#you know. something that makes him irreplaceable

[narxcisse]

plz do romantic hcs for longan, millennial tree and sugar swan cookie I barely see any good x reader fanfics about them PRETTY PLEASE WITH THE CHERRY ON TOP 🙏🙏🙏

— Romantic HCs - Longan Dragon, Millennial Tree and Sugar Swan

CW: none

A/N: I'm sorry for the inactivity, I've been busy with personal matters and creative block. 😞

English isn't my native language.

— Longan Dragon

You’re probably not someone Longan expected to care about. They don’t “fall” in love—more like… slowly acknowledge your significance. It starts with them tolerating you, then choosing to keep you around.

Longan doesn’t flirt. Ever. Their affection is shown through protection and blunt honesty, no sugar-coating.

They have a hard time understanding emotional nuance. If you’re upset, they might ask what outcome you seek so they can fix it. Not exactly comforting, but they’re trying.

Don’t expect casual touch—when they do touch you, it’s very intentional. A hand on your shoulder, an arm shielding you in danger, or standing silently beside you while scanning the horizon.

If you’re injured, Longan reacts with visible tension. They may not panic, but they’ll insist on ensuring your survival first—even if they pretend it’s for “efficiency.”

Conversations with Longan often turn into philosophical debates. They enjoy your opinions even when they disagree, but won’t admit that directly. You’ll notice they remember and quote your words later.

When they finally call you something intimate—like "important" or "irreplaceable"—you know they mean it absolutely.

Longan isn’t interested in superficial dates. If you want quality time, you’re probably joining them somewhere remote—watching weather patterns from a cliff, or discussing cosmic omens.

They do not understand jealousy. If you mention someone flirting with you, they might just say “Then tell them no” and move on. Not because they don’t care—they just do not see competition as real.

When Longan is stressed, they go silent and withdraw. They don’t seek comfort, but if you stay nearby and stay calm, they’ll eventually look at you like you’re anchoring them.

You have called them out on how cold or dismissive they can be. Longan took that seriously, and after that, they started making small efforts—asking how you feel, or watching their tone more.

When they admit feelings, it’s always framed through logic. “You improve my judgment. You make decisions easier. I operate more effectively when you’re present.” But it’s all love.

If you ever leave or disappear, Logan will do everything they can to find you—no question, no hesitation.

— Millennial Tree

He’s patient. He never rushes you or the relationship. He lets feelings grow slowly and naturally.

Millennial Tree listens more than he talks. You’ll notice he remembers every small thing you’ve said, and will reference it days or even weeks later with subtle care.

He’s extremely tactile in a soft, non-overwhelming way. Holding hands while walking through quiet forests, resting your head against his shoulder under the trees—he’s very warm to be around.

He gently encourages you to rest, to eat, to care for yourself. Not controlling—he just checks in often. If you’re overwhelmed, he’ll help you ground yourself.

Conflict is rare. He communicates very directly but kindly. If there’s tension, he’ll talk about it calmly and work with you to understand both sides.

He shares his inner thoughts very selectively, but you’re one of the few he opens up to. When he does, it’s raw and thoughtful—never performative

You’re always made to feel safe—emotionally, physically, spiritually. That’s how he loves.

He enjoys routines with you. Shared morning, evening walks, tending to a garden together. Familiarity makes him feel close.

Millennial Tree gets quietly emotional sometimes—especially if he thought he’d never have this kind of bond again after so many centuries. You’ll catch him watching you with a distant, soft expression.

If you’re angry or venting, he listens without interrupting. He doesn’t try to fix it right away—he validates your experience first. Then offers guidance if you want it.

He’s not easily flustered. But if you catch him off guard—by teasing him or being especially affectionate—he’ll smile and go very still, almost bashful.

He doesn’t like being apart for long. If you’re away, he’ll send soft winds carrying messages or leaves that carry his energy. It’s comforting, not clingy.

If you're sick or exhausted, he becomes incredibly nurturing—cool hands on your forehead, gentle touch, making sure you rest even if it means carrying you.

— Sugar Swan

She doesn’t “fall” into romance quickly. She observes you from afar at first, measuring your presence, energy, and intentions.

Once she begins trusting you, her affection shows in subtle gestures: brushing her wing-hand against yours, sitting beside you without speaking, offering a feather when she leaves.

She prefers quiet companionship. You might sit together on a balcony during sunrise, or share tea in complete silence. She likes peaceful moments that feel sacred.

Sugar Swan can be emotionally reserved—she sometimes withdraws into her duties or solitude. It’s not a rejection; it’s how she recharges. You learn to give her space, and she always returns.

She’s incredibly observant. You won’t need to tell her how you’re feeling—she already knows. Her responses are validating, nonjudgmental, and always calm.

Public affection is rare, but private affection is consistent. She’ll hold your hand under a table, or rest her head on your shoulder when she’s tired.

Occasionally, you’ll catch her looking at you with an unreadable expression—something between awe and gratitude. She won’t explain it, but you know it’s deep.

She’s hard to read emotionally, but her affection comes in care-based actions: brushing crumbs from your clothes, adjusting your collar, bringing you food without asking.

Sugar Swan is not confrontational. If you hurt her or argue, she becomes quietly disappointed—and that stings more than yelling. You’ll talk it out once she’s ready.

She likes it when you walk beside her in public. Not behind, not ahead—beside. It makes her feel like you see her as an equal, not just a divine figure.

When you’re emotionally overwhelmed, she helps you slow down—offering a hand to hold, dimming the lights, whispering that you’re safe until you calm down.

You’ve probably heard people revere her like a goddess—but she never expects that from you. She wants you to see her, not worship her. That makes you special to her.

If you cry in front of her, she’s incredibly gentle. She cups your face, wipes your tears, and says very little—but her presence is grounding and wordless in its comfort.

[technically-human]

5 PhDs + 1

@lalalaurieart happy birthday! I offer you one of my silly headcanons

None of Robotnik's degrees are in medicine. Why should he care about that? His interest in the human body ends with his own. That is, until one time when Stone got really hurt, and the Doctor could do nothing. He coped by... teaching himself everything there is to know about medicine! He's very normal like that. Never bothered getting a degree for that one though.

[suksatoru]

"if you can hear me, chosen one, give me your strongest kick."

you lift your gaze from the book page pinched between your fingers and offer satoru an unimpressed glare. as scolding as you try to appear, there's a hint of a smile tugging your lips upward at his ridiculously adorable antics.

"i think our princess might be napping," he hums, pressing a flurry of kisses over the swell of your stomach as you squirm under his touch, wiggling your toes.

"you're going to be late, satoru! weren't you supposed to leave fifteen minutes ago?"

"hahh?"

he drops his face back onto your stomach gently, sighing happily as his hand glides over the soft bump. you decide to let him lie with you for a little while longer—the soft smile etched onto his face was far too precious to disturb.

"i'll text nanami and let him know you'll be a bit late to the mission, okay?" you say softly, carding a hand through his platinum locks as he hums softly, lashes fluttering close.

satoru talked to the baby in your belly quite often—even going as far as having full-on conversations with her. there had been countless nights where you stirred awake only to hear his silky sweet voice muffled against your stomach, all while he gazed starry eyed at the gentle curve of your stomach in front of him.

satoru's dearest dream had always been to have a family. it was a quiet truth he wouldn't ever dare to speak into existence because it didn't seem possible in any universe—but somehow, he stumbled upon a way. and now he gets to spend his evenings like this with you.

satoru's boundless affection during your pregnancy will forever be something you would be grateful for. the fondest thing you would look back on would have to be the endless amount of baby clothes he got—satoru had even purchased a matching set of onesies for all three of you to wear. typical satoru. he was adamant about making sure the three of you would have a bunch of pictures together as a family so he'd be able to send everyone he knew those corny holiday cards he always saw on tv—the only reason you remember that moment from so long ago right now is because of the phone call you received.

"hello?" you speak in a hushed tone, rocking the ivory haired baby in the crib next to you gently as you hold your phone between your cheek and shoulder.

"hello! is this mrs. gojo? i'm calling to confirm your family photoshoot scheduled for next week. it's the two hour session. it looks like you scheduled it a little over a year ago?" her voice comes to life through the phone, and your rocking slows to a stop.

"oh," is all you can manage at first.

you hear the sound of her typing come to a slow stop as she waits for your response. you resume rocking your daughter's crib before answering.

"i'm sorry, but it seems like my husband forgot to cancel the appointment."

she goes on a bit of a tangent, gently scolding you because the company was extremely busy with numerous photoshoots and you had canceled so last minute—but she promised to get it fixed and have the money refunded as soon as possible.

the line beeps quietly when you drop the call, and your hand feels perpetually numb as you drop your phone into your lap.

you rub at the sting that blinds your eyes a second later before rising on wobbly legs, not checking if your baby is asleep as you stumble towards your bedroom's balcony door and slide it open. you tuck your knees under you on the ground and rest your head against the railing, allowing the cool metal to be pressed against your cheek as you take a steadying breath.

you were nearing the one year anniversary of satoru's death and, quite stupidly at that, thought you'd be in a better condition by now. but his presence was irreplaceable—and it was moments like this where you were reminded how painful it was to lose your soulmate in the blink of an eye.

the night air kisses your cheek, whipping your hair around gently as it falls over your eyes—and the sensation is uncannily familiar to the way satoru's slender fingers would play with your hair and tickle your cheek whenever he was in a particularly playful mood.

the night traffic flowing beneath you fades to nothing as the wind whirls around you—but, it felt like if you closed your eyes hard enough, strained your ears as much as possible—then maybe you could make yourself believe that the whistling wind whizzing past your ear was satoru's voice lulling the ache in your chest away instead.

[pureomi]

˚୨୧⋆｡🍓˚ darry rings - are limited to one per lifetime, emphasizing that love should be exclusive and irreplaceable. true love verification ensures each customer can only buy one ring.

includes: itoshi sae! x reader. 0.9k wc. fluff hehe

you are unable to believe the outrageous actions of your boyfriend. this time, his doings were diabolical to the point of no return. “get out!”

you push itoshi sae out the door in a fit of frustration. his sigh is so loud, it feels like it’s echoing in your head, only making your irritation worse.

“this is my bedroom,” he deadpans, as if stating the obvious will reverse his sudden eviction. it doesn’t work. you’re already diving into the duvets with a determined scowl.

“what are you even doing?” he asks, his tone tipping into annoyance. he narrows his eyes when you march a little closer and throw his pillow into his arms.

“you’re sleeping on the couch,” you declare, voice firm, matching his now sour expression. “and actually, that pillow is way too nice. hand it back.”

he blinks, baffled, before the "too nice" pillow is snatched away and replaced with a sad, flat one that looks like it’s seen better days.

sae stares at the new pillow and then at you. this is so absurd, so far removed from the usual luxurious facade of his life, that the ever-composed itoshi sae actually laughs.

“you’re forgetting something,” he says suddenly, catching your wrist and pulling you closer.

“sae! let go!” you yelp, squirming in his grasp.

“are you seriously this upset over that cheap ring?” his tone is somewhere between exasperation and amusement, as if he should've expected such a reaction.

“it doesn’t matter if it was cheap; it was mine!” you hit his chest with a fist, glaring up at him. “and you hid it!”

“because i got you a better one,” he says, his eyebrows raising slightly, as if that explains everything.

“well, you could’ve just said that!” you huff, shoving his arm. “i was freaking out, thinking i lost it!”

"why do you even like that ring so much?" sae asks, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s debating whether this argument is even worth his energy.

"because you gave it to me in high school!" you snap back, arms crossing dramatically. "i've spent more time with that ring than with you!"

he freezes, the weight of your words sinking in. the usual sharpness in his expression softens, and for a moment, he just looks at you—really looks at you. his gaze lingers on you, quiet and heavy with a mixture of guilt and something unspoken.

it's true. he knows it. he knows just how many times he’s failed to be present for you, how many moments he’s missed, how many nights you’ve spent waiting for him to come back—both physically and emotionally. each time, each goodbye felt like he was leaving behind another piece of you. your glassy eyes were all he would remember during those long flights.

but that's exactly why he's been wanting to do this for a while. because, although he might not make it obvious, itoshi sae is more attentive than you think.

he reaches into his pocket. the movement catches your attention, and when he pulls out a small velvet box, your breath hitches.

“is that...” you begin to question, even though the answer is obvious.

he opens the box, revealing a sleek, elegant darry ring. it gleams under the soft light of the bedroom—intricate, expensive, but graceful instead of loud, the kind of thing only sae could choose.

“i didn’t hide your ring to be an ass,” he says, a rare gentleness lacing his tone. his firm hand captures yours and slides the perfectly fitted ring on your designated finger.

"i wanted you to have something better," he brings your jeweled hand to his lips, pressing a warm kiss. "something worthy of you."

"i wanted to sign my name to you."

you blink, your chest tightening, and before you know it, you're rushing forward to throw your arms around him in an impulsive, tight hug.

"you're an idiot, sae!" you voice, sound coming out teary-eyed.

a moment passes without either of you saying anything. he just holds you tighter, as if making up for every moment he couldn’t be there. then, he chuckles softly, a low, soft sound that fills the space between you.

you pull back just enough to frown up at him, your hands resting on his chest. "you're laughing?!"

sae, with that trademark smirk, tilts his head slightly. "do you like it?" his voice teasing but with that edge of sincerity you know so well.

you scoff, still holding on to his shirt, a little stunned. "are you seriously asking me that right now?" you mumble, though your heart is already swelling.

"i love it," you finally smile, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek. "i love it, sae."

he leans forward, the tug of his smile remaining. "yeah?" he inches closer, grabbing you, leaving no room for escape. "how much?"

"so much.." you manage to whisper against his lips before he fully dives in for a kiss.

his lips move gently against yours, tasting the words you just spoke, savoring your happiness. it’s soft and tender, and deliberately slow, as he prefers.

when he finally pulls back, you're left breathless, your heart pounding in your chest. you glance up at him, suddenly shy, feeling a soft blush creeping on you.

"you're still sleeping on the couch," you point and smile, face full of mischief.

sae shrugs, his expression slipping into one of playful indifference. “fine. but you’re joining me.”

before you can even protest, he scoops you up effortlessly, your squeals of protest only providing him amusement as he holds you securely in his arms.

"okay, okay! you can sleep on the bed!"

a/n: me ignoring my 1k wc essay to write a 1k wc sae fic 👍🏼

[adiadagaki]

| obsessive!satoru hates you having a job

Why?

That is his main question. His net worth is in the billions, he has old money, the type passed on through generations of ridiculous wealth. Money has never been an issue, never will be, so imagine his displeasure when you insist on remaining employed.

If you worked at home, Satoru could deal with it, hell he would probably encourage it. He wants you to need him, course he does, but he also doesn’t want you bored. Bored means you’ll search for excitement outside of his arms, that he can’t have.

But actual work? The type you have to leave the house for, smile kindly at others, clear other peoples dirty plates?

He bought you a custom Porsche for your birthday you don’t need to do such things for money.

No matter how hard he pushed on it though, you refused, claiming it was the one thing you could never give up because it was something for yourself.

“C’mon Toru, you’ve known about this shift all week.” Yeah, it was his least favourite shift. 5pm until 11pm. What sick individual decided they were suitable working hours, especially for you, his pretty little girlfriend.

“Call in sick. Pleaseeeee sweets. Your boyfriend is in desperate need of cuddles after a day of being the strongest.” Smushing his cheek against your stomach, he listed five ways he could burn down your workplace while making it look like an accident in his head.

Coaxing him off you was no easy task and you were almost late from his clingy habits.

Satoru, on the other hand, had decided enough was enough. That pesky job had torn you from his arms one too many times and he wouldn’t stand for it anymore.

Dialling up the number he waited until someone answered, his jaw ticking with every ring. “Hello? Jenna speaking.”

“Hello Jenna, I’m gunna need you to grab your manager real quick.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Just go get him, yeah?” Impatience packed his tone, his control slipping. All he wanted was his beautiful girlfriend in his arms, was that so much to ask?

Apparently so.

“Hello?”

“Hiya, I need you to sack (y/n) immediately.” The man down the line blubbered, unsure how to react to such a preposterous request, never mind the fact you were one of his best members of staff.

To your manager, the notion wasn’t appealing.

“I’m sorry but-”

“Listen, I get it, she is irreplaceable, but that is why I need her at home with me. Does five grand sound good enough to weaken your morals?”

Silence. Very loud silence.

“Not enough huh? How about 10?”

Long story short, the man was not as strong hearted as some may believe, and you were already on your way home. Of course, he was tracking you on your phone, watching with a heaviness in his chest only you could ease.

The minutes dragged, comparable to hours as he watched the door knowing any second you would slink inside.

The jingling of keys stole his breath, his leg bouncing in anticipation.

“Why are you back so soon sweets?” He called over his shoulder, trying his best to appear nonchalant and concerned.

“I was laid off because of staff cutbacks.” Your voice was heavy with emotion and he almost felt bad for putting his beautiful girlfriend through such an upsetting ordeal.

Almost.

“What? How could they have let you go sweets? You were their best member of staff.” That he didn’t have to lie about.

Embracing you in a hug, he kissed the top of your head over and over, comforting you in your moment of need.

Soon you quietened down, your eyes a little puffy but other than that you were OK, something Satoru craved to see. You, healthy and happy, with him.

Nuzzling his nose into your hair, he let out a pathetic little noise of content, rocking you gently to soothe you while simultaneously satisfying his urges.

Satoru had never claimed to be a good man, but he was a man in love, and he would sacrifice the world to have you in his arms, even if that meant stealing the last fraction of your old life.

[arabella0001]

cn: explicit sexual content [nsfw / 18+]. aggressive sex. biting. slighty ehibitionism. aphrodisiac use. dirty talk, 4k+ words.

⟡ fandom: attack on titan | pairing: levi x reader

⟡ request

��

To have feelings in times like these it’s such a selfish thought sometimes; it makes you want to scream into your pillow every chance you get.

And worse than that?

To have feelings for the captain of the recruitment division, the irreplaceable, cold, and strict Levi Ackerman was way worse.

You were one of the few left from the old squad. The camaraderie between you and your old comrades was cut off instantly after their death, as if it never existed. And sadly, it created a strange, clumsy distance between you and Levi. The only two survivors.

Not that he was the friendliest man, but the respect between you two was something admirable. Still, delusionally, you sometimes thought… maybe it was more than that.

Maybe he didn’t yell like that at everyone, so loud you’re sure it echoed to the other side of the world, when he thought you’d died on a mission two years ago.

Maybe he didn’t carry everyone in his arms, even when his own body was collapsing from pain, prioritizing your life.

Maybe not everyone got that subtle twitch of his lips that resembled a smile when you two shared tea now and then—and you teased him for being too strict, poking at his side just to get a reaction.

But those childish fantasies crumbled the moment Historia Reiss, the new queen, arrived at tonight’s gathering… and stood a little too close to Levi. The very same Queen who once slapped him—and he let her—and smiled back at her.

The gathering had been Erwin’s idea, a rare celebration after a successful mission. One of the only times there was plenty of food and wine without guilt along with it.

You sat at the table with Hange, who was talking with her mouth full, a mirror of Sasha doing the same. They both gulped down wine afterward, cheeks flushed red from the alcohol.

Though Hange was tipsy, she was still sharp. She noticed it. That quick, nervous glance you threw when Historia’s hand touched Levi’s arm. His gaze wasn’t detached like usual. He was leaning against the wall, engaged in conversation. Actively.

That alone made your fingers tap angrily against the table as you looked around, pretending you were simply bored. Hange gave you an amused look, tilting her chin toward the pair.

You rolled your eyes, but her eyes gleamed with some forbidden idea she wasn’t ready to say out loud yet. Instead, what came out of her mouth was:

“Hm. Did you know the air outside is way fresher in this season? Might be good to check.” Her double-meaning didn’t go unnoticed.

Sasha, unfazed, was more focused on a piece of pork on fresh bread.

“Maybe you should go. You both seem a little heated.”

Hange and Sasha laughed, leaning their heads together, grinning with the euphoria of wine-soaked joy.

“You got us. At least we’re not some bitter old lady who forgot how to have fun.”

You glared. “Hange.”

She raised both hands, mock-defensive.

“What?! I’m just saying, girl!”

But her plan needed to move faster.

“You know what? Follow me.”

Hange stood. Sasha glanced at her but didn’t care enough to ask. Hange didn’t wait—just started walking toward the exit.

You stood too, and you felt someone’s gaze on you from across the room. You ignored it.

But Levi watched your back a little longer than he needed to as you left. Then he returned his attention, somewhat distracted, to Historia’s strategy proposals. He was tired. Too much socializing for one night. Ten minutes of talking with Historia already felt like ten hours. She talked too much. Like everyone else here.

…Except you.

He always sensed the distance between you, one he blamed himself for. It wasn’t a priority, but sometimes, somehow, his thoughts always ended with you. The feelings inside him were small?, faint—but they echoed. He couldn’t name them. They were useless anyway. A weakness.

That’s how it should be. That’s how it must be.

You probably didn’t see him that way anyway.

And he understood. He wasn’t the warmest person alive.

┈─┈─┈─

When Hange saw you dragging your feet, she tugged you by the elbow and threw you into her chaotic, paper-filled office.

Then, from a box, she pulled out a dusty bottle sealed with a wooden cork and tied with twine.

“Let’s make some magic, shall we?”

You wrinkled your nose as she handed it to you, letting you smell it first.

“What the fuck is this? It smells awful.”

Hange waved her hand dramatically, a little wobbly.

“You don’t know what’s good! The old stuff is the best. Heals the body, solves your problems—I’m serious. I’ve tested it.”

