Yes The Face Is Made Of Cheerios

"Collection"

pairing(s): Noah (TD)/GN Reader

— summary: Noah complains about his job but he really does get to do the coolest things and often, he brings things back to you

— no y/n use, no pronoun use - GN reader, 2nd person, allusions to Canadian celebrities, PG bed sharing,

— AH! I spent so long on this! I think I pumped out the last one and got right to work on this. I hope it doesn't feel too rushed- I probably could have made this longer but I didn't want to get too repetitive or anything. I like where I ended here. Once again, pretty vague ask but it also worked in my favour, clearly. That said, I have yet another Noah TD (guys, someone req a woman, for the love of-) request so that will be out at some point soon too. So I guess, anon, if you hate how I wrote this one, look out for the next. Anyway, thanks anon! Enjoy!

this request was made by an anon.

It starts small, as most things do.

Early on in his career, when he's still running Chris McLean's coffee, he finds himself on a movie set. A real one. Not the set of a crappy, cheap reality show. Not the barely holding imitation of a movie set he saw over the Aftermath Show throughout Action.

Here, he was surrounded by big name actors and directors who got make good scripts better.

While running to the nearby café, he hits his speed-dial and finds himself hardly even waiting for your greeting before rambling on about it. You give little more than a quiet, sluggish, "H'llo?" before he's off.

"Chris brought me to filming! He's been off getting primped and plucked- or whatever- for his scenes the last two-ish hours?" He steps into the building on hasty feet, tacking onto the short line. "So I've just been helping Chef out and observing. Lord, I feel like I've glimpsed my future or something." He exhales shakily, joy clear in his tone.

As he reaches the counter, he holds his phone between his cheek and shoulder, digging into his back pocket for his wallet. He scans the overhead menu briefly, "Just, um, one red eye in the largest size you have and a caramel iced coffee in the same size. Low ice please, or my boss might kill me." The black card Chris gave him to use is the first in the wallet; he scans the piece of plastic and enters the pin with only half his attention.

"Sorry, coffee run." Noah murmurs, taking his phone in his hand and moving to the next counter. "But seriously there are some really big names here. I think I saw that one guy you like on the set list, it's an alliteration, I think- something Reynolds. Like-"

That seems to catch your attention.

"What?" You exclaim sharply. "Tell me you can get an autograph! Noah! I swear-!"

Noah huffs a laugh, retorting warmly as he tucks his wallet back away. "Is that all you got from this?"

"Man, it's like five a.m. Call me back in four hours if you want excitement." You scoff softly. He hears the faintly shuffling of fabric over the speaker before your sympathetic voice, "No, sorry, I'm excited. Promise. This is cool."

His chest feels warm with the attempt at sympathy, his grin pulling even wider. He picks up the drink tray as the barista leaves them at the side counter and readjusts his hold on his phone. "Nice try— I appreciate how much effort that must have taken. Go back to bed."

You sigh softly, "No, I'm up. Might as well get a run on my day." He hears a quiet 'thunk' followed by a soft, murmured 'ow!'

He can almost picture you hitting your head on the backboard. It pulls a loud snort out of him as he exits the café, "You sure about that? Don't really sound entirely lucid over there."

"Oh, hush." You mutter, "I'm gonna go get ready. You know what to do?"

"Network until I have a chance to leave McLean in the rearview mirror?" He offers, amused.

"Exactly." You yawn softly, "See you when you get home."

"See you." The call ends with a soft 'bzzt' of vibration. Shoving his phone back away, he runs to get to the crosswalk and heads back to set.

Though the day has a sort of resonating thrill to it, Noah is beyond thankful to get back to your shared apartment that night. It's just past midnight and the apartment is filled with little more noise than the ringing of the fridge. He toes off his shoes at the entrance, not minding to fix them when they end up upside down, and treks toward your bedroom.

Usually, he might stay up for a couple more hours and try to make some headway on storyboarding his own project but there's a tension festering in his forehead, threatening to overload his senses. The idea of doing anything other than curling up under the covers and passing out sounds horrifying.

Slowly, he creeks open your bedroom door and steps inside. He leaves his bag at the nightstand and pads around to find something to change into. You stir but thankfully, stay asleep until he has already slipped halfway under the comforter.

"How many times," Noah curses at the sound of your voice, "Are ya gonna wake me today?"

He lets his shoulder drop and settles against the pillow with a sigh, "Shit, sorry." He drags out the last syllable, a whiny note in his voice.

You throw an arm over his side, tucking your head into the space between you and yawning. "Just make it up to me t'morrow, kay?"

He agrees and even though he's gone before you wake up the next day, you consider it made up when you find the torn-away title page of a script, autographed and inconspicously left on your bedside.

Slowly, he begins to bring you more stuff— one for each event Chris takes him to once his job finally escalates from coffee-running receptionist into something more adjacent to assistant.

Theres the occasional selfie he gets with a cool celebrity as proof of his stories, small pieces of the set he snags when no one is watching, and the odd prop that he can manage to shove in his bag. The next one that really sticks out comes months later.

Noah texts you through the entirety of Revenge of the Island international premiere, mostly telling you about the kids he's been tasked to babysit.

You're out at the grocery store when it begins; your phone starts vibrating with the intensity of a call. As you pull it out of your pocket you find a string of texts.

18:07 - Noah: U are so lucky u chose a sane career path 18:07 - Noah: Sam is genuinely a downgraded harold 18:08 - Noah: Holy shit hes making me miss harold 18:08 - Noah: Tell harold i said that and we r breaking up

You grin at the screen, pausing in front of the peach counter.

18:09 - You: no we arent 18:11 - Noah: No we arent 18:11 - Noah: Still

You have some sympathy for the kids he's with and you're sure Noah does too; you remember the horror stories from your boyfriend's time on Total Drama. An actual shiver runs down your spine at his description of Dakota:

18:38 - Noah: SHE HAS A TAIL THAT WASNT CGI 18:40 - Noah: Shes like a solid foot and a half taller than me 18:41 - Noah: Her hair in like actually fried off and its stained green 18:43 - Noah: Shes definitely achieved a dream fake tan. Too bad it was achieved through extreme chemical exposure.

But slowly, they seem to fall back into the initial glamour of being on a reality show, even despite the surely traumatic experience they had on the island. So half-way through the night, the tone of his texts shifts towards the kids just screwing with Noah.

19:14 - Noah: Two of these kids have told me grab them drinks like im their assistant 19:15 -Noah: Chris is laughing at me 19:15 -Noah: Im going to kill him i swear 19:17 - You: think abt the money 19:19 - Noah: 19:19 - Noah: Fine 19:20 - Noah: But if the mic cable trips him then theres no proof i put it there

He is certainly not happy to be stuck around so many teenagers and the paparazzi but eventually, you notice that the kids grow on him.

