever he sees you wearing something of his he has to take a deep breath and just “Odin give me strength to continue my task and not drag her back in there-“

- Mmm jealous? Looks like it. Internally? Scared you’ll find “better”.

“Dearest, no one is better for me than you…”

“B-but there is I’m sure of it I mean look at me I-i don’t… I don’t deserve someone as amazing as you.”

(Give him a kiss and say you love him and that changes to)

“Of course you’re with me , I mean I am great I’m… I’m… so… you should kiss me again.”

- Uh certified crashout, anyone talks bad about you, threatens you, hurts you? Oh boy…

- Always wants your attention, often doing stupid and dangerous things to get it. This goes from the Trial of Fire to… now. For Thor’s sake, he nearly got Deadly Nadder spikes in his brain for trying to impress you during a dragon raid.

- Speaking of, going back to HTTYD 1, he definitely tries his hardest to show you he actually cares. One time your house was amongst the first to catch fire, and he had come in to help you and your family out. Of course, at the time, you thought he was just helping and trying to seem heroic, not because he loved you more than his own life.

- Oh yeah, risks his life for yours. All the time. You get captured? He is telling Hiccup and the gang that they need to go get you now! This is of utter importance! He would barter his life for your own, and if he were Orpheus and you Eurydice, he would have traveled to Helheim and back to get you by his side.

(And yes. He would turn around. Because he loves you. And to show love is to turn around. To check that they are still with you, to protect. And Snotlout, above all, is a man who protects who and what he loves.)

[writing-the-stars]

Bambi's Game

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x Fem!Reader, Nancy x Fem!Reader (Platonic)

Summary: Shy and careful, you’ve never been the type of girl who stands out — until Billy Hargrove, the cocky heartbreaker of Hawkins High, notices you. After a fleeting encounter at a party, his obsession with you becomes personal, and suddenly you’re caught in a dangerous game of push and pull.

Warnings: Angst (But I feel like it's actually barely there), Mature Language, Cliché, Flirtation and Sexual Tension (It's Billy Hargrove, Duh), Self-Doubt and Identity Struggles, Slow-Burn. Let Me Know If I Forgot Anything

Word Count: 3.4k

A/N: I like my men with a taste of danger and I am such a bad boy apologist, so I'm super excited about this Billy fic. It is very cliché, but I like that. Things are cliché for a reason. Anyway, thank you so much for reading. I hope you all and enjoy and that you have a wonderful remainder of your day.

Masterlist | Stranger Things Masterlist

 You shouldn’t be here.

That much is obvious by the way you’re cowering by the back wall of Tina’s party, clinging to your Red Solo for dear life. You’ve been slowly sipping the sugary drink ever since you got here — the ice has long since melted, leaving it flat and watery — but it’s your only shield against the pressure to drink something stronger. It’s not that you don’t drink — you’ve definitely had your fair share of wine coolers — but tonight isn’t the night to lose control. Not here. Not with these people. 

You hate parties like this. They’re loud, messy, and filled with people you don’t know or don’t care to know. You’re always just… there. No one really notices you. No one really cares.

A Blondie song pulses through the speakers — synthy and loud enough to drown out your thoughts. The air is thick with a sickly mix of beer, sweat, and cigarette smoke that clings to your clothes and makes your nose wrinkle.

You definitely were not meant to be here.

You had only come for Nancy because you do whatever she asks of you. Ever since Barb’s disappearance, she’s been clinging to pieces of her old life, trying to stitch something familiar out of whatever is left. You’re one of those pieces.

So when she asked — guilted really — you to tag along, you couldn’t deny her. She swore you’d only stay an hour. Tops. But now she’s vanished into the crowd with Steve and taken the car keys with her. Your ride is gone, your buffer is gone, and you’re honestly tempted to just say fuck it and walk home. 

You’ve held up your end of the bargain.

You swallow the rest of your pathetic soda, about to leave when he walks in.

Billy Hargrove.

The name alone makes your stomach flip. You can feel the temperature shift in the room. Everyone just… moves aside for him. Makes space. Even the loudest parts of the party seem to quiet down when he enters, like everyone can sense the chaos he brings with him.

