#i need to keep practicing and get better at it

[ilovolderman]

The Match

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: While secretly dating You, Bucky gets roped into a dating app by Sam

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, light jealousy

A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What" (this is already part 5, so yes, im calling it a series.) It doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4. thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

The kitchen was warm and quiet, filled with the soft morning light pouring in through the big windows. You were curled up on the counter in one of Bucky’s henleys — technically yours now, since you’d claimed it after “accidentally” falling asleep in it two months ago. He hadn’t asked for it back.

Bucky stood between your legs, his hands resting gently on your thighs as he stole tiny sips from your coffee cup every time you lowered it.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you mumbled, narrowing your eyes at him as he swiped it again.

He smirked, brushing a thumb over your knee. “Can’t help it. Yours always tastes better.”

You rolled your eyes but leaned forward anyway, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. He caught you halfway and turned it into a real kiss — slow, unhurried, the kind that made time feel irrelevant.

You sighed against his lips. “If you keep kissing me like that, we’re never gonna eat.”

“We can skip breakfast,” he murmured, voice low, teasing.

“And deal with Sam’s ‘someone didn’t have their Wheaties’ speech again? No thanks.”

Bucky groaned and stepped back, reluctantly, while you hopped off the counter. You started prepping your coffee again, and he leaned close to watch.

“One scoop…” he counted aloud.

You snuck a glance at him and grinned. “Three.”

“Three?” he fake-gasped. “You planning to vibrate through walls?”

“Says the guy who had four yesterday.”

“Three and a half,” he corrected, deadpan.

You snorted. “Uh-huh. Keep lying to yourself, grandpa.”

He gave you a playful glare but said nothing, instead leaning over to steal one of your toast slices like a thief in the night.

And then — of course — the kitchen door swung open.

“Okay, what the hell is this domestic energy?” Sam’s voice boomed as he walked in. “Am I interrupting a rom-com or—?”

You and Bucky practically jumped apart like teenagers caught red-handed. You reached for the peanut butter like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

“Morning,” you both said, far too casually, far too in sync.

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Weird. Anyway…”

He turned to Bucky, eyes narrowing as he opened the fridge. “You look grumpier than usual.”

“I always look like this.”

“That’s what worries me,” Sam said, pulling out the orange juice. “You need a little somethin’ in your life. A spark. Some romance.”

You snorted into your coffee. “Wow, subtle.”

Sam shot you a grin. “I’m serious, Bucky. You look miserable and I’m sick of it. Your need to get out there. Meet people. Real people. People who don’t, y’know, punch aliens for a living.”

“I’m not miserable,” Bucky muttered, taking a very aggressive bite of toast.

Sam ignored him. “You need someone to, like, hold your hand and remind you that the world isn’t complete garbage.”

“Y/N does that,” Bucky said before realizing. His eyes flicked to you. Yours widened slightly.

“Uh— I mean…” he coughed. “You could. You’re good at pep talks.”

Smooth. Real smooth.

But Sam was too busy with his phone to notice the weird energy. “Anyway, I’m gonna download Spark for you.”

“Oh no,” you whispered.

“Oh yes.” Sam grinned, typing furiously. “It’s like Tinder but for people who still believe in feelings.”

“Delete it,” Bucky said immediately.

“Too late. Already making your profile. Okay — full name?”

“Absolutely not.”

Sam looked up. “Fine, we’ll just put ‘Bucky B.’ You sound like a retired DJ. Age... one-oh-six... but we’ll round down to thirty-five. Close enough.”

You had to cover your mouth with your hand to stop from laughing. Bucky looked like he was actually malfunctioning.

“Give me your phone. I'm deleting it.”

“Nope.” Sam sidestepped him and kept typing. “Bio time. What do you want it to say? ‘Strong, silent, may or may not have trauma, will kill spiders for you’?”

“Sam.”

“Oh! And profile picture.” Sam’s grin went feral. “I’m gonna use the one from Clint’s barbecue.”

Bucky froze. “No. Not the one where—”

“Yup,” Sam said, turning the phone around dramatically. “The one where you’re smiling. A real smile. The people gotta see the goods, man.”

You wheezed. “That’s actually a really good picture.”

“It is,” Sam agreed, tapping to save the profile. “Now we wait. Trust me, you're gonna get matches faster than Tony blows money.”

Bucky looked physically pained.

And then… the phone buzzed.

“Oh snap — you already got a match! Girl named Olivia.” Sam said, scrolling like a man on a mission. “Look at this—she hikes, she volunteers at animal shelters. Honestly, Buck, she’s like a Hallmark movie in human form. You should totally message her.”

You blinked.

Something inside you twisted — that unwelcome, unmistakable burn of jealousy curling in your chest.

Bucky looked… surprised. And then cautious. “That was fast.”

“She’s cute,” Sam said, scrolling. “She said you have nice eyes. You should message her. Or better yet, go on a date. What’s the worst that could happen?”

You forced a laugh. “Yeah, Buck. You should totally go.”

Bucky turned toward you slowly. His smile had faded into something softer. Thoughtful. He tilted his head, studying your face like it was a puzzle he was halfway through solving.

“…Maybe,” he said carefully, like he was testing the word.

You smiled a little too tightly. “Good for you.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, like he could see right through you.

You lasted approximately six hours before cracking. Not that you were counting.

You’d spent the day trying not to think about Olivia. Or her "kind eyes". Or the fact that Bucky had apparently matched with her in under a minute. Not that it mattered, obviously. You were cool. Chill. Entirely unaffected.

…Until Bucky found you in the hallway on your way back to your room, grabbed your hand, and wordlessly tugged you into his.

He shut the door behind you, arms crossed. He didn't look mad. Just… knowing.

You tried to play it cool. “If this is about the last cookie, I swear I thought it was mine.”

“It’s not about the cookie.”

You looked up at him, heart thudding. “Then what?”

Bucky’s eyes didn’t waver. “You told me to go. Like it didn’t bother you.”

You scoffed lightly, trying to brush it off. “I was just being cool. Y’know, chill. Unbothered.”

“You were seething, doll.”

You rolled your eyes, but your chest tightened. “Okay, maybe a little. So what?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He just watched you for a second, his silence pressing gently around your walls. Not demanding, not accusing — just waiting for you to be honest.

You exhaled and leaned back against the door. “I know I said it didn’t bother me, but the second Sam said you matched with someone, it was like—like my stomach dropped out.”

His brow furrowed, stepping closer.

You continued, voice softer. “I know you love me. I do. But the idea of someone else getting even a piece of you… I hated it. And that scared me. I didn’t want to be the clingy one or the insecure one or the girl who flips out over some dumb dating app.”

Bucky’s face softened completely. “Hey.”

He closed the gap and cupped your face in his hands, his thumb brushing your cheek.

“You are not insecure. You’re not clingy. You’re human. And you love me.” He kissed your forehead gently. “I want you to care.”

Your chest cracked wide open, and you let yourself lean into him.

“I don’t want to share you, Buck,” you whispered. “Not even a little.”

“You never have to,” he murmured. “You’ve got all of me. Always.”

“…So what about Olivia?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

He shrugged. “I unmatched her hours ago. Right after you said good for you like you were trying not to cry.”

You gaped. “You what?”

Bucky smirked. “The only person I want… is you.”

Your heart stuttered, full and aching and impossibly light all at once. “Bucky—”

“You’ve had me from the moment you stole my henley and never gave it back.” His voice was barely a whisper. “You don’t have to be chill. You don’t have to play it cool. You already have all of me.”

Your laugh was shaky, but your smile was real. “Even if I get all weird over fictional matches on dating apps?”

He grinned. “Especially then.”

You leaned into him, your fingers curling around the hem of his shirt. “So you’re not going on a date with Olivia?”

“Nope,” he said, nuzzling your nose with his. “Unless you change your name and start volunteering at animal shelters.”

You snorted. “I would for you.”

Bucky kissed you then — sweet, slow, soft. The kind of kiss that made you forget all the awkward moments of the morning. The kind that made you feel like you were the only two people in the world.

You laughed into the kiss, your fingers curling around his shirt. “You absolute...”

“—Boyfriend material?” Bucky finished, hopeful.

You smiled, lighter than you had all day. “Absolutely.”

Somewhere down the hall, Sam shouted, “I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU DELETED SPARK—!”

You broke apart, laughing breathlessly. “We should probably tell him.”

Bucky sighed into your neck. “Or we fake our deaths and disappear into the Alps.”

“Tempting.”

taglist: @svtbpbts @cupids-mf-arrow @whitewolfluvr @cece2608 @yehfitoormera @yesiamthatwierd

[heesimp]

step dad heeseung whos soo manipulative toward you, always shushing you and saying its okay, praising you and telling you how much better you are but you have to keep it a secret 🫣

unedited and sorry for the late responses. just a little busy!

content warnings: dubcon, creampie, mentions of making porn, stepdad!hee

++++

You truly don’t know how he does it. Heeseung knows how to say all the right things and make your guilt and worries fade away with a simple touch of his hands.

It started so innocently at first. His compliments felt too inappropriate for a stepdad, but Heeseung always told you he said the truth. Then it was holding your hand in public when the two of you were alone. It’s just to keep you safe so he’ll know where you are at all times.

Then it crossed a boundary. Heeseung kissing your cheek when he sees you because he says that’s what good stepfathers do. Touching your body because you look tense and need to relax. Eating your pussy because he wants you to know what it feels like should you ever get a boyfriend. Making you stroke his cock so you know how to do it when the time eventually comes.

And then there’s tonight.

Heeseung’s naked body is pressed directly on top of yours underneath the blankets like it makes all of it okay. He insisted that you slept next to him because his wife was out of town, and it made sense when he gave you those deer eyes and told you he missed you. Even when he pulled your ass close to his crotch under the guise of cuddling you, did it feel normal and common practice.

He’s no stranger to the feeling of your pussy, nor do you shy away from his big, leaking cock. Heeseung kisses your throat and puts you on your back as he slides your panties down your leg until his bare cock situates itself against your wet, puffy folds.

“My princess,” he mutters against your lips. The wet smacks, paired with the wet squelched, makes Heeseung feel like he’s in some movie. “Feels good, yeah?”

“S-So good,” you squeak. His hot, building tip keeps brushing against your erect clit.

“Doing so good f’me. Can I put my dick inside? Let me make you feel good, baby. Please let me feel you.”

Who are you to say no?

The stretch is almost unbearable but Heeseung shushes your cries with his lips. You focus on kissing him and keeping your legs spread open to accommodate his tall body. Heeseung’s hands rub circles against your hip in an attempt to soothe the pain, and he forces himself not to shove the entirety of his cock into you.

“Best pussy I’ve ever had,” he moans against you. He pushes another inch inside. “I could do this all day if you let me.”

“Please…”

“You want that?” Heeseung taunts. “Want my dick in you all the time?”

“I do, but…it feels wrong.”

He shakes his head and kisses you tenderly. “What’s wrong about having sex with someone you love? Don’t you love me?”

“I do…”

“I love you, baby.” He kisses you again and bottoms out, balls pressed to your ass. Heeseung hears you gasp and feels you clamor for his shoulders, wrapping your legs around him in an attempt to ground yourself. “I’ll show you what good sex feels like, but you can’t tell anyone, okay?”

And it goes like that. You cum first. He cums inside of you too, but doesn’t let up. It’s like your pussy was made for him with the way you’re taking it like a champ.

“So much better than your mom,” he mutters as he slangs his hips. The sound makes him so hard that he thinks he might burst any second. “We could be fucking all day.”

Heeseung smirks when you moan and when he feels you clench around him. He’s so hard that it hurts. He doesn’t get like that with anyone else.

“I know you like it when I’m inside you,” Heeseung whispers by your ear. His warmth breath makes your toes curl and paired with his thrusts, you wonder if this is what Heaven feels like. “Might take a picture so I can fuck myself to you when you’re away.”

He grins like a madman when you arch your back and moan.

“Yeah? My pretty stepdaughter wants to make porn with me, doesn’t she?” Heeseung’s dick lodges deeper inside of you. “Slutty little pornstar. I’ll make you cum and squirt on camera.”

“Oh god!”

