#I just think it's a funny possibility like

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 Every Shade.

Boyfriend!Reid x Avoidant!reader

series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: Your perfect boyfriend says a fun fact about the standards of beauty, and suddenly his words hit you harder than they should.

Words: 6k.

Warnings & Tags: fem!bau!reader. mentions of insecurities, beauty canons, serial killers, death and the reader wearing makeup. established relationship. spencer being an inexperienced boyfriend. lack of communication but happy ending. hurt/comfort. angst?. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I can seriously think of my inexperienced boy being a foolish or careless boyfriend even without meaning to be, so enjoy this!

Spencer Reid never thought of himself as the careless type of boyfriend. In fact, before you, the very idea of being someone’s boyfriend had never seemed possible, let alone something he could do well. He had always been more comfortable with facts, numbers, and patterns. Relationships had always been a different kind of mystery to him, one he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to solve. But when you came into his life, something shifted. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt an overwhelming desire to be not just a partner, but a good one. A thoughtful one. A boyfriend who paid attention to the details.

He knew your favorite coffee order without you ever having to tell him. He knew the exact shade of blue that made your eyes sparkle in a way that made him catch his breath and the way you furrowed your brows in concentration when you were diving deep into thought. He noticed the little things, like the way your fingers gripped the edge of your sleeve when you were lost in a difficult problem or how you would laugh softly at jokes you didn’t find funny just to make others feel comfortable. Every habit, every subtle movement, every fleeting comment you made was something he absorbed like a sponge, collecting the pieces of you that made you you. And it made him feel closer to you, more connected than he ever thought was possible.

But it wasn’t just the light moments he noticed. Spencer also understood the weight of your darker days, the ones where the world seemed to shift into shades of gray, where the air held a bite that wasn’t harsh but still cut through you. He knew when the seasons teetered between autumn and winter and how those melancholic in-between days clung to your spirit. On those days, the ones where you wore your sadness like a cloak without ever saying a word, he was there. He noticed when your smile didn’t reach your eyes, when your usual energy seemed dimmed. So, without fail, he would show up with a steaming cup of hot chocolate, a soft blanket, and arms that enveloped you like a cocoon. He would be your shelter, your quiet refuge from the world, without needing any words to fill the silence.

He loved knowing you this well, loved that he could anticipate your needs before you even voiced them. It made him feel closer to you, like he had earned a place in the most hidden corners of your heart. And to Spencer, there was no better feeling in the world.

He knows you; he sees you. He does it.

That morning, in the quiet hum of your office, was one of those moments where your boyfriend’s watchful eyes made all the difference. The soft glow of your desk lamp illuminated your face, casting a warm, golden light that contrasted against the coolness of the winter air outside. Before you, your makeup bag lay open, a chaotic yet familiar spread of tools—brushes, tubes, powders—all of them scattered like tiny pieces of armor you would need for the day ahead. You were preparing for the press conference, the one where you would stand in for JJ during her maternity leave. The pressure felt immense. It wasn’t just any press conference; it was the moment you had to prove you could handle the spotlight, the cameras, and the ever-watchful public eye. The weight of one of your best friends’ trust sat heavy on your shoulders, but it was a weight you were willing to carry.

As you smoothed foundation over your skin with careful, practiced strokes, you felt the weight of Spencer’s gaze on you. It wasn’t intrusive, never demanding, just there, steady and grounding, as if his attention alone could keep you tethered. He had a way of watching you that made you feel both seen and safe, as though he was quietly committing every little detail of you to memory.

Still, you glanced up, unable to resist.

And there he was.

Leaning against the wall, arms loosely crossed, his expression was unreadable, but his eyes—those deep, knowing eyes—told you everything. He was looking at you like you were the most fascinating thing in the world, his quiet reverence sending a warm, familiar hum through your chest. It made your pulse stutter, your breath catch just slightly.

Because, oh God, how much you loved feeling his eyes on you.

You swallowed, dragging your focus back to the mirror. Focus. Get it together. You’ve got this. JJ had entrusted you with this press conference, and you weren’t about to let doubt creep in, not now.

But from the corner of your eye, you caught movement.

Derek Morgan, leaning casually against his desk, arms crossed, wearing that signature smirk of his. It wasn’t just amusement playing at the edges of his mouth; it was something more entertained, more knowing. His gaze flicked between you and Spencer, and you could practically hear the teasing remark forming before he even opened his mouth.

You sighed. Here we go.

“What?” you asked, arching a brow as you reached for your concealer. “Never seen someone put on makeup before?”

His grin only deepened. “Nah, I’ve seen plenty,” he said, raising an eyebrow as if he were admiring a work of art. “I’ve just never seen someone prepare for a press conference like they’re getting ready for a red carpet event.”

You rolled your eyes. “Some of us like to be prepared. Looking good is part of that.” You injected confidence into the words, though if you were being honest, they felt a little hollow. Today, it wasn’t just about looking good, it was about feeling in control.

And right now, with nerves curling tight in your stomach, you weren’t sure you did.

Morgan’s smirk didn’t waver. He nudged your boyfriend with his elbow, dragging him into the conversation. “Come on, kid. Tell her she doesn’t need all that makeup.”

You looked up, expecting his usual reassuring smile, that soft look he reserved for moments when he knew you were nervous or self-conscious. You could always count on him to calm your racing thoughts, to tell you that you were perfect just the way you were. The kind of reassurance that made everything feel lighter.

Instead, Spencer glanced at you with that thoughtful frown he always wore when his mind was spinning through facts. “You know…” His voice was calm, detached even, like he was about to drop some piece of knowledge that he thought might help. “It’s weird, but studies show that people tend to take you more seriously when you fit the ‘beauty standards.’ You know, like…if you’re wearing makeup or have certain features that are seen as desirable, people will listen to you more in meetings.”

The mascara brush froze mid-air.

Oh.

The words landed harder than they should have, knocking the breath from your lungs in a way that felt almost embarrassing. Because this was Spencer, your Spencer, the one who had seen you at your worst, who had kissed you sleepy and messy in the morning, who had traced your bare skin in the dim light of your bedroom.

And yet, here he was, stating facts about beauty standards like they were nothing more than statistics. Like they didn’t mean anything.

You forced out a weak laugh, trying to brush it off, trying to tell yourself that he hadn’t meant it the way it sounded. But the sting was already there, curling under your skin, settling deep in your chest. Was that how he really saw things? That your worth—your professional worth—was tied to how well you conformed to something so shallow?

That you weren’t enough without it?

You searched his face, hoping to find something, some flicker of understanding, some sign that he realized how his words had sliced right through you. But he wasn’t looking at you like a man who had just shaken your foundation. He was looking at you like a scientist reciting an interesting fact.

Like it wasn’t personal.

But God, it felt personal.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty, boy,” Derek said, messing with Reid’s hair, trying to break the tension, but the words didn’t quite hit the mark.

You tried to focus again, returning your attention to your makeup, but the weight of Spencer’s comment lingered in the air. Your hands felt unsteady as you finished applying the mascara, the brush shaking slightly with each stroke. Your voice felt tight as you responded, trying to keep it light, but your words tasted flat, like you were trying to cover up a bruise that wasn’t yet healed.

“That’s…interesting,” you said, your tone carefully neutral, though the insecurity that was now flooding through you was anything but calm.

“Yeah,” he said, still looking at you, his voice slightly absent. “And if you’re a woman, studies show that you’re more likely to be taken seriously in a professional setting if you wear makeup or—” His gaze seemed to soften, but it didn’t feel comforting. It just made you feel like there was something more he wasn’t saying. “Not that you need it, of course.”

You could feel your heart rate pick up as you tried to smile, but it didn’t feel natural. His words had drilled into you, chipping away at the small pieces of confidence you’d carefully built up this morning. The idea that your worth, in part, was tied to your appearance, to how well you matched up to some standard that was beyond your control, weighed on you like a heavy cloak. You thought about the days you’d come to work with little makeup, or none at all, when your boyfriend had seen you without the polished facade, the times when he had seen you just woken up or coming out of the shower. Did he see you as less then? Did he notice the imperfections when you were stripped of all that? Did he like you less when he saw you naked, unpolished, and unguarded? Were you enough for him in those moments? Did he still see you the same way? Or was there a shift, a moment when he realized that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t quite as perfect as the women he read about in his studies, the ones with their perfectly symmetrical faces, their natural makeup, their flawless skin?

“And, you know,” He added, still looking at you and Morgan like he couldn’t stop talking, “there’s this whole thing about how people with higher cheekbones are considered more attractive, and—”

You felt your breath catch. The fun facts about beauty standards kept coming, one after the other, each one a reminder of the ways you didn’t measure up. How the curve of your jaw wasn’t quite sharp enough, how your cheekbones weren’t as high as the models in the magazines, how you didn’t quite fit the mold your own boyfriend was talking about.

He wasn’t intentionally trying to make you feel insecure; he wasn’t even really paying attention to how you were really reacting, but somehow, his words echoed in your mind, like a chorus of doubts rising to the surface. Maybe you had been too focused on doing your makeup to feel like yourself today. Maybe you had gotten too used to hiding behind this mask to feel comfortable with who you really were underneath. Maybe you were pretty, but not pretty enough. Never enough. Never like a model.

You forced a laugh, trying to shake off the unease. “Yeah, I guess I’m just trying to keep up with all the standards, huh?” You said, your voice tight, and then quickly added, “But I’ll be fine. It’s just a conference, right?”

Something inside you was mentally begging him—pleading with him—to say something else. Something real. Something that had nothing to do with studies or statistics or the way the world decided who mattered more. Tell me I’m beautiful. Tell me none of that matters. Tell me I don’t have to measure up to a standard I’ll never fully reach.

But all he gave you was a weak smile, the kind he always gave when he thought everything was fine. He said, “You’ll do great. You always do,” as if that was enough.

But it wasn’t. Not this time.

Not when your heart was filled with doubts and insecurity, and all you really wanted was to feel seen. To feel like you were more than just the sum of your appearance.

“Thanks,” you said, the word small and insignificant, slipping from your lips like it didn’t matter at all.

Spencer didn’t notice the shift. He turned his attention back to his notes, his mind already back on its analytical track. He was already gone, lost in his thoughts, unaware of the storm that had stirred inside you.

And as you sat there, in front of the mirror, your perfectly applied makeup reflecting back at you, the weight of the silence between you grew. You had done everything right. You had made yourself look the way you were supposed to. But somehow, sitting next to the person who should have made you feel the most seen, you felt more invisible than ever.

The mask was still in place, but it didn’t feel like protection anymore. It felt like a cage.

The women’s bathroom buzzed with quiet energy, the soft murmur of conversation from the stalls, the clatter of makeup brushes on porcelain, and the steady trickle of a faucet someone had forgotten to turn off. Overhead, the fluorescent lights flickered faintly, casting everything in an unforgiving, almost surgical glare. Too bright. Too harsh. Every pore, every smudge, every slightly overfilled section of your eyebrow…ugh, why did it look so weird today?

You squinted at your reflection, lips pressed into a tight line, as if sheer force of will could stop the growing wave of insecurity curling around your ribs. Your hair was shining after so many new products, your foundation was patchy in places, and your eyeliner was untouched. You should have been focused and methodical, getting ready like you always did. Instead, your hands were unsteady, your thoughts tangled in something that had absolutely no right to be taking up this much space in your brain.

But it was.

Because Spencer Reid and his dumb fun facts had lodged themselves deep into your psyche, turning what should have been a normal morning into an existential crisis. The same babbling you used to love to hear now sounded like a nightmare. The same guy you had fallen in love with and loved to be with all day was now the one you had been avoiding looking in the face for more than three seconds.