Shirt unbuttoned halfway like it’s his party. Cigarette tucked behind his left ear, rings glinting on his fingers. He moves like he owns the room — like he owns everything. Eyes scanning the crowd, slow and lazy, like he’s hunting. And then those blue eyes find you. 

You freeze. 

Your first instinct is to look away and your neck twinges with the effort. But it’s too late. He’s seen you.

You felt it. The moment his attention clicked into place — hot and heavy. A smirk already curling at the edge of his mouth.

You know that smirk. You’ve seen it on him enough times to know it means trouble.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, panic threading through your chest. Your heart kicks into high gear. You shouldn’t have come. You knew he’d be here. Why did you let Nancy talk you into this?

You swallow hard, trying to make your legs move. You should just walk away, get out of his sight. Disappear into the crowd. But his presence is closing in on you​​, looming, like a shadow falling over everything.

“Hey, Bambi,” he drawls, voice smooth and slow, soaked in confidence. “Looks like someone wandered into the wrong forest.”

​​There’s something about it — like someone dragging velvet across bare skin. Something dangerous underneath all that ease. You feel your cheeks burn, the nickname already settling deep inside you.

You turn — because you have to — and there he is. Hawkins High’s resident heartbreaker. Beautiful. Arrogant. Bored.

“And you must be the wolf that thinks he’s charming,” you shoot back before you can think better of it.

Crap. Why did you say that?

You barely recognize your own voice. It comes out sharper than you intended, like you’re trying to hide behind something. You want to shrivel up. But Billy laughs — actually laughs — a low sound, amused, like you’ve surprised him. And it makes your pulse race. You weren’t expecting that. 

“Oh, I like you.” He says it slowly, like he’s savoring the words. His eyes roam, but not in the gross, lecherous way most guys do. It’s focused. Intense. Like he’s really seeing you. 

The thought causes your heart to hammer in your chest. 

“What’s your name again?”

You stare at him, unimpressed. He should know your name. You have two classes together. You’ve shared a lunch table, sat behind him at assemblies, stood near him at the lockers. He should definitely know your name, but of course he doesn’t. Why would he?

You exist in the periphery of his world, and he’s never once noticed.

You mutter your name, quick and low, but he catches it anyway. He repeats it, like he’s trying it on his tongue. Like he wants to remember how it sounds in his mouth. It sends a strange chill down your spine. He makes your name sound different. Like he’s taking possession of it, somehow.

 Then, he dismisses it, saying “I think I like Bambi better.”

You roll your eyes, but feel your stomach do a humiliating flip. And you hate that. Hate that his stupid, cocky grin — the one he uses to get cheerleaders in his backseat and girls to come completely undone — actually works. You despise it. 

Because of course it does. Billy Hargrove is beautiful in that reckless kind of way. He’s sharp and dangerous. Pretty in the way fire is as it eats through the world. The kind of boy your mom warned you about.

And for just a moment, you wonder what it would feel like to let yourself fall into that gaze. To stop analyzing and second-guessing and controlling everything. To just melt into the attention he’s offering so freely.

But you know better.

Billy doesn’t see girls like you — not really. He flirts. He conquers. He forgets.

You’ve seen him do it a hundred times. You’ve heard the way he talks about girls like they’re trophies, disposable. You don’t want to be another notch on his belt. You don’t want to be a story he tells later.

So you do the only thing that feels like control.

You walk away.

Your heart pounds like crazy, hands shaking a little as you put your cup down and grab your jacket from the nearby couch. You don’t look back. You don’t give him the satisfaction. 

But if you did?

You’d see Billy watching you, eyebrows raised, lips parted in disbelief.

No one denies Billy Hargrove.

Except you just did.

And now?

He’s interested. 

-*-

You and Nancy walk shoulder to shoulder down the hallway, her voice humming in your ear as she talks about something — probably her lit essay — but you’re not really listening. You nod when appropriate, offer the occasional “Mm-hmm”, but your mind keeps wandering back to Friday night,  the memory of it simmering uncomfortably beneath your skin. You’ve replayed it a dozen times in your head — the way his voice dipped when he said your name, the way his eyes dragged across you like he was seeing something he wasn’t supposed to.

