#saying it out loud makes it real and making it real makes it something that can be taken away from them.

[hitlikehammers]

POV: when you overhear your boyfriend’s bandmates who ⛔️do not like you⛔️ talking to him—about YOU

“Be real though, Ed. Harrington? You can’t actually be serious, here.” Steve doesn’t like to eavesdrop, like, on principle. Which is to say he totally does it. He just doesn’t wholly approve of it, or think it’s a very good habit to have, while still doing it. “You got me,” Eddie sighs, longer and deeper than can be taken wholly seriously. “I’m running my longest successful con to date.”

rating: t ♥️ tags: post-s4, established relationship, corroded coffin, as in: the gang’s all here and being VERY JUDGEMENTAL of eddie’s taste in men, and maybe steve had to pick eddie up from practice today so he overhears it WHOLLY WITHOUT INTENDING TO OKAY?, no one ever REALLY want to hear what the people they love really think of them when said people don’t know who all’s actually listening, true love, declarations of feelings, it’s actually really fucking hard to stand up to your friends, happy ending♥️

for @steddielovemonth day ten: "We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love." —Dr. Seuss

also! Unnamed Freak is Doug for the purpose of this fic because the book can fuck itself I say so 🖤

“Be real though, Ed,” the voice that filters through, and holds Steve’s hand from pushing the car door shut loud enough to notice, is fairly reasonable, like trying to talk down a suggestion absurd enough to send someone to the ER—which means, of the subjects at hand? It’s gotta be Jeff.

“You can’t actually be serious, here.”

Steve doesn’t like to eavesdrop, like, on principle.

Which is to say he totally does it.

He just doesn’t wholly approve of it, or think it’s a very good habit to have, while still doing it.

“You got me,” Eddie deadpans, but it’s like, venom-laced. It stings just to hear and Steve’s struck with how much his life’s changed since Spring Break, and more still since…well.

Since Eddie.

Because Steve is well aware the man can cut glass with how sharp his tongue can get, they did go to high school together whether they ran in the same circles or not.

It’s just strikes Steve in the moment that not once since Vecna, has Eddie turns that tongue on him.

Now, other uses of his tongue—

“I’m running my longest successful con to date. Yep, totally pulled it over on all you bitches,” and where it could be playful, every single word is sharpened to stab, to pierce, to drag the wound out so it bleeds, like a shiv to remind someone where they fucked up, in perpetuity.

“Please applaud.”

And oh, even Steve flinches at that tone, and he’s not even the target. Hell, he’s still in the driveway—he doesn’t make a rule of crashing band practice, no matter whose parents’ garage they’re using; Eddie’s van is just regularly in the shop for one thing or another, so he’s gotta come get his man. But he doesn’t, like, push his way in. Sometimes doesn’t even get out of the driver’s seat. He knows Eddie would more than welcome him; has the handful of times he’s ventured to step in to apologize for interrupting but remind him they have to pick up the shitheads. But one: Eddie is alone in his welcome, and like, the polar opposite of the other three guys, who range from staring daggers at Steve to sneering so scrunched up to the nose that it’d give Carol Perkins at her snittiest a run for her money.

And Steve wouldn’t have made it this far if he didn’t know how to recognise where he’s not wanted, and learn how to make the calculated decision of whether to walk or push his way in. And much as he loves Eddie? Steve actually wants his friends to eventually come around from probably, like, muttering ancestral curses under their breaths at him or something.

Plus, from what Steve understands? Jam sessions are personal. Sacred. Eddie had blushes and stammered the first time he let Steve listen in on works in progress; and Steve had rewarded him for the gift of it liberally and with genuine gusto. It’s earned him repeat performances on the regular, but Steve gets it’s a private thing in general. And these guys don’t know him, don’t presently care to—don’t trust him.

He figures it’s like…masturbating in front of someone. The art thing, the depth of making music and stuff. Showing your soul a little bit, losing control for the betterment of the final product.

Now, he and Eddie definitely have masturbated together, it’s actually fantastic foreplay, or even just a deliciously sloppy go on its own. But that’s neither here nor there. And also totally fucking different.

Steve really doesn’t want Eddie masturbating in front of anyone other than him, ever again. Steve’s sure as shit not looking to on his end; definitely not with the other members of Corroded fucking Coffin.

The metaphor might have gotten away from him. But you get the picture.

“No, man,” and that’s, that’s Gareth’s voice, Steve’s almost sure. Sharper. Concerned but also caustic on the undertow. “It’s just,” he snorts, the disbelieving sort: “this can’t be real.”

Okay, yeah. Tone plus actual words add up.

“Yeah, just,” Doug laughs a little nervous, like of all of them, Eddie’s verbal attack had the most weight in tempering his response of the three of them; “blink twice if you’re being held against your will.”

They all chuckle, but it’s toned down the whole way around—even Steve can clock that. These guys are boisterous when left to their devices, Steve’s taken note of that. Mostly watching from the sidelines—almost exclusively when they don’t know he’s there to watch.

Again: does not condone eavesdropping.

Does not try at all to refrain from doing it.

“I mean, you don’t expect us to believe you’re actually fucking him,” and oh, yeah, okay: Steve was pretty sure he was the topic conversation here, and despite some of the setbacks of recent years, he’s not insecure when it comes to relationships especially.

He’s definitely the only one fucking Eddie. And Eddie’s the only one fucking him.

And while he doesn’t really hold it against these guys for being wary of him—he wasn’t really a perpetrator of their high school woes, but he definitely didn’t do anything to make them less…woeful—so he’s mostly bummed about it for Eddie’s sake, and on principle, but like, seriously.

Doubting Steve successfully scoring Eddie Munson? Like, Eddie’s a catch, Steve of ll people is well aware, but. Steve’s also been long past fishing the shallow end of the pond, y’know?

Give him some credit.

“Right,” Steve narrows back in on what’s happening in the garage that he’s definitely feeling less guilty bout, seeing as he’s definitely a subject of the debate unfolding, but Eddie sounds…angry. Pissed off in that way he gets when he’s fed the fuck up.

“I’m out,” Steve hears scraping of equipment, the guitar case flipped open; “can’t actually make it next week,” he adds like a footnote.

It’s clear within a second he’s the only one who takes it with that same…energy.

“But we have to practice before the open mic—” Jeff, ever the voice of reason, sounds baffled; on his way to ticked off but not quite there yet.

Eddie, however—as is his wont in this type of mood—could not give two shits where the people around him land on the anger-o-meter; he’s exceeded them, even if only in his own head, and they are all therefore irrelevant to his very responsible decision to put distance between himself and doing something stupid he can’t take back.

It’s not the nicest way to deal but, honestly? Steve’s mostly just proud of Eddie for sticking with a coping mechanism that, while not without consequences, generally works better than most.

“I’ll see you guys in two, then. Probably.” And the case clicks shut, definitive, and Steve’s proud of that too; that Eddie’s not digging a hole when the guys re trying to bait him, intentionally or not, over Steve.

Steve doesn’t need Eddie to complicate his band, his friendships, over what the two of them have. One, it’s not their fucking business. And two?

Steve doesn’t thing he’s being self-important in saying he and Eddie…are bigger, and more, than even the very beat high school band.

Not that Steve would ever ask Eddie to choose or some bullshit like that. And he really does believe Eddie’s going places, if that’s what he decides he wants. But…there’s that.

Then there is them.

Different, like, stratospheres.

“What the fuck came up that you can’t make it next week? When we’re staring down our first actual shot at Battle of the Bands this year,” and yeah, of course, if anyone’s gonna try to drag the whole thing out, it’s Gareth. Kid’s got a fucking temper.

“Something more important.”

Which yeah, that’s what was going through Steve’s mind, basically, but—

“The hell could be more—“

“I have plans,” Eddie hisses, viper-quick and fucking deadly, shuts them all right up for it, but then he spins a 180–preens so big Steve swears he can hear his shoulders go back and his chest puff out:

“It’s my anniversary.”

So…yeah. Just because it was where Steve’s head had just been at doesn’t mean his whole chest goes all gooey to hear it said out loud.

And in front of Eddie’s band, who…they aren’t hiding from, but they have discussed keeping kinda mum around. For the same kinds of reasons Steve’s been privy to just in the past couple minutes.

But then Eddie’s voice follows the feeling in Steve’s chest like they’re tethered there, and honestly, more times than not?

Steve thinks they just might actually be, and he’s not proven wrong with the way Eddie halfway coos:

“Our anniversary.”

“Your what?”

Jeff, again, is that middle ground: actually confused, laced with being angry that Eddie’s ducking out.

“Six months,” Eddie answers, soft-like, a little dreamy but in this way that’s rooted somehow still, and in being struck all over again by a level of shock Steve understands, sometimes feels in reverse, but still doesn’t understand being felt so deep as it sounds, now, when it’s applied to…him.

It’s wild y’know?

“I’m like,” Steve hears Eddie’s curls brush against something as he shakes his head—Steve’s money’s on him crouched by his case, or having it already slung over his shoulder:

“Never thought I’d get something to celebrate like that in the first place, but get to keep it, that long without fucking it up?”

Steve, again, wants to give up the pretense and walk the fuck in there and kiss the shit out of his boyfriend because one, same, but two?

Dumbass.

Steve goddamn adores him.

“You mean, with Harrington?” Gareth’s spitting and Steve just shakes his head, a little sad—he doesn’t know what’s crawled up that kid’s ass about him, man; he’s not so much younger that Steve never saw him or didn’t know of him but godDamn: the circles he ran in at the time weren’t the ones doing shit yet when they were in the same elementary school, Steve was barely popular in middle school, and come high school the worst anyone he knew did to the frosh was bang them into a locker—not great, but.

Not worth this shit. And the worst part is if he doesn’t know what’s crawled he did to really piss Gareth off this bad? He can’t even try to Harrington-charm his way back into the guy’s tolerable category. Like, even his best fucking not-pot brownie recipe didn’t sway the fucker.

“Yes,” Eddie is answering, the answer emphatic, like he’s brimming with feeling over it, but then clipped too, like demonstrating that he was brimming and is now being forced to clip it all backis very much the intent: “of course I mean with Steve, who the fuck else?”

It’s not lost on Steve how Eddie says his name. Ever. All the name.

But right now, how he’s making a point to say it in that warm, kinda…beloved way, when anyone else uses his last name in a way that’s anything-but.

“You cannot be—” Gareth scoffs, Steve can imagine him throwing up his hands, that sort of deal, but then Eddie comes in, and it’s a tone Steve’s only ever hear when he’s about to run a campaign into the ground where the characters may never recover, and if somehow manage it, they’ll wish they hadn’t:

“Oh, I am deadly serious.”

Because it’s not Steve’s character, but in defense of Steve’s relationship, that tone trickles something molten through his veins and prickles up his spine and…he’s gone have to stick that one in his back pocket to explore at a later date, for sure.

“Six months?”

Jeff—and Steve kinda likes Jeff, and not for the reason his bandmates would like, that he kicks around Hawkins after graduation, too, but more because Steve knows why; that’s to make more money for a college outside Indiana, and Steve thinks that’s fucking cool—but it’s here where Jeff dips fully away from being angry to being stupefied. Steve lets himself smirk at nothing because fuck yes: him and Eddie.

Six whole goddamn months.

“I was actually gonna ask you guys to come over soon, introduce him properly and stuff,” Eddie says, the disappointment in his voice again; Steve’s niggling desire to go and hug him from behind, maybe kiss under his ear a little, back in full force.

“He picks you up from practice, we see him,” Doug pipes back up, likewise confused, but Steve just takes the useful confirmation that no one did catch on that he pulled up ages ago, now.

“We know who Steve Harrington is—” Gareth snaps, protests in the way that betrays his eye-rolling, his thin-wearing patience.

“No!”

And that comes out of Eddie fierce enough to echo down at least half the block they’re on—seems like Eddie’s patience was worn out a while ago.

“You don’t!”

And everyone is silent in that way Steve knows all too well: when shit’a gone down but now you’re waiting in the edge for the worse thing to hit.

Then it does:

“And it’s a good thing I didn’t bring it up because you dipshits aren’t ready,” Eddie snaps, says dipshitso different from how he does with the Party, theirParty, their kids; he says it here with something real fucking close to disgust.

“Asking hostage questions, fuck off,” he huffs, and Steve hears Eddie’s footsteps, can’t tell if he’s gonna leave it at that, come find Steve and know he’s been standing there but that’ll be fine, it’s not like Steve wasn’t going to let him know as soon as they left—but then:

“Look,” and Eddie sounds the way Steve sounds when he’s pinching the bridge of his nose to fight a growing migraine, the sting of tears for all sorts of pain behind his eyes, and that hurts to hear from his boyfriend, like, a lot.

It fucking hurts.

“I am not just fucking him,” Eddie growls through the bridge-pinching pain; “I mean, fuck yes, I am, but,” and Steve hears the way he swallows all the way down the drive:

“I’m in this for the long haul,” Eddie tells his bandmates like throwing down a gauntlet; “and if you can’t respect me enough, and my choices, that stings,” Steve knows Eddie shrugs then: “but I’ll live.”

Steve’s about a millisecond from saying fuck it, opening the door just to slam it to announce his approach, and then going to physically grab his boyfriend, drag him to the car, and park in the abandoned lot down from the Wheelers’ neighborhood to kiss him senseless because that’s the closest place he can think of and he doesn’t think he’ll make it to either of their homes before he can’t fucking handle himself.

“But if you are gonna disrespect the man I love, no. Absolutely not.”

Eddies voice is a deadly sort of whisper. Steve would cower at it, the way it washes through a person, if he hadn’t just…said.

That.

“You love him?”

And for what Steve thinks is the first time since he climbed out of the car and committed to listening where he wasn’t invited, Gareth sounds…muted. Genuinely asking a question.

Steve, for his own part, kinda expected that he’d be more breathless, heart racing and shit, to hear the answer but in reality?

“Of course I love him.”

Steve already knew that in his cells, in his bones.

In his steady, not all-that-fast but particularly-especially-happily beating heart.

“Have you guys, like, said it and stuff?”

And of course Steve already knows that answer, both the literal one and the one that matters more, but he does perk up a bit, curious to hear what—if anything of note—Eddie chooses to give away here.

“He has,” Eddie says, and now…now maybe Steve should stop listening because this part, the way Eddie says that as flat fact—Steve doesn’t knowthis part beyond speculation. But…

“I wanted to, like,” and eddies voice can’t hide the way he’s gotta have that soft smile, the one he used to hide behind his hair before Steve started pulling it back to see in full, so now he only brings his hair out just to tease, to okay.

“I don’t think I’ve wanted much in my whole life, but he’s,” and Steve thinks he hears how Eddie chews his bottom lip for a second, in the subtlest click of how it slips free before Eddie takes a deep breath and—

“He doesn’t know what he’s worth,” Eddie starts, a little mournful almost, even, and Steve is unexpectedly glued to the spot in his fucking Nikes.

“He doesn’t understand that I’d sell the sun and the moon just to keep him,” Eddie’s saying, and with passion. With whole-ass honesty. And here, maybe, is where Steve gets to have some of the heart:fluttery feeling after all:

“He comes out the gate with the whole you don’t have to say it back and I just,” Eddie sighs, sniffs a little before heaving another breath deep enough to stretch his shirt, which Steve’s not imagining or anything, at all;

“I couldn’t say it, not right then, and risk him everthinking it was something I’d done to like, match. Like that I didn’t mean it with everything I’ve got, when I mean it with everything I’ve got and then also everything else. Like, anywhere. Ever.”

Steve realized he’d stopped breathing at some point when the little dots start floating in front of his eyes and he sucks in a shaking breath because: he’s known Eddie loves him. Unshakeably.

But, but all this—

“I couldn’t say it and have him ever wondered if I wouldn’t rip my heart out of my chest just to keep his safe.”

And of-fucking-course Steve’s pulse is running fucking riot about how much he’s in love right now, make no goddamn mistake. Jesus, he—

“Fuck.”

And Steve has never heard Gareth Emerson pushed just this side of speechless but: that’s the best way Steve can describe the kind of breathless wonder he says it with, like watching a rare bird take flight.

“You mean it.”

And Steve can pick out Eddie’s huffs and categorize them, on demand at this point: he doesn’t need to see the eye-roll to know Eddie’s deemed the expression of pure shock to be so beneath him in this specific context that he’s deemed it unworthy of any more attention.

His heart’s not jumping that loud to have missed it. So.

Steve just kinda grins toward the blacktop under his shoes.

“Why didn’t you,” Doug starts, still—usually, really, in Steve’s limited experience at least—the peacekeeper, the one who’s most invested at the human level when he’s not getting swept up in whatever the rest of the gang has deemed the cool thing to laugh at or make fun of at any given moment.

The huff Eddie gives this time is his incredulous one, which allows for just the slightest bit more consideration:

“The fuck do you think?”

The slightest bit, being the operative point.

“I’d hoped you’d take it better but,” Eddie adds, and there’s less drama in it than Steve might have expected. He’s being serious with them, and he sounds…disappointed.

Steve kinda want to make some kind of noise, give away his position, and just…hug Eddie tight from behind, if nothing else. Be there. Solid against him, wrapped up around him. Never wavering. Always at his back as much as at his side.

But Eddie’s not done:

“I’m not even asking you to like him, just be decent,” and it sounds like it hurts him to say as much, and Steve knows why; he genuinely despises when anyone thinks Lea with a the very beat thing about Steve. Steve believes this to be n unreasonable standard, and has expressed as much to Eddie who nods and smiles and kisses Steve’s forehead and does absolutely nothing to change his stance, but deep down?

Steve fucking feels so…loved for it.

“And like I said,” Steve can hear the judgement in Eddie’s tone clear as day; “you’re not ready, and I’m not putting him in that kind of situation.”

Steve sucks on the inside of his cheek, lest his grin at the way Eddie is not just defending him, but…protecting him, not his honor but his heart…

No ones ever even tried that before. Steve may not need it, or maybe he just learned he couldn’t survive needing it.

Getting it now…now it’s just…

Wow.

“And I’m in this for keeps, like, this is a forever type thing, so long as he wants it,” Eddie saying, explaining the color of a sky to a small child like what these words are that fundamental, that unalterably true. “So—”

“We’ve known each other forever, man,” Gareth eventually mutters, sounds indignant, but mostly gutted.

Steve knows before it happens that it’s not gonna make a difference.

“And we can still know each other. Just not everything, anymore,” and Eddie does sound a little sad but he’s…he’s a monolith, unshakable. “I don’t trust you with the parts that revolve around him, yet,” and Steve feels more than hears the ways his friends deflate, maybe shrink for being deemed so…insufficient. In the eyes of their ostensible leader, no less.

“Eddie, we didn’t,” Jeff starts, slow, and he doesn’t sound remorseful but—Eddie has all those coping mechanisms for a reason, right?

Because he’s quick to feeling, good and bad, and sometimes neither is fit to the moment.

Steve can’t help but be kinda glad Eddie doesn’t bother with those mechanisms just now, though, if it means he gets to hear this part:

“I know you didn’t, that’s the fucking problem,” Eddie groans, Steve can see the way he lens, bends at the knees and throws his body around a little in sheer, undiluted exasperation. “

“Because I could tell you he’s changed since school, and that’d be true, but that’s not even it,” and there’s more of the frustrated stomping round, Steve can hear it, but he’s…he’s ready distracted by that thing in his chest that has to has to be tied up in Eddie’s, too, that thing tugging on him to pay the fuck attention.

And who is he to ignore it?

“he was never who we thought he was in school in the first place. He is,” Eddie licks his lips, just to snack them loud:

“He is kind and funny, and goofy, and such a fuckin’ nerd, and he’s smart in these incredible ways where he’s sees what everyone else misses, and he’s protective as fuck and he’s got a heart of gold,” and Eddie’s voice only gets more heartfelt in its own right that longer he goes and Steve just, he’s, it’s—

“And I would tear my skin off just so it doesn’t get so much as a scuff on it,” Eddie ends with the most scathing delivery imaginable: he fucking meansthis shit. And Steve is going o live and die next to this man, scuffed heart still kept safe to the fucking end, he will swear that shit to anyone who needs to hear it.

He is going to have a whole fucking life with Eddie Munson, and love him for every single breath of it.

“And I don’t trust you guys yet not to tempt me to tear off my skin,” Eddie says finally after enough silence to catch his breath, and temper his tone just enough to sound tired; a little dejected. “I don’t trust you with him, and until that changes, we’re still friends,” Eddie sniffs, breathes out long; “you just won’t get to know about that part of me.”

He says it so simple, like he’s not half-cutting off some of the longest, closest friendships he’s ever had, and for Steve.

Steve doesn’t know if it makes him a person, or a really selfish one or whatever, if he doesn’t feel any urge to talk Eddie down, to make him walk it back just a little.

He doesn’t think he cares, though, either way.

“Seems like a really big part of you,” Doug says, deflated entirely.

“It is,” Eddie answers, unapologetic in a way that swells and sparkles in Steve’s ribs. “He is.”

“You’d walk from the band?” Of course Gareth asks, but it’s the first time he sounds small in his words. Like he maybe knows the answer, and isn’t so okay with how he got around to it even before Eddie wishes all doubt:

“In half a fuckin’ heartbeat.” Boom. Done. No hesitation whatsoever.

