#fluff soon I promise

[z0mbie2b0y]

Dark (yandere???) Severus but he's more secretive about it- like I can imagine him being the type to like be very 'normal' about Lily and James (he acts like he hates him) but turn around and literally will hide in the dark corners of hogwarts and start acting crazy about them, like he will literally be hugging himself while trembling and biting his lip about them and literally acting like a desperate mutt-

I also like to add that he would definitely be the type to like have one of their clothes and just hold it close and nuzzle into it only to be disgusted by himself- (he gets comfort from there smell and from anything of theirs may that be touch, smell, seeing or hearing them) so I can imagine him spiraling when the 'prank' happens because first he almost died, second one of his crushes saved his life but is friends with the one who almost killed him so boo, thrid off his other crush is ignoring him after he lost control of his feelings and called her a mudblood- like he differently was going crazy, and I can imagine the other slytherins weren't helping because they most likely act the same (yes I'm doing the 'yandere!slytherin' shit) so I can see some of them comforting him while others say he had it coming for liking Lily and James-

[readwritealldayallnight]

im on my knees begging for jealous Simon headcanons 🧎🏻‍♀️

The thing about Simon is, he really has no reason to get jealous when it comes to you, and he knows it

He knows there isn’t anyone else who could make you smile so much your cheeks hurt, no one else who could make you laugh until you claim you’re going to pee your pants, no one else who could make you feel as good as he does, in oh so many ways, because you tell him so

You tell him that those same feelings of being loved, understood, appreciated, and wanted, those very feelings that you make him feel each and every day, he gives them back to you a thousand times over

He knows when you look in his eyes and tell him that you love him, that there isn’t a doubt in your mind that he is the only one for you, and nothing or anyone could ever change that

You’re as smitten with him as he is with you

Still though, Simon does have eyes

And while the logical part of his brain is telling him that he’s got no reason to be gritting his teeth and clenching his fists underneath the table, he can’t help but grow more and more frustrated with the way Soap and Gaz continue to flirt shamelessly with you

To be fair, you had warned him that keeping your relationship a complete secret from everyone would likely result is moments where Simon would have to watch you get hit on, and simply have to grin and bear it

That didn’t mean it was any easier, watching his only best mates try and work their charm on you, all while he sits at the same table and watches you roll your eyes at their advances

“Aw, come on love, just one chance, s’all I ask for!” The handsome, young sergeant practically whines to you, cheeky grin plastered across his features as he tries in vain to convince you to let him take you out some time

“Pfft, ye’d be nothin’ but a waste o’ her time, Garrick. We wouldn’t even ‘ave to to leave base for me to show ye a good time, bonnie.” The Scotsman winks at you, pointedly ignoring the way Gaz elbows him in the ribs at his comment

Throughout the entire exchange, Ghost’s gaze has never left your face, watching every time you scoff and roll your eyes at the men’s antics, reminding himself that you’re his, and he is yours, and the two sergeants are nothing more than pains in both of your asses

Finished with your pitiful meal from the dining hall, you stand from the table with your tray gathered in your hands, flipping your hair over one shoulder as you look towards the men trying to win your affection

“Once again, gentleman,” you say to them, knowing that they’re listening to your every word and watching your every move. “I don’t fraternize with colleagues. At least not the Sergeants.”

The two men groan in feeble protest at the mention of their ranks, having heard this reasoning from you before

“Ach, what if I get myself demoted, lass? I ken I could do that, easy!” Soap teases you, only kind of joking

“Mmm, don’t think that’ll work.” You reply, beginning to slowly walk away from the group, but not before glancing over you shoulder to lock eyes with Ghost and add, “You might have to become a Lieutenant. Those are more my type.”

The two Sergeants are staring after you, slightly gobsmacked, while their Lieutenant hides an overly smug and satisfied grin beneath his mask, shielding the pride that spread through him at your words

“Shite, sounds like you might ‘ave a chance, LT.” Soap laughs, smacking Ghost across the shoulder in a playful gesture, thinking that the larger man would never actually pursue you, let alone sleep in your bed almost every night

It’s a few weeks later when you and the rest of the 141 are all out for drinks at a nearby pub however, when Simon finds his instincts growing stronger than his insecurities

Because that’s just it isn’t it? He’s not feeling insecure when he sees you walk towards the bar by yourself to order a new drink, at least a dozen pairs of eyes watching you weave through the crowd in hopes of making a move on you

He’s not feeling insecure when he watches some tipsy idiot try and pretend he’s drunker than he really he is when he ‘accidentally’ bumps into you, apparently feeling the need to put his hands on you as he apologizes

He’s not feeling insecure when he watches you shove the guy off, reading your lips he knows so well as you tell the guy you’re not interested, nor is he insecure when he knows the idiot won’t give up that easily, likely asking if you’re here alone before you point over to where the 141 have overtaken a booth in the back

No, he certainly isn’t feeling insecure when he sees that the man never bothers glancing back to the table, still trying to land a hand on your body somewhere, when Simon’s instincts take over, rising from his seat without a word to the men who glance his way and ask where he’s going suddenly

He’s acting on pure instinct as he stalks over to you, the crowd parting for his large frame to move by without hesitation, locking eyes with you just as he lands a massive skull gloved hand on the tosser’s shoulder, wringing him around to face him

Your would be admirer isn’t feeling so confident now when he’s staring up at a 6’4” wall of muscle donned in all black apart from the white markings of his skull balaclava

If he were a more jealous man, Simon might take more time to admire the way you can practically hear this idiot gulp over the loud sounds of the music, the way his eyes bulge out of his head and how he looks nearly ready to piss himself on the spot

But your man knows who he is to you, and so instead he shoves the geezer away, turning to face you as one hand lifts up the bottom of his balaclava, just far enough to swoop down and meet your lips in a passionate tangle of tongue and teeth, tasting the alcohol on each other’s breath and the desire in your systems, a kiss that says to everyone else watching, including the bewildered Captain and Sergeants gawking from across the room, that you are his and his alone

[sincerelybubbles]

It's a Date part 2

warnings: fluff, descriptions of being touch starved (? idk) not really edited oopsies

synopsis: things go well after f!reader and spencer's date, spencer helps reader see that she's wanted and deserving of affection

part 1

⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚

“Sorry, it’s messy,” you say, wringing your hands as you walk through the door. You hear Spencer laugh out through his nose, a quick burst of air that has you spinning around to watch him latch the door. 

He’s shaking his head, hair falling in front of his eyes, nose bridge crinkled. 

“What?”

“You’re acting like I’ve never been here before.” He twists the deadbolt and walks over to you, shaking his head one more time before slipping off his shoes and heading into the kitchen. 

“I don’t know, I guess it feels different, somehow, now that …” Neither of you has tried to put a label on this. It’s been weeks, coffee dates squished between hectic work schedules, yawning absences while he chases cases with the team, and one movie night at his place that had you listening to him rant about the inaccuracies of a historical drama you picked out. It’s been lovely, you adore his tendencies to go off on tangents, enjoying simply watching him light up and trip over his own words to get everything out. It feels like he’s racing to say whatever he can before you interrupt him. You never have, something he commented on during your second date. 

“You know you can just tell me to shut up when I go off about stupid stuff like that. Everyone does, I’m used to it, I don’t want to bore you.” “Why would I? It’s not boring or stupid — it’s stuff you care about and I like hearing what you care about.”

“Now that, what?” Spencer asks, settling his back against your counter and resting his hands on the edge behind him. 

He’s still in his work clothes, tie loose, gun at his hip, hair behind his ears. 

One thing you didn’t expect from him? Confidence. You knew he had to be confident in some ways — he’s never doubted his intellectual ability that you could tell — but it only took a short time for him to gain his comfort around you. No longer did he blush and bumble his way through sentences, struggling to meet your eye. Your first kiss actually seemed to clear that up quickly. 

It happened feet away from where you’re standing, outside of your door, after dinner. He reached forward to brush an eyelash on your cheek as you said goodbye, you leaned into his hand and, after a moment and with a burst of adrenaline that fueled your forwardness, you leaned up and toward him, a hand on his arm, and brought your lips to his.  He was hesitant, fingertips brushing your cheekbone, but he came to life as you pulled away to ask him if this was alright, palm meeting your cheek fully and bringing you in for a proper kiss.  Excitement was evident by the way he pressed closer to you, stepping nearer and putting another hand on your waist, locking you in place. Under the excitement was a tenderness you’ve never felt before. He kissed like he wanted to take all the air from your lungs but he held you with the sort of care that made your lungs ache for a reason entirely seperate from the kissing. 

“I don’t know,” you say, chickening out from asking for the hundredth time, going to meet him in the kitchen. 

“Hey,” Spencer says, catching you by the waist and pulling you to come stand near him with one hand on your hip. “Ask,” he says, tucking his chin to grin down at you, nudging your foot with his.

“Why don’t you?”

“I’m afraid to scare you off,” he says with a smile. Behind his eyes, though, you can see the truth in it. 

