#this is actually annoying me like what the fuck

[ohnoitstbskyen]

Ok so I’ve had this question for a while and I feel like you’ll be able to give me a good answer. I understand that we’re absolutely not supposed to support anything JKR does monetarily and I never intend to do so. However is engaging with Harry Potter media *at all* also something I should not do or is it only things that give her money?

Like, would there be anything wrong with me playing Hogwarts Legacy if I pirated it? Is fanfiction and fan art ok to consume? Or is engaging with the IP at all going to be harmful in a way that I don’t see atm?

Thank you for your time!

I don't really think a cis person is the right person to ask about this, but I also know that trans people are sick to death of having to field these questions so I'll do my best to answer this, if everyone who reads my answer will promise me that you will NOT use anything I say in this post as an annoying argument against a trans person who has a different opinion on the matter. Remember whose opinions are actually important here.

And look, number one, you can do whatever the fuck you want. Nobody can stop you. If you, in yourself, in your soul, feel morally comfortable consuming Harry Potter by some convoluted method of Ethical Consumption™, then go and do that, and own it, and have the strength to be judged for your decisions.

Trans people might not trust you - hell, I'll probably not trust you either. They might get angry at you, and criticize you, or roll their eyes and call you a fucking loser. If you have the moral conviction that what you are doing is right, and that you are acting in accordance with your beliefs and you are not doing harm, then stand by that conviction and face the consequences. Have that strength of character.

But if you feel the need to go around posting and arguing that it's unfair, that you shouldn't be judged, that you should get to be a special exception and people are unreasonable when they get mad at you... then that is evidence, proof positive, that you are a fucking loser. That you are cowardly, and you don't actually believe that what you are doing is right, you just want the world to affirm your fragile ego while you enjoy your little treats.

To be clear, I am not accusing you of doing this (you seem to just earnestly be asking for guidance), but there's a hell of a lot of people who do do this, and you don't want to be one of them.

So that's number one. Do whatever the fuck you want, and face the consequences with a spine.

Number two is... just fucking drop it. That is my earnest advice to you. Just fucking drop Harry Potter. They are children's books from the early 2000s, they just are not that fucking good or important. The Hogwarts Legacy game is live service slop; the movies are passable at best and their quality comes from the actors being better than the source material. Just drop it. Harry Potter has nothing to offer that you can't get elsewhere from better media with better authors, or problematic authors who have good grace to at least be dead.

Don't waste your life thinking about complicated ways to circumvent the moral problem of JK Rowling's rancid transphobic hate-aura at the center of the franchise, don't waste your finite time on Earth trying to thread that stupid needle. Harry Potter isn't worth this. Rowling is old, and shriveling from hate and mold fumes, at the very least just wait for her to fucking die, and for her political project to fail, before you pick that world back up again.

I speak as someone who read the first book at age 11, hyperfixated on relating to Harry, and whose entire cultural life was consumed by the franchise for over a decade. It is not worth it. You don't need it, you don't need the stress of trying to navigate how or whether to engage with it ethically. You almost certainly have an enormous backlog of other books, games, movies and TV shows you've been meaning to get around to, so just go do that instead. I promise you it will be infinitely more rewarding, and infinitely less compromised by stress and guilt and cognitive dissonance.

And while you're at it, send some money to a trans charity and go scream invectives at a transphobic politician some time.

[godharuhi]

wet dream (bakugou x reader)

| summary: you’re not supposed to have a horny dream about one of your classmates, until you do.

| warnings: explicit language, wet dream, rough sex, one use of good girl

You never talked to Bakugou Katsuki.

You wouldn’t think or want to either; he was just another one of your twenty classmates, and one of the more annoying ones at that. Here you were in your third year of Hero school and he was still just as annoying as the first. He was arrogant, and loud, and clearly a narcissist with anger issues when things didn’t go his way. Sure, he was strong and talented, and clearly destined for success but that’s not enough for you to change your mind and think he’s a nice person. You had no idea how he had such cool, kind friends surrounding him all the time.

You and Bakugou never talked except for the rare, small excuse me when he and Kirishima are being assholes and blocking the classroom door, or a thanks when he frees up the gym equipment you need - meaningless, NPC interactions like that. So, you never gave him a second glance. You know you’re a blurred extra in his life too. His name shouldn’t even be in your thoughts.

So, what was this? Why are you thinking all this about him right now?

What was that?

You sat up in bed the second you woke up, sweating and breathing heavily as if you’d actually been there. One of those naughty dreams. Except, it’s still running so vividly in your mind that you smack your head over and over again, “What the fuck was that?! Stop it!” You scream at yourself. Yes, because it’s that traumatic!

Yet, your core is throbbing with an achy need for relief. Your floral blankets are messy and wrapped around your legs and you hastily kick them away from you to get rid of any more sinful friction. It’s hot. It’s so hot. Your face must have a fiery red glow because it’s entirely too hot.

You feel so dirty.

The usual faceless person who had been giving you some type of pleasure had been morphed into your classmate, and not just any classmate, but the meanest, loudest one you’ve secretly disliked since your first week of school.

Bakugou had fucked you in your dreams.

And you had enjoyed it.

How could you change what you superficially thought of as pointless rage into raw passion? Those terrifying blood hungry eyes could be a piercing gaze of dark maroon? His grunts, his growls, his powerful hits were exchanged for powerful thrusts, and his crude mouth that was usually swearing out naughty words was filtered through radio loops and warp holes into some type of dirty talk.

“God, you’re so…fucking…tight.” It was your classmate, Bakugou. His blond hair spiking in all directions, but looking softer than usual. His fingers dug into the plushiest part of your thighs as his brows knit in total concentration, eyes focused darkly at where he had dug himself to the hilt, your bodies connected with the sleekness of juices. You didn’t know why or how your classmate was between your legs but you didn’t care. He didn’t look like the angry boy from class - this was a god who had your cunt fluttering for him.

Merciless, he started at a brutal pace, gripping your thighs as handles to steady your body as he rocked himself into you with just as much power as he showed on the field. It felt so good. Bakugou had a mean dick.

“Why the fuck’re you clenchin’ down? You like…hah…getting slutted out?” Right now, you did. All you wanted was to feel good. Your back arched off the surface below you, a bed - his bed? - asking for more.

“You’re a needy one. Shit-” He pressed you into the mattress, wrapping his hands on your neck to keep you still when he started pounding you at an unholy pace that made you half-regret acting like that. But still, it felt good. Your arms came around his back to hold onto something while the pit in your core was blissfully stroked every second, eyes rolling to the back of your head. “Oh my god, Bakugou,” all you cared about was the pleasure you were feeling, “Your dick is so fucking good.”

“Yeah?” His voice was deeper than anyone you’ve ever heard, “Betcha I can make this little pussy cry for my dick. That’s it, scratch me. Oh, fuck yes,” You couldn’t refuse his order when his husky voice was moaning like that, when you could feel the tremors in your pussy, when his thumb came to your clit and began to rub it like he owned it.

Even fucking you, Bakugou was giving it his all, fucking your brains out. “Good girl, taking my cock so well,” you’ve never even heard him praise someone else so hearing him call you his good girl, seeing that you were also pleasuring him, it did something to you. He was overwhelming and so rough and he was so proud you were managing it, it’s no wonder you melted and spread your legs for him.

“It’s so deep, it feels too good,” you moaned back with a crack in your voice, divinely transfixed by the look on this new face of his.

Bakugou’s thrusts were becoming sporadic, fast and hard hits on the space between your legs that was still throbbing. “Fuck yes, FUCK yess…want it inside? Beg me to cum in this pretty hole. C’mon, fucking BEG.” It didn’t help that he sounded like the one begging for you.

“Please do it inside me, please cum in me. Make me cum.”

His face scrunched together, his jaw slack and panting as ruby eyes were locked on you. So pretty, so hot, and unlike anything you’ve ever seen, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, oh FU -”

The space between your legs felt messy, slick, nasty.

Getting into your morning routine, you made yourself a zombie.

Were you seriously that horny last night?

Of all people - Bakugou? The idea of that mean blond anywhere near you should’ve given you the ick but now you’re doing your makeup and making a face when, unfortunately, you think, He’s hot.

But why him? You’re not friends, you don’t even talk to each other.

Why did some random guy have to show up in your sex dream? Was it because yesterday, you couldn’t stop staring at him jogging into the locker room. He had swiped his shirt off over his head in one yank, a delicate, lean waist with his larger, sweat-shiny chest out and bouncing? And then afterwards, right when you were going into the classroom, that same man had bumped into you, too busy talking with Todoroki to see you. He was all hard and bulky, versus you - soft and physically one of the weakest people in class - but you didn't even comprehend almost falling back because a hand gripped your arm and balanced you off to the side as he still walked past you. He didn’t even glance at you. Meanwhile, you had rushed to your seat in the back, face warm and kind of…impressed.

Truly, you were disturbed.

How were you supposed to walk into class today and see him?

[puc-puggy]

I have a hot trick for this it’s called mild noise based psychological torture. it does involve alarms

basically i’m not allowed to turn the alarm off until I have taken the med. I WILL turn the alarm off automatically at least twice because noise bad, so I set 3-7 alarms that are spaced 1-2 minutes apart. if you will forget in 2 minutes the next alarm is coming instead of preparing to Endure Noise Take Med Get Relief, set it for 1 minute. if one minute is not enough time to prepare for Endure Noise Take Med Get Relief, set it for a little longer. crucially, I cannot give myself enough time to relax before the next alarm goes off. not taking the med has to be a Bad experience.

eventually, I associated taking the med with relief from noise, it became beloved muscle memory, and I was able to turn off the extra alarms and cease the little daily psychological torture routine.

NOTES:

-keep your phone, meds, and water right next to each other. if you do this right when you wake up, even better. the sleepy brain will be Real Mad about all the noises and will Take Med That’s Right There to shut everything the actual fuck up.

-this does not work for anything more complicated than putting a small item in your mouth and swallowing. it is literally easier to take the pill and get permission to immediately turn off the noise than it is turn every single alarm back off. if the task you’re trying to motivate is more difficult than going individually through a bunch of alarms, turning off the alarms will be what happens not the task.

-has to be separate alarms. snooze is right next to the no noise button and you cannot give yourself a no noise option that isn’t a hassle

-this should be unpleasant and goddamn fucking annoying and it was a good idea for me to build in 20-30 minutes of Sitting In Silence afterward or it was like shoving me off the wrong side of the bed every morning

extremely fucked up that one of the symptoms of adhd is forgetfulness and difficulty sticking to habits and schedules and one of the best ways to alleviate those symptoms is by remembering to take a pill every morning at the same time

[bernardsbendystraws]

𝐀𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 — 𝐌.𝐒.

SUMMARY ʚɞ Cute moments on tour with your boyfriend.

CW ʚɞ Fluff, injury, kissing, cuddling, possessive/needy behavior.

PAIRING ʚɞ Matt Sturniolo x Reader

A/N: COPYRIGHT NOTICE. Did I giggle while writing this? Well yes!

With love and big tits, Rose ➜ masterlist

01: Matt packs his clothes for you…

“Matt. I need to pack my own—” 

Your lips smack shut, the air in his room impossibly soft as you sink further into his bed. 

“No, no, no,” Matt huffs, interrupting you as he takes another one of your tops out of your suitcase, replacing it with one of his T-shirts, “-this is better, sweetheart. You look cute in my clothes…and they’re comfy and…well, do I really need another reason?” he asks, scratching the back of his neck as he spares you a shrug. 

It’s stupidly cute. He’s been insisting on your bags being full of his clothes—not even for himself, but for you. 

You look adorable in his clothes. It makes some sort of possessive itch inside of him satisfied in ways he can’t really explain. It’s just so…right.

“You’re ridiculous,” you remark, rolling your eyes playfully. He waves his hand at you absentmindedly, returning to stacking his shirt neatly inside your suitcase. 

“Let me be happy, geez,” he mumbles.

Matt knows he’s being selfish by interrupting your packing process. He knows his incessant desire to make sure you’re going to be wearing his clothes isn’t exactly helpful. But he knows you’re not actually annoyed.

If you were truly frustrated, you wouldn’t be staring at him with a look that makes him feel dizzy. He knows you’re staring at his lips—he knows you’re admiring the way your lipgloss is still lingering on his lips from all the kisses you’ve been exchanging.

Matt bites back a smile. “I just like seeing my girl in my clothes, alright?” he tuts, rolling his lips together as he savors the taste of your lipgloss lingering on his lips. 

You’re lying on the bed, letting him shuffle through the various fabrics, a smile etched on your face as he holds up different options for you to pick from. The soft thump of your heart inside your chest quickens as he leans down, placing a quick kiss on your lips again while cupping the side of your cheek. 

“I can feel you staring, sweetheart.” 

The ache in your cheeks grows from a flush warmth crawling over your face. Matt’s shoulders broaden with pride, his chest vibrating with a slight laugh as he watches you attempt to pull your eyes from his lips. 

And you fail—miserably. 

It’s impossible to peel your attention away from the heavenly sight. You grin at the reflective glitter covering his lips, the way the shimmering gloss makes your gut swarm with butterflies. 

You can’t stop staring, not when it’s just so perfect. 

02: Cuddles are better than ice packs…

Matt’s irritated. For some fuck ass reason, you both got stuck with the top bunk beds on the tour bus. Not only was cuddling incredibly hard in the tight space, but it was awful to try and climb in or get out of the sleeping compartment. 

Right now, he’s feeling really fucking needy. 

Matt’s trying to gasp onto you in any way possible, his legs and arms cradling you as he tries to scoot as close as possible. 

“This is not comfortable.” you say. 

Matt groans behind you, hugging you tighter as he feels you try to readjust for comfort. “Just let me hold you. Please. I’m…I’m going through withdrawals at this point—baby, help me out.” he puffs, letting out a deep sigh. 

