#I'm on full chaos brain and this is what's coming out okay

[thepinkpanther83]

I thought of a lil prompt that has me cackling which I feel like you'd work your magic on perfectly.

Eddie Munson has a moment in the cafeteria with his very flirty crush where she asks him if he knows what an Australian kiss is. He has no idea and she responds with "It's like a French, but down under". Completely up to you if you think he would short circuit or play it cool (let's be real, probably not).

I'm Australian myself, and lemme tell you it's so funny using this line on people and watching their reaction.

Australian Kiss

One-Shot Request: “Australian Kiss Request”

Eddie Munson x Female Reader

💌 Author’s Note: Big thanks to my Aussie Anony for this cheeky and flirty prompt, you had me cackling the whole way through. Hope it gives you a proper laugh back. 💋

~Pinkie 🍒

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🇦🇺💋Summary: What starts as a normal Hellfire lunch quickly derails when Eddie’s favorite flirt drops a question he never saw coming. Banter, blushing, and total cafeteria chaos follow.

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

“Australian Kiss”

The Hellfire Club table was already halfway to collapse, and it wasn’t even fifth period yet.

Gareth and Mike were arguing over initiative rolls loud enough to drown out the lunchroom noise, Jeff was doing one of his famously terrible goblin voices (that no one asked for), and Dustin was mid-speech about how his dice were definitely cursed and not, in fact, a product of his bad decision-making.

Eddie sat at the head of the chaos like a frazzled king whose court refused to be civilized, head in one hand, soda in the other, trying to keep peace in a kingdom full of absolute feral nerds.

“Jeff, I swear to Vecna, if that voice comes out during Friday’s session again, I’m making the mimic eat your character.”

Jeff grinned and replied in the worst shrieking falsetto anyone had ever heard. “But it’s canon now, Ed!”

Eddie slammed his head on the table, not hard. Just enough to suffer visibly.

“I hate this club.”

“You made this club,” Dustin chimed, mouth full of chips.

“Yeah, well, I was young and full of hope.”

Mike leaned across the table. “You were seventeen.”

“Exactly. A different man.”

Despite the groaning and the dramatics, Eddie was grinning, because this was normal. This he could handle. Dice disasters, NPC tantrums, cursed dice and cursed teenagers?

Cakewalk.

The cafeteria doors swung open.

Then you walked in.

And suddenly Eddie was not okay.

You stood in line, got your food and with tray in hand, hair perfect, outfit effortlessly cool, you strutted through the chaos like you owned every eye in the room, and honestly… you probably did.

Eddie’s drink paused halfway to his lips. His brain stuttered like a broken record as you approached, completely derailed by the sway of your hips and the little smirk you wore like a weapon. You weren't even trying.

That was the worst part.

You didn’t need to.

You knew exactly what you were doing, and you were so good at it.

Dustin noticed Eddie freeze and followed his line of sight. He snorted.

“Oh no. Not again.”

Eddie didn’t blink. “Shut up.”

“Dude, you look like you’re gonna pass out.”

“I said shut up, Henderson.”

He tried to play it cool, leaning back in his chair and tossing his hair behind his shoulder with a nonchalance that might’ve worked if his palm wasn’t still smeared with ketchup.

Mike noticed. “Dude, your hand.”

“What? Oh sh-!” Eddie grabbed a napkin and wiped furiously, already panicking.

You were getting closer.

Every step brought you nearer like a countdown to detonation.

By the time you reached the table, Eddie had cleaned his hand, fixed his hair, and was attempting the most casual lean imaginable.

Too bad he looked like he’d just been caught committing a felony.

Your eyes scanned your usual crew of nerdy misfits, and then your gaze landed on Eddie.

There was a pause.

A deliberate pause.

Eddie felt it like a spotlight. His stomach flipped.

He never knew where you were gonna sit until the last possible second, and that somehow made it worse. Every day was a new gamble. A game of emotional roulette where you were both the dealer and the loaded chamber.

Today…

You rounded the table and slid in beside him.

Right beside him.

Your arm brushed his. Your knee bumped his under the table. You didn’t pull away.

Eddie nearly swallowed his tongue.

Jeff raised a brow. Gareth smirked. Dustin grinned like he’d just won a bet with one of the guys.

Eddie desperately tried to look unaffected, adjusting his seat like it didn’t just become the hottest, most dangerous place in the entire cafeteria.

“Hi, Eddie,” you said, calm and casual.

He choked on air. “Hey… yeah- hi.”

Smooth.

Real smooth.

“Real smooth,” you echoed, as though you could hear his thoughts, reaching for a fry from his tray without asking.

He watched it disappear between your lips like it was some sort of black magic. Eddie forgot how to blink.

“You always this jumpy around girls?” you asked, completely unbothered. Like this was casual. Like his brain wasn’t actively melting.

“I… what? No… I mean… depends on the girl-”

You turned to look at him full-on, eyes glinting.

Eddie faltered.

You smiled. “So yes?”

He dragged a hand down his face and groaned into his palm.

Dustin snorted again from across the table. “You’re not even five minutes in, man.”

“I know,” Eddie hissed, glaring daggers at him without making eye contact with you, because looking at you too long felt dangerous.

You leaned back in your seat, cool as a cucumber, sipping your drink like you weren't slowly setting him on fire with nothing but a smile.

“Nice rings,” you murmured suddenly, your voice softer now, just loud enough for him to hear. “They’d look even better if you stopped fidgeting with them so much.”

Eddie froze, hands halfway to adjusting them.

He yanked them off the table like you’d caught him stealing.

“I’m not fidgeting,” he lied, instantly going back to twisting one nervously.

You just smiled again, like you were watching a small animal panic in a glass box.

Like he was adorable.

Like he was yours.

“You know,” you said, tearing a corner off your sandwich like you had all the time in the world, “black really is your color.”

Eddie blinked. Twice. “I- what?”

You nodded at his usual ensemble, black tee, black jeans, black wristband, black soul. “You wear it well. All dark and dramatic. Very tortured artist meets heavy metal cryptid.”

He coughed. Actually coughed. Nearly aspirated on his soda.

Across the table, Dustin was grinning so hard his face looked like it might split open.

“Dude,” he whispered, stage-whisper loud, “you okay?”

Eddie’s leg was bouncing like he had a caffeine addiction and a secret.

“Fine. Totally fine. This is fine.”

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s hot in here.”

“It’s February.”

“She’s sitting next to me, Henderson… anything is possible.”

You tilted your head like you’d heard that last part.

You didn’t comment. Just popped the last bit of bread into your mouth and licked your thumb.

Eddie blacked out for a second.

He managed to collect himself, at least a little. Straightened his spine. Leaned just the tiniest bit closer, one elbow on the table, giving you his signature sideways grin, the one that said I know exactly how much trouble I’m in, and I’m choosing violence anyway.

“Oh, so now you’re complimenting me?” he said, voice low and lazy. “Careful. Keep that up and I might start thinking you like me.”

You didn’t miss a beat. “Who says I don’t?”

He blinked, but recovered quickly, smirk still locked in place.

“Well, damn. Guess I should’ve brought you flowers or somethin’.”

“Nah,” you said, sipping from your drink, eyes glittering. “I like watching you squirm more.”

He laughed, head thrown back, rings clinking as he tapped the table.

“Cruel,” he said. “Absolutely ruthless. I respect it.”

“Good,” you said sweetly. “You’ll need that respect where we’re headed.”

Eddie cocked a brow. “Where are we headed, exactly, sweetheart?”

And that’s when you struck.

No warning. No change in tone. Just that same cool voice with a casual kind of precision that only someone truly dangerous could pull off.

“Hey, Eddie,” you said. “Do you know what an Australian kiss is?”

The whole table fell silent like the air pressure in the room changed.

Eddie blinked once. Twice. “Uh… is it… like, a kiss with an accent?”

You leaned in, resting your chin on your palm, all calm confidence.

“It’s like a French kiss…”

A moment passed.

“…but down under.”

There was another moment of silence. The kind that only happens after something truly unholy is spoken aloud in a sacred place.

Then, Mike choked so hard on his soda he had to clutch his chest.

Jeff let out a wheeze so high-pitched it sounded like a deflating balloon.

Dustin actually fell out of his chair laughing.

Eddie just stared.

Frozen.

A full system reboot.

Eddie.exe has encountered a fatal error.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He tried again.

Still nothing.

Finally, like a bad satellite signal returning just barely:

“…What?!”

He knocked his tray sideways trying to sit up straight, nearly launching his burger into orbit.

“Wait…I mean…I just- what??”

His voice cracked so hard it sounded like puberty was staging a comeback.

You just sipped your drink.

All sweet innocence with a wicked glint in your eye.

“Wanna give it a try?”

You winked.

It was over.

Eddie slumped back in his chair like someone had hit him with a tranquilizer dart.

Across the table, Gareth muttered, “God, I wish that were me.”

He immediately got smacked in the face with a plastic spoon.

Eddie still hadn’t moved.

“Did… did she schedule that line?” he asked the ceiling.

Dustin, still on the floor, just wheezed out: “No notes. Just let it happen.”

You stood without ceremony, tray in hand, eyes dragging over Eddie one last time.

“You boys enjoy your lunch,” you said, as if you hadn’t just nuked the table with a single sentence.

You turned and walked off, smooth, unhurried, hips swaying just enough to make Eddie forget what gravity was.

He tracked you like a man in a trance, jaw slack, heart somewhere between his sneakers and the seventh circle of Hell.

“Did she mean that?” he whispered.

No one answered.

“Was that real? Like… did that actually happen? Did I die just now and this is some weird horny afterlife?”

Jeff nodded solemnly. “If this is the afterlife, it’s better than I expected.”

Dustin finally climbed back into his seat and clapped Eddie on the shoulder.

“Dude. She destroyed you and you liked it. Just let it wash over you.”

Eddie blinked slowly.

Then leaned forward and planted both elbows on the table, dropping his forehead into his hands with a groan.

“…I’m gonna need, like, a cold shower and a therapist.”

The lunch bell rang, but Eddie barely noticed.

He spent the next two periods doing exactly zero learning and all obsessing. His leg bounced through English. His pencil snapped in half during History. He walked into a locker on his way out of Biology and apologized to it.

By the time he spotted you in the parking lot, standing in the sun like some kind of goddess in denim and sin, he didn’t think, he just moved.

“Hey!” he called, louder than intended.

You turned.

Smiled like you’d been waiting for him.

“Recovered?” you asked as he approached.

He dragged a hand through his hair and huffed a laugh.

“Barely. I think my soul left my body at lunch. I’ve been in the astral plane ever since.”

You leaned against the hood of your car, arms folded, watching him like he was a curious little science experiment that might explode if poked too hard.

“Y’know,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets, “I haven’t stopped thinking about that stupid line for the past hour.”

“Oh?” Your brow arched.

“I mean… what was that? That was a drive-by, sweetheart. That was… that was illegal.”

You didn’t deny it. Just smiled.

“You looked like you enjoyed it.”

“I didn’t not enjoy it,” he muttered. “I just… look, I like flirting. I do flirting. But you? You’re like some kind of flirty assassin. You’ve got moves I didn’t know existed. You’re terrifying.”

You stepped a little closer. Just enough to make his breath catch.

“I know,” you said softly.

You tilted your head, watching him spiral.

Then smiled.

Not wicked this time. Not teasing.

Soft. Just a little.

“I like how flustered you get,” you said, voice gentle but edged with amusement. “It’s cute.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You blush so easily. It’s adorable.”

Eddie scoffed, tried to recover with bravado, but it came out more like a squeak. “I don’t blush.”

You grinned. “You’re blushing right now.”

“No I’m not-”

“Eddie,” you said, stepping even closer, close enough that he could smell your perfume, something warm and summery and dangerous.

He swallowed hard.

“You’ve been blushing since I sat next to you at lunch.”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

You leaned in.

Lips barely brushed his ear.

Low and lethal:

“Maybe I’ll show you what an Australian kiss really means…”

Breathless pause.

“…someday soon.”

Then you turned, slid into your car, shut the door, and drove off like you hadn’t just committed a crime.

Eddie stood there.

Completely still.

Absolutely cooked.

His eyes were wide, his hands limp at his sides, brain doing figure-eights.

“Someday,” he whispered. “Soon??”

He turned in a circle like he’d lost his keys.

“But when though? Like… how soon is soon? Tomorrow? Next week? Is this a countdown? Do I need to prep?” He called out as though you could still hear him.

He grabbed the nearest solid object, his van, and leaned his forehead against it.

“M’gonna need a cold shower,” he muttered. “And a holy symbol. And possibly an exorcism.”

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list! @justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55, @kelsiegrin, @ash-stardust, @meankenna, @kellsck, @chronicles-of-koystee, @micheledawn1975, @fckyeahlames, @cantstandya2000, @totallysocially, @exasperatedsighohmy, @marianaissocool, @boggerslide

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[everrinsly]

a/n; dedicated to all your favorite boys, thank you for reading! This one is a little long hehe but i hope you like or see the vision at least haha, I'm sorry been slow, busy these days (ಥ﹏ಥ)

strappy heels. fluff. very suggestive. fem!reader. | not proofread.

when he helps you take of your strappy heels after a girls' night out.

♡ For all your ("I will take care of you when you're tipsy") favorites.

more of your favorite boys!

more reads!

જ⁀🏐ᯓ⚽⋆⭒˚.⋆🌌

The door clicks open with a soft creak, and he doesn’t even need to look at the clock to know you’re later than usual. He hears the muffled shuffle of your keys hitting the tray, the distant, light, breathy giggle, and the way you whisper “oops” to no one in particular when your purse slides off your shoulder and hits the floor.

You’re tipsy. Definitely tipsy.

He exhales through his nose, dragging himself up from the couch, where he’s been watching a rerun of your favorite anime—the one he once flatly declared, “I hate that shit,” without even giving it a real shot. 

(And yet… here he is, halfway through the episode because it reminds him of you).

He’s not worried. He doesn’t worry about you when you’re out with your girls, but he does count the minutes until you’re home again—just a little. 

You hum, delighted when you spot him walking toward you, towering and rumpled in a black hoodie and grey sweats. “Hiii! I’m back.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

His tone is dry, but you don’t miss the subtle flicker of relief in his eyes. He looks you over, like he’s making sure all your limbs are intact, checking for twisted ankles and bruised egos.

“How’d it go?” he asks, already reaching to steady you by the waist when you wobble closer to him.

You’re a vision of chaos and glitter, all flushed cheeks and glossy lips, in those ridiculous five-inch strappy heels. The ribbons are starting to slip loose from one ankle, and your steps are full of drunk determination—unsteady but prideful, like you’ve conquered something just by making it to him.

Your arms reach out blindly because you knew he’d catch you before you ever had to think about falling.

(And he does. Of course he does).

You grin up at him, doe-eyes wide and shiny, hands gripping his forearms. “Baby! Baby! You won’t believe what I did!”

That gets a slight raise of his brow. He’s not quite alarmed—more so curious in that lazy, slow-blinking way of his.

“I danced!”

His mouth twitches. “You always dance when you’re drunk.”

“No no no! I danced danced!” you emphasize, grabbing onto his hoodie strings, like they're your anchors. “Like—slutty.”

He pauses. “Slutty,” he echoes flatly.

You nod, so proud. “I was in the center. In a circle. Lights flashing. It was very dramatic. I did this thing—” 

You break off to demonstrate some vaguely suggestive body roll that almost knocks you off balance. His hands immediately catch your hips, grip tightening instinctively.

“Okay, okay,” he mutters, holding you still. “You’re banned from moving.”

“No, wait—this one girl screamed, ‘Go off, queen!’” you say with a giggle. “I think I was possessed. My hands were, like, on my knees. I was dropping low, like, so low. I don’t even do squats. And, like, I could feel God watching.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then he exhales, long and slow, as if trying very hard not to react.

“Baby… you’re so fucking weird,” he says finally.

You beam. “But hot-weird, right?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just stares at you, then moves his hand from your hip to your jaw, tipping your face up just slightly.

“You’re always hot,” he says simply.

It’s so straightforward that it short-circuits your brain. Your mouth opens, some kind of automatic protest on the tip of your tongue, but nothing comes out because he means it, because he’s looking at you like that again, taking his time, like he enjoys how flustered you get under his gaze.

Then, finally, he lets his hand fall from your face, dragging it down your arm in a grounding stroke.

“Aight, pretty girl,” he mutters, eyes flicking down to your feet. “That’s enough for one night. Get out of those heels before you sprain something.”

You blink at him, lips tugging into a playful pout. “They’re cute, though.”

He crouches slightly to eye them again, hands sliding to your waist. “Yeah. They are.”

Your brows lift. “Then why do I have to take them off?”

His eyes flick back up to yours, a hint of smugness creeping into his expression.

“‘Cause if you do,” he says, voice dipping lower, “I’ll give you something cuter in return.”

You squint, suspicious but intrigued. “What kind of something?”

He shrugs, like he didn’t just offer that in a voice that made your knees feel like warm jelly. “Guess you’ll find out.”

“You’re bribing me now?”

“I’m motivating you,” he corrects, already nudging you gently backward until your knees hit the couch, and you drop down with a soft thump.

He kneels in front of you, hoodie sleeves bunched up at his elbows, fingers already brushing against the intricate straps that crisscross up your shin. 

The moment feels thick, suspended—quiet and slow, like the night’s paused just to make room for this.

He doesn’t rush.

His touch is gentle, purposeful, as he slips a finger beneath the nearest loop of ribbon, grazing the warm skin underneath. The delicate strings wind high on your legs, wrapped just tight enough to indent slightly into your skin, and he follows the pattern with his eyes like he’s memorizing it.

(He kind of already has).

He could do this without thinking. He’s seen you wear these before, tie them with a bow behind your calves, legs bent, brows scrunched in concentration while sitting on the edge of the bed. He knows how they work, knows exactly how to undo them.

But tonight, he doesn’t.

Not right away.

His fingers skate deliberately over your shin, dragging along each knot with a kind of reverence, letting the loose ends of the ties slip through his hands. He could’ve unraveled them in seconds, but instead, he watches the way they unravel over your skin, like he’s unwrapping something he’s waited all night to touch.

Your legs look so fucking good.

Too good.

The lighting’s soft and golden, catching the sheen on your skin, the subtle dip of muscle beneath softness, the way your thighs shift slightly as you settle. He’s still kneeling, still eye-level with all that bare skin, and for a moment—just a moment—his thoughts tip filthy.

He imagines you in the club with your girls, hips moving to the bass, doing that stupid slutty dance you mentioned, legs flashing with every twist and turn. These legs. Your laugh echoing, hands in your hair, eyes bright. He pictures them wrapped around him instead, loose and trembling. He can practically feel it.

He blinks, jaw tight, breath caught somewhere deep in his chest.

Focus.

He tugs gently on the first ribbon, unwinding it with care, his knuckles brushing up and down your calf as he follows the path up your leg. One loop. Then the next. He’s quiet as he works, but his hands keep brushing higher, sliding over the smooth skin of your shin, your knee, the edge of your thigh.

“You’re stalling” you murmur, breath catching.

(He is).

“Mm,” he hums, barely glancing up. 

He keeps going, unwrapping you—one slow tie at a time.

When the last ribbon slips loose and the heel finally drops from your foot, he doesn’t move right away, doesn’t even pretend to. He just lets his palm rest over your ankle, thumb drawing soothing little circles over the bone.

And then, he reaches for the other foot.

This one takes longer. This one’s worse.

You shift a little under his touch, and his eyes flick up for just a second—just long enough to catch the way your lips part, the way your breath shallows, the way you're watching him watch you.

He lets out a low breath, something that's barely restrained.

The second heel comes off in the same slow ritual, the straps dragging over your skin, like whispers. And when it’s done, he smooths his hands up the length of your calves again, until they settle on your thighs—fingers spread, thumbs brushing little arcs into the skin there, grounding himself more than you.

He looks up.

His eyes are dark but burning, like his restraint is made of thread; it’s starting to fray.

You swallow, pulse fluttering where his thumbs press into your thighs.

