#why is everything Loop coded?

[isatartdump]

Act 5 siffrin, the fella you are

(First time trying out pastels ^)

[cachexiacomplication]

thinking about the schizogations again

[sixeyesonathiel]

shy girls suck the best!

fratjo x nerd!reader, fluff & smut, m receiving, overstimulation, whimpering toru. 3.5k wc, 18+ only, MDNI.

satoru gojo is experienced.

he’s cocky for a reason. he’s made girls scream his name more times than he can count, and he knows exactly how to make someone fold in under five minutes—ten if he’s playing nice. he’s all confidence, charm, and unearned a’s from professors who don’t want to deal with his antics. his reputation precedes him in every room, and he walks like the world’s already bent over backwards just to please him.

everything about him screams untouchable, and he’s used to people treating him that way. he wears his varsity jacket like armor, a walking billboard of fratboy glory, all swagger and smirks and lazy confidence that makes people gravitate toward him like he’s got his own gravity field.

but then there’s you.

the shy girl in glasses, always scribbling in your notebook with an absurdly cute pen, whispering apologies when you bump into people, hiding in the back row of class like you owe the world an explanation just for existing. you don’t talk unless spoken to, don’t make eye contact, and definitely don’t give satoru the attention he’s used to. it’s not that you’re cold—it’s that you seem like you live in your own quiet little world, and satoru’s never wanted to be invited somewhere so badly.

and maybe what undoes him first is that he sees you before you see him. you’re already there, present in the corners of his attention before he understands why he’s looking. he notices you one day during lecture, tucking your hair behind your ear as you underline a sentence three times with an intense little frown. it doesn’t seem like much. but something in him clicks.

at first it’s curiosity. then amusement. then it festers into irritation—because why the fuck aren’t you reacting to him like everyone else?—and then fascination. and then something deeper that coils in his chest and makes his throat tight every time he sees you. he tries not to care. he wants not to care. but you’re already rooting yourself in places inside him he didn’t know were hollow.

satoru notices you because you don’t notice him. not the way everyone else does. you don’t flutter your lashes when he smirks. you don’t laugh at his jokes like they’re scripture. you don’t even flinch when he calls you “baby” out of nowhere—just blink at him like he’s an equation you don’t understand. it bruises his ego. and for some unholy reason, he loves it.

the problem is, you’re not immune to him at all. you’re just hiding it better than anyone ever has.

because what he doesn’t know is—you’ve always had a crush on him. from the very first time he walked into class, sleepy-eyed and bright-smiled, wearing that damn jacket like it belonged on a movie screen. you just figured he’d never notice someone like you. so you admired from afar. watched him flirt with others, watched the way he filled a room with laughter, memorized the cadence of his voice like it was part of your playlist.

your crush was harmless. private. something you never expected to act on. you played it safe. after all, guys like satoru gojo don’t fall for quiet girls with awkward posture and color-coded notes.

but maybe that’s what draws him in—the absence of performance. the quiet genuine way you exist. no theatrics. no games. just you, completely unaware that you’ve started haunting his every thought.

it starts small.

he catches himself watching the way your hands move. the way your nose scrunches when you’re deep in thought. the way you roll your pen between your fingers when you're anxious. it becomes a loop, a soft little addiction. he remembers details he shouldn’t. what color post-its you use. your preferred snack during study sessions. your favorite seat in the library. you don’t change. he just tunes in.

and then, one day, he realizes he’s rearranging his life around yours.

he starts showing up everywhere you are. loiters in the library, conveniently always around during your shifts at the campus café, makes excuses to sit next to you in class. offers to carry your books, asks you about calculus even though he already passed it. satoru gojo, golden boy of his frat, reducing himself to extra tutoring just to see you smile. it’s humiliating in theory, but it feels like worship in practice.

and it’s not just your smile. it’s the way you get passionate when you talk about obscure theories. the way you light up when you don’t think anyone’s watching. the way you stammer when he gets too close, but don’t pull away.

you don’t feed his ego. you feed something softer. quieter. something he didn’t think he had in him. he tells himself it’s because you’re innocent. because you’re shy and sweet and you deserve to be treated right.

he wants to be good for you. slow, patient, gentle. he holds doors open. he listens. he lets you rant about your thesis for forty-five uninterrupted minutes and actually understands it. he even looks up the books you reference, reads them just to impress you. he takes an annotated copy of your favorite book. he starts writing your name in the corners of his notebook like some love-struck high schooler. you haunt him in the best way.

and then—you kiss him.

it’s after a late-night study session. the campus is quiet. the lights in the library flicker like they’re caught between timelines. your voice shakes when you say “thank you for walking me back.” you pause, fidget with the strap of your bag. and then, like you’ve been gearing up for battle, you rise onto your toes and kiss him.

it’s chaste. hesitant. warm. like you're afraid he'll vanish if you lean in too much.

you pull back like you’ve done something wrong, but satoru’s frozen, staring at you like he’s just been baptized. you’re blushing so hard he can feel the heat radiating off your skin.

“you… sure?” he whispers, voice ragged, leaning in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

you nod, barely audible: “i’ve read… a lot. i think… i wanna try. with you.”

and he short circuits.

he thought he’d lead. thought he’d ease you into it, kiss your forehead, hold your hand like a gentleman. but then your hands are on his chest, pushing up under his shirt—the varsity jacket creaking as it shifts on his shoulders, the cotton brushing your fingertips. your eyes are searching his like you’re looking for confirmation that he’s real. you study every reaction like a research project. when he shivers, you smile, barely-there, and go back to tracing the line of his abs with trembling fingertips.

it’s not even mischief.

it’s curiosity. slow-burning, chest-aching, and barely held together by your own hesitation. the sort of yearning that tastes like nervous giggles and the edge of something terrifyingly new. you pause between touches like you're checking your hypothesis, calculating the way his muscles tense under your fingers. each brush of your skin feels like a question he's too dazed to answer properly.

“does that… feel good?” you whisper, lips barely moving, as though you’re scared to break the spell.

“f-fuck—yes, baby, yeah,” he gasps, throwing his head back, one hand clutching the edge of the couch like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

your lips trail down his throat, each kiss a trembling prayer, following a path only you can see. his skin is fever-hot, tasting of mint and salt, boyish charm unraveling under your mouth. when you press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his collarbone, his pulse jumps, a twitch rippling beneath your lips. his breath catches, a sharp stutter that makes his chest lurch, and his hands hover, fingers flexing like he’s afraid touching you will break the spell.

satoru gojo—fratboy, golden boy, untouchable—is quiet. too quiet. his eyes are hazy, pupils wide and unfocused, lips parted like words have abandoned him. his varsity jacket is bunched at his elbows, leather creaking, shirt rucked up to his ribs, abs clenching under your trembling fingers. he could take charge, flip this with a smirk—he’s done it countless times, effortless and expert. but now? he just watches, reverent, like you’re a deity he’s too awestruck to approach.

he’s known mouths. polished ones with perfect rhythm, greedy ones that took without giving, bold ones that knew every angle. but yours? it’s hesitant, new, like you’re crossing a threshold you’re not sure you’re worthy of. the way you look at him—eyes flickering behind slipping glasses, wide with awe—shouldn’t hit this hard. shouldn’t feel this fucking intense. but your fingers, shaking as they tug at his waistband, send a jolt through him that makes his vision spark.

satoru’s hand grazes your cheek, a trembling brush of knuckles. “baby… keep going. please.”

you nod, glasses sliding, your breath hitching as your fingers slip under his jeans, easing them down. your eyes flick up, catching his—flushed, jaw tight, his whole body fighting to stay still. it hits you like a blade: he’s done this a thousand times, fucked girls who knew every trick, but you’ve got him like this. trembling. aching. satoru gojo, invincible, unraveling because of you.

guilt stabs your chest, sharp and fleeting. you shouldn’t have him like this, shouldn’t be the reason his hands clutch the couch like it’s his only anchor. he’s always cocky, untouchable, the center of every orbit. now he’s breaking, and it’s your fault—your lips, your touch, your fault. but the guilt only fans the heat in your core, makes your thighs press together as you lean closer, your breath ghosting over his skin.

satoru is used to being wanted. but not like this. not with this aching, earnest hunger that makes his chest tighten.

you press shaky, open-mouthed kisses to his hip, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of his skin. spit gathers at the corner of your mouth, a slick trail left behind as you suck softly at the sensitive skin just above his cock. he jolts, hips jerking before he catches himself, a low curse slipping free, his hands clenching until his knuckles bleach. the sound he makes—fuck, it’s a choked gasp, raw and ragged, like you’ve torn it from his core.

you shift lower, hands sliding up his thighs, fingers digging into the taut muscle. your kisses grow bolder, sloppier, your tongue dragging along the crease where his thigh meets his groin, leaving a glistening streak of drool that catches the dim light.

he tastes like heat and need, and the way his skin trembles under your mouth makes your own pulse hammer. you pause, lips hovering over his cock, spit pooling on your tongue, and glance up—his head is thrown back, throat bobbing as he swallows, a groan clawing its way out of him.

“holy shit—baby, you—fuck,” satoru gasps, eyes snapping open, blown wide as his hand grips the couch, fabric groaning under his fist.

you take him in your mouth, lips wrapping around the tip, soft and slick with spit that drips down his length. your tongue swirls, slow and deliberate, tracing the ridge as drool spills from the corners of your mouth, coating him in a wet sheen.

he’s hot, heavy against your tongue, and you hum—a low, vibrating sound that pulls a whimper from his throat. your fingers curl around the base, stroking in time with the bob of your head, slick with the spit that pools at his base, making your grip slippery. you suck, gentle at first, then harder, lips stretching around him as spit slicks your chin, a glistening trail dripping onto his thighs.

he’s panting, desperate, each breath a ragged plea. his abs flex, thighs trembling under your palms, and he’s biting back whimpers, trying not to overwhelm you. that restraint—fuck, it’s gorgeous, the way his jaw clenches, the way his eyes flutter shut like he’s fighting to stay grounded. he doesn’t push, doesn’t guide, just moans your name like it’s a prayer, raw and broken. “that’s it, baby—fuck—just like that—your mouth’s so fucking perfect—”

the satoru gojo is unraveling, and it’s because of you. the way you glance up, glasses fogging, eyes glassy with effort, lips shiny and stretched around him, spit dripping down your chin in messy strings. the way your tongue flicks, catching the sensitive spot under the head, makes his hips buck, a choked sob escaping.

your hand slides lower, fingers brushing his balls, tentative but deliberate, slick with the drool that’s pooled at his base. you cup them, rolling gently, and his whole body seizes, a string of curses spilling out as his hand fists the couch tighter, the fabric creaking under the strain.

he’s had every fantasy, every trick, but this—your mouth, slow and reverent, full of wonder, messy with spit that coats him like a second skin—hits like a fucking freight train. it’s too much, too good. he wants to last, to let you explore, but you’re too fucking intent.

you hollow your cheeks, sucking harder, tongue swirling in tight, wet circles, spit bubbling at the corners of your mouth as you take him deeper, throat tightening around him. he chokes, hips jerking as his control frays. “gonna—baby, gonna cum, wait, fuck—”

you don’t stop. your lips slide further, tongue flattening, taking him as deep as you can. it’s filthy—spit drips down your chin in thick strings, pooling on his thighs, your glasses fogging as breaths puff through your nose. you’re focused, watching his every twitch, adjusting when he gasps, slowing when he whimpers, like you’re mapping him.

his hand grips the couch, knuckles white, and he breaks with a sound that’s barely human—a shattered cry as he spills, hot and pulsing against your tongue.

you try to swallow it all, but it’s overwhelming—cum mixes with the spit already coating your lips, spilling past them in a slick, messy rush, dripping down your chin, onto his thighs, and pooling on the couch. you pull back, gasping, wiping your mouth with trembling fingers, but the slickness clings, smearing across your skin as your eyes stay wide behind crooked glasses. he’s trembling, chest heaving, shirt clinging to sweat-slick skin, pupils blown like he’s seen the divine.

you should stop.

you fucking should.

he’s wrecked, twitching, fucked out beyond reason. but the ache in your chest—the sharp, flickering guilt of breaking him—only makes you hungrier. you lick your lips, tasting the salty mix of him, and your thighs press together, a soft whimper escaping as you lean in again, spit still clinging to your chin.

“just once more?” you whisper, voice barely audible, like you’re afraid the words will burn you.

his eyes flutter open, unfocused, dazed. he groans, raw and low. “baby… you’re gonna fucking kill me.”

but he doesn’t stop you. doesn’t even try.

you start again, slower, your mouth softer but hungrier, lips wrapping around him with a reverence that makes him twitch instantly. he’s sensitive, still pulsing, and the second your tongue grazes him, he whines—a high, broken sound that makes your stomach twist. you suck lightly, lips gliding along his length, spit pooling at the base and dripping onto his thighs in slow, glistening trails. 

satoru buries his face in a cushion, muffling a sob. “s-sensitive—fuck, it’s too much—”

his thighs tremble under your hands, hips jerking as you kiss the tip, tongue darting out to lap at the bead of cum still leaking from him, your spit mixing with it in a slick, glossy sheen. you linger, savoring the taste, the way it coats your tongue in a sticky film, and he whimpers again, louder, his hand flying to his mouth to bite his knuckles.

your fingers slide to his balls again, rolling them gently, slick with the drool and cum that’s dripped down, making your touch slippery and warm. he arches, a desperate, “please—fuck—please—” spilling from his lips like he’s begging for mercy but craving more.

you don’t rush. your tongue traces every inch, slow and deliberate, swirling around the head before dipping lower, dragging along the vein with a wet, sloppy kiss that leaves a trail of spit in its wake. your breath is hot, teasing, each exhale making him twitch, and you pause to suck at the base, lips lingering as your tongue flicks out, tasting the musk of him through the sticky mess. his hand finds your hair, fingers threading loosely, not pushing, just holding—like he needs to feel you’re real.

you grow bolder, hungrier, your lips tightening as you take him deeper, throat fluttering around him, spit bubbling up and spilling over, coating his cock in a thick, glossy layer. you hum, low and vibrating, and he chokes, a wet, pathetic whimper breaking free.

your hand strokes the base, slick with spit and cum, fingers sliding in the mess, and you slide a finger lower, brushing the sensitive skin behind his balls, now slippery with the drool that’s dripped down. he jolts, a high, keening sound tearing from his throat, his hips bucking as his whole body trembles.

“baby—god—please—fuck, i can’t—” satoru’s voice cracks, raw and whining, as you suck harder, tongue swirling in relentless, wet circles, spit and cum mixing in a frothy mess that drips onto the couch. every noise is desperate—gasps, whimpers, sobs that he tries to muffle but can’t. his body arches, twitching like he’s unraveling at the seams, and you feel it: the moment he breaks again.

he cums with a wail, sudden and violent, hips jerking as he spills into your mouth. it’s messier, hotter, a flood of cum and spit that overwhelms you, spilling out in thick, sticky ropes that coat your lips, your chin, your glasses, dripping onto his thighs and pooling in the creases of his skin.

you swallow what you can, lips still wrapped around him, tongue lapping at the oversensitive tip through the slick mess until he’s twitching, a broken, “n-no more—please—” escaping as he clutches the cushion.

time slips. minutes? hours? you’re tugging his shirt, pulling him closer like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded. ten minutes later, he’s gripping the sheets, praying, fucked senseless by every move you make. you flinch when he whines too loud, hands flying to your mouth, eyes wide with guilt—but then you lean in again, bolder, hungrier, chasing every twitch, every broken gasp of your name.

he’s never felt so cherished and so destroyed at the same time.

every touch is careful, but determined. you’re hesitant but thorough, like you’ve read the same passage in a smutty fanfiction a hundred times and are finally getting the chance to test it out. and the worst part? you’re good at it. really good.

your mouth, your hands, the way you watch his face for every twitch of pleasure—it’s enough to make him lose all sense of pride. the way you keep glancing at his reactions, as if adjusting your technique in real time, is insane. terrifying. he’s never been studied so hard. he likes it. he needs it. he’s suffering in the best way.

he’s never had to hold back like this. never had to breathe through it. never felt this fucking sensitive. he’s gripping the cushions like a man possessed. he’s whispering your name like a prayer. he’s not even sure he’s still speaking coherent sentences. you’ve wrecked him. utterly and entirely.

you pull back, panting, your hands shaking as you adjust your glasses, eyes glassy and wide. your lips are swollen, chin wet with a glistening mix of spit and cum, and you lick them, tasting him again, a soft moan slipping free as your thighs press together.

satoru is ruined—sprawled on the couch, shirt clinging to his chest, chest heaving like he’s fought a war. his hand is still in your hair, loose, trembling, and he’s staring at you like you’re a fucking goddess.

