#this has been in my drafts for a while I should let it see the light of day sjhks

[fluentmoviequoter]

Three Lies and Half a Truth

Pairing: Clark Kent x fem!journalist!reader

Summary: You and Clark get into an argument about who should complete a last-minute assignment from Perry. To settle it, you interrogate one another. During your questioning, you accidentally discover Clark's biggest secrets.

Warning/Word Count: friendly rivals to lovers, fluff, banter, emotional vulnerability Clark’s a gentleman, 3.4k+ words

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I should have called in sick today, you think when the strap of your bag breaks as you near the door of your apartment building’s lobby. A neighbor you recognize, Patrick, exits the elevator while you shift your belongings to cradle them against your chest.

“Morning,” he greets. “Did you see the storm hitting Gotham? Think it’ll come toward Metropolis?”

“Doubtful,” you reply. “I think it’s moving north.”

“That’s good. You alright?”

“Oh, yeah, my bag just broke, so I have to carry everything like this.”

“Rough start to the day,” he muses. “Hope it gets better for you.”

You nod and thank him, following him to the door. He walks out first, letting the door close behind him. Flinching as the glass smacks into your bag, you take a deep breath and wonder if it’s too late to tell Perry you can’t come in today. As if he knew you were having a terrible morning, he texts and asks you to meet him after lunch.

“Where’s a super man when you need one?” you ask under your breath, using your hip to open the door before you step out onto the sidewalk.

The sky outside the Daily Planet darkens as a storm stalls over Gotham City. It brings a shadow to the otherwise sunny Metropolis day. In the bullpen, however, it feels icy. Perry called you and Clark into his office nearly an hour ago, assigned a project, and kicked you out to work out the specifics together. The problem lies in the fact that neither of you wants to write this specific article. There’s too much information to gather without enough time to do it properly. You’ve gone back and forth about who should take responsibility. Now the area is filled with an uncomfortable silence as you both type, hitting your keyboards with more force than is necessary.

“You should do it,” you murmur, scrolling through a draft Jimmy sent you. “Since you’re the fastest typist Perry has ever seen.”

“Oh,” Clark scoffs, “we’ve resorted to mockery. Very mature.”

“Just write the article, Kent!” you urge.

“Are you sure you can handle not having your name on the byline?” he inquires, still suspiciously polite even though you’ve been arguing since you returned to your desks.

“Clark, I don’t want the article.”

“I don’t want it either.”

Sighing, you turn your chair to face him. “Then what do we do?” you ask.

Clark straightens in his chair, his lips pursing as he thinks. You look down at his pants so you don’t get distracted by him and offer to do it. It was bad enough when he arrived from Kansas and took a story you’d been trying to investigate for weeks. Then it turned out he’s a good journalist. And he’s handsome. It’s infuriating.

“Whose style is a better fit?” Clark asks, nudging his glasses up with a bent finger.

“What?” you question, looking away from his hand that you didn’t realize you were watching.

“It’s a complicated story that needs to be done on a time crunch. So, which one of us uses a method and style that fits it?”

“You’re saying the better journalist has to take the worst assignment,” you realize.

“No, I’m saying we find a solution in which the story gets the attention it deserves, and we can move on.”

You snatch the paper Perry gave you from your desk and read the major points in his summary. It’s undoubtedly a complicated story, but getting enough information to complete an article by Perry’s deadline is going to take a lot of finessing and more than a white lie.

“You should do it,” you say yet again. “Because you’re a man, you can get farther faster.”

“Because- what?” Clark stutters before straightening his glasses again.

“Perry’s sources won’t want to talk to me. I can’t extract the same kind of information you could,” you explain. “I’ve seen this type of organization before. It’s basically impenetrable for someone like me when I have a month, completely impossible when I have less than a week.”

“That’s not true,” Clark argues. “You got interrogated by an extremist group and ended up spilling the sniper’s secrets when you got back home.”

Your brows furrow at his claim. It’s true; years ago, you were taken captive and were questioned for nearly a week before the U.S. Army rescued you. You left with far more information than you’d given up.

“That was right after I graduated,” you mumble. “How do you know about that?”

“Oh!” Clark exclaims, like he’s realized that he said something he shouldn’t have. “I just… for my interview, I wanted to learn about the Daily Planet, so I looked at you and your articles.”

“Okay,” you drawl.

“The others too, of course,” he adds, nodding quickly.

You watch Clark for a moment, then shake your head and refocus. “Regardless,” you redirect, “being able to lie in an interrogation doesn’t directly translate to this.”

“Prove it,” Clark challenges.

You huff a disbelieving breath, resting your elbows on your knees as you lean forward. “How?”

Clark matches your posture, effectively closing the distance between you. You’d fought Perry about putting the ‘new guy’ beside you, but – even with your constant bickering – you can’t imagine coming to work and not seeing Clark after a few months of working beside him.

“We interrogate each other,” Clark suggests. “Whoever comes out with more information on the other has to write the article, and the loser has to edit Cat’s scripts for a month?”

“Edit? You think I’d cheat?” you ask.

“No, but having a reason to stay honest never hurt anyone.”

Clark smiles as you clench your jaw. You’d rather do this impossible article than proofread Cat’s scripts. Cat is sweet, she’s a good friend, but her writing style isn’t the easiest to review. Or read. Or enjoy. That’s probably why she’s on camera.

“Fine,” you agree, meeting Clark’s eyes again. They threaten to pull you in and drown you. “When and where?”

“Tonight. And you pick where,” Clark answers.

“My apartment’s not far,” you suggest. Then, you realize how it sounds and rush to add, “If that’s okay. It’s just quiet, private, so no one gets concerned about two people interrogating each other, you know.”

“Are you planning to utilize torture?” Clark jokes.

“Depends,” you deadpan. “This article is mine, Kent.”

“I see we’re back to Kent,” he muses. “I’ll miss you calling me Clark.”

“Shut up,” you mumble, pushing your chair back to your desk.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, sending warmth flooding into your cheeks as you curl your hands into fists.

“So,” you begin, watching the numbers on the elevator display count down. “Kansas, huh?”

“Kansas,” Clark affirms. “You?”

You tell him where you’re from, then fall silent. The elevator opens on the ground floor, and Clark extends his arm to hold the doors open so you can exit first. It takes you a second to realize what he’s doing, then you step forward with your broken bag in your arms.

“Thanks,” you whisper.

“Why do you do that?” Clark asks, moving half a step ahead of you to open the next door.

“Do-“ Clark pushes the exterior door open, so you thank him again, then finish, “Do what?”

“I hold the door or pull your chair out and you always look surprised when you thank me.”

“Are you serious?” you question with a laugh. Clark’s head tilts like a confused puppy, and your smile falls. He is serious. “Well, Kent, it’s just that there aren’t many gentlemen left in the world. Chivalry is dead- like, super dead. Rigor mortis has come and gone dead.”

“I get it,” he interrupts.

“It’s… it’s nice of you, but I’m not used to it. I want you to know I appreciate it, though, every time.”

“It can’t be that unusual,” Clark argues. He doesn’t seem to think about his movements as he positions himself between you and the busy street. “You’ve been on dates, had boyfriends, right? I’m sure they were chivalrous.”

“At first, maybe,” you agree. “But they thought about it. You just do it, like it’s second nature.”

Clark hums, then falls quiet as he follows you the few blocks to your apartment. He looks away when you type in your code to enter the building, holds the elevator for a woman pushing a stroller, and offers to hold your bag while you unlock your front door. Each little thing that Clark does makes you more hesitant to go through with this idea.

“Sorry if it’s a little messy,” you preface as you step inside. “I was going to clean last night but I ended up staying late to help Jimmy research and passed out as soon as I sat down.”

Clark glances around your apartment as you carry your bag to your room. It’s exactly how he pictured it when you suggested meeting here. There’s a blanket and pillow strewn across the back of the couch, a few papers and dishes scattered around the kitchen island, but it’s very clearly your home. There are little pieces of you everywhere.

“Cleaner than my place,” he muses with a kind smile when you return.

“I find that hard to believe,” you argue. “I’ve seen your desk. It’s spotless. Do you want something to drink? Or dinner?”

“No, thanks,” Clark replies.

“Okay,” you breathe out, wiping your hands on your pants. “Should we get started then?”

“Where do you want to sit?” Clark asks.

“Right, sorry. Uh, you can put your stuff wherever, and we can come in here.”

You lead Clark into the living room area, where you sit on the couch and gesture to the nice chair you bought to read in. He thanks you again as he sits, leaning forward so there’s little room between you. It’s how you were sitting in the office earlier, but now it’s different; more intimate, more intimidating, and the overlap of those emotions is shocking.

“Can I go first?” he requests.

You nod, swallowing the lump forming in your throat.

“So, you live in Metropolis?” he asks.

“I do,” you answer, straightening your shoulders and keeping your voice level.

Clark lifts one brow, and you force your hand beneath your leg and press down on it in your losing battle to stay focused.

“And you’re a journalist,” he continues.

“No,” you lie. “I work in communications, but it’s more of an HR situation.”

“Interesting. Talk to a lot of people in Metropolis?”

“Of course.”

“Have you ever talked to someone about Superman?”

“No.”

“Have you ever talked to Superman himself?” Clark presses.

“No,” you reply, unable to contain the incredulous laugh that accompanies it.

Clark tips his head quickly, then leans closer. You’re nearly nose-to-nose, so close you could do anything.

“You’re asking me questions about what I see, what I do, who I talk to,” Clark accuses. “You expect me to believe that you’ve never talked about Superman?”

“I talk about Superman all the time,” you admit. “Just not at work.”

“Hmm… Have you ever seen him?”

“Pretty much daily.”

“Have you met Superman, seen him in any capacity besides television?”

“No.”

Clark’s brows raise, and he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t wait for further information before he asks, “Have you ever kissed Superman?”

You smile then. It’s a ridiculous question, completely off-topic, and it can’t be helping Clark learn your tells or anything about your private life. But it tells you he doesn’t completely hate this, he’s not miserable sitting across from you and messing with each other. Which is your everyday at the Daily Planet, you realize.

“Is that a yes?” Clark inquires, his gaze dropping to your mouth.

“No,” you say, moving your hands onto your knees, “I haven’t kissed Superman.”

“Do you want to?”

“No.” There’s only one man you’re thinking about kissing right now, and it certainly isn’t Superman. That thought would have made you get as far away from Clark as possible yesterday. Tonight, as the sun sinks behind clouds outside your window, and Clark is wholly focused on you, you lean into the feeling. Even if it’s only for tonight.

“Would you?” Clark continues.

“No.”

“Do you think Superman is attractive?”

“Conventionally,” you affirm with a nod.

“Do you find Superman attractive?”

You hesitate, forcing yourself to think about the question rather than the man asking, and then say, “No.”

“Do you think he looks like me?” Clark regrets the question as soon as he asks, but locked in this staring contest with you, alone, away from the rivalry and stress of the office, he can only think of you and getting closer.

“No,” you scoff.

Clark lays his fingers on your hands, and when you don’t pull away, he circles your wrists and pulls your arms closer.

“Do you wish he looked like me?” he whispers.

“What?!” you exclaim, laughing. “No!”

Someone knocks on a door in a neighboring apartment, and your moment is shattered. Clark drops your hands, you lean away from him, and suddenly the only thing either of you can think about is the assignment sitting in your inbox.

“I’ll write the article,” you say as you stand. “I’m sorry, I should have just done it before. I was being childish and unprofessional.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Clark apologizes, standing sideways from the chair to give you space. “I pushed it too far, it’s completely my fault. If you don’t want to write it, I’ll handle it.”

You nod, not really listening to him as you avoid looking at him. Turning on your heel, you walk to the kitchen and get a glass of water, breathing deeply as your mind races.

“We could-“ you call. Your voice breaks, so you set the glass down and push your hands against the counter.

Clark steps into your view, his hands clasped behind his back as his big blue eyes fix on you.

“We could work on it together, if you wanted,” he murmurs.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Clark.”

He smiles, and your brow furrows in confusion.

“You called me Clark again,” he explains softly.

“I guess I did,” you muse. “We can go back to our usual… whatever it is we have tomorrow. Pretend this didn’t happen.”

Clark nods, then steps into the kitchen, giving you plenty of room to move away from him. “If that’s what you want.”

You bend at your waist, stretching your arms as you look down at the floor. “That’s- Clark, you’re not supposed to ask me what I want.”

“Why not?”

You glance up, an unexplainable pressure in your eyes when you see how soft he looks.

“Because it doesn’t matter!” you exclaim. “We work together, we have our witty rivalry repertoire, and whatever happened tonight, it doesn’t fit that.”

Clark doesn’t speak, doesn’t react, only watches you. After a moment of silence, you pull your shoulders toward your ears and rub your hands down your face.

“So, are we going to pretend this didn’t happen?” you question. “Because I’ll look for a new job or transfer to Cat’s team if this is going to change anything or make work awkward.”

“Who told you that what you want doesn’t matter?” Clark wonders.

“I- That’s not the point.”

“It is now!” he exclaims. “You have a say in what your life is, what happens and what doesn’t happen. If you want to pretend this didn’t happen, that’s fine. But if you want to talk about why it happened, we can do that. One thing is not an option, though. I’m not going to decide for you.”

You drop your head back and blink up at the ceiling, wondering who sent Clark into your life and torn between loving and hating them.

“How did we go from you asking if I’ve kissed Superman to this?” you whisper.

“You have a tell when you lie,” he admits. “You talk about Superman at work, but I’m pretty sure that’s all you really lied about.”

“Then you won,” you sigh, shifting your focus to your glass. “I’ll write the article and edit for Cat, but… maybe you should go.”

“Can you look at me?” Clark requests.

You press your lips together and look up, feeling your lips tug up when Clark smiles at you. His hands are still behind his back, and he looks like he’d do anything you asked right now.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks.

Even if you lied and said yes, which, if you really do have a tell, he’d know you were lying, he would go. That’s part of what makes you hesitate.

“I was jealous of you when you got here,” you admit. “That’s part of why I started being a jerk.”

“I don’t think you were a jerk,” Clark interjects.

You step toward him and raise one brow.

“Maybe a tiny one,” he amends, smiling.

“I like being near you,” you confess. “I don’t want to ruin what we do have by giving you the idea that I want more.”

“You won’t ruin anything,” Clark promises. “I believe it’s my turn to be interrogated?”

“We are not doing that,” you say.

“You’re smiling again,” he points out. “Admit it, you want to interrogate me.”

Rather than returning to the couch, you move between Clark and the counter, pushing yourself up to sit before him. His hands drop when you jump, hovering beside your hips, ready to catch you if you slip.

“Mr. Kent,” you begin.

“Oh, the last name,” he sighs dramatically. His hands fall on either side of your legs, leaning toward you so you are eye-to-eye.

“Who’s your favorite journalist?” you ask.

“You.”

“Have you met Superman?”

“I have.”

“Is he nice?”

“He has his moments.”

Smiling so hard your cheeks hurt, you ask, “Do you find Superman attractive?”

“No.”

“Would you have cared if I found Superman attractive?”

“Yes, but maybe not how you’d think.”

Your smile drops as you tip your head to the side. Clark appears to be telling the truth, but you don’t know what he could mean by that.

“Would you hate me-“

“No,” Clark interrupts, his hands inching closer to your hips.

“Clark,” you sigh.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

“Would you hate me if I admitted that I felt something for you?”

“No,” he repeats. “Can I ask a question?”

“Not a Q&A,” you tease softly. “But, yeah.”

“Can I kiss you?”

You freeze, desperate to say yes but questioning if you heard him correctly. Finally, you nod. Clark lifts his hands to hold your waist, his touch respectful yet commanding as he closes the distance between you and kisses you. You cradle his jaw in your hands, your eyes closed as you move with him. Clark’s hands move slowly, squeezing your hips gently as he pulls you to the edge of the counter. Your legs bracket his hips as he straightens, lifting you up against his chest.

“Clark,” you say against his lips.