“Just because you’re a research freak doesn’t mean I believe everything, you know?”

Still, you took a drink. Your emotions were buzzing too hot in your veins to think straight. The taste was awful but you didn’t stop at one sip.

Hange watched you with something close to admiration. She was happy—mission complete. But her face turned panic-stricken as you kept drinking. She grabbed the bottle out of your hands.

“ENOUGH! This wine is very precious. We should save it.”

You licked your lips. now stained wine-dark and your cheeks flushed fast. You looked at Hange, and your gaze made her grin.

Not me, pretty lady. I’m flattered, but not me.

“I’ll be back in a second. Gotta get some cheese to go with this wine.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

You collapsed into her surprisingly comfy chair and stared at the wall. But your thoughts turned—obscene. What the hell is happening?

You hadn’t drunk in a while, but this was something else. Your body felt too warm. Too restless. You shifted in your seat, fidgeting endlessly.

⸻

Hange rushed down the hall, nearly crashing into the door—right as Levi was walking out.

“Oh! Just the person I needed!”

“Spare me, Hange. I’ve had enough for tonight.”

Hange just planted a hand on her hip and the other under her chin, dramatically pondering.

“Hmmm. Then who should I ask to help Y/N?”

Levi was about to walk past her but stopped. Gave her a side-glance.

“Help? With what, exactly?”

“Well, let’s say… too much wine can make you lose control of your brain and body? Yeah, that definitely applies.”

Really? You? Drunk as hell? Since when?

“Where is she?”

“My office.”

She smiled far too innocently for Levi not to be suspicious. But he didn’t say anything. He just went straight to you.

┈─┈─┈─

When he opened the door, he found you waving your shirt like a fan, wide open—exposing your dark blue bra.

“Thank god. What the hell took you so long?! I’m dying over here!”

Your eyes shot to the door— And locked on Levi, standing there. His gaze was sharp. Angry. But also very much fixed on your chest.

“Fuck—? What the fuck are you doing here?!”

Your voice cracked, not angry—just embarrassed. You buttoned your shirt furiously.

“When did you become this irresponsible?”

“What? I had a few sips! Are you calling me a alcoholic or what?!”

Your words slurred slightly. Levi’s eyes flicked to the half-empty bottle.

“Looks like it.”

“Oh, shut up. Didn’t you have a conversation to get back to? Or are you just here to lecture me too?”

His thoughts faltered. Your tone… sounded accusing. Jealous? No. Can’t be.

“It’s over.”

You started fanning yourself with Hange’s scattered papers, your body feeling annoyingly uncomfortable—especially in certain areas.

“Nice. Maybe something good will happen.”

Levi froze at the double meaning.

“Something good?”

He picked up the bottle and took a slow sip.

It was disgusting. Weak. This got you drunk?

When you didn’t answer, which was unusual. Levi looked over. You were ignoring him, staring out the window with a sulky expression.

“I asked you something.”

You sighed. “You know… something. You and the bubbly new queen—what a ray of sunshine in this battlefield.”

Your sarcasm wasn’t subtle. Levi’s quiet, firm steps drew closer.

No. No, stay away.

Standing in front of you now, he looked down. Your expression—almost… embarrassed?

A strange wave of heat hit him. Unfamiliar.

“You find that funny?”

“Maybe. The bright little queen with the cold, sharp captain. What a pair.”

You snorted nervously, trying to mask it with a smile. Levi didn’t know why this stupid conversation was continuing. Why he was still standing here. You were fine. He should leave.

“You sound offended.”

The fact that he didn’t deny it almost made you want to push him from your face. But instead… the vulnerability in your body, his presence, pushed you in another way.

“Do you like her?”

Levi didn’t know what shocked him more, your question, or how red your cheeks suddenly were.

“No.”

You stared at him until you were sure he wasn’t lying. Then looked away.

“Why ask?”

“Curiosity.”

He stepped closer.

“Do I look like someone who doesn’t think clearly?”

“No?”

“Then why lie to me?”

You avoided his gaze. But when Levi’s hand gently tilted your chin toward him you froze. His fingers were shockingly gentle on your skin.

And just like that he knew something was off.

“What did Hange say before she left?”

You groaned.

“That she’d be right back. That traitor.”

Something was missing. Levi picked up the bottle, poured a bit onto his finger.

“Hey! You’re wasting precious wine—”

“Shut up.”

You muttered, “Mean.”

He didn’t answer, even though he should’ve.

You were talking too much. More than usual.

The liquid glistened faintly. Levi frowned. Aphrodisiac.

He looked at you again and slowly scanning from head to toe. You gulped.

“I think Hange tricked us both into drinking it wine with aphrodisiac…For… some unknown reason. That fucking psycho—”

But he cut himself off when he saw you sinking into the chair in shame.

“Do you know something I don’t?”

“No?”

“Y/N.”

A pause.

“No.”

“No, or you don’t want to say?”

He was being so persistent, it scared you. The fact that you both took it. That he was this close. That you couldn’t stop thinking about how beautiful he was. How badly you wanted him right here, right now. You slammed your head onto the desk.

“Leave. Please.”

“Speak now, or I’ll go.”

“Why should you need to know? It doesn’t matter.” You muttered, head still buried.

“I don’t like lies. Or people hiding—”

You shot up suddenly, furious.

“OKAY. I fucking like you, okay?! For a long time…since we were…nevermind. She probably set me up!”

Levi’s ears rang. He didn’t hear that right.

But your heaving chest and the brutal honesty in your eyes said otherwise. And he couldn’t respond. Didn’t know how to.

He just stared.

Embarrassing. God, this was so embarrassing. You thought.

You stood up clumsily, ready to storm past him and vanish but Levi reacted instinctively. His hand grabbed your arm.

“W-what?”

Levi considered himself an idiot before making the most impulsive decision of his life. But all thoughts vanished when his lips pressed against yours.

┈─┈─┈─

Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment when you moaned the second Levi tried to deepen the kiss. His veiny hand cupped your cheek while your hand found the back of his undercut curtain hair. When his lips left yours, you chased them, but his darkened gaze locked you in place, your breath irregular.

Fuck it, Levi thought.

He kissed you again, dominating the way his lips pressed onto yours, forcing you to open them. But you were far too happy to do it now, your tongue dancing with his in an aggressive competition over who wanted the other more.

He guided you backward until your ass hit the desk, lifting you by your thighs instantly so you were sitting on it. Returning between your legs and dragging them until they locked around him. He groaned in your mouth when he felt you grind on him.

How did it come to this?

He began to move slower until he tried to calm himself down, to regain control, his head dropping over your shoulder.

“This isn’t okay. We’re not in control.”

“You don’t want me?”

Levi’s head tilted back to meet your gaze.

“Don’t want you? I want to fuck you this second if I did what I wanted now.”

You gasped, chasing his hips.

“Y/N.”

“You only want me now?”

Your gaze was so convincing, lustful, that if he stayed here much longer, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions. But he thought twice before making an irresponsible confession in a situation like this. Fuck you, Hange.

“No.”

His short answer made your heart leap out of your chest. And the look in his eyes was enough to confirm he wasn’t lying.

“Then fuck me.”

He let out a low, mocking laugh.

“Tomorrow morning to be damn sure you’ll regret how brave you were last night.”

The pressure between your legs made you squeeze them around him, chasing relief.

“I don’t care.”

He tilted his mouth into a small smile, whispering in your ear.

“Yeah?” He took your earlobe in his mouth, making you shiver. “I even think you don’t want me to fuck you.” Your whine urged him to bite your earlobe before soothing it with his lips. “Two fingers are all I need to get the job done.”

“L-Levi.”

Your mind couldn’t comprehend how he was speaking to you right now—only that it made you unbearably wet.

His fingers traveled along your body before cupping your breast and chasing your mouth. You moaned against his lips, your hand on the back of his head pushing him further into your kiss. He was already addicted to how you responded to him.

Levi’s fingers went lower, raising goosebumps across your skin until he teased your inner thighs.

You whimpered in his mouth, furrowing your brows in impatience from his teasing. But he couldn’t wait anymore—he needed to feel it. He let out a low growl at your wet, clothed panties.

“For how fucking long have you been thinking about me to be like this right now?” A string of saliva connected you both, his hand cupping your pussy before you leaned into his mouth, but he didn’t give you the choice. “Tell me.”

“All night.”

“You fucking kidding me.” His lips left wet kisses along your neck, marking you again with his teeth, still biting lightly.

His fingers pushed your panties aside to reach your clit, starting to move in quick circles considering how wet you were even before he went lower for one of your holes. He tested with one finger, but when he didn’t find much resistance, your moan lingered in your throat before continuing with harder finger-fucking until he added a second finger.

“F-fuck, Levi!”

His dark strands, now damp with sweat from how hot his body felt, stuck slightly in his serious gaze, dilated pupils pulling him far from his image as a strict squad captain. He didn’t look like one anymore. He looked like a man who would do anything in this moment to make you feel good.

Levi had been fed up for some time now with being such a control freak, suppressing his emotions even though Erwin had never advised it—just something Levi knew how to do best. But now? He didn’t give a shit anymore. At least once, he could allow himself this.

“Yeah?” Levi’s lips brushed against yours faintly, his warm breath on them.

“More, I need more—”

He moved you instantly and pushed you forward even more, exposing your ass under your skirt, still covered by the white tights he immediately tore apart.

“Levi, for fuck’s sake—”

He slapped your ass—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to sting—then soothed it when you whimpered. Then he did it again in the same spot before switching to the other cheek. Your breathing was difficult to control, your eyes wide open in ecstasy. It wasn’t hard to guess he liked things like this, and it wasn’t hard to guess that you liked them too.

“You want more? Then fucking take more.”

He spread your ass cheeks, and you felt too aroused to feel shame as he knelt down, right in front of your ass, and began to lick you. It shocked you so much that your back arched even more, your mouth wide open from the sensations his exaggeratedly attentive tongue gave to every spot in your most intimate area. Your legs started trembling as Levi continued licking both holes, then up toward your clit and pushing his fingers back in.

“Please, please. Now, I can’t wait—”

He stood up, leaning over you, his hand moving in front of your body until it found your chin, lifting it while your skin shivered from your ear downward.

“And what can’t you wait for, cadet?”

You almost groaned in frustration, but your hole clenched around nothing, your body telling you directly what his words did to you. If you had known Levi was like this in bed, you would’ve listened to Hange a long time ago. But you knew the aphrodisiac played a role too.

“Damn it, Levi—”

He turned your head further, your body instinctively arching into him, feeling how affected he was by your presence too.

“Tell me.”

“I can’t wait any longer for you to fuck me, Levi. Fuck me, please!”

Your voice was rushed, yet full of sensuality mixed with desperation.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” His mocking tone didn’t disappear—behind closed doors, his usual attitude still lingered.

“S-shut up. Lock the door!”

He was undoing his pants, and all you heard was the rustle of clothing and the sound of a belt falling to the floor.

“I don’t care about that damn door.”

You couldn’t lie that it turned you on a little. The probability of someone coming here was very low, considering how far your desk was from the others. But with how loud you were, that probability could rise.

You looked over your shoulder, noticing, in your opinion, one of the most beautiful cocks—veiny, with the tip dripping proof of how turned on he was, its considerable length adding to the effect. You looked at his dick, then at him, with an awe-struck expression that made Levi’s mouth twitch slightly. Not that he cared about this kind of thing; his ego had been completely unraveled a long time ago, back in childhood. But the scary, lustful look on your face? It drove him like a caged animal to give you more than you could take.

He teased you, slowly moving his cock between your ass cheeks and barely penetrating your pussy. You didn’t even have time to complain before he began thrusting into you, both of you opening your mouths in sync from the pleasure.

He pushed in to the end—some of him still outside—and bent over until his mouth touched your shoulder, sucking it before he began moving inside you. He had to calm himself a little so he didn’t come like some pathetic teenager who couldn’t handle puberty.

His heavy breathing turned you on even more, and when his thrusts became slower but deeper, your voice didn’t stop moaning his name until he put his hand over your mouth.

“You want me to close the door for what? You’re still yelling loud enough for everyone to hear.” His groans didn’t stop though, a sound you never thought you’d hear from him. “Never thought you’d feel so good.”

He moved his hand from your mouth, letting one finger stretch your lips as he fucked you harder. The other hand stayed on your back to support his rough thrusts.

“You’ve thought of me like this before?” Your answers irritated Levi because they turned him on even more, letting him speak too openly about something he shouldn’t.

“You have no idea.”

His answer came voluntarily, simple, but it still made your heart clench. You let out a sound of frustration when he pulled out, your body leaning back toward him to find him again but he turned you to face him, which was even worse.

His piercing eyes immobilized you and suddenly you remembered what shame felt like when Levi was staring at you, perplexed by how beautiful you looked, his gaze dropping from your swollen lips, to your aroused breasts, then between your legs.

You pulled him by the shirt to kiss you, and he didn’t pull back; on the contrary, his hands cupped your head to keep you in place while he devoured you, the kiss messy again, you moaning into his mouth, trying to pull off his black shirt, wrinkled with passion. Your hands felt the muscles he built through harsh training and punishment, your eyes tracing the scars that reminded you how strong he was.

Your vulnerable gaze after Levi kissed down your neck and looked back at you was too much for him to handle. He couldn’t think about what he felt for you right now. It was out of the question but his softened eyes still caressed your soul.

He placed both hands on your thighs and lifted you slightly on the desk before spreading your legs and entering you. Your hands went around his shoulder, your head falling there too as Levi grunted in your ear with every deep thrust.

“Come for me first.”

He turned his head slightly toward you to meet your gaze while his fingers moved to your clit to help you. The excessive wetness made it easy for him to bring you to the edge, even though you could’ve stayed in this moment forever with Levi inside you. So close.

You turned to face him, making sounds that bordered crying while you looked at him, and he can only murmur:

“Yes, just like this. Do it for me. Do it now.”

His eyes never left yours until your head tilted back slightly, your body shaking uncontrollably as your legs, previously locked around his ass, loosened and fell until Levi’s hand grabbed one of them and the other cupped your cheek, not letting you look away as you came. He couldn’t forget this look. He needed it.

His erratic movements became harsher until he pulled out, stroking himself until the last drop spilled on your belly and a little lower. Your hands were barely holding you up on the desk. The aphrodisiac was almost halfway worn off, but your mind was still obsessively drawn to Levi and his presence.

But the shame you felt now was even stronger, trying to cover yourself, not wanting to feel so exposed anymore. But Levi only memorized how special you were to him; and not just because of the sex, but in general. Memories rebuilt themselves in his mind as if they were yesterday, of how much you’d been there for him through his life.

He pulled himself out of those thoughts, not allowing himself to drown in them. Hs hadn’t even allowed himself to get here before, but here they were.

He looked through drawers and around the desk until he found some wet wipes to clean you, at least superficially, because he couldn’t stand making a mess, especially not on someone like you. He lifted you off the desk, seeing your fragile legs, but you surprised him by hugging him tightly, not letting him protest how hard you held him.

“Y/N.”

Even if he couldn’t believe it, he couldn’t do anything to stop it. His hands still weren’t touching you.

“Hug me back, Levi. Please.”

He felt a lump in his throat, suffocated by your love. But he hugged you back, one hand cradling your head as he stared blankly. It was hard to accept this from someone. But you weren’t just anyone.

“You’ll catch a cold if you stay naked much longer.”

Your voice was muffled by his shoulder.

“I don’t care.”

You squeezed him tighter, now that you had him this open, you couldn’t let go so easily.

He leaned toward the desk, stretching his hand to grab a shirt to cover you. That melted your soul even more.

“I wanna sleep with you.”

“Y/N, you know it’s not allowed for a commander to sleep in the same bed with another—”

“Please, Levi. I don’t think I can breathe well without it.”

He was annoyed at you and your rule-breaking, exhaling an irritated sigh—but didn’t say anything at first.

“If you don’t come as subtly as possible in the middle of the night, I swear I’ll make you regret it.”

You lifted your face from his chest and smiled at him, sincerely. Though his expression seemed serious, there was a playful one underneath. Levi’s walls were down tonight for you. And maybe, they would stay open more often. Life is too short not to love each other in the limited time you have.

You pressed your face back into his chest, hugging him tighter. From the outside, the image was as romantic as it could be—the two of you at the center of the office, moonlight covering your bodies and leaving only your shadow as proof that, in this moment, you truly belonged to each other. No one else.

[calmcoldevening]

Santa Art the clown || SMUT

Tw: nsfw, adult content, no minors, babe. Just missed this boy

It's been quite a while since you last saw your boyfriend Art. The collision with the girl Sienna did its job. But you had a strong feeling that he was about to come back to you, you were sure of it.

Your body spun easily around the house as you continued to decorate the rooms for the approaching Christmas. And although you were still sad in your heart, you intended to spend this holiday with your family or friends to fill the void of longing and pain. All this time you couldn't find the strength to find another partner, Art was too dear and irreplaceable in your life with all these oddities and habits.

You were standing in the kitchen making chocolate chip cookies. Even if you no longer believed in the good old Santa, you still cooked this sweet as you once did in childhood. Something akin to tradition. Having already memorized the recipe by heart, you expertly quickly and carefully prepared the dough and began to add chocolate chips. Finally, you put the future cookies in the oven and set the timer with a satisfied smile. Suddenly, you felt two hands with cold palms hugging your waist. You instantly shuddered, convulsively remembering how you could not close the front door. But then your gaze slid over the stranger's gloves and hands, and an obvious supply of blood hit your nose. You instantly relax and lean back against the man's chest. His chest is shaking with silent laughter.

"God, babe. You scared me to death.."

When awareness fills your frightened brain, you turn around in the clown's tight grip to face him and hug him tightly in response, burying your nose in a warm sweater.

"I missed you. I missed you so much," you mumble like a desperate mantra, his hand finds your hair and starts stroking it slowly in a soothing manner.

Despite his demonic nature, you can say with some certainty that he missed you too. Maybe it's his calm demeanor, or maybe the tenderness in his touch. You don't know. You just feel it.

Art leaned back possessively on the back of the sofa, legs wide apart. You can already imagine how long it will take you to wipe the blood off the upholstery of your favorite sofa. But it doesn't matter now. You slowly crawl up to him on all fours and settle between the man's legs, gently squeezing the soft fabric of Santa's costume in your hands. The clown's face curves into a sadistic smile and he shakes his hips slightly, watching you with obvious glee in his eyes. With eyes trembling with anticipation, you unbutton his belt and slightly lower the pants of the suit, releasing a hot cock. You softly wrap one hand around his penis and gently run the tip of it over your lips, mixing precum and blood from previous victims with your saliva. You literally feel like a starving man at the sight of his throbbing length. Not long, but thick enough to make you see the stars.

Finally, you lean forward and take his cock as deep as possible into your throat, feeling the gag reflex from not using your mouth for a long time. Your chin rubs against the pleasant fabric of a soft red suit, and shiny tears appear in the corners of your eyes. But pain at the same time brings you a strange perverted pleasure, you already feel how your thin, delicate underwear gets wet.

As your movements accelerate, you feel Art's hips begin to move towards you, his fingers burrow into your sweat-soaked hair. A painful mumble escapes from your throat, and you already feel an unpleasant burning sensation from swallowing. His precum slowly flows down your throat while the throbbing head continues to hit the back of your throat, causing unpleasant spasms. Your free hand finds his balls swollen with semen and begins to slowly massage the places that you know he loves. Art's head falls back in a silent groan.

Finally, his movements become more frantic and animal, your jaw aches from his massive cock, you start to suffocate. The feeling of someone else's blood leaves an unpleasant gnashing on the teeth and a taste of metal. Art's fingers dig into the skin of your head when you get into his particularly pleasant place. He enjoys seeing your face covered in tears, cum and blood. Finally, he cums with a silent scream, pouring a generous portion of hot sperm down your throat. His cock twitches in your mouth, rubbing against your swollen tongue. Art is breathing heavily, looking down at you, and slaps you on the cheeks a couple of times, checking if you've swallowed his Christmas present. When you obediently open your empty mouth, he grins sadistically and pulls his cock out of your mouth, leaving traces of sperm on your lips and chin.

With one sharp movement, Art pulls you onto his lap, squeezing your juicy thighs in his hands. He forcefully presses your clothed warmth to his penis, which was still wet from your saliva, which was slowly starting to harden again.

The man leans forward and grabs your lips in a nasty hungry kiss. You moan with pleasure, finally feeling the familiar sensation of his heavy tongue in your mouth. Your senses are filled with his musky scent and the taste of blood on his lips. His movements are full of pure animal hunger.

Without warning, Art grabs you by the hair, throws your head back and exposes your throat to his perverted desire. His painted face is decorated with a sadistic smile. He looks at your stained and swollen deer eyes. His free hand wanders over your body, quite caressing your soft breasts and sides. He leans closer and begins to leave quick, careless kisses on your throat. Your skin is slowly covered with traces of saliva and black lipstick. His lips stay on your pulse point for a particularly long time, circling your artery with obvious pleasure. His hand slides over your thick thighs, squeezing this flesh he loves, and finds the edge of your panties, starting to massage your throbbing clitoris with unprecedented skill. A pathetic meow escapes from your lips and you bite your lower lip. Art giggles soundlessly and grabs your mouth in another clumsy wet kiss, wanting to take every sweet moan of yours just for him. His fingers slowly sink into your welcoming wet warmth, and his thumb continues to expertly massage your clitoris. Your pussy instantly squeezes his fingers into a vice, which makes his eyes roll in pleasure. His fingers begin to lead in and out of your hungry pussy with a perverted squish, sliding over the wet folds with undisguised glee.

