#i don’t need to sit quietly because i’m wrong

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

a new beginning. l Joel Miller

Summary: waiting for this day, more and more worries appeared in your head

Warnings: tears, worries and fears about being a parent, Reader is pregnant, Gail shows up, Reader and Joel are worried but try to support each other; someone new shows up at the end

A/N: I guess I was waiting for this chapter. And you?

your feedback is very important to me and I thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. 🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

short stories from life. [masterlist]

The next few weeks were really warm and not good for you. There was not much time left until you were due and your body was really giving you a hard time. You felt uncomfortable in your own skin, which was hard to bear and really overwhelmed you. Every stitch felt irritating, you felt swollen and it seemed to you that if Ann looked beautiful, you were rolling like a ball.

No, you didn't tell Joel or anyone else about it because you were already the target of their attention. That also annoyed and tormented you.

And it wasn't until one evening when Joel came home early and Ellie went out with Din and Jesse that everything came to light. For a moment he was scared when he heard your sobs coming from the bedroom, but when he entered he saw you sitting on the bed. Joel's shirt was tight around your belly, you pushed back your damp hair and your eyes were red from tears. However, as soon as you saw Joel in the doorway you quickly wiped your cheeks.

"What happened?" he asked, scared. “Something’s wrong with…”

“No, nothing with the baby.” You answered quickly, and after a moment you added a little too nervously, “And no, I’m not giving birth. Not yet.”

He looked at you tenderly and hesitantly approached the bed. “Will you tell me what’s going on? I can see that something’s worrying you.”

You took a deep breath, your lips shaking from crying. “I just… feel bad. And I feel bad because I feel bad, and I shouldn’t, right?”

Joel sat down on the bed next to you, seeing you nervously twisting your fingers. He gave you time to get out what you needed to say.

“I look like a big ball. I feel like a big ball.”

“Honey,” he sighed. “You’re carrying our baby, it’s normal at this stage.”

“I know!” you groaned, holding back a sob. “But no one told me that before! I barely fit into my clothes, and the last time I dropped a spoon, Ellie had to pick it up because I couldn’t reach it. And I’m so hot! And I’m sleeping worse and worse. I feel like I’m on an emotional rollercoaster and I’m terrified…” you took a deep breath. “I’m scared of giving birth, I’m scared of what’s going to happen after. What if I can’t breastfeed? What if taking care of her is harder than we think? What if I’m not cut out to be a mother?”

Tears ran down your cheeks after the last words, but you didn’t wipe them away. “I’m tired, Joel. I love you, Ellie, and this little girl I’m carrying, but I don’t feel good enough. I’m trying, but… I’m scared I’ll let you all down.”

You had to get everything out because you fell silent, sobbing quietly. Joel felt like his heart would break seeing you like this and barely understanding everything that was going on in your head. He knew perfectly well that you didn't regret this pregnancy, but you were confused and unsure of what was to come.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet and he tried to choose his words very carefully. "When Sarah was born, I was really young. Too young. Things didn't work out with her mom and soon I was left alone with this little girl. It was really hard, even though Tommy helped me, but he was just a kid himself." He sighed. "I want to say that I don't know much about how you feel, honey. I can only guess how scared you are, but I will do everything in my power to make you feel like you have my support. Remember, you are not alone in this. We will find a solution to any problem we come across. I will get up at night, change diapers, bathe her and put her to bed so you can rest." 

“You’re impossible…” you moaned, but the corners of your mouth twitched.

“I am because I love the most beautiful woman in the world, and she is carrying my child.” He reached out and wiped your damp cheeks. “I know you are scared, I feel it too. And we have the right to feel that way. Our lives are going to change.”

You nodded. “Do you think we are ready for this?”

“With you, I am ready for anything.”

Gail walked down the stairs and spotted Joel sitting on the porch. The sunlight danced on the wooden floor as she walked through the living room and soon approached him.

“She fell asleep,” she said, quietly closing the door. She sat down on the chair next to the bench and leaned back, pushing her blonde hair back. “It’s good that you asked me to talk to her. I think I could have helped her.”

Joel nodded. He seemed so vulnerable when it came to the people he was close to.

“Thank you,” he replied, his voice full of emotion. "I didn't know who to ask to talk to her. She has friends, but you're a professional."

"I feel appreciated." Gail smiled. "You have to try to understand her, Joel. She doesn't want to hurt you, she just..."

"She's scared, I know," he finished for her. "I try to calm her down, support her. Sometimes I feel guilty for putting her up to this pregnancy."

The woman frowned. "Please don't say that. She wanted this just as much as you did. But your earlier loss couldn't go unnoticed. She felt guilty about what happened, and now she blames herself for everything that's going on in her head. She loves you. I can see it and hear it in her voice. She loves you, the baby, and Ellie. She's just a little confused. Hormones." she said, as if that summed it all up.

Joel nodded again slightly.

“How long until her due date?” Gail asked.

“Two, maybe three weeks.” Joel replied. “My first daughter was born a little early.”

“I have a feeling this one might be similar.” The woman smiled and, seeing Joel’s look, added, “Just an old woman’s hunch, don’t worry.”

She stood up and reached out to put her hand on his shoulder. “She knows you support her and love her. What lies ahead isn’t easy, but it will be beautiful if you’re in this together. If you or she needs to talk, you know where I live.”

“Thank you.”

Gail smiled and soon walked down the few steps and headed toward the street. Joel watched her for a moment, thinking about her words. He didn’t think he’d ever be a father again. The thought scared him a little, but once you were in that vision, it made everything a little easier. He felt his eyes getting slightly moist, so he got up and went back home.

He found you asleep in bed. Gail had to close the curtains so the sun wouldn't bother you. There was a blanket wrapped between your legs, and from under your slightly raised shirt he could see the curve of your belly. If he had a camera, Joel would have definitely taken a picture of you then, and put it in a frame to remember this moment forever.

"Come to me..." your voice was barely audible. You looked at him sleepily.

So he took off his shoes and laid down next to you, and after a moment your head rested on his chest, your arm tightly wrapped around him.

"I love you so much," you whispered, falling asleep again.

"I know, baby, I know," he replied, kissing the top of your head. "I love you too."

When you first felt something strange, you were with Ann and Elijah, taking fresh bread. You froze with the loaf in your hand. “What happened?” Ann asked, maneuvering to hide the buns while not letting Elijah put the whole bun in his mouth.

“Nothing, I guess.” You answered, touching your stomach. “Nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” You nodded. “Joel is at Russo’s, helping them with the oven. Can we go there?”

Ann was surprised, but agreed, because when Elijah heard Joel’s name, he let his mother take him in her arms without a problem. The day was warm, although you could already feel the approaching fall in the air. You had been feeling really good for a few days, the temperature had dropped, and talking to Gail and Joel had also helped you.

Before you even crossed the threshold of Russo’s, the strange feeling came over you again.

“Oh, honey! You look amazing.” Mrs. Russo quickly approached you with a delighted look. “Joel is in the kitchen. Should I call him?”

“If you would be so kind, ma’am.” You replied.

Ann placed Elijah on the floor and he quickly trotted after the older woman. Your friend looked at you suspiciously.

“Are you sure you feel okay?” she asked. “It seems like…”

“I feel okay.” You answered a little too quickly. “I just need to see Joel.”

“Now?”

“Yes!” You grabbed your stomach again and this time it didn’t go unnoticed by Ann.

When Joel came out of the kitchen, Elijah on his arm, all he saw was Ann’s wide eyes. “She probably needs to go to the clinic.” She said. “As soon as possible.”

“What happened?” Joel was a little confused. “Do you think…”

You nodded. “I think so. I’ve been having these weird cramps for a while now and… This has never happened before.”

Ann quickly took her son from Joel’s arms, then moved the bag of bread from your shoulder, telling you she’d take care of everything.

Joel was already there, his arm around you. “If you see Ellie,” he told Ann, “tell her where we are, okay?”

The woman nodded. “Good luck.”

“That’ll come in handy,” Joel mumbled, and you hissed in pain again. “Okay, honey. Time to meet this little one.”

She came into the world just as the room filled with the glow of the setting sun. Joel's ears were filled with a sharp and loud cry that he felt in every cell of his body. He continued to hug you, and you dug your nails into his palms - but that wasn't important. Only that cry.

Your face, a moment ago expressing pain and exhaustion, now lit up. You both looked at the girl, whom Dr. Morris quickly wrapped in a clean towel and placed on your chest.

"Hi, little girl. We've been waiting for you."

Your voice was quiet, but you were sure she recognized you. You looked at Joel - he was looking at both of you as if he couldn't believe what had happened, his eyes glistening with tears. Finally, you saw a shy smile on his lips, and his eyes found yours. He didn't have to say much, you felt the same.

"Jesus, darling. You were so brave." he said, kissing your temple. “You were both so brave. And she is…” 

“Perfect.”

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

taglist, i think: @picketniffler @orcasoul @bbyanarchist @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @somedayheaven @underneath-the-sky-again @callmebyyournick-name @hiroikegawa @mandaloriankait @mmmunson @grace-928 @umadirectioner @libraryofneith @princess76179

[peasack]

Hii, keep up the amazing work! Can you please do hcs of the reader sneaking out to go to a party and getting caught?

AAA THIS IS SO FUNNY. I loved writing this it's just too teenager-like to me, (even though I've never been to a party LOL)

Thunderbolts x Gn!Teen!Reader

✦ Thunderbolts Getting Caught Sneaking Out Headcanons ✦

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

✦ Alexei Shostakov

The Loud, Embarrassing Dad Reaction. He catches you halfway out the window and literally yells, "Where do you think you’re going, little one?!" in full volume.

Tries to Relive His Youth. When you explain it’s a party, he’s like “I will accompany you. I was the king of parties in the Soviet Union.” (No, he wasn’t.)

Overreacts. Thinks it’s dangerous and demands to know every detail: where, who, when, how, etc. It’s like a full-blown interrogation.

Big Softie. After the lecture, he’ll sit you down and talk seriously about safety because he’s genuinely worried about losing you.

Might Let You Go- With Conditions. He’ll only let you go if you text him hourly and promise to let him pick you up.

✦ Yelena Belova

Smug Catcher. She catches you super casually like “Wow. So stealthy. Are you proud of this plan?” She’s grinning the whole time.

Pretends to Be Mad. Teases you by acting fake-offended, “Oh, you don’t want to party with me? I am hurt.”

Reluctantly Lets You Go. She eventually gives in, but she makes you promise to call her if anything feels off.

Sends Embarrassing Texts. “Be safe. Don’t drink things from strangers. Have fun. Wear a helmet.” (She’s joking. Mostly.)

Wants All the Tea. When you get back, she forces you to tell her everything and acts like your hype woman.

✦ Bucky Barnes

Disappointed Dad Silence. He just crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow when he catches you, making you feel super guilty without saying much.

The Stern Talk. He’s not happy about the sneaking part. He trusts you, but not the world. He’s blunt: “You know why I’m mad? Because you didn’t tell me.”

Doesn’t Stop You if You’re Honest. If you own up to it, he’ll sigh and let you go but will insist on driving you there and back.

Worried but Doesn’t Smother. He’ll give you some soft advice like, “Don’t let anyone mess with you. Text me if you need me.”

Awkward but Caring. He might drop you off with a quiet “Have fun. But if anyone hurts you, I’ll hurt them.” He’s serious.

✦ John Walker

The Full-On Dad Lecture. He’s immediately like “Seriously? Sneaking out? What were you thinking?” You’ll be there for hours.

Overprotective. His first instinct is to forbid you from going. “You can’t just walk into random places with random people!”

Softens Eventually. He’ll calm down if you explain, but you’ll have to negotiate. He’ll probably offer to drive you or have you share your location the whole time.

Reluctantly Trusts You. He’s like “Okay, I’m trusting you. But if you break that trust, we’re gonna have a real problem.”

Totally Texts Every Hour. “Hey. Check in. Still alive? Still having fun? You know I can come get you anytime, right?”

✦ Ava Starr

Catches You Instantly. She’s too stealthy. You can’t sneak past Ava. She’ll quietly appear behind you like “Going somewhere?”

Lowkey Furious but Silent. Ava doesn’t yell. Her quiet disappointment is worse. It cuts deep.

Needs You to Understand the Risk. She’s not mad about the party—she’s mad you didn’t trust her. “You can tell me anything. You don’t have to sneak around.”

Reluctantly Supports You. She’ll let you go if you’re honest, but she makes you promise to call her the second anything goes wrong.

Texts Like a Ninja. Doesn’t blow up your phone, but somehow always texts right when you’re about to do something sketchy. It’s terrifying.

✦ Bob Reynolds

Soft but Sad. Bob’s first reaction is just a quiet, “You don’t have to sneak around, you know? I would’ve said yes.”

Biggest Worrier. He’s so scared you’ll get hurt. He’ll ask you a million questions about who’s going, where it is, how you’re getting there, etc.

Tries to Be Cool. He’s like “I trust you. Just… please text me. Please.” He wants to give you freedom but also wants you safe.

Lowkey Paranoid. He’ll float nearby without you knowing, just to keep an eye out (but he won’t tell you that).

Waiting Dad. He’ll stay up until you’re home, watching TV but not really paying attention, just waiting to hear the door open so he knows you’re safe.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

I think they'd all let you go, just if you'd stay safe. I mean you're a part dof the thunderbolts for a reason you'll be fine! Probably...

[formulafanfics13]

Another idea for Lewis with 🔥

The reader (28) is a friend of the Wags and they meet at a party in Monaco.

Lewis instantly notices her but doesn't Show it. After a few months of pining and flirting the whole grid and their Wags make a plan :)

Pushed to Fall - LH44 🔥

Masterlist

Summary It starts with glances. Quiet ones. Lingering ones. The kind that hum beneath the noise. You’re the girl Lewis Hamilton won’t look at directly — not because he doesn’t want to, but because he wants to too much. You’re pulled into the WAG world through friendships, not fame. But he notices you from the very beginning. And when the silence between you finally snaps, it’s not soft. It’s not slow. It’s months of tension turned to fire. He kisses you like he’s drowning. Fucks you like he’s claiming oxygen. And when the morning comes, he tells you — plain and simple — he’s not letting go. Across Monaco, the WAGs celebrate like they just won a Grand Prix.

Warnings slow burn tension, sexual content, explicit language, intense eye contact, mutual pining, scheming friends, matchmaker WAGs, soft dom energy, praise kink, group chat chaos, fingering, oral (f receiving), wall sex, overstimulation, dirty talk, strong emotional release, mentions of crying during sex, morning after softness, domestic foreshadowing.

It starts at a party. Monaco, of course. A rooftop terrace, sweat-slick champagne flutes, and music pulsing through expensive shoes and bad decisions.

You’re wearing white silk. Lewis notices before anyone else. But he doesn’t show it. Not in the obvious way. Not in the Pierre Gasly whistle or the Max Verstappen once-over.

He just watches. Quietly. Like you’re not supposed to notice. But you do.

Because Lewis Hamilton notices everything. And when he looks at you, it doesn’t feel like attention. It feels like gravity.

You were friends with Kika and Magui first. Old friends. Wild nights, drunken voice notes, stupid tattoos kind of friends.

When they brought you into the WAG circle, Carmen, Lily Z, Lily MH, Rebecca, Kelly,  it was meant to be casual. One brunch. One paddock invite. But now you’re in all the group chats. The girls adore you. You travel to a few races. You don’t post much. You don’t chase attention.

Which is probably why Lewis is so fucking hooked. You don’t scream for it. You don’t beg for his gaze. You just exist, smart, quiet, self-contained, and it drives him insane.

He doesn’t flirt like the others. No pickup lines. No sly texts.

He just sits beside you when no one’s looking. Leans in close when the music’s loud. Brushes his hand over your lower back when he walks past.

Once, at a dinner, you reached across him for the salt and your wrists touched, just for a second, and he didn’t speak to you the rest of the night.

And when you texted “did I do something wrong?” at 1:04 AM, he responded, “No. I’m trying to behave.”

You didn’t sleep after that.

By month three, everyone knows. Everyone but you and him. Charles and Lando take bets. George tries to play matchmaker and nearly ruins it. Carmen makes a spreadsheet of every near-miss moment. Kelly keeps saying “just lock them in a fucking room.”

It’s Rebecca who makes the call. Literally. To Toto. Just a simple, “Hey. We need your driver for 24 hours. It’s for the good of humanity.”

You don’t know it’s a setup. Not until you walk into Kika’s apartment and realise you’re the only girl there. Just Lewis. On the couch. Glassy eyes. Hoodie sleeves shoved to his forearms. And silence.

“Kika said you needed to talk,” you say, heart thudding.

“She said you needed to see me,” he counters, standing slowly.

You both laugh. Then the air turns thick.

He walks closer. You don’t step back. His thumb grazes your jaw. He tilts your face up. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he says. Quiet. Serious. Devastating. “I tried. For months. I tried to just be around you. Be normal. But I can’t.”

You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for weeks. “I didn’t think you noticed me.”

He laughs. “I noticed you in five seconds.”

Silence. His thumb presses just a little harder. Your lip parts. And that’s when he kisses you.

It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s months of restraint breaking like glass. Your back hits the wall. His hands grip your waist like he’s anchoring himself. He bites your lip. Moans into your mouth.

“Tell me you want this,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours.

You nod. Whisper, “I wanted this since Miami.”

He groans. And then you’re in the bedroom. Clothes vanish. His hoodie. Your dress. Gone.

His mouth trails down your neck, over your chest, down your stomach. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t tease. He eats you like a man starving. Tongue relentless. Hands holding you open. You cry out his name so many times it stops sounding like a word.

When he slides inside you, it’s perfect. Too good. Too much. You scratch his back. He whispers praise into your shoulder.

“You feel so good, baby.” “I’ve wanted this for so long.” “Let me have you. Let me fucking keep you.”

You come twice before he does. The second time with tears in your eyes, gasping his name into the curve of his neck.

He kisses your temple when he finishes. Breathes your name like it’s salvation.

The next morning, you wake up tangled in his arms. He’s already awake. Just watching you.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He smiles, all soft lips and sleepy warmth. “I’m not letting you go now.”

You smile back. “Good.”

Across the city, the WAG group chat explodes.

Kika:��they fucked. Rebecca: finally. i was about to seduce her myself. Carmen: wait are they like TOGETHER together now?? Kelly: someone check on lewis. did he survive. Lily Z: let’s host brunch in his honour. Magui: our girl got the GOAT.

[maskedbyghost]

cw: manipulation, possessive reader, suggestive language

You told him you didn’t do casual.

You didn’t make it a big deal. You just said it like you meant it, not trying to sound dramatic or emotional about it. Just honest.

“I don’t do casual,” you said, eyes on your drink. “It always ends up messy, and I’m not built for that.”

Simon leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “That’s alright,” he said eventually. “I’m not looking for anything serious.”

You nodded. No reaction on your face, no shift in tone. “Then we can just be friends.”

He raised an eyebrow like he was trying to figure you out. “You sure?”

You smiled a little. “Yeah. I like hanging out with you. We don’t have to fuck.”

“…Alright,” he said, after a pause. “Friends.”

And that was the start.

Except friends don’t show up to his gym when he’s meeting a girl for a workout date.

Friends don’t slip him a text during his Tinder dinner like,

“you left your hoodie here again. i’m wearing it. smells like you.”

Friends don’t show up to the pub when he’s got plans with someone, all dolled up like you just rolled out of a damn music video, giving his date a once-over and offering a tight smile that says run, babe.