He called you the morning after your date. Young sunlight caught in your eyes and caused you to squint as you searched for your forgotten phone, spots dancing and dust creating a kaleidoscope as you pressed answer.  “Hello?” you asked, confused. It was Spencer, wishing you a good morning. He went quiet when you asked why he called, if everything was okay.  “Everything is fine, sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.” “It’s okay, I need to be up soon anyway. Why’d you call, though?” “I just couldn’t get the thought out of my head last night that I must have done something to mess it all up. I wanted to call and make sure I hadn’t.” “You could never, Spencer.”

You know the uncertainty still rears its head, even with the confidence that’s fostered with time. 

“It feels incredibly juvenile,” you say, rolling your eyes and smoothing your hands up his chest to rest on his shoulders. 

“Ask,” he whispers, “I’ll say yes. All you have to do is ask.”

The week after your first date, Spencer showed up at your office, panting, a bag in his hand. You stood up, shocked to see him at the station, and hurried out to meet him in the lobby.  “You said you wanted lunch from the Chinese place down the road because you forgot to pack something,” Spencer said by way of explanation. You had mentioned it, briefly, in a text. “I was just complaining, you didn’t have to spend your lunch break on this,” you said, eyes welling up with tears. You reached forward, ignoring the bags, and pulled him into a hug. “You’re entirely too sweet to me. This was too much.” “Nothing is too much, all you have to do is ask.” 

“When I call back my friend later,” you start, determined to ask while looking in his eyes, drowning as you do it, face heating, “can I tell her my boyfriend came to spend some time with me?”

It’s sort of a cop-out, of course, and Spencer catches it — you’re not directly asking, but he nods anyway, then laughs, leaning forward to kiss you. 

The kiss is messy, he’s laughing and you’re smiling, but you appreciate it all the same. 

“Why are you laughing?” You ask, leaning back and catching another kiss on your nose and then your cheek. 

“There’s a few reasons. I never thought I would have this, for one, and I guess I’m just happy.”

“You guess?”

“I know.”

You wind up in bed. Nothing nefarious, not yet — both of you understand that space to breathe and grow together is much more important and that awkwardness needs to settle into comfortable familiarity before crossing that specific line. 

Spencer drags his finger across your cheek, tracing your bone structure. His other hand is tucked under your side, holding your hip and keeping you close. 

The feeling in your chest is heavy, pressing up into your throat and capturing any words you could dare to think. 

“Are you okay?” Spencer asks, voice a whisper, breath fanning across your face and causing little hairs to prick up across your arms. 

You nod, looking him in the eye and signaling the truth. His nearness wasn’t causing you distress but the unfamiliarity of it is hard to not become consumed by. 

You squeeze your eyes closed, nose scrunching and fight tears. 

“Are you sure?” Spencer asks, voice hesitant, fingers leaving your face and arms pushing to give you space. Space you don’t want. Space that makes your eyes snap open, searching for him, afraid he might waltz off any moment. 

“Yes,” you say, voice certain and hand snapping out to grab him before he can go too far. 

Tears well up in your eyes, against your internal fighting. You huff out an embarrassed laugh, leaning forward to press your forehead into his shoulder. His arms tighten around you, hesitant around your waist and cradling the back of your head. 

“Tell me what’s wrong, please,” he asks, voice soft, begging, an undertone of a demand that you adore. The sense that he would do anything to ensure that you feel better washes over you. It makes the sweetly-sick feeling well up into you further, drowning your senses. 

“Nothing is wrong,” you say, cuddling into him, slipping a foot inbetween his and tangling yourself tighter, “it’s just been a while since I’ve felt … wanted. And I do, now, with you — feel wanted. At least, I hope I am.”

“You are,” Spencer interrupts, reassuring. 

“It’s nice but I don’t really know what to do with it.”

“It?”

“The feeling, I guess.” You shrug. “I suppose touch starved is the right word, but it feels like more than that.”

His grip tightens as your tears come with a faster frequency, to your own annoyance. 

“I’m sorry, this is a really nice moment, I’m beyond happy, I don’t mean to ruin it.” You attempt to pull away to wipe your face but Spencer doesn’t let you. 

“Did you know that some studies show that a lack of connection socially is more detrimental than obesity or smoking? We literally need to feel connected to other people. And that’s just social connection — when left alone without any type of physical connection, specifically physical connection from someone you care about, depression, stress, and physical health can deteriorate. It’s natural to feel overwhelmed when you’re finally getting what you need — what everyone needs.”

“Touch starved,” you whisper, allowing him to hold you tight, relaxing further into his hold.

“Sorry?”

“Touch starved — I’ve heard people call it touch starved.”

Spencers hand moves to stroke your hair, picking up strands and twisting them before smoothing it down again. 

“That feels like an apt term for it.”You fall asleep like that, warm and pressed into his side, listening to him softly tell you about his week, feeling secure and wanted in a way you never have before.

taglist: @0108s22m @bowerfeithwk @screechingphantommaker @cultish-corner @doigettokeepyou @izukuwus

note: i really intended on this being more so please forgive me -- let me know what you think! i welcome constructive criticism as well as any and all thoughts you have!!

now that i've finished this, i might attempt another part to give u guys more but i also am taking requests/thinkin' of new things to write!! more spencer to come, as well as possibly some hotch, so keep an eye out

ily all and tysm for the support <3

[le-fruit-de-la-passion]

Press One for Love, Two for Regret

Chapter 2

Summary: Proper confessions should never happen over the phone. Viktor knows that. So how did he get here?

Pairing: Viktor x Reader

Word Count: 3.6K

Warning: Mature (mentions of explicit content, explicit in later chapters)

Notes: This was originally supposed to be a real quick one-shot. And yet, here I stand, offering you a three-chapter fic that is probably going to be a little under 10K total. Like a stray cat proudly bringing you a dead squirrel. I'm bozo the fool and I can't stop writing about Viktor.

(Chapter 1) (Chapter 3)

In theory, you’re pretty sure being a hitman should be fun.

There should be something thrilling about following someone around, tracking their every move in the shadows, finding the perfect opening to shoot them right between the eyes. The hunter and the prey. Riveting stuff.

Except you're not a hitman. And you're not tracking down someone to shoot them.

You're a dumb, stupid idiot. And you're just trying to talk to your dumb, stupid best friend who is doing everything in his power to not talk to you.

And he's quite good at it too; it's like he's vanished from the space-time continuum itself. No one has seen him, no one has talked to him, no one has even heard of where he might be hiding. It's almost annoying how good Viktor is at everything he does.

You hadn't managed to sleep the rest of the night of what you now refer to as ‘The Call’. You watched the minutes pass one by one on your alarm clock, eyes wide open, mind bustling with too many questions to go to bed.

At six am sharp, you deemed you had waited long enough to stomp your way to Jayce's and Viktor's apartment. You weren't even sure of what you were going to say; you just had to talk to him. You couldn't let that conversation end the way it did.

You knocked firmly five times before Jayce cracked the door open with an audible groan, hair tussled, eyes barely open. It seemed he, too, hadn't spent a very restful night.

It took a few seconds for him to even register who was standing at the door; when he did, he visibly straightened his back in an attempt to look awake and composed.

Unfortunately for him, it did not work very well.

“H-hey,” he stammered, leaning against the doorway in false non-chalence. His voice was still heavy with sleep, and he audibly cleared his throat. “It's a little early, isn't it? The ol’ operating system usually only boots up when the sun is out,” he added jokingly, pointing a finger toward his forehead.

A valiant attempt at breaking the obvious tension, but you refused to budge. You glared at him, decidedly looking into his eyes.

“I need to talk to Viktor.”

Jayce made a strangled sound, which he tried to hide with a theatrical coughing fit.

“You… just missed him?” he managed to choke out with uncertainty. He was visibly trying to convince himself just as much as you. “He left to go prepare the lab. You know him, always doing extra research.”

He flashed you a smile, a practiced grin with perfect teeth that might have seemed genuine in other circumstances. But his bottom lip was quivering, and you could see Viktor's daily use cane leaning against the coat rack right behind him. Jayce was not exactly a master manipulator.

“Jayce, the university doesn't even open until seven thirty.”

He deflated at that, his large shoulders comically lowering. You could see he was thinking desperately for anything to say, but coming up empty-handed. Chances were he hadn't had his coffee yet, which knowing him, considerably lowered his ability to formulate coherent thoughts.

You were starting to feel bad; the poor guy was stuck being the literal last defence to his roommate, and he was genuinely giving it his best. Jayce might not have a career in acting, but he was a good friend.

That was more than you could say about yourself.

“Ok. I get it,” you sighed. “He needs space. I can respect that. Just… tell him to call me later, alright? Even just a text would be fine.”

Jayce seemed profoundly relieved you had agreed to back down, something you almost always refused to do under any circumstance. Yes, technically, you could stay put in front of that door and progressively chip away at Jayce's still barely conscious mind until Viktor decided to show himself.