He says your name as he pulls back, his eyes searching your face.

“We, uh, we should probably do something about that article,” you remind him softly.

“I’ll write it,” Clark decides. “On one condition.”

“Being?”

“We don’t forget tonight happened.”

“Oh, that won’t be a problem,” you reply, your smile growing as you press your forehead to Clark’s. “Though, are you planning to put me down anytime soon?”

“I thought you liked gentlemen.”

You silence Clark with another kiss, finally remembering where you've seen manners like his before - the one thing you got away with lying about: meeting Superman.

The next morning, there’s a cup of your favorite drink on your desk and an email in your inbox, both from Clark. He wrote the article after he left your apartment last night and had time to scribble a note on your cup before you arrived.

“Where’s Clark?” you ask Jimmy.

“Perry’s office,” he replies. “They’re fact-checking.”

You hum, place the article you wrote last night on Clark’s desk, then unlock your computer and take the first sip of your drink.

“Thanks for all your help on the article,” Clark jokes when he returns.

“Any time,” you reply, winking.

He lifts the paper you left him, reads the first line, then looks at you.

“Superman’s a Gentleman,” you mouth, quoting the title of the article written just for Clark.

“Wait, Clark, you wrote the article?” Jimmy inquires. “Does that mean you won or lost the interrogation thing?”

“A little bit of both, Jimmy,” Clark answers.

You laugh, turning away from the super man beside you. He already made plans with you for tonight, so he has plenty of time to come up with any other questions he’d like to ask.

[oddballwriter]

Late Night Talks

Summary: You’re struggling to sleep one night. Technically all of the conditions are perfect. But sleep just doesn’t seem to want to be with you right now. But you find that a certain HVAC does.

Warnings: Just normal Hector stuff and behaviors like the fact that he watches sleep through the vent grate. But it’s Hector, what do you expect? Also Hector being a dork (affectionate) and nervous and occasionally thinking that he’s done something wrong. Homeowner/reader’s gender and pronouns are never mentioned or used. Can’t think of anything else but let me know if there’s anything I should add. Not proofread whatsoever we die like men.

Author’s Snip: I wrote this the night I was supposed to go to bed early so that I could be ready to go on a cruise the next morning. So this and another little fic have just been marinating in my drafts for the past five days. I hope it added some flavor <3

Notes: I know that Hector is technically the ENTIRE HVAC system and it’s implied that he can just manifest in whichever vent he wants but it was super late and I was a little fucked on a sleep gummy so I just wrote it like he crawls around in ventilation shafts. It does add to his little freak (affectionate) factor a little bit so I think it’s fine.

I’ll shut up now. Enjoy! And don’t be afraid to request.

It’s late at night. Very late. The entire house has long since gone to sleep by now and so should you. But you just can’t for whatever reason. By all means, all of the conditions are right for you to fall asleep, but you just can’t. You try everything like changing you position, closing your eyes, and counting sheep, but nothing quite works. You’ve sort of just given up at this point and have been blankly gazing around the room thinking of nothing in particular in the silence.

That’s when the silence gets interrupted by a little sound. It’s this gentle sound of shuffling and some hollow clanking, not too loud, but with the lack of any other noise in the house, you can hear it. You’re left to only wonder what it is for a second as the sound moves around above your head, following some sort of path till it reaches a certain spot that you realize what, or rather who it is. It’s there that your eyes actually start to follow the path of the noise and where it’s going. Like you can somehow see him through the dark and walls. The only break your eyes from wondering around when you reach for the dateveators on your nightstand and slipping them on your face, figuring that if you couldn’t sleep, might as well talk to the only other one awake like you.

Eventually the sound reaches to the wall across the foot of your bed and promptly stops. Then you feel the slightest bit of warmth spike in the room and you see the slightest little glint of the light from outside that’s managed to seep through the curtains reflecting in a pair of eyes in the vent that you get your full confirmation.

You can practically feel his gaze on your body wrapped up in the sheets and the exact way he’s looking too. Like he’s looking at a piece of art in a gallery, enamored by it, inthralled.

It’s not until you slowly sit up from the bed that you realize that maybe Hector was originally planning on simply “watching over you” as you slept, as you hear him slightly startle at your movements and he realizes that you’re looking right back at him. He softly says “Oh dear,” to both you and himself.

“My love, you should be sound asleep by now. You shouldn’t know I’m here. Is something wrong? Did I wake you? Was I too loud when coming here?” Hector questions. He’s a bit frantic when he speaks, worried that he’s accidentally done wrong by you.

You had already made the milestone of meeting him without the vent between you anymore a while back, but you still knew that he felt more comfortable in the vent still, even if everyone else was already asleep and wouldn’t see him. You were, of course, perfectly understanding since he’s formed such a strong habit of feeling more confident in the privacy of the vent.

You shake your head, “No. I’ve been awake for a while.” you assure him. “That or I actually fell asleep a while ago and this is all a dream.” you say. There’s a beat of silence before Hector speaks, now sliding into his old smoother voice that he’d use when you first met. “You dream of me coming to you?” he asks.

“Oh, I dream of you coming in some many other ways.” you tease. You can see the steam and warmness pour out of the vents and into the room as Hector sighs. “If only you knew.” he mutters before changing the subject.

“But please, tell me, what is bothering you so that you cannot sleep? Is the temperature not to your liking? Is the bed not soft enough? Is the light of outside bothering you?” he asks.

You shrug. “I’m not sure. Everything seems fine. You’re doing perfectly fine. Betty’s made everything comfortable. I’ve tried making myself fall asleep.” you explain, “And I actually think I look pretty good in this lighting. Don’t you think?” you remark to lighten up the mood for Hector in the face of his deep concern over you and your sleep.

“Like an angel. No, like heaven itself.” Hector comments to your later words.

“You can keep me company, if you’d like.” you offer him as if he hadn’t come all this way to do just that.

“I would love nothing more.” he says.

It’s then that you push whatever sheets were still on you, but promptly collect as much as you can in your arms and pull the rest from wherever they’re hanging or tucked into till you have most of it. You then grab the pillows you use for sleep and place them at the opposite end of the bed at the foot. You move into your knees and shuffle forward towards the pillows and Hector wall, taking the top part of the sheets with you, nesting yourself in, now laying completely upside down on your stomach and resting your head in your hands, certainly mimicking Hector’s position in the vent duct.

You’re sure Hector looked on in amazement and even asking you what you were doing till you answered that you were making yourself closer to him so that you won’t be so far while you talk.

“You wish to be closer to me…” he echoed back. “You re-nested your whole body and bedding against the very make of your bed to simply be closer to me here in this vent where I hide in shame of myself?” he ponders. “I’d defy anything to get closer to you, Hector. I’d honestly move everything again and sleep on the floor if it meant getting closer.” you say.

It’s here that Hector seems to get a bit upset at what you’ve said and makes a gust of cold air come through as he speaks.

“No!” he protests. “No. I’d do more. I’d work myself and my systems to death defying the laws of nature to keep you warm in the coldest of winters this Earth could conjure. I’d steal the cold from those winters to keep you cool against the very heat of the sun. I would defy anything and everything that stood in the way of your constant comfort even if it was at the cost of my very last parts and body.” he explained.

“And for you to claim that you’d belittle yourself into sleeping on the floor just so you can be closer to me? No. I will not have it. You deserve only the finest. If it weren’t for me and my pathetic cowardice of someone other than you seeing me, I would come down to you and hold you in my arms till morning light breaks or till you told me that you were satisfied and didn’t want my touch anymore if it meant, for even a moment, that I got closer to you.” he continues. “So please. Do not say such things.” he pleads.

You smile at his words. Hector always manages to make everything sound so romantic and intimate when he has the confidence and passion to say them. And you know that he means every word of it too.

“Okay,” you softly giggle out. “I get it. You’re always so willing to do anything for me.” you agree, “But you’re making the room a little too cold. And I’d hate for you to actually overwork yourself over just your imagination.” you tell him. In reality he’s actually making the room really cold, but you really don’t want to see him stress himself out over something small.

Hector apologized and calms himself down, rebalancing the temperature back to what it originally was.

You spend some more time talking, about both everything and nothing at all. You had actually started having sleep slowly take a hold of you a while ago thanks to Hector’s smooth voice lulling you to sleep, with him doing most of the talking. You briefly get pulled out of it just before you fully give in and let his words melt into just a soothing noise. You’re just barely able to make it out.

“Am… am I starting to bore you, my love?” he asks with his regular voice, almost sounding genuinely worried, maybe even a bit hurt.

“Mmh? No. No you’re not.” you assure him. “I think listening to you talk was just enough for sleep to finally catch up to me.” you explain.

“Oh,” Hector responds. “Would you like for me to continue like how I was?” he asks. You’re already starting to slip back in and even lying down. “Do whatever you like. Both work for me.” you instruct him as you nestle into a comfortable position.

Hector proceeds to continue talking, even slipping back into the confidence of his deeper voice again, but by then the words just blend together into just a sound in your ears as sleep finally fully settles in your body and your mind starts going out to finally rest. He’s either reading his story again so that he can keep up his voice or he’s saying something else poetic about how much he loves and longs for you. But the words are just the sound of waves in the ocean of sleep for you at this point.

You’re sure you’ll be sleeping in for a while to make up for the lost time tonight. But you don’t have anywhere to be in the morning, so it should be fine.

Soon, you’re already fully asleep. Gently breathing, curled into a comfortable position, in a soft cocoon of bed sheets. You definitely can’t hear Hector anymore, and he knows this. But he hopes that the sentiment still means something to your subconscious when he says “Sleep soundly, my love.”.

[oscquinn]

Hi! I love your stuff! Could I possibly request Will Smith with a curvy/plus size girl? Maybe where they finally hard launch their relationship and people comment a bunch of harsh comments and Will finds her super upset and reassures her that he loved her? Thank youuuu 🩵

hiii as someone who's curvy/plus i love this req!! i wasn't descriptive with the mean comments cause tbh... too close to home. but i got the vibes in there! hope you like it! gen audiences, fatphobia (booo), hurt/comfort, soft will

also,,, this has been sitting in my drafts since february so uh. hi anon i hope you're still around to enjoy it :')

will's ears perk up the instant he hears your quiet sniffles on the other side of the couch. the sight he's met with as he looks over is heartbreaking, his pretty girl with tear tracks streaming down her face. he's moving to your side in an instant, arms outstretched to wrap around your soft middle. "what's wrong pretty?" he mumbles, kissing at your jaw a few times before you look at him.

"'s nothing," you respond, feeling childish for your reaction. you know how will feels about you, you're sound in your relationship. but reading those words for what felt like the millionth time doesn't sting any less than it did the first.

will catches you glancing down at your phone and takes it from your hand, his eyes scanning the comments on your screen. the ones below his post, with a photo of you that he found stunning. you can see the way his frown deepens, "baby, you know none of that is true, right?"

you nod, feeling pathetic for the way you continue to cry. will sits your phone down, cradling your tear-stained cheeks in two hands, and you blink up at him. "it's just so fucking mean," you whisper. your voice sounds small, even to your own ears.

your boyfriend shifts, settling his body into the corner of the couch. he tugs your arm with a gentle hand, silently insistent that you sit in his lap.

"are you sure?" you mumble, suddenly aware of your size compared to his lithe frame.

will doesn't like that answer. he grabs you with a bit more force, not enough to hurt, but enough to get you situated atop his thighs. your eyes rest level with his, and your gaze remains trained on his face while his hands trace over your body. he palms your hips, squeezes your waist, and caresses your thighs. "they're just jealous assholes who want something i have."

"something you have?" you ask. it comes out soft, a little confused.

your boyfriend smirks at you. "uh, yeah. a smoking hot girlfriend?"

you roll your eyes and smack his chest, but despite your protests will sees a smile tug at the corner of your lips.

"i mean... it's just..." your voice shakes little, and you lean into his warm palm as he wipes a tear from your cheek. he sits there, quiet, letting you gather your thoughts into words. "you should have a girlfriend who can keep up with you, y'know?"

"baby, i don't need someone to keep up with me." there's an earnest look in his eyes, letting you know it's the truth. "whatever other reason you think you have, i promise. i don't care."

you want to ask again. really? or are you sure? but instead of caving to the insecurities, you focus on what's in front of you. it's clear that he means what he says, and his words are emphasized as one big hand braces your back, will's body caging you in as he lays you down against the couch.

"what're you-" you start, but he cuts you off with a kiss.

"gonna show you how much i love this body, yeah?" he mumbles against your lips, gripping the meat of your thigh to pull it up and around his hip.

[forbiddentaako]

husk is the # 1 radioapple hater because he wants Alastor nowhere near actual tangible power and influence over hell, but Alastor is a huge huskerdust fan because husk is way more entertaining and easier to threaten this way

[shikai-the-storyteller]

Cries into my frickin hands Promare is still such a good movie

[paddockletters]

redeemed | lando norris

serie of this smau summary: After a messy breakup, Lando’s fans blame his best friend for ruining his relationship. request: yes! sorry took me too long :(( tbh, this had been sitting in drafts for a while because i wasn’t entirely convinced about it (still not 100%, to be fair), but i thought, “Well, maybe they’ll like it,” so here it issss

landonorris

Liked by yourusername and 982,273 others

landonorris: Another race weekend!

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user1: I want to be Y/N so baaaad🤧 lando’sgf: love you so muchhhh!!!❤️ user2: Y/N made it again in Lando’s post, love them! user3: I’d love a friendship like Lando and Y/N’s 😭😭😭

yourusername: Great weekend, miss you alredy muppet 🤧❤️

landonorris: It was! When are you coming to visit again?

user4: Lando replied to Y/N but not his gf…💀💀 user5: THE fit, THE smile, THE overtakes 😭 user6: She really needs to back off from Lando and Alice user7: Photo 3 >>> everything else 🫠

lando’sgf posted a story.

yourusername

Liked by carlossainz55 and 76,261 others

yourusername: About last month 💗

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carlossainz55: Feeling special for being in your post 🤧

yourusername: You should, cos it won’t happen again 💀

user8: Lando’s smile in the 3rd photo? how do I sign up for your life? 😭 user9: She can’t post without Lando or some driver in it 🤮

user10: True that, she’s all about the fame

user11: living my dream life AND looking flawless while doing it?❤️😭 user12: always getting in the way of Lando and Alice, proper messing with them 🙄

user13: what are you on about? Lando and Y/N have been friends for yearsss 🤡

user14: well, why didn’t anyone know about her till now? she just wants Lando for the fame, no doubt

landonorris posted a story

lando’s gf posted a story.

lando’s gf

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lando’s gf: ❤️❤️

landonorris

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landonorris: Free time when I’m not driving a F1 car around the world

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user15: Lando— HAHAHA

user16: where’s Alice???

user17: y'all are obsessed with his gf, mind your own business ffs

user18: Bet Y/N’s asking Lando not to take Alice 🙄

user19: giiiirl, touch some grass! Alice has been back in her country

user20: Y/N’s always with Lando, so he’s footing the bill for everything

user21: Everything, mate—GP trips, holidays, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s got him paying her rent too 🤮

user22: I wouldn’t want to be Alice, seeing Y/N everywhere around Lando 💀

landonorris just posted a story.

yourusername posted a story

yourusername

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yourusername: [No caption]

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user23: an unexpected crossover user24: Oh, so the gold-digger’s moved on to someone else now? user25: Hope you’re proud of yourself for ruining Lando and Alice’s relationship, biTCH user26: Hope you die

carlossainz55: should I feel proud because you went to a Real Madrid match or bad for "L" because you went out with someone from that team???

carlossainz55: nah, estoy orgulloso

user27: stay away from Lando, you slut

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lando’sex-girlfriend

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lando’sex-girlfriend: A little miracle is on the way, and we couldn’t be more excited. 👼

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user28: Nearly had a heart attack, thought Lando was going to be a dad 😭😭😭 user29: No way, she was the one who cheated 💀 user30: 💀

landonorris

Liked by charles_leclerc and 1,928,388 others

landonorris:  I lost the best thing in my life because of all of you.