Then, softly, breathlessly, and a little shy despite the heat curling in your stomach, you murmur, “You said you’d give me something cuter once the heels are off.”

He tilts his head, eyes flicking up with amusement. “Right. I did, pretty.”

His gaze doesn’t waver; it dips back down your legs. And his hands slide lower.

“You want it now?” he teases. 

Your breath stutters. “Y-Yeah.”

That smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth—lazy, crooked, all trouble.

“‘Kay.”

He leans in, and you feel it before you see it: the press of his mouth against your ankle, warm and soft, lips lingering, like he’s sealing a promise. Then another kiss, just above it. And another, higher still. He trails them up the inside of your calf, slow and steady, like he’s tasting you, mapping every inch.

You inhale shakily as his hands slide up to cradle the backs of your knees, guiding them apart just slightly, just enough to make room for him between.

Your pulse skips, and almost without thinking, your hands reach out, threading through the dark strands of his hair. It’s soft, warm from the room, and a little messy from how he’s been moving—impossibly touchable. Your fingers curl in deeper, tugging gently, not enough to hurt, just enough to make him look up at you through his lashes.

His eyes flash dark, something smug and heavy simmering beneath the surface.

“You trying to distract me?” he murmurs, voice low, but you can feel it in your stomach.

You blink down at him, flushed, lips parted. “Maybe.”

He smirks like you’ve just challenged him to something he knows he’s going to win.

“Try harder.”

“You're mean.”

“Mm. Worth it?” he murmurs into your skin, breath hot where he pauses at your shin.

You giggle, dizzy. “Uh huh.”

“Good. Means I’m doing it right.” 

He takes his time, pressing a kiss to the delicate skin beside your knee, then the other, alternating sides like he's trying to make you squirm. 

(He’s succeeding). 

You feel his fingers splay wider, curling around your thighs again, thumbs pressing in purposefully. He kisses just above your knee, mouth barely brushing the hem of your dress, and your hips twitch before you can stop them.

His smirk returns, heavier this time, eyes flicking up without lifting his head. “You always this squirmy or is it just me?”

You let out a weak laugh, fingers threading nervously through the hem of your dress. “It’s definitely you.”

“So what happens if I keep going?”

You don’t answer right away. You can’t, really. Your brain’s too fuzzy; your skin’s too hot. He watches you for a moment longer and press one last kiss to the inside of your thigh.

Then, he pulls back, towering over you, hoodie sleeves still shoved up, hair slightly tousled from where you tugged on it.

You pout instinctively. “That’s it?”

He tilts his head, eyes lidded. “For now.”

“For now,” you repeat, muttering. “Cruel.”

He leans down again, but this time his hands frame your face, palms warm against your cheeks as he kisses you—full and close. His thumb brushes the curve of your jaw as his tongue coaxes at your lower lip. You sigh into him, mouth parting instinctively, and he takes the invitation without hesitation, slipping his tongue past your lips.

His lips move against yours like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

When he finally pulls away, his voice is lower, gentler.

“You’re home. You’re safe. That’s enough for me.”

And that’s enough for you too.

[onlyangel4]

soft spot. damian priest.

damian priest x single mother!reader

synopsis: when you, a single mom join the smackdown roster, you are ready to fight both for your career and your child. damian priest isn’t known for his warmth, but the moment your kid starts following him around backstage, something in him shifts. he didn’t mean to care. he didn’t mean to fall.

but some families find you when you least expect it.

faceclaim: jenna dewan

wrestlingupdates

liked by user1, user2, user3 and 45,682 others

wrestlingupdates: y'all already know that i'm so excited. y/n y/ln has been drafted to smackdown and i can't wait to see what my favourite girl gets up to on the main roster.

view all 4,586 comments

user1: i am so excited for content of cleo causing chaos behind the scenes

user2: i have been a fan of y/n since she started in tna, twenty years later she is finally getting the recognition she deserves

user3: that's my girl

user4: OMG IT IS FINALLY happening

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you’d gotten used to new locker rooms.

ring lights changed, logos swapped out, but the feeling always stayed the same, a twist low in your stomach, like your body hadn’t caught up with your brain. you’d stood under banners that read impact, aew, nxt, and now, finally, the unmistakable blue and white of smackdown.

your daughter cleo clutched your hand tighter than usual, her fingers curled into your palm. she was six, impossibly curious and maddeningly fearless, until it came to loud arenas and unfamiliar faces. you knelt beside her in the hallway, brushing a curl away from her cheek.

"remember what we said?", you asked softly.

she nodded, eyes wide. "no running. no yelling. no getting suplexed."

you smiled despite the nerves. "good girl."

there were wrestlers moving past you, some familiar from nxt call-ups, others legends you'd only brushed shoulders with at cross-promotional events. a few gave you polite nods. a couple of the women smiled at cleo. no one stopped.

a pa pointed you toward your locker room. it was smaller than you expected but clean. functional. you dropped your duffel bag and helped cleo settle onto the little folding chair beside your things, handing her a snack and her tablet.

"stay here, okay? i’m going to go check the board and find my producer."

she pouted. "can’t i come?"

you hesitated. the hallway would be full of people. "five minutes. don’t move."

you didn’t like leaving her, but you didn’t have a choice. you didn't want to overwhelm her, or yourself

the rundown board wasn’t far. you scanned the paper tacked to the cork, finding your name buried in the second hour, promo segment. no match yet. safe start.

you turned back.

cleo was gone.

your heart slammed into your ribs.

you pivoted fast, eyes darting down the hallway, nothing. the crowd around the gorilla position blurred as your adrenaline surged. you took a step forward.

then froze.

there she was, about thirty feet down the corridor, standing in front of someone tall, imposing, and completely draped in black.

damian priest.

you recognized him instantly, taller in person, every inch the brooding solo act he’d become post the judgment day. hair slicked back, leather jacket gleaming under the fluorescents. he looked down at cleo, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

cleo pointed at his boots. "you look like a vampire."

for a split second, you thought he’d ignore her.

then his mouth twitched. just barely. "maybe i am."

you moved quickly, heart still pounding. "cleo", you said, a bit more sharply than you meant to. she turned, grinning.

"mom! he’s huge."

"i see that", you breathed, placing a hand on her shoulder. you looked up at damian. "sorry. she tends to wander when i blink."

he looked at you then. something passed through his expression. not judgment. not even amusement.

recognition.

"it’s fine", he said simply. his voice was low, calm. "she’s not bothering me."

you blinked. "still, i should’ve... thank you."

he nodded once, then walked past you both, disappearing down the hall without another word.

cleo tugged at your hand. "he’s cool."

you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. "yeah", you murmured. "he really is."

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

y/ninsta posted a story

written: if anyone is wondering why i showed up last night wearing a dress it was because miss cleo needed us to match

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the second week felt less like walking into a storm and more like stepping into a tide you were starting to understand.

no one looked twice when you passed catering this time. a few nodded. bayley threw you a quick wink. you didn’t stop. you had your gear bag slung over one shoulder and just enough caffeine in your system to fake confidence if needed.

cleo was safe. that mattered most.

she’d cried a little when you dropped her off with the wwe childcare team, new toys, kind staff, still too many strangers. but she was in good hands. better than last week, where she’d nearly walked into the lions den.

speaking of…

you rounded a corner and nearly walked straight into him.

he caught the strap of your bag before it could slide off your shoulder, steadying it like it was nothing. like you were nothing to worry about either.

"hey", he said.

you blinked up at him. "hi. sorry. i didn’t see you."

he let go of the strap and leaned back against the wall, arms folded. Same as last week. dark clothes, focused expression. less intimidating now, but only just.

"no cleo today?" he asked.

you raised an eyebrow. "you remembered her name."

he shrugged. "she made an impression."

you gave a short laugh. "yeah, she tends to do that. She’s with childcare this week. probably convincing someone to let her run a match or eat five granola bars in a row."

a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. it was quick. almost shy.

"you okay with that?" he asked.

the question caught you off guard. not how’s your kid, but how are you handling this?

you hesitated. "i guess i have to be."

he nodded, not pressing. just listening.

you sighed. "she’s great. adjusting fast, better than me half the time. but i still feel like i’ve got one foot in the ring and the other one stuck in a daycare cubby. not exactly the image you want when you're trying to prove yourself."

he tilted his head. "image doesn’t win matches. hunger does."

you looked at him. he said it like he’d lived it. like he still was.

"you always talk like that?", you asked, half a tease.

he smirked. "only when i mean it."

you paused, then leaned next to him against the wall. not touching. just closer.

"you’ve been on top of this brand for months", you said. "so what are you still hungry for?"

for a moment, you weren’t sure he was going to answer. his gaze drifted to a production cart nearby, like something just offstage had taken root in his head.

"quiet", he said finally. "something real."

you turned to him, brows furrowed.

"wrestling’s loud", he added. "noise. hype. people cheering for who they think you are. i like when someone sees through that."

you weren’t sure what to say. but the silence between you didn’t feel awkward.

it felt safe.

you watched as he pushed off the wall, giving you one last look before heading down the corridor.

"tell cleo i said hi", he said, voice quieter now.

you nodded. "i will."

and for the first time since your call-up, you didn’t feel like you were walking into the spotlight alone.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the hotel room was small, but clean. two beds, dim lamplight, the low hum of some animated show playing on the tablet.

cleo sat cross-legged on the comforter, still wearing the glittery blue hoodie you’d packed for her in case she got cold. she had a juice box in one hand and was absently brushing her doll’s hair with the other.

you sat at the edge of the opposite bed, unlacing your boots one slow loop at a time. your body ached in all the familiar ways, tight knees, stiff shoulders but your heart that was quieter tonight.

cleo looked up suddenly. "mommy?"

"hmm?"

"did you see my friend at work today?"

you froze.

you didn’t need to ask who she meant. there was only one person she’d fixated on enough to give that title to. not rey mysterio, not liv, not even charlotte. damian.

you swallowed a smile. "i did, yeah."

her eyes lit up. "what was he doing?"

"standing around looking serious. you know. like always"

she giggled. "he’s so big. but he doesn’t scare me."

"i noticed."

you crossed the room and knelt next to her bed, brushing the juice-sticky hair back from her forehead. she yawned, blinked slowly.

"he asked about you", you said softly.

her whole face lit up. "he did?!"

"hhm. said to tell you hi."

She tucked her doll under the blanket like it was the most important thing in the world, then looked up at you with sleepy seriousness. "he’s nice. he seems a little sad though"

you paused.

"yeah", you murmured. "he kind of does."

"maybe he needs a hug."

your throat tightened unexpectedly.

you kissed her forehead. "you’re something else, kiddo."

she grinned, proud.

a few minutes later, she was asleep, small limbs curled, hair sticking out in every direction. you turned off the lamp, sat in the dark for a long time, scrolling through match footage on your phone.

but your mind wasn’t on wristlocks or crowd reactions.

it was on a man with shadows behind his smile, and the way your daughter had looked at him like she already knew he was safe.

you weren’t sure what was happening yet.

but it was starting to feel like more than just coincidence.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

damian wasn’t sure what made him do it.

one second he was walking past the crew hallway, the next he was crouched in front of a wide-eyed little girl in sparkly sneakers and a ponytail, whispering: "want to see your mom’s match?"

cleo didn’t hesitate. she just grinned and nodded like it was the best idea anyone had ever had.

it probably wasn’t.

he knew talent weren’t supposed to pull kids from daycare mid-show. knew security would ask questions if they spotted him dragging a six-year-old through the maze of cables and crates near gorilla. but when cleo slipped her small hand into his without a second thought, it was already done.

now she sat beside him in a folding chair behind the curtain, her legs swinging, her eyes locked on the monitor.

"is this where she comes out?" she whispered.

he nodded. "any second now."

cleo squirmed with excitement, holding a small bag of dinosaur-shaped gummies, he'd grabbed them from his own stash. he told himself it was just a kindness. something small. nothing more.

but then your music hit.

and cleo lit up like the fourth of july.

"there she is!" she squealed, pointing at the screen. "that’s my mommy!"

damian smiled, small, private. he watched as you stepped into the light for the first time under that enormous main roster stage.

no nerves on your face. just fire.

and something else. something determined.

he didn’t realize he’d stopped breathing until cleo tugged his sleeve. "she’s gonna win, right?"

he nodded. "i’d bet on it."

and when your match started, he didn’t look away once.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you didn’t have time to be nervous. this week was your first real match on smackdown, it was even more daunting considering seasoned pro naomi was your competition.

your music was already queued. your wrists were taped. the production team was shouting cues and pushing talent past you toward Gorilla.

it wasn’t your first match, not by a long shot. you’d bled under different banners, fought in cages, flipped off balconies. but this one felt heavier. brighter. more visible. it was the first time under the big lights with wwe’s main roster eyes all on you.

your heart pounded like a drumline in your chest. not from fear.

just pressure.

you glanced toward the tunnel, looking for someone, anyone familiar but the spot was crowded. and cleo she was supposed to be far from here, in childcare on the other side of the building.

at least she was safe. that was all that mattered.

you rolled your shoulders, focused forward.

then the match producer tapped you. "you’re up. good luck."

you exhaled and stepped into the curtain.

and the crowd roared.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you didn’t hear everything after that.

the match moved in flashes. you remembered the pop when your name was announced. the sound of boots on canvas. the thud of your finisher landing clean. the heat from the lights. the way you breathed harder than usual, not from cardio, but from emotion that had no place in the ring but showed up anyway.

and then, three slaps on the mat.

your theme hit.

you’d won.

just like that.

you stood in the centre of the ring, arm raised, chest heaving, and scanned the crowd almost by instinct. you didn’t know what you were looking for

until you saw them.

tucked behind the timekeeper’s area, down low by the barricade where the cameras wouldn’t catch them unless they looked hard

cleo.

perched on someone’s lap, wearing her sparkly hoodie, waving both hands in the air like she was trying to call down lightning.

and behind her?

damian.

hat pulled low, hoodie up, clearly trying not to draw attention. but his eyes were unmistakable. focused entirely on you.

he gave you a slow, subtle nod.

not for the cameras. not for the roster.

for you.

you almost missed your cue to leave the ring.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

later, when the show wrapped and the adrenaline faded, you found them both in the hallway near your locker room. cleo ran toward you the second she spotted you, arms outstretched.

"you did it!" she yelled. "you beat her so fast! and you flipped! and he let me sit in the chair with the headphones but i didn’t touch anything!"

you caught her in your arms, burying your face in her hair. "wait, what?"

cleo turned and pointed dramatically at damian. "he broke me out! like a ninja!"

you stared at him.

he looked almost guilty. almost.

"before you get mad", he said, hands up in mock surrender, "she asked nicely."

you just looked at him, speechless for a beat. "you snuck her out."

"she missed you", he said softly. "and i thought she’d want to see you win."

your heart stuttered.

and then melted.

You looked down at cleo. "did you have fun?"

"best day ever."

you looked back up at him. "you know this means she’s going to ask for this every week, right?"

he smirked. "guess i'll have to start showing up early."

you didn’t say anything else. you couldn’t, really, not with your throat tightening the way it was. so instead, you smiled.

a real one.

and somewhere inside you, something warm and dangerous started to settle in.

because this? this was starting to feel like something you might not want to walk away from.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the hotel room was dark, save for the faint blue glow of the tv. some mindless rerun played without sound, but he wasn’t watching.

damian sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped between his knees, still half in his gear. he hadn’t bothered to take off his boots. Just the hoodie. the adrenaline had worn off hours ago, but something else hadn’t.

he could still hear her laugh. the kid.

cleo.

she’d sat on his lap like it was nothing. like she’d known him forever. no hesitation. no fear. she’d asked him how he got his hair so shiny and whether or not he’d ever wrestled a dinosaur. she’d called the match like a pint-sized commentator, whisper-shouting into the headset when her mom hit the finisher.

and when the match ended, she’d clapped so hard he thought she might break her hands.

damian hadn’t smiled like that in a long time.

he’d told himself it was just a gesture. something nice. a favor. maybe a small rebellion against the usual rules.

but that wasn’t true.

the truth was he wanted to see you win.

not just the match.

he wanted to see you find your place here. to be seen, the way you deserved to be, not just as "new call-up" or "former AEW star" or "the one with the kid." he’d watched the roster underestimate you for weeks. he knew the look. he’d lived it himself when he started.

but tonight, they couldn’t deny you.

not after that pop.

not after that finish.

and watching you walk up the ramp, shoulders squared, chin high, eyes scanning the crowd he’d felt something settle low in his chest. not nerves. not pride.

something quieter.

more dangerous.

damian sighed and leaned back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

this wasn’t just about admiration anymore.

it was becoming personal.

and that scared him more than he wanted to admit.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you didn’t sleep deeply that night.

cleo curled into your side, one small foot lodged beneath your ribs. the hotel ac rattled faintly, and your back still ached from the match. But that wasn’t what kept you up.

it was him.

damian.

you kept replaying the moment you saw them down by the barricade. the way he’d looked at you, silent but so present. no big gesture. no smirk. just solid. like someone you could fall into and not hit the ground.

it was a ridiculous thought.

this business didn’t allow softness. or time. or relationships that lasted longer than the next tour loop.

but then there was cleo, asleep beside you, mumbling his name in her dreams.

you weren’t sure what was happening.

but it felt like the kind of thing that didn’t stop easily once it started.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

wwe posted a story tagging y/ninsta

written: y/n has arrived ahead of her first ple, the elimination chamber where she has a tag match with tiffany stratton against nia jax and candace larae

wwe posted a story tagging archerofinfamy and rhearipley_wwe

written: the terror twins have been reunited for the first time since damian priest left raw during the transfer window

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

finally being back with damian rhea felt like she had missed a whole season of damian's life.

she noticed it before she even made it to catering.

damian, leaning against a stack of production crates, arms crossed, pretending to scroll his phone.

you, sitting cross-legged on the floor with cleo in front of you, helping her colour a foam championship belt from the merch table like it was the most serious thing in the world.

cleo asked something. you smiled, laughed, pushed her curls out of her face.

and damian?

that man didn’t so much as blink, but everything in his posture said, locked in.

rhea smirked.

she detoured straight toward him.

"let me guess", she said, stopping beside him. "you're just coincidentally standing here. middle of traffic. next to this specific hallway."

damian didn’t look up. "it’s not like that."

"right", rhea drawled. "it’s not like anything. you just ‘happened’ to wander near the girl you’ve been brooding over for the last three shows while her kid paints glitter on a fake belt."

he glanced over. "you done?"

"nope." she leaned on the crate beside him, arms folded. "she’s cool. you like her. cleo loves you. you’re literally the only person on this brand that kid listens to. this whole soft-parent-energy thing is actually very cute. so what’s the holdup?"

damian exhaled, jaw flexing. "it’s not that simple."

rhea tilted her head. "why not?"

"because she’s new. and talented. and already has enough to prove without everyone whispering that she’s sleeping her way up the roster. because she’s got a kid and i’m..."

he stopped. didn’t finish.

rhea watched him for a moment, the edge softening slightly in her expression. "because you’re scared."

he didn’t deny it.

"look", she said, voice quieter, "i'm not saying get down on one knee and propose tomorrow. but you’re already halfway in. the kid adores you. she clearly feels something. you showing up? that means something."

he shook his head slightly. "i don’t want to mess it up."

"then don’t." she nudged his shoulder. "tell her. before someone else does."

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

later that evening, following the elimination chamber cleo had passed out on a row of production cases, mouth slightly open, marker still clutched in her fist.

you were half-watching the monitor rewatching your match, the rest of your brain stuck in that foggy space between exhaustion and gratitude.

and then damian sat down next to you.

quiet. no preamble. close enough to feel the warmth of him but not enough to press.

"hey", you said.

"hey."

you both watched the screen for a beat.

then, without looking at you, he asked, voice low "if i said i wanted to take you out sometime what would you say?"

you blinked. looked at him, really looked.

