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iamgonnagetyouback · 2 days ago

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I'LL SAY, WILL YOU MARRY ME?.⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ●ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ S. REID

SUMMARY ৎ୭ falling in love with spencer reid was never a question, only an inevitability. it was in the way he remembered things you barely remembered saying, the way he defied probability just to make you smile, the way he learned you like you were his favorite subject. four times he surprised you—quietly, sweetly, in ways only he could. and then, when it was your turn, you made sure to give him a surprise worth remembering

WARNINGS ಇ. excessive fluff, spencer reid being the most thoughtful man alive, reader being absolutely whipped, the bau being the ultimate group of enablers, and just an overwhelming amount of love A/N ಇ. my first 4 + 1 fic for spencer, and i had to make it disgustingly sweet. this man was made for the softest love. i wrote this with heart eyes the entire time. hope you love it as much as i do ‹𝟹

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ᡣ𐭩 words.ᐟ 2,524

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

The first time Spencer surprised you, it wasn’t with some grand romantic gesture or an intricately thought-out plan—it was with a single sentence, delivered so casually you almost missed it.

You were at the BAU, perched on the edge of Spencer’s desk, absently flipping through a book he’d left open while he and Derek were mid-conversation about something you weren’t entirely following. The buzz of the bullpen droned around you, keys clacking, phones ringing—nothing unusual. You had half a mind to start daydreaming when you caught the tail end of Spencer’s words, his tone as effortless as if he were reciting a grocery list.

“—kind of like the 1972 edition of The Last Unicorn, you know, the one with the misprint where the dedication is in the wrong place. That’s her favorite edition. She mentioned it once, so if you ever see a copy, let me know.”

You blinked.

Your favorite edition? The one with the misprint? The edition you had rambled about once—once—over takeout months ago? The conversation had been a passing thought, a fleeting mention between bites of lo mein, something you’d figured was lost to the ether.

But no. Of course, Spencer remembered.

Derek smirked, a slow, knowing expression creeping across his face as he shifted his gaze to you. “Damn, pretty boy. You writing a dissertation on your girl or something?”

Heat surged up your neck so quickly it was a miracle you didn’t combust on the spot. “Spencer—”

“What?” Spencer blinked at you, genuinely perplexed by your reaction. “You said it was important to you. Why wouldn’t I remember?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “Because I said it once. Months ago. In passing.”

He frowned, as if the very concept of forgetting something you loved was utterly foreign to him. “You love it. That makes it important.”

Your heart stumbled over itself, warmth pooling low in your stomach. You weren’t sure what to do with the way he looked at you, all soft certainty and quiet devotion, as if remembering the smallest details of your happiness was second nature to him.

Derek chuckled, shaking his head. “Man, you’ve got it bad.”

Spencer barely acknowledged him, tilting his head at you. “Did I say something wrong?”

You exhaled a laugh, light and breathless. “No, Spence. Not at all.”

You were still flustered. Still shocked. But more than anything, you were his. And that made all the difference.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

The second time Spencer surprised you was at the carnival. The lights flickered like a thousand fireflies overhead, washing the fairgrounds in a kaleidoscope of color. Laughter and music tangled in the air, mixing with the scent of popcorn and fried dough. You were walking past a row of game booths with Penelope, your fingers wrapped around a half-melted cotton candy, when your eyes landed on it.

A stuffed bear, slightly lopsided but endearingly so, with soft brown fur and a tiny pink bow.

“Oh, that’s cute,” you said absentmindedly, taking another bite of your sugary treat.

The game itself was one of those—the kind designed to be unwinnable. A cluster of milk bottles, stacked in a pyramid, just heavy enough and just angled enough that knocking them over with a weighted ball was statistically improbable, if not impossible.

Penelope gave you a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Sorry, sugarplum, but those are rigged to hell and back. The guy running the booth said no one’s won that all night.”

You sighed, a little disappointed but not surprised. “Figures.”

With that, you let it go, continuing forward with Penelope while Spencer lingered behind. You didn’t think much of it—he probably got distracted by something, as he often did.

It wasn’t until you were waiting in line for the Ferris wheel that you felt something tap your shoulder.

You turned, and there stood Spencer, glasses slightly askew, his cardigan sleeves pushed up, holding the stuffed bear against his chest like it was some sort of peace offering.

Your mouth parted in shock. “Spence. No.”

Spencer, looking far too pleased with himself, simply shrugged. “Yes.”

You blinked. “How—?”

“It’s all physics.” He adjusted his glasses with one hand, shifting the bear to his other arm. “The way the bottles are stacked, they create a deceptive center of gravity. Most people aim for the middle, but if you hit the base bottle at the exact right angle—”

“You’re telling me you mathed the carnival?”

“Yes.” He paused. “Technically, I scienced it.”

Penelope let out an outrageously loud gasp. “Boy Wonder, did you just hack the universe for love?”

Spencer, deadpan, said, “Would you rather I hacked it for evil?”

You didn’t respond, mostly because you were still too busy gaping at him. The keeper had said the game was impossible, and yet, here he was, holding the proof in his hands.

Spencer held the bear out toward you with a small, shy smile. “You liked it.”

You took it, warmth blooming in your chest so fast it nearly knocked you off your feet.

“Spencer Reid,” you said, voice full of wonder, “you are ridiculous.”

His expression faltered. “But in a good way?”

You lunged forward, wrapping your arms around him in a hug that nearly knocked the breath out of him.

“Yes,” you mumbled against his shoulder. “In the best way.”

And as if he hadn’t already ruined you completely, he pressed a kiss to the side of your head and murmured, “Good.”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

It started as a habit you barely noticed—something instinctive, something you never really thought about. When emotions ran too high, whether in frustration, excitement, or joy, you’d slip into your native language. A muttered curse when you stubbed your toe, rapid-fire exclamations when you got good news, whispered endearments when Spencer did something particularly sweet.

And Spencer, for all his genius, would just stare at you, brow furrowed, lips pressed together in frustration.

“I hate not knowing what you’re saying,” he admitted once, after you’d spent two minutes ranting under your breath about something someone had said. “It’s like…watching the best scene in a movie, but without subtitles.”

You had laughed, ruffled his hair, and moved on.

You didn’t think he’d actually do anything about it.

But, of course, this was Spencer Reid.

It wasn’t until months later, in the middle of a particularly heated argument over whose turn it was to do laundry, that you realized something had changed.

“Spencer,” you huffed, crossing your arms. “I literally did it last week, and I swear to God—”

You stopped mid-sentence, your frustration boiling over into a string of words in your native tongue, too sharp and fast for him to possibly understand.

Or so you thought.

Because instead of his usual confused frown, Spencer just…sighed. “I know, sweetheart,” he said, voice annoyingly soft. “You feel like you’re always the one keeping things in order, and it’s frustrating when I get caught up in my work and don’t notice.”

You froze.

Your brain froze.

Your soul left your body.

“Did you just—?”

Spencer shifted on his feet, shoving his hands into his cardigan pockets like he hadn’t just rocked your entire world. “I learned.”

“You learned?”

“Well, yeah.” He shrugged, like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just casually admitted to learning an entire language for you. “You use it when you’re overwhelmed. When you’re really happy. When you’re really upset. I wanted to be able to—” He hesitated, then sighed. “I wanted to understand you. All of you.”

You were reeling.

Your Spencer, the man who got overwhelmed by new foods and wore mismatched socks on purpose, had sat down and taught himself a whole language just to keep up with you.

The worst part? He wasn’t even bragging about it.

He was just looking at you with those big, earnest eyes, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Say something else,” you breathed, stepping closer, heart hammering in your chest.

Spencer’s lips quirked. He took your hand, lifted it to his lips, and murmured something in your language—something soft, warm, achingly tender.

You didn’t need a translation. You felt it.

And that was the moment you realized that if this man ever proposed, you wouldn’t even need a ring to say yes.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

The BAU wasn’t exactly known for throwing extravagant parties, but every once in a while—when the cases weren’t weighing too heavy, when the team needed to breathe—someone would organize a gathering. Tonight, it was at a cozy, dimly lit bar, where laughter hummed in the air, and glasses clinked together in celebration of nothing and everything all at once.

You were nursing a drink, swaying absently in your seat to the upbeat music thrumming through the speakers, when a hand ghosted over yours.

Spencer.

“I thought you didn’t dance,” you teased, raising a brow.

“I don’t,” he said. “Or, well—I told you I don’t.”

Before you could question him, he was tugging you to your feet, guiding you toward the makeshift dance floor in the center of the room.

“Spencer,” you laughed, trying to plant your feet. “What are you—?”

And then he spun you.

Spun you.

Not clumsily, not awkwardly—gracefully, like he’d been doing this for years, like he’d memorized the movements as easily as he memorized case files. His fingers found yours effortlessly, his other hand resting lightly on your waist, pulling you close in a way that sent warmth flooding through you.

Your breath caught.

“You lied,” you whispered, eyes wide.

Spencer had the audacity to smirk. “I omitted.”

You wanted to be annoyed—really, you did—but it was impossible when he was guiding you so effortlessly, his steps steady and sure, his touch sending sparks along your skin. The rest of the room faded, the music folding around the two of you like something made for this moment.

And then, over the music, someone yelled—loud, clear, amused.

"Put a ring on her, Reid!"

The team laughed, Penelope whooped, and Spencer—adorably, unbelievably—went scarlet.

But you?

You just smiled, pressing closer to him, because the thought had already taken root in your mind.

And if he kept surprising you like this, you had a feeling it wasn’t going anywhere.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

You should’ve known things wouldn’t go exactly to plan.

But in your defense, you did the math.

And for a while, everything was going perfectly.

The entire BAU was in on it—except Hotch, who you had strategically placed on Spencer distraction duty. You needed someone with a natural air of authority to make sure Spencer didn’t suddenly wander back early, and Hotch, bless him, had agreed with only a single, unimpressed sigh.

Now, with Spencer successfully occupied, you had an entire team of federal agents setting up the most intricate, heartfelt surprise proposal the world had ever seen.

“Derek, the ribbons don’t loop like that,” you huffed, pointing accusingly at the offensive display of tulle bows on the ceiling. “They’re supposed to be elegant and flowy, not—” you gestured wildly at the mess he’d made, “—that.”

Derek scoffed. “Princess, I think we’re getting a little dramatic over some bows.”

“You’re dramatic over football games,” you shot back. “Let me have this.”

JJ and Emily were arranging candles while Penelope fussed over the lights, making sure everything had the perfect warm, golden glow. Even Rossi was involved, setting up the champagne and shaking his head fondly at your borderline-manic attention to detail.

Everything was falling into place.

Everything was perfect.

And then, the door opened.

At first, no one reacted. You were too busy adjusting the placement of the table centerpiece to notice. But then the silence hit you—thick, unnatural, the kind that only meant something had gone terribly wrong.

And that’s when you turned.

And saw Spencer.

Standing in the doorway.

Everyone. Froze.

Your heart plummeted.

“NO, NO, NO—” You lurched forward, waving your arms as if that would physically undo the moment. “YOU CAN’T BE HERE YET! YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO BE HERE UNTIL 7:05, I DID THE MATH. IT WOULD TAKE YOU APPROXIMATELY ONE HOUR TO GET HERE AND THREE MINUTES TO COLLECT YOUR THINGS FROM THE CA—”

Spencer blinked. “You… did math?”

“That’s not the point!”

Spencer looked around, taking in the flickering candles, the flowers, the absolute chaos of the team caught mid-action like deer in headlights.

“Hotch was supposed to distract you,” you accused, glaring at the universe itself.

Spencer shrugged. “Yeah, after about ten minutes of his ‘So, Reid, how’s work lately?’ routine, I figured I should leave him alone.”

You groaned. “Dammit.”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. You had planned this for weeks, accounted for everything, down to the minute, and yet here you were—standing in the middle of a half-finished proposal setup, Spencer staring at you like you were an anomaly he couldn’t quite solve.

But then he smiled.

Soft. Warm. Curious.

And you realized—it didn’t matter.

The plan had never mattered. Only he did.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Okay, well, this wasn’t supposed to go like this, but—” You turned, grabbed the velvet box from the table, and without any further hesitation, dropped to one knee.

Spencer’s breath hitched.

“Oh.”

And suddenly, words were spilling out of you, tumbling past your lips faster than your brain could catch up.

“Spencer, I have never met anyone like you,” you started, voice thick with emotion. “You remember every little thing I say, even if I say it once. You math carnivals just because I looked at a stuffed animal. You learned a whole language just to understand me better. You do all of these things not because you have to, but because that’s just who you are. You love me so much that it’s written into every detail of your life, and I—I just—”

Your voice broke.

Your vision blurred.

Tears streamed freely down your face, and you knew you were a mess—sniffling, shaking, soaked in emotions that should’ve been poetic but were just loud.

“There’s a reason girls don’t do this,” you hiccuped, rubbing at your eyes, utterly failing at keeping yourself together.

Spencer let out a soft, breathless laugh.

You swallowed, gripping the ring box so tight your knuckles went white. “But I figured you’d appreciate an unexpected variable for once.”

Silence.

A beat.

And then Spencer dropped to his knees too, hands framing your face with a reverence that made your breath stutter.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmured, and you were about to apologize, about to start rambling again, when he pressed his forehead to yours and whispered, “And I love you so much it terrifies me.”

Your breath caught.

And then he kissed you.

Soft, deep, sure. Like an answer. Like a promise.

Somewhere in the background, you dimly registered Penelope sobbing, Derek muttering, “Damn, pretty boy really does have it bad,” and Rossi popping open the champagne with a satisfied sigh.

But none of it mattered.

"Will you marry me, Spencer Reid?"

Spencer pulled back just enough to whisper, “Yes. Of course, yes,” and you knew—down to your bones—that this was the best equation you had ever solved.

©iamgonnagetyouback౨ৎ please refrain from copying, translating, or reposting any of my work

#⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ivy writes ༄.°#spencer reid one shot #spencer reid #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x fem!reader #dr spencer reid #matthew gray gubler #criminalminds #spencer reid x self insert

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seasidefallenangel · 15 hours ago

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now say i'm the only one you need

ranking the bllk men on how good of a boyfriend they are ft. isagi yoichi, bachira meguru, chigiri hyoma, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, karasu tabito, otoya eita, yukimiya kenyu, michael kaiser, alexis ness

song from here listen to it to get a kiss from me

༄ isagi: 10/10

one third of the “perfect boyfriend trio.” he’s incredibly attentive of all your needs and overall is very good at balancing his soccer career with your relationship. dictionary definition of “walk him like a dog.” anything you say goes and he’s more than happy with things being that way. actually has a pretty high tolerance for whatever things you might put him through, he tends to be good at solving problems before they can spiral out of control. the most you’ll have to deal with is the fact he can be kind of on the more awkward and shy side of things, unsure how to really be in a relationship. he wasn’t really popular or well known at all before blue lock, so at most he had crushes that were one-sided. his friends joke and tease about how you’ve got him wrapped around your finger. he doesn’t even care that they’re right.

༄ bachira: 9/10

the thing with bachira is that you’re not gonna date him unless you’re okay with all of his quirks, so there’s really nothing “bad” or unexpected going into the relationship. at his worst he can be clingy and a smidge overbearing, but he’s terrified of you deciding you want something more, better than him. he’s very easy going because of this, and really won’t have any disagreements with whatever ideas strike you. you’re actually a rock in this life, and he feels safe confiding all the thoughts clawing at his mind when he’s being held in your arms. despite what people may think, he does have a calmer temperament to him - generally after practice or late at night. he’s a big cuddle bug and will most likely fall asleep on your stomach, clinging to you so you can’t leave him.

༄ chigiri: 5/10

rose-glasses off, chigiri kinda sucks. he’s very selfish without the whole egoist thing going on, and it’s confirmed in canon that a lot of people get turned off by his personality after being drawn in by his looks. he obviously has some interest in you if you’re dating, but that doesn’t mean his bad traits magically go away. his mindset is very “me before you.” if you’re arguing he’s going to bring up points for the sole purpose of hurting you because he has to be right. he has too much pride to admit when he's wrong but also to apologize for his actions. on the opposite side of that, though, is compliments and the like are easy for him to give you. he’s pretty open with his opinions so if he likes a certain thing about you he has no qualms with telling you as such. he would never deny you're dating and generally likes to show you off, wanting everyone to know he bagged an incredible person. he’s not the worst person to date, but it probably won’t be worth anything as a long term relationship.