20:32 - Noah: Is it messed up to spec on these kids sexuality 20:33 - You: nah 20:33 - You: they r only like 3 years younger than us 20:35 - Noah: This kid zoey is so into jo 20:35 - Noah: Like also her bf mike but like she looks at jo like shes into her 20:37 - You: …i thought you were gonna say Anne Marie seemed like a lesbian 20:37 - Noah: HOW DID I MISS THAT

He mentions Dawn and Brick with the most frequency.

With Dawn, it's comparisons to British wizard books and mentions of how cool she seems. Close to the end of the night, he's talking about how he's slipped off with her to find somewhere quiet to sit while everyone else is celebrating. He hardly even mentions that they're together. You end up on a call with him for a little, while you're driving and unable to type. She pitches in occasionally, which is the only reason you actually register that shes there.

Shortly before you turn off the call, you hear Brick chirp up distantly, saying something about getting himself and the rest of the teenage contestants home. Noah ends the call but seems to continue texting you on the way back. Brick makes up the majority of the content, between complaints of how unmanagable most of the kids are, he mentions Brick's politeness, not sounding unlike a broken record.

Noah is dropped off by Chef around eleven-thirty, meaning you're still awake and are curled up on the couch with your laptop when he returns. He smiles lazily in greeting, pulling his tie loose and just barely kicking off his dress shoes before collapsing next to you, a heft in his movements.

"Have a good night?" You ask, lowering your screen just a little and looking at Noah.

He hums, bringing his planting his feet on the couch cushion and sitting with his legs pulled close. "It was decent enough." He rolls down one of his sleeves, "Got something you might like."

You see a flash of red around his wrist briefly, before what seems to be string is pulled off and offered up in his palm. Your eyes settle on the woven embroidery bracelets in his open hand and you raise an eyebrow, taking it tentatively, "Where's this from?"

"Zoey made it for me." He shrugs, though you see the tugging at the corner of his lips. In the same motion, he puts his feet back down and stands up. "It's cute but you'll get more use of it, I think." He presses a quick kiss to your cheek before turning. "Gonna shower— I'll be back!" And with that, he turns into the hall and disappears down the hall.

Your eyes fall back on the bracelet. It's simple: made up of thick, red 'V' shapes with the occasional disturbance of teal and beige rows. The sight makes you grin and you have to wonder, how many of kids he 'loathes' so much have his number in their phones now?

Then, nearly a year later, you think your used to the things he brings back. You have a box dedicated to them: each little momento kept safely in the back your closet. You'll have to get a bigger one soon. There's a half dozen autographs, trinket souvenirs from farther travelled trips, and a notebook that gets taken and returned everytime he goes somewhere because Noah thinks it's fun to keep track of weird requests celebrities have asked of him. If there was a fire in the apartment, you actually might consider running back for them. Though, this— this is the most unconventional of them.

You aren't quite sure what you're looking at, what with Noah pacing back and forth in your kitchen, making wild gestures and holding a little white card between his hands as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

He's expressing gratitude to whoever is over the line with him, over and over, honestly freaking you out; you question if you should check his forehead for a fever for a while.

By the time the call ends, his face is reddened and his cheeks have perked with dimples you rarely get the chance to see so deeply. He shoots over to you on clumsy feet, nearly tripping over himself as he pulls you into a tight hug. The two of you sway back and forth as he rocks on the balls of his feet. You want to ask what in the world is happening but whatever excitement is rolling off him in waves seems to infect you, and you can't get the words out around the resulting, face-splitting smile.

After a couple minutes, he finally seems to calm a little, pulling away and holding the card out to you. "Know what this is?"

"What?" You ask, taking the card into your hands and trying to read it.

You expect for him to say something, though if he was going to, he doesn't get the chance. "Holy shit." You breathe, pulling the card closer in case you misread it, "Does this mean-"

He confirms it with a humming nod as you look up at him. He asks, "That a studio's interested? Yeah." He seems near breathless with the confirmation.

"Of course, they are!" You pull him back into you, nuzzling into him. "Of course. You're brilliant. They'd be idiots not to see it."

He chuckles, "Don't get your hopes up; they could still back out."

"They won't!" You exclaim, totally sure of yourself. "Not a chance. Noah, this is it!"

He breathes you in, hands curling around your back, clinging onto your shirt. "You're right. They won't." You can practically feel the curl of his lips his face tucks into the curve of your neck. The two of you stand there for a long time.

That card doesn't ever find its way to the box. You resolve that you'll have to frame it later. It's the best part of your collection, after all.

These are my guidelines: here. These are my other works: here.

Star's Final Notes:

— I often worry about not making my readers interesting enough since they're supposed to fit such a broad audience. I think I escape that here but idk. Let me know if I don't, I suppose.

— My page has been through a lot of changes in the past 24 hours, just to make it easier to navigate. So I hope the masterlists and stuff look better. If any links are broken- definitely let me know. I think it's easier to have multiple, especially since the number of works I have is actually getting to a point where if I didn't change it now, it would be a royal pain later. Anyway, yeah- that's all. Leave a comment, like, or reblog: I appreciate when y'all do that. Maybe send in a request. Take care of yourselves, as always. Later.

"Unlikely" • Relationship HCs

pairing(s): Noah (TD)/GN Reader

— summary: what a romantic relationship with Noah is like

— no y/n use, no pronoun use - gn reader, reader lives in Toronto; Canada

— Hey anon! First of all, take note of the way the ask is phrased because I actually have two tdi Noah reqs right now from anons. So like, if you’re who sent the more detailed ask, don’t be worried that’s still work in progress. Second, I usually ask for asks it’s to be more specific, but I was actually really happy to get an opportunity to write headcanons for this asshole so thank you, anon! I hope you like this!

this request was made by an anon.

Pre-Relationship:

Noah likes to think of himself as a purely objective person who sees situations for what they are. He understands subjectivity as a concept but he can't really reconcile it with his ego. He doesn't think he's the most skilled or entertaining person ever— no, his ego comes in the form of believing logical fallacy cannot touch him.

So this leads to him being entirely oblivious to his own feelings for you. You're someone he thinks of as tolerable. A friend. Just… a friend that he pays a lot of attention to but why wouldn't he? You have a nice voice and you know just how to tell him even the most mundane stories so that he's hanging on your every word.

He'll start picking up all your favourite media because he wants to understand.

He thumbs through the pages of your favourite book, turning every detail over in his head. He dislikes some of it, if he's being honest, but he focuses on the good so he can see it the way you do.

In the same vein, he jots down every song you mention and starts paying attention to the albums that flash on your phone screen when you put on headphones. He listens to all of it before eventually just asking you what music you listen to.

Your conversations are more in the stroke of banter, plain and simple. He's a snarky asshole but you seem to keep up with him in a way no else can. Noah is mean and argumentative but it's hard to be offended when you catch him staring at you every time you look away.

Of course, it becomes obvious that he likes you almost immediately.

Those around you catch on quickly, even if you don't and everyone starts to assume your one of those couples who just don't care for public displays of affection.

