thespencerrreid

[thespencerrreid]

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖˙⟡ first time’s a charm 🤍 xavier 星回 ⋆⟡࿐

࣪˖˙⟡ pairing: xavier x reader.

࣪˖˙⟡ summary: your first time with xavier proved to be much better than you expected considering his inexperience—who knew that he was in fact doomed since the moment you both started?

࣪˖˙⟡ word count: 2k

࣪˖˙⟡tags: 18+, mdni!, first times, jumping right into action, something short inspired by juyo’s art (@/juyonu on tt, @stardustdusting on here!), desperate xavier, blood but no gore!, soft and kind of wholesome at the end? u know me already, teasing, whipped xavier, shits and giggles, dorks in love, love confessions.

࣪˖˙⟡ author’s note: something quick bc i don’t have time for anything else at this moment :(( xav and non xav girlies please tell me what u think, i would be beyond grateful for any like, reblog or comment!! let me know you’re still here ♡

inspired by the art on cover by @/juyonu on twitter, @stardustdusting on tumblr!! please follow her there, she’s one of my fav artists ever ♡

ִ𓂃 ࣪˖˙⟡⋆⟡࿐

Soft huffs and quiet moans were all that you could hear, his head nestled in the crook of your neck as he pressed open-mouthed kisses to every patch of skin he could reach. The clock beside his bed displayed a time far too late for him to still be awake, and yet, the night was far from over, the passion with which he handled you showed no signs of burning out.

Your one hand stroked his hair, gently brushing through the silver strands and sliding your fingers over his red, sensitive ears; the other nestled in his tight grasp, fingers intertwined. Your head turned to him and you pressed a kiss to the side of his head, your eyes closing to savor the feeling of him deep inside you for the first time ever.

One of you trembled, but you weren’t sure who; your bodies pressed so closely they became one, your heartbeats beating to the same rhythm. He whimpered above you, a sound so scarce and unique you wanted to hear it again at once—thus you wrapped your legs around him, pressing him closer, closer, deeper inside you and you stifled your moan just to be able to hear his breath hitching in his throat.

“Are you feeling alright, Xavi?” You asked quietly while he was thrusting inside you gently, unhurriedly, his movements deep, inexperience made up for by his enthusiasm and wandering hands, which seemed to be adamant on touching every part of your sensitive body. He moaned in response, his hips quickening their pace, a surprised gasp of pleasure leaving your mouth at the sudden change.

“M-Mhm—Yeah—S-So good—” His head tilted slightly, his face turned downward to watch how he was disappearing inside you, his mouth opened in awe. “I feel like I’m… melting—” He grabbed your chin with his free, shaky hand, and he kissed you, his tongue slipping inside your mouth eagerly, cutting off everything you wanted to say. Every praise you wanted to utter, knowing that it was his first time and he was already making you feel this good.

As if you were made for each other; two stars, drifting in the vast universe, fortunate enough to cross paths. Each thrust perfect, because it brought you two closer. Each touch welcome, because it was always meant only for you.

“Xavier—!” You suddenly felt both of his hands touching and squeezing at your breasts, and he finally let you breathe, his mouth clasping around one of your nipples instead. He licked and sucked like a man starved, his hips loosing their rhythm, rutting into you clumsily, chasing the pleasure. He was desperate to make you feel just as much as he was feeling, painfully aware that you were handling this a lot better than he was.

His brain turned into mush quite a while ago, while you were still so excruciatingly there, capable of forming coherent sentences, meaningful words. He pitied you, he cursed himself, he wanted you ruined—matching the state he was in, because it was the most blissful he ever felt in his whole life.

He needed to get you there with him, this single focus on your pleasure the only clear thought swirling around in his mind.

“Let me touch you some more, please…” He moaned quietly, his hips snapping harder with every second, “You’re so soft… So, so sweet… I had no idea it would feel this good, I’m—I’m not sure I can live without you, without feeling like this anymore…”

The wet sounds were getting louder, his pre-cum mixing with your increasing arousal, his hands kneading through your breasts gently, his lips not leaving your skin, kissing and sucking, leaving delicate marks wherever they traveled. “You—Hah—You’re getting tighter… I’m sorry, I—I think I need to—” A moan escaped his lips and you grabbed his face with your hands, looking straight into his bright, half-lidded eyes, clouded with desperation. He brightened visibly, mouth opened in a whine, lips pressing a quick, wet peck to yours. One. Two. Three pecks, quick, almost matching the pace of his hips, his moans pressed between your lips.

“It’s okay, baby. You’re doing so good. So, so, so good, Xay.”

“Yeah? Am I—Mmh—Am I making you feel good, too?” His face nuzzled into your palm, his lips left another one of his small kisses inside it. His hot breath grazed at your wrist, making goosebumps spread all over your body. He whimpered and sped up the pace of his thrusts again, making you see literal stars with how far he was reaching inside you. The droplets of his sweat dripped onto the skin of your stomach and breasts, making you gasp in response—their coolness meeting the warmth of your body, adding to the sensations and overwhelming you in the best of ways.

“Ah—Ah—Of—Of course, bunny. I—I’ve never felt better…” The truth slipped from your tongue and he grunted, a soft smile brightening his features, the force of his thrusts increasing, as if he wanted to prove that he could do so much better, if only you continue to let him.

You will. Always and forever.

“That so? I—I want you to melt too—” He breathed out, his chest and abs tensing with the force of his thrusts as well as the strength it took him not to cum on the spot. He wanted to savor that moment for a while longer, to look at you sprawled under him so entrancingly, your body taking him in fully, your beautiful face flushed and glowing, twisted in pleasure that he was finally able to give you. “You’re so—so, so pretty. My pretty baby. My beautiful little star, you’re gonna make me—” Xavier sinked his teeth into his bottom lip, slowing down his thrusts, a silent prayer slipping from his lips to stretch that moment of absolute bliss, to restrain himself from cumming for a while longer.

“I’m so close, Xavier… Xavier…Mmph—” Your voice was cut off by his lips on yours, your whines and cries swallowed by his mouth, his name spoken so sweetly was making his mind hazy and body trembling dangerously. He let go of your pout with a loud pop, a string of saliva connecting you both, his lips swollen and shiny.

You looked angelic, and he finally accepted that he will not last much longer, your voice ringing sweetly in his ears, your frame filling his entire field of vision. He was so obsessed with you it scared him.

“Can I—Ah—come inside you? Please? Please, can I? I will do anything, I will—”

Drip.

Another cold droplet of sweat landed between your breasts, his head hung low, right above you.

Drip.

This one slightly warmer, his big hands touching your cheeks, his pace quickening when you whispered a string of ”yes, yes, yes” only for him to hear. He moaned and shook his head, his body glistening with sweat, your own shaking with the incoming peak.

Drip. Drip.

Drip.

The droplets now warm, landing onto your skin and sticking to your moving body, the sensation making your brows furrow. While he was still thrusting inside you with vigor, you grabbed his face and raised it with shaking hands; what was previously a moan turned into a gasp the moment your eyes met with his face.

Because the droplets were no longer just sweat.

Blood. There was blood coming out of his nose, staining his lips now, his tongue peeking out to taste it, the metallic taste familiar on his tongue.

“Xavier, you’re—AH—Mmm! You’re bleeding—!” The blood now flowed to his chin, landing on his chest as he raised his head. He huffed out a laugh and hastily wiped it away with the side of his arm, smearing it under his nose but never stopping his hips from moving inside you.

“I—Hah—I always knew you’ll be the death of me, starlight.” His tone was soft, teasing. And the last thing you saw was his angelic face, flushed bright pink, hazy mirth in his eyes, and a smile plastered on his face—and you reached your peak, sharp moan cutting through the bedroom, your spine raising upwards with the intensity of your orgasm. He caught you instantly, his strong arms circling around you, face burying into your chest, and pink, plush lips opening in a broken moan the moment he came inside you, so intensely he started to shake.

And when your body finally went pliant in his arms, your heavy breaths and soft sighs filling the air, you felt his lips spread into a smile against your warm skin. He turned his head up to look at you again, one eye opening slowly, his chest raising and falling rapidly, his heart thrumming against yours—his deep blues caught staring at your face with so much love and devotion you wanted to burst right then and there.

And there it was again—a soft laugh escaped his lips, the blood still staining his upper lip, nose and chin. Small droplets of it were now smeared on your body, too.

“Mmm, M’ sorry. M’ sorry, star, you just felt and looked so wonderful I couldn’t help but spill all I had—” You burst out laughing, cutting off his joke, your hand playfully pushing at his shoulder. He immediately joined you in this moment of happiness, his soft giggles mixing with yours.

Then, he caught your hand in his and brought it to his lips, placing a soft kiss on your knuckles. A satisfied sigh left your lips as your body was now pressed between him and the soft, velvety covers. He brought his face to yours and grazed your nose with his, a gentle smile still adorning his face. He was glowing—a mesmerizing flocks of light filled the whole room, casting you both in a warm, cosy light—an image of his everlasting passion and affection, a love letter to the way you made him feel.

“How are you feeling, my love?” He whispered softly against your lips, and you pecked his mouth, another giggle escaping you. He shifted inside you, making you hiss quietly, your body still tender, your senses heightened.

“Hmm, perfect.” You answered, and he nuzzled your cheek, the tips of his ears still red. He was probably smearing his blood all over your face at this point, but you didn’t find it in yourself to get mad at him, not when its appearance was the sign of his pleasure. “You were perfect, Xavier.”

“And so were you. Perfect. God, so perfect I—” He raised his head again and pressed his forehead against yours, his eyes closing for a moment, basking in the afterglow. His hands were holding your cheeks now, his thumbs stroking the warm skin delicately, and you grabbed his forearms, returning the gesture. “I love you, my star. I love you so much. And I’m never going to let you go. Ever.” The last word a gentle whisper against your temple, followed by a lingering kiss. “I hope you’re okay with that.”

You blinked down your happy tears, refusing to let them fall, and your mouth opened to respond to his confession. But before you could bare your heart before him, he continued to speak in that soft, enticing tone of his.

“And I’m sorry for bleeding on you. You were just squeezing me so hard I nearly went out like a light—”

“You’re such a dork!”

Another hit on his arm, this time harder— meant not to hurt, but an answer to his endless teasing. His bubbly laugh quickly mingled with yours, and a comforting moonlight slipped through the curtains, embracing your restless figures in its gentle glow.

This marked the end of your first night together, along with the beginning of your shared future, laced with the feelings of comfort and never-ending joy. Countless years spent in each other’s embrace, countless nights of hushed whispers and soft laughs. Some days easier, drifting by leisurely; others harder, ending in tears and uncertainty.

But every single day special, because you were by his side now. Every single one extraordinary and important, filled with new experiences, new places, new opportunities.

And while he held your body close that night, his ear pressed to your chest, basking in the enchanting melody of your beating heart, Xavier thought dreamily that he couldn’t wait to experience them all—as long as you were beside him.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖˙⟡⋆⟡࿐

hi!! i hope you liked it, even if i wrote that one really quickly. i got suddenly inspired and wanted to write it in one go!!

it surprised me that it’s my 2nd published xavier work, especially when i feel that i write for him so much!! i have abundance of his fics sitting in my drafts—my toxic perfectionism, lack of time and love for long one shots are my greatest enemies in this case. but i hope to publish some more things with him in the future!! i still have my xav bunny mini series and lumiere 2part!! im really proud of them so i will post them for sure! <33

thank u for reading what i wrote, i hope that you liked it even a lil bit and that you’ll let me know if u do <3 i appreciate every single like, reblog and comment and i treasure every single one of u. thank u for being here with me <3

[thespencerrreid]

OH MY GOOOOOOODDDDDDD

You didn’t mean to hit him. You really didn’t.

You were just trying to push him back playfully, hands on his chest as he teased you relentlessly, grinning like a devil. But he leaned forward at the exact wrong moment, and your palm connected—not with his shoulder, but squarely with his face.

There was a sickening little “thump.”

Then silence.

“Oh my god—Xavier!” you gasped, rushing to him as he stumbled back, hand instinctively flying to his nose. “I didn’t mean—Are you okay? I’m so sorry—Xavier, shit, you’re bleeding—”

Panic flared in your chest as you reached for him, trying to tip his head back, your hands fluttering uselessly. “I didn’t think—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I swear I wasn’t trying to—”

But then he looked up at you.

And smiled.

