#but i think about it for ten seconds and i actually Really Do Not Like It

[rosiesweets]

and i'd give myself to you (everytime) - one

synopsis: so turns out the way paige meets the love of her life is delirious at 1am standing in the front of some gaudy ass mansion. who would’ve thought.

a/n: thank you so much for the love on my prologue. my sweet little heart is bursting with love. kisses to each of you. i’m a little shy to respond to the anons in my inbox, but know that i read each one and smile. maybe one day i’ll get the courage. here’s part one. i’m fully aware the timing of this regarding the actual w season makes no sense but please suspend your belief for me thank you <3 not too long yet, we’re still in a place where short scenes make the most sense to me. once again, please share your thoughts, hopes, and dreams with me (about this fic or whatever else). xo, chiara

p.s. is now the time to admit i’ve never watched a full season of any bachelor franchise show?

p.p.s. in no way am i committing to any frequency of updates. please do not take any span of time i take in between them as precedent. apologies in advance. again i will return to edit when fuel returns to my brain.

-

and in your eyes i see forever (or something like that)

paige is going to kill dijonai carrington.

okay probably not, but she’ll switch all the caps on the lip liners or something of similar weight to the (natural) blonde. paige should be in her apartment in dallas right now taking a blissful break from going three years back to back in wnba and unrivaled seasons. paige already expended enough effort to last for months when making the decision to skip out on unrivaled this year. don’t get paige wrong, she loves basketball. she wants to be playing twenty-four seven. but she knows her body. knows the signs of when her knee is feeling more than just regular wear and tear. she wants to play everyday, but she wants to play for a long time more. so she’s making the smart (ridiculously painful) decision to skip unrivaled in pursuit of a basketball career that lasts until her forties.

so someone please explain to her how instead of laying on the couch (or on some beach in the carribean) she is sitting in a limo by herself, in a suit too hot for la in june, waiting for three hours to meet some girl from maryland that dijonai won’t stop calling the people’s princess.

she’s alone because the producers told her she had a “special spot” in the line up or whatever that meant. she surely does not feel special being forced alone with her thoughts instead of distracting herself by meeting five other people who she’ll have to share a bathroom with soon. she’s just here, sitting on squeaky leather twiddling her thumbs because she refused the prop the producers repeatedly tried forcing upon her.

(eventually the producer, some girl named caroline, holding a basketball out to her quickly put it down when met with glare from paige’s ice blue eyes. there was going on national television and there was going on national television looking like a loser in the first ten seconds. paige didn’t need a prop, have you seen her jawline? she’ll walk out, give the girl a crooked smile bordering on smirk, lean in close enough to let her cologne linger and let the rasp of her voice as she says hello do the rest.)

the creeping dread of having to spend the next five to eleven weeks (let’s be real paige is not getting eliminated before week five at least) living with thirty people she doesn’t know and competing for the attention of this one girl is starting to set it in. and in her stomach there’s a feeling of more than just the typical “i’m going on national television” nerves. paige has never really needed to compete for attention before. she just always had it. on the court, in the bar, literally just standing on the street.

and paige doesn’t think she’ll fade in the background or anything but it’s still a new sensation. the knowledge that azzi doesn’t have to ever make eye contact with her. that she’ll have to scheme and smile better than the others whose entire brands rely on this working out for them.

on the other side of the nerves is guilt. paige isn’t really here to find love. she’s here to take the w, and the dallas wings, to potential new group of fans (the middle of a venn diagram between gays and people who love reality tv). paige wants women’s basketball to grow into something the world never expected. wants college park, and maybe one day american airlines center, to be packed every night. so she’s here. after one too many dirty shirleys while listening to dijonai convince her to spend her break on reality tv so not only this girl azzi, but america can fall in love her, and eventually women’s basketball.

but it feels wrong. to participate in the objectification of this clearly earnest (and stunning, paige has watched the tik tok compilations) girl. paige can’t really fathom it. how a girl so beautiful could be driven to find love like this. this insane spectacle. full of people who surely do not actually want to marry her, cameras around twenty-four seven, and the decision of a lifetime being made on merely hours with someone when you think about it. a person like that, has to in some ways hate herself no? to put herself at the center of a circus and beg for love. and paige knows she’s the one competing, but really is the bachelorette not the one asking america to validate that she’s lovable enough for thirty random people to compete for her? to be so unsure of yourself that you put yourself in a situation where you’re guaranteed for someone to pick you at the end? paige thinks a life like that must be lonely. and the guilt simmers stronger.

but paige swallows it. this girl an adult. she knows the game, the premise. she’s been given scouting report. paige won’t infantilize her with pity because she doesn’t understand how anyone could do this. azzi will be engaged to a random person at the end of this. and will probably be humiliated six to eleven months later when they “amicably split.” but that’s her choice. azzi gets to write her love story this way. on the other side paige will be charismatic and fun, but aloof enough to not trust forever in. she’ll walk away bringing new people to the game. and hopefully be remembered as unproblematic and a little goofy.

so paige sits. and sits. and sits. holy shit why did no one tell her that filming each episode took over ten hours. she has heard the same door open, the same heel or loafer click along the fake cobblestone enough to decide perhaps getting blown out by thirty in game three of the playoffs to the indiana fever of all goddamn teams, actually wasn’t that bad.

finally. after what feels like and is actually hours later. while paige is starving, slightly sweating, and so ready to go to sleep, the knock on her door comes. it’s her time. as she opens the door she thinks perhaps she should’ve rehearsed or prepared something to open with. something cool and memorable, just slightly cringe but it’s paige so it’s not really. oh well. she trusts her years of cd media training will carry her through.

she holds her hand over the single button of her blazer to keep its closed as she steps out. she’s gone with something simple yet still a statement. all black louis vuitton, black gems on the lapels. a moment of perfectly understated glamour. no shirt underneath. rings across her fingers. nails black and short. she knows what she looks like.

she looks up to meet azzi’s eyes and fuck.

paige has seen beautiful things before. the basketball as it swishes through just at buzzer. paige has seen beautiful girls before. some in her dms, some bold as they come up to her in bars and coffee shops. paige has seen this beautiful girl before. in photos as dijonai swiped through a haphazardly made power point titled “paige bueckers: bucket and now soon to be bachelorette contestant please it would be sooooo fun and funny.”

but nothing could have prepared her for this. azzi is so beautiful. paige knew this. was prepared for her wide eyes, deep dimples, and cheekbones. what knocks her out is the smile azzi has on she meets paige’s eyes. lips full, bunny teeth just catching the bottom one swiped with sheer gloss. paige has never seen a smile like this. pure and warm and perfect.

paige doesn’t remember walking up to azzi. doesn’t remember wrapping her arms around her shorter frame in a quick hug. paige doesn’t remember taking her hands in hers. all paige senses are soft palms and the slightly sweet scent of warm vanilla. and suddenly without her consent the words slip out of her mouth, “wow wore my favorite color just for me?”

literally paige needs to be sedated. because why the fuck did she just say that. this isn’t even about her. of course she says something the stupid big head athlete would say. she sounds like a guy. fuck the bar was so low and she still fucked it up.

before her thoughts can spiral even worse something cuts through. azzi laughs. and not to be hyperbolic or anything but paige’s world lights up. of course the most perfect mouth she’s ever seen lets out the sweetest laugh she’s ever heard. paige smiles. not the cocky one she had before. genuine. it takes up her whole face without her asking. azzi’s (surprisingly deeper than expected) voice returns “your favorite color is lavender?” and paige quickly goes “what? surprised?” azzi intertwines their fingers, shifting their hands from laying softly on top of each other grasping palms to fingers locked (and holy shit paige hasn’t felt this way from a girl merely holding her hand since she was fourteen), “honestly, yeah. you look like someone that would like something darker. bolder.” paige lets out a quick “i think you’ll be surprised by my depth princess," surprised by the small percentage of her brain still functioning enough to speak. “i guess i’ll look forward to being surprised by you then.” knowing her thirty seconds is probably up paige decides to leave it on, “i guess you will.” with a squeeze of azzi’s hands paige lets her smile grow even wider if possible and turns to make her way with the other contestants.

as she walks up the path to the mansion something in her mind shifts. and well shit. paige should’ve known. there’s never been a competition she didn’t want to win.

[lostlikesaebyeok]

HIIII!!!!!!!!! 😠😠😠😠 heeheh chronically online reader x 'the one who doesn't even use youtube' se-mi...

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 𝒔𝒆-𝒎𝒊 :･ﾟ��:･ﾟ✧

♡･ﾟ₊ title: your chronically offline girlfriend (she actually lives under a rock)

♡･ﾟ₊ pairing: chronically online!fem!reader x chronically offline!se-mi

♡･ﾟ₊ au: college au, media studies majors, opposites attract, slow burn to soft dating

♡･ﾟ₊ genre: sapphic slice of life, jokes, soft romance, emotionally repressed girls in love

♡･ﾟ₊ warnings: light cursing, academic trauma, mentions of tiktok discourse, brainrot

♡･ﾟ₊ summary: you're chronically online, she does all of her assignments on pen and paper without picking up her phone once. you watch edits of park gyu-young into the early hours of the mornings, she thinks youtube is just for music videos. and somehow, both end up falling in love anyways!!

you really don’t expect her to like you.

in fact, the first time you meet, she looks at you like you just told her you collect dead bodies or that you're a discord moderator. you’re sitting in the back of your media studies class, laptop stickers flashing like a gay bat signal: chappell roan, taylor swift, marceline and princess bubblegum.

she doesn’t have a laptop, doesn’t even have a phone in sight. she writes everything down. with a pen. in a notebook. like some medieval scribe.

you don’t notice her at first. she’s quiet when she wants to be. but then the professor makes some offhand joke about how people in your generation have the worst attention spans and can’t even sit through a tiktok video that's longer than 30 seconds and you start laughing everyone turns to look. including her, se-mi.

you don’t know her name yet, but you notice her because she doesn't laugh. she doesn't smile. she just looks at you for a second too long, head tilted, like you’re an anomaly. you find out her name the next week, during group assignments. your professor pairs you up. you glance sideways at her, trying to gauge if she’s pissed.

“hi,” you say. “i’m–”

“i know,” she says. “you answer too many questions in class.”

you pause.

“not in a bad way,” she adds, like that’ll fix it. “just. noted.”

you’re already kind of obsessed with her. she doesn’t use social media, not even youtube. you ask her once. maybe a little too eager, like you’re trying to speedrun friendship.

“do you have insta?”

“no.”

“tumblr?”

“no.”

“tiktok?”

“that one’s the worst.”

“youtube?”

“i’ve seen music videos, in cafes.”

you stare at her. “se-mi,” you say, voice serious. “how do you learn anything?”

she shrugs. “books.”

you nearly pass out because wtf 💔

weeks go by. you become a permanent fixture in each other’s lives, slowly, like moss growing between stones. she’s blunt and bold. not mean, but she doesn’t pad things in soft language. she doesn’t flirt like you do, she doesn’t understand that “💀” means you're laughing and not actually and not in danger (she almost called the cops when you sent it the first time), she doesn't give strong eye contact. she says things like “you’re not funny, but you’re smart” and “you always smell like gum. is that intentional?”

she touches your arm when you’re stressed. she lets you monologue about some new discourse for ten minutes straight and only interrupts to say, “is this a real issue or just something people are mad about for attention?”

she never posts a single photo of you, but she notices when you change your bio. when you cut your hair, when you leave her a message saying “moonbeam ice cream 😛😛” in her notebook.

you see the corner poking out weeks later. you take her to your favourite cafe. it’s queer-owned and full of pride flags and playlists that jump from mitski to charli xcx in one breath.

you tell her about your online friends and you swear it's almost as if you're talking to a brick wall somtimes. you talk to her about tumblr and how people that still use youtube shorts need to be publicly hung, about people who fake mental illness for attention and girls who write the most angsty, best sapphic fanfiction you will ever read in your life under usernames like namgyuscumstain.

she listens, patiently. she asks questions like “okay, so what’s a ship war?” and “why is everyone's username named after their favourite character and some strange bodily fluid?”

you say, “you’re seriously the only person i know who isn't chronically online.”

she says, “you’re seriously the only person i know who never shuts up.”

you grin. “you like that about me.”