Because of your words, your hate, your accusations. You turned her into the villain when all she ever was, was my best friend.

You all tore us apart, pushed me to let go of the one person who truly mattered, all because you couldn’t mind your own business.

And now, seven months later, I see the truth—she was never the problem. I was. I should’ve fought for her. But instead, I let you win.

I’ll never forgive myself for that. I lost her because of you.

—Lando

View all the commments

user31: lando, you did what you thought was best at the time. We’re all human, and nobody should have been attacking her like that

user32: we judged her without knowing the full story 🤧

user33: can’t believe we believed the lies

user 34: I feel so bad now

danielricciardo: Lando, I’ve got your back. It’s crazy how people act like they know your life when they don’t 🤛

user35: It’s hard to see things clearly when the pressure is on you. Glad you’re speaking out now, nobody deserves that kind of hate, especially someone as good

user36: It’s obvious she meant a lot to you but the media and fans never understood that

user37: We were too quick to judge her

maxverstappen1: People love to talk without knowing the full story. Stay strong, mate, always here if you need to talk 🤜🤜

time skip

landonorris

Liked by yourusername and 2,951,052 others

landonorris: I don’t think there’s anyone who deserves this more than her. From being the absolute boss she is in everything she touches to owning this year’s CEO of the Year award (seriously, she’s amazing), I couldn’t be prouder I of course I’m the best wag

View all the commments

user38: YOUR WIFE?!?!? 😱 i can’t even process it. Lando, what’s happening?!

user39: wait, I thought you were single?? How did we miss this??

user40: no… I THOUGHT THE WERE FRIENDSS????

user41: wait a damn minute—Lando’s married??!! And she’s holding CEO of the year??? I need answers 😭

user42: OH MY GODDD She’s literally living the dream!! And Lando, we all knew you were the best, but now you’ve just confirmed it

user43: HE’S MARRIED?!? And she’s CEO OF THE YEAR?!?! You guys are literally goals

user44: i’m happy for you but also I’m crying in my room so… mixed emotions 🫠🧡

user45: Y/N is literally TOO perfect and it’s offensive to the rest of us 😭😭😭

user46: No hate, but also… I’m fighting for my life over here while Y/N is living my dream 😭

user47: @/yourusername you wake up every day and think, ‘how can I flex on everyone today?’ Because wow 💀

[no-144444]

the oscars- o.piastri

꩜ summary: you bring your own oscar to the oscar's!

꩜ pairing: married! oscar piastri x actress! fem! reader

꩜ a/n: just realised i never posted this and it has been sitting in my drafts for over a month and a half ish lol

I want you to come with me. 

Those words had run through his head like a fucking jack-hammer for weeks. What did that even entail? Acquiring a tux, sure. He could do that. Learn all the names of the people he could potentially meet, any celebrities or old co-stars he’d probably met but didn’t remember. Again, he could do that. Sit beside you all night and let you be your wonderful self as he got a first class seat and bragging rights about the fact that he was yours, he did that all day everyday. 

So why did this feel so different? He’d been to award shows before. Not the award show, but motorsports ones. You’d come as his date. The world knew about you two. He’d gone to the BAFTAs with you one year. He should be fine. He knows he’s just there to hold your hand all night and make sure you don’t forget to eat something, but this just feels… different. This was the Oscars. The one night all of Hollywood steps out in their very best, hoping to get something back. And you were nominated in 3 categories. 

“Fix your bowtie,” Hattie fussed over him as he rolled his eyes. You’d even invited his whole family. You weren’t super close with yours and they hadn’t really supported your career, but the Piastri’s had. Nicole went to every premiere you offered her, sometimes flying last minute just to be there to support you. He remembered how touched you’d been when she showed up at your Cannes debut, you called him crying that night, not even knowing what to do with yourself because you thought it was just so nice. You were 14 then, but you were 24 now, and you weren’t just his girlfriend, you were his wife. You were officially part of the family, even though you had been from the moment he’d brought you home. He started playing with his ring, a nervous habit he’d picked up since getting married. 

“It is fixed,” he snapped back as she fiddled with it. “Mum said it looked fine-”

“I wasn’t looking at you when I said that!” she called from the other room. Oscar rolled his eyes again. 

“Your eyes are on swivels today,” Mae teased, looking up from her phone. Oscar fought back rolling them again, and instead went for a scoff. 

“I’m the only reason you guys are even coming,” he scoffed, Hattie still fixing his tie. Mae’s jaw dropped in offence. 

She gasped. “Excuse you! I think Y/n would still invite us even if you guys got a divorce.” 

A shiver went up his spine at that thought. Leaving you?  He couldn’t do it. He knew in his bones he’d adore you until he was old and grey, and probably a while after that too. 

“She definitely would,” Eddie added, walking in. “Plus, she’s dressed now, if you want to see her.”

Oscar tried to pull away from Hattie, but he just got choked by his bowtie, resulting in a fit of coughs and a gaggle of laughter from his sisters. 

He heard a chuckle he knew all too well and he turned his head. You were radiant. A burgundy formal gown, your hair exactly the way you loved it, and that wonderful look in your eyes. The one he saw when he woke up next to you. The one that made him blush no matter how long you’d been together. “You alright there?” you questioned.

He chuckled and Hattie finally finished with his bowtie, so he turned to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing his lips to yours as he lifted you off the ground- just slightly. You grinned against his lips and he felt the panic that had been building completely subside. You pulled back as your feet reached the ground again, and chuckled. “Do I have lipstick?” he asked, a question he asked most days. You nodded, but Mae got up to take a photo, giggling at her brother with you. It didn’t bother him. You finally just wiped it off and smiled at him. 

“What do you think?” you asked, pulling back and giving him a spin. You showed off the low back and he knew he’d be ripping this dress off of you tonight. He swore the breath was knocked from his lungs every time you looked at him, but truly, you were breathtaking. 

“I think you’re the most beautiful woman in the entire world,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek.

“Oh yeah?” you smirked. He nodded. 

“Oh yeah.” 

The Red Carpet was as overwhelming as usual, but he enjoyed watching his sisters interact with the few fans of theirs that were there. He watched you with so much love and pride in his eyes, so much so that Tim had to nudge him to remember to walk on and not just stand in the back of your photos looking at you lovingly. When you finally finished up, you grabbed his hand as he led you into the auditorium. 

“You still have my speeches?’ you questioned. He tapped his chest, signalling that it was in his breast pocket. You smiled. “Thank you.”

“Always,” he smiled back. “Forever.” 

As soon as your moment began, it ended, because Nicole pulled you away to go talk to people and he fucked off to the dinner table. He watched as you worked the room, animatedly speaking to people as he watched on from his seat at the table, thoroughly enjoying his food. 

It was his dad who pulled him out of his daze, asking how he was feeling. 

“I’m fine,” he nodded, only slightly lying. 

Chris smiled. “She’s going to win ‘em, I bet you.” 

“She will,” Oscar nodded. “Her work has been incredible this year.”

“You’re telling me,” he chuckled. “I cried for three days over the Outrun.”

Oscar laughed out loud as his dad shook his head. “I know what you mean.”

Just then, Oscar caught your eye from the other side of the ballroom and you smiled at him, waving. He waved back. You were a vision in burgundy. He swore to go he was going to get heart palpitations from how beautiful you were. 

“Starting soon now,” Tim clapped his hands on Oscar’s shoulders. “Better be ready with those acceptance speeches.”

Chris smiled at Tim. “Took the words out of my mouth,” he chuckled. “Also have to practice your shocked face. Even though we all know she’s going to win every single one of them,” Chris tapped his leg. “Like how she pretends to be shocked when you win.” 

Oscar laughed, his cheeks going red. Why was he being embarrassed by his own father and step-father at the Oscars right now? He wanted you back, you could always calm them down, make them less… whatever they were. 

“Busy?” you asked, coming up to the table, your question directed at him. He stood up immediately. 

“Not at all,” he shook his head, the boys behind him chuckling like schoolgirls. He took your hand and you led him to the foot of the stage, squeezing his hand. 

“I’m so glad you’re here,” you whispered, leaning to his shoulder. “Thank you for coming.” 

“I'm so proud of you,” he smiled, his hand sneaking around your waist to pull you closer. He loved this. These quiet moments between all the hustle and bustle of your own lives. The room melted away behind you as you both stared at the stage you hoped you’d end up on tonight, but he knew you would. “I’ll always come.”

You chuckled. “You said cum.” 

He rolled his eyes, the soft moment between the two of you, now abruptly over due to his choice of words. He looked down at you and you laughed at his unimpressed stare. “I love you?” you offered, cupping his cheek. 

“I guess I love you too,” he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours gently, but quickly- as to not get lipstick all over his mouth. 

“And the nominees are; Anora, written by Sean Baker. The Brutalist, written by Brady Corbet, Mona Fastvold. A Real Pain, written by Jesse Eisenberg. , September 5, written by Moritz Binder, Tim Fehlbaum; co-written by Alex David. The Substance, written by Y/n Y/l/n,” the crowd cheered and he felt your hand squeeze his just a little tighter. “And the winner is… Anora, written by Sean Baker!” 

Despite the loss, you stood and clapped for him. Oscar joined you, though he thought you should’ve probably won. You both sat back down as his speech began and he took your hand again. “You alright?”

You nodded beside him, your eyes fixed to Sean and his speech. “There’s still like 4 hours left, don’t worry.”

He chuckled and pressed a soft kiss to your hand. Ever the positive person. 

“And the nominees are; Anora, Sean Baker. The Brutalist, David Jancso. Conclave, Nick Emerson. The Outrun, Y/n Y/l/n. Wicked, Myron Kerstein,” you tensed beside him. “And the winner is… Y/n Y/l/n, The Outrun!” 

And the room stood for you. He felt like he was in slow motion. You both stood up at the same time, a bright smile on your face (he was sure he looked ridiculous), and you turned to him and you hugged him. 

“Holy shit,” you whispered. He smiled back, nodding. 

“You fucking did it,” he cheered as he pulled the speech out of his pocket. “Go accept it.” 

You nodded and started your descent down the stairs. The entirety of Hollywood was on their feet for you. You’d been working in the industry since you were a kid. Everyone knew how wonderful you were. Only he got to see it everyday. He watched, pride practically spilling from every pore as you stood up on that stage, taking the award in your hand, the sheet of paper in your hand. You looked up, a teary smile on your lips. “Wow,” you breathed out, looking at the room, but your eyes immediately met Oscar’s, and you both smiled again. “Hello, and thank you,” you started. “Umm… alright, speech- yes!” you unfolded the piece of paper in your hand and took a deep breath. “Well… first of all, I’d like to thank the academy, because this-” you held up your award. “Is incredible. And next, I’d like to thank my family. Nicole, Tim, Chris, Hattie, Eddie, Mae,” Oscar was already tearing up, and he was sure his mom was at the floodgates stage of it all. “You’ve been so incredibly kind to me over the past decade. You took me in when I was just a random 14 year old your son or brother was dating, and you gave me a family, and I'll always be grateful. Next, I’d like to thank my husband-” he felt a tear fall down his cheek and he knew there were about twenty cameras on him. There were a few cheers from the crowd. “- Oscar, you’ve made me insanely happy, and you’re my everything. But you’re also the only person I’ll ever let in my editing room. I love how curious you were at the start, and now, how effortlessly you help me. Truly, this is half yours-” you chuckled, and so did he. “No matter what. Whether you were coming in from a race weekend, totally exhausted, or just come back from a run, you’ll sit beside me in silence and help me make it all work. I don’t think you understand how much that means to me, so, thank you. I love you all, thank you!” you finished off, just wiping the small tear that had fallen away, as the crowd rose for you again. Oscar was a goner, tears falling freely as he tried to wipe them away. God, you were too kind. He adored you. 

The night ended at 3am, you walked away with two Oscar awards, and one Oscar. He was grinning the whole time, too. Couldn’t stop. You won Best Editing and Best Supporting Actress. His family were elated and you giggled on the way back tot he hotel as you watched videos of them react to you winning, since they weren't sitting beside you.

Both you and Oscar were exhausted, so you fell into bed, immediately tangling with each other and knocking out. 

He ran a hand through your hair as he lazily closed his eyes. "Y/n?"

You hummed against his skin, sign enough that you were slightly conscious.

"I adore you," he whispered, the silence of the room seeming even quieter in the dark. You looked up at him through tired eyes, a soft smile on your lips.

"I feel it," you smiled. "And I love you too."

Best night ever.

mclaren masterlist

navigation for my blog :)

[sheep-from-rad]

Idea! Neglected bar singer darling.

The joint they sing in is on the very outskirts of Gotham. The bars in the basement of a restaurant.

Its pretty clear darling is saving up money to slowly inch away from Gotham and from there neglectful and sometimes (often) cold family.

So they dress as a Him/femme/them fatale and saunter up to the stage and sing there lil heart out and get both the thrill of all the attention in a room being on them and the money in there tip jar to boot.

Imagine what happens when a clip of darling singing goes fucking viral. (I'd like to think it's would be "be your baby tonight" give it a listen if you want. I like norah jones' cover)

What I'm saying is there is no way any of the batfam would approve of darlings career choice.

I love this kind of asks!~ Requests are now open again but we warned, I'm a snail paced writer T__T This took a while because I have this habit where I write it down first on paper before typing it. Like I make a draft first and reread before typing it to see if I should add more or remove some. First fic about singer reader: here and part 2 here. 😅

**DC characters belong to DC and I don't give permission to feed my writings to AI. Thank you**

Masterlist(Batfam)

Masterlist (All of my other fics)

divider by: @k1ssyoursister

Okay okay, here me out. I know you said secret bar under a restaurant but my brain read the word ‘bar’ and ran away with it 😭. 

You know what this smells like? Scandal and maybe even a disaster waiting to happen too. You know what's a famous bar in Gotham? The Iceberg lounge that is run by Mr. Cobblepot (Penguin) and  is frequented by rogues  such as Riddler. 

Life in the Iceberg Lounge isn't that bad, maybe intimidating at first but it became a small comfort. Mr. Cobblepot lets you keep the tips, the lounge beauties (Raven, Lark, and Jay) are great companies, and workplace harassment? You don't really have to worry about that. If you ever get flirted on or harassed by small fries and drunkards and then rest assured a bigger, scarier person at the back of the crowd will beat the harasser and throw them out. They might be villains but they have standards and harassing the lounge’s songbird is a big no no! 

The clip of the singer reader went viral for a ton of different reasons: (1) The singing and the amount of simps you raked 24 hours after the clip has been posted. I have a headcanon that Mr. Cobblepot will nickname you as either Nightingale or Songbird to fit the crew because the lounge beauties are nicknamed after birds.(2) People can see villains just chilling at the background of the video. Riddler's nursing a whiskey at the counter, Two face is playing chess with Penguin who is multitasking in helping mix some drinks. Hell, even Harley and Ivy are in the background having a moment with the strippers.

(3) Why is Bruce Wayne’s kid at the Iceberg lounge? I have a teeny tiny headcanon that even though the reader was neglected they are still forced to attend galas once or twice because Bruce won't and then it will be like a big media scandal. Also reader's public appearances with Bruce or with the other Wayne children might be low but they still have hundreds of followers. The Wayne name alone is basically a celebrity name because of Bruce being heavily revered by the public. Think of it like nepobaby shit. (4) That stage presence and sheer seductiveness. Being a Wayne, I'm sure the reader was taught etiquette by Alfred and was taught how to dress properly. They are also taught how to behave. However on that vid, you look like you were dressed by the Gotham sirens (Ivy, Harley, and Selena) themselves. All those good boy, good girl, good child stuff are out of the window. If the reader was just blending in the background before and the video is the opposite. It's almost commanding every viewer to look at them, pay attention to them, worship the very ground they walk on, and love them! At this point just expect simps. 

