Hi, I'm Cee, this is a self-insert, or f/o, or whatever you'd like to call it, blog. I've been partaking in self-inserting for years, but I'm new to this "f/o" community stuff.
I don't really "ship" myself with anyone full time like some people do, but sometimes I see myself with some characters.
Character(s) I ship/see myself with:
Primary:
Kazuhira Miller (MGS) (Exception to the below note, he is the only one I am currently not comfortable sharing.)
Secondary:
Jotaro Kujo (JJBA)
Only shows up in dreams and gets paid minimum wage:
Chandler Bing (FRIENDS)
*Note: I do not take self-shipping too serious. If people take it seriously, that's fine with me, I don't mind, and I have nothing against those who do. People are allowed to share/have the same f/o's as me, as these are quite popular characters.
First ever Waterbug art yahoo yippee!!!! 👏👏👏 or in other words, Waterboy has a thicc latina now. In other other words you can pry the tall thin x short chubby ship trope from my dead hands 🤭💖💖 I didn't have any particular idea for my self insert's hero outfit, but I really like where it ended up!
summary: chandler helps you through a panic attack. then you argue about his methods.
masterlist
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November 20th, 1993
The elevator gave a jolt.
Not the kind you brushed off. The kind that made your stomach swoop and the lights flicker like something out of a bad horror movie.
“Oh no,” you muttered.
“Oh yes,” Chandler said, already backing into a corner with his hands raised. “This is how it starts. This is exactly how it starts. One second you’re helping Ross relocate dinosaur bones, and the next--bam. Death box.”
“We’re not stuck,” Ross said, tapping the “Door Open” button with forced calm. “It’s probably just-”
The lights blinked again.
The elevator groaned. Then it stopped. Not with a ding. Not with an arrival. Just… stillness.
“…Okay,” Ross said after a beat. “We might be stuck.”
You didn’t respond. Not immediately.
You shifted your weight from one foot to the other and rubbed your palms along your jeans, suddenly too aware of the walls. The silence. The stale air. Your own breathing.
"We’re gonna be fine,” you said aloud, more for yourself than anyone else. “Totally fine. It’s just a stupid elevator. Nothing’s happening.”
Chandler smacked the emergency call button with a practiced air of sarcasm.. “Hello? Yes, hi. We’re currently stuck inside a glorified tin can. There are three of us. One is trying to stay calm. One is citing elevator statistics. The other is emotionally preparing for cannibalism. Please advise.”
No response.
“Okay,” Ross said. “Statistically speaking, fewer than thirty elevator-related fatalities happen in the U.S. every year--"
“Ross!” you and Chandler snapped in unison.
You were trying not to panic.
Trying really hard.
But the floor felt like it was tilting.
The air felt heavier.
Your vision--narrower.
You turned toward the wall, pressing your hand flat against the surface like maybe that would ground you. The cool metal bit into your palm. You stared at the emergency inspection sticker until the words blurred.
Don’t do this.
You didn’t want to cry.
You really didn’t want to cry in front of Chandler Bing.
But you couldn’t get your lungs to pull enough air.
You made a noise--something between a gasp and a hiccup--and that was all it took.
Chandler was in front of you in a second. “Hey, hey, hey.”
You shook your head. “I’m fine. It’s-- I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” he said, voice suddenly low, steady. “And it’s okay. Okay? You don’t have to be. Look at me.”
You couldn’t.
“I mean it,” he said, softer. “Come on. Just--eyes on me.”
You peeled your gaze off the wall. Met his.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t joke. He just nodded.
“There you go,” he said. “Now try this with me, alright? I’m gonna breathe, and you copy me.”
You didn’t move.
“I know it’s dumb,” he added. “But just try. You trust me?”
You hesitated. Then nodded.
He inhaled slowly through his nose. Held it. Then exhaled through his mouth.
You mirrored it--shaky, shallow.
“Again,” he said.
You did it again.