You’d always act surprised when things didn’t work out. “Oh no, she ghosted you? That’s so weird.”

And Simon? He wasn’t completely oblivious. But he was tired, and lonely, and honestly kind of lazy when it came to trying to figure women out, and you were just so easy to be around, so warm and funny and low-maintenance and somehow always around when he needed someone.

So when he started seeing you more than anyone else, it didn’t feel weird. It felt right.

He told himself it was just friendship.

Even when you leaned against him on the couch. Even when you started sleeping over. Even when he started feeling a little sick thinking about you with anyone else.

The night it finally changed, he had just come back from a shit deployment — nothing too dangerous, just long and annoying and cold, and you’d been waiting at his place (with your own key, because somehow that had happened), and you were in his clothes, curled up in his bed with takeout, and when he saw you like that he just… stopped thinking.

“You’re perfect for me,” he said quietly, almost like he was talking to himself.

You blinked, looking up from your phone. “What?”

“I was so fucking stupid,” he muttered, dropping his bag, walking toward you like something magnetic was pulling him in. “I didn’t see it. I don’t know why.”

You didn’t say anything right away. You just looked at him for a second, then smiled, slow and easy, like you’d been waiting for him to finally figure it out, like none of it really surprised you, but you were still happy to hear it out loud.

From there, it was easy.

The relationship happened fast. Slipped into place like it had always been there. He’d gone from “I don’t do serious” to leaving his toothbrush at your place, to falling asleep with his face buried in your neck, to holding your hand in public without even realizing he was doing it.

He was happy. Stupidly happy. The kind that made his friends suspicious and his coworkers tease him. The kind that made you look like the hero of some cozy domestic fantasy where nothing ever goes wrong and love is enough.

It wasn’t one big moment. It was a bunch of little ones that slowly added up until he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

Like how you always just showed up when he had plans, how his phone would buzz with a text from you right before he left for a date. Or how you’d casually mention how certain girls “weren’t his type,” even when he never brought them up to you.

And then one day, while you were going through an old playlist together, you said, “God, I remember this song. I used to listen to it every time I thought about you with someone else.” And you didn’t even blink after saying it.

And the more he thinks about it, the more it starts adding up.

You’d played him. You’d baited him.

And now he’s sitting on the couch, watching you walk into the room in one of his old T-shirts, holding a bowl of snacks, looking like home, and he honestly doesn’t know whether to laugh or be pissed off or bend you over the arm of the sofa and remind you who he is.

You plop into his lap like you do it every day (because you do), nestling in like you’re settling into your rightful throne, and he wraps his arms around your waist automatically, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder.

“You know what I realized today?” he asks, voice low.

You hum. “What?”

He tilts his head like he’s thinking it through. “We’re together because you manipulated me.”

You pause for like… half a second. Then?

“Yeah,” you say, nonchalant. “And?”

He squints at you, mouth twitching like he can’t decide if he wants to smile or frown. “You sabotaged every girl I tried to hook up with.”

“I did,” you say, and lean forward to grab the remote. “Most of them were trash anyway.”

“You tricked me into thinking you weren’t interested.”

“Mhm.” You don’t even look at him. “Worked, didn’t it?”

There’s this long silence, and then Simon groans and lets his head fall back on the couch dramatically.

“I should be mad,” he mutters.

“You’re not,” you say, smiling down at him like he’s your prize. “You love me.”

“Fuck, woman,” he breathes, eyes locked on yours. “That turns me on.”

You grin, shifting your weight so you’re straddling him properly, hands sliding up his chest slowly until your fingers curl around the back of his neck. You squeeze—not hard, just enough to make him feel it.

“You belong to me,” you whisper against his ear. “Always have.”

He shivers. Actually shivers.

“…Jesus.”

You kiss his jaw, slow and smug. “Say it.”

“…Yours.”

“Good boy.”

And yeah. He is.

PART 2

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@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6

[whenstarsundress]

“my angel is in pain and i didn’t notice it until now…”

sylus

sylus would notice everything. the small winces, the silent hesitation when standing, the way your hands tremble when holding something heavy. he’s a caregiver, you can’t hide it from him.

he wouldn’t confront you outright. instead, he’d sit beside you in quiet moments and say things like, “it’s okay to lean on someone, you know. you don’t have to do it all alone anymore.”

the first time you finally ask for help—maybe with your shoes or reaching for something—he doesn’t make a sound. he just kneels, handles it gently and looks up with warm, unwavering eyes. “i’m honored that you let me.”

to sylus, love means being present. he will never see your needs as weakness—just more reasons to be near you.

caleb

caleb would be the most emotionally rocked. he’s a protector by nature, and when he realizes you’ve been hiding your pain, it hits him hard.

you try to brush off your exhaustion with a laugh, but he catches your arm and gently says, “hey… why didn’t you tell me it hurts?”

he’d sit beside you, pull you into his arms, and hold you against his chest like he’s anchoring you to safety. “you’re not a burden. not to me. you could ask me to carry you every day and i’d thank you for it.”

expect lots of massages, warm baths drawn for you, and this boy learning everything about how to ease your muscle stiffness and whatever exhausts you. helping you would never feel like a chore, it would feel like devotion.

zayne

zayne wouldn’t even wait for you to ask. the first time you slow down or stumble, he’s already pulling you to his side with a breezy, “whoa, i got you.”

when you finally stammer that you didn’t want to be a burden, his face drops, like you just stabbed him in the chest. “burden? you? darling… if someone told you that before, they were dead wrong.”

he gets serious in that moment. raw, open emotion as he cradles your hand. after all he’s a doctor and he wants, no, he needs to help you. “i want to help. not because you need it, but because i love you. you don’t have to prove anything.”

he’ll start carrying a heating patch or a little comfort item for you without ever making a big deal about it. to him, this is just part of being your partner.

rafayel

rafayel is incredibly emotionally intuitive, but he respects your pride. he’ll wait, watching, quietly offering help without pressing, until you break down just once.

maybe you’re in pain and trying not to cry, and he just takes your hand and brings it to his lips. “you don’t have to suffer quietly for my sake. i have room in my heart for all of you. even the tired parts.”

he would turn your care into ritual, brushing your hair gently when your neck aches, rubbing your calves while reading to you aloud. “let me worship you. especially when you can’t.”

he’d never make you feel less-than. instead, he’d make you feel cherished in your vulnerability, like letting him in was an act of deep trust.

xavier

xavier is the hardest one to open up to, but once he learns the truth, his reaction is devastatingly gentle.

when you finally admit you’re afraid to ask for help, he doesn’t speak for a moment. he takes your hand, his thumb brushing over your palm. “you don’t have to carry everything alone anymore.”

xavier doesn’t say it often, but when he does, it lands like a vow, “if you ever fall, i’ll be right there. every time. i won’t let you break.”

expect quiet accommodations—adjustments to tech so you can rest your muscles, silent understanding when you cancel plans. he won’t push, won’t ask. he’ll just be there, like gravity.

[caelum-in-the-avatarverse]

Fandom can do a little gatekeeping. As a treat.

So I finally decided to archive-lock my fics on AO3 last night. I’ve been considering it since the AI scrape last year, but the tipping point was this whole lore.fm debacle, coupled with some thoughts I’ve been thinking regarding Fandom These Days in general and Fandom As A Community in particular. So I wanna explain why I waited so long, why I locked my stuff up now, and why I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m a-okay with making it harder for people to see my stories.

Lurkers really are great, tho

I’m a chronic lurker, and have been since I started hanging out on the internet as a teen in the 00s. These days it’s just cuz I don’t feel a need to socialize very often, but back then it was because I was shy and knew I was socially awkward. Even if I made an account, I’d spend months lurking on message boards or forums or Livejournals, watching other people interact and getting a feel for that particular community’s culture and etiquette before I finally started interacting myself. And y’know, that approach saved me a lot of embarrassment. Over the course of my lurking on any site, there was always some other person who’d clearly joined up five minutes after learning the place existed, barged in without a care for their behavior, and committed so many social faux pas that all the other users were immediately annoyed with them at best. I learned a lot observing those incidents. Lurk More is Rule 33 of the internet for very good reason.

Lurking isn’t bad or weird or creepy. It’s perfectly normal. I love lurking. It’s hard for me to not lurk - socializing takes a lot of energy out of me, even via text. (Heck it took 12 hours for me to write this post, I wish I was kidding--) Occasionally I’ll manage longer bouts of interaction - a few weeks posting here, almost a year chatting in a discord there - but I’m always gonna end up going radio silent for months at some point. I used to feel bad about it, but I’ve long since made peace with the fact that it’s just the way my brain works. I’m a chronic lurker, and in the long term nothing is going to change that.

The thing with being a chronic lurker is that you have to accept that you are not actually seen as part of the community you are lurking in. That’s not to say that lurkers are unimportant - lurkers actually are important, and they make up a large proportion of any online community - but it’s simple cause and effect. You may think of it as “your community”, but if you’ve never said a word, how is the community supposed to know you exist? If I lurked on someone’s LJ, and then that person suddenly friendslocked their blog, I knew that I had two choices: Either accept that I would never be able to read their posts again, or reach out to them and ask if I could be added to their friends list with the full understanding that I was a rando they might not decide to trust. I usually went with the first option, because my invisibility as a lurker was more important to me than talking to strangers on the internet.

Lurking is like sitting on a park bench, quietly people-watching and eavesdropping on the conversations other people are having around you. You’re in the park, but you’re not actively participating in anything happening there. You can see and hear things that you become very interested in! But if you don’t introduce yourself and become part of the conversation, you won’t be able to keep listening to it when those people walk away. When fandom migrated away from Livejournal, people moved to new platforms alongside their friends, but lurkers were often left behind. No one knew they existed, so they weren’t told where everyone else was going. To be seen as part of a fandom community, you need to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known, etc. etc.

There’s nothing wrong with lurking. There can actually be benefits to lurking, both for the lurkers and the communities they lurk in. It’s just another way to be in a fandom. But if that is how you exist in fandom--and remember, I say this as someone who often does exist that way in fandom--you need to remember that you’re on the outside looking in, and the curtains can always close.

I’ve always been super sympathetic to lurkers, because I am one. I know there’s a lot of people like me who just don’t socialize often. I know there’s plenty of reasons why someone might not make an account on the internet - maybe they’re nervous, maybe they’re young and their parents don’t allow them to, maybe they’re in a bad situation where someone is monitoring their activity, maybe they can only access the internet from public computer terminals. Heck, I’ve never even logged into AO3 on my phone--if I’m away from my computer I just read what’s publicly available. 

I know I have people lurking on my fics. I know my fics probably mean a lot to someone I don’t even know exists. I know this because there are plenty of fics I love whose writers don’t know I exist.

I love my commenters personally; I love my lurkers as an abstract concept. I know they’re there and I wish them well, and if they ever de-lurk I love them all the more.

So up until last year I never considered archive-locking my fic, because I get it. The AI scraping was upsetting, but I still hesitated because I was thinking of lurkers and guests and remembering what it felt like to be 15 and wondering if it’d be worth letting a stranger on the internet know I existed and asking to be added to their friends list just so I could reread a funny post they made once.

But the internet has changed a lot since the 00s, and fandom has changed with it. I’ve read some things and been doing some thinking about fandom-as-community over the last few years, and reading through the lore.fm drama made me decide that it’s time for me to set some boundaries.

I still love my lurkers, and I feel bad about leaving any guest commenters behind, especially if they’re in a situation where they can’t make an account for some reason. But from here on out, even my lurkers are going to have to do the bare minimum to read my fics--make an AO3 account.

Should we gatekeep fandom?

I’ve seen a few people ask this question, usually rhetorically, sometimes as a joke, always with a bit of seriousness. And I think…yeah, maybe we should. Except wait, no, not like that--

A decade ago, when people talked about fandom gatekeeping and why it was bad to do, it intersected with a lot of other things, mainly feminism and classism. The prevalent image of fandom gatekeeping was, like, a man learning that a woman likes Star Wars and haughtily demanding, “Oh, yeah? Well if you’re REALLY a fan, name ten EU novels” to belittle and dismiss her, expecting that a “real fan” would have the money and time to be familiar with the EU, and ignoring the fact that male movie-only fans were still considered fans. The thing being gatekept was the very definition of “being a fan” and people’s right to describe themselves as one.

That’s not what I mean when I say maybe fandom should gatekeep more. Anyone can call themselves a fan if they like something, that’s fine. But when it comes to the ability to enjoy the fanworks produced by the fandom community…that might be something worth gatekeeping.

See, back in the 00s, it was perfectly common for people to just…not go on the internet. Surfing the web was a thing, but it was just, like, a fun pastime. Not everyone did it. It wasn’t until the rise of social media that going online became a thing everyone and their grandmother did every day. Back then, going on the internet was just…a hobby.

So one of the first gates online fandom ever had was the simple fact that the entire world wasn’t here yet.

The entire world is here now. That gate has been demolished.

And it’s a lot easier to find us now. Even scattered across platforms, fandom is so centralized these days. It isn’t a network of dedicated webshrines and forums that you can only find via webrings anymore, it’s right there on all the big social media sites. AO3 didn’t set out to be the main fanfic website, but that’s definitely what it’s become. It’s easy for people to find us--and that includes people who don’t care about the community, and just want “content.”

Transformative fandom doesn’t like it when people see our fanworks as “content”. “Content” is a pretty broad term, but when fandom uses it we’re usually referring to creative works that are churned out by content creators to be consumed by an audience as quickly as possible as often as possible so that the content creator can generate revenue. This not-so-new normal has caused a massive shift in how people who are new to fandom view fanworks--instead of seeing fic or art as something a fellow fan made and shared with you, they see fanworks as products to be consumed.

Transformative fandom has, in general, always been a gift economy. We put time and effort into creating fanworks that we share with our fellow fans for free. We do this so we don’t get sued, but fandom as a whole actually gets a lot out of the gift economy. Offer your community a story, and in return you can get comments, build friendships, or inspire other people to write things that you might want to read. Readers are given the gift of free stories to read and enjoy, and while lurking is fine, they have the choice to engage with the writer and other readers by leaving comments or making reclists to help build the community.

And look, don’t get me wrong. People have never engaged with fanfic as much as fan writers wish they would. There has always been “no one comments anymore” wank. There have always been people who only comment to say “MORE!” or otherwise demand or guilt trip writers into posting the next chapter. But fandom has always agreed that those commenters are rude and annoying, and as those commenters navigate fandom they have the chance to learn proper community etiquette.

However, now it seems that a lot of the people who are consuming fanworks aren’t actually in the community. 

I won’t say “they aren’t real fans” because that’s silly; there’s lots of ways to be a fan. But there seem to be a lot of fans now who have no interest in fandom as a community, or in adhering to community etiquette, or in respecting the gift economy. They consume our fics, but they don’t appreciate fan labor. They want our “content”, but they don’t respect our control over our creations.

And even worse--they see us as a resource. We share our work for free, as a gift, but all they see is an open-source content farm waiting to be tapped into. We shared it for free, so clearly they can do whatever they want with it. Why should we care if they feed our work into AI training datasets, or copy/paste our unfinished stories into ChatGPT to get an ending, or charge people for an unnecessary third-party AO3 app, or sell fanbindings on etsy for a profit without the author’s permission, or turn our stories into poor imitations of podfics to be posted on other platforms without giving us credit or asking our consent, while also using it to lure in people they can datascrape for their Forbes 30 Under 30 company? 

And sure, people have been doing shady things with other people’s fanworks since forever. Art theft and reposting has always been a big problem. Fanfic is harder to flat-out repost, but I’ve heard of unauthorized fic translations getting posted without crediting the original author. Once in…I think the 2010s? I read a post by a woman who had gone to some sort of local bookselling event, only to find that the man selling “his” novel had actually self-published her fanfic. (Wish I could find that one again, I don’t even remember where I read it.)

But aside from that third example, the thing is…as awful as fanart/writing theft is, back in the day, the main thing a thief would gain from it was clout. Clout that should rightfully go to the creators who gifted their work in the first place, yeah, but still. Just clout. People will do a lot of hurtful things for clout, but fandom clout means nothing outside of fandom. Fandom clout is not enough to incentivize the sort of wide-scale pillaging we’re seeing from community outsiders today.

Money, on the other hand… Well, fandom’s just a giant, untapped content farm, isn’t it? Think of how much revenue all that content could generate.

Lurkers are a normal and even beneficial part of any online community. Maybe one day they’ll de-lurk and easily slide into place beside their fellow fans because they already know the etiquette. Maybe they’re active in another community, and they can spread information from the community they lurk in to the community they’re active in. At the very least, they silently observe, and even if they’re not active community members, they understand the community.

Fans who see fanworks as “content” don’t belong in the same category as lurkers. They’re tourists. 

While reading through the initial Reddit thread on the lore.fm situation, I found this comment:

[ID: Reddit User Cabbitowo says: ... So in anime fandoms we have a word called tourist and essentially it means a fan of a few anime and doesn't care about anime tropes and actively criticizes them. This is kind of how fandoms on tiktok feel. They're touring fanfics and fanart and actively criticizes tropes that have been in the fandom since the 60s. They want to be in a fandom but they don't want to engage in fandom 

OP totallymandy responds: Just entered back into Reddit after a long day to see this most recent reply. And as a fellow anime fan this making me laugh so much since it’s true! But it sorta hurts too when the reality sets in. Modern fandom is so entitled and bratty and you’d think it’s the minors only but that’s not even true, my age-mates and older seem to be like that. They want to eat their cake and complain all whilst bringing nothing to the potluck… :/ END ID]

-

“Tourist” is an apt name for this sort of fan. They don’t want to be part of our community, and they don’t have to be in order to come into our spaces and consume our work. Even if they don’t steal our work themselves, they feel so entitled to it that they’re fine with ignoring our wishes and letting other people take it to make AI “podfics” for them to listen to (there are a lot of comments on lore.fm’s shutdown announcement video from people telling them to just ignore the writers and do it anyway). They’ll use AI to generate an ending to an unfinished fic because they don’t care about seeing “the ending this writer would have given to the story they were telling”, they just want “an ending”. For these tourist fans, the ends justify the means, and their end goal is content for them to consume, with no care for the community that created it for them in the first place.

I don’t think this is confined to a specific age group. This isn’t “13-year-olds on Wattpad” or “Zoomers on TikTok” or whatever pointless generation war we’re in now. This is coming from people who are new to fandom, whose main experience with creative works on the internet is this new content culture and who don’t understand fandom as a community. That description can be true of someone from any age group.

It’s so easy to find fandom these days. It is, in fact, too easy. Newcomers face no hurdles or challenges that would encourage them to lurk and observe a bit before engaging, and it’s easy for people who would otherwise move on and leave us alone to start making trouble. From tourist fans to content entrepreneurs to random people who just want to gawk, it’s so easy for people who don’t care about the fandom community to reap all of its fruits. 

So when I say maybe fandom should start gatekeeping a bit, I’m referring to the fact that we barely even have a gate anymore. Everyone is on the internet now; the entire world can find us, and they don’t need to bother learning community etiquette when they do. Before, we were protected by the fact that fandom was considered weird and most people didn’t look at it twice. Now, fandom is pretty mainstream. People who never would’ve bothered with it before are now comfortable strolling in like they own the place. They have no regard for the fandom community, they don’t understand it, and they don’t want to. They want to treat it just like the rest of the content they consume online.

And then they’re surprised when those of us who understand fandom culture get upset. Fanworks have existed far longer than the algorithmic internet’s content. Fanworks existed long before the internet. We’ve lived like this for ages and we like it.