But you felt guilty. Guilty for not realizing how he felt, guilty for treating him like your personal diary over the phone, guilty for not saying how you felt sooner. The conversation should be on Viktor's terms rather than your own.

“Yeah, I'll tell him,” Jayce gave you a small smile, comforting and honest. The next words came out less encouraging than he likely intended: “I'll try.”

But now, it's been a week since ‘The Call’, and Viktor has still shown no sign of wanting to talk. Your phone is frustratingly devoid of unread texts or missed calls no matter how often you check it. Your world feels like it's been spiralling out of control a little more every day, the uncertainty of everything left unsaid weighing you down like a ton of bricks. It's torture, and you can't help but feel like you kind of deserve it.

You should have known better than to call Viktor when you were drunk, and yet, you still did. Because there's nothing more natural to you than talking to him. It's become second nature, as natural as breathing or blinking.

Viktor is always so smart, and so composed, and so understanding, and so helpful- and he's probably the only person who likes hearing you go on rants for hours on end. How could you ever want to talk to anybody else after a breakup?

But when you're drunk, you lose the already feeble control you have over your verbal on-and-off switch. Everything spews out of you without a filter, as if you're vomiting all the thoughts that go through your mind one after the other. It's cathartic, for sure, but then you end up saying things that should never be said to the best friend you've secretly been in love with for years now.

Things like how your ex never took time to finger you properly, or how he had this stupid obsession with men not going down on women because he was an ungrateful asshole.

And then, those two little words.

“I would.”

There was no hesitation in his tone, no uncertainty. It was like he had the sentence on the tip of his tongue for the last two hours you had been whining to him. Like he had been waiting to say it for too long to contain it anymore.

The irony was that you had spent the last four years trying everything in your power to not let those stupid little words out too.

—

You met Viktor at your first university's faculty Christmas party.

You hated work parties.

You had only gotten the position of academic advisor a few months prior, and in that time you hadn't managed to form a single bond with any other employee in your entire department. It was always the same; you talked too much. You were too intense. You were tiresome.

You were you. And that was something a lot of people didn't like.

Needless to say, you didn't want to go to that stupid party. Everyone would split up into groups of friends and previous acquaintances, and any attempt at joining the conversation would result in discreet sighs and rolling eyes. Yet you still went, partly out of obligation, but also in the hopes something that night might be different for you.

But it hadn't been, and you were alone.

So you did what any well-adjusted adult did when they were faced with the indisputable fact they were the party outcast; you drank.

After one glass of cheap white wine, you felt more relaxed, less stiff. Just a nice amount of mellowed out.

After two glasses, you started to forget the self-preserving instinct of not approaching others. ‘Maybe you could try talking to someone, after all. It could be worth a shot.’

After three glasses, you forgot why you were so apprehensive in the first place. You were great! You rocked. You had so many things to say there was absolutely no way someone wouldn't love to hear all about it.

…but maybe you could get a fourth glass, first.

You headed back towards the drinks table, a little less steady and a whole more lot confident. So confident, you didn't realize you bumped right into someone's chest until a hand grabbed your arm to keep you upright.

“Ah, are you alright?” came a heavily accented voice above you. ‘Eastern European,’ you thought absentmindedly. ‘Ukranian, maybe Czech. I wonder if he knows they created the sugar cube…’

You took an unsteady step back, peaking up at the man blocking your way to the wine bottles.

‘Wow, he's handsome’, was your first, immediate thought.

“Wow, you're handsome,” were your first, immediate words.

The man spluttered in surprise. In all fairness, he probably hadn't been expecting for a stranger at a faculty party to be so direct. If you were still at glass number two, you might have realized it wasn't a very appropriate thing to say in this specific context.

But you were at glass number three and unabashedly staring at the man's face, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the curve of his nose.

That was the moment you realized he wasn't a stranger.

You knew him. Not his name, or who he was, but you felt absolutely certain you had seen him before. You scanned your jumbled brain for the memory of his face. So beautifully sculpted, like he was made of stone. You knew him, you had it on the tip of your tongue-

“Miss?” the man asked, seemingly unsure whether to be perplexed or worried at your silent glaring. “Would you like me to help you sit-”

“Tuna sandwich!” you yelled with a huge grin. A few other partygoers turned towards you in confusion, but you were much too overjoyed at the epiphany you were experiencing to realize.

The man blinked slowly. Then once again, like he was trying to process whether or not he had understood correctly. His head cocked slightly to the side in bewilderment.

“… I'm sorry, what did you say ?”

You poked his chest with an insistent finger, beaming: “You're tuna sandwich! The tuna sandwich guy!”

The man looked to the side warily, mouth opening and closing, visibly searching for some kind of help. When he found none, his golden eyes fell back to you, catching the glow of the ceiling lights. The spark of an aurora through the night sky.

“I'm… afraid I truly have no idea what you're talking about,” he explained gently, the warmth of his hand leaving your arm. You deflated a little at that, the notion of embarrassment creeping back in you.

But he hadn't left. He was still here.

He was listening to you.

“My office is next to the cafeteria,” you started, straightening your dress and trying to appear more professional. “I see you, every day, at eleven forty-five, before morning classes end. I always thought that was smart, because you get to skip the lunch rush and there's still a lot of choices for meals.”

The man seemed bemused by the comment, but didn't show signs of wanting to take off. That made you regain some of your drunken confidence.

“But you always take a tuna sandwich,” you continued. ”That's it. Every day. You never buy anything else. It's always the tuna sandwich at eleven forty-five.”

He let out a confused chuckle, the ghost of a teasing smile on his lips.

“I didn't realize I had an audience.”

His presence had been so hypnotic you barely even realized what you had been saying.

‘Oh God, that sounded creepy, didn't it?’

“Don't flatter yourself,” you quickly added, embarrassed, looking away to stare at a particularly interesting stain on the floor. “I look at what everyone's doing. It's my job to.”

He hummed mirthfully, his golden gaze fully amused now:

“And what job would that be? Voyeur?”

You almost choked on your own spit.

“Guidance councillor, smart guy,” you countered, feeling your cheeks heat up. How was a stranger rattling you this much? You were usually the one whose words left others confused. “I look at people, and I figure out what they want in life. I help them find careers. I’ll have you know that's an extremely important task, mister-”

You squinted at the sticky nametag on his chest, trying to decipher the very slanted handwriting. You vaguely remembered the blue stickers were reserved for teachers.

“…Professor…?” you struggled weakly, hoping he would fill in the illegible part.

He thankfully seemed to find your attempt more endearing than insulting.

“Just call me Viktor,” he answered with a sincere smile. His lips were slightly crooked, the left dimple just barely more present on his left side than his right. There was a tiny little beauty spot next to his cupid bow; the thought that it would be nice to lick it just to confirm it wasn't a speck of the chocolate cake flashed in your mind.

‘Focus, focus!’

“Tell me, Viktor,” you cleared your throat. You had to get it together. This was the longest conversation you had been able to maintain with a fellow faculty member without them looking like they wanted to run away. “Why tuna? There's so many other sandwiches to choose from. You could take the egg salad, or the turkey sub, or the spicy chicken…”

You were definitely being too insistent on the tuna thing. If he didn't think you were weird before, he would now.

And yet Viktor still didn't leave. He considered your question seriously, taking a few thoughtful seconds to answer:

“It's the only one with multigrain bread. Very low fat for a good source of omega-3 and protein. And I don't dislike it, so it makes the most sense as a daily meal,” he mused, almost like it was the first time he had ever thought about it, too.

Huh.

“That's a sad way of looking at things,” you commented before thinking.

Before you could mentally swear at your debilitating lack of restraint, Viktor countered the statement with seemingly genuine curiosity:

“How so?”

You had a chance to say something cute and short, and leave the topic at that. It would be a major win for you; your first enjoyable talk with a coworker. Maybe you would even exchange email addresses by the end of the night.

Or…

You could be yourself. Let the floodgate of constant thoughts and observations pour out for a minute. Show this random handsome man who you were, really.

Had you not been drunk and sound of mind, you would have gone for the former. But as it happened, you were quite drunk, and you chose the latter. You took a deep breath before speaking:

“Means you only value food as something that's needed, like taste and flavour isn’t important. You deny yourself basic pleasures out of fear you'll get used to them and grow complacent. You're probably the type of guy who slaves away in his office for hours, not even realizing he's hungry, because it's lost all relevance to him.”

The silence that followed felt eerie. The expression on Viktor's face was blank, mouth barely agape, brows slightly furrowed. You had fucked it up, again.

“Sorry,” you muttered, feeling incredibly foolish. “That was overstepping.”

“No, actually,“ Viktor responded almost eagerly, the sparkle in his eyes bright, “Keep going. What else can you tell?”

There was palpable interest in his tone, in the way his body leaned slightly closer to yours. He wanted to know. He wanted to listen to you.