"i’d say" you paused, smiling softly, "it’s about time."

and for the first time since you’d met him

he smiled back.

fully.

openly.

like something had finally been decided.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

one week into dating damian

cleo had a habit of crawling out of bed before you and wandering straight into whatever hotel room was across the hall, usually damian’s.

one morning you woke to an empty bed, slipped on your hoodie, and crossed the hall barefoot, fully ready to scold her.

but when you pushed open his door, you froze.

there she was, knees tucked under her, balancing on the edge of his bed with a tablet in hand, while damian sat beside her cross-legged, head tilted, listening intently.

"okay", cleo said, very seriously, "this one’s a therizinosaurus" , her pronunciation of the word was terribly wrong but utterly adorable. "it had really long claws and was a herbivore, but also terrifying."

damian nodded. "that’s actually a great name for a finisher."

you blinked. "are you guys naming moves after dinosaurs?"

he looked up. "only the deadliest ones."

cleo grinned. "we already picked one that is yours momma. wanna know what it’s called?"

you couldn’t say no.

and you didn’t want to.

archerofinfamy posted a story

written: tired on pretending dinosaurs aren't cool as hell

wwe posted a story tagging archerofinfamy

written: damian priest just debuted a terrifying new move that is calling the spinosaurus ddt

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

three weeks into dating damian

you had a big match, one you wanted cleo to watch.

damian had been eager to be the one to watch her.

he sat at gorilla, watching you from behind the curtain. not in a possessive way. just proud. like watching the moment before lightning struck.

cleo stood beside him with a headset way too big for her head, shovelling gummy sweets into her mouth, free hand holding his wrist tape like it was treasure.

"do you think she’s nervous?" she whispered.

"no", he said, eyes still forward. "she’s ready."

he meant it. but he also meant: you always are. that’s who you are.

cleo giggled and held up the tape. "can i wear it?"

"only if you promise to cheer loud."

she nodded like it was a blood oath.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

a month into dating damian

cleo was sick.

nothing major, just a fever and exhaustion, but it hit hard after travel day, and she clung to you like gravity. you were supposed to wrestle that night, a solid match with a new push behind it.

but cleo had her arms locked around your neck, flushed and sweaty, and you’d already texted the producer your regrets.

then damian appeared in the doorway.

you started to tell him it was fine. that you had it under control. that you’d ordered Pedialyte and she’d be okay by morning.

he didn’t say anything.

just walked over, sat on the floor beside the bed, and held cleo’s tiny, fever-warm hand until she fell asleep.

later, after everything calmed down, you whispered, "thank you."

he shook his head. "you don’t have to do all of this alone."

and somehow, for the first time in years

you believed it.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

eight weeks into dating damian

you weren’t exactly hiding anymore.

people talked. rumors swirled. a few fans had caught on via glances, hallway sightings, or the time cleo accidentally called him "d" in front of a camera crew.

but you kept it quiet. protected.

not for shame, but for peace.

still, moments slipped through. you brushing glitter off his shoulder. him sneaking you cleo’s favourite snacks in catering. cleo climbing into his lap during a production meeting, chewing on a lanyard, and declaring him her "most bestest backup daddy."

he didn’t correct her.

not even once.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

two months dating damian

you didn’t mean to say it that night.

not in the way people usually plan for those moments. there was no candlelight. no big romantic speech. no music playing in the background. just the hum of the a/c, cleo’s quiet breathing from the second bed, and the weight of his arm draped across your stomach.

damian was half asleep beside you, still in joggers and a thermal shirt. the room smelled like takeout and travel-sized lotion. it was one of those rare nights where you had nowhere to be. just here.

just with him.

you rolled to your side slowly, brushing a piece of hair off his forehead. He looked peaceful like this. less guarded. younger, even.

he stirred at your touch, blinking at you.

"you okay?" he asked, voice low and rough.

you nodded. "yeah. just thinking."

"about what?"

you hesitated, then exhaled.

"how lucky i am", you said quietly. "to have this. to have you. to not be alone in it all anymore."

damian didn’t say anything at first. just brushed your wrist with his thumb, soft and steady.

then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you whispered it, barely above the buzz of the a/c.

"i love you."

silence.

and then

his hand stopped moving.

your breath caught.

he sat up slightly, his eyes finding yours in the dim light.

"you do?", he asked, not teasing. just stunned.

you nodded, nerves bubbling under your skin. "i didn’t mean to say it like that. not all weird and sleepy and-"

"i love you too."

he said it before you could spiral further. no hesitation. just warm certainty.

"i’ve been trying not to say it for weeks", he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "didn’t want to freak you out. or mess this up."

you laughed, quiet and shaking. "you could never."

damian leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, both of you breathing the same small space.

"i love you", he said again. "both of you. it’s not even a question anymore."

across the room, cleo turned in her sleep, murmuring something about "dinosaurs and pancakes."

you smiled.

this wasn’t flashy. it wasn’t loud.

but it was real.

and for the first time in years, love didn’t feel like something you had to fight for.

it just was.

y/ninsta

liked by archerofinfamy, beckylynchwwe, biancabelairwwe and 489,322 others

tagged: archerofinfamy

y/ninsta: just us. some snacks. a few late nights. cooking classes. & a man who carries stickers in his gear bag "just in case."

view all 18,283 comments

archerofinfamy: my girls

beckylynchwwe: i knew it. didn’t even need the detective hat. congrats mama

rhearipley_wwe: i’ve been WAITING. cleo’s the real star here tho, sorry not sorry

user5: the soft launch era is OVER. we are FEEDING

user6: damian "i destroy men for fun and braid toddler hair" priest??? iconic

user7: you went from indie darling to smackdown star to mom of the year with a hot wrestling boyfriend. living the dream fr.

[nuelles]

Giddy Up, Spencer || Spencer Agnew

Summary: When Smosh Summer Games: Cowboys vs. Robbers lands the cast on your family’s Southern farm, Spencer Agnew is fully prepared for heat, hay bales, and general chaos. What he’s not ready for is how flustered he gets around you—a fellow cast member, longtime farm girl, and expert at making him forget how words work. As the challenges get messier (and the rooster attacks more personal), Spencer finds himself tangled in something far trickier than obstacle courses: feelings. By the time the final challenge rolls around, it’s not just about winning points—it’s about whether he’ll finally cowboy up and kiss the girl who’s been roping his heart all week.

Pairing: Spencer Agnew x Southern!Reader

Tropes: Opposites Attract, Ridiculous Challenges, PDA, Farm Chaos

Warnings: Fluff, Romance, Flirting, Carl the Rooster, Author knows nothing about farm life, not proofread

WC: 7.1K

Requested: Yes (by anon) thanks for the idea sugar <3

Author's Note: Tried listening to some country music while writing, hopefully it translated through lol also I wanted to add a lot more challenge-wise but decided to just focus on Spencer and Reader oops

If anyone had told Spencer Agnew he’d spend a week filming Smosh Summer Games: Cowboys vs. Robbers on a real-deal Southern farm, he would’ve laughed, made a sarcastic remark about outlaw fashion, and then quietly prepared to die in 90-degree heat.

But no one told him that the real danger wasn’t the heat, or the bugs, or Ian’s over-enthusiastic cowboy accent.

It was you.

You stood at the edge of the gravel driveway in cut-off jeans, a tied-up flannel shirt, and worn-in boots that looked like they’d actually touched dirt before today. Sunlight hit your face just right as you waved at the approaching van.

“Welcome to the farm, y’all!” you called, Southern drawl like molasses—warm and impossible to ignore.

Spencer, from the back seat of the van, whispered, “Okay. Nope. Not emotionally ready for that.”

Damien, beside him, raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

Spencer sat up straighter. “For the full Yeehaw Cinematic Universe. Obviously.”

Damien grinned. “Sure. That’s totally what you meant.”

There was something about the way you said y’all that short-circuited his frontal lobe. This was going to be a long trip.

As the van came to a stop, Spencer gave himself a pep talk: You were just a person, a beautiful, smart, and funny person. And this was just like any other work trip — 

“How was the ride, darlin’?” Spencer had been so in his head that he hadn’t noticed Shayne open the side door or seen his fellow castmates get off, leaving him by himself in his dissociated state. “Hope you’re not getting second thoughts about coming to my family farm,” Spencer shook his head, trying and failing to get the words out.

“Yes — No, I mean no, I was just giving everyone a head start, you know, since I'm gonna win this.” You arched a brow at him but shrugged nonetheless, “Can’t wait to see that, sugar.”

Fuck

You helped them unload gear, directing people to where the bunkhouse was, where the bathrooms were, and where not to step if they didn’t want to get chased by a rooster named Carl.

Spencer tried to keep his cool. He really did.

But then you handed him a bottle of water and said, “You better hydrate, darlin’. Don’t want you droppin’ like a sack of flour on your first day.”

He almost said “thank you.” What came out was: “Ha ha yeah cool cool flour me.” His brain screamed internally. Why did he say that? What did that even mean? It was like his mouth had disconnected from his consciousness and gone rogue.

You blinked.

He blinked.

Courtney, walking past, snorted so hard she almost choked on their gum.

“Flour you?” you repeated, smiling with a raised brow.

Spencer cleared his throat. “Sorry. I meant... thank you. I’m not used to being in the presence of someone who knows how to wrangle cattle and also looks like they belong on the cover of a romance novel.”

You tilted your head. “You callin’ me a cowboy romance cover model?”

Spencer blinked, realizing what he’d just said, and immediately tried to backpedal. “I mean, not in a weird way. Like, respectfully. Like, you’d have a hat and a horse and emotional range.”

You laughed again, clearly entertained. Spencer fought the urge to bury himself in the hay bales behind you.

“I’m just saying if there was a book where someone tames a mysterious stranger with a YouTube career and too many emotional metaphors, I feel like you could carry the whole plot.”

There was a pause.

Then you grinned. “You always talk like that?”

“Only when I’m sweating and emotionally compromised.”

You laughed, soft and amused. “I knew I liked you for a reason.”

Spencer stood very still, wondering if it was possible to pass out from sheer attraction.

Shayne wandered over, squinting. “Are you two flirting or having a stroke? I can’t tell.”

Spencer didn’t answer. He was still rebooting.

A few minutes later, Ian clapped his hands together and yelled, “Alright, y’all! Y/N’s family was nice enough to let us crash here, so find a partner and head inside, tomorrow’s filming day!”You pointed toward a wooden fence across the field. “Home is this way. Mind the goats.”

Spencer squinted. “Wait. Actual goats? Like, roaming? With agendas?”

You gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Welcome to the country, cowboy.”

As you walked away, Spencer turned to Damien and whispered, “They just touched my shoulder, and I think I need a moment alone.”

Damien just sighed. “You’re gonna die out here, man.”

Spencer nodded, smiling like an idiot. “Yeah. And I’m gonna look hot doing it.”

Spencer woke up to the sound of a rooster crowing like it had a personal vendetta against him.

For a solid three seconds, he thought it was Damien doing a bit.

Then he opened his eyes, saw the rustic wood paneling, the dust motes floating in a shaft of sunlight, and—most disturbingly—a goat staring at him through the bunkhouse window like it had questions.

Spencer stared back.

The goat blinked.

Spencer slowly rolled over and groaned into his pillow. “This place is haunted.” 

He sighed and threw his legs over the side of the bed, praying that today would run smoothly— and that his brain would listen to him when you were in front of him.

Slipping on his shoes and glasses, he made his way towards the kitchen. He already knew he looked like a tired zombie. He needed caffeine, and since he’d forgotten his Kickstarters, some good ol’ black coffee would have to do.

In the bunkhouse kitchen, Shayne was already half-dressed in outlaw gear, sipping from a mason jar of coffee like he hadn’t spent the night curled up like a shrimp on an ancient twin mattress.

“Morning, city slicker,” he said cheerfully as Spencer shuffled in.

Spencer ran a hand through his hair, squinting at the weak sunlight pouring through the screen door. “Is this… what morning is supposed to feel like?”

“Welcome to farm time,” Courtney muttered, chewing on whatever breakfast seemed to have been put out and reapplying their mustache for the day. “Time moves differently out here. Like prison.”

“Pretty sure I heard a ghost rooster,” Spencer said.

“That’s just Carl,” Damien yawned, flopping onto a creaky couch. “Y/N says he only goes after people who walk funny.”

Spencer blinked. “I walk fine.”

Everyone stared at him.

“…I walk differently.”

“Oh, by the way,” Damien added, “Y/N also said there’s some Mountain Dew Kickstarter in the fridge for later—made it very clear it’s not a morning drink.”

They’d thought of him. Maybe today really would look different.

An hour later, the full cast had gathered near the massive hay maze built behind the barn. It was tall enough to block your view across the field and rickety enough that it looked like one good sneeze could knock it over—which meant it was perfect.

You strolled over from the barn, clipboard in hand, wearing a fresh plaid shirt tied at the waist and a cowboy hat that probably should’ve looked ridiculous—but somehow didn’t. The sun hit your face, and Spencer had to physically resist the urge to sigh out loud.

“Morning, y’all,” you called, flashing that smile that somehow made dirt roads and sweat look romantic.

Spencer took a gulp of water and muttered to himself, “Cool. Totally normal reaction. Just a normal coworker crush. Not a crisis.”

You came to a stop beside him, giving him a once-over with your eyes. “You look ready.”

“For what? Farm-themed death?”

You grinned. “Maze challenge. First event of the day.”

“Right. Hay. Running. Definitely my strong suit.”

“Did you sleep alright, darlin’?” you asked, teasing. “Did Carl behave?”

Spencer deadpanned, “Carl and I had a heart-to-heart about boundaries. I think we understand each other now.”

You let out a soft laugh. “You’re funny in the morning. That’s rare.”

“No, I’m delusional from sleeping on a mattress stuffed with, I assume, corn husks and regret.”

Your smile only widened. “Aw, poor thing. Need a good-luck charm?”

Before Spencer could answer, you reached out and straightened the askew bandana around his neck and planting a small kiss on his cheek before patting his chest.

“There. Now you’re officially presentable.”

Spencer blinked. Words gone. Brain smooth.

“…I think I’m in love with you,” he said.

You arched a brow. “What was that?”

“I said—I said thank you. Yep. That’s what I said.”

Ian blew a whistle and called the crew to attention. “Alright, people! First challenge: Hay Bale Maze Showdown! The first to solve the puzzle in the middle and escape the maze wins a point and bragging rights. Your surprise partner will enter the maze through the back and meet you at the puzzle if  they can make it.”

Shayne rubbed his hands together. “We’re sending Spencer in first. He’s got the legs for it.”

“I do not have the legs for this,” Spencer mumbled, adjusting his too-tight boots.

“Just remember,” Courtney added, twirling their fake sheriff’s badge, “if you get lost, scream dramatically. We’ll assume you’re doing a bit and leave you there.”

Your smile only widened. “Aw, poor thing. Need a good-luck charm?”

Before Spencer could answer, you reached out and straightened the askew bandana around his neck and planting a small kiss on his cheek before patting his chest.

“There. Now you’re officially presentable.”

Spencer blinked. Words gone. Brain smooth.

“…I think I’m in love with you,” he said.

You arched a brow. “What was that?”

“I said—I said thank you. Yep. That’s what I said.”

Ian blew a whistle and called the crew to attention. “Alright, people! First challenge: Hay Bale Maze Showdown! The first to solve the puzzle in the middle and escape the maze wins a point and bragging rights. Your surprise partner will enter the maze through the back and meet you at the puzzle if  they can make it.”

Shayne rubbed his hands together. “We’re sending Spencer in first. He’s got the legs for it.”

“I do not have the legs for this,” Spencer mumbled, adjusting his too-tight boots.

“Just remember,” Courtney added, twirling their fake sheriff’s badge, “if you get lost, scream dramatically. We’ll assume you’re doing a bit and leave you there.”

As the rest of the cast decided who’d go in after, you passed by Spencer again, leaning close with a crooked smile.

“Don’t worry,” you said quietly, voice smooth and warm. “I believe in you, cowboy.”

Spencer didn’t trip walking into the maze.

But it was close.

Spencer stepped into the hay maze like he was entering a war zone.

He could hear Damien behind him whispering, “Godspeed, buddy,” and Shayne yelling, “Remember us when you’re famous—or dead!”

The opening corridor of the maze was narrow, lined with hay bales stacked taller than his head. It smelled like dust and livestock trauma. Somewhere in the distance, a walkie crackled with static, and Courtney’s voice echoed: “There will be consequences for cheating, and those consequences will be dramatic reenactments.”

Spencer muttered, “That’s not ominous at all.” Time to impress you and show everyone just how quickly he could get out of there.

Cut to: The Other Cast, Waiting Outside the Maze

Courtney, Shayne, and Damien stood on a picnic table, squinting into the maze like over-invested sports commentators.

“Ten bucks says he takes a wrong turn and ends up back at the entrance within five minutes,” Courtney said, arms crossed.

“I’ll double it if he trips over a scarecrow that isn’t even in the challenge,” Shayne added.

Damien held up a hand. “Guys. Come on. Let’s have some faith in him.”

They all turned to see Spencer on the GoPro feed, spinning in a circle and yelling, “WHO DESIGNED THIS? WHO HURT YOU?”

“…Okay, yeah. Ten bucks says he doesn’t make it to the puzzle without an existential crisis.”

Back to Spencer

Spencer turned a corner and hit a dead end.

“Cool,” he muttered. “Symbolic. Love that.”

He backtracked, only to find two identical-looking paths.

Left or right?

He squinted at a hay bale on the left. Someone (Shayne, probably) had taped a piece of paper to it. In bold Sharpie, it read: “This is totally the right way. Definitely. Trust us.”

Spencer stared at it for a moment. “Hmm. That’s not suspicious at all.”

He went left anyway.

Twenty seconds later, he stepped on a booby trap—an explosion of glitter and feathers shot into the air, coating him like an arts-and-crafts project gone rogue.

From somewhere deeper in the maze, a triumphant cackle echoed.

“SHAYNE!” Spencer shouted.

Eventually, by some miracle (and yelling “Marco” until someone shouted “Polo” in confusion), Spencer stumbled into the center clearing—face flushed, shirt wrinkled, and glitter sticking to his hair.

There was a folding table with a jigsaw puzzle.

And next to it, you.

You leaned against the hay wall, arms crossed, a faint smirk playing at your lips. “Well, well,” you said. “You made it.”

Spencer exhaled dramatically and pointed at the puzzle. “Please tell me that’s it. I don’t have to milk a cow next, right?”

“No promises.”

You stepped up to help him with the puzzle, and he glanced at you sideways. “Are you here to sabotage me?”

“Officially? No. Unofficially? Maybe a little.”

He grinned. “Great. Love that. Betrayed by the one person I trusted.”

You nudged him with your elbow. “You trust me?”

“I’m covered in glitter and hay. It’s been a long day.”

Together, you managed to finish the puzzle—barely—and Spencer took off running toward the exit, dragging you behind him with a triumphant, “WE’RE FREE! WE SOLVED YOUR RURAL CURSE!”

Everyone cheered.

Spencer collapsed in the grass, face-up, arms spread. “Tell my story.”

You stood over him, grinning. “You alright, cowboy?”

He looked up at you, dazed. “Emotionally? No. Spiritually? I think I was reborn inside that maze.”

Courtney leaned over and whispered to Shayne, “Double or nothing, he doesn’t survive the next challenge.”

Later that afternoon, after everyone had recovered (read: collapsed dramatically in the grass for twenty minutes), Ian gathered the cast near the barn with a suspicious gleam in his eye and a coil of rope slung over his shoulder.

“Time for our next challenge!” he announced. 

Courtney squinted. “Why do I feel like that’s code for ‘someone’s about to get tackled’?”

You stepped up beside Ian with a grin. “Because someone is—if they don’t dodge fast enough.”

You gestured to a pen just behind you. Your eyes twinkle with excitement, ready to see how everyone would react to the challenge, “Alright, y’all,” you drawled, “this one’s called the Rope ‘Em Rodeo. Teams of two, timed challenge. One person’s gotta lasso a moving target while blindfolded—guided only by their partner’s voice. The fastest team to rope the target wins. Bonus points if you don’t trip and die.”

“Wait—moving target?” Damien asked warily.

You whistled.