“no comment.”

the first time she kisses you, you’ve just finished watching bottoms.

she pretends not to like it, and she calls it “fucking stupid and unrealistic as fuck.”

but then she says, “fine, i like the way isabel looks at josie.”

you’re curled up on her bed, shoulder to shoulder, still laughing about the movie. you say, “that’s the point, it’s supposed to be unrealistic. we’re all stupid, gay people have the strangest ways of flirting.”

she doesn’t respond, not with words. she kisses you slow. rough at first, like she’s never done it softly before, like she’s had to fight to want things. you make a stupid noise into her mouth, breath catching and she pulls back an inch.

“what?”

you whisper, “i feel like we're in a fanfic right now.”

she sighs. “you’re fucking exhausting.”

but she kisses you again.

you start dating without talking about it, you don't soft launch it, or post it on every single social media account you have. you just post a photo of you and se-mi holding hands on tumblr for your online friends to see. your friends knew it was gonna happen anyways but they still go crazy, and se-mi never sees it.

but she keeps bringing you your favourite snacks and she keeps letting you ramble about ao3, she also defends you when you start crying frustratedly over how people were flaming you on tiktok for shipping byler but yet they were posting ai generated photos of mike and el getting married 💔💔

once, you show her a photo of her that you edited, and she actually laughs. like, a real one:

“oh my god?” you say, stunned. “did you just laugh?”

“yesss,” she says, reaching over to tug your hoodie strings. “you’re so weird. i like it.”

you beam. “se-mi. that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

she kisses your cheek. “then your standards are low.”

soon enough she starts saying 'sybau 💔' whenever you send her stupid photos of herself and she teaches you how to be able to read a book without constantly checking your phone.

you send her this:

and she responds in full sentences, extremely confused of course, but at least she's responding properly whereas before she thought just replying to you with "🤣🤔" was acceptable. you break down queer theories in every movie and show you watch and she listens with the same attentiveness she gives to fire drills and earthquake warnings.

she’s strong around strong people. never flinches, but with you when you cry, when you spiral, when you get too soft to stand up straight, she’s gentle. she rubs your back in slow circles. holds your hand without asking. says “hey, idiot. it's only me”.

you fall in love FAST. and one night, you’re in her apartment, curled up together on the floor because the fan broke and the floor’s cooler than the bed. you’re scrolling through your phone, showing her stuff she doesn’t understand. you look up and she’s just watching you.

you look at her, lost. “what?”

she shrugs. “you always look so... alive when you talk about things you love.”

you laugh. “that’s called being annoying.”

“no,” she says. “it’s called being you.”

you look at her for a long second.

“can i post that?” you whisper.

she groans and shoves a pillow at your face.

you never expected her to like you, but she does. quietly and strong, in her own way without needing anyone else to see. you, on the other hand, post every time she says something or does something for you on tumblr. you love showing her off. you read your posts aloud to her sometimes, she rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.

and you think: god. i hope the internet never touches her. but i hope she never lets me go.

thank u for reading, angel ♡

never in my life did i think i would reference benson boone in my fanfic help 🪰

♡ tags: @saeshairtie @eunchacha @ilovesawbyeokandjjmaybank @gg0mezz @saphicsaturn @gyuyoungg @lyzem @janegrapefruitttt @reynadeluniverso @bitchesallonmydih @laurenkenss @bleedingwhiteroses222 @maevelovessae @067supremacy

♡ divider creds: @dawniebun

[kjiscrawlingbackformore]

Peace - Act IV : Chaper two

Lottie Matthews x fem!reader

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: Reader comes back to her hometown and transfers to Wiskayok High School after getting expelled from her previous high school. Follows Junior year into Senior year, all the way up to the crash. (Eventual NSFW mdni)

A/N: 🥺🥺🥺 lottie in this makes me soo 🧎🏽‍♀️‍➡️💔

Warnings: None

You were buzzing. Like actually, physically buzzing.

The paper trembled in your hand as you sat across from Mr. Weaver, his office still cluttered with stress balls shaped like planets and coffee cups filled with pens that didn’t work. He leaned back in his chair with that smug, knowing grin that made you want to roll your eyes and also kind of cry.

“Full ride,” he said, tapping the NYU acceptance letter like it was just some casual piece of mail. “Y/F/N Y/L/N, accepted into the Arthur L. Carter Journalism Institute. That’s what we call a Big Deal.”

You couldn’t stop smiling. “You say that like you didn’t submit half my portfolio without telling me.”

“Oh, I absolutely did,” Weaver said, sipping from a mug that read World’s Okayest Counselor. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“And Mizzou,” You said, voice soft like you still didn’t quite believe it. “Honors program.”

Weaver arched an eyebrow. “Didn’t I tell you? You’re bigger than this town.”

You looked down at the second letter. The invitation was embossed in gold. It felt heavier than any other piece of paper you’d ever held. Like it might float you away if you stared too hard.

Weaver leaned forward, suddenly serious. “There’s one more thing I want you to look at.”

He slid a flyer across the desk. A national scholarship competition for journalism students. Competitive as hell. You scanned the fine print.

“Winner gets ten grand. That could cover flights, food, whatever the full ride won’t.”

You blinked, your breath getting caught in your throat. “You think I could win this?”

“I think you already won,” he said. “Now go prove it to yourself.”

You clutched the paper like it might disappear. “Thanks.”

“No problem, kid. Just don’t forget about us little people when you’re off winning Pulitzers.”

You rolled your eyes and laughed, heart full and throat tight. For a moment, you let herself believe in the version of you that Weaver saw. The one with a future.

You didn’t tell anyone.

You hadn’t meant to keep it a secret, not really. But it was easier that way. Let the good things stay quiet, tucked somewhere safe where no one could mess them up. Your acceptance into the Mizzou Honors Program stayed folded inside the front pocket of her binder, nestled between a French quiz and an article draft about the Yellowjackets’ qualifying win. It was safer there, invisible, untouched. Like, if you didn’t say it out loud, it wouldn’t get ruined.

So when Tai cornered you behind the bleachers after sixth period, your guard shot up.

“You,” Tai said, low and casual, “are full of shit.”

You shake your head in confusion, a bit jarred. “Excuse me?”

Tai tilted her head. “Honors program at Mizzou?”

You froze.

“I have cousins in Columbia,” Tai continued, smiling like it was a dare. “They’re in the program. Only ten out-of-state students get invited a year. You’re one of them?”

Your jaw tensed. “How do you even know that?”

Tai shrugged. “I know things.”

You narrowed your eyes. Tai held herself with this brazen confidence. But it was so intense and aggressive, you were unsure what she was trying to prove. “That supposed to scare me?”

"How the hell did you get into the Mizzou Honors Program?" Tai asked, arms crossed, voice pitched low but sharp.

You looked around before blinking. “What?”

“I’ve been trying to get flagged for that program since last spring. My mom’s already emailing alumni. I’m pre-law. You don’t even care about school.”

You bristled. “Gee, thanks.”

“I mean-come on, you’re, like, yearbook girl. Why the fuck are they courting you?”

You hesitated. You didnt even know why you felt inclined to tell her. Maybe it was so someone else could know. But despite yourself, you sigh, “Because I wrote an article that won a national contest. Because I’m not stupid. Because I’m trying.”

Tai studied you, eyes narrowed like she was solving a puzzle. “Did Weaver help you?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Tai took a slow step closer. “Look. I need your help. I want in. I need in. My mom thinks if I don’t land this, I’m wasting her time. I need my application to scream ‘elite.’”

You raised an eyebrow. “So you’re coming to me... for help?”

“Don’t get smug,” Tai muttered. “But yeah. I need someone who’s done it. Someone who can write something good, something worthy of the honors program. Quietly.”

You shook her head, a scoff of disbelief tumbling off your lips. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Don’t act like you’re above it,” Tai snapped. “We all lie a little. You’re not exactly broadcasting your big future, are you?”

That hit too close to home. You looked away.

Tai exhaled and leaned against the brick wall, then added, too casually, “Besides. I know about you and Lottie.”

Your head snapped up.

Tai’s smirk turned razor sharp. “Thought you were being subtle? Lottie is not that slick, her eyes are way too expressive. Van’s not as oblivious as she acts. Van clocked that a mile away.”

You stared at her, heart thudding. If Tai was going to be a bitch. Fine. So could you. Because she is not about to corner you about Lottie as if you haven’t noticed the way Van melts around Tai. The way Tai stares a way too long when Van enters the room. Or how they somehow are always gone at the same time. And without even thinking, almost a shot in the dark. “And speaking of Van,” You said slowly, “that new bruise on your neck isn’t from soccer practice.”

Tai froze, jaw tightening. She didn’t say anything, and that was enough. Checkmate.

You tilted your head. “Guess we’re both full of surprises.”

Tai stepped in close again, low and lethal. “You breathe a word about me and Van to anyone and I will find a way to ruin your life. Mizzou, NYU, whatever—you’ll be lucky to get into community college.”

You didn’t flinch. Forcing yourself not to smile. “Noted.”

The air between them crackled, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid.

Then—

“Smalls!” a voice called, clean and cutting through the tension like a whistle.

Both girls turned to see Jackie Taylor approaching, soccer duffel slung over one shoulder, her golden-girl hair tied in a perfect braid.

Jackie looked between you both with careful curiosity. “Can I steal you for a second?”

Tai backed off without a word, stalking away like a storm cloud. You exhaled slowly. Jackie waited until Tai was out of earshot before speaking again. “Everything okay?”

You nodded, hoping to shake off the tension you felt from the conversation. “Peachy.”

Jackie half-smiled. “Weird energy.”

“School’s a weird place.”

Jackie shrugged, then handed you a crumpled sheet of paper. “Would you mind proofreading my Rutgers essay?”

You gave her a surprised glance. Your fingers grab the paper gently, like it were made of glass. Your heart clenched in your chest at the gesture. You and Jackie were tolerating each other at this point in the semester. Nothing of the friendship you used to have. So this felt like…like- “You trust me with that?”

“Of course I do. You’re a genius with words,” Jackie said. “Even when you’re quiet.”

You looked down at the paper. And without even thinking, you nod. “Sure. I’ll look it over tonight.”

Jackie’s hand brushed yours as she passed it off, fingers lingering just a second too long. “Thanks, Smalls.”

The way she said Smalls, was soft. You gave her a thin-lipped smile. And she gave you a wide, genuine one before you watched her walk away, the Rutgers logo sharp at the top of the page, Tai’s threat still buzzing in your ears, and your acceptance letters practically burning through your binder.

Secrets and futures. Lies and promises.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, you, just trying to keep your balance. With eyes trailing Lottie, her curls in two pigtails, and a quiet grin. She waves at you from the field, and you wave back. Before standing up, making a beeline back inside.

The late afternoon sun poured through your bedroom window, soft and golden against her messy bed. Her binder lay open in front of her, Jackie Taylor’s college essay printed in faded ink, full of crossed-out lines and margin notes. You chewed on the end of a pen, eyebrows furrowed as you reworded a clunky sentence about community leadership.

The floor creaked near the door.

You looked up to see Lottie standing there, still in her soccer gear, bag slung low on one shoulder. Her pigtails had started to unravel. She wasn’t smiling. It was rare when you both stayed at your home. But your aunt has been gone hitting almost two weeks tomorrow. And Lottie’s parents are home.

You straightened a little. “Hey baby.”

Lottie’s eyes flicked to the essay. “What’s that?”

You hesitated. “Jackie’s Rutgers thing. It’s like her college essay. She asked me to proofread it.”

Lottie didn’t move. “Why would you proofread it?”

You tried for a shrug. “Because I’m good at it? And she asked?”

Lottie’s silence filled the room like a rising tide. She came closer, dropped her bag to the floor with a thud. “That’s the second time she’s asked you for something like that.”

You tried not to flinch at her tone. Slowly you licked your lips. Sitting back, blinking. “Okay… and?”

Lottie crossed her arms. “You don’t think it’s weird?”

“Lottie…”

“She’s obsessed with you, baby. Everyone sees it.”