༄ nagi: 6/10

nagi is my favorite character and that’s why i need to say this. he does have some merit for what it’s worth. he’s very physically affectionate and is also really easy to be around. i see him as being more open to compromise if you’re stern enough with him. he might complain a bit but he’s not that hard to convince. the biggest issue with him is that he just… doesn’t care. if he goes to a new cafe with you it’s cause you asked him, not because he wanted to. it’s not that he doesn’t love you, he just doesn’t process things like this in his brain. the concept of ‘doing things for your partner before they ask’ doesn’t click. he’s not a mind reader, so isn’t just being vocal about what you want the easiest? he doesn’t really expect much from you as a partner so easily grows confused at why you have these random demands and expectations from him when you know exactly how he is. it might not be a dealbreaker, but it does make you question if he’s ever actually enjoying his time with you.

༄ reo: 8/10

reo’s biggest issues are 1.) he's absurdly jealous and 2.) his money. the thing with his money is the fact he uses it almost as a deflector of sorts. if you have a genuine problem you need to sort out with him, he's giving you new jewelry, designer bags, dinners at michelin star restaurants instead of talking it out. he doesn’t want to give you the chance to bring up your displeasure in regards to something he’s done. it’s his default answer because it’s the only thing people have wanted from him. reo is actually very scared of conflict. he’s worried you’ll leave him at the first sign of him not being the picture perfect boyfriend that’s expected from him, which ties into the jealousy. if someone has a trait you admire, he’ll mold himself to fit that thing you seem to like. he hates when you even acknowledge other people’s talents or attractive features (save for nagi.) speaking of nagi, it’s played out but i do believe he’s the only person reo will share you with. if nagi wants to cuddle, kiss, act like your boyfriend, reo has no issue as long as he’s involved too. when you’re someone reo truly loves, he’ll let you do pretty much anything to him with no repercussions. it’s very easy to take advantage of him as long as you promise stay by his side.

༄ rin: 7/10

no matter how much he denies it, rin tries very hard to be sae. he wants to be the nonchalant boyfriend, never losing his cool and making it seem like you’re always running back for more. in truth, he couldn’t be more obvious about how badly he needs you. he has this sort of non-stop identity crisis going so he’s going to have this front of “fine with you, fine without you.” he wants you to think he doesn’t need you that bad because he’s worried you’ll see him as weak. the thing that makes it obvious is that when you’re threatening to leave because he’s just too hot and cold, he caves instantly. teeth gritted, he’ll ask what you want him to change, what kind of person should he be for you? after sae, he became so desperately starved for love that the second you started dating he felt like he was suffocating, always needing your validation but unable to ask for it. similarly to reo, he’s easy to take advantage of if you insinuate that you’re unhappy with something currently in your relationship. be gentle because you can break him apart and he’ll always think it was his fault.

༄ sae: 9/10

i’m gonna go against the grain and say that sae is actually a great boyfriend because he wouldn’t bother getting into a relationship to begin with if he didnt think it’s worth his time. he’s an incredibly self assured person so he has no reason to be all wishy-washy with who he’s interested. sae’ll make it clear he wants to date you and obviously you’re reciprocating because duh, he’s sae itoshi. from the get go he’ll remind you that soccer is his career, his lifeblood, and while he loves you more, his priorities lay there. the fact he straight up admits it instead of letting it become a festering issue is exactly why he’s so good because neither of you will have wasted time in the relationship. he’s also easier to talk to than one might think. sae generally believes drawn out arguments are pointless and wasting energy on them doesn’t help anyone, so any that you two have are squashed pretty quickly. affection comes pretty easily to him but he can be a little emotionally absent at his worst. it’s not really something that changes over time, but he has other methods of making sure you know he adores you. it’s very “what you see is what you get.” if you’re acquainted with him at all, there’s really no negative surprises or unexpected twists that put a damper on the romance between you both. if nothing else, he makes sure the whole world know exactly who you belong to, and it leaves you with no room to doubt he plans to keep you by his side forever.

༄ karasu: 10/10

one third of the “perfect boyfriend trio.” this is generally a shock to people who know the kind of company he keeps around but the thing is that karasu doesn’t approve of otoya’s behavior. he goes from insinuating otoya could be doing better things with his time than leading girls on to flat out telling him he’s pathetic for not holding down a relationship. most of the girls who have their hearts broken by otoya fall in love with karasu right after from how kindly he treats them and the way he apologizes for his friends nasty habits. karasu holds a lot of respect for you as a person since he’s attracted to people he can analyze and read into. a common bonding activity is just him asking your opinions on certain topics or how you’d approach a theoretical situation and he’ll sit back and listen, trying to dig into your mind. he’s also very self aware of his flaws and will admit he isn’t perfect but is always working to better himself (“his weakness is that he can't be nice to people he thinks are mediocre and knows he needs to fix that.”) it’s not like you’ll never have issues, but he always resolves them in a way that doesn’t add tension or doubt to your relationship. he’s also good with all 5 love languages and prefers to show them all to you, but if you have ones you prefer or dislike then he can easily adjust. he’s always listening to you, learning about you, wanting to be the best version of himself he can for you.

༄ otoya: 6/10

the glaring bone of contention with otoya is obvious to anyone who knows him - but not in the way you think. otoya can be a good boyfriend if he wants ; he knows what girls like, what makes them happy, how to keep them satisfied. he’s had enough practice for it to be second nature. once you're in a genuine relationship with him, he’s going to treat you pretty well. thing is - that’s exactly his problem. in the back of your head you know why he’s so good at this. you know you’re an idiot for thinking you can change him despite the fact you did. it’s just impossible to believe. every time he tries to reassure you that yes, you’re his only, he doesn’t want to go back to his old ways, you’re just staring at him thinking to yourself, ‘wonder how many times he’s used this line on someone.’ you’re just never going to have a sense of security with him because there’s always this lingering "what if" bouncing around. the worst part is that it’s not an unreasonable line of thought. mindless paranoia is one thing, but there’s so much proof against him that you’d be more humiliated for assuming he isn’t cheating on you - you can’t date a serial cheater and be really that mad or shocked if he does. you know what you signed up for accepting his confession, so your entire viewpoint is that it’s a matter of ‘when’ and not ‘if’. you can never ever say with full confidence he's 100% yours, even when he is.

༄ yukimiya: 10/10

one third of the “perfect boyfriend trio.” i know it’s like beating a dead horse since this is a commonly shared sentiment but he really is incredible. a big part of the reason why is actually the fact he’s emotionally mature. he’s in tune with how he feels and knows how to convey it respectfully but isn’t so set in his ways he can’t see what points you want to make if you were to disagree on something. something else is that he’s very good at reading your micro-behaviors and can fall in line pretty well with how you act without compromising his own personality (in comparison to how someone like bachira or alexis would.) if you tend to be on the shyer side, not really one to defend yourself, he has no issue stepping in and solving whatever problem is going on. on the flip if you are more outgoing and not scared to bite at people then he'll fall back, only intervening when he can sense things’ll get ugly if he doesn’t tug on your leash a little bit. something he particularly enjoys doing is picking up hobbies or skills that you enjoy or would appreciate. he’ll learn how to cook if you hate it or asks you to read your favorite books to him at night, wrapped in his arms while he presses a gentle kiss against your temple.

༄ kaiser: 4/10 to 8/10

the thing with kaiser is that he’s a really good boyfriend, but you have to go through hell to get to that point. he has so many walls and has all these little “tests” where he tries to catch you using him for his money, status, looks, etc. kaiser wants to convince himself that love obviously isn’t real ; look at his parents for god’s sake. so he’s always trying to plan some “gotcha” thing and catch you in the act. the issue is, he doesn’t. you’re really like this from the bottom of your heart and he can’t wrap his head around that fact. so he goes to the emotion he knows best - anger. he’s lashing out at you for lying to him, accusing you of all sorts of things because surely there’s no way this is real, that he has something fully his, someone who cherishes him and sees him for his best. this entire process isn’t a few months either - this is a good two or three years. he has a lot of built up trauma to navigate both on his own and with you. if you somehow have the conviction to get through this then he’ll be a really incredible guy to have around. he loves you so fiercely that he’d rather die than let the one good thing he’s been gifted to slip from his fingers, but everyone in your life is going to hate him by then and insist he hasn’t changed, feeling like you’re going to eventually be broken by him.

༄ alexis: ?/10

alexis is actually pretty similar to bachira, just more extreme. in any other context, his obsessions would be viewed as something of concern or distasteful but dating alexis means you already would know about it and in turn only get into a relationship if you were okay with it. it’s not as if his attachment to kaiser is a secret. if you’re going in with the “i can fix him” mentality then you’ve doomed yourself already. you have to already accept his quirks and such to really reach him in a way that matters. a relationship with him is this unending back and forth. you're actually not really going to be viewed as this untouchable deity because he's already yours. he doesn't have to prove his worth like with kaiser. the thing is that kaiser molded who he is now so kaiser is kind of his tie to humanity - without him, alexis doesn’t really have much keeping him tied to earth. don’t think you’re not important to him because and he’s going to insane lengths for you to accept his unhealthy outlets of showing his love and devotion to you. he feels so much more human with you because you’re giving him the attention that he has to beg kaiser for but without the requirements to earn it - you just love him naturally. he’s not trying to prove that he deserves your love, he’s trying to prove that he loves you just as much back but he doesn’t know how to do it normally. he doesn’t know how to offer himself to you in a way that isn’t self destructive. he’s stuck in this non-stop cycle of you trying to convince him he doesn’t need to like earn your love and him thinking that it’s you saying he’s not doing enough to to earn your love and thus he goes to more extremes. if you can handle it then he’s great for you, you’ll never question that he’s madly in love with you. but if you get overwhelmed then he grows more unstable, and you’re stuck trying to make him better while he makes himself worse to hopefully get you to finally praise him for shattering who he is.

#sae itoshi x reader #rin itoshi x reader #isagi yoichi x reader #michael kaiser x reader #blue lock x reader #nagi seishiro x reader #reo mikage x reader #alexis ness x reader #bachira meguru x reader #chigiri hyoma x reader #bllk x reader #karasu tabito x reader #otoya eita x reader #yukimiya kenyu x reader

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eldopism · 11 hours ago

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EXACTLY! we have no way to assess how likely it is for life to form on an earth-like planet. we also have no reason to assume that human-like intelligence is likely to arise even if complex life does form. earth was dominated by dinosaurs for hundreds of millions of years before it happened to get hit with an asteroid that wiped them out, and the tiny warm-blooded creatures that eventually evolved into us just happened to survive.

so much of our own planet’s history is dictated by chance geological events, luck, coincidence. there’s no reason to think that once life emerges, it is inevitable that it will trend toward human-like intelligence. the idea that humans are the “most evolved” is simply false. no one is “more evolved,” every species makes tradeoffs to fit into different niches and use different evolutionary strategies as its environment changes. humans’ big brains are incredibly costly in terms of energy and the time it takes them to develop, and most species simply would not benefit from evolving this trait. the most stable and successful evolutionary strategies in history are things like mosquitos, sharks, crocodiles. human intelligence is far from the pinnacle of evolution. it’s more of a bizarre quirk.

what if it’s not inevitable but just pure chance that life emerged, that it survived numerous mass extinction events, that the species that did survive turned out the way they did? how can anyone pretend to be able to calculate the probability of all of these things with any accuracy?

my favorite solution to the fermi paradox is that it only seems paradoxical because we want to see ourselves as inevitable

I low-key love the fact that sci-fi has so conditioned us to expect to be hanging out with a bunch of cool space aliens, that legitimate, actual scientists keep proposing the most bizarre, three-blunts-into-the-rotation "theories" to explain the fact we're not.

Some of my favourites include:

Zoo Theory: What if there are loads of aliens out there, but they're not talking to us because of the Prime Directive from Star Trek? (Or because they're doing experiments on us???)

Dark Forest Theory: What if there are loads of aliens out there, but they all hate us and each other so they're all just waiting with a shotgun pointed at the door, ready to open fire on anything that moves?

Planetarium Theory: What if there's at least one alien with mastery over light and matter that's just making it seem to us that the universe is empty to us as, like, a joke?

Berserker Theory: What if there were loads of aliens, but one of them made infinite killer robots that murdered everyone and are coming for us next?!!

Like, the universe is at least 13,700,000,000 years old and 46,000,000,000 light years big. We have had the ability to transmit and receive signals for, what, 100 years, and our signals have so far travelled 200 light years?

The fact is biological life almost certainly has, does, or will develop elsewhere in the universe, and it's not impossible that a tiny amount of it has, does, or will develop in a way that we would understand as "intelligent". But, like, we're realistically never going to know because of the scale of the things involved.

So I'm proposing my own hypothesis. I call it the "Fool in a Field" hypothesis. It goes like this:

Humanity is a guy standing in the middle of a field at midnight. It's pitch black, he can't move, and he's been standing there for ages. He's just had the thought to swing his arms. He swings one of his arms, once, and does not hit another person. "Oh no!" He says. "Robots have killed them all!"

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itsraceweekbitches · 3 days ago

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BRAT TAMING

summary: Charles has a bad day, but you know how to handle it. ✤ pairing: Charles Leclerc x reader ✤ wc: 0.8k ✤ tags: fem!reader, race engineer!reader

It’s easy to see that something is different today. Charles arrives wearing a hoodie, hiding from the outside world and staying in his comfortable little bubble for most of the day. When he has to change into his Ferrari shirt, he suddenly looks almost fragile, uncertain, yet he does his best to act like everything is fine.

It’s a little concerning, but you decide not to press him to open up about whatever is going on with him. He knows that if he wants to talk, you’re always there to listen. You like to believe that you’re not only his race engineer, but also a good friend, at least the fact he often invites you to parties or to visit him in Monaco tells you exactly that.

But when he gets in the car during FP1, you realize that he’s annoyed, snappy even, so you just keep taking deep breaths and flashing everything’s fine smiles at Fred when he looks at you with raised eyebrows. It’s only during sprint qualifying that you realize just how bad the situation is.

Charles is complaining. A lot. The car, the other drivers, the track’s condition–really, everything seems to be a problem. At one point, you snap at him, telling him to suck it up and focus on driving, which works like charm, because the Monegasque falls silent for a minute or so before speaking up again. What he was probably saying under the helmet without pushing the radio button is a mystery, though.

“What’s your problem? Why are you so mean?” he asks innocently, as if he hasn’t been acting like an annoying idiot all day.

Rolling your eyes, you glance over at the others before saying, “Maybe I’m taking GP’s Handling brats 101 class.” There’s silence on the radio, and you can feel your colleagues’ eyes on you, which makes you turn to them. “What?”

They shake their heads, deciding not to comment on this sentence, although you all know this will be shown to the fans and viewers. Well, at least they’ll have a laugh. Hopefully. Damn it, maybe that was a mistake, you think as you bury your face into your palm.

And then, out of nowhere, Charles speaks up. “How bad am I today?” he wonders, and you know exactly what he wants to know.

“Max in Hungary last year,” you reply.

“Fuck.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to stop the laugh that wants to erupt, and you eventually manage to talk without your voice giving away what you wish to do right now. “Language,” you warn him kindly.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry.”

Not long after this conversation, the sprint qualifying ends with Charles in P4, which isn’t as bad as it looks. If anyone, he can move forward, although you all know there are a lot more factors that need to be considered. Factors like strategy and the car itself.

You wait for him in the garage, smiling to yourself as you listen to a piece of Red Bull radio conversation, and you honestly can’t wait to tell your favorite driver about it. Social media is of course full of memes already, but you truly hope he hasn’t heard about it yet, because you want to see his face when you tell him.

But you have no luck, he returns from his media duties looking exhausted, but otherwise surprisingly giddy. When he stops in front of you, biting his lower lip so he wouldn’t burst out laughing, you already know it’s a lost battle. You’re in this mess together, and he’s right, laughing is the only thing you can do at this point.

“Max came over in the media pen and said, ‘Welcome to the dark side.’ I’ll never hear the end of it,” he tells you through a giggle. “And my chronically online little brother took the time to bombard me with memes about this whole conversation, including even the one between Max and GP later on.”

You watch him for a while in silence, but then you signal him to follow you, and as you walk to the back of the garage, you begin to talk. “GP messaged me, he’s willing to give me lessons,” you tell him with a laugh.

Suddenly, Charles grabs your wrist and pushes you against the wall, leaning close enough so his lips can brush yours. “By the way,” he begins with a playful smile, “calling me a brat is a… unique way to tell me you love me.”

You flash a wicked smile at him. “Who said that’s what I meant?”

He lets out a laugh. “I know you,” he informs you before kissing you softly, taking his time with you despite the risk of the possibility of someone walking in on you.