Finally, he pulls away from your mouth, and his fingers come out of your pussy, leaving you whimpering because of the sharp feeling of emptiness. Art giggles silently, enjoying this hot sight.

With one sharp movement, Art rips the fabric of your panties, pulling out a surprised sigh from you, and impales your pussy on his proudly standing cock. You desperately shout his name with a mixture of pleasure and pain. Your hands squeeze his shoulders and you bite the inside of your own cheek until it bleeds. Art's mouth opens slightly and he begins to breathe rapidly, enjoying the long-awaited feeling of the wet warmth of your pussy. God, he missed that feeling. Art squeezes your hips in his hands and starts moving slowly, his massive balls slapping hard against your ass. Your face is blushing in obvious anticipation of how his suit is going to be damn wet with your juices running down your thighs.

He pulls you closer to him and begins to slowly kiss your neck and shoulders, his overgrown nails digging painfully pleasantly into the flesh of your ass. You whine softly, silently begging him for more. Art grins sadistically, speeding up the pace. The wet slaps of his body against yours fill the room, interrupted by your voluptuous moans. Gripping your hips tighter, he leans into that perfect spot inside, enjoying the way your inner walls contract and pulsate around his throbbing length.

Reaching down, he lock his hands together behind your back, lifting you nearly upright as he continue to hammer into your dripping cunt. Your tits bounce wildly with each forceful thrust, pale flesh jiggling obscenely. He feels your inner walls clamping down on him in a vice-like grip, your pussy quivering on the edge of a toe-curling orgasm. With a final, particularly vicious thrust, he bury himself to the hilt and still inside you as he feels your cervix ripening, your womb clenching in eager anticipation. He holds you in that perfect position as a tsunami of pleasure crashes through you, milking his shaft for every last drop of semen.

Finally, the pleasure subsides and you go limp in his strong embrace, feeling fuller than ever. You mumble softly, hugging his neck and burying your nose in the warm fabric of his Santa suit. Art pulls you closer, still breathing heavily, and pats your trembling back.

[reidmarieprentiss]

Grass is Always Greener

Summary: based on this ask. Reader is in love with Spencer, he moves on while they're dating. Then reader gets kidnapped and Spencer has some monumental realizations.

Pairing: bi!Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: hurt/comfort, angst

Warnings/Includes: kidnapping, typical CM violence, emotional cheating, bi-sexual Spencer, heartbroken reader

Word count: 7.5k

a/n: i really loved this prompt!! thank you for asking :) there will be a part two by the way don't worry heheh

main masterlist

For the past six months, you and Spencer have been inseparable, caught in the kind of love that novels fail to describe adequately. It isn't just affection—devotion, a deep-rooted adoration that feels like it has existed long before you met, as though you were meant to be intertwined from the start.

You love him in the way you always wished to be loved. You show it in every trim, thoughtful act—baking his favorite pastries just because, ensuring that breakfast is warm and waiting for him before he even wakes up, making sure dinner is ready when he returns home, exhausted but comforted by you.

You bring him flowers, because why shouldn't he receive them too? You find books you know will capture his mind, wrapping them in delicate paper just to see the soft wonder in his eyes when he unwraps them. You plan excursions he'll adore—museum dates, guided historical tours, moments where he can lose himself in the past while you stay anchored beside him.

Your love isn't just spoken—it's lived, woven into every gesture, every detail, every careful thought put into making him feel cherished. Because that's what he is to you—irreplaceable, essential, the other half you never realized was missing until he was there, filling every space with something more profound than connection, something that feels like fate.

If only Spencer felt the same way about you.

—

Your heart stopped. Your lungs refused to work, your breath catching somewhere in your throat like a broken sob that refused to form. The room around you blurred at the edges, your vision tunneling in on Spencer—Spencer, the man you had given everything to, the man you had loved so deeply, so purely, that it had consumed every part of your existence.

"What?" The word came out strangled, barely audible, your voice cracking as tears welled in your eyes. You didn't want to cry in front of him, didn't want to give him that power, but your body betrayed you.

Spencer still couldn't look at you. His hands, which you had held so many times, trembled at his sides. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked like it hurt. "I thought it was the right thing to do," he muttered, as though that was supposed to make sense, as if that explained anything.

Your stomach churned with nausea, fury, and disbelief. "The right thing to do?" Your voice wavered between a whisper and a scream. "The right thing to do was to fuck someone else?"

Spencer flinched at your words and their vulgarity, but he didn't immediately deny it. That silence spoke louder than anything.

Finally, he swallowed hard and said, "I did not—" he hesitated, knowing every word he chose would dictate what happened next. "—I did not sleep with him."

Him.

It hit you like a freight train, a new layer of betrayal unfolding before you. You stepped back as if distance would protect you from the shattering of your heart inside your chest.

"Then what, Spencer?" You forced the words out, your entire body trembling. "What did you do?"

Spencer's face twisted in pain, in something that almost looked like guilt but didn't quite feel like enough. Not for what he'd done. Not for the way he was shattering you into pieces so small you weren't sure you'd ever be able to put yourself back together.

"I fell in love," he admitted, his voice quiet, like saying it any louder would break him too.

But it wasn't him breaking. It was you.

Your scream ripped through the room before you could stop it. "Spencer, that is so much worse!" Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms, grounding you against the overwhelming rush of devastation, betrayal, and fury. "How long?"

Spencer blinked at you, thrown off by the question. "How long?" he echoed as if he didn't understand or know what you were asking.

You took a step closer, the force of your heartbreak pushing you forward even as your body begged to run in the opposite direction. "How long have you been in love? How long have you been emotionally cheating on me like a pathetic, scared loser?"

His breath hitched, his mouth opening and closing like he struggled to find the right words, but there were none. There was no correct answer that would make this better.

Then he said it. "Is this because it's a man?"

You froze, stunned by how wildly he had missed the point. A bitter, humorless laugh escaped you, and you could barely recognize the sound of your voice when you spat, "I don't give a shit what mouth you want to put your tongue in, Spencer." Your hands shook, and you hated it, hated how weak you felt when all you wanted was to be furious enough to drown out the pain. "I care that you didn't respect me enough to tell me sooner! I'm not homophobic; I'm heartbroken!"

That finally made him look at you. Really look at you.

His lips parted slightly, his brow furrowing as if he were just now realizing the gravity of what he had done. As if the wreckage he had left in his wake hadn't been evident from the moment he opened his mouth.

"I didn't—" He stopped himself, inhaled sharply, then exhaled as he could barely hold himself up anymore. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

It was a pathetic attempt at an apology.

"Well, congratulations," you choked out, voice thick with unshed tears. "You did."

Spencer nodded, his expression solemn, the weight of his decision pressing down on him like a physical force. He swallowed hard, and for the first time, he looked humiliated. "I'll have my things gone by the weekend," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Something inside you snapped.

"Fuck you." The words tore from your throat, sharp and unfiltered, dripping with the kind of pain that no amount of time could ever truly erase. "Get it all out tonight and give me the key."

Spencer flinched. His eyes darted up to yours, desperate, pleading, as if something was still left to salvage. "Y/N—"

"Now, Spencer!" you screamed, your voice cracking, breaking under the sheer weight of the moment. Your body was trembling, fists clenched so tight your nails bit into your palms, but you didn't care. You didn't care that tears blurred your vision or that your chest ached like someone had physically reached inside you and torn your heart apart.

Spencer didn't argue.

For once, he didn't try to explain, didn't try to rationalize, didn't try to make this something it wasn't. He simply nodded, defeated, and turned on his heel.

You watched as he moved through the shared space, the home you had built together, now nothing more than a place he needed to evacuate. Every step he took, every moment that passed as he quietly gathered his things, felt like a knife twisting deeper into your already shattered heart.

You wanted to stop him.

You wanted to scream at him to stay, to tell him he could fix this, that you could find a way back to the love you had so freely given him.

But he had already thrown that love away.

And so, instead of begging or breaking any further, you turned your back on him. You wiped your face with shaking hands, steeling yourself against the overwhelming grief threatening to consume you.

When he returned, his bag slung over his shoulder, the key to your apartment sitting in the palm of his hand, you refused to look at him.

Silently, he placed it on the table.

Silently, he turned toward the door.

Silently, he walked out of your life.

And the second the door clicked shut behind him, you collapsed, sobs wracking through your body as you mourned a love lost.

—

It had been an ordinary evening. Spencer had been at the library, fingers trailing along the spines of well-worn books, his mind half-distracted by the text messages you had sent earlier—something sweet, something thoughtful, the way you always were with him. You had made dinner and were waiting for him. He had told you he'd be home soon.

But then he had walked in.

Robert.

It started with a discussion—something about Dostoevsky, of all things. A casual remark Spencer had made under his breath, something about The Brothers Karamazov and moral determinism. He hadn't expected anyone to respond, let alone engage with him in a way that made his brain spark like a live wire.

"You know," Robert had mused, leaning against the bookshelf beside Spencer, "it's funny how people always think Dostoevsky was just arguing for free will. There's a case to be made that he was just as much a determinist as Tolstoy."

Spencer had turned, brows furrowed in curiosity, and he had looked at him for the first time.

Robert had sharp eyes, the kind that saw too much. He was well-dressed but not ostentatiously so—just a crisp button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and dark-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He looked like someone who belonged in the pages of the books they discussed.

The conversation had spiraled from there, shifting seamlessly from Russian literature to philosophy to quantum mechanics. It was effortless. Easy in a way Spencer hadn't expected, in a way he hadn't even realized he had been missing.

And then—then there had been the moment.

Spencer had laughed—actually, he had laughed, full and unrestrained. When he glanced up, he found Robert watching him with a warm, unreadable gaze.

"Do you ever have moments when you feel like you were meant to meet someone?" Robert asked suddenly, his voice quieter and more thoughtful.

Spencer's stomach had twisted—not in guilt, not yet, but in something else. Something dangerous.

He should have said no. He should have left then and there and gone home to you, to the person who loved him and was waiting for him with dinner, affection, and unwavering devotion.

But instead, he had stayed.

And that had been the beginning of the end.

—

"Who's Robert Nelson?" you asked absentmindedly, flipping through the stack of mail on the counter. Your fingers lingered on the envelope, the name printed neatly in the return address, unfamiliar but seemingly unimportant—until you felt Spencer tense beside you.

It was subtle, the way his entire body went rigid, but you knew him well enough to notice. The way his breath hitched for just a fraction of a second and his fingers twitched before he suddenly snatched the letter from your hands with an almost defensive speed.

"A friend," he said quickly. Too quickly.

You blinked, startled by his reaction and voice, which sounded too tight or too careful. You tilted your head, studying how his fingers curled around the envelope as if he were trying to shield it from you.

"A friend?" you echoed, your curiosity morphing into something heavier, something uneasy. "Since when have your friends sent you letters?"

Spencer hesitated for just a breath too long.

"Since—uh, since he moved out of state," he said, but his voice lacked its usual certainty, the effortless confidence that usually accompanied his explanations. He wasn't looking at you, his eyes fixed on the paper in his hand as if it held the answer to whatever silent questions you were beginning to form.

You frowned, your heart beating a little faster, that gnawing feeling in the pit of your stomach growing. "Why haven't you mentioned him before?"

Spencer finally met your gaze, but something in his eyes unsettled you—a flicker of something unreadable, which looked a lot like guilt.

"You never asked," he said softly.

And just like that, an invisible wall settled between you.

—

"Spencer?" you called out from the living room, glancing at his buzzing phone. The name flashing on the screen sent a strange feeling through your chest. Robert Nelson. Again.

Your fingers hovered over the device before instinct took over, and you answered. "Hello?"

There was a brief silence. Then, a smooth, unfamiliar voice. "Oh—uh, hi. Is Spencer there?"

Before you could respond, Spencer was there. He practically ripped the phone from your hand, his grip too aggressive. His fingers nearly fumbled as he clutched it like a lifeline.

"Why are you answering my phone?" His voice was sharp, defensive, almost panicked.

Your breath caught in your throat, stunned by the hostility in his tone. "I—It was ringing. I thought it might be work," you said, your voice quieter now, weaker.

But Spencer wasn't paying attention anymore.

His entire demeanor shifted in an instant.

"Hi, Robert!" His tone was bright and warm in a way that you hadn't heard from him in weeks. His body relaxed, his posture unwinding as he turned away from you slightly as if shielding the conversation from your ears.

And that was when it happened.

The slow, aching fracture of your heart.

You didn't need to hear the conversation. You didn't need to piece together the puzzle. It was already evident.

Whoever Robert Nelson was, he had already taken something from you.

—

"Hey, Reid," Derek called out as he stepped out of JJ's office, stretching his arms over his head. The bullpen was winding down for the day, the usual chatter filling the air. "You gonna invite that little number of yours to 'team bonding' at O'Kieffe's?"

Spencer looked up from his paperwork, brow furrowing slightly. "Robert?"

Derek's expression flickered with confusion, his head tilting. "Who's Robert?"

Before Spencer could answer, Elle interjected, her curiosity piqued. "Wait—who's Robert?"

Spencer adjusted his tie absentmindedly, utterly oblivious to the way both of his coworkers were staring at him now. "My boyfriend…"

A beat of silence.

Derek blinked, his mouth slightly open as if he'd misheard. "What?" His tone was a mixture of shock and something else—concern, maybe. "Since when? What happened to Y/N?"

At that, Spencer finally hesitated, his fingers tightening around his pen.

There it was—that fleeting look of guilt, so quick that anyone who wasn't trained to notice microexpressions might have missed it.

Elle's eyebrows shot up, catching on to the shift instantly. "Yeah, what did happen to Y/N?" she echoed, crossing her arms, her sharp gaze locked on him.

Spencer opened his mouth to answer, but no words came out. He hadn't prepared for this conversation and hadn't thought about how it would sound when he finally said it out loud.

That he had left someone who loved him more than anything.

He said that he had fallen for someone else while still wrapped in the warmth of Y/N's love.

Her name, which Spencer used to say with so much affection, now felt like a reminder of what he had destroyed.

His silence lingered just a little too long.

And that was all the answer they needed.

—

"Round table. Five minutes." Hotch's voice carried across the bullpen, his usual no-nonsense tone making it clear there was no room for delay.

The team exchanged glances, some groaning about Monday morning's abruptness, others silently gathering their things and making their way toward the conference room. Spencer followed, clutching his coffee; the bitter taste ground him in the early morning haze.

Once they were seated, JJ took her usual spot at the front, but something about her demeanor was off. Her shoulders were tense, her expression pinched in a way that wasn't just professional concern—it was personal.

She clicked on the projector, and the screen illuminated with a digital map of Virginia. Red markers pinpointed locations across the state—too many markers.

"A string of kidnappings has taken place here in Virginia," JJ began, her voice steady but strained. "All within the last two months. The victims all match the same victimology."

As she spoke, she clicked on the next slide.

A series of photos appeared on the screen. The faces were of women in their twenties with similar features and build. This pattern should have been just another set of behavioral data points in the grander scheme of the case.

But Spencer's stomach plummeted.

His grip on his coffee tightened involuntarily, his breath hitching in his throat. His heart slammed against his ribs in recognition, dread coiling in his gut like a living thing.

The victims—they all looked like you.

It's the same hair color. Same facial structure. They have the same soft smile in some photos and the same sharp glint in their eyes in others. They weren't you, but they might as well have been.

His pulse pounded as JJ continued speaking, words blurring together as the room suddenly felt too small.

"The unsub is abducting women who fit this profile, holding them for an unknown period, and then—"

Spencer barely heard the rest.

All he could think about was you.

You—who had barely spoken to him since he left. You—who he had destroyed. You—who he no longer had the right to check in on, to protect.

But as his vision swam, his chest tightening painfully, only one thought cut through the noise.

Were you safe?

…

The answer came quicker than Spencer could have ever prepared for.

No. You weren't safe.

Once the team broke off into their assigned pairs, the case had already begun unraveling alarmingly fast. The latest victim's body had been recovered, their time of death recent—too recent. It meant the unsub was either already hunting for a new woman… or they already had one.

By the time Spencer and Elle arrived back at the BAU, the tension in the air was palpable. The office's usual controlled chaos had been replaced with something far heavier. He could feel the urgency with which agents moved in the hushed voices and sharp exchanges. Something had shifted.

Then he saw it.

His first clue was the woman sitting at JJ's desk, shoulders shaking, her face buried in her hands as she sobbed. It took him a second to recognize her—your best friend.

His second clue was even worse.

His entire body locked up as his gaze landed on the case board. The details of the investigation had changed.

And there you were.

Your picture.

Your face.

Pinned in the center of the board, more significant than any other victim's. A fresh missing persons report was tacked beside it, and the timestamp was barely hours old.

The breath left Spencer's lungs like he'd been punched in the gut.

His vision blurred at the edges, the words and numbers on the board becoming nothing more than meaningless static.

His hands clenched, the phantom memory of holding you flashing through his mind. His brain, the same brain that could recall statistics, equations, and case files with perfect clarity, was failing him now, drowning him in nothing but cold, raw terror.

You were missing.

And Spencer had never felt more helpless.

The room around him faded into a blur of voices, movement, and urgency—but none mattered. Only you mattered. His feet moved before his mind could catch up, pushing him toward JJ's desk, toward your best friend who was still crying into her hands.

"When?" The word tore from Spencer's throat, rough and desperate. "When was the last time anyone heard from her?"

Your best friend lifted her tear-streaked face, eyes red and swollen. "L-last night. We were supposed to meet for brunch this morning, but she never showed up. She—she wouldn't just disappear. She wouldn't—" Her voice broke, fresh sobs wracking through her as JJ placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Her phone's off," JJ said, her face tight with emotion, her voice barely steady. "Local PD found her car still parked outside her apartment. No sign of forced entry. Her purse was left behind."

Spencer clenched his jaw, his stomach twisting painfully. He knew what that meant. She was taken from inside. The unsub had been watching you, had known your routines, and had waited for the perfect moment to strike.

And he hadn't been there to stop it.

A hand clamped onto his shoulder. "Reid." It was Hotch. His voice was firm, grounding, pulling Spencer back into reality. "I need you to focus. We will find her, but we need to move fast."

Elle spoke up, flipping through the case file. "Unsub's pattern suggests he holds victims anywhere from 48 to 72 hours before…" She didn't finish the sentence, but they knew how it ended.

Before he killed them.

Spencer had 48 hours to save you.

He swallowed hard, forcing his mind to snap into place, to work past the terror and focus on finding you.

"Where was her last known location?" he demanded, stepping toward the board, his eyes locking onto your picture, committing every last detail of your presence to memory. He knew he would never forgive himself if he failed and lost you.

JJ pointed at the map. "Er, apartment. The surveillance cameras didn't catch anything obvious, but we're combing through traffic cams now. We need to figure out where he took her."

Spencer's hands clenched at his sides, his knuckles turning white.

"Then let's start there," he said, his voice steady now, ice-cold determination replacing the panic.

He had failed you once.

He wasn't going to fail you again.

The search was relentless. The entire team moved unyieldingly, combing through evidence, footage, and witness statements with the desperation that came when one of their own was in danger.

But for Spencer, it was different.

It was you.

He felt it in his bones, a suffocating weight pressing down on his chest, an overwhelming tide of guilt that gnawed at him with every passing second. He should have never left you. He should have never chosen something else, someone else.

Because now, as he stared at the grainy traffic cam footage of your last known whereabouts, he realized the truth.

Robert was never going to replace you.

He had been a distraction, a fleeting novelty, someone new and engaging in a way that had tricked Spencer into thinking he was feeling something more. But what was new had worn off, and emptiness had remained.

You were never dull.

You were home.

And he had walked away from it—walked away from you.

And now, he might never get to tell you how wrong he was.

"Reid," Hotch's voice cut through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. Spencer turned sharply, his eyes burning, his hands trembling slightly at his sides.

"We have something," JJ said, her face tight with restrained emotion. She motioned to the screen. "Traffic cams picked up an unfamiliar van near Y/N's apartment. No plates, but it made three passes before stopping."

Spencer's pulse hammered as he stared.

There.

In the grainy footage, a dark-colored van sat idling just across from your apartment, a shadow behind the wheel. And then—a figure.

You.

You stepped out of your building, completely unaware. His breath caught in his throat as he watched the scene unfold, knowing precisely what was coming next but unable to look away.

The van door slid open. A person—the unsub—moved fast, grabbing you before you could react. You fought, your body twisting, struggling—but you were outmatched.

Then, just like that, you were gone.

Spencer's hands curled into fists.

"We need to identify that van," Hotch ordered. "Garcia, get into the city's surveillance system—track that route. Find me where he took her."

"I'm already on it, sir." Garcia's quick and focused voice came through the speaker.

Spencer barely heard them. His eyes stayed locked on the screen, on you, on the last moment before you had disappeared.

He had spent so much time thinking you would always be there, that there would always be time to fix things and make things right.

But time was running out.

And if he lost you—if he never got the chance to tell you how much he still loved you, how you were the only person who ever truly mattered to him—

He wasn't sure he'd ever be able to live with himself.

Garcia worked fast—she always did—but this time, Spencer could hear the urgency in her voice, the rapid clicking of her keyboard through the speaker, and the barely restrained panic beneath her usual rapid-fire delivery.

"Okay, sugarplums, I got something,” she announced, voice tense. "That creepy, unmarked van? It popped up on a traffic camera near an abandoned industrial site about fifteen miles from Y/N's apartment. There are no stops between the two locations. I'm sending you the coordinates now."

Spencer barely waited for Hotch to give the order before he was moving, grabbing his bag and gun and shoving past the concerned glances of his teammates.

This was it.

This had to be it.

