hey friends! as you probably noticed, i am back! it's been a long time since i've actually had inspiration to write as i've been going through writers block and some life changes! but anyway, i posted two items last night as kind of an intro to my new writing and what i will be working on now! as sort of a comeback, i will be hosting a sleepover weekend as a welcome back!
feel free to send in requests, numbers, songs, etc! i will provide a list of promtps and characters i can write for as i am expanding! thank you guys so much for sticking through it with me, i promise i will be scheduling writing pieces and series will be reborn! (i have a couple i have been working on since i was on a break)
weekend sleepover!
actors and their characters:
pedro pascal (and respective characters)
joseph quinn
glen powell
ben hardy
sebastian stan
tom holland
matthew gray gubler
danny ramirez
xolo mariduena
joe keery
prompts:
“what the hell is wrong with you?”
“you think it’s okay to speak to me like that?”
“this will be your only warning, get away from me.”
“you better get the fuck out of my face.”
“you’re such an asshole, i don’t even know why i like you.”
“why do you make loving you so damn hard?”
“i have a really bad feeling about this.”
“do you think this is it? the end?”
“do you even love me anymore?”
“you really think i have a choice?”
“i’m not giving up on you, i’m not giving up on us.”
“if you’re hurt, you can tell me. i don’t mind carrying you, honest.”
“don’t look at them, look at me. you’re okay, stay in this moment with me.”
“i said no! you’re hurt, just for ONCE do what i ask.”
“i hate knowing you’re hurt and there’s nothing i can do.”
“you’re telling me to calm down? you’re the one who’s shot!”
“please, just let me help you.”
“stay with me, just stay with me.”
“are you dumb?”
“have you been drugged?” “i don’t do drugs.. it’s only marijuana.”
“please don’t tell my mom, she will throw a shoe.”
“how about we just spend the day in bed?”
“look at me, sweetheart!”
specific prompts/moments:
first family christmas
high school graduation
getting suspended together from school
unexpected pregnancy/older or younger
high school reunion
wedding/attending ex’s wedding
au’s:
college students/roommates
angels vs demons
post-apocalypse
hospital (one is patient, other is doctor/nurse)
royalty (one is royal/stable worker)
rock band/battle of the bands
superheroes/superpowers (much like marvel universe)
vampire (one is a vamp/human)
arranged marriage (used to change the other)
spies/assassins (one is the other/target)
coffee shop (one works/regular customer)
teachers (both working together/nearby)
soulmates (in various ways: colors, tattoos, imprints, necklaces with heat, time clock on wrist, etc)
y’all help me out! looking for a danny ramirez fic or joaquin torres fic where the reader is a singer performing sabrina carpenter’s song on stage on a bed (ala real performance) and her partner is him! its so cute and i loved it but i wanna read it again and i cant find it!!
sfw. making out. flirting. steve being a nuisance.
kissing steve felt like falling into a blanket of clouds that you could roll around in for hours, letting them embrace you and caress your skin with their softness. you didn't care how sore or swollen your lips became, you could kiss him forever.
just thinking about it made your mind go fuzzy, your heart race, and apparently you weren't the only one noticing it.
steve pulls his lips away from you, his brows knitted in the centre of his forehead, "woah, your heart is beating so fast right now."
instinctively, you press a hand to your chest. he was right. your heart was thudding profusely. you could feel your cheeks starting to heat up at the realisation as your heart beats beneath your hand at a rapid pace.
"is that - is that because of me?" he asks, almost concerned, but more chuffed with himself than anything. the slight smirk tugging at the right side of his mouth gives it away. "do i make you nervous?"
he leans in closer, a teasing smile on his face and you push him away gently, "not nervous... just... nice."
"not nervous... just nice," he repeats, almost mockingly and you know you're never going to hear the end of it. “guess i’ll just have to continue making your feel nice then…” he says, leaving it as an open-ended question, maybe a statement, but the way his lips immediately pounce on you has your brain short-circuiting and nothing else seems to matter anymore.
