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gf2bellamy · 1 day ago

Note

I know that this is a common trope in the Spencer Reid fandom but a cliche is popular for a reason and I'd love to see your take on it please:

The BAU finding out Spencer has a girlfriend because he left something/his lunch at home whilst he was getting ready so she comes to his office to deliver it back to him ♡

file — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nothing i think a/n: hi hi thank you for your request !! also omg i rewrote this like 3 times

You set your coffee cup down with a quiet clink, the ceramic making a sound against the kitchen counter.Your breath hitched as your gaze locked onto the object in front of you.

There it was.

Spencer’s case file.

He never shared too much about his cases—partly because of protocol, but mostly because he wanted to shield you from the horrors he faced daily.

But this one? He had mentioned this one. Briefly. Just enough for you to know it was important.

And now, he had left it here.

You exhaled through your nose, rubbing your temple as you stared at the file like it might somehow transport itself back into his hands.

Well, this was a problem.

Your mind raced through the inevitable sequence of events: Spencer, halfway through his workday, reaching for the file. The sharp inhale as realization struck. The way his fingers would twitch slightly before running through his hair in frustration. He’d mutter something about cognitive failure rates, probably cite a study about memory lapses under stress, and then—inevitably—blame himself. He was hard on himself like that.

But, in all fairness… this was totally your fault.

Oops.

He had barely made it out the door this morning because of you.

Not that you regretted it.

You smiled to yourself, warmth flooding your chest as you remembered.

Spencer hated leaving you in bed alone. You hated being in bed alone. It was a whole thing. A silent agreement, an unspoken rule between the two of you—when morning came, you stretched those precious minutes as long as you could. And today, you had stretched them a little too long.

He had sighed against your hair, murmured something about needing to get up, but his arms hadn’t moved from around you. His body was warm and you had curled closer, pressing a lazy kiss against his collarbone.

“Five more minutes,” you had whispered, voice still thick with sleep. Spencer hummed in response, fingers tracing mindless patterns along your arm. Five minutes had turned into ten, then fifteen…

And, well. Here you were.

Thirty minutes passed. Still no text back from Spencer.

Not that it was unusual.

You had once asked him about his habit of completely ignoring his phone for hours on end, and in true Spencer fashion, he had launched into a full-blown explanation—something about the overuse of mobile devices leading to dependency, the correlation between constant notifications and increased anxiety, and the statistical probability of missing something actually important when bombarded with mundane messages throughout the day.

Point was—Spencer wasn’t glued to his phone. Which meant he likely hadn't even seen your text yet.

You chewed your lip for a moment, the decision hanging in the air.

Well, if Spencer wouldn’t come to you, then you’d go to him.

It seemed like a trip to the BAU was in order.

And if, in the process, you just happened to pick out your favorite outfit before heading out? Well, that was purely coincidental.

It wasn’t like you were nervous or anything.

Okay. Maybe just a little.

Because, despite how long you and Spencer had been together, you’d somehow never officially met his team. You had heard plenty about them—stories from Spencer scattered between sips of coffee, casual mentions of their names, the occasional anecdote about Garcia’s pranks or Morgan’s teasing. But meeting them in person? That had never happened.

And if you were about to walk into the BAU for the first time, to meet all of them in one go, all while hand-delivering a file Spencer had forgotten because you’d been too busy keeping him in bed this morning…

Well. You wanted to look nice, at the very least.

So, you’d taken a little extra time to pick out an outfit. Something that felt casual but still put-together.

After a final glance in the mirror, adjusting the hem of your shirt, you grabbed the case file and headed out the door.

By the time you reached the FBI building, you were… okay. Not totally at ease, but you weren’t quite spiraling, either. A small victory, considering the nerves that had been building inside you since you’d left the house.

You checked in at the front desk, received your visitor’s pass, and found yourself standing in front of the elevator. You couldn’t help but tap your foot nervously against the tiled floor, your mind racing with the possibility of meeting everyone.

As you waited, a tall man stepped up beside you. He had dark hair, a sharp jawline, and an air of professionalism.

The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open. The man stepped forward, and you followed.

“What floor?” he asked, his voice calm, his eyes already on the button panel.

“The sixth,” you said. “The BAU.”

He nodded, pressing the button. Notably, he didn’t press any other buttons, which meant he was heading to the same place.

The elevator hummed upward, the soft sound of its ascent filling the silence between you. You tried to stay still, but the nerves in your stomach had made their way to your foot, which began tapping again—slightly faster this time, almost involuntarily.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him glance down at your foot’s restless rhythm before looking ahead again, his expression still unreadable.

When the elevator doors finally slid open, you both stepped out. As you moved into the hallway, you hesitated, glancing around the space, trying to figure out where Spencer’s desk could be.

Before you could overthink it too much, you turned back toward the man, suddenly realizing you had no idea how to address him.

“Uh—excuse me, sir?” You winced inwardly at your own awkwardness. Sir? Really?

To your relief, he didn’t seem offended. He stopped and turned just slightly, offering you a neutral look, like he was patiently waiting for you to continue.

“Do you, um… know where Spencer Reid works?” you asked quickly, holding up the case file in your hand as if it were some sort of explanation. “He forgot this at home, and I just—”

You cut yourself off, realizing you were rambling. Oh my god, you were turning into your boyfriend.

The man studied you for a moment, and you felt a wave of heat creep up your neck, suddenly worried that you’d just embarrassed yourself in front of someone important. But then, with a small nod, he answered.

“He’s in the conference room. I’ll take you.”

“Oh. Thank you!” you said, managing to sound more confident than you felt.

Without another word, he turned and began walking. You quickly fell into step behind him, eager to keep up.

As you followed him down the hallway, his words replayed in your mind. Conference room.

Wait.Didn’t that mean—

Oh. Oh no.

The realization hit you like a ton of bricks just as the man ahead of you pushed open a door. He stepped aside, gesturing for you to enter, and you barely had time to collect yourself before walking into the room.

And suddenly, all eyes were on you.

Your stomach dropped.

Around the large conference table sat several people, each of them pausing whatever they were doing to look at you. Some were curious, others confused, but most were simply… staring. And then there was one person who seemed to be completely frozen in shock.

That one, of course, was your wonderful boyfriend.

Spencer Reid sat there, motionless, eyes wide, as though you’d just appeared out of nowhere. His pen was hovering mid-air, as though he’d been caught in the middle of a thought and his mouth hung slightly open.

You felt your face heat up.

“Uh—hi?” you offered weakly, holding up the file like it was some sort of lifeline.

The man who had led you here—who, at this point, you were very sure was someone important—cleared his throat. His voice was as flat as ever.

“Reid,” he said, his tone unreadable. “Your file.”

Spencer blinked rapidly, snapping out of his trance.

“Right! Right, yes—um, thank you,” he stammered, his voice flustered. He stood so quickly that his chair scraped against the floor,nearly knocking over his coffee ,causing you to wince in sympathy.

You stepped forward to hand him the file. The second your fingers brushed against his, you swore you saw the tips of his ears turn the faintest shade of red.

From across the room, a dark-haired woman—who you guessed had to be Emily Prentiss, judging by the barely suppressed smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth—glanced between you and Spencer, her head tilting slightly as she observed the scene.

“So,” she said casually, her voice light but full of mischief, “you’re the reason he was almost late this morning?”

Your face went hot, and Spencer made a noise somewhere between a cough and a strangled gasp.

Emily’s smirk deepened, and you could practically feel the attention of every single person in the room zeroing in on you and Spencer. The room was so still, you could hear a pin drop.

Even Penelope—who had been in the middle of explaining a case, hands gesturing wildly—had completely abandoned her train of thought. Her mouth dropped open in delighted shock, her eyes widening as she took in the scene.

“Oh my god, is this real?” she squealed, her voice way louder than it probably needed to be. “Reid, my little geeky bean has a girlfriend?!” Penelope was practically vibrating with excitement. “A very cute girlfriend, I might add!” She made a big show of squinting at you through her oversized glasses, like she was some sort of detective herself. “How did we not know about this?!”

JJ raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued, but Derek—well, Derek looked like it was Christmas morning.

He leaned forward with an expression of pure glee. “Hold up,” he said, grinning ear-to-ear, “Reid, you got yourself a lady and didn’t tell us?”

“I-” Spencer stuttered under his breath, looking like he was actively trying to will himself invisible.

Penelope was practically bouncing on her heels now. “Not just a lady,” she chimed in again, adjusting her glasses dramatically as she looked you over with wide, sparkling eyes. “A very cute lady. Like, ‘I need to know everything about you’ cute! How did you two keep this a secret? You’ve been holding out on us, Spence!”

Rossi, who had been sitting back and watching the chaos unfold , leaned back in his chair with a half-smile. “Seems like , Dr. Reid has been keeping secrets,” he said dryly, giving Spencer a knowing look.

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh at the scene around you. It was hard to stay composed when everyone was so… extra. You shifted awkwardly on your feet, feeling your face burning, but it didn’t stop you from noticing how Spencer scrubbed a hand over his face, clearly wishing he could vanish into thin air.

Spencer, still very much red-faced, finally turned toward you, his expression caught between mortification and fondness. His voice was soft.

“Thank you,” he said, with a small awkward smile. “For, um… bringing me the file.”

You smiled, tilting your head, trying to suppress a grin at how adorable he looked when flustered. “Of course,” you said, your voice warm, matching his tone. “Anytime.”

Before Spencer could muster a response, you leaned in and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his cheek. The moment your lips brushed his skin, Spencer froze, his eyes going wide for a split second like he couldn’t quite comprehend what just happened.

The entire room went silent, save for the sound of a chair scraping against the floor as Penelope’s excited squeal filled the air.

Spencer remained absolutely still for a moment, blinking as if he were trying to reboot his brain. You couldn’t help but feel a tiny rush of satisfaction at how flustered he looked.

“I’ll see you at home,” you murmured, your smile widening as you pulled back. “Love you.”

You watched as Spencer’s mouth opened and closed a few times, like he was about to say something, but his words failed him completely. It wasn’t surprising—he’d never been the best at handling public displays of affection, especially when they caught him off guard like this.

"Bye everyone." Without giving him—or the rest of the team—a chance to respond, you turned on your heel and made your way toward the door.

“Did you see that?” you heard Penelope say as you left the room, her voice barely containing her excitement. “Reid, my little shy genius has a girlfriend and she just kissed him in front of us!”

JJ chuckled from across the room, her voice full of amusement. “I think Spencer might need a minute,” she said dryly, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

The sound of their teasing faded as the door closed behind you, and you allowed yourself a little breath of relief, knowing that Spencer’s team was kind but very curious.

As the elevator doors closed, you found yourself grinning, already imagining how the rest of the day would unfold.

#criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid #criminal minds x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fic

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dannyz-reblogs · 2 days ago

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I really kind of hate to say it, but I was thinking about this kind of stuff a while ago and sort of dropped it because I didn't want to let myself think about it too deeply and then start hating myself because I think some things aren't as bad as the majority of people make it out to be...

There's really a whole story behind the rabbit hole I kind of went down, starting from wanting to explain to someone why something was bad, realizing I didn't actually know why said thing was bad, looking up why it was morally bad to see what other people thought about it (and, admittedly, to try and find a genuinely good reason to keep thinking it was bad), only to find other people asking the same question... And not really getting an answer... And the thing is, it's so difficult to talk about these kinds of things with others because, obviously, nobody wants to be seen as a bad person by others for questioning these sorts of things, which is thing that could probably happen. I wish there were safer spaces to actually discuss things like this without a flood of black and white thinkers invading it (people who just want to defend doing bad things and people who don't actually want to have a discussion abt this stuff and just want to hate on others for attempting to discuss things and accuse them of defending bad actions and stuff, yk)

#holy yap #i might've worded this weirdly and i apologize if I did 💔#i've never actually recorded my thoughts about this stuff in any way before right now 😭#and i'm not the best at putting my thoughts and feelings about stuff into words 😞😞#especially with more sensitive topics like this #anyways #rant post #and btw the thing I'd trying to find a reason to dislike was incest...#please dont cancel me i swear i'm not a bad person i'm just curious and think too much 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏

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that-house · 3 days ago

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The Tarrasque Can Blow Me or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Make 5e Bosses That Don't Suck

HI, I'm Catherine that-house, and I play Dungeons and Dragons Fifth Edition almost as much as I hate it. I do this because I am a sicko pervert who likes to tinker with abysmal dogshit, not because it's a good game. This screed is dedicated to everyone trapped in the same mine as me.

D&D 5e combat sucks! Here's the flow chart for your melee champion fighter's turn:

IF BAD GUY: smack bad guy

IF BAD GUY WITHIN 30 FT: move to bad guy, smack bad guy

IF LOW ON HP: second wind

IF NO BAD GUY WITHIN 30 FT: dash towards nearest bad guy

action surge, take it from the top

IF YOU'RE FEELING DARING TODAY: maybe a grapple or an item interaction

And pretty much any non-caster monster has a pretty similar flowchart: there's no real back and forth, just the same set of actions over and over and the only time you have to pay attention on someone else's turn is for an attack of opportunity maybe. Finally one side reduces the other side's number to 0, and you can get back to roleplaying in your roleplaying game.

In general, I strive to make my boss fights hard and interesting, with interesting being the more important of the two. For some reason the wicked clowns working at WOTC got it into their heads that the only ways to make a fight hard are Bigger Number and Less Counterplay. I don't have any data on how they sought to make fights interesting because as far as I can tell they were too busy siccing the Pinkertons on people like it's the fucking 1800s.

Probably not all 5e combat is like this. But, like, look at the statblock for the Tarrasque, the CR 30 "strongest monster in the game" and try to tell me that that thing looks INTERESTING to fight. Difficult? Maybe, if your stats are bad. But INTERESTING? It walks at someone and murders the shit out of them, then rinses and repeats. The fetid dog turd that is the Tarraque is the perfect example of the Bigger Number, and even its meme status as the DM's "fuck you" monster is eclipsed by later additions to the game.

The other end of the "strongest 5e statblock" spectrum is shit like Sul Khatesh from Eberron, who earns the title of "most bullshit" by being immune to nonmagic attacks and creating antimagic fields. This is progress, because you might force someone to grapple it out of the field or something so everyone can deal damage! But this is still ultimately a pretty linear fight, not unlike fighting any other caster in the game, but with Less Counterplay.

My DMing style is pretty character goal-oriented, with the occasional bullshit superboss. We sit around for a few sessions while people pursue side projects and gather information, and then I subject them to the Horrors of a 5e fight that requires things like "positioning" and "planning" from turn to turn.

When playing a high level D&D campaign with insanely bullshit homebrew magic items and character-specific custom mechanics, it becomes necessary to pull out the big guns. The biggest guns. I'm talking a gun like my boy Hierarch Ozyas, undead demigod, father of monsters and heart of a living city, who had a meaty 2000 hit points and took somewhere in the vicinity of thirteen rounds of combat to bring down. Building bosses is an arms race and it's my job to lose in style. Here's Ozyas' statblock:

The bitch himself

Anyways I've been talking for a bit without actually saying anything of substance besides making fun of the Tarrasque. Which I will do one more time:

...deep breath...