“The tuna sandwich is twenty-five cents cheaper than all the other ones,” you continued slowly, afraid of breaking the spell that was keeping him attentive to your words. “Usually a sign of a lower class upbringing, shows that you're used to thinking with a controlled budget, even if you don't need to anymore. You likely value hard work and commitment.”

You paused once more to gauge his reaction, but he didn't say anything, clearly waiting for you to continue. So, you did.

“It's always eleven forty-five sharp. You're precise, mechanical. Probably in the department of medicine, or some form of applied science. Am I right?”

“Biomechanical engineering,” he specified with a baffled smile. “Incredible. All that from a sandwich?”

You shrugged, feeling giddy under the weight of the compliment. It was so utterly rare that anyone would actually enjoy your rambling.

“I notice things about people, and I tell them. Couldn’t quite cut it as a detective or a psychologist, so it makes me an ok guidance counsellor,” you smiled, adding an audible wince. “But the person you really gotta avoid at parties.”

He laughed at that, a pretty, earnest sound, slightly low and nasal. The kind of laugh that would make the heart of a weaker person skip a beat.

You blamed the fact that yours did in fact skip a beat entirely on the alcohol.

“I-I'm sure what you do is a lot more impressive, though,” you quickly stammered out. Why were you stuttering?

He shrugged, bony shoulders visible through his button-up shirt. A few beauty marks decorated his neck where the collar didn't reach; you wondered how many more the fabric was hiding.

“Eh, I wouldn't bet on that. Gait analysis, prosthetic limb design. Much less creative than one might think,” he commented with a certain indifferent boredom; yet there was a certain light in his eyes that spoke otherwise. Maybe he was also the type of person people didn’t listen to much. “But it does feel rewarding to do something for others who might not have my luck.”

He pointed down with his chin, and for the first time since you began talking to him, you realized he was holding a cane.

You, whose only redeeming quality was having good observational skills, hadn't noticed the man you had been talking to for the last ten minutes was holding a cane. A refined-looking one at that, with a deep burgundy tainted wood for the shaft, and a sleek handle the colour of tarnished gold. ‘Maybe if you stopped looking at his face for a goddamn second you would have noticed’ you scolded yourself.

“Ah,” you blurted out pathetically. “That's… that's really cool.” You were looking at his fingers. You were looking at his long, slim fingers holding his cane, calloused yet delicate, and you were imagining them in places they should definitely not be in.

You had absolutely no idea what you had just said to him.

Yet Viktor only seemed more amused, his smirk growing ever so slightly.

“Yes, I also like to think of it as ‘cool’, from time to time.”

A drink. What you needed was another drink. Then perhaps you would reach a level of enlightenment where you would remember how to not look like a complete fool in front of attractive professors, who probably did quantum physics as a hobby.

As if he had read your mind, Viktor shifted in the direction of the drinks table, giving you a knowing smile. Were you so easy to read, or was he simply so good at reading you?

“I’d offer to bring you a glass of wine, but I believe that may have been your original intention before reading my palm,” he joked.

‘It's nothing like fortune telling, it's just logical analysis !’ part of you wanted to retort.

‘Give me your palm and I'll show you what my real fucking intentions are,’ purred the other one.

If you didn't get out of here now, you would say something that would definitely end your career before it had even taken off.

“I think I'll probably head home for the night. I've already had a little too much to drink,” you smiled hesitantly. Understatement of the century.

You could have sworn you saw a flash of disappointment in his eyes. Then again, you had probably imagined it. If anything, he was likely relieved he had finally managed to escape the babbling lunatic. Someone like him, so brilliant and accomplished, had no reason to willingly listen to the ramblings of a glorified high school school councillor.

But…

“But… maybe you could give me your number?” you asked hesitantly, taking one final, vulnerable leap of faith. “Just for work, of course!”, you added hastily.

Viktor did not seem angry or disgusted at the proposal; in fact, his smile widened, revealing a slightly uneven row of teeth. Cute. Everything about him was attractive.

“I would like that,” Viktor said softly, amber eyes warm. “I did enjoy hearing you talk.”

Your heart made a heavy, dull thud. With a small wave, he was gone, disappearing somewhere into the crowd like he had been nothing more than a hallucination conjured up by the cheap wine.

Your first work friend.

A potential real friend. Someone who genuinely didn't seem to hate the sound of your voice.

It was much too precious to lose over some passing, drunken attraction. You absolutely had to crush these emotions now to prevent them from becoming anything serious. After all, it wasn't like you had a shadow of chance with someone like him.

Perhaps for the first time in your life, you decided to stay silent about something, no matter what would happen in the future.

He couldn't know.

You would never let him know.

[goldenlikedayl1ght]

idk if this has been done yet

[knnichs]

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮?

you get injured while playing on court, kinich just happened to be watching.

c. basketball captain! kinich & volleyball player reader

t. character(s) are in a relationship with the reader, gn!reader, fluff, no use of y/n, not proofread, highschool/uni au, wc 1.1k

m. @lowkeyren @hanniejji author notes at the end!!

It was obvious your team was winning when it came down to the basics of fundamentals—the defense was thankfully taken care of by Sethos, who had just replaced Xiangling as a libero since she, unfortunately, had decided to opt out playing in the tournament. Sethos was great, though. Being an all rounder, he is quite talented with his ball control.

But when it came to the offense, you were certainly the star when it came to your team's attacks.

You call for the set, and steadily go a few steps to the back of the attacking line. Aether gives the ball smoothly, you step forward — right, left, right — then jumping, quickly swinging your arm towards the ball as you hit the line perfectly. The referee calls the whistle before you land, and the line judge points the flag down as they face the right end of your opponent's court. A seamless play.

You got distracted looking at the scoreboard, 23-22, it was a close match and all your team needed was to win this set before you already won. As you landed from your jump, you lost balance. Eventually rolling over your left ankle, and falling to the ground.

Your teammates checked up on you, surrounding you and helping you sit up before the medic came. The match got paused as they helped you ease the pain with an ice pack, and you were brought to the benches. There, several of the other players did their best to reassure you after your unlucky landing. You don’t feel too beat up about it, you already saw this coming when you checked the scoreboard before ensuring your safety when landing. 

You had only hoped Kinich didn’t see that.

He turns the tv on and gives you the remote, two plates of stir fry noodles on the coffee table and a glass of cold water. Kinich sat right in front of you, trying to set up a comfortable place you can rest in as you recover.

“Sigewinne said it was nothing serious, I’m fine.” You repeated for… maybe the 6th time this evening. All that gave you was a displeased look from your boyfriend, and he raised the ice pack away.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be paying extra attention to you then?” 

“Wait—I was kidding. That was a joke,” 

“Oh, yeah. I’m sure it was.”

Kinich knew what it felt like having an injury, one during the season at that. It’s devastating—that might be too dramatic. It was just sad knowing you wouldn’t be able to compete until you fully heal. Knowing your coach, Wriothesley, and Beidou, they certainly wouldn’t allow you to play until you got the go sign from your doctor. A very much so sure, go sign.

So, until you got to go on court again, his job was to take care of you.

“Wait one moment. Stay here,” he said before disappearing into the bedroom. He comes back with a few pillows and the world's comfiest comforter (it was his blanket.)

He knew you felt the least bit sad because of this. No matter how minor the injury was, this was the first time you were competing in a mixed tournament, and the first time the boys and girls team from different schools competed for a regional game. It was true you got to play with them multiple times already — your team captains had easily gotten close with each other, so naturally, tune up games or practices with them were common.

Wriothesley cared for his team, so did Beidou, and so did your coach. It was difficult trying to convince everyone you were fine when you already struggled walking to the benches. That’s not including the exhaustion you felt mentally after you sat down—immediately curling up and letting a few tears go was not a good image for you. But your teammates were supportive, they also cared.

Maybe it was a little selfish demanding your coach to bring you back in court, but you were swayed by the overwhelming sense of guilt. That you couldn't play properly for the team, that your opponent ended up getting the point, and that you injured yourself because you got distracted.

“I mean, in the end, you tried your best.” He put the ice bag back on the table once he had noticed it might be getting too cold for you. “That’s what matters most, right?” 

Kinich hands you the glass of water. “And you shouldn’t feel that beat up about it. They all said you need to rest so you could recover faster, just do as they say.”

You paused for a moment, he took the glass from you as you finished drinking, and handed you the plate full of food. Then, the boy went to sit next to you as you laid on the couch. He shuffled around trying to find a proper position, and your legs ended up on top of his lap. 

“This might just be one of the most disappointing games I’ve ever done.”

He brings a hand to your knee, trying to reassure you by drawing figures across your skin. 

“You’ve done worse,” and you throw a part of the blanket towards him.

You take a fork full of the noodles—savory and sweet, exactly what you needed after the game. Kinich knew you always had a craving for something sweet, especially after training, when you’re tired. You two end up in a convenience store buying froyo at some point while you eat in the back of the car, just talking about what had happened.

“They all care about you. I care about you.” He whispers.

