#why is making content for your content embarrassing

[wisteriashouse]

group project.

pairing: phainon x reader

word count: 6.1k

synopsis: college!au phainon. that's it. that's the story. mihoyo please let this man be happy (i will eat shaoji if he doesn't come back).

chapters: part one | part two (tbc)

The first time the two of you meet, Phainon gets off on the wrong foot with you — quite literally. And you say him, not you, because he’s the one who trips — half drunk with a can of beer in his hand — and spills its contents all over your shirt.

You hadn’t intended to go to that party. In fact, you hadn’t been intending on leaving your apartment at all that night. The first week of the semester started tomorrow, and you had an early morning lecture that you were already contemplating skipping to sleep in. But Castorice, the first friend you’d made in freshman year, had somehow caught wind that the host owned a Samoyed puppy with fur soft enough to dispel the black tide of finals week depression. That alone had been enough motivation for her to overcome her usual social awkwardness, and check the party out.

And you, as her good friend, had of course agreed to accompany her. Which is why you are now standing awkwardly in the hallway of an unfamiliar house — alone, you might add — with a single can of coke in your hand as Robin’s latest hit song blasts throughout the house.

“Rise up into my world! Renew your definition…”

You’d lost Castorice within ten minutes of entering the house — hopefully she’s found the Samoyed, at least. You, on the other hand, have quickly realised that you know no one here. Which isn’t really saying much, considering the number of friends you’ve made in college, but there must be someone that you can at least talk to, right?

You glance around. From the snippets of conversation you’ve managed to pick up, it sounds like the people here are mostly from Okhema University’s sports clubs. Is this some sort of jock convention? The most athletic thing you’d done lately was run after your bus, which you’d then proceeded to miss regardless. Embarrassing.

Perhaps you should make an attempt at social interaction, since you’re already here? To your left, a group of about fifteen stocky men with disproportionately large arms to legs — rowers, maybe? — crowd around the beer pong table, cheering and yelling so loudly the sound reverbs in your skull. You look to your right. In the kitchen, a blond guy in a fur lined jacket proceeds to pour half a bottle of vodka straight down his throat. 

You should probably be concerned, but decide that you’re not ready to be complicit to a murder this Sunday night. That’s a no to social interaction, then.

Your phone suddenly buzzes. Relieved, you fish it out of your pocket only to be disappointed to see that it’s not Castorice texting to ask if you want to go home right now.

De: you’re not rotting in bed

De: where are you

Straight to the point and mildly insulting. You can’t help your smile as you reply. Aww, you’ve missed your roommate.

You: at a party rn

He texts back almost instantaneously.

De: you get invited to parties????

De: ???????

You: i’m not friendless like u

You: btw hyacine is here

You: you WISH you cld be me

Hyacine, full name Hyacinthia, is a warm and bubbly third year student studying medicine in Okhema University. You’ve never actually been in the same social circles, but the girl is a literal ray of sunshine — everyone gets along with her. You’d contemplated taking shelter in her social bubble earlier, but she’d been chatting to a few other friends, and so you’d slunk away like a stray with your tail between your legs.

She also happens to be the object of your roommate’s blooming affections. Has been, ever since the last sports season, when he’d twisted his ankle during a basketball match and she’d been on first aid duty. It would have been a cliche made in heaven, too, if not for the fact that your roommate had the personability of a public latrine. And the fact that he simply refuses to approach her in any way, shape or form — does she even know he exists?

“You know, you could just ask her out. Like a normal person,” you’d said once, when you’d seen him pining — no, staring — after her from across the football field. She’d been walking alongside one of her friends, pink twin tails bouncing behind her and wearing a smile that outshone the arena floodlights. “Instead of stalking her like an emotionally constipated creep.”

“There are no words for ‘asking her out’ in the Kremnoan dictionary.” But he hadn’t denied the emotionally constipated part. Or the stalker bit, which might have been a cause for concern, now that you think about it.

You’d stared at him with a mixture of resignation and pity. “I’m starting to think that the Kremnoan dictionary doesn’t have any words at all, actually.”

As expected, your roommate replies with a friendly ‘fk u’, which is then followed by a ‘need me to drive you back?’ Truly, the epitome of modern day chivalry, you think to yourself with some amusement. Now, if only he could string together more than just a grunt in Hyacine’s presence…

You: nope

He doesn’t reply after that. Sighing, you decide to look around one more time for your missing friend when your phone suddenly buzzes again.

This time, it is Castorice (hooray!) — regretfully explaining that she’d been so enamoured with the Samoyed that she’d taken over a hundred pictures on her phone, promptly drained all of its battery and then had to go home to get it charged because she was too afraid to ask for a wire. This update is followed by a lengthy apology, a plea for forgiveness, and finally ends with several crying emojis.

You gape down at the message for a moment, feeling all five stages of grief cycling through you before you let out a sigh. Castorice’s phone has been on life support since freshman year — you’re surprised it’s lasted this long, to be honest — so this isn’t unexpected.

You glance up at the clock on the wall. Forty five minutes past midnight. You could have been in bed an hour ago in your comfy pajamas, scrolling through braindead reels. Instead, you’re… here.

Well, better late than never, you suppose. You toss the remainder of your drink into the trash and are just about to head out when you crash into someone exiting from the living room.

A yelp escapes you when you feel something cold and wet spill all over the front of your shirt, speaking into the fabric. Did they just— You glance up at the culprit. He stares back at you, blue eyes wide open and mouth open even wider. There’s a can of beer in his hand, dripping from his fingers. He looks mortified.

“Oh, my god.” He flounders for a moment, setting the can down next to his feet, before he picks it up — huh? — and sets it down again. It’s like watching a computer programme lag right in front of your eyes. His cheeks are slightly flushed — whether it’s from the alcohol or embarrassment, you’re not quite sure — and his white hair is a little dishevelled when he runs his fingers through it nervously. It just makes him look more effortlessly handsome, which is unfair, excuse you. But even that doesn’t do much to distract you from the cold beer dripping from the hem of your shirt.

“I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry.” He looks as though he wants nothing better than to evaporate on the spot. “Let me just…”

The guy disappears into the kitchen and returns less than half a minute later with what is, frankly, an absurd number of paper towels. He then attempts to pat your shirt dry, crouching so that he can wipe at the stain properly, but looks up just in time to see you staring at him as though he’s grown a second head. It’s only then that he realises just how incriminatingly close his hands are to your chest.

“Fuck.” The guy yanks his hands back so fast you’d think he was burned, a bright red flush creeping up his cheeks. “I am so sorry. I swear, I wasn’t trying to do anything inappropriate. I just—” He gestures helplessly at your shirt, looks like he wants to explain further but thinks the better of it, before finally giving up, arms falling awkwardly to his sides. “Sorry.”

His voice is meek.

“It’s alright.” You take the offered paper towels and he straightens up, rubbing the back of his neck —it’s only then that you realise that he’s tall. Maybe even taller than Mydei, actually. “It’s really not a big deal. I was heading back, anyway.”

“Oh.” He frowns. “Alone? At this hour?” There’s concern leaking into his voice, which would probably be more sweet if he hadn’t just spilled half a can of beer all over your shirt. A shirt that is now, to your displeasure, slightly translucent from the wetness. It’s not that long of a walk, and there shouldn’t be many people out right now at this time of the night, but still… You’re starting to regret turning down Mydei’s offer to drive you home.

“My apartment’s not that far away.” You tell him as you pick at the hem of your shirt with a sigh of resignation. “Don’t worry about it, seriously.” You turn around to leave, but the guy stops you.

“Oh, wait!” He quickly pulls off the varsity jacket that he’s wearing, revealing a black muscle tee underneath and some very nice arms. You have to do your best not to stare. Maybe he’s a basketball player? He hands it to you. “Please, take it. It’s not quite enough of an apology, but…”

Did he notice…? You take it gingerly, a little surprised. The fabric is still warm, carrying his residual body heat, and soft to the touch. For a moment, you wonder if you should refuse — you barely know the guy — but he looks at you so earnestly that you find yourself unable to turn him down. Seriously, that expression should be illegal on him… “Alright, then. Thank you.”

His face brightens. “No problem. It was my fault, after all.” He smiles at you, just a tad shyly. “Then, see you around.”

You wear the jacket back to your apartment. All the lights have already been turned off when you unlock the door — as expected, your roommate is already fast asleep, his snores muffled through his bedroom door. The man sleeps at ten, who does that in university? Sighing in disbelief, you trudge to your own room, ready to wash up and collapse into bed yourself.

Suddenly, you remember that you’re still wearing that guy’s varsity jacket. It’s far too big on you, but it’s warm and unbelievably soft and doesn’t even stink of sweat (you’re stereotyping, maybe). Instead, it smells faintly of fabric softener and a hint of cologne at the collar — something woody and citrusy that makes you think of sunshine. You’re wondering what scent he uses when it occurs to you that you’re the one acting like a creep now.

You blame Mydei, just like you do for a litany of life’s other problems. Taking the jacket off, you glance at the back. It’s then that you realise the jacket has no name, just a number stitched across the back — 13. Okhema University… you frown. Now, how the hell are you supposed to return this? You didn’t even get his name.

You stare down at the jacket for a few more moments before you give up. Grumbling, you toss it over the back of your chair and hurl yourself onto the mattress.

Well, that’s a problem for another day.

The first half of the week passes by in a blur.

You and Castorice have no classes together this semester, which isn’t a surprise, considering that she does veterinary medicine and you study computer science (a futureless field, it’s been looking like). To make things worse, your faculty buildings are on opposite ends of the campus — a tragic situation for your friendship. Regardless, the two of you still try to hang out between classes, just to catch up and make sure that the other isn’t dead yet.

And today, there are some new faces seated at your usual table in the cafeteria. Cifera is one of them, slumped over the table in an oversized cat-eared hoodie and an empty can of coffee next to her. Her laptop is open in front of her, but she hasn’t touched it in the last fifteen minutes. She’s friends with Hyacine, according to Castorice — and she’d taken a gap semester to go travel the world, only returning a few weeks ago to complete her final year.

“This dissertation,” Cifera mumbles into the table, “is going to be the death of me.”

You sneak a quick glance at her screen. It’s open to a word document, empty except for the list of bullet points with various spellings of the word ‘AHHHHHH’ and a skull emoji at the very end. Looks about right.

“The first week of the semester isn’t even over,” Dan Heng points out unhelpfully, and then swiftly ducks to avoid the empty coffee can she throws at him. “What I meant is, you still have twelve weeks left. That’s still plenty of time.”

“Time isn’t the problem, my will to live is.” She takes another look at her screen and groans like she’s been burned. “Or the lack of it, anyway.” You glance at Stelle, who’s chugging a packet of banana milk like her life depends on it.

“Any wise words of encouragement from IntergalacticBaseballer69?”

Your grey haired friend holds up a hand. For a moment, you almost think that she might say something profoundly motivational, but you’ve been acquainted with her long enough to know otherwise. “It’s garbage can,” she begins, looking very pleased with herself. “Not garbage cannot—”

Dan Heng shoves a hand over her mouth before she can finish her sentence. “Anyway, I can help with the formatting stuff, if you need it. I practically had to redo all of her—” he glances down at Stelle, who’s doing her best to bite at his fingers like a rabid dog, “— essays for her since she decided to take, ah, creative liberties with her citation format.”

Cifera stares at him like he’s the second coming of Kephale, before she places both hands flat on the table and bows low. “I will give you my firstborn child.”

“I don’t want that.”

A thought suddenly occurs to you. You look at Dan Heng. “By the way, where are March and Caelus? I thought the four of you always stick together like gum.”

A look of panic crosses Stelle’s face at that, but Dan Heng grabs her by the collar before she can run. “March dragged Caelus with her to help set up the photography club’s booth,” Dan Heng explains flatly. “Stelle escaped by pretending to have food poisoning.”

“Wow,” you raise an eyebrow, impressed. “Looks like that year in the drama club paid off.”

“Please don’t tell March,” Stelle pleads.

Cifera’s smile turns just a touch evil. “Well, if you’re willing to pay a price, of course…”

Fortunately, Stelle is saved from having her soul bartered away by Castorice and Hyacine, who return with an assortment of sandwiches and kombucha from the nearest convenience store. The two of them have a class together, which is how you’d all ended up at the same table in the first place.

Hyacine gives you a bright smile as she takes the empty seat next to you. Gods, she’s just so nice. It’s no wonder why Mydei is so, to put things eloquently, down bad for her.

“By the way, did you guys hear about the jacket drama that’s been going around recently?” Dan Heng asks idly as he picks at his cucumber salad. You glance up at him, frowning.

“Didn’t know you were into this kind of gossip stuff.”

“March has been talking about it non-stop for days now,” Stelle supplies. Now that makes a lot more sense. Castorice looks up from her sandwich, looking lost.

“Jacket drama? As in, there are people arguing over what kind of jacket is best?” Hyacine giggles a little at that.

“No, not that.” Dan Heng shakes his head. “There was a photo circulating socials — someone was spotted wearing the football captain’s jacket a few nights ago, apparently.” He shrugs. “It’s not really a big deal, but some people seem to think that it is, you get what I mean? So they’re trying to figure out if he’s dating or not.”

Wow, what a coincidence. You, too, happen to be in a similar situation — a situation that has been dragging out longer than you’d expected, actually. You’ve been keeping an eye out for that guy all week — you’d think that someone with white hair and legs longer than the Eiffel Tower would be easy to spot, but no. Does he even come to campus? Maybe it’s finally time to swallow your pride and ask Mydei for help…

Cifera yawns, runs a hand through her messy hair. “He’s already dating someone though, right? The business student with the pink hair — Cyrene, if I remember correctly. They’re sharing a house for university or something.” Hyacine hums in disagreement.

“They’re just childhood friends, I think.” She smiles at you, and it’s like being engulfed by a cloud of cotton candy. “You’re rooming with the basketball captain too, aren’t you? Are the two of you childhood friends as well?”

So she does know that he exists! Thank the gods, there’s still a glimmer of hope for your emotionally repressed roommate. “Oh, no, we were just assigned to the same apartment by chance.” You need to think about this — how can you best sell Mydei to Hyacine? “I was really lucky to end up together with him — he’s amazing at cleaning. Cooking, too! Somehow the chicken breasts he makes are never dry. And his souffle pancakes are the softest ever.”

“Did he pay you to glaze him or something…?” Stelle mumbles, incredulous, but you’re too focused on your mission to hear her.

“Mydei works out regularly, but always makes sure to shower before he comes back to the apartment. Oh, and he leaves his shoes at the door. Even sleeps at ten.” You rack your mind for what else a girl would find conventionally attractive in a man. “He volunteers at a cat shelter, too!”

Hyacine laughs, seafoam green eyes crinkling. “He sounds like a good boyfriend.”

He would be! “Yeah!” You nod vigorously, too preoccupied to notice the way Dan Heng and Castorice are gaping openly at you. She’s seeing the vision! “I mean, if he could clean up that potty mouth of his, he’d be almost flawless. But no one’s perfect, right?” She smiles.

“Of course.”

The conversation returns to the topic of the football captain and his childhood friend, who Hyacine is actually acquainted with, apparently, but you have other things to worry about. Smug, you type a message to Mydei and send it, far too pleased with yourself.

You: name your firstborn kids in my honour

De: ?????

