#don’t get me wrong it’s still very funny!!

[rinabin]

dance practice

“fucking seunghan,” you mutter under your breath, turning down yet another hallway. hearing the lack of loud obnoxious music, you realize you’ve gone the wrong way for the third time. groaning internally, you question why you’d tried to find this place yourself instead of simply asking the front desk. and of course seunghan had to not answer his phone at this very moment. granted he was probably practicing but hey!!!! you're a girl struggling in this maze that they called the dance building, you're allowed to be mad.

just as you’re about to take another step, you hear someone calling your name. whipping your head around expecting seunghan to come save you, you see another pair of eyes blinking at you instead.

“wonbin?” you say, surprised. 

wonbin gives you a small wave as he walks up. “what are you doing here? i’ve never seen you around the studio before” he asks.

explaining the dilemma you’re in, wonbin presses his lips together as if he’s trying not to laugh. you pause mid sentence and narrow your eyes at him, “so you think my suffering is funny?”

“no i would never think that,” he says with mock innocence. before you can retort, wonbin offers, “ i’m actually meeting them. you wanna walk together?” you nod, silently thanking wonbin for saving you from yourself.

a silence follows the two of you as you walk through the halls of the dance studio. taking in your environment, you try to memorize the correct turns and corners refusing to be embarrassed like this again.

“how’s daisy?” wonbin asks, catching you off guard.

“huh?” 

“daisy,” he repeats, with a grin, “how is she? i need to make sure i left her in good hands.”

you stare at him, deadpan, “you’re asking me how a stuffed animal is doing?”

wonbin lets out a side smile, “she’s your daughter isn’t she?" 

deciding to play along, you respond, “she’s very well, no thanks to you,” giving him a playful side eye. 

wonbin lets out a scoff, dramatically bringing his hand to his chest, “yn! how are you insult me like this? i literally birthed her.”

"shut up,” you softly shove him with your shoulder walking alongside him.

“soooooooooo, do you dance?” you question.

“not professionally like taro”, wonbin clarifies, “but i do enjoy it. i drop in sometimes when he’s practicing to blow off some steam.” he opens the studio door for you, “we’re here”. 

spotting seunghan, you immediately make a beeline towards him. “hey yn- ow what the hell!” seunghan exclaims as you lightly smack the back of his head. 

“that’s for not answering my texts and leaving me to fend for myself in this maze” you huff out. seunghan, confused opens his bag to see the 50 messages you left him on his phone.

“oh my god yn. i am so sorry, i left my phone on dnd” he apologies. "at least you made it here,” seunghan meekly adds.

rolling your eyes for dramatics, you hand him his wallet. observing the studio as seunghan packs his wallet, you see shotaro drinking water. you shyly raise your hand as a greeting, which he returns with a smile and a nod. next to him, you spot wonbin taking off his jacket, revealing a white tank top that showcase his defined arm muscles. feeling your face get warm at the sight, you quickly look back down at seunghan who is still ruffling through his bag. watching him scramble through his bag, you let him know you’re going to head out.

“wait, no don’t go.” seunghan exclaims, standing up from his bag. “we’re gonna go for lunch after. come with us. it’s on me”.

toying with the straps of your jacket, you mumble that you don’t want to be an intrusion. seunghan reassures you that you won’t be, looking over to shotaro for backup. shotaro agrees, encouraging you to stay while wonbin adds a soft “stay” in support. you meet his eyes - maybe for a moment too long - before turning back at seunghan. 

“okay”, you whisper as you slide down to get settled on the floor. as you put your stuff away, you make eye contact with wonbin once again. he meets your gaze with a gentle expression, definitelyyyyyy not leaving you with butterflies in your chest.

masterlist

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a/n: merry christmas and happy holidays!!! hope u all enjoy my gift to u <3

taglist [send an ask or comment to be added]: @antosaurius@jkeydiary@cherrytaesan@dorritoni@profoundruinsunknown @daegale @choc0br3ad

[kissmefriendly]

Listening to The Amelia Project in 2017: Oh haha what a fun take on an office comedy! A death faking business, this is hilarious!

Listening to the Amelia Project in 2023: Death is inescapable, we will always leave behind those we love and be left behind, we do the best with the time we have and it is never enough, our stories will always outlive us so long as there is someone to tell them after we cannot

[fisherrprince]

oh so alisaie’s exaggerated bully behavior is 80% fanon. saying this she casually picks up a large rock

[hannahhasafact]

Freddie Wong’s GMs: I am begging you to let me help your character have character growth

Freddie Wong: absolutely the fuck not have a nice day

[soullessjack]

tbh as bitter as I am about jack being infantilized to all hell, sometimes it’s actually very funny in just how wrong it is bc there’ll be all these headcanons or fanart or imagines (that I find against my will on Pinterest) where he’s some sensitive little steven universe guy who gets bullied in high school and cries when you step on an ant and cant have beer or swear cuz he’s just a widdle innocent bean who can’t be corrupted by. Alcohol that he already canonically drinks and swear words he already canonically says. . ? or sex and romance that he literally says he wants to experience ? and then in the actual show he’s throwing a whole teenage hissy fit over not being able to kill 500 demons with a single look anymore when he’s human and torturing his father’s vessel as slowly and painfully as he can and eating raw hearts and attempting to strangle someone in a fit of rage so strong it takes being shot six times to make him calm down . And the sheer juxtaposition of that fanon / canon is so funny and unbelievable I kinda can’t be mad at it