Your laugh was dry, almost tired. “She’s not obsessed.”

“She watches you like she’s trying to read your soul,” Lottie snapped. “And now she’s handing you her college essay to edit? That’s like handing you her ticket to her dreams on paper.”

“She needed help with grammar. Not a blood pact.”

Jackie was a lot of things. Obsessed with you? Was not one of them. The way she ignored you like the plague after that kiss was proof of it. Yet your eyes softened when you saw Lottie’s expression, a storm barely held behind her eyes. Not angry. Hurt.

You set the pen down and gave her full attention. Feeling your heart flutter and something else swish within your stomach in an ugly mix.

“Okay,” You said gently. “Let me just finish this paragraph. I promised her I’d look at it, and I don’t want to be that girl who bails mid-favor. But once I’m done, no more editing Jackie’s personal statements, okay?”

Lottie didn’t answer right away, then nodded once, stiffly. You felt something hurt in the way Lottie’s eyes didn’t meet yours.

“I’m serious,” you added. “I won’t do more than I should with her. You’re the one I—” You caught yourself. “You’re the one I want to be with.”

Lottie sat on the edge of the bed, eyes still on the essay. “Okay.”

But you heard it in her voice. A flicker of doubt you couldn’t blame her for. Jackie was too perfect, too calculating, and always close.

Still, you reached over and took Lottie’s hand in yours. “I’m yours,” you said quietly. “I’m your girl.”

Lottie squeezed your hand but didn’t reply. And it broke something in you. She was your sweet girl, and she looked so small. You frowned, you didn’t know what you could say to make it better.

It only made your mind wander to the things you haven’t said to her either. Like how that this was nothing compared to the actual secret you were keeping. That your acceptance letters to Mizzou, and NYU, were still sitting in your backpack, unread by anyone but you and Mr. Weaver. That you might actually move away one day.

Or that you and Jackie kissed last year. Your eyes widened at the memory and willed the intrusive ghost of Jackie’s lips out of your mind. Instead you focused on Lottie.

Lottie leaned against your shoulder, quiet. You placed a kiss on the top of her head. And pulled her legs onto your lap. Because you didn’t want to think about any of that. Your thumb softly rubbed the back of her hand, as your other hand held onto her knees.

She curled into you. And after a few minutes of silence. “Can we shower together?” Lottie asks softly.

You try to stop the small smile stretching onto your lips. You had only ever showered together two other times before and both times was after having slept together. But the way she relaxed into you. Let you wash her hair. You loved the closeness she let you have.

“Baby, we can do whatever you want.” You answered.

Lottie doesn’t say anything. You move yourself away from her to get a clear look at her face. She had a faraway look in her eyes. Like she was fighting to stay present. You grabbed her face softly, the pads of your thumbs caressing each side of the apples of her cheeks.

That made her look at you. Really, look at you. “Lot, baby. I’m all yours. There’s no one else I would rather shower with, sing off-key with on the way to school, or eat Burger King at midnight with. No one I’d rather kiss at a red light, cook grilled cheeses for, return stolen TJ Max clothes with, and do life with. It’s you and me Lot.”

Lottie nods, giving you a soft almost smile. You kiss her cheeks one at a time. Before moving to her nose, then the corner of her mouth, her forehead, all around her face, until finally placing a featherlight kiss on her lips.

When you pull away, Lottie’s face is flushed, and her eyes are glassy. Her grip on your shirt is a tight fist. “Me too. I think…my dad has been home more often. And when he’s there it just…I feel so off and broken. Not nearly good enough. And when I see you and her I wonder-“

“Baby, theres nothing to wonder about.” You say quickly. “Jackie…she’s a friend. But you? Fuck Lottie you’re everything.”

Lottie nods, and her eyes lock onto your lips. She presses her lips onto the corner of your mouth and then sighs. “I think I change my mind. I want to shower alone.”

You hum. “Okay, baby, whatever you want.”

“Can we cuddle after?” She asks quietly.

You chuckle, “It’s kinda the law to give me cuddles in my domain.”

That makes Lottie breathy laugh. “Right, I forgot. Was that before or after the eating me out part?”

“Great question, both actually.”

Lottie rolled her eyes, but a full smile was on her face, and it reached her eyes. That was a win. So you watched her go to take a shower, and you sighed alone in your room. And after a moment, you picked up the pen again, and started writing faster.

[liesineyes]

Everyday I come online and see some weird take on Pit Babe and today it's, Way and Willy's sexual assault against Babe can be excused and makes sense because they didn't have free agency/were hurting but Charlie stealing Babe's powers is rape and cannot be excused even if Charlie was trying to protect Babe, and I wonder if people watch the show with their brains shut off or do they have one to begin with?

No, but do people not realize Charlie also grew up in the Chen Foundation? The show might not have given us his backstory in detail but we do know he is as much as Tony's son as Babe and Way, right? About Willy sexually assaulting Babe, do people think Tony is telling him go sexually assault him or I will blow your mind?

And first of all, absorbing powers is not equal to rape and second of all, rape cannot be excused under any condition you sick fuck. I am getting too angry at this but wtf even. How do you even confuse stealing with rape and then excuse/understand actual sexual assault?

Willy choose to sexually assault Babe to get close to him. He didn't need to kiss Babe when he stopped time, he was having fun there, how do you not see it or did you close your eyes for that particular bit?

And I have a lot of sympathy for Way, don't get me wrong but he had freaking ten years to tell Babe but he still chose to betray that ten years of friendship.

And Charlie legit heard Tony talk about breeding this Babe guy and immediately thought oh I should protect him even if it costs me my life. I know Babe didn't ask for it but intent matters as much as impact.

Like, I am not saying what Charlie did was absolutely right but Charlie stealing Babe's powers didn't give Babe trauma. Babe's powers were the only thing that made Tony come after him and Charlie literally put Babe off the target when he absorbed his powers.

I really blame the script writers at most for making this mess but seriously, if you sympathize with Willy, it isn't that hard to understand on your own.

[bl3upi3]

See You Soon

A/N: Not proofread, but I’ve been wanting to write a long-distance one-shot for a while. Requests are open if you have any ideas!

Word count : 2,943

Summary: After a random Minecraft tweet catches the attention of rising music star 2Hollis, you never expected a flirty reply to turn into months of late-night calls, care packages, and falling in love from a distance. One year later, after months of slow-burn connection, he books a flight to finally meet you in person and everything changes.

You’ve been dating Hollis for a year now. It’s always been a bit of a weird situation, it was long-distance from the start, since he’s constantly busy with his career and you were still finishing up at your local university. Meeting him in the first place had been a total surprise.

It started with a dumb tweet actually, something stupid you posted late at night about Minecraft villagers sounding like tired dads. You didn’t expect anyone to see it, let alone someone like him. But then he replied. Not just a like or a retweet, a full reply. Sarcastic, funny, and way too specific for someone who wasn’t deep into the game.

You didn’t even realize who he was at first. His username didn’t have the usual blue check. It wasn’t until you clicked on his profile out of curiosity that you saw the link to his music and froze.

It was that Hollis.

You figured it was a one-off interaction. But then he followed you. Then DMed you. You talked on and off for months, it wasn’t really your priority, but he was actually nice. Chill. Funny. You two bonded over video games and skating. You told him you wished you’d learned how to skate when you were younger. At this point, you were a full-blown adult who barely knew how to stand on a board, let alone do anything else. He said that if he could, he’d teach you himself.

Even after eight months of talking, you still hadn’t fully processed that you were actually chatting with the 2Hollis. Not until he FaceTimed you for your birthday. You’d mentioned the date once, in passing, and didn’t think he’d remember but he did.

You were lying on your bed, wrapped in an old hoodie, scrolling aimlessly when your phone buzzed. Unknown number. FaceTime.

You stared at the screen, confused. Then it clicked. Your heart did this weird little skip. You sat up, hesitated for a second, then hit accept.

And there he was.

At first, all you saw was the ceiling of what looked like a studio. Then his face appeared, a little too close to the camera, slightly blurry, clearly not prepared for this call either.

“Happy birthday,” he said, grinning.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just blinked at the screen, trying to connect the face you’d seen in a million edited music videos with the guy who’d sent you memes at 3 a.m. about villagers and skeleton mobs.

“What?” you finally muttered, breath caught halfway between a laugh and a panic attack.

“I said happy birthday, dummy,” he repeated, teasing.

He looked tired, not in a bad way. His hoodie was half zipped, hair messy, eyes soft. No lights, only red LEDs. Just him, holding the phone with one hand and a cupcake in the other.

You snorted. “Is that… for me?”

He lifted the tiny cupcake closer to the camera. It had a crooked little candle stuck in the center. “Yeah. Don’t get too emotional, it’s store-bought.”

You laughed, really laughed, the kind that made your cheeks hurt and your chest feel lighter than it had in weeks.

He grinned at the sound, like he’d earned something. You didn’t know it yet, but he’d remember that exact moment later. The way your eyes squinted when you smiled. The way your voice cracked a little when you tried not to laugh too hard.

You thought the call would last ten minutes, tops. He had a session to get back to. You were supposed to be writing a paper. But somehow, three hours passed. Just like that.

You talked about your day, the annoying professor who still called roll like it was high school, how you spilled coffee on your notes that morning. He asked questions, real ones. Like he actually cared. You told him about your final exams coming up, about how burnt out you were but too stubborn to quit. He told you he got that. That he used to stay up all night editing his tracks with cheap headphones and half a clue what he was doing. That even now, with all the success, he sometimes felt like he was just winging it.

Then, he got quieter. He talked about the future, not just music, but what he wanted, even if he wasn’t totally sure how to say it out loud. He said he didn’t think he could do this forever. That the industry felt like a maze sometimes. That part of him just wanted peace. Maybe a place outside the city. Maybe someone to build stuff with.

You didn’t say much. You just listened. And he let you.

At some point, your battery dipped below 5%, but you didn’t care. Neither of you brought it up. It was like neither of you wanted to be the first to hang up.

You ended up falling asleep with the phone still in your hand, his voice the last thing you heard low, warm, halfway through a sentence you never got to finish.

The next morning, there was a message waiting for you.

“Didn’t wanna hang up first. Sleep well, birthday girl.”

That was the night everything changed. After that, things between you got more serious. He started FaceTiming you whenever he could, before shows, after interviews, sometimes even in the middle of events just to show you around. It was sweet, getting little glimpses of a world so far from your small city.

Then the texts started getting flirtier. Subtle at first. Jokes that lingered a little longer, compliments that felt a bit more intentional. And slowly, it started to feel like something more.

The shift was gradual. One day you were teasing him about his obsession with Red Bull, the next he was sending you mirror selfies captioned “Rate the fit, or just pretend you miss me already.” You played it cool, obviously but your stomach flipped every time his name popped up on your screen.

You’d never dated someone like him before. Not just the fame, but the way he paid attention. Like the tiniest things you said actually stayed with him. Like he was taking mental notes just to surprise you later.

One night, after a particularly brutal exam, you got home to a package at your door. Inside: a hoodie from your favorite show, a bag of those weird chips you couldn’t stop talking about, and a hand-written note that just said:

“In case today sucked. Call me if you feel like pretending it didn’t.”

That was the first night you told him you liked him.

Like, really liked him.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just kind of blinked at you through the screen. Then he smiled. Soft, almost shy.

“I was starting to think I’d have to move to your city just to prove I wasn’t messing around.”

And from there, everything started moving faster. More late-night calls. More “I wish you were here” texts. More versions of you and him that started to feel less like a maybe and more like a plan.

It wasn’t official yet, no labels, no big talk but the way he said your name started to feel different. Like it meant something. Like you meant something.

And then, one night, you were on the phone, half-asleep, the screen dimmed and your voice low. You’d been talking about the stupidest things cereal brands, childhood cartoons, the weird kid in your class who wore flip-flops year-round and somewhere between a yawn and a pause, he said it.

“You know I’m not seeing anyone else, right?”

You blinked, sat up a little.

“What?”

He rubbed his face, like he wasn’t sure if he’d meant to say it out loud.