On Friday, Mydei wakes you up with an airhorn and a pillow to the face.

“Get up, loser,” he says, standing unsympathetically over you with his arms folded even as you try to burrow yourself back under the blankets. It’s cold, god damn it. 

“I’m sleeping in,” you announce, as assertively as you can. Every bone in your body feels weighed down by lead — an allergy to higher education, perhaps? But before you can contemplate on that possibility, Mydei bends down and rips your covers off you with little to no warning. You shriek as your toes are exposed unceremoniously to the freezing air. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Get up.” And then he just leaves.

With your roommate holding your blankets hostage, you’re forced to drag yourself into the kitchen in your pajamas. Mydei, on the other hand, looks like he’s already showered and dressed after his morning workout. His usual leather jacket seems a little tighter around than usual around his shoulders — was he working out even during the holidays? Discipline is definitely a word in the Kremnoan dictionary.

You stumble into one of the kitchen chairs and come face to face with a spread of yoghurt, cut fruit and ciabatta sandwiches. The peaches are even pitted and sliced. Once again, you put your hands together and thank whichever high power put you and Mydei in the same apartment. The universe must have known you would die from an instant ramen overdose if you hadn’t.

“Can’t have you constipated and hogging the only toilet in the apartment,” Mydei had said bluntly in your first year as roommates, when he’d first started preparing your portion alongside his. “Besides, cooking bigger portions is more cost efficient.”

Well, you definitely hadn’t been in a position to complain. 

You start on the sliced peaches as Mydei scrolls idly on his phone opposite you. He’s got his grandpa glasses on, longish blond hair pulled back in a messy bun. It’s a little uneven, because he cut it himself, but he doesn’t look half bad like this, actually. Maybe if you took a picture and just happened to show it to Hyacine…

The genius of your thoughts are interrupted by the sound of Mydei clicking his tongue. He looks annoyed — well, more so than usual. “Damn football guys, hogging the gym again.”

Ah, so it’s already started again this semester. “Can’t you find another gym on campus?”

“The rest of the gyms don’t have this cable machine that we need. Basketballers need to train their shoulders, to help with shooting power and overhead—” He takes one look at you and gives up explaining immediately. “Anyway, it’s ridiculous that this keeps happening. The footballers don’t even need those machines.”

“Wow,” you say through a mouthful of fruit. “Maybe you guys just have slower reaction speeds. Hey, which moves quicker, a basketball or a football?”

“We do not have slower reaction speeds.” Mydei scowls, but doesn’t answer your question. “We have a guy camping on the facilities website the second the availability for the week resets. I swear, Professor Aglaea has to be showing favouritism to the football captain or something.” He shakes his head, grips his pink — pomegranate juice and milk — protein shake a little tighter. “What’s a fashion professor doing managing the facilities allocations, anyway?”

You inch back slowly in case it explodes in his fist. “You’ve been complaining about that HKS,” Mydei’s face twists as you butcher his native tongue horrendously, “ever since you became captain of the basketball team. Have you ever tried, y’know… just talking to him about it?”

“Have I tried what?”

This guy is hopeless. “Resolve it like real men, then.” Mydei gives you a flat look.

“And how would you suggest we do that?” His tone is dry.

“Fistfight in a Wendy’s parking lot. Deathmatch,” you think for a bit, then add on, sagely. “Hot gay sex in the back of a car afterwards. Can’t hurt.”

You barely manage to dodge the washtowel that Mydei hurls at you. “I will strangle you in your sleep.”

“Oh, do it. It’ll save me from having to attend Professor Anaxa’s critical thinking seminar later.”

He narrows his eyes. “I’ll stop making golden honeycake stacks.” You stare at him, aghast. This has got to qualify as emotional blackmail of some sort.

“Please just kill me instead.”

“No. And speaking of your seminar,” Mydei glances up at the clock. “Aren’t you going to be late?”

You are horrified to realise that he is right. Shit. Professor Anaxa is known for many things, but his leniency towards latecomers is not one of them. “You could have reminded me earlier!” You yell over your shoulder as you race to your room, nearly tripping over a chair leg in your mad dash.

“I’m not your mom,” he mutters, shakes his head when he sees you sprint out of the apartment with mismatched socks and your backpack slipping off one shoulder. “And you forgot your lunch!”

Mydei shouts the last part, but you’re already zooming off down the corridor — almost as fast as the great Zagreus himself. Shaking his head, he turns back to his phone with a fond sigh. Dumbass.

You make it to the faculty building in record time. You’ve nearly been run over by a car, a bicycle and a wheelchair (not all at once, though), and there’s a leaf stuck in your mouth from when you’d nearly faceplanted a hedge. But hey, you’d managed to get here on time, and in one piece, to boot!

Well, mostly one piece.

“And so, we will begin by—” Professor Anaxa stops in the middle of his sentence when you burst into the seminar room, wheezing like you’ve just run a marathon. For a moment, he just stares at you, as does the rest of the class. Brows pinching, he raises his arm to glance at his watch. “You are, unfortunately…” His face becomes flat when he sees the time. “Three seconds away from being late.”

You put on your most willing smile. “No points deducted then, professor.”

“Not yet,” your professor huffs before returning his attention to his slides. “Sit down, before I change my mind.”

You glance around only to see one available seat remaining, right next to the professor’s table. As expected… With a sigh, you make your way to the front and take your place, keeping your head as low as possible in hopes that nobody remembers your face.

It doesn’t work. 

“It’s you!”

Your head snaps to the side so quickly you can hear the bones in your neck creak. To your shock, a familiar face looks back at you with the bluest eyes, looking just as surprised. It’s the guy — the same one who’d spilled his drink on you a week ago.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” He looks so delighted to see you that you’re a little thrown off. “I only realised after you left that I had no idea who you were, and you probably wouldn’t know me either so it would be impossible for you to return me my jacket, and—”

“Phainon, is there something fascinating going on there that you’d like to share with the class? Or perhaps, you’d like to take over as professor?”

The guy instantly seals his mouth shut. “Nope, not at all, Professor.” Only when Professor Anaxa turns his withering glare on another pair of unfortunate students does he turn back to you. There’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he whispers, “Talk to you after class.” His eyes are bright.

You nod and sink back into your chair, unwilling to attract the ire of your professor another time today.

So, his name is Phainon.

Three hours of mind boggling thought exercises later and several mock debates, you stumble out of the seminar feeling as though your brain has just been run through a washing machine cycle. For some reason, Professor Anaxa had kept targeting you with questions during the whole seminar — which was deserved, you suppose. Even Phainon had shot you some sympathetic looks as he watched you flounder under the weight of Professor Anaxa’s stare.

And speaking of Phainon…

“Hey, wait up!” You turn to see Phainon jogging after you, sneakers slapping lightly against the pavement. His hair is white — really white, not just a bleached blond — under the sunlight. How could you possibly have missed seeing this man on campus? He smiles wide when he catches up to you, eyes as blue as the clear sky above. “It’s nice to finally meet you, um…”

You give him your name, and he repeats it. “It’s a nice name,” he says, in a way that almost makes you believe he means it. There’s a sort of effortless charm about him, in the way that he smiles bright and genuine and so enthusiastically. The looks don’t hurt, either… “I’m Phainon. In case you forgot, I was the guy who—”

“Spilled his drink on my shirt, yeah.” One his hands comes up to rub at the back of his neck. “Definitely made an impression.”

“Not a good one, I assume…” Phainon’s smile turns sheepish as he looks at you. You shrug.

“A lasting one, at least. I’ve been looking for you all week.”

His mouth forms a little ‘o’, head cocking to the side. “You have?”

“Yeah. I wanted to return your jacket—” You start digging through your backpack, only to remember that you’d tossed it out this morning in your mad rush to fit your laptop inside. “Shucks. I left it at home. Sorry.”

“It’s no problem.” Phainon grins at you. Something about him just reminds you of a gigantic golden retriever, friendly and easygoing. “We can always just exchange numbers, and you can pass it to me any time that’s convenient for you?”

“Alright, then.” He hands you his phone, and you key in your number quickly. “Done.”

Phainon fiddles with his phone, and a few seconds later a text message from an unknown number pops up. You open it to see a sticker of a white, furry cloud — a Samoyed puppy — with its head tilted to the side, tongue lolling out. Cute.

“Good?” Phainon asks and you nod, slipping your phone back into your pocket. You’re thinking how to bid him goodbye when he asks, suddenly awkward. “Um… wanna grab a bite?”

You stare at him for a few seconds before squinting. “Look, buddy, if this is your way of picking up girls…”

A laugh escapes Phainon at that in a rush. It’s a… pleasant sound, actually. “No, no. Promise I’m not that kind of weirdo.” He holds up his hands, and then frowns. “Or any kind of weirdo, actually. I just… I thought it’d be nice to get to know you, since I don’t know anyone else in this class. And I’m still embarrassed about what happened that night, you know?” His smile is genuine, earnest. “I’d like some kind of chance to redeem my image.”

You snort, amused. “Not happening. I watched you put down and pick up the same drink. Twice.”

Phainon’s face crumples a little at that like wet tissue paper. “I was hoping that you wouldn’t remember that.”

“It’s the good basis for a future friendship,” you say, and his eyes brighten. “Humiliation.”

“Then, you’ll let me make it up to you?” He’s smiling again now. “My treat, of course. As an apology.”

Mydei had once said that you could be lured off a cliff by free food. And you know what? He’s probably right. “Well… if you’re treating…”

Phainon grins. “Deal.”

Phainon introduces you to a cafe nestled next to the arts faculty building, Elysia. It’s a quaint little space, furnished with hanging moon charms and bundles of dried flowers, somehow achieving the perfect balance between occult and cozy. It’s relatively lively inside, with students queuing at the counter to get their coffee to go, but the two of you find a small table nestled between bookshelves. You take a seat on the cushion while Phainon heads to the counter to order.

He comes back a few minutes later with two cups of cold-brewed coffee and a cake that resembles a pink cloud sitting on your plate — how is it shimmering? It looks more concept than edible. “I hope you’re in the mood for diabetes.”

“Starved.”

“Great.” Phainon grins a little at that, and then gestures at the cake like he’s showing off his firstborn son. “Because this is the best tasting item on the menu.” You raise an eyebrow as you pick up your fork — well, someone’s confident.

“That sounds like exaggeration.”

“No, I’m dead serious. I’ve tried every item on the menu.” You stare at Phainon for a moment, trying to decide for a moment whether he’s lying straight faced to you or not. 

“Now you’re just shitting me.”

“Constipated, I’m afraid. I was duty bound to try out everything when the menu was still in its experimental stages — my friend’s the owner.” You nearly drop your fork.

“What.” Phainon shrugs like it’s no big deal.

“Well, I hope this doesn’t turn out to be some kind of pyramid scheme…” you say, and he laughs, resting his chin on his knuckles as you slice a small piece and place it in your mouth. Soft, light and fluffy — it’s like having a sugary cloud in your mouth. The tartness of the strawberries cut perfectly through the richness of the cream. Mydei’s golden honeycake stacks might actually be getting some competition here. “Ohmygod, this is so good?”

He grins, looking pleased. “I’ll let Cyrene know.”

You slice a bigger piece this time. “How did your friend end up owning this cafe?” you ask, curious as you dig into the rest of the cake. Phainon hums.

“Business school initiative for aspiring entrepreneurs. They gave a big discount on the lease, and she managed to impress them with her plans.” You catch a hint of pride slipping into his voice as he speaks, eyes warm with fondness. “She’s going to be a big time businesswoman in the future, I just know it.” 

Oh, is he…? 

“What do you study, then?” you ask instead, because this is only the second time the two of you have met, and the first barely even counts. To your surprise, Phainon perks up at that.

“Classical archaeology and ancient history.” You do a double take — there is no way you would have expected such an answer. Phainon grins when he sees the look on your face. “Shocked my parents too, really. I think I probably watched too many Indiana Jones movies as a kid — pity the actual degree doesn’t have very much to do with escaping the Temple of Doom.”

“Anything can be related if you’re brave enough. Maybe your thesis subject can be the speed needed to outrun a giant rolling boulder.”

Phainon laughs and, to your surprise, starts to break down what such a thesis paper would look like. It’s ridiculous, really, but he’s so earnest about it that you can’t help but nod along and laugh when some of his points actually start to make too much sense. It’s inspiring to see someone that is really, actually passionate about what they study, in this godforsaken late stage capitalism economy. 

The conversation flows easily between the two of you. You learn that he’s specialising in Ancient Amphorean history, and you tell him about your latest software engineering project. You both share traumatic stories about useless groupmates and some of the wildest things you’ve heard Professor Anaxa be accused of doing. Phainon thinks he and Professor Aglaea (known for their long standing rivalry) have some kind of strange chemistry between them. You agree and tell him that it’s sodium and water.

He has to google the reaction before he throws his head back to laugh at that, a clear and bright sound that makes something inside you do a little backflip in your chest. You feel like you’ve won some kind of victory.

You’re about to throw in an embarrassing story about Mydei when all of a sudden, your phone buzzes. Frowning, you glance down at the screen.

De: dinner time

De: making risotto

De: hurry up or it’ll start clumping

Damn, is your roommate reading your mind or something? Then you frown. What does he mean, dinner time?

You glance out of the window and are stunned to see that the sun has already begun to set, casting a honeyed golden warmth over the buildings outside. The ice in your drinks has long melted, the empty plate emptied of even its crumbs. How have you been here for a whole five hours without noticing?

Phainon leans forward when he catches the incredulous expression on your face. “You alright there?”

“Yeah, just. Experienced time dilation or something.” You slap the sides of your cheeks vigorously to bring yourself back to the present, before giving Phainon an apologetic look. “Sorry, but I gotta go. My roomie’s cooking dinner tonight and I’m dishwasher duty.”

He waves it off. “No worries. I thought something might have happened — it’s good that everything’s fine.” You pick up your backpack and glance at Phainon, suddenly feeling oddly reluctant to leave.

“I’ll head off first, then.”

Phainon’s smile widens. “Thanks for today,” he says, as though you are the one who's treated him. He holds up his phone, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Keep in touch? So that I can get my jacket back, of course.”

“Sure.” You sling your bag over your shoulder, give him a little wave. “See you around, Phainon.”

And as you leave, you find yourself looking back more than once.

a/n: the way i was tearing my hair out writing phainon recovering from complex trauma x reader after not having touched fanfics for three years i literally gave up and went back to my roots of writing braindead fluff rot. if the fic is bad i blame phainon for literally chewing on my brain because i haven't been able to think about anything but him since 3.4 dropped (i’m joking don’t blame phainon he has never done a single thing wrong in all 33 million cycles of his life) hope you enjoyed!!

[chaeuvy]

Precious innocent FREAKED OUT fem!reader who sucks on katsukis fingers….

⸝⸝ ＃┆ 𝐒𝐔𝐂𝐊!! ⎯ 𝐁𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐆𝐎 𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐈

summary: A quiet night in turns heated when you and Katsuki Bakugou are lounging on the couch—until his gaze turns dangerous. He’s been looking at you like he wants to devour you all day, and when the tension finally snaps, things escalate fast. What starts with a look ends with flushed cheeks, teasing fingers, and a smug Katsuki who knows exactly how to push your buttons—and how to make you beg.

warnings: suggestive content, fingering (oral play), dominance & submission vibes, soft degradation, shy!reader, smug & controlling Katsuki, teasing, sexual tension, intense eye contact, light swearing, reader embarrassment.

wc: 1.2k words (I got carried away I wanted this to be a Drabble…)

You were curled up on the couch, knees tucked to your chest, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands as you watched Katsuki lazily flip through TV channels. The remote sat loosely in his palm, more of a prop than anything else.

