#I don’t even care who it’s about anymore

[dreamscapeee222]

OHello, I hope you are well, I was looking at your blog and I loved your writing style <3

Can I ask for a scenario with Arcane characters where the reader is Isekai? Like he knows everything that will happen in the series and is actively avoiding the events that will cause serious problems

Thank you in advance

A/n: Hello :) Thank you so much !! Ooh this is something I've never really done before. I've tried my best and I hope it suits what you had in mind <3

Vi, Jinx, Caitlyn, Ekko, Jayce, Viktor, Mel

Masterlist

Vi

When you first arrive in Piltover, Vi notices how you’re more guarded, more careful than she’s ever seen you. At first, she doesn’t understand why, but when you slip up and mention something that hasn’t happened yet, she starts to get suspicious.

You're always trying to avoid certain people, certain places. The dangerous ones. She picks up on it, and it’s a little unsettling at first, like you know too much about the future. But she doesn’t ask—you’ve got your own reasons.

She starts to trust you more, though. Maybe you don’t tell her everything, but she can tell when you’re genuinely trying to keep her safe. When things get tense, and she’s about to charge in headfirst (like always), you pull her back. “Not this time,” you say, and she just listens. You’ve seen how these moments turn out, and she trusts you enough not to question it.

It’s not just about saving her anymore. You’ve got a whole new layer of connection. When she’s caught off guard, when she needs reassurance, your presence calms her, like you’re already a step ahead of what’s coming. You’re the one she turns to when things feel uncertain, because you’re the one who’s already lived through it.

Jinx

She knows something’s off about you, but she doesn’t care. At first, the randomness of your actions makes her laugh—avoiding certain fights, dodging obvious traps, steering clear of people she knows you don’t want to be around.

But then, when things start to get real, and you stop her from making a massive mistake—again, and again—she starts to feel it. You’re not just avoiding danger for the fun of it; you're trying to change the course of things. And, honestly, she’s scared.

You’re always pulling her away from situations, keeping her out of the chaos before it even begins. She hates it, but she also loves it, because in some twisted way, you’re saving her from herself.

The more time you spend together, the more she realizes she needs you. When the madness swells inside of her, and she can’t keep the craziness in check, you’re the one who calms her down. It’s not like she’d admit it, but it’s your presence that’s holding her together in a way no one else can. And, in a strange way, she starts to rely on you—not for fixing things, but for knowing exactly when things can’t be fixed, and when it’s okay to pull back.

Caitlyn

Caitlyn’s more methodical than the others, but she’s no stranger to sensing when something’s off. You’ve mentioned things before, offhandedly—nothing too direct, but enough to make her question. You know things, things that haven’t happened yet.

She watches you closely, your movements, the way you take certain routes, steer clear of certain areas, and try to talk people down from fights before they escalate. It’s not like she hasn’t seen it before, but there’s something different about you.

When things start going south—like, really south—she turns to you. “You’ve seen this before, haven’t you?” It’s not an accusation. It’s a quiet plea, because even Caitlyn, with all her careful planning, knows that sometimes fate is too big to outsmart.

You never tell her everything, but you don’t have to. In those moments of danger, when things feel out of control, she just trusts you. The way you guide her through the mess, calm her down when she wants to rush into something she knows will go wrong... it’s something she never realized she needed.

Ekko

Ekko always feels like he’s on the edge of something. He’s used to being a step ahead, but when you show up in his life—aware of things that haven’t happened yet—it’s like someone just dropped a stone in his perfect, planned world.

You’re always telling him to hold off on certain plans, and at first, he brushes it off. Then, when he sees how much better things turn out when he listens��when you steer him away from a fight, or when you help him avoid a trap—it gets harder for him to ignore the fact that you might know more than you let on.

He doesn’t say much about it. But there’s a subtle shift in the way he looks at you. He’s learning to trust your judgment, even when it goes against his instincts. Because he’s seen it. You’re keeping him safe. And somewhere deep down, he’s grateful, even if he’ll never admit it out loud.

Jayce

Jayce is all about forward momentum. He wants to believe that everything can be fixed, that they can change the world without the same mistakes being repeated. But you’re always holding him back.

There’s no question—you’ve seen it. You know where things go wrong, and you’re actively steering him away from it. The first time you call him out for heading toward a decision that’s going to end badly, he’s annoyed. He wants to argue. But when you look him in the eye, when you don’t back down, it stirs something in him.

As much as he wants to figure things out on his own, he can’t deny that you’re saving him from making the same mistakes. And slowly, when things begin to spiral, he starts to trust you. Not just as someone who knows, but as someone who cares. He’s never been one to lean on someone for help, but when you’re beside him, he finds himself relying on you more and more.

You’re the one who teaches him to think before acting—slow down, take a breath, and listen.

Viktor

Viktor’s not the type to be surprised easily. But when you start actively steering him away from certain people, situations, and plans, he starts to wonder. You’ve seen things. Things that haven’t happened yet.

At first, he tries to brush it off, thinking that maybe you’ve just got some uncanny instincts. But when you pull him away from something disastrous, and things go exactly the way you warned him about, he can’t pretend anymore.

You don’t say much. You don’t need to. But he starts to rely on your quiet guidance, the way you understand his hesitation before he even knows what’s coming. When the future starts to feel inevitable, you’re the one thing in his life that feels like a choice.

He doesn’t say it, but he’s grateful for you—more than he can express. You give him a sense of control over his own fate, something that’s been slipping through his fingers for so long.

Mel

Mel is the calmest of them all. She’s used to thinking ahead, playing the long game, and making careful decisions. But when she meets you, when she sees you quietly avoiding certain situations, people, and places, she starts to wonder if maybe you’ve seen things she hasn’t.

You never say much about your knowledge, but you never need to. She watches how you act around her—how you prevent things from spiraling, how you guide her through situations that could have ended terribly.

She’s not one to let others have control over her life, but she starts to trust you in ways she didn’t expect. She never asks you about the future directly, but when things start to get tense, she’s always looking at you first. You have a way of calming her, of knowing what to do before it even happens.

And, though she’d never admit it, she finds herself leaning on you more. Because you’re the only one who makes the future feel like something she can still control.

Requests may be sent through the ask box. Only SFW.

[solxamber]

Desperate Confessions with: Jamil Viper, Sebek Zigvolt

Others: Riddle and Leona

Jamil Viper

The kitchen was filled with the soothing clatter of utensils and the faint aroma of simmering spices. You were chopping vegetables with practiced ease, seamlessly slipping into the rhythm of Jamil's kitchen. He stole a glance at you—your focused expression, the casual way you moved as though this chaotic dance of preparation was second nature to you.

You didn't hesitate to reach for the salt he needed, passing it wordlessly, or to stir a pot he’d left unattended while juggling a dozen other tasks.

It wasn’t the first time you’d done this—helped him without making it a grand gesture, without expecting recognition. But today, something was different. Today, it felt like a dam broke inside him.

Jamil stopped chopping, the knife trembling slightly in his hand. His heart pounded against his ribs, a wild, relentless drumbeat that left him breathless. You were talking, something light and offhanded about how he always managed to make dinner look easy despite everything. But the words blurred in his mind, drowned by the overwhelming realization that he couldn’t keep holding this in.

He couldn’t keep swallowing his feelings, pretending that the way you effortlessly lightened his burdens didn’t mean the world to him.

The air felt charged as he set down the knife, turning to face you. His hands clenched at his sides, his breathing uneven.

“Jamil?” you asked, your voice laced with concern. “What’s wrong?”

He took a step closer, his eyes locked onto yours. “I—” He paused, his voice faltering as a wave of emotion surged through him. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, trying to gather himself, but it was no use. The words spilled out in a rush, raw and desperate.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he confessed, his voice low but trembling with intensity. “I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t drive me insane—how you’re always there, always helping, always making everything easier without even realizing it. You don’t expect anything, you don’t ask for anything, and it—it’s too much.”

Your eyes widened, and you opened your mouth to respond, but he continued, unable to stop now that he’d started.

“I don’t just want your help. I don’t just want your kindness. I want—” His voice broke, and he took another step closer, his heart hammering so fiercely it felt like it might break free of his chest. His hands reached for yours, hesitating for a moment before finally grasping them gently but firmly, like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“I want you,” he finished, his voice soft but unyielding. “I want to be the one who gets to take care of you the way you take care of everyone else. I’ve been holding this back for so long, but I can’t anymore. I…” His voice dropped to a whisper, his dark eyes searching yours with a vulnerability he rarely let show. “I love you.”

You stared at him, speechless, as his words sank in. The air between you felt electric, heavy with unsaid things. His gaze flickered down to your lips, and he felt an almost unbearable urge to close the distance. His grip on your hands tightened slightly, his restraint wavering.

“I shouldn’t,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “But I can’t—”

“Then don’t,” you interrupted softly, a smile tugging at your lips.

He froze, his breath catching as you leaned in, closing the gap between you. His lips met yours in a kiss that was equal parts tentative and desperate, like he’d been starving for this moment for years. His hands cupped your face gently, reverently, as though you were something fragile and precious.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless. You smiled at him, your cheeks warm, and he couldn’t help but mirror it, his usual guarded expression melting into something softer, something unguarded.

“I love you too,” you said, your voice steady despite the rapid fluttering of your heart. “And I’m not going anywhere, Jamil.”

His shoulders sagged, as though a weight he’d carried for far too long had finally been lifted. He pulled you into his arms, holding you close, the smell of spices and warmth enveloping both of you.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Jamil allowed himself to want something—no, to want you. And as he held you, he knew he’d never let you go.

Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek was, as usual, in the middle of a passionate lecture about Malleus, his voice booming with fervor. You had long since learned to tune out the dramatics and focus on the little things—the way his hands gestured wildly as if the fate of the world depended on it, the way his ears twitched when he got particularly worked up, and the faint pink dusting his cheeks whenever you gave him a little too much attention.

Today was no different. You sat beside him on the bench, letting his enthusiasm wash over you like white noise, a faint smile playing on your lips. Without thinking, you leaned against his shoulder, sighing contentedly as you rested your weight against him.

The effect was immediate. Sebek stiffened like someone had swapped his spine with a metal rod, his words faltering mid-sentence.

“And that’s why—why Lord Malleus is… what are you—what are you doing?!” he stammered, his voice an octave higher than usual.

You blinked up at him innocently. “Listening. You were saying something about Malleus and… moonlight?”

His ears turned a shade of pink that would’ve been comical if your heart wasn’t busy fluttering at how adorable he looked when flustered.

“Stop that,” he grumbled, glaring at nothing in particular.

“Stop what?” you asked, genuinely confused.

“Smiling!” he snapped, his voice cracking slightly.

You tilted your head, puzzled. “Huh? Why?”

“Because…” He clenched his fists, as though physically restraining himself from blurting out something disastrous. But it was no use. The truth clawed its way out of him, raw and unpolished. “Because I… like it too much.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Sebek immediately averted his gaze, as if the sky might mercifully swallow him whole if he refused to acknowledge you.

You stared at him for a moment, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. A teasing smile spread across your face as you reached out, grabbing his face gently but firmly between your hands, forcing him to look at you.

“Sebek,” you said, your voice light and playful despite the warmth blooming in your chest. “Do you like me?”

His eyes widened, and for a split second, he looked as though he might faint on the spot. But then the dam burst, and all his pent-up frustration and longing came pouring out in a torrent of words.

“You’re unfair! Your smile is cruel! You haunt my every waking moment with your ridiculous kindness and your infernal warmth! How am I supposed to serve Lord Malleus with any semblance of dignity when you—when you—” His voice cracked again, and he looked down, his expression somewhere between mortified and miserable. “…when you’re so you.”

The confession hung in the air, and you couldn’t help it—you leaned in and kissed him, cutting off his rambling in the gentlest way possible. His lips were warm and slightly chapped, and he froze for a moment, clearly too overwhelmed to compute what was happening.

When you pulled back, you were grinning, your face flushed. “There. Better?”

Sebek sat there, his face an unreadable mix of shock and flustered indignation. He touched his lips like he couldn’t believe what had just happened. And then, as if the words were yanked from him against his will, he blurted, “That’s not enough!”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Not enough?”

He cleared his throat, his ears practically glowing. “I need to… confirm. One more time. For certainty!”

You chuckled, your chest aching with fondness, and leaned in again. “If you insist.”

This time, he kissed you back, hesitant but earnest, his hands hovering awkwardly before finally resting on your shoulders. When you finally pulled apart, Sebek looked like he’d just run a marathon, his face flushed and his eyes dazed.

“Happy now?” you teased, brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead.

“…For now,” he muttered, his voice barely audible, but the shy smile tugging at his lips gave him away.

Masterlist

[forwards-beckon-rebound]

jason todd with a partner who’s into skincare/haircare

he didn’t know people actually did those 10 step korean skincare routines until he met you

he goes over to your place one day and sees all of the products in your bathroom and is like how could you possibly use all of these

he grew up with a broke mom and then a bunch of men, even billionaire bruce wayne doesn’t really do much besides some fancy hair products maybe

will probably be a bit skeptical like he lowkey thinks it’s a scam because no way do you need that many products just for your face

but if you sit him down and explain everything i think he’ll understand (or at least he understands that it’s important to you. don’t expect him to become a skincare expert overnight)

thinks you’re kinda cute when you’re doing your routine, like with your little headband and how focused you are while you’re doing it

will loiter around in the washroom, spend extra long brushing his teeth so he has an excuse to watch you

he will 100% laugh at how goofy you look when you put on a face mask though

make him wear one and suddenly he isn’t laughing anymore

if you try to make him do a whole skincare routine he’s going to grumbling the whole time but he’ll still do it

still thinks it’s kind of unnecessary (“why are we washing our face to make it dry to slap on wet stuff?”)

he lowkey does enjoy it though

he doesn’t have too many skin problems (i feel like he did have acne as a teenager but he grew out of that) besides maybe like his skin being on the dry side

definitely has ashy elbows and knees too

so at the very least he appreciates the moisturizarion, but he doesn’t really get the other stuff

feel like he’ll stick to just splashing his face with water or going like “i wash my face when i shower” but when you’re doing your routine he’ll steal some of your moisturizer

i think as time goes on, he’ll really like the domesticity of the whole nighttime routine thiugh

like shower, blow dry hair, brush teeth, skincare

luckily he’s not a 2 in 1 type of guy but that’s only because he straight up didn’t understand what conditioner was for

and i feel like he would just buy one of those costco sized bottles of body wash, like a neutral scented one so he doesn’t have to think about restocking (also it’s the most price efficient)

will tease you if you have fancy shampoo and conditioner

but who’s going to steal it after all of that teasing? he is

i think he just does it accidentally but ends up finding the smell really comforting (reminds him of you) and also his hair feels weirdly nice

might use it once in a while

definitely see him enjoying having his hair blow dried and also blow drying your hair

it’s a weirdly intimate act

also i feel like he’s not big on words, so sometimes he does other things to show he cares for you

like just the little things

he knows you take your skincare routine seriously, so if there’s ever a day when you feel too tired to do it, he knows something is up

will probably try to gauge what the situation is, like whether it’s a problem with work or school, if you want to talk about; or if it’s just been a long day

will help you to the washroom and if you’re too tired, will do your skincare for you

he’s watched you enough times to kind of know what he’s doing

personally hc that he has to get used to the change in his body and physical strength after the lazarus pit so he’s careful to be as gentle as possible

handles you like you’re on the verge of breaking

he’ll tie your hair into a loose ponytail (he knows it could be tighter but he’s kinda worried that it’ll hurt if he does another loop), keep the headband stretched as he pulls it over your head so that it doesn’t make contact with your face

makes sure the water isn’t too hot (you have to assure him that if the water is a little hot it won’t kill you and that for the oil cleanser to come off properly he’s going to need to make it hotter) and rubs the softest circles into your face

i think he’s focusing on this too much to be talkative

it’s kinda cute watching him struggle with some of the products

he’s trying to remember the order of the products and where on your face you put each one

you might have to give him pointers from time to time

i think he starts giving you obnoxious kisses all over your face as you’re trying to do your skincare to tease you

but after a few times i don’t think it’s a joke anymore…

will accidentally taste some serum and be traumatized though (please do not try to eat skincare!!)

will stick to your lips

[notlongtolove]

in eternal lines

spencer’s mind—brilliant and boundless—was one of the reasons you fell for him in the first place. but when the deadlines are looming, it takes everything in you not to snap. because while you’re good at literature because you have to be, spencer's great at it because, well, he’s spencer. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: angst, comfort, fluff... i don't know anymore

content: student!reader gets kinda pissy and snappy but she has a 3000 word essay due and a fever so go easy on her. and spencer is spencer, so patient, so kind :'

word count: 5.2k

note: as a literature major this was extremely self-indulgent... i'm sorry. i love lit student reader and i hope you guys do too! also aptly titled after the one and only sonnet 18 because it was the first poem we were given read in uni <3 (reader is basing her essay on george macdonald's 'the princess and the goblin' and isaac watts' 'divine songs' if anyone is curious; but don't read too deeply into her lines about it because i submitted that essay weeks ago and it's been relinquished it from my mind oops)

a line: You’d decided then and there that if you couldn't break the glass ceiling, you'd make a comfortable home just beneath it. Always looking up, never quite breaking through.

