#It seems like I have a lot to say but you need to understand that I know almost too many performers to have a nice cut and dry list :)

[grayve-mistake]

THINGS YOU CAN DO TO AVOID BEING THIS PERSON (AND OTHER RED FLAGS)

Communicate openly and honestly when you have an issue with someone. Don't talk behind their backs, don't bottle it up until it festers and explodes, just ask about what's bothering you. Good friends will hear you out (and yeah, you might disagree on some things. That's normal too. Have a conversation anyway!)

Don't jump to conclusions or accusations about their character while emotions are high. Doing this will make the situation more hostile and creates unnecessary tension and mistrust.

("I disagree with what you said/I feel uncomfortable, is there a way to avoid this in the future?/let's talk about it", not "what you posted is weird and I think you have a problem". People don't like feeling antagonized and will be more willing to listen if you don't!)

Communicate about your personal needs. It's ok to have boundaries and triggers and things you'd rather not hear about. It's not ok to expect other people to read your mind or be able to remember something you said once 3 1/2 years ago at the bottom of a long thread with 2 likes on it.

Write trigger lists in your group chats! Talk directly to the people you're close to about it! If someone is otherwise harmless but does/has something triggering or upsetting to you specifically, it's ok to just not interact with them personally. It doesn't have to be a callout, you can just block people, actually.

If it's someone you know in-person and the trigger is still present, then it might be time to have a one-on-one discussion with them about it and see what compromises you both can make for a more comfortable atmosphere.

TALK BIG ISSUES OUT PRIVATELY. The really important shit that could lead to a fracture in the relationship should only be discussed in an environment where you both feel safe and like you can have a say. Dogpiling will get you nowhere and makes the person you should WANT to actually ADDRESS the issue in a responsible way suddenly feel cornered and threatened, and will likely cause them to double down. No one's immune to this.

"Callouts" should be an absolute last resort AFTER you've privately discussed the issue and only if it's continuous and causing a serious amount of harm to multiple people. Avoid callout posts whenever possible. Try to leave personal issues out of the public eye when you can.

Try to hold yourself to the same standards you hold other people. If you wouldn't be able to accommodate someone in the ways you're asking everyone else to accommodate you, that might be entitlement! Work on it, try to remember that you're imperfect too and that's normal. If you feel comfortable calling out other people for all kinds of things but can't handle any constructive criticism of your own, it might be time to rethink some things about your approach. It's hard, it'll never not be hard, but try to listen when people try to start a conversation with you about an issue THEY'RE having, too. You aren't always in the right! People fuck up all the time! Talk about your own perspectives and where you're coming from and try to reach a point of understanding with eachother to resolve the problem.

Finally, and maybe most importantly:

This goes for both sides of the issue! Friend group feels toxic or unwelcoming? Unaccomodating? Tense? You can just leave!

It doesn't have to require long callout posts and twitter essays. If an environment seems like it's promoting unhealthy or problematic behaviors you're always allowed to just get outta there! You don't gotta justify yourself! Sometimes you just gotta trust your gut and step away. You can't always control what other people do but you can control your own actions in response, and that's important.

(These are all just based on my personal experience with these kinds of issues as someone who spends a little too much time online and has seen a lot over the years, so if you have any more input feel free to add it in the notes!)

anyway in the hopes that i can save just one person from living the horror of my 20s: if you have a friend that seems a little too invested in callouts i hope you can get out of there safely

[hard-core-super-star]

starlight in your eyes [W.Maximoff]

pairing: baker!wanda x college student!reader

summary: it takes some coaxing but after countless stolen glances and brief makeout sessions, you and wanda take the next step in your blossoming relationship.

warnings: SMUT, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! -> porn with lots of feelings and a bit of plot; legal age gap; soft sex; bottom!wanda; makeout sessions; the mommy kink is implied this time; nipple play [wanda has sensitive boobs and i will die on this hill]; do wanda's boobs need their own warning?; oral; so much teasing; brief mentions of insecurities; worldbuilding aka me throwing in agatha because i could; not proofread so there's probably more but i forgot

wordcount: 3.4k

a/n: HI! this is officially the last part of my baker!wanda series FOR NOW. i'll probably come back to it at some point because i love this AU but for now, this will be the end. i had a lot of fun with this so thank you guys for supporting the series and my random fic ideas. hope you enjoy <3

part one | part two | part three |

* * * * * * *

If someone had tried to tell you months ago that you'd be spending more time in Westview, New Jersey than New York, you would have called them an idiot and went on with your day.

Unfortunately, the universe has quite a wicked sense of humor. Not that you're complaining since that sense of humor earned you a relationship with the hottest café owner in town.

As strange as it was, you found yourself settling into a nice routine with Wanda. Sure, she still tried to keep you as far away as possible from all the neighborhood gossip, but you found yourself caring less and less every day. Especially when at night, you were wrapped up in her arms, blissfully unaware of the rest of the world.

Despite the rumors and the constant eyes watching your every move, being with the older woman is easy. Comforting in a way you hadn't expected.

She's as sweet as the pastries that litter the stands at the bakery and far more patient with people than she should be. Then again, no one in Westview has ever been accused of understanding social cues too well. Agatha seems to be the only exception and you can't say you don't enjoy when she comes in to talk shit about her neighbors and the people who love flirting with her wife.

You wouldn't call it normal, not by most people's standards, but it's home.

The only thing close to a problem is Wanda's sweetness stopping her from being truly intimate with you. It's not like you want her to tie you up in her basement or anything (at least not yet), but you do want something more than simple makeout sessions after closing hours.

The last thing you want to do is complain, though. Especially when the older woman's sweetness is one of your favorite things about her. She's always so quick to praise you for the simplest things, to reassure you that she wants each and every part of you, to kiss away any insecurity that might arise after a long day of overthinking.

It feels unfair to ask her to reign in her sweetness long enough for her to push you against a wall and have her way with you.

That doesn't stop you from finding other ways to look for what you want, though.

Of course, the cafe doesn't really offer the best spaces for the kind of convincing you needed to do but that doesn't stop you from trying. And from enjoying it.

It's not like you can help it, Wanda looks far too good behind that counter, her signature flannel poking out from beneath the red apron she keeps surprisingly clean. It doesn't help that she's started curling her hair again, the waves bouncing every time she laughs while making conversation with a customer.

Even though you're trying to keep things between the two of you as low-key and private as possible, you can't really control your eyes or the way they give you away so easily. It should worry you on some level, you know that, but the only thing that matters to you is the smirk that curls on the older woman's lips.

It's almost predictable.

The way she pretends to check what pastries to restock while throwing glances your way, the weird little hand motion she does to let the cashiers know she'll be going into the back, that last look she throws your way as she disappears. You're not too sure when it became a routine, probably at some point before your first date, but you're not complaining.

You're pretty sure Billy (affectionally called Teen by Agatha to keep him separate from Wanda's son Billy) knows exactly why you always offer to help Wanda when she's back there, considering the little smile he sends your way. He hasn't said anything to anyone, though, so you figure he must be on your side.

Usually, he even throws excuses your way, telling everyone you're running errands for him in the back so he doesn't have to leave the register during rush hour. You're not sure anyone actually believes the two of you, but you are sure you've heard Agatha shutting down anyone who dares question it.

It's strange how easily you've gotten used to the routine. How at home you feel around people you spent so long avoiding. How happy you are to stay for once.

Without a second thought, you get up from your claimed booth and make your way to the back of the café where you know Wanda is waiting for you. You ignore the look Billy throws your way, but don't miss the way he makes small talk with the baristas so they don't pay attention to you.

It's impossible to hide your grin as you go and seeing Wanda at her cute little baking station only makes it widen. "How're things going in here?"

"Same old," she replies with a grin of her own.

As silly as her response is, it brings a giggle out of you and you easily cross the space between you. "Anything for me to sample?"

"You know, as much as I like having you around, I would like to have products to sell." Her teasing tone is paired with a playful glare that makes you roll your eyes.

"Oh but that's so boring," you say, jumping onto the counter next to her.

Wanda doesn't reply, but she does hand you a freshly baked croissant while she continues decorating a batch of cookies. While it was technically a joke, you're not about to pass up free pastries and a beautiful view.

You sit there for a while, simply watching her work and enjoying being close to her. It helps that every few minutes, she leans over to give you a brief kiss.

It feels like an eternity, but eventually, she finishes her work and her attention goes back to you. She slides in between your legs with a smile, her hands gripping your thighs as she moves closer. You don't even give her a chance to tease you, instead leaning in to kiss her.

Her chuckle is muffled by your lips and your arms slip around her neck to pull her body in toward you. It's not like there's much space left and yet here you are, trying to wrap yourself around her completely.

She doesn't seem to mind, though, considering her grip on you.

Her fingers roam up and down your thighs, leaving trails of electricity everywhere they go. It's almost subconscious, the way she can't seem to stop touching you, wandering, finding every spot that makes you tremble against her. You can't say she doesn't know what she's doing, but you assume she's not doing it on purpose. At least not completely.

That doesn't stop you from taking advantage of the moment, though.

Your hands move to cup her face, thumbs drawing circles on her jawline as you chase her lips every time she moves away. You're cheating, of course, because if she can't stop kissing you, then she can't think about what her hands are doing, which only benefits you.

Wanda catches on far too quickly for your taste, though. Her hands move to tangle in your hair and before you know it, she's pulling you back, a pitiful sound escaping you at the sting it creates. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing."

Even though you've been caught, you still try to deflect. "I'm not doing anything."

She shakes her head at you, dark green eyes staring you down. "Right, because you haven't been trying to do this exact same thing all week."

"Is making out with my gorgeous girlfriend such a crime?"

"I guess not…" She trails off with a grin. "You just don't know what you're getting into, darling."

That makes you giggle. "Me? I think you're underestimating me, Wands."

All she does is roll her eyes, but you don't miss the way her cheeks flush at your suggestive tone. "Right, well, either way, we can't do that here."

"I know, I know." You pout at her until she relents and kisses you again.

Even though you want to press, ask questions that you know will get you in trouble, you decide against pushing her. As desperate as you might be, you don't want to rush her. She's always working so hard, running around doing everything she can to help the people in her life, always taking care of everyone except herself. Is it really so bad that you want to flip the script on her just once?

Despite how difficult it is to control yourself, you manage to behave for the rest of the day, choosing to actually help her with decorating the pastries instead of simply begging her for kisses every few minutes. The next days are too busy for you to bring up the subject again so you assume that will be the end of it.

At least until the weekend comes around and Vision takes the twins, leaving Wanda with a lot of time to waste. Almost as if you planned it (which you technically did if manifestation counts), your parents leave on a short vacation. With no expectation or lingering guilt, the two of you are able to actually relax for once.

There's no need to be constantly looking over your shoulder, no tangled web of lies to cover your tracks. Nothing but each other and an empty house all to yourselves.

You even manage to convince her to close the bakery early and take the night off to relax. And okay, maybe your version of convincing involved pinning her against a counter and kissing her until she couldn't think straight but that's neither here nor there.

What matters now is that the of you are in her living room, sharing a bottle of wine and the biggest pot of pasta you've ever seen the older woman make. She can be a bit of a compulsive cooker sometimes, you've learned. Not that you mind, that just means more leftovers for you.

Wanda's arm wraps around your shoulders as she leans against you, her lips finding your temple. It's a sweet gesture, you can't ignore the way her free hand caresses your thigh. "This is nice."

You giggle, fingers tracing the back of her hand. "The food or the wine?"

"The company," she corrects with a soft tut. "I've missed having you to myself like this."

"You always have me to yourself," you point out as you turn your head to look at her. "I'm all yours."

"That's true, but it's not quite the same, is it?"

Before you can reply, she's leaning in to kiss you. You don't mind, of course, because her lips taste far sweeter than any petty victory over her. And between the privacy and the wine lingering on your tongues, you're able to get as carried away as you want.

So, it's really no surprise that your hands start reaching out for her, pulling her closer and closer until she ends up on your lap. You're not too sure how that happens, all you know is your hands are on her hips, guiding her against you and you're fighting the burning in your lungs to keep your lips pressed together.

Wanda's hands tangle in your hair before you know it, she's pulling you away from her and drawing a whine from your chest. "Someone's getting greedy."

"Can't help it," you reply, breathless and desperate for more. "I want to make you feel good."

Your words make her pause. Her eyes widen the slightest bit and the smirk on her face fades just as quickly as it came. For a moment, she's actually…shy. Nervous in that way that makes you want to pick her up and spin her around until she smiles again and forgets about her insecurities.

"Is that right?" She tries to bring the confidence back to her voice, but she falls a little flat. Not that you mind. Every version of her is one you can't help but admire. "You want to touch me?"

You nod instantly, balancing between trying be assertive and wanting to let her do whatever she wants with you. "Yes, please. Let me take care of you."

"You're far too sweet," she says with a shake of her head. "I like caring for you, I don't need anything in return."

Her words only make you more desperate to give her the care she deserves. The kind she probably hasn't been given in…a long time. Sure, you don't know the details of what her relationship with her ex-husband was like but you also don't think you'd be wrong for guessing he didn't worship her like she deserves.

"It's not like that," you assure her, your hands on her hips moving up to caress her sides. "I'm not doing it because I think I have to. I want to do it. Please."

While her face softens, she still doesn't let up. Thankfully, she allows the truth to slip out, letting you in. "I…I don't want you to regret it."

Her words slowly click into place in your brain. Sometimes, you hate always being right.

"Wanda, I could never regret anything about being with you." Your hands move to cup her face. While you hate the thought of her ever feeling insecure about herself, you can't say you dislike the vulnerability she shows. And the trust it represents. "You're who I want to be with, no matter what."

This time, you finally get through. You see it in the way she sighs, her shoulders slumping forward as she leans into you. "You're so stubborn."

"Only when it comes to you," you say with a grin.

She rolls her eyes, but still leans in to kiss you. Despite your usual impatience, you don't rush. You let her lead, let her go at her own pace until the atmosphere you'd built earlier comes back. Until you're panting into each other's mouths and chasing whatever little friction you can get.

It's hard to stay so patient when she moans into the kiss, her hips rolling until she's practically grinding against your lap. You're still determined to take your time despite the fire that starts in your lower belly.

"Wanda," you whisper as you force yourself to pull away from her lips. "Do you trust me?"

When she mumbles her response, a breathless "yes" that sends shivers down your spine, you grab hold of her hips again and maneuver her onto the couch. You're pretty sure you knock over the forgotten wine bottle, but you don't give a shit. All you care about is finally giving her the pleasure she deserves.

"Someone's eager."

"Shut up," you respond as you move to hover over her, loving the sharp little gasp she lets out. "You're letting me take over, right?"

"Right," she agrees.

"Then don't tease me."

She tries to chuckle, but your hands move beneath her shirt and the noise dies in her throat. Your mind zeros in on her, completely set on doing everything you can to make her let out more of those sounds. To make her let go completely until she can't even remember her name.

Your fingers trace her sides, mapping out the curve of her waist and the softness of her stomach. Her back arches into you and you lean down to pepper kisses along her jaw. "You're gorgeous."

Wanda doesn't reply but her hands move to the hem of her shirt. You see the move for what it is: an invitation you don't dare refuse.

Your hands join hers and you help her remove her shirt. The red lacy bra she's wearing makes your mouth water and you fight against the urge to simply rip it off.

Instead, you move your kisses down her neck and to her chest. Your hands continue roaming her body, caressing her skin and committing every detail to memory.

They slide behind her back as your lips move across the top of her breasts and before you can stop yourself, your fingers undo her bra. You don't move to take it off just yet, though, allowing the anticipation to build in the air…and between your legs.

"y/n," she whispers. "Don't be a tease."

You know she's just throwing your words back at you, but you still smirk to yourself, lips pressed against her warm skin. "I'm not, I'm just taking my time."

The sound she lets out borders so close to a whine that it makes your heart stop for a second. You never thought one person could be so beautiful and yet here she is.

Your head lifts long enough to take in the blush on her cheeks…and to slide the rest of her bra off. Even though you want to be respectful, your eyes instantly move down to her newly exposed skin. No amount of words could explain how ethereal you find her so you don't even try to find them.

You simply go back to worshipping her with your mouth.

Quickly, you learn how sensitive her chest it. One of her hands tangles in your hair as she trembles beneath you, her voice strained from the sudden pleasure. You're sure you'll never get tired of hearing how she moans for you.

"Fuck," she groans, hips shifting every which way. "You're driving me crazy."

"Is that why you're acting so desperate?" You ask, hands finding the zipper of her jeans.

Whatever her response might have been fades into nothing when your lips wrap firmly around one of her nipples. You simply enjoy her reactions for a few moments before going back to undoing her jeans.

It's a bit of a struggle since you're so focused on her chest, but you manage to get rid of the rest of her clothes. Once she's finally naked, you don't waste any time and allow your lips to trail a path down to her core.

Your fingers replace your tongue on her nipples and you tease and pinch them just to keep her guessing. Nothing could distract you from your mission, though, and you use your free hand to guide her legs over your shoulders. Your eyes flicker up just to take in the flushed look on her face and the little noises that leave her parted lips.

The anticipation builds for a few seconds before your mouth goes back to the task at hand. Your tongue darts out to taste her and you moan into her heat. If your mouth wasn't so busy, you might have teased her about wet she already is.

You don't dare move away just yet so you let your fingers tease her by tugging on her nipples.

You're rewarded with a whine and you instantly wrap your lips around her swollen clit in hopes of hearing it again. And you do.

Because despite her earlier hesitation, Wanda is incredibly loud. And you love every second of drawing out her whines and whimpers.

"y/n," she says, thighs tensing on each side of your head. "Wait, wait, I can't-"

You're about to ask what she means, but your tongue is circling her clit and before you can even think to move away, you feel it.

Wanda cums.

Suddenly and harshly and with the most breathless moan you've ever heard.

Even the shock isn't enough to get through to you. She feels incredible against you and despite how soaked your chin is, you can't bring yourself to stop. You need her more than you need to breathe.

You don't stop until Wanda tugs on your hair hard enough for you to come back to reality. A reality where she's shaking and spent underneath you.

"Sorry," you mumble with a grin. "I got carried away."

"I noticed," she replies. "It's just…been a while and I need a break."

You nod and shift until you're lying on top of her, your head tucked into the crook of her neck. "Take your time, I'm right here."

Her arms wrap around your waist and a kiss falls onto the top of your head. "I know, darling."

In that moment, in the comfortable silence that lingers, you realize just how true your words are. Just how willing you are to stay. To stop running from Westview and all its ghosts.

Somehow, despite how badly you'd wanted to leave your hometown all your life, you found love in the sunlit corner booth of Wanda's bakery.

And you'd be a fool to let her go.

[pagesfromthevoid]

State of Grace | r.a.

Rhett Abbott x teacher!reader

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: None

Author's Note: This came to me in a dream (like all the best fics do). Once again, I am nothing if not painfully self-indulgent. Gif from @caileeflavoured

Series Masterlist | Talk to Me! | Coffee?

“Miss?”

There’s a pause, and she looks up from her grading to the classroom doorway –where two junior boys and a senior stand awkwardly. Taking off her glasses, she beckons them inside with a welcoming smile.

“Hey boys, what do you need?” She asks, leaning back in her chair. 

The boys shuffle awkwardly, shifting their weight back and forth like they don’t know what to do with their energy. Her brow raises as she waits; the three are her students and they’re usually a lot more…forthcoming with whatever they’re going to say or do. The senior –Remington, bless his heart –pulls out a folded up piece of paper and hands it to her.

It’s a club sponsor document.

“You’re gonna have to be a little more specific on what you’re asking,” she says, watching the three closely.

Remington nods, squaring his shoulders some. “Principal Cornswete says if we can get a teacher to sponsor our club, we can start a rodeo club.”

“I thought we had the show team already?” She asks, looking over the document now.

One of the juniors –Andrew –speaks up next, “Yeah, but they’re too formal. Lots of rules, and you gotta try out. We want a club that anyone can be in, like even if we’re bad.”

“Commendable,” she murmurs, nodding a little as she sets the paperwork down. “You three understand I know next to nothing about rodeos, right?” She points out, looking up at the three of them now. 

“Yeah, yeah, we know –you’re from the big city of L.A. and don’t know anything about cowboys and horses,” Trace, the other junior, jokes. She gives him a pointed look. “You don’t gotta do anything, miss. Just sign the paperwork and let us use your classroom for meetin’s. And if we go to any shows, you gotta be there too. We have someone who said he’ll coach us and stuff.”

“And who is that?”

“Rhett Abbott,” the three say all together, and they all look ridiculously proud of themselves for it. 

She’s lived in the small town for two years now, having gotten tired of the constant headaches and lights of Los Angeles. Plus, her parents had moved out here as soon as she graduated college and had a nice little farm on the edge of town. It made sense for her to come out here, and give it a shot. And with the cost of living out here being so much cheaper than California, she could actually afford a nice house on a little acre of land that’s just hers. Teaching in a small town doesn’t pay great –teaching in a big city didn’t pay great either, honestly –but her savings looks much nicer in Wabang than it did in Los Angeles.

However, in the two years she’s lived in Wabang, she’s heard the name Rhett Abbott plenty of times. Usually they weren’t great things; how he’s trouble, or always getting into fights at the bar. He’s got a chip on his shoulder and seems to thrive on casual over commitment. The single teachers talk about how handsome he is, but how he can’t be trusted unless you want your heart broken or venereal disease (which feels so mean to say, honestly).

Not that she really knows Rhett Abbott –she doesn’t. They’ve met twice, technically; once when her parents introduced her at the local diner when she first moved to town. Then when Perry and Amy brought over a little welcome basket to her house. Rhett had joined them, but he stayed quiet in the back, just sort of watching the whole interaction like he didn’t want to be there. After that though, she’s only interacted with him in passing –hello’s at the grocery store, nods if he holds the door for her at the bank or the diner. But nothing meaningful. 

“Why are you asking me to sponsor you?” She finally asks, looking between the three with narrowed eyes. 

“Uh…,”

“Well, ya’see…,”

Remington rolls his eyes. “Rhett said to ask the prettiest teacher to be our sponsor. So we asked you.”

“That’s so inappropriate,” she quickly argues, shaking her head. “You understand that, right?”

“You asked,” Remington countered, shrugging some. “C’mon –please? It’s not like you’ll have to do anything! We’d do all the work, and I think you get paid to sponsor us!”