He’d been eyeing you all day like he wanted to devour you. Not in a scary way—though your heart didn’t seem to know the difference—but in that focused, hungry way he got when he was certain he’d get exactly what he wanted.

You realized too late that he was staring at your lips now.

Katsuki Bakugou was watching you like a predator. Like he could read every little thought flickering across your face before you even knew it yourself.

Then, suddenly, he was between your knees.

You gasped as his palm found your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek like he was soothing you—when really, he was sizing you up.

“What’re you lookin’ at me like that for, huh?” His voice dropped, low and rough. “Actin’ all sweet while your thighs keep squeezin’ together.”

“I’m not—!” you began, breath catching as his fingers tapped against your lips.

“Shut up,” he muttered. “Open your fuckin’ mouth.”

Your eyes went wide, heart pounding. “Katsuki—!”

“Now.”

You obeyed—nervous, confused, cheeks burning—and he slid two thick fingers past your lips.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, watching you like he wanted to ruin you. “Now suck.”

You whimpered. Your tongue flicked shyly over his fingers, your mouth warm and wet around them. It felt so wrong—and yet the way he looked at you made it feel like the hottest thing in the world.

He sucked in a sharp breath.

“Fuck, look at you. So good for me. You don’t even know what you’re doing, do you?”

Your thighs clenched tighter, burning with embarrassment under the weight of his stare.

He moved his fingers slow inside your mouth, watching your lips stretch, watching the trail of spit as he pulled them out—only to press them back in, deeper.

“You’re such a cute little thing,” he rasped. “Mouth all full, eyes all wide. Bet if I put my cock in there, you’d cry a little.”

You let out a soft, broken whine, cheeks blazing.

“Wouldn’t you?” he pushed.

You gave the smallest, helpless nod around his fingers, and he smirked, leaning in close, lips brushing your cheek as he whispered:

“Then get on your knees.”

You squeaked and yanked back, burying your face in your sleeves like a startled rabbit. “W-Why did you—?! I didn’t—! You tricked me!”

“Damn right I did.” Katsuki crowded you against the cushions, his gaze molten. “But you liked it. Didn’t you, precious?”

You let out a pitiful whine into your hands. “I’m gonna die. I’m getting filthy because of you—.”

He chuckled—low, smug, proud. “You already are, baby. That’s exactly why I like you like this.”

← MHA ┆ NAVI →

a/n : thanks for reading.. i got carried away.. I love katsuki so much.

© 2025 chaeuvy ; ━━ do not copy or translate my work !

[ssa-dado]

Booty Call

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: Excruciatingly drawn-out mutual pining followed by some office-lit smut Summary: The last time you saw Hotch, he came in his pants in 30 seconds. Now he’s inviting you to his office, pretending that didn’t happen - only to end up fingering you against a door. Warnings: SEXUAL CONTENT. MDNI!! In-office ladyfingering, Hotch peacocking for reader’s attention for 70% of the fic, objectification of the Hotchner body, affectionate bullying, and indirect mentions of Haley (RIP queen) Word Count: 6.1k (sorray) Dado's Corner: A very long fic… but you know what else is long??? The wait!!! because I was busy surviving finals. This is technically a pt2, but not really (no need to read the first one). I provide all the context because I support commitment issues and believe in standalones for the emotionally unavailable Proofreading, creative consulting, and emotional damage control generously powered by @hotchology and @softtdaisy <3333 thank you, my loves <3333 I am but a shell without you. (EDIT: forgot to mention this was inspired by THIS request by my lovely Y anon <3 I'm 629 months late, I'm so sorry)

masterlist

Sometimes a “u up” text isn’t a late-night booty call. Sometimes it’s a “you could come into my office” from the FBI dilf whose soul (and pants) you annihilated in under 30 seconds.

Naturally, the mere possibility of you coming (you choose to interpret “could” very generously) is enough to make you blow ten dollars worth of gas just to haul ass all the way to Quantico.

(AKA Copville.)

Now, in fairness, the texts leading up to this divine invitation weren’t exactly dripping with lust – but more like:

btw remember when my landlord tried to evict me because I stopped paying rent in protest over him not fixing shit, and you helped me draft that letter?

(You very graciously leave out the part where he fled your apartment after coming in his pants.)

(Not that you’re trying to shame him. He’s probably been thinking about it every night since - alone, full of regret. And lotion. Hopefully.)

well… he’s escalating things legally. I might need your help.

(It’s giving: You haven’t texted since, but I’m desperate and legally vulnerable now. Help me, Obi-Wan.)

But also - are you really desperate? Or are you just responding logically when he replies - immediately (thirty minutes later) - with:

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): Sure. Here’s the number of the best housing lawyer I know. - A.H.

Which is clearly a move. That’s not “don’t bother me.” That’s “please bother me, but I’m terrified I’ll embarrass myself by creaming my pants again the second you make eye contact.”

That’s basically textbook damage control.

Because you are his biggest problem (no pun intended - except, yes, exactly that. The kind of problem that causes a very noticeable shift in his posture. The kind he has to hide behind file folders and moral codes and Section 12B of the FBI conduct manual.)

So no. He’s not pushing you away. He’s playing hard to get. Bureaucratically.

Hence why you followed up with:

it’s very veeery urgent

Because what is urgency, really, if not the slow, unbearable throb of two mutually sexually repressed adults - one of whom hasn’t fucked since dial-up internet - desperately trying not to desecrate government-issued upholstery?

And sure enough, he responds:

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): I’m still at work. Buried in paperwork. Even if I want to help, I can’t right now. I’m stuck. -A.H.

Ah. The ‘I’m-still-trying-to-play-it-precious’ act.

Naturally, it leads you to reasonably reply with:

how can I help you come unstuck?

And that is what finally gets you the invitation of the century:

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): You could come into my office. -A.H.

Yeah. He wants you. Desperately. And he’s so bad at hiding it.

Especially because from the moment you utter the magic words - “I’m looking for Agent Aaron Hotchner’s office” - there’s this weird little ritual of welcome that kicks into gear.

The receptionist visibly straightens her spine, picks up the phone, nods a few times before politely redirecting you to the correct elevator so you can reach the Prince’s Tower without too many obstacles.

It’s all so seamless, so orchestrated, the man is practically leaving breadcrumbs to his office.

You half expect rose petals. Or armed guards. Instead, when the elevator doors glide open on the sixth floor, you’re greeted by one of his minions - clean-shaven, suited, radiating “I’ve been briefed” energy - waiting to escort you to the throne room.

Aaron is clearly pulling every Type-A string in his alphabetized folder of delusions, doing everything in his power to maintain an air of federal professionalism - probably to intimidate you.

Probably to get you to forget the fact that he once came in his pants for a couple of grinds.

Nice try, Commander Creamsicle. You’re not exactly impressed.

Especially when you have to pass desk after desk, climbing a bureaucratic Mount Olympus - one, two, three… definitely more than ten steps - until there it is. His door.

Aaron Hotchner.

Gold brassy nameplate in – shockingly - an almost friendly rounded serif (DIN, maybe.) Soft. Wholesome. Kind of like his moans.

You knock. Twice. (You don't want to jump-scare the Supreme Leader.)

Nothing.

"Hotch will be right back...” the minion says.

(Hotch. Oh, no. That’s what he goes by? A cutesy diminutive of a last name carried by maybe twelve people in North America? For fuck’s sake. You’re dealing with a man whose entire personality hinges on being a limited edition. A cry for individuality wrapped in a kevlar vest.)

“…He’s in a meeting with the Section Chief,” the minion explains, professional but pitying. “He’ll be back as soon as possible. You’re welcome to wait inside.”

So you wait.

Long enough for everyone else to pack up and leave.

Long enough for the lights in the bullpen to go dark one by one.

Long enough to steal bandwidth from his federal office so you can stream ten-minute commentary videos on hyperspecific topics you’d never admit to caring about. All without touching your sacred monthly data.

You sit in his chair. Then on his desk. Then back in his chair because it swivels and you’re a simple creature with no impulse control. You spin once. Twice. Kick off the floor and make yourself dizzy just to cope with the fact that you’re here.

In his space.

Alone.

…Unsupervised.

You snoop. Obviously.

You poke around his perfectly aligned fountain pens and - because you were put on this Earth to create chaos - you tilt each one just slightly off its original axis. You test them out on a sticky note (which, for some reason, is bright pink - another unspeakably erotic detail).

You start doodling. Then you try cursive. Then you try writing your name next to his like a middle schooler.

You look at everything.

The picture of his ex-wife (RIP). The photo of him and his son. The solo picture of his son he keeps right on the desk.

The drawings - so many - lined up like a proud museum of fatherhood on the bookshelf.

The bookshelf itself, housing an ungodly collection of law texts you don’t even pretend to open.

The plaques. The trophies. The commemorative papers he felt the need to frame with words like “commendation” and “valor” and “outstanding service” printed in fonts that scream male validation.

His diploma from Georgetown Law (summa cum laude, of course). And the notation of academic kiss - because God forbid this man gets through any institution without someone formally rewarding him with affection.

You take it all in, every shiny, sterile, perfectly arranged detail. Anything to distract yourself from the fact that the last time you were alone with him the only sounds were the wet friction of desperation and the humiliatingly gorgeous groans he tried (and failed) to smother.

Like the low creak of the door hinges cracking open now.

“I thought it was obvious I was being ironic when I told you to come all the way here,” says Aaron - no, Hotch now, Unit Chief in full (Terrifyingly light on his feet. You didn’t even hear him coming. [No pun intended.]),

(…No comment on the irony thing. If you open your mouth you might cry, and you still need to keep up the illusion that you’re cool. Chill. Unbothered. Unflappable.)

(You don’t know why he’s earned the privilege of you pretending to be someone you're not just to impress him - but here you are. Still doing it. Still hating yourself for it, a little.)

You shoot up from his chair like you’ve been caught committing a felony (which, in his eyes, sitting in his chair might as well be), and the motion actually makes him chuckle.

(Great. That’s why you’re doing this. That sound. That exact sound. That’s your motive. You want to be the kind of person who gets that sound out of him.)

Back into the designated guest seat you go - grinning, sheepish, trying to play innocent (or at least get away with charm) like you didn’t just defile his sacred leather throne.

Aaron Hotch lingers in the doorway a moment longer, eyes on you with what you - very generously, possibly delusionally - choose to interpret as fondness.

He shrugs off his suit jacket - holding eye contact the entire time (um. okay?) - and drapes it neatly on the coat rack by the door.

Now it’s just the crisp white shirt. No undershirt, from what you can tell (and you are, in fact, trying to tell), and that $200+ navy tie still perfectly knotted, deliberately untouched. A little too perfectly.

Over the sound of your rushed heartbeat and the crushing silence between you, something small clinks to the floor - a pen, slipping from the inner pocket of his grey jacket and landing just inches from your seat.

Before you can even flinch in the direction of helpfulness, he’s already bending to retrieve it - smooth, efficient, depriving you of the gallant honor of playing his humble page.

Which means you’re left with only one option: bear witness.

To the controlled, scoliosis-free descent of his seasoned federal spine. The unmistakable flex of triathlon-earned muscle beneath a white shirt that was absolutely not designed to contain this level of upper body storytelling.

Fabric straining. Shoulder seams threatening to revolt.

His tie swings forward as he leans down - a small, ridiculous pendulum momentarily distracting you from the sight of his thick fingers closing around what might be the daintiest pen ever engineered (literally just a standard BIC pen.)

His neck angles, and his long-ass nose dips perilously close to brushing your thigh.

You’re frozen. Outmatched. Possibly hallucinating.

Especially when his grey slacks pull taut over his thighs - shapely, is a word that unfortunately comes to mind - and for your sins, you’re treated to a clear silhouette of what can only be described as... the topography of his [REDACTED].

(Do not ogle. Do not ogle. You're not strong enough for this.)

And when he rises – slowly and cruelly moving at half speed - you’re left nose-to-crotch, with nothing in your cone of vision but the aggressively unholy outline of everything.

Only once he’s confirmed the sacred feng shui of his office has been restored does he glance at you - just once, just briefly - after the bend-and-snap that may or may not have triggered a pelvic floor event.

Then, and only then, he crosses the room. Sits across from you like nothing happened. Back straight. Hands folded. Brows slightly drawn.

(Okay. Now he looks scary again. Sort of. If you ignore the ghost of his dickprint still burned into your retinas.)

Well… shit.

“I’m sorry,” you both say at once.

You blink. He… doesn’t (not a surprise) - just stares at you, visibly thrown, like he can’t quite fathom what you could possibly have to apologize for.

“For-“ staring at your crotch “-sitting in your chair,” you offer quickly, just as he says, “For what happened the other day…” (Oh. So Mr. Thirty Seconds wants to talk about why he earned that title. Immediately. Bold.)

A smile tugs at his mouth. “It’s alright,” there’s something so gentle in his voice. Affection, perhaps. (You choose to interpret it as affection.)

“And about the other day… I owe you an apology for-” (creaming my khakis?) “-what I said. It was unwarranted. And unkind.”  

Oh, right… that little moment (before the disaster) where he told you - flat-out - that your advances are the most obvious thing in the world, but you hide behind irony because real rejection would annihilate you. Or something along those lines.

(Not that you think about his exact words every night before falling asleep.)

And it’s definitely not because he only said all that while practically foaming at the mouth with jealousy over a guy he sent you on a date with. (One of his subordinates, no less… so-)

“I want you to know,” he continues, a stick up his ass, while reaching into the top drawer of his desk. He retrieves a leather case, unclasps it in full view, and pulls out - oh no. Wireframe glasses.

“-that none of what happened has impaired my judgment. My decision to help you with your landlord is entirely separate.” He slips the glasses onto the bridge of his nose, adjusts them with one finger then looks back up at you through the lenses.

You don’t say anything. Not because you’re speechless - okay, maybe a little - but because you’re busy… trying to decode his choice of words. Yes. That.

By “none of what happened.”

By “impaired.”

By “separate.”

Separate from what, exactly? His ethics? His self-control? His rapidly crumbling ability to pretend he hasn’t been mentally edging since the last time you touched?

Because let’s be honest - fuck the landlord. That’s just the excuse you both agreed to rehearse. Everyone knows it. He definitely knows it.

This is not about helping you deal with your landlord-

But helping himself deal with the fact that neither of you has stopped thinking about what it felt like to be pressed together, mouths reckless, hands worse, bodies one sigh away from a full-blown catastrophe.

Helping you? Please.

He’s trying to repress round two. You’re just here to speed up the inevitable.

“I’m… mortified about what occurred afterward. Between us.”

77777777777777777233332444444444444444>q6666666667

Re………………yhhhhhhhh______________________________________________________________________ [my cat typed this… honestly #same]

And he does, indeed, look mortified - at least in the very specific way he rolls his shirt cuffs back, one meticulous turn at a time. Slowly. Painstakingly.