When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. - william shakespeare

You love your boyfriend. Truly, you do. After all, who else would sift through pages of Whitman’s dense poetry with you or debate whether Rossetti was really referencing Eve’s bite of the apple in Goblin Market? Nobody else ever cared enough to try. Spencer’s mind—brilliant and boundless—was one of the reasons you fell for him in the first place.

So yes, you love your boyfriend. But when deadlines are looming, and submission dates are bearing down on you, it takes everything in you not to snap. Because while Spencer can dissect poetry and prose with an ease that seems almost otherworldly, you sometimes feel the weight of comparison pressing on you. You’re good at it too—of course you are, you have to be. You’re pursuing a degree in it forgodsakes. But Spencer? He’s great at it because, well, he’s Spencer.

And while you can hold your own most days, a fair challenger when you come back from a particularly intriguing lecture too layered to dissect by yourself, there are times you feel like you’re running to keep up. Spencer will pull references from texts and obscure sources you haven’t even heard of, leaving you struggling to connect the dots. And that’s just literature. When he dives into his other passions—you don’t even bother to compete. Instead, you resign yourself to the couch, nodding and asking questions during the rare moments you can sort of follow the thread of his thoughts.

Having an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory does have its perks. Everyone knows that.

Your friends see it too. Like today when one of them stopped by between classes to return an essay you’d been stressing over for days.

“Well, don’t you look fantastic,” she teased, smirking. “Guessing those leftovers weren’t as ‘fine’ as you thought?”

​​“Don’t even start,” you mutter, weakly grabbing the paper from her hands as you lean on the doorframe. You flip through the pages marked in red ink quickly with the little strength you have, eyes scanning briefly through the comments before you’re on to the next page, next page, next page. They’re not what you’re looking for. 

And then you see it. There on the last page, a definite red circle around it: B+. 

You’d expected it of course. B+—your ever-reliable benchmark. It's a mark of consistency you've been forced to be contented with. It wasn’t horrendous. It wasn’t amazing. It was fine. But you’d worked hard on this one. You’d hoped, maybe, for something more. You’d expected it, and yet, you don’t know why you still feel a pinch of disappointment.

“How’d you do?” you ask grimly, fighting the nausea creeping up your throat.

“Same,” she replies nonchalantly, scrolling through her phone.

You nod, trying not to dwell on the fact that she’d seen your grade before you did.

“Oh, you know it’s always the same,” she adds with a wry smile. “Solidly subpar, as per tradition.” 

The phrase stung a little more now than it had when you’d coined it back in your first year. Back when, after a string of middle-of-the-road grades, you’d decided then and there that if you couldn't break the glass ceiling, you'd make a comfortable home just beneath it. Always looking up, never quite breaking through. 

“Whatever, it was only 20% anyway,” she shrugs.

“Yeah…” you reply weakly, though the disappointment still gnaws at you. You can’t quite shake it. Maybe it’s because deep down, you know you do care—no matter how often you tell yourself you’ve accepted the fate of being perpetually average. You still want, so quietly, so desperately, to be something more. You’ve always had a love for literature: the way words flow across a page, imbuing meaning into simple phrases, transforming them into art. You’ve always admired the beauty of it. But passion doesn’t translate to academic brilliance, and appreciation doesn’t equal A grades. It’s a hard truth you’ve come to learn.

“How was class?” you ask, trying to steer your mind away from its current spiral. “We still on Faerie Queene?”

“Mhmm,” she hums, rolling her eyes. “Kristoff’s still rambling on and on about virtue and chastity. Ha. Imagine me living in those times—at the rate I ghost men, I’d be a certified whore.”

“Well, actually, they’d probably get to you first,” Spencer interrupts as he steps out of the bedroom, his tone slipping into that familiar, matter-of-fact cadence. “Virtue and chastity were considered to be absolute truths in the 16th century. A woman’s value was intrinsically tied to her perceived purity, which of course, was a reflection of her family’s honor.” 

If you weren’t so ill, you would’ve laughed at her face—eyes wide, mouth slightly open in disbelief.

“And then there’s the public shaming,” he continues, leaning casually against the doorframe with his hands tucked into his pockets already miles deep into his thoughts. “In fact, the entire allegory of Book III revolves around chastity as a cornerstone of moral virtue. Witch trials in the late 16th and 17th centuries often targeted women who were thought as sexually deviant or independent, framing their ‘sins’ as some sort of evidence that they were consorting with the devil—”

He pauses, glancing between you and your friend. “So yeah… considering all that, if you’d ‘ghosted’ a few men back then, they probably would’ve gone straight to accusations of witchcraft or worse.”

Your friend stares at him, “...Right. Good to know,” she says, blinking slowly.

“But you know, Edmund Spenser intended The Faerie Queene to be a moral guide for young men,” he adds as an afterthought, realizing he’s just indirectly affirmed your friend’s self-deprecating joke. Spencer shifts awkwardly but can’t help himself by continuing, “It was meant to instil chivalric virtues to shape a model English gentleman. So technically, your interpretation is, um, modern at best.”

Her expression—equal parts baffled, impressed, maybe even a little scared—almost makes you forget how sick you feel.

“So…” she says after a pause, “I’m guessing you’re Spencer?”

“I am,” he replies simply.

“Well,” she says, drawing the word out, “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.” 

Spencer offers a smile, “Likewise.” 

“Anyway… I’m off.” She slings her bag over her shoulder, “Essay’s not gonna write itself. This one’s 30% by the way. God, I hate Kristoff but Burton’s a close second for sure.”

You wince at the reminder, the weight of your unfinished work pressing on you. The brief called for at least three secondary sources, and you’ve barely scratched the surface.

“Feel better soon, sweetie,” she says, offering you a sympathetic look. You manage a weak smile in return.

“Bye Spencer,” she says, her voice taking on a teasing lilt. “Take care of her for me, will ya?”

“Will do,” he says curtly, giving a small wave as you close the door behind her.

A moment later, your phone buzzes. He’s cute, her text reads. Another follows immediately: And basically a walking Wikipedia.

You start typing a response, but another text pops up before you can send it: Don’t dog on us for using ChatGPT now. You huff and click your phone off instead, tossing it aside. 

Therein lies another source of stress. Spencer is always happy to help you untangle a difficult text or interpret a dense poem, but he draws the line when it comes to your academic work. He never interferes directly. You’ve seen it yourself—The first time you handed him your laptop to review an essay, he’d made his comments verbally, pointing at sections on the screen while explaining his critiques in detail, but never actually touching the keyboard. You’d brought it up during an argument once, after a particularly crushing grade. Your frustration had spilled over: You’re smarter. You type faster. Why can’t you just fix it? But Spencer had only responded with something about “academic integrity” and the importance of maintaining the “code of conduct.” The conversation ended there, and after that, you stopped asking. 

Even yesterday, when you managed to scrape together 300 words for a draft, you’d handed your laptop to him, and again, he was careful to keep his boundaries. Too drained to make edits in real-time, you’d expected—maybe hoped—that he might step in more directly. Instead, Spencer quietly switched the document to “suggesting” mode, marking up your draft with precise yet detached annotations, never infiltrating or overstepping your own words. Spencer Reid is and always will be a stickler for rules. You try to hold yourself to the same standard. You steer clear of AI, no matter how tempting it might be. You know better. Well, that and because Spencer would never let it slide. 

But now it’s late and the thought of letting some website churn out polished, perfectly phrased sentences for you in seconds has never felt more tempting. The nausea has faded, leaving behind a fever in its place. Spencer’s in the living room, reading. You’d banished him to the couch—even the faint sound of pages turning, not to mention the speed at which he reads, was enough to derail your already fragile train of thought. You’d felt bad of course; he’d made soup for you earlier, fed it to you and everything. But with this essay worth 30% of your grade and your 300 words barely scratching the surface of the 3,000-word requirement, you don’t have it in you to be oh-so-sweet and ever-so-grateful. Not right now. You’ve nailed down the introduction—a quick overview of historical context, a sweeping statement on the authors’ intents. But now, the real challenge looms: The thesis. And you’re utterly stuck.

This essay argues that…  that…

You groan in frustration, flopping back against the pillows. So much for children’s literature. You’d chosen this class thinking it’d be an easy ride—fairy tales and picture books, how hard could it be? Yet here you are, being tasked with dissecting the significance of form and language. Now, the simple language and pretty pictures are anything but your friend, doing nothing to help further your argument. Your head throbs, your mouth feels like sandpaper, and the brilliant points you’d thought of in last week’s class are nowhere to be found, lost in the haziness of your mind. With a defeated sigh, you peel back the sheets and shuffle out of the bedroom, laptop in hand, every joint aching in protest. Spencer looks up from his book as the rustle of sheets catches his attention. His heart aches slightly when he sees you in the doorway, clutching your laptop and looking every bit as pitiful as you feel. He sets his book to the side. 

“How’s it going, honey?” he asks sympathetically, even though he already knows the answer from the state of you. 

“It’s barely going,” you admit with a yawn, tears prickling at your eyes from the force of it. They only add to your overall air of defeat as you cross the room and crawl into his lap, laptop balanced precariously on the armrest. “Brain’s foggy, can’t think straight,” you murmur in incomplete sentences. 

“Finalized your thesis yet?” he asks again, his voice gentle but patient. You shake your head, sinking deeper into his chest—It’s a silent surrender, as if giving in to the exhaustion and frustration that’s been building up. Spencer notices, brushing your hair gently away from your face, his hand cool against your hot skin. He presses the back of his hand to your forehead. “You’re burning up, hon,” he says softly, voice full of concern. “Why don’t we get you to bed, take a break for tonight, hm? You can work on this tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. The thought of putting everything off feels like both a relief and a burden. The idea of sleep has never seemed more appealing. But then, the thought of letting this drag on for another day—of pushing the finish line even further out of your reach fills you with dread. But you know you’re not in any state to be working on anything right now, let alone something worth 30% of your final grade. You know that you can’t focus, not when your body feels like it’s ready to give up and when your mind can barely hold onto a coherent thought. “Tomorrow, okay?” Spencer prompts again, calm and gentle. You know he’s right, so, despite the gnawing anxiety in the back of your mind, you nod. “Okay.” 

Spencer doesn’t push, just gives you a small, reassuring smile as he stands. Every movement feels like a chore as he guides you back to bed but the warmth of the blankets and the prospect of rest is more than enough motivation. He tucks you in, his touch comforting and steady. You feel like a weight has been lifted, albeit temporarily. Either way, it’s enough for now. You close your eyes, the thought of picking up where you left off tomorrow seeming almost bearable. 

You wake to the sunlight filtering through the curtains. It takes a moment for your brain to adjust to the new day, the stress of yesterday not entirely gone. But as you sit up, stretching slowly, mind less hazy and joints less achy, you feel a renewed determination, a flicker of focus that was nowhere to be found last night. Your mind is still whirling with fragments of ideas, half-formed arguments, and theoretical connections when Spencer strolls in with a cup of something warm for you.

“Tea.” he announces, handing it to you with a small, triumphant smile. “Decaffeinated.”

You frown, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “Need coffee.”

“Studies say caffeinated beverages stimulate the colon,” he counters matter-of-factly.

“Eww,” you groan, wrinkling your nose at him. “Why’d you have to say it like that?” 

“Exactly like that,” he replies without missing a beat, his tone precise and measured. “You’ve just recovered, and everyone knows caffeine is a gastrointestinal irritant.’

You huff, taking the mug from him. “Fine, but if I don’t finish this essay, it’s on you.” Spencer raises an eyebrow, completely unbothered by your protest. “Somehow, I think you’ll survive.”

You grumble under your breath but take a tentative sip of the tea anyway. It’s not what you wanted, but you can’t deny that he’s probably right—he usually is. The warmth seeps through the mug into your hands, grounding you just enough to pull your laptop over from the bedside table. Its practically empty screen blinks back up at you, as though it’s been waiting patiently all night. Hi again. Still here. Still empty. 

Spencer takes a peek at your screen and you can’t help but glare half-heartedly at the mug in his hands. Of course, it’s coffee. He’d get to enjoy caffeine while insisting you couldn’t. Typical.

“So, I was thinking…” you start, deciding to let the injustice slide for now as you scroll through your document.

“Hmm?” He looks up, his gaze meeting yours over the rim of his cup.

“What if I say that MacDonald’s pedagogy was more effective for children because Watts’s text was too directive. That works, right?” You look up, scanning his face for some form of agreement.

“That’s hardly arguable honey,” his words land softly, but you still feel your shoulders sag. “It’s an observation.”

"But—look at the words they use! It's so different. Here, look at the tone," you insist, nudging your laptop toward him. "There has to be something to be said about that, right?"

Spencer leans in, glancing at your screen before looking back at you. His expression is calm, composed, and maddeningly reasonable. "Watts’s text was meant to be read as a textbook. Of course it’s directive. You know that." 

Do you? You think you don't know much at this point. You don’t know what you know, and you don’t know what you don’t know. You groan, dragging your hands down your face as if you could physically scrape the frustration away. Darn you, Isaac Watts. Darn you, pedagogical learning. Darn you, whoever had the audacity to name this course a simple exploration into the history of children’s literature. 

Before you can wallow further, Spencer slides your laptop away. “How about we brush our teeth before crying over educational theories for children in the 18th century?” he suggests, his voice light. You sigh dramatically, dragging yourself to your feet like it’s some Herculean effort. When you shuffle back from the bathroom, hair slightly damp from washing your face, Spencer has taken over your spot on the bed, laptop resting on his legs as he scrolls through some article. He glances up when you flop down beside him with an exaggerated sigh.