Less than half-a-fuckin’-heartbeat.

“That’s not what I’m saying I’m doing right now, but,” Eddie laughs a little, and that probably cuts deeper than anything for the boys, Steve suspects, especially when Eddie makes it unquestionable:

“It’s not even a question.”

And…maybe that drives a knife deeper for the band, but for Steve?

Steve kinda wants to…giggle, or some shit. He hadn’t realized just how much he wanted someone who answered a question like that, exactly like that, who talked about Steve exactly like that, without anything to gain, just because they…believed it.

“Jesus,” Gareth mutters, sounds kinda blindsided, kinda thrown and then some.

“If we,” Jeff clears his throat after a long period of quiet; “if we do better, could we meet him someday?” And the way he says it, earnest and shit:, like he wants to at least think about, at least maybe try:

“Like, really meet him?”

Like Eddie means enough that he’ll try, and that sings sweet in Steve’s veins because goddamn straight, his Eddie deserves that from the people hecares about. No matter who or what Steve is, Eddiedeserves that much, and so much more.

But he sounds like even just this is something amazing, Steve can hear the smile in his voice:

“Yeah, man,” he answers Jeff, claps him audibly on the shoulder; “I look forward to it.”

And shit, y’know what?

So does Steve.

“See you in two weeks,” and Eddies footsteps follow, guitar slung over his back for the way his weight falls with each one, but then:

“Eddie!”

That’s Doug; the footsteps stop close to the edge of the garage door as another set rushes to catch up, where he’ll see Steve if he walks much farther, where Steve’s got his hand on the door handle of the car, slowly inching it open to push shut and look wholly-unsuspicious now that Eddie might be followed out to his ride:

“Get him flowers. For your anniversary,” Doug says, tone low like a secret; “I know, like, it might seem like guys wouldn’t want flowers, but,” and Steve actually has to strain to hear the next part:

“My mom gets my dad flowers on his birthday every year, and he lights up like the Fourth of July.”

Steve remembers the first time he ever got flowers. His favorites, even if he thinks he only knew it subconsciously because they were handed to him with the stammering explanation of I don’t even know if you like flowers, or like these ones, but you look at them when we’re out, like, just walking or something and your eyes linger, and these ones just remind me of you and—

Apparently, Steve loves hyacinths. And sunflowers make Eddie think of him.

Because of course Steve’s first gift of flowers came from Eddie.

“Thanks man,” Eddie sounds the lightest, most genuine Steve’s heard him since he pulled up and got out of the car; “they’re already ordered.”

And Doug chuckles, and Steve?

Steve bites down his smile to less exploding-star levels—if he’d just pulled up he doesn’t have a reason, save that Eddie is enough of a reason in Steve’s eyes, his mind, the way his chest expands just thinking on him—as he pulls the car door closed again, loud enough to be noticed.

For Eddie to walk out of the garage fast as anything and meet Steve with a smile of his own that justifies the fuck out of where Steve’s had started, anyway.

All star-bright and everything.

♥️🎸♥️

✨also on ao3✨

btw this is either titled ‘halcyon shoegazing’ or ‘heart in your shoes’ so if you have an opinion you should maybe tell me or something, my brain’s tired and is resisting decisions rn

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here

divider credit here and here and here

[saeist]

dating a soccer prodigy isn't exactly for the weak.

especially when he's always away for games and even worse, when he lives across the world from you

it was hard at first, obviously. adjusting to the time differences, the long distance and all that. given that the sae itoshi was your first long distance relationship at that

somehow, you two make it work.

it made your relationship even more special whenever he was around. when you actually get to be with him physically and not through a screen

holidays together is another thing. luckily, you aren't too keen with celebrating holidays in general, though there's an exception with celebrating valentines day

throughout your relationship with sae, you had never celebrated valentines day together

yeah sae sends you gifts through the mail, lets you borrow his card for your weekly shopping spree, lets you have a spa day and etc. sae may not be present physically but he relentlessly shows how much he cares about you through gift giving— his love language.

it was valentines day and you had already gotten all your gifts from sae

for this year, sae had gifted you a van cleef jewelry set that matches the color of his hair, 1095 roses bouqet (each rose represents the days you two have been dating) and his recent jersey with his cologne on it

sae can really be romantic if he wanted to

you are now in bed after celebrating love day alone again with sae, who was on the phone

"did you like my gift this year?" you hear him ask through the phone. you let out a hum as you rummage through the giftbox, showing off the green velvet box to the camera

"do i like it? i love it!" you smile widely, "it even matches your hair!"

sae chuckles, watching your face light up like a christmas tree. his heart swoons at the sight. how he wishes that he was with you in that very moment to see your reaction in real time

"had to call every van cleef boutique around the area. heard they sold out fast" sae shares, recalling the time he had to yell at his poor manager to find more van cleef stores that sells that specific color

"i'm sure they had one in case a certain red head soccer prodigy would call at their door" you joke, making sae scoff playfully

"you're pushing it"

"oh, am i?"

sae smiles at the camera before he sighs, muttering "it's so fucking annoying i can't be there right now"

your eyes widen hearing his words that basically translate to "i miss you" and its not all the time you hear sae admit that he misses you

"looks like someone misses me" you say in a sing song voice

sae rolls his eyes, clicking his tongue in annoyance

"would you rather have me not miss you? because i think i can do that"

"you just contradicted yourself. you just said you think you can but in reality you can't"

you let out a loud laugh watching his face contort into annoyance. whether he likes it or not, you were right. he can't nor will he be able to do that

sae itoshi loves you so fucking much that he might give you the whole world if he could

"well, i haven't told you my gift for you yet" you bring up, grabbing something from your bedside table

sae raises an eyebrow, waiting for you to elaborate further. you got him a gift?

you show off an envelope. sae cocks his head to the side, what's that for?

"i can't be the only one to have gifts this valentines so this is my gift to you. i'm coming to spain!" you cheer, showing off your plane ticket to madrid

it takes a few seconds for sae to understand everything as he processed your words carefully. sae is a man of a few words so just seeing his reaction was enough for you to feel his excitement with the way he sat up on his bed, eyes wide

"happy valentines, sae. see you soon"

[twistedwonderlandimaginesblog]

Valentines Day

Ace Trappola:

Ace wanted to play it off like he forgot the date, but then he’d be a liar and still in the doghouse. He didn’t want to get some generic Valentine’s related product, with some fake lovey dovey sentiment that he’d never say out loud in a thousand years. That would as disingenuous as lying and getting you nothing at all. He knew your hobbies and interests, so why was he suddenly at a loss for what would make the perfect gift for you?

You’re surprised to be greeted with a handful of colorful rectangular paper, ‘COUPON’ scribbled across the front of it in handing that looked slightly rushed. You were about to ask if he was spending a little too much time with Octavinelle before spotting the ‘within reason’ written at the bottom, getting the answer to your question before you had even asked.

“Yeah, you can give ‘em to me when you want me to do something for you.” He seemed rather proud of the idea, and you found it hard to hold back a laugh. This was clearly because he couldn’t find a gift that fit his standards, falling back on the tried and true ‘just tell me what you want directly and I’ll do my best to make it happen.’ It was very in-character of him, and you looked forward to the seeing the lengths he’d go for you.

Leona Kingscholar:

The holiday created such a buzz that Leona wanted nothing more than to run away from it. He didn’t care about couples, though he thought it provided an honest view of your partner depending on what they gave you. Money could go a long way if that was what your partner wanted, but what about the sentimental? The true romantic who wanted a real show of love and affection but could only receive a pre-made gift their lover had spotted while on the way home?

He doesn’t directly invite you to a night under the stars, but thankfully you speak Leona, and completely understood why he was telling you the exact place he’d be at a very specific time. You had, of course, received a beautiful piece of jewelry from him, something that represented his homeland and tied you two firmly together, but you knew there was more to him than just money.

A peaceful night spent beneath the stars awaited you, and as much as he insisted he didn’t believe in reading them, you couldn’t help but feel more connected while watching them together.

Jack Howl:

Jack had been standing outside the flower shop for nearly ten minutes now, a determined, somewhat scary, look on his face. Some of the patrons sent him wary glances as they came and went, wondering what he could possibly be glowering at when it came to pretty plants. Even standing outside a good distance away was almost too much for Jack to take, his nose twitching as the door swings open once again and his nose fills with the scent of every flower in the place.

He knew it was what you wanted; you had discussed flowers at length at one time due to a sudden sneezing fit that was caused by a particularly strong-smelling plant in the greenhouse. He knew your favorite color, the type you liked, he’d just have to get out the words and pay for them and then the deed would be done… Compared to the odors fighting for dominance in his nose right now, he could certainly handle a small bouquet with just one kind in them.

Jack stays strong, for you, for as torturous as this situation is as he stands in line with the enemy all around him, the smile on your face would be worth it (and his tail was already wagging happily at just the thought).  

[mariasont]

can you please write Spencer and shy!reader for valentine's day? 💕💝💖💖💞💝💖 I love them so much and I love you more

Lover Girl - S.R

summary: spencer has a hypothesis about love on vday & it’s not something you agree on pairing: post!prison!reid x shy!medialiaison!reader warnings: r going crazy over something spencer said hours ago (get a grip girl), r kinda goes out of character, spencer being the sassiest human alive wc: 1.9k a/n: thank u sm for requesting i love this and i love you even more ✨💖

The draft on your laptop was starting to look less like a press release and more and more like a psychological cry for help. Words sprawled like abandoned thoughts, entire sentences had been brutally sacrificed to the backspace key, and you'd rewritten the same transition phrase so many times it no longer felt like a real word. The whole thing read like the work of someone who had just sustained a minor head injury.

Objectively? It was bad.

Subjectively? It was an unmitigated disaster.

You blamed Spencer. Or maybe you blamed yourself for still thinking about it, for letting his words linger in your head like an incorrectly formatted footnote that you couldn't stop rereading.

You had never been a hopeless romantic, exactly, but you liked the idea of it, the structure of it. Believed it was more than a sum of its parts. More than just wires crossing in the brain and pattern recognition.

And yet, he had discarded the notion so easily, reducing love to a series of neurochemical reactions misinterpreted as emotional depth, something logical and completely stripped of any sort of real feeling.

He hadn't meant it cruelly, but his voice carried a kind of detachment that made you want to launch your coffee at his ridiculously well-structured face. It shouldn't bother you.

It really, genuinely, in no universe, should not bother you. It wasn't like you had a chance with him, so why did it matter what Spencer Reid, certified romance cynic, destroyer of sentimental ideals, and casual heartbreaker, thought about love?

If anything, his lack of belief should make it easier to kill this absurd crush before it spiraled into something unmanageable.

You squared your shoulders and looked back to the screen, back to the carefully worded Bureau-approved phrases meant to sound polished and agreeable.

Strengthening community trust. Bridging the gap between law enforcement and the public.

Meaningless, hollow, designed to be palatable without saying anything real. Blah. Blah.

I mean, did he really think that love was like an outdated scientific theory? It was Valentine's Day, for crying out loud—if nothing else, wasn't that proof of its existence?

You had considered the possibility that he had stopped believing because he had to. That prison had stripped the softness of him, turned love into just another abstract concept that didn't hold up under scrutiny, like time, like trust, like freedom.

Or maybe (and this was the more infuriating possibility) he had always been like this, too pragmatic to believe in something he couldn't technically hold in his hands.

You groaned under your breath, rubbing at your temple like you could physically press the words out of your skull, like they were just another headache waiting to pass. Why were you still thinking about this? It was stupid. He was stupid. You were stupid of caring.

Except he wasn't stupid. He was obnoxiously brilliant, the kind of smart that made other geniuses insecure, and that was the problem. Because if someone that intelligent didn't believe in love the way you did.... did that mean you were in the wrong? Had you been naive this whole time, blindly buying into a romanticized fantasy while Spencer had long dissected it and found it lacking?

The knock on your office doorframe startled you so badly that your entire skeletal structure attempted to evacuate your body, knee jerking up, colliding with the underside of the desk with an unforgiving whack.

You barely had time to wonder if you'd just concussed your kneecap before you looked up and—Spencer. Standing in the doorway like some cosmic punishment for thinking about him too hard.

Heat flooded your face like an admission of guilt, because why—why—did it suddenly feel like you'd been caught red-handed?

"Hey," he said, tilting his head. "You okay?"

No, you wanted to say. Not at all. Because what were you supposed to do when they very subject of your over analysis materialized in your doorway, looking at you like he could see every freaking unspoken thought folded between your ribs?

You swallowed, forced yourself to look anywhere but directly at him, because everything about this, about him, felt like some kind of cruel irony.

"Uh, yeah," you croaked, voice pitching embarrassingly high. Great. Perfect. Totally normal human behavior.

Spencer's brow furrowed, his head doing that thing he did when something wasn't quite right. But miraculously, he didn't say anything about it.

"I was just...," You gestured to your laptop.

Spencer nodded slowly, either accepting your excuse at face value or deciding it wasn't worth the effort to call you out.

"Right. I was just going to ask if you had finalized the press release for me to proof."

Your stomach lurched, a sharp drop like missing a step in the dark. Finalized. Bold of him to assume you'd done anything besides stare blankly at your screen for the past fifteen minutes.

"Oh! Yeah, of course," you said, throwing out the words with a half-hearted smile as if that would seal the lie. "Almost done. Just... you know, making sure it's perfect."

Spencer stepped inside, moving just past the threshold. His expression changed. Less neutral. More aware.

"You're acting strange."

Which was unacceptable, because if anyone in this scenario should be acting strange, it was him, standing there like a walking contradiction.

"I—what?" The laugh escaped before you could trap it behind your teeth, jagged and surely unnatural.

"You're tense. And you don't usually second-guess yourself this much. If it was almost done, you'd just say so." His eyes flicked to the laptop. "Did something happen?"

Your face went nuclear, looking away, hyper focused on the edge of the desk like it was the most fascinating thing you'd ever seen. "I don't know what you mean. I'm acting normal."

Spencer made a thoughtful noise. "Denial first. Then contradiction."

"I—"

"Oh, and there's the hesitation. That usually happens when you're trying to figure out how to backpedal without making it obvious."

"Do you always do this?"

"Only when people are lying about something." He squinted at you. "And you're a very bad liar."

He tapped a finger a finger against his arm in a way that made your nerves itch, before stepping forward and sinking into the chair across from your desk.

"Huh."

You frowned. "What?"

"You're doing the same thing you did earlier," he said matter-of-factly. "Avoiding direct responses, looking everywhere but me, shifting in your seat."

His gaze lingered, and then—Gods, help you—his lips curved, just slightly.

"Almost like the conversation was bothering you then, too."

Oh. Oh, this was bad. He was trying to talk about the one topic you'd spent the last twenty minutes trying to erase from your brain.

"I just, well, it's not that I had thoughts or feelings on it or anything, I just didn't, well, I mean, I just didn't want to be in that conversation, you know? Not that it was bad. Just—not my thing."

Spencer's eyebrows lifted. "So you disagreed with me?"

"I—I did not say that."

"No, but you just said everything but that." He leaned forward. "So tell me. What was it?"

You finally look at him, actually looked at him, and immediately regretted it.

You tried to gauge if there was any chance you could turn this conversation in your favor.

Nope.

"I mean, I wouldn't say disagreed, per se, I just... thought maybe your take was a little—," you sighed, "dismissive."

"Oh? And what exactly am I dismissing?"

You hesitated. Not because you didn't have an answer—because you had too many. Love wasn't just science, romance wasn't just a byproduct of biology, that it meant something. It's real. It matters. It's— "You're dismissing everything beyond your own reasoning."

You waited. For the rebuttal, the deconstruction, the inevitable moment Spencer laid your words bare and left you scrambling to rebuild them. But this time there was nothing. He just sat there. Looking at you. Like he was waiting for something else.

You fidgeted. Crossed your arms. Uncrossed them. "What?"

"Nothing. Just... thinking." A pause. "You clearly have an opinion on this, just trying to figure out what it is."

Your lips pressed together, your brain begging you to let it go, to shut up before you started. But the words were already forming, bubbling up too fast to stop.

"Okay, look. I get it. I get the science. I get that love can be explained in chemical terms."

Spencer nodded, like you were finally seeing his point.

"But that doesn't mean that's all it is," you said, sitting up straighter. "Love isn't just an instinct. If it was then why do people stay in love when it doesn't make sense? Why do people wait years for someone who might never come back? Why do people hold on to feelings they know won't be returned?"

You inhaled sharply, only to realize what you had said felt a little too personal. Heat flared to your toes. "I just, uh, you're looking at it like it's an equation when it's more like—like art. You can break down why a painting is visually appealing, but that doesn't explain why it moves people."

"So love is art then?" A small smirk tugged at his lips. "That would mean it's subjective. That one person's version of it isn't the same as another's."

"Well, yeah, that's my point." You nodded. "Everyone experiences it differently. That's why it can't be reduced to formulas. You can recreate the exact conditions of a moment, use the same words, set the same scene but it won't feel the same to someone else. Because love isn't about external factors, it's about who you're with, how they make you feel."

"That sounds dangerously close to saying it's entirely irrational."

You exhaled. "If it is, then I guess that means you'll never understand it."

Spencer pushed himself to his feet, adjusting his cuff like this was just another conversation and not something that had you actively fighting for oxygen.

Then, with an infuriating self-satisfied smile, he murmured, "Well, maybe I just need the right person to teach me."

You nearly choked on air.

And with one last glance, he grinned and said, "Happy Valentine's Day, lover girl."

taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[solxamber]

Giving Them Chocolates on Valentine's Day with: Ignihyde

Go here for other dorms

(platonic ortho)

Idia Shroud

You almost regret how direct you are.

Because the second you hold out the chocolates and say, “These are for you, Idia. I like you,” he looks like he’s either going to faint or straight-up perish.

His hair flashes flaming pink. His pupils shrink. His shoulders tense so hard that you can almost hear his soul leaving his body.

“…W-What?” His voice cracks. He immediately clears his throat, gripping his tablet like a lifeline. “You’re—wait, hold up, pause—you’re joking, right?”

You frown. “Why would I joke about this?”

His entire existence malfunctions. He physically leans away from you like he needs to social distance from his own feelings.

“B-Because! You—me—this—!” He waves his hands in the air, looking more and more like he’s about to blue screen. “I mean, what kind of main character energy timeline is this?! There’s no way—this isn’t real life—"

You sigh, crossing your arms. “Idia.”

He flinches.

“I’m serious,” you say, firm but soft. “I like you. You. Just you.”

His breath catches.

His hair flickers again—brighter, more erratic—and suddenly, he’s curling in on himself, gripping his hoodie like it’s his armor.

“Oh my god,” he mutters, sounding utterly doomed. “Oh my god.”

You wait, letting him process.

And then—so, so quietly, almost like he doesn’t realize he’s saying it out loud—

“…I like you too.”

Your heart stutters.

His face flushes completely, and he immediately hides behind his sleeves, his voice muffled as he groans, “Ughhh, don’t look at me, I’m being cringe—”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re fine, Idia.”

“Nope, incorrect, literally having a cardiac event right now, please hold—”

You grin. “Then I guess now’s a bad time to ask if you wanna hang out?”

He pauses.

You watch as his brain visibly reboots, the panic flickering into something else. Something… hopeful.

“Uh.” He fidgets with his sleeves, glancing away. “…You, um. Y’know. Wanna stay and watch a movie or something?”

Your chest warms.

You nod, smiling. “I’d love to.”

Idia freezes again. Then, with one last tiny, flustered squeak, he scoots over on his bean bag, giving you space to sit beside him.

His hair is still pink.

Ortho Shroud

Ortho lights up immediately when you hand him the chocolates, his eyes glowing brighter as he carefully takes the box from your hands.

“For me?” he asks, tilting his head, excitement clear in his voice.

You nod, smiling. “Yeah. I just… wanted to thank you. You’re a great friend, Ortho.”

For a moment, he’s completely still. Then, his thrusters let out a tiny burst of energy, making him hover slightly like he’s too happy to stay grounded.

“Wow!” he exclaims, holding the chocolates close to his chest. “This is amazing! No one’s ever given me Valentine’s chocolates before!”

Your heart melts. “Well, you deserve it. You’re always looking out for me. It’s about time I gave you a gift for once.”

Ortho lets out a delighted giggle as he zooms forward and pulls you into a hug.

It’s warm, firm, and just tight enough to make you laugh as he squeezes you happily.

“Thank you! I’m so happy! This is going in my memory banks forever!”

You grin, hugging him back. “Glad you like it, buddy.”

Ortho pulls back, still buzzing with energy. “Oh! I need to go show Big Brother! He’s gonna be so surprised!”

You chuckle. “Go for it.”

As Ortho zooms off, chocolates safely in his hands, you can’t help but feel lighter, happier.

Because, honestly? Seeing him that excited was the best part of all.

Masterlist ; Valentine's Event

[mandalhoerian]

best friend's brother au with caleb.

☼ MC is your best friend, emphasis on best friend. The attachment is deep, it's sandbox love, something you can’t shake even if you tried. And you have tried.

☼ The thing is though, she was born into a world where she never had to doubt if someone would come for her. Her big brother Caleb was always there. Three years older, effortlessly reliable, and devastatingly kind in a way that would make someone go "What are we?" after an interaction.