D&D 5e is a pretty widely-disdained game by pretty much anyone who's ever played more than one RPG system. I myself only play it because I enjoy game design, and the thoroughly-beaten dead horse that WOTC calls a game serves as a decent foundation to do a lot of heavy tinkering. The Tarrasque is perfectly emblematic of all of the trash I have to wade through in order to get to the stuff worth keeping: it is an uninspired, anticlimactic relic of the past that didn't even manage to cling to a shred of its old glory and is instead content to wallow in the filth of what it once was, never once providing a challenge to any character with a flying speed. I would probably attempt to beat it to death with my hands (and fail, because it checks your character's stats rather than challenging you as a player in any way), but Jim the 1st level aaracokra with a save-forcing damage cantrip already solo'd it for me, so I'll settle for chewing through the throat of whichever game designer forgot they were making a "game" and submitted a three step flowchart for D&D's ultimate boss monster.

But anyways, I promised you a guide to how I design boss fights these days, so let's get to that.

Actually, first here's a quick aside about action economy that I didn't bother finding a place to fit in elsewhere: legendary actions are basically a necessity for any boss past level five or so. One big action is going to be a lot more polarizing than several small ones (i.e. one big crit on a large attack could completely flip the course of the fight, whereas multiple smaller attacks offer the same amount of damage output in a more consistent fashion). If you don't want to give your boss a bunch of HP to make it live long enough to take a few turns, you could consider giving it two turns in the initiative order (reducing the damage per turn to keep the damage per round constant). Low health minions are also a good way to pad out action economy, and even if they're easy to kill they tend to buy the boss another turn or two just from the actions it costs to take them down.

ANYWAYS, here's the core ideas I like to focus on in my boss design:

Keep them moving

Keep them working

Keep things changing

Reward good play

Punish mistakes

Make it a game

Along the way I'll be using snippets of the boss I mentioned above to illustrate examples of these principles and how they affected play. Let's begin.

KEEP THEM MOVING Positioning doesn't really matter in 5e. AoEs and movement values are both so large that you can easily get away with not having a battle map and sorta just tracking "in melee" or "not in melee." I run most fights without a battle map and just kinda track that, but for a good boss you need a map.

But how do we keep the game from just falling back into "move into range and hurt people," you ask? Simple: the Zone of Nasty. The Zone of Nasty is something on the map that is going to hurt the PCs if they're in it, and the Zone of Nasty moves. Depending on the boss, it could grow, shrink, follow a player, follow the boss, alternate between areas of the map, whatever. Some bosses might have multiple different Zones of Nasty that move in different ways and do different things.

There are other ways to force movement besides a moving AoE, such as punishing players for being too close or too far from each other or the boss.

The general principle here is that a boss should at times force suboptimal play: optimal play involves simply standing around, spending all your actions on damaging the boss, and it's incredibly boring from a strategic standpoint. There should be turns in which your players have to spend their action economy on protecting themselves or helping their allies. If they find themselves in a Zone of Nasty, it should force a decision between suffering the consequences to continue optimal play, or spending resources to get out of it.

Our boy Ozyas had a Cancer Field that he could move slowly around the arena that damaged and debuffed PCs inside it, and Pretender-God-Piercing Strike, a telegraphed line attack that oneshot anything that stayed in its area too long (more on this one later).

KEEP THEM WORKING Everyone needs a job to do! This job is probably just going to be based on what their class and abilities encourage them to do, but it sucks for someone to not be able to meaningfully participate in a boss fight.

Let the DPS players kick the boss's teeth in, obviously, but make sure the person who focused on AoE effects has some extra enemies that they can deal with. Bonus points if the extra enemies have something that forces them to be dealt with instead of just rushing the boss' HP bar.

Worst case scenario, throw in a secondary objective like completing a ritual, controlling a point on the map, or fighting the boss' soul on a higher plane to give someone who isn't immediately needed for DPS to still have something to do.

Ozyas spawned a bunch of extra monsters from these gross Birthing Pillars around the map, and killing the monsters and destroying the pillars provided a nice secondary course of action for people either not equipped to slug it out with the boss or not currently positioned right to fight him.

KEEP THINGS CHANGING The tarrasque sucks because it does one thing over and over until it works or it dies. The Theros splatbook improved on this marginally: Mythic Traits are fucking baller! Combats should change over the course of the fight, or this could have been a fucking autobattler. But we can go further.

In addition to occasionally shaking things up based on health thresholds, here's a few ways I like to do it:

Rotating list of effects that change every round

Huge list of options the boss can choose from for one of their effects with no repeats

Some sort of meter that increases and decreases based on what's happening in the fight and modifies the boss' abilities

Ozyas summoned new monsters every round and could customize the statblocks with a bunch of quick templates I whipped together, and in his second phase he started alternating between scaling the to hit/damage of his tentacle attack, the reach of his spear attack, and applying extra buffs to his summons.

REWARD GOOD PLAY These next two kind of tie together but the core idea here is that it's okay if a boss is a bit easy, as long as it makes your players work for it.

This can include things like ways to trivialize certain parts of the encounter as long as the players utilize them, typically at the cost of advancing other parts of the fight.

I knew that Ozyas was going to be a long fight, so I gave my players the ability to heal to full health, as an action, whenever they wanted. They were fighting inside Ozyas' body, and he was a generous host. However, any time they healed, he would be healed for the same amount. They got around this restriction by hitting him with Chill Touch to disable his own healing whenever people needed to heal, but that obviously had the cost of losing two actions' worth of damage output.

Towards the end of the fight, everyone was still standing thanks to that healing, but as he began to infinitely scale his stats once he reached his second phase and started taking them seriously, they couldn't afford to waste turns healing anymore and the safety net they built up by healing earlier in the fight kept anyone in the party from dying.

PUNISH MISTAKES The range on D&D characters' HP pools and general survivability can be pretty broad. I like to give my bosses a reasonably-heavy hitting melee and some sort of light ranged attack to remind the backliners that they too can die. But there's a third kind of attack.

The great equalizer.

The One Hit Knock Out move.

These need to be telegraphed. There needs to be copious time to get out of the area, or to stop the boss from using it, or whatever the case may be. But any superboss should have a way to threaten any player on equal standing: a move that will always hit if its conditions are met, and puts them clean to 0.

Ozyas' OHKO was Pretender-God-Piercing Strike, where at the end of each turn he would wind up a spear thrust with enough range to hit across the entire map, targeting a 15-foot line through the nearest player. Neither he nor the line could move after that, and if you were still in that line at the start of his next turn, you were done.

It wasn't hard to avoid: just walk like 10 feet and don't get pushed back in by another enemy. They even lined it up to target some of his own allies sometimes. But it forced them to think about positioning and stay moving, and there were a few times where it aaaaalmost caught someone in the line. The prospect of Instant Death really does wonders to ratchet up the tension.

And now, finally, we come to the most important part:

MAKE IT A GAME D&D 5e likes to jerk off while fantasizing about being real. "Catherine what the fuck are you talking about?" What I mean to say is that D&D makes a fumbling attempt towards a more simulationist style of game, trying to distance itself from the fact that it is, in fact, a game. It tries to comport itself like reality, such that every part of its combat makes sense in-universe, and then immediately falls short because it can't be assed to indulge in actual simulationism.

It is my belief that if you're going to spend 4 hours fighting a boss, and one of the boss mechanics doesn't really make much sense as an in-universe concept but does make the boss more interesting and fun to fight, then that's a perfectly fine mechanic. Obviously finding some way to justify it is preferable, but my bosses prioritize good gameplay over verisimilitude.

The upcoming boss in my campaign has a feature which puts the fight on a ten-round time limit before he begins kicking substantially more ass than he was before (and the prior ass-kickery was indeed already substantial). If this is a desperate fight with his life and his dreams on the line, why doesn't he open with that? If this were a WOTC statblock, barring a mythic trait, that's exactly how it would work. But fuck that, because it would make the fight way less interesting! Now there's time pressure! And sure, the post-round-ten version of the boss is meant to be fled from, not fought, but if he's at a low enough HP it could instead make for an insane climactic finish!

I let my players see the whole statblock before the fight. We talk through all of its abilities, and I'll even point out some of the potential points of complexity and the big risks to watch out for. There's no in-universe justification for why the characters would know this (beyond, perhaps "you're exceptional adventurers and are good at evaluating your foes"): in fact, one of the quintessential examples of classical 5e metagaming is the Guy Who's Read the Monster Manual. I think that's fucking stupid, though. With open statblocks:

Features can be game-warpingly deadly without instantly incurring a TPK born of ignorance. OHKO moves don't feel fair unless the counterplay is known

The players can strategize around the ways in which the boss is going to change throughout the fight

It's fundamentally fair. Some GMs just wait X turns and then let the boss go down when it takes a big, impressive hit (and I fully respect people who do that! That's still more compelling boss design than 5e's normal schlock), but I personally like when numbers have meanings.

You can still hide some information (I like to black out the boss' Mythic Trait, and then only use it if the players stomp the fight too easily), and you can still tweak it to adjust the difficulty, with the difference being that your players know it's being adjusted and how so (which again comes back to my feelings of fairness).

A few other fun mechanics to toss in include stacking debuffs that trigger something horrible at some certain threshold, additional win conditions or lose conditions, and silly little minigames. One trick I particularly enjoy is having my players secretly vote between two or more bad outcomes, and punishing them even more if the vote is tied.

CONCLUSION Your mileage may vary, but I'm hoping at least some of the insights here were useful to you! I have a particular strain of undiagnosed mental illnesses that make me especially predisposed towards piloting huge convoluted intricate bosses with 1k+ word statblocks, and I'm lucky enough to have players who know their shit well enough to play around this bullshit. Find something that works for you and your players.

If you hate 5e combat and think this sounds like way too much work to be worth doing, go play something else, like Pathfinder or Lancer or (heaven forbid) a game that actually struggles to trace its lineage of inspiration back to D&D. Go to itch.io and find some game no one's ever played before, and toss the creator a bit of money. The only way we're making it out of these goddamn Mines of Phandelver is if people try something new from time to time.

On the subject of cool games with cool combat, bear with me as I shill for a friend real quick. If you want a game that cares less about combat as an abstract dick measuring contest and more about combat as a facet of violence and all that that entails, check out [BXLLET> by @rathayibacter.

And, finally, from the bottom of my heart, fuck WOTC. Your books aren't even worth pirating, and the Tarrasque can blow me.

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neocrias · 2 days ago

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hey guys,can you do a post on how svt would ask you out?

Heyyy!! Thank you for the request, that's a really great idea! Especially in the spirit of Valentine's days :)

Seventeen asking you out

warnings: descriptions; headcanons; gn (mostly) reader self insert; you might find it a little kinky at some point;

pairings: svt x gn reader

gender/aus: fluff; slightly suggestive;

S.Coups

When S.Coups asks you out, he already has everything planned. Head down, no distractions. He knows what you like and don’t like, your favorites, and he makes sure to plan a date that’s absolutely irresistible to you. I feel like he’d choose something fun and playful, like an amusement park - where he can show off his perfect aim at the shooting booths (of course he won’t stop until he wins you a plushie) and just how fearless he is when it comes to holding you at the top of a roller coaster or inside the haunted house. He’ll also be ready for a romantic moment at the top of the Ferris wheel. And, of course, he’s picking you up and dropping you off - no way he’s taking no for an answer.

Jeonghan

He’s going to make a mystery out of it. Where are we going? What should I wear? What are we doing? He won’t give you a single detail besides, "Dress casually, and I’ll pick you up at seven. And how will the date unfold? Well, Jeonghan ends up taking you to a Seventeen game night. Chaos might not be your ideal version of romance, but he has his reasons: this way, he gets to show you all the ways he cheats and pulls tricks to win everything - which he believes is his best flex. It also gives him the perfect opportunity to tease and be playful with you, which is totally his love language.

Joshua

Okay, this might sound a little unusual, but hear me out: a beach date. I mean, have you seen his surfing photos?!?!! Shua is another one who has everything planned out, but he’ll obviously give you all the details - and he’ll probably invite you out well in advance, just to make sure your plans are made for him and no one else. He’ll hype up the date a lot, casually mentioning little details or new things he’s planning to make your day amazing. (He might even joke like, "Can you send me a picture of the bikini you're planning to wear? Just to make sure my outfit matches haha.") And when the day finally comes, he WILL pick you up and drop you off, obviously. He’ll also have snacks and drinks all prepared, along with beach games, towels, sunscreen, sunglasses, hats, his surfboard, and anything else you might need. It’ll be playful and romantic - just like him.

Jun

I feel like Jun is more the type to agree on meeting you at the date spot. He will probably be a little flustered to ask you out in person, but if it’s through text it’ll be a lot easier and flowy, with even some rizz going on. He will choose something playful yet cute, like an ice skating rink! Has he ever gone ice skating before? Nope, but he thinks it “can’t be that hard, right?”. If you’ve never done it either, he will try and tease you before the date, saying you can cling onto him if you need to and all that romantic stuff. At the actual date, he might realize that no, it’s not as easy as he thought it was, and no, it’s not easy at all to flex about something you’ve never done before lol. But don’t worry, he’ll own it (after becoming a blushing mess, of course) and you both will have a date full of funny falls and clumsy hugs, trying to find balance together and enjoying yourselves a lot. At the end of the evening, Jun scored lots of points with you without even realizing. Cute.

Hoshi

The total opposite of Joshua. Soonyoung will not ask you with any advance, probably won’t prepare anything too neatly and, heck, he might not even ask you out in fact. I just feel like he would be laid back enough to call you up in the middle of a regular day and ask you to put on some clothes, because he will be passing through your house and he will be picking you up. That's it, bye. He will be simply taking Latte for a walk and think “hm, why not?”, and the next second you’re getting a call from him saying he’s already at your front door. If you disagree or complain, it’ll make it funnier for him, and he’ll probably come up with some threatening such as “well, my car is already entering your street and I can’t park in here or I’ll get fined, so… you better be there when I arrive” and just turn off the call. Yeah, he is a menace, but you’ll enjoy the date nevertheless, even if it’s something as simple as just taking a walk through the park with his annoying ass.

Wonwoo

A little bit shy, Wonwoo might ask you out to some type of event (like a comic con sorta thing, or any type of “cons” really, maybe related to books or games/technology or something he finds that you both have in common) with the excuse that “he already had an extra ticket”, because he probably won’t admit that he already bought them with you in mind, knowing that he would ask another friend and he would say no, which would make the perfect opportunity to take you with him. I think he might meet you at the spot, but drive you home at the end of the evening. The date will be pretty smooth, he will charm you with some nerdy jokes and might even buy some goods you’ve been eyeing behind your back, just to give you at the end of the outing as a small surprise and souvenir from your first date.

Woozi

Jihoon wants to take you to where he knows he is his most confident self. So when you’re granted free-pass tickets to a Seventeen concert, to stay at a private box with a friend, you don’t feel that surprised - even if it’s a big BIG flex. He might send a car to pick you up before the show, since he’ll be busy practicing. Woozi will do his best, taking even more effort knowing that you’re watching him, and he might even suggest something that relates to you during one of his ments, eyeing the box you’re at with a grin that’ll make your heart flutter. At the end of the concert, you will obviously see him backstage, and he will ask you honestly what did you think of specific parts of the concert - just to make sure you were actually paying attention to him all the time - at this point, your friend will get certainly get distracted with the other twelve great-looking guys, which will provide you both some alone time, and even if he’s tired, you and Woozi’s night will surely not end just there.