“What the—” you gasp at the sudden cold sensation. 

Blinking your eyes open, you see the wall directly in front of you, your nose pressed against the flat surface as your body jerks with shock. 

“AH—fuck!” Matt exclaims.

A loud thump makes your eyes widen. Every muscle in your body clenches, your breath stuck in your chest as you try to process what just happened. 

He fell.

You shoved him off the top bunk bed. 

Quickly moving, you peek over the edge to see his body sprawled on the floor. “Matt, oh my—are you okay?” you rush, trying to climb down as fast as possible. 

“C’mere, damn,” he hisses, pulling you down to his level. 

You laugh as he rolls over on top of you, pinning you to the floor and cradling you just like before. 

“Aren’t you hurt?” you ask, your voice shaking with a slight giggle. 

Matt nods with a pout, hugging you tighter. “Yeah—so now we have to cuddle,” he mentions. 

His statement makes your chest feel lighter. You let yourself relax into his hold, your lips etched in a soft grin as he presses a kiss to your temple. 

“Do you need an ice pack?” you question, your eyes squinting as you try to analyze his face for any trace of a pained expression. 

Shaking his head firmly, Matt pulls you even tighter against him. “No, fuck no,” he huffs, his hair tickling your cheek as he sighs, “-just need you.” 

03: Always…

The show ended mere minutes ago. Loud cheers and chaos continue to plunder through the auditorium, echoing with excitement radiating from the fans. 

Matt makes his way backstage, his hands shaking from anticipation as he lets his eyes search for you while wandering with determination.

“Sweetheart?” he calls out, peeking his head around the corner in hopes he’ll see you.

And he does. 

For a second, he smiles, relieved to have you in his gaze. 

However, the smile begins to fade as he sees you talking with a security guard, his smile falling as he watches you be completely consumed in your conversation with the badged girl. 

He loves how happy you get when you’re being friendly—but he doesn’t exactly love when he has to share your attention. 

You’re his. 

He wants you to be happy and to have friends, but god—he’s selfish sometimes. 

Especially right now. He’s been itching to hug you since he walked on the stage. 

Matt wants nothing more than to have his arms around you, holding you as if it’s his sole purpose of breathing. 

“Fuck it,” he mumbles, ignoring everything but instinct. 

His heart is louder than his mind. Matt walks up behind you, hugging his arms around your waist, his nose nuzzling into the side of your neck as he takes a deep breath, greedily inhaling the smell of your perfume. 

“Hi, baby,” he hums, smiling as you relax into him, your hands rubbing over his arms as you bid the security girl a quick goodbye. The girl leaves swiftly, talking into her ear piece as she mumbles something about heading to the entrance of the building. 

You turn in his hold, coming face-to-face with Matt as you scrunch your nose with delight. “Hey, handsome.” you purr, your hands sliding over his chest softly. 

“Hmmmmmm—I fuckin’ missed you,” he sighs, leaning his forehead against yours. 

The tips of your noses brush together. You let yourself melt into his touch, relishing in the feeling of his hands soothing up and down your sides. 

“I missed you,” you remark, licking over your lips as his eyes gleam into yours with adoration. You suck in a sharp breath as he squeezes gently onto your waist. “Did you have fun?” you ask.

The question makes a grin spread on his face. “Mhm. Always have fun with you watchin’ me,” he replies, nodding firmly

Your skin pulses with a feathery warmth as Matt slides his nose against your cheek. A feeling of butterflies erupts in your chest, the knots of anticipation falling to the pit of your gut as he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth delicately. 

“Always, always, always,” he hums, pecking across your jaw and back to the edge of your lips. 

He means it. 

No matter what happens, he’s always ecstatic to have you around. 

You’re a part of his life—you’re a part of him. 

Always.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading!!! Any and all interaction is deeply appreciated!!! I hope you liked it cuties <333

With love and big tits, Rose 🌹

[kxsagi]

“𝐬𝐚𝐞’𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞”

a/n: I NEVER SEE ANYONE TALK ABOUT THIS

SAE'S MANAGER'S LAST NAME DABADIE IS PRONOUNCED AS "DA BADDIE" SKSBFKSLNAGNALGNS

“girolan dabadie… da baddie???” 

sae doesn’t look up from his phone. “you’ve said it ten times.” 

“i’m gonna say it ten more.” you poke his cheek while trying to suppress your giggles. “baby. BABY. why didn’t you tell me your manager’s last name sounds like he belongs in a rap video?” 

“you met him two months ago. this isn't new information.” 

“da baddie, sae.” you stare at him, eyes wide with disbelief and barely contained chaos. “that’s literally how it’s pronounced. your manager is unintentionally iconic. he sounds like the final boss of an instagram thirst trap.” 

“he’s in his fifties.” 

“and yet,” you dramatically press a hand to your chest, “he is da baddie.” 

sae finally puts his phone down and gives you the faintest smirk. “you’re the most annoying person i’ve ever met.” 

you nudge his thigh with your foot. “you love it.” 

“no,” he says, but you hear the softness in his voice. “you were literally crying laughing in the car on the way back from practice.” 

“because i heard someone call him mr. dabadie in full seriousness and i –” your voice breaks as the laugh bubbles up again. “i can’t believe i was shaking that man’s hand like, ‘nice to meet you, sir,’ while not knowing i was in the presence of a baddie.” 

sae shakes his head and mutters, “for fuck’s sake,” but he’s trying not to smile now. you can see the corners of his lips twitching. 

you grin. “do you think he knows?” 

sae raises an eyebrow. “that his name sounds like he runs a makeup brand and a secret fanpage on twitter?” 

you slap his arm and gasp. “you do think it’s funny!” 

sae exhales through his nose, a barely audible, actual laugh. “he signed an email once with just ‘– da baddie.’ i stared at it for ten minutes. but realized it was probably autocorrect.” 

“NO WAY.” 

“swear.” 

you throw your head back with a cackle. “he knows. oh my gosh, he knows he’s a legend.” 

“you can’t say anything.” 

“i would never.” you pause. “except i already made a fake commercial for him in the voice memo app.” 

sae blinks. “what?” 

“wanna hear it?” 

before he can answer, you press play. your voice echoes through the apartment in dramatic, sultry tones: 

“he’s not just a manager. he’s a lifestyle. 

he’s not just on time, he is the timeline. 

this fall, one man walks into the room, 

and everyone whispers… 

da baddie.” 

there’s a beat of silence before sae coughs into his hand, clearly trying not to laugh. 

you’re grinning ear to ear. “you liked it.” 

“that was stupid.” 

“but you liked it.” 

“i’m sending it to him.” 

you shriek. “sae!” 

he’s already air-dropping the file to his laptop. “too late. he deserves to hear his brand in action.” 

“what if he fires you?” 

“then i’ll become your manager. and go by ‘da worstie.’” 

you gasp. “we’ll be unstoppable. the baddie and the worstie tour 2025.” 

sae finally cracks and lets out a quiet laugh, the kind that makes your chest warm. it’s soft, rare, and entirely unbothered. 

“you’re so dumb,” he murmurs, but his gaze lingers on you fondly. 

you flop onto his shoulder. “and yet. i’m dating one of the world’s top football players.” 

“... and managed by da baddie himself.” 

you whisper reverently, “we are truly blessed.” 

sae just sighs again, but he doesn’t move away. he lets you rest there, quietly scrolling, while you start plotting a merch line in your head. 

you’re already designing a shirt that says da baddie energy. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[epiphainie]

what if at some point, for some reason, buck gets worried that tommy's actually going to get sick of him and his annoying habits, so he tries to reign them in. and tommy's just like. i love every part of you. give me my annoying boyfriend back.

oh imagine after a double date chimney saying something like "you're worse than your sister, i think tommy considered slapping a hand on your mouth about 10 times at the end of the movie there" and maddie giggling about buck finally finding someone who puts up with him. buck freezes, then smiles, and then gets fucking fixated on what they said because he didn't realize he was annoying tommy. tommy always humors his questions when they watch movies together and even asks buck if he wants to join him eventho he knows it's not really buck's thing, and maybe he sighs sometimes but buck didn't realize it was because of him!

so obv this cooks in buck's beautiful brain for the next couple of days with him being hyperaware of anytime he opens his mouth uselessly. so when their next off-day arrives and tommy asks if he wants to watch a movie together, he hesitates, thinks about coming up with an excuse and leave tommy to his me-time, but he can't say no to the prospect of cuddling tommy, and he wants to prove to himself he can be non-annoying. he can just sit and be quiet like everyone.

and he tries. anytime a question or a comment pops into his mind, he holds it back, literally swallowing down his words. he wants to ask who killed the doctor guy but as chim always says "you sit and watch and information gets revealed" he gets reminded of a call they were on with athena during the cop chase scene but it's not relevant or immediate and tommy's really interested in what's on the screen.

but tommy's obviously clocked into buck's behavior, within maybe the first 10 minutes, because it's not like buck to be so damn quiet ever, let alone during a movie. he sees his jiggling knee and the multiple times he opens and closes his mouth. he asks if buck's okay, buck says yes he's just watching the movie, and tommy lets it go but he doesn't forget. the next day, he realizes buck's not reading out loud whatever wikipedia hole he found himself in. the day after that he notices buck being quiet in the car even when tommy's intentionally taking the wrong exits.

when he realizes buck's biting his lip to keep himself from complaining about the mess tommy left in the living room in his attempt to change the filters in their AC intake duct, he asks what's going on. buck's eyes get big and he starts blabbing about how he always appreciates tommy's help around the house and he thinks tommy's a wonderful driver and he really respects tommy's me-time with his movies and he never wanted to annoy him and and--

anyway tommy kisses him and tells him to give him back his boyfriend, the one who needs to be kissed to be shut the fuck up and who gets an irritated line between his brows, and who irritates tommy back <3

[dat-carovieh]

What the fuck?

Burning Merch is not gonna help ANYONE

It's not gonna hurt her. You will just realease toxic fumes.

I sold almost all my Harry Potter stuff on ebay (almost because it's annoying stressful to deal with it and I will get to it again later) Selling it second hand will probably actually do something. Because people who got these things used from me will not buy them new and givve her more money.

She literally told people on twitter, that they should go ahead and burn it, because she's getting the money from buying it either way. So sell it so hopefully one less person is gonna buy from her.

You will not be able to stop people who buy the merch from buying it by burning your own.

And yeah you can go ahead and insult me, like people in the notes got insulted, but seriously, fucking THINK

"I don't like JRK but I still love Harry Potter"

You have blood on your hands

Burn your fucking Harry Potter merch or be burned with it.

I'm fucking livid.

[bjlipss]

— pawsitively cursed ⋆🐾° .

. . . or, you get turned into a cat somehow and venture into jujutsu high where nanami is already waiting for you. human you. not cat you.

contents: crack fic or maybe i was on crack, fem reader, gojo is hysterical, nanami is a saint, some accidental nudity, fluff, a little angst, cute cat shenanigans. might be singular use of y/n but i think i changed it. not proofread.

-> part one or, how to traumatize your boyfriend by turning into a cat and jumping into his arms:

the day is normal. unbearably so, even.

gojo and nanami are in the jjk break room—nanami reading the newspaper with his coffee, gojo’s sprawled on the couch upside down, chewing on a strawberry pocky stick, making obnoxious “mmm” noises just to get on nanami’s nerves.

and then the door creaks open.

a beat.

a pause.

a meow.

both men turn toward the sound, brows furrowing in sync.

on the floor, just inside the doorway, is a cat.

not just any cat—you’re you, but small, fuzzy, twitchy-eared, cursed-cat-you. tiny claws clicking delicately against the tile, tail flicking with visible annoyance as you sit down and look up at them like, really? i have to meow?

it’s just that they don’t know it’s you yet, so you’re probably just a random cat that sauntered into jujutsu high somehow. which is extremely annoying and makes the situation even more difficult.

gojo blinks. “okay, who let a cat in here?”

you meow again, louder. pointedly.

nanami side-eyes gojo. “wasn’t me.”

“wasn’t me either,” gojo says, pushing himself upright. “heyyy kitty,” he crouches with a grin and outstretches his hands, fingers wiggling creepily. “who’s a cute little guy? c’mere, lemme pet you—”

your ears flatten.

he steps forward.

you hiss. launch yourself into the air, and rak your claws across his face in a perfect diagonal strike. one-two-three, left-right-center.

a blood-curdling screech echoes through the break room as gojo stumbles back, clutching his face.

“ow— jesus— what the fuck?!”

you stare.

“it mauled me!”

“you probably deserved it,” nanami mutters.

you ignore gojo’s shrieks entirely and trot directly to nanami, sit at his feet, and look up with wide, expectant eyes. your tail curls. you let out the softest, most deliberate mrrrrow.

nanami lowers the paper and actually looks at you now.

“…odd,” he murmurs. cautiously, he bends down to pick you up, gently. arms steady beneath you. and as soon as he does—you melt.

you instantly curl into his chest. purring. burying your little cat face into the fabric of his shirt, rubbing your scent all over him like you own him.

gojo squints, hands still hovering over his clawed-up face. “…uh, is it just me or is that cat aggressively into you?”

your little paws press against his chest. your face burrows into the crook of his neck. and without thinking, you purr.

loudly. rhythmically. affectionately.

he stills.

“…okay,” gojo says flatly, now holding a tissue to his bleeding cheek. “why does it like you?”

“i don’t know,” nanami says, voice neutral, though his hand moves carefully over your back, fingers brushing through your fur with instinctive tenderness. “but it seems attached.”

you lean into every touch. this is the only good part of today, you think, forgetting for a moment that you have turned into an animal and there’s a risk of you never becoming a human again.

“well this isn’t normal,” gojo continues. “what if it’s a cursed spirit?”