Mathematically leads you to ponder for what practical reason could there possibly be for baring those veiny forearms except to flex them directly in your line of sight?

To let the dim overhead lighting graze over the glint of his Submariner Rolex. A glint you might call obnoxious - if it weren’t mostly swallowed by the amount of dense, fluffy arm hair he's somehow made look distinguished. (Is this supposed to intimidate you? Seduce you? Declare tax bracket superiority?)

“It’s fine,” you say.

It is, objectively, not fine.

Especially not when he leans forward to grab a stack of files from the desk, one inch from where your hand rests.

As if you wouldn’t notice the vein curling down from the bend of his elbow, branching toward the base of his palm.

As if you wouldn’t clock the faint dent where a wedding band once lived.

Or the black ink smudged across his palm, streaked through with the fading chaos of blue, pink, and yellow marker.

Or the two wonky little smiley faces on the pads of his index and middle finger. One of them has a moustache.

Or the way your brain short-circuits the moment he starts actually listening to your increasingly incoherent ramble about your landlord, because suddenly all you can focus on are his unnaturally natural Barbie-pink lips.

How they purse, ever so slightly, when he’s thinking. How he licks them - absently - like he’s preparing them for a sentence that never quite finds the courage to leave his mouth.

He adjusts his glasses.

Then slides them down to the very tip of his nose so he can look at you properly, directly, the full weight of his attention leveled just above the frames.

He nods slowly as he listens, scribbling notes in that looping, elegant cursive of his.

Repositions the glasses back up with one finger, clears his throat, and offers apologetically, “Forgive me. Just a moment.”

Hotch rises from his chair and steps toward the bookshelf, reaching his left arm across the full span. His back arches (beautifully, by the way), and the fabric of his shirt pulls tight across his shoulder blades.

The cuff at his elbow slips back, casually scandalous, revealing the sharp cut of his forearm, the tension blooming beneath his skin as he flexes (not unnecessarily, but undeniably) to grasp one specific legal tome teetering on the farthest edge of the shelf.

He could’ve taken one step to the left and saved himself the whole burlesque routine.

He hasn’t.

Peculiar.

Even more peculiar is the way he splits the tome open (you next), right at the middle, licks his thumb, and starts flipping through the pages.

When he finds what he’s looking for, he sets the book down between you, slides it forward, plants his finger firmly on the page - then recites the passage aloud, straight from memory.

Legalese, in his voice, sounds like poetry.

Not the kind you slap onto Facebook captions next to a blurry sunset-

The real kind.

Archaic.

Written by dead men for other dead men, and yet somehow still breathing when it leaves his mouth. It’s dense. Impenetrable. Sacred.

You don’t understand a single fucking word.

But he understands you, and that’s worse.

Because he sees exactly where your eyes land - on the way his finger holds the line, on the stark contrast between the neat, delicate typeface and the breadth of his fingertip.

Between the thin, trembling page and the solid weight of his hand. Between the line he's pointing to - and the one you desperately want him to cross.

So he pauses. Looks up. Smiles. Then translates it into plain English, even though you (both – hopefully) know that’s not the language your body’s speaking right now.

And still, he makes it sound simple.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxz A cx>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> [My other cat insisted on joining too. Ermetic. He’s two months old and already knows how to write. I’m sending them both off to Yale. I fear their potential.]

So simple that everything he’s been saying - whether for five, fifteen, thirty minutes, an hour? - boils down to something similar to:

“Your landlord is the dumbest fuck on the face of the earth, yada yada *legalese*, yada yada. If he’s dumb enough to take this to trial, it’ll be the biggest mistake of his pathetic career, *legal jargon*. I know everyone in the justice system and the very few I don’t know are terrified of me, so even if you were in the wrong, you’d still come out on top - because I’m the hammer of God, and I’ve decided you’re worth protecting.”

Ah, the American justice system.

Broken, terrifying, occasionally kind to you if you’ve got a Hotchner in your corner.

Of course, he can’t just say any of that plainly.

Because Commander Creamsicle cannot speak on any subject without circling it three times, lacing it with a vocabulary that makes you question your grasp of the English language, and probably inventing two or three Latin words on the spot just to make sure you know he scored higher on the SAT than you.

And yet - after all that legal tap-dancing - he finally rounds it out with a good old-fashioned, glasses-tuck-accompanied:

“I’ll do everything in my power to make sure that man pays the maximum penalty available to me under the law.”

And somehow… you actually feel calm. Safe.

Safe enough to stop being hypervigilant for once in your goddamn life - and as a reward, the universe punishes you by letting you miss the moment the room shifts. Something settles in the air between you - not quite tension, not quite relief. Something heavier.

Like finality.

Or closure.

Or maybe just the AC finally kicking in.

(Though, to be fair, the AC is doing its job a little too well.)

(It’s cold as fuck.)

(You can see his nipples through the shirt.)

(Sharp little distractions, twin North Stars peeking through cotton, stolen from the night sky and the firmament just outside the window, guiding absolutely none of your moral compass.)

You try – earnestly - to redirect your gaze, because objectification is bad and you’re not trying to be a fake feminist, but he’s making it impossible (those peaks have gravitational pull. [This is your excuse.])

The moment Hotch says your name, you realize-

yep, your eyes are very much locked on the constellations instead of the conversation.

“...What?” you blurt, very coolly, very calmly, in your most convincing display of composure. (Which is to say: absolutely none, given the way he chuckles immediately afterward.)

Then, without comment, he stands and moves to lean against the desk beside you, effortlessly invading your personal space like he owns both it and the federal building you’re sitting in.

“I asked if you want some coffee before you head home. It’s a long drive. I’d rather not risk you falling asleep at the wheel.”

It’s shockingly natural for him to sound so concernedly paternal.

(In a good way!! Like- concerned. Like- in a caring way. Instinctively protective.)

(You’ll return your feminism books to the library next week. You promise.)

It doesn’t help that, standing like this, he’s towering slightly - just enough that you’re forced to look up (at that perfectly filled-out A-cup shirt.)

“Um. Yeah. Why not,” you mumble, smiling. (Did he offer coffee just to flex his in-office espresso machine? Absolutely. Are you complaining? Absolutely not.)

After all, what could possibly go wrong with him playing sexy barista - busy hands and naked forearms flirting with domesticity as he wrestles an industrial-grade coffee pod into place?

(You’re not thinking about it. You’re definitely not imagining him doing this in sweatpants and nothing else.)

He turns, casually. Half a smile curling at his lips, steam rising from the cup in his hands. Ceramic meets tabletop.

You open your mouth to say thank you-

-but don’t make it that far.

Because you're already wrapped – caught - by the overwhelming heat of his hand, his calloused fingers brushing your jaw, guiding your face toward his.

Lips collide.

The kiss doesn’t even pretend to be romantic. It’s rushed. Hot. A little desperate. (And after being edged for hours by his whiplash professionalism, you’re not in the mood to make it sweet.)

Your hand, once politely resting on his shoulder, drifts down the broad plane of his chest- maybe lingering, maybe teasing, maybe giving his A-cup a curious little squeeze in silent appreciation.

(Not that either of you acknowledges it. Because, apparently, it’s still socially weird to worship a man’s body like that. Which is unfair. Because look at him.)

Then your fingers find the knot of his tie - and you yank him down, hard, into the gravity of where you’re still perched in the guest chair.

Apparently, he’s very into that. Because the next thing you know, he’s deepening the kiss - mouth fuller, hungrier, less controlled - just as something that’s unmistakably a whimper slips from his throat.

(A sound he tries [and fails] to bury in the kiss.)

His hands move fast - one guiding you up from the chair, the other slipping down to cup your ass, anchoring you against him. (Okay. Wow.)

And for some reason - a reason you definitely can’t name right now - you feel the urge to break the kiss.

Not because you want to.

Definitely not because you’re overwhelmed.

And absolutely not because you’re starting to feel something stupid - like the hot guy with huge hands just squeezed your ass, grazed your breast, kissed you like he genuinely gives a shit, and now you’re hearing the chime of direct-struck idiophones inside your skull.

No. It’s because (obviously) you’re just not built for this level of cardio. Unlike him, you haven’t spent your life training your lungs for high-speed chases, chronic emotional repression, and three recreational sports.

That’s clearly why. It has nothing to do with wanting to look at him.

Not to see the flush rising on his cheeks. Not to watch his lips part, kiss-drunk and panting.

Not to see his hazel eyes, darker now - wide and wrecked.

(Nope. This is about oxygen. 100%. Definitely not about the soft, terrifying thing blooming between your ribs.)

So you ask, “Is the door locked?”

Even though you already know it isn’t. But it’s something to say. Something to break the silence before it starts meaning more than it should.

“No,” he replies, then crashes back into you, pulling you in even closer than you already were. In fact, he manhandles you backward until your spine meets the door with a thud.

(Problem solved. The door’s now locked - courtesy of your combined body weight. A tactical solution. This is why he’s Unit Chief. Strategic. Efficient. Excellent under pressure. Fuck, he’s great.)

As a token of appreciation for his outstanding thinking skills, your hand abandons its usual post at his tie, sliding down, unapologetically, to cup the obvious situation straining against his slacks.

He exhales sharply at the contact, hips twitching forward but somehow still manages to keep it together. At least enough to start removing your most prized emotional support object (read: his tie) with that pesky, showy precision.

One inch from your face.

(Unit Chief by day, burlesque performer by instinct. Truly, a man of range.)

He stares straight at you as his fingers work the knot loose - you wish those fingers were working your waistband instead, but alas, budget cuts.

His gaze drops to your mouth as he slides the tie free, undoes exactly one button of his shirt and moves your very enthusiastic, very busy grabby hand off his crotch (rude).

(Was he about to come again? You may never know.)

Then he pins both your wrists above your head with one hand and leans in, mouth dragging down your neck.

You're not prepared for it.

You're really not prepared for how accurately this man is fulfilling every half-baked adult novel fantasy you've ever privately entertained on a walk home, in a waiting room, during a particularly boring grocery trip.

So much so that a breathy, involuntary cry slips from your lips before you can catch it.

He chuckles - fucking delighted - his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You need to keep quiet, or else we’ll both be in trouble,” then seals the warning with a kiss pressed exactly where his words just burned - and he’s back in front of you, eyes locked on yours. “Can you be quiet?”

(Hell no.)

“I hope so-”

Another smirk from him. And then you hope absolutely nothing the second his hand slides down, past your waistband, and straight into your underwear.

Because suddenly, it’s just him and his fingertips sinking into soaked heat like he already knew exactly where to go. (Basic human anatomy, sure. But still- impressive. For a man.)

He doesn’t even glance down. His eyes stay locked on yours, hungry through thick lashes, as one finger finds your clit-

(A man! A man locating and engaging with the clitoris! In this economy!)

-and starts circling with just the right pace.

No frantic button-mashing and hoping for the best. No guesswork. He knows exactly how to move. (Thank you to the ex-wife - smiling sweetly in that framed photo on the bookshelf behind his desk, posed between him and their son - who clearly put in the hours and trained this man like a goddamn service dog.)

And he keeps watching you. Watches the way your face scrunches. The way your lashes flutter. The way your lips part around a breath you forget to take.

Watches the little hitch in your chest, the twitch of your hips when they instinctively chase more friction.

Watches the exact moment you have to pull against his grip just to keep yourself from making a sound.

And he loves it. You don’t need him to say it. You can feel it. (And you can see it too - clear as day. The thick, unforgiving outline in his slacks doing absolutely nothing to hide how much he’s enjoying the show.)

“You’re soaking my hand, you know that?” he murmurs, deadpan brilliance.

(Okay, Sherlock. Edged for hours. No shit you’re wet as fuck. Totally unnecessary observation... and yet - please say it again. That was so hot.)

Then he gathers the wetness with lazy satisfaction, fingers dragging through the mess between your thighs without slipping in - just enough to make you feel it. To make you hear it. The slick sound of your own arousal echoes off the walls of a federal office.

(Shit.)

And only once his smug, unbothered, power-drunk ass is satiated - then - he slides one thick (-very thick. Like, three-times-the-bullshit-Bic-pen-he-uses-to-sign-federal-paperwork thick.

A full goddamn inch of “how the fuck is this just your finger” thick.) finger inside.

You’re so wet he barely has to try. It sinks in effortlessly, your walls fluttering helplessly like they can’t decide whether to pull him deeper or push him out just to miss the feeling and beg for it back.

And then he starts to move.

Each thrust is deep just enough to make your stomach clench with every slow grind of his fingers. Slow enough to make you ache for more, controlled enough to make you feel every second of it.

Every withdrawal is precise, angled so his finger drags right across your clit - just the right pressure, just the right speed. And every curl on the way back in finds that soft, swollen spot inside you like he’s memorized it.

Like he’s practiced this.

With you. (Of course.)

Dreamed it - maybe just as often as you have - idly, hungrily, while filing taxes or running out for just one pack of noodles, while he’s maybe on the next aisle buying some miserable all-natural, unsweetened, preservative-free cereal for his son.

(Hopefully his son wasn’t next to him while he had these thoughts.)

Just… everyday errands, haunted by the thought of this exact scenario:

Your cunt wrapped tight around his fingers. Your breath catching against his mouth. His hand working you exactly the way it’s working you now - expert, relentless - while his mouth drifts wherever it can reach: your neck, your collarbone, the hinge of your jaw.

He’s everywhere.

And you-

you’re dizzy.

Struggling to stay upright, to stay quiet, to stay even vaguely human as he drags you closer to- (calculus, you try, math, equations, something-) but all your brain can manage is: one finger = 1.7 of yours.

(...Almost two.)

(...holy fuck.)

Mr. Magic Ladyfingers apparently comes with built-in precognition, because just as your self-control teeters on the edge of total combustion - he cuts it off with a kiss.

Like it’s nothing. Like he’s your boyfriend. (He’s not. But it’s romantic. And you’ll take it. Fuck, you’d take all of him if he let you.) His mouth claims yours – overwhelmingly tender - right as he eases in a second finger.

“Shit,” you pant against his lips, because the stretch - fuck, the stretch is unreal, it burns in the best way, it’s so much-

“I know.” (You hate him. What kind of answer is that??) “Just keep quiet, I got you.” (And just like that, he’s got your daddy issues wrapped around his finger[s] too - congratulations, Agent Hotchner.) “Bite my shoulder if you need to.” (Okay. Better. Hot. You’ve been waiting for an excuse to do exactly that since the very first time you saw him. hallenge accepted.)

He pushes in deeper, faster - fucking into you with enough force and precision that your knees actually start to buckle.

Effortlessly, his free hand slides around your waist, pulling you in tight - anchoring you to his body, to the warm, steady press of his well-defined A-cups, holding you upright.

You’re so, so close. Clenching around his fingers with every pulse, every thrust, every curl that lights you up from the inside out.

“God,” (Hotch mentions God count: 1. You were starting to worry he’d forgotten to name-drop Him.) “I can feel you dripping down my hand,” he murmurs. “Shit - feel what you’re doing to me.”

So you do. You try - through the fog of overwhelming, fucked-out pleasure - to get your hand back down between you. Fumble your way to his crotch.

Shit.

It’s a miracle his pants haven’t burst at the seams. Or maybe it’s worse - because the second your thumb presses against the unmistakable wet patch, hot and damp through his slacks, you realize he’s already halfway gone.

