#reading the replies is kinda neat

[reiding-writing]

A small little thought for the second part of 404 if you plan to write one: enemy!reader slowly getting better, but she just freezes out Spencer completely. Doesn't look at him, doesn't acknowledge him, if he interrupts her when she talks she won't even reply and will just continue to expound on her point, if Hotch pairs them up to search a house she'll act like she's alone.

And Spencer is losing his mind trying to catch her attention.

GHOST PROTOCOL. /spencer reid/

you arrive back at the bau after a four month mental health leave and you’re so happy to regain a sense of normalcy. who are you kidding? what do you know about normal?

late s1 enemy!reader 2.4k angst series masterlist. main masterlist.

a/n | this kinda super sucks i’m so sorry

It’s almost too quiet when you walk in.

The bullpen hums with the low murmur of keyboards and rustling files, but the moment the elevator door shuts shut behind you, there's a pause.

Heads turn. First Morgan, then JJ, then Elle, and it only takes seconds for the rest of the team to clock your presence.

They weren’t expecting you this early.

You weren’t expecting to feel so... exposed.

You shift your satchel higher on your shoulder and cross the floor like you’ve done a hundred times before, but the air is different now. Denser. It clings to you like damp fog, and no matter how straight you hold yourself, it’s impossible to ignore the weight of their stares.

JJ’s the first to approach. She’s always been soft with you, always the peacemaker.

“Hey,” she says, smiling like she means it, though her voice is tentative. “You're back,”

You nod. “I’m back,”

Morgan is next, grinning with that signature confidence, but even he seems slightly hesitant. “Four months off and you didn’t bring us back a tan?” he teases, then adds, “Seriously. It’s good to see you,”

You smile, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. “Good to see you too,”

Elle comes over, a little more cautious, her arms folded across her chest, but there's warmth in her eyes. “Glad you're okay. We missed you,”

“Missed you too,” you say, and it’s mostly true.

Hotch lingers back, as always, but offers you a curt nod and something close to approval. Gideon gives you a slow, assessing look, like he’s trying to read your entire psychological profile just from the way you’re standing. You hold your gaze steady. He nods.

Then Spencer speaks.

“Didn’t think you’d come back this soon,”

He doesn’t say it cruelly—at least, you don’t think he does—but the words hit just the same. There’s a trace of disbelief in his tone, maybe even accusation, like you’ve made the wrong choice, like you’re not ready.

Your smile falters by half a degree.

You don't look at him.

JJ nudges you lightly. “Conference room? Hotch wants to go over a new case,”

You nod and move to follow her without a word.

—

You take your usual seat at the long table, fifth from the left. JJ beside you, Elle at the end. Hotch stands at the front, clicker in hand, while Morgan leans against the far wall. Gideon’s pacing slowly behind Hotch like a restless shadow. And Spencer—Reid—sits across from you.

You don’t look at him. You haven’t since you arrived. You can feel his eyes on you, though. Flicking up from his notes, down again. Like he’s trying to measure your silence.

Hotch clicks the projector on. A slideshow blinks to life, casting pale light across the room. The first photo is of a crime scene—suburban house, blood on the bannisters. The usual.

“This is Amanda Chilton,” Hotch begins, and the case unfolds in neat, clinical detail. You take notes. You listen. You nod at the right times. You ask intelligent questions.

And you ignore Spencer.

It starts small.

He interrupts once, cutting across you mid-sentence as you’re pointing out a pattern in the killer’s behaviour—something about escalation, proximity to schools.

“Actually,” he says, “the research shows it’s more likely they’re targeting public parks. There’s a spike in activity—”

You don’t even pause.

You keep speaking, as though he hasn’t said a word.

Elle shifts in her chair. JJ casts a glance between you both.

Spencer stops talking.

You finish your point. Hotch nods, scribbling something on the file.

You don’t look at him. You keep your gaze forward, focused on the evidence board.

—

It’s not deliberate—not at first.

That’s what you tell yourself.

It’s just easier this way. Cleaner. Safer. You’ve done the work—hours and hours of therapy, of breaking down the walls your mind built during those sleepless weeks in the hospital bed. You’ve trained yourself to breathe again, to walk again, to talk about it without shaking.

But you haven’t trained yourself to talk to him.

So you don’t.

“Don’t placate situations that don’t serve you.” Your therapist had said. And you planned to follow that advice to a T.

In the break room, when he reaches for the coffee pot the same time you do, you let him pour and walk away.

In the hallway, when he brushes past with a stack of books, you pivot on your heel like he’s invisible.

During case discussions, you listen to everyone—Gideon’s theories, Morgan’s gut instincts, JJ’s observations—but when Spencer speaks, your eyes glaze over, your attention shifts. You don’t laugh at his jokes. You don’t doubt his statistics. You don’t argue with him.

You just pretend he isn’t there.

The team notices. Of course they do.

Morgan starts watching your interactions—or lack thereof—with quiet curiosity. He doesn’t say anything, not at first, but you can feel his eyes on the space between you and Reid whenever you’re in the same room. Elle occasionally tries to pull you into group banter, looping Spencer into a joke or observation, as if by accident, as if you won’t notice the trap. You do. You never bite.

JJ is subtler. She doesn’t push, but the crease between her brows deepens every time you sidestep a question or excuse yourself from a group conversation the moment Spencer joins it. She’s protective, loyal. She wants to help. But she doesn’t know how.

Gideon says nothing. But you know that look—quietly measuring, mentally cataloguing, as if you’re another profile to study.

Hotch keeps his cards close, but he’s not oblivious. He sees more than he says. You suspect, if this goes on too long, he’ll force your hand. But for now, he lets the silence fester. Maybe he thinks you’ll break first.

You won’t.

Spencer doesn’t understand at first. Not really.

He notices, of course. How could he not? You don’t look at him. You don’t speak to him. You never sit within arm’s reach if you can help it, and when you do, you angle your body away like he’s radioactive.

The first few days, he thinks maybe you’re just overwhelmed. Raw. Like maybe the sight of him is tangled too tightly in the memories you’re trying to forget. And that makes sense, he tells himself. So he gives you space.

But the weeks go by.

And the space stays.

And then it expands.

He hears you laugh with Morgan in the corridor. Sees you and JJ huddled over a file, your head resting lightly against her shoulder. He walks into the break room once and finds you and Elle finishing each other’s sentences about something mundane, and your face is brighter than he’s seen it in months.

You’re fine—with everyone except him.

And that’s when the guilt sets in.

He replays everything from that day. That case. That argument. The exact moment he goaded you, and you goaded back, and everything spiralled. The confidence with which you’d stormed off, trying to prove you could handle it alone. The exact second he realised something was wrong.

The way his stomach dropped when he saw your picture.

The hours of searching.

The silence.

The hospital.

He apologised, of course he did. Not right away—he couldn’t get near you. And when he could, you barely spoke. The first time he tried, you blinked past him like he was a stranger. The second time, you just said, “Not now.”

He thought you needed time. And he gave it.

But the apology is still there, hanging in the air like unfinished static, and it never gets heard. Or maybe it did. Maybe you just didn’t care.

—

“You got a minute?” Spencer’s standing awkwardly against Morgan’s desk, bouncing slightly on his heels.

Morgan leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “Sure. What’s up?”

Spencer hesitates. Looks at the floor. Then back up. “Is she ever going to talk to me again?”

Morgan blinks. “You mean—”

“Yes. Her.”

Morgan sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Reid…”

“I get that she went through something horrible,” Spencer says quickly, defensively, “but she can’t just act like I don’t exist. I tried to say sorry.”

Morgan stares at him for a moment, then closes the file in front of him. “Look, man. I don’t think this is about forgiveness. I think it’s about control.”

Spencer frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She lost control, Reid. Of everything. Her job, her safety, her trust in us, probably even in herself. And now? The one thing she can control is who gets access to her. And you’re off the list.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No, it’s not,” Morgan agrees. “But neither was what happened to her.”

—

You don’t expect to be paired with him again.

You’ve managed to avoid it for weeks. Hotch has rotated partners carefully—perhaps unconsciously, perhaps not—but you’ve never had to be alone with Reid. Not since you came back.

Until today.

Hotch is standing at the board, gesturing to a street map. “We’ve got two locations to clear. Elle and Morgan, you take the warehouse on Twelfth. You two”—he nods at you, then at Reid—“check the victim’s apartment. Uniforms have already cleared for threats.”

You stiffen.

Your jaw clenches, just once.

You wait, thinking maybe someone will offer to switch. Maybe Morgan will say something. Maybe Reid will protest.

No one does.

You nod once. “Understood.”

Reid’s quiet as you both walk out to the car.

—

The flat is a single-bedroom unit in a crumbling Victorian conversion. You sweep through the entryway quickly, methodically, gloves on, eyes sharp. There’s a faint smell of mildew and old coffee.

Reid walks behind you, hovering.

“You want the bedroom or the kitchen?” he asks.

You don’t answer.

You’re already walking towards the bedroom.

He exhales through his nose. “Right. Bedroom then.”

The silence grows louder with every passing minute.

You move like a shadow—quiet, efficient, detached. You examine photographs on the walls, note the postmark on the pile of unopened mail. You scribble observations in your notepad, noting anything relevant for the report.

Reid trails behind, trying not to fidget.

“So,” he says, awkwardly, “I read a study this morning. About trauma memory encoding. How the brain sometimes—”

“Don’t.”

You don’t even look up.

He blinks. “What?”

“Don’t do this,” you say, still facing the wall, still writing. “Just collect your data and be quiet.”

His brow furrows. “I’m just trying to make small talk. Be normal,”

“You don’t know how to be normal.”

The words slice through the room like a scalpel.

He steps back. “Okay. That’s not fair.”

You put your notepad down and finally turn to him. “You know what’s not fair? You getting to pretend we’re fine because you’re over it.”

His hands curl into fists. “I’m not over it.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I blamed myself for weeks. I thought you were dead.”

You shrug. “You should’ve thought of that before you egged me on. Before you treated me like a liability who needed to prove something.”

His voice rises. “You wanted to prove something!”

“I had to!” you snap.

Silence.

Your chest rises and falls sharply.

Spencer’s jaw tightens. “I get you blame me for what happened, but I apologised. What else do you want me to do?”

You stare at him.

And then, with no fanfare, no crescendo—just absolute, grounded loathing—you reply:

“How about you shut the fuck up and leave me alone?”

There’s no heat in your tone.

No trembling rage. No wounded tremor.

Just a calm, clean hatred. A scalpel—not a hammer.

Spencer flinches. He actually flinches.

The air is still.

The apartment feels too small, too quiet.

You turn back to the window, adjusting a photo frame.

“That clear enough for you? Or should I write it down?” you add.

Spencer doesn’t answer.

He leaves the room a moment later.

—

Neither of you speak the rest of the day.

You file your report. You finish the case. You act like a professional.

The team is quieter than usual that night in the hotel bar. JJ watches you like she wants to ask something but doesn’t. Elle starts a sentence, then aborts halfway through. Morgan gives Spencer a look that says What happened?—but gets no answer.

Gideon says nothing. But when you pass him in the hallway, he gives you a long, unreadable look. You don’t break stride.

Spencer doesn’t come down to dinner.

The next morning, he’s already seated at the conference table when you arrive. He doesn’t look at you.

You don’t look at him either.

The line has been drawn.

No more arguments. No more banter. No more sharp-edged flirtation disguised as rivalry.

No more anything.

You took everything that used to exist between you—every ounce of tension, every barbed word, every stolen glance—and you burned it to the ground.

And for the first time since the day you came back, he finally understands.

You don’t just ignore him.

You hate him.

Pure unadulterated loathing.

[hivemuthur]

Hii! Thank you for replying. I've read five things and loved it so much I wanted to send another ask, and somehow managed to forget to send it, but never mind here it is now.

I was thinking a viktor×reader who were eachother's first everything (early academy days?) but than the reader had to move away for schooling/work, whatever, but now they're back (sometime after the beginning of hextech) and have to work with jayce and viktor. How would that dynamic look like? They didn't breakup over an argument or because they fell out of love but because that's the way life took them. I'm imagining them knowing eachother so well inside and out to the point people just assume they're dating. (Reader making viktors coffee even better than he can himself, viktor making something to fix a problem reader has but never had a solution for, anything really). And I don't know, maybe, possibly, somehow the tension gets to be too much for both of them and they're both more skilled now and whatnot... (I could live without that part tho, is you feel like it doesn't fit)

Sorry if the ask is too complicated, I've just been thinking about it for so long.

I know it's gonna be a while before you can write it but I can't wait to read all of the other requests in the meantime.❤️

~🍒

Dear sweet 🍒 Janna, hello again! Here's your fic!

Same As It Ever Was

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! a bit of everything - fluff, angst (light), smut

word count: 5,6K

author’s note: this is very freeform, an experiment, kinda? A story told in vignettes, little scenes between Viktor and Reader since the moment she came back to the Academy interwoven with their past, sex included. For this to work, I've written current events in Present Tense and the flashbacks in Past Tense.

artist on X (obsessed at this point)

—

You brace yourself with a deep breath—just as you did all those years ago. With lungs full of air, you cross the threshold, and memories come crashing back. Heimerdinger’s lectures, suspicious cafeteria food, noise complaints from your neighbours when Jayce laughed too loud in your dorm. Your dorm itself—its lumpy bed, not enough cabinet space for your books, scattered notes, and long night study sessions with Viktor.

As promised, he and Jayce are there, waiting to pick you up in the entrance hall. Jayce is as giddy as ever—stretching, chattering, busying himself with the announcement board, occasionally pointing at something to get Viktor’s attention. He looks almost the same.

Viktor, on the other hand—nearly still. He leans on a… crutch? It’s a crutch now, huh. You wince at not knowing sooner. An extra brace on his leg as well. His form is more hunched than you remember. He nods at Jayce’s remarks absently, craning his head toward the door, and his face—oh. It lights up when he sees you, just as it used to. Your heart travels all the way up to your throat.

You have to force yourself not to skip. Jayce reaches you first, nearly crashing into you with his embrace. He’s stronger than before, his shoulders broader. Either he’s gotten taller, or Viktor looks shorter. He pats your back and chuckles a mumbled hi—but your eyes are already on Viktor.

He opens his arms in an inviting gesture, and you slide right in. He still fits. He still smells the same, though there’s a lingering trace of oil on his collar. His hair is longer, and his clothes hang looser on his frame, but he feels the same. His neck is just as pretty, his hands just as strong. They go where they used to—one to your back, the other cradling the nape of your neck. You take one last inhale before he pulls back, a familiar spark playing in his eyes as he says, "Welcome back."

***

You stared at the schedule board, squinting as you tried to make sense of the messy list. You muttered under your breath, crossing out dates in frustration when the door behind you creaked open.

A voice spoke from behind, calm and precise. “Do you need assistance?”

You turned to see him—tall, neat, with a cane at his side. Pretty hair falling boyishly over his forehead, eyes the colour of liquid gold, two freckles decorating his upper lip and a spot under his eye. His voice was thickly accented, and you suddenly felt dumber than ever.

“What gave me away?” you huffed, managing a smile. “Groaning or furious scribbling?”

“Eh, a little bit of both,” he said, leaning in slightly to point at a part of the board. “Let me help?”

You handed him your notebook, and he made quick work of explaining the confusing schedule. “Looks like we’ll be seeing each other,” he hummed, studying your timetable.

Thank the gods, you thought. Feigning surprise instead of relief, you raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

He nodded, the faintest smile pulling at his lips. “I’m looking forward to having class with you. I’m Viktor.”

In response, you muttered your name in one breath.

Without another word, he pressed the notebook into your hand, making sure your hands brushed, then turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, momentarily dumbfounded.

***

You follow Jayce and Viktor through the lab, eyes wide as they show you around. The space is far more impressive than you remember—equipment gleams, wires stretch across the ceiling like intricate veins, and the hum of machinery fills the air. Jayce is practically bouncing with excitement, narrating every little detail with an energy that nearly has you dizzy, while Viktor stays quieter, his gaze focused, occasionally glancing at you as though checking for your reactions.

You’re still trying to wrap your mind around everything when the tour finally ends, and Viktor turns to you with a small smile. “Is there anything you need?” he asks, his voice as smooth and calm as ever.

You consider it for a moment, then sigh dramatically. “I would kill for a coffee.”

Jayce snorts a laugh, “Things don’t really change, do they? Do you want to make it yourself as usual?”

“Of course, as you mentioned—things don’t change, which means I still don’t trust any of you with your coffee-making skills, Jayce,” you reply with a smirk, stepping past him toward the kitchenette area. Viktor watches you closely, but you don’t pay him any mind as you start pulling out the necessary ingredients. “Do you want one?” you throw over your shoulder. And Viktor nods with a smile.

You fall into an easy rhythm, just like old times. Your hands work quickly, grinding the beans, adjusting the water temperature, adding the perfect amount of milk—exactly how you know he likes it. It’s almost like your body remembers, and you can’t help but feel a strange sort of nostalgia as the familiar process comes naturally.

The sound of Viktor clearing his throat breaks your focus, and when you turn, he’s standing a little closer than you expected. His eyes are fixed on the coffee mug in your hands, and the way he’s staring at it almost makes you laugh.

You hand him the cup with a raised brow. “Did I get it right?”

He takes a slow sip, his expression unreadable at first. Then, after a long pause, he sets the cup down carefully on the counter, still looking at you, and says quietly, “Perfect.”

The fact that you remember how to make it, that you remember him—how he likes it, what he’s used to—has him speechless. You watch him for a moment, unsure of what he’s thinking, and the quiet fills the space between you both.

“Just like before,” he says, as though to himself, and you can't help but smile.

***

“Okay, coffee or death,” you whined, pressing your forehead to the desk with exaggerated dramatics. It had been your fourth hour of studying, and the letters on the page began to blur.