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in which you wake up in a stranger's bed on new years day and nothing is what it seems to be
who? spencer reid x fem!reader
category: fluff (18+ mature)
content warnings: alcohol consumption, sex talk, slight suicidal ideation but like it's a joke, reader is superstitious, painkillers
word count: 2.56k
a/n: bet you thought you'd seen the last of me! happy new year!
You were greeted with the bright light of the outside world before you were fully ready to wake up. The sun reflected off the pitiful amount of snow that had accumulated on the ground and made its way into the bedroom of whoever you’d gone home with last night. The beige sheets on the bed didn’t seem familiar to you, and your stomach turned at the thought of having to make small talk while uncomfortably trying to find your way out of an apartment you didn’t recognize.
Before you could gather your thoughts, you heard a door creak open, and you could feel eyes boring into your back. Eyes that had already seen everything you have to offer the world checking to see if you were awake. Any other guy would’ve assumed you were still asleep from the way you laid still in his bed, but this guy was different, he knew better. “If you’re hungry, I could make you something to eat,” he offered, fingers tapping gently on the door to his room.
“How did you know I was awake?” You asked, your heart pounding as you fisted the sheets anxiously, waiting to sit up in the bed until you better understood what you were dealing with.
He hummed softly as if your question had amused him, “You breathe slower when you sleep.” When you didn’t respond, he continued, “When you got to sleep your body enters a state called rest mode, which is controlled by the autonomic nervous system, but as a result your body has a reduced oxygen demand and slower breaths. When I came into the room just now, I noticed you were breathing faster than you were when I came to check on you last night, which is how I knew you were awake.”
Pushing yourself up on the bed, you glared at the man who was now giving you a lecture on your nervous system, “You came to check on me?” Your tone was a healthy mix of incredulity and confusion, with your voice garbled with lack of use and what you’re sure was a very long night.
“I wanted to make sure that the copious amounts of alcohol you consumed last night weren’t going to result in alcohol poisoning,” he explained, pushing his hair away from his face. “That, and the fact that none of your friends were particularly inclined to tell me where you lived, so I couldn’t take you home.”
Taking a moment to try and remember what happened last night, you were drawing a total blank on just about everything. “You just didn’t ask me where I lived?”
He chuckled softly, “You were in no state to answer that question last night, trust me.” His head tipped to the side, “So, where do you live?”
Your face burned at the implication that you had been that drunk that you could either not remember or not articulate what neighborhood you lived in. “Foggy Bottom,” you mumbled, dropping your head in your hands and groaning, your arm scraping against the gemstones on your dress. It was then that you realized you were wearing all of your clothes, each clothing item twisted around you haphazardly from what seemed to have been a restless night. None of them had been removed or stained with signs of debauchery, though, and you had a feeling that your white knight was potentially the last guy who was pure of heart on earth. “Where am I?” You asked, trying to peek out of the closed blinds to surmise what neighborhood you’d been whisked off to.
“Forest Hills,” he answered, leaning against the thin side of the door, swaying with it gently. “I wasn’t sure if this was just a casual Wednesday night for you or if you were going to wake up hungover, so there’s acetaminophen and some water on the bedside table,” he informed you, leading you to peek over at the nightstand. Sure enough, next to a precarious pile of books, was a glass filled with water and a bottle of pills.
You tilted your head in his direction, “You can’t just say Tylenol?”
He shook his head, “I buy the generic brand. It costs less than the name brand, but it’s the same medicine, so it’s technically not Tylenol.”
Nodding to yourself, you took his answer for what it was. Besides, who were you to question the guy who knew why your breathing slowed while you were sleeping at the drop of a hat? “Right, thank you…”
While you grasped at straws for his name, the man in front of you looked at you expectantly, “We’ve been talking this entire time, and you don’t remember my name?” His tone wasn’t mad; he was more amused at the fact that you were willing to make conversation with someone whose name you didn’t know than anything else.
Squinting at him, you searched your brain for one more moment before shaking your head, “I’m sorry, no.”