From behind the barn, your cousin appeared, leading an actual miniature pony—outfitted with pool noodles taped to its sides like jousting armor. Angela immediately gasped.

“Her name is Clementine!” you said proudly.

Clementine, to her credit, looked like she could not care less.

Spencer stepped forward slowly, eyeing the pony. “I have so many questions, and I’m scared none of the answers will help.”

You clapped him on the back. “You’ll do great.”

The heat simmered off the dirt like a stovetop left on low, and Spencer was already regretting everything.

His bandana was tied over his eyes, itchy and crooked, the rope felt weird in his hands, and somewhere to his left, Clementine the miniature pony let out a huff that sounded judgmental.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and called out, “Just to clarify—I’m blindfolded, holding rope, and about to throw it at a live animal?”

You laughed from the sidelines. “Clementine’s tougher than she looks. And technically, you’re tossin’ the rope near her.”

Spencer tilted his head toward your voice. “That sounds hard.”

“It absolutely is.”

There was a brief pause as he sighed, and the cast behind you murmured in various tones of amusement and very little help. You held the walkie-talkie up to your mouth, your voice warm in his ear through the little earpiece Ian rigged together last-minute.

“Alright, sugar,” you drawled, smile audible. “Take three slow steps forward.”

Spencer shuffled forward like he was walking across lava, arms stiff, rope gripped like it might bite him. “You’re sure this is the right way?”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “I’m literally watchin’ you. Trust me.”

“Oh, well, that’s comforting,” he muttered, toeing the dry dirt. “Blindly following the voice of a person who regularly threatens me with roosters.”

“Threatens?” you said, feigning offense. “Carl just likes his personal space respected.”

“I said good morning!”

“And he said, ‘Try again.’”

A ripple of laughter from the others floated across the field. Spencer tried not to smile, but you could hear it in his voice.

“Okay,” you said, focusing. “You’re close now. Couple more steps, then turn about fifteen degrees left.”

Spencer turned right.

“Other left.”

“That’s aggressive,” he muttered, adjusting.

“Alright, now square your shoulders. Clementine’s dead ahead. I need you to aim just a little above her shoulder, then let the rope fly when I say.”

Spencer exhaled slowly. “You ever guided someone into blind-lassoing a pony before?”

“Nope.”

“Cool. Great. Feeling very alive.”

You grinned. “You should. Now… swing it smooth. On my count. Three… two… one—now!”

The rope sailed through the air in a perfect lazy arc. It spun once, then twice—before looping right over Clementine’s neck.

The pony didn’t even flinch. Just blinked.

There was a stunned second of total silence.

Spencer stood frozen. “What happened? Did I rope a person? Is Damien crying?”

You were already running toward him, laughter breaking loose from your chest. “Spencer, you did it! You got her!”

He pulled down the bandana, blinking at the scene before him. “Wait. I actually got the—?”

“Roped her fair and square,” you said, reaching his side.

Spencer looked down at the rope, then at Clementine, then back at you, stunned. “I have no idea how that happened.” Spencer stood there, blinking in disbelief, still gripping the rope that now loosely hung from Clementine’s neck. Glitter clung to his shirt from the earlier maze disaster, and now sweat dotted his brow under the high afternoon sun.

You leaned in, teasing, “Beginner’s luck?”

“No,” he said solemnly. “Divine intervention. Or you bribed the pony.”

“Pfft. Clementine doesn’t take bribes.”

Spencer rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “This is either the coolest or weirdest thing I’ve ever done. Possibly both.”

“You did real good, darlin’,” you said softly, grabbing the rope to lead Clementine back toward the post. “Kinda proud of you.”

Spencer opened his mouth—then promptly closed it. Whatever words were forming, they scattered like the hay in his hair. You gave him one last crooked smile before turning to the others.

“Alright, y’all! Who’s up next?”

Team Two: Shayne & Courtney

Shayne marched up like he’d just been handed the role of a lifetime, saluting the crowd.

Courtney pulled the bandana over their eyes with a flourish. “Let’s ride, partner!”

Shayne whispered something dramatic like, “Let the spirit of the wild west consume us,” before guiding Courtney into the arena with a flair for the theatrical.

“Step left! No, your other left! No—wait—SNAKE!” Courtney screamed and threw the rope. It sailed wide, wrapped around a random hay bale, and yanked it straight into Shayne’s shins.

He went down like a sack of yams.

“Y’all okay?” you called, fighting laughter.

Shayne groaned, face in the dirt. “I’ve been humbled.”

Courtney tore the bandana off. “I roped something, though!”

Team Three: Angela & Tommy

 Tommy approached with precision, arms folded, already in Game Mode.

Angela, meanwhile, was bouncing slightly on his heels. “Okay, so I have lassoed before—granted, it was a belt loop and a chair leg, but I feel good about this.”

Tommy side-eyed her. “Don’t make me regret this.”

He guided her with shocking clarity—left, left, steady, swing—and when she let it go, it soared in a clean arc…

…and gently landed around Clementine’s neck.

Gasps all around.

“Did we just win the whole game?” Tommy whispered.

Angela smirked. “We roped the pony. That’s a win in my book.”

Clementine sneezed, clearly unimpressed again.

Team Four: Ian & Anthony

When these two stepped up, the chaos was immediate.

“Ian, I swear to God, if you say ‘yeehaw’ one more time—” “YEE-—sorry.”

Anthony stood in front of him like a fed-up schoolteacher. “Just listen to me. No bits. For once in your life.”

Ian pouted. “But I was born for the rope.”

He took two steps, swung wide, and nearly nailed a camera tripod.

A very long, slow silence.

Anthony sighed. “You’re banned from rope.”

Team Five: Amanda & Arasha

Amanda stepped forward with pure confidence. “I grew up on country movies. This is in my blood.”

Arasha blinked. “...I once saw a horse. Does that count?”

“Absolutely not,” Amanda said cheerfully, tossing her bandana on. “We got this.”

Arasha tried her best to guide her, but Amanda had already sprinted full speed across the field, yelling, “YEEHAW!” while swinging the rope above her head like a rodeo queen.

It hit Clementine’s butt.

The pony made an offended noise and trotted a circle in protest.

“Y’all alright?” you called again.

“Great!” Amanda said, grinning. “I call that a direct hit.”

“On the wrong end,” Arasha muttered, facepalming.

When all was said and done, you were laughing so hard your cheeks hurt. The cast gathered again in the middle of the field as Ian tallied scores using an old clipboard and what looked like a cartoonishly large pencil.

“Alright! Time for the final tally,” Alex declared. “Some teams roped with elegance. Others roped with… whatever Ian and Anthony did.”

“That was art,” Ian shouted. “You just didn’t get it.”

Courtney threw a hay bale chunk at his feet.

“Angela and Tommy take the point for fastest clean rope,” Ian announced. “But I think we all agree that Spencer gets the honorary ‘Most Unexpected Cowboy Arc’ ribbon.”

You whooped. “I second that!”

Spencer just looked around like he’d blacked out for the entire event. “Wait, what? What’d I win?”

“Respect,” Damien said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “And possible tetanus.”

“And Clementine’s admiration,” you added, reaching out to gently pluck a piece of glitter out of Spencer’s hair. “She don’t trust easy.”

Spencer, thoroughly flustered, offered a shaky thumbs-up. “Great. Big honor. Thanks. Yeehaw.”

You leaned in with a wink. “You’re startin’ to sound like one of us, cowboy.”

And Spencer didn’t say anything—because he couldn’t say anything.

His brain was still buffering.

The sun had dipped below the hills, leaving the farm bathed in that syrupy golden hour glow. Crickets chirped lazily in the tall grass, fireflies blinked like tiny stage lights, and the air finally cooled enough for people to stop complaining in real-time about heatstroke.

A bonfire crackled at the edge of the field, its orange light flickering across everyone’s faces as they gathered around in mismatched folding chairs, hay bales, and one deflated pool float someone had decided was “rustic.”

You were perched on a log with a s’more in hand, cowboy hat tipped back on your head. Spencer sat across from you, chin in hand, blinking like he was trying not to combust.

Courtney took a huge bite of a marshmallow and pointed at him. “So. You roped the pony.”

Spencer, already mid-sip of water, choked slightly. “Are we still on this?”

“Buddy,” Damien said with mock sympathy, “we will be on this until the end of time.”

“Legend status,” Shayne added. “Right up there with Tommy’s chattering moment and Ian’s two truths and a lie failure.”

Anthony poked at the fire with a stick. “I just want to know how you managed a perfect lasso while blindfolded. That’s, like… divine comedy.”

“He was guided by love,” Amanda said dramatically, clasping her hands together.

You arched a brow, trying not to smirk. “Love?”

“Farm love,” she added with a wink. “Southern tension. There was chemistry in the air.”

Spencer made a strangled noise. “I don’t—what? There was dust in the air.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Tommy said, grinning. “We all saw you blush when Y/N straightened your bandana. You turned the color of a boiled shrimp.”

“I did not!” Spencer protested, half-laughing, half-suffering.

“You did,” Angela said, deadpan. “It was... honestly kind of sweet. Like a middle school dance if it was sponsored by Wrangler.”

Courtney snapped their fingers like they'd cracked a case. “Spencer’s got a farm crush!”

A chorus of “oohs” echoed around the fire like a live studio audience.

Spencer, fully red now, buried his face in his hands. “Why are y’all like this?”

You leaned back, bite of s’more still in hand, and said in your best innocent drawl, “You okay, cowboy? Look a little overheated.”

The group howled.

Shayne was doubled over. Amanda fell off her chair.

“Okay,” Spencer said, pointing at you, “you don’t get to say that while lookin’ like you walked out of a romance cover and lassoed my nervous system.”

“Nervous system?!” Damien howled.

Even Clementine—off in the distance, tied to a post and chewing hay—snorted like she was laughing.

You tipped your hat lower, hiding your smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Y’all flirting is louder than Ian yelling ‘Yeehaw,’” Courtney added.

“I regret nothing,” Ian called from where he was roasting a marshmallow at a wildly unsafe angle.

Spencer groaned and melted further into his chair. “Why did I come on this trip.”

“Because fate wanted us to watch you fall in farm love,” Shayne said, holding his hands to the sky. “And we are so blessed.”

You met Spencer’s eyes across the fire, your grin softer now, a quiet twinkle behind it.

“Don’t worry,” you said gently, voice just low enough for him to hear over the others. “They’ll forget by tomorrow.”

He didn’t believe you for a second.

But for the first time all day, he didn’t seem to mind.

Spencer had barely made it out of bed. He was 80% sore, 15% glitter, and 5% internally screaming.

The sun had barely climbed past the trees when Ian announced, far too cheerfully, “Good morning, cowfolk! Today’s challenge is called ‘Love & Livestock!’” He pointed to a line of wooden posts, hay bales, eggs, and… was that a podium?

“I hate it already,” Spencer mumbled to Damien.

“It’s a relay race,” Ian continued. “One partner is the ‘Cowboy,’ the other is the ‘Sweetheart.’ Together, you must complete four farm-themed obstacles, including—but not limited to—egg carrying, goat herding, wheelbarrow sprinting, and romantic communication!”

“Romantic, what now?” Anthony blinked.

Courtney raised a hand. “I’m sorry. Did you say romantic communication?”

You stepped forward, clearly in on the scheme. “That’s right. Each team has to shout a romantic line of encouragement before the final sprint. Extra points for sincerity... or creativity.”

Spencer looked skyward. “Cool. Love that for me.”

“Alright,” Ian clapped his hands, “first team: Spencer and Y/N!”

Everyone erupted in cheers and whistles.

“NO. No no no,” Spencer protested, turning toward Ian. “You did this on purpose.”

Ian was already walking away. “It’s what the people want.”

You were beside Spencer now, all sunshine and smugness, clearly having the time of your life. “C’mon, partner,” you teased. “You ready to prove your love to the livestock?”

“I swear if one of these obstacles involves Carl, I’m out.”

Obstacle One: Egg on a Spoon

Spencer stared at the wooden spoon like it was a cursed relic. You, meanwhile, stood behind the start line, gently stretching like you were about to run the Kentucky Derby.

“Alright,” you said, handing him the spoon. “Balance the egg on this. Walk in a straight line to the fence post, round the bale, and come back. Easy.”

Spencer narrowed his eyes. “Nothing on this trip has been easy.”

“Consider it a test of grace under pressure,” you said sweetly. “Like love. Or avoiding Carl.”

From the sidelines, Courtney shouted, “Walk like you’re carrying Y/N’s heart in your mouth!”

“Oh my god,” Spencer muttered, stuffing the spoon between his lips.

As he began his awkward shuffle down the track, the entire cast broke into an impromptu chant of “He’s got her heart! Don’t drop it!”

He wobbled left.

He wobbled right.

You jogged alongside him, hands on your hips, voice syrupy-smooth. “Steady now, darlin’. Don’t you dare crack under pressure.”

Spencer made a muffled noise—something like “You’re not helping!” but it came out as “Mph mm hngghff!”

He was two feet from the bale when a butterfly flew past his face.

He flinched.

The egg rocketed into the air like a tiny doomed UFO—then splattered on his shirt.

Silence.

Spencer stared down at himself. “Cool. Romantic yolk. Symbolic.”

You giggled, reaching over to pluck a bit of shell off his shoulder. “Guess you scrambled.”

From the background, Shayne yelled, “You scrambled the relationship, man!”

Obstacle Two: Goat Herding

“Alright,” you said, unlocking the small corral gate. “All you gotta do is get these three goats into that little pen over there. Use the treat bucket if you need.”

Spencer nodded, dead serious. “Copy. Goats. Pen. I’ve seen ‘Charlotte’s Web.’ I’m emotionally prepared.”

You handed him the bucket.

He stepped into the pen.

Carl the rooster immediately charged the gate, flaring his wings like he’d been waiting all night for a rematch.

Spencer backpedaled. “I THOUGHT THIS WAS GOAT HERDING—WHY IS THERE A MINIBOSS?”

Carl pecked his boot with surgical precision. The goats bleated with interest, clearly invested in the chaos.

“Maybe... maybe start with gentle persuasion?” you suggested.

Spencer turned to the goats, crouched low, and held out a handful of treats. “Okay, listen. I’m not from here. I’m a man from the internet. But we don’t have to be enemies.”

One goat trotted toward him.

Spencer smiled—then it headbutted his thigh and bolted past him.

“I’M LOSING TO A FARM,” he shouted.

The second goat just… sat down and refused to move. The third followed Carl like it had better things to do.

“Your aura’s all messed up,” Amanda called helpfully. “Goats are intuitive.”

You leaned on the fence, eyes twinkling. “Maybe they sense the unresolved romantic tension.”

Spencer spun. “What tension?!”

“You tell me, sugar.”

The goat behind him bleated.

And pooped.

Obstacle Three: Wheelbarrow Sprint

You flopped into the rusted metal wheelbarrow with a dramatic sigh, adjusting your bandana and resting your boots on the edge like royalty.

Spencer gripped the handles with a weary look. “Is this revenge for the goats?”

You popped a marshmallow in your mouth from your pocket stash. “Nope. This is character development.”

He lifted the handles—and immediately struggled. “Okay. Wow. Either this thing’s made of concrete or you’ve been secretly lifting hay bales for sport.”

“Shut up and push, cowboy.”

The track was a bumpy, uneven loop around the barn. Spencer sprinted, dodging rocks and tufts of grass. You cheered like a pageant queen on a parade float.

“You’re doin’ great, sweetheart! Real strong—real capable—just don’t hit that—”

He hit a rock.

The wheelbarrow veered sharply, nearly launching you into the grass.

“WE’RE GOOD!” he yelled, correcting course. “WE’RE FINE!”

You were doubled over with laughter, one hand braced on the rim. “My spine disagrees!”

As they rounded the final turn, Spencer lost steam. He wheezed. “Why did no one tell me this was a leg day episode?!”

Shayne called from the sidelines, “Love makes you stronger, bro!”

Damien added, “Or just sweaty and confused!”

As Spencer crossed the finish line and dropped the handles, you tumbled out onto the grass with a dramatic roll.

“10 outta 10 dismount,” Courtney announced.

“I’m seeing spots,” Spencer panted.

“Those are just fireflies,” you whispered, lying beside him. “You didn’t die.”

“...Emotionally, I did.”

Obstacle Four: Romantic Declaration

Now it was time for the final piece—the dramatic confession.

Spencer stood in the middle of the field, sweaty, dirt-streaked, possibly concussed by love. The entire cast formed a semi-circle behind you, phones out, ready to document everything.

You crossed your arms, eyebrows raised. “Alright, cowboy. Final step. Woo me. Loudly.”

Spencer stared at you for a long moment.

The group held its collective breath.

Then, Spencer took a step forward, raised his arms to the sky, and bellowed:

“IF THIS WEEK HAS TAUGHT ME ANYTHING, IT’S THAT I’D CHASE GOATS, WHEELBARROW A GODDESS, AND EAT RAW GLITTER IF IT MEANT YOU’D KEEP CALLING ME DARLIN’!”

Silence.

Then uproar.

Damien screamed. Amanda actually fell over. Angela wheezed. Even Clementine let out a single unimpressed snort like she couldn’t believe the audacity.

You blinked once.

Twice.

Then tipped your hat low, smirking. “You passed.”

Spencer blinked. “What does that mean?!”

Ian blew the whistle. “TIME! They win!”

Spencer stared up at the sky, dramatically collapsing into the dirt. “Tell my story.”

You stood over him, shadows dancing across your face. “I’ll make sure it’s a good one, sugar.”

And just like that, he was done for.

The chaos of the day had finally dimmed.

The crew had scattered across the bunkhouse, the barn, and wherever they’d passed out in exhaustion. Someone’s leftover s’more sat half-melted on a paper plate, and Carl had (mercifully) gone quiet for the night.

The fire pit still glowed faintly, low embers pulsing like a heartbeat in the grass.

You stepped out of the bunkhouse, hoodie thrown over your top, holding a mason jar of lemonade. The air was thick with summer, soft and humming with crickets.

Spencer was already out there—lying flat on his back in the grass a few feet from the fire, arms folded behind his head, gaze fixed skyward. His glasses were perched slightly crooked on his nose, and his shirt still had a smudge of dirt across the sleeve.

You didn’t say anything at first.

Just padded over and dropped into the grass beside him, close enough for your knees to brush.

He glanced over and smiled. It wasn’t his usual sarcastic grin or chaotic one-liner expression. Just… tired. Soft. Warm.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

“Hey, yourself.”

You both looked up at the stars—dozens of them, bright and wild in a way they never were in the city. The Milky Way stretched overhead, glowing faintly like some spilled-glitter accident across the sky.

Spencer let out a breath. “I forgot how many stars there are out here. I’m used to like, six. Maybe one bold planet.”

You smiled, tracing a constellation with your finger. “Out here, you’ve got the whole galaxy if you want it.”

A pause.

Then he added, voice quieter: “Can’t lie. I’m still emotionally recovering from that goat herding. That was... humbling.”

“Carl’s a menace,” you said, tone affectionate.

Spencer chuckled. “I think I saw my life flash before my eyes. There were... memes. So many memes.”

You tilted your head toward him, resting on your elbow. “You did good today. All things considered.”

“Even when I yelled my feelings in a field?”

“Especially then.”

He didn’t reply for a second, just blinked up at the stars.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I was gonna say something earlier. After the race. When you asked me to ‘woo’ you.”

“Oh, I remember.”

“I panicked.”

“I also remember.”

You grinned, and he looked over at you, a little sheepish, a little earnest. The space between you buzzed with something unspoken.

“But,” he continued, “since there’s no goat-chasing now, no glitter mines, no one screaming ‘YEEHAW!’… I’ll try again.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Right now?”

He nodded, voice quiet. “Right now.”

“I also remember.”

You grinned, and he looked over at you, a little sheepish, a little earnest. The space between you buzzed with something unspoken.

“But,” he continued, “since there’s no goat-chasing now, no glitter mines, no one screaming ‘YEEHAW!’… I’ll try again.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Right now?”

He nodded, voice quiet. “Right now.”

