#is not the best but i know what i know and like so hopefully these fit the bill :)

[claddaghriings]

What song makes you feel better? Hope is the thing with Feathers from Honkai Star Rail

What is your go to comfort show? Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, or Charmed

Reading or writing? Why? Both! Sometimes I go with reading because some days I don't feel like writing

Whats your favorite feeling? Not sure, maybe relaxed and cozy?

How do you like to take care of yourself? Not sure how to answer this really ;;

What’s your favorite candle scent? Cinnamon apple or sugar cookie!

Who do you feel most like yourself around? My best friend, she knows who she is

Whats a fabric/texture that’s nostalgic for you? Velvet

Best childhood moment? Honestly? Any memories I have with my uncle, grandpa or older cousin

When was the last time you laughed so hard you cried? (or just felt really good afterwards) I wanna say the last time me and my friend played a game together and we messed around the whole time

Do you have a comfort item? Tell us about it! My black Star Wars sweater (in Winter) or my purple Angel tshirt

What calms you down? Listening to music or looking at things for a ship/character I love

Bath or shower to relax? Shower!

Whats something upcoming that you’re excited for? The new Tomodachi Life game even if its only on Switch 2

Comfort food? Basic answer? Mac and Cheese

What’s something you want to create soon? Hopefully some more Bangel AUs!

How do you feel best loved? Uhhh

What age in life do you think you’ll feel most yourself at? I dunno

Have you ever written or received a love letter? Nope, at least not one that wasnt mocking

Tell us about a memory you hold close to your heart. Kind of hard to pick just one!

Tea, Coffee, or hot cocoa? All three, but most hot chocolate

Name of your favorite playlist? My Bangel(us) playlist

Have you ever received flowers? Nope and that's alright because I have bad allergies

Who is your bestfriend? @nagisa-n3ko

If your soul was a color, what would it be? Purple or Red

If you could live anywhere with anyone you want, where would it be and who would you bring? Maybe Japan with the previously mentioned friend?

Do you like to garden? Have you ever grown something? One time when I was a kid I tried to grow a pumpkin in my backyard but then a rabbit ate the plant..

What are you proudest of? My fanfictions and edits mostly

Are you a kind person? I try my best to be but sometimes people have a knack of getting on me upset easy

What do your hobbies look like? Writing, making edits, playing games, all sorts!

No pressure tags: Anyone who wants to do this!

✨soft asks✨

What song makes you feel better?

What is your go to comfort show?

Reading or writing? Why?

Whats your favorite feeling?

How do you like to take care of yourself?

What’s your favorite candle scent?

Who do you feel most like yourself around?

Whats a fabric/texture that’s nostalgic for you?

Best childhood moment?

When was the last time you laughed so hard you cried? (or just felt really good afterwards)

Do you have a comfort item? Tell us about it!

What calms you down?

Bath or shower to relax?

Whats something upcoming that you’re excited for?

Comfort food?

What’s something you want to create soon?

How do you feel best loved?

What age in life do you think you’ll feel most yourself at?

Have you ever written or received a love letter?

Tell us about a memory you hold close to your heart.

Tea, Coffee, or hot cocoa?

Name of your favorite playlist?

Have you ever received flowers?

Who is your bestfriend?

If your soul was a color, what would it be?

If you could live anywhere with anyone you want, where would it be and who would you bring?

Do you like to garden? Have you ever grown something?

What are you proudest of?

Are you a kind person?

What do your hobbies look like?

[norrisradio]

SMALL TALK

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ “one night he wakes / strange look on his face / pauses, then says / “you’re my best friend” / and you knew what it was / he is in love” + “Morning, his place / burnt toast, Sunday / you keep his shirt / he keeps his word” - Taylor Swift, You Are In Love

ᝰ PAIRING: oscar piastri x reader | ᝰ WC: 1.7K ᝰ GENRE: strangers-to-friends-to-????, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time and other disasters, oscar piastri is a man on a mission ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: my first time dabbling in some mixed media (feat. texts, voice notes, and facetimes)! not entirely happy with it but hopefully it makes sense // sorry for disappearing i am back now i swear ꨄ requested by @princesspiastri007 !

send me an ask for my line by line event .ᐟ

Oscar Piastri ruins your life in a bakery line on a Tuesday.

You’re clutching your paper cup like a lifeline, half-hypnotized by the scent of cardamom buns and the threadbare sweater slung over your frame — navy, elbow-patched, fraying at the seams. It was your dad’s. Maybe even his dad’s. Handed down like a secret. You only wear it on soft days. The kinds that ask for warmth and not much else.

Then someone knocks into you from behind, and the tea goes flying.

A sharp breath. The hiss of liquid on wool.

You freeze. He freezes.

“Shit — God, I’m so sorry.”

The voice is breathless and kind of pretty. You look up, prepared to launch into an eloquent string of swears, but the apology is already in his face. He looks young. Startled. Dimples carved into his cheeks like a question mark.  A lanky frame, messy hair, and a voice that sounds like Sunday morning. And behind him, some tall blonde girl in sunglasses (who you’ll later learn is Hattie, his sister) gives a wince-laugh and says, “Nice one, Oz.”

You look down. The sweater is ruined.

“That’s not just a sweater,” you whisper, throat tight. And somehow, that matters more than yelling.

The stranger — Oscar, apparently — blinks. “Wait — wait, is it special? Oh God. Please let me fix it.”

That’s how it starts: a burnt-sugar Tuesday and a ruined heirloom.

He buys you another tea. Apologizes twenty-seven times. Offers you his hoodie while you shiver on the bakery bench. It smells like laundry detergent and something citrusy, like a life that doesn’t belong to you. When you say he doesn’t need to do anything else, he frowns like you’ve insulted him.

“No. I swear — I’ll find a way to replace it.”

You scoff. “What, are you gonna time travel to the '80s?”

He grins. “Not quite. But I travel a lot. I’ll find one like it. You’ll see.”

It’s a joke. You think it’s a joke.

Until he’s in Spain two weeks later, and you get a photo of a sweater from a vintage shop in Barcelona:

from: +61 *** *** *** [Attachment: 1 Image] from: +61 *** *** *** Closer? Still hunting.

Then he’s in Canada. Silverstone. Budapest. Portugal.

from: +61 *** *** *** [Attachment: 1 Image - a blurry photo of a sweater, tagged €35 ] from: +61 *** *** *** Found a jumper in Lisbon. Not quite the right navy, but it has the elbow patches.

to: +61 *** *** *** you don’t have to keep doing this, yk 

from: +61 *** *** *** I know. I want to.

Each time, a picture. A patch. A different shade of blue. An “Almost.” 

You hadn’t expected it to become a thing.

You hadn’t expected him to become a thing.

But there’s a moment, three weeks later, when you're eating leftover curry on the floor of your apartment and your phone lights up with a voice memo. You hesitate. Press play.

Hey. I know it’s probably stupid but I found one in Tokyo today that kinda reminded me of the shape of yours. Didn’t get it though. The color was off. But I thought about you.

There’s a pause. You can hear wind. Traffic. And then:

Anyway. Just wanted to say hi.

You play it twice. Then a third time.

You don’t respond for an hour because you don’t know how to say, you’ve been living in my head since Tuesday.

The voice memos turn into calls. Almost by accident at first. One missed message becomes a call back, and before you know it, you’re dialing his number like muscle memory.

You start calling him after work, when the sky is the color of chamomile tea and the streets hum with the soft ache of winding down. He answers from hotel rooms, his voice low and warm, surrounded by the soft rustle of sheets or the faint murmur of unfamiliar cities outside his window. Sometimes you hear the buzz of neon. The clatter of luggage. The echo of a TV in the next room.

It becomes routine. Sacred, even. A ritual made of static and silence and shared space.

He listens when you talk about your family, about the sweater, about how you’ve always had trouble letting go of things that feel like home. Your voice goes soft when you tell him how your dad used to wear it on cold Sunday mornings, how it always smelled faintly of espresso and cedar. How you kept it on the back of your chair even after he passed.

There’s a pause.

And then: “That makes sense,” Oscar says, quiet enough that you almost miss it. “You feel... anchored. Even when everything else isn’t.”

You blink.

No one’s ever put it like that before.

You want to laugh. Or cry. Or tell him that he’s the first person in months who hasn’t made you feel like you’re too much. Too sentimental. Too attached to the past.

Instead, you murmur, “I like the sound of that.”

“Of what?”

“Being anchored.”

He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his smile through the phone. That small, secret one you’ve learned to hear in the silence between words.

And when you hang up, well past midnight, your chest is full of something unfamiliar.

Melbourne - 00:42 / Sao Paulo - 11:42

Oscar’s face is sideways on your screen. He’s lying on a hotel bed, hair a mess, thumb under his cheek like he fell asleep on his own hand.

“I’ve seen twenty sweaters today,” he mumbles. “All of them were wrong.”

You smile, half-asleep yourself. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m determined.”

“Obsessed, maybe.”

He grins. “That too.”

There’s a long silence. Not awkward. Just full.

You whisper, “Why does it matter so much?”

He looks at you like he’s trying to read something written in a language only you speak.

“I think,” he says slowly, “because it mattered to you.”

Melbourne - 10:48 / Monza - 02:48

I found a vendor near the paddock today who hand-knits sweaters. Said she doesn’t repeat patterns but she can make something inspired by yours. I asked her how long it’d take. She said six months. I told her I’d wait.

There’s a long pause.

I don’t think this is about the sweater anymore. 

The FaceTimes start to stretch longer.  Past midnight. Into morning. Sometimes you wake up to a dead phone, his face still ghosting your dreams. He tells you what the gravel in Bahrain smells like. You tell him about your mother’s lasagna recipe. He starts sending you pictures of things that have nothing to do with sweaters.

The sea. His breakfast. A dog in the crowd with a bandana that says Team Oscar. His knees pressed up against the seat in a too-small plane.

You start recognizing hotel ceilings. The texture of his voice when he’s tired. The sound of his toothbrush.

You don’t talk about what it is. But you know.

You fall asleep with your phone tipped sideways, face half offscreen, mouth slack. Oscar snaps a screenshot once (you find it later in a photo dump he sends, sandwiched between two blurry shots of the Monza pitlane and one of a knitwear rack in Milan).

You’re in bed, face crinkled into your pillow.

from: +61 *** *** *** [Attachment: 4 Images] from: +61 *** *** *** I like this one best. 

Melbourne - 03:23 / Abu Dhabi 21:23

from: +61 *** *** *** You awake?

You blink at the screen, the dim glow of your phone painting soft light across your face.

You shouldn’t be awake. You weren’t. Not really.

to: +61 *** *** *** only if you need me to be 

from: +61 *** *** *** always. 

You stare at it for a beat too long. Something in your chest tightens.

No FaceTime this time. Just voice. Just the warmth of him spilling through the speaker like something secret.

“Hi,” he says, a little breathless. Like he’d been pacing. Like he still is.

“You okay?” you ask, voice scratchy with sleep.

A silence. Not heavy. Just full.

Then: “It’s stupid.”

“Try me.”

Another pause, this one longer. Then he sighs, and it sounds like the beginning of a confession.

“I was at dinner. Team stuff. Everyone talking, laughing, and it was fine. It was good. But then I thought of something you said — about how your dad used to cut his toast diagonally, like it made it taste better.”

You laugh, soft. “Because it does.”

He smiles. You can hear it. But then his voice shifts. Warmer. Quieter.

“And I wanted to tell you. Just that. Just... share that moment with you. And I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I wanted to call. Even though it was nothing. Even though it was everything.”

Your fingers twist in the hem of your blanket. “Oscar-”

He exhales, quiet static against your cheek. “It just– it made me realize something.” 

You hear him shift again, maybe run a hand through his hair. When he speaks next, his voice is quieter. Barely above a whisper.

“I think you’re my best friend.”

And the way he says it — it’s not casual. Not flippant. It lands somewhere low in your chest, blooming slow and steady.

You don’t answer right away.

Because the truth is, you already knew. You’d known for a while now, tucked in the space between time zones and half-laughed voicemails. In the way your day doesn’t feel finished until you’ve heard his voice.

Still, you make a soft sound into the receiver. “I know,” you say, because anything more might break it.

He breathes out a laugh. You can hear him relax, like he was bracing for something bigger.

“I should let you sleep.”

“You should.”

But neither of you hang up.

You don’t say anything else that night. Just let the silence stretch between you like soft thread, pulled taut. Your hand stays curled around the phone long after the call ends, thumb brushing the screen like it might still be warm from his voice. 

And later, when you’re making toast in his kitchen for the first time and burn it so badly the alarm goes off, you both laugh like idiots, wheezing and barefoot. 

You keep his hoodie. He lets you. You wear it when he’s gone. You send him a photo of it hanging beside the ruined sweater, like they’re twin relics of something that matters now. 

He keeps his word. 

He never finds the same sweater. 

But somehow, you stop minding.

Oscar can’t look at a knit sweater without thinking of you, and maybe that’s the best kind of curse—a soft one, stitched with love, pulling him home.

[fangirlingpuggle]

SVSSS role reversal AU where Binghe is not just Peak lord but sect head it's still his story only near the middle before Sect is destroyed and he wages war and destroys all demons and forms giant harem (Something kick started by his scum head disciple who was hidden prince of demons and is killed by Binghe)

He did the Shinji in Bleach route with Aizen in the I will promote them to keep an eye on them because I know they will betray me route.

Binghe who has been monitoring head disciple Shen Jiu who suddenly appears to no longer be scheming but instead snaking into the beast peak and playing with all the beasts. He's pretty sure the qi deviation has destroyed all his self preservation instincts. Also they are now looking at him with something not like hero worship he's used to but concern and he keeps making him tea and BINGHE IS CONFUSED AND KNOWS HE IS PLANNING SOMETHING.

He also does not like all the other disciples flirting with HIS DISCIPLE (Even if he knows his disciple will betray him) he has thrown many of them off his peak multiple times, Shen Yuan hasn't noticed and Binghe will deny it.