“then it’s a very affectionate one,” nanami mutters. but you can feel it now—he’s trying to piece it together. his fingers pause behind your ears. “…wait. is this…”

he doesn’t finish.

you lift your head. and give him a nod.

“it nodded,” gojo says. “it nodded.”

“cursed spirit,” nanami mutters.

“or—wait—shapeshifter curse?”

you meow. sharply.

then nod again.

gojo makes a strangled sound. “is that a yes?! oh my god, it understands us.”

then ijichi walks in, holding an ipad. “uh, nanami-san? i—oh. there’s a cat now?”

you leap out of nanami’s arms and dart over to ijichi. his entire body goes stiff as you climb up his leg like a tree trunk and launch onto the table, smacking the ipad from his hands.

“uh… did that cat just steal my tablet?” ijichi whispers.

it hits the surface with a thud. you jump up next to it, paws tapping, tail flicking, fur flying as you angrily hunt for the keyboard.

they watch, horrified and fascinated, as your little paws fumble at the screen. it takes a few tries. the touch recognition is not built for beans.

“is it hacking?” gojo whispers.

nanami silently gets up and walks over, watching as you start typing.

im y/n idiots i got crsed on the mssn

gojo gasps. ijichi screams. nanami just stares at the screen, like he’s looking at a ghost.

“this… this is a joke,” he says, voice low.

you meow.

soft. a little sad.

you type again, slower.

not jk. help

gojo blinks once. “…huh. well that explains this.” he points to the still-healing gouges on his face.

you hiss at him. just a little. because honestly, he had it coming.

nanami kneels again, voice gentle. “how… long ago?”

you paw at the screen.

5 or 6 hrs ago. solo missn. grd 2 crse

trckd me. slmd spell b4 i cld kill it

his jaw clenches. his hands tighten into fists. “where?”

shibuya. wrhse. smll lvl 2 den

gojo, now fully composed and bandaged, peers over your shoulder at the screen. “…do you still have your cursed technique?”

you freeze. slowly look down at your tiny paws.

idk. cat paws

“valid.”

nanami scoops you up again, cradling you like you’re breakable. (to be fair, you are now. this body sucks.)

you snuggle in, closing your eyes, and hear his heartbeat under your ear. steady. strong.

“…you’re my partner,” nanami says, more to himself than anyone else.

you let out a little chirp of acknowledgment and lean into his palm. his hand trembles.

gojo whistles, low. “damn. i knew you had a type but this is next level loyalty. even as a cat, you’re obsessed with him.”

nanami ignores him completely. “you went on a mission. and the curse… did this to you?”

you nod, ears folding down. ashamed. frustrated.

he exhales, hand sliding under your chin to scratch gently. “you came back here. to us. smart girl.”

you nuzzle his palm.

gojo wipes a fake tear from his eye. “aw, this is so romantic. someone get a camera. cat-girlfriend content incoming.”

nanami levels him with a look. “gojo. leave.”

“what?!”

“take ijichi and find shoko. now.”

“fine, fine—no need to be testy, i’m already calling shoko,” gojo replies, phone up to his ear. “but, uh… for the record?” he tilts his head at you. “you are kinda cute like this.” and then he leaves, grabbing ijichi by the sleeve and muttering something about “cat-themed wedding photos” as he leaves.

nanami waits until the door clicks shut. then he sits, carefully picking you back up and settling you into his lap.

you curl up instantly.

his voice is quiet, serious. “we’re going to fix this. i promise. i won’t let you stay like this. i’d miss you, after all.”

your ears twitch as you press your face to his stomach, letting yourself purr again. the warmth of him, the familiar scent, the calm tone—everything makes your tiny, cursed body feel less awful.

his hand strokes down your back. “though… if you’re stuck like this for a while, we’ll need to get you a collar.”

you make a noise of deep protest.

“…fine. no collar.”

a beat

“but only if you promise not to scratch gojo again.”

you purr louder.

no promises.

-> part two or, cat or death situation:

cut to ten minutes later.

nanami refused to carry you outside without “some dignity,” so now you’re drowning in a pale yellow knit made for a pug. tail sticking out the back like a sad little question mark. ears flattened in utter humiliation.

“so,” shoko says flatly, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling, “you’re telling me this cat is your girlfriend.”

you, in all your fluffy glory, are perched in nanami’s lap like you belong there (because you do). your tail flicks. you look at her. nod once.

she stares back. then looks at gojo, who is standing off to the side with bandages wrapped around his face like some tragic anime protagonist. “and she did this?”

“look at me,” gojo gestures dramatically. “does this look like the face of someone who made a cat mad for no reason?”

“actually, yes,” nanami says.

“absolutely,” shoko says at the same time.

gojo scowls. you look smug.

shoko puts her cigarette out and walks over to examine you more closely, gloved fingers gently brushing over your ears and down your spine. “you’re definitely cursed,” she murmurs, mostly to herself. “residuals are faint, but there’s an imprint of transformation magic here.”

you shiver slightly under her touch. not because it’s cold, but because it feels weird having a medical exam done while you’re shaped like a purse-sized predator.

nanami notices and strokes your back soothingly. your purring resumes immediately.

shoko sighs and pulls off her gloves. “any signs of cursed energy still present?”

you paw at ijichi’s tablet again and type:

cnt rlly tell. feel fuzzy. not jst fur.

she hums, placing two fingers to your forehead. “can you try flaring your energy?”

you focus. really, really hard. a spark. a fizz. a buzz under your fur—but it’s dull. like static through cotton. enough to make the hair on your tail poof, but not enough to break the spell.

“this is the weirdest thing I’ve seen all week,” shoko mutters. “and i’m still dealing with the guy who accidentally swallowed a shikigami.”

she picks up her clipboard and flips through a few pages, scanning quickly. “alright. transformation curses like this usually require breaking the original caster’s binding conditions. meaning—”

“—we kill the curse that cast it,” nanami says.

shoko nods. “or at least get its head. but it’ll have a time limit. after a few days, if the curse doesn’t maintain its hold, the transformation may lock. permanently.”

gojo tilts his head. “you mean… she’ll stay a cat?”

you freeze in nanami’s lap.

shoko glances over. “if we don’t act fast, yeah.”

nanami’s hand curls slightly against your side. “then I’m going now.”

“woah, woah, wait,” gojo interrupts, holding out a hand. “i get it, your partner turned into a cute little murder fluff, but you shouldn’t rush in blind. let me scout the place.”

“no,” nanami says immediately. “this is personal.”

you paw at nanami’s thigh. glance at the tablet shoko had handed you earlier. he brings it up for you again.

you type, carefully.

u shld take him

wrk 2gthr. pls

b safe

nanami stares at the message. sighs.

“…fine.”

gojo beams. “aw, see? she does like me. deep down.”

you hiss again. just for fun. gojo flinches.

“maybe not that deep,” shoko mutters.

she walks to the counter, rummaging through supplies, and pulls out a small sealed talisman. “this might help,” she says, tossing it toward nanami. “if you pin that to your coat, it’ll act like a tether to their cursed energy. if you find the curse that matches it, it’ll resonate.”

nanami nods, tucking it into his inner pocket.

shoko then turns to you, her voice softening slightly. “you good?”

you nod. a tiny, but firm meow escapes.

“then let’s get you your body back.” she gives you a soft little scratch between the ears, and you lean into it, just a bit.

gojo stretches dramatically. “alright! field trip time. time to beat up a catnapping bastard curse.”

shoko yawns. “bring back the body if you can. i want to study it.”

you curl into nanami’s coat before he leaves. he pets your head gently, brushing your ears with the back of his knuckles.

“stay here,” he says. “rest. i’ll bring you home soon.”

you mewl softly. he leans down. presses a kiss to the top of your fuzzy little head.

gojo, from across the room, “oh my god that’s disgusting.”

you bare your teeth. nanami just flips him off without looking back.

( bonus for this part or, some cat!you shenanigans )

i.

“wait, wait, don’t move—this is comedy gold.”

you’re perched on the break room counter, tail twitching irritably, while gojo rummages in the back of the supply closet. nanami is sitting at the table, pinching the bridge of his nose with a sigh that’s already loaded with regret.

“gojo,” he says flatly, “leave the cat alone.”

“i would, but someone keeps glaring at me like they know what i did in 2009.” gojo returns, triumphant, holding a tiny pink doll hat with fake flowers. “i found this in the lost and found. perfect for our guest.”

you hiss low in your throat.

“oh, scary!” gojo says, eyes twinkling. “so fierce! so fluffy! look at those murder mittens—ow, shit!”

you swipe at his hand as he tries to perch the cursed hat on your head, and leave a nice set of red lines across his knuckles.

“i knew they didn’t like you,” nanami says dryly, sipping his coffee.

“this is personal,” gojo pouts. “they let you pick them up.”

“clearly, they have taste.”

you sit smugly on the counter, licking a paw with your chin tilted like a little princess while gojo glares dramatically.

he leans close to whisper: “i will get that hat on you before the day is over.”

you hiss again.

nanami says nothing, but you swear you see his mouth twitch like he’s holding back a smile.

ii.

“you’re not coming,” nanami says for the fifth time as he gears up.

you leap onto the bench beside him and meow pointedly.

“you are a cat. this is a curse-hunting mission. not a walk in the park.”

you jump onto his shoulder.

“no.”

you crawl into the crook of his neck and purr.

“…no.”

he grabs a cloth and gently pries you off, setting you down with surprising care.

you immediately circle around and jump back up, curling like bread dough against his side.

he sighs, defeated. “you’re lucky you’re cute.”

from across the room, gojo leans around the doorway and holds up his phone. “smile! this is going on the group chat.”

“delete that.”

“never.”

iii.

“so it’s true,” gojo says, placing a cucumber behind you while you nap in the sunlit hallway. “cats do freak out when they see cucumbers. let’s test the theory.”

you stretch once, yawn, and roll over—

see it.

freeze.

explode.

in a blur of fluff and fury, you leap straight into the air, knock over a potted plant, and land with a hissing screech on top of gojo’s head.

“OW—FUCK—GET OFF ME���!”

you sink your claws into his hair.

from down the hall, nanami sighs as he arrives just in time to see gojo flailing like a man possessed while you cling to his skull like a hat from hell.

“what did you do?”

“SCIENCE!” gojo wails. “BAD SCIENCE! MAKE IT STOP!”

nanami reaches up calmly and lifts you off like you’re a kitten, holding you against his chest. you immediately calm down and snuggle in with a proud flick of your tail.

nanami raises a brow. “you really are them.”

gojo, face scratched, hair destroyed, points. “you owe me nine lives.”

you purr in response.

-> part three or, how to scar your coworkers and your boyfriend in one magical transformation:

hours pass.

and you… are still a cat.

grumpy. fluffy. humiliated. but a cat.

nanami had eventually gone to investigate the cursed hotspot in shibuya with gojo, leaving you curled up in a very official “authorized personnel only” blanket on ijichi’s lap(though he had to leave to work), glaring daggers at every student who so much as breathed in your direction. (nobara tried to take pictures. you almost bit her. you let yuuji pet you for a second before biting his finger. megumi didn’t even try.)

when nanami finally returns, he’s got a new scratch on his arm, a bloodied tie, and the slightly mussed-up look of a man who fought a demon and won but is annoyed he missed dinner.

the break room is quiet again.

too quiet.

you’re curled up in nanami’s lap, tucked against his chest, and his hand strokes along your spine in slow, thoughtful motions. every once in a while, you nuzzle into him just to hear his heart skip.

gojo, perched at the edge of the couch with his chin on his palm, stares at you both like he’s watching a soap opera with a gun to his head.

“okay, but like—this is still really weird,” he mutters.

“then leave,” nanami says flatly.

“are you kidding? there’s no way i’m missing the moment your furry little lover turns back mid-smooch or whatever.”

you hiss at him from nanami’s lap. he dramatically shields his face like you’re about to lunge again.

ijichi re-enters, looking frazzled. “shoko said she’s working on a reversal, but it’ll take time to brew the cursed breaker serum. in the meantime, you should stay somewhere safe and calm. stable emotional contact can help anchor the transformation when it breaks.”

gojo points at nanami. “you’re emotionally stable. more than me, anyway.”

“not a high bar,” nanami murmurs, still petting you softly.

you sigh. a little mewl escapes, and nanami glances down with something like affection in his eyes.

he whispers your name. gentle. reverent. “how are you holding up?”

you tap the screen of the tablet by nanami’s side with a paw again.

bettr now

his hand pauses for half a second. then he keeps stroking down your spine. “good.”

your body relaxes further into him, eyelids drooping—

nanami doesn’t even have time to react.

you shift back mid-curl in his arms, body elongating, fur disappearing, limbs reshaping—

a snap in the air. like a thread unspooling. your body seizes for a split second, paws twitching—

and then—

light. glowing. heat.

a swirling rush of cursed energy that bursts out of you like a snapped rubber band.

nanami jolts.

gojo screams.

ijichi yells something about “turn away!”

and then it’s silent.

—and suddenly, you are very, extremely, completely human again.

and also very naked.

and also very much still in nanami’s lap. still straddling him. arms draped around his shoulders. your face buried against his chest. his hand… still cradling the small of your back.

you blink up at him, dazed, completely disoriented, bare skin pressed against his shirt.

“uh,” you croak, voice scratchy and raw, “hi.”

nanami—stoic, unreadable, calm-in-a-crisis nanami—is frozen. his ears are red. his jaw is clenched. his entire soul is trying to process the fact that you are currently bare-ass naked and curled up in his lap in front of two coworkers.

“you’re back,” he says stiffly.

“well,” gojo blurts, “this is traumatizing.”

ijichi is already shielding his own eyes and fumbling for a coat. “i’ll—I’ll go get something for them to wear—”

nanami doesn’t move for a long moment. and then his arms slowly, carefully wrap around you.