"Feel better?" he asks, the faintest trace of a smirk on his lips.

"Not at all," you grumble. You don’t let him know that the brief pause in frustration has given your head just enough space to try again. 

It’s been hours, but you’ve finally narrowed down your thesis. It’s not amazing—far from it—but it’s something. It’s arguable, at least. Spencer’s been relegated back to the living room, his presence a vague hum in the background as you attempt to focus. You’d claimed you worked better in bed, though Spencer’s tried (and failed) to prove with statistics and studies that it’s just a placebo effect, a lie your brain insists on believing.

But right now, none of that matters. You have a thesis and on that note, an essay to begin. Or, at least, the faintest glimmer of one. And that’s when you hit a wall. Again. You sit cross-legged, laptop perched on your knees as you stare at the cursor, blinking like it knows you’re stuck. You wish it would stop judging you. You drag yourself—and your laptop thats become an extension of your body at this point—into the living room like a child seeking comfort. Spencer barely looks up from his article when you slump into the couch next to him.

“What about this?” You straighten your back, determined to sound confident this time, even if you're not sure where you're going with it. “What if I say that MacDonald’s use of fantasy is critical because it creates like, an emotional bridge and that makes it more effective for moral teaching and—”

“Well, yes," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Spencer doesn’t even look up from his article. "But that’s kind of a subpoint, honey.”

You stiffen, irritation rising like bile in your throat. “It’s not a subpoint. It’s a point.”

He shifts in his seat, eyes flicking up, finally meeting yours. His tone isn’t dismissive, but it might as well be. “How is that significant? What does it build toward?”

You grit your teeth. “Ugh, you sound like Kristoff.” You mutter, more to yourself than to him. You know it’s not fair to snap, but your patience is paper thin. You can feel the fever creeping back into your skin, and you’re not sure if it's the heat or the mounting pressure, but suddenly everything feels like a little too much. 

“Fine,” you say, swallowing your frustration, trying again. “What if I say that MacDonald’s narrative style is more progressive because it like, engages the reader’s emotions directly? And that’s why Watts’ text feels scarier?”

Spencer pauses. For a moment, you think you’ve finally hit something solid, his eyes narrowing just enough to show he’s intrigued. “And how are you planning to argue that?”

“Well, um… um—I… I don’t know!” You exhale sharply, throwing your hands up in exasperation. You sink back against the cushions, frustration seeping into your bones. “Something about how MacDonald’s vibe is all nice and charming while Watts is all like, ‘learn this or else’. 

“Sure I guess…” Spencer acknowledges, nodding slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But you’ll need more than vibes and a strong dislike of Watts to support it sweetheart.”

“Gee, thanks,” you say bitterly, rolling your eyes.

He chuckles softly, a sound that’s too calm, too collected, and somehow that makes it worse. He’s not wrong, but you’re still pissed off. You take a breath, steeling yourself for the next round of dissection. “Okay, then what if I say that MacDonald lets kids think for themselves, and Watts... doesn’t. Because of his moral authority and intellectual agency and whatever.”

Spencer’s eyebrows rise, just a fraction, but it’s enough. You feel a flicker of something—relief, maybe? It’s hard to say. His voice has shifted, just slightly, less detached now, more engaged. “You can build on that.”

“Really?” you ask, suddenly more hopeful than you’d like to admit.

“Really,” he confirms, leaning back in his chair. But then he tilts his head and furrows his brows in a way that makes you want to throw your laptop at him. “But you’ll need to define those terms and back it up with examples. Otherwise, it’s just a claim.” Of course. 

“God, you’re making this so much harder than it needs to be!” you snap, the irritation rising in your throat. “I get it, okay? I need examples. But you’re not even letting me work out a point before you just, I don’t know, shit all over it.” Spencer’s eyes widen, and for a second, you almost feel bad for snapping at him. 

“I’m just trying to help,” he says gently, but there's something in the way he says it—just a little too patient—that makes you bristle. You hate how right he always is, how calm he always looks, how much care he always has in his eyes even when you’re acting out. 

“You’re trying to help?” you repeat incredulously, shaking your head. “You’re poking holes in everything!” Even in your feverish haze, you know you’re being cruel—but you just can’t help it. All you can think about is how everything is slipping away, how your thoughts won’t line up, how your head is starting to hurt again. You’re not even sure if you’re angry at him anymore, or just angry at everything else. 

Spencer doesn’t answer right away. He glances at your screen again, a mess of quotes and bulletpoints. “I just want to make sure it’s solid, honey,” he says finally, his tone softer.

You scoff. “Yeah, well, you tore apart whatever solid lead I thought I had after two hours of work in just about five minutes, so thanks for that,” words tumbling out before you can stop them. Spencer’s silence hangs heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of you speak. “Just… just let me get through this.” 

Spencer sits there for a moment, just enough for you to feel the weight of the tension shift in the room. “I’m not saying you can’t get through it. I just want you to get through it right,” he says carefully, his voice quiet but insistent. “That’s all.” There’s no judgment in his voice, just care.

But the heat, the fever, it’s all swirling inside you, and you can’t hold it together much longer. “Of course you are…” you mutter bitterly, already regretting everything you’ve said. It feels like every step forward just leads you straight into another wall, and you’re just too tired to keep going. It’s not that you want to push him away or that you don’t appreciate his help. You’re just too irritable, too exhausted. You just want the whole damn essay to be done—and you wish you didn’t need his help to make it happen. You want to yell, to throw something, to demand that the world stop spinning long enough for you to catch your breath. But all that comes out is a hollow, defeated sigh. 

You feel like you're drowning and you don’t want to drag him under with you. “I’m just…” You stop yourself, swallowing hard, trying to gather whatever little strength you have left. “I’m just so tired.” 

Spencer looks at you, eyes full of concern, but it doesn’t help. You don’t want sympathy. You want to be better—to be able handle all of this. You want to be able to write this damn essay on goddamn children’s books without falling apart. And it doesn’t help that you’re falling apart in front of Spencer. The same Spencer who can recite verses from Paradise Lost at the drop of a hat. You’d almost burst into tears the last time he did it after it had taken you an entire week just to decipher and analyze a single chapter with any real confidence. You can’t help but feel that pang of inadequacy every time he breezes through something you’ve struggled with, even if he doesn’t mean to make it look so effortless. You hate yourself for it. You can’t find a way to shake the feeling that you’re not doing enough, not good enough. Not for yourself, not for him. You feel the sting of it, it’s pressing on your chest, suffocating.

“I just… just feel like I can’t keep up with any of it.” You don’t say it with any anger, just exhaustion. It’s not even directed at him anymore—it’s just the fact that you feel so stuck, so far behind where you should be, where you so badly want to be. “Like I can’t keep up with you.” 

Oh. Spencer feels his heart sink. He’s always prided himself on being able to read people. He should’ve known better. He’d been so focused on helping, so intent on pushing you to reach the level he knows you’re capable of, the level he knows you want to be at—even if you keep telling yourself you don’t. The fever, the deadlines, the constant pushing—he should’ve known that it was all too much. 

“You don’t have to keep up with me honey, I’m right here with you,” he says, trying to get you to look up at him. You can’t meet his gaze. You feel guilty for snapping, for letting the frustration slip out, but you’re not rational enough right now to pull yourself out from this spiral of self-pity. It’s easier to stay here, in the anger, the frustration, than to face the embarrassment of it all. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, his voice tinged with regret. “I didn’t mean to make things harder for you.” Spencer takes your hand, cautiously, testing the waters. He knows you don’t exactly want to be touched right now. He knows it makes you feel coddled. He pauses, waiting for your reaction. When you don’t push him away, he gains the confidence to cradle your face gently. You don’t resist, your tired eyes meeting his, heavy with sadness and Spencer thinks he can actually feel his heart break.

“You’re doing just fine sweetheart. You’re not falling behind. You’re just stressed. And sick.” He knows you’re feeling fragile, like any comfort might smother you so he threads forward lightly. “This essay? You’ll get it done. I promise.” It sounds right, and yet it doesn’t really help. It doesn’t stop the doubt that’s eating at you, the sense that you’re just not measuring up to everything you want to be. You feel like you’re barely treading water, no matter how hard you swim, the shore never gets any closer.

But for now, Spencer’s words are enough to quiet the panic—a buoy in your sea of sadness threatening to pull you under. You cling to it, knowing you’ll have to start swimming again soon. But for this moment, you allow yourself to stop. A beat. A pause. A breath—Just for now.

It’s only the next day that you manage to get the words on the page, not in any smooth, brilliant way, but they’re there. The sentences form, sometimes haltingly, sometimes with more confidence, until the essay is painfully but finally done. Not perfect, but it’s done. Relief washes over you, even as exhaustion lingers. 

The moment you hear the front door open, you practically leap up, laptop in hand, meeting Spencer before he can even take his shoes off. He raises an eyebrow, setting his bag down as you both settle onto the couch. Without a word, you hand over the laptop, nerves bubbling beneath the surface. You wait with bated breath as he begins to scroll, your laborious effort displayed in black and white. The sound of the touchpad clicking feels louder than it should in the quiet room. He asks a few questions, here and there—clarifications, mostly. Questions you answer with ease, surprising even yourself with the confidence in your responses. He nods along, his expression thoughtful, but not critical. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Spencer looks up, eyes bright, a proud smile on his face. “It looks great, honey. You did a really good job.” 

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face at his praise. “Really?” Spencer leans in, cupping your cheek gently, and presses a soft kiss to your lips. “Really.” When he pulls back, his forehead rests lightly against yours for a moment, his hand still cradling your cheek. “You worked so hard on this,” he murmurs. “So proud of you.”

Your chest tightens, but in a good way, and you can’t stop yourself from leaning forward to kiss him again, this time slower, savoring the comfort he always seems to bring. “Now," he pulls away just enough to smirk, "can I have my bedroom back, or should I just start setting up camp on the couch?” You laugh, rolling your eyes, but it’s full of affection. “Don’t even start.” Spencer chuckles, his arm slipping around your waist as he pulls you closer, the tension of yesterday long forgotten.

When you get your paper back, you flip through the pages, one after the other, looking for the feedback, waiting for the corrections, the marks that tell you where you inevitably went wrong.

Next page. Next page. Next page.

And then, there it is. On the last page, in a definitive red circle, unmistakable: A.

It’s an A. 

A goddamn A.

It doesn’t feel like a one-time fluke, not exactly, but you can’t shake the thought that this might be the only time you break through the glass ceiling you’ve spent so long looking up at. And who knows, maybe you’ll never push past it again. But for now, you allow yourself to relish in this singular moment of triumph. It’s enough. It’s more than enough. 

Because now you know that the other side is real, and that you can get there. But Spencer, the genius, the enigma, who’s always been a step ahead of everyone in everything academic, has always known.

And while everyone knows that an A in an essay that’s only a partial percentage of your overall grade isn’t anything compared to what he’s achieved, nothing compared to the academic milestones he’s already crossed—Still, he’s here, celebrating with you. You can see it in his eyes, even if he knows you’re not one to make a big deal of these kinds of things. His quiet joy is evident in the way he grins that little grin of his, the one that’s only for you. 

So, in summary, in essence, in all the words and ways you could possibly use to phrase a conclusion—You love your boyfriend. Truly, you do. After all, who else would read through your entire syllabus for the semester (frustratingly quickly), just because he knows you understand better when you can talk things out? Who else would patiently stick around, exiled to the couch in their own home, while you’re exhausted, irritable, and buried in deadlines? Nobody else ever cared enough to try. Spencer’s mind—though brilliant and boundless—isn’t the only reason why you fell for him. 

Because when the world feels too heavy, when the never ending lines of poetry and prose become too difficult to untangle by yourself, Spencer’s there reminding you—ever so gently, ever so steadily—that you can make it through, one word at a time.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

[hoshifighting]

i enjoy your work so much!!! i love reading new posts whenever you update (which is so frequent and im always in awe of how creative your brain is!!) im wondering if you had similar work to your most recent reaction but with mommy issues instead? giving a tight hug to all my peeps struggling through parental relationships ❤️‍🩹

seventeen x reader with mommy issues

a/n: thank you anon 🥺🥺❤️ i hope you like it, and > giving a tight hug to all my peeps struggling through parental relationships pt.2

WARNINGS: mommy issues, svt mostly doing girly things with you.

seungcheol: cheol’s the type to instinctively take a nurturing role without even realizing it. he’ll remind you to eat, help you pick out clothes for the day, and even braid your hair if you let him. “does this look okay?” he asks, tongue sticking out in concentration as his big hands fumble a little. he’s all about making sure you feel cared for in every little way, even if it’s just holding you close while you vent.

jeonghan: knows how to fill that space without making it obvious. he’s the one who’ll ask his sister to help him paint your nails, gossip about random shit, or let you borrow his skincare products. “c’mere, let me do it for you,” he says, gently dabbing serum on your face while teasing you about how bad you are at self-care. it’s his sneaky way of saying, i’m here for you.

joshua: takes on that classic comforting role, always making sure you feel heard.he’ll offer to bake cookies with you or even sew something small together. “it’s okay to miss her,” he’ll say softly, holding your hand. “but you’ve got people now who care about you, including me.”

junhui: create those bonding moments you might’ve missed out on. he’s the type to grab your hand and drag you into the kitchen, insisting you bake something together even if it’s a disaster. “this is supposed to be fun, not perfect babe...” he laughs as flour gets everywhere. he doesn’t try to replace anything, but he makes you feel like you’re not missing out anymore.

hoshi: his appproach is so wholesome it hurts. he’s the kind to pull you into his lap while he combs through your hair, humming softly. “you deserve to feel spoiled,” he says with a grin, and suddenly he’s dragging you to the mall for a mini shopping spree. “pick something cute, okay? you can’t say no—it’s my treat.”

woozi: his way of comforting you is subtle but so meaningful. he won’t push you to talk, but when you’re struggling, he’ll sit you down and quietly braid your hair or make tea for you. “you don’t have to do this alone,” he’ll say in his soft, no-nonsense voice. sometimes it’s just the quiet, supportive presence that heals the most.

wonwoo: he’ll read to you, help you organize your space, or even teach you how to do things like fixing a hem or arranging flowers. “this is kinda relaxing, isn’t it?” he says as you both work together, his calm energy making you feel safe and understood.

minghao: would suggest journaling together, so you can focus more on yourself, than focus on the house problems. “it’s okay to feel like this,” he says, squeezing your hand. “but you’re more than what you’re missing.” he makes sure you feel strong enough to rebuild those pieces.

mingyu: mingyu goes all in on being your cheerleader. he’s the one who’ll sit on the floor with you to do DIY face masks or giggle with you over silly videos. “do you want me to call my sister?... don't really know what a cut-crease is...” he says with a goofy grin, trying his best to make you feel loved and cared for in every way he can.

seokmin: he s exactly what you need when the weight of everything feels heavy. he’ll pull you into the kitchen to teach you his favorite recipes, or he’ll sit down with you to sew a button back on your shirt. “see? you’re already amazing at this!” he beams, making you feel proud of yourself for even the smallest things.

seungkwan: ultimate comforter. he’ll organize a mini self-care day, complete with snacks, facials, and trashy TV. “no one’s judging you here,” he says, rubbing your back as you tear up. his endless affirmations—you’re doing amazing, you deserve love, you’re enough—are exactly what you need to hear.

vernon: he’ll suggest stuff like planting a little herb garden together or decorating a space to make it yours. “babe I think I planted my ring...” he says, looking at the plant pot that will be all messy in seconds just to find the piece of silver.

chan: he’s the guy who’ll offer to watch cheesy movies with you, paint your nails (even if he sucks at it), or teach you a new dance—and stumbling on his own feet on purpose—just to make you smile. “you deserve to feel cared for.”