As for Seokmin, he’s also one of those who prepares in advance - although he will probably ask you out just a few days from the date, not because he is careless, but because he was a little nervous, and kept procrastinating it. You obviously could never refuse those cute eyes of his, and he feels like he might explode. He will try to play it cool, but will keep on texting you just to make sure you actually know what you’re getting yourself into, and that it’s okay to cancel if you can’t make it, or if you’d like this or that for the date. On d-day, DK will text you with the address info, and as soon as you get there, you’ll see this beautiful picnic set he made only for you. He’s waiting for you with a bouquet of flowers and a wide smile. He shows you all the food he cooked himself and makes sure you’re comfortable on the blanket, giving you cushions and plushies, super proud of his work. It goes without saying that Seokmin will make you laugh during the entire afternoon, and at the end of the date, he’ll open up the door of his car for you like a gentleman and drive you back, feeling all mushy inside.

Mingyu

Three words: late night drive. What better way to get you to stare at his big muscles than driving right by your side? Plus, he’ll get to show off his driving abilities and his nice car. Since it’s a very casual outing, Gyu might warn you about this without much advance (even if he definitely thought of it for some time) and try not to make a big deal out of it (even if he does, in fact, make a big deal of it). It will be funnier than what you expect a late night drive to be, with Mingyu stopping somewhere to buy you food and then parking close to a nice spot so that you can walk a while, hand in hand.

Minghao

He’s really all about balancing and stuff, so he will be something between Hoshi and Joshua: he will ask you out properly, but as soon as you say “yes”, you’ll only be hearing from him when he finally texts you his location at the nearby art gallery. Well, at least he explained to you the setting somewhat previously, because he also understands that dressing up might be important for you. At the date, Minghao will act casually, and effortlessly compliment your outfit or your looks in general. He will enjoy the afternoon to explain to you how he feels about the different arts, and will be definitely eager to hear your impressions too. At the end of the exhibition, he might take you to a café or an ice cream shop, just to prolong the moment a little bit.

Seungkwan

I think Seungkwan will probably ask you out in advance, too, not because he wants to plan it out in detail or because he is a perfectionist, but because he can’t wait for it. This volleyball game has been one of the events he’s been most excited to for the last months, and bringing you along is nice because he can do something he really enjoys doing, which is watching sports, while having someone to share the experience with. On the day of the date, Seungkwan picks you up with his car (he probably texts you a lot of times to make sure you’re ready to go). He promises he will explain to you everything that’s happening throughout the game if you’re not familiar with it, but at the end he gets way too excited cheering for that - which, thankfully will be cute enough for you to let it pass.

Vernon

He tries to play it cool by asking you to go to the movies with him. It won’t exactly feel like he’s asking you out necessarily, since you are already friends and usually hangout at places like those, but trust me, in his mind, this will be the date. Unfortunately, Hansol lets it slip that he’ll be watching a movie with you and some of the boys might end up showing up - which will then cause some chaos, and ruin all Hansol’s plans of turning this casual hangout into a proper date. He, then, will have to make it a little more obvious that this was not the type of outing that he was planning on taking you to, but that’s fine, because it gives him a nice excuse to run away from that cinema with you, and finally find somewhere more personal and hopefully, more romantic. At the end of your escape and your now real date, Hansol will make sure to walk you to the bus stop (this man simply refuses to drive) and if he’s feeling especially clingy, he might even take your bus with you (even if it doesn’t go even near his house).

Dino

Oh dear Channie… All he needs to hear is that you’re having a difficult day at work and then, at the end of your working-hours, his car will be parked in front of your company. This puts him in the “doesn’t really ask you out” box, but in a less extreme way, because the poor guy was just worried about you. He might be waiting for you with a snack you like, or even a small gift, just to make sure you leave all your worries behind before embarking on his sudden-date. He will drive with you for a while, feeling extremely proud for causing such envious looks from your co-workers when he parked in front of the building (which he’ll totally brag to you about) and then he’ll stop next to a somehow empty park, asking you to walk a little and just talk. Chan is overall just happy to be the one that helps you unwind after a stressful day - especially if he gets to kiss your worries away at the end of the night.

#'svt x reader #svt scenarios #svt fluff #svt smut #seventeen #svt imagines #svt headcanons #seventeen x reader #seventeen fanfic #svt x you #svt reactions #seventeen reactions #svt angst #slightly suggestive #svt reader #svt x reader

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edenl0vesu · 2 days ago

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I feel like each different version of bucky fucks different

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!reader.

Warnings: mentions of Bdsm, spanking, overstimulation, errmm if i missed lmk.!

40s!Bucky is the perfect gentleman, hes probably actually one of the roughest of all the bucky variants. Praise, probably the occasional smacking (whether it be pussy, ass, face, whatever you want), his favorite is either cowgirl or missionary- he loves to be able to look at you.

Catws!Bucky/the winter soldier is the literal opposite, while i genuinely believe during this time he would not have been with anyone. I genuinely believe his trauma alone would not allow him to be with anyone. Sorry if this part disappoints.

Cw!bucky is a fucking menace dude, i genuinely believe he would be a menace to fucking society. He needs that control back- for the past 70+ years he hasnt had any control. Gagging, biting, he would probably use toys on you, manhandling, marking hes real big on that one- thighs, chest, neck, stomach. Anywhere he can get his mouth on- i feel like he would be big on you marking him too. Overstimulation, would tie you up if youre into that, hair pulling, orgasm control/denying, cumplay. Pretty softer on the bdsm side but definitely would. The man isnt known as BEEFY bucky for no reason. I think he would absolutely manhandle you into submission. But he would also still be very cautious of not wanting to hurting you for real so he has a very established safeword and light system with you. His aftercare is the best, ordering takeout, running a bath, washing you and himself up, making sure you both eat and drink something then cuddling with a movie on until you both fall asleep. Very cutesy.

BP/IW/Endgame!bucky i dont really thing too much of. I think specifically after everything thats happened for him he just wants normal, i think during this era he would be really vanilla, hes gentle, he wants normalcy, missionary becoming his favorite so he can bury his face in your neck as he fucks you.

Tfatws!bucky would be a cross of the last two tbh, i think he would be gentler than Cw!bucky but more aggresssive than BP/IW/Endgame!bucky. I feel like hes more trying ti distract himself when it comes to sex. Trying to use you as his lifeline in a way. His favorite position is probably missionary still if im being true to my soul.

My mind is so full of ideas and im currently writing an Oc fic and im still on the fence on if ill ever post it. AGHHHH, blurb of that is coming soon for you guys.!

#fanfic #marvel #bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #reader insert #smut #winter soldier x reader

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stylish-suidae · 1 day ago

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I know this is the "piss on the poor" site but c'mon guys. Basic media literacy. If something sounds too outrageous to be true, it probably is. And please for the love of god check the primary source.

The primary source in this case, being fuelarc.com, a site I've never heard of, but also I'm not a car person, so it's reasonable I might not have heard of them.

Thing is though, neither has anybody else. I scoured the internet for mentions of them to try and get a read on their reputability, and couldn't find anything from them except, well, this report being linked all over the place. They've got links to their substack and reddit at the bottom of their page, substack link is a dead link, reddit is just a link to every time their site is linked to across all of reddit. A total of 67 times, about 2/3 of which were one user posting practically every article on the site to every remotely relevant subreddit. This account is only 2 months old.

And on that note, the earliest content I can find on the site is from Jan 31 of this year, so the site, far as I can tell, is less than a month old. Not to mention that every article is written by the same "Kay Leadfoot" which is definitely a pseudonym. And given the sheer number of articles on this site that's less than 20 days old, I strongly suspect that "Kay Leadfoot" is at least partially AI.

ANYWAY how about the data itself. It's dividing the number of "Reported Fire Fatalities" divided by the number of units sold through 2025-01-01. Seems like a reasonable way to calculate this. The Pinto had a total of 27 fatalities with units sold of ~3.2 million rate (per 100,000) of 0.85.

And with the Cybertruck's 34,438 units sold, it had a total of... 5 reported fire fatalities. And naive division gets us a fatality rate of 14.52 per 100,000. Anyone who actually understands statistics, though, knows that this is not anywhere near enough data to make any kind of meaningful conclusion.

But let's see where their data is sourced. They do link their sources after all. First off, we've got...

The Las Vegas Cybertruck bombing. Where the truck was deliberately blown up with actual fucking explosives (that were not part of the truck's design). And the only fatality involved was the bomber himself, who shot himself in the head and died before the truck even detonated. This is being counted as a "reported fire fatality"

Okay how about their next source? It's a link to an article about one specific crash, where someone burned to death. Ok cool, little odd you're linking specific crashes but when you're working with such small numbers it's probably fine, epsecially when compared with that last one.

And the next source... is also the last one. A crash in California where 4 college students were in a truck that crashed, one got out, and of the remaining 3, at least 1 burned to death, though the article doesn't mention whether the other 2 died of burns or from the crash itself.

That's it. You've got 2 people who were confirmed to have died as a result of the fire, 2 of inconclusive cause of death, and 1 who shot himself in the head. If you actually take the confirmed numbers, that rate would actually be 5.8 per 100,000.

That's still much higher than the Pinto. Or at least, the number presented for the Pinto. But yeah, let's check this out, actually. Their source for 27 Pinto deaths is labeled as a NHTSA report, but opening it up it's a PDF scan of a report from before the Pinto was even fucking taken off the market, and the report isn't where the number comes from. It just repeats a number it got from... Ford. The same Ford that was, at that time, lobbying the government to lower safety standards so they could keep selling the car. So it's an incomplete number, because people were STILL FUCKING DYING, from a source that wants you to believe as few people were dying as possible. May as well just ask Elon how many people have died in Cybertrucks, jesus fucking christ.

They also link another source as "unconfirmable", and indeed that source is a Mother Jones article that doesn't link to a primary source, but mentions that 500 is a conservative estimate of Pinto fire deaths, and the real number could be as high as 900. Which would give us a rate of 15.8 on the low end and 28.4 on the high end. I'm not gonna stand by those numbers as accurate, since again, I can't find an actual primary source, but I trust Mother Jones on this more than I trust Ford.

And I'm not saying this to defend the Cybertruck or Elon. The truck's a piece of shit that almost certainly does catch fire more than a car should, has a dumbass electronic handle system which makes it harder to get out if the car loses power, and got stuck in the sand like 2 hours after leaving the boat on Nantucket. And Elon is a lying fascist shithead who's destroying the US with the same idiocy that brought us the PS1-Homer-mobile.

So yeah. I've got no love for Elon and wouldn't get in a Cybertruck if I could avoid it. My point isn't to defend them, but to please maybe get tumblr users to actually exercise some basic media literacy for the love of god.

🤦‍♀️🤦‍♂️

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luvbinnies · 2 days ago

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i made a promise, to distance myself

A boy who kept his feelings locked away and someone who wore their heart on their sleeve. When he walked away, it was without warning, without reason. And they refused to wait for an explanation. Now few months later, forced to work together on a project neither can escape, old wounds resurface. Silence turns into stolen glances, resentments bleeds into something dangerously familiar, and the past refuses to stay buried.

Genre: fluff, angst, exs to lovers, el oh el.

warnings: swearing, isaac newton mentioned, could be sad ig (?), i can't think of anything else

a/n: im back from the dead, recently fell under a moving car and got dumped el oh el, some parts in here are inspo by like my actual life, i have a list of all the similarities if anyone is curiosu at the end of the story. basically wake up from a dream where me and my ex got back together and wrote this.

wc: 9.6k (longest fic ever el oh el)

Jumping off a flight of stairs was probably not the best idea, but it was the only thing you could think of at the moment.

Reluctantly moving down the stairs and following the loud clunk sounds of your stupid bright neon green water bottle. Books and papers of drawings and blueprints that won't fit into your messenger bag without getting damaged. Maybe you should’ve listened to when people said getting a regular backpack was much more convenient than the bag you had now, but it was much more fashionable.

Landing at the bottom of the staircase, take a moment to breathe and prepare yourself for having to go back up five flights of stairs to get to class. Because even though the school is one of the prestigious in the country, they refuse to have any sort of elevators to ruin their “dark academic” aesthetic of the building.

Eyes traveling on the old cobbled stoned flooring, trying to locate a neo-coded water bottle, your mother insisted on getting since she read somewhere green is this year's lucky colour. Probably found in some ridiculous article, really got to get her off social media.

Bright neon green slipped through your peripheral vision, turning to face the still rolling bottle and walking towards it before it makes you late for your next class. It stops in front of a pair of solid black shoes, one that looks all too familiar. The figure stops at the feeling of the ratchet bottle that wants to ruin your day even more than it already has.

A recognizable pale hand, with a silver ring on the index, hesitantly drops down to pick up the bottle that led you down a path to the literal pits of hell for you. Eyes not dare looking up from the ground, taking your somewhat free hand and extending out your pinky to the now stranger you have a bitter taste in your mouth everytime you come near. Once the feeling of your pinky is weighted down by the feeling of the water bottle’s hook, you take off up the stairs with energy that you didn’t think you had anymore left of, as it’s your third time climbing these stairs in the past ten minutes.

Not a care in the world if a stranger walks by and deem you as a rude bastard who can’t even say thank you, because you can;t even say a word to the “nice stranger” who handed you your water bottle. All you can do around him now is just run and avoid. That’s what you continue to do until you reach your class, probably looking a little weird as you were also cursing at your bottle and gravity, mainly isaac newton, he’s usually the bane of all your problems lately, besides the man you used to call yours.

—

His friends would sometimes joke to him that the world is too fast for him at times, usually when he doesn’t get a joke right away or for him zoning out, especially as it has been worse in these past few months.

But that happened so fast, he has no idea what to do, or how to react but just to stare at your figure rushing up the stairs. Sunghoon’s jaw tightens as you fade away up the many flights of stairs. Acting like he is some contagious virus, even afraid to touch him, much less look at him.

He would remember when their friend group was still intact and when they would all hang out, how sometimes the gang would get too overwhelming, even from the other side of the room you would catch his eye and always give him a comforting smile. And the simple eye contact with one another, while the world moves along around them.

But he had lost that with you and it’s all his fault.

—

Taking a little break from the assignment in front of you to angrily tap on your phone so the ads on your music app stop, knowing you aren’t really actually doing anything to get rid of them unless you become one of the apps victims and pay for music. But your stubbornness and being broke, so aggressively hitting your phone is your next best solution.

The little silence after the ad is finally done and the next song is about to start, you can hear a mechanical pencil roll off of a desk. A quiet clatter could barely be noticed in the slight hum of the library. You didn’t hear it at first, the angry high you had because of the ad made you lock out of concentrating from your work— until you noticed the hand reaching for it making you pause.

Long pale fingers. A silver ring on the index.

You know those hands, it's your second time seeing them in… you weren’t too sure the last time you saw those hands when they were wrapped around your water bottle. All you knew was that you were seeing those hands much sooner than you needed to.

Those hands, you remember the weight of those hands in yours, the way they used to hold your face and caress your cheek, the way they tug at your sleeves on your sweater absentmindedly.

And you recognize the pencil.

It’s yours.

Not exactly, but you did buy that pencil.