[robotwrangler]

Thinking about when I had a dream that turned out to technically be a prophecy bc it perfectly predicted a large plot development in Warframe’s storyline that I hadn’t gotten even close to yet

[fowlblue]

Can people PLEASE be normal about having a fear of dogs

[exopelagic]

I wiped out so hard tonight my KNEES

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

I will be like “he’s just like me fr” about the most fucked up little guy and when asked how I’m like “idk actually. Maybe I should talk to my therapist about this”

[prismaticpichu]

🌸 for the ask game :3

Absolutely!! Ty for the ask!

🌸 Best compliment you ever received ~ “You are wise beyond your years.” Cliché as heck, but as a very small bean and as someone who values maturity, this really meant the world to me ❤️ It boosted my self-esteem tenfold, and for a long while (and even now, really) gave me the confidence to provide my own two cents in serious situations instead of remaining quiet. Even if I don’t always say the right thing- and boy I slip up a lot- being told I have some good insight and being able to share that with others is everything to me.

[total-mkulia]

Anyways at any point if this turned into a td and clone high blog how mad at me would you be be real

[obstinaterixatrix]

So last week liz took me to see a local production of heathers, which was the first time I’ve actually seen the show the whole way through, which was really interesting. The thing is, the production had a Diversity Equity and Inclusion guy listed on staff, which makes sense for a black comedy from the 80s, but ALSO there were several asian americans in the main cast and I think they must’ve been pretty strategic about casting in a pretty interesting way. heather chandler, JD, and martha were the characters in the principle cast that were played by asian americans, and it reminded me of the book ‘Forever Foreigners or Honorary Whites?: The Asian Ethnic Experience Today’—if heather c was the only asian american, that’d have unfortunate implications with ideas of assimilation/privilege (sidebar, I’ve talked to friends who live/have lived on the west coast and they’ve told me ‘yeah asian americans on the west coast are SOOO DIFFERENT from asian americans in other parts of the usa’ which is pretty interesting, but I’d imagine it’s dependent on how high the asian population is in any given place—I’m not on the west coast but my high school was like 30% asam and I’m pretty sure I walk around with less baggage than asam folks who don’t have that experience) and if JD was the only asian american that’d have really unfortunate implications mirroring that whole Yellow Peril Those Barbaric Asian Men Are After Our White Women (which, with an ungenerous reading one could argue that those implications are there anyway, but I think that having heather c as asam it leaves room for that *dichotomy*—while it’s pretty common nowadays in the usa to consider asam folks as ‘honorary whites’ [when it’s convenient], having asam characters that counter that perspective [both JD and Martha] allows room for more nuance). (another sidebar, JD is a character where I feel like the narrative is less difficult to navigate if he’s played by a white actor because it becomes more delicate if he’s played by any actor of color—I think it worked for that production, and of course I’m mega biased [pan-ethnic solidarity] [lol] so this did get me way more sympathetic to JD than I no doubt would’ve been if he had been played by a white actor). and if only JD and heather c were played by asam actors—well imo that dichotomy would be enough for some nuance, but—it’s still kind of in the unfortunate implication zone with them both being primarily antagonists, and having martha played by an asam actor neutralizes some of those implications by being a purely sympathetic character. so to me it feels like it definitely works in a way that the tv show casting Really Did Not. anyway, I’m talking about all this separate from performances, but they were all really good too—heather c was doing high kicks in insane heels??? and ballet in bathroom slippers??? also my bias kicked in for her too, she did a great job playing a severe and ruthless terrible person (lol).

[victory-cookies]

one chapter of PoP left and I would like to announce that I am a Rick Shades stan. Love that guy

[kamitv]

Your best friend Sukuna is a complete slut.

Though you’d never say that aloud—albeit more than true. That's the only way to describe him because why else would he be in your bedroom, sitting on the edge of your bed, with his legs spread wide open, fingers wrapped around his thick cock, and groans of your name leaving his lips?

Because he’s a goddamn slut, that’s why. And normally when you interrupt his… sexual acts, you quietly apologize and rush off as quickly as possible.

Yet, here you were, being ordered by your best friend not to run away this time.

“I’m not gonna repeat myself,” Sukuna’s raspy and slightly husked voice drawls out to you, eyes boring into yours from across the room, “Bring your ass over here.”

Funny how he said he wasn’t going to repeat himself only to follow up with a literal repeat of his initial order-

“Now,” He hums, his voice sending a chill down your spine.

You stiffen up where you stand, trying your absolute best to keep your eyes anywhere and everywhere else except for the hand he had stroking his cock.

Gulping, “Sukuna-,” He shoots you a pointed glare and you start getting nervous. “You can’t just… j-jerk off in my room and expect me to… to help you.”