The family loves the video but at the same time they also hate it. They had their copies downloaded and saved and then they'll immediately task Barbara into scrubbing the video off of the internet but it's too late. The video has been re-uploaded to hundreds of different accounts and some  news outlets had already published articles about it. The articles ranged from sweet ones like praising the reader for their awesome stage performance and singing to downright insane clickbaits like ‘Bruce Wayne secretly allied with Gotham rogues?’ 

The whole thing is very stressful and I pray to the DC gods that Bruce Wayne is very healthy because this guy's blood pressure might as well go high up. Imagine trying so hard to keep up with the ditzy playboy public persona to hide your vigilante secret identity only for your kid to be filmed singing and being cozy at the Iceberg lounge. Not only that! You also placed yourself in danger too! It's not a secret that a lot of rouges knew Batman's real identity (Joker knows it, he just doesn't care. He's so cool for that). Sure they don't attack Batman when he's Bruce and sure they are a sweet pseudo-family to you right now but who's to say that they won't use you when push comes to shove? 

While Bruce deals with the media, Barbara and Tim work on the damage control and tracking every video, expect heavy guilt tripping and interference from Damian, Dick, and even Alfred (in his defense, he wants you safe and will only ask for you to get a better job or at least work in a place not frequented by villains). Dick will be actively poisoning the well. He'll make you sit down and read the crime archives with him (starting from the heaviest crime down to the pettiest crime) and will tell you stories about their encounters with each of them. Damian will try to keep you from getting to work and will try to keep you in your room if you haven't moved out of the estate. He'll ask you to go around with him, feed his pets with him and even asked you to watch him train (he doesn't know how bonding works, please be understanding). If you had left the estate and then expect him to show up and walk in your place like he owns it. He's one of those cats that you feed once and then suddenly shows up and won't leave you alone anymore. 

Oh, you still won't come home? You still wanna continue that dangerous job of yours? Pick your poison then. Do you want them to call Jason to get to the bar and take you home, knowing him some heads will sure go flying. Or do you want the family to stage a stakeout, infiltrate the bar, and capture and lock up all the villains forever. Go on, go choose. 

[bejeweledinterludes]

blame it on the alcohol.

OR dean’s drunk— and makes it your problem!

my masterlist

「 pairing 」 : drunk ! dean x reader

「 word count 」 : 1.6 k

「 content / warnings 」 : fluffy fluff / comedy, alcoholic!dean, drunkness, NOT violent— purely just my thoughts of goofball drunk dean winchester off his rocker with reader hehe

‧˚₊⋅ ──── faith’s tell-all. welp i got drunk off my ass the other night and finished this draft that’s been rotting for actual months but i love the way it turned out. i hate to drop then dip immediately— but ‘if i wrote this then y’all need to see it’ has always been my policy around here (with finished works at least), and that includes regardless of my mental status. idc y’all are my ride or dies for life, no take backsies! that being said though, i still need to respond to everyone who reached out to me over the last month(ish)— which feels overwhelming rn, so i promise to do it at some point.

and for anyone that was wondering, things are pretty okay for now— but i still don’t plan on coming back back on here anytime soon. it’ll probably be more just me posting works here and there since i don’t really write like i used to + don’t really feel like i belong on here anymore yk? i’m sorry to let everyone down, but just know i appreciate and love every single freakin’ one of you that interacts with and (hopefully) enjoys my writing. it means the absolute world— it always has and always will. enjoy this one, miss you all dearly <3

( p. s. ) . . . this should be obvious, but: DO NOT INTERACT IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO READ ABOUT ALCOHOL OR DRUNKENESS !!!

𖤐 ────────────────────────

you were cozied up in bed at your motel room for the night, pretending to be reading a book on the lore of a specific hybrid of werewolf— god, don’t even ask. it was like pulling freakin’ teeth trying to get through a page, even the words. you were debating lighting the while thing on fire— and maybe sam, too, for suggesting that you decipher it.

but the sudden and loud-ass bang against the door had gotten your attention, and you instinctively snatched your gun off the nightstand, expecting the worst. fight or flight kicked in— and of course, fight reared it’s head immediately.

but there was no need, since the door swung open— and dean was attached to it, leaning on it as it hit the wall with a thud.

“stupid fuckin’—” he lifts himself off the handle, looking offended at the thing, like the door was the reason he almost fell face-first into the room and not himself.

then, he meets your gaze.

and the only way to describe it was like if the freakin’ sun just came out and hit dean’s face.

“hey!” dean bursts your name out, somehow kicking the door shut behind him— while smiling. like, full-blown, teeth and all. at you. and you know he’s never been that happy to see you in your life, ever.

it’s about now you realize he’s absolutely hammered beyond belief.

of course you knew that dean had his… issues with alcohol— and everything he’d been through? shit. you probably would, too. but still, you never pushed him to talk to you about it. not like sam does— yeah, no, that wasn’t your place. you were a good friend, sure, but still, you didn’t need a ‘okay, mom’ from dean, or a cussing out. so you weren’t about to try and force him to tell you anything. that was a line you refused to cross.

“hi,” you give your own smile back— because come on. your eyes clock how dean was swaying on his feet, so you slide off of your bed, meeting him halfway and grasping his shoulder gently— because you knew if you didn’t take action right now, he’d end up face-first right on the carpet. “you havin’ a good night?”

and dean’s glazed eyes seemed to sharpen for a moment as he took in your presence— now he could smell you, foo. his lips curved into a lopsided, drunken grin as he attempted (and failed) to focus on your face.

“jus’ livin’ the dream,” he quipped, trying to muster a cocky smirk— but the way he leaned right into you standing up told you otherwise.

“needed sum company. your room was t’closest, thank god— ‘n sam’s bein’ mean.” dean explained, almost pouted at that last part, his words being pretty much incoherent. dean somehow got an arm around your shoulders, the other waving floppily at the door— most likely, at sam.

of course you’ve seen dean drunk before, but he’s never sought you out while completely wasted like this. not that you were complaining or anything like that— it was just new.

you were trying not to think about what that meant.

you now realize that you can’t exactly sustain holding dean up like this, with just your own body weight— so your arm wraps fully snug around his shoulders and your free hand presses onto his chest, holding him upright.

“i see,” you guide dean in your grasp towards the edge of your bed. “well, come and sit down before we both end up face-planting, huh?”

surprisingly, as you guided him toward the bed, dean stumbled along more willingly than you’d expected him to, even as his movements were jerky and completely uncoordinated. he flopped right onto the edge of the bed, head lolling momentarily as he fought to focus on you, a lazy smile playing on his lips.

then, as if that wasn’t enough shock factor, dean reached out, his hand clumsily searching for something to hold onto— his fingers found your hand and wrapped around it a smidge too tight, as if to ensure you wouldn't leave.

a beat passes, then—

“yer my favorite, y’know that?”

damn.

maybe you needed to sit down, too.

so you do.

“your favorite, huh?” you inquire softly, sitting next to dean. you never took him to really be sentimental drunk, but hey. at least he wasn’t upchucking. a smile tugs on your lips, too. “like, ever? or just right now?”

you’d think you’d asked for the equilibrium constant of freaking iron, the way dean huffed and actually thought about it, hard.

a beat, and then, he nodded, confirming.

“yeah, ever. well, ‘cept sammy... or m’baby.” he said slowly, trying to form the words through his inebriated brain, looking back to you. “but yeah. ever.”

while listening, you glance over at the clock as you’re sitting on the edge of the bed— well, you’re sitting. dean’s now just kinda… more slumped against you than anything.

but you didn’t mind it.

“well either way, i’m honored,” you lean a little into dean playfully, but your voice is still quiet. “and you know somethin’? you’re my favorite, too.”

oh, damn.

if dean was sober, he'd probably scoff and play it cool— find some sort of joke to spin off of it. but drunk dean was a different man. instead, he squints at your face, cheeks flushed for a different reason, his expression… hopeful.

“really?” he slurred, looking unconvinced and squeezing your hand like it would help. it did. “not sammy or baby?”

“i like you both,” you clarify with a soft laugh, voice still quiet, eyebrows scrunching together as you remind him: “and baby’s your girl, dean.”

“true,” that got a chuckle out of dean, “baby’s m’girl, and you…”

dean paused, his mind taking a moment to process the thought. and people say that drunk people had no filter. he lifted his head slightly, his gaze attempting to focus on your face.

“y’somethin’ else.”

dean finally said, his words barely above a whisper. his fingers fidgeted a little with yours, lightly tracing patterns against your skin.

damn damn.

even drunk, dean sure was vague when he wanted to be. his tone was genuine as ever, though— so that made you feel a little better.

“‘somethin’ else’, huh?” is what you respond with to dean as you smile again, eyes flicking between his. “well, thank you— i think.”

dean manages a lopsided smile back. he’s uncharacteristically quiet now, a stark contrast to earlier.

“mean it. you’re special,” he murmurs after a moment, his voice dripping with sincerity.

now how the hell were you supposed to respond to that.

you weren’t used to compliments— in general, but from dean? that was essentially nonexistent. it was like he made a point not to compliment you sometimes— and now this? it wasn’t just a random compliment.

he called you special.

so you just kinda… stare at dean for a second, your cheeks heating up a little as you look down at your entwined hands, trying to ignore the warmth in your chest before you get the courage to look up at him again. 

dean, however, doesn’t seem to notice the way you reacted— if he did, he didn’t point it out. his fingers continued tracing small patterns on your hand, almost absentmindedly. the gesture, despite the alcohol swimming through his body, was still somewhat… deliberate.

gentle. 

“thanks, de.” you managed to get out, glancing back down at your hand in his.

dean’s somewhat half-lidded gaze follows your glance down to where his fingers are tracing patterns on your hand, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips before he lifts his gaze to meet yours again.

“love when you call m’that,” he murmurs, a soft, albeit, drunken honesty to his voice. “feel s’like a hug.”

you knew that sober (and definitely hungover) dean would be absolutely losing it if he could hear himself, but you don’t dare call him out on it.

you gape at dean again for a second, your chest doing that thing, more intensely now as your cheeks flush a little harder.

the chest thing usually happened daily, hourly around dean: whenever he said your name, wiggled his brows at you from the rearview window of baby, or got right into your personal space— but it felt so much more with his words.

and it didn’t help that you were holding hands.

“i’ll try and say it more often, then,” you affirm to dean with a nod, giving his hand a little squeeze.

“good,” dean nods back, like he was in a haze— but he couldn’t tell if it was from you or the alcohol. “i’ll hold y’to that.”

oh, yeah. you knew he would.

even drunk, that might be the only thing he remembers— but you’d take it.

it was bittersweet. knowing that this dean seemed to have all the troubles off of his mind, the burdens off of his back for once in his goddamn life— but you knew the reality. the one deep down, the monster under the bed:

the fact that dean needed alcohol to do so.

and a lot of it.

maybe someday, you’d talk to him about it in that way you always did, like a deep conversation, but not really; one that left him all light and drunk on something very much you instead of a brewski— and maybe he’d even listen. 

but you knew tonight wouldn’t be the night.

tomorrow wouldn’t be the day.

so you’d let him have tonight.

you’d let him have you. 

if he wanted.

──────────────────────── 𖤐

🏷️ : @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis @ambiguous-avery @maddie0101 @deansbeer @titsout4jackles @sunsbaby @emeraldcrs @h8aaz @honeyryewhiskey @supernotnatural2005 @cowboysandcigarettes @soldiersgirl @bruisedfig @mostlymarvelgirl @amaris444 @kaz-2y5-spn @littlejackles @starzify @velvetparkerx @eggggggggggggggggggggsblog @fuckedupfate @liiiilsss @angelblqde @vmiina @mahi-wayy @viarasvogue @tinas111 @0ccvltism @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @lunaleah @saintfaux @kimxwinchester @bettystonewell @honeyyxxbee @harlekin705 @megara0224 @ej13928 @missus-ackles + if i missed anyone or you want to be added / taken off, please let me know <3

[dreamwritesimagines]

Declassified [4] - Outranked

A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful support my loves🩷 I hope you like this chapter as well! 🥰 Please let me know what you think! 🩷

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Female!Reader

Summary: Everyone has their bad days at work.

Warnings: Explicit language, yelling.

Word Count: 3937 

Series Masterlist

Fine.

Things with Bucky had been a bit strange, at least on your part.

Ever since that night at the office and that rush of excitement you had when your hand was in his, you had been trying your hardest to ignore the feeling but it simply didn’t let you.

Throwing yourself into work didn’t do the trick either, but at least the poll numbers were amazing.

You watched while he walked down the stage through the applause and shook hands with the people in the crowd. Even you had to admit that he didn’t need to do much, voters loved him and his genuine approach. Yet, to be safe, he studied whatever you gave him thoroughly to answer each and every question with ease, clearly having read every note you put in your reports as you asked him to.

He made his way to you and Kelsey, and you smiled at him while Kelsey checked his calendar on her phone.

“The next meeting is with Mr. Davis,” she said before he could even ask. “You have half an hour.”

“Great,” he muttered, shooting you a questioning look, and you nodded, then followed him out of the building to the sidewalk. He went into the blind alley right beside the building so that you could be away from anyone who could interrupt you, then turned to look at you.

“The usual drill?” you asked and he nodded.

“Mm hm.”

“I start?”

“Please,” he said, loosening his tie a little. “Ladies first.”

You took a deep breath and unlocked your phone.

“Overall it was pretty good,” you said, checking the notes on your phone as he leaned back on the wall. “Just one thing, you could’ve given more details when they asked about our veteran plan.”

He made a face as if he was already regretting it.

“I thought the same,” he admitted. “And I was going to, then I remembered you told me earlier to lean into education for this one.”

“Yes because that’s our opponent’s weak spot, I saw his project about education, it’s a fucking joke.” You scoffed. “By the way, you nailed the education question.”

He let out a relieved breath. “Good.”

“But like I said, we can just give the overall rundown the next time someone asks about it,” you said. “I actually already prepared a draft—”

“When?”

“While you were answering the question,” you said. “It’s short and to the point, and people should hear more about it, so if we overran by like ten seconds, it won’t hurt.”

“Yeah.”

“Because our ideas are fucking amazing,” you said, looking up at him and Bucky nodded fervently.

“Most of them were your ideas.”

“We came up with them together,” you told him. “And you’re the one who’s gonna carry those to the Congress, so let the voters hear it.”

“Okay,” he said. “Noted.”

“And next, Mr. Davis,” you said. “He’s a hard-ass, however he does have a soft spot for veterans and he’s a history nerd, so please, please throw in some sort of anecdote from your time in the trenches.”

“Birdie...”

“I know you hate talking about it,” you added in a hurry. “I know but we can, in fact, use him. Could be like um, like a fun memory.”

“Fun memory,” he deadpanned. “From the trenches.”

“You know what I mean, Bucky.”

 “I’ll try,” he muttered. “My turn?”

You cleared your throat and fixed your hair to keep your hands busy before rolling your shoulders back.

“Yes,” you said. “I am now ready for your feedback. Go.”

“How much caffeine have you had so far?”

“Two Red Bulls, one Monster, three cups of coffee.”

“What did you eat?”

“Some leftover pizza as breakfast and a protein bar. Oh, and coffee beans.”

Bucky pulled his brows together. “See, that also counts as caffeine—where on earth did you get coffee beans?”

“I brought them in a ziploc. Want some?”

“No thank you.” He hummed. “And how much did you sleep last night?”

“Um…” You checked the app on your phone. “I think it’s like two and a half—oh, there. Two hours forty-five minutes.”

 “That’s ten more minutes than the other night,” Bucky pointed out and you nodded your head, pride lighting up your face.

“Yes. I’m improving.”

“So proud.”

“Why thank you,” you chirped and checked the time on your phone, then stepped closer to him to reach up to fix his tie. “I literally told you Davis is a hard-ass, you have to look put together.”

A small smile pulled at his lips as he looked down at you, and you felt your heartbeat speeding up, but you forced yourself to focus on his tie before you stepped back, nibbling on your lip.