“I guess it’s coffee then,” Viktor stretched his legs in the chair before scrambling up to the kettle. “I have no idea how I would explain a corpse in my room.”

“I do not care what motivates your actions, I’m just in dire need of something keeping me alive, or I will fail this class,” you mumbled, still buried in the notes resting under your face. A cup set firmly by your left cheek made your eyebrow quirk, and you let out a sigh of contentment.

“Ah, sweet salvation,” you hummed, grabbing it and taking a sip. And then—

“Viktor. What is this?”

Viktor’s voice was light as he shrugged. “It’s a coffee strong enough to keep you awake until morning.”

You winced, shaking your head slightly. “It’s so strong, it could actually solve the dead body problem you’ve mentioned before.”

He chuckled at that, his gaze still on you. “I suppose that’s one way to describe it.”

You huffed in frustration. “Do I have to do everything myself?”

Viktor only grinned, a spark of amusement in his eyes.

You rolled your eyes, pushing yourself out of your chair and crossing the room to the counter. “Alright, move aside.” You grabbed the ingredients with a practiced hand, preparing a new brew. “This is coffee, not the motor fluid you made.”

Viktor leaned back in his chair, watching you as you worked. “That’s very thoughtful. I suppose you can always become a barista if you fail the class.”

You turned, one eyebrow raised in challenge. “Just wait, Viktor. You’ll see. If I fail, I’ll open my own shop. I’ll call it ‘Professor Coffee’—I’ll make sure the brew is strong enough to wake the dead.”

Viktor’s laugh was soft but genuine. “It seems you’ve got it all figured out.”

***

You reach out, barely muttering, “Could you pass me…” before the tool is already in your hand. You glance at Viktor, who hasn’t even looked up from his work.

“How did you know?” you ask, eyebrows furrowing in surprise.

He taps his temple, a small smile playing beneath his goggles. “I have a good memory.”

***

You frowned at your workbench, trying to put a name to the tool you needed, but your mind blanked.

“Can you pass me the…” you began, unsure, your voice trailing off. You made a small gesture with your hand, hoping Viktor would somehow understand what you meant. Without hesitation, he handed you a wrench.

“No, not this,” you said, waving it off. “The other one?” You gestured again.

Viktor stared at you, brows furrowed, before passing you a screwdriver.

“Not that one either!” you huffed, frustration creeping in—not with him, but because your mind had suddenly decided to fail.

The ritual continued, with Viktor visibly amused as your hand hovered over the various tools he’d passed you. Wrenches, pliers, a hammer, and a couple of screwdrivers littered the workbench. You glanced down at your notes, trying to remember.

Viktor hummed, looking from your desk to your notes. His eyes narrowed, and his lips curled into a knowing smile. “Ah. This one?”

Before you could respond, he was standing behind you, lowering the tool into your hand. His arms brushed the sides of your face, and you felt the press of his stomach against your back. For a moment, you froze, breath catching in your throat.

“A calliper,” you whispered.

“Well done, lásko,” Viktor muttered into your ear.

***

The clock announces an hour way past when you’ve expected to be home already. “Should we call it a night?” you ask Viktor, who sits opposite you, a soft smile curling on his lips.

“Some things have changed, then,” he says, tapping his crutch lightly against the floor. “You used to work until figurative death back in the day.”

“Well, I guess I’m getting older,” you reply with a grin, your tone light but laced with a touch of weariness. “What about you? Any big changes?”

He knocks on his brace playfully, lifting the crutch with a small gesture. “Besides the visible?” He chuckles softly. “Not much. Still working to the death.”

Your smile falters for a second, your gaze softening as you roll closer to him on your chair. You rest your hands gently on his knees, studying his face for any signs of deeper discomfort.

“Are you well, though?” you ask, your voice quiet, careful.

Viktor looks at your hands for a moment, then props the crutch on the desk beside him. He squeezes your palms, his grip firm but tender.

“I am now,” he replies, his voice low, almost like a confession. “Haven’t been for a while, but now I’m well. As well as I can be.” He pauses for a beat, then adds with a small smile, “And now that you’re back, I’m even better.”

You brush your fingers gently through his hair, feeling the familiar warmth of his presence, the intimacy of the gesture. Viktor hums softly, his eyes fluttering closed in response. So familiar, you think, a wave of nostalgia washing over you.

You swallow before speaking again, a bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “I’ve missed you.”

Viktor’s eyes remain closed, his expression softening, and when he speaks, his voice is heavier. He sighs, “I know.” Then pauses, squeezing your hand once more. “I’ve missed you too.”

***

You and Viktor lay in bed together, tangled in the warmth of each other’s embrace. His arm was draped around you, and the soft rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek was a steady comfort. The room was quiet, unbearably so, when you nuzzled into his neck, inhaling deeply. His scent—rich, familiar, like the warmth of him—filled your senses, and you clutched him tighter, as though trying to memorize the feeling of him.

"I'm going to miss you so much," you whispered, your voice muffled against his skin, your breath shaky with the weight of the thought.

Viktor hummed softly in response, his fingers tracing small circles on your back. "I know. I will miss you terribly too." His words were gentle, but there was a deep sadness in his voice that you could feel even without looking at him.

He nudged your face with his nose, his palm warm as it cupped your cheek. His touch felt like a promise, though you weren't sure what to expect. "If it's meant to be, we will meet again," he said, his voice low, the words wrapped in the quiet certainty.

A pang in your chest tugged at you, and without thinking, you leaned up, pressing your lips to his. The kiss was soft, but your heart ached with the knowledge that this might be the last time you felt him close. It tasted of bitter acceptance, as you poured every bit of feeling you had into it, hoping it would somehow last, somehow hold you both together despite the distance that would come.

When you pulled away, your heart felt heavy, like it was breaking in your chest.

***

You both sit on the couch in your apartment, papers and notes scattered around you, a quiet hum of frustration bounces between you. Viktor’s hair is dishevelled, falling into his eyes, and his shirt has found its way half-out of his pants, a few buttons undone. He stares at the pages in front of him, his expression a mixture of exhaustion and determination. You glance over at him, hoping for a breakthrough.

“Any ideas?” you ask, your voice tinged with a hint of desperation.

Viktor groans and rubs his eyes, his shoulders sagging. “You know what… I think I’m getting old too,” he mutters, dropping his hand to your lap. “Can we get back to it when I’ve had at least two hours of sleep?”

He looks at you, his hand settling on your knee absentmindedly, his fingers warm through the fabric of your clothes. You stare at his hand for a moment, before looking up at him. He seems so tired, but also so… beautiful. His rumpled clothes and tousled hair remind you of the boy you loved.

“Sure,” you say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. You look at him, really look at him. He’s always been handsome, but tonight you can finally see how much time has passed. Wrinkles carve his face deeper, jaw stronger, singular grey strands shining through the chestnut hair. Eyes the same. He doesn’t look like a boy anymore.

Wordlessly, you move closer to him and his gaze doesn’t falter. You cup his cheeks and brush your thumb over his lip. And then, your mouth comes close to his, into a soft brush, trembling and tentative. And Viktor responds with a hand sliding up your thigh and a tilt of his head. He cranes his neck and closes the little distance left between you with a sigh of relief.

His free hand slides up to your neck, pulling you in as his mouth parts and tongue joins to wrestle with yours. He gasps when you bite his lower lip and hums, as his palm slides behind to cup your ass. Fully in his grasp, you press yourself more onto him, fingers tangling into his hair, coaxing small sounds out of his throat. It’s wet and slow and when you peek through your eyelashes his brows are scrunched and a blush blooms down his neck to his chest.

He doesn’t kiss like a boy anymore, you think to yourself. It comes unbidden and warms your insides.

The taste of him lingers on your lips as you pull away just a fraction, your breaths mingling. You barely have a moment to think before Viktor kisses you back, deeply, hoarse inhale taken straight from your lungs leaves you dizzy.

***

Viktor had walked you back to your dorm after a late-night study session at the library. His pace was slow, almost reluctant, as if he was trying to figure out what to say before you parted ways. You were too tired to wait for him to find the words, your mind still foggy from hours of studying.

“I guess this is goodn—” you started, but before you could finish the word, his lips were on yours. The kiss came out of nowhere, abrupt and clumsy, pressing you back into the door behind you. For a moment, you froze, your tired mind scrambling to catch up with what was happening.

Then, the realization sank in, and the sound that left your lips transformed from startled surprise to a soft moan. You responded without thinking, hands sliding up Viktor's sides, feeling the warmth of his body as you kissed him back.

He dropped his cane, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you closer. His touch was urgent, hands cradling your back and drawing you in as you ran your fingers through his hair. Feeling your response, he grew bolder, shut his eyes and concentrated on drawing deep breaths through his nose to not have to part from you.

Hands everywhere, as if he couldn’t decide what to do. You nearly laughed when she squeezed your butt quickly, only to go back to your waist, slide into your ribs and then to the small of your back. So feverish.

When the oxygen run out, he broke the kiss but still kept you close. “I wanted to do this for the longest time,” he chuckled into your mouth.

***

He gives himself a good-willed push off the couch’s armrest but ends up trapping your hip beneath his. His face scrunches in worry when you hiss, but the sound quickly transforms into a laugh. When your stomach shakes beneath him, Viktor feels a strange swelling in his chest. This is so familiar.

He looks at you longingly, sliding his fingers into your hair. Your laughter dies into a moan when his groin presses between your legs. His tongue grows more eager now, as if he remembers just how much he used to want you. “Fuck, I’ve missed you,” he breathes against your lips, and you respond by fisting his shirt, nearly tearing it. You try to say you’ve missed him too—fuck, how much you’ve missed him every day—but you can’t, because your mouth is full.

You brace yourself on your elbows, meeting him halfway. You’re not sure you can bear to part long enough for him to take your clothes off, so instead, you take his hands and press them to your ass. He accepts, of course, kneading your flesh in rhythm with his breath.

When you finally straddle him, your fingers move to undo the rest of his shirt. That’s when he stills. His palms come up to wrap around yours, and a quiet plea escapes him. “Wait,” he says weakly, his cock already hard—you’re sure this costs him a lot.

“Whatever for?” you ask, nosing at his face before pressing kisses to his cheeks, his closed eyelids. You untangle your fingers from his and wrap your arms around his neck.

“I should show you something first,” he murmurs, and begins to undo his shirt. You lean back to give him space to sit up, but your hips never leave his, and your eyes never look away from his face. You give him the room he needs, and feel unbearably not close enough.

***

You fought with the doorknob to your bedroom for a hot minute. Viktor, being very distracting, had completely derailed your brain from this simple dexterity task with continuous neck-licking and ear-kissing. He kept smirking against your skin, all cocky and pleased with himself, ever since the moment you’d asked, “Do you want to come in?”

You stumbled into the room together, and his fingers immediately shot to your vest. You hadn’t even blinked properly before it was undone, his hands cupping your breasts through your shirt, his cane hooked over his forearm.

Laughing and snorting at his clumsiness, you’d steadied him by the waist and let him walk you backward toward the bed.

Your hands fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, but they were small and stubborn, and you were too impatient. With a frustrated huff, you abandoned the effort and slid your hands over his shoulders instead. “Arms up,” you ordered, and Viktor chuckled as he complied.

He lifted his arms obediently, but as you dragged his shirt over his head, it caught for a moment, tangling around his face. He let out a muffled laugh, flailing slightly as you tugged it free, and the moment he was loose, he lost his balance. He tumbled backward onto the bed with an oof, propping himself up on his elbows as he grinned up at you.

You stepped between his legs, watching as his expression softened, turning almost reverent. His hands found your waist, fingers brushing deliberately over the fabric of your skirt before he slid it down, letting it pool at your feet. His lips followed the motion, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your stomach before he rested his chin there, gazing up at you.

He cradled your hips, thumbs stroking lazily over your skin. “Are you sure this is what you want?” he asked, his voice quiet, careful.

You nodded, eager, and leaned down to kiss him, pouring every answer he could ever need into the press of your lips.

***

“There is both more and less to me than there used to be,” Viktor says, rubbing slow, thoughtful circles up and down your thighs. His expression is pensive, and an apology lingers somewhere in his voice. You hate that he feels the need to apologise in the first place.

Your touch slides across his chest, down—down the leather ridges of a brace you’ve never seen before. It screams Jayce Talis with every bolt, every stitch, and your heart aches at the thought that you weren’t here when this was happening.

Your eyes dart between his chest and his lips before you finally nestle deeper against his pelvis, wrap your arms back around his neck, and crush your mouth to his in a kiss that weeps remorse. “You beautiful, beautiful man,” you whisper, pressing your face into his. “How are you so brave?”

You cup his cheeks, and he only smiles, covering your palm with his.

“I’m not brave. I just… survived,” Viktor says with a small shrug. Then, after a pause: “Would you like to help me take them off?”

You nod, eager, and lean down to kiss him, pouring all the fragmented pieces of yes into the press of your lips.

***

Viktor rolled with you across the sheets, his hands skimmed up your sides, warm and eager, fingers pressing into your skin like he was trying to memorise the feel of you. Your mouths met again, lips parting, tongues teasing—lazy and deep, now that you had each other finally.

He pulled you closer, your thighs bracketing his hips, and when you reached down, fingers curling into the waistband of his trousers, he let out a shaky breath. You grinned against his mouth, tugging them lower inch by inch, letting your nails drag over his skin just to hear the quiet little sounds he made in response. Finally, with one last playful yank, you pulled them off entirely, giggling when they got caught at his ankles for a moment before slipping free.

And then you saw it—his brace.

Viktor stiffened immediately. His hands twitched at his sides, and he turned his head slightly, as if he wanted to look anywhere but at you. "It’s nothing," he muttered, voice quieter than before. "You don’t have to—"

You reached out, your palm settling gently on his leg. "Viktor," you said softly, your touch firm but tender. His gaze flicked back to yours, guarded, unsure. "You are so beautiful."

He gasped, a sound so quiet you might not have caught it if you weren’t so close. His lips parted slightly, eyes searching yours like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right.

You didn’t give him time to argue. Instead, you leaned down, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to his thigh, just above the brace. He shivered beneath you. Carefully, you undid the clasps, your fingers working with quiet reverence, peeling away the brace as if unveiling something sacred.

It left behind faint indentations in his skin—lines and ridges pressed deep from the whole day of wear. You kissed each one, your lips trailing over the marks with the same care you’d give any other part of him. Viktor’s breath hitched, his fingers threading into the sheets, gripping tight.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, barely above a whisper, he breathed, "You undo me."

***

You set the last metal part of Viktor aside, and now, finally—after years of longing—you see him. His legs are parted, eternal bruises marking his thigh and knee, the toes of one foot cramped closer together than the other. His ribs bear pearly little scars where the chest brace has caught against his skin.

His cock rests idly in the crease of his thigh, beautiful as ever—pink at the tip, his navel scattered with curly hair that meets in a neat line just below his belly button. His hips are sharp angles, his belly rising and falling with each breath. You take in this adult man’s body and compare it to the boy you fell in love with. And you are sure now—there is only more to him than there used to be.

You step between his legs, and his arms reach out, fingers tracing a scar on your lower abdomen. He hums, “This is new.”

“You should see the other guy,” you murmur playfully. “A machine malfunctioned at the lab. One of the energy conductors went unstable, and before I could shut it down, a piece of metal sliced me open.” You pause, watching his face tense. “I got lucky.”

Viktor brushes his thumb over the scar tissue before lowering his lips, pressing a kiss to it—slow, reverent. “My brave girl,” he mutters against your skin. Your head lulls back on your shoulders, fingers threading into his hair and you let out a sigh.

You shudder when he presses a delicate touch between your legs. His hand, more calloused than you remember, gathers the curve of your inner thigh—but oh, his fingers still feel the same. The same timid swipe across your core, the same quiet hum of approval at the wetness you've gathered for him. Then, his free arm comes to wrap around your hips, pulling you closer as he presses his ear to your belly and slides two fingers inside you.

More skill, you notice. A pang of jealousy coils in your chest—ugly, unnecessary—but you don’t let him see. He kisses your stomach, and his eyelashes tickle your skin as he moves his hand up and down and his fingers hit the spot that has you moaning out his name. “As tight as I remember,” he hums, and it lances through you how infinitely hotter he has become.

You tug at his hair to make him look at you. Two gold gems drill right through you when you say, “Viktor.” A sigh, then, “I think I really need to fuck you now.”

He smiles sweetly and kisses your stomach again. “Then it seems we are on the same page.”

***

After a lot of fumbling, adjusting, and whispered curses, you finally found what worked. Viktor propped his knee up with a pillow, his other leg hooked under yours, grounding you together. His weight pressed you into the mattress—not crushing, just enough to make you feel him everywhere, warm and steady.

He rolled his hips into you, slow and measured, his arm caging you in as he kissed you through it. The heat of his breath spilled over your mouth, his lips parting just enough to let out the quietest of moans. And even in the haze of pleasure, you could see it—the determination tightening his brow, the concentrated press of his mouth against yours. He was on a mission, and that mission was you.

One arm wound snugly around your neck, cradling you into him, while his other hand worked between your legs, fingers slick and diligent. He timed each stroke with the snap of his hips, coaxing you closer, closer—

“Oh—Viktor—”

The sound of your voice shattered something in him. His rhythm stuttered, his forehead dropped to yours, but his fingers didn’t stop, circling, pressing, working you toward your peak. You dug your nails into his back, rocking up to meet him, and then—

It rushed over you like a cresting wave. Your thighs tensed around his waist, your breath caught, and the pleasure crested so high it stole all thought. He moaned softly, watching, feeling every pulse of your release around him.