“Fuck,” He hisses, your eyes nearly falling on him again as the low noise makes you fidget, “Fine, then get out,” Sukuna tells you.

Your brows push together at the audacity of him, not that it really surprises you anymore, “But-“

“Out. I’ll be done soon,” He cuts off, sitting back and fisting his cock at a quicker pace, eyes drinking in every inch of your still figure.

You didn’t want to look at him. Nor did you want him jerking off in your bedroom. But, you also didn’t want to leave for some strange reason.

Hence why you just stand there and look around your room as if you don’t know the interior already. Sukuna can’t help but crack a smirk as you stand there, his breath growing heavy before he calls your name— watching the way you flinch at the sound.

“Kinda’ awkward if you just stand there, y’know,” He chuckles out to you, finding you oh so amusing.

You frown, “Kinda’ awkward if you just jerk off in my bedroom.”

“It wouldn’t be if you came over here,” He snaps back.

You hate how quick he always is with his responses, something you still haven’t gotten used to throughout all your years of friendship. Swallowing, you just barely glance at the man, “What?” You huff out.

Your eyes were on his and his were on yours. Tension was vexed into his gaze, desire pouring out of his maroon shaded eyes and making you so utterly nervous as you stood across the room from him.

All as he just sat there, shirtless, tattooed and chiseled chest very difficult not to gaze at, large thighs spread lewdly, and hard curved cock twitching within his grasp as precum oozed out his tip.

You couldn’t help the way your gaze dropped for a moment, catching sight of his cock and the way his plump tip glistened under your dim bedroom lighting. His hand movements got noticeable faster as you watched and you drew your thighs closer together.

Sukuna lets out a deep sigh, “Y’know,” The sound of his voice makes you flinch yet again and you lift your gaze as though you’d been caught doing something wrong, seeing the smirk on his face, “You can come get a closer look.”

You bat your lashes at him, “W-What?”

“Is that all you know how to say?” He chuckles, “Hah, just c’mere already,” He suddenly requests, voice softening ever so slightly. “I won’t bite.”

And that’s… roughly how you ended up on your knees in between his legs. With a mouthful of his cock, you don’t even remember what’d come over you after you listened to his request and came close to him.

One moment you started shyly teasing him about being a pervert who jerks off in your bedroom and the next you were curling your fingers around his shaft and making your way down to your knees. Sukuna had let out a long shaky sigh as he watched you settle in between his spread legs, his urge to tease you dying off as some other emotion swelled within his chest.

He’ll never admit it to you but, he was shy. How could he not be when your soft hand begins stroking his cock like he’s just some kinda toy for you to play with—what’d you expect him to do when you look up at him and lean forward to wrap your lips around his drooling cockhead? 

Unfortunately for him, his expression gave away everything and as soon as his dick began disappearing into the warm caverns of your mouth, he was a goner. A hand was now tightly gripped onto your scalp, his breathing unsteady as he watched you suck him off with that pretty ass mouth of yours.

He’ll never be able to forget the sight of drool spilling out from the corners of your mouth while you tried your best to take him all the way into your throat. And his mind just about blanks when you move your hands to his thighs, push them further apart, and then sink down completely—your lips meeting his base.

Now that was a sight to see. 

“F-Fuck,” Sukuna stammered, the sound alone leading you to choke a bit as a moan attempted to leave your throat. His darkened eyes were seconds away from rolling to the back of his skull with how sexy he found the sight of your lips bulging around his thick cock.

When you finally do pull your mouth off of him, he doesn’t even get a moment to breathe before your hands are wrapping around him. He goes from leaning back slightly to sitting up a bit straighter and moving his hands down to one of your wrists, his lips unknowingly quivering.

Then a pant escapes him and you’re bringing your eyes back up to look at him. “Slow, woman—fuck, go… hah, slow.” He says hoarsely.

Oh the desperation on his face was priceless. Why ever would you listen to him when using two hands to jerk him off is all it takes to receive a slightly pouted lip and furrowed brows from him. He probably doesn’t even realize the face he’s making at the moment, too grumpy trying to take control of the situation to feel his features faltering. 

You coo, “Aw, go slow? But, ‘Kuna, I thought this was what you wanted?” 

The nickname you just threw at him has to be evil in some way, shape, or form because the wild twitch it invokes is enough to have your hands tightening their grip around his thick cock. 

Sukuna grits his teeth and you can see a vein popping out in his forehead—he’s so annoyed with you now that the roles have reversed, it’s cute. “Fuck you,” He curses, as if that’ll help him avoid the embarrassment bubbling up within him right now.

“Oh, there he is,” You purr, removing one of your hands just to angle his cock back toward your lips and then tapping it against your skin gently. “S’kinda hard to be mean to me when I’m makin’ you feel so good, isn’t it?”

He swears you’ll be the death of him. He’s never experienced this side of you, nor was he aware it even existed. All he’s ever known you as was his shy roommate who’s so unintentionally attractive that it pains him to be around. Is this really the same woman who was stuttering moments ago when she walked in the room and caught him jerking off??