#charles leclerc x you #f1 #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #formula 1 #f1 x reader #f1 x you

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harmoonix · 16 hours ago

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SALVATORE

Astrology Observations

Descendant (your 7th house has the same degrees as your ascendant/rising), at 4° 16° 28° degrees craves a more soft love type. They're definitely attracted to more tender people

Descendant at 6° 18° degrees craves a more rational love. They wanna keep it real, and without any illusions or fake people, they're attracted to authentic people

Descendant at 1° 13° 25° degrees craves the dominant lover type, someone who they can rely on or and to be there when they need it. They're attracted to people who show dominant energies

Descendant at 5° 17° 29° degrees craves a type of love without any obstacles, no one can interfere in their love, someone who can give them the moon and the stars

Venus in the 3rd decan (20° - 29° degrees) can definitely experience more relationships later in life, probably more in their adulthood than teenagehood

Venus aspecting the south node, especially if they are in the 7th house, gives me major vibes of a widow in a past life

Venus aspecting Saturn natives crave long and durable relationships rather than hooking up around and having one night stands

Mars aspecting Jupiter in good aspects natives are full of ambition and power to work/going through lots of harsh things

Mentally, Mars in the 3rd, 6th, and 11th houses are good. Here, Mars needs a lot of stimulation of the brain and more focus on the details

Jupiter in Libra natives can get lucky with a relationship and the people they surround themselves with. Their personality is likable

If you have soft moon signs like Pisces, Libra, Taurus, or Virgo, but your moon is aspecting Pluto, it will automatically make it more dark, so you may not relate with the 'soft moon observations'

Venus, in the 1st, 10th, and 12th hosue age so beautifully with the years, definitely going old and pretty too. Beautiful everywhere

Lana del rey's chart will always amaze me. She has Venus in Taurus in the 7th house, and that makes sense to so many of her songs. Bless her. Salvatore and doing time are some of my favorites from her

Jupiter in Aquarius natives can be very popular online/liked on social media. At the point of obsession sometimes/they can have a mass of ppl following them too

Pluto aspecting Moon is so dark on an emotional level, the native with these aspects can be even interested in death themes/afterlife/spiritual connection after death

Asteroid Aphrodite *1388* in harsh aspects to Venus (opposite, conjuction, square) tends to have a hard time learning how to love or how to receive it

Aphrodite 1388 in air signs can possess beautiful voices. You can often get compliments about having a nice voice

Aphrodite 1388 in good aspects to Moon (trine, conjuct, sextile) can be more in tune with their energy/emotional state. These natives can also have a huge feminine energy

Aphrodite 1388 in both harsh and good aspects to Pluto can indicate a powerful energy, striking beauty, more dominant than submissive and dark personality

Moon aspecting Mercury natives are very soft spoken. They usually have a pleasant voice/good at interacting with others. They know how to charm softly

Asteroid Circe (34) aspecting in Pluto can indicate psychic powers, seeing ghosts/entities/shadows, having a curiosity about death or about what happens after death

Circe aspecting Sun can have healing powers, not physically..but they can heal others with their words/energy, these natives can make others feel better quite easily

Jupiter aspecting Moon natives have (in harsh aspects) can have a hard time being optimistic, and the same can happen for those with Saturn - Moon aspects.

Ascendant aspecting Moon or Neptune natives have that kind of face you'll never be able to forget. It can be quite nostalgic/familar

Sun in the 3rd/9th house can get social with everyone in the room as long as they share the same vibe. They're pretty open to everything

Scorpio Risings can have so many intense people in their lives due to Pluto ruling their 1st house and Venus their 7th house with Taurus

Virgo Risings tend to have exes coming back in their lives due to Pisces energy in the 7th house, + if you have Mercury Retrogade in your chart as your 1st house ruler

Pisces Risings tend to meet hardworking partners due to their 7th house in Virgo. They might have good communication in their relationship.

Saturn or Capricorn in the 12th house of karma can sometimes indicate a hard life. It's not taken out of context, but it's very karmic

Uranus aspecting Venus (in harsh aspects) can be quite confusing. Especially on what they want/crave from their love life or partners, indecisive

Lilith aspecting Moon in harsh aspects rely very much on their emotional side. They can be at their lowest and still need some nurturing/care

Have a great weekend,everyone 🖤🖤

Harmoonix 🖤🖤🖤

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maddie0101 · 17 hours ago

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birthday surprise

summary: It’s your birthday, and you think dean has forgotten, but you’re completely wrong as he surprises you with a few things you’ve always dreamed about.

warnings: fluff, friends to lovers, smut (mdni), cute surprise for the reader, dean is so thoughtful, impala sex, heavy makeout, fingering, p in v, dirty talk, semi public sex (but dean & the reader could care less), cute shit tbh.

word count: 5.6k

note: in honor of my birthday I decided to write this smutty little oneshot to celebrate! 🤭 I hope you guys enjoy! ☻

Dean forgot your birthday.

At least, that’s what it seemed like. The whole damn day had passed, and he hadn’t said a word. No offhand comment in the morning, no teasing remark over coffee, no gruff, half-assed “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

—Nothing.

And it hurt...more than you wanted to admit.

Because sure, it wasn’t like birthdays had ever been a big deal in your life. You weren’t expecting balloons or cake or some grand gesture.

But a mention? A quick acknowledgment that today wasn’t just any other day? That would’ve been nice.

But instead, Dean had spent the day being… well, Dean. Fixing the Impala, cracking jokes with Sam, arguing about dinner plans. Acting like today (or whatever the hell the date was) didn’t mean a damn thing.

By the time the sun started to set, you’d accepted it. Forced yourself to shake it off. It’s fine. It’s not a big deal. He’s probably just distracted.

But then, out of nowhere his voice rings out through the bunker. “C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s go for a ride.”

You blink at him from your spot on the couch, arms crossed over your chest. “What?”

Dean just smirks, jerking his head toward the door. “You deaf now? Let’s go. Got somethin’ to show you.”

For a second, you debate telling him to shove it. Making up some excuse to stay behind and wallow. But there’s something in his expression—something warm and teasing that makes you exhale sharply and push yourself up. “Fine.”

You don’t ask questions. You just climb into the Impala, feeling the familiar hum of the engine vibrate through your bones as Dean peels out of the parking lot. The windows are rolled down, the night air cool against your skin, and despite yourself, you feel some of the tension slip away.

Dean doesn’t talk much, just lets the radio fill the silence, his fingers tapping against the wheel as he drives. And then twenty minutes later you see it.

Your stomach flips, a mix of excitement and disbelief bubbling in your chest. The neon sign flickers in the distance, casting a warm, nostalgic glow over the lot, illuminating the rows of cars already parked and waiting. A massive screen stands against the dark sky with previews playing as people settle in with their popcorn and sodas.

Dean pulls into a spot near the back, maneuvering the Impala with ease before killing the engine. The sudden quiet makes the air feel heavier, more intimate. You glance at him, but he’s already looking at you, one arm slung over the back of the bench seat, lips twitching into a smirk. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

Your breath catches. And for a second, you don’t say anything, just blink at him like you’re trying to piece together how the hell you got here—how you went from sulking all day, convinced Dean had completely forgotten you, to this.

Dean chuckles, shaking his head. Then, before you can find words, he reaches into the backseat.

Rustling and the sound of plastic crinkling causes your brows to furrow. What the--

A bag lands in your lap, heavy with all your favorite snacks. The ones you always pick up at gas stations when you’re on the road together. The ones you didn’t even realize he noticed.

Next comes a couple of cold drinks, condensation beading on the outside of the bottles. Then, the final touch—your favorite blanket, soft and familiar, smelling faintly of fabric softener and the Impala’s leather interior.

“I didn’t forget,” Dean says simply. “Just wanted to make it a surprise.”

A lump forms in your throat. You swallow hard, fingers curling around the blanket, trying not to let how much this means to you show too obviously on your face. “You’re such an asshole,” you mutter, voice shaky with something that is not sadness.

Dean grins. “You’re welcome.”

You huff a laugh, shaking your head, and as if on cue, the screen changes—the opening credits of your favorite movie rolling in big, golden letters against the night sky.

Your heart stops. “You—” You whip your head toward him. “You got them to play this?”

Dean shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Nah. Just got lucky. Guess it’s fate.”

Fate. You don’t know why that word makes something warm curl in your chest, but it does.

The movie starts, the familiar soundtrack swelling through the old, crackly speakers. The air smells like buttered popcorn and the faint trace of summer rain on asphalt, and for the first time all day, you feel seen. Like Dean knew exactly how to fix what he’d broken, like he knew exactly how much this would mean to you.

As movie plays on, the familiar scenes wash over you. Without thinking, you shift a little closer, tugging the blanket over both your legs. The cool air nips at your skin, but it’s not the chill that makes you move, not really. It’s just the way the space between you and Dean seems to stretch out, like it’s begging to be filled. You’re not sure what’s happening, but it feels like something’s been hanging in the air all night.

Dean doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even really react. He just gives you that smirk, half amused, half something else you can’t quite put your finger on, and his eyes flick to yours.

Not the teasing kind of glance you’ve gotten a thousand times, but something a little more… hungry? Something that makes your stomach tighten, that pulls your chest in with a slow, desperate pull.

You look away, pretending to focus on the screen, but it’s like you can feel him in your bones, right there next to you. The warmth of his body, the scent of leather and gasoline, the subtle hint of cologne that lingers in the air like he’s impossible to escape.

“Comfy?” His voice cuts through the stillness, and it’s deeper now, less playful.

You hum, your voice betraying you as it comes out a little softer than you intended. “Mm. Could be a little warmer.”

Dean’s laugh rumbles out low, rough around the edges, like he’s trying to hide something. It’s the kind of laugh that makes you want to press closer, see if you can crack the shell he’s been putting up around himself for years.

But you don’t. You just try to act normal, even though your pulse is racing under the weight of his arm slowly sliding over your shoulders, pulling you into him.

It’s like his touch knows exactly what you need before you even have to ask for it. Warmth. Comfort. Something more...His fingers brush against your arm, and it’s soft, like he’s not even thinking about how much it makes you feel.

But the thing is, he is definitely thinking about it. He’s been thinking about it for way too long.

Dean’s fingers linger a second longer than they should, and he knows it. But he can’t help it.

He’s wanted this for so fucking long, wanted you for so long, it aches in his chest every time he breathes.

There’s a moment where everything is too much—the heat of him close to you, the way his chest rises and falls with every breath, the way the night air feels like it’s getting thicker, like the whole world is holding its breath along with him.

And then he just… stops pretending.

He lets his hand drop down, his fingers gently cupping your shoulder. It’s not just a casual touch anymore. It’s tender. He’s treating you like you might shatter if he moves too fast, like he doesn’t know how much longer he can hold this back before he fucking loses it.

Dean’s throat tightens, the words sitting at the back of his mouth, and for the first time in a long while, he’s not sure what to do. He’s spent so long keeping his feelings locked up, pretending he doesn’t want you in ways that make his heart race, that make his skin burn.

He looks at you, his eyes soft but full of something heavier than any of the bullshit he’s used to hiding behind. God, you make him feel like he’s breathing for the first time.

“I—” Dean swallows, his voice tight. “You don’t know how much I—” He cuts himself off, lips pressing together as if he can’t get the words out.

He wants to say it. He wants to tell you how every time you smile, it feels like the world shifts in the right direction. How every time you’re near, his chest feels too tight, like it can’t hold in all the love he feels for you. How his heart aches when you laugh and the world feels like it’s finally clicking into place, but he’s scared. Scared that if he says it out loud, he’ll ruin everything.

And he can’t lose you, not when you’re so close.

Dean’s hand stays where it is, resting on your shoulder, but it feels like he’s holding you together in some way, like he’s afraid if he lets go, everything will fall apart.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. His eyes, once dark and unreadable at first, are now soft as they trace over your features. They flick from your eyes to your lips, to the curve of your jaw, the way your hair falls over your shoulder. He studies you like he’s trying to memorize every detail, trying to burn it into his mind in case the moment passes.

Dean's gaze is intense but gentle, a combination that makes your heart race in your chest, your breath coming a little quicker than usual. You try to ignore it. You try to focus on the movie, to keep your eyes glued to the screen and not let yourself feel the weight of his stare.

But you can’t. It’s like he’s pulling you in without even trying, like you’re helpless to the gravity of whatever this is between you.

Then, without realizing it, you slowly turn your head, your eyes flicking to his.

Dean’s gaze doesn’t move; it stays locked on yours, and when you look up at him, it’s like the world sharpens into focus.

He’s closer than you thought. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, close enough that every subtle shift in his expression sends a jolt through your chest.

And then, for the briefest moment, you feel it. The intense heat between you and your eyes flick down to his lips, unable to stop yourself.

Dean doesn’t miss it. His lips part and his breath catches as his eyes drop to yours. His gaze softens impossibly more, as if that is even possible. And when you look back up at him, your pupils blown wide, the space between you disappears in an instant.

Dean’s hand moves from your shoulder to your face, cupping your jaw with a surprising gentleness that contrasts with the hunger in his eyes.

And then, without a word, he leans in. There’s no hesitation in his movement, but there’s something careful in the way he does it—like he’s afraid to startle you, like he’s making sure this moment is real. The space between you disappears, and then his lips graze yours, featherlight at first, barely there. A quiet, searching touch. His breath is warm against your skin, mixing with yours in the small space between heartbeats. He lingers, as if giving you the chance to pull away, to stop this before it can become something he can’t take back.

But you don’t.

Something in you unravels and without hesitating you instantly kiss him back. The moment you do, it’s like a floodgate opens. Warmth spreads through you, deep and consuming, wrapping around your ribs like something you’ve been starved for.

His lips are warm, softer than you expected but still undeniably Dean. It's like he’s trying to memorize this, like he’s afraid it’ll slip through his fingers if he moves too fast.

But Dean presses in just a little more, deepening the kiss by fractions, like he’s testing the weight of something fragile in his hands. Like he’s terrified he’ll break it. There’s nothing rushed about it, nothing reckless—just the slow, aching realization that this is happening, that neither of you are running from it this time.

A quiet sound escapes Dean, low and soft, and he tilts his head, deepening the kiss just enough to make your pulse stutter.

As the kiss deepens, slow at first, but then something shifts—something turning raw and urgent. Dean moves closer, his fingers twitching where they hover near your jaw, like he’s fighting the instinct to grab, to pull, to take.

Your lips part, just barely, and that’s all the invitation he needs. He presses in, the kiss turning hungry, desperate, like he’s trying to make up for lost time, for all the moments this almost happened but didn’t.

His hand finally moves, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head just right as he claims your mouth with something deeper, something needy.

A soft moan escapes you and fuck, it does something to him. A slow-burning fire turns into a full-blown inferno, that quiet, careful control snapping like a frayed thread. He groans against your lips, low and rough, his other hand landing on your waist, fingers pressing in just enough to make you feel trapped—but in the best way.

The air in the impala turns thick, charged with something electric. Your hands find him, gripping the front of his jacket, like you need something solid to hold onto, like you need him. He responds instantly, his body shifting toward yours, chest pressed against yours now, heat radiating between you.

Dean pulls back just enough to breathe, but it’s not enough distance—not when his hands are still on you, gripping like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His forehead rests against yours, his breath warm and uneven, and for a moment, all he does is look at you. Like he’s memorizing you, like he’s trying to make sense of what just happened—of what’s been happening between you for longer than either of you have admitted.

Then, almost like he can’t stop himself, the words slip out. “I’ve been in love with you since the day I met you.”

The confession hits the air between you like a spark to gasoline, and he doesn’t stop there. His grip tightens just slightly, and he exhales a shaky, almost disbelieving laugh, his mouth twitching like he can’t believe he’s saying this out loud.

“Jesus, I—” He shakes his head, eyes flickering between yours, searching, desperate. “I don’t even know how to say it right. It’s just—you. It’s always been you. Since day one. And I know I should’ve said something sooner, should’ve—”

You don’t let him finish. You barely even realize what you’re doing as your hand is grips the back of his neck, yanking him back toward you with a force that makes him grunt in surprise.

Your lips crash against his again, harder this time, deeper, as if the kiss is some kind of answer to everything you’ve both been holding in. The softness of his mouth against yours, the heat of his body, the way his hands immediately find your waist, pulling you closer, it all consumes you.

His breath catches as your fingers slide into his hair, tugging him closer still, and it’s no longer slow, no longer tentative. It’s frantic, desperate, like you’ve both waited your whole lives for this moment and now that it’s here, you can’t stop, can’t get close enough.

