#but maybe I’ll try and borrow it instead

[sharieb]

Hi there! I’ve just discovered your page! Can I have love at first sight head canons of the lads boys when they see non mc for the first time and they desperately want to find out who she is. All this while mc is completely oblivious about it all? Thank you!

Love at First Sight

Pairing: LADS x Non-MC reader

Genre: Fluff

Setup: MC is out, busy saving the world, while someone new quietly and unexpectedly steals their breath away. I have to know who she is.

He’s waiting in the Skyhaven terminal, watching the ships dock, when he hears a soft voice behind him. “Um… excuse me?”

He turns, and there you are, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve, phone clutched tightly in one hand, eyes wide with uncertainty.

Your frame is soft-looking, plush in that way that makes people instinctively want to be gentle with you, though you stand your ground. “I think I got turned around,” you say, voice quiet. “Could you tell me where Gate 17 is?”

He’s not used to being approached for help. Not here. Not like this.

You’re clearly new, overwhelmed by the noise and flashing terminals, and something about how small you seem in the middle of it all presses unexpectedly on his chest.

He points toward the overhead sign, but your eyes don’t quite follow. You’re still flustered. “I’ll show you,” he says, before he can stop himself.

You blink up at him, surprised. “Really?”

He just nods. Walks beside you, matching your pace.

The walk is short. You thank him at the gate, voice still soft and grateful. Then you disappear into the crowd.

He stands there for a second longer than he should.

The second you're out of view, he walks the terminal again, like maybe you’ll reappear.

He doesn’t know why.

Tells himself it’s to double-check security.

Lies to himself better than anyone.

But his mind keeps circling back to your soft voice, your fidgeting hands, the way your frame looked cozy in the crowd.

He’s not used to this.

And it shows.

He knows it’s irrational. But later, he checks the shuttle log anyway.

Accesses passenger data he shouldn’t be looking at.

Because suddenly, it matters.

Because you’re not just a stranger.

You’re important. And he doesn’t even know why yet.

He’s almost off shift. Just one more round.

Then he hears a soft voice. Yours.

You’re at the end of the corridor, talking to the wall panel like it’s your worst enemy.

The supply room scanner’s rejecting your badge for the third time, and even from here, he can tell you're new.

Fresh scrubs that hang off your soft-looking frame like you borrowed them last minute. A brand-new badge still bearing the "RN: New Grad" sticker. You look warm. Huggable. Slightly lost.

You sigh and glance around, clearly debating if it’s worth bothering someone.

And that’s when your eyes land on him.

You approach him hesitantly. “Sorry… do you know how to override the supply room lock? Mine won’t open, and I think I’m doing it wrong.”

He should point you to someone else. Delegate. Move on. But instead, he walks over, keying in the override manually.

“Done,” he murmurs.

You blink up at him, relieved. “Thank you. First day. I bet you can tell?”

He almost smiles. Almost. “Only because you’re polite.”

You laugh, soft and genuine, and it lingers in his ears long after you thank him once again and then walk away.

Later, when the ward is quiet, he pulls up the onboarding list. Not because he needs to, but because he wants to.

Finds your name. Your department. Note your schedule.

Irrational. Illogical. Entirely unprofessional.

Because for all his discipline, all his logic... he can’t stop thinking about your voice.

Your smile. And how soft you looked standing in the hallway, asking for help like it meant something.

He didn’t even want to attend the gallery opening.

He almost didn’t.

But then… you.

You’re standing in front of one of his oldest pieces, lips parted in thought. Not just admiring it, but understanding it. It’s terrifying. It’s magnetic.

He doesn’t speak to you at first. Doesn’t even try to flirt.

He just watches, memorising every detail, especially the way your soft-looking figure shifts under the gallery lights, gentle and fluid, like the brushstrokes of something half-remembered in a dream.

But then you catch him looking. You raise a brow. “Do I have paint on me or something?”

He almost laughs. Instead, he gestures toward the piece behind you. “Most people just glance at that one. You actually stared.”

You shrug. “It’s complicated. Messy. Honest.”

Rafayel’s heart skips. He clears his throat. “You from around here?” ”I just moved to Linkon and opened a little pottery shop near the edge of the Art District,” You say. “They told me to ‘socialize’ and handed me a ticket to this place.”

He smiles for real this time. “Good call on their part.”

Then you’re called away by a coworker, and the moment ends.

But later, he paints you.

Again. And again. And again.

He smooth-talks his way into staff records.

Claims it’s about feedback.

It’s not. He just wants to know your name.

You’re not supposed to be inside the Onchinus base.

Not without clearance. Not without a trace.

But Sylus notices. He always does.

He finds you at one of his data terminals, fingers dancing across the holographic interface with an ease that’s almost cocky.

You’re perched on the edge of the chair like you own it, humming something off-key and ridiculous as you bypass two layers of encryption just to set one of the security drones to play elevator music.

You’re not panicking. You’re grinning. There’s a sparkle in your eye that says you know you’re being watched, and you’re enjoying it.

Soft-looking. Cheeky. Chaos wrapped in plush curves and mischief.

When he steps into the room, you spin lazily in the chair to face him. “You know,” you say, chin propped on your hand, “for a secret base, your firewalls are kinda mid.”

You wink. Then vanish.

No trace. No ID. Just a warm laugh and the lingering echo of mischief.

He digs deeper. Again. And again.

Too clean. Too forgettable.

So why can’t he stop thinking about you?

Whatever this is, curiosity, obsession, a spark MC never lit, it’s already begun.

And Sylus never lets go once he starts pulling threads.

He doesn’t believe in love at first sight.

Until it happens.

He’s tucked away in a café corner, sketching lazily, when he glances up—and sees you.

The sunlight catches your profile just right, turning you into something out of a dream.

Soft-looking and warm. The kind of softness that doesn’t ask for attention but still draws every eye.

You just entered the café, giggling at something another girl next to you said, your fingers gently tapping on the strap of your messenger bag in a rhythm he starts mentally sketching.

There’s a patch on your jacket—UNICORNS Armament Tech.

You must be the newest transfer from another Hunter’s Association branch, and apparently, the café is your first stop in Linkon.

He remembers reading the name but didn’t expect you to be this… radiant.

There’s a slight squish to your cheeks when you smile, and he wants to capture it in charcoal, then paint, then something even more permanent. “Sorry,” you suddenly say, turning toward him. “Do you know if they have oat milk? You look like a regular.”

His pencil stalls. He wasn’t expecting a conversation. Not yet. Not like this. “They do,” he replies, a little too fast.

You smile wider. “Thanks. First day in Linkon. I’m guessing I’ll be here way too often.”

You leave with your friend and your drink, waving politely. You don’t look back.

But he does.

He comes back the next day. And the next.

Always sketching. Always pretending.

Waiting for the girl who turned sunlight into a silhouette, and made it feel like he’d never seen warmth until that moment.

[kleem-o]

I can’t stop thinking about Obsessive Ex Boyfriend!Sukuna. You and him were together since highschool, which shocked people, but at the same time they kinda get it. Sukuna was your typical asshole, and you were a spoiled high maintenance princess. Oh don’t get me wrong though, you weren’t just all bark, you were all BITE too. Top of the class and excelled at sports (well it was passable). But the same also applies to Sukuna, both of you fighting for the top spot in academics (you always won) and sports (he always won). You guys were such an oddly cute couple, always bickering.

“Kuna go get me some snacks in the cafeteria please!”

“Damn brat go do it yourself!” *still proceeds to go buy you snacks without hesitation*

But you guys weren’t always bickering, behind closed doors he secretly LOVED being babied. You guys usually have cuddle dates in his room with his door locked (he learned to lock the door after his baby brother Yuji suddenly entered to borrow his switch)

You would lay on your back with him on top of you, burying his face on your neck.

“I love you so much, who’s my good boy?”

“I am.. ‘love you..”

You would let your hands play with his hair and caress his back, and he feels like he’s literally melting. He’d be damned if anyone else saw him like this, he’d rather die.

Now here’s where it gets tricky, you guys graduated highschool and are now off to college, unfortunately you guys are going to different colleges (which you both had a fight about) but are still in the same city.

The little bickerings became actual fights, not caring where you guys were (yours and Sukuna’s poor friends are traumatized).

But extreme lows comes with extreme highs, when you guys made up or behind closed doors, you and Sukuna act as if a fight never happened.

“I love you so much baby” Sukuna always makes promises of undying love, in hopes that you would understand that even though you guys fought a lot, his love for you will never change.

But then after one fight (shhh i might make a fic about this if yall want) you broke up with him.

His world was shattered. But being who he was, his pride was too high to give in (or at least in the outside)

He would pretend that he was fine when clearly… the voice messages he sends you at night says otherwise.

“Ha! Yeah, I don’t really give a shit anymore, ‘m too busy getting fucked over by exams anyway.”

“Hey baby, please can we talk? I really miss you and I’m sorry please, give me one chance please, I love you”

“Yoo bro, you okay? You’re pretty wasted” Gojo says as he tries to take Sukuna’s drink in his hand. “Fuck off, ‘m fine..” Obviously he’s not, he had way too many shots even for someone who had high tolerance, the lights of the bar was making him dizzy, and his empty notifications despite his numerous voice and text messages to you were starting to make his eyes blur with tears. Gojo saw this and threw their other friend, Geto, a look.

They both had a hard time trying to haul Sukuna in Gojo’s car, with Sukuna deadass crying talking about I need her back, she can’t do this to me, we aren’t over, I love her. He kept yelling too, about bringing him to your place instead of his. So they called you and you agreed to have him over because its dangerous for him to be alone in his state (totally not just because you miss him, and lowkey want to see him wasted and crying lol)

They brought him to your unit and left telling you to call them if you need help with anything. The moment the doors closed Sukuna hugged you tightly. “Please..please come back to me.. make me yours again please.. I-I love you please ‘m sorry..” He was literally sobbing on your shoulder, with you patting his back.

“Okayy big guy let’s go to bed” You did your best to clean him up and you both laid on your bed, with you staring at the ceiling and him staring at you.

“Are we back together?” You laugh and looked at him “Hmmm… I’ll think about it, maybe if you beg me in the morning.” Sukuna’s eyes teared up a bit and he smiled. “Can we cuddle for tonight?” You can sense how careful he is with his words, it would be very out of character for other people, but you, and only you, knew that this is how he always was. “ Of course, c’mere.”

Sukuna hurriedly wrapped his arms around your waist and buried his face beneath yours. He tangled his legs with yours and took a long breath. It smelled like home. He is home, and tomorrow everything will be okay again.

part 2 or how they broke up

a/n: idk what this is lol i really just needed to get it out of my system 😩 want to write more about this dynamic, the asshole x spoiled brat type shi, like finally someone rivals the energy of the asshole 😩 and also this might be insanely ooc but its ok bc its fun 😚 and also this is just how he is with reader! (totally not just an excuse)

[kinda-indecisive]

˳.⁺⁎˚ ⋆ ˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ His Clothing pt I ˚ ⋆･˳ . ⁎˚ ⋆･˳.⋆ .˳

You (MC) unintentionally surprise the guys by wearing an article of clothing that belongs to them (for the first time).

Part 1: The Rafayel, Zayne, and Sylus Edition!

˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆

Rafayel

“There you go, nice and warm. Wow,” he had said, his voice a near whisper, his mesmerizing gaze focused on you so completely, “That color is beautiful on you, you know? Your eyes are glowing.”

You had thought that comment was ridiculous. Your eyes were glowing, when his were the ones worth talking about? Worth writing entire poems about if you were more eloquent.

You had blushed and changed the subject, his gaze lingering on you a little longer before accepting the conversation change and enjoying the rest of your walk together.

That conversation was a few weeks ago, before he left for Verona to visit his Aunt Talia and attend an old friend’s 20th wedding anniversary. 

Now as you walk out of the Association building, cheeks warm from the memory, you bury yourself in the scarf, deep within the warm fabric.

As if knowing you’re thinking about him, your phone buzzes.

*See you in 30 minutes, cutieeee. You’re not annoyed by my texts are you? Is that why you’re sending Thomas to pick me up instead of showing up yourself?*

Rolling your eyes, you’re still smiling when you respond.

*You know I’ve been working late since you left. My schedule will go back to normal tomorrow, now that you’re back :)*

The string of emojis he sends back is ludicrous, but it gets his message across.

Just 28 minutes to go!

˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆

When the familiar, sleek black Ferrari pulls up to the curb next to you, you try to imagine how this reunion is going to play out. Maybe you should have brought flowers? Rafayel is an avid enjoyer of beauty in all its forms and would probably love a bouquet. But that sorta makes you feel like one of his many fans. Maybe a single flower would have been better? 

At any rate, you haven’t brought anything but yourself. He wouldn’t be expecting anything more than that, right?

Your thoughts are interrupted, however, when your boyfriend leans fully out of the rolled-down window.

“My scarf!” he points an accusing finger.

A few passing pedestrians glance over to get a look at the scarf thief and you turn away, hiding your face.

“I’ve been looking all over for it!” he continues, “I tore up the room I was staying in, thinking I’d misplaced it. Then when I couldn’t find it, I thought that maybe some sneaky little squid stole it right off my neck with their freaky little tentacles.”

Folding your arms across your chest, you decide you’re going to be just as dramatic right back at him, “Seriously? You let me borrow this scarf, Rafayel! You said the color looked beautiful on me, or did you already forget?”

His jaw drops and he opens the car door, rushing out without closing it behind him.

“Of course I didn’t forget! You were so beautiful that night, I thought I’d dreamed it. The same as right now, too,” he says, tentatively reaching toward you, as your arms are still folded defiantly across your chest, “I freaked out when I saw the scarf because it was from Talia and she lectured me the entire time I was in Verona about how I don’t take care of gifts. If I had remembered I’d left it in my cutie’s hands, I would have had a good excuse.”

Squinting at him, your arms fall and he smiles gently, lowering his eyes to yours, “I could get used to this, you know? Coming home to find you wearing my stuff. Next time, I’ll accidentally lend you something bigger. I have cashmere cardigans that are so soft, it feels like you’re drifting in sea foam.”

˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆

Zayne

Waking up late, you curse quietly to yourself when you find a text from Zayne asking you to bring his laptop to the hospital if you have the time, otherwise he’ll come pick it up at lunch. Apparently a lot of the hospital’s computers are still down due to the Wanderer attack that you had been part of getting under control last night. The aftershock of the attack had caused strange outages several blocks out from the point of attack, so you aren’t super surprised to hear the hospital was also affected. 

Not wanting Zayne to give up his precious time, you quickly shoot him a text that you’re on your way while hurriedly getting ready. In a rush, you shrug into one of his button-ups and messily tie your hair up, glancing in the mirror for no more than a second before scooping his laptop up and rushing out the door.

When you arrive at Akso Hospital saying you’re there to drop something off for Dr. Zayne, everyone’s moods seem to shift. You hadn’t expected such cheerful attitudes, considering the situation with the computers, but you don’t think anything of it until you bump into Dr. Greyson. At first, he greets you with his usual big smile and wave. But when his eyes widen and his cheeks flush a soft pink, you’re more than a little intrigued now. 

“Whoa…” he says, looking down at his tablet, “I mean, hey. Are you looking for Zayne? I heard he just finished with a patient, so he should be in his office now.”

You thank him warily, directing yourself to Zayne’s office. A little flustered by everyone’s attention this morning, you’re more than relieved when you enter his office and he looks up at you, smiling faintly…

Only to be hit with a new wave of crippling embarrassment when your own boyfriend double-takes at you, his ears turning a faint, nearly imperceptible shade of pink.

“Did I wake you?” he frowns, “You should have stayed in bed and rested. You worked hard last night.”

“No, I’m great! I was awake ages ago, I just left my phone in the other room and didn’t see your message until later.”

Shifting awkwardly under the weight of his stare, a moment passes before a slightly more mischievous smile graces his lips. Walking around his desk, he sits at the edge of it with his arms crossed as he looks at you, “I would believe you, but in that case, I would also have to believe you intended to make such a bold statement. Why else would you purposefully choose to wear the only one of my shirts with your lipstick stains on it?”

He gestures to the collar.

Looking down, you notice the deep red marks along the collar of the otherwise stark white shirt, most of them smudged, some very clearly the defined shape of a pair of rouged lips.

Your face and neck burn with heat when you finally realize why people looked so amused and alarmed when you’d come in.

“I…I just grabbed one and ran. But, Zayne, the date that this happened was last week… why was this even hanging in your closet in the first place?”

Although the pink color still lightly dusts his ears, he speaks nonchalantly, “ I meant to take it to the dry cleaners, but I couldn’t bring myself to have the marks removed yet. Besides, I have plenty of other shirts that aren’t stained. The chances of you grabbing that one were… small.” 

“Not small enough,” you groan, walking toward him and dropping your face into his chest, “Everyone in the lobby was giggling.”

He puts his arms around you and chuckles, “Well… I’m sure this has satisfied some people’s curiosity about our relationship. Perhaps they will finally stop prying for details.”

˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆

Sylus

“Something’s wrong with Miss Hunter, Boss.”

“Death may be inevitable.”

Rolling over and squishing your face into the pillow, you try to block out the sounds of him and the terror twins outside your door.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you hear Sylus scold in what could be called a reassuring voice, though you’re almost certain you heard a hint of uncertainty. Despite your bad mood, you can’t help but snicker a little.

Rolling out of bed, you give up on trying to relax, plodding into the bathroom and shutting the door behind you.

“Sweetie?”

Sylus’s voice is practically as soft as a dove’s coo as he walks into your bedroom, having shooed the twins away. You sit on the toilet lid, pulling your knees into your chest. There is silence for a heartbeat before he comes to the bathroom door, “I just got home and heard you aren’t feeling well. Are you alright? Do you need anything?” 

You sigh, returning to your feet, going to the door, swinging it open, and glaring up at him. He looks stunned, concerned, and still so soft as he looks down at you and you feel yourself soften up almost immediately.

“I’m fine, Sy. I’m just… having a bad day. And it might just be like…” you mumble something under your breath and he raises an inquiring eyebrow. 

“What was that?” he inquires.

“I said it might just be, like… hormones or something. I don’t know,” you shrug, then groan, leaning in and burying your face against his chest, “I’ll apologize for snapping at Luke and Kieran later. Right now I just wanna be alone. You can stay, but you have to be quiet.”

“I won’t make a sound,” he pledges.

Begrudgingly, you let him follow you to the bed where you start to get comfy, only to notice him standing to the side, watching you curiously. He doesn’t say anything, staying true to his word, but you finally huff in slight annoyance when he continues to linger in the same spot longer than you expected.

“Why are you staring at me?”

“You’re wearing my sweater, sweetie.”

Having forgotten stomping into his room and snatching one off its hanger before hissing at the twins and stomping into your room, you awkwardly look down at the blankets.

“You weren’t here.”

He continues to look at you like that isn’t an answer and you sigh dramatically, continuing, “And I missed you, alright. I haven’t seen you in, like, four days because of your business trip. And you always tell me to ‘take what’s mine’ and all that, so I went in and took your sweater. And now it’s mine.”