Sukuna huffs out an almost bratty breath of air, “Stop… talking.” Just as he’s never seen this side of you, you’ve never seen this side of him and fuck is it hot. He’s usually such a big intimidating man and yet here he is literally folding and gasping to your touch.

You completely strip your hands away from his cock and then open your mouth, staring right up into his eyes as you whisper, “Make me.”

All that embarrassment and temporary shyness is gone within the blink of an eye. Sukuna’s stumbling up slightly to his feet and grabbing a firm hold of the top of your head, letting out a gruff sigh while taking his dick into his hands and properly aligning himself with your mouth.

His chest is glistening in sweat and his head is pounding, he was all nervous seconds ago for what? Because of you? Oh please.

It only took those two words of yours for him to remember who the hell he is as he then thrusts his hips forward and quickly fucks himself into your mouth. “That’s more like it,” Sukuna grunts, giving your mouth some mean thrusts as he forces your head to move and meet each one of his motions. “Fuckin’ slut, m-makin me nervous,” He admits hoarsely, his tone aggravated with you. “Who do you think you are, huh?”

You’re obviously too busy getting your face fucked to answer that properly but the moan you let out that leads to drool filthily dribbling out your mouth is enough of a reply for him. Especially when he catches how it drips down onto your thighs. 

Sukuna releases a pretty groan out into the air at the mere sight of you. He thought he was losing his mind before but now it’s even worse. You don’t even have your hands on his thighs to try and brace yourself or control what’s happening—you just let him have his way with your throat, taking things a step further and moving your hands behind your slightly arched back.

Fuck, he needs a picture of this. He desperately needs this display of you burned into the forefront of his mind for the rest of his life. Especially as he starts hitting the back of your throat and you purposefully choke against him. Sukuna’s other hand lifts to cover his mouth because he swears he almost whined.

Your throats too fuckin’ tight, you’re holding eye contact with him for too damn long, and if he feels your tongue flick against that specific vein of his one more time—

“Hnngh—” Sukuna moans, his grip almost bruising as his head flies back and his cock presses right against the very depths of your mouth, hips stalling with the way his orgasm comes rudely rushing out of him. 

Then he feels you swallowing and even though he was trying to keep you head still, you begin to bob yourself back and forth on his cock while he’s cumming and that’s when a whimper is choked out from his lips. Sukuna’s whole body just clenches and he’s letting out all kinds of sounds as his hand, now shaky, holds onto your head for dear life.

Even when he stops cumming, you’re still sucking and his eyes roll back, voice coming out strained. “S-Shit, fuck—stop,” Sukuna moans again, “Please?” Never in all your years of living did you ever think you’d hear Sukuna Ryomen begging you for something and yet here you are.

You steadily pull your mouth off of him with a slick pop, sting after string of saliva hanging in between his tip and your glossy lips. He’s above you panting for a moment before stumbling back to sit down on the edge of your bed again.

A hand of yours moves to causally wipe your mouth off and you don’t even know if you wanna tease him now or later about what just happened. “So, that was—”

“Don’t speak,” He cuts off immediately, his voice surprisingly airy. “Ever. Never bring this up again.”

You snort, “Promise me you won’t jerk off in my room again, first.”

Sukuna scoffs. “Tch. Whatever.”

Like the vixen you are, you begin to lean toward him again and you don’t know if you image it but he flinches ever so slightly. “Promise me,” You say as your hands meet his knees and you begin to lift yourself up.

His eyes go wide and he internally panics at the sight of you moving. “Fucking fine. I promise.”

Smiling, you move to lean over his tensed body and plant a kiss on his cheek, “Good boy.”

…

Yeahhh, his brain just powered off.

[luveline]

𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

Spencer calls you drunk and in need of rescue. You confess a few secrets to him while he won’t remember them (or so you think). 3k, fem

cw drunk!spencer, mentioned past drug use, confident/bombshell!reader, flirting, spencer getting some well deserved comfort, a handful of his drunken compliments, insecurity, intense mutual pining

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You’re blissfully sleeping in the arms of a REM cycle when your phone rings. It pulls you by the chest, a punch of shock and expectancy at once. It’ll be someone calling you into work, Hotch himself if you’re lucky. 

You search blindly for your phone. If you’re even luckier, it’ll be a wrong number. Your fingers curl around the little body of your phone and you bring it to your ear without checking the number, frazzled. “Hello?” you ask hoarsely. 

Total quiet. 

“Hello?” You pull the screen away. The caller reads: SPENCER. You pull it back rather than hang up. “Hey, Spencer. Are you there?” 

“Hello.” He laughs. “Hello, are you there?” 

“I’m here, Spencer, where are you?” 

“That’s an interesting question, actually, and I’m sure there’s a great answer, but…” 

“But what?” You sit up quickly, your throat aching with sleep. Your room is black as coal pitch. “Spencer, what time is it, my love?” 

“You shouldn’t call me stuff like that.” 

“Stop being weird and tell me where you are.” 