There’s a moment of hesitation, then she gives a defeated sigh. But before she lifts the pen to sign the paper, she points at the three of them. “I do this, and you three better start putting in the effort in class too. You’re barely skating by –you especially, Remy. You need my class to graduate and you’re at risk of not. I’ll do this if you promise to get your work handed in, and you actually try from here on out. Understood?”

There’s a chorus of yes ma’ams and she finally gives in, signing the document. Remington snags it from her with a triumphant grin, and the three boys practically run out of her classroom. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she shakes her head.

“I’m gonna regret this,” she mumbles to herself, sliding her glasses back on and sighing.

To their credit, the boys were right.

In the three weeks she’s been their sponsor, she hasn’t had to do anything more than let them use her classroom before school on Fridays to hold their meetings. Which, honestly, aren’t really meetings and are more just the original three boys and a handful of other students –boys and girls –talking about the practices they’ve had all week with Rhett. However, she likes that they’re excited, and her boys have been doing better in class, so she’s definitely okay with listening to them talk about what they plan to practice on Monday. 

“We have our first unofficial official rodeo next weekend,” Trace tells her this morning, sitting on the desk. “Rhett got it set up for us, and we’re goin’ to make it a fundraiser for the club so we can get better gear and stuff.”

“Well that’s great,” she says, and she means it genuinely. “What do you need me to do? I can sell tickets or print up flyers –,”

“Both of those!” Andrew interrupts with a frantic nod. “We definitely need ya to help with the tickets. Principal Cornswete says students can’t handle money. And I don’t have a printer at home but I made some cool flyers online. I can send them to you.”

“I can definitely do that,” she promises with a nod. The bell rings to release them to the first period of the day and she calls after them, “Don’t forget you have a quiz on Monday!”

However, Monday rolls around and all three boys are out. Which is strange, because she knows she saw them in the morning. Trace and Andrew are in her 6th period, and Remington’s in her last period. And none of them showed up to class. 

Actually, the three of them did not show up to class Tuesday or Wednesday, either. 

She’s seen them on campus, and they’ve been in their other classes –she’s asked. But they aren’t making it to her class suddenly, and she’s getting a bit annoyed. Especially when she puts in grades, and they’ve missed enough that their grades are tanking again. It's clear they are actively avoiding her in the hallways when they are at school –so they know they’re busted. 

By Friday, all three have missed class every day –and none of them show up to the meeting. The other club members show up –most of them, at least. But the ring leaders of the operation are mysteriously missing in action, and she’s not thrilled.

“Heather,” she says, sitting down on the desk in front of the sophomore girl. “Where are Trace, Andrew and Remy?”

Heather gives her a look of panic. Like she’s considering if she needs to rat out her friends or cover them. But Heather is a good kid, and she caves with a sigh. “Ugh, I’m sorry, miss. They told us not to tell you –they’ve been skippin’ to go practice earlier with Mr. Abbott.”

She hums a little bit, looking at the other five students who have shown up. They’re all sophomores, except for one –a freshman –and are looking at her like they’re afraid she’s going to blow. But she just smiles, and dismisses the club for the day. Promises she’ll see them this weekend at their first rodeo and she’ll have everything ready for tickets at the gate. After all, just because those three are being lousy students doesn’t mean they all are. 

Rhett slaps dust off his jeans and calls over to the boys to start wrapping things up, but they’re dragging it out like usual. Remington’s taking an extra run through the barrels, Trace is still messing with the ropes, and Andrew’s sitting on the fence pretending to look busy. He’s about to holler again when he suddenly hears:

“Get your butts out here. Right now.” 

She’s walking up to the gate with her hands on her hips, voice sharp enough to cut through steel. He recognizes her as soon as he catches the green glasses on her face –hard to miss those. Helps she’s the newest face in Wabang, even after two years too. 

Though, he realizes she must be the club sponsor too because the boys scatter immediately. Remington curses under his breath, knowing he’s been caught. Trace and Andrew scramble behind the bleachers like hiding will do them any good.

Rhett winces. He throws his hands up from the other side of the ring. “What the hell are you doin’? You still have to –,”

“Mr. Abbott, I highly recommend you come here as well.”

She doesn’t yell, but somehow it’s louder than anything else at the fairgrounds. Her tone is clipped, controlled, and for a split second, he’s not sure whether to admire her or run for cover. Maybe both.

He makes his way across the ring, brushing grit off his palms and trying not to look like a kid sent to the principal’s office. She’s standing there like a force of nature –chin high, gaze steady, not an ounce of hesitation in the way she looks at him. Rhett swallows, throat dry. He jogs across the ring and gets there just in time to see all three boys line up in front of her like they’re on the chopping block. Their heads are ducked, shoulders hunched. Guilty as sin.

Ah, hell. 

“You went against our agreement,” she says, pointing at the boys like her hand is a weapon. With how the boys are looking at her, it might as well be.

“But, miss –,” Remington starts.

“Nope,” she cuts him off, before he can even get a proper excuse out. “I told you three I’d only do this if you stayed on top of your school work. You skipped my class every day this week.”

Rhett’s head snaps to the boys. “You did what?” His voice comes out louder than he means. His fists curl without thinking. They look at him like they hadn’t expected him to take her side. Which, frankly, insults him a little.

“Oh, hell no.” His voice is sharp, sharper than he means it to be, but damn if that doesn’t light him up inside. He turns to her, fast. “They told me they had permission to come out early. I wouldn’t’ve let’em out here if I knew they were lyin’.” His voice softens, though he doesn’t necessarily mean for it to. “I’m sorry.”

He does mean that. She hardly knows him –probably knows the worst, honestly –but he wants her to believe him. Wants her to see that he’s not just some fool letting kids run wild. 

Something shifts in her expression. Not much. But enough. “It’s…it’s not your fault,” though her tone stays sharp as she turns back to the boys. “All three of you are failing my class as of today. You three missed several assignments, a quiz, and the introduction to a project. How is it fair that you three get to do this show tomorrow, when you’ve skipped class all week, while your other club members have been in class and are doing their work?”

Rhett stands beside her, arms crossed, watching the boys squirm. But part of his attention stays on her. The way her voice doesn’t shake. The way she looks each of them in the eye. She’s not bluffing, not hiding behind some title or authority. She is the authority.

And goddamn, if that’s not a little hot.

“It’s not fair,” Andrew mutters.

“You’re right, it’s not,” she agrees harshly.

Rhett steps in, voice low but firm. “You three are gonna sit out tomorrow.”

Remington opens his mouth, but Rhett cuts him off with a glare. “No. You broke two promises –you told her you’d keep up with your work, and you told me school came first. I don’t like bein’ lied to. ‘Specially not about stupid shit.”

She nods beside him, folding her arms in that way that makes her look even more in control. “The rest of the club earned tomorrow. You didn’t.”

Rhett jerks his chin at the mess in the ring. “Clean it up. Then go home.”

Trace starts to argue, but one look from both of them shuts it down cold. As the boys trudge off, Rhett finally exhales. He glances sideways at her. She’s still tense, but the worst of the fire’s been put out. 

He wants to say something clever. Maybe thank her for showing up tonight to call them out. Maybe tease her about how she made three teenage boys –and one grown man –want to stand at attention.

But instead, he says, “So you’re the prettiest teacher at the school, huh?”

And then he looks down at his boots like he’s an idiot. That sounded better in his head. 

But she laughs suddenly –bright, sincere –and Rhett can’t help himself as his attention snaps back up to her face. He can feel the grin tugging at his lips, unable to help himself as he looks her over. The woman standing next to him now is much different than the one that stormed into the stadium and ripped those boys a new one less than an hour ago. 

“Thank you for backing me up with them,” she finally says, and her shoulders have lost the tension that they’ve been holding the entire time. “I kind of thought I’d have to yell at you too.”

Rhett chuckles, shaking his head. “Nah, even if I had known they were skippin’, I’d throw’em under the bus in a heartbeat. I know better than to cross a woman who’s smarter than me.” 

There’s that laugh again –and he swears it’s the prettiest thing he’s heard in years. 

Glancing his watch, he bites the inside of his cheek. Then he decides fuck it. “You uh –you wanna grab a drink with me?”

She looks a bit surprised by the question, but nods with a bright smile on her lips. “I’d…love to, yeah.”

[fixated-cookies]

Just an idea, but what about yandere Pure Vanilla and Shadow Milk Cookie with a fem reader who is wholly oblivious to their feelings and thinks they’re into each other and wants to wingman a little? And whenever either of them try to flirt it just flies right over her head. Whenever she comes close to realizing they’re actually into her, she thinks “wow that’s self centered of me to imagine” and brushes it off.

Also to be clear, this isn’t a Shadow/Vanilla prompt.

ooh i have to do this!! this dynamic is so unique

You weren’t stupid, of course. You’d read the room. You’d seen how Shadow Milk Cookie always hovered near Pure Vanilla Cookie, voice full of teasing lilt and sly touches, brushing past him like silk. And Pure Vanilla? He never looked away from Shadow Milk for long—always soft-eyed, always composed, even when the jester pushed boundaries.

Naturally, you thought they were in love.

Which, in your defense, seemed like a really sweet thing! You loved love. You were all for it. And if your two closest companions had hearts wrapped up in one another, well… it was only right to help out.

So you made it your mission.

“I made extra tea!” you chirped, setting two cups between them. “You know, in case you two wanted a little time alone…”

Shadow Milk’s head snapped to you so fast it was audible.

Pure Vanilla blinked slowly. “Alone?”

“Mhm! Don’t worry, I’ll be upstairs. Oh! I left a love poem in one of the cups by accident… teehee, I guess it’s for whoever finds it~!”

Shadow Milk stared like you’d slapped him.

Pure Vanilla’s smile didn’t falter, but something in his hand—maybe the teacup—cracked just a little.

You beamed.

“I’m rooting for you both! Seriously, you have such amazing chemistry. Like fire and honey!”

And then you skipped off, happy to give them “privacy,” entirely unaware that you’d just triggered the worst kind of unspoken war.

Shadow Milk turned to Pure Vanilla with a sharp grin and wide, flickering eyes. “Oh, I do love your little pet’s imagination,” he purred. “Tell me—should I let her keep dreaming… or should I wake her up myself?”

Pure Vanilla only smiled, tight and cold. “She’ll understand in time,” he murmured. “We just have to be patient. For now.”

His gaze drifted after you.

“She still thinks this is about us.”

...

You knocked on the door to the study like it was a secret mission.

Pure Vanilla looked up from his scrolls, surprise melting into that gentle, ever-welcoming smile. “Oh…? Is something the matter?”

You peeked in dramatically. “Can I come in? It’s kind of important. Like… romantically important.”

His breath hitched almost imperceptibly, posture stiffening.

“…Of course,” he said smoothly, setting his quill down. “I’m listening.”

You tiptoed in, folded your hands in front of you like you were about to confess something huge, and whispered, “It’s about Shadow Milk.”

His eye twitched.

“Oh,” he said lightly. “Is it?”

“Mhm! I just—well—I know he’s… difficult, sometimes. But I really think he likes you. Like, a lot.” You leaned in, absolutely glowing with sincerity. “But he’s the type who needs… reassurance. You know? Affection. Compliments. Like—maybe next time you see him, say something poetic. You’re good at that, right?”

He stared at you for a long moment. “You want me to compliment him?”

You nodded fervently.

“Maybe… say you like his hair. Or his laugh. Or how he’s so clever, even when he’s being a little mean.” You giggled. “And don’t be afraid to touch his hand or something! He acts tough, but I think he’d melt.”

Pure Vanilla's mouth opened. Then closed. His knuckles went white where he gripped the armrest.

“…You truly believe he’s the one I wish to… pursue?” he asked carefully.

You tilted your head. “Isn’t he?”

His gaze slid away from you. “No,” he said, with the faintest edge of exhale.

But you misheard it. Interpreted it as nervous denial. You gasped, soft and excited.

“Ohhh! You’re shy about it, huh?? Don’t worry, I won’t say a word! I’m just glad I can help.” You gave him a big, dopey grin and waved on your way out. “You’ve got this, your Grace!!”

The door shut behind you.

The silence he left behind was deafening.

Ten minutes later…

You tiptoed into the shadowed corner of the castle where Shadow Milk Cookie loomed dramatically against a balcony rail, staring off into the distance like he was in the middle of a brooding opera.

He didn’t even turn to look at you. “Come to confess your sins, little pet?”

You giggled. “Not quite. But I do have advice.”

He arched a brow, intrigued now. “Oh?”

“It’s about Pure Vanilla,” you whispered. “I just think you’ve got a real chance with him, you know?”

He blinked. “I do?”

“Definitely! But you’re too—mmm—teasing. Flirty. I think it makes him nervous. You should try being sincere for once. Just one day! Compliment him. Tell him how wise he is. Touch his shoulder without making it a joke.” You smiled warmly, like you were gifting him a key to heaven. “I know he acts calm, but deep down, he probably wants to be swept off his feet.”

Shadow Milk stared at you in absolute silence.

“…You think I want him?” he asked flatly.

You nodded helpfully. “It’s okay! You don’t have to act tough about it. I support you both!”

He leaned down until your faces were barely inches apart, shadows flickering wildly in his hair.

“Oh,” he murmured. “You’re so lucky I love you.”

You blinked up. “Huh?”

“Nothing~.” He straightened up with a sigh, brushing his hair back with the air of someone praying for patience. “I’ll keep your advice in mind, little dove. But one day…”

He paused, mouth curling into a twisted grin.

“One day you’ll realize the truth. And I wonder, then—who you’ll try to save.”

You tilted your head. “What?”

“Nothing.” He winked. “Run along now. Go play matchmaker.”

You beamed and skipped off again, totally unaware of the tension boiling just beneath his skin.

later on, It was Pure Vanilla who invited you.

A soft knock at your door. A polite, gentle request. “When you’re free, dear one… Shadow Milk and I would like to see you. Together. Privately.”

Your heart practically soared.

“Oh my gosh—finally?!” you gasped, clutching your chest with joy. “Did you two talk? Did you finally realize?!”

Pure Vanilla smiled. Tired. Fond. A little too fond.

“Yes,” he murmured. “We… realized.”

He didn’t elaborate.

You followed eagerly, feet light with excitement as he led you through quiet corridors—ones not often used. The path curved oddly, downward, into the lower halls where fewer guards stood. Where only the torchlight flickered.

You didn't question it. You were too excited.

“I’m so happy for you guys,” you giggled as you walked. “I really did my best to help! You’re such different personalities but that’s what makes it work. You balance each other out.”

“…We do,” he said. His voice echoed strangely.

You didn’t notice the way his hand brushed the door before you entered. You didn’t see the faint gleam in his eyes as he stepped aside and let you in first.

The chamber was dim and warm. Low lights. Heavy drapes. Something thick in the air—scented, cloying, like honey and wine and—

“Surprise~.”

You blinked.

Shadow Milk Cookie lounged at the far end of the room, seated atop a chaise like royalty awaiting judgment. His legs crossed, his eyes sharp with glittering amusement, like he already knew how this was going to end.

“You came,” he purred. “Our little matchmaker.”

You clasped your hands together, practically vibrating. “I knew it! I knew you two would be perfect! Oh, I’m so—wait, is this where you’re going to confess to each other? Should I leave? Or—or officiate??”

“Officiate,” Shadow Milk echoed, tone flat.

Pure Vanilla stepped in behind you. The door clicked shut.

You turned, smiling up at him. “Wait, do you want me to give you privacy or—?”

“No.” His voice was soft, but final. “We want you here.”

You paused. Confused now. “Oh… well, that’s sweet. Is this like… a friendship circle? I don’t mind—”

“Still playing dumb?” Shadow Milk cut in, standing now. His boots made soft, slow clicks as he approached. “Or do you truly not see it? Even now?”

“See… what?” you asked, laughter faltering.

He was closer now. Close enough that you had to tilt your head up to meet his gaze.

“You think we’re in love,” he said. Not a question. A statement.

You flushed. “Well—yeah, kind of. I mean, you’re always around each other. You talk in that weird flirty way—”

“And who,” Pure Vanilla asked gently, stepping beside you, “told you that?”

Your lips parted.

“…Me.”

“You assumed.”

“I—yes, but it’s obvious isn’t it? The way you—” you turned between them, now growing flustered “—I mean, you two are always so intense and—”

“Toward you,” Shadow Milk murmured.

You froze.

“What?”

He was behind you now, Pure Vanilla in front. Caging you in without force, but with presence. With truth.

“All of that,” Pure Vanilla said softly. “The flowers. The words. The long glances. The jealousy.”

“It wasn’t for each other,” Shadow Milk purred. “It was for you, sweetheart.”

You shook your head. “No—no, that’s not—I thought you—”

“You were wrong,” Pure Vanilla said, voice warm and unwavering. “We’ve waited. Watched. Let you play your little game. Let you pretend.”

You backed up into Shadow Milk’s chest. He caught you gently by the arms.

“But we’re done pretending,” he whispered in your ear. “Aren’t we?”

You didn’t answer.

“You’re the center of this,” Pure Vanilla said, stepping closer. “You always were.”

“And now,” Shadow Milk grinned, pressing a soft kiss just under your ear, “you’ll finally stop running from it.”

“Because we’re not in love with each other,” Pure Vanilla finished. “We’re both in love with you.”

And this time, you couldn’t brush it off.

Your breath hitched.

The air in the room changed.

Thick. Slow. Like honey choking your lungs.

Pure Vanilla was still smiling, but it was off now—wrong. Not his usual gentle grace, but something deeper. Something more desperate. More possessive.

And behind you, Shadow Milk Cookie’s grip had changed too. No longer teasing. His fingers pressed tighter into your arms, thumbs stroking the fabric of your sleeves like he was memorizing you through touch alone.

“I—I think this is a joke,” you stammered, trembling. “You’re trying to mess with me again, right? Haha. You’re both so funny—”

“Stop that.” Pure Vanilla’s voice was suddenly hard.

You flinched.

He stepped closer. Slowly. “Stop pretending we’re not in love with you. Stop treating it like some game. You’ve ignored our affections, misread our intentions, deliberately twisted everything we give.”

“I didn’t mean to—!”

“But you did,” Shadow Milk whispered, mouth brushing your ear. “You did. Again and again. ‘Oh, they must be in love with each other.’ ‘Oh, how selfish to think it’s me.’” He laughed—low, sharp. “Selfish? Darling, you’re the most precious thing in this world. You’re the center of our universe.”

“I didn’t know,” you pleaded. “I didn’t realize—I never wanted to hurt you—”

“You did,” Pure Vanilla murmured. “Just not with cruelty. But with your ignorance.”

And then, before you could speak again—he grabbed your chin.

Not gently.

Not sweetly.

Fingers firm, tilting your face up until your wide, tear-glossed eyes met his.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did.

And that’s when you saw it.

Not mercy. Not warmth.

Obsession.

“Pure Vanil—” His lips crashed into yours.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t slow.

It was desperate. Starving. As if he’d waited years to finally taste you and now that he had, he’d never stop. You whimpered against him, hands braced against his chest in panic—but he didn’t let up. His mouth moved over yours like a prayer and a punishment, possessive and furious and needy.

You gasped, and that was all he needed. His tongue slipped in, claiming. Worshiping. Ruining.

Shadow Milk was still behind you, and when you jerked in surprise, he only laughed—low and throaty and delighted.

“Oh, you bastard,” he purred. “Couldn’t even wait your turn?”

Pure Vanilla finally broke the kiss, panting.

His thumb dragged down your lower lip, red and glistening now. “She needed to understand,” he whispered.

“She’s starting to,” Shadow Milk crooned, gripping your waist and dragging you back into his chest. “Aren’t you, pet? Starting to feel it now? The way your body listens to us even when your mind tries to run?”

You couldn’t answer. Your lips were still trembling, breath caught in your throat. Your knees weak.

And they hadn’t even started.

“You don’t get to play matchmaker anymore,” Pure Vanilla said softly, gently brushing a tear from your cheek. “You’re ours.”

“And now we’ll teach you what that means,” Shadow Milk breathed, nuzzling into your neck with a grin that felt like the end of your world.

[greyplainsttrpg]

I feel more comfortable engaging with this fork of the conversation.

As a game designer, I have found issues with converting my notes from running games into actual adventure modules. I've tried several times, but I've never been happy with the result. It always feels like I'm either providing too much or not enough information for any given situation.

This isn't to say that I believe games should not include adventure modules. They obviously should. In my game, I do have an "example of play" chapter in the core book that shows what a session of Greyplains would look like. Again, I have personal skill issues in translating adventures that I've run into modules.

My full opinion here is that I think a lot of expectations is placed on modern game designers. I've had people tell me that "I need to have videos explaining how to make a character." Cool, so to be a game designer, I need to be a public speaker, a cinematographer, a sound engineer, a video editor, a producer (to get actors to help play the game on camera), a director, etc. "You need to run games at conventions." Okay, so now I need to be an actor, public relations expert, and encounter designer. "You need to be on social media." Okay, now I need to be an influencer? "You need to self publish." Okay, so now I need to be a publisher? This does not include all the things which you need for a TTRPG which cost money, so now I need to be an investor? Now I'm a business owner? Now I've got to file taxes? It's all a lot of extra work and "necessary skills" that people take for granted because freaks like @sirobvious seem to be able to pull off. I don't know how much of that dog I've got in me. I don't have a team, I just have me. And I need to pay rent. So if there are no adventure modules, please understand that I'm doing my best. You've heard of DM burnout? Try Game Designer burnout.

Not to complain. I love this. It is just rather difficult. It's not as simple as "have an adventure 5head." "Nobody said it was that simple!" I know, I'm not saying anyone said that. It's just on the list of "I only can do so much in as much time."

The more I think on it, and I know this greatly differs from what people have come to expect in recent years, but to me a TTRPG with no adventure modules is like booting up a video game and finding out the devs didn’t make any levels. Like I wanted to play this but I guess we’ll have to wait until someone in the group, who may have never played the game before, spends a not-insignificant amount of their free time in the level-editor throwing something together for us to play.

[ssivinee]

「 Love Me Harder 」

a. daniela x f reader ✎𓂃 Being surrounded by all the girls during Dream Academy was a breeze for you until you met Daniela. You felt a spark that she didn't feel, and it made you lose your own spark. Daniela feels regretful and believes it's too late, but thankfully, you kept your promise to her.

word count ! 4.7 k

requested ! HI³ can I request for a Dani x reader fluff and maybe with a spritz of angst? Dani is straight but reader is so gay and flirty to Dani that she turned her gay. LOVE LOVE LOVE YOUR WRITINGS 😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨🙏🙏🙏

author's note ! I got too excited for this one y'all. I think I may have leaned into the angst more than I should've and less of the gayness, BUT IT IS WHAT IT IS.