“Better,” he said. “You’re doing great. Don’t think about the walls. Don’t think about Ross’s stats. Just me. My big, dumb face. You can even picture me slipping on the bathroom floor and knocking myself unconscious. That’s calming, right?”
A watery laugh escaped you.
He smiled faintly. “There we go.”
You were still trembling, but your lungs were working again. A little more air. A little more space. Like he’d cracked open a window with his voice.
“Thanks,” you whispered, still clinging to the hem of your Stevie Nicks shirt like it was a lifeline.
Chandler looked at you, then up at the ceiling.
“Okay. Operation Distract the Claustrophobe is a go,” he declared.
You blinked. “What?”
He tilted his head a little to meet your eyes. “Do you want me to shut up?”
You shook your head quickly. “No. Never shut up. Please. Talk about anything.”
Then, he went off.
“You know what really gets me about Full House? No, you know what really gets me? Everything. Every. Single. Thing. You’ve got three grown men raising kids and not one of them knows how to shut a cabinet properly. And what kind of house has that many heart-to-heart moments per week? Do they pump wisdom through the air vents?”
You stared at him, the sound of his voice was already working.
“And don’t even get me started on Uncle Jesse,” he continued. “Oh, I’m sorry, Elvis Junior. The man thinks leather pants are a parenting strategy. You can’t solve childhood trauma with a motorcycle and a mullet, I don’t care how many times he says ’have mercy.’”
You exhaled, the edge of a laugh forming again.
“And Danny,” he added, flailing his arms. “Danny Tanner is not a man, he’s a sentient bottle of Windex. Who cleans that much? The house is haunted by the ghost of obsessive compulsive disorder, and no one’s talking about it.”
You sat down, finally, back against the wall, knees to your chest. Your fingers relaxed. You were still stuck. Still sweating. But not spiraling anymore.
“You’re insane,” you murmured.
He dropped down next to you, a few inches away. Not touching. Close enough.
“Yes,” he said proudly. “But look at you. Still upright. Not crying. Breathing like a pro. That’s called progress.”
You gave a weak, crooked smile. “You’re… really good at this.”
Chandler blinked. “You mean being trapped in confined spaces with panicking women? Yeah, it’s actually on my résumé. Right under ‘can recite every Cheers cold open from memory.’”
Despite yourself, you laughed. A little, at least.
You bumped his knee gently with yours. “Shut up.”
Chandler grinned. “You say that a lot.”
“I mean it every time.”
You sat like that for another twenty minutes.
Ross fell quiet (finally), and Chandler went off on a rant about which Muppets could beat up which Star Trek characters. He kept talking even when your head dropped back against the wall, your eyes fluttering shut, breathing measured.
You didn’t speak again until the elevator finally jolted back to life.
As it creaked down toward the lobby, you nudged Chandler’s arm with the back of your hand.
“Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“…Thanks for not letting me lose it.”
He smiled.
“You can pay me back by admitting Full House is overrated.”
“Don’t push it.”
You’re stretched across the length of the couch, your legs slung over one armrest, and your head rests comfortably in Chandler’s lap. His fingers drift lazily across your forearm, tracing shapes without thought, without intention. Just touch. Just comfort. It’s second nature by now, and no one questions it. Not anymore.
Except maybe when you’re arguing at full volume.
“Joey Gladstone is basically you,” you declare, staring up at him with the righteous fury of someone making a flawless point. “But with more impressions and worse hair.”
Chandler blinks. “Worse hair?”
You shrug innocently. “It’s not a high bar.”
From the floor, Phoebe gasps, delighted. “Ooooh, she likes your hair.”
“I do not,” you say, immediately and unconvincingly. “I just… notice it. In a critical way.”
“Right,” Chandler says, smirking down at you. “That’s why you ruffled it the other day and then apologized like you’d committed a crime against art.”
Monica snorts from the kitchen. “She really did. You would’ve thought she kicked a puppy.”