Something in you starts feeling nauseous, or light-headed, you couldn’t really figure out in the moment because without thinking, you reach out and yank that pencil right out of his grip.

Maybe you shouldn’t have done that, because now that gross boy opened his mouth, but you didn’t care.

Sunghoon blinks. “Hey did you just—”

Whenever you were bored in class you would always do fun pencil tricks and even taught him how to do some with this said pencil in your hands.

Spinning the pencil around, inspecting it with feigned interest, not caring about the boy next to you with his mouth open like a fish staring at you. “Huh. I forgot how nice this pencil was.”

Now his mouth is close as he clenches his jaw, his stare sharpening. “You can’t be serious.”

Finally turning your head to look at him, trying to maintain the emotions on your face. Instead of saying something you might end up regretting, in the fear of sounding cringe, you just shrug.

“Give it back.”

“Why?” Resting your chin on your hand. “It’s mine.”

He exhales sharply, the kind of exasperated breath he used to let out when you teased for taking things too seriously. Except now there’s a little bit of an edge to everything.

“You gave it to me.”

You tilt your head “Did I?”

You weren’t sure if he could clench his jaw any harder, but somehow he does. “Yeah. You did.”

Your grip on the pencil tightens. You can’t say you remember everything that was said the night of the break up, but you remember the way you felt, the way he left without explanation— like he couldn’t bear to stay with you any second longer. As if he couldn’t stand to hold on to something that was already slipping away.

He didn’t even let you have a say, you didn’t get the chance to do anything, not even fight for what was yours then.

So now you hold on to that damn pencil.

“Well,” you say, voice light, “technically, it was mine first.”

Sunghoon lets out a humorless laugh, one you don’t recognize in this fever dream daze of nostalgia. Leaning against the table, he’s close now, closer than you could've prepared for. You hate the way your heart stumbles over itself at the lack of distance, at the way he still smells the same— like something clean and sharp, a little cologne you had bought him about a year ago for his birthday.

His voice drops an octave. “You’re seriously pulling this shit?”

Shrugging again, simply just pulling a stare you hope doesn’t reveal how fast your heart is beating stupidly like it used to.

He watches you for a long second, his brown eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to figure out what type of game you were playing. But then, not arguing, instead of pushing back, he just exhales softly.

“Fine,” he mutters, “Keep it.”

And then, right before he turns away— so quiet you almost think you had imagined it—

“It suits you better anyways.”

You blink.

Before you could say anything, maybe asking what the fuck he meant by what he said, he’s already walking off. Leaving you with a mechanical pencil in your hands and this time you watching him as he walks away, with a taste of words you don’t quite understand.

—

Two year ago

Rain pitter patters against the windows, a dull hum in the background in the near-empty classroom. It’s late— too late for anyone to be here— you didn’t care, you were too stubborn. Chewing on your nail, brows furrowed in concentration as you glare at your notebook, completely oblivious to the fact that Sunghoon hasn’t turned a page in the last ten minutes.

He should be focusing. He should be running through formulas in his head, thinking about the test tomorrow, or at the very least be pretending to be studying. Instead, he’s watching you— watching the way you puff out your cheeks when you stop understanding what you were just doing, the way you spin the pencil in your hand absentmindedly, the way you whisper to yourself while doing each exercise when you think no one’s listening.

You’re always like this– loud without meaning to be, pulling attention without even trying.

He should’ve known sooner. That you were dangerous in the kind of way that crept up on him, slipping past his defenses before he had the chance to stop it.

“Sunghoon.”

Your voice snaps him back to reality, he straightens, forcing his face into something neutral. “What?”

Pushing your notebook towards him, sighing dramatically. “Did you do this one yet? I don’t know if I did it correctly.”

He glances at your notebook, eyes widening a little, as to the most he could see on the page was a bunch of scribbles and some incoherent formulas and calculation. Having a hard time reading it , before shifting his chair closer. You don’t think twice about it when your shoulders brush. You never do.

But he does.

He always does.

“Is this your answer, at the corner?” he asks, taking your pencil without thinking, to circle the little number at the bottom of the page. Your fingers graze for a second, and he wonders if you feel the static the way he does. Probably not. You’d pull away if you did.

He attempted to go over your work, commenting on what you have written in a voice that’s much steadier than he feels. You nod along, resting your chin on your hand, eye flickering between his face and page.

“I hate Isaac Newton and that stupid apple.” you grumble.

Sunghoon huffs a quiet laugh shaking his head. “You just overthink everything.”

You groan. “I wish that apple killed that stupid white man.”

He watches as you bury your head in your arms on the table, tapping your forehead lightly with the end of the pencil before setting it back down. “Just stop overthinking and wishing death upon an already dead man.”

Lifting your head, you blink at him, lips parting like you want to argue, but for a brief moment, something passes between the two of you— something neither of you have a name for yet.

And then you roll your eyes, reaching for your notebook. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever, idiot.”

Sunghoon watches as you turn your pages to start a new question, completely unaware of the way his fingers twitch against his knee, resisting the urge to brush a stray strand of hair from your face.

Yeah.

He’s in trouble.

—

A few months ago

The night air is cold, but not as cold as the space between you.

Your arms are crossed. His hands are shoved into his pockets.

A street light flickers overhead. A car passes in the distance.

Sunghoon exhales, steadying himself.

Then. before he can stop it— before he can think too hard about what he’s about to lose—

“I think we should break up.”

Silence.

The kind that swallows everything whole.

Your lips part, but no words come out.

The look in your eyes— confusion, disbelief, then something else, something that burns—

“What-Why?”

He doesn’t answer. Or maybe he does, but it’s not the right thing.

It’s never the right thing.

The air is heavy, thick with things neither of you are saying.

Then, finally— your voice, quieter this time.

“Okay.”

A single step back. Then another.

And then—

Nothing.

—

The classroom hums with chatter, students moving around and the teacher speaking about some project, but you were barely listening. Your attention is elsewhere— on your notebook, on the scratches of pen against paper, literally anything but him.

He was two rows ahead, resting his chin on his hand, half-focused on his laptop. Almost similar to you right now. Too similar.

You don’t look at him. You don’t let yourself.

But then—

“For the project, you’ll be working in pairs.”

There is a ripple of movement through the room, students glancing around already choosing their partners.

“I’ve assigned them to you.”

Your stomach twists.

You sit a little straighter. Your fingers tighten around your pen.

The professor starts listing off names. One by one, students find their partner. You’re holding your breath, waiting for—

And then—

Your name.

And then, immediately after—

His.

You freeze.

The room suddenly feels too small, the air too thick.

Someone nudges your arm, murmuring something about how lucky you are since you get to work with the “hottest guy on campus”, but their voice is distant, muffled by the sound of blood rushing in your ears.

Slowly, hesitantly, you lift your gaze.

Sunghoon had turned in his seat.

For the first time in months, you’re looking at each other.

And the worst part? He doesn’t even look surprised.

—

Sunghoon doesn’t hear from you for the rest of the day.

Not a text, not a call— nothing.

And the, at exactly 11:51 pm., an email lands in his inbox.

Subject: Project Task

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Attached is the project outline. I’ve divided the tasks. I’ll handle the structural analysis and concept sketches. You can do the mechanical components. Tell me when you are done.

Sent from my phone

That’s it. No greeting. No unnecessary words. Not even your name.

Sunghoon exhales through his nose, clicking open the file. You’ve already set up everything— titles, labels, even deadlines. You’ve practically built a wall of professionalism between you, as if you were never anything but classmates.

And it pisses him off.

Fine. two can play this game.

He types a reply, short and to the point.

Subject: Re: Project Tasks

Got it.

He doesn’t hit send.

His fingers hover over the keyboard. His jaw clenches.

Then, in a moment of stubborn impulse, he types—

You can’t avoid me forever.

And hits send before he can take it back.

—

“You know, he’s right.”

You shoot a glare over at Sunoo. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” he continued, kicking his feet up on the bench. “You can’t ignore him forever.”

“I can, actually.” you sip your matcha pointedly. “It’s called email.”

He snorts. “You sound like a middle-aged professor.”

“Good. Maybe he’ll leave me alone then.”

Sunoo raises an eyebrow. “He literally told you, ‘You can’t avoid me forever.’”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, and? I don’t care.”

The words are barely out of your mouth when Sunoo suddenly stiffens, eyes darting over your shoulder.

“Uh—”

You don’t even have to ask. You just know.

There’s a familiar shift to the air, an awareness pressing down on your skin.

And then, just to confirm it—

“Shit,” Sunoo mutters. “He’s down the hall.”

You don’t think. You just move.

Your hands shoot out, gripping his sleeve as you drag them down the corridor.

“Are you serious?!” he hiss between stumbling steps.

“Shut up, shut up , shut up—”

“Please can we stop running, I don’t think he would be chasing us down for sport.”

You don’t care. You don’t turn around because you know if you do, you’ll see Sunghoon standing there, staring after you, that unreadable look on his face.

And you are not giving him that satisfaction.

Not today.

—

Staring at your laptop screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, the flashing cursor blinking back at you in defiance. You’ve been avoiding this email for days— every time you think about it your stomach churns, and you mind races with excuses.

You don’t want to deal with him. Not now. Not ever again.

The project, the meeting, the unavoidable tension. You had hoped, foolishly, that you could really just avoid Sunghoon completely— keep everything strictly professional, send email, handle the assignment without having to face him in person. But that plan was crushed the moment the email landed in your inbox, his name in bold.

“Let’s meet in person tomorrow to go over the project. I’ll bring the drafts.”

Of course, Sunghoon had to take the initiative. You had a suspicion he’d never let you hide behind your screen forever. He was stubborn, too, in a way that always seemed to get under your skin.

You arrived at the library, dragging your feet, already feeling the weight of the situation settle in your chest. The project was an assignment, but the real challenge was having to sit across from him, pretending that nothing had happened, pretending that the last year— no, the last months— hadn’t been a whirlwind of frustration and heartache.

But here you were, faced with reality. You walked into the library, hoping to avoid eye contact, but you couldn’t escape the familiar sight of him sitting at a table with all his papers neatly organized, a slight form on his face as he scanned the documents.

His eyes flicked up when he saw you enter, and for a second, your heart skipped a beat. But you force yourself to remain calm. He was just a classmate now, just another part of your academic routine. Nothing more.

You set your things down at the table across from him, pulling your laptop out with the practiced motions of someone who had done this a thousand times before. You weren;t going to make this more personal than it had to be. No small talk. No catching up. Just the project.

“Hey,” Sunghoon greeted, his voice neutral but carrying the weight of something unsaid. He glanced at the papers in front of you and then back to you. “Are you okay with everything so far? I made some revisions to the outline.”

You didn;t look at him. Instead, you glanced at the project papers and began sorting through them, avoiding his gaze entirely. “I’ll read them over later. Just… let’s focus on getting it done.”

You felt his eyes on you, the tension palpable in the air, but you refused to acknowledge it. You had your own part to do, your own work to focus on. Nothing else mattered right now. The project was the only thing that mattered.

—

Sunghoon sighed, and you could hear the edge of frustration creeping into his voice. “Look, I know this isn;t easy for either of us, but we’re stuck with each other for this project. We might as well get it done right.”

“I’m not here to talk,” you snapped back, the words sharp and defensive. “Just focus on your part. I’ll handle mine.”

His expression hardened , but he didn’t push it any further. He opened up his own laptop and began typing, the sound of the keyboard tapping filling the silence between the both of you.

For a while, it was quiet— just the sound of typing, rustling of papers. But no matter how hard you tried to focus, you couldn;’t shake the nagging feeling that he was watching you. His presence was like a shadow that followed your every move you made, and you hated how it made your chest tighten. You shouldn’t feel like this. You had no reason to. This wasn’t supposed to be personal. It was just a project.

But then, suddenly, Sunghoon spoke again, his voice quieter, almost reluctant.

“You know,” he said, voice low but insistent, “we used to work well together. Back in high school. Why are you making this harder than it has to be?”

You froze, your fingers still on the keyboard. You could feel the old pain creep up your throat, but you swallowed it down, shoving it away. No. Don’t go there.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, your voice steady but with a hint of something you don’t want to put a name to. And then, with a sigh, he turned his attention back to his laptop, typing in silence for a long time.

—

Two year ago

It had been a late night at the library, the kind where the air felt thick with concentration and the promise of deadlines hanging over every student in the building. You were sitting at the same table as Sunghoon, both of you buried in textbooks, trying to get ahead before the weekend.

It was supposed to be just another study session, but something felt different. Maybe it was the way the soft overhead lights cast shadows over his features or how the silence between you two wasn’t awkward but comfortable. You couldn’t help it— his face was so focused, his lips slightly pursed in concentration, and for some reason, the sight of him studying like that made your heart skip.

“Is there something on my face?” he asked, his voice teasing but gentle.

You blinked and quickly looked away, flustered. “No … it’s just, you look… nice when you study.”

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. He leaned forward slightly, his voice lower than usual. “Nice, huh? That’s a first.”

You wanted to curl up and die from embarrassment, but instead you found yourself smiling despite the heat in your cheeks. Something about being with him felt so easy, so natural.

And then, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out. “You look… pretty. When you study.”

There was a long pause, and then Sunghoon chuckled, his smile widening. “Pretty, huh? Well, that’s new.”

You couldn’t help it. You laughed too, the awkwardness melting away in the warmth of his gaze. That moment— when you both realized that maybe there was something more there— was when it all started.

—

The silence in the library stretches again. You go back to your laptop, trying to focus on the work in front of you. But the memory of that moment, of those words you’d said so long ago, hangs in the air like a ghost.

Sunghoon’s presence is undeniable now. Every time his shoulder brushes against yours as he reaches for his drink, it feels like a jolt of electricity. You grit your teeth, forcing yourself to keep working, to ignore the way his proximity makes your heart race.

“You know, if we just worked together instead of pretending we’re strangers, this would be a lot easier,” Sunghoon says again, his voice a little more insistent now, but still carrying that gentle tone.

You refuse to look up, clenching your jaw. “Just finish your part. I’ll finish mine.”

“I’ve always liked how stubborn you are,” he mutters, but there’s a soft fondness behind the words. “But you’re going to make this harder than it has to be, aren’t you?”

You bite your lip, fighting the urge to snap back. But the reality is that he’s right. You are making this harder. You’re making everything harder by refusing to acknowledge how much you still feel for him.

But you can’t admit that, not now, not when the walls between you two are so high, so insurmountable.

—

It’s late—too late for anyone to be at the library anymore. The harsh overhead lights flicker in the empty room, casting long shadows on the tables where students usually sat, buried in their books. But not you. You’re still here, alone, a stack of textbooks and papers spread out before you. The hum of the fluorescent lights fills the air, broken only by the soft tapping of your fingers on the keyboard.

You’ve been here for hours, the deadline looming closer with every passing second. Your mind is tired, but you won’t leave until you finish. It’s like a race against time. A way to distract yourself from everything else.

But then, you feel it. A presence.

You look up, and there’s Sunghoon, standing by the entrance, his gaze scanning the room. You immediately look away, pretending you hadn’t seen him. Why is he here? You weren’t supposed to see him, not tonight.

He walks toward you slowly, his footsteps soft but deliberate. You keep your eyes down, focused on the papers in front of you, but you can feel him getting closer.

“You’re still here?” Sunghoon says, his voice low, like he’s not sure what to make of the situation.