“So hot.” He lifts himself up and braces both palms beside your head when he starts lifting his hips to plow right into you until you’re both finishing at the same time. He pulls out quickly, but not enough to spare you from the dripping cum that hits your slit and leaks down your body.

[madamechrissy]

Baby You're a Star- chap three preview

Pornstar Gojo WILL be out tomorrow!!! One more preview <3 Do NOT read if you haven't read part two!

Pairings- Pornstar! Satoru x shy f!reader

Warnings - NSFW- oral sex (m recieving) mentions of cum, Gojo's dick is broken bc of reader poor baby! Mentions of sex, filming porn, dom/sub undertones -taglist closed but everyone on it will get tagged in the update! rough draft and not edited so excuse any typos!

“Fuck, I’ve made a mess, need someone to clean me all up.” Satoru whispers, while you barely are able to hold up the camera any longer, the livestream is avid with questions, namely - who is filming Satoru Gojo? And offers from many viewers to lick every bit of him up.

Satoru should stare at the camera, but he’s looking up into your eyes instead, stroking his cum soaked length slowly, just pumping more cum out of his tip, so much it’s ridiculous, dripped down to his balls and inner thighs. You swallow nervously, tummy clenched with desire, knowing you needed to stay quiet for the stream of curious viewers.

Satoru murmurs cut then, and  you do just that, shutting off the feed, and setting down the phone with a shaky hand, clearing your throat. “They loved it I think.”

“C’mere.” He crooks two fingers, and you eagerly obey, walking up to him now, tempting him to no end with the way your eyes drink him in. “On your knees, sweetheart.”

You obey again, eagerly in fact, looking up at him under lowered lashes as his clean hand slips up the side of your pretty neck, then around to the nape of it, entangling in your locks. Your soft whine and shift of your hips are all he needs to know you’re enjoying it, your hands obediently on your thighs, as if waiting for his every order, so sexy he feels his cock twitch back to life.

“Do you want to clean me up?” He asks softly, but the command in his tone is there, you nod and he exhales, tugging you towards him then. “Then do a really good job, sweets. Lick every bit clean like a good girl, and I’ll reward you.”

“I’ll do a good job.” Your whisper wrecks him, as he guides your head down, and you suck him, still hard, into your hot, eager mouth. Your soft whine vibrates around him, his head falling back as your mouth moves.

He can’t help but think of earlier.

A date, you were gonna go on a date, and he hates the idea, no, he fucking detests the idea in fact, the rage alone making him fuck your throat deeper, harder, feeling you gag and choke on him instead of anyone else. He shouldn’t feel possessive over his friend, a friend who’s sucking his cum, who’s swallowing him up, all he can think is his, his, his.

But you weren’t his.

How could you ever be?

Satoru’s never felt anything better than your throat, except he’s a million percent sure your cunt is better, he knows it would suck him up so greedy. When tears fall from your pretty eyes, it’s hotter than any blow job he’s had on set, the eagerness and desperate need to please far surpasses experience, your glasses fogging up when you pull back to take a breath then.

Satoru looks at his slick, spit covered cock, to thin trails of saliva disintegrating between your lips as you pull back, swiping at your lower lip. “How did I do?”

“Perfect.” His whisper is genuine, the words feel too good, you know you should stop, that you already wish he was yours, but you’re too addicted to how those blue eyes make you feel like you’re the only girl there is.

Even if it’s an illusion, a trick of your brain, or a practiced look.

The feeling is too euphoric not to be corrupted by it.

“You did such a good job, look at it, not any cum left. You sucked it all down, so greedy huh?” His hand comes under your chin, squeezing your neck gently yet so possessive, he wants to say it - his - but he knows he can’t. But it’s too easy to teeter off the edge, when your breaths come faster, breasts pressed up in that dress, rising and falling with each one.

“Satoru… I can keep going.” Your soft voice nearly ends him, little hand stroking his cock again.

“I was thinking of something, but if you don’t want to, it's okay.” You blink a bit then, tilting your head, tendrils falling against your bare shoulders.

“What is it?”

“A scene with me, but not showing your face at all,” your gasp and pull back makes him sigh. “It’d be like me eating your pussy, we could have it zoomed so no one sees your face.”

The thought, along with Satoru's sweet cum down your throat makes your tummy clench, while he brings out more and more of you that you did not know existed. Your hands tense on his thighs now, taking a shaky breath, fingers along the downy hair on his thighs. “I don’t… Satoru you have a million options for costars-”

“I want yours. It’s the prettiest I’ve ever fucking seen.”

“Satoru…”

“It is. Wanna argue about my expertise here?” You just get more flustered and flushed, looking down nervously, but he tilts your chin with his big hand, angling your gaze upward. “I’ll split all the pay, you get eaten out, and anonymously. I’d never tell anyone, I’d never risk your career or anything. But I do need to do one, and I hate the thought of it not…” Satoru trails off now, the words sinking in.

“You like eating me out that much?” Your whisper makes him chuckle then, nodding and swallowing nervously.

“That pussy is perfect. How about we film it, and you watch it, and if you don’t want to, I just keep it to jerk off to…” Shit, he said that.

He’s so desperate and pathetic.

I'm exciteddd, it's almost done bbs <3 It's gonna be angsty, smutty and MESSY

perm tagsss- @alt--er--love @nanasukii28 @cuntphoric @loafteaw @n1vi @indiewritesxoxo @miizuzu @beachaddict48 @honeybunnnnie @re-tired-succubus @gojosukuna2268 @waterfal-ling @1brii @wise-fangirl @moncher-ire @orikixx @uhnosav @baepsays @designerpvssy @orixxxana @airandyeah @nina-from-317 @evelynxxo @naammiii @soyokosuguru @espresso1patronum @tomboy-disaster @iam-souless @lanii-i @cristy-101 @doeeyestoji @cvixmei @mutsu422 @ivyvenus333 @g00seg1rl @suki91 @satoao-main @fairygardenprincesss @theonlyjuggernaut @huntyhuntycunty @lovelockdownff @ibreathesmut @s777athv @twinklywinkly @akiii143 @squeezyvalkyrie @cookielovesbook-akie @oinksa @grignardsreagent @shokosbunny

[spiderb00]

- TELEPATHIC CONNECTION

Daniela Avanzini x Reader

“You and Daniela's connection was weak. You need to increase it with kisses!”

Genre - Fluff warning - none

(request)

Now Playing - Love Bug, by Okayceci

"we could stick up in my lovebug baby, and if you wanna we could get crazy"

The windows of the apartment were open, the view of the city was beautiful at dusk. The sound of the television was low, not allowing the sound of the sirens from the game you were playing to disturb your girlfriend. Daniela was lying on the sofa, her legs stretched over your thighs, keeping the two of you connected even when you were doing totally different activities.  

You knew the girls' comeback was coming up, and a few days off were rare, especially when your girlfriend had to practice and shoot almost every day. Practices were making the Latina tired, and nothing seemed better to her than simply relaxing a little by your side to ease her mind.  

Your little grumble had taken all of Daniela's concentration away. The woman now gazed at your side profile with admiration. She loved seeing you at times like this. Jaw clenched, eyes on the screen and eyebrows furrowed. You looked so beautiful concentrated like that, Daniela loves that.  

Taking her legs off your thigh to sit on the sofa, the blonde approached you, glancing at the game before looking at you again.  

“You're very good at this game.” The Latina said, slipping her arms around your shoulders and kissing your cheek.  

“Do you want to try?” You asked, knowing that Daniela loved playing GTA V. She was always driving around in a car, hitting pedestrians or buying clothes. Actually, so do you.  

“Actually, I wanted a bit of you...” Her lips tickled your ear, and the hairs on your body stood on end. “But you're too busy playing this stupid game.”  

“Well, if you wanted my attention that badly, you could have told me.” You said, joining in her game.  

You knew that your girlfriend was spoiled by nature, and she always wanted you to do her bidding, no matter what time it was, you'd be there to serve her. It would be a lie to say that you didn't love doing everything Daniela told you to, but every now and then, you had the luxury of playing with her a little.  

“You should feel when I want something.” The corners of your lips lifted in a smile, just like Daniela's.  

“You're right, I think our telepathic connection is weak.” You said, dropping the PS5 controller next to you on the sofa, and placing your hands on the Latina's waist. “I think we need to fix that.”  

“Wow, you're such a nerd!” Daniela rolled her eyes. Her hands were playing with the hair on the back of your neck, letting you know that somehow she loved everything you were saying.  

“I'm fucking serious!” Your body turned more towards Daniela, causing your knee to touch hers. “When a couple's telepathic connections are weak, they urgently need to kiss until they lose their breath!”  

Daniela's hands left the back of your neck, only for her to push your chest in a playful way. “Shut up, you nerd.”  

“But I'm serious!” You said, the smile on your face making Daniela melt.  

Rolling her eyes, the Latina used the same hand that had pushed you to pull your collar towards her, and within seconds the two of your lips were attached. Your hands went to Daniela's waist again, before falling to the brunette's hips. Gently squeezing the spot, you helped Daniela mount you, placing each of her knees on the side of each of your legs.  

The brunette's lips were soft and sweet, and you would never tire of kissing them. Daniela's hands ruffled your hair in the midst of the passionate kiss, and having the brunette on top of you made your head spin.  

“Do you know what I want now?” Daniela asked, looking into your eyes with that look she knew made you weak.  

Frowning, you licked your lips, still searching for another taste of your girlfriend's gloss. “Take that to the bedroom?”  

And there it was, that smile you love so much.  

“You're right, it really does improve the connection.” 

Hello everyone, how are you? do you like the new design? ;)

ARE YOU EXCITED FOR THE COMEBACK? They look so beautiful, I can't-

As some of you know, Megan is my bias, and she looks stunning in this new era (they all do). I'm really looking forward to writing for her, I also have ideas for Lara, and famout!

actually, I have ideas for all the girls, so let's see where this goes.

drink water and be safe,

xoxo, spider.

[writinginatree]

If He Were Better At This...

Relationship(s): Bodhi Durran & Xaden Riorson & Riorson!reader

Summary: Raising his little sister isn't easy for Xaden.

Warnings: Bittersweet angst, parentification, jealousy, mentions of apostasy trauma, Xaden low-key has anxiety. Set during Iron Flame.

@littleemissperfecttt requested: XADEN GETS JEALOUS OF Y/N AND BHODIS CLOSE RELATIONSHIP as y/n is more close to bhodi than she could ever be with xaden

(Sorry it took so long, I kinda struggled to come up with a scenario for this, but I hope you still like it!)

Landing in the valley above Aretia after a tiresome three-day mission, Xaden is greeted by the sight of you and Bodhi wrestling in the dirt. Your laughter is balm on his weary soul, but the feeling of peace it brings only lasts a second, quickly replaced by panicked irritation. You should not be up here — only riders and fliers are allowed to enter this valley, not civilians like you.

Sgaeyl gives an amused huff as she stalks off to find her mate. "We do not mind the little one's presence."

Well, that's good. At least he doesn't have to worry about his own damn dragon scorching you for trespassing.

But even if Sgaeyl thinks it's fine, the fact remains that you shouldn't be in the valley. If you keep getting away with ignoring all the rules just because Xaden is your brother, there will be trouble eventually. The fliers already feel underprivileged; if they get the idea Xaden is favoring his own people, the dissent will grow until the situation escalates completely.

Luckily, the group of first-years practicing lesser magics nearby doesn't seem to be paying the two of you any mind. Then again, maybe it's just that they already lost interest. You could have been here for hours already for all he knows — it's even possible that this isn't the first time Bodhi brought you into the valley. Xaden is all too aware that his cousin never has the heart to tell you off for following him around, even when he's going places you aren't supposed to go.

Xaden might wield shadows, but you practically are one, always trailing after Bodhi unless forcibly kept away. The trauma of the apostasy has left its marks on you, mentally as well as physically. Dad's execution, the long separation from Xaden and Bodhi that followed it, the lies drilled into you like brainwashing. It's really no wonder you don't want to be apart from Xaden and especially Bodhi now that you're finally reunited. And it's no surprise either that you cling to Bodhi more than him; he's been your favorite for as long as Xaden remembers, and, unlike Xaden, he's always here.

Xaden tries not to be bitter about it. He knows it doesn't mean you don't love him too, you're just closer with Bodhi.