It didn’t mean anything. You know that.

Billy Hargrove flirts with anything in a skirt. You’ve watched him wrap girls around his finger like it’s no big deal — because to him, it isn’t. You're not special. You're just new.

And yet…

It felt like something.

You shake the thought off, telling yourself to stop being ridiculous. Yet, you find your eyes wandering, scanning the crowd for the denim-clad devil. Not that you're necessarily looking for him.

You're just… making sure he’s not around.

You round the corner, Nancy still talking at your side, when you see him, leaning against a row of lockers. Your row of lockers.

You freeze for half a second. Your stomach flips.

He’s standing in your space, boots crossed like he’s been waiting on you, and for one crazy second, you think maybe he has.

That thought sends a surge of panic down your spine, and you immediately try to steer Nancy the other way, subtly tugging her sleeve and veering left. But it’s too late. He spots you. 

“Hey Bambi.”

That voice. That lazy drawl, so smooth, so sure of itself, like he already knows how this is going to play out. And then, that nickname… Bambi. It slithers down your spine like warm honey, and you hate that it still makes you shiver.

Nancy falters beside you, her voice higher than normal.  “…Did he just call you Bambi?”

You groan under your breath and pick up your pace, hoping if you ignore him, he’ll get bored.

He doesn’t.

Billy peels away from the lockers as if gravity has no claim to him. He moves with that effortless confidence, like everything he does is deliberate. And for some reason, that makes your insides twist even more.

“What, you’re not gonna say hi? That’s rude, sweetheart.”

You bite your lip, desperately trying to push the heat from your cheeks. Your heart’s racing. Nancy’s head whips toward you. “Sweetheart?” she repeats, the incredulity in her voice making your stomach churn.

You’re actively dying. Right here. In the middle of the hallway. 

“I don’t… I don’t know,” you mumble quickly, hoping that if you downplay it, she’ll drop the topic. But of course, she doesn’t.

“Since when do you talk to Billy Hargrove?” she asks, whisper-shouting. “What happened at Tina’s party? You said it was boring!”

“It was!”

You say it too quickly. Too defensively. Nancy catches it immediately.

Billy’s matching your stride effortlessly, like you belong beside him. Like this is something you’ve been doing all along. Something you’ve shared. Your stomach does that awful flip again, that stupid mix of dread and something that feels a little too close to anticipation.

“Aw, come on. Don’t be shy now,” he teases, his voice dipped in that fake innocence you can’t quite buy. “I thought we had a moment.”

You roll your eyes, trying to keep your composure. “You also think sporting denim makes you look like a member of The Outsiders,” you quip. 

Nancy gasps softly, eyes wide. Her hand flies to her mouth as if she’s just witnessed a catastrophe. “Oh my God.” 

Billy grins like you just kissed him.But it’s not just the grin. It’s the way he looks at you now, like you’ve caught his attention in a way no one else has. He leans in a little, his eyes gleaming with approval. “Feisty,” he says, voice low and hungry, like he’s enjoying this far too much.

Your stomach turns over in that weird way it always does when he’s close. It’s not just embarrassment anymore. It’s… something else. Something unfamiliar and unsettling.

Why does he like that you talk back? Why isn’t he brushing you off already, moving on to someone easier? Someone with more makeup and less hesitation? Someone who wants this.

You stop abruptly at your locker, spinning the dial with more force than necessary. You focus on the numbers, trying to keep yourself grounded, trying to ignore the way your heart is still pounding. Nancy is practically vibrating beside you, her eyes wide with questions she won’t let go of. You can feel her eyes drilling into the side of your face, waiting for the answers you don’t have.

You don’t know what’s happening. But somehow, you feel like Billy knows exactly what’s happening. And you can’t make sense of it.

“Seriously,” she whispers. “What is happening?”

You glare at her. “Nothing. He’s messing with me.”