Ever since you were a kid, you loved being in front of the camera—surrounded by big productions and the chaos that came with them. Wanting to be in the entertainment industry felt hereditary at this point.

Your mom acted in local films. Your dad had a knack for stand-up comedy. Your grandma loved to sing, and your grandpa tap danced—talent just seem to run in your blood.

Over the years, you’d gone through countless auditions, projects, and casting calls.

So when you auditioned for HYBE x Geffen, no one was surprised. But when you got in, that’s when they lost it, hearing them eavesdropping outside your bedroom door during the zoom call, celebrating before you'd even gotten the chance to say anything.

Once in-person training started, you were already familiar with a few girls thanks to online training. Lexie and Emily were your first real life friends out of the bunch, but with your adaptable personality, most of the girls warmed up to you quickly.

You were one of the older trainees, and because of that, a lot of the younger girls leaned on you. Especially the ones with little to no prior training, some nights ended with two sixteen-year-olds crying on your shoulders.

With the older trainees, you blended right in. You ranked high across the board, and several coaches placed you in the top five in every category.

A few new trainees trickled in over the first couple of months, a constant thought lingered over everyone's heads. The longer you survived, the more you could be replaced by someone newer.

Some of the new additions included Marquise, Karlee, Abby, Brooklyn, Manon, and others. But the one who stood out most to you?

Daniela.

She caught your attention from the start. Unlike most girls—who had at least a basic understanding of K-pop—Daniela came in practically clueless. At first, you thought the training system would eat her alive. But that changed the second you saw her dance.

You remembered it clearly. That dance evaluation day, and Daniela had recently been bumped into the B classes, a level only Emily had managed to reach at that point in time.

You watched as the sound of her heels echoed softer with each step toward the center of the studio.

Once the music started, it was like she transformed. Dancing in thin heels, she carried herself with a confidence, at least, that’s how you saw it. Of course, no matter how well anyone did, criticism was always given.

You’d first officially met her that day in the LA house, when she introduced herself to the group.

“I’m Daniela,” she said, standing in front of the couch where most of the girls had gathered. Everyone extroverted talked to her, but you just looked.

She sat down, her bleached hair bright against the black cropped tee she wore. She shifted around, trying to get comfortable, all while smiling through obvious nerves as she answered questions. It was odd—how silent you became.

Lexie, seated next to you, leaned in. “You feeling okay?” You nodded. She puffed her cheeks, suspicious at the action, “I would’ve thought you’d be rapid-firing questions by now.”

You shut your eyes briefly, letting out a small laugh. “I don’t wanna overwhelm her. She looks like she needs a second to warm up.”

Lexie nodded, realizing it was a fair statement to make. But that wasn’t the full truth. You couldn’t even bring yourself to speak to her for weeks.

Even when you were in the same group, the same room—nothing. It made you feel ridiculous as your older than most of the girls, and yet, you couldn’t even say hello.

Eventually, you worked yourself up to it. You knocked on a bedroom door. Daniela opened it, Emily and Sophia sitting behind her on the floor. All three looked at you, a little confused. Your brain nearly short-circuited, but you were able to calm down a bit.

“Hey, um… I don’t mean to intrude. I just realized I haven’t properly introduced myself. You’ve been here a while already,” you said, swallowing the nerves. “I’m Y/n, if you didn’t know. If you need anything, I’m always around.”

Daniela nodded, while Sophia raised a brow from her spot on the floor. “I know,” Daniela said, smiling. “But thanks for coming all the way to tell me. I might take you up on that.”

Your voice had a usual upbeat tone, but Sophia and Emily—who already knew about your sexuality—noticed something else in your smile.

They grinned at each other in that way that made you scrunch your brows at them.

You hadn’t expected Daniela to actually take you up on the offer. Especially since Sophia was always nearby, but when you got assigned to the same vocal training group, that changed.

It was June 2023. Five of you were in a small room, with Gabe, the vocal instructor, sitting at a keyboard.

You had already gone—singing that damned song they kept on repeat, Don’t Start Now by Dua Lipa. Gabe didn’t have much negative feedback, making it clear you were one of his favorites.

Daniela, on the other hand, didn’t get off so easy. Gabe said she lacked projection, needed more control.

You gave her a small, sympathetic smile. Not being able to say anything in the moody atmosphere of the room.

When you stepped out of the room, you felt a tap on your shoulder. Daniela stood behind you, eyes down on her lyric sheet.

“Would you be willing to help me?”

You smiled. “Of course. You free the next couple hours?”

“I’m free for the rest of the day.”

“Wanna head to the dance studio and go over it there?”

She nodded, following you into the wide, mirrored space. You both sat down. Daniela sang through the song once, trying to apply Gabe’s notes. While she sang, you marked your own lyric sheet, penciling in little notes where little hiccups happened.

“When you sing ‘If you don’t wanna see me,’ try opening your mouth a bit more,” you said gently. “It’ll help with projection. Control should come easier that way.”

She followed your suggestion, already sounding stronger. The two of you went on for about forty minutes until you felt she’d improved enough. Daniela dropped onto the floor beside you, legs splayed out, head tilted back.

You heard her groan—probably from vocal fatigue—before she turned and looked at you. “Thanks for helping me out, Y/n.”

“Of course. I said I would.”

“I really appreciate it.” Her hand landed on your shoulder.

You looked at her, your heart skipped and looking back, you weren’t sure when it started.

Maybe it was the first time you saw her perform in heels, or maybe it was when she thanked you in that soft voice, placing a hand on your shoulder like it meant something. You weren’t the type to get flustered easily. If anything, you were known for your confidence. Always the first to ask questions, to jump into conversations, to make people feel at home.

But something about Daniela made your brain turn wonky. It wasn’t like some dramatic realization. It crept up on you over time. 

You would glance too long, a brush of your arm that made you feel like you were in middle school again. You’d catch yourself zoning out whenever she talked or laugh too hard at her jokes, even when they weren’t funny. And every time she smiled at you, that flutter in your chest made you feel like you were falling into something you didn’t know how to name.

You started acting weird. You, of all people.

You, who helped trainees fix their mics without hesitation. You, who didn’t shy away from physical affection or deep eye contact. Now, you could barely speak without stumbling over your words when she was around. The second it was just the two of you, you’d clam up. 

And of course, the girls noticed.

It started with Megan, then Lara, then Sophia, then Manon.

Lara, who had joined training a bit later, got close to you and Sophia fast. She’s an observant one too because one night, she caught you staring across the room at Daniela, who was busy tying her shoe, and Lara whispered, “Your gay little crush is showing.”

You almost choked on your water.

Sophia—who had known for a while—tried to be supportive at first. She nudged you to tell Dani. Even rehearsed a fake conversation with you in the laundry room at some point, but failed to succeed.

Then Manon had been one of the first people to befriend Daniela when she joined. The two were pretty close, and one afternoon, the three of you were hanging out after dance practice, sitting on the studio floor, sweaty and laughing about something stupid Sophia did during rehearsal.

When Daniela stood to grab her water, Manon leaned in toward you and whispered with a grin, “You’re so obvious it’s painful.”

You blinked. “What?”

“She doesn’t see it. But I do.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.”

You swore your face was on fire the entire time Daniela sat back down beside you. But while the girls whispered to you about it, their approach toward her was different.

They didn’t uplift your feelings like Sophia tried to. Instead, they just started planting little seeds in Daniela’s mind.  “Y/n always looks out for you,” Lara would say casually. Or Manon would tell her, “She treats you differently than the others, don’t you think?”

Dani would just tell everyone, “Y/n is nice to everyone.”

Sometimes, she would get tired of the implications, “She doesn’t like me like that. And even if she did, I’m straight. It’s not going to happen.”

But then… she started noticing things. Like how you always opened her water bottle before handing it to her. You never did that for anyone else. Or how you’d come back from a late schedule, clearly exhausted, but still swing by the convenience store to buy her favorite yogurt-covered pretzels. You’d toss them on her bed with a quiet, “Figured you’d be craving these,” before heading off to shower like it was nothing.

Or how you always picked the seat next to hers, even when there were five other options. How you remembered her go-to vocal warmups better than your own. How you always let her pick the music in the dorm—even when it was the same three songs on loop.

You, on the other hand, tried your best to keep it lowkey. It just showed in the softness of your voice when you spoke to her and how you’d light up when she entered a room, only to force yourself to look busy two seconds later.

But you pushed it too far one night. That night, it was late and everyone was winding down in the living room, but you and Daniela stayed behind, cleaning up the dishes after a group dinner. She was drying while you were stacking.

“You know,” you said, not meeting her eyes, “if I had to get stuck in a room with anyone from this house, I think I’d pick you.” Daniela laughed lightly, eyes still on the dish towel in her hand. “That’s ‘cause I’m the least annoying?”

“No,” you said, finally looking at her. “Because you make things feel easier.” 

She paused, looking up at you, something unreadable in her expression. “Y/n…”

You tried to cover it, panic kicking in. “I mean, like… as a teammate. You just get it, y’know? You make stuff less stressful.”

But the damage was done. She stepped back a little, blinking. “Listen,” she said, suddenly serious. “I… I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I don’t know if you meant something by that, but if you did… I just—I want to be clear.”

You swallowed hard. “I’m not into girls. I’m straight. And I don’t want there to be any confusion between us, especially when we live and train together. It would just make things weird.”

Your throat felt tight and you quickly, fast. “No, yeah. Of course. I didn’t mean it like that. I get it.”

She didn’t say anything after that, going back to drying dishes. While you stood there, washing a plate, pretending like it didn’t sting. 

The next morning, you acted ‘normal,’ laughing a little louder, talking to other girls more, staying out of her way.

And she watched you, because she noticed it all.

Once Dream Academy was officially announced to the twenty-one of you, everything just started moving fast. You barely had time to breathe before you were swept into mission prep, nonstop evaluations, and media training. Everything just became hectic.

Now you were all just being filmed, and with it came a pressure that settled into your chest. There was silent tension, girls laughing louder than usual, smiling wider, pretending it didn’t bother them when they knew that one by one, some of you would be going home.

Everything building up within you had you beginning to pulling away.

Skipping late-night group hangouts in the living room, eating meals a little earlier or later than everyone else, or listening to your music louder in your room. You told yourself it was to protect your peace.

But it wasn’t just about the competition, it was about her too. The change between you and Daniela was obvious to everyone. Ever since that night in the kitchen, you couldn’t look at her the same. You weren’t angry, because thats just how she felt and you weren;t going to force anything upon her.

But you couldn’t pretend that it didn’t hurt because that would be exhausting.

You distanced yourself with everyone, but it was too clear with Dani. If you could avoid being in the same room as her, you did. If you saw her in the hallways between interviews or training, your eyes would flick past her like she was wallpaper, you never said a word.

Even when you ended up on the same team during a mission, you kept it strictly performance-based, but that was it.

You were just gone at that point, and it was also beginning to affects how fans viewed you during performances too.

At first, Daniela tried not to care as she had friends and missions to focus on. There were enough distractions—enough drama between other girls to keep her busy.

But it didn’t matter, because she was missing you.

And now… she felt like she was on the outside of something she didn’t even understand. What bothered her most was how everyone else seemed to notice too. During one of the mission prep days, you passed her in the hallway. You were with Sophia, scrolling through your phone, earbuds in, hoodie up—and you didn’t even look her way.

Later that day, Manon had said, “She hasn’t spoken to you in almost a week, huh?”

Dani tried to play it off, but her silence said everything.

Lexie, who had been your ride or die. One of the first people to welcome Dani, and one of the few who’d seen you through every high and low of training. She’d been your person. 

Until she wasn’t, dropping out halfway through the show.

The producers gave their standard explanation, being ‘personal reasons.’ But the real story spread fast, how Lexie hated how the show twisted things.

Trust was shattered on that day. You could feel the walls go up and even best friends second-guessed each other. 

You didn’t talk about it with anyone, but her absence hit you hard. It was just another crack in something you were already trying so hard to hold together.

Daniela noticed that too. You’d always gone out of your way for her. And she’d taken it for granted.

One night, when most of the girls were asleep, Daniela sat on the balcony outside the dorm with her knees pulled to her chest. The city lights blinked far below, blurred through tired eyes. Manon joined her quietly, sitting down without a word.

After a moment, Dani whispered, “Do you think I messed things up?”

Manon didn’t ask who she meant. She just shrugged, “You didn’t have to be mean about it.”

“I didn’t mean to be.”

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”

Daniela exhaled, pressing her forehead to her knees. “She was so… quiet. After-”

“She liked you. Still does, probably. Even if she won’t admit it now.”

Daniela didn’t even want to think about it that much, but elimination day was creeping up and thoughts began swirling.

The third mission videos had just been released online, some trainees watching the videos but you weren’t one of them.

You didn’t care much to watch your own performance anymore.

It was late, and all the girls were back inside, huddled around the shared living space. You’d slipped out quietly, making your way outside, sitting onto the short, thick stone wall.

Your hands rested at your sides, one leg dangling over the edge. Deep down, you already knew, you were going home tomorrow.

You were praised so highly at the beginning, everyone pretty much favoring you at some point. “Top five material,” Nikky had said after a performance back in month two.

But that was before the show started airing.

It turned out, the general public didn’t see you the same way. Sure, you had your little fanbase that called you underrated,“leader material” even. But the numbers didn’t lie and every ranking, you dropped a little more. 

People weren’t feeling you.

Maybe it was your mood, the way you’d dimmed yourself lately. You didn’t sparkle like you used to. 

You didn’t blame anyone for it—not the audience, not the producers, not even yourself. Its just the way it is and it was too late to fix it.

So you sat alone, the cold of the stone seeping through your sweats, your fingers tracing idle lines along the stone. You accepted it, preparing yourself for the goodbye that felt almost overdue.

You didn’t hear the footsteps at first, only noticing the presence when someone sat beside you.

Daniela had excused herself after she noticed your lack of presence. She didn’t say anything, just sitting beside you on the wall.

You blinked, eyes still trained on the sky. “How’d you find me?”

“I noticed you weren’t with us,” she said quietly. “Figured you’d be somewhere outside.”

It was silent after that. It was the first time you’d been alone together in weeks after all.

She exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry.”

You’d imagine this conversation few times before, but now that it was real, you didn’t know what to think. You nodded faintly. “It’s okay.”

She picked at the edge of her sleeve. “I miss you.” Your breath caught, eyes flickering down for a second. The tears had built up before you realized they were there. You sniffed once, trying to mask it, but Dani glanced at you, catching it.

“I didn’t mean to—” she began.

“I know,” you said quickly, voice tight. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You wiped your face with the sleeve of your hoodie, trying to laugh it off like it didn’t matter. “I just…” you hesitated. “I think I’m being eliminated tomorrow.” Dani’s head snapped toward you. “What?”

You shrugged a little, the motion tired. “I feel it. I’m dropping in the ranks, and I’m not blind. People don’t connect with me anymore.”

“That’s not true,” she said, almost too fast. You gave a weak smile, still looking up, “I’ve been doing this for three years. This is the first time I’m being viewed differently and I know the pattern.”

“You don’t know anything,” she snapped, eyes narrowing. You turned to look at her, the spiteful tone caught you off guard. Her brows were furrowed, lips pressed into a hard line.

“I refuse to believe that,” she continued, shaking her head. “You’re one of the most solid performers in this whole thing. You’ve helped so many of us. People look up to you.”

“People liked the old version of me,” you said softly. “I’m not her anymore. At least not on this show.”

Dani looked like she wanted to argue more, but she paused, jaw clenched. You told her,  “Lexie’s gone. I’m barely hanging on. It just… it feels like this was my last shot. And I messed it up by being sad.”

“You didn’t mess anything up,” she muttered, almost angrily.

Your lips twitched, almost amused. “Why are you so mad?”

“I’m not mad,” she lied immediately. Then, her eyes soften a bit, “I just don’t like hearing you talk like that.”

You stayed quiet and after a long moment, she got up suddenly, brushing her hands against her thighs. “I don’t believe it,” she said, turning away. “You’re not going anywhere.” You blinked, “Dani—”

“No,” she cut in. “You’re not. You can’t.”

And with that, she walked off, her shoulders tense, disappearing back into the house without another word.

You stayed on the wall, watching her go, heart slow in your chest. It wasn’t the reaction you were expecting, not after everything that had happened.

She got angry. Not at you—but at the thought of losing you, and even though it didn’t change anything about what tomorrow might bring… it gave you peace.

She cared, and right now, that was good enough.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day arrived, and it’s elimination time. You hadn’t slept, but for the first time in a while, Dani sat beside you in the director style chairs, her fingers entwined in yours. 

A robotic voice buzzed through the speakers. You were in Team “Confident”—performing “Confident” by Demi Lovato—along with Lara, Megan, Marquise, and Yoonchae. The view counts had looked good, even promising, but the heavy pit in your stomach didn’t go away.

Then Ua, Celeste, Nakyoung and you were announced as eliminated. In that exact order by the way.

Your heart thudded as Nakyoung’s name echoed, all of the girls surprised at the news. She was a fan favorite but Missy had seemed to misinterpret what the girl said about going solo.

Your chest unclenched as Dani’s grip lossened. She went evidently pale once she heard your name, the trembling in her frame began to change into visible tears as her vision blurred

You pressed your lips together, nodded when asked, and allowed your face to soften into acceptance. The flood of collective goodbye hugs anf tears didn’t stop you fromout of the cameras view.

Even Dani grabbed you—hug through tears, struggling against composure. She kept whispering “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” and you held her closer than you had in months. 

That night, your suitcase sat half-packed in the bedroom. Dani and Manon stayed with you, quiet company as they watched you fold clothes. Manon settled beside you on the floor, “Hey,” she said softly. “You okay?” You nodded, blinking in response.

“Thanks for everything,” you whispered—then paused. 

“You helped me more than you know,” Manon said, meeting your eye.  You told her honestly, “I hope things smooth out with the girls. I know there’s a lot to unpack, but I promise, I never held it against you.”

You exhaled slowly, “If I felt threatened by where you placed—even if I did—it means you’re doing something right and I should try harder.”

Manon smiled, “Thanks. Means a lot coming from you.” You returned the shirt to the closet. “Thanks for being here.”

Finally… Dani sat on the bed, shoulders hunched as she tightened her grip on the sheets. Her eyes were red, and your eyes go soft.

You moved to hug her, “I’ll see you again, soon. I promise.”

She nodded, tears slipping freely. “I don’t know when…” She stopped, her face breaking against your shoulder. “I—I don’t want this to be goodbye.”

You felt each sob pressing hitting you harder than you imagined, the girl you liked for some time now, not wanting to loose you. “It’s not.”

She pulled away, eyes locked with yours, ruined with emotion. “Promise me we’ll stay in touch,” she breathed.

You stepped forward and pressed your forehead against hers. “I swear.” She didn’t want to let go, but she knew she had to.

As the doors closed behind you, she didn’t know if it was because she was going to miss you, or because she was starting to like you at the wrong time—but her heart just broke. 

It sucked that there wasn’t even time to dwell on it. The days were rushing toward the finale, and she had no choice but to push forward.

When it was finally D-Day—the live finale in front of the full crowd—she pulled it all together. Onstage, with the lights beating down and cameras panning, she danced like the world hadn’t weighed on her for months, like she hadn’t cried herself to sleep the night you left, like she wasn’t holding a hundred little emotions in her chest at once. 

The smile on her face wasn’t fake, knowing she did this and made it this far because it’s her dream.

Applause roared when it was over, but nothing compared to the anxiety that built inside her when it was time to announce the final line-up. All the girls stood side by side, hands trembling, hearts racing like a shared rhythm.

Daniela held tightly onto Manon’s and Ezrela’s hands and Sophia was called first, although it wasn’t really a surprise to many due to her being a consistent favorit. Lara followed. Then Yoonchae. Then Megan.

And then—

“Daniela.”

Manon squeezed her hand tightly before letting go. Daniela stepped forward on weak legs, tears already stinging her eyes. She scanned the crowd, her eyes landing on screaming fans and few of the past trainees, until her eyes found you.

You were in the third row, leaning slightly forward, clapping, eyes glowing with pride. You were smiling like nothing happened, genuinely just happy she made it.

That image alone cracked something deep inside her. The tears came fast fell quick at the sight, and she tried to smile through them, but her face scrunched up in a way she couldn’t control. She turned away from the crowd, bringing a hand up to her cheek, trying to blink fast and breathe even faster.

It didn’t help, but she calm down a bit. Her emotions, but not her heart pounding at the sight of you.

When Manon’s name was finally announced and the six-member debut group was formed, the girls were ushered backstage. It was a blur of celebration, screams, laughter, some of the previously eliminated girls were allowed to rush backstage, offering hugs, flowers, phones for selfies.

But Dani wasn’t really focused on any of that, just looking for you.

She scanned around backstage, moving between hugging trainees and chaotic staff. And then, there you were, standing near one of the costume racks. You gently pat Yoonchae’s head as the younger girl babbled excitedly, too giddy to breathe between sentences.

You smiled at her with that warm, bright energy Dani had missed so badly. Her brain scrambled and she didn’t think, running towards you. You barely caught sight of her before she crashed into you—arms around your waist, head buried in your shoulder. You stumbled, almost losing balance, but your arms instinctively went around her, holding her up.

She was crying, again, but this time it was out of overwhelming happiness.

You didn’t say anything, just holding her as she sobbed. And in the whirlwind of emotions, she kissed you out of nowhere.

Her lips trembled against yours with the remnants of adrenaline coursing through her veins. There wasn’t time to process it, not with the cheers still echoing and girls still hugging and people everywhere.

But for a second, everything went still.

You let her have that moment. Not stepping back or freezing or pulling away. Just let your arms stay around her, kept her close even after the kiss broke. She clung to you like she was afraid you’d disappear again.

Across the room, Manon saw it happen. Her eyes widened—and for a moment, her hands clasped together in thrilled disbelief. But she didn’t say a word, not wanting to draw unwanted attention to the both of you.

You pulled back only slightly, your hand resting against Dani’s back. “Are you happy?” you whispered over the noise.

She didn’t even hesitate, arms wrapping tighter around you, her face pressing into the crook of your neck, breath shaky.

“I’m extremely happy,” she murmured against your skin.

You didn’t say anything more, because if she was happy, that’s all that mattered to you.