[habken]

Hi there!

I have been rewatching MHA and came across many accounts that support bkdk. So i wanted to ask you the following:

Bakugo wanted to kill Izuku on their first day and during the bomb test. He tormented him for over 10 years, insulted him, bullied him, tortured him. Because he has "promise" Aizawa never called him out on his toxic behavior, but threatened Izuku with expulsion all the tims, labeling him as "problem child". All Might never did anything, even after Bakugo states, that he wanted to kill Izuku. Bakugo never faced a consequence for his oppressive behavior, he even bullied his so-called BakuSquad. (He got himself captured by the league and only denied their offer becUse they were "losers") Meanwhile, Izuku clearly shows signs of PTSD, wincing everytime when Bakugo was near him. Bakugo used so many explosions on him, he should be covered in scars. It's clear that he is Hori's favorite. The MHA fandom is pretty toxic, we all know this. Bakugo's "character evolution" didn't make him a better person. He never really changed or helped Izuku. When he "moved out of instinct" he did so because it's "instinct", because he trained so much. He didn't care that it was Izuku, he didn't think about it. After the second/ third season, the other characters just didn't care anymore about his behavior towars Izuku. Aoyama's parents wanted Aoyama to have a quirk to prevent him from being left out of society, so basically to protect him from people like Bakugo. He was the most privileged person (hit the genetic lottery, intelligent and rich parents). But still, MHA clearly shows that if you feel insecure you can bully and torture and there will be no consequences. I love Todoroki and Izuku much more, because they at least help and support each other. Shoto had a terrible childhood, but he never turned into an abuser. He never turned into his father. Bakugo's "excuse" towards Izuku was just laughable (makes the whole Sasuke/ Naruto episode after their big last fight look like true cinema). In the end, the fandom (and Hori) support an abuser/victim relationship.

Why do you support bkdk?

Their relationship gives people a false sense of what a victim of abuse should do. MHA never took Izuku's pain and past seriously. They portrayed Bakugo as "tsundere" instead of showing the real consequences of being the abuser for over a decade. Kirishima showed how to behave if you feel "unmanly" or "inadequate". Bakugo in the MHA world was a racist the minute he found out that Izuku didn't have a quirk. He victimized himself and tortured Izuku because he thinks that the world revolves around him. Shouta from "A silent voice" shows how to seek redemption and forgiveness. Bakugo just wanted to be Nr1 hero, but never a good one who saves people.

MHA clearly shows that you can bully someone, torture someone, torment someone- and you will never have to face consequences. A spit-out "sorry" after 10+ years of bullying and right after insulting someone's mental state is enough to be forgiven.

jesus christ lmao

See I could rebute your long ass essay and give my reasons for liking the ship, but you don’t actually care about what I have to say. I’m not going to spend my time defending myself to someone who’s arguing in bad faith. I spent years defending the ship, getting hate comments and death threats, and I’m not ever doing that shit again.

If you want to goad me into defending a dumb shonen ship, pay me $50. Until then, fuck off. Go find like-minded people under the “bakugou faces consequences” tag on ao3

[ganggangscenarios]

No Such Thing | Ch 10

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Summary: After a messy breakup and an even messier night out , you find an unlikely friend in your coworker’s ex boyfriend. A messy beginning and an even messier middle, who knows about the end.

Genre: Romance, comedy, smut (later chapters)

Warning: This chapter contains intense scenes of violence, injury, and emotional distress. Reader discretion is advised.

01 | 02| 03| 04| 05| 06 |07| 08 | 09| 10

Drabbles:

I can & I will

Disconnect

The silence in the room thickens as Jungkook locks eyes with Mark. The knife gleams in Mark's hand, the light reflecting off the blade like a cruel reminder of how far this situation has escalated. Jungkook’s heart pounds in his chest, his every muscle coiled, ready for whatever Mark is about to do.

“Mark,” Jungkook says, his voice low and steady, despite the adrenaline rushing through him. “This isn’t you. Let her go.”

Mark's lips curl into a mocking smile, the knife still gripped tightly. “You think I’m doing this for me? I’m doing this for us.” He gestures between the two of them, eyes flicking to you, then back to Jungkook. “She’s carrying my child, Jungkook. You think you can just walk in here and take her away like it’s nothing? You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

Jungkook's hands tighten into fists at his sides. He’s seen Mark angry before, but this is different—this isn’t just anger. There’s something deeper, something desperate, and that scares him more than the knife. Mark’s grief, his obsession—it’s consuming him.

“I don’t care what you think you’re doing,” Jungkook growls, his eyes never leaving Mark’s. “You’ve already crossed the line. Let her go, or I’ll make you.”

Mark’s expression falters for a split second, a flicker of doubt crossing his face, but it’s quickly replaced by a cold, calculated resolve. He steps forward, closing the distance, the knife now aimed toward Jungkook, the tip dangerously close to his chest. “You don’t get to tell me what to do. Not anymore.”

The air between them crackles with tension. Jungkook doesn’t flinch. His body is still, but his mind is racing, calculating the distance, the speed, the moves he needs to make to protect you.

“Mark, listen to me.” Jungkook takes a slow step forward, his voice soft but firm, trying to reach whatever sanity is left in him. “This isn’t the way. I’m not here to fight you. But if you keep pushing, if you keep doing this… I’ll have no choice but to make you.”

Mark’s eyes flicker—there’s hesitation, just a second of it. His grip on the knife falters. It’s enough.

In that split second, Jungkook moves.

He grabs Mark’s wrist with a force he didn’t know he had, twisting it just enough to make the knife drop to the floor with a clatter. Before Mark can react, Jungkook pushes him back, his body slamming into the wall with a thud. The shock in Mark’s eyes is almost too much to bear, but Jungkook doesn’t stop.

“Stay the hell away from her,” he spits, his voice a growl, his chest heaving with rage. He takes a step back, ensuring Mark is down for the moment, his hand still gripping the front of his shirt.

You watch, breath caught in your throat, heart racing. Mark, who was once so close to you, so familiar, now seems like a stranger—a broken man, consumed by something darker than you could’ve ever imagined.

Jungkook turns to you, his face softening as his gaze lands on you. “Are you okay?” His voice is gentler now, but the raw intensity of his presence doesn’t waver.

You nod, your eyes filling with tears. “I’m fine now. You came for me… you actually came.”

Jungkook reaches for you, his hands trembling as he pulls you into his arms, his warmth surrounding you like a shield. You cling to him, feeling safe for the first time in what feels like forever.

Mark is still on the floor, dazed, but his presence is no longer a threat. For now, the fight is over. The tension has broken, but the weight of what’s just happened presses down on all of you.

“I’m taking you home,” Jungkook murmurs against your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re not going anywhere with him, ever again.”

You nod against his chest, relief flooding through you, but the fear doesn’t quite leave. Not yet. You glance back at Mark, who is still on the floor, rage and confusion swirling in his eyes. But for now, all that matters is that you’re safe. You’re free.

As Jungkook leads you toward the door, Mark’s voice rasps behind you, a broken whisper. “You think you’ve won? You think I’ll just let her go?”

Jungkook doesn’t turn back. He pulls you out of the apartment, the door slamming shut behind you. You’re not looking back anymore. You don’t need to.

Mark’s eyes gleam with madness, his hand gripping the knife as he lunges forward, rage propelling him. Before you can even react, Jungkook steps into the line of fire, placing himself between you and the blade.

“No!” you scream, but the words feel hollow in the air.

Jungkook’s body slams into Mark’s with a force that sends them both stumbling. The knife swings dangerously close to Jungkook’s side as he twists, trying to wrestle it away. He barely avoids the blade, but Mark’s erratic movements push him backward. In a desperate bid for control, Mark drives the knife toward Jungkook’s stomach.

The flash of steel cuts through the space between them, and with a sickening gasp, Jungkook’s face contorts in pain. His body stiffens as the blade makes contact, slicing through his side. Blood stains his shirt, and for a second, everything goes silent.

“Jungkook!” you cry out, your heart stopping as you watch him stagger, his hand clutching his side, the pain etched into his features.

He stumbles back, his knees buckling, but he keeps himself upright. His eyes lock on you, a faint smile fighting its way through the pain.

“I’m... fine,” Jungkook grits out, but the blood seeping through his fingers betrays his words. He doesn’t have the strength to hide it.

Mark watches the scene unfold, his face twisting into something darker—more triumphant. He steps toward Jungkook, the knife still in his hand, his breathing shallow but filled with satisfaction.

“You’re not leaving with her,” Mark spits, his voice venomous. He takes a step closer to Jungkook, but this time, Jungkook doesn’t back down.

The room spins for you as you watch Jungkook’s blood stain the floor beneath him. A wave of panic rises in your chest, but you know you have to act. Your body moves before your mind can catch up, running toward Mark, ready to do whatever it takes to stop him from harming Jungkook further.

But before you can reach him, Mark raises the knife again, his eyes fixed on Jungkook. In that instant, everything seems to slow down.

Jungkook’s breath hitches, his eyes wide with the realization that Mark is coming in for another strike. His body is shaking, not just from the pain but from the sheer force of his struggle to stay standing.

“Get away from him!” you scream, launching yourself toward Mark, hands reaching for anything you can use to protect him.

The sharp sound of the blade slicing through the air fills the room just as your fingers graze the handle of a chair nearby. You grab it with everything you have and swing it in Mark’s direction. The impact is enough to knock him off balance, but it’s only a momentary distraction.

Jungkook gasps, his body sinking to the floor as he tries to steady himself. His hand presses harder against the wound, but it’s clear he’s losing the battle. Blood pours from the cut, staining the carpet, and his vision starts to blur.

“No, no, no...” you whisper, tears welling up in your eyes as you kneel beside him. You try to keep him upright, but the weight of his injury is too much.

Mark regains his footing, a wicked smile curling on his lips as he watches the scene unfold. He raises the knife one more time.

“I’m not done yet,” he growls, advancing on you both.

You can barely breathe as you try to think of something—anything—to stop him. The air is thick with fear, the tension suffocating.

Jungkook’s breath comes in short, painful gasps, his hand still clutching his side. “Run,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “Please... run.”

Before you can react, Mark lunges forward, the knife poised to strike.

Then, in a blur, the door to the apartment slams open with a deafening crash.

Someone’s footsteps echo in the hallway.

Everything comes to a halt.

Mark freezes.

You turn, heart hammering in your chest, desperate for help—but who could it be? Who’s coming to save you now?

Jungkook’s hand slips from his wound, his vision fading as he struggles to stay conscious. He collapses into your arms, his body heavy against you.

You don’t know who’s at the door—but you don’t care. You know the moment you hear those footsteps, the story is far from over.

———

Jungkook’s head lulls against your chest as you hold him, his breathing shallow, uneven. Your heart races with a panic you can't seem to shake. Blood stains your hands, your arms, and you're terrified it might be too late. The weight of his limp body is unbearable, and all you can do is hold on, pray that he can hang on too.

You look up at Mark, who’s still reeling from the confrontation, his chest rising and falling in heavy breaths. He’s on the floor now, but there’s no hint of surrender in his eyes. He’s seething, clawing his way up, but this time, he doesn’t reach for the knife. Instead, he just glares, still bent on whatever twisted delusion he’s clinging to.

“You think this is over?” Mark sneers, his eyes darting between you and Jungkook. “She’ll always be mine. You can’t have her.”

You don’t even have the energy to respond, your attention solely on the man in your arms. Your fingers tremble as you try to steady his breathing. “Jungkook, please, stay with me... I need you. Please, don’t leave me now.”

Suddenly, the sound of rapid footsteps echoes through the hallway, followed by a sharp knock on the door. Mark’s head snaps toward it, his expression shifting from anger to something darker. He doesn't make a move to stop whoever’s coming, but you can feel the tension building.

The door slams open, and in steps Hyejin.

For a moment, everything stands still. Her eyes lock onto you, then to Jungkook, her gaze darting between the two of you as if trying to understand what’s happening. She’s breathless, her face flushed from running, but there’s no fear in her eyes, only a cold, calculating determination.

“What the hell happened?” Hyejin’s voice is sharp, demanding, but it’s laced with genuine concern as she steps further into the apartment.

Mark’s face twists with frustration and disbelief. “Hyejin, stay out of this.”

But Hyejin doesn’t flinch. She steps past him without a second glance, crouching down beside you and Jungkook, her eyes scanning his injury with trained precision. “What happened? He’s bleeding out. We need to get him help now.”

Your heart lurches in your chest. “I—he’s been stabbed. I don’t know what to do—he’s losing so much blood.”

Hyejin doesn’t waste a second. She quickly presses her hand against the wound, applying pressure to stem the bleeding. Her touch is firm but quick, and you can feel her steadying influence wash over you as she works with practiced hands. But her eyes never leave Jungkook’s face.

“Stay with me, Jungkook. You’re okay, we’re getting you out of here.” Her voice is calm, controlled, but there’s an edge to it—something raw that snaps at you.

Your breath catches in your throat as you watch Jungkook’s pale face, his eyes fluttering. He’s barely holding on, and you feel a wave of helplessness crash over you. “Please, please, don’t leave me... not like this.” You whisper, your voice breaking.

Mark sneers from the side, his lips curling in anger. “You think you can fix him? He’s already dead. You won’t save him.”

Hyejin doesn’t even look at him. “Shut up, Mark.” Her voice is cold, unflinching. She continues to apply pressure to the wound, her eyes flicking between you and Jungkook. “We’re getting him out of here. The cops and help are on the way.”

Mark moves, his hands balling into fists, and for a moment, you think he might try something, but Hyejin stands up quickly, blocking him with her body, her posture rigid with authority. “Don’t. If you want to leave here alive, you’ll stay out of it.”

The door is open, and you hear the distant sound of sirens, the faint promise of rescue. But it's still too far away.

“Stay with me, Jungkook,” you whisper again, your hand clutching his weakly in yours. His pulse is slow, irregular, and every second feels like it’s slipping away. You glance at Hyejin desperately. “Please... Please save him.”

Hyejin nods, her expression hardening with determination. “I’m not letting him die. Help is on the way.” She looks over her shoulder, her gaze flicking toward Mark one last time. “You’re done here. Go. Leave before I make you.”

Mark hesitates for a moment, glaring at her, then at you, before finally sneering in disgust. “This isn’t over. You can’t keep her.” His voice drips with venom, but he knows he’s beaten for now.

Without another word, Mark turns and storms out, the door slamming shut behind him.

As the silence settles in, you breathe in deeply, allowing the air to fill your lungs. But the reality of the situation weighs heavy, and you know that this battle isn’t over. Not by a long shot. Jungkook’s life hangs in the balance, and you’re not sure you can handle losing him again.

But as Hyejin presses on the wound, and the distant sirens grow louder, you hold on to one fragile hope.

_____________

I apologise for the delay and the shortness of this chapter :(

[dissapointu]

“Faulty Wiring” sevika x reader

The first time Sevika darkened the doorway to your workshop, you thought she was there to intimidate you.