Shen Yuan is freaking out currently enjoying his time on the peaks and around his favorite character while he can because he knows he's going end up in abyss and his plan is to just stay there. He's gonna chill in the abyss make a farm or something and just stay out the plot and hopefully not get tortured and killed thank you very much. He'll just go vibe in the endless abyss because somehow that's his best option here.(Also he really does want to see some of the creatures there)

(He's also very happy he transmigrated as around 17 as he didn't want to go through demon puberty.)

(He does end up in abyss and Binghe goes to rescue him while Shen Yuan is running away like 'OH GOD HE CAME DOWN TO THE ABYSS TO KILL ME CAUSE I DIDN'T LEAVE')

Binghe sees full demon Shen Yuan in abyss after years missing and suddenly has the '...oh...OH...' moment.

Also role reversal Moshang

Airplane gets transmigrated as demon lord Shang Qinghua and has had to be doing political maneuvering to not get assassinated and has not been able to relax for years. The only way to not get killed was to become king (he didn't want to) he now has to deal with all his territory (and so much paperwork) that he is trying to make self sufficient and maybe some chance of surviving Binghe's rampage (or at least have some safe fortified place to hide out the massacre)

All the while he has to keep saving his favorite character who keeps trying to kill him and almost getting himself murdered or kidnapped by other demons.

Peak lord Mobei Jun fell hard for the demon who saved him as a disciple and kept trying to find him, he heard demons courted by combat and he's been trying to marry this demon lord for years. Hell he's even tried to get himself kidnapped by him, nothings working.

Mobei Jun:How do I get a demon a bridenap me?

Binghe*tuning around from the Shen Jiu conspiracy board*:...wait what?

[lyn31]

Heeeyyy! Would you write one of where Zayne gets jealous over reader? They are married ofc and let’s say another handsome man flirts with reader who is oblivious to it cuz ofc she only has her heart on Zayne. Zayne gets protective and jealous like in that card with Dr. Carter who gave mc flowers. Zayne takes reader to a quieter spot or home. Reader ask if he’s ok and he denies he was jealous. It makes reader sappy and blushing cuz zayne loves her a lot she teases him and he kisses her passionately to shut her up and says he was worried. OFC reader reassures him she only loves her snowman. You can write the location and event however you want. Thanks.

I took quite a different angle for this one, hopefully it still hit the vibes you're looking for! I play it off more, so it come off more playful the rest is a bit more subtle 👀 too subtle perhaps? 😭 Let me know what you think! 💕

Actually yk what, I'll make another one later per asks order! But let's say this is a treat also from the req before! 🥳 (But still let me know what you think ahaha)

I already rant about Dr. Carter before so I won't do it again here ahahahaha and yes this is the merge prompt with In Sickness and In Health!

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Jealousy, Revisited

Summary

A teasing spiral of jealousy, hormones, and chaos leads to one very pregnant woman and her maddeningly patient husband bantering their way back to soft, steady love.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader Mutual jealous, flashbacks, silly, banter, flirty, married couple!

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By the time Rose and Caleb leave your home, it’s already late—well past the kids’ bedtime. Serena's been asleep in her room for hours now, worn out from playing with Willow and Jace until her little legs could barely carry her.

The dishes are done, toys picked up, and you're finally curled up on the couch, legs tucked awkwardly under you the best they can with your belly in the way. The twins have been making their presence known all evening, kicking and shifting, and you’re sure at least one of them is practicing acrobatics.

Your hand rests absently on the curve of your stomach, and your hair still smells faintly of garlic from the stir-fry you made earlier, and the scent clings to your sweater like the memory of a full house.

Zayne joins you a moment later, easing down beside you with his usual quiet grace. He drapes a blanket over you, then slides an arm behind your back, hand settling low at your waist and gently curving to support the slight swell of your belly—something he does without thinking, as if his touch belongs there.

“That was quite a gathering, huh?” you murmur, leaning into him.

“Four adults with three kids,” he says. “Felt like a ten-person gathering.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Speaking of kids, I still can’t believe what Rose told us.”

“I definitely can,” he replies, voice still neutral.

You shoot him a look and pinch at his side, but he only catches your hand in his, thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. “It’s an expression, darling.” Your roll your 'r' a bit more, smiling but still glaring at him. He hums at you, a quiet nudge to keep going.

“Well, I was gonna bring up how Caleb got all jealous when someone complimented Rose’s scarf, but now that we’re talking about this... it reminded me of a certain someone at a certain photo shoot.”

He blinks at you slowly, composed as ever. “That was a normal reaction.”

“Normal, huh?” You raise an eyebrow, but the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth gives him away.

And yeah—you can feel the memory blooming between you again, ridiculous and fond. Back when you’d just started dating—Tara’s dramatic plea, that chaotic photo shoot, the poor student photographer caught in the silent wrath of a very composed, very territorial Zayne Li—

You’re barely halfway through reheating leftovers at Zayne’s apartment—still standing in front of the stove with one socked foot tapping the floor—when your phone lights up with Tara’s name.

You answer with a suspicious, “What did you do?”

“Emergency!” she bursts out.

You blink, already pulling the phone slightly away from your ear. “Didn’t you just get home like... twenty minutes ago?”

“Yeah, but I need you. Come to this studio downtown—my friend’s doing a shoot and one of his models bailed last minute.”

“…Why me?”

“Because you’re symmetrical and mildly photogenic,” she says with the smug confidence of someone who knows you can’t say no. “And also because there’s no way Rose or Lara would agree to this. Come on, I’ll owe you forever. Pleaseeeeee?”

You sigh with all the drama you can muster. “Fine. But you’re buying my coffee tomorrow. And I’m talking fancy coffee. Foam art and ethically sourced beans.”

“Deal!”

You hang up, shutting off the stove with a grumble, then wander down the hall to Zayne’s office. He’s sitting at his desk, posture relaxed, typing something you know is probably more important than it looks.

He glances up the second you knock at the open door.

“Hey, so... change of plan. I’ll be back in an hour. Tara needs help with something.”

He tilts his head, curious. “And that is?”

“I’ve been conscripted into a photography crisis.”

He raises one brow. “Do you need backup?”

You give a small laugh. “Well, if you’re up for it.”

“I am.” He powers off his computer without hesitation, standing smoothly. “Let’s go.”

When you both arrive at the studio, it is a cozy mess, full of soft lighting rigs and mismatched props piled in corners. Fabric-draped chairs, vintage suitcases, fake plants that look real until you touch them. Tara waves you in like she owns the place, already halfway through a neon-pink drink and wielding a clipboard like a sword.

You breeze through the solo shots first—casual poses, exaggerated laughter, dramatic hair flips Tara keeps coaching you through with, “More joy! Less corporate headshot!” She takes a few turns in front of the lens herself, striking mock-model poses with a loud “Yasss” every time the shutter clicks.

It’s not half bad. Honestly? It’s kind of fun.

Until the photographer—a lanky guy with a lemon wedge tattoo on his wrist and a camera lens that looks older than the building—decides the set needs couple shots to balance out the gallery.

He gestures to a standby model. Someone tall, cologne-heavy, and definitely overconfident. He steps forward like he’s auditioning for a cologne commercial, eyes flicking to you, then down to your waist. His hand starts to hover in that awkward, polite way—unsure if he’s supposed to touch.

Then, from behind the lights, Zayne’s voice cuts in.

“Actually, she’s not free.”

The room freezes. The photographer pauses. The cologne guy blinks.

Zayne steps into frame with that quiet, composed stride, like this is just a meeting he’s joining. “I mean—I’m free. She’s dating me. So… using both of us would be better.”

You try to keep the smile off your face. No use. It spreads before you can stop it. “You’re volunteering for photos?”

Zayne meets your eyes without missing a beat. “They’ll look more authentic this way.”

Tara lets out a muffled snrrk from behind her clipboard, clearly thrilled.

The photographer looks between the two of you, then nods. “Right. Yeah, sure. Chemistry’s important, right?”

Zayne’s hand finds your waist with ease, fingers come to rest at your waist like they’ve always belonged there. The first shot is stiff. The second, a little more natural. But the third—when he leans in and brushes his lips against your temple—you feel your whole expression soften without even trying.

Because he’s not acting. Not for a second.

The shutter clicks.

And clicks again.

By the time you’re back in the car, the night folding quiet around you, you can’t help poking at him.

“So… I’m not free, huh?”

He glances at you, one hand resting lazily on the wheel. “You’re still going on about that?”

“You practically growled at that poor guy,” you tease. “I think Tara’s friend was seconds away from reaching for a fire extinguisher.”

“I was being practical.”

“Oh, sure,” you say, leaning your head back against the seat with a grin. “Territorial and practical. Must be a doctor thing.”

He huffs softly, but you catch the way his mouth lifts at the corner. “You’re exaggerating.”

You’re really not—but you let him have that one.

Because that look he gave you when he stepped into the frame? You’ll be thinking about that for days.

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

You wiggle your eyebrows at him, feeling the slow, aimless motion of his fingers brushing along the curve of your stomach—familiar and gentle, like he’s memorizing it again for the hundredth time. “So practical of you, dear.”

He snorts softly, voice close against your temple. “It was practical. I was already present.”

“Mmhmm. Definitely not territorial at all,” you murmur, letting your tone drip with sarcasm.

Zayne leans in just enough for his breath to cool your ear. “If you’re talking about what we did after we got home… then yes. That was territorial.”

You laugh and squish his cheeks with both hands, tilting his face toward you before giving him a deliberately exaggerated, wet kiss that leaves him blinking. “Mmm. You’ve come a long way, husband.”

He chuckles, the sound deep in his chest. “Come a long way,” he echoes, then tilts his head, thoughtful. “That reminds me—the lab assistant.”

You raise a brow instantly, suspicious. “Yeah? What about her? Are you finally admitting that you explained things slower because she’s special?”

Zayne’s arm shifts behind you, and he leans into your side with effort, trying to wrap himself around you as much as the baby bump between you will allow. It takes some maneuvering, but eventually, his hand curves gently beneath yours over the swell of your belly.

“Look who’s being territorial now,” he murmurs, far too pleased.

“Mine is justified!” you protest, jabbing a finger lightly into his chest. “Don’t even pretend you didn’t notice how close she was leaning. I’ve seen microbe samples that maintained more personal space.”

He hums like he’s genuinely considering your words, eyes flicking up toward the ceiling in mock thought. “Why do you think I was leaning away from my computer?”

And just like that, the memory sparks back into clarity—sharp, ridiculous, and so vivid that both of you can’t help snorting aloud—

You stop by the hospital one late afternoon—your day off, the weather too nice to waste holed up in your apartment, Rose of course visiting Caleb at Skyhaven—so you think, why not drop by to see Zayne?

You’re still in your casual clothes, hair a little wind-tossed, lunch bag in hand—though let’s be real, it’s mostly dessert. You round the familiar hallway corner, smiling without thinking.

And then you see it.

There’s someone new standing beside Zayne’s desk, angled just enough to invade what should be neutral ground. You’ve never seen her before—probably an intern, maybe new staff—but what gets you isn’t her badge or the tablet in her hand. It’s the way she’s leaning in just a bit too close, blinking up at the screen like she’s never seen a rib cage in her life.

Zayne’s voice is even, professional, explaining some patient form or scan, pointing something out with his pen. But your eyes narrow immediately the moment her shoulder brushes against his.

From the way she’s deferring to him, she’s likely assigned to assist Greyson. Which raises the real question: where the hell is Greyson?

You don’t say anything. Not yet.

Instead, you stroll in like you belong—which you do—and round the desk casually, then lean in from the other side. Your arm wraps lazily around Zayne’s shoulders, lightly nudging the woman’s shoulder—which is barely there to begin with, your chin nearly brushing his temple.

“Do you always explain things this slowly,” you say, voice all sugar and silk, “or is she special?”

Zayne pauses—not startled, not flustered. He simply glances toward you, reading the humor beneath your tone. Then he exhales the faintest breath of a laugh.

“She was asking about patient chart formatting,” he says mildly. “I assumed she wanted the complete explanation.”

You raise a brow at him, just a touch dramatic. “You assumed wrong.”

The assistant stiffens. “Oh—I didn’t know you had a—”

“Girlfriend,” Zayne finishes, calm as anything—like it’s just another line in a report. “She brings me lunch.”

You can feel the ripple of awkwardness roll through the intern, and your smile only grows as you set the bag on his desk. “That’s right,” you say brightly. “I also pick him up sometimes. So he doesn’t get hit on by interns with no sense of personal space.”

The poor girl looks utterly mortified. “I—I just thought… um. He should eat first! I can ask Dr. Greyson later—sorry—”

And then she’s gone, heels clicking as she practically speed-walks toward the hallway.

You glance back at Zayne, who watches her leave with a perfectly neutral expression, then reaches for your hand.

“She was new,” he says after a beat. “I think this was her third day.”

“Mmm-hmm,” you murmur, leaning in to press an exaggerated kiss to his cheek, leaving a faint imprint of your gloss. “Be honest. You liked me jealous.”

His hand turns in yours, lacing your fingers together. “I like that you showed up.”

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

“Damn Greyson! Why is he eating lunch at that time?” you grumble, gesturing vaguely like your words could summon the man to defend himself.

Beside you, Zayne lets out a quiet chuckle, the kind that makes your chest warm. He doesn’t argue—though from the look on his face, he probably knows Greyson wasn’t even on break yet at the time. But because Serena adores Greyson and you’re currently on a blame-streak, Zayne lets it go. Probably even enjoying it.

His thumb grazing gently along your side. You glance over at him, narrowing your eyes. “You did like me jealous.”

He doesn’t deny it.

Instead, his lips press softly to the crown of your head, a quiet affection in the gesture. “You’re more expressive than I am,” he murmurs. “It was… reassuring.”

You snort. “You mean hot.”