☼ And you? You’re what MC would’ve been without him.

☼ You have never been a priority. You were an accident. A presence tolerated, never wanted.

☼ Your mom, when she was around, floated through life like a ghost, a wisp of perfume and cold hands, someone who never touched the ground long enough to be real. She loved things in theory, not in practice. When she spoke about you, it was as if you were a character in someone else's story, an inconvenience she pitied from a distance.

☼ Your dad? He was fire and fists in walls, a voice that cut through the air like a blade. Not always cruel, but never kind. His affection came with sharp edges. With rules. With expectations you could never meet. When he spoke to you, it was never to see you. It was to remind you of how much space you took up. How little you gave back.

☼ There was no safety net. No soft place to land.

☼ Food was there if you wanted it, sure. If you made it yourself. If you earned it. And if you forgot? Well. That was on you.

☼ If you got sick, you figured it out. If you needed something, you went without.

☼ You survived on scraps of affection, of attention. You learned to ration kindness like it was a finite resource, something you had to trade for, something that could be taken away the moment you asked for too much.

☼ And then you met MC. And she had everything.

☼ MC, who had a home that smelled like warm food and lived-in laughter. MC, who had an older brother who noticed things.

☼ Noticed when she was hungry. When she was tired. When she was upset about something she wasn’t saying. The kind of care that was so casual, so natural, it made your stomach twist with something bitter and ugly.

☼ Because no one had ever done that for you. No one had ever looked at you and seen you.

(Why does she get that?)

(What did she do to deserve that?)

(Why didn’t you?)

☼ Caleb wasn’t just a big brother — he was a gravitational pull. He remembered the way she liked her eggs. He made sure she had a coat when the weather got cold. He made sure she ate.

☼ You watched, bewildered, as he handed her a juice box while she was rambling about something completely unrelated. She didn’t even have to ask. She hadn’t even noticed she was thirsty, but he did.

☼ When you were hungry, you ignored it until it went away. When you were cold, you learned to sleep in layers. You didn’t understand what it meant to be taken care of before you even had to ask. Before you even realized you needed it.

☼ And you hated her for it. Just a little. Just enough to allow yourself to feel it thrumming in your chest, tight and ugly.

☼ You hated how ungrateful she was. How she never seemed to notice what she had. How she rolled her eyes when he nagged her about staying up too late or skipping breakfast. How she never seemed to think about the fact that she had someone who noticed when she was hurting, when she was tired, when she wasn’t taking care of herself.

☼ You wanted to shake her.

☼ You wanted to scream, Do you even realize how lucky you are? Do you even understand what it means to have someone who cares enough to pay attention? To watch over you, even when you don’t ask them to?

☼ And maybe — maybe, if she had been cruel about it, if she had been spoiled and smug and wielded his affection like a weapon, it wouldn’t have stung so much.

☼ But she wasn’t.

☼ MC was kind.

☼ She was the one who noticed when you were skipping lunch. The one who asked if you wanted to sleep over when your house was too quiet, or too loud, or just too much. The one who reached out first.

☼ She didn’t deserve your jealousy. She had never done anything but love you.

☼ But you still felt it anyway.

☼ So, it was never about Caleb himself. Not at first.

☼ It was about wanting someone to see you the way he saw her.

☼ (And it was only later, much later, after years of standing at the edges of their orbit, after watching the way Caleb watched her, after watching the way he took care of you, too, by proxy — only then did you realize what a useless little dream that was.)

☼ Because if she was sunshine and resilience, you were a train wreck balancing on its last two wheels. A cat on its ninth life and should have died at least three times by now. If survival was a game, you’d be playing on the hardest difficulty with no armor, no buffs, just pure recklessness.

☼ You popped painkillers back-to-back because you just wanted the pain to stop. You didn't consider the consequences until you were puking up foam and gripping the edge of the sink, realizing you might actually die. And the worst part? Even then, you thought, it’s fine. I threw up most of it.

☼ You avoided the dentist for a year because of the deep, visceral fear, until one day the infection got so bad you were feverish and shaking, and MC had to physically drag you there. The dentist took one look at you and told you the place you should be at is the hospital, because you were on the verge of sepsis.

☼ Caleb could never let that happen to MC. He wouldn't allow it.

☼ And it wasn't just that he took care of her. It’s that he wanted to. That he was invested. When she was sick, he brought her soup. When she was tired, he scolded her for not getting enough sleep. He nagged, but not in the way parents did, and certainly not in the way teachers do. There was no disappointment in it. Only concern.

☼ Because it's Caleb we’re talking about. He was nice to everyone. The golden boy, the one teachers love, the one who could probably murder someone and walk away with just a warning because the principal would assume he had a good reason.

☼ When you met him for the first time as he politely asked for you to be his sister's friend because she liked you very much, you didn't get it. You assumed he must be a bully and was threatening you, or something equally insufferable.

☼ But Caleb wasn't just popular — he was beloved. People gravitated towards him, and not because he was loud or demanding. He was just Caleb.

☼ It’s only later that you realized he was different with MC. Why he treated you differently by extension.

☼ You weren't an actual person to him. Not really. You were an extension of MC. A friend that she loved, therefore someone he had a passing duty to tolerate and occasionally help.

☼ When you and MC argued, he mediated with the same detached patience you’d expect from an older brother refereeing his little sister’s fight with a friend over a lost hair tie. He wasn't your gege. He’s hers.

☼ And you hated it.

☼ At some point, it became about him.

☼ The way he laughed, low and warm. The way he lingered at the door after dropping MC off, like he had one more thing to say but thought better of it. The way he called her pipsqueak but never called you anything at all.

☼ You hated that you liked him.

☼ You hated that you caught feelings for someone who doesn’t even see you.

☼ You hated that there’s no fixing this.

☼ Because Caleb is a siscon. A full-fledged, textbook case. His world has revolved around MC for as long as you’ve known him, and you know it always will.

☼ You didn't stand a chance.

☼ And yet — when you were with MC, and Caleb ruffled her hair and teased her for something dumb, and you stood there like a third wheel — you still held onto that tiny, humiliating hope that maybe, just maybe, he would turn to you next.

☼ He never does.

[reidmarieprentiss]

Don't Get In Your Own Way

Summary: You and Spencer have always been close - everyone else can see it's more than just friendship. When will you two be ready to see it as well?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x BAU fem!reader

Category: fluff, light smut (18+)

Warnings/Includes: alcohol consumption, suggestive content, friends to lovers, minimal BAU case talk, mild public indecency

Word count: 10.3k

a/n: this was an olddd draft ,,, i came back to give it the ol' razzle dazzle

main masterlist

Every afternoon, like clockwork, you and Spencer retreat to the stairs outside the FBI offices, your little quiet corner away from the noise of the bullpen. The team is usually scattered—some opting for takeout at their desks, others heading out for a bite—but you and Spencer? You prefer the fresh air, the slight reprieve from case files and fluorescent lights, just the two of you.

Spencer talks—a lot. And you let him. You never interrupt when he goes off on a tangent, whether about a book he’s been reading, some obscure historical event, or even the latest behavioral theory he’s been mulling over. He’s learned, over time, that you listen—that you don’t just humor him but engage, ask questions, challenge him. It’s one of the reasons he feels safest around you, why he lets the mask slip, why he doesn’t feel the need to filter himself. Around you, he’s just Spencer. Not Dr. Reid, not the genius of the BAU. He's just a guy who loves sharing the things that make his brain light up.

Lately, he’s been growing his hair, letting the waves fall into his face while he works. He never noticed how often he pushed it back, but you did. One afternoon, after watching him shove it out of his eyes for the hundredth time while struggling through paperwork, you wordlessly slid a hair tie onto his wrist.

“For when you finally give up,” you’d said with a small smile.

Spencer had looked at the simple black band like it was some kind of sacred object before slipping it on. He never did tie his hair up, but the band stayed. Now, when he’s anxious, when his thoughts spiral too fast for even him to keep up, he rolls it between his fingers, snaps it lightly against his skin, and uses it as an anchor. He wonders if you even realize what you’ve given him and how something so small makes him feel grounded.

You are completely unaware of how much Spencer sees you and how much he feels for you. You like him—more than you should, more than is probably appropriate for two people who are just friends—but you tell yourself it doesn’t matter. Spencer is brilliant and kind and so effortlessly attractive, and you? You convince yourself he’d never see you that way. It’s not self-deprecating, not really—just… reality.

Meanwhile, Spencer sits beside you every day, wondering how you don’t notice how his eyes linger, how his heart jumps every time you laugh, and how he holds onto your hair tie like a lifeline. How he wonders if you feel the same way.

—

Derek doesn’t let up. Not now, not ever.

Spencer’s been subjected to his relentless teasing for years, but ever since he started growing his hair out—and ever since you gave him that hair tie—Derek has been on a mission.

“Pretty Boy, you’re pathetic,” Derek says one afternoon, leaning against Spencer’s desk with his arms crossed, watching him roll the hair tie between his fingers like it’s some kind of lifeline.

Spencer, who has been deep in thought, barely looks up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on, man,” Derek scoffs. “The hair tie? The way you light up every time she talks to you? The fact that you, the man who hates all forms of physical contact, don’t even flinch when she gets in your space? Do you even hear yourself when you talk about her?”

Spencer blinks at him, feigning ignorance. “I talk about her the same way I talk about all of my friends.”

Derek lets out a loud, incredulous laugh. “That’s funny. Real funny. Because I don’t remember you getting all flustered and dreamy-eyed when you talk about me.”

Spencer’s brows furrow. “I don’t get flustered.”

Derek raises a brow and mimics Spencer in a high-pitched, breathy voice. “Oh, she listens to me ramble. She actually engages with me. She’s so perceptive.” He drops the act, shaking his head. “Man, you are down bad.”

Spencer rolls his eyes and turns back to his book, a weak defense mechanism. “I really don’t think—”

“No, you don’t think,” Derek interrupts. “That’s the problem. Because if you were thinking, you’d realize that she looks at you the same way you look at her.”

That makes Spencer freeze, a book halfway in his hands.

Derek smirks, knowing he’s struck something deep. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Spencer opens his mouth, ready to protest and argue some logical counterpoint, but nothing comes out. He can’t explain away the way his heart clenches at the mere possibility that you might feel the same.

Derek slaps a hand on his shoulder, grin widening. “Any day now, Pretty Boy. Any day now.” Then he walks off, leaving Spencer to stare blankly at his book, brain absolutely wrecked.

He glances down at the hair tie around his wrist, suddenly hyper-aware of the way it sits against his skin.

Rossi is just as relentless with you as Derek is with Spencer—except he’s a little more subtle about it. He doesn’t tease in the same playful, in-your-face way that Derek does with Spencer. No, Rossi prefers to plant little seeds, make small comments, and give you just enough to get your mind churning.

He’s been keeping a close eye on you ever since you joined the team. Maybe it’s the way you love to talk about home or how you light up when someone treats you like family. So, naturally, Rossi steps in. A guiding hand, an occasional piece of advice, a warm presence when you need one.

And right now? Right now, you need someone to tell you that you’re being blind as hell.

“You know, bella, I’ve been around a long time,” Rossi says one afternoon, leaning back in his chair, swirling a glass of bourbon in his hand. “I’ve seen a lot of things. A lot of things. And I’d like to think I have a pretty good read on people.”

You barely look up from your case file. “Are you about to say something wise or just something annoying?”

He smirks. “Oh, I can do both.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue.

Rossi takes a sip of his drink, watching you with that knowing look that makes you feel like you’re being studied under a microscope. “You like him, you know.”

Your stomach twists uncomfortably, but you don’t react. Not outwardly, at least. “Who?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb. You’re smarter than that.”

You exhale sharply, still keeping your eyes on your paperwork. “I don’t like Spencer.”

Rossi chuckles, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “That’s cute. Now say it again like you mean it.”

You finally glance up at him, narrowing your eyes. “I mean it.”

“Mm-hmm,” Rossi hums, clearly unconvinced. He leans forward, resting his arms on his desk. “You know, you remind me a lot of myself when I was younger.”

You raise a brow. “Oh? You had a thing for Spencer, too?”

Rossi lets out a full-bodied laugh. “No, but I was stubborn. And I was good at convincing myself that things weren’t what they obviously were.” He tilts his head, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Let me ask you something. If I told you that Spencer thinks the world of you, that he practically glows when you’re around, what would you say?”

You swallow, suddenly very aware of your heartbeat. “I’d say you’re exaggerating.”

Rossi shakes his head. “No, bella, I’m not. Derek sees it. I see it. Hell, even Garcia sees it, and she’s usually too busy matchmaking herself to notice when something’s right under her nose.” He leans back again, watching you carefully. “But the real question is—why don’t you see it?”

Your mouth opens, then closes. The truth? Because the idea that Spencer could feel that way about you is terrifying. You’ve convinced yourself he wouldn’t, couldn’t, not in the way you secretly hope.

So you deflect. “Spencer’s just… Spencer. He’s sweet to everyone.”

Rossi sighs, shaking his head with something like fond exasperation. “You keep telling yourself that, kid. But one of these days, you’re going to wake up and realize you’ve been standing in your own way this whole time.”

You scoff lightly. “What, you want me to march over there and declare my undying love?”

Rossi grins. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

You shake your head, muttering something about meddling old men as you shove your paperwork into a neat stack, trying to ignore the way your hands feel slightly unsteady.

Rossi just watches you, amusement still lingering on his face.

Because he knows.

And one day, you’ll know, too.

—

The precinct is buzzing with too much movement and too much noise. Officers shuffling papers, detectives arguing over case details, coffee machines gurgling, the fluorescent lights humming like an irritating static in the back of your head. It’s a small station, cramped, and the team has been forced into an even smaller conference room, shoulder to shoulder with local law enforcement.

Spencer has been quiet all morning, his fingers twitching slightly, his blinking a little too frequently. You’ve been with him long enough to notice when the world is becoming too much for him, and right now, it’s clear that the rapid-fire conversations, the overlapping voices, the smell of burnt coffee and cheap air freshener—it's all pushing him to the edge of his tolerance.

So, as usual, he attaches himself to you.

It’s something he’s done for years, seeking you out when things get overwhelming. You’ve never minded. In fact, you never even thought much of it—until now.

Right now, his head is slumped against your shoulder, a deep sigh escaping him, his breath warm where it ghosts over the fabric of your shirt. His long fingers loosely clutch your jacket sleeve, not in an obvious way, but just enough that you know he’s anchoring himself with your presence. His entire frame is pressed slightly against your side, fitting into your space in a way that should feel intrusive—but it doesn’t. It never does.

But today? Today, it does feel different. Not bad, not at all, just... noticeable.

The warmth of his body against yours. The way his hair brushes your cheek when he shifts. The way you can feel the weight of him, trusting, unguarded.

You should say something—acknowledge it, maybe even tease him like Derek would—but your throat feels tight. Instead, you sit perfectly still, let him rest, let him take what he needs from you.

Across the room, Rossi is watching. He doesn’t say a word, just gives you a knowing look, an almost smirk, before turning back to his conversation with Hotch.

You swallow hard, your mind racing with thoughts you don’t have time to entertain. Not right now. Not with a case on the line.

Spencer exhales again, a deep, exhausted sound. Without thinking, you lift your hand and gently brush it over his arm, a quiet reassurance. He hums in response—barely audible, but enough to let you know he appreciates it.

And you?

You pretend your pulse isn’t hammering; pretend this is just like every other time.

Even though, for some reason, it doesn’t feel that way anymore.

—

The room is already cold and sterile, the air thick with the lingering scent of antiseptic and something darker, something that clings to the walls of places like these—death, decay, the remnants of lives cut short. The mortuary is dimly lit, the fluorescent bulbs casting a bluish hue over the metal slabs, the bodies covered with crisp white sheets.

Spencer and Emily step inside, the door clicking shut behind them, sealing them away from the world of the living for just a little while.

Emily exhales, rubbing her hands together despite the temperature-controlled environment. “I don’t know what Hotch thinks we’re going to find that we didn’t already see,” she murmurs, but there’s no real complaint in her tone—just exhaustion.

Spencer doesn’t answer right away. He’s already moving, scanning the room with sharp, restless eyes. He doesn’t like being back here. Too quiet, too still. Too much time to think. And he’s already spent the morning overstimulated, barely hanging onto himself. If it weren’t for you—your presence, your steadying warmth—he might have lost his grip entirely.

But you’re not here now.

Emily watches him for a moment, sees the way his fingers twitch slightly, how he pushes his hair back only to drop his hand to his wrist, rolling the familiar hair tie between his fingers. A grounding mechanism. She’d seen him do it before.

“Spencer,” she calls gently.

He blinks and looks at her.

“You okay?”

He hesitates, then nods.

Back in the SUV, Emily watches Spencer out of the corner of her eye as he flips through the case file, his knee bouncing slightly, his fingers twitching against the edge of the folder. He’s rattling off statistics about the likelihood of unsub behavior escalating post-mortem examinations, but there’s a certain absentmindedness to the way he’s speaking—like he’s not entirely here.

And Emily Prentiss? She’s no fool.

So, as she turns onto the road leading toward the mortuary, she decides to go for it.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she starts, keeping her tone casual. “In fact, I haven’t for the past few years.” She glances at him and watches as his fingers tighten slightly on the folder. “But today felt different. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Spencer stills, his knee stopping mid-bounce before he forces it back down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Emily snorts. “Oh, come on. You can’t seriously expect me to believe that.”

Spencer purses his lips, shifting in his seat like he’s trying to physically move away from this conversation. “We have more important things to focus on right now.”

“Uh-huh,” Emily hums. “And yet, back at the station, you looked about one deep sigh away from crawling into her lap.”

Spencer stiffens. “That’s an exaggeration.”

Emily shrugs, smirking slightly. “Is it? Because from where I was standing, you were practically molded to her side.”

Spencer stays silent, glaring down at the folder like it’s personally offended him.

Emily softens, tilting her head. “Look, I’m not teasing you. I’m just asking—are you okay? Because I’ve seen you cling to her before when things get overwhelming, but today… it was different.” She hesitates. “You were different. She was different.”

Spencer swallows, pressing his lips together. He could brush it off. He could easily throw out some logical, cold dismissal. I was overstimulated, and she provided a familiar presence. There is nothing unusual about that, but the problem is, it is unusual.

Because for the first time, he noticed it.

Noticed how natural it felt, how good it felt, to be pressed against you. Noticed the way your touch lingered, how your fingers brushed his arm with a softness that made his skin buzz. Noticed how he felt safe, not just because you were familiar, but because he wanted to be close to you. Because he liked it.

And that? That realization is unraveling something in him he isn’t sure he’s ready for.

“I—” He hesitates, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know.”

Emily watches him for a moment before nodding, letting the conversation settle for a few beats before she speaks again.

“You know,” she says, keeping her tone light. “You could always ask her.”

Spencer’s head snaps toward her, eyes wide, panicked. “Ask her what?”

Emily grins, eyes twinkling as she pulls into the mortuary parking lot.

“Oh, you know. On a date.”

Spencer makes a strangled noise of protest, but Emily is already unbuckling her seatbelt, pretending she doesn’t hear it.

She lets him stew in his thoughts and sit there with that panicked expression because honestly?

He needs to figure it out for himself.

—

Tuesday nights were for Star Trek, and Friday nights were for pizza and movies. It had started as something casual, a way to unwind after long days at work, but over time, it became an unspoken rule—a part of your week as consistent as waking up in the morning.

Tuesday nights meant curling up on your couch, debating over which Star Trek series to watch that week. Spencer always had his preferences—he loved The Original Series for its groundbreaking storytelling and The Next Generation for its philosophical depth—but he never protested when you picked Voyager because he knew how much you liked Captain Janeway. You didn’t always pay attention to the episodes the way he did, but you loved listening to him ramble, watching his eyes light up as he dissected the scientific inaccuracies or argued about the moral dilemmas presented in each episode.

And then there was Friday night—pizza and movie night.

Unlike Star Trek night, where Spencer usually held the reins, movie night was a battle. You had vastly different tastes—Spencer leaned toward old classics, noir films, and things with intricate plots that required full intellectual engagement. On the other hand, you sometimes just wanted to watch an over-the-top action flick, something fun and ridiculous.

“I don’t understand why we can’t watch Casablanca,” Spencer had complained one Friday, frowning at your choice of Die Hard.

“Because Casablanca is depressing, and I just want to watch Bruce Willis blow things up,” you’d argued, plopping onto the couch.

Spencer had grumbled but ultimately stayed, reluctantly eating his pizza while you enjoyed Die Hard a little too much.

But despite the friendly bickering, you both always showed up for each other. No matter how draining the week was or how heavy the cases got, Tuesday and Friday nights were yours. If one of you was too tired, the other brought food. If Spencer needed to visit his mom, he’d make you promise not to watch Star Trek without him. If you had a bad day, he let you pick the movie without a single complaint (except for that one time you picked Twilight, which he still refuses to acknowledge).

For years, it was just routine, something comfortable, something easy.

The case had finally wrapped up late Wednesday afternoon, and while you should have been relieved—grateful that everything ended as cleanly as possible—you were distracted. Off-kilter. Your mind wasn’t on the debriefing, the flight back to Quantico, or even the pile of paperwork waiting for you tomorrow.