“…you’re back,” he murmurs.

you nod, face burning. “yeah. uh. sorry about the whole… naked… lap… thing.”

he exhales slowly, brushing your hair back with one big hand. “don’t apologize. i’m just glad you’re alright.”

gojo, somewhere across the room, makes a strangled cackling sound. “alright? they just full-on human-voltroned in your lap like a magical girl transformation! what do you mean—”

“get out,” nanami says, already pulling the coat ijichi blindly hands him around your shoulders. “now.”

“i wasn’t ready,” you whisper, apologetic.

“neither was i,” he replies, voice strangled.

shoko finally strolls in behind gojo, blinking slowly. “ah. i see it worked. congratulations.”

you clutch the coat tighter around yourself, still huddled in nanami’s lap like some mythological disaster. “can someone please kill me.”

shoko pats your head. “sorry, you already kinda died once. no take backs.”

nanami clears his throat. “…would someone please clear the room.”

shoko sighs. “fine. let the lovebirds have their moment.”

gojo’s still laughing as he’s dragged out.

“i’ll take you to the spare uniform room,” nanami says, calm and composed, like he wasn’t cradling you in his lap a few minutes ago while you were stark-naked and purring like a pampered house pet.

you are barefoot, flushed, wrapped in nanami’s pristine blazer and marching stiffly down the hall.

nanami walks a respectful two steps behind you, and you feel his gaze burn into the back of your head like he’s making sure you don’t trip over yourself or spontaneously combust from embarrassment.

“you don’t have to walk behind me like i’m a scandalous royal concubine,” you mumble.

“i’m trying to give you space,” he says quietly. “you… don’t have anything on under my coat.”

“which you gave me.”

“because you didn’t have anything on.”

“because you were holding me in your lap while i was a cat and then i turned back human!”

he exhales. “i’m aware. unfortunately.”

you stop in front of the uniform room door. nanami opens it like he’s defusing a bomb and gestures inside. “go ahead. take your time. i’ll—stay out here.”

you squint at him. “you’ve seen me naked.”

he looks physically pained. “i wasn’t trying to.”

“you were touching me while i was naked.”

“you were still a cat.”

you cross your arms. “you called me ‘sweet thing.’”

nanami pinches the bridge of his nose. “you were a cat.”

“you stroked my head.”

“…you purred.”

“you said i was ‘so soft’—”

“do you want help finding clothes or not?”

gojo rounds the corner, sipping a smoothie. “wow. what did i just walk into?”

you raise an eyebrow. “you’re still here?”

“i wouldn’t miss this for the world. so—do i get to be best man at the wedding, or?”

nanami slams the uniform room door shut between you and him without another word. through it, you can hear him sigh. long. loud. tortured.

“cat got your tongue?” you mutter through the door.

“i will walk into traffic.” nanami replies.

—

that night, you’re curled in nanami’s lap again.

this time not as a cat, but very much human. soft pajama shorts, shirt two sizes too big (his), and a slightly smug pout on your face because the second you jokingly meowed at him for attention earlier, he just gave you a long look and muttered, “you’re already a cat anyway.”

“take it back,” you grumble, poking his chest. “i’m not a cat.”

nanami, leaned back against the headboard, arms lazily wound around you, raises one elegant eyebrow. “you hissed at me when i wouldn’t share the blanket.”

“you hogged it on purpose.”

“you eat your meals in four bites and then nap under the sun.”

“okay but—”

“you climbed onto my lap without asking.”

“your lap is comfortable,” you snap, completely unbothered, settling deeper into him.

he sighs. soft. fond. presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

“i know you’re joking,” he murmurs after a beat, “but—i’ve been thinking about what you must’ve gone through.”

you blink. shift slightly to glance up at him. his eyes are lowered, brows furrowed just a bit.

“cursed into an animal,” he says quietly. “alone. unable to speak. trying to get back to campus on your own. confused. scared.”

his jaw clenches. “you must’ve been terrified.”

your throat tightens. “i was.”

his arms curl tighter around your waist.

you lay your cheek to his chest, breathing in slow, and for a moment the air between you goes still, heavy with that ache he always carries—of almost losing something precious.

“i kept trying to get someone’s attention,” you murmur, voice quieter. “people just kept shooing me away. i even got kicked. and it wasn’t until i made it to the gates that anyone really looked.”

his hand lifts to the back of your neck, warm and grounding. “i’m so sorry.”

you nod. “i just kept thinking… if i could get to you, it’d be okay.”

he inhales like your words hit him somewhere in the chest. “i would’ve torn down the school to get you back.”

you smile into the fabric of his shirt. “you didn’t need to. you just sat still and let me climb into your lap.”

he kisses your forehead. soft. long. still.

you exhale. “i thought i’d be stuck like that. i didn’t know if anyone would ever understand me. it was awful.”

“but you made it.” he holds your face gently, tilting you up just enough to press a kiss to the tip of your nose. “you’re stronger than you think.”

you close your eyes and nuzzle into him—maybe just a little like a cat.

“…you’re never letting go of the cat thing, are you?” you murmur.

he hums. “absolutely not.”

you hiss. he chuckles.

but then he’s pulling you in again, tucking you under his chin like something precious he almost lost, and the quiet stretches between you once more—peaceful, soft, full of the kind of love that survives curses and silence and the long, lonely walk home.

epilogue:

your phone buzzes just as you’re curled up on nanami’s couch, blanket around your shoulders and a warm cup of tea in your hands.

“huh,” you murmur. “gojo sent me something.”

nanami freezes beside you. “don’t open it.”

too late. you already tapped the notification.

it’s… a photo.

of a cat. in a tiny, tailored beige suit. tiny round glasses. a solemn little frown. caption:

ur soulmate. congrats on finding the one <3

you snort your tea up your nose.

nanami looks over your shoulder. goes still.

then very, very calm. “hand me my phone.”

you pass it to him, wheezing.

he opens his messages, scrolls to gojo’s name, taps it.

click.

block contact. report spam.

“that’s the third time this month,” he mutters.

“what were the other two?” you ask, still laughing.

“one was a cursed object shaped like a banana. the other was a drawing he made of me as a barbie doll. he titled it ‘ken-ami.’”

you lose it. completely.

“blocked,” nanami repeats, sipping his tea. “permanently.”

your grin doesn’t fade for the rest of the night.

neither does his faint, flustered smile.

[puck-luck]

hi qween, could i request mocha with qh43, whipped cream = established relationship, and cold foam 💗💕💞💗💗💞 happy 1 year i love your writing :3

hi!! thank u for requesting!! since you didn't specify what you wanted with the cold foam, i used this kink prompt generator to determine the wild card.... which was sexting!

so, warnings (1.2K): sexting, slight angst (they're fighting, the mocha part is that they're making up here), mentions of ass-eating, no actual sex but lots of allusions to it, puns and double entendres about cooking/sex, quinn is persistent and dorky and stupid and i love him, reader is doing her best to not fall for his goon-ness <3

Things have not been good between you and Quinn lately. It wasn’t by any fault of yours, or of Quinn’s, but you haven’t had sex in weeks. You’ve barely seen each other with Quinn’s schedule and your work. It’s been driving both of you crazy, and you’re both stressed in your own jobs, and it hasn’t been manifesting well. 

Quinn left his sneakers in the middle of the hallway one day and you tripped over them while carrying a fuck ton of groceries inside. That had started a big fight, which hadn’t been resolved, and you’re still upset whenever you see something out of place… like the toothpaste this morning, left on the bathroom counter capless. The cap was next to the tube. How hard is it to screw the cap back on the tube when you’re done brushing your teeth?

You’d lost track of time and been late to picking Quinn up after a roadie one night, which sparked a fight on his end. That also hadn’t been resolved entirely. You know Quinn is still holding it against you because he’s driven himself to the arena every single time since you were late, insisting that he’ll just take himself so he doesn’t have to worry or wait. 

So there’s been tension lingering in the air of the apartment ever since. You’re sure that when you and Quinn have more time, you’ll be able to talk about it. The hockey season is almost over and the presentation you’re working on at work is almost due, so you both will be free in a couple of weeks. The light at the end of the tunnel is growing brighter and drawing nearer.

Quinn is at home tonight, which is nice most of the time. Over the last two years that you’ve been together, it’s rare for you and Quinn to avoid each other. Today, though, you’re staying away from each other. You’re both still upset and holding a grudge.

Quinn sits on the couch flipping through a book. You worked on your computer at the dining room table and now you’re on your lunch break, chopping up stalks of celery to toss into the pot of soup you’re brewing.

As you turn and make your way around the island in the kitchen, you can feel Quinn’s eyes roaming over your skin. You pay him absolutely no mind, keeping your head down and returning to the cutting board to chop up a few carrots.

Your phone buzzes a minute later. 

I’m starving

The text pops up from your lovely, annoying boyfriend and strikes a chord within you. Does he expect you to be cooking for him? The pot of soup is big enough for four people at least, but Quinn didn’t ask you. He just said he’s starving and expects you to do something about it. He’s a big boy; he can make his own meal. You let your screen fade to black without replying.

Another buzz:

But not for food ;)

Unimpressed, you raise your gaze to Quinn on the couch. He’s watching you with a barely-suppressed, smug smile tugging at the corners of his lips. You shoot him a glare, letting him know that you’re not budging, and go back to chopping a carrot into tiny pieces. 

Whereas you were unimpressed, Quinn is undeterred. 

Buzz.

Baby your cooking smells so good, it’s making me crave YOU… wanna add something sexy to that savory?

You squint at the text and return to your carrots, scooping them off of the cutting board and dumping them into the broth.

Buzz.

Cooking looks good on you. Making you moan is even better. Come and let me season you up properly ;)

You pick up your phone and face Quinn, staring him in the face as you shut it down entirely. You place the phone on the counter out of reach and go back to stir the pot. There’s shredded chicken and veggies in this pot, plus some spiral noodles that have been thoroughly cooked in the simmering broth.

He clears his throat behind you and starts to speak. “Hey, babe, I thought I’d give you a call since you hadn’t replied to my texts. Your hands must be full since you didn’t answer, so I hope this voicemail will be fun for you.”

You take a deep breath and press your lips together, closing your eyes. He is such a fucking dork.

“Hm, what am I up to?” Quinn fake-ponders aloud. “Nothing much, just sitting on the couch, rock-hard, and thinking about bending you over the stove.”

Your nostrils flare and you halt your movements. 

“I’m going to need you to turn off the stove and turn me on, though. I’m dying for a sample of your other delicious skills.”

You’re at your wit’s end, about to break your silence. You’re not sure whether you’re going to tell Quinn to shut up or if you’re going to fall for his silly sexting-turned-voicemail, but you’re almost at the point of saying something. 

You can hear Quinn holding back a laugh. “You look so hot stirring that pot, beautiful. Wish it was your ass I was stirring instead. Lemme grab a bite, yeah?”

You scoff, surprised and amused by his pick-up line. “I am not letting you eat my ass, Quintin.”

He chuckles and stands from the couch, his feet padding over the wooden floor of his apartment as he enters the kitchen. “Okay, not your ass. We can still skip the utensils and I’ll put my tongue on something else. I promise I’ll be thorough.” His reflection in the microwave shows you that he’s still talking into the phone. He’s close enough to touch now and he makes a point to splay his fingers over your hip, standing with his crotch pressed against your behind. “Can I serve you something hot and hard, baby?”

His breath washes over your neck, followed shortly by the scratch of his scruff as he kisses the curve of your shoulder. Instinctively, you bare the skin to him. 

Quinn drops the call and places his other hand on your other hip, holding you steady as he rolls his hips against your bottom. He kisses your jaw, then your cheek. “‘m sorry I haven’t been very happy lately. Things are tense. I don’t want them to be.”

“It’s just a difficult time right now,” you reply softly. “I’m stressed and every tiny thing that goes wrong gets on my nerves and makes it worse.”

Quinn takes the spoon from your hand and turns off the stove, moving the pot to the backburner and off the heat. “You get an hour for lunch?”

“About forty-five left.”

“I only need fifteen.”

You laugh. “It’s been long enough that I think you could do it in less.”

“Ouch, you’re making fun of my stamina?” Quinn pouts. “I’ll show you, baby. I’m a machine.”

You release a breath of a laugh, relaxing into Quinn’s touch. “Is sexting your new way of initiating?”

“Only when you’re mad at me. It’s cheesy enough that it’ll diffuse the tension, right? Did you like my lines?” Quinn asks, seeking your approval. One of his hands is unbuttoning your blouse, the one you threw on to look professional in your video meeting this morning.

“I liked that you were trying,” you confirm. “But you’re still not going to eat my ass.”

Quinn steers you toward the bedroom. “I’m perfectly content eating your pussy, baby. You’re my main course.” He scoops you up bridal-style and carries you across the apartment. Once you enter the bedroom, he tosses you onto the bed and grins at you. “Alright, spread ‘em. Gotta lick my plate clean.”

[differenteagletragedy]

Simon gets discharged after an injury sidelines him, and he’s sooooo annoyed about it. Sure, he’s older now, he’s not as spry as he used to be and the injury, a bullet that tore through some of the muscle in his leg, makes it worse, but he can still do the job.

Except he can’t, because the powers that be won’t let him, so after two decades of service, it feels like he’s back where he started. Aimless. It eats at him.

Eventually he lands on becoming a cop, figures the structure will be good for him. He knew it wouldn’t be exactly the same as the military was, but he’s not prepared for how boring it truly is.

He sits in his patrol car for hours sometimes, checking for people speeding or having the audacity to drive around without the right stickers on their vehicles. Sometimes he pulls people over just for the hell of it — he’ll ask “You know why I stopped you?”, just hoping for something fun to come from it. He’ll write tickets to assholes for no real reason, and he’ll let worried mothers with small children in the backseat off with empty warnings.