Dean’s hand moves, sliding down your side, fingers gripping the hem of your shirt like he’s not sure whether to pull it off or just hold you tighter. His lips move against yours with a hunger that makes your head spin, each kiss deeper than the last, and you find yourself gasping for air between kisses, your pulse thrumming so loudly in your ears you’re sure he can hear it too.

You’re lost in him now—in the taste of him, the feel of his body pressed so close it’s like you can’t tell where you end and he begins.

Every movement, every inch of his touch ignites something inside you, building with each passing second. His hands are everywhere, pulling, guiding, needing—as if he’s desperate to make sure this is real, that you’re here with him, just like this.

For a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you, and everything else fades. You can’t breathe, can’t think, only feel.

But then you pull back, just enough to meet his eyes, breathless. “What do you really want for my birthday, Dean?”

He looks at you, eyes dark and full of a hunger that matches your own, lips swollen and red from the kiss. He hesitates, for a fraction of a second, then his thumb brushes against your jaw, his voice low and rough as he asks, “What do you want?”

You hold his gaze, your chest tight with anticipation, but you’re not going to shy away. You gather every ounce of courage, your voice barely more than a whisper, “I want you. Inside of me.”

The air between you both crackles with heat, the words hanging there for a moment that feels like an eternity.

Dean’s entire body goes still. Then something primal flares in his chest, a fire so intense it makes his breath hitch. His hands tighten on your hips, and before you can even process it, a growl rumbles low in his throat.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he mutters, his lips brushing against yours in a way that promises more. He slams his mouth back onto yours, pulling you in with an urgency that’s almost reckless, like he can’t get close enough.

His kiss deepens, savage, hungry—like he’s claiming you in every way that matters.

He pulls back just enough to whisper against your lips, his words a dark, dangerous promise that sends a shiver straight down your spine. “You have no idea what you just did to me.”

His hand moves lower, resting on the curve of your waist, possessive, needy. It’s a whisper of everything he’s been holding back, everything he’s been wanting for far too long. And in that moment, you know nothing else matters except him.

You don’t even notice when the movie’s credits begin to roll or when cars start pulling out of the drive-in.

All that’s in your head, all that matters, is the feeling of Dean, finally, right where you’ve wanted him for so long.

Every inch of him, every touch, every breath shared between you, it’s all that consumes you now.

Electricity pulses between you as Dean’s hands find their way to your hips, pulling you closer with a firm grip. He guides you into his lap, your body instinctively following his lead and you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him in deeper, tilting your head to give him more of you.

The kiss grows more intense, desperate, as you slowly start to move against him, your hips grinding gently against the hard bulge pressing through his jeans. Every movement ignites something inside both of you, the tension only building with each slow, roll of your hips.

Heat pools low in your stomach as Dean’s hands travel slowly down your thighs, his touch soft until they rest on the curve of your ass.

You gasp against his mouth when his large hands grip you, the sensation only making your hips move instinctively, pressing closer to him.

A soft moan escapes you as Dean nips at your bottom lip, and then, he forcefully thrusts his hips up, pressing into you, making you feel the exact effect you’re having on him.

"Fuck baby. Bet you're dripping f'me." Dean’s intense gaze locks with yours, and the heat in his eyes makes your breath catch.

A soft whimper escapes you as the feeling of him beneath you overwhelms your senses, nearly sending you spinning. It’s almost impossible to believe this is really happening, but in that moment, you couldn’t care less.

You sigh into the kiss as Dean's hands trail down your body, mapping every inch of you his fingers touch. “Dean,” you whimper, your voice barely a breath, “I need you.”

“Where, baby?” Dean teases, his voice low and rough, the words barely a breath as he leans in, his lips brushing your ear "Want me to fuck you? That what you want?"

"Fuck." Is all you manage to whisper, words failing you as he thrusts up into you again, sending the heat pooling in your core to an almost unbearable state.

"Use your words f'me baby." Dean teases, nipping at your ear as soft moans fall from your lips, the sensation making it hard to think clearly.

"Need you inside me, Dean." You whimper, "Need you to fuck me."

Before you can let out another sound, Dean growls low and demanding, “Get in the back.” His tone leaves no room for hesitation, and the urgency in his voice sends a rush of heat through you.

You quickly crawl over the bench seat into the back, moving with eagerly. Dean follows closely, his movements swift.

And before you can fully catch your breath, he’s on top of you, hovering for a moment, his gaze intense, almost searching before he crashes his lips onto yours with a fierce, hungry kiss.

You let out a low moan as Dean's hand started rubbing circles over your clothed core. The feeling sending electric waves through your body.

As Dean presses heated, scattered kisses from your lips down to your jaw, he finally lingers at the soft curve of your neck. A breathy moan escapes you as he finds the most sensitive spot surprisingly fast, his lips latching onto it without hesitation.

"Please, Dean-" you started to beg but let out another moan as Dean slips his fingers past your soaked panties and slips a finger inside you.

A sharp gasp slipped from your lips, only to be swallowed by Dean's mouth as it crashed against yours. As if one finger wasn’t enough, he slipped in a second, the steady rhythm sending shocks of pleasure through your body. Your brows knitted together, the coil in your stomach tightening, burning, desperate to unravel.

"So wet f'me." Dean groans in your mouth as you rock your hips with the motion of his fingers sliding in and out of you. "Been dreaming about this for so long. I can't wait to watch you come."

His words push you over the edge, and a loud moan echoes through the Impala as he keeps guiding you through your high. The feeling is pure euphoria as your body shakes. You’d fantasized about Dean making you come, but experiencing it firsthand is something else entirely.

"That's it. S' beautiful when you come for me." Dean coaxes you on as you ride out your high.

As the haze of pleasure slowly fades, you regain control just enough to grip Dean’s shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as you tug it upward. He lets you, his muscles flexing beneath your touch, and the second it’s over his head, his lips twist into a knowing smirk.

That cocky expression only fuels the fire burning inside you, and before he can get a word out, he’s already helping you out of your own shirt, his hands skimming over your skin with deliberate slowness.

His lips crash back onto yours, hungry and relentless, as the two of you lose yourselves in the heat of the moment. Hands roam, fingers fumble, fabric disappears between fevered kisses.

Before you even realize it, you’re left in nothing but your soaked panties, your skin burning beneath his touch, while Dean hovers over you—completely bare, his body pressed against yours, heat radiating between you.

You barely even catch your breath before the tip of his length was teasing you, causing a whimper to escape from your lips. "Dean quit teasing me." You pout, "need you inside me, now."

"God, I love it when you beg." Dean admits but doesn't give you enough time to make a sarcastic comment before he slowly thrust himself inside of you.

You instantly let out a loud moan when he bottoms out. The feeling of him inside you was better than you could've imagined and his large hands gripped the sides of your thighs. You met him each time he thrusted into you, wanting nothing more than the delicious feeling to never end.

"Fuck you're so tight." Dean groaned, snapping his hips to met yours "This pussy was made for me."

The words only spurred you on as you let out a string of curse words and moaned Dean's name over and over again like a prayer.

The only words you could manage to get through your lips was 'fuck' and 'dean'. Every other word in existence failed to cross your mind.

The coil in your stomach winds tighter and tighter, a smoldering heat spreading through your core. The pressure builds into an almost unbearable burn, every nerve in your body igniting as pleasure coils just beneath the surface, ready to snap.

“Come with me, sweetheart,” Dean growls, his voice thick with desperation. His hips slam into yours in a frantic, uneven rhythm, the control he once had slipping away. You can feel it—he’s right there with you, teetering on the edge, barely holding on as he chases that final, shattering release.

“Dean—” his name spills from your lips in a desperate moan, the last thing you manage before the pleasure crashes over you. He drags his mouth along your neck, leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses, the sensation only intensifying the rush.

Your body trembles beneath him as the release takes hold, your walls fluttering and clenching around him, pulling him deeper into the sweet oblivion.

As the waves of pleasure slowly faded, the two of you lay there, bodies still tangled, breaths heavy and uneven. When you finally met Dean’s gaze, his green eyes were dark and hooded, a lazy smirk playing at his lips.

“I love you,” he murmured, his voice rough yet tender. Then, that signature Dean Winchester grin appeared, teasing but warm. “And I hope you’re not too mad at me for ‘forgetting’ your birthday. Had to throw you off—I wanted to surprise you.”

“I love you too, Dean,” you whispered, your voice soft and full of warmth. A tender smile spread across your lips as your fingers gently traced the curve of his jaw, the touch barely a whisper against his skin. Your gaze lingered on the freckles scattered across his nose and dusting his cheeks, the way they caught the light, making him look even more impossibly perfect.

“And I’m not mad at you,” you continued, your voice almost a sigh. “If anything, I’m more than happy right now.” You paused, your heart swelling as you met his eyes, your smile growing. “It’s honestly the best birthday I’ve had in a long time.”

Dean’s gaze softens, a warmth flickering in his eyes that makes your heart flutter. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches you for a moment, as if trying to read the truth in your expression. His hand moves to gently cup your cheek, his thumb brushing across your skin with a tenderness that feels both new and familiar.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the words are something sacred he’s only just realizing.

A rush of heat floods your face at his words, and before you can stop it, the blush blooms across your cheeks. You try to look away, but Dean catches the subtle shift in your expression, his lips curving into a teasing grin.

“Oh, there it is,” he says, his voice low, amused. “Look at you, all flushed. I’ve had you blushing this whole time, haven’t I?”

You try to brush it off, your smile turning shy as you look down, suddenly very aware of the heat spreading through you. “It’s not like that,” you mutter, but your voice betrays you, shaky and uncertain.

Dean leans in slightly, his face full of playful mischief. “Nah, it totally is,” he teases, his hand gently tilting your chin up so you meet his eyes. “You’ve been blushing for me since the first damn day we met, haven’t you?”

Your heart skips a beat, and you open your mouth to argue, but the words catch in your throat. He’s right. He’s always had this effect on you, and you’ve never known how to hide it.

Dean chuckles softly, a soft sound that makes your pulse race. “God, it’s so cute,” he continues, his thumb brushing over your cheek again. “I never realized, but now? Now I can’t stop thinking about it. You’re always blushing for me.”

You feel your cheeks heat even more at his words, and you try to turn away, but Dean catches your chin again, keeping your gaze locked with his. “Hey, you’re adorable when you blush. Don’t hide it from me.”

A breathless laugh escapes you, your heart swelling with the tenderness in his words. “You’re impossible,” you whisper, trying to keep the embarrassment at bay, but the warmth in your chest is undeniable.

Dean’s expression softens, his thumb tracing over your cheek in a way that feels intimate and unhurried, like he’s savoring this moment. “You know that, right?” he murmurs, his voice quieter now. “How much I care about you?”

Your heart races in your chest, and for a moment, you just let the words hang in the air. You’ve never been more certain of anything than you are in this moment. Dean looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters, and it makes the blush on your face feel like the most natural thing in the world.

With a teasing grin, Dean adds, “But seriously, you’re way too cute when you blush. Can’t wait to see it more often.”

You shake your head, unable to suppress a smile. “You’re lucky I like you,” you mutter, your voice playful but full of affection.

Dean smiles, leaning in slowly, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, lingering kiss. “I’m not just lucky, baby. I’m damn lucky,” he whispers, and just as the words leave his lips, the lights to the big screen flicker and die, leaving you both in darkness.

The stillness between you deepens, and before either of you can react, laughter bursts from both of you, the sound mingling with the night air.

“You know,” you say, your forehead resting against his as you both laugh, “we just totally fucked in a drive-in movie theater.”

Dean chuckles, his lips still brushing against your skin as he pulls you closer again, the heat between you both lingering. His hand rests on the small of your back, fingers gently caressing your skin.

“Yeah, and honestly, I’m not even sorry about it,” he mutters, his voice thick with amusement and desire. His lips graze your ear as he speaks, sending a shiver down your spine. “Couldn’t think of a better way to spend the night.”

You look up at him, eyes half-lidded with the same fire that’s still burning in both of you. A teasing grin curves on your lips as you bite your bottom lip, almost shy but too lost in the moment to care.

“Round two?” you ask, your voice breathless, the question hanging between you like an invitation.

Dean doesn’t even hesitate. His eyes darken with a mix of desire and amusement, and before you can blink, he crashes his lips onto yours again, this time with an urgency that takes your breath away.

His hands move to pull you even closer, fingers tracing over your skin, and you feel the weight of him in every touch, every press of his body against yours. The world outside the car, the drive-in, everything blurs into nothing. There’s only Dean, and there’s only you, lost in each other in the most intoxicating way.

When he pulls back, just enough to look at you, his lips are swollen, and his breath comes in heavy pants. He smiles, a slow, satisfied grin that makes your heart skip a beat.

“Happy birthday, baby,” he whispers, his voice soft, yet laced with something deeper. “I hope this is everything you wanted.”

Your pulse quickens at his words, the warmth in his gaze sending a wave of affection through you. You can’t help but smile, the kind of smile that’s full of everything you’ve felt in these past moments, and everything that’s still swirling between you.

“This was more than perfect, Dean,” you reply, your voice hoarse, but with the honesty that comes from how completely consumed you are by him. “I couldn't have asked for better.”

His smile widens, and he leans in to brush his lips against yours again, a soft, lingering kiss that says everything without needing words. He pulls away slightly, his eyes searching yours, and for a brief moment, the rest of the world fades away again.

“Good,” he murmurs, his thumb gently brushing against your cheek, the softness of the gesture at odds with the intensity of everything before. “Because you deserve a perfect birthday.”

A warm, content feeling spreads through you at his words, and you realize that, in that moment, everything feels right. Dean pulls you close again, wrapping his arms around you, and you let yourself sink into him, into the warmth of his embrace.

And for once, you don’t need to think about what happens next. You’re here, with him, and that’s enough. The perfect birthday, with the most perfect man.

author’s note:

hope y’all enjoyed this one! I had a lot of fun writing it! adding more fluff into my fics slowly! It’s growing on me, hehe! also, huge thank you to @bejeweledinterludes for helping me with the plot! ILY ❤︎

if you have a req you’ve sent in I promise I’m not ignoring it! working on them as fast as I can! It’s just taking me longer since I’ve been cleaning my house and hanging out with my friends :)

— requests are open.ᐟᅟ please read request rules.ᐟᅟ

tags:

@freeluigihesbae @aylacavebear @supernotnatural2005 @bettystonewell @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @star-yawnznn @exansation @darkrose064 @megara0224 @saturnsooya @miss-marmalade @xo-zeze @kamisobsessed @megara0224 (lmk if I missed anyone or if you’d like to be taken off the list)

If you would like to be tagged please fill out THIS form and I will add you to the list! ❤︎

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littlejowo · 2 days ago

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Learning Japanese vocables was probably one of my favorites 😭 Some of them are equivalents to "umm" (anou... ettou...) and others are like, a grunt of effort (such as "yossha," which can be said when standing from a seated position as an example). They also have a humming sound that means yes/no depending on how long you make the sound for (un, uun). The more familiar I become with the language, the more naturally these sounds occur on their own when I speak, and it's such a cool thing to me (I've also been told it makes me sound more fluent, and like an old man lmao. I've gotten a laugh out of native speakers more than once just by "yossha" coming out lmao)

I don't know of any other language-specific vocables off the top of my head, but these are super interesting to me! Some are universal, and some aren't, and I think that's very cool

You know what I think is really cool about language (English in this case)? It’s the way you can express “I don’t know” without opening your mouth. All you have to do is hum a low note, a high note, then another lower note. The same goes for yes and no. Does anyone know what this is called?

#language stuff

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daenysx · 2 days ago

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Maybe some James potter smut since it’s his birthday? (Idk if it’s still his bday where you are but whatever)

happy birthday to the loveliest boy ever ♡

-send me drabble requests!

james potter x fem!reader, smut

James tells you he's proud of you all the time.

Every time he does it, his words leave a gentle rush of waves in your stomach. Something crawling slowly, like he's gonna ruin you. He looks at you with widened eyes, a small smile curled up on his lips, and you are dying to kiss him.

He whispers it, the first time in three days, and your fingers on the keyboard slow down. His voice sends shivers down your spine and it's a delicious feeling how he can make your mind go blank with only a few words. You press your cheek on your shoulder, a lazy attempt to get back to your senses. James takes the opportunity to kiss your exposed neck.

"Jamie," you murmur. He knows what he's doing, never clueless when it comes to you. "I have to finish this."

"You've got an entire night ahead of you, angel," he mumbles. "Can I maybe have some of your attention?"

Fuck him for being so sweet. He plays his part well to distract you, craving your attention like he's been starved for it all day.

"I can help you with your work later," he offers when you stay silent. "If you take a break with me."