Kinich stretched a little to reach you, pressing his lips to your forehead in a kiss. One hand holding yours as you place the plate on the table again. Thankfully this couch fits the both of you, otherwise you wouldn’t be basking in the feeling of his arms slowly snaking up your sides, enveloping you in a warm hug.

“I’ll clean up your injuries for you, I’ll come to your games, I’ll sit here in silence until god knows when—I’ll do anything for you, because I love you. And I will continue to.” 

He holds your hand again, your left this time, and you notice a familiar shine through your fingers. The promise ring he gave you way back when the two of you had your first anniversary with your relationship just two years ago with your favorite color as the gem.

“So please, rest.”

lowkey based on what happened to me during training last… last last week?? please do not play while having a fever!!! ANYWAY this is my first work for this au im doing cough there will be a masterlist for that soon. i fear. after this ill be working on other volleyball stuff esp with scara & sethos i AM STUDYING SETHOS’ CHARACTER RIGHT NOW. hes so fun & silly i love him

anyway, do expect more of these kinds of fics (volleyball au & highschool au) because ive been having intense brainrot for them recently. and i think i did well capturing kinichs character here bc ,,, hes a silly man . who (in my perspective) teases people who hes close with while still being respectful. I ALSO DONT KNOW IF PROMISE RINGS ARE A THING IN OTHER COUNTRIES pardon me if its not … i thought it was cute 😝 okay thats enough yapping SEE YOU

@ staarri 2023 ﹑ do not repost, republish, translate, feed to ai, plagiarize,or modify any of my works.

[its-the-sahara-out-here]

projecting the depressive episode on my favs again <33

Headcanons about how bud handles his depression:

Not sure if he gets the Dread™ like I do but I like to think he has a bad reaction to his own wings when he's going through it. That and the frantic searching for something that'll make the numbness go away.

He'd curl up in a ball for most of the day staring blankly into the wallpaper and during the night he'd be drafting duck designs until he passed out.

He'd definitely shut down at the thought of the hotel and/or any of his duties. He would be able to fake being okay better than usual on those days. Just, so dissociated that he can go through the motions without overthinking things. He'd probably be on the verge of a panic attack all day.

I don't think he'd cry much unless he started spiralling about Lilith and Charlie, though. That's when he'd curl up under the covers and shatter.

close ups beneath the cut

[dreamsinmoonlight]

May I lay my head on Adams lap?

(I should be asleep and DEFINITELY should do the three other asks but I like me some stupid fluff with my stupid man so sure, have this before I fall unconscious because it's like almost midnight here)

Adam let out a snort as you plopped down next to him and opened his mouth to say something he would swear was witty or cool, because he was Adam the Dick Master and he was entirely both of those things. But his train of thought was derailed most effectively as you moved sideways and he suddenly found your head resting in his lap.

He was, for once in existence, speechless and just stared at you for a good few moments with wide eyes, as if trying to figure out what was going on. Finally, and with far more deliberation than that brain of his was really normally capable of, he spoke carefully, "Babe? You alright?"

"Shut up and be my pillow," you mumbled, your eyes closed. God he could be noisy and you just wanted to rest.

God knew when He made Adam He'd made the comfiest living pillow. The robe was a nice plus, it was soft and silky, but honestly you were usually just as happy to just lay your head straight into those squishy thighs. He wasn't bony in any way whatsoever, a plus in your book, and he was usually pretty warm on top of that. All together 10/10, would recommend as a cushion if you happened to have a long day or just wanted a good nap.

You didn't need to look up to know he was pouting; he hated it when you told him to shut up but after multiple discussions about the fact you meant it with love and not contempt, he had eventually gotten that. But he still pouted, because he was still Adam. You listened to him grumble and you thought up caught some choice words but whatever they were were pointless and quickly lost.

He started playing with your hair after all and that wasn't playing fair. Your head in your favorite lap, your idiot favorite angel playing with your hair? It was a combination you were absolutely powerless against and he knew it damnit. That was probably the point, his little revenge against you.

"Fine fine, I'll be your pillow, bitch, but you better be ready for payback later." That wasn't much of a threat; Adam's idea of "payback" when it came to you usually came down to doing the things God put him on Earth to do in the first place.

You mumbled but couldn't do much more than that. It was just too much. You nodded off and Heaven's most annoying angel watched you with a smile that could only be described as "how the hell did Adam learn to look soft".

Answer: that's what being wanted and loved does to someone. Yes even him.

[mafesti]

In sickness and in health, remember?

Pairing(s): John Price x GN! Reader

Summary: Your husband gets sick and he doesn't want to admit it. Luckily, you're there to help him, even though he's being stubborn about it.

Word Count: 5158

Warning(s): None, pure fluff

A/N: I'm sorry if it's bad or short, or anything else in the matter :( I'm still new to this fan fiction stuff (as in my first blown one-shot that I didn't abandon), and English isn't my first language too. But please enjoy! I'm sorry once again if there's potentially any other fanfics like this, I have no means to copy them. 🫶

⋆ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆

You and your dear husband, John, have been married together for 4 years, and it has been a truly beautiful relationship for both of you. Although you have always noticed that John tends to get sick from time to time, especially when he's getting older (don't say that to him though, or he'll be terribly mad at you).

But this time was different.

You noticed that he was hiding something from you, most likely because he didn't want to worry you (even though you were already worried and soon-to-be developing a mild heart attack for him whenever he was out for deployment anyways).

You walked into your shared room, deciding not to knock, just this once. Noticing your presence, he looks up from his stack of never ending paperwork that was on his table.

"Love, what did I say to you about knocking?" He tried to answer you in his typical, gruff voice, but you knew him well enough to notice a hint of exhaustion behind those words.

His face was pale, and his breath seemed shallow. You could tell something was wrong.

"John, are you alright?" You ask with a frown on your face.

"No, I'm perfectly fine!" he said, refusing to admit anything. "I'm just a little tired, that's all," he added, hoping you'd let it go.

But you knew him too well even before marriage, and you knew something was seriously wrong with him.

"No, John, you look like you're about to pass out. You look sick since when? Yesterday? You're way beyond 'just tired," you argued back.

"I'm fine, really, it's nothing serious at all!" he tried to convince you, but you were having none of it.

"John, you're pale and sweating, and you've potentially got a fever. You're not 'fine."

He huffed a bit, but then admitted, "Alright, maybe I am a little under the weather, but it's really nothing serious. Just a small cold, nothing I can't deal with."

You let out a very desperate sigh (which shows your current condition with Price) while shaking your head. 𝘚𝘵𝘶𝘣𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘯. You thought to yourself. You got behind him and placed your hands on his shoulder, and he immediately got the memo of what you were going to do.

"Sweetheart, you really don't have to.." He sighed, but you ignored him. You began massaging his shoulders, pressing the knots out while chastising him.

"John, c'mon, let's not pretend this is a small cold." You chastised him gently.

He lets out a groan and gave in into the soothing feeling, dropping everything that he was doing earlier. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘣𝘢𝘥. He thought with a small sigh leaving his lips.

"Okay, okay.. maybe you're right." He admitted. "But I'll just lie down for a bit and I'll be as good as new."

You knew it was for the best, even if he was being stubborn and tried to protest. You led him over to the bed, helping him lie down as he gave a few soft murmurs of thanks. You checked his temperature, which came up at 39-40 degrees celcius, a moderate grade fever.

"See," You showed him the thermometer.

"It's clear you're way beyond this 'small cold' you've been claiming," you scolded him with a satisfied look on your face after you've proved him wrong. He muttered something under his breath, but eventually conceded that he needed some rest.

You carefully drape the blanket over his chest, making sure to keep him warm and comfortable. You left him alone for a bit and came back with a bucket of water with a small towel in it. You then took the damp towel and gently placed it on his forehead, trying to lower his fever as much as possible.

"Now rest, and let me get some soup for you," you instructed him. He grumbled something yet again, but finally nodded and did as you said.

You did as you promised, returning to the kitchen shortly after to make a soup that would be sure to help his recovery. You also added some hot tea with honey and lemon juice, a classic remedy for whenever someone is sick.

You returned to the bedroom with the soup and tea on a tray. Seeing the tray full of supposedly filled medicine, John slowly sat up and leaned his back to the headboard, getting into a comfortable position. You made sure John kept drinking and eating it, and when he was done you put the tray on the nightstand beside the bed.

Slowly but surely, his fever dropped and his color returned. After a short while, he began to fall asleep from exhaustion.

You were just about to head out of the room, but John gently grabbed your wrist with the last ounce of strength he had left, mumbling a quiet "Stay."

Even though you knew he needed his rest, your heart melted at the way he held your wrist so gently. For a moment you hesitated, but if it meant him getting the rest he needed, you'll happily stay with him till' he gets better.

"I'll be right back, love," you whispered softly, giving his hand one last lingering squeeze.