There are times that he sees some action, but it's always short-lived. A drug bust here, an assault there. There's a bit of adrenaline rush when someone resists, and yeah, it's a little exciting when he gets to use his strength, but it's nothing like what he had before. He can't find a way to sink his teeth into it.

Then he gets a call, a little hope of reprieve from the mind-melting boredom of a slow Tuesday night: drunk and disorderly female at a bar close to him. Yes, he can take care of that.

When he arrives, you're just outside the door, arguing with a bouncer. He can see immediately why police were called — you're clearly wasted, all flushed with messy hair and smeared makeup, but you've got some fight in you. Some fight that you're presently showing to the bouncer.

"This is so fucking unbelievable," he hears you sneer, words coming out all slurred. "I didn't do anything wrong! I'm not the one who should have gotten kicked out. This is bullshit and you know it, and --"

"Evening, miss," Simon interrupts, sauntering up to you. "What seems to be the problem?"

You turn, stumbling as you do, to face him, and he's immediately met with the vitriol you'd just been spewing at the poor bouncer, who looks at him now with a pitying gaze, his message clear: you're Simon's problem now.

"The problem," you begin, stepping closer to him, "is that all I was trying to do was have a good time and nobody wants me to."

"That right?"

"Yeah, that's right," you say, your voice a bit softer now. Simon knows what it is when you look up at him, lips pouty and lashes fluttering — it's just a tactic. But he still smirks, because at least he's not writing tickets.

"Actually, the problem is that you got drunk off your ass and when our bartender cut you off, you started causing a scene," the bouncer interjects.

"Nobody fucking asked you, Tom!"

Simon bites back a chuckle, but he can tell the conversation isn't going to go anywhere — just looks like you're a regular who had a little too much. He gives a nod to the bouncer, he tells him that he'll take care of you, then guides you back to his patrol car.

Or at least he tries.

But god, you're just so difficult. You're mouthy and stubborn, telling him that you know your rights, you're an upstanding member of society and he’s going to be sorry, just a constant stream of whatever nonsense pops into your head. He was just going to get you away from the bar, give you a ride home if you needed, but you won't shut up long enough for him to offer.

"This how you were acting inside?" he finally interrupts, leaning against his car. "No wonder they called me in, you're a bloody nuisance."

You gasp, and then you put your hands up, giving him a hard shove. He puts his hands on your arms, to steady you more than to stop you, then tuts, spinning you around and holding your wrists together with one large hand.

"Have it your way," he mutters, pulling out his handcuffs.

"Are you fucking arresting me?" you ask, bewildered. "Seriously?"

"Public intoxication and assaulting a police officer," he tells you. "Getting quite the rap sheet, aren't you?"

They’re empty words — of course he’s not going to charge you with anything. You’re just drunk, you’re not hurting yourself or anyone else. He’s a big boy, he can take a little pushing around. But the way he sees your eyes widen and your lips part when he spins you back to face him, a clear look of fear on your face, it makes him want to play, just a little.

“Assault on an officer … believe that’s a felony, yeah? You want to deal with that, or you want to keep your pretty little hands to yourself?”

“I’ll be good,” you answer automatically. “I promise.”

He considers. Imagines what you’d look like bent over the hood of his car, or draped across his lap in the front seat. He can see it in you — you would be good for him. He’d just have to pull it out of you first.

“One more chance,” he concedes. “But the cuffs stay on.”

[just-1other-nerd]

These are my picks and below the cut I'll explain why though I doubt that anyone will read this ridiculously long essay.

I'm making this a tag game but everyone is free to join.

Small disclaimer: I'm acespec, because of that romantic love and sexual attraction feel a bit fictional to me anyways (kind of like how I believe in magic but it's far removed from my reality and daily life, still wouldn't mind it being there at all), so I'm very good at separating this kind of fiction from reality. I still adore romance in stories and I definitely have standards of what I would want a relationship to actually look like in real life if I should ever end up in one.

Enemies to lovers (mostly in fantasy though) is my jam. It's that specific category of hate to love which is one of my favourite tropes in general, bully "romances" and such appalling stuff is not included in my definition of this trope. For me it is the whole "we are on different sides of the war" thing or the "we have genuine reasons to hate each other but through reluctantly spending time together we overcome this" thing, tension and banter are just great and if an author actually understands what makes this trope great that means that the characters will undergo some kind of development and I adore a good character arc. Do not get me wrong, I love friends to lovers (especially in contemporary) amd the fluff it can give me but it seldomly gives me the kind of kick that enemies to lovers has got to it.

Yearning and angst are my thing, 10/10 and you know what has got that if well done? Fake dating and forbidden love! But I ended up choosing forbidden love because the reasons to end up in a fake relationship are oftentimes less believable than the ones for a forbidden love. Because when has faking a relationship actually seemed like it could solve any problems instead of creating more in the long run? Meanwhile the love existing in the first place is the problem itself.

Found family is a no brainer. It can be basically anything, teens, adults, kids, animal compantions, a combination of those and it slaps everytime. Single parent is okay, I like the representation but I can't really relate. But consider a found family that consists of an adult and their adopted child... brilliant! I think I improved the single parent trope by 1000%.

Sunshine x grumpy is a fucking good dynamic if well written and not just there to check off a trope box. Second chance is once again something that I can't really relate to but I really liked the angst and yearning in the few instances in which I've seen it done well.

I never really got the whole famous people appeal. There's actors and musicians and so on which I find hot but actually dating them would be a nightmare considering their work hours, the paparazzi, the long distance stuff, the stress and so on. For lots of people this choice would be about what archetype they find hotter for me that would be the musician but I'm annoyed by the self insert vibes. I hate "omg this famous person fancies me of all people that must make me special but I am not special at all actually". But then I discovered the bandmate and teammate dynamics and the (sports) rivals dynamics. It completely removes the power dynamics of normal person x famous and rich person because these people are on the same level, the also very clearly understand the whole career and public eye aspect of a romance like this better because both of them are in the business. And that is great, it creates understanding, yearning and angst if the relationship could meddle with the career. And even if it doesn't there's still ambition and a connection through a shared interest. A lot of this vatiation of these tropes is also queer so I'm even more into it. In the end I chose sports romance over rockstar romance because even though I'm not into sports in reality but really into music I am very obsessed with certain sports anime and the shipping game is top tier.

Small town romance is a very American Hallmark movie thing to me. It's literally just a setting. Granted one with less anonymity, less places to go and more conservative views but still just a setting. I think it seldomly actually adds to a romance plot and oftentimes gets living in a more rural area wrong (trust me I'm from a European village with less than 1000 people living here). Also the (female) main character giving up a successful career for a not so special guy just feels wrong and is done way too often and very boring. A secret baby at least brings some drama into the story and I think that's entertaining.

There's something horrible patriarchal about a forced marriage it would be a nightmare in real life but in fiction it is my guilty pleasure since it often includes some form of hate to love and forced proximity. The latter also a guilty pleasure in fiction because by God do I like my personal space and would hate someone intruding. But in stories it causes the same kind of thing I love about hate to love: the characters are annoyed by one another but over time the begin to grow close emotionally and there's a character arc about understanding involved. (Side note hate to love and forced proximity can also be platonic.) The trope can also just be funny, like being shoved into a closet but they land on top of each other in a mess of limbs. I picked forced proximity as the one I prefer because it is more harmless than a forced relationship.

Summer and winter are just settings and while they contribute a lot to the vibe and to the possibilities of what the characters can get up to I think they are less important than the actual plot which is why my liking of a story won't be that influenced by the season. If I had to pick a season for a contemporary romance it would be spring (even though I like a built up that is longer than 3 months but alas), otherwise I don't have real preferences because once again it depends on the plot. But I picked summer since its vibes are closer to spring vibes than winter's.

I like good boys and I like edgy boys who are actually decent people. Bad boys on the other hand are often a cardboard cut-out of a person who has no hobbies except for brooding, being mysterious, being obsessive and abusive. So I didn't have to think hard about this one.

Slow burn forever! Draw out the tension, the longing, the yearning, the angst and I am happy but then let it all dissolve in a satisfying act of love or a heartbreaking one. One of my favourite tropes and I think one aspect of this is that if it takes a while for the characters to get together that means they know each other fairly well by then which I think is an important part of a functional relationship. Love triangles can be done well like when you actually do not know who will end up with whom or if you don't know who you, the viewer/reader, would choose or would want the main character to end up with because both options are good and likable or if one person gets two partners (one polyamorous person, two monogamous people who are okay with this arrangement) or if everyone ends up with everyone (throuple yay). But I have seen far too many instances in which it was not only clear to me from early on who the desired person would choose in the end but the author also failed to make me like the involved characters or when they failed to give me a good reason for why the protagonist chose who they chose or if the character picked the choice I wouldn't have gone with and thos things took away all the tension and likability. I swear 80% of this trope is "who is the not so special girl going to choose the insanely physically attractive and rich blond brother with a flirty personality who is the life of the party or the insanely physically attractive and rich brother with dark hair and a fable for brooding and antisocial behaviour?" and it's always the latter and he is the worse option out of the two already bad ones.

Billionaires shouldn't exist and burn in hell. The whole concept of their existence is unethical, I do not under any circumstances want to even have contact with someone like that let alone date them. There's also this power dynamic that comes with a person being much more wealthy than their partner which I just don't like. An office romance can also be problematic because it can annoy coworkers, change team dynamics, you never get a break from your partner, there might be some HR problems involved, you might fight over work topics, you start to associate your partner with desk work, there might be some envy when it comes to career, there might be uncomfortable power dynamics and trying to hide the dating thing from others to avoid all of this won't end up working otherwise there wouldn't be a plot or a conflict. But it's still better than fucking billionaires. Just get me away from a capitalist hellscape as a setting in general, like who saw cubicles and thought "this is cute"? I do not need to spend more time at work than I have to in order to survive so why would I want my fiction to take place right there?

I go to dystopia for the plot and the social commentary and while I appreciate a good romantic subplot a lot, I don't want this to distract me all too much from the thing I was looking for. Historical settings on the other hand are just very detailed (if the reasearch was done right anyways) and interesting to me. It's got its own social rules and political nuances. Of course patriarchal power dynamics have been even worse in the past but I love it when the couple navigates those in a way that still results in them having a healthy relationship. I also just love Jane Austen.

First love is nice but not necessarily better than second or third love and so on. My choice is revenge because I am a petty bitch with lots of grudges and I feel so much catharsis when someone gets what they deserve. I also love it when a character takes their revenge too far and has to deal with that moral dilemma, that is an interesting struggle if you ask me.

I think I have already established why I don't like office or work romances. And rivalries are often just a subsection of hate to love, and I've gone into why I like that too. A bonus of rivals to lovers is also the (often) harmless obsessiveness of the characters with each other. It doesn't matter if it's an academic context or a sports context or a career context, it is just fun

If you've actually made it to here, congrats I guess. Please tell me your thoughts.

@jediwizard @ilov3b00kss0much @ineffablebookgirl

EVERYONE ON TUMBLR NEEDS TO DO THIS

[dearlenore]

AN ‘I FEEL’ STATEMENT. / S.REID / SUMMARY - Spencer and you interrogate a suspect

PAIRING: bau!reader x spencer reid / w/c: 1.7K / ???

a/n: guess who this is based on and win a cookie

Spencer didn’t even look up when you barged into the motel room.

“Don’t say it,” he said, flipping a page in the case file.

You froze in the doorway, still halfway through pulling off your FBI jacket. “Say what?”

“That the crime scene smelled like expired deli meat and failure.”

You made a face. “Okay, rude. That’s classic FBI fieldwork ambiance.”

He looked up and smirked. “You’re predictable.”

You tossed your jacket on the chair and flopped onto the bed beside him. “You like me because I’m predictable.”

“I love you in spite of it.”

You stuck your tongue out and stole the file from his hands. “Alright, Dr. Sass, what do we know?”

“Third victim, male, 30s, found in an alley behind a gas station that sells ‘hot dogs’ that may or may not be actual meat,” Spencer replied with a snarky tone , leaning back against the headboard. “Ligature marks, same positioning as the first two. Garcia’s running facial rec now.”

You flipped through the photos. “This guy looks like my ex.”

Spencer tilted his head. “Which one? Also…You dated a guy with a neck tattoo that says Loyalty Over Everything?”

“He had a motorcycle and a soft spot for cats. It was a phase…. And the tattoo said ‘I’m a dick’ in Chinese.”

“I sincerely hope your standards have risen.”

You gave him a smug look. “Please. I’m dating a literal genius with three PhDs. I upgraded.”

He hummed. “Four soon.”

“Whatever,” you said, nudging his arm. “You’re basically the FBI’s version of a trophy husband.”

He blinked. “Are you saying I’m your trophy husband?”

“Yeah. Except instead of a yacht I got… trauma and access to crime scenes. I guess?”

Spencer rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his lips. “Romantic.”

You snickered. “That’s what they all say.”

For a while, you worked in comfortable silence, both reading over the files. The motel TV buzzed in the background, playing a rerun of some bad soap opera where the acting was worse than your last polygraph subject.

“So,” you said eventually, “you think this guy’s trying to make a point? The symmetry, the posing, the weird ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’ energy of it all?”

Spencer looked thoughtful. “He’s definitely performing. But it’s subtle. Less drama, more… statement.”

“Like a TED Talk, but make it murder.”

“Exactly.”

You laughed. “I fucking hate Ted talks, people who talk for hours like that are so annoying.”

He glanced sideways at you. “Speak for yourself. I’m adorable.”

“You’re adorable in a ‘my girlfriend wants to kick my ass daily’ kind of way.”