“Okay, can we focus?” you say, waving a hand. “The point is: you are Joey Gladstone. You’re snarky, immature, obsessed with cartoon voices--"
“I do one Al Pacino impression--”
“--and you’re emotionally avoidant under the guise of humor.”
“Okay, well now it’s just a group therapy session.”
Ross leans against the fridge, arms folded. “Honestly? She’s not wrong.”
Joey frowns mid-chip. “Wait, am I still Joey in this situation?”
“You’re Michelle,” Phoebe reminds him.
Joey perks up. “Sweet.”
Carol, from her spot cross-legged on the floor, grins. “This is my new favorite group dynamic. Please don’t stop.”
Chandler, meanwhile, lifts his hands dramatically. “Fine. I’m Joey Gladstone. But that makes you Uncle Jesse, and I refuse to pretend that’s a compliment.”
You sit up slightly, just enough to shoot him a look. “Uncle Jesse is iconic. A self-made, leather-wearing, Elvis-loving god. Show some respect.”
“He’s a man-child who decorated an attic with leopard print and owns more hair products than Monica.”
Monica lifts a spoon. “Hey!”
You ignore her. “His Elvis obsession is part of his charm. It’s romantic.”
“It’s excessive.”
“It’s valid.”
Chandler rolls his eyes. “You only think that because it mirrors your Bowie obsession. Which, by the way, is also not romantic. It’s a cult.”
You gasp, clutching your chest like he’s insulted your mother. “I don’t want to be Bowie. I just appreciate him with my whole soul.”
“See? That’s the kind of sentence that would get you committed if it weren’t said while wearing glitter eyeliner.”
“Excuse me for having taste,” you huff, adjusting the collar of your oversized Stevie Nicks shirt with flair.
“Excuse me for pointing out that your favorite fictional rocker is just you in a more dramatic wig.”
“You’re one to talk. You’ve been quoting Cheers like it’s scripture since the day we met.”
Chandler smirks. “At least I’ve never referred to a man in a jumpsuit as ‘formative.’”
You swat him. “I was being honest.”
Phoebe claps delightedly. “This is like watching two raccoons fight over a donut.”
“I’d pay to see this on stage,” Carol adds. “Seriously. Don’t stop. I’ve had a long week.”
Joey tilts his head. “So… you don’t think Uncle Jesse’s cool?”
Chandler gestures vaguely. “He’s fine. I just think he’s the kind of guy who says ‘have mercy’ to his own reflection and then forgets his nephew’s birthday.”
“That’s rich coming from you,” you say. “You’d absolutely say ‘have mercy’ to a mirror if you thought no one was looking.”
“I have never--!”
“You literally winked at yourself in the toaster yesterday.”
Chandler opens his mouth. Then closes it. “That was a test.”
Monica laughs so hard she nearly drops the popcorn. “A test for what?”
He shrugs, flustered. “Self-esteem!”
“Fail,” you whisper.
The room bursts into laughter. Even Ross chuckles--until Chandler points a grape at him threateningly.
The laughter starts to die down, but the heat in your cheeks hasn’t. You drop your head back into Chandler’s lap with a dramatic sigh, staring at the ceiling like it personally betrayed you.
“You’re a menace,” you mutter.
Chandler brushes an imaginary speck off your shoulder. “A lovable menace.”
“A menace with too many opinions about eighties sitcoms.”
“Hey, I only insulted one show. The rest of your questionable taste remains untouched. For now.”
You glance up at him, trying not to smile. “You know what? Next time I’m having a panic attack, just let me hyperventilate. It’s less humiliating.”
He shrugs, casually flicking your ponytail. “Yeah, but then I don’t get to compare you to an emotionally repressed rockstar and defend America from the tyranny of Uncle Jesse.”
You narrow your eyes. “You still owe him an apology.”
“Fine,” he says with exaggerated regret. “I’m sorry your TV boyfriend has a fake motorcycle and the personality of a hair commercial.”