You closed the curtain and turned off the lights, creating a comfortable and low-lit atmosphere. Then you gently climbed into bed with him, finding a cozy spot and wrapping a blanket around the two of you. You leaned close to him, nuzzling against his shoulder and pulling him into you, feeling his presence and feeling comfortable and safe.

Finally, you both closed your eyes and rested as you slowly fell asleep together.

[kiyoumie]

featuring: kuroo tetsurou.

note: why is this so specific help (sorry if its bad lmao)

fiancé!kuroo proposed to you romantically. he opened the red velvetly box while kneeling on the gritty sand with the waves resonates in the background. it was night time as well, he set up some candles to make it romantic. he took you to the beach you both always go to when summer came.

fiancé!kuroo bought a new house for the two of you early. you were baffled when kuroo told you to choose a design for the new house. it was so fast, literally two days after the proposal. you guys discussed how the house will be arranged while giggling about scenarios that would happen to the both of you in the new place. hell, the house was made in less than 6 months

fiancé!kuroo took you to a special date a week after the proposal. he said that the date is to celebrate of you saying "yes" to his proposal. you shook your head at his idea, but accepted anyways. who doesn't want to spend with their love of their life whilst eating free food?

fiancé!kuroo peppered you with kisses as you explained on what you guys should do about the venue. god, he said yes to everything you said. down bad i must say.

fiancé!kuroo is so polite. he went to your parents' house and his voice turned soft. he made dinner with the help of your mom, helping the single details. hell, your parents are swooned by your man.

fiancé!kuroo was nervous when he saw the whole altar being built. he thought whether he'll say the vows correctly, will he stumble? he gulped, but then he took a glance of you, maybe he'll do just fine.

fiancé!kuroo cried in the dressing room just before his wedding. you could see drops of tears on his attire. yaku had to stop him from crying even worse saying that he's making the stylist's life harder. the said woman just chuckled.

fiancé!kuroo almost teared up when he saw you in the long, flowy, white dress. fuck, you were so pretty right there.

fiancé!kuroo is definitely glad that he married you. it's the same for you, you're very thankful that he chose you.

fiancé!kuroo is the happiest. he has a pet cat, live in this big modern house he bought, and what's he's most content about is that he gets to experience his happy ever after with you.

[shiningstarr15]

Nothing too grand, just a doodle I did while waiting for my therapy session today

Thought we could all use the comfort today 💛

[kate-the1975]

Here’s a lil look at all the exciting things I have stocked up in the drafts.

Once I actually have a break from work I’ll post them 😭😭

[switch-writer]

i request some law hcs because i say so👹

Trafalgar D. Water Law Tickle Headcanons

A/N: Thank you both to my bestie and lovely anon for the request, BECAUSE I LOVE THIS FELLA. Law honestly is a very ominous character until he meets Luffy, so honestly, I love seeing him go from horrifying to goofy and panicked when Luffy is around. BUT THANK YOU. I have a lot of fun writing for him, and though it took awhile to get around to this, I appreciate the request. This is a little warm up since I’m about to finally write my squealing Santa fic at some point, but I’ll quit rambling! Thank you for the patience, and last of all. Enjoy!

• Out of the gate, Law is a man who prefers to tickle than to get tickled, mostly because his reactions are very silly when tickled and it ruins some of his image. But despite this, he gets tickled more than he tickles.

• When he does tickle someone (mostly Luffy) it’s out of retaliation usually due to the strawhats.

• His fingers are very fast and accurate, so any spot that maybe sensitive, he will find and he will make sure there isn’t any secret place where it tickles all the more

• He will smirk the smuggest smirk in the world whenever he tickles someone.

• “You know, doctor’s usually have the occasional sensitive patient, but you certainly are a exception.”

• He’ll occasionally tickle Bepo by rubbing his belly, and because of this, it became a habit. So sometimes when Luffy leans or lays nearby, he’ll mindlessly tickle him on his belly or somewhere else.

• That being said, if he wants revenge on someone, he’ll simply call out ‘room!’ And then he’ll be behind someone tickling them because he isn’t gonna let someone get away with tickling the surgeon of death.

• He over all is gentle.. unless provoked. Then he’ll go for any spot necessary and tickle it. Sweet spots and all. All in good fun however.

• He’ll usually stop once someone learns their lesson, then smirk as he watches whoever he tickled giggle before calming down. Although, he’ll occasionally pat their back or sit with them as they relax.

• As for the other side of things, he will be very defensive and flustered, asking what in the world whoever is tickling him is doing.

• This is a Habit he’s had since he was with Corazon, there was a occasion where Corazon would tease him by tickling him and Law would get defensive and pouty as a child. But that’d always be his first question.

• He’ll often try and bat at the hands tickling him, but in most cases, Luffy is tickling him and he finds it difficult to actually catch his hands.

• His laugh usually starts as a snicker, but he has a over all quiet, soft laugh, but a warming one. He does however have a hearty laugh when someone gets a weak spot.

• After the tickling stops, he will have a wobbly smile on his face for a minute, probably some light blush too. The smile goes away faster than the blush however since he tries to straight up fast for the sake of appearances.

• His legs will also kick a fair amount, which is probably also a habit from never getting tickled much since he was a child, so he just… reacts completely like how he would as a child.

• Law finds someone tracing his tattoo designs relaxing over all, but he’ll occasionally let snickers out because it’ll slightly tickle. Nothing too bad, just a snicker and a squirm.

• His weak/worst spot is just his torso as a whole, but especially around his belly and ribs, but at that point his sides share the same weakness. However, a honorable mention is his back.

• Traffy will often gasp when someone touches somewhere like his ribs and stare as if they just offended him to his core.

• But to end it off, unless there’s trust and he’s comfortable, you’ll have a hard time getting him to humor it. Sly when tickling, a little more bashful and stubborn when tickled.

• However, if it’s a close friend or a lover, or even someone like family (Corazon), he’ll… humor it. Maybe even enjoy it at times.

Hope you enjoyed!

[cowgurrrl]

Kiwi

Pairing: rockstar!joel miller x actress!reader

Author’s note: as I was writing this, I proclaimed in the most southern accent, “now we’re cookin’ with peanut oil!” so do that with that

Summary: Joel goes home for a month. You stay in California to work. What could possibly go wrong? [3.8k]

Warnings: HEAVILY implied casting couch culture, brief allusion to creepy Hollywood producers, yearning, I can’t think of anything else!!

Boarding my flight now.

Thanks for letting me know?

Well, I texted my mama to let her know, and she told me to text "that girlfriend of mine."

Doesn't sound like she's a huge fan.

She'll live.

You like the message and go to put your phone away when it buzzes again.

Is it weird that I kinda miss talking to you?

You smile and ignore your name being called over the intercom for another beat.

There are a lot of weird things about you, Joel Miller, but that one feels the most normal.

Text me when you land in Austin. Tell your mom I said hi.

You tuck your phone away, fighting the stupid smile on your face, and look up to see a pissed-off PA walking towards you. You apologize and half jog to the sound stage where Ryan is waiting. 

"The perfect punctual queen is late for once? Is the world going to shit?" He asks, and you slap his arm.

"People are allowed to be late."

"Does your lateness have anything to do with your boy toy?"

"Are you ever gonna call him by his name?" You ask. He senses that you're stalling his question and take a deep breath. "Joel is flying home to Texas today to visit family and get some work done. He'll be gone for a month."

"Oh, how will you ever survive?" He pouts, and you give him a look. The director calling for places stops you from responding, but you threaten him with the promise of picking up the conversation later. 

You don't ever get to tell him off for suggesting that you can't live without Joel being in the same state because of how late shooting goes. It might've been exhaustion, but you swore that you saw the sun starting to rise over the horizon by the time you finally got to leave. You knocked out a good chunk of the scenes you were still working on, which is great news, but you were mentally and physically drained. You slept most of the next day and missed Joel's messages from one whole time zone away. 

Landed.

Jesus Christ, I forgot how hot it is here.

My mama told me to ask you if you go to church since she doesn't believe me.

Attached: Two photos

You laugh as you sleepily scroll through his texts when you wake up mid-afternoon, feeling a little bit better from your long night. One of the pictures he sent is of him sitting in the cab of an old truck with the caption, "This was my first car. I can't convince my dad to sell the damn thing." The second is a blurry photo of a blue-looking weed on the side of the road surrounded by what looks like thousands of other blue weeds. "Turns out the state flower will literally grow anywhere besides in a pot in my house."

A) I'm glad you made it in safely. B) Isn't Texas the armpit of the South? C) I don't go to church, and I never have, but please feel free to lie to her. D) I can imagine a young, emo Joel Miller driving it now.

He reads your messages almost as soon as they deliver, and your screen lights up with his initials as he calls you. You yawn as you pick up and hear chatter in the background of wherever he is.

"First of all," he starts in a determined tone. "Texas ain't the armpit of the South. That's South Carolina." He says. He hasn't even been in Texas for forty-eight hours, and his accent is already thick again.

"My mistake," you laugh. "Did you have another point, or was that it?"