The dim light behind her only heightened her imposing presence: tall, broad-shouldered, her prosthetic arm sparking faintly as she leaned against the frame. She scowled, not at you specifically, but at the world in general.

“You’re the tech Silco sent for?” Her voice was low and gravelly, her words clipped.

You nodded, gesturing toward the workbench. “That’s me. I hear your arm’s acting up?”

Sevika grunted, stepping inside. “Keeps seizing up mid-swing. Useless in a fight.”

The sparks popping from her shoulder joint painted a grim picture. You set to work without delay, trying to push past the nervous flutter in your chest. Sevika’s presence was overwhelming—everything about her screamed danger—but there was something about the way her gaze lingered on your hands as you adjusted the wiring that made you wonder if there was more beneath the surface.

Over the next few months, Sevika became a regular in your workshop.

It wasn’t that her arm was particularly faulty; it was that she pushed it to its limits, testing every weld and circuit with her relentless lifestyle. Silco’s enforcer didn’t take breaks. She didn’t show weakness, at least not outwardly.

“Does this hurt?” you asked one night, prodding the exposed joint where metal met flesh.

Sevika gritted her teeth but shook her head. “Pain’s just noise.”

You frowned. “Still, I can adjust the connection to make it less—”

“Don’t bother,” she interrupted, her tone sharp. “I need this arm to fight, not to feel comfortable.”

You sighed but didn’t argue. Sevika wasn’t the type to let anyone take care of her, even if it was your job.

The Cracks Begin to Show

Sevika never talked about what she did outside the workshop, but the signs were hard to miss. She’d show up with blood on her clothes or bruises blooming across her skin. Her jaw was always tight, her shoulders tense.

“You’re going to burn yourself out,” you said one night as you replaced a damaged gear in her elbow joint.

Sevika scoffed, lighting a cigar with her flesh hand. “Worry about the arm, not me.”

You set down your tools, staring at her. “I am worrying about you, Sevika. You can’t keep this up forever.”

Her eyes flicked to yours, hard and unyielding. “I don’t have a choice.”

It wasn’t the first time she’d shut you down, but something about the way she said it—like she truly believed it—stung. You wanted to press further, but you knew Sevika well enough by now: push too hard, and she’d disappear for weeks.

The rift between you began subtly, like a loose bolt slowly working its way free. Sevika started showing up less frequently, her arm in worse condition each time. When she did visit, she was quieter, more withdrawn.

One night, after a particularly brutal repair session, you finally worked up the courage to ask, “What’s going on with you?”

Sevika didn’t look at you. “Nothing.”

“Don’t give me that,” you said, exasperated. “Your arm is falling apart because you’re pushing yourself too hard. You’re barely talking to me anymore. Just—talk to me, Sevika.”

She finally met your gaze, her expression unreadable. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” you said softly.

For a moment, you thought she might open up. But then her jaw tightened, and she shook her head. “It’s not your problem.”

Her words felt like a slap. You tried to hide the hurt in your eyes, but Sevika saw it. She just didn’t do anything about it.

The next time Sevika came to your workshop, she wasn’t alone.

A young recruit followed her in, wide-eyed and fidgeting nervously. “This is Kess,” Sevika said gruffly. “She’s taking over.”

You froze, your tools clattering to the floor. “What?”

“I need someone I can rely on,” Sevika said, avoiding your gaze. “Someone who doesn’t get… attached.”

The words hung in the air like a death knell.

“So that’s it?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re replacing me?”

“It’s not personal,” Sevika said, but the tension in her voice betrayed her.

“It feels pretty damn personal,” you snapped, your chest tightening.

Sevika didn’t respond. She just turned and walked out, leaving you standing in the middle of your workshop with nothing but the sound of the recruit’s awkward shuffling to fill the silence.

You didn’t see Sevika for weeks after that.

Your workshop felt empty without her presence, and though you tried to focus on other projects, your thoughts always wandered back to her. What had you done wrong? Why had she pushed you away?

One night, there was a knock at your door. You opened it to find Sevika standing there, her arm sparking and her eyes bloodshot.

“I need your help,” she said, her voice hoarse.

You wanted to slam the door in her face, but the vulnerability in her expression stopped you. Without a word, you stepped aside and let her in.

As you worked on her arm, Sevika sat silently, her shoulders slumped.

“Why did you leave?” you finally asked, unable to keep the question bottled up any longer.

Sevika exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. “Because I can’t afford distractions.”

“Distractions?” you repeated, your voice laced with disbelief. “Is that what I was to you?”

“No,” she said quickly, her gaze snapping to yours. “You’re… more than that. And that’s the problem.”

You stared at her, stunned. “I don’t understand.”

Sevika looked away, her jaw tightening. “I can’t afford to care about someone. Not in this line of work. It’s dangerous. For both of us.”

The weight of her words hit you like a punch to the gut. “You think pushing me away is going to protect me?”

“It’s the only way I know how,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

The silence that followed was deafening. Finally, you spoke.

“Sevika, you don’t get to make that decision for me,” you said, your voice steady despite the lump in your throat. “I care about you, and I know you care about me too. So stop running.”

Sevika’s eyes met yours, and for the first time, you saw the cracks in her armor. “I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted.

“Then let’s figure it out together,” you said softly.

Sevika didn’t respond with words. Instead, she reached out, her flesh hand brushing against yours. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes.

[rottenfyre]

⸻ ɴ ɪ ɢ ʜ ᴛ ᴡ ɪ ɴ ɢ ⸻

Pairing: Dick Grayson x Fem Reader

Headcanon: how would he be when he's obsessed?

Note: English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

Dick’s obsession isn’t born from malice or control—it’s born from love that he can’t let go of, love that consumes him and twists into something far more dangerous. His inherent empathy and need to protect mutate into suffocating possession when it comes to you.

You’re someone he meets while working as Nightwing—perhaps a civilian caught in the crossfire or someone aiding him on a mission. Your kindness, your bravery in the face of danger, captivates him. For someone like Dick, who has spent his life saving others, your ability to stand tall despite the world’s darkness becomes a light he can’t ignore.

But then the cracks begin to show.

You start noticing him everywhere. If you casually mention a favorite café, he’s suddenly a regular there too. When you run errands, he just happens to cross paths with you. At first, his bright smile and boyish charm disarm you. "What a coincidence," he says, as if he hasn’t been planning these encounters for days.

You come home one day to find an item you mentioned in passing—a book, a scarf, something small. There’s no note, but you know it’s from him. He swears it’s just a friendly gesture, but the way he watches you when you thank him says otherwise.

For Dick, these actions feel natural. He’s always been attentive to those he loves, always ready to go the extra mile. He doesn’t realize—or refuses to acknowledge—that these gestures aren’t innocent anymore.

When you’re hurt—even slightly—it awakens something primal. The fear of losing you mixes with the ghosts of everyone he’s lost before, and he can’t bear the thought.

Dick isn’t one to stalk in shadows; he convinces himself his obsession is protection. He keeps tabs on you, memorizing every detail of your routine. He tells himself he just wants to ensure your safety, but when you start to notice him everywhere—at the coffee shop you frequent, outside your workplace, even at your doorstep—it feels deliberate.

You confront him, but his response is calm, disarmingly charming.

“I’m just looking out for you. You mean too much to me.”

And there’s that vulnerability in his voice that makes it hard to push him away completely.

Dick’s obsession grows insidious. He’s subtle, using his charm and resourcefulness to insert himself into every corner of your life. A coworker who’s been bothering you suddenly transfers to another department. Your apartment’s locks mysteriously upgrade overnight, and Dick is the first to offer to show you how they work.

When someone flirts with you, the shift in his demeanor is terrifying. The usually affable, kind man becomes something colder, his jaw clenched as he watches from the sidelines. Later, the person who dared approach you ends up in a minor but suspicious accident.

“Don’t you see?” he tells you, his voice laced with desperation one night when you question his behavior. “I’ve already lost so much. I can’t lose you too.”

Dick doesn’t think he’s doing anything wrong. His obsession is rooted in his fear of abandonment, his compulsion to save everyone he cares about. But in trying to protect you, he becomes your greatest danger.

"You’re the only thing keeping me grounded.” He leans on you emotionally, making you feel guilty for trying to push him away.

"I’m doing this for us.” He convinces himself every action, no matter how bad, is for your benefit.

When you try to leave, it shatters him. Dick isn’t someone who handles rejection well when it comes to people he loves. He pleads at first, his voice breaking with emotion. But when you insist, you see the darker side of his devotion.

“I can’t let you go. Don’t you see? I need you.”

His obsession becomes suffocating. He starts isolating you, not out of malice, but because he genuinely believes the world outside is too dangerous for you.

The most chilling part of Dick’s obsession is his duality. By day, he’s the same charming, selfless man everyone admires. But with you, behind closed doors, he’s desperate, controlling, and unrelenting.

He’ll kiss your forehead softly, whispering, “I love you,” as if nothing is wrong.

But then he’ll cage you in with his presence, ensuring you can never leave.

In his mind, he’s your protector, your savior, and your soulmate. He would go to any lengths to keep you safe—even if that means keeping you locked away from the rest of the world. After all, he’s lost so much already. He won’t lose you, too.

@ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇɴꜰʏʀᴇ 2024. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʀ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇʙꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ.

[lovecla]

© property of lovecla, nhl masterlist, nico hischier x you:

FAKE IT ‘TILL YOU MAKE IT, game plan:

➴ chapter warnings: none <3

➴ word count: 1.5k

💌 from me to you: and here’s the first chapter of fake it ‘till you make it! posting this sooner than expected in honor of last night’s game. can you guys believe we have nico hischier as our captain? how lucky are we? anyways! i hope you all like this! (the posting schedule will be just like TYPA, every other day!) ♡

𖧷

WHEN YOU tell people that being friends with a hot, young NHL player isn’t at all that great, all they do is look at you like you’re batshit crazy, and give you one hundred and fifty four arguments trying to make you, someone who’s been friends with a guy who’s been a NHL star player for the past few years, see how wrong you are.

You love Nico Hischier. You really do. You met him when you were just eighteen, being friends with his sister, Nina, and immediately locking in with Nico. He’s the sweetest, kindest and most loving man you have ever met in your life, and now that you’re twenty-three, almost twenty-four, you can see how rare men like Nico are.

But now that he’s a famous player, captain of an entire team and known for being one of the hottest men in the NHL, you sure feel like you’re paying a high price for being in his life.

Not in a bad way, though. It just sucks to see the amount of women throwing themselves at his feet, and what sucks even more, is knowing that he won’t even blink an eye at them because he’s head over heels for Nora Ellis, a crazy girl he met two years ago at a party.

Nora is beautiful, you’ll give him that. And usually, you wouldn’t be upset with him having a crush. In fact, you and Nina are always encouraging him to engage in new relationships and meet new people, so that he isn’t only worried about his job.

Nora. She’s the most beautiful black woman you have ever seen. She’s intelligent, she’s funny and she knows things about Hockey like no one else— being the daughter of one of the most talented coaches in the NHL does that to you, you guess.

The only problem with Nora Ellis is the fact that she only cares for men who are in a relationship.

Married or dating, she doesn’t care. Her only goal is to make them give up on their partner to be with her, and once she gets tired of them, she finds another mission to busy herself with.

Nico doesn’t seem to notice that. To be fair, no one really does. She can be very subtle and discreet, and the only reason why you caught up on that in the first place is because every party you go to, you try to blend yourself with the walls, so you don’t get too much attention on yourself.

Nico always tells you to stay by his side and mingle with his friends, but by the end of the night, you’re always sitting near the bathroom door, with a drink in your hands, watching the party unfold with attentive eyes.

And turns out that a lot can happen in the bathroom of a party full of NHL players and Nora Ellis.

So you know she’s not good for him. You’ve tried to talk him out of it more times than you can actually recall, but it’s a dead end. Nico’s in love with her, and has been for two years now. He won’t give up on her unless something really drastic happens, but since Nora is really good at what she does— destroying relationships for fun—, nothing will ever rise to the surface.

“She’s so… pretty,” Nico sighs, sitting on the couch beside you, making you sigh and put your book down, not forgetting to mark the page you were in. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

You smile, touching his cheek, watching with awe as his dimples appear. “It’s fine, Dimples.”

He rolls his eyes as he always does when you call him that, and continues.

“You’re the only one who still listens to me ramble about Nora,” he pouts. “Nina said that if I talk about her one more time, she’ll fly to Newark and personally destroy my phone so I can’t call her anymore.”

You laugh loudly, perfectly picturing Nina saying that.

“And Luca?” you ask, raising your eyebrow.

“Luca just says I need to move on.”

“Well, he’s always been more patient than Nina, that’s for sure,” you nod, placing your book on Nico’s coffee table and bringing your knees close to your chest, resting your head on them. “But… he’s not wrong, y’know?”

Nico gives you the puppy eyes, as he always does whenever someone mentions that he should get over Nora, and you sigh again.

Seeing him like this sucked in every way. And you’ve tried everything— get him on dating apps, blind dates, normal dates, pointing at a pretty girl at a party, literally everything.

And still, he’s not budging.

“I wish she would just look at me. I’m handsome, right?” He looks at you, brown eyes filled with despair.

You spend some seconds analyzing him, as you often liked to do. His brown, hazelnut eyes that shined bright everyday, his hair that’s now a little bit longer than usual, his legs and arms which are absolutely huge— when did he get that big anyway?— and his perfect, charming smile and dimples.

“Emma?”

“O-oh, yeah, you’re… fine, I guess,” you shrug, trying to hide the fact that you were checking him out. Weird. “It’s not about you, Nico, I’ve said that before.”

“Okay, but why won’t she pay attention to me, then?”

Because you don’t have a girlfriend, is what you want to say.

Wait.

“Oh my God!” you jump in your seat, scaring Nico who lets out a loud scream and jumps out of the couch with you.

“What the— Emma.” He puts his hands on his hips, trying to look scary, but you brush him off.

“I know how to make her fall in love with you,” you smile, walking around in circles, trying to organize your thoughts inside your head. Nico. Nora. She thinks she’s in love. Nico’s happy. They get together. She’ll leave him after three months or so. Nico’s sad. But! Nico’s moved on. “God, how did I not think of that before?”

“What are you talking about—”

“We have to date.”

Nico stares at you like you’re crazy, his eyes big and confused. He opens his mouth a few times, probably trying to think of something to say, before closing it and inhaling the air.

You wait for him to say something, but when it’s obvious that he won’t, you continue:

“I know it sounds crazy, and I know what you must be thinking, but hear me out,” you step closer, looking up at him. “Girls sometimes don’t pay attention to guys because… well, because they can’t really see them. Like, for example: there’s this one guy in my office which I don’t care about, he’s just my coworker and nothing else.”

“What does this have to do with—” you put your index finger over his lips, shushing him.

“Wait,” you say. “So, he’s there and he isn’t anything. Until, one night, I had a dream that he’s dating me. And suddenly, I wake up and go to work, and I can’t see him the same way I did before. I start noticing how nice his hair is or how tall he is. Do you understand it now?”

Nico smiles, scratching his forehead with his finger.

“No, Emma. That doesn’t even make sense.”

You snort. “Because you’re a man. But trust me on this one, Nico. The second Nora sees you with someone else, she will notice you.”

Mostly because she’s a whore, but we’ll keep that to ourselves for a while.

“Do you have… like… a crush on me or something?” His face is now red and he gets closer to you, placing his hand on your shoulder while he looks like he’s trying to comfort you. “Is that why you want to do this?”