You don’t let yourself look at Billy, even though you know he’s still standing right there. Watching you.

“You wound me, Bambi. And here I thought we were building something real.”

You slam your locker shut and grab your books like armor. This has to end.

“We’re going to class. Now.”

You tug Nancy by the wrist, trying to escape whatever weird flirtation-parade this is. 

You shouldn’t look back. You know that.

But you do. Just once.

And there he is — still standing where you left him, watching you go. Smirking. But it’s different this time.

He’s not amused.

He’s not smug.

He’s interested.

-*-

You’re barely two steps into the restroom after class before Nancy swings the door shut behind you with a bang.

"Okay," she says, folding her arms, giving you the look. "What was that?"

You blink at her in the mirror, trying to feign innocence. "What was what?"

She doesn’t dignify that with a response — just arches an eyebrow and purses her lips, waiting for you to cut the crap. 

You sigh and turn to face her fully. "I don’t know. Nothing."

Which is a lie. A big one. And you're both aware of it.

Nancy steps closer. Her voice lowers a notch, teasing but edged. "He called you Bambi. Twice.”

You roll your eyes. "He calls everyone something. It’s just a stupid nickname."

“Yeah,” Nancy says, narrowing her eyes. “But you didn’t hate it.”

Your face burns instantly. Mortified. You want to deny it, but it’s too late. Your reaction says it all.

"I did hate it," you stammer.

"You blushed."

“I did not!” You hope your protest sounds convincing, but it’s a weak defense. And she’s not buying it.

Nancy smirks. “You did. Right here.” She taps your cheek lightly, like a detective closing in on her suspect.

And she’s right. You both know it. You did like it. Much to your chagrin. You liked the way he said it — like he named you. Like you were something he was claiming, or maybe just starting to notice. Something worth paying attention to.

And that — that’s the part that really messes with your head.

Because it’s not just about Billy Hargrove looking at you. It’s about what that look made you feel. What it stirred up inside of you. The thing you never thought would happen.

That someone like him could want someone like you.

You can still feel the heat in your cheeks, the flutter in your chest. It is aggravating. 

"And don’t even get me started on the way he looked at you." Nancy’s voice is a little too delighted now. "Like he found a new toy he wasn’t allowed to touch."

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “Please don’t analyze this.”

"I mean, he was flirting with you. Billy freakin’ Hargrove. Actual cigarette mascot and heartbreaker-in-chief. And you held your ground." 

Nancy pauses, eyes thoughtful now instead of teasing. “You were kind of badass, actually.”

You peek at her through your fingers, caught off guard. “Really?”

She shrugs, leaning a hip against the sink. “Look, he’s still the worst. But that whole scene? Total power move.”

Power move. The idea is almost laughable. You were barely holding it together. Your heart had been trying to pound its way out of your chest the whole time. You’d thought you were going to pass out in front of everyone. And Billy…

Billy looked like he was enjoying himself. Like he could see straight through you — through the panic, the denial, the blush. Like he was testing you, to see how long you'd last. To see just how much you’d take before you crumbled.

You lower your hands. "I wasn’t trying to pull a power move. I was just trying not to have a panic attack."

Nancy smiles, softening. "Well, for what it’s worth, I think you might’ve fried his brain."

You snort, trying to suppress the warmth flooding your chest. "Good. Maybe it’ll stop him from bothering me again."

Nancy nudges your arm lightly, the grin on her face a little too knowing. "You want him to bother you again."

You freeze. 

Do you?

It shouldn’t even be a question. He’s every bad decision wrapped in denim and cigarette smoke. He’s cocky, reckless, way too used to girls melting at his feet. You’re not supposed to want him. You’re supposed to be smarter than that. You are smarter than that. Right?

The heat of his body just inches from yours. The way his voice curled around your name, like he was trying it out, seeing how it felt in his mouth. The look in his eyes — hungry and amused, like you were a puzzle he hadn’t solved yet.

And for a split second, it didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like attention. Focused and sharp and entirely on you. It made your skin prickle. Made your breath hitch. Made you feel seen. And not in a way you’re used to.