Soaked in his own precome. Cock straining hard against the fabric, twitching under your palm -and the second you press into it, he falters.

And that’s what does it. That noise. That sharp, guttural, involuntary fuck of a sound he tries to swallow.

You snap.

You hate yourself for it - hate how the orgasm hits not with fireworks, but like a tide, pulling you under. It’s not cinematic, it’s inevitable - and it shatters you anyway. The way his fingers fill you, the pressure, the stretch, the filth of it - he’s just too fucking big, too fucking good, and you’re just… weak.

Weak for him.

A broken, half-annoyed “shit-” spills from your lips as you come, thighs shaking, forehead pressed to his shoulder.

But he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t rush. He just slows his thrusts, dragging each one out - making you feel every twitch, every aftershock, every unbearable second of overstimulation that sends your body spasming around him again.

And again.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes. “You’re- God, you’re gorgeous.” (Hotch mentions God count: 2)

You’re fluttering.

(And - poetically, of course - so are your walls.) It’s ridiculous.

It’s absurd. This should be just fingering. Just an impulsive fingering in a federal office. Just you, post-orgasm, wrecked, barely upright, trying not to collapse against a goddamn filing cabinet that probably holds national security secrets.

But it’s not. Not even close.

Because somehow, he’s still there.

Not rebuttoning his shirt in a panic. Not fumbling for a tissue or retreating behind polite avoidance. Not slipping his tie back on like this was a temporary lapse in judgment to be buried under paperwork.

He stays. Still holding you. Still watching you like you haven’t just ruined something. Like he hasn’t.

And now… what? Do you just grab his jaw and kiss him like it means something? Or like it doesn’t?

Do you say thank you? (God, no - except maybe you will, because you’ve never been touched like that in your life and he deserves something, doesn’t he?)

Do you keep holding his gaze like this while he looks at you like you’re not a mistake? Like you’re not just a late-night regret he’ll shove into a drawer and lock up tomorrow morning?

Do you lean in again? Just to see what he does? Do you run? Do you crack a joke? Do you cry?

Or do you say nothing and wait for him to break first?

You could ask him to stay. Or ask what happens next. Or - God forbid - ask if he felt it too. If he feels it now.

His eyes are saying something, but they’re hard to trust - too soft, too open. They might as well be lying.

“Are you okay?” he asks and unknowingly deepens the dangerous sense of emotional attachment you’ve somehow managed to form around his fingers. You nod - half-hearted, dazed - and he takes it as enough.

He excuses himself, opens a drawer, and returns with a packet of wet wipes. Then - giddily, somehow, like he’s just remembered something sweet - offers, “Jack’s been drawing a lot lately. I usually show up here with crayon masterpieces all over my hands.”

(A cute story. Definitely real. Also, definitely told to clarify that the wipes aren’t… y’know… for this kind of thing. That he doesn’t do this. Here. Ever. Not that you’re together or anything, but still. The accidental monogamy of it makes you feel safe.

Special.

God, you’re disgusting.)

He checks his watch, sighs. “Oh. It’s getting late. I should… I should be getting back.” (Never mind.) “Let me walk you to your car. Or - down to the lobby, at least.”

Add a little awkward “Oh, no, don’t worry - I mean… yeah. Okay. Sure.”

And suddenly you’re just… standing there. Beside him. Watching the mighty prince reassemble himself like a Victorian widow preparing to re-enter society.

He starts with the tie, of course - God forbid he be seen in the wild without one. (Scandalous. The Unit Chief with his throat exposed. Think of the headlines.)

“Sorry to keep you,” he murmurs, as he loops the knot into place. Straightens his collar. Apologizes again. Grabs his suit jacket and slides some folders into his briefcase. Apologizes a third time.

You focus on the rhythm of your steps as you walk beside him, trying to block out every small, gallant thing he does - each one a little more lethal than the last. You know you’d fall blind, stupid, hopelessly in love (With. A. Cop.) if you gave yourself even a second to think.

He even presses the elevator button for you. Lets you step in first. And then-

Doors close.

Just you. Just him. Six floors to the lobby. Five square feet of sealed-off space.

“We’ll be down in about thirty seconds,” he reassures you.

Thirty seconds. What couldn't you do in thirty seconds? (Make out against the mirrored wall. Drop to your knees. Get your hand down his slacks again just to check if the wet spot’s still there-)

…Oh.

Right.

There’s a camera.

Never mind.

SORRYYYY SORRYYYYY

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @donttrustlove ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kiwriteswords ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @msfreedom ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @purechaosss ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

[gf2bellamy]

if you want to write more dad spencer fics may i suggest dad spencer comforting his kid whos afraid of the dark and embarrassed about it by telling them abt his own fear of the dark

dark — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: girldad!spencer, his daughter is scared of the dark and so is he a/n: haii ! girldad!spencer makes a comeback

Spencer Reid wasn’t sure if he was dreaming.

The voice that whispered “Daddy?” in the dark sounded so much like Hazel’s that, for a moment, he thought his exhausted mind had conjured her. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Between long cases and the hours he got to spend at home, his subconscious often clung to the two most important people in his life, you and your daughter.

But then he blinked, and there she was.

Hazel stood beside the bed in her too-big pajamas, her favorite rabbit detective plush clutched tightly in one small hand. His nightlight on the bedside table highlighting her tear-streaked cheeks, her pouty lips trembling, her big eyes glistening with tears.

“Hazel.” He sat up instantly, his sleepiness vanishing as he reached for her. Gently, he hooked his hands under her arms and lifted her onto the mattress, pulling her close. Her body was shaking as she buried her face against his chest.

“What’s wrong, honey?” he murmured, brushing his thumbs over her cheeks to wipe away the tears. But she didn’t answer, just clung to him tighter. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and rubbed slow circles on her back. “Shh, you’re okay. It’s okay,” he whispered.

The bed shifted beside him. You stirred at the sound of Hazel’s sniffles. Spencer glanced over just as your eyes fluttered open. You’d only fallen asleep an hour ago after a long day, and he hated to wake you.

“Go back to sleep,” he murmured, but it was too late.

You’d already seen Hazel curled in his lap and in an instant, you were pushing yourself upright. “What’s wrong? Is she okay?”

Your hand came up to rub at your face, blinking rapidly as you tried to focus on your daughter. Spencer shifted Hazel slightly, his heart aching at how miserable she looked. “Hazel,” he said softly, tilting her chin up so he could meet her watery gaze. “Can you tell us what’s wrong?”

She hesitated, her lower lip wobbling before she finally whispered, “It’s dark in my room.”

And just like that, it clicked for both of you.

Your eyes flicked to Spencer. Even now, as a grown man, he still carried that old fear of the dark. That was why there was always a nightlight on his side of the bed, the one you’d bought for him after he’d admitted it years ago. He’d tried to laugh it off, calling it childish, but you’d just kissed his cheek and plugged it in without another word. Hazel clutched her bunny tighter, her wide eyes darting between the two of you, searching for reassurance.

“That’s okay, Hazel,” you said softly, brushing a stray curl away from her damp cheek. Spencer adjusted her in his lap, his fingers gently smoothing the wrinkles in her pajama top, but you could see the hesitation in his jaw.

You knew him too well. He was embarrassed. The idea that admitting his fear might make him seem less in her eyes, less of the infallible, genius Dad who knew everything and could chase away any monster under the bed. Your hand drifted down to Hazel’s back, fingers lightly tracing comforting circles, before slipping beneath to find Spencer’s. You gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, suppressing a yawn as you did.

“Everyone’s scared of something, sweetheart,” you murmured, glancing at him with a soft, encouraging smile.

For a moment, Spencer just stared at you. But then Hazel shifted in his arms, her tiny fingers patting his chest and something in his expression softened.He let out a quiet breath.You smiled to yourself, watching as he swallowed hard, his throat working around the words before he finally spoke.

“You know, Hazel…" His voice was quiet. "I’m scared of the dark too.”He paused, then added gently, "But you know what helps me?"

She shook her head. Spencer shifted her slightly in his lap, his fingers tracing patterns on her pajama sleeve. "The dark isn’t as scary when you remember a few things. First—it’s just the absence of light. That’s all. Nothing changes in the dark except what we can see."

Hazel blinked. "But… what if there’s monsters?"

He smiled, tapping her detective bunny’s nose. "Monsters are much louder in the light. If they were real, they’d make loud noises. But the dark? It’s quiet because everything’s the same as it was when the lights were on."

She considered this, her grip on Peter Rabbit loosening just a little.

"Second," Spencer continued, voice warm, "the dark is where the best things happen. Fireflies glow in the dark. Stars come out at night. And—" He booped her nose, earning a tiny giggle. "Dreams happen in the dark. That’s where all your adventures start."

Hazel’s breathing had steadied, her earlier trembles fading. "And… Peter Rabbit protects me," she added. Hazel thrust her beloved plush toward him, its floppy ears brushing his chin. "He can protect you too."

You saw the way Spencer’s lashes fluttered, the way his grip on your hand tightened just a little more. "Yeah?" he murmured, his voice rough.

"Yeah," Hazel said, matter-of-fact. "And Mommy can hold your hand. Then you’ll be double safe."

A soft giggle escaped your lips at her logic, while beside you, Spencer's cheeks bloomed pink. You could see him fighting back both embarrassment and overwhelming tenderness as he looked down at your daughter, who stared up at him with complete earnestness.

"You're absolutely right, honey," he conceded. His fingers brushed through Hazel's sleep-tousled curls as he added, "But tomorrow, we'll get you your very own nightlight for your room too." His brown eyes flickered to yours, crinkling at the corners. "Just like Mommy got me one."

Your heart swelled as you returned his smile. Hazel nodded, her little fist tightening in the fabric of Spencer's sleep shirt. "Can I sleep here tonight?" she asked carefully.

Spencer didn't hesitate. "Of course you can," he murmured, already shifting to make space between you both.

You shifted to make more room in the bed as Spencer carefully adjusted Hazel between you both. The mattress dipped slightly under her slight weight as she settled in, her detective bunny tucked securely under one arm while the other still maintained its death grip on Spencer's sweater.

"Thank you," Hazel whispered, already sounding sleepier now. She turned her face into Spencer's chest.

You saw the way Spencer's throat worked as he swallowed hard. His long fingers trembled slightly as they traced patterns on her back. "Good night, Hazel," he whispered. Hazel yawned widely as sleep finally claimed her. Spencer carefully adjusted the blankets around her.

"Double safe," he murmured to you, echoing Hazel's earlier words as he laced his fingers with yours over your daughter's sleeping form.

You squeezed his hand again, watching as his eyelids grew heavy too. "Double safe," you whispered back.

[deuxmiya]

ROOMMATES I ROOM 10A. ITOSHI RIN

EPISODE 01 [The Shampoo Incident ]

you have a sneaking suspicion that rin has been stealing your shampoo.

WC. 0.8k

content. banter. rin wants you so bad, you just want your shampoo. story under cut

Rin steals your shampoo and never admits it. You came to this conclusion once you started noticing that the usual time it took you to finish one bottle, had halved. The first time it ran out, you replaced it without question. But after the second and third time, you began to worry about the amount of money you'd have to spend on shampoo every month. Either you were using way more than you thought you were- which could not be true, because you had become so paranoid you started counting how many pumps you used, or someone else was using it too.

There was no one else in your apartment apart from you and Rin. Literally no one else has access to your beloved green tea clarifying shampoo. It was a very clear argument with an even clearer resolve, and yet Rin always denied it. He would shut down the conversation the second you even suggested something remotely related to him using your shampoo.

"Hey, Rin?" You duck into the kitchen, hanging onto the frame of the open archway. You dangle your empty bottle of shampoo in your free hand, the nozzle jostles around inside as you shake it. You were prepared to finally get him after three whole months failed confrontations and lack of hair wash. "Did you use my shampoo again?"

"No." His back is turned to you as he shoots you down immediately. He doesn't say anything else, just returning to stir frying vegetables on the stove.

"What do you mean no?" You furrow your brows, walking up to him from behind, hands on your hips with the shampoo bottle tucked under one of your armpits.

"No, I do not use your shampoo." He rejects again, still not looking at you.

"Well you've got to be using something. And seeing as you don't even have shampoo in the shower anymore, I know for a fact that you're using mine." You stand next to him by the stove, placing the empty vial on the kitchen counter.

"How can you be so sure?" He hums, mixing the greens with a pair of chopsticks. His eyes slide over to you, deep set and unfazed.

"Because..." You reach up to tug on his ear, pulling him down to level with you. "It's not possible for me to finish a whole bottle by myself in less than a few weeks and also," You make sure he's looking at you when you lean in. The smell of green tea and jasmine is light, but it's still very much there. "Your hair reeks of it. I can smell it on you."

The heat creeps up to Rin's face and you don't miss it. You notice the way his ears tinge pink in your hold. His breath hitches, chest seizing due to the proximity you ensued. It takes Rin a long while before he can find his breath again. Long enough, to the point where he could see the satisfaction beginning to form on your face. He wouldn't let you have it.

"Are you sure you're not smelling yourself?" Rin rebuts, freeing himself of your grip on his ear and leaning over to yours instead. His face hasn't stopped flushing red, but he refuses to let you have any more leverage. He stills, mere centimetres away from your face, his lips pursed. "Because you smell of it too."

"Ugh," You groan, pushing his face away with one hand and turning the opposite way to hide your face in embarrassment. It was now your turn to clutch at the feeling that bloomed in your chest as you spin away from him. "I know you use it, you little shit."

He smirks, ever so slightly when he slides away, continuing to cook the spinach and carrots over the flame. "I don't" He sighs.

"Why you-"

Rin shoves a carrot into your mouth before you can continue your sentence.

"Oh hey that's pretty good..." You muse as the faint taste of sesame oil coats your tongue as you chew on the carrot. You narrow your eyes at him, hitting him playfully on the shoulder. "I was talking!"

"Were you?" He raises a brow. The smile on his lips grows a little more.

"I swear I'm gonna put cameras in the bathroom to catch you." You cross your arms, as you pick up the empty bottle of shampoo once more. You frustratingly discard it into the recycling bin by the counter as you begin to walk away.

"That's illegal, you perv." He chides.

"Then just admit you steal my shampoo!" You throw your hands into the air, your words becoming more and more futile by the second.

"I do not."

You give up, and buy him an extra bottle of shampoo the next time you go to the store.

🏷️. @saturnkais @elliehenry24

thanks for tuning in even though it was a short chapter today, consider reblogging if you enjoyed !

CHAPTER LIST I MASTERLIST

[valveplugconfessions]

dpax porn vid anon….. you are a Genius. I see your megop-hookup-impelled-by-old-dpax-porn-vid-going-viral-turned-peace-treaty and raise you: the hookup is prompted by Optimus releasing new interfacing content because he doesn’t find the interfacing embarrassing, he finds the quality of the video itself embarrassing.

like you said, he was more or less working with scraps back then. But now? Now he has way, way more resources, and knows a lot more about looking pretty on camera than he used to. And wouldn’t you know it, but lots of bots are more than happy to interface with a Prime.

and this motivates Optimus to make new video, but without D-Megatron around to frag him, he just asks some other close friends who aren’t camera shy. Before you know it, there’s official Optimus Prime/Autobot High Command porn vids circulating.