On the counter was one of the magazines you had bought the other day, with a model looking back at you with her impossibly perfect cat eyes and flawless skin. Today you tried the same look. It hadn't worked. It looked good on her, perfect. On you? You looked like a raccoon trying to do a winged eyeliner tutorial while riding a roller coaster.

Suddenly, Emily’s voice sliced through the fog of your spiraling thoughts.

“Okay,” she said, her tone edged with concern and authority, “what the hell is going on?”

You startled slightly, mascara wand freezing midair. When you looked up, she was leaning casually against the counter, but her eyes—dark and sharp as ever—were anything but casual. She scanned you like a crime scene: the half-done eye makeup, the tense set of your shoulders, the way your lips were pressed into a thin, nervous line. You must’ve looked like you were trying to solve an advanced math problem, not get ready for a briefing.

You cleared your throat, forcing out the lie you hoped would be enough. “Nothing.”

Emily blinked slowly, unimpressed. “Right. Because people always look like they’re about to throw up when nothing is wrong.”

Damn profilers.

From across the room, Penelope was perched dramatically on the edge of the sink, legs swinging, a swirl of floral perfume and bubblegum. She blew a perfect pink bubble, let it pop, then gave you a long, knowing look as she chewed.

“Mmmhmm,” she hummed, cocking her head. “That’s the ‘I’m having a silent breakdown but don’t want to talk about it face.”

You tried to scoff, but it came out weak. “I don’t have a face for that.”

Penelope arched an eyebrow. “Oh, honey. You absolutely do.”

“She’s right,” Emily deadpanned, crossing her arms. “It’s your second most common expression. Right after, I’m internally screaming but pretending everything’s fine.”

You let out a breath—sharp and tired—and pressed two fingers to your temple like that would somehow press the thoughts out of your head. But they didn’t go. They never really did.

“I just…” You trailed off, mascara wand still clutched in your fingers. Your eyes dropped to the cluttered counter: a foundation bottle left uncapped, brushes scattered, and a smudge of lipstick on a tissue like a failed experiment. “Do I look good?”

The silence that followed was brief but pointed. You could feel both women scan you with clinical precision: your rumpled hair, eyeliner started on one eye but not the other, and foundation patchy where you’d tried to blend too quickly. But it wasn’t just about that. They knew it. You knew it.

Emily gave a dismissive wave. “Why are you even asking? You know you look good.”

But the question still hung heavy in the air.

You set the mascara down with a quiet, deliberate click. A tiny sound, but final. “Spencer said something,” you murmured, your voice thinner than you wanted it to be. “A couple of days ago.”

Both women immediately stilled.

“About beauty standards,” you continued, eyes fixed on the magazine lying facedown on the counter, a model’s perfect eyes staring back in judgment. “He was talking about how people take you more seriously if you look a certain way. If you’re conventionally attractive. He was just rattling off facts—like he always does—but…it stuck.”

Penelope’s eyes narrowed as she popped her gum again. “Ugh, that boy and his fun facts.”

You tried to laugh, but your stomach was turning like someone had twisted it into a tight knot and pulled. The memory clung to you: his voice so casual, so neutral, dropping that stupid statistic like it meant nothing. But it hadn’t felt like nothing. Not to you.

Emily straightened. She wasn’t amused. Not even a little. “He said that to you?”

You nodded slowly. “Not to me. He was just…talking. He probably didn’t even realize what he said. But now I’m in here, halfway through my makeup, spiraling over whether my eyeliner’s straight enough to be ‘taken seriously’ by the world.”

You gestured helplessly at the mirror, at your own reflection: smeared foundation, uncertain brows, the ghost of winged eyeliner clinging to your lid. “And I know it sounds ridiculous, but I can’t stop thinking about it. Like…if I don’t pull it together, if I don’t look perfect, it’s not just that I’ll feel bad. It’s that no one will listen to me.”

Emily’s jaw tightened. “That’s bullshit,” she said flatly.

Penelope raised one hand and placed it dramatically over her chest like she’d been mortally offended. “The biggest load of bullshit.”

You let out a huff of air, something like a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah, well. My brain didn’t get the memo.”

Penelope stood up then, with unusual seriousness softening her expression. “Sweetheart, let me tell you something. You could walk into that room with mascara running down your cheeks, wearing nothing but a coffee-stained hoodie, and people would still shut up and listen when you talk. Not because of how you look. But because you’re brilliant. And terrifying. In the best possible way.”

You swallowed, feeling something tighten in your throat. “No, but—”

“No buts,” Emily cut in. “Spencer Reid might be a genius, but sometimes he forgets how real people work. Especially the ones he cares about.” Her voice softened, just slightly. “But don’t let one stupid comment rewrite everything you already know about yourself.”

That startled a real laugh out of you.

Penelope nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly! I adore that lanky little weirdo, but he says a lot of things without thinking about how they land. That doesn’t mean he sees you any differently. It just means he’s a socially awkward nerd who needs to learn when not to share his random knowledge with his girlfriend.”

You allowed yourself a deep exhale, some of the weight on your chest easing, if only a fraction. It felt like the first time all day you could breathe without feeling like you were suffocating under the pressure of everything you couldn’t say.

Emily’s voice, soft and steady, broke through the stillness. “You don’t need to prove anything to anyone,” she said, her gaze unwavering. “Not to Spencer. Not to the world. And definitely not to some arbitrary beauty standard that doesn’t know a damn thing about you.”

The calm conviction in her words settled over you like a warm blanket, soft and grounding, and Penelope added her own brand of comforting chaos. “But if finishing your makeup makes you feel good, babe, then go ahead and slay.” She flashed a wink, her smile wide and dazzling. “We’ll be right here, hyping you up, always.

You looked between them, their unwavering confidence in you, the way they stood on either side like a protective barrier between you and your own insecurities. The knots in your stomach loosened, just a little.

You finished your makeup with steadying breaths and Penelope’s steady stream of compliments in your ear like a lifeline. The eyeliner wasn’t perfect. The foundation still sat weird in that one spot near your chin. But it didn’t matter as much now. Or at least, you were trying really hard to make it not matter.

By the time you stepped out of the bathroom, the usual BAU morning chaos was in full swing, agents weaving in and out of the bullpen, papers rustling, and the echo of hurried footsteps down the hall. You fell into step behind Garcia, letting her take the lead as you clutched the folder to your chest with slightly sweaty palms.

And then you felt it. The subtle shift in the air that told you he was there before you saw him. Spencer.

He was already seated at the table, elbows propped up, flipping through the preliminary case file, his usual air of quiet concentration surrounding him. He lookedd so much like himself: cardigan slightly too big, curls falling just messy enough to look endearing, the corner of his mouth tucked between his teeth as he scanned the papers. So familiar. So impossibly distant.

You didn’t let your eyes linger.

Instead, you angled yourself toward the projector, using the task of setting up the slideshow like it required your full, undivided attention. Which it absolutely did not, but the alternative was accidentally making eye contact and seeing something in his expression you couldn’t handle. Confusion, guilt, or worse: nothing at all.

“Morning,” he said quietly. It was the tone he used when he wasn’t sure if he had permission to exist in the same space as you.

You responded too fast, your voice too sharp, too clipped. “Morning.”

There was a brief silence. You could feel his eyes on you, like a gentle tap on the shoulder you were determined to ignore.

And then, mercifully, Hotch walked in, his presence slicing through the tension. “Let’s get started,” he said, already flipping through the case file as he moved to the head of the table.

The team fell into their usual rhythm, a buzz of motion, chairs scraping back as people shifted into place. You slid into your seat at the front of the room, clicking the remote to bring up the first slide, and forced your voice into something steady, something professional.

“We’ve got three victims, all found in rural areas surrounding Baltimore. All women, ages 25 to 30, all brunette, similar build. There are signs of overkill, stab wounds well beyond what would be necessary to cause death.”

You moved through the slides with practiced precision, your voice even, your focus razor-sharp. You didn’t stumble, didn’t hesitate, and didn’t once let your gaze flicker to Spencer’s side of the table. You spoke to Hotch. To Rossi. To Emily. To Penelope and Derek. Even to the wall. Anywhere but him.

Only once did your composure crack, a tiny hiccup in your breath when you mentioned the geographic profile. It was something Spencer had taught you when you were still new, something he’d spent hours drilling into you, showing you how to see patterns in the chaos. And there it was, his head lifting ever so slightly, his mouth parting like he wanted to remind you of something. Maybe a fact you’d forgotten. Or just to remind you that he was still there, somewhere, waiting to bridge the gap between you.

You forced yourself to keep going.

When you finished, Hotch gave a brief nod. “Good work. Let’s move out in twenty.”

The team’s energy shifted, moving from the quiet tension of the briefing room to the familiar post-briefing buzz. Chairs scraped back, papers shuffled, and voices rose as people began to file out. But you stayed behind, pretending to organize the files in front of you, keeping your hands busy, keeping yourself from fleeing. The paper felt like the only thing in the room that didn’t carry the weight of unspoken words.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Spencer pause in the doorway, his silhouette outlined in the harsh fluorescent light. He lingered, hesitant, unsure.

“Hey,” he said, his voice almost tentative, like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to speak to you in this moment. “Can we—”

“I have to double-check something with Garcia,” you cut in before he could finish, your words not unkind but firm, like a wall going up between you.

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. But it was enough.

You moved past him without waiting for a reply, your heels clicking sharply against the tile, the sound too loud in the stillness of the room. Your heart hammered in your chest, the echo of his voice a distant thing you weren’t ready to face. Not yet.

Maybe never.

You didn’t see him at first. You didn’t want to. The hallway of the precinct was quiet, almost too quiet, the soft hum of fluorescent lights above and the distant murmur of voices in the bullpen nothing but a dull backdrop to your pulse, racing in your ears. You had taken the longer route on purpose, weaving through empty hallways, hoping to lose yourself in the disarray of the building. You could feel the thick weight of the morning press down on your chest: the meeting, the case, the pressure to be perfect. You just needed a moment of stillness, a second of quiet.

But fate had a funny way of ruining plans.

The moment you turned the corner, you saw him. Spencer. Standing there, just a few feet away, shoulders slightly hunched as if he were bracing himself. His posture was that familiar mix of awkwardness and intent focus, like he was trying to decide whether to speak or stay silent, but there was something different about him today. His hair was messier than usual, curls sticking out in odd directions, and his fingers were twitching by his side, nervous. Almost like he was unsure of himself.

Your stomach dropped.

You tried to keep walking, tried to push past him, but the sound of your shoes clicking against the linoleum slowed as you drew near, the silence hanging heavy.

“Hey,” he said, soft and tentative, like he was trying not to scare a wounded animal.

Your body tensed. You didn’t respond right away, hoping maybe if you didn’t acknowledge it, he’d take the hint and let you slip away again, untouched. Unspoken to. Unseen.

No such luck.

“I was hoping we could talk,” he tried again, more gently. “Just for a second.”

Your grip on the folder tightened until the edge of the paper cut into your palm. “I’m kind of busy,” you muttered, finally, still not looking at him.

“You’ve been saying that a lot.”

You exhaled slowly through your nose, half a breath, half defeat. “Maybe because I am,” you murmured, eyes flicking down to the paperwork you clutched like a shield. “The profile’s not ready, the press is waiting, and if I don’t finish the summary, Hotch is going to breathe down my neck in fifteen minutes.” The words came out sharp and mechanical, like a rehearsed excuse. But your heart wasn’t in it. Not even close.