His movements became less controlled, needier, a touch more frantic. He groaned against your shoulder, muttered something in a language you barely caught, and then followed you over the edge. His body trembled against yours, hips stuttering, breath shaky as he spilled into you, his lips still parted against your skin.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The only sounds in the room were your slowing breaths, the faint creak of the mattress, and the heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Then, Viktor finally lifted his head, flushed, sweat-dampened curls clinging to his forehead. He swallowed hard, his expression abashed but glowing with something warm and dazed.

“I hope that at this point, it is merely a formality,” he said, still breathless. “But… may I be so bold as to call you my girlfriend from now on?”

***

Your hips slot back together as if no time has passed. He fills you the same way, stretches you perfectly, and the expression he makes as he sinks in—God, it’s the same. Crushingly fucking gorgeous. Relief and bliss war on his face, his lips parting around a shaky groan as his hands seize your ass, pulling you down fully with a sharp slap of skin against skin.

He nuzzles into your neck, breath heavy and warm, licks up the column of your throat before sinking his teeth into your tendon. You gasp, moan, and pull at his hair, and the low, satisfied hum he gives in response shoots straight through you. His grip on your hips tightens, thumbs pressing into your skin as he guides you into motion, dragging you up before urging you back down. A faint roll of his own hips meets yours with every descent, his restraint slipping as the pleasure builds.

It doesn’t take long for you to notice—he’s changed. There’s more confidence in the way he moves, the way he takes from you, the way he talks to you. His voice is deeper, richer, words curling into your skin like smoke.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, dark and approving. He drags a hand up your spine, settles it at your nape, tilting your head so you do look—so you watch the way he devours you with his eyes. “You take me so well, lásko.”

Heat spreads down to your toes. You try to bite back a whimper, but he sees it, hears it, and smirks. Smirks, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

Oh, he’s so much bolder now. And you’re falling apart because of it.

It starts with the way he tilts his hips just right, the way his grip on you tightens like he knows exactly where you need him. His free hand glides down your spine, tracing sweat-slick skin before slipping between your bodies. Two fingers find your clit, and your breath stutters. He circles once, twice—slow and deliberate—before pressing down, firm and unrelenting.

“Come for me,” he murmurs, voice like silk, like sin. He rewards you with a deep thrust, dragging a broken moan from your throat. “Let me feel you.”

You do—oh, God, you do. Pleasure overtakes you, crashing through your body in waves, pulling you under. Your thighs shake around him, your hands fly to his shoulders, nails sinking into muscle as you arch and shudder and keen his name. He groans, eyes dark and reverent as he watches you unravel in his lap.

Yet still, there are things that haven’t changed. The way his breath hitches when you clench around him. The way his moans turn desperate when you lean forward and suck at his throat. The way he starts to chase the pleasure once he gets close, gripping you tighter, rutting up into you with a fervour that makes your head spin.

And the way he comes—the same shudder, the same deep, gasping moan, the same way his arms crush you against his chest as if he could pull you inside him. His release spills deep, his body trembling beneath yours, and you realise it then, as you always have.

He is grateful for this. For you.

Your noses brush as he catches his breath, and his hands smooth over your back, grounding himself in the feel of you.

“Still with me?” you murmur, running your fingers through his damp curls.

Viktor exhales a breathless laugh, lids heavy, lips parted in something like awe. He nods, shifting just enough to press a lingering kiss to your collarbone. “Always.”

[thetoastghost222]

Enemies With Cat Benefits

Overview: You and your neighbor are sworn to be “enemies” but his cat brings you two together

Authors Note: This is longer than my usual fics. Not proofread so there will be mistakes and i’m sorry. Anyways please enjoy i kinda hate it and could use some reassurance <3 Guys please request some stories/drabbles I’m having writer’s block:(

Theme: Enemies to lovers! Fluff! They are barely enemies

Word Count:1874

Moving day was supposed to be simple.

Just you, a pile of boxes, and the hope that nothing expensive had broken in transit. You had about half the boxes inside the apartment already, and you were more than ready for a shower and a long nap.

That was, until you heard a soft noise at the doorway.

There he was a fluffy, orange cat sitting right at the threshold. He looked innocent enough at first, but little did you know the chaos that little ball of fur would bring into your life.

Just as you squatted down to pet him, a cool, smooth voice cut through the quiet.

“Don’t pet him. He’s already spoiled enough.”

You startled slightly at the sudden voice and quickly retracted your hand. When you looked up, your gaze met the unimpressed face of your new and ridiculously attractive neighbor, who was now staring down at you like you’d just committed a crime by stealing his cat’s attention.

“I’m guessing you’re his owner?” you asked, breaking the tense silence.

“What gave it away?” he replied dryly, crouching to scoop the purring cat into his arms.

“You have similar faces,” you quipped, only half joking.

He let out an unamused laugh and rolled his eyes.

“I’m Lee Minho, by the way.”

You gave a small nod. “I’m Y/N. Nice to meet you, and…”

You trailed off, glancing at the cat, realizing you hadn’t caught his name.

“His name’s Soonie,” Minho said.

You smiled and gently rubbed Soonie’s head, baby talking to him despite the exasperated sigh Minho let out.

“You done yet?” he asked, referring to your cooing over the cat now content in his arms.

You gave him a mock glare but ultimately stepped back to give him space.

“Good luck carrying the rest of your boxes up the stairs,” he added with a smug little smirk.

Your smile dropped as you remembered the rest of the boxes still waiting in the truck. Before you could even ask for help, he was already shaking his head no, like he’d read your mind.

And just like that, without another word, he turned and disappeared into his apartment across the hall, Soonie still purring in his arms.You sigh and plop down on your couch deciding to take a five minute break to rest your eyes.Well those five minutes turned into two hours,by the time you woke up the sun was starting to set.

Stretching and blinking away any remnant of sleep you look around your apartment and are immediately wide awake.Sitting in your apartment are the rest of the boxes neatly stacked.You glance at the door and notice a small light blue square stuck to your apartment door.

Walking over to the door you notice there’s a sticky note written in neat but rushed handwriting the sentence ‘’Don't expect me to always be this kind -M’’ stares back at you.You think about going over and thanking him but ultimately decide against it deciding not to bother him.

Over the next two weeks as you’re getting settled in, Soonie somehow keeps ending up in your apartment begging for your attention. Obviously you couldn't deprive him of your attention,so every other day you end up curled up on your couch with your neighbor's cat.

You couldn't help but find this whole situation amusing so one day you decide to boast to Minho.Digging through your junk drawer you finally find some sticky notes and write a quick note to your neighbor.’’Your cat likes me more’’you smile yourself and go across the hallway and stick it to Minho's door.

The next day you check your door and low and behold there lies another light blue sticky note this time with the words ‘’He likes warm surfaces,not you’’you roll your eyes at his stubborn behavior but still respond with your own message ‘’That's not what he said when he was curled up on my chest.’’Thats the last interaction you have with your seemingly emotionally unavailable neighbor for that week.

It’s nearly midnight, and rain is pouring down in relentless sheets. As if the universe hadn’t done enough, your apartment’s fire alarm suddenly blares right as the storm outside reaches its peak.

You rush out of your apartment, forgetting a raincoat or an umbrella in your scramble. The cold rain hits you instantly, soaking through your clothes in seconds as you follow the rest of the building’s sleepy, irritated tenants out into the night.

After a few minutes of standing in the downpour, the initial panic fades, and you find yourself retreating to the covered stairwell just outside the building. You sit down with a sigh, water dripping from your hair and clothes, shivering slightly as you pull your knees to your chest.

The fire alarm continues to screech in the background, and you can’t help but wonder what you did to deserve this kind of luck tonight.

You hear footsteps a moment later, slow, even, familiar.

Minho appears at the top of the stairwell, holding a very displeased looking Soonie wrapped in a towel. He pauses when he sees you sitting there, drenched and shivering. For a second, he just stares, unreadable as ever. Then, without a word, he walks over, shrugs off his jacket, and drapes it around your shoulders.

“You’re going to catch a cold looking like that,” he mutters, settling beside you with Soonie still bundled in his arms.

You blink up at him in surprise, but before you can say anything, he glances your way and adds, “Don’t make it weird. It’s just a jacket.”

Despite his tone, the fabric is warm, and the quiet gesture makes something flutter in your chest.

Soonie purrs softly, nestled between the two of you now. And for a moment despite the rain, the alarm, and the sheer absurdity of the night you feel just a little bit okay.

Suddenly he speaks up again this time quieter and almost shy.’’thank you for letting Soonie hangout with you when i'm not home.’’you smile slightly ‘’thank you for letting him hangout with me,he makes great company.’’ you reply.

As you both sit there waiting for the alarm to stop the air seems to shift and the regular silence between you two seems less awkward and now more comforting.

-skip a couple days-

You had just came home from a rough day at work and all you wanted to do was curl up and sleep. As you're lying on your couch halfway asleep you hear a knock at your door,you groan but get up and open it.

There stands Minho holding a hyper Soonie who looks thrilled to see you.’’He wouldn't stop scratching at the door until I brought him here he's your problem now.’’ Minho says. Despite how tired you are you manage a smile and hold your arms out to Soonie who gratefully climbs into your arms and starts purring loudly.

You go over to your couch and sit down and let soonie curl up.Minho doesn't follow or leave he just stares at you for a moment.’’Are you okay?’’ You don't answer. He takes that as a no and silently sits down next to you. You both sit there in comforting silence.

Suddenly he speaks up’’ He’s not the only one who wanted to come over,” he says, almost too low to hear.

You look at him, brows raised.

He sighs, like he’s already regretting opening his mouth.

“I told myself it was just about Soonie. That it was easier to pretend it was about the cat. But that’s not really true.”

You don’t interrupt. Just let him talk.

He leans back against the cushions, eyes on the ceiling now, voice quieter.

“I like being around you. Even when I act like I don’t. Even when I say the opposite. It’s… easier to keep people at a distance, but you” He stops himself, scoffs under his breath. “You make that kind of impossible.”

Another pause. You can feel your heart thudding a little harder now.

“I don’t know when it happened, or how, but I like you. And it’s been driving me insane. So there. Now you know.”

He turns to you fully now, eyes guarded but vulnerable.

“You can laugh or tell me I’m an idiot, whatever.

Soonie, oblivious, lets out a loud yawn between you.

You smile.

“I think Soonie knew before either of us did,” you say softly, running your fingers through the cat’s fur.

Minho watches you for a moment, lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, finally relaxing just a little, “he’s nosy like that.”

You smile down at Soonie, still curled up contentedly in your lap like this was the plan all along. Maybe it was at least in his little cat brain.

Minho hasn’t looked away. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy with something that makes your chest feel tight. When you glance up at him, he’s already leaning forward a little, elbows resting on his knees, like he’s caught between staying and getting closer.

“You’re not gonna say anything stupid now, are you?” he asks, voice a little lower, a little rougher.

You blink. “Like what?”

“Like, ‘That was cute,’ or ‘You’re kinda soft when you care.’ Something I’ll regret hearing when I’m trying to sleep later.”

You can’t help but grin. “So you do care.”

He groans and tilts his head back dramatically, but there’s color rising in his cheeks.” Don’t push it.”

You laugh quietly, hand brushing through Soonie’s fur, but your gaze lingers on him the way he’s still kind of tense, like he’s holding himself back.

“Minho?” you say softly.

He looks at you then, really looks at you. And for once, he doesn’t deflect with sarcasm. He just stares, eyes searching yours.

“I’m gonna kiss you now,” he says, barely above a whisper.

Your breath catches. “Okay.”

To most that seems like an awkward moment but to you two it’s perfect.That’s all it takes.

He leans in slowly, like he’s giving you a chance to back away. But you don’t. His hand grazes your jaw, fingers brushing just under your ear as he pulls you in and then he kisses you.

It’s soft at first. Careful. Like he doesn’t quite believe he’s allowed to do this. But then you lean into him, and he deepens the kiss just slightly, his thumb tracing your cheek like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

Soonie lets out a little meow of protest, sandwiched between you, and Minho breaks the kiss with a breathless chuckle.

“He’s such a third wheel,” he mutters.

You smile, resting your forehead against his. “He brought you here. I think he’s earned his spot.”

Minho hums in agreement, eyes flicking down to your lips again.

“Still annoying.”

“But worth it.”

And when he kisses you again, slower this time, it feels like the beginning of something you’ve both been trying not to admit for a long time.

Pretty soon your apartment becomes “the” apartment Minho practically lives there now, and Soonie has claimed both of your laps as his throne. The sticky notes are now inside jokes stuck on your fridge

Taglist: @lixies-favorite-cookie comment if you wanna be added:)

Fanfiction is protected under copyright law when plagiarism is involved. If you plagiarize my work, either a piece or whole in any language, I will take legal action. Inspiration or the same idea does not apply to this, only word-for-word plagiarism in any language.Feel free to reblog. :)

[wendichester]

‧₊˚🍊༉‧₊˚. i kinda feel like an orange,

summary. you feel like an orange and dean will do anything for you.

pairing. dean winchester x you ; stablished relationship.

wordcount. 781.

note. inspired by this video.

You shift slightly on the couch, your calves still resting on your boyfriend's, Dean, lap. The warmth of the bunker's library wrapped around you two, bookshelves towering high with endless lore, while the faint hum of the overhead light fills the otherwise peaceful space.

You glance down at the massive tome in your lap, its frayed pages filled with ancient symbols and faded ink. This research session was taxing, to say the least. And though Sam was relaying on your help, you can't seem to hold your attention forever.

Your mind wanders, and before you even realise it, you blurt out, "I kinda feel like an orange."

Dean's eyes lift from his own book, pausing his reading to process your words. He tilts his head, his gaze settling momentarily on a distant point in the room as if the answer might be floating somewhere among the dusted books.

"Mhm," he mutters absently before turning toward you with a lopsided grin. "I guess I feel like a tomato."

You blink at him, caught off guard by his response. Then, a giggle bubbles up, your lips curling into an amused smile. "No," you manage between laughs. "I feel like—" you pause to catch your breath, your laughter lighting up your face and his. "I feel like eating an orange."

Realisation dawns on Dean, and his sheepish grin turns into a small chuckle. "Oh," He rubs the back of his neck, the corner of his mouth twitching in self-deprecation. "Well, we've got one in the kitchen."

Your laugh dissipates into a smile, your eyes flicking back to your book. "Yeah, but I don't feel like peeling it." Your voice dips, and your teeth catch your bottom lip as if embarrassed by the admission.

Dean closes his book with a definite thud, setting it on the couch beside him. He leans forward slightly, catching your gaze. "I'll peel it for you, sweetheart." His voice is soft, teasing yet affectionate.

Your cheeks turn a delicate shade of pink as you look up at him through your lashes. The sight of your flushed face sends a warmth blooming in his chest.

"I'll cut it for you. I'll sauté it. Whatever you want." He grins, sliding your legs gently off his lap as he moves to stand. Before he fully straightens, he leans in and presses a soft kiss to your forehead. You tilt your face upward slightly, the corners of your lips lifting in response.

"Thank you," you say softly.

"Anything for you," he replies with a wink before heading to the kitchen.

You watch him go, your gaze lingering on his retreating figure until he disappears through the doorway. You can't help but shake your head, a small laugh escaping your lips. Dean Winchester, feared hunter, lore expert, and absolute softie when it comes to you. You set your book aside, pulling a throw pillow into your lap as you wait.

In the kitchen, Dean rifles through the fruit bowl until he finds the lone orange. He picks it up, turning it over in his hands as if it might hold some secret to making you smile even more. Man, he's whipped.

"Peeling an orange," he mutters to himself with a grin, grabbing a knife from the drawer. "Sam'd never let me hear the end of it."

He sets to work, carefully slicing through the rind and peeling it back in neat sections. As he works, his mind wanders to how this mundane task felt... nice. He'd do anything for you.

When he's done, he arranges the slices on a small plate, even taking the time to remove any stray bits of pith. Satisfied, he carries the plate back to the library, a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips.

"One perfectly peeled orange, delivered to Your Majesty," he announces, holding the plate out with a small bow.

Your face lights up as you reach for the plate. You chuckle, “You’re too good to me,” your voice is warm with affection.

Dean flops back onto the couch beside you, pulling your legs back into his lap, arm draping across the back. “Damn right I am.”

You pop a slice into your mouth, savouring the burst of citrus. “You even got all the white stuff off,” you speak in an amused tone, glancing at him with an impressed look.

“Nothing but the best for you, sweetheart.” He leans in, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Now, where's my reward?”

You laugh, leaning in to press a quick, sweet kiss to his lips. “You’re such a dork.”

“You love me,” he shoots back, his grin widening.

You roll your eyes but can't suppress your smile. “Like crazy,"

[cece693]

tony stark x male reader who’s kinda shy and quiet but crazy good at math and science and all those equations. something fluffy and cute thank youuuuuuu

Brilliant (Tony Stark x M! Reader)

Announcement: for those who have been following my Velvet Ring trilogy fic, I've created an AO3 account where I intend to flesh out the story. Here's the link! Also, since I'm not smart myself, I didn't go in-depth about science and calculations, so forgive me :(

Tony Stark was many things: a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist—but being in a committed relationship? That wasn’t exactly the headline he wanted plastered all over the news. Not because he was ashamed—far from it—but because Tony had learned the hard way that the world had a way of ruining what mattered most. And you? You mattered more than anything.

You were everything Tony wasn’t—quiet, thoughtful, reserved. While Tony thrived in the spotlight, you thrived in the solace of your work, diving deep into equations and theories that would leave most people with a headache. You were a prodigy in your own right, a quiet storm of brilliance and ingenuity. The kind of man who didn’t seek recognition, only results. Tony couldn’t help but admire that about you—and, though he’d never admit it out loud, you kept him grounded in a way no one else could.