Megatron, naturally, gets mad about it. How dare Optimus think he can replace what they had? He needs to remind Optimus of why he kept coming back to D over and over again.

Hookup ensues.

.

[saturns-peachy-honeymoon]

Can we pls have Johnny x Curtis sister? Can be headcanons or like how the brothers would react. I imagine Soda being #1 shipper, Pony being grossed out, and Darry getting strict af. Soooooo sorry if I accidentally asked for this and forgot

Johnny x Curtis!Sister Headcanons

summary: everything that comes with the Curtis’ only sister dating Johnnycakes 

content: mostly fluff! feat. the gangs reactions

word count: 1350

a/n: this idea was too cute to pass up! 

Johnny tried not to like you. He really did, but if the Curtises are known for anything, it’s for how damn attractive they are. It doesn’t help that you’re sweet, smart, and so so caring. To him, you’re golden

He never planned on acting on it either. He had decided to be content with stealing glances when he’d hang out at the Curtis house, and was just happy to have you in his life in any capacity he could

Your feelings caught you by surprise

You were sitting in your living room the chaos of the boys bustling around you. And as much as you loved the gang, it was getting a little overwhelming. 

Johnny must’ve been able to tell ‘cause he leaned over slightly, a worried look in his eyes as he asked, “You okay?” 

He shook his head when you nodded at him curtly, “Step outside with me?” 

You silently followed him out the door to your front porch. The two of you didn’t say anything, just leaned against the railing and listened to the birds chirping in the distance and the hum of cars driving around. 

You glanced at him, the light of the setting sun falling around him like a halo. He almost looked angelic. You’d know Johnny your whole life… how had you never noticed how beautiful he was? 

Your realization was interrupted by Sodapop poking his head out the door, “Was wondering where you two ran off to. Everything okay?” 

“Needed a break,” Johnny explained. 

Soda nodded in understanding, “Well, cake’s ready. Come get some before Steve and Two eat it all, okay? You can bring it back out here, but I can’t promise they won’t follow y’all.” 

“We’ll be in in a second.” 

“I’ll fight ‘em off for ya,” he ruffled your hair, sliding back inside. 

You watched your brother walk away, and in a moment of bravery, you reached out to squeeze Johnny’s hand, “Thank you… for this.” 

He smiled at you, face hot from the contact, “Anytime.” 

Soda is y’all’s #1 supporter. He’s decided to become both of you guys’ wingman and actually played a huge part in setting you up

He noticed y’all making goo-goo eyes at each other and immediately started scheming. Inviting you and Johnny out with him to grab food, and finding an excuse to leave early or step away 

Eventually, after the fifth time, you confess your feelings to him.

“Ever notice that Soda always has somewhere to go, even though he was the one who asked us to hang out?” Johnny asked, laughing slightly to himself as he took a bite out of a fry. 

“Yeah, it’s… Johnny, I gotta apologize.” You were staring at the table, your face flushed as you twisted your bracelet. “I think… I think he’s doing this cause he knows I kind of… well, I do have a crush on you.” 

Johnny raised an eyebrow, jaw slackened as you continued. You- perfect, beautiful, you- had a crush on him?! 

“I’m sorry this is so embarrassing.” You buried your face in your hands, “I promise I never asked him to or anything. He just did it? I totally understand if you don’t want to talk for a bit. I’m really sorry, I’ll talk to him.” 

Johnny saying your name stopped you as you began to slide out of the old diner booth. Shyly, he reached out to take your hand in his. “You really like me?”

You nodded, still avoiding his gaze, “Yeah, I really do. I’m sorry.” 

“Why are you apologizing? I… I really like you too.” 

The first thing Dally says after he finds out is, “Forget everything I ever told you about girls. That shit ain’t gonna fly with a Curtis.” 

Dally teases him a little bit, but is actually really happy Johnny found a nice girl 

Steve finds out when Soda loops him into his plan to get you two together. 

At first, he’s pretty skeptical. Soda sees love everywhere… surely, Steve would’ve noticed if something was up between you two.

 That is, until he walks into the break room at the DX to see him laughing, genuinely laughing at something you say. And when hair falls in your face in your fit of giggles, he doesn’y hesitate to tuck the offending strand behind your ear, hand lingering slightly

Later, he simply pats Johnny on the back, “So ya have a death wish, huh?” 

Steve (believe it or not) has a bit of a soft spot for Johnny and is pretty happy with the pairing 

Despite his nerves, Johnny’s determined to talk to Darry about dating you before actually doing anything (Soda eavesdrops the entire time) 

It actually goes surprisingly well? Minus the long string of threats on what will happen if Johnny hurts you, is anything other than a perfect gentleman, or gets you into any trouble

Darry has been fearing this day ever since his parents placed you in his arms at the hospital. Some part of him knew it was inevitable for you to date one of their friends. He’s just thanking his lucky stars that it’s Johnny and not Steve, or God forbid… Dallas

He’s still super overprotective. Not necessarily because he doesn’t trust Johnny, but more so cause you’re his baby sister

Anytime you guys hang out at the house, Darry is in the next room and will periodically check in 

“Better see those hands above the blanket!” Called out as he leaned the kitchen chair back far enough to get a clear view of you and Johnny on the couch. 

You ripped the blanket up with your free hand, showing your and Johnny’s intertwined fingers, “We’re literally just holding hands!” 

“Well, do it above the blanket!”

Darry grows to respect how mature Johnny is with you. Always having you back in time for curfew, how good he is at comforting you when you’re upset, the way he always protects you, it all helps him trust Johnny even more.

Pony’s feeling conflicted about the whole thing. Cause yeah, he wants you both to be happy or whatever, but that’s his best friend! His best friend and his sister are… *proceeds to gag* 

Unintentionally, third wheels constantly 

He will also begin over-dramatically gagging anytime you guys do anything remotely couply in his presence (especially early on… later he’ll develop a tolerance, but if you kiss one time more than he can handle, the overdramatic gagging will resume)

Not to worry tho! Johnny and Pony are still very much best friends

Despite his teasing, he does grow to really support your relationship 

Soda chaperones your dates out when Darry’s being too overprotective about the whole thing. 

Dally has also designated himself as your chaperone - Darry does not approve of his chaperone tactics

Two-Bit also constantly crashes your dates 

You two can practically never go to the drive-in without one or more members of the gang present

Before getting together, you were typically the one to clean Johnny up after fights with his parents. Now you insist on doing it every time, pressing gentle kisses over his bruises as you do so

The first time Darry catches you sneaking Johnny into your room, he crashes tf out 

Makes it very clear from then on that Johnny is welcome on the couch, NOT his sister's bedroom 

Soda (and Pony to a lesser extent) will still help him sneak in and distract Darry before he can catch you two 

Soda is your number one gossip buddy. You always gush to him about the sweet things Johnny does for you and how much you like him. And Sodapop eats that shit up every damn time

You slip little love notes into his pockets all the time that make him melt 

You guys always hold hands under tables

If you’re alone, Johnny will press gentle kisses to your knuckles 

You’ll typically curl up against Johnny with your head on your shoulder, his arm lazily wrapped around your waist. Darry tries so hard not to notice. Two-Bit is practically vibrating from how hard he’s trying not to (lovingly) tease you

[hangesdarling]

odds paid – cho hyun-ju

THIS IS PART 1 | part 2 | part 3

PAIRING. Cho Hyun-ju x fem!reader  SUMMARY. You are a daughter of one of the VIPs. Your father allowed you to be part of the 37th Squid Games competition, especially the VIP betting. Will you take this opportunity for money, or would you let your goal lead astray for a completely different reason? CONTENT. squid game 2 spoilers, i overimagined the plot, it’s all plot, classism, reader lore, y/n has a specific profession relevant to plot, potentially morally grey reader, family drama bc of abandonment, disgusting rich people, the rich hates the poor, murder and violence (but that's obvious), lmk what else! WORD COUNT. 2.7k A/N. i went insane again

Your life used to mean something before the father you didn't know about for almost two decades appeared at your doorstep and asked you to come home with him.

Well, he wasn't exactly the one at your doorstep. It was two of his Men in Black bodyguards standing by the welcome home rug on your porch. He stayed by the backseat of his luxurious car, looking out his rolled-down window as if the dirt from your mother’s shabby house could give him disease. 

You caught your surprised and confused reflection in his sleek, polished vehicle as he began talking. It went off to an awkward start like any conversation. Formal greeting, introduction, and his intention. He is the talking email letter structure you learned about last semester. You guess he was a few decades short of practice with talking to a daughter after he abandoned you to the care of your loving but otherwise poor mother, working on a teaching job. The job you began to hate because it squeezed compassion and time from your mother, all for barely a token of gratitude. Partly the reason why you barely stay afloat.

When he took the necessary pause after his intention and his offer of a new life, it did not make sense to you. Countless questions floated around in your head, waiting their turn to be spoken, but all that came was a shaky whisper, “I don’t need you.”

You slammed the door shut, all the good manners your mother taught you flung into oblivion. The tiniest whispers in your head broke the dam loose, and then anger is all there is. It has been the constant thing tying you to yourself. 

There was anger every time you smiled and pretended that you were your mother’s perfect child.

There was anger every time you stayed up at night thinking of the father that abandoned you, not because you needed a father figure in your life but because you needed the financial assistance he wasn’t giving.

You’ve seen your mother work two jobs, come home drained of the joy you remember her for. You’ve learned to maintain the house because there is nobody else even if you hated this motherly job to the point of tears.

You’ve cried soundlessly on your bed and swore to your pillows that you will tear out your uterus if it ever bears a child. You weren't meant to keep a home, rot indoors, or do chores; you weren't meant to spend your hours for survival while everyone else seizes the day.

You were meant for more. 

When your father and his bodyguards went for the third time to your doorstep, your mother was crying in the kitchen. She knew this day would come. You’ve always been ambitious like your father, after all. 

-

Once you ride your father's spacious car, you begin to notice your stark difference to him and his status quo. You chose your best casual clothes yet you looked like a washcloth next to him, even your belongings were stuffed like rags at the back of his car. 

You didn’t know what to do with your hands, but they certainly weren't meant to touch his pristine car. Plus, fiddling might make a bad impression on you.

The conversations you had blurred and were later flung to the back of your head. 

I shouldn't have left, you thought. 

You prayed for a quick way to fit in this new life without embarrassing yourself, without regrets, without damage to your resolve. 

All you wanted in your life was money and a comfortable life for your mother. 

But that was five years ago. It seemed like weeks since you saw that car in your dusty driveway. Your father spoiled you more than enough in those five years until you've known nothing but luxury. At first, they were material objects and experiences— food worth a month of your mother's paycheck, a wardrobe that could provide for at least three poor families a comfortable life. Being on a plane was no different than being in a car— available whenever you like. For a while, you consider yourself someone on top of the world, along with the countless rich people your father knew. Five years ago, you were the cheap, naive lovechild of your father from some woman. These people looked at you like prey, like dust under their name-brand shoes. But in those five years, you worked harder than you ever had to. Getting top grades in a prestige school, keeping up your image, watching yourself in the eyes of others. None of it was easy. 

But ever since you became your father's pride and joy, his daughter, an aspiring architect full of potential, you never wanted to go back to a life without those sweet melodies of praise and expensive comforts.

That was something your mother didn't see in you, or at least, your poverty-stricken situation didn't let her see. 

You were meant for more. 

For success, for luxury, for everything. 

So when your father mentioned one of his graduation gifts to his only daughter, it occurred to you that it would be more unusual and fulfilling than a new car or the rarest jewelry. 

Instead, he handed you a black rectangular box tied with a soft pink bow. When you opened the box, three shapes lit up in bright pink: a circle, a triangle, and a square. Embossed in gold was the acronym VIP. 

-

The luxe home theater you designed occupied the most space on the second floor of your home. You proposed a few tweaks early on to give the place a more luxurious look, your father would surely approve of, complete with modern sectionals and recliners. The wall-to-wall carpeting sported a muted palette, emphasizing the screen as the tray ceiling glowed a soft orange. 

Your dad took a seat near the wine bar, a drink already in hand, the moment the screen flashed with a five-minute countdown. The same three shapes appeared on the screen, animated with smooth transitions with undeniably sharp angles. It was hypnotizing to just stare at the pink and black animated screen, so you poured yourself a drink, expecting the worst.

The wine bar featured a physics desk ornament with a similar tone to a perpetual motion device. It shows a little boy and a little girl playing jump rope with a bunny. Something was unsettling about the sharp angle of the rope resembling a coping saw or the too-wide smiles in the children's faces, contrasting with the bunny’s rather fearful demeanor. Your father was quite fond of the strangest things. He managed to insert a few of his favorite taxidermies in the home theater, which always seems to be looking at you. 

With the desire to involve you further in his world, you’ve had a fair share of experiences in watching gladiator battles with strong and extinct animals, or seeing people fight in arenas only to be stopped at the edge of death. All in the comfort of your recliners in the home theater. In the silence of the night, you remember the bloody heaps that used to be animals, the desperate faces of people fearing for their lives, and you wonder if there is any worse violence you have yet to see. 

The moving shapes on the screen looked innocuous enough, just basic shapes suggesting elementary geometry. You sank into the chair beside your father, your glass wet and freezing against your grip. When the screen hit the two-minute mark, you noticed, or at least made an assumption, what was so wrong with those shapes. 

The circle moves almost as light as a noose, the triangle has sharp vertices resembling the tip of a blade whenever it cuts across the screen, and the square looks like a room with no circulatory elements when it transforms into a cube-like shape. 

When the screen flashed 00:00, your fear materialized into moving pixels. Your dad cheered at the screen, his drink spilling. 

What you will witness is more than just one of his leisurely games. 

-

A few things circled in your head the moment the screen flashed the live video: the first was the screaming man in green uniform in the middle of the crowd of at least 400 players. 

“Freeze!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. 

Of course. It was a Red Light, Green Light game after all. He sounded like an army commander gathering his troops’ attention to ensure a successful battle. 

Second was the fear in those people's faces. You allowed yourself a laugh, reminded of the time you almost couldn’t hide your distress at Saturday poker nights with some of your relatives, or perhaps the screaming man in the middle was scaring them.

“What’s his deal?” You sipped from your glass, the stack of ice cubes touching your lips. 

Your dad sipped on his own glass deeply and beamed as though you asked him about his most recent taxidermy collection. 

“He’s a player in the previous games,” he smiled. “Tough and crazy.”

“Previous games?” you smiled, not cracking your lips full enough. You could not fathom how twisted your father's interests were, so you approached with adequate conscientiousness.

Before he could answer, a gunshot echoed in the room. 

“First kill,” your father chuckled. The loud gunshot came from the video. The speakers strategically installed in the home theater just made it sound too realistic… too near.

You watched intently this time, truly observing the set-up instead of just being a passive viewer to an obviously well-crafted game. The arena itself had you wondering how big the place must be, and how much money was put into the robotic doll turning her head at the players. 

Someone fired another gunshot, and the rest came in succession. You began to notice players scrambling away from the arena, toppling over each other, and screaming over the gunshots. The blood was too real, the screams were too convincing. You set down your glass on the holder before it could drop from your hand and onto the carpeted floor.

“Is this real?” It felt silly to ask; it made you sound like the little girl you used to be. Too naive, too scared. Your father peeled his eyes from the screen. You had his eyes, down to the color and shape. But now, as a grin curled his lips, you realized the only difference. 

