#not how i imagined it and some things need fixing but oh well

[warningsine]

HACKS • S3E1 | The Story by Brandi Carlile

[emilydorp]

Most of the new VIPs are honestly super annoying. They think GD’s using Tabi’s fame, but they don’t get that those two are legit soulmates and really care about each other. Nobody loves Tabi more than GD.

And Nyongtory? Totally fake and made-up. It’s just fan service to please fans. GD never shows his love like that, and honestly, in the last documentary, they just showed how the fan service between them works.

But GTOP was never fake like that. From the very beginning, their love was real and you could feel it. It was so obvious that even the Korean national network, Mnet, made a video about them.

Girl PREACH. PREACH. Say it louder for EVERYONE cuz it’s not only the people in the back that need to hear this!! *Converts this blog into a place that simply cheers you on*. These are the anons I NEED, these are the anons I want :))).

Also you’re so right about GRI, especially towards the end, when these shippers made videos called “Ri and GD’s money, a love story” and were on copium after Middle Fingers up dropped and see him singing it as a “good” thing to this DAY like Gurl stfu and admit you were wrong—

Anyways. Here’s possible (?) cuteness:

[unproduciblesmackdown]

being alive at the time i gleaned some general elements abt encanto but never actually heard we don't talk about bruno beyond awareness it existed popping off & i think i heard like the title recited off key off rhythm but in a way that indicates speak singing nonetheless lol so upon experiencing it it's like oh but it's the Verses? while the last refrain goes harder but prior to that it's comparatively underwhelming to said verses which feels appropriate like verses / pieces of a larger picture & that a "we don't talk about him" as a disappointing Lid on infinitely richer more characterful & dynamic "but: talking about him" instances. like well personally it'd be like um seven foot frame....anyway besides being able to firsthand go like oh damn Real (the kind of thing you know exists if alive at the time) it's like alright hang on lol. one thing when a core theme is yeah like "is it a refuge if 'especial' vulnerability ultimately gets pushed out rather than made safer" subset like the parties whose even observation of truths (problems) & drawing attention to them is seen as Ruining Things, like if you're painted as Making futures that aren't simply what's desired or reassuring rather than a guidance via just observing & sharing the truth. but then it's like whaddaya mean living in fear of bruno stuttering and stumbling you could always hear him sort of muttering and mumbling lmao like now that's just Association between the Truth Perceiving & Telling behavior & behavior that's just apparently distinctive of the same person. & like Not Accidentally when [what if people were magic] specifics are obviously primarily abt a metaphorical meaning & like, indeed it was made clear like oh this situation isn't Just b/c [boo we hate your prophecies] & that [an Ability that isn't directed towards what anyone Wants / is "weird" even by these magic standards] isn't Coincidentally given to someone who just so happens to already be "weird" in other ways & be set up to have a different perspective & be pushed away due to having the supposed "extra" vulnerability of unmet needs / insufficient support, same as someone who doesn't "correctly" have any kind of magic ability....like yeah banger and also like Oh Yeah Kind Of Devastating re: that metaphorical resonance allowing for like [set the metaphor aside] now hang on with this about this disabled family member lol. misinterpretation to The Ruinerrr / The Problemmm / The Maliciousss etc (i.e. the scapegoatinggg) despite their efforts likely entirely to the contrary. then despite like, efforts aside, Just Existing, always kind of muttering & mumbling like & what of it. & then like oh sorry weird pets. weird [auspicious for adaptable tenacious thriving surviving; either way simply creatures, existing] pets.

truly like As Is The Idea I'm Sure quickly becomes like hands behind back standing at the window Uh Oh Sisters musing on all the [disabled person] metaphorical & already literal elements there. blair witching it in contemplation like We've All Been There whether being so resented for the mere disruption of "existing in a group as the 'abnormal' odd one out" or like people talking shit abt anything associated w/you as soon as you've left the room, which is also made relevant like, this wasn't Only directed at this person when seemingly permanently gone, nor were they unaware / unaffected prior....pacing in the Musing parlor like things don't Have to be compared to billions but i only ever even see so many things & it's like billions sure is like "get scapegoated rword" & then said scapegoating is presented as only beneficial & we hate autists & even beyond that it's like, grabbing billions, Imagine If Things Meant To Be About Something Were About Something. quite a contrast when they are & furthermore like, deliberate thought & Care for [who gets scapegoated & why] & the truth of like, people getting pushed aside & out who have a key perspective & are primed / liable to come through for others similarly vulnerable & the supposedly Ruinous, Problems Generating disruptiveness is actually the strongest effort to make essential changes to a group. & come through with like, it'd be undermining thee point if it was "reassuring" us like oh haha people will be supportive b/c bruno will be more normal, so great that it Didn't like no, no Normality Reassurance(tm), presence of abnormalities(tm), Good, & everyone Can Deal b/c if you don't then it's pushing this person away, is exactly what happens, including even if they're still Around but are being mistreated b/c that is entirely part of that pushing away like anyone's victim blaming is ready to pounce at any time but if someone can't stand to stay / leaves b/c they can't see another option like that's not out of nowhere nor Regardless of what full support & flexibility they were getting lol. these Active Measures everyone loves so much, which are everywhere always & would include Staying & Trying To Make It Work & those efforts would be "disruptive" & resented & Bringing It On Oneself & etccc smh

that is to all say like. Woww when clearly basically the core thread was these beats of like, the crucial site of [thee scapegoated], & why that comes down on someone & how that plays out. endless ideas about how someone weird(tm) & disabled (&/or queer. but there's no Or here lol. & again like it's a Context like, to even be the one person without kids? likely not living up to "full" correct sexuality in that way alone; any oppression's logics of "inferiority" being logics of ableism, ready examples being that "inferior" race, gender, sexuality (& their experiences as people classed as inferior) all being pathologized as disordered) are seen & treated as someone Ruining Things & who cannot belong like whew. bracing. winding. which, i also recall like i was watching with headphones & during this one dialogue pause i was like "?? what's this Extra Sound i heard there" & had to go over it like twice before being hit upside the head like well it Was still the dialogue pause but it was also bruno Stuttering in a very quiet whisper for the duration of that pause before continuing like iiiiiiii x_x

[solxamber]

Imagine having mc take care of dorm leaders that turned into animals like riddle a hedgehog, leona a lion, Azul a octopus, kalim an otter, vil would definitely be a peacock, idia would be a cat, and lastly malleus a dragon. They would definitely turned into animals due to some spell and I mean imagine seeing a huge dragon outside the ramshackle dorm, it would be really shocking and funny at the same time. 😆

Zoo Tycoon: Housewarden Edition

In which they accidentally turn into animals.

a/n: i started vibrating the minute I saw this because that's such a cute concept and I have no self control so here we go

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle turning into a hedgehog was not on your to-do list today. But alas, here you were, holding a furious, tomato-colored hedgehog that refused to be handled by anyone but you.

“Aw, look at his little face!” Ace cooed, leaning in way too close.

Riddle puffed up, his tiny spines bristling in pure indignation. You could practically feel the how dare you emanating from his quivering form.

Deuce, ever the voice of concern, scratched his head. “What do we do now? Can he… even turn back?”

Ace smirked. “Maybe we just keep him like this. He’s a lot cuter when he can’t yell at us.”

Riddle launched himself at Ace’s hand, delivering a swift poke with his needle-sharp snout. Ace yelped, flailing backward dramatically. “Okay, okay! Geez, he’s still scary even like this.”

You cradled Riddle closer to your chest, where he settled down, still glaring daggers at the others. Somehow, he was perfectly content in your hands, even though he practically vibrated with rage whenever anyone else got near.

As the day went on, Riddle’s hedgehog antics only grew.

At lunch, he sat on your lap, sniffing your sandwich like a tiny food inspector. “You want a bite?” you teased, holding out a crumb.

His tiny paw batted it away with a disdainful look. Well, as disdainful as a hedgehog could manage. He turned his head toward the teapot, making his intentions very clear.

“Oh, of course. Tea for the hedgehog,” Ace snorted. “This is getting ridiculous.”

Later, in the library, Riddle climbed onto your textbook, curling up into a spiky ball to block your reading. You tried to nudge him gently. “Riddle, I need to study.”

He uncurled just enough to glare at you, his beady eyes burning with absolute authority. Message received: study time was over.

By nightfall, you were exhausted. Riddle was perched on a pillow next to you, looking surprisingly regal for a tiny woodland creature.

“Alright, Your Majesty,” you said, rubbing your temples. “How do we turn you back? Should we call Professor Crewel? Or maybe Professor Trein?”

Riddle chirped in protest, clearly not a fan of either option.

Deuce had another bright idea. “What if it’s, like, a true love’s kiss thing? Isn’t that how these fairy tale curses usually work?”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s ridiculous.”

But Riddle fixed you with a surprisingly intense hedgehog stare, his little nose twitching.

“Wait, are you… agreeing?” you asked, mildly horrified.

Ace snickered. “Do it. Kiss the hedgehog. For science.”

After much internal debate (and external heckling), you sighed and leaned down to press a soft kiss to Riddle’s tiny forehead.

There was a burst of light, and suddenly, you were nose-to-nose with a very human, very flustered Riddle Rosehearts.

He scrambled backward, covering his face with his hands. “W-well, that was… unexpected.”

“Unexpected?” you echoed. “You asked for it!”

Ace howled with laughter in the background. “So it was true love’s kiss! You two are so gross!”

Riddle glared at him, but his ears were still bright red as he turned to you. “I suppose… I owe you my gratitude. And, um…” He cleared his throat, fidgeting. “Would you—if it’s not too much trouble—consider going out with me?”

You blinked. “Wait, you’re asking me out now?”

Riddle crossed his arms. “You did kiss me. It’s only proper!”

You laughed, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “Sure, Hedgehog Prince. Let’s go on a date.”

Riddle muttered something about proper decorum, but his small smile said he wasn’t too upset about it.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona turning into an actual lion wasn’t even the weirdest thing that had happened this week, but it was definitely in the top five.

“C’mon, Prefect.” Ruggie grinned as he all but shoved you into Leona’s room, slamming the door behind you before you could protest. “I got stuff to do, and someone’s gotta deal with him. He only listens to you anyway!”

You turned to find Leona—the lion version—lounging on his bed like the world’s crankiest housecat. His massive paws stretched lazily, his eyes locking onto you with the unmistakable air of finally, someone competent.

“Uh, hi, Leona,” you ventured, waving awkwardly.

He grumbled, a low rumble of approval that shook the floorboards, and flicked his tail in a way that said, Don’t leave.

It became clear very quickly that Lion Leona was just as much of a diva as Human Leona.

First, he refused to eat the steak that Ruggie brought him, pawing at it disdainfully until you had to personally cut it into perfect bite-sized pieces. He made a satisfied grunt after his meal, flopping down at your feet like you were the royal food taster he’d personally hired.

Then, there was the grooming incident.

“Leona, you have something stuck in your mane,” you said, pointing to a suspicious tangle.

He gave you a look that said, And?

Sighing, you grabbed a brush and carefully worked out the knot. To your shock, Leona let out a rumble that sounded suspiciously similar to a purr.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

He blinked slowly, the feline equivalent of a smirk.

Ruggie, ever the opportunist, couldn’t resist stopping by to witness the chaos.

“Wow, Prefect, he’s basically a giant kitten with you around,” Ruggie teased, leaning against the doorframe.

Leona growled, a low warning rumble that sent Ruggie scurrying back. “Okay, okay! Sheesh, no need to get territorial. Have fun babysitting!”

You sighed, scratching behind Leona’s ears. “You’re really not helping my case, y’know.”

Leona just huffed and leaned into your touch, clearly unbothered.

By the end of the day, you were sprawled on the bed next to Leona, who was taking up approximately 80% of the mattress.

“You’re kinda cute like this,” you admitted, running your fingers through his mane. “Not that you’re not cute normally, but… y’know. Less grumpy.”

He gave you a look that somehow conveyed I am never not grumpy.

Feeling bold (and maybe a little delirious from exhaustion), you leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to his forehead.

There was a sudden, blinding flash of light, and before you could process what was happening, Leona was back in his human form, lounging beside you with his trademark smirk.

“Well, well,” he drawled, propping himself up on one elbow. “Didn’t know you felt that way, herbivore.”

You spluttered. “I—what—this was true love’s kiss?! That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever—”

He leaned closer, cutting off your rant with a low chuckle. “Guess that means you’re stuck with me now. So… dinner? Or are you gonna keep brushing my hair all night?”

Your brain short-circuited, but you managed a weak, “Dinner sounds good.”

Leona smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “Smart choice.”

From outside, Ruggie’s muffled voice shouted, “Hey, did it work? Can I come back now, or is he still a murder machine?”

Leona groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Sevens, someone muzzle that guy.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, leaning into Leona’s side. Maybe being stuck with him wasn’t such a bad deal after all.

Azul Ashengrotto

To be fair, you weren’t exactly surprised when Jade and Floyd ambushed you outside Mostro Lounge. Their grins alone screamed mischief.

“Shrimpy~,” Floyd sing-songed, grabbing you by the arm. “C’mon, we need your help.”

“Azul’s having a little… situation,” Jade added with a cryptic smile. “And we think you’re the only one who can help.”

Before you could protest, you were unceremoniously dragged into Mostro Lounge, through a hidden door, and deposited in front of a massive aquarium. Inside was—

“Is that an octopus?” you asked, squinting.

The octopus—no, wait, Azul—floated pathetically in the corner, looking as done with life as an eight-legged creature could manage.

“Yep,” Floyd said cheerfully. “Boss turned himself into an octopus. Wouldn’t let anyone near him, though, so…”

Jade handed you a bottle filled with suspiciously glowing liquid. “Breathing potion. You’re going in.”

“Excuse me?!”

Before you could escape, Floyd picked you up like a sack of potatoes and dumped you into the tank.

You flailed briefly, realizing the potion worked—thank Sevens—but also realizing you were now face-to-face with Octopus Azul.

“Uh, hi?” you ventured, swimming awkwardly closer.

Azul didn’t respond, but one of his tentacles twitched and pointedly smacked the glass. You got the impression he was saying Why me?

“It’s not like I asked for this, y’know!” you huffed, crossing your arms. “Your goons threw me in here!”

Azul floated closer, his large, round eyes narrowing as if to say Yes, and they will pay.

It didn’t take long for Azul to warm up to you, mostly because he realized you weren’t leaving.

“Are you sulking?” you teased after his sixth dramatic float to the other side of the tank.

A tentacle flicked water in your direction, splashing you.

“Hey!” You swam closer and poked him on the head. “Don’t be such a baby.”

Azul responded by curling a tentacle around your wrist, pulling you closer.

“Okay, fine, you’re cute,” you muttered, patting his squishy head. “There, happy?”

Azul’s tentacles tightened slightly, and you were 90% sure he was smug about it.

After what felt like hours of tentacle shenanigans (including one terrifying moment where Azul tried to steal your potion bottle), you sighed.

“You’re lucky you’re adorable,” you said, booping his forehead.

Azul blinked at you, his gaze softer than usual. He looked so pitiful and huggable that, without thinking, you leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his forehead.

There was a bright flash, and suddenly you were face-to-face with human Azul, who was sitting awkwardly in the shallow end of the tank, his face as red as a lobster.

“W-What did you just—”

“Oh my Sevens, you’re back!” you interrupted, relief washing over you. “Thank goodness, I thought I’d have to live in here forever!”

Azul cleared his throat, clearly flustered. “I—thank you. For… that.”

“No problem,” you said breezily, though your face felt like it was on fire.

Azul hesitated, fiddling with his glasses. “Would you, ah, perhaps… accompany me to dinner? As a token of gratitude, of course!”

“Sure,” you said, smiling. “But only if you promise to stop turning yourself into an octopus.”

He flushed even deeper, complaining something about “unavoidable circumstances,” but you couldn’t help laughing. Maybe dating an occasionally-octopus Azul wouldn’t be so bad.

From outside the tank, Floyd’s voice rang out: “Aww, Boss finally grew a backbone! Way to go, Shrimpy!”

Azul groaned, covering his face with his hands. “I’m never hearing the end of this.”

You patted his shoulder. “Welcome to my life.”

Kalim Al-Asim

You really should have known something was wrong when Jamil showed up at your doorstep, eyes bloodshot and twitching slightly.

“I need your help,” he said, and those four words alone should’ve been your cue to lock the door and pretend you weren’t home.

But you didn’t, and that’s how you ended up sitting in Kalim’s opulent room, staring at a very excited otter splashing around in a gold-lined kiddie pool.

“You’re telling me Kalim turned himself into this?” you asked, pointing at the small, slippery creature currently attempting to roll onto his back and failing.

“Yes,” Jamil said, deadpan, rubbing his temples. “And he refuses to let anyone near him. Except apparently you.”

Kalim—the otter—perked up at the sound of your voice, flipping over and waddling toward you. He made a happy chirping sound before flopping dramatically onto your lap, his tiny paws grabbing at your shirt.

“See?” Jamil muttered, folding his arms. “This is why you’re staying here. I can’t deal with this anymore.”

Kalim was, to put it mildly, a handful.

One moment, he was contentedly snuggling in your lap, and the next, he was zooming across the floor, knocking over priceless vases and dragging an entire silk curtain into his pool.

“Uh, Kalim?” you called, watching as he tried to balance a sparkling golden spoon on his nose. “Maybe we don’t need to destroy the room?”

Kalim chirped in protest, clearly having the time of his life. He then waddled over to you, clutching the spoon like it was a treasure, and deposited it in your lap with a proud squeak.

“Well, at least he’s sharing,” you muttered, patting his head.

From the corner, Jamil was silently mouthing “thank you” over and over like a man who had just been freed from a lifetime of torment.

Kalim’s kiddie pool was more like a miniature lagoon, complete with floating toys and what looked suspiciously like a jewel-encrusted raft.

At some point, Kalim decided it would be fun to drag you into the water.

“Hey—wait, no!” you yelped as his surprisingly strong little paws grabbed at your sleeve, pulling you toward the pool. “I’m not getting in there!”

Kalim chirped insistently, his big otter eyes boring into your soul.

“Oh, come on,” you groaned. “Don’t give me that look.”

He gave you the look.

Five minutes later, you were sitting in the pool, soaked and glaring at Jamil, who was clearly struggling not to laugh.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” you snapped.

“Immensely,” Jamil said, smirking.