Tonight, you were sprawled out on the couch in your shared apartment, wearing a faded hoodie and sweatpants you’d stolen from Tony long ago. A notebook rested on your lap, filled with scribbled formulas and diagrams. The room was quiet, save for the occasional scratch of your pen against paper.

The sound of the front door opening broke your focus. Tony stepped inside, tie loosened and suit jacket draped over his arm. He looked tired, but his eyes lit up when they landed on you.

“Hey, handsome,” he greeted, his voice warm as he crossed the room. “What did I say about math after ten?”

You glanced up, rolling your eyes. “You said it’s a house rule. I said it’s not enforceable.”

Tony smirked, plucking the notebook from your hands before dropping it onto the coffee table. Sitting beside you, he wrapped one arm around your shoulders, your head tucked into the crook of his neck. “You were late,” you muttered, resting your head against his shoulder. “Everything okay?”

“Just the usual corporate nonsense,” Tony replied, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You know how it is—saving the world, keeping the board happy. Exhausting, really. I’m practically a saint.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, but instead of responding, your eyes kept flickering toward the discarded notebook on the table. After a moment, you shifted slightly in his hold, trying to reach for it. Tony groaned dramatically, tightening his grip.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said, pulling you closer. “I just got home, and you’re trying to ditch me for math? Do you have any idea how lonely I’ve been? I’ve been deprived of your presence all day, and this—” he gestured at the notebook—“is more important?”

You bit back a laugh, managing to wiggle out of his grasp. “I promise it'll be worth it."

Tony crossed his arms, slumping back against the couch like a sulking child. “Fine, but if I die from lack of cuddles and attention it's on you.”

Grabbing the notebook, you turned back to him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You look fine. And for the record, this 'math' you're referring to is yours."

That caught his attention. His brows furrowed as he sat up straighter, his earlier theatrics forgotten. “Mine?”

You nodded, flipping open the notebook and holding it out to him. “You mentioned the other night that you were having issues with stabilizing the power output on the Iron Man suit. I’ve been working on it.”

Tony’s eyes scanned the pages, his expression softening with each line he read. Your neat handwriting detailed calculations, theories, and possible solutions. You’d even diagrammed potential fixes, complete with annotations on how they’d improve efficiency. “You’ve been working on this?” he asked, his voice quieter now. “For me?”

“Well, yeah,” you said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. “I know it’s been frustrating you, so I thought I’d try to help.”

For once, Tony Stark was speechless. His eyes flickered between you and the notebook, the weight of your gesture hitting him like a freight train. You’d spent your time—not for your own research or projects, but to solve one of his problems. It wasn’t just the effort or the brilliance of your work—it was the care behind it, the way you always seemed to go out of your way to make his life a little easier.

Tony set the notebook aside, reaching for you instead. His hands cupped your face, his gaze warm and filled with an emotion he rarely let himself feel this deeply. “You’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice thick with gratitude. “I don’t deserve you.”

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours, soft and full of affection. It wasn’t the usual teasing kiss he’d steal when he was being playful—it was deeper, more vulnerable. A silent thank you, a promise that he’d never take you for granted. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and he smiled. “You’re too good to me.”

You laughed softly, your hands resting on his chest. “You’re worth it, Stark. Even if you are a little dramatic sometimes.” Tony chuckled, pulling you into another kiss, his heart full and his mind already spinning with ideas. If this was what it felt like to be loved by you, then he never wanted to let it go.

[saturnsag3]

Study Buddy - will smith x macklin celebrini

summary: this isn’t in the same universe as my other nerd!mack x frat!will blurb but sort of the same vibe

wc: 3,367

The thing about college was—well, okay, there were a lot of things about college that Will Smith didn’t like. Early classes, walking uphill in the snow, overpriced textbooks he never cracked open. But right now, the biggest thing was Statistics 2104.

He didn’t care about z-scores or regression models. Didn’t care about T-tests or p-values or whatever fresh hell was on this week’s quiz. What he did care about was the fact that his coach had just benched him until his grade went up.

“You’re a leader on this team, Smith,” Coach had said, pacing his office like he was delivering a TED Talk on discipline. “You want to play Friday? Show me you can pass your damn class.”

So here he was, sitting in Professor Delaney’s office with an empty water bottle, an even emptier brain, and just enough charm left in the tank to try and convince her not to ruin his life.

She peered at him over her glasses. “Will, you’ve failed the last two quizzes. Your attendance is spotty. Your last submitted assignment—” she held up a stapled packet with what looked like red blood all over it, “—was missing three of the assigned pages and cited TikTok as a source.”

Will cleared his throat. “Technically, it was on the STEM tab so—“

“I’m assigning you a tutor,” she cut him off. “You don’t get a say in it.”

“I wasn’t gonna argue,” he said quickly. “Actually, I—yeah. No. A tutor sounds... great. Productive. Go team.”

She raised a brow. “Macklin Celebrini. Pre-med. One of my top students.”

Will sat up straighter. The name sounded familiar—he was pretty sure they shared a row in lecture.

“The guy who sits across from me?” he asked. “Dark hair, kind of quiet?”

Delaney nodded. “That’s the one. He already agreed to help you.”

Will exhaled, half in relief, half in... something else. He didn’t know Macklin, not really, but he’d noticed him. Always early, always prepared, the kind of student who probably had color-coded notes and didn’t miss a single lecture. The kind of student Will needed if he was going to survive this class.

“Okay,” he said. “Yeah. I can work with that.”

Delaney didn’t smile. “Library. Four o’clock. Don’t waste his time.”

---

Will was late.

Not by much—five minutes, tops—but enough that he had to jog the last stretch to the library and burst through the glass doors like he was arriving at a frat party instead of a study session. His hoodie was half-zipped, one earbud still in, sunglasses perched cockily on his head like he hadn’t realized they were indoors now. The tail-end of someone’s coffee order announcement trailed behind him as he spotted the table near the back.

There he was.

Macklin Celebrini.

No laptop screen could hide the fact that he was objectively good-looking, and unfortunately for Will’s ability to focus, the kid looked way too composed for someone voluntarily hanging out with a failing jock. His brown, straight hair sat fluffy and light on his head, a single AirPod sat idle on the table next to his tea, and his notes were already spread out in neat rows—highlighters uncapped, stats textbook open, a few post-its stuck to the top margin.

One of them read: WILL, in sharp, all-caps pen.

Will pointed as he slid into the seat across from him. “You made me a place card? That’s kinda cute.”

Macklin didn’t look up right away. “I wasn’t sure if you’d show up, so I figured I’d at least get something useful out of this and work on labeling things.”

Will grinned. “You label your friends?”

“We’re not friends.” Macklin replied flatly.

Ouch.

Will put a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “Damn. Cold start.”

“I’m not here to warm you up,” Macklin said, flipping a page in his notebook. “I’m here to help you not fail. So let’s focus.”

Will leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm, eyes very much not on the textbook. “I’m focused.”

Macklin didn’t look up, but his pen paused mid-sentence. “Staring at me doesn’t count as focusing.”

“I disagree,” Will said smoothly. “You’re clearly the smartest guy in this room, so I figure if I just absorb your aura or whatever, I’ll magically learn the difference between a mode and a median.”

Macklin exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “You’re literally going to fail.”

Will shrugged. “Not if I have you.”

That got him a look. Macklin finally glanced up, slow and measured, eyes scanning over Will like he was solving for X and the answer was deeply disappointing. “Flirting won’t fix your GPA.”

“Is it flirting if I’m just being honest?” Will shot back, smirking. “You’re kind of famous on campus, you know. Pre-med, full ride, on first-name basis with every professor. You walk like you’ve got somewhere more important to be.”

Macklin blinked once, then turned his laptop so the screen faced Will. “Do you know what a mean is?”

Will smiled, unbothered. “You don’t have to be so mean about it.”

Macklin didn’t so much as twitch. “Wow. A stats pun. That’s original.”

“You wound me, Mack.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“See, this is going well already,” Will said, propping his feet on the empty chair next to him. “I’ve learned your name and a boundary. Next time we might even get to standard deviation.”

Macklin closed his notebook, slow and deliberate. “You’ve been here seven minutes and you haven’t absorbed a single number.”

“I’ve absorbed plenty,” Will said, eyes very obviously dropping to Macklin’s hands. “Mostly visual.”

Macklin’s jaw flexed. “You know this isn’t a date, right?”

“Yet,” Will said, and winked.

It earned him silence. Not shocked silence—just the kind that came from someone who was very used to being hit on and very used to not caring.

Still, Will thought he saw it—just the slightest twitch at the corner of Macklin’s mouth. Not a smile. Definitely not. But something... almost amused. Almost.

“I’ll quiz you,” Macklin said finally, turning the notebook back to himself. “If you fail, we’re moving to the basement study rooms where there’s no one to perform for.”

Will’s smile widened. “So you are looking at me.”

Macklin didn’t look up. “One more word and I start charging you by the minute.”

“So, the mean,” Macklin began, tapping his pen against the textbook like he was trying to summon patience from its pages. “Is the average. You just add all the numbers and divide by how many there are.”

Will didn’t respond.

Macklin glanced up. “Will.”

Will was already looking at him—had been, actually, this whole time. Chin still in his hand, elbow on the table, eyes dragging unapologetically over Macklin’s face like it was more interesting than anything numbers had to offer.

“What?” Will asked, all faux-innocence.

“You’re not listening.”

“I am listening,” Will protested, straightening up a little. “Mean equals average. Add, divide, boom. Got it.”

Macklin narrowed his eyes. “Then give me the mean of these five numbers.”

He scribbled them down on a post-it and slid it across the table.

Will didn’t even glance at it. “I’ll calculate it if you smile.”

Macklin blinked. “Excuse me?”

“One smile,” Will said. “Just a little one. Then I’ll do the math.”

“I’m not a vending machine. You don’t insert charm and get expressions back.”

“Worth a try.”

Will leaned over the table, reaching for Macklin’s pen. His fingers brushed Macklin’s knuckles—on purpose—and lingered just a half-second too long before he pulled the pen back and uncapped it with his teeth.

Macklin stared at him. “You have your own pens.”

“But yours looks smarter.”

“That’s not how pens work.”

“It is when you use them,” Will said smoothly.

Macklin said nothing, just looked vaguely toward the ceiling like he was regretting every life choice that led him to this exact moment.

Will finally looked at the post-it. “Okay, so—five numbers. Add them. Divide. Easy.”

“Not if you take forever doing it.”

Will pretended to scribble something down, then paused and looked up again. “You smell good, by the way.”

Macklin’s pen froze mid-word. “What?”

“Didn’t think you’d be the type,” Will continued, leaning back and drumming his fingers against the table. “But it’s subtle. Clean. Like—you just did laundry and read for pleasure.”

Macklin blinked. “What does reading for pleasure even smell like?”

“Vanilla and rubbing alcohol.”

“...Are you high?”

Will grinned. “No, but you’re starting to sound like my type.”

Macklin huffed and looked back at his notes. “I’m not your type.”

Will tilted his head, genuinely curious. “How do you know that?”

“Because I know you.”

That gave Will pause.

Macklin didn’t look up when he said it—didn’t act like he’d dropped a bomb or anything—but the words hung there, heavy and real.

“You know of me,” Will said slowly.

“I know you,” Macklin said again, more evenly this time. “Will Smith. Greek life king. Wing night champion. Campus hockey god. Very good at pretending nothing matters until it suddenly does.”

Will stared at him, surprised.

“And now that your season’s on the line, here you are. Failing statistics, flirting with your tutor instead of learning the material.”

Will opened his mouth, closed it, then leaned forward again—this time more serious, less performative.

“Okay,” he said. “That was... a little hot.”

Macklin rolled his eyes, but there was definite color rising in his cheeks now, high and pink and fast.

“You’re exhausting,” Macklin muttered.

“I’ve been called worse.”

“Do you ever stop?” he asked, flipping a page aggressively.

Will tapped his pen against the table. “You could make me.”

Macklin gave him a long look. “How?”

Will leaned in again, close enough to make Macklin’s shoulders go stiff.

“Tell me to stop and mean it,” Will said, voice low.

Macklin didn’t answer right away. For a second, he just stared, expression unreadable.

“Do the math problem, Will.”

Will smirked. “What if I get it wrong on purpose so you’ll yell at me again?”

“I swear to God—”

“I like when you’re mean to me,” Will said, smug.

“Try me again and I’ll make you do flashcards,” Macklin threatened, standing his ground.

Will put both hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. No need for violence.”

He finally leaned back and actually looked at the numbers this time. Macklin watched him from the corner of his eye, like he didn’t trust him to even attempt the problem without saying something ridiculous.

Will scratched something down. “So the mean is... 12.6?”

Macklin blinked. “That’s actually correct.”

Will lit up like a kid who just got goldfish and a sticker. “Look at us! Learning and bonding.”

Macklin just shook his head, but his mouth twitched again—almost smiling, almost giving in.

Will leaned across the table again, sliding Macklin’s pen back toward him with two fingers. “You’re really good at this, by the way.”

“Tutoring?”

“No. Looking unimpressed. It’s hot.”

“Jesus Christ,” Macklin muttered.

Will grinned. “You’re thinking about smiling, I know it.”

“I’m thinking about faking a medical emergency so I can leave.”

Will leaned in once more, voice dropped low, like a secret. “Just so you know... you already make stats my favorite subject.”

Macklin didn’t respond. But  when he looked up, there was a definite smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—and he didn’t even try to fight it.

---

By their third session, Will had stopped pretending he hated statistics.

Not because he liked it but because he liked the way Macklin’s expression twitched every time he said something just dumb enough to be funny. He liked how Macklin always showed up early, already halfway through a green tea and flipping through his meticulously highlighted notes like he hadn't spent the last two hours prepping for a tutoring session he claimed not to care about.

Will noticed everything.

The way Macklin tapped his pen against the side of his mug when he was thinking. The way he curled his hand protectively over his notes when Will leaned too close. The way he tried very hard not to laugh whenever Will made some inappropriate joke about frequency distributions and one-night stands.

It was slow—painfully slow—but Macklin was cracking.

Just a little.

It started with the eye rolls. Then the muttered "You're impossible"’s. Then, the fifth session in, Will made some dumb pun about regression and Macklin actually laughed. Like, a real, startled huff of a laugh that caught both of them off guard.

Will had blinked at him. “Was that a giggle?”

Macklin had gone red instantly. “Shut up.”

So of course Will spent the rest of the session trying to make him do it again.

He started taking the tutoring slightly more seriously—not enough to stop flirting, obviously, but enough that Macklin stopped threatening to quit every ten minutes. Will showed up (mostly) on time. He answered practice questions with slightly less whining. He even—once—brought Macklin a green tea before he could get one himself.

Macklin stared at it like it was poison.

“You memorized my order?” he asked, flatly.

Will grinned. “What can I say? I’m observant. Also, the barista said you go there so often they thought you lived upstairs.”

Macklin tried not to smile, and failed.

���Don’t read into this,” he warned, taking the cup anyway.

Will just leaned back in his chair, laced his hands behind his head, and said, “Too late.”

Their sessions kept going like that: Will making jokes, Macklin pretending not to like them. Macklin explaining concepts, Will interrupting every five minutes to ask why he smelled like vanilla and pain suppression. Somehow, amidst all the chaos, Will’s test scores climbed. Not by much, but enough.

And Macklin... stopped acting like he hated being there.

He didn’t say it, of course. Would probably deny it if Will ever asked. But he didn’t flinch when Will leaned in close anymore. Didn’t move his hand when Will’s brushed his under the table. Didn’t sigh as loud when Will texted him outside of tutoring hours.

In fact, by week four, Macklin texted him first.

Just once.

Just a curt: bring your notes this time. and try not to smell like gym bag + cologne. see you at 4.

Will had smiled at his phone like an idiot for a full ten minutes after that.

---

Will practically burst into the library like he’d just scored the game-winner in double overtime. He didn’t even try to hide the shit-eating grin on his face, practically jogging over to their usual table with a paper clutched in his hand and his backwards cap hanging off one ear.

Macklin didn’t even look up. “If you’re about to show me a meme, I’m leaving.”

Will slapped the graded exam onto the table like it was a trophy. “Seventy-seven.”

That got Macklin’s attention.

He blinked. Then again. “Out of... a hundred?”

Will snorted. “No, Macklin, out of a thousand.”

Macklin’s brows shot up. He leaned forward, snatching the test and scanning it like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Wait—this is actually... wow.”

Will beamed, obnoxiously proud. “Say it.”

Macklin frowned. “Say what?”

“Say I’m a genius.”

“You got a C.”

“A strong C,” Will corrected. “A C with ambition.”

And then—just for a second—Macklin actually smiled.

It was quick, and it wasn’t cocky or sarcastic or tight-lipped. It was genuine. His whole face lit up, eyes crinkling, like he couldn’t stop it even if he tried.

Will saw it.

“You’re proud of me,” Will said, voice sing-songy.

“I’m—no.”

“You are.”

“It’s just—” Macklin floundered, pushing the paper back across the table like it had burned him. “I didn’t think you’d break 70, so... congratulations, I guess.”

Will leaned his elbows on the table and tilted his head. “That was dangerously close to a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Will smirked. “Too late.”

Macklin tried to recover, but his ears were pink, and he was avoiding eye contact like the test score had personally offended him.

Will, of course, couldn’t leave it there.

“So,” he said, stretching casually. “What happens if I get an 80 on the next one?”

Macklin raised an eyebrow, wary. “You get a slightly better grade.”

Will shook his head. “No, no. I mean, what happens between us.”

Macklin blinked, already regretting everything. “Nothing happens between us.”

Will gave him the look. “You smiled when I said ‘77.’ That was basically second base.”

Macklin rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible.”

Will leaned forward, grinning. “If I get an 80 on our next test, you have to let me take you out.”

Macklin stared.