"Second of all, why d'you sound so tired?"

"Obviously, I was out partying with strange men all night."

"Really?" He asks, and you scoff.

"No, Joel. Filming went really late yesterday. I don't think I got home until six this morning."

"Sounds intense." 

"Not as intense as being interrogated by your mother," you say, and he hums. You hear someone laughing in the background and relish in the joy that you're not there to witness. He doesn't say anything for a minute, and you wonder if the line dropped, but when you pull the phone away from your face, you see the call is still active. "You really miss me so much that you called me just to sit on the line?"

"Maybe I did." He says. You take a deep breath and glance at the clock on your bedside table. He's two hours ahead. The sun must be setting by now, casting gorgeous rays onto his skin and making his eyes look amber. You wonder what Texas air does to Joel's soul. Maybe it soothes him like only an old baby blanket can. Maybe it makes him jumpy, like he's waiting for a clap of thunder that never comes. Maybe it makes him wonder why he left in the first place. You wish you could be there to read his expression and try to decipher what he's thinking. Someone calls Joel's name in the background, and you hear him shuffle with the phone, probably covering the microphone with his hand because the voices become muffled. When the phone comes back to his ear, he takes a deep breath, and you do the same. "I gotta go. Can I call you tomorrow?" He asks. 

"I'm counting on it, Miller." You say, and he laughs before mumbling a good night and hanging up the phone. 

After that, it becomes a habit for Joel to call you every day from Texas. He'll tell you different stories about his parents, how Austin has changed since he left, and update you on how the newest album is coming. He listens to you rant about work, how tired you are, and how frustrated you always get toward the end of a project. Sometimes the conversations last ten minutes, and sometimes they last hours. One night, you fell asleep on the phone with him because he was trying to get your opinion on a new song, but you had spent the day filming the scene of your character giving birth, which was tiring in its own right. He doesn't chide you for it. He just sends you a goodnight text and promises to call you the following night.

You hate to admit it, but production speeds up with Joel out of town. You end up wrapping your scenes a week early while Ryan still has another couple of days of filming his scenes. You'll probably get called back in for reshoots in a few months, but you feel really good about the work you put out there, and you finally get the chance to rest before Melanie sends you more scripts to read over. You send Joel a photo of your open laptop and a glass of wine next to it as the California sun sets over your balcony. 

Wrap parties are looking different as I get older.

Don't worry. I'm sure you'll still be a drunk, no matter how old.

Asshole.

Lashing out is the first sign of a bigger problem. I think I should call Melanie.

You laugh and search for the middle finger emoji when he sends you another text.

Paul got me on the list for some charity event this Saturday. Want to come with me? He said it'd probably be better to get some more dates in sooner rather than later.

The reminder that this is all fake shifts your entire mood. Of course, it's always lingering in your mind, but the texting didn't feel fake. The late-night calls didn't feel fake. He didn't feel fake. In fact, this is the first time you feel like you have a sliver of an idea as to who Joel Miller actually is when he isn't selling out world tours and recording platinum albums. It's stupid for you to feel this way. You have no reason to. No right. You take a deep breath and type out a message.

Sure.

On Friday, you drive to the airport to pick Joel up, creating an over-the-top scene of you running and jumping into his arms. His hat falls off his head and onto the ground as he catches you and kisses you sweetly. When he sets you back on the ground, he doesn't let you go right away. He lingers in your arms, and even though your feelings are still hurt and you're still trying to remind yourself that this is all fake, you let him. He smells like a detergent you don't recognize, but underneath that, you catch a whiff of the cologne he always wears. You rub his back as you hold him in the middle of the airport. 

"'S really good to see your face," he says into your neck, and you nod. 

"You too."

As you drive him home, he brings you up to speed on how the album is coming along and how different Texas was when he was there. You tell him about the last few days on set and an upcoming press junket in New York City. He lights up when you tell him the dates as you maneuver through LA traffic.

"I'm scheduled to go to New York to work with my sound mixer that same time. He's got his own studio out there now and knows more about it than I do," he says. "Maybe we can fly together? Make it look like a couple's trip?"

"Sure," you say. He furrows his eyebrows at your lack of excitement, and you scramble for something else to talk about. "How are your parents?" You ask. The rest of the ride to his house goes off without a hitch, and he kisses you again as he gets out of the car, both of you highly aware of the car full of paparazzi that's been tailing you since you left the airport. He promises to pick you up at five the following night, and you just nod. When you get home, you walk calmly into your house, lock the door, and scream.

Joel's hand is in yours as you wait for your turn to walk the carpet. You're not sure why there's a red carpet at a charity event, but you're not about to throw a fit about it. Joel is wearing a sleek black suit, and you're matching with a long black dress. It's a low-cut backless dress, and a sparkly necklace your stylist picked out rests against your sternum. Joel taps your hand, and you look at him.

"You okay?" He asks. He looks worried as he steps between you and the wall of photographers waiting for you to stand and pose perfectly for their photos. "You've been quiet the past few days."

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired. I think I'm still recovering from that last week of filming." 

"Are you sure you're not gettin' sick?" He asks, raising his other hand to your cheeks like he's checking your temperature. You smile half-heartedly and swat his hand away.

"I'm sure," you say. He tries to say more, but someone with a clipboard gets your attention and asks if you're ready. You nod and step onto the carpet, holding Joel's hand. The press erupts into a cloud of noise, startling you and making Joel laugh. You slap his chest and plaster on your rehearsed smile. You do your best to look where all the photographers are yelling at you to look and try different poses so they can get what they need. Everyone has to make a living, you suppose. You just wish their salary wasn't at the expense of your privacy. 

You get halfway down the carpet, taking pictures as a couple and some solo shots, before one of the photographers yells a new command. "Can we get a kiss?" He shouts. You pretend not to hear him and show off how the dress dips down your back, hugging you in all the right places. Still, the photographer is demanding a kiss, and now others have joined in too. It feels very "dance, monkey, dance," but you do your best to grit your teeth and smile. You catch Joel staring at you when you turn. It could be the flashing bulbs of cameras or how he's looking at you, but his eyes are sparkling, and the creases in the corners make you melt just a little. 

You hold out your hand for him to join you, which he happily obliges, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close enough for him to kiss your temple. "You alright?" He asks against your skin as you rest a hand on his chest and look up at him. You nod and glance between his eyes and his lips. The chorus of people practically begging for a picture of you two kissing is growing, and you raise your eyebrows at him. 

"You gonna keep them waiting, or are you gonna kiss me?" You ask, the playful lilt reserved for him returning to your voice. He gives you a look and smirks before leaning down a pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. Everyone ooh's and aw's at you two, but you only care about how fast his heartbeat is against your palm. You want to blame it on the anxiety of walking the carpet and having people scream at you to do whatever they want. No, you have to blame it on that. There's no other option.

When you finally get inside, Joel gets you a glass of wine and a mixed drink for himself. The event is sweet and goes by quickly as you listen to people talk about something they're so passionate about. You decide to donate some money under an anonymous name once you are all excused to the reception, where there's food, more alcohol, and dancing. Joel leaves your side to catch up with some musician buddies, kissing your cheek before disappearing into the crowd. 

You nurse your wine as people you've never met start conversations with you. They're all polite and ask about your newest project, how LA's been treating you, and what's up next for you. You can't reveal much due to the NDA you signed at the beginning of shooting, but you tell them how excited you are for them to be able to see it and admit you've got some auditions lined up in the coming weeks. You've probably given the same answers to a handful of different people when you realize you're out of wine and Joel is still missing. You scan the room for him, but you can't find him. That's fine, you think. It's not like he's obligated to stick to my side at all times. He can have his own life.

You sigh as you belly up to the bar and order another glass of wine. You almost make it a double when someone taps your arm, making you turn. "I don't mean to interrupt, but you look exquisite tonight. I just thought you should know," ultra-famous producer Richard Pike tells you. You blink at him, your brain struggling to catch up with the fact that one of the men who's made the most award-winning films in the past twenty years just noticed you. "I know everyone has probably told you that tonight, but-"

"Oh, no. Thank you. I'm sorry. I was just a little starstruck right then," you apologize before holding your hand out to introduce yourself. He takes your hand and kisses the top of it. It's very dramatic, but this is Hollywood we're talking about. Your glass of wine arrives, and he pays the bartender before you can even reach for your purse. 

"Women as gorgeous as you should never have to pay for a drink. Ever." He says, and you laugh.

"I mean, I won't argue with you on that," you say, taking your glass in your hand to clink it against his glass of scotch. "Thank you, Mr. Pike."

"Please, call me Richard," he insists. "You just finished another movie, didn't you? You're a very busy girl."

"Yes, sir. I'm already looking for new projects to audition for." 

"Oh, I remember when I had actors audition. See, that was before I started writing roles for specific actors. Some people call that crude or playing favorites, but it hasn't failed me yet." 

"No, sir, it hasn't."