“thought you were the innocent one,” he chokes out, breathless, watching you nibble your lip and adjust your glasses with shaking fingers.

“i still am,” you murmur, face tucked into his shoulder. “kind of.”

he huffs out a laugh, dazed and wrecked. he can feel your heartbeat against his ribs. he doesn’t want to move. his hands are still trembling from how hard he tried to keep it together for you—and yet, you’re the one who took the lead. you’re the one who made him forget how to function. you kiss the edge of his jaw, soft and uncertain, and it undoes him more than anything else.

satoru gojo, campus heartthrob, ruined by a shy nerd girl who reads too much smut on her kindle late at night under the covers. who probably has a secret ao3 account and bookmarked folders. who looks like a timid schoolgirl but fucks like she’s been studying him like a midterm exam. and passed with extra credit. honors. valedictorian. summa cum laude of making him lose his damn mind.

he’s never been so obsessed.

and you? you’re already pressing your forehead to his chest, voice small, eyes wide with want and something raw and messy and needy as you look up at him.

“can we… try again? i think i missed a step.”

he doesn’t know if he wants to laugh, cry, or propose.

he’s never been more in love. and all he knows is he’s done for.

[saatorus]

cyberboy come home to me!

art credits: @musapylsa

synopsis — you just really love shy, nerdy, awkward armin arlert. not to mention how much you adore his tongue piercing.

wc — 5.4k

warnings — oral (f receiving), brief m receiving oral, unprotected sex, dom! kinda reader? armin is a loser virgin, tongue piercing fixation, mentions of drinking and getting high.

“Ah… I’m not sure if we should be— mmph!”

Armin downright whimpers when you silence his protest with a soft giggle and press your lips to his again, cupping his cheek like you’re trying to ease him into it. He kisses back, but it’s clumsy—his lips too hesitant, his breath shaky. The way his slightly clammy hands tremble as they slide awkwardly onto your waist gives him away completely. His fingers twitch like he’s unsure if he’s even allowed to touch you, like he’s expecting to be jolted awake from some perverse fever dream at any second.

You smile into it. He tastes a little like fruit punch and nerves.

How’d he even end up like this?

Honestly? He’s not entirely sure himself.

All he knows is that about an hour ago, he’d been forcibly dragged out of his safe, sacred little sanctuary—his room—by none other than Eren Jaeger, who’d called him a “shut-in loser” with all the affection of a lifelong best friend trying to get his social recluse ass to touch grass for once. “Just come out for one night,” Eren had said. “You never hang out anymore. You just rot in front of that stupid computer!”

That “stupid computer,” by the way, is the love of Armin’s life. A lovingly hand-built, high-performance rig that he’d spent months putting together with trembling excitement and a YouTube tab permanently open. The tower is pure art—transparent case with perfectly routed cable management, cool-toned RGB fans that change hues with each temperature spike, and a custom water-cooling loop that keeps everything running quieter than a whisper. The inside glows in a soft gradient from blue to violet, illuminating every pristine component like a spaceship console. His mechanical keyboard clicks satisfyingly under his fingers, each custom PBT keycap matte and worn in just enough. The desk is outfitted with dual curved monitors, a steelseries headset perched on a 3D-printed stand, and a carefully arranged line of anime figurines—each one dusted weekly.

He lives there. He thrives there. Not out here.

So when he’d first stepped foot into the frat house—blinking under dim purple lights, instantly accosted by the stench of sweat, alcohol, Axe body spray, and weed—he’d wanted to turn and run. Connie had looped an arm around his neck before he could so much as take a step back, dragging him further inside like a lamb to slaughter.

He would’ve given anything to be home. Back at his setup. Back where he could peacefully queue up for League of Legends or post a hot take on a message board about dungeon tier lists. His teammates were probably on Discord right now, wondering why his little green light hadn’t turned on tonight.

That was then.

Somehow– Somehow, in the haze of being drunk or high out of their minds— Eren was out of it, Connie was asleep on Sasha’s lap, whose head was on a knocked out Jean’s shoulder. Mikasa, for how composed she usually was, was slumped next to Eren, his hand wrapped around hers— you had managed to finally snag the shy boy to yourself.

You’d only recently started hanging out with the gang, weaving your way into their circle with a kind of natural confidence Armin found both mesmerizing and terrifying. You’re funny. Loud in a charming way. You speak your mind, talk to Eren and Mikasa like you’ve known them for years, and make sly little jokes that leave Connie wheezing. Even Sasha likes you—and she doesn’t like anyone new.

But around you, Armin turns into scrambled code. He avoids eye contact. Stumbles over his words. Does that thing where he pushes up his glasses like a reflex even when they’re already in place.

And it wasn’t hard to realize that Armin liked you.

He wasn’t subtle—not in the way he’d glance up from his phone screen when you laughed a little too loudly, or the way his ears would burn pink every time you plopped down next to him during hangouts, hips brushing, thighs touching just barely. He'd sit there stiffly, eyes wide behind his glasses, thumbs still tapping away at whatever gacha game or tactics RPG he was grinding, pretending not to notice how your perfume clung to the air between you like static.

You’d catch him staring sometimes—well, more than sometimes. Once when you bent over to grab a charger, and again when you wore that cropped shirt with the worn-out neckline, his gaze getting stuck right where your collarbone dipped into something just a bit more scandalous. But he’d always look away just in time, pretending to clean his glasses or scroll deeper into Reddit threads.

The boy was practically a walking Tumblr post from 2013. Always in those oversized hoodies with the sleeves too long, fingers tucked halfway into the cuffs, his laptop stickers flaking off from years of aggressive clicking. His room, as you’d come to discover later, was nothing short of a digital command center. Dual monitors—one vertical, one horizontal—cast a cold RGB glow over his unmade bed and tangle of charging cables. His mechanical keyboard clicked loud enough to echo through the dorm floor, each keystroke deliberate. Rows of Funko Pops lined the top of his bookshelf, mostly anime characters and one out-of-place Miku figurine he shyly claimed was "cute."

And that chair—God, that chair. It was one of those ridiculous ergonomic gaming thrones with a headrest, a lumbar support pillow, and armrests that he always adjusted like he was gearing up for war. You could tell it was his pride and joy, considering how he refused to let anyone else sit in it. Except, of course, for that one time you snuck in during a group hangout and plopped down in it just to see how far he’d go before breaking—he just stood there, mouth open, shifting awkwardly until he gave up and sat on the floor beside you. Pathetic. Adorable.

So yeah, it wasn’t hard to realize Armin liked you. He was just painfully obvious about it in a way that made you all the more obsessed.

Especially after that day Eren—loud-mouthed, smug Eren—dropped the most shocking bit of information mid-conversation over nachos and beer.

“Guess who finally let me bully him into getting a tongue piercing?”

Your head had snapped around so fast it almost gave you whiplash. "You're kidding."

Eren had just grinned like the devil himself. “Nope. Took him to the place on 8th. Cried like a bitch but hey, he’s got it now.”

You’d turned to look at Armin, who was red as a tomato, sipping his Sprite like he wished he could disappear behind the carbonation. He didn’t even deny it.

You haven't been able to stop thinking about it since.

Which brings you to now.

So when all of a sudden, you're sitting next to him on the too-small couch, murmuring something about there being something wrong with your phone, and desperately needing someone to fix it for you, and no, the dim lighting of the living room simply isn’t enough to inspect it properly—you somehow manage to drag him upstairs to one of the empty rooms, thigh pressed a little too close to his as you explain how glitchy your phone is, how you're so sure it must be some kind of weird virus, and wow, isn't that so crazy?

But cut the bullshit. Even Armin knew you were lying.

Phone glitching? Yeah, right. He’d seen your screen time stats by accident once—your camera roll was 95% front-facing selfies, memes, and blurry videos from nights out. He wasn’t stupid. But he was clueless—at least about your intentions.

You’d had a thing for him since day one, not that he knew, obviously. The first time Eren had pulled you into the fold, dragging you into their little friend group like some shiny new accessory, Armin had looked at you like you’d be gone by next week. He wasn’t good with new people—too shy, too stiff, too used to lurking in the background with his legs folded crisscross on the floor and his thumbs tapping away at his phone while everyone else drank and talked over each other.

Even now, when everyone hung out, Armin would be half-present—physically there, tucked into the corner of the room with his hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, but mentally god knows where. Probably grinding a mobile RPG or replying to a fan theory thread. He liked games where he could build things, micromanage every stat. His phone battery was always draining because he never stopped playing. Long, elegant fingers constantly moving, tapping, swiping. Even when you sat next to him, he couldn’t seem to stop. You once made a joke about how he probably tapped faster during battles than he would during sex.

You remember the way he’d choked on his Redbull.

But now—now he’s stuck. Sitting next to you in a quiet upstairs room, your perfume in his lungs, your thigh pressed right up against his, and your phone held limply between you both like some half-hearted prop.

He keeps glancing at you, lips parted like he wants to say something—anything—but nothing comes out.

“You gonna fix it or just keep staring at my lockscreen?” you tease, your voice low, syrupy sweet.

He blinks, startled, fumbling to grab the phone from your hands with a stuttered apology. “S-Sorry, I—um—yeah, let me just… check the settings, I guess.”

His hands shake slightly as he scrolls, and you bite your lip watching him. The way his jaw tenses, his brows furrow in concentration—it’s endearing. You wonder if he knows how flushed his ears are. You wonder if he knows how loud his breathing is.

You lean in just slightly, enough that your breath brushes the shell of his ear.

“You know,” you murmur, “I still haven’t seen that piercing.”

His entire body jolts. His fingers fumble the phone, almost dropping it in his lap. “W-What?”

You smile innocently, like you don’t already know exactly what you’re doing. “Your tongue. Eren told me. Kinda wanna see it for myself.”

Armin swallows hard, eyes wide as he looks at you like you just asked him to strip naked. “I-I mean, it’s not—It’s nothing, really. I-it’s just… uh…”

“C’mon,” you coax, fingers brushing the side of his knee. “I’m curious.”

He hesitates. Then, shakily, he sticks his tongue out just a little—just enough for the cool glint of metal to catch the light. Your stomach flips.

God, you didn’t expect that to be so hot. On him, of all people.

“You’re full of surprises, Armin Arlert,” you whisper, eyes meeting his.

And you swear to god, if you didn’t know better, you’d say the look in his eyes shifts. Just a little. Like something in him snaps or gives in. Like he’s done pretending he doesn’t know what’s going on.

“…Is your phone actually broken?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You grin. “Not even a little.”

And for once—for once—Armin smirks.

It's crooked. Barely there. But it's smug in the quietest, most devastating way, because he knows now. You're not here because of some bullshit glitch or broken screen. You're here for him.

The second you lean in, brushing a strand of his blond hair out of his face, he freezes—like a deer caught in headlights. His breath hitches, lips parting just slightly, and his fingers tense where they’re still holding your phone like it’s a lifeline.

“You’ve never kissed anyone before,” you say softly, not a question. Just an observation.

His cheeks flush bright red. He doesn’t answer.

You cock your head, smiling. “That’s okay. I’ll teach you.”

His breath catches again, sharp and audible this time, and he shifts a little like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands—does he drop your phone? Hold it? Hold you?

You take the decision away for him, gently slipping it from his fingers and setting it down on the nightstand. Then, without breaking eye contact, you slowly slide onto his lap, one knee at a time, until you’re straddling his narrow hips, hands settling on his shoulders.

His whole body goes stiff. “Ah… I’m not sure if we should be— mmph!”

You kiss his lips again, silencing him effectively.

“Armin,” you say as you pull back, voice low and amused. “Relax.”

He doesn’t. Not entirely. But his hands hover awkwardly near your waist now, like he’s trying to be respectful, like he’s afraid if he touches you wrong, the moment will combust.

You lean forward, just enough that your noses nearly brush.

“Close your eyes,” you whisper. “Don’t think. Just feel.”

He obeys, lashes fluttering shut. You let your lips graze his, soft and tentative, barely a kiss at all—just enough for him to taste your breath, to feel the warmth of you against his mouth.

He shivers.

You pull back slightly, your voice like silk against his ear. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”

He exhales shakily. “It’s… it’s good. You’re… good.”

You smile. “You haven’t even gotten the full lesson yet.”

And then you kiss him.

Really kiss him.

You press your mouth against his fully this time, slow and confident, your lips moving gently over his like you’ve got all the time in the world. He kisses back clumsily at first, a little too much pressure, a little off with the rhythm, but it’s adorable, and you can feel the way his whole body trembles under you.

You guide him with quiet murmurs between kisses. “Slower… softer, yeah… there. Just like that.”

His hands finally land on your waist, unsure at first, then a little firmer when you deepen the kiss, your fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck. You part your lips slowly, and when he instinctively mimics you—nervous, but curious—you feel it.

The smooth, cool ball of metal.

You pause just barely, lips still brushing his, a grin curling at the corners of your mouth. “There it is.”

“Huh?” he whispers, dazed.

“That piercing,” you murmur, voice thick with heat. “Feels so fucking good.”

You kiss him again, and this time your tongue finds his. The sensation of the cold stud sliding against yours sends a sharp little jolt straight through your spine. It’s addictive. You roll your hips slightly against his, and he gasps into your mouth, fingers tightening on your waist like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to pull you closer or push you away.

He tastes like mint and nervous energy, and the little helpless noises he lets out when you suck on his bottom lip are enough to make your thighs clench around his lap.

You pull back for a second, just to look at him. His lips are flushed, slightly swollen, eyes glazed with something between awe and pure panic.

“You okay?” you whisper, thumb brushing across his cheek.

He nods, almost too fast. “Y-Yeah. I just—I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

You lean in again, lips ghosting over his jaw. “That’s just the beginning.”

He groans—actually groans—and it’s the hottest fucking sound you’ve ever heard from him. You swear you feel him twitch beneath you. His hips shift slightly, involuntarily, and the friction makes both of you gasp.

You grab a fistful of his hoodie, tugging him back into another kiss, messier this time. Less structured. All tongue and heat and shallow breaths. That piercing catches on your lip as you suck on his tongue, and you moan softly against his mouth.

He's kissing you like he wants to prove something now. Still hesitant, still learning, but eager. Hungry. His hands slide up under your shirt, still shy but bolder than before, fingertips ghosting over the bare skin of your waist.

You roll your hips against him again, deliberately this time, and the noise he makes—somewhere between a whimper and a curse—goes straight to your core.

You smile into the kiss, breathless. “You’re such a quick learner.”

He swallows thickly. “I—I wanna keep learning.”

“Yeah?” You rock against him again, and his eyes flutter shut. “You will.”

You dip your head to press a kiss to his neck, right below his jaw. He gasps, tilting his head back like it’s instinct, and you suck a slow, wet mark into the pale skin, making him jolt beneath you.

“You’re so sensitive,” you whisper. “Bet I could make you fall apart with just my mouth.”

He whimpers.

And fuck, that sound does something to you.

You're grinding against him now, fully, the heat between your legs pressing right against the growing bulge in his pants. The way his hips buck up helplessly, like he can’t stop himself, is intoxicating.

You mouth at his jaw, then his ear, letting your breath tickle the shell of it.

“Armin,” you purr, “do you want me to show you more?”

He looks up at you like he’s ready to beg.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Please. Show me everything.”

You don’t make him ask twice.

You kiss him again, deep and slow, feeling the way he melts into it now. No hesitation—just heat, want, and the softest desperation in how his mouth opens for you like he’s starving. You taste that metal ball again, glide your tongue along it, and the sound he makes—fuck, you’re obsessed.

Your hips move instinctively, grinding down on his lap, and you can feel him. Hard. Pressed right up against your core through his worn out jeans and your shorts. The friction draws a moan from your throat that has his eyes fluttering open, pupils blown wide.

“Fuck,” you whisper, forehead pressed to his. “You’re so hard already.”

He nods, frantic, breath stuttering. “I—yeah, I can’t—I didn’t mean to—”

“Shh.” You cup his jaw, tilt his face up. “Don’t be embarrassed. You think I didn’t want that?”

You shift just a little, rolling your hips down with purpose, dragging your clothed pussy against his cock. He chokes on a gasp, his fingers digging into your waist like he’s trying to stop himself from bucking up into you again. You grab his hand, beckoning him to slip his fingers under your shorts, under the waistband of your panties.

“Feel how wet I am for you?” you murmur, lips brushing his ear.

He nods again, helpless. “Yeah—yeah, I feel it—fuck—”

You smile wickedly and grab the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head in one motion. His mouth drops open.

He stares.

Hard.