So if someone can’t be bothered to respect fandom as a community, I don’t see why I should give them easy access to my fics.

Think of it like a garden gate

When I interact with commenters on my fic, I have this sense of hospitality.

The comment section is my front porch. The fic is my garden. I created my garden because I really wanted to, and I’m proud of it, and I’m happy to share it with other people. 

Lots of people enjoy looking at my garden. Many walk through without saying anything. Some stop to leave kudos. Some recommend my garden to their friends. And some people take the time to stop by my front porch and let me know what a beautiful garden it is and how much they’ve enjoyed it. 

Any fic writer can tell you that getting comments is an incredible feeling. I always try to answer all my comments. I don’t always manage it, but my fics’ comment sections are the one place that I manage to consistently socialize in fandom. When I respond to a comment, it feels like I’m pouring out a glass of lemonade to share with this lovely commenter on my front porch, a thank you for their thank you. We take a moment to admire my garden together, and then I see them out. The next time they drop by, I recognize them and am happy to pour another glass of lemonade.

My garden has always been open and easy to access. No fences, no walls. You just have to know where to find it. Fandom in general was once protected by its own obscurity, an out-of-the-way town that showed up on maps but was usually ignored.

But now there’s a highway that makes it easy to get to, and we have all these out-of-towner tourists coming in to gawk and steal our lawn ornaments and wonder if they can use the place to make themselves some money.

I don’t care to have those types trampling over my garden and eating all my vegetables and digging up my flowers to repot and sell, so I’ve put up a wall. It has a gate that visitors can get through if they just take the time to open it.

Admittedly, it’s a small obstacle. But when I share my fics, I share them as a gift with my fellow fans, the ones who understand that fandom is a community, even if they’re lurkers. As for tourist fans and entrepreneurs who see fic as content, who have no qualms ignoring the writer’s wishes, who refuse to respect or understand the fandom community…well, they’re not the people I mean to share my fic with, so I have no issues locking them out. If they want access to my stories, they’ll have to do the bare minimum to become a community member and join the AO3 invite queue.

And y’know, I’ve said a lot about fandom and community here, and I just want to say, I hope it’s not intimidating. When I was younger, talk about The Fandom Community made me feel insecure, and I didn’t think I’d ever manage to be active enough in fandom spaces to be counted as A Member Of The Community. But you don’t have to be a social butterfly to participate in fandom. I’ll always and forever be a chronic lurker, I reblog more than I post, I rarely manage to comment on fic, and I go radio silent for months at a time--but I write and post fanfiction. That’s my contribution.

Do you write, draw, vid, gif, or otherwise create? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you leave comments? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you curate reclists? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you maintain a fandom blog or fuckyeah blog? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you provide a space for other fans to convene in? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you regularly send asks (off anon so people know who you are)? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you have fandom friends who you interact with? Congrats, you're a community member.

There’s lots of ways to be a fan. Just make sure to respect and appreciate your fellow fans and the work they put in for you to enjoy and the gift economy fandom culture that keeps this community going.

[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❤️

[eyelessfaces]

bob definitely cries after sex

(the way that I had started writing this even before I received that ask)

summary: it tends to all come crashing down once the tide washes off.

tags: post intercourse, nothing explicit mentioned, fluff, mandatory slight angst, healthy crying, shoutout to bob's big blue gentle eyes and soft curls, intimacy, hurt/comfort, healthy relationship, this man needs to be held and I volunteer as tribute

word count: 0.9k

masterlist | taglist | ao3 | @eyelessupdates

buy me a coffee ♡

Bob’s forehead drops to your shoulder, his whole body going limp over yours; its warmth seeps into you seemingly even more intensely than it did before, and you can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest as it’s tightly pressed against your own when you both silently fall into that comfortable matched rhythm.

You feel hazy, fingers mindlessly curling around the hair at the back of his neck when he nuzzles the juncture between your shoulder and neck, warm breath fanning over your cooling skin, soft curls tickling it. 

You stay like this for a little while, light and comfortably quiet – you wouldn’t ever want to move in moments like this, would let him cling to you like a second skin forever if you could, if your body didn’t eventually have to remind you it has needs outside of him. You know that if you don't get up, the idea of having to do it is only going to get worse. 

Your hand slides down against his back, mouth gently pressing against his cheek as a preemptive apology before you have to break it to him; “C’mon, ‘gotta use the bathroom” you mutter softly, to which he responds with a soft, tired noise before he reluctantly slides himself off of you in order to let you go from the cage of his own limbs. 

He flops back onto the mattress with a sigh, one arm lazily flung over his eyes while you quickly shift to grab a tshirt and an underwear to wear before you head towards the bathroom linked to his room. 

When you come back, you find Bob sitting at the edge of his side of the bed, still shirtless, turned away from you, shoulder sagging. You crawl back over the bed and settle behind him, fingers running along his bicep, tracing lines down his arm as you press soft kisses against his bare shoulder. “You okay?” you murmur, nuzzling into his hair. 

You feel him nod, but it is small, barely convincing, so you’re quick to sense something is wrong. Your intuition is easily confirmed when you push the hair covering the side of his face to take a look at him. “Bob–”

“I’m sorry,” he quietly breathes out when he looks at you, soft eyes brimming with tears. “I don’t even know,” his head shakes, and he turns away from you as he tries to hold it back, to not have you see him like this. 

“Hey,” you softly call. Your hand comes to cup the back of his head, fingers threading gently into his hair. “That’s okay”

He nods like he’s trying to convince himself of it, wiping his tears away with the back of his hand. “It’s not you. It’s not anything you did,” he hurries to explain, voice hoarse. “It’s just– I don’t know,” he shrugs, finally turning back to look at you. “A release of tension I think. But it’s so much, and so fast, and I don’t know what to do with it” he chuckles, the ghost of a smile appearing over his face for a second before he brushes it off by rubbing a hand over his face. 

You don’t say anything, just watch as he tries to steady himself. You try to make it easier for him, more comfortable, your thumb soothingly running back and forth at the nape of his neck. It’s quiet for a while – you let him cry, let it soak, because you know it’s the good kind of cry, the kind that will make him feel lighter afterwards, the kind that he needs to move forward. You hold him like you know how much it costs him to feel this much, this intensely.

Bob eventually turns to look at you after a while, deep blue eyes gentle, breath trembling as it leaves him. “It just– It feels a lot. How you make me feel safe. Loved.”

Your heart leaps inside your chest, stomach fluttering in a way you can’t explain, blooming with an overwhelming warmth at his words. You could almost cry too; the deepness, the softness in his glassy eyes, the sincerity and the vulnerability of it all as he looks at you. 

“Maybe that’s why your body lets go” you nod, grinning softly as you reach to take his hand in yours. “It just has to get used to it.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like half a laugh, half a sigh. “I guess that makes it sounds a little less pathetic” 

You smile, leaning forward to press a kiss just beneath his ear. “It’s not pathetic,” you say. “It's honest and a little sweet, if you ask me” you smile, reaching to wipe away the remaining trails of tears over his cheeks. 

He chuckles and sniffles quietly, head leaning to settle at your shoulder, hand letting your fingers intertwine, tightening around yours, gently squeezing in silent affection. He sighs softly when the hand that is not holding his buries into his dark locks, and again, you remain like this for a while, dwelling in that floating atmosphere, time stilling while it all quiets down, while you hold him until his breath gets even again.

“So I'm gonna have to make you get used to it, huh?”

You feel him smile against the fabric of your shirt. “Guess so,” he grins as he looks up at you, a glint of playfulness shining inside his eyes beyond the sheen of remaining tears. 

Everything in that gaze alone makes you want to try your hardest.

—

any and every feedback/reblog/comment is greatly appreciated and helps more than you think!!

buy me a coffee ♡

thunderbolts taglist: @majestic-jazmin @eternallymaroon @sillymilly17 @yyiikes @snazzynacho

@harebrained-0

[skzficdump]

The Night I Let You Go (And Couldn't Breathe After)

paring: bangchan x fem!reader

gender: angst, fluff, a fight before tour puts distance between you, and bangchan can’t stop thinking about you

word count: 1.5k (1507)

warnings: nun

You knew something was wrong. Even before he walked through the door that night, you could feel it.

Bang Chan had been drowning in work for weeks — rehearsals, late-night studio sessions, choreography clean-ups, last-minute meetings with the tour team. He barely texted. He barely ate. And when he did come home, his energy was like a ghost of him — tired eyes, slumped shoulders, and a quietness that didn’t suit the man you loved.

You weren’t mad at him. You were worried. But when people are overwhelmed, they push away the ones they love — and that’s exactly what Chan was doing to you.

That night, when he finally came home close to midnight, you were waiting on the couch. He kicked off his shoes and muttered a barely audible, “I’m home,” not even meeting your eyes.

You tried to keep your voice steady, calm. “Chan… can we talk?”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck like he always did when he was stressed. “Y/N, not now. I’m exhausted.”

“I know you are,” you said gently, “but I can’t keep acting like everything’s okay when it’s not. You’re not okay. And we’re not okay either.”

That’s when his eyes finally met yours — tired, but slightly defensive.

“I’m doing everything I can. What else do you want from me?”

Ouch. That stung more than you thought it would.

“I’m not asking for more. I’m asking to be part of your life right now, even when it’s messy. You keep shutting me out, Chan.”

His jaw clenched, and he looked away. “I just… don’t have time for this. For drama.”

There it was — the word that made your chest ache. Drama. He didn’t mean it. You knew he didn’t. But it still hurt.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry. You just stood up and said, “Good luck on tour,” before walking toward your room.

You didn’t think that night would end like that. No one ever plans a goodbye to feel like a fracture. But somehow, you and Chan had broken in the worst possible way — quietly.

It wasn’t a screaming match, it wasn’t tears on the floor. It was exhaustion. Distance. The sharpness of silence when love wants to speak but pride gets in the way.

And he left the next morning without even looking back. No kiss. No message. Just… gone.

You didn’t know how much it would haunt him.

And just like that, the fight happened. Short, quiet, but sharp. And he left for the airport the next morning without saying goodbye.

He hated himself for it. The second his plane took off, he knew he messed up. He had a full tour schedule ahead of him, but his heart was stuck back in Seoul — in that quiet living room, with the look on your face when you closed the door behind you.

For the first few days of the North American tour, Chan went into “leader mode.” He buried himself in rehearsals. He kept smiling during interviews. He helped the younger members get through their jet lag and stage nerves.

But the second the lights went down and the crowd disappeared… it hit him.

You weren’t there.

You weren’t texting him "good luck" before the show. You weren’t calling him to remind him to eat. You weren’t there when he walked back into his hotel room, cold and empty and echoing too loud in the quiet.

And worst of all… He left when you were hurt. He left when he should’ve stayed. He left without fixing anything.

The first night, he told himself you both needed space. That once the tour settled, things would fall into place.

The second night, he couldn’t sleep. He stared at his phone for hours, typing messages he never sent:

I’m sorry. I messed up. Are you okay?

But he deleted all of them. Every time.

Because he didn’t know if you wanted to hear from him. He didn’t know if he deserved to.

Felix noticed first. The way Chan barely ate. How he stayed in the studio even after everyone else left. How he’d sit by the hotel window at 3 a.m., staring at nothing.

“Hyung,” Felix said gently one night, “you need to talk to her.”

Chan didn’t even look up. “She probably hates me.”

Felix shook his head. “She doesn’t. She’s hurt. That’s different.”

But Chan didn’t believe it. Not when your voice haunted him every time he tried to sleep.

“I just want to be part of your life… even when it’s messy.” “You keep shutting me out.”

You were right. You’d always been right. And now he was thousands of miles away from the one person who grounded him — who made all the chaos worth it.

He started seeing you everywhere.

Every time a fan gave him a plushie that reminded him of you. Every time he passed a street musician playing a song you loved. Every time he looked in the mirror and barely recognized the man looking back.

During the third show, when the lights dimmed before their final encore, he had a full second of panic.

You weren’t in the crowd.

You always tried to be, even when it was just as a little silhouette backstage or watching through a livestream. And now?

Gone. Because of him.

He finally broke down to Felix two nights later in the hotel room.

“I feel like there’s a hole in my chest,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I miss her so much it physically hurts.”

Felix handed him his phone.

“Then fix it. Before it’s too late.”

Chan stared at the screen… then shook his head.

“She deserves better. She deserves someone who doesn’t drag her through my storms.”

Felix smiled sadly. “She never asked for perfect skies. She asked to be there with you.”

What you didn’t know was that Chan had already started preparing a small surprise for you. Even before the fight. Just a little corner of his hotel room he wanted to decorate with your photo, your favorite snacks, and a note he planned to leave on your pillow for when you visited later in the tour.

But now the gifts stayed untouched, hidden in his suitcase. It was like they stared at him every night, reminding him of what he lost.

And you? You tried to go on with your days like normal, but everything felt off. Every time you saw a picture of him at the airport, or heard someone talking about the tour, your stomach twisted.

It wasn’t until Felix texted you two nights later that something shifted.

"Hey, Y/N. I know things are weird. But he’s not okay without you. Neither of you are. Please… come to LA. I’ll help you."

You didn’t even have to think twice. The next thing you knew, you were on a plane with your heart racing faster than the jet engines. Felix met you at the airport in a hoodie and mask, like some undercover angel, and helped sneak you into the hotel where the boys were staying.

Your hands were shaking when you reached Chan’s room.

“Don’t knock,” Felix whispered. “He’s expecting me.”

He slid the keycard into the door, opened it slightly, and gave you one last nod before disappearing down the hallway.

Inside, the lights were low — warm, soft. A candle was burning on the nightstand. And there he was. Sitting at the edge of the bed, looking like he hadn’t slept in days.

When he turned and saw you… Everything cracked.

“Y/N…?”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just ran into his arms. And he held you like he’d been drowning for days and you were the only breath he had left.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered over and over into your shoulder. “I was stupid. I was stressed and scared and I pushed you away, and that’s the last thing I ever wanted to do.”

“I know,” you murmured. “I just wanted to be there for you. That’s all I ever wanted.”

He pulled back, eyes glassy. “I left without fixing it. I left when we were broken. I thought about you every second on that flight. Every second here. I was going to fly you out myself if Felix didn’t beat me to it.”

You both laughed a little through the tears.

Then he stood up and led you to the corner of the room where a tiny surprise was waiting: a little photo of you both framed on the table, next to your favorite snacks and a hand-written note.

“I miss home. And home is you.”

That night, you didn’t talk much more. You didn’t have to. You just lay curled up in bed together, his arms around you, his lips pressed to your hair as he finally — finally — slept like someone at peace.

And maybe things weren’t perfect. Maybe they never would be. But that night, in a quiet hotel room in a city far from home, you both found your way back to each other.

And that? That was everything.

[daxisyzz]

hiiii i hope you are well !!! i was wondering if you could maybe do a fic where the reader gets kidnapped and tortured by hydra on a mission or something, and after a while bucky and the team find her and save her but she’s so psychologically damaged that she’s scared of everyone? preferably lots and lots of protective and comforting bucky as he looks after her and he becomes the only person she’s comfortable with, all the angst and hurt/comfort with a happy ending would be amazing!!! thanks 🩷

Heyyy!! Hope you're doing well too. Writing this fic made me cry so I hope it's what you expected. Sorry for answering late🙃

Only safe with you

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, angst, trauma recovery, Kidnapping, psychological torture (not graphic), PTSD, panic attacks, emotional vulnerability, mentions of touch aversion, recovery

Word count: 1.1k+

You didn’t scream when they took you.

That came later—when your voice cracked raw from begging the shadows for mercy, for death, for something other than the cold numbness pressing in around you like icewater under your skin. But in the beginning, there was only silence. The kind that hollows you out from the inside.

The kind that makes you forget your own name.

You had been captured by Hydra. A mission gone wrong. A corner turned too fast. A shot fired too late. And then it all disappeared beneath the haze of a needle and the slam of a steel door.

No one found you. Not for weeks.

And in that time, you stopped existing.

You curled in on yourself, starved and shaking, while voices you didn't recognize whispered in the dark, breaking you down with every calculated word. They told you you were abandoned. That no one was coming. That you were alone because you were unworthy of being loved.

They never needed to touch you.

They just watched you rot from the inside out.

When the team finally found you, you didn’t recognize them.

You heard the explosion first—the thunder of boots, the sharp bark of Bucky’s voice, the sound of someone screaming your name like it meant something.

But all you saw were more shadows.

You tried to crawl into the wall when they burst into your cell. Your fingernails broke against the concrete, your body instinctively folding into itself, your mouth whispering pleas in a language you didn’t know you remembered.

You didn’t know Bucky was crying until his tears hit your hands.

"Hey," he choked, dropping to his knees, blood on his knuckles and desperation in his eyes. "It’s me. It’s Bucky. I’m here, okay? I’ve got you. You’re safe."

But safety was a concept that no longer made sense to you.

When his hand brushed yours, you screamed.

You screamed like you were dying. Like you were on fire.

And something in Bucky broke that day.

The jet ride back was too bright. Too loud. You were swaddled in a blanket like a child, staring through people who whispered your name with eyes full of quiet sorrow. Natasha sat across from you, tense and silent, her hand clenched in her lap.

Steve paced quietly in the back, eyes heavy with guilt.

Tony said nothing, choosing instead to sit beside you in stillness.

They all felt the ache, but none knew how to hold it.

Because they saw the pieces of you, scattered and bloody, and none of them knew how to put you back together.

Except for Bucky.

He didn’t leave your side. Not once.

You wouldn’t let anyone else near you. The first time Bruce tried to assess your wounds, you had a panic attack so violent your lips turned blue.

But Bucky?

You let him stay.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t see him. But he was there. Sitting on the floor, silent and patient, like he was trying to absorb your pain with every breath.

"You don’t have to talk," he whispered once, voice so low it made your ribs ache. "I’ll just be here. I’m not going anywhere."

And he wasn’t.

Not when you curled into corners, sobbing so hard you threw up.

Not when you tore your own skin in your sleep.

Not when you started to disappear into yourself again.

He stayed.

And the others watched, hurting in their own quiet ways.

Natasha lingered by your door some nights, pacing like she wanted to knock but couldn’t.

Steve brought books you didn’t read.

Tony made sure the lights never flickered in your room again.

They didn’t say much. They didn’t force anything. But they were there.

And Bucky? He just was.

Weeks passed.

You started whispering again. Small things. Words like "water" or "blanket" or "stay."

Always to Bucky.

Only to him.

He was the first person you let touch you again.

A pinky finger. Brushing yours. Barely there.

You sobbed when it happened. Clutched your chest like it hurt. Like it burned to feel something again.

Bucky didn’t cry. Not then.

But that night, Steve found him in the hallway outside your door, fists bruised and bloodied against the wall.

"I can’t lose her again," Bucky whispered, voice shattering. "I can’t."

Recovery wasn’t linear.

Some days you smiled.

Some days you screamed.

Some nights you let Bucky hold your hand.

Some nights you clawed at your own skin, begging him to make it stop.

And he did.

Not with force.

Not with words.

Just with presence.

He’d pull you into his lap, wrap his arms around your shaking body, press his lips to your temple and whisper, "You’re safe. You’re not alone. I’ve got you."

Until you believed him.

Even if only for a moment.

One night, you whispered, "Why did you stay?"

Bucky looked at you, moonlight catching the cracks in him that matched your own.

"Because you matter. Because you didn’t give up. Because you let me find you."

You blinked, tears spilling freely. "I don’t feel like a person anymore."

His voice broke. "Then let me remind you how to be one."

