#if this is a pattern and you get it too: it's not your fault.

[helen-with-an-a]

Keep Your Cool

Inspired by my recent obsession with Misa and That Game, here is an angst gf-Misa fic. hehe

Also lets not have a repeat of that people (although Misa did get some very nice photos out of it loll)

Misa Rodríguez x reader

Description: You lose your cool after El Clásico.

TW: Olga Carmona and Athenea del Castillo ; slight mentions of self-harm/self-harming habits (scratching)

You knew it would happen eventually. But did it have to happen at your expense? You and Cata had been battling it out for the top spot all season and you were fairly sure this had just sealed your fate.

It had given you a massive confidence boost to get the nod for El Clásico. Cata had the Champions League games in her grip, but you had been called in for the Copa del la Reina and Supercopa. The league was still split fairly evenly, with Gemma and Roebuck getting the odd game too. It was all commentators could talk about – who was the new no.1? You weren’t deserving of it. Not today, not after the performance you had just put in.

You knew records had to come to an end eventually, but did it really have to be you that let three goals slip past your fingers? You could see the tweets know. You were overconfident, cocky, arrogant. Yes, your backline had been an absolute mess. Yes, you could fault no one but yourselves. But you had tried. You had tried your best. But today it wasn’t enough. It was a shocking defeat. No matter how much you wanted to deny it Real Madrid had the better game today. You had failed. There was nothing else to say.

You just needed an evening to wallow and then you would be fine. You knew that you would be. You could use this to get stronger, you all could. You refused to let yourself think about how this could affect your playing time. Especially with the Euros coming up. But that was beyond your control. You had fucked up. You needed to prove yourself again.

You usually enjoyed El Clásico. Not only for the competition and rivalry. It was a chance to see Misa again. You hated that El Clásicos came at her expense. You loved the thrill of the win but hated that it was her fingers that the ball had to slip pass. Was this how she felt? Your heart ached even worse to think that she regularly felt this weight. You usually gave her a few hours to herself, allowing her to work through it all before spending the evening either wrapped up in each other, sharing whispers and soft kisses or having a few drinks with the rest of the girls, your hand never straying from Misa’s.

“Vamos, chica.” Alexia held her hand out to you where you had slumped onto the pitch, her voice firm but gentle as she tried to coax you to your feet. The icy hail pelted down mercilessly.

“No, Ale.” Your voice was barely audible, muffled by the roar of the storm. You doubted she even heard you over the hail.

“Sí, vamos, stand up.” Her tone was more insistent this time, but you just shook your head, refusing to meet her gaze. You could feel the cameras fixed on you, and the fans’ eyes burning into your back. You were acutely aware of Misa’s shouts and cheers across the field.

“No.” You shrugged Alexia’s hand away, your body heavy. Instead, you let yourself collapse fully, lying back on the frozen ground. The sharp sting of the ice against your face was grounding, giving you something else to focus on besides the bitterness in your mouth.

You weren’t quite sure how you made it into the tunnel. Your legs felt heavy, and your body was trembling from both the cold and the overwhelming effort not to cry. You kept your head down, trying to hold yourself together. Right now, more than anything, you could really do with a proper Misa Hug – one where she squeezed you nice and tightly, her strong arms wrapped around you securely. You’d bury your face in her neck, breathing in her familiar scent while her fingers traced gentle, soothing patterns up and down your back, making the world feel a little less harsh. But you knew you couldn’t ask that of her right now. She was celebrating. Rightfully so. She had pulled out some impressive stops and with the captain’s armband wrapped around her bicep too. She deserved to celebrate. You had no right to ask that of her.

“Vamos!” Someone shouted, followed by the sound of laughter and the clatter of boots echoing through the tunnel. You didn’t bother looking up – you recognised that voice. Olga. Your heart sank even further.

“How does it feel to lose for once?” del Castillo cheered, throwing her arm around your shoulder with a cocky grin. You stiffened under her touch, your muscles tensing as frustration bubbled up inside you.

It was no secret that you and the Real Madrid players didn’t exactly get along. Misa was different – she was your exception, your safe space. But the others, especially those who had been vocal in support of the RFEF and everything that had happened with them, always seemed to take pleasure in rubbing salt in your wounds.

“Not right now, Castillo,” you muttered, trying to push her off. Your voice wavering as you spoke.

“What? Can’t handle losing to us?” Olga chimed in again, the gloating in her voice making your blood boil.

“Seriously, not right now.” You tried to step away, but Athenea wouldn’t let go.

“Poor little Y/N,” Olga taunted, a mocking pout on her face. “Maybe Pere should just stick with Cata. At least she can keep a clean sheet against us.”

You saw red.

Without thinking, you spun around and shoved Olga backward, slamming her hard against the tunnel wall. The impact echoed through the space, and for a moment, everything seemed to stand still. Anger roared in your ears, drowning everything else out. Your hands were trembling, and your breath came out in ragged gasps. You didn’t even fully register the shocked look on Olga’s face as she steadied herself against the wall, her mouth hanging open in surprise.

“Hey.” That voice cut through the haze like a knife, sharp and grounding. You recognised it anywhere – the roughness around the edges, the low timbre that softened when it spoke to you. You fell asleep to that voice every night, its warmth crackling down the line as you rested your phone on the pillow.

You didn’t have to look to know it was Misa.

“Oi! Let her go!” Misa stormed over, her large hand gripping your shoulder to pull you back.

You glanced at Misa, your chest heaving as you tried to rein in your emotions. Olga took advantage of the distraction to straighten up, dusting herself off with an indignant glare.

“What’s your problem?” Olga snapped. “Can’t take a little banter?”

Misa shot her a glare that could have frozen fire. “Suficiente, Olga,” she said firmly.

Olga huffed, rolling her eyes. “Whatever,” she muttered, turning away with a shrug.

"Qué carajo, Y/N?" Misa turned on you, her eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and disbelief. Her voice was low, but the sharpness in her tone cut deeper than you’d expected.

You froze, your face flushing with embarrassment – not just at your outburst but at the fact that she had been the one to catch you losing control. Your hands were still trembling, and the adrenaline from shoving Olga hadn’t completely faded.

"She…" you started, but the words died on your tongue.

"She what?" Misa snapped, throwing her hands up in frustration. "God, you couldn’t let us have this one thing. We finally beat you guys, and you go and assault one of our players. All because you can’t handle losing to us!"

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Misa was just getting started, and you could tell she wasn’t going to let this go easily.

"You bang on about professionalism all the time," she continued, voice rising. "About how it’s just part of the game and it’s not personal. You love preaching about how to keep your head up and stay composed. But is that sauce good enough for the goose as it is for the gander? Or does that only apply when you’re the one coming out on top?"

You winced at the harshness in her words, the way they dug into your skin like tiny needles. "That’s not fair," you mumbled, not even sure if she heard you.

"Not fair?" Misa repeated, her eyes widening incredulously. "You think this isn’t fair? No, what isn’t fair is that whenever I lose, it’s always ‘aw, never mind Misa, you know how it is, come out and celebrate with us anyway.’ You’ve gotten so cocky with this, and I’m sick of it."

Her words hit like a slap to the face, and your chest tightened, guilt mixing with defensiveness. "Cocky?" you shot back, voice shaking. "Is that what you really think of me? That I just … what … rub it in your face when we win?"

Misa scoffed, throwing her hands up. "You don’t even realise you’re doing it! Every single time, you act like it’s no big deal, like your victories don’t mean anything to me. You don’t see how it hurts when you brush it off like it’s just another day at the office while I’m standing there feeling humiliated. You think you’re being humble, but it comes off like you’re patronising me!"

You felt your stomach drop, and the words caught in your throat. You’d never thought of it that way – never considered how your attempts to be supportive might have come across as dismissive. "M, I didn’t know –"

"Of course you didn’t!" she cut you off, her voice breaking just a little. "Because you’re too wrapped up in your own success to even notice. And today, we finally won … finally, we won … and you couldn’t even let us have it. Instead, you lost your temper like a little kid who didn’t get her own way and made it all about you."

"That’s not –" you tried, but she wasn’t done.

"And do you know how that makes me look? My girlfriend, the one I’ve been defending to my teammates for months, shoving Olga into a wall because she can’t handle one loss? Do you know how embarrassing that is for me?"

Your shoulders slumped, and your eyes stung with unshed tears. You wanted to fight back, to defend yourself, but you couldn’t find the words. Misa was right – you’d made a mess of things, and worse, you’d hurt her in the process.

"I didn’t mean to embarrass you," you whispered, voice cracking. "I just… I was angry. She was saying all this shit about me and Cata, and I just –"

"Lost control," Misa finished for you, her tone softer but still strained. She shook her head, exhaling slowly. "You always talk about professionalism, but when it’s your pride on the line, suddenly it doesn’t count. You need to figure out what kind of player you actually want to be, Y/N. Because right now, it’s looking pretty hypocritical."

Her words sliced through the last of your defences, and you felt a hot tear slip down your cheek. Misa hesitated, her breath coming out harsh and fast.

"Whatever," she muttered, turning on her heel and walking away without another word, leaving you standing there, alone in the cold, empty tunnel.

You were in a fog. A thick cloud had settled in your brain, making everything around you feel muted. You moved around the changing rooms like a ghost, your movements sluggish and automatic. The ache in your chest wouldn’t ease up, and Misa’s words kept playing over and over in your mind, each one piercing deeper than the last.

Would she even want to see you now? Usually, after El Clásicos, you stayed at each other’s flat – whoever’s city you were in – using it as an excuse to finally spend the night together. It had become a little tradition, something you both looked forward to. But tonight, the thought of her deciding to go back to the hotel made your stomach twist. What if she didn’t see you again before she went back to Madrid? Did this mean you were broken up? Had you just ruined the best thing to ever happen to you over a fucking football match? Because you couldn’t handle one stupid loss?

You moved on autopilot, mechanically pulling your kit off and tossing it aside. You didn’t even notice the sting of the hot water as you stepped into the shower, your mind far away. You scrubbed at your skin without really thinking, trying to wash away the guilt and frustration clinging to you like grime. Afterward, you dressed and started tidying up your space, not even sure why you were bothering. Everything was a blur, and your hands shook as you folded your sodden jersey, trying to ignore the suffocating weight pressing down on your chest.

Your mind kept circling back to Misa’s face – the hurt, the anger, the way she had looked at you like she didn’t even recognise the person standing in front of her. You squeezed your eyes shut, biting down on your lip to keep from breaking down entirely. You didn’t know what to do, or if anything you could say would make it right.

“Chica?” Cata called out, nudging you out of your daze. Your mind was a million miles away and a lifetime ago as you stared at the keyring Misa had given you.

You were both playing for Spain in the youth groups, both relatively unknown and new to the international scene. The pressure was intense, but somehow, having her by your side made it easier. One evening, after a particularly tough training session, she had approached you, fidgeting nervously with something in her hands.

Shy and incredibly awkward, Misa had finally mustered the courage to hand you the small keyring – a wooden charm shaped like Gran Canaria. You turned it over, your heart skipping a beat when you saw the tiny “M + Y/N” scratched into the back. It wasn’t perfect, the letters a bit uneven, but it was hers.

She had stammered out an explanation, cheeks flushed as she admitted it was her way of asking you to be her girlfriend. You couldn’t help but smile, your heart swelling with affection as you took the keyring from her, promising to treasure it, and her, forever.

It now sat pride of place on your car keys, always coming with you wherever you went, the familiar outline a constant source of comfort. You couldn’t imagine having to take it off.

"Chica, it’s time to go," Cata called out again, her voice softer this time, as if she could sense just how fragile you felt. Her hand came to rest gently between your shoulder blades.

You sniffed, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over, and gave a small, reluctant nod as you shoved your keys into your pocket. Your fingers trembled, and you couldn’t quite meet her eyes, afraid that even the smallest bit of sympathy might shatter the flimsy composure you had managed to hold on to.

"I’m sure it’s not that bad," Ellie offered weakly, attempting a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "C’mon, you and Misa have been together for, like, centuries at this point. You’ll figure it out."

A wet chuckle escaped your lips, but it was more bitter than amused. You leaned into Cata slightly as you walked towards the car park, grateful for the way she draped her arm around your shoulders, anchoring you in place. You let out a shaky breath, trying to convince yourself that Ellie was right, that you and Misa could fix this.

But despite their comforting words, you couldn’t ignore the loud, thumping bass and raucous laughter coming from the Real Madrid changing rooms. Your heart clenched painfully when you heard Misa’s voice – unmistakable, loud, and insistent – declaring that everyone was going out tonight and that she wouldn’t be taking no for an answer. The way her teammates cheered back at her made your stomach twist.

That settled that, then. You wouldn’t be seeing her tonight.

"María Isabel Rodríguez Rivero!" Alexia's voice rang out through the bar, sharp and furious, cutting through the loud music and chatter. Heads turned to see her marching in like a storm, her face like thunder and her jaw clenched tight. Irene and Cata followed close behind, both looking equally determined and bristling with barely contained anger.

Misa's stomach dropped at the sight of them. She had expected some backlash eventually, but not like this – not with Alexia looking like she was about to tear her apart.

"Well, if it isn’t the losers," Olga sneered from her spot at the bar, taking a swig of her beer with a smug grin plastered across her face. She leaned back, clearly enjoying the tension in the room.

"Fuck off, Olga," Cata shot back, her glare fierce, lip curling in disgust.

"Just because we won –” Olga started, but Irene immediately cut her off, waving her hand dismissively.

"Seriously, not right now." Irene's tone left no room for argument, and Caicedo, sensing the brewing conflict, took it upon herself to steer Olga away from the group of Blaugrana girls. Olga huffed, rolling her eyes, but let herself be dragged off without much resistance.

"Ale, care to join us?" Misa tried, forcing a smile even though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her voice sounded more confident than she felt, and she hated that Alexia’s glare made her feel small.

Alexia didn’t respond immediately, just stared at her with those piercing eyes that seemed to see right through the fake smile. Misa swallowed, forcing herself to hold eye contact. She didn’t want to admit it, but being on the receiving end of Alexia’s fury was unnerving.

In the silence that followed, Misa’s mind wandered. When she had forced everyone to go out, dragging them to this bar with promises of drinks on her, she hadn’t realised just how empty it would feel without you by her side. She hadn’t thought it would hurt this much to celebrate something she’d wanted for so long. The anger that had burned so fiercely in the tunnel had faded into a dull ache, and now all she wanted was to go home. Go home and be with you.

She missed you – missed the way you’d curl up on the sofa with a big bowl of food, claiming you weren’t falling asleep even as your head drooped onto her shoulder. She missed the quiet comfort of your presence, the way your fingers would trace patterns on her arm as you absentmindedly mumbled through the plot of whatever you were watching.

"Fix it." Alexia’s voice was firm and unyielding, her glare sharp enough to cut through steel.

"Fix what?" Misa shot back, feigning ignorance even though deep down, she knew exactly what Alexia meant.

"You know what. Fix. It." Alexia’s tone left no room for argument, and Misa couldn’t help but feel the weight of her words press down on her shoulders. It was no secret that Alexia thought of you as something resembling family – someone she’d go to war for without a second thought.

Misa bit back a frustrated sigh, standing from her seat and pushing past the group, ignoring the questioning looks thrown her way. "No!" She stepped out into the cool night air, the noise of the bar fading behind her.

"No?" Irene followed her, clearly taken aback by Misa’s abrupt exit and refusal to comply. "Seriously? You’re not going to fix this?"

"Sí, no!" Misa turned on her, her eyes blazing with a mix of anger and hurt. "Why do I have to fix it? I wasn’t the one who shoved someone. I wasn’t the one who let my emotions get the best of me. That wasn’t me in the tunnel acting like a child."

"It doesn’t matter who did what," Alexia interjected, having followed them outside too. "You’re the one I can actually get to talk to me."

"Qué?" Misa frowned, caught off guard.

"Sí," Alexia insisted, crossing her arms. "Y/N was barely holding it together when we left the stadium, so we followed her. She went straight to the beach and sat there for hours – just staring at the water. We tried talking to her, but she didn’t even acknowledge us. Eventually, she just got in her car and drove home. She hasn’t answered anyone’s texts or calls since. And knowing her? I’m fairly sure she hasn’t eaten anything because you know how she gets. She was scratching her arm again."

Misa’s expression softened, guilt creeping in and gnawing at her resolve. She knew how you tended to shut down when overwhelmed – how your first instinct was to retreat, to isolate yourself from everyone and everything.

Alexia’s eyes softened too, sensing Misa’s wavering. "You’re here, Misa," she said quietly. "You’re the one actually holding a conversation with me. I can’t get through to her, and I’m worried. So… Go. Fix. It."

Misa hesitated, her jaw tightening as she swallowed back the lump in her throat. She hated being told what to do – hated feeling like she was being pushed into something without having a say. But more than that, she hated the thought of you sitting alone, hurting, and refusing to let anyone in. The guilt gnawed at her insides, twisting her stomach into knots.

The thought of you being in pain because of her made her feel sick. She knew how you got when things went wrong – how you would blame yourself, shut down, isolate yourself, push everyone away, convincing yourself that you deserved to be alone. It broke her heart every time, and the idea that she might be the cause of it this time made her chest ache.

“She thinks you’ve broken up.”

Cata’s quiet admission cut through Misa’s thoughts like a knife. Her heart plummeted. The words hit her harder than any tackle, leaving her breathless and stunned. Broken up? Was that really what you thought? Was that why you’d been so quiet, why you hadn’t answered anyone’s calls?

Misa swallowed hard, her mind racing. Did you really think that she didn’t want to be with you anymore? Over a stupid football game? Had her anger and frustration pushed you to that conclusion?

Misa loved your little flat. It was absolutely tiny – barely 500 square feet – but it was undeniably yours. There was something comforting about the way you’d made the space your own, how every inch seemed to reflect your personality and the warmth you brought into her life. The checkered green rug in the living room was worn from countless movie nights and spontaneous dance parties, but you refused to get rid of it because it was the first thing you’d bought when you moved in. The glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling had been meticulously placed, forming constellations you claimed to know by heart, even though she knew you’d made half of them up.