“I mean… I don’t know what this is exactly, but it’s not casual for me. Not just… fun. Not anymore.”

Your chest tightened. Not in a bad way, just in that overwhelming, oh-god-this-is-real way.

You were quiet for a second, long enough that he started to shift awkwardly on his end of the call.

“I’m not either,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “Seeing anyone else. I mean. It’s not just fun for me, either.”

His whole expression changed. Softer. Relieved. Like he’d been holding his breath for hours without realizing.

“Cool,” he said, eyes flicking away from the camera for a second. “That’s… cool.”

After that, he started calling you his girl. Casually, at first. In texts. In the way he’d say “You’d hate this place, my girl doesn’t even like crowds.” But hearing it, feeling claimed in that gentle, stupid, sweet way made your stomach twist every time.

Then one afternoon, a couple weeks later, it happened.

“What’s your address?”

You stared at your phone, confused.

“Why?”

“Because I booked a flight.”

“Hollis. What do you mean?”

“I’m coming to see you. Like… for real.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just sat there on your bed, staring at the message, your heart thudding so hard it felt like it echoed in your teeth.

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“When?”

“Friday.”

It was Tuesday.

You hadn’t even brushed your hair that day. You were still in sweats, still half-recovering from your last round of exams, and now the boy you’d been falling in love with, slowly, stupidly, digitally, was going to be standing in front of you in less than three days.

You almost threw up. Then you almost cried. Then you called him.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” you asked as soon as he picked up, no hello, no intro.

“Because I didn’t want to give you time to back out.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. “You’re such a dick.”

“Maybe. But I’m your dick now, remember?”

You buried your face in your hands, cheeks burning. “I hate you.”

“You’re gonna love me by Friday.”

You didn’t sleep much that week. Every time your phone buzzed, you jumped. You started noticing how messy your room looked, how uneven your nails were, how you didn’t own anything remotely cool to wear around a real-life superstar. Not that he’d care, but still.

Friday came faster than you thought.

You kept checking the time like that would slow it down. Your hands shook when you did your makeup. You changed outfits four times, then ended up in the first one anyway.

You got to the airport early, way too early. You paced near arrivals, trying not to check your phone every two seconds even though you knew exactly when he landed. Your leg bounced nonstop. You kept looking toward the automatic doors like a dog waiting for its owner.

You didn’t know how to act at first, your feet stayed rooted to the floor, your mind suddenly blank. You were kind of shy, frozen, like your body hadn’t caught up with what was happening.

But Hollis didn’t hesitate. The second he saw that hesitation in your eyes, the half-step back, the nervous grip on your sleeve, he smiled and pulled you straight into him.

His arms wrapped around you like it was second nature, like he’d done it a thousand times already in his head.

“C’mere,” he mumbled, voice muffled by your hair. “Don’t do that nervous thing. It’s just me.”

You exhaled against his chest. That was the first time you really let yourself feel it, the warmth of him, the weight of him, the reality of him. He held you like he wasn’t in a rush to let go.

When you finally stepped back, he kept one hand at your waist, just resting there, grounding you. His other hand reached up to brush your cheek.

“You’re shorter than I expected,” he said, teasing but gentle.

“You’re taller,” you shot back, blinking up at him.

“Damn. You got jokes in person too.”

You smiled. “I’m funnier in 4D.”

He laughed. Neither of you really knew what to say after that. It was that weird limbo between we already know each other and we’re meeting for the first time.

So you just stood there for a second, looking at him, letting your brain catch up to your heart.

“Ready to get out of here?” you asked finally.

“Only if you’re the one driving,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder with a grin.

You shook your head. “You’re insane if you think I’m letting a sleep-deprived singer who just got off a five-hour flight take the wheel.”

“Fair,” he said, falling into step beside you. “But I still call aux.”

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers brushed his as you walked, and when his hand found yours without hesitation, you didn’t let go.

Hollis stayed for three days. He wanted you to show him around your town, your favorite coffee shop, the park near your apartment, even your campus. A few people recognized him as you walked together, especially near the university. You instinctively kept a bit of distance, unsure how to act. You weren’t ready for his fans to know about you.

You’d seen how they reacted online every time he so much as looked at a woman. The thought of them finding your account, tearing you apart, turning you into some meme, it scared you more than you wanted to admit.

Still, he didn’t seem to care. He wanted to do everything with you, pay for every activity, take you on little dates like you were the only person that mattered. Movie theatres, late-night dinners, long conversations back at your place with your legs tangled under the blanket.

He didn’t rush anything. Just made space for you, like he’d always been part of your routine.

The last night of his trip, you stayed up way too late again.

You were both curled up on the couch, an old movie playing in the background neither of you were really watching. His hoodie was draped over your shoulders, still warm from his body, and your legs were tangled under the throw blanket like they’d always belonged there.

You were leaning into him, your head resting just under his jaw, when he tilted his face toward yours, voice low.

“You’re quiet.”

“I’m sleepy,” you lied.

“Mm.” He shifted slightly, his fingers brushing a slow line along the inside of your arm. “Nah. That’s your ‘I’m overthinking something’ silence.”

You hated how well he read you.

“I just… don’t want this to end,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away. His hand found yours under the blanket, fingers lacing through yours slowly. Deliberate.

“It doesn’t have to,” he said. “Not really.”

You turned your head toward him, your eyes meeting his in the dim, flickering light from the TV. “You’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Yeah. But I’m still yours.”

Your heart was a mess in your chest.

He leaned in a little closer, his voice lower now, softer. “You know I haven’t even kissed you yet.”

“I noticed,” you whispered, trying and failing to sound unimpressed.

“Yeah?”

You nodded, your lips barely parting.

He traced a fingertip along your jaw. “You want me to?”

You swallowed, your pulse thudding somewhere near your throat. “Yeah.”

“Say it.”

You hesitated, breath shaky. “I want you to kiss me.”

His lips ghosted over yours, not quite a kiss, just a test. A tease. His hand cradled the side of your face like you were something fragile, sacred.

And then he kissed you. Slow. Deep. Like he was trying to memorize it. Like he already knew it wouldn’t be enough.

Your fingers fisted the fabric of his hoodie. His thumb slid across your cheekbone.

He pulled back just a little, just enough to breathe, to look at you like he wasn’t sure how the hell he’d gone so long without doing that.

“That was worth the wait,” he murmured.

You smiled, dazed. “Yeah?”

He nodded, brushing his nose against yours. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moved for a long moment. It wasn’t just the kiss it was everything behind it. All the calls. All the teasing. The random memes at midnight, the shared silences, the way he remembered things you didn’t even realize you’d told him.

You finally leaned your forehead against his, your voice soft. “You’re gonna forget what I look like the second you’re on the plane.”

He frowned. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He shifted a little, sitting up just enough to pull you fully into his lap, your legs on either side of him now. His hands rested on your hips.

“I’m not forgetting any of this,” he said. “You’re not… some side thing. You know that, right?”

You didn’t answer. But you didn’t look away either.

“I’m gonna leave,” he continued, “and it’s gonna suck. But I’m gonna text you before I even get on the plane. And I’m gonna FaceTime you the second I land. And I’m gonna keep showing up. As much as I can. Until I can do it for real.”

“For real?” you echoed.

“As in… permanently. Not a visit. Not just three days. You and me, no lag. No screens. I want that. Eventually.”

Your heart twisted, in the best way possible.

And you knew deep down he meant it.

So you kissed him again. Not because it was the dramatic thing to do, but because you couldn’t not.

And later, when he finally did leave, when you stood at the gate and watched him disappear past security, your chest ached.

But it didn’t feel like goodbye.

It felt like see-you-soon.

Because you had something.

Something real. Something rare.

Something that started with a stupid Minecraft tweet and ended here.

And you were only just getting started.

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

i’m screaming, i love mirio and izuku, medically insane soulmates incapable of not locking the fuck in. in an au of pez where the league has 2% more communication skills and decide their goth theatre polycule should take priority over afo and don’t break him so no battle of yokohama so class 2a doesn’t become a piller of global stability, what kind of adventures would mirio and izuku have in their joint agency? what do people (villains, civilians, heroes) think of them?

Oh, they do exactly the same thing that they would have otherwise done in pez.

For all that the world tries to drag them back and forth, Mirio and Izuku are set points. They’re steady as rocks. So even if Yokohama had never happened, Izuku would still graduate, open an agency with Mirio in a terrible, haunted office, get in fights that they probably can’t win, and go after All for One together.

I think All for One still escapes in this AU. He’s got contingencies on contingencies. And even if Dabi stays, I think that he’s not necessarily initially against freeing all for one, because he barely knows the guy. It’s only after he has to exist near him for any slightly extended period of time that he’s like “Fuck that guy reminds me of my dad”

But Hawks never gets kicked from the League for being a Dabi-stealing whore, so he finds out about Yokohama in advance and tips off the heroes. Yokohama still doesn’t happen, Izuku isn’t famous, and he has considerable more peace when he and Mirio start the agency. No one cares about what they do. They’re nobodies in a ramshackle agency who will wash out in a few years time.

Within the span of a year Izuku’s exactly back to where he’s already at in pez.

For all Izuku’s like “haha yeah they’d never give us the time of day because Mirio’s Quirkless and I’m fine with that,” it’s just really hard for the public to miss someone like Midoriya Izuku. By the time Izuku graduates, Izuku’s a lot like All Might in the sense that there are some fights that only he can win. He rushes in and saves the day more than once and ends up with big, public, flashy wins. The narrative shifts back to “what’s he doing with that Quirkless guy” and Izuku starts getting frustrated with the press

In a way, Mirio’s situation has been exacerbated by the attention in pez. Don’t get me wrong, he was controversial from the second he debuted, and that garnered attention. But his association with Izuku escalated it into a global debate. This Izuku and Mirio actually deal with a lot less vitriol on the daily because of the lowered levels of attention. The discourse starts to rise the more public their fights get.

Initially, they’d ignore the spike in attention as Izuku got some big wins. They’ve got bigger fish to fry. He, Mirio, and All Might are basically living on the floor of the agency trying to hunt all for one for fucking sport. They are neck deep into Machiavellian death note style mind games with that fucking guy. The ghosts from Izuku’s bones are active planners in this.

I think the funniest consequence of this is that the rest of heroics society eventually begrudgingly invites their agency to join the initiative against all for one and Izuku is like “what are you guys TALKING about” because he is the initiative against all for one

The top ten heroes have apparently spent the past few years locked in a fucking room together trying to come up with a plan to find and defeat all for one and meanwhile last week Izuku tossed a Molotov cocktail through his headquarters window with a note that read “BITCH.” All for One and the agency gang are just living in their own worlds where they’ve fully accepted the other as their ultimate nemesis and are committed to the fact that This Is Their Fight. They are each out for fucking blood. It is a brutal, gritty drag out fight.

Meanwhile the top ten heroes in are in a secret war room off in some high rise on the 97th version of the Sneak Attack Battle Plan and trying to find any chink in all for one to exploit. Izuku is like “wait have you guys been doing things to fight all for one because please don’t take this the wrong way but from the bottom of my heart neither of us have noticed.”

[sieglinde-freud]

i forgot how much i like asugi… my poor baby boy doomed to never be taken seriously because they gave him a stupid name and a haircut that looked too much like a cooler version of him… sigh…

[fogwitchoftheevermore]

(context for watcher/listener!sausage can be found in the “videos” tag on my blog if you want it, but this ficlet can be read without said context)

- - -

“Y’know, of all the Hermits I was expecting to be pulling me into a dark corner tonight, I did not expect you to be first, Grian! I love the initiative!”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Grian says in a voice near a hiss. He’s got Sausage by the wrist, leading him into a small area of the upper floor of the tavern in Sanctaury that does look like it was built for the exact purpose Sausage is implying. Grian decides to ignore that as well.

“What are you doing here?” Grian’s straight to the point. He always has to be, with these Things, if he doesn’t want to get trapped in a loop of slant rhyming pleasantries.

“What do you mean?” Sausage asks, shaking his wrist out of Grian’s tight grip and leaning comfortably against the wall. “This is where I live. It’s my home. If anything, I should be asking you mysterious strangers what you’re doing here, but I’m sure you’ve heard that question enough for one day.”