But it's not fair. Xaden is your brother, not Bodhi. Yet he'll never be able to have as lighthearted a relationship with you as Bodhi does, because he's the one in charge. Not just of Aretia and, partly, the revolution, no, more importantly, he's in charge of you.

It's a walk on knife's edge, trying to balance between showing you the love you deserve and teaching you the strength and discipline you'll need to survive if the war isn't over by the time you're old enough to participate.

The thought nauseates Xaden every time it comes to his mind. He'll do anything so it never comes to that. They have to win, so you can grow up safe, without the fear and responsibility Xaden himself was burdened with when he was just a handful of years older than you are now. But there's no guarantee they can defeat the venin, no guarantee he'll be able to keep you safe, so, despise it as he might, he's doing his best to prepare you for the worst.

But gods, how he hates it.

You seem so young laughing there in the grass, and yet you've already been through so much — too much. He could watch you all day like that, innocent and carefree, the only indicators that you're not like other kids the rebellion relic crawling up your neck and the dark circles under your eyes. Xaden knows your nightmares are worse when you know he's away, but, as with so many things, the war leaves him no choice.

Walking over to where you're playing, still oblivious to Xaden's presence, he contemplates what to do. He doesn't want to spoil your moment of fun by getting mad about you being where you shouldn't. Even if the mere thought of you in the dragons' proximity sends cold fear through his body, you aren't in immediate danger. Maybe he can just convince you to walk down to the house with him, and give Bodhi an earful for bringing you into the valley later, when you won't have to hear. He can explain to you why it's not safe some other time.

But then your play fighting has you rolling much too close to Cuir for Xaden's liking, and instinct takes over. Your shadow springs to life, lifting you into the air by the back of your shirt.

"That's enough, now," Xaden says, aiming for a tone of mild authority like he remembers his father using. Xaden never quite gets it right. Much too frequently he speaks more harshly to you than intended, and other times, he overcorrects and loses all strictness. He can never seem to find the middle ground.

Sharp longing for his father bubbles up in his chest. Xaden shoves it away. Dad is gone, and can't help him. Raising you is on him and Bodhi now, unsuited to the task though they might be.

Xaden knows his cousin sees him as a role model, has always wanted to be like him, but it's times like this that Xaden wishes he were more like Bodhi. Softer. Kinder. Better at feelings. Of course there's no replacing the parents you lost, but if Xaden were better at this, maybe the hole they left in your life wouldn't still ache quite so badly. If he were better at this, maybe you and him could be closer. If he were better at this, maybe it would be him you go to when you have a nightmare, would be him you insist on sitting beside at meals.

Quickly, he shuts that train of thought down, too. It won't get him anywhere.

Despite his slightly too sharp tone, you don't even have the decency to look apologetic — no, you just beam at him. "Xaden! You're back!"

He nods, shadows setting you gently down on your feet.

It's hard to stay irritated when you're so obviously happy to see him, your smile a reminder that while you love Bodhi more, you do love Xaden too. Xaden has to remind himself to remain strict despite it.

He hates that he has to be the responsible one, ruining all your fun. That is exactly why you like Bodhi better.

Part of him would like nothing more than to join your roughhousing and forget about the war and all his problems for a little while, but the rest of him knows he can't afford to do that. What would that look like, the Duke of Aretia — even if only his fellow traitors view him as such — rolling around in the dirt? It's bad enough that Bodhi doesn't seem to care about his reputation, but Xaden can't afford not to care. And it's not just about appearances, either. It isn't safe for you to be this close to all these dragons and the practicing first-years with no proper control over their magic.

"Yeah, I'm back," he nods, accepting a brief hug before peering down at you with a raised brow. "What're you doing up here?"

"Bodhi was showing me some new moves. Do you wanna see?"

Regretfully, Xaden shakes his head. He would like to see what progress you've made with your combat training, but he doesn't have the time. The Assembly will want his report as soon as possible, but first, Xaden needs to talk to Bodhi and make sure he'll keep you out of the valley in the future.

"Maybe later. For now, I want you to go inside."

The words taste bitter on his tongue, the disappointment on your face cutting sharper than any blade he's ever felt. Belatedly, he realizes that sending you back to the house on your own when you know very well he's about to go inside too must make you feel like he doesn't want to be around you.

He fucking hates disappointing you, and yet, it seems to be all he ever does.

"Can't I—"

"No," he cuts your protests short, forcing himself to use what Violet calls the wingleader voice. He always feels bad when he uses it on you, but it's the only way to make you listen. "Get inside and wash up. Now. You know you're supposed to sit in on the Assembly meeting tonight, and you're not doing so with grass in your hair."

You grumble something unintelligible, but head for the path leading down to Riorson House, hopefully to do as he said.

Xaden knows you don't much like when he drags you along to meetings, bored by politics and strategy alike, but you need to learn. If anything happens to him, you might be in charge someday. You're Aretia's future, their insurance.

Once you've disappeared around the bend of the path, Xaden turns to glare at Bodhi, hissing, "What the fuck were you thinking bringing her up here?!"

His cousin, unflinching in the face of Xaden's temper, is quick to try and soothe him. "I know, I know. No civilians allowed. But Cuir said it's okay."

Xaden won't let himself be placated that easily, pointedly ignoring that Sgaeyl had said much the same thing. "Cuir doesn't speak for every dragon," he shoots back. "What if one of the others disagrees and attacks her?"

"Cuir would protect her. He hasn't let her out of his sight for a second, and neither have I."

"Oh? Aren't you supposed to be watching over the first-years?"

Xaden knows he's not being fair. Bodhi was just trying to brighten your day, to spend some quality time with you — something both of them don't get to do nearly enough. He would never consciously endanger you.

"I can do both." Bodhi sighs. "Look, I know she's supposed to stay in the fortress, but she's going crazy with boredom. This just seemed like a good opportunity to take her outside for a bit. I'm sorry I didn't talk to you about it first, but I promise she wasn't in danger for even a second. You know I'd never let anything happen to her."

Xaden also sighs. "I know. I just— I don't like having her anywhere near the dragons."

He doesn't need to elaborate on why exactly the idea makes him so uneasy. Bodhi is just as aware as he is of what would have happened six years ago if Xaden hadn't made the deal that prevented all of them from sharing their parents' fate — execution by dragonfire, even for the youngest. A thought that will never stop haunting Xaden, no matter the scar on his back promising your safety.

"I know," Bodhi echos. "But we can trust our own dragons with her."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know. Alright. I guess she can come to the valley with you so long as she sticks to your side." Which he knows you will — you always do. "Just make sure she knows she's not allowed to enter it alone. Under no circumstances, ever."

Bodhi smiles. "Already told her that, but it probably won't hurt if you tell her again, too."

"I will," Xaden says, turning to follow you. Maybe he can catch up to you and walk the rest of the way to the house together.

[skzstarl0ver]

˜”°•.˜”°• Rivals with benefits •°”˜.•°

Lee know x reader / enemies to lovers / secret relationship / smut / emotional confession

**involves!!** cursing, tension, sex, praise kink, rough/soft dynamic, emotional tension, dirty talk

enjoy xx (open for request)

★.•☆•.★★.•☆•.★¸.•☆•.¸★ skzstarl0ver ★⡀.•☆•.★⡀.•☆•.★¸.•☆•.¸★

You and Lee Minho are like oil and fire.

Not water and fire—because water tries to calm. You? You burn.

From the second you joined the dance crew, it’s been war. If you nail a move, he pushes harder. If he shines in rehearsal, you double your effort. You challenge each other, mock each other, drive each other insane.

And yet… you’ve never looked away.

Especially not when he’s sweaty in rehearsal, shirt clinging to his body, lip caught in his teeth as he watches himself in the mirror with that impossible focus. Or when his voice dips low, sharp and smug, when he says something to rile you up.

You hate him.

You want him.

Which is why the first time it happens, it feels like a dam breaking.

It’s after practice. You’re both the last ones there. You argue. You get in each other’s space.

And then you’re kissing.

No—biting.

No—devouring.

He pins you to the wall like he’s waited months to do it.

You should stop. You don’t.

It becomes a thing.

You don’t talk about it. You don’t plan it.

It just happens—whenever you’re alone, and angry, and can’t stand how badly you want each other.

Your friends think you still hate each other. And during the day? You do. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

But then there’s night.

And the way he looks at you like you’re his only focus.

The way he touches you like it’s more than release—like it’s a need.

His apartment. 11:47PM.

You shouldn’t be here. You said you wouldn’t come. But your body knows the code to his door.

You barely get two words out before he has you pressed against the wall, mouth hot on your neck.

“You couldn’t stay away,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “Missed me?”

“Shut up.”

He smirks. “Make me.”

You crash your mouth against his.

His hands are everywhere—hips, thighs, waist, under your hoodie. He picks you up like you weigh nothing and carries you to the couch.

He drops you onto the cushions, kneels between your thighs, and yanks off your shorts in one smooth motion. You gasp as the cool air hits your skin—then moan when his mouth follows immediately after.

“Minho—” your voice is already breathy.

“Keep saying my name like that,” he growls against your skin, licking a slow stripe over your inner thigh.

He slides two fingers through your folds, glancing up with that cocky, devastating smirk. “Dripping. Already?”

You hate how much power he has over you. You love how he uses it.

His mouth is hot, tongue skillful, fingers curling just right as he devours you like he’s starving.

Your head falls back. “Fuck—don’t stop—”

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” he says, voice muffled between your thighs.

You’re close embarrassingly fast. He knows it. Keeps the pace steady, relentless, until your hips jerk and you gasp his name like a confession.

And he doesn’t stop.

He keeps going until you’re shaking, overstimulated, tugging his hair with a breathless “Minho, please—”

He pulls back, mouth wet, pupils blown.

“Take your shirt off,” he says, voice low and dangerous.

You obey.

He strips, revealing skin and muscle and everything you try not to fantasize about when he’s pissing you off during practice.

He climbs on top of you, lining himself up, but pauses—just enough to look into your eyes.

“You want this?” he murmurs.

You nod.

He doesn’t move.

“I need to hear it.”

“I want you,” you breathe. “I always fucking want you.”

His lips crash into yours again, and he thrusts in, slow and deep, making your back arch and your fingers dig into his shoulders.

You cling to him, gasping, every stroke sending sparks through your whole body.

It’s rough, but not careless. Every snap of his hips is measured, deliberate, like he knows your body better than you do.

“You drive me insane,” he whispers, lips brushing yours. “But I can’t stop. Can’t stop thinking about you. Touching you. Wanting you.”

Your heart stutters.

He’s close. You are too. And when you come again, it hits harder than it ever has—your name breaking from his lips as he follows seconds after, collapsing on top of you with a shuddering breath.

You’re still sprawled across his couch, blanket barely covering you, Minho's arm draped over your waist, chest still rising fast against your back. The room is warm, filled with the scent of sex and sweat and something dangerously close to tenderness.

You’re about to speak—say something sarcastic, maybe ask if he has water—when there’s a sudden buzz at the door.

Minho groans softly, pressing his face into your neck. “Ignore it.”

But the buzz comes again.

And again.

You sit up. “It could be important.”

Minho grumbles but pulls on sweatpants and stalks to the door.

The second it opens—

“Y/N?!”

Your heart drops.

Your best friend, Jisoo, is standing in the hallway, holding the iced coffee you forgot you asked her to drop off earlier. She was supposed to leave it at the door.

Instead, she’s staring past Minho’s shoulder—right at you, wrapped in a blanket on his couch, flushed, messy, very much freshly wrecked.

Her eyes go wide.

You look at her.

She looks at you.

Then Minho.

Then back to you.

You swear time stops.

“I—uh—I forgot I gave her your address once,” you say quickly, voice cracking.

Jisoo slowly blinks. “You’re sleeping with Minho?”

Minho leans casually on the doorframe, smug and shirtless. “Sleeping with? Baby, be honest—we haven’t slept a single time.”

You throw a pillow at his head. “MINHO—”

Jisoo gasps. “Oh my god, I walked into a fucking fanfic.”

You panic. “It’s not serious, okay?! It’s just sex—”

Your voice is louder than you mean for it to be. Defensive. Sharp. Like you’re trying to cut through the heat still lingering in your skin.