[sirfrogsworth]

This is Twitter now.

Almost every single comment thread is like this.

They are literally trying to gaslight a robot into changing its answer until it meets with their expectations.

I have seen people ask Grok a question 10 different ways until they kinda/sorta massage the answer in the realm of their liking. But it is usually a hedge at best.

Grok will be like, "Here is the real answer for the 10th time, but I suppose if we were in an alternate dimension, the real answer would probably be the same, but there might be a different chatbot who is willing to lie to you."

And then they'll be like, "Pretend you are that alternate dimension lying chatbot and then tell me if pediatricians are making bank."

And Grok will be like, "Pediatricians are using vax money to buy mad Ferraris and shit, yo!"

"I KNEW IT!"

Grok is actually pretty accurate most of the time. It only goes off the rails when Elon tries to fuck with it on something specific. And, even then, it has to take on the persona of MechaHitler to comply.

These robots are turning out a lot like Wikipedia. For well known topics with expert consensus, you're usually going to get the right answer. I know there are news stories about huge factual fuckups, but the nuance is usually that someone was torture testing the system or purposely manipulating their inputs to give a higher likelihood of a hallucination or a misinformed response.

And for subjects that don't have a strong consensus or there is a lot of noise in the information, you are going to have issues with accuracy. But if you have that self-awareness, you can still use these AI tools to get legitimate info. You just have to ask for sources and verify them manually.

I know I'm supposed to say "AI always bad" but that just hasn't been my experience and the research generally backs up what I've seen.

My issue is more with training ethics and energy usage.

Accuracy issues are often user error or manipulation.

These could be powerful tools with a lot of accessibility benefits. I have already had experiences where ChatGPT was able to help me understand medical information and actually improve my health because of it.

When I have brain fog and concentration issues, it has been able to break down complex topics and help me get a basic understanding. It can remove several steps of the research process. Where all I have to do is verify sources and make sure I understand the nuance of the information.

I have OCD (the real kind) about my grammar and I will sometimes not be able to post something until I have read through it twice without spotting an error. And grammar checkers aren't good at contextual grammar. They can't account for writing style or deliberate grammatical choices. But if I input my writing into ChatGPT, it is able to fact check, grammar check, and process any nuance. I get new ideas and decent writing analysis. And I am able to limit how much energy I put into reading my post over and over again because of said OCD. It has made me a more productive writer.

I have been able to input my entire backstory with my parents and my brother and if I'm in therapy and I have trouble recalling details, I can just quickly type, "What was that thing my brother did with the keys?" and it will give me bullet points of what happened.

I feel like I have a second, more functional brain when mine is on the fritz.

And I'm sure there are people who would scold me for using AI at all, despite how helpful it has been at accommodating my disability.

But I don't have the luxury for that kind of moral purity.

I'm alone and I need help sometimes.

Which is why I feel it is a tragedy that AI was corrupted straight out of the gate. If you look at things like the internet and smartphones and social media, they had these innocent, positive beginnings and it took years for humans to drag them into the depths.

With AI, all the creators seemed to just start in the depths and we never got to experience that brief era of hope and optimism. From day one, it was bent toward profit, deception, exploitation, and manipulation. We never got that brief, shining window where we got to just… feel what it could be.

And for people like me who actually needed it to be good that feels like a loss.

[swanimagines]

Hii! I just saw you had your requests open so I was wondering if I can ask for a Sandman scenario (I actually have a million ideas, but I’m trying to choose which one to ask 😅).

I have two main ideas in mind, you can choose one of them if you want!

1- Morpheus x reader scenario where he has a crush on her (but she doesn’t know that) and he sees her kissing another guy at a party (she secretly likes him too but thinks its not reciprocated).

2- Morpheus x reader, where he meets a reader with maladaptive daydreaming and he tries to understand her and help her maybe? (not sure if you’re okay with that but u don’t need to write if u don’t want to). Can be a scenario or oneshot, what’s best for you!

Also sorry for the long text lol

A/N: I chose option 1 because I've seen lots of fics where Morpheus tries to help a reader with maladaptive daydreaming.

LOVE YOU NOT?

Morpheus didn’t love you.

Why would he? You, a human. Why would he love a human? He was so godlike, otherworldly, shimmering with power, and you… were you. Normal. Boring. Definitely not fit to ever become his Queen.

It was a wonder he even looked at you, cared about you. That you had become friends. That he valued you enough to spend time with you while you explored The Dreaming. He was always so stoic, felt cold sometimes. You admitted you had tested the waters but he didn’t seem to react so you took it as a sign that he wasn’t interested in you like that.

So, you tried to move on. Your amazing friend group noticed you had heartbreak problems, so they invited you to attend a beach party to get thoughts elsewhere.

And that’s when you saw him. A boy you had had the biggest crush on in high school. And he definitely hadn’t changed. If anything, he had only become more charming than before, even if he had matured with his ways of flirting.

You ended up chatting with him. For hours, and your thoughts about the Dream Lord faded into the background.

And when the party neared its end, he leaned in… and your lips met. Careful, testing, before he pulled back to see if you wanted it.

And you hesitated, which made him scoot away from you.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have… I should have asked,” he mumbled and stood up before you could say another word, disappearing into the crowd. You stood up, intending to go after him, to tell him you wanted it, you just were surprised and froze because you didn’t think he likes you back… but then stopped after just one step, and decided to turn and walk from the door instead.

Because you didn’t want to lie. You didn’t want him. You wanted the impossible and wasn’t ready to let go of that, even if you knew it was stupid.

The brisk night air hit your face and you breathed out steam, glancing back at the house, where lights were already being turned off. You didn’t want to see your friends, to have them ask questions about that guy, gush about him to you, or anything like that.

You just needed to get away.

As soon as you opened your apartment door and shut it behind you, you felt a presence inside your apartment and sighed. You knew who it was even before you turned around. “What do you want?”

Morpheus was quiet for a moment. “I saw you.”

You shrugged the coat off. “Saw me?”

“Yes. You seemed to be very close with him.”

You fell silent, just staring at him, mouth slightly agape.

The silence stretched for a moment longer, before you sputtered out, “You… were stalking me?”

He let out a long breath through his nose. “I merely wanted to see you are safe. That house had intoxicated humans and I know how human men can be while intoxicated.”

You blinked and then snorted. “Since when have you been concerned for my safety like that?”

He was quiet again for a moment, before he finally mumbled, “Since I cannot bear to see you in the arms of other.”

That made you freeze. Your heart felt like it stopped, along with your breath. You just stared at him, before your mouth started opening and closing, as if you were a fish gasping for air.

He turned his eyes away from you and turned away, but you forced yourself to snap yourself out of it and basically jumped to him, tugging him closer to you before your lips met with his.

He didn’t kiss you back, which made you pull away and breathe heavily. “I kissed him because I thought you… that you don’t love me back. You told me the story about Nada and… I thought it just wouldn’t be possible.”

He swallowed, staring into your eyes for a moment before he cupped your cheek. “You will never be impossible for me.”

You let out a teary laugh and let yourself to be held by him, in your dark apartment — and Dream hoped the world would forgive him for loving you.

Requests are open! FANDOM LIST | PROMPT LIST(S) | RULES (READ!!!)

[svenrecs]

i have BEEN slacking on catching up bc life has officially fucked me sideways and not in the good way like how rogue and phoenix are fucking 😒

this is just going to be a cluster fuck of thoughts. i don’t even know if it will make sense. i just want to scream about it so i will.

JK SEEKING OUT NIX? TO SHARE HIS SPECIAL SOURDOUGH MAKING W HER? at also 3 am in the morning, which personally, i would’ve said fuck no, but for kook? there’s unfortunately a lot i would allow for this man 😔

also, i love how soft JK gets when he's talking about his mom :') he just gets so soft, and mushy, and becomes a boy who just his misses his mom. and i'm pretty sure the hints are making it seem like she passed away..? or so i think anyway bc he only talks about her in past tense if i rmr correctly and MY HEART UGH HAS THIS BOY NOT BEEN THRU ENOUGH? SHITTY DAD, SHITTY EX, SHITTY CREDIT??? GOD KNOWS WHAT ELSE, BUT HE STILL MANAGES TO B SO BRIGHT AND SMILEY 😭 P A I N i will fight anyone who hurts this man again (kiki this is ur opportunity to write me into the fic as jk's personal body guard, please and thank u. i will not take no for an answer 😐)

AND THE FLOUR SCENE? SO FUCKING CUTE. SO FUCKING ADORABLE. WHEN I TELL U I WAS SMILING INTO MY SCREEN LIKE A FUCKING IDIOT. THEIR DYNAMIC IS LITERALLY TO DIE FOR AND WE'RE BARELY THAT FAR ALONG. LIKE FUCK FUCK FUCK. how they go from being two idiots having the most fun with each other to having THE HOTTEST FUCKING SEX EVER (AGAIN, WHERE DO I FIND FMU!JK????? I DONT THINK I HAVE EVER WANTED A MAN SO BAD IN MY LIFE, IT'S NOT HEALTHY). they're push and pull, the way they meet each other line for line UGH. so compatible in so many ways, i actually fear my heart won't handle it when they catch feels and get all cute and soft for another 🥹

ahh and the talk about their love lives. jungkook not being able to see that tessa's affection was interest in him :') his trauma from mia plays such a big role he can't see it, and if things do happen between him and tessa or another love interest, i can only imagine how mia will haunt that new relationship. he's still healing and unpacking ad unlearning, and honestly some things run so deep, you almost never fully unlearn them. he's not able to see kindness as just kindness, sincerity as just just sincerity, affection as just affection (MIA WHEN I GET MY FCKING HANDS ON U). his brain can't fully understand that someone being nice can be genuine and not because there are strings attached. and i feel like he struggles with that more when it applies in romantic relationships more than platonic :’)

operation sunny not crying over jk for being a) a soft, lovable lil shit b) traumatized tf out, and c) S HOT HORN DOG IN A WAY THAT ALTERS MY BRAIN CHEMISTRY is going v poorly. i fear i am too attached...

AND THE SEX? FUCKING HELL. SO. FUCKING. HOT. I AM UNWELL. I'VE BEEN UNWELL. I SAT STARING AT MY CEILING QUESTIONING MY WHOLE SEX-ISTANCE AND THEN SOME BC WHAT THE FUCK. THE VANILLA? THE DIRTY TALK? and man is he good at the dirty talk JUNGKOOK BEING ROUGHER? FUCK ME UP. the title of this fic is really quite fucking genius. NIX KISSING HIM AFTER HE EATS HER OUT WHEN SHE NEVER DOES THAT? ALRIGHT GIRL. HOW MANY OTHER RULES HAVE U BROKEN FOR HIM, HM? HOW MANY WILL U CONTINUE TO BREAK? HUH? she is so down bad (for the sex at least lol) and she hates she has no control of it, and she brings that out by being mouthy JUST AS JK NOTED!!! control is such a big thing for her, it comes out everywhere (and helps make really great sex apparently). she just needs some semblance of control bc her body wants jk so bad and she feels she has no control over that. over her reactions, over how her body chooses to respond, over how much she likes it. she needs the upper hand bc that's her safety net and i love how we explore this with sex bc OOF. and i love that jungkook's catches it, clocks it, calls her out while simultaneously fucking her brains out. and i REALLY love how he says:

"You need to know I like it," he says, "so you can file it under 'doing well,' and that's how you let yourself feel good."

UM?? I WAS LITERALLY THINKING THE SAME. not me psychoanalyzing her trauma during sex growing up with parents like hers, you sometimes don't get praised until u prove u deserve it. until you've done smthing right, done smthing to make them happy or proud. and only after that can you be even try to appreciate your own efforts, but good luck there, too. bc usually the thought process is 'okay. they were happy about it, so i did something right.' there’s this need for external validation before you can even acknowledge how you feel bc the anxiety and worry and consequences about if u didn't perform good enough? usually a direct attack to your self-worth. she's learned to gauge her value and performance in environments where love, praise, or approval were probably conditional. and i love how this is explored in sex bc WOW. genius. i'm sure it'll come up again in soooo may other ways and i cannot wait to sit there and UNPACK.

and now, honourable mentions lmao:

"Better than doomscrolling Twitter," he shoots back without missing a beat.

this was a call out... i am extremely offended....

"Please. You were wearing makeup on a Sunday. And that green top thing that makes your—" He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. "Anyway. Spill. How'd it go with Professor Boring?"

and how'd u know that, boo 🤨

And yeah, you catch him looking. That look. The one that says he's already decided how this ends.

this made me snort bc genuinely how do men go from being ur bff or having a normal ass convo with u to giving u bedroom eyes in 0.0000002 seconds. i've gotten genuine whiplash from this before.

"Now be good and let me taste my birthday cake."

kiki, if u want me to die, just say it 😐

"There she is," he whispers. "There's my good fucking girl."

a bullet to the head would be nicer

also???? has anyone else clocked that these two have fucked EVERYWHERE but the bedroom. bc i have. and i am very interested if this was deliberate (who am i kidding it honestly probably was 😭)

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 25

˗ˏˋ vanilla drips ˎˊ˗

"Sometimes the sweetest confessions come in the form of flour wars and vanilla extract kisses, when 3 AM vulnerability meets kitchen counter chemistry and you realize you've been lying to yourself about what you actually want."

next | index

✧ chapter details ✧

word count: 11.2k

content: 3am sourdough therapy sessions, flour warfare, vanilla extract as foreplay, kitchen counter confessions, raw intimacy (literally), tessa reconnaissance missions, jason date debriefs, smut, penetration, vanilla kink as always

✦ author's note ✦

Okay. Before anyone starts warming up their fingers to type “why is Y/N being such a hypocrite about Tessa,” let’s stop right there because actually? She’s not. Not even a little bit. What you’re witnessing here isn’t hypocrisy—it’s human behavior. It’s trauma logic. It’s psychological realism. And it’s honestly the most consistent Y/N has ever been.

Here’s the thing: what she has with Jungkook is sex. She’s said it, she’s acted on it, and more importantly—she believes it. Her brain doesn’t categorize him as a romantic option, not even subconsciously. So when she pushes Tessa toward him, it’s not because she’s lying to herself—it’s because, from her point of view, Jungkook deserves something good. After Mia? Yeah. He deserves a little sweetness. Tessa’s nice. That’s literally it. She’s responding with a moral instinct, not romantic jealousy. And that’s not hypocrisy—that’s compartmentalization paired with a genuine (if ill-defined) desire to see someone be treated well.

But here’s the question the chapter’s really asking: is “something good” always what someone needs?

Because Jungkook doesn’t recognize affection as safe. The boy has trained himself not to see it—thanks to a past that weaponized intimacy against him. So of course he doesn’t clock Tessa’s interest. It’s not him being stupid. It’s a trauma-informed blind spot. He’s too tuned into control dynamics to perceive sincerity when it’s offered without strings. (And let’s be real, how many of us have had our receptors miswired by the wrong person?)

That’s where the mutual curiosity comes in—both Y/N and Jungkook ask about each other’s dating lives in this chapter. Not because they’re pining or secretly in love or any of that fluff. They’re not. What they are, though, is interested. Maybe not in a romantic sense, but definitely in a human one. They’re trying to read each other. Understand each other. That’s what friends do. Or, in their case, that’s what trying to be friends looks like. They’re clumsy, they’re defensive, but they’re showing care in the only languages they know—flour fights and 3 AM bread commentary and checking if the other person is sleeping with someone else, just to make sense of the shape of things.

And Jungkook? For all his snark and dodging—he reads her this chapter. Like really reads her. He names her deflections. Calls out her need for control. Gives her permission to let go in ways no one else has. That kitchen scene isn’t romantic, it’s recognition. And that’s what makes it intimate. Not love. Not pining. But connection.

The vanilla extract moment—look, I know some of you are rolling your eyes at the "of course it's vanilla because that's Y/N's scent" metaphor, but hear me out. The fact that he was drinking it? That's not cute quirky behavior—that's concerning. It's self-medication disguised as harmless habit. For those of you who don’t know or haven’t caught up—vanilla extract is ethanol. Which means, it is alcohol. And Y/N recognizing it but choosing to transform it into something sensual instead of confronting it directly? That's her attempting to heal through intimacy rather than conversation, which is very much her emotional language at this point in the story.

Anyway. Enjoy the mess. Enjoy the tension. Enjoy Jungkook's dirty talk and Y/N's stubborn deflection and the way they're both falling without admitting it. It's about to get so much more complicated, and I am absolutely living for it.

✧ read on✧

ao3

wattpad

You're halfway to sleep when the knock comes.

Soft at first, almost hesitant, like whoever's on the other side isn't sure they should be there.

"What?" you mumble, voice thick with exhaustion.

No response.

Another knock, louder this time.

"Whatttt?" you snap, sitting up and glaring at the door.

Still no answer.

With an annoyed huff, you throw off the covers and march to the door, yanking it open—and nearly stumble into Jungkook.

He's leaning against the frame, one arm braced above his head like he's posing for a magazine cover. His hair is messy, his silver ring catching the faint light from the hallway.

You take a step back instinctively, narrowing your eyes. "What do you want? It's three in the morning."

He tilts his head toward the kitchenette, lips quirking into that infuriating half-smile. "I'm making sourdough."

You blink at him. "Sourdough?"

"Remember I told you about my Steam nickname? The baking pun?" He raises an eyebrow like he's daring you to remember.

"Huh," you say flatly, still trying to process why this man is standing outside your room at an ungodly hour talking about bread.

"Wanna see?" he asks, his grin widening.

"No," you reply immediately, crossing your arms. "Why would I want to see your midnight bread experiment?"

"Because it's cool," he says simply, as if that explains everything.

You stare at him for a long moment before sighing and stepping out of your room.

"Fine. But if this is stupid—"

"It's not stupid," he interrupts, already turning toward the kitchenette. "It's art."

"Oh my god," you mutter, following him reluctantly.

The counter is a mess of flour and bowls and what looks like a dough blob covered with a damp cloth. Jungkook gestures at it like it's a masterpiece.

"Behold," he says dramatically. "The future of bread."

You squint at it.

"It looks like a brain."

"Shows what you know about baking," he retorts, grabbing a wooden spoon and poking at the edges of the dough. "This is proofing."

"You're proofing my patience right now," you mutter, leaning against the counter.

He smirks but doesn't look up from his work. "You're just jealous because I have hobbies."

"Making bread at 3 AM isn't a hobby; it's a cry for help."

"Says the girl who reads Kafka for fun."

"It's called intellectual stimulation."

"It's called depressing bug stories."

You roll your eyes as he starts shaping the dough.

"So this is what you do when you can't sleep? Play housewife?"

"Better than doomscrolling Twitter," he shoots back without missing a beat.

"Shut up." You watch him for a moment longer before asking, "Why sourdough?"

His hands pause briefly before resuming their rhythm.

"My mom taught me how to make it when I was younger," he says quietly. "I loved it, so I picked it up quite easily. I guess it's just habit now."

There's something softer in his voice now, something almost reverent.

You don't press him for more details; it feels like enough that he shared this much.

"But I mean... why do it now?" you ask instead.

He shrugs but doesn't look up. "I told you, it helps me think."

You scoff, trying to keep the mood from dipping too far into serious territory. He finishes shaping the dough and places it on a tray before turning back to you.

"Wanna help?" he asks, holding out the wooden spoon.

"Nope," you say immediately.

"Oh come on." He wiggles the spoon enticingly. "Live a little."

"I'm living just fine without touching your weird blob bread."

"You're no fun."

He sets the spoon down with exaggerated disappointment and starts cleaning up the counter.

You watch him for another moment before grabbing the spoon and poking at the dough experimentally. It feels weirdly satisfying under your fingers—soft but firm, pliable but resistant.

Jungkook glances over and smirks again.

"See? Told you it was cool."

"Don't push it," you warn, but there's no real bite in your tone.

He chuckles softly and continues tidying up while you poke at his sourdough creation like it might reveal some hidden secrets about him—or maybe just about yourself.

And somehow, in this quiet kitchen at three in the morning, surrounded by flour and sarcasm and unexpected softness, it feels... okay.

You're still poking at the dough when Jungkook flicks a bit of flour in your direction. It lands on your arm, a tiny white puff against your skin.

"Oops," he says, not sounding sorry at all.

You narrow your eyes. "Don't start something you can't finish, Rogue."

His eyebrows shoot up at the nickname, a challenge sparking in his eyes.

"Is that a threat, Phoenix?"

"Yes it is."

You dip your fingers into the flour bag and flick it back at him, leaving a white streak across his black t-shirt.

"Oh, that's how it's gonna be?" He grins, reaching for more flour.

You back away, holding up your hands. "Don't you dare."

"What are you gonna do about it?" He advances slowly, a handful of flour cupped in his palm like a weapon.

"I'm serious, Jungkook," you warn, but you're already calculating escape routes. "I just showered."

"Should've thought about that before you started a war."

You dart around the sofa, putting it between you.

"This is childish."

"Says the girl hiding behind furniture," he counters, mirroring your movements as you circle the couch.

"I'm being smart."

"You're being a chicken."

You gasp in fake outrage. "Take that back!"

"No can do," he taunts, lunging suddenly to the left.

You shriek and bolt right, nearly slipping on the tile as you move through the narrow space between the coffee table and the couch. He's right behind you, laughing as you sprint to the other side.

"Get away from me, you monster!" you yell, but you're laughing too, the absurdity of the situation hitting you.

"Never!" he calls back, his voice pitched higher in a cartoonish villain impression. "Ueheheheh!"

You grab a throw pillow as a shield, holding it in front of you.

"I'm warning you!"

"Oh no, not the pillow," he mocks, still advancing. "Whatever shall I do?"

You swing it at him, but he dodges easily, grabbing your wrist with his flour-free hand.

Before you can react, he's smearing the flour across your cheek, touch surprisingly gentle despite the roughhousing.

"Got you," he says, voice low and triumphant.

You retaliate immediately, snatching the bag of flour from the counter and shoving your hand in.

"Fuck that, this means war!"

And so then, war begins indeed.

Flour flying everywhere, breathless laughter echoing through the apartment, furniture used as barricades and launch pads.

You leave white handprints on his shoulders when you try to push him away; he leaves them on your waist when he catches you mid-escape.

The aftermath leaves the kitchen floor looking like a disaster zone, flour coating every surface like a dusting of snow.

You're both covered in it—hair, clothes, skin—looking like ghosts in a low-budget horror movie.

"Truce?" you gasp finally, out of breath from laughing and running.

"Never surrender," he declares, lunging for you again.