It's a scheduled game night that's more so just an opportunity for you all the meet when you're all usually so busy between school, internships, work, and extracurriculars (not to mention all game shows Owen still drags Noah on). The majority of the Total Drama cast had moved into Ontario and more specifically, the Greater Toronto Area as university has rolled around so it's much easier to coordinate these things now. Still, occasionally things come up and on this night, you're unable to make it. Instead, Noah; Owen; Izzy; and Eva crowd around a low table, sitting on the ground with cards in their hands. The conversation is low between moves, as the round is still just beginning. It's Owen who asks where you are. Noah stares down at his deck intensely, reorganising for a run before realising how quiet the room has gotten. With a furrowed brow, he glances up and finds three sets of eyes baring into him. "Am I a caretaker? How should I know?" He scoffs, more for the sake brushing them off than anything else. Still, the phone sitting on his lap was a nagging reminder that he did know— you had texted him to let him know days prior. Eva rolls her eyes, saying offhandedly, "Right, how should you possibly know where the person you're dating is?" She plays a pair of eights, looking to Owen for his move. Noah's mouth moves before his brain. "Dating doesn't mean you have a microchip planted in their neck unless you're with Izzy." He barely catches Izzy grinning from ear to ear before he runs Eva's words back over. His hands freeze over his cards, "Wait…" The set of cards is quickly lowered, face down in his lap as Noah takes Eva in. "Dating? Who said we're dating?" Owen falters as he tries to play a set, snorting in laughter before finding a complete lack of amusement on Noah's face. Slowly, the group pieces it together. The game devolves quickly into the group dogpiling on Noah, cards long abandoned as they attempt to make him see sense. His belief that he is just so purely objective comes back to bite him when he realises no one describes their friends like something out of a Jane Austen novel unless they're afflicted with affection. Though, 'afflicted' really is the only way to describe how he feels at first.

Getting Together:

The idea of flirting and dating feels so foreign to Noah. He had a brief, scripted fling with Emma on Ridonculous Race but even that, he had reshoot every scene with them flirting at least a dozen times. Though, he can't just… do nothing. So he starts finding more excuses to see you: going out of his way to find classes he can skip or stop by during his work breaks.

When he starts thinking about you romantically, he can't stop thinking about you at all. It's cheesy but he imagines what the future might look like for you. He starts planning dates, wondering how your names would fit together, finding it hard to bite down a grin every time someone brings you up.

If it wasn't subtle before, he's practically hitting you over the head with it by this point.

He takes note of things you're interested in, keeping a small log on his phone and eventually plans a date around something you like. He doesn't ask until he's sure you'll accept and when he does ask, it is with bated breath.

It's a rare day when your schedules seem to align, and you both have the day off. As per usual on your days off, the two of you hunker down at one of your places. On this particular day, you're both sprawled across Noah's couch. His couch is ridiculously nice, made up of a smooth black leather with impossibly soft cushions; frequently, you envy his paycheque but of course, that is before you remember the few exchanges you've had with Chris McLean. He's put on a movie because he may be flexible about food and music and even, his appearance but he draws a line at any of the "filmed arts." It's a side effect of working in the industry, you assume .…And Justice For All is playing across from you, as he explains why "This is the movie Al Pacino should be best known for." He stares at the screen with trained eyes, reminding you suspiciously of how he looks to you. Al Pacino is busy smashing in the window of another lawyer's car and honestly, more just to have any input to the conversation, you tell him, "He's kinda fine." You tilt your head lazily, "I'd kiss him." Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Noah turning his head. He inhales and you worry you've bothered him so you glance at him with a wrinkled nose and go to apologise, "I didn't me-" "Is that you're type?" He asks curtly, eyes narrowing with thinly-veiled judgement. Your eyebrows lift in offense, "You're practically drooling over him. You're telling me you wouldn't?" He scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest and sinking further into the couch. "I don't see the appeal." Sighing, you look back at the screen, "I dunno. He's like… " You glance back at Noah, a grin of clear insinuation beginning to curl at your lips, "A thin, nerdy guy yelling at everyone for being idiotic. Seems hot." Noah's face seems to freeze, mouth half open, and you worry just a little that he's on the edge of an aneurysm. Internally, you're keening with gratitude for the movie because the utter silence between you would be painful without it. He stutters for a moment, seemingly lost on words. Eventually, he seems to steady and quietly asks, "Do you wanna go out some time?" You take in the undercurrent of nerves in his tone, sympathy gnawing at you. You nod softly, letting a much kinder smile pull at your lips. "About time you asked." You joke, watching him ease up. The two of you settle back into watching the movie with a fondness hanging in the air. You'll sort out the details later. And if you get a bit closer to each other as the film goes on, it's left unsaid.

Finally, General Relationship HCs:

He's immediately really smug about dating someone he thinks is so awesome. He's never been in a real relationship so this is monumental to him. He drags you along to every hangout with his friend group and every Total Drama cast meet-up, purely for the sake of "rubbing their noses in it" and maybe, not that he'll admit it, because of your burgeoning co-dependency.

As for love languages, he responds best to quality time and acts of service. He sees them as actual proof of how much you care for him. That being said, because of the industry he works in, he doesn't actually have so much time. He wants to be director and if that means years of gruelling work, he'll get through it. If he says he doesn't have time, it's not a brush-off— you have to be persistent and keep asking until he finally has a moment.

Noah has almost a better grasp on you schedule than you do, also by extension of his work. He's just so used to being on top of two or three schedules at once. What's one more?

He lives everyday, beyond thankful to be far from his family. The two of you move in together after not-so-long and it is a sweet relief to have so much space after a lifetime of seven older sisters. Still, he loves them and they're incredibly protective of him so expect random drop-ins from intimidating sisters who mean to scare the thought of hurting Noah out of you.

Noah is pretty much always cold, especially his hands and feet, which are near-painfully so. As a result, your socks and sweaters become interchangeable with his. Half of the time, he'll be wearing what your looking for while your actively searching for it. You're almost sure that he does it on purpose.

He is a super picky eater on the account of a fair amount of allergies and honestly, having somehow developed a weaker stomach in Total Drama's wake. Thankfully, he's fairly self-sufficient and knows how to cook so when he's home, expect simple comfort meals. Soups, stir-fry, chicken bowls. Occasionally, he pulls out one of his mother's recipes. Most often, daal curry and rice.

On the weeks where his work lulls, he works on scripts for hours. You find him buried in sticky notes and legal pads, tracing out plotlines. His work rolls on until the sun pulls around the horizon. Often, you have to remind him to eat and get water, maybe drag him outside for a walk every couple days.

It's genuinely brutal sometimes, seeing the way he works himself into deeply sunken eyes and his head barely holding high.

It's worth it, however, when someone- anyone- finally takes a chance on him and he gets his break. All those long hours and coffee runs and acting as a godforesaken suck up— Noah finally gets to work on a project of his own. And when he gets the opportunity, you’re the first person he calls.

These are my guidelines: here. These are my other works: here.