Spencer was quiet for a moment. You could feel the weight of his stare, not sharp, not demanding. Just there. Lingering. Like gravity.

“I did something,” he said finally, his voice thin and breaking at the edges. “Didn’t I? Something that hurt you.”

Your shoulders stiffened. The chill rolled in again, slow and insidious, sinking down through the fabric of your clothes and into your bones. You wanted to say no. Wanted to pretend it didn’t matter, that you weren’t affected. But your body betrayed you. Your jaw clenched. Your breath hitched.

“It’s nothing,” you said, but it cracked on the way out, barely held together by habit.

He took a careful step closer. You felt it. The shift in the air, the static tension that danced between the inches that separated your bodies. “No, it’s not nothing,” he said softly. “Tell me what I said. What I did.”

You could hear the ache in his voice, that rare, tender vulnerability he only let you see. It scraped at you, raw and irritating, because he sounded like he cared. Because he did. And that made it worse. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t try to reason his way in with statistics or logic. He just stood there, steady and open, letting you feel every inch of his presence.

“I know something’s wrong.” Spencer said. “You didn’t sit with me on the jet. You didn’t even look at me.”

The words made you flinch, just slightly. You hadn’t expected him to notice. Or maybe you had. Maybe you wanted him to.

“I know we don’t show affection at work. That’s always been our rule,” he continued, quieter now, more broken. “But you always touch my hand. Or bump your knee into mine. You always steal a sip of my coffee, even when it’s gross. But this morning…you didn’t even look at the muffin I brought you.”

You closed your eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel the guilt clawing at your chest. He’d noticed. Every small absence. Every little shift.

Finally, you turned. Slowly. Your gaze fell to the floor in front of his shoes, worn at the edges and slightly scuffed. Just like him. And then you looked up. Just barely. Just enough to catch the way he was standing. Shoulders slightly hunched, hands limp by his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore. Like he didn’t know how to reach you.

And he didn’t.

Because part of you didn’t want to be reached.

Not yet.

“It’s just…” You swallowed. “It’s what you said the other day. When Morgan made that joke about my makeup.”

Spencer blinked, clearly trying to remember. “What did I exactly say?”

“You said people get more attention when they see someone pretty,” you said, each word carefully even, like if you didn’t control your voice, it would crack.

His brows furrowed. “I said that people tend to respond more favorably to those who fall within conventional beauty standards and that it has an unconscious effect on—”

“I know what you said,” you snapped, sharper than you meant to. The echo of your own voice in the empty hallway made your stomach twist. “You don’t have to repeat it like a textbook.”

That made him flinch, just barely, but enough.

“I didn’t mean it about you,” he said quickly. “I was just talking. I always talk too much, you know it.”

You gave a humorless laugh, turning your back to him, your arms crossed tight over your chest.

“That’s the thing, Spencer. You didn’t mean it. And you didn’t even realize how it sounded. You just threw it out there, like a fact. Like I wasn’t sitting right next to you, like I’m not already trying to compete in a world that picks apart every inch of me the second I walk into a room.”

“I didn’t think—”

“No. You didn’t.”

Your voice cracked this time, and you hated it. Hated the sting in your eyes, the tightness in your throat. You weren’t supposed to feel like this, not over something so small. But it wasn’t small. Not to you. Not when it was coming from him.

He stepped closer again, like he couldn’t help himself, and you stepped back just as fast.

“Please don’t,” you said quietly.

He froze.

“I know I’m not the only girl in the world,” you said, not looking at him. “And I’m not asking to be. But when you say things like that, even casually, it feels like I’ve already lost a race I didn’t know I was running. Like I’m not even in the frame.”

There was a long pause. Your boyfriend’s voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.

“You’ve never been out of frame. Not for me.”

You shook your head, blinking hard, trying to will away the heat behind your eyes. “I’ve spent the last two days wondering if I’d be worth more to you if I looked different.”

That hit him like a blow. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I didn’t know. I didn’t think. But please believe me when I tell you…I see you. All the time. You’re someone I—” He stopped himself, teeth catching on his bottom lip. “You’re the only person I can’t stop seeing.”

Something in your chest pulled tight, twisted cruelly.

You stared at a fixed spot on the floor. The tiles blurred a little around the edges. You didn’t know what to say to that, not when your chest felt too tight, not when your emotions were running just beneath your skin, raw and humming.

“I don’t always think before I talk,” he continued, carefully. “Sometimes I share things like facts and research like they’re harmless, like they’re neutral. But I forget that facts aren’t neutral when they land on people I care about.”

That made you glance up at him. Just for a second.

He looked like he meant it: brows drawn, hands loosely curled at his sides, eyes locked on yours with that intense kind of focus he reserved for unsolvable puzzles and people he couldn’t let go of.

“I think you’re beautiful,” he said, and there was no rush in it. No grand gesture. Just a quiet truth. “Not when you’re all put together. Not just when you wear makeup. Not just when you smile.”

You blinked. The air in the hallway seemed to still.

“I think you’re beautiful when you’re tired. When you’re pissed off. When you’re sitting at your desk covered in crime scene dust and snapping at Morgan because you haven’t eaten in twelve hours.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I think you’re beautiful even when you’re covered in blood, cursing at your vest because it rubbed your ribs raw…even if that sounds weird.”

A quiet laugh broke out of you, not a full one, but a cracked, genuine thing that caught you off guard. You shook your head, eyes misty despite yourself.

“Spencer…”

He stepped forward slowly, careful not to close the distance unless you let him. “You never needed to change anything. Not for me. Not for the world, either. But if you ever forget how amazing you are, I’ll remind you.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your throat was too tight. But your hand reached out, just barely brushing against his. Not quite holding. Just…touching.

It was enough.

His fingers closed around yours, warm and hesitant.

“Okay,” you whispered.

And for the first time in days, the storm inside you quieted, not gone, but calm. Manageable. Because he didn’t just see you. He saw through everything you tried to hide…and stayed.

Friendly reminder ❤︎ : you are beautiful and "standards" are bullshit that don't matter, even if we sometimes feel like they do.

Take care and be kind to yourself, xoxo.

[theloveinc]

Jason Todd as a parent is so SO funny to me because I think he’s making your kid a lil plate of steamed broccoli and salmon and maybe a little rice or something . And then as soon as the kid is in bed he’s driving to get you both mcdonalds lmao

[jishyucks]

was not, were not, is — ldh

pairing. haechan x reader  genre. friends to implied lovers, drunk confession wc. 1.5k summary. sober you would beat you up if she heard the bullshit spilling from your mouth; in which alcohol is both your best friend and your worst enemy warnings. excessive amount of fluff, reader’s drunk as hell, Donghyuck’s love language is acts of service  an. a little warm up writing before I start writing longer fics again—I REALLY like the drunk confession microtrope,,, this whole thing was either written at 5AM on my work breaks or 5AM bc my sleep schedule is fucked up,,, pls enjoy!

You couldn’t give any less of a fuck that the bare soles of your feet were touching the cool pavement. 

In fact, you couldn’t give any less of a fuck about anything.

Mind hazy, still tipsy from the shots your cousin had shoved in your hands, you briefly recall Donghyuck telling you that your mom had requested to bring you home—something about staying back to help clean up the venue and something about crashing out?—who the hell cares. 

You let out a snort for no reason.

Maybe you should’ve brought extra shoes.

But again, you don’t care.

Donghyuck tails you, not too far behind. His hands were stuffed deep in his pockets, a smile playing lightly upon his lips as he watched you stumble under the lights of the venue. He knows he should be at your side in case you lose your balance, but it hadn’t even been five minutes since you declined his arm.

“You sure you don’t want to wear my shoes?” 

You stop in your tracks and look back at him. It’s only now that you notice how sweaty the man was, bangs stuck to his forehead from all the dancing. This could also explain why your feet were killing you, “What shoes would you wear?”

He holds up the pair of heels dangling from his fingers, “Yours.” 

You scoff and continue walking, “You in heels? Funny.”

And although your intentions were to offend Donghyuck, the smile on his face stays put, “Well, if it means you could walk comfortably, then I’d endure that pain and embarrassment.” 

You roll your eyes, using all the strength in your entire body to not physically react to Donghyuck’s choice of words, “Please never say that ever again.” 

“I’m serious,” he responds, “Also, I told you about bringing extra shoes.” 

Donghyuck’s eyes trail further down the walkway, noting down that the parking lot was inching closer and closer. He recalls from this morning that the parking lot was sprinkled with pebbles. He frowns, “Can you please just put my shoes on?” 

“I’m fine, Hyuck,” you groan, “I think that the car isn’t even far from here.” 

“You’re right but…” 

You hear him sigh out deeply before you hear his footsteps pick up in pace, the heels of his dress shoes clicking against the pavement. The alcohol pulls your eyes shut for just a moment, and when you finally gain control of them again, you find your best friend kneeling down in front of you, back turned towards you, “Get on.” 

“Hyuck, I said I was fine,” you attempt to walk around him, but the man somehow predicts which way you’re going and scoots right in front of you. 

“And I said to get on,” he orders gently, “Please.” 

The ‘please’ causes you to giggle and you find yourself staring at the back of his head, dwindling on a few possible answers. His hair looks soft, like something you’d want to reach out and touch. “Don’t wanna… risk you dropping me.”

If you weren’t completely insane for your best friend, you would’ve hopped onto his back no problem. Hell, with the alcohol you felt a little bit bolder than usual, but nothing could mistake that little kick in your heartbeat telling you that if you decided to take his offer, you’d probably melt the second you make contact with him. 

“I’ll throw a tantrum if you don’t,” Donghyuck threatens (was that even considered a threat?), “C’mon.”

“I hate you,” you mutter. But your actions completely contradict your words as you carefully secure yourself onto Donghyuck’s back, arms wrapping right around his neck. He follows in pursuit, hooking his arms right under your knees before he stands up. “You suck.” 

“See, it isn’t so bad,” he laughs, “I’m strong. I won’t drop you.”

Your brain’s telling you to mock him back, but your words falter because you’re hit by Donghyuck’s perfume. Fuck—of course he smells good. You can’t remember a time that he didn’t. 

It takes every ounce of your sobriety to not bury your face in Donghyuck’s hair. 

“I actually had fun,” Donghyuck begins, referring to the wedding, “Honestly, I was scared to meet your other relatives. You always talk about them and they sound scary. But I actually had fun.” 

“That’s good,” you reply quietly, almost dazed, “I’m glad you had fun.” 

Your head flops onto Donghyuck’s shoulder, hair falling in front of your face and tickling his ear. His car finally comes into view and Donghyuck wastes no time to swing the door open. 

“There you go, Princess,” Donghyuck jokes. He lowers you down gently, allowing you to plop into the passenger seat. Once he’s sure you’re seated, he turns around to face you, combing the mess of hair away from your face. “Comfy?” 

“What if I said no?” You giggle, head falling back against the headrest. 

Another sigh leaves Donghyuck’s lips and he pokes your side, “Then I’d do whatever it takes to make you comfy.” 

“Quit talking like that,” you groan.

He hums, “Like what?” 

The leather seat squeaks when you shift to face the other way, letting your eyes draw close. 

Fatigue was definitely catching up. 

I don’t know… you think, Just… like that. 

And although your mind struggles to piece letters together to word how you were feeling, your heart knows exactly what you were thinking about. 

Donghyuck shuts the door and his shadow crosses the light leaking through your eyelids. The driver’s door clicks open and then Donghyuck’s settling in the seat next to yours. 