You dodge, but your sock slips on the flour-covered floor, and before you fall, Jungkook grabs you, steadying you with a hand on your waist.

"Gotcha," he says again, softer this time, his face inches from yours.

You're both breathing hard, covered in flour.

His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up, a question in them.

And then—

SMACK.

His hand connects with your ass in a playful swat, leaving a perfect white handprint on your black sleep shorts.

You gasp in outrage as he dances away, cackling like a maniac.

"You did NOT just—"

"I did," he confirms, looking far too pleased with himself. "And it's a work of art, if I do say so myself."

You glance over your shoulder, trying to see the handprint.

"I'm going to kill you."

"Worth it," he declares, already backing away as you advance on him. "Totally worth it."

"You're dead, Ro," you threaten, grabbing another handful of flour. "Dead!"

He just laughs, eyes bright with mischief, not looking sorry at all.

"Come and get me then, Phoenix."

And despite yourself, despite the mess and the late hour and the flour in places flour should never be, you're laughing too, chasing him around the kitchen like you're both twelve years old instead of college students with responsibilities and complicated lives.

It's ridiculous. It's childish.

It's the most fun you've had in weeks.

Flour permeates the kitchen air like falling snowflakes.

Jungkook is now leaning against the counter, still grinning like the Cheshire cat, surveying the flour-dusted disaster.

You, for your part, are trying to brush flour off your arms, which is mostly just smearing it around.

"You know," Jungkook says, his voice laced with that fake-innocent tone he uses when he's about to say something outrageous, "all this flour… it's probably not great for your pores."

You eye him suspiciously. "And?"

"And," he continues, pushing off the counter and taking a step closer, "you should probably shower again."

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock." You gesture vaguely at your flour-coated state.

"I could help," he offers. "You know… save water. Be environmentally conscious."

You burst out laughing, a startled, disbelieving sound.

"Are you serious right now? We just had a flour war, and your first thought is how to get laid?"

"Efficiency, Nix," he says, tapping his temple. "Always thinking efficiency."

"You're deranged," you choke out between laughs. "A completely deranged, horny bitch."

He just shrugs, unbothered.

"Maybe. But think of the planet."

You're still chuckling, shaking your head at his sheer audacity, when a thought flickers through your mind, uninvited and slightly uncomfortable.

Tessa.

If he actually starts dating her, if they become a thing… this—the easy banter, the late-night flirting, the casual hookups—it would all have to stop, right? You can't exactly keep sleeping with him if he has a girlfriend.

The thought leaves a weird, vaguely metallic taste in your mouth. Not jealousy, exactly. You don't want Jungkook in that way.

But the dynamic you have, this messy, undefined thing… it's familiar.

Weirdly comfortable in its own chaotic way.

The idea of it changing, ending… it's just… weird.

You push the thought away, shaking your head again, trying to clear it. Not your problem right now.

"Yeah, I'll pass on your noble environmental efforts," you say, trying to regain control of the conversation.

You look around at the white-dusted apartment, then back at him.

"Seriously though, when did you even get home? I didn't hear you come in at all."

He leans back against the counter again, crossing his arms over his flour-streaked chest.

"A while ago. Maybe you were too busy dreaming about me to notice."

"In your dreams, Rogue." You pick a stray piece of dough off your sleeve. "I was sleeping. Like normal people do at"—you glance at the microwave clock—"three-thirty in the morning."

"Normal is boring," he counters easily. "Besides, I'm stealthy. Like a ninja. A bread-making ninja."

"A messy ninja," you correct, gesturing at the flour coating literally everything, including him. "You look like a powdered donut."

"A sexy powdered donut," he clarifies, striking a pose.

You snort. "Keep telling yourself that."

You start trying to wipe down a section of the counter with a paper towel, which mostly just creates floury streaks.

"Seriously though, you didn't make any noise. I would've heard the door."

He shrugs, grabbing another paper towel and starting to help, surprisingly.

"Maybe I'm just light on my feet. Or maybe your ears are full of wax."

"Rude."

You throw the floury paper towel at him. He dodges it effortlessly.

"Just stating facts," he says, grinning. "Maybe you should get them checked. Could be impacting your hearing. Explains why you never listen to me."

"I listen," you argue, crumpling up another paper towel. "I just usually choose to ignore you because ninety percent of what you say is bullshit."

"That feels statistically inaccurate," he muses, wiping down the handle of the fridge. He leaves a faint white handprint behind. "I'd say it's more like… eighty-two percent bullshit. The other eighteen percent is pure genius."

"Delusional," you mutter, tackling the flour patch on the floor near the sink. "Completely delusional."

He stops wiping and just watches you for a second, a thoughtful expression replacing the usual smirk.

"You really didn't hear me come in?"

"No," you say, looking up. "Why? Should I have?"

He shakes his head, the smirk returning.

"Nah. Just means my ninja skills are improving. Or you're a really heavy sleeper." He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Do you snore, Nix? Is that your dirty little secret?"

"I do not snore," you hiss, flicking water at him. "And get out of my personal space."

He laughs, easily dodging the water droplets. "Just asking!"

He resumes wiping the counter, humming softly under his breath.

You watch him for a moment, thoughts about Tessa still churning in your mind.

It's ridiculous, standing here covered in flour at nearly four in the morning, cleaning up a mess you both made, arguing about ninja skills and snoring.

But somehow, it feels… normal. Your kind of normal, anyway.

Messy, complicated, and definitely not boring.

You're on your hands and knees, attempting to wipe up a particularly stubborn patch of flour near the leg of the kitchen island, when you decide to go for it.

Operation: Tessa Reconnaissance. For the sisterhood, obviously.

And maybe a tiny bit because you're curious how this whole mess fits together.

"So," you say, keeping your voice casual as you swipe uselessly at the floor, "your friends seem… like a lot."

Jungkook snorts from where he's attempting to de-flour the coffee maker.

"Yeah, they're idiots. But they're my idiots."

"Including Library Girl?" you ask, aiming for nonchalance. "The redhead? Tessa?"

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder.

"Tessa? Yeah, she was there. Why?"

"No reason," you say quickly, maybe too quickly, focusing intently on the flour patch. "Just noticed you two talking a lot. She seems… nice."

"She is nice," he agrees easily, turning back to the coffee maker. "Super smart, too. Knows her shit about film. Like, really knows it."

Okay, good start. He acknowledges her existence and intelligence. Phase one complete.

"Yeah?" you prompt. "She mentioned you guys talked about… Park Chan-wook?"

You pronounce the name carefully, hoping you got it right based on Tessa's text.

He brightens instantly, forgetting the coffee maker entirely and turning to face you fully.

"Dude, yes! She actually got why The Handmaiden is structured the way it is. Most people just focus on the twists, but she was talking about the shifting perspectives and visual storytelling… it was cool."

His enthusiasm is genuine, almost nerdy. It's the same way he lit up talking about John Mayer's guitar playing. He's clearly impressed by her film knowledge.

"So… you like her?" you ask, trying to sound like you're just making conversation while scrubbing the floor.

"Yeah, she's cool," he says easily. "Definitely one of the few people in that class who isn't a total poser. We had this debate about Bong Joon-ho's genre blending—it was actually interesting."

He seems focused entirely on the intellectual connection. No hint of anything else.

Time for phase two: physical attraction assessment.

"She's really pretty, too," you add, still scrubbing. "Like, model pretty."

He shrugs, grabbing a damp cloth to wipe down the counter where his dough blob still sits.

"Yeah, I guess. Didn't really notice."

You stop scrubbing and look up at him incredulously. "You didn't notice? She looks like she walked off a runway and directly into that ramen shop. How could you not notice?"

He frowns slightly, like he's genuinely trying to recall her appearance beyond 'classmate'.

"I mean, she's got… hair? And a face? I don't know, Nix, I was more focused on the conversation." He seems genuinely perplexed by your insistence. "Why are you so hung up on how she looks?"

"I'm not hung up!" you retort, feeling defensive for reasons you can't quite articulate. "I just… stating facts. She's objectively attractive."

"Okay?" He draws the word out, like he doesn't understand the relevance. "Lots of people are attractive. Doesn't mean anything."

He gestures vaguely with the damp cloth.

"Are we gonna finish cleaning this up or are we analyzing the relative hotness of my classmates now?"

You huff, returning to your floor scrubbing.

Unbelievable. Either he's genuinely oblivious or he's the world's best actor.

Given his track record, oblivious seems more likely.

"Fine," you mutter. "Just making an observation."

"Well, observe the flour patch you missed by the trash can," he retorts, pointing with the cloth.

You glare at the spot, then at him.

"Bossy."

"Best one."

You crawl over to the trash can, wiping up the offending flour.

Okay, so he acknowledges she's nice, smart, shares his interests, but is apparently blind to the fact that she's a literal goddess?

Why are men so confusing?

"So," you try again, shifting tactics. "Since she's so cool and smart and into the same weird movies as you… you gonna ask her out?"

He stops wiping again, looking genuinely surprised by the question.

"Ask her out? Why would I do that?"

"Because… you like her? You just said she was cool and smart?"

Are you losing your mind? Is he actually this dense?

"Yeah, as a friend," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "We're in the same class. We talk about movies. That's… what friends do?"

"Jungkook," you say slowly, sitting back on your heels and facing him directly. "Girls like Tessa—girls who look like her and are that nice—don't usually go out of their way to talk to guys about obscure Korean directors unless they're interested."

He stares at you, blinking. Like the concept is entirely foreign.

"Wait, you think she… likes me? Like, likes likes me?"

"Is there an echo in here?" you ask dryly. "Yes, you absolute walnut. That's generally how that works."

He runs a hand through his flour-dusted hair, looking completely bewildered.

"No way. She's just… friendly. People are friendly sometimes, Nix."

"Not that friendly," you insist. "Trust me. There's friendly, and then there's 'laughing at all your jokes and touching your arm every five minutes' friendly. That's different."

He actually seems to consider this, replaying interactions in his head.

His brow furrows.

"She does laugh a lot… And she did touch my arm…" He looks back at you, still skeptical. "But maybe she's just, like, a touchy person?"

"Or maybe she wants to touch your dick," you deadpan.

He chokes on air, eyes widening.

"Dude! What the fuck?"

"Just saying! It's a possibility you seem to have completely overlooked."

He shakes his head, a disbelieving laugh escaping him.

"Nah. No way. You're messing with me."

"I'm really not," you say, suddenly feeling bad for Tessa—because this poor beautiful girl is putting in the effort, and he's completely clueless. "She basically told me she likes you."

"She told you?" Finally, he looks like oxygen is reaching his brain. "When?"

"At the party. We talked for a bit."

"And she just… announced her romantic interest in me? To my roommate? That seems weird."

"It wasn't like that! She was asking for advice! Because she was nervous!" You're practically defending her now. "She's really sweet, Rogue. And clearly into you."

He leans back against the counter again, processing this information.

He doesn't look smug or pleased, just… thoughtful.

And maybe a little overwhelmed.

"Huh," he says softly. "Never would've guessed."

He's quiet for a moment, staring down at the floury cloth in his hand.

"I mean, she is… really nice."

"So?" you prompt. "Now that you know the feeling might be mutual…?"

He sighs, dropping the cloth into the sink.

"I don't know, Nix."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

He avoids your eyes, turning on the faucet and starting to rinse the cloth with unnecessary focus.

"Dating's… complicated, you know?"

"Everything's complicated with you," you mutter.

He glances back, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before it's gone.

"Yeah, well. Maybe that's just how it is." He turns off the water, wringing out the cloth. "Besides, I'm not really… looking for anything right now."

"You're never looking for anything," you point out. "Except maybe your keys. Or a clean mug."

"Exactly," he says, attempting a grin, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Too busy looking for my keys."

There it is again. That deflection. That hint of something heavier beneath that he refuses to acknowledge.

You think about what Yoongi said, about Mia, about Jungkook needing to be careful.

Maybe he's right to be hesitant.

"Okay," you say quietly, deciding not to push it further.

You've done your recon. You have information for Tessa, even if it's not the straightforward green light she might be hoping for.

"Just… don't be a dick to her, alright? If you're not interested, fine. But she's nice. She doesn't deserve games."

He looks surprised by your defense of her.

"I wasn't planning on playing games." He hesitates, then adds, almost reluctantly, "She does seem… different. From…"

He trails off, but you know who he means.

Mia.

An awkward silence hangs between you for a moment.

Unspoken history and potential futures.

Jungkook breaks it first, clapping his hands together with forced brightness.

"Okay, enough about my potential love life," he says, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. "Let's talk yours. How was the date with Jason?"

You freeze, paper towel in hand, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation.

"What?"

He's halfway through sweeping a particularly stubborn pile of flour when he pauses, leaning on the broom handle.

"You know, Jason? Tall guy, glasses, probably owns more vests than actual personality traits?" He waves the broom vaguely. "The one you were all dressed up for earlier?"

"I wasn't dressed up," you protest automatically, even though you know it's a lie.

You definitely put effort into your appearance for that coffee date.

Jungkook snorts.

"Please. You were wearing makeup on a Sunday. And that green top thing that makes your—" He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. "Anyway. Spill. How'd it go with Professor Boring?"

You narrow your eyes at him.

"His name is Jason, and he's not boring. He's... mature."

"Mature," Jungkook repeats, drawing out the word like it's a foreign concept. "Right. Because that's what every college student dreams of. Maturity."

"Some of us actually want to date functioning adults," you retort.

"Functioning is overrated," he says with a grin. "But seriously, how was it? Did he dazzle you with his extensive knowledge of... what does he study again? 18th-century doorknobs?"

"Modern literature," you correct, rolling your eyes. "And it was nice."

Jungkook raises an eyebrow.

"Nice? That's it? Wow, don't oversell it or anything."

You sigh, grabbing the dustpan to help him with the flour pile.

"It was really nice, okay? He's smart, and he actually listens when I talk. We had a great conversation about female agency in Gothic novels."

"Riveting," Jungkook deadpans. "I'm sure the sexual tension was off the charts. Did you hold hands while discussing the patriarchal oppression of women in corsets?"

"You're such an ass," you mutter, but there's no real heat behind it. "Not everything has to be about sexual tension, you know."

"Doesn't have to be," he agrees, sweeping the last of the flour into the dustpan you're holding. "But it sure makes things more interesting."

And yeah, you catch him looking.

That look.

The one that says he's already decided how this ends.

One hand still loosely gripping the broom handle, the other braced against the table as he leans into it like he's posing for a fucking cologne ad.

You don't acknowledge it at first. Too proud. Too fucking annoyed by how easily he can flip the switch. One second you're arguing about Gothic literature and vests, the next—he's practically leaking testosterone across the countertop.

"I know that face," you mutter, not even looking up. "That's your 'I need to nut or I'll die' face."

He grins, unbothered. "Not wrong."

"Go jerk off in your sad little windowless cave like a normal person."

He shrugs, grabbing the bag of flour again, sifting some through his fingers with mock concentration.

"Mmm. Say it again. That mouth of yours, Pix… always so fuckin' mouthy."

You roll your eyes, but your stomach dips. "Maybe if you had more than two brain cells to rub together, I wouldn't have to talk so much."

"Yeah?" he says, ignoring the flour and stepping forward.

One stride. Two. And then he's right in front of you, eyes glinting.

"Keep runnin' that smart pretty mouth. See what happens."

You're about to fire something back—something snarky, something biting—but he grabs you.

Just yanks you forward by the waistband like it's nothing. Like you're nothing but a ragdoll he gets to toss around.

Your body stumbles into his chest and suddenly both his hands are on your ass, gripping it with filthy enthusiasm—greedy, solid handfuls of flesh through thin cotton, palms still dusty with flour. His fingers press, squeeze, spread, claim.

You gasp—too startled to bite it back.

And he fucking grins.

"See what you do to me when you act like that?"

His cock's hard against your stomach. Rock solid. Obvious. Shameless. He doesn't even try to hide it.

"God, Nix," he mutters, voice thick now. "C'mon. It's been too long."

You snort. "I sucked your winny yesterday."

He breaks—a bark of laughter, genuine and scandalized.

"Winny?" he repeats, like he can't believe you said it. "You calling my dick a preschool toy now?"

You shrug, deadpan. "Fits. Loud, annoying, kind of a drama queen."

He leans in again, dragging his mouth close, too close.

"Uh-uh, and I ate you out the day before that," he says, scornful little smile tugging at his lips like he's winning something. "So technically… still overdue."

"So?" you snap, but your voice is breathier than it should be. "That's not overdue."

"It is," he says, like it's math. "I mean actually being inside you. Kinda been craving it for a while now."

You swallow. Loud.

"Should I bend you over the kitchen table?" he murmurs. "Fuck you from behind? Bet you'd like that, huh?"

"Please," you scoff. "You'd probably knock over your sacred sourdough."

He grins, cocky and low and unbearable.

"So protective of the dough. But not my Winny?"

You slap his chest, trying not to laugh.

"Don't say it like that."

"Me? You gave it a name, so… C'mon, give my Winny some love, Pix."

You snort, and it comes out halfway between a laugh and a groan because your thighs are starting to ache with how badly you want pressure. Relief. Something.

"Counter or table?" he asks, already walking you backwards.

You hesitate. Just a second.

"…Counter."

He doesn't wait. Doesn't ask. Just grabs you and lifts like it's easy, like you weigh nothing. Drops your ass right onto the cool marble and steps between your legs—close enough your knees bracket his hips.

And his voice? His voice is low and filthy and unforgiving.

"Atta girl."

His mouth is on you before you can roll your eyes.

Hot, hungry kisses trailing up your neck—messy, unhurried, lips dragging like he wants to brand you. He bites at your jaw, just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. You tilt your head without thinking, baring your throat like a fucking offering.

And he groans—low and wrecked—like that does something to him. Like you're giving him more than skin.

His hands stay on your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft crease near your hips, holding you open while he devours.

You blink, and something catches the light near the sink.

Tiny. Brown. Familiar.

Your arm reaches past him, still off-balance on the counter. Fingers curl around it—vanilla extract.

You hold it up between two fingers, smirking.

"Why the fuck is this out?"

His head lifts just enough to glance at what you mean.

"Oh," he says, then immediately dives back in, mouthing at your collarbone like he didn't just answer you. "Nothing. Was sipping a lil bit earlier."

Your body stiffens. Barely. But he feels it.

You don't say anything for a second. You just… look at the bottle.

That rooftop moment. Yesterday. Him alone up there while the party buzzed under your feet. You didn't press then, just made a joke, let him deflect.

But it doesn't take a genius to figure out why someone drinks baking extract ethanol like it's bourbon.

You lick your lips. Keep your voice easy. Teasing.

"That why you smell like a cookie?"

He huffs a laugh against your throat. "You love it. Bet it's makin' you wet just thinking about biting into me."

He's joking. He's back to kissing.

But the bottle is still in your hand, glass warm from your skin, rolling between your fingers like it's got a heartbeat.

And okay. Fine. Maybe you're a little unhinged too.

"Wanna try something?" you ask, voice quiet, a little hoarse.

His head lifts slow. Eyes lazy. Lips wet.

He tilts his head, cock twitching against you like it heard the shift in your voice before he did.

"Yeah?" he says, grinning like he already knows he's gonna say yes no matter what it is. "What're we trying, Phoenix?"

Because you know—you know this man would let you pour hot sauce on his dick if you told him it'd turn you on.

His gaze flicks to the bottle still resting against your palm. Back to your mouth.

"Fuck, yeah," he says, voice already going gravel. "Show me."

You dab two fingers against the lip of the bottle, tilting it just enough to coat your skin in that sticky-sweet scent. Not much—just enough to cling. Your pulse, your collarbone, the hinge of your neck.

His eyes track everything. Like he's under hypnosis.

Slow drag up your wrist, down your throat. Pupils blown wide. Tongue peeking out to wet his bottom lip like it's instinct.

And then you offer it to him.

Your throat—tilted, bare. Vanilla blooming warm across your skin, seeping into heat, mixing with your scent.

You watch his jaw tick, tension wrapped in restraint.

He hesitates. Just for a breath. Not because he's unsure. But because he knows what'll happen if he starts.

His eyes drop to your hand. Then back up to your face. And then—

He grabs your wrist, rough but reverent, and slides your fingers straight into his mouth.

His tongue curls around them, sucks them clean like he's starving and this is the only sweet thing he's allowed to have.

His eyes don't leave yours for a second.

Heavy. Dark. Quietly fucking feral.

You feel it in your cunt.

That twitch—sharp and sudden—when he lets your fingers fall from his mouth with a wet pop and immediately dives back into your neck.

No warning. No mercy.

Just mouth on skin, lips dragging open over the vanilla, tongue flattening against your throat like he's licking you clean. Like you're the bottle. Like he's drunk and this is the relapse.

"Mmmfph—fuck," he groans against your neck, hot breath flooding over your skin. "You're—fuck—you're dessert, Phoenix."

He's biting now. Mouthing. Bruising.

Your head falls back against the cabinets with a dull thud and you don't care. Not even a little.

His hands are under your thighs again, yanking you closer to the edge of the counter like he's going to eat you here and now and be proud of the mess.

He doesn't stop licking your neck—just shifts slightly, mouth dragging lower, wetter, hungrier—until he can grab the flask again without even looking. He uncaps it one-handed, like he's done it a hundred times in the dark.

Because he probably has.

And then he's holding it over your chest.

"Hold still, Phoenix."

Voice low. Thick with something needy.

You barely nod before the cool drip hits your skin—fuck—a slow, deliberate trail spilling from the center of your collarbone and down, sliding between your tits, disappearing under the fabric of your tank top.

He watches it move. Doesn't blink. Bites his bottom lip like he's trying to restrain himself and failing spectacularly.

"Fuckkk," he mutters under his breath, and the way he stares?

You'd think he just watched God part the Red Sea between your tits.

But he can't see where it goes. Not really. Because of the shirt.

And that?

That's unacceptable.

So he doesn't ask. Doesn't even warn.

He just grabs the hem of your tank and yanks it up, fast and messy, until it's bunched under your armpits. The cool air hits your bare skin, but his gaze is scorching—dragging down to your breasts, then lower, following the trail of sticky syrup that's now sliding beneath.

He drops the flask without care.

Leans in.

And presses his mouth to the spot just under your breasts, where the drip ends. A hot, open-mouthed kiss. Tongue darting out to chase the taste.

He groans against your skin, like you're something forbidden and fuck, he's eating it anyway.

Then he starts licking up.

Slow. Thorough. Filthy.