Photos covered the walls like a patchwork quilt of memories. One showed the two of you as teenagers, smiling awkwardly with braces and messy hair, long before the world knew your names. Another captured the pure joy on your faces as you kissed her with the World Cup trophy gleaming in front of you – one of the proudest moments of both your lives. There were photos of her with your family, squinting in the sunlight during a beach day, and another with her family crowded around a table, laughing and toasting with glasses raised high.

Misa’s chest tightened as she took it all in. Your flat wasn’t just a space – it was your safe haven. Your way of holding onto every important memory and every person you loved. Being surrounded by those reminders made her feel even guiltier for how things had gone between you. She could practically feel your presence, hear your laugh echoing through the small rooms. Misa took a deep breath, grounding herself before making her way to the bedroom, hoping you’d let her in and that she could fix what she’d broken.

The you-shaped lump underneath the covers told her everything she needed to know. You were curled up tightly, like you were trying to make yourself as small as possible. The dried tear stains on your cheeks glistened faintly in the dim light, and long red scratch marks ran up your arm, evidence of the frustration and pain you must have felt. You clutched at Misa’s old Spain jersey – the one she’d left behind last time she visited – like it was a lifeline, and it made her heart ache.

“Mi vida?” Misa whispered gently, her voice barely audible in the quiet room. She hated having to wake you up, but she needed to talk to you – needed to make you understand that you were the best thing in her life, that not even death could make her break up with you. She reached out with a trembling hand, brushing some stray hair off your face, her fingertips grazing your skin with the softest touch. “Mi vida, bebé, despertar.”

You stirred slightly, a faint groan slipping past your lips as you burrowed deeper into the covers, resisting the intrusion into your sleep. Your eyes scrunched tighter, fighting against the pull of consciousness. Misa couldn’t help but smile softly, even with the ache in her chest. “Vamos, mi vida, sit up for me,” she coaxed gently, leaning down and instinctively pressing a string of soft kisses to your forehead as she knelt beside the bed.

“Mmmm,” you mumbled, your eyelids fluttering as you blinked sleepily, trying to make sense of your surroundings. For a fleeting moment, you smiled, your lips curling up as Misa’s face came into focus. “Misa?”

The softness of your expression lasted only a second before reality caught up with you. You sat bolt upright, the memories of the afternoon crashing down on you like a tidal wave. Panic flickered across your features as you struggled to process the fact that she was actually there.

“Hola?” Misa offered sheepishly, a hesitant smile on her lips as she sat back on her haunches.

“Hola,” you whispered back, your hands instinctively moving to fidget with the edge of the blanket, your fingers twisting and pulling at the fabric as if it could somehow ground you. Was this it? Was she about to officially end it? You moved to scratch at your arm, the familiar nervous habit taking over.

“Hey, hey, hey, detener. Don’t scratch,” Misa’s voice was gentle, but firm as she reached out and gathered your hands in hers, stopping your movement. The roughness of her calloused skin against yours was comforting.

“S-sorry,” you mumbled, heat creeping into your cheeks as embarrassment prickled at your skin. You hated that she’d caught you doing it – hated that she knew just how anxious you were.

“Don’t apologise either,” Misa said softly, squeezing your hands reassuringly. She took a deep breath, her thumb rubbing soothing circles over your knuckles. “I think… we should talk.”

You nodded, feeling the knot in your stomach tighten painfully. This was it – the moment you’d been dreading. You braced yourself, preparing for the worst.

“I’m so sorry for shouting at you, mi vida.” Misa said softly, moving to sit on the edge of the bed beside you. Intertwining your fingers as she squeezed gently. “And I’m sorry for letting you think that we had… are… were? … broken up.”

You blinked, trying to process her words, your mind sluggish from both sleep and the emotions of the day. It didn’t quite register for a moment, and you couldn’t help but stare at her, trying to make sense of what she was saying.

Misa took a shaky breath, clearly struggling to find the right words. “I’m sorry I snapped,” she continued, her gaze dropping to your joined hands. “I… I was just so happy for the win. We finally did it, y’know? We had finally beaten Barça after all this time, and it felt like everything we’d been working toward had finally paid off. And then… then I saw you.”

Her voice broke slightly, and she hesitated, as if unsure whether to continue. “You were there and Olga was against the wall and I don’t even know what happened ... I just snapped.”

Silence fell over the both of you. You bit your lip, trying to think of what to say.

“To be honest, I’m not really sure why you’re apologising,” you laughed humourlessly, the sound bitter and self-deprecating. Your shoulders slumped as you pulled your hand away from Misa’s, wrapping your arms around yourself defensively. “It’s my fault entirely. You were right – I was the one who couldn’t handle her emotions. I let Olga and del Castillo get under my skin, like they always do. I know I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. I was childish and made a scene, and I ruined everything.”

You took a shaky breath, your eyes fixed on a spot on the floor as you fought against the urge to cry again. “I’m so sorry I embarrassed you, Misa. You’d just won and instead of letting you have your moment, I just… lost it. I took away your thunder from winning. But instead, I made it all about me and my stupid inability to keep my emotions in check.”

Your voice cracked slightly, and you tried to swallow back the lump forming in your throat. “You deserved that celebration. You deserved to be on top of the world, and instead, you had to deal with me acting like a jealous, petty idiot. You’re right to be mad at me. I completely ruined it.”

You glanced at Misa, trying to gauge her reaction, but the guilt and shame weighed you down, making it hard to meet her eyes for long.

Misa’s heart broke at your words, her mind reeling at what you were saying. She could see the pain etched into your expression, the way your shoulders hunched like you were trying to make yourself smaller, as if you could shrink away from the guilt eating at you. Gently, she reached out, cupping your face and wiping away the tear that slipped down your cheek with her thumb.

“Just… tell me the truth, por favor,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Did I really make you feel bad for losing against us? Do I really patronise you? Because that was never my intention, I promise. I’m so, so, so sorry if I ever made you feel like that.”

Her own eyes glistened with unshed tears, guilt and worry swirling together as she listened to your words.

A tear trickled down your cheek, and you swallowed hard, unable to meet her gaze. “No, no, bebé, never,” Misa reassured you, surging forward and wrapping you up in her arms, holding you close against her chest. She pressed a kiss to your temple, her grip tightening as if she was afraid to let go. “I have only ever felt love from you, prometo. I know how hard you work, how much effort you put in. I’m so proud of you, always.”

You clutched at her shirt, your fingers tangling in the fabric as you let out a shaky sob. “’Cos I promise I didn’t mean to,” you choked out, voice muffled against her chest. “I promise I don’t think you guys are an easy game. I know how hard you work and how much it means to you. I’m sorry if I ever came across as cocky or dismissive. I just… I didn’t know how to handle losing to you. It was stupid and childish, and I hate that I made you feel that way.”

Misa’s fingers traced soothing patterns on your back, grounding you as your sobs wracked through your body. “Shh, it’s okay, mi vida,” she whispered, kissing the top of your head. “I’ve got you, always.”

You woke up to sunlight streaming through the window, the golden light filtering through the thin curtains and casting soft patterns on the walls. Your head was pounding, a dull ache pulsing at your temples, and you let out a quiet groan as you stretched out, trying to ease the stiffness in your back from sleeping curled up all night.

You rolled over, reaching out instinctively to the other side of the bed, but your arm met only empty sheets. Frowning, you patted the space behind you, half expecting to feel her warm presence still there. Confusion settled over you as you tried to recall the events of the previous night. Did you dream it all? No, Misa had definitely been here. The comforting weight of her arms around you, the softness of her whispered apologies – it all felt too real to be just a figment of your imagination.

Your gaze landed on the bedside table, and relief washed over you as you spotted her phone still resting there, screen lighting up again and again as text message after text message pinged on the device. Your heart fluttered at the idea that she hadn’t left yet. There was still a chance to talk things through.

You found her in the living room, perched on the edge of the sofa, staring out the window with a distant, troubled look on her face. Her shoulders were hunched, and her fingers were nervously picking at the loose threads on the cushion beside her.

"Buenos días," you croaked, your voice still rough and strained from all the crying. Misa jumped at the sound, her head whipping around to face you. Her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, her face still slightly swollen from the tears she had shed the night before.

"Mi vida, hey," she greeted softly, a faint, weary smile appearing on her lips.

You hesitated in the doorway, your hands fidgeting with the hem of your shirt as you tried to figure out what to say. "How are you feeling?" you asked tentatively, your gaze dropping to the floor as you nervously toed the ground.

Misa let out a long, shaky breath, rubbing her hands over her face before dropping them into her lap. "Um..." She swallowed hard, clearly struggling to find the right words. God, this was so awkward. This was your girlfriend, for fuck's sake – why was it suddenly so hard to talk to her? "I think we should talk some more, sí?"

You nodded, forcing a small smile despite the knot of anxiety still coiling in your stomach. Of course she would want to talk. Yesterday had been a lot for both of you.

"So... where do we start?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Well, what happened? Before I got there?" Misa reached out for you, her hand warm as she took yours and gently pulled you closer. You allowed her to guide you onto her lap, her arms instinctively wrapping around your waist as she curled her feet under her body.

"Carmona... um... said some stuff. So did del Castillo," you admitted, chewing on your lower lip. "It got under my skin a little."

Misa’s jaw clenched, her thumb rubbing small circles against your hand in a calming gesture. "What did they say?"

You swallowed back the bitterness in your throat. "That Pere should just stick with Cata between the sticks. That at least Cata can keep clean sheets."

A string of muttered curses slipped from Misa’s lips, her face hardening with a mix of anger and frustration. "Esas malditas perras," she grumbled under her breath. She knew better than anyone how much stress the competition for the number one position had been putting on you. She knew how deeply it affected your confidence, no matter how much you tried to hide it.

You shrugged, giving a weak smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. "I mean... they aren’t wrong."

"They are wrong. They are so wrong," Misa insisted, her voice unwavering. She tightened her grip on your hands, pulling you closer until you were practically nose to nose. "Mi vida, you are good. You are great. You deserve everything you have achieved."

Her sincerity made your chest ache, and a tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it. Misa brushed it away gently, her calloused thumb grazing your skin. "You’re an incredible goalkeeper. Don’t ever let their words make you doubt that. You’ve worked so hard to get here, and I’m so proud of you. Always."

“Thanks,” you muttered, though it was clear from your tone that you didn’t quite believe her. Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, and Misa could feel the tension in your shoulders even as you sat in her lap.

Misa hesitated, unsure of how to broach the next topic without upsetting you further. “And those comments… made you… y’know?” she asked softly, her voice tinged with concern.

You nodded, letting out a heavy sigh. “Yeah, basically. I mean, I was already feeling like shit, and then they were there – gloating, rubbing it in, making it seem like I’m not good enough. I just… I’m sorry. I lost my cool, and that was not okay.”

Misa wrapped her arms tighter around you, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “I’m sorry for losing my cool too,” she confessed, her forehead resting against yours.

A pang of doubt flashed across your face as you bit your lip, hesitating before speaking up. “Is it true? What you said… that we… I… patronise you when we win?” You swallowed hard, unable to meet her gaze. The thought had been gnawing away at you ever since she said it.

Misa sighed, her eyes falling to where your hands were intertwined. “Sometimes,” she whispered, barely audible. “Sometimes it’s harder than others – especially if it’s my mistakes that cost us the game. Barça is like this… machine – a winning machine that never stops. And sometimes… it feels like you’re a little cocky with it. Like you don’t see us as true competition.”

You froze, your heart aching at the honesty in her words. “Mi Corazón…”

“I know you don’t mean it that way,” she added quickly, squeezing your hands reassuringly. “But it’s hard when you’ve worked so damn hard, and it still doesn’t feel like enough. I guess it just meant a lot to me and then to see you and Olga … yeah.”

You let yourself relax into her hold, feeling the tension slowly melt away as her warmth surrounded you. A deep breath escaped your lips, and you let yourself lean fully into Misa, your head resting against her shoulder. You traced small patterns on the back of her hand with your thumb, trying to find the right words to say.

“I don’t really know what else to say beyond the fact that I am so, so, so sorry for taking this big win away from you,” you whispered, voice thick with guilt. “You worked so hard for it – for years. And I just… ruined it.”

Misa shook her head gently, her fingers brushing through your hair. “You haven’t,” she started, her tone soft but firm, as if she was trying to will you into believing it.

“Sí, mi corazón, I have,” you insisted, your eyes welling up again despite your best efforts to keep it together. “And that’s not right. You deserve this win. You deserve to celebrate it with your team, to be happy without me ruining it with my stupid jealousy and insecurities. You earned that moment, and I took it from you.”

Misa tightened her hold on you, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Mi vida, listen to me,” she murmured. “You didn’t take anything from me. I know it feels that way, but the win is still ours, and I’m proud of what we accomplished. Yeah, things got messy afterward, but I didn’t lose my happiness because of you. I just… I got overwhelmed, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you either. We both fucked up, sí?”

You sniffled, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand. “But you deserved to feel proud. You deserved to have that moment. I never wanted to take that away from you, Misa. I love you too much to ever want to do that.”

She smiled softly, brushing her lips against your forehead. “And I love you too much to let this come between us. I promise, I’m not mad at you. And we didn’t break up.”

You nodded, squeezing her hand. “Well done, by the way. I don’t think I said that to you.”

Misa smiled, her thumb rubbing comforting circles into your palm. “Thanks.” You could feel the shy but proud smile against yours skin.

“The next time we play each other… maybe we both work on keeping our cool?”

A tiny laugh bubbled up from your chest, and you finally managed a small smile. “Deal.”

[voidcat]

notes : Smt smt carrying all the memories be it good or bad, but almost always leaving a certain impact in your life, in your wallet. It’s just a mere coincidence they all happen to be memories you love — Michael Kaiser x gn!reader

Seeing the thick rows of photos and whatnot in your wallet- be it polaroid, professional or biometric-- Michael Kaiser slides in a couple of his newly taken photos to your hand with a smirk.

"About time that small case got livened up with someone worth carrying and looking at." he says with that self assured grin.

With a huff, you roll your eyes- it was a mistake to do a drunken wallet tour to your friends and the bane of your existence blond and blue. Yet in the middle of the street with nowhere to flee and his unwavering strenght every time you try to push the photos back onto his chest, eventually you give up and let him.

It's entirely your poor memory and building exhaustion's fault that you forget to take the photos out of your wallet and get rid of them the first few times. Later, it becomes a pattern, a habit of sorts.

Something born from the intimacy of familiarity. Your friend carries a photo of your ex bestfriend (and her exgirlfriend) to this day- something about memories and whatnot, maybe paying homeage to the fact that we are all human-- so there is no harm in letting a reminder of him stay there, right? No big deal, no hidden agenda behind the action. You carry all types of trinkets in your wallet, be it moments of joy or sorrow.

It is entirely your fault however, to not be swift enough nor careful; unaware of a snooping pair of light blue eyes twinkling with glee when they catch sight of a face all too familiar in your open wallet. A grin takes up his features as he assesses the exact position, you're yet to take notice, chatting with someone else over god knows what, cheeks already flushed from the alcohol, just like the time you had admitted defeat and the photos had made their way there.

His face on glossy paper, Kaiser can see exactly where the photographs are. Not between that awfully thick pile of stacked photos nor at the end with his face against the previous photograph's back. At top, the position leaving no doubt in his mind that whenever you open the wallet-- it brings forth a surge of emotions within him that it's him first and foremost, that you'll always come face to face with.

Satisfied, he closes your wallet and nudges you with its corner. Having your attention on him again, he signals with a tilt of his head to follow him. Confusion to annoyance when you see it's him that oh so graciously interrupted you, you take the wallet from his hand harshly. Then freeze-

in that one second, you're too late to conceal the horror written on your face as your eyes dart between him and the wallet but you're quick to push the thought away. With a sigh, you wave a hand 'bye' and follow in step after him- soon reaching his side. As Kaiser throws an arm around your waist much to your futile attempts to shake it off, you miss satisfaction tugging at his lips and the hint of mirth dancing in his eyes.

[tcffantfu276]

The wind blew cold on the rooftop, tugging at Conan’s collar, but he hardly noticed it. He stood there, leaning against the ledge, arms folded, his eyes fixed on the sprawling city below. The quiet hum of the city seemed so far away, the peace almost unsettling.

Kaito Kid, or rather the man beneath the disguise, stood a few feet away, watching him with a raised eyebrow. He’d been quiet for a while, and Conan knew what was coming next.

“You know,” Kid began, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I’ve been wondering. What was it about me that piqued your interest? You're a detective, right? But... your expertise seems to lie in solving homicides. What’s a ‘kid’ like you doing chasing after a thief like me?”

Conan’s gaze shifted to the moon, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he said nothing, letting the question hang between them.

Finally, he turned his head slightly, catching the thief’s eye. “That’s a secret,” he said, his voice a mix of mischief and mystery, a playful glint flashing in his eyes.

Kid snorted in amusement. “A secret, huh? Well, I’ll bite. I’m curious how long you’re going to keep that one to yourself.”

But Conan didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The silence spoke volumes. Kid could keep wondering all he wanted. It was a secret, after all.

As Conan stood there, looking out into the night, his thoughts drifted back to a time, not too long ago, when everything had felt different.

---

**Flashback**

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the dark alleyway as Conan, small and unassuming, ducked behind a corner. Another crime scene, another case. It seemed to be a pattern. Wherever he went, wherever he turned, murder followed. Sometimes it felt like a curse, a dark cloud that clung to him.

He could hear the police officers laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. “The Angel of Death strikes again.”

The joke was supposed to be lighthearted. A joke, yes, but it stung. No matter where Conan went, there was always death. Murder seemed to follow him as if he were some sort of harbinger. It wasn’t his fault, of course. It just... happened. But the weight of it lingered, heavy in his chest.