“Well…” You hear his foot hit the brake before he taps at the button to start the car, “Did you have fun?” 

“Mmmm…” your lips form a pout, suddenly hit by the events of the wedding. You feel like you’re teetering between sobriety and intoxication, unsure whether or not you should be genuine, “Yo.” 

Donghyuck raises a brow and tilts his head at you, “Yo?” 

“Yes and no,” you clarify, almost as if he was supposed to know what you meant, “I had fun but didn’t.” 

Again, Donghyuck’s eyebrow jerks, “Whatever you say.” He’s unsure whether he should wait for you to settle before he pulls out of the parking spot. 

“Aren’t you going to ask me why?” You whine. One of your eyelids draws open, just enough to peek out at him. 

He huffs, playing along, “…why?”

“I had fun because my cousin and her partner were cute and the dancing and the drinks, the games and everything…” You list, “But also, I didn’t have fun because all I could think about was the fact that I may never find the love they have.” 

Your best friend lets your words sink in, trying to make sense of it while stringing together the right words to say—ones that wouldn’t give it away. 

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think you will find that love you want.” 

Then tears start leaking out of the corners of your eyes and Donghyuck doesn’t hesitate to reach over to wipe them away. He can’t help but laugh, watching as you’ve finally reached your crying phase, simply meaning that you’d pass out next, “Why are you crying? I’m telling you the truth, you know.” 

You shrug sluggishly, “I don’t completely doubt you, Hyuckie.” Another tear slips out and you feel the pad of Donghyuck’s thumb swipe across your cheek. 

“Then why are you crying?” he frowns. 

“Well, what if…” you trail, “What if the love I want is with you?” You’re too far gone to even realize what you’ve just said, “I just feel like it’ll all be wrong if it wasn’t with you…” 

The pounding in Donghyuck’s ears almost drown out your voice. You’re speaking so quietly that he needs to lean in to hear you. 

Another tear—wipe.

“It’d be weird if it wasn’t your hand I was holding, if it wasn’t you I was waking up to, if the kisses I was getting weren't from your lips…” 

Your eyes remain close and the more you speak, the more spaced out the words come out your mouth. Sober you would not believe what you were confessing to a sober Donghyuck.

“I want you to love me,” you finally confess, like saying it out loud validated all your feelings, “And everyday I feel like that’s too much to ask.” 

“We should talk about this another time, Y/N.” 

You groan at his response, almost as if you weren’t satisfied with his answer. But before he could get another word out, he watches as your head flops onto your own shoulder. 

“Of course,” Donghyuck chuckles to himself, shaking his head. He reaches over and pulls the lever to recline your chair, letting your head fall back comfortably, “There you go… comfy…” 

Donghyuck sits back in his seat and admires you for a moment, a delicate frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

He wishes you weren’t drunk and saying these words, afraid that when the alcohol wasn’t running through your body, that none of them would even mean anything to you. 

Because if the love you wanted was with him, he’d do anything—everything—to give it to you.

[halfpsychic]

Dr. Robby x gn!reader Headcanons

Random thoughts I’ve been having about Robby. No warnings. SFW.

* We all know he’s a real yearner (for Collins in canon). He’s a REAL yearner. Will think about that one (1) moment you had alone for weeks on end. Doesn’t want to complicate things at work so he takes forever to make his feelings known. He lives on scraps for months but he’s good at rationing the memories of those quiet moments with you. When thinking about a subtle touch from weeks ago gets old, you’ll smile at him by his locker when you’re getting ready to leave and that is enough for the next few weeks.

* Subtly tries to get your attention. Asks how your days off were, wanting to know if you hung out with any friends, not so subtly asking if you’re single or going on any dates. Notices when you come in late with frazzled eyes, appears with a cup of coffee or a granola bar in hand for you. He’s physical with his coworkers (the way he manhandles Whitaker…), his hand on your shoulder in a gesture of encouragement or guiding your hands with his through a procedure.

* Likes old movies. Meaning anything before (but not limited to) 1980. Cassavetes, Hitchcock, Kubrick (Dr Stangelove), Malick (Days of Heaven and Badlands), Bogdanovich (The Last Picture Show, Paper Moon, Targets), Sidney Lumet, Michael Cimino (The Deer Hunter, Heaven’s Gate, Thunderbolt and Lightfoot), some James Bond movies. Never passes on a Western. Will fall asleep in front of the TV and you have to shake him awake so he can go to bed, which he’ll often protest, claiming he was just resting his eyes. Not entirely opposed to international film (enjoys the occasional Tarkovsky, and it's not pre-80s but you can't tell me Robby doesn't love Wong Kar-wai and In The Mood For Love) but most nights he needs something he can understand with his eyes closed.

* He doesn’t seem like a horror lover but him taking the measles kid’s dad into the Pittfest makeshift morgue makes me think he’d enjoy something like psychological thrillers? Thrillers in general? Funny Games, some David Lynch, The Fugitive, No Country For Old Men, The Taking of Pelham One Two Three (1974). LOVES Heat (1995).

* Reads A Lot. Taking inspiration from Noah Wyle’s various Instagram selfies with books. Will go to tiny bookstores that don’t have any method to their organization, just stacks and stacks of dusty books, and always comes out with an armful. God forbid either of you have to leave the city without the other but Robby will send you selfies with the books he reads. (One time you respond with “that hung smile” and he teases you about it for weeks, after he gets over the initial embarrassment of it.)

* Reads before bed and usually turns his light off after you turn over to close your eyes. When you do roll over, he takes it as his cue to finish up whatever chapter he’s on. He folds up his glasses, the sound of them hitting his nightstand is always a joy to hear because it means he’s going to click off his lamp and wrap his arm around your waist.

* Has a record collection. It’s much smaller than his book collection but still takes up quite a bit of shelf space. Going off of the 1 song he listens to in the show, he gravitates towards r&b, soul, jazz, some blues, some country (Johnny Cash, Kenny Rogers, Townes Van Zandt, etc).

* I love this man but I don’t think he can grill. Burns some hamburgers once and never wheels out the barbecue again.

* At one point he definitely gets a recliner and it becomes his spot. You hate it because you can’t sit with him but that doesn’t stop him from pulling you onto his lap.

* He gets so possessive. Truly cannot stomach the idea of anyone else wanting you, and it’s worse when you’re having an argument and all he can think about is the possibility of you leaving him. If he even thinks anyone else is looking at you he’ll snake an arm around your waist or lean down for a quick kiss. Loves hand holding because it always fends off wandering eyes.

* Before Covid, he’d play poker with Abbot and a few other friends. They were all pretty busy so poker night was limited to once a month at most. Abbot is really good at bluffing and Robby tanks every game because his face turns red when he’s excited or upset with his hand.

* Robby teaches you how to play poker. And various other card games. He'll sit with you at the kitchen table and teach you the rules and the hands. Plays with you to teach you but wins every round. "I didn't say I'd go easy on you."

* When he has a bad day, he gets quiet. He'll lay with his head in your lap just to be close to you. It can be hard to be with an emotionally constipated man at first. He doesn't let you in, he subconsciously self-sabotages his relationships with his lack of communication. His silence has brought many challenges to the relationship. After a while, after the honeymoon phase and many nights going to bed angry, it gets easier. Robby still doesn't like to talk about what's bothering him but he seeks you out for comfort. Maybe he'll talk about the last book he read and how he thinks you'll like it or a record he's been looking for but can't find.

* Has a pair of slippers he wears around the house. It’s been years and they’re starting to fall apart but he refuses to buy a new pair yet. If you buy him a new pair he won’t wear them.

* Eventually takes a lot of candid pictures of you on his phone. He had a film camera he used quite a bit like 15-20 years ago but slowly stopped using it. So he has the photography skills (somewhat) but it takes him a while to get the courage to sneak pictures of you.

* You find a collection of his old photographs and it genuinely shocks you. Since when was he a photographer??? He’d never mentioned it before. He has boxes of photos from his residency (hardly any feature him, though) and lots of Pittsburgh when he first moved there. You beg him to start taking pictures with his film camera again. Another box is filled with photos of you. He likes to document memories this way because it gives him a physical reminder of it happening. Those dates weren’t just a dream. They’re real. He doesn’t spend a lot of time taking photos, though. He’ll snap one or two when the moment is right and not bring it up again. He likes to live in the moment with a little souvenir of it.

* Keeps a little photo of you in his wallet. No matter how long you’ve been dating, catching a glimpse of it when he opens his wallet for his debit card makes his heart stutter.

[guardianofscrewingup]

This is exactly it. ^

So I'm a writer and want to get published and I was looking at chatgpt out of curiosity in a "will this ever replace the job I want to do" kind of way and I put in some premise stuff and plot stuff and was like "hey chatgpt, write this first chapter" of a book.

Now this was for the first chapter of a book I'd already co-written with my writing partner. It already existed. I didn't plan to use the chatgpt version. I wanted to see how that version compared to our version.

And it sucked. The things it came up with were trite and very tropey and boring, and you could tell were lifted from a million badly-written book summaries and Ao3. The thing I wrote with my friend was still funnier and more lively (esp since my friend is very funny.) It dealt with stuff thematically in a way that chatgpt couldn't, with us grappling with some mental health stuff rooted in personal experience.

For a different book, I tried different ideas, different prompts, asked it plotting stuff, compared to what I already had plotted.

And that also sucked. What I'd already planned was less tropey and more personal and more about some life-changing personal experience. It couldn't even come close to even the premise idea I was going with, because the premise idea I was going with had to do with my own perspective - whether people like that book or not, it is a specific-to-me perspective.

While experimenting with it, the only, and I mean literally the only thing I think it could be useful for for writers is as a glorified dictionary search. I did find it was useful to be like "hey chatgpt give me occupations that could work as surnames that can be used as given names, and link to your actual sources" or "give me a list of roots of [specific language] I can use to make up a name with, also give the etymology and links to your sources" or "give me some old-timey English surnames with X vibes from Y time period, with sources" or something. (All with requested links to sources to check it wasn't hallucinating and actually pulled it from at least somewhere.)

And that was marginally useful bc it had pulled a lot from stuff like dictionaries and wiktionary, could link to it for me to check for words and etymology that were there but would've taken a lot of time and sifting to find. The skill to filter through a ton of minutiae, if anything, wastes time you could be learning or doing things of actual meaning. Just like a calculator is a time saver if it's not math that it's very important for you to learn or do in your head.

But when it comes to acts of thought, of creativity, of memory, of research for actual topics that are important to learn, it is so so bad. AI should, honestly, at most be used for it's normal and healthier uses - to make it easier to search and catalog very minor information like a glorified dictionary search, or perform very limited functions. That's a thing that narrow AI already does and has done and with things like auto-correct, bot detection (like flagging bots for propaganda or hate speech slurs), speech recognition for voice-to-text, etc. etc.

Cataloging minor info that no one could possibly memorize like dictionaries to cross-reference, because there is no one that can actually memorize whole dictionaries, is one thing. Just like auto-correct is useful because no one can know how to spell every single word, even if it's their native language. Just like speech-to-text is useful because it helps someone communicate but doesn't communicate for them.

But when it comes to broader stuff, we can think, we can communicate, we can research and learn important things on our own, we can analyze things, we can create, and hell we can even learn math when we do need it, on our own.

If AI isn't a limited-focus time-saver that saves us time so we have more time to think, learn, and create, and is the thing that does the thinking, learning, and creating for us, it's a problem.

generative AI literally makes me feel like a boomer. people start talking about how it can be good to help you brainstorm ideas and i’m like oh you’re letting a computer do the hard work and thinking for you???