“What— No, what the hell!” you can feel your face getting warm and you step away from him. “No, I don’t have a c-crush on you. I just can’t stand you talking about her anymore. I’m your friend, so I will help you.”

Nico sighs, relieved it seems, still looking unsure.

“You don’t have to do it, if you don’t want to,” you say, closing your eyes for a few seconds. “I know it sounds crazy and I know you probably think I’m trying to get something here but in reality—”

“I’ll do it.”

“What?!” you can’t hide your surprise, almost shouting with how loud you spoke.

He smiles, sitting back on the couch, spreading his thighs and stretching his arms. “I mean, you’re never wrong about these love related things. You did get my sister an amazing boyfriend and you did manage to convince my brother to ask that girl out, and now they’re married. So it’s probably my turn to accept your love advice and shit, right?”

You’re starting to feel bad about this whole thing, because you know Nora will probably break his heart in thousands of little pieces, but what else can you do?

It’s the perfect plan, you think to yourself. It’s flawless, and it will work.

“I try my best,” you give him a half-smile, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “But you have to promise me something.”

Nico nods. “Anything.”

“If this doesn’t work out, then you'll move on.”

“Emma—”

“It’s not healthy for you to be thristing over someone for this much time,” you sit on the couch next to him and place your hand on his shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. “We will fight, and we will fight hard, but if there’s no results in three months, and I’m being generous, we’ll move on. Okay?”

Nico stared at his hands, biting his lips before looking at you again.

“Okay.”

𖧷

<next chapter>

[bg3daydream]

Breakfast (Lucanis x Rook fanfiction)

Lucanis x Female Rook one-shot.

Summary: Lucanis makes breakfast for Rook after they spend the nigth together once she's back from the Fade-prison, relieved to have her back but still worried about her. Short (2285 words) and sweet.

Lucanis woke up feeling rested for the first time in…he didn’t even know how long. That he'd been sleeping in Rook’s arms sure was the reason for it.

They were scrunched together on the couch in Rook’s room, with barely room to move, but for Lucanis it was perfect, with his head pillowed on Rook’s chest and her arms around him. Even Spite seemed to have calmed down, he hadn’t annoyed him once. His only regret was not having slept like that before that night, the distance he’d made himself keep for reasons that seemed important once but not anymore.

He was all too aware of how close he’d been to losing Rook. Since she’d been trapped in the Fade, Lucanis had been consumed not only by fear but also by guilt and regret. He’d let it happen, he hadn’t been quick enough, smart enough, and Rook had been taken from him. She had needed him and he had failed again.

He’d been searching non-stop for a way to get her back, even Spite had been agitated, driving him crazy, and he knew he had to be grateful for the team that they’d found a way to get Rook back.

After that, he’d known there was no way he’d let his fears and insecurities keep him from being truly Rook’s any longer. He’d kill the gods, the blight itself, anything that threatened Rook’s again, no matter what, he wouldn't fail her again, and he wouldn’t deny himself the comfort of her arms any longer.

Mindful not to wake her, Lucanis pulled back from Rook’s chest. She was still fast asleep, and Lucanis wondered if she’d slept at all those weeks she’d been trapped in the Fade, if she’d even needed it. 

She didn’t seem more tired than usual, neither did she seem hurt, but Rook hadn’t really elaborated on what had happened to her, and Lucanis hadn’t pushed her to tell him. She seemed more worried about what’d been happening while she was gone and how to fix it, and Lucanis knew it was important, but he wished Rook looked out for herself more. If she didn’t, then he’d be the one to watch over her and care for her.

Lucanis brushed his knuckles ever so softly over Rook’s cheek. He didn’t feel there was much he could offer her, besides his knives and his skills as an assassin, in which he felt he’d been failing abysmally.

It seemed Rook was going to sleep longer, and so, Lucanis decided to get up and get her breakfast. Feeding her was, at least, one thing he could do for Rook without failing her.

He carefully covered Rook with a blanket, pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, and got dressed quickly.

Walking out of the room and down the stairs, Lucanis found Emmrich already awake, sitting down on the armchair next to the coffee table, doing research, with a cup of steaming tea in front of him, while Manfred hovered near. Emmrich looked up from his papers to give Lucanis a tired smile.

“Good morning. How is she?” He asked as he glanced upstairs.

Lucanis sighed and shrugged. “I don’t know. Not bad I think, but she hasn’t told me much of what happened to her. She wants to focus on what we have to do now.”

“Understandable so,” Emmrich conceded. “I know everything we lost, everyone…and everything we have to fight now. But we got Rook back, enjoy that.”

“I plan to. Thank you, Emmrich.” Lucanis was aware of how, without the Fade expertise of Emmrich, he probably couldn’t have gotten Rock back to him.

Emmrich nodded graciously and went back to his papers.

“Manfred,” Lucanis addressed the skeleton, who hissed a yes. “If you see Rook getting up, you come running to find me before she can”

“Yes!”

Once in the kitchen, Lucanis tried to decide on what to do for breakfast. He didn’t want it to be something overly complicated or that would take too long, afraid that Rook might wake up before he was finished and find herself alone.

Finally, he settled for orlesian pancakes. 

The kitchen felt cold and abandoned. Lucanis had been in no mood for cooking during the last couple of weeks, his mind was desperately looking for ways to bring Rook back, when he was not mourning their potential loss and blaming himself, and having to deal with Spite’s own commentary and franticness.

Trying to ignore the nagging thoughts of their missing friends, everything that had gone wrong and could get worse soon, and the still lingering fear of losing Rook, Lucanis focused on making breakfast and on the thought of a sleeping Rook, back to him.

He cooked swiftly, and once everything was ready, he placed several servings on a trail and walked out of the kitchen and back to the main building.

Emmrich was still in the armchair, studying the papers, while Manfred stood as a lookout on the staircase, watching the door of Rook’s room. When he saw Lucanis, he hissed and did a thumb-up, and Lucanis couldn’t help his smile.

“Thank you, Manfred,” Lucanis said while placing a cup of coffee and a plate of pancakes on the table in front of Emmrich.

“Oh, thank you Lucanis,” Emmrich smiled at him over his papers. “This was most kind.”

Lucanis shrugged and made his way back to Rook’s room. She was still asleep. Lucanis placed the tray with the pancakes and coffee on the table and  knelt down next to the couch, looking at Rook. He reached to trail his fingers down her cheek, ever so softly.

“Doesn’t. Wake,” Spite said, unhelpful.

“She needs rest,” Lucanis muttered, trying not to let Spite’s agitation get to him.

“She. Is not. Waking up,” Spite insisted.

Lucanis never thought the demon could care for anyone, but there they were. Still, he didn’t need Spite putting more fears inside his mind and going frantic again, it wouldn’t help anyone.

“Rook’s tired, she’ll wake up when she’s rested enough,” he tried again, although Lucanis wasn’t very sure if he was convincing himself or the demon. “Go play with Manfred.”

“Pff.” Spite brisked. “He. Thinks. He Is. A mage. Now,” the demon pretty much ranted. “He. Thinks. He. Is. Better.”

“I doubt it,” Lucanis answered, but truly, what did he know…he just hoped Manfred didn’t decide to try and teach Spite magic now. “Go with Manfred or shut it and let Rook sleep.”

Spite didn’t say anything else, but Lucanis could feel his unhappiness.

He watched Rook’s face, caressing her cheek ever so gently again, trying not to entertain Spite’s thoughts of her not waking. There was no reason for that, she was just tired, even if she was in the Fade in her sleep, she was not trapped there any longer, it was just normal dreaming…right?

Lucanis’ heart had begun beating faster, Spite’s unease was growing too, and so he tried to stop that train of thought. Rook was back, she was alright, she was just resting…but if she didn’t wake up by herself soon, he’d wake her. 

Moving even closer, Lucanis leaned over Rook, still kneeling on the floor, until he could rest his head over her chest. He closed his eyes, listening to her heartbeat, feeling her chest rising and falling as she breathed, and he tried not to let worry and overthinking take hold of his mind.

Eventually, Lucanis felt the change in her breathing as she began to wake up, and relief washed over him. He pushed back to look at her as Rook’s eyes opened, and she gave him a drowsy smile that made something in his stomach flutter and twirl. She was there, she was awake, she was fine…and she was smiling at him, her sleep-lidded eyes looking at him so lovingly that it was hard to believe she was looking at him.

“Hey….” Rook reached to cup his face and Lucanis leaned into her touch. Her smile turned into a frown when she noticed he was on the floor. “Did I kick you off the couch? Shit, I’m sorry.”

“No, you didn’t,” Lucanis rushed to explain. “I was up already. I made you breakfast.”

There it was again, that soft smile and that love in her eyes, making Lucanis’ heart skip a beat. “Of course you did.” 

Rook’s voice was quiet, content, while her hand cupping his face caressed his cheek, and Lucanis turned his head to kiss her palm. Rook’s smile grew wider at that and she leaned to press a soft kiss to his lips. It was gentle, chaste, yet it made Lucanis feel like he might melt. 

Rook pulled back, reaching to take her shirt that somehow had ended up hanging from the back of the couch, and she put it on. Then, she reached as if to take her cup of coffee, but Lucanis was already handing it to her.

“Thanks,” she smiled again and reached to take his hand. “Come here.”

Lookanis got up from the floor and sat down on the couch next to Rook. Ignoring his own cup of coffee, he looked at her as she contently sipped hers while she looked at the fishes swimming in that odd aquarium. Lucanis had felt uneasy about that part of Rook’s room before, it reminded him of the Ossuary, but it didn’t anymore, not with Rook there next to him.

Rook caught him staring at her and gave him a small smile, leaning to kiss the side of his head. “I’m fine,” she reassured him. 

Lucanis wasn’t sure if it was true, but he didn’t want to push her. She’d be fine, though, he’d make sure of it.

Rook leaned to place the cup back on the tray and cut a piece of the pancakes, bringing it to her mouth. She closed her eyes with a delighted hum and Lucanis felt something in his belly stir at it.

“This is so good,” she said as she took another bite.

“I’m glad.” Lucanis was pretty confident in his cooking skills, more than in his assassin skills right now, but it was nice to have confirmation that Rook was enjoying her breakfast.

Rook looked at him over her shoulder. “Did you have something besides coffee?” she didn’t let him answer. “Of course you didn’t.”

She cut the rest of the pancakes in small, bite-size pieces, and leaned back on the sofa again, taking plate and fork with her. “Here.” She reached the fork with one of the pancake pieces towards Lucanis.

“It’s your breakfast.”

“It’s enough for us both and more…come on,” Rook insisted and Lucanis gave in, taking the bite that she was offering.

Lucanis wondered if it should have felt ridiculous, letting someone feed him pancakes, but it didn’t, he just felt content, loved even. He wondered when was the last time he’d felt like that, or if he’d even felt like that at all before.

He let Rook feed him another couple of bites before nudging her and reminding her to eat herself, and so she dug into the pancakes with appetite. “Seriously, Lucanis, these are so good,” she said between bites and he couldn’t stop how pleased it made him feel.

Still, he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been hungry, maybe even starving. How hadn’t he thought of feeding her sooner, he shouldn’t have fallen asleep last night without making sure she was fed, no matter how warm and comfortable her arms had felt.

“Did you eat anything while you were…away?” Lucanis found himself asking.

He wasn’t sure how the Fade worked, how she could have survived those weeks without eating anything, if maybe she didn’t need it while in the Fade…

Rook shook her head and leaned over to place the plate of pancakes, with barely anything left, on the table, taking the cup of coffee instead and leaning back on the couch again with a sigh.

“I know it was weeks for you here but…for me…I don’t know,” she trailed off. “I don’t know how it works, but it felt…I don’t even know…eternal but static at the same time…” Rook shuddered and Lucanis leaned to place an arm around her, regretting to have asked. “I don’t want to think about it now.”

“Of course,” he whispered, pulling her close.

His wings popped out without him meaning to, wrapping around them. Lucanis’d be embarrassed about his lack of control of the wings sometimes, if it weren’t because Rook seemed to like them. He had to wonder if Taash was right when they told him he should get out the wings when he was with Rook, that she’d like it.

“Good morning, Spite,” Rook said, smiling.

“Rook,” the demon greeted, but Lucanis was thankful he didn’t try to control him, seeming content just being acknowledged.

Rook took another sip of the coffee and then offered the cup to Lucanis. He was about to refuse, that was her coffee, he had a cup for himself, but she was looking at him with that soft smile, those caring, loving eyes, in a way that made him feel as if his heart was growing in size, and he couldn’t refuse her, taking a sip of the coffee before giving her the cup back.

Rook leaned against him with a content sigh and Lucanis kissed the side of her head. 

There were gods to kill, people to help, a world to save, friends to avenge, they had to get at it soon but perhaps, perhaps it all could wait just a bit longer.

Perhaps they could stay like that, Lucanis’ arm and wings enveloping Rook, basking in each other, for a little bit, if only until they finished their coffee.

*

NA:

Both me and my Rook have fallen in love with this gentle, caring assassin and we want to hold him and protect him, but sometimes Rook needs to be taken care of too.

I think I want to write more for them.

If you liked the fic, please let me know in a comment, and as always, reblogs are more than welcome.

Excuse my English, it’s not my first language.

[randomsuggesteduseername]

SPIDER’S SECRET I

🕸️ SERIES MASTERLIST

‧₊˚ when new york’s famous vigilante helps you out of a mugging, an arrangement is quick to turn into a friendship….and perhaps more. after all, his charisma needs no face to work its magic on you ‧₊˚

spidey!steve x fem!reader

wc: 4k

description of wounds and violence, fluff, slight pining, smoking

Three knocks stronger than the rhythmic pitter patter of the rain have your attention shifting towards the window. Had you not been welcoming him in your room for the past few weeks you would’ve jumped right out of your bed out of fear. But this was becoming a regular thing, it’s now a matter of ‘when’ rather than ‘if’.

Pushing your biology course books out of your lap, your mind on him rather than the endocrine system you’re supposed to be studying. As you briefly wonder the gravity of his wounds, you remember to close and safely lock your door to avoid interruptions, aware it would be worrying for your mom to find you patching up Spider-man, the boy in a tight, red suit who always makes it on the news. Some say he’s a necessary vigilante for the troublesome city, others state he’s just a dumb kid playing superhero.

Although he always refuses to tell you anything about his identity or his life, you’re pretty sure he’s certainly not just playing around, countless bruises and cuts can attest to that.

The sound of the rain gets louder as you open the window, droplets smacking against the emergency metal staircase climbing up the side of the building. Poking your head out of your room carefully, you look to the left, met with a dark figure sitting on the stairs, leaning back against the brick wall, chest still heaving, shoulders sagged yet tight with pain.

“C’mon Bug-boy…” Urging him inside, you step back from the window, letting him come inside, droplets of water sliding down onto your carpet from his suit. He’s limping, you notice as much, his usual flexible self being rendered to a few pained movements. You briefly wonder how he managed to make it here.

The moment he’s inside your room, he plops down to the floor, resting back against the foot of your bed while his body seems to finally relax a bit, assuming he knows he’s safe with you and you’ll take care of him. Silently bending down, you reach under the bed and pull out the hidden first aid kit you bought a week ago, having realised that some small bandages and a disinfectant won’t do anymore.