They say healing is like a mosaic, broken pieces coming together to form something beautiful.

You were still cracked. Still healing. Still learning how to exist in a body that had been turned into a prison.

But Bucky loved you through all of it.

With hands that never rushed.

With words that never demanded.

With a heart that only ever whispered, You are safe here.

And for the first time in months, maybe years—You believed him.

One Year Later

The morning sun slipped in through the curtains, painting your room in pale gold. The shadows that once clung to the walls had long since faded, replaced by quiet warmth and slow, steady breaths.

You sat curled on the couch, a book in your lap, half-forgotten, as Bucky entered with two steaming mugs in hand. He paused in the doorway, watching you with that soft look he reserved only for you—a kind of awe, like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

"You’re staring," you said, voice lighter, steadier now.

He grinned. "Can you blame me?"

You set the book aside and took the mug he offered, your fingers brushing his without flinching. That tiny act still felt like magic sometimes.

You leaned into him when he sat beside you, and he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in without a word.

There were no more nightmares that week.

You’d started laughing again. Dancing in the kitchen. Humming in the shower.

You still had days where the world felt fragile, like it could crack open beneath your feet—but you no longer fell alone.

You looked up at Bucky, your eyes soft. "Thank you for not giving up on me."

His thumb brushed your cheek. "You saved yourself. I just got to love you through it."

And you did. Slowly, then all at once. Day by day, moment by moment, you let the light back in through him.

[linoxpudding]

Inches In Between Us

summary: moment where you and him are caught too close for comfort… or maybe just close enough, tension simmers

pairing: skz x gn!reader

genre: slight angst, fluff, forced proximity trope

a/n: this one’s been sitting in my drafts forever (based on this request) I took my time crafting each moment to really bring the tension and emotion to life! comment below and let me know which scene had your heart doing somersaults ♡

Masterlist

~°~

Bang Chan (established relationship)

You flew across two countries just to see him.

You told yourself it was worth it—the late-night packing, the long airport waits, the time off you had to beg your manager for. You missed him. You missed you and him, and those Facetimes squeezed between rehearsals weren’t enough.

But now, sitting stiffly on the plush leather seat of the tour bus, knees locked together and jaw tight with frustration, you weren’t sure why you bothered.

You had claimed the wide back row—meant to seat four or five—but you sat all the way in the corner, facing the window, hoping to be left alone.

Chan’s voice had barely left your ears since the fight earlier—sharp words you both didn’t mean, silence that hurt more than shouting. He’d said he needed space.

So, you decided to give it to him.

Now that the schedule was over, the members and staff had scattered across the bus, most of them slouched in the two-seaters lining either side of the aisle. Some had earbuds in, some quietly scrolled their phones, but no one said a word about the tension radiating from the very back.

Chan climbed in last.

For a second, you thought—hoped—he’d take one of the many empty two-seaters. Maybe even sit with Minho or Changbin, who were already half-asleep a few rows ahead.

But no. He walked straight to the back and slid into the long seat. Not just the seat—but right next to you. Right up against you.

You blinked at him. “Seriously?”

In response, he just leaned back with a soft exhale, gaze forward.

Annoyed, you got up and moved to a two-seater near the middle of the bus. You didn’t look at him.

Seconds later, the seat dipped beside you again.

You didn’t even have to look to know it was him. The quiet, stubborn presence. That familiar scent. The way your thigh brushed against his because the seat was narrow and neither of you budged.

You huffed, loud enough for only him to hear, but said nothing. You didn’t want to draw attention. Not to the fight. Not to how your heart still sped up when he was near—even now.

His thigh pressed against yours, his shoulder brushing yours. There wasn’t enough room not to touch unless you climbed out the window. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

You refused to look at him, eyes glued to the streetlights racing by outside. Still, you felt him— his quiet sigh, his fidgeting fingers. The way he turned his body toward you, even if he didn’t say a word.

"You’re really not gonna say anything?" he finally whispered, voice low enough that no one in front could hear.

You shrugged.

"You were the one who said you needed space," you murmured bitterly, still not looking.

He was silent for a long second, then said, "Yeah. I was wrong."

"You can’t just say stuff like that and expect it to go away, Chan."

"I know," he said. "That’s why I’m here. In your space. Because I don’t want it. I want you."

“You told me to fly out. You wanted me here. And then you barely looked at me all day.”

Chan’s jaw tensed. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You think that makes it better?” Your voice cracked. “I cleared my schedule, booked time off, flew across countries just to watch you pull away from me every second. I know what dating an idol means, Chan, but this—this felt different.”

He looked like he’d been punched. “I know. I messed up.”

He reached for your hand, tentative. You let him, but didn’t squeeze back yet.

“I thought if I focused on the tour stuff first, I could make time for you later. But I just pushed you away, I’m sorry, baby.”

You turned to the window again, biting your lip.

“I was just excited to see you,” you whispered. “And you made me feel like an afterthought.”

Chan exhaled shakily. “You’re not. You’re the only part of this I don’t want to mess up.”

His voice was rough, edged with guilt.

“For the rest of today, I’m yours,” he said, gently pulling your intertwined hands to his chest. “No staff. No members. Just us. And I swear, I won’t let you feel like this again. Let me fix it.”

You hesitated. But you looked at him and there it was again: that open, vulnerable gaze only you ever got. He was looking at you— eyes glassy, sincere, scared.

So you nodded.

He leaned in, his voice even quieter.

"You can keep being mad at me. I’ll sit here the whole ride, touching your knee like a loser, until you’re ready to forgive me. I just… I don’t want this silence anymore."

Your anger crumbled a little at the edges. He was ridiculous. Dramatic. Stubborn. And yours.

You huffed, barely hiding the smile tugging at your lips. "You’re squishing me."

"Good," he said, bumping your shoulder gently. "I missed you."

You let your head drop onto his shoulder, just for a second. “You’re lucky we’re in public.”

He smirked. “Trust me. I know.”

Lee Know (frenemies)

It was supposed to be a relaxing weekend. A break from the city, from work, from stress.

A weekend camping trip with all your friends consisting of a bonfire, setting up tents, good food, and no cell service— sure, it sounded cute on paper. Until you found out Lee Minho was coming too.

Minho. The eye-roll king. Your arch nemesis in every group chat and game night. The one who always had something smug to say, who knew exactly how to push your buttons and enjoyed doing it.

So, here you were, standing in the middle of a forest clearing with an uneven patch of dirt under your shoes, mosquitoes humming in your ears, and Minho—a.k.a. your personal plague—stretching beside you like he owned the woods.

You didn’t even want to make eye contact.

“Alright!” Chan clapped his hands. “Everyone gets paired up in tents—but, to make things fun, we’re drawing sticks.”

Groans went up immediately, mostly from you and Jeongin.

“What is this? Summer camp?” you muttered.

“Exactly,” Felix grinned, holding out the small bundle of color-coded sticks. “Pick your destiny!”

One by one, your friends picked sticks, with excitement and curiosity filling the air.

You pulled yours last. It was red.

And then your heart sank.

“Red too,” Minho called casually, holding his up and locking eyes with you.

You blinked. “No. Nope. Pick again.”

He smirked. “Aw, are you scared of sharing a tent with me?”

“More like scared for my sanity.”

You whipped around to Han. “Please, just switch with me. I’ll give you my hoodie—the one you love. Or that extra brownie from earlier!”

Jisung burst out laughing, already dragging his guitar to a fancy-looking tent. “Can’t switch! I got the one with the LED light strip and padded floor. I’m not giving THAT up for your romantic tension!”

“There is no tension,” you barked. “Only rage!”

Minho was already walking toward your sad, lopsided tent, humming like he was enjoying every second of your meltdown. You shot pleading eyes at Chan, at Hyunjin, at anyone—but they were all pretending to be busy adjusting gear or unrolling mats.

Betrayal. Pure betrayal.

Sighing dramatically, you picked up your bag and trudged after Minho, muttering curses under your breath. Grumbling and defeated, you stomped into the tent, tossing your bag to the far corner. The inside was cozier than you expected, but that didn’t mean you were happy about it. 

“Okay but seriously,” you said, peering into the tent, “why is there only one camping mattress?”

Minho, behind you, tsked. “You lost. I shouldn’t have to suffer.”

“You think I didn’t suffer the moment I saw your face and ‘red stick’ in the same moment?”

He didn’t answer, just ducked inside and threw his sleeping bag onto the narrow mattress—if you could even call it that. It was barely wider than your body, lumpy, and definitely not meant for two.

“Oh, hell no,” you snapped, following him in. “That’s not just yours.”

Minho raised an eyebrow as he flopped down and smirked. “You wanna sleep on the floor then?”

“No. You sleep on the floor.”

“I got here first.”

You both stared at each other for a moment. The unspoken war was real. 

“Fine. I’m not giving it up,” you stubbornly said and climbed in.

There was maybe—maybe—three inches of space between your bodies. Arms touching. Legs bumping. Shoulders pressed awkwardly side-by-side.

This was not ideal.

“Stop moving,” you hissed as he adjusted.

“You’re poking me with your elbow!”

“You’re hogging the blanket!”

“Your knee is in my spine!”

A moment passed.

Silence.

Then, somehow—inevitably—you both stilled. The night was quiet outside the tent, filled only with the distant crackling fire and soft murmurs from the others. Inside, the air was warm. Heavy.

You could feel the rise and fall of his chest. Every little breath.

His eyes met yours. And you didn’t look away.

The bickering faded. The closeness became unbearable in a different way. His face was inches from yours, eyes flickering from your mouth to your gaze and back again.

Your heart pounded. Loud. Messy. Dangerous.

“Don’t snore,” you broke the silence.

“I don’t snore,” Minho piped up, rolling his eyes. “But I do talk in my sleep. Usually insults.”

“You’re really annoying,” you whispered.

“So are you,” he replied quietly.

But he didn’t move away. And neither did you. His hand brushed yours under the blanket. Barely touching. But enough to make your breath hitch.

You both leaned in—slow, tentative, until your noses almost touched—

“Yah! Who stole the marshmallows?!”

Han’s voice rang outside the tent and you both jerked away like you’d been electrocuted.

Minho cleared his throat, turning stiffly onto his side. “Sleep. Now.”

You swallowed hard, heart racing, facing the opposite direction.

But long after the outside voices faded, you stayed awake, replaying that moment—one breath away from disaster.

*************************************

The sun had barely risen over the quiet campsite, dew still clinging to the grass and birds chirping in the distance. Most tents were still zipped up, the fire pit long gone cold.

Han yawned dramatically as he and Hyunjin wandered toward your tent, both of them tasked with rounding people up for breakfast duty. "Let’s just yell and run," Han muttered. "Classic wake-up strategy."

Hyunjin shushed him. “No, I want to see their faces. Especially those two.”

Han smirked. “Ohhh right. Mortal enemies sharing a tent. Bet they killed each other in their sleep.”

They unzipped the tent slowly, careful not to wake any potential dragons.

But what they did see stopped them in their tracks.

Inside, the two of you were a complete mess of limbs—your arm flopped across Minho’s chest, his hand loosely resting on your waist, legs tangled beneath the thin blanket. One of his knees was even wedged between your thighs, and your face was tucked into the crook of his neck.

Utterly relaxed. Peaceful. Intimate.

Hyunjin let out a quiet gasp. “Oh my God.”

Han clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. “Dude. What… the hell?”

Hyunjin grinned. “So the tension finally melted.”

Han whispered, “Yeah. Into a puddle of cuddles and potential kisses? Do you think they kissed?”

Hyunjin smirked, “It might’ve happened.”

They slipped away without waking either of you—though Han did snap a silent photo on his phone, “just for documentation.”

However, the quiet rustling outside was just enough to stir you.

You blinked, stretching a little—only to freeze the second you realized something was very wrong.

Your cheek wasn’t against your pillow.

It was on someone's chest.

Warm. Steady. Rising and falling slowly beneath you.

You shifted just a little—and then you noticed it. Minho’s arm around your waist. One of your legs slung over his. His hand resting lightly on your back.

You nearly stopped breathing.

And just then, he stirred too—brow furrowing, eyes fluttering open. He blinked once. Twice. Then looked down.

Right at you.

There was a beat of silent realization. Eyes locking. Tension crackling in the small, stuffy tent.

Your breath caught. His hand twitched on your back.

“…You—”

“This isn’t—” you both started at once.

You scrambled back in a panic, elbowing the tent wall as you untangled your legs and rolled toward the exit. “I—I didn’t mean to—!”

“You’re the one who shoved me over in your sleep!” he whisper-hissed, equally flustered, hair a mess and voice rough from sleep.

You yanked the zipper open and practically ran out, heart pounding, cheeks burning.

The morning air slapped your face as you stumbled into the open, hoping no one saw. (Too late.)

From the campfire pit, Han and Hyunjin exchanged a look—and then burst into laughter.

Inside the tent, Minho sat up, running a hand through his hair and muttering to himself.

“…So dramatic.”

But even as he said it, a faint, undeniable smile pulled at his lips.

Because your warmth still lingered on his skin.

And that moment—however brief—was now burned into him.

*************************************

Back at the communal camp kitchen, Han was making scrambled eggs while Hyunjin cut fruit, both humming softly. Minho emerged from the trees a while later, hair a bit messy, lips pressed in a line as he poured water into the kettle like nothing happened.

“You sleep okay?” Han asked innocently.

Minho side-eyed him. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Han shrugged. “You know. Considering the person you used to say you’d rather fight a bear than share a tent with.”

Minho didn’t look up. “Shut up. There’s nothing between us.”

But then he hesitated. Almost like something tugged at him.

And when he glanced over his shoulder, there you were—laughing at something Felix said, your cheeks squished adorably in the cool air, your hair a mess from sleep. You tossed your head back as you laughed, eyes sparkling while Minho was watching. And he smiled softly. Almost in a daze, like it bloomed out of his chest before he even knew it was there.

Han caught it, catching the way Minho lingered just a second too long before turning back around.

He didn’t say anything.

He just smiled too—watching his best friend quietly fall.

Seo Changbin (friends to lovers)

Changbin’s apartment smelled like buttered popcorn and clean laundry.

It was your favorite place to be lately—low lights, cozy blanket, a ridiculous action movie playing on the screen, and him beside you, warm and familiar. Your legs were tangled casually over his, a bowl of popcorn between you, laughter spilling out as some over-the-top fight scene played.

"This is the dumbest movie you’ve made me watch," you grinned, tossing a popcorn kernel at him.

Changbin caught it in his mouth effortlessly and winked. "Admit it. You love it."

"I love mocking it," you teased, nudging his thigh with your foot.

He caught your ankle before you could pull back, grinning wickedly. “You sure you want to start something?”

You wiggled your toes defiantly. “What, you’re gonna fight me?”

“I could win.”

“You wish, Seo Changbin.”

That’s all it took.

Suddenly, the popcorn bowl was tossed aside, and you were squealing, squirming, as Changbin tackled you onto the couch in a flurry of limbs and laughter.

It wasn’t serious—just a mess of soft slaps, blocked pokes, mock grunts. You wrestled, pushing at his shoulders, but he was strong and quick, playful growls leaving his throat as he countered every move with ease.

“Okay, okay, I take it back!” you laughed breathlessly, trying to twist away.

He caught your wrists.

One smooth motion, and you were pinned flat against the couch cushions, Changbin hovering above you—knees on either side of your hips, hands holding yours gently but firmly down beside your head.

The laughter stopped. Well everything… stopped.

His chest was rising and falling, breath just a little uneven. Your wrists burned under his fingers, not from pressure but from presence. The movie still played in the background, but it was a muffled hum now—nothing compared to the thunder of your heart.

He was close. Too close.

His face hovered just above yours, eyes flickering over every part of your expression—your parted lips, your wide eyes, the heat that was now unmistakably there in both of your gazes.

Neither of you moved.

You swallowed hard. “Are you gonna let me up?”

He didn’t blink. “Do you want me to?”

You couldn’t answer.

Because maybe you didn’t want him to.

Your silence stretched. His grip loosened ever so slightly, just enough that your hands could move if you wanted—but you didn’t pull away. Not yet.

Your fingers curled around his wrists instead, and his breath caught audibly.

“You’re dangerous,” you whispered.

He leaned a little closer, voice low. “You bring it out in me.”

For a second—just a second—he dipped his head, your noses brushing, lips almost meeting. Almost.

But he hesitated. Like he needed permission. Like he didn’t want to cross a line unless you asked him to.

“Binnie…” you breathed, and that was all it took.

His forehead touched yours. Not a kiss, not yet—but his weight above you, his warmth, the want in his eyes was enough to melt you.

“You’re more than just a friend to me,” he murmured. “I’ve been trying to hide it for so long, but when you look at me like that—”

You surged up just enough to press your lips to his.

Soft. Careful. But charged like fire.

He kissed you back like he’d been waiting forever.

Changbin’s lips lingered on yours like he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

You watched him in that small, quiet moment—his lashes brushing his cheeks, his hands still cradling your wrists. He looked… vulnerable. Not like the loud, confident Changbin who barked laughs and flexed his arms to annoy you. This was different.

He finally opened his eyes and met your gaze—softer now. Nervous, even.

“So…” he said, voice quieter than you’d ever heard it. “Now what?”

Your heart flipped.

You smiled shyly and tugged your hands free, only to lace your fingers with his. “Now,” you whispered, “you help me up, because you’re crushing me.”

A breathless laugh escaped him, and he immediately rolled off to the side, reaching down to help you sit up. “Sorry,” he said, a little flushed. “Didn’t mean to KO you on the first date.”

You both paused.

You tilted your head. “So this is a date now?”

He looked a little caught, but the smile never left his face. “I mean… if you want it to be.”

You nudged his knee with yours. “Only if it ends with another kiss.”

Changbin turned bright red, chuckled, and rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re gonna make fun of me forever for this, aren’t you?”

You leaned in, close enough that your noses touched again, your voice barely a breath. “Probably.”

He kissed you again—quick, sweet, like he couldn’t help himself.

Then he got up, held out his hand, and pulled you to your feet. Still holding on. Still close.

“So,” he said again, this time with a grin, “sleepover rules still apply. I’m making ramen. You’re picking the next movie. And maybe later, we kiss again.”

You smirked, tugging him toward the kitchen. “We’ll see if you earn it.”

“Hey!” he whined playfully. “I pinned you! That’s gotta count for something!”

“It counts as me letting you win, obviously.”

“Oh, it’s on.”

And just like that, you were back to bickering—but now, between the sarcasm and the teasing, were shy glances, soft smiles, and the kind of tension that didn’t need words anymore.

You’d always been close. Now, you were closer than ever.

Hwang Hyunjin (crushing on seonbae)

It was your second week as a trainee for a new girl group under JYP Entertainment, and you had already learned that the training schedule was intense. You were still trying to find your rhythm in a world filled with highly talented idols, and it felt like everything was moving too fast. You spent most of your time in the practice rooms, working on vocal exercises, choreography, and dance routines.

One day, after a particularly long session, you found yourself taking a quick break to catch your breath. You'd never thought you'd meet Hyunjin from Stray Kids during your training, but here you were, sitting in the corner of the studio, trying to recover from a grueling dance practice. He was in the middle of a solo routine, and you couldn’t help but watch, captivated by his flawless movements. The way he danced was mesmerizing, and for a moment, you forgot everything around you. You did harbour a huge secret crush on him. 

When his practice ended, he caught you staring, a playful smirk appearing on his face. “Like what you see?” he asked with a teasing tone.