Star's Final Notes:

— Okay so the last section is a bit less organised than the rest but I really like this other wise. I hope the anon who requested this and of course, all my other readers like it too. I have another Noah TDI work to get done after this so that's next. Keep an eye out if you like these. All that said, I hope you leave a like or comment or reblog, whatever. Otherwise, have a good rest of your day. Take care of yourself! Later!

Pairing: Kaoru Hitachiin x gn!reader Genre: fluff Warnings: none

Pairing: Hikaru Hitachiin x reader Genre: Fluff, angst  Warnings: Light making out A/N: I just finished OHSHC for the second time and I just couldn’t help myself. this is already kinda long but I highkey wanna write more but idk if people will read this. Let me know if I should write a part 2 :) also omg this has been sitting in my drafts for a hot second cause I had to reread all of this it’s 5,830 words give or take to edit any mistakes and I’m like 78% sure I still messed up but it’s fine. anyway, enjoy! Just realized I haven’t posted in like a year sorry bout that

4 times you don’t know the answer, and the 1 time you do

This is the 2nd part to Personal Google! (You don’t have to read it to understand this, but it exists if you want to).

Ship: BAU!reader x Spencer Reid

Summary: You’d call yourself a pretty educated individual, and most people wouldn’t argue with that, given that you’re a member of the BAU at Quantico. There’s just something about your best friend Spencer Reid that gets you all tongue tied.

Warnings: Mentions of cases and case-typical violence, mentions of alcohol, Spencer and Reader being idiots again.

Word count: 3k

A/N: The feedback (in asks and the tag reblogs) for Personal Google was so lovely and encouraging and I am very grateful for it! I only made this account a few days ago and I’m already so glad I did :) I hope this is a satisfactory second part and, requests are open!

(This is the Reid I’m imagining here)

4 times Spencer knows the answer, and the 1 time he doesn’t.

Summary: Spencer is your own personal Google. He always knows the answer to anything you ask him.

Warnings: Pining, slow burn-ish (?), reader and Spencer are both idiots who aren’t acknowledging their feelings for each other. Some mentions of a case and case-typical violence. No references to the gender of the reader!

Word count: 2k (this ran away from me)

A/N: Part two to this is here!

Requests: open!!

spencer reid x wife!reader

summary: spencer accidentally let it slip that he has a wife, but he thought that they knew

The bullpen is louder than usual.

A case just closed — messy, exhausting, emotionally draining — but closed. And that always brings a certain kind of restless energy to the team.

“Alright,” Derek announces, spinning slightly in his chair. “We deserve a drink. Real one. Not whatever’s been fermenting in the break room coffee pot.”

Emily snorts. “Seconded.”

“Thirded,” JJ adds, already grabbing her bag.

Spencer doesn’t look up at first. He’s reorganizing his go-bag with that meticulous focus he gets when he’s trying to decompress.

Hotch gives a small nod. “One hour. Then home.”

Morgan leans back in his chair and eyes Spencer. “You in, Pretty Boy?”

Spencer finally looks up, blinking like he just remembered he’s in a room full of people.

“Oh, um.” He glances at his watch. “I actually should probably head home.”

Morgan frowns dramatically. “Since when do you skip celebratory drinks?”

Spencer shrugs. Casual, almost too casual.

“My wife doesn’t love when I get back too late after a case. It messes with our routine.”

Silence.

Not the normal end-of-shift shuffle silence.

The kind where the air changes.

Emily freezes mid-zip of her purse. JJ slowly turns around. Morgan’s smile drops.

“…Your what?” he asks carefully.

Spencer blinks at him, “My wife.”

Morgan stands up fully now. “Your what?”

Spencer looks genuinely confused. “My wife? Why are you repeating it like that?”

“Reid,” Emily says slowly, “you don’t have a wife.”

Spencer stares at her, “Yes, I do.”

JJ’s eyebrows shoot up. “Since when?”

Spencer’s forehead creases like they’re the ones being ridiculous, “Since 2012.”

Morgan’s mouth actually falls open. “Two thousand and— Reid that was years ago.”

“Yes,” Spencer says patiently. “That’s generally how time works.”

“Spencer,” JJ says gently, “we would know if you were married.”

Spencer’s lips press together in mild disbelief, “I assumed you did know.”

“How?” Morgan practically shouts.

Spencer gestures vaguely. “I wear a ring?”

All of them look down. He does. A simple silver band. Always has. They just never clocked it. It blended in with his watch and the ink stains and the everything else that is Spencer Reid.

Emily steps closer. “You’re serious.”

Spencer exhales softly. “Of course I’m serious. Why would I joke about that?”

Morgan runs a hand over his head. “Okay, okay. Hold up. You’re married. To who?”

Spencer’s expression shifts immediately. Softens almost.

Like someone turned down all his sharp edges.

“Her name is Y/N.”

The way he says it makes the room feel smaller somehow. More intimate.

JJ tilts her head. “You’ve never mentioned her.”

Spencer hesitates.

And for the first time, he looks a little unsure, “I… didn’t think it was relevant to work.”

Morgan stares at him. “Reid, we share everything here.”

Spencer’s voice goes quiet but steady. “Not everything.”

There’s weight there.

Hotch, who’s been silent this entire time, studies him carefully. “She’s not in the Bureau.”

“No,” Spencer says quickly. “She’s not. She’s… normal. Civilian.”

Emily crosses her arms. “So let me get this straight. You’ve been married for over a decade and we’ve never met her?”

Spencer blinks. “Well… yes.”

Morgan points at him. “That’s insane.”

Spencer looks offended. “It’s not insane.”

“It’s a little insane,” JJ says gently.

Spencer shakes his head, standing now, suddenly protective in a way they’ve never seen before.

“She’s not a secret,” he insists. “I just… I don’t bring her into this.”

Morgan narrows his eyes. “Why not?”

Spencer goes quiet for a moment.

And when he speaks again, his voice is softer. Not defensive anymore. Just honest.

“Because this job takes things.”

The room stills.

“She met me when I was just starting at the BAU. Before any of the… really bad stuff.” He swallows. “She’s seen what this job does. To all of us.”

Emily’s expression softens.

Spencer continues.

“She was there when I couldn’t sleep after my first execution-style case. She sat with me and read out loud because I couldn’t get the images out of my head.”

JJ’s eyes glisten.

“She was there when my mom’s condition got worse. When I didn’t know how to handle it. She learned about schizophrenia just so she could understand what I grew up with.”

Morgan shifts, quieter now.

“And when I—”

Spencer stops.

The prison memory hangs heavy in the air without him even saying it.

His jaw tightens.

“When I was in prison,” he finishes softly, “she visited every week. Even when I told her not to.”

Emily inhales slowly.

Spencer’s voice steadies, “She wrote to me every day. She memorized the visitor protocols. She advocated for me when no one else could. She never once doubted that I’d come home.”

Morgan’s teasing expression is completely gone now.

“She kept our apartment exactly the same,” Spencer continues, almost like he’s replaying it in his mind. “She said she didn’t want me walking into something unfamiliar.”

JJ wipes at her eye discreetly.