Like he’s short-circuiting. Like he’s never seen anyone naked before and can’t figure out where to look. His hands twitch like he wants to touch you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

You guide them to your tits.

“Touch me, baby,” you say softly. “It’s okay. You can.”

He swallows hard and palms your breasts gently, reverently, like he’s afraid to squeeze too hard. His thumbs ghost over your nipples and you sigh, arching your back into his touch, giving him a show.

“God, you’re perfect,” he breathes.

“You’re cute,” you reply, pushing your hips down again. “And obedient.”

He whimpers at that.

You roll your hips slow and steady, grinding on him until you feel his thighs start to tremble beneath you.

Then you lean down, lips brushing his. “I want you to eat me out.”

His eyes widen. “I—what? I’ve never—”

“I’ll guide you. Just do what I say.”

You’re already sliding off his lap, standing between his legs and shimmying your shorts and underwear down in one motion. His breath stutters when he sees you like that, bare and dripping, your thighs glistening in the low light.

You make a move to lie back on the bed, but he stops you, pink in the face.

“S–Sorry, I– ah– Can you ride my face? Please?”

He looks like he wants to wipe his existence off the planet because why’d he say that in such a high pitched tone, why’d he stutter like that, why’d his voice crack when he said please, why'd he—

But you just giggle amusedly, pushing him back onto the bed, straddling his face.

His whole body tenses like he’s trying not to combust. “Are you sure you’re okay with thi—?”

You don’t answer. Just lower your hips slowly until you’re hovering just above his mouth.

“Open up.”

He does, and when your pussy presses against his lips, you sigh like it’s relief. He’s clumsy at first—licking too shallow, too soft—but you guide him. “Use your tongue. Flatten it—yeah, just like that. A little harder. Good. Fuck, Armin.”

The moment his tongue finds your clit, you moan, your hips jolting forward. And the pressure of that cold little ball dragging against your most sensitive spot?

It’s over.

You’re grinding on his face now, fingers buried in his soft blond hair, riding him through sloppy, wet licks and messy kisses that leave your thighs shaking. He moans beneath you, hands gripping your hips like he’s into it, like the taste of you is something he wants to memorize. His piercing continuously flicks against your clit, making you whine and shudder, thighs clamping around his head. And soon enough, you’re coming all over his tongue, his name leaving your mouth prettily.

He’s hard again—probably never stopped being hard—and when you finally can’t take it anymore, you slide down his body and palm him through his jeans.

“Fuck,” you breathe, eyes wide as you feel the outline of him. “You’ve been hiding this from me?”

He covers his face with one arm, flushed and overwhelmed. “I didn’t know I’d get like that so fast.”

“You’re adorable.” You lean down and press a kiss just above his waistband. “Let me take care of you.”

He whimpers again.

And when you tug his jeans down, his cock bounces free—hard, flushed, leaking at the tip. You stroke him once, slow and firm, and his whole body jolts.

“Oh my god,” he chokes, hands fisting the sheets. “I—I don’t think I can—”

“You can.” You kiss the head of his cock, swirl your tongue around it just once, and watch him squirm.

Then you straddle him again.

“Wait—” he gasps. “Are you—are we really—”

You line him up with your entrance, slow and steady, and you moan when the tip slips in.

“Fuck yes, baby,” you whisper, eyes fluttering shut as you sink down inch by inch. “You’re inside me.”

He’s panting, chest rising and falling like he’s about to pass out. “You feel… holy shit…”

“Tight?” you tease, grinding down once you’re seated fully.

He nods, eyes wide, mouth open. “I’m not gonna last—”

“You’ll learn,” you murmur, starting to move. “I’m gonna teach you everything.”

And as you ride him—slow, deliberate, dragging every sweet sound out of him—you know for a fact that this won’t be the last lesson. You bounce up and down on him, watching with a gaze full of lust and amusement as he croons your name, head thrown back, drool escaping the side of his lip, thick glasses askew.

He looks like he’s unraveling. Like his brain stopped functioning five minutes ago. Like all he can focus on is the way your cunt squeezes him every time you drop down.

“F-Fuck, you feel so good,” he whimpers, voice cracking with raw need. “I c-can’t… I’m not gonna last…”

You lean forward, letting your chest brush against his, your lips brushing his mouth as you whisper, “That’s okay. Just give it to me.”

His hands are shaking where they grip your hips, but he tries to match your rhythm anyway, pulling you down harder every time your ass slaps against his thighs. He’s trying so hard to keep it together for you—sweet, trembling thing, so eager to please despite how close he is.

“I–I’m gonna– I’m gonna– I don’t have a condom on, I—”

“Don’t worry,” you murmur, kissing the edge of his jaw, tongue flicking over his pulse point. “Just pull out, baby. I’ve got you.”

And it’s like your voice alone is enough to break him.

His grip tightens—frantic, bruising—and you barely have time to lift off before he comes, gasping your name like a prayer. Thick ropes spill over his stomach, twitching cock pulsing as he groans and writhes beneath you, flushed and utterly wrecked. His glasses have slid halfway down his nose, and he’s too dazed to fix them.

You exhale through a low laugh, trailing your fingers through his release before bringing them to your mouth and sucking them clean, just to tease him. His breath stutters at the sight, and his eyes roll slightly as he pants beneath you.

You collapse next to him, both of you catching your breath in the quiet, sticky air. The room smells like sweat and sex and faint body spray, and outside the door you can still hear the low thrum of party music, muffled now like the two of you are in a different world entirely.

He’s quiet. Still. Hands awkwardly covering himself, glasses pushed to the side. You catch the way his lashes flutter, how red his cheeks are, how he refuses to meet your eyes.

You turn on your side, resting your head on one hand. “What’s wrong?”

He swallows hard. “That was my first time,” he says softly. “Like… all of it. Kissing, sex, everything.”

You pause, the weight of his admission settling into the space between you. He glances up at you finally, face filled with anxiety.

“I… I hope I didn’t disappoint you.”

Your heart aches a little.

You reach out and gently remove his glasses, setting them on the nightstand, then cradle his face in your hand.

“Armin,” you say, voice low and sincere, “that was the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced. You have no idea.”

He blinks, surprised.

“You were perfect,” you say, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his forehead. “And I like that it was me. I like being the first.”

His face turns even redder, if that’s possible. “I–I didn’t even know what I was doing.”

“That’s the fun part.” You smile, brushing a strand of his hair off his forehead. “Means I get to teach you everything.”

He hides his face against your shoulder, groaning. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You laugh softly, wrapping your arm around his waist. “You’re such a cutie.”

You lay there together in the silence for a while, his head nestled against your chest, his arms tentatively curling around you like he’s not sure he’s allowed to hold you yet. You run your fingers through his hair, gently tugging here and there, and you feel him relax more and more under your touch.

“You still nervous?” you murmur after a while.

“A little,” he admits, voice muffled. “I just… I’ve never done this. Any of it. I don’t want to mess things up with you.”

You kiss the top of his head. “You’re not. I like you.”

He lifts his head to look at you, shy but hopeful. “Really?”

“Mhm.” You brush your lips against his again. “I’ve liked you since I saw you trailing behind Eren with your stupid oversized hoodie and your Switch in your hands like you were allergic to human interaction.”

He laughs, sheepish. “I kind of am.”

You grin. “And I kind of love that.”

He watches you for a moment, eyes soft and a little awestruck. Then he leans forward, kisses you with all the gentleness and hesitance of someone who’s just now realizing he might be falling for someone, and you smile into it, warm and full and smug.

Because you know you’ve got him.

—

It’s official now. You’re Armin’s girlfriend.

It had happened somewhere between all the blushing kisses and stolen glances and slow, breathy I like you’s whispered in the privacy of his bedroom. There was no dramatic confession, no rose petals or fireworks. Just him looking at you one afternoon with that overwhelmed, adoring gaze, thumb brushing over your knuckles while he mumbled, “Do you, um… want to be mine? Like… officially?”

And you’d kissed him stupid in response.

So now, two weeks later, you’re at his place again, perched sideways on his lap in his gaming chair, legs draped over one armrest while his are stretched beneath the desk, twitching slightly every time something exciting happens on screen.

You’re wearing one of his hoodies—big, soft, and smelling like fabric softener and his shampoo—and nothing else underneath. Which he hasn’t noticed. Yet.

His focus is laser-sharp, blue eyes narrowed behind his glasses, tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth like he’s fighting for his life on whatever boss battle he’s got going. You shift a little, trying to get comfortable in his lap, but he doesn’t even flinch—just grunts something about “just give me a second, babe, I’m in the middle of something.”

And yeah, it’s a little infuriating. But also?

Ridiculously hot.

Like, his headset is way too big on him. He keeps muttering things under his breath about cooldowns and mechanics and DPS output. His fingers are flying across the keys, long and elegant and twitchy, like they were built to type essays at the speed of sound or code random passion projects no one ever asked for.

At one point, he actually shushes you. A little breathy “waitwaitwait– babe, hold on, this guy’s cheesing—oh my god I swear to god if this fucking healer dies I’m gonna—”

You blink. Then snort.

“You’re so nerdy,” you murmur, voice laced with amusement, “I can’t believe this is my boyfriend.”

He doesn’t look up. “You knew what I was when you signed up.”

“Oh, I did.” You lean in, dragging your fingers up the nape of his neck, just under the headset. “And I like it.”

He shudders a little. “You’re distracting me.”

“I know.”

Still, he plays. Fidgety, intense, mouthing instructions to himself like some kind of adorable, socially anxious commander. You watch the screen for a bit, half-understanding what’s happening—some massive raid, particles flying everywhere, his team yelling in the Discord chat you can hear leaking through his headphones. Armin doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it’s surprisingly confident. Precise.

“No, back left! You kite, I’ll stun—good—shit, I got hit, that’s fine, I’ve got mana—”

You shift again. This time a little more deliberately.

His hands pause on the keyboard. “...Are you doing that on purpose?”

You blink at him innocently. “Doing what?”

“You’re… squirming.”

You tilt your head, smiling. “I’m just trying to sit comfortably, Armin. Your thighs are kinda bony.”

“I—what? I—”

He falters. And you know he’s starting to get flustered. Because his hand slips on his mouse, and he curses softly under his breath as his character takes a hit onscreen.

“Can’t believe I’m being insulted and sabotaged right now,” he mumbles.

“I’m your girlfriend,” you remind him, turning so you’re fully straddling him now, knees on either side of his hips, “it’s in the job description.”

He swallows thickly. You can feel him beneath you now—half-hard already, tension building the longer you stay in his lap.

“Please let me finish this fight,” he whispers, jaw tight.

You kiss the edge of it.

“Okay.”

So you wait. Sort of.

You shift again. Start pressing little kisses to his throat. Let your fingers toy with the edge of his shirt, lifting it just slightly. Not enough to distract him fully. Just enough to make him sweat.

By the time he finally mutters a breathless, “Got him, holy shit,” and slumps back in the chair, he’s panting and flushed—and not just from the game.

You lean in, both hands planted on his chest now, smiling sweetly.

“All done?”

He nods.

“Good.” And then you roll your hips once against his, slow and deliberate.

He makes a soft, broken sound in his throat. “Y-You’re evil.”

“Mmhm,” you hum, dipping down to kiss him again, this time deeper, tongue teasing the edge of that stupid metal piercing he still refuses to tell you the story behind.

It’s so easy to ruin him.

His hands flutter uselessly for a second before they land on your hips, gripping like he’s still not sure he’s allowed to touch you. You grind down harder, and he whines into your mouth, glasses fogging up, hips twitching like he’s not in control of his own body anymore.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice high and shaking. “I’m—I was just trying to game.”

“You’ll live,” you whisper, licking into his mouth again. “Besides… I like seeing you like this. So desperate for me.”

He groans.

And you know right then, without a doubt, this little nerd is already obsessed with you. Completely and utterly whipped.

author's note: HELL YEAH I LOVE NERDIFYING ANIME MEN!!!! fantastic give me 14 more of them bzzzzz

seriously when i saw this fanart the first thing i did was open up google docs and get my ass to WORK i feel like by now its really obvious i have a thing for nerds :3

hope u guys #enjoyed i have a really bad tongue piercing fixation, not sure if it was obvious... (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ )

[abbotjack]

Happy Father’s Day, Jack

TLWG bonus chapter (part 4.5 : in between phase six and phase seven of sticky fingers, quiet mornings )

LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST <3

a/n : part two to the prequel is still in the works, but thought I'd offer this bonus chapter for you all! wc: roughly 2,300

Father’s Day begins exactly twelve minutes after Jack Abbot walks off a trauma floor that nearly broke him.

It’s 7:12AM.

Pittsburgh humidity clings to the porch railing like breath. The street’s quiet. A dog barks three houses down. Somewhere in the distance, a train rolls through, low and steady. Your windows are cracked open, just enough to let the air in, not the heat. You’ve already brewed the coffee. Toasted the waffles. Set out the card. Tucked her handprint painting between the sleeves of the new Steelers sweatshirt you bought him, folded carefully, placed right on the arm of the couch where he’d see it first. Everything’s ready. You’ve been up since six.

You’re wearing a pair of biker shorts and his old PTMC long sleeve, the sleeves pushed to your elbows, the neckline slouching over one shoulder. There’s a small smear of pink paint on your wrist from when she wouldn’t stop “signing” his card with the side of her fist last night.

The front door opens.

And then he’s there.

Jack Abbot. Black scrubs, soaked in overnight shift fatigue, shirt clinging at the collarbone, badge unhooked, stethoscope looped tight in one hand. His eyes are bloodshot. One shoulder visibly lower than the other, like the weight of the shift is still hanging off him.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just sees you in the kitchen and stops like something hit him square in the chest.

You meet his eyes.

“Happy Father’s Day,” you say, quietly.

Jack blinks, stunned for half a second, then sets his stethoscope down like he forgot he was still holding it.

“You did all this?” he says, voice rough. “For me?”

You nod. “Of course I did.”

He rubs a hand down his face. “I was gonna pretend I didn’t care. Be chill about it.”

“You? Chill?”

“I had a speech ready.”

You look at him, curious. “For Father’s Day?”

Jack nods, smile barely there, just a flicker at the corner of his mouth, sleep still hanging off him like a second shift. He steps closer, the hem of his black scrubs brushing your hip as he leans against the counter. “Yeah. Figured you’d do something. Thought I’d try to be smooth. Say thanks, maybe kiss you slow. Try to talk you back into bed.”

You snort. “You practiced that in the trauma bay?”

He shrugs, cracking the faintest smile. “Tried. Didn’t get far. An intern asked me about marriage,” he says. “Like, dead-ass. During rounds. Whole hallway smells like blood and ketamine, and he goes, ‘Dr. Abbot, is it worth it?’”

You laugh under your breath. “And what’d you say?”

Jack’s hand comes to your waist, fingers curling in over the long sleeve's hem, thumb pressing into the soft skin of your hip like he’s grounding himself.

“I said—‘Imagine the worst shift of your life. Like, seven codes, backboarded GSW, a social worker crying in the supply closet, just hell. And you come home to someone who doesn’t ask anything from you. She’s just there. Coffee ready. Kid babbling in the crib. And you still get to love her like you’ve got time to spare.’”

Your throat tightens. “You said all that?”

He shrugs. “He’s lucky I was running on adrenaline. Any other time I’d have told him to shut the fuck up and chart.”

You grin. “That’s disgusting. I love you.”

“I love you more.” He tilts his head, eyes flicking down your body. “You wore this for me?”

“Maybe.”

“You trying to get me to cry or get me to fuck you?”

“Why not both?”

Jack groans softly and presses his forehead to your shoulder.

“I’m so tired,” he whispers. “And you’re making it worse.”

“I made waffles.”

“You’re trying to seduce me.”

“They’re heart-shaped.”

Jack mutters something against your skin that sounds like Jesus fucking Christ and then kisses your shoulder. Slow. Open-mouthed. Like he’s remembering you’re real.

Then—

Crackle.

The monitor hums. Both your heads turn.

And there it is.

“DAAA-DAAAA?”

Jack’s breath catches.

You wait.

Then her voice rises again, louder now, sweeter, almost like a song:

“DADA COME NOW. DADA COME.”

You glance up at him.

He’s frozen, eyes locked on the monitor. Silent. Like the sound cracked something open in him and he’s trying not to let it spill out.

Last year, she couldn’t even form the word. No teeth. No words. Just soft coos and gummy grins. Now she’s standing in her crib, gripping the rails, calling for him like he’s the whole damn sun.

You rest your palm over his chest. Feel the breath rise sharp beneath it.

“Go,” you murmur. “She’s been practicing. I caught her saying it to that photo in her room last night, the one of all three of us. She can see it from the crib.”