Will held up a hand. “No games. Just one date. Could be coffee. Could be dinner. Could be that weird farmer’s market you pretend not to like even though I saw reusable tote bags in your car.”

“You went through my car?”

“I didn’t go through it. I walked past it. Noticed things. I’m observant.”

“You’re annoying.”

“And yet you keep tutoring me.”

Macklin hesitated. He was quiet for a second too long, and Will knew he was considering it. Like, actually weighing the pros and cons of Will asking him out.

Finally, Macklin sighed, slow and dramatic.

“Fine,” he said. “Deal.”

Will blinked. “Wait. Seriously?”

“If—and I mean if—you get an 80 or higher.”

“Oh, I will.”

“But—” Macklin added, holding up a finger. “Rules.”

Will grinned. “Lay ‘em on me.”

“One: no bragging to your friends. Two: it’s not a date, it’s a hang out. And three: if you’re late, I walk.”

Will laughed. “That’s... actually reasonable.”

Macklin shook his head, but he was smiling again—smaller this time, secretive. Like part of him really did want Will to get that 80.

Will sat back, already plotting flashcards and study sessions and possibly bribing the professor (kidding—kind of).

“Better clear your schedule, Macklin,” he said, eyes bright with promise. “I’ve never wanted an 80 more in my life.”

sages thoughts⋆˙⟡: i love this dynamic so much and if you guys want you can send me requests for them, i hope u enjoyed!!

[sukiyurii]

causing issues (cassandra kiramman × reader)

(gn!reader, dom!cassandra, sub!reader, kinda mean!cass, spanking, finger sucking, praise, aftercare. men, minors dni. not beta read)

request: anon

wc: 1.1k

the already frustrated councilwoman narrows her eyes at you as you abruptly stroll through her office doors, clad in what could only be something curated to mess with her.

"what is that?" she asks, dabbing her quill off in the cloth as she sets it down on her desk.

"what, you don't like it?" you ask, but the hint of mockery in your voice doesn't go unnoticed by her. nothing does.

"i don't like that you're prancing around the building, dressed like you belong at babette's." she retorts, narrowing her eyes at you.

"but cass— ms. kiramman, i am simply choosing to express myself. as you requested," you reply, winking playfully.

she bristles at your comment before taking a second to reign in her frustration. "i did, yes. but not like this." she says, extending a hand out, gesturing to your more than unsavory attire.

it's almost comical— how stoic, clean, and put-together she looks. but, you can see the tensed muscles in her jaw, the way her fingers drum against her desk as she continues to rake her eyes over the outfit.

"i just wanted to look nice for you, y'know?" you continue, slowly stalking towards her. you prop your hip up on her desk, purposely bumping into neat stack of files.

"oops," you tease, pulling a small, smug grin onto your face as the files flutter out of the stack, and she snaps her head towards you.

you see the way her chest rises as she sucks in a deep breath. "come here." she hisses sharply, slamming her notebook closed.

you feign surprise, but this is exactly what you wanted. you wanted the elegant and poised woman to finally snap. "sorry, cassie," you say, curling your lips up as she sneers at you, and the little nickname.

"come. here." she demands again. this time, a shiver racks through you as her eyes darken and she sets her jaw. "now." she adds on, dropping her voice. it sounds something akin to a growl, and if you hadn't known better, you might've pushed her a little further.

rather, you take a few hesitant steps forward, nearly trembling out of your shoes. while she is every definition of elegant, beautiful, and couth, she looks utterly and ridiculously terrifying.

she roughly hooks her fingers into the waistband of your pants and tugs you forward, swiping your foot from beneath you in the process. with you half bent over her lap, she runs a slender hand down your back.

your chest is pressed to her thigh, one hand clumsily grasping onto her desk. she— with a surprising amount of strength,— pulls you over her lap completely, digging her nails into the plush meat of your thigh.

here, you are completely strewn over her lap, mussing up her pretty skirt. "cass—" you gasp, bracing one hand onto her thigh.

"you've been acting like an insolent brat all day," she cuts you off with a hiss, carding a gloved hand through your hair. she knows how much you hate it, and how much you would rather feel her actual hands on you.

"take your pants off," she commands, lightly pushing you off of her. she watches you like a lioness stalking her prey, eyes low, hungry, and intimidating.

as you tug your pants down with shaky hands, you're given no time to brace yourself before you're roughly bent over her lap again. "you're gonna sit here and take it, hm? be good for me?" she coos mockingly, threading her fingers back through your hair before tugging on it meanly.

she smirks at the whimper you release, finding joy in the way she can already feel you squirming. "what's your color, dear?" she asks soothingly, breaking her character as she waits for a response. as irritated as she is, she'd never push you.

"green— i'm good," you reply, tightening your fist in the length of her skirt, slightly pulling it up from the ground. she gives your head another smooth pat before tugging her glove off, connecting her bare hand with your thigh gently.

you feel the air gust around you as she pulls the same hand away and collides it with the plushness of your ass— hard.

you cry out at the contact, immediately trying to squirm out of her grip. she smacks your ass again, pinning your lower back down with her forearm. "stay still, or you're gonna make this so much worse for yourself." she threatens, digging her nails into the reddened skin.

you still your movements immediately, making a humiliating noise at the contact. "i'm sorry, i'm sorry— cassandra, please—" you whine, fisting her skirt tightly.

"you've been pissing me off all week with your little antics. you want my attention? you've certainly got it now, you little brat," she seethes, connecting her hand with your ass again.

this time, she rubs over the irritated skin gently, reaching her other hand down to cup your chin, pulling your head back gently.

"don't cry, my sweet thing. you're okay, you can take it for me, right?" she says sweetly, using her thumb to sloppily wipe some of the drool from your mouth. "you're making a mess on me, does it feel that good?" she teases harshly. her accent thickens the more her desire grows— it's the one fatal flaw she has. otherwise, you might've fully believed her cruelty.

she lets you gather your senses for a split second before quickly swatting either cheek, sliding her clothed fingers into your mouth as she does so. she silences your cries, watching amusedly as the tears start to leek down your pretty, flushed cheeks.

"oh, i know it hurts. but you're almost done," she says sweetly. she quickly contradicts her words with a few more hard swats to both your ass and the backs of your thighs. you sob quietly, accidentally biting down on her fingers at the pain.

she pays it no mind, choosing to rub a soothing hand over your skin. she hums softly, "come here, you're okay," she says, withdrawing her fingers from your mouth as she helps your turn over in her arms. she murmurs something incoherent as you wince when your ass makes contact with her lap.

"there we go, my sweet angel." she praises gently, pressing a soft kiss to your sweaty temple. "are you okay?" she asks, stroking her hand over your thighs and hip.

"yeah 'm good," you mumble, resting your cheek against her shoulder. she nods in response, continuing to dote over your trembling form.

she peels off her other glove, using both hands to pull you back into yourself. "you did so good for me, okay? i'm so proud of you," she whispers, pressing a chaste kiss to your wet cheeks and a final one to your lips.

"and i'm not actually mad at you, do you understand me?" she asks sternly, gently stroking her fingers through your hair.

"yes, i do. thank you, cass," you murmur, pressing your lips to the side of her neck softly.

[spaceprincess04]

Just a lil sun from my drafts… this is like a year and a half old, but enjoy!

It’s day three of the press tour and you’re learning more and more about your co-workers, outside of what you’d usually chat about on set. You’re now at the Vanity Fair interview where you literally have to play a guessing game with two of your co-stars about their personal lives.

“What’s a fun fact about me? I guess there’s not just one answer to this, so answer this one freely?” Michael reads the card he pulled aloud.

“Oh, easy. You love basketball.” Jonathan eagerly answers.

Michael nods, “very true. More so when I was younger, cause I liked to play a lot. I still love to watch though.”

“You only have one tattoo. Makeup crew always covers it for films, of course, but it’s hella cool.” I answer when my turn comes around.

“Yep. I have the outline of Africa and the eye of Horus tatted on my left shoulder.” He Winked, which was very unnecessary if you ask me.

“Of course she would know that.” Jonathan gave me a pointed look. This man always accuses Michael and I of having a crush on each other.

“Well I find it to be a form of method acting, staring at Michael's shoulders. It’s very crucial part of playing Bianca.” It’s my turn to wink at the camera. The fans are going to have a field day with that clip, I can just see the edits already.

“Anywassss! If I were a drink, what would I be? Wait, regular drink or spirits?” You look past the camera, asking the interviewer.

“Either or” she answers.

“Let’s do spirits.” Your costar Jonathan helps you decide.

“Cool, okay. I’ll write my answer now so you guys can guess..”You finish dragging your sharpee along the piece of paper the crew provided you with.

“Coffee martini? I don’t know, Just kinda seems like your vibe.” Jonathan answers with uncertainty.

“You know, I’ve never had one. It’s crazy because i loooovvveee coffee, which Jonathan knows. I’ve just never been brave enough to mix coffee and alcohol.” You shrug. “So, no. That’s not the answer I wrote.” You laugh, patting Jonathan on the arm.

“Awe, man.” He replies and puts his head down in mock shame.

“She grew up around southern folks, so i’ma go with whiskey.” Michael answers.

“You, you are correct. I’d be a glass of Maker’s, neat.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mike responds.

I smirk at the camera before bursting into laughter. “Please don’t take me seriously, y’all. I cannot be serious for very long. Who’s turn is it next?”

“That would be me. This one’s easy, what do I take with me everywhere?” Jonathan takes a couple seconds to write.

“Your cute little cup, of course.” You make a tea drinking jester with your pinky out.

“I do not drink like that, but yes I always have a mug with me. I have about.. three? in rotation.”

“You definitely do drink like that.” You pretend to whisper to him.

“Yeah your mug and your speaker for sure.” Mike nods.

“Yes, the speaker was second on the list.” Jonathan reveals his paper.

“Alright, last one.” Michael pulls the last card. “Aside from acting, what is my other talent?”

“Trick question? Directing?” Jonathan questions.

“Tap dancing? No, I’m kidding.” I ponder over what his hidden talent could be.

“Oh wait, are you gonna say basketball?” Jonathan slaps his knee, clapping and laughing as he looks away.

“You’re a piece of shit.” Michael responds in between laughs.

“Ummmm” you drag out my response, trying to create more time to think.

“Damn, do y’all know me?” He turns his card around and it reads ‘cooking’

“I don’t, I need you to make a meal for us to refresh our memories.” You point in between Jonathan and yourself.

“Ooooh, yeah. No, no, I knew that.” Jonathan rubs his eyebrow.

“What? Yes guys, I cook all my food. When I’m bulking, I get the meal plan from the nutritionist and do the cooking.” He speaks into the camera.

“No way. What can you cook? Chicken and Broccoli?” you cracked yourself up, squeezing your sides from laughter and everything.

“Wow, I really am going to have to cook for you now. You’re doubting me?”

“I believe my brother. If he says he can cook, he can probably cook.” Jonathan joins in the banter.

“Alright. Y’all name it, I’ll cook it at the crib TONIGHT! Y’all not gone play with me like this.” He’s dead ass serious right now.

“Okay then, do a seafood boil.” You raise a brow at him to see if he’s bluffing or not.

“Bet.”

“Okay, we’ll see. That shit better not be nasty, Mike.” I’m still laughing when I tap Jonathan. “Watch us pull up and his chef is leaving at the same time.”

“You can watch me cook it if you want to stay that long. I’ll even film it for y’all.”

“No, you’re good. We believe you, bro.” Jonathan straightens his face into a more serious expression.

“What time will I see y’all then?”

“You’ll see y/n whenever she’s free.” Jonathan pats your shoulder.

“What? Why can’t you be there? I’m not going through this alone. I’m scared, guys.” Your eyes widened in the lense of the camera, as if the fans could see me live and come to your rescue.

“I have a thing.” Jonathan tucks his lips, trying to hide the taunting expression.

“That’s bull. what thing do you have?”

“I already made the commitment to myself. I gotta do my post press-tour self care routine. Self care is very important, to all my fellas out there. Bubble baths, face masks, and whatnot.”

“Oh booo! Forget you and your pink bathrobe.” You scoff.

“How do you know what color his robe is?” Michael’s eyebrows knit together followed by the straightening of his spine. You can hear some of the camera crew snickering in the back.

“I don’t, I was made the joke from that one magazine cover he did.” You shrug, not quite noticing the change in the man’s body language.

“I’m appalled. My bathrobe is actually red. My favorite color, in case y’all were wondering. Sorry bro, I can’t make it tonight. You’ll have to let me know in the group chat how it was, y/n.”

“Yeah yeah whatever, sassy man. I’ll be there sometime after 7, Mike. Oh, and another fun fact about me is,” you turn your attention back to the camera “ I can’t eat seafood in nice clothes. I will be pulling up in my non-interview clothes.”

When it’s time to close out the video everyone does their outro. “Welp, looks like I don’t know Michael B Jordan very well. Thanks for tuning in, be sure to check out Creed III in theaters.”

…

You finished your interviews for the day that you had with other cast members and went home to shower, relax and reset. Then, you remembered you had one more thing to do.

It’s half past seven when you pull up to Michael's place

in a ‘I heart dilfs’ baby tee, comfy shorts, and some pink hello kitty bling flip flops.

No later than ten seconds after the doorbell rang, your handsome co-star himself opens the door to greet you with a smile. “Y/n” he steps to the side, allowing you to walk in and closing the door behind you.

“You look cozy.” You comment, pointing to his basketball shorts and wife beater. “Nice shoes” you knew he was a sneakerhead, those retro ones are dope and hard to get.

“Ah, thanks. I was just tryna keep up with you.” He refers to your earlier comment made at the interview about how you dress when eating seafood. “‘I love Dilfs’, huh?” He smirks at your shirt.

“Yup, that includes Amara’s dad.” You wink in his direction

A hand meets the small of your back as he guides you to the kitchen. “Aight, this is what I got. I’m finishing up right now, so don’t try and say I ain’t cook this shit.” He warns.

“Ouuu, it smells good in here. I’m not gone lie, I’m kinda excited.” Your mouth is in the verge of salivating.

Michael takes the last of what he’s frying off of the stove and turns the fire off. “Okay, so we got crab of course, with the potatoes, corn, and sausage in it. We also got garlic noodles and fried butterfly shrimp on the side.”

He fixes a big hefty ass plate and walks over to the table. “This is for me or you?” You quirk your brows.

“Girl, sit down.” He laughs, scooting your chair out for you to sit at this huge glass table.

“What do you want to drink?” He asks walking back to the kitchen.

“Water is good, thank you.”

“Oh, I got some of those food gloves and bibs. I know you got your nails done and shit.” He chuckles, handing them to you.

“Oh, thank you!”

When he’s brought drinks for the two of you, y’all settle at the table and you prepare to eat your words as well as his food because it smells good. You just know you won’t be able to trash it.

“Damn man, I don’t think I’m gonna be able to shit talk you anymore. Let me just get into it. You, Jonathan, and the whole vanity fair crew are anticipating my reaction.” You crack open a crab leg, dip the meat into the sauce and pop it in your mouth.

His gaze is fixated on you. He hasn’t moved his fork not once, too excited to know what you think.

“It’s fire, sheesh.” You smile, cracking your next piece and dipping into the sauce.

“You and Jonathan had me messed up, I had to come correct.”

“Your place is nice. This is very Aquarian male of you. Modern as fuck, cool art but not so many momentos.”

“Yeah, when my parents moved out I kinda just re-did the decorating myself.” He shrugs. “Are you busy after dinner?”

“I was just gonna go back home. Why, what’d you have in mind?”

“Maybe a movie?” He leaves space in the air for you to answer, not completely sure if you were down to stick around for longer than what you’d agreed to earlier in the day.

“That sounds good, what do you have in mind? I’m only staying if it’s Sci-fi or Anime. I can’t do that rom com shit tonight.”

“So you didn’t watch ‘A Journal To Jordan?’ I thought we supported each other.” He pretends to be hurt. “But nah. I definitely was thinking the same thing to be honest.”

“You know I did.” You side eye him. “Ouu, should we watch those old ass reruns of Star Trek?”

“Hell yeah.”

We clean up the table and do the dishes together, he washes and you put them on the drying rack because he says that’s all you’re allowed to do. You like that he doesn’t have maids and cleaners at all times to do every single thing for him. Yes, he’s a well paid celebrity and can do that now but it’s refreshing to be around people who don’t move like that. You’re the same way, you do your own shit when I’m home and have the time.

“I’m not a huge wine drinker, but someone gifted me this Pinot Grigio. If you want, we can crack it open. My mom gave me this wine rack when she moved, she said it makes the kitchen look classier. As you can see there’s only one bottle in here.”He playfully shakes his head, grabbing a bottle.

“Oh wow, Mr. Jordan. Are you encouraging me to drink and drive?” You falsely gasp.

“My fault, I didn’t even think about that. Most people don’t drive themselves in LA.”

“No, you’re good. I’m just giving you a hard time.”

“I can take you home, or call a driver, or you can stay here if you want.. there’s guest rooms for you to choose from if you.” He clears his throat after the last sentence, realizing how it might have sounded and not wanting to insinuate something.

“It’s cool, we’ll figure it out. I will have a drink with you, though.. or a few. You know, wine goes fast.”

He smiles, your joke lightening the air. He’s focused on getting the cork out of the bottle, his muscles flexing ever so slightly and you can’t help but to look. “Ah, there we go.” He reaches into his cabinets to grab two glasses, pours yours and hands it to you before pouring his own and leading you a living room area with his glass and the bottle in hand.

The two of you are a whole glass in, and have completely forgotten about the show playing on the tv as it’s just become background noise to your conversation. Michael sitting on the other side of you. You’re so comfortable. You're against the arm of the sofa, legs crossed and laid out over the pillowy cushions.

“Why did you have to be such an overachiever? Not only is the item I requested perfect, you had to go and make some good ass sides too? Sick. It’s that damn Virgo rising.”