“Also that.” His fingers trace a lazy circle against the curve of your stomach—

When both of you feel it. A sudden, firm kick.

You both still.

Zayne’s eyes go wide for half a second, a startled laugh escaping him before he glances at you, equal parts amazed and amused.

“They're definitely on your side,” you mutter, hand instinctively covering his like you’re both trying to catch the moment again.

He smiles, quieter now, thumb brushing just beneath your navel. “They got your timing.”

There’s a beat. A shared breath. Then he shifts, his voice going warm with that teasing clarity that always finds the softest spots.

“Well, what I was gonna say before… you get this look when you’re jealous. Composed, but pointed. Like you’re sharpening your words before you even speak.”

Your head lifts slowly, just enough to give him a look. “You find that hot?”

He meets your eyes, deadpan, not even a flicker of hesitation. “Decidedly.”

You groan, flopping your very pregnant self down onto the couch in what you intend to be a dramatic collapse, except… it’s more like a slow-motion descent. Your body is doing its best. “Ugh. I enable you.”

“You encourage me,” Zayne says smoothly.

“Same thing,” you mutter, slumped sideways now, rubbing a palm along your belly like you’re checking whose side the twins are still on.

He hums again, hands adjusting the cushion behind you. And then, like it just came to him. “Like that time with the nurse.”

You gasp. “Oh my god. The one with the laugh?”

Zayne shakes his head, mouth flattening. “She laughed at everything. Even when I told her someone coded last shift.”

You sit up again—well, technically you haven’t fully hit the cushions yet, so it’s not as hard as it could’ve been. But you do it with a triumphant kind of energy, grinning like it’s still fresh. “Okay, that one was definitely your fault. You were not leaving.”

“I was trying,” he says, completely sincere, “and being polite.”

“She touched your arm.”

He gives you a look, calm as ever. “I pulled back right away.”

You raise a brow, mimicking his deadpan tone. “You pulled back politely.”

His fingers slide up to brush under your chin, tilting your face toward his with ridiculous delicacy. “Would you have preferred impolite?”

And your brain suddenly time-warps. The smell of antiseptic. The low drone of machines. The memory hits fast—

You arrive at the hospital to pick Zayne up—technically early, but that is half the fun. His shift has an hour left, and sure, he hasn’t texted yet, but he won’t mind

You like talking to Yvonne while you wait anyway. She runs the front desk for the cardiology wing like it is her personal kingdom—knows every patient by name and every doctor’s bad habit. She spots you walking in and greets you with a wink. “He’s not out yet, but I bet you’ll lure him off the floor like usual.”

That’s the plan. Until you hear it.

Laughter. Not Yvonne’s signature cackle, and obviously you just passed her—not Greyson’s chaotic snort. No, this one is… breathy. Too polished. Too practiced.

You slow your pace, following the sound down the corridor, heels echoing soft clicks on the linoleum. The nurse’s laugh rings again, light and almost sing-song, followed by Zayne’s voice. Calm. Polite. Controlled, like always. He’s probably responding to whatever she said with a quiet nod or an actual answer, depending on how much patience he has left today.

You find them near the nurse’s station, bent over the same file. She stands too close—one manicured hand on the back of his chair, the other drumming polished nails against the counter like she couldn’t wait for an excuse to lean in again.

Your jaw twitches. But you smile.

Two more steps and you are there. No words, just a hand on Zayne’s shoulder, a slow kiss to his cheek—sweet, theatrical, and clearly. This seat’s taken.

“Can’t believe I have to share you with this whole building,” you murmur, voice dipped in velvet steel.

Your gaze slid to her. Brief. Pointed. Like a scalpel left out on the tray.

Zayne doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll be off shift in an hour.”

You smile at him like he hangs the moon. “Make it thirty minutes.”

The nurse falters. “Oh—I… I should check the supply cart.”

Of course you should, you think.

She vanishes faster than she showed up, file in hand and laugh tucked away like it is never there.

You don’t even get the chance to figure out what is supposedly so hilarious in the paperwork.

Zayne glances up at you, expression unreadable as ever, but his hand finds yours under the desk. “I wasn’t laughing.”

“I noticed,” you say, your tone softer now as you squeeze his fingers. “But she was practically hanging off your stethoscope.”

He tilts his head like he’s about to argue, but just then, Yvonne calls from the receptionist's desk. “You chasing off nurses again, sweetheart?”

You turn toward her, unapologetic. “Just the persistent ones.”

She grins. “Might want to give Greyson a warning. One of the surgical interns has been asking if he’s single.”

Behind you, Zayne exhales a quiet sigh, and you feel him tug your hand a little closer.

“Make it twenty minutes,” you murmur—because honestly, you’re already more than halfway to dragging him out yourself.

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

Your voice is smug. “You liked that one too, didn’t you?”

Zayne exhales through a quiet laugh, his hand still tracing easy, lazy circles against your side. “I liked knowing you wanted me visibly.”

You bump his knee gently, playful. “You act so calm, but you eat it up.”

He tilts his head just slightly, eyes glinting. “It’s mutual, isn’t it?”

“…Maybe.” You say it like it’s not obvious—like you’re not halfway ready to start a fight over a giggle. Then you pause. Something clicks.

Your body shifts in his arms, careful but suddenly full of energy, and you sit up straighter, barely suppressing your grin. “Wait—wait. Oh my god, that reminds me.”

Zayne hums, patient, amused. “There’s too much, if we list them all tonight.”

“Not mine!” You jab a finger lightly at his chest. “Your moment. Like—okay. Remember when we were dating and you were always too polite to admit you were jealous? All that, ‘she’s allowed to have friends’ nonsense?”

“It wasn’t nonsense,” he says, dry as ever.

You wave that away like it's air. “But then the moment we got married? Subtlety? Gone. Evaporated. Poof. Like with that barista.”

Zayne goes still. And you know he remembers.

You do too.

The memory hits in color and taste. Warm light, the smell of croissants, and the hiss of milk steaming behind the counter—

It’s a lazy mid-morning on your day off—the kind that feels rare lately, with both of you back in rotation, juggling reports, late calls, and the unpredictability of your jobs.

But today clicks into place. No emergencies, no shift swaps. Just you, Zayne, and your favorite little café tucked between buildings like a secret.

The place is quiet at this hour, filled with the soft hiss of espresso machines and low conversation. The usual barista isn’t there, though. Instead, a new guy stands behind the counter, fresh-faced and clearly too eager. He straightens up the moment you step forward.

“Good morning,” he said, grinning wide. “What can I get for you?”

You give your usual order, tone polite but relaxed. Before you can even pull out your card, he’s already waving it off.

“On the house,” he says smoothly, eyes flicking to the name you’ve given. “For someone with such a lovely name.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, um… thanks?”

He leaned slightly over the counter. “Do you come here often?”

And that’s when you feel it—the familiar presence at your side, quiet but solid. Zayne steps up beside you, the move casual but practiced, like his body knows exactly where to be. One arm slid around your waist, anchoring you against him in a way that didn’t look aggressive but definitely sent a message.

“We’re married,” he said, voice even. “And we’d like to eat before the lunchtime passes.. Please get our order ready.”

No inflection. No visible emotion. But somehow, it had the same weight as a slammed door.

The barista blinked, his confidence faltering. “R-right. Uh, coming right up.”

Zayne didn’t look away until the guy turned to prep your drinks. Only then does he guide you toward your favorite spot by the window, his hand still resting on your back.

You sit down, trying to suppress the laugh that’s already building. The second the croissant touches your lips, it slips out anyway.

“Someone’s jealous,” you teased, nudging his knee under the table.

Zayne doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re my wife. It’s my right.”

You nearly choke. You stare at him, stunned, then snort-laugh with half a croissant still in your mouth. “Oh my god—Zayne.”

He lifts his cup, sipping without so much as a flicker of amusement. “I was polite.”

You are grinning despite yourself. “You were terrifying.”

He arches an eyebrow, finally meeting your gaze. “He was about to pay for you.”

“Which I didn’t even ask for.”

Zayne doesn’t respond, but the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth betrays him. Just a little.

You reach across the table, brushing your fingers over his. “You know you don’t have to get territorial, right?” And wiggling your finger that clearly has your wedding ring on.

“I know,” he said quietly. “But I want to.”

That made you pause.

There was something almost reverent in his tone—not possessive in the shallow sense, but protective in a way that made your chest ache a little. Like he was always just waiting for the chance to stake his quiet claim.

You squeezed his hand. “You’re lucky I like it.”

He gives you a look that says that’s another reason why he did it. He laces his fingers through yours, as if he never planned on letting go.

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

You’re laughing into his shoulder again, your voice muffled and warm against the fabric of his shirt. “You really said that. Zero hesitation.”

Zayne doesn’t even pretend to deny it. He just shrugs, utterly composed. “We are married.”

You pull back enough to look at him, amusement still bubbling under your breath. “Oh, so now it’s legalized jealousy?”

“I call it efficient communication.”

You snort, threading your fingers through his, letting your thumb trace absent circles over his knuckles. His hand is cool, like always, but familiar. Grounding. “You used to pretend you didn’t care.”

He shifts, just enough to tilt his head your way, lips curving ever so faintly. “I still don’t,” he says smoothly. “Unless I do.”

You give him a flat look, stifling a snort. “That’s not a real sentence.”

“It is if you understand me.”

And the worst part is—you do.

You sigh, letting your head fall lightly against his shoulder again. “You’re so smug with your logic.”

“I’m consistent.”

“That’s the same thing,” you grumble.

His fingers tighten gently around yours, silent in his agreement.

You nudge his leg, casual and easy, but your grin is sly now. “Well, since we’re already deep in the jealousy chronicles, might as well air everything, right?”

Zayne lifts a brow, just slightly. “Yours or mine?”

You tap your chin with mock thoughtfulness. “Yours, of course.”

His expression doesn’t change, but his grip on your hand shifts just slightly—like he already knows which story you’re about to bring up.

And he’s bracing for it—

It’s some formal alumni gathering—an evening reception at a rented hall near your old high school, complete with dim lighting, hors d'oeuvres, and a lot of people pretending not to be comparing paychecks and hairlines.

Rose and Caleb guilt-trip you into going, insisting it’ll be fun, a reunion, just a quick drop-in before dinner. Of course, they disappear into the crowd the second you arrive, catching up with old teammates and classmates like they’d never left.

You wouldn't be here at all if Zayne weren’t with you right now. He doesn’t know anyone here except the three of you, but he shows up in a tailored black suit and lets you lead the way in, no complaints. Just quiet presence, fingers brushing the small of your back as you moved through the crowd.

You’re not even halfway through the evening when you run into him.

That classmate—the one who used to flirt with you in that annoying way that always bordered on too much. He hadn’t changed. Same cocky smile, same over-familiar tone, like the years since high school were just a brief intermission. He spots you across the room and makes a beeline over, arms already open before you can brace for it.

His hug lasted a second too long. The kind that wasn’t exactly inappropriate, but lingered. Like he thought he still had some unspoken claim.

And when he pulled back, his eyes did a slow sweep down your dress with a grin that said he liked what he saw—and he didn’t care how obvious he was being about it.

“Wow,” he said, all teeth. “You look amazing. Didn’t think I’d get lucky running into you tonight.”

Zayne is at your side the whole time, calm and unreadable. You introduce them, a little stiffly. The classmate offered his hand, and Zayne took it without hesitation, his grip polite, firm. Nothing dramatic. No cold stare. Just the picture of poised indifference.

But partway through the guy’s rambling attempt at flirtation disguised as nostalgia, Zayne’s hand finds yours. Effortless. Natural. His fingers laced through yours, warm and steady, like he’d been planning it all evening.

And then, without breaking eye contact with the guy, his thumb started brushing slowly across the surface of your wedding ring—over and over, like he was rediscovering the shine, polishing it just so.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

The guy keeps talking a little longer, but there is a shift. His smile dims a shade, that false confidence faltering. And eventually—finally—he made some excuse about needing another drink and walked off with a tighter jaw than before.

Zayne’s expression doesn’t change. He just stands there for a moment, looking in the direction the guy disappeared.

Then, quiet as ever, he murmured, “Interesting choice of cologne.”

You glanced up at him, trying not to smile.

“Pity about the attitude,” he added, like it was an afterthought. Like he was reviewing wine.

You snorted. “Zayne.”

“He was being presumptuous.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t need to.”

You kissed him later that night. Half-laughing, half-pressed-up-against-the-door, telling him how annoyingly hot he was when he got like that. The way he didn’t need to raise his voice to make a point. The way his thumb moved over your ring like he could remind the world it existed without ever having to say the words.

He only said, “I know,” before kissing you again—slow, deep, deliberate.

And the thing was, he did know.

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

You sigh with dramatic satisfaction as you sink deeper into his chest. “What a night.”

Zayne raises an eyebrow without turning his head. “The reunion?”

You tug gently at his cheek, just enough to make him glance down at you. “You know I’m talking about after the reunion. The reunion itself was… fine. Would’ve been better if we hadn’t run into that guy, but hey—the ending? Flawless.”

You wink at him. His mouth doesn’t curve, but his arm shifts around your waist, pulling you just a little closer—like a quiet confirmation that, yes, he remembers exactly how the night ended too.

“Marriage definitely has its advantages,” he says, voice low, almost amused. He lifts your hand with ease and presses a kiss to your knuckles, then to the band on your ring finger. Slow. Purposeful. Like he’s sealing something.

Heat flickers up your neck—ridiculous, really, considering how long you’ve been together. But when he acts like this, all calm devotion wrapped in subtle possessiveness? Yeah, it still does things to you.

“You’re so annoying,” you mumble, which only earns you a second kiss against your palm to your fingers, as if to say he knows.

Which reminds you—another story, another memory you’re still not over. “And ohhh, remember that nurse?”

Zayne’s brows pinch slightly, thoughtful. “Which one?”