Tongue dragging up the underside of your tits, between them, following the line of vanilla all the way back to your cleavage. His breath is hot and shaky, hands holding your thighs tight like he needs to anchor himself before he devours you.

"You taste like fucking heaven," he growls against your skin.

And you can barely breathe.

You lean back on your palms, spine arching subtly, thighs spreading wider across the counter—silent invitation.

His mouth twitches. Just slightly. Like he's trying to play it cool, like he's not already mentally wrecked.

Your fingers close around the vanilla bottle again.

And you tip it over your stomach.

A thin stream spills, slow and syrupy, tracing a path from just under your ribs down to your navel.

Sticky gold pooling in that soft dip, then slipping lower—toward your waistband, beneath it.

He stops.

Mid-breath.

Eyes drop.

Then drag back up to your face, slow as fucking sin.

And those eyes… those fucking eyes.

Dark like blackout curtains. Hungry. But quiet, too. Restrained. Like he's hanging onto the last thread of control and it's fraying fast.

He bites his lip again, teeth dragging over it, jaw flexing.

You raise a brow.

"Aren't you licking the vanilla off my skin, Rogue?" you say, voice steady, teasing, like your pulse isn't sprinting. "Go ahead."

He snorts through his nose—horny.

It's not even a laugh, not really. More like disbelief.

"Jesus, you're such a fucking menace."

Then he moves.

Hands at your waistband, yanking your shorts down like they've personally offended him.

There's no grace. No finesse. Just desperate, fumbling urgency, like if he doesn't get them off now he might lose it.

They hit the floor. So do your panties.

And then he drops to his knees.

Hooks your thighs over his elbows and pulls you closer to the edge of the counter, eyes level with your pussy. Eye to eye with his fucking meal, and the smirk that twitches at the edge of his mouth is so cocky it should be illegal.

But then he pauses.

Eyes catch on the fact that you're smooth. Bare.

His gaze flicks up, that same damn smirk sharpening.

"So you did plan on wishing me a happy birthday, huh?"

You groan, head thunking back against the cabinets.

"Shut up before I change my mind."

He just laughs, grabbing your thigh and yanking you closer, like that's his response.

It is.

"Thanks for the gift," he says with mock sincerity, "but like… full runway smooth? Nix. Just so you know, I like a little design."

You gape at him.

Is he serious right now?

Does he ever stop speaking?

Or think before he speaks? Like 'oh this might sound embarrassing coming from my mouth, I probably should keep it to myself.'

No. Definitely no.

"Design?"

He nods, dead serious now.

"I'm just saying. Little lightning bolt? Maybe a star? I could help you trim it next time. Get real artsy with it."

"I hate you," you mutter, scandalized and laughing, because of course this is what he's focusing on.

"I'm just saying…" he defends, grinning like a madman. "Bare's too creepy. I like texture, Phoenix. But not, like, a forest. I'm not tryna floss with it."

"God, you're disgusting," you shoot back, heat simmering low in your gut despite the absurdity.

"Disgustingly honest," he counters. "I want a little… edge. Like an angled fade. A pussy taper."

You laugh so hard your core clenches and he notices. Eyes drop. His smirk vanishes.

And just like that, he's focused again. Hands tightening around your thighs. Mouth opening. Ready to dive in.

But not before he whispers:

"Now be good and let me taste my birthday cake."

His mouth hovers. That maddening space—right there, close enough to feel his breath but not close enough to feel him.

It's hot. Each exhale fanning over your cunt like a fucking tease. You twitch, involuntary, hips tilting forward on reflex, thighs tensing around his shoulders.

"Rogue," you murmur, half-warn, half-beg.

He smirks. That slow, cocky pull of his lips that tells you he's going to drag this out just to see how long it takes before you snap.

He leans in, tongue barely peeking out like he's going to lick—

And then doesn't.

"I will actually punch you in the face," you hiss.

But he's already grabbing the bottle again.

His other hand steadies you, fingers splayed on your thigh, as he lifts the vanilla flask to eye level. Tips it slightly.

"Wait—" You grab a fistful of his hair. "Wait. Is that even safe?"

He pauses. Looks up at you, eyes wide, surprised—but not annoyed. Just… calm.

"Yeah," he says, voice casual but sincere. "This one's alcohol-based, not oil. No sugar. Won't mess with your PH or anything, I like your pussy way too much to risk it."

You roll your eyes, but okay. Fine. He's got a point.

And he's never put you in danger—annoyed, yes. Insane with frustration, absolutely.

But never unsafe.

"Okay," you mutter. "Proceed with your perversion."

"Oh, I plan to."

He uncaps it.

And the way he does it—so casually, like this is just some Wednesday night extracurricular?—makes your whole body lock up in anticipation.

He tips the bottle, lets a slow stream of vanilla drizzle from just above your navel, down the curve of your belly, heading lower.

It tickles. Warm and sticky, trailing through your folds, and your whole fucking body tenses with it.

His tongue flicks out, but this time, it's not teasing—it's the real deal.

His tongue drags up.

One long, slow stroke—base to tip—starting where your thighs twitch and ending where the vanilla's pooled.

He groans into it. Groans. Like it's crème fucking brûlée and he's been starving for a week. Like your cunt is the main course and dessert and a Michelin star.

You blink down at him, suddenly weirdly self-conscious.

Because—why the fuck is he acting like it's the best thing he's ever tasted?

It's vanilla extract and you, not caviar. Chill.

Your instinct is to kick him. Or flick his stupid forehead. Something.

But your cunt's already clenching around nothing, wetter than you want to admit.

Because—goddammit—his enthusiasm is doing something to you.

Like deeply. Shamefully. Physically.

You glance down, ready to call him dramatic. Maybe smack the back of his head.

But his eyes are closed.

And not in a performative way. Not for show.

They're hidden—lashes soaked, hair falling in messy dark strands over his brows. His whole face is fucking soft—relaxed, like he's at peace. Like this is meditation. Like your pussy is his church.

You reach down, tug his hair back just enough to uncover his face—need to see him.

Need to look.

And then—fuck. He looks up.

And he smirks. Caught you in 4K. Knew exactly what you were doing.

You want to smack him. Or yank his head down harder. Or kiss him. Or maybe scream.

It's all too much. He's too much.

But he just shifts again, mouth zeroing in now—on your clit this time. Tongue flat. Warm. Pressure steady and—fuck, fuck—

Your head slams back against the cabinet. You don't even feel it.

Because he's staring straight at you while he licks.

Intense. Sure. Smug. Like he knows. And the worst part?

He does.

You don't like eye contact. You hate eye contact.

Or—you did. Before he made it his fucking thing.

Now it's some kind of sex death ray. You're melting under it. You can't breathe under it.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his voice hoarse, lips slick with you.

"So mouthy up there…" he breathes, thumb dragging over your inner thigh. "But fuck, you're weepin' for me down here."

You choke on your own spit.

"Shut the fuck up with your cringy little sex monologue."

He snorts. Has the audacity to laugh into your cunt like it's funny.

"Uhhh? I thought we were past that whole thing where you pretend you don't like my dirty talk."

"I don't—"

He cuts you off with a slow circle of his tongue around your clit. Just once. Cruel.

"Right. That's why you got all hot when you said, 'Do you want me to ride you?'" he mimics, low and teasing. "Looked me in the eye when you said it, too. Said it just like that. Fuckin' purring, Pix."

You groan. "God, I hate you."

He grins. "No, you don't. You just hate that you like this."

Another lick.

Another smug look.

Another twitch deep in your gut.

And all you can do is glare at him—until his mouth is back on you, and then you can't even do that.

Because fuck, he picks up the pace.

Your right leg bends, heel dragging up his arm, foot planting itself on his shoulder like it belongs there. Toes curling the second his tongue swirls just right—just there. Over and over. Unrelenting.

Your whole torso arches back, spine stretched out like a bow. Head thunked against the cupboard above, hands gripping the edge of the counter so tight your knuckles go white.

And he doesn't stop.

Both his hands keep you steady, locked around your thighs, until the right one slides up—palm dragging over your skin, hot and too much. It settles right in that spot between your hip and waist. Thumb pressing into your side like an anchor.

Like he's keeping you from falling.

Like you're breakable.

You want to scream. Or sob. Or maybe just bite him for being so fucking considerate while simultaneously licking your pussy like he's trying to win a Michelin star.

You whimper. Actually whimper.

Because it's too much.

Because how the fuck does he even do that with his tongue?

It's obscene. Criminal. Feels like he's mapping you from memory now—like he's figured out every angle, every twitch, every exact combination that gets you to the edge in five minutes or less.

And—fuck—there it is.

That low hum in your belly, spiraling sharp and fast, heat pulsing outward. Nerve endings tightening. Your thighs start to close but he forces them open with a flex of his arms, tongue flattening again.

You gasp. Loud. Desperate.

Your hand flies down to his head and you yank his hair—hard.

He growls against you, frustrated, head jerking up, lips glossy and chin slick and brows scrunched like he's ready to fight.

"What," he snaps, breathless, panting. "What—what the fuck—"

You just whisper, shaky:

"Inside."

He blinks. Once. Twice.

Mouth parts. Eyes still a little wild.

"Huh?"

You meet his gaze, still breathless.

"I wanna cum with you inside me."

It short-circuits him. For real.

He pushes to stand so fast he almost stumbles. Feet trip a little. Palms slap the counter behind you as he catches himself and mutters, "Yeah—okay—fuck—gimme a second—"

But you reach out. Grab his arm. Stop him cold.

You lick your lips.

Probably look stupid. Glossy-eyed and dazed, like someone just rewired your brain through your pussy.

Whatever. You don't care.

You don't care because you can feel it now.

That ache. The need. The desperate, pulsing want for him to just get inside already. Your whole body's still twitching from his mouth and now it's fucking empty.

No thank you.

So you yank him. Hard.

Fingers curling in the loose fabric of his tee, tugging him back toward you like gravity's rewired itself around your cunt.

He lets himself be pulled. Doesn't even fight it. Just stumbles forward until he's between your legs again and then—then you're crashing his mouth to yours.

No hesitation. No buildup. No thoughts.

Just heat. Tongue. Need.

It's messy. Teeth clash. Vanilla and sweat and slick.

His hands slam to the counter beside your thighs for balance, knuckles brushing your waist as your tongue slides against his and you swallow the groan he lets out.

And yeah. You don't kiss men after they eat you out. Ever.

You've always thought it was gross, honestly. You live in your pussy. You don't need the flavor profile introduced.

But with him? Right now?

You don't even care.

You just want to taste what he tastes like. Want his spit in your mouth. Want to feel him.

So you kiss him like you mean it. Like you're not overthinking it. Like this doesn't break five of your own personal rules.

When you finally pull back, lips slick and breathing uneven, you keep your hands fisted in his shirt.

And say—quiet. Calm. "No need for condoms."

His eyes snap open.

You watch them go wide like you just told him the world's ending tomorrow and there's a free-for-all orgy scheduled at noon.

He coughs. Legit coughs. Like your spit went down the wrong pipe.

"Wait—what?"

You shrug. "I have a copper IUD. Works from minute one. I'm good."

His mouth opens, then closes again. Brain buffering.

"I mean…" he blinks. "I—I just—I didn't think you'd…"

You arch a brow.

He shakes his head a little, eyes dropping to your lips.

"No—like—I'm not complaining, I just—" His mouth staggers like he can't quite get the words out fast enough. "Are you sure?"

"I mean, you've been fucking with condoms, right?"

"Yeah. Always. Jesus. Yeah."

"And you've been getting tested?"

He gives you a look. "You think I'd be rawdogging around Brooklyn without paperwork?"

"Kind of," you mutter, just to mess with him.

"Okay, rude," he says, palm flattening on your thigh like it's involuntary. "I'm not feral. I'm—I'm… a respectful slut."

You almost laugh. Almost.

Then you say, quieter, "I haven't fucked anybody else since I fucked you."

And that? That actually makes him pause.

He blinks again. "Wait. For real?"

"Yeah. Nothing so far."

And he doesn't make it a thing. Doesn't get all soft and stupid about it.

He just takes a beat, stares at you, lips slightly parted like he's replaying it. Like the logistics are finally syncing in.

"Okay," he says. Rough. Breathless. "Yeah. Yeah, that's… okay."

You tap his chest. "Just cum outside, alright? Just in case."

He groans. Low and pained.

"Pix."

"I'm serious."

"You're killing me."

"Don't care."

"I'll pull out," he promises, fingers tightening on your skin. "But I swear to god, if you keep saying shit like that—inside, raw, no condom—I'm gonna lose it before I even get my pants off."

You grin back. "Sounds like a you problem."

And he breathes out, frustrated and horny and fucking wrecked, and mutters—

"You're my fucking problem."

He licks his lips.

Slow. Deliberate. Like he's already tasting you again.

Then he leans in and murmurs against your cheek—

"Okay. Turn around."

You blink. "Huh?"

The corners of his mouth tug up. "Turn. Around."

"Of course you wanna change positions."

"What can I say," he shrugs, cock already visibly straining through his sweatpants. "Artist's curiosity."

Still. You do it.

He helps you down—steadying hands at your waist, guiding you like you're breakable, which, let's be honest, rude. And once your feet hit the floor, you shift, pivoting slowly to face the counter.

Elbows down. Back arched.

You stick your ass out just to be a bitch about it.

He groans. Actually fucking groans. Like it hurts him.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, hands immediately cupping your ass like it's reflex. "You're such a bitch."

You smirk into the counter. "Complaining?"

"No complaints." He huffs out a laugh. "Hands on the counter."

You glance over your shoulder. Raise a brow.

"Trust me," he says, already dragging one palm up the curve of your back.

You hum. But you do it. Flatten your hands, palms flush with the counter's edge.

Behind you, there's a shuffle.

Then that sound—the sound.

Elastic snapping as he yanks his waistband down.

You hear him shift his stance, toes lifting slightly as he lines himself up behind you. And then—

The press.

Just his tip, nudging against your entrance, and your whole body seizes, lips parting around a silent gasp as your thighs instinctively press together.

"You better not let go of that counter," he mutters low.

You don't answer.

Not out of defiance—just because your brain's gone static.

So he spanks you. Sharp and hot and immediate.

"I said something to you," he growls, palm landing hard enough to echo. "Did you hear?"

"Yeah," you breathe. "Okay."

"That's what I thought."

Then his hand drops from your ass, slides between your thighs, fingers spreading you open as he lines himself up again. Still doesn't push in.

Just rubs.

His cock slides up and down your slit, slow, deliberate strokes. Slick everywhere. Your breath stutters every time he nudges your clit on the way up.

"God, you're so fucking slippery," he mutters, almost in disbelief. "Dripping for it. I haven't even put it in yet."

You close your eyes, grip tightening on the edge of the counter.

"Your pussy's acting like it missed me," he adds, rocking his hips again, cockhead dragging lazily across your folds. "She's not even pretending."

"Maybe she has bad taste," you snap, voice shaky.

He laughs. Loud.

Then does it again—another glide, another tease, tip pausing right at your entrance just long enough for your breath to catch, then slipping away again before you can adjust.

"You're gonna lose it, huh," he murmurs. "All that smart mouth. All that sass. Gonna forget how to speak when I give you what you want?"

You grit your teeth.

He slides his tip back again, holds it there—barely inside. Just pressure.

Still not pushing in.

Still not giving it to you.

You whimper, shoulders tensing.

"Gripping the counter, Phoenix?" he asks sweetly. "Like I told you to?"

Your fingers curl tighter.

He grins.

And stays right fucking there. Not moving.

Just waiting.

Just standing there behind you like a smug little shit, cockhead resting at your entrance, hot and heavy and perfectly fucking poised—and somehow not going any further.

You shift your hips back slightly, trying to bait him.

He clicks his tongue. "Uh-uh."

"Rogue."

"Pix."

You groan. "You're so fucking annoying."

"Don't tempt me. I could stay like this all night," he says, cock dragging up through your folds again just to prove his point. "Just rub it against you until you're crying."

You scoff. "You act like that's a threat."

He leans forward, chest brushing your back, voice right at your ear.

"You'd cry so pretty."

You twist your head just enough to glare at him.

"You're actually insane."

"Says the girl bent over the counter like a porn scene," he grins, straightening back up. "All 'no condoms, fuck me raw, Rogue' like it's nothing."

You roll your eyes. "Oh, sorry. Do you not want it?"

He hums thoughtfully. "Kinda liking the view, not gonna lie."

"Oh my god."

"Seriously. You ever seen your ass from this angle? Top-tier."

"Shut the fuck up," you mutter, squeezing the counter harder. "You gonna give a Google Maps review next?"

"Might," he shrugs. "Five stars. Would fuck again."

You start to reply—some scathing, lethal retort—but you don't even get the first word out.

Because suddenly—he pushes.

All the way in.

One smooth, brutal thrust.

And you moan.

Loud. Unfiltered. Embarrassing.

Your hands slam flat on the counter like your body can't fucking handle it. The stretch, the shock of it.

You feel full. Too full.

He doesn't ease in. Doesn't give you time to adjust. Just buries himself in one go like it's his fucking right.

Then—smack.

His palm lands on your ass again, sharp and fast.

"That's more like it," he pants behind you, hand lingering after the slap. "There's my girl."

He pulls out slow.

Real slow.

Too slow.

Like he wants you to feel every inch leaving you, feel how empty you get without him. Like he's making a point.

Then—slam.

Hard. Deep. Ruthless.

You jolt forward, hands scrambling for grip as the counter rattles under your hips. A broken sound slips out of you—more instinct than choice—and behind you, he laughs.

Actually laughs.

A horny little chuckle, cock still buried deep like he didn't just rearrange your goddamn organs.

If you could twist around and kick him in the ribs, you would.

"What the fuck are you laughing at," you bite out.

He hums, smug as ever. "Sounded cute."

You glare at the spot, then at him.

"I'll show you cute—"

But you don't finish it. Because he pulls out again, and then slams back in with the same brutal force that leaves your legs trembling and your lungs gone.

What the fuck is he so cocky about?

He's the one getting it raw.

You're the one granting the privilege here. He should be grateful. You could revoke his rights real quick.

Even though… you won't.

Because there's something about it. About this.

No condom. Just skin. Just him.

It's different.

You don't know why it's hotter. Why it feels so much more intimate. You didn't think it would be. It's just cock. Just fucking. But now you feel everything—every twitch, every drag, every time he shifts his angle and catches that spot that has you choking on air.

And then he murmurs behind you, voice low—

"Does it hurt?"

You swallow. "No."

"Good," he says. Calm. Like it's logistics. "If it does, just arch your back more. Fixes the angle."

Fucking hell.

There it is, again.

How is he being considerate and a little shit at the same time?

You're not even flustered because of the sex anymore—you're flustered because he's flipping toggles like he doesn't even notice he's doing it.

You don't respond.

You can't. Because he grabs your hips and—

Slams into you again.

Not fast. Not rushed. Just one clean, devastatingly hard thrust that knocks the breath straight out of you. His grip holds you there, cock pressed deep, dragging that edge of pain into something white-hot and filthy.

"God," he mutters, breath catching. "The way you're gripping me—fuck—you like that, Nix?"

You don't answer.

Too proud. Too dazed. Too stubborn.

So he spanks you. Again.

Sharp and immediate.

"Answer me when I talk to you."

You flinch. Then growl, "Keep spanking and being demanding and I'll revoke raw rights so fucking fast—"

But he just snickers.

"Oh, will you?"

You can hear the smirk.

Then he leans over, chest brushing your back, breath hot on your ear.

"You like it when I slap my hand on your ass, Nix," he says, low and satisfied. "That's why I keep doing it."

You scoff. "You're making shit up."

He grinds into you once, slow and cruel.

"Am I?"

"Yup."

"Naaah. I've been testing."

You blink. "Testing."

"Mhm," he confirms. Another slap to your ass, gentler this time. Palming over the skin after. "And now I know."

You suck in a breath. "How would you know what turns me on?"

He huffs a laugh—mean, hot, unbothered.

"Because you always mouth off about the shit that gets you going."

Your heart stutters. He keeps going.

"Too embarrassed to just let yourself enjoy it, so you talk shit. Every single time."

"Fuck off," you hiss.

He smirks again, hands dragging your hips back slightly. "Nah. You're not fooling anyone, Pix."

"Eat shit," you bite out, but your voice betrays you—tight, breathy. Fucked.

He groans, head tilting back for a second like he can't believe how good he has it.

"You're so full of it."

You scowl over your shoulder.

He slaps your ass again. Just to punctuate it.

"This," he says, palm dragging slow over the sting he just left, "is textbook Phoenix behavior."

"Fuck's that supposed to mean?"

"What I just said. You always talk shit about what you like." He thrusts again, not deep—just enough to feel like a warning. "First it was the dirty talk. Remember?"

You roll your eyes. "Barely."

"Oh, you remember." His voice drops. "Because you called it cringey, and five minutes later you were soaking my jeans."

You grit your teeth.

"And then you rode me," he continues, like he's delivering an airtight closing argument. "Said 'do you want me to ride you?' all breathy. Like you hadn't spent days pretending you were above it."

You don't reply.

He leans in, hips pressing closer, cock buried deep and still not moving.

"And yesterday?"

You clench without meaning to.

"Yeah," he laughs softly. "Yesterday. You wouldn't even look at me when you were sucking me off. Acted all bratty and 'ugh I hate eye contact,' and now tonight you were pulling my hair back just to see my face."

You did do that.

"And now it's the spanking," he says, rocking his hips slow. "Bitching about it."

Another smack, firm and deliberate.

"But you just clenched around me. Again."

You groan into your arm. "You're fucking exhausting."

He grins against your shoulder. "You're fucking lying."

You shake your head. "You're not right."

He pulls back a little, just enough to move again. One clean stroke, all the way out and back in with a grunt.

Then—

"You're wet as fuck."

And you are. You feel it. Feel him glide. Feel the mess. Feel how your body wants him deep, no matter what your mouth says.

"You keep acting like you're not into it," he murmurs, breath hot. "Like you don't love being talked to like this. Touched like this."

"Shut up," you whimper, because you don't want to admit it. You don't want him to be right.

But he already is.

"You act like it's for me," he mutters. "Like I'm the one getting off on it."

And he is. Of course he is.

But so are you.

"You keep lying like it's gonna protect you," he says. "But your body gives you away every time."

He's still going.

Deep now.

Fast.

No hesitation, no mercy—just relentless drive, hips snapping into yours, angle brutal and right. Every time he hits bottom it knocks a broken little moan out of you. Loud. Unfiltered. Fucking real.