[sqgeism]

Can I ask for something related to an Anaxa with a reader who gets nervous easily? An already established relationship.

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 feeling like i need something | amphoreus men x gender neutral reader

💌 — ; feeling like i need you . amphoreus men (anaxa, mydei, phainon) with a nervous reader !

love mail — thank you anonnie for a request, i'm happy to write for you :D not much to say here, just working on a quick reqs (*ﾟーﾟ) does this count as a layout change again (;゜0゜)?

anaxa wasn't entirely sure how to help with your shyness, he was a blunt man, never afraid of confrontation or anything of the sort. but something he noticed was that you had a tendency to fidget, as a fellow professor who taught a major class, sometimes you grew frustrated with your nervousness before teaching a new lesson and possibly messing up (you never have, you're a top teacher and anaxa finds it a little humorous).

but in the faculty, you'd be going over your notes and powerpoints for the students, mumbling and picking at your fingertips. of course, not wanting you to hurt your poor fingers any longer, anaxa makes his way to your desk and pulls his chair next to yours. you look at him, furrowed brows and downturned lips, and he sighs. "here." he holds his hand out to you quietly. "i don't want you picking on your skin anymore. if you so.. need it. use my hand instead. i'll be alright."

now he has you in a loop. he knows you don't want to hurt him, even if it's something as significantly painless as picking at his skin (he gouged his eye out ..), you still don't want to hurt him. so he watches as you poke his knuckles, tug on his fingers, and just use his hand as a little fidget toy.

the morning break for teachers comes to an end, and professors part ways into different classes. anaxa, knowing you were the second teacher in his first class, decides he wants to leave you a surprise. "you'll do great, dove." anaxa murmurs as he presses a kiss to your hand, soothing your worries.

once your second class comes along, you see him exit the classroom and smile at you, holding the door open for you to enter. "how oddly cheery." you think, walking in and placing your material on the teachers desk, until something catches your eye.

"ease your worries, my dove. you're the smartest person in the room, never hesitate to speak that brilliant mind of yours."

a letter, simple as it is, you know it's from the heart. anaxa had long left, likely not wanting to be late, but your chest swells with pride.

you receive a commendation later that day, the students have all passed their homework early and had been genuinely invested in your class. <3

mydei is gentle, but still urges you to try and come out of your comfort zone. taking you to meet the children, long strolls to ease your worries after a long day, all of those little things. something you seem to particularly shy away from, is eye contact.

now mydei knows he's a bit.. on the intimidating side, but he finds it funny that you can't look at him too long or you'll turn away.

so he's made some sort of 'training' for you. which is really just staring into his eyes. sometimes (all the time) he makes it harder by caressing your cheek, or brushing hair away from your face, simple things that fluster you with ease. it's funny, he won't lie, but he wants to help you. eye contact is important during conversations (and he wants to see your eyes when he talks to you).

one day, after a few weeks of this, mydei had called you over to ask you for something. unfortunately, the warrior had 'completely forgotten'. and you two stared at each other as he tried to figure it out. the entire time, you held eye contact, even smiled at him in a baffled manner. only for him to lean down and press a kiss to your lips right after.

"you did great, sweetheart" is all he says before going on his day.

phainon doesn't mind your nervousness. he'd want to help you try and move past it, but he'd hate for you to feel pressured. so instead, he makes you laugh! whenever something makes you feel a little anxious, he cracks a joke or pulls you closer, wanting to stray you away from that experience or moment. his goal is to eliminate the cause of your anxiety, but he knows he can't always do that. so he makes due with words of encouragement, getting your spirit and confidence high as he cheers for you like he's been on a cheer team for five years. probably your biggest supporter, he's sure of it.

if you struggle with stuttering, he's sure to guide you through it. he's serious the entire time you practice a script or a presentation, helping you calm down every time you start to stutter from the pressure or grow frustrated with yourself when you forget a line.

"hey, hey, baby. you're doing great." phainon's holding down your wrists kindly because he knows you'll sometimes hit your head out of annoyance with yourself. he doesn't want that. "try again, slowly. the world isn't ending, honey. take your time."

you eventually memorize the presentation and phainon jumps out of his seat and cheers, wrapping you in a bear hug and exclaiming how proud he is of you to the aeon's.

© sqgeism or wtv (^_^;)

[starsinthesky5]

thinking ab how Joe doing the archer pose is how everyone knows whether song bird is at the game or not. Like the bengals posting a compilation of him doing the pose or like the commentators saying the First Lady of Cincinnati is here when they see him do it 🥺

a/n: back to my usual posts!

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

them and the archer pose is so :( aghhhh.

joe always had a way of tuning out the chaos of the stadium. but when she was in the stands, it was different. there was something about her presence that shifted his focus, he could feel her even when he wasn’t looking. she always tried to blend in, tucked in the private suite with a cap on, sunglasses in her hair, a drink in her hands. trying to be as invisible as possible. but joe? he felt her. and when he did, it was like a signal.

right after the tunnel runout, when the stadium roared with anticipation and the lights blinded him for a second, joe would glance up toward the suite. if she was there, he’d feel it, the pull inside him, like he was meant to find her, like she was the reason he was running. once he stepped onto the field, he’d slow his pace just enough, his eyes sweeping the crowd until they landed on her. that’s when it happened. he’d drop to one knee, steady himself for just a beat, and with one smooth motion, he’d raise his right arm, as if drawing an invisible bowstring back.

for a split second, he’d hold it there, eyes locked with hers across the field, as if aiming right at her heart. and then...he’d release the arrow. his arm would drop slowly as he rose back up, the weight of the moment hanging in the air. he’d get back into position like it was nothing, ready to play. but that moment, that archer pose, was all for her.

it wasn’t anything anyone else noticed at first. just a small, subtle gesture. but when the bengals caught it on camera one game and posted it with the caption “target locked. 🎯”, fans started connecting the dots.

“wait…he only does that pose sometimes. that's weird, right?”

“isn't it funny how that's the same pose his girlfriend does sometimes when she's preforming. doesn't she have an unreleased song called the archer too?”

“wait. what if he only does the archer pose...when she's at the game. since it's her pose and he does it for...oh my GOD,”

“he didn’t do it last week. she must’ve been out of town,”

“archer confirmed. first lady of cincinnati is in the house!”

“i don’t even watch football (only here for my girl), but joe doing that pose when he sees her in the stands? i’m sold,”

soon, even the commentators picked up on it.

“and there it is! the archer. you know what that means,”

“looks like songbird’s in the building tonight,”

“he doesn’t do that pose unless she’s here. when she’s here, it’s like he’s a different player. unstoppable. moving with a different kind of edge. truly remarkable,”

“you can see it in his eyes when he looks for her. nothing else matters when she’s in the stands,”

the guys on the team picked up on it, too. “hey, is she coming today?” tee would ask before every game, and ja'marr would laugh, “you gotta hit that pose, bro,”. it was a whole thing.

but on the nights she wasn’t there? joe would still play hard, but there was this quiet feeling in the air. he’d still lead the team, but without her, something felt…incomplete. no archer pose. the cameras would linger, waiting for it. but it never came.

and when she was there? when he found her, her eyes locked with his from her seat, his heart racing just a little? that’s when he did it. every time. he’d raise his arm, letting everyone know. she was there. he was playing for her. the stadium would erupt, but to joe, the world would fade away. it was just them. his eyes locked on hers, and when she pressed her palm to the glass, smiling like it was just the two of them, he couldn’t help but feel it. like that arrow he just shot? it was for her. and no one else.

it wasn’t just a move. it was a promise. his way of saying i’m here. i’m with you. every step, every throw, every win.

it's for you.

[theonlyonesora]

The Third Rule

Lily x Oscar Piastri x You (Reader)

Chapter 5 - Viva Las Vegas

A few monhs had passed. The intensity of that weekend faded into something softer, easier to live with. Things between Lily and me had returned to their usual rhythm—jokes over iced coffees, late-night walks, stealing each other’s clothes, and laughing until our stomachs hurt.

But there was something else now. Something unspoken. A third pulse in the room.

Oscar had started calling more. Not just to talk to Lily—but sometimes to ask me how I was, what I was up to, if I’d watched the latest F1 drama unfold on social media. And when Lily visited him on weekends, I started receiving photos from both of them—funny selfies, inside jokes, stupid TikToks. Their "we miss you" energy had begun to feel... different.

It was like they wanted me closer. Like they didn’t know how to ask.

Then one afternoon, in the middle of folding laundry and blasting ABBA, Lily walked into the living room with a grin that was dangerous.

“You’re going to Vegas.”

I blinked. “Come again?”

“Oscar has a race there next month. He said you should come with me.”

I dropped a towel. “Are you serious?”

“He already bought the ticket,” she said, sitting beside me on the floor, all breezy and casual, as if she didn’t just casually rearrange my whole life.

“You’re joking.”

“Nope. Flight, hotel, paddock access. All of it.”

I stared at her. “He’s paying for everything?”

“He insists. He says it’ll be fun. I say it’ll be chaotic.”

I swallowed. “And you?”

Lily just smiled. “I think it’s time.”

Las Vegas.

I’d never seen so many lights at once. Neon and noise. Glitter and gasoline. It felt like someone took adrenaline and poured it into the shape of a city.

Oscar picked us up at the airport himself, wearing a hoodie and cap like it could possibly hide who he was. He looked tired, but his smile when he saw us was real.

And he hugged me.

Not like a friend-of-my-girlfriend hug. Not awkward. But not too much either. Just… warm. Familiar.

Like we’d done this a thousand times before. Even though it was our first.

“This is going to be a fun weekend,” he said into my ear.

I shivered.

Dinner was at a rooftop restaurant overlooking the Strip. Lily wore red. I wore black. Oscar sat between us, spinning his wine glass and smiling like he had a secret.

The conversation was light. Easy. Full of inside jokes and playful teasing. Lily flirted with him like no one was watching. I flirted with her just to make him laugh. And Oscar—well, he watched us both like he couldn’t decide which fire to get closer to.

At one point, Lily leaned toward me, voice low: “You look good tonight.”

“So do you.”

Oscar, catching the whisper, grinned. “Should I be worried?”

“No,” I said, sipping my wine, locking eyes with him. “Unless you’re into that.”

Lily choked on her drink.

And that was when I knew.

Something was going to happen in Las Vegas.

Maybe not tonight.

But soon.

And no one would be able to pretend after that.

.

Qualifying had been electric.

Oscar had finished second, the kind of lap that left the entire paddock buzzing. Vegas was alive—hot, loud, glowing like it never slept—and we walked through it like it was ours.

Lily and I had been by the garage, watching from behind the scenes with team radios pressed to our ears. She knew exactly what to listen for. I was just pretending to be calm.

Oscar waved the moment he saw us, peeling off his helmet, sweat-dampened curls a mess, grin wide and shining. He looked at Lily, then at me, and I swear the flicker in his eyes was the same for both of us.

After the press, the meetings, and the debriefs, we found ourselves in the elevator of the Wynn, 32 floors up, still humming from the rush. The hallway to the suite was silent, plush, golden. Oscar held a bottle of team champagne under one arm, Lily walked barefoot because her heels had murdered her feet, and I was texting our group chat to let them know we were alive.

The suite was too nice. A skyline view, glass walls, velvet everything. And one massive king-sized bed.

“Wait,” I said, pausing. “Only one bed?”

Oscar set the champagne on the table with a smirk. “They must’ve assumed.”

Lily turned to me, unbothered. “You’re the little spoon.”