“There’s too many nurses,” you snort, already laughing. You’re about to tease him for being smug when another memory slips in—uninvited, but impossible to forget.

You remember white coats, antiseptic lighting, and a nurse with a clipboard and too much charm—

You tell yourself you’re just dropping by the hospital. Totally normal thing to do. Casual, innocent. Maybe you even threw in a “since I’m already in the area” excuse just to make yourself feel more justified. Not that anyone was buying it—including yourself. But hey, you missed him. Sue you. He’s your husband. You’re allowed to.

Zayne texts that he’s finishing up a case and will meet you in a few minutes, so you linger near the nurses’ station, catching up with Yvonne until she’s paged away.

Left to your own devices, you lean against the counter, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. A few familiar faces pass by, waving or stopping to say hi. At this point, you’re basically a regular—if not by role, then by reputation. Everyone in the cardiology wing knows exactly who you are.

Which is probably why it catches you a little off guard when a nurse you don’t recognize sidles up beside you, clipboard tucked to her chest and a mischievous spark in her eye.

She gives you a once-over—not unfriendly, just… curious. Measuring. “You must be Mrs. Doctor Li,” she says, with the kind of grin that suggests she’s been waiting to use that line.

You blink, smiling politely. “That’s me.”

She sighs dramatically. “Well, now I’m jealous. Visiting your husband again? You sure you don’t wanna switch places for the day?” Her tone is playful, but there’s a tilt to her voice, a nudge to the clipboard, that gives it a little edge. Half-joking, half… not.

You open your mouth to offer some equally light reply, maybe something about how he didn’t do the dishes this morning, so really she’s dodging a bullet—but you don’t get the chance.

Zayne’s presence slides into the scene without warning. He appears at your side with the kind of quiet precision that makes you wonder just how long he’s been standing there. No irritation on his face. No tension in his posture. Just calm, composed Zayne, standing like he’d always been there.

“There’s only one Mrs. Li,” he says, voice smooth and steady. Not sharp. Not cold. Just final.

Then, after a deliberate pause, he added, “No substitutions accepted.”

The nurse’s laugh comes a second too late. “Right, right. Just teasing,” she says as she politely excuses herself.

Zayne didn’t acknowledge that part. His gaze had already shifted fully to you, and though his expression barely changed, there was a slight lift at the corner of his mouth—barely noticeable to anyone else, but you caught it immediately.

You bit back your grin, elbowing him lightly. “Smooth.”

He tilted his head slightly, brushing his knuckles against your back like it was just another ordinary motion. “I’m married,” he said again, quieter this time.

Like it explained everything.

And the thing was—it did. Your stomach did a ridiculous little flip. God, he was good at this.

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

“Why are you so popular?” you complain, settling into the couch with a dramatic flop that your current state of pregnancy doesn’t fully allow. This time, Zayne actually helps you lay down slowly, so you successfully lay down.

After that, he’s right back again, still leaning toward you, currently rubbing slow circles into your lower back, glancing down at you with a patient look.

“Actually, don’t answer that,” you add before he can say anything, waving a hand in the air. “Of course my husband’s popular. But.” You let out a long, theatrical sigh. “It’s hard work out here. I’m trying, okay? Being subtle.”

Zayne shifts a little, adjusting the throw blanket over your lap. “You,” he says evenly, “and subtle is not really…”

He tilts his head slightly, searching for the right word, then settles on a diplomatic. “Correct.”

You gasp, swatting weakly at his chest. “Hey! I can be subtle. I’ve done subtle.”

The way he looks at you makes it clear he’s flipping through his internal memory log and finding no evidence to support your claim.

You squint at him. “I have! I think having Serena definitely helped increasing my subtlety.”

Zayne’s hand stills against your back. He gives you a very specific look. A knowing look. One that makes you narrow your eyes right back.

“What?” you say, suspicious.

“The hospital event,” he says, voice smooth. “Not long after Serena was born.”

You blink. “Ah…” you murmur, sinking further into the cushions as the memory catches up—

It’s supposed to be one of those harmless little holiday things—string lights hung too high for anyone to fix properly, half-hearted holiday music looping from a speaker no one could find, and tables covered in everything from fruitcake to suspiciously undercooked mini quiches. The pediatric wing outdoes itself in decorations, and someone even sticks paper antlers on the automatic doors.

You arrive with Serena balanced comfortably on your hip, her winter hat already sliding sideways. Zayne’s fingers lace with yours, his free hand tugging the tiny hat back into place with the same quiet precision he uses for stitching incisions. You’re not technically invited, but no one ever questions you showing up anymore—not when most of the cardiology staff knows Serena by name and you by association.

It’s cozy. Festive. Fine.

Until it isn’t.

She’s young. Polished. One of the newer nurses you haven’t seen before. The kind who probably brings her own hand-poured coffee in every morning and keeps pens organized by color. She drifts over just as Zayne finishes recounting how Serena discovers snow for the first time—specifically by licking a half-buried garden light.

“Oh my God,” she laughs, lightly tapping his arm like she’s known him forever. “You’re such a natural. I mean—look at her.”

You stiffen, just slightly. Zayne, as always, remains composed. Serena stares back at the nurse with the unimpressed expression of a child who’s recently tried to eat a pinecone and been stopped.

The nurse crouches, eyes on Serena, her voice taking on that high-pitched baby-talk edge. “You’re such a daddy’s girl, aren’t you?”

Your smile is immediate. Controlled. Just a little too sharp around the edges. “She is,” you say, your tone smooth as silk.

Then, sweetly—just a beat too slow—

“Just like I am.”

The pause hits like a dropped ornament.

Zayne doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. His fingers tighten around yours—not harsh, not even particularly firm. Just a subtle squeeze. A silent, not here. Not in front of the inflatable Santa.

The nurse blinks. Straightens. Her smile doesn’t falter, but the light behind it dims a notch. “Right,” she says with a laugh, already half-stepping away. “Well—happy Holidays!”

Zayne offers a polite nod.

You watch her walk off with a sip of your lukewarm cocoa, pretending you didn’t just drop a bomb in front of the holiday trees.

Zayne leans in, brushing a kiss to Serena’s temple. Then, quietly, near your ear. “You’re subtle like a sledgehammer.”

You hum. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. That is subtle.”

He gives a small chuckle, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Subtle or not, you do have a way of clearing a room.”

You tilt your head slightly, just enough to catch his eyes. “And yet you’re always the one standing next to me when the dust settles.”

There’s a flicker in his expression—barely a breath of a smile, but unmistakably fond. His hand finds your back again, calm and warm.

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

“I mean—that was subtle!” you insist, gesturing dramatically like you’re presenting undeniable evidence.

Zayne’s gaze drifts to you with that same unreadable calm, one brow ticking upward—just enough to make his opinion known without a word. The exact same look he gets when you insist that cookies count as a balanced breakfast.

You narrow your eyes at him, already seeing through his silence. “Don’t give me that face.”

His lips press together in that polite, I’m not saying anything expression, which only makes you groan.

“She deserved it!” you declare, throwing your hands up.

“I didn’t say she didn’t,” he replies smoothly, not missing a beat.

“Exactly!” You jab a finger at him, triumphant. “Just like that preschool teacher!”

That earns you a faint flicker of amusement in his eyes—subtle, but you catch it. "Now that you mention it, the one before is definitely subtle."

Just like you both remember it—

It happens the first week of Serena’s new preschool.

Zayne has been picking up Serena for the whole week. He’s been getting night shifts, and he says he likes being the one she sees first when class lets out, as long as he can for now.

You haven’t argued—why would you? Seeing your husband so excited is very cute. So today, you tagged along, half for the company, half to see for yourself where your daughter’s been spending her days.

The building itself is warm and cheerful, the kind of place with sunlight filtering through paper cutout leaves and tiny rain boots lined up like soldiers beneath name-tagged cubbies. You find Serena’s cubby easily—her name spelled in glitter glue above what looks like a drawing of a rabbit. Or a potato. Possibly both.

Then the teacher approaches.

Young. Bright-eyed. The kind of person who always sounds like she’s narrating a children’s book. Which is probably good for preschool, but you’ve been in a mood lately, so you try to rein it in. Try.

“Oh! You must be Serena’s parents,” she chirps, clasping her hands in front of her chest like she’s been waiting all day to greet you. “She’s an absolute sweetheart—so independent! And Dr. Li, we just love when you stop by. It’s so refreshing to see a dad who’s so involved.”

Your smile curls automatically. “He’s very involved.”

She giggles, like that’s the best news she’s heard all week. “You’d be surprised how rare that is. He even helped her get her shoes on last time! I thought that was just the cutest—”

You tilt your head, letting your smile widen by a millimeter. Just enough to shift the air between you.

“Yes,” you say, syrup-thick. “He’s the best. Hands-on dad, great cook, folds laundry without being asked. Fantastic memory. Always remembers everything.”

The teacher blinks, her expression still sunny—but maybe a little confused by the turn of the conversation.

“And,” you add, voice still as warm as a cup of freshly brewed tea, “he’s mine.”

You let that hang a beat before tacking on, casually.

“Want me to say it slower?”

The smile on her face doesn’t quite reach her eyes anymore. You can see her trying to figure out whether you’re joking—and more importantly, whether it’s safe to laugh.

Zayne clears his throat beside you. “I’ll just… get Serena’s bag.”

And off he goes, calm as ever, not even pretending to hurry.

You watch him go with the slow, deliberate blink of a woman who knows exactly what she just did—and would do it again without hesitation.

The teacher stands there, fingers twisting slightly in the hem of her cardigan. “He’s, um. Very lucky.”

You nod, voice breezy. “He is.”

She moves on—quickly.

And that’s the end of that.

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

“I know when someone’s being nice and when they’re being flirty, alright!”

“Yes, darling.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you making fun of me right now?”

Zayne raises both hands in a show of innocence, his voice all polite calm as usual. “Me? Making fun my pregnant wife? That’s just harsh.”

You shove him lightly with a scoff, which really only makes him lean into it more. When you push yourself up from the couch, it’s slow going—your hand pressing to the small of your back, a little grunt escaping before you can stop it.

Zayne’s hand is already there to steady you. Of course it is.

You swat him off with a fussy flick of your wrist. “I’m fine.”

“I never said you weren’t.”

“I want to sleep,” you grumble, shuffling toward the hallway. “You can leave your pregnant wife alone.”

Behind you, you hear the slight panic in his voice. “Love—”

You turn around, walking backward now with one hand cradling your belly. “Don’t ‘love’ me. You’re popular. Go flirt with someone else.”

His lips twitches—just slightly. “You started this.”

“Oh, please. You got weirdly quiet about that nurse.”

“I was being polite,” he says smoothly. “And strategic. Unlike some people, I don’t threaten strangers in front of the holiday trees.”

You stop your walk and narrow your eyes at him.

Slowly he says, “I mean… I should’ve told them first.”

You huff, “Don’t patronize me!”

Zayne’s mouth opens and closes, like he’s trying to think of a way to reply to his very pregnant, very hormonal wife. You just cross your arms waiting for his reply.

Then finally he settles with. “I’m not patronizing. I’m… negotiating.”

“With who?” Raising your eyebrow at him.

He gestures vaguely between you. “The situation.”

You snort. “Oh, so now I’m a situation?”

“You’re always a situation.”

“You take that back.” You gape at him, half-offended, half-delighted.

He leans in a little. “Make me.”

Your mouth opens again—primed for another dramatic comeback—but instead you let out a laugh that bubbles up before you can stop it. You hate that he’s funny when you’re trying to be serious. You love that he’s funny when you’re trying to be serious.

“Ugh,” you mutter, defeated, and turn to waddle away again. “I should make you go sleep with that inflatable Santa.”

Zayne catches your wrist gently before you can get too far, and this time he doesn’t say anything right away. Just pulls you in with that quiet, careful steadiness of his until your foreheads bump softly together.

His voice is low when it comes. “You know it’s only ever you, right?”

You try—really try—not to melt at that. You fail.

You stare at him, unblinking. “That’s cheating. You can’t just go soft and sweet after arguing your case.”

Zayne’s mouth curves—barely. “I thought you liked it when I went soft and sweet.”

You squint. “Not when it makes me lose.”

He hums, the sound low and amused as he brushes his thumb lightly along your wrist. “You never lose.”

You open your mouth. Pause. Then close it again with a huff because… yeah, okay. That was good. And unfair.

Closing your eyes for a second. Just a second. you finally murmur, “And yeah,” softer now. “I know, it’s the same for me—you’re the only one, too. Then and now.”

He leans in, brushing a kiss just under your brow, the barest hint of a smile in his voice when he says, “Even when you’re being ridiculous.”

You sigh dramatically. “That’s your favorite version of me.”

“It’s the only one I get.”

You try not to smile. Fail again. With a long-suffering sigh that doesn't quite hide your fondness, you mutter, “You’re lucky I’m too much in a need of cuddles to make you sleep on the couch.”

“My wife does say I give best cuddles,” he murmurs, presses a kiss to your temple again—soft and steady, like the kind of promise that doesn't need to be spoken out loud.

You lean into it without meaning to. Maybe you’re a little tired. Maybe you're just too in love to keep pretending you're mad.

“…Fine,” you mutter. “You can come to bed.”

“Thank you for your mercy.”

“Don’t make me change my mind.”

He doesn’t. He just smiles—barely there, but warm—and shifts his hand to your back again, that familiar pressure you’ve come to depend on more than you’d ever admit out loud.

And so you let him guide you, quiet and close, down the hallway and into the hush of your shared space. Feet aching. Belly heavy. Heart annoyingly full.

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

Notes

My stubborn ass make me finish this today even though I should be sleeping, so if there's any typo excuses me and please point it out 😵💕 Also this is way shorter I suppose, I mean in term of snippet it feel shorter, or that might just be me ;-; Anyway! Hope y'all enjoy! Let me know actually, this is also a new angle...

[cloudcountry]

SUMMARY: what do the tkdb men think about your wearing a lip mask?