There were days when he longed for something, anything, other than the next gruesome discovery. For a brief moment, he let himself forget that he was a child—a six-year-old detective—and allowed himself to feel the exhaustion that came with it. The cases were endless, and sometimes, they quite literally fell into his lap.

The problem wasn’t the murders themselves. No, the problem was how... easy they were. How *predictable* they became. He could see it all before it happened, unraveling the mystery with a calm that even the police didn’t understand. He’d solved so many murders that they no longer held the same thrill. No challenge, no fun. Just cold, calculated facts and conclusions.

But then one day, something caught his attention—a heist. A thief. Kaito Kid.

The news report flashed across the screen, bright and taunting. He’d heard of him before, of course. The phantom thief who left the police scratching their heads. The audacity, the arrogance of someone who could outsmart the authorities at every turn.

Conan watched the broadcast, his heart beating a little faster. This... this was different. No death, no blood, no murder. Just a thief and a challenge.

It was almost too easy to decipher the clues Kid had left behind.

'Could this be it?' Conan had thought to himself, intrigued. 'What’s the worst that could happen? Another murder? I’ve dealt with those before'

So, he had set his mind to it. A change of pace. A break from the bloodshed that so often seemed to follow him. For once, he wouldn’t be chasing down a killer. He would be chasing a thief—a trickster, a criminal who loved the game as much as Conan did.

---

The first time they met, Conan had been stunned. Kid had come close, so close to getting caught, but something in his eyes had sparked a challenge—a glint that mirrored his own.

It was thrilling.

The second time, Conan had nearly caught him. His heart raced, his mind on overdrive, trying to predict the unpredictable.

And then, as the hours passed, it dawned on him.

There was no murder.

The world seemed to pause for a moment. A thief. No murder. No bodies. No tragedy. Just a game. A puzzle. A challenge that wasn’t about solving a crime, but about outsmarting the smartest thief in the world.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Conan could breathe.

---Now---

He smiled faintly at the memory.To think that he could finally experience something that didn’t involve death, something that didn’t come with a price tag of sorrow and loss.

It was addicting. The thrill of the chase.

And every time he went after Kid, the game grew more intense. Kid was stubborn, clever, always just one step ahead. But Conan didn’t mind. In fact, he loved it. It felt like a dance—a duel of wits, where each move was more exhilarating than the last.

'what does that say about me as a detective?' Conan mused. 'when my sanity hangs on by the survival of a thief?"

...

just a little scene i couldn't help but write.

[melancholic-pigeon]

@vaspider @mistresskabooms @nerdykeppie I'm the one who's being weird? Me? really? You are absolutely sure you're not the asshole in this situation? You're ABSOLUTELY SURE this was a justified response to my polite confusion?

Wow. I really misread you.

[somejerkguy]

I just get told so many times "you just haven't found the right people"

other people pick up relationships of all kinds over their whole lives though? and those people float in and out of each other's lives, stay in touch, catch up when they can

like. I don't think it's unreasonable to not try again when every single person I've cared about has closed the door behind them on the way out

[beloveds-embrace]

Thinking about designationless reader...

Imagine how alone she must've been for all her life. It started since she was young, her parents pushing her to the corner of the home, away from the family, and naturally, her siblings would follow their parents' lead, pointedly ignoring her, and finding any excuse available to be out of her presence. She wouldn't understand them anyway, she can't tell the difference between noises nor could she even recognize scents. It just wouldn't work.

Reader thinks that maybe she could find someone, anyone in school, but kids are like sharks, except instead of smelling blood, they smell the lack of all scents on her. Most kids have a combination of their own and their family members' scents. Reader has nothing, so everyone continues the pattern, but now with more stares and jeers and hushed giggles. Reader knows that bullying is bad, but anything would be better than simply not existing to anyone. That's what the others say, at least, that she's nothing, nobody. Never to her face, though, just in the whispers shared between friends.

She eventually tries to find others like her through the wonders of the internet. There's maybe a handful more scattered in her country, but none are her age, and all have their own families who care about them. Was it just her who wasn't deserving of love, of connection? Reader reaches out to them, and they talk a little, but before long, through no one's fault, it falls through. She was bad at talking anyway, even if she doesn't have to worry about scents or sounds that aren't there, she never knew much about context or connotation. She never had the opportunity to learn about the intricacies in communication. Reader is back alone.

The military eventually scouts her, and it's the first time anyone has ever really looked at her. Sure, they look at her like a valuable tool, but a tool is better than nothing. Reader obviously joins, desperate for crumbs. She climbs the ranks, gets the job done. She is good at her job, so people respect her. She learns how to talk professionally, emails, texts, and so one, but no one talks to her on leave. No one invites her to the pub after a good mission. No one even talks to her in the mess. But people do talk to her when they have to, and that's enough. Maybe she even gets a callsign. Doe. After Jane Doe, the placeholder name for unknown individuals, and insult if anything.

Now there's the 141. They invite her to things. They talk to her. They touch her. Reader exists for them. She isn't just an unknown person stuck in the background and invisible to everyone else, and Reader doesn't know what to do. Her speech is awkward and overly professional, even in personal settings. How is she supposed to be friends with someone, multiple someones? How is she supposed to move? To act? To express? She doesn't know, but she really wants to learn. At least now she has good teachers.

ANON YOU GENIUSSSS okay but this? Perfect. AHHHH I ADORE THIS IDEA!! Esp the jane doe callsign omg yes

You weren’t used to being seen.

Growing up, you learned quickly how to make yourself small- how to exist quietly, without taking up space, without asking for too much. Because the few times you had asked- asked for a hug, asked to be let into the nest, asked why you felt so different- the answers had all been the same.

No.

Not now.

Not you.

It wasn’t that your parents didn’t love you. You were sure they did, in their own way. But love was hard to feel when your mother flinched at your touch like you were something disgusting, when your father sighed like he was tired every time you entered the room as if you were taking up space he was saving for his other children. When your siblings built their nests without you, curling into piles of warmth and safety while you sat outside the door, knees pulled to your chest and hands balled into fists to keep them from knocking, a cold ache burrowing itself in your chest.

You stopped knocking eventually.

You stopped trying.

You used to wonder if you’d done something wrong- if maybe you could fix yourself and everything would go back to normal. But it wasn’t something you could fix. It was just… you.

Scentless.

Designationless.

Invisible.

School had been worse, perhaps the worst. At least your family had pretended not to notice how different you were. The other kids didn’t bother pretending. They stared openly, whispered behind your back, laughed when you walked by. You’d caught bits and pieces of what they said- weird, wrong, broken, as if they hoped by having you hear their words, they’d convince you to leave at last.

You’d started keeping your head down after that, slipping through the halls like a shadow. No one talked to you unless they had to, and even then they either did it with a mocking, jeering tone that echoes in your nightmares or with a meek tone; as if your lack of everything is contagious. No one sat next to you at lunch, either. When partners were assigned, you always ended up working alone per your teachers’ instructions.

It was easier that way.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

By the time you joined the military, you’d gotten good at being alone. You didn’t need friends. Didn’t need packmates. You had work, and work didn’t care if you were quiet or awkward or too stiff to laugh at the right jokes. Work didn’t care if you flinched when people got too close or froze when someone raised their voice. Work demanded to be done, and you had nothing and no one to stop you from that.

But the military also has the same teens who used to bully you so consistently. Rookies all to ready and happy to lord over you. It’s how you get your despised callsign, Doe. Jane Doe. A cruel mockery, comedy wherein you are the joke that has the world laughing.

Still, you wear it. It’s still an acknowledgment and that will always be better than never being seen. You flit from team to team, unit to unit, always an observer from afar, watching everyone around you speak a language you can’t.

But the 141 was different, when you eventually end up working for them.

They cared.

They cared in ways you weren’t ready for.

Soap was relentless, dragging you into conversations even when you barely knew what to say. He filled the silences like it didn’t bother him, kept talking for the both of you, lounging against you unbothered, until you started talking back. Gaz was gentlest, steadier. He never pushed, just lingered close enough to remind you he was there, waiting, whenever you were ready. Quiet, silent acceptance you’d never been given before, and you were yet far too afraid to so easily cling to it.

And the Alphas- Price and Ghost- were worse.

Price had a way of looking at you that made your chest ache, like he saw you, really saw you, and didn’t mind what he found. Scentless, with no designation and all. Ghost was quieter, sharper, but his eyes tracked you everywhere, presence wrapping around you like he was staking a claim you didn’t understand, like he was teying to etch every part of you behind his eyelids.

You didn’t know what to do with it.

They didn’t give you space. They sat next to you at meals, tugged you along when they went out for drinks, called you over during breaks like it was the most natural thing in the world. And it felt natural- until it didn’t, because sometimes you still felt like an outsider.

Like you didn’t belong.

You tried to hide it, but they saw through you. They always did, and they never shied away.

When you started avoiding the mess hall, it was Gaz who caught you, shoving a plate of food into your hands and dragging you to sit with him like it wasn’t a big deal. When you hung back during missions, letting the others fall into their pack dynamics without you, Soap was the one who looped an arm around your shoulders and pulled.

And when you flinched, once, at the sharp sound of someone’s voice echoing down the hall- when you tensed so hard it made your fingers tremble- it was Price who closed the distance, standing in front of you like a wall and letting Ghost linger at your back. Neither of them said a word.

They didn’t have to.

You weren’t used to being protected. You weren’t used to belonging.

But they made it hard not to.

[mephisto-reporting]

Silk, Satin and Sensual

Premise: Headcanons on his preferences for lingerie and his reaction when he sees you in them. Based on this request. Pairing: Reader x Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb (Seperate) Note: Reader and the men are in a relationship. This is suggestive. Please do not interact if you are a minor. Caleb version is out!!. If you wanted to be added to my taglist, please DM, ask or comment :D Content warning: Suggestive. MNDI.

XAVIER

Xavier has a thing for soft, celestial tones like white, cream, silvers and muted golds. He’s drawn to fabrics that shimmer faintly, almost like starlight against your skin. He has a thing for delicate patterns, like lacework.

Sheer materials like mesh and chiffon drive him wild, especially if they reveal just enough to leave him craving more. He prefers the balance of teasing and revealing, where the fabric hints at your curves without fully exposing them.

He’s absolutely obsessed with your thighs and prefers lingerie that accentuates them. Garter belts, thigh-high stockings, and intricate lace shorts are his kryptonite.

If you have small celestial accents like tiny golden stars or moon charms hanging from the garters… good fucking luck. You are not walking the next day.

He has an unapologetic habit of tearing your lingerie when he loses control, so he’s constantly replacing your wardrobe. His explanation? “It’s not my fault they’re made so fragile. I’ll get you something sturdier—next time.”

Once the damage is done and your new lingerie is in shreds, Xavier looks annoyingly unbothered. He’ll casually toss the ruined piece aside and murmur, “Guess I’ll have to buy you another.”

He’ll commission a lingerie set made of delicate ivory lace with gold threads woven into it, shaped to mimic constellations. He’ll surprise you with thigh-high stockings that have faint, shimmering patterns running up the sides. These are always paired with garter belts because he loves tugging on them when he is intimate with you.

He’ll leave the box on your bed, wrapped in soft cream paper with a gold ribbon. Inside, there’s always a handwritten note in his steady handwriting. “For you. You’re too beautiful not to be dressed like the stars themselves.”

His reactions:

The moment he sees you in lingerie, his carefully composed demeanor melts away, replaced by an intense, almost predatory focus. His eyes lock onto your thighs, and his voice becomes a low murmur laced with want. He is the definition of: his eyes darkened.

Xavier likes the idea that these pieces are chosen specifically for his eyes. If anyone else saw you in them, even accidentally, it would ignite a streak of jealousy.

If you walk past him too many times, deliberately flaunting the look, he’ll finally snap. One moment, you’re teasing him; the next, you’re backed against the wall with his hands tracing the garter straps. “Do you want me to tear this off?” he’ll ask, his voice soft but carrying that dangerous edge. Spoiler: He’s already decided the answer.

ZAYNE

Zayne prefers earthy tones—rich browns, deep greens, warm ambers, and muted burgundies. These hues remind him of natural beauty, grounding yet alluring. He loves subtle details like lace trim, delicate straps that crisscross your back, or a ribbon that ties just above your hips—small elements that add to the allure.

Zayne is drawn to pieces that accentuate your waist. Corset-style lingerie, high-waisted panties, or teddies with cinched designs are his favorites. He admires the way they create an hourglass effect, appreciating your silhouette.

He has a thing for materials that feel good to the touch: silky satins, fine lace, and soft mesh. The tactile experience is as important to him as the visual.

Zayne has impeccable taste, selecting pieces that balance seduction with sophistication. Think satin teddies with plunging necklines or lace bodysuits with subtle, sheer paneling. He gravitates toward lingerie sets that emphasize your natural beauty rather than overwhelming it—clean lines, elegant accents, and designs that celebrate your form.

When Zayne gifts you lingerie, he makes it an intimate experience. He’ll lay the gift on the bed, wrapped in tissue paper with a single dried flower,something earthy and subtle, like a sprig of lavender or rosemary. His note is direct: “For when you’re ready to let me admire you properly.”

Zayne picks quality over quantity. He’d rather gift you one stunning, well-made piece than several forgettable ones. His selections are designed to last—not that he always gives them the chance to.

His gaze never wavers. When you wear lingerie, Zayne’s eyes lock on yours before slowly traveling down your body, making you feel like the most captivating thing in the world.

There’s no ripping it off, but it won’t take long before he’s slipping the fabric off. He’s not gentle, but he’s not reckless either. There’s a certain hunger in how he undresses you.

His Reaction:

When you walk into the room wearing one of his carefully chosen pieces, Zayne’s reaction is immediate. His calm is replaced by a sharp intake of breath, his eyes trailing over you with an intensity that makes the air feel heavier.

Zayne’s fingers brush over the fabric with deliberate slowness, his palms lingering against the soft satin at your hips. “Feels even better than I imagined,” he murmurs, his lips quirking into a heated smirk. “But I think it’d feel better on the floor.”

If you tease him, letting a strap fall off your shoulder or adjusting the lace just so—Zayne’s control begins to crack. His hands are on you instantly, his voice dropping to a growl. “You like testing me, don’t you? Keep it up, and you’ll see what happens.”

RAFAYEL

Rafayel is drawn to soft, pastel shade like gentle blues, lavender, and delicate purples. He prefers lingerie that’s sweet and soft, evoking a sense of innocence while still being sensual.

He gravitates towards cuter lingerie like bralette sets with flowing chiffon accents, babydolls with sheer overlays, or high-waisted lingerie shorts. He likes pieces that don’t reveal too much but are so alluring that he cannot keep his eyes off you.

Rafayel is obsessed with fine details such as silver waistbands that drape lightly like jewelry, chokers that gleam with tiny pearls, delicate chain straps on your bra, tiny dangling gemstones, or trims that sparkle subtly in the light.

Sheer robes, flowing fabrics, and fluttering hems draw his gaze as they cling to your skin over your lingerie like water waves. If you are wearing a lingerie, fresh out of the shower with your hair still wet, it is game over for this man.

Rafayel treats every moment with you in lingerie as sacred. He doesn’t rush; instead, he takes his time, savoring every detail like an artist admiring their finest work

Rafayel is the kind of person who doesn’t just buy off the shelf. He’ll have something specially commissioned for you, likely a set of lingerie that reflects your personality and his artistic sensibilities. His commission might even include small charms that are Lemuria inspired.

Rafayel, though loving, is bashful when it comes to gifting lingerie. He would likely have the lingerie sent to you without a grand reveal, perhaps bundled with other gifts like chocolates, perfume, scarves that might distract from his true intentions. His note will be brief, almost casual: “Some pieces I thought you'd appreciate, seeing as you're always so fashionable.”

His Reaction:

The first time you step out wearing one of his custom sets, a soft lavender bralette with delicate gold chain accents and a matching choker—Rafayel freezes. Rafayel can’t stop staring, though he tries to look away, his hand rising to cover his mouth as his blush deepens. “I-I didn’t think it would suit you this perfectly…” he stammers, his gaze flicking back to you despite himself.

“I… I didn’t mean for it to be so… um… revealing,” he stammers, eyes lingering on the intricate lace and the subtle gleam of the small jewels. “But… you look… divine.” When Rafayel touches the fabric, his fingers tremble against your skin. He’s so gentle, almost reverently so, as though touching you in this way is an act of worship.

"It’s like you’re wearing my art… and I can’t stop admiring it." His gaze will flicker between your face and the lingerie, doing his best to hold himself together. “Why are you doing this to me?” he’ll murmur with desire. “I just want to keep you here... like this... for as long as possible.” he whispers, voice barely audible, as though if he spoke louder, he might break the spell.

SYLUS

Sylus gravitates toward bold, classic colors like deep blacks, rich reds, and occasionally luxurious whites, midnight blues or dark emerald greens. These colors resonate with him. He appreciates the elegance of these shades, as they exude sophistication and bold sensuality.

He’s a silk and satin man through and through. These fabrics are smooth, luxurious, and irresistible to his touch. He loves how they glide over your skin and how they feel beneath his fingertips.

He loves classic, timeless lingerie: lacy bras with garter belts, high-cut panties that highlight your legs, and elegant teddies that hug every curve. Think luxury brands and couture pieces that scream sensuality.

Occasionally, Sylus surprises you with bolder, risqué styles: Cage-style bras with open backs, strappy bodysuits that playfully expose just enough skin, lingerie with sheer panels, leaving little to the imagination.

He doesn’t tear or rush; instead, he carefully folds each piece, placing it aside after everything is said and done. “I’ll want to see this on you again.” he explains with a sly smirk

Sylus doesn’t stop at gifting you a single set. Every outfit in your closet has a matching pair of lingerie. You’ll find lingerie for every occasion. Sylus alwayssurprise you with a box containing lingerie hidden among other extravagant gifts—fine jewelry, luxurious robes, or even a custom-made vanity to store your collection: “Maybe my luck is not be so bad if I am the only man who gets to see you in these, sweetie.”