After hours of otter chaos—during which Kalim managed to steal your shoe, splash water in your face, and attempt to juggle three golden coins—you finally sat back with a sigh.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you muttered, patting his head as he snuggled against you.

Kalim let out a happy chirp, his little paws clutching your hand. He looked so ridiculously adorable that, without thinking, you leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to his forehead.

There was a sudden burst of light, and when you opened your eyes, Kalim was sitting in front of you, back to his usual self—though still dripping wet and grinning ear to ear.

“You kissed me!” he exclaimed, his face lighting up like the sun.

“I—uh—well,” you stammered, your face heating up.

“Does this mean you like me?” he asked, tilting his head with an innocent smile.

Before you could respond, Jamil groaned from the corner. “Sevens, just ask them out already.”

Kalim turned to you, his grin widening. “Will you go out with me?”

You blinked at him, still processing the fact that you had just kissed an otter-turned-human. But then you smiled, nodding.

“Sure, Kalim.”

Kalim cheered, pulling you into a hug that nearly knocked you over. Meanwhile, Jamil sighed in relief, celebrating about finally getting some peace and quiet.

From the doorway, a passing student peeked in, took one look at the drenched mess of a room, and decided it was better not to ask.

Vil Schoenheit

The day Vil Schoenheit turned into a peacock was the day you realized that your life at NRC was destined to never be normal.

“I don’t know how it happened!” Epel blurted, waving his hands in panic. “One second he was lecturing me about my skincare routine, and the next—poof! Peacock!”

“Of course, he’s a peacock,” you muttered, staring at the magnificent bird perched on the Pomefiore chaise lounge. The peacock in question—Vil—looked at you with a familiar haughty glare, which was impressive considering he now had beady bird eyes.

From the very beginning, Vil made it clear that he refused to be handled by anyone except you.

When Rook tried to approach him with a soothing poem about the beauty of nature, Vil screeched so loudly it sent even the huntsman scrambling.

When Epel tried to shoo him toward the door, Vil flared his tail feathers in a display so intimidating that Epel backed away, muttering, “This is worse than when he makes me wear lip gloss.”

But when you stepped forward, Vil immediately strutted over, his glossy feathers shimmering under the light. He circled you once before settling at your feet, letting out a dignified coo.

“Well, at least someone likes me,” you muttered, kneeling down to pat his head.

Vil preened under your touch, looking every bit the diva he was even in bird form.

Life with peacock Vil was… an adventure.

For one, he refused to eat anything that wasn’t served on fine china.

“Are you serious?” you asked, holding up a bowl of birdseed.

Vil turned his head away with a disdainful chirp, his tail feathers twitching in annoyance.

“Fine,” you groaned, dumping the seed onto a porcelain plate. “Happy now?”

Vil cooed in approval, delicately pecking at the food like it was a Michelin-star meal.

Then there was the incident with the mirror.

You found him perched in front of the Pomefiore vanity, admiring his reflection with an intensity that could only be described as borderline obsessive.

“You’re really leaning into the peacock thing, huh?” you teased.

Vil shot you a look that screamed How dare you, you pleb? before returning to his reflection, fluffing his feathers dramatically.

After a few days of peacock antics—including Vil refusing to let Epel touch his feathers (Glaring at him like he was screaming "He’s going to ruin them!”) and scaring off an unfortunate group of first-years with his aggressive tail display—you decided enough was enough.

“Alright, Vil,” you said, sitting down beside him. “We need to figure out how to fix this.”

Vil cooed softly, nuzzling against your hand.

You stared at him, your heart melting a little. He was undeniably cute in his current form, but you missed the human Vil—the one who could scold you for slouching and deliver a flawless monologue at the drop of a hat.

Without thinking, you leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to his feathered head.

There was a blinding flash of light, and suddenly, you were no longer holding a peacock but a very human—and very flustered—Vil Schoenheit.

“You… kissed me,” he said, his cheeks turning an uncharacteristic shade of pink.

“I—uh—well, you were cute?” you offered weakly.

Vil blinked at you, his usual composure slipping as he processed your words. Then, to your surprise, a small smile tugged at his lips.

“Perhaps we should make this official,” he said smoothly, though the faint blush on his face betrayed his nerves. “Would you like to go out with me?”

You stared at him, your brain short-circuiting for a moment. Then, you smiled, nodding.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

Vil’s smile widened, and for the first time since he’d turned back, you saw the confident, radiant Vil you knew and admired.

From the doorway, Rook peeked in, his eyes sparkling with delight. “Ah, the beauty of true love!”

Epel groaned, muttering, “This is the weirdest dorm ever.”

Idia Shroud

The day you were unceremoniously dragged into Idia’s room by Ortho, you knew something was amiss.

Ortho clasped his hands together as you stumbled inside. "Please take good care of Big Brother!"

“Wait, what?” you started, but Ortho was already zooming out the door, leaving you alone in the darkened chaos that was Idia’s sanctuary.

And there, sitting in the middle of the room on a glowing gaming chair, was a cat.

A very grumpy-looking cat with blue flame-like fur tips and unmistakable, judgmental yellow eyes.

“Idia?” you whispered, staring at the cat.

The cat hissed—its ears flat against its head. Yep, that was definitely Idia.

"Ortho wasn’t joking…" you muttered, inching closer.

Idia-the-cat glared at you, his tail swishing like a disapproving metronome. But as soon as you reached out a cautious hand, he hesitated before begrudgingly letting you scratch behind his ears.

He let out the tiniest, most reluctant purr.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, your grin growing. “You’re so cute like this.”

The purring immediately stopped, and Idia swatted your hand away with a mortified meow that screamed, Don’t push it.

It didn’t take long for you to realize Idia-the-cat was just as much of a shut-in as his human counterpart.

When you tried to offer him some cat toys Ortho had left behind, he ignored them completely—until you dangled a toy shaped like a gaming controller.

Then, he lunged at it with surprising ferocity, claws out and eyes gleaming with an intensity that said, This is serious business.

You had to stop him from knocking over his prized figurines while he chased the toy across the room.

“Idia, stop! That’s a limited edition!” you cried, diving to save a teetering anime girl statue.

Idia froze mid-pounce, his tail twitching guiltily.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” you said, setting the figure back on its shelf. “You’re worse than Grim.”

Idia meowed in protest, and you could swear he was rolling his eyes.

After a few hours of babysitting Cat Idia—during which he refused to eat anything but snacks from his secret stash and managed to trap himself inside a VR headset—you were completely exhausted.

You flopped onto his bed, sighing. “Idia, you're my friend, but you’re so much work.”

The cat jumped up beside you, curling into a surprisingly neat ball. His flame-like fur glowed softly in the dim light, and for a moment, he actually looked peaceful.

Unable to resist, you leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to his head.

There was a sudden flash of blue light, and you yelped as a very human—and very embarrassed—Idia Shroud appeared beside you.

“W-What just happened?!” he stammered, his face as red as his fiery hair tips.

You blinked at him, your brain struggling to reboot. “Uh… I think true love’s kiss broke the curse?”

Idia froze, his expression cycling between mortified and completely panicked.

“Wait, d-does that mean you… like me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “Because if you don’t, I-I’m just gonna go dig my own grave now—”

You cut him off with a laugh, your cheeks burning. “Yeah, I like you, you dummy.”

Idia stared at you, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Then, after a moment, he managed a small, shy smile.

“I… like you too,” he mumbled, fiddling with a lock of his hair. “So, uh… do you maybe wanna… go out? Like, on a d-date or something?”

Your heart did a little flip. “I’d love that.”

From the doorway, Ortho peeked in, his face lighting up. “Brother, I knew you could do it! This is the best day ever!”

Idia groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Ortho, please!”

But despite his embarrassment, he couldn’t stop the small smile that lingered on his lips.

Malleus Draconia

The day began like any other—except for the part where a massive dragon blocked the sunrise by parking itself right outside your window.

You blinked blearily, rubbing your eyes. Surely, this was a dream.

Then you heard an enthusiastic voice from below. "Good morning! Do you like your new dragon?"

You leaned out the window to see none other than Lilia Vanrouge, waving up at you with far too much cheer for this absurd situation. Beside him, Sebek was on his knees, his fists clenched, eyes practically bleeding tears of devotion—or frustration. Hard to tell with Sebek.

“Lilia,” you called down, “what the hell is that?��� You pointed at the dragon, who was now looking at you with suspiciously familiar glowing green eyes.

“Oh, that’s Malleus!” Lilia replied, as though this was completely normal. “He seems to have had a little… magical mishap.”

“MISTAKE OF FATE, NOT A MISHAP!” Sebek roared, glaring up at you like it was somehow your fault. “AND THE YOUNG MASTER HAS CHOSEN YOU TO TEND TO HIS NOBLE FORM!”

You stared at the dragon—Malleus—again. His enormous tail thudded against the ground in what you could only assume was agreement.

“...You’ve got to be kidding me.”

After some coaxing (read: being dragged out by Sebek while you were still in your pajamas), you found yourself face-to-face with Dragon Malleus.

He lowered his massive head toward you, his glowing eyes narrowing in what you could only describe as smugness. When you hesitated, he huffed, a cloud of warm smoke billowing over you.

“Okay, okay, I get it! You want attention,” you grumbled, reaching up to pat his snout.

The dragon let out a low rumble of approval, curling his tail protectively around you.

Sebek sobbed dramatically in the background. “TO THINK THE YOUNG MASTER TRUSTS YOU ABOVE ALL OTHERS! IT IS BOTH AN HONOR AND A TRAVESTY!”

“Sebek, for the love of the Seven, stop yelling,” you snapped. “I already have a headache.”

Lilia chuckled from his perch on a nearby tree. “Oh, this is delightful. I wonder if I should be worried for you or amused by Malleus’s possessiveness.”

Dragon Malleus growled at Lilia, his tail sweeping protectively in front of you like a giant scaly barrier.

“Noted, noted!” Lilia said with a laugh, holding up his hands.

After a day of being followed around by a giant dragon who wouldn’t let you out of his sight (and growled at anyone who dared approach), you were officially at your wit’s end.

“Malleus,” you said, crossing your arms. “I know you’re stuck like this, but you can’t just… kidnap me for emotional support!”

Malleus blinked at you, his big dragon eyes somehow managing to look both sheepish and stubborn.

You sighed, stepping closer. “You’re kind of cute like this, though,” you admitted, reaching up to scratch his snout. His eyes half-closed in contentment, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

Then, on a whim, you leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to his scaly cheek.

There was a sudden burst of magic, and you stumbled back as the massive form of the dragon shimmered and shrank. In its place stood a very human—and very flustered—Malleus Draconia.

“Child of Man,” he said, his face uncharacteristically red. “Your… your kiss… it broke the spell.”

You stared at him, your brain buffering. “Wait, true love’s kiss was the answer?!”

Malleus nodded solemnly. “Indeed.”

From behind you, Lilia cackled. “Oh, how romantic! A tale for the ages!”

Sebek, meanwhile, looked like he was about to have a heart attack. “T-T-THE YOUNG MASTER’S TRUE LOVE?! UNBELIEVABLE!”

Malleus stepped closer, his expression softening as he looked down at you. “If this spell has revealed anything, it is that my feelings for you are genuine. Will you allow me to court you properly?”

You blinked, your face heating up. “Uh… yeah. Sure. But maybe next time, we skip the whole ‘giant possessive dragon’ thing?”

Malleus chuckled, taking your hand. “Anything for you, my treasure.”

Sebek fainted on the spot.

Masterlist

[todomochi-uwu]

Is there any way I could repay you?

Pairing(s): Luffy x reader; Zoro x reader; Sanji x reader; Ace x reader; Law x reader Genre: Smut Warnings: This content is for a mature audience Synopsis: Is there any way you could repay them? Author's notes: I love @inseobts layout for their fics so I decided to use something similar. I've never worked with this style, I hope you guys enjoy it. I'm also right around the corner of Marineford and I feel like dying since Ace is my favourite character. So, indulge me. Masterlist If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee

Luffy 

Your fridge broke down a couple of hours ago. 

You had tried everything and anything to make it work, but the piece of shit wouldn’t budge (it’s also old af). 

On your way to ask anyone if they knew someone who could repair it, you stumbled into the gum boy. 

"Oh, hello, neighbour!"  

"Oh shit, that sucks, but don't worry, I can fix it. How hard can it be?" 

He wouldn’t fix shit, but he would try (or in a stroke of luck he just might). 

Let’s say, by some miracle, he does. 

You’d spent hours watching him work. He had taken his jacket off, a white tank top underneath. 

Getting a little sweaty, tongue poking out in concentration. 

You had ogled for a good hour to two, and no, he hadn’t even noticed. 

He would groan in frustration when he couldn’t manage to get it to work. 

“Stupid, fucking thing.” 

You delivered small treats for his trouble: a lemonade, a sandwich, and a bowl of ramen he was craving. 

“Fucking finally!” 

“Thank you so much, Luffy! Is there any way I can repay you? 

Yeah, remember when I said he hadn’t noticed you ogling? Well, he did. 

And that’s how you found yourself bent over the kitchen floor, being pounded to the nines, crying out like bitch in heat with a pizza slice resting in your back. 

“Fuck, Luffy! Don’t stop, don’t stop." Spit dribbled down your mouth, and your fingers gripped the floor, desperately to hold onto anything that would ground you. 

Behind you was Luffy, who panted in between taking bites out of his pizza, “You are so tight.” The grip of his hands on your love handles would surely leave a nasty bruise, but that was the least of your worries. 

Zoro 

You had just come back from work, the only thing you wanted was to take a shower. 

Of course, the fucking thing wasn’t working. 

You had tried everything, from hitting it with a hammer to twisting the handles to yelling at it. 

No idea how to fucking fix it. 

You texted the landlord, but he said he won't be able to fix it until tomorrow. 

And you need a shower NOW. 

Just when you were to knock on your chef neighbour's door, he appeared.  

Sweaty, towel around his neck, and sporting a really tight compression chest. Zoro popped one ear out of his headphones, “Curly brow's not home.” 

“Shit, my shower is not working, and I don’t know how to fix it.” 

“That’s happened to me before. Let me check it out." 

Now you have another issue: the wet patch that formed in your panties after you watched the handyman check out your shower.  

His strong back muscles faced you, flexing and moving while inspecting the problem. 

He would cuss under his breath and groan every time his methods wouldn’t work. 

This angle also gave you a great view of his ass. He had clearly worked for it. 

Your head fantasized about what would happen if you were to bend to your knees in front of him, pull his pants down and take his cock in between... 

“Shit!” He had fixed it. Water splashed onto your floor, but not before soaking him. If you thought that shirt was already see-through enough... 

“Oh god, let me get you a towel.” Or maybe you could dry up the water with your tongue. Everyone wins, right? 

“Thank you so much, Zoro! Is there any way I could repay you?” 

And that’s how you found yourself just the way you imagined. Choking on his cock, tears running down your face, and gags escaping your throat. 

“Yeah, keep sucking that dick”, His hips thrust against your mouth, pushing his member further down, making you gag. Your nails biting the skin of his thighs, trying to balance yourself, but never wanting him to stop. You looked up at him, that lazy smirk and the way his tongue licked his lips made you dizzy. 

You sucked your cheeks in, running your tongue against the thick vein that ran down his member. His grip on your hair let you know you were doing something right, "I’m going to ruin you for anyone else, baby.” 

Sanji 

It was your grandma's birthday tomorrow, so you decided to bake her a cake. 

Shit, the fucking oven isn’t turning on. 

You have the batter ready to bake it will spoil if you don’t do something about it, right? 

Oh, how convenient, your neighbour is a chef. 

(Never mind he is blow-minding hot. What? Who said that?) 

"Hey, neighbour. I’m so sorry to bother you, but would you mind if I borrow your oven?" 

He would never no to a sweet little thing like you, but pushing your tits out as you showed him the ramekin didn’t harm anyone. 

Would do all the work for you, even going as far as fixing your recipe. 

You watch his hands the entire time. 

He had folded his sleeves so you could see the veins that covered his arms. 

“Open up, I want to see if it’s sweet enough.” 

He pushed the frosting-covered spoon against your lips. 

And, gladly, you took it. Looking into his eyes while covering your tongue with the thick substance. 

He gulped. 

Amazing what watching a man decorate a cake can do for your libido 

"There, it is all done for your grandma's birthday." The result was far better than anything you could have ever done.  

“Thank you so much, Sanji! Is there any way I could repay you?” 

And that’s how you found yourself laying tits up, nipples covered in the leftover frosting and the chef’s head in between your legs. 

"Oh, my god, Sanji." He’s got you cross-eyed while his tongue laps against your sweet cunt. His lips wrap around your clit, sucking it and licking it while his fingers piston in and out of your entrance. 

He lets out moans and whimpers, you’ve got him pussy drunk, and the only thing on his mind is making you cum again and again on his tongue, “You taste so sweet, mon cœur.” 

Ace 

Your heater had broken down in the middle of the fucking winter. 

No matter how many sweaters and jackets you wore, you still couldn't feel your fingers. 

You had messaged your landlord hours ago, but oh, surprise, surprise, he never answered. 

You were walking down to the elevator, about to go out and get some hot chocolate, when he saw you. 

“Hey, neighbour!” It was minus two fucking degrees outside, but this man was in a tank top and shorts (to be fair, it would be a crime to hide those arms) 

“Oh my god, are you okay? Your lips are blue!” “Your heater broke? Maybe I can help!” The optimism and overconfidence run in his family, if you can’t tell. 

He took a look at the thing, and Lord knows how, but he melted it. 

“Uh, umm, uh...” Indeed. 

He spent the next couple of hours trying to fix what he had done on top of the main issue. 

He would bite and lick his lips, eyebrows furrowed, focused. 

His frustrated groans belonged in a porno. 

“Fuck.” He would whisper occasionally. 

Like his little brother, Ace would also appreciate the food you’d offer. 

“This pie is so good! Did you really bake this?” He licked his thumb, savouring the rest of the sweet filling. 

What that mouth do. 

You don’t know how or what the fuck he did, but he did fix it. 

“There! You stupid shit!” 

“Thank you so much, Ace! Is there any way I could repay you?” 

And that’s how you found yourself backwards riding his cock on your couch. The cold had abandoned your body, and now you felt like you were burning with his hard chest against your back and his fingers toying with your aching clit. 

“Ace!” You moaned his name; it was the only thing that your mouth managed to say. Your brain had turned to mush the second he stuck his dick inside you. His hands pushed your hips up and down; his hips pounded you into oblivion, his dick reaching places your fingers (or frankly, any other dick) never could. 