COMMENTS: another cute lil bite sized fic i wanted to write to hopefully get my creative juices back. unedited!!

He’s not going to say it but man, he wants a kiss. It’s not fair. Your lips look so shiny too, and that makes you seem all the more inviting. His eyes stray to your lips throughout your entire night time conversation, his own parting to let out soft breaths. You’re so pretty, you make him so desperate, and it’s so unfair the way you giggle and tease him. He doesn’t want a kiss at all, he doesn’t. No way. So stop making fun of him! And never wear that lip mask again.

— jin, ren, lyca, yuri.

He doesn’t particularly care whether he can kiss you on the mouth or not, so long as he can kiss you. He knows you will return the favor tenfold when the two of you wake up in the morning. Isn’t that what being lovers is all about? If you get frustrated by his teasing touches and kisses, that's not his fault...maybe tomorrow night, you’ll ditch the lip mask so that you can kiss him in return. He’s looking forward to it, as always.

— tohma, haru, taiga, haku, edward, jiro.

He’s whining and throwing a borderline hissy fit about it. Like, he loves you, and that means he loves your kisses. He’s not actually serious about wanting you to stop using it, since it makes you taste so sweet in the morning and it makes your lips so soft, but right now he’s sad. Your nightly kisses are like a ritual to him, he can hardly sleep without it! So please, won’t you take him out of his misery and give him one tiny kiss? Just one? It’ll help if you share the lip mask anyway!

— kaito, leo, towa, rui.

He wants a kiss but won’t make a scene. Logically, he knows you need to take good care of your lips for your own comfort, so he will not interfere with your self care routine. You would do the same for him, undoubtedly and without question...so why is it so hard to fight back his urge? Why is he borderline pouting when you slide into bed next to him, lips shimmering enticingly from the mask? Why do you smell so sweet? This is torture. He’s going to try his best not to show it, and kiss you first thing in the morning.

— luca, alan, sho, romeo, ritsu, subaru, zenji.

[drabbletron]

Psst, 18 for Rumble? Is that possible? 👀

Bucking In The Bathroom: Rumble X Reader SMUT

|| It is very possible! This is my first time writting for him so hopefully its good. Barely edited and written on the clock lol! Enjoy! ||

🔞 MINORS DNI 🔞

Rumble hasn't stopped moaning since you first put your mouth between his thighs. First came the licking to tease him, then the nibbling to get him to open up, now comes the best part where you can smush your face right into his pretty, periwinkle valve. The soft mesh like a pillow against your cheeks as you lap at his entrance, trying to shove your tongue as deep as it will go and then deeper still. He just tastes so good! Supple, wet, and irresistible!

Your hands come up to wrap around his massive thighs, keeping him right where you want him so he can't squirm away from you.

"Ah, slag, you don't let up do ya?! Ya like it that much?"

You hum, pressing deeper into him and using your thumb to run fierce circles over his anterior node as a response, making him grip the walls in the corner of the too small bathroom as he bucks helplessly into you. The ceramic tiles crack under his fists and his helm tosses back, knocking a few lose with a moan.

Outside the bathroom the bar goers hardly hear a thing over the pulsing music. No one knows if it's the singer in the song or the mech at your mercy wailing, and frankly you don't even care. His pretty lips are all yours for the taking and you lose yourself, eyes rolling, to his taste. If you werent drunk before, you'd consider yourself that now. Valve drunk as he overloads against your face with a call of your name.

Rumble's dizzy processor can't tell which way is up and which way is down as the graffitied bathroom spins in his optics. He knows he's finished, but the way you slurp against him, so very hungry, gives him the urge to take more.

"If ya like it so much, maybe you should keep at it?! Feels crazy like, like -- hell I dont even know, just keep doin' that!"

Amid his encouragement, Rumble's servo finds its way to the back of your head to jam you further into him. His grip is bruising, but his moans make it more than bearable. Then he falls forward to catch himself on the stall, metal bending under his grip, and you're dragged back onto your ass, off balance and drowning in his plush valve while he humps your face because he hasn't let go of your head.

"Jus' like that! That's it! 'M gonna overload --! 'M gonna--Agh, frag yeah!"

Hot transfluid spills from his valve down your chin and throat as his still thrusting hips smear it all over your face. You're certain to be a terrible mess after this encounter, but with the way Rumble looks, hunched like a wild animal above you and venting like it's going out of style, now's the time to admire and bask in what just transpired.

Through rough venting and heavy static, all he can utter is this: "Maybe next time I'll return the favor."

[obvithe-bestsoph]

meeting his parents. - barca boys (and marc)

summary: how lamine yamal, pablo gavi, pedro gonzalez, pau cubarsi, and hector fort would ask you calm you down when you're nervous before going to spend your first Christmas with his family. a/n: the long awaited 100 follower special! to some people this doesn't seem like many, but to me, i would forever be grateful for just one, so this is a big deal in my mind! i would like to specially thank @nngkay for being around this blog, more or less since the beginning, and @vvssqqz6 for constantly liking and reblogging my posts! thanks to @pedricos for giving me ideas and motivation to write. and thank you to you. for reading this, (hopefully for liking it), and to anyone who has supported my writing in any way in the past! here's to another 100, love, - obvithebestsoph 💕💕 masterlist requests genre: fluff/comfort. warnings: none.

Lamine noticed you nervously adjusting your shirt for the millionth time in the last five minutes, your eyes flicking between the floor and the couch. You hadn’t said anything aloud, but he could sense the tension that’s building up inside you. He knew how important today was for you. Meeting his family for the first time, especially during Christmas, was bound to bring a wave of nervousness over you. You were excited, of course, but you couldn’t shake the anxiety in your stomach either. 

“Hey,” he said softly, elbowing your side to get your attention, “¿qué ocurre (what’s wrong)?” You turn your head to look at him and smile tightly back at him, “Yeah, I’m just… nervous, I guess.” Lamine frowns, “Nervous? About what?” 

You sighed and fixed your hair yet again. “I really want them to like me, Lamine. It’s your family, they’re important to you, so I want them to like me. I don’t want to mess anything up.” Lamine smiles at you reassuringly, slinging an arm around you in a casual fashion. “I promise, they’re going to love you. Mi mamá’s been pestering me to meet you, and Keyne’s hardly scary. You’ll be fine.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, raising an eyebrow. “You say that now, but what if I say something awkward or do something weird? What if they don’t think I’m good enough for you?” He just laughed, shaking his head. “You’re not going to mess up. You’re perfect as you are.” He smiles more softly now, his dark brown eyes looking into yours, “They’re so excited to meet the person who makes me so happy. You have nothing to worry about.”

His words were gentle, but as they usually do, they carried a confidence that made you feel lighter. Lamine talked about them so fondly, you knew they’d be kind, but the thought of being actually in the same room as them for the first time still made your palms a little sweaty. 

“Besides,” Lamine continues, more playful now, “if you ever feel too nervous, just hang out with Keyne. He gives the best hugs and he’ll happily tell you all about all his soft toys and their names.”

You laughed, “I’m sure I’ll be fine, so long as I don’t embarrass you.” 

Lamine’s face softened once again as he turned your face to look at him. “You could never embarrass me, mi amor. You mean so much to me, and my family knows that, and I’m excited for them to see it in person too.” 

You take a deep breath, feeling the weird tossing of your stomach soothe as the moments pass. Lamine was right, annoyingly, he often is. His family would see how much you both love each other, and they’d understand. There’s nothing to be nervous about.

“You always know how to calm me down,” you whispered, leaning into his side, his body warm, as usual. 

Lamine kissed your forehead. “That’s because I’m always around your anxious ass. I’ve cracked the code on how to make you see sense again.” he snickers, and you playfully slap his arm. 

After a few more moments of laughing, the room goes quiet again and Lamine smiles at you. “Ready to go?” He holds his hand out for you to take as he stands up to leave. You nod and lace your fingers with his, heading towards the front door. 

“Te amo (i love you).” he murmurs as he kisses the top of your head. “Yo también te amo (i love you too).” you smile up at him, and he smiles back.

You were pacing again. Back and forth in front of Pablo’s bed, feeling too restless to sit still. Christmas in Los Palacios. With his family. His parents. His sister.

You froze when you heard a soft laugh behind you. 

“Bebé,” Pablo says, calling your attention as he leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed and a teasing, but soft, smile on his face, “you’re going to wear a hole in the floor. Cálmate.”

You gave him a look, but he was already walking towards you, his presence alone making the nerves calm slightly. “I’m freaking out, Pablo,” you said, the words coming out faster than your normal tone. “What if they don’t like me? What if I say something weird or-” “-trip over something? Spill wine on mi mamá’s couch? Bring a dish with ingredients that someone’s allergic to?” he offers, raising an eyebrow with that stupid, teasing smile still on his face. 

You groaned and slapped his chest. “You’re not helping!”

Pablo laughs, pulling you into his arms. His arms slide around your waist like they have done a million times before, like that’s his favourite place for them to be, and maybe, it is. “I am helping. I’m making you realise how silly it sounds.”

You sigh, resting your forehead against his chest, the steady beat of his heart against your ear. “I just… I want them to like me. I mean, they’re your parents. This is kind of a big deal.” 

“They’re going to like you.” he said firmly, and when you looked up, he was already looking down at you with those big, perfect eyes of his. “They’re going to love you, actually. Because I do.”

Your breath hitched ever so slightly at the way he said it, so very certainly. Like it was the most obvious and natural thing in the world. “You do?” He rolled his eyes with a grin. “Of course I do. Do you really think I’d take any girl home for Christmas? Mi mamá might cry. She’s a crier. Mi papá will pretend he’s chill, but he’s probably going to ask about your entire life story 10 minutes after you meet him. And Aurora? She’ll be happy to have another girl her age-ish around.”

“Dios mío.” you mutter, burying your face in his hoodie. “But they’ll love you,” he said, his voice a little softer now. “Because you make me ridiculously happy. You’re the first person I’ve never been nervous to bring home.” Your heart squeezed a little. All your nerves, your doubts, your ‘what-if’s - they didn’t disappear, but they felt quieter, dulled by the way Pablo seemed so confident and the way he held you tight. He made you feel like you already place in his family, even if you hadn’t actually met them yet. 

You wrapped your arms tighter around his waist and then dropped them to your sides in a final squeeze. “Vale, I’m ready.” “Good,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “Because they’ve been ready for you since the second I told them about us.”

You stared blankly at the half-packed suitcase on the bed, then at the closet, then back at the suitcase. “This is ridiculous,” you mumbled to yourself, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I’m just meeting his family. It’s not the end of the world. I shouldn’t be this nervous.”

Still, your heart’s going crazy, and your hands can’t stop fidgeting. You’d packed and then unpacked three times already, trying to find the perfect thing to wear to impress Pedri’s parents. Pedri walked in a moment later, phone still in hand, but his attention almost immediately shifted from the Instagram post he was looking at to you. “You okay?” he asked, his voice calm and even as usual. 

You looked up, giving him a nervous smile. “I feel like I’m going to forget how to speak the moment I meet tu mamá.” He chuckled, tossing his phone onto the bed and walking over to sit beside you, “You’re overthinking, sol (sunshine). My parents are going to love you.”

You give him a fairly sassy look. “You have to say that.” “No,” he said, giving you a sassy look back, and bumping your shoulder gently with his. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”

Pedri took your hand in his, running his thumb slowly over your knuckles. “My mamá’s going to be obsessed with you. She’s been asking about you for weeks. And my papá? He already likes you. He said anyone who can make me this happy and in line must be some sort of saint.” 

You let out a small laugh, despite the nerves. “So I’ll be fine?” “You’ll be perfect.” he grins.

You sighed and leaned your head on his shoulder, grateful for how effortlessly he calms your nerves. “I just… I want them to see how much I care about you. I don’t want to mess it up.”

Pedri turned toward you slightly, his voice quiet and genuine.  “You already show me how much you care every single day. They’re going to see that too. And if they don’t see it in the first five minutes, my mamá will get out the baby photo albums to embarrass me, and, if you pay attention, you’ll be her favourite forever.” You smile into his shoulder. “Tempting. You were a cute ass baby.” He grinned and kissed the top of your head. “Just be yourself. That’s who I love, and that’s who they’ll love, too.” 

Pedri stood up and offered his hand to you. “Vamos, we have a suitcase to pack, a flight to catch, and my mamá made croquetas. If you’re nervous, eat first. That’s her rule for everything.” You laughed and took his hand, butterflies still fluttering, but in a different way now. 

Maybe, just maybe, it would be okay.

You sat curled up on Pau’s bed, knees hugged yo your chest, your suitcase still half-zipped and lying on the floor. Everything was packed. Everything was ready. But you weren’t.

Your mind kept spinning in circles. ‘What if they don’t like me?’ ‘What if I say the wrong thing?’ ‘What if I somehow embarrass Pau or myself in front of his whole family?’

You barely noticed the sound of footsteps before you felt the bed dip beside you. Pau didn’t say anything at first - just sat quietly, his presence calm as always, like he knew you needed a minute or two. 

Finally, you glanced at him. “Is it obvious I’m lowkey freaking out?” He smiled gently, his green eyes warm and soft. “A little. But only because I know you.” You groaned and hid your face behind your knees, “I’m sorry. I know this is supposed to be exciting, and it is, I promise. I just… I don’t know. Meeting your parents feels like a really big deal.” 

Pau nodded slowly, taking his time to respond. “It is a big deal. But that doesn’t mean it has to be scary.” You looked up at him, your brows furrowed. “Aren’t you nervous?” He shook his head, and then reached for one of your hands, his fingers wrapping tightly around yours. “No. Because I know them, and I know you. And I know how much they’re going to like you.” 

You let out a shaky breath. “What if I say something weird? What if I don’t say enough? What if tu mamá thinks I’m too quiet? Or what if tu papá-” “Hey,” Pay cuts you off gently, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. “It’s okay to be nervous. But you don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be yourself. My parents… they’re kind people. They’re not going to judge you. They’re excited to finally meet the girl I’ve been talking about for months.” 