Spencer looks down at his ring, “She’s been there for every version of me. The anxious twenty-something. The grieving son. The addict. The inmate. The profiler who can’t always leave work at work.”

His lips twitch faintly, “She’s the only constant I’ve ever had.”

The room is completely silent.

Morgan finally speaks, softer than they’ve ever heard him.

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

Spencer hesitates, “Because this job makes enemies,” he says quietly. “And I could never forgive myself if something happened to her because of me.”

That lands harder than expected.

Hotch nods once. He understands that logic more than anyone.

Emily steps forward slightly. “So you just… what? Go home every night and we never knew?”

Spencer gives a small shrug, “Yes.”

Morgan exhales slowly. “Reid, that’s not something small.”

Spencer tilts his head, “It’s not small to me.”

There’s no arrogance in it. Just certainty.

“She makes me dinner when I forget to eat. She leaves sticky notes in my books when she knows I’ll be stressed. She reminds me that I’m more than my IQ and my trauma.”

His voice softens again, “She married me when I was still figuring out how to exist in the world. That’s not small.”

JJ smiles through tears. “Does she know what you do?”

“Yes.”

“And she’s okay with it?”

Spencer nods, “She worries. But she says she’d rather love me in a dangerous world than not love me at all.”

Morgan shakes his head slowly, “Reid, that’s real.”

Spencer frowns slightly. “Of course it’s real.”

Emily laughs weakly. “We just didn’t know you had that.”

Spencer looks genuinely confused again.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

And there it is, the quiet confidence.

He doesn’t see himself as someone unworthy of love because someone has loved him consistently for years.

Morgan finally smirks faintly. “Alright, so when are we meeting her?”

Spencer stiffens instantly, “That seems unnecessary.”

“Oh no,” JJ says. “Very necessary.”

Hotch allows the smallest hint of amusement. “Agent Reid, you’ve withheld critical information from your team.”

Spencer sighs. “It wasn’t critical.”

Morgan claps him on the shoulder. “You being married is very critical, pretty boy.”

Spencer checks his watch again, panic creeping in slightly, “I really do have to go. She made lasagna tonight.”

Morgan groans. “You’re leaving us for lasagna?”

Spencer looks at him like he’s stupid, “Yes.”

The team bursts into laughter.

Spencer gathers his bag, still mildly baffled by their reaction.

As he heads toward the elevator, Emily calls after him, “Tell your wife we want to meet her!”

Spencer pauses and turns slightly.

And there’s the softest smile on his face.

“I’ll ask her if she’s comfortable with that.”

And then he’s gone.

—

Later that night, Spencer unlocks the door to your apartment quietly.

The smell of garlic and tomato sauce greets him immediately.

You appear in the kitchen doorway in his oversized sweater, hair slightly messy, smile automatic when you see him.

“You’re home.”

Spencer exhales like the world just unclenched.

You step into him, arms wrapping around his waist without hesitation and he practically melts instantly. Every sharp edge gone.

“Long case?” you murmur against his chest.

He nods, pressing his cheek to the top of your head.

“I accidentally told the team about you.”

You pull back slightly. “You what?”

“They seemed… surprised.”

You blink. “Spence, you never told them?”

“I assumed they knew.”

You laugh softly. “Oh my God.”

He looks sheepish for exactly half a second before he recovers, “They want to meet you.”

You study him gently. “Are you okay with that?”

Spencer looks at you. Really looks at you.

“You are the best thing in my life,” he says simply. “I don’t mind them knowing that.”

Your expression softens completely.

You reach up, cupping his face, “I’m proud to be your wife.”

His eyes warm immediately, “And I’m proud to be your husband.”

He leans down, kissing you slow and steady, not desperate, not rushed. Safe.

Because no matter what the job throws at him. No matter who questions it. He always comes home to you.

spencer reid who always lets you take that one window seat, even though it's his favourite spot on the jet.

spencer reid who will make as little noise as possible to ensure you are able to sleep.

spencer reid who stops breathing when you inevitably end up leaning on him.

spencer reid who will shift, carefully, in his seat, disregarding his own comfort so you can rest your head on his shoulder.

spencer reid who, when asked, continues to tell the team you aren't a couple, and that he is just being polite to a coworker in need.

spencer reid who starts packing a blanket for you in his go-bag.

spencer reid who offers to read aloud to you one evening when your headphones die. the human voice, he says, is proven to be as soothing, if not more so, than music.

spencer reid who realises after two weeks that you've been lying about your headphones dying on almost every flight, but continues to read to you anyways.

spencer reid who has been reminding himself that you aren't a couple more than he has been reminding the team.

spencer reid who makes you coffee when you wake up: triple shot, two sugars, six ounces of warm milk. he has never asked how you take your coffee, but he gets it right every time.

spencer reid who keeps a notebook full of potential date ideas. each one comes with its own list of pros and cons, as well as the statistical likelihood of you saying yes.

spencer reid who is always too afraid to ask.

spencer reid who views your friendship as the most important thing in his life; something fragile, and something he cannot risk ruining with the devastating weight of his feelings.

sanji x reader —ᡣ𐭩 blurb

sanji would absolutely lose his mind if you left lipstick all over his face and neck!!!!

he would catch a glimpse of himself in his metal spoon and freeze because what is that all over his skin? i can see him trying to see all angles of his face with this stupid spoon when he realises what you did before he left to prepare lunch. his cheeks would turn the most monstrous red ever, and his eyes would turn into literal hearts.

smiling, sanji'd drop the spoon next to the boiling soup pot and start chopping vegetables into hearts. he'd be careful not to smudge your art as he plates lunch, calling for you before anyone else (as always). and when you'd walk into the kitchen, his chest would hurt like you were squeezing his heart with your bare hands (not that he would mind). you'd smile that little cheeky smile he loves when you see the lipstick marks and think you'd gotten away with the world's funniest prank. sanji sets a bowl before you, heart-shaped carrot and potato chunks swimming in the flavourful broth, and you'd know he'd caught on. your blonde cook would drop a kiss on the top of your head just as the crew piled into the kitchen.

he'd practically throw bowls of soup at luffy and zoro and chopper and usopp but set them down politely before nami and robin, their soup full of regular cut vegetables. his eyes would be on you the whole time, divulging your reaction to his meal, his head dizzy when you nod in delight at the taste. it wasn't until luffy, ever the oblivious captain, pointed out the marks on sanji's cheeks that the rest of his crewmates started teasing him. nami and robin would giggle, nudging your shoulders when your cook would show them off instead of cowering away. your eyes would meet his from across the room, and sanji'd give you the softest, most lovesick smile you'd ever received. the chatter and laughter (at sanji's expense) in the room would fade into the background, and it'd seem you were alone in a crowded room. the glint in his eye would remind you that you'd be getting it when you were away from everyone, and the feeling would make the butterflies in your stomach kick up a storm.

and when that time came, sanji would refuse to wash off the lipstick, letting you replace the faded marks with new ones in the depths of the girl's quarters when the rest of the crew were exploring the new island you were set to dock that night.

sanji x fem!reader —ᡣ𐭩 fic summary: sanji's apron looked a little plain... w/c: 0.9k c/w: a little bit suggestive (it's literally sanji), reader referred to as 'my lady'.