He laughs like a hyena. You can see it in your mind, his smile and all his pearly perfect teeth. You love it when he smiles like that and he rarely ever does. “I’m somewhere and I need your help getting home!” he says with another funny laugh. 

“Are you alright? You sound…” He sounds inebriated. 

Spencer struggled with his drug problem for so long before you found out. You just hadn’t been around enough, and when you were he’d gotten good at hiding it. You can still remember how furious you’d been with everyone, including him, because you could’ve helped, would’ve done anything to support him through it. If he’s hurting now and hasn’t told you, you love him, but you’ll be insanely angry. 

“Spencer?” you ask quietly. 

“I went for drinks with a girl but she didn’t like me and I may have drowned my sorrows too much,” he admits. “Um. Did you know gin is very strong?” 

“Aw, baby. You’re cheating on me?” 

“I’m afraid so,” he says, and hiccups. 

“Where are you?” 

After some hassle wherein you persuade Spencer to give the phone to someone else in the bar for a slightly less drunk interrogation, you dress and gather your bearings for the drive. You zip a hoodie up over your pyjamas, stuff your feet into some old converse, and set out into the dark to find him. 

He calls you again as you’re parking. “Hello,” he says as soon as you answered. “I need you to come and get me.” 

Spencer called you twice to save him. Even if he doesn’t remember, he’s called you to come and get him when he knows he needs help, and that realisation is hard to ignore. “Spencer, I’m two minutes away, I’m parking. You’re still where you were?” 

“Where was I?” 

“At the bar, sweetheart. Are you still there?” It’s scarily dark out and you didn’t grab any sort of defensive measure before you came, which you regret now, climbing out of your car to walk the dimly lit road. The bar glows like a beacon to be followed. 

“Still where?” 

“Did you hit your head?” 

“Not to my knowledge. Though I’m not sure I have much right now. I feel like I’m forgetting everything I’ve ever read, and I’ve read a lot. You know I can read about eighty average length novels in one hour on an e-reader? The buttons make it faster.” 

“You haven’t told me that before.” You shiver against the nighttime winds, footsteps heavy on the grey sidewalk. 

“I’m trying to be more conversational. Emily says it’s not working.” 

“You’re conversational. Isn’t the only condition of being conversational to prompt a conversation? We’re always talking.” 

“…What?” 

You laugh like crazy. “Spencer, you don’t need to change the way you talk.” 

“I annoy people.” 

“You don’t annoy me.” 

You approach the door of the bar, a ramshackle sheet of plywood over what looks to be a glass door. The bar building seems in similar dessaray, with modern features wrecked by scratches and smashed panes. It’s a real dive. Spencer couldn’t have meant to come here. 

You war with both hands to open the door and find yourself faced with a long and empty corridor leading to another door. Worried you’re going to get kidnapped, you bring the phone back to your ear, Spencer’s chatting an immediate greeting. “…telling me I’m doing something wrong without telling me what it is, it’s impossible.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, can you come to the door?” 

“I don’t think I have control of my legs,” he says without inflection. 

“It’s definitely the building with the smashed door?” 

“Yesssss. Are you here?” he asks excitedly. 

“I better not get murdered, Spencer Reid.” 

“Am I in trouble?” 

“How are you even keeping the phone to your ear right now?” 

“I’m on speaker phone. Milly showed me how to do it. Say hi, Milly.” 

“Hi Milly,” a new voice says. 

You rub your eyes with one hand and square your shoulders, prepared to defend yourself if the creepy door leads to a creepier room. 

Spencer is immediately visible from the get go. You open the door on to a rather cosy looking bar, which you’re thinking might be the whole point; wretched exterior, secret attraction. Warm orange light ebbs into the space from sconces and a faux fireplace, while a wrestling match playing from the small TV behind the bar casts brighter light down onto Spencer’s shoulders. He looks out of place, dressed in a white oxford shirt and a suit jacket, his tie loosened and hanging from either side of his neck, compared to the lingering patrons who sit dotted around the room in booths and on barstools. One such patron sits in a plaid shirt and a trucker hat, her hair to her back, thick and dark. 

You hang up the call and put your phone in your pocket. Spencer gasps like he’s been smacked and picks his own phone up from the bar, clicking at buttons with clumsy fingers. “No,” he hums sadly. 

“Spencer,” you say, not wanting to disturb the people spending their sorry-looking night here. “Spencer. Hey, Spence!” 

His phone tips between his fingers. The woman you assume to be Milly catches it and offers it back without looking too far from her beer. 

“Hey,” you say gently, crossing a wide empty space to meet him. The room itself is shaped like a horseshoe, the bar taking up a surprising amount in the centre, and booths and tables placed around it. Spencer’s off of his barstool as you approach, eyes like puppy dog’s, arms extended. “You okay?” you ask. 

You can feel eyes on you both from every angle, but it doesn’t matter, not when Spencer’s falling into your arms (or on to them —he’s surprisingly tall when you aren’t wearing heels). “You alright?” you ask again. 

“You don’t have to be worried, I’m fine.” 