A small smile makes its way onto your face. “You’ve been talking about me?” He smiled, his own cheeks going a little pink. “Kind of a lot.”

That made you laugh, and Pau laughed too, a little shyly, his eyes crinkling at the corners nonetheless. “Mi mamá’s probably already made ten different things to eat just because she doesn’t know what you like. She’s going to spoil you. And mi papá… he’s quieter, like you and me, but he’ll ask about football or something to bond with you.”

You look down at your joined hands, then up at Pau again. “I really want to make a good impression.” “You will,” he said simply. “Trust me.”

And the way he looked at you right then - so sure, so confident, so proud - you started to believe him. 

You squeezed his hand, another smile forming on your lips. “Okay, let’s go then.”

Pau smiled back, standing up and offering you his hand to help you up off the bed. “You’ve got this. And if anything gets weird, I’ll fake an emergency and drive us back.”

You laughed. “Deal.”

You were sitting on the edge of the couch, nervously twisting the strap of your bag in your hands. Your suitcase packed, coat hanging by the door, and Marc had already triple checked the passports and plane tickets. Everything was ready for the flight back to Barcelona… except for your nerves. 

Marc popped his head in from the hallway, grinning like he did, cheeks slightly pink from the cold air outside. “You ready?”

You hesitated. “Almost.”

He paused, then walked over, his smile softening when he saw the way you were chewing your bottom lip. “You’re nervous.” You sighed, leaning back on your hands. “Is it that obvious?” Marc sat down beside you, pulling you closer to him. “You’re usually the confident one between us. I’ve never seen you sit this still.” 

You let out a quiet laugh, then groaned. “I just… I want to make a good impression. I mean, it’s your family. What if they think I’m not good enough for their son or something? What if they don’t even like me?!”

Marc turned to face you fully, his expression serious, but soft. “Hey. Cállate, idiota (shut up, idiot). You’re overthinking this. First of all, that’s not even possible. And second, they’re not trying to like you. They already do. I’ve told them all about you. About how kind you are. How funny you are. How you’ve got this really annoying habit of stealing my hoodies and acting like it’s yours-”

You playfully smacked his arm, but he grabbed your hand before you could pull it back, lacing his fingers with yours. “I’m serious,” he said, voice quieter now. “They’re excited. Mi mamá’s been texting me asking what kind of snack you like, and mi papá’s already made a list of places to show you in Granollers. You don’t have to prove anything to them.” 

You blinked, taken aback by how certain he was. How calm. How much he believed in you. “You don’t think I’ll say or do something dumb?” Marc chuckled. “If you do, they’ll probably just think it’s funny. Like I do.” That made you smile, your nerves softening just a bit. Leaning your head on his shoulder, you let yourself breathe for the first time all morning. “Okay, I’m ready now. I think.”

Marc pressed a kiss to the top of your head, holding you there for a moment. “Good. Because mi hermana’s already threatened to disown me if I don’t bring you home soon.” 

You laughed again, the tension finally beginning to ease. “How nice of her,” you reply sarcastically. 

He grinned and then stood up. “Vamos. You’re about to be the favourite in the family, and I’m not even mad about it.”

You took his hand, heart still fluttering - but this time, it wasn’t from nerves. It was from the way he looked at you, with nothing but love.

“Okay, lowkey, what if your mamá hates me?” You asked the question halfway through putting on your jacket, frozen in place with one arm through the sleeve. Ferran looked up from where he was zipping up the duffel bag by the door, eyebrows raised, clearly not expecting that level so suddenly. 

“Hates you?” he repeated, blinking like you’d said something in another language. “What are you talking about?”

You let your arm flop uselessly out of the jacket and sat down on the bed, letting out a long digh. “I don’t know, Ferran. She’s your mamá. She probably has, like, sky-high expectations and perfect Valencian princess ideas of the girl her only son’s supposed to bring home. What if I disappoint her?”

Ferran stared at you for another few seconds, before slowly standing upright and crossing the room towards you, trying, and failing, not to laugh. 

“Valencian princess ideas?” he repeated, amused. “Do you hear yourself?”

You groaned and fell back on the bed, arms splayed out dramatically. “I’m serious.”

He climbed onto the bed next to you, propping himself up on one elbow as looked down at you. “Vale, escúchame, reina (okay, listen to me, queen). My mamá isn’t scary. She’s just a mamá. And she’s going to love you.”

You cracked an eye open. “You’re just saying that because you love me.”

“Exactly,” he said, kissing your cheek, “and soon, she’s gonna see that too.”

You turn to face him fully, propping your chin on your hand. “What if I talk too fast? Or sat something dumb in front of your papá? Or like… accidentally curse during dinner?” Ferran laughed again, then leaned in until your noses were almost touching. “Then you’ll fit right in.” That made you smile, despite the nervousness still bubbling in your stomach. 

He reached over to brush a piece of hair behind your ear, his voice gentler now. “You’ve got nothing to prove. You being you? That’s all they want. My sister’s already excited to meet you. My mamá’s probably baking something right now just because I told her your favourite dessert.” Your heart smiled. “You told her that?”

“Of course I did,” he said, as if it were obvious. “You think I’m not bragging about you every chance I get?”

You roll your eyes but the felt starts to ebb away.

He leaned in slightly, giving you a soft kiss. “Vamos. I’m excited.” You laugh and get up, resuming putting on your jacket.

You sat at the kitchen island, holding a mug of hot chocolate that you hadn’t touched in 10 minutes. Your bag was by the door. Your phone was charged. The car had a full tank of petrol. You’re due to leave in five minutes. And yet, you’re still spiraling. 

Across the kitchen, Héctor is humming to himself while getting his last few little bits ready, completely unbothered, like he wasn’t about to bring you home to meet the people who literally raised him. 

“Do you think your mamá and papá will like me?” you asked suddenly, your voice barely louder than a whisper. 

Héctor froze and turned to face you slowly, like he wasn’t sure if you were joking. You weren’t.

“Wait,” he said, wa;king over with a soft, confused smile. “You’re actually nervous?” You looked down at your hot chocolate. “Yeah… like, very.”

He leaned against the counter beside you, gently tugging the mug out of your hands and setting it aside. “You do realise my mamá’s probably already planned some sort of girl’s night for the two of you or something right?” Your head snapped up, “What?”

He chuckled. “Yeah. She’s excited to finally have another girl around. She even said, and I quote, ‘bring that sweet girl of yours around so I can finally meet her properly and feed her well.’ Her words. Not mine.”

You blinked. “That's oddly comforting.”

“She’s a mamá. It’s how she shows love,” Héctor said with a shrug, brushing his fingers over your wrist gently. “And my papá? He’s more reserved, but if you ask him anything about the garden or football, he’ll fall in love with you instantly.”

You let out a soft laugh, the knot in your stomach loosening by a fraction.

“No sé (i don’t know),” you mumbled. “I just… I want to be enough. For them. For you.”

Héctor’s hand immediately found yours, his fingers warm as always. “Oye,” he said, tilting his head so you’d meet his eyes. “You’re already enough. More than enough. You don’t have to try and be anything you’re not.” “But-” “Nope.”

He cut in softly, giving your hand a squeeze. “I’m serious, I wouldn’t be bringing you home if I wasn’t sure - if I didn’t want them to know the person who makes me the happiest.”

Your heart fluttered. 

He leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “You’re not auditioning for anything. You’re just coming home with me. And they’re gonna love you, because you’re you.”

You leaned into his touch, letting out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding. “Vale. Let’s go meet your mamá and see what kind of terrifyingly welcoming night she has planned for me.”

Héctor grinned. “That’s my girl.”

And just like that - your nerves didn’t disappear completely. But they shrank under the warmth of his voice and the certainty in his eyes. With him, it didn’t feel so scary anymore. 

[auroryebread]

what the tf141 get teased for - tf141 hcs

John Price - his dad energy (soap has once called him dad.) would 100% ground you then sneak you snacks. gaz got him a 'world's best dad' mug. - swears like poetry. shakespeare, if shakespeare smoked cigars - still doesn't know what "slay" means and doesn't want to. (or whatever gaz says) - rbf? nooo... its "I'm not mad I'm disappointed in you" face Simon "Ghost" Riley - the mask stays on. even in 40°C heat. (but he does take it off when the tf141 is alone) - always lurking like a cryptid in a hoodie. "like batman... but if batman didn't like fun" - gaz's wise words. (i can confirm, I'm his hat) - somehow managing to be the most dramatic one without saying a word - moving silently and scaring the soul out of everyone... John "Soap" Mactavish - his hair routine. that mohawk is constantly abused with gel. it could stay still in a hurricane... - being the loudest in every scenario, like the walls owe him rent. - stealth's arch-nemesis (ghost's words) - his scottish rage... has "talked the chair into submission" after stubbing his toe. Kyle "Gaz" Garrick - knows exactly what "falsies" and "baking" means. blames his sisters. (I hc him having two) - spends an hour+ doing recon and comes back with relationship tea. - his skincare routine. full beauty influencer, "you look like you moisturise with angel tears", soap's words. - similar lines, but his eyebrows. could slice bread with how sharp his eyebrows are. - diva.

--- writer's note:

hihi!! this is my first time writing headcanons (and posting them to the public)... so hopefully these are okay! it's 9am and I still haven't slept (studying for exams). #grindandrise /j. feel free to request or send an ask. much love xx

[on-a-lucky-tide]

im so so sorry if you don’t wanna think about this because you have every right not to, just don’t answer or whatever

but have you got any words of encouragement for trans people of all ages in the uk?

We beat Section 28 and we will beat this. It's very likely that the UKSC will be in direct conflict with Article 8 and the ECHR will spank it when it's eventually escalated by the Good Law Project. Hopefully Stonewall will get off its arse as well, useless fucking cunt the new guy is.

1. If you're in school, get your head down. Stop wasting your time playing label discourse on Tumblr and study your arse off. Education is the great equaliser, the liberator. The more educated you are, the more options you have; at home, and definitely abroad. If you can get a second language, do it.

2. Get fit. Do something within your physical capacity to improve your fitness. Walking and lifting is the best combo. If you can, take up self defence. It will make you feel more empowered. If you know you can throat punch a cunt, you will feel less frightened.

3. Do not comply in advance. At the moment, there is no law that blanket bans you from spaces that match your gender identity. None. Zero. Zilch. It's hyperbole from terfs. Continue to use those spaces. Be calm, be private. Bottom line: average normies do not give a shit about you (positive), and terfs are more interested in appearing victims. Smirk at them and walk away. If they lay a hand on you, see point 2.*

4. If the police give you an instruction, you ask: "under what power?" They must tell you the legal basis. Try to remember or record the section and act they mention. If they are unable to give you the law, then do not comply. You do not have to legally carry any ID in the UK, by the way, so don't volunteer it. (They were IDing people for toilets in Edinburgh. Do not comply with this.)

5. Walking into the "wrong space" is trespass. You won't be arrested, you will be asked to leave.

6. Give yourself space to feel sad and angry, but you keep your fucking head up. They want you to give up. They want you back in the closet. Letting them take your happiness is letting them win. But there is nothing more gratifying than one of those rancid pieces of shit throwing every slur and threat at you, and then just going "nah, get to fuck". They're currently shrieking on social media demanding "apologies" from everyone and their mum because they know they're hated. They know no "victory" will make them decent people again.

We do not comply with fascism. Ever.

* In the UK, the law permits individuals to use reasonable force in self-defense, or in the defense of others, to prevent crime, or to protect property. The key is that the force used must be proportionate to the threat and the defendant genuinely believed it was necessary. The Criminal Justice and Immigration Act 2008 clarifies this, emphasizing that the reasonableness of force is determined by the circumstances as the defendant genuinely believed them to be. "Based on the current wave of anti-trans extremism in the UK, it was my genuine and honest belief that I was in danger and I acted to defend myself from harm."

[chaoticbasicallyuselessbisexual]

Your Miracle brought you to me, but it is my Faith that'll make you stay

based on this post by @colorlessjay

the third and final part finallyyy (can I get a wahoo)

(you can find the previous two parts here)

as per usual, I have no one to beta read, so there probably will be some mistakes (a lot), either way - I don't respect the english language enough to care, sooo yea

anyway, go nuts

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"Excuse me, but what the fuck are you doing with my dog?"

Dean had to pry his eyes off of Miracle, which was honestly a herculean fear, and looked back at the very attractive and still very pissed off guy.

"Hi, umm, sorry about this," the guy started explaining himself while still sitting on his ass on Castiel's porch with Castiel's dog in his lap, "I lost Miracle here a few weeks back, and I've been looking for her since and well-"

"If you lost her, then you don't deserve her in the first place. Give her back."

Hearing this, Dean started getting defensive.

"Wha- listen, I know I should've made sure she couldn't haul ass, but hear me out here man-"

"No. I will not be hearing anything that you have to say for yourself. You come here with your loud car and this big leather jacket, storm my porch, and just expect me to hand you over my dog? Not happening."

"Dude, be reasonable. You've had her for what, a few weeks, maybe? This dog has been my best friend for years-"

"Which is exactly why you don't deserve her. I've had Faith for a few weeks, and I know if anything were to happen to her, I'd kill the person responsible and then myself."

"Faith? You named her Faith? Seriously?"

"How is that any different from you naming her Miracle?!"

It was at this point that both men started raising their voices.

"Because she clearly looks like a Miracle!"

"That doesn't even make any sense!"

"I don't need your opinion on the name of my fucking dog!"

"Your dog my ass! She's staying with me and that's it!"

"Hell no! She's coming back with me!"

"Fuck that, she stays here!"

"She's coming-"

"She's staying!"

"I've had her-"

"I don't give two flying fucks how long you've had her-"

"She was mine first!"

"And chose to run away from you!"