“You like that, baby girl?” He said against your ear, his teeth pulling on your earlobe. He laughed, amused by your cock-drunkenness. He slapped your clit, making you jump and gasp, throwing you over the edge, “You don’t need no heater, baby. I am the heat now.”  

Law   

You were stupid, and you cut yourself while making a fruit bowl. yeah.  

While it wasn’t a deep wound, it did sting, and blood kept coming out.  

Trying to be very careful, to not hurt yourself any further or stain even more things.  

You bump into him. 

First, he looks at you, annoyed and then notices the blood on your hand.  

“Tch, that looks bad.” Yeah, you think?  

He grabs your hand, carefully, inspecting the cut.  

His eyebrows furrowed, twisting your wrist, his skin is a bit rough, and the tattoos in his hands make you want to ask him if he was willing to choke you. 

(You had seen this man once or twice in your life, barely knew his name, and already you are thinking about sticking his fingers in your mouth, get yourself together.) 

“It’s not that deep, but you might wanna clean it. Come.” Gladly.  

And just like that, you were inside this man’s apartment.  

Score? 

His place smells like a clinic, it’s almost funny the fact he has a penguin and polar bear plush on the couch.  

He pulls out his medical kit and begins cleaning the wound. The sudden sting makes you flinch.  

“Don’t move.” He commands, and you obey. No idea who this man is, but if he were to ask you to bend over, you probably would. Yeah, common sense leaves the room when it comes to dick. His dick.  

“There. Next time, try to pay attention to what you are doing.” Rude... you were listening to a true crime podcast, and it was just getting good.  

“Thank you so much, Law! Is there any way I could repay you?”  

And that’s how you found yourself, face pressed against the surface of his desk and fingers pumping in and out of your cunt. Your juices are dripping down and wetting every document and book, but he doesn’t seem to mind.  

“Law, please, please.” You don’t even know what you are begging for; he’s giving you everything you want, and more. His fingertips brush against the walls inside you, his thumb rubs and plays with your clit, while his other hand spanks you and pushes your head harder against the wood.  

He pulls his fingers out for a second, right when he feels you are clenching harder against them, “Quiet now. Don’t want the neighbours knowing how much of a slut the girl next door is.” He spanks your right cheek. Yeah, he isn't letting you cum, at least not right now.   

[deebris]

From annoying to beloved

Homelander x fem!Reader

Synopsis: The new member of the Seven annoys Captain Patria with their habit of doodling in the corners all the time, but he didn't expect to end up liking it.

During the fourth season, it can be read as both romantic and platonic.

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of murder, the reader has the power to control plasma, fluffy.

The reader is also kind of anxious.

Word count: 2.9k

"You gotta be fucking kidding with me." Homelander interrupted abruptly upon hearing snores in the room. "Is Noir sleeping?"

"Mmhmm," Firecracker murmured in agreement, but the masked superhero jolted awake when The Deep kicked his chair.

"Oh, shit! Sorry, guys." Black Noir straightened up, while the Captain shook his head in disbelief, unable to fathom what he had just witnessed.

"Ah, what the fuck." The blonde furrowed his brows, eyes darting around the room quickly, then fixing on a specific point when something else caught his attention. He had noticed you earlier with a notebook and pencil, but now you're not writing but drawing. The irritating sound of the graphite scraping against the paper had been bothering him for some time, but he had tried to ignore it, assuming as a newcomer you were taking notes.

He wouldn't lie. Though he found taking notes utterly stupid, he liked to think someone was that focused on what he said. Not that he needed it, just opening his lips and everyone would be watching him. But as if that weren't enough, he finally realized you were dressed in regular civilian clothes.

"Radiance, where's your suit?" He asked slowly, but angrily. "Can't anyone do anything right around here?"

You finally tore your attention from the paper, meeting Homelander gaze directly. It's not that you weren't paying attention—in fact, you were, maybe more than anyone else there. It was easier to absorb things while doodling, a way to calm your nerves. Well, that or rubbing your sweaty fingers together until they hurt.

No one ever understood. Even back in school, your parents used to receive complaints about you drawing during class, no matter how high your grades were or the fact that you were the top student.

This was your first meeting with the Seven, and the last thing you wanted was to give the impression of being careless or not caring about being there. It could be said that one of the best days of your life was yesterday when Vought sent you a notice, letting you know that the greatest superhero of all had personally chosen you to join the team. After so many "retarded" - in his words - he had been forced to accept into the Seven, Homelander saw in you, above all, the opportunity to make up for Firecracker's ridiculous weakness.

When Ashley began talking about your powers, he had no doubt the last spot was yours. It was simply brilliant. Who the hell would have imagined someone would have powers to control a state of matter? You could maneuver fire, generate electrical discharges, disrupt magnetic fields, and damn it, you could split atoms as if slicing butter.

Vought's scientists said they didn't know if it was possible, but you could destroy the damn out of a star one day. Homelander wasn't a science guy, but in one of his moments of boredom, he got curious and did some research. He didn't even know that plasma crap was all that, he thought it was a cell thing or whatever.

He always thought someone with a power as peculiar as yours, and at your age, would be arrogant or just plain dumb. But you were actually the complete opposite. You didn't speak unnecessarily, and while you seemed very aware of your own actions, you had no clue how powerful you were, or perhaps ignored that fact. The blonde thought you were an idiot for it, but he appreciated the inferiority you submitted to, especially in relation to himself.

"I don't have one, sir," you replied to his question, feeling small with everyone looking.

"What the hell?" He continued, focusing on you with incredulous voice, he couldn't believe it. How did someone end up here without even having a superhero suit?

The truth was, you had never been part of any team before, nor had you received any sponsorship during your life, or even attended Godolkin University. The only thing you had were your powers, which were indeed impressive. You never chased after any position, nor were you ever obsessed with being a famous superheroine, but lately you thought it would be a good adventure to radicalize your life. That's when you applied to join the Seven.

"How do you have a name and not have a fucking suit?" He asked, boiling with anger, fists clenching tightly behind his back.

"They gave me a name when I filled out the application," you answered honestly. That day, after they chose to call you Radiance, a random and easily commercial name, you couldn't complain much and didn't want to bother, so you left it at that.

"You'll be introduced as an official member of the Seven tomorrow, how do you not have a suit?" He took his hands off his back, moving them as he spoke to express his confusion, and for a few moments you followed it movement like a child who can't keep their attention on anything for long. "Who's handling your marketing?"

You couldn't answer, so you stayed silent and no one else dared to say a word either. You had no idea who was handling your marketing, not knowing you should even have that. You glanced quickly around the table, perhaps seeking some kind of help for the situation, but everyone looked down when they realized you were staring at them. They were enjoying themselves, and that made you exhale through your nose in embarrassment.

"You know what? Fuck it, doesn't matter." Homelander brought his fingers to his furrowed forehead, letting out a loud sigh as he calmed down. "Just... don't show up like this in public until someone gives you a suit."

"Yes, sir," you replied tensely, relieved that he had resolved the matter.

Sister Sage widened her eyes in relief when she finally saw the superhero sitting beside her. She opened her mouth to begin speaking, as she had intended from the beginning, but when some sound was about to come out of her mouth, Homelander spoke to you again, this time pointing an accusatory finger at you:

"And stop drawing, damn it," he ordered, causing you to slowly drop the pencil on the table, as if caught doing something wrong with the weapon of the crime in hand. You stared at your lap throughout the entire meeting, embarrassed for messing everything up on your first day.

When the meeting ended, you followed most people out of the room, but stopped nearby in one of the hallways. You slid down the wall, crouching in a hidden corner, and lightly tapped the sketchbook against your forehead in annoyance.

"Stupid," you murmured softly to yourself. It was so ridiculous, yet it embarrassed you so much. Maybe this first day wasn't so bad after all. You would have plenty of time to prove your worth to everyone, no need to dwell on this situation. Even though you had been corrected in front of some of the most iconic supers by Homelander himself, this situation could be overcome. It was thinking about it that kept you from letting the burning tears fall.

"I can hear you whining," Homelander voice made you jump to your feet, startled to be caught once again doing something you shouldn't. He didn't seem happy, and his expression was so intimidating that you felt like Mariah Carey performing for a crowd of Eminem fans.

He approached you in slow steps and you held the sketchtebook protectively to your chest, as if that could protect you from something. He glanced down to briefly see the object in your hands and looked at you with disgust.

"If you don't straighten up, I'll kick you out. Got it?" Everything about him exuded threat. Maybe if he weren't so imposing and powerful, that sentence would have sounded a bit like the janitor from your old school scolding you for spending too much time in the bathroom during class.

You were paralyzed standing there and all you could do was a nod. But your gesture made him more aggressive.

"Answer with your mouth. Are you mute or something?" And there he was, hands behind his back again. He seemed to enjoy that pose.

"I won't mess up, sir," you said, swallowing your saliva.

"And get rid of that. Or burn it, do whatever, just get rid of it. And I better not see you with that again," he said referring to your notebook, walking away faster than before. "These kids..." you heard him mutter distantly.

After that happened, you didn't destroy the sketchtebook, but you were afraid of being caught and kept it safely tucked away in the back of a drawer in your room. What the eyes don't see, the heart doesn't feel, right? You mentally made a promise to yourself not to use it anywhere else but here, to avoid causing more trouble.

It's been a week since you've been with the Seven, and several strange things have happened. You quickly realized that Homelander wasn't the pristine and merciful hero everyone believed him to be. But the truth was that deep down you already expected that. Everything about heroes always seemed too perfect and pure, there had to be a catch. Despite everything, you still remained yourself, never intentionally hurting anyone or getting involved in murders and conspiracies.

You were comfortable helping out with some minor crimes that Vought sent you to solve, but by now you suspected that sooner or later Homelander would ask you to do some of his atrocities. It was still hard to think about how to feel about it, but you weren't naive, you were already mentally preparing to submit to it or else be killed.

During that time, as you adjusted and interacted with the team, it didn't go unnoticed by Homelander that you were drawing on your own hand, or on napkins and on random sheets you found lying around, even though you hadn't shown up with your sketchtebook again. This was starting to wear on his last nerve, but he tried to ignore it. As long stayed as you were, without asking too many questions and obedient, he made an effort to continue overlooking your makeshift drawings.

"Meeting's over," the blond suddenly declared, interrupting another of the Seven's weekly gatherings while cutting off The Deep's rambling about his ideas.

"But I haven't even talked about the flying shark yet," he tried to defend himself.

"Shut up," Homelander's voice rang out sternly in the room, issuing a warning that the man promptly obeyed.

"Right. Meeting's over." Ashley nervously moved to gather the portfolios on the new soda advertisement she had come to present, but as soon as she touched the first folder, specifically the A-Train one, the superhero exploded in rage:

"Ashley! Get out!" She immediately dropped the folder in place and hurried out in her heels, unable to run in them. "All of you! Get out of here."

Everyone got up from their chairs, even you, and filed out through the front door, leaving the folders on the table. Sister Sage hesitated, thinking she might be an exception, but when his scowl deepened, she understood she should leave too.

With the room empty, Captain Patria took a few minutes to admire the view from the tower. He enjoyed staring at it sometimes, even when bored.

"Bunch of idiots," he muttered to himself, shaking his head in denial, indignant. If he had to spend one more minute with these morons, he would have a heart attack, even though that was technically impossible for him.

He threw his cape back as he turned to leave, looking down and not focusing on anything in particular. But his eyes caught something different from the other folders. It was obviously yours, with a huge drawing covering the text and images printed on it.

That was the first time he actually saw something you had scribbled. And damn, it was perfect. It was a drawing of everyone in the room, with him in the center looking angry. Just as he was. His ego flared up as he noticed that his figure was more detailed than the others'. You must have started drawing him first, hence had more time to detail him. The idea of you making him the main focus of this particular drawing made his pupils dilate. He used his super hearing to check if anyone else was around and secretly took that sheet for himself.

The next time he saw you drawing in the Seven's room, he couldn't help but wonder if you were drawing him again. As soon as he noticed you sneakily reaching for a pen that belonged to Ashley, he looked in your direction. The noise that used to annoy him now sparked curiosity. And after staring at you for so long, it didn't take long for you to look back at him too. The blond thought you would be embarrassed, like most people, but you just grinned as if you were used to being caught looking. And indeed, you were.

You began drawing Homelander more frequently when you realized he never caught you watching him. It was easier and avoided awkward situations with other people. After two whole weeks of drawing him continuously while taking advantage of this freedom, you felt capable of drawing his face without even needing to see a photo, having memorized most of his distinctive features.

Well, it seems he's finally noticed you.

Sometimes, when alone in your room, you took out your sketchbook and started practicing the memory of his facial features you had developed. Just like every other time, you became absorbed in the drawing, focusing only on the voices around you to understand what was being said. This was also a way to keep yourself engaged during conversations, so you wouldn't get restless from being still while being a mere spectator of everything. After all, you never participated much or gave opinions; Deep already did enough for two.

The meeting had already ended, but you stayed in your chair, even as everyone else left, to finish just a part of the hair. You thought no one would mind, and then you would leave as usual, but a voice caught you by surprise:

"Can I take a look?" Homelander asked, for the first time, using a gentle voice beside you. His expression was enigmatic, somewhat relaxed, and shy at the same time.

You turned the stack of post-it notes, also taken from Ashley, for him to see what you had drawn, fearing what he would say. You weren't ashamed of drawing people, much less of them catching you doing it. You feared because he found your habit annoying.

He observed the drawing, seeing his posture from the side, upright and imposing. He wondered if you drew him exactly as you saw him, or if it was just another caricature of reality, like those Photoshopped pictures spread around. He looked much better than he imagined, though he had that superiority complex that made him see himself as a god.

For a moment, he was offended to see his image stamped on such despicable things as scraps of paper and these damn post-it notes. Your fingerprints were also visible stains, and the paper was slightly wrinkled from his sweat. He had noticed that sometimes you drew calmly, as if you had all the time in the world, and other times it was like drawing on a boat in a storm. Today seemed to be the latter situation.

"Do you like drawing me?" He glanced at you.

"I do," you shrugged. That was the simplest and most truthful answer you could give. "Sorry, I won't do it anymore," you said, thinking he was bothered by it.

"Why?" He ignored your apology.

"You're drawable... I guess," you stared at the table, not understanding the flow of the conversation.

"And what the fuck does that mean?" He asked in a louder voice, turning to face you, obviously confused. "Is this some artistic shit?"

"It's just that you're easy to draw because you have unusual characteristics. It's a good thing," was your answer, and it inflated his chest with narcissistic pride. Unusual, that's what you said, but to him, it was like being called extraordinary.

"Next time you draw me, try using a sketchbook," he said sternly, pretending to reject your work, but deep down, he just didn't want to show that he really liked it. That statement was his way of encouraging you to continue, but at the same time, it was so ironic, considering he got mad at you just when you were drawing him in the sketchtebook that day.

"But you asked me to get rid of mine," you said simply, your voice dwindling with each word of the sentence, not wanting him to find out that you had never thrown it away.

"I'll get you a new one," he said dismissively, taking the entire stack of post-it notes with him, including the drawing, as if you wouldn't notice.

[glow-in-the-dark-death]

A Week (He Will Take You)

~

Danny moved to Gotham for school, while there he noticed that Gotham's ambient ecto was really murky for lack of a better word.

This didn't really affect him too much besides a mild headache every once in a while but that also just might be stress from all his school work so maybe not.

Anyway

This murky ecto seemed to effect the people who lived there or more importantly the ghosts,

They were visible to the human eye like most ghosts back in Amity but instead of looking very much like a ghost they still looked like humans if a bit off putting.

They all seemed to be continuing their normal lives as if still fully alive, with the people around them none the wiser.

Danny noticed this and began approaching them to figure out what was going on.

Apparently the murky ecto in the city had made it so that they were strong enough to still continue a somewhat normal life but not be able to cross over to the GZ.

In other words they were stuck in Gotham

Danny was the Ghost King so he could easily fix this problem, all he needed to do was give them a bit of pure ecto for around a week to fully stabilize them them then he would just open a portal into the GZ and they could cross over with all their things also transferring into the GZ for their new haunt.

Unfortunately this looked rather worrying to an outsider,

Imagine you're used to your neighbor being very outgoing so you and others see them a lot suddenly this man seems to appear in their life out of nowhere an at exactly one week, your neighbor and all their belongings in their home disappear no trace to be found.

You tell people and they begin saying the same story they knew someone and them a man with black hair and blue eyes appeared in their life, then they and all their things disappear in exactly one week.

Of course the police in Gotham do the bare minimum so they're no help.

But it starts to begin a trend, especially online.

"Oh careful or the blue eyed man will make you disappear in a week"

This of course after time catches the bats attention, Gordon had already given them all the information he had.

"Young adult early twenties, dark hair, blue eyes"

That was it.

The bats look into it and from their point of view Danny is a serial killer.

But they can't find the connection between all of his victims, they range from young children and the elderly from different backgrounds absolutely no connection,

Worrying enough he doesn't just make one person disappear he has taken entire families up to over a dozen, without anyone figuring out how he's doing it or why at all.

The disturbing thing also being that he seems to take everything in their home, leaving it like it has always been empty

Like no one had been living in it.

People have tried to take photos of Danny get some kind of evidence of his existence, but when they try to do it, it either comes out completely corrupted or their devise simply shuts down fully.

Danny of course has no clue what is happening he's just happy that he's able to help so many ghosts, and is trying not to fail his exams.

~

Danny leaving the house he just helped: "That went easier than I expected!"

Neighbor peeking from the window: "Shit it's that guy! "

~

Red Hood marching down into the cave: " The fucker took many from my territory without me even realizing it!"

~

Tim: "I'm pretty sure his kill count is nearing the hundreds and he just started like maybe 4 months ago, this is bad."

Barbara: " I think I got a theory, this matches up with the new school year beginning so maybe their not a Gotham native which narrows down my suspect list."

Bruce: "Hn."

Tim: "Yes thank you B for the insightful commentary"

~

Danny trying not to fall asleep while on his way to class: "Strange I keep seeing shadows following me, oh well must be the stress!"

Bats who are pretty sure Danny is the killer: "Has he done anything suspicious yet?"