He’s less coordinated in real life than he’d sounded over the phone, his slurring unmissable, his hands like jumping fish as he tries to hug you. It’s weird and straining to take his weight but you do it without complaint. He smells the same, at least, only his cedary cologne is sharpened by the tang of gin on his breath. 

“Thank god you’re here,” he whispers. 

“Why?” you ask, pulling away to check for danger. 

“I missed you.” 

“I missed you too, handsome,” you say, genuine but laying it on thick simultaneously as you ease his head back to cup his cheek. You can’t help yourself. He’s the prettiest man you’ve ever met, and it gets worse every year. 

He frowns at you deeply. “I don’t like first dates.” 

“Then don’t go on them,” you suggest, “you don’t need to until you’re ready.” 

“I’m ready for love,” he says. You pull your lips into a flattened line, unsure of what to say, how to explain that it’s waiting for him, but his chin dips towards his neck and his eyes lock onto your face. “You’re not wearing makeup. God, you’re so pretty.” 

You flinch away from him. “Fuck, Spencer.”

“I’m sorry! It’s not that you don’t look pretty with makeup, but I never see you without it!” 

You’d forgotten you weren’t wearing any. Makeup isn’t a shield, exactly, but you like putting your best foot forward, so to speak. You’ve no clue what you look like tonight, hadn’t managed to look in the mirror, you’d been focused on getting to Spencer before he got lost. You can imagine the puffiness.

Spencer touches your cheek. You let him turn you mostly because he’s surprised you, his eyes roving up and down your face with a fawning curiosity. 

“You’re beautiful. You know that already, but people don’t tell you enough,” he says, his hand falling from your cheek. 

“Spencer,” you say softly, “let’s get you home.” 

You thank Milly for her help and grab Spencer’s bag from the floor to hang on your shoulder. You’d make a joke about how heavy it was if you didn’t think he’d take it from you, and, considering how drunk he is, topple over from the imbalance it provides. His shirt is clammy where you push your hand through his arm to link them, his footsteps wobbly. 

“I didn’t want to go on a date,” he says. 

“Then why did you go?” you ask, helping him over the door jam into the long hallway. 

“I don’t want to be alone forever.” 

“Spencer, you won’t be.” It doesn’t feel like the best time to bring up how much you like him. You’re sure he thinks you’re kidding, doesn’t everybody? Don’t torture him, they say. Don’t toy with him. Every time you flirt with him the team acts like you can’t mean it, and for a while it worked for you; you weren’t in love with Spencer. You weren’t playing with his feelings, but you didn’t love him, and then you joined the team and got to know him, watched him fluster at every comment you made or under any soft looking and realised you could love him. It was easy to fall for him. You liked doing it. But now he’s determined to write your affection off as a joke and going on dates? 

In the morning, when he’s sober, you’ll have to tell him how you feel. Or you could let him find someone more like him… ugh. It’s such a mess. 

You grapple with the size of your feelings for him as he hums and laughs his way down the hall to the glass door. On the street, he squints and straightens his back, fighting to regain his arm from your hold to cover your shoulder instead. “It’s cold,” he says in surprise. “You okay?” 

“I’m fine, I got my jacket. It’s a short walk, come on.”

His arm stops acting as protection and starts to use you for support. “I didn’t mean to drink so much.” 

“Drowning your sorrows is always a terrible idea because it tends to work,” you lament, less scared of the dark with him at your hip, though what protection he might offer is negated by the alcohol. 

“She kind of looked like you.” 

You squeeze your eyes together quickly. “Oh.” 

“I didn’t know she was going to. But she didn’t– she didn’t– it’s hard to talk. She didn’t listen like you do,” he says, lightly slurring, “she just stared at me like everyone used to in high school. Like she could tell there’s something wrong with me.” 

“Spencer, there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“I know,” he says. 

“Do you?” 

“Yes.” He frowns. “No, I don’t know. I don’t feel like there’s something wrong with me,” —his voice turns to a nearly indistinguishable mumble— “but everyone else always does.” 

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you.” 

“Is that why you make all your jokes?” 

“What jokes, babe?” 

“Like that! Like babe. It’s funny ‘cos you’d never date me.” 

You’d slow if he weren’t already walking at a snail's pace. “That’s not true. Let’s talk about it in the morning, okay?” 

“I won’t remember to ask you in the morning.” 

“Spencer, you remember everything.” 

He drags his feet. “I wish I wasn’t so weird,” he whines. It’s playful at the forefront but desperate otherwise, and it gives you pause. “I wish I was normal, and you could like me normal.” 

You look down at your hands, panicking, a flash of Is this a good idea? like an alarm in your head as you turn on the sidewalk to face him. He’s looking at you like he’s begging you to disagree with him. 

You’re happy to. 

“Spencer, I like you like this,” you insist loudly. His eyes and all his sweet lashes track the movement of your hand as you touch your chest, and your neck. “You’re not normal, I’m not normal. Do you know how many times I’ve been rejected? Just for being me? I’m too bossy, too outspoken, too– too high maintenance. I've had friends with good intentions tell me I need to lower my standards, need to relax, because otherwise I’m going to end up alone for the rest of my life. I feel alone all the time.”