For Sylus, lingerie isn’t just for the bedroom. He loves seeing you lounge in one of his tailored sets, reclining on his sofa as you read or listen to music together. Sylus is content to let his hands roam over the satin, enjoying the feel of it warmed by your skin. “Stay like this,” he’ll say softly, his voice a mix of command and yearning. “I want to keep you close.”

True to his nature, Sylus has a habit of keeping little trophies. He has a drawer in one of his private residences dedicated to these keepsakes  as a reminder of your shared moments. If you ever catch him in the act of placing something there, he’ll simply shrug with a sly grin. “Can you blame me? I keep what’s mine.”

His Reaction:

When you step into the room wearing something he’s chosen for you, Sylus’ composed exterior falters, just slightly. His gaze darkens, and his lips curl into a small, satisfied smirk. He’ll take a slow step toward you, one hand tucked casually in his pocket, the other reaching out to trail a finger down the silk, letting it rest against your hip.

Without hesitation, he’ll scoop you into his arms, carrying you effortlessly to where he wants you—be it the bedroom, his grand leather chair in the study, or even the chaise lounge in front of the fireplace. “I’m not letting you out of my sight when you like this.”

Sylus never tears your lingerie—he unwraps you like the most precious gift, his hands moving with reverent care. “You deserve to be savored, not rushed.” he whispers, his gaze locked on you. He’ll seat you on his lap or lay you down, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate movements along the fabric. The lingerie is not just for his pleasure, it is for yours as well.  

CALEB

Caleb prefers lingerie that’s just for him—sexy yet teasing, revealing enough to drive him mad but covering just enough to make him desperate.

Caleb gravitates toward sleek, understated sensuality. He favors deep, alluring colors like navy, black, and dark burgundy, shades that hint at elegance but still feel undeniably intimate. However, he has a soft spot for delicate lilacs and soft purples, especially when they complement your skin.

Minimal but devastatingly effective designs have him on edge. Thin straps barely holding everything together, high-cut panties that accentuate your legs, delicate bralettes that are more about aesthetics than practicality. He loves when the details like lace appliques or ribbon ties demand his attention. Anything he can tug, unravel, or ruin.

Let’s be real. Caleb is not a man who delicately undresses you. He’s been patient his entire life, watching, waiting, restraining himself. The moment you’re finally his? He’s not taking his time. “You knew what would happen when you put this on, didn’t you?” His voice is low, rough—before the sound of tearing lace fills the room.

If you ever wonder why pieces of your lingerie mysteriously disappear, don’t. Caleb takes them when you’re not looking, slipping them into his uniform pockets or luggage when he’s preparing for deployment. He’s possessive, obsessive, and when he’s away on fleet missions, he wants something of yours to keep with him. A delicate lace garter? A silk chemise you once wore to bed? He’ll tuck them away like trophies, running his fingers over them late at night, mind filled with thoughts of you.

He’s a man who gives gifts with purpose. He knows exactly what you want, and he knows what he wants. If he’s getting you that plushie you mentioned offhandedly, or the book you’ve been dying to read, you will find a carefully wrapped lingerie set alongside it. Every gift is a two-for-one deal—his way of spoiling you while satisfying his own desires. Tucked inside, there’s always a note with cheeky messages: "Making dinner tonight. But if you wear this, you'll be the dessert."

Caleb is the picture of patience in public. He knows what you’re wearing underneath your dress—he saw you put it on, watched every slow movement in the mirror. But he doesn’t let it show. Not a single twitch of his lips, not a single shift in his stance. He leans down, lips brushing your ear, his voice impossibly calm: “You’re going to regret this later.”

There is one thing that drives him past the point of no return— his clothes on you. Seeing you in his oversized shirt is one thing, but if he catches you lounging in his boxers? He’s done. His fingers dig into the waistband, his voice a rough whisper against your ear. “You must really like testing me, huh?” His breath is hot against your neck, his hands already tugging the waistband lower. Any plans you had for the day? Gone.

His Reaction:

When you step into the room, wearing something meant just for him, his expression darkens immediately. There’s a brief flicker of something feral in his purple eyes—desire, possessiveness, raw hunger. He doesn’t say a word at first, just stands there, his breath held. “You expect me to behave after this?” His patience is frayed, and it's clear he’s barely holding onto his composure.

Try to tease him, make him work for it and he’ll let you, for a moment. He enjoys the chase, the way you think you’re in control. But the moment he decides he’s had enough? You’re done for. One second, he’s watching you with quiet intensity, and the next, you’re beneath him, your wrists pinned, your breath stolen by the sheer force of his presence.

When he touches you, it’s as if he can’t get enough—his fingers move with purpose, reverence, but there’s an undeniable urgency. “You’re mine. Always.” And with that, his lips crash against yours, taking what’s his. There’s no gentle teasing here—this is pure, unfiltered desire. It’s clear there’s no going back now. You’ve pushed him past the point of no return. The soft, teasing lace may have been your choice—but now everything that happens from there is his.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

taglist: @cordidy

[kismetlotts]

cw: angst, mentions of sex, best friend Simon Riley, mentions of knives, mentions of hurting yourself but no implications of actually doing so or having done in the past, mentions of cheating, mentions of alcohol, clueless Simon Riley, crying in each others arms, helping out your best friend, reader is self less

part 2 of Best Friend Simon Riley Angst (I recommend reading part one first to understand certain elements better)

You woke up in the morning, daylight shining through your curtains and you already knew it wasn’t sunshine- bound to be nothing but grey clouds out there, flooding the sky like a polluted ocean. Your nose and head ached in the silent flood of last nights memories, your crying, your actions and worst of all, your best friend.

Oh Simon, what a dickhead you were. Why did you have to come here?

Your body flushed against the cold sheets behind you, a weightless bed, giving you the impression he’d done a runner. Typical him honestly- you wouldn’t be surprised if that was what initiated their breakup; the same breakup that was at fault for all of this.

He was always so forward, front and confrontational within the field. The notorious ‘Ghost’ that installs fear in every enemy he has to face. He’s a fighter at work but ironically, in life, all he knew was how to retreat. Pull away before he can cause anymore damage, pull out before the mess gets bigger.

You flung the covers off you, their pretty, pink, innocent pattern already making vomit surface in your throat. He’d flopped down on that bedding countless times in the past: memories which made it hurt more came to mind. The knives that were already jammed in your gut, heart and what’s seemed as your brain, twisting a little deeper before freezing up in place.

You remembered the times when his body would accidentally fling you around the mattress, grunting and smirking while he settle down and got comfy. You remembered the way his fingers tapped on the cotton as he leaned over to see what you were looking at on your phone. Nosy but never prying in too much.

Imagining how you looked when you watched his hand sweep across the duvet on movie night, pushing every crumb onto your bedroom floor with a laugh and an apology leaving his lips. His hands, shooting into the air as he surrendered in playful shame. Not really paying attention as your voice scolded him for eating in your bed.

Your fingers stripped the bedding from its covers. Tossing them into a pile on the floor beside your laundry basket, the sheets so stained with both of your sweat and dirt from the situation, your nose scrunched up at the sight. You left it there ready to put in the wash later.

Though, a part of you can’t help but wonder if they will ever feel as clean as they did before.

If they’ll ever give you the warm, comforting sensation you got every night before nodding off to sleep. Would you ever hear their soft cries to slip back in bed when you wake up early for work? The covers flopped back in agony, silently pleading for you to come back and have five more minutes?

No. Now they just feel like you never got out of that bed, the duvet still wrapped around your body keeping you hostage and forcing you to go about your day. The weight of everything on your shoulders enough for you to trip and fall on the material.

You’d burn them if they weren’t so big.

The whole thing was absolutely ridiculous, why the fuck did you let it happen anyway? The sex with him wasn’t anything like you’d wished or dreamed of nor would it have never been.

He didn’t love you but something inside you obviously can’t comprehend that. Every chance you get to show or pretend that the two of you were more than what you were- you’d leap for it: eyes sparkling with the same hope a lost kid has.

He used you last night and you let him like the pathetic, lovesick loser you always were. It wasn’t sex, it was nothing more than a mere distraction and waste of time. A waste of his time, more hassle just for him.

Your fingers wrapped around your smooth doorknob as you pushed open your bedroom door, trailing into the kitchen before an aroma of pancake batter and fresh baking gripped you by the throat. Your big eyes meeting Simons, his familiar, large figure pressed against your kitchen counter as he sucked on his bottom lip.

His face was pale and his brown pupils never left the plate of fucked up pancakes, left on a placemat on the table.

You laughed. You laughed because you couldn’t trust anything else to come out- You couldn’t trust that you wouldn’t break down crying, that you wouldn’t scream or hurt yourself in front of him, that you wouldn’t wince at this- idiotic gesture.

Was this an apology? Was this all you meant to him? A plate of sweet treats you’d have to force yourself to eat, to swallow down and help you forget everything bad that happened. Maybe, or perhaps it was pure coincidence it summed up his perspective of the night; perfectly.

“Did you make me pancakes?” The tremble and nerves in your voice was apparent and he nodded slowly, gesturing to the massive bag of groceries on the countertop.

“With berries and sugar on top. I’ve got some other things here though, chocolate- all kinds, some syrup and honey and other fruit in that bag if you want any. I just added berries because I know they’re your favourite.” He rambled on.

“When did I tell you that?” Your head turned to the side, twitching in uncertainty as you sat down in front of the plate. Eyes squinting as you bit the inside of your cheek.

“You said when we…-oh.”

That’s not her, Simon.

His hand lifted to his eyes, rubbing them to avoid looking anywhere. The rise and fall of his chest grew faster and you just knew how is heart felt, flooding with guilt and embarrassment at his own actions.

Staying mad at him was hard when you knew him so well. Mistakes get made and feeling get trampled on but he wasn’t a bad person. That’s why you fell for him all that time ago.

The knife in your hand cut through the pancakes like butter, your posture up straight and distant from the plate while your appetite warned you not to bite. Your eyes flickered over to Simon again, seeing his hands still firmly placed over his eyes, broad shoulders retracted inwards as his body jolted in silent cries. The metal rattled against the table as you put the knife down and jumped out of your chair.

“Simon don’t do this-“ You spoke comfortingly, lunging over towards his body. Your soft skin met with the roughness of his arm but before you could say another word he shoved your body away from him.

A voice you’d never heard before coming out loud and brute, as you took a step back from his harsh rejection.

“Can you just fuck off trying to make me feel better constantly- I know i’ve fucked up and I know i’ve upset you. Stop acting like everything is alright when it isn’t, you do this every time- i’m not a kid!” His fist clawed at his shirt. Pulling it away from his chest as if he wanted to rip his heart out to stop the torture he was suffering.

Spit flew from his mouth and his eyes looked red, sunken with despair. Your voice died in your mouth, tongue soaking up all your saliva and you tried to swallow.

He was lost. He ruined the thing he needed the most- fucked about and caused chaos with his lifeline. You were his saviour and always had been. He didn’t need for you to fix his relationship or his problems, he needed you to fix him. He didn’t sleep with you to use you intentionally, it was a drunken mistake and a shitty timing.

He inhaled through his mouth, his throat croaking as he gripped the counter for stabilisation. Face was locked down to the floor, glued and staring at his shoes on your kitchen floor.

The drops of his tears on the black leather of his boots and the drops on your tiles reminding him of how pathetic he was being. He was a man, he worked in the military. He had slept with people before, cheated, and ruined relationships but nothing hurt like this hurt. Nothing knocked him down so hard he was afraid to get back up, he was afraid to lose you. Simon was scared.

“I made a mistake and I’m so fucking sorry. I don’t know what I can even do to make it up to you- fucking pancakes- it is stupid I should know better and I should know what to do but I-” The whiteness in his knuckles disappeared as he lessened his grip on the counter. Hands falling to his side as he broke down on the spot.

The hard armour he lived in unraveling like flimsy pieces of ribbon. His wet eyelashes hitting his cheeks as he wiped his nose and face on the back of his wrist.

“I can’t think. I can’t be me without you here and I don’t know what to do, please, i’m so sorry just please come back to me. I know i’ve lost a part of you and I will fight until the end of day to get it back, but for now just let me have the rest back. I need my best friend back.” His hands met your lower back as you flung your arms around his neck, your own eyes dripping with tears of outrage and hurt but above all you needed Simon too.

You sobbed silently into his shoulder as he held you close to him finally getting his breathing back to normal. You bit your lips shut and breathed slowly so he couldn’t feel your body shake for air. You didn’t want him to realise how much you were struggling in his arms- how lost and abused you felt. You didn’t want your emotions to worsen his because he had to come first.

He’d lost the love of his life and he needs someone to be strong for him, help him get on his own feet. Be beside him with wide arms and a welcoming face. It wasn’t him being selfish, it was something you had to understand Simon to understand.

The two of you stayed like that for a moment before you hesitantly sat down and talked. It was a long talk hidden by cheap smiles and forced laughter but of course, he didn’t catch on. You let him speak, you gave him advice- hugged it out and as weeks passed by, the two of you were back to normality again.

He’d found a new girl quicker than you thought he wouldn’t, pretty girl and ironically she your figure and eye colour. The more you watched them interact the more they seemed to happy together, kissing, hugging, buying each other gifts. It felt just like how it was before.

Back to Simon and his lovesick best friend that will always be there for him even if he’s never there for her. Back to Simon and his awful dating life as he hops from one awful breakup to the next because they all are missing something.

All he wants, is girl with your hair colour. A girl with your eye colour and your smile. All he longs for is a girl that he can hold hands with but can also roll his eyes at when she teases him for being too cheesy. He wants a girl who can laugh and joke with him but still support him and by there for him in more ways than one. Not just a girlfriend but almost as if a best friend at the same time. That’s all he wants and asks the world for but for some reason she just isn’t out there for him.

And until he realises why he looks for you in every girl he meets. Until he steps back and opens his eyelids to everything right in front of him. She won’t ever be.

[luveline]

hey jade!!! do u think we can get a little something with bombshell and spencer 🙏🙏 missing them

—you and spencer get serious. 1.3k

“So,” you say, holding two hands behind your back, shoulders tight in a vague attempt at flirting, “come here often?” 

“To Austin?” Spencer nods. “This is the tenth time we’ve been in the last five years.”

“Big city. Thirteenth most populous city in the entire country, right? That’s a lot of crime.”

Spencer smiles approvingly. “Right.” 

“At least this one was easy.” 

You’re standing in the sunshine outside of a bar near the hangar, waiting for the jet to finish loading, the rest of the team inside drinking a round of well-earned drinks. Spencer was in good spirits but didn’t seem to love the ruckus, so you’d made some excuse about feeling light-headed and promised you’d be alright as long as Spencer came outside with you. 

You don’t not feel dizzy. You’ve been under the weather all week. Spencer’s concern has had moments of obviousness. He’s roped it in for now, only evidence of his worry the lack of space between you. 

You’re enjoying the game you’re playing for now. You lovingly ignore him. “What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?” 

“Uh, trying to get home, honestly.” 

“Yeah?” 

“See, I know this girl,” he says, his voice a soft pattern of itself, “and she’s– she’s great. She really is. She’s smart, and she’s beautiful, and she’s stubborn as a mule when she wants to be. She won’t let me take care of her out here. I’m hoping when we get back, she’ll let me take her home. So I can look after her.” He has no intention of playing the ignoring game with you. 

“Stubborn as a mule,” you murmur, leaning back against the bar’s brick exterior, lulled into security by his voice, and the sweet breeze that passes over you, the right side of cold as the sun begins to set behind the buildings across the street and beyond. 

“You like that one?” 

“No. Not my favourite comparison.” 

Spencer holds his hand out across the way, palm up but low, his fingers still. “Stubborn,” he says as you slip your hand into his, “but in a good way.” 

“…I don’t need you to take care of me,” you say softly. 

“But I want to.” 

You don’t know why you’ve been struggling with Spencer lately. It certainly isn’t something he’s done wrong, and it’s not the first time he’s wanted to look after you. But things between you are looking serious. Just a few weeks ago you took the ‘next step’, long overdue, and you told him you loved him. You do. 

“If I did something–”

You wince and he stops. You knew he’d bring it up eventually, but it doesn’t make it hurt less. What a mess you’re making. “You didn’t do anything,” you say. 

“Are you sure?” 

“No, Spencer, it’s not you, really, it’s not, it’s me–”

The face he makes is of unbridled horror. You’re worried he’ll snatch his hand back. He squeezes tighter. “What are you saying?” he asks, his frown a pout that turns your heart. 

“I’m not breaking up with you. I’m sorry, that was a fright wasn’t it?” you ask, squeezing him too, pulling at him as you slip against his side. Your faces are close enough to kiss. “Not breaking up. I can’t describe how much I don’t want that.” 

“But?” he asks. 

“But… there’s been some chafing, lately, on my end.” 

“‘Cos of me?” 

“Aw, Spencer,” you murmur, turning your front into his side as you hold your free hand over his heart, “no, baby. No… No, it’s not because of you, or– it’s not your fault. I was alone for a while before you, and I guess being sick just reminded me that things are different.” 

“And you don’t like it?” 

“Spencer, please,” you plead gently, rubbing your thumb against his chest. “You haven’t done anything wrong. I love you–”

“I love you.” 

“–and I’m not asking for anything here, not space, not for you to change, I just want to tell you how I’ve been feeling so you can stop confusing it for something you might’ve done wrong.” 

Some days being with Spencer feels like you’re the same soul in two different bodies. It’s moments like this that remind you of how human he is, the depth of his feelings, and how much he cares about you —how much you can affect his life. He’s frowning like he’s not far from tears and you regret ever bringing it up in the first place, but you have to finish now. 