He chuckles and refills your glasses. “Well, thank you. I remember you telling me about my chart and how you’re into astrology, but I don’t really know much else about it. Can you tell me?” He picks up your legs, settles them onto his lap and starts working on massaging one of your feet. “This is a cute color.” He rubs your sparkly peridot painted toes. You never try anything outside of white, he must’ve noticed the difference.

You could moan, right now. This is the most orgasmic feeling you’ve had all month. With the stressful ass press tour, working all day and barely having the time to fucking chill. For you, this felt like heaven. It didn’t hurt that your fine ass, hubby material co-worker was the cause of it all.

“Awe, thank you. I- I um, found your chart online that day we were talking about it in your trailer and I remembered your big three. You’re an Aquarius sun, Virgo rising, cancer moon. I think that you being an Aquarius sun makes you inclined to live and do shit in more of an unconventional way that fits you perfectly, and it makes you iconic, to be honest. Virgos are like the perfectionists of the zodiac, the true performers and artists, they have such a meticulous eye for perfection in regards to what they do. Part of why you and Jonathan are some damn good actors, attention to detail n allat. That could also be why you both get along so well, but that’s a whole other thing called synastry where you'd compare your chart to other peoples and see how your relationship with them could be. As far as your moon, Cancer moon people can tend to be super tender, caring and comforting people. y’all lowkey some homebodies, all about comfort.”

“Wow” his eyes slightly widen, it’s a lot to take in. You love to run your mouth about the things you’re passionate about, he just loves that you’re sharing this passion with him.

“I went off on a whole tangent there, but it’s honestly way more complex than that. I love it. I think depending on how people use it, it could be a great tool for life. It’s like my version of ethics class… and wine makes me run my mouth extra.” a giggle seeps from your mouth after you take another sip.

“That’s dope, to think there’s a whole ass science behind people’s lives and personalities. I never would’ve thought it could be accurate.” He replied.

“Yeahh, I know! I was never really into it when I was younger, but moving to LA and all these other new experiences that I got going on made me want to open up to it and give it a honest try.”

“I'd pay you for a chart reading, I never trusted those little magic booths at Malibu.” He smiles, kissing the arch of your foot before moving on to massage the other.

You hide your noise of satisfaction with a yawn. “Mmm, I’d do it free of charge if you can cook like that again. I shouldn’t have doubted you, Mr. Jordan. My apologies.”

“It’s all good, now you know I can cook for you whenever you’d like.”

…

“So, what about you? You’re so good with kids. It’s adorable seeing you with them online, when we had the babies on set, and even with sweet little mila. Do you plan on having any? Or are you just like the cool uncle figure to other people’s kids. Cause’ I’m not at all judging. As the oldest sister, I once upon a time swore I wouldn’t ever have em.” Your hands go up in a mixture of shrug and surrender.

He’s amused by this. “I don’t buy that for a second, kids love you. I definitely want some. I love kids, I hope to have them one day. I just haven’t had a point in my career yet where I’ve slowed down enough to truly be the ideal dad that I’d like to be.I don’t know though, are you still holding yourself to that promise?” His dimples adorably peer through his smile.

“Ha! You know, I don’t know if I ever did, really. I mostly said it because I saw the stress that parenthood brought to people's lives, especially when they weren’t truly ready for it. I guess it's more me swearing not to be a parent if I didn’t have the resources to do it how I deemed proper, or not being at a place of stability for my child. You know? I can’t truly say that I wouldn’t want to bring that type of joy into this world. My heart ain’t cut like that.” You shake your head.

“No, I definitely get it. Being at the right capacity mentally, physically, and financially before I have a child is super crucial. I also want them to have parents who can be role models to what love should truly look like, like I had. I know everybody didn’t get to grow up seeing that. You know, that strong and unconditional, healthy, in love-love shit.”

“Definitely, that’s vital. I wish I had that growing up. It’s beautiful that you got to have that and can recognize the impact it has on people who don’t. Everything from childhood molds you into who you are, I believe. I would just want to give my baby the best childhood possible.” Your lips curl upwards. “It’s weird, I’ve never gone much into depth about this topic. But yeah, you pretty much filled in the gaps that I couldn’t put my thumb on.”

“Same” he points to my shirt. “Somebody gotta get that ‘I love milfs’ shirt to match you one day.”

“You’ve been teasing me about this shirt since I came in.” You jokingly swat his hand away.

“You started it, tryna clown on my fit as soon as you walked in the door.”

“Nah, I like the color gray on you.” You unintentionally stare at his shorts, the outline of him softly speaking to you.

“Yeah? You look pretty in everything.” He pulls you onto his lap. His hands explore your sides, traveling upwards for his thumbs to meet the peaks that hardened through your shirt. “You cold?” The pads of his fingers ran over your clothed nipples.

How do you tell him that your skin is burning up and freezing at the same time? That you don’t know how far of a line has been crossed with your coworker and friend? Who knows, but tonight wouldn’t be when you figured it out.

“You keep the ac on blast.” You shyly nod.

He picks up a fuzzy white blanket from the other side of him and throws it over your bodies, even though he’s naturally radiating warmth. Michael lays back on the couch, neither of you talk. Just feeling each other’s hearts beating, the movement of your chests as breath comes and goes from your bodies when you you inhale and exhale. His large hand gently rubs your back, in a manner that you almost fall asleep to.

“You want to stay with me tonight?” He whispers, lips brushing along the shell of your ear.

You nod “can we watch Innuyasha?”

“Of course, princess.” You feel the vibrations of his deep voice travel through your skin, scratching your brain in a way that feels so good. Your body gets heavy, you feel comfortable enough to let it relax. He smiles as your face rests in the crook of his neck and your breathing becomes deeper.

[ashthesalamipiece]

Katsuki x reader

Reader has a AI quirk shes very robotic more robotic then Iida (kinda like Tecna from winx club if you know or im i just old 😂)

Katsuki breaks her out of her shell makes her feel more human

Tbh have at it add or take way just have fun with it

Reboot My Heart

Summary:

Your quirk made you feel more machine than human—data-driven, emotionally muted, and always analyzing. That is… until Katsuki Bakugou walked into your life, sparks flying and fire blazing. And for once, you couldn’t calculate what was happening to your heart.

---

It started with a fight. Obviously.

Not a physical one—though knowing Bakugou, that wouldn’t have been off the table—but a verbal one. A very loud one.

“You’re not a damn robot, so stop acting like one!” he shouted, arms thrown wide, palms still crackling with leftover heat from training.

You blinked slowly, processing his tone and microexpressions. Brows furrowed. Dilated pupils. Elevated vocal pitch. Frustration. Possibly concern.

“I am aware,” you replied, voice smooth and precise. “My quirk optimizes mental processing, but it does not remove my humanity. Statistically—”

“Shut up about stats!” he barked, stepping closer. “You always talk like you’re reading a damn manual. Don’t you feel anything?!”

You stared at him, lips parted but silent. The truth was: you did. You felt... a lot. But somewhere along the way—between building neural algorithms in your head and optimizing team formations—you’d started tucking emotions into neat little boxes, locking them away. It was easier to be efficient than vulnerable.

But Katsuki? Katsuki was a mess of emotion. Loud, brash, passionate. He felt everything, and he wore it like armor, not shame. And every time he looked at you like that, with fire behind his eyes and heat in his chest, your system short-circuited just a little.

He noticed.

“You get all weird when I’m around,” he muttered one day after training, sitting beside you on the bench, both of you soaked in sweat and silence.

“Weird?” you echoed.

“Yeah. Like... less ‘calculating robot girl’ and more... I dunno. You.”

Your internal processor froze. You? What was that even supposed to mean?

He leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours. “You smile around me. Even if it's just a little.”

“That’s an involuntary response due to increased serotonin and—”

“You like me.” A smug smirk. “You’re just too glitchy to admit it.”

You blinked. “That’s... a crude way to phrase it, but not inaccurate.”

Bakugou chuckled—a real one, not the huff he gave people when he was annoyed. “Good. I like you too, you emotionless nerd.”

You tilted your head. “I am not emotionless.”

He raised a brow. “Prove it.”

So you did.

You kissed him—awkward, hesitant, like a system learning a new command for the first time. But when his hand found yours, rough fingers lacing with smooth metal-tipped ones, your whole world rebooted. Suddenly, you weren’t just equations and strategy. You were heat and heartbeat. Pulse and possibility.

“I think you make me feel more... human,” you whispered against his chest that night, long after the lights were off.

He didn’t tease you for it. Didn’t call you a nerd or a weirdo.

Instead, he held you closer and mumbled into your hair:

“Good. Because you make me smarter. Somehow.”

[donnies-pop-tart]

Yes! And no... I've found that it depends? I had a long-form fic for the bayverse boys going that I put down and never picked back up, and I did go through it again recently just to catch myself up on what I'd written. There were scenes that I'd forgotten about and enjoyed again as if I was reading someone else's work, but the writing to me is hella subpar based on my skill and style now. I also have another long-form fic for security breach that's more recent, and while the scenes don't tickle my brain like new anymore, I really enjoy my own prose there.

So I guess if it's been long enough for me to sorta forget about a scene it makes me excited to read it over again, but otherwise it does feel a little chore-y and redundant even if I like the way it was written because I just wrote it. However, I don't think I've ever written a chapter as long as the ones you post for Weak Spot, so I don't know if that would make a difference.

I feel like I'm about to find out tho because I've been hopelessly fucking obsessed with your fic and I'm blaming you for my newest writing bug, and I am actively trying to write longer chapters to get away from this weird internal guilt I feel about writing too much?? So I guess smutty Donnie x kitsune!reader incoming at some point, but even eight chapters in I already get peeved when I have to go back and double check details and whether or not I included something plot relevant lol. But yes I would say I absolutely go through this, too!

Genuine inquiry.

How often do you reread your own work? Past or even present,it doesn't really matter.

Just curious.

Not infrequently! Sometimes I think 'dang, I'd love to read this scenario' which is quickly followed by 'hey, I wrote it!' Also, if I reference a chapter in say Weak Spot, i like to re-read said entry so I can make sure everything stays consistent. It's always kind of annoying because I'll catch my own typos and be like 'dang!' The fun one though is when I'm reading and get to a certain line or way I framed something and think 'damn, past me really had it going on!'

It's all so silly!

Simple answer yes, just to clarify.

I have a question, not necessarily for you, but I'm wondering if I'm the odd dork here: Do other writers out there feeling the same excitement from their own work? This is meant generally and not sexually by the way. For me, it's hard to feel that 'wow' factor maybe because I went through all the steps to craft it... I wonder if anyone else feels like this too?

[multifandomneeerd]

Tales from the Tower(part 2)

Warning! Spoilers for Thunderbolts! (Do I really still need to say that?)

Trigger warnings: none

Pairings: Platonic!Thunderbolts x reader

Summary: Bob is invited to a girls night

A/N: I intended to post this sooner, but deadlines at work and awful relatives complaining about my wedding kind of kept me busy. Also, I tried to put a link to part one, but I can’t get it to work for some reason.

The plans had begun one random weekday. Yelena had mentioned that Alexei’s latest search for a sponsor for the team had resulted in a PR package from Sephora. This had sparked plans to have a girls night with face masks, makeovers, and snacks. Then Bob came along. He had been enthusiastically invited, and with a little convincing, agreed to come.

The night had finally arrived. They had set up in your room, the reason being you had several large beanbag chairs leftover from when you had lived at the Avengers compound. Bob had been surprisingly relaxed, given his normal nervous attitude. The beanbags had been arranged in a circle, with the small pile of snacks in the centre. You had specifically gone shopping to make sure everyone would have their favourite snack.

“Why are there so many options?” Yelena asked, holding a pile of various face masks.

“Read the labels, they have different scents and benefits,” you suggested.

“No, that takes to long.” she stated, throwing a mask at each of you. Bob caught his and held it up.

“How do you put this on?” Ava helped him while you each put yours on. You giggled at the sight of two fearsome assassins wearing face masks.

“You look just as ridiculous,” Ava grumbled good-naturedly. Yelena was already digging through the box of makeup and skincare. Excitedly she pulled out a bottle of nail polish.

“Look, we can do our nails!”

“I’ve got more of my own, I’ll get it out.” You got up and quickly dug out your stash of nail polish. Everyone’s eyes widened slightly at your large collection. Ava and Yelena immediately dove in. Ava held up a bottle of sparkly pink as though it had personally offended her.

“Why is it so bright?” She complained.

“Just because you’re allergic to everything colourful in this world doesn’t mean the rest of us are,” you retorted.

“I think it’s pretty,” Bob added quietly. In the end, Yelena chose the offensive pink, which annoyed Ava. Bob went for a shimmery light blue, while Ava picked black. You went for (favourite colour) polish. You got paper towels to make sure there would be no spilling on your carpet. Yelena did Ava’s while you did Bob’s. He jumped slightly when you started.

“It feels cold,” he said, seeming more surprised than anything else. Once their nails were dry, Bob and Ava began on your and Yelena’s manicure. Bob unscrewed the cap with shaking hands, careful of his newly painted nails.

“I can do my own,” you offered, seeing his apprehension.

“No, I’ma do it,” he replied quietly. He did quite well for someone who had never painted nails before. They weren’t as neat as if you had done them yourself, but the only thing that really mattered was the proud little smile on Bob’s face when he was done. While everyone’s nails dried, you all started munching on the abundant snacks.

“How do you even eat those things?” Ava asked Yelena, who was practically inhaling a bag of Flamin’ Hot Doritos.

“It’s good!” She protested.

“Or you just have numb taste buds,” you added. Bob piped up.

“They’re not that bad. I’ve had some before, I kinda liked them.”

“Yes! Someone who understands,” Yelena gestured with a chip. “You want some?”

“No, not really,” he answered a little sheepishly. The conversation wandered from snacks to pets as Cucumber the guinea pig was brought up.

“We should get her for emotional support,” proclaimed Yelena.

“What is she supporting us from?” Ava asked.

“If we get her, we have to hide from the others. We would never live this down if they saw us.” You interjected. Ava volunteered to get her, despite some grumbles. She came back with not only Cucumber, but Yelena’s dog Fanny, and Bucky’s cat Alpine. When questioned why, she shrugged.

“May as well go all in.” Now with three enthusiastic but unhelpful animals, you began styling each others hair. Caught up in giving Bob a Bieber swoop, no one heard the soft knock at the door. You all froze when the door opened to reveal a very surprised Bucky. Alpine immediately bounded over to her very confused human. Bucky shut the door as soon as Alpine reached him. You could have sworn you heard him say “I don’t even want to know.” The silence lasted about five seconds before everyone burst out into giggles. Girls night (plus Bob) was a success.

[httpvomitello]

I GOT AN IDEA :D

Ok so, reader is 2012 April's best friend but reader is male so the turtles think they are dating.

After donnie gets jelous one day after april brags about what reader made for her (also thinking wielder reader, like working with metal so thinking jewelry and or small weapons , the turtles and casey ask if they are dating when april let's it slip that reader is gay.

Maybe there could be a think where reader gains a crush on one of the turtles and starts making small things for them like rings that fit their hands, bracelets, small pocket knives hes made just for them, ext, I think it would be pretty neat

You don't have to do this ask of course, your writing is so much fun to ready, I always have a blast reading your work :D

Hello, hello! Thank you for enjoying reading what I write, it makes me very happy! Although requests are CLOSED at the moment, reading your request made me want to write about it, so... Yeah, I did. But guys, please read the rules, so you know when it's okay to ask! Anyway, I hope you like it ~ ♡♡♡♡

Do you want to go out with me? *⁠.⁠✧

It was a normal evening in the lair when the conversation turned toward April. It wasn’t unusual—she was a frequent topic of discussion, especially for Donnie—but this time, it wasn’t her escapades with school or her time spent with the Turtles that got them talking. It was you.

You, April’s best friend, had recently made her a stunning bracelet, one of your many custom metalwork creations. She’d shown it off with pride during one of her visits to the lair, gushing about how thoughtful and talented you were.

“You should’ve seen it, guys,” she said, holding out her wrist for the hundredth time. “Y/N made it by hand! He even personalized it with little engravings—look, it has my initials!”

Donnie’s mood visibly soured as April raved about your talent and kindness. He crossed his arms, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Sounds like you two are pretty close,” he muttered, trying (and failing) to sound indifferent.

“Of course we are! Y/N’s been my best friend for years,” April replied.

Raph smirked, leaning back against the wall. “Yeah, but is he just your best friend? 'Cause it sounds like Donnie here’s thinkin’ otherwise.”

“Shut up, Raph,” Donnie snapped, his face flushing a deep shade of red.

April blinked, then let out a loud laugh. “Oh my gosh, you guys think Y/N and I are dating?”

“Well, yeah,” Mikey said, popping a slice of pizza into his mouth. “I mean, you’re always talking about him, and he makes you stuff. Kinda sounds like boyfriend material to me.”

Casey chimed in with a snort. “Can’t blame the guy if he’s into you. You’re a catch, Red.”

April waved her hands frantically. “No, no, no! You’ve got it all wrong! Y/N’s gay!”

The room fell silent.

“Oh,” Mikey said, pizza halfway to his mouth. “Well, that explains a lot.”

Donnie’s eyes widened as he processed the information, a mix of relief and embarrassment washing over him. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah,” April confirmed, laughing. “I can’t believe you guys thought we were dating. He’s like my brother.”

From that moment, the tension eased… or so it seemed. Donnie couldn’t help but feel a little guilty for assuming the worst about you. When you visited the lair a few days later, he kept his distance at first, unsure how to act around you now that he knew the truth.

But you? You were completely unfazed.

“Hey, Donatello,” you greeted with a warm smile as you approached him. “April’s told me all about your tech skills. Pretty impressive stuff.”