“To be fair, you want to kick everyone’s ass. Some more sensually than others.”

“HEY! Me and Emily had a deal. Have you seen— actually don’t answer that I’d have to kill you.”

“I find you so oddly attractive.” He said, looking a bit perplexed by his own taste.

You bumped his shoulder gently. “You always say that like you’re surprised.”

Spencer gave you a soft look, the kind he saved for when the world got too heavy. “I’m not. You’re annoying and incredible.”

You grinned. “Aw. You’re such a sap when we’re surrounded by homicide photos. You should be more mindful of the dead,”

“Don’t ruin it.”

He leaned in to kiss you, brief and warm. Then he stole the case file back like the nerd he was.

“Fine,” you said, standing up and stretching. “I’ll go see if Morgan found anything useful, or if he’s just flirting with the local deputy again.”

“Tell him if she has a cowboy hat, he has my blessing.”

You grabbed your jacket, pausing at the door. “If I get shot, tell the team I died being hotter than all of them.”

Spencer looked up with a totally deadpan expression and whistled. “That goes without saying.”

You blew him a kiss and shut the door behind you, already drafting what you’d say to Morgan when you saw him.

Eventually , you’d caught the guy.

The suspect sat cuffed to the table, arms crossed, expression somewhere between cocky and confused. He’d asked for a lawyer three times. The team knew it. So did you. But now he was suddenly cooperative—and you had a feeling that had less to do with his conscience and more to do with the fact that Morgan had promised he’d be “dealing with Dr. Reid next.”

What he didn’t know?

He was getting both of you.

You stepped into the interrogation room, Spencer behind you, both of you in sync like you were about to perform a synchronized FBI ballet—but with more psychological warfare.

Outside the one-way glass, Morgan muttered, “This’ll be interesting.”

Inside the room, you dropped into the chair across from the suspect and offered a sugary smile.

“Hi, Marcus. Love the scowl. Very tough guy who definitely has never cried in a 90s Honda civic. Or was it a Toyota?”

Spencer sat beside you, calm and collected, opening the file in front of him like he was about to politely destroy a man’s entire worldview.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “So they sent the nerd and the girlfriend?”

You smiled wider. “Aw. You think I’m just the girlfriend. That’s cute.”

Spencer didn’t look up. “Statistically, assuming a woman is less competent in a professional setting increases the likelihood of public humiliation by seventy-three percent. But don’t worry, we’ll keep it between us.”

“For real? You just know that?” The suspect hissed.

“No asshole, I made it up…” Spencer mumbled, still looking at the file and reading it closely.

You slid the photo across the table—victim number two. “Let’s talk about this guy. You were seen outside his apartment the night he was killed. Coincidence, or did ya get the first time murder jitters?”

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

Spencer’s voice was deceptively light. “We didn’t say you did. You said that. Interesting.”

You leaned in, resting your chin on your hand. “Also interesting? That your fingerprints were on the door handle, and the doormat has your boot tread on it. You’re either involved or you’re just deeply nosy.”

Marcus shrugged. “Maybe I was there. Doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, honey,” you said, voice syrupy-sweet. “People like you never do things for no reason. You can’t even microwave instant soup without making it about your masculinity.”

Spencer coughed like he was covering a laugh.

“Also if you’re microwaving soup shame on you. Put it in a damn pot on the stove like the rest of us.” You groaned, knowing damn well you did it yesterday.

“Look,” Marcus said, sitting up straighter. “I don’t have to say anything to you.”

You looked around the room , faux confusion on your face. He literally asked for you?

Spencer tapped the table twice. “Totally fair. You’re exercising your rights. But just to clarify, you’re not denying you were there. So if we subpoena your phone, we’re not going to be shocked by GPS data, right?”

You leaned toward Spencer and whispered loudly, “Is this the part where we pretend we don’t already have that?”

He nodded seriously. “Yes, for dramatic effect.”

Marcus shifted. “You’re bluffing.”

“Buddy,” you said, leaning back. “The FBI does two things really well: crush dreams and ruin lives. And my boyfriend here’s got a PhD in both.”

Spencer added, “Technically only one, but I did minor in destroying egos.”

“Oh for real? That’s fine I have a masters in being better than most people and humbling men. I think that’ll suffice.” You replied.

Outside the glass, JJ blinked. “Are they… flirting? In the middle of an interrogation?”

Hotch muttered, “I think it’s working?”

Back inside, the suspect was starting to sweat, his earlier confidence deflating like a balloon at a sad birthday party.

You pulled out another photo—this time of Marcus’s ex, who had filed a restraining order last year. You dropped it gently on the table.

Spencer’s voice was quiet. “She’s scared of you.”

“And she was like 16.”

Marcus looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor as Spencer flipped to the next page in the file.

“Her name was Emily,” he said calmly, tapping the paper. “She filed for a restraining order at sixteen. Updated it again when she turned seventeen.”

Marcus scoffed. “She was—she acted older than she was.”

You blinked. Spencer’s jaw twitched.

“Oh wow,” you said, leaning forward. “Do you have an I feel statement about that?”

Spencer didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, like—‘I feel like I want to date children’?”

You nodded thoughtfully. “That’s the vibe I’m getting too. Really leaning into the predator energy.”

“I’m not a predator,” Marcus snapped, defensive now, angry. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Spencer arched a brow. “We literally read your search history.”

You added, “And the restraining order. And the texts. And your very creative Reddit username.”

“Subtle wasn’t your strong suit,” Spencer muttered.

You leaned back in your chair, folding your arms. “So here’s what we do know about you, Marcus: you’re insecure, violent when women say no, and very interested in people who are still in Algebra II. That about cover it?”

He opened his mouth—then shut it again.

“That’s what I thought,” you said sweetly, before glancing over at Spencer with a grin. “See? We’re so good at this.”

He smiled back. “Terrifyingly good.”

“You think this is funny?” Marcus snapped, finally rattled. “This little good cop, bad cop thing?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Good cop? You sweet summer child.”

“We’re not good cop, bad cop,” Spencer added helpfully. “We’re bad cop, worse cop.”

“I’m worse,” you chimed in. “Obviously.”

Spencer nodded. “That tracks.”

Marcus was silent, jaw tense.

You leaned in again, tone shifting. “Look. You talk to us, you get some control back. You don’t, and we throw this entire file at the prosecutor and let them tear you apart. Your call.”

Spencer added, “Statistically, cooperating suspects receive lighter sentences. Not that you seem like a man who cares about consequences, given your stunning history of rage texting and unpaid parking tickets… and dating children.”

You smiled. “Seriously, ten tickets? What are you, allergic to parallel parking?”

Marcus stared at the table, finally cracking.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” he muttered.

You and Spencer exchanged a glance.

“Okay,” you said, sitting back. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One Ten

“Eddie?”

Eddie wakes up slowly, rubbing his face into the warm material under him, Eddie’s hand coming up without much thought to wipe away the wet drool pooled under his mouth. “What?”

Steve chuckles, and the firm chest under Eddie shakes with it, “it’s morning.”

“What?” Eddie says again, thoughts still slow and sleepy, dragging himself up.

It is light outside, a little daylight making it’s way though the blinds. Eddie can’t remember the last time he slept through the night like that, “I’m going to go let Falkor out in the yard, shower, and then make breakfast, okay?”

“Okay,” Eddie just agrees, latching onto the knowledge that he’s got at least twenty minutes to rub one out and get vaguely presentable before he’s got to go eat, the feel of his hard on and the accompanying arousal almost immediately pressing, “make sure you pick up all the shit,” Steve snorts a laugh as he slides out of bed and pads away.

“What are we doing today then Jedi Master?”

“Well, my young padawan-”

Eddie snorts, not at all surprised that Steve’s willing to play along and yet still disgusted and charmed by it in equal measure.

Steve gives him some side eye from where he’s rinsing dishes at the sink.

“I thought we could start by walking Falkor, then some yoga and maybe a little housekeeping on my part. Then you can have a bath and stuff if you like. I wanted to make pesto shakshuka for lunch, and then,” Steve shrugs, “whatever.” He starts drying dishes, putting them away.

Eddie nods, “got a couple of tunes I could work on.”

Steve smiles, like, genuine, but not overdone or anything, “that’s great Eddie. I’ll appease the green owl.”

“Then a movie, maybe? After we’ve walked the dog again, I mean.”

“Sounds like we have a plan for the day.”

“Such a boy scout.”

“I was never a boy scout, but what can I say, failing to plan is planning to fail.”

“Jesus Christ fucking kill me.”

Scenting Steve helps. Pinning Steve appeases Eddie’s Alpha. Eddie hasn’t jerked off this much in years.

Mostly because there’s, up until recently, been someone around to do it for him, but that’s neither here nor there.

He doesn’t have the horrible, half formed, gritty sensation he had through his whole last rut, and even Eddie recognizes how much better this feels than the last one. Much more clear headed, and, as much as he hates to admit it, much more reasonable. He feels so much better, but he’s not willing to admit that it’s anything to do with walking or yoga or eating vegetables.

Steve would just be unbearably fucking smug about it.

Eddie’s started viewing Steve as a big, annoying, fortune cookie. Crack him open and out pops things like, ‘tidy space, tidy mind,’ and ‘you’d be surprised by how much of a positive an effect something as simple good sleep hygiene can have,’ and ‘have a glass of water, dehydration can affect mood and cognitive function.’

Steve is agreeable about reading his notes to Eddie every evening before he sends them to Chris, and honestly, Eddie sounds like a fucking A plus student once he’s been polished through the filter of Steve’s professional linguistic skills.

Eddie knows he isn’t, not even remotely, but, still. Steve’s on side, which is really nice to know, despite how fucking Steve is…Steve about everything.

Which is why it’s kind of upsetting when, at the end of day four of Steve’s imposed routine, Eddie’s rut starts to cool off. It’s still a little long run for a rut, if Eddie’s rut starts on a Tuesday morning, it’s usually done and dusted by Thursday afternoon but. Still. Not that much longer than normal, and Eddie figures that means it’s balancing out.

Steve knows it too, if the way he keeps side eyeing Eddie is anything to go by.

“What?”

“I haven't actually emailed Chris yet today, I could call her, get out of your hair now. You’re pretty much done, right?”

Eddie faces the prospect of going to bed alone for the first time since Steve got here, and he doesn’t like it. Once the band aid was off, Eddie had no issues scenting Steve. Which has led to, and this is extraordinarily irritating, possibly some of the best sleep Eddie has ever gotten. It probably helps that, despite not usually being at all Eddie’s type, Steve is almost offensively good looking.

And the pectoral pillows are, just, well. Eddie’s more comfortable with company when he sleeps, he guesses. Having the warm lump that is Steve within easy reach has been...nice. Especially compared to the hospital. And his lonely little room at the center. Chrissy made sure that rock star status did not allow Eddie a single spec of preferential treatment when he was drying out.

Not so much as letting him have a tab at the commissary. Eddie couldn’t talk his way out of a single room search, no matter what he offered to sign or whose selfie he offered to pose in. Not that he had anything to hide, but the invasiveness of having his room tossed always made him feel itchy as fuck.

“Maybe, I mean, it’s still a little, like, you know?” Eddie hasn’t had trouble telling people what he wants since he had a number one track, but he knows making demands of Steve will almost, definitely, result in the opposite occurring. He’s got to rely on Steve being the perfect blend of contrary asshole and bleeding fucking heart, “I mean, actually, you know what yeah, you go. Fuck off. Be nice to have the place to myself again. Since it’s actually my house, and everything,” Eddie lets his voice shake a tiny bit, right at the end there, even as he lifts his chin and crosses his arms stubbornly across his chest.

Steve can be a tricky fucker, conning Eddie into scenting and yoga and hidden fucking vegetables, but Eddie’s no slouch.

Steve stares at him for what feels like a long time over the top of his laptop, “I’ll email her that this is the last night then. I’ll go tomorrow sometime, it’s late anyway, I probably shouldn’t leave tonight. If that’s okay.”

Eddie lets his head flop back on the couch cushion so that Steve can’t see his face, “fucking, just, whatever then,” he aims for disgruntled, and he thinks he nails it.

Eddie sighs, blinking at the shadowed blinds that cover his bedroom windows. He resists the urge to nuzzle into Steve’s tee shirt covered pec, then almost the moment he stops himself, his brain does it anyway, operating on autopilot.

Eddie sighs again.

“Can’t sleep?” Steve whispers in the dark, his hand coming up to gently rest on the small of Eddie’s back.

“What’s the suggestion doc? Meditation? Glass of water? Counting sheep? Organize everything in the fridge by expiration-”

Steve snorts a laugh, “it makes it easier to see what to prioritize. Less food waste.”

“Uh hu,” Eddie yawns, “starving kids in Africa would kill for that half a jar of pickle.”

“Probably.”

They lie quiet again, Steve’s hand wandering, dragging the material of Eddie’s vest. Eddie thinks vaguely about what kissing Steve might be like. Soft and pathetic Eddie guesses. Gentle, romantic. Steve probably only kisses people he really cares about, and it probably shows. Minty fresh and soppy and definitely everything Eddie hates.

He shuts that down.

“Tell me about being a boy scout, that shit will put me straight to sleep.”

“Pretty sure I already told you I was never a scout.”

“And I’m pretty sure you’re lying.”

“I don’t lie.”

“Uh hu, that’s exactly something a boy scout would say.”

“My integrity is very important to me.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, “of course it is. What do you do when you can’t sleep?”

Steve hums, thoughtful, “well, you didn’t sound too keen on mediation, so that’s out. So, read, sometimes, I guess.”

“Cop out,” Eddie says, even as he rolls away. He hasn’t read anything for a long time, can’t, truthfully, remember the last time he picked up a book. Eddie was a voracious reader when he was young, and it’s one of the habits that got replaced with...far worse habits. He suddenly misses it. Misses it viscerally. Something that he hasn’t had any interest in at all for...a long time, and at the mere mention of it, it feels like it’s coming back and making demands.