“It’s scary, for me, sometimes, to be with you,” you say eventually. 

“For me, too.” 

“I worry I’ll get used to you and one day I won’t have you.” 

“I promise you will,” he says. 

“But you don’t know that.” 

“For however long you’ll let me have you, you can have me,” he says simply. 

You tease a line into his chest with your two fingertips. “I love how you look after me. There’s nothing like it. I fall asleep sick and I wake up knowing you’re there to make me a cup of tea, and to help me shower when my head’s hurting, you don’t let me down. You know that?” 

“So why can’t I look after you tonight?” he asks, eyes dark as pine tar. 

“You can. You think I’m not going home with you?” 

“I wasn’t sure.” 

“Please let me come home with you.” 

Spencer lets his forehead drop gently against yours. The breeze runs a loop around your legs and cools your too-warm shoulders, pulling your blouse from clammy skin. For a while, you wait for him to speak, but when he doesn’t you figure you’ve overwhelmed him with your confession, maybe you’ve upset him. 

He rubs the tips of your noses together slightly. 

“Are you still dizzy?” 

“No.” Your voice is a croak. “I’m sorry.”

“For what, being scared of the future? It’s okay.” 

“I think it sounded like it was your fault.” 

“I won’t take it that way if you don’t mean it like that,” he promises. “I just want to look after you, angel. I want to be with you. I’m scared all the time that one day I won’t have you, but then you smile at me or you–” He laughs. “You tug on my hair trying to make me kiss you and I don’t feel that way for a while. I’m sorry if I made you worry.”

“The only thing that worries me is life.” 

“Not much you can do about that,” he says.

“I know. I didn’t mean for it to get to you, too.”

He makes a nice humming sound, says, “I want you to feel better, and come home with me, and I don’t really care if I have to beg. You know I will.” 

“You should know you don’t have to beg for anything. Not from me.” 

Spencer’s hand comes up to your neck. He holds it carefully, pressing the soft of his cheek against your temple, the other hand working its way behind your back. “And you’re worried I might leave you?” he asks, laughing bashfully as he presses two kisses to whatever bit of skin he can fin, the side of your nose and the soft well under your eye. “When you’re saying stuff like that to me? In public?” 

“It’s hardly the worst thing I’ve said to you in public.” 

Spencer pulls away to meet your eyes. He's smiling. Worry and love line his gaze. “Do you wanna go find something to eat before we leave?”

“Yeah,” you nod, trying hard not to smile ear to ear. “Let’s go eat.” 

[4mrplumi]

( crow choir. entry one ) ── dust of snow ( m.s | prev/next )

author's note at the end

you have three brothers- no, two brothers. you’ve only heard of the third. you can hardly think of them as such, feeling traitorous to your old family… families. but you are also a lonely child, so you give them permission to be props of your plain life.

the eldest, with stark blue eyes and dimples at his near-permanent smiles is named richard grayson. he’d given you a warm grin the day you arrived, that somewhat wavered at the blank look you hoped you gave him. you don’t talk to him, but sometimes you wish you did.

you know nothing of the second, apart from his first name; jason. the usual answers to unasked questions, that piece together via general conversations, don’t form here, and you can’t be bothered to ask. you wonder where he is, does he not come to visit?

the youngest of the three is younger than you too, tim drake the butler says, by maybe one or two years, you never tried to figure it out. he came to the house about a few months after you arrived, but seems far more involved with bruce’s business than you ever will be (ever hope to be). there’s a familiar twitch to his brows, and you relate it to old inquisitive roommates, the ones that tried to figure you out without asking questions and always gave up eventually. 

it's a relief he doesn't even try at all.

it does feel a little odd, to not have to talk to anyone just to shoo them away. you strangely miss it, the feeling of being irritated at bothersome small talk. in the silence of the manor, which had not much for a child to do, you start to feel lonely

you've never felt lonely before. alone, yes, isolated, absolutely, but lonely? you've never wanted company. not from anyone who wasn't... forget it.

and thus, you're in an odd situation. you want to be a part of the family, but you have no interest in talking to them. why, the mere idea makes you sweat all over, and you prefer your few meals in your room.

you don't like it. wanting so badly to converse with your brothers, get to know them the way you knew your old previous foster-care siblings, but not being able to.

in your old houses, the children would be somewhat put into forced proximity, there was no choice other than to call out for company. you'd gotten absurdly used to being reached out to without having to do it yourself. your brothers must be busy, or you must be too quiet for them to notice you around.

so with all the courage you could muster, you crept up to an idle older brother, visiting after so long from bludhaven. you might implode from the short moment where he looked at you with confusion, not knowing who you are, before giving you a awkward smile of acknowledgement. no matter, it's not his fault.

he nods off your subtle attempt at asking for his time, maybe you're not being clear enough? it's enough to put you off, so you leave quickly after he gives you a small promise to talk later, maybe get out of the house for a while.

it's such a small thing, but it makes you embarrassed. you try to build up a little stubbornness, and look to find tim. but when you find him immersed deeply in a book, a journal of some sort, you decide otherwise and leave.

it's okay. you'll try again! when you're feeling better. better and livelier.

livelier.

your patterned quilt does little to keep away the monstrous cold of gotham's winter nights, and does it wreck though your nerves and leave you shivering.

the butler; alfred, had given you a good understanding of the room's systems, yet another thing that'd take time to get used to, and you knew the switches that would connect your vents to the central heating system.

but it feels so surreal, and the familiarity of huddling into your own ice cold limbs for warmth is a comfort you can't let go off just yet. you mustn't allow these new privileges to make you forget who you are. what you are, and what you deserve.

you recall a young boy in one of your old homes, discussing earnestly with your 'sisters' about what he'd do if he had all of gotham's money. the prospect of being filthy rich had always irked you to a small degree, to be well-off when others struggle. was it guilt? 

he'd gone on and on about the different things he'd get. a curly-haired poodle, a shining red bicycle, clothes that made him look like a proper gentleman, from a gentler city. you wonder solemnly where he is now, wishing you could share the fortunes you've been shoved into with him. someone who wanted it, deserved it.

deserving... deserving something is odd. whatever makes an individual deserving of something? the hardships they recieve, and the hardships they pass out?

you don’t remember your mother, having gained metaphorical consciousness at the age of six, when your sister started taking care of you instead. you made out from her teary, drunk mumblings that she was an awfully sophisticated woman. she’d colour herself with red blushes and redder lip stains, wear family jewels she refused to sell to her ‘business’ meetings. thin-framed glasses with the eyes of a vixen’s. 

what your sister muttered most about was her many nights away from home. one-sided conversations that plunged a small anchor to your heart, because you knew you were a product of one of them. 

when she was in a bitter mood, your sister never shied away from berating you for your existence. she, unlike you, was born in wedlock. yes, to an unhappy couple, who threw picture frames and cheap souvenirs at each other before splitting up, but she knew her father.

a ridiculously strange thing to hold above one’s head. “i knew my absent father. no one knows yours.” but your depraved heart and dull mind took it so deeply. so, so deeply. 

were those hardships? did you deserve them? others have it worse, right? so do you deserve this? this wealth?

now that you do know your father, you can’t help but resent the idea of knowing. did he know? that he left his child to an unbecoming family and an irresponsible sister? did he know that the guilt of starving your sister to eat yourself made you so incredibly weak-minded at the idea of being full? did he know that you refuse to switch the heater on in the cold, because you don’t know if your old foster siblings got the same luxury? all while the elites of gotham stay in their glasshouses with their rose gardens and wine cupboards.

you can’t put your finger to it. it’s not jealousy, it’s not resentment, it’s not hatred for his absence so far… is it guilt?

you don't know what to do with this abundance of luxury. you’ve lived a lifetime of pet mice from old caretakers, mice that died from the dust that creeped out of cracked floor boards and owls that haunted your window sills. a lifetime of reminiscing about a sobbing woman in your apartment, thinking about all your promises of providing a better life for her, only for her to die in front your eyes. a lifetime of wondering why mommy didn’t come back. why daddy's never there. who daddy even is.

someone else should have it. someone else should have the option to ask the butler for a piece of chocolate pastry at an odd time. to know about their father after countless days of not knowing him. to feel pretty in new dress suits after years of wearing the same two sets of clothes every week.

someone who deserves it more.

your sister.

you miss her.

small events make you change too fast for even your own liking. small things made you so desperately attached to your big sister, small things made you so frightened, so ill, to try to talk to brothers who barely knew you only by your shadow. small things made you tolerate your father more, and mourn the fact you couldn't ever connect to him the way the others did.

small, small things. that troubeled you too much, made you decide it was time to leave. running away from reality in the comfort of your mind when you zone out, is not much different from physically running away, right? troublesome things are not worth the trouble. so you'll run away, and you'll be free. of duties you were never given.

yet another one of gotham’s teenage misfortunes. who leaves a home of riches with a light mind, with the desires of soaring through lost years in gotham like the daftest of pigeons, with no worries or vows. they leave a home of blood and bonds with a heavy heart, lamenting that this time, the choice to leave a permanent, forever family lay on them. they left unspoken conversations unsaid, and imaginary memories within their imagination.

...but, these conversations, these fake memories, become the objects of obsession, for those left behind.

where's the little crow who stalked the corridors, whose naive, cloudy eyes watched from behind walls?

alfred, where's (name)?

INTERACTIONS AND REBLOGS VV APPRECIATED !! incase it was unclear, the sections jump around in the timeline. i did want to leave it to reader interpretation, but since this is the footer, there's no harm in explaining. "you have three brothers..." and "your patterned quilt does little..." are interchangeable within the plot. both are placed after tim's given the mantle of robin, but before jason's re-entry as the red hood. the last part however, is well after both, and damian's entry. anyway you can consider this entry as like, a vague plot summary? there's a lot that happens in between and after, most of the story is about after, but i like setting the ground for this stuff.

once again, if you are interested in the series, do interact! comments, reblogs, etc are so appriciated, to anyone who posts on tumblr! i'll try to get the next entry in soon, but i can't confirm anything!

thank you for reading!!

[bombuni]

Did.... did you say stuck-porn scenario San?? I'm gonna need that asap please👀 your writing is so yummylicious it's not even funny

rock & a hard place

summary: your roommate lends a helping hand. genre/pairing: roommate!san x fem!reader warnings: smut 18+ mdni, softdom!san x reader, unwanted creampie, kinda size kink, slight dubcon, so pls read with caution :) bom note: me writing jongho smut after jongho smut and forcing myself to write other member smut - i can’t put down the cup, i can’t put down the cup💔💔

You’re humiliated.

You’re not sure how you managed to fit your entire front half into the dryer, but the panic inside you is rising with every second that passes. The confined space of the machine is only making it worse as you try to fight your way out. Seriously, you swore this was only something that happens in porn.

You can’t even reach your phone. The last resort, the most embarrassing one, is to call your roommate.

Your voice is quiet at first, embarrassment shrouding your entirety. San is an understanding sweetheart, you know that, but he is unfortunately also one of the most handsome men you’ve seen. To have him seeing you like this, with practically naked in just your panties and bent over is what the kids call ‘an aura-loss.’

He comes running the second time you call for him, hearing the panic in your voice, “Are yo-ah.”

San covers his eyes at first, taken aback by the sight of your naked body. Even though you can’t see him gawking, he still feels too awkward to do it unashamedly. Your little plump ass is literally on display for him, in your adorable Hello Kitty patterned panties, and he can’t help it when his face sets on fire. Or when his shorts grow tight.

Hearing the realization in his voice only makes you want to disappear even more, “I’m so sorry, San, I was just getting my clothes. I don’t know how I got stuck.”

He’s still frozen in place and scared to touch you, “Don’t be sorry. I’m just-uhh. How do you want me to get you…out?”

San tries to psych himself up behind you, softly slapping himself as if that’ll get rid of his raging boner. He can’t rip his eyes away from your ass.

“Just-do what you need to, San.”

With your permission, San grabs your hips firmly. His hands send electrifying tingles throughout your body, but you have no choice but to ignore it. You don’t realize that San is fighting the same urge behind you, squeezing your hips and caressing your skin under the pretense that he’s finding a better grip. He never noticed how soft your skin is until now.

He pulls once, to no avail. The second time, he accidentally bumps against you with the force he uses. San mutters out a swear at the feeling, almost cumming right then and there. His hard-on isn’t helping, with every little inch he moves he’s in jeopardy of letting you know how hard he is.

But, he can’t help himself. You’re just so tempting, if anything it’s your fault for walking around like this. He rubs himself once on you, playing it off as an accidental touch, but he immediately needs more once he feels you. He’s dizzy with need, dizzy with you, and he just can’t resist the climbing urge he’s feeling to seize this opportunity you’ve presented him with.

San keens over, leaning onto the dryer in front of him, “Sh-shit,”

You feel him. You feel his desperate cock, his hot breath against your back, and the growing heat of his entire body. He feels your body shudder at the size of his bulge as it presses against you and he can’t help but think that maybe you want this just as bad as he does.

San tentatively inserts his fingers under the band of your panties, “Just-need better grip-hah-okay?”

“W-wait, San!”

He pulls your underwear off with one swift tug, groaning when he sees your slick glistening in the dim light. You’re shaking and he can’t help but find your little pathetic pleads adorable.

“You won’t get out of here until I help. So just let me help you, okay?”

He sounds so beautiful when he’s desperate and needy, and there’s really nothing you can do but submit to him. You don’t have time to react before you feel the cold metal of his rings rubbing through your folds. You hear his breathy moans as he continues exploring you, feel his shaky fingers trying their hardest to hold back. His other hand struggles to hurriedly get himself out of his sweatpants, already leaking and tip red with need. You suddenly feel San’s lips on the small of your back. A kind warning kiss, you fear, for what’s to come.

He whispers gently, as if trying not to scare you off, “You just can’t be walking around like this and expect not to be fucked, baby,”

The sound of his soft, gentle voice is like a key to your soul. You reply just as gently, “I know, Sannie, ‘m sorry…”

He drags his cock over your folds, surprising you. You can’t see what he’s doing, so every time he touches you it’s a complete shock to your senses. He seems to enjoy your little shivers and nervous shakes. He likes to see how vulnerable you are, how he’s in complete control of you and everything that’s happening to you. San keeps dragging himself between you, collecting your juices on himself.

He seems to drown in this feeling, swallowing every quiet whine you give and using it to fuel his domineering air, “Really, you did this on purpose-shit-just to get me to fuck your brains out. Why didn’t you just ask, dolly?”

“It wasn’t on purpose…”

“So cute. Your little, wet pussy is dripping, baby. You like this, don’t you? You like it when I force you to get fucked?”

San doesn’t even give you the chance to respond before sliding his cock inside of you. He shushes you when you complain, holding your arms back and still so you don’t hurt yourself. Although he likes watching your little shakes of defiance, how adorably useless you are against him. He soothes you through the stretch of him, groaning alongside your whines as he feels you suck him in.

He bottoms out, whining as you clench around his length, “No, no, dolly, quit that. I’ll cum in your tiny pussy, we don’t want that, do we?”

You aggressively shake your head as San starts to fuck you, all caution thrown to the wind with his harsh thrusts. You’re embarrassed by your loud squelching, but you hardly have time to think about that with San’s length hitting practically every inch of your insides. His moans are adorably whiny, breathy as the barely-there restraint leaves his body and he fucks you with even more vigor. He’s spurred on by the feeling of your tiny body against his, your pathetic attempts of freeing yourself only adding to his pleasure.

“Hah-you’re so tight, sweetheart. I really can’t help myself, might have to claim you forever,”

“S-sannie, no, I said no-“

He’s rabid in his taking of you, holding your wrists tight as he grows closer to the edge, “Oh, god, you’re so cute, this tiny, little pussy’s gonna be mine forever-“

“San!”

San holds your hips tight, fingernails digging into your skin and moaning sweetly as he pulls you into him, his cum flowing freely inside you. He pulls so hard in the haze of his orgasm that your entire body falls back with the force and onto him.

He’s still in the throes of his orgasm, yelping as you fall onto him and he lands on the floor. It’s cold against his ass cheeks, and he’s blushing hard once the post-nut realization hits that he came so hard he managed to pop you out. San decides this is probably on his list of worst orgasms.

Your face is flushed as you turn to him, “That’s what you get for cumming inside.”

He has the decency to look sheepish, “Sorry…”

[priestessame]

♠.. 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐫𝐧 (。々°）

.. minors dni ..

NSFW drabble, Fem AFAB reader. Warnings: Slow burn, dirty talk, pet-play? (≖ᴗ≖ ✿)

It is difficult to get him jealous, nearly impossible. Sylus is far too secure, it stemmed from his astute sense of self. After all, he's built everything from the ground up, crawled himself out of hell to get where he is now and woven wealth out of shadows. In every way and more, Sylus is the uncrowned king of the N109 zone, so a man that's so self made just cannot be thawed with insecurity.

Until ofcourse, you showed up.

Jealousy had always been something trivial for him, but around you it sneaked up so easily, it was alarming. Even the politest of smiles and the most innocent glances had him clenching his fists.

Most people would fidget under prying eyes, twiddling thumbs and shuffling when they feel people's gazes. But nothing really bothered Sylus. He never felt the urge to act a certain way in the presence of others, he was too used to having the gazes on him. Unfortunately nowadays, the gazes seemed to shift past his form, pinning on someone he had on his arm. All of a sudden he was hyper aware of everything. He would find himself slipping an arm around your waist, tugging you closer to whisper in your ear and pressing a ghost of a kiss against the nape of your neck. You were his, and the prying eyes had to know that.

That man is too proud to actually admit that he is jealous. He tries to play it off, his arrogant smile not faltering for a second, disliking how he's letting his emotions get the better of him. And he knows it's no fault of his beloved, so he tries to find other ways to channel those... urges.

You would think he'd have you kneeling immediately but Sylus' jealousy isn't harsh on you. Its all pearls and silk. This time it started with a gift.