“But you’re perfect,” he says, puzzled. 

“To you. And you’re perfect to me.” Your hand crawls to the base of your throat. “So don’t say you’re weird like it’s ugly, honey. And don’t think I don’t like you, ‘cos I do. You think I’d come and get anybody else in the middle of the night dressed like this?” you ask him, gesturing to your ratty pyjamas and your dingy converse. 

“You look so cute,” he says mournfully. 

You roll your eyes. He’s too wasted for this conversation. “Come on, sweetheart. You can think about this too much in the morning. Let’s just get home in one piece.” Physically and emotionally. 

“Can I come home with you?” he asks. 

That had always been the plan. “Ask me nicely and I’ll consider it on the way.” 

— — 

Spencer shuts his eyes, hands itching to clap over his ears as you scratch the head of a spatula across your frying pan. “Is three eggs too many? People usually have two but that’s never enough for me.” 

“I think…” Oh my god the metal screeching is so loud. “You should have as many as you want. You know your body. There’s this study on intuitive eating…” I'm too hungover for this. “Three eggs is better than two.” 

“So you want three?” 

He cannot eat right now. “Yes. Please.” 

Spencer’s half sick with dehydration and half grief. He stayed at your house last night and he was too drunk to be nosy. He slept in your bed. He slept in your bed. He woke up to you at your vanity doing your hair, the nutty smell of hair oil mixed with the heat of the hair tool on high and realised with a start that he’d missed something he thought about all the time. 

You’d tipped your head back to smile at him. “There’s my boy. Sweet dreams?” 

He didn’t dream, but if he had, it would’ve been another agonising wish where you were his girlfriend, or his wife, or just there looking at him with love. He wakes up feeling sick because it isn’t true. And now you’re making him breakfast, humming a tune under your breath, sourdough sizzling under the grill and a shoddily blended avocado sitting in the bowl in front of him. 

You asked him for one thing. He picks up the fork and starts to mash the avocado again. He can’t fight the foreignness of sitting in your kitchen, a gap in his memory. 

He knows he told you about his date, how she looked like you, how she didn’t seem to like him much, but he’s struggling to collect the finer details. Why had you picked him up? He must’ve called you, but you could’ve said no. He remembers thinking you looked beautiful, but he always thinks that. 

The avocado is making him feel sick. 

“Here,” you say, sliding a plate of toast in front of him. “Do you want butter?” 

“I think I'm gonna throw up.” 

“You’re okay.”

“I can’t believe how I acted,” he says, pressing his palms to the hollows of his eyes. 

You turn off the hob. Fat bubbles and pops until it’s cooled. The clock on the wall by the refrigerator ticks incessantly. His slept-in shirt feels too tight despite the undone button. 

“Hey…” You round the island but don’t touch him, your voice gentle. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

He drags his hands down his face. “I can barely remember what I said.” 

“You were really nice to me… told me I looked pretty without my makeup, n’ that I was perfect. You were really nice.” 

Your tone is off. No flirtatiousness, no endless confidence, you sound wistful, like you’re glad he said it. You take the bowl of avocado he’s made a mess with and put it aside with the toast, resting your arm on the counter, and leaning into his space. “Spencer, last night? You didn’t do anything to be embarrassed of. You were nice, and kind. You tried to open the car door for me and you almost lost your eye, but you were fine. You don’t have anything to be worried about, really.”

“But it’s you.” 

“Gonna touch your hair,” you say, giving him enough time to move away as you reach out and rake back his fringe. His heart leaps into his mouth. “You said something last night like that, you know? Do you remember that? You said if you were normal.” You grace the skin beside his eye with the tip of your thumb, your perfume floating his way as you move. “And I said–”

“I’m not normal,” he says, remembering now. 

You’re not normal, I’m not normal, you’d said.

But you’re perfect, he’d said. 

To you. And you’re perfect to me.

“Right. We’re not normal, Spencer Reid, so forget that girl. She didn’t deserve you anyways,” you say. 

You draw a short, silken line down his cheek with the side of your pinky. To be touched so lightly has his stomach in knots —he’s not shocked by the swiftness with which your affection can make a bad situation good again. 

You turn away. “Now we should eat before everything goes cold.” 

He watches your shoulders move, and he remembers one last detail. So don’t say you’re weird like it’s ugly, honey. And don’t think I don’t like you, ‘cos I do. 

The way you’d said it… you couldn’t really mean…

“How’s your appetite? Still feeling sick?” you ask. 

Spencer smiles to himself, the ghost of your touch glowing warm on his cheek. “I’m feeling a lot better, actually.” 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading!!! please like/reblog or comment if you enjoyed, i appreciate anything and it always inspires me to write more<3!! my requests are pretty much always open for bombshell!reader (even though this one strays a bit from their usual story haha) so if you wanna see more let me know❤️

[seumyo]

bakugou’s never been happier to do this alongside you.