The night wrapped around you both like a soft quilt, warm and slow. Spencer sat up slightly, bracing on one elbow to face you.

I think you’re incredible,” he said simply. “Funny. Cool under pressure. Completely terrifying with a rope. And I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing around you.”

Your breath caught, just slightly.

“But every time you say ‘darlin’,’ I forget what my own name is.”

You let out a soft laugh, blinking down at your jar of lemonade. “You don’t gotta flirt with me under starlight like we’re in a country song, Spence.”

“Not flirting,” he said. “I mean, yes, I am, but… I also mean it.”

The quiet buzzed a little louder now, closer to your heartbeat than the crickets.

You looked back at him. “You don’t always have to be charming, y’know.”

He smiled. “Then I’m in trouble. That’s most of my skill set.”

You shook your head, laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”

He didn’t look away. “But you like it.”

“…Yeah,” you said softly. “I do.”

And for a moment, neither of you needed to say anything else.

The stars above blinked on, steady and wide. Somewhere inside, the crew snored, laughed in their sleep, or muttered about goats.

But out there, under a sky too big to hold all the feelings starting to crack open between you—

You and Spencer just sat, and existed, and felt.

Together.

The next morning broke with golden sunlight, damp grass, and the uneasy quiet that only meant one thing on this farm: chaos was coming.

Spencer had just finished sipping from his emergency Kickstart when Ian appeared out of nowhere, breaking the stillness of a morning that smelled like dewy grass and distant livestock. Somewhere behind the barn, a cow mooed lazily, and a chorus of birds chirped from the treetops, blending into the soft rustle of wind through the fields. megaphone in hand.

“GOOD MORNING, PARTNERS!” Ian shouted with too much energy for 8:02 a.m. “It’s time for your FINAL Summer Games challenge: The Great Eggscape!”

You raised a brow. “This gonna involve actual chickens or just, like, metaphorical ones?” Worried about putting the hens in any stressful environment.

“Both,” Ian beamed. “We cleared it with your dad. Here’s how it works: each team must collect five eggs scattered around the chicken yard and return them to the basket at the fence. Fastest time wins.”

Spencer frowned. “That sounds… suspiciously simple.”

Courtney stepped up with a clipboard. “Forgot to mention—Carl’s guarding the eggs.”

Spencer froze. “Carl? Carl the rooster?”

From the shadows, a single ba-kawk rang out. Sinister. Personal.

“YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID, AGNEW,” Courtney added in a low growl. “Ever since that time you accidentally knocked over his feed bucket during the rehearsal shoot, he’s had it out for you.”

The chicken yard had been turned into a mini obstacle course—scattered hay, tiny wooden bridges, fake cacti for aesthetic, and at least two dozen plastic and real eggs hidden around the space. But standing dead center like a feathery war general…

Carl.

Tail puffed. Wings out. Eyes locked on Spencer like he owed him money.

You clapped Spencer on the shoulder, trying not to laugh. “Guess you’re up first.”

He looked at you, horrified. “This is how I die.”

“No,” you said sweetly. “This is how you win my heart.”

“Same difference.”

He stepped into the chicken yard like it was a minefield.

The timer started. The cast counted down. “3… 2… 1—GO!”

Spencer sprinted, ducking under a string of bunting and snatching the first two eggs with surprising agility.

“Okay, okay,” he muttered to himself. “This is fine. No poultry problems. Just eggs. Just—”

BA-KAWK!

Carl swooped in from the left like a dive-bombing missile.

“AHHHHH!” Spencer shrieked, dropping an egg as he dodged the bird.

The cast howled.

“HE’S BACK FOR BLOOD!” yelled Damien, from atop the fence.

Carl flapped his wings dramatically and gave chase. Spencer ran a zig-zag pattern through the hay bales, yelling, “I DIDN’T EVEN LOOK AT YOUR HENS!”

You were doubled over laughing, holding your basket.

“Spence!” you called. “Over here—two more!”

He dove behind a coop, grabbed the eggs—and then Carl launched from the roof like a villain in a Fast & Furious movie.

Spencer flailed, landed hard in a pile of feathers, and emerged with one cracked egg and grass in his hair.

“I want it known,” he gasped, sprinting toward you, “that I have fought literal chickens for your honor!”

You held the basket out. He dumped the eggs in and collapsed at your feet.

Shayne and Courtney approached the pen like trained spies. Carl ignored them completely.

Ian and Anthony made it halfway before Anthony tripped and invented new curse words.

Amanda and Arasha worked silently, efficiently, and somehow found all their eggs without being attacked once.

Spencer, still on the ground, muttered, “Why me?”

You smirked. “He only attacks threats.”

“…I’m gonna take that as a compliment.”

Courtney checked the stopwatch. “Despite being mauled by poultry… Spencer won by five seconds!”

Everyone clapped. Someone started chanting “CARL! CARL! CARL!”

You dropped the basket on the haystack and turned to Spencer, dusting feathers off his shoulder. “You alright, cowboy?”

“Mentally? No. Physically? Still feeling egg yolk in places I didn’t know existed.”

You grinned. “You really did all that for me?”

Spencer stood up straighter. “I’d do it again. Probably cry a little harder, though.”

You stepped in close. “Well, lucky for you… you don’t have to.”

Before he could respond, you kissed him.

His breath caught mid-thought, every word he might’ve said instantly forgotten. For a second, all the chaos faded—the goat bleats, the chants, even Carl’s indignant squawk in the background. Spencer’s mind, usually a nonstop parade of sarcasm and overthinking, just… quieted.

It was soft, a little messy thanks to the feathers still stuck to his shirt, but it was real. And in that barnyard, with hay underfoot and your hand resting lightly on his chest, he felt like the whole week had led to this exact ridiculous, perfect moment.

When you pulled away, Spencer’s heart was doing something suspiciously dramatic in his chest. His glasses were slightly crooked, but his grin was straight out of a romance novel.

He blinked. "Okay. That definitely counts as a win."

Right there in the barnyard, surrounded by cheers, goat bleats, and the faint squawk of a very offended rooster—you kissed him.

And Spencer melted into it, feathers and all.

When you pulled back, he was grinning like a fool. “Worth it?”

You winked. “Every cluckin’ second.”

[nanamineedstherapy]

Help! I'm a Woman & I got my two Male Boyfriends Pregnant

Summary: You got your boyfriends Gojo Satoru & Ryomen Sukuna Preganat; now they are spirling, thinking you are going to leave them. Send jesus! Based on this.

The day started normal enough. Coffee brewed. Cursed spirits got obliterated. You avoided Gojo's pranks and Nanami’s disapproving stares. But nothing could’ve prepared you for this.

Absolutely nothing.

"EXPLAIN," Sukuna growled, pacing back and forth like a caged tiger, his crimson eyes flaring with murderous intensity. "HOW THIS HAPPENED."

Beside him, Gojo sat slumped on the couch, his head in his hands. For once, his usual smirk was nowhere to be seen. “She broke me,” he muttered, his voice muffled and full of existential despair.

You blinked, your hands raised defensively as you tried to process the sheer absurdity of what was happening. “Okay, let’s—let’s all calm down and start from the beginning. What exactly—”

“WE’RE PREGNANT!” Sukuna bellowed, his voice rattling the windows.

Your brain short-circuited. “What?”

“Both of us,” Gojo mumbled, finally lifting his head to glare at you with his piercing blue eyes. “We’re both pregnant. With your cursed energy, apparently.”

You stared at them, your jaw hanging open as your brain desperately tried to make sense of the words coming out of their mouths.

“Wait,” you said slowly, pointing at each of them. “You’re pregnant. And you’re pregnant. And… I’m the father?”

“Yes!” they both shouted in unison.

Gojo flopped back against the couch, throwing an arm over his face dramatically. “I can’t believe this. I’ve never been abandoned before. This is new for me.”

“Abandoned?” you snapped, your bewilderment turning to irritation. “I’m literally right here! No one’s abandoning anyone!”

Sukuna’s glare could’ve melted steel. “You better not be abandoning us. Do you have any idea what this is like? I’m a goddamn king, and now I’m carrying twins! Twins!”

You blinked again. “Twins?”

“Yeah, apparently cursed pregnancies are extra efficient,” Gojo muttered, rubbing his temples. “I’ve got triplets. Freaking triplets.”

Your knees nearly gave out. “Oh my god.”

“Oh your god, indeed,” Sukuna snarled, his pacing becoming more frantic. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve puked today? I’m the King of Curses, not the King of Ginger Ale!”

Gojo groaned dramatically, throwing himself across the couch. “And my ankles are swollen! I didn’t even know I had ankles that could swell!”

You stood there, frozen, as the two most powerful men you knew devolved into chaos before your eyes. Sukuna ranted about hormonal imbalances and cravings for spicy tuna rolls at three in the morning, while Gojo moaned about needing custom maternity uniforms for missions.

“Okay, okay!” you finally shouted, throwing up your hands. “Let’s take a step back and breathe for a second!”

Sukuna whirled on you, his crimson eyes blazing. “You breathe! I can’t breathe because your cursed energy apparently rewired my insides to incubate life!”

“That’s not even scientifically possible!” you argued, gesturing wildly.

Gojo raised a hand from the couch, his voice weak. “Apparently, science has no place in cursed pregnancies.”

“Obviously!” Sukuna snapped.

You groaned, running a hand through your hair. “Okay, look. I don’t know how this happened, but I’m not going anywhere. We’ll figure this out together, okay?”

Gojo perked up slightly, peeking at you from under his arm. “So, you’re saying you’re going to stick around? You’re not gonna leave us to fend for ourselves?”

“Of course not!” you said, exasperated. “Why would I abandon you?”

Sukuna snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Because that’s what all the terrible stories say. The cursed sorcerer fathers always leave. And yet, here I am, trying to keep it together while I grow two heads and three hearts inside me!”

“What?!” you shrieked.

“Apparently, cursed pregnancies come with… add-ons,” Gojo said, waving his hand vaguely. “It’s fine. We’ll manage. Just… don’t tell anyone.”

“Don’t tell anyone?!” you repeated, your voice climbing several octaves. “How am I supposed to explain why Sukuna is eating pickles and peanut butter out of the jar at 2 a.m.?”

“I’m literally creating life, you peasant!” Sukuna growled.

“And what about you?” you snapped at Gojo. “You’ve been crying for two hours! What even is that?”

Gojo sniffled, his bottom lip trembling. “I just feel so much right now, okay?”

You stared at them, completely overwhelmed, as the reality of the situation sank in. Two of the most powerful sorcerers in existence were pregnant. With your cursed energy. And somehow, it was your job to keep them alive and sane.

“Fine,” you said, throwing your hands up. “I’ll get the pickles and the peanut butter. And maybe a sedative for myself while I’m at it.”

“Don’t forget the chocolate!” Gojo called after you as you stormed out of the room.

“And ginger tea!” Sukuna shouted. “Or so help me, I’ll kill you!”

You groaned, your footsteps echoing down the hall. This was your life now.

A/N: Want more? I can give you more if you ask nicely (͠≖ ͜ʖ͠≖)👌 I will mark this series completed for now until I get any more inspo or ideas (feel free to send yours too). Please comment; it fuels my cheos ᕙ(`▿´)ᕗ

Want more - In Ratio Veritas: Someone got Nanami Kento Pregnant - [Tumblr/Ao3]

Next Chapter - Prenatal Warfare: PregaNanamin vs. Lactating!Toji in Broad Daylight! - [Tumblr/Ao3]

All Works Masterlist

[satorusugurugurl]

Can i request modern au!sukuna and reader just making out in the living room during gojos house party🫠 established relationship of course🙏

I Got You

Pairing: Ryomen Sukuna x FAB Reader (MODERN AU)

Word Count: 1,983

Content Working: alcohol consumption, mentions of weed, anxiety attack, making out, suggestive

A/N: This request was so flipping cute! Loving this Modern!Sukuna AU! Like always send me suggestions!! I love hearing about your chaotic horny brain worms!

“Hello, welcome, welcome!” Gojo Satoru yelled over the bass booming from inside the house. “Step inside my humble abode!” You wanted to roll your eyes at ‘humble abode’ as you and Sukuna stepped inside Gojo’s mansion. “I am your gracious host, sober as per usual! Beer pong is in the back; spin the bottle has turned into strip poker, so that's been moved into the basement.” Your blue-eyed friend peered over his dark sunglasses. “There's pizza, edibles, and drinks in the kitchen! Have fun, don't fuck in my room again. Suguru and I are chilling in the hot tub if you need us!”

With the completion of his speech, your host was off towards the back, dodging several drunk people. Gojo’s house parties were always the best. Hell, it's where you met Sukuna. They were full of chaos, laughter, and lots of memories. Usually, you'd be dragging Sukuna to the kitchen by now and snacking on edibles, nursing a rum and coke.

But you were a bit anxious.

Work has been so tense this week. Endless piles of paperwork, long days. Every day was the same: get up, go to work, come home, and make dinner before passing out in bed. You’d been so stressed it didn't help that you hadn't even spent time with Sukuna all week. So when Gojo invited you for a small get-together, you jumped at the opportunity. A party with your closest friends would ease the tension in your back.

What you walked into was not at all a small get-together. This was a full-ass Gojo Satoru party. It had probably started as a small get-together, but word probably spread, and Gojo would never say no to a good time. The more the merrier! But as the smell of weed and shouting echoed through the house, you were beginning to regret your choice.

Sukuna peered down at you from the corner of his eye. He could see the stress etched into your features. He had offered to take you to dinner, something quiet and calm after your hard week. But when you said you needed to blow off some steam, he didn't fight you. He'd been there, raising his two brothers. Work and school had him running to parties like this all the time before he met you.

If this is what you needed, he'd support you.

“Hey,” he bent over next to your ear, “you good? Want to get a drink?”

“Mmhmm!”

Taking your hand in his, Sukuna led you through the crowded halls into the kitchen. You searched for Nanami, Shoko, or anyone you knew, but you saw a sea of strangers. This was fine. It was okay; Sukuna was here. You were going to be OK.

“Want a rum and coke?” Sukuna yelled over the blaring music. His hand released yours. “Or something else?”

In the instant he was no longer holding you, you felt it. Your hands were shaking, and your index finger twitched—the telltale signs of an anxiety attack for you. Quickly folding your hands behind your back, you swallowed hard, heart pounding in your ears. You needed to get away, to find a quiet spot, but the last thing you wanted to do was make Sukuna worry about you.

“Surprise me!” You yelled back, looking around. “I'm going to go use the restroom!”

Your boyfriend had just started towards the drinks when you shouted at him that you were going to the bathroom. When he turned around, he watched you push through the growing crowd, clenching your left hand as you did. Sighing softly, Sukuna headed for the fridge to get what was needed.

You were shaking, eyes darting through the smokey halls, searching for privacy. The bathroom was locked, couples blocked the stairs, and people flooded through the front door. Fuck, fuck, fuck, you needed to get away from the noise and calm down! You rushed down the hall, finding the living room empty, except for a beer bottle on the coffee table. This must have been where Spin the Bottle was being played earlier. Thank fuck it turned into strip poker.

Plopping down on the couch, you stared down at your shaking hands. The index finger and middle finger twitched, pulsing as waves of anxiety slammed into you. To fight back tears, you shut your eyes tight just as your leg began to bounce. This was a nasty attack. Calm, stay calm. It would be okay.

Why didn't you listen to your boyfriend?! From the second you got in the car, you felt off. Something was going to happen, but you had no clue what it could be like a shadow figure was stalking you, waiting for the perfect chance to strike. Now that you were in the midst of your anxiety attack, it all made sense.

“Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.” You whispered to yourself. “Don't cry.”

Despite telling yourself that, it didn't prevent the tears streaming down your cheeks. Fuck. This was not how you wanted to spend your Friday night. Poor Sukuna wouldn't want to spend the night like this, either. He was stuck taking care of his weak-ass girlfriend, who couldn't calm herself down. He deserved more. Before your thoughts could spiral further, the couch dipped under someone's weight.

Turning your head to see who it was, you gasped as Sukuna cupped your face in his hands, kissing you deeply. Your heart skipped a beat as you kissed back. He pulled back, thumb brushing against your cheek before his lips were firmly against yours once more. The second kiss was deeper as he gently eased you back into the corner of the armrest.

Whimpering against your boyfriend's lips, you lifted, still shaking hands to his shoulders. Your fingers trailed over muscles as his own hands moved down the curves of your body. Sukuna’s grip was firm, holding you tight and reassuring you that he was here. That you weren't alone.

Sukuna’s tongue darted out, gently licking at your bottom lip, begging for you to allow him inside. You obeyed simultaneously, opening your mouth. His tongue slid into your mouth, deepening the already passionate kiss. Furrowing your brows, you pulled him on top of you as you laid back. Obliging your wants, Sukuna followed you, his body pressed against you. In all of the movements, never once did he break the connection.

You hadn't had a drink of alcohol or eaten one of the edibles, but you felt hazy. All thanks to Sukuna’s tongue buried in your mouth. He massaged your tongue gently with his as his hands mapped out the dips and curves of your body. Making mental notes of all the places he touched that made you squirm. The second he got you home later, those spots he would pay extra attention to. He'd mark them up, suck on them until you were begging for more.

That would be for later on. Right at this moment, you were his sole concern. He paid close attention to your body and how the tension melted away. Trembling that was driven by anxiety shifted into trembles of pleasure. The kiss meant to ground you slowly twisted into a kiss the two of you found yourselves lost in.

Your hands ran through his soft hair, pulling him closer to you. Your tongue moved against his, gently prodding and massaging it, tasting the faint traces of mint and rum. God, you felt high, so high off of him. Off of the Ryomen Sukuna, the man you were so lucky to call your boyfriend. He left you breathless in every way, shape, and form.

Which is why you pushed him back, a string of saliva connecting your lips as you gulped down the air. While you recovered from the breathtaking kiss, Sukuna eyed you. His chest heaving as he sat back, giving you some space. Fuck, he looked good. His hair was in disarray, his shirt wrinkled around the collar, and his eyes dark with lust. The two of you were drunk off each other, and you had the urge to get wasted, to drown yourself in him and nothing else.

You sprung towards him, sitting in his lap as your lips found his. This kiss wasn't as gentle as the first (if you could call it gentle). You nipped at his lips, causing him to groan against your mouth, his eyes rolling back into his skull. His hands ran up and down your back, encouraging you to keep going. You cupped his face, kissing him like your life was on the line.

Sumina moaned as you made out like teenagers on the couch. His hands tangled in your hair, tugging Y/H/C strands as you sucked and bit at his bottom lip. Fuck, you felt like a teenager. It felt good to lose yourself in his kisses.

“Sukuna! Hey, I couldn't find my ice pack—oh!” you pulled away from Sukuna’s lips, panting heavily. Gojo was wet, towel around his waist as he held a bag of frozen peas. “Well, huh, I guess you have it covered?” Your white-haired friend asked, tossing Sukuna the peas.

Suluna caught the bag, glaring at Gojo with flushed cheeks. “Yes, now go!”

“Okay, okay! Just remember to wrap it up!”

“Fuck you, Gojo!” Sukuna yelled after him as he rushed off. “Stupid fuckin’ bastard.” Sukuna sighed, leaning his head back against the couch, his very hard erection pressing against you. “Ruining the mood.”

You cocked an eyebrow, eyes darting from your boyfriend to the peas, trying to put the two together. While your mind tried to connect the dots, Sukuna sighed. The sound rumbled in his chest as he picked up the bag, pressing it gently against the back of your neck.

The cold jolted down your spine, making you jump, your hips rutting against him. “Fuck! That's cold!” Sukuna hummed, eyes wandering over your face.

“Good means it's working.” Words trailed off before he looked away, flushing a deeper shade of red. “You feelin’ better?”

“Huh?”

“You were having an anxiety attack, right?”

You blinked at his words; he knew he had seen it. “How did you know?”

“Well, for starters, I’m your boyfriend.” His signature cocky smirk graced his lips. “Plus, you kept clenching your hand, taking super deep breaths, and I noticed your fingers twitching.” God, how embarrassing was this? You groaned, pressing your forehead against his. “Hey, it's okay, I got you. I would have been here sooner, but I couldn't find any ice packs.” his hand gently rubbed circles into your thigh. “So, I had to use my kissing skills to get you to hold your breath.”