"Is it to your liking, my love?"

Humming, you nod. "It's perfect. Thank you, baby."

Sanji's cheeks flush a deep shade of crimson as he turns back to the sink, scrubbing at a pan. The galley is empty, with the rest of the crew on the deck celebrating another successful fight. The Sunny breaks through waves slower than usual, and the constant threat from the world is a distant thought for the night.

The only sounds are the ding of the spoon in your hand on the ceramic plate, the slosh of the water in the sink, and the faraway laughter of your friends.

The delicate sweetness of the dessert your boyfriend prepared you fills your body with a warmness only he can elicit. You're content, and with that comes the overwhelming appreciation you have for your cook.

roronoa zoro x fem!reader —ᡣ𐭩 fic summary: as the sunny's seamstress, it's your job to make new clothes for the crew. so what happens when it's zoro's turn for his measurements? w/c: 1.4k c/w: (very) suggestive, flirting a/n: its cuffing season soon, after all. this is pure thirst.

"Alright! Zoro, it's your turn," Nami says, walking out of the stairs that lead under the ship.

Hiding his smug look, Zoro brushes past the navigator as he takes lazy steps down to your studio. The rest of the crew had their measurements taken for their new clothes, but Zoro stayed behind and insisted that he be the last one to do so.

The chatter of his crewmates fades to silence as the door closes, and he walks down the barren hallway, only the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. A familiar but restless feeling rises in his chest, one that can only be roused by you, and Zoro rubs at his sternum. He can hear you humming, something that only happens when you’re giddy, and the feeling in his chest grows tenfold.

roronoa zoro x reader —ᡣ𐭩 fic summary: when the straw hats start speculating about zoro's mysterious girlfriend, you and he decide to let the rumours run wild—until the truth comes out most unexpectedly. w/c: 3.6k c/w: secret relationship, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns.

There's no other way to get through to him than being straight up. That's how it works with Zoro, and it's something Nami has learnt to do without regret.

"You're seeing someone."

The swordsman shifts where he sits against the mast, his lips quirking into a scowl. "And you think it's your business because...?"

Nami has the urge to punch him in the shoulder, but it isn't like he'd feel it anyway, so she refrains.

"So it's true, then?"

multiple one piece boys; fluff!! || where you like to [casually] touch your man || 1.2k

No matter what was going on or what he was wearing, Luffy always looked good— whether that be ‘cute’, ‘hot’, ‘handsome’, ‘pretty’ or some other flattering adjective— he was a looker. End of story. But you couldn’t help but especially love when his straw hat wasn’t on his head; watching his hair rest over his forehead or rustle with the wind always had you staring. It was an absolute pleasure to run your fingers through his black tresses to feel the softness, running your nails along his scalp to make him shiver with tingles and sigh in content. The first time, he fell asleep in your lap within seconds. He’d woken up with a plea to do it some more so he could actually bask in the feeling and from then on it was something he actively sought out. It felt so good, soothing, relaxing…whether it was just a passing ruffle or hours worth of head massaging, he adored it, and he adored you.

How could you not want to grab Sanji’s waist? He was the perfect prince charming with such a lean figure and a subtle hourglass cinch to his waist that was worth drooling over. And drool you did because goddamn, did your boyfriend deserve someone to lavish him with heart eyes and attention. You loooove to come up behind him and grip his waist, either resting there or giving it a good squeeze; it’s usually followed with a kiss anywhere you can reach, or kisses everywhere you can reach. The first time it ever happened, his nose bled like a popped vessel and he melted into your arms. Practically begged you to not let go. The action has him forever smiling and blushing, giving you reciprocal heart eyes (though that’s typical behavior when he’s around you anyway). His own hands will find yours, rubbing over your knuckles so intimate and sweet, voice a soft murmur as he gives you an adoring little ‘hi’ followed by whatever french nickname he has for you at that moment. 

sunday evening. joint roach on the windowsill.

bedroom full of warm laundry and warm laughter.

you’re both sitting in the middle of your unmade bed, knee-to-knee, surrounded by pastel piles of clean clothes and good intentions. the fan’s humming. hanta’s shirtless, in boxers and mismatched socks. your hair’s a mess. your fingers smell like fabric softener and weed.

and nothing has been folded. nothing.

“okay,” you say, blinking down at the pair of sweatpants in your lap. “we have to focus.”

“i am focused,” he says, lying flat on his back. “i’m mentally folding each item.”

“you’ve mentally folded the same hoodie four times.”

“it’s a process, babe.”

you throw the sweatpants at his face.

he catches them — kind of — and then curls around them dramatically, nuzzling the fabric like it’s a childhood teddy bear.

“they’re warm,” he mumbles into the cotton. “they smell like you.”

“those are literally your sweatpants.”

“so?”

you roll your eyes. but your smile’s soft.

you reach for one of your tank tops, folding it slowly, carefully, and dropping it in a pile that you hope will someday become a drawer.

hanta watches you. all heavy-lidded and content. limbs splayed out like a starfish.

then:

“can i do your bras?” he asks.

you snort. “you’re gonna fold them?”

“no,” he says, sitting up with a grin. “i just like holding them.”

he digs into the basket before you can stop him, pulling out a lilac lace bralette with the reverence of a museum curator.

“this one’s my favourite,” he says, holding it up like a trophy. “top tier. five stars.”

you flick a sock at him. “you’re so stupid.”

“stupid in love,” he corrects, flopping back onto the bed and hugging the bralette to his chest. “with you. and your tits.”

“wow. poetic.”

“i try.”

you fold another shirt. then a hoodie. then pause to stretch your arms overhead, your spine arching with a soft little groan.

and hanta whines.

a tiny, helpless noise. like a kicked puppy.

“what now?” you ask, exasperated.

he props himself up on his elbows, eyes wide and tragic.

“you’re so hot,” he says. “and you’re making me fold socks.”

“you haven’t folded anything—”

“i’m suffering.”

you launch a towel at his head.

he lets it hit him, groaning dramatically as he collapses back down, towel draped over his face.

“i’m in pain,” he says, muffled.

you grin.

but you get up anyway — crawl over to him, straddle his hips, kiss his stupid face until the towel falls off and he’s breathless and pink-cheeked and babbling.

because folding laundry can wait.

orrrrr a cousin!bakugou!reader x hanta sero college au

“what came first, the chicken or the dickhead?”

.......

“is blasty… laughing?”

they're at their usual place—the shitty student bar downtown. it's too warm, crowded in that way that feels a little sticky—sweaty shoulders brushing yours, music bleeding through the floorboards, every surface just a bit grimy. the air smells like tequila and floor cleaner, and there's a low red glow coming from the shitty neon beer sign above the bar, blinking like it’s tired of existing.