Shutting the window, you take the precaution to pull the curtains shut, aware how paranoid he gets sometimes. Kneeling next to him, you tuck some hair behind your ears and speak. “Where, and how bad?” Hoping he’s not actually too injured, hating to see him like this, he pulls his mask up to his neck, showing a cut on his jaw, and as you gaze down, you asses another injury on his waist.

You’ve never seen his face. He’s kept his mask firmly in place, and has instructed you to do the same even if he passes out. You’re not sure what would be so bad about seeing his face, but you stopped questioning it after a while, now staring at the sharp jawline, biting your lip as some wet, brown and blond-ish strands of hair stick to the side of his neck.

Forcing yourself from building him a face you think would fit him based on what you’ve seen already, you rummage through the kit and furrow your brows as you fish the cleaning cloth, dampening it with disinfectant before you announce that it’s going to hurt.

He knows that, of course he does, he’s been through this with you before. But it does feel reassuring to acknowledge his pain. Focusing on the bloody split on his jaw, glad it’s not too deep, you don’t bother to ask what weapon did this as you know he never answers. The pain you cause him is evident from the way his fists stay curled tightly, pressed against his thighs.

Wiping the blood away from his skin and ignoring his groan, you grab a bandage big enough to fit his wound and place it over, making sure it sticks to his skin. However, the cut on his waist is more concerning. His suit is damaged, cut just like his skin is beneath it, though luckily it has stopped oozing blood for a while now, saving the mess it would have made on your floor and carpet.

Scared to approach it, you stare at it and watch as he pushes himself up a bit, having slumped against the foot of your bed due to the pain. “Thought you were about to become a doctor…you’re going to leave me out to die?” His tone, despite trying to sound amused, still has that pained tinge to it. The absurdity of his statement has your eyes rolling, huffing while a bloody cotton ball falls onto the floor. He’s here, laying on your floor after being beaten up, yet he still has the audacity to humour you.

“First of all, you are not going to die from two superficial cuts.” You can see his lips curling up, showing his white teeth as they split into a grin. Lips so pink, you stop to admire for a moment before remembering the point you were trying to make. “And second of all, I haven’t even started my residency yet! I’m purely working on you with the theoretical knowledge I have.”

He stifles his laugh, teeth biting into his lip before he quickly chokes up a gasp, grasping at his side. Pursing your lips, you let him calm down before shaking your head and murmuring about him being a dummy, regaining your confidence to approach his wound, you try not to think about it too much before you use a pair of scissors to cut more of his suit in order to gain access to his cut. Letting him know you’re ready, he breaches for the pain and you work through the mess of dried up blood, brows pulling together and eyes squinting while you carefully sanitise the wound, wrapping it up before you lean back, plopping on your butt with a soft thump before you gaze at him, his head now propped against the wooden pillar, taking calming breaths through his mouth.

“You’ll be fine, it didn’t look too bad.” Silently appreciating your assuring words, he moves to stand up. He never lingers, this sort of agreement you two have never went beyond you cleaning and patching him up, moments later to have him jump right back out of your window and disappear into the night, swinging from building to building.

It didn’t bother you at first, but now you’d like him to at least acknowledge you a bit more. It’s selfish, you think. You can’t demand something like that from him, so you keep your mouth shut and watch as he pads to the window, his steps as light as a cat’s.

“See you soon, doc.” The last thing you see is another stretch of his pretty lips before he tugs his mask down in place and opens your window, leaving you with a shudder as a wave of cold air enters your room, watching as he confidently jumps down from the rail.

Shaking your head and sighing, you close the window, lingering by it for a few moments before you pack up the first aid kit and throw away the bloody cotton balls.

—

THREE WEEKS AGO

Chilly weather always has you adding another layer beneath your jacket in hopes of maintaining a healthy body temperature. But as much as you want it to work, you always end up shaking, legs not able to carry you as fast as you’d wish. This late at night the streets are mostly empty, as was the uni’s library in which you spend your whole evening, revising one last time for your exam.

And just a ten minute walk is all it takes to get back home, so without hesitating, you walk with freezing hands shoved in your pockets. You’re not aware of the man taking an interest in you until it’s too late, his voice, gruff and raspy, calls out for you, and you make your first mistake. Stopping in your tracks to turn around.

He’s about the same height as you, a black beanie and hood covering his features, shielding him from the streetlight’s golden cast. He holds a knife, you can tell by the handle of it, the blade hidden behind his thigh as he speaks again. “Give me your bag.” He demands, his voice wavering as if he’s scared, paranoically looking back over his shoulder.

“I said give me the fucking bag!” He shouts, getting a bit more frantic now as he reaches his left hand for the strap of your bag, fist curling around the leather, but before he can even think of tugging on it he’s blinded by a web covering his eyes. You gasp, stepping back as his grip falls from your bag and instead scratching his covered eyes to free them, another ‘woosh’ sound echoes, another web collides with the man, this time glueing his hand to his chest.

A figure slowly comes down, hanging upside down, feet pressed to the thin string that’s connecting him to the street lamp while he keeps hold of it. You notice him wearing a costume, covering his whole body, a spider shape etched onto his chest. He drops down on the pavement, easily tripping the mugger as he tries to run away. You stand there and gasp as you hear the loud thud as the man falls onto the concrete.

“You, my dear sir, need to be taught a lesson.” The man…boy? in the spider costume tuts and crosses his arms over his chest in disappointment, pretending to care though he’s clearly mocking him. “This young lady didn’t do anything wrong. It’s always the undeserving ones who experience the worst things because of assholes like you.” His words seem to hold a sort of personal value to him, you don’t dare speak.

After the police picks up the thief, you continue making your way back, an uneasy feeling still lingering at the back of your mind. “So…” You yelp as the boy swings in front of you, landing on the side of the building a bit higher up and sticking to it effortlessly as if his limbs are made out of glue. “Why’re you walking alone? You didn’t get dumped, did you?” He tries his luck, jumping to the next building by crawling on the side of it to keep up with your walking pace.

“Um…no.” Keeping your hands tucked in your jacket, not daring to look at him, he jumps down from the building, and surprisingly enough he starts walking backwards in front of you, hands locked behind his back as he effortlessly side steps over a puddle of muddy water. “Just coming back from uni.” You’ve heard of him before, the one in the spider suit doing good deeds expecting nothing in return, but a few blurry images couldn’t really convince you of his integrity, so as he walks in front of you, you’re not sure what he wants from you.

Maybe he’s just another creep, playing the good guy role to gain the trust of others— “Hello, earth to pretty girl.” He waves a covered hand in front of you, making you snap out of your pretty ridiculous train of thought. “Relax, m’just walking you home to make sure you’re fine.” He flicks his hand, trying to bat away your obvious worries. “So, what are you studying?”

His question catches you off guard, eyes widening for a moment before he clarifies. “You said you were coming back from university, right?”

“Oh…” The sound is breathy, feeling a bit embarrassed as you respond. “Medicine, general surgery.” The slight saunter in his walk doesn’t fade, head cocking curiously to the side as he gives you an approving nod.

Stopping in front of your building, you bite your lip, eyes drifting away from the mask, trailing to his arm where you’re quick to notice the cut on his bicep, blood reddening the material of his suit. Stepping closer instinctively, you look at the damage before you frown. “You’re hurt.” He curiously lifts his arm a bit before he notices his cut.

“Hm, didn’t notice…must’ve cut myself while i was swinging.” By the way his words come out you’re assuming whoever is behind the mask is frowning.

“I could help.” Out of the blue, surprising yourself too, you offer to patch him up. You’re not sure if he can be trusted, but the way he helped you out of a street mugging, you feel like you at least owe him a bit of help back. “I’m on the third floor, room on the corner…there.” You point to the window and he takes a mental note. “Be quiet, my parents can’t know.”

After patching him up, he climbs out your window, and then once again, something in your mind has you speaking up. “If you ever need help…with wounds and stuff— you can always come by.” You fiddle with your hands and watch the curve of his back, head turning to the side to gaze back over his shoulder, at least you assume so since his eyes are covered by the mask.

“Will do, thanks doc!” You gasp as he flings himself over the edge, free falling for a few seconds before he shoots out webs, catching himself against the next building, watching him disappear into the night.

—

“The amazing Spider-man, infamous hero of New York City, has saved a family from a burning building. Earlier today, the masked vigilante made his presence known by pulling out a family of four from their top floor apartment as it went up in flames. Authorities showed up to the scene and from what we know so far, they detected a gas leak—“

Tuning out the news reporter, you sigh as you wonder if you’ll see him again. It’s been almost a week and truthfully you’re glad he hasn’t shown up at your window with another set of bruises and cuts on him, but you still feel somewhat empty. Maybe you’re expecting a sign? Something to let you know he’s alive and well, even though there’s plenty of news attesting to that already.

It’s absurd really, but spending your time sitting on your windowstill has become a habit, whether you’re studying or drinking a coffee, you look out into the night sky, hoping to see a dash passing by. Maybe it was for the best, maybe he’s found himself a licensed doctor to take care of him, not some second year student patching him up in her bedroom with shaky hands. Tracing your fingers over the spine of your book, the words jumble as your eyes pass over them, not making any sense of them in your brain. It’s your third time reading this page, but you pull your eyes away from it the moment a familiar voice rings through the room, your eyes finding the TV where he’s apparently giving an interview.

“Rest assured, New York, the Spider-man is here.” He gives a salute to the camera before he swings away, quickly disappearing from the screen. Great. Now he’s giving interviews.

Pushing yourself off the bed, socked feet dragging over the floor as you make your way to the kitchen, passing your dad in the living room. He’s watching some game, newspaper sprawled open on his lap. After grabbing some water, you return to your room, a cold breeze darting over you, eyes widening as you find the window opened. “What the…”

Stepping into the room to close it, your brows furrow as you turn around, a voice coming from above you. “Language, young lady.” You gasp, stumbling back against the bed, finding him sticking to the ceiling, hanging in the corner of your room. Clutching your heart, you close your eyes and take a deep breath. “The fuck’s wrong with you?” Shaking your head, you watch as he drops down onto his feet, moving to rest against the wall by the window, you’re wondering if he’s looking for a quick escape in case it’s needed,

“Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to freak you out,” He lifts his hands, as if surrendering, but you purse your lips, a brow cocking curiously. “You say that while you were just hanging off my ceiling.” That makes him think for a moment, letting out a soft chuckle before he brushes a hand over the back of his head.

“I guess you’ve got a point…” His smile is obvious in his tone, his body more relaxed than usual which has you wondering if he’s hurt, because that’s why he must be here in the first place. Standing up, you walk to him and give him a once over.

“Are you hurt?” Not being able to find any injuries which might need your attention, you breathe in and watch as he dismisses your words with a shake of his head, making the furrow between your brows deepen. He pushes himself off the wall, walking around your room as he seems to be looking around curiously, pictures hanging off the walls, decorations propped up on furniture.

“Nope, I’m fine. Thanks to this new suit…something about impenetrable nanofibers I think.” His hand reaches for a teddy bear, grabbing it as he turns around, propping it in front of his face before he speaks in a higher pitched, mocking voice. “Bad spider, scaring his trusted doctor like that.”

You must admit, he’s ridiculous, watching him do that makes you grin to yourself, rolling your eyes for good measure before you step closer, yanking the teddy away from him as you prop him back into his place. “Hands off, bug boy.”

“Bug boy— really? I’m- I’m not some ladybug, or stink bug. I’m a spider, I shoot webs. I’m cool.” Defending his case, he makes a few “phew” sounds as he pretends to shoot webs all over your room, but you cross your arms, standing still before he stops, leaving silence to settle in for a moment. “Okay, that was ridiculous, not cool at all.” Laughing softly, you bite your lip, taking a look at him.

“Why are you here? Since you’re not hurt…impenetrable nanofibres and all.” Waving a hand jokingly to dismiss the words as he had done earlier, he simply shrugs, moving to pull the curtains shut as a last minute safety measure.

“I guess I just wanted to check in on you, you know? I don’t think I’ll be needing any patchwork done anytime soon.” Ah. So that’s it, he’s come to tell you you’re useless to him now. You toy with your fingers and nod, assuming this is the last time you’ll get to talk to him like this.

“That’s okay. So that means you won’t have any reason to come here anymore.” That seems to make him silent for a few moments, this time it’s awkward, not carrying that comedic effect like before.

“I can still come and see you, you know? We could hang out…as friends.” Your eyes widen. He wants to keep coming to see you. Not because he has to, but because he wants to. Your mouth opens, no words coming out, instead you settle for a small smile and a nod.

This could be good, at least it seems to be that way.

—

Carefully stepping out of your room, holding onto the railing, you sit down on the metal platform, knees pulling up to your chest as you hug the sweater tighter over your body, not letting the cool breeze beat you.

You’re not sure when you picked up smoking as part of your regular routine, all you know is that you’re out in the cold now, trying to take your nicotine fill. Red knuckled hand grasping the lighter in your hand, thumb flicking over the spark wheel a few times until a flame bursts out, burning the tip of the cigarette, taking a drag before stuffing the lighter in the pocket of your sweats.

Watching the cloud of smoke flow up into the air, the back of your head pressed against the brick wall, the cold not being such a bother anymore. “Didn’t anyone tell you those are bad for you?” A familiar voice pulls you out of your own head, he’s crouching on the railing, maintaining his equilibrium perfectly.

Taking another drag as if to humour his words, you sigh. “You’ve got to stop doing that. One day I’ll have a heart attack.” He jumps from the railing, settling down in front of you, legs outstretched as they cage you in, feet pressing to the wall on each side of your body.

Though he’s not touching you at all, the position feels somewhat cosy, offering you a sense of protection. Blowing another lungful of smoke, you hold your hand out to him, offering him a drag. The way his head tilts lets you know he’s thinking about it before his hand reaches for the cigarette, his other tugging his mask up over his lips, exposing his lower face once again.

How is it that just his lips have you in a trance, trying your hardest to build him a portrait in your mind? You’ve never asked to see his real face, though you doubt it he’d actually show it to you. A so-called friend of Spider-man’s.

He puffs out the smoke in a similar manner to you, eyes following the way his tongue wets his slightly chapped lips, trying not to let certain thoughts encompass you. “So how was your night? Any bad guys?” Deflecting with the start of a conversation, you watch as he ashes the cigarette over the railing, passing it back to you.

“Pretty boring, but it’s gotten better.” Fighting the smile his natural charm tries to put on your face, you sigh and knock your foot into the inside of his knee lightly. “Funny…” Your word falls flat, followed by the slightest smile as you give him the last puff, letting him throw it away too.

“You know, for someone who is all about the law, you’re pretty ignorant of littering.” Quirking your brow as if to scold him, you notice him grinning, his mask still pulled up. “My apologies.”

Stargazing and small conversations ensued, he’d switched to resting against the wall right next to you halfway through talking about the moon’s colour tonight, shoulders and arms pressing together, you don’t feel like moving away, more so, wishing to drift closer even if by accident.

Tearing your gaze away from his jaw, you tell yourself how wrong this is, to want to reach out and pull his mask the rest of the way up, wanting to reveal his face. Something about the mystery of it has you yearning for more of him, though that would be insane since you don’t even know his name. All he gave to you was a few hours of his company from time to time.

“No, clearly you’re colour blind.” He feigns shock at your statement, hand pressing over his heart before he tuts with a disappointed look on his face. “Oh baby, don’t talk to me like that..”