Jack nods. Doesn’t speak. Just takes one deep breath, like he’s bracing against the weight of it, and moves.

Then, just before he turns the corner, voice low without looking back:

“Don’t eat my waffles.”

You smirk. “No promises.”

You follow him down the hall. Quietly. The morning presses in around you like a held breath.

The nursery door swings open.

And your daughter, the light of your life, is standing in her crib, duck in one hand, hair in total disarray, cheeks flushed from sleep. She points at him like she’s been waiting her whole life for this exact moment.

“DADA.”

Jack drops to a knee like she shot him straight through the ribs. “Hi, bean,” he says, voice thick, eyes already glassing over. “I missed you.”

She lifts both arms like royalty, and he gathers her up like it’s instinct, like it’s oxygen. Her little body melts against his chest, warm and heavy with trust, her curls sticking to the collar of his wrinkled black scrubs. He holds her like he never wants to let go—but when he turns to you, it’s different. Deeper.

He looks at you like you hung the stars. Like this, this home, this child, this morning, is something he still can’t believe he gets to have. His eyes are wrecked. His voice rough with everything he never says out loud.

“Best thing we ever made.”

And when he looks at you, it’s not just tired. It’s bone-deep love. That look he only gives when he’s too exhausted to keep the walls up, when all that’s left is the truth. That he loves you. Fiercely. Silently. Constantly.

For one long, breathless moment, the house is still.

Jack Abbot. In black scrubs. A baby in his arms. His whole heart in yours. A Father’s Day that actually fucking means something.

And not a single part of him takes it for granted.

You cross to him and lower yourself beside them, curling into his side like it’s the only place that’s ever made sense. His arm slips around you instantly. She presses herself between you both with a possessive little grunt.

“Happy Father’s Day,” you whisper again.

Jack closes his eyes. Breathes you both in. And then, softly, without opening them:

“I love you”

You lean into his chest. “I love you too. You’re the best thing we’ve ever had.”

His voice is wrecked when he says it. “Don’t ever let me fuck this up.”

“You won’t,” you promise.

Later that night, 11:42PM.

It’s almost midnight.

The waffles are long gone. The handprint painting’s been magnet-pinned to the fridge, slightly crooked, beside a gas bill and a grocery list Jack added to earlier—diapers, more blueberries, get her favorite tea. The new Steelers sweatshirt he pulled on after his shower this morning still smells like soap and daughter. You caught him wearing it again after dinner, toddler in his arms, rocking on the back porch swing with her cheek pressed to his chest like she’d been waiting all day for that exact configuration of time, weight, and warmth.

She was asleep by 8:40. Out cold by 8:49.

He hasn’t put his ring back on since work, but it’s there, on the nightstand. Next to the baby monitor. Next to the small black leather album he still hasn’t opened.

You told him about it during dinner, leaned across the table while he was chewing and said, “There’s one more gift.”

He blinked, fork halfway to his mouth. “I already got three. The card, the sweatshirt, the painting…” He tapped the side of his head. “That’s three. I counted. You’re done.”

You smirked. “I’ll have you open it when we’re alone.”

Now you’re in bed. Jack’s walking out of the bathroom, threadbare navy shirt, boxer briefs riding low on his hips. He’s blinking slow like he’s still catching up with his own exhaustion. But when his eyes fall on the album, he pauses.

“You’re really gonna make me cry three times in one day?”

You smile, heart already racing. “Just open it.”

Jack squints, scrubs a tired hand down his face, and mutters something like I’m too fucking soft for this. He sits beside you. Turns the album over in his palm. His hand is rough from work. Tape residue, fading ink, a healing nick on his knuckle that you know came from a trauma room cabinet door he forgot was broken. His thumb lingers on the spine. He flips the first page.

And then—

“Jesus Christ.”

His voice goes flat. Then quiet. “Oh, fuck me.”

You don’t answer. Just watch the slow unravel.

Jack blinks. And then blinks again. His breath leaves him like he’s been punched straight in the solar plexus. His mouth opens, closes.

“Is this—are you—this is you?”

You smirk. “Don’t act like you don’t recognize your own wife.”

He flips another page. The flush spreads from his neck to his ears. There you are, posed in soft golden light, black lace barely covering anything. His dog tags around your neck. Your hands behind your back, wrapped in his tie. One shot with your fingers curled in the waistband of your panties, gaze sharp, hair mussed, lips parted like you’re waiting for him to step out of frame and ruin the rest of the photo.

Jack swears under his breath. “When—when did you do this?”

“Last week. Took a long lunch. Studio near the firm.”

He flips the page again, and stops cold. His breath stutters. His fingers tighten against the edge of the leather.

You’re wearing his sweatshirt. Not the clean, fresh one you gave him this morning, but his sweatshirt, the grey one with the faded army logo that still smells faintly like old detergent, sand and him. The same one he left on the bed the first night you ever stayed over, when he didn’t want to make it a whole thing but didn’t want you cold either.

And now—Christ.

The hem sits just below your hips, riding up higher on one side, exposing the curve of your ass like a secret you wanted him to find. Your back is arched, thighs tucked, feet flexed like you shifted into that position mid-movement—like you’d just climbed up and waited for him to follow.

Your face is half-hidden in your arms, cheek pressed to the mattress, but he can still see the soft part of your mouth. The barest hint of a smirk. The slope of your spine. The suggestion of everything just out of reach.

Jack exhales like he’s been sucker punched.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “That’s my sweatshirt.”

His voice cracks on the word my.

Jack shuts the album fast, like if he looks at one more page, he’ll fucking combust on the spot.

“I married you,” he says, voice hoarse. “I fucking married you.”

“You did.”

“I thought the waffles were gonna break me. The new sweatshirt, the painting—she said Dada—and I kept it together. Barely. And now...” His hand drags down his face again. “Now you’re pulling this shit?”

You crawl closer, hand on his thigh, voice low, “Happy Father’s Day.”

He stares at you. Then laughs once, quiet, pained, wrecked. “You’re actually trying to kill me.”

“I thought you’d like it.”

Jack turns to you. The look on his face is nothing short of reverent.

“Like it?” he repeats. “I want to frame every goddamn page. I want to staple it to the fridge. I want to show that intern from this morning what happens when you marry someone way too good for you.”

You laugh. “You wanna show him nudes?”

“I wanna show him you. I wanna show everybody.”

“Jack—”

“I’m so in love with you,” he breathes, voice low and wrecked, like it’s clawing its way out of his chest. “I walk around all night with blood on my shoes, palms aching from compressions, lungs full of hospital air, and all I do is think about you. Think about this house. Think about coming home. To waffles. To her. To you. To this life I don’t fucking deserve.”

You climb into his lap, slow and deliberate. His hands catch your hips without hesitation.

“I was trying to make this special.”

“You did,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “You made it sacred.”

You lean in, lips brushing his. “You gonna thank me properly?”

Jack doesn’t answer. He just kisses you, slow, deep, aching. Like gratitude and lust and years of knowing your body better than he knows his own. His hands slide up your back beneath the hem of your shirt. You’re not wearing anything underneath.

He swears again. Then flips you back against the pillows, his body blanketing yours in one fluid motion.

“I’m gonna spend the rest of the night worshipping you,” he says into your skin. “Starting now.”

And when he finally slips inside you, hot, deep, full-body groan into your mouth, there’s not a single thought left in his head but you.

The woman who made him a father.

The woman who still wants him.

The only thing that’s ever felt like home.

[livelaughlovebeinggod]

This post is for the people who are procrastinating on applying the law or for those who need a wake up call. ‼️

what if you had never found the law?

Or let's say there's a parallel reality where you never stumbled upon the law of assumption. That you with the same circumstances but without the knowledge of the law, how would they have felt? For many, it would feel like their horrible reality would never change, how helpless they must be feeling, thinking about all the hardwork they need to do in order to achieve something, thinking that there's no shortcut to life and they've to do far more than just lifting a finger, they've to chase after life relentlessly just to live their dreams and the list goes on...all this just because they're limited in their mind, they're not aware of just how powerful their mind and their assumptions are, just because they're not aware that they can have absolutely anything and everything just by assuming they have it. They would have lived their entire life feeling like they've no control over their life, having that hope that maybe one day it would all change but unfortunately it never does. You come to your last stage of life with nothing but regrets because you wanted to do so many things but either didn't have the time or you just didn't have the courage to "take action" on them.

Seems horrifying? It is.

Now let's flip the script!

GOOD NEWS!

YOUR LIFE IS NOT THE WAY I DESCRIBED ABOVE.

You're blessed and lucky enough to have the knowledge about the law of assumption. I would have certainly felt helpless and hopeless if i didn't know about the law of assumption with my circumstances, i would've felt like giving up but this is not the case, I know about the law, i know it IS possible to have the life of my dreams and more, oh how blessed i am. Then why the hell am i procrastinating on doing the bare minimum?! imagine the things you would have to do in order to achieve those dreams if you didn't know about the law? Damn I'm exhausted even thinking about it! But guess what? With the law, u know all you have to do is just assume it's already done and persist! You don't have to even lift a finger let alone doing anything more than that. It's this easy.

Just think about it.

It's that easy so why are you procrastinating or why are you not taking accountability and changing your life? YOU LITERALLY CANNOT BE MORE BLESSED THAN THIS. Like imagine getting whatever you want with just your assumptions?! Even a fairytale falls short of what cheat code we know now. You're not realising just HOW FREAKING LUCKY AND POWERFUL YOU ARE.

This is not just a post to motivate you, this is a WAKE UP CALL, I'm calling you out rn and telling you to end this cycle, NOW. I need you to step aside from ur phone or Tumblr after you've read this post and just think about it, what are you doing? You could be living ur dream life by now if u had just applied the law and stayed consistent with it but here you are, consuming more loa content as if it's all not just the same information you've read a hundred times. The law is simple, too simple actually.

DECIDE YOU HAVE IT & PERSIST. THAT'S IT.

There's no other magical information out there, you WILL NOT get your desires if you don't apply the law. It cannot get easier than this. There are people who don't have ANY idea about the law, they're living a limited life, but you? You know about the thing people would sell their souls just to find out about it, and here you are still procrastinating as if you don't actually hold the power of the whole universe inside your mind and all you need is a decision and commitment to that decision.

It's either you decide to CHANGE YOUR LIFE AND FINALLY END THIS CYCLE or GET THIS LOOP GOING FOREVER. It's upto you. No one's coming to save you and it doesn't have to be scary, no one's coming to save you because you're enough to save yourself. You've all the power you'll ever need. Stop doubting your power. Actually applying the law and being consistent is scary and hard because your mind is too familiar living in hell that even heaven starts to feel uncomfortable but trust me, once you come out of that comfort bubble, you'll see that you were living in a tunnel all your life when there was a whole universe outside waiting for you to come out.

You can do it. Now, GO DO IT.

[vermililion]

john walker fic recs ✧°‧⭑.ᐟ

˚　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

continuing to update | last updated 28/05 | ( tysm writers <3)

─── ✧ DRABBLES/BLURBS

nsfw hcs | @undyingdecay

he fucks like someone trying to win a medal for it.

enemies | @aquaholicsanonymousworld

team mates enemies to enemies who have hate sex.

domestic hcs | @/aquaholicsanonymousworld

nsfw hcs | @/aquaholicsanonymousworld

“Wasn’t plannin’ on stayin’ long tonight,” he mutters, swirling the amber liquid. “Then you had to go and look at me like that.” You smile, heat pooling low in your belly.

dating walker hcs | @purehypnotic

giving john head | @shadowheartshapedbox

what it’s like giving junior varsity captain america head ;)

─── ✧ ONE SHOTS

the way i love you | @randomnessfangirl

John Walker is the bane of your existence...but everyone else can see that there is potential for you to put your differences aside and reveal your true feelings for each other.

girls' night revelations | @zerosomnia

After venting some frustrations at girls' night, the reader realises that they are not just angry at Walker but that there's some other stuff going on too. A confrontation ensues that ends in some truths.

the soldier and the nurse | @blueberrypancakesworld

He was a soldier who, even as a hero, always tried to protect everyone with his shield. Even the best soldier gets hurt, though, and John finds himself in the infirmary of the tower, once again with a nurse he had visited many times before. This time, however, it seems different, because when concern meets amusement, two hearts finally find each other.

nocturnal guilt and training | @/blueberrypancakesworld

It is one thing when you don't concentrate, it's another when you let yourself get hurt to deal with your own pain. John finds himself in dark places from time to time, which is especially evident after the last mission, but the soldier wants to go through it alone. Yet his girlfriend is there to help him no matter how long it takes, they would make it together.

code yellow | @inlovewithquestionablecharacters

sex pollen with walker.

thunderstorms | @angellily920

johns a secret softie :)

and you came back to me | @/aquaholicsanonymousworld

him where they’re dating and reader gets badly hurt on a mission and the whole team is freaking out, especially John, man is going BRUTAL on the people who hurt reader.

off your game | @/aquaholicsanonymousworld

Working with the Thunderbolts meant swallowing your pride daily — but nothing bruised your ego quite like him.

honey, where is my shield? | @husbandjoel

you’re the fixer upper of weapons for the new avengers and want to do something for john walker’s upcoming birthday.

moral of the story | @starktonyx

You never expected to be blindly sent to kill your ex-husband, but when you cross paths again in looping shame rooms, it’s like going through the pain all over again.

patched up | @bruisedboys

john grudgingly patches you up after a mission — it gets more intimate than you both expect.

helmet | @gallavichsreddie1128

Y/N may be the only person on the planet that gets turned on by John in his helmet.

asshole | @/gallavichsreddie1128

Y/N hates John but he and everyone else are convinced that it’s just sexual frustration.

bad words | @/gallavichsreddie1128

Y/N and John are a secretly dating but put on the act of hating each other until one of them takes it too far.

need that | @blank-potato

You think everything he does is hot, and eventually he takes notice.

my kid's better than your kid | @/blank-potato

You and John's kids are in the same soccer league, and after you get into an argument on the field over your kids, you start seeing him everywhere. It's hate at first sight.

but why's it feel so good? | @sexy-monster-fucker

While out on a mission together, Reader and John stumble into a researchers trap. Leading to them being doused in an unnamed chemical.

the heart of the matter | @divinepoints

You had never thought that life would lead you back to John Walker. Or perhaps, that life had led the both of you back to each other. After all, this had been your world first.

pushing it down and praying | @swordgrace

your friendship with john is put on the line after you’re injured during a mission — what follows is something neither of you can anticipate.

you're the ache i asked for | @/swordgrace

forced into attending a gala event, you go to john for help with your dress. things turn incredibly heated.

a black eye and two kisses | @/swordgrace

john has a bad habit of running his mouth, especially during a sparring lesson — after taking it too far, he makes it up to you in more ways than one.

only pretend until it's not | @/swordgrace

you and john go undercover to infiltrate an arms dealing ring in paris. you take your roles a little too seriously.

bit the hand that needs you | @/swordgrace

after getting injured on a mission and dismissing your help, you can’t seem to shake why john doesn’t like you. the answer is more complicated than you thought.

proximity check | @/swordgrace

when a mission goes sideways, you and john are forced to hide together in a utility closet.

change | @johns-walker

when you get injured during a job, you and john have a genuine conversation for once.

boundless | @endofthelinegang

the quiet halls of Avengers Tower keeps a kind-hearted witch who begins to distance herself from John Walker after his cold, self-protective indifference makes her believe he hates her. but when her warmth fades and he’s left in the silence he created, John finally confronts his fear of not deserving her—and chooses, for once, not to run from something real.

your hero | @spookieloop

You and the rest of the Thunderbolts are going undercover to catch an arm's dealer at his favorite night club. Someone tries to spike your drink, and Walker teaches the scumbag a lesson. A violent one.

─── ✧ SERIES (including mini)

the things we don't say part ii | @/endofthelinegang

trapped between fury and longing, you and John Walker collide in a moment that’s been simmering for months—raw, reckless, and impossible to ignore. When a knock at the door threatens to shatter what little you have left, he finally says the one thing he’s been choking on: he wants you.

thunder rolls | @/endofthelinegang

this is the prologue of a series where you are bucky barnes little sister who has managed to make it this far with him, one little snafu has happened, you happen to have feelings for another super soldier one that your brother does not particularly like.

it only leads to trouble part ii | @mydearmando

you suppose it’s natural to touch people who you live and work with. you touch everyone on the team. walker does, too. so you don’t know why it bothers you so much when he touches you.

keep your heart, cause i already got one (ongoing) | @lauufeydottir

As the Thunderbolts make their way through The Void, Walker ends up a witness to one of your shame rooms, a past you've kept close to your chest for decades.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

[rabbiitte]

Queer Coding in Media: Jayce and Viktor's Case.