“I always get elbowed when I’m the little spoon,” I complained.

Oscar opened the champagne with a soft pop. “We can alternate shifts.”

“Hot,” I said dryly, snatching a glass. “Very poly of us.”

One bottle in.

We were on the floor, backs against the bed, laughing over a stupid TikTok Oscar had filmed of Lily trying to sneak into the paddock disguised as a staff intern. She almost got away with it.

Lily was lying across both our laps, head on my thigh, feet in Oscar’s hands. She was tipsy. Glowy. Beautiful.

I looked at her. “You’re going to be so hungover tomorrow.”

“I’m always hungover around you,” she mumbled. “Emotionally and otherwise.”

Oscar brushed his thumb along her ankle. “You're both a menace.”

I raised my glass. “To menacing.”

He clinked his against mine. “To danger.”

Lily didn’t move, but her voice softened: “To us.”

There was a pause.

Us.

I felt it. Oscar felt it.

The wine, the heat, the way she was draped across us like she belonged there.

Maybe she did.

Later, when we curled into the bed—all three of us Lily between us — limbs tangling, warmth and skin and unspoken questions pressing into the dark—Oscar whispered something against my neck:

“You feel like home already.”

I didn’t answer.

Because I was afraid of what I might say back.

The Next Morning, we woke to Oscar’s name trending and not just Oscar Piastri P2 Las Vegas.

No. This was different.

Someone had caught a photo—maybe from the hotel lobby, maybe at dinner the night before. The three of us, laughing. Too close. Too much eye contact. Someone had zoomed in on Lily’s hand on Oscar’s shoulder, and mine on Lily’s thigh.

It wasn’t proof.

But the internet didn’t care about proof.

“Oscar Piastri’s girlfriend and her hot friend—what’s going on?” “Throuple energy. I’m calling it now.” “Why do I want to be the fourth?”

Lily rolled over in bed and groaned into the pillow. “We’re going to be memes.”

Oscar was already scrolling. “Well… at least we’re attractive memes.”

I took the phone from him and threw it on the floor. “No phones before breakfast. New throuple rule.”

They laughed. But no one disagreed.

Tag List:

@freyathehuntress, @mimisweetz, @aleatorio1234, @totallynotluluu, @rorabelle15, @prongslena, @linnygirl09, @mangotaitai, @forensicheart, @devilacot, @lilorose25, @landofotographyy

[guabie]

I like to think that a while or years later while living with Cait, Vi starts to get smile lines. And that their decently prominent and that she gains some happy fat like in the last scene where she looks fed for once. Because my bbg deserves all the happiness in the world after all she’s been through and even if she hadn’t been through all that.

I like to think of little inconveniences she’d have, like her neck prolly hurts a little in the mornings from the difference in pillow quality. Since Cait prolly has soft large pillows or just good quality ones unlike prison or every establishment vi has lived in. But she eventually gets used to them or she just sleeps with her head on Cait.

Something funny would be vi slowly adopting the posh accent Cait has but only on certain words, not entirely and ekko mocking her whenever it slips. Even better if she gets interested in the books the kiramman’s have. Like her vocabulary would switch up like crazy and since those books are probably generational it’s possible she’s pick up (ancient slang lol) old pompous words and weird sayings that even Cait wouldn’t be able to understand. It’d be cute to think about Cait working at her desk or on the couch while vi sits by the fireplace reading for her and pointing out funny or weird parts and mocking them. Or her reading in silence and randomly speaking up to tell her a random fact she just learned and Cait just smiling to herself.

I wonder if vi would take to tea, or maybe just certain tea’s. I can imagine she and Cait testing out a new type of tea every day and rating them all, pretending to host tea parties. Bonus points if Caits hunting dogs join them and get a biscuit and pet from time to time. I feel like vi would take well to the dogs and play with them. Cait would tell her to leave them alone due to their training and needing to be on guard only for her to dote on them too.

Cait prolly takes vi hunting with her and tries teaching her the ways to track prey, how to aim a rifle and such. I’d say vi might be a bit into foraging and maybe in the mansion she’d find a book on the shrubs and such the Kirammans have on their land and in turn point them out and teach Cait about them. They then start carrying baskets when they go out and come back with berries and game to make dinner and dessert out of for later.

lol all this just from looking at vi smile once.

[mahajio]

Hey, I remember this comic! I am beyond happy to see this absolute gem polished to perfection and packed with so much beautiful detail! At first I began typing out a comment on Bluesky, but then I realized you also uploaded it to Tumblr, so I can just ramble to my heart's content without having to divide it into several smaller comments. This is especially nice since there's three whole pages of beautiful artwork I want to gush about!

First of all, the dire wolves look EXCELLENT! Supremely intimidating fellows, alright. You've drawn their fur immaculately with so many little individual tufts of hair, and the way you drew their maws ups their intimidation factor significantly. It's a killer panel to open up with, if I do say so myself. Neither Marcille nor Falin look particularly impressed by their display though, which makes perfect sense considering they're both experienced adventurers and one of them is perfectly capable of blowing their heads off with very little effort. I will say that it makes the whole scene look very funny!

Every single panel is a delight to look at. You really did go all out with this, and I couldn't possibly be happier! One fun thing about writing comments like this is that I get to look at every panel for an extended period of time, and it just never gets old, I tell ya! Marcille looks so tired and fed up with everything, which is very funny, but I also absolutely ADORE the way Falin gestures at Marcille to stand back. That genuinely adorable face, followed up with her confident, sparkling smile and a big ole thumbs up, is just perfect. Seeing the back of Marcille's head with the black lines and little sweat droplets had me in shambles for some reason. I honestly don't know why I spent a full minute laughing at that, but I think it's probably because it contrasts Falin's confidence so insanely well.

The shot of Falin hyping herself up and preparing to deal with the dire wolves just as Laios instructed her is epic! I've said this many times before, but HOLY MOLY, your art style is EPIC! It suits Dungeon Meshi perfectly, and man oh man you draw the red dragon like no other! Falin looks confident, and the fact she feels as though she's backed by the most powerful creature in existence just hyped me up, even despite the fact I know exactly what happens next. I also love the line "No dogs will push me around anymore!" Because she was always dead last in the dog hierarchy back home. She'll make her brother proud, she'll show Marcille she makes for a great mate, and she'll show these dire wolves she is not to be messed with! Even though the red dragon is such a small, borderline negligible part of her being, I like the idea of Falin entertaining little urges here and there and feeling empowered by the idea of having a little goober inside of her. Falin's expression in the last panel of the first page looks freakin' INTENSE, which makes Marcille's tiredness and confusion even better, hahaha! I absolutely love what you did with the two in this comic!

When I saw the small critter you drew to show how Falin's bark sounded, I nearly died. I was drinking a cup of tea with honey and a cloud of milk, and all of that shot directly into my lungs! I'm surprised my desk and keyboard remained completely clean, because I was coughing for a solid minute or two just laughing at Marcille's expression with delicious, smoking hot tea on my face and clothes AND THAT SILLY LOOKING CHIHUAHUA IS SO FRICKIN' AAAAAAAAHHH!! FALIN LOOKS SO INTIMIDATING WITH THE WAY SHE BARKS BUT IT'S JUST A YAP LIKE HOLY MOLY I CAAAAAAAAN'T!!!! The dire wolves look so confused, too! That little doodle of two looking at each other and just wondering what the hell this random feathered fleshbag they encountered is trying to accomplish before going right back to their initial plan of tearing her throat out is incredible. Again, they look incredibly intimidating, and that makes their confusion all the more funny!

Falin's enthusiastic yapping turning into a single, confused yap as the dire wolves close in on her was drawn very nicely, and that shot of Marcille's disappointed face is PERFECT! PER-FECT! That grimace was drawn SUPREMELY, chief! The way Falin recoils in surprise from the sudden explosion that completely deletes the head of a dire wolf, with little tufts of fur getting flung around together with a healthy helping of blood was also drawn wonderfully! This entire comic is incredibly expressive, and I haven't even gotten to my favourite expression yet! As an aside, the cave backgrounds in the first and last panel of the second page look nifty. Me likey.

The third page has an absolutely wonderful background in each panel, which I think deserves some special praise, because it makes it all look even more beautiful than it already did! I really need to find myself a better job so I can afford to commission you. Your artwork is incredible! Ha, Marcille's tiredness is very apparent throughout this comic, so her deciding it's about time to call it quits makes perfect sense, and those black lines descending on Falin as she's buried her head in her arms gives me the idea she's ready to call it a day too after that horrible humiliation. The two panels of Marcille sighing and asking Falin if she's okay are very sweet, and I think the sheer tiredness of her expression adds to it.

Now, THIS is my favourite expression in this entire comic! Falin looks surprisingly composed and neutral when she tells Marcille she's okay, but just beneath the surface both she and the little red dragon are utterly devastated. That face right there, THAT FACE OF FALIN! IT IS PERFECT. I CANNOT ADD ANYTHING. IT IS SIMPLY PERFECT, hahaha ooooohhh man! Ooooooh I am cropping that for posterity's sake! PGIsiagduysdgluyllHEEEERR NOOOOOOOOOOSE AND THE WAY HER MOUTHOHAIUGIUASIUGDIUAGUDAGDUI IT'S SO GOOOOOOOOOOD!!!!

Gosh, that last panel cracked me up, too. What an exquisite comic! You never fail to impress, chief!

🐲Dragon vs Wolves🐺

(Read right to left)

[irisintheafterglow]

the long-awaited part 2 to this drabble

"can i get an extra large of the black shirt?"

"of course, give me one moment. i'll be right with you," you reply with robotic politeness over your shoulder as you shove a cardboard box of collectible hats behind the tablecloth. foot traffic has significantly slowed, allowing you to take care of some inventory tasks that were hard to complete when you were bombarded with requests for the limited-edition holographic poster boasting the olympics' host city. you stand from your crouching position, grab an extra-large from the crumpled pile, and finally turn to face your customer.

the customer wearing a surgical mask with two black moles above his eyebrow. you suspect his jacket is the same one that stopped everyone in their tracks earlier in the day, when you obliviously asked him to walk you past a creep.

men's volleyball team - sakusa kiyoomi.

"well?" sakusa asks after a long moment of awkward silence, the slightest hint of amusement in his voice at your shock. "are you gonna hand me the shirt or do i need to grab it myself?"

"you...you!" your senses come slamming back into you like a freight train and you're suddenly overcome with a mix of embarrassment and indignance. "why didn't you tell me who you were?"

"you never asked," he says with a shrug and a teasing glint in his eyes. the shirt stays tight in your grasp, if only because the feel of the fabric is the one thing reassuring you that this interaction was truly happening. "plus, you seemed a little preoccupied with other things." you nod dumbly in lieu of answering and fish a paper bag from below the table.

"my boss just about had a heart attack over your damn back," you inform him while you drop the shirt into the bag. you don't bother charging him for it, seeing as he's one of the athletes and all, and you'd prefer for him to forget you exist as quickly as possible.

"i don't know what the big deal is. it's just a jacket."

"'just a jacket,' sure," you scoff, "and you're just some guy throwing a ball around." the small printer next to the register makes a whirring noise as it attempts to dispense a receipt, only for it to jam and print incomprehensible blots of ink. you curse your shitty luck under your breath.

"everything okay?"

"apparently my brain isn't the only thing that's broken right now," you mutter, and you're surprised when he breathes a quiet laugh. "don't bask in my suffering."

"i'll bask in whatever i find funny, thanks," he shoots back and you glare in spite of your furiously warm face. "what happened?"