Dean was about this close (and the space between the imaginary fingers was smaller than Castiel would've thought) to pulling out his gun and just shooting the infuriating guy in front of him.

"That's it. We're leaving, Miracle."

"You just try that. I legally adopted her. You try running with her, I'm calling the cops."

Dean considered his chances.

"I am not leaving her here with someone who doesn't even look like he can care for an artificial plant!"

"Well, too bad. She's mine, so hand her over and get the fuck off my porch!"

Dean considered his options. Again.

Option no.1: run to his car, carefully lay Miracle on the backseat, jump in the car and drive away as fast as possible, all while praying he'll outrun the cops and that the mean dude didn't already try to remember his plate.

Option no.2: once again, try to talk things out with the guy (who was currently staring daggers at him) and work out something that would hopefully be okay with both of them (shared custody?)

Option no.3: glue himself to Miracle so that the guy wouldn't have any other option but to let him leave with her and never. ever. come back.

Dean opted for a sober version of option no.3

(He didn't have any glue currently on him, which was a mistake he would never make again.)

"I'm not leaving without her!"

"She's not going anywhere!"

"Guess I'll just have to move in here then!"

"Fine!"

There was a beat of silence, and then a small

"what"

as Dean tried his best to process what the (insanely) hot guy just said to him.

Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose as if he were trying to handle a conversation with a particularly stupid five-year-old.

"That dog is the source of my will to live. If I have to keep you to keep her, I'll live."

For the first time in a very long time, Dean felt truly speechless. Castiel waited a few small moments for a reaction, but he didn't get any. So with another old man sigh, he continued.

"Look, don't lash out at me now, but you seriously look like you live in that car anyway. If I'm wrong, then by all means, you are very welcome to get the fuck out of here and leave the dog here, but if I'm right, hell, just stay here dude. I really don't have the energy to sort this out with you right now, and I hate having to make calls, much less to the police. So if you're so set on not leaving this dog here with me, just stay here."

Castiel half expected the man to bolt, scream, yell, point a gun at him, and call him weird and god knows what else, but to his surprise, none of that happened.

"Okay."

"Okay? That's it?"

"Dude, I'm not leaving Miracle-"

"Faith."

"- whatever, here with you. I almost went crazy when I lost her. I'm not leaving her side ever again."

Plus, you're kinda cute, Dean thought, but never really said.

"Alright then, come on in."

The last thing the neighbours heard was a muffled 'Hold up, what do you mean I look like I live in that car?'

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if you've got this far, I'm honestly surprised. good job.

a big thank you to anyone who enjoyed this and to @colorlessjay for the idea, and to my dear friend who bullied me into finishing this one

any interaction is welcome!

thank you for reading

(bonus - Dean's pov)

[lemotmo]

What do you think Temu's role is in next week's episode? Apart from the funeral, (though I have fucking idea why he's carrying the coffin and not anyone else from A shift)

(Hopefully his final one!)

Yeah, the choice of him carrying that coffin is just weird. The 118 isn't just made up of Hen, Eddie (will be back soon), Chimney, Buck and Ravi. There are plenty of other firefighters at the station. We see them all the time in the background. It would make more sense that one of them would carry that coffin. He was their captain too.

But for plot reasons I suppose they decided to use Tommy. 🙄

I do think Tommy is there for a reason. We've seen in 15 that Buck and Tommy are back on good terms, but we also know that a relationship between them would never work. One, because Tommy knows that Buck isn't as interested in him as he would like him to be, mainly because he heavily suspects that Buck is in love with Eddie.

And two? Well, he is right. Buck is in love with Eddie. He just doesn't want to see it or even acknowledge it. 🤷‍♀️

But how could they fit that in the episode?

Well, I keep coming back to all the parallels between 7x03, 7x04, 8x15 and possibly 8x16:

I've been thinking about Tommy's arc. It started with him flying his helicopter to save Bathena (7x03). The next episode (7x4) he tried to woo Eddie, but ended up kissing Buck.

Now he, once again, flew his helicopter to help save Chimney and the others in 15. He showed up because Buck called him.

We also know that Eddie will be back in 16. I've speculated before that I think there'll be a convo between Tommy and Eddie. I really think this I'll happen as a parallel to 7x04, where Tommy and Eddie were shown to be friends. We do know that Eddie stopped talking to Tommy when BT broke up, so it might be a bit of an awkward conversation where both feel out of their depth.

Additionally I potentially see Tommy give Eddie some kind of hint as to not wait to long to go after what he wants or something generic like that. Which will undoubtedly puzzle Eddie and might be something that he can't get out of his head in the two last episodes.

So, my current theory for 8x16 is that they will parallel the scene where Tommy comes over to Buck's loft in 7x04. Only this time it won't end with Tommy kissing Buck.

So Tommy shows up at Buck's house after the funeral to check in on him and finds Eddie already there, taking care of Buck because Eddie knows exactly what Buck needs. At the same time Buck will also take care of Eddie, because he lost Bobby too. Tommy will probably also find out that Eddie is staying with Buck as long as he's in LA.

Cue the awkward conversation (+ possible hint) with Eddie I talked about in the paragraphs above. Tommy might then have a short talk with Buck (probably in the kitchen again) that links back to the kitchen conversation after they hooked up.

And that might just trigger Buck to realise that life is too short. He can't just keep denying these feelings he has for Eddie. Cue Buck realising and accepting that he is actually in love with his best friend.

It might even end with a nice Buddie scene after Tommy leaves. Now, in a perfect world it would end with a Buddie kiss to parallel the BT kiss, but I don't think we are quite there yet. It seems a bit too fanficy. And also... Bobby just died. Now might not be the best time. 😫😂

So most probably Eddie will ask Buck if he is okay and Buck will just stand there trying to be normal with the realisation that he has fallen in love with Eddie.

Oh and let's not forgot the Bathena parallel in both episodes either. In 7x03 Buck and Athena had a reunion on the ship with Buck, Eddie and Tommy looking at them.

In 8x16 they'll (hopefully if Bobby is still alive) have another reunion as Bobby will be back. Probably with everyone there to see it.

(Yes, I am a Bobby is alive truther. Trust.😌)

I also don't think that Eddie's realisation will be too far behind once we have confirmation of Buck's feelings. Oliver has expressed his concerns before of not wanting to do the storyline of the bisexual man falling for his straight best friend. So I think they'll try to avoid that by making sure that Eddie will start his own journey of realisation as he starts to get more and more aware that Buck is a part of his joy and happiness in life.

All right everyone, keep in mind that this is just speculation.😋 These are my thoughts about what MIGHT happen in 8x16, based on what we know so far (which is almost nothing) and based on parallels with previous episodes. So please take all of this with a grain of salt. I'm here for the fandom fun, but I'm not clairvoyant. 😉

This might shock you, but I have been wrong before in my spec. 😂😂😂

[novashelby]

The Clinical Boyfriend-Jonathan Crane x Reader

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x Reader Genre: Fluff Warnings: Relationship issues? Mention of sex. Word Count: 768 Summary: Dr. Crane's girlfriend is tired of him neglecting her. And while he isn't the most romantic, he does very much want to let her know how much he admires her.

Thank you @wonderlanddreamer for playing my Cillian Murphy drabble game. I feel horrible, but admittedly, this isn't the best I have written. I fought with it for awhile, but hopefully you like it. <3

He was never affectionate. Always so incredibly dry. Clinical! And oh so attentive…to work. But hardly to her. Even when his body was pressed against hers and they were entangled in the sheets, he was so distant. Often it felt like loving an empty vessel, allowing her to question if any of it was worth it. But she stayed another day because somewhere among all the grey and rain, there was some light. At least she hoped as she laid within his grey silk sheets, hands folded over her chest. His cum rested between her thighs, feeling sticky. 

He had already moved on, reaching over for the lamp on the nightstand. Everything was easier for her in the dark, and when his finger flipped the switch, her feelings combusted in a stream of words. A jumbled, gibberish mess that she wasn’t even sure she understood, but once a word slipped through, they all came. Jonathan knitted his eyes, turning the light back on. She rested up on her elbow, looking at him. “And I’m sorry, Jonathan, I just..you know how hard it is to love someone that hardly even smiles at you? And the dinners I cook, the clothes I wear, every single thing I do for you goes completely unacknowledge-do you even understand-”

Jonathan stopped her right there, a deep sigh indicating that he was nothing, but annoyed. How dare she speak up, right? He flipped on the lamp and felt for his specks along the nightstand before placing them lazily on the bridge of his nose. “You seem to be going through emotional distress…”

She stopped, clicking her tongue, mouth turning a gaped. “W-what?” she asked in disbelief, an incredulous laugh allowing her to choke on her words. Jonathan watched as she blinked away the audacity and shook her head. “Are you….”

Jonathan raised two fingers. “Are you under stress from work? That can often make one irrational and irate.” She could have killed him. She wanted to kill him. Take those glasses of his and punch them back into his eyes. Jonathan looked over her; fingers twitching, jaw tense. “And you’re clenching.”

“Because I’m pissed off.” She kicked the blanket off her legs and turned more directly at him. “Did you not hear me? I said that I am upset about how our relationship is going, Jonathan.”

“I’m aware,” he nodded, opening his hand towards her, motioning for her to continue. “Why do you think you may be feeling this way?”

She was about to respond when she paused. “Jonathan, do you not get it? I’m your partner. I’m trying to express to you how I feel and you’re playing fucking doctor!”

He swallowed and took off his glasses, wiping at his tired eyes before putting them back on. “Love, I’m hardly playing  doctor.” That little, condescending laughing irritated her more. Especially when he added, “I am a doctor.” 

“But I’m not your patient, I’m your girlfriend! But yet I feel as though I’m nothing to you.”

He was quiet for a moment before he pressed his lips together, and out reached his hand, propping her chin on two fingers. “You must understand that expressing feelings is not easy for me. I think and act clinically. I’m obsessed with what I do because I’m passionate about what I believe in.”

“And that is an excuse to neglect me?”

He shook his head. “No. It’s not. But my affections for you-my complete respect, admiration, and adoration is completely unmatched because no one in this world compares-”

“Words don’t-”

“I show love in the way I know how,” he said. “I don’t ask that you accept it or like it, but forgive me that I prefer a love language that focuses on the respect of one’s intellect and thoughts before frivolous gifts, compliments, and monotonous PDA.” He leaned in, smiling just slightly. “I don’t ask anyone, but you to critique my work. I don’t tell anyone else, but you about my research, blueprints, and theories. Never do I ever let anyone, but you read my work first. Why? Because I value you.”

She matched his smile. “It’d still be nice if you’d notice other things-”

“I do, but I respect that you have the confidence and self worth to already know that you look great in anything you wear.” It wasn’t perfect, but it was him. “Come here.” He pulled her in and flicked off the lamp before allowing his lips to tease at her neck. “You and I are above the mundane. Including dull, fake, for show relationships that do nothing, but feed an ego.”

[biowaredisasterbisexual]

Bellara Week 2025 - Ficlet Series

My ADHD is off the charts today (derogatory), so hopefully this isn’t as jumbled as I fear.

For @datvcompanionweeks #bellaraweek2025:

Day Six - Serial

Bellara didn’t know what time it was, exactly, as she all but flung her instruments down. The Fade was a constant “every time of day” color, depending on where one stood at the Lighthouse. Which was interesting! And she hadn’t figured out why, exactly, it was that way yet. But it meant telling the passage of time was hard.

Not as hard as reconfiguring the resonance of the broken artifact she’d been working on was, though. Her brain hurt.

If she had to guess, she’d been at it for hours. Behind her eyes felt strained, as though her eye muscles had been hard at work for the better part of the day, and her hands shook. Could be overwork, could be she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, hard to say. One of those though, probably. She’d try food first.

Bellara picked up one of the serials Neve had brought back from Minrathous — lunch (dinner? Breakfast?) reading — and headed to the kitchen. It was empty. Which meant it was probably very late or very early; usually if it wasn’t the absolute middle of the night, Neve, Rook, or Lucanis would be there. Sometimes all three! They were some of the only people Bellara had ever met who slept as little as she did.

So she was in good company. Usually, at least, not right now. Other than her own company and that of the serial.

She quickly set milk and a lump of butter on the stove to heat up; some flatbreads and eggs sounded like a good idea. Easy, quick, and hearty enough for her to keep going. Once the butter had melted, she added the flour and salt, kneading it briefly before setting it aside.

Now, the wait. But that’s what the serial was for!

Bellara sat at the table while the dough rested, flipping open to the next installment in the courtly romance serial that Rook, surprisingly enough, had recommended.

In the Veil Jumpers, her affinity for serials from Minrathous had been…an oddity. Most of the other elves viewed them with distaste, and the humans largely thought they were garbage; books were better, they’d argued.

And maybe. If she wanted to read the kind of thing that was a book. But reading books could be a lot of work, sometimes. For her brain. And her brain already worked a lot.

Sometimes she just wanted to read for fun! And books were fun too, but it was a different kind of fun. A thinking kind of fun. Every once in awhile, not thinking was more enjoyable.

Neve didn’t entirely seem to get Bellara’s love for serials, but she’d accepted it easily. Rook too. No judgment. Well, not seriously, anyway. And the two of them bringing Bellara’s unfinished serials back from Minrathous had been one of the first times she’d felt truly accepted at the Lighthouse. Not the last — not even close — but the first.

Because sure, they valued her knowledge. She knew a lot! Not everything, of course, but she could fix eluvians and most artifacts; it made sense to value her skills. But more than that, they liked her as a person. At least as far as she could tell.

All of them; they spent time with her when they didn’t have to and did the little things: cooking, book club, listening to her theories. And they brought her back serials. Even recommendations!

She smiled down at the pages in her hands. Twenty more minutes, by her best guess, for the dough. She started to read. And she’d tell Rook about it later.

[dcdreamblog]

Happy Discount chocolate egg day, hope your weekend was well. The Big Cheese (Captain Marvel/Shazam) has had a lot of extended family members over the years (Tawny, the Lutenist, etc.) are there any less well known members that (in your opinion) should have a light shown on them?