But you don’t say that. You can’t.

Instead, you shake your head, trying to force the thoughts out. "He’s just another guy who thinks he can have anything he wants."

"And you told him no," Nancy says, her tone matter-of-fact. “That’s kind of rad.”

You glance at your reflection in the mirror. Your face is still flushed. Your heart is still racing. And somewhere under all the nerves and confusion… you feel something else.

Pride.

Maybe a tiny bit dangerous.

You’ve never felt dangerous before. But maybe… maybe you could get used to it.

Nancy nudges your arm again, grinning, a little too smug now. "C’mon, badass. We’re late for chem."

-*-

The house is still. Your room is quiet. The window’s cracked open just enough to let the cool night breeze in, soft against your skin.

It’s late — not too late — but the house is quiet in that specific way it only gets after dinner dishes are done and your mom and sister retreat to their separate corners of the house.

Echo and The Bunnymen’s The Killing Moon plays softly on your Walkman, the melancholy synths bleeding into the air like a soundtrack to your thoughts. You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, a worn notebook open in your lap, pen tapping against the edge of the page like it’s supposed to summon brilliance.

But it’s been ten minutes, and you’re stuck on the same equation.

You sigh, dropping your pencil and pushing the notebook out of your lap.

Your eyes wander toward the window. It’s dark outside, that quiet, empty blackness that makes Hawkins feel smaller than usual. As though the night could swallow it all up — like there’s nothing beyond the trees but more darkness.

You should be thinking about valence electrons. You should be focused, responsible, anything but this.

But your brain — traitorous thing that it is — keeps drifting back to him.

Billy Hargrove.

Your pulse stutters at the thought, like a glitch in your otherwise orderly brain.

You’re not used to being the center of anyone’s attention, let alone someone like him. No one ever looks at you like that. Not the way Nancy gets looked at. Or Carol. Or Tina.They have something you’ve never had: an edge.

You’ve always been soft-spoken. Careful. The kind of girl people overlook until they need help with their notes. So why did he notice you?

And why can’t you stop wondering what it means?

The nickname. The look in his eyes when they dragged over you, like he could see through the walls you’ve spent years building around yourself. The way he smirked when you walked away — not like he’d won, but like he’s waiting. Like he’s expecting to see you again.

You exhale slowly, closing your eyes to shut out the images, but they only get stronger. 

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. That it shouldn’t. That he’s just another guy with too much swagger and not enough sense. That you’ve seen his type before and you’re not interested.

But your body betrays you. Your pulse picks up, heart beating faster. There’s something deep inside you, a pull, an undeniable tug that you can’t ignore.

You press your fingers to your cheeks, still warm from the memory of his gaze.

Still remembering.

You shake your head like it’ll help — like you can shake away the way his eyes made you feel. You’re not going to be one of those girls. The kind who fall for trouble just because it calls their name. You refuse to be that cliché.

Even if deep down, a reckless, traitorous part of you already is.

You don’t know what this thing with Billy is. You don’t even know if it is a thing.

But you feel it. You can’t escape it. You feel it buzzing under your skin like electricity.

And for the first time in a long while, you feel seen.

Even if it’s by the wrong person.

If you want to be a part of my tag list, please submit an ask specifying series, fandom, or all and I will happily add you (If you don’t specify, I’ll just assume you want to be on the general list)!

[literallypyro]

Good day my fellow tf2 enjoyer! Looks like im back again with another request. 👀🌈

Mercs reacting to "would you still love me if i was a worm?" 🥺❤️‍🔥

You are free to ignore me, but thank you again for indulging in my shenanigans 🫶

You have no idea how equipped I am to answer this request. I am not joking when I say I know exactly what to do. So sorry for the wait!

Hope you enjoy

The early bird gets the worm

Scout:

-Absolutely no hesitation "yeah, sure, why not?"