The drive was agonizing. His fingers twitched on his knee as he stared out the window, mind racing with every possible outcome. If you were there—if they got to you in time—he could still fix this. He could still tell you the truth.

He had made the biggest mistake of his life, confused comfort with monotony, and was a fool to think there was something better than the love you had given him so freely, so wholly.

That you were the only one he had ever truly wanted.

The convoy of SUVs screeched to a halt outside the factory, tires kicking up dust and gravel. Guns were drawn, and orders exchanged in hushed, precise tones. Spencer's pulse hammered as he fell into formation with Morgan and Hotch, his grip on his weapon too tight, his breathing too shallow.

They breached the building in seconds.

The air inside was stale, thick with the scent of rust and decay. Spencer's stomach twisted as they moved swiftly through the darkened corridors, his ears straining for any sound—any sign of you.

But there was nothing.

No muffled cries, no scuffling footsteps, no you.

Then—

"Clear!" Morgan's voice rang out from another room, frustration cutting through the tension.

"Clear," Elle echoed from the opposite side.

Spencer's heart plummeted.

The space was empty.

Empty.

No unsub. No van. No, you.

They only discarded debris, a few rusted chairs, and the lingering, suffocating feeling they had just lost time they didn't have to spare.

Spencer stood frozen in the center of the room, his mind struggling to process what had just happened. The futility of it all hit him like a brick wall.

His knees felt weak.

"No, no, no," he murmured under his breath, his gun lowering as his vision blurred. "She was supposed to be here! He took her here. She—she was supposed to be here!"

"Reid." Morgan's voice was cautious, but Spencer barely heard it.

He couldn't—not over the deafening roar of panic, regret, guilt.

His hands were shaking. His chest was tight. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force himself to breathe, to focus, but all he could see was your face, your picture pinned to the board, the footage of you being taken—

And the realization that he might never see you again.

"Reid." This time, Hotch's voice was sharper, more commanding. Spencer snapped his head up, his breath ragged.

"We'll find her," Hotch said firmly. "But we need you to keep it together."

Spencer's breath hitched, his pulse pounding so loudly in his ears he could barely hear anything else. They were wasting time. Every second spent standing here, every moment spent catching their breath, was another second you were still out there, terrified and alone, waiting for someone to save you.

And he had promised to love you.

And he had failed.

"Oh, you need me to keep it together?" Spencer snapped, his voice shaking, his entire body shaking. His vision was blurring at the edges, rage and fear coiling so tightly in his chest that he could barely contain it. He turned on Hotch, his heart hammering against his ribs like a wild, desperate thing. "Well, Y/N needs me to find her! She needs not to die!"

The words tore from his throat, raw and broken.

Morgan's eyes widened slightly, JJ flinched, Elle turned away—but Hotch didn't waver. He stood firm, unyielding, his sharp gaze locked on Spencer with a kind of patience Spencer didn't deserve right now.

"And we will find her," Hotch said, voice calm but edged with authority. "But not if you lose control."

"Lose control?" Spencer let out a short, bitter laugh, his fingers digging into his arms as if to ground himself and keep from completely unraveling. His throat burned, his head spun, and all he could see was you. You, you, you. "She's out there, and we don't even know if she's alive! We don't know if we have hours or minutes before she—before—"

His breath caught.

Before you died.

The word sat there, a looming specter he couldn't bring himself to say out loud.

Morgan stepped forward, voice softer this time. "Reid, listen, man—"

"No!" Spencer cut him off, wild-eyed, frantic. "You don't get it! None of you get it! I—” His voice cracked, his body swaying slightly, the weight of his guilt pressing so heavily on his chest it felt like it was crushing him. He tried to steady himself, but he felt like he was drowning. "I—this is my fault."

A thick silence settled over the room.

Spencer's vision blurred with unshed tears, and his breath ragged.

"She loved me." His voice was quieter now, almost hollow. He clenched his jaw, blinking rapidly, his nails digging into his palm. "And I—I walked away. I left her for someone who meant nothing." He let out a shuddering breath, his chest tightening so hard it physically hurt. "And now I might never get to tell her that she was—is—the only person I've ever truly loved."

A lump formed in his throat.

"I don't—I don't deserve to find her," he whispered, the truth burning as it left his lips. "But I need to. I have to. Or I'll never—I can't—"

He couldn't finish.

If he didn't find you and fix this, nothing else would ever matter.

Elle had been watching Spencer unravel since they returned from the failed lead, her sharp gaze tracking every minute detail of his breakdown—the frantic pacing, the erratic breathing, and his hands wouldn't stop shaking. And now, after his outburst at Hotch and how he looked like he was about to self-destruct right in front of them, she had had enough.

She moved fast.

Before Spencer could react, Elle's palm cracked across his face.

The sharp smack echoed through the room, cutting through the tense silence like a gunshot. Spencer's head snapped to the side, his breath hitching in shock as pain bloomed hot and fast across his cheek.

For a second, no one moved.

Elle wasn't finished.

She grabbed him by the collar, yanking him forward, forcing him to look at her. "Get your shit together, Reid!" she hissed, her eyes burning with something more than anger—something more profound.

Spencer froze.

His chest heaved, his mind scrambling to catch up, to process what had just happened. His cheek stung, but it was nothing compared to the tidal wave of rage, frustration, and unrelenting guilt that had been crushing him from the inside out.

"What the hell was that?" he gasped, staggering back, touching his face like he wasn't sure the pain was real.

"That," Elle said, voice low and dangerous, "was me snapping you the fuck out of it." She jabbed a finger into his chest, stepping closer, invading his space, making sure he couldn't look away.

"You're losing it, Reid. And you cannot afford to lose it right now."

Spencer opened his mouth, but she wasn't done.

"You think you're the only one who's scared?" Elle seethed. "You think you're the only one who wants to tear this city apart to find her? We all do. But guess what? You spiraling like this? It's not helping. It's making it worse."

Spencer's breath hitched, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I—"

"No, shut up," Elle snapped, cutting him off, her voice sharp enough to wound. "I don't want to hear you start whining about how guilty you feel, about how this is all your fault, about how you were an idiot for letting her go."

Spencer's throat closed up.

"You screwed up," she stated, flat and brutal. "You got bored. You wanted something new. And now you've realized you had something irreplaceable and threw it away."

His eyes widened slightly—because, fuck, she knew.

Elle saw right through him.

"But guess what, genius?" Elle leaned in, her voice dropping just enough that the words hit like a punch to the ribs.

"None of that fucking matters if you don't find her."

His stomach dropped.

Elle's gaze was unrelenting, her expression hard as steel. "You want to feel sorry for yourself? Fine. Do it after we bring her home." She stepped back, releasing her grip on his collar. "But right now, Spencer? You need to be the smartest damn person in this room."

Spencer exhaled sharply, still reeling, his cheek throbbing, his pulse raging.

But he understood.

Elle wasn't slapping him because she was angry. She was slapping him because she refused to lose another teammate. Because she refused to lose you.

Because she knew that he was the best chance you had.

Spencer straightened, inhaling deeply, forcing his mind to clear. His face still burned, his chest still ached with remorse, but for the first time since seeing your picture on that board, he wasn't drowning in it.

Elle watched him closely, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she saw the shift.

"Good," she said, giving him one last firm look. "Now, let's go find her."

Spencer nodded, jaw tight, mind finally sharpening into focus.

Because Elle was right. None of his regrets, self-loathing, orlizations meant anything if he didn't bring you home.

"Damn, Greenaway," Derek mumbled, rubbing his jaw as he shot Elle an amused glance. "What's a guy gotta do to get a little love tap?" His smirk was wide, teasing, attempting to lighten the crushing weight pressing down on all of them.

Elle, still standing firm after knocking some sense into Spencer, turned her head slightly, giving Derek a slow, deliberate once-over. "Keep talking, and it'll be a lot more than a tap," she shot back, a smirk of her forming. Then, with a playful wink, she turned back to the case, already flipping through files as if she hadn't just physically assaulted a coworker for his good.

Spencer barely registered the exchange, his brain already re-firing on all cylinders. The sting in his cheek was nothing compared to the fresh surge of determination flooding through him. And so, the team buried themselves back into the investigation, working with precision, intensity, and the desperate, unyielding need to bring you back.

Morgan and Hotch went back through the victimology, looking for any deviation in the unsub's pattern that could hint at where he had taken you.

JJ and Elle were in the batcave, working with Garcia, pushing for more footage, leads, and anything else to tighten the search radius.

Spencer was at the board, staring at your photo, the location pins, and the scattered details. His mind ran every scenario, analyzing every variable. His hand hovered over the map, tracing each route the unsub could have taken.

Think, Spencer. Think.

He had 72 hours.

Time was running out.

And he wasn't about to lose you.

And then he heard it.

Garcia's sharp victory cry rang through the speaker, cutting through the tension like a blade.

"Oh, hell yes! Gotcha, you sick son of a—"

Spencer's head snapped up, his heart slamming against his ribs as the bullpen erupted into movement.

"Garcia?" Hotch demanded, already reaching for his earpiece. "What do you have?"

"I have him, sir; I freaking have him!" Garcia's voice was a mixture of triumph and pure adrenaline. "Okay, listen up because I found this guy's most incriminating, unsub-like, foolish mistake—his utility bills."

Spencer's pulse skyrocketed.

Garcia barely took a breath before launching into explanation mode.

"So, I was cross-referencing every possible known location the previous victims were held in—warehouses, abandoned buildings, private properties, all that jazz—but something wasn't adding up. All of those places had been searched already, right? So, I started looking at nearby structures that weren't in use but still had active utilities. Gas, electricity, even just running water, because let's face it—no creepy serial kidnapper is taking sponge baths in a rusty bucket."

"Garcia," Hotch cut in, his patience thin, "where is he?"

Garcia let out an excited, breathless laugh.

"There's an abandoned farmhouse thirty miles outside town, just off an old service road. It's been off the radar for years, but someone's been paying the bills—sporadically, inconsistently, just enough not to raise alarms. And guess what, my sweet crime fighters?"

Spencer gripped the edge of the table.

"The latest bill?" Garcia continued, triumphant. "It was paid yesterday."

Spencer inhaled sharply.

That meant he was still there.

That meant you were still there.

Morgan was already reaching for his gear, his movements quick and efficient. "That's it. That's our guy. Let's move."

Hotch didn't hesitate. "Gear up. Now."

—

"Can you shut up for the love of God?!" the unsub snapped, his voice cutting through the cold, damp air of the farmhouse basement. His patience had worn thin, and the roughness in his tone carried more frustration than malice.

You hiccupped through your tears, your body trembling—not from fear, but from overwhelming exhaustion. Your wrists ached where they were bound, your face was sticky with dried tears, and yet, despite everything, you couldn't stop talking.

"I'm sorry," you sobbed, sniffling dramatically. "It's just—" Another sniffle, another watery gasp for air. "He left me, and then I get kidnapped, and now he's probably gonna save me, and then I'll go home to an empty house, and he'll go home to his stupid boyfriend."

Your captor's eye twitched.

"For the last fucking time," he growled, turning toward you with visible irritation, "they're not going to find you!"

You barely reacted, too caught up in your despair.

"You don't know that," you muttered, your voice wobbly but oddly conversational. "I mean, he's like a genius or whatever. And his team is good at their jobs. They always catch the bad guy." You sighed dramatically, tilting your head back against the wooden beam. "So, yeah, I'd say the odds aren't exactly in your favor."

The unsub's jaw clenched. He paced in frustration, his hands raking through his unkempt hair.

"You should be scared," he spat, though there was less conviction now.

You sniffled again. "I'm too heartbroken to be scared."

Your voice cracked on the last word; it wasn't just for show this time.

The unsub laughed, a cruel, condescending chuckle that grated against your nerves. "You're pathetic," he sneered, shaking his head.

You let out a soft, bitter huff, your fingers twitching where they were bound. "And you aren't?" Your voice was steady now, sharper than before. "You have to kidnap women just to get one to talk to you."

The unsub's face twisted with rage. His hand shot out, grabbing the back of your head roughly, yanking it back so you were forced to look up at him.

Then, cold metal pressed against your temple.

"I could fucking kill you right now," he snarled, his breath hot against your skin, his fingers digging into your scalp.

You blinked up at him. Not flinching and not pleading.

Just looking.

"Okay," you said simply.

For a long, tense moment, he didn't move.

Your heartbeat was steady, even as the seconds stretched between you. His grip was tight, his breathing heavy, the gun unwavering against your skin.

But you didn't break.

Because, honestly? You didn't care.

Maybe it was the exhaustion. It could be the sheer emotional devastation of everything leading up to this moment. Or maybe it was the painful, gut-wrenching realization that even if Spencer saved you, he wouldn't stay.

That hurt more than anything else.

The unsub groaned, exasperated, and after a few lingering moments, jerked back, lowering the gun.

He paced, rolling his neck like trying to shake off whatever he had just felt.

"You don't fear death, do you?" he muttered, more to himself than you.

You let out a small breath, watching him, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Not really."

—

The farmhouse was empty.

It was abandoned.

And that realization hit like a freight train.

As the team swept through the decrepit structure, their boots crunching against the dust-covered floorboards, the air grew heavier with every room they cleared. The farmhouse was utterly vacant—there was no sign of you, no sign of the unsub, no proof of where you had been taken next.

And then Spencer's world crashed down. Again. He didn't know how much more he could take.

His knees hit the ground before he could stop them, his whole body wracked with sobs. The grief that had been building inside him for hours, days, weeks—since the moment he walked away from you—exploded all at once.

Morgan was there instantly, his strong arms steadying Spencer, pulling him into a solid, grounding hold as Spencer fisted his hands into his vest.

"No, no, no," Spencer choked out, shaking violently. "We're too late, we're too late."

"Hey, hey—stop that." Morgan's grip tightened, his expression strained with worry. "We don’t know that."

But Spencer's mind wasn't listening.

Because the only explanation for an empty farmhouse was that the unsub had already killed you.

That he had already moved your body.

And Spencer would never get to tell you.

I never got to say he was sorry. Never get to tell you that he loved you, was a fool for leaving, and would have spent his entire life making it up to you if he could.

That you were his heart.

And now you were gone.

The team stood frozen, the weight of failure settling over them like a suffocating fog.

And then Spencer's phone rang.

His breath hitched, and his fingers clumsily fumbled for the device. His whole body felt numb, and the ringing pierced his grief. It was JJ.

He barely had time to answer before her voice rang through the line, breathless, disbelieving, urgent.

"Spencer—she's here."

His heart stopped.

"What?"

"Y/N just—she just walked into the precinct." JJ sounded just as stunned as he felt. "She's unharmed. She's safe."

Spencer felt his entire world tilt so violently that he nearly collapsed again.

He was on his feet in seconds, his head spinning, his chest heaving.

"She's alive?" The words tumbled out of him wild and frantic, like he feared saying them out loud would make them untrue.

JJ exhaled sharply. "She's alive, Spence. She's okay."

Spencer's legs nearly gave out.

Morgan caught him before he could crumble.

The team exchanged stunned glances, their exhaustion, and devastation shifting into something else entirely.

Hope.

Relief.

Victory.

Hotch's voice cut through the moment, commanding but urgent.

"Let's go. Now."

Spencer was already running.

—

Practically stumbling into the precinct, his breath ragged, Spencer's heart slamming against his ribs as he scanned the room in a frenzy. His eyes darted wildly, looking for you.

And then he saw you. Alive. Standing near JJ's desk, your arms crossed, your expression completely unreadable as you answered one of the officer's questions with a nod. No visible injuries. No signs of distress. Just… there.

Breathing.

Existing.

He felt like he was going to collapse.

The relief hit him so hard that he nearly forgot how to move, breathe, and function. His vision blurred, his pulse roared in his ears, and for a second, he could only process that you were here and safe.

Then you turned, and your gaze met his.

And everything inside Spencer froze.

Because there was no relief in your eyes.

No joy.

No desperation, no tears, no emotion at all.

It's just tired indifference.

His lips parted, and his feet moved toward you instinctively. His hands itched to touch you, feel you, hold you, apologize, beg, and break at your feet if he had to.

But before he could say anything, you exhaled deeply, turning back to JJ, dismissing him entirely without a second glance.

Like he was just… some guy.

Some stranger.

Someone who meant nothing.

The rejection was like a blade to the throat.

Spencer finally found his voice, but it was weak and hoarse. It was filled with exhaustion, guilt, and everything he had wanted to say to you but had never had the chance.

“Y/N—”

You barely spared him a glance.

"I just want to go home," you said flatly, your voice drained, emotionless, like you had nothing left to give—not to the case, Spencer, or any of it.

And that hurt more than anything.

Because he had prepared himself for your tears, he had braced himself for anger, for screaming, for you shoving him away, slapping him, hating him outright.

But this? This emptiness? This indifference? This was worse.

This was so much worse.

Spencer stood there, stunned, feeling himself shatter in real-time as you sighed, rubbing at your tired eyes, before quietly saying to JJ,

"Can someone take me home?"

And just like that—

You were gone.

And Spencer had never felt more alone.

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[mya-valentine]

Headcanon: The Harbingers With an Naive S/O

Pierro

As the leader of the Harbingers, Pierro takes his role seriously, and when he realizes how naive you are, his protective instincts kick in. He often shields you from the darker side of Fatui affairs, keeping you in the dark about the more ruthless aspects of their operations. He wants to preserve your innocence as much as possible, which is a rare sentiment from someone as cold and calculated as Pierro.

While Pierro is usually stern and emotionless, your purity softens him. He finds solace in your presence and enjoys your simple outlook on life. It reminds him of a time before he became the harbinger of destruction and chaos.

Pierro knows that you're easy to mislead, so he's always careful with his words. He makes sure to explain things in a way that won’t overwhelm you, but also so you don’t ask too many dangerous questions. You remain blissfully unaware of just how much blood is on his hands, and Pierro likes it that way.

Pierro would never admit it, but he goes out of his way to ensure you’re kept far from harm, even if you’re unaware of it. He’s constantly working behind the scenes to remove threats before they even come close to you. His protectiveness is subtle, often disguised as him merely sending you off on errands or encouraging you to remain in safer areas.

Your innocence reminds Pierro of a time long ago when he might have been less cynical, less ruthless. Though he’s a deeply strategic man, your presence softens his edges, even if only in private moments. Your belief in the good of the world makes him occasionally question if he could have chosen a different path.

Capitano

Capitano, a figure known for his strength and valor, finds your innocence strangely calming. His life is filled with battle and bloodshed, so your pure and untainted perspective offers him a rare moment of tranquility. When he’s with you, he can leave behind his role as a warrior and simply enjoy a more peaceful existence.

Capitano doesn’t need to say much to keep you safe. His mere presence is enough to intimidate anyone who might seek to harm or take advantage of you. He’s always watching over you, even when you think you’re alone. You might not understand why people give you a wide berth when Capitano is around, but that’s exactly how he prefers it.

Despite his intimidating appearance and harsh exterior, Capitano is surprisingly gentle with you. He’ll place a hand on your shoulder or give you a small nod of approval, small gestures that show he cares without overwhelming you. He knows you’re fragile in comparison to the life he leads, so he treats you like something precious and irreplaceable.

Capitano sees you as something pure that he must protect at all costs. Though he’s known for his unwavering dedication to his duties, your presence gives him a deeper sense of purpose. He fights not just for the Fatui but to create a world where someone like you can remain safe and untouched by cruelty.

Anyone who dares try to manipulate or harm you faces Capitano’s full wrath. He is known for his brutal efficiency in battle, but when it comes to you, that intensity amplifies tenfold. He won’t let anyone or anything threaten your safety or corrupt your innocence. You’re like a rare treasure in his life, one he will guard until his last breath.

Dottore

Dottore is utterly fascinated by your innocence, finding it almost incomprehensible. He often prods you with curious questions, eager to see how your mind works compared to his twisted genius. To him, you’re an anomaly—someone who hasn’t yet been tainted by the world.

Though Dottore cares for you in his own twisted way, he can’t help but toy with your naivety. He might tell you wild, untrue stories just to see your reactions, reveling in how easily you believe him. Despite this, he’s careful not to push you too far; he enjoys having you around too much to truly break your spirit.

While Dottore is amused by your innocence, he’s also fiercely possessive. He doesn’t want anyone else corrupting you, so he’ll make sure you’re always by his side or at least under his watchful eye. If another Harbinger tries to take advantage of your naivety, Dottore’s wrath is swift and brutal.

Dottore, being a man of science and curiosity, is constantly intrigued by your innocence. He wonders how someone like you could exist in such a ruthless world, and sometimes he treats your naivety like an experiment—observing how you react to various stimuli and situations. Though his fascination might be clinical, there’s an underlying protectiveness as well.

Despite his twisted nature, Dottore secretly cares about you. He might create devices or gadgets designed to keep you safe or unaware of the more gruesome aspects of his work. You might think his inventions are just fun toys or tools to make your life easier, but in reality, they’re carefully crafted to protect you from the darker side of his experiments.

Scaramouche

Scaramouche is initially confused by your innocence. Part of him finds it frustrating—he’s used to manipulation and cruelty, so your pure-hearted nature baffles him. However, over time, he begins to appreciate it. You represent something he can never have: a sense of untainted goodness.

Scaramouche, who is typically sharp-tongued and cynical, finds your naivety both amusing and endearing. He’s quick to mock you playfully, throwing sarcastic remarks your way when you fail to notice something obvious or overlook the harshness of reality. Yet, despite his teasing, he never crosses a line. There’s a strange softness in the way he treats you compared to others, even if he tries to hide it.

Despite his cruel nature, Scaramouche becomes fiercely protective of your innocence. He views it as something precious—something no one has the right to taint. While he may mock your naivety, he won’t let anyone else take advantage of it. If someone attempts to manipulate or hurt you, Scaramouche’s wrath is quick and brutal, leaving no doubt that you are under his protection.