“You do listen.” Holding your breath to stop a panic attack was something you and his brother Choso had talked about weeks ago over dinner. He had seemed bored, rolling his eyes as you both excitedly gushed over a paper he was writing for school.

“Of course, I listen.” His hand squeezed your thigh. “I've been listening to you since we played Seven Minutes in Heaven six months ago.”

“Seven Minutes in Heaven?” You giggled, pressing a kiss to his lips. “I think you mean an hour in heaven.”

Sukuna pulled the bag of peas away, shutting his eyes as he smiled. “An hour that changed my life completely.” His words had you biting your lip.

“Say Kuna~” you rocked against him, pleased to find him still hard. “What do you say we play that again? I want you to kiss me until I see the pearly gates.”

You didn't have to say it twice. The pea bag was thrown across the room, and frozen green peas rolled in every direction. You squealed as you were thrown over your boyfriend's shoulder, getting carried off to a more private location. You were squirming in excitement when his hand firmly smacked your ass.

“Oh no, look at that. Gojo left his door unlocked~!”

[mehiwilldoitlater]

Now hear me out,what if. What if we did get Sent back to our world. But. Our monke was sent with us. Pretty please 👉👈🥺 We gotta fuel the shenanigans of things somehow. I wanna see him get whiplash from both technology and culture shock. We've been nice to our boi for a good while,it's time to bully him finally.

When you both wake up in the middle of the city, with people standing, asking if there was a con around or something, you know that you both are in something big.

You needed to find a good hiding place, but you knew what was happening: you and the Destined One were now in your own world.

The buzzling city, the cars, the technology—everything made his poor brain scrumble. You cane from this?! This chaos?!

The smell for him is difficult to handle, the absence of trees, and the strange behavior of the people...

///

"This is...your home?"

"Yup."

Hiding in a tree, the two of you admired the small portion of the city that the park hallowed you to observe. While you remembered what it feels like to breathe the same air where you were born, Yuán Fèn couldn't take his eyes off the palace in the distance.

"Are those... pagodas?"

"Oh no, those are skycrapers. People live and work there."

"Oh..."

Everything was out standing. And the mortal did it without the help of gods or others! They did it themselves! He gasped again, his tail swaving excited.

"We should go now! ...Maybe you can finally meet my family!"

///

That's your plan...until you find out what's really happened to you.

You were wondering if the car that had crashed into you was some sort of allucination or something like that, but when you reached your home, you could feel all the pain that you hadn't felt the day of the accident.

When you knocked at your door, you guessed that your mother could feel dizzy. After your disappearance of months, what you didn't expect was her tò Just faint on your porch, right in front of you and Yuán Fèn. You both were able to bring her into her room, and after that, you started to notice a pattern that scared you.

While Yuán Fèn tried to make her come back from the world of the living, you noticed the door of your room locked; many of your photos were missing from the usual spot. And there, in the living room, a photo of you at your prom, in an intricate frame. Written in silver ink, the lines "in loving memory.".

You really wanted to faint at that moment.

///

It feels so strange looking at your own grave. You guessed that they would you in this one particular spot. It was a family place there.

"I told them that I wanted to be cremated."

Yuán Fèn was more interested in trying to decipher your mental state. You were just there, watching at your own photo. He felt so strange... so that was what Mitraya meant when he said you were rebuking everything in your real world by choosing him. He looked again at that stone block, your name carved in there... then moved away.

"Okay, I think I'm in need of... What are you doing?!"

You spotted him taking a few flowers from one spot to another.

"Playing respect!"

"To Who?!"

Then, with the small bouquet in his hand, he put the flowers in the small pot near your photo. 

"..oh ..." That was the only word that you said after that.

///

Three things were clear to you:

1) Going back to Mount Huaguo was the priority;

2) You needed to find some money since you were basically broke;

3) Need to keep the monkey away from every electrical device.

The first one was based more on a sense of morality. After all, you made a choice, and that was the choice to stay in that world full of magic because you fell in love with the destined one and a simple cane back home wasn't enough to move you. 

Not to mention that you have nothing that came back anymore, so...

The second, hard but not that much. You have nowhere to go, so you were forced to stay in a cheap and very not so sanitary motel that you both found. 

Luck were your side because that place needed someone that could clean or fix staff and you two? We're the masters at fixing staff...sorta.

But the third one...oooh boy...

///

You were drinking coffee, how much did you miss it, trying to schedule the next day of work for you and Yuán Fèn. You could clearly hear him doing something in the small kitchenette, moving staff, putting them somewhere, opening things, cutting them...

Then you heard the roar of that old blender that you both found around.

" DARLING?" You used your very sweet tone, a sign that you were expecting the worst for him. "What are you doing?!"

"Nothing."

"That doesn't sound like a -"

And there, in front of you, he putted a very strangely colored liquid, viscous, and with some strange objects floating here and there.

"What Is It?"

"A bunch of staff!"

"I know that; it's clearly a bunch of different staff."

"You should try it, then talk!"

"I genuinely want it five meters away from me."

"Suit yourself!" And then, in your horror, he proceeded to drink the staff. 

///

After days of adjusting and trying to get used back to the modern world, when you both got inside your shared room and found no one but Maitreya himself, you both got a huge shock. You don't know what was the most unrecognizable scene—the actual boy in the room or the fact that he was reading a comic book that talked about the Monkey King or the Yankees cap in his head.

And he just waved! Like nothing! 

He decided to give some explanation, but the most important was why you were sent there and how to. come back.

The first was more for the two of you. After your decision, you decided to leave your world behind, but you did know what that really meant? He wanted to know that and gave you a free way out, a small taste of your original world, and the thought that even this could sway you away from the destined one, and he received a slap on his head by you, and he admitted he deserved it. Another test of loyalty? They really believed you were so easy?!

Well, many were before you...

As for coming back, it was easy, of course! Did he not do it himself right now? 

When you and Yuán Fèn looked at each other, Happy Tò was able to finally come back to Mount Huaguo, but you were stopped by the kid.

"You have to finish your schedule this week! And, oh, won't it be better if you gave a notice?"

How the heck did he know these things?!

"Aaand," he continued, holding an old toaster, "explain to me this little miracle."

@sun-jglim @crimsonflameproxy

@everlastingmoonlightsworld @biankanoir

@miraclecherryblossomsblog @sleepingdramaqueen

@certifiedsimpinggalore @cromboloni

@masksandfeathers @cinnamonroll-anon

@justrandomlypassing @cute-angi

@luckyangelballoon @dressycobra7

@naarra @virtualexpertanchor

@phoenixeclipse-lmkau @szynkaaa

@kirax-the-lazy-girl. @sleepydang

@weaverworks @kishimiest

@marcu-bug @thepoweroffiction

@riolu4 @angryvampire

[manlikeazi]

Hear Me Out - Aj Shabeel

Summary: A late-night tiktok scroll turns into viral chaos when you post a cringe-worthy “Hear Me Out” video about Aj Shabeel

Pairing: Aj Shabeel x Reader

Genre: Fluff

Note: SUPER SUPER SORRY THAT I FINISHED THIS LATEE OML, I REALLY HAVE NO MOTIVATION TO WRITE LATELY.

Masterlist

Your phone screen glowed like a second moon in your dark bedroom.

It was 1:42 am and your brain was soup.

Technically, you were supposed to be asleep. Your alarm was set for 7:30 am, you had an early lecture, your phone was at 12% battery, and your skin was in desperate need of a break from blue light but then... the algorithm decided to play god.

Your "five minutes on tiktok" had turned into a full-on anthropological study. You were twenty swipes deep into the world of "Beta Squad Edits" Specifically, Aj Shabeel edits.

You were deep into your usual midnight scroll, curled on your side like a shrimp under your duvet, blanket pulled tight up to your chin, when it hit you like a spiritual awakening.

And not the funny ones.

The unholy kind. The "slow zoom, R&B music, black-and-white filter" kind. Someone out there had layered a dramatic Labrinth song over Aj video scenes.

You squinted. Rewatched it. Let it loop three, four times.

"Okay, wait" You whispered out loud, even though you were entirely alone. 

"Hold on" You said.

You pulled your phone closer to your face. 

Why was he so?

And how come?

Who allowed?

You paused the video. The frame stopped on his stupidly symmetrical face mid-bite. You stared.

"Okay, but... hear me out" You said.

That was the beginning of the end.

"This is stupid, I'm not doing this" You said.

Your thumb hovered over the search bar anyway.

"aj shabeel hear me out"

Zero results.

Your face twisted.

No one's done it? Not even a sound?

Your fyp was filled with "Hear Me Out" thirst traps for everyone from anime characters to minor footballers who played like twelve minutes total. That soft, playful voice, followed by a ridiculous beat drop that felt like a fake slow-motion montage from a Wattpad movie. Trainers. Fictional characters. One girl used it on Lord Farquaad from Shrek.

But Aj? Nothing.

You? You had taste.

And questionable judgment.

You stared at the screen. Blinked once.

And then, like an actual gremlin possessed.

"...Fine, I'll do it myself" You said.

You tossed your head back dramatically and groaned.

You flipped the camera around and stared at your reflection.

"This is so dumb" You whispered.

You pulled your hoodie over your head like a cartoon villain and whispered to yourself

"This is for the girlies who get it" You muttered to yourself.

Your face filled the screen. Hair was a mess. You hadn't even washed your face yet. 

You hit record.

"Alright, hear me out.... Aj Shabeel"

And then came the smirk. The one you practiced ironically one time in the mirror but had now accidentally mastered. You tilted your head a little. Just a little. Just enough to look unserious but somehow flirty.

You watched it back.

"Cringe" You said as your face twitched in unison.

You hit delete.

Take two: the lighting made you look like you were being held hostage.

Take three: You said "Shabeel" too soft, like you were afraid of summoning him. You paused halfway to Google if he was single.

Then.

Take five: nailed the smirk, but your forehead was shiny. Distracting. 

You didn't even film anything.

Take eight: finally.

It was clean. Flirty. Slightly embarrassing, which meant it would probably do numbers. You hesitated over the caption, thumb hovering.

No tags. No hashtags. No mentions.

And yet.

You stared at the "Post" button.

You watched the finished product once. Just once.

Then you posted it with the caption:

"This is so embarrassing but I stand by it 😭 #HearMeOut #AJShabeel #BetaSquad"

You turned your phone screen down on the bed.

And yeeted yourself into a pillow.

"He's never gonna see it, chill" You reassured yourself.

You didn't actually expect him to see it.

He had, what? Over a million followers? His for you page was probably elite. Controlled. Powerful. Your little tiktok? Just another scream into the void.

"Okay" You sighed. 

"That's over" You added.

You dropped your phone on your nightstand, rolled over, and shoved your face into your pillow.

One thing about you? You'd post and ghost. No checking. No refreshing. No living in shame.

Except thirty seconds later, your phone buzzed.

Once.

Twice.

Twenty-six times.

You sat up. Eyes wide. Neck slightly cracked from the sudden movement.

Notification flood.

"NAHHHH" You breathed.

11 new followers 49 likes 7 comments

That's too many. What if it ends up on his fyp? What if Chunkz sees it and clowns me? What if Beta Squad has a secret group chat called 'Girls Who Are Delulu About Aj' and I'm now the header image?

You hovered over delete.

But just before you tapped it, a comment came in,

"You did NOT lie"

"Aj needs to see this immediately"

"Petition to tag him"

Then someone tagged a friend.

Then ten more people did.

You watched the numbers jump. 421 views. 1,027. 5,204.

Oh no.

Chaos. In real time.

You blinked. Stared at the screen.

"Well, shit" You murmured.

You didn't mean to go viral. You barely brushed your lashes. You had cereal dust on your sleeve. This wasn't supposed to work.

You locked your phone. Threw it across the bed like it had betrayed you. Wrapped yourself up in the blanket like a guilt burrito.

"Whatever, It'll die down. I'll delete it in the morning" You mumbled. 

Spoiler alert, you didn't.

Instead? You woke up to endless notifications.

And the first thing your brain said to you?

"Check the comments before you pee"

Your hand reached for your phone. Shaky. Delirious.

You opened TikTok.

186K likes. 740K views. 13K saves. 2,409 comments.

"Aj better respond or I'm rioting"

"Babe, he liked this"

You screamed into your blanket.

And then your brain registered it.

Wait.

He liked this?

You froze. Fingers trembling. Scroll. Scroll. Scroll----

@ajshabeel liked your video.

@ajshabeel reposted your video.

You screamed. A full, unfiltered shriek. You slapped a hand over your mouth like someone was going to call the police.

You scrambled upright in bed, phone shaking in your hand. Your heart sounded like Aj's laugh, loud, chaotic, impossible to ignore.

New notification.

@ajshabeel has sent you a message.

You didn't breathe. You didn't move. You stared at it like it might explode.

And then you opened it.

Aj Shabeel: you tryna get me in trouble??? 😭

You dropped the phone. You picked it up again. You read it three more times.

Then you replied,

"hear me out again 👀"

ajshabeel is typing...

- end -

Hello lovelies!!! That's a short one lmaoo sorry, I really just forced it out of me.

I hope y'all have an amazing day, absolute love and guidance.

As I said everytime, send in some request and ideas!!

[thepencilnerd]

Shadowboxing

summary: Chishiya's world is carefully constructed—until the night you see the stellar medical student in an underground fighting ring. The lines blur between the mask he wears and the man he really is, and you find yourself drawn into a reality that’s far more raw and dangerous than you ever imagined. word count (ch. 1): 1.8k genre: university!AU, OoC!Chishiya (not just his dark hair) x fem!grad student reader warnings: depictions of violence but nothing too graphic, fluff, angst, comfort, weighted discussions about mental health because it matters a/n: I watched Mirai e no 10 Count last night and am whipped for boxer Chishiya; complete fic here <3 full moodboards here ^-^

You were dozing off at your desk, the soft glow of your laptop casting a dim light over your cluttered dorm room. Piles of papers and books were scattered everywhere—typical imagery of a grad student. The remnants of snack wrappers and multiple mugs were piling up at the corner of your desk, and your eyes burned from staring at the screen for hours. You didn't even realize you had nodded off until a loud banging rattled your door. Startling awake, you heard the voice of Kuina on the other side, her shouts muffled but insistent. "Come on, open up! You can't spend all night cooped up in here!" she yelled. You groaned, rubbing your eyes as you stood up. "I'm busy," you called back, though the exhaustion in your voice made it clear how true that was.

"Busy doing what? Staring at your laptop until your brain turns to mush? You need a break," they argued. You sighed, opening the door to find her grinning at you, eyes wide with excitement. "Please, I promise you'll thank me later. You need this."

"What even is this?" you asked, narrowing your eyes suspiciously.

"An exciting, thrilling night event! Come on, trust me! It'll be fun," she insisted, practically bouncing on their feet.

You gave her a skeptical look. "This better not be like the time you dragged me to that 'artsy' film screening that turned out to be four hours of experimental interpretive dance."

She laughed, shaking her head. "I swear, it's nothing like that. Just think of it as... an adventure. Something different for once."

You sighed, but the look on her face—full of energy and determination—made it hard to refuse, her unwavering insistence even more so. "Fine, fine. But if this turns out to be some weird cult meeting or something, I'm out."

"Deal!" she grinned, grabbing your hand and practically dragging you out of your dorm.

Against your better judgment, curiosity got the best of you, at least until you were led down a narrow staircase, the thudding bass echoing through the walls, and into a dark coliseum-esque pit: an underground boxing ring. The stench of sweat and adrenaline filled the room, a large crowd gathered around the makeshift ring, chanting and cheering.

The place was alive, buzzing with a sort of desperation you'd never witnessed before. The announcer had mentioned the winner's prize—a sum large enough to make a difference in someone's life, which only seemed to add to the intensity of the match. Kuina leaned in close, her voice barely audible over the roar of the crowd. "Okay, so here are the rules. The fighters are masked to keep their identities secret, and they're all wearing color-coded gear to make it easy to tell them apart," she explained, gesturing to the ring. "They fight until one of them is either knocked out or can't continue. The winner gets a big cash prize—enough to pay off debts or even start over somewhere else." You nodded, your eyes fixed on the fighters. The fighters were masked, their identities hidden behind color-coded attire and dark headgear, as they traded punches in the middle of the ring. It was chaos—raw, unbridled violence as each combatant swung for victory, fighting not only for pride but also for the significant prize money at stake. You could feel the desperation in the air, as if each punch thrown was driven by the promise of escape from something dire.

Your eyes were drawn to the fighter in blue. He moved differently from the rest—sharp, calculated, almost detached. His footwork was precise, each step deliberate, as if he was constantly analyzing his opponent's weaknesses. He circled his opponent, his body relaxed yet ready to strike at any moment, while the other fighter grew increasingly frantic, throwing punches that barely grazed the air. The fighter in blue waited, his eyes never leaving his target, calculating each movement. When he finally struck, it was with ruthless precision—a quick combination of blows that left his opponent stumbling. He delivered a final, powerful uppercut that ended the match, his opponent collapsing to the ground. The crowd erupted in cheers, but he remained unfazed, his expression unreadable behind the mask, as if the victory meant nothing more than another task completed.

You shivered, more at the calm, almost indifferent way he stood victorious than at the raw physicality of it all. His physique was lean but muscular, built for speed and precision rather than brute strength. Sweat dripped from his brow, trailing down his neck, mixing with a thin trail of his own blood—he must have taken a hit. A faint smear of blood could also be seen at the edge of his gloves, likely from his opponent. 

Kuina was hyped after the fight. On the walk back to campus, she couldn't stop talking about how it was the perfect night for you to come, especially since the blue fighter was renowned in the underground scene. "He's the best, you know," she said, practically glowing with excitement. "No one can beat him. People come just to watch him fight. I can't believe you got to see him in action on your first time there!" You nodded absentmindedly, her words echoing in your mind. The best. There was something about him that seemed almost familiar, but you shook the thought away, dismissing it as nothing more than your imagination.

The next day, you found yourself at the library, surrounded by books that were supposed to be helping with your dissertation. The quiet was a stark contrast to the chaos of the night before. As you scanned the shelves, you couldn't help but think how all the open access publications in the world couldn't save you from having to deal with what a traditional manuscript was—sifting through an actual physical book that felt almost as archaic as the medieval ages. You searched for a particular reference, balancing a stack in your arms as you leaned up to reach a higher shelf.

And that's when it happened—a shoulder knocked past you, sending your grip slipping and your books tumbling to the floor. You cursed under your breath and knelt down, trying to gather them up, feeling a sense of dread at how loud the clatter had been in the silence of the library.

Suddenly, a pair of hands reached down, helping you pick up the scattered books. You looked up, startled. A figure with his hood pulled up, his face partially obscured, was kneeling across from you, silently helping you collect your fallen stack. His movements were efficient, almost practiced, as if he was used to picking up after others, and there was something calm yet purposeful about the way he handled each book, stacking them neatly before handing them back to you.

You blinked, recognition tugging at your mind. He was familiar—the top student in the medical school, Chishiya Shuntaro. He had a reputation that was nearly impossible to miss, even in your circles as a doctoral student. Exceptionally intelligent, surprisingly aloof, and no doubt untouchable, he was the one everyone wanted to be close to but no one could approach. There were rumors, of course—that he was some kind of cold-hearted player, or a bored genius looking to kill time in his twenties. Stories about him lurked everywhere, each one more unbelievable than the last.

As he handed you the last of your books, his hood shifted, and you caught sight of a gash across his eyebrow. It was well-padded and hidden under gauze, but the skin around was raw and swollen, clearly fresh. The sight made you pause, your eyes narrowing as you pieced together the oddity of it—the hood, the attempt to hide, the injury. Your mind flashed back to the underground ring—the crowd's roars, the masked fighters, the way he moved, the precision of his strikes, and now this injury—it all started to line up. It couldn't be...