Donnie blinked, caught off guard by your casual friendliness. “Uh, thanks,” he replied, fiddling with the edge of his staff.

“You know,” you continued, “I’ve been thinking about making something for you guys. April says you’re always busy saving the city, so I figured you could use a little appreciation.”

Donnie’s face flushed slightly. “That’s... really thoughtful of you.”

True to your word, you started crafting small gifts for each of the Turtles. It started with practical things—like a custom pocket knife for Raph and a set of throwing stars for Mikey—but over time, your gifts became more personal.

For Donnie, you made a sleek metal bracelet with subtle engravings of his favorite equations. He stared at it for a long time when you gave it to him, tracing the intricate designs with his fingers.

“This is... incredible,” he said softly.

You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “It’s nothing, really. Just thought it might be your style.”

Donnie looked up at you, his heart skipping a beat. “It’s perfect.”

It wasn’t long before the others started picking up on your growing interest in Donnie. You spent more time in his lab, asking questions about his inventions and offering to help where you could. You even started bringing him snacks when he got too absorbed in his work to eat.

Mikey was the first to notice.

“Dude,” he whispered one night when you’d stepped out of the lab. “Y/N totally likes you.”

Donnie nearly dropped the tool he was holding. “What? That’s ridiculous.”

“C’mon, it’s so obvious!” Mikey insisted. “He’s always hanging around you, making you stuff, bringing you food. That’s love language if I’ve ever seen it.”

Donnie tried to brush it off, but the more he thought about it, the more Mikey’s words made sense.

One evening, as you were finishing up a new project in your workshop—a custom screwdriver set for Donnie. You found yourself wondering if Donnie notice the little things you did for him? Did he even like you back?

You decided to take a chance.

The next time you visited the lair, you handed Donnie the screwdriver set with a shy smile. “I made this for you,” you said, your voice quieter than usual.

Donnie took the set, his eyes widening as he examined each piece. “You made this?”

“Yeah,” you replied, rubbing the back of your neck nervously. “I figured it might come in handy for your lab stuff.”

Donnie looked up at you, a soft smile spreading across his face. “Y/N, this is... amazing. Thank you.”

You hesitated, then decided to just go for it. “Donnie, can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” he said, setting the tools aside.

You took a deep breath. “Do you... I mean, would you want to go out sometime? Like, just the two of us?”

Donnie’s eyes widened, and for a moment, you thought you’d completely misread the situation. But then he smiled—soft and genuine—and nodded.

“I’d like that,” he said.

Your heart swelled with relief and excitement as you returned his smile.

[pink-sparkly-witch]

Sauvage, Part Five (FINALE)

Summary: Jensen finally meets Y/N, the woman Jared and Gen say is perfect for him. Just as they think they have their happily ever after, opportunity knocks taking Jensen halfway across the world. He’s determined to make their relationship work from an ocean apart, but it’s a lot harder than either of them bargained for.

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Female Reader

Rating: General

Bingo Square: Reunion for @jacklesversebingo

Triggers / Warnings / Tags: fluff, reunion, heart-to-heart, kissing, happily ever after

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: Please consider leaving feedback, a comment or a keyboard smash. Interaction really fuels a creative’s muse. If you’re too shy or don’t want people to know you read fanfic and don’t want it showing on your blog, you can submit an anonymous ask or drop me a DM 💖

You can catch up here!

My Masterlist     AO3    Ko-Fi

Jensen made sure to arrive twenty minutes early. The last thing he wanted to do was be late—or worse, for Y/N to arrive before him. It also meant he could partake in a little Dutch courage to try and settle his nerves a bit. Not until he arrived at the bar did he realise just how much this meeting meant to him. She said it herself; they lived in the same city again and they couldn’t keep avoiding each other every time the Padalecki’s had a party. It wasn’t fair on either of them, or on Jared, Gen, and the kids.

“Scotch, neat, and can you make it a double?” he requested from the bartender as he sat in a barstool facing the entrance so he could see Y/N come in without looking like a meerkat at every flash of movement that caught his eye. “Thanks,” he nodded, handing twenty dollars over when the crystal tumbler was placed in front of him.

“Do you need change?” he asked.

“No,” Jensen shook his head. “It’s all good, thanks.”

He sipped his whisky slowly trying to practice their conversation in his head, but it didn’t do any good. Everything he thought to say sounded too forced, too desperate, or too nosy.

As he finished his whisky, Y/N walked through the door, and his mind went completely blank, forgetting every topic of conversation and every question he’d thought to ask. She looked stunning in the most understated way. A white V-neck shirt tucked into dark wash jeans, a smart black blazer, and a pair of heels. Her make-up was done in the way he’d always preferred on women: natural and minimal, to the extent she looked like she wasn’t wearing any at all.

She was perfect, and not for the first time, he cursed himself for ever letting her go. For not fighting harder. For breaking her heart and letting her down.

Y/N’s eyes casually scanned the bar and when they reached him, he raised his hand in a wave so she would see him. The way her shoulders relaxed when she saw him made him smile, and he wondered if she’d been just as nervous as he was about being stood up.

As she walked towards him, Jensen stood from the barstool to greet her. It took everything he had not to kiss her cheek when she stopped in front of him, but instead, he settled on a warm smile.

“I’m glad you came,” he chuckled softly.

“You thought I wouldn’t?” Y/N smirked, watching as he nervously ran his hand through his hair.

“Kinda!” he chuckled. “I put you on the spot earlier when I asked you how you’d been. I don’t have the right to ask, and I don’t have the right to know. I’d have understood if you stood me up.”

Y/N frowned at Jensen’s choice of words. This wasn’t a date, no matter how much she wanted it to be, so she tried not to dwell on it or any hidden meaning that might have been behind them. 

“So,” she cleared her throat, “are we getting a table or do you want to sit at the bar?”

“I’d like to get a table, but if you’d be more comfortable at the bar, I’m fine with that,” Jensen answered.

“A table would be great,” she replied, smiling that he was still as chivalrous as she remembered.

“Okay, great!”

Jensen held his arm out for her to take and she quickly linked hers with it. He led them to a quiet, intimate table for two at the back of the bar where they wouldn’t be disturbed by patrons queuing for drinks or people coming and going from the restrooms.

He pulled her chair out for her and once again, she found herself enamoured by his gentlemanly manners. “Thank you, Jensen.”

“You’re welcome, Y/N.” Jensen’s smile was wide and contagious, and the sparkle in his green eyes was brighter than she ever remembered seeing it. She couldn’t help wondering if it was the low, atmospheric lighting, or if their spark was reigniting.

As they settled into their seats, the silence and tension between them grew to an unbearable level. Y/N was about to bite the bullet and tell him that this was a bad idea when a waiter approached to take their drinks order.

Jensen ordered a beer with an ease that instantly diffused some of the tension she was feeling, making her wonder if it was only her that felt the awkward air surrounding and suffocating her.

“Merlot,” she blurted when the waiter asked her what drink she wanted for the second time. “A really large glass of Merlot, please.”

“Of course,” the waiter nodded and left them to their awkwardness once again.

“What?” Y/N frowned at hearing Jensen’s chuckle.

“Nervous?” he smirked and she narrowed her eyes.

“You’re not?”

“I am. But you look like you’re plotting a prison break!” Y/N laughed, breaking the remaining tension between her and Jensen. “There she is!” he chuckled. “You had me worried for a second!”

“I’m sorry. This is…” Y/N gestured wildly with her hands trying to find a word that wouldn’t offend him.

“Awkward?” Jensen offered. “Yeah, it is.” he agreed and took a swig of his beer, watching as she took a long swallow of her wine.

“But it doesn’t have to be,” he added, putting his bottle back on the table and making himself comfortable on the faux leather armchair. “So, since I asked you here, it’s only fair that my interrogation is first.”

“Interrogation?” she chuckled. “Why so serious!” Jensen threw his head back in laughter and she grinned. She’d missed his laugh.

“Maybe that was a little strong!” he smirked.

“You think? I’m about ready to get a cab home!” she laughed.

“Okay, how about reacquainting? Is that better?”

“Much,” Y/N grinned. “So, tell me about Paris.”

Jensen spent over an hour talking about himself, his time in Paris that led to him getting a dream position in a very successful New York restaurant, and his latest venture into owning his own place.

“Sauvage. I like it. It suits you,” Y/N grinned as he finished his story. “I’m so happy everything worked out for you, Jensen. Truly.”

“Thank you. It came at the sacrifice of any kind of personal life, but I’m hoping it pays off,” he chuckled.

“I have no doubt it will. Everything you’ve worked so hard towards will be worth it when you see your restaurant full of happy diners.” Y/N swallowed the last mouthful of her wine and gestured to the waiter for another round of drinks.

“So, I guess it’s your turn,” Jensen said.

“I guess so,” she cleared her throat and thanked the waiter for her second glass of wine. “What do you want to know?”

“How’s work?” Jensen started with the perfect icebreaker. She loved her job when they were dating, and he was pretty sure she’d still love it now.

“Great!” Y/N’s smile lit up her face and made her eyes sparkle. “I have my own family practice and see patients part time. The rest of the time is paperwork and the day-to-day running of things. I have an amazing office manager though, who helps with a lot of the admin.”

“Wow! Your own practice? Looks like I’m not the only one living their dream!” Jensen smiled.

“Yeah, well, you worked hard for yours. Mine kinda just fell into my lap!” she chuckled, and he tilted his head in a silent question.

“I’d been out for drinks with a group of friends and I ran into Eddie Simpson. We both specialised in family medicine at Harvard and shared classes together there. He was working in a practice and told me they were looking for a new pediatrician.

“Long story short, I got the job, and when the original owner, Dr Reynolds retired, Eddie and I bought him out, and I’ve been there ever since,” Y/N explained.

“Is Eddie still your business partner?” Jensen asked.

“Ah, now that brings us to the personal part of my life!” she chuckled sadly.

“I’m listening,” he said softly, and she smiled wearily.

“Not long after I started working at the practice, Eddie and I started dating. He’s a really great guy and he treated me well. We got married,” she sighed and paused, her memories making her smile slightly, making Jensen curious as to why things didn’t work between them.

“But we shouldn’t have,” she continued. “I had my doubts that accepting his proposal was the right thing to do, but I wanted what everyone else had. I wanted a partner and a best friend. Someone who’d always have my back.” Y/N paused again to take a long sip of wine.

“I got all of it from him, but I didn’t love him. I mean, I loved him… I still love him. I’m just not in love with him. I’m not sure that I ever was.

“He met someone else,” she smiled softly at Jensen’s scathing expression. “He never cheated on me. But when he met Laura, he realised the way he felt about her should have been the way he felt about me.”

It hadn’t been as heartbreaking as she imagined the news would’ve been had she been in love with Eddie. In fact, it’d been a relief. It meant they could part ways amicably and without anyone getting hurt. They loved each other, they just weren’t in love, and they’d managed to get through their separation and subsequent divorce and still be friends.

“When we separated, Eddie decided to move to Houston. It’s where Laura is from originally. When we sold our house, I offered to buy Eddie out of the practice and become its sole owner. He agreed and… here we are,” Y/N picked up her wine glass with a shrug, and took another healthy swallow from it.

“What about you?” She cleared her throat and placed her glass back on the table. There was no need to elaborate because they both knew she was referring to his love life.

“Do you want the truth or the polite answer?” Jensen chuckled.

“The polite answer, obviously,” she grinned.

“Alright, but remember you asked for it!” he laughed and took a long drag of his beer.

“I tried to date after… but no one ever came close to you. So, I threw myself into work and dated casually. Even that wasn’t… it didn’t feel right. It always felt like I was cheating.

“I know we weren’t together very long,” Jensen drained the rest of his beer. “But what we had was intense and all consuming. It was the real deal. I have no doubt whatsoever about that.” 

Y/N may have managed to move on and get married, but he never could. It had only ever been her. It still was and it always would be. He knew that now just as much as he’d known it back then. 

But back then, he couldn’t see the wood for the trees, and he thought it’d be easier for both of them — no, him — and his feelings to end it. Part of him held onto the hope that she’d wait for him. That she’d still be there when he came back from Paris, but she wasn’t. And it was only then that he realised just how big of a mistake he’d made because he knew her. And he knew that if they’d separated before he went to Paris, she would have waited for him. But he fucked up in so many ways, the first being his insistence that they stay together.

“I’m so sorry,” Jensen sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “I just wish I’d tried harder—fought harder for you.”

“No, you don’t, Jensen. You wouldn’t be where you are now if we’d stayed together.” He knew she was right, but the shame and the guilt of what he’d put them both through was still as raw as it was then.

“I don’t care. None of it makes up for the future I could’ve had with you,” he fumed. “One where both of us would’ve been happy.”

“Maybe not. But neither of us would be who we are or where we are now, and everything happens for a reason. If I didn’t believe that, I’d never have survived us breaking up.”

“I still love you,” Jensen bravely admitted. If he didn’t do it now, he knew he’d let her walk out of here without telling her. “I never stopped.”

“Me either,” she replied.

“Can I kiss you?” He didn’t know where it came from, but it was out now and he couldn’t take it back.

“You better!” Y/N giggled, leaning forward to meet Jensen’s plump, perfect lips with hers.

The kiss was everything and more. Y/N felt the butterflies swarming the second their lips touched. Her heart skipped a beat before hammering twofold when Jensen’s tongue traced across her bottom lip.

She opened her mouth, whimpering as their tongues grazed. It was warm and passionate, familiar and comforting all at the same time. It was perfect. He was perfect. And Y/N finally felt like she was home.

“Can we, uhm,” Y/N murmured against his lips having had to pull away for some much needed oxygen. “Can we get out of here?”

Jensen smirked at Y/N’s red and swollen lips, proud that he’d been the one to make them that way.

“Together?” he asked, hoping it was but not wanting to assume.

“Yes,” she answered, her voice raspy with arousal.

“Your place or mine?”

The End

Tag List:

@akshi8278 | @ashbatz | @candy-coated-misery0731 | @chriszgirl92 | @deans-baby-momma

@deans-spinster-witch | @deansbbyx | @deanwanddamons | @duncanhillscoffeecups | @foxyjwls007

@giggles1026 | @globetrotter28 | @hobby27 | @hoboal87 | @impala67rollingthroughtown

@iprobablyshipit91 | @jackles010378 | @jamerlynn | @jc-winchester | @k-slla

@kazsrm67 | @kmc1989 | @lacilou | @ladysparkles78 | @leigh70

@lyarr24 | @michecolegate | @mrsjenniferwinchester | @nancymcl | @negans-lucille-tblr

@perpetualabsurdity | @roseblue373 | @sandlee44 | @sexyvixen7 | @spnwoman

@stixnstripesworld | @stoneyggirl2 | @suckitands33 | @synmorite |  @twinkleinadiamondsky

@winchestergirl1720 @barnes70stark

[danisbrainrot]

I love misty and you so... misty is obsessed with the reader and always making them little gifts, following them everywhere and trying to help with everything while the reader is going from "girl we talked like twice fuck off" to "that's creepy but actually kinda cute ig"

misty quigley x reader

OMG I LOVE THIS ACTUALLY!! misty in her joe goldberg era 🤭 I don't know how far you wanted me to go, so I'll keep this relatively sfw. if you want a nsfw version, just ask!!

slamming your locker open, you started ruffling through it in search of your textbook that was mysteriously missing, when a small box fell out. you paused what you were doing, crouching down to inspect it.

it was a plain plastic box, that contained a funky little smiley face ring in it. this wasn't the first gift you'd received that month, having found something different in your locker everyday. this one was just an odd surprise—you wondered how they knew you loved novelty rings. snorting while covering your mouth with your hand, you wasted no time slipping it on your finger with a grin.

your friend, mari, waved at you, ready to walk you to class when she noticed your new gift, "hey, where'd you get the ring?"

you shrugged, "found it in my locker. someone must have slipped it in? I'm not sure, but we're going to be late," you reply, finding the textbook and slamming the locker shut.

"isn't this like the fourth weird gift you've found this week? you might have a secret admirer!" mari teases, causing you to groan and roll your eyes.

the two of you head to class, not noticing misty who was hiding behind the wall, watching you the entire time. she smiled softly, glad you liked her little gift. she pulled out a notepad, placing a small tick next to 'cute jewellery.'

she followed you to class, having picked the same classes as you so you'd never leave her sight. you'd chosen to sit at the back with your friend, whereas misty was forced to sit at the front. she scowled and watched the clock all lesson until class finished.

not wanting to waste time, misty got to work making her next gift for you. she pulled out her notepad and saw the next gift idea was 'love letters'. flicking to a new page, misty neatly wrote your name in cursive, ready to start when she realised she didn't know what to say.

your laughter from the back of the room made misty perk up, finally sure what she wanted to write. she began scribbling frantically as she didn't want to forget any compliments.

when class finished, you walked past her and saw your name at the top of the page in her neat handwriting. your heart raced, not sure how to feel about it, before looking away and focusing on the conversation with mari. misty quickly tried to cover the letter as you walked past, not realising you'd already seen it.

you'd completely forgotten about misty's letter until the next day, when you'd opened your locker to find it neatly laid on top of your books. it freaked you out that she knew how to break into your locker—even wondering if she knew your combination or it was a coincidence that it landed perfectly.

turning around, your eyes scanned the hall—misty was nowhere in sight. a shiver creeped up your spine, knowing she could be watching you at any minute and you wouldn't know. slamming your locker shut, you didn't bother reading it.

watching from her hiding spot, she sighed, wondering why you didn't like her latest gift. she pulled out her notepad and crossed out 'love letters' and shoved it in her backpack. she quietly followed you, not realising you were heading for the bathroom. when she saw you walk in, her heart raced as she tried to make a quick decision—did she follow you and seem suspicious? or just head to your next lesson and wait for you?

seeing mari enter after you, she decided on the second option and ran to your next class. this time she managed to snag a seat at the back, able to see you perfectly no matter where you sat. however, when five minutes passed and you still weren't in class, she began to feel disappointment simmering in her stomach.

raising her hand in the air, the teacher called on her, "can I go to the toilet?" misty asked, the teacher nodded. she grabbed her stuff, stomping straight to the toilet she'd seen you in last. carefully opening the door, trying not to make a big sound she saw your feet under one of the stalls.