He pads down the hall in the dark; all the scrappy paperback books got banished from Eddie’s bedroom when he did the great redecoration. Probably shouldn’t have done all that when he was fucking high though.

He doesn’t know what he wants to read really, nothing heavy, not this late at night, but then The Gunslinger is staring him right in the face from the dead center of the shelf and Eddie thinks, fuck it, why not?

If Steve is annoyed when he leans over to flick the light on, he doesn’t show it at all. Doesn’t seem even slightly put out by having his sleep delayed, “what you got?”

“The Gunslinger. King.”

“Oh yeah, Dustin likes those, keeps telling me I should read them.”

“You should, they’re the best.”

“You start then.”

“Huh?” Eddie gets settled again on his back, leaning into the crook of Steve’s arm, “start what?”

“You read a bit, then I’ll read a bit, if you want?”

“I…” Eddie wants to protest, because this is dumb, and he doesn’t understand why Steve is showing any interest in it, not really. But he finds himself unable to articulate why it’s dumb, and he knows Steve is always ready to tell him he’s wrong if he points out that Steve doesn’t care, not really. He gives in instead. “The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed...”

Falkor’s in the car, big pink tongue hanging out of his mouth, his head sticking out of the passenger side window of Steve’s car. Eddie vaguely wonders if Falkor is actually going to ride shotgun.

Steve’s got a dinky car; Eddie could buy him a new one.

Steve would fucking hate that, he’d probably donate it to charity or something.

“Okay, pretty sure I’ve got everything.”

“Right, yeah,” Eddie steps back in through his open front door, watching as Steve puts down his bags to pull his jacket out of the little boot room thing that Eddie was informed all rich people houses have.

“Yeah, so I’ve updated Chrissy, pretty sure she’ll be here later. Look after yourself, Eddie.”

“What, because you won’t be here to do it?” It’s meant to be snarky. It is snarky. It’s snarky for all the wrong reasons.

Steve grins though, huffing an almost laugh, “something like that.”

He shuffles through the door, negotiating his very sensible duffle bags, “you sure you got all the dogs stuff?”

“Pretty sure,” Steve shrugs, “but if I don’t that’s Dustin’s problem.”

They stand for a second then, staring at each other, “enjoy the ren fair,” Eddie says, just to drag it out a second longer before he’s alone again.

“Oh yeah! I’m sure I will.”

“You can, uhm, tell me all about it, maybe?” Eddie sticks his hands in his hoodie pockets to avoid fiddling. Steve might not be back. They both know they might never see each other again, that’s pretty much the reality here. Eddie’s rut was okay. He’s been out and dry for...well, few months now. He has a therapist.

He’s kind of doing okay.

“Sure,” Steve answers kindly. Or just...politely, which Eddie doesn’t really like. He much prefers the idea that Steve likes him, even though Eddie’s an asshole.

Maybe Steve likes people who are absolute dick heads to him.

The words are out before Eddie can really give them permission to go, “maybe we could get coffee?”

“Sure thing, Eddie,” Steve says, leaving with a smile and a nod. The smile was Steve’s bullshit professional one, and the words sounded kind of sad. Steve leaving suddenly feels kind of abrupt. Oddly...unfinished.

Eddie senses that he’s just fucked up, but he can’t...he can’t pin down why, because he’s not sure how.

He watches Steve’s little car trundle down the drive.

Chrissy crashes through the kitchen, slapping her bag down on the counter top, “Edward Munson what did you do?”

“What?” Eddie puts his guitar down, half climbing out of the lawn chair, ready to flee off the end of the deck if necessary, “what did I do?”

“Steve just emailed.”

“Right?” Eddie ignores the little twist of feeling in his chest.

“He said that he’s really thankful for the opportunity and really liked his time here, but, regretfully, he isn’t available to support you any longer.” Chris has her arms crossed over her chest, one foot tapping, and Eddie suspects he’s two minutes from having his blood sprayed across the lawn, “so why would that be?”

“I-I mean I don’t know?” Genuinely bewildered and doing his best to ignore just how sharp the hurt is.

“You don’t know?” Eddie’s heard the expression ‘thunderous’ before, and he’s pretty sure it applies now. Right to Chrissy’s face.

“Eddie, how can you not know? You must have done something. I told you not to push his boundaries okay, I told you this is not a sex thing, I told you he is a professional-!”

“Oh,” Eddie deflates. He puts his guitar fully to one side, flopping back in the chair.

“You know what you did?”

Eddie shrugs, “maybe. I mean. I didn’t think it was bad I just-” the warm squirming in Eddie’s chest is desperately unpleasant. The crawling embarrassment. The hurt. Eddie blinks a little too fast, trying to get rid of the sudden wetness accumulating on his lashes, “I didn’t mean it to be bad.”

“Oh honey,” Chrissy seems to turn on a fucking dime, she sits, taking the seat next to Eddie, “what happened?”

“I, uhm,” Eddie can’t even look at her, he’s so mortified, “I asked him out. For coffee. Steve probably saw that as like...encroaching on his professional boundaries or whatever. Not within the framework of his contractual employment. Fraternizing with the paying customers-”

“Eddie,” Chrissy quietly interrupts Eddie’s rambling, touching his arm gently, “why? I thought you didn’t like Steve?”

Eddie shrugs, angrily dashing away the one tear that’s broken free. He’s crying because he’s embarrassed and angry at himself, and now he’s crying he’s even more embarrassed and angry at himself because this is just so stupid-

“Oh. Oh honey that’s okay. I mean...Steve probably gets it all the time, I mean he does spend people’s ruts and heats and stuff with them. That’s probably...confusing for a lot of people.”

“I’m not confused,” Eddie protests quietly, looking across the lawn so he doesn’t have to see Chrissy’s pity face.

“Okay, sure,” Chrissy agrees way too fast. She doesn’t believe him at all. But then, she doesn’t know Steve, not like Eddie does, so she wouldn’t get it.

Eddie gets up, running away from whatever bull shit mess he’s created.

He’s never going to see Steve again.

Twelve

[kkoga]

Hey, can i request a daniela avanzini x fem!reader where your the popular couple in school nd you get in a fight with someone who was flirting with daniela and after she takes care of you

(A/N : Sorry if it sucks a little, its very rushed and its currently 9 am and i finished hikijg about two hours ago and i wrote this at 1 am even tho i had to be up by like 3 or 4 to go hiking...)

FIGHTS AND THE AFTERMATH daniela avanzini x fem!reader

Warning ! Foul words, physical violence

Disclaimer ! Everything written here is pure fiction. Every person is not a real portayal of themselves.

Now playing ! ALL MINE by Brent Faiyaz

WC — 1.03K

Synopsis ! After your long-time rival, Mark, decides to ignore your inital warnings about hitting on your girlfriend, you finally decide you've had enough.

You clicked your tongue at the sight of Mark approaching Daniela. Sophia—your friend—confused by the sudden change in mood, followed your gaze. After seeing Mark slowly make his way to your girl, the Filipina sighed in defeat. She knew you weren't gonna let this one slide.

You and Mark have been rivals for the past four years— you two were competitive with everything you both shared.

You and him were the captain of your basketball teams— him being the captain of the boys team and you being the captain of the girls team.

Although you initially didn't hold anything against the boy, he always seemed to have it out for you, which resulted in the dynamic you both had now.

Everything was a competition. The amount of medals under your teams, the total shots you both made the entire season, popularity— everything.

You were fine with it—it was just fun little banter to you—until he started hitting on your girl.

Daniela Avanzini, the captain of the cheerleading team, a member of the school's modern dance team, the golden girl.

She was every boy and girl's dream girlfriend. She was everything anyone could possibly want.

Or at least she was everything you could possibly want.

It all started four months ago, when you and Daniela had gone public. The two of you had been dating for the past year, and finally had the courage to reveal your relationship.

At first, people were skeptical. Just because you were both popular doesn't mean homophobia just disappears. But eventually, it does. And once the homophobic nonsense settled down, you two became the golden couple of GEFFEN high.

Every student knew you two—that you were together—and you loved it.

Someone, however, hated it just as much as you loved it.

Mark, who thought he was finally winning in the “little game” you two were playing, got trampled because you had managed to score Daniela.

The boy took the game more personally than you thought he did, which was why you were shocked to one day find him leaning over your girlfriend's locker, talking to her with a huge smug smile on his face. Daniela, however, had an uninterested look in her eyes.

The first few times it happened, you were only annoyed. After all, you trusted and knew Daniela would never cheat on you. So, you let it go.

But today was the last time you were going to take this disrespect. You already warned him last time— that if he ever tried again, he'd wish he was being sent to the nurse instead of the hospital.

Before Mark even got a word in, you rushed towards him and pushed him away from Daniela.

“Listen man, I told you to stay the fuck away from my girl. What did you not understand?” Mark scoffs, and counters—or at least tries to.

“Oh please, it's not like she actually wants you. Just wait and see. She'll fall for me the moment she just gives me a chanc—” His rambling was stopped by a punch to the jaw. The sheer force of your punch knocked the boy backwards—and before Mark could even hold his jaw to feel it out—another one made its way to his cheek, causing him to fall on his butt.

You crouched down, grabbed his collar, and threw another punch—to the nose this time—and the boy responds by grabbing your collar and throwing you off of him.

You take a second to process the damage he did, but even that was enough for Mark to land a punch. The boy hit you in the cheek, narrowly missing your nose since you managed to dodge it— even by just a little.

The entire fight lasted ten seconds before Daniela pulled you away from him, another student holding Mark back.

A teacher then rushes to the scene, and tells everyone to back off, before sending you to the nurse and sending Mark to the hospital because you apparently had “Broken his nose”.

Daniela sighs before caressing your hand as the nurse grabs an ice pack.

“Alright, I've already gotten you both your passes, you won't be attending the next class.”

“Wait, me too?” Daniela looks at the nurse in confusion, and the nurse lets out a dry laugh.

“Yes, you too young lady. You were involved in the drama after all— you'll be needed at the principal's office after I deem Miss Basketball captain here ready.” Daniela nods as the nurse hands her the ice pack.

“Apply it for as long as you can. I'll be right back.”

The door clicks, indicating the nurse has already left the room. Silence fills the room until you muster up the courage to speak.

“Listen Dani, I'm so sorry to have involved you in—”

“No no cariño, it's okay. Don't sweat it. I understand why you did it okay?” You wince as Daniela presses the ice pack onto your cheek.

“Really?”

“Really. I just…” Daniela says as she tucks a strand of hair behind your hair.

“I just wish you handled it in a better way.”

You leaned forward and kissed Daniela on the forehead.

“I'm sorry. I… I didn't really mean to you know, hurt him. But with how he was treating you like some leverage to win our little banter? I just couldn’t stand it. You know I'm not the jealous type.” Daniela looks at you in disbelief before speaking.

“What? I could not give less of a fuck about that guy. I'm talking about you getting hurt Mi Vida. I don't ever want to see you in this state again, you hear me?”

You nod, which has Daniela smiling in satisfaction before leaning in and placing a kiss on your forehead.

You raise your right hand as you say the words, “Okay. I, Yn Ln, solemnly swear to never get in a fight in front of you ever again.

Daniela giggles as your tactics, and lowers the ice pack. Your girlfriend leans in—cupping your face—and kisses you on the lips.

You both pull away after a few seconds—out of breath—and say the words you would never get tired of saying.

“I love you, Dani.”

“Love you too babe. Always will.”

[malsmind]

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤

✰ - 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: ✦ tension✦ flirting ✦teasing ✦

wc - 1.1k

the late afternoon sunlight is leaking through your blinds, slicing across the floor in gold lines, and matt’s sitting on the floor in your room, back against your bed, flipping through the notes you printed out. he’s chewing gum obnoxiously loud, legs stretched out like he owns the place, and every few minutes he mutters something under his breath about how dumb this project is.

“who even cares about the 1920s,” he grumbles, glaring at a highlighted paragraph like it personally offended him.

you roll your eyes, sprawled out on your stomach on the rug, highlighter cap between your teeth. “maybe if you actually paid attention instead of skating through school like it’s some side quest, we’d be done already.”

he snorts. “whatever you say, angel.”

you freeze for half a second. that fucking nickname. he knows what it does. he sees the way your jaw tightens and the highlighter slips from your mouth, and he grins like he just won something.

“don’t call me that,” you mutter.

“why not?” he tosses the packet of notes aside and leans back on his hands. “it suits you.”

you sit up, shaking your head. “go choke.”

“kinky,” he says under his breath, grinning wider when you glare at him.

you should’ve known the moment he got bored he’d stop caring about the assignment. he always does this—barely try for fifteen minutes, then shift into full-blown chaos mode. you don’t even stop him when he starts walking around your room, poking at your stuff. you’re too tired to fight him, and honestly, the silence is worse.

“yo,” he says, picking up one of your canvases propped up near the window. “you did this?”

you look up. it’s one of your older paintings—dark, messy, filled with emotion you’ll never admit to anyone. you want to tell him to put it down, but your throat tightens a little.

“yeah. so?”

he studies it for a second, jaw set like he’s thinking too hard. then he says, quieter than you expect, “it’s good. like, really good.”

you blink. “you’re not about to trash it?”

he looks over his shoulder at you. “nah. not this. it’s… kind of sick. you got talent, angel.”

you hate how your chest warms up at the compliment. hate how it feels when he says it like he means it. you look down, biting the inside of your cheek. “whatever.”

he chuckles, setting the canvas back and brushing his hands on his jeans like it’s suddenly too quiet. you hear the rustle of fabric and look up just as he pulls his hoodie off, tossing it onto your bed.

you weren’t expecting the tattoos.

his left arm’s covered in them—not a sleeve, exactly, more like scattered pieces of a puzzle. black ink, sharp lines, little things you can’t make out from where you’re sitting. one looks like a bee. another, some sort of bird with wings. your stomach flips, and you look away fast, hoping he didn’t notice you staring.

he did.