Flopping back on the bed, you glower at him until he sits beside you. 

“You’re right, I do say that,” he agrees with a nod. He pauses and you tilt your head back to look up at him. His normally sharp eyes are impossibly soft when he looks down at you, his smug smile also a slightly softened version. “It’s just that this was a pleasant surprise to come home to. You’re here looking for comfort, practically drowning in my sweater. You even smell like me. It’s almost like I never left at all.”

Snorting, you curl yourself closer to him and pout into his neck, “Well I’m glad you’re happy. Me, on the other hand? I’ve been miserable the entire time you’ve been gone.”

He chuckles, a low, deep rumble in his chest, which your cheek is pressed against. The sound and sensation warm you up, inside and out, “I apologize. Making you miserable was never my intention.”

You ignore him, curling into him even closer. The sweater means nothing now that you have the comfort of the real thing. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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Finally, another post! :)

taglist❤: @fallthelong

MY LOVE AND DEEPSPACE MASTERLIST

[dozybeez]

Spin For Me (Pt. One)

She’s the quiet girl in class with a secret life after dark. He’s the campus heartthrob who’s used to getting what he wants—except her. When a class project forces them together, buried truths, blurred lines, and undeniable tension threaten to unravel everything they thought they knew.

→ part two

pairing: college au! kim mingyu x exotic dancer f!reader

word count: 2.3k

content warnings: slowish burn, eventual smut, lap dances, adult club setting, derogatory language toward sex workers, internalized shame, emotional distress, subtle? size and innocence kink. MDNI

authors note: in no way do I think I’m a good writer. I wrote this a while ago just for self indulgence and decided to post it for fun, so please understand.

songs for this chapter:

- Change (In the House of Flies) by Deftones

- Robbers by The 1975

- That Funny Feeling by Phoebe Bridgers

The lecture hall smelled faintly of dry-erase markers and cheap coffee. It buzzed with that mid-semester kind of tired—hoodies tugged over faces, headphones in, eyes on the clock instead of the slides.

You weren’t invisible.

Not in the way people usually meant it.

You were seen—just misread. Easily boxed in, easily ignored. In lecture halls filled with raised hands and loud, overconfident voices, you were the person in the back row with your hood pulled over your ears, black flats tapping lightly against the floor while you took neat, quiet notes.

No one looked twice. And if they did, it was only to borrow a pen.

Which was exactly how you liked it.

Until Kim Mingyu walked into class ten minutes late.

The door swung open like he owned the place. Sunglasses perched on his nose despite the cloudy forecast and a white tee stretched across his chest like it was tailored just to show off how broad and well-built he was. That half-grin had made him the most followed student on campus—15K and counting. He had a height that forced anyone to lean around him just to see the board whenever he was in a row in front of them. He gave the professor a lazy nod and ignored the dozen girls who immediately perked up in their seats as he dropped into the chair beside you like it was nothing.

Like you weren’t already trying to disappear.

You didn’t look at him. Not really. But you felt him look at you.

“Group project presentations,” Professor Norris announced, clapping once to pull focus. “Partners are posted. No trades. Don’t ask. You have three months.”

Your stomach sank before you even looked.

A rustle of movement. Groans. Whispers about how unlucky they were not to be matched with Mingyu.

You flipped open your laptop to check the pairing list and whose name resided in the spot next to yours.

Kim, Mingyu

No.

No no no.

You felt him turn toward you the second he saw the same list. You couldn’t even process how he was able to match your name to your face, never having interacted with the campus heartthrob before.

“Looks like it’s you and me,” he said, smiling wide like it was good news.

You didn’t return it. “Great.”

No giggle. No flip of your hair. No “Oh my God, I totally follow you on Insta!” like the girl in front of you had said during the last class lecture. You just stared back at your laptop like you weren’t next to the most popular guy on campus. Like you hadn’t seen his face on flyers, tagged in party pics, or shirtless in more thirst traps than you could count.

Something in your tone made his smile falter—just for a second. But then he laughed like you were kidding, like you couldn’t possibly mean it.

“You free after class?” he asked. “We can talk through a game plan.”

You closed your laptop slowly. “I have work.”

“Okay, then maybe—”

“I’ll email you.”

And with that, you stood, shoved your laptop into your tote, and slipped out the side exit before the rest of the room even processed the assignment.

⸻

Mingyu stared at the empty seat you’d left behind.

It wasn’t that people didn’t say no to him. It happened. Sometimes.

But they didn’t say it like that.

Like they’d already decided who he was.

He scratched the back of his neck, still watching the door you’d walked out of.

⸻

The library study rooms on the second floor were always just a little too warm.

Mingyu tugged his sweatshirt over his head and dropped it onto the empty chair across from him. Underneath, his designer top showed his shoulders too well. He wasn’t trying to show off—well, not really—but he also wasn’t apologizing for it either.

You walked in exactly two minutes late. Oversized black hoodie, hair up in a messy claw clip. Your flats were silent on the tile. You didn’t look at him as you sat down.

You pulled out a worn spiral notebook instead of a laptop. Mingyu blinked. “Going analog?”

“It doesn’t die on me.”

He opened his laptop. “Fair.”

Silence. He drummed his fingers on the edge of the table.

“So, uh… should we just start with the topic?”

You didn’t answer right away. You were flipping through the first few pages of your notebook, all neat handwriting and annotated margins. When you finally glanced at him, it was like you’d only just remembered he was there.

“I already picked one,” you said. “You can veto it if you want.”

Mingyu leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised. “Taking charge, huh?”

You stared.

He threw his hands up. “No complaints. What is it?”

“Emotional repression and memory retention.”

Mingyu blinked. “That’s… intense.”

You shrugged. “It’s Psych 3023.”

“I was thinking something lighter. Like social media attachment.”

“You mean influencers?”

He grinned. “You say that like it’s a dirty word.”

You didn’t grin back. “Isn’t it?”

Mingyu let out a soft laugh. You were sharper than you looked. He wasn’t used to that. Most people talked to him like he was a golden retriever with a ring light. But you? You looked at him like he was a pop-up ad you didn’t remember clicking on.

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll go with yours.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Why?”

He shrugged. “I’m flexible.”

You narrowed your eyes. He noticed—again—how big they were. Soft, doe-like. You blinked twice and looked away, like you were annoyed you’d been caught looking at him at all.

“Fine,” you muttered, uncapping your pen. “We’ll split the research. Half each. Meet again Friday?”

“Works for me,” he said, folding his arms behind his head. “Your place or mine?”

You looked at him flatly.

“Or the library,” he clarified with a grin.

“You’re not funny.”

“I kinda am.”

You stood before he could finish the thought, already packing your things. “Friday. Four. Don’t be late.”

He watched you walk out again. Same way you had in class—fast, focused, like you couldn’t wait to get away from him.

Mingyu let out a low breath.

He was used to people liking him right away.

But you?

You didn’t just not like him—you looked at him like he was a disappointment you’d already predicted.

And for some reason… that made him want to try harder.

⸻

You had two hours before your shift started. Enough time to switch.

Your dorm room was small and cluttered—textbooks in one corner, a makeup bag you rarely touched sitting unopened on the dresser.

The two-piece was already laid out on your bed. Pale pink, almost childish, with a satin ribbon tying across the back of the top. It looked like it belonged to someone with gum in their mouth and sparkles in their hair.

You pulled it on in silence.

You tied the ribbon. Adjusted the straps. Then you sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the mirror while you tied your notorious soft satin half-mask with little black lace trim.

You blinked slowly at the person staring back.

Fawn blinked back.

⸻

At Club Indigo, Fawn didn’t have to speak unless she wanted to. The lighting was dark—deep cherry reds and pools of purple. You took your time stretching backstage, your body moving to the low pulse of the music already spilling out from the main room.

Your name was on the lineup—third from the top.

You didn’t strip. Never had. You didn’t even give private dances. That was the rule. That was how Fawn stayed safe while working in your college town. Mentally and physically.

You danced.

And when the first notes of Deftones’ “Change (In the House of Flies)” echoed through the room, you stepped onto the stage, barefoot with light delicate steps, and climbed the pole.

Above the noise and lights and breathless stares, you finally felt in control.

⸻

The library smelled like burnt coffee and printer paper. You were already regretting agreeing to this study session.

Not because of the material—but because Mingyu had an undeniable way of drawing attention just by existing.

The tall ones always did.. and the ones that had faces like Kim Mingyu.

He sauntered into your corner of the library a couple minutes late, hoodie bunched at his elbow, still somehow managing to look like he’d just stepped out of a photoshoot. His laptop was tucked under one arm, headphones tangled in his fingers, and two girls from across the room immediately perked up when they saw him.

You pretended not to notice.

He spotted you and smiled, bright and lazy. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, collapsing into the seat beside you. “Had to walk a friend to class.”

You nodded without looking up. “We’re already behind on the lit review.”

“Always so serious,” he muttered, pulling out his charger.

Another girl drifted by your table—a blonde in a tennis skirt who paused, leaned down, and touched Mingyu’s shoulder like she had every right to.

“Hey, you still coming Friday?”

You didn’t look up.

Mingyu glanced at you briefly before answering. “Probably not. Got a thing.”

“A thing?” The girl smiled, tilting her head. “You ditching me again?”

He laughed, low and polite. “Work. Group project.”

She blinked down at you like she hadn’t noticed you until just now. “Oh.”

You just kept typing.

“Good luck then,” the girl said after a moment, her smile fading, before walking away.

Mingyu sighed and leaned closer. “Sorry about that.”

“About what?”

“The plague of being stupidly charming.”

You shot him a deadpan look.

He grinned. “Kidding.”

You didn’t smile, but you also didn’t tell him to shut up. Small victories.

⸻

That night, you sat curled up at your desk, the glow of your laptop the only light in the room.

You’d just finished editing a short pole routine—a slow, eerie clip to “Robbers” by The 1975. Your grip was clean. Your spins, effortless.

You wore a mask in the video, just like always. Your hair swayed over your bare shoulders like curtains.

You uploaded it to your Tumblr. Two hundred thousand followers. Dozens of reblogs in seconds.

You closed the tab before the notes could start piling up.

This part of your life—your secret Tumblr, the masked Fawn, the quiet kind of fame—none of it existed outside of your laptop.

You went to bed in an oversized T-shirt and socks, not checking your phone.

⸻

The study session was, miraculously, productive.

At least until you hit a new section, and you leaned forward to help explain the concept to Mingyu, only to realize Mingyu’s arm was stretched across the back of your chair.

He wasn’t touching you. Not really. But he was close—close enough to be noticeable. He wasn’t even looking at you, just staring at the screen, listening with his brow furrowed like he was genuinely trying.

Still. You scooted half an inch away.

“You always do that?” he asked after a while.

“Do what?”

“Lean away whenever I move.”

You blinked. “I don’t.”

“You just did.”

“I just—” You paused, frowning. “You’re tall. You take up space.”

He smiled. “So it’s a spatial issue.”

“Yes.”

“Got it.”

A pause.

Then, under his breath, he added, “Wouldn’t have pegged you for someone so easily flustered.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re pink.”

You shut your laptop a little too hard. “We’re done for today.”

⸻

Back in your room that night, you pulled your laptop into your lap, opened a private browser tab, and typed in your Tumblr handle.

Your latest video had almost 60,000 notes. Just you, in your usual black ruffle set, spinning slowly on the pole in a dim-lit studio. The mask covered most of your face, and your hair was down, hiding the rest.

Nothing overtly sexual. Just movement. Art. Mood.

You stared at it for a long time.

Then closed the screen.

⸻

Mingyu liked the campus café in the morning because no one expected him to talk.

He kept his sunglasses on and his hood up as he leaned over the counter. “Two sugars, no cream.”

The barista nodded—she already knew.

He’d barely sat down when the bell above the door jingled again.

You.

You were in your usual morning armor—giant hoodie (navy this time), jeans cuffed at the ankle, and mary janes. A spiral-bound book was hugged to your chest like a shield. You didn’t look around. You didn’t see him.

He almost didn’t say anything.

But then again… almost wasn’t really his style.

“You stalking me?” he asked casually as you approached the counter.

You flinched. Just slightly. Then rolled your eyes. “God, do you live here?”

“Only when I’m hungover or avoiding the gym.”

You ordered tea—no milk, no sugar—paid in exact change, then turned and caught him still watching you.

“What?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t peg you as a tea person.”

“And I didn’t peg you as a person who reads.”

Mingyu clutched his chest like you’d shot him. “Ouch.”

A flicker of amusement crossed your face. It was tiny—barely there—but it was the first time he’d seen something that wasn’t a wall.

He tapped the empty chair across from him. “Come on. Sit. We’re supposed to be friends now.”

“We’re not.”

“Okay. Co-researchers?”

You hesitated.

“Don’t worry,” he added. “I won’t ask about your tragic backstory.”

You rolled your eyes again, but you sat.

You sipped in silence for a while. Outside, campus was already coming alive—groups of girls in tennis skirts, someone skating by with a speaker, a guy on a bike nearly running into a recycling bin. The usual.

Mingyu noticed your eyes flick to a group of laughing students by the window. You looked at them like they were a movie you’d already seen too many times.

“You don’t hang out much, huh?” he asked.

You shrugged. “I don’t like noise.”

“That’s probably why you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You just don’t like me.”

You met his eyes then. “You’re loud. And everyone’s always looking at you.”

He tilted his head. “And that’s bad because…?”

“It’s not bad,” you said slowly. “It’s just… everything you do seems like it’s for show.”

That caught him off guard.

You went on before he could respond. “You know how some people walk into a room and it feels like they’re trying to win something?”

Mingyu blinked. “You think I’m trying too hard?”

“I think you’re used to being liked,” you said simply. “And when you’re not, it bugs you.”

You picked up your tea and took a sip, calm as ever.

Mingyu just stared. He wasn’t used to being read like that. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

But he was sure of one thing: you saw through people like glass.

And now he was dying to know what else you’d see if you actually looked.

⸻

[vibelladonna]

✑ 𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒷𝑜𝓎𝒻𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒹 𝜗𝜚 𝒽𝓎𝓊𝑔𝑜

We’re back again with the “type of boyfriend” headcanons—this time for the best baby boy in TKATB. That’s right, it’s finally Hyugo’s turn. People have been asking for him (loudly), and since there’s barely any content on this chaotic rooftop menace, I figured... fine. It’s time.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇���𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

Also, I was only gone for like two weeks and suddenly y’all hit me with 1K followers—??? Why?? T-T

I’m not even a consistent writer, I just be vanishing like a ghost with commitment issues. But seriously, thank you. I’ll try to get to your requests after finals, once my brain cells recover from the academic warfare.

Anyway, writing him? Pain. He’s sweet, playful, has beef with the college, possibly a knife in his back pocket 24/7, and still manages to be boyfriend-coded. Balancing all that? Not easy—especially studying for finals kicking me in the face. But even while dying academically, I think I’ve got a solid grasp on him now.

Honestly? I might just become the main Hyugo writer. 

Someone has to. Let’s get into it.

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

Let’s be clear—Hyugo was the one catching feelings first.

The boy was already gone for you long before you realized what was happening. In the game, it’s mentioned he has a “certain crush,” and the way he stares a little too long or makes offhand comments about how you “remind him of someone”?

Yeah. That someone is you.

He doesn’t confess right away, though. That’s not his style. Instead, he lingers around you more often, steals your pen to “borrow it” even though he never returns it, pulls you into weird places like the rooftop “just because,” and randomly brings up your name in conversations with Sol—pretending it’s no big deal. (Spoiler: it is.)

✑ Unpredictable Lover (But With Bite)

Hyugo doesn’t ease into love. He trips, stumbles, and full-body slams into it like a cartoon character hitting a wall—and then laughs about it while nursing emotional whiplash. One minute you’re just the guy who shares notes or laughs at his dumb trivia. 

The next? He’s looking at you like you invented gravity.

When the MC reminded him of his old crush? That was it. Game over. His brain short-circuited and fully convinced itself you were his soulmate. Not in a clingy way (okay, maybe a little clingy), but in that wide-eyed, heart-hammering, "Oh, you're real? You're mine?" kind of way.

It’s not even subtle. If Sol’s the type to bottle everything up until it explodes, Hyugo’s just… holding the bottle upside down, watching it pour, and asking if you want a sip. He’ll tell you he likes you in the most offhand, dramatic, heart-melting ways—laughing as if it’s no big deal while simultaneously dying inside.

“I like you too much. It’s annoying.” cue deflection into food talk like he didn’t just ruin your emotional stability for the week

He’s drawn to people who get him—the weird parts, the unpredictable schedule, the random ass facts at 3 a.m., the way he vanishes and reappears with rare cassettes or bags of stolen berries like a chaotic little cryptid boyfriend. People who don’t try to "fix" him, but instead hand him a spoon and ask to share dessert.

He doesn’t do patterns. Doesn’t do expectations. What he does do is follow his gut, sprint into romantic territory like it’s a speedrun, and somehow still make you feel like the center of the universe—his odd little galaxy.

One day he’s got your favorite fruity snack in hand, saying, “Skip class with me. I found a crime documentary we can heckle together.” The next? He’s ghosted for two days. No texts. No calls. Reappears like nothing happened, dumps a bag of cassette tapes in your lap, and mutters, “They sounded like you. Messy but good.”

His version of sweet nothings?

“If I threatened the dean, do you think I’d get expelled or promoted?”

What.

Anyway, Hyugo’s idea of a confession is the kind of thing that makes you pause for a full ten seconds wondering if he just insulted you or proposed.

Like the time he sauntered over to you with a slice of cake in a paper napkin, tossed it on your desk, and casually said:

“I got this cake the other day and it reminded me of you. It was horrible—like, truly disgusting—but really pretty to look at.”

And then he smiled.

Not even sheepishly. Just smug. Like he thought he was being romantic.

And somehow? It kind of was.

Because beneath the trolling and chaotic delivery, there’s a genuine, rare honesty. That cake? It was real. He hated it—but he thought about you. He bought it thinking about you. He shared it, thinking that even if it sucked, he wanted you to be part of the joke, part of the moment. And that’s what Hyugo does. He doesn’t wrap his feelings in a bow—he throws them at you like a dodgeball and laughs when you flinch.

But that’s the thing: Hyugo’s love isn’t elegant. It’s not scheduled. It’s messy, spontaneous, way-too-loud, and utterly sincere. One day he’s skipping class to show you a crime documentary he downloaded illegally off a sketchy website, and the next, he’s vanished for 48 hours without a word. Then he returns like nothing happened, hands you a crumpled bag of sweets and pretty flowers and mutters:

“I don’t know. These felt like you.”

He doesn’t believe in doing things the “right” way. He believes in feeling. And if being with you makes his heart do that hiccup thing in his chest? He’s going to chase that.

His affection isn’t routine—it’s a riot. He’ll flirt by arguing with you about fictional crimes. He’ll compliment you by comparing you to garbage-eating birds. He’ll confess his feelings mid-snack, while chewing.

“I like you too much, it’s annoying. Can you pass the chips?”

And honestly? It’s kind of perfect.