~

Just an Idea

[stardust-thief]

look after you

an: this my first x reader fic LMAOO, i needed to write smth and this spencer was on my brain :// i am in the middle of a rly long donna fic but i cba this was much easier. also i absolutley have not proof read this sorry

synopsis: you get hurt while hunting down an unsub, after some reluctance (and kind words from papa rossi) you let spencer take care of you, 1.7k words

cw: descriptions of violence, panic attack, spencer swears and can drive (the most un-canon thing abt him) umm italians..., the rest is just fluffy, hurt/comfort, x reader but no y/n

masterlist

The unsub had his gun pointed at you, the cold press of the barrel against flesh. He was ranting and raving about needing to be seen and understood, having spent his childhood in emotional neglect. Teachers and parents failed him at every turn, it’s not his fault that this happened but he can fix it if he just drops the gun. Rossi tried to tell him this over and over, but he only got more angry, pushing the gun in harder and harder. 

If you were to open your eyes, you would’ve seen JJ and Luke there too, guns trained on the unsub. Their eyes glancing between you, the unsub, and the gun. But you didn’t. Not until the bang went off and you could breathe again. 

The flashing lights of the ambulance do nothing to dissuade the pressing headache you feel coming on, the movement of people helps even less. You watch as the EMT’s cart the unsub away on a gurney, sheet covering him. 

“You okay, kid?” Rossi asks from beside you, he had been hovering ever since the ambulance arrived. 

“I’m fine, just need a good night's rest. I’ll be good as new.” You hummed half-heartedly. 

David Rossi always knew when someone was lying to him, part of that talent comes from his job as a profiler, but it’s mostly because of some ancient Italian magic. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that to me. Look, Hotch is on his way with Reid and Emily. They’re gonna be taking some witness statements, but I imagine Boy Wonder will be a little distracted. I want you to let him take care of you, ok? You’ve been through hell tonight kid, let him worry.”

Italians never lie, although you wish they did. Spencer had very obviously caught feelings for you, everyone on the team could see it. Unfortunately, so could you. Spencer Reid was one of the kindest, most genuine people you had ever met, always putting other people's needs before his own. A voice in your head kept telling you that there is nothing you have done to deserve someone like him doting all over you? You had only brought trouble to the people who loved you. Eventually you learned that it was better to just keep everyone at a distance; if you don’t let them in, they can’t get hurt. Which worked well, up until Spencer.

He had such a wormy way of getting into your brain at the worst times; whether it was when you were alone in your kitchen, or at slightly dangerous, very inappropriate times on a case. You couldn’t stop thinking about him and his stupidly cute (and sometimes ill-timed) facts. Some part of you wanted to let him in, in the end the stubborn side always took over. 

Before long, you heard the worried cries of Spencer trying to find you in the chaos. Rossi called his name and gave you a pat on the shoulder, “Remember, you deserve to be looked after too.” and left to find Hotch.

“Oh my god, are you okay? We tried to get here as soon as we could, but they managed to take down the unsub right? What happened, did he hurt you? How did you get so close? Talk to me are-” Oh, how he rambles. 

“Spencer, I’m fine. I just need to… rest, you know. He didn’t hurt me that bad, just a sprained wrist, couple bruises. Could’ve been worse.”

He spluttered, “Could’ve- you know, that doesn’t make this any better, I was so worried about you. He had a fucking gun to your head, I was going insane thinking about what could’ve happened. What did the EMT say about your wrist?”

“Just to rest it, and use an ice pack if it starts to swell or hurt.” You couldn’t look him in the eye, he was so worried about you. It made butterflies dance in your belly, but there was a twinge of guilt there too. He was so busy, he worked so hard and then went home to look after his mom. He had too much on his plate, how could you add more to it? “Spence, I’m really sorry about worrying you. I should be fine to leave now, so I’ll just head home and sleep it off. Have a good night.” You pushed yourself off the ambulance, eyes focused downwards, restless fingers fidgeting with the already frayed bandage.

“No- wait what are you talking about? You’re gonna drive yourself home in this condition? I can’t let you do that, even thinking about it makes me feel sick.” He lowered his head to yours and spoke softer this time, “Please let me take you home. I don’t have to stay, I just want to make sure you’re ok, ok?”

Fuck that voice did things to you. Leaning from side to side, you thought about what Rossi had said earlier. Maybe, it was ok to let someone in? It would be cruel to let him suffer more, not knowing if you were ok or somehow got in a car crash with 5 other vehicles on your way home. Just this once, you think.

Looking up into his soft eyes, you give a small nod. His lips immediately turned up into a smile, his hand comes up to cup your head, fingers stroking your cheek. It felt… nice. His thumb was calloused but he still moisturised enough for it to feel smooth, and he smelled like lemongrass and ginger. His hand fell to the small of your back as he guided you to his car. Ever the gentlemen, he opened your door and softly placed his hand over your head as you got in. Manoeuvring himself into the driver's side, he pulled out his phone and typed something, then quickly stuffed it away into a pocket and turned on the engine.

The sky was dark when you woke up. The unsub had a gun to your head at dusk, and Spencer was walking into your apartment when the moon was out. He took off his shoes and the door, and walked into your living room.

“I’ve never been here before,” he mused. “I like it.”

He looked at ease wandering around your apartment, his shoulders had relaxed and he let out soft musings as he perused your photo collections.

“Oh Spencer, not that one, it’s embarrassing!” You tried (with not a lot of effort) to pull him away from the frame.

“No this is cute, was this when you were at University?” He asked, wrapping an arm around you.

Oh my god. “Yeah, um- those were some of my friends at the time. I try and keep in touch but, you know.”

He hummed, pulling you closer into him. Finally content, he looked down at you. “How’s your wrist?”

“It’s ok,” you shrugged, “just a little tender now.”

“Where’s your kitchen, I can get some ice.”

“Spence-” you wanted to tell him no, to go home and look after himself. But his body was so warm, having him so close to you melted your brain, leaving you unable to think of any good reason as to why he should leave. “It’s the first door on the right.”

His grip tightened for a moment before he swiftly navigated you to the sofa, and turned to leave for the kitchen. The cold of the apartment rushed to get you as soon as he unraveled his arms. You hadn’t been alone all day since the unsubs attack, it somehow felt more claustrophobic. His hand on your throat, squeezing the air from your lungs. The way he grabbed your arm, contorting it so he could throw you to the ground. The gun, pressed into your forehead. The knowledge that the only thing between you being alive, and you being in a ditch, was a madman's finger on the trigger. Reality faded as each memory pressed further and further into your mind. You weren’t in your apartment anymore, you could feel the cold concrete beneath your hands. The thick air in your lungs, Rossi and the unsub shouting.

A hand on your knee, a soft voice bringing you back. There was no unsub, no gun to your head. You were alive. You were alive and Spencer was in your apartment, wiping the tears that had fallen down your face.

“You with me?” His voice was so soft, you couldn’t recall ever hearing Spencer raise his voice in anger. He was so gentle when he touched you. 

The floodgates burst, choked sobs made their way past your lips. Your shoulder shook as you cried, pressing yourself into Spencer’s arms. “Oh honey,” He murmured, pressing his lips into your head, softly rocking you back and forth as you sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. It was too much. You could have died today. Very nearly did. You weren’t ready to die, not yet at least.

As your cries softened into hiccups, you pushed yourself back from Spencer. “I’m sorry, that was so disgusting. It just all- I don’t know.”

 “Hey, you don’t ever have to apologise to me ok? What you went through was really scary, I’d honestly be more shocked if you didn’t cry.” His hand moved to draw soothing shapes along your back as you leaned back into him. “You want to watch something to calm down? I brought you some water and an ice pack for your wrist.”

He would be the death of you. You nod and push yourself back into the sofa, moving your wrist to rest in your lap. Spencer gently places the ice pack across your wrist and grips the tips of your fingers. He leans forward to push your cup of water towards you and grabs the TV remote, then turns and leans back so your side is pressed into his front. Truthfully, Spencer didn’t seem like the type to watch cable TV but he navigated the menu with somewhat ease. 

“Look at what’s on! It’s your favourite isn’t it, you want me to put it on.” He said as he nudged your shoulder.

He remembered your favourite film, of course he would remember it he has an eidetic memory. You hummed a yes as you relaxed your body further into his, finally content. Maybe Rossi was right, having Spencer close really wasn’t so bad after all.

[ivysangel]

surprise post bc my blogs fixed woo hoo!! i initially sent this as an ask to @hanasnx as my contribution to his baby daddy!jason au, but i also wanted to share it here for u guys as a little treat :p

Baby Daddy!Jason, who you co-parent with, in a very civilized way. No joke, the picture of camaraderie between exes. He takes your daughter on the days he's supposed to (which isn't that often, given his occupation) and brings her back on time, always with a little gift for you as well. Flowers, chocolates, a little knick-knack reminiscent of when you were together. It's not because he's in love with you or anything; it's just the principle of the matter. "Happy wife, happy life," not that you were married or even dating, but he figures the mother of his child should get love sometimes.

Baby Daddy!Jason, who, the next time he sees you, it's to drop off something your daughter forgot with him, and as he's handing you the bag, he casually asks why you haven't been asking him to take her more often. You had been for a while when you were going on dates weekly, but for some reason, the relationships never went anywhere, so you just gave up. "Oh, you know, it just wasn't working out." you say off-handedly, "Kept getting ghosted." you sound only marginally disappointed, moreso annoyed. "What a shame, they're really missing out," he says, getting real close to you and taking up your entire field of vision.

Baby Daddy!Jason, who's got your entire calendar memorized and knows that his daughter's not home tonight and that you've got no plans other than watching movies in solitude. He knows you're too stubborn to call him over for company even though you've been giving him fuck me eyes in passing for the past few months, so he figures he just has to take matters into his own hands and corner you until you give in like he knows you want to.

Baby Daddy!Jason, who fucks you on damn near every surface in the house, telling you he's just christening the place like he would've already done if you lived together. Whispers apologies in your ears about scaring off all of your dates while he's splitting you open, bullying his cock into you while your eyes roll to the back of your head because you haven't been fucked this good in years, not since the last time you'd been with him. You're face is deep in some pillows when you realize the memories you had of his dick pale in comparison to the real thing, and you aren't sure you could go back to using your imagination to get off after tonight.

Baby Daddy!Jason, who keeps you up all night until your pussy's red and puffy from how many times it'd come in contact with his hips while he was fucking you. Fat tip kissing your cervix until you were clawing at his biceps, begging him to give you some reprieve, tears in your eyes while you babbled incoherently, too lost in the feeling of him to make any sense. He admits in the midst of sex that he tried to get over you; he really did, but he just couldn't; he just couldn't picture you with another man in any capacity. The thought of someone else touching you, fucking you, loving you, made his stomach turn, filling him with rage and an overwhelming need to claim you as his.

Baby Daddy!Jason, who's a level-headed, non-fragile ego'd man until it comes to his family, which, contrary to what some would say, did not only consist of his daughter but you too, and any guy who tried to get with you was a threat. he didn't know the intentions of other men, but he knew his own, which was to keep his little family happy as long as he was alive. If that meant putting a gun to the head of anyone who made a move on you and consoling you by stretching you out the way he knew you liked until you just said "fuck it" and let him put another baby in you, then so be it.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Google’s enshittification memos

[Note, 9 October 2023: Google disputes the veracity of this claim, but has declined to provide the exhibits and testimony to support its claims. Read more about this here.]

When I think about how the old, good internet turned into the enshitternet, I imagine a series of small compromises, each seemingly reasonable at the time, each contributing to a cultural norm of making good things worse, and worse, and worse.

Think about Unity President Marc Whitten's nonpology for his company's disastrous rug-pull, in which they declared that everyone who had paid good money to use their tool to make a game would have to keep paying, every time someone downloaded that game:

The most fundamental thing that we’re trying to do is we’re building a sustainable business for Unity. And for us, that means that we do need to have a model that includes some sort of balancing change, including shared success.

https://www.wired.com/story/unity-walks-back-policies-lost-trust/

"Shared success" is code for, "If you use our tool to make money, we should make money too." This is bullshit. It's like saying, "We just want to find a way to share the success of the painters who use our brushes, so every time you sell a painting, we want to tax that sale." Or "Every time you sell a house, the company that made the hammer gets to wet its beak."

And note that they're not talking about shared risk here – no one at Unity is saying, "If you try to make a game with our tools and you lose a million bucks, we're on the hook for ten percent of your losses." This isn't partnership, it's extortion.

How did a company like Unity – which became a market leader by making a tool that understood the needs of game developers and filled them – turn into a protection racket? One bad decision at a time. One rationalization and then another. Slowly, and then all at once.

When I think about this enshittification curve, I often think of Google, a company that had its users' backs for years, which created a genuinely innovative search engine that worked so well it seemed like *magic, a company whose employees often had their pick of jobs, but chose the "don't be evil" gig because that mattered to them.

People make fun of that "don't be evil" motto, but if your key employees took the gig because they didn't want to be evil, and then you ask them to be evil, they might just quit. Hell, they might make a stink on the way out the door, too:

https://theintercept.com/2018/09/13/google-china-search-engine-employee-resigns/

Google is a company whose founders started out by publishing a scientific paper describing their search methodology, in which they said, "Oh, and by the way, ads will inevitably turn your search engine into a pile of shit, so we're gonna stay the fuck away from them":

http://infolab.stanford.edu/pub/papers/google.pdf

Those same founders retained a controlling interest in the company after it went IPO, explaining to investors that they were going to run the business without having their elbows jostled by shortsighted Wall Street assholes, so they could keep it from turning into a pile of shit:

https://abc.xyz/investor/founders-letters/ipo-letter/

And yet, it's turned into a pile of shit. Google search is so bad you might as well ask Jeeves. The company's big plan to fix it? Replace links to webpages with florid paragraphs of chatbot nonsense filled with a supremely confident lies:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/14/googles-ai-hype-circle/

How did the company get this bad? In part, this is the "curse of bigness." The company can't grow by attracting new users. When you have 90%+ of the market, there are no new customers to sign up. Hypothetically, they could grow by going into new lines of business, but Google is incapable of making a successful product in-house and also kills most of the products it buys from other, more innovative companies:

https://killedbygoogle.com/

Theoretically, the company could pursue new lines of business in-house, and indeed, the current leaders of companies like Amazon, Microsoft and Apple are all execs who figured out how to get the whole company to do something new, and were elevated to the CEO's office, making each one a billionaire and sealing their place in history.

It is for this very reason that any exec at a large firm who tries to make a business-wide improvement gets immediately and repeatedly knifed by all their colleagues, who correctly reason that if someone else becomes CEO, then they won't become CEO. Machiavelli was an optimist:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/microincentives-and-enshittification/

With no growth from new customers, and no growth from new businesses, "growth" has to come from squeezing workers (say, laying off 12,000 engineers after a stock buyback that would have paid their salaries for the next 27 years), or business customers (say, by colluding with Facebook to rig the ad market with the Jedi Blue conspiracy), or end-users.

Now, in theory, we might never know exactly what led to the enshittification of Google. In theory, all of compromises, debates and plots could be lost to history. But tech is not an oral culture, it's a written one, and techies write everything down and nothing is ever truly deleted.

Time and again, Big Tech tells on itself. Think of FTX's main conspirators all hanging out in a group chat called "Wirefraud." Amazon naming its program targeting weak, small publishers the "Gazelle Project" ("approach these small publishers the way a cheetah would pursue a sickly gazelle”). Amazon documenting the fact that users were unknowingly signing up for Prime and getting pissed; then figuring out how to reduce accidental signups, then deciding not to do it because it liked the money too much. Think of Zuck emailing his CFO in the middle of the night to defend his outsized offer to buy Instagram on the basis that users like Insta better and Facebook couldn't compete with them on quality.

It's like every Big Tech schemer has a folder on their desktop called "Mens Rea" filled with files like "Copy_of_Premeditated_Murder.docx":

https://doctorow.medium.com/big-tech-cant-stop-telling-on-itself-f7f0eb6d215a?sk=351f8a54ab8e02d7340620e5eec5024d

Right now, Google's on trial for its sins against antitrust law. It's a hard case to make. To secure a win, the prosecutors at the DoJ Antitrust Division are going to have to prove what was going on in Google execs' minds when the took the actions that led to the company's dominance. They're going to have to show that the company deliberately undertook to harm its users and customers.

Of course, it helps that Google put it all in writing.

Last week, there was a huge kerfuffile over the DoJ's practice of posting its exhibits from the trial to a website each night. This is a totally normal thing to do – a practice that dates back to the Microsoft antitrust trial. But Google pitched a tantrum over this and said that the docs the DoJ were posting would be turned into "clickbait." Which is another way of saying, "the public would find these documents very interesting, and they would be damning to us and our case":

https://www.bigtechontrial.com/p/secrecy-is-systemic

After initially deferring to Google, Judge Amit Mehta finally gave the Justice Department the greenlight to post the document. It's up. It's wild:

https://www.justice.gov/d9/2023-09/416692.pdf

The document is described as "notes for a course on communication" that Google VP for Finance Michael Roszak prepared. Roszak says he can't remember whether he ever gave the presentation, but insists that the remit for the course required him to tell students "things I didn't believe," and that's why the document is "full of hyperbole and exaggeration."

OK.

But here's what the document says: "search advertising is one of the world's greatest business models ever created���illicit businesses (cigarettes or drugs) could rival these economics…[W]e can mostly ignore the demand side…(users and queries) and only focus on the supply side of advertisers, ad formats and sales."

It goes on to say that this might be changing, and proposes a way to balance the interests of the search and ads teams, which are at odds, with search worrying that ads are pushing them to produce "unnatural search experiences to chase revenue."

"Unnatural search experiences to chase revenue" is a thinly veiled euphemism for the prophetic warnings in that 1998 Pagerank paper: "The goals of the advertising business model do not always correspond to providing quality search to users." Or, more plainly, "ads will turn our search engine into a pile of shit."

And, as Roszak writes, Google is "able to ignore one of the fundamental laws of economics…supply and demand." That is, the company has become so dominant and cemented its position so thoroughly as the default search engine across every platforms and system that even if it makes its search terrible to goose revenues, users won't leave. As Lily Tomlin put it on SNL: "We don't have to care, we're the phone company."

In the enshittification cycle, companies first lure in users with surpluses – like providing the best search results rather than the most profitable ones – with an eye to locking them in. In Google's case, that lock-in has multiple facets, but the big one is spending billions of dollars – enough to buy a whole Twitter, every single year – to be the default search everywhere.

Google doesn't buy its way to dominance because it has the very best search results and it wants to shield you from inferior competitors. The economically rational case for buying default position is that preventing competition is more profitable than succeeding by outperforming competitors. The best reason to buy the default everywhere is that it lets you lower quality without losing business. You can "ignore the demand side, and only focus on advertisers."