“There. Presentable.”

“Did you change your perfume?”

You tilted your head, then slapped a hand over your forehead with a grimace.

“I forgot you’re basically a hound!” you whined. “Sorry about that. Um—Max got this perfume for me and it’s really not my type of perfume but I wanted him to feel good about it, he’s not very skilled at choosing gifts.”

He raised his brows.

“Your boyfriend doesn’t know the perfume you use?”

“…No,” you said after a beat. “No he does. It’s on the vanity, he’s seen it a thousand times.”

“So he got you a different perfume on purpose?”

You blinked a couple of times, the simple question making your stomach churn in anxiety but you shook your head, trying to shake off the thoughts.

“Let’s go,” you said, and started walking with him following you. “Is it bad? The perfume?”

“It’s not bad, it's just not you.”

“Is it the serum?” you asked. “It makes you notice these types of things more?”

“Yeah.”

“How come you didn’t say anything about the other one?”

“I like how you sme—your—your perfume,” Bucky stammered and cleared his throat. “It’s uh—it’s a nice…perfume. In general.”

“Are you sure?” You stepped out of the alley and turned to look at him better while his campaign manager Paul approached you. “About this one not being bad? Should I go home and take a very quick shower and be back?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Paul cleared his throat, his eyes darting between you two. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” Bucky said. “What is it?”

“You need to be on your way to Davis,” he said and turned to you with a frown. “And you should be at the office.”

“Okay.” You grinned at Bucky. “Hey, less exposure to perfume.”

“I feel like this is common knowledge, but I’d take your perfume over Davis’,” Bucky grumbled and you let out a laugh, then made your way to the car.

                                              *

 It was a busy day today, for Bucky and you. He was supposed to meet all these people and you had thousands of emails to send, and to make things worse, Paul had given you a bunch of things to do the moment you stepped foot in the office.

“He looks more pissed off than usual,” Caleb commented and you heaved a sigh.

“Yup.”

“Why?”

“No idea,” you said. “But hey, do you know how Bucky’s meeting with Davis went?”

“Kels texted me, it went fine.”

“Just fine?” you asked and he hummed.

“I’ll ask for the details.”

“Thank you,” you said and printed out the latest report, then walked to Bucky’s office to put it on his desk so that they would be ready when he got back. You cracked your back and made a face, then took a step to walk back to your desk but Paul stopped you.

“What were you doing in there?”

You pulled your brows together. “In Bucky’s office?” you asked. “I left the latest report in there. I figured he’d want to see it.”

Paul scoffed a laugh.

“Right,” he muttered. “And what about the report that I asked for, half an hour ago?”

“You asked for a full report Paul,” you reminded him. “I had to send some emails, so I—”

“I didn’t ask for excuses,” he snapped, making you pull back a little while the rest of the bullpen fell into silence. Your cheeks started burning in shame but you swallowed thickly, commanding yourself to be calm.

“I had to send the email to that journalist you were talking about today,” you said. “I figured that it was the priority—”

“I’m sorry, you figured?” Paul asked. “I asked you to do something and what, you decided it wasn’t the priority?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Sounds like you did,” Paul said. “And sounds like we have a miscommunication problem here. You don’t decide on shit. I decide what’s important or not, you hear me?”

Okay.

You knew what to do in a situation like this.

Your whole childhood could be summarized with multiple people yelling at you, so it didn’t even take you long to snap into what was familiar. You imagined the walls going up around you just like you would when you were little, schooling your face into a completely neutral expression, keeping your eyes on Paul and not the whole office watching you.

“I don’t really give a fuck that everyone tells you you’re oh-so-smart,” Paul ranted. “I don’t give a fuck if Bucky—” he stopped himself and let out a bitter laugh. “Trust me when I say this, you’re not half as smart as you think you are.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see that Bucky had just entered the bullpen but since Paul’s back was turned to the entrance and he was so lost in his anger, he didn’t even notice people turning their gaze from him to Bucky.

“And when the stakes are this high, when we’re only a couple of months away from the elections...” Paul’s voice rose again and Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not going to let you screw this up for anyone in this team!”

Bucky took a step but you moved your hand from your side to raise it just a little before you curled your fingers into a fist. It was so subtle that neither Paul nor anyone in the room noticed it, but Bucky stopped dead in his tracks like a soldier given a strict order by his commander, his gaze burning you.

“So when I want something to be done,” Paul said. “You do it. You do not think about the priority order, you just fucking do it. Like you’re supposed to. We’re not paying you to think, we’re paying you to do as you’re told. Do you understand?”

You unclenched your fist and nodded, then turned your gaze to Bucky over Paul’s shoulder. Paul blinked a couple of times, his face going white before he followed your line of sight, and turned around.

Bucky didn’t even need to say anything to intimidate people, you were beginning to see it now. His cold glare was more than enough to pin one to their spot, hell, you weren’t even the person who was on the receiving end of it, yet you didn’t think you could move. The whole bullpen held their breath while Paul exhaled shakily, opening his mouth only to have no voice come out. Bucky stole a glance at you as if asking for your next order, but you shook your head slightly, making him clench his jaw. He turned to Paul, nodded in the direction of the door and stepped outside, Paul tripping on his own feet in his rush to follow him outside.

“Holy shit,” Caleb muttered and you bit inside your cheek, then returned to your desk, Kelsey rushing to you while Caleb scooted his chair to get closer.

“What an asshole,” Kelsey whispered. “I still have goosebumps, I’ve never seen Bucky that furious.”

“At least now we know what Howard Stark saw before he—”

“Caleb!”

“Sorry, too soon?”

Your hands were still shaky, and people were still staring at you but you grabbed your phone to send a quick text to Bucky:

Don’t. I’m serious. Don’t fire him, don’t threaten him, don’t do anything.

“Birdie, are you okay?” Kelsey reached out to squeeze your hand and your head shot up, then you tried to smile.

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Caleb asked. “That was kind of harsh, even for Paul.”

You threw your shoulders back, trying to pull yourself together.

“It’s fine,” you said. “It’s…it’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

                                         *

Paul couldn’t meet your eye for the rest of the day.

In fact, you were pretty sure that he had jumped out of your way when you had to go to his office to get a file.

Even though you could tell Bucky wanted to talk to you, you weren’t exactly sure how long you would be able to keep it together and you certainly didn’t want to break down in the office, so when it was time for you to leave the office, you went home while Bucky was still out on a meeting.

You had already cried in the shower when Max texted you to say he would be working until midnight, so you ordered a bunch of snacks, put some music on, turned the TV on, found the news channel and put it on mute, then turned up the heat and got to work.

You were knee deep in the clean energy bill draft for Bucky to use in his next meeting when the roar of a motorcycle outside made you grimace and look up from your notes, your phone buzzing in your hand a couple seconds later. Your eyes widened when you saw the text, sitting up straighter like someone pinched you.

From: Winter Is Coming

Hey, I’m outside your place. Can you step out for a moment?

 Bucky?

Bucky was—

Holy shit, Bucky was outside.

You jumped on your feet and grabbed the empty snack packages, rushed to the kitchen and threw them into the garbage, your heart beating in your throat as you typed in your reply;

Be out in a sec!

You didn’t even question why you were so excited to see him, you just rushed to the bathroom to to brush your teeth and fix your hair as fast as you could, then made your way to the bedroom to grab your perfume from the vanity, your hand hitting the perfume bottle Max had got you out of the way in your hurry. You sprayed a couple of your own perfume on your skin, then ran to the living room to spritz it into the room as well. You threw the bottle on the bed and took a deep breath, then grabbed Max’s zip-up hoodie to put it on, grabbed the keys and walked out of the apartment.

Oh.

Oh alright, this was going to do wonders for your imagination.

Great.

Bucky was leaning against a motorcycle when you stepped out of the building, and he looked so irresistible that the fluttering in your stomach went crazy as you smiled at him. He eyed you up and down, and you shifted your weight from one foot to other, now realizing that you were in a crop top and tiny shorts under the unzipped hoodie; something very different than what he was used to seeing you in.

“I do have a doorbell, you know?” you joked, still holding the door open behind you and his eyes snapped to yours.

“I uh—” He frowned like he was trying to focus. “I didn’t want to disturb.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” You waved a hand in the air. “Come on in.”

He paused for a beat. “Are you sure?”

“Oh yeah, Max is working late as usual, it’s just me,” you said and made your way to your apartment with him following you. You opened the door to your apartment and stepped inside, your heart still pounding in your chest.

It was fine.

You had been to his place like a thousand times, and even bribed his cat Alpine into loving you with a can of tuna, so it just made sense that he would be here as well.

Completely professional.

Bucky’s eyes darted around the place before he closed the door behind him, then let out a breath.

“Whoa, it’s like a sauna here.”

“Yeah I need every room I’m in to be boiling,” you said with a laugh, taking off the hoodie. “I’m cold all the time, like, there was this one time I had to turn the heat on in June, Max was losing his mind.”

Bucky took off his leather jacket and you took it from him to hang it on the hanger, then made your way through the hallway with him following you.

“I got wine, beer…”

“Beer would be nice, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” you said as you both entered the kitchen and you took out two beer bottles from the fridge, then handed one to him.

“Thanks.” Bucky sat down on the stool and uncapped his bottle and you uncapped yours, then clinked the bottle with his. “Nice place.”

“Thank you,” you said and took a sip, perching on the other stool across from his. “So, what’s up? What brings you to my sauna?”

“I wanted to see if you’re okay,” he said. “After today.”

You scoffed. “Oh, I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

“I don’t care what Paul does. How did the meeting with Brooks go?”

“She’s nice—”

“And she’s hot as hell,” you added. “Like, seriously...”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Did you get the chance to mention that we’re interested in that fundraiser?”

“Yeah, she says we can make that happen. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“That fundraiser would make really good optics and to be honest, she’s kind of a badass—”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Bucky cut you off and you pursed your lips, then nodded.

“I don’t understand why people make such a big deal about it,” you said. “I’m used to getting yelled at, I’m okay.”

Fury flashed in Bucky’s eyes.

“This has happened before?”

“No no, not with Paul,” you said. “Which by the way, what did you tell him? He doesn’t even look me in the eye anymore.”

“Good,” Bucky said. “Means he listened.”

Butterflies returned to your stomach but you forced yourself to give him a reprimanding glare. “Bucky.”

“Hm?”

“What did you say to him?”

“Nothing much. I just explained what would happen if he pulled that shit again, very calmly.”

You had to bite back your smile. “Very calmly.”

His expression was almost too innocent. “Mm hm.”

You shook your head and took another sip of your beer while Bucky tilted his head.

“How?”

“What?”

“How are you used to it?”

“Oh.” You let out a bitter laugh. “I got yelled at a lot when I was a kid. It stops being effective after a while, to be honest with you.”

Bucky’s frown deepened and you shrugged your shoulders.

“I had this um…” You moved your hand vaguely. “I had this thing while I was growing up, I was incredibly skittish, so my dad kept yelling at me to think faster and talk faster and eat faster and—whatever you can think of, really. Kind of like a drill sergeant.” 

Bucky stared at you, a soft light shining in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, I yell at him back nowadays,” you said with a small laugh. “One of the reasons why we don’t get along well. He raised me to be very outspoken, and now that my values are completely different than his, he doesn’t like it. You should’ve seen the last time they visited, we got into this huge political argument, and my mom just left to go shopping, and Max blocked it out and was like, making work phone calls in the bedroom while my father probably violated the noise ordinance laws of this building. My voice was hoarse the next day, it was crazy.”

Bucky blinked a couple of times.

“Sorry, you mean—” He paused as if he was trying to wrap his mind around the idea. “You’re telling me your father yelled at you and your boyfriend just allowed that?”

You stared at him, that familiar discomfort sinking in your stomach again before you shook your head.

“Oh it’s not like that,” you said. “He respects my father a lot, and he knew I could handle it.”

At least that was what Max had told you word by word, when you asked him where the hell he was during that argument seeing that it ended up with you bursting into tears in the bathroom.

“Did you tell him he’s not supposed to respect your father more than he respects you?” Bucky asked with a dry smile and you licked your lips, your heartbeat getting faster.

“It sounds bad when you say it like that,” you said. “But it wasn’t like that. Max is a great guy, we barely ever fight.”

Well, that was because you barely saw each other within the week.

“And um—” you stammered. “And we’re like, so in love.”

No I’m not.

The thought that flashed through your mind was so sudden and so unfamiliar that it made you stop talking and you swallowed thickly, frowning at yourself. 

What the hell?

When had that quiet doubt turned into an actual thought?

“Yeah,” Bucky’s voice cut through your haze and you looked up at him to see that soft light playing in his eyes despite how tight his jaw was. “Yeah, you mentioned that.”

“…Right.”

He held your gaze in his, making your heart skip a beat before he downed the beer and put the bottle on the kitchen island.

“I should go,” he rasped out and your stomach dropped in disappointment.

“Oh, you could stay,” you said in a rush, hope clear in your voice even if you tried to hide it. “Like I said, it’s just me here probably until like midnight or something.”

“I really shouldn’t.” He gave you an apologetic smile and stood up from the stool. “Thanks for the beer though.”

“Of course,” you said and followed him to the hallway. He grabbed his leather jacket from the hanger and you fixed your hair, clearing your throat.

“By the way, you should ride your motorcycle more,” you said with a tentative smile. “It’d skyrocket the votes.”

He chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You took a step towards him when he opened the door. “Bucky?”

He turned around to look at you better. “Hm?”

“Why—” You paused for a moment. “Paul is your campaign manager. He outranks me and—was it honestly just because of me? Today, when you pulled him aside and gave him a talk?”

 “Yeah,” he said. “It was because of you.”

“Why?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t like it when people think they can yell at you,” he pointed out. “So I’m not going to allow that. Simple as that.”

That warmth filled your chest again, a smile you couldn’t stop lighting up your face and you bounced on the balls of your feet, then nodded.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice a mere whisper and his eyes met yours, your heart beating in your throat again.

“Anytime,” he said softly. “Goodnight Birdie.”

With that, he closed the door behind him and soon enough you heard the engine of the motorcycle come to life, and drive away. Your cheeks were still burning and you pressed your palms to soothe the fire, letting out a shaky breath.

“Yeah,” you whispered into the empty room. “Goodnight Bucky.”

Chapter 5

[reidmarieprentiss]

Don't Get In Your Own Way

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

Pairing: Spencer Reid x BAU fem!reader

Category: fluff, light smut (18+)

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

Word count: 10.3k

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

main masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smirks. “Oh, I can do both.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because he knows.

And one day, you’ll know, too.

—

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

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

So, as usual, he attaches himself to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you?

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

But you’re not here now.

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

“Spencer,” she calls gently.

He blinks and looks at her.

“You okay?”

He hesitates, then nods.

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

And Emily Prentiss? She’s no fool.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer stiffens. “That’s an exaggeration.”

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

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

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

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

Because for the first time, he noticed it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, you know. On a date.”

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

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

He needs to figure it out for himself.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, your mind was stuck on him.

Spencer.

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

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

Damn him.

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

Like right now.

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

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

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

You blink at him.

Wait. What?

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

Your heart starts hammering, palms go clammy.

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

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

“You okay?” he asks slowly.

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

His frown deepens.

Okay. You need to fix this before you combust.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer smirks. “It’s not silent.”

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

Spencer just shrugs.

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

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

Except it’s not.

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

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

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

Spencer is still looking at you, waiting, expectant.

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

He nods. “Your place at seven.”

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

—

The knock at the door makes your stomach drop.

You weren’t expecting it. Not from him.

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

But tonight, he knocks.

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

Why?

Why would he knock?

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

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

And there he is.

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

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

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

You swallow. “Why’d you knock?”

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

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

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

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

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

Something is different.

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

It’s never been awkward before.

But tonight, it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He might actually say what you’re both thinking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pretend not to notice.

He pretends not to, either.

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

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

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

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

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

But then—

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

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

Your heart stops.

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

But he doesn’t move.