“what?” he mutters, tugging the sleeve of his t-shirt down instinctively, even though it barely helps. “why’re you looking at me like that?”

you blink, caught. “nothing. they’re just… cool. didn’t know you had any.”

he looks away, jaw tense, like the compliment made him uncomfortable. like you just poked at something he didn’t mean to show you.

“yeah, well. most people don’t,” he says, quieter now. “they’re not, like… good or anything.”

“they are,” you say before you can stop yourself. “they’re nice.”

matt’s mouth opens like he’s about to say something cocky, something to deflect—but nothing comes out. he just stares at you, eyes unreadable for once, like he doesn’t know what to do with that.

“…you’re weird,” he finally mumbles, turning around and pretending to care about the notes again.

“takes one to know one.”

he huffs out a laugh under his breath. and yeah, the air shifts a little after that. still teasing, still annoying—but quieter now. like something unspoken cracked open between the two of you, just enough to let a little light in.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

the room’s dim now—sun’s gone and all that’s left is your shitty lamp casting a yellow haze across the rug and the both of you still barely halfway through this cursed project. you glance at the clock on your wall and curse under your breath.

“fuck. it’s almost ten.”

matt’s still sitting next to you, legs outstretched, your laptop balanced on his thighs. he leans back with a groan, arms up over his head, and when he stretches, his shirt rides up just enough to show a sliver of pale skin, the cut of his hipbone. you quickly look away before your brain goes somewhere it shouldn’t.

he exhales, long and dramatic. “i’m gonna head out.”

you blink. “now?”

“yeah, why?”

you hesitate. “it’s late.”

he snorts. “what, you worried about me, angel?”

you don’t answer right away, just shift a little where you’re sitting. it’s stupid—somerville’s not exactly a war zone, but still. weird shit happens at night. people drive like psychos, and you’ve heard one too many stories about break-ins and drunk assholes wandering around past midnight.

“i’m not worried,” you lie. “i just don’t wanna wake up and hear you got hit by a car or stabbed or something. would be a pain in the ass finding a new partner this late in the semester.”

he grins, but there’s something behind it—something softer. “damn. touched.”

you roll your eyes. “shut the fuck up, matt.”

“you know,” he says, pushing himself to his feet, cracking his neck like he’s been sitting there for hours—which he has, technically. “if you want me to stay so bad, you could just say it.”

“if i wanted you to stay, i’d be hospitalized.”

he laughs again, quieter this time, rubbing the back of his neck. “alright. i’ll walk fast. promise not to get murdered.”

but you’re still frowning. not because you’re scared for him—okay, maybe a little—but because there’s something about the way he’s standing there, hoodie in one hand, tattoos peeking from his sleeve, like he’s made of sharp edges but holds himself like he’s already bracing for impact. like he’s used to leaving. used to not being asked to stay. but the real reason he has no worries about his safety is something you don't know, something you'll hopefully never know.

“matt,” you say before you can stop yourself.

he looks back at you, eyebrows raised.

you swallow. “just—text me when you get home, alright?”

he stares at you for a beat too long. you think he’s gonna say something smart. maybe another sarcastic little nickname. but he doesn’t.

“yeah,” he says finally. “okay.”

then he’s gone, slipping out your front door into the night. and you’re left sitting on the floor, staring at the spot he just stood in, heart beating faster than it should.

fuck.

dividers by @issysh3ll

₊⊹ @tits4matt @mattspillowprincess @h3arts4nat @starryfantasydreams @sturns-mermaid @sturniolochrismatt @sturrrrnslvt @bluessturniolo @spaghettislut1 @kittybitch @abbystromboli @urlocallera @loser41ifee @courta13 @phonysuperstarr @sturnsrecord

[eightpackdiaz]

was listening to so high school and i got struck with a kingdon vision…an exes (to lovers) au

(there’s like 2k words under the cut, i dont know what came over me)

so mel and frank met in her first year of undergrad, he was already in his third year, and the way they met was…almost cliché, really, it’s the first day back from summer break, and half his classes already are swamping him with work so he walks his ass to the library because he wants to be a doctor, and he will do well in school, and he will prove his father wrong. except he gets there and the tables are full, because of course they are, it’s still summer and the library has AC so people are there and not even half of them are actively studying. But he looks for a table and there’s one little two person table right next to the back window and he can see a girl already sitting there. She has her back to him, so all he sees is a loose blonde french braid, the back of a pink tshirt, and a very neat pile of books to her right. He feels bad asking because he also doesn’t like sharing the table, but he really needs to start studying, so he walks up to her.

Once he’s in front of her, he forgets what he is going to say for a second. He can’t really see her face, but he can see glasses, and a face covered in sun-kissed freckles, and he thinks his heart is beating a little too fast, and oh fuck. she’s looking up at him with a tiny smile and, wow, okay, maybe that’s what it feels like to meet someone who is your type (even if he previously thought he didn’t have *a* type).

She says “can i help you with something?” and he white knuckles his backpack strap to keep himself from doing something stupid like reaching out and adjusting her glasses, he powers through

“Hi, sorry, do you mind if i sit here? i really need to get started on my papers, and people are here and they’re not even doing homework! how’s that okay? anyways, sorry, i know it can be annoying to share a table, but i promise i really just need to study” why is he rambling?!, he hasn’t been a rambler for years and now she’s looking at him funny but she doesn’t look put off yet, that’s good.

“of course you can! i understand, it can be upsetting that people don’t use the library for actual studying. my name is melissa, but everyone calls Mel, nice to meet you” she punctuates this last sentence with the cutest little wave he had ever seen anyone over the age of 5 make, and woah okay he’s staring, he needs to get a grip

“i’m frank! nice to meet you, are you new here? i don’t think i’ve seen you before, i would remember” okay why is he sounding flirty, he need to stop he said he was only gonna study and he really meant it, but she doesn’t seem to register it or simply chose to ignore it,

she gives him a bigger smile and says “i am! first year of undergrad, i take it you’ve been here longer?”

“i’m starting my third year of biochem, hoping to go to medical school after!”

“me too! not biochem, i mean, i want to go to medical school once i finish mine, i’m in biology!”

and so they start studying, he’s doing his best to not be fidgety and annoying, but he can’t help it and he finds himself stopping himself like four different times, until she very obviously catches him the last one.

“i understand if you need to fidget, it won’t bother me, and i’m sure it would help you focus more, i sometimes need to stim to really concentrate”

and he just looks at her, in awe, because this is the first time someone *isn’t* bothered by his fidgeting

And so they have little snippets of a conversation during their hours of study that day, at the end he tells her that he would like to do this again, and she smiles, and tells him she would too, and before he knows it they’ve exchanged numbers, with mel explicitly stating “i do prefer phone calls because i have a hard time deciphering people’s tones via text” and as he sees her walk away he gets a feeling deep in his bones that his life is never going to be the same again

during that first week they study together three times, he’s not ashamed to say he reached out the very next day after that first meeting, and actually, he’s not ashamed to say he reach out all three of those times, but every single time he called, he was met with a bright and warm “hi frank! how are you doing today?”, so all things considered he’s more than happy to keep doing it.

studying with mel is amazing, really. they’re a great team, he learns a lot from her, and tells her that. he has the wild thought that if they were to practice together, they would save s lot of patients.

they’ve been study buddies for about three weeks when for the very first time, they hang out without the pretense of homework, he invited her to go with him to try a new pizza place he heard about, and truly, he has no expectations.

he likes her, of course he does, shes so beautiful, and so smart, and her eyes are so bright, and even when he can tell that she’s missing her sister she never lets that affect the way she treats others, always so kind and patient. she’s in no uncertain terms someone who he knows he’s gonna fall inlove with, he just knows she doesn’t see him that way, and he’s okay with that.

mel is the funniest person he’s ever met. he spends half the dinner laughing and he thinks that maybe she doesn’t first get most jokes but my god her own sense of humour is amazing, and they have enough rapport now that she can appreciate some of his darker jokes, especially because since day one he now follows them immediately with “its a joke”, and it’s great, and god, he wishes this was a date.

he feels it important to note that whilst she does recoil to most people’s touch or proximity, after that very first day she has been okay with him standing or being near, he doesn’t touch her much, doesn’t want to test his luck, and also doesn’t think his heart could handle it. but he’s always near, always almost touching, and she lets him, and he feels like he has done something right.

so for about two weeks after that, they start hanging out more and more, yeah he has a friend group, and she’s making her own friends but they make time for each other. they meet for coffee on the way to campus, or meet in between classes just to talk about anything other than school, and little by little he can tell that this crush of his is becoming more.

they’ve known each other for about two months, when they’re in his apartment, his roomates aren’t there (yes he made sure of this, no not like *THAT*) and they’re watching a movie, and they’re sitting in the sofa and then she leans her head on his shoulder.

his heart is going a mile a minute, she initiated the contact and god, her hair smells like strawberries, and he can feel her breathing through his tshirt, and he feels her cheek move, so now he knows she’s smiling.

the movie ends, and she looks up, they hold eye contact for about 5 seconds before he blurts out “wouldyouliketogoonadatewithme” before he chickens out

she just blinks, and he sees her trying to process it, but he waits, he will always wait for her.

“yes, i would like to go on a date with you. i like you, and i could tell that you liked me too, but figured maybe i was confusing signals because you didn’t ask”

and so he explains, that no, he very much does like her but he is a coward. she just smiles and says “i would never call you a coward”

and so they go on a date, he’s had a handful of first dates in his life, but he has never felt this at peace in one before, there’s nerves of course there’s nerves, but it’s like his system knows, it’s like it’s saying “there you are, i’ve been waiting for you” and it lets him feel calm.

the date is amazing, he asks if he can hold her hand, and her answer is to take his hand and swing their joined hands between them and he thinks his heart will explode. at the end of the date, he walks her to her house. he asks if he can kiss her, and he sees her thinking about it, but he waits, he will always wait for her.

she nods, short and determined. he leans in, projecting his movements so she knows what to expect.

he swears he can see fireworks when he closes his eyes, he feels like floating, her hands are clutching the front of his shirt and he decides that it’s his favourite thing ever. they part, he bids her good night and takes a deep breath after she enters her house, he feels delirious to think it, but one day he’s going to marry that girl.

he meets becca after dating mel for six months. becca’s funny, and crazy smart. she tells him in no uncertain terms “i told mel to find someone to kiss at college, so you’re welcome” the responding blush in mel’s checks is what frank’s dreams are made of.

they have a lot of firsts, firsts for him, firsts for her, and firsts together.

they date for about two years. he knows this is it, he knows he’s never going to love anyone the way he loves her, he’s known it from the very first time he sat in front of her.

then he gets accepted to med school on the other side of the country, and he knows she won’t want a long distance relationship because they’ve talked about it, and she loved him but this was a boundary for her, and he applied there because his mom moved to pittsburgh last year after the divorce, and he misses her, and because he really likes their medical program, and because mel from the very beginning told him to stick to his life plan because as much as they love each other, they both have dreams, and those dreams might be similar but they’re not the same.

The day he gets the acceptance letter, they both know their relationship has an expiration date. They are officially together right until the morning he’s set to move away. They wanted to break up amicably, they still love each other so deeply, he thinks knows she will always be his one true love. They kiss goodbye, and they’re both crying, and as soon as they part she says “i love you, and i want you to be happy, so please. try to move on, we can be friends in a few months, but first, we need to try to move on”

the day they become friends again never comes. he loves her so much it aches, but he knows she’s right, and he also knows they might never see each other again, and he needs to focus on med school, and if he can do something is make his mom proud and prove his dad wrong, and…

goddamn it, its been two years and he still can feel the ghost of her touch, he can still hear the way he used to call her name, he can still….he needs to stop. he needs to get laid, he needs to move on. she probably has moved on already, he doesn’t know, because he’s been too much of a coward to check, and because she said to be friends when they move on, and he hasn’t moved on so why even try to reach out.

abby is the polar opposite of mel, she’s also clearly into him and he thinks she’s fun and attractive so he goes for it, he knows there’s a saying about getting under someone to get over someone, and he’s drunk enough that he doesn’t care that she’s not who he really wants her to be.

“i’m pregnant” abby says into the phone, it’s late, and he was studying for an exam, and he’s in the middle of his third year of med school. what the fuck is he going to do.

abby and him are friends, they like each other, they fuck sometimes, and she wants to keep the baby, and he likes her enough to think that he might convince himself one day that he loves her.

so life goes on, they get married because her parents want that, they have tanner and he loves his son, and there’s a pandemic, and he’s just starting his residency and the world is falling apart, but things get better, him and abby are still really good friends, he tells himself he’s not lying to her when he says he loves her, because he’s not, she’s the mother of his kids, and he does love her, she’s just not. well.

it’s just another random thursday, and he’s leaning on the desk in front of him because his back is killing him and he’s only been here like 20 minutes, but he’s trying to space out his pills so, he is doing his best, and then robby wants to introduce the….

he knows that braid. he hasn’t seen her face, and robby is talking but he knows that…

“…second year resident, dr melissa king, fresh from the VA” robby says, like this isn’t taking the air straight out of frank’s lungs. he blinks, looks away and at the computer because this can’t be happening, she’s here. his life is falling apart, his back is killing him, abby is angry at him for god knows why, but shes here, his mel is here.

“everyone calls me mel. i’m so happy to be here” he wonders if she hasn’t realized he’s right behind her. he’s looking at that braid, he’s standing behind her and he can’t stop staring, and he’s suddenly 20 years old again.