For a lot of people, the analysis stops here. "If you're not paying for the product, you're the product." Google locks in users and sells them to advertisers, who are their co-conspirators in a scheme to screw the rest of us.

But that's not right. For one thing, paying for a product doesn't mean you won't be the product. Apple charges a thousand bucks for an iPhone and then nonconsensually spies on every iOS user in order to target ads to them (and lies about it):

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

John Deere charges six figures for its tractors, then runs a grift that blocks farmers from fixing their own machines, and then uses their control over repair to silence farmers who complain about it:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/31/dealers-choice/#be-a-shame-if-something-were-to-happen-to-it

Fair treatment from a corporation isn't a loyalty program that you earn by through sufficient spending. Companies that can sell you out, will sell you out, and then cry victim, insisting that they were only doing their fiduciary duty for their sacred shareholders. Companies are disciplined by fear of competition, regulation or – in the case of tech platforms – customers seizing the means of computation and installing ad-blockers, alternative clients, multiprotocol readers, etc:

https://doctorow.medium.com/an-audacious-plan-to-halt-the-internets-enshittification-and-throw-it-into-reverse-3cc01e7e4604?sk=85b3f5f7d051804521c3411711f0b554

Which is where the next stage of enshittification comes in: when the platform withdraws the surplus it had allocated to lure in – and then lock in – business customers (like advertisers) and reallocate it to the platform's shareholders.

For Google, there are several rackets that let it screw over advertisers as well as searchers (the advertisers are paying for the product, and they're also the product). Some of those rackets are well-known, like Jedi Blue, the market-rigging conspiracy that Google and Facebook colluded on:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jedi_Blue

But thanks to the antitrust trial, we're learning about more of these. Megan Gray – ex-FTC, ex-DuckDuckGo – was in the courtroom last week when evidence was presented on Google execs' panic over a decline in "ad generating searches" and the sleazy gimmick they came up with to address it: manipulating the "semantic matching" on user queries:

https://www.wired.com/story/google-antitrust-lawsuit-search-results/

When you send a query to Google, it expands that query with terms that are similar – for example, if you search on "Weds" it might also search for "Wednesday." In the slides shown in the Google trial, we learned about another kind of semantic matching that Google performed, this one intended to turn your search results into "a twisted shopping mall you can’t escape."

Here's how that worked: when you ran a query like "children's clothing," Google secretly appended the brand name of a kids' clothing manufacturer to the query. This, in turn, triggered a ton of ads – because rival brands will have bought ads against their competitors' name (like Pepsi buying ads that are shown over queries for Coke).

Here we see surpluses being taken away from both end-users and business customers – that is, searchers and advertisers. For searchers, it doesn't matter how much you refine your query, you're still going to get crummy search results because there's an unkillable, hidden search term stuck to your query, like a piece of shit that Google keeps sticking to the sole of your shoe.

But for advertisers, this is also a scam. They're paying to be matched to users who search on a brand name, and you didn't search on that brand name. It's especially bad for the company whose name has been appended to your search, because Google has a protection racket where the company that matches your search has to pay extra in order to show up overtop of rivals who are worse matches. Both the matching company and those rivals have given Google a credit-card that Google gets to bill every time a user searches on the company's name, and Google is just running fraudulent charges through those cards.

And, of course, Google put this in writing. I mean, of course they did. As we learned from the documentary The Incredibles, supervillains can't stop themselves from monologuing, and in big, sprawling monopolists, these monologues have to transmitted electronically – and often indelibly – to far-flung co-cabalists.

As Gray points out, this is an incredibly blunt enshittification technique: "it hadn’t even occurred to me that Google just flat out deletes queries and replaces them with ones that monetize better." We don't know how long Google did this for or how frequently this bait-and-switch was deployed.

But if this is a blunt way of Google smashing its fist down on the scales that balance search quality against ad revenues, there's plenty of subtler ways the company could sneak a thumb on there. A Google exec at the trial rhapsodized about his company's "contract with the user" to deliver an "honest results policy," but given how bad Google search is these days, we're left to either believe he's lying or that Google sucks at search.

The paper trail offers a tantalizing look at how a company went from doing something that was so good it felt like a magic trick to being "able to ignore one of the fundamental laws of economics…supply and demand," able to "ignore the demand side…(users and queries) and only focus on the supply side of advertisers."

What's more, this is a system where everyone loses (except for Google): this isn't a grift run by Google and advertisers on users – it's a grift Google runs on everyone.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/03/not-feeling-lucky/#fundamental-laws-of-economics

My next novel is The Lost Cause, a hopeful novel of the climate emergency. Amazon won't sell the audiobook, so I made my own and I'm pre-selling it on Kickstarter!

[vunblr]

The Recipe for Us

Pairing: Lumberjack!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Fluff. Smut. Unprotected sex.

Summary: Bucky sets out to surprise his girlfriend with a simple yet meaningful gesture, but quickly learns that some things are easier said than done.

Word Count: about 9k.

notes: Second Christmas story for the Roots and Branches AU

The hot water streamed over Bucky’s shoulders, washing away the day’s grime and easing the tightness in his muscles. Sawdust and sweat swirled down the drain in pale rivulets, a tangible reminder of the hours spent at Sam’s workshop. He reached for the long-handled loofah hanging on the wall, pausing for a moment as a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Seven months ago, he’d never have imagined himself using something like this. Hell, he hadn’t even known such a thing existed. But she’d gifted it to him after he’d grumbled too many times about sawdust getting into places it had no business being. “Just try it,” she’d insisted, eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and determination. “It’ll make your life easier, I promise.”

At first, he’d been reluctant, because why did he need a fancy shower tool? But now, as he scrubbed his back with the bristled brush, he had to admit that he couldn’t shower without the damn thing. It worked like a charm, reaching spots his stiff shoulders couldn’t. Another one of her small but thoughtful gestures that made his life just a little better, a little easier.

That thought lingered on his mind as he rinsed off. Christmas was coming up fast, and he hadn’t figured out what to get her yet. She was always cooking for him, spoiling him with meals that somehow tasted even better because she’d made them. Maybe it was his turn to return the favor.

His brow furrowed as he stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel and scrubbing it over his damp hair. Cookies, he thought, wrapping the towel around his waist. How hard could that be?

The bell above the library door gave a soft jingle as Bucky stepped inside, shaking off the chill of the late morning air. The faint scent of old books and polished wood greeted him, a familiar comfort. He adjusted his jacket, glancing around until he spotted Martha at the front desk.

The elderly librarian looked up from her paperwork and her face broke into a warm smile. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite mystery man,” she said, setting her pen aside. “You’re just in time, I was about to set aside a copy of All the Colors of the Dark for you. Brand-new, hot off the presses.”

Bucky cleared his throat, brushing his fingers on the edge of the counter. “Not today,” he muttered. “I, uh, need something else.”

Martha tilted her head, rising her eyebrows in surprise. “Oh? And what might that be?”

He hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Cooking books.”

There was a beat of silence before her expression shifted, and amusement crinkled the corners of her eyes. “Cooking books? My, my, that’s a plot twist I didn’t see coming.”

Bucky scratched the back of his neck, suddenly regretting his decision. “Yeah, well… I just need something simple.”

Martha leaned forward slightly, with curiosity sparking in her gaze. “Simple, huh? Expanding your repertoire, are you?”

“Not exactly.” He tugged at his jacket zipper, fixing his eyes on a spot just past her shoulder. “It’s for… someone. A gift.”

Martha chuckled, with a warm and knowing smile. “A gift, huh? Have you already decided what you’re making, or are you here to brainstorm?”

Bucky hesitated, his ears-tinged pink. “Cookies,” he admitted finally.

Her face lit up, and she clasped her hands together. “You’re an absolute sweetheart, you know that? She’s lucky to have someone as thoughtful as you.”

He fumbled again with his jacket, slipping the zipper through his fingers as he looked anywhere but at her. “Thanks,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

“Don’t worry,” she said kindly, moving to the shelves. “I’ve got just the thing for you. A beginner’s guide, easy recipes, step-by-step instructions. You’ll do great.”

As she handed him the book, Bucky accepted it with a quiet nod, clutching it like it was a secret dossier. “Appreciate it,” he said gruffly before turning toward the door, his heart thudding a little too fast as he stepped out into the crisp afternoon.

Sitting in his truck, he flipped through the pages of the brightly colored cookbook, furrowing his brow as he skimmed the recipes. The instructions seemed straightforward enough, at least none of them required anything he couldn’t pronounce. Glancing at the clock on the dashboard, he realized he had just enough time to swing by the general store before heading back to the workshop.

The bell above the store’s door jingled as he stepped inside, the warm air carrying the faint scent of cinnamon and pine. He grabbed a basket and made his way through the aisles, collecting the essentials: flour, baking soda, vanilla essence, and a few other things he didn’t recognize but trusted the book’s guidance on.

As he reached the seasonal display near the front, he paused in front of a rack of Christmas-themed cookie cutters. There were stars, trees, and even a set of reindeer shapes. He frowned, holding up two options and debating which would look more impressive.

He was still deliberating when the familiar sound of the doorbell chiming caught his attention. His stomach flipped as he saw her walking in, coat and hair dusted with snowflakes.

Panic shot through his brain. Without a second thought, he shoved both sets of cookie cutters to the bottom of his basket, quickly covering them with the flour and sugar. He angled himself away from the entrance, his heart pounding as if he’d been caught committing a crime.

He took a breath and glanced at his basket. The cutters were well-hidden, but now he was hyper-aware of the faint clinking of metal every time he moved. Muttering to himself, he steeled his nerves and started toward the checkout, keeping his head low and his focus on not drawing her attention.

And that might have worked if Bucky’s frame didn’t stand out so much. The low shelves did little to hide him, and before he could edge toward the checkout, her gaze landed squarely on him.

Her face lit up with that familiar, heart-stopping smile, and she made a beeline straight for him. He froze, gripping the handle of his basket like it might somehow shield him.

“Hi honey,” she said warmly, slipping her hand into his free one. Her touch was light, and casual, but it sent a wave of nervous energy coursing through his body. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Hey,” he managed to squeak.

Her eyes dropped to the basket with curiosity as she leaned closer. “What do we have here?” She peeked in, lifting her eyebrows as she spotted the ingredients nestled at the bottom. “Flour? Sugar? Vanilla ext-

“It’s for Sam.” he cut her quickly, too quickly. “He asked me to grab some stuff for… for the shop. I needed to come here anyway to buy something for lunch.”

“For the shop?” she echoed, tilting her head.

“Yeah,” he said gruffly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “He forgot to pick it up earlier.”

Her eyes darted back to the basket. “Okay, but what about you? What are you grabbing for lunch?”

His chest tightened. He should’ve thought this through. “I’m not hungry,” he muttered, with a clipped tone.

“Not hungry?” she asked, “You’ve been working all day, Bucky. You should eat something-”

Her concern made his shoulders tense. He didn’t want her prying, didn’t want to screw up the surprise. “I said I’m fine,” he replied, harsher than he intended.

She blinked, taken aback. “Okay…”

He rubbed the back of his neck, as the guilt crept in when he saw the shift in her expression. Still, the panic swirling in his chest made it impossible to backtrack. “I just… I don’t have time to explain, alright?” he stated, in a hurried tone. “I need to get back to work.”

Her lips parted as if she wanted to say more, but he didn’t give her the chance. “I’ll see you later,” he added, moving past her with a quickness that felt borderline rude.

“Wait, Bucky-”

“I’ll call you,” he said over his shoulder, already heading for the register. He kept his eyes fixed ahead, avoiding the weight of her gaze as he paid and left the store.

Outside, the cold air hit his face, but it didn’t ease the heat of frustration prickling under his skin. He hated how his tone had come out. Too rough, too abrupt, but he was incapable of handling it differently.

She stood by the shelves long after Bucky had hurried out, the bell above the store’s door still faintly ringing in her ears. She replayed their conversation, or lack thereof, in her mind. His curt tone, the way he barely looked at her, it was unlike him. Maybe he was just having a bad day. She hoped that was all it was.

But then a few days passed, and she didn’t see him, and the messages were almost nonexistent.

What she didn’t know was that Bucky had been using every spare moment to tackle the recipes in that cookbook. Each attempt ended worse than the last: a disaster of burnt edges, underbaked centers, or cookies that crumbled to dust at the lightest touch.

He stood in his kitchen, staring at the latest batch, which somehow managed to be both rock-hard and sticky at the same time. He rubbed a hand down his face, the other gripping the counter as frustration curled tight in his chest. “What the hell is wrong with me?”

It wasn’t just the cookies. It was the nagging feeling that he was failing at something so simple. The harder he tried, the worse it seemed to get. Maybe there was something wrong with his brain. He threw himself into fixing it, retreating further into his house and unintentionally pulling away from her.

Each time she asked to meet, he had an excuse ready.

“I’m exhausted, darlin’.” he’d said one evening.

“Not feeling great, the migraine came back,” he told her the next day.

“Now’s not a good time,” was the worst.

When she offered to bring him lunch at the workshop, hoping for at least a few stolen minutes together, he deflected. “Shop’s too busy these days,” he had added gruffly. “Wouldn’t look good.”

Her heart sank every time he brushed her off. She tried not to take it personally, but the doubt started creeping like frost on a windowpane. Had she done something wrong? Was she being too pushy? Too clingy?

Sitting at home with her phone in her lap, she stared at his last message. The usual warmth in his words was absent. She bit her lip, scrolling back through their conversations, searching for some clue as to what had changed.

Eventually, Bucky grudgingly texted Sam's sister to ask for help. He stared at the phone screen, hovering his thumb over the send button. Every fiber of his being wanted to delete the message, but he was out of options. His fingers itched to toss the phone onto the counter and forget this ever happened, but instead, he hit send.

The reply came quickly:

Sure. Meet me at the diner during my break. You’re buying lunch.

The last part made him groan, but at least Sarah had agreed. She was the only person he could think of who could help him without making it a big deal. He’d dreaded this conversation from the moment he realized he couldn’t pull off the cookies on his own.

When lunchtime rolled around, Bucky made his way to the diner, with his stomach twisting with nerves. He slid into the booth across from Sarah, with tight shoulders and fidgeting hands.

“All right,” she said, leaning her elbows on the table. “You dragged me out here, so spill. What’s going on?”

Bucky shifted in his seat, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. “I need help,” he muttered.

Sarah raised an eyebrow. “With…?”

He sighed. “Cookies.”

“Cookies?” she repeated, clearly holding back a laugh.

“Yeah, cookies,” he grumbled, lowering his voice. “I’ve been trying to make them for Y/n. It’s supposed to be a Christmas gift, but I can’t get it right. Every batch is worse than the last.”

Sarah tilted her head, her expression somewhere between amused and concerned. “Wait a second. How many batches are we talking about here?”

Bucky hesitated, dropping his gaze to the table. “A lot,” he admitted reluctantly. “I’ve been working on it for… a few days now after work.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “A few days? What, have you just been locking yourself in your house this whole time? Baking?”

The remnants of his grilled cheese sat on the plate in front of him, barely touched. she, on the other hand, was halfway through her fries, a teasing smirk playing on her lips as she listened to him stumble through his explanation. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling his cheeks heat. “Maybe. You know already that when I’m fixated on something I can get-”

“So let me get this straight,” Sarah interrupted, crossing her arms and leaning back in the booth. “You’ve been holing yourself up in your cabin, failing at baking cookies, and ignoring your girlfriend because you’re too proud to ask her for help?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh, no? Then what is it like?” she questioned, crossing her arms.

He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the heavy weight of her stare. “I just… wanted to surprise her. She always does so much for me, and I thought I could do something nice for her for once. But nothing’s working, and-” He stopped, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

Sarah’s gaze softened, and her teasing gave way to something gentler. “Look, Bucky. It’s sweet that you want to do this for her. But you’re overthinking it. Cookies don’t have to be perfect; they just have to come from the heart, she would love them anyway.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” he muttered.

Sarah laughed. “You think I was born knowing how to bake? Trust me, it took plenty of trial and error. And maybe a few smoke alarms.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, almost a smile.

“Okay,” she said, brushing her hands off on a napkin. “Let’s start with the basics. What recipe are you trying to use?”

Before he could answer, the bell over the diner door jingled, drawing both their gazes to the entrance. It was just a regular patron, and Bucky’s attention began to shift back to Sarah. But then, in the corner of his eye, he caught sight of her. She stood just outside the window, frozen mid-step, a paper bag from the bakery clutched tightly in her hands.

Bucky’s stomach dropped. She couldn’t hear them through the glass, but the scene must have looked... bad. Him sitting with Sarah, leaning casually across the table, with an easy smile lighting up the booth, while his phone sat untouched, with her unanswered messages still lingering in his inbox.

He swore under his breath.

Her lips parted slightly as if she was about to say something, but then she looked away.

He could see the shift, the moment her walls went up. She adjusted her grip on the bag, straightened her posture, and turned on her heel, walking briskly down the sidewalk.

“Uh-oh,” Sarah muttered, flicking her gaze between them. “Good luck with that,” she added dryly, biting into another fry as he scrambled out of the booth.

His long strides closed the distance quickly, but as he reached out to touch her shoulder, he hesitated. His hand hovered for a moment before dropping to his side. Instead, he called her name.

She didn’t stop right away, her pace faltering for half a second before continuing, though slower this time.

He tried again and she finally stopped, turning around slowly, eyes bright with unshed tears. The sight hit him harder than he expected, and for a moment, the words he had lined up fled his mind.

“I can explain,” he said, stepping closer but keeping a careful distance.

She made a small motion with her head, a tilt that told him to continue. She didn’t trust her voice to speak just yet, tightening her grip around the bakery bag.

“I was talking to Sarah,” he began, “About... about a problem I’ve been having.”

Her brows furrowed, and he stumbled over his next words. “It’s-it’s nothing serious, just something I needed... advice on.”

“Advice?” she repeated, with a soft tone but tinged with something sharper.

He nodded, avoiding her eyes. “Yeah.”

She exhaled, and when she spoke again, her voice trembled a little. “You know, I always thought I was the person you’d turn to if you needed help.” Her gaze locked on his, vulnerable yet unyielding. “It seems like it's not the case lately.”