That lopsided, heat-slicked grin that melted your words right off your tongue. His nose was bleeding, face flushed, but his eyes—half-lidded, dazed, hungry—locked on yours like you were the most intoxicating thing he’d ever seen.

“Oh...wow..” he murmured, almost in awe. “that was…”

He licked a drop of blood from his upper lip, and his smile deepened, that dazed, turned-on look spreading across his face. “That was really hot...”

Your jaw dropped, he can not be for real right now...right??Maybe you accidently gave him concussion too, he is probably deluded from pain an—

He tilted his head slightly, his hair sticking to his damp forehead, and that pleased, breathless grin widened. “You get so worked up when you’re worried,” he murmured, leaning forward, and you couldn’t tell if the tremble in your hands was from guilt or the way he was suddenly looking at you like that.

“…You gonna kiss it better?”

Saw this piece of a masterpiece by juyo and had to get out of bed at 5 am to write about this. (JUST LOOK AT HIM GAWWD)

[thespencerrreid]

the morning after (fluff)

zayne one shot (love and deepspace) the morning after your first time with him⋆｡° | pairing : zayne x fem!reader ⋆｡° | word count : 0.9k (900) ⋆｡° | fluff, no explicit content, the morning after (that) likes and reblogs are appreciated!! :) ★ masterlist here

When you woke up, you felt your eyes burning slightly. You stirred in bed and yawned so you could continue sleeping in complete peace. It took more than a couple of seconds for the memories of the previous night to flood back to you and for you to remember where you were.

When the memory hit you like a bus, you quickly got up, sat on your bed, and looked around. You were definitely not in your room, and you recognized your surroundings too well to confirm that what had happened the night before had been real. You were only wearing your underwear; you didn't even remember having put on underwear the night before. You were so tired that you could only fall asleep without realizing it.

You had gone on some sort of date to Zayne's house the night before; nothing out of the ordinary had happened on other dates. He had cooked for you, you had drunk wine, you had dessert, and then you had watched a movie while you sipped on something that was a hot beverage, but you didn't even remember what it was anymore. You closed your eyes and fell back onto the pillows until your mind returned.

You weren't drunk, you knew it perfectly well because Zayne would never have touched you if he'd known you were even slightly intoxicated. The desserts and the hot drink had helped you come back to your senses in case some of the little wine you'd drunk had slightly clouded your mind because you had a terrible temper when it came to alcohol. You remembered starting with small kisses when at some point in the movie he'd slipped you into his lap. Until the kiss ended up escalating too much.

Your cheeks flushed at the memory. Zayne wasn't someone you were just hanging out with, waiting to see what would happen. Maybe you weren't a couple, but you were absolutely sure you were serious and it was going to happen at some point. When you slid out of bed and looked for your clothes, you couldn't find them… But you did find one of Zayne's shirts. Was that too cliché? Probably, but it was much safer if he'd already left for work.

With that thought, you left the room with a yawn. You walked calmly to the kitchen, and it wasn't until much later that you smelled a sweet scent in the air. Your heart pounded as you considered two options: something was burning and now you had to explain to Zayne why he had to move out, or Zayne was still at home and not actually in the hospital.

The second option won out. You noticed it when you walked into the kitchen and saw him there, moving around, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, totally relaxed and shirtless. Shirtless. He didn't realize you were there until he turned to put something on the table. Zayne's jaw clenched when he saw you at the entrance to the kitchen, his eyes scanning your body and the way you looked in his shirt. "Good morning," he smiled, placing a mug on the table.

"Hi," you mumbled, somewhat embarrassed, as you approached the kitchen island. You took a seat at the table, and Zayne moved the mug he'd previously placed on the table closer to you. It was then that you realized that the coffee was for you. "I thought you'd be in the hospital," Zayne shook his head as he turned off the stove.

"I asked for the day off," he replied normally, placing a kiss on your forehead before taking the seat next to you. Zayne looked away, and you took the time to observe him, how he looked shirtless, still slightly sleepy, and with his hair disheveled.

Something stirred in you. You wanted to wake up like this every day. You wanted to see him shirtless, making breakfast or getting out of the shower, and he'd place a kiss on your forehead before leaving for work. You couldn't stop staring at him, not even when he got up from his chair to check something on the other side of the kitchen. It was at that moment that you slid out of your seat and walked over to him, wrapping your arms around him from behind. Zayne seemed surprised but quickly relaxed in your arms. "I like it like this," you finally spoke after a few seconds of silence.

Zayne turned to look at you, his arms quickly wrapping around you to hug you. "Like this?" he asked as he placed another kiss on your forehead. You nodded, clinging closer to him.

"Waking up with you," you admitted, inhaling Zayne's scent and concentrating on the warmth he gave off. You felt him slide his fingers down your jaw and then to your chin to force you to look up. His lips crashed against yours, a slow kiss, savoring every part of your mouth. Like those times when you know there will be more, because Zayne knew there would be more. He wanted more.

"You have to have breakfast." Zayne kissed your cheek again, then your jaw, and finally pulled back. You nodded because you knew if he kept kissing you like that, you'd probably end up in bed again, much less before the day started. It took you several seconds to return to the real world and realize Zayne had made breakfast for you. You definitely wanted to wake up like this every time.

[thespencerrreid]

Keep It Icy [Zayne + Son ★ 3428 words ★ Masterlist ★ Snowdrop Masterlist ★ Series Index ★ AO3] 5 times Zayne’s son used him like a personal portable A/C + 1 time his son helps relieve his stress. A/N: I promise I love Zaynie. He’s my snookums. 🥹 Tag list: @lavlynyan @alfredosaws @solifloris @nezuswritingdesk @valkyyriia @natimiles @yourlocalcatscammer @callilypso @likewhyareyousoobsessedwithme @qyuin @asiaticapple @rainbowsnowflake @jasmines-greentea 【 request to be added 】

one month old.

The weather forecast had predicted this July Linkon City was going to experience the hottest heat wave in decades. Citizens were advised to stay indoors and keep cool whenever possible, and as much as Zayne wanted to adhere to such warnings, his home air conditioner had decided just the other day to break down.

“There’s no available repairman at this moment,” he said, walking into the kitchen to see you struggling to comfort your newborn son who had been crying nonstop for hours now. The baby had just celebrated his first month since being born, but there was little joy in the household right now with everyone feeling miserable because of the unbearable heat. Zayne continued, speaking a little louder over the baby’s cries, “They’re all booked and the earliest appointment I could make would be for next Wednesday.”

“Next Wednesday?” you questioned, shocked, “That’s still over a week away and it’s just gonna get hotter…”

He nodded in agreement. He looked worried when he noticed the exhaustion on your face. Immediately, he stepped closer with his arms outstretched. “Give him to me,” he said, reaching for the baby. Before you could protest, the baby was out of your arms and into Zayne’s. He rubbed his son’s back soothingly. “Go take a cold shower. You’ll feel more refreshed afterwards.”

“But the baby…”

“I can take care of him,” he said.

You looked at him unsure and Zayne answered with his own pointed look.

“What? Have I done anything in the past month to prove I wasn’t capable of caring for my son?”

You immediately shook your head. “Quite the opposite actually,” you said with a small smile. You eventually relented. “Alright, sorry, it’s just… new mother’s instinct, you know?”

He nodded and leaned over to kiss your cheek. “I know. Now, go. Take as long as you need to, my love.”

You kissed him back in thanks before making your way to the bathroom.

Meanwhile, Zayne looked down at his crying son and sighed sympathetically. He paced around the kitchen with the newborn resting over his shoulder, rubbing his back and bouncing him gently. “I know, I know, it’s so hot, isn’t it?”

The baby rubbed his face into Zayne’s shoulder in frustration before crying louder. He started to hiccup and Zayne instantly patted his back gently as he calmly shushed his son. “Easy, easy now…”

He found himself walking to his bedroom. He could hear in the adjacent bathroom the shower running.

He settled down into bed, letting his son rest on top of his chest. He thought for a moment and then he used his ice Evol, regulating the temperature around him. It felt much nicer than before. The sudden cool temperature calmed the crying baby, his cries slowly easing before he relaxed on top of his father. As Zayne rubbed his back gently, his soft, soothing voice lulled the exhausted baby to sleep.

His own eyes drifted close, but only for a few minutes. Distantly, he heard the shower turning off and a few minutes later, he opened his eyes when he sensed your presence nearby.

You settled into bed next to him with wet hair still dripping water droplets down your top. You sighed happily. “It feels so much cooler now.”

“Indeed,” he answered.

“Maybe we don’t need that repairman then,” you teased, leaning in to wrap your arms around Zayne’s waist.

He peered down at the top of your head, quipping with mild annoyance, “I’m not an A/C that runs 24/7 you know.”

“I know,” you said breezily, not appeasing his sudden mood change. “But for now, I prefer this over our home air conditioner.”

“Oh, really…”

You giggled and nodded. You reached over and gently caressed your newborn son’s cheek, careful not to wake him. “And it looks like I’m not the only one who prefers your Evol.”

“Why do I feel like you two will be troublemakers for me to handle in the future?”

You grinned, completely delighted. “Yeah? You think he will take after me?”

You both glanced at the sleeping baby boy on Zayne’s chest with so much adoration. You sighed wistfully. “He’s still so tiny… I can’t imagine him getting bigger.”

“I know,” Zayne whispered back fondly. “Is it wrong that I almost want him to stay just like this?”

You shook your head, understanding your husband’s sentiments completely. “I can’t believe it’s already been a month since he was born,” you said softly, adding with a laugh, “I still can’t believe we’re both parents now…”

Zayne hummed back in agreement. “I can’t believe he’s really ours…”

“What if we mess up?”

“Hmm?”

“What if we make mistakes with him…”

“Are you spiraling again?”

“Zayne, I’m serious!” You pouted at him. “What if…”

“No more ‘what if’s’,” Zayne interrupted firmly. “We will probably make mistakes. It’s only natural. We’re new at this and also… we’re just humans.”

“You’re right…”

“But we’ll do our best in raising him,” Zayne continued, “He will turn out fine.”

He leaned over and kissed your forehead, his arm snaking around your waist and pulling you closer to him. You rested your head in the crook of his arm, feeling his hand patting your side soothingly. You smiled as you watched your son sleep on top of your husband’s chest.

“We’ll all be fine,” Zayne whispered, and you relaxed in his arms, his protective presence always seeming to chase away your fears and anxieties.

“Yeah… we’ll be fine.”

twelve months old.

Zayne couldn’t believe a whole year had passed since his son was born. He paced around the nursery with the newly-turned one-year-old resting over his shoulder. The boy was quietly sucking his thumb, showing no sign of sleepiness despite it almost being midnight.

Each time Zayne had tried to put the boy down to bed, his son would start to fuss and cry until he was picked up again. Zayne sighed, knowing the exact reason for his son’s fussiness.

It was going to be another blistering hot June, matching the previous year when his son was born. Even though it was nighttime, the temperature had only cooled down to being tolerable, but to a one-year-old, it still felt unbearable.

“You’re just like your mother,” Zayne said, pretending to be upset, “You only see me as a personal portable air conditioner, don’t you?”

Not quite understanding his father, the boy giggled and pressed a wet kiss to Zayne’s cheek before dropping his head back down on his shoulder and sucking his thumb again. He idly swung his feet and clung to his father tighter.

“Okay, okay,” he laughed, “I won’t mind if this is the type of payment I will receive for my service.”

Zayne resigned to his fate of pacing the nursery for a while longer, but he didn’t want to complain too much as he was quite honestly thoroughly enjoying this quiet moment of bonding with his son.

eighteen months old.

“And down,” Zayne said, carefully setting his toddler son down on a beach blanket.

Immediately, the boy turned around and scrambled to his father’s legs, his arms held up as he hopped in place, upset. “No, no, no, no!”

“Hm?”

“Up, up!”

“I’ve already carried you all the way down here,” he calmly remarked to the upset child. “Don’t you want to try walking on your own now?”

The boy furrowed his brows in frustration, not understanding why his father refused to listen to him.

You walked over and laughed, settling down next to the young toddler. You pulled your son into your lap. “Oh, Zaynie, don’t pretend like you don’t know what he wants.”

Zayne sighed. “This is your fault.”

“My fault?” you pretended to glare at him. “What did I do?”

“He takes after you.”