No, your mind was stuck on him.

Spencer.

More specifically, the way you couldn’t seem to shake the lingering warmth of his body from when he had leaned against you, or the quiet, vulnerable way he had sighed into your shoulder, or the way Rossi’s words had wormed their way into your brain and stuck.

"You keep telling yourself that, kid. But one of these days, you’re going to wake up and realize you’ve been standing in your own way this whole time."

Damn him.

You were usually so good at compartmentalizing, at keeping your feelings neatly boxed up and shoved into the farthest corner of your mind where they couldn’t betray you. But now? Now, every little thing Spencer did had you spiraling.

Like right now.

Friday afternoon rolls around, and you’re already on edge.

When Spencer casually walks up to your desk, his messenger bag is slung over his shoulder, and his hands are tucked into his pockets, you already know you’re in trouble.

“Hey,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “We’re still on for tonight, right?”

You blink at him.

Wait. What?

Is he confirming plans? He hasn’t done that since the first month you started doing this—since he was still unsure if the ritual was set in stone. But now, after all this time, he’s asking?

Your heart starts hammering, palms go clammy.

“Yeah—yes,” you blurt out, nodding a little too fast. “Of course. Why wouldn’t we?”

Spencer watches you carefully, clearly picking up on something being off. His brow furrows slightly, and he studies you with that damn profiler gaze, the one that makes you feel like he’s reading every single thought you’re desperately trying to bury.

“You okay?” he asks slowly.

You force a laugh. It comes out weird. “Yeah! Why wouldn’t I be?”

His frown deepens.

Okay. You need to fix this before you combust.

You grab your phone off your desk and clear your throat. “So! What are we watching tonight?” you ask, trying to force the conversation forward before you completely unravel.

Spencer tilts his head slightly, still watching you with suspicion, but he lets it go.

“For our movie night? Or are you asking if we’re switching to a Star Trek episode lineup for some reason?”

You roll your eyes, grateful for the distraction. “Movie night, obviously.”

He hums, his lips quirking slightly. “I figured it was my turn to pick.”

You groan dramatically. “Ugh. If this is another silent foreign film that you claim is ‘captivating,’ I’m kicking you out before the pizza even gets here.”

Spencer smirks. “It’s not silent.”

You narrow your eyes. “But it is foreign.”

Spencer just shrugs.

You groan again, shaking your head. “Fine. But if I fall asleep, I’m blaming you.”

He grins, and for a moment, just a moment, everything feels normal again.

Except it’s not.

Because now you’re noticing everything. The way he’s smiling at you, like he genuinely likes looking at you. The way he’s still standing a little too close, the scent of cologne you’ve never noticed mixing with the faint smell of old books and coffee. Your heart is pounding, not from panic anymore but from something else.

And Rossi’s voice echoes in your head—You’re going to wake up and realize you’ve been standing in your own way this whole time.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to push the thought away.

Spencer is still looking at you, waiting, expectant.

You clear your throat. “So… my place at seven?”

He nods. “Your place at seven.”

And with that, he walks away, leaving you gripping your desk, trying to convince yourself that your entire world hasn’t just shifted on its axis.

—

The knock at the door makes your stomach drop.

You weren’t expecting it. Not from him.

Spencer never knocks. Not anymore. Not when he’s been coming here for years, slipping inside without hesitation, using the key you gave him so long ago that neither of you even remembers when it stopped being your apartment and started feeling like his, too.

But tonight, he knocks.

And for a moment, you just stare at the door, pulse pounding in your ears, a strange, unsettling panic twisting in your chest.

Why?

Why would he knock?

Did something happen? Did you do something? Did he?

You scramble to your feet, nearly tripping over the corner of the rug in your rush to reach the door. Your hand hovers over the doorknob for half a second too long before you finally pull it open.

And there he is.

Standing in the dim glow of the hallway light, looking just as nervous as you feel.

He’s holding the pizza in both hands, gripping the box like it’s the only thing anchoring him. His lips are parted slightly as if he’s mid-thought, mid-explanation for why he’s standing here like a stranger instead of walking in like he always does.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice is careful, deliberate. Like he’s testing the temperature of the air between you.

You swallow. “Why’d you knock?”

Spencer shifts, his fingers flexing against the cardboard. “I—” He exhales sharply, eyes flickering down for a moment before meeting yours again. “I wasn’t sure if I should just—if you wanted me to just come in.”

Your stomach twists. “You always just come in.”

“I know,” he says quickly. “I just—” He stops, swallows, tries again. Spencer takes a breath, shifting his grip on the pizza box. “Can I come in?”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the doorknob as you nod and step aside.

The warm glow of your living room wraps around Spencer like a familiar embrace. The scent of old books and candle wax lingers in the air, mingling with the rich aroma of fresh pizza. He’s holding the box carefully as if it were fragile or important. His fingers clutch the edges a little too tightly.

Something is different.

You feel it the moment he walks through the door, the way he hesitates on the threshold before closing it behind him. His usual easy presence is replaced with something unsure, something heavy that neither of you can quite name.

It’s never been awkward before.

But tonight, it is.

Maybe it’s the way he swallows before speaking or the way you feel hyper-aware of the space between you—space that’s usually nonexistent when you’re tangled up on the couch, watching whatever movie you finally agreed on after bickering for twenty minutes.

Maybe it’s the way his fingers brush against his wrist absentmindedly, rolling the hair tie between them, a habit you know means he’s feeling too much.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because something unspoken has been hanging in the air between you for a while now, something neither of you have dared to name.

Spencer sits down beside you, a little closer than usual but still not quite enough. His knee brushes against yours, and you don’t pull away. Neither does he.

“Movie?” you ask, trying to sound normal. Trying to push through the tension.

Spencer nods, but he doesn’t reach for the remote. Instead, he glances at you, searching your face, lips parting slightly like he wants to say something.

And for the first time in all the years of Friday pizza-and-movie nights, for the first time in all the comfortable silences and easy laughter, you think—

He might actually say what you’re both thinking.

But when Spencer finally does speak, it’s not what you expect. You blink at him, your brain short-circuiting.

"Do you want to watch 10 Things I Hate About You?"

It takes you a second to process the words because that is not what you were expecting.

For a moment, your grip tightens on the edge of the couch, your knuckles going white, and your heart still hammering from the sheer weight of what you thought he was about to say.

“What?” you finally spit out, voice higher than you’d like.

Spencer shifts awkwardly in his seat, clearing his throat as if he’s just realized how strange the moment is. “It’s… isn’t it your favorite rom-com?”

You stare at him. “Yeah… but I didn’t think you liked it.”

“I don’t dislike it,” he hedges, suddenly looking everywhere except at you. “And, statistically speaking, if we’re ranking romantic comedies based on their adherence to Shakespearean influence, it’s arguably one of the better adaptations of Taming of the Shrew—”

You cut him off with a squint. “You’re rambling.”

He presses his lips together, a nervous habit, his fingers twitching slightly. “Right. Sorry.”

The air between you feels charged, like an unsaid truth is pressing against the walls, threatening to break them down. But instead of confronting it and saying whatever it is that’s clearly sitting on the tip of his tongue, Spencer is talking about rom-coms.

You cross your arms, tilting your head. “Okay, but… why? Why that movie? Why now?”

His eyes flicker up to yours then, just for a second, and there’s something raw, vulnerable, and uncertain.

And then, before you can decipher it, he shrugs. “I just thought you’d like it.”

Your heart clenches painfully because God, he’s so Spencer. Always thinking of you, noticing the smallest details, and looking out for you even when you don’t expect it.

And yet… there’s still something unspoken lingering between you, something simmering beneath the surface, something that almost came out before he took a sharp left turn into the world of 10 Things I Hate About You.

“Do you want to watch?” Spencer asks again in that vulnerable tone, lifting the movie case from his bag.

You exhale, rubbing your hands on your pants to wipe off the nervous sweat. “Yeah,” you sigh.

Spencer nods, but it’s almost hesitant, almost like he wasn’t sure you’d say yes. He lingers for a second with the 10 Things I Hate About You DVD case in his hands, gripping it just as tightly as he had the pizza box moments ago.

You swallow, rubbing your palms against your pants again before reaching for the remote. “Uh, you can put it in.”

He moves toward the DVD player slowly, methodically, like he’s focusing on the action so he doesn’t have to focus on you. You watch him as he kneels down, sliding the disc into the tray, his fingers steady even though you know he isn’t.

The air between you is thick with something unspoken, a weight pressing on both of you, but neither of you acknowledges it. Instead, you wait as the movie boots up, the familiar menu music filling the quiet space between you.

Spencer hesitates before sitting, but it’s closer than usual when he does.

Not overly close—not close enough to make it obvious—but close enough that you can feel the heat of his body, close enough that his knee brushes yours again.

You pretend not to notice.

He pretends not to, either.

The movie starts, and for the first time, neither of you is watching it.

You’re too aware of him—the way he shifts slightly when you do, his fingers twitch against his knee like he’s trying not to reach out, and the way his breath catches ever so slightly when your arm brushes his.

Spencer doesn’t usually do this. He’s tactile when he’s overwhelmed, yes, but this? This is different. This is hesitation; this is awareness; this is something tiptoeing dangerously close to the edge of something neither of you has dared to touch before.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

So you try to focus on the movie, try to push through the nervous energy coiling in your stomach.

But then—

Then Spencer shifts, leans back against the couch, exhales softly—

And his arm drops, just slightly, around your shoulders.

Your heart stops.

You stare at the screen, unblinking, unsure if he even realizes what he’s done.

But he doesn’t move.

And neither do you.

The room feels different now. Warmer, heavier, charged with something neither of you have spoken aloud. You can’t tell if it’s the candlelight flickering in the dim space or if it’s just him, just this, whatever this is, settling around you like a second skin.

Spencer’s arm—his arm—is resting along the back of the couch, not quite on you, but close enough that you can feel its weight, close enough that if you shifted even the slightest bit, it would be.

You try to focus on the movie. Try to act like nothing’s changed.

But your body betrays you.

Your shoulders stiffen at first, instinctively, not because you don’t want this—God, you do—but because you don’t understand it. Because Spencer Reid does not do things like this. He does not reach out in this way, not unless he’s overwhelmed, and even then, it’s different. This is intentional, isn’t it?

Isn’t it?

You inhale slowly, carefully, keeping your eyes trained on the screen as Kat Stratford delivers another sharp-witted insult. But you’re not really listening. You’re waiting. Waiting for Spencer to shift, realize what he’s done, pull back, laugh nervously, and pretend like nothing happened.

Except—

He doesn’t.

If anything, he seems more relaxed than before. His breathing is even, his body settling into the couch like he belongs there. Like you belong there.

And then, before you can stop yourself before you can overthink it like you always do, you shift. Just slightly. Just enough that your shoulder leans into his arm.

The movement is so small and insignificant that if it were anyone else, they wouldn’t notice. But this is Spencer. And Spencer notices everything.

You hear the sharp inhale of breath and feel the way his body tenses just for a moment—just long enough to make your pulse hammer against your ribs—before he exhales slowly, deliberately.

And then—

Then his fingers brush against your shoulder.

A whisper of a touch, hesitant, almost like he’s waiting for you to pull away.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

So, he stays.

And for the rest of the movie, neither of you moves. Neither of you speak.

But everything, everything, has changed.

The credits roll. The music swells softly through the speakers. The dim glow of the screencasts flickering shadows across the room, but neither of you move.

Not even a little.

Your body is still pressed into his side, your shoulder tucked against him, his arm draped so loosely yet so deliberately around you that you can’t tell if it’s keeping you close or if it’s keeping him grounded.

Maybe both.

Maybe that’s what this has always been.

You don’t know how long you sit there, frozen in the moment. You don’t know if he’s thinking the same thing, if he’s waiting for you to speak, to move, to acknowledge that something unspoken has settled between you like a weighted silence.

But then—

“Y/N,” Spencer murmurs.

Just your name.

Soft. Almost careful.

You inhale sharply, blinking yourself back into the moment. Your head turns toward him slowly, cautiously, like moving too fast might shatter whatever fragile balance is hanging between you.

And then—

Spencer shocks you.

Because the second your eyes meet his, the moment your lips part in silent question—he leans in.

And he kisses you.

It’s not hesitant.

It’s not unsure.

It’s not like the Spencer Reid you thought you knew—the one who second-guesses, who overthinks, who analyzes every possibility before making a move.

No.

This is something else entirely.

This is Spencer moving without logic, without calculation, without fear.

This is Spencer wanting.

And for a split second, your brain short-circuits, unable to process what’s happening or understand how the man who had just spent two hours analyzing 10 Things I Hate About You is now kissing you like he means it.

But then—

Then you kiss him back.

And it’s over.

Whatever line had existed between you—whatever barrier had kept you from stepping over the edge—it's gone.

Spencer exhales against your lips like he’s been holding his breath for years. His fingers tighten against your shoulder, just slightly, pulling you in closer, pressing against you like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go.

But you’re not going anywhere.

Not now.

Not after this.

—

Dating Spencer is like stepping into something timeless, warm, and constant. It’s not rushed or overwhelming. It’s not dramatic or chaotic. It’s just Spencer. And that, in itself, is everything.

He doesn’t love convention. He doesn’t do big grand gestures unless they mean something. But he does the little things, the things that matter. The things that show how deeply and irrevocably he feels for you.

Like reading to you before bed.

It starts without much thought, just a quiet habit that becomes part of your nights. You never ask him to do it, and he never makes a point of it, but it happens—night after night, in the soft, dark quiet of your bedroom when the world slows, and nothing exists but the warmth of his arms and the soothing rhythm of his voice.

Some nights, it’s The Picture of Dorian Gray or a few pages from Pride and Prejudice. Other nights, it’s something entirely different—a passage about an old poet, a historical retelling of an artist’s life, something obscure and worn, a book he’s read a hundred times before. It doesn’t matter. You don’t even remember the contents most nights.

What you remember is the sound of Spencer’s voice, the way it lulls you into a hazy, comfortable state within minutes. The way his fingers draw lazy circles on your arm as he reads, absentmindedly tracing patterns like he can’t not be touching you. The way his lips brush the top of your head in soft, feather-light kisses like he’s saying goodnight without ever actually stopping the words on the page.

You never make it past a few minutes.

That’s how long it takes for his voice to pull you under, for the warmth of his chest to turn into a lullaby, for his steady breathing and gentle presence to quiet every thought in your mind.

And Spencer?

Spencer never minds.

Even when you fall asleep on him mid-sentence, even when his voice trails off and he realizes you’re gone, lost to dreams, he just smiles to himself, presses one last kiss to your temple, and quietly closes the book.

Because he loves this.

Loves you.

Even if he hasn’t said it yet.

—

You knew Spencer was good with kids—he had an innate gentleness, a patience that most adults didn’t possess. You had seen him with Jack before, seen the way he could calm a crying toddler with a few soft words and a fascinating fact about dinosaurs. But this? Watching him take care of a baby?

This is a whole different level.

JJ and Will had been desperate for a night out—just a few hours, nothing crazy—and with Garcia tied up at some tech conference, JJ hesitantly asked you and Spencer to watch Henry. She had barely finished asking before Spencer nodded, assuring her that he had plenty of experience with child development and cognitive growth.

Now, an hour into babysitting, you sit on the couch in quiet awe as Spencer moves around the living room, cradling Henry against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

"Statistically speaking, infants exposed to language early on are more likely to develop higher literacy skills in adolescence," Spencer muses softly, bouncing Henry gently in his arms as the baby babbles against his sweater. "So even though you might not understand this now, Henry, I think you'd really enjoy learning about the Fibonacci sequence when you’re older."

You stare, biting your lip to contain the ridiculous grin threatening to take over your face. "Spencer, are you seriously lecturing a one-year-old on mathematical sequences?"

Spencer glances at you, unfazed. "He seems interested."

Henry lets out a delighted squeal, gripping a fistful of Spencer’s cardigan and yanking with surprising strength.

"Ah—Henry, no, that's my—" Spencer stops mid-sentence as Henry starts giggling, his tiny fingers still tangled in the fabric. Instead of pulling away, Spencer just sighs in resignation, adjusting his hold so Henry can comfortably rest his cheek against his shoulder.

And oh, no.

Your heart is gone.

Your ovaries? Destroyed.

Because Spencer—sweet, brilliant, slightly awkward Spencer—is standing there in JJ’s living room, holding a baby like he was made for it, rubbing gentle circles on Henry’s back as he hums absentmindedly.

And you are not okay.

"You’re good at this," you murmur before you can stop yourself, watching how he instinctively shifts to sway Henry slightly, lulling him between sleep and contentment.

Spencer shrugs, but there’s a soft pink dusting his cheeks. "It’s just… knowing how to respond to their needs. Babies need security and reassurance. If they feel safe, they thrive." He glances at you then, his voice quieter. "It's not complicated."

But it is.

Because suddenly, your brain is not thinking about just this night. It’s not just thinking about babysitting Henry. It’s thinking about Spencer as a father, Spencer with his own baby in his arms, rocking them just like this, whispering facts to lull them to sleep, pressing soft kisses to their tiny forehead.

And the thought wrecks you.

JJ has no idea what she’s done by asking you to babysit.

Because now?

Now, you are painfully aware that Spencer Reid would be the best dad in the world.

And you really need to go splash cold water on your face before you say something insane.

The drive is quiet at first, a comfortable kind of silence, filled only with the hum of the engine and the faint rustling of Spencer shifting beside you. The weight of the night still lingers, the softness of it, the warmth—Spencer holding Henry, the easy way he’d cared for him, the way it had done things to you that you weren’t entirely sure you were ready to name yet.

"Are you dropping me off," Spencer asks suddenly, his voice cutting through the stillness, "or am I coming over?"

Your hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel.

The question is simple. Straightforward. But there’s something deeper beneath it, something unspoken. Because this isn’t the first time Spencer has stayed over. But tonight, with the way you’re feeling, with the way you want him—really want him—the meaning feels different.

Your pulse picks up.

You don’t answer right away, not because you don’t know what you want, but because you do.

Because you want him to come over. Because you want him in your bed for more than just resting. Because you’ve wanted it for a while now, but neither of you have crossed that line yet.

And suddenly, it feels like Spencer knows exactly what you’re thinking.

He’s watching you, quiet, observant, his fingers resting lightly against his knee as he waits for your response. He doesn’t push, doesn’t pry—he just waits.

You swallow, exhaling slowly before finally speaking. "Come over."

Spencer doesn’t say anything at first. But when you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, his lips are pressed together, his fingers twitching slightly—nervous energy, anticipation, something else.

"Okay," he says finally, voice quiet but firm.

And that’s all.

You don’t talk for the rest of the drive.

But you feel everything.

The way his hand rests between you is so close to yours but not quite touching. The way your breaths sync up is slow but uneven, charged with something you both know is coming.

When you finally pull into your parking spot, turn off the car, and steal one last glance at him, Spencer doesn’t hesitate.

He just unbuckles his seatbelt, pushes open the door, and follows you inside.

Spencer follows without hesitation but doesn’t move past the doorway immediately. He lingers, standing just inside your apartment, watching as you set your keys down on the counter, as you exhale slowly, as you try to steady yourself against the weight of what this night is turning into.

You turn back to him then, and the sight of him standing there—hands tucked into his pockets, shifting slightly on his feet, looking at you like he’s trying so hard to figure out what happens next—makes your stomach flip.

He’s waiting for you.

Waiting for permission.

You take a step forward, closing some of the space between you. Spencer watches you carefully, his breath hitching just slightly, his fingers twitching where they rest at his sides.

Spencer nods. Swallows. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he asks, “Are we just sleeping?”

The question hangs between you, thick with implication, and that’s when it happens—the shift from nervous anticipation to something else.

You step closer again, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, close enough that if either of you moved just slightly, you’d be touching.

And then, softly, hesitantly, you reach for his wrist, fingers brushing against the skin just above the hair tie he still wears, the one you gave him so long ago.

“I don’t know,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “Do you want to just sleep?”

Spencer’s breath catches. His eyes flicker to your lips, then back up again.

“No,” he murmurs. “Not really.”

And that’s all it takes.

Because suddenly, you’re kissing him.

Or maybe he kisses you—you don’t know who moves first, don’t care, because all that matters is the way his hands are suddenly on your waist, pulling you closer, the way his lips part against yours, slow and deep and wanting.

It’s different from the previous kisses you have shared. And as his hands slide up your back, as you press yourself into him like you’ve been waiting forever for this, as he exhales sharply against your mouth because he’s finally getting to have you—

You know neither of you will be getting much sleep tonight.

The first time you and Spencer had sex was nothing short of mind-blowing—at least for him.

You hadn’t known just how little experience he had until later when he mumbled something against your skin about only having done this once before, his voice laced with disbelief and something like awe.

But it wouldn't have changed anything even if you had known beforehand. It had started so slow, like neither of you wanted to rush like you were both trying to memorize each other in ways you hadn’t been able to before.

Spencer had been nervous at first—not clumsy, not hesitant in a way that made you think he didn’t want this, but careful, intentional, like he wanted to make sure he was doing everything right. Like he was terrified of messing up, of not being enough.

But God, was he more than enough.

Because once he got past the nerves, once he stopped thinking and started feeling—

It was everything.