“You know exactly what I mean.” Grian crosses his arms and tries his best not to look petulant, but he sure feels like it. “I thought They’d given up on trying to snatch me back, so why would They send you of all people? What’s your game?”

Sausage laughs, honest to god laughs, like he can’t believe Grian’s even asking him such a question. Grian thinks it’s a reasonable question, in this scenario, but what he thinks and what’s reasonable rarely seems to matter with these things.

“They didn’t send me,” Sausage looks him up and down in that way that makes Grian have to physically stop himself from curling inwards. This is why he never talks to Them. “Nobody sends me anywhere, they don’t tell me what to do and I like it that way! I just do my own thing. Isn’t that what you’re doing?”

“No you’re not! You’re not- you can’t be! That’s not how this works!” Grian begins to notice that he’s no longer whisper-shouting and starting to just-normal-shout and takes a deep breath, trying not to draw the attention of his friends enjoying themselves on the floor below. And, realistically, in the other dark corners Sausage seems to have built into this place.

“That’s exactly how this works. You didn’t think you were the only person who’d left, did you?”

Grian opens his mouth, closes it, and thinks. In hindsight… yeah, he had kind of assumed he’d been the only person who’d left. Not for lack of trying, probably- but They’d tried for so long to get him back, kept him closely surveilled even when They’d accepted he was gone- surely some people had caved to that pressure eventually. When there was no sign They’d ever let up, ever let you go… he could understand eventually letting it overtake you.

“Did- did you leave, too?” Grian doesn’t remember the last time he saw Sausage’s face. He didn’t know him back then, of course. He probably would’ve connected the man with the person Pearl so often spoke about sooner. But he knows it’s been a long time, maybe even longer than the last time Grian had gone There. He doesn’t think Sausage had been There, that day. This might explain why.

“Eh, not quite?”

“What-“ Grian flails, both mentally and with his arms a bit. “What do you mean not quite?”

“Exactly what I said! I was never- it’s complicated, y’know?”

“Explain. Now.”

“Well, uh,” Sausage seems to flounder for the first time since this conversation started, which Grian is choosing to take as a victory. “Look, I wasn’t- they didn’t pick me. For this, or for anything, ever. Sometimes things just happen and you get yourself into a place you shouldn’t have and then… they can’t get rid of me, I can’t get rid of them, it is what it is.”

Grian stares at him for a long moment. Really stares at him, in the same way Sausage had looked him over earlier, in the same way that makes you feel like you’re under a microscope. Judging by the sudden nerves in his eyes, Grian can assume he feels it too. Grian remembers his face. That had been the first thing he’d noticed, when the Hermits had arrived. It had been a long time since they’d seen each other, but Grian knew his face. And now that Grian was studying him, really trying to remember… he’s not sure he quite likes what memories he’s dredging up.

“What are you?”

“Grian!” Sausage’s voice drips with mock offense as he puts his hand up to partially cover his mouth. “We only just met, do you think that’s polite?”

“Answer the question,” Grian sighs. How Pearl deals with this man on the regular, he doesn’t know.

“Well, if you insist.” Sausage sighs, somehow even more exaggerated than his previous movements. “It’s just… if you’ll believe it, it’s somehow even harder to answer the first question.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Grian says. “They’re two very different People, you know.”

“But they’re the same species, when it all comes down to it. Like, you might be very different than a chicken, but you’re both birds in the long run.”

Grian pauses, fanning his wings out a bit behind him as he considers. “I don’t think that metaphor’s quite landing the way you want it to.”

“No, me neither. Anyways, let me continue.

When they don’t pick you, things go a little differently! You don’t get sorted onto one side or the other since, well, you’re not really supposed to be there? So I’m… whatever I want to be, really. I think I’m feeling like more of a Listener, today, but we’ll see how the mood shifts.”

Grian flinches at the Name, on instinct. He doesn’t know how to feel about that, so he files it away to be dealt with at a later date. As for the rest of what Sausage said-

“What?”

“You heard me.” Sausage shrugs. He’s so nonchalant, Grian thinks he might strangle him, if not for the worry that that’s exactly what he wants out of this, somehow.

“Did I? Did I hear you?” Grian wants to pace, but that requires leaving the security of the corner, so he forces his feet to root themselves to the floor. “I thought- I thought you had to- if you wanted to change sides, I thought you had to-“

Grian closes one eye and takes his thumb to it, twisting the finger into his eyelid. The gesture seems to get the point across.

“Well, that’s the funny thing about this, actually.” From the way he’s been talking, Grian assumed Sausage thought this whole thing was funny. He restrains himself from saying that out loud if only so Sausage will finish his explanation.

Sausage reaches up to his left eye, pulls his eye lid back a bit, and unceremoniously pops out his prosthetic eye.

“All these processes and rituals actually have a lot of loopholes.”

Grian doesn’t know what face he’s making, but it’s enough to make Sausage giggle while he pops the eye back in. Because of course he does. Because this how his day is going, apparently. Walk through a weird portal in his basement and wake up in a world filled with his friends who don’t recognize him and also a guy he only ever saw There, who he was never supposed to see again. Sure. Of course he’s laughing about it. Grian thinks if he was a slightly different person, he’d be laughing too. It is, undeniably, absurd.

“Well, I think we’re done here then!” Grian would probably object if he weren’t so shocked about the loopholes. As it is, he just stands there a bit stupidly.

Sausage turns away to return to the party before turn around again for just a moment, reaching over, and ruffling Grian’s hair. That shocks him enough to shake him out of his stupor and swat Sausage’s hand away, though not before his hair is suitably messed up.

“What was that for?!”

Sausage smiles as he reaches up to rough up his own hair as well. “I assumed you didn’t want your friends asking questions about why you were dragging me into a dark corner, you know?” Sausage even goes far enough to pull his shirt a bit out of where it’s tucked into his pants, because of course he does. Grian tries not to cringe, but Sausage is right about this one thing. It is the easiest way to dodge any questions about where he’d gone off to- at the expense of the many knowing looks and teasing remarks he’ll be getting from the other Hermits instead.

“Have a good night, Grian!” Sausage calls over his shoulder as he turns to leave for real this time. “And remember, drinks are on me for all you guests tonight! You look like you need it.”

[jin-zixun]

Reasons Nie Mingjue tries to kill Jin Guangyao:

JGY saved his life (while being unable to do the same for others)

He didn't think working as a spy to win the war would actually include having to do bad things (unlike the killings NMJ performs which are always 100% justified because NMJ is 100% moral and has the right to make that call)

JGY won't kill himself

JGY won't perform extrajudicial murder of his shidi, favored by his father (which would also get him killed)

JGY won't die

JGY talked back to him and won't just completely agree with his assessment (that JGY should just die)

It's the only way for them to have peace (says the guy who suffers from extensive murderous rages and came back as a corpse to continue killing people against the guy who oversaw the biggest public safety project and expansion we know of and kept the peace for over a decade)

JGY tells their mutual friend/sworn brother that he's concerned about NMJ suffering from said extensive murderous rages

JGY bought nice things for NHS

Reasons Jin Guangyao tries to kill Nie Mingjue

Doesn't want to be killed by Nie Mingjue who keeps trying to kill him

[eyes-0f-etro]

today I messed around in vocaloid 2 (vocaloid 2 Miku dark is my FAVORITE) and made Miku sing rudimentary Japanese phrases I learned in school and it was tiny but I did it and I'm proud of myself. making music in any capacity is my biggest dream but I don't ever take steps towards that goal because I don't know where to start and I'm scared. but today showed me I can do it and it's more accessible than I thought!!!

[burinazar]

forgot to respond to this but: zozi by tagging me in an evocative hole post you reblogged from my mutual who posts a lot of evocative hole posts you risk creating a recursive Evocative Hole Post Ouroboros

Natalia Rybka - Jest więcej/There's more (oil on canvas), 2020

[justwinginglife]

The LADS Men React To You Saying You Can't Have S*X Because Of Mismatching Underwear

NSFW WARNING

Sylus

Sylus knows in an instant that you’re messing with him but he plays along, a sly smirk sitting pretty on his lips. “Oh NO- your underwear set doesn’t match? Whatever shall we do?” After clicking a few buttons on his phone, he stands to grab his car keys (one out of many).

“Wait! What are you doing, where are you going?” You ask, brows furrowing. The sudden change in the atmosphere has you feeling like, at any moment, you might get whiplash. One minute, he’s kissing up your neck, squeezing at your thighs, grinding his raging erection into your crotch, and the next, he’s throwing on his jacket, zipping his pants back up, and getting ready to leave. 

“You mean where are we going, kitten.” He speaks like it’s only obvious. 

Your eyes narrow in suspicion. “Why are we leaving? I thought you just wanted to have sex not two seconds ago.”

“Of course, dearest, but we can’t have sex if you’re feeling embarrassed, now can we? So I thought I’d just buy the nearest lingerie store and we could go pick out whatever you like.” 

You choke on your spit. “You did WHAT?”

“I said I bought the store. So let’s go.” His eyes are daring you to continue with your little charade.

“Well I…I kinda wanted to stay home tonight.” You say weakly. You know you’re making a pathetic case for yourself, but he’s really not allowing you the wiggle room to be more convincing.

“Then allow me to have all of their stock delivered to the house. Unless… you think that the mismatching underwear is no longer an issue?” 

Oh, this son of a bitch. “You… you really don’t have to do all of this just for me.” You say with an awkward laugh. He knows you’re all out of moves and you’re just pivoting at this point. He knows and he has the audacity to be amused. 

“Oh, but I did, kitten. I wouldn’t want to overlook this very important issue. What’s important to you is important to me.”

“It’s, uh, not actually that important…” You confess meekly. 

“Say that again, sweetie?” He cranes his head to hear you better but you know damn well he can hear you just fine.

You glare at him. “I said it’s fine.”

He chuckles, sweet satisfaction clear on his face. “So then. Does this mean we can pick up where we left off?”

Caleb

You’ve been teasing Caleb all day. 

Dancing into his field of view with that low neckline of yours, wearing a dress that’s so short, it’s a wonder it’s covering anything at all. Touching him here and there, your fingers grazing his skin with a feather-light touch, trailing up his biceps, or down his back, before flitting away like you’d never been there in the first place.

So, of course, after hours of edging him towards an excruciating erection, his self control still intact (though holding on by mere splintered pieces), you decide to reward his good behavior. You straddle him on the couch, and slowly begin to slide your hips back and forth, dragging your clothed cunt across the admittedly-impressive bulge in his pants.

He swears he’s seeing heaven, when you finally allow his aching cock some much needed friction. He’s not proud to say that a little dry humping is all it takes to get him coming into his pants, but he’s sure you’ll continue to show him such endless bliss as the night goes on that he won’t even remember how many times he’s come, let alone that the first time was in his underwear. His head dips forward, steadying itself on your shoulder as he allows the wave of euphoria to wash over him. 

But the second the wave has come and gone, his arousal is already flaring back up in his gut, ready for round two, round ten, round however much you want. All he can think about is how perfect it’ll be when he finally sinks himself inside you, your wet heat enveloping him until all he can feel is you. He doesn’t even think that maybe you’re more devious than he gave you credit for.

After he’s come, you retreat almost immediately, pulling yourself off of him.

He whines pathetically and he fumbles as he attempts to grab hold of you.

“Baby, we can’t tonight.” You say, innocent as ever.

He tries to keep the disappointment from his voice, tries to restrain his very evident need for you, but desperation is quickly rising within him. “Why not?” 

You try to keep the smirk from your lips. “It’s just…I’m not…”

“You’re not what, love? Not feeling well? Not in the mood?” He hopes you don’t notice how badly he just wants you to spit it out. 

“I’m not wearing matching undergarments tonight. So we can’t.” And there it is. The goal you’ve had all night. The little trick you couldn’t wait to play on him. You’re thrilled to see how he’ll react.

His eyes darken in an instant. “Oh, you little minx. You know what you’re doing to me, don’t you?” His tone has dropped to a low growl. 

“I haven’t the slightest idea.” You say, feigned ignorance dripping from your lips. 