I think the sheer MASS of the Marvel Family can be put down to the fact that, as I've said before, Fawcett People are very very proud of being Fawcett people. If you took the civic pride of all of Texas and crushed it to the density of one medium sized East Coast metropolitan area you would end up with somewhere a little UNDER where Fawcett people are at (I should know, I work with one. She has MULTIPLE tattoos to prove the point, she would be the first to correct you that Marvel's nickname is the Big RED Cheese.) There's also the matter of the Superman or Metropolis Theory, which is a sociological theory that posits superheroes tend to sprout outwards once they take root which is why heroes like Metropolis or Gotham have so many superheroes once a single high profile hero becomes established. Superhero shenanigans tend to attract more superhero shenanigans. That being said, let's discuss my answer. Which would be obvious to anyone who knows me even a little.

(Deanna Barr AKA Windshear swooping in on some criminals!) Deanna is, obviously, the only daughter of Jim Barr and Susan Kent-Barr the original Golden Age Bulletman and Bulletgirl. Born a while after their retirement Deanna grew up with stories of her parents' exploits that had been the original inspiration to Fawcett City, a legacy that even after the HUAC trial forced the end of the original heroic age never went away (take a shot every time a Fawcett establishment is named either "Bullet" or some pun on that name). Inspired by her parents' high flying adventures she became a pilot with the US Air Force climbing the ranks quickly to the position of test pilot for high risk, high reward experimental aircraft projects. She probably never assumed she'd have to slip on her mother's tights (literally, with only very minor alterations Deanna wears her mother's costume in the modern day) until the Marvel Family ran up against a villainess by the name of Chain Lightning who nearly spelled the end for them. Pulling her father out of retirement she donned her mother's special helmet and swooped onto the scene as Windshear! Now as you can imagine from that origin story Deanna is STRICTLY part time. Most of the time Fawcett has the core Marvels to hold everything together but every so often when things are getting overstretched she steps in and steps up. Plus any time that she sees a situation where she might be able to help, disasters and the like. I find myself always appreciating these part time heroes because they sound so much like what most of US would hopefully endeavor to be like if we had powers and talents somewhere in the metahuman realm. We'd do our best to maintain the lives we have and do what we can to help those within our reach. Though I suppose that's an equally good rundown of what the "full time" superheroes ALSO do. The superhero life LETTING you be part time is probably more down to luck than choice. Now I get to post this and have my coworker tell me why I got it all wrong. Cest la vie.

[gofu-kurself]

lmao i’m rotting in the head with this frat boy/drug dealer steddie au so here’s a continuation of this post:

—

steve is trying his best to focus on the biology textbook in front of him, he really is. but.

instead he’s just laying on his stomach atop eddie munson’s crumpled bedsheets sporting his tightest jeans and thinnest t-shirt, and trying to pop his ass out in a subtle but sorta obvious way.

he’s trying his absolute best to clue eddie into the fact that he’s very interested in the long haired man joining him on said bed. and perhaps also that he’s interested in shedding their clothes and fucking nasty because steve has been flirting with this boy for what feels like eons and he’s nearly at the end of his wits. his dick definitely is.

so steve is arching his back in hopes of highlighting his, ahem, assets, and chewing absently on the end of his pencil while eddie sits entirely too far away and decidedly not on top of steve naked.

he allows himself to heave a huge sigh, trying to draw attention to himself because eddie’s been messing around with his guitar for the past 20 minutes and even though steve’s caught him sneaking looks (hopefully at the way his jeans are stretched across his ass) a few times, the long haired boy keeps dragging his eyes back to the neck of his acoustic.

eddie either ignores steve’s sigh or is too preoccupied by his music to hear the way it exhales from steves mouth in a bitchy and huffy manner.

steve pouts to himself but lets his mind wander back to reality instead of zoning out and screaming internally “if you can read minds get over here and fuck me”

since eddie’s probably not a mind reader, seeing as steve is currently not being dicked down in his bed, steve try’s another tactic and turns his attention to the soft strumming of eddie’s hands and his little hums or whisperings of lyrics under his breath.

he continues to chew on his pencil, but lets his eyes slide away from the textbook and gives up the pretense of studying biology instead of eddie.

god he’s pretty. with big hands and dexterous fingers that fiddle with the strings of his guitar like he doesn’t even have to think about it. steve lets his gaze linger on the way eddie’s legs are spread and sock clad feet planted on the floor so he can perch the guitar on his lap. the black jeans he’s wearing are a little baggy and sport random holes and bleach stains, but they still hug the meat of his thighs in a delicious manner that kinda make steve want to crawl over there and bite new holes into them.

“who’s the cute guy with the wide, blue eyes and the big bad mmm?”

wait. what the fuck?

steve’s eyes fly up to eddie’s face where he finds his big brown eyes fluttered shut, his mouth lax, and lips moving around mumbled syllables as his fingers continue to stumble across strings while he sings half-memorized lyrics under his breath.

“holy shit are you singing sabrina?” steve blurts in a breathy question. who even thinks before speaking? not steve, that’s for sure.

eddie startles and nearly drops his guitar, the body making a hollow echo as he slaps his hand down to stop it from falling from his lap. he lets out a nervous sounding laugh. “shit stevie you startled me princess,” he grins a toothy bashful smile that makes steve wanna kiss him until hes memorized it.

“well is it?” steve pesters, because he’s a little shit and needs to know the answer like, yesterday.

“i mean, yeah, it’s from the album you showed me the other day—“

steve interrupts because that’s who he is as a person “yeah, Bed Chem, it’s my favorite one!” he smiles broadly, remembering how when it came on in the car he exclaimed the same thing before bopping his head along to the beat and singing along to every word.

eddie shifts awkwardly in his desk chair like he’s a kid in detention “exactly, it’s a good one. and, i mean, i know it’s your favorite so, i thought it’d be nice if i learned and played it for you sometime. ‘s stupid, not like i can be sabrina or anything, im like not five foot, first of all, and i mean—“

steve has to cut him off again because holy fuck he needs the man in front of him so badly it’s become a health hazard.

“eddie, you—mr. exclusively listens to 80s metal and like, machine girl—is learning my favorite sabrina carpenter song on the guitar to play for me?”

“i don’t exclusively listen to metal and also, im impressed remember who machine girl are—“

“eddie, you’re evading, answer the question.”

“i mean i said i was doing that. so your question is redundant. but yeah. i did. i said i know its stupid—“

“eddie. ohmygod please come here” steve scrambles into a seated position and pats a spot on the bed next to him.

the long haired man slowly sets down his guitar and approaches the bed like a nervous newborn horse. it’s adorable and steve needs to just be upfront about everything at this point because it turns out they both might be denser than he thought possible.

“i’m sorry,” eddie begins to apologize for something he likely has convinced himself he’s at fault for

“nono,” steve starts and runs a hand through his hair like an overworked dad, “ohmygod, eddie i don’t know how to make it more obvious that im obsessed with you and want you to make a move on me but you literally just played sabrina fucking carpenter in front of me and said you learned it for me so i need to know if this is like, a secret band kid maneuver of making a move that i was supposed to be picking up on—“

eddie’s brows are furrowed and his eyes are so wide that his shock would be comical if steve wasn’t so fuckin pent up “wait you want me—?”

steve continues his interruption streak “to fuck me seven ways to sideways. yes. eddie, i’ve been pulling out all the goddam stops and you’ve been exclusively like, friendly back. i don’t know what to think.”

“wait wait wait. is this happening?” he shakes his head like he’s trying to shake water from his mop of hair, “is this like, for real? not a joke?”

for fucks sake who hurt this guy? steve’s gonna unpack that later, but not right now. now he needs to know if eddie feels the same.

“not a joke, ed’s,” he says sincerely as possible, looking into his dark eyes, “i know im probably not like, your type or something, but i. i really like you,” steve’s getting more vulnerable than he thought he would this morning, but in for a penny and all that, “and i—i like the way i get to be around you, and i think you’re so hot it’s ridiculous” eddie lets out an aborted guffaw at that but steve persists “and you learned a sabrina song for me and i want that to mean you like me back and i want you to be able to read minds so you could have heard me trying to telepathically get you to fuck me earlier and i want to listen to machine girl with you even though it’s like, just noise so i don’t really get it but i like the way you bop your head to the music when it gets really fast—“ steve cuts himself off because he finally realizes he’s rambling and making a fool of himself.

eddie’s hands have a firm grip on steve’s own, he’s not sure when that happened, and eddie is staring at him like he hung the stars in the sky or some other stupid metaphor.

“mind reading?—whatever we’ll go back to that later.” he takes a deep breath and steve watches as a tuft of his bangs floats and lands back on his forehead at the action.

“i like you too, steve, fuck. i’ve liked you since the moment i met you and you blushed and laughed at my terrible jokes.”

steve unclenches and lets himself laugh and ride the buzz of omgomgomghelikesmeback. he catches his breath and laughs again before joking, “yeah, they were pretty terrible”

“you’re not supposed to agree!” eddie exclaims, moving his face to mirror steve’s, grinning like a fool.

“sorry sorry, they were great, dude.”

eddie’s grin gets impossibly wider, eyes rolling a little at the title, “stevie, don’t call me dude right before i kiss you”

steve feels his breath catch, “you’re gonna kiss me?” he knows he’s blushing from the neck up.

“yeah, dude” eddie says cheekily before leaning in and stealing the last bits of steve’s meager supply of breath.

[sagereeid]

scars that never healed. - s.r. - chapter 3

a/n - hi guys i had an awful day today but hopefully yall enjoy. please comment your thoughts. love yall

warnings - none really. bitter!spencer, angst, lily and derek friendship, maybe some cussing. let me know if i missed something.

Once Hotch dismissed the team, they all staggered out of the roundtable room. Spencer ensured he was the last one out, not in his usual spot next to Lilith.

Truth is, yeah, he has been avoiding her. He’s doing it for a good reason. Or at least that’s what he’s telling himself.

He came to this realization when he was at Lilth’s house yesterday. Every time Spencer got close, everything got ruined. It blew up in his face. His mother won’t take the pills that will help her get better. Meave got killed right in front of him. And if one thing is for damn sure, he cannot lose the one person that has been getting him though all of this.

Spencer cannot lose Lilith. He cannot even think about it. So, he thought the best idea was to push her away. Maybe if they’re far enough away from each other, neither of them will be around for the explosion.

He made a beeline for his desk and grabbed his go bag, which he kept under his desk. He could hear Lily behind him.

“Spence?” She spoke in that soft voice she always uses while around Spencer. A small part of him was enraged that she was talking to him because he would only have to work harder to shut her out.

“Yes?” He asked, shoving a few extra things in his duffle bag.

“Are you okay?” She questioned. Spencer could tell that she‘s concerned, but it is fueling the fire inside him even more.

“I’m fine,” He said, not turning around.

“Spence... " she responded, her tone softer than ever. Lily reaches out and places a warm, familiar hand on his shoulder.

He freezes. He doesn’t let many people touch him, even in passing. Lilith was different, that was until now.

Spencer shrugs off her touch and spins around so fast that he feels like he will fall into his desk chair.

“Don’t call me that. Don’t touch me.” He looked into her eyes, which were rigid, cold, and unmoving. Lilith stared at him with confusion, hurtfulness, and a tad bit of fear.

They stood there momentarily, staring at each other; the tension eating them alive. Eventually, Spencer pushes past her without another word and hits her with his shoulder.

Lilith stood there temporarily, her eyes not moving from where Spencer had stood only moments ago. She felt a sob well up in her throat, and she tried her best to swallow it down. She tried to ignore the few tears that slipped out, but she grabbed her things and left the scene.

She walked to the plane silently and tried not to even look at Spencer, sitting in the spot they usually sat in together. She walked past him without saying anything, swallowing the lump in her throat yet again, and sat in a random corner far away from everyone.

This wasn’t uncommon on the jet; if you sit by yourself and look like you don’t want to be talked to, you usually will get left alone. Typically, people just read books or slept, but Lily’s throat felt tight right now. She thinks if she opens her mouth, she’ll erupt into tears.

She took yet another steadying breath. Why is this affecting you so much? This is so stupid. So what? Spencer gets mad at you once, and you’re going to cry? She chants in her head.

Lily sighed and looked out of the window, ignoring the pair of eyes she felt on the back of her neck, which she knew most definitely belonged to Spencer.

It takes all her power not to turn around. The sadness has quickly faded, only to be replaced by anger and annoyance. What is his problem?

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, letting all her thoughts fade away, and she finally drifts off to sleep.

A few hours later, the jet landed in Minneapolis. Spencer stood up and grabbed the bag for the overhead. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lilith fast asleep in her seat. He wanted to walk over to her, tuck the hair on her face behind her ear, wake her up gently, and give her a warm smile. He ended up standing there and staring at her until his gaze was broken by Derek standing in front of her.

“Chicka, wake up.” He chuckled while gently shaking her shoulder.

“Hm?” Lilith asked as she fluttered her eyes open.

“We landed.” He said, giving her that signature charming smile. She smiled back with her warm and inviting one. Yet a fake one. One that hid the pain inside of her.

“Oh.” She sits up some more and rubs the sleep out of her eyes.

“You okay there, hot stuff?” He chuckled, and his touch lingered on her shoulder.

“Yeah, sweetie. Just didn’t sleep too well last night.” She joked back.

Spencer stopped. He was trying and failing to listen in on subtly. He felt like all the air was sucked out of his lungs. Sweetie? He thought to himself. It felt unnatural coming from her mouth, especially while talking to Derek.

He felt his blood boil for a reason he didn’t know himself. Jealousy. Lilith watched as he stormed off the plane and looked back to Derek in confusion.

They both look back at each other, and Derek is the first one to speak.

“What is up with him?” He asked. Lily sighed.

“I have no idea.”