Let's address what Christian Linke recently said about Jayce and Viktor's relationship because this is making some noise in the community:

According to the co-creator, Jayce and Viktor love each other like “brothers”.

Christian states that he doesn't understand why people see their relationship as a romantic one.

Linke also added, after the end of the series, that Viktor is canonically asexual and dismissed a possible romantic relationship with Jayce due to that reason.

We'll expand on these points next. But first, some context.

| About queer coding...

If Jayce and Viktor's relationship is seen as beyond brotherly, it's because it was portrayed that way. Their relationship is very queer coded.

Queer coding refers to the practice of subtly implying that a character in a piece of media is part of the LGBTQ+ community without explicitly stating or confirming it. This is often achieved through subtext, symbolism or specific character traits associated with queerness. This often arises due to societal restrictions, censorship or creators intentionally embedding queer elements into their work.

Queer coding for a couple in media involves using subtle visual, narrative or dialogue-based cues to suggest a romantic or deeply intimate connection between two characters without explicitly confirming their relationship as romantic or LGBTQ+. This type of queer coding focuses on the dynamic between the two characters rather than just one individual's traits.

When discussing queer coding in media, the examples can include both the content of the relationship itself (dialogues, interactions and dynamics) and visual and non-visual narrative (cinematographic techniques, narrative techniques and the use of music). Both aspects—content and narrative—are essential to queer coding because: a) Content provides the material that audiences can latch onto (dialogues, dynamics or gestures) and b) the narrative guides how the audience perceives this material (through visuals or music, for example).

Below are examples and methods used to queer code couples:

Relationship's Content (character's dynamics and dialogues):

These are the in-universe moments or dialogues that give romantic or emotionally intense undertones to the relationship. For Jayce and Viktor, this includes:

1. Use of subtext in dialogue or relationships:

Ambiguous or "more-than-friendship" dynamics: Characters have intense emotional bonds or interactions that go beyond typical friendships but stop short of being explicitly romantic. Jayce and Viktor’s connection, for example, is filled with vulnerability, admiration and devotion beyond brotherhood. Their willingness to risk everything to save each other in each timeline adds a tragic, almost romantic layer to their bond. Jayce’s comment calling Viktor “beautiful despite his imperfections” and their mutual sacrifices suggest a deep connection that goes beyond friendship or platonic relationships. Their bond, tied to time loops and destiny, feels more like a soul bond with a cosmic significance that transcends a typical brotherly dynamic. In other cases, this would be a romance.

Loaded Dialogue: Lines of dialogue may carry double meanings or suggest emotional or physical intimacy without being overt (e.g., characters use ambiguous terms like partner, special or soulmate, which can suggest deeper feelings without explicitly labeling the relationship). For example, if one says, "I’d sacrifice everything for you," it resonates beyond platonic territory. Dialogue between Viktor and Jayce is filled with layered meanings that suggest a connection deeper than traditional friendship. Here are some examples:

When Viktor’s former mentor warns him about sacrificing love and legacy, Viktor instinctively replies "Jayce will understand," directly associating Jayce with love and signaling how central Jayce is to his emotional world. Similarly, Jayce’s decision to abandon politics to return to the lab is encapsulated in the line "my place was always here in the lab with you," which emphasizes that his devotion isn't just to their work but specifically to Viktor. The repeated use of "partner" by Jayce further blurs the lines between professional collaboration and emotional intimacy, as the word carries dual meanings, suggesting equality and closeness. The term is somewhere between friends, brothers and more than that. Hence, the term can be freely interpreted. Viktor later reflects on their bond by stating, "it was affection that held us together," acknowledging that their relationship transcended shared goals and was rooted in genuine emotional warmth. Finally, Jayce telling Viktor, "there is beauty in imperfections," as he admires Viktor’s struggles and physical challenges, conveys profound validation and care, elevating their bond to one of deep emotional resonance. These lines collectively demonstrate how their dialogue is charged with a sense of intimacy and mutual admiration, allowing the relationship to be interpreted as more than platonic, hinting at queer coding through its emotional depth and layered expressions.

2. Body language and interactions:

Lingering gazes or physical proximity: Close, lingering touches, extended eye contact or standing too close for “just friends” —common romantic cues—are often used. For example, long hugs, holding hands or standing closely during emotional moments are subtle ways of suggesting attraction or intimacy. In Jayce and Viktor's case, Jayce is almost always the one who initiates the physical contact. Jayce's non-verbal language with Viktor is marked by gestures of reassurence with a hand on his shoulder, hugs without centimeters of distance and fast moves to help Viktor in the face of his weakening due to his illness. An important detail to take into account is Jayce's reaction to Viktor and Mel's return. When Viktor returns from the dead, Jayce surprises his friend with a hug that knocks him off balance by his strength. When Mel returns after no one knew of her whereabouts, Jayce doesn't even hug her, but instead complains about why she didn't save Viktor.

Protective gestures: Scenes of one character sacrificing for, protecting or expressing deep vulnerability to another can suggest more intimate feelings. Jayce and Viktor's relationship also has the presence of hundreds of moments in which they both profess for the safety and well-being of the other. In season one, after having sex with Mel, she wakes up in an empty bed. It turns out that Jayce was with Viktor, waiting on the side of the bed for him to wake up. This detail alone shows where Jayce's loyalty lies. But, overall, Jayce is very delicate and helpful towards Viktor. In turn, the only moment in which Viktor initiates physical contact is to reassure Jayce so that he doesn't feel pain on the astral plane. Both join their foreheads in a significant gesture of appreciation and affection and console each other at the end of their existences.

3. Avoidance of heteronormativity:

Lack of romantic interest in the opposite sex: A queer-coded character may show no explicit attraction to the opposite sex while forming deep emotional bonds with same-sex characters. This is especially true for Viktor, who has had no interest in any character of the opposite gender during the two seasons. The guilt Viktor felt over Sky's death shouldn't be confused with sexual, romantic or aesthetic attraction. Viktor practically didn't even know Sky's name during the first season and, despite knowing each other since childhood, Viktor continues to call her "Miss Young" during the second season. As you may already know, Sky's presence in the second part of Arcane represents what Viktor has left of humanity. Jayce is a separate case, since he did have a sexual-affective relationship with Mel, despite not being officially a couple. However, he always put Viktor's well-being above his relationship with Mel.

Unconventional partnerships: Instead of marrying, having children, or living “normal” lives, queer-coded characters often follow nontraditional paths. The unconventional partnership between Jayce and Viktor lies in their shared path of devoting their lives to science and progress instead of following more traditional societal expectations. Their bond, rooted in their shared ambition and mutual understanding, creates a life partnership that revolves around innovation, discovery and reshaping the world. Together, they prioritize their intellectual and creative pursuits over conventional relationships, with their lab becoming the core of their connection and purpose. This can be seen, for example, in the moment when Jayce decides to resign from politics because he realizes that his place is next to Viktor in the lab. This partnership not only defines their lives but also strengthens their relationship, making it deeply meaningful and unique in its intimacy and shared vision.

Visual and non-visual narrative (cinematographic techniques, narrative techniques and music):

These are the deliberate storytelling choices that imply deeper subtext or allow the audience to interpret a couple's bond as queer. Examples include:

1. Visual narrative:

Symbolism (in scenes): are visual and narrative moments intentionally designed to evoke ambiguity, emotional depth or hidden meanings in a relationship. These scenes often rely on subtext, metaphor or visual framing to suggest intimacy or connection between two characters, leaving their nature open to interpretation. For example, Jayce's campfire scene. Fire might symbolize Jayce's internal turmoil. Mel appearing first may reflect her role as a significant figure in Jayce's life, while Viktor appearing next could symbolize a deeper, enduring connection. The fire "burning away" Mel and transitioning to Viktor might suggest that, in this moment, Jayce's thoughts are consumed by Viktor, representing a priority or emotional focus shifting toward Viktor. So, Viktor isn't simply a colleague or friend but someone whose presence looms large in Jayce's thoughts, surpassing Mel's. While the scene might not explicitly state anything romantic, the visual choices align with tropes often used to convey profound emotional connections, making it easy to interpret the subtext as romantic or deeply personal.

The decision to interweave Viktor’s scene with Jayce and Mel's scene while having sex is highly unusual too. If Jayce and Viktor are purely platonic friends, such a juxtaposition does feel strange. I understand, both Jayce and Viktor are "merging" with something beyond themselves, but can you imagine a similar scene with Jinx and Vi? If Jayce and Viktor's relationship were purely professional, friendly or brotherly, such imagery wouldn't normally feel warranted in storytelling.

Parallelism: In storytelling, parallelism refers to the use of comparable or mirrored elements—such as characters, themes or visuals—to draw connections or contrasts. It often involves showing two or more situations, characters or relationships side-by-side to highlight their similarities, differences or shared significance within the narrative. In Arcane, the creators align Viktor with Mel through parallels. Through this technique, creators seem to suggest that Viktor holds a similar or even equivalent place in Jayce’s life. Since Mel’s relationship with Jayce is explicitly romantic, this framing subtly implies that Viktor could also occupy a romantic or emotionally intimate role.

2. Non-visual narrative:

Music and Lyrics: are powerful tools to subtly hint at romantic or emotional dynamics between characters without explicitly stating them. By selecting specific songs or using lyrics that carry layered meanings, creators can invoke emotions or associations that resonate with queer themes, intimacy or romantic undertones. Songs that have lyrics with open-ended or ambiguous lines, when placed over scenes with queer-coded characters, allow for multiple interpretations. This creates a sense of queerness without labeling it outright, allowing the audience to interpret the relationship as they see fit. As is the case of the song The Line by Twenty One Pilots. Through the line "pull the blanket tight now" you can interpret the song from Viktor's point of view and dedicated to Jayce (since Jayce was the one who gave the blanket to Viktor).

Comparisons and mirroring: narrative parallels with romantic couples, either in character arcs, sacrifices or framing. For example, Jayce and Viktor share a significant bond across multiple timelines. Jinx and Ekko, meanwhile, also share a significant bond in another timeline. This could be interpreted as both couples choosing each other, even, in alternate universes. This is an idea that is commonly related to romantic relationships. Love across different universes is seen as something beyond fraternal and worthy of epic romantic love. In the same episode that Ekko meets Jinx in another timeline, Jayce meets Viktor in another timeline too. The same thing happens in episode three of season two. In the same episode where Vi and Caitlyn fight and part ways, Jayce and Viktor also fight and part ways. In this way, Jayce and Viktor follow a similar pattern and theme (albeit on a larger scale) to that of the other canonically romantic couples in the series.

Subtext in dialogue: refers to lines with double meanings that subtly suggest emotional or romantic undertones. The choice by the creators of lines that are commonly associated with romantic relationships such as "beautiful despite the imperfections", "in all timelines, in all possibilities, only you can show me this", "my place is in the laboratory, with you" or "it was affection that held us" convey an ambiguous message that leaves the possibility of multiple interpretations open. The use of the term "partner" was not accidental either. This word is commonly used by queer individuals to signify a romantic relationship while avoiding gendered language. Jayce and Viktor not calling each other “brothers” is significant because it leaves room for ambiguity, suggesting that the creators might not have wanted to firmly define the relationship. Jayce only called Viktor "brother" once and then insisted on the term "partners" until the end of the series.

As you noted, these aren’t accidental choices—they are purposeful creative decisions made by team members who do support the romantic interpretation of Jayce and Viktor's relationship. Animators, voice actors and designers contributed to shaping this relationship through subtle creative choices. For example, animators might have chosen specific expressions or gestures to convey deeper intimacy, even if this wasn’t explicitly stated in the script. Leaving their relationship ambiguous might have been seen as a “safe” route in the face of disagreements.

In collaborative works like Arcane, no single individual (not even Christian Linke) dictates the entirety of what's canon or not. Creative contributions from diverse team members with their own agenda and interpretations also shape meaning.

If the intention was to show a “brotherly” relationship but the execution led to widespread interpretation of a romantic one, it's failure in storytelling. If the intention was to show a "queer coded" relationship and the execution led to widespread interpretation of a romantic one, then it's success in storytelling.

Death of the author: Viewers also have their own interpretations and that's valid. Varied interpretations shouldn't be dismissed. Here the death of the author applies. This term refers to the fact that, after an author publishes a piece of work, that piece ceases to belong exclusively to the author. Once a work is released, it belongs to the audience as much as the creators. If significant parts of the fanbase interpret Viktor and Jayce as more than friends, that interpretation becomes part of the narrative’s cultural impact, regardless of authorial intent.

The interpretation in media of queer codes is deeply influenced by cultural cues. Although this changes from society to society, social cues are the same for everyone. If Viktor and Jayce’s interactions evoke a sense of romance, it’s because the storytelling taps into those cues, whether intentionally or not. The relationship between them two integrates cultural and social codes typical of queer relationships.

Cultural codes: are tied to traditions, beliefs and shared understandings within a specific culture or subculture. They include symbols (objects, gestures, or imagery that carry specific meanings within a culture —e.g., a wedding ring symbolizing commitment—), narrative patterns (storytelling conventions that audiences recognize, such as the "star-crossed lovers" trope or visual parallels that suggest a connection between characters), expressions and language (words, phrases, or metaphors that carry connotations shaped by cultural usage —e.g., the word "partner" often implying romance in contemporary Western culture—.

Social codes: are the behaviors and norms that define interactions and relationships between individuals or groups. These codes are often context-dependent and include: body language (physical gestures or proximity that suggest intimacy, power, or affection —e.g., lingering touches or intense eye contact indicating closeness—), relationship norms (expectations about how certain types of relationships—platonic, familial, romantic—are expressed in actions and language) and contextual cues (the way relationships are framed by their environment, such as a candlelit dinner indicating romance or playful banter suggesting friendship).

The way Viktor and Jayce interact is coded in a way that aligns more with romantic love than familial or platonic love. So, asking to associate Jayce and Viktor's relationship with a “brothers” type of relationship would mean having to disregard cultural and social codes.

| Romantic Undertones as "Canon Adjacent”.

As I previously said, the romantic undertone of Jayce and Viktor's relationship would result in a canonically established couple in any other series. So, what I see here is a double standard in romantic representation in the series. For example, many think that Ekko and Jinx are canon after (a conversation that wasn't added to the series and after...) Ekko gave his jacket to Jinx. Jayce and Viktor’s dynamic features more romantic subtext than that but they still are dismissed as "brothers". Is this homophobia? No, of course not. How could it be homophobia if Arcane shows an established lesbian couple? Well, let me tell you, lesbian representation is more socially accepted in male-dominated spaces due to fetishization, whereas romantic relationships between men are less embraced. The idea of two men in love can lead many people to question the masculinity of these men and the masculinity associated with characters like Jayce or Viktor is vital to League of Legends. Making a canonically gay male character is riskier for the franchise because, in lol, masculinity is an element that, many times, determines the election of one character over the other.

Unlike Vi and Cait, among whom (I understand) there was the belief of a romantic relationship, Jayce and Viktor were never associated in that way. So, I can see the risk.

If Linke intended to focus on male friendship, that’s fine, but dismissing other interpretations, especially in a story as emotionally charged as Jayce and Viktor’s, can come across as limiting or dismissive of queer readings, whether intentional or not. It would have been better for Christian Linke to shut up and let everyone have their own interpretation about Jayce and Viktor's bond. Instead of insisting on interpreting Jayce and Viktor’s bond as “brotherly”, it would be more inclusive and respectful to let viewers interpret their relationship freely. By insisting on framing Viktor and Jayce as just “brothers” or “friends,” the show risks falling into the “no-homo” trope, where creators deliberately steer clear of portraying characters as gay despite clear romantic subtext.

| Linke's arguments.

Arguments like "media lacks non-romantic platonic relationships" feel insincere because these type of relationships aren't underrepresented in media. That crisis never existed. Many popular shows and movies focus on deep, platonic male bonds (e.g., Sherlock Holmes, The Lord of the Rings, Supernatural). While it’s admirable to showcase strong male friendships, it’s not a groundbreaking theme. In such a case, there is a lack of representation of non-romantic platonic relationships between men and women. These type of relationships are equally rare and more deserving of advocacy, but we still have timebomb (Jinx and Ekko). In conclusion, media has no shortage of non-romantic male-male bonds, but LGBTQ+ male romantic relationships remain underrepresented. So, Christian Linke's dismissal about JayVik was even more noticeable after that argument.