Your innocence frustrates Scaramouche at times because it represents everything he’s lost—trust, hope, and belief in others. Yet, that same purity draws him in, creating a tension within himself. He doesn’t want you to lose your naive worldview, but at the same time, he’s terrified that one day, the cruel world will break you as it did him.

Scaramouche isn’t someone who shows open affection, especially not in front of others. However, when you’re alone, he’ll allow himself small gestures—a hand placed gently on your head or a brief moment where he’ll sit close to you in silence. It’s his way of saying that he cares, even if he’ll never say it outright.

Pantalone

Pantalone adores your naive nature, finding it endearing in a world where everyone else is driven by greed and ambition. He uses his vast wealth to spoil you, gifting you extravagant things just to see the look of pure joy on your face. He never lets you worry about the cost or where the money comes from—it’s all part of his plan to keep you blissfully unaware.

While Pantalone manipulates nearly everyone around him, he goes out of his way to shield you from the corruption that runs deep in the Fatui. He sees you as something too delicate for the brutal world he operates in and prefers to keep you in a bubble of luxury and comfort, far from the cutthroat politics of the Harbingers.

Pantalone ensures that no harm comes to you by leveraging his financial influence. If anyone dares to target you or tries to take advantage of your innocence, they quickly find themselves on the wrong side of his wealth and power. He’ll ruin them financially and ensure that their downfall is swift and complete.

Pantalone is a master manipulator, but when it comes to you, he keeps his darker dealings carefully hidden. He never wants you to see the ruthless side of his business, believing you’re better off living in blissful ignorance. He’ll go to great lengths to ensure you remain unaware of the moral gray areas he operates in.

Pantalone takes great joy in watching you light up when he surprises you with something extravagant, whether it’s a beautiful piece of jewelry or a rare collectible. He views your happiness as a reflection of his success, and he goes out of his way to provide for you in every possible way. Your innocent joy is one of the few things that can genuinely warm his cold heart.

Childe

Childe finds your naivety absolutely adorable. He loves to tease you, often making exaggerated claims or telling you about his exploits in a way that makes you blush or gasp in surprise. However, underneath all that playfulness, Childe is fiercely protective of you. He won’t let anyone else toy with your innocence.

Childe thrives on showing off in front of you, especially when he knows you’re easily impressed. Whether it’s through his combat prowess or his adventurous stories, he loves the way your eyes widen in awe. Your naive admiration boosts his ego, and he’s more than happy to be your hero.

Despite his love for battle, Childe would never want to expose you to the darker aspects of his life. He’ll always keep you far from the frontlines, ensuring you only see the more exciting, less dangerous parts of his adventures. In his eyes, you’re someone worth protecting at all costs, and he won’t let anything or anyone change that.

Childe finds it endlessly amusing when you ask innocent, naive questions about his work or the Fatui’s operations. He’ll often give you simplified answers, sometimes throwing in a bit of embellishment to make himself seem even more impressive. Your wide-eyed belief in his stories makes him feel like the most important person in the world.

While Childe’s real work is far too dangerous for you, he often takes you on smaller, safer "adventures." These outings are carefully curated so you never see the true violence of his life, but they’re thrilling enough to keep you entertained. Whether it’s exploring a quiet forest or pretending to train with him, Childe enjoys showing off his skills in a way that keeps you feeling safe and awed by him.

.

.

.

Masterlist

[lyvhie]

★ ˙ ̟ ─── . “missing you”.

| summary | Just your husband and daughter having to deal with your abscence. | cw | fluff, dad!jaemin, unnamed daughter (guys... im terrible with that). | a/n | WHAT A CHALLENGE!!!

Things were turning out to be more difficult than Jaemin had anticipated. You were away on a two-week work trip—something important that couldn’t be rescheduled. That meant a full week of just him and your daughter, a dad-and-daughter bonding marathon.

And honestly? Jaemin thought it would go smoothly. After all, his little girl was usually sweet, cheerful, and easygoing. They were already so close; how hard could it be?

Well… way harder than he thought, apparently.

The first days went by smoothly, really. You and Jaemin had sat down with her beforehand, carefully explaining that you would be away for a few days, but reassuring her that time would fly by and you’d be back before she knew it. She had been totally brave about it, nodding along with wide, serious eyes—even though she couldn't quite hide the small pout that formed when it was finally time to say goodbye.

But she only managed to keep up her cute, brave facade for four days before her gloomy mood started to seep through, something Jaemin noticed right away. It began with her waking up for school without her usual energy, making it unusually difficult for him to coax her out of bed and get her ready. And unlike her normal, spirited self, she didn’t even protest when he gently told her she couldn't wear her fantasy costumes to school. Then came the silence during meals, the persistent little pout as she went about everything, and the way even the smallest mishap—like not finding her favorite pajama or accidentally spilling toothpaste off the brush—was enough to bring tears to her eyes.

Jaemin tried everything to cheer her up: cuddles, cartoons, new toys, even extra dessert. But it was clear that what she really missed was you. And, honestly, he couldn’t blame her; he missed you just as much. If he was being truthful, he didn’t know what else to do to make her feel better. Seeing her like that only made the house feel even emptier without you, as if your absence was more noticeable with each passing day.

Even though he couldn’t, and wouldn’t, admit it, he refused to let his little girl stay upset like this.

Jaemin carefully brushed her wet hair, watching her through the mirror. Her small face was scrunched in a frown, her little legs swinging back and forth as she fidgeted with the hem of her green princess dress. He had let her choose her outfit for the day, hoping it would cheer her up, but even that didn’t seem to lift her spirits. It was like nothing could shake off the gloom that had settled over her.

He prepared himself with a deep breath before placing a big smile on his face, "Is my princess excited to have a super special day with Daddy?" he asked, keeping his voice bright and playful as he set the brush down.

She paused her fidgeting for a second, lifting her head to meet his eyes through the mirror, her expression unimpressed as she mumbled, “Yes, I guess…” before turning her gaze back down to her hands. Her lack of enthusiasm made Jaemin sigh softly.

He crouched down to her level, gently poking her chin. “What can I do to make you smile, sweetie?” he asked, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes met his again, the same stubborn pout still there, “Bring Mommy back.”

His expression softened at her words, his heart squeezing quite painfully. In a way, he was relieved that she had finally voiced what she was feeling, but on the other hand, he felt a little helpless, guilty even, that he wasn’t doing a better job at easing her sadness.

He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead before scooping her into his arms. She immediately clung to him like a little koala, her tiny arms wrapping around his neck, her face burying itself into the crook of it, seeking the irreplaceable comfort only he could give.

"I miss her too, sweetheart," he murmured, rocking her gently in his arms. "I know it’s hard without Mommy here, and I know she misses us just as much. I bet she’s even counting the days to come back to us."

He rubbed slow, soothing circles on her back, his voice as gentle and warm as ever.

“And you know what?" he continued, his tone brightening just a little. "She would hate to see you feeling so down like this. She told me that every time you smile or have fun, she can feel it in her heart, no matter how far away she is. That’s why, if you’re sad, Mommy will feel sad too. And I’m pretty sure neither of you want that, right?”

She nodded slowly, nuzzling against his neck.

"And I also don’t want to see my beautiful princess making that face," he said, gently pulling her away just enough to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking softly across her skin. "I miss your bright, sunshiney smiles." He gave her a teasing pout. "I thought you liked spending time with Daddy, but it looks like I’m not as cool as Mommy after all," he sighed dramatically, exaggerating his expression to mirror her earlier one.

His words seemed to worry her, as her eyes widened in alarm, and she shook her head fiercely.

"No, no, you are super cool, Daddy!" she exclaimed, immediately cupping his face with her tiny hands. "I love spending time with you, I love you, Dad!" Her hurried words made his heart swell with affection. She was just too cute.

"Really?" his frown deepening as he pretended to still be upset.

"Really!" she nodded quickly, her determination clear.

"How much?" he asked, a teasing glint in his eyes.

"This big!" she opened her arms wide, a fierce look of conviction on her face, as if she could somehow measure her love in physical space.

Jaemin couldn't help but laugh at her pure, innocent, and sincere statement. "I love you even more than that, my love," he said, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek before lifting her up into the air. Her giggles erupted immediately, the sound filling the room and chasing away any trace of her earlier teary eyes. Her laugh was like music to his ears, and seeing her smile so brightly again made his heart swell. He gently set her down, holding both her hands in his.

"What do you think about we keep going with your princess day as planned?" he asked, his voice full of warmth. "We’ll have lots of fun, and then we can call Mommy later so she can hear all about it. What do you say?"

She nodded enthusiastically, her eyes lighting up with excitement. "Yes, yes, yes, let's do it!" she exclaimed, grabbing his hand and pulling him along with surprising energy. Jaemin, completely caught up in her enthusiasm, just let her drag him, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Alright, lead the way, princess.”

Phew. Crisis avoided.

"So, she told you that you're cooler than me?" you asked with a raised eyebrow, peering at him through the camera of your phone.

"Pretty much. Loud and clear, no hesitation," Jaemin whispered back, his voice soft and low, matching yours. He carefully shifted a little, mindful not to wake the small figure sleeping soundly on his chest, her little fist curled into his shirt.

He had done a great job tiring her out today, taking her to all the fun places and letting her play as much as she wanted. That’s why, after a warm shower, she could barely keep her eyes open, falling asleep halfway through telling you about her day and how much she wanted you back.

Seeing you and listening to your voice, even if only through a video call, had been enough to finally ease her little heart, her worries melting away, for sure this time, into peaceful sleep.

“We’ll see about that when I come back,” you rolled your eyes playfully. “Anyway, I’m glad everything’s okay. I was worried things might get a little too… chaotic.”

“Hm, you don’t need to worry that pretty head of yours about us, baby,” he hummed, his voice low and full of warmth. “I told you I’ve got everything under control.”

He knew you were already overwhelmed with work; the last thing he wanted was to add any more worries to your plate. He could handle things—he would handle things—if it meant keeping his wife's mind at ease. Jaemin glanced down at his chest, his fingers threading gently through your daughter’s hair as she slept peacefully against him. His gaze softened even more, his heart full at the sight of the two most important people in his life, even if one of them was miles away for now.

“She missed you like crazy today, though,” he chuckled, looking back at you through the screen, his smile a little crooked, a little tired. “And I did too.”

Your eyes softened, warmth blooming in your chest. “I know… I missed you both like crazy too,” you said, leaning closer to the phone screen as if it could somehow shrink the distance between you.

“That’s why,” he continued, a playful glint in his eyes, “you need to stay focused and finish all your stuff quickly so you can come back to us. Otherwise…” he paused for effect, “I’ll be forced to go there and bring you back myself. And I have someone here who would be more than willing to help with the mission.”

He successfully managed to pull a laugh from you. Again, it seemed like today he was doing a great job with his girls.

"Okay, okay, I got you," you said with a soft smile, nodding. "I’ll be home before you know it."

"Yeah," he hummed, his voice warm and sure, glancing down once more at the little girl sleeping on him. "We’ll be right here waiting for you."

↝ taglist: @nebularsung, @spacejip, @peterm4rker, @sinisxtea

[skzophreniic]

sfw alphabet with bangchan

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 what being in a relationship with chan is like

featuring: Christopher Bahng x reader

notes: yeah...this kinda got out of hand i did not mean for it to be this long.

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Bang Chan is naturally affectionate, though he isn’t always obvious about it. He shows his love through small, thoughtful gestures—things that don’t seem grand on their own but add up to something irreplaceable. He tucks loose strands of hair behind your ear while you're talking, rests his hand on your knee when you sit beside him, and instinctively reaches for you in crowded places.

His affection also manifests in acts of service. He’ll warm up your side of the bed before you crawl in, make sure you drink water when you’re too focused on something, and quietly pull you into a hug when he senses you need one.

One night, you’re working late on your laptop, shoulders aching from hunching over the screen. You don’t notice Chan enter the room until he’s behind you, his hands slipping onto your shoulders. “You’ve been at this for hours,” he murmurs, thumbs pressing into a particularly sore spot. You hum in response, too tired to argue.

“Five more minutes,” you mumble.

He lets out a soft laugh before leaning down, brushing a kiss against your temple. “Not happening. C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

You don’t protest when he gently pulls you up, wrapping an arm around your waist as he leads you away.

B = Best Friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

Before anything else, Bang Chan would be your best friend—the person you call in the middle of the night just to talk, the one who hypes you up when you’re feeling insecure, the one who sticks by you no matter what. He listens intently, remembers things you mention in passing, and somehow always knows exactly what you need.

Your friendship probably started in the most unassuming way. Maybe you met at a mutual friend’s gathering, or maybe you simply ended up sitting next to each other one day and clicked. Whatever the case, it didn’t take long for Chan to carve out a permanent place in your life.

One particular night, you’re both sitting in his studio, legs stretched out, sharing a bag of chips between you. It’s well past midnight, but neither of you seem eager to leave.

“You know,” he says, staring at the ceiling, “I think I’d go insane without you.”

You snort. “You already are insane.”

He rolls his eyes but smiles, nudging your shoulder with his. “Nah, but seriously. You’re kinda my favorite person.”

Something in the way he says it makes your heart stutter. You don’t say anything, just smile as you lean your head against his shoulder.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Bang Chan is a natural cuddler, though he’d never outright admit it. He just finds himself drawn to you—whether it’s resting his head in your lap while you scroll through your phone, draping himself over you on the couch, or tangling his limbs with yours in bed.

He has a way of holding you that feels safe, like he’s silently telling you that you belong there. His favorite position is with you curled against his chest, your head tucked under his chin. He likes feeling your heartbeat against his, knowing you’re right there with him.

One chilly evening, you’re both watching a movie when a shiver runs down your spine. Chan notices immediately, wordlessly pulling a blanket over you before opening his arms in invitation.

You don’t hesitate, shifting closer until you’re pressed against his chest. His arms wrap around you easily, his hand rubbing gentle circles into your back.

“Better?” he murmurs.

You nod, nuzzling into the warmth of his hoodie. “Much better.”

He hums in satisfaction, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Good.”

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Bang Chan dreams of settling down, but a part of him is afraid of it. Not because he doesn’t want it—he does, desperately—but because he worries about whether he can balance it with everything else in his life. He wants to be present, to be the kind of partner who gives his all, but his hectic schedule makes that difficult.

Still, he finds ways to weave domesticity into your relationship. He enjoys simple things—making breakfast together, folding laundry while joking around, doing grocery runs at odd hours. He might not always be around, but when he is, he makes every moment count.

One evening, he insists on cooking dinner. You lean against the counter, watching as he frowns in concentration while chopping vegetables.

“Didn’t know you were such a chef,” you tease.

He smirks, tossing a slice of bell pepper at you. “Stick around, and you’ll see all my hidden talents.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling as he returns to cooking, humming softly under his breath.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

Breaking up with you would be the hardest thing Bang Chan has ever done. He isn’t someone who gives up easily—he fights for the people he loves with everything he has. If he reached the point where he believed breaking up was necessary, it wouldn’t be because he stopped loving you. It would be because he thought you deserved better.

He’d agonize over the decision for weeks, maybe even months. His heart would war with his mind, convincing himself that maybe things could work, that maybe he could be the partner you needed him to be. But eventually, if he truly believed he was holding you back, he’d force himself to let you go.

The night he does it, his apartment feels suffocating. He asked you to come over, and now you sit across from him on the couch, sensing something is off. His knee bounces, fingers threading through his curls—a habit of his when he’s nervous.

“Chris,” you finally say, voice laced with concern. “Talk to me.”

He swallows hard. He doesn’t want to do this. But he also can’t stand the thought of watching you grow resentful of the late nights, the missed dates, the exhaustion that keeps pulling him away.

“I love you,” he starts, voice thick. “More than anything.”

Your brows furrow, your lips parting to respond, but he shakes his head. “But I think… I think I’m hurting you.” His eyes flicker to the floor, ashamed. “I see the way you wait up for me, the way you pretend it doesn’t hurt when I have to cancel plans. I see how tired you are of this.”

Tears well in your eyes, and you shake your head. “That’s not—Chris, I love you. I don’t want anyone else.”

His breath hitches. God, he wants to believe that love is enough. He wants to believe that he can give you the life you deserve. But he’s scared. Scared that one day, you’ll look at him and realize that his love alone isn’t enough to make up for everything else.

So, with a heart that feels like it’s caving in on itself, he whispers, “I think we need to let go.”

The words taste like regret on his tongue.

And when you break down in front of him, when you reach for him one last time, he hates himself for not pulling you back.

F = Fiancé(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Bang Chan isn’t afraid of commitment—he’s afraid of failing at it. He’s always imagined himself settling down, finding that one person who makes the world feel a little less chaotic. But the idea of marriage, of forever, holds a weight he doesn’t take lightly. He wouldn’t rush into it, but once he’s sure of you, he won’t hesitate to start planning a future together.

It happens on an ordinary night. You’re curled up together on the couch, half-watching a movie, your fingers tracing mindless patterns over his arm. His heart beats steadily beneath your touch, but his mind is racing.

He doesn’t know when it started—this feeling of inevitability. Maybe it was the first time he caught himself imagining a house with you. Maybe it was when he realized he never wanted to wake up without you beside him.

Maybe it was always there, quietly weaving itself into his bones.

“Would you ever want to get married?” he asks suddenly, his voice low.

You shift, blinking up at him. “To you?”

A slow, bashful smile tugs at his lips. “Yeah. To me.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “Is this your way of proposing? Because if it is, you’re gonna have to do a little better than this, Christopher.”

He laughs, warmth flooding his chest. “No, not yet. Just… thinking.” His fingers lace with yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “But one day, yeah?”

Your smile softens. “One day.”

And from that moment on, he starts looking at rings.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

Bang Chan is gentle in ways that don’t always look obvious. He isn’t just soft with his touch—he’s soft with his words, his presence, the way he loves. He holds you like you’re the most delicate thing in the world, even when he knows you’re strong.

Physically, his touch is always careful. When he cups your face, his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. When he kisses you, it’s slow and lingering, like he wants to memorize the feel of your lips. Even in moments of urgency, there’s an unspoken reverence in the way he touches you.

Emotionally, he’s just as tender. He never dismisses your feelings, never tells you to “get over it” when you’re upset. Instead, he listens. He validates. He reminds you that it’s okay to feel things deeply.

One evening, after a particularly exhausting day, you’re curled up in bed, facing away from him. He notices the way your shoulders tremble, the way your breath hitches. Without a word, he scoots closer, his arms wrapping around you from behind.

“Talk to me,” he murmurs, his lips grazing your temple.

You shake your head. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“That’s okay,” he says. “Just let me hold you.”

And so he does. Until your breathing evens out, until the weight in your chest feels a little lighter, until you remember that you’re never alone.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Hugs with Bang Chan are the kind of thing that ruin all other hugs for you. There’s something about the way he holds you—firm, secure, like he never wants to let go.

He’s not shy about them, either. He’ll pull you into a hug without thinking, whether it’s after a long day, when he sees you across the room, or just because he wants to feel you close. His arms fit around you perfectly, and he always holds on for just a few seconds longer than necessary.

His favorite kind of hug is the slow, lingering one—where his hands smooth over your back, his nose brushes against your neck, and he breathes you in like you’re the only thing grounding him.

After one of his exhausting workdays, you barely step through the door before he’s wrapping himself around you. “Hi,” he mumbles against your shoulder, his arms locking you in place.

You smile, running your fingers through his curls. “Long day?”

He just nods, his grip tightening. He doesn’t let go for a long time. And when he finally does, he presses a soft kiss to your forehead, like he’s silently thanking you for being his safe place.

I = I Love You (How fast do they say the L-word?)

Bang Chan doesn’t say “I love you” lightly. It’s not something he throws around just because it feels good to hear. When he says it, he means it—fully, deeply, in a way that changes everything.

But he feels it long before he says it.

It starts in the quiet moments—the way he watches you when you’re not looking, the way his heart stumbles over itself when you laugh. It’s in the way he remembers the smallest details, the way he worries about you when you’re not feeling well, the way he instinctively reaches for you in his sleep.

The words build up inside him, sitting on the tip of his tongue, waiting. And when they finally spill out, it’s in a moment he doesn’t plan.

You’re in his studio, curled up on the couch while he works on a track. It’s late, the city outside buzzing with distant life, but in here, it’s just the two of you. You’re half-asleep, head resting against your arms, the soft glow of his monitor casting shadows across your face.

He looks at you, and it just hits him.

“I love you.”

It’s quiet, barely above a whisper, but you hear it. Your eyes flutter open, and he freezes—he hadn’t meant to say it yet, hadn’t even been thinking about it.

But now it’s out there, hanging between you like something sacred.

You don’t hesitate. You smile, slow and sleepy, reaching for his hand. “I love you too.”

And just like that, he knows he never wants to stop saying it.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Bang Chan isn’t possessive, but jealousy still sneaks up on him in ways he doesn’t expect. It’s not about distrust—it’s about how much he cares, how much he fears losing you.

Most of the time, he handles it well. He knows you love him, and he trusts you completely. But every now and then, he catches a glance that lingers too long, a conversation that feels a little too intimate, and something inside him tightens.

He doesn’t make a scene. He doesn’t start fights. But he makes sure people know exactly who you belong to.

One night, at a party, you’re talking to someone—a guy who’s leaning in just a little too close, smiling a little too much. It’s innocent, really. You’re just being polite. But Chan sees the way the guy is looking at you, and his jaw clenches.