Chishiya met your gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly as if daring you to ask. There was a hint of challenge there, almost as if he was amused by the thought of you confronting him. He seemed entirely unbothered, as if the whole situation was just another game to him—a game where he held all the cards, waiting to see if you were bold enough to make the first move. The moment seemed to stretch, your curiosity battling with the tension hanging between you. But you stayed silent, and so did he. He simply handed you your books, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment, before he pulled the hood back over his head and stood up.

Without a word, he turned and walked away, his mind already shifting back to the secrecy he guarded so carefully. He knew he couldn't afford to let anyone get too close, not with the double life he was leading. But there was something about the look in your eyes—curiosity mixed with hesitation—that lingered with him. He shook the thought away, refocusing as he moved through the library, leaving you there with your heart pounding for reasons you couldn't quite explain.

That evening, you were back in your dorm, the events of the day replaying in your mind as you sat at your desk. The dim light of your lamp illuminated your scattered notes, and you tried to focus on your proposal, but your thoughts kept drifting back to Chishiya—the way his eyes seemed to challenge you, the fleeting brush of his fingers, and that mysterious injury. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't shake the feeling that there was something much deeper beneath his calm exterior.

Meanwhile, back in his dorm, Chishiya leaned against his desk, his eyes staring blankly at the wall. He replayed your expression in his mind—the way your eyes had widened in recognition, the hesitation that lingered there. He remembered seeing you in the crowd that night, the way your gaze had locked onto him after his victory. Even then, something about the way you looked at him had stood out, different from the others. And today, in the library, the way you caught sight of his injury—he knew you were connecting the dots. It was unexpected, the way you seemed to see past the mask he wore. Most people never got that far, dismissing him as either a prodigy or an enigma without much thought. But you had looked closer, and something about that made it difficult for him to brush off the encounter.

Chishiya exhaled sharply, pushing himself away from the desk. He couldn't afford to let his focus slip, not when there was so much at stake—his freedom, his independence, the fragile balance of the double life he had built. Any slip could mean exposure, and exposure would mean losing everything he had fought so hard to keep hidden. But still, the memory of your gaze kept creeping back, making him wonder if maybe, just maybe, someone like you could be a problem—or something else entirely.

[brucewaynehater101]

Adding onto the ask I ended cuz my brain was melting and also classes

And taking inspiration from "Do Not, Under Any Circumstances, Wake Him Up" by Lulu_Rhythm

What if Jason learned all about Tim's disguise Jane Doe, what he did as Jane, the fact civilians knew and rogues knew Jane was Robin before the Bats, and the rumors flying asking where the Robin went, certain he died?

plus just why he was so precious to Gotham?

And fucking flipped?

Next thing Gotham knows, Red Hood is channelling his inner 'Batman post-Jason's death' by going ballistic on the new Batman (Dick) and cutting all ties with the Bats as a whole

His guilt definitely fuels it as well, he's reaching out to the younger Bats as much as possible to ask if they need help for anything like getting out of the Bat lifestyle of if they're unsafe

Something he wishes he could've done for Tim

He's channeling some of his guilt and rage into bettering his territory in other ways, sure, but there's still a lot of blood spilling going on

Unlike Batman though, Red Hood still (mostly) holds back against anybody who isn't complete and utter scum who has it coming

All of this goes on during BruceQuest alongside the other madness in Gotham

When Tim comes back and Gotham breathes a sigh of relief because their Robin is alive and well?

Jason's is going Full Overprotective Big Brother, much to Tim's annoyance

Doesn't help that the kid is down a spleen

If Gotham thought Red Hood's Wrath was bad before he had Red Robin safe and sound in his nest most secure safehouse in Crime Alley?

They've seen nothing compared to what's coming

What do Gotham's Rogues and civilians, people out of Gotham, The JL, YJ, Batfam individually and Tim most of all think of Jason's Rage-Guilt fueled redemption arc of sorts? Idk, my brains melting

Hell what does Tim think, going from, "I've lost everything but I got Batman back!" To being abducted by Red Hood and smothered with mother henning?

"This is Red Hood, who I'm pretty sure is a demon from actual hell trying to redeem himself, and this is his emotion support victim Red Robin, who gets mother hen'd and doted on to hell and back" —random Gothamite

Ooh? Jason becoming a full mother hen to Tim after this incident is hilarious and adorable. I also imagine, after everything that happened during the BruceQuest, Tim is a feral little bastard with extreme trust issues. He only trusts those that Jane trusts.

So, Red Hood is trying his hardest to domesticate Tim, feed him, and make sure he's protected/has support. While doing this, RH is also turning the streets bloody in an attempt to make them safer. Basically, pure chaos as their conflicting personalities mesh.

I'd also like a cute scene where Jason starts using all pronouns for Tim since they seem comfortable with that. Jason checks Tim's reactions to ensure that's okay while Tim is pleasantly surprised.

[kittenlittle24]

Chapter 6: The Pen Theory of Relativity

Masterlist

Story Masterlist

Previous, Next

Pedro Pascal x Fem!reader

Summary: Pre-med perfectionist [Your Name] thought her gap year internship at The Late Night Hour would be a fun, low-stakes break before med school. Then she literally runs into Pedro Pascal backstage—and somehow becomes his secret lifeline in the chaos of live TV. Between cue cards, coffee runs, and chemistry that won’t quit, she starts to wonder: is this just a summer detour… or something more?

Tag list: @pascal-mynightlyobsession @wanniiieeee @theendwhereibegin

The first thing you registered was the birds. Their chirping pierced through your sleep-fogged brain, too loud, too early for a Saturday. You groaned, dragging the pillow over your face—until the memories of last night crashed over you all at once.

The scrape of Pedro's stubble against your lips when you kissed his cheek sent a fresh wave of butterflies tumbling through your stomach. They multiplied as you remembered his warm palm at the small of your back, his fingers pressing just slightly through the fabric of your shirt as he helped you into the car. That look he gave you under the diner's neon lights—like he wanted to memorize you—made your ribs ache even now.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet room.

You fumbled for it, squinting at the brutal 6:17 AM glaring back at you. Who texts at—

[Pedro, 1:19 AM]: Home. Found something of yours in my car.

(Photo: Your chewed-up ballpoint pen resting on his nightstand beside a half-drunk glass of water. Condensation ring staining the wood. A medical textbook peeked out from under a script.)

Him: You press so hard when you draw. Left grooves in the napkin. Tried to flatten it—now it looks like a crime scene.

[Pedro, 5:55 AM]: Walking into makeup. Wanted you to see this first.

(Photo: The same pen tucked in his shirt pocket, his reflection grinning in a mirror framed by glowing bulbs.)

You stared at the screen, your pulse fluttering wildly in your throat. He'd kept your pen. He'd put it in his pocket. The butterflies in your stomach turned into something more like hummingbirds.

You: You woke me up at dawn on a SATURDAY to show me my own pen?

Him: Technically the birds woke you. I just provided quality entertainment.

You: Your definition of 'quality' needs work.

Him: Says the woman who drew a nervous system like a drunk spider.

You bit your lip, trying not to smile.

You:It was anatomically accurate!

Him: It was terrifying. Coffee at 3? I'll even return your weapon of mass destruction.

You: Only if you promise not to text me before noon ever again.

Him: No promises. But I'll bring espresso as a peace offering.

You dropped your phone onto your chest, pressing your palms to your flushed cheeks. The hummingbirds were now doing full acrobatics, their wings beating in time with your racing heart. Somewhere across town, Pedro Pascal was walking onto a set with your pen in his pocket and your name on his lips.

And you—you were wide awake now, drowning in Saturday sunlight and the terrifying, wonderful realization that this thing between you was far from over.

You caught your reflection in the fogged mirror—lips bitten pink, eyes glittering, cheeks flushed from more than the shower's heat. The clock on your nightstand read 8:53 AM.

Six hours and seven minutes until 3 PM.

Your fingers hovered over your phone. Then you dialed Lena.

It rang seven times before a groggy voice answered, "This better involve fire or free food."

"Come over," you whispered, pacing your spotless kitchen. "I'll make pancakes. And it'll be worth it, I promise."

A beat of silence. Then sheets rustled violently. "You're scary competent at 9 AM on a Saturday. I'm intrigued."

Lena slammed your apartment door shut with her hip, her pajama pants inside out and one sock missing. She took in your styled hair, the blue button-down, and the way you kept touching your phone like it might combust.

"Okay, what," she demanded, tossing her purse onto your couch, "could possibly make you this dressed up before noon on a Saturday?"

You shoved a mimosa into her hands. "Swear you won't tell a soul."

Lena's eyes narrowed. "Is it something illegal?"

"Promise me."

She crossed her heart solemnly. "Fine. I'll take it to my grave. Now talk."

You handed her your phone.

Lena's face transformed as she scrolled through the texts - first wrinkling in confusion at the photo of your pen on an unfamiliar nightstand, then narrowing her eyes suspiciously at the criminally-grooved napkin. When she reached Pedro's shirt-pocket selfie, her mouth fell open in dawning horror.

She looked up slowly. "You went out with Pedro Pascal."

You bit your lip.

"And he kept your pen. Like some... some..." She waved her hands wildly. "Romantic serial killer trophy!"

"Lena—"

She pointed at you. "Tell me everything. Don't you dare miss a single detail."

Your phone buzzed on the coffee table.

Pedro: How's your Saturday shaping up?

Lena made a sound like a deflating balloon. "Oh my god he's texting you right now."

You: My best friend is currently dissecting my life choices.

Lena snatched the phone. "Add a winky face!"

You retrieved phone “No!”

Pedro: Should I send backup? (Also—wrapped early. 2:00 instead?)

Lena's scream rattled the windows.

You: Backup? How much backup are we talking?

Pedro: Only the essentials: coffee, pastries, and me. You don't need anything else.

You almost dropped your phone.

You: I can't decide if you're being ridiculously charming or annoyingly forward.

Pedro: Maybe both?

Lena leaned over, reading the texts over your shoulder. She let out a low whistle. "Okay, I need to know—what are you gonna do with him?"

You pulled your phone away, a nervous laugh slipping out. "I don't know yet. Honestly? I don't even know if this is a date or not. I mean, he's Pedro Pascal."

Lena grinned devilishly. "That's exactly why you need to say yes. Because... he's Pedro Pascal."

You sighed, running a hand through your damp hair. You hadn't expected any of this. One night of late-night diner food and awkward conversation, and here you were, playing text ping-pong with a man who made entire fandoms melt.

You: Alright, 2:00 works. I'll meet you there.

You hit send, then stared at your phone, heart pounding in your chest. The reality of the situation settled in. Pedro Pascal. You had no idea what he wanted, or what you wanted for that matter.

But you were about to find out.

Lena watched you intently. "You're doing this. I can feel it."

Pedro: I'll be there at 2. Don't make me wait.

You: I'll try my best. See you soon, Pedro.

You set the phone down and looked at Lena, who was grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"Well," you said, trying to keep your voice even, "I guess I'm getting coffee with Pedro Pascal today."

Lena raised her mimosa glass, eyes gleaming with excitement. "You're doing more than that. You're going to savor it."

And with that, you could only nod, knowing that nothing would ever feel quite the same after today.

You took a deep breath, suddenly aware of the butterflies fluttering in your stomach again. You tried to focus on the task at hand—pancakes, coffee, keeping your cool—but every thought kept drifting back to Pedro. He was actually coming. For coffee. With you.

Lena was watching you closely, her grin never faltering. "I'm going to need details after," she said, pointing a finger at you. "Every. Single. Detail."

You rolled your eyes. "I'm sure you'll get them."

There was no point trying to act nonchalant. You'd texted Pedro Pascal, agreed to meet him, and now your entire body felt like it was running on pure adrenaline. What was happening?

Your phone buzzed, making you jump.

Pedro: I'm on my way. See you soon, beautiful.

You stared at the screen for a moment, heat flooding your cheeks. Beautiful?

Lena snatched your phone out of your hands, her eyes sparkling. "Okay, now I'm jealous. You're officially on your way to some rom-com fantasy."

You tugged the phone back, your pulse hammering in your neck. "I'm freaking out," you confessed, rubbing your hands on your jeans. "What if I say something stupid?"

"Then you'll say something stupid," Lena said with a shrug. "But at least you'll be saying it to Pedro Pascal. He's basically a walking apology for every stupid thing you've ever done."

You laughed nervously, glancing at the clock. 1:35 PM. Less than thirty minutes until you're going to see him again.

The next few moments felt like a blur. You managed to pull yourself together, fixing your hair, checking your outfit for the third time—like that would actually matter when he walked in. The truth was, no amount of prep could help with the overwhelming realization that the man who had just texted you about pastries and coffee would be standing in front of you soon.

Lena clapped her hands in your face. "Focus. We need to get you out the door with your dignity intact."

You shot her a grateful smile, trying to ignore the jittery feeling in your chest. "Thanks. I think."

As you grabbed your jacket, your phone buzzed one more time.

Pedro: I'll be the guy with the coffee and the smirk.

You blinked at the message, a smile tugging at your lips. The smirk? You could already picture it.

Lena winked at you. "Go. Savor it, remember?"

With one last deep breath, you made your way out the door, your heart pounding louder than the traffic on the street.

You stepped outside, feeling the cool air wrap around you like a welcome distraction from the nervous energy buzzing through your body. The walk to the coffee shop wasn't long—just a few blocks, but your mind felt like it was racing through every possible scenario. What was it going to be like? Was it going to feel like a casual meet-up, or was there going to be some unspoken tension? Would he think you were crazy? You had no idea, but you were about to find out.

The streets were quieter than usual for a Saturday afternoon, and the sound of your boots clicking on the pavement seemed unnervingly loud. Your fingers gripped your phone tightly, the texts with Pedro still fresh in your mind. The way he'd called you beautiful... it made your heart stutter every time you thought about it.

Lena's words echoed in your head. "You're doing more than that. You're going to savor it."

You stopped for a second, your heart skipping as you looked up at the coffee shop in the distance. It was a cozy little spot, tucked between two older buildings, with outdoor seating that looked out over the busy street. A couple of people were lingering outside, enjoying the rare sunny moment of the day.

And then you saw him.

Pedro was leaning against the doorframe, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, his usual effortless charm radiating from every inch of him. His dark hair was slightly tousled, a few stray curls falling into his forehead in that perfect, casual way. He hadn't noticed you yet, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to take him in—the way the sunlight hit him, the slight smile playing on his lips even as he checked his phone.

You took a deep breath and started walking toward him, trying to quell the butterflies that felt like they were about to take flight.

He looked up just as you reached him, his face lighting up in that way you'd seen in the photos and interviews—like he was genuinely happy to see you.

"Hey," he said, his voice warm, deep, and just a little rough from the morning's work. "I'm glad you came."

You smiled, trying to keep your voice steady. "How could I turn down coffee with Pedro Pascal?"

He chuckled, stepping forward just enough to give you space but also to make you feel his presence. "I'm glad you said yes," he said softly, looking you up and down with a hint of appreciation in his eyes that made your stomach do another flip. "And you look incredible, by the way."

You blushed, trying to brush off the compliment. "I mean, it's just coffee." You shrugged, not sure if you wanted to downplay it or just ease the nerves that were still coursing through you.

Pedro shook his head, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Nah, this feels like more than just coffee."

The way he said it sent a ripple of something through you—something that could've been excitement, or maybe the beginnings of anticipation. He opened the door for you, the bell above it ringing softly as you stepped inside.

The scent of fresh coffee and pastries filled your senses, grounding you in the moment. It was just you and him. No cameras. No fans. Just two people meeting in the quiet comfort of a coffee shop on a Saturday afternoon.

He gestured to the table by the window. "I already got us a spot," he said, leading you over to a small table. The window offered a view of the street, the bustling city scene framed by the peaceful little corner of the coffee shop.

You sat down across from him, still unsure of what this was—was this a date? Was it just casual? You couldn't tell. But there was something about being this close to him, his energy so easy and relaxed, that made the world outside feel distant.

"So," Pedro started, resting his hands on the table and giving you a mischievous look. "Tell me the most embarrassing thing you've ever done that I can't find on the internet."

You couldn't help but laugh, the tension in your chest easing just a little. "Oh, that's a dangerous question." You raised an eyebrow, playing along. "But I'll answer if you promise not to google me afterward."

He grinned, leaning in slightly. "Deal."

You let out a sigh, then, feeling a bit more relaxed, launched into the story you'd been holding back from even your closest friends. It was a lighthearted topic, the perfect way to ease into this strange, new territory.

Silence settled between you, filled only by the hiss of the espresso machine and the soft jazz playing overhead. Pedro traced the handle of his mug—black coffee, no sugar—his calloused fingers leaving faint smudges on the ceramic.

"So." He nudged your pen across the table. The one he'd kept all night. "You really do chew these when you're nervous."

You snatched it back, the teeth marks glaringly obvious. "Only during exams. And apparently when famous actors drag me to sketchy diners."

Pedro threw his head back laughing, the sound warm and unrestrained. The barista glanced over with a smile, as if this was a side of him she'd never seen.

"Tell me something real," he said suddenly, leaning forward. The morning light caught the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. "Not the polite first-date answer. What's something you geek out about?"

The question startled you. This wasn't the practiced charm of red carpet Pedro—this was the man who'd Googled medical terms at 3 AM to understand your doodles.

"Terrible horror movie practical effects," you admitted. "The faker the blood, the better."

His grin turned wolfish. "I knew I liked you."

When his knee brushed yours under the table—first by accident, then deliberately—you didn't pull away.

[zoniteillusion-pyritedreams]

Request for ni-ki & jungwon pursue their crush please?

💌🔮✨ “How Ni-ki of Enhypen Acts Around His Crush”

Mr.The Secret Softie With a Slow Burn & Hidden Heartache

Okay Dreamweavers. I lit the incense, shuffled the cards, and asked the Divine Duo (Aphrodite + Nyx) for the truth behind Ni-ki's crush game. What I got? A dramatic novella filled with emotional tension, quiet yearning, and mysterious glances across the room.

🫣 The Vibe Around His Crush

Emotionally guarded and mysterious af. Ni-ki doesn't just wear his heart on his sleeve. Nah. That thing is LOCKED in a vault, behind 3 layers of sarcasm, vague vibes, and “I’m chill” energy. (Its given Mori aka Takashi Morinozuka from Ouran High host . In terms of how he would be very observant and quiet while taking everything you do in. But he'd also be a little sarcastic and funny when he has to interact with you like everything he says you would second guess. Likes her do you like me or am I just one of the guys?)

Totally watches from a distance at first. He’s scoping out your vibe, your playlist, your favorite snack… all in silence. Secretly memorizing your laugh like it’s a melody. He’s a soft spy with a crush.

(See.)

But inside? He’s PANICKING. His emotional equilibrium is out of whack. ( you know how when he likes zones out and he kind of looks like he's judging the hell out of you. Like I'm not a huge fan of this group but I've definitely seen videos of that I feel like that's what he looks like 90% of the time around his crush. Mainly because he is completely overthinking everything what does he say something does he not say something should he do something or not? Is he coming off that's cool enough or is he coming off as being a loser? I feel like these are all the thoughts I just rushed through his head.) He overthinks what to say, feels vulnerable af, but still wants to impress you. You’re living rent-free in his brain.

💘 How He Tries to Pursue You

Overworks himself to feel worthy. I said it before and I'll say it again they're all a little traumatized and for whatever reason think that they have to work very hard in order to be loved) Instead of shooting his shot, he’s out here trying to become his “best self” so you notice him without him having to say anything. His love language is “quiet effort.”

Accidental charm. He might offer you help with something, bring you snacks, or make you laugh, all under the guise of being “friendly.” But he’s sweating inside.

Jealousy alert. If he sees you vibing with someone else? Inner chaos. He won’t start drama, but he’ll 100% spiral emotionally and maybe even pull back ( Like even though he technically has not made a move or done anything yet as far as you concerned in his head. You're already his you're not allowed to flirt with other people or to get close to other people that he thinks would try to date you. He's a little territorial )

When He Finally Makes a Move

Sudden, bold, and intense. One day, he snaps out of overthinking and just GOES FOR IT. A surprise confession. A super flirty moment. You’ll blink and suddenly he’s all up in your emotional space.