His gift stands to true to the way he usually addresses you. It's fancy, and frilly, with a golden bell seemingly sewn into it. Yup. The more you look at it, the more it looks like a fucking cat collar.

The collar is crafted from lace and it sits delicately against your skin. The bell jingles as he pulls you closer, tracing the lovely pattern with his fingers. The touch is harmless but it still sends shivers down your spine.

"It suites you kitten." He hums. His fingers glide under your jaw, turning your face ever so lightly to press a kiss on the corner of your mouth. His scent crawls over you, grazing your skin as if its ghosting over your soul. He seems drained of his usual impatience, practically purring as he peeled each item of clothing leisurely, lips barely touching your skin.

It pins you in the moment, forcing you to feel the ebbing need as each second passes by. Its torturous how he touches you then, featherlight kisses over your skin, and praises that have you blushing under him. He knows how to please you so well, but he teases you too much fingers never pressing down hard enough, only glazing off your sensitive parts.

By the times he's done, he only left the collar on you.

His fingers trailed down your stomach, "Maybe i should have gotten you kitty-ears and a tail too. What now? you're squeezing your pussy at just me saying that?" He says, his tone makes you squeeze your legs together, his cranberry eyes drink up your bare frame. The gaze itself felt smiting, the imprint of his cock straining his trousers painfully taunt. 

But every time you fingers reach to slide up his cock, he just peels your fingers away, clicking his tongue, "Don't make me pin you down with my evol, sweetie. You don't get to touch me today."  

It was just too much, it has you griding your raw cunt against his clothed bulge, as you plead him to fuck you. To let you cum on his fingers or mouth, but he wasn't giving you that privilege today. Within moments he has his evolve pressing your wrists into the bed as he drags his veiny cock along your folds, the swollen tip rubbing up against your clit in a pang of momentary pleasure before he drew back again. It builds your pleasure painfully close to your release, only to pull away entirely later. 

It makes you whine, buckling your hips back for more friction. Even though he had even traded his usual filth for overbearing praises, they somehow sounded even dirtier than usual. When he finally gave in to you, he wants you finishing on his cock with your cute collar jingling with every stroke.

It is difficult to get him jealous, nearly impossible. But when he does, he finds his salvation in way you desperately beg for him, fisting his hair as he drags his tongue over your folds, in all the times the act is breathless and needy and in how hard your walls grip him as he fucks into you. As he sees you sprawled for him, juices dripping down on his silk sheets eyeing him with that overstimulated lovesick gaze, so fucked out but still begging him to fill you up again, his jealousy is finally satiated. 

Not to mention he'd love if you pick out a matching dog collar for him later, something with spikes that spells his name out in diamonds.

♠

[potter-imagines]

Brat (Satoru Gojo x Reader)

Prompt: Satoru and his girlfriend Y/n are in an argument over his celebrity crush on Inoue Waka. Y/n is ignoring Satoru which absolutely drives him crazy.

Pairing: Satoru x reader

Warnings: some swearing, light light light smut (making out), gojo being gojo

Word Count: 7k

Notes: this is set broadly around season 2 episode 2 plot, with some clear changes from the original episode. riko and suguru are included.

“You changed your home screen?” Suguru commented nonchalantly. He took notice of the sudden alteration to his friend’s phone almost immediately. The difference wasn’t hard to spot seeing as the last two years all Satoru had used for his background images were various photos of his girlfriend, Y/n, whom he loved showing off.

Suguru was accustomed to the photos being circulated in a never ending pattern, Y/n and Satoru at the beach, Y/n in a scandalous position she beat him into removing, Y/n sleeping on his chest, Y/n and him sharing sweets, Y/n on her birthday grinning widely as she sat in front of her cake, the couple doing mud masks together, Y/n in front of the eiffel tower, and so on, however it was entirely new for him to see the famous, bikini clad Japanese model as his friend's home screen instead of his girlfriend. Suguru’s brow was raised as Satoru chuckled to himself.

“To Inoue Waka.” Gojo smiled in triumph, like he was in some war that he had finally found the upper hand in. “Y/n and I are in a fight- it’s certain to get a reaction out of her.” 

Despite his explanation, Suguru found himself lost in confusion. Only a night prior to leaving for their mission to protect and deliver the star plasma vessel, Geto had been sitting in attendance as he witnessed the couple's one of many bickering sessions. He really couldn’t blame Y/n much, seeing as he also found himself disagreeing with the white haired prodigy on the regular as well, yet this fight was one hundred percent, without a doubt in his mind, Satoru Gojo’s fault. Being as the argument was his wrong doing, Suguru couldn’t understand why his friend would sink himself deeper in the grave with his strong willed girlfriend rather than admit he messed up. And he certainly couldn’t see how an image of another woman- a model their argument steamed from, in a bikini too tight her boobs were practically over spilling from, would help his case.

The pair seemed to forget where they were until the young voice of the vessel of Tengen-sama herself reminded them of her presence. 

“Listen to me!” Riko shouted, irritation lacing her words. The young girl was set to explode off on the boys like a firecracker for their rude behavior in dismissing her heartfelt declaration on becoming one with Tengen-sama and Tengen-sama one with her, when suddenly the mention of the feminine name caught her attention. “Wait, Y/n?” She questioned. Riko didn’t see another female insight besides Kuroi but she sure hoped there was a sane female mind among the brainless men sitting among her. 

At her words, the man with hair white as snow leaned against the couch and ran a hand along his face. He narrowed his gaze, giving the girl a leer as if he found it ridiculous he had to explain who this Y/n was to her. 

“My strikingly beautiful, insanely stubborn, bratty, gorgeous girlfriend.” He moaned as his head fell back against the sofa, like the explanation was difficult enough. Through his dark rimmed glasses Gojo looked over to Riko, changing the topic all together. “I bet you don’t have many friends if you talk like that.”

“We won’t have to feel bad sending you off.” Suguru muttered. 

“I talk normally at school!” She expressed in an exacerbated tone, then quickly stepped forward pointing an accusing finger in the white haired man’s face. “And it’s you who shouldn’t have any friends! You certainly don’t deserve a girlfriend if you’re calling her a brat behind her back, you should be ashamed of yourself!” She reprimanded. 

Suguru lifted his gaze, intrigued by her final comment. Satoru didn’t actually think of his girlfriend as a brat, but of course Riko didn’t understand how the couple worked and there was no time to explain how Gojo called his girlfriend a brat in an endearing way- unlike his usage for it towards her. When Gojo used it towards Riko, he meant it. If they had the time, Geto might even explain how Y/n commonly refers to her boyfriend as a ‘trust fund baby’ or ‘a prick’, both of which are factual, yet it’s out of love between the two. 

Satoru ignored her quip, finding her opinion on his relationship totally useless. He knew his love for Y/n was larger than his will to live, yet he saw no point in expressing that to this girl. Riko didn’t know one thing about his relationship with Y/n so why did he care what the girl thought? Sure, he probably did sound like a complete jerk, however he couldn’t care less if the star plasma vessel before him found him to be a bad person for what she was hearing. 

Suguru glanced at Satoru, curious to see if the sorcerer was going to give a reaction however the six eye holder simply scrolled away on his phone, searching for the perfect image of his celebrity model crush to use as his lock screen. 

“School…” She mumbled out. “Kuroi, what time is it?!”

Satoru, Suguru, and Kuroi all sat scattered around the abandoned outdoor pool of Renchoku Girls' Junior High, all thinking of different things. Kuroi found herself reflecting on the time she spent practically raising the young girl who would soon be sacrificing herself as a vessel. Suguru’s mind wandered to how they were going to keep Riko safe until making it to Jujutsu High. All Satoru could think about was why his girlfriend wouldn’t answer his calls. Dangling his shoes above the water, Satoru kicked at the murky water in vex as yet another call went unanswered. 

“Huh?! She keeps sending me straight to voicemail- Suguru, let me borrow your phone!” Satoru failed to turn around as he extended his arm behind himself, impatiently awaiting Geto’s cellphone.

Begrudgingly Suguru dug his phone out from his side pocket and handed the cell phone over to his hysterical friend. He had already seen this play out a million times before and was positive the outcome would be no different; Gojo does something easily avoidable and pisses Y/n off, they get into an argument because it physically pains Gojo to admit his wrong doings, Y/n ignores him, he pretends he’s fine and acts as if he enjoys the distance created, that lasts for a few hours at most, then Gojo acts like a crazed person trying to get his girlfriend to respond while she is clearly still upset. 

Miles away in Tokyo, Y/n saw the face of her good friend Suguru pop up on her screen. Her brain screamed it was just her idiot boyfriend trying to convince her to speak to him. Maybe it really was Suguru calling to inform her of their mission. Hesitantly, Y/n accepted the call and lifted the phone to her ear.

“Hi, pretty girl- uh?! She hung up on me!” Gojo shrieked as the line went dead on the other end. He pulled the phone away from his ear and stared the the screen in disbelief, almost as if the mobile device had zapped him like an electrical shock. His mouth hung wide, a look of absolute astonishment polarizing his features. A few moments of staring at the blank screen passed by, Gojo awaiting a returning call from his love to declare it was all some prank, yet nothing came. Suguru outstretched his hand towards his friend,

“Satoru, can I have my phone back?”

The blue eyed man gave an over exaggerated groan then carelessly tossed the cellular device back to its rightful owner. 

“Fine. Ugh! Can’t believe how dramatic she’s being! Just wait until I get back to Jujutsu High and don’t share any of my mochi with her. She’s going to have to wait at least a week until I give her that necklace I bought.” He huffed like a child. Resting his chin in the palm of his hand, Satoru gazed out at the pool. From behind he could hear a chuckle from his friend, causing him to turn his head. As expected, Suguru was chuckling to himself at his expense. Squinting his eyes, Satoru sent a scowl, unimpressed at Suguru’s amusement over his situation. 

“Well, you did go on an entire rant to her about how hot Inoue Waka is, how she’s your dream girl, then you told Y/n you’re only dating her because Inoue Waka hasn’t returned any of your fanmail-”

“That was a joke.” Satoru dismissed his argument, shaking his head, still playing a blind eye to his wrong doings.  

“And you said Y/n is lucky to be dating you… so, one might call her response reasonable.” Sure, Suguru was Satoru’s friend first, but he was also Y/n’s friend and he had no issue telling Satoru the truth when he was in the wrong, like he was now.  “Not to mention the new background which is sure to warm her heart.” Suguru pointed out. Gojo preferred to convince himself that his partner was wrong, although the nagging voice in the back of his head claimed otherwise. An abrupt quip from Geto on two of his cursed spirits no longer roaming around Riko sent all three sprinting to find her location, and still, even while the choir girls and sensei fawned over him, Gojo could not stop replaying his earlier fight with Y/n, wondering what he could do to get a response from her. 

Satoru and Riko were currently running from the chapel on her school grounds- well, Satoru was running while he had the young school girl hoisted by the back of her uniform. An unexpected attack had caused a bump in the road and now Gojo had to protect the girl on his own until he could find Suguru, not that the task would be difficult by any means, Satoru simply had his mind elsewhere. Speaking of elsewhere, his cell phone started ringing from his side pocket, and before he could reach for the mobile device, the young girl plucked it out in one motion. Satoru went to steal his phone back when she raised the phone to her ear and, as if it belonged to her, answered the call meant for Satoru. 

“Eh? Give that here-” Gojo reached his hand to snatch his phone back from Riko, yet instead she pulled the device right to her ear and began rambling. If she wasn't on the mission Satoru was certain he’d have dropped her off the building right then and there, but he had no time to make another effort to yank the phone as he needed to reach higher ground. It wasn’t until Gojo heard the sound of his girlfriend’s voice that his heart dropped straight to his ass. ‘Oh no’, he thought. 

“Is this Y/n?” The girl eagerly asked. A far off voice replied, making Gojo reach out once more to snatch his phone back, only for the vessel to jerk her head away from his grasp. He knew there was no time to stop, he had to get to higher ground and then he could steal his phone back and make things right with his girlfriend- he just hoped Riko and her big mouth wouldn’t taint that chance for him. 

Before he could try to reason with the girl and convince her not to say anything more, Riko began rambling and there was nothing he could do to stop her. Gojo could sense another curse user in their perimeter and knew it was essential for his focus to remain on keeping the vessel safe, even if she was a pain in his ass. 

“My name is Riko- yes, I am! Listen, your boyfriend is a total selfish, inconsiderate, self obsessed jerk! He barged into my choir class all high and mighty and bathed in the attention as the girls swarmed him- he even took his stupid little glasses off for them to all swoon over his eyes! He was totally leaning into their lust for him! My sensei even gave him her phone number-”

“Ah! Hey! Give me my phone back- are you trying to get me murdered?!” Nope, ah uh, not happening, Gojo thought as he tore his cellphone away from her hands. Riko turned to look at him, but the mix of fear and absolute terror on his face kept her words at bay. He sent the girl a cold glare, electric blue eyes narrowed in frustration. “My girlfriend is-”

The abrupt sound of his beloved girlfriend screaming at him sent Satoru back to reality as he glanced at the phone screen, then resentfully lifted the mobile to his ear.

“Hi, princess- why’re you yelling?! I don’t know what this crazy girl is talking about-”

Even Riko was experiencing a small twang of regret as the manic shouting on the opposite end of the line seemed to worsen with every passing second. As far as only knowing the cocky sorcerer for less than a full day, this change in posterior surprised her. Riko was taken aback to see him practically cowering at the words the girl seemed to be seething. All day he had been ranting and raving about how powerful he was- clearly the conceited type, yet here he was nearly shaking like a leaf as his girlfriend scolds him. Riko wonders for a brief moment if she should’ve minded her own business.

A minute more of screaming and cursing passed until Satoru seemed to find his voice, or rather thought of a viable excuse, and nervously cut the girl off. 

“I’ve got to go, a curse user attacked! See you later, my love!” He hurriedly smacked his finger against the red button on the bottom of the phone, desperate to end the call as quickly as humanly possible. Riko stared up at him as she dangled above the ground, and as their eyes met, Gojo rolled his, displaying his anger towards the girl as broad as daylight. 

Gojo scoffed down at the girl as he continued to hoist her above the earth by the back of her shirt, carrying her as if she was a briefcase, or bag of groceries, though certainly not as one should hold a human. Riko huffed, folding her arms across her chest, but Gojo paid no mind to her emotions, too upset with her actions and interjecting herself in his personal relationship. Jumping to the building to their right, a childlike huff heaved from his chest. 

“Jeez, you’re really a handful, brat. Now I’ve got more of a mess waiting at Jujutsu High for me.”

After the pair met up with Suguru and Kuroi, the four were beyond ready to be inside the safety barrier of Jujutsu High and left at once. After arriving at the school, the sun had long since fallen and the sky was teetering between a navy and black shade. Suguru gave his partner a curt nod, gesturing his head towards the dorm rooms, insisting he could handle escorting Riko into the tombs of the star corridor. Satoru sent his friend a grateful smile, bid the vessel and her guardian a farewell, then took off for the dorms. A small, minute, fraction of him was going to miss the kid, but she agreed to her destiny and up until now, seemed relatively pleased with her choice. Satoru jogged up the steps of the dormitory until he finally reached the fourth floor, the floor only occupied by female students. It wasn’t hard to locate Y/n’s room as he had snuck in past curfew more times than he could count, he reached her door with ease. 

His knuckles tapped against the wooden door, allowing less than a fair second to pass before he jimmied the handle. Usually a locked door would be a sign to walk away and try again in the morning, but Satoru only saw it as a slight hiccup. Pulling a credit card from his back pocket, Satoru slid the heavy black card through the slit between the frame and the door itself, shimming the card down to the lock while simultaneously twisting the knob back and forth. He gave the handle one quick turn to the left and abruptly the door swung open causing him to stumble less than graciously into the dimly lit room. 

Creeping in, Gojo carefully shut the door behind him and fully stepped into the dorm. The pink clock on her desk flashed half past midnight, but he knew his night owl of a girlfriend was sure to be awake, despite the eerie silence in the room. Tiptoeing his way towards the bed in the corner, Gojo let out a whisper, 

“Princess, I’m home! Are you awake?”

He sat himself on the edge of the mattress, placing the large shopping bag by his feet as he cautiously examined the heap hidden under a pile of blankets. Running his hand up and down the smooth fleece, Satoru could feel someone shifting around underneath. He leaned his head down, bending his body at an awkward angel, to rest it on top of what he assumed to be her side- that was until an elbow pulled back from under and collided sharply with his temple. 

A pained yelp sounded as he jumped back in surprise and fell to the floor causing a ‘thud’ to sound out. The figure on the bed threw the covers off her head as her fiery leer met Gojo’s stunned expression. 

“No.” She sneered. Though this did not deter the boy as he had previously prepared himself for an attitude filled reunion- especially due to how their last conversation had ended. Propping himself up to his feet once more, Satoru was determined to try again. 

“I brought you presents- look!” He rustled through the paper bag and yanked out four neatly wrapped parcels, and smiled while shoving his outstretched arms towards the glaring girl. However she refused to move, and instead continued murdering the sorcerer with her deathly scowl instead. Gojo let out a dramatic sigh, gesturing to the boxes in his arms once more. “C’mon, pretty girl, you gotta open the gifts-”

“Why don’t you go give it to those choir school girls- or what about their instructor-” A taunting laugh fell from her pink lips. “Better yet, send it to Inoue Waka and see if she finally responds to your love letters!” 

“Oh, c’mon, pumpkin! Are you really still upset about that?” Gojo whined. Here he was, bearing gifts in hand, and she was still angry about something that happened so, so long ago? Gojo ran his calloused hand across his face. 

“Still upset? It just happened today!” 

“If it’s any consolation, those school girls weren’t even in high school so they were way too young for me anyhow.” And none of them compared to you, he wanted to add. Y/n tossed from her position in the bed so her face was now peeking out between covers as her eyes flared. If the situation wasn’t so serious, Gojo would reach out to pinch at the cute chub of her cheek and comment on how adorable she appeared, yet he knew better than to try to weasel his way out of this one. 