The group cracks up again. Monica’s doubled over. Phoebe’s wiping away tears. Ross tries to explain how elevators are, statistically, the safest mode of vertical transportation, and no one listens.
Carol leans toward you, grinning. “You two always like this?”
You’re in the middle of the living room, surrounded by the contents of your duffel bag. Everything is halfway packed and tossed in piles like you’re preparing for war. Which, to be fair, isn’t that far off.
“This is going to be hell,” you announce. “A three-day screaming match disguised as dinner.”
“I thought Canadian Thanksgiving was supposed to be the chill one,” Ross says from the armchair, clearly intrigued by the unraveling of someone else’s family for once.
“Oh, you’d think,” you say, shoving socks into a side pocket. “But no. It’s just like your Thanksgiving, except colder and with more hockey and passive aggression. And instead of football, my family argues over whether the Pope is too liberal.”
Monica peeks out of the kitchen. “I thought you liked your family.”
“I like parts of them,” you say. “But this isn’t hanging out with my brother family time. This is extended family. This is loud, wine-drunk relatives in my aunt’s too-small house, yelling over each other about religion, real estate, and whether I’m a disappointment.”
Chandler lifts his coffee mug. “Ah yes, the classic Thanksgiving trifecta.”
You sigh dramatically, pulling a sweater from the couch and trying to cram it into your already stuffed bag. “They all mean well. Which is the most dangerous kind of emotional terrorism.”
“Didn’t you say your aunt always asks about your imaginary boyfriend?” Monica says with a smirk.
You groan. “Yup. Last year she cornered me in the kitchen and asked if I was ‘saving myself’ for seminary. When I said no, she just nodded knowingly. Like that explained everything.”
“Oh my God,” Carol says, laughing. “What did you say?”
“I panicked and told her I was really into philosophy.” You zip the bag violently. “Which she took to mean ‘communist.’ She made me pray with her before dessert.”
Joey tilts his head. “Wait, Canadian Thanksgiving has praying?”
“No, my family has praying. And crying. And a pumpkin pie that’s somehow both too wet and too dry. It’s like magic, if magic were made of disappointment.”
You plop onto the edge of the couch with a sigh, staring at your bag like it might unzip itself and throw everything back out. “Honestly, I should just fake a fever and stay here.”
“You can’t,” Monica says. “I already promised your room to Phoebe for her one-person seance.”
“Damn it,” you mutter. “Outmaneuvered.”
“Okay, I’m sorry,” Chandler says, sitting forward. “Is it just me or is Thanksgiving terrible for literally everyone?”
Carol sighs. “Mine isn't terrible. It's just awkward. My dad always tells Ross he’s ‘the only man I ever trusted.’ Which is sweet until you realize he says it every time Ross gets up for more mashed potatoes.”
Ross looks slightly traumatized. “It’s like… emotional waterboarding.”
Chandler sits forward and there's his hands up dramatically. “You know what? Let’s just call it. Thanksgiving is bad. Universally. Categorically.”
“Oh God,” Monica mutters. “Here we go…”
“The year was 1977,” Chandler begins, voice dropping to a faux-dramatic whisper. “I was nine. My parents hated each other but decided, for reasons, to wait until Thanksgiving dinner to announce their divorce. ‘We’re splitting up. Also, your father’s gay.’”
Your eyes are wide. “No way thats real."
“Oh, it’s real,” Chandler says. “My mother was smoking indoors, my father was wearing a cravat, and I was halfway through my second slice of pumpkin pie when my entire childhood imploded.”
“That explains so much,” You say, now half-laughing.
“Right?” Chandler gestures to himself. “This doesn’t come from stability.”
Joey nods solemnly. “That’s why I always say, never trust a guy wearing a cravat.”
You glance over at Chandler. "So you just don’t do Thanksgiving anymore?”
Chandler leans back on the couch. “Nope. I celebrate my own sacred tradition: grilled cheese, Diet Coke, and suppressing childhood trauma.”
“Wow. Very festive.”