You sigh, unwilling to make this a conversation. “I’m working. Is that a problem?”

“No,” he answers quickly, but there’s a softness to his tone now. Something gentler. “Just... thought you’d left by now.”

You don’t look up, but you hear him pull out the chair opposite you. He sits down, but doesn’t speak immediately. You don’t say anything either. It’s awkward. You try to focus on the work in front of you, trying to ignore the feeling of his presence, so close but still so far away.

You keep your head down, but the longer you stay in the silence, the more you feel the walls you’ve built start to crumble, piece by piece. He doesn’t push you. Doesn’t force a conversation. He just... stays.

You try not to think too much about it. It’s just Sunghoon. Just a classmate.

But then, hours later, you’re blinking, your head feeling heavy as you try to focus on the screen in front of you. You hadn’t realized how tired you were until your eyelids started to flutter. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but the exhaustion catches up with you.

You don’t even realize you’ve nodded off until you’re suddenly jerked awake, your head jerking up from the desk. The library is quiet, almost too quiet, and the light from the desk lamp casts a soft glow around the room. That’s when you notice it.

A jacket—dark, heavy, and familiar—draped over your shoulders.

You blink, still groggy from sleep, and turn to see that Sunghoon is gone, his chair empty. You try to shake the fogginess from your mind, but there’s no denying it: He left his jacket with you.

You didn’t hear him come back. Didn’t feel him approaching. But somehow, he’d slipped it onto you while you were asleep, without a sound.

You sit there for a moment, the jacket still warm against your skin. His scent clings to it, and you find yourself unable to take it off. It feels wrong to just leave it behind, but you’re not sure why it feels so important to keep it on.

You look down at your own hands, your fingers grazing the sleeve, feeling the weight of the jacket, both literally and emotionally. You’re not sure if it’s the jacket that’s weighing on you or the memories that come with it. But it’s there. And so is he.

You stay there for a few more minutes, just sitting in the quiet, knowing that it would be impossible to get anything more done tonight. You pack up your things, but you don’t take off the jacket. Instead, you walk out of the library with it on, your heart a little heavier than when you came in.

—

It was dark outside, and the bus was filled with the soft chatter of your classmates. You and Sunghoon were sitting in the same seat, your shoulders brushing as you both leaned against the window, tired from the day’s activities.

You’d always been close, never quite aware of how it felt to have someone just be there with you. But that day, there was something different about it. It was like you both had settled into this quiet rhythm—comfortable, easy.

You leaned your head against the window, gazing out at the passing lights. The bus was warm, and your eyes were starting to grow heavy from the day’s exhaustion. Without realizing it, you drifted off, your head slipping onto Sunghoon’s shoulder.

He didn’t immediately pull away, didn’t complain. He just let you sleep, his body slightly tensing at the sudden closeness, but not enough to push you away.

And when you woke up, it wasn’t awkward. You just rubbed your eyes, looked up at him, and smiled.

“You’re comfy,” you murmured.

Sunghoon chuckled softly. “You really just fell asleep on me, huh?”

You laughed, feeling a warmth in your chest. “It’s not like I did it on purpose. I didn’t even realize.”

And even though it had only been a few seconds, you both lingered in that moment, your eyes meeting briefly before he gave you a smile that made your heart flutter.

You’d brushed it off as nothing—just a friendly gesture.

—

You’re still sitting in your room, the jacket still on your shoulders. It feels like a weight, not because it’s heavy, but because of the memories it brings. The warmth lingers on your skin, but so does the uncertainty. You can’t figure out why this is bothering you so much.

Your phone buzzes on the table, pulling you from your thoughts. A new email. You don’t need to look at it to know it’s from him. Sunghoon.

The message is simple: “Still need help with the project. Let me know if you want to meet up.”

You close your eyes and let out a slow breath. You want to ignore it. Pretend you didn’t see it. But you can’t. Because part of you wants him to be there. Part of you wants him to still be the one to help you, even if you don’t want to admit it.

You stand up, pacing around the room, the jacket slipping slightly off your shoulders as you move. You pull it tighter around you, almost subconsciously.

You know you’ll have to face him again. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe sooner. Hopefully later. But right now, with his jacket still draped over you, you’re not sure if you're ready.

But for some reason, you know you’re going to have to take it off.

—

You walk into the classroom, clutching the jacket in your hands. It’s been a couple of days since you woke up to find it draped over your shoulders, Sunghoon’s jacket—a silent gesture that spoke more than words ever could. He hadn’t said anything when you first found it. It had simply been there. At first, you thought it was an accident, but the longer you held onto it, the more it felt like something else. You hadn’t returned it immediately, unsure why you kept it. But now, with the fact the two of you share a class together, it felt like the right time.

You spot him sitting by the window, alone, lost in whatever thoughts occupy his mind. He doesn’t notice you as you approach, and the moment feels strangely... intimate, even though you're still far from the comfort you once shared.

You stand in front of him, holding out the jacket, but he doesn’t immediately take it. His eyes flicker up, and for a split second, something unreadable passes between you. He reaches for the jacket, but as his fingers brush yours, it’s more of a reflex than any real desire to touch.

Before you can pull away, a voice from behind you cuts through the moment.

"Are you two... together or just friends?"

You glance over to find a couple of classmates watching you both curiously. It’s a casual question, but the curiosity in their eyes is unmistakable. Sunghoon’s hand freezes mid-motion, his fingers still hovering over the jacket. He looks back at them briefly, his gaze faltering, not quite meeting yours.

For a moment, you’re not sure what to say. You notice how Sunghoon looks at the ground, avoiding any real response. His lips press together, his hand still unsure of whether to take the jacket back or not. He’s hesitant, as always.

You, on the other hand, feel the weight of the question, but you don’t shy away from it. Not this time. You stand tall, glancing over at your classmates and meeting their gaze.

“We’re just friends,” you say, your voice steady and clear. “Nothing more.”

Sunghoon doesn’t say anything. He just takes the jacket from your hand, his fingers brushing yours again, but this time it’s almost mechanical. You turn away quickly, the moment lingering behind you like an unspoken tension.

Your classmates exchange glances, their curiosity piqued, but they don’t push further. They turn their attention to the front of the room as class starts, but the question still lingers in the air.

You sit down at your desk, feeling the eyes of your classmates on you for a moment longer than usual. You force yourself to focus, pretending it doesn’t matter, but the thought of that brief interaction, the way Sunghoon avoided the question, settles heavily in your chest.

The class continues, but your mind drifts, back to that jacket and the weight of unspoken words. You can’t help but wonder what he might’ve said if you hadn’t answered for both of you.

No, that’s what he should’ve said because you guys were not dating, he broke up with you, and now the two of you were simply forced to work together. That’s it.

—

The autumn air was crisp, carrying the scent of fallen leaves as the two of you walked side by side down the quiet street. The school festival had just ended, and the distant hum of laughter and music still echoed behind you. Groups of students were lingering back at the event, but somehow, the two of you ended up here, together, away from it all.

It wasn’t planned. It never was with him. It was just how things always seemed to happen.

You hugged your arms around yourself because of the cold, cursing at yourself for not bringing a bigger jacket knowing the weather but wanting to look good for the event. He walked a little ahead, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jackets, his head tilted slightly towards you as if he was waiting for you to say something.

You had always been the talker between the both of you. The one who made friends easily, the one who never hesitated. But right now, the words sat heavy on your tongue, unspoken.

He let out a small sigh, looking up at the sky. “It’s late.”

“You should’ve left earlier then.”

He huffed, a tiny, almost-smile tugging at his lips before he looked back ahead. “You didn’t have to leave, you know.”

You shrugged. “Didn’t feel like staying.”

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the full truth either. The festival had been fine, fun even. But then you’d seen him standing by himself, lingering near the edges of the crowd, not quite a part of it. And suddenly, the excitement of it all had dimmed.

He kicked a small rock with the tip of his shoe, watching it tumble along the pavement. “Didn’t think you were the type to leave a party early.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

A breeze picked up, and instinctively, you crossed your arms tighter over yourself. Without a word, Sunghoon shrugged off his jacket and held it out to you.

You blinked at him. “What are you doing?”

“You’re cold.”

You scoffed. “I’m not cold.”

He didn’t say anything, just kept holding the jacket out with that blank expression of his— the one that meant he wasn;t going to argue. You hesitated for a second too long, and then, as if deciding for you, he draped it over your shoulders himself.

You looked up at him, a retort on the tip of your tongue, but then you caught the way his fingers lingered just a second longer against your shoulder, the way he swallowed, like he wanted to say something but thought better of it.

It was nothing.

It was everything.

Your heart did something stranger in your chest, a quiet stutter. But then he pulled away, shoving his hands back into his pockets, eyes flickering elsewhere like it was no big deal.

Like he didn’t just leave you standing there in the middle of the empty street, drowning in the scent of his cologne, trying not to overthink what had just happened.

“Let’s go.” he said, his voice calm, steady. Like always.

You didn’t move right away. You just watched him, this boy who always seemed out of reach.

Then you exhaled and started walking again, side by side, your steps falling in sync.

And if your hands brushed once— just once— neither of you said a word about it.

—

After class, you head out of the room, your mind still lingering on the awkward exchange. As you walk down the hallway, you notice Sunghoon a few paces behind you, his expression neutral. You don’t turn around, but you can feel his presence. It;s the same as always, but somehow it’s different.

The hallway stretches ahead of you both, and you find yourself wondering if it’s the same for him, if he’s feeling the same weight of the unsaid words hanging in the air between you. But then you push the thought away. You can’t keep thinking about it. Not now. Not like this.

The day continues, but it doesn’t feel the same. Something has shifted again. Not a big thing, just the subtle change in the air whenever Sunghoon is around. But for now, you focus on the present. The project. The work. There’s no room for anything else. At least not yet.

—

Sunghoon hated studying in public places. He hated the noise, the crowded spaces, the way it was impossible to concentrate. But for some reason, he was here.

With you.

The library was dimly lit, the only sounds coming from the occasional turning of pages and the soft clicking of keyboards. It was nearly empty at this hour, just the two of you tucked away in a corner, buried under textbooks and notes.

You sighed dramatically, stretching your arms over your head before slumping onto the desk. “I’m going to die here.”

Sunghoon didn’t look up from his notes. “You say that every time we study.”

“Yeah, and one day it’ll be true. And when that day comes, I hope you feel bad about it.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Dramatic.”

You turned your head to look at him, resting your cheek against your arm. The lamplight softened his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the curve of his nose, the way his lashes cast faint shadows on his skin.

He was so pretty.

Unfairly so.

You frowned, furrowing your brows. “Do you know you’re pretty?”

That finally made him look up. He blinked at you, pen pausing mid-air. “What?”

“What?”

There was a flicker of something in his expression— surprise, amusement, something unreadable. He tilted his head slightly. “I don’t think about that kind of stuff.”

You scoff. “Oh shut up.”

Sunghoon shook his head, turning back to his notes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“Because it’s a weird question.”

“It’s not weird.” You sighed, pushing yourself up onto your elbows. “I just think it’s unfair that some people get to be smart and pretty.”

His lips twitched, like he was trying not to smile. “You’re calling me smart too?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

You hadn’t meant anything by it. It was just a passing thought, casual observation. But for some reason. Sunghoon kept stealing glances at you for the rest of the night, his fingers tapping idly against his notebook, like he was trying to figure something out.

—

The library is quieter than usual tonight. The steady hum of air conditioning fills the space, and the dim, golden glow of the desk lamps casts long shadows on the wooden tables. It’s late— too late to still be working— but neither of you have left.

At first, you barely acknowledged each other. The project was the only thing keeping you here and even then, you refused to speak unless absolutely necessary. You typed your sections. He worked on his. Simple.

But at some point, between the furious clicking of keys and the scratching of his pen against paper, something shifted.

The silence wasn’t as sharpe anymore. The air between you wasn’t quite so cold.

You were still stubborn, still keeping your distance, but Sunghoon had started to slip through the cracks.

It was in the way he quietly slid your match closer when he noticed you reaching for it absentmindedly. In the way his eyes lingered a second longer than necessary whenever you furrowed your brows at the screen, lost in thought. In the way he wordlessly handed you a new pen when yours ran out of ink, his fingers brushing yours just for a second.

Little things.

Things you didn’t want to acknowledge.

Things that made it harder to pretend that you hadn’t missed this— missed him.

You force yourself to focus on the words in front of you, but your mind is elsewhere. On him. On the past.

—

It had been a long night.

You weren’t supposed to stay out this late, but somehow, time slipped away. It was just the two of you, walking home after an evening study session, the sky stretched out in a blanket of deep navy blue. The air was crisp, autumn settling in with a quiet chill, and your footsteps echoed against the empty sidewalk.

“I can’t feel my fingers,” you muttered, shoving your hands into your hoodie pockets.

Sunghoon glanced at you, amused. “Then why didn’t you bring gloves?”

“Because I didn’t know it’d be this cold.”

“You say that every year.”

You huffed, nudging him with your shoulder. “And every year, I am caught off guard.”

He rolled his eyes but reached for your sleeve, tugging your arm towards him. Before you could react, he took one of your hands in his, tucking it into the pocket of his jacket along with his own.

The warmth of his palm against yours sent a shiver up your spine— not from the cold, but from something else.

Something you hadn’t quite named yet.

Neither of you said anything about it. You just kept walkin, the streelights casting soft golden halos around you.

You reached your doorstep too soon.

Sunghoon stood there, shifting on his feet, his fingers still loosely curled around yours.

You should’ve pulled away. You should’ve said goodnight. But instead, you just stood there staring at him.

The light from the porch illuminated the sharp angles of his face, the way his dark eyes softened when they met yours. His gaze flickered down— just for a second— before he quickly looked away.

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how close you were. “Are you gonna keep standing there, or—”

“Shut up,” he muttered.

And then—-

He kissed you.

It was hesitant, barely a whisper of contact. But it sent your heart into a frenzy, your breath hitching, fingers tightening around him without thinking.

When he pulled away, his ears were red, and he wouldn’t meet your eyes. “I— I wasn’t planning to do that.”

You blinked at him, mind still catching up. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeated, this time smiling.

Sunghoon exhaled, sometimes easing his shoulders.

“You;re still holding my hand.” you pointed out.

He let go immediately, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Shut up.”

But you could see the way the corners of his lips twitched upwards.

—

You stare at the screen in front of you, but the words are a blur. The memory lingers, making your chest feel tight.

Sunghoon shifts besides you stretching out his arms. His sleeves push up slightly, revealing the faint outline of veins along his forearms. You look away quickly, annoyed with yourself.

This is ridiculous.

You don’t care. You don’t.

“Take a break,” he says, voice low.

You exhale, rubbing at your temples. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

You shoot him a glare, but he’s already looking back at his screen, unaffected. Typical.

Silence settles between you again, but it’s different now. He’s too close, the air between you too charged.

And then—

“Do you still hate me?”

Your breath catches. The question is quiet, but it feels deafening.

You turn to him, meeting his gaze for the first time in what feels like hours. His eyes are steady, but there’s something else there— something raw, something careful.

You open your mouth, but no words come out.

He swallows. “ you won’t even look at me.”

You force yourself to scoff, to roll your eyes. “I look at you all the time.”

“Not like before.”