Also, I would like to add that referring to a relationship as a "romantic" one doesn't diminish the importance or depth of a bond. Friendship isn’t erased by romance. In fact, many memorable romantic relationships in media are related to friendship (e.g., Anne and Gilbert from Anne with an E). But, to call it a brothers-like relationship would diminish the profound, cosmic depth of their connection because their bond is about recognition, unconditional support and shared purpose, even at the cost of the world. It’s poetic and tragic, resonating with themes of love, identity, and the human condition. The time loops, their repeated choice to find each other and their interconnected destinies make their relationship feel larger-than-life. For many viewers, this mythic quality resembles soulmate narratives rather than simple friendship or brotherhood.

Another argument that reveals Christian Linke's rejection of Jayce and Viktor as a possible romantic relationship, is the statement about Viktor being asexual. I would like to ask what is the point of revealing this information after the show ended? Representation works best when it's woven into the narrative, not dropped as an afterthought. Beyond that, I think Mr. Linke should educate himself. Experiencing little or no sexual attraction doesn't mean that romantic attraction cannot be experienced. Being asexual doesn't mean that a person can't be gay.

Asexuality: is a sexual orientation characterized by the lack of sexual attraction to others. This means that an asexual person typically doesn't experience the desire to engage in sexual activities with anyone, regardless of gender. However, asexuality exists on a spectrum. Asexuality as a spectrum refers to the understanding that asexuality encompasses a wide range of experiences and expressions of little to no sexual attraction. Rather than being a single, fixed identity, the asexual spectrum includes various orientations and preferences regarding sexual and romantic attraction.

Many asexual people form deep, meaningful romantic bonds and there's no inherent contradiction between being asexual and experiencing romantic feelings. To use Viktor’s supposed asexuality as a reason to dismiss any potential romantic undertones between him and Jayce feels reductive and dismissive—not just of their dynamic, but also of the diverse experiences of asexual individuals.

Let's end this post on a more positive note with Arcane team members who do support Jayvik.

Posts from animators + Jayce's voice actor with a JayVik fanart.

Viktor's character designer + posts from animator.

Moose is the creative director + AgentR is an animator + Mel's voice actress.

[totallyxtaurus]

Depollute me, gentle angel

Summary: Sylus is away on a business trip while you sink deeper into your depressive episode. Pairing: Sylus x gn reader Genre: Angst (I guess, I'm not sure lol) Trigger Warnings: depression, mental health struggles, anxiety, self-neglect, and hints of suicide A/N: Soo I was going to make a fluffy/smutty story but my PMDD hit me hard af and then BOOM, this. This was super hard yet easy to write at the same time probably because it's a self insert lol like this is literally me. Sylus' "perfect" persona does intimidate me and I grappled with the thoughts of "what if Sylus was real, could he actually handle this?" I hope everyone enjoys and please please please remember to take care of yourselves! 💗

Next

When was the last time you crawled out of bed today? Your stomach twisting, hunger pangs turn into nausea. But the thought of forcing your limbs to carry you into the kitchen for food feels insufferable. So, you stay buried in the tangle of unmade, unwashed sheets. A hint of fabric softener desperately clinging to the fibers, the stale scent of sweat and skin already taking over. Earlier, you pressed your nose into your shoulder, checking. The sweet floral deodorant from days ago (you think) has spoiled into something sour.  

Each day and sleepless night blend together. They become hard to tell apart, except when the phone rings. Work is calling again—probably to ask when you’ll be back in or to terminate you. You know you should care—you do care! Well, you used to. You liked your job; you were good at it. But does it bring you joy? Right now, does anything?

Everything feels like a chore that you can’t be bothered to attempt. Showering? The thought alone is exhausting. But thinking about the steps that come before the shower is enough to make you sit in your own filth. You reach up absently. Your fingers get lost in the greasy roots and tangle in the mess below. Dandruff flakes dust your pillow. You picked at your scalp while scrolling for hours. Anything to pull you out of this pit you’ve fallen into, for a moment of relief. Your stomach churns each time your tongue touches the slimy coating that has built up on your teeth. Panic spikes at the thought of cavities—the decay, a reminder of neglect. Yet, there you lie, paralyzed by your own anxieties. God, you want to move. You really do. But then you tell yourself, I’ll brush them after I eat, for sure. You know it’s a lie. But it makes the guilt easier to swallow.  

These bouts come and go, pulled in by a force you can’t escape—because you are the force. Like the moon dragging in the tides, summoning waves too strong to withstand. When you’re up, you trick yourself into thinking that you have it all together, like you’ve cracked some secret code. You throw yourself into work, into people, an endless loop on performance mode. Blissfully numb. Until the crash. The tide swells too high, knocking you under and swallowing you whole. Then you’re here, again. Bedridden. Isolated. Time slips through your fingers. Days, weeks—who knows how long. Until someone notices your absence. Usually, him. Then you have to explain why you vanished and begin to collect the pieces of you that have washed back ashore.

“You should trust Sylus more," your therapist had said, voice gentle but firm. “Let him in during these episodes. He wants to help you.”  

You nodded, pretending to consider it, not missing the way they emphasized the "want to help you" part. But the idea was absurd, laughable. Let Sylus see you like this? No, it’s better this way. You can keep your dignity and him, a win-win situation.

This episode—as your therapist calls it—came at the perfect time. Sylus is away on a business trip, conveniently absent when you’ve sunk to your lowest. He gives you roughly three days of no contact before the constant calls start rolling in. This time, luck was on your side, a twisted kind of luck, but still one that was to your advantage. You can’t even begin to imagine the horror that he’d feel if he saw you like this.

Undeserving. That’s the only word that comes to mind when you think of Sylus, especially in moments like these.

Sylus, the man who has everything—and if he doesn’t, he simply acquires it. Always composed, always in control. He’s the kind of person who seems to glide through life, untouchable. You can’t imagine him unraveling, not like this. No, if he ever stumbled, he’d just power through it. There are no obstacles he can’t overcome.  

Until you.

You are the only thing he can’t fix. A threat to the pristine world he’s built. Thankfully, he hasn’t seen you like this, and he never will. He can’t.

Your therapist says your way of thinking is the problem. You don’t let him in. You don’t give him a chance to understand. Your therapist doesn’t know Sylus like you do. What if he does understand—but secretly believes you’re too much? And knowing Sylus, what if he doesn’t leave, but worse—stays out of obligation? Out of pity?

Your chest begins to tighten at the thought, your heartbeat picking up. You’d rather disappear completely than let him see you like this.

But before you can spiral any further, the doorbell rings.

[lvrclerc]

✶ WATCH ME PARTY ON YOU

summary: post-race parties usually don't come with invitations, but this one does. you understand why when you see lando norris, your ex, mixing on a rooftop in monaco.

F1 MASTERLIST | LN4 MASTERLIST

pairing: lando norris x ex!f!reader

wc: 1.5K

cw: alcohol, many many the great gatsby references because party 4 u is just so tgg coded, exes to ???, reader is bisexual because i'm bisexual and i'm the writer, complicated relationship, not proofread.

note: requested here! i decided that writer's block wouldn't get me and that no matter how much i hated it i wouldn't delete a word once it's on the page, enjoy this one sitting madness <3

THE INVITATION HAD come gold-lettered, and your name nowhere to be seen on the expensive, grainy material of the paper. You had laughed in Kika’s face, because no one ever came to post-Grand Prix parties with invitations— you knew someone who knew someone who knew a friend of the person who was invited, and it was proof enough. The brunette shrugged, muttering something about a special occasion as she gently sweeped the bristles of her highlighter brush on your cheekbone.

Monaco is small when you’re someone, which is why every face on the rooftop is familiar. You leave lipstick stains on darkening blush as acknowledgement even if first names escaped you, and welcomed the cool droplets of those who dipped in the pool for celebration against your burning skin. The music throbbed low and intimate: lights were dark purple swirling with the dangerous golden hem of your dress, your body pulled flush against Kika’s. There was something about the way the beat looped, syrupy and sticking to your collarbones in its sweetness, that turned the atmosphere heavy with secrecy.

The tongue of the girl you kissed tasted like vodka and cranberry juice, and the perfume of the man with his hand on your hips smelled of endless car rides from one country to another. They both ended up talking about the earlier Grand Prix, the words getting lost to you in the heat of the first hours of morning. Kika had told you about the winner, which you promptly forgot about— she looked at you with barely contained pity when you answered you no longer tracked the fingerprints staining the trophies.

“The music’s good!” the girl comments. You nod through the lemony haze of your cocktail— it was good. Familiar, even, and your eyes turn to the booth at the very end of the rooftop, where the sky brushes the railing with modest curiosity.

The name Kika had uttered between layers of sounds crashed onto you.

He’s up on a platform, one headphone half-on and his shirt half-opened in a similar fashion, exposing the slick of his tan skin under the Monaco air. His curls are longer, grazing the back of his neck the way you used to. The sickeningly saccharine liqueur that is melancholy sobers you right up: Lando Norris was not supposed to be good at this—the mixing thing he picked up after too many nights post-race with too much adrenaline and too little sleep—but somehow he is. Of course he is.

Lando excelled at everything he set his mind to. Yet, when it came to you, to the quiet maintenance of love  and all the small, thankless instances that came with it, he faltered.

You weren’t built for waiting. Patience was a language you never learned; the world had never asked you to slow down, so you never did. Life moved with you— not the other way around. When Lando didn’t show up the way you needed, you didn’t wait for him to catch up. 

You left before he even had the chance to prove if he ever would. 

The tangled mess of bodies dancing together under harsh brush strokes of lights stills for the half of a second, and memories come flooding back in the dull brown of strangers in train windows. As the beat lags, imperceptibly, and the pads of his fingers you imagine must still feel as rough as his steering wheel hovers over the board, you still knew him well enough to deduce he saw you too.

The crowd is champagne-colored when you go back dancing but your heart is already heavy with a hangover when your feet find the tempo. Lando’s eyes, as he navigates through the music for the night, glides over you like water when you drop in people’s arms, laughing and singing, one after the other. You didn’t enjoy it one bit— not because it was unwanted, but because the knowledge of his presence made you all too aware of the debauchery you’ve been indulging in ever since you left. The outside perception of your humanity was not something you liked to be reminded of.

Tracks after tracks, you dance for Lando to watch, and you can’t remember if it was tears or tongues that wiped the specks of glitters on your cheek.

The party doesn’t end in a cathartic split. It bleeds out, like so many other things.

Bit by bit, the bodies disperse. Laughter thins into whispers, lost to the humidity and the inevitable promise of tomorrow. The last bottles sweat themselves warm on sticky countertops, cadavers-shaped confettis floated in the pool, the shades of light going from enamel to watercolor, and somewhere below, Monaco exhales— restless and bright.

You lost sight of Kika hours ago, you realize as your bare feet plunged into the water. You find yourself alone again. Not in the literal sense— there are still a few limbs flung on velvet couches, a couple kissing like the night will never end. You wished it did, so you wouldn’t have to find yourself in your own company.

Behind you, the music switches to something treacly, ripping open parcels of your heart without much thought about the consequences on the feeble hold you had on it. The melody trickles down your spine. The first lyrics escape your lips like a well-oiled, forgotten jukebox.

You don’t look to see whose feet dips in the water next to yours. “That’s a nice song choice,” you comment instead, eyes locked on the dark water below. The melody spills like honey into the quiet. You remember swaying to it in the kitchen light, tucked comfortably in the warmth of his arm, the rare times he allowed you to settle between the shards of his self-doubt. He held you at the base of your spine like it was the only place he could linger without trembling.

The notes had never felt more intimate as they do now.

“Thought you might like it,” Lando answers, and the only bite behind it is the unforgivingness of the cool evening air on your bare shoulders.

The silence stretches for a minute longer than it should, dense. The last stragglers had stumbled awkwardly to the exit before the Brit spoke up again, the melody of the song echoing between each syllable. “I play it at the end of each after party,” he says, barely above a whisper, shifting. “In case you’d drop by.”

“You sent the invite.” It’s not a question.

Lando nod. “Kika told me you’d be in Monaco.” He breathes in, sitting a little straighter next to you. “I just… I wanted to know if that's what it would take.”

“You could have just asked.”

“I didn’t think you’d come if I did,” he says. It’s almost sheepish, as if he was the one declining your own party. He put you on a pedestal deserving of a marble idol— you were just another woman with neons in her bones, with the necessity to crack a little in order to shine. Nothing like who he pictured when he kissed you.

Which is why you replied, “Me neither.” Then, after a beat. “But I’m here, so now what?”

That undoes him a little, you can hear it in the hand he runs in his hair.

Lando draws a breath, pursuing something that already slipped past the fragile skin of his lips. “We could try again,” he offers, voice brittle with something desperate. “We could go back to what we were before, you and me. Before it all fell apart.”

You let yourself savor the possibility— but that’s what it was: a suggestion. You could play pretend at being a different person than you were back then, and Lando could too, but the truth was that you were still the same people who couldn’t push the thorny edges of their own minds to love each other properly. The city below sparkles, but the rooftop is dim, quiet.

“We can’t repeat the past, Lando.”

He turns to you fully then. You can finally catch the dark rim lining his lower lashes, and the flicker of something wide-eyed in his gaze. The want inside of them blurred into a child-like naiveness, which you could only compare to a boy staring through a looking glass and hoping to find the answers he seeked. “Why not?” he asks. “It was good, wasn’t it? While it lasted?”

The last rooftop light flickers behind you. Once, twice, and dies. A final green blink before you’re swallowed in darkness. The music stopped a few minutes ago, the only familiar rhythm now the aching pace of Lando’s breathing.

You don’t answer. You choose to kiss him instead, and it grounds you. His mouth is familiar, yet salted with nostalgia and softened by regret. His tongue slips in your mouth to swallow your secrets, his fingers wipe the black stains running down your cheeks following the map he traced so long ago. You finally feel real again.

The rooftop stays dark and the city spins on. Here, in the quiet wreckage of a night that once belonged to the both of you, you kiss him as acknowledgement that the past did happen. As a testimony that, in this moment, it was still yours to hold.

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

[dcxdpdabbles]

I reread Dauntless Matchmaker recently and I love it, could you please make another part? Either that or another part for One Hell of a Bellhop, Legal Compensation, or Mr Flavors Soda, any of the above would be great, your choice ^-^

Danny skips up the stairs towards Wayne Manor's front entrance with a binder, a few notebooks, and his laptop tucked away in his carry bag. Humming under his breath, he raises his hand to knock. Before he can touch the wood, the door swings open to the beaming face of his fake boyfriend, Tim Drake.

"Hi!" The other gasps breathlessly. He adjusts his cardigan from where it had fallen off his left shoulder. Danny has noticed something about Tim. He was always so nervous and clumsy. The poor thing was taking his heartbreak badly.

"Hi, Tim." Danny grins. He holds up his NASA theme bag with pride. "I brought the stuff!"

His boss' brother lets out a string of nervous chuckles that slowly dissolve, coughing when he chokes on his spit. Alarmed, Danny started smacking his back in hopes of helping. He wishes he could say this was a one-time thing, but Tim, unfortunately, does this often.

"Master Tim?" Alfred calls from down the left hallway.

"I'm fine! Everything-cough-hack- everything is fine!" Tim screams back, entirely red and looking a tad bit mortified. Clearing his throat, he straightens to full height, back pin straight and looking every bit the young gentleman of his standing. "Shall we move to the viewing room?"

Danny knows he's only trying to save face, so he only smiles and steps inside. As they had agreed on two weeks ago, Danny loops his arm through Tim's, pressing himself close to the other's side, just as Alfred walks by.

The aged man seems pleased to see them so affectionate, which Damian said Danny had to play up because otherwise, it would not be believable. Tim only dated men and women who showed their care through physical touch, and he was often seen holding hands or looping arms with his partners.

As it is, Tim does his part well, beaming up at Danny. He was taller after hitting a second growth spurt, but sadly, he seemed to take after his mother rather than his father. Danny was only two inches taller than Tim.

On the other hand, Jazz grew like a weed. Once it became apparent, she took after Jack in height. Dan's appearance gave Danny hope that he would break the six-foot mark in a few years—you know, if the madness and devouring Plasmius didn't affect his development too much.

"What are you showing me today?" Tim asks as they stride past Damian. The younger boy makes a face, the same one Danny made whenever Jazz brought over a boy, and they were being sickly sweet. He offers his boss a smile in return, watching those intense green eyes roll.

"I brought evidence of why Yetis' healthcare is far superior to ours." Danny pats his bag with a satisfied smirk. "Nothing beats Frostbite."

Tim melts. "That's amazing. I can't wait to hear all about it. Then we could go get dinner. How does Divine Palace sound?"

"The upscale restaurant? I would need to change before I'm allowed in there. It has a dress code, doesn't it?"