He touched you like he was discovering something new like he was learning you in real time. His fingers mapped the soft curves of your body, memorizing the way your breath hitched when he kissed your neck and how you sighed when his hands gripped your waist.

And when you guided him, when you whispered what you liked against his lips when you told him exactly how to move—

That was when he really fell apart.

Because Spencer thrives on knowledge, learning, on understanding. And now, he was learning you—learning what made you shiver, what made you moan, what made you clutch at his shoulders and gasp his name in a way that sent a shudder through him so deep he thought he might break apart completely.

By the time you were actually together, when he finally slid inside you with a deep, shaky moan, his hands gripping your hips like you were the only thing keeping him grounded—he knew.

He knew he was ruined for anything else.

Because nothing—not the one experience he had before, not the books he had read, not the theories or statistics—could have ever prepared him for this.

For you.

And when he came undone, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm and ragged, your name tumbling from his lips like a prayer—

It was the closest thing to heaven he had ever known.

You pulled Spencer on top of you without hesitation, letting his exhausted body flop onto yours, his full weight pressing you into the mattress in the best possible way. He didn’t resist or try to roll away or give you space—he just let himself be and melt into you like he belonged there.

You traced slow, lazy shapes on his bare, sweat-slicked back, feeling the way his breathing gradually evened out, the rise and fall of his chest pressing against yours in a steady rhythm. His damp curls tickled your skin where his face was buried against your neck, but you didn’t dare move. You liked having him close like this.

Then you felt it—Spencer taking a deep breath like he was about to say something important.

His voice was muffled, soft, still laced with lingering wonder as he exhaled against your skin.

“Did… was that good for you?”

You smiled at the ceiling, your fingers still tracing mindless patterns along his spine. He was too cute. Too him.

“It was amazing, Spencer.”

He didn’t respond immediately, but you felt him tense slightly, his arms tightening around your waist as he let out a small, almost sheepish exhale.

“I’m sorry it was over so quickly.”

You laughed, tilting your head so you could press a soft kiss to the crown of his head. “Spencer, you have nothing to apologize for.”

He huffed, shifting slightly so his face was visible again, his flushed cheeks still pressed against your skin. “But I—”

“Nope.” You cut him off before he could finish whatever self-deprecating thought was about to leave his mouth. “I loved it. And besides…” You trailed your fingers down his spine, feeling the shiver it sent through him. “Now that the nerves are out of the way, we’ve got all night to take our time.”

Spencer froze for half a second before lifting his head just enough to look at you properly, his eyes wide, dark, needy.

“All night?” he repeated, voice barely above a whisper.

You smirked, fingers tightening ever so slightly on his back. “Mmmhmm.”

And just like that—

Spencer wasn’t exhausted anymore.

The night stretched long and slow, turning into early morning, and in those quiet, intimate hours, you discovered things—things that made you grin, things that made Spencer writhe, things that neither of you had ever put words to before but suddenly felt so obvious now.

Like hickeys.

Spencer really liked hickeys.

You hadn’t meant to leave one, not at first. But the moment your lips latched onto the sensitive skin of his neck, the second your teeth scraped lightly against his pulse point, Spencer let out a sound that was almost embarrassing—a sharp, gasping whine that had his fingers digging into your waist, his hips bucking up against you without thought.

And just like that, you knew.

“You like that?” you murmured against his skin, already smirking, already marking another spot just below his jaw.

Spencer shivered violently, his breath stuttering, his grip on you tightening. “I—” He cut himself off with a choked noise, arching into you again.

Yeah. He definitely liked it.

And then there was the other discovery that made your entire night.

Spencer was a certified bottom.

He liked giving up control, liked you taking the lead, liked it when you moved on top of him, guiding him, making him fall apart underneath you.

And oh, he thrived in it.

Especially when your hands threaded into his hair, whispered things to him, and praised him in that sweet, teasing tone that made him whimper.

And God, the way his hands roamed when you were on top—

Which led to the third discovery of the night.

Spencer was a tits guy.

Sure, he loved all of you—he worshipped every inch of you with those big, eager hands, his lips, his tongue, taking his time, savoring you like he had all the time in the world.

But your boobs?

Those really got him going.

Maybe it was because of the angle, the way they bounced when you moved, or maybe it was the way they fit so perfectly in his hands, how he could squeeze, cup, and knead them just the way he liked.

Maybe it was the fact that he could bury his face in them, groaning as he nuzzled into your chest, leaving open-mouthed kisses against your skin, mumbling about how perfect you were, how soft, how he never wanted to stop.

And when you realized?

When you teased him about it?

He turned a deep shade of red, sputtering something about biological instincts and aesthetic appeal, but the second you rolled your hips and dragged his hands back to your chest, his words died completely.

“Oh my God,” he groaned, his head thudding back against the pillow, his fingers squeezing you almost desperately.

And yeah—

You really liked that discovery, too.

—

Spencer had barely stepped into the bullpen when Derek’s booming voice rang through the air like a damn foghorn.

"Pretty boy!"

Spencer flinched. He knew that tone. That taunting, giddy, Derek-is-about-to-ruin-your-life tone.

And then—before Spencer could so much as blink—Derek was grinning at him, full teeth, eyes sparkling with absolute mischief as he pointed directly at Spencer’s neck.

“Oh no,” Spencer mumbled under his breath, instinctively reaching up as if he could somehow erase the evidence.

But it was too late. Because Derek had seen it. The hickey.

The hickey.

The one you had left on him Saturday night. Or was it Sunday morning? Honestly, it didn’t even matter—what mattered was that he had forgotten to cover it up, and now? Now, Derek was never going to let him live this down.

“Damn, kid,” Derek laughed, sauntering over with the confidence of a man who lived for this kind of teasing. “So you are gettin’ some.”

Spencer groaned, his entire face going up in flames. “Derek—”

“Nah, nah, don’t even try to deny it,” Derek interrupted, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “That is a grade-A hickey, man. I’m talkin’ official, stamped, certified ‘this man is gettin’ wrecked’ level.”

“Derek, please,” Spencer hissed, glancing around desperately as if he could somehow stop this from escalating.

Too bad the damage was already done. Because JJ and Penelope were already staring. And then laughing. Loudly.

“Oh my God,” Penelope gasped, practically shrieking with delight. “Spencer! Look at you! Our boy is all grown up and getting marked up like a romance novel protagonist!”

“Okay, stop,” Spencer pleaded, feeling absolutely doomed.

JJ just smirked, sipping her coffee like this was the best entertainment she’d had in weeks. “So, how was your weekend?”

Spencer exhaled sharply, adjusting his bag on his shoulder and making a beeline for his desk, determined to escape. “I hate all of you.”

Derek just grinned, following after him with his arms crossed. “Nah, Pretty Boy, you love us. Just not as much as you love your girl—who, by the way, did some damage on you, man. She got territorial.”

Spencer slammed his forehead onto his desk with a loud thud. JJ and Penelope cackled. Derek patted him on the back like he had just won something. And Spencer?

Spencer knew damn well that this was never going away.

—

Spencer was always composed. Always Spencer. Polite, intelligent, articulate. The type of man who didn’t act impulsively, who thought through everything before making a move.

Except, apparently, when it came to you.

Because when it came to you, Spencer had no self-control.

And nowhere was that more apparent than tonight—right now—when he had you pressed up against the bar in the middle of a crowded room, his lips hot against your neck, his hands resting just a little too low on your waist, and his very obvious boner grinding against your ass.

This was not the Spencer the team knew. This was not the awkward, hesitant genius who stumbled over his words and overanalyzed his every move.

No, this Spencer was different.

This Spencer wanted you, and he didn’t care who saw.

This Spencer also happened to be a few glasses of champagne deep in his birthday celebration with the team.

“Spencer,” you hissed, gripping the edge of the bar for support as another firm roll of his hips had heat coiling low in your stomach.

He hummed against your neck, his lips still moving, still marking you in the same way he had been since he discovered how much he loved leaving hickeys on you.

“Hmm?” he murmured, voice low, dragging his tongue lightly over the fresh mark before pressing an open-mouthed kiss against it.

Your grip tightened on the bar. “We’re in public,” you reminded him, but your voice was breathy, weak, barely convincing.

Spencer chuckled—actually chuckled—against your skin, his fingers flexing against your hips. “And?”

And?

And?

You blinked, stunned by his sheer audacity, by the fact that Spencer Reid was grinding up against you in a public bar like he had every right to.

Like he owned you.

And maybe he did.

You hated to stop him. God, you hated it.

But Spencer was too drunk.

It wasn’t that he was wasted—Spencer didn’t drink often, and when he did, he rarely overindulged—but tonight, between rounds of celebratory drinks with the team and the way he had relaxed into your presence, he was just tipsy enough that his usual inhibitions were gone.

And normally, you wouldn’t mind. Normally, you’d love seeing him like this, out of his shell, more bold in his affections. But Spencer was intoxicated, and you were sober, and you refused—refused—to take advantage of that. 

So, with a deep breath, you gently pried his hands off your waist, turning around to face him fully.

“Spencer,” you murmured, voice soft but firm.

He blinked, slow and dazed, his lips swollen from where he had been so intent on marking you up. “Huh?”

You cupped his face, thumbs brushing against his flushed cheeks. “We need to get you home, okay?”

His brows furrowed. “But—”

“No ‘buts,’” you interrupted, kissing his cheek quickly before pulling away completely. “Come on, before Derek starts making bets about whether you’ll take shots with him.”

Spencer groaned, looking devastated—like a scolded puppy who had just been denied his favorite treat. His hands flexed at his sides like he wanted to pull you back, but even in his inebriated state, he listened.

With one last longing look at you, he sighed. “Fine.”

You smiled, taking his hand and leading him back to the group. The second you announced, “I’m taking Spencer home,” a chorus of hoots and hollers erupted from your friends.

Derek practically howled with laughter. “Damn, Pretty Boy, she’s gotta put you to bed already?”

“I hate all of you,” Spencer grumbled as Penelope cackled.

JJ smirked into her drink. “Don’t forget to hydrate him.”

“Oh, I will,” you assured her, rolling your eyes as you steered Spencer toward the door.

After a few more teasing remarks and one last dramatic wolf whistle from Derek, you managed to load Spencer into the passenger seat of your car.

As soon as you pulled out of the parking lot, you reached for the stereo and turned on classical music—something calming that would hopefully settle the restless energy still buzzing under Spencer’s skin.

And sure enough, within minutes, he was already melting into the seat, head lolling to the side as the soft notes of Debussy filled the quiet space.

You smiled to yourself, reaching over to squeeze his hand.

“Almost home, Spence,” you murmured.

He sighed deeply, squeezing back. “You’re the best,” he mumbled, voice slurred with exhaustion.

The rest of the night had been easy enough—getting Spencer home, guiding his sleepy, clingy self into bed, listening to him mumble drunken nonsense as you pulled the covers over him. He had curled around you the second you lay down beside him, burying his face in your neck, sighing deeply as if you were the cure to whatever hangover awaited him in the morning.

Before you had drifted off, you had set up a glass of water and some painkillers on his bedside table, making sure everything he needed would be right there when he woke up.

Now, in the golden light of morning, you were sitting up in bed, back against the headboard, reading while Spencer slowly resurfaced from his alcohol-induced slumber.

He stirred first, shifting slightly under the sheets, letting out a sleepy little grunt before blinking blearily up at you.

For a moment, he just stared.

His hair was a complete mess, curls sticking up in every direction, and his face was still warm and soft from sleep. His lips parted slightly, his eyes unfocused as he tried to piece together where he was, why he felt like this, and why the hell you looked so perfectly content beside him while he felt like his brain was swimming in molasses.

“…Morning,” he croaked, voice raw from sleep.

You glanced down at him, smiling over the top of your book. “Morning, baby.”

He blinked slowly, still processing. Then, realization dawned—the bar, the teasing, you dragging him home like an overgrown toddler.

He groaned, flopping onto his back and throwing an arm over his face. “I was drunk.”

You laughed softly, closing your book and setting it aside. “Yep.”

He peeked out from under his arm, his lips twitching slightly. “Did I…?”

“You were very affectionate in public,” you teased, shifting to face him. “Like, very affectionate.”

Spencer made a noise between a groan and a laugh, rubbing his face. “Derek’s never going to let me live this down, is he?”

“I didn’t let anybody see, Spence.”

He sighed dramatically before turning his head to look at you again, his expression softening. His eyes flickered to the bedside table, taking in the water and painkillers, the small gesture that made something warm and fond settle in his chest.

“You took care of me,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Of course I did.”

Spencer didn’t say anything momentarily, just looking at you like he was trying to memorize you in the morning light. Then, without warning, he reached for you, pulling you down into his arms, burying his face in your shoulder.

“I love you,” he mumbled against your skin, voice still thick with sleep.

Your heart stopped.

Completely.

Frozen in time, in this moment, in him.

Spencer had said it. So casually, so effortlessly, like it had always been there, sitting just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to slip out. Like it wasn’t something earth-shattering, something that made your breath catch and your entire world tilt.

You barely breathed as you whispered, "You love me?"

You felt his lips curve slightly against your skin—soft, sleepy, so sure.

"I love you," he repeated, voice muffled but certain, like it wasn’t even a question in his mind. Like it never had been.

The warmth of his words settled over you, seeping into every inch of your skin, curling around your heart like the softest, safest thing you’d ever known.

Suddenly, you were moving, pulling back just enough to cup his face in your hands and tilt his head so that his eyes met yours—still drowsy, still heavy with sleep, but so incredibly full. You smiled, soft and disbelieving like you couldn’t believe you had gotten this lucky. Like you couldn’t believe he was yours.

"I love you, too."

Spencer blinked, like it was his turn to freeze like his still-sleepy brain was trying to process that you had said it back. Then he smiled—wide and beautiful, the kind of smile that made his dimples show, the kind of smile that made your chest ache in the best possible way.

And without another word, he kissed you.

Slow, deep, certain.

Like he had just decided—right here, right now—that he was never letting you go.

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

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[rizzanon]

Normalcy

a cassandra cain and batsis! reader oneshot | m.list

Summary: you took your sister out for fun to help her relax

The Batcave is quiet.

Unusual, but not unwelcome.

Cassandra Cain steps lightly as she descends the last few steps, the dim glow of the monitors casting shifting shadows across the stone walls. The usual hum of activity—voices, movement, the occasional sharp exchange of mission details—is absent.

She pauses, scanning the area.

Empty.

Normally, someone—Bruce, Tim, or even Alfred—would be here, but tonight, it’s just her.

They must still be out.

She exhales softly, rolling the tension out of her shoulders. Her muscles still carry the echoes of the night’s fights, the familiar ache of movement, of action, of force met with force.

She turns toward the training mats, deciding to run through a cool-down routine before heading upstairs.

She takes one step forward—

And then catches the hand reaching for her shoulder.

It’s instinct. Reflex. The motion sharp and fluid, a perfect counter to an unexpected approach. Her grip tightens around the wrist, prepared for a struggle—

Until she hears your voice.

“Damn it, Cass,” you groan, exasperated. “Again?”

She blinks, recognition settling in an instant.

Her hold loosens immediately, fingers pulling away from your skin as she takes a half-step back. She hadn’t even looked. Hadn’t checked. Just reacted.

Cassandra tilts her head, watching you closely. You’re smiling, eyes bright, but there’s something softer underneath. She looks for it—the way your weight shifts slightly, the way your fingers rub against the faint mark on your wrist.

The way you always do this. Pretend like nothing hurts even though it probably does.

She presses her lips together, but she doesn’t apologize. You wouldn’t want her to. You wouldn’t want her to feel bad about this.

So instead, she asks, “Why are you here?”

You perk up. “Because you are here.”

Cassandra raises an eyebrow.

“I mean,” you amend, shifting your weight, “I was waiting for you.”

She stills, surprised.

“For what?”

You grin. “To take you out.”

Cassandra stares. “Out?”

“Out.”

And before she can form a proper response, before she can say I should stay, before she can think—

Your arm loops through hers.

The movement is smooth, practiced, like you’ve done it a hundred times before. The warmth of your skin against hers is solid, grounding. Familiar.

“I mean, you could say no,” you say, already dragging her toward the exit. “But I’m gonna be real with you, Cass—I’m not letting go until you get changed and come with me, so we might as well cut out the middle part.”

Her first instinct is to refuse. There’s no point.

But then—

Your fingers curl around her wrist, warm and steady, not dragging but guiding. Not demanding, just expecting her to follow.

Like it’s natural. Like she belongs.

So she lets you pull her along.

The streets of Gotham are loud.

Not in a way that bothers her, necessarily, but in a way that contrasts sharply with the silence of the Cave. The distant roar of traffic, the murmur of voices, the occasional bark of laughter from someone passing by—it all blends together into something normal.

Something alive.

Cassandra keeps pace beside you easily, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, letting the rhythm of your steps guide hers.

You’re relaxed.

She can tell in the way your shoulders sit loose, the way your head tilts slightly as you glance around, taking in the night air like it’s something new.

Her eyes trace the slight bounce in your step, the easy sway of your arms as you walk. There’s no tension, no weight dragging you down.

It’s nice.

She notices the way you keep glancing at her, like you’re making sure she’s still with you. Not because she might disappear, but because—

You want her here.

The thought sits strangely in her chest. Warm and unfamiliar.

She doesn’t know what to do with it.

Cassandra watches as you casually step onto the edge of the sidewalk, balancing on the curb as if it were a tightrope. It’s a game—one you don’t acknowledge out loud, but play anyway, arms out slightly for balance, eyes focused ahead in exaggerated concentration.

Cass huffs, amused.

You flash her a quick glance. “Bet you can’t do it.”

A challenge.

Cassandra lifts a browbefore stepping onto the curb beside you, mirroring your stance perfectly. She doesn’t even wobble.

You groan dramatically at her effortless precision. A smile tugs at her lips as Cassandra watches the tiny gears in your mind turn.

Without warning, you jump, reaching for a nearby street sign, swinging yourself up with an exaggerated effort before dropping back down, grinning.

Cassandra stops.

Raises an eyebrow.

“Impressed?” you ask, waggling your brows.

She blinks.

Then, without a word, she mirrors your movement perfectly—gripping the signpost, swinging herself up with ease, landing silently beside you.

You groan once more, half-admonishing.

“Show off.”

Before you can let the moment settle, you nudge her elbow. “Race you to that crosswalk.”

Cassandra gives you a blank stare.

Your grin turns mischievous. “What, scared I’ll win?”

She doesn’t answer. Just bolts.

Your laugh rings behind her as you sprint after her, shouting, calling her a cheater. She slows just enough to let you think you had a chance before stopping at the crosswalk, completely unbothered, calm and composed as ever.

You, on the other hand, are panting.

“You suck,” you mutter, out of breath. You glare half-heartedly before tugging her forward again into a building.

It’s a small café, tucked between taller buildings, newly opened. The warm light spills onto the sidewalk, inviting, soft.

You push open the door, glancing over your shoulder with a playful tilt of your head.

“My friends and I used to do this all the time,” you say, settling into a booth by the window. “We’d check out new places and rate them based on the food, the vibes… and, of course, whether they had cute waiters.” You pause, grinning as you see Cassandra’s eyebrow lift in mild surprise.

“What? It’s an important factor,” you add, your tone light and teasing.

Cassandra doesn’t roll her eyes, but she wants to.

Instead, she just watches you—the way you lean into the warm air of the café, the way your fingers tap against the table as you pick a seat, the way your grin softens, just slightly, as you glance at her.

Like you do this all the time. Like this is normal.

Cassandra sits across from you, watching, feeling the weight of the moment settle over her.

For once, she lets herself believe—

That maybe, she could have this too.

She huffs a quiet laugh, shaking her head, and something in her chest eases.

It’s strange.

This.

The way you talk, the way you gesture, the way you slip into conversation so easily. The way the world feels soft in your presence. The way you give her something normal, something outside the constant demand of everything else.

She isn’t used to it.

Not yet.

But she thinks—

She thinks she wants to be.

You’re still talking, still animated, your fingers idly tracing patterns against the side of your cup of your drink that you ordered, as you recount some old story about a café that had the best hot chocolate but terrible seating.

Cassandra listens.

She doesn’t interrupt.

She just—watches.

Your expression shifts with every word, every memory, the crinkle of your nose when you recall something unpleasant, the way your lips quirk when you’re about to deliver a punchline. You speak with your entire body, your hands emphasizing certain points, your shoulders rising slightly with amusement.

It’s not just words.

It’s motion.

And Cassandra is fluent in motion.

She catches the way your fingers flex unconsciously around your cup, the way your thumb taps a steady rhythm against the ceramic, the way you lean in—closer, like you want to make sure she’s still listening.

She is.

Of course she is.

She doesn’t think you realize how easy you are to listen to.

Then, you pause—your focus shifting suddenly as something catches your eye.

Cassandra follows your gaze.

There’s a small counter near the register, displaying a few take-home pastries in neat little boxes. Your eyes linger, just for a second, before you shake your head slightly, looking back at her.

You open your mouth—probably to pick up where you left off—

But Cassandra is already standing.

You blink. “Uh—Cass?”

She doesn’t respond, just moves toward the counter, scanning the selection. The girl behind the register offers her a polite smile, and Cassandra gestures toward the box you had been looking at before handing over a few bills.