That makes you freeze.

Because he’s right.

Before— before everything— you had looked at him like he held the universe in his hands. And maybe, in some ways, he had.

But that was then.

And now—

Now you don’t know what to do with this version of him, this version of you.

The air is thick with something you don’t want to name.

And before you can think better of it, before you can stop yourself—

You kiss him.

It's reckless, desperate, a collision of past and present, of things left unsaid and things you don’t want to admit.

His lips part slightly in surprise, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans in, his fingers grazing your jaw, like he’s afraid to break the moment.

And maybe you are too.

But then—

Reality crashed back in.

Your eyes widen, and you pull away abruptly, breathless, heart hammering.

Sunghoon blinks, still processing, “Wait—”

But you’re already pushing away from the table, standing up too quickly, your chair scraping against the floor.

“I have to go,” you say, voice unsteady.

And before he can stop you, before he can say anything else—

You turn and walk away.

Leaving him sitting there, watching you go.

Again.

—

Avoidance has always been your best defense.

You mastered it after the breakup, convincing yourself that if you could just stay out of Sunghoon’s orbit, then none of it— none of the pain, none of the unanswered questions, none of him— could touch you.

But ever since that kiss, it’s been impossible to keep up the act.

You stop sitting in your usual spots in the library. You change your walking routes between classes. You leave early to avoid any chance of running into him. Your emails about the project become even shorter, even more detached.

And still— it doesn’t feel like enough

Because the problem isn’t just him.

It’s you.

It’s the way your mind keeps replaying that night in the library, the way your lips still burn with the memory of his, the way your chest aches everytime you think about how you didn’t pull away immediately.

You shouldn’t have let it happen.

You shouldn’t have wanted it to.

But worst of all— you shouldn’t still want it now.

You tell yourself this over and over again. But nine of it matters when you turn the corner one evening, only to find yourself face-to-face with the one person you’ve been trying so hard to avoid.

Sunghoon.

Waiting for you.

Like he knew.

“You’re avoiding me again,” he says, his voice eerily calm.

You grip your bag tighter and look away. “I’m busy.”

“Liar.”

The word lands heavier than it should.

You take a step back, but he matches it, blocking your way. His eyes search yours, and you can feel how tired he is— tired of the silence, of the pretending, of whatever this is.

“Do you hate me that much?” His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it, something sharp and desperate.

You exhale hardly. “Sunghoon—”

“Just answer me,” he pressed, jaw clenched. “Do you hate me?”

The words catch in your throat.

You should say yes. You should give him the finality he seems to be looking for.

But you can’t.

And maybe he sees it— maybe he sees the way you falter, the way your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag— because his expression shifts.

And then—

The door beside you suddenly swings open. A group of students spills out, laughing and chatting, shoving past both of you.

You barely register it before someone crashes into you from behind, sending you stumbling backwards—

Right into the supply closet.

And of course— because the universe must hate you— the force of it slams Sunghoon into the tiny space as well.

And before either of you can react— click.

The door locks

Silence.

Then—

“You have got to be kidding me,” you hiss.

Sunghoon tries the handle, but it doesn’t budge. He exhales sharply, resting his forehead against the door for a second before turning back to you.

“Great.”

You let out a bitter laugh, crossing your arms. “What, you think I planned this?”

“No, but it’s convenient, isn’t it?” He glares at you, frustration bleeding into every word. “You’re always running away, and now you can’t.”

Your pulse spikes. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he mutters. “You left the night. You’ve been avoiding me ever since. You won’t even talk to me—”

“Because there’s nothing to say!” you snap.

“Bullshit!” His voice rises, his patience unraveling. “Don’t act like you don’t care. You kissed me, and then you ran away like it meant nothing.”

You freeze.

Because he’s right.

It wasn’t nothing.

But admitting that? Giving him that satisfaction? You can’t.

So you do what you do best.

You push back

“You don’t get to act like you’re the victim here, Sunghoon,” you say, voice colder now. “Not when you broke up with me.”

Something flickers across his face.

“And not just that,” you continue, the weight of everything you’ve bottled up finally breaking through. “You left me without any warning. You didn’t talk to me about what was wrong. You didn’t even try. You just decided one day that it was over and that was it.”

—

It had been an ordinary afternoon. You remember it oo well— how he wouldn’t look at you, how his hands trembled slightly as he shoved them into his pockets.

And then—

“I think we should break up.”

The words hit you like a slap.

You laughed at first, thinking it was some sort of joke. But then you saw the way he avoided your gaze. The way his fingers curled into fists.

“Why?” Your voice had cracked. “What happened? Did I do something?”

He had only shaken his head. “It’s just…. I don’t think this is going to work.”

“What—”

“I am not sure I am what you really need.”

It was the last thing you expected to hear.

But it was the only explanation he ever gave you.

That's what started it, why you just started running away from him.

—

“You thought it wouldn’t work?” you glare at him now, eye burning. “What the hell does that even mean?”

Sunghoon pressed his lips together, like he regretted saying it. But it’s too late.

“You didn’t even give us a chance,” you continue, voice rising. “You just decided that it wasn’t going to work out for the both of us.”

“I wasn’t sure if I was what you really needed.”

Your breath catches. “Sunghoon—”

“You’re always surrounded by people. You make friends so easily. I wasn’t like that, I am not like that.” His voice is quiet now. “I feel like I was always holding you back.”

You shake your head, feeling something sharp and painful twist in your chest. “That’s what you thought?” You let out another bitter laugh. “You know, I thought that’s what brought us together. That we were so different. That worked because of that.”

Sunghoon looks at you then, something unreadable in his expression.

“There were two people in our relationship, you and me. You made that decision that we don’t work well, for the both of us.” you say, voice shaking. “And now you think it’s going to work now just because you want it to?”

He doesn’t answer.

And you hate how much that silence still hurts.

You exhale shakily, turning away. “I don’t trust you., Sunghoon.”

His jaw clenches. “I know.”

“And I don’t trust myself to let this happen again. Because if you could leave that easily once, what makes you think I believe you won’t do it again?”

This time, he doesn’t try to deny it.

Because he knows.

Because he did leave.

And you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to forgive him for that. You hated yourself for never being able to hate him at all.

The only sound in the tiny space is the faint buzz of the overhead light—

And the deafening weight of everything left unsaid.

The supply closet is cold, but the tension in the air is suffocating. When the door finally swings open, neither of you move right away. Sunghoon steps back first, his jaw clenched, like he’s holding back something he’ll never say. You follow a second later, not looking at him as you walk away.

After that, things are different.

You don’t avoid him anymore. Not really. You still exchange emails about the project, still sit across from each other in the library, still in the same space without outright hostility. But the sharpness between you dulls— replaced by something softer, something sadder.

One night, long after the library should’ve closed, you look up from your notes to see Sunghoon staring at you. He doesn’t look away this time. Neither do you. For a moment, the world stills.

Then you blink, and the moment is gone.

—

The project ends.

So does your reason to stay in each other’s orbits.

You expect things to go back to normal, whether normal is supposed to be. You expect distance to creep back in, the silence to settle.

But somehow, Sunghoon lingers.

He doesn’t force conversation, doesn’t push. But you catch him in the corners of your vision— watching, waiting, hesitation. As if he’s waiting for you to decide what happens next.

—

Then one evening, you run into him.

It’s late. The air is cold, thick with the scent of winter. Sunghoon is standing outside the campus gates, hands shoved into his pockets, the street lights casting long shadows around him. He notices you before you can turn away.

“Hey,” he says, voice quiet.

You hesitate. Then, “Hey.”

There’s so much unsaid between you, so much left unfinished.

A part of you wonders— is this it? The last conversation before you both fade from each other’s lives completely?

Sunghoon opens his mouth, like he wants to say something more, but you shake your head, stopping him.

“It’s okay.” you say. “You don’t have to.”

His throat bobs as he swallows. He nods.

The streetlamps flicker above you. A car passes, its headlights flashing between you like a border, a final dividing line.

You should say something else. You should tell him you’ll see him around, that you’ll stay in touch, that you’ll find your way back to him someday.

But you don’t.

Instead you step back, offering a small, almost imperceptible smile.

“Take care, okay?”

For a second, you think he won’t respond. But then, finally— softly— he nods.

“You too.”

You turn around first. You don’t look back.

Sunghoon watches you walk away, his hands still in his pockets, his lips parts like he wants to stop you— but he never does.

The night swallows the both of you whole.

And just like that, it’s over.

—

The city hums in silence in the distance, but here, on the rooftop, it’s quiet/ the two of you sit side by side, legs dangling over the edge, the skyline stretching endlessly before you. The night is warm, the stars barely visible through the glow of streetlights.

“You’re gonna fall,” Sunghoon murmurs, eyeing the way you lean forwards slightly, hands bracing against the ledge.

You grin, tilting your head towards him. “You’d catch me.”

He doesn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth twitches, like he wants to smile but won’t let himself.

A soft breeze ruffles his hair. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing through the strand, smoothing them down. Sunghoon stills at the touch, but he doesn’t pull away.

“You do that a lot,” he says after a moment.

“What?”

“Touch my hair.”

You blink, your hand dropping back to your lap. “Does it bother you?”

He exhales, looking away, down at the glittering streets below. “No.”

That’s all he says. But in the way his fingers clench slightly against his knee, in the way his shoulders stay tense even as the night air cools his skin— you realize something.

Sunghoon likes it.

He likes being close to you.

The thought makes your chest feel warm, something soft and fluttering settling behind your ribs. You don’t say anything about it, don’t tease or push. Instead, you lean back on your palms staring up at the sky.

“Feels like we could stay here forever,” you murmur.

Sunghoon glances at you, his expression unreadable.

Then, so quietly you almost don’t hear it—

“Yeah.”

author's note: basically everything in here thats inpso from irl with my actaully ex. the water bottle incident but it was in a classroom. us actually having fucking class with each other the next semester. me running away constantly every time i see him now. me buying him a pencil as a present and him still using it (i really want to steal it back). him asking me if i hate him cuz i keep running away and even dragged a friend as i run away from him. him saying "i dont think it's going to work out" and thinking becuase im very outgoing and him being a big introvert was something that would lead to us breaking up, haha but it was just him and him not communicating with me about his feelings. el oh el.

#enhypen fanfiction #enhypen scenarios #enhypen #enhypen x reader #enhypen imagines #enhypen fluff #sunghoon #park sunghoon #sunghoon x reader #sunghoon enhypen #sunghoon fluff #sunghoon imagines #park sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon x you #enhypen sunghoon #enha fluff #enha x reader #enha imagines #enha

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s0fter-sin · 1 day ago

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ghost who offers free cleanings for people who are physically unable to clean their home when he’s on leave; people with mental illnesses, disabilities, addiction, anything and everything in between that stops them from taking care of themselves and their environment

he's seen it all; entire rooms filled to the ceiling with rubbish, rotten food overflowing in fridges, used needles and burnt spoons scattered on every surface, conditions no one should have to live in

bc it's what he grew up in

a house that was little more than a crack den with cigarette smoke stained walls and a whole back room you couldn't even open the door to, it was stuffed so full of junk and rubbish. he had the entire place bulldozed when it came into his name but he knows not everyone hates their home the way he did; they just want it to actually feel like home again

so ghost takes his empty days and his iron stomach and methodically goes room by room, house by house. he doesn't mind the sludge that coats his gloves as he empties sinks or the dead rats at the bottom of years' old piles of trash, doesn't blink at the smell of decayed food or abandoned cat litter trays and doesn't for a single moment let the people who live there feel ashamed

he doesn't let them apologise or try to help; most of the time he gives them some money for a meal and tells them to head for the nearest pub or cafe. he knows what it's like to be confronted with the state you've let yourself live in, the shame of other people seeing it and how awful it feels to know that even if given the chance to start over, it would still probably end up this way bc sometimes you just can't do things like clean; sometimes it’s just too much to maintain

sometimes you need the help, no matter how bad it feels to accept it

it often takes days to clear a house, sometimes even just a single room, but to ghost there's nothing more worthy of his time

not when he sees the teary-eyed mothers seeing their carpet for the first time in years; the grandparents who can finally look out their windows, the kids who can run around without fear of stepping on something sharp

ghost doesn't leave them once their houses are done either; he keeps track of the worst ones, of the people who will always need his help and makes sure to check in as regularly as he can. sometimes to just pick up the things that have started to spiral out of control, other times just for a tea that he knows hasn't been shared since the last time he visited

he makes sure they all know they're not alone

🧼💀

going back and forth on if i want soap to ask ghost to join him for leave but ghost declines without giving him a reason so soap think he just doesn't want to be with him. until he finds out he does these cleanings and asks to help bc it reminds him of his nan's house when her dementia started eating away at her and not only stopped her from cleaning, but from recognising her kids and grandkids and made her not trust them to let them in the house to do it for her

an au where soap is medically discharged and falls into heavy depression after losing both his meaning in life and his body; being so ashamed and hateful of what he's let himself become but also not caring enough about himself to try and improve it

ghost finding out about this vet from one of the other people he cleans for. they'd noticed the rubbish steadily piling higher in the windows and recognised the signs from their own house; they wanted to pass on ghost’s kindness, give the peace of mind they now have to whoever lives inside

it's a fight to get soap to agree, let alone let him through the door; he hates ghost for offering, hates himself for needing his help to begin with. but ghost meets his stubborn anger beat for beat until he burns himself out and just can't work himself up enough to care anymore

soap refuses to leave, especially when ghost offers to pay for lunch, his pride refusing any more coddling when he’s already accepting this charity, but he also can't bring himself to help; his body too broken and his mind too flooded with exhaustion and pain. so he just lays in bed, rubbish mattress high around him, and tiredly watches ghost through the door as he tackles his filthy home

and for once, it's not enough for ghost

it's not enough to know soap will have a sate place to rest, a clean bathroom to shower in, a kitchen he can actually use

bc he knows a clean environment won't be enough to help soap heal

he knows how aimless he feels without the military structuring his life for him - it's why he started these cleanings in the first place - but soap doesn't have the end of leave to look forward to

this is his life, forever

and it's clear soap doesn't want it

so ghost slows down, takes longer than he needs with each task and each room, draws out the cleaning for as long as he can as he tries to bring soap- no, bring johnny back to life

soap doesn't make it easy; he's so full of self-hatred and shame and grief and there's a large part of him that doesn't want to get better

but ghost keeps trying and he keeps coming back after he finally admits the house is as clean as he can make it

he comes back for tea and then for coffee when soap finally gets enough energy to care about drinking something he actually likes. he comes back to meal prep a week's worth of food every sunday and for dinner the first time soap wants something bad enough to cook it himself

he comes back to discuss the dismal footy match from last night. to be dead silent when soap's having a migraine and put damp cloths on the back of his neck. to wash his sheets after his nightmares make him sweat through them and he’s so untethered he thinks he might drift away. to pretend he's strong arming him into seeing his doctor for a medication change instead of holding his hand through the trauma induced anxiety attack and flashback to the injury that landed him his discharge

he comes back when the anniversary of soap's discharge comes around and soap quietly confesses he doesn't think he should be alone

and he's there the morning after to give him a glass of water and smile when johnny asks him if he feels like going for a walk

#ghost never receiving help in his childhood and never getting out until he joins the military becoming the help he wanted my beloved #not becoming bitter and jaded; sinking into the trauma and hurt but becoming the change the world needs #i love that i said ‘im not sure if i want this thing or this thing’ just to then completely develop the second idea lmao #i swear that wasn’t on purpose they were both supposed to be a paragraph #something about soap being the one falling apart and ghost trying to help always gets me #i dont know if its just bc its rarer or just being able to explore the entirely different ways these guys would crumble #but soap being the mess will always hit different #ghost tends to have an air of almost inevitability; hes accepted how awful it is to live in his head and hes going through the motions unti #it ends; whether by his hand or an enemy’s #but soap is so full of anger; when he cant cope thats the only thing he has; hes angry at himself at the world at the injury #hes just so angry and its destructive in a way apathy isnt; which makes it that much worse when he pings between the two #soap puts so much in his ability to perform and to be the best; to have that stripped from him? it would be a complete death of his identit #he wouldnt be able to cope #so ghost helps him until he finds himself again #coming out of my cage and ive been doing just fine.txt #we’re a team. ghost team #save post #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #john soap mactavish #soap cod #soap call of duty #ghoap #soapghost #ghostsoap #cod #cod mw2 #cod mwii #call of duty

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prettealolilol · 12 hours ago

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So, I love the headcanon of the batfam being menaces in the kitchen, and that half of them are banned from entering for the rest of their life.