James has a pair of convincing eyes and when he watches you like he needs you, you can't keep doing your work properly. You turn your face to him, recognize the vulnerable look in his face.

"Are you okay?" you ask with concern. He nods.

"Just tired," he replies. "I, um, kinda had an argument with Tom today."

Tom is one of his closest friends on the team, a person who makes his long training sessions more bearable. They don't really argue, this might even be the first time. Your brows get together with worry.

"I'm sorry, Jamie," you say, standing up and leaving your laptop.

"That's okay, we'll probably fix things tomorrow," he says. Sunshine personified, your favorite person in this world. "I just don't want to think about it now."

You take his hand, lead him to bed. It's messy with the blankets thrown over four different colored pillows. A silent practice, how you get your body tangled with his. He lifts his leg to settle it down between your thighs and you press yourself without being embarrassed at all. No need for that, he keeps telling you.

"What were you whispering?" you decide to distract him with a lazy tease. "Before you took me away from my stuff?"

"I'd say you willingly left, but the details are not important, huh?"

He gets on top of you with half of his body, looks at you with hazy eyes. Gorgeous boy.

"And I was just talking about how good you are at what you're doing," he whispers and kisses your cheek. "With that frown on your face when you're upset with it. Or with you biting your lip in pride when you got something right."

"You were watching me."

"I'm always watching you."

You kiss him and he closes his eyes. It's been a long day. He got through it somehow, but being able to relax after a day like this is not easy. Even James Potter needs to be taken care of sometimes.

His fingers are wanting, stroking your waist eagerly. The kiss lasts for a few minutes, whispers of affection lingering in the air between you. Your hands play with his hair, big waves falling in your palms as you move.

You take off your shirt. Nothing happens too fast and it's a good thing. How could he rush this when he got it after wanting so much? Desire pooling in his belly, legs shaking and James swears he could moan when you rub yourself on his thigh.

His shirt's on the floor, too. Every piece of clothing on both of you gets lost and James kisses your inner thigh.

"Get under the blankets," James tells you. "It's cold in here."

You do as he says with his help, pulling his naked body under the soft fabric with you. "I'm feeling really warm," you tell him with a sneaky smile that usually belong to his part of teasing.

"Yeah?" he asks against your collarbones. "Can you show me where?"

You take his hand and drag it slowly to your belly. He does the rest of the job and moves his fingers to your wetness. Sticky sweet under his touch, lazy and wanting. You close your eyes and let him play with you.

James has long fingers and they are thick, but he makes sure they are warm enough every time he touches you. His thumb spends a few second with your clit and he uses others to spread the wetness all over you. You lift your hips when he presses just right, his eyes are glowing with something both exhausted and excited.

"Pretty," he whispers, his fingers find a nice rhytm. It's lazy and slow, a gentle touch on your body and he feels like he belongs here. Right here on the bed, under blankets and his hand never stops touching you. He keeps moving until he has you shaking with a tender wave of shiver.

"It's not gonna end," he murmurs on the side of your neck, his lips not kissing and letting you go mad. "I promise I'll keep going."

He sounds so in love, but so tired. You don't even try to stop yourself from accepting the rush his fingers bring, it's strong and you arch your back. Pleasure has you trembling, it's delicious, and you let out a songlike breath. You want to beg him to kiss your neck, he understands your shaky breaths and finally parts his lips against your pulse point.

His fingers keep moving the way you like. You can't see his face as he's kissing your neck, sucking a little bruise there, you hold the back of his head gently to look at him. A pair of lovesick eyes, his lips are swollen and cheeks warm with desire. You can almost feel him rubbing himself on the sheets, the thought of it is enough to let go.

"James," you whisper, desperate to touch him with your free hand. He stays still. "Don't do it yourself, I wanna help. Please, oh-"

He doesn't listen. He can't. His hands are busy and he can't breathe, he needs to come undone. Adjusting his hips, he gets some stimulation from the sheets, enough to make him moan. "I'm so tired, I need to come with you. I can't- can't wait, sweetheart, I'm sorry."

"Let me touch," you say in a demanding but soft voice. "Let me help."

James listens to you this time, he knows you'll do a better job. He comes up a bit higher in bed for you to reach him, you eagerly extend your hand to feel. It's not difficult to get him right there with you, the moment before the peak. He closes his eyes and puts his head on your chest, lazily sucking on your nipple to ground himself. He's moving his hips against your hand, a big breath ready on his chest.

You come with a moan. James thinks it's the prettiest sound ever. With the rush of the moment, you move your hand faster and he follows you. Your mind goes blank, the world gets blurry. James stays on your chest, his body feels heavier now that he's relaxed. You love seeing him like this, without the anxiety his day left behind.

"Need to clean us up," he mumbles. He's half asleep. "It's uncomfy."

You smile softly. He doesn't even have the energy to blink. "Stay for a while," you tell him, your hand in his hair to fix his waves. "We can do it later."

It's tempting and James is easily convinced. Your chest is the perfect pillow, his head moves as you take calm breaths. Rubbing the tired muscle between his shoulder and neck, you urge him to fall asleep. He forgets everything other than your touch.

#james potter #james potter x reader #james potter x you #james potter x fem!reader #james potter fic #james potter fanfic #james potter fanfiction #james potter imagine #james x you #james x reader #james x fem!reader #the marauders #marauders era #marauders fic #james potter smut

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devdozes · 2 days ago

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ACCIDENTALLY KIDNAPPING A MAFIA BOSS?!

silly idea :3 should i make this into a series? was listening to bring me to life while making this lmao (also more phainon fanart at the end of the post)

It started with a simple friendship—one that no one really questioned. You and Phainon were practically inseparable, an odd yet perfect duo that made everyone wonder how the universe aligned so well to bring you together.

Phainon was the golden retriever of your life, all bright smiles, mischievous grins, and boundless energy that made it impossible to be in a bad mood around him. He was always there—whether you wanted him to be or not.

Like that time when you had a late-night craving for bubble tea, and he showed up at your doorstep five minutes after your text, holding two cups like he had been waiting for the opportunity all night. Or when you got sick and insisted you were fine, only for him to barge into your apartment with an entire care package—complete with soup, blankets, and a ridiculously oversized hoodie that smelled like him.

“You don’t take care of yourself, so I gotta do it for you,” he had said, grinning as he forced a spoonful of soup into your mouth. “If I wasn’t around, who’d be your personal nurse, huh?”

You had rolled your eyes, but truthfully, you loved having him around.

Phainon was also a menace in the best way possible. He made it his personal mission to embarrass you in public, whether that meant dramatically fake-proposing to you in the middle of a grocery store or loudly announcing that you were his “number one best friend” every time he saw you in class.

“[NAME]!” he had once yelled across the university campus, sprinting toward you like a lunatic while students turned to stare. “I haven’t seen you in two hours! Did you miss me?”

You had barely dodged him, tackling you in front of everyone. “Phainon, oh my god, please calm down.”

He was never calm. He never was and never will be.

But that was what you loved about him—his relentless energy, his unwavering presence. No matter what, he was always there, like a constant, bright force in your life.

And yet, beneath the sunshine exterior, there were times when his blue eyes darkened, moments where his grip on your wrist would linger just a second too long, where his playful teasing held an edge of something deeper. Something..terrifying?

Phainon wasn’t just close to you—he revolved around you. Every little thing you did, every fleeting expression, every shift in your tone, he noticed. He memorized your favorite drinks, your quirks, the way your eyes sparkled when you talked about something you loved. He lived for those moments.

There were nights he stayed up scrolling through your old messages, rereading your texts like they were sacred scripture. He had a folder on his phone filled with candid pictures of you—laughing, sleeping, lost in thought. Some you had sent him. Some you hadn't.

If anyone got too close, if anyone dared to make you laugh the way he did, his jaw would clench, his grip on his drink tightening. He knew you were his. Even if you didn’t realize it yet.

And when you weren’t looking, when you weren’t aware of the way he watched you, the way his entire world narrowed down to just you—his smile would fade, his cheerful mask slipping, revealing the raw, unfiltered obsession lurking beneath.

On his wrist, always, was a simple black hair tie—yours. You had probably forgotten about it, left it on his wrist one day without a second thought, but to him, it was a sacred token, a symbol of ownership. He never took it off. It was stretched and worn from his constant fidgeting, his fingers absently tugging at it whenever you spoke, whenever you so much as smiled at someone else.

You had asked about it once, laughing, “Why do you always wear that? Do you even have long enough hair to need it?”

His grin was quick, easy. “It’s lucky,” he had replied, flicking it with his fingers. “And it reminds me of someone important.”

You had shrugged, not thinking much of it. But if you had paid closer attention, you would have noticed the way his fingers curled over the hair tie protectively, as if he were afraid someone would take it from him. As if losing it meant losing you.

Phainon was careful. He never let his obsession slip too far, never let you see the depths of his devotion. You thought he was just a clingy best friend, a lovable idiot who adored you. You didn’t know about the people who had gotten too close, only to suddenly lose interest, to quietly disappear from your life.

You didn’t know about the nights he watched you through the reflection of a window, keeping an eye on you from the shadows when you thought you were alone. You didn’t know about the things he had done, the people he had silenced, all to keep you safe—to keep you his.

And then, there were the little things. The way he always knew where you had been, even when you hadn’t told him. The way he always seemed to show up at just the right time, as if he had been tracking your schedule down to the second. He was always prepared—whether it was having your favorite drink ready before you even asked, or subtly steering you away from conversations with people he didn’t like. He never said it outright, never made his possessiveness obvious, but the hints were there. The intensity in his eyes when he watched you, the way his fingers tightened around your wrist when he pulled you away from a stranger, the way he always seemed to whisper, half-joking but dead serious, “You belong with me.”

It was a quiet evening when you curled up on your couch, flipping through channels absentmindedly, sipping on your favorite drink. The warm glow of the TV cast soft shadows across your living room, your eyelids drooping from exhaustion. That was, until the flashing "BREAKING NEWS" banner jolted you awake.

"Another victim of the infamous Flamereaver has been discovered in the city’s industrial district," the news anchor reported, their tone grim. "Authorities believe this is the latest in a string of calculated eliminations carried out by the elusive mafia leader. The identity of the Flamereaver remains unknown, but their signature brutality and precision leave no doubt—this was an execution."

You blinked, the weight of the report settling in your chest. The Flamereaver. You had heard the name before—who hadn’t? The ghostly swordmaster who had left entire organizations in ruin, a name spoken in hushed whispers, feared by even the most powerful figures in the underground world.

The news station flashed grainy images of the crime scene—police cars, body bags, shaken witnesses. You shivered, setting your drink down.

Another one? This was happening too often.

Your mind wandered, a passing thought striking you. Phainon had mentioned going out earlier, hadn’t he? Something about meeting an old friend.

You shook your head, dismissing the ridiculous idea that had briefly surfaced. No way. Not Phainon. He was too much of a goofball, too softhearted to be involved in something this violent.

Still, you couldn't help but feel an eerie chill run down your spine as you turned the volume down, trying to push away the unease settling deep within your bones as if someone or something was watching you.

Outside, hidden beneath the cover of darkness, Phainon stood motionless.

Draped in a black cloak and hoodie, his face concealed by the shadows, he watched you through your window, blue eyes burning with something indescribable. Admiration. Love.

You had no idea how beautiful you looked in this moment—so peaceful, so unaware. So his.

A gloved hand brushed against the black hair tie on his wrist, a slow, possessive motion. He never took it off. Just like he would never let you go.

Soon, he thought. Soon, you would understand.

Soon, you would be his completely.

And as the cold night pressed in, Phainon allowed a small, knowing smirk to curl at his lips. The world might fear the Flamereaver—but you? You would never have to.

Because he would do anything to keep you safe.

Even if it meant making sure no one else could ever have you. . . . . Minutes passed. Perhaps an hour. Only when the house lights dimmed, signaling you to retreat to bed, only then did Phainon finally move. He let out a slow exhale, fogging up the cold air before turning away, his steps eerily silent against the pavement.

And then, his expression changed.

His once cheerful blue eyes turned glacial, devoid of emotion. The warmth drained from his features as he tilted his head downward, staring at the lifeless body sprawled at his feet. A fresh corpse, still warm. Blood pooled beneath it, seeping into the cracks of the pavement, glistening under the dim glow of a streetlamp. The man’s face was twisted in frozen terror, eyes wide and vacant, his lips still parted as if in a final, unfinished plea for mercy.

Phainon had granted him none.

A golden blade protruded from the man’s chest, its edge gleaming even through the thick coat of crimson that dripped from its surface. Phainon knelt, completely unaffected, and with a practiced, almost lazy motion, he wiped the blade clean against the dead man’s own shirt. The metal shone again, immaculate, as if it had never been tainted with the act of ending a life.

His fingers moved to his face, smearing away a thin line of blood that had splattered across his cheek. The expression he wore now was unreadable—detached, mechanical. This was not the same Phainon who grinned and cracked jokes, who draped himself over your shoulders with a playful whine, who gazed at you like she was the very sun in his sky.

This was the Flamereaver.

His gaze flicked down at the corpse once more, unimpressed, before he stepped over it without hesitation, leaving only the scent of blood and death in his wake. His black hoodie rustled slightly in the night breeze, his golden blade disappearing into the folds of his cloak. As he walked, his fingers briefly brushed against the black hair tie wrapped securely around his wrist—the only tether left to the warmth he allowed himself to feel.

For her, he would remain the Phainon she knew.

For the rest of the world, he was a nightmare in human skin.

Meanwhile, inside your room, you sat on your bed, the faint hum of the television still lingering in the silence. You had retreated into your space, but your mind was far from tired. Instead, it buzzed with the same consuming thoughts that had plagued you for months—Phainon.

Your walls were a testament to your obsession, though no one else would ever see. A large corkboard hung above your desk, filled with drawings of him—his laughing expression, the soft tilt of his head, the way his golden blade gleamed when he trained. Your fingers absentmindedly traced the edges of one of the sketches before you turned your gaze to the digital clock beside your bed.

12:30 AM.

Like clockwork, your head snapped toward your window. You knew Phainon's schedule down to the minute. He always returned home at this hour, no later, no sooner. You had memorized the sound of his footsteps, the rhythm of his habits, the way he sometimes hummed to himself under his breath when he thought no one was listening. The way he would smile, the way his oh so beautiful cerulean eyes would glimmer under the moonlight.

Slipping quietly to your window, you peered through the curtains, your pulse quickening with anticipation. Your eyes locked onto the street below, searching, waiting.

Because just like Phainon watched you, you had been watching him all along. . . . . . . Something was wrong.

Instead of Phainon casually strolling up to his house, there was another figure—taller, clothed in dark black robes with a hood obscuring their face. Your breath hitched as you noticed the faint glint of a weapon in their grip—a golden blade, slick with fresh blood. Your stomach twisted at the sight.

A murderer. Right outside Phainon’s house.

Your fingers clenched around the windowsill as you watched, heart pounding. The figure stood motionless for a moment before casually wiping the blade against their sleeve, as if the act of killing meant nothing to them. Then, with eerie calmness, they sheathed the weapon beneath their cloak and turned slightly, revealing just enough for you to see their towering frame—easily around 6'3.

Panic flared through you. Whoever they were, they were close. Too close. Had they been watching Phainon? Had they come to kill him? Or worse—were they waiting for him?

You swallowed hard, eyes darting between the figure and Phainon’s front door. He still wasn’t home. He was late. He was never late. A creeping dread coiled in your chest as you gripped your phone, debating whether to call him, to warn him. But would he believe you? Would you even be able to explain this?

Your gaze flicked back to the figure just as they simply stood in front of Phainon's house, looking left and right as if he was searching for something.

But something was wrong.

Instead of Phainon casually strolling up to his house, there was another figure—taller, clothed in dark robes with a hood obscuring their face. Your breath hitched as you noticed the faint glint of a weapon in their grip—a golden blade, slick with fresh blood. Your stomach twisted at the sight.

A murderer. Right outside Phainon’s house.

Panic flared through you. Whoever they were, they were close. Too close. Had they been watching Phainon? Had they come to kill him? Or worse—were they waiting for him?

Your gaze flicked back to the figure just standing their eerily in front of your best friend's house, looking left and right as if they were searching for something or someone. . . . . Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck

Your heart pounded in your chest as you sprinted down the stairs, your thoughts racing just as fast. Who the hell was that outside Phainon's house? A murderer? A thief? Some lunatic waiting for Phainon to come home?

You didn’t stop to think. Your body moved on instinct.

Grabbing the cold, heavy metal baseball bat from beside the shoe rack, you tightened your grip, your knuckles turning white. As you shoved your hands into the worn leather knuckle gloves Phainon had given you—his little “gift” after you won a sparring match against him—you took a deep breath to steady yourself.