Because Hyugo doesn’t do romance the normal way—he does it his way. Unhinged. Blunt. Endearing in the most unpredictable fashion.

If you can survive the whiplash of dating someone who gifts you detective movie posters, late-night existential rants, and a stolen plush frog from the student store—He’s already yours.

Sidenote, now thinking about—Let’s just say… if Sol finds out Hyugo has feelings for the MC too?

Sol is the type to internalize every emotion until it calcifies. He doesn’t say he’s upset—he just stiffens around you, goes quiet, disappears from hangouts, and starts writing darker poetry. But make no mistake: he sees everything. And Hyugo? He’s not subtle. Not even a little.

Hyugo would catch on instantly. He’d tease Sol. Not maliciously—more like poking a sleeping wolf with a stick to see if it barks.

“You’re awfully quiet, Sol. Something bothering you?”

leans a little too close to MC

“Or someone?”

And maybe he laughs. Maybe he makes a show of being the light-hearted one. But behind all that noise is a sharp, protective loyalty—Hyugo’s jokes are weapons, and he’ll use them to keep the people he cares about close.

He might pretend to flirt just to mess with Sol.

But when it comes to you? He’s serious. Hyugo doesn’t play around with the things that make his heartbeat go crooked.

If you’re the one who makes him feel free—if you accept all his chaos without trying to change him—he’ll give you everything. The good, the bad, the oddly sweet bird-themed analogies. The ugly truths he doesn’t tell anyone else.

Because once Hyugo falls?

He falls all the way. No brakes. No caution tape. No escape plan.

Just you, and a heart too loud to ignore.

✑ Smart but Soft (and a lil scary)

Hyugo’s the type who confuses people on purpose. He’s top of the class one day, doesn’t show up the next. Cracks the most complicated equation in five minutes, then sticks googly eyes on the school vending machine and blames it on aliens.

Some say he’s a delinquent. Some say he’s a genius. All anyone really knows is that Hyugo always gets things done. He’s reliable.

Strangely so. You call him at 3AM with a crisis? He shows up.

You’re in tears over nothing? He distracts you with candy and half a conspiracy theory. He’s not ashamed of affection either—not even a little. 

Hyugo doesn’t care who’s watching when he grabs your hand in the hallway, when he hugs you from behind, or when he loudly calls you embarrassing pet names in front of Sol, or pretty much anyone.

Yeah. He's that guy.

But there’s something… off about him too.

Not in a bad way. Just—off. Like, he’s always smiling. Always laughing. But sometimes you catch that flicker in his eyes that’s just a bit too sharp. Sometimes his grin feels like it’s hiding something sharp behind it. Something practiced. Like he's worn that mask for years and just got good at making it look natural.

And the truth is? You’ve seen things.

Once, after class, you were heading toward the train station shortcut—an alleyway behind the older school buildings. You didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the voice that echoed off the brick stopped you cold. It was rough. Deep. Too serious. Too cold. Not Hyugo’s voice.

“If I catch you touching her again, I’ll carve out your throat and make you apologize with your last breath. Say ‘thank you’ for the warning.”

And then you saw him.

Hyugo. Your Hyugo.

Back pressed to some guy’s chest, hand gripping his jaw like he’d snap it clean. Not smiling. Not even blinking. Calm in a way that felt unnatural. There was a flick-knife in his hand. The same one he later used to peel an apple while lying on your floor like it never happened.

And what did you do? Nothing. You minded your business.

Like, what were you supposed to say? “Hey, babe, nice threats today! Who was the guy? Should I be worried?” Because how do you ask someone if they’re dangerous when they’re laying in your lap, pressing absentminded kisses to the inside of your wrist? When he’s curled up beside you with all his warmth and nicknames and that childish excitement in his voice whenever he finds a weird bug or sees a raccoon?

How do you bring it up when he's sweet?

When he traces your knuckles with the same fingers that curled around a knife so naturally. When he leans into your neck and mumbles, “You smell like strawberries,” like it’s a confession.

When he tells you, “Don’t ever leave me, okay?” in a tone too soft to be anything but sincere. That duality is what makes Hyugo dangerous. And irresistible.

He’s smart. Very smart. Too smart, maybe.

But beneath that chaotic, happiness-bomb energy, there’s a darkness he doesn't talk about. A history he won’t explain. All you get are glimmers—warnings painted in pretty smiles and sugar-sweet kisses. And maybe he isn’t an assassin. Maybe he just knows how to handle himself. Maybe he is too cute for that sort of thing. ...Right? Or maybe the same hands that cup your cheeks gently could, without hesitation, end someone who hurt you.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s why you feel safest right next to him.

✑ Certified Cling Wrap™

Hyugo’s a walking paradox.

He’s an extrovert, yeah. The guy who can light up a room just by showing up, who always has something weirdly fascinating to say ("Did you know slugs have four noses?"). The type who remembers everyone’s birthday, even if he doesn’t show up to class half the time. He’s fun. Loud. Chaotic.

But when it comes down to it?

There’s nowhere he’d rather be than with you.

He’d trade a party for your couch in a heartbeat. Scratch that—he wouldn’t even consider the party if you were available. You could literally say, “I’m thinking of watching a movie tonight,” and he’d be like:

“Say less. I’m bringing snacks.”

He just wants to exist in your space. Quiet or loud, chaotic or cozy, rainy or sunlit—if you’re in it, that’s where Hyugo wants to be. And when he’s there? Prepare to lose all personal space rights.

Hyugo is Certified Cling Wrap™

Affectionate in the most relentless, devoted way. He’s the kind of guy who:

Will sit on the floor beside you just so he can lean his head against your thigh while you're working.

Wraps his arms around your waist from behind while you’re cooking, swaying with you and humming some dumb made-up song about your hair smelling good.

Steals your hoodies even though he already has a closet full of his own (“Yours smell like comfort and bad decisions.”).

Sleeps like a cat in a sunbeam—curled up on you, gripping your shirt with a soft little snore in your ear.

He doesn’t care if your hair’s a mess, or if you’ve said three words all day. To him, that’s the dream. A quiet afternoon, curled up together under a blanket, him reading some wild conspiracy thread aloud like it’s bedtime poetry, your legs tangled under the coffee table—that’s his definition of paradise.

And it’s not just physical closeness.

It’s emotional, too. Hyugo pays attention.

He notices when your laugh doesn’t sound real. When your “I’m fine” isn’t. When you’re holding back tears or trying to carry more than you should. And in his own strange, lovable way, he makes it better. Sometimes it’s through chaos—dragging you out of bed at 2AM for gas station candy and an illegal rooftop view of the cityline. Maybeee say for a bit to sun rise.

Sometimes it’s through comfort—sneaking in your favorite drink with a dumb note taped to it (“Drink this or perish.”).

And sometimes, it’s just… silence.

Him resting beside you, letting his fingers run lazy circles on your arm while you process whatever’s weighing you down. Not asking for anything. Just being there.

Hyugo’s the guy who’ll whisper “I love you” into your hair when he thinks you’re asleep, just to be safe. Who calls you nicknames like he’s been doing it his whole life—“bug,” “babyface,” “sweet disaster,” depending on the mood.

Who holds your hand like it grounds him.

And maybe he’s a little too clingy. Maybe he gets pouty when you’re not around. Maybe he whines into your voicemail if you ignore his texts for too long (“I’ve withered like an unloved plant. You better come water me or I’m dying dramatically.”).

But that clinginess? It’s love. Undeniable. Raw. Real. Because Hyugo doesn’t just want to be with you. He wants to build with you. A life. A routine. A weird little bubble of shared chaos and safety and inside jokes that no one else understands.

You’re his home. Not the apartment, not the school rooftop, not the alleyways where he sometimes does questionable things.

You.

And he’ll remind you in a hundred little ways, every single day.

✑ The Ass Silly Flirt

Hyugo flirts like it’s a full-time job and he's trying to get promoted.

He’s not smooth about it either—he’s annoying. Like, he’ll text you “thinking of you 😘” and then immediately follow it up with a picture of a traffic cone wearing a wig with the caption: “This u?”

And the worst part? You laugh or offended. Every time.

He texts you non-stop, like you're both in some private group chat that never shuts up. No context. No warning. Just raw, unfiltered Hyugo brain static 24/7:

“Do you think ghosts get boners?”

“Be honest would I survive if I just ate bubblegum and vibes for a week.”

“I saw a pigeon with a limp today and now I’m emotionally compromised.”

Mid-class, 3AM, during a fire drill—he does not care. You’re getting these texts whether you're ready or not.

And the memes? OH, THE MEMES.

Hyugo’s meme game is so strong it’s criminal. He’s got folders. Archives. A whole reaction gif arsenal like he’s been preparing for emotional warfare. He sends one for every situation, no matter how inappropriate.

You text him “I’m sad.”

He sends a gif of SpongeBob playing the world’s smallest violin and follows it up with “come cuddle or perish, dramatic ass.”

It’s his love language.

He doesn’t know how to say “I care about you deeply” like a normal person—he just sends you 38 TikToks in a row and expects you to watch them all immediately and react to each one like you’re being graded.

Now. Let’s talk about The Streak™.

Y’all have had a TikTok streak going for months. At this point, it’s longer than some people’s relationships. It is sacred. And if you break it? Hyugo will take it personally. You think he’s kidding? No. This man will hit you with voice notes that sound like break-up letters. 

“Hey. So. I noticed we haven’t exchanged any TikToks in the last… 14 hours. Are you okay? Are we okay? Just let me know if you hate me now. It’s fine. I’ll just go stare out a rainy window like a Victorian widow.” You better send something—anything—before he starts live-posting his descent into madness.

Speaking of voice notes?

He loves those. You open your phone and there’s just a five-minute recording of him rambling while pacing his room like a raccoon hopped up on sugar.

“Okay so listen—I saw this guy trip on the sidewalk and somehow launch his phone into a trash can, and I SWEAR it was cinematic. Like, Academy Award level physics. Anyway I thought of you. Wanna get dinner?”

Or sometimes it’s just him humming some random song he heard in the background of a YouTube ad and begging:

“Can you find this song? Please. I’m in shambles. I don’t have Shazam and my dignity won’t survive me asking a stranger.” And you do find it. Because you love him. And because you’ve accepted that being in love with Hyugo means acting as his personal Google assistant and meme judge.

Hyugo doesn’t flirt to impress. He flirts to torment. To tease.

To infect your brain like a catchy song and live there rent-free until you’re giggling like an idiot alone in your room just because he sent you a picture of a cat with bad bangs and said, “our child if we never discipline them.”

He’s a menace. A menace with heart eyes and a clingy streak. 

He’s the kind of guy who’d write “I love you” on a bathroom mirror with lip balm and then blame it on ghosts. The type who’d kiss you mid-sentence just to watch you stutter. Who’d steal your charger but bring you snacks to “make up for it” and then never give the charger back.

In short: He’s loud. Annoying. Borderline illegal levels of clingy.

But he’s yours. And that’s kinda the best part.

✑ Tailored to You

— Words of Affirmation?

Hyugo speaks your praises like he’s reciting scripture from a holy book only he knows how to read. 

It’s constant. Casual. Deadpan-delivered and terrifyingly sincere.

You’ll be mid-rant about your day and he’ll just go:

“You're the smartest person I know, and I hang out with Sol. That man knows Latin and still doesn’t know how to say sorry. Meanwhile, you? You breathe and my brain goes ‘yeah, this is the one.’”

Sometimes he insults you, sure, but in that “I’m obsessed with you but emotionally stunted” way.

“You make me want to be a better man. Unfortunately, I’m lazy and emotionally unhinged, so you’re stuck with this version of me. Congrats.”

And don’t even think about crying in front of him. He’ll switch from “hey sexy” to “you are the most brilliant, beautiful, badass person I’ve ever met” so fast it’ll give you emotional whiplash.

— Acts of Service?

Hyugo would absolutely walk into a war zone with nothing but your to-do list and a Monster energy drink and say, “Don't worry babe, I got it.”

He’ll do your homework shockingly he’s smart asf while you nap, call customer service on your behalf (“Hi yes, my partner’s about to commit murder over a billing error, please help”), and will not let you carry your own bag if he’s around.

Did your phone die? Suddenly, his is at 92% and in your hands.

Craving something? It’s on your bed before you even finish the sentence.

Exhausted? He’s already drawing you a bath and setting a snack tray like he’s your overworked but loyal butler who’s also in love with you.

He doesn’t even act like it’s a big deal. He just shrugs and says:

“If you’re good to me, I gotta be good back. That’s the rule.”

— Receiving Gifts?

He gives gifts like he’s on a scavenger hunt where the prize is your smile. They’re not always expensive—but they are weirdly specific.

A ring from a claw machine he swears “vibes with your aura.”

A charm bracelet/ring/necklace with tiny objects representing inside jokes only the two of you understand.

An old book with your favorite quote already highlighted, because he “happened to see it and thought of you.”

A dumb little vending machine toy he’s convinced is your new emotional support trinket. And the wrapping? Forget it. He’ll give it to you in a paper towel and say,

“Presentation is for cowards. Love is raw and weird. Take it.”

— Quality Time?

This man thrives on being around you.

Not even doing anything, just existing in your orbit. He’ll lay sideways across your bed like a lizard sunbathing while you read. He’ll follow you from room to room like a haunted but affectionate cat. You’re watching a movie? He's not even watching—he’s watching you watch it. “You scrunch your nose when you get invested. It’s cute. I like it. Shut up and let me admire you.”

Wanna nap together? He’s already curled up next to you.

Want to work in silence? He’ll bring snacks and just vibe, occasionally sending you memes while sitting 3 feet away.

Your time? His favorite gift of all time. 

— Physical Touch?

Oh you want space? Too bad, babe.

Hyugo is basically a heated blanket with limbs. 

He’s all over you—shoulder leans, back hugs, thigh squeezes, lap pillows, forehead touches, neck nuzzles. He’s like Velcro with feelings. He has zero shame. “You’re soft and warm and smell like my favorite person, why wouldn’t I be on top of you right now?” And yes, those hands? Again, the same ones that once threatened someone in an alleyway after class?

Those are the ones that cup your face so gently it makes your stomach flip.

That brush your hair behind your ear. That hold your hand even in public, especially in public, with a smug little grin like he’s bragging silently: “Yeah. This is mine.”

In conclusion, Hyugo doesn’t just love you in five languages.

He’s practically multilingual in affection—loud, devoted, and unfiltered. Tailored to you. Perfectly chaotic. Inescapably real.

Want to cry a little about it later? Yeah. Me too.

✑ Tailored to Him

— Words of Affirmation?

Hyugo thrives on your praise like it’s oxygen laced with espresso.

Tell him he’s smart? He’ll preen. Tell him he’s handsome? He’ll smirk and pull you into a kiss so sweet it tastes like a dare. But whisper to him, all soft and serious, “I’m proud of you” or “You make me feel safe” and he short circuits. Full-body blush. Ears red. Eyes everywhere but on you.

He might laugh it off, say something dumb like,

“Babe, stop it, I’ll fall harder and it’s already embarrassing out here…”

But he replays your words over and over in his head. He craves your approval like it’s sacred. He doesn’t want empty compliments—he wants real ones, the ones you mean. The ones that come out when you think he’s not listening, but he always is. He remembers your voice in detail. 

If you say something sweet in the morning, expect him to bring it up casually three days later like it didn’t melt his heart into syrup.

— Physical Touch? 

Let’s not play.

He’s got the soft hands, the smug smirk, the “come here and sit in my lap while I tell you about this video game I saw played last night” voice. But under that cuddly, somewhat short golden retriever exterior is a problem in the best way.

He’ll touch you constantly—absently tugging your fingers, nosing at your neck, kissing your knuckles like some old-timey heartthrob who listens to rap music and fights demons on weekends. Bro what?

But when he wants you? Oh, he wants you.

He leans in close when he talks, voice dropping an octave, and his fingers splay against your hip like he knows what he’s doing. 

When it’s just the two of you, he goes quiet. Focused. His usual chaotic flirty energy simmers down into this heated, steady burn. And God help you if you wear something that shows your skin—because suddenly he’s behind you, dragging his fingertips along your arms, whispering in your ear with that teasing-laced purr like:

“You really gonna look like that around me and act innocent? That’s wild.”

He’s cute. But he’s also lowkey hot in that "I’d ruin you with love and cheek kisses and then also maybe leave scratch marks you didn’t know you liked" kind of way.

— Quality Time?

Hyugo’s a social creature, yeah—but you? You’re home.

He could be surrounded by people, laughing at memes, bouncing from conversation to conversation—but the moment you walk in, he shifts. Eyes locked. Energy redirected. Like you’re his true north in a galaxy of distractions.

He doesn't need an occasion. Doesn’t need a plan.

He’s the kind of guy who shows up at your door with snacks, a blanket, and zero expectations other than being near you.

Spending time with you recharges him. Whether it's lying in bed watching weird documentaries, going on midnight walks, or sitting on rooftops eating vending machine junk food—if it’s with you? 

It’s worth it.

He memorizes your routines, your reactions, your sleepy habits. He makes mental notes like:

“They like their tea a little sweeter at night.”

“They squint when reading—they need a lamp, I’ll buy one.”

“They hum that one song while brushing their teeth—learn that on guitar maybe?”

Time isn’t just time with Hyugo. It’s devotion made casual. It’s “I choose you” in every second. It’s you matter most, no matter what else I could be doing.

So yeah. Hyugo’s a mess. But he’s your mess.

He’s a walking contradiction of softness and chaos, affection and absurdity. He loves in ways that feel like warm thunderstorms—loud, unexpected, but still soothing if you know how to listen. And when he loves you, he tailors it perfectly.

Words that lift you up. Touches that say "stay." Time that says “you’re all I need.”

He’s all in. And he’ll make damn sure you feel it.

✑ Joystick Jerk 

Oh, Hyugo’s a gamer gamer.

Not some flashy streamer, not a try-hard clout chaser—no face cam, no Twitch, no mic unless it’s Discord with you or the inner circle. He doesn’t stream, and when you asked why, he just shrugged and said something cryptic like:

“Gotta keep some parts of me hidden, y’know? Too many eyes makes the game less fun.”

Which like… okay. Cool. Normal people say that.

Totally not suspicious. Definitely not assassin-coded behavior. Definitely didn’t say that while sharpening a pocketknife and humming anime opening themes under his breath.

But listen, the man’s cracked at every game you throw at him. FPS? Headshots for days. Fighting games? You blink, you lose. Racing? Don’t even try it. Even rhythm games? He gets full combos and doesn’t even break a sweat. He’s got the focus of someone who’s either a pro… or someone who’s trained their hand-eye coordination to kill a man in silence.

And worst of all? He always wants to play with you. 

And when I say always, I mean always.

“Babe, let’s do co-op, I’ll carry you.”

“Play a round with me? C’mon, I’ll give you a kiss every time you die.”

“If I win, you have to say I’m hot. If you win… okay that’s never gonna happen, but I’ll still say you’re hot.” It’s cute at first. Until you realize he never loses. Not unless he lets you win.

And yes—you noticed.