He shrugs like it’s nothing, like it’s just another punchline in the world’s longest-running sitcom. “Well, when you associate cranberry sauce with your mom weeping and your dad coming out as gay, the usual holiday cheer just hits different.”
You pause your movements, eyebrows raised. “Fair. If anyone cries over cranberry sauce this weekend, it’ll be me.”
“When are you leaving?” Carol asks.
“Like twenty minutes,” you say, standing up. “I called a cab to the airport. My brother was going to come down but it’s too much of a hassle with the border stuff. Plus he has this new girlfriend who’s very into long, loud phone calls about her cat’s food allergies.”
“That sounds fun,” Monica says.
“She calls him ‘Bubby,’” you say flatly. “Like, in public.”
Joey visibly cringes.
Ross raises an eyebrow. “Is he even real? I feel like we’ve heard more about this brother than we have about, like, half the people we know.”
“He exists,” you say, zipping the last pocket. “You’ll meet Liam eventually. Whenever he decides to visit. Or finally breaks up with the human lint roller he’s dating.”
“I don’t know, I’m starting to think ‘Liam’ is just code for ‘my imaginary sibling I use to win arguments.’” Chandler deadpans.
You roll your eyes, sling the duffel bag over your shoulder, and glance around the room. “If I’m not back by Monday night, I either froze to death or finally snapped and ran off into the woods.”
Chandler raises his coffee mug again. “May the odds be ever in your favor.”
You pause at the door and look back at him--at all of them, really--but your eyes linger. “Don't touch my CD's.” you warn.
“No promises,” Chandler says.
“I know where you sleep.”
He smirks. “And yet, somehow, you’ve never found your way into my bed.”
You snort, shaking your head as you head out. The cab is waiting downstairs, and the city already feels colder. You leave with a last glance back, the sound of everyone’s voices fading behind the door.
October 10th, 1993
You yank the rotary phone off the wall so hard it nearly takes the paneling with it.
“Don’t worry about me,” you mutter sarcastically under your breath. “Just going to call Satan real quick.”
Behind you, the sound of eleven different conversations builds like a dam about to burst. Someone is definitely crying. Someone else is swearing about a burnt casserole. Someone--probably your cousin Matt--is yelling “libel!” for no apparent reason.
You cradle the receiver between your shoulder and ear, dialing the apartment number from memory. The cord is too short, so you crouch awkwardly beside a dusty bookshelf filled with novelty salt shakers.
There's four rings before someone picks up.
“Hello?”
It’s Chandler.
Of course it’s Chandler.
The voice is immediately familiar: low, dry, and echoing slightly like he’s across the room from the phone. There’s music playing in the background, something synthy, and someone (Joey?) yelling over it.
You breathe out without realizing you’d been holding it. “Hey.”
There's three seconds of quiet before he speaks again. “You escaped?”
You glance over your shoulder. “Temporarily. I told them I had to check on my midterms. Which I don’t. Obviously.”
“Ah. So this is a lie-call.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “That’s flattering.”
You toy with the edge of the phone cord. “How’s everything there?”
“Chaotic. Joey tried to fry a frozen pizza on the stove and almost set one of your mixtapes on fire.”
Your stomach drops. “Which one?”
“Relax,” he says quickly. “I saved it. It was heroic. Now we’re listening to it."
“Jesus.” You lean your head back against the wall. “I told you not to touch those.”
“You told us not to touch your CDs,” he counters. “Mixtapes, on the other hand? Fair game.”
“You’re the worst.”
“Am I?” he says innocently. “Or am I simply a man enjoying ‘Everybody Hurts’ followed immediately by ‘Fight the Power’?”
You groan. “Shut up.”
“Oh, I haven’t even gotten to ‘No Rain’ yet. Truly, a chaotic emotional arc. Are you okay?”
You snort. “Okay, I feel slightly better now.”
He lowers his voice a little. “What’s it like there?”