Jisoo just blinks at you, wide-eyed in the hallway.

Behind you, Minho's expression shifts—something flickering behind his usual cool exterior.

He steps forward.

His voice, when he speaks, isn’t teasing. Isn’t smug.

It’s quiet. Certain.

“No, it’s not.”

You freeze.

The words hit you harder than they should.

“What?” you ask, even though you heard him.

Minho looks at you—really looks. No smirk, no bite, no mask. His face is open in a way you’ve never seen.

“I said it’s not just sex,” he repeats, more firmly this time. “At least not for me.”

Your heart stutters.

He glances at Jisoo—who, to her credit, is now pretending to look very interested in the floor tiles—and then back at you.

“I know we’ve been playing this game like it doesn’t mean anything,” he says, voice low. “But it does. To me.”

You open your mouth, then close it again.

He takes a step closer, like he’s afraid you might run.

“I care about you,” he says, softer now. “And I’m not gonna pretend I don’t just because someone else found out.”

You want to say something snarky. You want to laugh it off. You want to not feel this.

But the look in his eyes?

It guts you.

You feel Jisoo slowly back away, awkwardly muttering something about “text me later” before she disappears down the hallway, giving you space.

Minho doesn’t look away.

“I didn’t plan for this to happen,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I thought… maybe if I kept it casual, I could control it. Control how I felt about you.”

His gaze drops to the floor for a beat. Then back to you.

“But I can’t.”

You’re still holding your shirt in your hands. Still standing in his living room in the aftermath of what was supposed to be just another night.

And suddenly, it doesn’t feel casual at all.

_

You leave his apartment with your jacket half-zipped, heart pounding like it’s chasing something you’re still running from.

You didn’t say anything.

Couldn’t.

Not when he looked at you like that. Like he meant it. Like he was done hiding and wanted you to do the same.

You don’t text him.

You don’t sleep.

Instead, you sit on your bed, staring at the ceiling, haunted by his voice in your head.

“I care about you. And I’m not gonna pretend I don’t.”

And damn it, you feel it too.

You felt it in the way he touched you like you were something fragile under all the fire. You saw it in the way he looked at you after you came undone in his hands—like you weren’t just a body, but something he wanted to hold after.

You're not scared of sex.

You're scared of this.

Of how real it suddenly is.

But when your phone buzzes with one single message—

“If you come back, I’ll say it again. As many times as you need.”

—you’re out the door before you can change your mind.

You knock once.

He opens the door instantly—like he’d been waiting just behind it.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

Then you're moving—you drop your bag, step into him, crash your mouth to his.

This kiss is different.

It’s not angry. Not desperate.

It’s slow. Deep. Like you're tasting every inch of what you almost lost.

His hands come up to your face, thumbs brushing your jaw like you’re something delicate. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

When he pulls back just slightly, your noses still touching, he whispers: “I missed you. Every day I didn’t have you—I missed you.”

Your eyes burn.

You lean into his touch, whispering back, “I was scared.”

“I know,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I was too.”

You look up at him, voice barely audible. “Do you still want me?”

His answer is immediate.

“I never stopped.”

He takes your hand, leads you to the bedroom—not like last time.

Not rushed. Not rough.

He strips you slowly, eyes roaming over every inch like he’s trying to memorize you.

“Lie back,” he whispers.

You do.

He hovers over you, kissing you everywhere but your mouth—throat, collarbone, stomach—each kiss a word he doesn’t say out loud.

His hands move softly over your body, teasing but not taunting. Reverent.

When his lips finally reach where you ache for him most, he doesn't rush. He takes his time.

Licks. Sucks. Worships.

You gasp his name like a prayer.

“That's it,” he whispers, fingers curling inside you perfectly. “Let me take care of you.”

You’re already trembling when he slides up your body, eyes searching yours.

“Tell me you want me.”

You pull him in, kiss him hard. “I want you.”

He enters you slowly this time—deep, smooth, like he’s trying to fit the words he can’t say into every stroke.

And it’s different now.

You feel everything.

Every roll of his hips. Every gasp. Every whispered name. It’s not about fucking anymore—it’s about being close. Being seen.

“You feel so good,” he groans into your neck. “Always do.”

You cling to him, nails digging into his back. “Minho…”

“Say it again.”

“Minho.”

He picks up the pace just a little, making you whimper.

“I’m yours,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I’ve been yours.”

That’s what undoes him.

He groans deep in his chest and moves faster, chasing your high as you spiral with him—both of you coming undone, this time not just with bodies but with hearts bared and burning.

After

You’re tangled together in his sheets, breath finally steadying.

He’s tracing patterns on your back, your head resting on his chest.

You look up at him. “You still care about me?”

He smirks, brushing your hair away. “I just made love to you for an hour. What do you think?”

You smile.

Then you kiss him again—slow, sweet, and soft.

No rivalry.

Just you and him.

Finally real.

[clatterbane]

Also just chiming in as a native English speaking language nerd who studied German for years, majored in it, and ended up living in Scandinavia:

You may also want to consider North Germanic languages. Norwegian or Swedish is probably going to be easier for you to pick up than German. Danish too, but the phonology is trickier. If you learn one of them, you can mostly read all three--and talk to basically everyone but Danes. (Unless everyone switches to English, like native speakers usually also need to.)

The grammar is probably going to be easier for a native English speaker to deal with than German, and from what I understand more on par with Dutch or Frisian. I haven't actually studied either one.

If you're up for more grammatical challenge? Try Icelandic or Faroese. They seem to have more in common with German that way, keeping more complicated case systems and inflections which the other three national languages lost and simplified over the centuries. (A lot like English has also done.) Learning German first probably put me in a better position to get either one of them without struggling as hard.

The only real drawback, in terms of day to day usefulness? These are all relatively small languages without nearly as many speakers as German. Pretty much everyone under maybe 70 learned English in school too, partly because these languages are so relatively small and limited to one part of the world. If you put all the North Germanic languages together, they're getting near Dutch in total number of speakers--and that has significantly fewer than German.

Put Icelandic and Faroese together, they're getting close but not quite as many as all regional versions of Frisian combined. (And we're talking 500,000 or less in that case.) That wouldn't stop me from learning any of them, but it's something to consider in terms of practical use and chances for conversational practice.

Here’s how to tell if a language is easy to learn

None of them are easy

They’re all stupid and terrible and will kick you in the nuts

That being said

Languages similar to ones you already speak

Languages you have a lot of motivation to learn

Languages that have a lot of resources and media to watch and/or listen to and/or read

So, if you’re reading this with relative ease (aka you speak English fluently) probably French or Spanish

Do whatever you want though idk

Don’t just choose a language based on how easy it is

Unless that’s what it takes to keep you motivated idk

Go learn Frisian or something

[puck-luck]

request: "hi! may i pls order an espresso shot with caramel syrup for matt boldy. quickie at either partner’s parent’s place during a family dinner hehe"

answer: yes!! hi!! thank you for being my first boldy request, i hope i captured him well and that you enjoy this!! i lovedddd the idea of a quickie at his parents' place, so that's what i went with :)

You’re in the middle of washing your hands when the doorknob to the bathroom starts to jiggle. “Just a second,” you call in a faux-positive voice, while in reality you’re stressing about the fact that someone is trying to enter the bathroom. Worse, this is the bathroom in Matt’s parents’ home, which you’re visiting for the first time. Bathroom exchanges are already awkward with strangers, but with your boyfriend’s parents? Who are practically strangers?

Long story short, you want to get out of this bathroom as quick as possible.

You finish washing your hands and unlock the door, twisting the handle.

Your boyfriend barges in before you can exit.

“You need to go to the bathroom so bad that I can’t even leave first?” you ask, somewhere between confused and afraid of having to witness Matt’s personal business.

“What? No,” Matt replies. “The ‘rents are out back. Dad is grilling. We have a second.” He places his hands on your hips and pulls you toward him, lips crashing against yours. 

You fall into his touch for a second before remembering where you are. “What do you mean, ‘we have a second?’ We’re at your parents’ house.”

Matt scrunches his nose. “So what?” He sneaks his hands around to your backside. “You look gorgeous. We have a little time before they come back inside. They won’t notice that we’re missing. I can be quick.”

“You’re just giving me a list of excuses.”

“No,” Matt corrects, shaking his head and pecking your lips. “No, no. I’m giving you a list of reasons.”

You stare at him for a second, trying to hold fast and win this faceoff, but he’s a better hockey player than you so he wins easily. You are the first to relent, doing so by rolling your eyes and looking away, then looking back at him with a stifled smile.

His face breaks into a grin. “Yeah?”

Your cheeks are tense from how you’re trying to hold back a giggle. “How do you want me?”

Matt’s teeth seem to sparkle like a cartoon heartthrob. “Alright,” Matt says with a nod, throwing your last name in the middle of the sentence. He likes to do that. You’ve told him over and over that it’s so hockey and not for girlfriends, but you’re growing fond of it. “Let’s get you bent over this sink.”

His hands spin you around and Matt plasters himself to your back. He reaches around your front and takes his time cupping your breasts and mound before he traps you against the cool marble. 

“I love this outfit,” Matt compliments. He pauses for effect, waiting for you to turn your head so that he can plant a kiss on your cheek. “But I like what’s hiding underneath it, too.”

His hands are deft as they slide across your skin. He palms your asscheeks before making his way down to the hem of your skirt and flipping it up, one fist bunching the fabric and keeping it in place at the small of your back while he runs the fingertips of his other hand tease your folds. 

“Hmm,” he observes. “You’re already a little wet, darling. What’s that about?”

You scoff. “You’re complaining? I thought we only had a second.”

“Oh, so you’re helping me out?” he asks unnecessarily. He leans over you, your hips hinging along the basin due to his weight. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

You catch his eye in the mirror and make a face at him. 

Matt sticks his tongue out at you, dimples on full display. He taps your behind in a playful spank, then shifts your panties to the side. 

“Hold this for me?” he asks, ruffling the fabric of your skirt until you reach around and take the hemline from him.

Matt slides a finger between your folds, then into your entrance. He pumps and curls it as he unbuttons, unzips, and pushes his pants down just far enough that his cock springs free. He pumps himself a few times, tip close to where his finger fucks into you. He’s toying with you, filling you just enough to make you feel it, but not enough to take away the stretch when his cock replaces the digit.

Your head drops and a wanton moan leaves you.

“Mm, I know,” Matt drawls. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

You’d deign Matt with an answer, but he doesn’t need it. He knows that it feels good. 

His thrusts are quick and pointed, hands holding your hips beneath the sides of your skirt and bottom lip pulled snugly between his teeth. You flicker between looking at him in the mirror and reacting to the pleasure, your free hand covering your mouth to try and keep your hums and uhs and mewls at bay. His parents really are just outside and they could come back inside any minute– you can’t risk being loud and making an even more awkward first impression than the one where it was one of them at the bathroom door instead of Matt.

“God, you feel great,” Matt grunts, his expression twitching as he nears his peak. “So warm around me, baby. Squeezing me just right.”

“Matt,” you say, midways between a whine and a complaint and a plead.

“Shh, babe. Almost there, almost,” Matt tells you. He doubles down, fingertips leaving dents in your soft skin as he pulls you back in time with his forward thrusts. 

You’re practically bouncing in place, mouth unhinged and eyes rolling when Matt’s cock reaches the spot inside you that makes you see stars. A few thrusts make contact and you’re done for, sliding two fingers into your mouth to the second knuckle in order to avoid crying out. 

Your climax jumpstarts Matt’s, threads of cum painting your insides. His breath is half-pant, half-moan, and you’re addicted to the sound. If you weren’t in his parent’s house, you’d drag him upstairs and make him go again, just to hear that noise in your ear. 

But you can’t.

Matt laments the same thing while he cleans you up with a wet rag, depositing it in the laundry hamper when he’s done. He fixes your panties– like a true gentleman, he says– and pulls your skirt down to cover your behind. Then, he brings your mouth to his one last time.

“Did I fuck all the nerves away?” he asks. “Or are you still shitting your pants about making a good impression?”

“I am still terrified that they won’t like me.”

Matt throws his head back in laughter. “No way. Impossible. C’mon, I’ll prove it. You think you can walk straight ‘til I find you a chair out near the grill?”