“That’s not true,” he stated quickly, words rushing together. “I… God, I’m sorry if I’ve been... distant. Absent. It’s not you, it’s-” He paused, groaning softly as he tried to gather his thoughts. “I have my reasons.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and her next words were still calm but carried an edge. “We’re grown adults, Bucky. This isn’t one of those predictable novels where the characters dance around their miscommunication until everything blows up.” She crossed her arms, crinkling slightly the bakery bag . “If something’s going on, I expect you to be concrete with me, not feed me veiled comments or excuses.”

“I know,” he admitted, slumping his shoulders slightly. “You deserve better than that. I just... I didn’t want to mess this up.”

Her gaze softened, but she didn’t drop her stance. “Then stop treating me like I’m someone you could mess things up with, and just talk to me.”

Bucky let out a heavy breath, raking a hand through his hair. "Alright," he said, with a low but resolute voice. "I’ll just… come clean."

Her expression stayed guarded, but he could see a flicker of curiosity as he shifted his weight, looking anywhere but directly at her. "I don’t… I’m not great at this kind of thing. Talking, explaining. But I know this. You, us… this thing doesn’t mean anything if it’s making you upset." He rubbed the back of his neck, searching for the right words. "I’ve been working on something. For you."

“For me?” she asked, slightly raising her brows.

“Yeah.” He looked at her briefly before glancing away again, twitching his lips with nervous energy. "Cookies. I’ve been trying to bake cookies for you. For Christmas. I thought… you’re always cooking for me, always doing things to make my life easier. I wanted to do something for you. Something meaningful." He exhaled roughly, the words spilling out faster now. "But I’m awful at it. Every batch gets worse, and I’ve been so damn focused on trying to get it right that I didn’t even realize how I was shutting you out."

As the story progressed, she could see the tension in his posture, the way his hands flexed and fidgeted at his sides, and his eagerness to make things right even as he stumbled over his words. Her expression shifted, the initial frustration melting into something gentler as she bit her lip, her emotions caught between amusement and tenderness.

“Bucky,” she murmured, stepping forward before he could say more. She dropped the bakery bag and hugged him tightly, wrapping her arms around his waist.

He froze for a moment before leaning into the embrace, hesitantly circling his arms on her back. They stayed like that, wrapped in silence, until she broke the quiet.

"You could’ve just bought me a can of cookies, you know. Then I could’ve used it to put my sewing supplies in there.”

He let out a low laugh against her hair. "Yeah, but what kind of gesture would that be?"

"A less stressful one," she teased, pulling back just enough to look up at him, with a small smile tugging at her lips.

"Maybe," he admitted, his blue eyes searching hers. "But it wouldn’t have been the same."

“How about this,” she began, in a soft yet playful tone. “We make them together.”

Bucky blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Together?”

“Yeah,” she said, her smile widening. “I’ll teach you how to make them. We’ll turn it into a little… date. You’ll learn how to do it right, and my gift will be spending time with you.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she silenced him with a raised brow. “Before you argue, think about it. I don’t need some perfect Christmas cookies, Bucky. I’d much rather spend time with you, and make sure you don’t burn your kitchen down in the process.”

He hesitated, then gave her a slow nod. “Alright. We’ll make ‘em together.” Then a determined smile played on his lips. If learning to bake with her would give him another shot at perfecting those cookies on his own later, it was a win-win. And this time, he wouldn’t mess it up.

That afternoon, as planned, Bucky arrived at her house. When she opened the door, she couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him standing there with two overstuffed grocery bags in hand.

“You didn’t have to bring everything-,” she started, stepping aside to let him in.

“I did,” he cut in firmly, gripping the bags. “I’m the one learning here, and I’ll be damned if you’re the one paying for my mess-ups.”

She chuckled. “Don’t sell yourself short just yet. You might have a hidden talent.”

He gave her a doubtful look but didn’t argue. Turning fully to her, he gave her a quick, self-conscious smile before she leaned up to kiss him, a soft, reassuring press of her lips against his.

“Come on,” she said, pulling back and taking his hand. “I’ve got everything set up.”

She led him to the kitchen, where bowls, measuring cups, and utensils were neatly arranged. A checkered white-and-blue apron lay folded on the counter, which she promptly picked up and handed to him.

“What’s this?” he asked, eyeing the apron like it might bite.

“Your apron,” she said simply, unfolding it and holding it up to him. “It’s going to save you from ruining that nice shirt of yours. Plus, it suits you.”

He muttered something under his breath about dignity, but he didn’t resist when she slipped it over his head and tied the strings at his back. She stepped back, tilting her head as if admiring her handiwork.

“There. Perfect,” she said with a grin.

He shook his head, but his lips twitched in a faint smile. “Alright, what now?”

“Well, first,” she began, pulling out a notebook and pen, “which recipe were you trying?”

Bucky hesitated, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. “I mean… if you’ve got a favorite, we could try that instead.”

“Nope,” she replied, crossing her arms with a playful smile. “This is your project. I want to see what you picked.”

His ears turned red as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled recipe card with his handwriting, handing it to her.

She smoothed it out, scanning the list of ingredients and instructions. “Alright,” she said, looking up at him with an amused and encouraging smile. “Let’s see if we can make some magic happen.”

Bucky grabbed an elastic band from his back pocket, pulling his hair back and tying it into a short ponytail. His movements were quick and practiced, but to her, it was a sight worth pausing for.

“You know,” she said, leaning against the counter with a teasing grin, “you look ridiculously handsome like that.”

He glanced at her, his cheeks warming as he muttered, “It’s just a hairdo for workin’. Nothin’ fancy.”

“Still counts,” she replied with a shrug, stepping closer to nudge his arm.

He ducked his head with a quiet huff but didn’t say more, focusing instead on the task at hand.

When they started reading through the recipe together, Bucky's brow furrowed in concentration. “Okay,” he muttered, “this part says a cup.” As he spoke, he reached for a mug she hadn’t even noticed sitting on the counter, a large, oversized thing that looked more suited for a vat of coffee than precise measurements. She blinked, then glanced up at him.

“Bucky,” she said gently, pointing at the mug, “what have you been using for this?”

He hesitated, shifting his weight. “Uh… one from my cupboard,” he admitted, his tone almost defensive. “The grey one with the red star?”

Her lips twitched, and she pressed them together to suppress a laugh. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said softly, shaking her head. “Not all cups are the same, especially when you’re baking. It’s not about a drinking cup, it’s about measuring cups.”

She picked up her set of cups, holding them up for him to see. “These are what you use for recipes. They’re standardized so everything comes out the way it’s supposed to.”

Bucky looked between the measuring cups and his oversized mug, and realization dawned on his face. “So… that’s why every batch turned out so bad,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Baking is like chemistry.” She added with a chuckle, “The right proportions make everything work smoothly. I guess you didn’t differentiate the size of the spoons either.” When she saw his disappointed face she reached up to gently pat his shoulder. “You’re not alone. A lot of people make these mistakes when they start. That’s why we’re doing this together.”

They moved through the recipe step by step, she perched beside him, offering guidance but letting him take the lead. Bucky tried to focus on the instructions, but each step felt like a puzzle missing a crucial piece. As he measured out flour and sugar, he couldn’t help but second-guess every motion, leveling off scoops with exacting care that bordered on obsession.

It wasn’t just the baking, it was her watching him. Her eyes followed his hands with a soft patience that should’ve soothed him, but instead left him hyper-aware of every move he made. He could feel her gaze like a weight, one he didn’t know how to carry. His shoulders stiffened further when he noticed a bit of flour scatter onto the counter.

When he started mixing the dough, frustration began to creep in. “This stuff doesn’t want to combine,” he muttered, glaring down at the stubbornly clumpy mixture.

She leaned closer, brushing her hand lightly against his back as she peered into the bowl. Her touch sent a jolt through his body not unpleasant, just… distracting. “It takes a little patience,” she said softly. “You’re doing fine, Bucky. Really.”

He wanted to believe her, but the self-doubt crept intrusive inside him. What if I screw this up? The thought lingered on a loop, heavy and unwelcome. He worked the spatula harder, tension tightening his jaw and making his movements stiff.

She noticed, of course she did. She always noticed. Setting her utensils aside, she slipped an arm around his waist, pulling herself close to his side. Her nose brushed against his chest as she nuzzled him gently, the warmth of her body cutting through the wall he didn’t even realize he’d been building.

“Relax,” she murmured, looking up at him with a soft smile. “You’re not dismantling a bomb here. No one’s born knowing everything, and you came today to learn. That’s already the hardest part.”

He let out a breath, as her words chipped away some of the tension clawing at him. “Yeah,” he muttered, though his movements were still careful and deliberate as if the dough would mock him for messing up.

She tilted her head with a mischievous glint sparking in her eyes. He recognized that look and braced himself, but nothing could have prepared him for what she did next. Without a word, she grabbed his hand, still sticky with half-mixed dough, and brought it to her mouth.

His eyes widened as two of his fingers disappeared between her lips. The room stilled, and his focus narrowed to her. Her tongue swirled over his skin, warm and deliberate, as she sucked the dough clean. His heart thudded against his ribs, his breath catching somewhere in his throat.

“What… what are you doing?” he managed, his voice raspier than intended.

She released his fingers with a soft pop and a smug expression. “Waking you up,” she teased. “And there’s no way you could disappoint me anyway. I’ve barely been paying attention to the recipe.”

His brow furrowed. “Why?”

Her lips curled into a grin as her gaze swept over him, slow and deliberate. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, her voice dripping with amusement. “Big guy in my kitchen, wearing my apron, looking way too good with his hair pulled back. Take your pick.”

Heat crawled up his neck, but he couldn’t fight the small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, shaking his head as he turned back to the bowl.

When the time to cut the cookies came, Bucky rummaged through one of the bags he’d brought and pulled out a set of festive cookie cutters. He laid them on the counter, and she squealed in delight, clapping her hands together.

“These are so cute!” she exclaimed, excited.

Bucky’s half-smile turned bigger. “Yeah?”

She nodded enthusiastically, picking up one of the cutters shaped like a snowflake. “Good choice, honey.”

His chest warmed at her praise, and for once, he didn’t feel quite so out of his depth. They worked side by side together, cutting the dough into cheerful shapes. She was quick, deftly pressing cutters into the rolled-out dough and transferring each piece to the baking tray with ease. He followed her lead, slower but methodical, determined to match her precision.

In what felt like no time, the oven was full of cookies, their sweet, buttery scent already starting to fill the kitchen. Bucky leaned back against the counter, pulling her into his side with one arm. She nestled into him, resting her head against his chest as they both stared at the timer ticking down.

“You’re getting pretty domestic.” she teased, tilting her head up, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw, letting her lips linger there for a moment. “So,” she began, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, “how are you planning to decorate these?”

He froze. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. His brow furrowed as he glanced at the trays, panic flickering in his blue eyes. “I, uh…” he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t… I didn’t think that far ahead.”

Her laughter was light but not unkind. “It’s okay,” she said, patting his chest reassuringly. “I’ll take care of it.”

“That wasn’t the idea,” he protested, frowning. “This is supposed to be my thing. For you.”

She sighed. “Fine. I’ll teach you how to make royal icing, and then you’re on your own.”

The timer dinged, and they set about transferring the cookies to cooling racks. Once the cookies were ready, she walked him through the steps of making royal icing, from mixing the powdered sugar to coloring small batches with food dye.

At first, his hands were clumsy, unfamiliar with the delicate work of piping, but soon enough, Bucky found his rhythm. He focused intently on each cookie, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth as he carefully outlined a reindeer’s antlers or added intricate snowflake details.

She stood back, watching with growing amazement. “You’ve got a steady hand,” she remarked, crossing her arms as she leaned against the counter.

He shrugged, still concentrating. “I’ve had practice. Just… not with this.”

By the time he finished, the cookies were nothing short of impressive. Each one was decorated with precision, from cheerful Santas to elegant wreaths. He turned to her, brushing a streak of flour from his cheek with the back of his hand. “Well?” She grinned, walking up to him and wrapping her arms around his neck. “They’re perfect, Bucky.”

The sky was painted in soft strokes of pink and orange as the sun dipped below the horizon. Bucky stretched his arms above his head, his joints popping after hours spent hunched over the kitchen counter. “I’ll leave the cookies here to set overnight,” he said, glancing at the rows of perfectly iced cookies spread across her counter. “But I need to head over to the workshop. Got some decorations to drop off.”

“Decorations?” she asked, tilting her head.

He nodded toward the door. “Yeah, Sam thought it’d be nice if everyone pitched in this year. Made something personal for the display. I’ve got mine in the truck.”

Her face lit up. “Can I come? I’ll help you set everything up.”

Bucky hesitated for a moment, but the warmth in her gaze was hard to resist. “Alright,” he said, grabbing his jacket. “Let’s go.”

By the time they reached the workshop, the place was dark and locked up for the evening. Bucky fished his keys out of his pocket. “Here we are,” he muttered, unlocking the door and holding it open for her.

The workshop smelled faintly of sawdust and varnish, even in the chill of winter. A few decorations already hung from the rafters: wooden stars, garlands crafted from pinecones, and even a clumsily painted reindeer that had Sarah’s handiwork written all over it.

She wandered further inside, her eyes sparkling with curiosity as she took in the holiday cheer. “This is so cozy,” she said, her voice echoing softly in the empty space.

Bucky stepped past her, setting a large box on the workbench. She peeked inside, smiling as she spotted a tangle of string lights. “Oh, these are perfect! Did you really make these?”

“They’re just lights,” he replied with a shrug, and a faint blush on his cheeks.

She picked up a strand and held it aloft, the tiny bulbs catching the last traces of daylight filtering through the workshop windows. “No, I can tell you put effort into this, they are gorgeous.”

Her words made his chest tighten, with a mix of pride and awkwardness. “Come on,” he said, reaching for the box. “Let’s get these up.”

They worked side by side, untangling the string lights with care. She gently teased him when he accidentally knotted a section tighter, but as they kept at it, she couldn’t help but praise him again.

“You’re so good at manual labor,” she said, handing him the next strand. “Carpentry at Sam’s, the cookies earlier, fixing things around my place... and now these lights? Is there anything you can’t do?”

Bucky’s lips twitched into a small smile, but her words stirred darker thoughts within his mind. Oh, if she only knew what else his hands were good at. Things that involve a knife, a rifle, or worse. The memories flickered like a shadow across his mind, a sharp contrast to the festive glow they were creating.

“Bucky?” Her soft voice pulled him from the spiral.

“Hm?” he mumbled, blinking as he looked at her.

“Maybe you could make some lights for me next year,” she suggested.

He exhaled softly, forcing the tension out of his shoulders. “Sure.”

Sensing the remnants of whatever had crossed his mind, she stepped closer, wrapping her arms around his middle and resting her cheek against his chest. Her embrace relaxed him, the warmth of her touch chasing away the cold corners of his thoughts.

“You still have the ponytail,” she pointed out, glancing up at him with a grin. “I love it.”

He rolled his eyes, though a faint flush touched his cheeks. “It’s practical,” he repeated, focusing on arranging the next strand of lights.

“It’s sexy,” she countered, her grin turning mischievous.

As he worked, her eyes fell on the remaining strand of lights still in the box, and a mischievous idea sparked in her mind.

“You know,” she began, picking up the last strand, “these could do more than just decorate the workshop.”

He looked up at her, brow raised. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

She shrugged, holding the strand up and letting it dangle between her fingers. “I don’t know. They seem sturdy enough to, I don’t know... tie something up?”

His head tilted, blue eyes narrowing slightly as he caught the teasing edge in her tone. “You mean like a post?”

“Sure, Bucky. A post,” she replied, quirking her lips into a smirk.

He took a step toward her, closing the gap between them. “Or something else?”

Her grin widened. “That’s up to you, isn’t it?”

He didn’t say anything, but the shift in his expression was unmistakable. Without a word, he plucked the strand of lights from her hands and looped it loosely over her wrist. Her heart skipped, as he moved with the careful, deliberate precision she’d just been praising. Before she could react, he had her wrists gently bound together with the lights, tying them off to the sturdy handle of the workbench vice.

“Bucky,” she murmured, tugging lightly at the restraint, “I didn’t mean... here.”

His brow quirked, as he leaned back, casually admiring his handiwork. “Oh, didn’t you?”

Her cheeks flushed, and she squirmed a little, testing the hold. “What if someone comes in?”

“No one’s coming in,” he said, his voice calm and confident.

“You don’t know that,” she countered, darting her eyes toward the locked door as though willing it to stay closed.

He stepped closer, crowding her space in that way that always made her pulse race. “Well,” he drawled, one hand tracing the strand around her wrists, “you should’ve thought about that before suggesting this creative use for my handiwork.”

Her lips parted, a retort bubbling on her tongue, but it fizzled under the weight of his heated gaze. “I didn’t think you’d actually... do it,” she whispered.

“That so?” His voice was low and teasing as he leaned in and his breath brushed her ear. “Then maybe you shouldn’t dare me next time.”

Before she could muster a reply, his free hand cradled the back of her neck, pulling her into a rough, searing kiss. He took full advantage of her startled gasp to deepen it, lifting her effortlessly and laying her back on the workbench.  Her arms were stretched above her head, her wrists binded to the handle, a tether she couldn’t help but tug against instinctively.

“Bucky,” she breathed, with a mix of arousal and reason. “We can’t... not here.”

“Can’t we?” he murmured, grazing his lips at the sensitive skin beneath her jaw. His hands, strong and sure, settled on her hips as he positioned himself between her legs.

Her protests faltered as his mouth found the hollow of her throat, trailing wet, deliberate kisses down to her collarbone.

“This is insane,” she whispered, though her fingers flexed against the strands holding her wrists.

“Maybe,” he rasped, his voice rough with need. “But you don’t seem to mind.” Her body betrayed her, arching toward him, inviting his touch as he continued his slow, torturous path down her neck.

As he spoke, his hand traced up her thigh, slipping beneath the woolen skirt she’d worn to keep warm in the crisp winter air. His fingers traveled with deliberate slowness, brushing over her stocking-clad legs until they reached her mound, cupping it through her already damp panties. She gasped, tugging against the makeshift restraint at her wrists as his touch sent a jolt of heat through her body.

“In fact,” he murmured, pressing his fingers more firmly against her, “you’re enjoying it.”

Her breath hitched, and she couldn’t summon a denial, not with the way her body was reacting. He smirked at her silence, leaning back slightly to survey the sight of her stretched out on the workbench.

His hands shifted to her hips, sliding her skirt up higher, bunching it around her waist. His gaze darkened as he poked at her clothed entrance, watching the way she arched toward him, needing more. His teeth sank into his bottom lip as he let out a low groan.