You glance toward the kitchen. “Loud. Emotional. There’s a woman in there I’ve never met sobbing into a drumstick while my uncle insists we pray for Bill Clinton.”
“God, I wish I were there."
You smile. “Liar.”
“Only a little. It sounds like performance art. Very raw.”
There's a moment where neither of you say anything. You shift your weight.
Chandler clears his throat. “So… you good?”
You hesitate, chewing your lip.
“I’m surviving.”
“That good, huh?”
You stare at a cracked ceramic chicken on the shelf across from you.
“They keep asking if I’m dating anyone. I said no, and then someone said, ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart, some girls just have to wait longer for their prince.’”
“Oof.”
“Yeah.”
He’s quiet for a second. Then, “Want me to pretend to be your boyfriend next year? I’m great at traumatizing aunts.”
You let out a breathy laugh. “You would be great at that.”
“I even have a fake backstory ready. I was mauled by a moose as a child and can only eat soft foods.”
You shake your head. “You really want to get involved in my family drama?”
“I mean, only if you return the favor. Pretend to be my girlfriend for American Thanksgiving. We’ll call it trauma swapping.”
“Deal.”
More silence. Not awkward, just… full.
You tuck your knees up to your chest and lower your voice. “You know I don't usually call, right?”
“I figured,” he says softly.
“I just…” You trail off. “I didn’t want to sit through another story about the Pope and why I should go to mass ‘for the experience.’”
“Glad I could be your getaway plan.”
You close your eyes, your fingers tightening around the phone. “Thanks.”
His voice drops. “Anytime.”
From the background, Joey shouts something unintelligible, and Chandler groans. “Okay, he’s putting hot dogs in the toaster again. I gotta go save the building.”
You laugh under your breath. “Good luck.”
“Call me again if someone cries on a bird.”
“Statistically likely.”
You hang up slowly. Behind you, the chaos rumbles on--but now it’s a little more bearable. A little less like you’re alone in it.
Chandler hangs up the phone and stares at the receiver like it might still echo.
Monica, curled up on the armchair with her second mug of tea, raises an eyebrow.
“Well?” she asks. “How is she?”
Chandler shrugs, then drops onto the couch beside Carol. “Alive. Possibly planning to fake her own death by dessert.”
Carol chuckles from the kitchen table. “That sounds about right.”
Ross leans forward. “She call just to vent?”
“No,” Chandler says, too quickly. Then, realizing that sounds suspicious: “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know, she just needed a break from the chaos. Apparently someone was crying into poultry.”
Joey looks up from his hot dog. “Wait, like… a person was crying into a bird?”
Phoebe grins. “That’s beautiful. Symbolic.”
Monica watches Chandler with narrowed eyes, like she’s trying to solve a particularly obvious puzzle. “You like her.”
Chandler’s head snaps up. “What? No.”
“You so do,” she says, half-laughing. “Oh my god.”
“I do not--"
“Oh, come on,” Carol cuts in. “You’ve been making heart-eyes at her since she moved in.”
Chandler sputters. “I make everyone uncomfortable with my eyes. It’s my thing.”
Phoebe flops onto the rug in front of the coffee table. “Do you think about her when you’re sad?”
“I--what kind of question is--”
“Do you think about her when you’re happy?” she adds, wiggling her eyebrows.
Chandler makes a face like he’s swallowed something carbonated and sentient. “This feels like an ambush.”
Ross, who’s been suspiciously quiet, sets down his mug. “For what it’s worth, I think you guys are weirdly matched.”
Chandler looks at him. “Thank you?”
“I meant that in a neutral way.”
Monica leans over the back of the couch, voice softening. “Is she okay, though?”
His defenses drop a notch.
“Yeah,” he says. “I mean, no. She hates it there. But she called. So… better than nothing.”
There’s a pause. Just long enough.
Phoebe beams at him. “You have such a giant crush.”
“I don’t--"
“You do,” Joey says through a mouthful of hot dog. “I saw your face when you picked up the phone. You lit up like a Christmas tree that wanted to get laid.”