He smiled at you then, as if helping random people was something he did every day. “Spencer,” he reintroduced himself, laughing when you said your name in response, “Well, that I remember.” Under your watchful gaze, Spencer gestured toward the foot of the bed, “I had a friend bring over some clothes that should fit you, so you can take a shower before I take you home if you’d like. You should really drink that water, and I can make you something to eat for when you get out of the shower.”
“Spencer?” You said his name out loud for the first time you’d remember. “I’m sure this isn’t the right question to ask, but how do I know you’re actually planning on driving me home and not trying to keep me complacent so I stay here forever?”
Quickly, he started patting his pockets as if he’d been expecting you to ask that question - although, maybe not in so many words. It took him a moment before he produced a small leather wallet, finally approaching you and holding out FBI credentials.
Falling back onto the pillows, you grabbed one from the other side of the bed and covered your face with it. “Fuck,” you mumbled into the pillow. Of course, the person who decided to rescue you from a blackout on the metro was an FBI agent.
Spencer carefully peeled the pillow off your face, “Does that mean I’m trustworthy? Or should I call someone else to be here with us?”
You shook your head, “It’s not that I think you’re dangerous. It’s that I just spent the night in your apartment and I couldn’t even remember your name, much less the sex, which was no doubt phenomenal just by looking at you, and now you tell me you’re an FBI agent?”
“Well, first of all, we didn’t have sex last night, and second of all, if you didn’t remember my name, I wouldn’t have expected you to remember my occupation,” Spencer told you very matter-of-factly.
Looking up at him, your face heated, “Do you think I could burrow a hole into your floor? Or better yet, where’s the closest bridge for me to jump off of?”
Spencer frowned at your sudden onset of suicidal ideation, “Probably over Rock Creek, but you’ll have to fight me to get there.”
Pushing yourself up on your elbows, you watched him, perched on the edge of the bed but still keeping a respectable distance from you. “We really didn’t have sex last night? The horrifically drunk version of myself didn’t try to jump your bones from the minute we locked eyes?”
“You tried very hard. For what it’s worth, so did your friends. They seem to think you’re in dire need of sex. You were very cute. It was endearing, and it would’ve worked, had you been sober,” he admitted to you, a soft, friendly smile planted perfectly on his face.
Pathetically, you sighed, “I would never have tried to pick you up in a bar had I been sober.”
He inclined his head curiously, “What does that mean?”
You gestured at him, “It means… look at you! You’re tall and handsome and you dress well even when you’ve spent your day taking care of a girl who got so sloshed on New Year’s Eve that she can’t remember anything from the night before. You’re taking care of that same girl even when you have no responsibility to, and also you smell really good.”
“And you’re beautiful and funny and despite the temporary amnesia caused by one too many Manhattan’s, I found myself enamored with you in the bar last night and wanted to get to know you. What I didn’t know was how far gone you were already,” he told you, smiling softly as your exasperation turned to adoration. “Take a shower, drink some water, I’ll make you breakfast, alright?”
Biting your tongue on another retort, you nodded, watching as he walked into the connected bathroom and pulled out a towel, hanging it on the bar before walking out of his bedroom and closing the door behind him. You waited for him to walk away before hauling yourself out of the bed, standing on shaky legs while you followed his instructions and took the painkillers, washing them down with the water he’d left for you. You inspected your bare legs, spotting the bruises that were a tell-tale sign of a night out before heading into the bathroom and turning on the water, pulling on the diverter, and letting the water heat up while you stripped.
Taking off your clothes, you folded your dress gently and placed it on the bathroom counter, tucking your bra away so it couldn’t be seen should Spencer walk in. You looked at yourself in the mirror for a moment, cringing at the mess of your hair and the makeup smeared all over your face. Spencer had called you beautiful just then.
He was either perfect or insane.
Scrubbing the night off of you, you stood beneath the showerhead for a few minutes before deciding that running up his water bill wasn’t going to leave the best impression. Turning off the water, you dried yourself off as well as you could before stepping out, trying not to make a mess of his bathroom. You caught yourself in the mirror again, better, but not beautiful. Wrapping the towel around yourself, you stepped out of the bathroom to find the bed completely stripped, but the clean clothing he’d gathered for you was resting on top of the mattress. Tugging on the clothes, you were grateful for the soft cotton against your skin, a welcome change from the dress you’d slept in last night.