He gives a short laugh. “Sure you don’t. Well, if your mismatching underwear is the only issue-” He begins to kiss down your neck harshly, not bothering to take care where he leaves his marks, “-I’ve got just the solution.” His fingers find your dress’s zipper with expert precision and before you can even process that he’s taken ahold of it, the dress is already laying in a pile on the ground. Along with your bra and panties. 

“There. All better. Now your underwear matches- they’re both on the damn floor.” 

Rafayel

You’re starting to think that you lie just a little too well.

You had only meant to tease Rafayel when you had told him that the reason you couldn’t have sex tonight was because you were embarrassed that your bra didn’t match your underwear, but you didn’t expect him to take you completely seriously. What was even more unexpected was that he would go on to give you an entire art lecture in the process.

“Take Picasso, for instance. Brilliant artist. One of a kind. You know him, of course you do, everybody knows him. His work is asymmetrical, and yet you don’t see anybody telling him that his work isn’t beautiful because it doesn’t match.”

“Raf-”

“And take my work. My work isn’t always symmetrical either, but would you tell me that I’m anything less than a true genius? No, because I am. See?”

“That’s besides the point-“

“The point, cutie, is that you’re gorgeous no matter what you’re wearing. It’s okay that you didn’t plan a matching outfit today. Some of nature’s most stunning scenes are spontaneous. You wouldn’t complain to the sunset that its pink doesn’t match its orange, would you?”

“No, but I-”

“Exactly. So it doesn’t matter to me if you’re wearing mismatching underwear; you could be wearing a trash bag and I’d still want you. Do you understand now, cutie?”

“Raf, baby, there’s nothing to understand, I was just jo-“

“Okay, if you don’t understand, let me put it in simpler terms for you. I’m hard for you regardless. That make sense now?”

When he puts it that bluntly, you really want to jump his bones. At this point, you figure you might as well. It’s useless to try and explain to him that you were only joking- not after he’s given you such a lengthy (though thoughtful) monologue. Though he’s a bit dense today, he’s still the same sweet Rafayel you fell in love with. So you think you’ll reward him for his kindness.

“You know what, baby? You made me feel so much better, thank you. I think, to show you just how much better I feel-” You strip yourself naked for him and his jaw drops, his eyes hungrily raking over your bare form, “-I’ll even let you come inside me tonight. What do you think?” You purr seductively.

You really didn’t have to try so hard to seduce him.

He’s already dropped his pants and begun stumbling towards you, rapidly hardening cock in hand.

Xavier

You’re in the middle of a very heated makeout session with Xavier when you decide to pick on him a little. You can tell where this is going, but you want to drag it out a little longer.

“Xav-” You whine breathlessly. “I think we should,” You return another one of his hungry kisses, “Probably stop for the night.” 

He pulls back to examine you. He can’t tell if you’re messing with him or if you’re genuinely not in the mood. Of course, if you want to stop, he’ll stop. He can just fuck his hand later; he’s not so selfish that he’d make you do something you don’t want to do. But just in case he did something wrong, he decides to ask. “Any particular reason you want to stop?”

“It’s just…” You bite your lip, hoping it makes you appear timid, when really you’re trying not to grin. “My bra and my underwear don’t match. I’m a little embarrassed to show you.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Oh, is that all? Feel free to change them then. I won’t look.” Before you can even respond that it’s a joke, he’s turned his back to you to give you your privacy.

You shake your head, smiling softly at his back. You didn’t expect him to be so sweet. You may as well strip naked while he’s allowing you the time; you had planned to have sex with him anyway. 

What the both of you don’t realize is that your bedroom’s full length mirror is angled just right so that he can still see you even when you’re behind him. He looks up only to get a perfect view of you undressing. When he realizes he’s seeing something he’s not supposed to, he starts to look away. But then he catches a glimpse of your mismatching underwear. Cherries decorate the soft material of your panties, while your bra is littered with little bows all the way around. Heat surges through his groin and he realizes that for some reason, this combination of mismatching underwear is doing something to him. 

You finish pulling your shirt off all the way and reach back to unhook your bra. “You know, I appreciate you being so understanding, my love, but I have to admit- I was completely kidding about not wanting to have sex just because my underwear didn’t match.” 

In an instant -you honestly don’t remember him even having the time to turn all the way around- he’s at your side, gripping your wrist tight and locking you in place. “That’s a relief. Now you don’t have to take off any more.”

You raise a curious brow at him. “What do you mean? Didn’t you want to have sex? I kinda have to take my underwear off for that.”

“No. You don’t.” His tone is low and thick with lust. “The undergarments stay on.” Before you know it, you’re pinned down to the bed.

You don’t know if it’s his teleportation ability or just his pure, unadulterated need, but he seems to be moving rather hastily today. You’ve barely even had time to blink before he’s slipping his cock under your bra, fucking your cleavage while it holds his cock in place. 

Something about you, the girl who always settles for function over fashion, wearing the cutsiest, girliest underwear he’s ever seen makes him harder than he’s ever been before and he’s not stopping until he’s staining this particular set in his cum. 

Zayne

“So we don’t strip naked then. That doesn’t mean I can’t still make you feel good.”

When you originally decided to play this joke on Zayne, telling him that you were feeling just a little too shy today to reveal to him your mismatching underwear, you thought he would see right through your little act. This is the man who has known you almost your entire life, after all.

But after you’d come so many times IN YOUR GODDAMN UNDERWEAR ALONE, all because he had insisted on tending to your needs even with your clothes on, after your clenching walls began to feel rather bruised, your clit increasingly more and more overstimulated with each passing second, as he fingered you through the (soaked) fabric of your clothes yet again, you were starting to regret this decision to mess with him. 

You tried to confess so many times, to tell him you’d been lying, to beg him for his cock instead, but it was almost like he knew what you were trying to say, because he’d kiss you so deeply until you were so dizzy from lack of breath that you forgot what you wanted to say, and then he’d dry hump you until you forgot how to even breathe in the first place. 

When you finally stutter out a pathetic, “P-please Z-Zayne…can’t t-take it anymore. Wanna f-fuck you,” Your hips thrusting desperately against the unsatisfying, thin air, he grins.

In that moment, you realize he’s known you’ve been lying all along. 

He leans over to you and you think he might kiss you. That, or scold you. But either result turns you on, so you hold your breath, waiting for him to respond.

He merely peers down your shirt before tugging your pants down slightly to confirm something. “So your underwear does, in fact, match. What an interesting development. Now then…how should I punish you for such dishonest behavior?”

Taglist: @pixelcafe-network @tbaluver @minasfwoopyponytail @ouiouimochi

[rexhya]

yandere!prince who's 3 months way from becoming king, the citizens and palace have already begun preparing for his coronation.

yandere!prince whos more terrifying than his father, nobles bow before him like GOD, his dark violet eyes gleaming with power.

yandere!prince who's favorite word is obedience, so it's no surprise when you're accepted as his personal maid he revels in your compliance.

"[Name], stand. Now." You're in his chambers holding a bowl of grapes. (he insists you feed him)

you stand.

"spin." you spin.

"lift up your skirt." you blush, giving him an almost disgraced face. as his personal maid, you were treated better but he'd never been perverted. you should have known better.

you move to set the bowl of grapes down anyways, you'd rather be humiliated for a moment then disobey and be forced to the torture many servants were subjected to. it wouldn't be so bad anyways, you had a petticoat under and would only lift the first layer.

the prince moved before you could, a pleasant smile taking up his brown cheeks, "God you really are perfect. I was joking, m'lady." he layed back down on his red velvet couch, motioning with his hands for you to continue feeding him.

now you were even more confused, the prince nicknamed "iron of evil" was making a joke? (and what was m'lady about, you were quite literally a commoner) you set the ruffles back down and continue pricking the grapes from the vine and into his mouth, this was probably your least favorite task he requested you do.

not because it was hard but because the prince was completely different from how he presented himself to the public.

moaning and whimpering exaggeratedly as you fed him the fruit, the worst is when he licks at your fingers, even taking one into his mouth, pearly whiteness flicking around the digit.

he always seemed to be smiling around you, it was worse knowing how horrible he could be to others.

like that time a noble staying temporarily was caught trying to poison him, usually their sentence to death would be immediate no questions asked but this prince loved to play games.

it was in the throne room, two gaurds stood by the captive and the prince stood in front of him ( you standing silently by his side praying they wouldn't behead him in front of you ) .

and after staring at the man for almost ten minutes without saying a word, he turned to you.

"pick a number between 1 and 1,000"

you jumped, eyes flickering between the man and the prince, "don't look at him, look at me. number quickly." he graps your jaw within seconds. you gasp, there was no arguing with the prince.

you stared directly into his eyes, sputtering out a number, "o-one"

"hmm." his grip doesn't falter, instead he turns your face side to side peering at all your features. "would you look at this, you actually have a desireable face."

you didn't know wether to take it as a compliment or an insult.

he finally lets go, "okay, have him drawn in quarterd. i want him out of my sight."

you gulped, guilt shredding at your heart as the man screamed. now you felt responsible for his punishment, though you suspect he would have done anything he liked anyways.

as usual.

the prince kisses your palm bringing you back to the present, he's been like this lately too. becoming affectionate in private spaces ( and in public spaces ), insisting you dote on him, care for him and play good girl all while you face the consequences ( many people think you're secretly sleeping with him, though hes met his suitor many times )

"what are you thinking of, tell me your thoughts love."

you gulped, "well honestly my prince i was thinking this is highly inappropriate and that your should stop so that the both of us will avoid trouble, and also—"

the prince stops kissing you, darkened eyes glaring at you viciously. "[Name]" he said suddenly.

you gulp, regretting your decision to speak up immediately.

"you're perfect, okay? i need you to continue being perfect so that everyone here stays happy alright?" you nod. "and i told you to stop calling me that."

"i-i apologize my-sorry um, Anul."

Anul grins and shifts his body to sit upwards, "good, now come here." he motions to his lap and you sigh, as of the past few weeks this was common as well. he pats his thigh impatiently and you smooth down your skirt to move towards him. his arms are around you before you can even make it on him, his nose grazing your neck, "mm, perfect, all mine, so perfect."

you sigh again and fold your hands over your lap, you wouldn't deny this prince was comfortable to sit on but it was not only highly unprofessional but horribly nerve racking.

you were just glad nobody was in here to see it.

and just then a knock came from the door. you scramble to move but Anul hold on fast, "come in." his voice was like murky water compared to how he was speaking to you before.

another servant maid opens the door, looking at your turned down face for a moment before adressing her reason for being here. "uhm, [Name] has been requested in the chambers by Ms. Jalei just for a quick meeting." Ms. Jalei was the head of all thr maids in the palace.

Anul looks bored at her. "She's busy." and quickly turns back to you, but the maid hasnt left yet.

she clears her throat again, "it's umh, it's urgent." she say looking at you and the man, his arms tighten around your waist. "[Name]? what should i do? seems likes there another pest trying to disturb our peace. number, 1-1,000" the maid freezes up, even she knew was this meant.

your eyes went wide as you looked at him, god not this again. "I-I don't want her to get hurt."

"Oh how sweet. Don't worry she won't feel a thing." Anul smiles devilishly. The maid looks ready to cry.

You turned between them, you hears what happened with the other guy, you didn't know who this was but you certianly didn't want her to get hurt, not because she f you anyways.

"w-what can i do? to fix it, i don't think she deserves such a punishment. it's me there asking for anyways, so what should i do?" you pleaded.

that caught his attention, "What you can do...?" He thought for a moment, "You. Get out."

The door was such in seconds.

"ya' know ever since i've met you [Name] i've just been so much better, i'd really love it if you gave me a kiss. I think i deserve it dont you?"

you gulped, you saw something like this coming, you were prepared. you gave a small okay and Anul shifted so you were sitting on his crotch rather than his lap. "okay here i go." and placed the tiniest contact on his lips he almost missed it.

he blinked, "what was that."

"well, i just kisses you my prince. as you requested."

"that wasn't a kiss."

"well—" you don't get a chance to answer as he cups your mouth with his, your tounge sliding on the roof of his mouth, by the time he's finished you can barely breath. his hands had someway crawled themselves onto your side and he found himself craving you, needing you carnally and more than ever. he lets go.