And neither do you.

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

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

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

But your body betrays you.

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

Isn’t it?

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

Except—

He doesn’t.

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

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

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

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

And then—

Then his fingers brush against your shoulder.

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

But you don’t.

You can’t.

So, he stays.

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

But everything, everything, has changed.

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

Not even a little.

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

Maybe both.

Maybe that’s what this has always been.

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

But then—

“Y/N,” Spencer murmurs.

Just your name.

Soft. Almost careful.

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

And then—

Spencer shocks you.

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

And he kisses you.

It’s not hesitant.

It’s not unsure.

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

No.

This is something else entirely.

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

This is Spencer wanting.

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

But then—

Then you kiss him back.

And it’s over.

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

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

But you’re not going anywhere.

Not now.

Not after this.

—

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

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

Like reading to you before bed.

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

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

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

You never make it past a few minutes.

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

And Spencer?

Spencer never minds.

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

Because he loves this.

Loves you.

Even if he hasn’t said it yet.

—

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

This is a whole different level.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And oh, no.

Your heart is gone.

Your ovaries? Destroyed.

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

And you are not okay.

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

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

But it is.

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

And the thought wrecks you.

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

Because now?

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

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

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

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

Your hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel.

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

Your pulse picks up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s all.

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

But you feel everything.

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

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

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

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

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

He’s waiting for you.

Waiting for permission.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” he murmurs. “Not really.”

And that’s all it takes.

Because suddenly, you’re kissing him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But God, was he more than enough.

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

It was everything.

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

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

That was when he really fell apart.

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

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

He knew he was ruined for anything else.

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

For you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did… was that good for you?”

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

“It was amazing, Spencer.”

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

“I’m sorry it was over so quickly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And just like that—

Spencer wasn’t exhausted anymore.

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

Like hickeys.

Spencer really liked hickeys.

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

And just like that, you knew.

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

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

Yeah. He definitely liked it.

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

Spencer was a certified bottom.

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

And oh, he thrived in it.

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

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

Which led to the third discovery of the night.

Spencer was a tits guy.

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

But your boobs?

Those really got him going.

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

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

And when you realized?

When you teased him about it?

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

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

And yeah—

You really liked that discovery, too.

—

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

"Pretty boy!"

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

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

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

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

The hickey.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer knew damn well that this was never going away.

—

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

Except, apparently, when it came to you.

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

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

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

No, this Spencer was different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And?

And?

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

Like he owned you.

And maybe he did.

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

But Spencer was too drunk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brows furrowed. “But—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Almost home, Spence,” you murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

For a moment, he just stared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t let anybody see, Spence.”

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

“You took care of me,” he murmured.

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

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

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

Your heart stopped.

Completely.

Frozen in time, in this moment, in him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I love you, too."

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

And without another word, he kissed you.

Slow, deep, certain.

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

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

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[sqgeism]

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 i'm not the one you want, babe | amphoreus men x gender neutral reader

💌 — ; i'm not the one you need . knowing his death, he just couldn't afford to hurt you like this. so he's come to accept that it would be better for you to never have him than to forever mourn him.

love mail — you're not gonna like me for this one. just kidding this honestly isn't my best work 💔 old draft that i felt like finishing heart emoji

the moment anaxa caught on to your lovesick glances, he knew he had to stop you before it had gone too far. he loves you, in every possibility he does, but he knows his fate. he won't be around long enough and you shouldn't spend your gift of life mourning a man who was born to be doomed and pointless.

his traitorous heart soars knowing his feelings are reciprocated, but he can't let his dreams be anything more than an imagination. he promptly shut you down, claiming his heart has no more space for anything past his research. but in truth, his heart has completely turned to fit you perfectly. and the weight of his death feels like nothing compared to how heavy his heart feels to lie in order to protect you.

he loves you, and he hopes that despite his harsh words, you can see how much it kills him to never have you.

mydei would have died for you. and in some way, he is. his fate was sealed once the prophecy was written, and he only laughed bitterly at the face of his set-in-stone death.

he had plans to settle with you, he already had decided you would be his forever, and you felt the same. but alas—there's no peace in a life like his—so full of tragedy, and this was his greatest one.

and realistically, he should've been wiser, that someone who is his perfect half.. he wouldn't get to have it forever, regardless of how much he dreams on every shooting star. so the night he told you to meet him under the moonlight, mydei never showed up. and you'd never see him again after.

but that's the issue of being labelled the 'nameless hero', isn't it? phainon thinks it'll all go well, that he can bring the dark world into light again. that all will go well.

phainon knows better, he should know better. after the loss of anaxagoras—after aglaea, mydei, everyone... he can't allow this to happen again. to have someone open their heart to him, to become someone important, and lose them all in the end. it was an endless loop, a cruel curse of fate for one man to carry.

so while he knows that his love is reciprocated, he forces himself to swallow his words and drown in them forever. stuck in a possibility, a what if. what if it worked out.. what if he could have a reality where he's truly, deeply happy? satisfied with the blessings he has, with you?

then he thinks deeper, like he's imagining a future or even a past that he's seen before. it's you, in his arms, smiling at him so longingly. for all he's done wrong, the world before this one that he failed, you still loved and bled for him.

it won't happen. not again, and must he break your heart to keep you alive then so be it.

© sqgeism or wtv (^_^;)

taglist : @strawbairicake ♡

[lavandulawrites]

Crowded

Yandere Dr. Ratio x reader x yandere Aventurine

Ugh I love these two so much♡ Tbh I would not mind being imprisoned by them, just saying… This has been in my drafts a good while. Should I make it a series? I looooove poly yanderes so if you have any requests let me known

Synopsis: After being held captive in the two men’s shared home and you have tried to escape countless times. Is this time the time you will finally free yourself from their clutches?

Masterlist

Warnings: imprisonment, poly relationship, post abduction, not properly proofread, female reader

Word count: 2297

You had been imprisoned in Aventurine and Veritas’ shared home for 2 months. The mansion was large and luxurious and would have been your dream home had it not been for your predicament. You had tried to escape countless times, but to no avail. They had managed to stop you every single time before you even got to set a foot outside of the home. Escaping the clutches of two geniuses was no easy feat.

The sun cast long shadows across the newly polished hardwood floors. The sky was painted in pinks, yellows and oranges. It was truly a breathtaking sight. Aventurine was writing some reports in his study and Veritas was away on a seminar in a prestigious hospital on the other side of the galaxy. You didn’t complain about your alone time as it gave you time to come up with an escape plan. Trying to escape through the windows or doors had proven to be impossible, as Veritas had designed his very own security system that seemed unbreakable. Much to your relief your captors had come to the agreement to not have security cameras in your bedroom and bathroom as Ratio had lectured the gambler on as to why privacy was so important for the cognitive function.

You entered your luxurious bathroom with beautiful marble tiles and golden details, and rummaged through the various cabinets and drawers. You weren’t surprised to see that all the scissors and tweezers were gone. On of the many safety precautions the two men had taken. You groaned as you slammed the cabinet closed. Or at least you tried to. The white wooden cabinet closed slower than usual and you groaned loudly. They had installed a fucking soft closer on the cabinet.

A sudden idea popped into your head. The west wing of the mansion was currently under construction. You had never been more grateful for Aventurine’s picky tastes when it came to the interior of the mansion.

You quietly snuck down the hallways and managed to avoid the butlers and maids. The house was big, but you had had plenty of times to explore it and memorise all the different parts. You almost felt bad for the maids and the other workers should your escape plan finally succeeded. They would most definitely feel the wrath of the IPC, but you couldn’t stay inside the damned mansion any longer. Your heart screamed for freedom and you should be damned if you did not give in to its pleas.

You lifted the plastic curtains and looked around. The door to one of the many guest bedrooms that were open. The room was empty except for a ladder and a toolbox. The plastic that covered the expensive floor crinkled underneath your sock clad feet and you winced at the sound. You steadied yourself as to not slip on the slippery surface. The last you needed was a concussion.

The window was closed, but not locked. You sighed in relief. You quietly opened the window and peered down. The ground was covered in various tools and planks and the window was rather high i up. If you were to escape through the window, you would have to be very careful and aim for the scaffolding. After debating for a while, you came to the conclusion that the smartest and safest way would be to climb while you were secured to something.

Finding a rope would be rather difficult, so you would have to make a makeshift one. The laundry room should have enough pillowcases.

The laundry room was dark and cold. You fumbled the wall for the light switch. The lights fluttered on and you had to squint as the bright light flooded your senses. Your mood piqued up as you saw the pile with pillowcases.

You grabbed a handful of pillowcases and started to tie them together. It was a tricky job, but you managed to tie them together tightly.

Your heart raced within its bone cage as you snuck back to the room you would escape from.

The air from the open window sent shivers down your spine. It was chilly and the temperature was guaranteed to make you sick. Though everything was better than being held imprisoned by two lovesick men. Your hands were trembling as they tied the makeshift rope around your waist and to the gutter at the outside of the large window. The tools and planks at the ground were threatening as they waited for you to slip and fall down, so they could impale you like a crocodile’s fangs did to a fish. The wind rustled your hair as it tried to egg you on. Or perhaps it wanted to push you. You were going insane.

You hesitantly stepped onto the windowsill. Your hands gripped the window frame so hard that your knuckles turned into a bony white colour. Your insides were churning and you tasted the acidy taste of bile that was slowly but surely raising up your throat. The beating of your heart echoed in your head as you tried your best to calm your hyperventilating. You needed to sharpen your senses, lest you would fall down and only a fleshy pancake would remain.

You counted to three in your mind before you climbed out the window. You gave the rope a good firm tug and you let out a shaky breath of relief when it remained perfectly intact. The windowsill on the outside of the window was slippery from the rain that had poured down prior. You cussed at yourself for not thinking about this more through, but it was no or never. Your soft cotton socks quickly soaked and the wet fabric gave you some well needed friction.

You peered down once again, your heart almost jumping out of your chest. The organ was beating so hard that it hurt and you might have died from a heart attack rather from a fall. You clenched your teeth at you lowered yourself slowly down to a crouching position. You carefully placed your right leg down, then your left. Your butt was completely wet from the rainwater, but you couldn’t care any less. Now that you were sitting the whole situation seemed less frightening.

You calmed your breathing and counted to three (which was something you had to do multiple times as fear overwhelmed you). “It’s now or never” you whispered to yourself as you put the makeshift rope between your legs and pushed out from the windowsill as hard as you could. You swung to the scaffolding on the side of the building and clung to the metal pole. The metal was cold, but it wasn’t wet which was something you were grateful for. A gust of winds swept over you hand the structure you had placed your trust in started to wobble. It was at first only small movements, but as each second past and after each thundering heart beat the wind picked up. The scaffolding swayed from side to side as if it was a sailboat lost at sea amongst a heavy storm. The wind howled as it crept underneath the roof tiles. White plastic sails waved in the wind as they covered the poor excuse of a railing, making it look like ghosts. The image was taunting as if the ghost-like objects dared you to take another step towards your freedom. Your situation for the last months had been exactly like that of a ghost, shackled to the manor with weighted chains while roaming the endless halls.

“[NAME]! What the fuck are you doing?! Get back here! It’s way too dangerous!”

The world froze and the seconds dragged out into eternity. The fear that had coursed through your veins had now been replaced by ice cold terror. Your heart stopped before it started beating at an alarming speed. The hair on your arms and neck stood up ready at defence. You knew that voice all too well.

“[Name], please get back here. It’s not worth it” Aventurine’s voice was firm, but gently, though it was clear he was trembling from fear. His words had finally brought you back to reality and you turned your head to face him.

“Don’t even fucking dare come close” you sneered (or more whispered). A flaming rage lit within you and it slowly crept over you. Just as you were about to leap onto another scaffolding, a burst of wind almost knocked you down. Tears welled up in your eyes due to the harsh wind and your vision became blurry. Fuck. You clung to the pole like a koala, gripping it so hard that you could feel the blisters form. You could hear some distant voices, but the wind was too strong for you to pick up on what they were saying. You had started to really regret your escape attempt. Living together with them was not something you wanted, but dying would be way worse. They didn’t even treat you badly… You shock your head. When did you start to think such things?

“Stay where you are! We are going to get you back inside safely!” the deep baritone voice was completely audible through the strong wind. The voice belonged to no other than Dr. Veritas Ratio, the man who said he was going on a conference and would be away for the weekend.

Through your blank eyes you could make out the silhouette of Veritas as he exited through the window. With one strong hand holding the window edge he took a step onto the scaffolding. His free hand reached for you. “Take my hand” the otherwise calm man was now visibly filled with anxiety. Another gust of wind slammed against you. “Please [Name]. It’s dangerous. You’re going to fall if you don’t take my hand!”

You stared at his hand. You were cold, your butt was wet and your hands were forming blisters. But freedom was so close. You looked down at the ground. The grass soft and tempting.

“Just grab her!” Aventurine yelled, anxiety clinging to his voice.

“Either you take me hand or I’m going to get you myself. Your choice” Veritas’ eyes were narrowed and his jaw clenched.

You cast a last glance down at the ground before you let go of the pole with one arm. Fuck it. You didn’t want to die. You took a small step towards Veritas before you took hold of his hand. His fingers quickly wrapped around your hand in a vice grip as he pulled you towards him.

“I got you” his arms wrapped around you as he pressed you flushed against his firm chest. You could feel had rapid heartbeat against your chest. His face was twisted in concentration and fear as he took a step backwards towards the window. You lifted your head and your eyes fell upon Aventurine. He was visibly stressed as he dragged his hand up his forehead and through his hair.

“Come here quickly!” with one hand holding the window edge, he leaned out of the window and grabbed Veritas’ right arm and dragged him back. You didn’t have time to be puzzled by the blonde’s immense strength as the doctor lifted you up and to Aventurine’ awaiting arms.

“Oh Aeons you don’t know how scared I was. I though I was going to have a heart attack” he breathed out as he hugged you. He sat you down on the floor as he helped Veritas inside.

“We are going to have a long talk. But first you are having a warm bath, then some warm tea” Dr. Ratio closed the window and locked it.

The water was warm. Ratio had ran you a bath with warm water and lots of bubbles. He was currently kneeling beside the tube, washing your hair with a mild smelling shampoo. His fingers massaged your scalp with just enough pressure. Despite the relaxing massage, you couldn’t relax. Freedom had been so close, yet so far. Now you were back in the clutches of your captors.

“Lean your head back.”

A large hand covered your eyes as his other hand rinsed out the shampoo with the shower head. He then quickly applied some conditioner and repeated the rinsing process. “You are all done” he helped you out of the tube and wrapped a big fluffy towel around your trembling form.

“Come let’s get you some warm tea while we have a little talk.”

Bundled in your nice duvet, you dipped on your tea. The sweet taste of honey and apricot filled you mouth and you let out a little sigh. You throat was aching an you were with no doubt going to get sick. You could only imagining the future fever and dread the tomorrow. Aventurine and Veritas were talking to you about the consequences you were going to face and how utterly dangerous your little stunt had been. You knew you would have to say goodbye to your freedom (if not permanently at least for a very very long time). Your privacy was at the time being revoked and you were only allowed to use the bathroom alone, everything else you were to be supervised be either a butler or Aventurine or Veritas themselves. The decision had soured your mood even further (if it was even possible), but you couldn’t gather the energy to protest too much. You were way too tired. You limbs were heavy and you had almost dropped your hit cup of tea twice. Your eyes were droopy and you wanted nothing more than to sleep till the next week.

Their voices had turned into nothing but background noise as the scholar put your tea cup away. You snuggle further into the heavenly duvet and closed your eyes. All you needed now was a good rest.

[strawberry-nugget]

Based on the ‘somebody point me to the best ass eater’ tiktok trend

Tags // Warnings: MDNI, Suggestive, Crack

Characters are 20+

It’s Wednesday afternoon, that dooming hour after a 10 hour long patrol that included everything a hero should do in the span of a week. It has left you and Katsuki beaten and bruised, tired, and grimy all over your hero costumes and he has —rightfully so— spent the fifteen minute drive from his agency to your favourite restaurant whining because he will have to have his car detailed again.