You wrapped your hair up in the towel, staring at the door handle like you were opening a gate to another world. Eventually, you turned the knob, opening it to find Spencer in the kitchen, focused on something over the range, and paying you no mind. “Do you have coffee?” You spoke up, crossing your arms in front of your chest and making your way to a stool.
Spencer hummed thoughtfully in response, “Coffee is a diuretic, and you’re already dehydrated, so you can have coffee after you drink more water.”
Laughing softly, you got up and retrieved your glass of water from his bedroom. He’s not real, you thought to yourself. Surely, you were having some sort of dream induced by alcohol poisoning. Your smile faded as he slipped a pancake onto a plate in front of you, “Spencer… why did you take me home last night?”
“Well, I had no idea where you lived, and I couldn’t in good conscience leave you at the bar,” he somewhat repeated himself from earlier.
No matter how many times he said it, you couldn’t quite get yourself to wrap your head around it. A guy who took a total stranger in just to take care of her. You tilted your head to the side, “And you had no other options?”
His movements faltered for just a moment, flopping a pancake onto a plate before turning around to hand you syrup and butter. “Well…” his voice trailed off, unsure.
You raised your eyebrows curiously, “You weren’t drawn in by the promise of rescuing a damsel in distress?” Now that you were clean and fed, you were getting more playful - more desperate for a chance to see him again, sober.
Turning off the range, he leaned against the kitchen counter and crossed his arms just as you’d done moments ago. “Your friends asked me to take care of you,” he elaborated. “Although I imagine they had a different scenario in mind than what actually happened.”
Your face burned at how hard your friends had tried to get you laid last night. “But you wouldn’t sleep with me…”
“While you were drunk,” he finished for you, placing his plate next to yours and taking your glass to refill it with filtered water from the refrigerator. His coffee taunted you, leading you to reach for the glass of water as soon as he set it back down. Something told you Spencer was a man of his word, so drinking the water was the only way you were getting any caffeine.
Setting your glass of water back down, your eyes followed him as he fished through his silverware drawer for forks and knives. “Would you sleep with me now?”
You were trying to catch him off guard, but your attempts proved unsuccessful when he slid the silverware over to you. “No,” he answered easily, “There are no sheets on the bed.”
Despite your mild embarrassment, a laugh bubbled through your throat in response to his clever and tantalizing response. Saved by the bell, your phone buzzed on the counter. He must’ve plugged it in for you at some point in the night.
Grabbing your phone for you, Spencer unplugged the phone and, out of force of habit, glanced down at the incoming text message. “Someone wants to know if your red underwear worked,” he read aloud, pink flooding his cheeks as he realized he invaded your privacy after spending the better part of the night trying to avoid that.
You smiled at his pink flush, feeling comfortable with the fact that he was as nervous as you were. “It’s a superstition,” you explained. “You wear red underwear to bring you… something in the new year,” you told him, leaving out some key details in hopes that he wouldn’t ask.
“Bring you what?” He asked, finally taking a seat next to you. Nudging you with his elbow, he silently encouraged you to eat.
Fiddling with your fork, you smiled softly to yourself, “Love.” It seemed ridiculous now, explaining it to someone who clearly didn’t believe in what you were saying, but yesterday it seemed like your last hope. “Don’t you believe in any superstitions, Spencer?”
He shook his head confidently, “Not really.” He cut his pancakes into precise squares, eating the edge pieces before moving to the inside. You followed suit.
“Walking under a ladder?” You tried, “Breaking a mirror?”
Spencer shook his head again, “Any bad luck that comes as a result of those things is merely a coincidence.”
Setting down your fork, you leaned ever so slightly closer to him, “What about fate?”
Glancing over at you knowingly, Spencer shrugged, “I could be convinced.”
y’all help me out ; im looking for a steve harrington fic where the reader is transported into the actual show and she helps them through each episode how she remembers while falling in love w steve !! i cant find it but i wanna read it again!