His eyes were cold and empty. Cold as if somebody had died there a long time ago. 

He clapped your shoulder and laughed. It made you feel sillier. 

“Well, of course, it was!” He pointed at the screen. “Look at all those people.”

Before the doll could speak, the camera zoomed around the carnage, the pools of blood, the lifeless eyes staring at nothing. Your stomach churned, your dinner right at your throat, which you immediately drowned with the strong alcohol in your glass. Goosebumps crawled on your skin, and the room became too cold for your liking. 

The game was not as bloody as the animal gladiator fights your father favored, or as intense as watching people throw fists at each other. 

But it was a massacre, dozens of lives lost within a few minutes as a faint background music hummed a rendition of Fly Me to the Moon.

You forced yourself to match your father's enthusiasm, trying to smile as he laughs when in reality, all you’re waiting for is an excuse to go to the bathroom. 

“Oh, best part,” he mumbled, eyes glued to the screen as dozens of desperate people scrambled for the pink finish line. It was the ten-second mark.

You looked this time, a few more seconds before this game ends. 

It’s funny that your desperation goes as far as retreating to the bathroom while the people on your screen just wanted to survive. 

Before the doll could activate the time stamp, you saw the shouting man cross the arena again. Player 456. He was quiet this time, determined to help an injured player. When the timer flickered to life once more, they stood up and almost stumbled if it wasn’t for the tall woman who came to their rescue. 

You watched her. Truly watched her as she supported the injured man as the doll looked on.

Player 120. You can't see most of her face because of the hair curtained around her frame. Courageous, or foolish, you didn’t know exactly how it would differ in her situation.

Player 456 seemed determined to save everyone from the beginning, but this woman had no obligation to do so.  Perhaps it was true that good people always let their altruistic nature win even in the most life-threatening situations.

“Hm, looks like you’ve got an eye on a worthy bet,” your father observed, smiling almost proudly as if he was seeing a version of himself in you. 

“Excuse me?” Your eyes remained on Player 120, as if holding your stare mattered to her survival.

“You get to bet after the first game,” he explained, pointing at the screen.

Before you could ask him to elaborate, the five-second stamp resumed as the three players raced to make it to the finish line just in time. 

They did so, a hair away from imminent death. Slumped on the sandy ground and panting.

GAME OVER. The screen flashed. It must be a wave of relief to those people in the arena. And you can retreat to the nearest bathroom now if not for the flurry of curiosity bouncing in your head.

A few seconds later, the man Player 456 and Player 120 risked their lives to save was shot in the head. His blood splattered the faces of his two saviors. 

Player 444, eliminated. 

All of that risk for nothing.

Your father reached something on the second row of seats behind him and handed it to you. It was a 12-inch tablet opened to a betting site with the pictures of players along their respective numbers. The same three ominous shapes served as the website banner. The eliminated players have their pictures grayed against the bright pink and green of the remaining living players. 

You scrolled through dozens of faces before reaching Player 120. You clicked on the small circled i near her name for more details. It has the basic information, background, and how many times she won at ddakji. Your eyebrows rose but did not question anything further, all of this felt like a strange nightmare from the beginning.

Cho Hyun-ju. Player 120.

Even as you retreat to the bathroom, you cannot get her name out of your head. You ended up staring at the mirror over the sink, fiddling with the light settings. 

Your father left you the tablet and, in a rather serious tone contrary to most of his moods, said, “Choose wisely. That game costs some money.”

He showed you how much was at stake, but it didn’t worry you at first. It wasn’t a particular sum that would cause bankruptcy and eventual poverty. That possibility itself is a far-fetched idea. But then you saw all the money other bettors are willing to bet and heard your father's next words: “If your player makes it out as the victor, all that money will go straight to your bank account.”

He grinned, ruffled your hair as he always does, and said good night, carrying a half-empty bottle of whiskey on his way out. 

Even with your beyond comfortable means, all that money was tempting. It was enough to successfully establish an architectural firm right away without crawling your way to the top and relying on your father's money. 

Your father's graduation gift was a chance– an intangible yet so hopelessly rare gift. 

As you sat in bed, you read everything about the remaining players and trusted your judgment. Your father always believed in your ability to make intelligent choices from the day you chose him over your mother.

A countdown began to appear at the top of the website. A tormenting eight hours before the betting ends. 

You wouldn't waste away such an opportunity, especially now that no one has bet on Player 120 yet. You sighed, clicked her picture again, and entered the amount of the bet before verifying your vote with a green check. Beside her player number was an icon indicating your bet, and a golden hyena avatar indicating your role as a bettor. 

Sleep hardly came that night, especially when a special announcement was made at the 4-hour mark of the countdown. 

THE SECOND GAME BEGINS TOMORROW. 

At the 2-hour mark, you gave up and tried to sleep. You’ve been staring at all the architectural plans pasted on your walls for far too long, imagining everything you’ve labored for erected in your name. A company of your own, a success you’ve only dreamed of.

You better win, Cho Hyun-ju, you thought to yourself. Win for us. 

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated, sweethearts <3

[lightoraclechaos]

Project 7c (Part 3)

Acotar

lab worker y/n x Rhysand, Cassian and Azriel

Warnings: imprisonment of Y/n and the Illyrian babies, dread over what might be asked of them, but mostly fluff.

1,500 words

(Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4)

~

Slowly waking up to the smell of citrus and sea salt, a steady warmth coming from beneath her wasn't unpleasant. She didn't move or open her eyes, comfortable and content. Until something cold gently brushed her cheek, almost like a caress, and she peeked her eyes open. Her interest and curiosity far greater than the need to stay comfortable. 

Her eyes opened, revealing the source of the warmth and citrus scent to be Rhysand. She lay against his chest, able to feel his calm breaths and slow heart rate as he slept. Shifting a little to move her head out from under his chin, she peeks at his expression. Relaxed and peaceful, he looked younger in his sleep. She observed him for a few moments, taking in every detail of his face. 

Another cool, almost silk textured object brushes her leg, snapping her out of her thoughts and staring at Rhysand. Blushing a little when she realised she had been staring too long, she turned to look at the other two, hoping they hadn't seen, Cassian seemed like the sort to tease her over something like that after all. But to her relief in the bed next to Rhysand's lay Cassian, wings splayed out in a relatively relaxed position, his chest rising and falling slowly as he slept just as peacefully.

She shifted her gaze to Azriel's bed, finding it empty before she looked around more fully. She shifted in Rhysand’s grip and tried to free herself gently so as not to wake him. To no avail. Rhysand was evidently stronger than her even in his sleep. Sighing a little frustrated y/n turns her head to look for Azriel. Finding him after a moment or two. He stood awake in front of the one-way glass window, his back to the glass and eyes on her. 

Embarrassment flared In her expression. He'd seen her staring at Rhysand. Why was the most observant one awake. Slowly and silently he walked towards the bed her and Rhysand occupied, making her feel even more embarrassed, a faint flush tinting her cheeks pink. She couldn't make out his expression in the dim light of the room. Those wisps were clinging to the lights again, a few even clung to the intercom as if to muffle any loud noise it may suddenly produce. 

He didn't stop until he was right next to the bed, hazel eyes looking black in the darkness of the room and making her feel uneasy. He pauses to observe her then. Taking in her rumpled appearance from sleep. He seemed to observe Rhysand for a moment as well. Noting the grip on y/n that stopped her from wriggling away. 

Suddenly he leaned forward a little, reaching out an arm, one of the wisps clinging to his skin. she shifts nervously, unable to read his intentions. Until she felt Rhysands grip loosen. Looking down to see Azriel carefully removing Rhysand's arms from her. She blinks at him, a little surprised. His voice enters her mind again, cool and calm, but softer than the first time he'd spoken in her presence. 

“You were trying to move away. I thought you might appreciate some help.”

She blinks a few times, just staring at him blankly. Snapping out of it suddenly when she releases, he's holding Rhysand’s arms still to stop them from closing back aground her. Embarrassed and apologetic, she shifts out of the radius of Rhysands arms, shuffling off the bed and standing up for the first time in a while. She mumbles softly into his mind, feeling grateful.

“thank you”

He releases Rhysand when she's out of the sleeping male's reach. Who promptly rolls over, letting out a quiet huff in his sleep. Azriel bobs his head almost imperceptibly, a silent ‘your welcome’ before he moves to stand by the one-way glass again. His gaze surveying the dark surface. 

Y/n takes the opportunity to stretch, lifting her arms up over her head and giving them a little squeeze. She hadn't moved by her own function for a while now, having been sleeping for a long time while being passed between Cassian and Rhysand. This time, she catches the movement out the corner of her eye just before that cold silk like touch brushes across her back. She jumps whirling around in time to see one of the dark wisp floats off leisurely back to the lights above. 

She felt Azriels gaze again and turned to look his way. Confused by those strange wisps and the occasional soft touch. Azriel watches silently as another wisp floats down from one of the lights to brush her cheek gently before drifting back up, unhurried. Leaving y/n looking faintly confused.

A quite “What are they?” slipped through the channel between their minds. Like an afterthought she'd accidently acknowledged.

“my shadows” A short quick response from Azriel. Grabbing y/n’s attention again. She blinks at him. Had she asked the question by accident? He didn't seem mad. That was good. Shadows. She lifts her gaze to watch them hover by the lights, blocking out the unnaturally white beams of light. They were graceful, gliding around the room every now and then, almost as if they had the zoomies. Her lips twitch at the thought, and she catches Azriel's gaze once more before he turns back to looking at the dark surface of the one-way glass. 

They stand in somewhat comfortable silence for a while, y/n taking the opportunity to stretch and move around a bit, while Azriel seems to be trying to learn what he can from the glass. 

Around 10 minutes of silence later, Azriel spoke again. The same cool, calm voice slipping into her mind. 

“You can sit on my bed if you want.” 

Y/n debates for a moment whether she should accept the offer. She didn't mind the silence, but he wasn't wrong about her wanting to sit down. She thinks about sitting on the floor but noticing how cold it was to the touch, the offer sounded better. 

“Okay, thank you” another mumbled response from her as she made her way to his bed, taking a careful seat on the edge as she watched the shadows swirl and drift through the air. They almost looked… pleased? 

She watches the shadows dart around, changing places and Moving to gently brush her cheek or lift her pieces of her hair a little every now and then. Now she knew what it was that caused that cool sensation she found she didn't mind nearly as much as before. It almost seemed as though they were giving her affection, which made her smile.

Azriel glanced over at her every Now and then, taking in her reactions and expression. a pleasant feeling built in his chest at the sight of her sitting on his bed. She seemed to gradually relax further, the tension fading, and as he watched it fade, the feeling grew. Unsure of what it was or how to feel about it, Azriel turned back to the glass, releasing a few more shadows and letting them fuss over her without interfering. If she looked uncomfortable, he'd stop them. But for now, she seemed content with the affection.

The free shadows drifted around her, and y/n watched them wide eyes as they slowly descended. Drifting slowly in a similar pattern to that of feathers. They swirled around her lazily, one landing gently onto the top of her head. It wiggled around, winding itself through strand of her hair, the cool sensation a little ticklish but not uncomfortable. When she didn't flinch and push the shadow away, the others floated closer, one of them landing of her shoulder while another floated into her lap. Their presence was oddly soothing. 

Cassian shifted in his bed nearby letting out a huff in his sleep. Catching her attention enough to pull her gaze away from the shadow in her lap. She glances over at Rhysand as well, wondering if either of them were awake. When neither of them move again she pulls her gaze back to the shadow in her lap which had shifted to be coiled around her waist in a gentle squeeze that felt similar to a hug.

A little startled, she tenses, watching The shadow as it moved gently around her waist. Deciding not to push it away, after all, it was strangely comforting, she slowly let herself relax. The other shadows spread out a little more over her skin now thats she'd relaxed, the one balanced on her shoulder slipping under her shirt and resting against her spine, making her shudders involuntarily at the cool touch. the shadow on her head seemed to weave its way through as many strands of her hair as possible, creating a cool patch on her scalp.

A muffled beep sounded from the intercom. Y/n and Azriel whipped their heads to look At the offending object. Cassian and Rhysand jolt awake and both sit up immediately, surprisingly alert considering they had only just awoken. 

~ (Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3)

What could the scientists want now? A cool tendril of dread settled in her stomach.

Bit of a cliff hanger there 🤭

Let me know what you think in the comments.

I know have a tag list, if you want to join it feel free to comment and I'll add you 😁

Tag list:

@jeskaferreira

@fawrmagpie

@saltedcoffeescotch

[myloveonherknees]

What are your thoughts on the old posts coming out? Not asking in a malicious way I just want an outside perspective

oh god. i've been sitting on this for a while (& this blog runs off a queue, so i'm not On Here as frequently as my posts suggest), and what i think is worth saying has shifted over time. overall, my take is that it's very disappointing on several levels, especially the fan response.

before i get into it, please know that i think racism is bad. that's a statement few people will consciously disagree with, but it warrants saying nonetheless. i'm not interested in minimizing or excusing what was said (and if you feel compelled to do so in the notes of this post, it'll be removed). i'm not interested in making a case for why it's wrong, either – i don't think it's my place as an ethel cain fan blog to do anti-racism 101. because i think identity matters in discussions of racism, i'll share that i'm a mixed Indigenous person that looks white. centring those most impacted is appropriate in situations like these, and because the screenshots contained anti-Black slurs and anti-migrant rhetoric, that is not me. that's not meant to encourage people to be weird to fans who are directly impacted, it's more to encourage self-reflexivity in how people engage with this.

onto actually saying stuff – i'm sad the screenshots had to come from that weird transmisogynist ethel cain hate posse. i think the fact that it was them who leaked it ended up pulling focus in a way that feels slimy. i'm not sure how that could've been avoided, and i suppose it was only a matter of time before they did something that would warrant a public response. still, i think their other attempts at bad-jacketing hayden are/were less compelling than the curiouscat screenshots. the majority of those other criticisms (fetishization, paraphilias) exist at the intersection of transmisogynist rhetoric and bad-faith interpretations of the ethel cain project. i'm sad those criticisms get to be lumped together with condemning the racism displayed in those screenshots. i feel like some people really want hayden to be a victim in this scenario – and she is in some ways! – but that exclusive focus on how she's been victimized implicitly glosses over an objectively harmful thing (i.e. using slurs, being flippant about racism) she fully admitted to doing. i can understand the desire to "protect" an artist you like from what you feel is unfair criticism, but i think it's really vital to separate out the racism thing. you do not need to defend that, and it actively makes fan spaces hostile to BIPOC when you do so (and that is bad!)

semi-related to the above, i'm sad this situation has some ethel cain fans talking like fox news commentators. i promise that no one needs to do the work of defending or minimizing racism. no one needs to be using "woke" as a pejorative (it can also be appropriative when used positively, but that's a whole other conversation) nor does anyone need to wax poetic about how much they hate cancel culture. those are all socially conservative right-wing talking points, and i frankly resent them being entertained in a fan community i consider myself part of. morality aside (though i do think the morality of this situation matters), it is very embarrassing. i'm also noticing some cruelty directed at those who do find the racism included in those screenshots inexcusable, and i hate that. you do not need to call them/us oversensitive, nor do you need to lump them/us together with the transmisogynist hate campaign that originally dug up those screenshots. two things can be true at once: the people who brought those photos to the public are nasty little freaks, and people are valid in having negative thoughts/opinions on their content. again, i think separating out the racism here is important.

at the end of the day, i don't think there's one entirely correct "answer" to this – it's up to each person how they want to think about it and how they want to shape their engagement with the ethel cain project going forward. i will say that if you believe racism is bad (and i hope you do!) think long and hard about if your commentary on this situation tacitly minimizes what has occurred. in all honesty, i don't think there's a way to publicly discuss how "you'll never hate hayden" or whatever that doesn't read as racism apologia at some level. i don't think that's the intention people have in mind in making those statements, but it's the effect nonetheless. i'm unsure what to do with that, but there it is.

personally i don't have a strong sense of where i've landed with all this. i'm a person with fairly niche politics, so i don't feel the need to be morally or politically aligned with artists whose work i enjoy the way others might. no public figure is going to meet that standard for me. still, using slurs is a standard of politics/morality i think it is very easy for anyone to clear, so i'm disappointed in that respect. i'm unsure on how i feel about the statement. i'm also disappointed in the fan response it's generated. saying that, i don't have immediate plans to abandon what i'm doing here, but it's been less like... exciting or joyful, maybe? i will keep you posted on if that changes for me.

i think that's a good place to end this off. all my love to BIPOC ethel cain fans that have been hurt by this scenario, both the screenshots and the fan response ♡

[headcanon-everything]

anything that has anything to do with mateo PLEASE (let it be known i have favorites) (nsfw encouraged but not required)

(so i get notified: @mateomantaenjoyer)

he's so sweet I love him why is there not more content of him??