By the time she returns to the table, you’re staring at her, brow furrowed.

Cassandra sets the box in front of you, sliding it across the table without a word.

You glance down at it.

Then back up at her.

Then back down.

“…Did you—” You clear your throat. “You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

Cassandra shrugs. “Wanted to.”

Something flickers across your face.

For once, you’re the one caught off guard.

And she sees it—sees the way you swallow slightly, the way your fingers brush against the edges of the box, hesitant, like you’re not sure whether to open it or not.

Then, you exhale, a slow, measured thing, before smiling.

Soft.

Not playful. Not teasing. Just—warm.

“…Thanks, Cass.”

Cassandra nods, but she doesn’t reply.

She doesn’t need to.

Instead, she lets herself take in this moment—the quiet hum of the café, the distant chatter of other customers, the steady rhythm of your breathing across from her.

This feeling.

This normalcy.

It still feels strange to her.

Still feels like something outside of herself, something distant.

But she’s trying.

Trying to be used to it.

Trying to be used to deserving it.

Trying to be used to you.

And as your fingers finally curl around the box, as you pop it open and grab one of the pastries, making an exaggerated mmm sound just to make her laugh—

She thinks that maybe, just maybe—

She’s getting there.

Cassandra watches as you take a bite, your face lighting up dramatically as you savor the taste. You close your eyes for a second, pressing a hand to your chest like the pastry has just saved your life.

“Oh my god,” you say, exaggerating every syllable. “Cass, you have to try this. I think it might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Cassandra raises an eyebrow. “Ever?”

You nod, completely serious. “Ever.”

She doesn’t bother arguing. She just reaches over, and without hesitation, you break off a piece, handing it to her.

She takes it. Eats it. Chews.

It’s good.

Not life-changing, but—good.

You’re still watching her, waiting for some kind of reaction.

She shrugs. “Okay.”

Your jaw drops. “Okay?”

She nods. “Okay.”

“Cass, this is a masterpiece. A work of art.” You gesture wildly at the pastry like it should be in a museum. “I feel personally offended that you’re just calling it okay.”

Cassandra just smirks, sipping her drink. “Dramatic.”

You gasp. “Me? Dramatic?”

She doesn’t say anything—just tilts her head slightly, eyes glinting with amusement.

You point at her. “I know what you’re doing. You’re messing with me.”

Another shrug. Another sip of her drink.

You sigh, shaking your head. “Unbelievable.” But there’s no actual frustration in your voice, just that same warmth, that same ease that Cassandra is still—still—trying to get used to.

Because it’s moments like these—quiet, insignificant in the grand scheme of things—that make her feel like she’s learning something new about herself.

Something beyond the fighting. Beyond the missions.

Something human.

You go back to eating, still muttering about her “bad taste” under your breath, but you don’t actually seem upset. If anything, you seem… happy.

Comfortable.

And for Cassandra, that means everything.

She looks down at her own hands, flexing her fingers slightly. It still feels strange—this kind of connection, this normalcy, like wearing a new pair of gloves that don’t quite fit yet.

But then you nudge her foot under the table, just lightly, like a reminder that you’re here. That she’s here. That this moment is real.

She breathes.

And when you look up at her again, grinning like you’re already thinking of what to drag her to next—

Cassandra thinks she could get used to this.

this is finally out omfg 😭 this had been in my drafts for way too long bruh 💀 it’s kind of shorter compared to the other days, but i like how this one turned out 🥰 hope you guys enjoyed this 🫶

taglist (open): @k1arar3 @kingshitonly @rainnyydaysworld @ceridwyn3 @darkfaethedestroyer @blueiones @strwberryglass @lithiumval @thephantomdanny @eli-mayhaveatencats @rockyeatrock @dreaming-of-the-reality @shirp-collector-of-fixations @gneepgnorpsneepsnorp @skerbablo @dind1n @gwyneveire @yukixies | ask to be added <3

[luvst4rc0r3]

Loser!Jinx x Reader Headcanons

Jinx wasn’t just a loser—she was the loser. The kind who sat in the back of the class doodling in her notebook instead of taking notes, who always had a random bruise from doing something stupid, and who somehow had a negative GPA but could explain the entire plot of an obscure 90s anime no one had ever heard of.

She wasn’t exactly hated at school, but she was weird, loud, and unpredictable, which made people avoid her. Except for Vi, who was always yelling at her to “Get your shit together, Powder,” and Sevika, who only tolerated her because Vi forced her to.

Then there was you.

The first time Jinx saw you, she short-circuited. She was just trying to make it through another miserable day of Algebra when you walked into the classroom, and suddenly, math didn’t exist anymore. All she could think was:

“Oh no.”

You were effortlessly cool—new to school, good at everything Jinx wasn’t, and way out of her league. But you were nice. Too nice. The kind of nice that made Jinx go home and kick her feet while screaming into her pillow because why would you ever talk to her unless you were planning to ruin her life?

- The first time you talk to her, it’s because you sit next to her in Algebra.

You: “Hey, do you have a pencil?”

Jinx, panicking: “Wh—uh—I—yeah—no—I mean—” (frantically digs through her backpack, pulls out a crayon).

You: “…Thanks?”

Jinx: “Yeah! Totally! I only use crayons, actually. Pencils are a government conspiracy.”

You: “Oh? Tell me more.”

She thinks you’re messing with her. But you don’t laugh. You actually listen. And when she rants about whatever nonsense is currently living rent-free in her head, you just nod along like she’s making sense.

She falls in love immediately.

- Jinx is the type of loser who spends all her time online, plays obscure indie games, and has a concerning amount of conspiracy theories about random things (like why the school vending machine is always out of strawberry soda).

- She is hopelessly, painfully, pathetically in love with you. Like, full-blown kicking her feet and giggling into her pillow kind of crush. She doesn’t even try to be normal about it.

- If you so much as glance in her direction, her brain short-circuits. Immediate blue screen of death. Malfunctioning Jinx noises.

- She swears she’s being subtle, but the entire school knows she’s down horrendously bad for you. Like, it’s embarrassing. Vi has tried to stage an intervention. Sevika has bet money on how long it’ll take before she faints in front of you.

- If you actually talk to her? Oh, she’s done for. Stammering, tripping over her words, probably dropping whatever she’s holding. You could ask her the simplest question, and she’d be like:

You: “Hey, do you have a pencil?”

Jinx, sweating bullets: “Uh—uh—uh—uh—I—pen—yes—no—I mean—I do? Maybe? What’s a pencil?”

- She definitely stalks your social media. She has your entire posting schedule memorized, knows all your interests, and tries to bring them up in conversation to impress you—but it just makes her sound insane.

Jinx: “Soooo… I heard you like frogs.”

You: “What?”

Jinx: “Uh. Frogs. Y’know. Ribbit.”

- If you compliment her, even as a joke, she will take it to her grave. Like, you could say, “Hey, cool jacket,” and she’ll wear that same jacket every day for a month straight.

- One time you called her cute. She has not recovered.

- She tries to act cool around you, but she’s the type of loser who fumbles everything. Drops her phone. Walks into doors. Trips over air. It’s a miracle she hasn’t spontaneously combusted yet.

- If you so much as smile at her, she’s writing about it in her diary like it’s the most life-changing event to ever happen.

“FEBRUARY 8TH, 2025. 3:47 PM. Y/N SMILED AT ME. I CAN DIE HAPPY NOW.”

or

“February 8th, 2025. 3:47 PM. Y/N TOUCHED MY ARM. I CAN NEVER WASH IT AGAIN.”

- Jinx, in her head, planning out all the ways she could confess to you: Writing you a love letter? Making a mixtape? A grand, romantic gesture?

- Jinx, in reality: “I like your face.”

- If you start liking her back? Oh, she’s doomed. Malfunctioning. Exploding. Game over.

People still don’t understand how you two work, but at this point, it doesn’t even matter. You and Jinx are in your own little world, and honestly? It’s kind of perfect.

- You keep hanging out with her. At first, just in class, but then at lunch, after school, texting late at night. She stops feeling like a loser when she’s with you. She starts hoping.

- The first time you realize you like her back, it’s because of something dumb.

You’re at lunch, sitting with her, Vi, and Sevika. Jinx, being a disaster, spills her drink all over herself. Instead of being embarrassed, she just goes, “Guess I’m drinking it the hard way.”

And something about the way she owns her weirdness makes your heart do a stupid little flip.

- The first time you flirt with her, she malfunctions.

- The first time she realizes you like her back, it breaks her brain.

It happens after school. You’re both walking home together when you grab her hand, lacing your fingers through hers like it’s nothing.

She nearly trips over her own feet. You just laugh and squeeze her hand tighter.

Oh no, she thinks. Oh no, oh no, oh no.

She’s never going to recover from this.

(She doesn’t want to.)

Random Cute Couple Things:

- Jinx is the kind of girlfriend who will 100% steal your clothes.

Not just hoodies—everything. She once showed up wearing your jacket, your socks, and your backpack, and when you pointed it out, she just went, “Yeah, and?”

The worst part? She looks stupidly cute in your clothes, so you can’t even be mad.

(You started “accidentally” leaving extra hoodies at her place just so she’d always have one of yours to wear.)

- She gets insanely clingy when she’s sleepy.

Jinx isn’t really a cuddler during the day—she’s always bouncing off the walls, getting into trouble, dragging you into her weird ideas. But the second she gets tired?

Good luck getting up.

She’ll wrap herself around you like a human koala, mumbling something about how “you’re warm and smell good” and refusing to let go.

(You’ve accepted your fate. You live here now.)

- She makes the dumbest bets just to get kisses.

• “Bet you can’t solve this riddle. If you lose, I get a kiss.

• “If I make this paper ball into the trash can, you have to kiss me.”

• “Okay, rock-paper-scissors, best out of three—winner gets a kiss.”

You caught on pretty quickly and just started kissing her before she could suggest a bet. It completely breaks her brain every time.

(She still tries, though.)

- She doodles all over your stuff.

If you lend Jinx a pen, it’s over—your notebooks, your arms, even your homework will be covered in little scribbles.

Sometimes they’re just random sketches. Other times, you’ll find little hearts with your name inside them.

(She denies drawing them. But the blush on her face says otherwise.)

- She absolutely loves when you play with her hair.

She pretends she doesn’t care at first—shrugs it off, acts like it’s whatever. But the second you start running your fingers through her hair, she literally melts.

(If you braid it, she’ll leave it in all day, even if it looks ridiculous.)

- She’s always touching you.

• Holding your hand? Obviously.

• Leaning against you when you’re sitting together? Yup.

• Linking pinkies just because she can? Of course.

It’s like she needs to be physically connected to you at all times.

(If you ever pull away too soon, she’ll dramatically gasp and go, “What, you don’t love me anymore?!”)

- She makes up the dumbest excuses just to hang out with you.

“Babe, I need your help with something.”

“What is it?”

“I dunno, I just wanted to see you.”

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

I love Jinx

I want sleep

[writeriguess]

Something fluffy for Katsuki x fem y/n please?? It could have something to do with a surprise dinner.

Recipe For Love

The apartment is quiet when you step inside, a welcome change from the bustling streets outside. You toe off your shoes, sighing at the relief of being home after a long day. The air smells... different. Not bad, just unexpected. Something savory, warm—like someone’s been cooking. That alone is strange enough to make you pause.

You call out his name. "Katsuki?"

There's a clatter from the kitchen, followed by a low curse. Your brows furrow, curiosity overtaking your fatigue as you step toward the source of the noise.

When you round the corner, you find him standing by the stove, a towel slung over his shoulder, sleeves rolled up, and an irritated scowl on his face. His usually wild blonde hair is slightly damp, like he’d just washed it before deciding to tackle whatever’s happening in front of him. There’s a faint dusting of flour on his forearm, and the apron he’s wearing—black, simple—makes your heart flip in your chest.

“You’re home early,” he mutters, glancing over his shoulder. His red eyes flick to you, then back to the pan in front of him.

“You’re cooking.” The statement comes out more surprised than you intended.

“Yeah, no shit,” he grumbles, poking at whatever’s sizzling in the pan. “I was gonna have this done before you got back.”

Your lips twitch. “I didn’t know you were planning anything.”

“It’s not a big deal,” he says quickly, but the tips of his ears betray him, turning red as he keeps his focus on the food. “Just figured I’d make dinner.”

Your heart softens at that. Katsuki isn’t the type to make grand gestures with words, but actions? That’s where he speaks the loudest.

You step closer, peering over his shoulder. The smell is stronger now, rich and inviting. “What are you making?”

“Your favorite,” he grunts, then pauses, looking away like he doesn’t want to admit it out loud. “Or, uh, my best attempt at it.”

Your chest tightens, warmth pooling in your stomach. He must have looked up the recipe—maybe even practiced a bit beforehand. The thought of him doing all that, just for you, makes your heart ache in the best way.

“You’re really sweet, you know that?” You lean in, pressing a kiss against his cheek before he can protest.

His reaction is immediate. “Oi—”

But you catch the way his shoulders tense, how his grip on the spatula falters for a second. The redness from his ears creeps down to his neck, and even though he scowls at you, there’s no real bite behind it.

“Just shut up and set the table,” he mutters, turning back to the stove like he needs to regain his composure.

You grin. “Yes, chef.”

His eye twitches, but he lets you get away with it. Because, despite all his grumbling, despite his stubbornness, this is how Katsuki loves—through the things he does rather than the things he says.

And, honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

[lvnleah]

hi i have a request for kyra!☺️

R and kyra have been together for a year now, (r is not a footballer or famous) but the girls never met her,never seen her or even seen a photo or her so they all make fun of her for having “an imaginary girlfriend” and joke around with her.

the reason why they never met her is cause r is very shy ,awkward and get very nervous and uncomfortable around new and a lot of people. One day though kyra ends up convincing her and takes her with her to meet the girls. They all very much shocked cause they really thought kyra was lying about the gf lol🤣, but then they get even more shocked when they see a side of kyra that they never saw. Her being so lovely,kind and soft with r who a first is a little bit overwhelmed but then ends up relaxing and enjoying the night. the can see how much kyra and r love each other’s and they’re happy for them

actually real | kyra cooney-cross.

“I swear, she’s real.” Kyra groaned as her teammates teased her over you. 

“Sure she is,” Katie smirked, leaning back in her chair. “Sure you have a girlfriend, and she’s totally not just some made-up person you tell us about so we don’t think you’re lonely.”

Kyra rolled her eyes, crossing her arms as she leaned forward. “I do have a girlfriend, and you lot are just mad you haven’t met her yet.”

“I mean, can you blame us?” Steph piped up, grinning. “You’ve been with her for what, a year? And not one of us has even seen a picture? C’mon, Ky, you’ve got to admit, it’s a little suspicious.”

Beth let out a dramatic gasp. “Oh my god, is it because she’s actually famous, and she doesn’t want to be seen with you?”

More laughter followed, and Kyra groaned, rubbing her hands down her face. “She’s not famous. She’s just—” She hesitated, not wanting to overshare about you. “She’s shy. And she doesn’t like big groups. It’s not that weird.”

Lotte smirked, tilting her head. “Right. So, what you’re saying is your girlfriend, who nobody has ever met, doesn’t come around because she’s conveniently ‘shy’?”

Caitlin leaned into Katie, whispering just loud enough for Kyra to hear, “It’s getting a bit sad at this point, isn’t it?”

The team erupted into laughter again, and Kyra groaned.

They had been at this for months. Every time she talked about you, even just little things, like how you made her tea in the mornings or how you always sent her the sweetest texts before a game the teasing would start.

But she couldn’t even be mad at them. They didn’t mean anything by it. They just didn’t understand.

Because you were real.

And Kyra adored you.

But you also happened to be incredibly anxious and extremely uncomfortable around big groups of new people, which made introducing you to her team a little difficult.

And she respected that. She never wanted to push you into something you weren’t ready for.

But still.

She really wanted her teammates to know that she wasn’t just making you up.

It took a while, but eventually, she convinced you after coming home that evening. 

It wasn’t easy. There had been a lot of anxious rambling on your part, a lot of reassurance on hers, but finally, finally, you had agreed to come to the team’s bonding night.

Kyra practically threw herself onto the couch beside you, draping herself over your lap dramatically as she let out an exaggerated groan.

“Baby, please please please come to my team bonding night!” she whined, her voice filled with desperation.

You sighed, setting your phone down as you glanced down at her. “Kyra…”

She lifted her head just enough to meet your gaze, giving you her best pout. “They think I’m making you up, babe. Making you up.” She groaned again, “Do you know how embarrassing that is?”

You bit your lip, not wanting to smile, but she was making it really difficult not to.

“Ky, you know I don’t like big groups,” you murmured, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “It’s not that I don’t want to meet them, I just—”

“I know,” she said softly, her teasing tone disappearing for a moment. She sat up slightly, resting her weight on her elbow as she reached for your hand. “And I would never make you do something you’re uncomfortable with. But I promise you, they’re great. And they’re going to love you.”

You exhaled, squeezing her hand. “I just… what if I get too overwhelmed?”

“Then we leave,” she said without hesitation. “No questions asked. You just give me the word, and we’re out of there.”

Your lips pressed together, anxiety still bubbling in your chest. You didn’t like meeting new people. You weren’t even sure how you met Kyra because your anxiety ruled your life. Literally. 

Kyra shifted closer, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. “I’ll be with you the whole time. I won’t let go of your hand. You don’t even have to talk much. Just sit with me, let me hold you, and let them see that you do exist.”

That pulled a small laugh from you, and Kyra grinned.

“Just think about it,” she murmured, “I want them to see the person who makes me happiest. But if it’s too much, you say the word, and we’ll stay home, order takeout, and make fun of their Instagram stories instead.”

You exhaled slowly, your nerves still present but softened by her unwavering support.

“…Okay,” you whispered.

Kyra’s eyes lit up. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

She grinned, pressing a flurry of quick kisses to your face, making you giggle. “You’re the best, you know that?”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hide your smile. “You owe me for this.”

“Anything you want, baby,” she said easily, wrapping her arms around you. “Anything at all.”

That conversation was how you found yourself sitting in Kyra’s car, anxiously twisting the hem of your sweater between your fingers as she drove toward the restaurant.

“I can’t do this,” you mumbled, barely above a whisper.

Kyra glanced over, reaching for your hand. “Yes, you can,” she said softly, squeezing it. “And we’ll leave the second you want to. No questions asked.”

You exhaled shakily, squeezing her hand in return.

“I’ll be right next to you the whole time,” she promised, her voice as gentle as ever. “You don’t even have to talk much.”

You let out a nervous laugh, but it wasn’t untrue.

“I love you, okay?” she murmured, bringing your hand up to press a soft kiss against your knuckles.

You nodded, trying to take comfort in the fact that, no matter how overwhelming this night might feel, at least you had her.

The second you walked into the restaurant, the room went silent. You could feel their eyes on you immediately, and it took everything in you not to shrink into Kyra’s side or run straight out.

But Kyra didn’t hesitate. She slipped her arm around your waist, keeping you close in a way that felt both protective and reassuring.

Steph was the first to break the silence. “No. Fucking. Way.”

Leah blinked, looking genuinely taken aback. “You actually have a girlfriend?”

Caitlin nudged Katie. “We owe her an apology.”

Kyra rolled her eyes but grinned nonetheless, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before looking at her teammates. “Told you so.”

Beth leaned forward on the table, squinting at you. “Are we sure she’s real?” she asked playfully. “Like, she’s not just some paid actress you hired for the night?”

You let out a nervous laugh, but Kyra immediately squeezed your hand. “You lot better behave,” she warned, though the fondness in her voice softened the words.

The team, to their credit, didn’t push too hard. They were obviously curious, but they kept things light, introducing themselves in a way that wasn’t overwhelming.

Kyra helped you settle into your seat, keeping her hand on your knee, rubbing soothing circles against your skin whenever she noticed you getting fidgety. As the night went on, you slowly started to relax.

What surprised the team the most wasn’t you, though.

It was Kyra.

They had never seen her like this.

They knew her as competitive, fiery, always up for a laugh or prank but with you, she was soft.

She was attentive, making sure you always had what you needed. She never let go of your hand unless you needed it free, and even then, she’d find another way to keep contact. Whether it was her knee brushing against yours or her arm resting behind you on the booth or her foot lightly tapping against your ankle under the table, she was always touching you. 

She was patient, whispering little reassurances to you whenever she noticed you getting overwhelmed. And she was so in love with you.

It was obvious in the way she looked at you, in the way she softened every time you spoke, in the way she seemed completely and utterly focused on making sure you were comfortable.

“Okay, I get it now,” Katie muttered to Caitlin at one point. “She’s whipped.”

Caitlin grinned. “Properly in love, is she feeling okay?”

Kyra just smiled, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your cheek before whispering, “You okay, love?”

You nodded, feeling more at ease than you had in a long time. Because yes, the night had been scary at first but it had also been filled with laughter, gentle reassurances, and the unwavering presence of the girl you loved.

And by the end of it, when Kyra helped you into your jacket and kissed the top of your head, “Proud of you, imaginary girlfriend.”