He doesn’t storm over. He doesn’t cut the conversation short. Instead, he walks up behind you, resting a hand on your waist, fingers pressing into your hip just enough to remind you that he’s there.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs against your temple, pressing a kiss there. “Everything okay?”

You smile, leaning into him instinctively. “Yeah, just talking.”

The guy shifts awkwardly under Chan’s gaze, suddenly aware of the unspoken message. And just like that, Chan’s tension eases. He trusts you, always. But that doesn’t mean he won’t remind the world that you’re his.

Later, when you tease him about it, he just shrugs. “Can you blame me?” he says, pulling you into his lap. “Look at you.”

And when you kiss him, slow and sweet, his jealousy disappears entirely.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

Bang Chan kisses like he loves—with intention, warmth, and a tenderness that makes your heart stutter. His lips are always soft, always seeking, whether he’s pressing the lightest peck to your temple or pulling you in for something deeper, something that makes your knees weak.

He has no single favorite place to kiss you because, to him, every inch of you is worth his affection. He loves pressing his lips against your forehead when you’re sleepy, a silent “I’m here.” He loves the way your skin warms beneath his mouth when he kisses the inside of your wrist, your palm, the tip of your nose. But his absolute favorite? Your lips—because he gets to feel the way you sigh against him, the way you lean into him like you never want to let go.

And when you kiss him? His breath always hitches, no matter how many times you do it. He’s particularly weak for kisses along his jaw and down his neck—places that make him shiver under your touch. If you kiss him there absentmindedly, without any ulterior motive, he melts completely.

One evening, you’re curled up on the couch, Chan’s fingers tracing circles over your arm as the TV plays some random show neither of you are really paying attention to. You shift slightly, turning to press a soft kiss against his jaw, then another along the column of his neck. His breath catches, fingers pausing in their movement.

“What was that for?” he murmurs, voice lower than before.

You shrug, smiling against his skin. “Felt like it.”

He tilts his head, catching your lips with his before you can pull away. It starts slow, soft—then deepens, his hand sliding to cup your face, holding you there like he never wants to let go.

“Mm,” he hums against your lips. “Kiss me like that again.”

And, really, how could you ever say no?

L = Little ones (How are they around children?) Bang Chan is an absolute natural with kids. He has this effortless way of making them feel safe, like they can trust him immediately. Maybe it’s the warmth in his eyes, or the way he speaks to them like they matter—not just as kids, but as people with thoughts and feelings of their own.

He’s the kind of person who crouches down to their level when talking to them, who listens intently to their stories no matter how nonsensical they may be. He makes silly faces, lets them climb all over him, and somehow always has enough patience to entertain them for hours.

One afternoon, you’re both visiting a friend who has a toddler, and within minutes, Chan is on the floor, completely absorbed in a game of pretend. The child hands him a toy phone, and without hesitation, he puts it to his ear.

“Hello? Oh, really?” His expression is completely serious as he nods along. “No way, you’re kidding! Well, you better tell them that’s not how we do things around here.”

The toddler giggles, clearly delighted, and Chan grins before passing the phone back. When he glances up at you, you’re watching him with the softest expression.

“What?” he asks, still smiling.

“Nothing,” you murmur, shaking your head. “You’re just… really good at this.”

Later that night, when the two of you are alone, you catch him staring at you with a thoughtful expression. When you ask him what he’s thinking about, he just shrugs, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Just wondering what our kids would be like.”

Your heart nearly stops. But when you look at him, there’s no nervousness, no hesitation—just a quiet certainty, like he’s already imagined a future where you’re both chasing little feet through a home filled with laughter.

And somehow, that thought makes you love him even more.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Mornings with Chan are the kind that make you want to stay in bed forever. He wakes up slowly, reluctantly, because the second he becomes aware of you beside him, leaving is the last thing on his mind. He’s warm, drowsy, and in no rush to face the world when you’re right there, soft and pliant in his arms.

His first instinct is to find you—an arm lazily slung over your waist, his face pressed against the crook of your neck, his breath fanning across your skin in slow, even puffs. His body is heavy with sleep, but his hold on you is strong, keeping you pinned against him as if you might slip away the second he lets go.

"Mmm, stay," he mumbles, voice thick with sleep, one hand slipping under your shirt just to feel your warmth. His touch is lazy, absentminded—slow circles traced against your bare skin, his lips brushing your shoulder in the softest, most tender kisses.

If you try to move, he groans—not dramatic, but real, an aching sort of sound that makes you freeze. It’s not just about comfort. It’s you. He’s spent so much time being everything for everyone—getting up before dawn, running himself into exhaustion—but here, in this quiet space, you are the only thing he wants.

Eventually, he’ll relent—but only if you give him his morning kiss first. And not just a quick peck. He wants it slow, deep, something that lingers even after you pull away. He’ll chase your lips, a soft, lazy smile curving against your mouth before he lets you go.

Once you make it out of bed, he’s clingy—following you to the kitchen, wrapping his arms around you from behind while you make breakfast. He rests his chin on your shoulder, humming softly, pressing sleepy kisses to your neck between murmured compliments. “You’re so pretty in the morning, baby.”

And if there’s no rush to leave? He’ll pull you onto the couch, wrapping you up in his warmth, fingers lazily tangled with yours. There’s something so intimate about it—just being together, existing in this quiet, safe space before the day takes him away.

Because no matter how busy life gets, mornings with you? They’re his favorite part of the day.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Nights with Chan feel like coming home. No matter how chaotic his day was, how exhausted he is, the moment he steps into your shared space, everything slows.

If he’s had a long day, the first thing he does is find you—dropping his bag, pulling you into his arms, burying his face in your hair as he exhales a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. He doesn’t say much at first, just holds you close, grounding himself in your warmth.

"Missed you," he murmurs, voice low, hands splayed across your back like he’s making sure you’re really there.

After dinner, he’s in full relaxation mode—cuddled up on the couch with you, one arm draped over your shoulders, his fingers absently playing with yours. He loves having you curled against him, whether you’re watching something or just enjoying the silence. Sometimes he hums softly under his breath, not even realizing he’s doing it—his voice a quiet, soothing lull against your skin.

But his favorite part of the night? The quiet conversations before sleep. Lying in bed with you, tangled in the sheets, talking about everything—your day, your dreams, the little things that made you smile.

He’s softer at night, more vulnerable, more open. His guard is down, and the words flow easier—the things he doesn’t always say out loud during the day.

"You make everything feel easier," he admits one night, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "Like no matter what happens, I know I’ll be okay if I have you."

And when sleep finally takes him, it’s with you in his arms—his body curled protectively around yours, his breaths slow and even, his fingers still laced with yours. Because this—you, here, now—is the safest, happiest place he’s ever been.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves?)

Chan wants to be open with you. He really does. But it’s hard—years of being the strong one, the leader, the fixer have made it instinctual for him to hold things in.

At first, he tells you the surface-level things—the childhood stories, the funny moments, the easy stuff. But the real things? The insecurities, the pressure, the way he never feels like he’s doing enough? Those take time.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust you—he does, more than anyone. But vulnerability isn’t second nature to him. He’s spent so long carrying everything alone that even with you, it takes a while for him to realize he doesn’t have to.

The first time he really opens up, it’s late at night. He’s quiet, restless, staring at the ceiling with a tension in his shoulders that hasn’t faded, even in bed beside you.

"I feel like no matter how much I do, it’s never enough." His voice is soft, almost hesitant, like he’s afraid of saying it out loud.

You don’t rush him. You just listen, running your fingers through his hair, pressing a silent kiss to his temple. And that’s what breaks him—your patience, your quiet understanding.

Once he realizes he can lean on you, that you want to share his burdens, he never holds back again. He wants you to know him—all of him. Because if there’s anyone he trusts with his heart, his fears, his everything—it’s you.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

Chan has patience in spades. He has to. Years of leading, managing, problem-solving—it’s ingrained in him to stay level-headed, to be the calm presence people can rely on. He’s the type to take a deep breath instead of snapping, to think before reacting. Even when things frustrate him, he bottles it up, redirects it, tries to fix rather than fight.

But that doesn’t mean he’s immune to anger. He just holds it in, packs it away—until something really pushes him over the edge.

It’s a slow burn, the kind of anger that doesn’t explode immediately. When he’s upset, he withdraws first—lips pressed in a tight line, fingers tapping against his thigh, jaw clenched so hard it aches. His voice doesn’t raise—if anything, it lowers, taking on that razor-sharp edge that makes people listen.

"I don’t have the energy to deal with this right now," he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose like he’s trying to physically push the frustration out of his body.

He hates losing his temper. It makes him feel out of control, and that’s something he’s never been comfortable with. So when he does—when something really gets to him—it’s because it matters.

With you? His patience is nearly endless. You could tease him, poke fun at him, push his buttons, and he’d just sigh—smiling despite himself, shaking his head like, You’re lucky you’re cute.

"You love seeing how much I’ll let you get away with, huh?" he teases, pulling you into his arms, resting his forehead against yours with a grin that says you win, always.

But if something serious comes up—an argument, a misunderstanding—he’s not the type to yell. He’d rather talk things through, sit down with you, figure out what’s wrong. He doesn’t like leaving things unresolved, doesn’t want you to go to bed upset. Even when he’s frustrated, his first instinct is to fix rather than fight.

The only time his patience snaps? If someone hurts you.

That’s when the calm, easygoing Chan disappears completely. There’s no slow burn, no measured breath—his entire demeanor shifts. His jaw sets, his eyes darken, his stance becomes rigid. He doesn’t yell, doesn’t throw punches, but there’s something in his presence that demands attention.

"You’re not going near them again. Ever." His voice is firm, steady, carrying weight—not a threat, but a promise.

Chan doesn’t act on anger alone, but if someone crosses that line, he will handle it. Not recklessly, not violently, but effectively. He’ll put himself between you and whoever dared to hurt you without a second thought, his protective instincts kicking in immediately.

And afterward? He doesn’t let you go for a while. He checks on you a thousand times, cups your face in his hands, presses gentle kisses to your forehead like he’s reassuring himself as much as you.

"You okay?" he murmurs, voice softer now, hands warm against your skin. "You’re safe. I promise."

Because patience? He has plenty.

But when it comes to you, his patience has a limit. And if someone dares to cross it? He’ll make sure they never get the chance to do it again.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you?)

Chan doesn’t just listen—he collects pieces of you like precious keepsakes, tucking them away in the corners of his mind where they stay, untouched by time. He remembers things you forget you even told him, things that seemed insignificant when you said them, but to him, nothing about you is insignificant.

Like the way you can’t fall asleep without the blanket pulled up to your chin, even in the summer. The way your fingers tap an unconscious rhythm against his arm when you’re thinking. The exact way you take your coffee—not just the standard order, but the little details, like how you secretly enjoy the foam more than the drink itself.

You could mention your childhood comfort movie once, in a random conversation months ago, and one day, when you’re feeling down, he’s pressing play before you even ask, curling up beside you with that gentle, knowing smile. "Figured this might help," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple like it’s second nature.

And it’s not just the small things—he remembers how you feel. The way your voice shifts when you’re excited, the way your body tenses before you admit you’re upset. He knows you, in a way that makes you feel seen, cherished, held.

"How do you always know?" you ask one night, laughing softly when he hands you your favorite snack—one you’d mentioned in passing once, months ago.

He just shrugs, eyes warm with something softer than a simple answer. "Because it’s you," he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "And I don’t forget the things that matter."

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

For Chan, love isn’t just about the grand, cinematic moments—it’s in the quiet, everyday things, the ones that sneak up on him and make his chest ache in the best way. He could spend hours talking about all the little times you’ve made him fall for you all over again, but if he had to pick just one moment, there’s one night that always stands out.

It wasn’t a special occasion. No anniversary, no birthday, no reason for anything extraordinary. Just a regular night in, the two of you curled up in bed, tangled together beneath the covers. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of the lamp casting everything in warm gold. You were half-asleep, head resting on his chest, body relaxed against his like you belonged there—because you did. And Chan remembers looking down at you, his heart beating slow and steady beneath your ear, and thinking, this is it. This is everything.

Maybe it was the way your fingers absentmindedly traced shapes along his ribs, your touch featherlight and familiar. Maybe it was the way you sighed in contentment when he ran his hand down your back, his touch just as instinctive, like holding you was second nature. Or maybe it was just the quiet. The kind of silence that wasn’t awkward or empty—it was full. Full of warmth, full of love, full of everything he’d ever wanted but never knew how to ask for.

And then, you mumbled something—soft, sleepy, barely audible against his skin. "Love you."

You weren’t even awake. You weren’t saying it because you felt like you had to, or because he’d said it first. You were just feeling it, so much so that even in your sleep, the words slipped out naturally.

That was the moment. The moment he realized he never wanted to go another night without you beside him. The moment he knew he wanted to hear those words from you for the rest of his life.

He pressed a kiss to your hair, tightening his hold on you. "Love you too," he whispered, even though you were already lost in sleep. Because it didn’t matter if you heard it or not—he was going to spend the rest of his life making sure you felt it.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

Chan is protective in a way that feels like a constant, steady presence rather than something overbearing. It’s not about control, not about possessiveness—it’s about making sure you always feel safe, always feel cared for, always have someone in your corner, no matter what.

His protectiveness shows up in the little things: the way he instinctively places himself on the side of the sidewalk closest to the street, how his arm naturally comes around you in crowded places, how he watches people carefully when you talk to strangers, making sure no one steps out of line. He’s not aggressive about it, but there’s a quiet, unmistakable strength in the way he carries himself—like even if he never says it out loud, the message is clear: No one messes with you. Not on his watch.

And when you do need him to step in? He’s measured but firm. He doesn’t start fights, doesn’t cause a scene, but if someone makes you uncomfortable or crosses a boundary, his voice gets lower, steadier, and suddenly, he commands attention without even trying. "Hey, they said no." Just like that, the problem is handled, no unnecessary drama, no escalation—just Chan making sure you’re okay. Because that’s all that matters to him.

But his protection isn’t just about physical safety. It’s about your emotional well-being, too. He can always tell when something is weighing on you, even if you try to hide it. And he won’t push—not right away—but he’ll gently nudge, letting you know he’s there. "You don’t have to talk if you’re not ready. But I’m here, yeah?" And when you do open up, he listens. Fully, completely. No interruptions, no dismissing your feelings. Just Chan, giving you his undivided attention, holding your hand, rubbing slow circles into your palm as if to remind you that whatever it is, you’re not facing it alone.

As for how he likes to be protected? He won’t always admit it, but Chan carries a lot. More than he should. And while he’s so used to being the protector, the strong one, the person others lean on, there are moments—quiet, vulnerable ones—where he needs that, too. The nights when exhaustion weighs heavy on him, when the pressure builds too much, when his own worries start creeping in.

And that’s when it means everything to him when you notice. When you run your fingers through his hair, coax him into lying down, and tell him, "You don’t have to do everything on your own, you know. I’ve got you, too."

Because in the end, that’s what love is to him. Not just being the one who protects, but being with someone who makes him feel protected, too.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

Chan isn’t the kind of guy who does things halfway—especially not when it comes to you. If something matters to you, then it matters to him, simple as that. And when it comes to love, he believes in showing it. Not just in grand gestures or on special occasions, but in the little, everyday things, too.

Dates? He’s the type to plan them thoughtfully, even if it’s just a simple night in. If you like surprises, he’ll keep you on your toes—showing up with a bag of your favorite takeout and a playlist he made just for the evening. If you prefer something cozy, he’ll clear his schedule, set up a movie night, and tuck you under his arm like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. And when he does go big? Oh, he goes big—reservations at a place he knows you’ve been wanting to try, an entire day planned out to make sure you feel special. Because to him, it’s not about the extravagance, it’s about making memories with you.

Anniversaries? There’s no forgetting, no last-minute scrambling—Chan remembers. He’ll bring up the little details you mentioned in passing months ago, find ways to incorporate them into the day. He’ll write you a letter—handwritten, heartfelt, pages long—because sometimes, even with all the ways he shows his love, he wants you to see it, to have something tangible to hold onto. And if you’re sentimental, if anniversaries mean a lot to you? Then they mean a lot to him, too.

Gifts? He’s the kind of person who puts thought into them. You could mention something once—"I really liked that candle from that one shop, but I forgot to grab it"—and a month later, it’s wrapped up in his hands, given to you with a soft smile and an I thought you might like this. He’s not about flashy, expensive gifts unless it’s something you really want—he’d rather find something that holds meaning, something that says, I listen. I pay attention. I know you.

Everyday tasks? That’s where his love really shines. Because to Chan, love isn’t just in the big moments—it’s in the small, consistent efforts. It’s waking up first and making you coffee just the way you like it. It’s pulling you closer when he notices you’re cold. It’s seeing that you’ve had a long day and wordlessly doing the dishes, running a bath, making sure you don’t have to worry about anything for a little while.

And he doesn’t just put in effort because he thinks he has to. He does it because he wants to. Because showing up for you—again and again, in every way he can—isn’t something he sees as a duty. It’s just what love looks like to him. And loving you? That’s the easiest thing in the world.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

Chan tries so hard to be a perfect boyfriend, but that doesn’t mean he’s without his flaws. He’s aware of them—sometimes too aware—but that doesn’t always mean he can fix them easily. Some are small, quirks you find more endearing than anything else. Others, though, require a little more patience.

The biggest one? His workaholism. Chan doesn’t just love what he does—he lives for it, and sometimes, that comes at a cost. It’s not that he wants to neglect his own well-being (or yours), but he just gets so caught up in his projects, in his responsibilities, that he forgets to step back. He’ll tell you, "Just a couple more minutes, baby," and then suddenly, it’s been hours, and you find him hunched over his laptop, barely awake. You have to be the one peeling him away from the screen, coaxing him into bed with soft reassurances. And even then, he'll grumble sleepily about all the things he still has to do, only relenting when you wrap yourself around him and murmur, "It’ll still be there tomorrow, love. Just rest for now."

Then there's his tendency to internalize stress. He has this habit of downplaying his own struggles, of brushing things off with a weak smile and a quiet, "It’s fine, don’t worry about it." But you do worry. Because you can see the exhaustion in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders. You know when he’s spiraling, when he’s taking on too much but refusing to let anyone share the load. It takes a lot of patience (and, occasionally, some firm nudging) to get him to actually talk about what’s bothering him. And even then, it’s not easy for him—being vulnerable has never been his strong suit. But when he does finally let it out, when he rests his head against your shoulder and sighs, "I don’t have to be strong all the time, do I?"—you remind him that no, he doesn’t. That you’re here, always.

And then, of course, his forgetfulness when he’s overwhelmed. He’s not an absent-minded person by nature, but when his brain is juggling a million things at once, small details tend to slip through the cracks. He might forget where he put his phone (only to find it in the fridge an hour later), or leave his keys in the door, or accidentally agree to two things at once without realizing it. But the one thing he never forgets? You. No matter how chaotic his mind gets, no matter how much he has on his plate, he always makes sure you know you're a priority. Even if it’s just a simple, "Thinking about you, baby. Hope you're having a good day." text in the middle of his busiest schedule.

Oh—and his sleep schedule? Absolutely wrecked. This man runs on caffeine and pure stubbornness. You’ve had to physically drag him to bed more times than you can count, confiscating his laptop or phone when he swears, "Just five more minutes." (It’s never five minutes.) And when he does get into bed, he has the worst habit of scrolling mindlessly through his phone until you yank it out of his hands with a pointed glare. He grins, all sheepish and guilty, before finally pulling you close and letting himself relax.

But the thing about Chan is that, despite his flaws, he wants to be better. Not just for himself, but for you. He listens when you tell him to slow down, he tries to open up even when it’s hard, and he’s always working on being the best version of himself—because, at the end of the day, he loves you too much not to.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Chan doesn’t consider himself vain, but he does take care of himself—not out of arrogance, but out of necessity. His image is part of his job, and he’s always been conscious of how he presents himself, whether it’s onstage, in interviews, or even just walking around in public. That being said, he’s not the type to stand in front of the mirror for hours, fussing over every detail. If anything, he often prioritizes comfort over style, throwing on whatever’s clean and convenient unless there’s an actual reason to dress up.

That’s not to say he doesn’t have his moments. He puts effort into his gym routine, staying active not just to look good but to feel good. He knows how his body looks, the way his muscles flex beneath his clothes, the way his shoulders broaden when he works out. He won’t outright brag about it, but if you so much as glance at his arms when he’s in a sleeveless shirt, he’ll smirk and flex just a little—because, yeah, he notices when you notice.

But when it comes to actual vanity? Chan is his own worst critic. He’ll stare at photos of himself longer than he should, nitpicking things no one else would even notice. "I look weird here," he’ll mumble under his breath, scrolling through pictures with a small frown. It breaks your heart a little, seeing him analyze himself so harshly, so you make a habit of hyping him up whenever he starts spiraling. You’ll wrap your arms around him, pressing kisses to his cheek as you murmur, "You’re literally the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. Why do you think I stare at you all the time?" And when you run your hands down his chest, over the dips and curves of his body, whispering, "Every inch of you is perfect to me," you can feel the tension in him melt away.

There are times, though, when he really doesn’t care—especially when he’s home with you, relaxed and unbothered. That’s when the sweats come out, the hoodies that swallow him whole, the backwards caps that keep his curls out of his face. He’s the type to lounge on the couch with his legs sprawled out, scrolling on his phone with one hand while absentmindedly pulling you closer with the other. And you love him like that—undone, effortless, just yours.