"who, the hell, is that?"

the words leave hanta’s mouth before he can stop them, quiet and suspicious, as he leans forward slightly, squinting across the crowded bar like maybe he’s hallucinating. maybe they all are.

because bakugou is laughing.

not scoffing. not snorting. not giving one of his usual mean little chuckles like he’s already halfway through insulting your bloodline. no. this is different. this is full-blown, chest-shaking, head-thrown-back laughter. obnoxious. loud. bright-eyed. the kind of laugh that says something has actually made him happy, which. obviously. is fucking terrifying.

denki looks like he’s about to faint. his eyes are wide and glassy, clinging to his drink like it’s a lifeline. his hair’s a little sweaty at the roots, sticking to his forehead in little lightning bolts. kirishima’s frozen halfway through sipping his beer, hand hovering in the air like his brain stopped sending signals to his muscles. lips still pressed to the glass. not blinking.

mina’s leaned up against the high-top beside them, one elbow propped on the high-top, eyes wide and mouth slightly open, pink acrylic nails tapping rhythmically against the sticky surface. she’s staring across the bar with the expression of someone watching a plane crash in slow motion—too fascinated to look away, too horrified to speak. her lipgloss catches the neon like a warning sign.

“nah,” denki laughs in disbelief, clutching his beer like a rosary, “nah, i'm done. this ain’t real. we’re in, like, a weird timeline. multiverse type shit, like the batman that smiles thing, i don't like that.”

“he’s laughing with people,” mina adds, voice flat like she’s reporting a crime.

“strangers,” denki breathes.

“one of whom is…” hanta pauses and squints, makes the mistake of looking again. “…really hot.”

silence.

denki's mouth falls open. kirishima blinks, then glances at mina, who’s already raising one eyebrow like she’s clocked something important. the corner of her mouth twitches. she looks like she’s about to start taking bets. hanta immediately regrets all of his life choices.

“i mean—” he stammers trying to salvage it, hands up, half-laughing like maybe he can charm his way out of it, “not like—i didn’t mean it like that—”

“bro,” denki whispers, dead serious, “start writing your will.”

“you don’t know who that is?” kirishima says slowly, like he already knows the answer but is giving him a final chance to save himself.

“should i?”

“you’re joking.” from mina, the words roll off her tongue slowly, sarcastically.

“oooohhh, you’re so dead,” denki snorts, shaking his head as he picks his drink back up already resigning hanta to his fate. “super dead. we’ll use a hot photo as your memorial post, don't worry.”

and that’s when bakugou finally turns.

just a glance. a lazy wave, barely more than a lift of two fingers. casual, like he doesn’t care who’s watching. but the girl next to him—you—you follow his line of sight. turn your head, easy grin still lingering on your lips like you know exactly what just happened and you think it’s so hilarious. you’ve got this kind of light in your eyes that doesn’t match the low bar lighting, this way of standing like the room’s yours even though nobody gave it to you. your hand is still resting on bakugou’s shoulders.

he lets it stay there.

hants’s stomach does something horrible and fluttery. like a bug in a microwave.

“that’s his cousin,” kirishima says, and suddenly it all clicks. “she moved back from osaka a few weeks ago. they're real tight, apparently.”

“tight?” hanta echoes, disbelieving. “how tight? like—tight enough to make him laugh?”

“she’s the only person who’s allowed to talk to him like he’s not a landmine,” kirishima shrugs. “she’s kinda like him. but funnier.”

hanta can't stop staring. at the tilt of your smile, at the way you roll your eyes at something bakugou says and bump your shoulder into his like it’s instinct. like you’ve been doing it your whole life.

“okay,” he mutters. “but like… she is hot, right?”

denki and mina immediately burst into peels of laughter. hanta just groans, rubbing a hand down his face. the two of them together are always like this. loud, stupid, uncaring of social graces or volume control, they feed off of each others chaotic energy like hyaenas.

"someone wanna clue me in on what's so fuckin' funny?" hanta grumbles, trying to salvage what little dignity he has left.

kirishima takes pity and explains, "“y'know that summer you went home for a couple weeks and we went to bakugou's for that barbeque?”

"yeah..."

“well she was there. midoriya too. and she—oh, i don't remember what she said, but it was something like ‘don't get mad at izuku just because he's thriving and you're probably gonna go bald in the next three years.’”

“no, no,” mina cuts in, still giggling, “it was more like, ‘you’re mad because izuku is still young and pretty and i can literally see your bald spot.’”

“either way,” denki says, grinning, “she’s fucking brutal. i thought blasty was gonna cry.”

“ok. so she’s mean. i can handle mean.” hanta nods, slowly, like he’s trying to convince himself that he's got more confidence then he actually has.

“no, she’s not mean,” mina says, thoughtful. “she’s just…”

“—a bitch?” from denki.

“dude…” kirishima winces.

“denki!!!” mina snaps, rolling her eyes. “what have i told you? you can't say that about girls. oh my god.”

“sorry, sorry,” denki says, hands up. “i meant like... she’s just waaay harsh. definitely too much for our boy sero to handle.”

“ok, that is true.” mina and kiri both nod at the same time, traitors to the cause.

“hey, wait a minute,” hanta frowns. “what’s with this sero hate train? you guys think i can’t pull?”

he says it light, like a throwaway comment. like of course his long-time best friends will disagree.

but it’s quiet for a second.

“you guys want another drink?” mina says eventually, looking pointedly at her glass.

“yeah, if you’re buying.” denki perks up instantly.

“yes please,” from kirishima, too chipper.

“seriously??” hanta gapes. “you guys really think i can’t talk to girls?”

“it’s not that you can’t,” kirishima begins carefully, tone gentle. like he’s trying not to step on a landmine. “because, we’ve seen you. don’t worry.”

“slut,” denki coughs into his drink.

“it’s just—well—you’re a bit—” kirishima tries.

“—you’re a massive dickhead,” mina finishes sweetly, not even looking up from the drinks menu.

“oh fuck off.”

that gets a chorus of fake gasps and offended noises from denki and kirishima.

“you’re gonna swear at a lady? really, sero?” mina doesn’t even blink, just raises one brow.

“well,” he says, mock-dramatic, scanning the table, “i don’t see any ladies here.”

mina jabs a sharp fingernail in his direction. “take that back.”

“all we’re saying is,” denki cuts in, trying to ease the tension, “you’re way too smug about it. girls can smell that.”

hanta raises a brow. “and what do they smell on you, sparky? desperation?”

“electromagnetic sex appeal,” denki deadpans, then flashes a shit-eating grin. “google it.”

“google told me you fried your phone charger by trying to flirt with a vending machine,” hanta shoots back.

mina chokes on laughter. kiri wheezes.

“ok, ok,” denki’s already sliding out of the booth, trying to make a break for it. “shut up. let’s go for a smoke before bakugou comes back and ruins the vibe. hanta, i know you’ve got some zaza in that back pocket.”

"fuck you," hanta grumbles.

"promise?" denki smirks.

hanta throws a crumpled napkin at him. they’re still laughing when they push through the crowd, already forgetting what they were arguing about in the first place.

to be continued.....