Caught off guard, you blushed, quickly looking away. “Oh! Uh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“No need to apologize,” he interrupted, walking over to where you were sitting. “I saw you struggling with your choreography earlier. Need some help?”

You blinked, surprised by his offer. You had only been a trainee for a short time, and the idea of dancing with someone like Hyunjin made you nervous. But his smile was disarming, and you could tell he genuinely wanted to help.

"Actually, yes," you admitted, standing up. "I can't quite get the moves down for our routine. Maybe you could show me some tips?"

Hyunjin grinned, taking his place in front of you. "No problem. I'll teach you the basics, and we'll see if we can make it a little more fun."

He started by showing you the footwork, his body moving effortlessly to the beat. You mimicked his movements, but the steps felt awkward under your feet. Hyunjin noticed immediately and gave a little chuckle.

“You’re overthinking it,” he said, gently placing his hands on your shoulders. “Relax. You’re supposed to feel the music, not stress about the steps.”

His hands lingered just a second too long, and you felt a heat rush to your cheeks. You took a deep breath, nodding. “I’ll try again.”

You continued practicing, and as the movements started to feel more natural, Hyunjin encouraged you with small comments here and there. The choreography was getting better, but you were still a little offbeat.

"Okay, how about this," Hyunjin suggested. "Let’s do the next part together. I'll guide you."

Before you could say anything, he stood close behind you, his hand lightly resting on your waist to help guide your movements. His proximity caught you off guard, and your heart skipped a beat. The way his body was pressed against yours, his warmth radiating onto you, was almost overwhelming. You could feel his breath on the back of your neck as he leaned in to correct your posture.

“Here, just like this,” he said, adjusting your hips with his hands. The touch was gentle, but the closeness made it impossible to ignore the sudden tension in the air. You could feel your body growing tense, unsure of how to act with him so near.

His grip shifted slightly, and you found yourself in an almost perfect mirror of his stance. "See?" Hyunjin smiled, his voice low. "Much better."

The way his eyes locked onto yours made your breath catch in your throat. The dance had become less about learning the moves and more about the unspoken connection forming between you two in the space. His hands were still guiding you, his touch firm but soft, and every movement seemed to bring you closer together.

You both continued practicing, but it wasn’t long before the movements became more fluid, and you realized that it wasn’t just the choreography that was making you feel this way. Hyunjin’s presence, his proximity, was stirring something in you. Every time he adjusted your form, his hand would brush against your skin, sending a shiver through your body. Your heart beat faster, and the air between you felt heavier, charged with an unspoken tension.

At one point, you made a small mistake and spun the wrong way, causing your bodies to collide. For a brief second, you both froze, trapped in a moment of unintended intimacy. Hyunjin’s chest was pressed against your back, his arms still holding you in place as you both tried to steady yourselves. His breath hitched slightly, and you could feel his heartbeat racing against your skin.

You locked eyes, and for a second, everything else faded. The studio, the other trainees, the music—it was just the two of you, caught in this unexpectedly close moment. The space between you was nonexistent. The gentle brush of his fingers on your arm sent a jolt of electricity through you.

“Well,” Hyunjin said, his voice now husky, as he reluctantly stepped back, breaking the tension. “I guess we got a little… carried away.”

You bit your lip, trying to steady yourself. “I—I didn’t expect that,” you murmured.

He smiled, a little sheepishly. "Yeah, me neither. But hey, at least the moves are starting to look good, right?"

You nodded, though your thoughts were still a little scattered from the closeness you’d just shared. You both stood there for a moment, the silence between you filled with the lingering tension that neither of you dared to acknowledge.

“Well, if you ever need more help," Hyunjin said, his voice returning to its usual playful tone, "I’m just a call away.”

You gave a small, nervous smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

As he left the practice room, you stayed behind for a few moments longer, your heart still racing from the unexpected intimacy of the dance. There was a mix of excitement and confusion swirling inside you. What was that? Was it just the dance, or was there something more there?

You didn’t have time to answer your own questions because, as a trainee, there was always another routine to learn, another move to perfect. But as you left the studio later that day, your mind kept returning to the way Hyunjin had touched you, the way he’d held you close, and how in that one moment, you couldn’t tell if it was just dance… or something more.

Han Jisung (secretly dating)

It was game night, a regular gathering with the boys at their dorm, where laughter and playful competition filled the air. You'd been looking forward to this night, to unwind and enjoy their company, especially Han Jisung's. You were secretly dating him, keeping it low-key for the time being, but lately, it felt like a secret you wanted to shout from the rooftops. There was just one problem—you didn’t know how to tell the others without making things awkward.

Tonight, everyone was hyped up and playing a board game, the atmosphere light and buzzing with friendly rivalry. The stakes had gotten higher as the rounds went on, and the trash talk was flying. You and Felix had become a bit of an invincible duo—strategizing, making each other laugh, and working seamlessly together. 

But as Hyunjin leaned back in his chair with a smirk and exclaimed, “Oh my god, Felix and Y/N, you guys are totally an unbeatable duo!” the comment seemed to hit differently. Jisung, who had been quiet for a while, stiffened beside you, his eyes momentarily narrowing as he watched you laugh along with Felix.

You noticed the subtle change in his demeanor. A quiet jealousy simmered beneath his usual playful and easy-going attitude. You felt your stomach tighten with an instinctive pull toward him. Felix, oblivious to the shift, was still bantering with Hyunjin.

But Jisung was different. He was unusually quiet, and the energy in the room had shifted in a way that only you could sense. You could feel his gaze lingering on you for a little too long, and it made your heart race—nervous, excited. The tension between you two was palpable, something you both tried to keep under wraps.

As the game continued, you couldn't help but glance over at Jisung. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. His playful vibe had shifted into something more guarded. It wasn’t like him to stay quiet for so long, and it made you feel uneasy, like you had inadvertently caused the shift in the air.

Felix was deep in conversation with Hyunjin, while the others were absorbed in the game, but you couldn’t focus anymore. You excused yourself from the table, slipping into the hallway in an attempt to get some space. You figured you could give Jisung a moment to cool down or maybe even talk about whatever had been bothering him.

But before you could walk further, Jisung was there. You didn’t even hear him approach, but suddenly his hand was on your wrist, and he was gently tugging you toward the hallway leading to his room. “Hey, where are you going?” you asked, trying to keep the casual tone.

He didn’t respond right away, his grip firm but gentle. There was a certain intensity to his gaze now—his eyes darkened slightly, and his usual teasing smile was replaced with something more serious. “I need to talk to you,” he muttered, his voice low.

You didn’t say anything. You knew this wasn’t just about the game anymore.

When you reached his room, Jisung quickly closed the door behind you, his hand resting on the handle for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. The two of you stood in the middle of the room for a few seconds, the air thick with unspoken words.

Finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t like the way you two were... getting so close. Felix and you, laughing together like that.” His eyes were intense, full of something you hadn’t seen before—something raw. “It’s not like you’ve done anything wrong, but… it makes me feel something I don’t know how to handle.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You stepped closer to him, instinctively. “Hannie…” you began, but he interrupted you.

“I want to tell them, baby. I want to tell everyone we’re together,” he said, his hand gripping yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles gently, though his voice was firm. “I’m tired of pretending like we’re just friends.” He took a step closer, his face inches from yours now. His breath was warm against your skin, and you could feel his heart racing in his chest, matching yours.

The proximity was overwhelming, intoxicating, and for a moment, you forgot everything around you—the noise of the game, the others in the house. It was just him, and the desire in his eyes. You couldn’t lie to yourself any longer; you felt the same way. You had been trying to ignore it, keeping your relationship under wraps for the sake of the group, but in that moment, it all felt like too much to keep inside.

You swallowed, struggling to find the right words. “I want to tell them too, baby. I really do. But…” you hesitated. “Do you think they’ll understand?”

Jisung’s eyes softened, and he gently cupped your cheek with his free hand. “It’s not about them understanding,” he said, his voice tender now, the tension easing from his shoulders. “It’s about us. I want to be open with everyone, especially with you. You mean so much to me.”

The words hung in the air, a promise wrapped in vulnerability. You were quiet for a beat, the intensity of the moment consuming you. Slowly, you nodded. “Okay. Let’s tell them. Together.”

He smiled, the usual playful glint returning to his eyes, but there was still an undercurrent of sincerity. Without another word, he closed the gap between you two and kissed you, soft and slow, as if savoring the moment that had been a long time coming. The kiss deepened, both of you letting go of the tension and unspoken feelings you’d been holding onto.

When you pulled away, your foreheads touched, breaths mingling. He whispered, “I’m so glad you’re mine.”

You smiled, your heart lighter than it had been in weeks. “Me too,” you said softly.

From that moment on, there was no more hiding. You were his, and he was yours, and that was all that mattered.

Lee Felix (colleagues to lovers)

The music video shoot had gone longer than expected, and most of the staff had either stepped out for a break or were busy resetting lights outside. The trailer where touch-ups usually happened—the one usually buzzing with stylists, cords, and brushes—was now completely empty.

You were the only one there, you were sitting on the couch scrolling through your phone when Felix popped in, flashing that signature grin and muttering, “Hyung said I need my hair re-gelled. Sorry,” like he was inconveniencing you, even though it was literally your job.

“Sit,” you said, trying to sound normal. Professional.

But nothing about Felix ever let you stay fully calm. Not the way he tugged off his jacket with one hand and tossed it lazily on the couch. Not the way his damp dark hair curled against his forehead, making him look more boyish, more human, than the stage idol version everyone else saw.

You stood behind him, gently combing through his roots. The gel hadn’t fully set, and you needed to rework it from the front.

"Can you tilt your head back?" you asked.

He did, but the angle was awkward. He sat too low in the chair, so you had to lean forward, your hips brushing the armrest. When you reached to push his fringe back, your chest nearly grazed his shoulder.

He stilled. You froze.

Then, in one ungraceful second, your foot slipped against the leg of the chair. Your balance tipped forward—too fast to catch. A small gasp escaped you as your knees bumped the edge, and suddenly you were no longer standing.

You landed on him.

Your hands flew to his shoulders to steady yourself, but it was too late—your body was already pressed against his, knees planted on either side of his lap, your faces just inches apart.

His breath ghosted across your cheek. Warm. Shaky.

Neither of you moved.

“Sorry—” you whispered, trying to push yourself back up.

But his hands had found your waist. Not tight, not holding, just there. Warm, grounding. And when your eyes met, something shifted.

“No—” he breathed, voice quieter than you’d ever heard. “Don’t move.”

Your breath caught.

“Felix—”

“I didn’t mind… I mean, it’s okay. I just…” His stammered.

You blinked at him, heart hammering, heat blooming across your chest and neck. You’d danced around this for weeks—maybe months.

The lingering stares, the way his smile always stretched wider when you were near. But this…

His hands were still on your waist. And for a moment, neither of you moved.

The only sound was the low hum of a distant monitor and your heartbeat hammering in your chest.

Then, slowly, his fingers reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch barely grazing your skin. The motion was so gentle, so intimate, that it made your breath hitch. And the moment his hand dropped, his eyes widened—like he hadn’t realized what he was doing until it was already done.

“I—I didn’t mean to—sorry, that was—” he breathed, voice shaky.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. His cologne wrapped around you like a net, grounding and dizzying all at once.

“I just—” he went on, swallowing, “God, I’m sorry.”

You stared down at him.

His face was already flushed pink, his eyes still locked on yours like he wasn’t sure if he should let go or pull you closer.

“I didn’t mind,” you said quietly.

He blinked.

“What?”

Your voice came out softer this time, more vulnerable. “I didn’t mind. That you touched my hair.”

“Really?” he asked.

You nodded.

He exhaled through a breathless laugh, like disbelief. “Because I’ve been trying not to do anything like that since you started.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you,” he said instantly. No hesitation. Just the truth.

“And I didn’t want to make things weird. But God, you’re always so close, and you’re so gentle, and I’m pretty sure I’ve started dreaming about the way you touch my hair—”

You kissed him.

Quick. Certain. Nothing intense, just a quiet yes to everything he’d just admitted.

His hands tightened on your hips, grounding himself. “Okay,” he whispered against your lips, dazed. “Yeah. That just happened.”

You laughed softly and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. “It did.”

“I still need to finish your look,” you teased.

He grinned, pulling you even closer. “I think you just did.”

The silence was comforting this time. Not awkward but intimate.

Kim Seungmin (sunshine x grumpy)

When Chan invited you for a quiet weekend at his countryside farmhouse, you didn’t hesitate. It had been months since you last saw your best friend—too many midnight voice notes, too many “I miss you’s” with a sad emoji tacked on at the end. So you packed a bag and drove up that Friday evening, not even bothering to ask who else would be there. 

Chan had welcomed you in with the warmest hug and whispered, “Seungmin’s here. Try not to combust.”

You elbowed him, cheeks warm. “I don’t like him.”

“Sure,” he smirked.

Of course Seungmin was here. Still just as grumpy, still refusing to smile at your stupid jokes, still never calling you by your name—just “you” or “Chan’s friend.”

And yet, somehow, you still looked for him in every room.

By Saturday night, you were full of barbecue, three glasses into a fruity drink, and cozy in an oversized hoodie. Laughter buzzed through the warm-lit living room. Chan had pulled out board games and card decks, and Hyunjin tossed on a playlist. You and Seungmin had exchanged exactly four words since arriving: “Morning,” “Move” and “No, thanks”

After too many rounds of Mario Kart, Chan flopped onto the massive couch and clapped his hands. “Okay, new game. Seven Minutes in Heaven.”

“Are we in high-school?” you and Seungmin said in perfect sync from opposite ends of the couch.

Everyone laughed, but Chan just wiggled his eyebrows. “Come on, you’re all cowards. It’ll be fun.”

Chan started spinning a bottle, and before you could sneak away, your name was called—followed by Seungmin’s.

The room howled.

You whipped around to Chan, whispering furiously, “You rigged that!”

“Did not,” he said with a very smug expression. “Enjoy.”

The closet—tucked in the corner of the master bedroom—was dim, a little too warm, and far too tight for two people. The door shut behind you with a soft click.

“I hate them,” Seungmin muttered, already looking up at the ceiling like it might offer a hatch out.

You nervously glanced around in the little space. You took a breath. “Wow. Cozy.”

“Not really,” he said flatly.

You smiled anyway. “I forgot how much fun you are at parties.”

His lips twitched. The smallest, smallest smirk.

Minutes passed. Maybe only one. Maybe ten. You didn’t know. The quiet between you felt heavier than the night sky outside.

Then—he spoke.

“You flew all this way just to see Chan?” he asked.

Your brows rose. “Yeah, why?”

“No reason,” he said immediately, then hesitated. “Just… wondering.”

You took a step closer, trying to read him. “Why do you always look at me like I annoy you, but then keep showing up in every room I’m in?”

His jaw flexed. “You don’t annoy me.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

He pushed off the wall now, standing straighter, closer. “You’re… too much sometimes.”

You blinked. “Too much?”

“Too much sunshine. Too much sweetness. It gets under my skin.”

You smirked. “Good.”

He gave you a flat look. “This is ridiculous.”

“Then why are you blushing?”

“I’m not.”

You grinned. “You are. It’s kind of cute.”

He glanced away, jaw tightening, but the pink in his cheeks betrayed him.

You leaned in just a little. “What’s wrong, Seungmin? Closet too small? Or is it just me that’s making you all flustered?”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“You wound me,” you gasped, hand over your chest. “I’m just being friendly.”

“Yeah, well… maybe tone it down a little.”

You tilted your head. “But I thought I was ‘too much sweetness’ and ‘gets under your skin’—don’t tell me I’m growing on you.”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you always talk this much?”

“Only when I’m stuck in a closet with my longtime crush.”

Seungmin froze.

Your eyes widened. Crap. You hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“…What?” he said after a beat, voice lower.

You scrambled. “I mean—not crush crush. I mean like, maybe. Possibly. Okay, definitely. For a long time. Like years-long. But you were always so—”

He took a step forward. You stopped babbling.

He didn’t say anything. Just looked at you for a moment, then leaned in slightly, voice dry. “Chan told me you’d be here.”

“…Okay?”

“I’ve been trying to act normal since yesterday.”

“That was you acting normal?”

He smirked, just a little. “I don’t flirt like you do.”

“I don’t flirt—”

“Really?” he stepped closer, close enough that your breath caught. “Then what would you call this?”

You were backed against the shelf, heart in your throat, eyes flicking between his and his mouth. He braced one arm beside your head, gaze sharp.

“…Trouble,” you whispered.

He smirked again—wider this time. “Yeah. You’re trouble.”

And then, just before the timer outside buzzed, he kissed you.

Slow, deliberate, and nothing like the annoyed boy who always pretended you were too much.

When he pulled back, lips barely grazing yours, he whispered, “Next time, we skip the game.”

And when the door finally swung open to the cheering crowd, neither of you said a word—but the heat in your face said everything.

Yang Jeongin (brother's best friend)

You hadn’t seen Jeongin properly in almost a year—well you really haven’t seen him much since he’d debuted and got busy with his idol life. But when your brother casually mentioned, “Jeongin’s having a little dinner thing at his place. Just a few of us. You should come—it’s been forever.”  something fluttered in your chest that you tried very hard to ignore.

You’d crushed on him since you were probably twelve, back when he was just your brother’s slightly awkward best friend who always let you have the last slice of pizza. And now? Now he was I.N—idol, heartthrob, and the same boy who still texted your brother dumb memes at 2am.

You didn’t expect much when you arrived—just polite greetings, awkward small talk, maybe a few inside jokes that would go over your head. But when Jeongin opened the door…

Your heart did that stupid thing again.

He looked tired but beautiful, hoodie sleeves pushed up, the kind of soft glow that came from being around people he trusted. He looked mature now—fame-polished, confident, sharper around the edges—but you still saw glimpses of the boy who used to chase your brother through your backyard, who used to steal popsicles from your freezer and grin like he won the lottery.

“Hey,” he smiled, eyes flickering over your face for a second too long. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

“My brother dragged me,” you said lightly.

Jeongin tilted his head, still holding the door open. “Good. I’m glad you’re here.”

The dinner was casual, cozy. Laughter echoed through the apartment, plates clinked, and stories flowed like old times. But something about the way Jeongin kept glancing at you when your brother wasn’t looking—when he refilled your drink before anyone else’s, when your knees accidentally touched under the table and he didn’t move away—it felt like you weren’t imagining it anymore.

It wasn’t until later—when everyone was a little too full and a little too tipsy and began playing loud music—that you slipped away to find some quiet. 

The bathroom was unlocked, thankfully, and you slipped in, locking the door behind you. Only to turn around and freeze.

“Oh?” you exhaled.

Jeongin stood leaning against the counter, arms crossed, he was startled to see you too.

You nodded, suddenly too aware of the small space, the way the air felt heavier between you two. You both stood there in silence, not quite looking at each other. You should leave, your mind said. Step out, apologise, pretend this didn’t feel like something.

But for some reason… you stayed.

His gaze flicked to you, then away. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just… needed a break from all the noise,” you said softly. “Didn’t think I’d find you here too.”

He gave a half-smile. “Yeah, well. Guess we’re still in sync.” Then he shifted. “I didn’t think you’d actually come tonight.”

You shrugged, trying to ignore the way your hands felt clammy. “Yeah, well. My brother can be pretty persuasive.”

Jeongin smiled, then glanced down, almost bashful. For a second, he looked like the boy you remembered—the one who got flustered when you caught him singing in your garage.

You stepped back, “I’ll find somewhere else—”

You were about to step toward the door when he suddenly reached out and caught your wrist.

“Wait.”