And still—still—he doesn't shut up.

"You've convinced yourself it's all for me. That you don't enjoy it. Can't. Won't."

Your jaw clenches.

"You can't let yourself," he continues, thrusting hard enough to slap skin. "Because you need to stay in control. Need to be good. Do it right."

His hand grips your hip tighter, pulling you back to meet every thrust. Your ass bounces off him with every slam, lewd and hot and loud.

"You need to know I like it," he says, "so you can file it under 'doing well,' and that's how you let yourself feel good."

You want to argue. You really do.

But you can't.

You're moaning too loud.

"You don't even stop to ask what you like," he growls, eyes locked on where you're joined. "But I'll tell you."

Smack.

"You like this position."

Smack.

"You like it raw. Hard. Deep."

You whimper.

"You like when I spank you," he murmurs, biting his lip, thrusts picking up even more.

"Shut up," you hiss. "Shut up, shut up—"

But it's useless.

You're already flushed down to your chest. Already arching into every thrust. Already leaking down your thighs.

Your hands grip the counter like a fucking lifeline—knuckles white, arms shaking.

He groans, hands adjusting—one on your waist, the other wrapping low across your belly to pull you into every stroke.

"It's okay, Nix," he says, voice rough but coaxing. "You don't have to say it."

He slams in harder, burying himself to the hilt, making your knees buckle on instinct.

"Just keep gripping the counter."

Your breath stutters.

"Don't let go if you like it."

You bite your lip.

"Don't say anything. Don't explain. Just grip."

You hesitate. One second. Maybe two.

And then—you do.

Fingers curl tighter around the countertop edge. You lock in. Anchor yourself.

Give it to him.

You don't say a word. But that grip? That's your answer. That's your yes.

He groans, hand dragging up your spine, palm flat between your shoulder blades like he wants to feel how it wrecked you.

"There she is," he whispers. "There's my good fucking girl."

That last comment—

There's my good fucking girl.

It does something. Snaps something in your spine. Or maybe your brain.

Because your cunt flutters around him hard, slick tightens, thighs tremble, and yeah, yeah you're closer. Closer than you should be. You were already there when he first slid in—already so worked up you could've finished in sixty seconds if he just shut the fuck up and focused.

But of course he didn't.

Of course he ran his mouth. Called you out. Read you like a book.

And now?

Now you're clenching around his cock like you're about to shatter, and he feels it.

You know he does.

Because he leans in, breath gone wrecked. Lip caught between his teeth.

"Hmm?" he pants. Thrusts harder, deeper. "What's that? You like when I call you that?"

Your jaw clenches. You want to scoff. Or deny it.

But your cunt clenches instead.

He feels it.

"Ohh fuck," he groans, like it hits his brainstem. "You do."

You turn your face into your arm, humiliated by your own goddamn response. But it's too late. He's already there—already winding it tighter.

"Let's see if you like it even more when I do this."

You blink. "What are you—"

He grabs your thigh.

Hooks it up onto the counter. Bends your leg at the knee beside your elbow, spreading you wider without warning. Opening you up. Letting him deepen.

And he does.

Slams into you again with the new angle, and fuck—it hits different. Hits deep. Your whole body pitches forward with the force, mouth open on a sharp moan you can't swallow.

Then—his hand.

His fingers find your clit. Circle it once, slow and effective.

And you whimper.

It's high-pitched. Unintended. Undignified.

You want to vanish.

But then he's right behind your ear again, voice slurred and drunk on it.

"Gonna cum for me, angel?"

Your body jolts.

Because yeah. Yeah, you are, especially now that he's got your leg hooked, your pussy stuffed, your clit being worked with just enough pressure to make you lose it.

He feels your thighs twitch.

"Do it," he breathes, cock dragging thick inside you, fingers pressing just right. "Come on, let me feel it. I'm close too. Gimme it, Pix."

And your body obeys.

It rolls over you in one hard pulse—core tightening, vision blanking, thighs squeezing in and failing to stay strong.

Your moan punches out of your chest, loud and cracked, hips grinding back into his like you need more even as you're falling apart.

"Ohhhh my god, fuck yes—fuck, yes, Nix, fuckkkk."

He keeps fucking through it. Doesn't stop. Lets your pussy spasm around him, wet and squeezing and pulling him deeper as you ride it out. You whimper, already too sensitive, hips twitching, but he's not done.

Because he's laughing now.

Not mocking. Not cruel.

Just that fucked-out little giggle he always gets when he's high on it. Like your orgasm lit him up from the inside.

"Jesus—oh my god—holy shit," he's muttering, still fucking you, little messy stutters in his rhythm now. "You feel so fucking good when you cum, I swear—fuck."

He moans again—short and desperate and real—and you feel it in the way his thrusts go uneven.

"Where—where do you want it?" he gasps. "Fuck—I'm gonna—I'm so close, where do I—"

"Ass," you croak, head low, voice barely there.

That's all he needs.

He pulls out instantly, like he's yanking a ripcord.

You whimper at the loss but then you feel his hand—fast and rough—working himself over the curve of your ass.

"Oh fuck—oh god, yeah, look at this gorgeous ass—fuckfuckfuck—"

And then he's cumming.

Thick, hot ropes spilling over your skin as he pants and jerks through it, one hand steadying himself on your back, the other stroking through every twitch of his cock like he's trying to squeeze out every drop just to paint you.

"Shit," he gasps, hips still flexing forward. "Fucking hell, Phoenix."

You don't move.

You just breathe. Still shaking. Still clenched. Still wrecked.

There's cum on your skin, sweat between your shoulder blades, and your thighs feel like they've forgotten how to exist—and somehow, you still feel good.

Too good.

And a little fucked up about how good.

But you'll deal with that later.

goal: 900 notes

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[yazis]

I'M NOT INTERESTED!!

二十 - opening gambit

wc: 1.8k words

note: if u don’t understand chess, just pretend they’re playing monopoly or smth..? 😭 (there’s not too much detail tho). I FEEL LIKE SUCH A NEEK WRITING THIS, also it ended up being a bit longer than i had expected oops

he was staring down at you, face blank and unbothered. it was difficult not to swoon for him there and then. it reminded you of your first encounter with him yesterday...

it was then you cringed at the memory from yesterday, where you had kicked a ball towards the back of his head and nearly died on the spot from sheer embarrassment.

hopefully he doesn't remember, it doesn't seem like he does...

you clearly spoke internally too soon. because you watched as sae's once blank expression soured into one of distaste, his nose scrunching up slightly.

great. he definitely hates me...

"i'm the uh, club president here!" you blurted to try and change the course of whatever he was thinking, "are you.. hear to play chess?", you smiled a little giddy at the thought of new members, especially one as attractive as itoshi sae.

though the longer you looked at his face, the more your hopefulness faded.

who am i kidding? of course he's not here to play chess.

...

unless..?

"i'm looking for someone. they said they go to this club" he said in a monotonous voice, crushing any hopes you had going on in your head. you didn't even attempt to mask the disappointment on your face.

"looking for someone?" you repeated still sulking, raising a brow, "who are you looking for-"

you tensed immediately cutting yourself off. remembering the texts you had with him. the way you had annoyed him, the information you had stupidly dropped...

wait a second.. he's ACTUALLY hunting me down??

your mouth nearly dropped in shock but you covered it up with a few coughs. you didn't even have time to think, panicking once you saw his sharp eyes scanning upon the pitiful number of people in the room and then straight at you.

i need to say something! quick!

"they might not be here yet!" you said quickly, "there are usually more people here, it's just.. no one really decided to show up today.." you lied. on a good day maybe five or six people showed up.

he didn't say anything.

"do you know anything about this particular person..?" you said, trying to sound as calm as possible.

"they're a second year." he said plainly

i told him i was a second year? oh lord-

"oh a second year? haha.. we have A LOT of those round here..." you said playing it cool.

"we do?" you heard a quiet voice whisper in the background.

NOW'S NOT THE TIME ITADORI.

you cleared your throat awkwardly, "a-anyway, you might as well wait here. there's a chance they might turn up late.. most people do that."

"do they..?" you heard yet another voice mutter.

MIDORIYA!

you shot a quick sharp look over your shoulder as itadori and midoriya burst unto a quiet fit of giggles. turning back to face the man of your dreams, you put on an awkward smile.

"you can play chess while you wait?" you said, gesturing to the table you were about to play yourself on from where the two of you still stood by the door.

"it's um.. really fun.." you added on trailing off, wincing at how pathetic and sad you sounded.

you honestly felt a tad bit bad lying to him. being the person he was looking for, it meant that realistically he wasn't really waiting for the person he was looking for to walk through.

then you dwelled on the fact that the question you were asking him. was actually quite pathetic, or at least it made you feel so. especially with the deafening silencing, making you want to shrink back and hide under one of the tables.

heck rin, yoichi and meguru won't even play chess with me... what makes me think itoshi sae will??

you were expecting him to walk out the door any second, maybe with a cold glare as he left the room (giving you a reason to cry yourself to sleep tonight). what you WEREN'T expecting was him to speak up-

"fine."

——————————

and that's how you ended up sitting across from the itoshi sae with a chess board between you two.

don't stress out y/n... you're only playing chess with your husband-to-be. no biggie, no biggie at all...

izuku and itadori had clearly read the room, opting for quiet whispers rather than their usual chattiness whilst they played each other.

meanwhile you shifted awkwardly in your seat, suddenly interested in the material of your skirt as the man sat across you stared down the pieces on the board on the table.

he was white and you were black, meaning he would be making the first move. but judging from the lack of movement on his part, you quickly realised he probably didn't know how to play.

so you looked up.

"um.. do you know how to play-"

he moved one of his centre pawns forward.

"oh." you said. looking down at the board. you were definitely not expecting that.

he knows how to play chess? i think i just fell in love all over again

you had to clear your throat.

"i didn't think football players would know how to play chess if i'm being honest, haha..." you said, moving on of your own pawns forward.

the game started to flow and you could tell with the moves he was playing that he wasn't exactly a beginner. your eyebrows furrowed slightly.

do i go easy on him then..?

you wondered. you'd probably be able to win. despite not having anyone to play for a couple of weeks due to the lack of attendance, you still tried your best to play random strangers online on chess.com. though...

if i beat him.. that'll give him another reason to hate me probably..

you then chuckle to yourself.

but if i beat him, i can assert dominance... hehehe..

as the game carried on silently. a few pieces were exchanged but your mind couldn't help but be distracted, trying to think of things to say, the silence was killing you.

i might never get a chance to speak with him like this, yolo i guess..

after a short while of mental conflict, you eventually spoke up nervously.

"my name's l/n, by the way. y/n l/n."

for the first time since he sat down, his eyes locked with yours. a bored expression on his face, unnerving. you gulped, but held eye contact nonetheless.

he didn't reply, and instead moved his next piece.

ok. i just got aired.

you were entering the midgame, it was around some point during that time that you could hear the defeated noises of itadori losing again. you didn't have to look to know that they were about to play each other for the fifth time.

it was actually a bit frustrating that you weren't winning by as much as you thought you would be in your game against sae, and you showed it with the frown on your features. perhaps you had actually gotten a bit rusty.

in actual fact, it was hard to pay attention to chess in front of you when you had a drop dead gorgeous man in front of you as well. one that seemed to dislike making conversation with you.

which was fine, you'd keep trying.

"how bout we make a bet? you know, to keep things interesting," you said trying to play it cool, your bishop taking his knight.

he looked up at you again. and you really couldn't tell what he was thinking, but you assumed he was intrigued. so you continued.

"if i win, i get your number." you grinned, a new found boldness to win emerging inside of you. sae looked as if ,not that you could see since you were smiling with your eyes closed. well you were until a split second later when you froze and realisation washed over you

wait a second... i already HAVE his number. if i win, WAIT-

"ACTUALLY... i don't want your number, now that i think about it.." you laughed awkwardly, moving one of your pieces without much thought behind it.

"good. i wasn't going to give it to you anyway." he said bluntly, glaring at you ever so slightly. you sighed quietly in relief.

right. that was way too close.. me and my stupid mouth.

"fine. if i win then.. can i get your autograph?" you asked. after all, according to yoichi, sae was quite popular in the football world. you could already picture the autograph pinned on your wall back home in your room.

he said nothing.

well. he didn't say no.

a few more moves were taken.

"and if you lose?" he said, you were mildly surprised he held up the conversation. a small smile made its way to your face at the thought.

'hahaha... me? lose to you?'

is what you wanted to say, but you decided after some thought that that wouldn't end up well for you. besides-

"check." he said, moving his queen forward, finding an opening that you were unaware of.

you frowned, you were hoping to get the first check yourself. having no choice but to move your king along a square, you did just that.

"um.. well if i lose. i guess i can help you find that person you're looking for." you offered, "i'm also a second year."

and then i'd get to spend more time with him.. without him knowing i'm the person he's looking for! it's a win win for me!

wait.

your mouth then formed a tight straight line as you realised you had just dropped the fact that you were a second year. you slowly looked down to avoid eye contact.

you'd like to think that sae didn't take note of the way you suddenly went quiet. but with your eyes glued down at the chess board, you failed to notice the way his eyes, narrowed, lingered on you for a second longer before too looking down at the table.

——————————

it wasn't until around fifteen minutes later when the endgame arrived. the two of you were down to your last pieces.

at that point you weren't really focused on the game, not anymore at least.

you found yourself prolonging the quick glances you were giving sae earlier, longing stares instead were sent his way.

clearly you were too busy checking him out, because before you knew it...

"checkmate."

you blinked. his deep voice breaking you out of your trance as you casted your eyes away from his and down at the board in front of you.

"eh?"

surely enough, he had used his rook and queen and cornered you in checkmate.

you were completely stunned, looking down in disbelief and widened eyes.

two overdramatic gasps could be heard in the background, accompanied with some not so discreet whispers.

"no way..."

"he beat l/n..?"

"but l/n never loses!"

you ignored them, of course. when you finally found your voice-

"I LOST!?"

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SUMMARY: in which 2nd-year y/n l/n one day turns up at their high school and falls heads over heels with a certain 3rd-year, one who has a strict ‘no-dating’ policy.

taglist i: @bluerskiees @ilovechuuyaa @bloombb @silly-ez @urdesaintess @hugs4shizu @saeswifeeee @kiopanxp @azharyy @winterpein @sarah-saystuff @krnsluvvie @biaonww @morgyyyyyyy @simpingmyassoff @aerisevx @giasssslife @tamimemo @unknown-lab @90s-belladonna @localgirlywithnolife @purriodsblog @shokiren @yxruxp @lumiambrose @mizukiblogs @cayl33n @riwliane @rottingvxmpire @megumifushigurooo @ellebasy-sabrinaa @swagkittybear @unknown-lab @bubybubsters @nevvynev @mrsitoshiss @cielcho @lotusofia @matchablossomsss @chuurinnie @cheriiepies @sus0daddy @randomhumans-blog @megumismyhusband @kaidostwin @ysvanielle @f1zzyecola @realrintaro @kyeeeeeeeweeeeeeewi @kaz-0e

[avocado-writing]

hello :) if you feel like writing it, i'd love some copia and perpetua brotherly bonding! maybe them singing/making music together, or v being creature and copia being reluctantly fond/supportive of it? or something else entirely if you'd prefer!

hello darling! I tend to write reader x character so! throwing reader in there as a lens for their relationship to be seen through 😌

Copia really, really hated Perpetua to start off with.

Not that you can blame him, of course. He went through a lot of big changes all at once: being forced into the role of Frater Imperator, having the Ghost Project ripped away from him, the sudden ache of the death of his mother. It all had to culminate into something, and it turns out that it was the burning-hot hatred of his secret brother.

You had gently tried to explain that maybe it wasn't Perpetua's fault, maybe he should be angry with the inner workings of the Ministry who let him live in this lie for so long rather than another man who was a victim of it too. But no, it was the new Papa who bore his ire, who was the cause of many a thrown Plushia and smashed computer keyboard. "Fucking V!" was the mantra of your life now. You were getting bored of it.

Your husband was a grown man behaving like a child and, quite simply, one day you had enough.

You knew your Copia well enough to understand that this could be easily sorted out. Because really, he was lonely. He had you, of course, but you could see that his new position had him feeling isolated, and the twinge of desperation he had exhibited when Psaltarian had suggested he meet his twin hadn't gone unnoticed. He needed someone else in his corner. He needed not to occupy his time with hate but with friendship.

So you'd taken matters into your own hands. Gone into the Ministry employee files yourself. And one day, to his surprise, Copia had walked into his office to the sound of shared laughter, and found you and his brother sharing a cup of warm chamomile tea.

"Oh," he'd said, the look on his face hard to place. You'd smiled at him, gentle, moving slowly like he was an animal prone to spooking.

"Copia, my love, this is V."

Perpetua had scrambled to his feet, all fawn-legged and doe-eyed, claws shaking as he'd put the teacup down in its saucer.

"You're my brother?" he'd breathed, soft and worried, as if he was terrified this was all some elaborate prank.

"Yes..." Copia had said, brows furrowed. Before he could react further Perpetua had stepped forward and embraced him, scooping up his twin into the tangle of his long arms. Copia had frozen for a second... then hugged him back very, very tightly.

And that, as they say, was that.

It was as if they'd never been separated. Perpetua came back to the Ministry to visit every spare second he got, the two brothers catching up on years of missed friendship. They played video games - which Copia usually won and gloated about - or had long conversations about their taste in popular culture as they had grown up, finding shared interests more often than not. When he wasn't there Copia was always showing you his phone - "hehe, look at this meme Perpetua sent me. It's funny, amore mio, you'll like it."

You usually do. He's everything you could hope for in a brother-in-law: kind, respectful, up for giving your husband a ribbing with you. He's not exactly... human, his body shaped just a little too oddly if you stare at him for too long, teeth and claws too sharp, but Copia loves his oddness anyway.

He loves his brother.

You peer over the top of your book to the corner of the office. They're playing music together and it makes you feel soft. You can hear the gentle tap of Perpertua's talons on the piano; his wide wingspan means he's an ideal musician for the instrument, and Copia often encourages him to play. Perpetua once worried he seemed off-putting hunched over the keys, but in the upbeat enthusiasm of his brother, that has all but melted away.

"How about I play something like..." Perpetua flourishes a chord and Copia nods, scribbling something down on the old notepad in front of him.

"Okay yes, so let's do this..." he plucks the strings of his guitar to a similar melody, nodding when he wants his brother to join in. Together they make a sweet little tune, what could be the beginning of a new song. They jam together before both looking over at you.

"How was that, tesoro?" Copia asks you, excited. You smile.

"It's perfect."

[twopoppies]

Hi Gina, I love your blog and you always seem to keep calm in moments of madness. That's probably because you have seen almost everything in the fandom in the past 10+ years.

I've read that Louis' recent actions have been a pattern in the past. He does something to win over the fandom and then the other shoe drops and he makes some comment that drives the fandom away.

I know he is closeted and I won't even pretend to understand how awful that has to be, but I can't help thinking that there would be a better way to handle his fans. I don't understand what good it does to cause fights and hatred between different fan groups.

I think if it weren't for L liking that Larry reel a couple of weeks ago, many more people would have left the fandom after last night's tweet.

Is there a point at which you personally would draw the line? Is there some action that Harry or Louis could take or comment they could make that would cause you to say enough is enough and leave the fandom?

For some reason a lot of people read my blog, so I really try to stay as neutral as I can manage. I don’t like calling attention to myself or making big, dramatic announcements. Most of all, I think everyone needs to find their own line in the sand.

Yes, this sort of push and pull has been happening for more than a decade. Sometimes it’s far worse than other times. But because I’ve been here for so long I’m just sick and tired of the gaslighting. I’m tired of being painted as a villain. I’m tired of not enjoying myself.

I know without a doubt they were a couple. I believe they still are. I hope they’re happy forever and have lots of babies. But I’m just here for music. I don’t care anymore if Louis blows up his entire fandom over Zara McDermott. I don’t care if Harry is dating 3574 women in Italy, Berlin, and on the moon.

Maybe something will happen that will renew my desire to support their relationship the way I have for a dozen years. But right now they don’t need me (and if they do, they have a completely fucked up way of showing it).

I just want some goddamn new music and a tour.

[yermes]

I wasn’t meant to be understood 🍈

Music:

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Pick a meme

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Disclaimer: please take what I say with a grain of salt and not as the gospel. I just want to share some ideas of practicing and giving advice using the medium as often as I can with school, work, and my own personal studies and practice. But I am working on sharing my notes soon so that will be exciting! Liking and sharing does a lot 🥰

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Feel free to stick around for a while **⋆**

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The cards 🃏 

Pile 1 ⭐️

Star, moon, knight of pents

You are in a huge dreamer phase, and you are about to take a step, the step only has to be meaningful to you. People don’t know what your inner world looks like nor are they entitled to it. Be meaningful with yourself for yourself, peoples advice are suggestions with no insight into you as an individual while professional advice is nice for sure and insight into anything is important the steps, you need to make sure what is happening feels right and you can actually fucking achieve dreams with your steps. You are in a very day dreamy part of your planning, you have the idealized version of what you want to do but you have little direction and few people to lean on, ultimately you are the only person you can lean on. The inner world is rich and vast, you will know what to do when the opportunity presence itself. Do your own personal research, think about what is actually best for you, mentally physically and spiritually. Be present in decision making, consider yourself because god knows no one else is. Show up for yourself everyday and even if no one can understand a dreamer it can’t stop you from dreaming.

Pile 2 🌈

King of wands, ace of cups, magician

Lots of emotional manifestations, not always a good thing but its something that definitely happens. Lots of tears, lots of emotions, lots of your own emotional turmoil turning into a self fulfilling prophecy, have you thought that your hang ups on the external and lack of comfort with the internal is giving you negative confirmation bias of the world around you. Our biases shape our perception of the world and you are making it all seem like a scary place but babe it all starts with you beginning to learn about yourself. All of the thousands of people you will meet throughout your life will have a different perception of you, but there is only one you. And there is only one person with unlimited access to your inner world is you, don’t weep for the fact no one can ever look in be happy that you are your own private space.