"oh hey, baby."

hanta grins as he kicks the door shut behind him with one socked foot, a little too casually, arms still awkwardly braced around a suspiciously large cardboard box.

"hanta…" you say, slow, cautious.

he flashes all teeth, mischievous and boyish at once. "what’s up?"

you eye him. then the box. then back to him. "why did you just close the door?"

"what? me? the door? no door. i don’t know what a door is. never heard of it."

you blink. "are you… are you good?"

"yep. i’m good. i’m super good. super chill. like, zen. like a lizard on a warm rock."

you narrow your eyes. he’s trying too hard. his ears are a little pink. he’s definitely hiding something.

"yeah, well, you look good too," you reply, slowly circling toward him like he’s a suspicious animal and you’re about to check under the box flaps.

his expression shifts in an instant. smile turning into a lopsided smirk, head tilting just a little as he clocks the tone in your voice.

"i—really?" his voice lifts, playful. "how good?"

you step in closer, toe-to-toe now. "super good."

hanta’s breath stutters just slightly as your lips barely graze his. his eyes flutter, fingers tightening around the box—

bang.

you reach past him with zero ceremony and shove the door back open.

"what is that?"

he jolts like you caught him red-handed. "tank."

"…tank?"

"for the fish," he says, far too quickly.

"what fish?"

he clears his throat. "you remember that goldfish i won you at the fair? with the tiny castle and the weird eyes?"

"yeah…"

"well. it, uh. it died."

"it died?!"

"okay—wait—i swear it wasn’t my fault!" his voice spikes up, hands waving wildly as he backs toward the bed, the box still clutched to his chest like it’s some kind of apology. "i tried to stop denki from flushing it, i swear—"

"denki flushed it down the toilet?!"

"did i say that?" he squeaks. "what? nooo… i mean… okay yes. but! but! i felt really bad about it. so i got you a new tank! like… like a real one. like with filters and gravel and plants, babe. like a whole aquascape moment."

you stare.

"…you bought a tank."

"for fishes," he repeats earnestly.

"a fish tank."

"yes."

"that is now in your bedroom."

"that is… correct."

and then, like a dam breaking, he launches into a full-on ramble as he sets the box down and yanks it open to show you the insides: colorful gravel, a tiny bubbling treasure chest, some plastic seaweed. he’s already unboxing it like you said yes.

"okay so listen, i did research. actual research. there’s a huge difference between saltwater and freshwater tanks and we are not doing saltwater because that’s like a whole other budget and i’m not emotionally prepared to take care of a clownfish. but freshwater? freshwater i can handle. and, dude, there’s this little fish called a celestial pearl danio and it’s, like, glittery. it sparkles. like you."

you blink.

"…you’re comparing me to a fish?"

"a beautiful fish," he corrects, very seriously. "also maybe a moss ball. those are kind of cute. round and low maintenance."

you make a face.

he beams. "you’re my moss ball."

you groan, but your face is already betraying you with a smile. "you’re so stupid."

"and yet you love me," he says, smug, crossing the room to wrap his arms around you from behind.

you sigh dramatically but lean into him anyway. "you’re lucky you’re cute."

hanta’s voice is casual, breezy, like he’s turning down a movie he’s already seen. except the movie is an invite to hit this new ramen spot downtown, something the group’s been trying to plan for weeks.

denki, leaning against the kitchen counter with a stolen capri-sun in hand, blinks at him in utter disbelief. “you literally just said she’s asleep.”

“exactly,” hanta says, like he’s pointing out the obvious. “she’s asleep, and i don’t wanna wake her.”

denki’s eyes narrow. “you’re at your house.”

hanta doesn’t flinch. “the vibes are asleep, denki. don’t mess with the energy.”

in the corner of the room, bakugou lets out a sound so sharp and pained it’s honestly impressive it’s not lethal. “you are so full of shit.”

hanta just grins, throwing his phone lazily onto the couch and stretching like he’s got all the time in the world. he’s draped across the sectional like he lives there—which he kind of does, when you’re around. the hoodie he’s wearing still smells like your shampoo. his legs are tangled in a fuzzy blanket you left behind two days ago, the one you claimed clashed with his “whole aesthetic” but brought over anyway. your socks—those ridiculous yellow ones with the tiny strawberries—are balled up under the coffee table.

everything in here is steeped in you. your perfume still hangs faintly in the air. your laugh echoes if he thinks about it too hard.

it’s not that he can’t go out.

it’s just—okay. no. it’s exactly that. he can’t go out. not when he could be here, waiting for you.

“look, i’m sorry,” he says with all the sincerity of a man who is not sorry in the slightest, “missus said no. y’know how it is.”

denki frowns at him, straw still in his mouth. “you don’t even call her that to her face.”

“i call her worse,” hanta replies proudly, just before a throw pillow comes flying from bakugou’s corner of the room and smacks him in the head with practiced precision.

“you’re so annoying when you’re in love,” bakugou mutters, already reaching for another pillow like it’s open season on sentimentality.

“thank you!” hanta chirps, catching the first pillow and hugging it to his chest like a trophy. “finally, someone’s noticing the effort I put into being an incredible boyfriend.”

“you’re lying to avoid social plans,” denki points out flatly. “you bailed on us last week too.”

“that time she really did say no.”

“no she didn’t.”

“she could have!” hanta says, like that somehow justifies it. “i just… preemptively respected her boundaries.”

bakugou makes a noise like he’s seriously debating whether homicide is worth the paperwork.

hanta settles deeper into the couch, gaze flicking briefly to his phone screen—already lighting up with a little preview of your goodnight text, the one you typed before your post-shift nap knocked you out. he doesn’t open it. just smiles at it. lets it sit there like a quiet little warm thing in his chest.

you’re coming over later. you mentioned it in passing this morning, half-asleep and brushing your teeth. said something about bringing that stupidly specific kind of candy he likes from the store near your work. he knows you’ll show up smelling like body lotion and a long day, probably steal another one of his hoodies and complain about the lack of snacks in his pantry like you don’t eat them all.

and if you’re even a minute late, he’ll act like he’s not checking the window every five seconds like a dog waiting for the mailman.

but right now, you’re asleep. and you’re still the best excuse he’s ever had.

“y’know,” he says, propping one foot up on the coffee table, “i just think it’s important to prioritize your partner. i’m choosing love. you guys are choosing noodles. i’m making mature decisions.”

“you’re eating half a pack of gummy worms and wearing her fuzzy socks.”

“maturely.”

denki sighs and checks the time. “whatever. i’m leaving in ten.”

“send me pics,” hanta calls after him, already fishing for the remote. “unless they’re ugly. then keep them to yourself.”

bakugou, on his way out, doesn’t say goodbye—just mutters something that sounds like simp and slams the door harder than necessary.

hanta doesn’t care.

he’s got a show paused right where you left off. your blanket. your scent. your goodnight text warming the screen like a promise.

the vibes are asleep, yeah.