You turned, startled by the contact. His hand was warm around your wrist, gentle but firm enough to make you pause.

His voice was quiet. Earnest. “How long are we gonna pretend we’re not dying to be with each other?”

Your stomach flipped.

You looked away, jaw tight. “My brother would never agree.”

He chuckled—soft, humorless. “Your brother doesn’t get to decide who I want.”

“Innie,” you warned.

He locked the door behind him.

“Innie?” he echoed, teasing. “You haven’t called me that in a while.”

You froze. “Jeongin—”

“I know. Your brother would kill me.” His voice was lower now, almost a whisper. “But it’s driving me insane, pretending I don’t feel something every time you walk into a room.”

He stepped in. Close. Too close.

“I thought I was imagining it,” he said, finally looking at you. “But the way you look at me sometimes... it doesn’t feel one-sided.”

“It’s not,” you whispered.

“Don’t tempt me,” he said, voice rough.

He pinned you to the counter so easily you couldn’t think straight.

He stepped even more closer before saying quietly. “If I kissed you right now, would you push me away?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you closed the space between you, barely a breath apart. And whispered, “I should.”

“But you won’t,” he said, voice hoarse.

“No,” you breathed, “I won’t.”

And then he kissed you—soft, hesitant at first, like he knew the line he was crossing. But when your fingers curled into his hoodie and he pulled you closer, you both forgot everything but the feeling of finally, finally not pretending.

----------------

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[street-smarts00]

Wish You Were Sober

Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Summary: The four times you confessed to Spencer while drunk, and the one time you did it sober

WC: 8.0 k

Tags/warnings: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, lot’s of mention of alcohol consumption, regretting things said while drunk, drunk flirty reader, reader is emotionally constipated and doesn’t want to feel her feelings at first

A/N: chat I’ve been sitting on this for MONTHS it’s been marinating in my google docs for a while so hope you enjoy! I lowkey picture this happening in earlier seasons Spence but picture whatever you like ;) Beta read by the lovely @whats-yesterday00

The first time it happened, your feelings were just starting to peek through the surface. 

You tried your hardest to shove them back down. Trying to convince yourself that developing the beginnings of a crush was absolutely not happening. But the alcohol opened the door you tried to close.

The whole team went out for drinks on a friday night. After multiple shots with Derek and JJ, plus the drinks you had before that, you were feeling quite a buzz. A buzz that always left you more flirty and courageous than normal. 

You were busy dancing amongst the crowd with Penelope and JJ. The music was flowing through you all as it blasted throughout the bar. The movement and crowd caused the temperature to rise exponentially. 

You wiped the sweat forming on your forehead and paused your dancing. 

“What’s wrong?” JJ asked. 

“I’m melting,” you answered, fanning yourself. “I gotta go sit down.” 

Penelope blew you a kiss and said, “be back soon!” as you made your way to the table. You of course blew a kiss back to her. 

After weaving through the mass of people, you approached the table housing the rest of your coworkers with a heavy sigh. 

“You done partying already, pretty girl?” Derek teased. 

“No, not yet. I just need a breather. It feels like 1000 degrees right now.” You sat down across from him and next to Spencer. 

Derek’s attention was pulled towards someone behind you. A smirk grew on his face, “Oh Reid look, it’s that girl from earlier she’s back.” 

Spencer’s face flushed at Derek’s remark. 

“What girl?” you asked intrigued. You hated the taste that question left in your mouth. 

“It’s nothing,” Spencer tried to brush off before Derek interrupted. 

“She was flirting with him when he went up to the bar.” 

“She was not!” Spencer squeaked. 

Derek chuckled, “oh yes she was,” his eyes turned back to you. “She was definitely into him. And judging by the fact that she keeps looking over here, I think she wants to talk to him again.”

Spencer hid his face in his hands and quietly groaned.

“Why don’t you go over there? Go talk to her,” you encouraged while silently hoping he doesn’t leave the table.

Spencer lifted his face from his hands. His face was scarlet now. 

“I can’t.” 

“Why not?” 

Spencer opened his mouth to say something, but cut himself off. He saw your eyes staring back at him and felt his palms getting sweaty. He swallowed and stuttered on his words. “Because I wouldn’t know what to say. I can’t flirt.” 

Derek leaned back in his chair, dissatisfied with his answer. “That’s bull.” 

“It’s not bull.” That was probably the closest you came to hearing Spencer curse. “I’d probably make a fool of myself and say something stupid.” 

“Spencer, you say a lot of things,” this earned a chuckle from Derek across the table, “But I don’t think you could ever say something stupid.” 

Spencer tried to resist the smile spreading on his face from your compliment. 

“Still doesn’t change the fact that once I open my mouth, she’ll lose all interest in me.” 

A small pout appeared on your lips. “Well, I don’t see how a girl wouldn’t find you endearing.” 

“Really?” He didn’t believe you. 

“Yes! I thought you were so cute when I first met you,” your eyes brightened. “The day we met, I remember you were rambling about something and I just sat there amazed.” 

He swallowed as his ears turned crimson. “You thought I was cute?” his voice cracked at the end of his question.

“Sweetie, I think you’re more than cute,” your voice lowered as you locked eyes with him. 

“Morgan calls you pretty boy for a reason,” you continued with a mischievous glint in your eyes. 

Spencer’s heart damn near stopped. He knew your playful demeanor was from the amount of drinks you’d consumed, but still seeing you so openly attracted to him was making him delirious. 

Morgan, of course, found the whole interaction to be the most intriguing thing he’d seen all week. The growing amused smile on his face was telling enough. 

“Wow I think that girl from the bar has got some competition,” he teased. 

You shrugged in response to his comment. “Maybe,” was all you gave as your answer. You stood up from your chair with Spencer's eyes still beaming at you. 

“I’m gonna go dance some more,” you turned to the man next to you. “You wanna come with, pretty boy?”

Spencer struggled to get the words out for a few seconds. “I can’t. I don’t know how to dance.” 

You tried to hide the disappointment on your face but the gleam in your eyes had dimmed. 

“Maybe next time,” you replied before making your way back to the girls. 

Spencer watched you walk away and disappear into the crowd. He then received an extensive amount of teasing and questions as to why he didn’t say yes from Morgan for the next 20 minutes while you were gone. 

Over the weekend, the hangxiety set in. You layed in bed staring at the ceiling as the memories from Friday night flooded your mind. 

The anxiety followed into Monday as you stood in the elevator. The doors opened to the sixth floor and you reluctantly dragged yourself to the bullpen. 

Your hands tightened around your bag as you approached your desk. Spencer’s eyes lingered on you as you set your things down

“Morning,” he greeted with a small smile.  

“Morning,” you mumbled. 

You fidgeted with your hands and stepped closer to his desk. 

“Listen Spence, about Friday night… l’m sorry I was flirty with you.” 

His cheeks turned a dusty rose at the memory. “It’s alright.” 

This still didn’t ease your worries. “Are you sure?  The last thing I want is for you to feel uncomfortable around me. Especially because of something I did.”

His eyes softened when he noticed just how nervous you were. 

“I don’t, I promise,” he reassured. 

“So we’re okay?”

He nodded with a small smile and the weight started to lift off your shoulders. 

___________________________________________

The second time it happened was a few weeks later. 

It was Derek’s birthday. The whole team went out to dinner followed by a trip to the bar to keep the night going. 

Spencer stayed behind at the table, watching you order drinks and chat with Emily at the bar. He also tried to ignore the angry green feeling surfacing as the bartender flirted with you. 

“So, are you finally gonna dance with her tonight?” Derek asked the young man as he sat down beside him. 

Spencer sighed as he kept his eyes trained on you. “I don’t know.” 

His friend patted him on the back, “Come on man. Consider it my birthday present.” 

Spencer turned his attention to the man beside him. “I already got you a present.” 

“Kid,” Rossi interjected from farther down the table, “in my professional opinion, when a woman asks you to dance, you dance.” 

This brought out a smile from Hotch. 

“Even if you think you’ll look like a fool,” Rossi continued. 

“Like two weeks ago when that woman asked Morgan to dance,” Hotch teased, which brought out an annoyed expression from the man in question. 

“Hey! I was not that bad,” Derek defended. 

“You looked like a bird doing a mating dance,” Spencer now joined in. 

Derek looked appalled from the younger man’s joke. 

Soon after you approached the table with Emily. “What’s so funny?” You asked the table.

”Morgan's attempts to woo women,” Rossi joked. 

Emily took a sip from her drink and rolled her eyes playfully. “Oh where do I begin?” 

Derek stood up from the table shaking his head and smiling. “Well, I’m gonna go dance with people who appreciate my moves.” He then made his way to the open area where Penelope and JJ were. 

Back at the table, before you could sit down, the speakers of the bar started to play Maneater by Nelly Furtado. You gasped and a bright smile filled your features. 

“I love this song!” You squealed. 

You set your half consumed drink down on the table and looked at Spencer, “Do you want to go dance?” 

He looked at you surprised. “Me?” He squeaked. 

You giggled, finding his reaction cute, “Yes you!”

Spencer started closing in on himself. Before he could come up with the excuse he used last time you said, “I can teach you. It’ll be so much fun!” 

You were oblivious to the knowing looks from your other team mates at the table. Your focus was only on Spencer. Staring deep into his golden eyes and finding nothing but comfort. 

“Okay,” he agreed with a small smile. 

You beamed with excitement, “Yay! Let’s go.” You offered your hand to him. He took it and found you pulling him up from his chair and towards the dance floor. 

He followed you through the people in the crowd until you found an open space to settle. You held onto his hands as you swayed to the beat. 

Spencer tried to follow you but was still noticeably tense. He was also less focused on his dancing because he was too enamored by your movements. Watching you sway so effortlessly with the rhythm. 

“Look at you Spence! You’re getting the hang of it,” you praised. 

He appreciated the compliment but cringed, “I feel awkward.” 

“That’s not how dancing should feel. You should feel free and loose.” You let go of his hands and spun around.

A real smile spread on his lips, “I’m surprised you’re this coordinated with how many drinks you’ve had.” 

“Oh, I guess you missed when I almost stepped on you.” 

He chuckled, shaking his head, “I guess I didn’t.” 

The song ended and changed to Don’t Stop The Music by Rihanna. Your jaw dropped and your face filled with excitement. 

“You like this song?” he asked even though he already knew the answer. 

You grabbed his hands once more and grinned, “Yes!” You resumed dancing with his hands in yours. This time you were mouthing the lyrics of the song. 

I gotta get my body moving, shake the stress away you heard from the speakers and shook Spencer's hands. 

“You gotta shake the stress baby!” you cheered at him. 

He bashfully laughed watching you drunkenly shout. And hearing you call him baby, but that’s beside the point.

As the song played your hips and shoulders moved to the rhythm of the music. He wasn’t as successful as you when it came to swaying his hips but he could move his shoulders and copy you. 

Who knew that you’d be up in here lookin’ like you do?

You took a step back and gestured to him as the song said. Spencer shook his head and pulled on your hands to bring you back closer to him. 

Do you know what you started? I just came here to party

You took him pulling you back as a way to sneak your arms around his neck. 

But now we're rockin’ on the dance floor actin’ naughty 

Spencer’s cheeks started to turn red at the closeness. 

Your hands around my waist, just let the music play

You retracted your hands to grab his and place them on your waist. 

We’re hand in hand, chest to chest, and now we’re face to face 

By the time your arms returned wrapped around his neck, his ears were crimson. With your arms around him your shirt raised slightly. His hands met the gap of your skin that was exposed. 

Even though he felt like his insides were going to melt, he kept his hands on you and kept dancing. Spencer followed the steps you took, the way you moved back and forth. He was finally starting to let the music flow through him. 

You definitely took notice. It only made you more eager to dance with him. 

As the song continued into the next verse you grew more confident. 

Don’t you feel the passion ready to explode? 

Your hands moved to his shoulders. You moved in closer, and with a playful smirk sang along the words so Spencer could hear. 

What goes on between us, no one has to know

Just when Spencer thought the fluttering in his stomach couldn’t get worse, you leaned in close to his ear and whispered the next lyric.

This is a private show

The air between you was magnetic. It felt like you were in your own little world. Like the rest of the bar goers were gone. Suddenly, it was just you two on that dance floor. 

Spencer’s face was inches away from yours. You were so close you could count the freckles on his pink cheeks. 

“You look so cute, all flustered,” you muttered. 

He licked his lips nervously, “I’m not used to dancing like this with someone.” 

“Are you having fun at least?” 

“Yes,” he answered instantly. 

“Well then, we should do this more often,” you offered with a sweet smile. 

As the song came to an end you leaned up and left a kiss on Spencer’s cheek. You took a step back to fully look at him. His eyes slightly widened and his lips parted from your peck on his cheek. 

“I love dancing with you,” you released your hold on his shoulders. The ghost of your touch was still hot on his skin. “Hopefully we can do this again.” 

His eyes shined as he looked at you, “I’d like that.” 

________________________________________

The third time it happened, Spencer got a phone call at 12:04 am. 

He was resting on his couch, nose deep in a book, when he heard his phone buzz. He breathed a sigh of relief at the caller ID revealing it to be you instead of Hotch with a new case. 

When he answered, he heard loud music and faint voices in the back. 

“Hello?” 

You quickly answered back, “Spencer! I didn’t wake you, did I?” Your voice had a higher pitch than normal. 

“No, I was just reading. What’s up?” 

“I went out to a bar for girls night but…I had one too many drinks,” you whined. 

He sat up straighter, “are you alright?” 

There was a pause before you spoke again. “The room is spinning. I’m really dizzy and everything is overwhelming,” you mumbled. Hearing you sound so scared and small made his heart hurt. 

“I didn’t want to bother the girls because they’re having so much fun and none of them can drive right now.” 

Before you could finish your statement, he was already standing up and walking to find his shoes and jacket. 

“Do you want me to pick you up?” He knew the answer. 

“Please. Can you?” you begged. 

Spencer was grabbing his keys and out the door in a heartbeat. “Of course, I’m on my way.”

Ten minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot. He walked inside and looked around the crowded room. A few meters away, a hand rose from a booth and waved him over. 

He followed it and found Emily, JJ and Penelope keeping you company at the booth. You rested your head in your arms, which were folded on the table. 

JJ carefully tapped your arm, “hey, your ride is here.” 

You slowly lifted your head up and beamed at the sight of him. 

“Hi.”

“Hi,” he said softly. 

“They found me,” you said pointing to your friends. “They said they would babysit me until you showed up.” 

He chuckled and lightly rubbed your shoulder, “You okay? You think you can walk to the car?” 

You nodded and slowly stood up. 

“Text one of us when you get home safe,” Penelope announced. 

You gave a lazy thumbs up in her direction and turned to Spencer, “Can you remind me to do that?” 

The corners of his mouth turned up in amusement. “Of course. Come on, let's get you home,” he nodded towards the door. 

You waved and said goodbye to the girls before Spencer led you through the crowd with his hand in yours. You grasped his hand like it was an anchor in the over-stimulating environment. 

When you stepped outside, the cool breeze caused goosebumps to rise on your skin. The fresh air and dulled sounds were already starting to help you feel better. 

Unfortunately, your balance was still screwed and you managed to trip over air. Before you could fall to the ground, Spencer swiftly reached out and caught you. He helped you stand back up and wrapped an arm around your shoulder. 

“I got you, you’re okay,” he muttered close to your ears. 

Him being so sweet was going to make your stomach twist. 

The rest of the walk to the car he kept his arm around you. Your body instinctively leaned into him and used his frame to keep you upright. 

When you reached his car, he opened the passenger door and let go of his hold on you. You almost whined at the loss of contact. 

“Thanks for coming to get me,” you spoke quietly as he helped guide you into the car.  

Before he closed the door and headed to the driver's seat he offered a kind, “You’re welcome.” 

The beginning of the car ride was quite aside from the hushed music on the radio. You leaned back, slouching in the car seat. 

You watched Spencer’s hands on the wheel instead of the rapidly changing view of the windshield. Your fuzzy mind was trying to focus on anything that wasn't the dizzy spinning feeling that couldn't go away. 

Of course your thoughts were jumbled with images of the man next to you. 

“You’re so nice,” you said with a fond look. 

He looked at you with brief confusion over your random declaration. “Thanks,” he returned his eyes to the road. 

You shuffled in your seat to face him. 

“No you’re really nice,” you huffed, frustrated he somehow didn’t understand the full scope of what your drunk brain meant. “You’re so kind and sweet to everyone. I love it.” 

An amused smile grew on his face. “I try to be,” he returned.  

“You are.” 

He quickly glanced over to see your figure leaning against the seat. Or more like the seat holding you up. Your eyes occasionally felt heavy, leading to your eyelids fluttering every so often. 

“You look half asleep,” he teased. 

“I feel half asleep.” 

“Then why are you so chatty all of a sudden?” 

You shrugged, “I don’t know, just feel like talking.” 

You forced your eyes open to get a better look at him. “I like talking with you.” 

Spencer tried not to think about how your voice was much more soft and melodious than normal. 

“I like talking with you too,” he affirmed. 

He suddenly went down a mental rabbit hole of your previous conversations with him. How often you conversed over coffee early in the morning. All those plane rides home where you both had to stifle your laughter so as to not bother the others. Or the dozens of times he rambled to you about endless topics. 

“I’m surprised I haven't bored you yet with how much I talk.” 

“Oh sweetie, I could never get bored of you.” 

His ears started to turn red at the flirtatious tone in your voice. 

“I could listen to you talk for hours. Even about things I don’t understand. I’ll always listen to you,” you continued.

“Really?” He muttered with a slight voice crack. His heart rate was steadily growing. 

“Uh huh,” you confirmed sweetly. 

His eyes darted to yours for a fleeting moment. You looked completely and utterly enraptured by him. 

“Your voice sounds like honey.”

Spencer's grip on the steering wheel tightened. He kept his gaze trained on the road ahead. 

“We’re almost at your apartment,” he deflected. 

Your smile fell slightly. 

The air in the car was growing stale by the seconds. Neither of you spoke until he pulled up to your building. 

As you reached for the door handle, he whispered for you to “wait one second.” You complied. He got out of the car and walked to your side. He opened the passenger door and held out a hand for you. 

“What a gentleman,” you said with a smug grin. 

He chuckled and made sure you didn’t stumble as you stepped out of the car. 

“I try,” he replied. 

“You succeed.” 

As you walked together to your apartment, neither of you let go of the other's hand. At your door, you fumbled with your keys. Spencer tried to offer to open the door himself but you shooed away his hand and mumbled, “I got it, I got it.” 

After fighting with the lock, you stepped inside and practically threw your bag on the couch. You were seconds away from falling on the couch yourself before Spencer calmly grabbed your shoulders. 

“Come on, let's get you to bed.” 

You whined but didn’t object. He guided you down the hall to your room. In the dark, he reached for your lamp and turned it on. You plopped down on your bed and yawned. 

“Where are your makeup wipes?” He asked, looking around the room.

You pointed towards the dresser, “In the top left drawer.” He followed your directions and returned to your bed, handing the pack to you. 

“See I told you. You’re so nice,” you complimented while lazily cleaning your hours old makeup off. 

“Why because I got you your makeup wipes?” He joked with a playful tone. 

You giggled in response. The sound made Spencer feel like he was the intoxicated one. He would never get used to the way you laughed. 

“No silly, not just that. The fact that you’re still here.”

You tried and failed at getting your lipstick and eyeliner off. Instead you smeared the deep colors around your face. 