Tim snuggles closer. "You can borrow one of my suits."

"You know it's bad luck to wear someone else's clothes?" Danny tells him they have just arrived at the viewing room. The projector is set up, and Danny is waiting to plug in his laptop. A sizeable plush couch is pushed in front of the large empty wall, where Tim plans to curl up and watch Danny's presentation.

Meeting someone who adored all the educational information about Ghosts and their culture was lovely. Danny's parents were more interested in the aspects of biology and anatomy than the sociology and anthropology he studied.

After he finished his slide show—sadly without pictures as ghosts disrupted the camera—he would show Tim his notes, which the two could flip through together on the couch. Since his PowerPoint lacked images, Danny settled for some drawings and blurry photos he had stored in his binder while exploring the Zone.

He started it when he was fourteen, gradually growing over the years.

"Why's that?" Tim asks, throwing himself on the couch and crossing his legs underneath him. He places his elbow on the meat of his thigh and leans his head on his hand, his eyes never leaving Danny.

They seem to be shining, utterly captivated by the Halfa.

"It makes it easier for ghosts to overshadow you," Danny answers promptly, unzipping his bag to take out the materials from his bag. He had to look away from his friend because the way he was staring was making him a bit flustered.

"Overshadow?"

"It's another way of saying possession, but it's more politically correct." He responds, plugging in the wires to his laptop and watching the lock screen of his computer appear on the wall. "My sister's first boyfriend attempted to do that to her. Gave her some of his girlfriend's stuff so she could form around her and use Jazz as an anchor to stay on this plane."

"And you saved her before he could succeed," Tim sighs adoringly.

Danny puffs out his chest. "I did!"

Tim pressed a button on the side of his couch. At once, the thing expands, pushing the backrest down and expanding the bottom until it forms an even flat surface. Danny initially thought it was a recliner, but apparently, rich people had couches that could turn into beds in seconds.

He lays flat on his stomach, kicking his feet and leaning on both hands as he smiles like a loon at Danny. "That's amazing."

Danny bites his lip, trying to be modes,t but it's hard when he's being praised by someone like Tim Drake.

"Well, it's just what a good brother does. All I really had to do was use his bad luck against him, and really, Jazz sort of snapped out it when he tried to punch me," He babbles while scrambling to log into his account. He needs to do something before he bursts from all the giddy, mushy feeling in his chest. "It was nothing compared to when I had to win a pie-eating contest against Baker."

"Hmm?"

"Baker is a pasty theme ghost that is shockingly powerful. He locked me in a battle for five days before I convinced him to switch to a food theme contest." Danny laughs, shaking his head at the memories. "I was stuck in bed for a day with the biggest stomach ache, but I won that day. And victory was sweet."

Tim swoons.

Just as Danny is booting up the presentation, his superhearing catches the whispers of Tim's other siblings from the hallway. Damian had instructed him not to let anyone else in the household learn the truth of his contract because it would eventually get back to Alfred.

After meeting the man, he completely understands the paranoia.

"Who is that?" He's pretty sure that's the oldest Dick.

"Tim's new obsession." Answers Steph with a smirk in her words. "Apparently, he's some paranormal-obsessed conspiracy theorist."

"Why does he always go for the crazy ones?" Jason sighs dramatically.

"Have you seen Danny's biceps? Were it not for his health issues, I would have thought Tim found a secret off-duty hero."

Danny hastily focuses on his first slide, trying not to show his fear. Tim continues to watch him kick his feet and play with some of his hair. He has a habit of twirling his hair. Tim almost always does that whenever Danny sees him.

[revelboo]

Could we have more for "Gravity"? 🙏 reader making it her life's goal to see robot dick as soon as she realizes it flusters OP is so me-coded and I'm living for it. I love your super serious emotional fics, but I also love the human being so unserious 🤭

Honestly, same. 18+ content

Gravity Pt 9

Optimus Prime x Reader

• Pacing outside the door of his habsuite, he runs a frustrated hand over his face. Trying to get himself back in control, because you don’t realize what you do to him. Asking about that. Had it only been curiosity or was it actual interest? Why is that difference so very important to him? And something he really shouldn’t be thinking about at all. You’re his to protect, considering anything else, wanting more, is wholly inappropriate.

• Sitting cross legged on the berth where he’d left you, there’s nothing to do but wait for him to come back. Who’d have thought that one not so innocent question would send him running? Know you should let it go, but that almost panicked look on his face is just so sweet. Like the big guy himself. And you’d been straight with him, if he’d been a human guy and treated you like he does, you’d have rode him until you’re both too exhausted to crawl out of bed.

• One more thing he can’t have. Accepting that, he lets himself back inside his quarters and finds you sitting on his berth eating that crunchy, dry food out of a box. “So you got some freaky alien stuff going on like double dicks or crotch tentacles?” Gritting his denta behind his mask as you just grin up at him, he vents tiredly.

• He almost looks like he’s in pain as he just straight up ignores the question. Apparently you’ve reached the limit of how much bullshit he’s willing to put up with. Silent, he begins moving the uneaten food and his half empty energon cube off the berth and sits beside you, elbows on his knees and face in his hands. Making you feel guilty about screwing with him. Especially since, realistically him abducting you probably saved your life given the path you were on. And you owe him more than you can ever hope to repay.

• “You know,” you say and he hears your little feet padding on the berth. Peeking at you, he watches you slowly spin. Dancing again and he wonders why you do that, your expression no longer teasing, but oddly empty. “The club I danced for, didn’t pay a lot. Sometimes if the customer looked like he had money, we’d have a private party.” Arms over your head, you turn so your back is to him. “And I always told myself it didn’t matter. That I didn’t care, because every dollar got me a little closer to getting the hell out of there.” There’s something under the resignation in your voice, something broken that makes his spark ache. Wishing he’d found you just a bit sooner, before life had scarred you.

• Wrapping your arms around yourself, you wish you could just shut up. Because telling him this, how dirty you really are? He’s not going to look at you the same way if you don’t stop. Won’t treat you the same way. And part of you knows that everything that’s wrong with your life is wholly your fault. Stubbornly doubling down again and again until there was no digging yourself out. You hear him shift behind you, a metallic rasp. Leaving again? Done with you?

• There’s an unsettling pull as he mass shifts, of willing himself smaller and burning so much energy all at once. And when he’d done, you’re still so much smaller than he is. Just this fragile little thing that still seems so unreal to him as he reaches out and pulls you back into him. Hearing your startled inhale as he catches your wrists in a big hand, unsettled that he can loop the servos of one hand so easily around both your little wrists. “You think I’m proud of every single thing I’ve done? That I haven’t made mistakes?” He asks and feels you shiver.

• Head craning to look over your shoulder and up at him, for once you can’t say anything at all. No smart ass comment or teasing. It hadn’t even occurred to you that he could do something like this. And he’s warm against your back, suddenly aware of him in a way you’d never been before. Those big hands achingly gentle on you. Has anyone ever touched you like that? Gently? It’s too much. Too real, sending you into a panic. “Please tell me it’s not crotch tentacles,” you blurt, hearing him make a noise suspiciously between a groan and a laugh as his other arm curls around you. Holding you closer.

Previous

Next

[loveandpeaceanddoughnuts]

I’m just a kid (and life is a nightmare)

dad!Nanami & kid!Yuji

commissioned this amazing piece from @yuutaguro for chapter two of my teen papamin au in which Nanami reluctantly adopts Yuji right after graduating from Jujutsu High and leaving the sorcerer world! [chapters 1-3 on ao3]

Everything had been going so well. Nanami would begin his office job on Monday, the same day that Yuji’s school year started. He had just taken Yuji to buy his uniform, and a shiny new backpack. It wasn’t until he was going back over the supply list and dress code that the trouble started.

“Yuji, you have to cut your hair! It’s not me, it’s the school’s stupid rule.”

Yuji stuck out his tongue and ran around the table, avoiding Nanami’s grasp. “Don’t wanna!” He shouted back.

“I know! But you have to anyway!” Nanami chased him back around the other side. “It’s not up for debate!”

“DON’T WANNA!”

Nanami stopped running and covered his face with his hands, taking deep breaths. The kid was driving him crazy. Hell, he agreed with him. He probably would’ve been just as pissed about cutting his hair at that age, but damn if it wasn’t frustrating on the other side. “Look, I’m sorry the dress code is annoying. I am! But you’re gonna get in trouble if we don’t tame that pink mop on your head!” God, I sound like my dad, Nanami thought glumly.

Yuji flung himself around the corner and peeked out. “But I don’t wanna , Nanaminnn!!”

“I know.” He gave a long sigh. “Can you tell me why?”

“I wanna look like you!”

“You- what?” Nanami was thrown for a loop. Yuji could barely see through his hair at this point, it looked nothing like… oh no. Nanami skidded into the bathroom and stared in the mirror. Yuji came hurtling behind him, just barely able to peek over the countertop on his tiptoes.

“See, Nanamin? We’re the same!”

The kid had a point. Nanami stared at his face, noticing for the first time that he had let his hair get quite long. It just didn’t seem like a priority, not after…well. He shook his head, tossing the long shock of blonde hair out of his eyes. Yuji peered up at him, looking annoyingly smug.

“See, you see?”

“Yeah, I see, Yuji.” Maybe it was time that he matured his look. At least a little. “I guess I have a mop up there too, huh?” He couldn’t help but chuckle at the way Yuji imitated his nod. “I have an idea for how we can fix this.”

Everyone in the barbershop couldn’t help but smile at the strange pair that walked in, the serious, blonde teenager and his hyper, pink-haired companion.

“Awww, is this your little brother?” The receptionist cooed.

“Uh, no, this is my…Yuji.” Nanami cringed at himself, but the kid holding his hand beamed.

“Yeah, I’m his Yuji!!”

The two boys politely requested the same haircut, and Nanami went first to reassure Yuji. “See? Doesn’t hurt at all, okay? Bet you’re gonna look cooler than me.”

Nanami watched himself in the mirror as the barber went to work. It wasn’t like he was attached to his look or anything, at least he told himself so. But change was weird. By the end of it, he could see more of his forehead than he had in years. He looked older, like a salaryman.

“What do you think, kid?” Yuji looked at him thoughtfully.

“You look like a grown-up, Nanamin!”

“Yeah, I guess I do.” He laughed. “Your turn, Yuji. Think you can be brave?”

“Yeahh! Brave like you!” Yuji slid into the seat and reached out a hand, which Nanami held tight.

By the end of it, Nanami’s hair was slicked into a deep side part, with a few stubborn strands escaping into his eyes. Yuji���s hair still spung up at all angles. It suited him, though. And more importantly, fit the school dress code.

Nanami took Yuji out to their favorite bakery on the way home as a reward. The boy eagerly gobbled down a pink-frosted doughnut with extra sprinkles while Nanami sipped coffee with a slice of lemon cake. “We did well today, huh kid?”

Yuji nodded proudly with a faceful of frosting. “Yeah, we did great! And we still look the same as each other!”

Nanami squinted at him, but couldn’t bring himself to burst the kid’s bubble. “We sure do. Maybe we could switch places, and you could go into work for me!”

Yuji doubled over with laughter. “No way Nanamin!”

“You sure? I could go to school for you, do all your homework…” he teased.

Yuji appeared to be considering the offer, then shook his head, still giggling. “Nuh-uh!”

“Ah, well.” Nanami pretended to sigh. “Worth a try.”

[seaborgium-dazies]

Are requests open? I can’t tell cause it says love letter, so if not you can ignore this! Buttttt if they are…

May I have Kirishima, Iida, Todoroki and Midoriya (you can add all them if you want I just like those 4 the best lol) with a reader who was gone for a bit, maybe they were in another country due to family drama or someone died so they’ve been gone for a couple months, and reader surprises them one day without telling them they’re back???

I love you’re writing by the way, so beautiful

Waiting here for you to come back around

Aweeee thank you so much!!! I hope you enjoy this anon! <3 Seeing mha boys after being apart for a while because of family stuff cw: mutual pining; fluff; no established relationship but something better (mutual crushes ayeee) 🌊: deku, iida, kirishima, shoto

Deku:

Deku was deep in thought, analyzing a quirk he saw earlier when he heard a familiar knocking pattern. As soon as he recognized it he bolted to the door. You would've expected the door to be ripped out of it's hinges with the force deku put into his swing.

"Y/N!"

Deku was beaming and upon seeing you standing in front of his door with a sheepish grin he embraced you in an enthusiastic hug.

"Izuku!"

You couldn't help but laugh at the adorable display of just how much he had missed you. That hug of his nearly knocked the air out of your lungs. He seemed to realize the gravity of his actions only after he pulled away.

He scratched his neck as he bashfully explained.

"Sorry ... I've just been a little worried about you, come right in".

So you took him up on his invitation, spending the rest of the evening talking about any and everything. Satiating Izukus curiosity and getting anything heavy off of your chest.

Mid sentence you noticed a tall stack of papers on his desk and you couldn't help but give izuku a questioning look.

"Ah, yes I almost forgot! These are for you; the notes from the classes you missed! I even color coded it after your system to make it easier to catch up-"

In that moment you really had no idea what you had done to deserve such a beautiful and kind soul. Thinking about you even when you were so far away. And going as far as inconveniencing himself every day while not knowing when you would come back. It brought tears to your eyes and a strange warmth to your chest.

Iida:

Iida sighed in frustration as another one of his text messages went through. No answer from you. How irresponsible can one even be?! He massaged his temples before writing out another stern text.

He was so fired up that he was already hearing things. Iida rolled his eyes at himself for imagining the characteristic ping of your phone when it receives a text message. And just as he was about to put his phone down to collect himself he heard another one... Did that come from the hallway?

He swiftly opened the door to his dorm to reveal you standing there with your hand already in a knocking motion. Instead of going through with the knock you reverted to small jazz hands and a meek

"Surprise?"

Iida called out your name and immediately embraced you in a bear hug. But he pulled away after a couple of moments to give you a piece of his mind.

"What are you doing here y/n? And why haven't you been responding to my messages? What were you thinking?! It's extremely reckless and unsafe to do such things!-"

And even though iida went on a detailed lecture about not keeping him in the loop you could see in the pink of his cheeks and the way his hands were gesturing more wildly than usual, that he really just wanted to reprimand you because he missed you so much.

But you knew just how to make it up to him. Mid sentence you pulled one of iidas favorite snacks out of your backpack, this time in a limited edition flavor which was unavailable in japan. That got him to abandon his scolding to marvel at the package you were holding out to him.

He grabbed you by the wrist as he dragged you into his room for you to try the new candy together. You knew that iida would let go of any petty words now since your temporary absence had one upside.

And even though iida blamed his forgiveness on the joy about his favorite candy of all time, in reality he couldn't handle the fact that even when you were in such a difficult situation you remembered what his favorite candy was and even went out of your way just to make him a little happier. His rosy cheeks betrayed him though.

You still weren't in the clear after that because iida demanded that you talk about the situation with him for your own good; so your mental health and school performance won't suffer.

Todoroki:

"It's open"

Shoto's neutral voice made you grin, but opening his dorm door while holding something heavy was kind of a challenge. So mid struggle the door was opened by shoto himself, revealing you with a giant bag of fruit in your arms.

"Y/n?" Shoto's voice betrayed him, the positive surprise apparent. But Shoto took you down a couple pegs as he observed

"You look rough".

Without waiting for an answer he took the heavy bag out of your arms and before you could tell him that they were for him he asked you

"How was travel? When did you get back?"

"Hello to you too Shoto"

You walked into his dorm room before continuing

"Everything was fine, the whole experience was just rather exhausting"

You had been a little anxious because shoto hadn't been messaging you that much while you were away although you knew that it just wasn't his style to text lots. The truth was that he wanted to give you space because he was sure that if you wanted to talk about it you would reach out.

He was more than glad that you were here now and although he enjoyed the souvenir you brought him, it didn't measure up to the joy he felt to see you again. He practically had to restrain himself because his hands were drifting towards yours all the time. So even if he didn't explicitly tell you how much he missed you, it was clear as day.

Kirishima:

Kirishima was biting the inside of his cheek while staring at the message he last sent you. It was left on delivered and he couldn't help but be worried sick. The whole situation you were in worried him to hell and back.

Leaving in a hurry seemed terrible enough but bad cell service and cryptic sad messages? He felt as if he was trapped in the ninth circle of overthinking hell. Did you eat enough? Drink enough? Did you family give you a hard time?

Speaking- or rather thinking- of the devil he heard you calling out his name from outside of his dorm room.

Kirishima opened his door in record time and upon seeing you he opened his arms which such élan it made you wince. You braced yourself for impact but were met with the most gentle bear hug imaginable instead.