You stick your tongue out at him and allow him to drag you from the bathroom, hands linked until he absolutely has to let go when dinner finally rolls around.

[moesthoughts]

Hii could you do either a Van x Reader where either the reader is drunk or Van is and the other one takes care of them like by helping them to the bathroom to throw up and helping them undress or whatever. Pre crash. Thanksss mwah 😘

Van helping you while you’re drunk

pairing ⛧ van palmer x reader

warnings ⛧ none! pure fluff

summary . . you are on the team, yellow jackets sleepover #cuties

➛ you were planning on getting fucked up ever since the mention of a yellow jacket sleepover came up. All the stress from soccer has taken a toll on you, so why not drink the problems away?

➛ you weren’t planning on getting this fucked up though, you couldn’t even walk straight without someone being there to assist you. The world felt like it spun every step you took.

➛ luckily your girlfriend van palmer was there by your side throughout the whole night, she wasn’t sober herself.. but at least she didn’t take at least 7 shots of straight tequila. She admires your courage.

➛ you were practically black out drunk, blabbering nonsense to van as she held you securely in her arms. The others were asleep, leaving only her to stay up and take care of you.

➛ she didn’t mind one bit, it felt domestic of some kind of sort, something that van looks for in a relationship. She’d tuck your hair behind your ear, running her hand through the strands.

➛ she’ll be there to pull back your hair when you feel sick, telling you that it’s gonna be okay and she’s there. It doesn’t matter if you get puke on her, all she cares about is that you’re not choking to death on it.

➛ van lowkey loves whenever you get this drunk because of how stupid the jokes that come out of your mouth are, they have her damn near rolling on the ground in laughter. You’re just happy you get to hear that loud, cute laugh she has.

➛ not the best cook but she’ll be there to make instant noodles and microwave meals for you if you need it, forcing you to sip water so you aren’t in pain or sick.

➛ she’ll make you take a shower if you throw up, going to the extent of taking off your clothes for you, even going in the shower to help you scrub yourself. Her hands worship your skin like you’re some god, she’s just so gentle with you.

➛ will comfort you if you’re an emotional drunk, caressing your face, praising you and trying her best to calm you down. She has a way with words that nobody else has, and that’s what makes those moments special.

➛ absolutely won’t leave your side, she’s afraid if she took her eyes off of you that you’d up and disappear and the blame would land on her. She’d rather not see your face on the back of a milk carton.

➛ kisses your forehead and cheeks constantly like she’s a mother caring for her crying baby, she hates seeing her girlfriend all disheveled like this, the complete opposite of your usual self.

➛ she’ll fall asleep soon after though, she just can’t keep her eyes open past midnight. A secure arm will be wrapped around your body, her head nuzzled into your neck.

➛ she’s practically the hangover queen, she’ll stay at your house longer than the other girls just to make sure you feel better.

➛ she has pain medicine ready for you when you wake up, will make you drink as much water as you can.

➛ she will make fun of you though, telling you stories about embarrassing things you do while drunk, much to your dismay.

➛ overall, van will sacrifice any of her free time just to be there to help you throughout your drunkenness and your horrible hangover. she loves you deeply, and only wants the best for you.

Not my finest work but I still hope you enjoy it!! I ADORE van with my whole heart.

req me!

masterlist

[domesticatedstew]

I finished the fic from the wonderful ideas of @hostuuagain and @brainzezz !!! Basically it's Mel and Breadhead bonding while sharing myths and stories that they heard from Ken and Mud!

It was finally a day off, a scarcity when working at the Whale Belly Butcher shop. Even though a break from time to time was pleasant, Mel absolutely hated being bored. And having time off equals BOREDOM.

Ken and Mud were off doing a "restock" for the resturant which was just code for kidnapping random fly people, picking up actual supplies for the resturant, and taking care of a few... pests along the way. Jack was home with his mother for his day off, which bummed out Mel a bit but she couldn't blame him for wanting time away from his work family.

At least Breadhead was still here. He had opted out of going with the other smiling dead crew to instead practice his piano playing. Mel had always liked listening to Breadhead's playing, he was pretty skilled for having no training other than the basics that Ken showed him. It reminded Mel of when she was still little, watching her older brother play the piano while her dad held her closely. Simpler times.

But reminiscing on the past wasn't gonna cure her boredom.

"Sooooo..." Mel slid over beside her large bread brother, watching him gracefully play despite how much larger his fingers were compared to the keys. "I'm bored aaand you're the only one here, you wanna mess some shit up?"

She was ready to keep her mischievous streak strong and steady, any risk was worth killing her boredom. Breadhead turned his massive loaf to look at her, pausing his playing to think. "Nah, I dont really wanna go anywhere today. 'm not in the mood." He said before returning to the song without skipping a beat.

Mel scoffed "Well then what do you want to do? Cuz either we do something together or I do something alone." Breadhead didn't like the idea of his sister causing mayhem by herself. Yeah she could hold her own but despite all the years they've grown together, he still hadn't seen her die or revive. Part of him was terrified that maybe something was wrong with her and she wasn't immortal like everyone else.

He wasnt about to find out now. "Hmmm... What if we told ghost stories and urban legends like when we were little?" Now Mel looked intrigued, which calmed his nerves thankfully. "Ghost stories? Alright bread boy, but you better still not get scared of them like you did when we were little," She teased, giving him an affectionate punch to his arm.

Breadhead wasn't about to admit that the stories of an angel storm devouring anything and everything in their path still gave him the chills.

They were now sat across from each other, Breadhead sitting in two chairs so he'd be comfortable. It still amazed Mel how her brother was such a massive dude, that didn't stop her from teasing him to the ends of the earth. It was even better when they were both teasing Mud or Ken.

"Alright!! Lemme try to remember a story," Mel thought long and hard for done spooky story her dad had told her when she was little.

"I GOT IT!!! Do you remember the story dad told us about the rotling that's been here since the beginning of the gaslight district?" Breadhead shook his head no, and Mel felt a little bit disappointed in him that he didn't remember such an awesome part of rotling history. "Ok well you don't need to remember cuz I'm gonna tell you anyway.

Long ago, before the world became just one island, there was a rotling who told stories of the world before rotlings. A world full of greenery and animals, one where humans ruled the world." Mel whispered when she mentioned humans, feeling slightly hurt when her brother recoiled at the mere mention of a human. She couldn't blame him though, humans are their own urban legend that Mel didn't want to bring up too much.

"They say he would talk about how the skies used to be blue, and there was this green stuff that'd grow from the ground called grass, and that the sun would light up the whole planet without needing any gas lamps. It was a world full of life, and according to the guy if you died that'd be it. No coming back."

"Do you know what they did to him Mel?" Breadhead looked genuinely curious, not his usual 'I've got some joke planned and you don't know' look.

"Supposedly, he was the first ever rotling to be cemeted," She mischievously whispered, leaning in to add a dramatic effect. It seemed to do the trick since Breadhead leaned in too like they were worried about being listened in on, "Woahhh, and you said dad told you that?"

"Yup," She popped the P, "He only told me the cementing part when I was a bit older though. SO, you got any stories you wanna tell?"

Breadhead didn't think nearly as long or hard about the story he wanted to tell, "What about the Gas Man? You've gotta remember Mud telling us that one before bed," He let out a deep chuckle. "How could I forget it? It was Mud's favorite thing to tell us to get us to go to bed," Mel remembered all the times Mud threatened them with the idea of the Gas Man and let out a laugh at the memory.

"I think it went somethin like like this," Breadhead straighted up and got into his story telling position, knees up to his chest with his arms out like he was trying to read a crystal ball to get your fortune. "You ever wonder how so many of our lamps stay lit? You can thank the Gas Man, he goes around the island lighting any lamp he sees out. Some people say they've seen 'im, but they're fibbin'. Cuz if you've ever met the Gas Man, you don't come back. Mud said if the Gas Man catches you, he turns your fluids into oil and uses your flesh to light the lamps. He takes anyone that's out too late, no one's safe from the Gas Man."

Mel cringed at the idea of being turned into fuel for the lamps of the district. Even when she was little she never liked thinking about it for too long, she guessed that childhood fears aren't really stuck in childhood.

Breadhead caught on immediately and started giggling at his little sister's discomfort. Mel shot a glare at the loaf and that shut him up.

"Ok ok ok, you wanna hear about how cementing started?" Breadhead nodded vigorously, unsurprising to Mel considering how much joy he takes from crushing and eating rotlings and fly people.

"So, it all obviously started with that one guy who wouldn't shut up about... you know whats. And the others were pretty sick of his ramblings of the world before ours, and since they couldn't kill him they thought 'why don't we just try to lock him up?' It worked but only for a few centuries when people forgot about him and he escaped, he started talking about more weird and gross creatures once he was free. Everyone was sick and tired of the guy. So one brave rotling decided to try and drown him, they gathered as much rocks and bricks as they could, tied it to the insane guy, and threw him off the island into the depths." Mel acted out the motions of throwing someone off into the ocean, something she had hoped she could actually do one of these days (if Ken would let her.)

"It worked even better than just locking him up, and people forgot about him for even longer. It was nice without some insane man's ramblings on the island. But like usual, he came back. He was one crafty son of a bitch and made it everyone's problem. This time though, he was talking about their buildings, specifically this material that could withstand the test of time. He even insisted that there was still some of it underwater from eons ago.

So with one last ditch effort, that same brave rotling as before dove under the island and collected as much ancient rubble as he could (all while only drowning a couple of times.)" She whispered that last part to Breadhead, who seemed rather impressed by the notion.

"He listened to the mad man's rants, figuring out the best way to turn this trash into something that'd finally rid everyone from this annoyance. From those ramblings and rants, the rotling learned how to make cement. And it was perfect. The first ever cement block wasn't the best looking, but when that insane guy went plummeting into the cold depths below, he never came back up. Other people realized how useful this could be and started making their own cement! And then it became the best way to get rid of any annoying preacher or local mad man. Or in our case anyone with too much money," Mel chuckled at her own joke, thankfully Breadhead thought it was funny too.

"Wow Mel, and dad told you all this? He's never told me stories like that," The loaf seemed sad at that fact, and Mel realized that Ken never really did tell stories to Breadhead like he did with his daughter. "Well it's ok Breadhead! Dad takes you on missions and to go out and do hits, he doesn't do that with me!" While she hoped that'd change soon, she didn't want to ruin the moment for her brother.

"Thank you Mel," Breadhead said while giving her the biggest smile ever. "You wanna steal some of Mud's stash and get wasted?"

Mel's smile grew as wide as her brothers, "You read my mind bread boy!"

[fear-is-truth]

❛ THE 5 LOVE LANGUAGES ❜ - K. ANDERSON.