"the printer broke. it's been on its last legs all day," you frown. you're too busy trying to remember how to replace the paper roll to notice how he glances around before deciding to remove his mask and tuck it into his pocket. when you look up next, your face goes from warm to burning. who knew your one-time bodyguard was also the prettiest man you'd ever laid eyes upon? "you know what? you can just take the bag, i wasn't going to charge you anyway."

"why would i do that? you're not doing your job very well if you just let me steal a shirt." oh, so he thinks he's funny. from what you'd watched in brief clips of his interviews, sakusa seemed too stoic to have any ounce of humor in his body; yet, here you were, getting teased by a god-tier athlete about breaking the register at your summer job.

"it's not stealing, it's...gifting," you correct slowly. "i made you a promise, remember? you made sure i didn't get kidnapped in broad daylight, and i give you a shirt in return. simple."

"but i need a receipt," he retorts dryly.

"why? just take the bag, please," you say a little forcefully, expecting him to take the hint and leave. your first mistake, however, was challenging an olympic volleyball player to a competition of wits and patience.

"no, i don't think i will," he replies, pushing the bag back across the table to you. "a receipt, one more thing, and i'll go."

"well, you're gonna be here for a little bit because i don't know how i'm supposed to get you a receipt when the printer is broken," you surrender with no idea what he was trying to do. "i won't apologize, though, because you could just take the bag and go."

"allowing me to steal and refusing to apologize. gold star customer service." his sarcasm pulls a sudden, ugly bark of laughter that seems to increase the temperature of your face even more. "hmm. cute."

"what?"

"nothing. no receipt, then?"

"like i said, unless you wanna wait until my manager comes down from the balcony level merch stand and fixes the printer, you can just take the shirt and go. i appreciate you walking me earlier, really, so it's no hassle for me if one measly shirt goes missing."

sakusa opens his mouth like he's about to say something, but suddenly snaps his head to the side in the direction of a bright camera flash. one flash turns to four, and he hastily pulls his mask back over his face, cursing under his breath. you watch, perplexed, as his cocky bravado retreats just in time for a half-dozen journalists to cut around the nearest security guard and surround him. in a blink, microphones and cameras are forced into his face and questions in six different languages are hurriedly spewed at him. if you weren't already reaching across to put some distance between him and the tabloid writers, you wouldn't hear him mutter---

please get them away.

"alright, we're done here," you announce to no one in particular. your voice is more commanding than you expected it to be, enough to make the reporters pause and give you an opening to grab the crook of sakusa's elbow, beelining for the staff-only door. the guard posted there is quick to open the door for you and shut it, effectively cutting off the growing horde of journalists. "are you okay?" you ask as you continue to lead him toward what you remember as the nearest quiet break room. you don't have time to think about the flex of his arm under your hand or how he follows you with absolute trust.

"yeah," he answers curtly, his irritation obvious but seeming to diminish the longer you're holding his arm. you reach the empty linoleum-lined room and unlatch your fingers from him to shut the door, feeling a void-like sensation that you can't figure out. "sorry about that," he says to fill the tense silence after you're no longer shoulder-to-shoulder.

"don't worry about it. we're even now," you reassure him and that makes his shoulders relax a little bit. "you need water? a snack? day-old coffee that could probably burn through metal?"

"no, just some peace," he sighs, exasperatedly collapsing into the nearest uncomfortable chair.

"i see." you blink and suddenly feel like you're intruding on his space, fitting in like an elephant in a shoebox. "uh, i'll leave you here and make sure no one else comes--"

"i'd prefer if you stayed," he cuts in and you pause, your hand hovering above the door handle. "if you're able."

"are you sure?"

"only if you can," he says too quickly to be normal, avoiding your eyes. "you don't need to if you don't want to." you want to laugh at your situation, being stuck in an empty room with the hottest man you've ever laid eyes upon, and your nerves are more heightened than a deer in headlights. (you don't know that he's ridiculously embarrassed that the one time he talks to someone he's interested in, it's interrupted by cameras)

"i can stay, yeah," you manage and he's visibly relieved at your answer, at ease enough to again peel off his mask. his annoyance seemed to dissipate in the course of your short conversation, and an odd expression of contentment is its replacement. "you'll have to explain to my manager why i had to take off early, though."

"breaking the printer, refusing to apologize, and abandoning your shift. you cause a lot of problems, evidently," he teases when you settle into a metal chair beside him.

"only around you, evidently," you quip and are rewarded by the tiniest pull at the corner of his mouth. "i'm sorry i wasn't able to get you that shirt, though...and your precious receipt." he shrugs.

"don't really need either anymore."

"how so?"

"hunting down the shirt was just a way to talk to you again," he declares like he didn't even notice how his statement made your face heat once more. he notices, just like he noticed how you stuttered every time he started a conversation with you, how you smile and laugh like an idiot when he says something that catches you off guard, how your fingers felt electric at every point where you held his elbow. "and the receipt was to ask you to write your number, but i guess i can just ask now if you wanna grab dinner."

when you say yes, he hopes you can't tell just how much he already likes you.

[velaris-fic-repository]

Late For Dinner

@sjmxreaderweek May 5th Prompt: Friends/Family

You were a wreck to say the least. Had been for the past week or so. Your reflection frowned back at you from the vanity, seemingly in agreement about every little wrong thing you spotted.

First impressions had never been your strong suit, and the one you were gearing up for was practically the biggest one of your centuries long life.

This was Cassian’s family. The most important people in his life! His friends. His brothers, one of which, you constantly remembered, was your High Lord.

Right. Totally casual dinner. Nothing in the world to worry about.

It’s not like you were terrified they’d think you looked sloppy. You weren’t horrified to think they may shun your basic profession and simple means. You hadn’t lied awake at night dreading the possibility that they’d think you, simple you, weren’t enough for the Night Court’s General. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t unfortunately thought the same of yourself.

You didn’t have much longer to stew in those unfortunate feelings as a large and familiar form filled the space behind you.

“Hello gorgeous,” Cassian said, stooping down to kiss the top of your head before spinning you around in his arms. “You look stunning.” He kissed your cheek before saying, “we might not make it to dinner…”

Self-conscious and not wanting to delay your feared event to a later date, you lightly swatted at him. “Stop it.”

Taking your actions as playful, he grinned at you as you scrutinized your appearance. “Would that I could, sweetheart.”

He kissed your neck but you shooed him away again, struggling with a flyaway hair you’d noticed.

Finally, Cassian’s expression changed to concerned contemplation. He was more perceptive than many gave him credit for. He’d noticed your deteriorating mental state over the course of the week. He knew you would be nervous and had done just about everything in his repertoire to distract you from it. Clearly, he should have changed tactics long ago.

“Sweetheart?” He was well versed in physical combat, but fights inside the mind, ones he could not fight for you, hurt his ever-loving heart. He could pour his love for you out in bucketloads, and often did, but if you didn’t accept his words for the facts they were, there was little he could do.

He sat beside you and cupped your cheek, forcing your vision up at him. His puppy dog hazel eyes poured their concern out to you, and as much as you wanted to handle this matter yourself, to not burden him with it, you couldn’t bring yourself to stay silent.

“What if they don’t like me?”

Cassian’s heart melted on the spot. How could you think such a thing?

He kissed your forehead softly, eyes practically in heart shapes as they looked at you, and he said, “They’re gonna love you.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better - which I appreciate - but I just-“

Cassian kissed you, cutting off your statement.

“What was that for?”

He grinned softly at you, “You’re adorable when you say such irrational things.”

“Cass, it’s not funny! This is your family! I want to make a good first imp-“

He kissed you again, “and you will.” You scoffed but he continued, “I don’t have Rhys’s abilities, but I promise you sweetheart, if I did I’d take all those insecurities away from you. I don’t like seeing you hurt, especially when you do it to yourself up there.”

“Cass,” you say, kissing him quickly.

“Hey, think about it this way,” he said, “you charmed the pants off of me figuratively - and literally - just by being yourself! They can’t help but love you!”

That brought out the laughter he loved so much. “Not sure,” you said between snickers, “I want to do the latter half again.”

“You’re pretty irresistible, I don’t know,” he said.

“You realize that you’re implying your brothers may try to steal me from you, right?”

“I’m not worried,” he said, leaning back and stretching his wings out.

You raised an eyebrow, “and why is that?”

He curled around you quickly, wrapping you up in his arms and wings, nothing in the world except the two of you.

His breath coasted along your ear as he said, “Because I’m the one who knows what you like.”

Your breath would have hitched had he not blown a raspberry behind your ear a second later, fingers moving to tickle your sides.

“Cassian! Stop!” You demanded between bouts of laughter.

“Never!”

“We’re going to be late!”

Cassian’s ministrations eased away before he kissed your cheek again, slowly. “They can wait.”

“I still want to make that good first impression,” you reminded him with a genuine, unworried smile. “Something tells me being late isn’t going to accomplish that.”

Cassian continued to pepper quick kisses wherever he saw fit, “you’ve forgotten something, sweetheart.”

“What’s that?”

He stopped kissing you to look into your eyes, love pouring out of them, “Maybe I don’t want to share you yet.”

You smiled at him, cupping his cheek. “That’s very sweet.” You leaned in slowly, taking your time, before pulling away entirely and leaving the room. “But we have to go.”

“What?” Cassian whined, a broody male when unkissed, and followed after you.

At the door, you winked at him, “If you want desert, you have to go to dinner first.”

Despite the teasing you’d done to him, Cassian couldn’t help but smile as he followed you out into the streets of Velaris.

You were your smiling, less nervous self again. Mission accomplished.

[kindaasrikal]

No one even asked but. So uh. If you fully saturate the monstrosity trailer it's all red. I'm actually so serious why is lego cooking so hard

I really didn't mean to notice it. Just after rewatching it the hundredth time I kinda. Yknow. Thought you might like it. Since. Over analyzing makes the brain worms dance

Oh my God.

OH MY GOD??

You know my dumbass before this was thinking to myself when i first watched the trailer “hey…the greys look awfully….red tinted…. Nah I’m looking too much into it.” I WASN’T LOOKING TOO MUCH INTO IT??

Okay so the animation in Monstrosity is similar to one of the golden legend episodes, and i messed with the saturation on there and

PURPLE

It’s all PURPLE. Whats important is that this episode is about the lost ninja and hoping they return, all in the perspective of a man no one knows the identity of (at least i think). No one actually knows the story behind this episode other than now the speculations thats its connected to dr and possibly mainly Kai as his mini series has the same animation style.

Purple has a significant role in the show similarly to green or gold. Its used more to represent evil or corruption in characters, as well as destruction. They might be using a more purple tinted grey to represent the destruction ninjago and the realms itself had went through.

But whats also important is that purple is created off of two other colours, red and blue. The second episode of golden legends includes Kai and Nya. Funny enough how the last episode of golden legends also has Jay and Zane, Jay whose outfit is blue and Zane whose outfit and element is often connected to a light blue. That may or may not have been done of purpose though.

I think it’s important we also consider the fact that in season 3 of dr they also put a lot of attention on Kai and Nya’s relationship as siblings, making it a lot more prominent.

This could also be a sign of the oni and their return for all we know.