“Ah, so you were flirting with a bunch of children and a cougar? Sounds a lot better that way, Satoru.” She shot back, sass soaking her words. Her rebuttal had Gojo rethinking his words. The issue with dating a woman like Y/n was she was far more intelligent then himself and simply didn’t fall for his handsome looks and boyish charm, which Gojo relied on when it came to the opposite sex. Not that this was a bad thing, so to say, it was actually one of the thousands of reasons why he loved her so much- she wasn’t shallow minded and saw him far beyond his outward appearance. Setting the presents on her freshly organized desk, Satoru ran a hand through his hair and awkwardly rubbed at the back of his neck.

“Technically, it wasn’t flirting in the sense you’re thinking of, I had to distract the class with my charm and good looks so I could sneak Master Tengen’s vessel out of class- I wasn’t lying about us being under attack by another curse user, that was true!”

“What about her number, huh?” Y/n scoffed. 

“She offered it, but I never accepted it.” Luckily he was telling the truth and Y/n believed him. Despite trusting his confession, she didn’t do anything more. 

A silence greeted the couple, neither certain of what to say next. Y/n lifted the blankets from her lap and stood from her bed in front of her boyfriend. Sure the gesture was small, but Satoru took her willingness to step closer to his frame as a good thing as his arms reached out to pull her body against his in a bone crushing hug. His forehead pressed against her shoulder while he kissed the spot. Y/n thought about pulling away for a second, she thought about making him work harder to gain her forgiveness, but his arms felt far too comforting around her body for her to shake him off. With his head buried in her shoulder, Gojo glanced up to Y/n, a softness in his eyes as he spoke,

“Do you forgive me, pretty girl? I’m sorry I made you upset… I don’t like it when you’re mad at me.” 

When she didn’t answer right away, Gojo lifted his head from her so he could properly look her in the eyes. He could visibly see the clouds of anger clearing as she quietly stared back at him. His hand then moved to wrap around the side of her face, his gentleness causing her to melt against his palm. She desperately wanted to smack his hand away, curse him then send him off to his room for the night, but she couldn’t. His touch sparked a series of shivers through her body which only made her long for him to pull her closer. 

A grin broke across his features as he accepted her lack of resistance as approval for his apology and began to move closer towards her face. If she slapped him away, then he’d know he misread the signs, but she didn’t. Their faces were so close in distance Y/n could smell the welcoming scent of peppermint swirling from his parted lips. These were the times she found herself grateful for his sweet tooth, it usually made for sweeter kisses. Wordlessly, Y/n pushed herself to close the distance and pressed her lips to connect to his. Gojo hums as he dips his head lower to gain advantage as he deepens the exchange. 

His mouth is warm against hers, inviting, as he kisses her. She can feel his tongue as it slips inside her mouth, almost like it was entering its second home, seeing as easily as it made itself comfortable and friendly against her own. Her fingers gripped at his white strands, pulling his face closer. All the frustration, all the emotions she had been experiencing towards him for the last day melted into the kiss. Satoru had one hand wrapped around her waist, holding her middle against his hips and his other swooped up around her lifted arm, leaving his hand to rest on the back of her neck, not letting her pull away even if she wanted to. 

Y/n could taste the strawberry chapstick on his lips, the same chapstick he had stolen from her only a week prior. He wasn’t lying, the taste was addictive. Gojo’s lips captured her bottom in a heated move, sucking on the skin with the slightest hint of friction as his teeth light delved into the plumpness. She had no time to muffle the moan passing through her, to which he smirked at the sound. 

A sense of shame washed over her once she realized he had won the silent battle. Instead, Y/n yanked at his hair from the root and pulled his lips back against hers, kissing him with such force he nearly stumbled back a footing. Gojo’s eyes widened in the middle of the kiss, surprised at her boldness and the way her tongue was invading his mouth. He could feel the material of his uniform growing tighter as his jeans constricted against his crotch. Y/n sucked on the silky smoothness of his tongue, small smacks sounding as she dominated the heated makeout. 

A shudder danced down his spine at the feeling of her hand pressed against his groin, his hips subconsciously grinding against her palm. Rubbing her hand along the zipper Y/n toyed with the cool metal, silently teasing her boyfriend as a means of revenge for his actions. Just as she began pulling the slider down, her lips pulled away from him at once, much to Satoru’s disappointment. His mouth hung low as a small whine sounded.

Y/n simply ignored his childish ways, and reached for the bottom of her shirt, causing him to smile once more. Peeling the shirt that belonged to him off her body, Y/n threw it to the floor then fell back against her mattress, motioning Gojo over with the flick of her wrist. Satoru stalked towards her on the bed, almost like a predator sneaking up on it’s prey. His eyes held a look of hunger she rarely saw but bathed in the heat searing from it.

Climbing over her body, Satoru placed himself so he was looming above her, his zipper hanging half undone. Y/n tilted her head, pretending not to understand the look on his face. Gojo shook his head then leaned his face so his lips could skim against her exposed neck. He let his mouth trail up the side of her skin, hot breath fanning over her coolness. His hands lifted to grope at the covering of her bra, giving the material a tug. He came to a stop once his mouth was pressed against the shell of her ear, his voice sending a wave of pleasure straight to her core, 

“I love it when my princess is being a little brat… think I need to put you back in your place.”

Without warning his lips attached to her neck and harshly began to suck at the skin, surely leaving a trail of blotchy red marks. Y/n’s whole body hitched at the overwhelming rush of excitement, her hips lifting only to be shoved back into the mattress by his own which hovered barely an inch above. 

She let her head fall to the side, allowing Satoru more access to her neck, her eyes hardly opened as she basked in the tingling his mouth brought. Hands traveled up and down his back, nails lightly scratching against him as her body wormed from his lips making love to her skin. Y/n nearly closed her eyes all together, she nearly allowed herself to get lost in his kiss, that was until a distant ‘ding’ caught her attention and the phone beside her head lit up. 

A text notification from Suguru popped up on Satoru’s phone, but that wasn’t what caught Y/n’s attention, no, her fixation settled in on the nearly naked photo of the famous model Inoue Waka. The same Inoue Waka that sparked the original fight between the couple, the same Inoue Waka Satoru called hot, the one he declared his dream girl, and same Inoue Waka Satoru said he’d be dating if she’d give him a chance- Y/n was fuming in rage. Pushing both hands on his chest, Y/n physically shoved Satoru off her body causing him to tumble off the side of the bed. His hands flailed out in an attempt to grab for stability, although failed as he rolled to the wood floor, his back smacking against the ground. Gojo laid still on the floor, his mind still trying to process the whole event as he rubbed at the ache on the back of his head. Sitting up straight she reached out for his phone and held it in his face as she screamed,

“Are you fucking kidding me, Satoru?! You put Inoue Waka as your background?!”

“Hehe… that was meant to be a joke…” The fear in his voice transcribed in shaky words as Y/n chucked the phone at him, barely missing his face as he lunged to the side. She snatched his shirt off the ground and threw it back on, covering her chest as Gojo scrambled to grab his cellphone. 

“Fine, I’ve got an even funnier joke for you,” A taunting smile full of hidden anger laced her lips as her finger jutted towards her door. “Get out!” 

His face fell all at once, a deep pout tattooed on his lips. Maybe he should’ve listened to Suguru earlier when he insisted this was a bad idea- if he’d had listened to Suguru, the two would probably be tangled in her bed sheets by now, but no, Gojo had to press her buttons even further. Opening his phone, Satoru clicked on the most recent image of Y/n and faster than the speed of light, set the photo to his new lock and home screen. 

“Aw, c’mon! I’ll change it right now- see! Look, pumpkin, it’s a picture of my favorite girl-” Gojo flipped his phone around, allowing the bright screen to illuminate Y/n’s face. She glanced up, and Satoru watched in utter confusion as her expression went from upset to lividly irate. His heartbeat multiplied in rate, obviously terrified of the disturbing reaction she held to seeing her face on his phone, or what he thought was her face. 

“You fucking asshole.” She growled. If this was his idea of a practical joke, Y/n was ready to make him single. Gojo’s eyes grew like a mass, quickly turning his phone back only to see what caused such a profuse reaction. The image hadn’t changed and was the same exact photo as previously of Inoue Waka propped up on her knees sitting in the sand as her breasts nearly poured out of her excuse of a bikini.

“Shit! I promise I thought I hit save- just give me a second, I’m panicking!” He screeched. His fingers moved at the speed of light as Satoru helplessly tried to set his girlfriend’s smiling face as his background, hoping to at least save some ground between the couple. What he failed to notice in his alarmed state was Y/n reaching out for her phone, scrolling through her photo album and setting a new image on hers. 

“No, no, it’s fine, Gojo, really. I’ll just change my background to a picture of my favorite guy.” The smile she wore was not one of love, no it held more malice, evilness like she had just completed a plot to end the world. Satoru’s head nudged to the side, his eyebrows pulled together in a line of skepticism. 

“I’m already your background, princess…” He mumbled. Clarity was granted as the girl tossed her cellphone, to which he caught with ease. Clicking the power button, Gojo gave a dramatized gasp.

“Is… is that Suguru?! How’d you get this picture? Did he send this to you? Oh my god I’m going to kill him-” 

“I think he looks cute.” Y/n smirked. Obviously it was all a ruse to get back at him for his immaturity, but she couldn’t help the sense of pride creeping up at the over the top reaction from Gojo. The photo itself came from a night out the couple shared, one with their usual third wheel, Geto. Four shots in and five mixed drinks, Suguru was having quite the time, which led to a gallery full of images that he insisted the three took together- and if Gojo would look a little closer, he’d notice the small wisps of pure white hair sticking out from the edge of the cropped image, but Y/n didn’t need to tell him that, it was far more amusing to see him frantic. 

Large blue eyes pleaded up at her as Gojo kneeled in front of the bed, his hands folded like prayer.

“Princess, please put my picture back! I changed mine back to you- please!”

Her finger tapped against the blush to her cheek, pretending to be lost in thought. This was pure torture as Gojo continued to beg at her feet. 

“Hm. I’m not sure- I do have a picture of that adorable first year Haibara in there somewhere…” No, absolutely not, that was Satoru’s last straw. No way in hell would his beautiful girlfriend have a photo of that first year sorcerer always obsessed with impressing Suguru as her background- never ever! Gojo was already annoyed their peer favored his best friend over himself, but having his own girlfriend joke about giving them attention, fuck no.  Holding her phone above his head and out of her teasing reach, Satoru screeched, 

“Ah! You’re going to replace me with a first year?! What?!”

Folding her arms in a crossed fashion against her chest, Y/n gave the hysterical teen a ‘told you so’ glare. 

“Now you know how I felt.” She said matter-of-factly. 

Satoru had to physically bite his tongue to keep the word ‘brat’ from tumbling past his lips. Yes, he used the term as one of endearment, but that was when the two were in their usual jovial mood- now was not the time and now. Gojo understood what she was hinting at, he got the message she was referring to their earlier argument and the various comments he had made towards the famous model, but that didn’t mean he agreed with her. In his mind, there was a clear difference between joking about having a crush on someone in the public eye and joking about having a crush on a fellow classmate. 

“Well at least my background was a celebrity that I have no real chance with. If you asked that first year out he’d probably say yes on the spot then pass out- and Suguru would say yes just to spite me!” His voice was teetering a cry as he threw his head against the bed. 

“I would never actually ask them out, Satoru. In case you haven’t noticed, I love you. Why do you think I was so upset about all those things you said before you and Suguru left? You basically admitted I’m not your dream girl but some famous, perfectly perfect model, who I look nothing like, is. Then you went on about how lucky I should feel being with you, as if I’m not already insecure about our relationship.” Gojo’s heart sunk at her words, regret filling his insides. “It hurt my feelings, Satoru.”

“I’m sorry, princess… I really am. I never meant to hurt you, I guess I thought I was being funny but… it’s really not true.” For the first time in maybe ever, Satoru’s tone sounded different. His voice no longer held that casual cockiness and confidence it usually oozed, no, he sounded timid… possibly the most serious he’s ever sounded in his life. The man who played life like it was the board game itself now stood before the woman he loved looking scared. Y/n’s face scrunched in question, slightly taken aback by the sincerity he expressed. 

“What’s not true?”

“What I said about Inoue Waka, she’s not my dream girl, you are.” Satoru stated. He needed Y/n to see the truth to his words, to believe she was the only girl for him, because she was. As fun as it was to tease his girlfriend, it was only amusing when she was in on the joke. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her. Satoru could see now how truly uncomfortable she was with his comments and it made him feel like a piece of shit knowing he planted a seed of insecurity in her mind. 

It was almost as if Gojo could see the shield Y/n placed around herself, around her heart. She was a hard one to crack, but getting to be the soul she finally let inside meant the entire word to Satoru and he had no intention of breaking that trust ever again. 

“And I’m the one who’s so fucking lucky to get to call you mine. You’re everything I could ever ask for in a girlfriend and more. You put up with me and you’re the only person who ever laughs at my jokes- and you know all my favorite snacks and treats… you even know all the things I’m scared of, which losing you is at the top of my list. I’m sorry that I ever made you doubt us, or made you feel insecure… I really am sorry, Y/n.”

The room turned quiet as Gojo’s confession hung in the air. Y/n didn’t speak, she wouldn’t even move. Instead, her eyes planted on the blanket in her lap, mindlessly losing herself in the pattern while her mind raced, replaying his words over and over again. Gojo examined her odd behavior, part of him perplexed at her lack of response. Y/n had a response for everything, for every situation. For the first time in their two year relationship Gojo was witnessing her in a speechless state, and for as much as he joked about her bratness and stubborn ways, he hated not hearing her voice. A minute passed until Satoru decided he had enough of missing her sound. As he opened his mouth, about to ask if she was okay, a shout sounded from her throat. 

“Ugh! I hate when you do that!” Y/n cried out. There was a thin row of salty tears teetering her waterline. Dread filled Gojo at the sight. He never meant to make her cry. Standing to his feet Satoru sat himself next to her on the bed, his hands reaching out to grasp her own in trepidation. His thumb drew anxious circles across her skin, a method he’d learned that usual calmed her down, yet her tears steadily fell. 

“W-What? Do what?” He asked in a wavering voice. With her free hand, Y/n harshly rubbed at her eyes, wiping the tears that continued to roll down her reddening cheeks. A few splashed against his hand that clutched hers, but he didn’t care. A scarlet ring formed around her e/c eyes as she glanced up to Satoru, a mix of agitation and sadness filling her. 

“When you’re all sweet and say things that make my insides feel like they’re all mushy and- ugh, I hate how much I love you. It’s so annoying!” She cried out. 

A wave of solace splash his bay at her words, along with the returning embrace as her hand squeezed his. He let out a sigh of relief, grateful his words had caused good tears this time. Bringing her hand up to his face, Gojo danced a trail of kisses along her knuckles and smiled. Still holding her hand, Satoru lightly urged the girl to lay back on the mattress and he climbed in next to her. Her head rested softly against the pillow, Gojo’s arm encircling her waist as he turned her body to face his. Once he could see her beautiful face, he let his hand wrap under her chin with a feather light grip. 

“I happen to love how much you love me, pretty girl.” 

His lips pressed a sweet kiss to her temple, then placed another to her forehead, then lastly a chaste and loving kiss to her lips. Y/n nuzzled her head against his touch, the shakiness to her breathing beginning to slow. Gojo removed his hand from her chin as he felt her wiggling closer until her head was laid up on his chest. The sound of his heart beat echoed in her ear and she cuddled into his warmth. A comfortable blanket of peace took control of the room as the couple enjoyed the feeling of holding one another. Satoru’s hand ran up and down her back in an act of comfort. His touch always made her feel more at ease. The moment of tranquility lasted a good portion until Y/n briefly pulled herself away from Gojo, an unfamiliar gleam to her gaze. Satoru tilted his head, unfamiliar to the unusual look, when Y/n lifted her hand to stroke the side of his cheek, as she spoke in a mask of sweetness,

“I swear Satoru, if you ever set Inoue Waka as your homescreen again, I’ll murder you then chop your body up and dump it in the ocean.” One might expect a rational response to such a threat would be fear, not Satoru Gojo. A cheesy grin broke out as his hold tightened around her body, pulling her closer to him.

“I know you will, princess, and that’s why I love you… even if you are a brat at times.”

Her hand smacked against her arm, faking a pout while snuggling further in. 

“Shut up, you love me because I’m a brat.” She remarked. They both knew it was true. Satoru could feign annoyance over her attitude, he could pretend she was too ‘difficult’ for him, but in all honesty, bratty was exactly the way Satoru loved her. 

“You know me too well.”

[gf2bellamy]

I know that this is a common trope in the Spencer Reid fandom but a cliche is popular for a reason and I'd love to see your take on it please:

The BAU finding out Spencer has a girlfriend because he left something/his lunch at home whilst he was getting ready so she comes to his office to deliver it back to him ♡

file — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nothing i think a/n: hi hi thank you for your request !! also omg i rewrote this like 3 times

You set your coffee cup down with a quiet clink, the ceramic making a sound against the kitchen counter.Your breath hitched as your gaze locked onto the object in front of you.

There it was.

Spencer’s case file.

He never shared too much about his cases—partly because of protocol, but mostly because he wanted to shield you from the horrors he faced daily.

But this one? He had mentioned this one. Briefly. Just enough for you to know it was important.

And now, he had left it here.

You exhaled through your nose, rubbing your temple as you stared at the file like it might somehow transport itself back into his hands.

Well, this was a problem.

Your mind raced through the inevitable sequence of events: Spencer, halfway through his workday, reaching for the file. The sharp inhale as realization struck. The way his fingers would twitch slightly before running through his hair in frustration. He’d mutter something about cognitive failure rates, probably cite a study about memory lapses under stress, and then—inevitably—blame himself. He was hard on himself like that.