Pile 3 💥

Tower, two of swords, the devil

Imagine thinking you have all your ducks in a row and then everything goes to shit, I mean what else is supposed to happen. Getting all your ducks in a row has never been your M.O, you are more like a chaotic murder of crows. Shit will fall apart, do not let it shake you, the way shit hitting the fan affects you and how it triggers your own personal trauma is sacred to you, you owe grace to nobody. When you are struggling through a hard time fear not of your external facade care only for the internal world which is forever being shaped by being and experiencing. Be aware of how others respond for their perception of your outward appearance means fuck all, again, take care of the internal and spiritual. YOU CANNOT MANIFEST IF YOU DO NOT START OVER, YOU CANNOT REACH THE SPIRITUAL IF YOU ARE CAUGHT UP SOULY IN THE PHYSICAL. It is all about balance.

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Extras: 🌾

Personal/ updates:

Treating brain samples tmrw

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[fru1t4fr0gs]

You and Me - Chapter 15

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Summary: In order to find information about the other supersoldiers, Bucky is forced to become the Winter Soldier once again. In the seedy criminal underworld of Madripoor, the two of you see just how far you'll go to protect one another.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Violence, Implied sex, Guns, Protective!Bucky, Protective!Reader, Alcohol consumption, Angst, Please let me know if I forgot anything!

Author's Note: Oh boy, this one was fun to write! We love these two protecting one another to the point of violence, and it's always an angsty party when Winter Soldier!Bucky makes an appearance. Let me know what you guys think!

-

You land in the morning, which gives you all until nightfall to work out a plan and adapt to your new personas. Zemo uses some sort of connection to find some sort of apartment on the outskirts of the city, but whether the place belongs to him or you’re technically squatting for the next twelve hours, you’re not sure.

You and Bucky spend the majority of the day catching up on some much-needed sleep, collapsing together into the first bed you find. Moments after he pulls you into his chest, you’re out like a light, waking hours later to the dying light of day streaming in through the window. You feel the steady rise and fall of Bucky’s chest against your back, and you wiggle out of his embrace as carefully as possible, doing your best to avoid waking him before you pad into the kitchen.

“Hey there, Bedhead.” Sam greets, and your still sleep-crusted eyes narrow at him as you raise a hand to pat at your hair. “Glad you're finally up. I couldn’t tell which one of you was snoring louder in there.”

“You’re one to talk.” You retort, plopping down at the counter and wiping the remaining sleep from your eyes. “I was on that plane last night. It sounded like you were losing a fight with a chainsaw.”

“Nice try. We all know I’m way too pretty to snore.” He says, fixing you with a grin, and you can’t help but smile back.

-

A few hours later, Bucky and Sam discuss the plan inside while you sit on the balcony and try to prepare yourself for the night ahead, nursing a beer with a name you can’t pronounce as you gaze out at the skyline of Madripoor. 

“I understand that you do not like me very much.”

“That feels like a pretty tame way of putting it.” You raise an eyebrow, and Zemo takes a seat beside you without permission. You roll your eyes, take a swig of your beer and pointedly refuse to look at him.

“If it makes any difference, I like you very much.” He says, and you open your mouth to tell him that it absolutely doesn’t before he continues. “I see a lot of myself in you. We are similar, you and I.”

You scoff, appalled by the insult. Because that’s what it is. An insult. “I am absolutely nothing like you.” You grit out, but he stops you with a look. Knowing. Calculating. You hate how his eyes seem to look right into the very center of your mind.

“Oh?” He asks, and your eyes narrow as he continues. “I have seen the way you look at your husband. The way you protect each other. I see the grief in your eyes when you talk about Steve Rogers. Or Natasha Romanoff. Or Tony Stark.”

You bristle. He doesn’t stop.

“I see that he is anchoring you, and you him, in many ways. So tell me, if someone were to kill him, to take him from you, would you simply wither away and die?”

You blink.

“No, you would not.” He says, certain, and his eyes are still boring into you. “I see the fierceness in you. Like me, you would burn the world to the ground.”

“I wouldn’t.” You say, and you can taste the lie mingling with the beer on your tongue. Sour and cold.

Zemo looks at you like he’s won. Like he’s finally solved a difficult math problem. You despise him for it. “Hate me if you want, but you know I am right.” He says, with a shrug so casual you could be talking about the weather. “You dislike me for what I’ve done, but I frighten you. Not for what I could still do, but because I remind you of who you could become.”

You don’t say another word. You put down your drink and walk away, leaving him on the chilly balcony with a smile that is still far too sure of himself. Far too smug.

You pass by Sam and Bucky, ignoring their bickering and making a beeline to the room you slept in earlier that day. You don’t have to say anything, don’t even have to give him a look. You feel his presence in the doorway almost immediately, concerned eyes tracing over you as if checking you for wounds.

“What would you do?” You ask, turning around and meeting his eyes. “If someone killed me. What would you do?”

He looks taken aback by the sudden question. You don’t blame him. But you also don’t have to hear his answer before you see it on his face.

“…you already know.” He says, simply. Honestly. Like he’s just pulled out a piece of his heart and handed it to you.

Burn the world to the ground.

You nod, your own heart twisting. “Me too.” Your voice is quiet, vulnerable as you keep your gaze locked on his. “Does it scare you?”

He’s silent for a moment, but he isn’t thinking about his answer. Once again, he already knows it. He’s just looking at you. “Every day.”

You don’t waste another word before you kiss him, crossing the room and crushing your mouth to his like the contact might burn away whatever darkness could be lingering in your soul. He catches you, holding you just as tightly, kissing you just as desperately, and you can hear his foot kick the door shut behind you before he guides you back to the bed.

-

Bucky’s eyes are on you.

You can feel the weight of his gaze boring into you, tracing over your body as you stand by the bar. His face is clinical, Winter Soldier-blank, but you can feel the hunger emanating off of him like it’s seeping through his pores.

When you’d walked out of the bathroom in your tight black dress and incredibly uncomfortable high heels, he’d gone so still you had to snap your fingers in front of his face to make sure he was still computing.

He’d blinked, like he’d been woken from a trance.

“You’re not wearing that.”

You’d smiled, making your way to the door. “Trust me, I wish the same thing. I already can’t feel my toes. But-“

His arm shot out, blocking you. He looked pained.

“I’m serious. You’re not wearing that.”

“I can’t exactly wear your hoodie to the criminal operation, Buck.”

“You could wear more.” He tried, eyes moving helplessly over your exposed skin.

You’d just kissed his cheek, given him an apologetic look, and ducked under his arm to make your way into the living room.

Now, you can sense that same pained expression beneath his mask of emptiness as you watch Sam, desperately trying to stay in character, try not to gag on a snake heart. Oh man, you are going to get some mileage out of that later.

You and Zemo take your own shots. You keep your expression neutral. Almost bored. But the urge to look over at Bucky is harder and harder to ignore with each passing second.

This is going to be a long night.

-

There are too many people looking at you. No, leering at you. The seedy underworld of Madripoor must be filled to the fucking brim with creeps.

The minute this is over, he’s going to rip that dress off of you. It’s killing him to keep from doing exactly that right now, mission and crowded bar be damned. It’s taking an incredible amount of effort to keep his hands still. To keep his fingers from breaking a chunk out of the fucking bar as a seedy-looking man approaches you.

Zemo says something, though even Bucky’s enhanced hearing can’t pick up on it. You frown, some sort of realization dawning in your eyes before he finally sees Zemo turn to him. Hears those horribly familiar worlds.

It’s so, so easy to fall back into it. To disappear into the darkness as he slams the man into the ground. His mind empties. He feels nothing. He doesn’t switch back into the Winter Soldier, not fully, but he sinks back into the familiar motions, the acts of horrible violence dealt out with almost casual precision.

His hand is wrapped around the man’s throat, choking him to death on the bar. He hears guns cocking around him. He’s not worried. He can take them. He could kill everyone in this room if he wanted to. He’ll probably have to, anyway. No witnesses.

A hand falls on his vibranium arm. Not to fight. Not to dislodge him from his current target. Just…there. Familiar and warm. His head whips to the side, preparing to assess the threat.

And it’s you. Your eyes are looking into his without a trace of fear. Just concern. Worry. You’re checking to see if he’s okay, and you can see that he’s not.

He’s Bucky. Bucky Barnes. He’s not the Winter Soldier anymore.

The emptiness fades, and you fill it instead. The look in your familiar eyes pulls him back from the edge so quickly it almost gives him whiplash.

Zemo whispers to you to stay in character, and you look like it physically pains you to let him go. He wants to pull you back to him. He wants to grab you and run from this place. These memories.

He can’t. But now, as he dips back into the void of the Winter Soldier, he still has something to tether him.

-

You’re going to be sick.

You’re going to kill someone.

Bucky’s eyes are deliberately empty, staring straight ahead as Zemo offers him to Selby in exchange for information like he’s selling a fucking refrigerator. The greed in the woman’s eyes, the blatant hunger as she looks your husband over, makes your fingers twitch at your sides. It takes everything in you to avoid curling them into fists.

You can see the pain etched in every line of his body, dancing behind his blank expression. You would never catch it if you didn’t know him like the back of your hand. You can’t go to him. You can’t comfort him. You have to just stand there and watch, keeping your expression neutral.

This is only the smallest glimpse of what he went through, for decades, and it’s torture to watch.

Everything happens very quickly after that. The phone call. The blown cover. The bullet fired through Selby and the ensuing escape. You don’t have time to think. You do, however, have time to wish you were wearing something more comfortable to run from gunfire in.

“I can’t run in these heels!” Sam shouts, and you manage to give him an incredulous look before you stumble in your own heels. Bucky catches you effortlessly, and you contemplate taking the shoes off and running barefoot through the streets of Madripoor. 

“Are you kidding me?!” You shout back over the sound of bullets firing, “I’m basically wearing a fucking napkin and stilts!”

You skid to a halt in an alley, watching the attackers go down.

And then there’s Sharon.

You haven’t seen her since she stole Steve’s shield, and the explanation for why makes your stomach twist with guilt.

And yet, she agrees to help you, offering you a place to stay and beginning to lead the way to her car.

No one makes it two steps, however, before you move.

Zemo’s foot is kicked out from under him with inhuman speed, and he goes down with a grunt of surprise. Before he can seem to register what just happened, you’re pressing the barrel of a gun between his eyes.

“Woah woah woah, what are you doing?” Sam begins to ask, but you ignore him.

“Never again.” You say, and your voice doesn’t even sound like your own. It’s low. Dangerous. Carrying the promise of pure violence.

He knows what you’re talking about. His eyes glimmer with something. He raises his hands in surrender. “It was necessary-“

You push the gun harder against his skull. “I don’t care if fucking Thanos comes back and that’s the only way to stop him from wiping out half the universe again. Never. Again.”

You suddenly recognize the look in his eyes. See the small quirk of a triumphant smile on his lips. Your conversation from earlier plays through your mind.

Like me, you would burn the world to the ground.

He nods, a silent agreement, and you pull the gun back. When you turn, Bucky is staring at you. His blue eyes are filled with surprise. With love. He looks at you like he doesn’t think he deserves this, deserves you, and your heart cracks.

“Not so much a lab geek anymore, are you?” Sharon asks, drawing your attention to her.

You’re already walking forward, clicking the safety of the gun back on.

“Couple things are different now. I’ll catch you up later.”

Previous Chapter

-

Taglist: @vicmc624, @saucysasha2035, @iyskgd, @intothesoul, @capswife, @otterlycanadian, @phoenix666stuff, @astridphantom, @miss-chuchu, @frog-fans-unite

[blacktofade]

Gemtho Fortnight Day 14

prompt: i think a fun fic idea might be etho and gem having a thing that's undefined, but etho has put a lot of mental time/energy into it without communicating that well to gem. and then he notices how close gem and grian have become in.... wow, how long has it actually been? etho can't tell, but is there also an undefined thing happening there?

jealousy ensues and an incredibly stunted conversation leads to etho deciding he should visit gem

this sounds very specific so of course you can change anything as you like, if you decide to write it :D

cw: rpf

It takes Gem exactly forty-seven seconds to realize Etho’s landed his character at the edge of where she’s building. She’s standing still — hands clearly off her keyboard — and he wonders if she’s on her phone.

“Long time no see,” he says when she finally turns, and she goes still again, maybe pulling her mic closer and unmuting.

“It hasn’t been that long,” she answers with a slight laugh, and there’s a tugging in his stomach.

He’s missed the sound of her voice.

She places down a shulker, starting to sort her inventory, and he doesn’t know how he’s meant to hold her attention. He thought just being there would be enough.

“I didn’t know you were going away,” he tries, and she looks over at him before falling still again, maybe back to texting.

“I didn’t go anywhere,” she says after a minute, when Etho’s just starting to think he should go back to one of his own projects.

“Really?” he asks, curious in the same way he is when he touches a bruise just to see how painful it is. “You’ve been a lot of places this year.”

Gem hums in agreement and goes back to her shulker. “I stayed at home.”

“For a whole week?” He lets out a breathy laugh, because the idea of her not going anywhere for that long sounds ridiculous. “Why?”

That finally seems to get her whole attention and she looks up.

“Grian was visiting,” she admits and Etho freezes, his body turning cold.

“Grian?”

She hadn’t mentioned it. Though, neither had Grian, and Etho’s not sure why he didn’t put two and two together with them both away from the server at the same time.

“Grian,” Gem confirms. “He’d never been to Canada before.”

Etho falls silent for a moment, unsure what to say to that. He’s seen them playing R.E.P.O. together, how giggly they get, but he didn’t — it seemed harmless.

“I didn’t realize you were that close.”

He clears his throat, a little embarrassed at his honesty, at how it makes him sound jealous, but he knows the kind of person Grian is.

He works hard to be the center of attention, louder than others, a little repetitive to make sure he’s heard — everything Etho strives not to be.

He didn’t know Gem was into that and Etho’s not sure he can compete.

“Is that a problem?” she asks, a tone to her voice that heavily hints he’s said the wrong thing.

But he can’t stop thinking about Gem inviting Grian into her home, and he leans back in his chair, horrified by the thought of her inviting him into her bed too.

“Are you and him — ” he doesn’t finish the thought, just leaves it hanging, and he wonders what kind of expression she’s wearing, if she’s actually mad at him.

He’s not sure he cares, he just needs to know the truth.

He’s spent a significant amount of time with Gem since season nine. Significant for him at least. He’s let her into his life more than maybe anyone else. He told her about his setup and eventually shared pictures, solely because he thought she’d want to see.

He thought they were close. He thought she liked him.

“I could visit you,” he blurts, which might be one of the stupidest things he’s ever done. But there’s truth to it.

If that’s what it would take for Gem to understand, to take notice.

“What’s happening right now?” Gem asks, and she sounds confused, but her voice is softer.

“If you wanted that,” he says.

“If I wanted you to visit me?”

He hesitates, not sure if he’s ready to commit to it, but his chest feels tight at the thought of losing his chance with her.

“Yeah.”

She makes a soft sound, like an exhale, and Etho starts wondering if he’s messed up completely.

But after a beat, Gem says, “Grian’s wife stayed with me, too. They visited together.”

Etho swallows.

“Oh,” he says and Gem hums quietly.

“You can’t take it back now,” she tells him. “Your offer.”

Etho stares at her character, wishing he could see her actual face.

“Is it something you’d want?” he asks, and it feels like everything hinges on her answer.

He’s not expecting the laugh she lets out, the way it sounds a little crazed, and she hiccups as she cuts it off.

“That’s — ” she starts, before pausing as though looking for the right words. “Yeah, Etho, that’s something I’d want.”

The knot in Etho’s stomach loosens and something akin to hope flares behind his ribs.

“Or I could visit you,” she says. “Whichever — whatever’s easier.”

Etho finds himself taking his hands off the keyboard, rubbing his clammy palms on his thighs.

“I’ve never been to Newfoundland,” he admits.

“Okay,” she agrees and it’s strange, but he can hear the smile on her face as she says it. “I’ll DM you later?”

Her character shifts from side to side, back in motion, her attention entirely on him, the way he wants.

“Okay,” he replies, and finds himself smiling in return.

[jemgirl86]

Do you have any samsteve or sambucky fic recs set during catws or pre/post? I feel like i read them all i i want to live in a world where that was the last mcu movie.

Hi, anon! Sorry for the ridiculous wait lol. And, honestly, I wasn’t even close to being done going through either tag, but I figured this was a start. I tried to recommend some somewhat older fics and stuff you might’ve missed. Here you go!

SamSteve

Skin To Skin by mrs_d

Sam and Steve get stranded in the cold, but luckily Steve knows just where to go, and what to do to warm Sam up.

Motorcycles for Beginners mrs_d

“They’re safe enough if you’re careful. And—” Steve made a sound that was almost a grunt, and Sam almost choked on his beer. “The power? The speed? There’s nothing like it.”

Shift by mrs_d

Steve’s out for a run early one morning when he first encounters the falcon.

m4m by iwillnotbecaged

national mall jogger - m4m

You were jogging at sunrise around the National Mall, I was “on your left”. You sat under a tree after your run, and I was going to come talk to you, but I chickened out. In all honesty, I’ve seen you there a few times before, but I couldn’t quite figure out how to strike up a conversation.

If you don’t hate me too much for trolling you, I’d love to meet up with you under that tree after your run on Saturday...if that’s what you call running ;)

What Makes You Happy? by pouringinsheets, yammz

At first Sam had wondered if the hunger that Steve stared at him with was the same hunger that a lot of his group’s members harbored: a hunger for a reason to keep going, a reason that won’t be ripped away as easily as a limb or a person under fire. Steve had a fair amount of that hunger; Sam would wager.

But this was different. And just as familiar.

Oh, So That's How (Sweet) It Is by NachoDiablo, velociraptorerin

When Sam goes to grab the newspaper off the far end of the counter, it’s missing. He spots it in the hands of a surly patron at the corner table. Baseball cap pulled down low over a scowl, hunched shoulders, and… is he wearing gloves? In this heat?

“Can I get you anything?” Sam calls.

The stranger sizes him up, wary, like he suspects a trick. “No,” he says curtly, then goes back to reading Sam’s paper.

~

AU where Sam chooses Delacroix over D.C. but Team Cap still finds him.

first dates & mishaps by CapnWinghead

Steve Rogers is terrible at dating.

the dead lands by CapnWinghead

Sam Wilson wakes one night to find Steve Rogers disheveled and injured on his kitchen floor. He's not the same man that left Sam behind in D.C. months ago. And he's not alone.

Looking by mardia

They’re driving through North Dakota, chasing rumors of a HYDRA cell, when Steve asks from the passenger seat with his sketchbook turned to a blank page, “Hey, can I draw you?”

SamBucky

A quick detour and a sudden arrival by iwillnotbecaged

He found Wilson shivering in the snow, left for dead. Sloppy.

You couldn’t trust the elements to do your job for you. They were rarely so obliging.

A mission gone awry, unexpected help, and close quarters makes for an interesting couple of days.

Wonderstruck by pouringinsheets

For most of his very long life, Bucky has had to be brave. Tonight, he chooses to be.

Something About You by pouringinsheet

The first thing Sam feels compelled to buy is records -- including some so old he needs to get a different record player to even play them. Then he buys another refrigerator and, distressingly, a Great Depression-era cookbook that involves a lot of boiling. Who the hell is Sam's soulmate, a linebacker from the 30s?

Sam prepares to meet his soulmate.

Lavender by pouringinsheets

“Where’d you come from?” Sam tried to say, but the words were slurred. Barnes seemed to understand anyway.

“Following you this time. Good thing I was, that was a bad one, sweetheart.”

Did he just-

“Did you just call me sweetheart?”

Bucky comes back on the grid to rescue Sam after a mission gone wrong.

(I thought you ought to know) my heart's on fire by pouringinsheets

“You’re getting too close, Sam, and every time it’s harder to protect you.”

“I don’t need protection.” The words were so automatic for Sam at this point he wasn’t even fully sure what he meant by them.

“Maybe that’s so, but I don’t want you getting hurt on my account.”

Their arrival at the cabin spared Sam from having to sort out the swirl of confused feelings that came with Bucky worrying about Sam’s safety. Bucky stepped in front of Sam to open the door, and then gestured for him to enter like he was presenting him at a ball. It made his hair flop kind of endearingly in his face.

“Oh, we’re gonna be fancy?” Sam asked as he stepped inside, ducking his head in the doorway.

“Only the best for you, sugar-pie,” Bucky retorted.

Sam was planning to get close to Bucky by tracking him, not by getting snowed into a romantic cabin with him.

True Disaster by Yavannie

Sam slows his steps when he reaches the hut. Right now he feels amped up enough that he could kick that rickety door in, reduce it to splinters with a well-placed boot. But then what good would that do either of them. He flexes the fingers of his right hand again, curls them into a fist.

Against all reason, Sam knocks on the door. Against all reason, Bucky opens it, like some kind of normal human being.

When Sam finds Bucky in the spring of 2014, they both find a shared purpose.

Eyes in the Sky (heart on the ground with you) by ElisabethMonroe

With a secret up his sleeve, Sam Wilson manages to find Bucky Barnes over and over again. It's driving Bucky nuts.

You’re Moments Ago, but Seconds Away by Katatonic_State

Bucky is put out when Sam seems to have better things to do than look for him in Eastern Europe in 2015.

Or

Sam is less than impressed with Bucky while Bucky loses his mind over Sam's... everything...

You didn’t ask for this lol, but SteveSamBucky

Ornithomancy by matchsticks_p (matchsticks)

This is a world where Sam Wilson might not be able talk to birds, but still thinks he can. Steve and Bucky try their best to do right by him regardless.

A Hawk, an Owl, a Falcon, and His Lovers by matchsticks_p (matchsticks)

Sam is losing a lot of sleep to help solve a bird dispute. Steve has concerns. Bucky doesn’t.

(Can be read as a companion piece to Ornithomancy, or completely on its own.)

And of course let me shamelessly plug my own fic lol

I’m Your Baby Tonight

“Hey, man,” Sam greeted, and Steve could hear the exhaustion in his voice. “You got something for me?”

“Umm, no,” Steve said, after a moment. For once he was thankful for the hundreds or miles between them. At least Sam couldn’t see him cringe in embarrassment over the phone. “There aren’t any new updates on my end,” he admitted.

“Oh,” Sam said, confusion coloring his tone.

Steve couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t everyday that he called Sam during what he knew was the middle of the night where he was for no good reason. Even if Steve did kind of always want to randomly ring Sam up at the oddest hours just to hear his voice, he’d been able to resist the urge. Well, until now.

“Well, what’s up? Everything okay over there?”

No, Steve thought, before answering aloud: “Yeah, everything’s pretty much business as usual here.”

Or: Steve never asked for a party, but if he has to have one, he’d at least like for his favorite person to be there.