Nonetheless, you’ve been doom scrolling on Tiktok from the second he stepped out of the car to get you the food he promised you; all you can eat sushi, boba tea for the drive back home and maybe a sweet treat that you hope and pray is strawberry mochi.

You're scrolling through endless edits, ‘get ready with me’s, pets, babies and yet the only thing that gets your attention is that new silly couple trend.

“Somebody point me to the best ass eater” the song chants and numerous girls have recreated the trend with their boyfriends and it’s just so silly, so stupid, so so funny that you wanna do it too.

You look around the parking lot, scanning to see if there’s any people around but it’s for sure empty, given the fact that it’s too early and you click on the sound on one of the TikToks and decide to set your phone on Katsuki’s phone holder on the dashboard.

And right on cue -perfect fucking timing- there goes your hero, with two big fat paper bags filled with food on one hand and two boba teas on the other. You can’t help but smile an evil grin as he sprint marches toward the car.

He opens the door, practically collapses in the seat, and you scrunch your eyes as you smile at him when he hands you your tea before smooching your lips. “Boba for my girl” he smiles against your lips and then, kisses you again.

“Katsuki gimme your phone baby” you ask and reach your open palm at him. 

“Sure—“ he hands you his phone, presses his lips into a thin awkward smile as you go to open Spotify. Then his eyes fall finally on your phone on the dashboard.

“wait, the fuck is your camera open?”

“Shhhh I wanna film something”

He sighs, deeply, almost comically, rubbing his face with his palm.

“Can’t we go home first, i'm so tired” he whines, his voice cracking like you asked him to do another ten hour long patrol, but you just giggle, sipping on your tea before setting it down.

“You don’t even know what it is yet,” you grin, unlocking his phone and queuing up your shared playlist—because ambiance matters, obviously.

Katsuki groans again, louder this time, and slouches into the seat like he’s trying to merge with it. “If it’s another cutesy dance thing, I’m crashin’ this car into the nearest pole.”

“You just got this car”

“And i'm damn serious” 

“You say that every time, but then you eat up the comments when they say you look hot,” you quip, tapping through TikTok with laser focus. “It’s not a dance. It’s just a sound. A trend. Just trust me.”

“No,” he says immediately.

You ignore him and cue up the sound, and before he can protest again, your phone blasts from the dashboard: “Somebody point me to the best ass eater—”

Katsuki freezes like someone’s just shot him with a tranquilizer dart. One eye twitches, while he's giving you the nastiest side eye.

“What the fuck—” he starts, but you’re already cackling, doubled over in your seat, wheezing into the straw of your boba like it’s life support.

“You’re deranged,” he mutters, ears red, one hand suddenly gripping the steering wheel like he’s going to need it for emotional support. He bumps his forehead against it once, twice, then groans like he’s aging in dog years.

You pause the video and open a new draft under the sound, already giggling as you press record.

“Please, let’s go again. At least try to pretend you’re eating my ass.”

There’s not even a beat of hesitation—even if the phone is still recording, Katsuki reaches, lunges over your seat, full chest-over-console, arms reaching like a man possessed and makes it fly flat onto the back seat and grabs both of your hips with his palms to shimmy you towards him. He leans, leans fucking over your thighs with his mouth all open like a horn dog.

He’s fully tilted, upper body hunched over your thighs like you’re the dinner you’re supposed to be having at home. His mouth is still open, stupid and dramatic, like some depraved cartoon wolf seeing red.

“KATSUKI WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” You’re shrieking now, half laughing, half horrified by how fast of a turn this took.

“WHAT!?” He yells, sounding genuinely offended.

You’re laughing so hard, you're wiping actual tears from your eyes, when Katsuki, very slowly, very cautiously, says

“You’re askin’ me to eat your ass here.”

You choke.

Literally choke. You’re coughing into your boba straw. Katsuki’s immediately panicked, reaching across the console to slap your back softly and manspreads into the driver’s seat

“No! Katsuki—no! That’s not—” You’re laughing and wheezing at the same time, eyes wild, mouth burst open so wide that your jaw could just drop to the floor “That’s not what it is! It’s just a stupid TikTok sound!”

“But the sound said—” He furrows his brow like he’s solving math “It said—somebody point me to the best ass eater. You told me to pretend I'm eating your ass. How else am I supposed to do it then?”

You start giggling again and grab his bicep. “Yes, but it’s not literal! That’s just the trend! You point at your boyfriend when the sound plays and look really smug, maybe pretend you’re eating something out of my hand. It’s supposed to be funny!”

He blinks, pouts, fierce vermillion eyes stare deeply into your soul, like you’ve offended him once again.

“So… you’re not asking me to eat your ass.”

“NO, KATSUKI.”

“Shame” he says, lips pursing to the side of his face as he throws his hands in the air in surrender. Smirking. Eyes wide in condensation.

“KATSUKI- I wouldn’t ask you to do that in broad daylight, at a parking lot” You’re breathless from laughing, stomach sore and tears streaking your already grimy cheeks as you swat at his arm. “And wait, hold up—What do you mean ‘shame’?”

Katsuki just shrugs, forges a motherfucking stank face and says “Woulda done it.”

You nearly spit out your drink. “IN THE MIDDLE OF A PARKING LOT?”

He raises an eyebrow and deadpans, “You were the one who pulled out the camera and told me to pretend.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it!” You’re halfway between scolding and wheezing, already imagining the absolute clownery that’s going to flood your comments once people realize what just happened if you were to post that video.

He leans back against the driver’s seat with a long, satisfied exhale, smug little smirk curling at the corner of his mouth like he just won a fight no one else was in.

“I’m just sayin’. If you wanna do stupid internet trends, don’t blame me when I commit to the bit.”

“KATSUKI”

“Ahhhh” he whines, voice cracking again, mocking “Katsuki this, Katsuki that, just get on all fours and let me get to work”

“Shut up bro, what the hell”

He raises his brow at that, latching his forehead to yours. Had it been any other time you’d gulp, but he cracks a laugh, lets you know it’s not that serious… yet.

“Call me bro one more time” His lips twitch. “See what happens.”

Katsuki bites his lower lip, his nose bumps into yours. You pretend to shove him away, scrunching your face in fake disgust, but he pulls you back in, huge biceps trapping you in between his arms as he places ugly sounding kisses to the top of your head, your cheeks, your face. Anywhere he can land them, seriously.

“Im all dirty and musty from patrol you freak” 

“Mmmmmmm” he smiles deviously, licking his lips.

You slap your palm over his mouth before he can say whatever ungodly thing he was about to follow that noise with.

“You need to be stopped.” You’re fully hot in the face now, not from any sort of flustered romantic nonsense—no, from the secondhand humiliation of knowing that your camera was absolutely still recording when he started making mating sounds over you telling him you’re absolutely musty after patrol.

Then again, Katsuki licks your palm.

“OH MY GOD—EW” You rip your hand away and flail, smacking the dashboard. “You’re disgusting. Depraved. Unwell.”

“‘S what you signed up for,” he says proudly, smug as hell and sipping on his tea like he didn’t just try to go full National Geographic in the front seat of his car. In front of a recording camera too.

“You’re not even denying it anymore.”

He shrugs. “I’m a man of the people. They want ass eater representation.”

“The people?! You didn’t even know about this trend a second ago, what people!?”

“My fans,” he says, nodding solemnly.

“Your fans? Katsuki, you have one fan and she’s sitting right here rethinking her entire life.”

He hums again, but this time it’s smug and low, and he wiggles his brows in a way that tells you he’s about to say something that will absolutely get him banned from the bed for tonight.

“So you are my fan…” he laughs, falling back on his seat, pulling that silly face he thinks is the sexiest thing on the planet—newsflash, it is. He looks at you, up and down, licking and biting his lips “Sorry sweetie, I don't sleep with groupies.”

You stare at him, deadpan. “I’m going to make you sleep on the couch.”

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

[jeansjolly]

You stare at your manager a little too long. Who could blame you? He's just that hot. If you told yourself this just happened, you would've slapped yourself across the face.

☁︎ cw: office setting, smut, pwp, fem!reader, f!oralsex, tongue fuck, ass-eating, cunnilingus, fingering, vaginal sex, getting fucked/eaten out from behind, he has a big dick, creampie.

☁︎ wc: 2.9k

☁︎ inspired by this audio

☁︎ a/n: sorry if it's a little messy, I did proofread by myself but ehh wtv, enjoy :)

— 18+, mdni

“Excuse me?” You inch closer to him, holding your laptop with both hands.

“Mhmm?” He nods, hands in his pockets, watching you as you approach.

Gosh. You want to just kiss him right now.

“So…” you trail off, fingers resting on the laptop’s mouse pad as you tilt the screen slightly toward him. “I’ve got just the right idea for how we should promote our upcoming products.”

You click a bit more on the screen. “I had a few discussions during our ‘unofficial’ team meeting, and they suggested we create more content on social media apps to engage customers. And as you can see…” You press play on the video on your laptop.

You show a draft of you and your team making videos to promote the products. His shoulders slump a little as he tries to focus on the screen, so you lift the laptop a bit higher. Your eyes flicker to his, and you almost cringe as he watches with full judgment.

With his body so close, you catch a whiff of his perfume– a hint of sandalwood and oud. The faint scent convinces you he definitely wears expensive fragrances.

He hums and circles his pointer finger over your screen. “This is neat. I’ll write the letter to the higher-ups.”

Your eyes widen. “No– it’s okay! That’s my job anyway. I’m just asking for approval, that’s all.”

He waves his hand dismissively. “Hey, it’s fine! It’s a good idea. You’ve done your part.”

Your eyebrows scrunch as you begin to bicker with him. One thing about you, you definitely love to argue with your crushes.

He sighs and raises both hands in surrender. “Okay, how about this? Let’s do it together.”

That makes your mouth fall open slightly.

You chuckle nervously. “Are you even sure?”

“One hundred percent.”

He lifts a hand and gently places it behind your back, guiding you toward his corner office. Just the thought of entering his office makes your stomach twist– in a good way.

When you both reach his office, enclosed with glass walls, he twists the knob and you step inside. Once the door shuts, the sounds from outside become muffled and fade away.

He swivels his office chair toward you and gestures to the seat across from him. “Please.”

You hesitantly plop down into the chair, knowing full well that even if you try to argue, he’ll stay firm in his stance.

Now sitting beside you on a cushioned stool, he taps the spacebar on his keyboard to wake up his computer.

He grabs the mouse, dragging it across the desk as he clicks into Word. A few clicks later, a pre-made template appears on the screen.

Your eyes widen. No wonder he was so eager to write it for you– he already had a whole template ready.

“Geez,” you snicker. “No wonder you’re so eager to write this.”

He passes you the mouse, resting his cheek on his palm. “Been doing this for a while.”

You reach for the mouse, dragging it across the screen toward the template text.

What should have been a ten-minute task turns into forty minutes of non-stop bickering between you and him.

“That’s too casual,” You say plainly.

“You’re too casual. I’ve been–”

“‘I’ve been doing this for years,’” you cut in, lowering your voice to mimic him. “Just like you said. But in the end, I’m the one who has to put my name and sign it.”

He smirks. “Who says it’s going under your name?”

“Excuse me?” you exclaim, slamming your fist lightly on the desk– just enough to rattle a few things. Honestly, you’re surprised he hasn’t pulled the manager card on you yet, considering how often your voice rises when he snickers at your reactions.

You tilt your head toward him. He still has one hand on his cheek, grinning at you. Then, with his other hand, he curls his fingers outward toward the screen.

“Go on.” He says.

You sigh as you type. He leans over and asks, “When you write it in your own style, do the higher-ups actually approve it?”

Your fingers pause above the keyboard before you resume typing. “Sometimes. I mean, of course, they don’t agree with everything.”

He hums at your answer. Just as he gestures toward the screen and starts to speak, you cut him off.

“What? No, I’m not adding slang!”

“No,” he says, closing the distance between you and him as he points at the first row of names. “I should be listed first. I’m the manager, you know.”

There it is. This time, you give in. “You’re right.” You hit backspace, removing a teammate’s name and replacing it with his.

As you type the final words on the last page, you glance at him and raise an eyebrow at him.

Your eyes meet for a brief moment before he looks at the screen and clicks his tongue with a smirk. “I’m just messing around, you know.”

You grumble as you type your name at the complimentary close of the letter.

Once you finish, you swivel your chair to face him.

“I’ll print these out later. In the meantime, I’ll let the team know you’re considering the idea,” you say, rising from your seat.

“Mhmm,” he hums, standing up and stretching his arms above his head. “I’ll walk you there.”

“How noble of you.”

He scoffs. “Well, with a beautiful woman in my office, sitting in my chair like that. How could I let her walk alone?”

Your jaw drops slightly. Did he really just say that? You shut your mouth quickly and tilt your head.

“Are you flirting with me?”

He leans in closer. “Been doing it for the past 50 minutes. Thanks for finally noticing.”

You feel the heat rush to your cheeks. Looking away, you mutter, “Well… I’ve always thought you were attractive.”

He tilts his head to meet your gaze, grinning. “Is that so?”

He takes your hands in his and closes the gap between you. When you look up to him, his tongue swipes on his bottom lip, moistening it. You feel his hands slide around your waist, and you stop him immediately.

“There’s a single-user restroom on the way there.”

∘⁠˚⁠˳⁠°

You press the lock button on the bathroom door, and as you turn around, his lips crash into yours. One arm wraps around his neck, while the other trails up to his chest, your lips moving in sync with his.

Your head spins– you're kissing him. And god, he’s a really good kisser. His tongue slips into your mouth, meeting yours in a heated dance. His hands grip your waist tightly before he pulls back, leaving a thin string of saliva connecting your lips. He pulls you further into the bathroom. His lips drag to your neck leaving wet kisses.

“Turn around,” he commands.

Your mind buzzes with arousal as you follow his instructions. You plant your palms against the bathroom wall, and you hear him shifting behind you. When you glance back, he’s already on his knees.

“What are you doing?” you ask, slightly confused.

His hands rest on your ass, and he looks up at you with a playful smile tugging at his lips. “I’m an ass guy, if you don’t mind,” he admits.

“Oh!” you squeak, turning your head toward the wall in embarrassment. “No– well, sure…” is all you manage to say.

Slowly, he lifts your pencil skirt, bunching it at your waist. His fingers hook the waistband of your panties and slide them down to your ankles. He grips your waist and gently parts your legs, causing your back to arch.

His hands spread your cheeks, giving him a better view of your most intimate part. One thumb drags from your puckered entrance down to the folds of your pussy, then both thumbs move to spread you open.

“Cute,” he murmurs from behind.

His tongue wastes no time, immediately dragging along your folds and lapping at your entrance. You moan at the sensation as he pushes his tongue inside your pussy, curling it deep within you.

“Haa…” you gasp when he pulls back and trails his tongue down to your clit, flicking it expertly over your most sensitive spot. He alternates between licking your pussy and moving his mouth higher, until his tongue lays flat against your asshole and begins to swirl against it.

You call out his name as you pant, your voice a mixture of surprise and pleasure. You turn your head, catching his eyes locked onto yours as he plants wet, deliberate kisses on your sensitive rim. Before you can fully process it, his tongue slips past the tight ring of your ass.

“Such a cute hole,” He says as he pulls his tongue out before darting back in.

You gasp, your eyes rolling back as waves of pleasure ripple through you. His tongue works you relentlessly, eating your ass out with such intensity that you can’t help but cry out his name again and again.

“Keep doing that… haa…” you moan, eyes squeezed shut. One hand finds your dripping pussy, plunging two fingers inside while the other circles your clit, desperate to reach your climax.

Your mind goes hazy– the pleasure too overwhelming to think straight. Then, with a loud moan, your vision goes white as you finally fall over the edge, orgasm tearing through you in blinding ecstasy.