"So formal! Yes, sir! No, sir! Are you like this with everyone?" He asks as he takes a big swig of his drink.

"Just people who can cast me," you say. You're partially joking, but it's enough for him. He laughs, and his hand lands perfectly on your exposed back as he cackles loudly. You force yourself to laugh along with him and suddenly get that sinking feeling in your chest. Everybody seems to strategically look away from you two at the bar, and you want to be anywhere but here. 

"You know, I've seen a few of your movies," he says, getting close to your face like he's telling you a secret. "I think you've got a lot of potential. With just a little coaching and one great role," his hand dips lower down your back, and you freeze. Ice water runs through your veins, and everything is screaming at you to run away, but your heels stay planted against the expensive hardwood. "We'll make an Oscar winner of you yet."

"Excuse me," a familiar drawl says behind you. You both turn and make eye contact with Joel. "May I steal my girlfriend for a dance? I promised her one on the way over." He asks, but he's already wrapping an arm around your waist, ready to pull you away. The hand on your back disappears and claps Joel on the shoulder.

"Of course! You take good care of this one!"

"Yes, sir," Joel says as he pulls you to the dance floor. Your heart is still beating in your throat, and you feel like you could cry, but Joel's looking at you with such kindness. You find safety in him as you wrap your arms around his neck and slowly sway with him, the soft material of his dress shirt calming you down. He waits until Pike is out of earshot to lean down to talk in your ear. "Now, I know you don't need me savin' you like that. Are you sure you're okay?" 

"He's one of the biggest producers in Hollywood. He could tank my career in a single email. You want to be the one to yell at him?" You ask. "If I said or did something, he would've doubled down, but he respects you more. He backed off because, in his mind, I belong to you."

"How do you know?"

"I've dealt with people like him before. They're all the same old men who think they can offer you a legacy on a silver platter if you fuck them. I've gotten enough advice from other actors to know how to handle them. Let them get touchy but find an out before it can go too far. Stroke their egos so they feel good about themselves. Basically, do whatever to keep you and your career safe."

"I thought stuff like that didn't happen anymore."

"You and everyone else in the world. Things don't just magically change because one guy goes to jail." You sigh. 

"I'm sorry," he says, and you shake your head. 

"It's fine."

"No, it's not. You shouldn't have to deal with that."

"It was one of the first things people told me when I started. They said it was something I might just have to… endure but that the weight would get easier to carry. One actress even told me that it was the price we have to pay because everyone wants to be us," you chuckle. He doesn't interrupt you; he just stares at you with apologetic eyes like he would take this burden from you if he could. You almost believe him. "I don't think that's true. I think most people would hand this lifestyle in the second it got too real."

"What would you do if you weren't an actor?" He asks, and you shrug.

"I always thought about being a teacher. Sure, the pay is shit, and the work is thankless, but kids are our future, you know? There's something really special about shaping young minds."

"Sounds nice."

"What about you? What would you do if you weren't doing this?"

"Probably something with my hands. I worked as a mechanic for a while, and I really liked that. I liked how it was a big puzzle that needed to get sorted out and fixed up."

"Why'd you stop?" You ask. 

"I needed to grow up. My dad owned a contracting company, so I worked with him until I saved up enough to record my first album. And that was that."

"It's crazy how we fought so hard to get to where we are, and now that we're here, it's..." You trail off, trying to figure out what you want to say.

"Terrifying?" He suggests, and you nod. "Yeah, I'm terrified every second of every day."

"You don't act like it." 

"I don't act like a lot of things that I should," he says. He stares at you so intently that the rest of the world fades away. You don't hear the song die down or the applause erupt around you as the band takes a bow. You can feel his heartbeat against your chest. You know how crazed it is. He wets his lips before stepping back and trailing his eyes down your dress and back up to your face like he's taking you in for the first time. "You really do look beautiful tonight." You swallow around the lump in your throat and smooth your hands down your dress, suddenly self-conscious. 

"Thank you." You mumble. 

Pictures of you two kissing on the carpet and dancing inside are circulating online before you even leave the event. You wake up to a huge batch of texts— one from your mom, two from Joel, six from Ryan, and one from Melanie about your trip to New York that you barely read. You would've stayed in bed wallowing in your own bad luck if there wasn't a sharp knock on your door. You groan the whole way down the stairs like it will help you greet whoever has decided to show up at your house at eight in the morning, but nobody's there when you open the door. 

Instead, a bouquet of flowers in a lovely vase sits on your mat with a note sticking out. You glance down your street and barely catch a delivery truck turning down the block. You carefully take the flowers into your kitchen before plucking the note between the petals. 

Pretty flowers for a pretty girl - JM 

(PS bought these of my own volition)

"Goddammit," you mutter under your breath as you think about his lips on yours, his soft shirt, and his stupid fucking, "I don't act like a lot of things I should."

[miscellaneoussmp]

I'm normal, I swear! (<- a lie of the highest degree). I have some fluff ideas I'll write soon. Anyways, here's Mike trying to watch through static (cw/tw: implied/referenced mental health issues and referenced drug use):

It's the cold or some Federation bullshit that's keeping Mike out of his side of the link between him and Pac. He's tried to reach out more than once, but nothing has come of it. He wonders if Pac has done the same. He hopes that's the case. What he manages to get from the link is full of static. Like watching an old television that only just barely gets any signal.

It had been a while, or at least Mike thinks it's been a while before he gets something through the static. Forever is acting weird, off almost. He presses his palms into his eyes, for a gentle pressure, hoping it would make the image clearer in his head. Mike is caught off guard by what he could make out of a too wide smile and pure white suit. He doesn't understand. He can feel Pac's anxiety mixed with the static. Though, it's an oddly welcome feeling. Pac's anxiety already felt like static because of his attempts to keep it away from their link. He tries his best to reach out. It doesn't work. He loses what little he could see. It's all static now. It's cold.

Pac's anxiety has always felt like static to him. Sometimes, it's barely noticeable background noise. Other times, it feels like an electric shock. Mike has to calm his own breathing down. He doesn't have the energy. The question becomes how close is he to absolute zero, where all motion stops? All he can feel is pinpricks of cold numbing his extremities and the electric shock of his other half's anxiety. Mike closes his eyes again, hoping to see something through the static. What he sees is Pac leaving a note for Cellbit. That's not a good sign. Mike tries to reach out for Pac. It doesn't work. It's back to pure static. He gets closer to absolute zero.

The next time anything appears in the static, Mike's stomach drops. In Pac's hand are two white pills. The pills are familiar in the most awful way possible. He knows the recipe to those pills. He knows the effects won't be good. Oh, and suddenly, it hits him. The Federation must have given Forever, and now Pac, the pills. He tries again to reach out for Pac. It was more of a pull, trying to yank him away. Pac pauses for only a moment, but only a moment. Mike can taste the pills on his own tongue, plastic, and the artificial cherry-grape-strawberry of children's cough medicine. Pac swallows, and Mike loses to the static again. He can't do anything about it.

Everything is great, perfect even. That's all Mike gets now, though the static. He doesn't want to look. He doesn't want the visual to the emotions he gets through the static. The high of the pills and hysteria induced borderline panic attack is an unpleasant combination through the static. He can only imagine Pac feeling it at full force. Mike has to keep his breathing slow and shallow if he wants to survive. It's cold, freezing, and close to absolute zero.

[whathorselegs]

🌈

🌈 Share something soft/fluffy from your WIP.

This WIP is from my next chapter of Black Coffee and Chocolate Cake - For context, Chuuya has been turned into a small child thanks to an ability, so Gin is talking to child Chuuya here. They/Them pronouns for Gin.

--

“Sorry, for interruptin'.” He apologised quietly, pulling the door closer to himself, hiding in the shadow it cast.

At this reaction, Gin’s eyes widened, they knelt on the floor to be closer to Chuuya’s height, their mouth opening but then closing again. They cleared their throat, trying to rid themself of the lump that so often nestled in their throat.

“It’s alright.” They spoke almost too softly to hear, offering Chuuya a gentle smile. Chuuya looked away nervously, clearly not believing those words, so Gin tried again. “I just didn’t hear you at first, really, it’s okay.” 

To emphasise this, Gin held out their hand to Chuuya, beckoning him into the front room. With all the caution and curiosity of a fledgling crow, Chuuya slowly opened the door and crept closer to Gin. His eyes flicked between Gin, the mat and the music player behind them as he approached and stopped just in front of Gin without taking their hand. 

“Are you doin' yoga?” He asked with wide questioning eyes and when they nodded in answer, Chuuya added. "Ane-san tried to teach me once, but I couldn't keep still."

Gin giggled quietly, the fondness of a similar memory in their eyes.

Their conversation was interrupted by a loud gurgling noise and Chuuya reddened in embarrassment realising it was his own stomach. Gin's eyes widened in shock too before smiling again.

"Hungry?" They asked, lightly poking Chuuya's belly.

He nodded bashfully.

--

Black Coffee and Chocolate Cake Fic here