As if Kirishima had sensed exactly what you needed you melted into his warm embrace like butter on top of pancakes. He released you out of his grip after what felt like ages, both of you grinning from ear to ear.

He invited you in and after catching up you spotted a little figurine on his desk that you never saw before.

"Oooh who got you this?"

You took the small figurine into your hands. It was a baby chick with a cute pink ribbon and a blue flower on its head - the craftsmanship was insane and it must've been expensive. The thought of some girl gifting this to him made jealousy well up in your chest. But before you could get the wrong ideas he explained,

"Uhm.. It's actually for you... I saw it and it reminded me of you so I just thought I'd get it in case you were feeling bummed after returning."

"Awww wait, really?"

And as Kirishima saw a hot pink blush spreading from your shoulders to the tips of your ears he thanked the heavens that you safely returned to him.

Buy me a coffee? <3

©️ seaborgium-dazies 2025

leave some love! Reblogs and comments are dearly appreciated<3

[thesecretaryy]

MDNI, stalker ish, suggestive, mentions of a sx toy, collage AU

Character; Choso Kamo

Nerd!Choso who can’t stop thinking about you. The way you walk, the way you talk — even the way you smell. You’ve taken over his mind, playing on an endless loop, day and night.

You’ve shared classes with him for what feels like forever. It was only a matter of time before his quiet admiration started to show.

You don’t notice a thing. You go about your day, heading to class as usual, completely unaware that you’ve got a pair of eyes fixed on you almost every second. Well, you start noticing that you have an admirer when you start receiving your favourite milk chocolate, perfectly wrapped in pretty pink paper in your locker every week. It’s always the same chocolate, no note or anything. At first, you just think that it’s your friends playing a prank on you, I mean, you have been whining about needing some attention.

It's been going on for a while now, almost three months, and by this point, you know it’s not just your friends pulling some harmless prank. You actually have an admirer. The knowledge of someone knowing the code to your locker and slipping that same chocolate inside week after week, has you feeling slightly...disturbed, but also happy in a way. More often than not, the attention you get is from one of the guys on the football team sending you a dm late at night about hooking up, but this show of affection? It seems like this mystery guy might actually like you. Because why else would he go through the trouble of getting you that expensive chocolate that you love?

Choso would always try to be in the hallway at the time when you would open your locker and see the gift. He noticed the way your eyes lit up every time you received one of his presents; he had even heard you talk about them to your friends in class.

The knowledge that you appreciated his efforts only fueled his confidence. Slowly, the chocolates stopped arriving alone. Neatly folded notes began appearing with them — some filled with compliments, others with questions, even though he knew he’d never get an answer.

But lately, his boldness has grown. This time, there was no note, just the chocolate and tucked beneath it, a photo, one taken by an actual camera. It was high in quality and taken in a dark room. The picture showed the guy, well, not his face, but his abs. He was holding your favourite chocolate in front of his abs. When you received the photo, you were more than surprised; these gifts had now been taken to another level.

One day, you end up staying at school later than usual, all thanks to your idiot teacher, who decided to give you detention for scrolling through Pinterest instead of working on your assignment. Tired and slightly irritated, you finally head to your locker to get your chemistry book. Because, of course, your teacher didn't only give you detention, but also extra homework.

To your surprise, the hallway wasn't empty when you got there. There was someone there, right in front of your locker.

And that’s when everything clicked.

The person in front of your locker had to be him, your mystery admirer. He moved slowly, carefully pressing in the code to your lock, like he had all the time in the world, completely unaware that anyone was watching. He must have thought the hallway was empty.

When the blue locker finally opened, he reached inside his pocket and pulled out that same pink-wrapped package. Only this time, it looked different, it was thicker and bigger, like a box. Maybe he had stepped up his game and given you something else. 

He placed the package neatly inside and then reached further inside your locker. You were confused. What was he reaching for? You heard something being moved slightly inside your locker, only for him to then pull out a small bag where you kept some spare clothes in case anything ever happened. You could see that he was looking inside the bag, reaching inside to then pull out a pair of your spare panties.

You had to physically hold yourself back from gasping as you realized what he was holding. He looked at them for a little while before he stuffed them inside his pocket.

You waited impatiently behind the rounded corner of the hallway for him to turn around, and when he did, you were even more stunned. It was Choso, the quiet guy from your chemistry, math, and graphic design classes, in other words, all your nerd classes.

He was wearing a black zip-up hoodie, baggy light blue ripped jeans, and a worn Star Wars t-shirt peeking out from underneath. Up until the moment he turned around, you’d been almost certain it had to be one of the guys from the basketball team, simply because of how big he was. Had he always been that tall? Had he grown taller since the last class you had with him or what? Maybe you just hadn’t noticed before.

His eyes flicked around the hallway, scanning for anyone, completely unaware that you’d been standing there the whole time, watching. Then he walked out the main exit at the end of the hallway. The second the door swung shut behind him, you rushed to your locker, hands moving almost frantically as you worked the lock open to find the package inside.

As you thought, it was a box under that pink wrapping, the box was a dark but saturated purple color. Slowly, you pushed the top part off to reveal a white silk bag inside. As you saw the shape of what was inside the bag, you felt a shiver go through you. You untied the white strings at the top of the bag and moved the fabric down the object hesitantly. You stared at the light pink vibrator in your hands. It was big, it had to be about 7 inches or more. It was so detailed, the slight curve upwards, the veins. It almost seemed as if it was a replica of a real dick.

On the base, there was something small engraved; a closer look made it obvious that it said "Use me."

After a little while, you snapped out of your shocked trance and quickly put it back in the box, hesitating only for a second before you pushed the purple box into your bag. Too shocked to notice that when you pushed the box down into your bag, it had sounded like there was something else in the box too.

You rushed home. You weren't even sure what to do.

Choso had always seemed kind, gentle, and quite innocent. He always sat at the back and rarely spoke to anyone, besides his brother Yuuji, who was a few years younger than you. Seriously, you had never once interacted with this guy.

You sat down on the hard floor of your room, hesitantly pulling out the box again, setting it down in front of you. You stared at the box for a few minutes before taking a deep breath and peeling the top part of it once again to reveal the box's insides. You grabbed the smooth silk bag and placed it in front of you, and now you saw that there wasn't only the vibrator in there but something else too.

It was a small sort of old iPhone with a note attached to it.

"Film yourself, then send it to the saved number on this phone, and I'll see it. I promise I'll return the favour."

Your heart was pounding loudly, so loud you could hear it speed up. Your gaze dropped from the phone to the silk bag. Why were you even considering this? You asked yourself as you reached into the silk bag. There was something so disturbing about this that made it so exciting. There was a small part of you that now, when you knew that it was choso all along, felt willing to do this, felt so willing to do this to see him send something like that back.

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

Unexpected Surprise

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2k

Warnings: fluff

Summary: You up and leave your old life behind for a new job in a state you’ve never been to before. While on the plane, you meet a very interesting genius who has nothing but facts about almost everything. What you think is a cute date turns into something more when you see him at your new job.

Square Filled: "It's a success." for @mfbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are greatly appreciated <3

x

Never did you think you would pack up your entire life just to move across the country for a job. Yet here you are. On a plane going to a state you’ve never been to before to start a job you never thought you’d get. You applied to be the technical analyst for the FBI after being the tech girlie for the LAPD. The job was so far out of reach so when you got the job, you almost shit your pants.

They wanted you to start right away so you had to pack up whatever you could and move out there immediately. For the next few weeks, you’ll be flying back to California to get the rest of your things. There is a cute little apartment you were lucky enough to find, so you were able to get some of your things shipped over there.

During the flight, you try to calm yourself with some relaxing music but your thoughts are too loud to silence. Instead, you take out your laptop and work on some code you’ve been dabbling in for the past few months. You can create a lot of code with your skills, but you decided to focus on hacking and digging in places you shouldn’t be.

Perfect for the FBI.

Two hours pass by while you’re creating a theme for a website when you notice it. Out of the corner of your eye, you see that your shoelace is untied. Your tray is down, your laptop and a snack rest upon it, and your bag is by your feet. It’s a fucking shoelace, Y/N. Ignore it. You try so hard for five minutes before you feel the urge to fix it. Maybe that’s why you’re so good at what you do. You pick at the details until what you’re left with is a pretty picture that’s easy to read.

Fixing your shoe is a need, not a want.

You keep shifting, hoping to get your foot closer to you so that you can tie your shoe, but to no avail.

“Do you need help?” You lift your eyes to look into honey-brown ones. The man on the aisle seat next to you has a kind smile on his face. “I can tie your shoe for you.”

“Why would you do that?” you ask without moving your foot.

The stranger holds up his phone which has a black screen. “My phone died, and I’m quite bored.”

“Okay,” you giggle.

You lift your foot and he rests it on his thigh. His long and nimble fingers grab both ends of your shoelace and start to tie it.

“No one quite knows the first time shoelaces were used to secure shoes. In fact, most reports indicate that shoelaces are as old as shoes themselves. Archaeologists believe that ancient peoples used shoelaces for the same reasons we currently use them, experimenting with materials to influence comfort, fit, and even style.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah. They think that about five thousand years ago, during the late Neolithic and early Bronze Age periods, cavemen and women also used specific shoelace designs to distinguish between tribes. Most importantly, shoelaces kept early man’s shoes tight and fitted, accommodating their need to travel long distances for food, water, and shelter without causing severe damage to their feet.”

“You just know everything, don’t you?”

“I am a certified genius,” he grins.

“Is that so?”

“Quite. Did you know there are multiple ways to tie your shoe?”

“Please divulge that information,” you smile.

“First, you have the standard tie.” He ties your shoe using the most basic method that every adult knows how to do. “We have the famous ‘Bunny Ears’ way.” He unties your shoe just to tie it again using what children call ‘bunny ears’ since the loops look like ears. “Third, we have the better bow shoelace knot.” It’s like standard but he wraps the shoelace twice around his finger instead of once. “Finally, a classic, the double knot for extra security. See? It’s a success.”

“Who knew there were multiple ways to tie a shoe,” you smile.

“I did, and now so do you.”

“I’m Y/N.”

He smiles and sets your foot down. “Spencer Reid.”

“So, are you flying away from home or toward it?”

“Toward it. I was visiting my mom in Texas for a week. What about you?”

“Toward my new home. I’m from California, but I got a new job in Virginia. I’m kind of nervous about it. I’ve never done anything like it before.”

“What is it?”

“Tech work. I have a masters in computer science. I worked for the LAPD before, but I couldn’t pass up on this offer. I’m kind of nervous, to be honest. I’ve never even stepped foot in Virginia before. I don’t know anyone here.”

“You know me,” Spencer smiles kindly.

“That I do.”

The rest of the flight is smooth sailing once you and Spencer fall into easy conversation. You didn’t even know three hours had passed because he was that easy to talk to. Like the gentleman he is, he walks you to baggage claim and waits for you to get your bag even when he grabs his.

“When do you start your new job?” he asks.

“Monday.”

“I know this might be a bit forward, but I’d love to show you around Virginia if you’re not busy this weekend. I’m sure you have a lot of unpacking to do.”

“Not that much. Like I said before, this was sudden. All my things are still in California. I’ll be moving them in gradually for the next month or so. I can hang out tomorrow if you’d like.”

“It’s a date,” he smiles. His words suddenly register in his head and he starts stuttering and blushing. “Not like a date, date. I meant that I’ll see you tomorrow as in it’s confirmed.”

“Spencer, it’s okay. It can be a date,” you laugh.

“Okay,” he blushes more.

“You’re cute. I have to pick up my rental so I’ll see you tomorrow.”

After exchanging phone numbers, you part ways. Your apartment is thirty minutes from the airport and already has the necessary furniture you had shipped over--bed, couch, dining table, and two chairs. The other things will come when you have time to bring them over. There are a few boxes you had shipped that contain kitchen and bathroom items so you don’t have to go out and buy all new things.

Before, you were nervous about starting this new job. Now, you’re nervous about your date with Spencer. He’s very cute and charming, but you don’t want to mess it up. Even if he isn’t boyfriend material, he definitely has the potential to be a really good friend. Look at you, already thinking about him as a boyfriend. You really are in over your head.

The next day, Spencer picks you up without a car. He likes using public transportation and refuses to even let you drive. You two started out in a cafe to get something to eat before he took you sightseeing around Virginia. There is a beautiful botanical garden here that is his favorite, so that’s where you two are.

“So, genius, have any facts or tidbits about this place?” you ask.

“The idea for this garden came from Thomas P. Thompson, Norfolk City Manager from 1935 to 1938, and Frederic Heutte, a young horticulturalist. Heutte had a fondness for azaleas and thought Hampton Roads had a climate uniquely suited for growing the plants. Thompson and Heutte believed that Norfolk could support an azalea garden to rival those of Charleston, SC, which even during the depression years drew thousands of tourists annually.”

“Wow, you’re just a fountain of knowledge.”

“That’s not all. Within less than a year, a section of underbrush had been cleared and readied for planting. By March of 1939, four thousand azaleas, two thousand rhododendrons, several thousand miscellaneous shrubs and trees, and one hundred bushels of daffodils had been planted.

“In August of 1939, Representative Colgate W. Darden Jr. secured an additional one hundred and thirty-eight thousand, five hundred and fifty-three dollars for the Azalea Garden, and the founding of the Old Dominion Horticultural Society provided volunteer labor to assist the Garden. By 1941, the Garden displayed nearly five thousand azaleas and seventy-five landscaped acres that were encompassed by five miles of walking trails.”

You don’t know Spencer well at all but hearing him spew facts like he has them stored in his brain for later brings a smile to your face.

“Well, they did a good job because this place looks beautiful.”

Spencer looks at you and smiles. “Yeah, it is.”

You and Spencer spend another hour walking around the garden while he tells you facts about the different flowers and plants. Afterward, he takes you to get ice cream before bringing you home. He walks up the porch steps leading to your apartment building, and you stop before you can open the door.

“Would you like to come in? I don’t have a lot of furniture, though.”

“I appreciate the offer, but no.” Before your shoulders can deflate, he quickly adds, “It’s not because I don’t want to. I do, but I want to do this right.”

“Right?” you ask.

Spencer smiles and he leans in closer to you. You stay completely still because you don’t want to mess this up. You don’t want to kiss him if that’s not his intention. He does kiss you but on your cheek. Even when he pulls away, you can still feel the skin he touches tingling.

“Goodnight, Y/N. Good luck on your first day.”

“Thanks,” you whisper.

“I’ll call you tomorrow to see how it’s going.”

With that, Spencer leaves. Thoughts of him swirl around in your head for the rest of the night, are embedded into your dreams, and even when you wake up. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. You get dressed and drive to the BAU where you’ll be working. Their current technical analyst is leaving so she’ll be training you to take her place.

After signing in at the lobby and getting your badge, you make your way to the floor where the BAU is. Penelope Garcia is waiting for you outside of the bullpen, and she smiles when she sees you.

“Y/N, right?”

“Yes, you must be Penelope Garcia, right? It’s nice to meet you. So, you’re leaving the BAU?”

“Yes, sad story. I love this team but I got a better job opportunity to work overseas. However, I trust that you will be more than happy here. I know you’ll do a great job because I picked you, and I’m never wrong. Let me introduce you to Hotch and the team.”

She takes you to Agent Hotchner’s office who is stern but welcoming. “You’ll be shadowing Garcia for a couple of weeks.”

“Yes, sir,” you nod.

“If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to let me know. I’ll leave you in the trusty hands of Garcia.”

“Come on, let’s find the rest of the team.”

You meet JJ, Emily, Tara, Luke, and Matt, all of them friendly and welcoming. The last person on the team is someone you never thought would be here. Spencer turns with a coffee in hand, and his eyes widen when he sees you. Not out of shock, but pleasant surprise.

“Of course, you’d work here,” you chuckle.

“Do you two know each other?”

“Kind of. We met on the plane ride over here, and he showed me around Virginia over the weekend.”

“Look, I understand if you don’t want to see me again outside of being professional.”

Ever the gentleman, Spencer is. “Dr. Reid, are you sad about that?”

“Yes, I am. I like you, and I’d like to see you again.”

A blush creeps up your neck but you try to keep it at bay. “Well, you’re about to see a whole lot of me because I am not going anywhere.” You smirk. “I’ll see you around, Dr. Reid.”

You and Penelope walk off but you turn back and give him a flirty smile. He chuckles to himself and smiles as he takes a sip of his coffee.

“I can already see it. You two will become the next Me and Derek.”

“I have no idea what that means, but I hope it’s a good thing.”

“Oh, it’s a very good thing,” she giggles.

You can’t wait.

x

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