-It's like you asked him if he wanted to go to McDonald's. You could think he wasn't listening to you

-But then if you ask him what you said, he recites it word for word

-Pop quiz nobody knew he was prepared for

Soldier:

-You're kidding, right? The only thing that could make him not love you is if you were a communist

-Bro doesn't give a singular fuck outside of that. You could turn into a lamp for all he cares, and he'd lug you around wherever he goes

-He honestly doesn't give it much thought either. Some things are just simple facts. The sky is blue, snow is cold, honey bees pollinate, and he loves you. That's just how the world works

Pyro:

-Stares at you for a long moment. They're completely unreadable for a moment

-Muffled speech that sounds vaguely like "you're not going to start eating dirt, are you?"

-Yes, they would still love you, but they're mildly concerned now, believe it or not. Do you want to be a worm? What's going on here?

Demoman:

-Doesn't even process what you said at first. It's not that he doesn't understand or is too drunk. It's just that your question came WAYYYY out of left feild

-"Uh? Probably? I mean, you're still you, even if you can't show it, right?"

-Probably lies awake at night, wondering wtf possessed you to ask that

Heavy:

-Sandvich eating has been paused. He just kinda stops working for a second

-The look on your face tells him it was a genuine question, so he just sets his bewilderment aside and says yes

-He's not really sure why you asked that question, but something in his could sense it would affect your self-esteem in some way, and he'd rather die than hurt your feelings

Engineer:

-He actually knows what this is about, surprisingly. Bro's got more PhDs than most people have digits in their bank account. Did you really think how wouldn't immediately guess?

-He just hugs you like "I love you for who you are on the inside. I couldn't care less what you look like"

-Yeah, you're getting pampered for the rest of the day. He's not gonna let you be insecure. He's gonna do everything he can to make sure you love yourself as much as he loves you

Medic:

-Psych evaluation immediately (hypocrite)

-Once it finally clicks, he looks at you with an expression somewhere between pity and empathy. Now you simply have to tell him who made you think he wouldn't

-The next day, he's showing you these cool new organs that definitely don't belong to the last person who made you feel like you didn't deserve everything good

Sniper:

-Immediate and not ironic "yes." That's it. He knows what's going on cuz lowkey he would've asked the same thing if he didn't think he'd sound dumb

-Might not be super expressive, but you can tell he really cares and knows exactly how you feel. That's a big thing about being in a relationship with him, silent understanding

-He probably wakes up a little earlier than usual to make you a nice breakfast you haven't had in a while. He knows it's not directly related, but he wants to show you he values you so so so much

Spy:

-Doesn't understand whatsoever and refuses to answer

-Engie tells him what's up and suddenly Spy feels like a complete and total dipshit. He doesn't go find you immediately, however

-He waits because he has to set something up. A nice little private dinner for the two of you, fine wine, and an apology cheesier than France in the middle ages

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

i really liked your post about judges of character!! its the first post i saw of yours and its super cool!! followed!

i was wondering if you were willing to expand on more characters and why they aren’t good judges of characters. i totally agree with leona being ss tier, i just wanna see you articulate more characters if possible!!

in order of desire and namely, i wanna read about ruggie, trey, ortho, floyd, malleus, cater, yuu

thank u sm!!!! your writing and analysis is a total treat to read. take care of yourself!!

[Referencing this post!]

Thank you for enjoying my stuff and welcome to the fold (flock?) ^^

You listed a lot of characters so I’ll do a rapid-fire round and try to avoid dragging this response out for super long 🙂‍↕️ In your order:

Ruggie — He pays attention to people only in so far as to see when it the best time to swoop in and ask them for stuff (unfinished foods, donatable items, etc.) or to offer his services (for a fee). I don’t think he cares to look beyond that and seek a person’s hidden character. What comes first and foremost is his own survival, which is very focused on… himself, rather than how he reads other people and their character. It simply does not matter so long as Ruggie has his needs met.