Spencer’s lips formed a thin line, trying not to smile at you smearing your makeup. He grabbed a fresh wipe and kneeled down in front of you. “Here let me help,” he mumbled. With careful hands, he pressed the damp wipe to your face to finish the job. 

“Of course I was going to stay with you,” he acknowledged your previous comment. “I’m not going to just drop you off. I wanted to make sure you were safe and feeling okay.” 

You tried not to smile because his hand was so close to your mouth. Your brain was going to short circuit at the closeness. His face mere inches away. His hand and the skin of your face are only separated by a tiny piece of cloth. 

You watched intently as he used his thumb to wipe off the last bit of lipstick. His movements were desperately slow as he handled you with care. Like you were a fragile statue he couldn’t let break. 

The action made your chest tighten and your heart race. If you had consumed another drink or two back at the bar, you would’ve jumped at the chance to kiss him. 

But instead, you stared deeply into his eyes as he checked your face for any more makeup residue. His pupils were wide. You assumed it was from the dim lighting of the room. 

You may not have been drunk enough to kiss him, but you were drunk enough to joke about it. 

“What if I just kissed you right now?”

His eyes widened and his lips parted in shock. “What has gotten into you?” he questioned in a lighthearted tone. 

“What? it’s not just me! You’re also staring at my lips!” you put your hands up in defense with a mischievous grin. “Just say you wanna kiss me.” 

He chuckled at your antics. “Because I’m taking off your makeup. And what about you staring at my eyes?” 

A grin spread on your face. “I can’t help it. They’re beautiful. Nice to look at.” 

“They’re not that nice.” 

“I beg to differ gorgeous,” you returned with a wink. “I could look at them all day.” 

Spencer smiled as his cheeks turned pink. He looked between your eyes and your lips before his expression faltered for a moment. Like he was mentally stuck on something. 

However, because of your dizzy mind and vision, you didn’t pick up on it. 

He stood back up and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You think you’ll be okay?” 

You nodded, “Yeah. Thanks again for … everything.” 

“You’re welcome.” He started walking towards your bedroom door but before he left the room, he paused. “Don’t forget to let the girls know you got home safe.” 

Your jaw went slack and a hand flew to your forehead, “oh my god you’re right.” 

He fought back a grin from your reaction. “Goodnight,” he offered before he left. 

You waved and said goodnight as his frame left your bedroom. The sound of the front door shutting soon followed. 

Before you passed out for the night you texted penelope you got home safe. But you didn’t see her reply until the morning. 

Penelope: yay! 

Penelope: hope you feel better my sweets <3

Thanks :) I have a raging migraine so I better feel better soon 

Penelope: :(

Penelope: oh btw, how’d it go with boy genius???

Ugh 

I flirted with him AGAIN 

Penelope: you’re kidding! 

Penelope: What did you say?

I can’t remember all of it but at some point I said his voice sounds like honey 

Penelope: OMG

Oh no it gets worse

He helped me take off my makeup and I said I wanted to kiss him. And THEN I pointed out how he stared at my lips and I said “just say you wanna kiss me” 

Penelope: oh girlie

Penelope: I think you have to throw in the towel 

Penelope: you love him

You stared at the words on the screen before your hands could even type a reply. Mentally fighting with yourself about the subject. 

No way

I can’t be in love with him

He’s my friend I can’t do that 

Penelope: I don’t think you have much of a choice  

You sighed and turned off your phone. As you reached for the aspirin bottle, you prayed you wouldn’t do something stupid like this ever again 

You were wrong. 

______________________________________

By the fourth time it happened, almost a month had passed since you asked him to pick you up. 

To celebrate the success of a case, his coworkers and friends wanted to go out for some down time. He thanked them for the invitation but kindly rejected it saying he had previous plans to attend some film festival. In reality, he had been on the fence about attending the film festival and ended up spending the evening at home. 

As much as he wanted an excuse to spend time with you, he couldn’t go through another evening of you flirting with him. 

Normally, it’d be his dream to have you flirt with him and call him sweet names. To hear how much you liked his voice, his eyes, and the way his brilliant mind worked. But the more it occurred, the more confused he felt.

At first, he assumed you were just a flirtatious drunk and there was no meaning behind your advances. But as time went on, he saw your actions and affectionate words had so much desire, so much longing that he started to suspect they were based on real feelings. 

Yet, it was only reserved for the version of you that had multiple drinks running through your system. 

He’d almost given up on asking you how you felt. Almost. 

Something that gave him a glimmer of hope was a voicemail he received. 

In an effort to actually get some sleep, he took a late night shower. When he returned to his bedroom, he found his cell phone had received a voicemail. He checked and saw he missed a call from the very person he was anxiously avoiding. 

With new clean pajamas on, he grabbed his phone and sat down on his bed ready for the possible plea for him to pick you up. He clicked the message and lifted the phone to his ear. 

“Hi Spence! I wanted to talk but it looks like you’re busy,” your voice sounded sweet and bubbly. He deduced you might have already gone home at this point given the fact that this time there was no loud background music or voices.

“I missed you tonight. I wish you came with us. I know that isn’t always your favorite place to be, but I still kinda had hope. I love spending time with you. I don’t care if it’s at work or off the clock, it makes me so happy to see you.”

His heart felt warm from the way you talked about him. Your voice sounded giddy and occasionally you would slur your words. 

“It’s kinda silly but when we don’t have work or plans, I will literally count down the days until I get to see you again. Isn’t that silly? I spend like five or six days of my week with you and when I don’t see you, I’m thinking about when I’ll see you again.” 

Spencer found familiarity in what you were saying. For the last few weeks he found his thoughts were constantly revolving back to you. Whether intentionally or not. 

“I pretty much think about you all the time. It’s becoming a bit of a problem. I don’t mean you’re a problem! The problem is how much I like you. I’ve never liked someone as much as I like you.”

There was a brief pause in your message. He almost thought the voicemail was over until your voice returned softer than before. 

“I’m probably falling in love with you.” 

“And that’s really scary to think about because I don’t think I’ve ever been in love before. You’re different Spence, when I’m around you I feel-“ 

You were cut off by the time limit of the voicemail. Spencer stared at his phone screen with wide eyes. His heart was beating so fast it could’ve jumped out of his chest. 

He finally got an answer to the question that plagued his mind. You loved him back. 

You loved him. 

His whole body was filled with adrenaline. He almost grabbed his keys and drove over to you at that moment. But he knew he had to wait. He couldn’t have this conversation with you while you were still intoxicated and would probably fall asleep by the time he got there. 

Spencer on the other hand, could barely sleep. He was too busy on cloud 9 to come back down and let sleep overtake him. 

The next morning he was practically buzzing with excitement. He got up earlier than normal for work so he could stop by your apartment. 

He nervously knocked on your door. He kept fidgeting by fixing his tie and cardigan while he waited for you. 

When you did open the door he saw you were still in the process of getting ready. You had on dress pants and an old college t-shirt. 

You looked surprised to see him of course since he didn’t announce he was going to come over. “Spencer? What are you doing here?”

Suspicion started to creep its way into his mind. For now he ignored it and pushed on. 

“I thought we could commute to work together. I figured you would be hungover and not in the best mood to drive.” 

Your eyebrows raised and lips turned up. “That is so sweet of you,” you beamed. You opened the door wider, suggesting he was welcome. He followed and walked inside your apartment

“You’re absolutely right by the way. I feel like shit,” you groaned. “My head is killing me, I’m exhausted and I have this massive bruise on my leg.” You waved your hand over your right thigh indicating where the injury was. 

“I have no clue how I got it. I probably fell but I'm not sure. Most of last night is fuzzy, I barely even remember how I got home,” you joked with a chuckle.

The suspicion Spencer felt turned into a pit in his stomach. With furrowed brows he asked the million dollar question. “Do you remember calling me last night?”

You stared at the ground as you tried to shuffle through the vague images of the night before. “No I don’t. What did we talk about?” you asked innocently. 

His grip on the strap of his satchel tightened. “We didn’t. Talk. I couldn’t pick up the phone and didn’t realize you had called me until this morning. That’s why I wanted to stop by. To make sure you were okay.” He topped off his lie with a flat smile. 

”Thanks for checking up on me,” you sweetly replied, not yet aware of the internal mess he was experiencing. 

“It’s no problem,” his voice almost cracked.

“I need to finish getting dressed and brush my teeth but I’ll be ready to leave in like five minutes.” You speed walked back to your bedroom. 

It wasn’t until he heard the door close that he finally let the storm of emotions rip through him. His chest was getting tighter by the second. It felt like he was suffocating. 

You don’t remember. 

You told him you loved him and you don’t remember it at all. The best news he’d heard in months was a blip in your memory. Was late night drunk babbling. 

He felt so foolish. So stupid for thinking you might really reciprocate his feelings. 

One part of himself that was still holding onto hope tried to remember that “drunk words are sober thoughts.” But that’s not always true. 

He knew studies have shown intoxication can lead to someone misinterpreting their own thoughts or feelings. Leading to them impulsively expressing things that they don’t really believe. 

Unfortunately, the factual and heartbroken part of his brain was overwhelming compared to the sliver of hope he had left. 

“Alright, I’m good to go,” you snuck back into the living room. Your voice brought him back to the present. 

You grabbed your purse off the couch and walked towards the front door. As you put on your jacket you noticed the sudden change in Spencer’s demeanor. 

“Spence, you okay?”

”Yeah, I’m fine,” he nodded and answered with a light voice. But you could see right through it. His eyes gave it away. They looked so full of hurt. 

”Spencer-“

”I promise, I’m fine,” he interrupted. He offered you a fake smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He walked to your door and tightly held his bag. “We should go before we hit traffic.” 

You observed him for a few seconds longer than he liked. The profiler side of you wanted to pry but you knew it was a bad idea to push your friend. 

The drive to work was agonizingly quiet. It was odd for you two to barely speak when in close quarters. Instead, you both let the tension hang in the air, ignored and untouched. 

Spencer sat with his feelings for most of the drive. He didn’t want to be hopeful anymore. He didn’t want to be confused if it was real anymore. At this point, he just wanted to give up. 

Now, he’d have to keep a tight lid on his feelings for you. Leave it to fester and wear away at his heart. 

Like that would do any good though. He couldn’t stop loving you no matter how hard he tried. 

____________________________________

The following days felt like a dream to you. But not in a good way. 

It felt like one of those dreams where you know something is off, but can’t tell what it is. 

Spencer had been closed off ever since he picked you up for work. You couldn't wrap your head around why. He seemed so happy and eager when he arrived at your apartment that morning. 

That was the last time you saw him act normal around you. Now there was an underlying bitterness in the words he spoke. Everytime you tried to ask him if he was okay, whatever excuse he gave you left a sour taste in his mouth. 

You weren’t the only one to notice either. Everyone could sense the air go stale when you entered a room he was in. How his eyes no longer lingered on you. Or how it almost pained him to even look at you. 

His sudden change in behavior was starting to drive you insane. You were overthinking and overanalyzing every single interaction you had with him, leading up to that day in your apartment. Every move you made around him was calculated. You were terrified one wrong word or move would make him hate you. 

“He hates me.” 

“He doesn’t hate you,” Penelope swung around in her chair to face you. “I think it’s impossible for him to hate you.” 

You shook your head, “but still he won’t talk to me Pen. He’s always been so open with me and the last few days he’s been shutting me out. He hasn’t been weird around you guys at all.” 

She twirled a sparkly purple pen in her hands as she watched you sulk. “You said it started on Thursday last week?” 

“Yeah, the day after our last case.” 

Penelope sat back in her chair thinking. “Do you think the case bothered him? Could that be why he went home instead of going out with us?” 

“No, I don't think so. The next morning when he showed up at my apartment he was in a good mood. A great mood even,” you folded your arms in frustration. “But when I left the room and came back he looked like a sad puppy.” 

Penelope tapped her pen against her chin. “Why was he at your apartment before work?” 

“Apparently, I called him the night before but he didn’t pick up so he stopped by to check up on me and assumed I’d be hungover.” 

“Awe, that’s sweet,” she cooed before her confusion crossed her features. “Wait, you apparently called him? You’re not sure?” 

You cringed as you explained, “I don’t remember calling him. I was really drunk.” 

She tried to hide the amusement on her face but failed. “Why did you call him?” 

You stared at the floor trying to piece together what happened after you got home that night. “I remember missing him. I wanted to talk to him, but I’m not sure what about.” 

“It’d pay good money to hear whatever voicemail you must’ve left him,” she chuckled with a cheeky grin. 

“Right!” You started to chuckle with her until vague memories of talking on the phone came to light. Your face fell as your drunk declarations were pulled out of your long term memory. 

“Oh god,” you said barely above a whisper. 

Penelope filled with concern, “sweetie what’s wrong?” 

“I did leave him a voicemail. He must have listened to it while I was changing,” your eyes widened and anxiety started flowing through your veins. 

Before she could ask what you said in the message, you interrupted. “I have to go,” you alerted as you remembered Spencer already left the office. “I’ll text you later!” 

You practically ran back to the bullpen to grab your things and tell Hotch you were leaving for the night. 

The car ride to his apartment was agonizing. You gripped the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles turned white.

This was all your fault. He couldn’t stand to be around you and talk to you anymore because you drunkenly told him you loved him. 

You ruined your friendship. 

The least you could do was go to his apartment to try to make things right. Try to fix whatever you have broken. 

You couldn’t lose him. Not Spencer. Not the first man you ever actually truly wholeheartedly loved. Even if he didn’t love you back the same way. You’d rather live with the soul crushing pain of unrequited feelings, than lose one of the most important people in your life. 

The walk to his apartment was even worse than the drive to his building. With every step you took, your heart grew heavier. By the time you weakly knocked on his door, your eyes had started to water. 

When Spencer opened the door, his face fell with concern. 

“I remember,” you whispered before he could ask what was wrong. 

A look of realization dawned on him. He stepped to the side and opened the door wider, “come in.” 

You followed and stood awkwardly in his living room. You’d been here hundreds of times before. But now it feels different. Even though you were welcomed inside it still felt like he was miles away. 

“Spencer, I am so sorry.” 

“For what?” He already knows what you’re talking about, you can see it in his eyes. 

“The voicemail.” 

He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You’re sorry for sending it?”

“Yes, no!” you stuttered fidgeting with your rings. “I meant what I said. Every bit of it. I just uh- I wish I had told you all of that when I was sober. Maybe I could’ve phrased it better. Not come off so strong.” 

“Why didn’t you?” he inquired, a hint of desperation in his voice.

He took a single step closer to you. “You could’ve told me.” 

Your eyebrows furrowed at him, “wait, you’re not mad about what I said?” 

He mirrored your confusion, “what do you mean?” 

“All week you’ve been acting weird. I thought you were mad or uncomfortable with me because I said I love you.”

Spencer raised his hand to his face as he realized. “I would never be mad at you for that.” His voice raised slightly in frustration, almost a wine, as he continued, “I was upset because by the time you sobered up, you forgot about it.” 

“Oh,” you whispered —if you could even call it that— under your breath. 

He lied. He listened to the message before he showed up, was going to ask about it, and you forgot like an idiot. 

“You only flirt with me or show interest in me when you're drunk. I couldn’t tell what was real or not,” his expression showed more pain as he spoke.

“Spencer, I promise I really do have feelings for you.”

His lips formed a flat line as he stared back at you. “Then why did you only show it when you were drunk?”

“Because I was scared!” your voice raised. You spoke with your hands as you got louder. “How do you tell your best friend you fell in love with them? You can’t! It just doesn't work. I thought I was going to lose you.”

“I’m in love with you.” 

You deadpanned at him, “Spencer, I’m being serious.” 

“So am I,” he said louder than you. 

The weight of his confession finally settled. Time stood still. The world stopped turning. The hands on the clock stopped ticking. 

His voice was quieter this time when he said it. He spoke in the gentlest tone you’d ever heard from him. Like the words dripped right from his arteries, carrying them away from his heart and to you. 

“I love you.” 

“You do?” 

You don’t know why you asked that. It seemed to be the only thing that could leave your mouth. How could you not believe him when he said those three words like that. Like it was his purpose. That he was put on this earth to love you and only you. 

The realization of what his confession meant started to dawn on you.

“That’s why you were at my apartment. So you could tell me. And I-“ 

You stared at the floor with wide guilty eyes and sat (more like fell) on his couch. The guilt started to creep into your blood. It started to crush your bones. 

“Oh I screwed up everything,” you buried your face in your hands. 

He sat down next to you, “no you didn’t.”

“Yes I did. You have every right to be mad at me.” 

”I'm not,” his hand landed on your back, his thumb slowly caressing you. 

You looked up at him, “really?”

“Yes.” 

You stared back at him, looking unconvinced. 

He surrendered and shrugged, “okay I was kind of crushed about it. But I know now that you really did mean it.” 

“I still hurt you,” you returned meekly. The tears started to return back to your eyes and you blinked them away. 

“I’m so sorry. What can I do to make it up to you?” 

His thumb stopped its movements on your back. With the same hand, he pushed back the hair that had fallen in your face. He looked into your eyes like he wanted to see all of you. See every little crack and crevice of your soul you tried to hide from him in fear of judgment, in fear of him running away. 

He could never run away from you. 

“Tell me everything you wished you could say when you were sober.” 

You sat up straighter and turned to fully face him. After taking a slow deep breath, you said what you’d wanted to say to him for months. 

No liquid courage. Just the pure, raw, unadulterated you. 

“Spencer, I’m in love with you. I couldn’t tell you when I was sober because I was afraid. I was in denial for so long. I tried to convince myself I wasn’t falling for you. And it’s not because I don’t want to have feelings for you. It’s the opposite. I love you so much it scares me.”

You started to play with your rings again. “I’ve never been in love before. I’ve never said it and been sure that I really meant it.”

“I mean it when I say it to you. I know I mean it because I want to spend as much time as I can with you. Doesn’t matter if it’s sitting quietly next to each other on the jet or dancing in a crowded bar. I know I mean it because I’d do anything for you. I’d listen to anything you want to ramble about. I’d drive you anywhere you wanted to go because I know you’re not the biggest fan of driving.” 

You swallowed down the lump you didn’t realize formed in your throat. 

“I always find myself crawling back to you when you’re not near.” 

It was only now you really noticed Spencer's expression. His eyes were soft and dilated so much there was barely any brown left in them. His waterline threatened to spill with tears. 

Before you could even dare to say anything else, he reached to the back of your neck and pulled you closer. His lips mixed with yours in a long awaited dance. 

The kiss wasn’t overwhelmed with passion. But also not too slow and careful. The only way you could describe it was perfect. 

It was perfect. 

He was perfect. 

Every aching moment of yearning and longing leading up to this. 

After kissing for what felt like forever —although you’re pretty sure you could kiss him for forever— you laid down on the couch with your head on his chest. Your arms wrapped tightly around him as if he could disappear at any moment. His one arm wrapped around your waist while the other was playing with your hair. 

“You can stay the night if you want,” he nonchalantly tried to offer without explicitly asking if you would stay over. 

“Do you think we’ll have time in the morning to stop by my apartment to get me fresh clothes?” 

“If not, you could borrow one of my sweaters.” 

You chuckled, “Imagine their faces when we show up to work together and with me very clearly wearing your clothes.” 

He smiled at the thought of you wearing his clothes to work. The image of you proudly showing off that he was yours. “Yeah I can imagine it.” 

[beloveds-embrace]

(poly 141 x reader with non-sexual dom john price bc i am a whore for him)

You’re not reckless; you are calculated.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself when you rush the objective, half expecting to get clipped, half hoping it might happen just hard enough to matter. A sharp enough consequence to justify the chaos rattling in your chest. A hit that would, for once, hurt more physically than mentally.