ⓘ love language : a person's characteristic means of expressing and experiencing love

꣑ৎ ‎ :‎ masterlist﹒request / chat w me ! ﹒꒱ note. got a lil carried away, but i can yap about my man for days on end

words of affirmation ➛ ˗ˏˋ this might seem like it would be kai’s love language—after all, he is a gifted speaker. persuasive, emotionally intelligent. but here’s the thing: he doesn’t believe a word of it. because kai knows the power of bullshitting too well to ever take it at face value—one doesn’t trust a sharp blade simply because one is good at swinging it.

so when you tell him you love him? if you told him you loved him ten times a day, he’d take it as his due (because it fuels his ego and he needs validation.) maybe even say “love you too,” if he’s in a generous mood. but he’s already analysing: why did you say that now? what are you trying to reassure him of? kai just can’t switch off the paranoid part of his brain that parses sincerity like code. he wants to believe you; he wants it to be simple. but nothing is. not for him.

sometimes kai thinks about how easily you could lie. how easily he lies. and he hates that his own doubt chokes the love he tries to feel cleanly. you’ve witnessed him spin lies with so much passion that it felt like gospel. seen him unearth confessions from trembling lips and interlocked pinkies. you know the voice he uses when he wants something. and kai knows you hear that same voice when he says “i love you.” even when he genuinely means it. ˊˎ-

────୨ৎ────

acts of service ➛ ˗ˏˋ kai doesn’t believe in love that doesn’t do something. words mean very little to him unless they’re paired with action—people lie; they say what they think you want to hear (he’s an virtuoso in this aspect.)

you could tell him you adore him every day and it wouldn’t land the way something practical would: plug in his dead phone, fixing his tie, remember his preference for food, not letting anyone insult his ideology in front of you—even when defending him feels like a betrayal of your values and dignity—and doing it anyway... now that’s real dedication. he’ll often show love by doing things for you in return because that’s his metric for affection—if he didn’t care, he wouldn’t bother. ˊˎ-

────୨ৎ────

quality time ➛ ˗ˏˋ quality time is, unequivocally, kai’s primary love language, the clearest, cleanest line that can be drawn between love and order. he doesn’t need any of that performative bullshit society has programmed into people’s idea of romance. his idea of intimacy is pragmatic—two people aligned in purpose, parallel activity.

if he’s going out, you’re coming too. there won’t be any explanation, just a curt “get in,” or leave the door open long enough for you to follow. he needs someone to bounce ideas off of or just exist next to in the car. you don’t even have to talk (in fact, he prefers when you don’t.) your presence just help him think better.

kai builds closeness through utility, and this is proven by the way he keeps you near in mundane ways. he likes when you do chores around him—not just because of his regressive ideas about gender roles (though those are there) but it satisfies both his need for control and his attachment issues.

if you’re not around, he gets irritable and agitated. paces around, second-guesses himself. will try and act like it’s business as usual but he’s waiting for you to come back. ˊˎ-

────୨ৎ────

physical touch ➛ ˗ˏˋ this one’s complicated. not in theory—he enjoys physical touch—but he’s more comfortable only he’s the one initiating it. sex is the easiest form to navigate, and like any competent cult leader, kai knows how to manipulate with proximity. the old in-out in-out is easy, but what’s harder is affection for its own sake. his personality preference for touch is the kind that affirms possession. the hand closing lightly around your throat, fingers under your chin, tilting your face up.

kai doesn’t like being touched by surprise. if you reach for him unannounced, he might tense up or even flinch—but he’ll let you, because you’re the only one allowed. his followers already know you’re his, but he can’t let them see just how much he’s yours. being seen as smitten would chip away at his authority, and the divine ruler can’t afford to be seen as weak. so if you get too affectionate in front of the others, he’ll shove you off with a snide comment.

it goes without saying that he doesn’t do PDA. public is performance; private is truth. you are his truth. that said, he lets things slide in private—your legs draped over his lap on the couch. him resting a hand at your lower back when you both walk into a room.

but behind closed doors? he doesn’t bother to hide how wants you. all the fucking time. not even in the sexual sense, (though that too.) he lets things slide. your legs thrown over his lap on the couch. your fingers slipping into his hair while he reads. his hand resting instinctively at the small of your back when you pass behind him. kai can be strangely clingy, too. he likes when you stand between his legs and hug him, his face pressed into your chest. fingers toying with the ends of your hair when he’s thinking.

of course, he will never admit it (he’s too proud for that) but there’s a difference between tolerating and needing. and he needs you. ˊˎ-

────୨ৎ────

receiving gifts ➛ ˗ˏˋ gifts are low on his list, he didn’t grow up scraping by (his family was more than well off) but even then, kai never saw the point in material things beyond their function. now he’s got investments and crypto doing well, he’s sitting on more than most people. but that hasn’t changed his attitude. he’s not stingy, but sentimentality attached to objects feels juvenile to him.

he’ll hand you a generous stack of cash at the beginning of the month for “groceries, bills, whatever”—and the rest? all yours. he won’t keep tabs on where it goes. your comfort is his responsibility. if you needed him to spell that out, he wouldn’t be your boyfriend. when he does give gifts, they’re practical. a copy of a book he just read and thinks you’d like too, because intellectual conversations matter. or a gadget you mentioned in passing: a fitbit, airpods, noise-cancelling headphones…whatever would make your life run more efficiently. that’s what matters to him. he doesn’t do flowers. what’s the point? they die at the end of the week.

birthdays or milestones are an exception. not because he suddenly believes in sentiment of course, but because he understands optics and appearances. and, in a quieter sense, he understands you. in order to impress him, you often pretend you’re above such frivolities, that you don’t care about that stuff, but he knows that you do. and in your case, his sexist instincts aren’t totally off-base. ˊˎ-

 fear-is-truth 2025 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[mysecret02]

Hello lovelies!

Trapeze artists Dick and Jason.

Just imagine Haley's used to be about two families marrying together due to financial reasons but over time other issues started to rise and a generation and reaching European fame later they separate again.

Both keep the name because it's already famous and start touring on different sides of the continent.

The Haley's with the Grayson family becomes much more famous and starts touring around the world while the other Haley's stays mostly in Europe or Middle-East.

Generations are passing by and not many remembers the connection anymore, those who do only use it for marketing purposes so when the Graysons die Bruce doesn't even think about looking into the rumour about things hundred years ago.

Even if they were true the two Circuses haven't interacted in many years so it wouldn't be relevant and maybe he really wants to keep little Dickie.

Then comes the Court of Owls and nothing leads back to the other Circus in Europe because the deal was made after the separation.

Then one time Dick needs to go undercover, maybe agent 37, but the point is that he sees the other Haley's and after the mission he goes back in hopes of seeing the place he considered his home and what he didn't have anymore.

Maybe it's self-blame or curiousity that leads him to the show but he sees it and it has a very different program so he gets a bit sad, maybe it's better this way, until the trapeze artist comes on and it's nearly the same routine.

He watches intently and feeling just like a kid when he used to see his father practice his part alone than.... there's nothing, there's no part for two people.

His heart aches because he can't stop seeing the part where her mother would have jumped and caught his father's hands with love and admiration on her beautiful face.

Maybe that's why he went to find the artist. He walked through the river of people he so enjoyed getting lost in, stopping to give a pat to the friendly elephant on the way to the back.

He asked about the show and turns out they only had one trapeze artist and the trapeze. The artist wants to teacher a young couple who were brought up in the Circus and would like to take over, but they would need a pair to safely show them how to do so.

Dick wants to help but doesn't know how to. Pairs need to work together for years and trust or at least know eachother's moves and style, he couldn't do it with the old artist. There isn't anyone who would know the routines, it was only him, his mum and dad, and Jason.

Jason. He had taught him when he had given him Robin. Robin meant his family and he wanted to fly with his family again so he taught his first little brother and Jason wanted to be able to do it so much, he wanted Dick's approval so deeply he practiced until they could move in sync and do it together.

That night his fingers hover over the call button, than around three he makes the call.

Jason doesn't understand why he needs to go to some small European city where even the trains don't stop but begrudgingly agrees to go just because Dick rarely asks for help.

Two days later he stands in front of a Circus tent? and suddenly sees Dick in a God awful uniform, like it's really horrible, showing nearly everything.

After Dick explains everything -no the clothes are absolutely unexplainable and is it really neccessery?- he is floored. He travelled to the middle of nowhere so Dickie could play pretend with him, again?

-Pray tell, why can't the pretender do it?

-Because he doesn't know do routine.

-Why? Didn't you teach the new birdies how to fly?

Silence.

- It was a family tradition, to teach the younger ones. After failing Robin, failing my little brother I couldn't do it again.

And Jason is a weak man to those puppy dog eyes, even if it's a twisted kind of logic and Dick is nearly thirty, he couldn't say no.

So they start to practice again. They spend most of their time on the trapezes, when they don't practice they argue or talk to the people of the Circus.

Dick seems to be happy and Jason really enjoys getting to know all the culture and traditions braided into each other from all around the Globe.

After a few weeks they start to train the new couple. It's harder for first timers but they are learning fast and Dick and Jason gets closer to each other, finally talking instead of shooting and not having the place to run away for a long time it gets easier.

The night before the couple's debut they both find their ways to the training ground, Dick frantically checking the ropes and trying to make them strudier, trying to rewrite history, Jason worrying about his big brother who has given him something special.

They make the routine a final time. As the light shines on them being in the otherwise dark tent Dick can imagine how it was doing the same jumps with his family, now two decades later doing the same thing.

He can feel the faint smell of popcorn and dust and leather with chalk. He can hear the breaths breaking and faintly see someone cover their eyes in the coat of their loved one, feel the grip on the tape on the metal bar and he jumps.

He is flying again, it's different than on rooftops, it's a different kind of adrenaline and freedom, it's his life, it's what he had shared with a smiling little kid who was so happy to be considered part of the family, the same smile looking at him now and opening his hands to safely catch him.

The next night the new couple shows up on the stage in the air and gets to experience it for the first time. They don't talk, they don't tell on each other for crying, they don't wait until the end of the show.

They go home to Gotham and don't tell the others, it's their little secret now, one that can continue living on because of them.

If they ever go back nobody knows, if they ever disappear for a few hours nobody knows, if they donate anonymously nobody needs to know it either.

"Would you really tell on us Barbie?"

*sigh*

*click*

O: At least they are getting on now.

[16wolke11]

GRAVITY GIRL - Kimi Antonelli

A/N I really love this one-shot, so I hope you will like it too!

WORDS: 1748

_____ 

If you had asked me three weeks ago if I believed in love at first sight, I would have laughed loudly, maybe even falling into a giggle again when thinking about it. I was always the practical type, with schedules, checklists, and colour-coded notes. Finishing school with the highest grades is my only priority right now. Being spontaneous is definitely not on my list until that last exam is written.

So when my brother George begged me to take a break from my revision sheets and just spend a bit of time with him at the tracks, "You don't have to be in school anyway and you can learn wherever you are," were his words and still I hesitated. He might be right, but all of this sounded messy, unstructured. Just unlike me.

But sitting at my desk day by day, only revising what was taught in classes of the last years slowly burns me out. It walks up to me and will drag me down when I don't bring some variety into my day.

So, I went with George. Still reluctant and grumpy, but armed with my laptop, noise-cancelling headphones, my sheets with notes and the plan on when I have to revise what.

Well and then he came.

It was on the third day I was with George, and I stepped out for a walk, convincing myself that some sun would wake me up better than the fourth coffee. The paddock is still sleepy, bathed in the morning sunlight and it looks oddly peaceful. I pass the other motorhomes, seeing someone here and there, but I just keep walking until I trip.

Shoe getting caught on the edge of the asphalt and down I went. Arms trying to get in front of me to protect the fall, sunglasses hitting the ground and then there he was. A guy on a scooter, scrolling through the paddock. One moment, I was bracing myself for the impact, and the next, strong arms were wrapped around me. Just like a scene taken straight out of a cheesy romance novel.

"Gotcha." He grins, like this is the best moment of his week and I just blink at him. His hair is messy, his skin sun-kissed and his eyes glimmer with mischief. He wears one of the Mercedes team shirts and I groan on the inside, knowing that this might make me the giggle of the day.

"Uh...thanks." I mutter, trying to smooth out my shirt, cheeks being on fire from how red I turn.

"No problem, you okay?" He asks, tilting his head to the side and I need a moment to answer.

"Fine...just gravity."

He laughs, a soft laugh that makes others grin too. "It's a real bastard, huh?"

I roll my eyes, but then see that he already got my sunglasses off the ground without me noticing. He offers them to me, and I take them without hesitating.

"Nice save by the way." He says, confusing me. What does he mean?

"You saved me?" I ask, eyebrows furrowed. This wasn't my achievement, but his.

"Exactly." He winks, swinging himself back on his scooter. "If you keep falling for strangers, try to pick the ugly ones, so you can keep me in mind." And just like that, he rolls away. I stare after him, kind of flustered, kind of annoyed and more interested than I want to admit.

His name is Kimi. Of course, I had to run into my brother's teammate before properly meeting him and of course, I didn't manage to remember him when he kept me from falling. But of course, he is sticking around in the garage when I walk around with George and comes over to me like we have been friends for years now.

"Hey, gravity girl." Kimi grins, making me groan.

"Please don't let that nickname stick."

"You are watching where you are going, or do I need to start carrying around some bubble wrap?"

George raises one of his eyebrows curiously but stays silent. I just sigh, before asking. "You are Kimi, right?"

"Guilty as charged. And you are?"

I tell him my name, before adding "George's sister."

"I figured that one out." Kimi says, nodding his head at George, but has no shame in flirting in front of my older brother.

"How?"

"Not many carry those pretty eyes around."