Like it? Bro i love this i love this SO much your making my brain shake so much im gonna lose it

[pokemonshelterstories]

Me and a friend were having a discussion on Pokemon videos at how a lot of times how easy it is to mistake them being distressed as being “playful”, but that it’s also hard to really tell just from a glance they’re being mistreated. Are there specific signs that show that a Pokemon is being forced into a stressful situation?

that's a great question! and you're right, it can be really hard to tell. i also wouldn't expect someone who isn't an expert in pokemon behavior to be able to look at a video of a pokemon and know whether or not the pokemon is in a stressful situation. in some pokemon, behaviors that often read to us as positive are actually signs of stress- such as leaf-shaking in oddish, which is often compared to tail-wagging in canine pokemon but is actually a method of dispersing toxic pollen in response to fear. in other instances, behaviors that people read as stressful are actually positive behaviors (e.g. the way plusle and minun give off intense spark showers when touching tails). on top of that, the context of a behaviors is really important to telling whether or not it's positive or negative, and a video doesn't always get the proper context. this leads to a lot of confusion and false accusations, unfortunately. what's most important is to listen to people who are experts when they point out something that could possibly be a concern!

all that being said, here are a couple common things to watch out for that should make you take a closer look:

prey/predator pokemon interactions outside of very well trained battling pokemon that are familiar with each other or actively battling. the average video of a purrloin chasing around a patrat is not very fun for the patrat. that's why the patrat often drop berries from their cheeks in these videos- it's an attempt to distract the predator chasing them

pokemon in environments that are inappropriate for their morphology/typing. think ice types on hot beaches that are panting/giving off steam or nocturnal pokemon in bright locations that seem disoriented.

pokemon in environment/situations that are not appropriate for the potential damage they could cause. this one is really tricky, because sometimes a trainer has put in the work to give a potentially dangerous/difficult to handle pokemon a good home, and you really can't glean that from a video sometimes. is it possible that the tyrantrum running around in an unfenced backyard is well-trained and well-managed? sure. is it likely? probably not, but you have to be careful not to accuse someone based off of a few seconds where the situation isn't clear.

pokemon that are being allowed to perform inappropriate behaviors unless it's an educational video. things like using moves on people or in public places where doing so could hurt someone or cause panic (think of poorly behaved pokemon in a grocery store) are not cute or funny. there are times when professionals such as veterinarians or behaviorists will post a video of this happening to explain what's causing it and why it's a bad thing, but if it's being treated as a joke, you know it's not good. a responsible trainer will never intentionally allow their pokemon to do something that could cause harm for the sake of getting views.

i also think it's always a good idea to learn about the body language of pokemon you interact with, so depending on what pokemon you have in your life, you could potentially become the person who teaches someone how to spot a bad video! and if you're not sure if a video is cute or not, i'd highly recommend taking a few minutes to do some research. look up the account that the video comes from and read up on that pokemon's typical behaviors, and if you know someone who understands that pokemon well, feel free to ask them! advocating for pokemon means you're always learning no matter how much you already know, and that's part of what's so awesome about it.

[realmsturkishdelight]

you hated children. with all of your heart, in a way that wasn't funny as may laugh about it, thinking you're joking. but no, you hated their small guts.

of course you wouldn't let a kid suffer, or beat them, or watch them treated badly. no, you were more like a... 'i don't do hugs' type, keeping them far away from you as possible. and people in your life knew that too! how you always said you didn't wanted kids, hated their loud noises, their stupid reasons to cry, or how they randomly screamed.

but of course universe had a way of slapping people in the face, ironically.

you met simon riley.

simon never asked children. he wasn't against it, but he would never feel ready to be a dad until you said you wanted to be a mom. he was patient, retiring when you both married after four years of dating, devoting his attention to you even more like this. helping with dishes, handyman jobs, rubbing your feet, fucking you good that you legit tried to remember where were you for a good five minutes.

and you couldn't help but want this man's kids.

while simon held your third son, the youngest of your eldest daughter and middle son, you couldn't help but eye fuck your husband like he was a stranger you desired to have. a dad bod, giant frame, rough hands tender and sweet with the children, always. patient, a wonderful father, a yearning husband, a fucking legend in bed.

"si?" you nuzzled him like a cat seducting her mate after he gently layed his son in the crib and he growled as a purr. "my love." he replied, and you added his deep voice that was normally gentle but filthy in bed, and his accent that made everything ten times more attractive to the list.

"let's make another," you purred, not even remembering your days as an anti-child supporter in his arms. "twins maybe? if we tried hard enough."

simon chuckled, a rich sound you adored like the rest of him. his hands wrapped around you, large palm not having a hard time to find your ass and cup it. "y'know i'd never say no to seein' you swollen with my child, doll."

"just say you want to breed me."

"fuckin' need it."

[fawnme1]

THE SOFTEST THING — WILLNE

CHAPTER FOUR

previous part ,, next part

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

You weren’t supposed to be in the video.

You’d tagged along with Joe and Alfie mostly for moral support and free snacks. The Sidemen were shooting some kind of chaotic, unscripted Truth or Dare special, and they were short one person after someone bailed last-minute. That’s when Tobi looked at you and went, “Wait, get her in. She’s funny.”

Joe, of course, lit up like a christmas tree. “Yes! Oh my god, yes. She’s perfect.”

“She’s also not wearing makeup from camera,” you protested weakly, already knowing resistance was futile.

“That’s the raw aesthetic Gen Z wants,” Alfie said, throwing an arm ariound you dramatically. “It’s cinema, babe.”

And just like that, you were mic’d up and seated between Joe and Will on one of those weird gamer-style couches that didn’t actually support your back. The camera crew was setting up, lights glaring, and you were running through the very real possibility that this was going to end in public humiliation.

Joe leaned over, voice low. “Promise to pick truth when it gets to you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve been too mysterious lately,” he grinned.

“Joe.”

“I’m just saying. The people need to know.”

The shoot started.

Within minutes, it had descended into the usual nonsense: mini dares, oversharing, KSI doing a weird dance, and Vik being sneakily savage with his questions. You managed to stay off the radar for a while, mostly letting the chaos swirl around you.

Until it was your turn.

Tobi looked right at you. “Alright, you. Truth or dare?”

Joe didn’t even give you time to think. “Truth. She’s definitely picking truth.”

Will chuckled beside you, resting his arm on the back of the couch. “Safe choice.”

You narrowed your eyes at them both. “Fine. Truth.”

Tobi grinned like he’d just won the lottery. “Okay then. Is it true that—” He glanced at his phone like he was double checking the wording. “—you haven’t dated anyone in five years?”

The room erupted.

“OH MY GOD,” Joe wheezed, clapping his hands together.

Alfie fell sideways onto the floor with a dramatic gasp. “EXPOSED!”

Your mouth dropped open, equal parts horror and disbelief. “Who told you that?”

Will turned to look at you, fully now, brows raised. “Wait — for real?”

You blinked. “That’s… wow, okay. I thought we were doing like ‘what’s your favourite cereal’ type truths.”

But Tobi just laughed. “We go deep here.”

You took a breath, trying to will the blood out of your cheeks. “Yeah. It’s true.”

The room went quiet for a beat, only broken by Joe and Alfie’s combined gremlin giggles.

“She’s emotionally celibate,” Alfie added, wiping fake tears from his eyes.

“Full-on romantic nun,” Joe agreed, raising his bottle of water in a toast. “Five years strong.”

Will was still looking at you.

Not laughing. Just… surprised. Curious.

“Didn’t expect that,” he said under his breath, not loud enough for the camera to catch.

You shot him a sideways glance. “Why, because I seem so emotionally available?”

He smirked. “No, just… you sing like someone who’s been through it.”

Joe heard that and howled.

“Oh my god, this is killing me,” he wheezed. “The two of you sound like the start of an angsty music video.”

“You are the angsty music video,” Alfie added, still on the floor. “She’s giving heartbreak, and Will’s giving ‘guy who doesn’t realise he’s the problem’.”

Everyone laughed — including you — but you could feel Will still watching you out of the corner of his eye.

And later, when the cameras were off and the lights came down, he bumped your shoulder lightly and said, “Five years, huh?”

You nodded, trying to keep it breezy. “Life got busy.”

“Or maybe the right person never showed up.”

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t need to.

Because for the first time in a long time, someone was starting to look at you like they might just want to be the exception.

The Sidemen vide blew up fast.

You woke up to hundreds of tags. Not dozens. Hundreds.

The comments had gone feral. TikToks were circulating, edits were made, and the clip where you admitted — on camera, no less — that you hadn’t dated in five whole years had gone ultra-viral.

“5 YEARS?? that’s not a dry spell, that’s a biblical drought”

“she’s so real for this. healing era icon.”

“joe and alfie’s reaction sent me to the moon”

“why does will look like he just found out she’s a disney princess with a tragic backstory??”

Someone even made a fan cam of your face, backlit in that Sidemen studio glow, overlayed with Lana Del Rey and the words “she deserves the world and also a midly sarcastic boyfriend.”

You laughed. You cringed. You considered moving to a remote forest.

But no one was letting it go — especially not Joe and Alfie.

And then came the ChrisMD pub crawl.

You hadn’t intended to be in that video either. But one “come on, it’ll be jokes” from Alfie turned into a full night of chaotic filming, multiple pubs, far too many pints, and an on-camera game of “Pub Truths” that immediately got out of hand.

You were two pints deep when Chris pointed a camera in your face with that smile that meant you should be worried.

“Right then,” he grinned. “Everyone wants to know — how long exactly has it been since your last date?”

Groans and cheers exploded around the table.

Joe physically clapped. “YESSSSS. Get in there!”

“Run it back!” Alfie yelled. “Five years and two months now, don’t lie!”

Will, sitting across from you with a half finished cider, looked up — smirking, but clearly listening.

You blinked. “Is this my punishment for having a career?”

Chris leaned closer. “So? Confirm the timeline. The people need to know.”

You sighed. Loudly. “Fine. Five years, three months, and…” You paused, checked your phone. “Seventeen days. Happy?”

The table screamed.

“No way you’re tracking it that precisely,” Chris said, wide eyed.

“She’s counting like it’s a prison sentence,” Joe said through tears.

“She’s like those girlboss wolves who wait for one mate their whole life,” Alfie added.

Will nearly choked on his drink.

You covered your face. “I hate you all.”

“You love us,” Alfie grinned. “And also you’re lying. You’ve definitely flirted.”

“I’ve flirted for sport. That’s not dating.”

“Iconic behaviour,” Joe muttered. “Tactical flirtation. Maximum power, no commitment.”

Chris was still cackling. “No but seriously, no dates? None?”

“Not one where I actually liked the guy back,” you said honestly.

That shut everyone up for a beat.

And then Will said — so casually it could’ve passed unnoticed: “Well, you’ve got high standards. That’s not a bad thing.”

Joe caught it. Alfie caught it. You definitely caught it.

The camera probably did, too.

And from the way Will didn’t even pretend to be embarrassed about saying it, you knew he meant it.

The next day, your mentions were in meltdown again.

This time, it wasn’t just “5 year dry spell girl.”

Now it was:

“she’s the heartbreak popstar and he’s the sarcastic youtuber… they share ONE drink on a pub crawl and i’m writing vows”

“this is the slowest of burns and i’m obsessed.”

“her saying ‘that’s not dating’ while will looks at her like THAT? yeah i screamed”

Your group chat was on fire.

Joe: ur a menace and ur fans want you to marry will

Alfie: i say u milk it. fake date him for views

Joe: or real date him for love

Alfie: LAME

Joe: grow up

And then —

You got a DM.

WillNE: just watched the chris video

you’re dangerously good at not getting flustered

next time i’m raising the stakes

(aka: i’m calling the next pub. don’t ghost me.)

You stared at the message for a good ten seconds, heart doing a thing it hadn’t done in — well, five years and seventeen days.

And maybe the streak wasn’t technically broken.

But something had definitely cracked.