Stay calm. Stay sharp.

You flung open your front door and stormed outside, your breath misting in the night air. The distant hum of streetlights and the soft rustling of tree leaves did nothing to ease the sheer unease creeping up your spine.

And there he was.

The figure stood still—eerily, unnaturally still—right in front of Phainon’s house. His tall frame loomed at around 6’3, making him tower over most people. A long, black cloak with patterns of a crescent moon billowed slightly in the cold wind, its hood casting a deep shadow over his face. But what really made your blood run cold was the weapon in his hand.

A golden blade. Its edge gleamed faintly under the moonlight, marred by something dark, something wet. Blood.

Your grip on the bat tightened as your stomach twisted.

He wasn’t moving. He was just... standing there. Watching.

Was he waiting for Phainon? Did he already—No. You refused to finish that thought.

Without hesitation, you stormed forward, heart hammering against your ribs.

“Hey!” Your voice rang out in the dead of night, sharp and unwavering. “Oi bastard what the fuck are you doing outside his house?”

No response.

The man didn’t even flinch. Didn’t turn. Didn’t acknowledge you.

Your body tensed. Every instinct screamed danger. But you weren’t about to back down.

“Oi, asshole! I’m talking to you!” You took another step forward, raising the bat slightly. “I don’t know what creepy shit you’re trying to pull, but you better step the fuck away from Phainon’s house before I break that fancy little sword of yours over my knee.”

Still, nothing. The figure remained silent, his presence as cold and unmoving as a statue.

The only shift was the subtle tilt of his head—just slightly—like he was regarding you.

Something about that small movement made your skin crawl.

Why did it feel so familiar?

But you had no time to second-guess yourself.

You tightened your stance, shifting your weight, ready to swing if you had to. This bastard wasn’t about to get past you.

The figure finally moved.

With slow, deliberate precision, he tilted his head downward—as if looking at the bloodied golden blade in his grasp. Then, with an eerily casual flick of his wrist, he wiped the blood off its edge with his gloved fingers.

The movement was practiced. Effortless. Like he had done this a thousand times before.

Your breath hitched.

He wasn’t just some random thug.

This man was a killer.

And yet… he still didn’t strike.

He simply stood there, staring at his weapon, his face obscured by the cloak’s deep hood. The silence between you stretched, suffocating and unnerving.

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears.

For a split second, you considered your next move. Should you charge at him? Should you call someone? Should you—

You stood frozen in place, gripping your bat so tightly your hands ached.

The golden weapon. The black cloak. The blood. The way he moved. The way he didn’t attack you.

Your stomach churned.

Who the hell was that?

And why… did something about him feel so unsettlingly familiar?

. . . .

The moment he turned his back on you, something inside snapped.

Oh, hell no.

You weren’t about to let some bloodstained creep just walk away after standing in front of Phainon’s house like some horror movie stalker. What if he was waiting for Phainon to come home? What if he had already done something?

You didn’t even think. You ran.

Your feet pounded against the pavement as you rushed forward, closing the distance between you and the cloaked bastard in seconds.

And then—

CRACK.

Your fist slammed into the side of his face, the impact so strong you felt his jaw shift beneath your knuckles.

The force of your punch sent him staggering back, but you weren’t done. Not even close.

You pivoted on your heel, twisting your body for momentum, before swinging again.

BAM!

Your second punch landed hard on the opposite side of his face, his hood shifting slightly from the sheer impact.

The bastard stumbled further, nearly losing his balance.

But you didn’t give him a second to recover.

Your hands gripped the bat tightly—muscles coiling like a spring—before you swung with everything you had.

WHAM!

The bat slammed into his head with full force.

A sickening thud echoed through the empty street as the figure’s entire body jerked from the impact.

His legs gave out instantly.

His body collapsed to the ground, unmoving.

The once-imposing figure—shrouded in mystery, with a golden weapon still faintly glinting in his grip—now lay sprawled out at your feet.

Knocked out cold.

You took a deep breath, wiping the sweat from your brow with the back of your gloved hand, before glancing down at him.

And then…

You grinned.

A slow, faint smile curled at your lips as you admired your handiwork.

There was something thrilling about seeing this so-called intimidating figure sprawled out, helpless, after you had beaten him down.

“Tch.” You scoffed, tilting your head slightly as you inspected his unconscious form. “What, that’s it? No fight back? No last words? Kinda disappointing, really.”

You nudged his side with your foot, testing for any movement.

Nothing.

Your smirk widened.

This idiot seriously underestimated you.

Big mistake.

The golden weapon lay loosely in his grip now, the blood along its edge darkening under the moonlight. You eyed it for a moment, debating whether to take it—or at least break it—but then your gaze flickered back to the figure’s half-uncovered face.

And for a split second, something nagged at you.

Something felt… off.

That jawline… that build…

Why did he look so—

You shook the thought away. Who cares?

Right now, you needed to figure out what to do next.

This bastard clearly wasn’t some random mugger. Murderer? Maybe. Either way, you weren’t about to leave him lying here without some answers.

Maybe… you should drag him somewhere and question him when he wakes up.

Your grin turned sharper.

Yeah. That sounded like a fun idea.

You exhaled sharply, gripping the unconscious figure by his arm as you dragged his heavy, lifeless body across the pavement.

His golden weapon gleamed faintly under the streetlights, the bloodstains dark and fresh along its edge. You had it clutched tightly in your other hand, fingers curling around the hilt as you stole a glance at its intricate design.

This was no ordinary blade.

No mugger or common thug carried something this finely crafted.

Your grip tightened.

Who the hell was this guy?

Even unconscious, his presence felt off—too eerily still, too controlled, even in this state. It almost pissed you off.

No fear. No desperation. Just… silence.

You dragged him up the porch of your house, gritting your teeth at his weight before kicking open the door.

THUD.

His body hit the floorboards with a dull noise, limbs sprawled like a broken puppet.

Without wasting a second, you grabbed a chair, shoved it into the center of the room, and hauled him onto it.

His black cloak rustled as you forced his arms behind his back, tying them up tightly with thick rope. You did the same to his legs, making sure he couldn’t move an inch.

But the most unsettling part?

Even as you worked, his face remained hidden beneath that black metal mask—its golden vine-like engravings catching the dim light of the room.

You stepped back, crossing your arms as you inspected your handiwork.

He looked… oddly regal like this. A fallen king, tied up and waiting for judgment.

You tilted your head.

Something about this moment—about him sitting there, unmoving, under your control—sent a sharp thrill down your spine.

You stared.

Now… all you had to do was wait.

You stepped forward, tapping the flat edge of his own golden weapon against your palm, staring at him with amusement.

“Alright, mystery man,” you muttered under your breath, eyes gleaming. “Let’s see who the hell you really are.”

And with that, you settled onto the couch across from him—watching.

Waiting. . . . . .

You sat on the couch, idly twirling the golden weapon in your grip, its weight heavier than you expected. The craftsmanship was exquisite—each detail carved with precision, the sharp gleam of the blade still slick with drying blood.

Your fingers traced the intricate patterns along the hilt, a mix of black and gold, before your gaze drifted lower…

And then you saw it.

A small engraving near the base of the blade.

A crescent moon.

Your brows furrowed as you leaned in, squinting at the faint lettering just beneath it—so subtle, it was almost impossible to notice unless you were looking closely.

“Flame—”

Your stomach dropped.

“—Reaver.”

Your breath hitched.

Your grip on the sword tightened, pulse hammering in your ears as realization slammed into you like a freight train.

No. No, no, no—this had to be some sick joke.

Flame Reaver wasn’t just some low-level criminal—he was a fucking legend. A nameless swordmaster, a phantom of the underworld, responsible for massacres that tore entire syndicates apart.

Nobody knew who he was. Nobody even had a confirmed sighting.

But every victim—every last one—had been ripped apart with a blade.

And you just… tied him up.

In your own house.

Fuck.

A low groan echoed from across the room.

You froze.

The sound sent a cold shiver crawling down your spine.

Your head snapped toward the chair.

The figure—Flame Reaver—shifted slightly, his bound form tensing as he started to regain consciousness.

Your fingers instinctively curled around the weapon tighter, but your palms felt sweaty now.

Shit.

Your mind raced.

What were you supposed to do? Run? Kill him? Hope he has amnesia?!

Before you could even decide—

His head lifted slightly.

His chest rose and fell steadily.

And then—

The black metal mask tilted up, ever so slightly…

And you could feel it.

Even without seeing his eyes, you could feel his gaze locking onto you.

A quiet, low chuckle rasped through the air.

Oh, you were so fucking dead.

A dull, throbbing pain bloomed at the back of his skull. His senses were sluggish, slow to return, like wading through thick water. For a few moments, there was nothing but darkness, a heavy weight pressing down on him, his body sluggish and foreign. Then, piece by piece, it all began to come back.

The night. The streets. Blood.

A fight. A sharp pain bursting at the side of his head.

And then—

His consciousness snapped into place like a whip.

His muscles tensed.

Bound.

His arms wouldn’t move.

Neither would his legs.

The air was stale. The scent of the room was faintly familiar—wood, a trace of perfume, something warm yet utterly foreign in this moment. But none of it compared to the sudden, gut-wrenching realization that he was restrained.

A cold blade of tension ran up his spine.

He knew better than anyone that being tied up meant being vulnerable. He was never the one on this end of the rope. Never.

Where the fuck was he?

Slowly, deliberately, he cracked his eyes open behind the black metal mask.

And the moment he did—

His breath caught in his throat.

There, seated in front of him, holding his own golden blade, was 𝙮𝙤𝙪.

But it wasn’t you. Not the way he knew you. Not the way he had memorized you—every expression, every playful glint in your eyes, every ridiculous joke you cracked at his expense. The warmth, the laughter, the way you made his obsessive devotion feel justified.

No.

The person sitting in front of him now—this was different.

You were looking at him wrong.

Your expression was cold.

Your fingers gripped his weapon with a force that made your knuckles go white.

And worst of all—

You were looking at him with pure burning hatred.

Not mild irritation, not the usual exasperation you had when he stole your food or teased you too much—real, burning hatred.

Why? What Happened? Why..why were you..

His breath came slow and measured, but his mind raced violently. Everything was wrong. Everything was out of place.

And then it hit him.

You didn't know.

You didn't realize.

You didn’t know it was him. You didn't know that he was flamereaver You didn't know that he killed for you for years. He felt something deep and ugly twist inside his chest, but he remained utterly still. If he spoke now—if his voice slipped, if his tone wavered even slightly—you would realize. And he wasn't ready for that.

The second you moved closer, heart pounding in your chest, your fingers reached for the black and gold metal mask covering his face.

But before you could even brush against it—

SNAP.

The ropes shattered like they were made of paper.

Your eyes widened.

What the fuck—?!

Before you could even react, before you could take a single step back, a sharp golden clawed hand shot up and grasped your wrist.

Not tightly. Not enough to hurt.

But enough to stop you in your tracks.

Your breath hitched as you stared at the sharp, deadly claws glinting in the dim light. They were curved like talons, polished gold reflecting your startled expression. They could have pierced your skin. Could have ripped through flesh effortlessly.

But they didn’t.

He wasn’t hurting you.

He wasn’t even squeezing your wrist.

He was just… holding it.

Stopping you.

Slowly, your gaze trailed up from the golden claws to his mask.

It was still intact. Still covering his entire face. That damn mask—black with intricate golden vine-like patterns etched into it, elegant yet eerily haunting.

And then, he moved.

Not roughly. Not aggressively. But with a deliberateness that sent shivers down your spine.

He tilted his head.

His free hand, the one that had just torn through the restraints like they were nothing, reached up towards his mask but stopped.

Like he was considering something.

Like he was debating.

Your breath felt uneven. Your pulse pounded in your ears.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t move any further.

He just… held your wrist in place. Why isn't he hurting you?? Why isn't he trying to kill you?? What fucking game is he playing.

A sharp tension filled the room, thick and suffocating.

Your fingers twitched, still aching to rip that mask off.

To see who the hell he really was.

But his claws remained firm on your wrist—gentle, yet unyielding.

He was stopping you.

But he wasn’t hurting you.

And that was somehow worse.

Who the fuck was he?

Your fingers tightened. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, a deafening rhythm of adrenaline and disbelief.

He wasn’t speaking. He wasn’t trying to stop you any further, only holding your wrist in that maddeningly gentle yet firm grip.

But it didn’t matter.

Because you didn’t hesitate.

With a sharp inhale, you yanked your hand free from his grasp and lunged forward.

Your fingers caught the edges of the black metal mask, and before he could react—

Rip.

You tore it off his face.

The mask clattered onto the wooden floor with a loud, echoing clang.

And for a split second—

You still had no idea who he was.

Because your eyes weren’t on his face yet.

They were on his hands—his claws. They were trembling, the golden tips slick with faint traces of blood.

And then—

Then you saw it.

The moment your gaze snapped up to meet his—

You stopped breathing.

Your stomach twisted into a thousand knots.

Because staring back at you—

Was a pair of wide, terrified, cerulean blue eyes.

A face framed by fluffy white hair.

A face you had seen every single day.

This can't be fucking real.

“P—Phainon?”

But you didn't even get a chance to speak the words in your mind.

Because in the next second—

Your back hit the floor.

He pinned you down against the cold wooden floor.

Your wrists were trapped beneath his claws, his weight pressing down against you. His breath was uneven, a mixture of fear, adrenaline, and something unreadable swimming in those now-exposed, once-gentle blue eyes.

Now they were shaken.

Now they were desperate.

But the worst part?

There was blood on his face.

Small splatters of blood on the corner of his jaw and cheek.

And it wasn’t his.

No, no, no, no.

Your brain couldn’t process it.

Couldn’t believe what you were seeing.

Because this was Phainon.

Your best friend.

The cheerful idiot who always smiled at you, laughed with you, annoyed you.

He couldn't be—

The Flamereaver.

But the golden blade lying beside you on the floor—

The bloodstains on his face, his hands, his claws—

The fact that he had been standing outside his own house, alone, covered in blood, wearing a mask.

The fact that he hadn't said a single word.

It all made sense.

HI GANG !! this is the fanart I did for phainon. i am so down bad for him if you like this , please like, follow, reblog and comment :D

LONG HAIR PHAINON AAAA

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revelboo · 2 days ago

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WAIT!!! those little blokees are coming to walmart!? Ahhh i need them so bad! can't wait to see who I'll get! 🙏😫

I’m so ecstatic to see Blokees in a store, they’re getting more mainstream so hopefully they’ll keep making them. I need the Scavengers, TFP versions, more bugs…

Coin-Operated Boy Pt 6

Steve x Reader

• Nose wrinkling when your eyes are drawn inexorably to the glowing thing Steve had gifted you and really hoping that glow isn’t radioactivity, you’d ended up using it as a side table for your favorite chair. And it doubles as an only slightly unsettling nightlight. That might be irradiating you. Sighing, you head into the kitchen to get a glass of water. Sleepily yawning, you catch a flash of red glow through the window a foot from your face and scream, dropping the glass to shatter in the sink as your heart races. It’s like you’d summoned him just by thinking about him. Mouth open as Steve lifts a hand.

• Backing away at the sound of your muffled scream, his plating flares slightly before settling. Hadn’t meant to scare you, but Soundwave’s little pet had given him so many ideas. And Soundwave himself hadn’t hurt him for talking to them. Just stared him down, an arm lifting to point at the door after finding him, those tendrils of his lashing behind him. Threatening, but not punishing him. Shifting to try and track you through your little dwelling, he shifts on his peds. Finally, the door opens and he hesitates. What are you wearing? It’s very short, very thin and those fluffy things on your feet have faces.

• “Steve, sweetie, it’s one in the morning,” you manage, heart still pounding as he slowly kneels in front of you in the dew soaked grass. And his head tilts to make you think that time probably doesn’t matter that much to him. But at least it’s only him and not a bunch of his buddies to stare at you with that weird, almost reverence. And he’s lifting an arm toward his chassis and just pulling stuff out of nowhere like a magician as your mouth falls open. A fistful of boxed candy, stuffed animals, and part of someone’s rose bush is held out to you.

• Offering you the gifts he’d spent so much time finding and secreting away in his subspace, he waits as you just stare. “You didn’t seem to like my other gift,” he says, holding his hand closer, waiting. Doesn’t any of it appeal to you? The other human had seemed so sure these things would be liked. Needs to properly thank you for your kindness, his little human. He’s altered his patrols to include your dwelling so he can look after you, convinced some of his brothers to do the same so you’re protected at all times.