He’s joking, of course he is, though the pet name, uttered so softly from his lips, makes you warm up, especially in the cheeks. Nudging your forehead to the side of his shoulder, feeling the solid muscle, yet still somewhat comforting, deciding to leave your head there, not uttering a word as he seems to accept the change in position, tilting your head back to gaze at his side profile.

You hate the way the moon lights up his angles perfectly, how the urge to reach a hand up to his face bubbles up inside of you and how everything is just nearly attainable but still out of reach due to your own self restraint. That doesn’t stop the words from coming out though. “Would you show me your face? I feel like we’ve known each other for a month already and all I’ve seen is that mask of yours.”

You feel dejected as he seems to tense next to you, his plush lips thinner now as they purse together. A beat passes where nothing is said, your head pulling back from his shoulder, gazing at him expectantly before he clears his throat, shaking his head with a small smile on his lips.

“I would, but that’s part of the trick, isn’t it? The whole—y’know, faceless act.” Looking down at your lap, you nod, feeling like he’s reducing you to the random passersby who might see his face while he swings from building to building. Trying to not let the disappointment show on your face, you force your attention back to the moon still high onto the sky, uttering softly.

“Yeah…I get it.”

[not-available-for-comment]

Wow I do not like this take at all. It correctly defines popular culture while getting basically everything about it wrong.

Yeah, pop culture is meant to have broad appeal. It doesn’t make you a sophisticate to like it. It also doesn’t make you cringe or mean you have bad taste, and it doesn’t mean that pop culture is inherently poorly constructed.

Pop culture is the Reese’s peanut butter cup of the world. Liking it is not groundbreaking. It’s made to be easily liked. Disliking it may make you the minority but it doesn’t make you more correct or special—it just means your taste diverges from most people’s on the topic of chocolate and peanut butter. If you go to a nice restaurant, you won’t expect to see Reese’s peanut butter cups on the dessert menu—you’d expect the chef to make something themselves, ideally with better ingredients and a more complex flavor profile. If people act like there’s no difference between Chef So-and-So’s chocolate torte with raspberry-thyme coulis and a Reese’s peanut butter cup in terms of quality, they’re either not very sophisticated or just flat out willfully obtuse.

But it’s also wrong to say we can’t talk about pop culture seriously if we want to. Perhaps you didn’t explicitly say it was, OP, but generally people equate bad, vulgar, cringe taste with things not worth spending time or mental energy on, and I’m frankly very strongly against that. Things that are broadly popular are useful on a number of vectors. They can tell us things about what broad swathes of people care about, how viewpoints are changing, what people’s power fantasies and aspirations are. And even if they’re just the equivalent of a silly little piece of candy, they can be well made for what they are. Sweet velvety chocolate against the salt and slight graininess of the peanut butter. Just large enough to feel indulgent—for most people it’s most comfortable to eat in 2-3 bites. Melts on the tongue. Sure, I could’ve probably gotten a full paragraph out of Mx Chef’s chocolate torte, and I only got about 3 sentences out of a Reese’s cup, but that’s not really my point.

My point is that yes, some people do seem overly proud of having a diet exclusively of Reese’s peanut butter cups, and I’m guessing that’s what the OP is addressing. But also Shakespeare was lowbrow pop culture. Liszt was a heartthrob musician. Many of our preeminent women writers of the past were published in the equivalent of Better Homes and Gardens or Real Simple. Not every respected contributor to Western culture has come from pop culture—the guy* who wrote “Ode to a Grecian Urn” was not trying to appeal to the lowbrow everyman—but the distinctions are not as sharp as they’re being made out to be here.

You can and in fact should insist on having serious conversations about people who tried to say serious things about the world and humanity in their art. In her essay collection The Death of Adam, Marilynne Robinson writes** an impassioned call to pursuing art and art criticism that approaches ideas expansively and ambitiously, and she ends with the painful phrase, “I miss civilization, and I want it back.” I felt that plea so strongly when I read it 20 years ago, and I don’t want to squash people who want that too. But I’d really, really caution against the arrogance of assuming that just because you don’t personally enjoy something, or you find it gratingly popular, serious discussion of it is not worthwhile. If you wish to pursue an intellectual life, you don’t have to spend all your time in the mud (to introduce a new metaphor at the eleventh hour) but it’s also unwise to ignore everything that grows from it.

___

*that said, while I adore Keats, I also find him very silly most of the time

**I wish I could quote more of it but I had to really ruthlessly purge my library before my last move and I can’t find my copy anymore.

not to be vulgar but the point of popular culture is to appeal to the largest swathe of people. if you like popular culture you cannot claim to be special! you cannot be literary or high culture or whatever floating signifier of intellectual sophistication you want because those are defined by their exclusion. sorry. just embrace your cringe and bad taste that's vastly more respectable.

[daisymbin]

Hi! I’ve been loving the drabbles they’re all so good!!! Can I request 17+33 suggestive with Vernon?

thank you!! & of course you can!! 🥰

request your own: full prompt list!

check out my masterlist! // hansol's m.list

suggestive prompt #17: "come here and let me take care of you." +

suggestive prompt #33: "you're cute when you're flustered."

the room was quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioning, and you couldn’t help but notice how hansol’s gaze kept flickering toward you, his eyes soft but undeniably intense. you were sitting on the couch, a book resting in your lap, but you weren’t really reading anymore. your mind was too occupied with hansol, who was sitting across the room, his fingers tapping absentmindedly on his phone.

you caught him looking at you again, this time a little longer than before, his eyes lingering on you in a way that made your heart skip. it wasn’t like him to be so obvious about his attention. the more you tried to pretend you didn’t notice, the more your cheeks flushed, and the more you tried to focus on your book, the harder it became to ignore him.

finally, after a few moments of tense silence, hansol put his phone down, leaning forward with a smile that was both playful and warm. “you’re cute when you’re flustered,” he said, his voice low, like he was teasing but also genuinely admiring the way you were acting around him.

you felt your face heat up even more, and you immediately looked down at your book, hoping it would somehow hide your embarrassment. “i-i’m not flustered,” you stammered, though your flushed face probably gave you away.

hansol chuckled softly, standing up from his spot on the couch and walking toward you. “you don’t have to hide it, you know,” he said, his voice just a little more serious now, as he stood in front of you, looking down with an almost predatory intensity. “you’re cute when you’re shy too.”

you tried to look up at him, but the way he was standing so close to you made it hard to think straight. he reached out, gently lifting your chin with his finger so that your eyes met his. there was something about the way he was looking at you—something so gentle, yet filled with an undeniable warmth that made your chest tighten.

"come here, let me take care of you," hansol said softly, his tone just suggestive enough to make your heart race. his hand brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch sending a small shiver down your spine.

you swallowed hard, unsure if you should give in to the urge to move closer to him or if you should resist. but there was something in his eyes that made it hard to pull away, something that made your heart beat faster, made your breath catch in your throat. the way he was looking at you, like you were the only person in the room, made you feel like you were floating.

without a word, you slowly scooted closer to him, and hansol’s smile deepened, his eyes softening with a mix of affection and something a little more heated. he knelt down in front of you, so that you were at eye level, and took both of your hands in his, his thumb stroking over your knuckles gently.

"i’m not gonna bite," he murmured, his lips curling into a playful smirk. "unless you want me to." his voice was teasing, but his eyes were filled with warmth, making it hard to resist the pull of his presence.

you opened your mouth to say something, but all that came out was a small, breathless laugh. your hands were shaking slightly, and you could feel your heart pounding harder in your chest.

"hansol," you whispered, barely able to keep your voice steady, "you’re making me nervous."

his gaze softened even further, and for a moment, he just looked at you, as though he was studying your every expression, every subtle shift in your body language. then, with a sigh, he leaned closer, his forehead gently resting against yours. his breath was warm against your face, and his scent—the soft, comforting mixture of something familiar and him—surrounded you, making it almost impossible to think straight.

"i’m sorry," he whispered, his voice gentle, "i didn’t mean to make you nervous. i just… i just want to be close to you."

the sincerity in his voice made your chest flutter, and for a moment, all your nerves seemed to melt away. it wasn’t like you didn’t want him close. you did. more than anything, you wanted to feel his touch, feel the warmth of his presence.

before you could respond, hansol closed the small gap between you, pressing his lips gently against yours. the kiss was soft, tender, like he was taking his time with you, savoring the moment. his hand gently cupped your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek as he deepened the kiss just a little, making your heart race again.

you melted into the kiss, your hands finding their way to his shoulders, pulling him closer as you kissed him back with the same softness and tenderness. there was no rush, no urgency—just the warmth of his lips against yours, the feeling of his hand resting gently against your neck as he kept you close.

when you finally pulled away, breathless, hansol’s eyes were filled with that same soft intensity, the playful spark still present, but now mixed with something a little more serious.

“i told you, i’d take care of you,” he said with a smile, his voice low and warm, almost as though the kiss had left him just as breathless as it had left you. “now, how about you let me take even more care of you?”

you couldn’t help but nod, your heart still racing in your chest, but a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “okay,” whispered, your voice shaky, “please.”

[n0vazsq]

Tired of being alone | OP81 x Reader

pairing . . . oscar piastri x nurse!gf!reader

summary . . . Watching your boyfriend reveal your relationship on international TV, you realise that you missed him more than you realised

request . . . yes!! based on this request!

word count . . . 712

warnings . . . none!

faceclaim . . . N/A

alexavia yaps . . . i have a free lesson rn so why not be productive and write? it's a bit shitty and kinda rushed but my next lesson is eng and i can NOT be late for it </3 saur sorry pookie!!

taglist . . . @barcapix (lmk if you want to join the taglist!)

. . . You slumped into the couch, limbs heavy from another exhausting shift. The hum of the TV filled the room, flickering softly in the dim light.

Your scrubs were still on, your shoes kicked off by the door. The thought of getting up to change or even eat felt too overwhelming after all those back to back shifts at the hospital. All you wanted was to melt into the couch and let the familiar background noise wash over you.

Oscar’s voice drifted into the room, steady and comforting. His interviews were always a joy to watch, making you smile and laugh, just like a kid watching their favourite cartoon. You hadn’t even registered what the interview was about; something about the upcoming Las Vegas GP, until the interviewer leaned in with a knowing grin.

"So, Oscar, we heard you stayed busy during the break between Brazil and Vegas. Anything special?"

You perked up, the exhaustion momentarily forgotten. Oscar’s laugh came through the speakers, soft and a little awkward. It was a laugh you knew well, the one he gave when he wasn’t sure how much to share. Your heart started beating a little faster.

"Well," he began, rubbing the back of his neck, a habit that always made you melt. "I spent most of it taking care of someone close to me. She works really long shifts and don’t always get enough rest, so I made sure she was… comfortable."

You blinked, sitting up straighter. Did he just-? Your heart skipped a beat, eyes widening.

The interviewer’s eyes widened at his sentence, just like how you did, as if he was mimicking your actions. "Interesting," he teased, leaning in slightly. "Care to share more details? Who’s this mysterious lady?"

Oscar’s smile was small, but it reached his eyes, soft and sincere. "Let’s just say she's in healthcare. A nurse, actually. She's been pretty amazing, and I wanted to make sure she had a break too."

Your breath caught in your throat. There it was. A soft launch, wrapped in his quiet, subtle way. Oscar wasn’t the type of person who did grand gestures or flashy declarations, but this? This felt perfect. It was a little secret, meant just for you, even with the world watching.

The interviewer pressed on, curiosity piqued. "A nurse, huh? Sounds like you’ve got someone special in your world."

Oscar’s eyes flickered with that shy warmth you adored. "Yeah," he admitted, voice softer. "I do."

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, pressing a hand to your mouth. The exhaustion of the day melted away, replaced by a warm, fluttering feeling in your chest. He always had a way of making you feel seen, even when you were miles apart.

Your phone buzzed beside you. Picking it up, you saw that it was a text from Oscar.

Hope you’re watching. Rest up, yeah? ❤

You bit your lip, a grin spreading across your face. He always knew exactly what you needed.

Busted, Mr. Soft Launch. I owe you a dinner.

Your phone buzzed again almost immediately.

Only if you let me cook.

You leaned back into the couch, the smile refusing to leave your face. The weight of the day didn’t feel so heavy anymore. Knowing that he’d spent his break looking after you, making sure you were okay, it made all the long shifts and sleepless nights worth it.

On the screen, the interview moved on to other questions, but you weren’t really listening anymore. You were too lost in the quiet joy of knowing you were loved; subtly, quietly, and now, a little bit known by the world too.

You texted back, fingers hovering over the keys for a moment.

I’m tired of being alone all day. Come home faster.

His reply came quickly, almost as if he’d been waiting for it.

See you soon. It’s worth it for you. Every time.

Your heart swelled, and you sank deeper into the couch's soft cushions, the warmth of his words wrapping around you like a blanket. Even with the miles between you, he had a way of making you feel like you were home.

In that adorable way that made you feel loved and cherished, just like when you were a kid.

God, you loved him more than anything.

[aishabellasbigblogofeverything]

Plus, even if Tiana’s race really didn’t have anything to do with her story, even if she really could be race-swapped to white and have her story stay the same, it would still be wrong to race-swap her. Why? Because Black people, especially Black women, are still underrepresented in media compared to their white counterparts! Making a Black character white is just giving white people more representation that they already have. It’s taking away the few representation that Black people have. While making a white character Black is just giving Black people, an already underrepresented group, more representation than they had before, and taking away from a group who already has lots of representation already, so they’re not missing out on anything if one character that used to represent them is now being represented as a Black woman. You can still relate to her still, just because she doesn’t look like you anymore doesn’t mean that she isn’t still the same character and can’t still be relatable to you. If you need a character to look like you as a white person in order to relate to them then guess what, you’re racist! With a capital R! End of story! Also don’t think I don’t notice that most of the time it is female characters that get this hate. A combination of racism and misogyny. Black women are the easiest targets. Some of y’all didn’t even care about these characters until you found out that a non-white character was playing them. It’s giving sad and desperate. Have some priorities, get a life and a sense of joy that doesn’t involve bitching about fictional fucking princesses no longer being your whitewashed Aryan wet dream on the internet.

On the bright side I didn’t know that Astrid was going to be played by a Black woman, and now I am glad! 🥳

"Oh well if Astrid/Annabeth/Rapunzel/Ariel are all being played by women of color, then let's have Dove Cameron play Tiana!"

Let's examine that statement real fast. Does Astrid being played by a Black woman change anything about the story? Her arc? Her character?

What about Annabeth? Sure, you could claim it's "the hair" for the billionth time in a row, but really it's about her being underestimated. In the books, this was bc she was blonde, but since dumb blondes don't really exist anymore, this would be a laughable thing to put in an adaptation. Just give her a new reason to be seen as underestimated

Rapunzel? Not all Germans are white, plus, this wasn't even a real casting. I ask again, what changes about Rapunzel's story if she is played by an Indian woman?

And now Tiana. What is Tiana's story about? It's about a Black woman struggling to make a living because she is Black. Not only that, but she is based on a real-life African-American woman, Leah Chase. That's what the story is about, you cannot take away her being Black and expect the story to stay the same

So many of you cry wolf on "raceswapping" and "fair is fair" when not only do you fail to examine how the character changes as a result of race, but you also ignore the literal centuries we have had on whitewashing

You cannot take away Jasmine's race and expect it to be the same story. You cannot take away Mulan's identity as a Chinese woman and say that it's the same concept. You can't call for "historical accuracy" when the character lives in a world populated by fucking dragons. It doesn't work like that