"mari? is that you?" you call out, hearing no other response, you huff. "do you have a pad? or a tampon?" misty lightened up, rustling through her bag and handing you a pad from under the door. "thanks," she smiled widely, wondering whether or not to say anything.

when misty heard you flush the toilet, she knew it had been too long to say anything, so you ran out of the toilet and back to class. she pulled out her notebook and added a new addition to her list 'pads'.

after school, you made your way to soccer practice. placing your stuff to the side of the field, you don't notice misty had approached you from behind. you almost jump in shock. "misty what the fuck," you hiss, clutching your heart.

"sorry, I just noticed you didn't bring your water bottle today," she explains, making you scrunch your nose in confusion—she almost fainted at the sight. you began ruffling through your bag, swearing you'd brought it, but failing to find it. "here! I always bring bottled water as a backup?"

you accept it graciously, smiling at her—a good effort considering you were still frustrated from losing your old bottle. waving goodbye to her before running on to the field, she searched her bag to see if your water bottle was still there—when her hand wrapped around it, she smiled.

misty didn't have time to add 'water' to the list, since she was the equipment manager both coaches needed her. but once practice was finished, she made sure to tick the latest discovery.

watching your sweaty body pour the bottled water over your face made her stomach tingly, as she tried to ignore the hot feeling you gave her. she had a mission to complete, now was not the time to let her hormones crowd her thoughts.

misty approaches you and van, "hey! I found your water bottle," she announces, holding it out for you.

your heart sinks, as you send van a nervous glance. van struggles to hold back her laughter, as you give misty a strained smile. "thank you. . . where did you find it?"

"your bag?" van teases.

"no!" misty cries, readjusting her glasses, "it was in one of the sports bags. you must have accidentally thrown it in last practice," she lies perfectly. you pretend you believe her, trying to get out of the conversation.

snatching the bottle out of her hand, you shove it in your bag. "that's a nice ring," misty compliments, you look down at it, then back at her suspiciously.

"did you get it for me?" you ask nervously, heart racing as you did. she nodded her head eagerly, making you feel sick. "what the fuck, misty?" noticing how awkward it had become, van excused herself and left the two of you alone—making you uncomfortable. "are you like, stalking me or something? why do you keep giving me things? it's weird!"

misty readjusts her glasses again nervously, "I'm just not. . . i—um, it's because—"

"seriously, you need to fuck off, this is so creepy," you reply. turning on your heel, you power walked far away from her, leaving the blonde dejected.

misty stomped to the equipment shed, trying to think of ways to get you to love her. coach ben entered, trying his best to avoid her gaze, but it was too late, "coach, how do I get the person I like to like me back?"

he stared at her oddly, "um. . . I'm not sure, misty. maybe find something they like?"

"I tried that!" she complains.

he shrugged, "I don't think this is a conversation we should be having," he replies.

misty groans in frustration, "okay coach," she whispers sarcastically, stomping out of the shed. she was in a foul mood and nothing could stop it.

over the next couple of days, it was relatively quiet. you didn't receive any more trinkets, which surprisingly made you upset. you missed the little gifts misty left in your locker—but mostly, you felt guilty for yelling at her. she was just being nice and you were a bitch to her.

that's why, during lunch, you approached her where she usually sat. misty was crouched over her notepad, scribbling on it. sitting next to her, "I'm sorry for yelling at you," you whisper, making her jump.

"jesus! you scared me," she replies, before smiling when she realised it was you. "oh. . . it's okay," you look at what she was writing and noticed your name was on the top of the page.

you bumped her shoulder with your own, "what're you writing?" you tease, causing her to blush a deep crimson. she passed the note to you, letting you read it. it was a long apology for being 'creepy'. you giggle, biting your lip. "you didn't have to do this, I should be the one apologising," she shrugs.

"it was weird," she whispers, looking at the ground.

you place your fingers under her chin, forcing her to look at you. "it was sweet. I see that now," you assure her. to make it sink, you lean in and softly press your lips against hers. sending her nerves into overdrive, misty gets eager and responds by kissing you back harder—almost devouring your lips. you don't mind, however, it's nice to be hungered for.

—💌—

25 years later

slotting your key in the lock, you turn it until you hear the satisfying click and shove the door open. trudging through the hall, you end up in the kitchen and place the groceries on the bench. your phone rings, and you smile when you see your girlfriend's face. "hey, did you check the fridge," misty asks, making you pause.

you froze, wondering what she was talking about. leaving the phone on the counter, opening the fridge door and seeing a cupcake on one of the trays. you bit your bottom lip while smiling, picking up the phone. "thank you, my love. did you make it yourself?"

"of course, I know how much you love my gifts," she replies, you snort loudly and bring the treat to your lips, taking a bite out of it and moaning in delight.

misty waited patiently on the other side of the line, blushing when she heard the sound come out of your mouth. "it's delicious, thank you, misty," you compliment.

"it's to make up for being late tonight, I'm sorry," she sighs, and you hear typing sounds on the other end of the phone.

you smile widely, "don't worry about it. if anything, it'll make your surprise easier to plan," you tease—practically hearing her ears perk up.

she thanks you quickly, explaining that it was getting busy at work. you use this to get started on the gift you were preparing for her.

"I'm home!" misty called out, closing the door behind her. when she was greeted by silence, she frowned. you always met her at the door, placing a kiss on her cheek.

sniffing the air, she smelt her favourite dinner being prepared and her stomach practically growled. misty walked into the kitchen with a beaming smile on her face.

you turn around, a cute little apron on and a spatula in hand. "hey! you said you were working late," you complain, pouting at her.

she shrugs, "sorry, they let me go because someone could cover the rest of my shift," misty explains. you smile, walking towards her and wrapping your arms around her neck. you claim her lips with your own, and she can taste the flavours from dinner.

"I figured that you always give me sweet gifts, it's time for me to return the favour. it was low key creepy in the beginning, but now it's cute. thank you," you whisper. she eagerly smashes her lips on yours, backing you against the counter. you giggle into the kiss, wrapping your legs around her waist and jumping up on the bench.

the dinner sizzled, as it was starting to burn, but the two of you didn't care, too absorbed by each other.

[ranticore]

ok i honestly think its a really funny and awesome power move for worldbuilding to go "listen the centaurs are Here and we arent going to think too hard about how they got here. if you want to play in this space with me then you just need to take my hand and trust me on this" because for me at least the temptation to get really in the weeds on the details of everything becomes kind of overwhelming. i think being able to say "thats not relevant to the themes this setting explores" is a really necessary thing bc it lets you (and me, the disembodied voice speaking for all readers) focus more on whats actually important to the setting, which is puritanism and 60s harpy bands.

i did want to ask - it seems pretty fair to assume that relationships between even heterosexual members of different beastman...clades(? it feels a bit loaded to call them races) would be kinda taboo given the strictness of the setting, but how are inter-clade friendships viewed/how common are they? there's some cute art of bovine and equine centaur ladies dancing together imitating a stallion duel, so presumably?? it would be following horse centaur social standards as they seem to be the dominant culture, meaning a friendship between, say, a male bovine centaur and a female equine centaur would be pretty side-eyed, im assuming. what about harpy-centaur friendships? are they subjected to different standards given the more obvious differences between harpies and centaurs?

i'm also delightedly chewing on the tidbids from your harpy band reply. in particular i find it really interesting that you've placed ironwall up in the north as a place of low socioeconomic status compared to the primarily-human south, since that north/south divide of classism and discrimination is, to my understanding, smth thats been alive throughout british history. the idea of musical cross-culturamism is also so interesting also bc like you say, human society and ironwall society have different standards around stuff like gender and relationships, so imagining like, ironwall being all tittilated by the beatles still being together until their late 20s only for them breaking up reinforcing the idea of "yes male homosocial behaviour is never able to last past a certain point" is kind of funny. its so so so interesting that ironwall is insular not just in that it rejects Foreign Influence internally but also the outside world is largely uninterested in it too and prefers all the beastmen nicely partitioned away, bc that adds so much potebtial room for subcultural stuff like this when the streams do cross.

i'd be super interested if you ever found the time/inspiration to go deeper into what punk and goth fashion would look like for centaurs and harpies, since i immediately imagined mohawk manes and imped or dyed quills, emphasising the animal part of oneself in a confrontational way - which can of course tie into your very correct point that punk =/= progressive, and the existence of ultra-conservative bioessentialist/natural-ist factions in the worldbuilding. those are really neat btw; i like that youve sidestepped the whole "back to nature peaceful progressive movement" idea to be like "no these guys also suck". everything in ironwall is kind of sucks in its own special way and its awesome.

just got enraptured by the idea of traditional centaur folk dances incorporating rhythmic drumming patterns of hoofbeats -> evolving into "modern" tap dancing with horseshoes. thats not really related to anything but im reading this all over coffee and its starting to take hold on my brain

anyway i will read stbh SoonTM once ive finished inhaling your entire blog. thank you for your patience with Me, the worlds premiere overexcited worldbuilding labrador

ya, suspension of disbelief in the manner you describe in the first paragraph is the default state for fiction but in online speaces like this, that is often forgotten (mainly b/c this space we exist in grew out of fandom, and fandom thrives on encylopaedia-like worldbuilding styles, but has little to work with when it comes to complete, wrapped up speculative stories, so these are not fandomised to such an extent). anyway as well as that, i think a lot of artist and writer worldbuilders on tumblr do enjoy getting stuck in the weeds and that's #valid but in a lot of cases, there is a defensive quality to explaining every little thing which pre-empts audience questions and attempts to get ahead of imagined future accusations of poor worldbuilding.

ok to the questions: relationships between even heterosexual members of different beastman types - friendships have never been discouraged, it's very very common especially in a space like Ironwall which is highly mixed compared to its surrounding enclaves. the fact that the bovine & equine centaurs you describe can't procreate is the key to it not really being especially taboo as the forces which organise sex segregation in ironwall are sexual in nature (and the herd is the arena for procreation, passing on generational wealth and status, etc). however that doesn't mean opposite-sex friendship is universally acceptable. bulls face similar "aggressive time bomb" stereotyping as stallions. centaurs and harpies will exist in different social circles (not universally, but i mean. the infrastructure segregates them) so it's not AS common for that sort of friendship but again it's fine really

ironwall vs southern music culture - people of ironwall are minorities on a global scale and are very strongly aware of it. but it means they can be rabidly insular, too, because the stronger and more dominant culture in the country is not for them. they are outcompeted on nearly every manufacturing stage, so it is a direct threat to their livelihoods - and, therefore, ability to live in the only city with compatible infrastructure - when 'foreign' businesses start to undercut them. they get defensive because they see a threat of cultural extinction, which swings them back around to conservatism in the 21st century. music is just one facet of this. when you turn on the radio and all you hear is americans, it IS annoying.

because of this, people in ironwall are PAINFULLY aware of social norms outside their city and enclaves. they can make their gay jokes about the beatles all they like, but they know the deal. the larger dominant culture can afford to be completely, carelessly ignorant of all outside its borders, but the smaller cannot ever.

punk fashions - all i can say is yeah probably that all (dyed feathers etc) sounds about right, but again like u said not all punks take an inherently progressive, reclamatory approach to their bodies. sometimes it's just a music scene with a nebulously anti-status-quo aesthetic. but for those with that reclamatory stance, the expressions veer harder into androgyny and gender bending (sometimes in a way which is ultimately transphobic lol. but what's new) than comparative human punk scenes. more cross-dressing basically. for the birds which have dimorphic plumage it was common enough for that to be dyed black across the board, with the goal of making it difficult to tell sex at a glance.

folk dances - this is a trajectory that makes sense to me, though even in the modern day it's important that the hooves are covered by fabric in polite company so i guess you'd end up with something resembling that dance where the dancers wear floor-length skirts and use teensy steps so that they appear to be floating around on castors with no visible disturbance to the dresses (thanks to beroidae in the replies: it's called берёзка!)

i'm glad you're having fun !!! enjoy da book

[destinygoldenstar]

Pomni Is A Fool

Pomni's backstory actually really tells you how much her being in the circus is SICK KARMA.

She's a supermarket accountant who 'got bored of things' and sought out mild thrills like urban exploring, and posting videos of it on YouTube.

When Jax calls her a YouTuber, she replies with "Not really. Nobody watched them." While looking at her drink sadly.

So basically, she was a thrill seeker, and an attention seeker. (I say that cause Zooble also urban explored, but didn't post anything about it)

Which... at first when I heard this backstory, thought it was VERY out of line with the Pomni we know.

After all, from just the Pilot, everyone has characterized her as 'the embodiment of anxiety'.

Doesn't help that Glitch's Merch and Ads ALSO put that aspect of her front and center.

I kinda suspected there HAD to be more to her than that. But I also thought this would still be an aspect of her and played into her past life.

Especially given how much more layers we get of who Pomni is in the other episodes.

She's NOT just anxiety. She's someone who has ZERO direction in her life and considers herself and her abilities worthless.

She is a nihilist who has extremely low self esteem, so much so that she believes that when she dies, nobody will care about her. So at the start of the show, she's a loner who wallows in her negative emotions, not even bothering to interact with her peers. Willingly. Which also adds to development of anxiety and depression.

She DOES want friends, as shown with Gummigoo. But as shown by her reaction with his 'death',

She LAUGHS at losing him.

It's almost like she EXPECTS these results, and expects her own misery.

"I knew it would end up like this"

Which, YES, is anxiety.

A lot of people think anxiety is "PANICKING AND CONSTANTLY NERVOUS"

THAT'S NOT WHAT IT IS. THAT'S JUST THE SURFACE LEVEL.

Anxiety is an emotion centered around uneasiness of an unknown outcome. And in the cases of a disorder, you just naturally expect bad things to happen to you. Some people have a better handling of their anxiety than others.

That is until she is rescued in literal hell by Kinger, and he gives her sound advice on how NOT pointless life is.

Also something to point out: Evil Pomni, the opposite, is an apathetic gremlin who takes pride in action, with such an inflated ego (taking a nap in the field before catching the ball and gloating about it). Obviously the opposite of Pomni's current state, as someone with high empathy and low esteem. Evil Pomni is high apathy and a high ego.

This post is also neat in explaining the evil clones

Wouldn't it be crazy if this was a potential ugly side Pomni had before the circus? (Just more subtle than this exaggerated evil clone)

(Personally, I wanna see her crash out in the future)

BUT THIS IS THE THING THAT REALLY SCRATCHED MY HEAD.

Pomni is also shown to do pretty poorly with the more thrilling adventures. She wants to LEAVE these. In every instance, she's shown desire to NOT be a part of the adventures.

Kaufmo. She bails.

Candyland. She doesn't want to be there.

Mildenhall Manor. She's afraid of horror, and when she accidentally falls through the scary door, her immediate plan is to get out of there.

The only time she's not in pain during an adventure is in the normal ones. Spudsys, Stargazing, the bar, these adventures are when Pomni is actually... chill. Especially Spudsys.

So, I read this as Pomni naturally gravitates towards the mundane lifestyle.

BUT HER BACKSTORY DOES NOT SUPPORT THIS.

Her backstory tells us she was a totally different person prior to the circus. She did NOT enjoy her mundane lifestyle as an accountant, and was a thrill seeker who LIKED exploring, and adventures. She also was seeking attention by posting on YouTube.

THIS SOUNDS TOTALLY DIFFERENT FROM THE POMNI WE KNOW IN THE SHOW.

So, what, is this simply OOC?

Call me reading too much into it, but MAYBE THIS IS THE POINT.

It's not out of line if we see her nihilistic traits in the start of the series and 'feeling like she's nothing'.

Her life was depressing. Nobody noticed her. Nobody watched her videos or took any interest in her.

Which could also be why she's a jester. Jesters are attention seekers and prominent members of the royal court.

The design gimmick for the TADC characters is that they are a twisted cartoony version of their internal struggles.

Gangle is a frail ribbon who is literally two faced because that was her life prior to the circus. Zooble has a body designed to constantly be changing and never feel comfortable because they never found themselves in their old life. Ragatha is a ragdoll because dolls were considered wealthy toys in the past, but she's a kind of doll designed to be able to take beatings because of her abuse in her prior life. (She also has one button eye, which indicates harm and partial blindness) You get it.

Pomni is a jester, who in her past, was never noticed despite her attempts. Which is a sick karma of what she wanted to have and be seen as. (You could also link a YouTuber to the modern equivalent of a jester) A FOOLISH DESIRE TO THINK SHE COULD BE WORTH THE ATTENTION.

So she craved adventure and attention. Something more in her life.

But when she actually ends up in the circus, she rejects it. She only goes on the adventures out of obligation, but DOESN'T enjoy them.

Funny, you'd think she'd be interested in this stuff. But no.

She got the thrill-seeking life she wanted. And she hates it. She fears nearly everything about it.

...so maybe that's why she gravitates towards the mundane adventures.

This whole circus, for her, is a sadistic version of karma, and God's way of punishing her for wanting more out of the life she was given.

You never know how much something means to you until you lose it.

If she could go back to her old life as an accountant, back to when the world made sense, back to when everything was fine, she would. And she'd never complain about it again.

She didn't need these thrills, or this attention, or any of these wild adventures in order for her life to have a purpose. All she needed was to just... live life.

And said life got taken away before she could realize that.

HER LIVING EMBODIMENT IN THIS CIRCUS, IS THE FOOL.