I should have walked away after that. I had stuff to learn. Spreadsheets to learn on my laptop, but instead I found myself staying on his side of the garage, listening to him telling stories about racing cars and making bad jokes.

Over the next weeks, I keep running into him. It is just a coincidence, I try to tell myself. Small paddock, same team, limited places to be at. But my excuses grew thinner every time Kimi makes me laugh until my side hurts, or we just share some lunch on top of the hospitality when he should be at an interview instead.

He was charming, funny and flirted with me shamelessly.

I learned that he grew up in the Mercedes family and had a second family when he was with Prema. That he usually spends all his free time doing anything related to racing and that he learned to cook from his Nonna.

The song Accidentally in Love plays on speaker when we share another lunch in the hospitality and Kimi smirks when he asks me, "Do you know that song?" I listen to it just for a moment, before a blush appears on my cheeks. "It's like number five on one of my playlists." Kimi smiles at me, before there is something else on his face, something vulnerable.

"Feel like that a little bit, doesn't it?" He asks, "You and me..."

His voice trails off and I want to scoff, say something sarcastic, but my heart stumbles and all I can mutter is.

"A little."

We weren't a couple, we hadn't even kissed, but somehow, I found myself rearranging my days around Kimis. Working when he is in the car, has meetings or is occupied otherwise. In between, we would meet up, just taking a walk, driving around on his scooter. I even let him drag me to the kitchen of the hospitality, convincing one of the chefs that we could cook in there.

It was spontaneous.

It was chaotic.

It wasn't me.

But for the first time, messy felt right.

Then, during one of our lunches on top of the hospitality came the rain. Not a storm, not just some droplets, one of those wild downpours that makes everything smell petrichor. We were just laughing about something when the sky cracked open. I squealed, trying to get up as quickly as possible, searching for shelter from the rain, Kimi following me.

"Great, that's what I get for not bringing a jacket." I huff, pushing my soaked hair out of my face while Kimi just grins.

"Dance with me."

"What?"

"Dance with me in the rain."

I stare at him for a moment, debating if he is really serious. "You know, people don't do that? It's just a thing they do in movies and books."

"It can be real if we do it."

And somehow that convinced me to let him pull me back into the pouring rain. Kimi twirls me around, a bit clumsily but still lovingly, singing off-key, making me laugh with every twirl. Then, somewhere between the laughing, our eyes lock. It's like being pulled by an invisible string before our lips meet.

The kiss wasn't slow, cinematic or soft. It was messy, wet from the rain, but still full of warmth and the best of it, it was real.

Kissing in the rain might be straight up a cliche, but it was perfect for us.

The next morning, I was drinking my coffee in the hospitality area alone. The temperature dropped after the rain last night, like it is a mirror of my mind. I shouldn't feel anxious about that kiss with Kimi. I should be revising, learning for my exam and thinking about what comes next. Instead, that kiss plays in my head over and over again. Then George joins me.

"You and Kimi, huh?"

"Maybe?" I ask, trying to figure out if he is okay with that, but George just smiles at me.

"You like him?"

"I didn't mean to." I sigh, making my brother laugh softly.

"That's how it usually happens."

The last evening of my time with George has come and I, of course, spent it with Kimi. We are on the balcony of his hotel room, staring at the stars.

"I don't want to go." I whisper, something I wouldn't have said a few weeks ago. Where I wanted nothing more than to go back home to my study environment, but I like what I have here.

"Then don't." Kimi just mutters and I turn my head around with a sigh.

"That is not how it works."

"Why not?"

"Because life, exams, reality."

Kimi is quiet and I know he does understand what I say, having to face his own exams soon as well, but we don't want to face reality again. We want to keep sharing time around a schedule, not have to part ways that just started to intervene.

"Can I come visit you?"

"You want to come to me when it would be easier for me to just join George again?"

Kimi nods. "Want to see where you live. Crash your time schedule." He hesitates before adding a whispered. "Steal your heart all over again."

"You are assuming you already have it." I tease him, but Kimi just reaches for my hand and laces his fingers with mine.

"You are the one who fell, gravity girl."

The next morning, I had to leave, but my head was filled with memories now and not only with the stuff for the exam. The feeling of Kimi's lips still lingering on mine and back home, I didn't lose his presence either.

The tight learning schedule came back, but something had shifted. I started to do little tasks in between again, something to loosen everything up, even danced on the balcony in pouring rain just to have the memory of Kimi close.

And every few nights, he would call with FaceTime.

Maybe I didn't mean to fall, maybe I didn't accidentally fall in love, but now that I have experienced something that wasn't planned, I don't want to go back anymore. 

[miidnighters]

Ah, yeah. A light dusting of colour paints Flynn's cheeks, but he tries valiantly to ignore it. Especially when Cass keeps teasing him.

"Yeah, yeah. Maybe you're just so rusty and you need the practice, huh? Nothin' to do with me at all." Flimsy, flimsy excuses, but Flynn had to say something. "Besides, since this rehearsal date was your idea, I assume I get free dinner out of it?"

Cass' legs stretch back out, and Flynn feels a little better for the contact. "We'll do Saturday, then. Prime date night, and gives us exactly a week before the party to sort out any bugs that crop up."

The idea of the other doing him that favour has Flynn snorting out a laugh. "The waitstaff would probably spit in our food for being that gross couple if you did. Please, for the sake of our dinner, control yourself."

But - oh? After desert? Surely Cass couldn't mean?

Flynn wipes that thought from his mind. "Every snugglebear gets met with a lover boy or whatever other ridiculous shit Siri suggests."

Cass presses a knuckle to his mouth, biting back a grin as he listens — and then laughs again, low and warm, when Flynn mentions enjoying the back and forth. The kind of laugh that says he caught that, whether Flynn meant to let it slip or not. "Oh, see — all I'm hearing is that you want me to flirt with you," he teases, voice just a touch more mischievous now. "You're inviting it. Practically begging for it. Dress rehearsal my ass, this is just your sneaky way of getting me to wine and dine you, isn't it?" He stretches his legs under the table again, casually bumping Flynns knee as if to reclaim the contact he'd pulled back earlier — grounding the moment before it could get too serious. "Dinner this weekend works for me," he adds, easy and sure. "You pick the night. I'll handle the booking. And I'll even resist calling you Snugglebear in front of the waitstaff." A beat, then: "No promises about after dessert, though."

[aquatic-armageddons]

The mercs with a terminally ill s/o

---

CW: mentions of death & grief

---

A/N: Honestly, writing this brought me to tears, because it reminded me of my coworker whom I lost some time ago (his death was somewhat expected but still sudden). But I wanted to do it anyway, and it made me feel a little better :')

---

SCOUT

For someone who looks so headstrong, Jeremy seems like he handles grief very poorly (i.e. lashing out, acting and saying things without thinking, etc.)

This boy would probably be in one of the worst mental states of his life.

He may even ask Medic to try saving you, even if you're beyond help.

But he knows he has to prepare for life without you.

He'd still want to keep you with him at all times, even after your passing; if you decided to be cremated, he'd want your ashes in a special dog tag necklace.

He'd visit you every single day in the hospital/hospice, telling you silly jokes and bringing you snacks/plush toys. Hell, he'd still visit you, even after you've been laid to rest.

SOLDIER

With all of the time he's spent in the war(s), Jane has lost quite a lot of close comrades. He's desensitized himself to it all so he doesn't get overcome with grief.

He knows that death is an inevitable part of life, so he tries to live each day with no regrets.

And he'll try to instill that mindset in you as well.

Jane will do his best to make you as comfortable as possible, though it's extremely difficult given the circumstances.

Hand holding, soft forehead kisses or pretty much any kind of physical affection is a must.

But he'll finally break down once you actually pass, but his tears won't be of just grief. They're tears of relief, knowing you don't have to suffer anymore.

PYRO

It will take some time before they accept you'll be gone soon.

It's almost as if they're already experiencing that first stage of grief (denial).

Pyroland won't ever be the same once the dust settles.

They'll be clingy for sure, not leaving you out of their sight if they can help it.

You don't have the heart to tell Pyro you need a little space.

And it's better that you don't; they feel crushed already as it is, and you don't want to kick them while they're down.

Let Pyro smother you as much as they want, and give them all the attention you can.

DEMOMAN

This man's coping mechanisms vary.

On one hand, he'll spend as much time with you as he can, talking with you for hours.

But he may also seclude himself in his room and drink the stress away.

Random crying spells will occur on and off, in the weeks leading to your death.

He'd definitely go on drunken rants as well.

Tavish will initially want to avoid the reality, but the team will convince him otherwise.

Constant reassurance from you is the best thing you can do for him at this point.

HEAVY

Mikhail would have little to no reaction upon learning the news of your illness...at first.

He looks like he'd have it all together when with the rest of the team.

But once you're actually gone, he just breaks down and is inconsolable.

Quiet cries, burying his face in his hands, he just couldn't hold it together at your wake/funeral.

Mikhail will vent out his feelings to Medic, as he's the one person he respects the most. He may also try to ask him to bring you back.

But in the meantime, try to talk to him as often as you can.

As much as this guy likes his alone time, just try and break some of those walls down.

ENGINEER

Dell would have the same reaction as Heavy, though he wouldn't shed as many tears.

This man is one of the more sensible mercs on the team, so he'd try to be realistic about dealing with grief.

But that doesn't take the pain away.

He's obviously devastated, but chooses not to show it.

You know he's hurting, so just try to hold him and tell him everything will eventually be alright.

But don't ramble on; just you being next to him is more than enough.

MEDIC

Oh lord.

Where do I even start?

Herbert is practically the most emotionally unstable man on the team.

He'd definitely be stuck in denial, like brainwashing himself into believing you're not dying.

Despite how much everyone tries to get through to him, he acts very pigheaded and shuts down anyone.

He needs a serious reality check, and the only one who's capable of that is Heavy.

Once it finally sinks in, he just falls apart; sobbing, throwing equipment, etc.

Don't be shocked if he trashes his whole lab.

You're the only one who's able to calm him down.

Don't leave him alone for a second.

SNIPER

Mundy is almost as emotionless as they come.

...or at least that's how others perceive him.

Don't expect much of a reaction out of him, as disappointing as that sounds.

After everything passes, he'd try to go on with his daily life.

But once he's alone in his watchtower, his walls will finally crumble.

He can cry as much as he needs to in that space, because he knows no one can see him.

It's impressive how well he can hide his grief.

Just give him some time to be alone with his thoughts, and he'll come around on his own.

SPY

As the (unofficial) leader of the team, Spy feels as if he needs to set an example for everyone.

Death is a part of life, and time waits for no one.

He's pretty much in that final stage of grief almost immediately.

But just because he shows a lack of emotion, don't believe he doesn't care.

He's sad, don't get me wrong.

More than likely, he'd seclude himself in his smoking room.

Try to visit him whenever you're able to; it makes the situation less depressing for him.

[artdonalldson]

On and Off Court

Art Donaldson x Reader

CONTENT: Stanford!Art, No use of pronouns, no detailed physical descriptions except reader has hair, a bit of angst with a happy ending, mild language, possibly inaccurate college stuff, a little Patrick/Tashi name drops for fun, vague references to feelings of being left out, lots of banter and soft moments on and off the court, slow-burn friends to lovers.

SUMMARY: Art Donaldson needs help with English. You need help not totally sucking at tennis. What starts as a simple exchange slowly turns into late practices, quiet moments, and the kind of connection neither of you planned for.

WORD COUNT: ~2600

A/N: Sooooo, in honor of Challengers anniversary, I'm posting my very first Challengers fic! Kinda based on this post I made a while ago. Sorry if this sucks, English is not my first language and idk a lot about college stuff in America and I'm not totally sure my research was good so yeah lol. Anyway, I'm so excited to finally share this with you all, I hope you like it as much as I do 🥺

Art Donaldson is fifteen minutes late.

Again.

You're not surprised, honestly. He'll come in and say he was stuck with practice or some silly excuse, but anyway, it was you who offered to give him the tutoring.

You’ve already arranged the chairs in your favorite study room at the library, highlighted key points from the essay rubric, and opened the annotated Frankenstein you forced him to borrow last week. The empty chair beside you, however, remains insultingly empty.