Trey — Briefly covered in the tags of my previous post. He tries his best to keep out of conflicts, but this also means he must observe a lot and knows how to keep a distance. Trey notices some things that others don’t (like how Cater doesn’t like sweets in book 1 or how Vil is tired in his Labwear vignettes), but I wouldn’t call these instances evidence of Trey being a good judge of character. The Cater thing is something Trey picked up on from always seeing Cater go for savory foods or suggesting things to cover up sweet tastes. Noticing Vil being tired feels like a skill Trey may have learned from acting like a caretaker, especially with his younger siblings and dorm members. When Trey does try to discern people’s characters, it seems to fall flat because he takes them at face value and assumes goodness on their part. For example, he mistakes Jade as someone meek and being taken advantage of in Jade’s Ceremonial Robes vignettes.

Ortho — I think Ortho would theoretically be a good judge of character, but it is complicated by him relying on drawing conclusions from algorithms and data sets he is fed. It’s true that Ortho acts more human than a typical android, but he learned how to act this way by watching movies, which are mostly inaccurate depictions of real life. I feel this would “poison” his data and lead to him processing cues incorrectly. He can accurately tell the time and read your vitals because those are objective facts and numbers—but gauging human character is much less concrete. Maybe Ortho can fine-tune his skills by observing more humans irl (especially considering his advanced learning capabilities), but right now I think he’d still be working on it.

Floyd — I think judging people’s character comes more naturally to Floyd than to Jade (as there is a recurring theme of Floyd being a genius while Jade has to put in effort to be competent). Like many things though, his proficiency shifts with his mood. I don’t see Floyd as being super observant in spite of this, as he also didn’t seem to sense something was “up” with Jamil despite arguably spending a lot more time with him in the same club.

Malleus — Malleus notoriously had difficulties understanding others, albeit this is definitely influenced by his sheltered upbringing. He missed Rollo’s weird vibes (too blinded by the thought of genuinely being invited to an event) and even describes himself as “[being] no good at divining humans’ minds”. This could be considered a cultural misalignment rather than him being a poor judge of character, but considering how he frequently uses on his own (very limited) POV as reference (which is what led to Endless Halloween Night and misunderstands with his fellow dorm leaders at meetings), this still puts Malleus in a situation where he cannot read others well because HE also doesn’t project his own emotions or true character very openly; he always has to maintain a certain air about him as a future king.

Cater — He’s great at reading the room and using social standing to get what he wants. For example, Cater knows his underclassmen will defer to seniority so he tricks Adeuce into helping him do his chores. He is also shown intervening multiple different times when the situation gets heated to get everyone to cool their heads. This means Cater is socially savvy and intuitive rather than a good judge of character. Because Cater spends so much time online and intentionally holding people at a distance, I don’t think he bothers to look deeper into them than what’s presented on the surface. For example, he’s always clout chasing (seeking pics with important and notable peers) but doesn’t make an effort to really see or judge people on a deeper level.

Yuu — Ehhhhh 🤷‍♀️ Yuu is a blank slate character for players for project themselves or sonas/OCs onto. How good or bad they are at judging others is defined by the individual. Instances like Yuu being friendly with Malleus aren’t so much of them seeing the goodness in him as it is Yuu being oblivious about who he is. We don’t really get any comments from Yuu that have insight into their peers’ characters either, only surface-level remarks and observations along the lines of, “oh, they’re being kind of rude again” or “wooow, he’s being nice for once?”. Twst leaves Yuu vague so you can fill in the gaps using your own imagination.

[dewdewick]

Perhaps a fanfic of Bucky discovering reader owns a ton of merch of him (plushies, posters, maybe even figures?)

Not a Hamster

Pairing/s: Thunderbolts*!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Genre: Fluff💕

Warning/s: fem reader, use of Y/n, use of pet names, descriptions of a kiss

A/N: Hello!! It’s been a bit but I’m back with a little Blurb. This time it’s Bucky but I would love more requests if you have them!!! As always thank you so much to my beta ILYSM and you save us all from my bad spelling.

Word count: 1k

Request rules

Feel free to request whatever! Just read rules first!

****************************************

It wasn’t something she’d planned on happening. It wasn’t even really a hobby, more of a lucky accident. She’d bought the first plushy when she’d seen it in a random shop that sold avenger’s merchandise. A little plush of her crush, aka the former Winter Soldier. The plush was of him in his leather jacket with his silver arm out. Its hair was made of felt and it had two blue buttons as eyes. She’d bought it almost as soon as she had it in her hands, a cute little token that could sit in her room.