He tries to act slick about it. Pretends he “accidentally” missed that final hit or “slipped” during the last lap. But the smug look on his face gives it away every damn time.

You: “You let me win, didn’t you.”

Hyugo, grinning: “What? No way. You’re just getting better. Natural talent. Gamer instincts. Maybe I’m rubbing off on you—”

You: “I’m going to delete your save file.”

Hyugo: “Wait—WAIT I’M SORRY—”

There was a time you swore off gaming with him completely. “Sore loser? Absolutely. Certified D1 crash-out? No shame.” But lately, he’s been playing way too much.

Like… you come over and he barely looks up from his screen. Just tosses a lazy “hey babe” and keeps mashing buttons like his life depends on it. Sometimes he forgets to eat. Sometimes he forgets you’re in the room.

So what do you do? Be normal? Communicate?

Nah. You’re evil.

Beautifully, diabolically evil.

Let’s say one day, Hyugo’s deep into a match. He’s playing some online team shooter with Sol, both of them barking callouts like seasoned war generals. His voice smooth and laser-focused as he barks commands into his mic. The screen flashes with rapid gunfire, his fingers a blur over the keyboard. He’s locked in, absolutely locked in—with that deadly kind of concentration that makes you want to ruin it.

So naturally, you do.

You drop to your knees without a word and slip under his desk, the soft whir of his PC fans the only warning he gets.

At first, he doesn’t notice. At first.

Your fingers trail up his calf, slow and innocent.

Then not so innocent. You press your palms to his thighs, feel the twitch under your hands. And when you start fiddling with the buttons of his pants, he pauses—just for a second.

His voice stutters.

“Y—yeah, flank left—mnn—flank, I meant flank! Just—move, damn it!”

Sol’s voice crackles through the headset, confused: “Yo, you good?”

Hyugo clears his throat with the subtlety of a panicked cat. “Yup. Peachy. Total—nghh—focus.”

You don’t stop. If anything, you get bolder—running your nails along the seam, watching him shift in his seat, those long fingers faltering for just a beat. You don’t even need to look up to know his jaw is clenched, teeth gritted in pure restraint. You can hear it in his breath. Shaky. A little desperate.

Then, finally, a low, bitten-off sound escapes him—a moan. Not loud. But real. Raw. The kind of sound you feel low in your stomach.

“Fuck—” And still? Still he wins the match. Freak of nature. You almost applaud. “GGs, I’m out,” Hyugo mutters into the mic, voice hoarse. “Emergency. Real life critical hit.”

Click. Call ends. Silence.

Before you can even shift, he’s got one arm under your shoulders, dragging you out and straight into his lap. The headset’s tossed somewhere across the desk. The game’s forgotten. All his focus now? On you.

Those baby blue eyes? Sharp. Wicked. Burning.

“You wanna play dirty now?” he breathes, voice low, chest heaving. “You think you can tease me while I play the game with Sol and just walk away?” His hand slides up your thigh, firm and slow.

“Nah, sweetheart. You started this.”

And Hyugo?

Oh, he never leaves a game unfinished.

✑ Sugar, Spice, and Chaos

For someone who lives on the edge of unhinged and adorable, it’s no surprise Hyugo is a menace in the kitchen—but only if it involves sugar. Actual meals? Nah. He either burns them, forgets them on the stove, or looks at savory ingredients like they personally offended him. 

But sweets? Baking? That’s his love language.

He’ll never say it, but there’s something almost calming about it—the measuring, the mixing, the slow transformation of flour and butter into something warm and golden. He’s got a soft spot for berry shortcake, especially ones layered with cream and strawberries. It’s nostalgic, he once said. You don’t press further, but the way he lights up when he tastes it? 

Tells you all you need to know.

So one weekend, he drags you into the kitchen with that signature grin, sleeves rolled up, apron tied (yes, it says “kiss the baker,” yes he wore it on purpose) and says: “Today, we conquer the cake.”

You start with the cake base—he insists on doing the measuring himself, swearing he has “baker’s intuition.” You don’t argue, even when you notice him eyeballing the flour instead of using the cup.

The moment the batter’s mixed, he tastes it with a spoon like it’s a gourmet meal. Then gives you a spoonful too. 

“Here. For quality control.” It’s… actually amazing.

While it bakes, he turns the kitchen into a war zone of whipped cream, sugar, and cut strawberries. He tries to pipe roses onto parchment and ends up with something that looks suspiciously like a slug.

“Abstract art,” he claims. “Put it in a museum.”

You laugh. He grins wider.

Then comes the fun part—assembling. You’re trying to do it neatly, but Hyugo? He starts feeding you strawberries like some dramatic prince and smearing whipped cream on your nose when you’re not looking.

“Look at you,” he smirks, “cuter than the cake.”

You chase him around the kitchen with a spatula in revenge. It ends in a tie. And a kiss. (With a side of whipped cream.)

Finally, the shortcake’s done—messy, chaotic, but somehow still perfect. Just like him.

The kitchen’s a battlefield of bowls, whipped cream smears, and flour footprints. You’re both a little sticky, a little out of breath from laughing too hard, and the oven’s still faintly warm behind you. Hyugo licks a smudge of berry syrup off his thumb with the same lazy grin that always gets him his way.

You’re sitting on the counter, legs swinging, and he’s nestled between them, sharing forkfuls of cake straight from the dish. His eyes flicker up every time you chew, like he’s not watching the dessert but you enjoying it.

He hums low after a bite, leaning against your shoulder. “I’d burn water for dinner, but damn if I won’t make you the best dessert of your life.”

You snort, licking cream from the side of your lip.

“Cocky much?”

“Confident,” he says, swiping a bit of whipped cream with his finger and tapping it onto the tip of your nose. “But also a little hungry still…”

You tilted your head, lost. “For the cake?”

“Sure,” he smirks, “let’s go with that.”

He kisses it off your nose—soft and teasing. Then off your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth. Each one slower than the last. Until it’s not about the cake anymore.

You reach for the bowl of whipped cream—because why not?—and dip your fingers in it. His eyes track you like prey, curious and wide as you smear a little on the side of your neck. “Oops,” you whisper, “missed a spot.”

Hyugo freezes. Then laughs, soft and dangerous. “Oh, you really wanna start something, huh?”

The next moment is a blur—his hands are on your thighs, spreading them wider around him as he presses closer. His lips find the cream on your neck and he bites—playful at first, then deeper. Your breath catches. That baby blue gaze turns sharp, electric with mischief.

He kisses down your throat, slow and purposeful, tongue chasing the sugar and teeth chasing your pulse. You’re not even sure how the bowl got knocked over, but it doesn’t matter. The spoon clatters to the floor. Your back arches into him.

“Tastes good,” he mutters against your skin, “but you’re sweeter.”

His hands slide up under your shirt, warm and insistent. The cake is long forgotten now, half-eaten and melting beside you. His mouth is busy elsewhere—your collarbone, your shoulder, the curve where your neck meets your jaw. He’s painting you with sugar and heat, and licking every trace away.

You’re not sure who pulls who in first for the kiss, but it’s messy and desperate and just the right amount of wrong. And when he pulls back, panting, pupils blown wide?

“Kitchen’s already trashed,” he grins, voice rough, “might as well finish the job.”

Let’s just say the next round doesn’t involve frosting—but it’s still very much dessert.

✑ Partners in Cosplay (and Crime)

You knew Hyugo liked crime flicks and video games—but this? This was a full-blown obsession.

He’s not just a fan. He’s a geek. Deep in the lore, the trivia, the obscure theories that only like four people on the internet care about—and he’s friends with all four. He’s the kind of guy who can quote entire movie scenes, word for word, with the dramatic voice shifts and everything. One time he paused a shootout scene just to explain the gun model they used and how it’s “totally unrealistic, but looks so fucking cool.” His eyes literally sparkled.

So when convention weekend rolls around? Oh, he’s already packed.

Costume? Secured. Prop weapon? Custom-made.

And when he asks you to go with him? He doesn’t even care who you dress up as—just that you’re there. His partner in crime. Literally.

You pick a character that kinda matches his—maybe one from his favorite show, or the one you think would annoy his the most. Either way, when you step out in your outfit, Hyugo malfunctions. Full on, mouth open, hand to chest, “I think I just fell in love again” levels of dramatic.

You walk the con floor hand-in-hand, him constantly pulling you over to booths like a kid with too much sugar and no parental supervision. 

He buys crime-themed keychains, limited edition figures, posters with ridiculous quotes, and sketches from artist alley like his life depends on it. He compliments cosplayers like a pro—“Damn, that’s clean! Bro, how’d you make the holster?”—and flirts with you every chance he gets. “You look way too good in that outfit. You trying to kill me or get me arrested?”

By the time you get to the hotel, his and yours arms are full of merch bags, his wallet’s empty, and his energy is still sky high.

You barely make it through the door before he’s tossing his stuff onto the couch and pulling you onto the bed with him. 

Still in cosplay, the both of you. 

“Okay but like… what if our characters actually hooked up? For research purposes.”

You raise a brow. “Research?”

He just smirks and leans in closer, fingers already unbuckling whatever fake tactical vest he’s wearing.

“I’m just saying… we could be committing crimes of passion right now. Or passionately committing crimes. Whichever hits harder.”

Before you can reply, his lips are on yours, hands warm and eager as they slide beneath your costume, tugging fabric aside and leaving goosebumps in his wake. He kisses like he’s still acting in character—cocky, sharp, teasing—but with that unmistakable Hyugo sweetness that always slips through.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he whispers between kisses, “real talk.” And when you end up tangled in a mess of half-off cosplay and breathless laughter, his voice is low and rough in your ear:

“Next year? We’re going all out. Couple cosplay. New characters. New roles. New positions—wait, did I say that last one out loud?”

You’re pretty sure he’s still joking… mostly.

✑ He’s Pansexual (lil angst)

Hyugo is pansexual—genuinely and unapologetically so.

He doesn’t care if someone’s masculine, feminine, both, neither, fluid, strange, loud, quiet, or something the world hasn’t learned how to label yet. If he’s drawn to you, it’s because you’re you—your voice, your presence, the way you move through a room, the look in your eyes when you’re focused, angry, glowing, grieving. He falls in love with essence, not gender.

“I don’t give a damn what you are on paper,” he once told you, head resting on your stomach, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt. “I like what you are to me. And that? That’s something nobody else gets to have.”

He says it so confidently, like it’s not even up for debate. 

Because it isn’t. But love—real love—terrifies him.

Hyugo plays it cool, because he’s always been good at pretending. But when he lets himself really care for someone? It unlocks this whole hidden, trembling part of him that he usually buries beneath bad jokes and gaming trash talk. That part of him that lies awake sometimes, staring at the ceiling, scared out of his goddamn mind that one day the world might take you away from him.

“I don’t… live a quiet life,” he admitted once, when things between you were still new, still fragile. “I got people who know my name and don’t say it fondly. I got enemies. I got… unfinished things. If I ever pull back, disappear for a while… it’s not ‘cause I’m tired of you. It’s ‘cause I’m trying to protect you.”

You hadn’t said anything right away.

Just looked at him—really looked—while he sat still, shoulders tight, like every second of silence chipped away at his confidence. Like he was bracing himself for you to sigh, to shake your head, to say you didn’t sign up for this.

Like he’d seen it happen before.

Because he had.

People have left Hyugo before. Screaming matches or messy, dramatic exits or Just… quietly. Gradually. Like a candle flickering out in a room he hadn’t realized had gone cold.

Some said he was “too much”—too chaotic, too unreachable, too unpredictable. Others didn’t say anything at all. They just disappeared. Let go without warning. Walked out while he was still holding on.

So when he opened up to you, even a little—when he admitted how messy his life was, how much danger it might bring, how scared he was of dragging someone good into his world—it wasn’t just a warning.

It was a test. And he hated that it had to be.

But you didn’t walk away.

And something in him cracked open for you after that. Slowly, cautiously—but it opened. Still, there are moments… quiet, stupid moments where the fear creeps back in. When someone else’s eyes linger on you a little too long. When your attention slips away for just a beat too long. When you laugh with someone else in a way that used to be his alone.

And then? Hyugo gets quietly possessive.

Not cruel. Not jealous in the way that burns everything down. But in the way that digs in—firm, unyielding, scared in the places he refuses to show.

He’ll pout first, like it’s all fun and games. Arms crossed, an exaggerated sigh, brows cocked high with all the drama of a man auditioning for a bad soap opera.

“You ignoring me now? Damn, babe. Who’s this new cast member and what do they have that I don’t? ‘Cause I will up my stats. I’m not above DLC bribes.”

But if the other person gets too bold?

That’s when the shift comes. Subtle, but sharp.

His fingers slide to your waist, grounding himself in your warmth like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. His voice softens, drops an octave—but there’s steel under the silk now. His whole energy changes, like a storm smiling through the sunlight.

“That guy’s not gonna steal you away, right?”

The words brush your skin just before his lips do, heat trailing over your neck, a kiss so casual it feels like a claim.

“I mean… you are mine, yeah?”

It’s not a threat. Not a demand. 

It’s a plea he doesn’t know how to voice.

Because he doesn’t want to trap you—he wants to be chosen. Every day. Every hour. Loudly. With intention. Just like he chooses you.

Even when the world’s unfair. Even when he’s neck-deep in shady jobs, fractured loyalties, or the weight of who he used to be. Even when he’s afraid. He’ll still love you like it’s the only thing keeping him real. Because Hyugo doesn’t care what you are. Only that you’re his. And yeah… sometimes he still wonders if he’s too much to stay with. 

But damn if he won’t spend the rest of his life giving you every reason to stay anyway.

✑ Flaws? Suprisingly there’s only Two…

Again—no one is perfect.

Hyugo’s learned, consciously or not, that being the comic relief, the sunshine, the dependable one earns love and keeps people around. So that’s the role he plays. Laughing through pain. Masking exhaustion with trivia. Brushing off his own needs with a practiced smile.

Which is a classic avoidant coping style, often stemming from early experiences where expressing pain or emotional needs either resulted in abandonment, punishment, or dismissal. He’s not unaware of his hurt—he just doesn’t believe there’s space for it. Or that anyone will stay if they see it. So he internalizes the belief:

“If I keep everyone happy, if I’m useful and entertaining, they won’t leave.” But emotional suppression is a time bomb. Eventually, the mask cracks.

It started small. Missed texts. Delayed replies. A few vague excuses about errands or errands or “sorry, I fell asleep.” But the dark circles under his eyes weren’t from sleep.

And you knew it.

So when you drop by his place unannounced and find him sitting on the edge of his bed, shirt halfway off, eyes glazed over in thought—You don’t say anything. You just step in quietly and sit next to him.

“Didn’t expect you,” he says, voice soft. He smiles—but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I look like a mess, huh?”

You don’t reply to the joke. You just ask, “Are you okay?”

That’s when it happens.

A twitch in his jaw. A flicker of discomfort. A sharp inhale. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just thinking. Long week, y’know?” Then a quick subject change: “Hey, did you know in some countries, strawberries used to symbolize perfection? Which is kinda dumb, 'cause they bruise so easily—”

You cut him off gently. “No trivia tonight, Hyugo.”

He goes quiet. The tension in his shoulders rises like a tide. He won’t look at you. Just stares at the floor like it might rescue him from the weight settling in his chest. “I’m good,” he says again. But softer this time. “I have to be. I don’t really get to fall apart. People expect me to… I dunno. Handle things. Be cool. Be funny. Be the guy who keeps the mood light.”

You put your hand on his knee. Anchor him. Pull him back from wherever he’s floating off to. “You’re allowed to fall apart sometimes.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. It cracks midway through. His head drops, and for the first time in a long while—he doesn’t hide the exhaustion. “But if I do… what if you leave too?”

And that’s the real fear. Not pain. Not stress. Abandonment.

You pull him in. Let him lean on you. His arms wind around your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip. And for a while, neither of you speak.

Eventually, he murmurs, “You’re the only one I want to be weak with. That’s… scary. More than anything else I’ve done.” And he means it.

He’s not fixed. Not magically “healed.” 

But tonight, he let himself be seen. And that’s the start of something more powerful than any armor he’s ever worn.

Next is that, Hyugo doesn’t just love.

He attaches—deeply, instinctively, and without conditions. The people he chooses are more than friends, more than lovers—they’re extensions of his purpose. And if protecting them means lying, fighting, getting hurt, or burning bridges?

He’ll do it. No regrets. No hesitation.

This stems from survivor’s guilt and a deep-rooted sense of self-worth that’s tied to usefulness. In his head, if he isn’t saving someone, then what is he even for? There’s a quiet belief that he’s more tool than treasure—someone meant to hold the line so others don’t have to.

But in doing so, he forgets:

You love him for who he is. Not what he can suffer through for you.

You’d told him not to come. 

You made it clear: “I’ll handle this. Don’t get involved.”

But that was like telling a storm not to rain. The moment he caught wind of someone cornering you—someone threatening, someone bigger—Hyugo was already halfway to the alley behind the gym building, jaw tight, mind made up.

By the time you arrived, breath ragged and furious, the guy was on the ground. Groaning. Bloody lip. Hyugo stood over him, fists clenched and knuckles torn open.

He didn’t even look at you at first. He just said,

“Don’t worry. I handled it. He won’t bother you again.”

But you didn’t feel safe. You felt sick.

Not because he lost control—but because this wasn’t his burden to bear, and he didn’t even stop to think about the cost. “Hyugo,” you said, your voice shaking, “what if he presses charges? What if someone saw?”

He finally looked at you. Eyes wild. Heart still in war mode. But his expression softened when he saw the pain in your face—not from fear of him. From fear for him. “I didn’t care,” he said honestly. “I still don’t. No one’s hurting you. Not while I’m breathing.”

That should’ve made you feel safe.

But instead, it made your chest ache.

You stepped closer, grabbing his bloodied hands. They trembled slightly against yours. “You don’t get to set yourself on fire every time someone throws a spark near me.”

He blinked. Confused. Quiet. And that silence? That was the part that stung most—Because it told you he genuinely didn’t see the problem.

You reached up, cupping his face. “You think I want to watch you destroy yourself in my name? You think that’s love?”

His throat bobbed with the effort of swallowing guilt. But he didn’t pull away.

You added, softer: “You’re not a weapon. You’re my heart. And I want all of it. Whole. Safe. With me.” That was the moment he broke—just a little.

He leaned forward, forehead resting against yours. “...I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just… I didn’t know how else to protect you.”

You held him tighter. “By letting me protect you, too.”

This flaw will never fully go away. It’s wired into how he loves. But now? He’s learning there’s strength in restraint. That protecting someone doesn’t always mean throwing himself into every fire. Sometimes, it means staying close.

And staying whole—so he can keep loving you tomorrow, too.

✑ Thoughts + Ranting

Okay. So I said Hyugo only had two major flaws.

...I lied. It’s three. Sue me.

There’s one I didn’t name before. One that’s not easy to admit, even if it’s written all over him like an unspoken scar. Here it is: Hyugo is a perfect example of someone who’s been sexualized—and who learned to play into it, because it was the only way he ever felt seen.