“The jacket stays on,” he growled, commanding. She blinked at him, a question forming at her lips, but he shook his head. “It’s cold, and I’m not letting you freeze on me.”

Before she could respond, he shrugged off his own jacket, tossing it onto a nearby stool. His hands moved to his belt, fumbling with the buckle and zipper in his urgency. “I was gonna take my time,” he admitted, his voice rough with restraint, “but seeing you like this…” His gaze raked over her, taking in the flush on her cheeks, the way her chest rose and fell rapidly beneath her jacket, and the way her legs spread just enough to accommodate him. “I need you now, sweetheart.”

Her lips parted softly “I want you too, Bucky.”

That was all the encouragement he needed. Hooking his fingers into the waistband of her panties, he tugged them down her thighs, the damp fabric clinging stubbornly before he discarded them onto the floor. His own pants and underwear followed in quick succession, pooling around his boots as he climbed back over her.

The heat of his body pressed against hers was a stark contrast to the chill in the air. His rough hands held her hips as he shifted between her legs and captured her lips in a deep, consuming kiss, grinding his cock against her slick folds. She moaned into his mouth, instinctively lifting her body toward him, chasing the friction.

“Fuck,” he rasped against her lips, dropping his forehead to rest against hers. “You feel so good, sugar. So wet for me.”

Her only response was another needy arch of her hips, and he growled softly, gripping her thighs as he lined himself up with her entrance. The tip of his cock teased her, as though he was savoring the moment despite his earlier haste.

“Bucky,” she whimpered, her voice raw with need, “please.”

His jaw tightened, his resolve barely hanging by a thread. “Don’t be impatient” he murmured. “I want to-” He broke off, swallowing hard as his cock pressed against her entrance, her heat almost enough to make him lose control. “I want to just fuck you right now, but I didn’t prep you. I’m not risking hurting you.”

She groaned in frustration, tipping back her head against the workbench. In her heated state, her filter was long gone. “I don’t care, Bucky. I want it all, right now.”

His blue eyes snapped to hers, darkened with lust but narrowing with a hint of reproach. “Don’t say things like that,” he growled with a strained voice. “You’re making this harder for me.”

Her lips curved into a sly smile, even as she squirmed beneath him. “Good.”

Bucky let out a low, frustrated groan, gripping her hips a little tighter. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, though there was no real heat in his words. She could see the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, even as he fought to stay focused.

He shifted, moving one hand between them to guide himself, while the other kept her firmly in place. Slowly, carefully, he began to push inside, stopping to let her adjust with each inch. Her walls stretched around him, the delicious burn making her moan, pulling her bound wrists reflexively against the lights as she arched her back.

She whimpered his name, wrapping her legs around his hips to pull him closer. “More,” she pleaded, her breath coming in short, needy gasps.

“Darlin' I’m trying,” he rasped, pausing to catch his breath, pressing his forehead against hers. “But you gotta let me take care of you.”

Her head tilted, locking her eyes with his, and there was so much trust and desire in her gaze that it almost undid him. “You are, Bucky,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “But I need it now.”

His restraint cracked, and with a low groan, he pushed deeper, sinking into her inch by inch until he was fully seated inside her.

Bucky groaned as her walls clenched around him. She mewled softly, tilting her head back, her bound wrists tugging at the lights as she instinctively moved her hips upward, desperate for more.

“See?” she murmured, brushing his lips with hers. “I told you I could take it.” She teased.

His jaw tightened, and a low growl rumbled in his chest. “You’re gonna drive me crazy,” he muttered, pulling back just enough to thrust forward again, deliberately slow despite the tension tightening every muscle in his body.

Her whimper sent a jolt of desire straight to his cock as her legs tightened around his hips, meeting his shallow movements. “Please, baby,” she gasped, her voice trembling with need. “I need you to move.”

“Just… wait,” he ground out, his jaw tight as he tried to keep himself in check. His restraint was hanging by a thread, but he was determined to go slow, to make it good for her despite the fire licking at his nerves. The way she shifted beneath him, her hips rolling against his, hot, wet, and utterly desperate, was unraveling him inch by inch.

And then she did it, arching her back, pressing her chest against his, and nipping at his bottom lip before her tongue darted out to soothe the sting. “Please,” she pleaded, locking her eyes onto his with wild abandon.

He snapped.

With a guttural groan, he slammed into her, hard and deep. She cried out, a sharp sound that made him freeze with guilt.

“Shit,” he muttered, his body taut with tension. “Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head furiously, her eyes glassy with need as she squirmed beneath him. “No. God, no,” she whimpered, her voice broken. “Don’t stop. Please, Bucky, don’t stop.”

He exhaled slowly, rough and ragged as he fought to steady himself. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmured, with a strained voice.

He started again, his movements slow at first, but the way her body responded to him, -arching, trembling, pushing- had his resolve crumbling all over again. He tried to quicken his pace, thrust harder, deeper, but the workbench beneath them was unforgivingly hard, and he growled in frustration, halting mid-thrust. With a muttered curse, he pulled out and flipped her onto her stomach in one swift motion. His hands gripped her hips, lifting them slightly as he pushed her skirt higher and entered her again, this time setting a punishing pace, the new angle pulling a sharp cry from her lips.

“Better?” he growled, his voice thick with desire. “You just couldn’t wait, didn’t you?” he grunted, gripping her hips tightly as he drove into her.

Her only response was a desperate moan, rolling back her hips against him as though to urge him deeper.

The sight of her body rippling down his, her restrained hands trying to hold onto something, and her flushed face pressed against the wood was enough to drive him wild. “Look at you,” he muttered. “So perfect like this, all laid out for me.” He pulled back, straightening, and gripped her hips hard enough to leave marks as he plunged into her with renewed force. Her moans grew louder, more desperate, as he pushed her higher and higher.

Every time she gasped his name, every shudder that ran through her body, spurred him on. He felt her tense and start to tremble, and he knew she was close. His fingers slid down to where they were joined, brushing against her clit, and she nearly screamed, trembling and spiraling closer to the edge.

“Come on,” he murmured, rough and coaxing. “I know you’re close. Give it to me, sweetheart.”

Her body obeyed before her mind caught up, crying out his name, dragging him into his own release with a hoarse groan as he buried himself deep inside her one last time.

They stayed like that for a moment, with his body draped over hers, ragged breaths mingling in the chilled air of the workshop. He pressed a soft kiss at the back of her neck, and gently nipped the sensitive skin peeking through her jacket.

As the heat of the moment faded, a flicker of practicality broke through the haze clouding Bucky’s mind. His gaze drifted to the polished surface of the workbench beneath her, and the realization hit him like a bucket of cold water. If he weren’t careful, they’d leave an undeniable -and very permanent- mark on the wood.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, pressing another soft kiss to the nape of her neck.

She turned her head slightly. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice soft and hoarse from her cries moments ago.

“The bench,” he grumbled, steadying her hips with his hands. “I didn’t think it through. If we…” He hesitated, just the thought of explaining the stain on the workbench’s varnish was almost as mortifying as the act itself.

Her chuckle was low and warm. “Are you serious?” she teased, her body still pliant under his hands.

“Very. Sam’ll notice, and I’m not about to answer questions about this.”

“Fine,” she giggled, smirking over her shoulder. “So, what’s the plan?”

First, he tugged at the string to sever it and free her from the handle, then, instead of pulling out abruptly, he eased back, hands steady on her hips as he helped her shift, guiding her carefully to sit on his lap. Her knees wobbled, still weak from the ordeal

“Bucky,” she began, her voice playful but still breathless, “if this is your way of sweeping me off my feet-”

“Shut up,” a soft laugh rumbled from his chest. He adjusted his grip, shifting slightly until he was closer to the edge of the workbench. With a deliberate steadiness, he leaned forward and gently lowered her until her feet touched the cold floor.

She gasped at the chill against her bare toes, instinctively leaning back into his warmth. “Not exactly a graceful dismount,” she quipped, curving her lips into a smirk as her hands found his forearms for balance.

Bucky winced, a hint of pink creeping up his cheeks. “I can’t believe you just said that,” he muttered, half under his breath.

She grinned, brushing back a stray lock of hair. “You can thank the Wild West novel I’m working on for that one.”

His brow arched as he helped her steady herself. “Oh, so you traded the laird’s sword for the cowboy’s long gun, huh?”

Her laugh bubbled out, leaning into him as her shoulders shook. “You know,” she teased, poking his chest lightly, “you’re catching on a little too quickly to these tropes.”

Bucky’s gaze dropped to her wrists, still loosely bound by the string of lights he severed from the bench. His lips quirked into a mischievous smirk as he reached down, gripping the strand and giving it a gentle tug. “Oh, maybe I’m just entertaining the idea of you being my captive, in retaliation for the sheriff messing with my business,” he said, his voice low and playful.

Her laughter cut off with a soft gasp, and she feet her cheeks starting to heat. “Y-you talk about your sister’s novels,” she stammered, narrowing her eyes at him. “But I’m starting to think you’ve read this kind of thing. As a horny teenager, or… I don’t know!”

He chuckled. “You think I spent my teenage years reading romance novels?

“Well,” she said, with a playful tone, “not everyone had the internet back then, and I’m sure there was a limit to how many dirty magazines a boy could buy with his allowance. Especially in a small town.”

Bucky’s brow shot up. “Dirty magazines, huh?”

She grinned, shrugging as she leaned into him. “What can I say? I can totally imagine young, innocent Bucky Barnes, desperate for... enlightenment, flipping through anything he could get his hands on.”

“I didn’t-“

“Don’t try to deny it. It’s not like you had endless options. A boy’s gotta make do.”

Bucky shook his head, his ears visibly red as he muttered, “We are not having this conversation.”

“Oh, we absolutely are,” she teased, her grin widening as she poked his chest again, delighting in his flustered expression. “Come on, enlighten me. What did you do for fun in a town like this as a teenager?”

“Worked,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest as if that would end the conversation.

“Worked?” she echoed, incredulous. “That’s it? No sneaking out, no rebellious shenanigans, no awkward first crushes?”

Bucky sighed, dropping his gaze to the floor as if avoiding hers might shield him from the conversation. “I guess eventually you’ll find out,” he muttered, “since it seems the people of this town love to gossip like it’s a local sport.”

She tilted her head, intrigued by his sudden reluctance. “Oh? And what juicy tidbit am I missing out on?”

He hesitated, pressing his lips into a thin line before finally relenting. “I was... erm, popular with the girls ’round here,” he confessed in a low and gruff tone, like he was confessing a crime.

Her eyebrows shot up, and she barely contained a laugh. “Popular? Like, homecoming king popular or...?”

“Not exactly,” he cut in quickly, lifting a hand to rub the back of his neck. “Let’s just say I didn’t exactly have to grab a magazine to see... you know...” He trailed off, making a vague gesture with his hand that only deepened the flush on his cheeks.

Her mouth fell open in mock shock, one hand flying to her chest. “Bucky Barnes,” she gasped, “are you telling me you were the town’s resident heartbreaker?”

“I didn’t say that!” he shot back, his ears turning red.

“You didn’t not say it,” she teased, leaning closer with a wicked grin. “Now I need details. How many hearts did you leave shattered? How many windows did you sneak out of at the crack of dawn?”

He groaned, dragging his hand down his face. “It wasn’t like that,” he insisted, though his flustered tone betrayed him. “And I didn’t sneak out of anyone’s window, thank you very much.”

Bucky’s hand dropped from his face, his expression shifting into something more subdued. “Anyway,” he said, his voice quieter, “it was a long time ago. Sometimes it feels like it was another life.”

Her playful grin softened at his tone, her teasing instinctively halting as she watched him carefully.

“I left the town when I enlisted,” he continued, glancing away as if looking for the right words. “And only came back after fifteen years. When they...” His jaw tightened for a moment before he finished, “...decided I wasn’t enough anymore to be serving.”

Her heart ached at the weight of his words and she stepped closer, reaching for his hands as she studied his face. “Bucky…”

He shook his head slightly, offering a small, forced smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “’s fine,” he said, though the tightness in his tone suggested otherwise.

Her grip on his hands tightened. “You’re more than enough. To me. To everyone who really knows you.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at her with an unreadable expression. Then, his shoulders relaxed, and his smile turned genuine, though still tinged with a trace of sadness.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.

Suddenly she sneezed, suddenly and sharp, breaking the fragile silence. Bucky blinked as if pulled out of a trance, and his gaze swept over the two of them.

He was naked from the waist down, her feet still bare on the cold workshop floor. His brows knitted together as he tousled his hair, flush creeping up his neck. Without a word, he reached for his boxers, handing them to her in a silent but clear gesture.

She took them, understanding immediately, and began to clean herself as he turned away slightly, reaching for his pants. The sound of fabric sliding and belts clicking filled the space, and for a moment, neither of them said anything.

Once his jeans were on and fastened, he turned back to her with a soft expression. “We should go. We already did what we came to do…” his lips quirked in a faint, amused smirk, “and more. I don’t want you catching a cold.”

She stepped closer and pressed a soft kiss on his cheek. “Do you really have to go back to the cabin?” she asked, “My house is closer to the workshop. You could sleep a little longer before work... and you’d get a proper breakfast.”

Bucky paused, studying her face as if weighing her offer. “You trying to bribe me with food?” he asked, a small smirk playing at his lips.

She arched a brow, feigning indignation, “Do I really have to bribe you to convince you to sleep with me?” she asked, crossing her arms and tilting her head.

“I-” He opened his mouth, then closed it, rubbing the back of his neck as his gaze darted to the floor. “T-that’s not what I meant,” he muttered.

She tiptoed and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, “I know, honey,” she murmured, affectionally. “I was just messing with you.”

“Still,” she continued, her gaze searching his as her hands settled gently on his chest. “Will you come? I really missed my man these days of cookie quarantine.”

Every time she called him her man, Bucky’s chest swelled with an unspoken pride. His blush crept up from his collar, painting his cheeks faintly pink as he looked at her.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice a low murmur, a small but shy smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll give my woman whatever she needs.”

Her grin was warm and triumphant, and she gave his chest a playful pat. “Good answer.”

Bucky chuckled softly, pulling her into a loose embrace. “You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, you know that?”

She tilted her head, with an amused glint in her eyes. “Is that so?” she asked, her voice lilting with curiosity. “Well, if you were a little more selfish, you’d know that you could ask me anything, and I’d give it to you.”

His brow furrowed slightly at her words, “Anything?” he asked softly as if testing the weight of her promise.

She nodded, her fingers brushing lightly over his chest. “Anything,” she confirmed warmly.

For a moment, Bucky didn’t reply. Then he gave her a faint smile, a hint of vulnerability flickering in his eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmured, tracing a soft arc along her back with his thumb.

His gaze flickered to the window where the night stretched on and cleared his throat. “We should head back,” he suggested. Then, after a beat, his lips quirked into a soft smirk, adding, almost shyly, “Maybe I’m feeling a little selfish tonight.”

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise, the corner of her mouth tugging into a grin. “Oh? What does that mean?”

Bucky shrugged, drifting his hand to the small of her back as he gently nudged her toward the door. “Guess you’ll just have to come home with me and find out.”

Dividers by: @/saradika

[bambisnc]

(   ➴ ) 𝑝𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 ⋆ a beautiful riddle

𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾; 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗎𝗇𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾, 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒

### . STARRING ⌢ bf!y.jw ⋆ drabble + fluff (?) + 0.6k // unedited + use of "baby" + reader is a little Insecure/worried + 💏💏 ˖ ✧

𝓍𝗈𝗑𝗈 ─── won fic debut hai >3< this has been drafts since foreva :/ + queuing this n going Straight to sleep if theres typos pls lmk + [FILE.ZIP]

“you keep backing away.”

a string of curses loops in your head at the observation — most of which are directed at your own self. you’re more than well aware of the fact that there’s no one to blame but you for ending up in this situation.

yang jungwon’s gaze is steadily locked onto yours. you hate the effect that the simple action has on you.

it’s quite literally the bare minimum but it has you barely even being able to bring yourself to meet his eyes, your body curling into itself like you could actually disappear under the weight of his attention.

he’s right, of course. you only realize it after he actually puts it into words, but you’ve managed to back yourself up against the wall completely.

it’s not as if you’re scared, obviously, but something about this — about him — is overwhelming in a way you aren’t prepared for.

(also, the way your heart is racing at the proximity is decidedly not helping.)

“and you won’t even look at me.” his words are as straight to the point as always. your boyfriend’s never been one to beat around the bush, after all. 

you scramble to think of excuses. the absolute least you can do is attempt to defend yourself, “it’s not like that–...” but you trail off, not really knowing where and how to start explaining.

“then what is it like?,” he tilts his head slightly, expression unreadable, “i don’t want to force you into doing something you don’t want, baby – you know that, right? but you have to talk to me. i need to know what’s going on with you.”

what’s going on with you? oh, not much. you’re just in the middle of a mild (read : full blown) crisis.

you can understand where jungwon's coming from.

one can only avoid so many of their boyfriend’s attempts to kiss them before said boyfriend starts getting suspicious. 

it’s not like you don’t want him to kiss you.

you do. you really, really do.

based on the scenarios you’re constantly plagued with, of him teasing kisses along your jaw, your neck, the corner of your mouth; the trail finally ending with your lips on his…, that’s clearly not the issue.

you blink, shaking your head to bring your focus back to the present only to find that jungwon is somehow even closer now. his arm is braced against the wall beside your head now, his eyes still resolutely fixed on you.

…

the thing is … you’re scared. 

scared you’ll be awkward. scared you won’t be good at it, not good enough. scared it won’t be the way you imagine, that it’d be messy, clumsy, disappointing.

and really, you know it’s stupid.

first kisses aren’t supposed to be perfect anyways, are they? there’s bound to be some … complications.

“it’s more than fine if you want to take things slow.” he’s always been rather perceptive, hasn't he? “we don’t have to do anything if you aren’t-”

but before he can finish, before the subtle worry in his voice can settle—

you kiss him.

… there are no fireworks. no birds singing, no spontaneous confetti.

and yes, it’s a little rushed, a little shaky. 

but it’s real. 

his breath stutters for only a second before he recovers, hands finding your waist, pulling you closer. the warmth of his lips is soft against yours, sending a wave through your system.

and — oh.

maybe you had nothing to be worried about, after all.