“Excuse me, the only thing he decided to take after me was my hair color,” you said, gesturing to your son’s full head of hair. “Nine months I carried him only for him to be a near perfect clone of you.”

Zayne sat down next to you both and immediately the toddler crawled out of your lap and over to his father’s instead. You pretended to look betrayed.

“See that? No loyalty to his mother at all.”

Resigned, Zayne picked up his son and let him settled comfortably in his lap. The boy leaned against his father’s stomach and his eyes started to close before he just as quickly drifted off to sleep.

“So much for his first dip in the ocean water,” Zayne quipped with a fond smile. “We’ve wasted those plane tickets for nothing.”

You reached over and rubbed your son’s cheek affectionately, giggling. “I don’t blame him. Your Evol comes in quite handy on hot days like this.”

“See? He takes after you.”

“You’re right,” you agreed, “He is smart, just like me, knowing how to use his father.”

“That’s not—fine.”

You giggled at your husband’s scowl. You leaned over and gasped when Zayne pulled you down to lay with him and your son on the beach blanket. With your toddler on Zayne’s chest, you wrapped your arm around your husband’s waist and settled comfortably against him.

“This is nice,” you remarked.

“Mmhmm,” Zayne hummed back in agreement, his arm pulling you in closer.

“Nothing can beat having a hot husband with delicious abs and his ice Evol to keep me cool.”

“You really are something.”

“I’m not wrong.”

“I—fine.”

two years old.

“Do you see the koala bears?” Zayne asked as he knelt down next to his two-year-old son, who had insisted he could walk through the zoo by himself. Laughing, you and him allowed the toddler his freedom, staying closely to the little boy who toddled his way through the crowd, unaware of all the people who paused and smiled at the cute child who was the spitting image of his father.

You and Zayne had nodded politely at the compliments and sped along after the toddler who seemed determined to get away from you both.

“Hold still,” Zayne said lightheartedly with one arm wrapped gently around the little boy’s middle.

“B-bear!” the boy repeated, giggling as he pointed at the sleepy marsupial while his other free hand was excitedly patting his father’s forearm.

“Mmhmm,” Zayne hummed. “A koala bear. They’re not the same as your teddy bears at home, though.”

Suddenly, Zayne heard the sound of a shutter clicking and a very familiar giggle. He looked behind him, seeing you were crouched low to the ground with your phone aimed at him and your son. Instantly his eyes met your own mischievous gaze, and when he raised a brow in question, you giggled again at his perplexed look.

“Sorry,” you said, completely unapologetic, “My two boys just looked so cute. I had to take a photo.”

Zayne sighed and shook his head. “That was also what you said when we were looking at the seals earlier.”

“And I meant it then, too,” you insisted with a pout, holding your phone up again, “Now smile, Zaynie.”

Zayne laughed and pulled his son closer. He knelt on one knee and with the other leg bent, he settled his two-year-old atop, holding him steady as he pointed a finger toward your phone camera. “Now smile for Mommy, son.”

The boy smiled brightly and clapped his hands just as you took the shot.

“Perfect,” you chirped, “These will be great new photos for my desk at work.”

“Alright, son, now off you go,” Zayne said and picked his son up. He paused, frowning when he noticed the toddler seemed to resist. “What’s wrong?”

“Too hot, Daddy,” the boy whined and looked at him pleadingly. He suddenly held his arms up.

Zayne sighed. “Who was it who said he could walk through the whole zoo by himself?”

The boy shook his head furiously. “Not me! Not me!”

You and Zayne laughed. You approached the two and knelt down next to the boy. “Do you want Mommy to carry you then, darling?”

The boy immediately shook his head again, his brows furrowing as he frowned at you with a look almost akin to annoyance. You feigned hurt and pretended to be shocked, asking him, “You don’t want Mommy anymore?”

As if he could sense your feigned hurt tone, the boy looked guilty, but only for a second before he held his arms out to his father again, completely ignoring you. “Daddy, Daddy, up, up!”

“I can’t believe I lost my only son’s love to a portable A/C,” you quipped dramatically, earning an instant glare from your husband. “Oh, Zaynie, take care of our son while I use your credit card to buy some ice cream to help me in the healing process.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” he remarked, already reaching for his wallet and grabbing the credit card to hand off to you.

You leaned over and kissed his cheek, consoling him instantly. “Be right back. I’ll make sure to get you something extra sweet for today.”

Once you were out of sight, Zayne turned back to the toddler on his knee. “Mommy’s gone, aren’t you sad?”

The boy thought for a moment and then nodded quietly.

“Do you want to go after her then?”

The boy nodded excitedly and raised his arms again.

“You’re going to walk to her, right?” Zayne teased.

The boy shook his head furiously. “No, no, Daddy carry!”

“But you’re a big boy now,” Zayne reminded him solemnly, “This morning you said you could walk all by yourself.”

“But… but…”

“But?”

“…too hot, Daddy…”

Zayne laughed again at the sight of the boy’s pitiful pout. He gave him a quick hug before lifting him up into his arms, smiling at his son’s instant giggles. “Alright, alright,” Zayne said, acquiescing, “Your personal portable A/C is in service now.”

“Yay!”

He laughed helplessly at his son’s enthusiastic cheer. “Sometimes I wonder if you see me as your father or just a portable A/C…”

“Mm… both!” the boy answered, not understanding his father’s sarcasm.

Zayne laughed again and leaned down to nuzzle his cheek against his son. “Thank you for your honesty,” he said, “Now, let’s go find Mommy and those ice cream she had promised us.”

“Ice cream!” the boy cheered and hugged his father tighter.

Along the way, Zayne couldn’t help but noticed numerous passersby pointing at them both, hearing the occasional delighted remarks about their physical similarities or the boy’s bright personality. He knew he should be a little more discreet, but his expression was one full of pride. It seemed ever since his son was born, Zayne was always finding each new day with his child a rewarding joy, this happiness so indescribable and infinite, he wanted to hold onto the feeling for as long as he could.

three years old.

Zayne wondered if he ever had as much energy as his three-year-old son when he was the same age. He found it doubtful. An afternoon in the park had somehow lasted for hours well past the boy’s usual naptime, and now suddenly there was the twilight glow quietly ushering in nightfall.

“Daddy!” the boy called out to his father as he slid down a slide and into his father’s waiting arms. He laughed and clung to his father tightly as little beads of sweat glistened down the side of his head. It had been a long, hot afternoon of running, climbing, and jumping from one playground equipment to the next. He hummed happily and buried his face into his father’s shoulder.

Zayne chuckled and lifted him up, carrying him easily in one arm. “What’s this? Are you doing what I think you are doing?”

The boy smiled cheekily at him in response. “Daddy feels so cool.”

He smiled helplessly at his son’s honest response. “I’m still nothing but a portable A/C to you, aren’t I?”

He tickled his son and the boy laughed and wriggled in his arms, though Zayne just tightened his hold. “N-no, no, Daddy!” he cried out amid his giggles.

As he held his son, still tickling him mercilessly, Zayne couldn’t help but noticed how much time had passed already and how big the little boy in his arms was getting. Each day, he seemed to take on more of Zayne’s appearance, the same shade of green in his eyes always looking at his father with such happiness and admiration.

Normally more rational, Zayne couldn’t help the silly thought that came suddenly. It wouldn’t be that silly of him—or even selfish of him–if he wished time could just slow down a bit, wanting his little boy to stay little for a while longer.

Unwittingly, he held the boy tighter that evening as the sun began to set, missing the toddler’s confused look under the darkening sky. Slowly, one by one, the lamps in the park lit up along all of the pathways. Zayne remained quiet, lost in his bittersweet thoughts, unaware of his son’s worried look.

Quietly, the little boy leaned in and kissed his father’s cheek, surprising him and breaking him out of his sudden trance, with that little assurance in spite of not understanding why his father seemed sadder now when just a few moments ago he was smiling and laughing.

His small arms wrapped around his father’s neck. “I love you, daddy.”

Zayne breathed in sharply, almost surprised, before he laughed softly and hugged his son back, his cheek nuzzling against his son’s hair. “I love you, too, my sweet little boy.”

+ one

He was finally done.

Zayne sighed as he closed an email he had just finished responding to. It was the last one out of the numerous emails he had spent the past two hours reading and responding. On top of that, he still had some medical reports to review and an important phone conference to attend to at one in the afternoon. The day was far from over, but even he could feel the beginning of a migraine settling in.

He leaned back in his chair, his eye peeking behind to the door of his home office, noticing it was opened ajar. He swiveled his chair enough to glance at the door, catching sight of the small shadow disappearing with a surprised gasp.

He swiveled his chair around again, pretending to sigh dramatically. “I’m so tired all of a sudden… If only I have my little doctor here to treat me…”

“Here I am, Daddy!”

Zayne turned his chair fully around this time, laughing when he saw his three-year-old son pushing the door open and rushing into his office while carrying a small plastic briefcase.

“What’s this? A personal house call?”

He picked his son up, settling him comfortably on his lap. “And you’ve brought your briefcase?”

The boy nodded happily.

“What do you have in your briefcase, doctor?” he asked, “Will it cure me of my current ailment?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, then, let’s check together, won’t we?” Zayne set the briefcase on his desk next to his laptop. He opened it and pretended to gasp. “Now, what do you have to treat my exhaustion, doctor?”

The boy hummed and peered into his toy briefcase before grabbing a plastic snack bowl. “Teddies!”

Zayne took the snack bowl from his son, opening the plastic lid on top and stared at the little teddy bear-shaped graham crackers. He laughed. “I see, and how many should I take, doctor?”

The boy furrowed his brows thoughtfully before holding up two chubby fingers.

“Two? Alright,” Zayne answered and grabbed two crackers, popping them both into his mouth to eat. He set the snack bowl aside. “Okay, is there anything else, doctor?”

“Uh… this…!” The boy pulled out a small cloth and proceeded to wipe his father’s brows, making Zayne laughed.

“Okay, okay, I think I’m good now.”

The boy smiled proudly and dropped the cloth, letting it fall to the floor. “One more, Daddy!”

“One more? One more what?”

Suddenly, his son leaned in and kissed his cheek, surprising Zayne.

He smiled at his son, touched by the little boy’s thoughtfulness and concern. He hugged him a little tighter. “Doctor… I still don’t feel well. Perhaps, I need a few more kisses to cure me of my ailment?”

Without any hesitation, his son started to kiss his cheek repeatedly in quick successions, making Zayne laughed after each peck. After a minute, he stopped the toddler with a smile and his own kisses, overjoyed at the sound of his son’s sweet little giggles.

“Thank you,” he whispered, kissing his son’s temple, “for being my stress relief.”

[thespencerrreid]

guys what if you were jessica’s personal assistant. what if your name was like phoebe or something, but everyone at the office calls you baby. you’re kind, gentle, and sweet, & everyone at the office has one thing in common. they all love baby.

you try not to get involved in the cases, too much of an empath (like mike) to be able to handle the harshness lawyers sometimes have to give clients you just plain feel bad for. you’re always inclined to help out anyone that needs it, and are practically a life saver.

you’re the reprieve in the office people need sometimes. harvey’s stress melting off him when he drops by to pick up files jessica had asked you to get to him, and you smile at him all sweet, handing him exactly what he needed to turn his case around. he asks you your price for saving him & you just tease, telling him to keep giving you that million-dollar smile as you both kiss at each other in a joking manner of departure.

or when mike feels like he’s drowning, mind going a million miles an hour as he stops by your desk. you were the only person kind to him from the start, and sometimes he just needs a reset to keep going. you hand him half the cutie you were eating as he sits in your chair, sighing as you lean against your desk. you tell him to stop thinking, just for a second. thirty seconds or so pass before he jumps out of his seat, finally putting the puzzle pieces together he needed, almost running down the hallway back to his cubicle shouting a “thank you, thank you baby!”

jessica adores you, and even the rudest clients eventually melt under your sweetness. you aren’t really sure where the name baby came from, but you’ll never hate it. knocking on harvey’s door, telling him jessica wants to see him & hearing him say a “thanks, baby.” in that voice of his is never anything you’ll complain about.

[thespencerrreid]

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — HE’S YOUR EMERGENCY CONTACT

a/n: here’s some raya lore — i’m a cardiac nurse irl and work with cardiothoracic surgeons all the time, so zayne’s story makes me giggle thinking about my surgeons doing this

ZAYNE

You regain consciousness slowly, with the vague sense that something humiliating has occurred. The hospital lights are too bright, the bed is too firm, and the IV in your arm is just... rude, honestly.