Mateo Headcanons

is a listener - loves loves LOVES to hear you talk

likes seeing the sparkle in your eye as you talk about something you're passionate about

also loves just spending time with you and not having any pressure to do or say anything

is always worried youre overworking yourself or pushing yourself too hard

flounders a little and sputters when you call him a hypocrite before acknowledging defeat

promises to try and reach out more when he needs something or feeling overwhelmed, as long as you promise not to work yourself too hard

the coziest hugs, obviously

the only possible contender is Teddy for best hugs

doesn't realize how loved he is by the other objects

he's always a great listener and the rescue is a space that he has carefully curated to be a welcoming, quiet space to unravel thoughts

he knows how much work he's put into making the rescue a good environment, but doesn't realize just how much the others appreciate having that as a space

if it ever gets brought to his attention, he tears up because he feels so touched

he doesn't realize that a good majority of the objects would go to war for him tbh

doesn't have a bad relationship with anyone really! there's a few that he might not be comfortable with or doesn't like as much, but he usually holds his tongue and they don't even realize

(Scandalabra is one that gets on his nerves a lot - Mateo is one of the few that know that he's capable of not being at 110% all the time and it frustrates him that he spreads rumours for no reason)

Mateo and Dante are really close, they often talk about anything and everything

Lyric loves talking to Mateo about different books he's reading, and will often recommend some to him

Mateo is one of the few people that Timmy goes out of his way to see, and because of that Timothy avoids him out of embarrassment

even Lux will show up sometimes! they usually are streaming while playing with the animals, but they always do it as a charity livestream and forward all the funds to Mateo for the rescue, so he can't really complain

Phonecia is a frequent visitor, as is Florence and Dante

Dorian and Windowlynn always keep an extra close eye out for when the inanimals are on the loose, to make sure they don't get outside

Mateo likes taking naps, but usually has to be coerced into it because he always has his hands busy or is helping someone

Betty and Koa usually are the first to notice and get him to lie down and rest

has never really gotten angry before, that he can remember. frustrated, yes. upset, also yes. but angry and yelling? not the type to do so

overall his aura is just very calming and gentle, and he works very hard to keep it that way

[cheetahxoxo]

Camp patrol is the definition of drama island. Hazel and Piper along with you using hushed voices to talk shit or whisper about things you've heard around camp. Usually you're very invested, but someone's been stealing pudding from the camps cafeteria so you were more preoccupied with setting up camera's.

Thanks to Leo and the Hephaestus's cabins help the camp has been able to get their hands on technology that wont transmit demigod detecting waves to monsters. It's truly a golden step that paves the way for future demigods.

"And then he made it some big deal about how he's the son of the big three and all." You tuned into the rest of their conversation as you finished placing the camera onto the tree you were in. Shifting to send a look down to Hazel and Piper who were talking.

"Who?" You called down as she you shifted more on your hip to slide over a branch.

"Jason Grace."

"Jason Grace? Smash."

There was the sound of sudden choking and coughing beneath you and you rolled your eyes. Grabbing a branch you dropped back to the ground and turned to the two girls.

"What? Son of Zeus and super ripped with manners? Sign me up!" You exclaimed with a laugh. The two girls just stared in horror and you frowned. We're they really making fun of you right now? You turned with a huff and was met with the cause of their reaction.

Jason Grace himself.

Hand over his mouth as he stood still. Despite his hand over his mouth and the darkness of the night sky you could see how red his face was. Embarrassment? Shame? Fluteration? Hard to tell when he wouldn't talk!

"Well. You know like... objectively." You tried to save yourself, but it came out strained and forced. Hazel cleared her throat from the awkward situation and Piper was looking anywhere but at you or Jason.

"Right." Jason mumbled with a nod. Hand still over his mouth like he was frozen or something. You knew he was a shy thing, but this was something you have never seen.

"I mean who wouldn't wanna fuck like the son of Zeus y'know?"

What the hell?

Jason finally dragged his hand down his face. Froze for a second before sliding his sweaty palms on his jeans before clearing his throat. "I appreciate that." He mumbled with a sharp inhale of breathe.

You cringed like you never cringed before. This was so awkward. You were praying Hades would just do you a favor and open the ground to swallow you into the underworld so you didn't have to have this conversation with him anymore.

Silence fell over like a blanket. Piper and Hazel slowly backing away to discretely get away from the scene. You had always liked Jason, but you never would've thought that this would've been how you confessed. Jason looked like he was about to blow up from how red he looks. The blush even raising to the tips of his ears.

"So what are you doing outside anyway? It's past curfew." You tried to small talk to get the precious awkward confession you had about wanting to fuck him out both of your minds.

"Right um... I was actually looking for you." Jason answered as his hand went to scratch at his undercut. His eyes darted to the side and then the ground.

"Me? Why?"

Jason looked up with wide eyes like he wasn't expecting you to ask. Or like he had some secret that he wasn't ready to expose. He stammered before shoving his hand into his sweats pocket and pulled out an envelope.

He let his fingers run over the envelope. The ends a little tattered like it was old. Then he held it out making you step[ forward and take it from his hands. Your name written neatly in his cursive handwriting.

"A letter?" You questioned while ripping it open. His eyes widened as he shook his head in panic. Hands flailing as he spoke,

"Y-you don't need to open it now!" Jason shouted in a panicked stammer. It was too late as you quickly scanned over the letters contents.

"Oh. A love letter." You mumbled surprised. So while you admitted you wanted to fuck him he was writing poetry about how much he likes you. How embarrassing.

You let your eyes rake back up to him. He looked like a shy little boy in the park who gave his kindergarten crush a rock. A smile fell onto your lips as you neatly folded the paper back up.

"You're so sweet. It's adorable." You spoke to him as you let the letter be tucked into your pocket. "I presume a date is to be in order. Friday, 5:00pm, I'll text you."

"Yeah? Yeah!" Jason exclaimed with a frantic nod like he thought it was a dream. He even pinched his arm. "Okay! I'll see you then! Thank you!"

Did he just thank you? You giggled as you turned and walked away. Leaving Jason to go back to his cabin. At least the crush that was eating you alive had come to the surface. Even if the way of confessing was a little... unconventional. 

[moondollx]

Master List -Bob Floyd

This masterlist contains some (+18) content so minors do not interact. The fics are NOT MINE i´m just recommending them bc i loved reading them all <3 CREDITS TO ALL THIS AMAZING WRITERS!

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

BOB FLOYD (TOP GUN)

☆ “You’re really gonna make me beg?” -Link ☆ “You cannot be serious.” -Link ☆ “Say it again, slower.” -Link ☆ An unsuspecting jake hits on you at the hard deck while the gang waits for bobs new girlfriend to arrive (spoiler alert: that’s you)-Link ☆ Reader is at the base to write an article, everyone's betting if Bob would get a kiss. The squad doesn't know they're already married.-Link ☆ "As someone who just had to deal with everyone and their mother this July 4th, please a lifeguard!reader x bob floyd where hangman tells him the best way to get readers attention is to pretend to need to be saved in the water, but he gets caught in a riptide and actually needs to be saved." -Link ☆ Sunkissed -Link ☆ You show up to the squad beach day in a bikini that has no business looking that good. Bob's mid-throw when he sees you and straight-up forgets how physics works. The football hits Hangman. Bob's glasses are askew. He spends the afternoon avoiding eye contact—until you ask him to help tie the strings on your top. He nearly combusts. -Link ☆ Phoenix invites the boys to her salsa class, big mistake.-Link ☆ Dating Bob Floyd had been nothing short of perfect. The sweet, ever-attentive WSO felt like he’d walked straight out of a rom-com. That’s why, when your scheduled date night arrives and he doesn’t show, your mind immediately begins to spiral. It’s so unlike him, so out of character, that you can’t stop replaying every possible reason in your head. As the hours stretch on, worry takes hold, deep down, you can feel something’s wrong.-Link ☆ Laundry day at the barracks is a disaster waiting to happen. But accidentally ending up in Bob Floyd’s shirt? That’s a whole new level of chaos. What starts as detergent-soaked embarrassment quickly spirals into squad-wide teasing, a not-so-subtle claim, and a quiet late-night moment that feels a lot like something more. Turns out, one shirt can say a lot. -Link ☆ After the mission with mav, you find bob drunk at the resulting party at the hard deck. as a designated driver, you take it upon yourself to get him home and into bed safely but staying composed proves harder than expected -Link

☆ When Phoenix sets Bob up on a blind date with one of her closest friends, he’s already nervous. So when he finds her to be the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, he’s convinced he’s out of his league. But as the night unfolds, he starts to realize they may work together better than he ever expected. -Link ☆ Rooster and Hangman spot a mysterious woman… who turns out to be already taken. -Link ☆ Bob keeps your relationship private, but he doesn't try to hide the dozens of Polaroids of you all over his locker and truck. He has a daily routine of taping his favorite Polaroid of you to his jet's console, but when it goes missing, things get chaotic. Luckily, you're there to make everything better. -Link ☆ Switch up | Bob and reader switches glasses -Link ☆ Split Second | Where reader lost her twin sister and Bob is there for her -Link ☆ Backseat driver | Where Bob dies in the reader arms (This actually broke my heart)-Link

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

[dottowos]

i need morning sex w omega this instant

Waking up to Dottore, or any of his segments in general, was always a treat considering how their schedules were never that kind. So having Omega still in your bed even into the late morning was absolutely wonderful. After all, how could you resist snuggling into your lover's warmth, his hands gliding up and down your body as he whispered something to you, that you couldn't really hear since you were so blissed out. That was until you could feel something pressing into you, which made you blink and wake up a bit more.

"... Omega," you say plainly, heat rising to your face.

"Yes?" He smiles down at you as if nothing is happening.

"Why didn't you say anything??" You warm, shuffling in his grip, a bit embarrassed he's been hard for who knows how long.

"I merely wanted to enjoy the view a bit more. You looked quite content and cozy," the segment shrugged his shoulders as if it was no big deal, stroking your cheek. You let out a soft huff as Omega chuckled. "But since you're asking now, does that mean I can continue?" It only takes a soft whine and nod from you for his hand to slip under the sheets and between your legs, taking pleasure in your immediate gasp. Though he's not one to waste time and slow down in the mornings, for you he changes his mind, and decides to take your proposal of a lazy morning into consideration. Gently rubbing you through your underwear, he thinks that mornings with you are dangerously tempting.

Your body was still laced with the ache of sleepiness, lazy and unwilling to resist, merely moving the way Omega wanted you to. When he finishes opening you up with his fingers, you're already teary eyed and clinging to him, wide awake now and needy for more. Naturally, he doesn't deny you. The morning tends to decide how your day will go, and he's going to make sure you have a wonderful one.

Omega flips you around and presses his chest firmly against your back, cock more than ever noticeably pressing against you. Pressing kisses down your neck, he pushes into you without hesitation, and relishing in your choked moans. He must say, he does enjoy starting his day like this too. Having you so pliable and bending you to his needs is more than enough to give him a long-lasting source of energy. Not to mention, you look so pretty with the sun's light bathing you. Not that he needs the extra light, as he knows every inch of your body even if he was blind, but you look extra soft (and perhaps the domesticity is even infiltrating his rational senses).

Regardless, he fucks you so good, it makes you want to just go back to sleep right after. But he always runs a bath so you could at least start your day. You two might just continue the morning's activity in the bath until noon, though...

[bannock-freak]

"shipping saiki is aphobic because he's aroace!"

stares at you with my demiromantic asexual in a committed relationship eyes then looks at the camera like im in the office

[the-way-astray]

i think my problem with the point five books thing is not the books themselves, so much as it is the marketing and way they're presented.

for those that aren't aware: point five books have a generally understood meaning/connotation that authors and fans both sort of know. it's basically code for "book that is not mandatory to understand the story, but it's there for fans that want extra content". usually this comes in the form of short story collections or whatever else the author may want to do. sometimes it's just a single short story. for example, a proper way for kotlc to utilize point five books would be to for instance, make a book 7.5, which has keefe and fitz's flashback short stories in it. extra bonus content from flashback (book seven), but you don't have to read it to understand the main story itself. you'll be okay without it. that is what a point five book actually means, as far as the wider literary world is concerned.

but books 8.5 and 9.5 in this series are not extra bonus content. you very much do have to read them to understand the main story. if you read it book eight, then nine, then ten, you will be lost or miss important stuff that's crucial to understanding the story.

just call it book nine. just call it book eleven. all this will do is label the books properly and not confuse people. and people will be confused. we aren't seeing the effects yet, because books are still coming out and everyone in the fandom keeps up with shannon's updates, so we all know what's up. but trust me, in a few years, after the series is over and new people get into it, they will be confused. they will skip straight over book 8.5 or 9.5 unknowingly, and it won't be good.

my theory is that someone on shannon's team wants to make this series seem shorter than it really is. because that is the only logical explanation here. you could describe this series as having "nine and a half books" now, instead of ten, and by the way the series is officially marked, that's not incorrect. but it is. this series has ten books. because there are ten mandatory books that you have to read that are out right now. stop calling books that aren't supposed to be called point five books as point five books!!!! this isn't quirky, it's just going to throw people off.

this is super, super confusing for people that aren't "in the know" with this series, so to speak, and there will be people that read this series incorrectly because of this. i have been a casual fantasy series reader for pretty much my entire existence on this planet, and let me just tell you, this is not how this works. at all. if i didn't know books 8.5 and 9.5 were mandatory, i would skip over them completely, going on my understood knowledge of how these epic fantasies are generally structured.

just market them correctly. praying to the heavens for shannon's team to stop. this is actively hurting your readers!!!!

*i assume it isn't shannon herself who is coming up with this strategy