𐙚 . regulars : @chrrific @jessxxxfwd @evanesceki @soobundle1009 @weedatthegasstattion @flipitkickit ⋆

[@bambisnc] 2k25

[bi-writes]

whats wrong with ai?? genuinely curious <3

okay let's break it down. i'm an engineer, so i'm going to come at you from a perspective that may be different than someone else's.

i don't hate ai in every aspect. in theory, there are a lot of instances where, in fact, ai can help us do things a lot better without. here's a few examples:

ai detecting cancer

ai sorting recycling

some practical housekeeping that gemini (google ai) can do

all of the above examples are ways in which ai works with humans to do things in parallel with us. it's not overstepping--it's sorting, using pixels at a micro-level to detect abnormalities that we as humans can not, fixing a list. these are all really small, helpful ways that ai can work with us.

everything else about ai works against us. in general, ai is a huge consumer of natural resources. every prompt that you put into character.ai, chatgpt? this wastes water + energy. it's not free. a machine somewhere in the world has to swallow your prompt, call on a model to feed data into it and process more data, and then has to generate an answer for you all in a relatively short amount of time.

that is crazy expensive. someone is paying for that, and if it isn't you with your own money, it's the strain on the power grid, the water that cools the computers, the A/C that cools the data centers. and you aren't the only person using ai. chatgpt alone gets millions of users every single day, with probably thousands of prompts per second, so multiply your personal consumption by millions, and you can start to see how the picture is becoming overwhelming.

that is energy consumption alone. we haven't even talked about how problematic ai is ethically. there is currently no regulation in the united states about how ai should be developed, deployed, or used.

what does this mean for you?

it means that anything you post online is subject to data mining by an ai model (because why would they need to ask if there's no laws to stop them? wtf does it matter what it means to you to some idiot software engineer in the back room of an office making 3x your salary?). oh, that little fic you posted to wattpad that got a lot of attention? well now it's being used to teach ai how to write. oh, that sketch you made using adobe that you want to sell? adobe didn't tell you that anything you save to the cloud is now subject to being used for their ai models, so now your art is being replicated to generate ai images in photoshop, without crediting you (they have since said they don't do this...but privacy policies were never made to be human-readable, and i can't imagine they are the only company to sneakily try this). oh, your apartment just installed a new system that will use facial recognition to let their residents inside? oh, they didn't train their model with anyone but white people, so now all the black people living in that apartment building can't get into their homes. oh, you want to apply for a new job? the ai model that scans resumes learned from historical data that more men work that role than women (so the model basically thinks men are better than women), so now your resume is getting thrown out because you're a woman.

ai learns from data. and data is flawed. data is human. and as humans, we are racist, homophobic, misogynistic, transphobic, divided. so the ai models we train will learn from this. ai learns from people's creative works--their personal and artistic property. and now it's scrambling them all up to spit out generated images and written works that no one would ever want to read (because it's no longer a labor of love), and they're using that to make money. they're profiting off of people, and there's no one to stop them. they're also using generated images as marketing tools, to trick idiots on facebook, to make it so hard to be media literate that we have to question every single thing we see because now we don't know what's real and what's not.

the problem with ai is that it's doing more harm than good. and we as a society aren't doing our due diligence to understand the unintended consequences of it all. we aren't angry enough. we're too scared of stifling innovation that we're letting it regulate itself (aka letting companies decide), which has never been a good idea. we see it do one cool thing, and somehow that makes up for all the rest of the bullshit?

[jmliebert]

☆ astarion x shy!virgin ☆

oh, this one I adore...

think of Astarion at the beginning of your journey. he's restless, looking for someone he could effortlessly manipulate—someone who could be of use to him

some silly little creature like yourself, delightfully naive, shy, with cheeks that turn crimson every time he says something even slightly wicked

one of the first nights, Astarion was feeling so weak and sooo thirsty...he simply had to taste you. he needed to sink his fangs into your lovely skin, but you caught him and his body froze for a second shit

yet, instead of killing him (or at least trying to), you gave him a hesitant permission to drink from you. as he knelt before you, sinking his fangs into your delicious neck, he realised for a sweet, little moment that you were perfect—so good for him, your body beneath his, at his utter mercy

it did things to him, things he didn't yet understand

from that moment, Astarion's gaze was firmly fixed on you. he began to test the waters, offering playful flirtations, and your responses were utterly endearing...you were shy, deliciously shy, but it was clear you wanted him. everyone desired him, naturally, and you were no exception

or maybe you were?

as the two of you conversed more and more, he found himself increasingly drawn to you, though he wouldn’t admit it, not even to himself. he took pleasure in how effortlessly he could provoke you, especially when your eyes darted away under the intensity of his lustful gaze

it was clear you hadn't had much experience, so he took his time with you, careful not to scare you, as he needed to keep you close

or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself—an excuse, really. the truth was he truly enjoyed the slowness of it all

he gave you small but very deliberate touches, soft smiles, sweet words. oh god, he was really good with his words

Astarion felt a thrill when you were dancing around each other like this, clearly desiring one another, yet hesitating to act on those desires

it felt incredibly liberating to take his time with you, moving slowly. it felt so different from the hellish existence he once knew, of fucking senselessly

one night, when you were particularly lovely, nestled in his arms and slightly tipsy from wine, you told him you were a virgin

"a virgin, you say?"

well, as it was said before, it wasn't hard to tell you lacked experience, but Astarion surely didn't expect you to have none at all

if he didn’t already have such a strong feelings for you, he might have laughed. instead, he found your innocence endearing and oddly hot?

questions filled his mind: how did you manage it, why had you remained untouched, what was it like? and pondering these questions like that made him unexpectedly melancholic

mindfull even

so his touches were gentle, his kisses soft and reassuring. you were holding your hands a lot—an experience as new for you as it was for him

truthfully, it seemed that you both were discovering your sexuality together for the first time

Astarion would find his feelings for you deepening, and though it was complicated, and fucking scary, he couldn’t imagine being without you, although it might seem somewhat pathetic it was the truth

and he wanted to keep you safe, as you kept him

when the moment felt right—ideally after Cazador—his longing for you would be undeniable, and his neediness would be more apparent than ever

he would press his lips to yours in a deep, passionate kiss...then moving to your neck...then down to your collarbone, exploring every inch of your lovely skin

Astarion would took his time, making sure you felt every sensation, every touch, every kiss, every hooded look

he genuinely wanted to make this feel just... right, for both of you

his fingers would work wonders, his voice husky with desire

"so perfect. do you feel good, darling? tell me, does this feel good?"

he was very attentive to communication, eager to hear that you were enjoying every moment

his fingers would found your core, sliding in and out with a rhythm that made you go completely feral

after, what felt like a lifetime, he would slowly push the tip of his cock into your wet insides, stretching you gently

"Gods, you feel so good," he groaned, his voice thick with lust

and then more of the same questions would occur; "do you like this? does it feel good?"

and then; "you’re so wet for me, aren’t you?

oh my

his hips would move with a skilful rhythm, each thrust precise and perfectly timed. and as you reached the peak of your pleasure, he would bite your neck so beautifully displayed by you, his fangs sinking into your willing body

Astarion had fantasised about this moment for so long you see—being inside you while drinking your warm, delicious blood. it was undeniably erotic and felt indescribably amazing

after a few more of his tender thrusts, accompanied by sweet words and eager hands, your climax would overwhelm you, making you see star

as you clenched so deliciously around him, he felt an overwhelming urge to quicken his movements. he yearned to thrust harder, but he held back, mindful of it being your first time

yet! as you wrapped your legs around him, pulling him closer and encouraging him to move harder, he found it impossible to resist. your touch spurred him on, making him lose himself a little in the overwhelming pleasure and that's exactly what you wanted

his rapid thrusts, the feel of your warm blood flowing in his body and your tight wetness around him made his own release inevitable

he came with a deep groan, his eyes shut tight, his cock throbbing inside you

it felt so good he was literally trembling

despite his attempts to hide it, he was clearly touched by its intensity of it all. he held you tightly, wrapping you in an affectionate and soothing hug and for once he didn't utter a single word, there were no need to

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

you can find more of my works about astarion ♡here♡

also! my halsin x shy!virgin headcanons are right here...

[goldfades]

imagining joe’s pregnant wife going feral every time she sees him like 😩 the hormones

Joe had no idea what hit him.

He’d heard stories—pregnancy hormones this, pregnancy cravings that—but nothing had truly prepared him for you.

You’d always been affectionate, always drawn to him like he was some kind of personal heater, but lately? Lately, it was something else entirely.

It wasn’t just affection. It was obsession.

And Joe, poor, unsuspecting Joe, was simply trying to go about his life while you were turning into a woman possessed.

The first time it really hit him, he was coming home from practice, sweaty and exhausted, already thinking about a shower and maybe passing out on the couch.

He barely made it through the front door before you pounced.

You were on him instantly, practically launching yourself into his arms, your hands everywhere—gripping his arms, sliding up his chest, pressing against his stomach.

“Sweetheart.” His voice came out half-laughing, half-breathless as he stumbled back against the door. “What—”

“You smell so good.”

Joe blinked. “I smell like practice.”

“Exactly.”

He barely had time to process that before you were burying your face in his chest, inhaling deep like he was some kind of five-star meal.

Joe went rigid. Because he was used to you being clingy—he loved when you were clingy—but this? This was different.

This was feral.

“Baby, I need a shower.”

You whined. Actually, whined.

Joe looked down at you, eyes wide. “What is happening right now?”

You looked up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes dark with something dangerous.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, slightly panicked. “I just—I need you.”

And oh.

Oh.

Joe felt that.

Because your voice was different—thicker, hazier, like you were drunk on him. And your hands? They weren’t stopping. You were touching him like you’d die if you weren’t.

And suddenly, the exhaustion in Joe’s bones didn’t seem so bad anymore.

From that moment on, all bets were off.

It wasn’t just once or twice. It was constant.

Joe could be doing literally anything, and there you were, staring at him like a starving woman. Brushing his teeth? You were watching in the mirror, biting your lip. Fixing something under the sink? You were ogling his back muscles like it was your full-time job.

Even when he was doing nothing, just sitting there, you’d sigh dreamily like he was some kind of Roman statue.

It didn’t help that Joe was, well… Joe.

Tall, broad, big hands, stupidly strong, and somehow, unfairly unaware of how hot he was.

Which made it so much worse.

Because every time he rolled his sleeves up or stretched or lifted literally anything, you felt like your entire existence was about to short-circuit.

It got so bad that Joe started noticing.

“Babe, why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” you asked, feigning innocence, even though you were very much not innocent.

Joe gave you a look. “Like you wanna eat me.”

You groaned dramatically, flopping onto the couch. “Because I do.”

Joe choked. “Jesus.”

But the thing was? Joe loved it.

He pretended to be exasperated, shaking his head every time you sighed dreamily at him, but you saw the way his lips twitched. The way his ears turned pink. The way his hands flexed a little harder when he caught you staring.

He thrived off of it.

And honestly? You didn’t even care.

Because you were pregnant. And hormonal. And feral.

And your husband? Your husband was just gonna have to deal with it.

Joe was dealing with it. He really was.

But it was getting to him.

At first, he thought it was cute. Funny, even. You staring at him like he was some kind of walking thirst trap, blushing every time he so much as breathed? Adorable.

But now? Now, it was a problem. Because it wasn’t just you.

It was him, too.

At first, he could play it off, act like he wasn’t affected. But the longer this went on, the harder it became to ignore the way your eyes devoured him or the way you got physically weak whenever he did literally anything remotely attractive.

Like that one time when he was just opening a jar.

A jar.

It wasn’t even a struggle for him. Just a simple twist, a quick pop of the lid, and suddenly, you were groaning.

Joe had barely handed you back the jar before you were fanning yourself.

“That was so hot.”

Joe had blinked. “Babe, I literally just—”

“You’re so strong.”

He’d stared at you, waiting for you to laugh and tell him you were messing with him, but no.

No, you were dead serious.

"Jesus Christ." Joe had muttered, shaking his head.

That wasn’t even the worst of it.

The worst was the gray sweatpants incident.

Because oh, the gray sweatpants.

Joe had just come downstairs one morning, barely awake, rubbing at his face, unaware that he had just stepped into dangerous territory.

And you?

You had stopped dead in your tracks. Like, mid-step, frozen, unable to function.

Joe had looked up, confused, brow furrowed. “What?”

Nothing. You couldn’t even answer.

Your brain? Gone.

Because his thighs. Because his everything. Because how dare he?

Joe glanced down at himself, still completely oblivious. "Babe, what?"

You just shook your head, eyes wide, taking a deep breath. "You—"

"Me?"

"You’re wearing the gray ones."

Joe squinted. "The gray what?"

"Sweatpants, Joseph."

Realization dawned on his face, followed by the slowest, most smug smirk you’d ever seen.

Oh, he was going to be insufferable.

"You mean these?" He tugged at the waistband slightly, just to mess with you.

"Joe, I swear to—"

"You got a thing for these, huh?"

You whined. Actually whined.

Joe chuckled, rubbing a hand down his face. "You're unbelievable."

"I'm pregnant, Joseph."

"Yeah, no kidding."

The thing was, Joe loved it.

He loved the way you were all over him. Loved the way you craved him. Loved that he could just exist and you’d be two seconds away from combusting.

And yet—yet, he was being good.

He was being so good.

Because no matter how much he wanted to give you what you wanted—what you so clearly needed—you were still pregnant. Still growing his baby.

Which meant he had to be careful. And that? That was pure torture.

Because every time he pulled you onto his lap, every time he kissed you slow and deep, every time he let his hands wander just a little too much, you made the sweetest, neediest little sounds that made it so, so hard to pull back.

But he did.

Because you came first.

And if that meant spending the next few months watching you suffer through your own thirst, then so be it.

Joe could handle it.

Probably.

[ditzydoe444]

MDNI 18+

panty stealing jason part 2 ૮₍ ˃ ⤙ ˂ ₎ა

perv jason! x puppy!reader

smutty

a/n: i love all of the perv jason requests i’ve gotten so please send more!! also the brief hint of part 3 at the end??

part 1

it’s been a week since jason helped you settle in, and the majority of your furniture was built thanks to him. “thanks for everything jay,” you beamed as you baked his favourite cookies, for some extra reason he loved dipping them into a sweet drink. not that you could blame him of course, you loved to indulge in as many sweet treats as you could. but obviously, you were unaware of his true intentions. he loved the way your tits shook when you shook the syrup, and how he would imagine the bottle of whipping cream was his cock instead, you eagerly pumping it.

“everything all done?” you asked cheerfully as you licked the whipped cream from your finger, jason’s hands tightening around the mug. “kind of, small things need some tweakin’,” it was a lie. everything was all done, but he didn’t want to go yet.

“oh that’s all good,” you shrugged innocently, completely unaware of his true intentions. for some unknown reason, your clothes had gone tighter, your tits spilling out and your ass cheeks exposed in your tiny tiny boy shorts.

you were completely unaware that jason was the one responsible, at first he started with him stealing your clothes, boy shorts, tanks, undies etc. now, to cover up his tracks he would buy you the exact same thing, either in a smaller size of one identical but would shrink in the washer. and god did it shrink.

jason watched as you bent over to grab something on the counter, your cheeks fully exposed. he let out a low cough before coming closer “here, let me help you.” he didn’t miss the ways your eyes beamed innocently, thinking he was just helping you when in reality it was to get closer.

he placed one of his large hands on your hips, going lower as he bent further, his broad chest against your back as his grip pinned you down on the counter. “this the one?” he asked lowly, his large hand drifting down to your ass cheek, grazing it ever so softly, mentally remembering the feeling of the soft flesh in his hands.

“yeah,” you smiled cheerily, your teeth sinking in slightly to your bottom lip, the sight was enough to make him come. “thanks jay,” he didn’t miss the way your ass pressed against his clothed dick, and god did he want to feel it again.

**

jason was now currently ‘fixing’ one of your shelves, you were perched on top of your bed watching him intently like a little puppy, your eyes way too big for your head. he couldn’t help but take advantage of the moment, accidentally dropping one of his tools and making it roll under your vanity. “sorry about that, mind if you grab it for me?”

you, completely unaware bent down to grab the tool leaving your whole ass on display for him. your boy shorts were so tight and thin he could see the outline of your pussy, his kind wondered to the most lewd thoughts, how tight you would be and how well you would take his cock. jason mumbled a groan, his pants tightening as you arched for the tool.

then his eyes caught on, he had stolen several panties over the course of the past few days, reducing your collection little by little. he swore he saw a small damp patch on your shorts just by your cunt. “here jay,” your voice broke him from his trance.

“ahem, hey, could you grab my toolbox down by your closet?” he needed to see if he saw it correctly. when you complied with no questions bending over again allowing jason to see the damp spot clearly near your cunt he almost came at the sight.

“actually could you help me by holding the shelf? i need to kneel down to screw a few things.” god damn lie, you just wanted to be face to face with her cunt.

the moment you positioned yourself holding the shelf securely, jason kneeling to ‘screw’ a few loose ends together allowing him to be at the right level of your cunt if he tilted his head back to look up. he was so damn close he could see the damp spot outlining your pussy, and the scent of it. whilst he was acting like the biggest pervert, you held onto the shelf tightly, ditzy as you are, you were determined to do what he said. jason used the excuse of helping you ‘reposition’ because you weren’t doing it correctly. his calloused hands grabbing your thighs tightly as he squeezed the soft flesh, gently caressing it.

“anything else jay?” you asked sweetly as you batted your lashes, god he would do anything to see his cock stuffed in your mouth whilst you blinked your tears away. “no, that’s all.”

you smiled, a wide toothy grin, “i’m gonna go shower then, you ok with that?” god of course he would be ok, knowing the fact that a door was the only thing separating your bare body from his was enough to drive him insane. “of course.”

**

jason didn’t hesitate asking to go your bathroom after you, at this point, the man had no shame and didn’t care if he got caught. he eyed the pile of clothes discarded on the floor, the tank and boy shorts you wore on top. not caring anymore he grabbed your shorts before putting them in his toolbox, he knew what he was going to do tonight.

the moment he locked himself in his bedroom, he pulled out your shorts from the box, putting it to his nose, smelling the slight scent of your arousal from before. it smelt so good he started jerking off, one hand pumping his cock whilst the other held your shorts to his nose.

he wondered if this would be familiar to you riding his face, wondered how desperate you would be. would you soak his face and ride him like a desperate whore? god only a man could dream.

the moment he came, his thick hot cum squirting on his hands his gaze drifted to another thing he stole from you that he placed on his bedside table.

a magazine. one about sex toys.