But, in all fairness… this was totally your fault.

Oops.

He had barely made it out the door this morning because of you.

Not that you regretted it.

You smiled to yourself, warmth flooding your chest as you remembered.

Spencer hated leaving you in bed alone. You hated being in bed alone. It was a whole thing. A silent agreement, an unspoken rule between the two of you—when morning came, you stretched those precious minutes as long as you could. And today, you had stretched them a little too long.

He had sighed against your hair, murmured something about needing to get up, but his arms hadn’t moved from around you. His body was warm and you had curled closer, pressing a lazy kiss against his collarbone.

“Five more minutes,” you had whispered, voice still thick with sleep. Spencer hummed in response, fingers tracing mindless patterns along your arm. Five minutes had turned into ten, then fifteen…

And, well. Here you were.

Thirty minutes passed. Still no text back from Spencer.

Not that it was unusual.

You had once asked him about his habit of completely ignoring his phone for hours on end, and in true Spencer fashion, he had launched into a full-blown explanation—something about the overuse of mobile devices leading to dependency, the correlation between constant notifications and increased anxiety, and the statistical probability of missing something actually important when bombarded with mundane messages throughout the day.

Point was—Spencer wasn’t glued to his phone. Which meant he likely hadn't even seen your text yet.

You chewed your lip for a moment, the decision hanging in the air.

Well, if Spencer wouldn’t come to you, then you’d go to him.

It seemed like a trip to the BAU was in order.

And if, in the process, you just happened to pick out your favorite outfit before heading out? Well, that was purely coincidental.

It wasn’t like you were nervous or anything.

Okay. Maybe just a little.

Because, despite how long you and Spencer had been together, you’d somehow never officially met his team. You had heard plenty about them—stories from Spencer scattered between sips of coffee, casual mentions of their names, the occasional anecdote about Garcia’s pranks or Morgan’s teasing. But meeting them in person? That had never happened.

And if you were about to walk into the BAU for the first time, to meet all of them in one go, all while hand-delivering a file Spencer had forgotten because you’d been too busy keeping him in bed this morning…

Well. You wanted to look nice, at the very least.

So, you’d taken a little extra time to pick out an outfit. Something that felt casual but still put-together.

After a final glance in the mirror, adjusting the hem of your shirt, you grabbed the case file and headed out the door.

By the time you reached the FBI building, you were… okay. Not totally at ease, but you weren’t quite spiraling, either. A small victory, considering the nerves that had been building inside you since you’d left the house.

You checked in at the front desk, received your visitor’s pass, and found yourself standing in front of the elevator. You couldn’t help but tap your foot nervously against the tiled floor, your mind racing with the possibility of meeting everyone.

As you waited, a tall man stepped up beside you. He had dark hair, a sharp jawline, and an air of professionalism.

The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open. The man stepped forward, and you followed.

“What floor?” he asked, his voice calm, his eyes already on the button panel.

“The sixth,” you said. “The BAU.”

He nodded, pressing the button. Notably, he didn’t press any other buttons, which meant he was heading to the same place.

The elevator hummed upward, the soft sound of its ascent filling the silence between you. You tried to stay still, but the nerves in your stomach had made their way to your foot, which began tapping again—slightly faster this time, almost involuntarily.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him glance down at your foot’s restless rhythm before looking ahead again, his expression still unreadable.

When the elevator doors finally slid open, you both stepped out. As you moved into the hallway, you hesitated, glancing around the space, trying to figure out where Spencer’s desk could be.

Before you could overthink it too much, you turned back toward the man, suddenly realizing you had no idea how to address him.

“Uh—excuse me, sir?” You winced inwardly at your own awkwardness. Sir? Really?

To your relief, he didn’t seem offended. He stopped and turned just slightly, offering you a neutral look, like he was patiently waiting for you to continue.

“Do you, um… know where Spencer Reid works?” you asked quickly, holding up the case file in your hand as if it were some sort of explanation. “He forgot this at home, and I just—”

You cut yourself off, realizing you were rambling. Oh my god, you were turning into your boyfriend.

The man studied you for a moment, and you felt a wave of heat creep up your neck, suddenly worried that you’d just embarrassed yourself in front of someone important. But then, with a small nod, he answered.

“He’s in the conference room. I’ll take you.”

“Oh. Thank you!” you said, managing to sound more confident than you felt.

Without another word, he turned and began walking. You quickly fell into step behind him, eager to keep up.

As you followed him down the hallway, his words replayed in your mind. Conference room.

Wait.Didn’t that mean—

Oh. Oh no.

The realization hit you like a ton of bricks just as the man ahead of you pushed open a door. He stepped aside, gesturing for you to enter, and you barely had time to collect yourself before walking into the room.

And suddenly, all eyes were on you.

Your stomach dropped.

Around the large conference table sat several people, each of them pausing whatever they were doing to look at you. Some were curious, others confused, but most were simply… staring. And then there was one person who seemed to be completely frozen in shock.

That one, of course, was your wonderful boyfriend.

Spencer Reid sat there, motionless, eyes wide, as though you’d just appeared out of nowhere. His pen was hovering mid-air, as though he’d been caught in the middle of a thought and his mouth hung slightly open.

You felt your face heat up.

“Uh—hi?” you offered weakly, holding up the file like it was some sort of lifeline.

The man who had led you here—who, at this point, you were very sure was someone important—cleared his throat. His voice was as flat as ever.

“Reid,” he said, his tone unreadable. “Your file.”

Spencer blinked rapidly, snapping out of his trance.

“Right! Right, yes—um, thank you,” he stammered, his voice flustered. He stood so quickly that his chair scraped against the floor,nearly knocking over his coffee ,causing you to wince in sympathy.

You stepped forward to hand him the file. The second your fingers brushed against his, you swore you saw the tips of his ears turn the faintest shade of red.

From across the room, a dark-haired woman—who you guessed had to be Emily Prentiss, judging by the barely suppressed smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth—glanced between you and Spencer, her head tilting slightly as she observed the scene.

“So,” she said casually, her voice light but full of mischief, “you’re the reason he was almost late this morning?”

Your face went hot, and Spencer made a noise somewhere between a cough and a strangled gasp.

Emily’s smirk deepened, and you could practically feel the attention of every single person in the room zeroing in on you and Spencer. The room was so still, you could hear a pin drop.

Even Penelope—who had been in the middle of explaining a case, hands gesturing wildly—had completely abandoned her train of thought. Her mouth dropped open in delighted shock, her eyes widening as she took in the scene.

“Oh my god, is this real?” she squealed, her voice way louder than it probably needed to be. “Reid, my little geeky bean has a girlfriend?!” Penelope was practically vibrating with excitement. “A very cute girlfriend, I might add!” She made a big show of squinting at you through her oversized glasses, like she was some sort of detective herself. “How did we not know about this?!”

JJ raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued, but Derek—well, Derek looked like it was Christmas morning.

He leaned forward with an expression of pure glee. “Hold up,” he said, grinning ear-to-ear, “Reid, you got yourself a lady and didn’t tell us?”

“I-” Spencer stuttered under his breath, looking like he was actively trying to will himself invisible.

Penelope was practically bouncing on her heels now. “Not just a lady,” she chimed in again, adjusting her glasses dramatically as she looked you over with wide, sparkling eyes. “A very cute lady. Like, ‘I need to know everything about you’ cute! How did you two keep this a secret? You’ve been holding out on us, Spence!”

Rossi, who had been sitting back and watching the chaos unfold , leaned back in his chair with a half-smile. “Seems like , Dr. Reid has been keeping secrets,” he said dryly, giving Spencer a knowing look.

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh at the scene around you. It was hard to stay composed when everyone was so… extra. You shifted awkwardly on your feet, feeling your face burning, but it didn’t stop you from noticing how Spencer scrubbed a hand over his face, clearly wishing he could vanish into thin air.

Spencer, still very much red-faced, finally turned toward you, his expression caught between mortification and fondness. His voice was soft.

“Thank you,” he said, with a small awkward smile. “For, um… bringing me the file.”

You smiled, tilting your head, trying to suppress a grin at how adorable he looked when flustered. “Of course,” you said, your voice warm, matching his tone. “Anytime.”

Before Spencer could muster a response, you leaned in and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his cheek. The moment your lips brushed his skin, Spencer froze, his eyes going wide for a split second like he couldn’t quite comprehend what just happened.

The entire room went silent, save for the sound of a chair scraping against the floor as Penelope’s excited squeal filled the air.

Spencer remained absolutely still for a moment, blinking as if he were trying to reboot his brain. You couldn’t help but feel a tiny rush of satisfaction at how flustered he looked.

“I’ll see you at home,” you murmured, your smile widening as you pulled back. “Love you.”

You watched as Spencer’s mouth opened and closed a few times, like he was about to say something, but his words failed him completely. It wasn’t surprising—he’d never been the best at handling public displays of affection, especially when they caught him off guard like this.

"Bye everyone." Without giving him—or the rest of the team—a chance to respond, you turned on your heel and made your way toward the door.

“Did you see that?” you heard Penelope say as you left the room, her voice barely containing her excitement. “Reid, my little shy genius has a girlfriend and she just kissed him in front of us!”

JJ chuckled from across the room, her voice full of amusement. “I think Spencer might need a minute,” she said dryly, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

The sound of their teasing faded as the door closed behind you, and you allowed yourself a little breath of relief, knowing that Spencer’s team was kind but very curious.

As the elevator doors closed, you found yourself grinning, already imagining how the rest of the day would unfold.

[celestialprincesse]

I love your writing so so so much!! 💗 would you consider writing Simon getting jealous because of one of the higher up’s flirting with you when you visit base to see him?

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Simon really can't be angry at you for attracting so much attention. Why should he? It's not your fault you look so pretty flitting around base in a silly little sundress and some cute shoes. What he can, however, be mad at, is the fact that the captain of another Taskforce who unfortunately share the same office building as the 141 seemingly has his eyes set on you.

You're so oblivious about it too, which only makes him angrier, watching as you're so nonchalantly handed a coffee in his 'captain' mug, something about making sure everyone knows how important you are. Everyone does know how important you are - except for this pleb, apparently.

His embarrassing attempts to flirt soon grind to a standstill when a massive, calloused hand wraps around your waist, Simon's six foot form shadowing the spot you stand in.

"See you've met my Mrs." Simon drawls lazily, pulling you back against his chest whilst his free hand grabs the coffee mug you'd been holding, placing it in the sink with a dismissive plunk. "Didn't I tell you that you've got a mug here already?"

You don't even have a chance to speak as Simon shifts to stand between you and the captain, a clear sign for him to piss off as he goes for a different mug on the top shelf of the cabinet, a pretty porcelain thing with whirling flower patterns and little stars, far prettier than your previous piece of kitchenware.

Spitefully, Simon makes a fresh cup of coffee for you, not even bothering to ask for your preferences - he already knows them. "What're you doing over here anyways? The lads want to see you."

His words are a half truth. Of course the 141 want to see their favourite Lieutenant in law, but really Simon just wants to pull you away from that idiot who thought it'd be okay to lay eyes on what's his.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

[ninasodiiva]

what are their true feelings?.ೃ࿐

PAC reading

hi my babes! it's crazy the love my first reading received, i'm so happy to know the messages resonated ┊͙ ˘͈ᵕ˘͈.

someone requested this pac reading, and i liked it because the uncertainty of not knowing how someone feels about you is fucking horrible (been there). so keep reading if you'd like to know what are their true feelings? ༊*·˚

how to choose a group:

take a deep breath and relax your body, look at all the pictures and pick the one you are the most drawn to, don't think about it to much. you might be attracted to the picture or the number. REMEMBER this is a general reading, take what resonates and leave what doesn't. nothing is set in stone. if you are not drawn to any of the pictures this might not be the reading for you loves. tarot is a divination tool to meant for guidance!! nothing is set in stone and you are the master of your own fate and the captain of your own soulㅤ ♡ྀི

that said, let's get into it!

- group 1: polka dot tights 🤍

hi my beautiful group 1, let's start.

at first i was extremely confused reading your cards but all of the sudden a wave of messages came in. i feel this is how you're feeling, confused (well you wouldn't be here if you weren't lol). i'm always direct when giving messages and this case is no different. babes i feel you're dealing with a person from your past, someone you already have history with and once felt like home to you, things have changed a lot. you either broke up some time ago but still keep in touch or that person is still your partner. well, this is a classic story, you both are growing and your new selves don't quite fit anymore.

there are two energies in the reading so pick the one that resonates

if this is your actual partner my group 1, i see you making great efforts to keep the relationship alive, you're a romantic, very down to earth and devoted person. the "problem" here seems to be your person, they are not who they once were. from what i'm getting i feel your person has become very independent as if they were single. keeping things to themselves, not sharing time with you, acting cold... really what im getting is that they want to focus more on their personal goals and dreams, they want to be free (?). you put the efforts to keep the fire alive, and that says beautiful things about you but... the truth is people grow apart, and it has nothing to do with you, it happens. spirit is telling me it's time to let this person go for good, both of you served your purpose within the relationship and a new chapter is ahead 🤍 they are also telling me that a conversation is VERY much needed to put an end to this cycle, a truthful, vulnerable conversation. i just heard: don't fall back into old patterns again. babes don't be like carrie in this situation pls.

spirit wants me to say that this is no one's fault, the love was there, and will be just in a different form. it's like losing contact with an old friend, you will always love them and cherish them but not in the same way. for this collective of group 1 i sense both of you are great people, it's just that you guys have different visions for you futures. have grace with yourself and remember my loves that it's not a loss, but the gain of a beautiful experience and memories.

lastly spirit says to leave your worries to them and to cherish yourself and this new chapter in your life babes. with love, Nina 🦢⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

if this is an ex or a situationship (god i hate that term) im gonna be straight forward with you babes. your person does not feel anything romantic towards you, you're confusing lust and a bit of attention for love. i feel that since you have history with this person you believe things could work out this time but im here to tell you that no (im sorry if im too harsh, i think you need it <3).

the "problem" seems to be that you my pile 1 have this subconscious belief which tells you that familiar is good even if it hurts mix with a need for validation (gosh i sound so harsh im sorry 😭). your person literally couldn't give less of a fuck, they are the definition of a fuckboy. girl please get out, let me put it to you this way. would you like your daughter to be in your situation? no right? well then FUCK YOUR PERSON. really babe, stand up you don't wanna be the "long-term long distance low commitment casual girlfriend" 🙏🏼 your person will not choose you and its not because of you, they are not serious when it comes to relationships.

he is already getting you without having to choose you, clock that.

spirit says you have no idea how much your life will improve in EVERY ASPECT once you let that person go and understand that the only validation and acceptance you need is from yourself diva. STAND UP BABE. i'm sending you lots of love and strength to leave that dusty and i apologize if at some point it got too straight forward.

with love, Nina 🦢⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

- group two: kitten heels 🩰

my group two omg when i tell you its not even funny the way im giggling while channeling the messages... gosh im so excited for you! <3

okey so, your person has feelings for you. gosh so many messages are coming through and i can't write that fast. this person likes you A LOT, he has the biggest crush on you, it's a love so sweet and tender... your person has been through hell in past relationships and that has caused them to reject love for some time, what spirit is saying is that meeting you was really cathartic for them because the feelings were so strong they had to find a way to heal to be with you.

babes be patient with them pls i'm being so serious, they are fighting their own demons and fears to find the courage to trust someone again 🤍 they are so shy about you it's so funny lol cause i'm feeling normally they're not like that. they see you as someone so kind and patient, extremely caring and beautiful physically. i'm seeing this image of you being in your world and them admiring you from afar wow. the cards and spirit support this connection 100%, what they are asking you to do is to help your person a little bit!! try to break the ice by being playful and they say it's important not to rush and get to know each other. but i assure you this is absolutely lovely energy 🌹

spirit is saying it will be sooner than expected and to be honest and thoughtful with your person, i sense they are a very strong and romantic person but when it comes to love they are hopeless. it's so sweet that they are literally forcing themselves to face their demons in order to be with you, that's how much they want you 🤍 also be prepared to go on date i heard!!

congratulations pile two you deserve this kind of love and i'm so so so excited to hear how this unfolds for you!! there's not much to say, with love Nina ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🦢

- group three: brown cardigan

hi group number three hope you're having a great day, let's get into your reading! <3

babes did you friendzone this person? lol. it's funny because i see your person hiperfixated on you but they think their feelings are not reciprocated by you? i don't know how you feel about them but since you're reading this i'm assuming you care for them at least.

im seeing your person being in their own a lot, for some reason they are going through WAITT OH. okey there are two collectives here. some of you friendzone your person or that's at least that's how they feel. and for others your person it's fighting the urge to confess how they feel towards you, because they truly appreciate your friendship. take it as it resonates!

group number 3 i'm feeling a push and pull dynamic between the both of you, i'm here to give you clarity so if you like this person spirit is saying to let yourself feel these emotions, it's safe to like someone and specifically your person!! they literally feel the same as you really, it's like those movies where the love interests are COMPLETELY blind and it's infuriating to watch 😫. you both are so awkward it's hilarious and cute. the advice here is to be open minded, i feel you're doubting this person because you have a wrong perception of them, get to know them more and make an effort!!!

i can not stress that enough, it's showing multiple times in your reading. this is someone compatible for you and the attraction is there. i can't quite pinpoint what is exactly making you both doubtful, maybe other people??

bottom line is that they like you as well and they are planning to take action towards you but you need to do that as well babes. for the ones who friendzone them (lmao) spirit says they also wanna come towards you but you crushed their hopes and now they think there's 0 chances. you have to make an effort group number three. the ball is in your court!! if what you wanted is confirmation that they are your person you have it, spirit says it will be successful but you need to OPEN UP GIRL, don't be afraid to love, you got this diva.

that's all for your reading my love, i send you lots of love and strength, Nina 🦢⋆.ೃ࿔*:･