• Because you have no idea what his other gift even was, but he’s bending, leaning over you, visor dimming slightly. Will it hurt his feelings if you refuse? Reaching, you pick up a stuffed dog, smoothing a thumb over its soft face. “You don’t have to thank me for helping you. It was the right thing to do.” And his head tips, alien and unreadable. Like he doesn’t understand someone being kind, reminding you of how he’d reacted when you’d helped him. That he hadn’t seemed to trust that you weren’t going to harm him. Like he’s really not used to any kindness and your heart aches for him.

• Watches you shuffle to the side as he reaches past you, movements slow so he doesn’t spook you and deposits the rest of your gifts inside your dwelling. “You’re under Vehicon protection,” he says and you hug the stuffed animal to yourself, staring up at him. “Debts must be repaid in kind.” Hesitating, he slowly brushes the back of his servo against your arm, nudging you back into your dwelling. “I’m watching over you.”

• Why does that sound more like a threat than anything else. Not sure what to say as he gently nudges you inside and you hear his servos scraping the door as he tries to close it until you end up pushing it closed with a foot. What does he mean by watching over you? Peeking through the blinds, you see him fold up, transforming into a car in your yard a foot away from your door with his front wheels in your flower bed on your pansies. Oh, yeah that looks normal. The neighbors are going to think you were drunk. Wait. Is he staying the night? Too tired to try and figure out how his mind works, you grab a box of chocolates and shuffle upstairs to your bed. Not about to deal with the half a rose bush in your living room this early in the morning.

#transformers x reader #steve the vehicon #vehicon x reader

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livrelady · 2 days ago

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#my favorite platonic relationship in probably all of star trek#i love how it's such a persistent thread#like in tmp when almost everyone is acting like kirk is ruthless and power mad for thinking he's best equipped to save the people of earth#which he obviously is! but everyone acts like his evaluation of the urgency of the situation is suspect and unhinged except uhura#like... it's not just decker doing this (though he's douchiest). mccoy acts like that. sulu acts like that. everyone does except uhura.#(spock also doesn't find him unreasonable but he ditched him and isn't there. so there are scenes where it seems literally the only person#who is kirk's steady friend through thick and thin in the movies and actually fair and perceptive in her judgment is UHURA)#and i already loved their quiet tos friendship - like when he's so proud of her guile and just swings her right up off the ground#and her horror at being forced to kiss him in 'plato's stepchildren' because she's always found him such a soothing presence#she's the first one to glimpse him in 'the tholian web' and guess that he's alive while everyone else assumes she imagined it#but she'll also snap back at him if he's unfairly short with her and he apologizes#and he just about loses his damn mind over worrying about her in 'the gamesters of triskelion' and that's what propels him to act#and there's the encouragement in 'mirror mirror' to her too#and none of this is even slightly presented as romantic or sexual! it's more of a quasi-mentoring very strong affectionate friendship#so i love the little moments when this is remembered#gif#the search for spock#james t kirk#nyota uhura#c: who do i have to be#c: i half believed it myself#star peace#star trek: the original series#star trek: the motion picture (X)

underrated search for spock moment 🥺

#star trek #meta

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amyzworldds · 3 days ago

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Title: Fitness Quest

Masterlist

Woozi, a fitness enthusiast, drags his lazy, homebody girlfriend out of bed for an early morning jog, tired of her frequent colds and low energy. Pairing: Woozi x reader Genre: Fluff

The sun hadn’t even thought about rising yet, and the world outside was still cloaked in that pre-dawn hush—perfect for sleeping, in yn's opinion. Curled up under a mountain of blankets, she was blissfully lost in dreamland, probably imagining a world where calories didn’t exist and couches came with built-in snack dispensers. Meanwhile, Woozi—her gym-obsessed boyfriend—was already up, lacing his running shoes with the kind of enthusiasm that made yn wonder if he was secretly a robot powered by protein shakes.

Woozi wasn’t just a “go to the gym sometimes” guy. No, he was a gym rat. The kind who had a favorite treadmill and a handshake with the guy at the supplement store. He thrived on early mornings, green smoothies, and the satisfying clank of weights hitting the floor. Yn, on the other hand, thrived on netflix marathons, instant ramen, and the art of doing absolutely nothing. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be healthy—she just figured her body was already doing its best by keeping her alive, so why push it?

The problem was, yn’s 'best' came with a side of frequent colds, low energy, and a general vibe of “I’ll get up in five minutes” that stretched into hours. Woozi, bless his heart, adored her anyway. He’d bring her soup when she was sick, tuck her in with extra blankets, and even let her whine about how “unfair” it was that her immune system betrayed her again. But lately, it was getting out of hand. Last week, she’d caught a cold again, and Woozi had spent three days playing nurse while she dramatically declared she was “one sneeze away from the grave.” Enough was enough. He loved her too much to watch her wilt like an unwatered houseplant.

So, today was the day. Operation “Get Yn Moving” was officially in motion. Woozi had planned it like a military strategist—step by step, easing her into exercise so her body wouldn’t go into full rebellion. Step one: a simple morning jog. Nothing crazy, just a light loop around the neighborhood. He’d even checked the weather (chilly but manageable) and laid out her comfiest sportswear the night before—a soft oversized hoodie, stretchy leggings, and sneakers she’d probably only worn twice.

At 5:30 a.m., Woozi crept into their shared bedroom, his gym-honed resolve unshaken by the sight of yn cocooned in the blankets like a human burrito. “Baby,” he whispered, nudging her gently. “Time to get up. We’re going jogging.”

A muffled groan emerged from the blanket pile. “Noooo… tomorrow. I’ll do it tomorrow,” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. “Or I’ll drink vitamins. Promise. All the vitamins. Just… five more minutes.”

“Yn, you said that last week. And the week before. Come on, it’ll be fun.” Woozi’s tone was patient but firm, like a parent coaxing a toddler out of a tantrum.

She peeked one eye out, glaring at him like he’d suggested they climb Mount Everest barefoot. “Fun? It’s not even light outside! This is torture, Babe. Torture! I’m calling the police.”

He chuckled, unfazed. “You’re not calling anyone. You’re jogging. Let’s go.” Before she could protest further, he yanked the blanket off her in one swift motion, earning a dramatic yelp as the cold air hit her.

“Nooo! I’m fragile! You’re gonna shock my system!” she wailed, flopping back onto the pillow like a stranded fish.

“Your system’s been shocked plenty by all that instant ramen. Up you go.” Ignoring her theatrics, he scooped her out of bed, setting her on her feet. She swayed there, pouting, her hair a bird’s nest of chaos. He handed her a water—“Drink this, it’ll help”—and started tugging the sportswear onto her like she was a grumpy mannequin. She whined the whole time, muttering about how “leggings are oppression” and “sneakers are a conspiracy,” but Woozi was relentless. By the time he tied her shoelaces, she looked halfway decent—if you ignored the scowl.

“Perfect. Let’s move,” he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the door.

“Babe, it’s freezing! I’ll die out there! You’re dating a popsicle!” she protested, dragging her feet as he hauled her outside. The sky was still a dusky gray, the air crisp and biting, and yn immediately hugged herself, shivering exaggeratedly. “This is how horror movies start. Early morning, creepy silence—next thing you know, I’m running from a monster.”

“You’re running with me, not from me,” Woozi teased, starting a light jog down the sidewalk. “Come on, keep up.”

Yn shuffled behind him, her “jog” more of a zombie stumble. “This isn’t keeping up! This is survival!” she huffed, already winded after ten seconds. Woozi, naturally, was in his element—breathing steady, pace smooth, looking like he could jog to the moon and back. Meanwhile, yn’s lungs were staging a full-on protest. “You’re too fast! Slow down! My legs are shorter!”

“They’re not that short,” he called back, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. “Just breathe, you’ll get the hang of it.”

“Breathe? I’m trying not to die!” She stopped dead in her tracks, hands on her knees, panting like she’d just run a marathon. Woozi didn’t notice at first, too focused on his rhythm, but when the constant stream of whining went silent, he turned around. There she was, a good twenty meters back, sprawled across a bench like a victorian lady who’d fainted from exhaustion. Her arms dangled over the sides, and her eyes were closed—either asleep or pretending to be.

“Yn,” he said, jogging back to her. “Are you serious right now?”

Her eyes fluttered open, and she gave him a pitiful look. “I’m resting. My body said ‘nope,’ and I respect its decisions.”

“You’ve been jogging for three minutes.”

“Three minutes too long,” she groaned, letting her head loll back. “Look at me. I’m adorable like this. Don’t ruin it with exercise.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. She was adorable, all flushed cheeks and pouty lips, but he wasn’t falling for it. “Nope. Up you go.” He grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet despite her protests. “We’re finishing this jog together.”

“Together? You’re basically usain bolt, and I’m a sloth with asthma!” she whined, but he kept her hand in his, tugging her along at a slower pace this time. She stumbled beside him, grumbling under her breath about “gym tyranny” and “protein shake propaganda,” but she didn’t stop. Not completely, anyway.

Every few minutes, she’d dig her heels in, forcing him to pause so she could “catch her breath”—which mostly meant bending over dramatically and declaring things like, “My lungs are quitting. Tell them I love them.” Woozi just stood there, hands on his hips, smirking at her theatrics.

“You’re doing great,” he said after her third break, squeezing her hand. “See? You’re not dead yet.”

“Yet,” she wheezed, glaring at him. “You’re lucky I love you, or I’d have faked a heart attack by now.”

He grinned, leaning down to kiss her sweaty forehead. “I love you too. That’s why I’m doing this. I want you around for a long time, whining and all.”

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

The jog—or, in yn’s case, the “near-death shuffle”—had finally come to an end. The sun was just beginning to spill its golden rays over the quiet neighborhood, casting long shadows on the pavement. Woozi slowed to a stop near a weathered wooden bench, his breathing steady and calm, while yn looked like she’d just survived an alien invasion. Her legs wobbled as she collapsed onto the bench, sprawling out like a starfish that had washed ashore.

“Sit here for a bit,” Woozi said, his voice gentle but still tinged with that no-nonsense tone he’d used to drag her out of bed. “You need to let your skin soak up the morning sun. It’s good for you—vitamin D and all that.”

Yn groaned, flopping her head back against the bench. “Vitamin D? My body doesn’t even know what that is anymore. It’s too busy screaming at me for this betrayal.” She rubbed her legs dramatically, as if they might fall off from the sheer audacity of exercise.

Woozi stood in front of her, arms crossed, looking every bit the picture of health with his flushed cheeks and steady posture. He didn’t sit—he never did after a jog; something about “cooling down properly”—but he softened when he saw her pitiful state. Yn, sensing his presence, scooted forward and pressed her forehead against his stomach, wrapping her arms around his waist in a half-hug, half-collapse.

“Babeee,” she whined, her voice muffled against his hoodie. “I’m so tired. And sleepy. And my legs hate me. And I hate jogging. And the sun’s too bright now. Can we go back to bed? Please? I’ll be good, I swear.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling against her cheek, and brought a hand up to stroke her messy hair. His fingers were gentle, untangling the knots she’d accumulated from flailing around during their run. “You did great, you know,” he said, his tone softening into something warm and fond. “I’m proud of you.”

“Proud?” she mumbled, tilting her head up just enough to squint at him. “I stopped, like, ten times. And I’m pretty sure I’m legally a sloth now.”

“Still counts,” he teased, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “You made it through. That’s more than yesterday.”

She huffed, burying her face back into his stomach. “Yesterday, I was happy and cozy and not dying on a sidewalk. Take me home, Woozi. I need to recover from this trauma.”

He laughed again, letting her cling to him for a moment longer. The morning air was still crisp, but the sunlight was starting to warm things up, casting a soft glow over them. Yn’s breathing was still a little ragged, her chest rising and falling unevenly as she recovered from her “ordeal.” Woozi kept stroking her hair, patient as ever, waiting until she didn’t sound like she’d just run from a bear.

After a few minutes, her dramatic gasps settled into normal breaths, though her pout remained firmly in place. She pulled back slightly, looking up at him with big, pleading eyes. “Okay, I’m alive. Barely. Now what? Don’t say more jogging, or I’m breaking up with you.”

Woozi grinned, crouching down so they were eye level. “No more jogging. Promise.” He paused for effect, watching her pout twitch into something hopeful. “How about this: I’ll carry you home, make your favorite pancakes, and let you sleep as long as you want. And I’ll stay with you all day. Deal?”

Her eyes lit up like he’d just offered her the moon. “All day? Like, no sneaking off to the gym or fiddling with your music stuff?”

“Nope. Just you, me, pancakes, and the couch,” he confirmed, standing up and offering his hands to pull her to her feet.

Yn hesitated, then sighed dramatically as if it were a huge effort to stand. “Fine. You’ve got yourself a deal, Mr. Gym Rat. But if those pancakes don’t have extra syrup, I’m rioting.”

“Noted,” he said with a smirk, turning around and crouching slightly. “Hop on.”

She blinked at him. “Wait, you’re serious? You’re actually carrying me?”

“I said I would, didn’t I?” He glanced back at her, eyebrow raised. “Unless you want to walk—”

“No, no, no!” she interrupted, scrambling onto his back before he could change his mind. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, resting her chin on top of his head as he hoisted her up with ease. For a guy who spent half his life lifting weights, she was light as a feather—or at least, he made it look that way.

“Comfy?” he asked, starting the trek back home with her clinging to him like a koala.

“Very,” she mumbled, nuzzling into his hair. “You’re warm. And you smell nice. Way better than jogging.”

He snorted. “Glad I rank higher than exercise.”

“Barely,” she teased, though her voice was already growing drowsy. The steady rhythm of his steps, the warmth of his back, and the exhaustion from their morning adventure were lulling her into a sleepy haze. “Don’t drop me, okay? I’m too cute to fall.”

“I won’t,” he promised, adjusting his grip on her legs. “Just don’t fall asleep up there, or I’ll have to eat all the pancakes myself.”

Her head popped up instantly. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me,” he shot back, grinning as he felt her tighten her hold on him.

The walk home was quiet after that, save for yn’s occasional sleepy mumbles about pancake toppings and how she was “never jogging again.” Woozi just smiled to himself, the weight of her on his back a comforting reminder of why he’d dragged her out in the first place. She might’ve whined the whole way, but she was his—lazy, dramatic, and all. And as long as he had pancakes and patience, he’d keep her around for a long, long time.

When they finally reached their apartment, he set her down gently on the couch, where she promptly sprawled out like a cat claiming its territory. “Pancakes now,” she demanded, though her eyes were already half-closed.

“Coming right up,” he said, leaning down to kiss her forehead before heading to the kitchen. True to his word, he stayed by her side all day—pancakes, cuddles, and a nap-filled afternoon included. And if yn noticed the extra syrup he drizzled on her stack, well, she was too blissed out to complain.

#seventeen x reader #seventeen x oc #seventeen x y/n #seventeen imagines #seventeen x you #seventeen scenario #seventeen x carat #seventeen fluff #seventeen comfort #woozi #woozi x reader #svt woozi #seventeen woozi #woozi x you #woozi x y/n #seventeen scenarios #seventeen fanfic #svt #lee jihoon

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mingumis · 3 days ago

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a list of the known | kmg

lastly, mingyu might kind of be in love with you. this, by far, is the trickiest on his list.

pairing: gryffindor kim mingyu x slytherin f!reader genre: fluff, very pg! tags: school bully calls reader a derivation of mudblood :/ mention of death in the scope of an ethics dilemma a/n: my hp hyper-fixation has returned full force these past few days, so i just had to crank this one out to get it out of my system... pls indulge me <3 wc: 3.5k

Mingyu finds you fascinating. In fact, the Gryffindor has been determined to figure out the mystery that is you, ever since the first day of first year, when you quietly, shyly slipped into the seat beside him in Transfiguration. Here’s everything that he has gathered about you and compiled into a list (mentally, of course, he wouldn’t ever write this down and risk coming off like a creep):

First, you’re a perfect student. That one’s the easiest.

Even in fifth year, you wear your green and white trimmed sweater over the neatly pressed collared shirt and knotted striped tie, as properly as you did on your first ever day at Hogwarts. The “P” for prefect shines silver from your lapel, though it carries no more authority than the stern, icy look you give to students who toe the line of good behavior. Mingyu himself has been on the receiving end of that glare once or twice, when he and his teammates accidentally tracked mud into the halls from the Quidditch field. He shudders from time to time at the recollection of the chill that crept down his spine as he stammered over his words and promised that his team would clean up their mess.