And, of course, there’s one thing he never seems to grasp—how much you love looking at him. He’ll catch you staring sometimes, your eyes tracing his features like you’re trying to memorize every line, every shadow. "What?" he’ll ask, a little shy, a little amused. And when you just smile and shake your head, replying with, "Just admiring my gorgeous boyfriend," he turns pink all the way to his ears, ducking his head with a laugh. Because no matter how many times you say it, no matter how much confidence he projects, he’ll never get used to the way you see him—the way you love every part of him, even the ones he struggles to love himself.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

Chan doesn’t like to think of love in a way that makes it sound like a person is half of something. He’s always been whole—at least, that’s what he’s told himself. He’s never needed anyone to complete him, never thought he’d be the type to get attached in a way that made being apart feel wrong.

But then there’s you.

And now he’s lying awake in bed, his hand resting on your side of the mattress. It’s cold—too cold. He sighs, rolling onto his back, staring at the ceiling like it holds the answer to why he suddenly feels so damn restless.

It’s stupid. You’re just gone for the weekend, visiting family. It’s not like you’re gone gone. But without you here, the room feels off. The apartment feels too quiet. Normally, silence is something he craves—his world is so loud all the time that he loves the stillness of home. But this? This isn’t peace. This is missing you.

He reaches for his phone, squinting at the screen before his thumb hovers over your messages.

Chan: You asleep?

He knows it’s late. He knows you probably won’t respond. But just as he’s about to put his phone down, the screen lights up.

You: Not yet. Why?

He hesitates, debating whether he should actually say it. But then his fingers move before his brain catches up.

Chan: Can’t sleep. Bed feels weird without you.

There’s a long pause before your reply comes in, and when it does, he can hear your smile through the words.

You: You miss me.

He exhales a laugh, shaking his head.

Chan: Maybe. Just a little.

The dots appear and disappear a few times, and then—

You: Want me to call?

He doesn’t even hesitate before pressing the dial button.

The second he hears your voice, that hollow feeling in his chest eases just a little. You’re not here, not physically—but for now, this is enough. Because even when you’re far away, even when there’s distance between you, you still have this pull on him, this ability to make him feel whole even when a part of him feels like it’s missing.

And that’s how he knows—this isn’t just love. It’s home.

X = Xtra (Another random headcanon for them.)

Chan has a habit of pulling you into his lap whenever he’s feeling overwhelmed. It’s never in a way that demands your attention—just a quiet need to be close, to have you there, grounding him when his thoughts won’t stop racing.

It usually happens late at night, when he’s been working for too long, the glow of his laptop screen making his eyes burn. He barely notices his own exhaustion until you step into the room, bleary-eyed from sleep, your voice soft with concern.

"Chris… you’re still up?"

He hums in response, rubbing a hand over his face, but you can already see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers keep twitching against the keyboard. You don’t have to say anything else—he just reaches for you, gentle but firm, pulling you into his lap like it’s second nature.

You settle against him easily, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, his face tucking into the crook of your neck with a deep, weary sigh. His fingers slide under the hem of your shirt, not in a suggestive way—just seeking warmth, something solid to hold onto.

"You should sleep," you murmur, running your fingers through his curls, feeling the way his body starts to relax under your touch.

"Mmh," he hums, but doesn’t move. He just stays there, holding you, letting the warmth of your body pull him out of his head. After a moment, you feel the tension melt out of him completely, his breath evening out against your skin.

You smile to yourself, pressing a kiss to his temple.

"I meant in bed, dummy."

He groans but doesn’t let go. "Just a minute," he mumbles, already half-asleep. "Just need this first."

And you let him have it. Because you know that for all the strength he carries, all the weight he bears—sometimes, he just needs you to hold him, too.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

Chan has an incredible amount of patience, but there are a few things that genuinely get under his skin—things that make his expression tighten, his lips press into a thin line, and his body language shift in that subtle-but-undeniable way that says he’s biting his tongue.

One of his biggest yucks? Dishonesty. It doesn’t matter if it’s a small lie or a big one—if he catches onto it, something in him withdraws. It’s not about being strict or expecting perfection, but rather the fact that trust is everything to him. He pours his entire heart into the people he loves, so if he feels like someone isn’t being honest with him, it lingers. He might not call it out immediately, but he’ll remember, and it’ll take time for that unease to fade.

Another thing? People who are outright rude for no reason. He doesn’t mind sarcasm, and he loves teasing banter, but if he sees someone treating others with unnecessary cruelty—especially waitstaff, retail workers, or anyone just trying to do their job—it immediately puts him off. He’ll be polite, but distant, making a mental note to keep his space.

And when it comes to a partner? He could never be with someone who doesn’t take his dreams seriously. The long hours, the exhaustion, the way his mind is constantly running even when he’s supposed to be resting—it’s not just work to him. It’s his passion, his purpose. He understands that it can be frustrating at times, that it’s not always easy, but if someone were to dismiss it, to make him feel like it was too much or not worth it—it would cut deeper than they’d realize.

You’ve seen it happen before—an offhand comment from someone who didn’t understand, someone who joked that he works too much or needs to get a life. You remember the way his expression faltered, the way he laughed it off but kept fidgeting with his rings afterward.

So when he turns to you one evening, exhausted but buzzing from a long studio session, you just smile and say, “Tell me everything.”

And you watch as his whole face lights up, because this—this is what he needs. Someone who listens, someone who gets it, someone who doesn’t make him feel like his passion is an inconvenience.

Because at the end of the day, the only thing he truly hates—is the idea of giving his heart to someone who doesn’t know what to do with it.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habit of theirs?)

Chan has a complicated relationship with sleep. He knows he needs it, tries to get it, but more often than not, his mind refuses to shut down long enough for him to rest properly.

When he does finally crash, though, he sleeps like a log—completely knocked out, barely stirring unless you physically shake him awake. And when he sleeps with you? It’s a whole different story.

He’s a clinger.

It starts off innocent—an arm draped around your waist, a hand resting on your hip. But as the night progresses, it somehow escalates. One leg hooked over yours. His face buried in the crook of your neck. His entire body curled around you like he’s trying to merge into your existence.

The first time you wake up trapped under his weight, you try to wiggle free, only for him to grumble in his sleep and tighten his grip, mumbling something incoherent against your skin.

“Chan,” you whisper, pressing your fingers against his arm. “I can’t move.”

He hums, barely conscious, and instead of letting go, he nuzzles into you—fully content, like you’re the softest, safest thing in the world.

And really, you can’t even be mad. Because in those moments—when he’s finally at peace, breathing deep and slow, completely yours—you realize that this is when he’s at his most vulnerable. No stress, no responsibilities, just him, instinctively clinging to the one thing that makes him feel at home.

So you sigh, resign yourself to being his personal body pillow, and close your eyes again—because if this is what helps him sleep, then really, you don’t mind one bit.

[winterlico]

MIDNIGHT CRAVINGS ᰔ sim jaeyun .ᐟ

﹙ masterlist ﹚──── vampire!jake x fem!reader ⚡︎ fluff , mention kiss , make out ⸝⸝ 運命 ◦ aprox 1544 wc ‼

feedbacks ୨୧ reblogs / a/n : i tried new theme! wdytt ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚

The dormitory air is thick with the scent of freshly brewed coffee and the faint traces of ink smeared on notebook pages. The dim glow of your desk lamp casts soft shadows on the walls as you sit cross-legged on the floor, typing furiously on your laptop. A half-eaten chocolate bar rests beside you, your last attempt at staying awake as you battle against the deadline looming over your head. The room is filled with the soft tapping of keys and the occasional shuffle of papers, an atmosphere of quiet concentration settled between you and Jake. Well, at least on your part.

Across from you, Jake sits with his back resting against your couch, his long fingers tapping against the table in a slow, rhythmic motion. His eyes flicker from his notes to you, then back to his screen, though his attention seems to be anywhere but on the work in front of him. You don’t notice it at first, too absorbed in your report, but the longer you sit together, the more his odd behavior becomes impossible to ignore. The way he keeps shifting in place, the subtle clenching of his jaw, the way his lips press together as if he’s holding something back—it’s all so unlike him.

You pause your typing, gaze narrowing as you finally address him. "Jake?" Your voice carries an edge of concern as you peer at him over your laptop. "Are you okay?"

His head snaps up, like a kid caught sneaking candy before dinner. "Huh? Oh. Yeah. Totally. Just… tired."

His tone is casual, but you catch the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his fingers curl slightly into his palms.

You squint at him, clearly unconvinced. "You sure? You look kinda… weird."

Jake lets out a breathy chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "Wow. Thanks. I was going for devastatingly handsome, but weird works too."

You roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at your lips despite yourself. "You know what I mean. You've been fidgeting all night. If you're too tired, you can go back to your dorm. I won't hold it against you."

Jake stiffens at your suggestion, his reaction immediate. "No!" He clears his throat, forcing a more composed expression. "I mean, no. I'm good. I told you I'd help with your lab report, right? I’m not gonna leave you hanging."

His words are firm, but his body betrays him. The tension in his posture, the way his jaw clenches—like he’s trying desperately to resist something. Your gaze sharpens, tracking his every movement. The faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, the way his throat bobs when he swallows, and the way he’s avoiding looking at you for more than a few seconds at a time—it all clicks in an instant.

To lighten the mood, you toss a crumpled piece of paper at him. "You better be useful then. Otherwise, I’m replacing you with AI."

Jake scoffs, catching the paper effortlessly. "Wow, betrayed by technology. Is this how it all ends?" He tosses the paper back at you, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Guess I'll have to prove I'm irreplaceable."

And then it clicks.

Your gaze drifts again to the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, to the way his throat bobs when he swallows, and to the way he pointedly avoids looking at you for more than a few seconds at a time.

Your heart pounds. Something isn't right.

You set your laptop aside, your concern deepening. "Jake," you say slowly, carefully. "Are you… sick?"

His whole body goes rigid. His Adam's apple bobs again as he swallows thickly, his breathing uneven. Then, in the softest, most guilty voice, he mumbles, "Maybe a little."

Your stomach twists. "Jake!"

"I can handle it!" he insists, hands raised defensively. "I swear! I just… I didn't expect to be this close to you for so long, and it’s kinda… I mean, you smell… really good."

Your face heats. "Excuse me?"

Jake groans, dragging a hand down his face. "That came out wrong. I mean—no, okay, that’s exactly what I mean, but—look, I'm fine. I just need a second."

Before you can press further, he bolts from the floor, disappearing into the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind him. You blink at the suddenness of his retreat, the air around you suddenly feeling much heavier. The room feels strangely empty without him. Five minutes pass. Then ten. Too long.

Worried, you rise to your feet and walk toward the door, knocking softly. "Jake?"

Silence.

You frown. "Jake, are you okay? You’re taking forever in there. Did you pass out or something?"

A muffled groan comes from inside. "No. Go away."

Your frown deepens. "No way. You're acting super weird tonight. Let me in."

"No."

You huff. "Fine, then I'm coming in."

Jake curses under his breath, but you twist the knob and push the door open before he can protest further. What you see nearly makes you gasp.

Jake is leaning over the sink, both hands gripping the edges like he’s physically holding himself back. His dark hair is messy, strands falling over his forehead. His head is bowed, but when he lifts it, his eyes—normally warm and golden—are now a deep, molten red.

You inhale sharply. "Jake—"

His shoulders rise and fall with deep, uneven breaths. "I need to tell you something," he murmurs. "But I don’t know how to say it."

Your chest tightens. "Jake, your eyes… What’s going on?"

He hesitates, his jaw tensing before he finally looks at you, an unreadable emotion swimming in his gaze. "I’ve been trying to control myself all night. I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

A shiver crawls up your spine. "Find out what?”

Jake swallows thickly, then exhales, almost defeated. "I'm… not like you."

You take a hesitant step closer. "Jake… What do you mean?"

His gaze flickers to your pulse point, and for a moment, his pupils dilate. "I can hear it, you know. Your heartbeat. I can feel the warmth of your skin from here. It’s intoxicating."

Your breath catches. "Jake—”

He sighs, almost pained. "I didn’t want to tell you. I wanted to keep pretending. But the truth is… I’m a vampire.”

The words sink in, slow but sure. You stare at him, waiting for him to take it back, to laugh it off as some sick joke. But he doesn’t. He just watches you, waiting.

Your heart pounds. "You… you're serious?"

Jake nods, exhaling shakily. "Yeah. And I’ve been trying to hold back all night because… you smell too good. I didn’t want to scare you, but it's getting harder to ignore."

The weight of his words presses against you, but oddly, fear isn't the first thing you feel. Instead, it’s something else—something unexplainable, but oddly trusting.

“Then don't hold back," you say, voice softer than you expect.

Jake's head snaps up, eyes widening. "What?"

You swallow, nerves creeping up your spine. "If drinking my blood will help, then do it."

His expression darkens. "Don't say that so easily. You have no idea what you're offering."

You meet his gaze, unwavering. "I trust you, Jake."

His breath catches. For a long moment, he doesn't move. Then, with careful, deliberate steps, he closes the distance between you. His fingers brush against your wrist, hesitant.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, voice laced with something unreadable.

You don’t.

Instead, you tilt your head slightly, giving him silent permission. Jake exhales sharply, his lips ghosting over the skin of your neck. A shiver runs down your spine at the sensation.

Then, with the gentlest pressure, his fangs sink in.

The pain is brief, replaced almost instantly by a warmth that spreads through your body. Jake’s grip on your shoulders tightens as he drinks, slow and measured, as if savoring the taste.

But he doesn’t stop there. His lips move, hot and insistent, trailing from your pulse point down to your collarbone. His breath is ragged as he whispers against your skin, "You’re driving me crazy."

His hands roam, gripping your waist, pulling you closer as his mouth continues its worship. Your face burns, your breath catches, the room spinning with the overwhelming intensity of him.

Eventually, the hunger in his eyes softens. The two of you collapse onto the couch, the tension from earlier replaced by a warmth that settles in the air. With Jake’s arms wrapped tightly around you, you both finally return to your abandoned lab report, working together until exhaustion takes over.

The night ends with quiet murmurs and tangled limbs, Jake holding you close as he finally lets himself relax. His voice is a whisper against your temple, drowsy and full of affection. "Stay like this… forever?"

You hum in response, sinking into the warmth of his embrace, knowing that everything has changed—but for some reason, it doesn’t scare you at all.

[stargazedwinchester]

ִ ࣪𖤐◞ ꙳ ๋࣭ ⭑ `steady hands, dean winchester

Summary: You help Dean overcome a panic attack. Word Count: 739

“Shit!” you scream as the vengeful spirit dashes you across the room, thrashing your head on the plasterboard, causing you to tumble onto the floor. You’re weak, your whole body shaking beneath you. The spirit approaches you, its face full of distress and misery. Heart racing, he reaches toward your chest and plunges his hand toward your ribs, making you cry out in pain.

Where the fuck are Sam and Dean?

-

Dean has a gut feeling that something terrible is about to happen. Adrenaline rushes through his head as they finally burn the ghost’s body, which had been terrorizing the new residents. Dean knew to get back to you.

As soon as the match greets the gasoline, Dean shoots off to the Impala, Sam hurrying behind him.

-

You lie there, half unconscious. You hear footsteps approaching you with muffled voices. “Y/N?” Dean kneels before you, his hands on your shoulders. He lifts you up so you’re sitting with your back against the wall. You hiss in pain. The damage that the ghost has done felt irreparable. Dean sits at your level, his eyes complete with panic and anxiety. “Y/N?” He begs, noticing you’re trying your damndest to respond, hell, trying to stay awake. He taps your cheek, gaining your attention. “Baby, please…” He calls, his voice cracking slightly. Sam paces behind him, his phone pressed to his ear. Your feet feel like static, a million little needles travelling up your legs, numbing your whole body. Everything goes dark. “Sammy, she’s not responding!” Dean frets, his cheeks burning bright red with fear of losing you. He scrambles through the inner pockets of his jacket, searching for his flask. He twists open the bottle and pours a small amount of holy water over your face. It’s cold enough for you to regain consciousness, and your eyes meet his perturbed ones. Dean takes a tremendous sigh of relief, sitting fully on the floor, his hands covering his eyes as he goes to lie flat on his back.

Sam insists on leaving the room to give you both some space. He was worried about your health, of course, so Bobby was talking him through on what to do to help you gain consciousness again. It takes you a little bit of time to come around, and you lock eyes with Dean, who’s now sitting up watching you with wide, cautious eyes. He seems stiff, like he’s paralysed with consternation. You’re winded, but it doesn’t stop you from crawling over to Dean, who looks like he’s struggling to breathe. “Dean?” You call him softly, and he just glances at you before staring down at the floor. “You okay?” You run a hand through his hair. He gulps.

“I almost lost you,” his voice breaks. His whole body visibly shaking from terror. Dean’s breathing becomes more apparent. Uncontrollable. Dean has suffered irreplaceable losses. He wasn’t careful enough when it came to you.

“Dean, baby, listen to me.” You instruct. “I’m okay, I’m just winded. I’m not hurt. Okay?” Dean doesn’t respond, so you place yourself right next to him, rubbing his back. “I want you to try something with me,” you soothe him, and he hardly nods. “Take a deep, slow breath in through your nose, then out through your mouth, baby. Ready?” You attempt to show him how to calm himself down. His shaky breaths break your heart seeing him so vulnerable and upset. You repeat this process a few more times, rubbing his back for reassurance. “I’m here, Dean. You’re okay.” You lull, using your opposite hand to cup his face and place a kiss on his cheek. He looks over at you, and you’re smiling at him with comfort, hoping that he knows that when he struggles, he’s not alone. That you’ll always be by his side, no matter what.

“I love you.” Dean makes out, and you nod in agreement. “I love you too.” You place a long kiss on his temple. He huffs with relief before standing up, grabbing both of your hands and helping you up too. He opens his arms to engulf you in a hug, and you don’t hesitate to wrap yourself around him, inhaling his scent and feeling completely at ease when you touch. Dean plants a kiss atop your head, his hand scrunched in your hair. His grip indicates he’s not ready to let you go.

He never wants to let you go.

[lotuswish]

˗ˏˋ what loving you feels like to them (pt. 7 - diasomnia) 𓆩𓆪 .ᐟ

synopsis: have you ever wondered what falling in love feels like for each twisted wonderland boy? this series explores love from their perspective— how their personalities, experiences, and desires shape what loving you means to them.

featured character(s): malleus draconia, lilia vanrouge, sebek zigvolt, silver.

content warning(s): none.

a/n: woo, the final part of this series! after two months of writing, rewriting, proofreading, and endlessly nitpicking, it’s finally complete and posted—feels good to wrap this up! what loving you feels like to them might occasionally use the same words, but those words mean something a little different for each of them. it might sound familiar, but it's still their own!

link(s): (masterlist) (pt. 1 - scarabia) (pt. 2 - savanaclaw) (pt. 3 - heartslabyul) (pt. 4 - ignihyde) (pt. 5 - pomefiore) (pt. 6 - octavinelle) (pt. 7 - you are here)

malleus draconia

loving you feels like a paradox to malleus draconia—both a yearning ache and a soothing balm, a forbidden fruit and the sweetest blessing he never dared to imagine for himself. it’s a sensation so foreign yet so natural, like finding a home in a place he never knew existed. for someone who has lived years surrounded by grandeur yet plagued by solitude, loving you is both the most terrifying and the most precious experience of his life.

he has lived a life of solitude, surrounded by awe but never companionship, respect but never intimacy. his world is vast, his power nearly limitless, but it has always felt empty, a hollow kingdom with no one to share it with. loving you feels like standing in a darkened hall and suddenly seeing it bathed in light. it is warmth where there was only cold, music where there was silence. you bring him into a world of emotions he never thought he’d have, filling his existence with vibrancy and depth.

malleus has always been feared, revered, and set apart—kept at arm’s length by the weight of his power and status as the heir to briar valley’s throne. loving you feels like unlocking a door that had always been closed, revealing a world he never thought he could enter. you treat him not as a king, a fae, or a being of immense power, but as simply malleus. the way you meet his gaze without fear, laugh in his presence, and speak to him as an equal fills the void within him he never even fully understood. your love is a bridge between his world and a life of connection he thought was forever out of reach.

but loving you is also a quiet fear, one that coils in the depths of his heart. you are fragile, mortal, fleeting. he knows that time, the same force that has shaped him and his long life, will inevitably seek to take you away. this knowledge makes every moment with you feel both infinitely precious and heartbreakingly finite. it makes his love intense, protective, and almost reverent. he finds himself holding you closer, memorizing every detail, every breath, as though he can somehow defy the inevitable with sheer will.

loving you feels like the answer to a question he’s been asking for centuries, a fulfillment of a longing he could never put into words. it’s bittersweet and overwhelming, but it’s a gift he cherishes beyond anything else. you are his greatest treasure, not because you belong to him, but because you choose him. and he, in turn, chooses you—fully, completely, and forever.

lilia vanrouge

loving you feels like eternity to lilia vanrouge—a thread woven into the centuries of his long life, yet distinct and irreplaceable in its brilliance. it’s a reminder of the beauty in fleeting moments, something he’s come to cherish after watching so much of the world change, break, and fade with time. for someone who has lived longer than most can fathom, loving you feels like a rarity, a spark that rekindles the part of him that thought he had seen it all.

to lilia, love has always been a complex, bittersweet thing. he’s seen how fragile it can be, how it can grow and flourish yet wither all the same. but loving you doesn’t feel like a burden or a fleeting indulgence—it feels like a choice he makes every day, one he makes joyfully. it’s the way you challenge him, intrigue him, and bring a warmth to his heart that he hasn’t felt in ages. loving you feels like finding something entirely new, even in a world he’s walked for centuries.