[jiminomenon]

valentines special!

pairing: punk! karina x mean girl! reader

word count: 1.3k+

summary: valentine’s day was just another overrated holiday—until jimin turned it into a full-blown spectacle. from an obnoxious banner over y/n’s locker to stuffing her arms with roses, jimin made sure everyone knew exactly who y/n belonged to. despite y/n’s endless complaints, jimin only doubled down, dragging her away for a surprise rooftop date with takeout and chocolates. annoyed but secretly soft, y/n let her win—just this once. not that she’d ever say it out loud.

from my series: match made in hell

valentine’s day was overrated. the flowers, the chocolates, the desperate attempts to prove love in one day—it was all so unbearably cliché. y/n had always looked down on it, rolling their eyes at the couples who paraded through the halls like they were starring in a low-budget rom-com.

she didn’t do romance. she did power. control. having people wrapped around her finger just to let them go the second they got too close.

and yet, somehow, jimin had wormed her way past all of y/n’s walls.

where y/n broke hearts, jimin broke rules. where y/n ruled the school, jimin ruled the streets. where y/n thrived off making people crave their attention, jimin was the only one who didn’t play along—because she already had it.

which was why y/n should’ve known better than to expect jimin to ignore valentine’s day.

they barely made it through the entrance of the school before being ambushed.

balloons—black and pink, because jimin had to keep some edge to the whole ordeal—lined their locker. but the real kicker was the massive, messy banner hanging above it, spray-painted in red like some crime scene message.

“mine. forever. get over it.”

y/n’s eyes twitched.

the hall was packed, and people were staring. whispering. y/n could already hear their names being thrown around in hushed voices, laced with awe and jealousy.

then there was jimin, leaning against the lockers with her usual smug grin, ripped jeans and leather jacket giving her that effortless bad-girl look she knew drove people crazy.

“what the hell is this?” y/n asked, voice flat.

jimin popped a lollipop into her mouth, tilting her head. “a declaration of love, obviously.”

y/n exhaled through her nose, already feeling a headache coming on. “this is humiliating.”

“and yet, you’re still standing here looking hot as hell,” jimin mused. “so, i think i did something right.”

before y/n could snap at her, jimin whistled. suddenly, a group of her delinquent friends appeared, each carrying a bouquet of deep red roses—real ones, expensive ones, the kind y/n would never admit to liking.

one by one, they handed them to y/n until their arms were completely full.

“jimin.” y/n’s voice dropped an octave, laced with warning.

“what?” she leaned in close, lowering her voice. “you think i’m gonna let some loser try to shoot their shot with you today? had to make sure everyone knows who you belong to.”

y/n pursed her lips, ignoring the way her heart pounded at her words.

“you’re insane,” she muttered.

“and you love it.” jimin grinned, leaning in to press a lingering kiss against y/n’s cheek, right in front of everyone.

whispers erupted around them. someone gasped.

y/n scoffed, shoving the flowers into jimin’s hands. “you’re carrying these.”

jimin only smirked, tucking one behind y/n’s ear. “anything for you, princess.”

the chaos didn’t stop there.

the rest of the day was filled with jimin’s shameless displays of affection.

she skipped her classes to walk y/n to hers, stealing bites of her lunch and draping herself over her shoulders like a clingy cat. she slid love notes into their pockets (most of them inappropriate), charmed the teachers into excusing her lateness, and made a show of glaring at anyone who even looked at y/n for too long.

by last period, y/n was exhausted.

they barely had time to breathe before jimin was dragging them out of school, her grip firm yet gentle as she led them to her motorcycle parked just outside.

“we’re ditching,” she announced.

y/n raised a brow. “and where, exactly, are you taking me?”

jimin tossed her a helmet. “it’s a surprise.”

y/n narrowed her eyes. “if this is some grand romantic gesture, i’m—”

jimin rolled her eyes. “just get on.”

reluctantly, y/n did, wrapping her arms around jimin’s waist as she sped off.

they ended up at an abandoned rooftop, overlooking the city just as the sun started to set.

a picnic blanket was laid out, complete with takeout from y/n’s favorite restaurant and a box of chocolate-covered strawberries.

y/n stared.

“say something,” jimin said, rubbing the back of her neck. “this is the most effort i’ve ever put into anything.”

y/n slowly turned to her. “you… actually planned this?”

“yeah, yeah, don’t make it weird,” jimin muttered, flopping down onto the blanket.

y/n sat beside her, watching as the sky turned shades of pink and orange.

“you’re ridiculous,” she said softly.

jimin smirked. “and yet, you’re still here.”

y/n rolled her eyes, but when jimin reached for their hand, they didn’t pull away.

jimin’s fingers traced lazy patterns on y/n’s palm, her usual cocky smirk softening just a little under the glow of the setting sun. it was almost unsettling—almost.

y/n clicked their tongue. “you’re really trying to be all romantic right now, huh?”

jimin scoffed, biting into a chocolate-covered strawberry. “romantic? please. i just like watching you get all flustered.”

y/n snatched the box from her hands, popping one into their mouth. “you’re so full of yourself.”

“and yet, here you are,” jimin teased, leaning in so close their noses nearly touched. “sitting on a rooftop with me, eating strawberries, holding my hand like some lovesick idiot.”

y/n refused to let her win. she tilted her head, gaze dropping to jimin’s lips.

“you’re the one who planned this whole thing just to impress me,” she murmured. “so, really, who’s the lovesick idiot here?”

jimin’s smirk faltered for half a second.

then, with a huff, she leaned back, flopping dramatically onto the blanket. “fine, you got me. i’m obsessed with you. madly in love. completely whipped. whatever.”

y/n hummed, pretending to think. “i like the sound of that.”

jimin groaned. “you’re unbearable.”

y/n grinned, lying down beside her. “and yet, you’re still here.”

silence settled between them, comfortable and warm. below, the city buzzed with life, but up here, it was just them. no distractions. no expectations.

just them.

jimin shifted onto her side, propping her head up with her hand. “you never told me if you liked it.”

y/n blinked. “liked what?”

“all this.” jimin gestured vaguely at the setup. “the banner, the flowers, the whole valentine’s day thing.”

y/n let out a breath, staring up at the sky.

she had never been the type to care for grand gestures, never cared for romance beyond what she could use to her advantage. but jimin wasn’t just some disposable admirer.

she was jimin.

y/n turned her head, meeting her gaze. “it was stupid.”

jimin’s expression barely changed, but y/n caught the flicker of something in her eyes before they continued.

“but… it was also kind of nice.”

jimin’s lips twitched.

“kind of?” she echoed.

y/n smirked. “don’t get ahead of yourself.”

jimin huffed out a laugh before reaching for y/n’s face, brushing their hair back.

“happy valentine’s day, princess,” she murmured.

y/n rolled her eyes, but when jimin leaned in, she didn’t pull away.

jimin’s breath was warm against y/n’s lips, the space between them shrinking with every passing second. y/n could feel her heartbeat hammering in her chest, but she refused to let jimin see how much she affected her.

“if you’re expecting me to say it back, don’t hold your breath,” y/n murmured, tilting her chin up slightly.

jimin chuckled, eyes flickering down to their lips. “who said i needed you to say anything?”

and then, finally, she kissed her.

it wasn’t soft, it wasn’t sweet—it was everything jimin was. reckless, consuming, and just a little cocky. she kissed y/n like she had something to prove, like she wanted to remind she exactly who she belonged to.

y/n, for all their pride and stubbornness, melted into it anyway.

jimin grinned against her lips, tugging her closer. “took you long enough to give in.”

y/n pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, smirking as she tangled her fingers in the collar of jimin’s jacket.

“shut up and kiss me again.”

jimin didn’t need to be told twice.

[heavyhitterheaux]

You Put a Move on My Heart (Slight NSFW)

See Me Through You Series

I've got a real thing here by my side

someone who needs me holding me tight

and these special feelings won't ever fade

cause I knew from the start you put a move on my heart

Synopsis: You're excited to spend your first Valentine’s Day with Joe, but things don't go exactly as planned

Series Masterlist

Please Do Not Repost My Content Anywhere

The look on your face was one of disbelief as you looked at your best friend who was smiling at you and wiggling her eyebrows.

“I don't why I always ask you for advice or suggestions or literally ANYTHING anymore. Everything that comes out of your mouth is typically diabolical.” You told her as she continued to smile at you.

“Look, don't get all loud with me. You asked for a suggestion and I gave it to you. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with what I suggested.” She replied as she threw a few doritos in her mouth.

“Do you think he'll like it?” You asked suddenly, becoming nervous, but as well as you knew your boyfriend deep down you knew that the answer would be yes.

“Y/N… he's a man. What the hell do you think? I never met one that doesn't.”

“Hmm, good point. Now how bad does it hurt?”

“I mean it's not a little tickle, but it's definitely not like getting hit by a tractor trailer as far as pain goes.”

“And you have had said experience with the tractor trailer?” You asked as you raised your eyebrow.

“You get on my nerves. You're getting your nipples pierced and we’re going and we're going now. Oh, and don't wear a bra, it’ll be irritating. This will be part one of Joe's Valentine's Day gifts. I know a girl that will do both for twenty dollars.”

“I… Twenty dollars!? I don't want my nipples to fall off after an hour!” You exclaimed as your eyes suddenly went wide.

“She pierced mine and I lived to tell the tale. She does it out of her basement though so….”

“NO. We are going to an actual tattoo shop.”

“Oh, so you agree? You'll do it?” Erin asked and you let out a huff.

“If something goes wrong, I'm blaming you.”

“Oh, please. Just you wait. Joe will be thanking me.”

After looking up a tattoo shop that wasn’t too far from your apartment, you scanned the reviews to see that everyone had been satisfied when they went there whether they had gotten a tattoo or a piercing. Erin offered to drive and once she put the address in the GPS, the two of you were on your way.

Once she parked in the parking lot behind the building, the two of you walked around the front and when you had crossed the threshold of the door, you were met with different tattoo designs covering the walls and a girl sitting at the front desk twirling one of the piercings that she had in her ears. When she looked up and saw the two of you, she instantly got a smile on her face.

“Hi! How can I help you?” She politely asked and Erin wasted absolutely no time in blurting it out.

“My best friend wants her nipples pierced to surprise her boyfriend for Valentine’s Day and I dragged her here.”

Hearing her say it out loud made you instantly cross your arms protectively over your chest. All in all, you knew that you had a high pain tolerance, but seeing as it was one of the most sensitive parts of your body, you weren’t quite sure.

“Of course! You just have to fill out this paperwork right here and then I’ll need your id.” As you nodded your head, she handed you the clipboard along with a pen and pointed to a bench where you could sit and fill it out.

The most “exotic” piercing you had besides your ears was your nose and belly button. The idea of piercing anything else, especially your nipples had never even crossed your mind. You should have known better than to ask Erin for a suggestion since you knew how she was.

Once you were finished, you walked back up to the desk and handed the forms over along with your driver’s license and as she was looking it over to make sure you didn’t miss anything, you glanced back at Erin who had given you a thumbs up along with a small smirk.

“Okay, we are all set, if you’ll follow me. Is your friend coming?”

“No, I’ll stay out here. She’s a champ, she can take it.”

Looking at her in disbelief as she declined to come with you, she waved you off and you quickly followed the girl to the back to one of the many rooms that they used for piercings.

“You can sit over there while I get everything set up. And are we doing one or both?”

“We can do both. Might as well.” You decided as you took off your jacket to place it on one of the chairs that was next to the window.

“And gold or silver jewelry?”

“Hmm, silver. Since it matches everything else I have.”

She nodded her head as she opened a drawer full of piercing jewelry and quickly pulled out two barbells.

“So, besides this, what are your other special plans for your boyfriend?” She asked as she motioned for you to lift your shirt and she quickly began cleaning the area, starting with the right.

“Well, my boyfriend is a huge nerd and I love that about him so he’s getting a Spongebob lego set and also a cologne that he loves since I noticed he was running low and didn’t have a lot left. I think we agreed that we were going to make dinner at my apartment or his and not go out since we know everyone else will be out and about.”

“I love that idea and I absolutely love Spongebob. You ready?”

As soon as you gave her the nod of approval, you felt the needle pierce your skin and you instantly winced. Within a second, it was over and she was screwing the end of it on and cleaning around it.

“Good, one down and one more to go. You okay?”

“It actually wasn’t as bad as I thought.”

“Oh, they’ll throb later. Make sure you take something for it.” She said while smiling and that immediately led to a frown on your face.

—

Wanting to keep the new piercing a surprise, you didn’t plan on telling him and he would simply see it on Valentine’s Day. It was now February 13th and you had noticed earlier in the day when you woke up how you had felt a little off for some reason. You still did your normal routine of going to gymnastics practice as well as going to class, but was thankful when you had finally gotten back to your apartment.

Before you decided on dinner, you wanted to take a shower and get comfortable for the night since it had been such a long day and would probably end up with you falling asleep on the phone with your boyfriend as you had done many times before. As you turned on the water in the bathroom and waited for it to heat up, you started to strip down out of your clothes and immediately let out a groan and was trying not to throw a little temper tantrum.

“You cannot be fucking serious. Why did this shit decide to come early?!” You said out loud to no one in particular as you saw it.

After you let out a deep sigh, you went on the hunt under your sink for products as well as comfy clothes from your bedroom to change into once you were finished.

When you were out of the shower, you got dressed and moisturized your hair before picking up your phone and texting the groupchat with Erin and Alisha.

You- You two won’t fucking believe this

Alisha- WHAT HAPPENED?!

Erin- SPILL THE TEA

You- I got my period and now one of Joey’s surprises are ruined

Erin- Damn it. And it’s a good surprise too.

Alisha- Oh, right, the nipple piercing. I’m sorry babes. Joe can just give you all the cuddles you want and feed you chocolate

Erin- I have a suggestion or a recommendation if you will

Alisha- Oh lord smh

You- Uh…

Erin- Okay, great! Glad you asked!

You- I actually didn’t ask, but okay

Erin- Period sex

You- I….. 😳😳😳

Alisha- Erin, is there anything under the sun that you haven’t tried?

Erin- Nope! And it makes your cramps feel better, but only if you’re up for it and of course if Joe is comfortable. But knowing his ass, anything you want, he’ll do it. Just get like a period sex blanket and put it down on your bed and go for it

You-No thanks, I’ll be satisfied with the cuddles

Erin- I just wanted to give you an idea! Oh I have another one! He can literally just make you cum by playing with your nipple rings

You- Bye Erin. I’m going to see if Joey can bring me some candy and ice cream over. Starting not to feel all that well

Alisha- Ask for kisses too! That always helps

Erin- Let me know if you try it!

Once you got settled on the couch, the cramps really started to kick in and the most comfortable position that you could be in at the moment was the fetal position. Knowing that just sitting there wasn't going to do anything to help your pain, you made it up in your mind to head to the kitchen in order to get something for the pain.

As you dragged yourself to the kitchen to look for some ibuprofen, you sighed when you noticed that your cabinets were empty. Unlocking your phone took a few times since your eyes were brimming with tears because of how much pain you were in and quickly facetimed Joe.

It took him no time to answer and when he picked up, he had a concerned expression on his face as he saw you upset and wincing.

“Baby doll? What’s wrong?”

“Can you bring me ibuprofen and a shitton of chocolate and ice cream? I currently feel like I was hit by a car.” You breathed out as you held onto the counter to steady yourself.

“Yeah, of course, anything else you need?” He asked as you saw him getting up and moving around his bedroom.

“Cuddles from my boyfriend because I feel like absolute shit right now.”

“Okay, let me get dressed and I should be there in thirty minutes at the most. Go and try to lay down, but leave the door open for me so you don’t have to get back up.”

Nodding your head, you did as you were told before walking to your bedroom and crawling to the top of your bed.

“Fuck, this hurtssss.”

“Did you eat dinner yet?”

“No, but the way I feel I would honestly probably throw it back up.”

“But yet you want chocolate and ice cream?” He asked confusedly as he was putting on his shoes.

“Joey, I don’t make the rules, okay? I just abide by them.”

“I’ll get you something anyway, just in case. I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay, I love you.” You mumbled as you propped your phone up on the nightstand.

“I love you too.”

When your eyes fluttered open, it took you a second for them to adjust and you noticed that there was now a heating pad on your stomach and your boyfriend’s arms were wrapped around you. Glancing at the nightstand, you saw the bottle of ibuprofen along with your water and chocolate.

Not wanting to turn around and move from your comfortable position, you simply called out for your boyfriend.

“Babeeeee.” You whined and in response, Joe leaned over and kissed your cheek.

“Yes, pretty girl?”

“Thank you for bringing what I needed.”

“You’re welcome. Now I need you to sit up and take this medicine since you were knocked out when I got here.” He told you as he helped you to sit up. You reached over and popped four pills in your mouth and a swig of water to wash it down before turning to look at him.

“I ruined our first Valentine’s Day.” You said as you pouted, but Joe let out a small laugh.

“You didn’t ruin anything, baby.”

“But my period decided to come early! It’s like it KNEW!”

“Look, if you’re comfortable with it, we can still do something because that doesn’t bother me. But if you’d rather wait until it’s over that’s fine too. Biggest thing for me is making sure that you’re okay.”

“Why are you like the perfect boyfriend?” You asked and you could feel that you were about to start crying again.

“I’m not perfect, I just take my girlfriend’s feelings into consideration. And Valentine’s Day isn’t only about sex. There’s plenty of other things we can do, but since I know how your cramps are, we can just stay in tomorrow and watch your favorite movies. We’re still going to make dinner and spend time with each other.”

“I need to get you another gift for that.”

“No, you don’t. You don’t need to get me a gift for doing something basic such as considering how you feel.”

“Doing it anyway, and you can’t change my mind. And wait a minute….. Joseph….”

“I… damn why are you saying my full government name?”

“You never actually asked me to be your Valentine!”

“Princess, you cannot be serious. Who else would I want to be my Valentine?” Joe asked as he looked at you in disbelief.

“I don’t know! Those girls that always come up to you on campus to say hi!”

“I… do not start. They don’t compare to you and you know it.”

“I guess I’ll let it slide since you did come and give me cuddles when I asked for them.” You said as you made him lean down so that you could kiss him.

“You're going to be my Valentine starting from now until forever.”

“Okay, you talk a big game, but I’m holding you to that Burrow.”

“Now that I have you, I’m definitely not letting you go.”

The day had finally arrived and you woke up with your room being surrounded by red and pink heart shaped balloons. You looked to your right to see that your boyfriend was nowhere to be found, but in his place was a huge teddy bear that you knew for a fact was bigger than you with a card attached to it.

Smiling to yourself, you opened the card to see Joe’s handwriting staring back at you.

Y/N, better known as my princess or baby doll,

So excited to be spending our first Valentine’s Day together and I spent about a month deciding on what I should get for you. I hope you love all of your gifts that I bought you, but keep in mind no material things can amount to how much I love and care about you. I’m thankful and grateful to have you in my life and this is only scratching the surface of what is to come for the both of us.

Love, Joey

As you placed the card back inside of the envelope, your bedroom door opened to reveal your boyfriend and you immediately opened your arms signaling to him that you wanted a hug.

After maneuvering through the many balloons, he came over to the left side of your bed and hugged you as he kissed the top of your head.

“Happy first Valentine’s Day baby doll.” He told you before leaning down to kiss you.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, babe. Are we doing gifts now or later? I can't wait for you to see what I got you.”

“We can do it later. I got up early and made breakfast for you.”

“But someone told me you can't cook.”

“Says who!? Does his name start with Ja and end with Marr?”

“Hmm, I think so.” You replied as you nodded and tried not to laugh.

“I'm about to get his ass for that and yes I can even if I don't do it often.”

“So what is on the menu for this morning?”

“Heart shaped pancakes, bacon since I know how much you're addicted to it and fresh fruit.”

“Are they really shaped like hearts?” You asked as you raised your eyebrow.

“Why don't you come and see for yourself? But first I figured you would want to take a bath and I have the water waiting for you and then you can eat.”

“I seriously do not deserve having you as my boyfriend.” You told him as you sighed.

“Let this be the last time that I ever hear you say that. You deserve everything, especially because you hadn't been treated that well in the past.”

Your eyes instantly welled up with tears and a few of them fell before Joe wiped them away for you.

“I am such a cry baby when I’m on it.”

“You're a cry baby anyway, but I still love you just the same.”

You made a face at him as he smiled at you and pinched your cheek before helping you up so that you could go to the bathroom.

“Meet me in the kitchen when you're done.” Joe told you before leaning down once more to kiss you.

As promised, the day was filled with you and Joe watching your favorite movies and you exchanged gifts after making lasagna, garlic bread, and salad for dinner. As you were sitting there on the couch next to Joe with your new necklace dangling that had his initials on it you glanced over at him to see that he was scrolling on his phone and not paying the movie any attention.

“What are you doing that has you so interested in your phone?” You asked and he looked at you and smirked.

“Your birthday is coming up so I need to start planning.”

“You have plenty of time, there's no rush.” You said as you had now focused back on the tv as Leonardo Dicaprio came onto the screen.

You were making Joe watch Titanic for the millionth time, but he never complained.

“I'd just rather get everything together early and no I'm not telling you because I know that you’re about to ask me. And what do you mean I have time? We have literally three weeks.”

“But…”

“No, and that's my final answer.”