"that was a kiss, and don't make me teach you again."

[keypostos]

caleb is 10 when he realizes that he's a physical touch fiend. the rush he gets when his hand lingers on top of your skin after playing with you is like no other. when he presses into your side while you're reading, his thoughts always circle around one topic: you, you, you. when you would run into his room after a nightmare, caleb was ready to swoop you in his arms and hold you until you fell asleep. every response towards you was involuntary.

caleb is 15 when he realizes that teasing 13-year-old you becomes irresistible. when he holds up your book, pencil, or some other item in the air, he watches as you jump up and down to try and grab it back. he's grown a lot in three years; if he had to estimate, he's a whole head taller than you now—20cm at least.

when you throw yourself onto him in an attempt to get your stuff back, he falters. you're laying against him on the couch, shuffling and moving up and down over his body, and caleb's breath hitches. you're so close and right there.

he's going insane. you can't even stand up for five seconds before caleb pulls you down against him once more, saying something about retaliation or revenge while tickling you to death.

caleb is 20 when he's about to leave for the DAA. there's an air of silence around the house. you've trapped yourself in your room more often, stressing over your senior finals. at least, that's what you've been telling him.

"i'm sorry caleb, i really need to study for this test."

"oh! i totally forgot about that project i had due tonight. shit, i'm sorry caleb. we'll have another movie night soon, okay?"

he doesn't know if you're actually this busy or if you're actually ignoring him. all he does know is that he misses you. he wonders about how he could miss someone who was in the room across from him. you were so close, but so far.

when you found out he was leaving—though you had a grin on your face while congratulating him—caleb knew you were devastated. he wondered if you were secretly mad at him for leaving.

two weeks before his departure, he practically forces you to be around him. he laid down next to you like before. he stroked your hair while you napped on the couch. he teased you and picked you up so you could hit him and grab him like you used to. he always chose to put his arm around you during a movie. he dragged you by the hand all around the neighborhood. he needed to all of that again, a thousand times more.

but at 24, it seems like there may have been a wedge between the two of you. calls are more and more infrequent.

"sorry, space signal sucks," he'd type.

"sorry, i was busy with training!" you'd reply, 2 days later.

he thinks that he would do anything to go back to before. he hasn't felt you in months. he sees you only twice a year.

it's hard. it was excruciating during the first few weeks. not only was he dealing with bootcamp, but he always found himself looking to his side, thinking you'd be there with him. at night, you were there, right next to him in bed.

he imagined that you would whisper words of reassurance in his ear. you'd hold onto him like you used to, when you had nightmares, and wrap your legs between his. there were days where we stroked his necklace, wishing that it was your hand instead. what he would give to have you next to him.

all he wants is to be able to feel you again. he chastises his 10-year-old self for taking you for granted back then. he wants to feel the apples of your cheeks when he caresses your face. once,—when he was 13 (you, 11)—he did that, and he thought you had a fever the way you warmed up. if he could, caleb would build a time machine to go back to that.

caleb is 25 when he is out of your life.

he thinks about you every day. it reminds him of when he was in bootcamp five years ago. it takes him back to when he was fifteen; you were on top of him, and his brain was fried to a crisp. caleb wonders if he's always been this way, because he can recall that at ten, you were still the only thing consuming his mind.

even during his arm repairs, you're there throughout all the pain.

when you discover his metal arm, all of caleb's instincts point to the door. he's spent so long trying to hide it from you: it's the constant long-sleeves (even though they made him incredibly uncomfortable), or making sure to only touch you with his left-hand (even though he wanted to pull you in with both hands).

but he stays. because it's you.

you freeze momentarily, listening to his writhes and moans of pain. caleb only notices you're there when he feels your hands brush his shoulder. he jolts back in surprise, and he sees you looming over him.

he stammers something, not even sure of what he said because you're here. you see him. you see it.

caleb's wanted this for so long. he wanted to see you again, in a state where you were both vulnerable, like old times. however, that moment probably wouldn't have come if he doesn't confess about this, so he relays the details.

you listen attentively, eyes wide with shock as caleb goes on. your hands wrap around his metal one, and he feels nothing. it's agonizing. he sees you examine him so gently. your fingers trace over bolts and plates of metal, lightly stroking up and down his arm. and caleb feels nothing.

how often has he dreamed of this? for you to be touching him again, so intimately and softly? he's stayed up countless nights wishing for you to be here, just so he can put his arms around you in a crushing embrace, only to be incapable of feeling you on one side of his body.

you pull away from his arm, asking if the fleet was accountable. when he doesn't say anything, he feels your weight lift off the bed and go towards the door.

whatever happens next is involuntary. he uses his flesh arm to pull you back, caging you between his forearm and his chest. there's no thought to it, no rationalization. it's just you and him. and he's been deprived of this for so long.

he breathes into the crevice of your neck, and he has half a mind to place his entire face there. he wants to breathe you in after being away from you for so long. no conversations, no contact, no touching. the last time he was this close to you was years ago. he needs this, caleb thinks.

the feel of you against his bare chest is something he cannot seem to describe. it's like he's his teenage (or even kid) self again, where he seems to short-circuit whenever he comes in contact with you. you're still small compared to him, but you fit perfectly like you did a decade ago.

he lets you go after he feels you trembling. you don't hesitate to place your hands on his waist and tackle him onto the bed. you catch him off-guard as you pin him beneath you, looking straight into his eyes.

"hold me," you plead, "with your right hand."

caleb lets out a shaky breath. there are voltages of electricity flowing through him—literally and figuratively. his skin sparks alive when he feels you. will it be the same with the metal arm?

slowly, caleb raises his mechanical arm. he wraps it around you, and feels the movement of your back shift downwards. you released a breath you didn't know you were holding. caleb held his.

you wait patiently before caleb starts running his metal hand up and down your back. you watch him exhale as he continues. you press your forehead on his, and you breathe in tandem with him.

caleb is 25 when he discovers that he loves physical touch.

wow like i didn't expect this to get so long... but like here we are???

i think we need to start embracing touch-starved caleb in all of our fics. this man hasn't seen the love of his life in YEARS (infrequently, anyway) so i think once she touches him (like INTIMATELY) for the first time in years he goes a little cray.

also sorry the ending was rushed i wanted to get this over with bc i intented this to be like 500 words but obviously it got way longer than that. what can i say... this freak has dug into my brain.

[pagesfromthevoid]

So High School | r. r.

Robert "Bob" Reybnolds x Thunderbolts!reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: Mentions of sex. Walker being an asshole. Heavy making out and hickeys. General discussion of Bob's mental health

Author's Note: The horny thoughts got turned into feelings because of therapy but alas

Bob Masterlist | Talk to Me! | Coffee?

It started as a joke.

Sort of.

None of it was technically a lie after the initial lie. 

It was more of a “get off my back” kind of situation but then it became a “let’s fuck with Walker” kind of deal because he wouldn’t drop it. And his reaction was…hilarious, honestly. Especially because Yelena and Ava immediately played along, no questions asked.

“How did you not notice?” Yelena asked, giving Walker a look that suggested he was an idiot. “The moment she saw him in the vault, she had heart eyes for him.”

“It was not the moment I saw him,” she argued back, pointing at the blonde. “It was like…ten minutes later, when he called Walker an asshole and laughed. Then it was definitely a ‘oh, okay. Hear me out,’ kind of moment.”

“Okay, fair,” Ava conceded, nodding. “Though, I think it stopped being a ‘hear me out’ bit pretty soon after.”

“Oh, immediately after,” she agreed, crossing her arms over her chest. “You know when it was?”

“I swear to God,” Yelena groaned, knowing absolutely what she was about to say. “It was when he was shot, wasn’t it?”

“Oh my god,” she practically moaned, covering her face with her hands. “Listen. I felt so bad. You don’t get it. This poor boy has been shot and he’s not dying and I’m sure he was scared as hell. But did you see him? Those abs? That look he gave those agents? Fuck me, dude. It’s not a ‘hear me out.’ It’s a ‘hold me back.’”

Walker, at that point, was flabbergasted. Yelena and Ava being privy to the whole thing was enough for him to believe it, but he was so confused. Her? And Bob? Of all people? Of all of them on the team?

Bob??

“Then why aren’t you with him now?” He asked, like he thought he could catch her in a lie.

“He’s asleep?” She pointed out, giving him a ‘duh’ kind of look. “He doesn’t sleep a lot. You think I’m going to go wake him up just because I’m horny?”

She paused. Considered what would happen if John were to go ask Bob himself about their “relationship.” Then she decided that she should probably loop Bob in on it –or at least make sure he was okay with fucking with Walker.

“Actually, you know what. That’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

And that’s how she ends up in Bob’s room, sitting criss-crossed on the end of his bed, and him sitting mirror opposite of her, confused. 

“So you…told Walker that we’re dating…as a joke?” He asks, and she can’t tell if he’s upset by the whole thing.

“Yes. And I would super appreciate it if you played along because for some reason, he’s really confused by it and I really, truly find it funny. But it’s also totally okay if you don’t want to go along with it, and we can shut it down right now. I really –it’s not something you need to go along with at all.”

“I don’t…I don’t really understand, but I like the idea of messing with Walker so I guess I’m in,” he decides, grinning that boyish grin of his. The room relaxes significantly as she lets out a relieved breath. “So uh, what…what do we need to do to make it believable?”

She did not think this far ahead, honestly. She’s kind of surprised he agreed to play along, honestly. “I mean…I don’t know. He is under the impression I came in here to wake you up for, uh,” she pauses, feeling herself flush as she considers how to phrase it. “I told him I was going to wake you up because I was horny, so there’s that.”

Bob sits there for a second, and she briefly wonders if he’s okay. He kind of looks like he’s short circuiting; eyes blank for a moment as he stares at her. Then he drops one of his legs to the floor, sitting half on the bed. “I could give you a hickey.”

She sputters, completely thrown off by the suggestion. She opens her mouth once, then shuts it. Then opens it again and manages to say, “You –what?”

“I mean, I’ve never given one before. But that would be believable, right?”

She’s sort of stuck on the fact that he’s never given a hickey before and now she really wants to get one and give one. How high school –hickeys. Her mom always said they were gross but the idea of Bob putting his mouth anywhere on her is…enticing as hell. 

So she nods. That’s all she does, because she truly has no idea what she’s gotten herself into.

Bob’s going to give her a hickey, and she’s kind of…very excited about that.

“Okay, yeah. That’s…that’s definitely a good start,” she finally says, confirming the first step in a very stupid plan. 

But he doesn’t move, and she doesn’t either. Because suddenly this is not actually a joke to either of them it feels like. On the contrary, Bob looks like he’s about to have a panic attack.

“Actually, I just…Why was I…I just –I’m curious –,” he starts, stuttering his way through what he’s trying to say. He’s leaning forward some, and she can see the workings of his mind in his eyes. The tug of his brows as he’s thinking about something that’s going to cause him heartache of some kind. And she knows what it is. She just…she knows.

“I swear, I did it because he wouldn’t leave me alone about who I would date on the team. He really wanted me to say him, and I really would rather give myself a lobotomy than even consider dating him.”

“But that…I mean, that doesn’t explain…,” he points to himself, sort of tugging at his sweater. “Why was I the first person that came to mind?” He asks, shifting uncomfortably. She worries now that she’s hurt him with this whole thing.

“Well I –,” she pauses, and considers what she’s about to say. 

She could tell him the truth –after all, everything that followed the “Dude, I’m dating Bob. Where have you been?” comment was…well, it was true. She had absolutely thought he was cute in the vault. And she absolutely gawked when he was shot –not only because he was shot and alive and also flying but because of the abs and how he looked in that moment –confused, but confident. Alarmed, but ready to fight. But that is wholly embarrassing for her. The longer she sits there and considers it, however, the more he probably thinks she’s an asshole. 

So she confesses, and her face is burning because she really didn’t think she would be confessing any sort of crush on Bob tonight. “Because…It made sense,” she tries to explain. But that sounds stupid so she backtracks some. “Listen…It makes sense because I would totally date you. In a heartbeat. If you were…in a place to do that. But I don’t expect you to feel the same or even want to do that.”