The sound of Bakugou’s ringtone—specifically one for those calls—the kind that only came when villains decided to cause trouble at ungodly hours—jolted him awake on the second ring. The kind that meant neither of you were getting any more sleep.

He groaned loudly, his voice raspy from sleep. “Son of a—” He didn’t even finish the curse as he snatched his phone and squinted at the glowing screen. “What the hell is it this time?”

Beside him, you stirred, mumbling groggily as you pulled the blanket over your head. “Is it another one?” you asked sleepily, your voice muffled.

Bakugou ignored you for the moment, his phone pressed to his ear as the barking voice of the dispatcher filled the room. His brows furrowed deeper, his scowl turning deadly as he listened to the report. “Villains in the old district? At this hour? Those bastards don’t sleep or somethin’? Yeah, yeah—I got it. We’ll be there.”

He slammed the phone down on the bed, letting out a deep sigh as he scrubbed a hand down his face. “Goddamn it. I hate this stupid job.”

You let out a small laugh beneath the blanket. “Liar.”

Bakugou glared at the lump of fabric that was you—his partner. “What’d you just say?”

“You heard me,” you teased, peeking out just enough for him to see the drowsy smile on your face—which can barely be seen with the dim light of the moonlight outside the bedroom window. “You love this job, Kats. You’d combust without it.”

“Like hell I would,” he muttered, standing up and running a hand through his already messy hair. “I’m only outta bed ‘cause I don’t trust those extras not to screw up.”

“You’re up because you want to. Big difference.”

“Whatever.” Bakugou shot you a glance over his shoulder. “Hurry your ass up. Don’t got time for you to sit there all cozy like we ain’t got villains to blow up.”

You didn’t budge.

“Give me two minutes. I just need to—hey!”

Bakugou had moved without warning, stomping back to the bed and scooping you up in one fluid motion. You let out a surprised squeak as he effortlessly picked you up, blanket and all, and cradled you against his chest.

“Katsuki!” you protested, trying to wriggle free. “What are you doing?!”

“Shut up,” he grumbled, barely sparing you a glance as he carried you toward the door. “You’re slow as hell when you’re tired. This’ll save time.”

“You can’t just carry me every time we get called in!”

“Watch me.”

He stomped down the hallway, his bare feet thudding against the wooden floor, while his voice dipped into a string of curses. “Stupid villains. Stupid middle-of-the-night calls. Stupid hero work. I’m gonna blast whoever’s causing this into the next century.”

You couldn’t hold back your laughter now, your head falling back against his shoulder. “You sound like a cranky old man.”

“Keep talkin’ and I’m droppin’ you,” Bakugou threatened. “Why the hell are you laughin’? Think this is funny?”

“Very. You’re like my happy pill.”

“Yeah? And you’re heavy,” he grumbled, though the way he carried you effortlessly said otherwise.

“Excuse me?!”

A corner of Bakugou’s mouth quirked up as he looked down at you, amusement flickering in his eyes despite his perpetual scowl. “I didn’t say nothin’. Quit wastin’ time.”

You smiled against his shoulder, listening to him grumble about this whole ordeal. He sounded pissed—like the world had wronged him personally by waking you two up—but you could see the truth in his actions. His grip was steady, his movements careful as he carried you to where your hero gear was waiting. It was such a Bakugou thing to do: grumble and complain, but still take care of you without hesitation.

By the time you make it to the gear room, Bakugou carefully sets you down on your feet. You wobbled slightly from the sudden shift, and Bakugou’s hand instinctively shot out to steady you.

“Oi, don’t fall on me now.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you murmured, rubbing your eyes before turning to grab your hero suit. “You’re way too grumpy for someone who just carried me all the way here. Admit it—you love being a hero.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“You do, though,” you teased, already halfway into your gear. “I know you do.”

Bakugou clicked his tongue, but he didn’t argue. Instead, his voice softened just enough to make you pause. “I wouldn’t do this job if it meant leavin’ you to deal with shit alone.”

You stilled, looking at him from the corner of your eye. He was standing by the doorway now, fully suited up and waiting for you, his face set in his usual determined scowl. But something about the way he looked at you, about the small, unspoken truths in his words, made your chest feel warm.

“Y’know, you’re so sweet to me at the most inconvenient times. Why can’t you say things like that when I don’t look like I’ve been ran over by a truck because I’m sleep deprived?”

“Die.”

“Is that your way of saying you love me too, Ka-tsu-ki?”

He scoffed. “Hurry up, dumbass. We’ve got work to do.”

“Ha! You didn’t deny it, so I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Shut up, you’re annonyin’.”

You smiled faintly, finishing the last of your preparations before walking over to him. “But you love me.”

“Of fucking course,” Bakugou said, opening the door and stepping out into the brisk night air. “Let’s go. Those idiots could only hold out for so long ‘cause they really had to call us in.”

You followed close behind, still smiling to yourself as you fell into step next to him. Despite his grumbles, despite the curses under his breath, Bakugou had never been happier. Because at the end of the day, no matter how ungodly the hour, you were always there—and as far as he was concerned, nothing else mattered.

Because he loves this job—especially when he’s doing it alongside you.

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