"You're awake," comes a voice — cool, low, and very familiar.

Oh no.

Oh no.

You turn your head and find Zayne, still in scrubs, standing at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed and that trademark look of stoic disappointment on his face. You’re not sure if he's judging your vital signs or your life choices.

“I told you not to skip lunch,” he says.

“Did you get called down here?” you ask, voice hoarse.

He lifts an eyebrow. “No. I was already here. In surgery. Where I was paged — in the middle of a triple bypass — because my emergency contact had decided to dramatically pass out in the hospital lobby like a Victorian novel protagonist.”

“Wow. Sounds like they need better lobby snacks.”

He doesn't laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitches slightly — the Zayne equivalent of a full belly laugh.

You shift in bed, suddenly aware of how gross you must look. “Sooo… just to confirm, my very intimidating, brilliant surgeon-boyfriend got pulled out of heart surgery because I skipped breakfast and had a blood sugar tantrum?”

“Yes.” He picks up your chart like it personally insulted him. “And I had to hand my patient off to Dr. Greyson, who, by the way, is now convinced you're either dying or incredibly high-maintenance.”

“Well, I am dating a man who yells at EKG machines.”

“I don’t yell at them,” he says, deadpan. “I encourage them sternly.”

You’re about to tease him again when he steps closer and rests two fingers against your wrist, checking your pulse manually. You both know it’s unnecessary — your vitals are already beeping steadily on the monitor—but he does it anyway, like he needs to feel it for himself.

His eyes soften for a second — just a flicker —then the mask returns.

“I’m fine,” you say gently. “I swear.”

He doesn’t reply. He just exhales through his nose like you’ve personally ruined his whole month and reaches into the pocket of his white coat.

“I brought you juice,” he says flatly, pulling out a little box of apple juice like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You stare. “Wait. You detoured to pediatrics for juice?”

“I’m a surgeon, not a monster.”

You take the juice. He even gives you a bendy straw.

“I love you,” you say, smirking.

“You’re hypoglycemic. Your judgment is impaired.”

You reach for his hand anyway, and he lets you have it, warm and steady and a little calloused from years of holding hearts in his hands.

“You’re lucky I’m not dramatic,” you murmur.

He doesn't blink. “You fainted in the middle of a hospital hallway like an Oscar nominee.”

“Told you. Lobby snacks.”

Zayne exhales, shakes his head once, then gently brushes your hair away from your forehead with the kind of tenderness that could undo an entire cardiac ward.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “eat something. Or I’m putting you on a monitored meal plan.”

“You’re hot when you’re bossy.”

“I’m always bossy.”

“True. Still hot, though.”

Zayne doesn’t smile. But he does sit in the chair next to your bed and take out his tablet, one hand still loosely holding yours.

He doesn’t have to say anything. This is Zayne-speak for I'm not leaving.

And honestly? You’re kind of okay with fainting in public if it gets you this much juice and love from the hospital’s most terrifyingly devoted cardiothoracic surgeon.

XAVIER

You’re lying on the hospital bed, blinking up at the sterile white ceiling, wondering how you managed to turn skipping lunch into a full-on hospital visit. The door opens, and in walks Xavier — your boyfriend and your emergency contact — looking like he just sprinted through a hurricane, but somehow still perfectly put-together.

He spots you immediately, his calm, composed mask cracking just a little. “There you are,” he says, voice steady but with an unmistakable undertone of relief.

You try to sit up, but your head spins a little. “I’m fine. Sort of.”

He crosses the room in two strides, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, his hand reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is gentle, careful, like he’s afraid if he’s too rough you might actually break.

“I got the call while I was in a meeting,” he says quietly, “and I left everything. I didn’t even finish my coffee.”

You smile, appreciating the little sacrifices he makes without complaint.

“You’re my emergency contact,” you remind him playfully. “Kind of your job to freak out a little.”

He lets out a short, almost embarrassed laugh. “I panicked. A bit. But I stayed composed.”

You reach for his hand, squeezing it. “You’re doing great.”

His eyes soften, and for a moment the world outside this hospital room disappears. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

You lean your head against his shoulder, and he wraps an arm around you, holding you close but steady.

“Promise me you’ll eat something next time,” he says quietly, his breath warm against your temple.

“I promise,” you murmur.

“And no more fainting in public. I don’t want to have to race down hospital hallways to find you again.”

You laugh softly. “Noted. I’ll try to keep you from breaking a sweat.”

His smile is almost shy now, but the way he tightens his hold on your hand says it all.

“You’re my emergency,” he whispers.

You snort. “Let’s not keep it that way.”

You stay like that for a while, just holding onto each other—two perfectly imperfect people, tethered together by something stronger than any emergency call.

RAFAYEL

Your ankle propped is propped up on a pillow, wrapped in bandages, and your pride slightly more bruised than your actual injury. The nurse said it’s just a mild sprain and you’ll live—but not before she tried very hard not to laugh when you explained how it happened.

The door bursts open like a dramatic plot twist.

“Where is she?!” comes the unmistakable voice of Rafayel.

You barely get out a “Hey—” before he’s at your bedside, eyes wild and hair slightly windblown like he’s just escaped a wind tunnel. Which, honestly, might not be far from the truth.

“I got the call and thought, ‘Oh, maybe she’s dehydrated, or tired, or mildly inconvenienced,’” he says, flinging his jacket on the nearest chair like he’s auditioning for a hospital drama. “But no. You injured yourself chasing your lunch?!”

“It was a really good sandwich,” you mutter defensively.

“A sandwich?” he repeats, clutching his heart like you’ve personally wounded him. “You rolled your ankle because a gust of wind stole your sandwich?”

You glare at him. “I was hungry, okay? It was toasted. And warm. It smelled amazing. I panicked.”

He takes a long, theatrical breath like he’s trying to absorb the full weight of your questionable life choices.

“I left in the middle of an event meeting ,” he says, dramatically pulling a chair up to your bedside. “I might have knocked over a cup of coffee on the way out. I think Thomas yelled for me. I don't remember. My soul left my body the moment they said your name.”

Despite his flair for the dramatic, his hand finds yours — gently, carefully, like he’s trying to check for injuries you haven’t mentioned.

“You’re okay, though?” he asks, suddenly quieter, eyes searching yours. “Really okay?”

You squeeze his hand. “I’m fine. Just a little bruised. Physically and emotionally.”

He exhales, visibly relaxing even though he’s trying to pretend like he was never worried in the first place. “Good. Because I wasn’t emotionally prepared to lose you to an airborne panini.”

You burst out laughing. “Technically, it was a ciabatta.”

“Oh, excuse me,” he says with mock offense, but you catch the tiny tremble of relief in his smile.

He straightens up with a newfound sense of duty. “Right. From now on, I am personally supervising all your lunches. If it has lettuce, it’s getting double security.”

You grin. “Are you volunteering to be my food bodyguard?”

“Silly girl— I’m your boyfriend and your emergency contact. Food security is just a natural extension of my role.”

And with that, he dramatically unwraps a protein bar from his bag, holds it out to you like a solemn offering, and adds, “Now eat this. And next time, let the sandwich go.”

You take the bar, still giggling. “You’re ridiculous.”

He leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “And yet, somehow, I’m still the most responsible person in this relationship.”

You nudge him playfully with your elbow. “You ran into a hospital yelling.”

“I entered with urgency. There’s a difference.”

Despite everything, you’re smiling. Because if you’re going to end up in a hospital with a sprained ankle and a lost sandwich, there’s no one else you’d rather have panicking beautifully at your side than Rafayel.

SYLUS

You’re lying in a hospital bed, leg elevated, toe wrapped in what must be 400 layers of gauze for a very minor fracture. Your phone’s dead. You’re mildly embarrassed. And the nurse informed you that your emergency contact has been called.

Great.

Not five minutes later, the door opens with an entirely reasonable amount of urgency, and in walks Sylus. He looks calm, of course. Immaculately put-together. The kind of composed that makes everyone else feel like maybe things aren’t on fire.

“Hey,” you say sheepishly. “Before you ask, I’m not dying.”

He walks straight to your bedside, his steps efficient, quiet. His eyes scan you from head to toe like he’s assessing battlefield injuries, even though the only casualty is your dignity and maybe a toe bone.

“Mm,” he hums, setting down a small bag —because of course he brought things. “The nurse said you broke your toe.”

“Just a tiny fracture. More like a dramatic crack. I stubbed it on the coffee table.”

Sylus sits in the chair beside your bed and raises an eyebrow. “With enough force to require X-rays and emergency contact notification?”

“I was chasing a bug.”

He blinks. “You injured yourself in active combat with a housefly.”

“It was huge.”

He nods slowly, lips twitching, almost smiling. “Understandable.”

You watch him as he leans back slightly in the chair, arms crossed, but his eyes don’t leave you. He’s trying to appear relaxed, but you know him. The slight crease between his brows? The way his leg is bouncing, just a little? That’s Sylus-level distress.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

“I’m fine,” he replies smoothly. “You’re the one who got into a full-contact brawl with furniture.”

You grin. “You worried?”

His expression doesn’t change. “Of course.”

“You’re hiding it well.”

“I’m excellent at containment,” he replies, but then — he gently takes your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles with an absent, comforting rhythm.

The silence stretches out, warm and familiar. Finally, you speak.

“You didn’t have to rush over, y’know.”

“I didn’t rush,” he says.

“You’re out of breath.”

“I took the stairs.”

You laugh, and that finally gets him to crack a full smile. He leans forward and presses a kiss to your temple, brief and grounding.

“Next time,” he says, still soft, “let the bug win.”

“Are you saying that because of my toe, or because you’re secretly pro-bug?”

“I’m saying that because you are not replaceable, and coffee tables are surprisingly effective weapons.”

You squeeze his hand. “You’re my favorite emergency contact.”

“I better be.” He raises your hand to his lips. “I have a designated bag for this exact situation.”

You blink. “Wait — what’s in the bag?”

He opens it casually: snacks, a charger, a small first aid kit, and — of course — a mini bottle of lotion “in case hospital soap dries out your hands.”

“You’re terrifyingly prepared,” you murmur.

Sylus smiles calmly, brushing hair from your forehead. “And you are accident-prone. It’s a beautiful match.”

And just like that, everything feels a little less embarrassing, a little less dramatic. Because Sylus is here — collected, calm, worried down to his bones, and still managing to make you feel like the most secure clumsy person in the world.

CALEB

You’re sitting on a gurney with an ice pack strapped to your wrist and a very strong desire to sink into the floor and disappear. It’s a mild sprain. Barely a sprain, really. But policy’s policy, and your emergency contact has been notified.

That would be Caleb.

You don't even get a chance to text him before the door bursts open.

There he is — Caleb in full protective, puffed-up mode — hair messy like he sprinted here without stopping to breathe, hoodie half-zipped, eyes scanning the room like he’s ready to file a lawsuit or carry you out in his arms. Possibly both.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, rushing over. “Are you okay? What happened? Why didn’t you call me? Did someone push you?”

You raise an eyebrow. “It was a slippery hallway.”

Caleb squints. “Slippery like… sabotage? Who waxes a hallway that much?”

“It’s a hospital, babe.”

“Still suspicious.”

He pulls a chair up to the bed with unnecessary force, plops down beside you, and carefully examines your wrist like he’s about to perform surgery himself.

“They gave you an X-ray, right? And ice? Did they check for nerve damage? Do I need to talk to someone?”

You sigh, smiling. “Yes, yes, no, and absolutely not. It’s a minor sprain.”

“Minor?” he repeats like you just called a plane crash a “minor inconvenience.”

You lean back and watch as he starts rifling through the little hospital drawer for reasons unknown. Possibly looking for answers. Possibly snacks.

“Caleb.”

“Hm?”

“You can breathe. I’m okay.”

He finally pauses, sitting back in his chair. “I know you’re okay. I just need to see you being okay for, like, the next three hours before I stop internally screaming.”

You reach over and lace your fingers with his with your uninjured hand.

“I appreciate your overreaction.”

He huffs dramatically. “This isn’t an overreaction. This is called deep, passionate concern.”

“You accused a hallway of foul play.”

“And I stand by that.”

You chuckle, gently tugging his hand. “You’re cute when you’re worried.”

“I’m always worried. You’re a walking hazard zone.”

You smirk. “Yet you keep dating me.”