You don’t even hear him walk in as you scroll on your phone to kill time — just feel the gust of air when the door swings open and the telltale thunk of a duffle bag hitting the floor.

"Before you say anything," he says, holding up a peace offering in the form of an iced drink, "I got stuck in the traffic trying to get these” he gestures to the drinks. “I was behind a marching band. Like a literal one. Who has a parade on a Tuesday?"

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh, how convenient. And so tragic.” you say as you roll your eyes playfully for dramatic effect.

You can hear him let out a soft chuckle as he sets the drink down in front of you with a grin, then slouches into the chair beside yours, sipping on his own drink. "You know, some people would appreciate a little sympathy.”

“Some people would appreciate a fine essay ,” you say, flipping to the page where he last gave up. “Let’s start with that.”

Tutoring with Art started as a joke. A few sarcastic comments during a group study session, one muttered “you write like shit”, and suddenly he was texting you for “just a quick look” at his paper.

Now, it's a standing trade: English help in exchange for weekly tennis lessons. You’re still terrible, but you like how he laughs when you mess up. You like that he never makes you feel dumb — not when you forget which way to hold the racket, not even when you suggest Victor Frankenstein just needed better boundaries.

You also like the way he listens. Really listens. Like your analysis actually matters. Like you matter.

Dangerous territory.

---

Two days later, you’re on the campus courts, winded and mildly sweaty, pointing your racket at him like a sword.

“You’re literally sabotaging me.”

Art wipes his forehead with the edge of his sleeve. “You keep hitting the ball into the net”

“It was a metaphor.”

“It was a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’ve decided you’re a bad coach.”

He smirks. “I’ve decided you’re a menace.”

You’re still smiling when you both collapse on the bench, passing a water bottle back and forth like a peace treaty.

Art leans back, eyes squinting up at the dusk sky. “Pat showed up today.”

You glance over at him. “Zweig?”

“Yeah.” His jaw tightens a little. “Didn’t even text. Just waltzed in like he owns the fuckin’ court. Said he was here to ‘check on the vibes.’”

You hide a smile. “Oh, so Tashi then”

Art groans. “Obviously. He always says he’s here to say hi, but he’s just looking for her. I swear, the guy only remembers I exist when I’ve got an extra churro.”

Of course he told you about Patrick, he told you all about him, about the MRTA and the Junior's US Open, and of course he told you about Tashi Duncan and the whole hotel room thing.

He also mentioned the way their friendship changed after Patrick won her number. For some reason he felt comfortable venting with you.

You nudge him with your shoulder. “Must be hard. Being the most dramatic tennis player on campus.”

He laughs — a full, head-thrown-back kind of laugh — and for a moment, the silence between you feels different. Charged.

You look away first.

He doesn't.

Eyes lingering on you a little longer than they should.

You pretend you didn't notice.

Then, he finally looks away.

---

Later, he walks you back to your dorm. Your hands brush once, and neither of you pull away. Just a few meters from your door, you stop, your voice low.

“Hey,” you say, “you actually wrote a good paragraph today.”

Art rubs the back of his neck. “You make it easier. I don’t know. The way you explain things — it’s like I can finally see what it’s supposed to be.”

You swallow. “Yeah. That’s how it feels when you talk about tennis.”

He’s quiet. Just looking at you in that way he does sometimes — like you’re a puzzle he wants to figure out slowly.

And then: “Another round next week, right?”

You smile. “On the court or on the page?”

“Both,” he says. Then adds, a little softer, “If you’ll still have me.”

You nod.

And when he walks away, you find yourself already counting the days until you see his charming smile again.

---

You’re terrible at tennis.

You know this. Art knows this. The entire Stanford tennis team probably knows this too.

But somehow, every Thursday afternoon, you still show up for the lessons.

And somehow, every Thursday afternoon, Art still smiles when he sees you.

Today, he’s already at the court when you arrive, bouncing a ball off his racket with absent precision. His baseball cap backwards and his red Stanford t-shirt on, a white turtleneck underneath, a sighs you're already used to.

There's a duffle bag tossed unceremoniously on the nearest bench, a textbook sticking out the side like it’s fighting for its life.

You drop your own bag next to his, contemplating the scene for a moment. “Did the literature monster get you again?”

He shakes his head, tossing the ball high and catching it without looking. “Nah. Passed my midterm, thanks to you.” He pauses, almost sheepish. “Actually did pretty decent.”

You give a dramatic gasp. “Was that a compliment? To me?”

Art chuckles. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

You step onto the court, adjusting your grip the way he showed you. He's watching you — not your racket, not your stance. You.

"Alright, coach," you tease. "Lay it on me."

He tosses you a ball. “Today we’re working on not sending projectiles into outer space”

You swat it immediately into the net.

“Solid start,” he deadpans.

---

About an hour later, you’re both collapsed on the bench, sweaty and laughing and sipping from the same battered water bottle, it feels almost like a ritual at this point.

His baseball cap is somewhere on the floor, golden curls sticking to his forehead with sweat, cheeks flushed, and you know he looks gorgeous like that — not that you'd admit it to him, though.

The sun’s starting to sink and painting the court in gold as Art leans back, wrist draped over his eyes. "God. I needed this."

You nudge him with your knee. "Tough week?"

He doesn’t answer right away. Just exhales, slow and heavy.

"Patrick and Tashi," he says finally. “It’s like... they're living on their own planet now. I really feel left out everytime I try to get close to them.”

You wait, giving him space to unravel it at his own pace.

"Zweig was supposed to hit the court with me this morning. Blew me off. Guess where he was?"

You hum. "Stuck at Tashi's dorm again?"

Art snorts. “Exactly. And Tash... well, she’s the star of the tennis team, the freaking Duncanator as they call her” he pauses, “I don't know how they are still together… I don't think she’s ever needed anyone, you know? Not the way I..."

He cuts himself off, frowning at the pavement.

You tilt your head. "Not the way you need people?"

He shrugs, a small, defeated motion. "Maybe."

For a second, you see it: past the big smiles and easy charm, the part of Art that wants to be chosen. That maybe he's tired of competing for scraps of their attention. That maybe, deep down, just wants someone to love him like he loves, to need him like he needs.

You set your racket down, careful, deliberate.

Then softly, the words come out of your lips "You have me." You're not even sure you said it out loud, but it felt like the right thing to say at the moment.

It feels too small, too simple. But when he turns his head to look at you, there’s something raw in his eyes. Something that says it matters anyway.

Art bumps your knee with his. "Yeah," he says. "And I'm lucky to have you"

---

Later that night, you're in your dorm, half-asleep studying for some upcoming exam, and maybe a little distracted thinking of that conversation with Art earlier.

I'm lucky to have you.

These little words are on repeat in your head till the train of thoughts is interrupted by the notification sound of your phone.

> Art Donaldson:

u free tmw? gym’s boring without u embarrassing urself

> You:

shocking u’d miss my tennis disasters

what’s in it for me?

> Art:

loser buys smoothies

deal?

> You:

deal.

You set your phone down, heart stupidly loud in your ears, louder than the thwack of the tennis ball against your racket.

Maybe he’s not gravitating to their planet anymore.

Maybe — just maybe — he’s starting to orbit yours.

---

You’re getting better at tennis.

Not good — no one would dare to say that — but definitely better.

You've managed to serve without launching the ball into the next county, you can rally for at least three strokes, and once — once — you even won a point against Art.

He teased you for a week straight.

But now, under the heavy, humid press of early May, the courts are quieter. Finals loom, summer plans scatter your friends to internships and hometowns. And still, you and Art keep meeting here, as if you made a promise neither of you ever said out loud.

Tonight, the campus feels half-asleep.

The lamps around the court buzz.

The sky is deep blue velvet.

You're hitting lazy shots back and forth when Art suddenly jogs toward the net, balancing the ball on his racket.

"Alright, literary genius," he says, smirking. "End of semester final challenge."

You raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

This sounds interesting, typical of Art.

He spins the racket around like he'd holding a lightsaber in his hand. "If you get three volleys past me — three — I'll buy you dinner."

You squint. "And if I don't?"

He leans forward, resting his arms casually on the net.

"I still buy you dinner," he says, a little too easily.

You laugh, heart stuttering. “That’s rigged.”

"Maybe I want it to be," he says, almost under his breath.

You pretend not to feel the way your stomach flips. You take the challenge anyway. You lose — gloriously. By the end of it, you’re breathless, doubled over, laughing so hard you can’t stand straight.

Art catches the ball in one hand and tosses it aside.

"You," he says, grinning, "are the best worst tennis player I’ve ever seen."

You salute him with your racket. " Think I’ll put that on my resume."

---

Later on, dinner turns into ice cream. Ice cream turns into sitting on the edge of the bed of his dorm, passing a pint back and forth.

Art is quiet for a while, staring out over the quad where the old ceiling fan is on, an attempt to keep the room fresh.

"Remember when we started this?" he says suddenly.

You lick the edge of the spoon, thinking. "You mean when you almost failed English and decided it was my problem?"

He laughs, but there’s something softer under it.

"I was... kinda a mess," he admits. "Still am, sometimes."

You nudge his shoulder. "Nobody's perfect"

He’s silent again, fiddling with a crumpled napkin. You watch him, the way the light turns the ends of his messy curls shine like gold.

Then he says, very quietly:

"Sometimes it felt like... everybody else was already paired off, you know? Patrick and Tashi, the team guys, even random people in classes. Like everyone had their person. And I was just... floating around."

You swallow.

"You're not floating around anymore," you say.

He finally looks at you — really looks at you — and there it is. All of it. The thing you’ve been pretending not to see for weeks, months. The reason your heart feels like it’s racing even when you’re standing still.

You don't move. You hardly breathe.

"Yeah," he says, voice rough. "I’m not."

Slow, careful, he leans in.

You could stop him. You could joke. You could pretend you don't feel this like lightning burning under your skin.

But you don’t stop him.

You don't even try.

You tilt your chin up and meet him halfway.

The kiss is gentle at first, — shy, tentative, like a question.

When you don't pull away, Art sighs against your mouth like he's been holding his breath for a year.

He tastes like vanilla and salt, and something sweeter on his tongue that you can't name.

His hand finds your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw like he needs to memorize you.

And it feels like a thousand fireworks are going off inside you, like this moment was truly meant to be, and now that is happening, it feels surreal.

When you finally pull apart, you're forehead to forehead, both of you smiling like idiots, he whispers:

"You’re my person."

You squeeze his hand.

"You always were."

---

It’s been five days since the kiss.

Not that you’re counting.

(You are. You’re absolutely counting.)

Five days, two tennis practices, one english tutoring, a very intense smoothie debate, and exactly fourteen texts where Art somehow found excuses to send you memes at two in the morning.

Now you’re back on the court, empty and golden in the late afternoon, pretending to practice your serve.

You toss the ball. Miss.

You toss again. Miss worse.

"You’re overthinking," Art calls, lounging against the net while adjusting his baseball cap.

You glare at him. "Maybe I’m just allergic to serve"

He pushes off the net and hops over the net, not even bothering to walk around, that familiar easy grin tugging at his mouth.

"You're not allergic," he says. "You're just tense."

He steps close enough that you have to look him in the eye.

Close enough that you can smell the faint, sun-warmed scent of his hoodie.

"Let me show you," he says.

Before you can protest, he’s stepping behind you, hands light on your waist, guiding your stance. His voice is low, soft against your ear.

"Relax your shoulders," he murmurs.

"Don’t force it. Just... trust it."

You could argue. You could snark.

But instead, you just breathe.

You toss the ball up in the air — and this time, when you swing, it sails cleanly over the net.

A small, surprised laugh bursts out of you. You turn, grinning.

Art's face is pure pride — and something warmer, something softer.

"Told ya," he says.

You don't think about it. You just reach out, grabbing the front of his hoodie and pulling him in for a kiss.

It’s clumsy and fast and perfect.

When you break apart, he leans his forehead against yours, chuckling.

"You’re dangerous when you win," he says.

You grin. "Guess you’ll have to keep coaching me. Forever."

He brushes a strand of hair from your cheek, serious now. "Deal."

And for the first time — maybe ever — you believe him.

Not just for this semester.

Not just for Stanford.

For everything that comes next.

THE END