“I'll get it out of you one way or another. And I can also just ask Ja'Marr.” You told him as you crossed your arms and suddenly remembered about your new piercings that you had yet to show him.

“Babe, put your phone down for a second.”

“Hmm?”

“I did a thing two days ago and this was supposed to be a part of your surprise, but now that ship has since sailed, I still wanted to show you.”

“What did you do?”

Turning a little bit more towards him, you had on one of Joe’s t-shirts and simply lifted it up to show him.

Once Joe saw the jewelry that was now decorating your chest, he immediately smirked as he started to play with them.

“Do you like it?”

“You can't tell by my reaction?”

“Well it was Erin's idea and she dragged me. Which I know you aren't surprised by.”

“Definitely remind me to thank her when I see her.”

“She warned me that you would probably say that.”

“Let me ask you something.” Joe said hesitantly, but looked at you seeing that you were giving him your full attention.

“What's that? You gave me your serious voice.”

“We don't actually have to have sex, but I can still make you cum. If you're up for it that is.” Joe asked and he could tell that you were thinking about it.

“By doing what?” You curiously asked, but had a strong feeling about what he was about to suggest.

“How about I just show you instead?” He asked and you nodded your head.

Not being experienced in the sex department, Joe would always ask if you were comfortable doing something beforehand and never pressured you. He wanted you to be comfortable and if anything ever didn't feel right or you changed your mind about something, he wanted you to tell him immediately.

This time was no different as he laid you down on the couch as he hovered above you and tugged on the bottom of his shirt that you were wearing.

“Arms up, take this off.”

Once Joe peeled the shirt off of your body and threw it behind him, his mouth instantly took one of your nipples into his mouth and lightly began to suck on it, making a gasp escape from your mouth.

After switching to the other one, he noticed that you winced slightly and quickly asked you if something was wrong.

“You okay?” He softly asked and you nodded your head.

“They're just a little sore.”

“You want me to stop? Just say the word. Don't want you to be uncomfortable.”

“No, keep going.”

As those words instantly left your mouth, Joe reattached himself to one side while rolling the other in between his fingers making you squirm.

It only took about ten minutes for you to hit your peak as Joe was placing kisses all over your chest as your breathing began to slow down. Once it did, Joe crawled all the way back up your body and placed several kisses on your lips.

“That was just a preview of what's to come on your birthday, but only if you're up for it.”

“I….”

“So that it'll make up for today. But of course, I promise not to do anything you aren't comfortable with.”

“I know, I trust you. And if this was just a preview, what else do I have to look forward to?”

“I'll just let it be a surprise, so you have to be patient.” Joe told you as he thought about the rose vibrator that he just bought to use on you for your birthday.

[meadowfics]

I apologize if you're not taking requests at this time. I just have to get it down before I forget lol.

What if Kang Dae-Ho and reader meet during the games and somehow survive and get married and have a kid who one day comes home from school wanting to play these children games they learned from their classmates/teachers (the games they played) and maybe it brings up the bad memories. Like kinda angsty but with a comforting ending something.

childhood dreams, adult nightmares

kang dae-ho x wife!mother!reader

seo-ah does not understand the effect of a childhood game on you

I am adding this to my, "kang family" series since this is such a good concept! thank you for requesting <3

warning: PTSD mentions, yes dae-ho and y/n were in the games in this AU before seo-ah and byeol came along :(

there is a link to see seo-ah's little cute sneakers to make your day <3

four years ago, you never thought you would live to see this life.

the quiet suburban home in the countryside in korea.

the warm smell of baby lotion and freshly brewed tea lingering in the air. the sound of your three-year-old daughter, seo-ah, giggling as she kicks off her tiny pink strawberry sneakers by the door.

the little girl's excitement was bubbling over after a long day at daycare.

you never thought you would survive at all to see this life,

or any life outside of comfort,

or any life outside of poverty,

yet here you are.

your hands tighten slightly on the baby carrier strapped to your chest, where byeol is sleeping peacefully, her tiny face nestled against your sternum, breaths warm and steady.

byeol's weight is small but grounding, a reminder that she is real. that this life is real, and you did survive the worst.

you and dae-ho had spent the day running errands, taking turns carrying byeol, rocking her, feeding her, going through the motions of parenthood with the quiet ease of two people who had built a home out of the wreckage of their past.

when you talked to dae-ho's oldest sister, and your sister-in-law, hana, a few months back, she suggested that seo-ah is at an age where she needs more social interaction with kids her own age.

so, dae-ho and you put seo-ah in morning daycare so she can play, start her learning, and make some new mini friends.

today had been a good day.

until seo-ah says something that freezes you in place.

"eomma, we played a new game today at recess!"

seo-ah announces, pulling her backpack off and tossing it onto the floor. the girl's cheeks are flushed with excitement as she bounces on her toes.

you smile, adjusting the strap of the baby carrier, watching as she pulls out a small piece of construction paper with crayon scribbles all over it.

"oh yeah? what game, baby?"

she grins, bright and carefree, completely unaware of the way your world is about to tilt on its axis.

"I think it was called... hm? wait! red light, green light! it was red light, green light!"

your breath catches in your throat.

your hands go still.

your entire body stiffens, as if your muscles are locking up, as if your nervous system is throwing every alarm at once, a tidal wave of ice-cold fear crashing down on you.

red light. green light.

breathe.

breathe.

you can't.

your ears ring.

your vision blurs at the edges.

your heartbeat thunders in your chest, loud and panicked, drowning out the warmth of the home around you.

"eomma?"

seo-ah tilts her head, blinking up at you with wide, innocent eyes.

she doesn't know.

seo-ah doesn't know.

act normal, y/n.

you force a smile, swallowing the lump in your throat.

"o-oh, yeah? who taught you that game?"

your voice feels distant, wrong, like it doesn’t belong to you.

"seonsaengnim said it’s really fun! we played it outside, and i won once!"

she beams, clearly proud of herself.

your stomach churns. nausea twists inside you like a knot pulled too tight.

images flash behind your eyes, unwelcome and cruel.

you remember when you won once, too.

except, you would have died if you didn't.

the sun beating down on your skin. the crack of gunfire. bodies collapsing around you, limp and lifeless. the screams. the silence.

stop. stop. stop.

"eomma?"

you snap back to the present, your nails digging into your palms as you force yourself to focus on your daughter.

on her soft voice, her curious eyes she got from you, the way she’s still waiting for your response.

before you can say anything, dae-ho’s voice calls out from down the hall.

"seo-ah, baby, use your inside voice! your sister's sleeping."

your head turns instinctively.

dae-ho is in byeol’s nursery, gently rocking her bassinet as he hums under his breath, soothing her. t

he sight of him...tall, strong, always steady...should bring you comfort.

right now, you don’t want him to see you like this.

you don’t want to trigger him, too.

"w-why don’t you go wash your hands before dinner, hm?"

you tell seo-ah, ruffling her hair.

she pouts but obeys, skipping off toward the bathroom, humming a song to herself.

as soon as she’s gone, you let out a shaky breath and press a hand to your chest, as if that will somehow slow the frantic beating of your heart.

you close your eyes. try to shake it off. try to remind yourself that this is not then.

this is not the games.

however, your body doesn’t understand the difference.

its been a while since you remembered those games. your brain tries to block that memory all of the time.

today, the memories were clear as day.

your legs feel weak as you make your way to the bedroom, setting the empty baby carrier down carefully before you sit on the edge of the bed.

your hands are still trembling, your lungs still tight.

you need to pull yourself together. you can’t let dae-ho see you like this.

you can’t—

“baby?”

your husband's voice is soft, but it startles you anyway.

you snap your head up, meeting his gaze.

dae-ho is standing in the doorway, brows furrowed slightly, his expression unreadable.

your stomach twists.

he noticed.

of course he did.

you try to muster a small smile.

“hey.”

he studies you for a long moment before stepping forward.

“what’s wrong?”

don’t tell him.

don’t tell him.

you don’t want to see that look in his eyes.

the same look he had the night you both finally got out, the night you collapsed in his arms, covered in blood that wasn’t your own, shaking so violently he had to hold you together.

the night before that when the rebellion happened. when you had to comfort a shaking dae-ho since the gunshots reminded him of his time in the marines.

he had worser PTSD symptoms than you did, if you had to compare.

however, dae-ho is patient.

he crouches in front of you, resting a warm hand on your knee.

"talk to me, baby."

you let out a slow breath, your throat tight.

“seo-ah told me that she--um--played… red light, green light today at daycare.”

he stills.

"it reminded me of.."

for a long moment, neither of you say anything.

dae-ho's fingers flex against your knee, his jaw tightens, his own breathing uneven. the ex-marine's eyes darken in a way that makes your stomach drop.

"oh."

you nod.

"yeah."

a heavy silence falls between you, thick with memories neither of you want to relive.

“i didn’t want to tell you,”

you admit quietly.

“i didn’t want to make you—”

“it’s okay,”

he cuts in gently.

“you can tell me anything.”

you can see it.

the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curl into fists before he slowly unclenches them.

he’s not okay either. but he’s trying.

just like you.

he takes a deep breath, then reaches for your hands, lacing his fingers through yours.

“she’s safe,”

he says, and you can’t tell if he’s reminding you or himself.

“she’s here. alive. she’s okay.”

you nod, squeezing his hands.

"i know. i just—" you swallow hard.

"it still gets to me."

"i know, sweetheart."

his voice is so soft it almost breaks you.

he moves to sit beside you, pulling you into his arms. the warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, is the only thing keeping you from spiraling again.

"breathe with me,"

he murmurs against your hair.

so you do.

inhale.

his chest rises with yours.

exhale.

dae-ho's arms tighten around you.

the two of you sit like that for a long time, breathing together, grounding each other.

you don’t know how much time passes before you finally whisper,

“do you think it’ll ever go away?”

he doesn’t answer right away. then, he sighs, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"maybe not completely but we have each other, right?"

you close your eyes, nodding.

"yeah."

"and seo-ah. and byeol."

his voice is steadier now.

"we survived, baby. we made it. no one is taking anything from us ever again."

dae-ho's words settle into your bones, solid and warm, and you believe him.

you press your face against his chest, soaking in the quiet comfort of him.

the past will always be there, unfortunately, waiting for moments like this to creep in.

you are here alive with dae-ho. together.

alive.

kang family masterlist here

[wendichester]

₊˚⊹♡ swipe right,

summary. dean winchester doesn’t really do dating apps. but then, he matches with you.

pairing. dean winchester x reader

wordcount. 928

You almost didn’t swipe right.

His profile was suspiciously vague—just a single, grainy picture of him leaning against a sleek black Impala, wearing a worn leather jacket, a confident smirk playing on his lips. No bio. No interests. No cheesy pickup line.

Just Dean, 35 and a damn good smirk.

You stared at it for a moment, finger hovering over the screen. This guy could be anyone. A serial killer. A scam artist. A catfish. But something about that stupid smirk made your stomach flip.

So, against your better judgment, you swiped right.

And to your surprise, you matched instantly.

Now, you’re sitting across from him in a dimly lit bar, a little buzzed from your second drink, trying to process that yes, this is real, and yes, he is even hotter in person.

Dean Winchester is a flirt. A charmer. He’s warm whiskey and cocky grins, all easy confidence and smooth one-liners. But there’s something else, too—something genuine beneath all that bravado.

“So, tell me,” you tease, swirling your drink, “do you always meet women off Tinder, or am I special?”

Dean huffs, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, I don’t even know how I ended up on that damn app. My brother set it up.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” He takes a sip of his beer, lips curling around the bottle in a way that makes your stomach flip. “Said I needed to ‘get out there’ more. Thought I’d just get a bunch of bots, but then—” He gestures at you with his bottle. “Lucky me.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I prefer charming.”

“Debatable.”

His grin widens, and God, he’s got a nice smile. It’s not just his looks—it’s the way he looks at you, like you’re the only thing in the room worth paying attention to.

And maybe it’s the drinks, or maybe it’s the way he keeps looking at your lips, but there’s a charge in the air, crackling, electric.

Dean leans in, forearms resting on the table, voice dropping just a little. “You’re a lot cuter than I expected.”

You arch a brow. “Expected?”

He shrugs, smirk playing on his lips. “Well, you never know with these apps. Thought I’d get catfished.”

You scoff, pretending to be offended. “You thought I was the catfish? That’s rich, coming from a guy with one blurry picture and no bio.”

Dean chuckles, eyes twinkling. “Okay, fair.” He takes another sip of his drink, gaze flicking over your face, warm and amused. “But if I’m being honest, I almost didn’t swipe on you either.”

Your heart dips slightly. “Oh?”

“Yeah. You seemed…” He searches for the right word. “Too good to be true.”

The words catch you off guard. Your lips part slightly, and Dean holds your gaze for a moment longer before glancing down at his drink, almost like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

The air between you shifts—less playful, more charged.

You tilt your head, giving him a soft, teasing smile. “So, is this the part where you ask me back to your place?”

Dean hums, tapping his fingers against his glass. “Tempting. But I’m a gentleman.”

You snort. “Oh, really?”

He leans in a fraction closer, voice dropping lower. “Yeah. Which means I’ll at least walk you to your door before I start thinking about how bad I wanna kiss you.”

Your breath catches. His tone, his expression—it’s all heat, all smoldering intent.

And suddenly, you’re not so interested in finishing your drink.

It’s a blur after that. The way he keeps his word, walking you to your door like some old-school gentleman—until you pull him inside, pressing your lips to his the second it closes behind you.

Dean groans, hands gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him. His mouth is warm, insistent, and when his fingers slide into your hair, tilting your head back, you let out the softest sigh.

His body is solid beneath your hands, strong, radiating heat. And when he backs you against the wall, pressing his hips into yours, you feel just how much he wants this.

“Jesus,” he pants against your lips, forehead pressing against yours. “Tell me if I need to slow down.”

You shake your head, fingers curling into his jacket. “Don’t you dare.”

His chuckle is dark, rough, as his hands skim down your sides, settling on your hips. “Bossy.”

You grin, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. “You like it.”

He makes a sound low in his throat, then lifts you easily, guiding your legs around his waist. You let out a surprised laugh, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

“Show-off,” you murmur.

Dean smirks. “Told you, sweetheart. I’m charming.”

And then he’s carrying you toward your bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him.

Later, when you’re tangled together in your sheets, breathless and warm, Dean lets out a satisfied sigh, fingertips tracing lazy circles on your hip.

“Gotta say,” he murmurs, “best damn Tinder date I’ve ever been on.”

You laugh, stretching against him. “Oh, so you’ve had others?”

Dean pauses, then smirks. “Nope. Just wanted to mess with you.”

You swat his arm, and he catches your wrist, bringing it to his lips. The playfulness fades slightly as he looks at you, something softer in his gaze.

“Glad I swiped right,” he admits quietly.

Your heart does a stupid little flip. “Me too.”

Dean’s smirk returns, but it’s warmer now, fonder. He pulls you closer, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead.

“Told you,” he murmurs against your skin. “Lucky me.”

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @taurus0queenie33 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystems ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @funkenniffler ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @lieutenantchaos ⋆ @iluvnewtie ⋆ @dyhsversion ⋆ @lovewolfspirit ⋆ @kayleighwinchester ⋆ @s0urw00lf ⋆ @cursednevermore ⋆ @img14 ⋆ @onelonelybitch ⋆ @americanvenom13 ⋆ @iluvdeanwinchester ⋆ @idk6505 ⋆ @devilslittlehelper ⋆ @cloverleaf20 ⋆ @giggles1026 ⋆ @idontwannabehere7 ⋆ @beakaleak32 ⋆ @ocelotlist51 ⋆ @lelapine ⋆ @pwin098 ⋆ @lacysretribution ⋆ @globetrotter28 ⋆ @aerinu

[junezsq]

failing potions

harry james potter x fem!reader

summary: when working on an essay might turn into something more

warnings: none! takes places in third year

word count: 1,1k

a/n: i love writing confident harry, we need to see more of him

── ᵎᵎ ✦

the gryffindor common room was busy for a late afternoon, the usual hum of chatter flowing through the room while a small ray of sunlight seeped in from the window. you’d just come from a quick chat with hermione about charms when you remember the essay professor snape had assigned you to write for the next potions class.

deciding you’d have a better chance in a quieter environment you gathered your things—quill, parchment, books—ready to leave for the library. potions was still giving you trouble, and you needed a bit of peace to work through your essay, even if you weren’t entirely sure where to start. slipping through the portrait hole, you were nearly to the stairs when someone stepped into your path.

"sorry," harry’s voice cut through the stillness after almost bumping into you. when he realized it was you the usual curiosity he had towards you bubbled up.

“it’s alright.” you smiled, stepping aside to let him pass, but he didn’t move. instead, he looked at you with a sort of tentative hope, his eyebrows raised in question. "where are you off to?" he asked, almost as if it was a casual thing to ask.

you hesitated for a second. you hadn’t been planning on bumping into anyone, nor letting someone possibly join you, let alone that someone being harry. however, looking at the boy standing in front of you, you realized he looked genuinely interested. besides, maybe he could help you with your essay; you’d been struggling for days now.

"i was about to head to the library,” you sighed. “to work on that potions essay snape assigned us. it’s giving me a headache. i can’t make heads or tails of half the instructions."

"funny, i was going to work on it in the common room.” harry’s eyes twinkled with amusement as he ran a hand through his messy hair. “i still haven’t even started it yet, though. do you wanna... work on it together?"

you raised an eyebrow, surprised. harry wasn’t exactly the first person you’d think of when it came to potions. it was one of the few things he never seemed to excel in; almost having blown up his cauldron last week. still, there was something about the way he smiled at you—genuine, warm—that made you hesitate.

you thought for a moment. in truth, you just didn’t want to spend the entire evening buried in your own confusion, and the idea of working alongside someone sounded nice. especially harry, who you’d been getting to know better over the past few weeks, even though potions wasn’t his strong suit.

"i guess it wouldn't hurt," you said with a small, amused smile.

harry grinned back, his usual enthusiasm lighting up his face. "great!" he said, his voice eager, though you knew it wasn’t because he expected to solve your potions problem. no, harry was simply someone who liked helping, and, maybe, you suspected, it was also about sharing something with you. "i’m not brilliant at it either," he added with a sheepish chuckle, "but, well, two heads are better than one, right?"

"definitely," you agreed, though you couldn’t help but feel a little skeptical about how much help harry would be. still, his presence was comforting, and that was enough.

you turned to walk toward the stairs, but stopped to glance back at harry. "let’s not tell hermione, though," you added with a quiet laugh. "she’d have a lot to say about us needing help with potions."

harry’s face lit up with a grin, and for a moment, you thought he might laugh out loud. "agreed," he said, nodding. "she’d probably start writing us notes on the finer details of snape’s instructions. i swear, she’s got the entire textbook memorized."

you both shared a laugh, the conversation flowing easily as you made your way to the library. you could feel the beginnings of something comfortable, something real, forming between you. and as harry walked beside you, his smile never quite fading, you realized his company might make the evening worthwhile.

as you reached the library, madam pince was immediately there, giving both of you a sharp look. "quiet," she muttered, waving a finger at you. "this is a library, not a social club."

you both muttered apologies, and harry shot you a grin, making you suppress a laugh. with madam pince keeping a close eye on the two of you, you quickly made your way deeper into the library, picking a secluded corner near the back shelves. it was quieter here, and it felt more private—perfect for getting some work done.

after having sat down at a small table you spread out your books. harry picked up a thick potions textbook, his brow furrowed as he flipped through the pages, and you followed suit; your own potions book open in front of you. the silence between you was comfortable, and as you both tried to piece together the complicated instructions snape had written, you found yourself glancing at harry more than once. he didn’t seem stressed, just casually flipping through the pages, occasionally muttering things under his breath.

"right," harry said after a long pause, "i think i finally understand this bit about the aconite root. snape’s wording is a bit—" he paused, then looked at you, "—confusing, don’t you think?"

you nodded, feeling a sense of relief that harry was just as baffled by snape’s cryptic instructions as you were. "yeah, it’s like he’s trying to make us all fail on purpose."

harry let out a sarcastic chuckle, "wouldn’t surprise me. he’s probably hoping we’ll figure it out on our own, like some sort of secret test."

you smiled at his words, the ease of the moment settling over you. for a split second, you almost forgot about the stress of the essay, of potions, of everything. it was just you and harry, talking and working together in this quiet corner of the library.

then harry suddenly looked up at you, his expression shifting slightly. "you know," he said, his voice quiet but sincere, "i’m glad we’re doing this. i mean, we haven’t really gotten the chance to get to know one another."

you blinked at him, surprised, and a teasing grin formed on your lips, “are you?”

harry shrugged, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. "yeah, well. between everything going on...” he trailed off, but when he seemed to remember he couldn’t tell you more, he lightly shook his head, “i mean, with all the homework we’re getting and all.” he looked at you for a beat, his gaze a little more intense than before. “but this is nice.”

you swallowed, unsure of what to say, and for a moment, you were both caught in a silence that felt different from the usual. the world outside the library seemed to fade, leaving just the two of you in this small, intimate space.

"yeah," you said softly with a small smile, the quiet in your voice matching his. "it is."

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

SOUNDTRACK // blind, role model

TAGLIST // @callsigncrushx @moonjellyfishie @pussyslayerhd