“I like living dangerously,” he says, leaning over to press a kiss to your forehead. “But next time? Text me. I want to hear about your wrist injury from you, not a very bored nurse who said, and I quote, ‘Your partner’s fine. Bit dramatic, though.’”

“Wow. She really captured your energy.”

He narrows his eyes. “Okay. I’m limiting your sarcasm until your wrist heals.”

You laugh, resting your head on his shoulder. “Good luck with that.”

[thespencerrreid]

WHO’S A GOOD PUPPY

i was possessed by a demon to draw caleb in this pose <3

[thespencerrreid]

Wife Speak

Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader

Synopsis: You asked Bucky to install the security camera a month ago, and he still hasn’t done it. You take matters into your own hands, to his vexation.

Warnings: Bucky's been too busy to do what you asked, you put yourself in slight peril, worried!Bucky, gentle manhandling, protective!Bucky, mention of previous injury, my own lack of construction know-how so I apologize for any inaccuracies, no use of Y/N

This is my first time writing in second person so hopefully I did okay! This was inspired by this short I saw on YouTube.

You were good at a lot of things. The team’s go-to “girl in the chair,” there was no one better at intel, strategy, quick escape plans, and getting into just about any system you were presented with. You’d had the Avengers’ lives in your hands countless times, and never led them to put a foot wrong. Somehow, you, a girl with just a bachelor’s degree, a–perhaps excessive–perfectionist streak, and a mini fridge full of energy drinks to help you stay sharp on overnight missions, had become indispensable to the Earth’s mightiest heroes.

But you couldn’t install a security camera above your front door.

As smart as you were, you were probably equally as uncoordinated. All the bruises in odd places told the tale of your frequent misfortune. Walking by itself often presented a perilous challenge, so standing on a ladder, balancing precariously with expensive equipment and sharp objects in your hands seemed like a perfect recipe for a trip to the ER and a costly bill for tech replacements.

Which was why you’d asked your husband, a super soldier with a metal arm and a keen eye for home repairs, to do it.

A month ago.

And three weeks ago.

And two weeks ago.

And last week.

You were tired of waiting. Bucky, of course, was busy, and often away on missions, but you only ever asked him to do it when he had a moment to spare. He’d said he would, every time you’d asked, but there was still no camera above your front door. On top of it all, the camera had been Bucky’s idea, a little extra security for when he was away on missions; it was one of Stark’s smart cameras, which could differentiate between a mailman dropping off a package and a criminal about to break into the house. Bucky didn’t exactly know how all of that worked, but he was good with the installation, and you both knew better than to assign the job to you. But the camera had sat there for a month, collecting dust on the dining room table, and despite all his promises, you knew it was time to take matters into your own hands.

And maybe get a little payback while you were at it.

It was a warm spring day, and the front door was open to let the breeze in but the screen door was in place to keep the bugs out. Bucky was in the kitchen, making lunch, so he’d be able to hear everything easily, between his proximity, the open door, and his enhanced hearing. Smirking to yourself, you set up the ladder as quietly as possible, knowing that that alone would tip Bucky off and make him come rushing out before you were ready. If this was going to get done today, you needed to execute the full plan.

Picking up the electric drill and the mount for the camera, you put one foot up on the ladder, and held down the trigger of the drill for a few seconds, causing a loud whirring sound to tear through the quiet midday air. Just as you took another step up and held down the trigger again, Bucky’s voice carried out from the kitchen.

“Doll?” he questioned, and it took everything in you not to laugh. You gave no answer, instead only whirring the drill once more as you climbed to the top of the ladder. “What are you doing?”

You might have felt bad about the panic and concern in his voice, but if he’d done this a month ago when you’d asked, you wouldn’t have to go to such lengths to have it be done. Natasha had called it wife speak, when women use their sly little tricks to get their husbands to do what they need to. She used it with Banner, Pepper used it with Tony, Wanda used it with Vision; it was a universal language amongst women when requests and orders just weren’t cutting it.

Holding the mount up against the wall, you furrowed your brow in concentration as you tried to figure out how to hold the mount, place the screw, and drill it in all at the same time with only two hands. Judging by the purposeful footsteps pounding towards the front door, you knew you wouldn’t have to keep trying to figure it out for long. Still, you kept up the ruse, because he needed to think you were serious about doing it yourself if he was going to get it done right this minute.

“Baby, what are you doing?” Bucky asked, voice raising with alarm as he found you balancing precariously on top of the small ladder. Paying him no mind, you decided to just wing it and put the drill into the head of the screw, pulling the trigger to send the screw spinning into the wall. For extra effect, you added a little wobble, just enough to make Bucky worry more but not so much that your uncoordinated self would actually fall. “Honey! Stop! What are you doing?”

“What?” you responded innocently, still not turning around. “I’m putting up the camera.”

“Why?” His hands grasped at your waist, but you pushed him away as you continued your ruse and placed the next screw.

“Because it needs to go up?” you said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, because it was, hello, and you’d asked him to do it so many times. Once more, you placed the drill into the screw head and let it rip, watching it spin into place. Maybe you could do it yourself. Maybe impatience was all it took to overcome your incoordination. 

“Baby. Baby, baby, baby.” Bucky’s hands were on your waist again, this time with a firmer grip so you couldn’t brush him off so easily. “Come off the ladder.”

“It needs to go up, Bucky,” you insisted, milking your moment of acting for all it was worth.

“I know, so I’ll do it, okay? Just please, come off the ladder.”

“I’ve asked you a million times over the last month to do it and you still haven’t, so I’m gonna do it and then I’ll know it's done.”

The drill was slightly stuck in the screw head once it was screwed all the way in. You gave it a tug, and the force of it combined with the resistance of the drill to come loose caused you to tip backwards slightly; for a moment, you thought you might fall, but you regained your balance after a second or two. Still, it was a second or two too long for Bucky, who’d had enough of asking nicely and being patient. 

“Alright, that’s it,” he declared, using his strength and his grip on your waist to lift you off the ladder and set you on the wooden boards of the porch like you were little more than a doll. You almost grinned at the move, as being on the receiving end of his enhanced strength and fierce protectiveness always made your stomach do somersaults. By the time he spun you around to face him though, you had regained your self-control and regarded him with a displeased scowl. “What are you doing, huh, doll? You know I don’t like you up on that thing.”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you huffed, “Well, someone has to put the camera up, since you’ve proven yourself incapable.” You turned to step back onto the ladder, but Bucky grasped your arm gently and pulled you to him, maneuvering at the same time to take the drill and the remaining screws from you. You resisted, but even when he was diluting his strength, you couldn’t hope to best him, so instead you started to complain, “Bucky-”

“I know, doll, I know,” he said, voice soft as he pried the drill and screws out of your hands. He pressed a kiss to your forehead and then your nose for extra contrition. “I’m sorry. I should’ve done it when you asked me to, but I’ll do it right now, okay? Just…please stay off the ladder?”

“Why? ‘Cause I’m a girl?”

Bucky chuckled in amusement, his free hand rising to cup your cheek and pull you closer so he could press a sweet kiss to your lips. You melted against him instantly, as you always did, because Bucky always kissed you like he was trying to transfer his heart from his body to yours, deeply and wholly and with every ounce of love that he had. After a moment, he pulled away, though he kept his nose touching yours as his twinkling eyes gazed at you adoringly. “It’s not because you’re a girl, it’s because it’s you, doll. The last time I trusted you with a drill and screws, you drilled your sleeve into the wall and broke your finger trying to pull it free.”

Nose scrunching and lips pouting, you did your best to fight off a smile, trying to lay it on just a little thicker to make sure you would get what you wanted. “Promise you’ll do it right now?”

“Pinky promise.” Bucky held up his pinky finger between you, and you locked yours around it. “You can stay and watch if you want, just to be sure. I think you’ll like the view.”

Rolling your eyes, you gave him another quick peck before stepping back and nodding for him to climb up the ladder. Once his back was turned and he was on the top step, your mischievous smirk returned in full force, not only because of your triumph, but because you really did like the view.

[thespencerrreid]

How I’m gonna be if I don’t pull both his myth cards

[thespencerrreid]

“I’m going to marry your sister.”

atsumu looks at suna like he’s grown another head.

“why the hell would ya wanna do that? she’s a girl… girls are gross,” he wrinkles his nose in disgust. his ten year old friend shakes his head, staring as at the older miya who had accompanied them to the park.

“she’s the most beautiful girl in the whole world,” suna declares confidently.

atsumu snorts and bounces the volleyball he’s holding.

“my sister? nah she’s ugly like a troll,” he giggles at his insult. at thirteen, you’re too busy scrolling through your phone to even pay attention to the boys. before suna can retort, osamu is running up to the two of them and grinning in delight.

“look at this frog i caught!”

their attention is captured and suna forgets about the conversation completely.

until atsumu reminds him. suna’s best friend and best man, standing on a small platform in front of friends and family, grinning with a microphone in hand.

“sunarin here must’ve been a’ prophet or somethin’. because one day he walked up to me all confident and says ‘i’m gonna marry your sister’… and he did just what he said he was gonna do.”

the audience, including you, laughs. you look at suna, eyes crinkling, smiling widely. he smiles back, thinking that you’re still the most beautiful girl in the world.

“rin, y/n’s a suna now, but she’ll always be a miya at heart.”

the crowd awes and suna looks to see his new in-laws sniffling.

“which means, ‘samu and i are gonna give you hell for the rest of your life and worse if ya ever hurt her.”

you snort, reaching over and lacing your fingers with your new husband. he grins, squeezing them gently.

they all know they have nothing to worry about. there had never been anyone else, only you. no other crushes or dates, no one else could ever imagine himself holding hands with.

he brought your palm up to his lips, brushing along the knuckles softly.

“i love you mrs. suna,” he whispers and on the inside, he knows his ten year old self is bursting with joy, even though it took him twelve years, he finally got to call you his.

“and i love you, mr. suna.”

[thespencerrreid]

Need him so bad

painless

of all the ways for you and zayne to spend your day off together, this was by far the least exciting.

for the whole evening, you’d been curled up in bed with relentless cramps, sharp pains shooting through your abdomen every few moments. 

you’d told him the pain was normal for you—that he should go out and enjoy his rare free time instead of fretting over your trembling form. but the unimpressed look he’d given you in response had told you his plans for the night: he was staying.

with no hesitation, he’d changed into pajamas and slid in bed behind you, resting his large, warm palms on your aching waist. 

and against your better judgment—you still wanted him to make the most of his evening—you’d sighed instantly at the contact, leaning further into his embrace. 

as the sun sets, you stay as you are, quietly enjoying each other’s touch while he massages your stomach. 

until one particularly harsh pang nearly takes your breath away, making you flinch in zayne’s arms from the impact. pushing your tender breasts right into his kneading palms. 

“wait,” you wince, squirming in his grasp. “wait, it hurts.”

zayne’s hands vanish from your body in the next half-second.

“what’s the matter?” he asks, soft voice full of remorse. “where did i hurt you?” 

shaking your head, you clasp his arms back around you and return his hands to your belly. but behind you, zayne barely moves. 

“i won’t continue here if it does you more harm than—”

“it wasn’t there,” you interrupt, throat bobbing as you swallow thickly.

“what do you mean?” he prods lightly, a subtle curiosity in his voice hoping to understand. 

“it wasn’t my stomach that hurt. it’s okay,” you breathe, gritting your teeth through another searing pang. “when i’m on my period, my chest just gets…sensitive.”

a few beats of silence. and then—

“can you sit up for me?” he requests gently. “right here. you don’t have to go far.”

as soon as you try to push off the bed, a wave of nausea sends you flopping back down.

“help,” you grumble, face smushed into the mattress. 

chuckling softly, zayne sits upright before carefully lifting your upper body. with his usual precision, he tugs you to sit just in front of him, your back flush against his chest.

“have you ever sought treatment?” he whispers, letting his hands fall in your lap. 

“why would i? sore boobs are hardly the worst thing to come out of this.”

he hums skeptically. “even so, you shouldn’t suffer when there are solutions available. i’d like to try one, if you’ll let me.”

“do whatever. it can’t get any worse,” you sigh in defeat, shuddering as another cramp rocks through you.

slowly, zayne inches his hands under your shirt and up your body, pausing just below your swollen breasts. “may i touch you here?”

exhaling shakily, you fiddle with your own hands. “are you sure you want to…right now? i don’t think it’ll help much.”