Chandler groans and slumps deeper into the chair.
Carol laughs. “Poor guy. It’s always the sarcastic ones who fall the hardest.”
“She’s nineteen!” Chandler protests.
Monica shrugs. “She’s legal. And smarter than all of us.”
“Again, this doesn’t help!”
Phoebe crawls toward the armchair on her knees, clasps her hands together like she’s praying. “Just do her already.”
“OH MY GOD.”
Everyone bursts out laughing. Chandler hides behind a throw pillow.
But even as they keep teasing, he finds himself smiling behind the fabric. Thinking about her voice on the line. The way she sounded when she laughed. The way she told him, softly, Thanks.
it doesn't matter who opens the floodgates, but it doesn't take long before the two of you find each other in a comfortable back and forth, finding comfort in anything but a chair.
the second they find themselves comfortable in your lap, it's a lost cause because now your f/o's decided they'll be here for a while. their head leaning against yours as their fingers traced over your jaw mindlessly as they listened to you talk about how your day went. or how they might end up closing their eyes, they didn't mean to fall asleep, but the warmth of your body was too relaxing to not ease into a gentle slumber.
with them, your f/o's lap is your throne. how the second you even brush against their lap, they've already pulled you fully onto it. how their hand is pressed against the lower part of your back to secure you firmly where you belong. the two of you just staring at each other before another word could be muttered, just for a small "hey," to snap you both out of it and end up laughing. their face pressed against your neck as they laughed and hugged you tightly.
hey, i absolutely love your writing!! could you maybe do something centered around cuddling/snuggling? <3 tysm in advance🩷
thank you so much for the compliment and the request! i'll do my best for you ♡♡
♡ — a cough and a cuddle
you're sick. the type of sick that made each tick of the clock feel like your last moment in this world. what started as a simple common cold with a minor headache turned into a big ordeal in which now your f/o was just as sick as you, if not worse. they had tried to help you with feeling better and one kiss too many turned into a shared misery.
so, here the two of you are, huddled under an army of blankets under the battlefield of exploding coughs and sneezes. you could feel their elevated warmth pressed against your body as the two of you wrapped around in a disarray of limbs and tossed pillows that found themselves either drenched in sweat or escapees on the cold floor. your f/o's eyes were half lidded, dazed, but focused as they captured you in their arm to pull you closer into enemy territory.
your foreheads pressed against each other in an uncomfortable, pleasing touch as your arms found their waist to rest your head against their chest. th-thump, th-thump, th-thump. how blasting of a bomb their heart was against your ear. yet, that blaring sound drowned out the coughing fit that soon erupted from the both of you. for now, the war raged on, but the battle? today was enough of a victory.
Hii! Hope you're having an amazing day! If requests are still open, maybe you could write something with a shy/flustered f/o? Like complimenting/teasing them only to see them flustered 😁😁 no pressure tho! Thank you in advance❤️❤️
hello i hope you're having an amazing day yourself!! of course, i'll do my best for you 🩷🩷
♡ — complimenting a shy f/o
complimenting your f/o was as easy as breathing air. the spark of joy that ignited that blooming blush against their face was worth it. even if you could only see it for a passing moment before they hid behind those holdable hands of theirs. how you could lean in close to them with a smile to see them squeak in embarrassment over how close their lover was to them. you could see the way their lips, despite their desire to hide their feelings, would twitch upwards into a flustered smile as they swatted you away. those fiddling fingers that found themselves with their clothing, pulling and pinching, yet easing their body closer to you just for one more hit of praise. they needed wanted nothing more than for you to tell them how attractive you find them. how you love them with all of your heart, or how you're so glad to have them in your life. they could ask, but it would be too much! just the thought makes their face burn up and shake their head in disbelief. never! in a million years! no matter how many times they think about your voice telling them how adorable they were when they got flustered. it's far easier for your f/o to just let you take the lead, stammering after each praise, and chuckling and telling you to "quit it!"
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