But let’s set the record straight, because the internet loves to twist things: I’m not saying he’s a pervert. Absolutely not. Don’t even try it. This isn’t a man hiding in your closet or panting in your bushes. He’s not creeping in the dark. (Save that energy for Sol and his dramatic, stalker-coded tendencies—respectfully.) 

Hyugo isn’t that type of man.

What he is, is someone who developed hypersexual behavior—something that’s often misunderstood. Hypersexuality isn’t about being horny all the time for fun. It’s an intense, sometimes compulsive fixation on sex or sexual behavior, often as a way to cope. It’s not inherently predatory, and it’s not inherently wrong. But it is a reaction. 

A symptom. And in Hyugo’s case, it’s a wound.

See, I was sitting in class when the thought hit me like a truck: What if people really do treat Hyugo like a walking fantasy? A quick fix? A body to burn through and discard before sunrise? What if that’s how he’s always been viewed—never as a person, just a fleeting high, a secret, a sin?

Because that kind of dehumanization sticks. 

It doesn’t fade. It etches itself into the softest parts of you until you believe it too. And maybe, just maybe, Hyugo learned somewhere along the line that his worth lies in how easily he can be desired—not in who he is, but what he can do for others. What he can give.

He doesn’t feel loved. He feels used. And to protect himself, he leans into it. Becomes somewhat flirt, the temptation, the chaotic late-night call you regret in the morning. Not because it’s what he wants—but because at least this way, he’s not being rejected. He’s being chosen, even if it’s for all the wrong reasons.

And that’s why he can’t let you go.

Because you didn’t treat him like a performance. 

You didn’t treat him like a transaction. You saw through the chaos and the charm and found the person. The equal. The soul. The boy who still believes in love, even if he’s too scared to admit it out loud.

You made him feel real.

Sidenote—completely unrelated to everything I just said—but I can’t stop thinking about the fact that Hyugo lost his virginity to a man.

Fantasia said it. I’m not taking it back. It wasn’t for shock value. It’s canon. It means something. It says something about him—and the more I sit with it, the more it adds layers to his character that I can’t ignore.

First of all, it confirms what we already sensed: Hyugo’s pansexual. He doesn’t box his heart or desires into categories. He loves people, not parts. He's comfortable in his skin, open with his identity, and doesn’t shrink himself to make others comfortable. He owns who he is with that same bold, cheeky confidence he brings to everything else. And that kind of honesty? It’s rare. He doesn’t make a show of it. He just is. Unapologetically.

But here’s where it gets tangled in my head—I keep wondering about the context.

Was it a casual hookup? Something spontaneous, wild, and curious, sparked by the need to feel alive or wanted in a moment of vulnerability? Or was it more than that? Did he love this person? Did they matter to him in a way that left a mark? Could this have been the crush he mentioned once, the one he speaks about with that strange softness, like he’s remembering something half-sweet, half-sore?

Did it end suddenly? Did it end at all?

There’s something quietly haunting about the idea that Hyugo’s first time wasn’t just a physical milestone, but an emotional one too. Maybe it was one of the only times he gave himself to someone not as a game, not as a performance—but as a person. Whole. Nervous. Real.

And maybe it didn’t last. Maybe it broke him a little. Maybe that’s where the cracks started—where he learned that intimacy and pain can exist in the same breath. That being vulnerable doesn’t always lead to safety. That being wanted doesn’t always mean being kept.

That’s why it sticks with me. Not because it’s scandalous.

But because it’s human.

And in Hyugo’s story, humanity is the one thing he keeps offering—despite how often the world tries to strip it from him.

Let’s take it deeper—Hyugo and… Geo.

I know I never shut up about Geo (he’s my husband, deal with it), but this isn't just about gushing over him. There’s something worth unraveling here. Something that speaks to how trauma doesn’t create a blueprint—it creates a battlefield. Two people can grow up in the same wreckage, and walk away with completely different scars.

See, Hyugo and Geo? They’re two halves of a shared history. 

Geo likes to say they’re stepbrothers—like that somehow distances them, makes the connection less binding. But let’s be honest: blood means nothing when you’ve been raised under the same roof, weathered the same storms, and built your sense of self from the same broken foundation.

That’s your brother.

That’s family. Whether you want to admit it or not.

And that’s the thing with Geo—he doesn’t want to admit it. Cold, closed-off, “don’t touch me unless it’s about business” 

Geo would rather die than openly acknowledge Hyugo as his older brother. But that truth lives in his bones. It’s there in the way he bristles when Hyugo’s hurt, in the way he silently watches over him from across a room, like a knight who doesn’t want to be caught caring. And Hyugo? He knows. He never says it outright, never demands affection or acknowledgment. But he knows. Geo is his little brother. End of story.

What’s fascinating—and heartbreaking—is how differently they responded to the same trauma.

Geo shut down. Became all logic and sharp edges. He put walls up so high no one could climb over, and he keeps his emotions buried so deep even he forgets where he left them. He’s aromantic/asexual, what if he’s emotionally scarred to the point of numbness, one thing’s certain: Geo is the embodiment of survival through detachment. He chose silence over softness. 

Distance over danger.

Meanwhile, Hyugo? Did the opposite. If Geo’s pain froze him solid, Hyugo’s set him on fire. He threw glitter over his wounds. Covered the screaming with laughter, with noise, with affection that sometimes feels like too much—until you realize it’s the only way he knows how to ask, “Will you stay? Will you care?”

That’s why people call him two-faced. 

Why they mistake his flirtation for manipulation, his touch for control. But it’s not conquest. It’s not about power. It’s about connection. About feeling real in a world that kept trying to erase him. Hyugo wants to be loved, and not just in passing. He wants to be seen—fully, achingly, intimately.

So yeah. In my eyes, Hyugo’s hypersexual.

But not in the shallow, performative way people think. It’s not about predation. It’s not about conquest or control. It’s about feeling. About proving to himself that he’s real, that he matters, that someone sees him and still stays.

Every touch is deliberate.

Every kiss is a question: Do I still exist to you?

When Hyugo reaches for someone, it’s like he’s trying to anchor himself to this world before it slips away again. 

Because to him? Intimacy is safety. Desire is reassurance.

And love—true love—is survival.

When he touches you, he’s not just touching skin—he’s tracing the shape of a future where he doesn’t have to be afraid. When he looks at you, it’s not lust—it’s hunger for warmth, for stability, for someone who doesn’t leave.

You don’t become his partner. You become his reason. His rescue.

And once you have Hyugo’s heart?

There’s no in-between. No lukewarm affection. He’s all in. No backup plan. No armor. Just him—raw and real and terrified that you’ll disappear too. Loving Hyugo means being chosen. Means being seen in a way that strips you down to the bone, and yet somehow, makes you feel more whole than ever before.

It’s intense. It’s overwhelming. But it’s never fake.

Now pair that with his two-faced nature—the side of him people whisper about. The switch that flips from sunshine to shadow in a blink. Because yeah, Hyugo can be the kindest soul you’ve ever met.  Soft, attentive, radiant. But cross a line? Or worse—betray him?

He’ll smile while slicing you in half with words sharp enough to scar your soul. That duality isn’t an act. It’s survival.

One face to charm the world. The other to protect what little of himself he hasn’t already given away. 

And the reason that duality even exists? Because Hyugo grew up in the same haunted house as Geo. Same broken floorboards. Same locked doors. Same silence. But while Geo turned cold, Hyugo became heat.

One froze to survive. The other burned.

And they’re still bleeding from it. Two brothers.

Two different coping mechanisms. Same pain—processed on opposite ends of the spectrum. So call Hyugo hypersexual. Call him two-faced. But don’t you dare call him fake. He’s just trying to feel something real. And in this world? 

That makes him one of the bravest souls I’ve ever known.

[xndrexcruz]

When They Find You Wearing Their Jersey | FC BARCELONA

✮- summary: they basically walk in and see you wearing one of their barcelona jerseys

✮- warnings: none

Requests are open

masterlist here

João Félix:

As you lazily stretched on the couch, draped in João’s jersey from his last match. It had been the only thing you could find last minute after you had taken a shower.

When João walked in, he had abruptly stopped and let out a breathy chuckle before letting out a low whistle. “Estás realmente muy bonita.” (“You really look very pretty.”) he said, eyes looking you up and down. “When did you decide to steal my jersey?”

“Why, do you want it back?” you teased softly, sitting up slightly to look at him.

“Not a chance. You look way too good in it for me to take,” he replied, grinning at you as he took a seat next to you on the couch. “You should think about wearing it more often.”

You let out a giggle, leaning your head onto his shoulder. “Did you have a good day?” your asked as you pressed a soft kiss on his neck.

“Seeing you like this makes it absolutely perfect,” he murmured, gently running his hand on your thigh. “I could get used to this.”

Pablo Gavi

You had been in the middle of brushing your hair when you heard the door open. With you having stayed over, and nothing else to wear, you slipped on Gavi’s oversized jersey and went to greet him.

Gavi’s eyes widened a bit at the sight of you in just his jersey. “Wow, what’s the special occasion?l” he asked, with a wide grin from ear to ear. "Te ves increíble con mi playera de jugador.” (“You look amazing in my shirt.”) he said while wrapping his hands around your waist.

You interlocked your hands behind his head “No special occasion,” you replied, laughing. “I just needed something comfortable, I forgot to bring extra clothes.”

“Well, it suits you,” he said, laying his head on top of yours. “You should wear my stuff more often.”

“If you insist,” you playfully said. “But only if you promise to keep behaving.”

“I’ll try,” he said with a wink, kissing your cheek. “But I make no promises.”

Pedri González

You had been halfway through preparing breakfast for you and Pedri, wearing one of Pedri’s many Barcelona jersey’s, when he had walked into the kitchen. He paused, taking in the sight of you in front of the stove.

“You know,” he began, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, “I think this might have to be the best view I’ve ever had in the morning.”

“Pedri, I’m trying to cook here,” you let out a breathy giggle, shaking your head.

“The food can wait a bit,” he murmured into your ear, kissing it. "Prefiero disfrutar este momento contigo." ("I’d rather enjoy this moment with you.")

You turned in his arms, brightly smiling up at him. “How about you help me instead? Then we can relax sooner”

He sighed dramatically, acting annoyed. “Alright fine, but only because I can’t resist saying no to you while wearing my jersey.”

Fermín López

You had just woken up to find Fermín already up, lounging against the headboard besides you. You were wearing his jersey, which you’d put on before going to bed the night before.

“Good morning,” he said with a gentle smile, taking note to your outfit. “I didn’t notice you had borrowed my jersey last night.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” you said, snuggling closer into him. "It was the only thing within my reach."

“Para nada. Te queda perfecto,” (Not at all. It looks perfect on you,") he replied, gently tracing patterns on your exposed neck. "Maybe I should just let you keep it."

"Careful Fermín, I might just take your whole wardrobe," you teased.

He chuckled. "Deal, as long as you wear it and you look as perfect as you do right now.”

Héctor Fort

You were wrapped up in Héctor’s home jersey, sipping on some coffee at the kitchen isle when he had walked in. He did a double take, a small smile slowly spreading across his face.

"Hey you," he said, eyes gleaming. "Did you happen to raid my closet?"

"You could say that," you replied, grinning at him. "It just felt right putting it on this morning, not sure why."

“Bueno, te queda fantástico,” ("We’ll, It looks fantastic on you,") he said, sitting down beside you. "I wouldn’t be mad if you happen to wear it again."

"Careful what you wish for," you teased. "I might just take you up on that offer."

"I wouldn't mind one bit," he murmured, leaning in for a kiss as he ducked down to catch your lips with his.

Lamine Yamal

You were sitting on the arm of the couch, dressed in Lamine’s jersey, when he came home. His eyes immediately lit up at the sight of you.

"Te ves absolutamente asombrosa,” ("You look absolutely amazing,") he said, walking over to sit next to you. "Is that my jersey?"

"Yeah," you replied, giving him a smile. "Is that okay?."

"Yes," he said, wrapping an arm around you. "It suits you better than me."

You laughed softly. "Maybe I should borrow your clothes more often."

"Feel free," he said, nuzzling your neck. "I adore seeing you in them."

Marc Guiu

You were tidying up the living room, wearing one of Marc’s many jerseys, when he walked in. He stopped and stared, a soft smile spreading all across his face.

"Would that happen to be my jersey you’re wearing?" he asked, amused.

"Yeah, I hope it’s not a problem," you said, blushing slightly.

"Of course not," he replied, coming closer. "Te queda genial. Te puedes llevar lo que quieras". ("You look great in it. You can take whatever you want.")

"I might just do that," you teased. "If you don't mind sharing."

"Not if it means I get to see you like this," he said, pulling you into a big hug.

[luveline]

could you pleaseee do more hotch x bombshell reader

cw suggestive —you and Hotch have a shared secret you’re hiding from the rest of the team. fem, 1k

“He’s too old for you, you know.” 

You give Elle a charmed smile. “He is not.” 

“Is too.” 

“How old do you think I am, Greenaway?” you tease. “I know I look good for my age, but I’m fully developed. He is not too old for me.” 

“Who?” Spencer asks, placing down his dinner tray with a smile. 

“Gideon,” you say. “What do you think, babe, do I have a chance with our great leader?” 

“No,” Spencer says, giggling as he spears a dehydrated looking green bean with his fork. He’s getting good at recognising jokes for what they are. 

As the younger (but, despite Elle’s insistence, not young) crowd, you have complimentary avoiding of work to do, free with your employment. You spend your lunch hour trying to stretch it into two, driving Gideon insane, and prompting Hotch to come and find you. He hasn’t appeared yet, but when you check your watch you’ve got about ten minutes left until you need to get back. 

“The line was so long,” Spencer says. “They could reduce the foot traffic in here by half if they had two people working the register.” 

“Maybe if we had our own offices we could eat our lunch alone from a brown paper bag like everybody else does, and we wouldn’t need to line up,” Elle says wryly. 

“You don’t like lining up like middle schoolers?” you ask in feigned shock. 

“I don’t,” Spencer says earnestly. 

“She’s being sarcastic,” Elle says. “You couldn’t tell?” She looks over your shoulder suddenly, but there’s a velvet voice in your ear before you can turn around.

“Can I borrow you?” 

You smile because he can’t see it. “That depends, Agent Hotchner, will I get to finish my lunch?” 

You don’t have a tray in front of you. It clearly doesn’t matter to Hotch. “I’ll take care of it.” 

You’d let him drag you around by the collar, but that’s none of his business. You turn to meet his eyes over your shoulder, disappointed that he’s already a few steps back waiting for you to stand up. 

What Elle doesn’t get, what nobody seems to see but you, is that Hotch had no need to lean in and talk so close to your ear. He could have sent you an email, paged you, and he’s here in the cafeteria waiting for you to follow him out. 

You send both Elle and Spencer a suggestive look and climb off of the bench. Hotch senses when you’re near rather than looking, starting out of the cafeteria and down the hall to the elevator bank. He does a sharp turn you aren’t expecting to the photocopying rooms, where you refuse to go, lest you get killed by a falling stack of printer paper. One minute you’re walking together and the next he’s taken your hand and pulling you into an alcove, suddenly sliding his hand behind your back. 

“Aaron–”

He dips his face down and kisses you. It’s surprising and not, one slight nipping kiss before he looks you in the eyes. He’s asking if you’re alright to be kissed, and if it’s him, he can shove you up against a wall —you lift your head and he pulls you right back up to be kissed again. His hands slide over the tight fabric of your blazer and hold you chest to chest, his nose crushing yours, his lips unwavering. Pinpricks of heat ricochet from your mouth to your neck, a shudder he feels that has him laughing hot against your lips.

“That’s not very gentlemanly,” you say, weaving your fingers into the soft crop of hair behind his ears. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. He lifts his hand, cleaning the smudge of your lipstick with his pinky finger, before stroking your cheek with his knuckle.  “What sort of note was that, this afternoon? Why do you think that’s alright to leave at my desk?” 

“How’d you know it was me?” you ask, dropping your hands from his hair to poke at his waist. 

“I hoped it was you,” he admits. He looks like he might say something else, but he steals a rough kiss instead, and then another. 

“Okay,” you say, pleased to be kissed like this by him, “it was me. And you deserved it.” 

“Did I?” He takes your face into two hands. “Did I?” 

You stutter momentarily at his repeated question. “You– yeah, Hotchner, you did. It was supposed to be nice, like a promise.” 

“Are you promising?” he asks, giving your cheek a sweet, gentle stroke with his thumb. 

You kiss his nice jaw, ruffle the hair that curls over his forehead playfully, and laugh as he catches your hand. He doesn’t grab. Hotch isn’t ever aggressive with you (though he can get a little excited). 

“Decide what you want for dinner tonight, and we’ll go after work,” he says, returning your hand gently to your side. 

“Another kiss?” you ask. 

Hotch kisses you sweetly. “Come on, honey, lunch is over.” 

“Just one more?” you ask. 

He falls for it every time. You must harvest half a dozen extra kisses, incensed because it’s him, because nobody thought for a minute he’d bend to your whims. 

Hotch doesn’t bend. He just wants you like you want him. 

“One more,” he says as you pull away. “Just one.” 

It tickles your lips. You curl your arms behind his neck and try to make it one that’ll linger, your fingers scratching lightly at his scalp as he presses your back to the cold wall. You yelp a laugh and he covers your back with big hands, mumbling a sorry that gets completely lost. 

You don’t know how he’s going to explain this to Gideon. 

[wosospacegirl]

just read through stuck with you (finally)!!! and i love it 🥹 y/n is literally me when I have a crush, and I died when y/n barged into alexia and Olga’s room 😂😭 Will Alexia ever find out about y/n stealing the medicine from her?

-🦦

YAYYYY im so glad u read it bestie!!!! Yn is only gonna get more awkward hahahhaha she's fighting for her life everytime kika smiles at her – or at anyone really.

I don't plan on writing it into the main story, so I just wrote something up about Alexia finding out Y/n stole her meds. It's a mess, not proofread.

Stuck with you blubr

..

Alexia pushed the front door open, her hair still damp with sweat, and her running shoes squeaking slightly against the floor.

“Fuck,” she muttered, limping in, one hand bracing against the wall. “I think I twisted my ankle.”

From the sofa, Y/n didn’t even glance up from her Nintendo. “Hmm. Ok.”

Olga, curled on the other end of the sofa with a blanket and a bowl of popcorn, did look up. “Wait, really?” she asked, already setting the bowl aside.

Alexia nodded, clearly annoyed with herself. “Yeah.”

“Come here,” Olga said, already scooting over. “Sit down. I’ll get you some ice.”

Alexia limped toward the sofa and dropped down with a soft hiss. Olga disappeared toward the kitchen, leaving Y/n and Alexia alone.

Y/n looked at her coolly. “You know, that could be osteoporosis,” she said flatly. “Bones get brittle with age.”

Alexia turned to her with the most unimpressed expression she could muster. “Stop calling me old before I throw your Switch into the sink.”

Y/n just shrugged, not bothering to look up. “I’m just saying. Maybe calcium chews would help.”

Olga returned with a bag of ice, handing it over. “Here. And maybe elevate it.”