He looks even more confused now. But his cheeks are blooming with blush, and it’s spreading down his neck and just below his collar. And she’s now distracted, thinking that if she could see his chest, the blush would be spreading there too. And now she’s thinking about him shirtless, which is absolutely not the thing to do.

“Oh,” he says. Though that’s all he says as he shifts in the bed, moving to plant his feet on the floor. His hands are gripping the side of the mattress tight enough that his knuckles are turning white.

“I’m sorry, Bob,” she says, looking down at her hands. Trying to will her own blush away because now she’s humiliated and she’s an asshole. “I really wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable –I’ll go tell Walker I was lying. Seriously, it’s not –,”

“Why don’t we actually date then?” He interrupts, looking up at her.

“I don’t want you to feel obligated just because I told you I would,” she quickly counters, snapping her attention to him. “Just because I like you doesn’t mean I’ll stop being your friend if you don’t want to date me. God forbid, that would be horrible of me.”

“I don’t feel obligated,” he argues, taking a beat to calm himself down. His hands relax and the color returns to his knuckles. “I know I’m not…the best,” he says, and she’s about to argue but he continues before she can. “But I…I do really like you. And I’d…I’d like to try to take you out on a date. Probably have to take things slow or something, but if that’s okay with you…”

“‘Or something’ being giving me a hickey to freak out Walker?” She jokes, trying to ease the tension in the room.

He laughs. Actually laughs; not one of his uncomfortable ones. But a real laugh that’s soft and sweet and she can’t help but laugh as well when he nods. “Yeah, yeah…we can fast forward a little to that part, if you want.”

“Do you want to do that?”

He hesitates, and she’s about to tell him it's totally okay if he doesn’t want to. But he nods finally. “Yeah. Yeah, I do, actually. But uh,” he stops, and there’s this look on his face that suggests that he’s really considering his next question. At this point, he could ask her just about anything and she’d probably say yes, though. “Can we…maybe not fast forward through the making out part before the hickey?”

“Oh my god, you’re going to be the death of me,” she laughs, moving across the bed on her hands and knees towards him.

“I hope not,” he says, and he sounds genuinely concerned as she sits beside him.

She reaches up and brushes a lock of hair out of his face. “Metaphorically speaking,” she reassures. 

She doesn’t know what to do next, honestly. Not because she doesn’t have any experience, but because she feels nervous for the first time in years over a guy. Which is ridiculous, but at the same time…it’s a good feeling to have.

“Can I…can I kiss you, now?” He asks, but his voice is soft. Trembling. Like he’s afraid she’s going to suddenly change her mind and leave him there, embarrassed. 

“I’d really like that, yeah.”

He’s still timid –a little awkward, a little shaky –but he leans in closer, and she meets him in the middle. Their noses brush just slightly before the space between them is closed. It’s slow at first; testing the waters to make sure they both know what they’re doing. Truly, as high school as they could get without actually being in high school. But she presses forward slightly, resting one hand on his knee and the other hand on his chest. He mimics the motion, sort of, and one of his hands cups the back of neck, his fingers tangling in her hair. His other covers the hand resting on his knee, interlocking their fingers.

It’s her who pulls them backwards onto the bed, their legs still dangling off the side. Their entwined hands are up by her head now and the hand on his chest is grasping at the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer as she swipes her tongue across his bottom lip. Bob is half laying on her, the hand in her hair untangling itself to gently run down her ribcage through her shirt. She hums in response, and he tenses some but doesn’t stop. Instead, he pulls away from her mouth, and she sighs as his lips press against her jaw. 

The movement is just as awkward at first, but he finds a rhythm as he presses a kiss just below her ear then trails them down her throat. His stubble –barely there, but there enough to tickle –brushes her skin and she sighs in content as she loosens the grip on his shirt and tangles her fingers in his hair. Guiding him, carefully, kindly, to the spot on her throat that she wants to feel him mark. The pulse point that drums her heartbeat for this very moment. 

He hesitates again, and this time she’s pretty sure it’s because he actually doesn’t know how to give a hickey. So she forces herself to let go of his hair and taps just below his jaw to get his attention. When he pulls away, his cheeks are bright red and flushed, but he’s got a soft smile on his face. 

“Let me show you,” she offers, and he nods, letting her take the lead if only for a lesson. 

She pushes him onto his back and takes the same position he had been over her. One hand on his rib cage, deftly moving to run her fingers over his abs as she presses a soft kiss to his lips one more time. He tries to pull her back, but she nudges his cheek with her nose, pressing a light kiss there before trailing down his jaw and below his ear –mimicking the movements he had gotten correct. Then, she grazes just at his pulse –presses her tongue against his heartbeat, which spikes the moment her teeth touch his skin –not a bite. Just a little graze. Then she sucks and the sound that comes from his lips is soft but an obvious moan. 

When she pulls away, she admires the handiwork with a soft grin and a quick kiss to his jaw one more time. Then she’s looking down at him, hovering just high enough to see the glossy eyed smile on his face. She misses it, but his eyes shift some –gold flickering through as he returns to the original position and repeats the motions one more time. His mouth on hers in a soft but firm kiss. Then quick, soft kisses along her jaw and down her throat –on the opposite side now of where she left his. He follows her steps to the tee, like a lesson he wants to have perfected, and grazes his teeth along her pulse. When it quickens under his tongue, he hums in excitement, unable to help himself as he marks her as his.

He gets a little carried away, enjoying how she squirms under him as he presses kisses and soft bites to her neck. One hickey isn’t enough, and he leaves several before she’s littered in little bruises all over her throat. He’s about to push it a bit further, confident in his movements for the first in…ever, really, when the glass on his table suddenly explodes.

They yank apart, and she’s got a hand over her heart like she’s panicked. He’s staring at the puddle of water and glass that’s littering his nightstand, his eyes wide. She sees it before he does it –sees him pull away, shrink back behind the wall he’s put up to protect himself and anyone he thinks is in danger because of him. Behind the wall he thinks protects her from him.

“Bob,” she whispers, reaching up to try to get him to look at her, but he fights her, refusing to take his eyes from the splinters of glass. “Hey, it’s okay –we got a little carried away. It happens.”

He shakes his head though, and reaches up to wipe his eyes. It’s then that she realizes he’s started crying, and her heart breaks. She pulls her hands away and shifts, sitting up on her knees and wraps her arms around him from behind. Holds him close, and presses her cheek into his hair as she does so. His hands clutch at her arms, holding onto her like she’s the only thing tethering him to this world and the shadows. 

“It’s okay,” she promises. And she does mean that. It is okay. It will be, at least. “It’s okay –think of it this way –you broke a glass instead of a person, and that means you know how to direct it towards non-living things.” She’s not sure that’s actually reassuring, but she thinks it is, personally. There are worse things to have broken over a glass of water. 

“It could have been you,” he argues, voice shaking as he tries to calm down the tears. 

“But it wasn’t,” she reminds him, pulling him closer against her. “It wasn’t, and we don’t focus on the ‘what if’s’ because it’ll just make things worse. You didn’t hurt me. You didn’t hurt yourself. I would say that that’s a key marker of progress.”

He turns some, finally looking up at her with watery eyes. She pulls the sleeve of her shirt down and wipes the tears from his cheeks, smiling at him softly. Slowly, he wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her close, resting his cheek against her chest. She hugs him back just as tight, pressing a kiss into his hair. 

They sit there for a little while like this. Holding onto each other for dear life; grounding each other in the space they were sharing for the moment. Then Bob sniffles and pulls away, running his hands over his face. 

“It’s okay,” he repeats, though she’s certain he’s reassuring himself and not her. “I’m sorry I ruined –,”

“You didn’t ruin shit,” she interrupts, pointing at him in a scolding sort of way. But she’s smirking lightly. “You gave me a hickey. Everything else was just…a bonus.”

“I think I gave you more than one,” he points out, then gently pokes each mark on her throat and counts them. “Seven.”

“I suppose I owe you six more, some time then.”

*****

“Wait,” Walker says, slamming his hands on the table. Bob flinches, and she touches his leg gently under the table. “I just…I truly cannot believe this.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” she says, and Bob takes her hand in his. His attention is focused on the paper in front of him and the spirals he’s drawing. “I told you we were dating.”

Ava and Yelena are both still playing along, though they’re equally as confused. Not by the fact that she and Bob are a thing –but by the fact that they hadn’t actually picked up on it themselves. 

“I just –listen. I gotta know,” Walker starts and she’s so certain he’s about to say something stupid. “Isn’t…it’s gotta be weird just saying ‘Bob’ over and over when you’re bed. Like, c’mon. Do you say ‘Robert’? Or ‘Bobby’? Or is it just…literally ‘Bob’? Because honestly, that’s…weird to consider.”

She’s about to argue that it’s weird he’s even thinking about them having sex (which, not that it’s any of his business, but they hadn’t). But Bob speaks up first. 

“Her mouth is a little too preoccupied to say anything,” he says, though he’s definitely saying that more to himself than to anyone else. 

She chokes, covering her mouth. Everyone else is just…staring at him. He realizes a second too late that he said the inside thought outside. Then he flushes and tries to backtrack.

“I’m sorry, that’s not –I mean –,”

“Bob, you dog!” Alexei cackles, putting a hand on Bob’s shoulder and shaking it some. “Good for you!”

---

Bob Taglist: @ilovemarvel12 @withahappyrefrain (I'm tagging you specifically because you asked me to share with the class and ily)

[ms-demeanor]

Sometimes college professors like to hop on my posts lamenting the sorry state of syllabi these days and joke about how they haven't thought that far ahead in the course themselves, or talk about how they struggle to complete a schedule for their students.

With all due respect, that's your job. If you can't do your job, you should have a different job. If you need help, ask your colleagues or your department chair or *someone* because I know that professors aren't given a hell of a lot of education on how to educate, so you probably *need* help.

But every single time I make one of those posts I get anywhere from ten to thirty messages, replies, reblogs, and asks say "oh man, that's exactly why I had to drop out of school; I couldn't keep up with the assignments because I didn't know when they were due until the week they were due."

I have been a college student in three separate decades, and "not having a schedule of assignments in the syllabus" is new to my experience. That shit didn't fly in the 2000s or 2010s and I think it likely has to do with professors being overly reliant on apps.

AT A MINIMUM your syllabus should have:

Contact information (including preferred method of contact) for the professor

Office Hours

Grading Policy

Assignment schedule.

Your assignment schedule doesn't necessarily need to have the exact page numbers of every reading or a full assignment sheet for each project, but it should have things like:

December 1st - Major Project 3 second draft due December 9th - Quiz 10 December 12th - Major Project 3 final draft due December 15th - Final Exam

If you end up presenting a more thorough schedule with readings and homework later, that is acceptable to present a week or two into the semester but it is absolutely insane to me that students these days don't know what homework they're going to have to get done over Thanksgiving break during the first couple weeks of class.

If I had three professors at once who didn't give me a schedule, how on earth would I know if I was going to have to read three chapters of a novel, take a midterm and turn in two stats homework assignments, and complete a history research paper the same week that I'm planning to travel to see family? If I'm aware of this from the beginning of the semester I can make sure not to pick up extra shifts, or I can plan to leave a day later to accommodate the midterm, or I can start working on the paper early to complete it before the due date but if I don't know what's going to be due when, I'm going to have a big problem.

If you don't give your students a schedule you are communicating that you don't care about their schedule, and that you think it's their responsibility to contort their life (and their job, and their other classes) around your class, and honestly my advice to students in that situation is "drop in the first week and pick up another class". That's actually part of why I recommend signing up for one more class than you can really manage - if you get a professor whose class looks like it's going to be a disaster because they don't have a schedule, you can bail before the withdrawal period and get a refund for the class.

I'm only in one class this semester but the professor's response has fully dropped me into "Fuck it, I guess I'll fail" mode and I don't even know if I can pull myself out of my current D grade because I don't know how many assignments we have left in the semester.

This is a shitty way to run a class. If you can't do better than this, you shouldn't be running a class.