However, you can't tell me that Batman, the man who has contingency plans for his contingency plans, who carries shark spray repellent, the man who travelled for a year (i think ?) on his own with only a backpack (and a lot of money but still), doesn't know how to cook. There is no way, he can't fend for himself in any type of situation (apocalypse ? ready; zombies ? ready; stranded on an island on his own ? ready). He can definitely take care of himself without Alfred, because Bruce is paranoid and there's the eventuality of the butler dying. And anyway, he probably learnt some dishes when he was younger so he could help Alfred around the house (it made him feel closer to the only caring adult in his life). He also definitely learnt traditional dishes while travelling and every time he adopts (it's his way of showing he cares).

(Cooking was one of the ways he bonded with Jason. The boy was tense and wary, not used to having so much food for free. When Bruce realised Jason cooked, he offered to teach him a few dishes he learnt around the world. It was the first time Jason called Bruce 'dad'. Every year they would cook (and make a mess) for Alfred's birthday.)

There's this whole thing with Dick only eating cereal (I don't know much about him, sorry) and being close behind Bruce as a kitchen menace. I don't really know how life in a circus works, but I'll go with the fact that they didn't always have access to a kitchen while traveling, so the food was never sophisticated. Yet, with the circus, Dick travelled a lot and met wonderful people. Some locals would sometimes bring them traditional plates, and even teach him how to cook them. The reason he doesn't really cook is because he finds the kitchen too complicated. Who needs so many utensils ? It's disorienting and feels too clinical (Dick associates cooking with sweet lessons from his mom and having fun with the people from the circus.).

(The times he actually took the time to cook at the manor was when Jason joined and they would try to bake. Dick cooks with Damian sometimes. At first it was to make him comfortable by being domestic, giving the excuse of learning to work together, but now it's just to bond. Bruce joins them sometimes.)

As said previously Jason knows how to cook. I'm not sure if it's canon, but he cooked for his mom, and is never banned from the kitchen in what I read. Similarly to Dick, he grew up cooking easy things. He didn't have access to much food, most of the time stealing from markets and fighting for bread in back alleys. He would stand in the shadows, staring at the window of a restaurant kitchen until he knew the moves by heart and would redo them at home (he'd spend days saving money and stealing the adequate ingredients). It was always simple dishes though. So when Jason first stepped in the kitchen ? He was amazed, and felt like one of those chefs he would observe for ours. The first weeks, he'd wait until everyone was in bed and sneaked in to cook (Alfred always acted like he didn't know). When he came back to Gotham after the pit, he began stress-cooking a lot. He'd steal money from Bruce and cook enough to feed a whole building in Crime Alley (he ate some once and threw up immediately. It tasted too much like home. He never ate anything he cooked again).

(Cooking with Alfred became an excuse to come to the manor and stay for dinner and sometimes even the night. (The first few times, the butler was the only one Jason could be with without activating his fight or flight instinct.) Watching his family unknowingly eat something he cooked and praising the food makes him feel like he may be allowed to be part of the family. Slowly, he starts leaving food to them (on the batmobile because he knows Bruce didn't eat before patrol, in Tim's office because he overworked and didn't go home, in Dick's kitchen because he got hurt during his day job), and nobody ever mentions it.)

I already explained my point of view for Tim in a previous post. Whether his parents were loving or not (fanon vs canon), they still travelled a lot. So Tim grew up having to learn to cook because there wasn't always someone at Drake's manor, and Drakes don't call people in the middle of the night because they're hungry or a little sick. So Tim knew the basics to care for himself, he learnt to wrap and stitch his own wounds at ten after being too close to an explosion where Batman and Riddler fought (seeing later the pictures he got, Tim thought getting some glass in his arm was completely worth it). Of course, he doesn't know any complicated dishes, he does enjoy the chemical aspect of it, the reactions between the ingredients, the way the molecules change with time and temperature variations. Tim also enjoys the historic aspect of it, so he'd learn to make dishes just because he liked the story related to its invention (it has proven useful in many social gatherings to know so much about food and culture). When he started as Robin, those skills became useful when he had to cook for Bruce in the middle of the night because he wouldn't wake Alfred up. After moving in the manor, Tim kind of dropped this little hobby. Alfred is here to cook, and he has other things to worry about (Jason coming back, then Damian being introduced, the whole time stream issue...).

(When he has some time, Tim scrolls on his social media, saving videos about recipes and learning about dishes and their history. He promises himself he'll find some time to try them. When Jason starts leaving each of them food, Tim buys a recipe book. As often as he can, he cooks something, prints a copy of the recipe and drops it off at Jason's current place. One time, when Damian is sick and no one else but Tim is at the manor, he ends up cooking an Arabic dish (a grandma recipe for sick children). Damian stops saying he's useless after this.)

Again, I don't know much about Cass, so it's really how I feel about it. Cass grew with simple dishes. When she joined the batfam, she didn't understand the importance of sharing a meal, people eating together, Alfred spending so much time in the kitchen, or why there were so many ways to cook one ingredient. Just like Dick, the kitchen feels too unnecessarily full, too many things that are just not imperative. To her, food was here to feed and strengthen the body. Cooking should be fast and easy because food was not supposed to be pleasant, just necessary. She doesn't really know how to cook. She can prepare food so it's edible, hunt or light up a fire. But growing up with her father taught her that food is only here to feed. She actually discovers its importance after walking in on Jason and Alfred cooking together. It was one of the rare times Jason would go farther than the cave and into the manor. They were not talking, and yet the atmosphere was soft, acknowledging. Reading Jason's body, she saw happiness and contemptment, the usual tension and anger nowhere in sight. She asks Tim about him (because he's the one who offered to teach her sign language, the one who she goes to when she needs a definition.) and he tells her how cooking can be many things, it can be an offer, it can be death, it can be love, it can be survival...

(Alfred once explained how it was his way of caring. He'd make different dishes depending on people's mood or state. When Cass understood that cooking was a form of language, she took it upon herself to learn. She watches Alfred cook for days, asking questions. She goes to Jason's place to ask him his opinion, teasing him when he gets flustered under her staring. She learns to cook and enjoys it.)

At the league, Damian was a prince. He didn't cook, it was beneath his status, there were servants for that. Like Cass, although he had access to higher quality food, it was only there to feed you. When he arrived at the manor ? The shock to see only one servant, and that his Father sometimes cooked for himself. His Father, who her mother had represented as a king, someone powerful enough to have his grandfather's respect, the man he was supposed to become. It took time for Damian to step into the kitchen for different reasons. First of all, the kitchen was not his place to be, it's Pennyworth's territory. He was not welcome there and knew that to make an enemy out of the man that raised his Father. Secondly, Damian was taught restraint, he would not give in to his basic urge. He could wait until morning even if he felt like his stomach was clenching on itself. The reason for walking in the kitchen was Grayson dragging him inside, promising some bonding time necessary for working together (it was fun, although Damian would not admit it).

(After realising the importance of cooking in the household, Damian decided he could not not know how to cook. Everyone seemed to have the knowledge it wouldn't do for him not to know. Maybe, he also felt like cooking would teach him to be a better part of the family and be accepted as the method he was taught all his life did not work. He learnt to cook on his own, sneaking in the kitchen and training. When he finally mastered a dish, he announced to Alfred he'll be cooking for the evening. Even if he'd never admit it, the praises he received that evening made him feel lighter, like he belonged. And no Grayson, he was not blushing.)

When Duke moves in the manor, it's kinda weird to have a butler. Duke was raised in a normal, middle class family, so cooking is a normal thing he helped his parents with. He would come home from school and help his parents cook dinner, sometimes doing it himself if they were still at work. He didn't know anything fancy or foreign dishes, but he could cook well. So having Alfred do it alone all day ? Not how Duke was raised. The first weeks, he would go into the kitchen and offer his help to Alfred, who would constantly refuse, joking about letting him do his job or he might become useless in his old age. Although it was a joke, Duke (who had just moved in and didn't really know how to act) stopped asking, not wanting to make the butler think he was taking his place.

(He still cooks sometimes, when he feels nostalgic. Cooking reminds him of his parents, his mothers' laughter and his father(s warm hand on his shoulder. When Duke discovers that Cass is learning to cook, he decides to do it with her, learning new recipes from around the world. It helped him a lot to feel at home at the Wayne manor.)

My point is, love the massacre this family can be when left unattended in a kitchen, but they definitely know how to cook.

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rostekhorn · 2 days ago

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Another reason we don't talk about Iraq is that the occupation was pretty much a testbed on which the Heritage Foundation interns running the occupation went absolutely wild implementing every bit of orthodox conservative ideology that they were never able to back in the U.S. It was like what happened in the former Soviet Union after 1991, but this time the American advisers had 100% control of the process. And it was a disaster.

Post-Saddam Iraq was Grover Norquist's "drown the government in the bathtub" finally implemented with 100% purity. The Americans disbanded the Iraqi army. They de-facto disbanded the Iraqi civil service (by banning the Ba'ath Party, membership of which had been a requirement for any government position, they basically fired 90% of the public sector overnight). They burned Iraqi government revenue to the ground by turning it into a Flat Tax experiment. And of course they replaced all of that with nothing: the number of U.S. troops sent to Iraq was far too small to keep order and they weren't even supposed to stay for more than a couple months originally, humanitarian relief was nonexistent, contractors that might theoretically have taken on some governing duties were completely unsupervised and basically just started grabbing cash for nothing. Oh yeah, and the Iraqi politician who was supposed to be the new ruler of it all was basically his country's version of a Miami Cuban exile, somebody who hadn't lived in his own country for thirty years and had zero connections there, so not only did he not have the credibility to be the leader of a new and democratic Iraq, he didn't even have the credibility to be a proper dictator.

What happened next was entirely unsurprising: the entire country was on fire within a few months, the system not only didn't turn into a happy healthy friendly democracy but didn't even turn into something stable enough for the vulture-capitalists to get rich, so the U.S. troops instead of being home for Christmas had to stay for years and years to try and "stabilize" things. The death toll, of course, was catastrophic.

Post-Saddam reconstruction is something that should be taught in civics classes everywhere to illustrate What Actually Happens When Conservatives Implement Their Ideology. We'd probably have a lot more familiarity with what Musk and Trump are doing to the government if we'd all studied this in class. But of course, given that, you can understand why everybody'd rather sweep it all under the carpet.

I missed most of the Iraq war due to being a baby, but every time I read about it I start wondering why we aren’t all talking about it all of the time

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cookie-lore-keeper · 2 days ago

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All the Canon or Implied Canon Relationships in Cookie Run

For some reason, you cookies really like your romantic relationships. It's fine, though. I'm the exact same way. But, to fill your shipping needs, here are all the confirmed/implied romantic relationships in Cookie Run!

Cocoa Cookie and Mint Choco Cookie, obviously. Both have crushes on each other but they're both too shy to act on it, despite every Cookie already knowing and shipping them (I see you Mont Blance and Latte trying to dress Cocoa up for her not date. I also see you, Sparkling Cookie, who also clearly ships them)

Lime Cookie has a massive crush on Orange Cookie and tries her best to get her attention and impress her. She also gets jealous when other cookies show interest in Orange Cookie, lol

Pure Vanilla Cookie literally stated that he loved White Lily Cookie and even said, "Do I still have feelings... for White Lily Cookie?" In his dream, so that's confirmed. We don't know whether White Lily Cookie likes him back, but given all the shit they do for each other, I'd say she does

Sea Fairy Cookie and Moonlight Cookie are in love, and Sea Fairy literally abandoned her role as an elemental so she could forever gaze at the moon

Despite not being officially confirmed, it is so VERY heavily implied that Shadow Milk Cookie has feelings beyond obsession for Pure Vanilla Cookie. He is ECSTATIC over the idea of Pure Vanilla Cookie saying that they are "meant to be" and when Pure Vanilla Cookie says that he'll stay by his side forever. For fuck's sake, the two literally FUSE their souljam. Honestly, some romances can't be described by simple words. Sometimes it's described through obsession, corruption, awakening, and hatred.

Knight Cookie has a crush on Princess Cookie and literally has a dream where she was going to ask him to marry her, but he woke up before it could finish

Blue Lily Cookie has a crush on Lilybell Cookie, and it's implied that Lilybell likes her back (no, they are not sisters. No, Lilybell Cookie isn't a child. She is an adult, but she is just small).

Milk Cookie has a celebrity crush in Dark Choco Cookie

In the comics, Adventurer Cookie and Blackberry Cookie are married

Lord Oyster and White Pearl Cookie both had crushes on each other before shit hit the fan

In the comics, Fire Spirit Cookie had a crush on Cocoa Cookie

I'm actually not sure about this one since wikis can be edited by anyone, but I'll still count it. It's implied that Shining Glitter Cookie and Black Lemonade Cookie have feelings for each other

Cotton Candy Cookie has a crush on Pink Choco Cookie

Cotton Candy Cookie has a crush on Chili Pepper Cookie (shown on relationships chart. Honestly, she has a crush on everyone)

Cotton Candy Cookie has a crush on Roguefort Cookie and Roguefort Cookie is attracted to her.

Raspberry Mousse Cookie has a massive crush on Rose Cookie. Though, he seems to not know what it is and thinks that it's a curse...

Royal Berry Cookie and Jungleberry Cookie are married (does anyone except Hollyberry even care about them?)

Espresso Cookie and Madeleine Cookie.... kinda. Okay, I'm not really sure. I'm leaning toward "maybe" bcuz devsiss advertises it a lot more than other ships, but also, that could just be bcuz it's popular. Espresso Cookie seems to be annoyed by Madeleine Cookie's antics, but Madeleine Cookie seems to want to impress Espresso Cookie and he does view him as a friend and despite their differences, they are seen a lot together. Is it canon? Idk, probably queer-baiting. But ik that someone was going to say smthn, so I put it here. Put its status as: "Idk, it could be 🤷‍♂️"

Linzer Cookie and Créme Brûlée Cookie are exes, and it's implied they still have lingering feelings torwards each other

If I forgot anything, please tell me!