Alexia took the ice with a groan. “Do we still have any of that pain medicine I used last year? The one from when I tore my ankle? It should still be in the cabinet.”

Y/n froze. Like physically froze—thumbs mid-button press on her Switch. She didn’t look up. Didn’t breathe.

Alexia didn’t notice at first. “I’ll take one of those and rest a bit,” she continued casually.

“Wait!” Y/n blurted, louder than necessary.

Alexia blinked. “What?”

Y/n sat up too fast, nearly knocking the Switch off her lap. “No, no, you can’t take that stuff—it’s like... bad. For your liver. Full of toxins. Garbage, really. Don’t poison your body like that.”

Alexia stared. Olga blinked.

“We should try something natural instead!” Y/n continued, now clearly spiralling. “Like... peppermint tea. Ice baths. Crystals.”

“You literally took two aspirins last night because you feared your head might start hurting,” Olga said dryly, arching an eyebrow.

“I was being preventative,” Y/n shot back.

Alexia narrowed her eyes. “Why do you sound like you’re trying to hide something?”

Y/n’s face twitched. She suddenly found the Nintendo menu screen very interesting.

Olga tilted her head. “Y/n...”

There was a pause. A heavy one.

Y/n groaned and slumped back against the sofa dramatically. “Okay, fine. I took the last pill. A few weeks ago, when I got injured.”

Alexia blinked. “You what?”

“I didn’t mean to! I just—my ankle was messed up, and I didn’t want you two freaking out,” Y/n muttered, looking everywhere except at them. “So I took one of your meds and iced it and pretended everything was fine–obviously it didn’t work because you two found out about the injury.”

There was a beat of silence before Olga sighed. “Oh my god.”

Alexia looked genuinely offended. “You stole my prescription meds?”

“I borrowed them,” Y/n said defensively. “You weren’t using them!”

“I was saving them!”

“For what? Nostalgia?”

Olga dropped back onto the sofa between them. “You are both exhausting,” she muttered.

..

I have no idea if twisted ankles have anything to do with osteoporosis <3 I just wanted to call Alexia old <3

[r66dusthewriter]

What comes after.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x reader

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

A/n: “Are they lovers?” WORSE

Been working pretty consistently on these so i thought i could spare some extra fics this week 😙 enjoy, i guess...?

Genre: Angsty fluff

Era: Daryl Dixon spin off, season 1.

Word count: 0.6k

You had come after him, all the way from America to Paris with no real hope of finding him and yet, against every odd, there he was. Just like always, he was tangled in something larger than life, something neither of you could fully walk away from and instead of pulling him out of it, you stayed. Maybe it was foolish but soon you realize this was just another impossible chapter in a story you never meant to write but couldn’t stop reading.

You glanced sideways. He drove in silence, eyes fixed on the road, the set of his jaw tight in thought. In the backseat, Laurent was asleep, his breaths soft and steady like a lullaby against the chaos following him. He reminded you of Carl and how life never softened its hits for anyone. You turned back forward, the weight of words pressing on your chest until they spilled out in a quiet murmur.

“When this is over…when we find out what really happened to Rick. We go home if we still can and then…” you shrugged, unsure how to frame the ache blooming in your chest, “what comes after?”

Daryl shifted in his seat, his fingers flexing on the steering wheel. You know that look, he was trying not to feel too much. It was clear he’d grown attached to the kid and how could he not? But this wasn’t home. It was time to stop pretending. There were no phones anymore, no commercial flights, no soft returns. Just death, survival and running time.

He snorted faintly. “What’? Ya think I’ve been plannin’ some kind’o vacation?” He teased. “Florida, maybe?”

You chuckled under your breath but there was no humor in it. “No, I’m saying maybe it’s time you finally put yourself first. You could…get your life back. You know, stop doing things for people”

He didn’t answer at first, just stared ahead as if the road could save him. “I dunno if I still can” he mumbled.

“Bullshit. You never thought about…settling down?” Your voice cracked, not from nerves but from sheer exhaustion of “almost”. You and Daryl had danced around that edge too many times and now time felt like something borrowed, like you should stop hoping and finally let go.

He gave a quiet, almost bitter huffed laugh. You rolled your eyes.

“Come on. Nobody special though?” you asked gently, for your own sake.

His hand tightened on the wheel, the tendons in his forearms flexing. Something shifted in his expression and when he looked at you, really looked at you, it hit like a gut punch. This was it, no more of you.

“Wha’? Like you?” he asked, rougher than he meant to, like he was bracing for heartbreak.

Your heart dropped. You wished you could reel the words back into your mouth. “I wasn’t–”

But he cut you off, voice low, certain. “Won’t find tha’ nowhere else”

Your breath trembled. You feel his eyes on you, waiting, always waiting for something you weren’t sure how to give.

You met his gaze “Who do you want me to be?”

He didn’t even blink. “Whatever you’re willin’ t’ still give me. I’ll take anythin’”

You gave him a small, sad smile. “I think we both need to get a life”

“At the same time?” he asked, and it wasn’t a joke, it was a question wrapped in forever.

You turned to the window, to the gray blur of France passing by, wondering if the years had been worth it. Wondering if you’d ever loved anyone the way you loved him.

“Yeah,” you whispered, a single tear falling. “Same time”

[pintrestgrl]

hear me outtt!!!! it's christmas dinner & being the two oldest cousins of the family ofc dawn & jj r gonna be anti-social with the rest of the family n jj is in a room upstairs by himself playing video games & dawn, suffering of visible boredom— her phone dies, she goes to her dad who tells her the only charger that is specifically for iphones is upstairs, where jj is. she declines at first out of embarrassment from past encounters with jj at past family events , after sitting alone in a corner for a bit she finally decides to give in, and where jj is sitting in a gaming chair with a controller in hand and dawn sets her phone down to charge, one thing leads to another and here dawn is sat on jj's lap givin kisses to each other & feeling each other up!!!! ( sorry if this was too long... )

- 🩰

this is cute omg they both feel so gross too

XMAS DINNER WITH DAWN ‘ND JJ.

cw incest n kinda forced sexual material

dawn really didn’t wanna be there. she would much rather be at home, sitting in her bed, watching christmas movies instead of living in one. she was sat on the couch, legs crossed and on her phone.

she probably should’ve been hanging out with her cousins, but she couldn’t find the energy to do so. they would just talk for hours, and bore her.

she was fine, she guessed. that was, until her phone died. she rolled her eyes, scoffing. she got up from her comfy seat and made her way to the back patio where her daddy was sat with her uncle.

“daddy? my phone died. i needa charger.” she spoke, watching them share a beer. she heard her uncle speak up. “yeah, dawnie— jayj got a charger for you up in his room.” she tensed nervously at the name, all the memories she had worked so hard to push down flooding back.

she didn’t want them to question why she was bein so nervous, so she spoke. “oh okay. it’s alright— i’ll just wait for supper.” her uncle nd daddy werent really paying her any care, so they just nodded and shooed her away.

she went back inside, shutting the screen door behind her. she went back to her original position, trying to entertain herself. she sat down a few more minutes, before sighing to herself when she realized truly how bored she was.

she gave it a second thought, and decided maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. she just had to get the charger, nd go back downstairs. she could do that. it was easy— is what she repeatedly said to herself as she made her way up the stairs.

she got to the top of the stairs, staring into the crack of the door. jj was on the game his daddy— her uncle, bought for him a couple christmas’s back. she pressed on the door, quietly walking over to him.

he didn’t hear her coming over his headphones, before he felt her presence in the room. almost smelled her. but in the most non coincidental way. he looked up, waiting for her. “hi. needa— uh, borrow. the charger. for my phone, please.” she spoke, basically stammering.

he smirked, looking her up and down as he inspected every detail of her. he nodded, pointing with his chin where his charger was as to not lose focus in his game. however, he did stop looking at it to watch her bend over to pick the charger up.

he watched the way he could see a peek of the white lace under her skirt, grinning as she stood back up. he watched as she now moved to leave, before he spoke. “nuh uh— you’re not leavin’ with my shit, dawn. stay in here.” she froze.

this was exactly what she had been fearing would happen. she knew him. she knew he would try this. and she didn’t wanna start something. she nodded slowly, and took a deep breath.

she moved to sit down on the corner edge of his bed, his chair sat in front of her. she put her phone on the charger, sighing. he looked over at her, looking her up and down. “you like what i get you for christmas, dawnie?” she smiled faintly, nodding.

he grinned, staring at her. she felt uncomfortable, per usual. she knew what his thoughts were. he slowly turned off the console, shoving his controller on the stand. he looked back up at her eyes. “c’mere.” she furrowed her brows.

he pulled her up by her wrist, laughing at the way she tried to writhe away from him. he grabbed her by her bottom half, forcing her body down on top of him. she straddled his sat figure. she tried to get up, but he didn’t let up. he forced her down, laughing at her struggles.

“jj— quit, i wanna get up.” he tsked, watching her tits in his face. “nah. i think you like it— ain’t that right, dawnie?” you shook your head, giving up on trying to get away from his gross movements. he nodded, giving her a look of approval.

“you lookin’ pretty tonight. real pretty.” you sighed, trying to avert his gaze. “thank you.” you muttered, rather quietly. he subtly moved his hand downwards, lifting up the front of her skirt. looking at the familiar damp white lace. “see? knew you like it. fuckin’ wet from it.”

she frowned, looking at the wall to the side of her in embarrassment. he saw she wasn’t looking at his movements, and subtly palmed the mound below her skirt. she sucked in a tiny gasp, looking down.

she attempted to push his hand away, but it only made him press harder on it. she let out a moan, trying to writhe his hand away that kept rubbing on her clit. “jj— stop doin’ that. oohh— fuck.” she let out a breathy moan.

he smiled, as he watched her reactions. he knew how to do this. exactly what to say and do to embarrass her and make her uncomfortable. “you want me to make you cum, dawn?” she shook her head furiously, her movements contradictory as she rode his hand.

“no— i want you to stop— hmph— please stop it, jayj.” he laughed at her, looking down at the way her clit would nudge against the pads of his fingers. “if i stop, then im gonna go tell your daddy you let me rub on your pussy. deal?” she shook her head furiously, her breathing quickening. “no— okay, okay. i’m sorry. don’t tell him, please.”

he pulled his hand away, slipping her panties to the side and harshly shoving two fingers in her. she groaned, at the burn. it slowly eased into pleasure, as he fucked into her with his fingers. his thumb went to go rub her clit, her head dropping to his shoulder.

she still felt so gross. this was gross. she shouldn’t be doing this. but he knew how to use his fucking fingers, she was sure of it. he forced her head up off his shoulder, pressing a kiss to her lips. it was sloppy. messy. tongues moving, teeth bumping. “jay— it’s, i’m gonna— ooohh, my fucking god.” he smiled.

“tell me you like it. tell me that you wanted it.” she let out a breathy scoff. she didn’t wanna say that. she didn’t wanna admit it. because then he would know that this spurred her on just as much as it did with him. “fuck— okay. i like it, i want it, i swear— just let me cum. please, jay.”

he nodded, giving her his permission. she focused on the way his fingers felt, moving inside of her. he nudged her clit with his thumb, putting her over the edge. she moaned, biting down on to his shoulder. the liquid oozed onto his hand, before he rode her through it and then pulled out.

he brought his fingers to her mouth, shoving them past her lips as she choked. she tried her best to lick them clean, knowing that’s what he wanted. he released them from her mouth with a pop, watching a line of spit keep them connected. she swallowed, nervously. it went silent. she was embarrassed.

he eyed her, noticing this. “you’re fine. quit fuckin’ overreacting, dawnie. did good, kid.” he spoke, hand going to pat her cheek. she nodded. he moved, his lips attaching back to her mouth. she whimpered, ashamedly kissing back. she felt his tongue graze against hers.

he continued kissing her, before pulling away and placing wet kisses down her neck. she moaned, feeling gross with his actions. his hands went up to her tits, squeezing the flesh. he pulled down the hem of her top, her bare tits falling from the fabric.

he moved his kisses to her tits, biting down on the fat of them. she moaned, mostly from pain. he took one of her nipples in his mouth, sucking. he palmed the other one, hand running over her nipple. he released from her with a pop, going to her other tit.

she could feel the cold air against the wet of her nipple, making her shiver. he sucked, hands kneading the fat of her hips. he let go of her breast, traveling his kisses up again. he was about to press another wet kiss on her mouth, before they both heard her daddy call her down.

he groaned, her tensing up. she wiped her glossy lips, pulling the hem of her dress back up over her tits. she stood up, flattening out her dress and hair. “you gonna leave me with blue balls?” he spoke. she sighed, going to grab her phone. she looked down at the tent in his jeans, almost feeling bad.

that was, till she realized this was her fucking cousin. who just fingered her. and the bad feeling slowly went away, shame filling her up. she gave him an apologetic look, as if he didn’t just force her to do that.

she moved to turn the door, stopping when she heard him speak. “you’re gonna suck my dick whether you want too or not. you owe me it.” she grimaced, but she knew she would lose that argument if tried.

she left, the guilt washing over her again at the sticky feeling of her panties.

[incloudcity]

the quiet after | qh43

requests are open

summary: after weeks of silence following a painful fight, you return to Quinn’s apartment to retrieve a forgotten sweater—only to get snowed in and finally confront the feelings left unspoken.

It’s snowing harder than you expected when you step off the SkyTrain and walk the few blocks to Quinn’s apartment. The kind of snow that softens the world and mutes the city, but right now it just makes you feel more alone.

Your hands are buried deep in your coat pockets, and you can feel the edge of the spare key he hasn’t asked for back.

You only came to get your sweater. The gray one he always borrowed and never returned. The one you didn’t realize mattered until after the fight—when your heart ached and your chest felt cold in more ways than one.

You hesitate at the door. There’s a tight coil of something in your throat—anger maybe, or maybe the sadness you haven’t let yourself feel.

The door opens before you can knock.

Quinn stands there, hair damp like he just got out of the shower, a Canucks hoodie hanging loose on his frame. He blinks at you like he’s not sure you’re real.

You manage something like a breath. “Hey.”

He swallows. “Hey.”

Silence.

You nod toward the hallway behind him. “I just came to get some of my sweaters. The gray one especially? Should be in your closet.”

He doesn’t move. For a second, you think he’s going to say no. Or worse—say something casual, like none of it mattered. But instead, he steps aside.

“Yeah. Yeah, come in. I—I’ll grab it.”

You slip past him into the apartment. It still smells like cedarwood and whatever detergent he uses. Like home. You try not to look at the blanket still tossed on the couch where you used to curl up together.

You hover near the entryway, hands stiff in your pockets. He disappears into the bedroom.

Seconds pass. Then minutes.

You hear drawers. A door creak. Then nothing.

Finally, he returns, sweater in hand—but something’s changed in his expression. His jaw’s tense. Like he’s been having a whole conversation with himself in there and lost the argument.

He holds it out. “I washed it.”

You take it, fingers brushing his. It’s warm, like he just pulled it from the dryer. You shouldn’t feel grateful for that, but you do.

You’re about to say thanks when he speaks again. Quiet.

“You could’ve texted.”

You blink. “You could’ve answered the phone.”

Quinn flinches like it hurts. “I didn’t know what to say.”

You shrug, lips pressed tight. “Guess we’re both good at that.”

The tension is unbearable now, and you shift toward the door. But when you glance outside, the snowfall has thickened into a white curtain. The streets are barely visible.

Quinn notices too. “Uh… transit’s down. They just issued a warning.”

You frown. “Shit.”

“You should stay. Just ‘til it lets up.”

You hesitate. Every part of you screams to leave, to protect yourself, to not make it worse. But your limbs are cold and your heart is tired, and you don’t want to go back to your empty apartment. Not yet.

“Okay,” you whisper.

The warmth of the apartment is suffocating at first. Not physically—he’s turned the thermostat up, probably for you—but emotionally, like it’s all pressing in on you.

He makes tea. Peppermint, your favorite. You don’t talk about it.

You sit at opposite ends of the couch. Netflix hums quietly in the background, something you’re both not watching. His knee bounces. You hold the mug close to your chest.

It’s been weeks since the fight.

Weeks since you told him you couldn’t keep doing this—couldn’t keep feeling like a footnote to his life, a placeholder between games and flights and media obligations. You weren’t asking him to choose, but he made it feel like he had to.

And then he walked out. No explanation. No closure.

“I thought about calling,” he says suddenly.

You glance up.

He’s staring at his tea. “I picked up my phone a hundred times. I just… didn’t know how to fix it.”

You say nothing.

“I didn’t mean to walk out that night. I just—everything felt too heavy. I was scared I was gonna say something I couldn’t take back.”

Your heart aches. “You left anyway.”

He nods, throat bobbing. “I know.”

The silence between you is thick again, but different now. Not sharp. Just… full.

“I was scared,” he says again, softer now. “Not of you. Of losing you. Of not being good enough to keep you.”

You close your eyes.

“Quinn…”

“I know I messed up. I should’ve made more time. Should’ve shown you that you mattered more than all of it.” He looks at you then, really looks. “You did. You do.”

Something in you crumbles. You set your tea down before your hands can shake it loose.

“I wasn’t asking you to give it all up,” you whisper. “I just wanted to feel like I belonged in your world. Like I wasn’t always waiting for you to come back to me.”

He slides closer, cautious, like approaching a wounded animal. “You do belong. I was just too wrapped up in everything else to see how much I was hurting you.”

He reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist. You let him.

“I missed you,” he says. It cracks at the end.

You don’t trust your voice. So you just nod.

A moment passes.

And then you lean in. Just a little. Just enough.

He meets you there.

The hug is quiet and slow. His arms wrap around your waist and your face finds the crook of his neck, and it feels like breathing for the first time in weeks.

“I’m sorry,” he says into your hair. “I’ll do better. I swear.”

You nod again, tears dampening his hoodie. “Okay.”

Later, the two of you are curled up under the old throw blanket on his couch, your legs tangled together, snow still falling outside the window like the world’s been hushed.

He makes you hot chocolate and insists on giving you what’s left of the marshmallows even though he likes them more. You laugh at that—small and soft, but real.

There’s a candle burning on the coffee table. The flickering light dances across his face as he looks at you like you hung the moon.

You rest your head on his chest.

“I don’t want you to go,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and emotion.

You tighten your grip on his hand.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

[orellazalonia]

Borrowed Gifts, Steadfast Love

Summary: You accidentally trigger a moment of amnesia in Bucky after giving him precognition during training. In the aftermath, Bucky, gentle and vulnerable in his confusion, asks if you’re someone important to him. When his memory returns, the two of you gradually confess what you’ve both been holding back. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the ability to temporarily bestow powers to other people.

Word Count: 3.5k+

A/N: It has been a while since I’ve had something for this series. Though, I’ve mostly covered my favorites so far, so I’ll need to brainstorm ideas for other abilities lol. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

You had a rare and unnerving gift. One that terrified some of the Avengers more than it reassured them. With a touch, you could grant powers to others. Temporarily. Specific abilities, curated like items on a menu but always with a cost. The more potent the power, the more unpredictable the side effects. Some people got migraines. Others felt emotionally drained. And a few… well, a few forgot their names for an hour or two.