“you don’t have to say yes,” he says simply. “but if you do, i’ll stop as soon as you ask me to.”

“if you’re sure,” you start quietly, “then yes.”

a kiss is pressed to your hair before zayne cups your tender breasts in his warm hands.

“ah!” you hiss, involuntarily arching into him. “wait—don’t stop, it just…”

a kiss to your back. palms closing around your chest in a sensual caress. 

a slow, cautious rhythm, squeezes and rubs molding your flesh to his.

as he continues his movements, pain blooms into comfort. your heavy breasts are weightless in his loving hands, relaxing under his gentle care. 

“don’t stop, please,” you gasp, thrusting your chest out for more of him. “it’s almost…almost better, i just need…please.”

“you shouldn’t beg me to lessen your pain,” he whispers. “i’ll do that on my own accord. gladly.” 

just as you nod your understanding, zayne’s fingers find the stiff peaks of your tender nipples. you cry out as he tugs at them, rolling them under his thumbs, but his sweet murmurs into your ear keep you from thrashing in his hold. 

instead, you slump against him in dazed, grateful relief. drowsily, your head lolls back against his shoulder, where he welcomes you with a kiss to your exposed neck. the heat of his devoted hands is all you feel as your eyes flutter closed, putting an end to your body’s civil war. 

sometime in the night, you’re laid back on your side.

and when you wake, a glass of water and medicine capsules greet you, right next to a carefully written note. 

i hope your day is painless. i’ll spend mine thinking of you.

[thespencerrreid]

dead of the night — bucky barnes

bucky calls you, his loyal assistant, in the middle of the night, asking for your help. he’s got four assassins with him and they need a place to hide. you’re too in love with him to say no. SPOILER WARNING!! set during thunderbolts so big plot spoilers

note: I’m honestly not sure how good this is but I’m posting it anyway we ball! disclaimer I totally made some stuff up to make the scenario make sense lol hope u can forgive me

thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader, fluff, kissing, one bed trope, 4k words

You wake to the shrill sound of your phone ringing. At first you think it’s your morning alarm, and wonder why it feels like you’ve only been asleep a few hours. It takes blinking yourself awake to realise it’s still dark out, the street outside your apartment dead quiet. Your phone continues to ring, piercing through the quiet of the night, the screen lit up and flooding the corner of your room in white. You groan. Who on earth is calling you in the middle of the night? 

You sit up dizzily and grab for your phone. You stare blankly at the bright white screen, blinking hard until your eyes adjust and you can see the name that pops up. 

Bucky Barnes. 

You blink at your phone. Your boss? Well, he’s not really your boss, but you are his assistant, and you’re not really sure whether you’re friends or something else entirely, so he might as well be. 

You hit the answer button. 

“Bucky?” You’ve long passed the stage of calling him Congressman Barnes. Besides, any ounce of professionalism left between the two of you has probably now turned to dust, given the ungodly hour of his call.

“Hey.” He sounds tired, his voice strained. “Hey, I’m so sorry, doll, I know it’s late.” 

No kidding. You ignore the fact that he’s called you doll, ‘cos if you think about it too long you’ll be here all night. ”What’s the matter?” You ask. “It’s one in the morning, Bucky.” 

“I know, I’m sorry, but it’s urgent. I need your help.” 

His words make you sit up straighter. Bucky’s been, for lack of better words, distracted lately. On edge, like he’s been waiting for something to happen. He’s been continuously disappearing at important events, and he keeps taking mysterious calls in hushed tones. You hope this has got nothing to do with the call he got from Valentina’s assistant (Mel, you think her name is) last night. He only told you about it because he’d wanted you to cover for him today while he “took care of something,” in his own, ominous words. He’s been MIA all day and you haven’t heard from him until now.

Somehow, you think this has got everything to do with the call from Mel. 

“Are you okay?” You ask on instinct.

“I’m okay, yeah, I’m fine,” he says, brushing you off. “We, uh.. we just need somewhere to hole up for the night.” 

Your brain ticks. “Hold on, we?” 

You can almost hear him wince on the other end of the line. As if on cue, you pick up some muffled voices in the background. A man’s rough voice followed by a woman’s smoother one — and is that a Russian accent? What has he gotten himself into? 

“There's, uh, five of us,” Bucky says, like that makes it any better. 

There’s a long beat of silence. You sit in the dark, still half foggy with sleep, waiting for your brain to catch up with what he’s telling you. He … wants to bring strangers to your place? To what, hide? From who? You’re dumbfounded.

“I— what?” Is all you can manage. 

There’s another short silence, and then Bucky must realise how ridiculous he sounds, because he starts to backtrack. “I’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “I shouldn’t have called, I’ll just—“ 

“No, wait,” you interrupt before you can stop yourself. For reasons unbeknownst to you, you find yourself wanting to help. You trust him, and know he’d never do anything to hurt you. Whoever these people are who’re with him must really need your help. And who else can he call, anyway? “It’s alright, I can help. Come over, okay? How far away are you?” 

Twenty minutes, as it turns out. You spend the time making your apartment and yourself look somewhat presentable, less for your visitors’ sake than your own, and because it’s Bucky.

Bucky, who’s been to your apartment three times now. Once when he got you flowers for your birthday. Another time when you’d mixed up your laptops, and accidentally come home from the office with his instead of yours in your work bag. (He’d come round to pick it up and you’d cleaned the whole place, even though he only stood in the doorway for five minutes.) And the most recent time, when you’d gotten too drunk at the bar after work, and Bucky had walked you home, deposited you in your bed, and locked the door behind him. You don’t remember most of it, but you do remember feeling so so in love with him it made you feel sick. Or maybe that was the whiskey. You doubt it. 

You’re tossing the trash from your takeout dinner in the bin, and trying not to think about how you felt that night, when there’s a knock on the door. Your phone dings on the counter, a text from Bucky. 

It’s me. 

You laugh to yourself. He can be so accidentally ominous sometimes. You cross the living room to the door and open it. 

Five people stand behind it, all in varying states of disarray. Bucky’s at the front, probably the least beat up looking, though his jacket seems to be torn in some places. Two women (girls? They don’t look very much older than you), one with a blunt blonde bob, and one brunette with pretty eyes, both looking a bit worse for wear. One very tall, older man in a red getup that makes him look like Santa Claus - it’s absurd, but somehow you feel even more absurd in your plaid pajama pants. And bringing up the rear is… John Walker? 

“Um, hi?” You say to the group at large. When Bucky said we, you didn’t expect John Walker, of all people, to show up. You try not to stare. “What can I do for you?” 

The blonde girl opens her mouth, looking amused, but Bucky beats her to it. “Funny,” he says bluntly. Then, softer, “Can we come in?” 

You share a look. Bucky has a very intense default gaze, but it seems to soften whenever he looks at you. And right now, he’s looking at you like I’m tired, I need help, just let us in please and I’ll explain. 

You step back with little objection. Something about the way he seems to say trust me with just one look — it gets you every time. If he was a serial killer, you’d surely be dead by now. 

“Alright,” you say. “Wipe your shoes, please.” 

Everyone files into your living room. It’s not a huge space but it’s enough. Walker closes the door behind them. No one sits down. 

“Who is this, again?” The brunette girl asks Bucky, breaking the silence. You assume she means you. 

“We work together. She’s my assistant,” Bucky explains, throwing you an apologetic, somewhat strained, look. “Y/N.” 

“Hello,” you say awkwardly. 

They all just stare at you. You know what they’re thinking. Why on earth would Bucky, former winter soldier, avenger, and now congressman, bring them to his assistant’s place in the middle of the night as if it was a safe house? You’re asking yourself the exact same thing. 

“Y/N, this is Ava, Yelena, Alexei, and John.” Bucky names them off, pointing them out to you as he does. “They— I mean, we just need a place to stay until morning.”

“Remind me again why we couldn’t just go to yours?” Walker pipes up, addressing Bucky. You hate to agree, but you were just about to ask the same question. 

“Valentina’s watching my place,” Bucky explains. “She knows by now that I’ve got you guys with me, she’ll have her people on us in no time if we go to mine.” 

This only confuses you further. Valentina is … watching his house? This is not what you signed up for when you applied for a job as an assistant — it seems both you and Bucky are in over your heads. Though maybe you should’ve expected it, Bucky being a former Avenger and all.

The others seem to understand Bucky’s explanation far better than you do, and they all look to you expectantly. 

You look at the group of strangers, then at Bucky, then back at the strangers. They’re all standing there rather awkwardly. At their best, they’d probably be the toughest looking group you’ve ever seen, but right now they look dead beat, covered in bruises, dark bags under their eyes, and you suddenly feel very sorry for them.

“I— yeah, okay,” you say. They’re already in your living room, already know where you live, what’s it matter now? “You can stay for the night. Make yourselves at home, guys. There’s water in the fridge and the bathroom is down the hall to the left.” 

The brunette — Ava, Bucky called her — gives you a tight smile. “Thanks,” she says, and collapses on your sofa. 

The others follow suit, though Walker stays standing with his arms crossed. 

Pleasantries over, you grab Bucky’s arm and tug him down the hallway. He follows willingly, though you don’t give him much choice. You end up in your bedroom, where you corner him. 

“Bucky, what’s going on?” You whisper harshly.  “Who are those people? Why would Valentina be watching your place? And why is John Walker here?” 

You’re so busy bombarding him with questions that you don’t notice the way he’s holding his arm, not until you’ve finished speaking. Your eyes drop to his forearm. The fabric of his jacket has been slashed open, and there’s blood all over the sleeve. 

“Oh,” you say stupidly, then even more so, “Bucky, you’re bleeding.” 

Bucky grimaces. “I know, doll.” 

You grab his arm, forgoing politeness, and hold it up to your face. 

“It’s looks bad,” you say, forgetting you’re not supposed to care about him as much as you do.

You look up and find your face inches from his, his arm clutched between you. You suddenly feel very hot.

“Let’s, um,” you flounder for a few seconds, flustered not only by everything that’s happened in the last half hour but also his closeness, and the look on his face. “I have a first aid kit in the bathroom, I think. Come on.” 

You guide him out of your room and across the hallway into the bathroom. You forget to ask why he’s bought a hoard of what look like trained assassins into your home, and force him to sit on the lip of the bathtub, pushing him down by the shoulders. He scrapes hair out of his face with his metal arm and looks up at you where you’re rummaging through the cupboard above the sink. 

“Y/N, I’m—“ 

“Don’t say you’re fine,” you interrupt. He shuts his mouth and you go on, “Are any of your friends hurt?” 

Bucky pulls a face. “They’re not really my friends,” he says. “And no, none of them are hurt, they’re just tired.” 

You nod, accepting his answer for the meanwhile, even though it only opens up about a million more questions. A moment later you finally find what you’re looking for, a red and white first aid kit tucked away at the back of the cupboard, collecting dust.

You move to stand in front of Bucky, opening up the kit and setting it on the toilet lid. 

“Show me?” You stick your hand out for his wounded arm and he gives it to you with no objection. 

You hold his wrist and carefully push his sleeve up over the wound, revealing a harsh cut across the length of his forearm. On closer inspection, it’s not horribly deep, the blood only makes it look that way. 

Still, you frown. “How did you manage this?” You ask him. 

Bucky looks for a second like he’s reliving whatever happened to cause such an injury. He searches for the words, then, “I sort of flipped a truck?” he says. “Long story.” 

Flipped a truck? Whose truck? You raise your eyebrows at him but ultimately decide it's fruitless to keep asking questions, at least until he decides to explain what’s going on. 

“Right… I’m gonna clean it, okay?” You drop his arm to pull out a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the first aid kit, unscrewing the lid and dabbing the liquid onto a cotton pad. “It might hurt.” 

Bucky looks like he’s trying not to roll his eyes. “I’m tough, doll.” 

You clean his wound as best you can. You only sort of know what you’re doing, a half remembered first aid course you took in college sitting at the back of your mind, but Bucky doesn’t protest. Actually, he doesn’t make a sound at all, just watches you with those dark eyes. It makes you nervous, like he’s looking right through you and reading all your inner thoughts. The worst part is, he’s always looking at you like this, like he can read your mind, to the point where you’re pretty sure he knows all your secrets. Like how you’re desperately in love with him and have no idea what to do about it. 