But his feelings are deep. He’s not in it for surface-level flirting. He wants someone he can build with—ride-or-die status. ( he needs someone that will stand on business and be 10 toes down for him. )

Still emotional AF, though. He’s scared of rejection and will take it personally. Don’t ghost him unless you want to end up in one of his future solo choreographies full of angst and rain. 😭

✨ Final Summary:

Ni-ki crushes hard but quiet.

He watches, waits, overthinks, then goes all in once he feels emotionally ready. His pursuit is a mix of slow-burn devotion + emotional rollercoaster + a dash of “I’ve been holding this in forever.”

He’s protective, a little jealous, emotionally sensitive, and definitely romantic under the surface.

🌟 “How Jungwon of Enhypen Acts Around His Crush”

Mr Your Local CEO of Subtle Flirting Who’s Lowkey Screaming Inside

Let’s be real: Jungwon gives that energy like he’s the composed leader and collected heartthrob. But when it comes to crushes? Oh honey… He’s fumbling the bag but making it look GOOD. 💅

💗 The Vibe Around His Crush

Chill on the outside, lowkey mess inside. He thinks he has a game plan, but the moment he’s near his crush, it’s giving “brain cells just left the chat.”

Totally playful and sweet. He’ll joke around, tease you lightly, and make sure you’re laughing. If he gets you giggling? Victory. Bonus if you call him cute he'll think about it for weeks.

He wants to impress you without trying to impress you. That effortless cool? He practiced it. That moment he fixes his hair when you walk in? Not a coincidence. ( it's giving Middle School / High School freshman spring way too much ax. Trying to act like a cool guy but really just fumbling every time he tries to talk to his Crush vibes.)

💞 How He Pursues You

Team effort energy. (I don't know but I thought of like High School Musical too specifically when shar pei gets Troy the job at her parents country club. That's the Vibes like he will sit there and find a way he doesn't care what you work as or what you do he's going to find a way to get you to be around him as much as possible even if it means somehow bribing his company or managers to hire you for like catering, makeup artist internship etc. He needs you around him as much as possible so that he can make you notice him and not notice other guys who might be cooler than him around you.) He’s going to find ways to be around you, work with you, or be in the same spaces. Suddenly you’re on the same team, the same playlist, the same vibes.

Emotionally open but still guarded. He wants to share things with you, but also lowkey panics at being too vulnerable. ( again he's another one who just overthinks. He's kind of like if I say this with this come off as being too needy? Or am I not being enough is this trauma dumping or is this sharing? These are all the thoughts that go through his head every time he's trying to be vulnerable it's like is this coming off as me drama dumping or love bombing or does this come off the way I want it to like I care and want them to know.)

Might try to “friend first, then flirt” approach. He wants to build a safe space. He's testing the waters. A compliment here, a cute smirk there. But deep down? He’s hoping you make the first move so he doesn’t combust from anxiety.

🔥 When He Starts Catching Real Feelings

Suddenly goal-oriented. Once he’s sure of how he feels? He’ll try to lock it in. Smooth texts, random acts of kindness, emotionally affirming you like he’s your life coach.

But still that little touch of “am I enough?” ( I've said it before and I'll say it again fuck the industry for traumatizing this entire generational idols and also fuck this company specifically for the way they traumatize these boys. Like you are enough sweetheart don't fucking guess yourself it's okay.)/ He’s healed a lot, but deep down he wonders if you really see him. Reassurance is a love language he won’t admit he needs.

💡 Final Summary:

Jungwon gives “confident flirt who checks his hair in every reflective surface before talking to you” energy. He’s playful, sweet, and considerate but lowkey terrified of ruining it by being too honest too fast. He wants you to feel safe, valued, and impressed… all while casually trying not to combust from romantic anxiety.

🚨 Reminder: Tarot-based reading, babes! Pure vibes. Pure entertainment. We’re not claiming insider information just letting Aphrodite and Nyx work their magic.

[edlihtam]

Garrick's monologue in Chapter 42.

"Don't look at me like that," he threatens, soft and broken and very, very clear. "I'm not—" "Yes, you bloody are," he scolds, stepping back just enough to pace, drag both hands through his hair like he's seconds from ripping it out.

I loved writing Garrick’s unhinged, morally-upstanding, slightly-panicking monologue so much it basically wrote itself. Hope you enjoy the chaos 💥 Read more below the cut, or here for the full chapter: (warnings: El's filthy mouth is back at it)

"You're looking at me like I'm the solution to a problem I really want to help with. And, El, if things were different, I'd volunteer in a heartbeat. You're a godsdamned twenty, and I have a serious weakness for women who own their hunger without apology. But you're high on some weird-ass tonic that's clearly hijacked your common sense. You can't give proper consent to any of the absolutely terrible ideas I shouldn't have. And for fuck's sake you're Bodhi's ex. Xaden's little sister. Also—married. So please, for both our sanities, stop looking at me like that and let me get some blood back into my brain."

"Okay, okay," I bite the inside of my cheek as I drag my feet over to Storm, grabbing my coat back. "No more looking. I'll stare at that tree over there instead." I squint at a pine trunk like it holds the answers to my soul.

"But for the record," I purr, draping my coat over one shoulder, "I'm not technically married and, when someone earns it, I'm capable of extremely enthusiastic gratitude. The kind that starts on my knees and include tongue."

His groan could level kingdoms. "Not fair, El. Not even remotely fair."

I lean against Storm, clutching the reins just tight enough to not reach for Garrick instead. "I said I'd stop looking."

"Yeah, well. Then you opened your mouth and made it worse."

I dare a glance back. He's flushed. Neck pink, ears red, eyes wild. Pretty sure his leathers grew a size smaller. And I'd laugh if I wasn't vibrating in my boots.

"I'm beginning to understand," he growls, jabbing a finger in my general direction, "why Bodhi walks around like someone ripped out half his soul. And why Halden, fucking Halden, probably saw what was coming and bolted like the poor bastard he is."

"You're saying I'm terrifying?"

"I'm saying you're dangerous," he snaps, then winces. "No, not like that, not in a bad way. Just��fuck. El, you're the kind of trouble they write songs about. Cautionary songs. With people not being able to walk straight for days."

Heat licks up my spine. "Well," I murmur, feigning innocence, "I do enjoy music."

[moonlightdoesgenshin]

Ok my brain. Cannot get this out of my head.

So transfem Hunter(I call her Luna) gets a concealment stone to help her with her dysphoria(my Raeda kid oc is the one to give it to her but that's not important here) and it kinda helps her disconnect with her Golden Guard persona and really feel like herself. So when she figures out that she likes Willow romantically, she decides to kill two birds with one stone and comes out to Willow as trans in the same conversation that she asks her out in.

And whenever they're together, Luna usually has the concealment stone(they've had many conversations about how Willow likes/loves her just as much without it, too), so that disconnect between Luna and the Golden Guard continues(though, again, they've talked about it, and in this universe Luna started figuring out that the covens/Belos were fucked up a lot earlier).

Luna is an attentive and adoring girlfriend, always bringing Willow flowers she finds and making sure she's taking care of herself. And of course, as a generally anxious person, she frets over/worries about Willow a lot.

So now I'm just imagining this situation where Willow calls/texts Luna for help because the main gang have bitten off a little more then they can chew, and once the situation is delt with Luna is fretting over her and making sure she's okay, scolding her about not calling her earlier and checking her for injuries.

And this entire time. She wasn't wearing the concealment stone. And Luz, Amity, and Gus are literally right there.

So while Luna and Willow are in their own little world having Emotions, neither of them even really registering what Luna looks like, Luna is in full Golden Guard regalia.

Eventually, one of them(probably Amity let's be real), just very quietly, but very forcefully, whispers "What the fuck?"

And then the rest of the chaos begins!

[marionluth]

I'm working on a new story based on an awesome prompt given in the Iron Dad: Readers and Writers discord.

The prompt is basically: Peter dresses up as a Goth for Halloween. Tony doesn't realize it is Halloween and thinks he's going through a goth face for real and wants to be supportive. Comedic chaos ensues.

Excerpt (first draft, don't judge too much pretty please! I was just really excited to share something 😁 ) 👇

TW: theres mention of depression and self harm as scientific studies findings. Not as something any of the characters in the excerpt or particular fic struggles with. Still mentioning it just to be safe. This whole story is entirely crack-taken-seriously.

[...] Tony reached for his coffee mug and downed a generous gulp before turning to Happy, invoking his patience. “I sent you for the kid, Happy. Where’s Pete?”

“He’s coming, but you gotta play it cool.”

“I… What?”

“You gotta play it cool, okay? Don’t come at the kid. Teenagers are like that, they do stupid things all the time. So, just remember to play it cool and definitely don’t laugh,” Happy said hastily, looking behind his shoulder as if worried Peter would hear his weird little speech.

Tony could tell Happy could barely hold it together. His friend was ready to burst into his thundering belly-laugh and Tony brought the mug to his lips again, knowing he’d need a lot of caffeine to take whatever was coming. His sleep-deprived brain jumped to Spider-Man. Maybe the kid had skipped school to patrol? But then again Peter never skipped school. Maybe the kid found some action before coming here and got injured? But Happy knew Tony would never laugh over an injury. That was Peter’s thing. He didn’t have time to contemplate this any further, as the doors of the lab slid open and Tony watched Peter stepping inside.

He sputtered in his mug and felt his eyes bulging, but Happy cleared his throat, and Tony immediately schooled his expression. Slowly lowering the cup, he wiped droplets of coffee from his face with the back of his hand.

“Hey, kid,” he managed, his eyes taking in Peter head to toe. Jesus Christ. Was this karma? This should definitely be karma. And MJ. This was one hundred percent MJ influenced. Damnit, he might need to have words with that girl.

“Hey, Mr. Stark.”

Happy exhaled loudly through his nose and Tony knew the man would burst out in laughter any second now. Sure enough a second later Happy snickered which he immediately tried to cover with a cough.

Tony slowly turned to glare at him. Oh, so he could laugh? “You okay there, Hap? Need some water or anything?”

“No, nope,” Happy managed after clearing his throat, his tone too mirthful for Tony’s liking. “Just something in my throat. All good now.”

“Right, Hap, thanks for the update. We’ll call you when it’s time to take Peter home,” Tony said trying to sound his usual self, but his mind was still in a daze at what he was seeing. If Happy hadn’t come in to warn him, he’d be entirely sure he was hallucinating.

Happy scurried out of the lab, and Peter walked towards Tony and looked up at him, waiting. Tony stared down at the kid, still trying to process.

Peter smacked his black-tinted lips. “So what are we doing today?”

The question gave Tony something to grab on and he immediately turned his attention to the computer. “I am writing a new code to fix an issue with the new drone. Wanna jump in?”

“Sure Mr. Stark,” Peter bobbed his head and a strand of raven black hair fell on his white-makeup covered forehead.

Tony stepped aside to give Peter the floor and let out a slow breath, finally having the chance to take in the kid’s appearance without Peter knowing. Black dyed hair, full-on goth makeup complete with dark eyeshadow, eyeliner and black lipstick. Black leather jacket, a band t-shirt (who the hell were Bauhaus?), ripped black jeans, weathered black converse shoes. A goddamn piercing on his left ear and another above his right eyebrow.

Tony found himself swerving between worried, amused, and entirely out of his water.

“Keep working on that and I’ll be right, back, kid,” he told Peter, who turned to look at him questioningly. “Coffee refill,” Tony said, raising his mug. “We’re all out down here, so I’ll fetch some from upstairs. I’ll get you some hot chocolate and snacks too.”

“Sounds good, Mr. Stark. Thank you.”

Tony rushed out of the lab and headed to the elevator, letting out an audible huff when the doors closed behind him.

“FRIDAY has my kid turned emo?”

“Peter’s attire and makeup is not emo, but goth, boss.”

“Give me dets and if I have anything to worry about, FRI.”

“Goth is a subculture that emerged in the late 1970s, characterized by dark, mysterious, and often romantic aesthetics. It includes fashion elements like black clothing, dramatic makeup, and accessories, as well as music genres such as goth rock and post-punk. There have been a few studies indicating that teenagers who identified with the goth subculture were more likely to experience depression and engage in self-harm.”

Tony blanched.

“The kid might have depression? Might self-harm?”

“Correlation does not imply causation, boss. A lot of teenagers choose the goth style and subculture as a form of expressing individuality.”

“Ok, you know the drill. Parenting forums, parenting experts, scan and tell me what do I do?”

“The consensus is this is likely a phase, boss. And that you should remain supportive to Peter’s chosen form of self-expression. A lot of parents stress that in their experience if you don’t make a big deal out of it, it will likely pass sooner.”

“Okay. Okay, Tony, you can do this. You’ve built a suit of armor in a cave with a box of scraps. You can handle a goth phase. Cause this just it, a phase. I remain supportive. I don’t make fun of him. I don’t make a big deal out of it. Solid plan.”

[jortschronicles]

The Don Marcus Project - a costuming diary

At Vindheim's first Accademia della Spada, the tournament for Princess Octavia's champion was held. My brother white scarf, Master Marcus von Furth, WSA was chosen as HSH's personal champion to be sicced on her foes and to defend her good name and honor. Several years ago, when Marcus was chosen to be Deanna I's champion, she approached my wife to make him one new suit so he could better look the role. That she did, and in addition a second hand silk suit (seen below) we had bought hoping it would fit me did not, but it sure did fit our boy!

(I'm still mad about that suit not fitting me, I'm OBSESSED)

This time, Marcus approached me about making 1 new suit and 2 extra doublets to help him better look the part and to accommodate his sick new gains! Ah, the joys of working out and eating sufficient protein. All your old stuff no longer fits right, and specifically in the difficult areas to let out and take in. Marcus's preferred style of doublet is almost more of a jerkin, with little sleeve puffs as seen in his old doublet and in Don Gabriel de la Cueva y Giron Duke of Albuquerque by Giovanni Battista Moroni (Moroni my beloved <3333) as seen below. Obviously, the heat of Ansteorra contributes to certain styling decisions and the removal of the full length doublet between the undershirt and the puff-sleeved doublet.

The time had come for my second attempt to figure out the barra system and pattern drafting method featured in Matthew Gnagy's The Modern Maker. For those of you who haven't yet used it, it is genius and intuitive in how counterintuitive it can feel. Gnagy walks even an intermediate (begrudgingly) sewist through a historical pattern drafting method that relies on the tendency of the human body to be proportional in certain measurements to the bust, waist, hip, and height. It makes an incredibly good first draft which, for the doublet I'm working on myself concurrently, only took one pass. In defense of the mockup for Marcus, I was figuring it out as I went, okay?

I used multiple colors of sharpies to keep my brain from melting as I went, starting with a fine pointed light pink as a "sketching" sharpie and frequently clarifying lines with an orange or blue sharpie. I did run into issues where my math failed me and had to insert extra fabric, as seen above, but who knew what chaos those simple insertions would portend....

Behold, the frankendoublet. The result of me screwing up and miscalculating in some places, learning after the first try on that the wearer had gained 2 inches of bicep and almost 3 inches of chest and back muscle in the months since I'd last measured him, and in confirming his preference for a more modern, long-torsoed garment than the higher waistline seen in late period. I swear there was a method to this madness, but it gives a few of my apprentice siblings headaches looking at it and I don't blame them. I transferred the pattern to paper, and we were off to the races!

A quick interjection about the fabric choices: we are both in the middle of financial tight spots, so as much as I'd like to work with natural materials (that don't melt by campfires at the very least) we agreed to opt for 1 silvery-blue shot silk-look polyester doublet, 1 crimson shot silk-look polyester doublet, and 1 royal blue polycotton striped brocade full suit, all intended to be interchangable for a variety of outfits. I bought 2 yards for each of the doublets and 3 yards for the pants, rocking out at $40 flat for the self fabric. While not ideal for breathability and late night campfires, right now it's hard to beat costs like that. The silvery-blue can be seen for the remainder of this post as I chose to use it for the first doublet.

In one full day's work I have managed to chalk and cut out the full doublet from the self and the lining (a slate blue linen I pulled from stash) and used approximately 1.6 yards of each. Behold my selection of pattern weights, including a remote, a basket hilt, 3 bottles of paint, most of a block of wax, some drill blocks, sticky notes, and a can of coke I was putting off drinking so it could continue to serve as a pattern weight.

By the end of day 1 of sewing I had assembled the full body and sleeves and begun pinning the collar. This is my first suit lined doublet so I am definitely taking things a little slower than usual. Thus far all the seams have been machine sewn aside from the finishing on the sleeve cuff. After some extra thought considering biceps and the volume of fabric, I patterned the bicep cuffs to have approximately 2 inches of excess cuff to hide within the seam to be easily let out if further size changes do occur. At this point I left the cuffs open for one more fitting before seaming them closed. By the end of the night I also finished the strip of waist eyelets, sewn on linen canvas provided by Asa inn blindi, so in the future pants can be pointed to this doublet. By this time, however, I was a little too dangerously sleepy to be trusted with a sewing machine so with the collar pinned I ended for the night.

The next day saw the attaching of the collar, the reopening of the shoulder seam to "zhuzh" more of the length of the back into the shoulder to accommodate the natural volume of shoulder muscles and to make the collar fall correctly. The eyelet strip was first sewn to the seam allowance of the waist line, after which the seam allowance + eyelet strip was pressed to the body and stitched down securely. After that, some lovely hand dyed wool twill tape was donated by Asa in blinda to cover and protect the raw edges along the waist line.

Rather than the strip of silk taffeta Gnagy recommends the tailor tacks in to the left side to reinforce the buttonholes, I ironed in a strip of fusible interfacing as reinforcement.

Glamor shot of the interfacing being sewn in by hand. My hand seams are getting a wee bit straighter.

In absence of the much sturdier taffeta Gnagy recommends for both trimming and reinforcement, I used scraps of a much lighter weight silvery-gray silk fished out of Asa's scraps, like a raccoon through a trash can. This does not provide the same structural benefit as the taffeta trimming, but it does introduce a little extra "pop" to the colors imho.

Then I tackled my first-ever hand sewn buttonholes. I opted for 3 strands of DMC 930 cotton embroidery floss on the final project after testing with buttonhole thread, all 6 strands, and 2 strands.

And finally, some glamor shots of the completed garment. From left to right, the "secret ease" on the bicep meant to make adjustments for more muscle growth easier to accommodate, the collar lining sewn in, and the final garment waiting in my office to be handed to the recipient at Coronation.

Overall, I think we're both very pleased with the results. Master Marcus retained his full (and simply absurd) range of motion on and off the field, the garment is machine washable, and it is a lovely color on him. The combined power of the ladies of our Princess's household has convinced him to let me raise the waistline on doublet 2 a whole two inches, which I am very excited about.

What did I learn?

The barra method is not nearly as terrifying to manage as I think it is, as long as you trust the process

Multiple colors of sharpies are a game changer.

I'm actually faster at hand-sewing buttonholes than I am at machine sewing them, because I get so anxious about sewing them by machine.

Suit-lined garments are SO much easier to do seam finishing on, it's absolutely night and day.

I think I want to make an entire doublet of silk taffeta. This is a problem. I need money and confidence to do so.

What's next?

Update the 14th C English clothing powerpoint to what I currently use for classes

I am currently making an Elizabethan suit for Darien de Shameless with my apprentice sibling Asa in blinda, with aims of finishing it for Queens Champion

I am currently making an Elizabethan-ish suit for Viscount Micauley Morison ahead of Winter Crown (but cheating on the pants so he has one pair of breezy breeches). The construction is largely the same to this one, so if I make a post about it it probably won't include an entire construction diary. Just some glamor shots.

I am making Rus for Dona Halldora Hrafnsdottir, but I keep getting distracted on which Navershnik I want to finish first.

I am looking forward to making some new and improved Rus for myself and Centurion Runa Bjarki ahead of the Crown/Coronet season, with an eye towards moving us to more accurate pieces.

I need to do a Shift Weekend where I just churn out shifts, chemises, and rubakhas