That last one had landed Tony flat on his back once, insisting he was a ballet dancer named Cheryl.

You hadn’t been born with powers yourself. You were experimented on briefly, in your early teens by a defunct program obsessed with replicating the abilities of others. Their tests failed to give you any power of your own. Instead, your body became a kind of channel, like a living transmitter. You couldn’t fly, lift tanks, or shoot lasers but you could let someone else do it. For a while. Ten minutes, fifteen if you really focused. Maybe twenty, but that always came with a nosebleed or worse.

SHIELD picked you up after the facility fell, though you never quite belonged in the field the same way the others did. You weren’t a soldier. You were a tool they deployed when someone needed an extra edge.

Bucky Barnes was one of the few who treated you like more than that.

You met him a year after he rejoined the Avengers, still finding his footing in a world that changed too fast. At first, he was quiet and standoffish, not unlike you. People like Steve and Sam tried to loop you in with group dinners, training sessions, or "team bonding" game nights that only made you feel more like a guest in someone else’s home. But Bucky? He never pressured you. He saw your silences and matched them. Sat next to you on the sidelines without needing to fill the air. Slowly, like frost melting under careful sun, you two grew close.

You trained together sometimes. Your power fascinated him in a way you didn’t expect. He’d ask questions no one else thought to: Did it hurt you? Did the powers you gave others come from somewhere, or from you? Could you give him one and take it back before it fully formed?

He was the first one to ask if you liked using your powers.

Most people just expected you were fine with it, already having some idea of what you were supposed to like, do, or be. But you never felt that pressure nor those expectations with him.

Therefore, you spent more time together after that. Coffee in the kitchen before morning briefings. Patrolling side by side, because he said he liked your “measured pace.” Evenings where you’d sit outside on the Tower balcony and he’d talk about Brooklyn before the war, or ask you what it felt like to see someone else use what wasn’t truly theirs. Sometimes you didn’t answer. Sometimes you did. Regardless, he never pushed.

Even with these shared moments, you didn’t dare name whatever was forming between you. Not yet. There was comfort in the undefined, in the quiet understanding between two people still trying to trust themselves again. You weren’t healed, but neither was he. However, you were there and that mattered.

The only time he ever raised an eyebrow was the day he caught you sketching in the rec room. It was an old habit you formed from before the facility, something you rarely indulged in. You tried to hide the notepad, but he saw it before you could. You were fully prepared to defend yourself.

Until he saw the page. A portrait of him. Focused. Sharp lines. Gentle shading.

He didn’t tease you.

He just said, “You made me look like someone worth drawing.”

You had to look away.

“I draw things I don’t want to forget,” You whispered.

That moment hung between you like an unspoken truth. One neither of you were ready to face. Not yet. Not until later. Not until the day you gave Bucky the ability to see a few seconds into the future and he forgot the past. Including you.

It started with a sparring match.

You weren’t planning to use your powers. You rarely did in training, unless asked. But Bucky was frustrated and off his rhythm. He was distracted and getting increasingly impatient with himself. You’d watched from the edge of the mat as he shook out his shoulders, jaw tight, and muttering curses under his breath.

“Want to cheat?” You asked, casually tossing him a water bottle. “I’m offering a limited-time preview of danger-dodging.”

He arched a brow. “What, like Spider-sense?”

“Closer to precognition. A few seconds ahead.” You shrugged, trying to downplay it. “Enough to give you an edge.”

He hesitated. You could see the thought wheels grinding behind his eyes, then he stepped forward and extended his hand. “Hit me with it.”

You reached up and pressed two fingers gently to the side of his neck, just under his jawline. A safer place than the wrist, less prone to backlash. A flicker of gold shimmered under your skin, then transferred into his.

“There. Ten minutes. You’ll feel it kick in.”

He blinked, eyes fluttering slightly, then his pupils dilated. His stance changed instantly into something more grounded. Lighter and alert. You backed up and watched as Sam moved in to spar with him, a little too eager to knock Bucky off his game.

But Bucky didn’t miss a beat.

He dodged Sam’s attacks before they landed, twisting just out of reach, predicting moves before they were even made. You saw Sam frown. Then grin. “Okay, okay, cheating is kind of cool.”

“Don’t get used to it,” You warned, arms crossed, already feeling the beginnings of a tension headache.

Everything was going fine until the timer ran out.

You didn’t notice right away. Bucky had stepped back, grabbing a towel and breathing a little hard. But then you saw him frown, glance around the gym like something was wrong. Like the lights were too bright. Or the air too thin.

“Bucky?” You asked cautiously.

He turned to you and blinked, staring at you like you were a stranger. Not the kind he feared, not someone threatening, just someone whose shape should’ve meant something. His brow furrowed like your presence itched at the back of his brain, like a song he almost remembered.

“Sorry,” He said again, voice quiet. “You look… familiar.”

You gave a tight smile, hiding the panic behind your eyes. “It’s okay. You’ve had a bit of a power hangover.”

“Power?” He looked down at his hands, then flexed his vibranium fingers. “Did I… hurt someone?”

“No. You were training. You asked me to give you a temporary ability.” You moved in front of him, trying to keep your voice steady. “Precognition. It lets you sense movements a few seconds ahead. You handled it like a pro.”

“Guess I didn’t handle it that well,” He said with a weak, lopsided smirk. Then his smile faded. “I really don’t remember.”

He sounded more concerned now. Not panicked yet, just… vulnerable. That was rare for him, especially in front of others. But now, it was like something raw had surfaced under his skin. The carefully constructed guard he wore every day had holes punched through it, and he didn’t know why.

You glanced to the training room door, where Sam was now standing uncertainly with a towel slung around his neck, unsure whether to intervene. You gave him a small shake of your head. This wasn’t something that needed a team.

“Come sit,” You murmured, gently taking Bucky’s arm and guiding him to a bench in the corner. He followed without resistance, like you were the only thing anchoring him.

Once seated, he studied your face for a long moment. His eyes were softer than usual, curious and searching. Like he wanted to remember you but didn’t know how.

“So we… know each other?” He asked carefully.

You nodded. “We work together. Trained together. Talked… a lot.”

He tilted his head. “Are we… close?”

Your throat tightened. “Yes.”

There was a long beat, and then, completely sincere, he asked, “Are we dating?”

You blinked, startled. “What?”

“I’m just asking,” He said, sheepish but oddly confident in a way the real Bucky never was. “You seem like someone I’d… want to be close to.”

Your heart jumped into your throat. He doesn’t remember you, You reminded yourself. He’s just reaching for familiarity. Don’t fall for the illusion.

Still, you answered, “No. We’re not.”

Bucky looked disappointed, genuinely. “Are you sure?”

You gave him a half-hearted glare. “Even amnesiac, you’re a flirt.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t feel like me. It’s like I’m dreaming with my eyes open.” He looked down at his hands again. “I hate this.”

“I know. And it’ll wear off. Soon.”

He turned back to you, brow knitting. “You said you gave me a power? You… can do that?”

“I can lend them out. For a short time. Sometimes there are… side effects.” You hesitated. “You usually remember everything just fine.”

“Usually,” He echoed. “Lucky me.”

“I’m sorry, Bucky.”

His eyes lifted back to yours again. “You said my name.”

You smiled softly. “Yeah.”

He blinked slowly, taking that in. “And yours is…?”

You gave him your name and he repeated it quietly. The way he said it nearly undid you. It was gentle in the way as if he wanted to commit it to memory now, before it slipped through his fingers again.

“I don’t want to forget you,” He whispered, without thinking.

Your breath caught. You reached out then, almost instinctively, placed your hand over his.

“I won’t let you. I’m going to fix it,” You promised quietly. “Just… give me a minute.”

It took concentration, channeling the right counterbalance of power, guiding a mild recall ability through touch. When your hand met his again, you saw flickers of your face, training sessions, shared coffee. The sketch. His smile when he saw it. His voice, gentle and real: “You made me look like someone worth drawing.”

And then, the power flickered back before either of you were ready.

One moment, Bucky was holding your gaze like he was memorizing every detail of your eyes, your name, and the warmth of your hand covering his. Then the next, his fingers twitched beneath yours and his breath caught.

You saw it in his expression immediately.

Like a floodgate creaking open too fast, memory rushed back into his mind. You watched him blink once, twice, his face flickering through confusion, realization, then… guilt.

“It’s you,” He said softly.

You nodded slowly, afraid to speak first.

He sat up straighter, pulled his hand from under yours. Not harshly, but more so like he was grounding himself. His brows furrowed as his eyes darted around the training room, checking every shadow, and every sound. You could see his instincts coming back online.

“I remember,” He said.

Your shoulders slumped slightly. Relief mixed with… something sharper. A part of you had cherished that fragile, disarmed version of him. It felt wrong to miss it, but you did.

“I’m sorry,” You said. “I should’ve stopped the transfer sooner or done something-“

“No,” He interrupted quickly, looking at you again. “Don’t. Don’t blame yourself. I asked for it. You warned me. And besides, I’ve had worse side effects from coffee.”

You huffed a breath of dry amusement, though you didn’t quite smile.

Bucky’s gaze lingered on you. “What… did I say?”

Your eyes dropped to the mat. “Nothing terrible. Just…” You fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve. “You forgot me. Asked who I was and if we worked together.”

“And?”

“And then you asked if we were dating.”

He stiffened slightly. “Did I?”

“Mm-hm.” You tried to play it off lightly. “You also asked if you hurt anyone, so clearly your priorities were intact.”

He didn’t laugh. He was still watching you too carefully. “And what did you say?”

“That we weren’t.”

He tilted his head. “And was I disappointed?”

You hesitated, wondering why he would ask that. “You said… I seemed like someone you’d want to be close to.”

Bucky was silent for a moment. Then: “I wasn’t wrong.”

Your eyes lifted to his, startled. There was something cautious in his voice, yes, but it was also honest. Maybe that amnesiac version of him didn’t just say things out of confusion. Maybe it said things he usually didn’t let himself say.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” You murmured, voice quieter now, rawer. “But… I didn’t hate it. Sitting with you. Talking without all the walls.”

His jaw tensed, eyes flicking down for a beat. “I don’t always know how to be soft on purpose,” He admitted. “But I want to, with you.”

A long silence stretched between you. And then, slowly, he offered you his hand. Not out of confusion. Not because of borrowed power. Just his hand. Open, steady, and inviting.

You took it.

“I may not remember everything at times,” He said quietly. “But I won’t forget that part.”

You gave a small nod, sitting in silence with him for a moment. Reality slowly began to creep back in like a fog settling over warm ground. The gym lights felt too bright. The air too still. Sam had already quietly slipped out, leaving the two of you alone to untangle the strange, fragile thread left behind by the power’s fading echo.

So, you made the decision to stand slowly, brushing your palms on your pants as Bucky followed suit.

Neither of you quite knew what to say. The rawness of the moment still lingered between you like something unspoken, and neither of you dared break it yet.

“I should… probably check in with Bruce,” You muttered. “Make sure there aren’t any lingering neurological disruptions. It’s been a while since I gave someone that particular ability.”

Bucky nodded. “Right, yeah. I’ll shower. Try to not stare into space too long.”

You huffed softly. “Good plan.”

Then came that moment, the moment. The one where your eyes met just before you both turned away. You caught a flicker in his gaze, something he wanted to say but didn’t. Something you wanted to hear, but couldn’t ask for. So instead, you both retreated to your corners of the compound.

-

In your room, you sat cross-legged on your bed with a cold compress on your forehead, scrolling through your tablet with one hand and letting the other rest uselessly in your lap. You weren’t reading anything. Not really.

Your mind was stuck in the echo chamber of You seem like someone I’d want to be close to and Maybe you should’ve said not yet.

You told yourself not to read into it. It was just scrambled-brain honesty. He wasn’t thinking straight. People say things when they forget their walls.

Still… he remembered now. And he hadn’t pulled away.

You ran a hand through your hair and dropped your tablet on the bed, then stared out the window. The sky had shifted from orange to deep navy. The tower was quiet. Too quiet.

Meanwhile in Bucky’s quarters, he had showered and dried off. Now sitting on the edge of his bed in sweats and a black T-shirt, staring at the cup of water he hadn’t touched.

His mind replayed the way your hand had felt in his. The nervous quirk of your mouth. The devastation in your eyes when he didn’t remember your name. The tenderness when he did.

He knew what he wanted to say. He had known it for a while. But now it felt like the air was thinner around you. Charged. He wasn’t sure if that was because of the power or because it exposed something deeper between you. Something neither of you had dared voice before.

He stood, opened his door, and walked down the quiet hall. Looking to end up in the one place he hoped you’d be.

-

Later that night, you were sitting alone on one of your favorite balconies, legs pulled up to your chest, and the air cool against your skin.

A quiet shuffle of boots sounded behind you.

You didn’t have to turn to know who it was. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Bucky settled down beside you, offering a second cup of tea. You took it without question.

“I keep thinking,” He said, “About how easily I forgot you. Like one wrong spark and poof.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

He nodded slowly. “Still… I don’t like that. I’ve worked so hard to build this life. The idea that someone could take a piece of it and I wouldn’t even know what was missing?”

Your fingers curled around your cup.

“I’ve spent years being forgettable,” You said. “By choice or by design. It’s safer that way, less… risky.”

Bucky turned his head to look at you. “You’re not forgettable to me.”

You finally met his eyes.

“I don’t care what kind of power tries to take that away. You’re not something I’d lose easily.”

And just like that, you didn’t feel like a tool anymore. You felt like someone worth remembering.

The night was hushed between the two of you, save for the faint hum of the city far below and the way Bucky’s thumb lightly tapped against his tea cup. Nervous energy. Not from fear, just hesitation. Like he was weighing each word before he let it out.

“I don’t want to forget you again,” He added quietly.

You watched him, and something in your expression whether it be gentle, surprised, or open, made him go still.

“Not from power backlash, not from time, not from fear. And if I’m being honest…” He trailed off, then exhaled. “I don’t want to waste time pretending you’re just a teammate. Or just someone who gives me an advantage in combat. You’re not that to me.”

You set your cup down slowly, the heat of it fading from your hands, replaced by the thrum of something warmer beneath your skin. “Then what am I?”

He looked at you fully and deliberately.

“You’re the person I look for in every room,” He said, voice low and sure. “The one I feel calm with. The one I trust when everything else gets loud in my head. You matter to me more than I’ve let myself admit.”

The words hit softly, like the first snow, but carried weight. Real and steady. You blinked, unsure if your heart had always beat this fast or if he’d just jump-started it.

“I thought maybe…” Your voice came out smaller than you expected. “If I let myself believe you might feel the same way, I’d mess everything up. That you’d need someone steadier. Someone who wouldn’t make you forget your own name when they touch you.”

His lips twitched into a quiet smile at that, but he didn’t joke. He didn’t downplay it. Instead, he leaned in slightly. His shoulders brushing yours.

“I won’t do anything unless you want me to. You’ve always given everyone else power. Maybe it’s time someone gave you the choice.”

There was no pressure in his tone, no coaxing. Just offering.

And something in you, long hidden and cautious, stirred.

You turned toward him fully, the dim light casting soft shadows across his features. You could see the tired but hopeful gleam in his eyes. You lifted one hand slowly, tracing your fingers along the line of his jaw, anchoring yourself in this moment.

“I’ve wanted you for a long time,” You admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

“Then I’m all yours,” He replied, breath catching slightly as he leaned in.

You closed the gap.

The kiss was gentle at first. Something that could be described as cautious, exploratory, or like a question answered in a language both of you had forgotten how to speak. But then his hand came to rest at the side of your neck, warm and steady, and yours slid over his chest, feeling the weight of everything he wasn’t saying but always meant.

It wasn’t fireworks. It was better. It was safe, solid, and real.

When you both pulled back, neither of you spoke right away. But then Bucky’s voice broke the silence, low and steady:

“I’ve wanted that for a long time.”

Your lips quirked into the faintest smile. “Me too.”

His thumb brushed lightly against your cheek, almost reverent. “I don’t know what happens next,” He admitted, eyes meeting yours, vulnerable and unguarded. “But I know I want it with you.”

You nodded, fingers still curled into the fabric of his shirt like you weren’t ready to let go. “Then stay. That’s all I need right now.”

A breeze stirred your hair, and he leaned in again, pressing a soft kiss to your temple this time. Gentler, more certain.

“I’m not going anywhere,” He whispered.

And under the quiet sky, for the first time in a long while, you believed it.

[astridthevalkyrie]

“By the way, here’s your jacket.”

You shrug it off and offer it up to him, but instead of taking it, Rafayel only raises a brow.

“You can keep it.” He shrugs. “I have like five more in that same style.”

“No.” Your voice is firm, and your eyes are trained on him so that he knows you’re serious. Shaking the jacket a little aggressively, you insist. “Take it.”

Now thoroughly weirded out, he takes it from you, giving it a little brush over as though to examine for any evidence of tampering. When he realizes there’s nothing, he looks back at you dubiously.

“You’ve had this for maybe a month now. Why the sudden change of heart to give it back?”

“No reason,” you huff quietly, trying to avoid his gaze. There has to be a level of pride preserved with this man, and it won’t be preserved if you simply tell him everything.

Rafayel checks the pockets now, turning them inside out and face brightening when he finds a little chocolate. Without even asking you if you would like it (it was your chocolate in the first place!) he unwraps it and pops it in his mouth.

“Something’s up. I don’t really like the idea that you consider this out of fashion.” A pouty little frown forms on his face. “Nothing I own is ugly, just so you know.”

“You’re so dramatic. It’s not ugly. Just…y’know, take it back, wear it a bit, and maybe I’ll borrow it again later.”

“Huh?” His brows crinkle. “So you do want it? Then why even give it back? I’ll telling you you can have it.”

“Ugh—“ You cut yourself off with a quiet growl, glaring at him and his stupid questioning eyes. Pretty boys are such a dangerous breed; they truly can make you do anything.

“It doesn’t smell like you anymore, okay?”

There’s a pause after you finally confess, but as soon as the words register, Rafayel grins.

“Shut up shut up shut up—“

He tosses the jacket to the floor, then takes your hands and tugs you to him, cutting you off with a soft kiss. With a defeated but happy sigh, you run your hands from his shoulders down to his chest, melting under his touch. He’s so very gentle with you, it would make you angry if it didn’t make you smitten. He tastes like the chocolate he stole from you.

“Meri jaan,” he mumbles into the kiss, apparently unable to break it even to speak properly, “you don’t have to wait for me to wear it. You can have any of my jackets. Any of my clothes—any item in my house.” He keeps smiling against your lips, while his hands circle around you to hold you close. “Everything I own is yours, as am I.”

And well, you have to kiss him a little more after a statement like that. A little more, a little deeper, a little closer, though you could never get close enough.

By the time you leave the house, there’s not a single part of you that doesn’t have his scent. And as much as you’d like to have complaints with that, you find that you’re too happily snuggled up in your new cardigan to be able to come up with any.