You continue your work, quiet. The silence is heavy, a sort of unspoken feeling floating between the two of you like a white hot star. You want to reach out and grab it, see if Bucky will follow, but you keep your mouth shut. 

You’re unraveling a roll of bandage to wrap his arm when you finally speak. “So, are you gonna tell me why you brought a bunch of assassins into my home In the dead of the night?” You laugh at your own joke, but the look on Bucky’s face stops you short. “They’re… they’re not assassins, are they?” 

Bucky purses his lips. “Well, you’re not very far off…” 

He launches into an explanation, finally. First, of what Valentina’s really been up to. Project Sentry — putting a gold ribbon and a promise of a better life on a special super serum, and testing it on the most vulnerable subjects she could find. Then, how she rushed to eliminate all proof of the project, including the four people in your living room (who turn out to actually be trained assassins, though Bucky promises none of them will hurt you), and Bob, one of the test subjects. 

Then he tells you about how he tracked Mel’s phone to a site in the middle of nowhere, where he found Yelena, Ava, John and Alexei in a “predicament,” and “saved their asses,” as he puts it. He spares you the details, but it's how he sliced his arm open, and why they’re now retreating to yours to regain their strength before going after Bob. Bob, who’s vulnerable but much stronger than he probably knows, and who Valentina now has in her clutches. 

By the time he’s done explaining, you’ve realised how much bigger this is than just you and Bucky. For days this has all been happening without your knowledge and Bucky has been dealing with it all. You’re not annoyed, you get why he didn’t tell you. Still, you wish he’d asked for your help earlier. 

“So, you’re going after Bob?” You ask, carefully tucking in the end of the bandage. You spent half of his explanation just staring at him, hardly believing what he was saying, and the other half wrapping his arm, trying to believe what he was saying, no matter how ludicrous it sounded. 

Bucky nods. “I guess so. He could be dangerous in Valentina’s hands, you know?” 

You nod back. “Yeah, I get it. Won’t it be dangerous, though? Going after him? 

You say it before you’ve thought about it. You realise right after that it makes you sound like you care far too much about the man sitting in front of you, who’s really just the guy you file documents for. You don’t owe him anything. 

Bucky smiles. “Don’t worry, doll. We’ve got four assassins on our side, five if you count me.” 

You frown. “You’re not an assassin.” 

You don’t care what he’s done in the past, you can’t see him as anything else but lovely. He’s brave, kind, and so thoughtful it aches. 

Still, Bucky shrugs. “Used to be.” 

You pack up the first aid kit and put it away. Bucky watches you, his gaze like a burning fire on the back of your head. When you’re done cleaning up, he stands up and crosses the room, meeting you by the sink. 

“Thank you,” he says, earnest though his voice is rough from exhaustion. “You make a good nurse.” 

For some odd reason, butterflies erupt in your gut at his words. You look up at him. He’s very close now, only a step or two away from being chest to chest. You manage a grin. 

“That’s me,” you say, faux casual. “Best nurse and assistant you’ve ever had, huh?” 

You might be imagining it, but you’re pretty sure Bucky’s eyes flicker to your lips. He’s distracted as he murmurs, “Uh huh.” 

A beat of silence, and then Bucky takes a step closer. Your chest burns. He raises his vibranium arm, and you watch as his silver fingers close around your forearm. You can’t feel it through your sweater, but you can imagine how smooth the metal would feel on your skin. 

“Bucky,” you whisper. 

“Mm,” he hums back. He’s definitely looking at your lips now, and moving closer by the second. “What, doll?” 

You blink rapidly. He’s so close now you can smell him, sweat and dust but underneath that something heady, a bergamot cologne you’ve smelled on him before. 

“I— what are you doing?” You whisper, starting to panic. 

Bucky looks at you, this intense look of yearning in his eyes, like he’s being pulled towards you and can’t stop, and you almost melt into the bathroom tiles. 

“I want to kiss you,” he murmurs, so quiet it’d be impossible to hear him if he weren’t this close. “Can I?” 

You sort of guessed as much, but to hear the words coming from his mouth is something else entirely. You find yourself nodding. You don't know why. Well, actually, you know exactly why. You like him a lot, and you’ve imagined this moment a million times over in your head, though in your imaginations he certainly wasn’t bleeding out in your tiny bathroom.

“Okay,” you manage, heartbeat turning frantic. 

You see a flash of his smile before he’s pulling you gently forwards by the wrist and then kissing you. It’s chaste, gentle, but you can almost feel him holding back, his grip on your wrist tightening as he moves closer still, almost like he can’t help himself. The pressure of his kissing pushes you backwards a half inch — your back hits the edge of the sink and you don't care, you really don’t, because Bucky is kissing you and his thumb is rubbing a rough circle into your inner forearm, and his lips are so warm they leave yours buzzing.

Too soon, Bucky pulls away. 

You blink at him. He’s still agonisingly close to your face, and still looking at you like he wants to eat you. Your heart’s a riot, worse when he reaches up with his freshly bandaged arm and tucks a rogue piece of hair behind your ear. 

His hand lingers at your jaw. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs. His hand is warm. His fingers are calloused and rough, but he touches you like you’re made of starlight. “Is it okay that I did that?” 

You nod. “Yes,” you manage. Even to your own ears, you sound breathless as anything, but you’re so dizzy that there’s no space to be embarrassed about it. “I— yeah.” 

Bucky smiles, but it’s not smug. If anything, it’s achingly fond. “I’m sorry I called. I shouldn’t have roped you into this. I just … didn’t have anyone else I could call.” 

You shake your head. You won’t say it, but right now you’re infinitely glad he called. Even in the dead of the night. “It’s okay.” 

Bucky strokes your jaw with his thumb, slow and intentional. “No one will hurt you while I’m here, okay? And we’ll be out of here before you even wake up, I promise.” 

You nod around his hand. It’s hard to digest anything he’s saying while he’s touching you like this, and looking at you like that. You think you get the gist, though. 

“Okay,” you say. You desperately want to kiss him again, but you’re much too shy to ask. Before you can work up the guts, he’s moving away. 

“I think you should get back to bed,” he tugs his phone from his jacket pocket and checks the time. “It’s past two.” 

“Right,” you nod, not wanting to, but you’re too dizzy and too tired to protest. 

You and Bucky leave the bathroom together. You follow him still half in a daze, not understanding how he can be so nonchalant when you literally feel lightheaded as a direct result of the kiss. You suppose he’s just better at hiding it, or maybe you’re just very sick in love. 

You and Bucky step into the living room to find probably the most absurd scene to ever grace your living space. Yelena and Ava, both knocked out on the couch, Ava’s head on Yelena’s shoulder, drool falling from the blonde’s open mouth. Alexei sprawled out on the floor in front of the TV, snoring like a bear. And Walker sitting at your kitchen table, bent in half with his forehead resting on his crossed arms, fast asleep.

Both you and Bucky seem to realise at the exact same time that there’s nowhere other than a much too small chunk of floor for him to sleep. You turn to each other. 

“Do you want to—?” You start. 

“I can sleep in the—“ he says at the same time. 

You both pause. 

“Sleep in the what?” You ask him, incredulous. 

Bucky grimaces. “The car?” He at least has the decency to look guilty as he says it. 

You roll your eyes. “You’re absurd. Come on, you can sleep in my room.” 

It’s ridiculous, you know, but the words leave your mouth before you think about it. The truth is, you’re both dead tired and you’ve got no other option. Besides, you don't see how this night could get any more ludicrous. What’s it matter if Bucky sleeps in your room? He’s just kissed you, hasn’t he? 

You start to pull him towards your bedroom, but he stays put. 

“Y/N—“ 

“You said you wouldn’t let any of them hurt me,” you say firmly. “How’re you gonna do that from the car?” 

Bucky opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. 

“I… don't know,” he mumbles lamely. Then, at your I told you so look, “Are you sure?” 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. He’s too gentlemanly for his own good. “Yes, I’m sure. Come on.” 

You pull him towards your bedroom, much too tired now to be flustered about it. In the dark of your room, Bucky insists on sleeping on the floor. You let him, because he’s stubborn, and because you think if he were to sleep in your bed, no matter the distance you know he’d put between you, you’d be much too consumed with nervous energy to even shut your eyes, let alone sleep. 

It’s half past two when you finally crawl back into bed, Bucky lying on a stack of pillows on the floor at the foot of your bed. Though you can't see him, you feel his presence like a weight over your chest. 

You settle down on your pillows, already feeling the tug of sleep behind your eyes. Before you can fully succumb, Bucky speaks up. 

“Y/N?” He sounds just as tired as you, but you can't ignore the way he says your name like it's something special. 

“Yeah?” You hum back. 

“Thank you,” he says earnestly. You suppose he’s thanking you for everything from housing a bunch of strangers, to letting him kiss you. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” 

A pause in which you think about how to respond. Then, 

“With a pay raise?” You joke weakly. 

Bucky sighs loudly, but the smile in his voice is evident when he murmurs back, “Whatever you want, doll.” 

You grin to yourself. Now that’s something you can fall asleep to. 

-

thank you for reading! please consider reblogging if you enjoyed 🤍

[thespencerrreid]

PAIRINGS. . . caleb x reader

CW . . idk domestic calebmc bc im running out of ideas pls send reqs (˶˃⤙˂˶)

the clock on the wall read 3:47 AM. the house was quiet, the world outside blanketed in peaceful stillness. but here you were, standing in the dimly lit kitchen, wearing nothing but one of calebs’s oversized shirts, spooning nutella straight from the jar like a criminal.

you had been as silent as possible—at least, you thought you were—until a deep, sleepy voice suddenly broke the silence.

“…babe?”

you nearly jumped out of your skin, spinning around to see caleb standing in the doorway, hair a mess, eyes heavy with sleep. he was shirtless, just wearing a pair of loose gray sweats that hung low on his hips. he blinked at you, taking in the scene—the jar of nutella in your hand, the spoon halfway to your mouth, the guilty look on your face.

“what… are you doing?” he asked, voice raspy from sleep.

you quickly shoved the spoon into your mouth, mumbling through the chocolate, “nothing.”

caleb narrowed his eyes, stepping closer. “nothing,” he stopped in front of you, leaning down slightly so his nose was almost touching yours. “did my baby get midnight cravings?”

you nodded sheepishly, licking your lips. “i was trying not to wake you…”

caleb hummed, tilting his head. “cute,” he murmured before swiftly plucking the jar from your hands.

“hey!” you whined as he grabbed the spoon from your hand and took a huge scoop.

he grinned cheekily. “mmm. so sweet.”

you pouted. “it’s my snack.”

caleb only chuckled as he leaned against you. his body was so warm, so solid, and the way he nuzzled his nose into your hair made you melt instantly.

he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. then another to your nose. then one to your lips—slow and sweet, the taste of chocolate lingering between you.

when he pulled away, he smirked. “mh. nutella’s good, but you taste better.”

you groaned, shoving him lightly. “caleb!”

he only laughed, setting the spoon and nutella jar down and hoisting you up onto the counter effortlessly. “since we’re already up… should we make pancakes?”

your eyes lit up. “with strawberries?”

“and whipped cream,” he added.

you grinned. “deal.”

masterlist ⋆˚꩜ send me a kofi !

[thespencerrreid]

✨💖✨💖✨ Manifesting Master of Fate will come home to my MOF girlies @nerdyladyrebel @solifloris @deepspacenova @vesearlee ✨💖✨💖✨

[thespencerrreid]

AT LEAST KISS THE BRICK BEFORE YOU THROW IT

Dawnbreaker is my roman empire.

[thespencerrreid]

Sitting on a swinging bench with Sylus, leaning against his side, head on his chest. You're fast asleep, but even still he keeps humming. Gentle fingers, hands that have murdered and hurt and killed, playing with your hair. Deep red eyes that terrify, softened as he watches over you

Soft petals dance on the wind and land in your hair. He chuckles softly as he brushes them aside, stirring you awake. Your face scrunches up, consciousness starting to set in, but Sylus shushes you and pulls your head back in against his chest and tells you to go back to sleep. A minute of his humming, and you're slipping away again

Your child has slipped away from the Twin's babysitting, running barefoot over to the bench. Sylus has to gently shush them, too, telling them to be quiet, it's your naptime, as he helps them up into his lap. They curl up against him, staring at you and the round swell of your belly. They look up at him, pointing at it

"My new baby brother is in there?"

He smiles, nods. "Or baby sister."

They stare again. "How does it fit?"