Mingyu thinks that you wear the badge more like a brand, rather than an honor. You’ve always been on top of things, never a toe out of line, always the first or the best, or both, to do something. Ever since you were selected as one of two Slytherin prefects, he doesn’t know if he’s seen you take a single breath of relief. Whenever he sees you guiding a lost first-year up the shifting staircases or tugging a third-year rascal by the hood of his robe to the infirmary, Mingyu then wonders why the Headmaster ever selected him as a prefect, too.

It worries him that you seem to be headed in a straight trajectory towards the Head Girl position in a few years, whether you intend for it to happen or not.

Second, you hail from a Muggle family. That part took him a few days to figure out.

It had been strange, the way that you chose to sit next to him, a Gryffindor, rather than with the cluster of your housemates in the back of the classroom, where they giggled and whispered. Mingyu, thrilled at the idea of making friends across house alliances, had excitedly thrust his hand over to you, introducing himself with a big grin. Your eyes had widened as you stared back at him in silence for a few minutes, before returning the handshake with the slide of a tiny, soft palm against his and a mumble of your own name. He must’ve missed the tittering coming from the serpents in the back corner that day.

Mingyu really didn’t notice anything amiss until one day, you didn’t show up to History. Maybe you woke up late (though he never once saw you not in your seat, exactly five minutes before class started), no biggie. It starts to become a biggie when you miss Herbology, on a Mandrake repotting day, and then Charms, which he knows is your favorite class. Anxiety gnaws at the edges of his stomach until he pulls aside a boy with a green-and-white scarf and asks about you.

“Who?” is the snarl that comes from the boy, who wrinkles his nose as if disgusted to even be in the presence of a Gryffindor.

Mingyu frowns, but he won’t be deterred until he figures out where you are. He repeats your name and then starts describing you, though it gets him nowhere.

The Slytherin’s ugly scowl transforms into an uglier smirk. “Oh, Muddy? Probably off somewhere sniveling about being shoved down the stairs–”

Mingyu sees red, and his ears won’t stop ringing. When his vision and his hearing return to him, the Slytherin boy wails on the ground before him, lip split and nostrils dripping blood. A professor yells, subtracting points from both houses, and firm hands hold him back by the shoulders.

It’s a nasty, nasty thing to call someone who comes from a non-wizarding family. Blood prejudice was one of the first things Mingyu had been taught to abhor by his own parents in childhood. There is no space in the Kims’ world for the terrible thoughts that some pureblooded wizards hold toward those who came from Muggle roots. In fact, he'd grown up being taught that Muggle-born wizards and witches are more admirable for it, as they must learn and adapt to a whole new universe that they hadn’t grown up in.

Mingyu respects, marvels at how you, quietly but surely, know all of the answers to the questions the professors ask. Every question, in every subject. He couldn’t imagine ever thinking any lesser of you for your origins of birth, when you were performing lightyears ahead of your pureblooded classmates.

The following day, when he walks into Potions, you’re already setting up your cauldron, meticulously tending to the low fire. Mingyu drops his bag onto the bench beside yours, carefully assessing a tiny scratch on your cheek, a bruise on your elbow peeking out from where you’ve neatly folded up sleeves up to.

You glance up at his arrival, eyes latching onto the tiny bandage plastered to his eyebrow, where the Slytherin boy’s nail had sliced into him as he flailed. “What happened to you?” Your voice wisps out, nearly inaudible.

“Nothing. What happened to you?”

Something flickers across your gaze as you look away for a moment, pretending to check on your bubbling cauldron. Then, with the tiniest quirk to your mouth, you shrug, “Nothing.”

He grins.

Third, you’re a Slytherin, through and through. This took him a few years, surprisingly.

With your whip-smart mind, Mingyu wonders why the Sorting Hat hadn’t placed you in Ravenclaw instead. After all, it seemed a bit cruel to send a Muggle-born child into a house teeming with pureblood supremacists.

In fact, you had taken to Wonwoo quite easily when Mingyu introduced you to the half-Muggle Ravenclaw. The way that the two of you discussed wizarding and Muggle books, conversations flowing seamlessly from one topic to another without losing each other to any lapse of thought, both fascinated Mingyu and made his head hurt. Once in a while, he can't help but feel left out, but most of the time, he’s happy that you seem to have found another friend in Wonwoo.

Mingyu finally came to understand your placement only in fourth year. In Defense Against the Dark Arts, there had been a duelling unit, and you had been pitted up against Hoon, the Slytherin boy who Mingyu had pummeled a few years back. As far as he could tell, Hoon hadn’t learned his lesson, still bullying you with his group of cronies, still calling you those mean, awful names.

As you clambered onto the duelling platform, his stomach had twisted anxiously, frightened that Hoon would use this chance to cause some actual harm to you. You had merely taken your stance, wand an effortless extension of your arm.

Hoon had sneered that ugly grin of his, and you met it, cheek dimpling. Then, the professor had called the start, and it was over in an instant.

With a flourish of your wrist, you called out a quick succession of charms in that calm, even voice of yours, “Expelliarmus, Levioso, Depulso.” Within seconds, Hoon had been disarmed, lifted, and then shoved backwards and off of the platform, crashing and landing onto the stone floor. He had bemoaned and complained that you’d gotten a false start, but the professor was already calling the match.

You, however, seemed not to notice that the duel was over, shoulders a taut line, wand still readied. Your smile no longer curled at your mouth, lips instead twitching with the beginnings of another charm. Diffin–

Mingyu leapt up to the platform, grabbing you by the elbow and tugging you back. “Hey,” he murmured, pressing his face into your view until the awareness returned and cleared your gaze. “You won. It’s over.”

You let yourself be pulled down from the platform, the easy confidence that you wore during the duel instantly vanishing and the usual tension returning to your body. Mingyu hadn’t said anything more and neither of you spoke about the class ever again, but both had understood exactly what the moment could have led to.

It doesn’t make Mingyu think any worse of you; he doesn’t think that much in the world could. He doesn’t equate what happened to be the streak of evil that everyone seems to associate Slytherin House with. His parents had always told him that there are awful people in Slytherin, yes, but there are bullies in Hufflepuff, too. It does, however, make his heart ache at the thought that you had only been lashing out in defense, as a wounded wild animal might when backed into a corner.

Fourth. You’re not one for Quidditch or anything sporty, but he always seems to spot you in the bleachers during matches.

It’s easy to find you, especially from the air, since you’re always sitting with Wonwoo, Seungkwan, and Junhui, down on land where you’re keen on being. You hadn’t taken to a broomstick ever since the mandatory Flying lessons in first year, claiming a deathly fear of heights. Mingyu himself suffers from the same affliction, but oddly enough, he finds that flying is the one time he doesn’t mind the height, never mind the fact that he would never be able to give Quidditch up.

The mingling of red and green and blue and yellow heartens Mingyu as he soars overhead. His group is what all of Hogwarts should be like, and it makes him smile. Head fuzzy with the thought, he barely registers the Quaffle sailing past his head and yelps, dipping sharply to dive for it.

From behind, Seokmin hollers, “You’re distracted, Kim Mingyu!”

Quaffle safely tucked into his elbow, Mingyu comes up and levels his broomstick off, sneaking a glance over to Seungcheol, their Keeper and Captain, who hasn’t seemed to notice the blunder. “Keep your voice down,” he hisses at his friend, tossing the ball back over.

Seokmin chortles and easily receives it. “Stop looking for your girlfriend during practices, then. You know what Seungcheol always says, the habits you make in practice show up during the real thing.”

“Girlfriend?” Chan settles nearby in the midst of zipping by. His head tilts curiously, lips quirking up already.

Mingyu groans. His friends have always been too nosy for his liking. “She’s not my girlfriend. We’ve been great friends since first year.”

“So have we, but I don’t see you ogling me every chance you get.”

He pretends that he doesn’t hear Seokmin’s quip, craning his neck down to glance back at his friends. There’s a green and blue beanie leaned into each other; no doubt you and Wonwoo are huddled against the cold, poring over another book together. The thought of that makes his stomach hurt, and he briefly wonders if he should feign sickness and return to his friends on the field below.

Chan has inched closer, following his line of vision. “Oh, you mean Sparky?” The younger Seeker’s gaze lingers for a moment on you.

Mingyu’s stomach warms at the sound of the nickname that he’s given you, endlessly pleased that his friends have picked it up.

It’s a little dumb, the way it came to be. Back in third year, you’d shown him a children's picture book that you brought with you from the Muggle world. It had been your favorite growing up, you’d explained patiently, as he flipped through the pages that depicted a tiny but determined brown puppy named Sparky who ventured through an unexplored alien world.

Then, during the next Charms class, you had nearly fallen asleep at your desk, as a result of staying up for a particularly difficult Arithmancy exam. When the Charms Master had abruptly called on you to demonstrate, you had shot to your feet and conjured up an excitable Lumos out of your fluster, leading to a few stray sparks spilling from your wand tip. The professor had nodded approvingly, commenting on your fiery interpretation of the spell, but Mingyu had spied the tips of your ears burning as you slowly sank back into your seat.

“Nice one, Sparky,” he’d said, watching as your ears flared redder.

The memory makes him smile again. It’s dumb, the origins of it, but it works, he thinks. He likes brown puppies, since it reminds him of his grandmother’s old pet, and he likes you. You may be reserved and unruffled most of the time, but he sees the sparks fly from you every so often. When you’re raising your hand in class to succinctly debate a classmate’s point (often a fellow Slytherin’s) and prove them wrong. When you rush past him at the end of Potions class with a quick greeting to make it to Arithmancy because you’ve taken up two more electives than is required.

“Look at this goof grinning like a fool again,” Seokmin groans, leaning back to toss the Quaffle at passing teammate when Seungcheol blows the whistle to signal the end of practice. “If we lose the Cup this year because of your little crush, I’m gonna go and tell Sparky myself.”

They make their descent back towards the pitch, as Mingyu hisses, “You wouldn’t.”

The Beater merely shrugs, “I would.”

Lastly, Mingyu might kind of be in love with you. This, by far, is the trickiest on his list.

He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to call it that quite yet.

You really are a wonderful friend of his, one of his closest friends at Hogwarts. That’s how it started, but somewhere along the years, the lines might have gotten blurred. Honestly, Mingyu thinks that it’s only natural to treat your best friends with kindness and generosity. He thinks that it’s normal to want to learn about the world that you come from, to better understand who you are as a person.

Seokmin thinks that it’s not normal for friends to take Muggle Studies as an elective to achieve that.

Mingyu thinks that it’s normal to give you little gifts of the things that he knows that you like and need.

Seungcheol thinks that it’s not normal to bring back strawberry pies that his father baked and gloves that his mother knit for you from home after Christmas break.

“Mingyu, how are you doing on your Muggle Studies paper?”

He glances up at the sound of your voice, violently pulled from his thoughts and back to the library, where you and he have been laboring away at homework for hours. His cheeks prickle hot as if he’s been caught red handed, and he has to take a moment to convince himself that he hasn’t been thinking out loud, that you have no clue what’s been running inside of his head, that you can’t hear the rapid thudding of his heart against his chest.

“Huh?” He says dumbly, before glancing down at the stack of his nearly completed assignment. The top of his first page reads The Trolley Problem: A Consideration in Muggle Ethics. “Umm, almost done, I think.”

“I’ll take a look.”

You’re already tugging his paper from his hands, pushing away your own homework assignments to properly place it before you.

Mingyu watches carefully as your brow furrows in concentration and your eyes jump from word to word. He can’t pull his gaze away from you, focusing on every movement, every habit of yours as you read through his essay. He loves the way that your mouth twists this way and that as you think, the way you fork a bite of strawberry pie without even looking away from the parchment, the way you twirl a quill in your left hand.

“Mm,” you nod and set the papers down, “It’s well written, and you’ve certainly done the research. Just need a conclusion, right?”

He flushes, pleased from the compliments. “Yeah, I’m just having a bit of trouble coming up with one.”

Your forehead creases. “Okay, what are you struggling with?”

“It’s just–” Mingyu frowns, grasping for the right words. Taking this class has reframed his thinking in a way. He finds himself pausing a lot more often before he speaks on Muggle topics, pondering whether it could come off as offensive or ignorant to you, especially. “Well, I have trouble envisioning this as a dilemma at all, when a simple Levitating Charm could solve it.”

His nerves melt away a bit when you smile. You smile, but there’s a strain to your eyes when you knead at them with a knuckle.

“Right,” you say, amused. “Don’t worry, Muggles haven’t quite figured this one out either. But there’s also a number of ways you can set this problem up, so maybe we can play around with it to help you understand better?”

Mingyu eyes the stack of textbooks beside you that you’re neglecting to help him. Astutely, you pick up his reservation and shrug it off, “I desperately need a break from History of Magic. I’m going to lose my mind if I have to recall one more Minister of Magic in order of ‘Most Renovations Made to their Office’. Please.”

How could he ever deny?

“Okay, Sparks,” he nods and leans in closer to listen attentively, “Have at it.”

“Think of it like this.” You pull a blank sheet of paper and begin scratching lines of ink onto it. When a rough sketch of the trolly problem has been created, you draw stick figures onto the track. “Muggles can’t use magic, so it’s life or death for them, right? The lever is in your hands; you’re playing God in their lives.”

Mingyu balks at the idea of it. You never mince your words, so the unrestrained explanation does help drive the point in a little better than his professor had. “And it’s either I let the trolley run over the group of people, or I save them by making it so that one person dies.”

“Right. Exactly. In any sane person’s mind, you’d pull the lever and sacrifice one person for the sake of five others.” You draw an X over the singular stick figure and scribble a happy face onto the group of five. “So where does the dilemma come in?”

He contemplates the question. “It’d be blood on my hands. I’d be purposefully choosing to let the one person die, rather than being complicit into letting the train continue on and killing the group.”

You hum in approval. “But it’d be one life over five. The greater good and all that. Now, what if the one person was a child, while the group was elderly? The child has barely been given a chance to live, while the elderly have achieved long, somewhat fulfilled lives. Or what if the one person tied to the other side of the tracks wasn’t a stranger? What if it was a friend or a relative? How does the 'one versus many' question change then?”

Mingyu squirms in his seat. “That would never happen,” he insists, squeamish at even imagining all such scenarios. “No wizard or witch in my life would find themselves in this dumb situation.”

You snort, rolling your eyes. “Okay, fine. Let’s say that we’re all home for the summer. I get to King’s Cross, and instead of getting onto Nine and Three-Quarters, silly ol’ Muggle-born me, I make the wrong right turn and find myself tied to the tracks. Somehow, you’re there at the lever, and it’s either me or five strangers. Choose.”

He fully shivers. “Saving you, of course.” Mingyu pauses and then frowns, “Are the five people Muggles? Am I allowed to use magic?”

Delighted, you laugh, and he wishes he could bottle it up in a vial like Felix Felicis. He thinks it would glitter gold, just the same.

“No, Gyu, you can’t use magic. And yes, they’re Muggles.”

“Still you.”

“Alright, now what if those five people were your Quidditch teammates?”

“You.”

Your eyes light up in surprise. “Me over Seokmin, Seungcheol, and Chan? You’d let them die?”

Mingyu clicks his tongue, pretending not to notice the way that his face heats a bit at your genuine wonder. “If they’re stupid enough to get into this predicament, maybe they’d deserve it.”

You huff out a quiet chuckle before handing his papers back over. “Does that help you come to a conclusion?”

Mingyu nods firmly. He notices that there’s been a dollop of strawberry pie filling on the corner of your lips all this time, and without even thinking, he leans over the desk and thumbs it off of your mouth.

“You would never be stupid enough to find yourself tied to the train tracks, though.” He assures, more to himself than to you.

You blink owlishly at him and then rub at your eyes again. You try to hide your face behind your palms, but he can see the pink flush through the spaces between your fingers.

Yeah, he supposes he can call it love.

"bonus":

hijacking my own post to yap about hogwarts!au svt :> i know they/dokyeom sorted themselves into houses already, but this is how i think they'd be sorted and if/what positions they'd play in quidditch:

gryffindor: seungcheol (keeper), junhui, mingyu (chaser), seokmin (beater), chan (seeker)

slytherin: jeonghan (beater), jihoon, soonyoung

ravenclaw: wonwoo, minghao, hansol

hufflepuff: joshua, seungkwan (chaser)

hehehehehe pls chat with me more if you have thoughts i could go on and on about this

#seventeen fic #seventeen fanfic #seventeen imagines #seventeen fluff #seventeen x reader #seventeen x you #mingyu x reader #mingyu x you #mingyu fluff #mingyu fic #svt fluff #svt fanfic #svt x reader #svt x you #mingumis #fic: a list of the known

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