[sunshineangel0]

save a horse...

pairing- cowboy!lee minho x city girl!reader genre- strangers-to-Lovers Vibes, cowboy au, humor, fluff word count- 1.6k warnings- explicit sexual content, oral (f. receiving), sex (protected), public-ish setting, language, hay? (yeah, there’s hay.), light dominance, dirty talk, praise/degradation mix, fluff too a/n- ive been watching twisters too often folks and done and dusted series has me in a chokehold sooo. also, sorry if the spicy scene is a little rushed though 😭 im no professionl in writing those

You hadn’t planned on spending your summer knee-deep in dirt and attitude, but here you were—boots borrowed, suitcase dusty, and a sunburn threatening to ruin your entire vibe. The ranch sat somewhere between nowhere and "you’re lost," and every minute you spent on it was a reminder that your cousin’s destination wedding came with a catch: help out at her fiancé’s family ranch for a week, or don’t come at all.

Which is how you met him.

Lee Minho.

Tan skin. Smirking mouth. Hands in his back pockets like he had all the time in the world—and knew you didn’t.

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

You glanced down at your overpriced sneakers and back at him. “Wow. What gave it away? The lack of hay in my hair?”

He grinned, slow and wicked. “That, or the way you looked at the horse like it just insulted your mom.”

You narrowed your eyes. “It tried to bite me.”

“It sniffed you.” “Same thing.”

He chuckled and pushed off the fence he’d been leaning against. The denim on denim should’ve looked ridiculous. It didn’t. “Name’s Minho. I’m in charge of making sure you don’t die out here.”

“That’s comforting.”

“You’ll live.” He walked past you, then tossed something over his shoulder. “If you can keep up.”

You should’ve ignored him. You should’ve rolled your eyes and gone back to pretending there was Wi-Fi. Instead, you followed. Because something about the way he said it—a challenge wrapped in a smirk—made you want to prove him wrong.

And maybe—just maybe—you liked the way his jeans fit way too much for your own good.

You spent the rest of the afternoon fake-working. Watering stuff. Feeding something. Trying not to trip over your own feet or punch a chicken.

Minho showed you how to hold the feed bucket “without looking like it weighs more than you.” You told him to mind his business. He just smirked again, that damn smirk, and let you struggle anyway.

By sunset, your shirt clung to your back and your temper hung by a thread.

“I’m starting to think this whole ‘ranch experience’ thing is a scam,” you muttered, dragging your body to the porch where Minho sat, a beer in his hand, sweat drying on his neck.

“You still haven’t ridden.”

You blinked. “The horse?”

He looked at you over the rim of his bottle. “What else would I mean?”

You snorted. “Please. I’m a city girl, not a rodeo queen.”

“You afraid?” he asked, pushing up from his chair and stepping closer. Close enough that you could smell the sun on his skin and something warmer beneath it.

“I don’t do ‘afraid.’ I do ‘sensible.’”

He leaned in, voice dropping just enough. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn't, really. Because now his hand was brushing your waist as he reached past you for something—a rope, maybe, or an excuse—and your brain had short-circuited around the way his fingers lingered just a second too long.

Minho grinned, too smug for someone that pretty. “Tell you what,” he said, stepping back. “You ride tomorrow, I’ll make it worth your while.”

Your eyebrow arched. “Define ‘worth.’”

He didn’t. Just tipped his hat, winked, and said, “Save a horse, sweetheart. Ride a cowboy.”

You didn’t sleep much that night. Maybe it was the creaky bed, or the crickets, or maybe it was the way Minho had said it—ride a cowboy—like a dare, a promise, or both.

The man was cocky. That much was obvious. But it wasn’t the empty kind. He knew things. How to move. How to look at you like he was already three steps ahead.

And you hated it. Except you didn’t.

The next morning, you showed up at the stables wearing the same borrowed boots and a little more nerve.

Minho was already there, brushing down a chestnut mare. He didn’t look up when you walked in, just said, “Thought you’d chicken out.”

You crossed your arms. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

That got his attention. He turned, gave you a slow once-over, eyes dragging like warm honey down your legs and back up to your mouth. “Guess you are.”

He didn’t smile this time. Just held your gaze, then clicked his tongue and motioned toward a saddled horse. “Let’s go.”

The ride was rough. You weren’t good at it, and Minho was very good at enjoying that fact.

“Loosen your grip,” he called out. “Unless you like pain.”

“Maybe I do,” you shouted back, surprising even yourself.

Minho laughed—deep, full. The sound hit you low in the gut.

By the time you made it back, you were exhausted, sweaty, and... strangely wired. Like something had settled under your skin, warm and restless. You were ready to snap—or do something reckless.

Minho tied up the horses and walked over. He was quiet for a beat, then said, “You did good.”

You raised an eyebrow. “No snarky comment?”

He stepped closer. “Thought I’d give you a break. Unless you miss the banter.”

You didn’t move. Neither did he. The air between you snapped tight, full of heat and dust and something you hadn’t let yourself name yet.

“I thought you were gonna make it worth my while,” you said, voice low.

He smirked. “I did. You didn’t fall off.”

“That’s it?”

Minho leaned in, hand grazing your hip, thumb hooking into a belt loop. “No,” he murmured. “That’s not it.”

Then he kissed you.

You didn’t even make it to the house.

The second the barn door creaked shut behind you, Minho had you pressed against it, mouth on your neck, hands already dragging your shirt up like he’d been dying to get his hands on you all week—and maybe he had. Maybe you had, too.

“You have no idea,” he growled, breath hot on your throat, “how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

“You’ve been a smug asshole since the minute I got here,” you panted, hands in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him grunt. “Could’ve said something.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” He nipped your collarbone, shoved your bra up with one hand and sucked your nipple into his mouth like he’d earned it.

Your back arched off the door. “Fuck—”

“That’s the plan,” he muttered.

Then he dropped to his knees.

Rough hands gripped your thighs, shoved your jeans and panties down in one smooth move. You kicked them off without thinking. He threw one of your legs over his shoulder and dove in like a man starved—tongue flat, then pointed, then circling your clit with obscene skill. No teasing. No warm-up. Just pressure and precision and filthy groans like he loved the taste of you.

“Jesus, Minho—” Your hand clawed at the wood behind you, other fisting his hair as your hips bucked forward. He didn’t stop. Just gripped your ass tighter and buried his tongue deeper, working you like he had something to prove.

You came fast, sudden and hard—your thighs trembling, his name spilling out of your mouth like a broken record.

But he didn’t stop.

“Too much—fuck—Minho—”

“I know,” he mumbled, tongue still moving. “I’m not done.”

He gave you another orgasm—ripped from you with fingers this time, two thick digits inside you, crooking just right while he watched you unravel from below like it was his favorite fucking movie.

And then—finally—he stood.

“You’re soaked,” he said, voice low and wrecked. “Bet you’re dying to feel me stretch you out.”

You grabbed at his belt, yanked it open with shaking fingers. “Then shut up and fuck me already.”

“Yeah?” He spun you around, pressed your front to the barn door, one hand in your hair, the other yanking your hips back against him. “Beg.”

You hissed, needy and breathless. “Minho, please.”

“That’s better.”

The condom came on quick, and then you felt it—him—thick and hard, the blunt head of his cock nudging your entrance, slow and deliberate. He rubbed it through your slick folds first, letting it catch on your clit just to make you squirm.

“Goddamn, you’re tight,” he breathed as he pushed in, inch by inch. “Fucking perfect.”

Your mouth fell open, cheek against the door, breath gone. He was big. The stretch was insane, but so fucking good.

Once he bottomed out, he stayed there, chest to your back, one hand sliding around to palm your tits, the other gripping your throat just enough to keep you in place.

“Still think city girls can’t ride cowboys?”

“Minho,” you gasped, trying to push back onto him.

He chuckled darkly. “Desperate already?”

Then he started to move.

His thrusts were filthy—deep, hard, controlled. He knew exactly how to hit that spot inside you over and over again, how to grind his hips so his base rubbed against your clit every time.

You were gone. No thoughts. No words. Just the sound of skin slapping skin and the sharp moans you couldn’t hold in.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Take it. Take every inch.”

You did.

He fucked you like he owned your body—like you were his and this barn was his bed and the sunlit fields outside didn’t matter. He whispered the nastiest shit in your ear—how good you felt, how tight you were, how fucking pretty you sounded when you begged. And when you came again, a third time, clenching around him so hard he almost lost it, he swore loud and dirty, thrust twice more and spilled with a low, guttural "fuck".

He pulled out. You both stood there for a minute—sweaty, breathless, wrecked.

You turned around slowly, legs shaking. “That what you meant by ‘worth my while’?”

He looked you over—flushed skin, kiss-bitten lips, hay in your hair—and smirked.

“No,” he said, leaning in for one more kiss. “That was just the first round.”

©sunshineangel0 𖹭 if you liked this work, please consider reblogging, commenting or liking! xoxo franzi 💋

skz general: @velvetmoonlght @scarlet789 @estella-novella @nightmarenyxx

(if you wanna be added to the taglist comment below!)

[gghostwriter]

hi dear author! how are you?

I have a request for Spencer where reader has a head injury and passes out and Spencer's reaction to it and the aftermath. I found your fic around 15 mins ago and I'm in love with them<3

Thank you!!

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader Trope: Established Relationship; Fluff! Just fluff Warning: Medical inaccuracies A/N: I’m sensing a pattern with the request writing I’m doing—most of them deal with a head injury of some sort but I am having fun trying to make it different the the earlier works. No further editing was done but I hope you enjoy it! Main masterlist

Bundle of Nerves. // Spencer Reid

The bright and playful disposition of your kindergarten students was one of things you looked forward to every Monday. How each student would go up to you to chatter about how their weekend went—family went to the park or to the library or to the beach—and how in return, they’ll ask if you also enjoyed the weekend as much as they did. 

But something seemed off today, you really couldn’t specify where it all started. Maybe it was you falling back to sleep after your alarm went off, or maybe it was you missing breakfast, or maybe it was just all of the above. 

Either way, everything was going sideways and it was just about to get worse. The lights seemed darker, the children’s voices were distorted, and the room was starting to sway. Feeling the need to sit down, you were only able to take a couple of steps to your desk before promptly fainting—smacking your forehead on the floor and the children screaming for help.

———

Spencer wasn’t one to wish for a case to land on JJ’s desk but at 1:30pm on a Monday, he found himself twiddling his thumbs and calculating his rocket launches using his expansive brain capacity—all paper filings done and submitted early. He swiveled to face Morgan who was caught red handed about to throw a paper clip in his direction. 

“Hey Kid,” he cleared his throat, trying to act nonchalantly. “You done with your paperwork?”

“Yeah, now I’m thinking of how to improve my rocket magic. Hey do you think if I add more—” 

The vibration of his phone on the table interrupted his sentence. His eyebrows furrowed as he took in the unregistered number. Curious but definitely wary, he pressed ‘accept’.

“Hi, this is Dr. Spencer Reid. Who is this?”

A female voice answered. “Hi Dr. Spencer Reid, I’m calling from Virginia State Hospital. Y/N had you listed down as her emergency contact. She was admitted—”

The remaining information all sounded muffled. His breathing was spiking up and all he could hear now was the rapid staccato beating of his heart. He couldn’t think straight. Is this what unknowing family members of victims feel when they receive a distress call? Like the rug was pulled under their feet? He couldn’t comprehend what to do, how to—

“Dr. Reid, are you still there?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes—yes, I’ll be there soon.”

Before the voice could say another word, he ended the call, was out of his desk, and up the steps to his unit chief’s office, SSA Aaron Hotchner. 

“Reid, what is it?” the stern BAU leader clocking in the distress painted on the genius’ face.

“I-it’s Y/N. She was admitted at hospital and—”

He nodded. “Go, Reid. I’ll explain to the team and HR.”

With a quick ‘thank you’, he ducked out of the bullpen to the elevator, grateful that he opted to drive to Quantico today rather than take his usual train route.

Maybe he should have borrowed the government owned SUV instead, he thought to himself when he turned to the main road and saw the congestion. Hotch would have understood, he just wasn’t sure how to explain that in paperwork but this counted as an emergency, right? It felt like a life or death situation to him—for him and for you. 

When he exited the bottleneck traffic, Spencer wanted to floor the gas. His foot itched to stomp on the accelerator and worry about the fines later. But the idea of getting caught, being pulled over, and wasting more precious seconds away from your side was enough for him to second guess it—that and his tight white knuckle grip on the steering wheel. 

He should have asked for more information over the phone call but the second his mind registered the words, it went to overdrive and out of the window—his emotions were running high and clouding every logical thought possible. He had an IQ of 187 but all he could think of was you. You, the love of his life. You, his fiancee, lying down on a hospital bed, alone and unconscious. Any man, no matter how smart they are, would react the same way he did when it involves a loved one.

He parked his car at the first slot he could find in the hospital parking lot and ran straight to the reception.

“I’m looking for Y/N. She was admitted a while ago. I-I’m her fiancee.” Spencer hurriedly introduced himself.

The nurse nodded once, stating your floor and room number. Without so much as an acknowledgement, he ran to the nearest elevator and willed it to open any faster.

Spencer felt like he ran a marathon by the time he found your room and seeing you there, lying on your bed—conscious, thank god—took a little weight off his chest. He breathed out your name in relief. “What happened? Did you—did you hit your head?”

Your hand gingerly touched the bandage on your forehead. “I think so. I started to feel faint so I was walking back to my chair. I must have hit my head on my way down—”

He took your hands into his, kissing it. “You had me so worried. Did the doctor say anything? Diagnosis? Cause? Treatment?”

“No. When I came to, only a nurse was here. She left to page the doctor but it’s okay—I feel fine now.”

Spencer opened his mouth, no doubt to chide you about minimizing your pain and health, but then the doctor walked in with a clipboard on hand.

“Hi, I’m Doctor Smith. How are we feeling?”

“She said she was feeling faint before she hit her head. Does she have a concussion? Why did she feel faint—was it stress? Hypoglycemia? Labyrinthitis? Vertebrobasilar insufficiency?” Spencer rattled off.

 “Well, your husband sure knows medical terminology. Are you a Doctor too?” the physician asked.

Spencer’s brows met in between, finding the whole interaction off-putting. Here he was about to have a nervous breakdown and your doctor was as calm as a cucumber. “Fiancee, actually, and yes Doctor, 3 Phds not MD.”

“Impressive, and to answer your questions, Doc. None of the above.” 

His eyes widened. “Then it could be hypo—” 

Dr. Smith smiled and shook his head. “It’s not that either.” He reached into his clipboard, removing a prescription pad, and quickly jotting down medicine. “Here you go. She’ll need to take a capsule a day and I suggest a healthy balanced meal, exercise, and plenty of bed rest.”

Spencer’s eyes widened when he realized what the chicken scratch handwriting said. 

“What—what is it?” You asked in worry as Spencer seemed to have glitched.

The doctor grinned at you.“Congratulations, you’re pregnant.” 

Silence. 

“I-I’m what?!” 

The doctor chuckled. “You’re 3 weeks along so you’re still in the early stages. Your body is still adjusting—the fainting spell was caused by change in your hormones and low blood pressure. I suggest you schedule an appointment with your OB/GYN as soon as possible and get ample rest—” he looked at the couple once more before exiting the room. “—congratulations, again.”

The tears that started to gather in your eyes seemed to bring Spencer back to life. “Oh love, are those—are those happy tears or—?” 

You nodded. “Happy tears, Spence. I can’t believe it!” 

He reached out to hug you to his chest. “I love you, Y/N. You make me feel like the luckiest man in the world.” 

You giggled. “I guess we have to tell your team about the baby genius on board, huh?” 

He laughed, remembering how Emily once asked him if he ever planned on having one and here he was about to become a father. 

You gasp, causing him to lean back and look at you with worry—did he hug you too tight? Did you feel— 

“I’m not going to fit in my wedding dress by then! Penny will have a fit! She had this vision and—” 

He leaned down to interrupt your ramblings. 

“I’m sure she’ll forgive you, especially if you're turning her into an aunt.”

You smiled, peering through your eyelashes. “Y’know we might have to find a new apartment soon. Just imagining how much shopping Penny would do for our baby genius even before he or she is born is making me shudder.”

He laughed. “Me too, love. Me too.”

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[revelboo]

I'm crying and kicking like a child for more crumbs of "give up/give in". Please You can continue to write to our Angelina Jolie from Cybertron 😭😢🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏

Sure! 🤣 Megs is entering unconscious nesting mode

Give Up/Give In Pt 15

Earthspark Megatron x Reader

• Venting as he pulls things he’d ’borrowed’ from Ghost out of his subspace, he’s knows that he might have gone a bit overboard. Setting the bed down and pulling blankets, pillows, and sheets out to pile on top. He might have cleaned out every soft thing in the dormitory that he’d been able to reach kneeling on the ground and reaching through the door. And it still seems wholly inadequate. Aware of you sitting crosslegged on his berth watching him curiously, he glances at you. “I know it’s not much,” he says. “I’ll see what else I can find for you.”

• Feeling guilty as he worries and fusses over you, you twist your hands in your lap. Know you should be an adult and go home, instead of clinging to him like your giant, alien security blanket. “It’s fine. More than fine,” you reassure him, forcing a smile. Because you’re not disappointed, just worried about eventually going back to reality. Know that the way you’ve latched on to him probably isn’t healthy. And not wanting to admit that you’d already had anxiety problems because you’d crossed his path. That the idea of going to that empty house makes you so miserable you want to be sick.

• Optics narrowing when you offer him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, he leans to gently tap a servo under your chin. “You know you can talk to me.” Are you having second thoughts? Missing your human comforts? Tells himself that if you have changed your mind, he’ll take you home. But he’s not entirely sure he’s not lying to himself. Wishes he’d paid more attention to his adopted human sister. Listened when she’d talked about how she’d met Alex. What he’d done to win her over. How humans court a mate.

• “I know,” you say, catching his servo. How can he be so intimidating looking and act so soft sometimes? As silly as it is, you wish he was human. That this could go somewhere. Be more than just him feeling obligated to take care of you. He doesn’t deserve to be saddled with you just because you’re anxious and afraid. Because you want to stay and hold on to the warmth and safety of him. Fall asleep listening to his spark thrumming under you, his deep voice soothing you as you talk about nothing important. Does he secretly resent having to take care of you and just hide it so well?

• You’re troubled, but watching your lips press into a thin line, he doesn’t push. Wants you to talk to him because you want to. Not because he’s hounding you. Servo sliding over your cheek, he vents and reluctantly pulls away. “I borrowed some cases of water and food rations from GHOST.” Along with a camp shower, towels, soap, and anything else he could grab that you might even possibly need. Just because he’d spent time around humans, doesn’t mean he’s that knowledgeable. Wants you to be comfortable, though. And maybe you’ll decide to stay. He won’t have to be so lonely anymore, have someone waiting for him to return to. Someone happy to see him.

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Alright… Soundwave, Starscream or Waspinator? I’ll be making a Soundwave regardless since my brother accidentally ruined my Symbiote Studios Soundwave that was my Jeep’s mascot, but I’m trying to remind myself how to sculpt wool fibers since it’s been a bit, so: test plush head