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sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth · 2 days ago

Text

You better make it soon before you break my heart (Sam Winchester x female reader)

You and Sam get drunk together and Dean plays cupid.

Find it on AO3

Rated T. 3.3k words. Drunk Sam. Margaritas. Crushes. Flirting. Drunk dancing. Dean being a good brother. First kiss.

“What do you think would happen if we started adding margaritas into this?” you ask, already struggling with the word margarita.

“I think—I think that we would probably die,” Sam says.

“Pff,” you say. “Don’t be a baby, Winchester. You can’t live life one foot in, one foot out.”

You’re not totally sure what you mean, but it sounds good. Sam blinks at you, narrows his eyes, making him look more drunk that he already does, with those slightly flushed cheeks and the way his usually so controlled movements are now all over the place.

He looks so good that it almost sobers you up, so you take another big sip of your drink to make sure that doesn’t happen.

You make a face at the strong whiskey taste. You want something nicer, something sweeter. Like Sam? your brain, the mischievous asshole, adds.

Yes, like Sam. Exactly like Sam.

He speaks, breaking you out of your little daydream. “If we drink margaritas now, the only thing we’ll be half foot in is the emergency room.”

It takes you a second and then you chuckle. It’s clever. Sam’s clever.

You lean forward on the table and maybe stare at him a little too intently. He catches your eye, and then looks away quickly. “You’re funny, Sam,” you say, still looking at him. He has the audacity to blush a little, shrugs those big, broad man shoulders of his.

You want to say more. You want to say that he’s beautiful and kind and sweet and so smart and that sometimes he makes you feel like you’re floating, like a cartoon character that’s smelling a pie.

Luckily just then, the waitress comes over. “Can I get you two anything else?” she says, and you throw Sam a look, wiggle your eyebrows.

He sighs, defeated, and orders two margaritas.

Dean finds you about an hour later. You and Sam aren’t sloppy drunk but definitely giggly drunk. You are holding on to your half empty glass and leaning to the side because Sam has said something so adorable and goofy that you are now laughing so hard it hurts your ribs.

Sam is laughing too, a little bashful but then it’s turning into real, actual laughter and it’s the most wonderful sound in the world. It’s so rare to hear him like that. Too rare.

Dean walks up to the table like an annoyed parent who has to pick up his kid from a sleepover because they ate too much candy and then barfed everywhere.

Sam sees him a second later, nods at him, but even though you both sort of recover you’re still giggling.

“How’d it go?” Sam asks, and he’s definitely slurring a little bit, the grin on his face wide.

You want to kiss it. The face and the grin.

Dean sits down, eyeing you both a little suspiciously. “It was fine,” he says, “but the county sheriff is pretty useless. I think he’s a drunk. But then,” he makes a sarcastic face, “looks like he’s not alone in that.”

You know he’s just trying to be a reasonable but you don’t need this buzz kill right now. You can already see Sam starting to feel bad that he was out having fun while Dean was working, but that only happened because Sam finished his research so fast and Dean was slow, because he was busy flirting with that one witness at the station.

No, you’re not gonna let him suck the fun out of tonight.

“Boooh,” you say then push your glass towards him. “Drink and be merry, Dean,” you say and Sam chuckles.

Dean looks down at the drink, a little disgusted. “It has a salted rim,” you say to him, cocking your head. “You loooove that.”

Sam bursts out laughing. You’re not even sure what you said and then you realize the double meaning. Oopsie. But Sam’s laugh is so infectious that you just go along with it.

Dean rolls his eyes pointedly. To make up for it, you raise your arm, wave over the waitress. She joins you, Dean turning around to give her an appreciative look.

“Hi there,” you say, as if you are talking to her for the first time tonight. “Could you please get my friend here the most boring, adult drink you have, please?” you ask her.

Dean smiles at her, already flirting. “Whiskey neat is fine. And I wouldn't mind getting your number as well.”

You look over at Sam, who widens his eyes, looks at you. You’re both used to Dean flirting shamelessly, but that’s fast, even for him.

The waitress returns the smile, checks him out a little. “Coming up,” she says, walks away, looking back to make sure Dean is looking after her. He is, of course.

“Jeez,” you mumble, “get a room.” Dean turns back, looks at you.

“Look who’s talking,” he says and you can feel the violent blush in your face. You hope it’s not as visible under the dimmed light of the bar as it feels, but you can’t be sure.

Dean is kind enough to change the topic, starts talking more about the sheriff and the lack of information he found. You take your drink back from him, taking a big sip and chance a look at Sam. It looks like he didn’t notice. Thank God.

Dean doesn’t officially know about your crush on Sam, but he’s not an idiot, as much as he might sometimes act like one. He doesn’t miss the longing looks you throw his younger brother, how you react like you’re stung by a jellyfish every time Sam touches you, or how once, when a witness was throwing herself at him and Sam didn’t seem totally disinterested, you might have snuck to the bathroom to sniffle a little.

Sam on the other hand seems completely oblivious, which is good and bad at the same time. Good because you’re pretty sure if he were to find out and not feel the same way about you the embarrassment would kill you on the spot. Bad because on the off chance that he does like you that way, he sure as hell isn’t going to be making the first step, not if he’s not absolutely sure you like him back. And you would never tell him because, well, all of the above. Which means it’s unlikely that anything will come of it.

So you drink and talk and geek together, sharing secrets and talking about things you’ve never talked to anyone else about, and you’re pretty sure neither has Sam. And you don’t cuddle or kiss or touch or do any of the other things you would like to do with Sam. No, sir.

You all finish your drinks, Dean scores the waitress’s number and then you’re stepping out into the warm summer evening.

You get into the Impala, you climb into the back without breaking your neck, and Dean starts driving you back to the motel.

Sam plays around with the radio until he finds a station, while you roll down one of the back windows.

“Are you gonna be sick?” Dean asks, glaring at you in the rearview mirror.

“Noo, just like the air, air’s nice,” you say, leaning your head so the night air is hitting your face. It feels amazing, and just when you think you probably can’t feel any better, the station Sam found starts playing Fleetwood Mac.

“Hell yeah,” you say, raising both hands over your head, crossing them there. You hum along, watch the dark country roads go by.

After a minute you look forward again, just to see Sam’s head turning away quickly. Did you just catch him look at you? No, surely not?

You sink a little deeper into the seat.

It doesn’t take long after that to arrive at the motel. You get out, swaying a little. The three of you start walking towards your room, when Dean suddenly stops in his tracks. He licks his lip, then half turns back to the car.

“Actually, I think I left that waitress's number at the bar,” he says. No, he didn’t. You saw him pocket it when you walked out.

You’re about to say exactly that, when he throws Sam the room keys in a high arch. Sam doesn’t catch them, has to bend down to pick them up, and for a second you think he’ll topple. You lay a hand on his arm, which is probably not very helpful, but it’s an excuse to touch him.

“Gotta go back,” Dean says, shrugging, a bit of a grin on his face.

“Dean,” you start, then hiccup a little, and continue. “I’m sure you’ll score another number in the next town.”

But Dean’s already on his way back to the Impala. He turns around as he's about to get in, and now he's full on grinning. "Yeah," he says, "but she could be the one. Gotta be sure. You have to be brave to find love." And then he winks at you and a second later, you and Sam are standing in a whirl of dust left behind by the Impala.

Sam waves his hand in front of his face, coughing a little. Meanwhile you are trying not to scream.

What the hell did Dean mean by that? Brave to find love? You turn to Sam, the internal screaming momentarily under control.

Sam looks down at you. He has the cutest little pout on him. "Inside?" he asks, like it's a full sentence. You nod. Inside.

The walk to the room is short but it allows you to think about what Dean was insinuating.

It would be cruel, what he's suggesting, if he doesn't at least think there's a chance that Sam likes you back, and Dean is many things, but he is not cruel. At least not normally. That means that he knows something, or suspects something.

Your head is spinning and it's not just from the alcohol. Suddenly you're terrified.

You make it to the room, and Sam unlocks it. It only takes him three tries. He's so graceful.

You are leaning against the door frame while he wrangles the door. When it swings open, he looks at you, all proud smiles. Despite your nervousness, you smile back, slap his arm.

"You are, like, a master at opening doors. Amazing form. Ten points."

He nods. "I do unlock a lot of doors," he says, and then holds his arm out to signal for you to go in before him.

You do, walk in, and then, because suddenly you don't know what to do and you're hyper aware of the situation, you just kind of stand there in the middle of the room.

Sam walk in behind you, throwing closed the door behind him and plops down on the bed, face first.

You turn to him and it gives you too good of a view of his body, so you mumble "gotta use the bathroom," and rush off.

You close the door behind you and sit on the closed toilet seat. Okay. Breath.

There's no reason to be nervous. You are alone with Sam, which you have been a million times. You are drunk with Sam, alone, and it's not a big deal.

Except that Dean said that stuff about having to be brave to find love. Did he mean you need to be brave to find love? Did he mean with Sam? Or was he just talking out of his ass and your drunk brain is cooking something up that's not really there?

You sigh. Goddamn, this is really killing your buzz. It's fine. It's better to not do anything you might regret. Tomorrow, when you're sobered up and hungover, you can go back to interpreting Dean's cryptic messages. But tonight you just want to have fun, just for a little longer.

You walk out and Sam's still lying on the bed. You think he might be passed out for a second, but then he raises one hand where it's lying on the bed next to him, giving a thumbs up. "All good," he says, not opening his eyes. "Jus' resting my face."

You can't help but chuckle at that and all the lovey dovey feelings come rushing back, replacing your anxiety. You just want to have a fun drunk night with Sam. If nothing else ever comes of it, you're still damn lucky.

So, to rally the troops, you take out your phone, turn the sound all the way up, and start playing the song you heard in the car, "Everywhere". It starts with that weird tingly noise, and you use that time to walk over to Sam, kicking off your shoes without any major mishaps, and then lean on his back with both arms, and shake him a little.

He makes a noise that's a mixture of a grunt and something you've only ever heard donkeys make.

"No shaking, please," he says, frowning.

"Then get up," you say. "You get up, and no more shaking."

The song starts properly now and you start dancing a little, because it's just too good. Sam finally gets up, kind of. He turns around, leaning up on one elbow.

"Come on, Sam," you say. "Let's dance the drunk out."

He laughs, even though he still looks sleepy. And then he watches you for a moment, and his face becomes incredibly serious.

You stop your dancing. "What?" you ask, and you think he's going to say something horrible.

"Nothin'," he says, and his voice is kind of quiet. "You're just pretty."

A not entirely unpleasant shock goes through you. Pretty.

You try to recover, wave him off. "You're very drunk, Sam," you say and then, because you think if he looks at you for a second longer you'll burst into flames, you jump on the bed without warning.

He ducks his head, scoots out of the way so he doesn't get trampled. You start bouncing on the bed to the beat of the music, doing something with your arms, you're not even sure what.

You sing along loudly to the "I want to be with you everywhere," and the meaning of the words doesn't really reach your brain, because you point at Sam while singing them. It's just your entertainer persona, or what some people would call very limited dance moves, that makes you point at him.

You pull your arm back immediately. Yikes. To cover, you pretend you were just trying to get Sam to dance. "Come on, get up, we are not losing to margaritas! We're stronger than that!"

Sam actually gets up then, and while what he does can't really be called dancing, he is at least moving his body.

You woohoo in his direction, and pick up your own dancing again. Then you make the mistake of trying to take a step to the side, forgetting that you are not on solid ground, but on a cheap motel bed. You foot gets tangled in the thin comforter.

You're gonna fall off this bed and break your neck, you just know it.

But you don't, because there's Sam. He's stepped closer to the bed and is holding you by the waist. You don't fall. You don't die.

You're on the bed and he's standing on the floor, so you're half a head taller than him currently. You're also really, really close to him, and oh yeah, there's the whole hands-on-waist thing.

You swallow. "Thanks," you say, but it comes out quiet and a little cracked. Sam smiles up at you, a little unsure. He could let you go now, but he doesn't. He keeps holding you.

Your brain is desperately trying to find something to say, something to make this not awkward, something to make you stop thinking about Sam's lips so close to yours, the beauty mark next to his nose that you want to touch, his smell, his big hands on you.

What you come up with is this: "Gee, I really get this whole being tall thing now. It's nice." It's one of the more stupid things you've said, but Sam still smiles at it.

"Has its advantages," he says, and then he's looking into your eyes and you're looking into his.

Sam's breathing a little harder. You lean in a little closer because he is so damn magnetic. Somewhere far away the song is starting over.

He clears his throat. "I really want to kiss you," he says.

Jesus, Mary, Joseph and David Bowie.

"I want you to want to kiss me," you reply, and you have just enough working brain cells left to correct yourself. "I want you to kiss me."

He nods. Then suddenly he looks unsure. "But," he says, and you think no, no buts, no buts please, I will start an anti-buts movement, before he continues: "I don't want it to, you know, be like this, I think. I don't want us to regret it in the morning. Or forget it."

"I won't regret it," you say, maybe a little too fast. "And I don't think I'll forget it, either." Because how could you? How could you forget something like that?

Sam nods again, still looking into your eyes. "Are you sure?"

"Super sure," you say, nodding as well. And then, because sometimes your brain does come up with good ideas, you add: "Plus, we could just kiss again tomorrow. That way we won't forget what it's like."

Now Sam is grinning, and from this close it's even better, even more breathtaking. It shows off his dimples and because you're already in too deep, you move your hands up, one landing on his shoulder, one on his cheek, your thumb close to that little valley in his face that shows up when he's happy.

"Okay," Sam says, and you say it as well.

And then he is pulling you in, very, very slowly, like he's expecting you to change your mind halfway in.

You lick your lips, just a little, because you realize your mouth has gone incredibly dry.

And then you're kissing Sam. His eyes close and so do yours. His lips are soft and there's still a hint of salt on them from the drinks. It's perfect.

Your heart is beating so hard than you're sure he must hear it. His one hand leaves your waist, and his arm goes around you, holds you there.

You take your one hand off his shoulder and cup his face with that one as well, because you've never gotten to touch his face like that before.

Sam breaks the kiss, eventually. Your eyes stay closed and it's a good thing he's holding you. You might fall off the bed otherwise anyway, margaritas or no margaritas.

You can tell he's looking at you, so you blink your eyes open. He has a slight smile on his face.

"Can I kiss you again?" he asks. You don't bother saying yes. You pull his face close to yours and do it.

This kiss is a little different. Where the first one was soft and sweet and careful, this one feels a little more raunchy. Sam's breathing out through his nose as if to contain himself, and it's so goddamn sexy. He's pulling you closer and you're pulling him closer, and then suddenly your tongues are meeting and you actually moan a little. You can feel him smile at that. Yeah, you won't forget that.

And then you can hear the Impala pulling up outside. Looks like Dean struck out.

Sam unleashes your lips and you lean down, lay your forehead against his. His hand goes up and strokes your cheek.

"Tomorrow?" he asks, and you nod against him. "Tomorrow."

You're not sure what it means, but it's a promise. A promise you're happy to keep.

I want to be with you everywhere, Christine McVie sings and you couldn't agree more.

#sam winchester x reader #sam winchester #fan fiction #spn #supernatural #first kiss #crush #dancing #fleetwood mac #songfic #dean being a good brother #drinking #Spotify

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