Unfortunately Yelena had seen the plush and teased her relentlessly about it. Soon, another plush of Bucky appeared on her bed. This one was smaller and in the shape of a round pillow, it made her smile.

Everything went to hell when Ava and Bob found the two Bucky plushies. Small action figures, buttons, acrylic stands, and even select clothes began to appear in her room. The collection grew and grew, it didn’t help that she began to start occasionally collecting the memorabilia for fun. Eventually, a whole corner of her room had been taken over by Bucky related merch. She barred the super soldier from her room, there was no way showing him the collection could be considered normal.

That’s how she got in the current predicament. Crushing on her best friend, teammate and practical boss; who she just so happened to have an almost disgusting amount of merch of.

Bucky had also made it his mission to get into her room. She had to make sure the door was always locked. She left at times she knew he wouldn’t be around. That only made him more curious though, more convinced that she was hiding something interesting.

It was a cold winter night when she was discovered. 2:46 AM on the clock as she left her room to get a glass of water. Her mistake was leaving her door cracked, intending to only be gone a moment. The kitchen wasn’t far and nobody could possibly have been awake.

However when she got back to her room, glass of water in hand. A shadow stood in the darkness. Panic arose in her chest, white hot and curling around her like a snake. The glint of black and gold vibranium in the moonlight caught her eye, but that only made it worse. She stayed quiet, hoping the ground might swallow her up. “Huh” Bucky said softly, his hands on his hips as he looked over all of the trinkets of himself in the corner. “I honestly thought you were hiding a secret pet or something. This… is not a hamster.” He murmured, still staring at the pile of plushies.

“It just started with one. I got carried away.” She said, embarrassment in her tone, “why me though? I’m not exactly the perfect role model.” He said, turning around to look at her in the moonlight. “I mean I know we’re friends but I dunno.” He shrugged.

“You are my friend, that’s why I bought the first one,” She said softly, looking down at her bare feet as she spoke. “You’re… special to me. You’ve never left me, not after the rest of the team went off in their own ways. You’ve always stuck by me, or at least kept in touch.” She said, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she explained herself.

He didn’t speak, he just turned to look at her. His hand came up, stopping before he touched her cheek. “Can I hold you doll?” He asked in almost a whisper. He was never one for a lot of physical touch, so when she nodded the initial hug was a bit awkward. She was stiff for a second but then relaxed a bit as his strong arms wrapped around her. He smelled like black coffee, a woodsy cologne and laundry detergent. His chest was warm against her, the serum made him run a bit hot.

“You’re special to me too Sweetheart.” He murmured, his cheek resting on top of her head. His voice sent a small shiver down her spine and prompted a small smile on her face. She wrapped her arms around him too, snuggling just a bit closer. “You’ve always been special to me.” He practically whispered after a second. She closed her eyes, “Yeah?” She questioned, prompting him for more. “Yeah, you’re my best girl.” He said lightly, a bit of that 40s slang seeping out.

“Careful sergeant” she flirted, a swarm of butterflies going wild in her chest and stomach. He made a small noise, a grunt that sounded almost pleased. “Sweetness, that’s not fair.” He flirted right back, his hand coming up to her hair. He smoothed her hair down and she could feel his cheeks tighten in a small smile. “What’s not fair?” She asked knowingly, trying to sound innocent.

He pulled away a bit, still keeping her in his arms. His fingers caught her chin, bringing her gaze up to his face. “Pretty girl callin’ me sergeant? That’d make any man melt.” He smiled, those blue eyes drawing her in. “Maybe I outta do it more then.” She murmured, her eyes searching his.

“Maybe you should.” He said, drawing just a bit closer to her. He didn’t even have to ask, she just knew. She gave a small nod and he drew her in ever so gently. His lips just barely brushed hers before fully covering them. He was slow and sweet, taking his time as he kissed her in the dim light of her bedroom. Neither of them needed anything more, just each other. And maybe a plushy or two.