He gives your ass one last kiss before getting to his feet. You hear the rattle of his belt as he pulls out his cock. He slaps your ass, and you whine at the sting.

“Ready to take my cock, pretty girl?” he asks, tilting his head toward you, his hands resting on your hips.

You huff, “Just fuck me already.” You plant your hands back on the wall, looking at him from over your shoulder.

He moves one hand from your hip to guide his cock into your pussy. You gasp as he slowly pushes in.

“Wait– fuck,” you breathe, stopping him for a moment to accommodate his thick girth. He’s not even halfway in, and you already feel like you’re being split open.

You spread your legs wider, whining nervously, then nod for him to keep going. He begins to move, dragging his cock in, drilling into you. The feeling of him inside has you moaning and cursing under your breath. It makes you feel hazy as the pain of his stretching is replaced easily with endless pleasure.

“You feel so good, baby,” he moans, watching his cock disappear into your pussy.

When you feel his hips flush against your ass, you instinctively grind back against him, letting out a soft mewl. Breathing heavily, you murmur, “You're so big…” Your teary eyes lock with his as you whine, “Go slow, okay?”

He only groans in response, beginning to thrust into you at a steady pace. You moan and mutter curses as his thick cock pushes deep into your tight pussy.

“Taking me so fucking well. Fuck, you're so tight,” he growls.

You manage a breathy chuckle between moans. “Yeah?” you hum, lips curling into a teasing smile until it fades into a gasp as he suddenly quickens his pace. You hiss, eyes rolling back, as he grips your hips tighter and fucks you harder.

The sound of skin slapping and his groans, along with your moans, echoes through the restroom. “Feels so good… so good…” you babble incoherently, panting as his cock hits that perfect spot deep within your spongy walls.

“Yeah, you like that? Fuck, you're so gorgeous. Taking my cock so well. You love it, don't you?”

You pant, squeezing your eyes shut as tears stream down your face. “Yes! I love it. Oh, fuck, please, please, please…”

Waves of pleasure hit back to back with him buried balls-deep inside you. Your blood feels like it pumps only into your pussy as he pounds you from behind. You cry out when he suddenly pulls out completely. Looking up at him, you breathe heavily.

“Why did you stop?” you whine.

With his hands on your hips, he turns you around and leans in, his mouth close to your ear. “At least let me see your face when I fuck my cum into you.”

He helps untangle your panties from around your ankle, scrunching them into his fist.

You shudder as he places his large hands under your thighs and lifts you up. One arm hugs your waist, the other guiding his cock back into your aching pussy. Once the tip is in, he holds you tight and thrusts forward hard.

You moan breathlessly, brushing the bangs from his face. He breathes heavily with you, and your lips crash into his, tongues tangling.

You moan into his mouth, then pull back slightly. “I'm close, I'm close!”

He pants, jerking his hips faster. “Yeah, fuck.” You almost scream when he slams in deep, cock kissing your cervix.

“Let me shoot my cum into you, yeah?” he groans, his hips moving fast and sloppy.

“Yes! Cum inside me, fuck. Fuck–!” Your eyes roll back as your orgasm crashes over you like a wave.

He gasps, thrusting deep as he releases inside you, shooting his warm load into your tight pussy.

You grip his shoulders as both of you catch your breath, feeling his cock slowly soften inside you. You chuckle and tap his shoulder.

“Put me down,” you say, cupping his cheek and giving him a kiss on top of it.

As he sets you down, he instinctively lifts one of your legs to glance at the mess between your thighs. Your pussy clenches as white liquid drips down from your sore hole. He let's out a breathy laugh. “Beautiful.”

You scoff, grabbing a few tissues and sitting on the toilet bowl. When he keeps staring at you, you ask him to turn around so you can pee and clean yourself.

He shoves both hands into his pockets and turns his head slightly. Before you can snap at him for peeking, he quickly says, “I should go.”

“Yeah,” you reply, crouching slightly to wipe the cum off your legs.

“I’ll see you around.”

He closes the bathroom door, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

As you finish cleaning up, something clicks in your mind. Shit.

He walks away from the bathroom, smirking as he pulls one hand from his pocket and pats the top of it– your panties safely tucked inside of his dress pants.

JEAN kirstein, eren yeager, reiner braun, NANAMI kento, gojo satoru, NAOTO tachibana, hanma shuji + your favs

[tallulahneale]

Dear Diary

Summary: Smoke and Stack read Tallie's diary to find out she's been crushing on Stack more than him.

A/N: This was the dynamic I picked up on; Smoke is mean-ish and headstrong while Stack is playful and easy going. 

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: Sexual content

Part 2

Looking through her online calendar, Tallie proceeds to make a note of the catering orders for the week ahead.

“Journal time!” She beams, reaching to the shelf for the notebook that keeps her thoughts, experiences and feelings a secret. But to no avail. She searched everywhere for it!

“For a pink fluffy hardcover, it should not be that hard to spot.” She mutters pacing around her room.

Meanwhile…

Smoke is running through the Club Juke ledger, while Stack creates the monthly ad for their social media pages.

“Since when do you keep a notebook?” Smoke asks his twin, pointing at the pink feathered jotter in the midst of their bookstand.

“Do I look like I even like writing?” he replies with a guffaws, lounging on velvet wood settee. With mild curiosity, Smoke wedges the jotter from it's place. The feathers on the spine tickle him as he glides a finger down the hardcover, opening the unknown jotter.

‘Dear diary, Today was a blast at Club Juke! They loved the food and it was great meeting the rest of the team-

“Cute.” a twitch forming at the corner of his lips, remembering the look of joy in Tallie’s eyes. He keeps reading with intrigue.

St and Sm kept me entertained again while doing their meal prep, and boyyyy was I grateful for the distraction. Sm was intimidating (as per usual) so it didn't bother me when he left. St stayed with me tho❤️  I love like when St's around. The playful glint of his eyes and wide stance when he lurks in the hall makes my thigh clench. and his eyes. his muthafreakin eyes! They just draw me in. I’d loveee to see 'em eyes roll back when/if I ride his fac-’

“Woah, that’s enough” Smoke mutters to himself

“You’ll never believe what’s been written on these pages” He shares, passing the jotter over to Stack with the leather tassel bookmark wedged open on the page in question.

Stack collects the jotter with a suspicious glance, taking in the feminine attributes of the dainty pages. He flips it closed to check for a name but there is none, he returns to the indicated page. As he reads, his eyebrows raise, he swallows spit causing his adam apple to bobble, before smirking.

“I think Tallie should swing by… we do need a meal prep soon” He grins, Smoke nods and drafts a note to send.

Back at Tallie’s…

A shiver shocks her bones, a superstition that a conversation is being had on her behalf. The diary is yet to be found and that makes her worry even more. In the wrong hands, it could spoil her good girl reputation. A ding is heard from the laptop resting on her desk; an email notification.

Meal prep requests from Smoke&Stack Twins. (Accept/Decline)

She smiles with relief while accepting the order, it’s always breeze cooking for them. Tallie shoots a quick reply to confirm the time and date.

———

With no luck, her diary remains lost and the appointment with the twins was here. She wanted to write a quick piece before seeing them, it would help keep her feelings at bay.

“I’ll be fine” She assures herself greeting the staff at the concierge and walking up to their floor. Tallie knocks on the door in a cheerfully way while waiting for someone to let her in.

Silence.

“They know I’m comin', right?” She says waiting patiently.

With another knock, a buzz of the bell and no response she lets herself in. The hallway is eerily quiet so she turns on the lights that lead to the kitchen. All the ingredients are already laid out on the prep corner of the kitchen counter. Butter, eggs, sugar, flour, vanilla extract, cinnamon, pecans; seems like the twins are craving pastries this week. Tallie hears a baritone mumble and quickly glances around the open plan room. Lo and behold Smoke has been lounging on the couch, the whole damn time. 

“Didn’t you hear the bell?!” She snaps at Smoke, he is the only one present. Her tone is sharp, yes, but not writing in the diary has left her on edge. Especially today... the hidden thoughts were running wild.

Choosing the perfect time to emerge, Stack walks in through the hallway in a regal terry cotton robe. She peers up at his face and eyes him to his feet. His hair is damp with the robe hung loosely around his torso. The belt not fully tied. She glances back up, his eyes already catching her lustful stare. Flustered, she looks down and then back to Smoke, who remains on the couch.

“Is she taking that tone with you or me?” Smoke asks turning to his twin with a mischievous smirk, to which Stack smirks back with a shrug.

“I don’t need to be here.” She whisper but not quietly enough. 

“Yeah but you want to be here… don’t you?” The mischief behind his smirk is now exposed as he point to the item in Smoke’s hand. Lifting up his left hand with a sway, you see the features of a very familiar notebook.

“That’s my diary!” She squirms. His back is faced away from her but she knew he is smirking like a cat that caught a canary. The flight or fight response has kicked in. Just as Tallie decides to make an attempt to run and snatch it, Stack strolls over to the kitchen counter shaking his head in warning. She freezes, glancing through her peripheral at Smoke still with her diary held high, the tassel moves…mocking her in an Irish jig. Stack steps closer to hover behind her, reading her bright eyes and steady breaths. The rope frees from its hold and leaves him open, chest bare and clad in fitting undergarments.

She gasps as he turns her flushed against the counter, facing the torment of her lust. His hands rest on the countertop, caging Tallie in. 

“Secret’s out brown sugar” He growls into her ear.

Smoke finally turns to face them, striding to the empty counter stool. He positions himself directly opposite Tallie and Stack, still smirking and flipping through the pages. She attempts to nab it back but is left bent at the waist and pressed on the surface. Stack remains behind her, tracing delicate touches across the small of her back. Keeping his hips still but firm enough for her to feel the warmth of his nether regions.

“Give it back!” She barks, suddenly fuelled by desire and fear.

“You need to watch that tone Tallie” Stack warns from behind her, removing his hand from her back and returning it to the countertop. She whimpers at the loss of his warm and rich touch.

“I knew you didn’t see me like how we both see you” Smoke starts “You sure do express yourself more on a page than in person.”

She response with a glare, keeping a sharp gaze on him and her silly little diary. ‘Don’t falter, don’t falter, don’t falter’ she thinks to herself, but Stack's gentle caress on her arm cause a shiver to crawl up her spine and lashes to flutter in want.

“I don’t know… what your talking abo-”

Stack smirks at her denial as he tugs Tallie upright, fitting into the curve of her back as he latches onto her neck. A loud mewl escapes her lips as he savagely nibbles, licks and sucks at the pulsing jugular.

“St-tack” she stutter intwining their fingers, pulling his hand to her bountiful chest. 

“Whose eyes do you want to see roll back?” Smoke demands, gloating at her demise. “Seems like it’s yours, huh?”

“W-whaa-?” Another moan slips out as Stack attacks her viciously. She always had a feeling that he had a way, with that thick tongue of his. From watching him wrap his joints to it poking out when he counts a stack of bills. Bring her back to the earthy plane, he eases off her neck moving to nibble at curve of her lobe.

“It is mine?” Stack asks, pressing the stiffening bulge of his thickness against the cleft of her rounded plump cheeks. All this while Smoke remains vigilant, stoic and unbothered.

“I-i want… w-want” she stutters, eyes flickering like a light in a horror movie, unable to handle the balance of Smoke’s smouldering gaze and Stack’s desire-filled touch. 

“Talk to us Tallie” Smoke mocks her, still firm in his demeanour.

“I want my diary back!” She cries out in longing and thirst. Being touched but not touched enough left her in a limbo. It felt like punishment. The teasing, the taunting, the edging  just because of her silly little diary. These men are a force to worship; more than just their aura, more than just their fierce gaze, everything.

“Still got tha’ tone on her Stack” Smoke says with a shrug of his hands and shoulders “You got work to do.”

He stands up and pushes the diary open on the last entry, the title ridicules her ‘Stack&Smoke twins’. Stack moves away from her space, she whines, eyes begging him not to let go.

“Relax” Smoke whispers smugly.

Stack crouches down, making his way under the flimsy fabric of her summer dress. Comfortably sat on the pristine marble flooring. With the back of his head resting against the cupboard doors, he looks up at her. The eyes that draw her in, the eyes that burn with so much compassion and power.

She looks down in acknowledgement, trapping his head between her warm supple thighs like a cushion. Smoke whistles. Her attention returns back to him as he winks. 

“I’d love to give you more, but that diary’s in your hands now.” He states, stroking the tent formed by his covered length. Deviously taking in her expression.

Her breath hitches at the gentle swat across her southern breed cheeks.

“And so it begins” She hears Stack mumble beneath her. 

He grips the thighs, holding her in place. The fabric of her panties is transparent, the wetness creating a friction. With the tip of his nose sliding against her covered lips.

His tongue follows the out line of her puffy lips through the fabric. tracing each curve up to her pulsing swollen clit and down to the entrance of her waterfall. He glides along, sucking at the fabric, wanting to taste it all.

“Pll-eease Sttackk” She begs

There’s a tut in the background. Smoke is still root on the chair, captivated at her lust.

“Ask properly” He advises, zoned in on her nipple that tries to escape the fitted blouse.

Stack nips at her inner thigh, swatting her cheeks twice in admonishment. She corrects her fault immediately, knowing what needs to be said.

“P-pl-lease Smo-ke, please Stackkk” She purrs.

With a nod, he pulls her panties to the side and slips in like a thief in the night. Tallie grinds on his thick warm wet tongue, his nose tapping at the clit. Her eyes tear-up and her fingers clenching into a fist, she watches as Smoke beckons her to lean forward. He pulls her bottom lip open, invading her mouth with his thumb. At the same time, Stack swats her again and grips the heated flesh of her hips pulling her onto his gushy slick face. Not hovering, he wants her whole weight.

The fiery gaze from Smoke was intense, the simultaneous pressure from Stack causes her to hump his lips with passion. Tallie sucks hard on his thumb, saliva wetting his finger drooling down into his palm. He snatches his thumb back while maintain the leering look of lust she held in her soul. He moves slowly, sinking his hand beneath his slacks and toys with the tip of his throbbing head, the wetness of her mouth on his thumb giving him enough friction. She mewls in delight as his paces quickens.

Stack isn’t letting up either, her slit is plunged with his fingers and her sensitive nub caressed by his tongue not yet giving her what she wanted. What she truly needed. He keeps a steady pace dancing around her clit as the wetness pools on his tongue like warm honey, down his goatee and across his freshly shaven cheeks. Tallie cries, letting out a whiny plea, asking for nothing but to cum. Her head is spinning, moaning feverishly as he eyes flutter from the cool breeze against her nipples.

"She's close" Smoke mutters, grinding into his palm as he sucks in his bottom lip.

Swats her again in warning, Stack reaches the sweet spot and thrashes his tongue. Desperate for her desire, her juice, her warm honey. Tallie let's go with a screech. She spasms on his tongue riding until her knees buckle, her eyes are back on Smoke wanting to see him finish with her. But he keeps his length hidden from her view, stroking it enough to release some tension.

Tallie can feel it. Stack can feel it. Smoke can feel it. It was in the air, the moment, she felt the gravity in the room suddenly drop, then a burst of warmth as she floods Stack with the essence of her womanhood for the second time. The twins groans in admiration. Smoke reluctantly frees his length, still tight and hard. Stack just as burdened but makes no move to relieve his discomfort.

It was all about her, these twins were selfless to the core. Smoke walks away snatching the diary from where it lay. Abandoned in the midst of their activities.

“You off all people should kno’ ” Stack starts as he stands up, placing a kiss along her chin and down her throat “Closed mouth don’t get fed.”

Tallie still in shock at the energy of the twins, blurts the first though that comes to mind.

“Do I still have to bake?”

“Do you want a bun in your oven?” The twins reply simultaneously. 

She watches as they glance over their shoulder to peer at her, mischief written all over their faces.

PART 2

A/N: Watch the movie if you haven’t already!!!! (p.s did y'all notice the play on words with her waiting to be 'let in'?)