"They're very small right now," he whispers. "You were once that size."

"Really?" they gasp

"Mhm."

You stir with a small sound of discomfort. Sylus holds you closer, rubbing soothing circles over your bump. He feels the source; this baby has been restless, kicking his poor dear so often you don't get to sleep at night

Your child frowns in worry as they watch on. "What's wrong with mama?"

Sylus kisses their head reassuringly. "The baby is moving around. It can be uncomfortable. Do you want to feel it?"

They nod excitedly. He takes their little hand and guides it over the last spot he felt it. They wait a moment together. Then- kick! Your child jolts a little in surprise at the feeling, pulling their hand back with a gasp that has Sylus chuckling to himself. He reacted much the same way the first time he felt them kick in the womb. You'd laughed at the concern on his face, just before another kick knocked the wind out of you. He smiles fondly at the memory, at the joy of being new parents

You stir again, and he returns to comforting you. He taps your child on the back. "Run along and play now," he says. "Mama needs to keep resting."

They nod and slip off his lap. They look at you and your swollen belly a moment longer, before running off, back to tormenting the Twins

Sylus gently rocks the swing back and forth, back and forth, humming a song once more. It's one you'd introduced him to, though you'd never recognize it. You haven't cared for a long time about that, though; you just like the way his voice sounds

The spring afternoon passes in peace

[thespencerrreid]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐈𝐍𝐉𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐃

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

The forest was silent. Too silent. Xavier felt it in his bones before the emergency signal even reached his com-device. His muscles tensed, lowering his sword as the vibration against his wrist sent ice through his veins.

He abandoned the trail immediately, feet pounding against the earth as he raced back to the location informed about the injured hunters. His knuckles whitened as they dug into the skin of his palm until it almost bled. Despite never doubting your abilities for a moment, he was consumed by a desperate wish that he had been there to prevent this from happening.

When he finally reached the hospital, the fluorescent lights overhead cast harsh shadows across his face. The sight of you, broken and bloodied on the stretcher, caused something to fracture inside him. He stood paralyzed in the doorway, watching as medics rushed around your unconscious form, their voices fading to white noise.

“Hunter down, multiple lacerations, possible internal bleeding...”

One step. Two. He was beside your bed now, his hand hovering inches from yours, afraid that his touch might somehow hurt you more. A nurse tried to usher him away, but the look in his eyes made her step back. He was trying so hard to pull himself together, but the facade was crumbling.

“I’m staying,” he said simply, the words leaving no room for argument.

Days passed in a sterile blur. Xavier didn’t move from the uncomfortable chair beside your bed. He didn’t eat. There was a day when he slept like he was dead, with your hand clutched tight in his to feel your pulse. He’d just watched your chest rise and fall, as if his vigilance alone could keep you tethered to this world.

When your squad members came to visit, they brought news—the mission area had been mysteriously cleared out. No Wanderers remained. Not one. The cleanup had been thorough, leaving no traces behind. Nobody had seen who did it.

One of your colleagues shifted uncomfortably under Xavier’s gaze. “Strangest thing. Like they vanished overnight. Even the nest we couldn’t breach was empty.”

Xavier simply nodded, his thumb tracing small circles on your palm.

When the doctor suggested he get some rest, Xavier simply shook his head, eyes never leaving your face. He wouldn’t leave your side until he was completely assured that you were going to be okay.

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” he promised, the words meant only for you despite your unconscious state. “I’ll always be here.”

Only when you stirred slightly, days later, did something change in his expression—a softening around the eyes, the faintest tremor in his steady hands. He leaned forward, close enough that only you could hear the whisper.

“I will always find you. Always.”

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

The operating room doors burst open as another trauma case rolled in. Zayne was mid-consultation when his pager buzzed with the emergency code. Standard procedure—until he glimpsed your face beneath the oxygen mask. Despite his professional exterior, panic was building inside him like a storm, threatening to break through his carefully maintained composure.

His clipboard clattered to the floor. “Get Doctor Dean,” he ordered sharply, already moving toward the gurney. “I know this patient.”

“Sir, protocol states—” the resident began.

“Get. Doctor. Dean.” His voice cut like a scalpel. The young doctor scrambled away as Zayne reached for your hand, his practiced fingers automatically finding your pulse.

“BP dropping, multiple trauma, suspected hemorrhage,” the paramedic rattled off. “Combat injury, ambush scenario.”

Zayne’s mind raced. As a former combat medic who’d seen countless injuries, he’d treated soldiers under artillery fire, but this—this was different. This was personal. Seeing your blood soaking through the bandages twisted his insides in ways combat never had.

“Doctor Zayne, you need to step back,” Doctor Dean said firmly, already moving to intercept him. “You know protocol.”

“I’m her physician,” Zayne countered, his voice tight as he tried to get closer.

Doctor Dean blocked his path. “Your emotions will compromise your judgment. We’ve got her.”

Zayne’s fists clenched at his sides as they wheeled you toward the operating room. Every instinct screamed at him to follow, to take control, to fix you himself. Instead, he was forced to watch through the observation window, a spectator to your fight for survival, his mind a whirlwind of unbridled fear.

Hours passed like years. His colleagues offered coffee, suggested he rest. He didn’t respond. His eyes never left the monitors displaying your vital signs, gripping the observation window’s edge so tightly his knuckles turned white.

In your recovery room, Zayne sat perfectly still, your hand clasped between both of his. His thumbs pressed against your wrist, monitoring your pulse as if the machines couldn’t be trusted. Others who passed by the room hardly recognized the distinguished cardiac surgeon in the haggard man who refused to leave your side.

Yvonne entered to adjust your IV, giving Zayne a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Doctor Zayne, you should get some rest.”

“I’ll sleep when she wakes up,” he replied without looking up, his professional demeanor completely abandoned.

When your eyelids finally fluttered open, his composure cracked just enough for you to see the storm that had been raging beneath.

“Don’t you dare,” he whispered hoarsely, “ever scare me like that again.”

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

The gallery was packed for Rafayel’s showcase, champagne flowing as critics and collectors mingled among his latest masterpieces. Thomas beamed at the turnout, already calculating the evening’s profits.

Then Rafayel’s phone rang.

The transformation was instant. The smile vanished from his face, replaced by an expression Thomas had never seen before—horror and fear combined. All thoughts of the gallery, the collectors, his artwork—everything disappeared in an instant.

The champagne flute shattered on the marble floor. Rafayel was already moving, shoving through the crowd without a word of explanation.

“Rafayel! Where are you—the collector from Rome is waiting to meet you!” Thomas called after him, but Rafayel was already gone, racing down the steps two at a time, car keys in hand.

The sports car’s tires screeched against the asphalt as he tore through traffic lights, honking frantically at slower vehicles, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. When another driver cut him off, Rafayel slammed his fist against the horn, a string of curses falling from his lips. His hands shook violently on the steering wheel, heart racing faster than the car.

“Move!” he screamed, swerving dangerously into the next lane. “Get out of my way!”

The hospital parking lot wasn’t meant for the kind of turn he attempted. The car scraped against a concrete pillar, but Rafayel didn’t spare it a second glance as he abandoned it half in a disabled spot, keys still in the ignition..

At the reception desk, his hands trembled so violently he could barely hold your ID card. “Where is she?” he demanded, voice cracking. “Please, I need to see her now.”

When they finally led him to your room, Rafayel froze in the doorway. Tubes and wires connected you to machines that beeped rhythmically, monitoring the life still flickering within you. Your skin was ashen, eyes closed, chest barely rising with each shallow breath.

“No, no, no,” he whispered, approaching slowly as if afraid you might shatter. He sank into the chair beside your bed, taking your limp hand between his. “Cutie, please. Can you hear me?”

A nurse offered him a blanket as night fell, but Rafayel shook his head. Hours passed. His stomach growled, but he ignored it. There would be no painting, no eating, no sleeping—nothing until you were stable.

When his phone rang—Thomas, undoubtedly—he silenced it without looking.

As dawn broke, a doctor found him still awake, your hand pressed to his lips, whispering promises only you could hear.

“She’s stabilizing,” the doctor said gently. “But recovery will take time.”

Rafayel simply nodded, eyes never leaving your face. “Time is all I have to give.”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

The notification from Mephisto came during a crucial meeting with the N109 Zone’s security council. The mechanical crow landed urgently on his shoulder, displaying the screen that showed what had just happened. Usually, Mephisto watched over your missions, keeping Sylus informed, but this time—something had gone terribly wrong.

He stopped speaking so abruptly that everyone at the table turned to stare. The blood drained from his face as the footage streamed directly to his personal display—you, surrounded and overwhelmed, fighting until you couldn’t anymore.

“Boss?” one of them ventured. “Should we continue with—”

“Meeting adjourned,” Sylus declared, already on his feet. “Indefinitely.”

No further explanation. No delegation of responsibilities. The council exchanged bewildered glances as the leader strode from the room, his coat billowing behind him, a storm of fury and fear brewing beneath his composed exterior.

Minutes later, the distinctive roar of his motorcycle echoed through the compound as he tore toward Linkon City, weaving through traffic at speeds that turned the world around him into a blur. The only clear thought in his mind was reaching you.

When he arrived at the emergency ward you were in, no one dared question why this person with an imposing, dangerous aura was storming through their halls.

The doctor who approached him looked nervous when Sylus started to ask questions, not bothering to mention who he was. “Mister, she’s lost a significant amount of blood. We’ve managed to stabilize her, but—”

“Show me,” Sylus commanded.

Your room was silent save for the mechanical beeping of monitors. Sylus stopped in the doorway, taking in the sight of you lying motionless, bandages covering much of your visible skin, an oxygen mask obscuring half your face.

Without a word, he pulled a chair to your bedside and sat, taking your hand in his.

“I need the names,” he said to the empty room, calling either Luke or Kieran. “Everyone involved. Every detail. Now.” Whether it was Wanderers or some shady people who did this, he would eliminate them all, leaving no traces behind.

As night fell, he remained at your side, one hand holding yours while the other tapped commands into his device, as he kept tapping his feet from either impatience or anxiousness. He wouldn’t let himself breathe peacefully until he knew you were okay.

Only when you stirred slightly, a small sound of pain escaping your lips, did his facade crack. He leaned forward, brushing hair from your forehead with such gentleness.

“Rest,” he murmured. “I’ll handle everything else.”

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

Caleb’s comm device blared the emergency alert in his office—a sound it was programmed to make for only one person’s vitals. The color drained from his face as he stared at the readout, the severity of your condition displayed in harsh red numbers.

Nothing else mattered. Not Skyhaven, not his duties, not anything except reaching you.

The hangar technicians scrambled as he approached, his expression sending them into immediate action. “Prepare my craft for immediate departure,” he ordered, already climbing into the cockpit.

“Sir, the preflight checks—”

“Now!” The word echoed through the hangar, silencing all objections.

The journey that should have taken hours was compressed into a white-knuckled descent that violated at least six safety protocols. As the craft touched down on the hospital’s landing pad, security personnel rushed forward, only to stop short when they recognized the Colonel’s insignia.

“Where is she?” he demanded of the first orderly he encountered inside, frantically searching for you.

His uniform opened doors that would have remained closed to others. When he reached the ICU, the attending physician intercepted him, datapad in hand.

“Colonel, she’s sustained significant trauma. We’ve induced a coma to manage the—”

“Take me to her.” It wasn’t a request.

The sight of you connected to life support sent a visible tremor through his body. This was worse than any nightmare he’d ever imagined.

“I should have been there,” he whispered, sinking into the chair beside you. His fingers brushed against yours, then curled around your hand. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

His mind was already calculating retribution. Whoever had done this—be it Wanderers or other enemies—they will pay for this.

Days passed. Nurses came and went. Messages from Skyhaven accumulated, unanswered. Caleb remained unmoved, his thumb tracing circles on your palm as if trying to coax you back to consciousness through touch alone. 

“Colonel, you should rest,” she suggested gently.

“I’m fine,” he responded, voice hoarse from disuse.

When you finally began to stir days later, Caleb was there, his face the first thing you saw as consciousness returned. Relief washed over his features as he pressed his forehead to your hand, shoulders shaking with silent relief.

“Welcome back, sleepyhead,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your knuckles. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Behind his smile, the knowledge that those responsible had already answered for their actions. But that was a conversation for another day. For now, you were awake, and nothing else mattered.

Another draft out. Also based on this request.