But it never happens, because you get out.

Again.

And when you stagger into the safehouse, vest half-shredded, blood caking your neck and a quiet look in your eyes that screams what the fuck is wrong with you, it’s not Gaz or Soap who calls you on it. It’s not even your Lieutenant.

It’s the Captain.

Price doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands near the back wall, arms crossed, eyes cold and unreadable under the brim of his cap. Everyone else talks; Ghost grunts, Soap slaps your back, and Gaz offers water.

Price watches.

Watches you. Watches how you brush them off. How your hand trembles when you take the water bottle. How you don’t really hear anything they’re saying.

And when you try to pass him without a word- head down, body bowed, heart dragging low in your chest- that’s when it happens.

And hand shoots out, and thick fingers wrap around the scruff of your collar, yanking you back with practiced ease. You stumble, off-balance, but he barely lets you flinch before he drags you down into the seat between his knees. Scruffed, like a misbehaving mutt.

It’s not gentle. It’s not rough, either. It’s deliberate. Like everything else John Price does.

“Try that again,” he murmurs low against your ear, “and I’ll make sure you don’t so much as breathe without checking in first.”

His hands settle heavy across your shoulders, just there. Like an anchor. Like a silent demand: Stay. Sit. Don’t move. You’re not going anywhere. Like he thinks if he lets go, you might unravel into the smoke of his cigars and drift out the window.

You stare forward, muscles coiled, but not fighting it because even if you wanted to, you can’t bring yourself to do it.

The rest of the room doesn’t react. Gaz’s back is to you, unbothered, watching Soap root through the medkit. Ghost flicks his eyes your way once, gives a small nod to Price, then moves on.

This is normal. Not just that, but also routine.

You are under Price’s hand now, and they all know better than to interfere when he’s decided someone is his problem to handle.

They’ve seen this before.

They’ve been there, in their own ways.

“You think you’re clever,” he says quietly, voice low enough only for you, “Rushing in like that. Like your body’s expendable. Like I wouldn’t notice.”

You say nothing.

“I told you,” he continues, the growl of his voice like a match striking dry wood. “I see you pulling this shit again, I make damn sure you won’t so much as take a piss without me signing off.”

He tightens his grip just enough to remind you: talk.

You want to tell him to fuck off. To let you go. To stop seeing through you like glass held up to sunlight, but you aren’t stupid enough to do that.

“I’m fine.” You mutter.

“Bullshit,” he replies instantly, and you can feel his glare. “You’re bleeding, you’re shaking, and you’ve looked like a ghost since the last op.”

You try to shrug him off, instead, and it is a big mistake.

The arm around you locks, and suddenly your back is pressed tight to his chair. His breath is hot by your ear, the scent of blood and gunpowder and cigars curling around you.

“You wanna play this game?” he snaps. “Where you pretend not to care what happens to you? Fine. But you’ll do it sitting right the fuck here until I’m satisfied you won’t drop dead the moment I blink. You run, and I’ll find you. You disappear, and I’ll tear up every goddamn city from here to the Urals until I get my hands on you again. You hear me?”

You clench your jaw. Try to keep it together. The ache behind your eyes threatens to spill over.

“I don’t need to,” he murmurs back. “I just need to keep you breathing.”

There’s silence for a while, after that. Your mouth feels stitched shut, and you feel no particular rush to tear it open and let your words spill out. Eventually, your shoulders drop. Your head tilts, ever so slightly, against his knee. The tension bleeds out of you slow, like sap from a broken tree.

Price doesn’t move, and doesn’t say anything more. He simply keeps you there, solid against him, and the others still don’t say anything.

they’re used to how he gets when someone forgets their worth.

[mocchiixxx]

The Anchor in His Storm

Choi Seungcheol (S.Coups) x Reader

Genre: Angst, Comfort, Fluff, Established Relationship

Summary: Seungcheol is exhausted. The members are exhausted. After a grueling week of nonstop schedules, they finally return to practice —only to be told another packed week is ahead. The weight of leadership crashes down on him, frustration simmering beneath his skin. No one can calm him down… except you. So when a desperate member calls you, your voice is all it takes to break through his walls.

Warnings: Mentions of exhaustion, overwork, emotional vulnerability, soft boyfriend Seungcheol being cared for

The practice room was unbearably silent.

Not because things were peaceful, but because exhaustion had stolen the members’ voices, their energy drained from the past week of relentless schedules.

Seungcheol stood in the center, fists clenched. His eyes swept over his members, his brothers, who were sitting on the floor, sweat dripping, chests heaving, bodies barely holding themselves up.

And yet, the company had just sent word: More practice. Another hectic week ahead. No breaks.

“Let’s run it again,” Seungcheol forced out, though his voice lacked its usual fire.

No one moved.

Joshua rubbed his face tiredly. “Bro… we can’t.”

Seungcheol exhaled sharply, his frustration simmering. “We have to. We don’t have a choice.”

Jeonghan, lying flat on the floor, opened one eye. “You mean you don’t have a choice. You’re forcing yourself to push through this, and we all know why.”

Silence.

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened. “I'm the leader. If I stop—”

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Jeonghan interrupted.

The words struck something deep in Seungcheol’s chest. But before he could respond, a voice suddenly cut through the tension—

“Hyung, I’m calling Y/N.”

Seungcheol’s head snapped up as Seokmin held up his phone, already ringing.

“Don’t—”

Too late.

The call connected, and your sleepy voice filled the room. “Huh? Seokmin? What’s going on?”

Seungcheol swallowed. He hadn’t spoken to you all day, hadn’t even had time to breathe properly and now, now, he was seconds away from breaking.

“Y/N?” Seokmin handed the phone to Seungcheol.

For a moment, he hesitated.

But the second he heard you softly call his name, “Cheol?” the dam inside him cracked.

His fingers curled around the phone, grip tightening. “Baby…” His voice wavered, his exhaustion evident.

“What’s wrong?” You asked, concern lacing your tone.

Seungcheol’s throat burned. He had held everything in for so long, had been strong for everyone, but hearing you, his safe place, shattered every wall he had built.

“They won’t let us rest,” he finally admitted, his voice raw. “We just finished a full week of schedules, and they want us to keep going. The guys are exhausted… and I—” His breath hitched. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

There was silence on the line. Then, you exhaled softly.

“Cheol,” you murmured, your voice a gentle balm to his frayed nerves. “You need to stop carrying this burden alone. Look at your members. They’re already giving their all for you. Now, let them take care of you, too.”

Seungcheol’s gaze flickered to the members, who were all watching him quietly.

Mingyu gave him a small nod. Jeonghan offered a lazy thumbs-up. Even Wonwoo, barely keeping his eyes open, muttered, “She’s right.”

Seungcheol closed his eyes, exhaling shakily.

You continued, “Baby, you’re human. You’re not invincible, and you don’t have to be.”

Something inside him broke. The weight on his shoulders, the exhaustion pressing against his ribs, all of it suddenly felt too much.

And for the first time in forever, Seungcheol let himself fall.

“I’m tired,” he whispered.

“I know,” you soothed. “So stop holding it in. Let them see that their leader is human, too.”

Seungcheol opened his eyes.

The members weren’t waiting for a command. They weren’t expecting him to be strong. They were just there, his family, standing beside him, ready to carry the weight together.

Slowly, Seungcheol exhaled.

“Let’s stop for today,” he finally said.

A collective sigh of relief filled the room. Seungcheol felt his own body relax as he sank onto the floor, resting his head against the wall.

Through the phone, you smiled. “Finish up and come straight to me.”

His breath hitched.

You lowered your voice, soft and warm. “I’ll make you feel better.”

Seungcheol shut his eyes for a moment, letting the comfort of your words settle deep in his bones.

“Yeah?” he murmured, the exhaustion in his voice now mixed with something lighter, something like hope.

“Yeah,” you promised. “Now get your ass here, leader-nim.”

For the first time in days, Seungcheol let out a real, genuine chuckle.

The members all exchanged looks, rolling their eyes. “Wow. That was fast,” Dino mumbled.

Jeonghan smirked. “And that, boys, is the power of love.”

Seungcheol ignored them, already grabbing his bag. “Alright, let’s clean up and leave.”

As the members moved sluggishly to gather their things, Seungcheol kept his phone close to his ear, (after giving back dk's phone, he asked you to call him instead so he can keep hearing your voice) listening to you talk about how you’d prepare his favorite meal, how you’d let him vent as much as he needed, how you’d hold him until he fell asleep.

And suddenly, for the first time in a long time, he felt like he could breathe again.

Because no matter how heavy the burden, he had you.

And that was enough.

A/N: Wrote this because sometimes, even the strongest leader needs someone to lean on. This is for the Carats who just know Seungcheol needs a hug (and a break). Hope you enjoy! ♡

[satoblue]

“TO BEG AND TO BARTER” — gojo satoru

satoru can’t help but be possessive over you even if the reason is rather silly, but why shouldn’t he? — when you belong to him? and it’s needless to say, his jealousy isn’t limited to humans either. | wc: 0.9k+

f!reader, established relationship, bickering and banter, satoru being dramatic (and jealous) as always, implied breeding at the end but all around fluff, mention of children, talks of becoming a furry, he’s not whiny the whole time (it’s just part of his master plan), a brief glimpse of cocky satoru. | heart divider by @/cafekitsune, swirl divider from pinterest + edited by me.

“satoru.”

“no.”

“i said i was sorry.”

“i don’t care!” his voice wobbles. “i-if you love him so much, just leave me for him!”

the words fly out of his mouth with all the confidence he could muster, but he regrets them as soon as they slip off his tongue.

“all i asked was to look at this picture. look, isn’t he cute?”, you coo, showing him your screen once more.

cute. CUTE?!

that seems to trigger satoru even more, and he whines, flopping onto the bed and kicking his feet back in the air like a child, punching the pillows as if they have wronged his whole bloodline.

“do you not care about me anymore — about us? is that why you’re doing this?”

the smack from your palm meeting your forehead is drowned out by his ceaseless tussle with the bedding.

“oh, please! you’re being ridiculous!”

“i am not!”

“yes, you are! satoru, i’m asking for us to get a cat! not to welcome someone into our bed!”

“i wouldn’t be surprised if you suggested that next…” he grumbles under his breath, momentarily pausing his tantrum in order to sass you.

“what was that?”

“nothing!”, he yelps.

you roll your eyes, growing tired of the conversation. it was a constant back and forth with him whenever you brought up the topic of getting a pet.

the both of you have the means to support one. the only problem is satoru. he didn’t want one. his reasoning is that, if you did, then he would have to share you, share your love and attention with another being — and he simply could not have that.

it was unacceptable, against the laws of (satoru’s) nature. your affection is meant for him and him only — it is his right as your husband.

sitting down on the edge of the bed, you huff, tossing the man-child a glance only to find him peeking up at you already with wide and pleading eyes, sniffling (though there was not a tear in sight) from behind the pillow covering half of his face.

“am i not enough for you?”, he speaks up quietly after the short-lived staring contest. at his self conscious words, your brows furrow, a frown on your lips.

“sator—” “you don’t need a cat if you have me! i can be your cat!”

oh?

“is that so?”

“yes. i’ll wear a fur suit and all. you can pet me whenever you feel the urge to. you always say my hair is super soft — like fur! i’ll make it even softer by using more conditioner if that’ll make you happy.”

“and, i wouldn’t mind being pampered some more...”, he adds on with a mumble, lips puckered into a kissy face as he reaches over and traces his pointer finger over the bare skin of your thigh in the shape of a heart.

as if he isn’t spoiled enough by you already.

“if anything, i deserve it!” he points his nose into the air.

you want to laugh out loud, but you manage to hold back, knowing if you did it would only offend your sensitive lover.

would satoru really resort to becoming a furry just to stop you? a part of you wants to see how far your husband would go for you — oh, wait, you already know. he never fails to show you everyday.

“that’s out of the question.” you reply quickly like it’s obvious.

“and why is that?”, he whines up at you.

“because, my darling husband, you are more akin to a puppy than a kitten.” you scratch his scalp. and just like magic, satoru leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut as he melts into the delicious feeling, and you swear you see a tad bit of drool pool at the corner of his lips.

“see?”, you tease.

“that proves nothing besides the fact i would be the perfect pet for you, my owner.”

you groan, and he relishes in the feeling that only he could rile you up so much like this.

satoru certainly has a way with words, and it is clear this is going no where, that is, until a thought pops into your head.

“and what if our future children want a cat?”

satoru pauses. that seems to capture his interest. he perks up, shuffling to sit. his demeanor shifts completely. gone is the pout which is replaced with his signature smirk.

“now you’re talking my language, sweetheart.”

“so that’s what makes you reconsider? a child in exchange for an animal?” your eyes widen in disbelief, tone exasperated, yet truly, not surprised. “was this your plan all along?”, you deadpan.

“maybe,” he flashes you a toothy grin, those blue eyes of his twinkling menacingly. though, it isn’t just any child, it is yours and his, a being created from your combined images — and he certainly doesn’t mind that. “but enough talking. we should get started on our kid if you want that cat of yours.”

there really is no way around this, is there? if there’s one thing about satoru, it is that he (and his stiffening cock) are just as persistent as you, annoyingly and endearingly so.

you sigh. “well, i must say, you drive a hard bargain, mr. gojo.”

with a pleased hum, he takes your wrist, pressing a soft kiss atop your dainty hand, a gentle smile creeping onto his lips, knowing he’s won this time.

“only when it comes to you, mrs. gojo.”

p.s. — you do indeed get your cat after this, and satoru gets his baby. a happy ending all around. the end : )

[i9messi]

Don't break up with me — Oscar Piastri

Because of a misunderstanding, Oscar thinks you want to break up with him. Signals made him suspect he was right, but in fact, you just want to surprise him with a new puppy.

word count — 1,3k

note: i promise you this is pure fluff and romantic stuff. oscar here loves reader soo much, so I hope you enjoy it!

MASTERLIST

Oscar started to think about the last half of the year. Everything in your relationship had been so wonderful in those last few months, almost too perfect to be real.

You went to support him to his races every weekend, had romantic dates in your favourite places, went to museums and book stores and enjoyed ordinary things such as going together to the market. You had a beautiful relationship, where you supported each other and talked about your concerns as well as your future. Having known each other since you were teens, you and Oscar had talked many times about what you wanted to do in the future: to get marry and start a family.

Your families were very close, his mother loved you and you loved her, even spent time with her when he was not around. Your side of the family adopted him as their son, showing love to him.

There was no way you would break up with him. It made no sense.

However, the signs were there. That morning before heading to the circuit he had called you and you interrupted him, saying you were busy. That would have made sense and it was fine, except then he talked later to his mom and she told him you had been texting her all morning. Why didn’t you want to talk to him?

It was bad. That couldn’t be happening.

“Oscaaaaaaaaaaarr.” Someone shouted and that made him come back to reality.

Lando was in front of him, while he was sitting on the couch. Oscar used to be the most calm in your relationship. He took things easy, used to think before taking action, but now thinking so much was turning him into a person full of insecurity.

“What's wrong?” Lando asked, realizing that his teammate was acting differently than usual.

“Nothing.”

“Is this about your girlfriend?”

Oscar didn't try to hide the truth, not with him. “I think she’s going to break up with me.”

Lando was silent for a moment, until he burst out laughing.

“Don’t laugh, I feel bad. I’m devastated.”

“She’s not gonna break up with you, mate.”

You didn’t live together yet, you hadn’t taken that step in your relationship yet, but you practically lived next to each other. Your apartments in Monaco were only a few meters away. Yesterday he had invited you on a date and you told him that you couldn’t go. Lately it was as if you didn't want to spend your time together, as if his mere presence was annoying to you.

“How are you so sure?”

“Because you're the perfect couple. You love each other, you show the world how adorable you are, and then make everyone else feel miserable.”

“I don’t think that’s true anymore, Lando.”

“Go talk to her, then. Crying and feeling bad about it won’t solve a thing. Go and win back your lady.”

Oscar listened to his teammate, knew he couldn’t waste time or the opportunity to talk with you. He found you just a few minutes later and you hugged him, while he left a kiss on your forehead.

“Baby, I missed you.”

“I missed you too, Oscar. Congratulations for the race, I'm very proud of you.”

That had to mean something, didn’t it? If you hadn’t missed him and if you didn’t want him more in your life, you wouldn’t have answered that. Oscar was trying to convince himself that he still had a chance with you.

“Let’s go to my house.” he suggested, as you raised your head and looked at him with a face that showed no feelings.

“We better go to mine. We need to talk.”

Damn. You were going to break up with him. You never spoke like that, you had never said those words before.

On the way to your apartment in Monaco, he drove quietly. Oscar noticed you were nervous. You ran your hand through your hair and barely spoke. You were acting strange. He was increasingly convinced that once you arrived at your home, you would tell him that you wanted to break up with him.

The road was eternal and the worst of the worst. You arrived and stayed in the living room.

“Would you like some water?”

“Yes, please.”

You went to the kitchen to get a glass of water and came back a few seconds later. He drank the water in a single instant, too thirsty and nervous.

“Is something wrong, Oscar?”

“Do you want to break up with me?”

You stayed silent, until Oscar spoke again. His eyes were shining, his hair was messy from all the times he had passed his hands over it.

“Don’t break up with me, please. I don’t know what I would do without you in my life, you're my everything. I love you, that’s all I know. If I did something wrong just tell me, I'll try my best to not make the same mistake again."

“Oscar, baby…”

He hesitated, but he walked a step closer to you. Oscar was trying to not lose his mind.

“We can’t break up."

His supplicant gaze begged you not to leave him, not when he needed you so much.

“I love you and my life would be shattered without you.”

And something happened. You smiled.

“Oscar, I’m not breaking up with you. I don’t know what made you think I would.”

Calm made Oscar relax, but he remained confused. He was very sure of all the signs he had seen, he wasn't crazy and he was not imagining things. You had been acting strangely in those last days.

“Then why have you been acting so weird?”

“Wait for me, I’ll be right back!”

You left and came back a while later with something in your arms. A little puppy.

“It’s for you, honey.”

Oscar couldn’t help but come closer to you to see the puppy. The animal looked at him with a little mistrust, but once his hand came to caress the dog, the puppy began to move his tail with happiness, while you saw him with a smile on your face.

“A dog? For me?”

“It was a surprise. I talked with your mum about it and she even helped me. When you'll be busy with work stuff, I will be taking care of him.”

Your boyfriend grabbed the animal in his arms, the puppy ran his tongue over his face and Oscar squinted his eyes, while he couldn't stop feeling his heart beating frantically in his chest.

“l didn't expect this, thank you.”

“I would never break up with you, Oscar. You make me happy. That’s why I thought of adopting a puppy for you.”

“Then why were you acting so weird?”

“Because I wanted it to be a surprise. Yesterday I went to get him and that’s why I canceled our plans. Today the puppy peed in the clothes I was going to wear, just when you called. Also, he started barking and didn’t want you to find out. It was my little secret.”

Oscar had never been so happy, he left a kiss on your lips. Your mouths joined and he smiled so happily.

“I love you, you made me the happiest man in the world.”

“We have our little family now, Oscar. We are parents of a dog.”

Even as you planned to start a family when you were old enough, sharing the life of a pet was everything to him. Sharing the care and affection of a puppy made his tender and loving part appear.

“I love you and I love this animal. I will take care of you and him for my whole life.”

You weren't breaking up with him, that was the best part of all.