loving you awakens his playful side even more. he teases you, relishing every laugh, every flustered reaction, and every small moment you share. but beneath his jokes and mischief, there’s a depth to his affection—a steadfastness that reflects the wisdom and loyalty he’s cultivated through the ages. for lilia, love isn’t just passion or fleeting excitement; it’s a quiet certainty, an unshakable bond that weaves itself into his life with a permanence he never thought possible. loving you reminds him that while his life is long, it’s the connections he makes that give it meaning.

there’s also a protectiveness to his love, though it’s never overbearing. lilia understands the fragility of life better than most, and it makes him treasure you even more. he knows that time is fleeting for some, but he refuses to let that deter him. instead, he chooses to savor every moment with you, to live in the present and create memories that will endure in his heart, no matter what.

loving you feels like a song—a melody that lingers long after it’s played, something he hums to himself even when you’re not around. it’s sweet and playful, with notes of melancholy, but above all, it’s unforgettable. loving you is his way of defying the inevitability of time, of saying that no matter how many centuries pass, there are things worth holding onto, and you are one of them.

sebek zigvolt

loving you feels like duty and devotion entwined for sebek zigvolt.

sebek has always lived his life with purpose, driven by an unwavering loyalty to malleus draconia and the ideals of the briar valley. to love someone romantically is an unexpected experience for him—one that initially conflicts with the sense of duty that has defined his existence. yet, loving you doesn’t feel like a betrayal of that duty; instead, it becomes an extension of it. loving you is another cause he throws himself into with all the ferocity of his spirit. it is both a challenge and a privilege, one he approaches with the same intensity and focus that he dedicates to all things important in his life.

to sebek, love is both a challenge and a revelation. it’s not easy for him to reconcile his affection for you with the unyielding focus he’s maintained toward his goals. at first, loving you feels inconvenient, like an unwelcome distraction from his responsibilities. he struggles to understand it, to put it into words, because he has always prioritized duty over personal desires, leaving little room to reflect on his own wants. but the longer he spends with you, the more he realizes that loving you isn’t a weakness—it’s a strength. it pushes him to be better, not just as a knight or a protector, but as a person.

loving you also brings out a side of him he rarely shows—one that is quieter, and deeply earnest. it’s in the way he fumbles over words when he tries to tell you how much you mean to him, the way he blushes fiercely when you catch him staring, and the way he trains even harder because he wants to be someone you can rely on. his love for you is almost overwhelming in its intensity, but it’s also pure and steadfast, a reflection of the unshakable loyalty that defines him.

but loving you is not without conflict. sebek struggles to reconcile his pride and his affection, often fumbling to express his feelings in a way that doesn’t betray his dignity. his words may come out louder or harsher than intended, his actions more grandiose than necessary, because he does not yet know how to soften for you. still, his love is earnest, as unwavering as his loyalty to the draconias. you teach him that love is not about perfection, that it’s okay to be flawed, to grow, and to lean on someone else.

loving you feels like finding balance. it doesn’t take away from his loyalty to malleus or his pride as a knight, but it reminds him that even the strongest warrior needs moments of rest, that even the most disciplined heart deserves happiness. for sebek, loving you is a fire that burns steady and bright, not dimming his resolve but giving it new purpose. you are his anchor and his inspiration, and he loves you with all the intensity of his being.

silver

loving you feels like peace to silver, a quiet but profound warmth that wraps around his heart and stays with him, even in the stillest moments. it is not something he sought out or expected, but something that came naturally, like the first light of day creeping over the horizon. for silver, love is not loud or dramatic; it is calm and unwavering, a feeling that settles deep in his soul and grounds him in a way nothing else ever has. it feels like solace, a rare and precious thing in a life that has always been shaped by duty.

loving you feels like clarity. silver has always lived with a sense of purpose, devoted to his training and his role in protecting malleus draconia. his focus has always been outward, on those he serves, but loving you shifts something inside him. for the first time, he feels like he’s allowed to focus on himself—not in a selfish way, but in a way that makes him realize he is more than his duty. with you, he feels seen for who he is, not just as a knight or a protector, but as a person. and in that, he finds a quiet kind of joy.

but loving you is also vulnerable for him. silver is not used to putting his feelings into words; he is a man of action, not flowery speeches. he shows his love in the way he listens, in the way he instinctively stands closer to you when he senses danger, in the way he remembers the little things that make you happy. for silver, love is something he expresses through quiet gestures rather than grand declarations, but it is no less profound. in fact, it feels deeper because of its simplicity, like an unspoken understanding between you.

loving you feels like balance. silver has always walked the line between the human and fae worlds, a child of both but also of neither. with you, he doesn’t feel like he has to choose. you accept every part of him—the human side that longs for companionship and the disciplined knight who feels an unshakable sense of duty. your love doesn’t ask him to change or to prove himself; it simply asks him to be. and in that, he finds a sense of belonging he didn’t realize he was missing.

for silver, loving you feels like rest. it feels like finding a place where he doesn’t have to stand guard, where he can let his guard down without fear. it’s steady, like the rhythm of his heartbeat when you’re near, and gentle, like the warmth of the sun on his face. it is a quiet love, but it is deep and unshakable, and he treasures it as one would a dream they never want to wake from. with you, silver has found something worth protecting—not out of duty, but out of love.

congrats on making it to the end! if you enjoyed this, likes, comments, follows, and reblogs are always appreciated—they help motivate me to keep creating and sharing!

[kingghoost]

Quickly analyzing a one-off line from The Optiratch Argument™ because I'm bored

We all know that The Argument™ was mainly about Ratchet's frustrations with Optimus' "cowardice" (BIG quotation marks) but one of Ratchet's lines really stuck with me:

"Oh- and let me guess, I'm just the medic." (TFP S1E22)

Typically when people are angry, they don't vent about just one thing. Though he was talking back to what Optimus said about the Vehicon being a miner and not a warrior, that comment seemed completely irrelevant to the argument's main topic (at least in my point of view)

One big (yet hidden) flaw in Ratchet is his lack of self confidence. His job is to cure the sick and injured, yet he never really seems to realize the value he has on his team. He truly is great at what he does - and he goes above and beyond to be of service (medic, scientist, sort of engineer... that's impressive!) Despite all this, the fact that he is the only non-fighter really seems to eat at him. His main whereabouts most of the time being in the base makes it worse paired with the fact that he seems to be the most eager to jump and "get things done." Their numbers are already small, so he feels that anything he could do isn't enough to overthrow an entire military.

By saying "Just the medic," it implies that he determines his self worth by his rank. In his eyes, he is "just" the medic. Not a great warrior that overpowers the enemy and saves his comrades, but a doctor forced to sit by and wait for his teammates to return with fresh new injuries, dead or alive.

"-Help us, we know. But you nearly caused the loss of something.. Irreplaceable. Our medic, and our most trusted friend." (TFP S1E22)

Now Optimus, on the other hand, does acknowledge what Ratchet has to give to the team, most importantly Ratchet's worth as an individual. He knows what lengths Ratchet goes to save his comrades (and, most of the time, himself) from the brink of death, he knows what a genius his old friend is for being able to conduct such intricate research with limited supplies - Hell, he knows that Ratchet built some of those supplies himself.

Learning about how Ratchet thinks so lowly of himself must've been shocking, to witness the one closest to you feel the need to experiment on himself with untested material in the hopes of being "useful" ... I think it broke Optimus' heart a little, not to mention how he was already hurt by Ratchet's rant.

Though the episode ended with things working out in the end, I really like the idea of The Argument™ making a huge mess out of both of them. At that moment they were fine and made up, but what they said/learned about each other that day will never quite leave them.

[elikajinnie]

HI!!! can you do the enhypen prompt 16 and 17 with jay?? thank yoouu

P: Boyfriend!Jay X Fem Reader

Warnings: Suggestive Content, Whipped!Jay, we love a man who begs

note: i had time.. so yeah :) This for all my ladies who wear lacey underwear underneath the baggy clothes ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

16. "Do you want me to beg? Because I will." 17. "One more taste, and I swear I’ll lose control."

Jay absolutely loved seeing you, no matter the occasion or what you decided to wear. It didn’t matter if it was a casual hoodie and jeans, a simple summer dress, or the formal gown you once claimed didn’t suit you—it all reminded him of how breathtakingly beautiful you were. And to Jay, there was no arguing against that fact.

He could never understand why you sometimes doubted yourself, saying things like, “I don’t feel pretty today” or “This outfit doesn’t look good on me.” To him, those words simply didn’t make sense. He saw you through a lens tinted with love and admiration, one that made every aspect of you seem flawless. Your beauty wasn’t just about how you looked; it was in the way you carried yourself, the way you laughed, the way you treated others with kindness even when you didn’t have to.

In Jay’s mind, no other woman in the world could ever compare to you. Sure, there were plenty of beautiful women out there, but they weren’t you. You were the one who made him smile just by walking into a room. You were the one who knew him better than he knew himself sometimes, who made him feel safe, valued, and loved. You were the one he’d chosen, and to him, that made you irreplaceable.

There was also a quiet possessiveness about the way he adored you. Not in a controlling or overbearing way, but in the way he took pride in calling you his girlfriend. When he introduced you to his friends or casually mentioned you in conversation, there was always a flicker of pride in his voice. Jay loved showing you off, not because he wanted others to envy him (though, secretly, he didn’t mind if they did), but because he couldn’t help being proud of the fact that you were his.

And in his heart, Jay already knew he wanted you to be more than his girlfriend one day. He often imagined the moment he would ask you to marry him, rehearsing it in his mind and wondering how you might react. He didn’t want to rush you—he’d wait for as long as it took for you to be ready to take that step. But until then, he was more than happy to call you his girlfriend. To him, the title meant everything because it meant you were his, and he was yours.

Every day spent with you was a reminder of how lucky he was, and Jay never wanted you to forget how much he cherished you. In his eyes, you weren’t just beautiful; you were the kind of special that made him believe in soulmates.

He wanted you to be his forever. The thought of waking up next to you every morning, seeing you smile at him as the sunlight filtered through the curtains, was a dream he was determined to make a reality. Jay had no secrets when it came to you. He was like an open book, willingly laying himself bare in front of you, no matter how vulnerable it made him feel.

He trusted you with every corner of his soul, even the parts of himself he once thought were too messy or complicated to share with anyone. With you, there was no hesitation. If something was weighing on his mind, he told you. If he had a silly thought or a random idea, you were the first to hear it. If he made a mistake, he admitted it without shame, knowing you would never judge him harshly.

This honesty, though, also meant that his feelings for you spilled out in the most unfiltered ways. He would often find himself confessing just how much he loved you, even in the smallest, most casual moments. You could be doing something as mundane as scrolling through your phone, and Jay would blurt out, “I love you.” He couldn’t help himself really. His emotions for you were always bubbling just beneath the surface, waiting for the slightest excuse to overflow.

But there was more to his honesty than just his love—there was his desire, too. Jay wasn’t shy about how much he was drawn to you, how you had this effortless ability to captivate him in ways no one else ever could. It was in the way his eyes lingered on you a little too long when you weren’t looking, or the way he would lean in just a little closer than necessary when you spoke.

Sometimes, his words would betray just how deeply he craved you. It wasn’t always something he could control, especially when the thought of you consumed him in the best of ways. You could feel it in the way his hands would gently brush against yours, as if he was trying to be close to you without seeming too eager, but you both knew better.

“I can’t get you out of my head,” he’d admit sometimes. It wasn’t an exaggeration. He often found himself lost in thoughts of you, even when he should have been focused on other things. He would catch himself daydreaming, imagining the soft curve of your smile or the way you looked when you were nestled against him, your head resting on his chest.

Jay was always ready to voice what was on his mind, he wasn’t one to hide his thoughts, especially when it came to you. He didn’t even try to filter his reactions, which made everything he said feel honest.

You had just finished drying your hair after stepping out of the shower, the warmth of the dryer against your skin leaving a pleasant feeling while the bathroom smelled of the shampoo you liked. You stood in your simple, comfortable clothes, the fabric of your loose clothes falling over your skin, paired with a pair of lace underwear that you had bought on your birthday months ago.

It had been tucked away in the back of your closet, forgotten until now. You had never gotten the chance to wear it before, so when you found it still in its bag, the tag untouched, you decided today was the day. You had ripped the tag off without hesitation, and slipped it on, and now you found yourself rediscovering exactly why you had bought it. The way it felt against your skin, the way it hugged your curves, and the way it made you feel undeniably feminine—it was all so perfect.

You stood there for a moment, lost in your own thoughts, admiring the way it made you feel. But you were quickly pulled from your thoughts by the sudden knock on the bathroom door. “Are you finished in there?” Jay’s voice called out.

You quickly turned off the blow dryer and put it away, brushing a few stray strands of hair out of your face as you made your way to the door. You opened it to find Jay standing there with a laundry basket in his arms, his usual smile gracing his face. But when his eyes met yours, they flickered down for a brief second and up. Then, in a split second, they darted downwards again, clearly noticing the lace peeking out from under your clothes.

For a split second, he didn’t react—his eyes widened, and you could see him processing the sight in front of him, almost as if his brain couldn’t quite catch up with his eyes. His gaze lingered for a moment too long, and it was impossible not to notice the way his expression shifted slowly. His lips parted slightly, his breath catching as his eyes darted back up to yours, now a little more intense.

“Is that... lace?” he asked, his voice low, almost a whisper, like the question wasn’t one of curiosity, but more of surprise.

You could see his mind working, his thoughts clearly running wild as he took in the sight of you standing there. He swallowed hard, and for a moment, you both just stood there.

It wasn’t often that you saw Jay lose a bit of his usual composure, but now, his hands tightened around the laundry basket, his knuckles white as he tried to remain cool.

“You know,” he finally spoke again, his voice slightly more strained than before, “I was going to help with laundry, but I think I need a moment.” He was trying to regain some composure, but the way his eyes never left you made it clear that the sight of you had ignited something he couldn’t easily ignore.

Jay placed the laundry basket down slowly, the sound of it hitting the floor almost too loud in the silence that hung between you both. His eyes never left you, and his body seemed to move on its own, drawn to you like a magnet.

Without a word, his hands found their way to your waist, pulling you closer until his body was pressed against yours. The sudden closeness made your breath hitch, as his hands trailed around your waist, fingers grazing the fabric of the lace, the sensation sending a wave of warmth across your skin.

“God…” Jay groaned, the sound low and strained as his fingers gently ran along the edge of the lace, tracing the delicate pattern against your skin. His touch was tender and slow, as if he wanted to savor every second of feeling the lace beneath his fingertips.

You could see the struggle in his eyes, the way he fought to hold back, but there was no mistaking the desire that pulsed in him. “You’re killing me right now,” he murmured, his voice thick with longing. The words came out almost like a confession, so unfiltered, as if he couldn’t hide what he was feeling any longer. His breath was warm against your ear as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against the side of your neck, the feeling sending a shiver down your spine.

His hands moved down, caressing the lace at your hips before pulling you even closer. The way his body responded to the touch, the way his groan escaped him, it all showed just how much he wanted you. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath.

Unable to resist, Jay leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was gentle at first, testing, exploring. But it didn’t stay gentle for long. The kiss deepened as he lost a bit of his composure, his hands gripping you more firmly, pulling you closer to him. The heat between you both surged, and you kissed him back just as eagerly, matching his intensity.

Jay guided you across the bedroom, your bodies moving together in sync. He broke the kiss for just a moment, his breath ragged as he led you toward the full-length mirror at the foot of the bed. As he spun you around, the sudden shift in perspective made your heart flutter. Now, you were facing the mirror, your reflection staring back at you, and Jay stood behind you, holding you close, his chest pressed against your back.

For a moment, you both just stood there, breathing in sync, before Jay’s lips found your shoulder, kissing it softly while his hands slid to your waist, holding you tight as he whispered sweet compliments in your ear. “You’re perfect,” he murmured, his lips brushing your skin as he continued to kiss along your neck. “So incredible... everything about you…”

You tried to glance away from the mirror, feeling suddenly self-conscious, but Jay wasn’t having it. His fingers gently but firmly grabbed your jaw, guiding your face back so that your eyes met your reflection once more. You could feel the intensity of his gaze as he held you there, making you face yourself again.

“Look at yourself,” he whispered, “don’t look away.” His words were like a command that made it impossible to do anything but meet your own gaze. His hand remained firm on your jaw, gently guiding you while his other arm stayed wrapped around your waist, holding you securely against him. “You see what I see?” he muttered, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his breath warm. “Do you see how beautiful you are?”

Your reflection stared back at you, and though you felt shy under his attention, there was something about the way he held you that made you feel secure. The way his hands moved—one tracing lazy, gentle patterns at your waist while the other stayed steady at your jaw—was grounding.

He dipped his head again, pressing his lips to your neck, just below your ear, lingering there as though savoring the moment. The sensation sent a shiver down your spine, and his grip on you tightened slightly. “Every part of you,” he whispered, his voice filled with affection, “is perfect.”

You swallowed hard, your breath hitching as you tried to process his words, his touch, and the way his gaze flicked up to meet yours in the mirror.

Jay’s breathing grew heavier, his chest rising and falling against your back as his lips trailed along your neck. The delicate lace seemed to have an almost visceral effect on him, his hands roaming your waist and hips. His fingers brushed against the lace, as if he couldn’t stop himself from feeling it again, marveling at the way it clung to your skin.

“This…” he murmured, his voice rough, nearly a growl, as his hand traced the hemline of the fabric. “You have no idea what this is doing to me.” He paused to take a deep, shuddering breath, his lips brushing against your ear. “You look so—God, I can’t even think straight.”

You couldn’t help but let a soft laugh escape you, the sound teasing in its lightness. “You really like lace that much?” you asked playfully, though you knew full well by the way he was reacting.

Jay groaned, his hand tightening slightly at your waist as he pressed a kiss to the curve of your shoulder. “Like is an understatement,” he said, his tone low and almost desperate. His lips hovered near your ear again, his voice barely above a whisper but filled with so much intensity that it made your heart skip a beat. “You have to wear more of it. All the time. For me.”

His bluntness made you smile, and you couldn’t resist teasing him further. “Oh? Are you saying I should go shopping for more lace?” you asked, turning your head slightly to glance at him, your tone light and filled with playful mischief.

Jay groaned again, his head dropping against your shoulder for a moment as if your teasing was physically affecting him. “Don’t play with me,” he muttered, his voice strained. “Do you want me to beg?” His voice was shaky now, his desperation seeping into every word. He pressed another kiss to your neck before continuing, his voice barely above a growl. “Because I will. I’ll beg if that’s what it takes. Just—please, wear more of this, want more of it.”

You couldn’t help the way your smile widened at his reaction, the teasing in your expression making his jaw tighten. “Jay,” you said, feigning an innocent tone, “you’re really going to beg for me to wear more lace?”

His breath hitched, and his hands moved to grip your hips more firmly. “Don’t tempt me,” he warned, though there was no real bite to his words. His forehead pressed against the back of your head for a moment before he groaned once more, almost as if he was fighting to keep control.

“I’ll do it,” he muttered, his voice low but filled with conviction. “If it means I get to see you like this every day, I’ll fill your closet with lace. Every color, every design—you’ll have so much, you’ll never wear anything else.”

You turned slightly, your smile softening as you reached up to touch his cheek, your fingers brushing against his skin. His eyes met yours in the mirror, filled with so much love that it almost overwhelmed you.

“I don’t think you’re ready for that much lace,” you said, but your tone was softer now, playful without being dismissive.

“Try me,” he challenged you, “I’ll prove it. I’ll make it happen. Just say the word.”

Jay would do anything to show you just how much he adored you, and if it meant filling your wardrobe with lace to see you smile—and to indulge his newfound obsession—he would gladly do it, no hesitation.

.....

And he did do it. After that day, it was as though a switch had flipped in Jay. He started bringing home lace in every imaginable color and design—soft pastels, bold blacks, rich jewel tones, delicate florals. Every type he could find was soon tucked away in your closet. It was thoughtful, sweet even, a little peek into how deeply he cared about you. But his reaction every time you wore it? That was something else entirely.

You weren’t used to seeing him like this, so utterly undone, so out of touch with his usual composed demeanor. But you couldn’t deny how much you loved it. You loved the way he folded for you, how a single glimpse of white lace beneath your clothes could derail him completely. Oh, you had him hooked. So much so that every time you wore it, his eyes would darken, his breaths would hitch, and whatever train of thought he had? Gone, like it had never existed.

Lace was his weakness, yes. But lace on you? He was gone—reduced to a pleading man, desperate for just one look, just one touch. And when you finally gave him permission, the transformation was instant. His hands would tremble slightly as they reached for you, his lips brushing reverently over the fabric like it was sacred.

“One more taste,” he’d whisper, his voice rough with need, “and I swear I’ll lose control.”

But the truth? He’d already lost control. The moment his fingers skimmed the lace against your skin, he was a goner. You saw it in the way he looked at you, like nothing else in the world mattered but you in that moment. His touches grew hungrier, his kisses turned sloppy and uncoordinated. And the marks? Oh, you had plenty. They were proof of just how completely he surrendered himself to you, his passion for you spilling over in ways he could hardly contain. Jay never held back when it came to you, and the lace only seemed to amplify that desire.

It wasn’t just about how beautiful you looked in it, though that played a part. No, it was the way you made it look—how effortlessly you wore it, how it became a part of your natural allure. He was mesmerized by you, completely at your mercy, and he didn’t care one bit.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he’d groan, his voice shaky as he traced the edges of the fabric with his fingertips. And maybe you didn’t. Maybe you didn’t realize just how thoroughly you owned him. But every time he dropped to his knees for you, every time he lost himself completely in the feel of you, the sight of you, the essence of you—you were reminded of just how deep his devotion ran.

Jay was yours in every way, and he wasn’t ashamed to show it. Especially when you wore lace.

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