#so every so often he's like “what happened to them?”

[sixeyesonathiel]

what happens when gojo satoru sees a tiktok that says “she won’t marry you if you don’t bake her cookies” and takes it way too seriously?

a/n : satoru in a small ponytail. that’s it. i am so ill.

it starts with a tiktok.

some ridiculous, pastel-filtered, bubbly-voiced thing that popped up on his for you page. satoru wasn’t even paying attention at first—phone half dangling from his hand, his long legs stretched across the couch, socks mismatched, one slipping off at the heel. eyes glassy from too many cursed reports. a headache blooming behind his infinity.

then he hears it:

“she won’t marry you if you don’t bake her cookies.”

the video loops, endlessly.

satoru’s entire body tenses like he’s been struck. won’t marry me? the phrase echoes. his thumb hovers above the screen, then slowly lowers it like he’s disarming a bomb. he watches the video again. and again. and again. each repetition more damning than the last.

because here’s the thing—he’s already imagined it. you, in white. your name beside his on every formality. the tiny domestic moments. the matching toothbrushes. your socks in his drawer. the way you scrunch your nose at strong coffee but drink it anyway because it reminds you of mornings with him. gojo satoru, known for his irreverence, hasn’t taken anything seriously since he was sixteen—except you.

so, of course, he can’t take any risks.

within five minutes, he’s spiraling. tabs multiplying like cursed spirits. “best cookie recipes to make her love you.” “is baking a love language.” “can cookies be legally binding.” he’s skimming mom blogs and side-eyeing user reviews like they’re jujutsu intel. he gets into an argument with a reddit user named sugarboi92 about sea salt ratios. he forgets to blink.

you’re across from him on the couch, knees tucked to your chest, headphones in, humming softly to yourself. your lips move slightly with the lyrics. you don’t even notice the way his blue eyes flick toward you every thirty seconds, like he’s checking the stakes of the mission. his gaze lingers on the slope of your shoulder, the arch of your brow when you’re concentrating. the way you curl your toes slightly when you're content.

the next day, the kitchen is chaos.

flour in his hair. streaked across one cheek like warpaint. he’s tied his hair back, sort of—a stubborn, barely-there stub of a ponytail held by one of your elastics, fraying loose at the crown. his bangs still refuse to behave, fluttering messily over his forehead. he’s in your apron. pink. frilly. a cartoon cat winking on the chest. it rides up awkwardly over his broad frame, and he wears it with the dignity of a man crafting destiny.

his sleeves are rolled to the elbows. his forearms flex as he stirs. his fingers are clumsy, smudged with brown sugar. a smear of chocolate ends up on his temple. he mutters under his breath with each step, reciting the recipe like a curse formula. every so often, he glances toward the door, listening for your footsteps.

jazz plays faintly from the speaker. something soft, velvety. the smell of vanilla and browned sugar hangs heavy in the air. when he spins to check the oven, his socked foot slips slightly on a patch of spilled butter—he stumbles, catches himself with infinity, then growls, “no, no, no—these are for my wife.”

satoru tries. he really tries. he measures, levels, even uses your little kitchen scale. but halfway through, impatience wins. he eyeballs the butter. forgets the baking soda. adds too many chocolate chips. licks the spoon like it might tell him what love should taste like.

the cookies come out uneven. some puffed too tall. others thin, laced with caramelized edges. a few… a few are better left unnamed. but he arranges the best of them on a plate, forming a heart that leans to the side like it’s shy. he pipes icing across the center: “marry me?”

it’s crooked. a little desperate. but honest.

the kitchen is still warm when you shuffle in, rubbing your eyes, hair sticking up from sleep. your sleep shirt hangs off one shoulder. you freeze mid-step, blinking slowly at the sight of him.

he’s standing like a statue—plate in both hands, held up like an offering to a divine force. his hair is coming loose, white strands falling into his eyes. powdered sugar dusts his collarbone.

“...did you bake?”

your voice is raspy. amused. your brows lift slightly.

“for you,” he blurts. “they’re… hideous. but they’re made with love. and maybe some shell. tiny bits. character-building crunch.”

you blink. then smile. soft and slow. your hand comes up to stifle a laugh, but it slips through anyway—light and warm. he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a century.

you take a cookie, nibble it, eyebrows rising in playful surprise. “not bad. crunchy. very... bold.”

he grins, triumphant and sheepish all at once. “bold like my love.”

later, you’re curled into him on the couch, your fingers idly twisting the hem of his shirt. his hand is at your waist, thumb rubbing slow circles over your hipbone, grounding himself. the crumbs from the cookies are scattered on the coffee table, forgotten.

satoru murmurs into your hair, “you would marry me even if i didn’t bake, right?”

you hum, teasing. “maybe.”

you don’t see the way his jaw tightens slightly. how his hand stills. how his eyes lose focus, staring somewhere into the middle distance.

that night, he doesn’t sleep.

by 3 a.m., he’s back in the kitchen. hair tied up again, face set in grim determination. this time, he double-checks the measurements. preheats the oven properly. watches every timer like a hawk. he sifts the flour twice. levels every cup. wipes down the counter with surgical precision.

because gojo satoru might be the strongest sorcerer alive—but when it comes to you, he won’t risk anything. not even with cookies.

he knows the video’s probably a joke. he knows you’re not the kind of person who’d break up with him over a batch of chocolate chips. he knows tiktok is 90% lies and 10% cat videos with manipulated audio. but what if it’s not? what if, deep down, there's a part of you that really does want warm, homemade cookies from the person you love? what if someone else bakes them for you first?

that’s not a chance he’s willing to take.

not when he’s already seen every future where he loses you—and in none of them did it start with cookies. but maybe that’s why it’s so dangerous. maybe the end begins with small, quiet things.

so he bakes.

and love, unlike cursed energy, can’t be tamed. it pulses, wild and unscripted, without binding vows or techniques—just a heart stupid enough to keep trying.

[yanderenightmare]

Gojo Satoru

♡ TW: yandere, noncon, incest, blind!reader, twin!satoru,

♡ FEM reader

Overprotective twin brother Satoru…

He was born with an abundance of cursed energy, while you got none and no heavenly pact or anything at all to show for being a Gojo.

You can’t even see curses. In fact, you can’t see at all.

It’s as if in the womb, Satoru harvested everything for himself so that you would always depend on him.

He sees it differently, though. He’s the older twin—and that means everything to him. You’re his. His good half. You were born with the heart, and he was born with the rest, all in order to spare and protect you.

“The royal guard walks at the front to keep the princess safe” is something he started saying when you were younger. “That’s why I was born first. To keep my princess safe.” 

He always holds your trembling face in his hands while saying it. And although you can’t see, you still feel it, how he’s sticky and warm, soaked with the blood he’s spilled—all in the name of protecting you.

You don’t think you were scared of your twin brother when you were toddlers, but you’re not sure. You were still young when he learned how to use his techniques. He’d never had any tolerance to speak of and no mercy to spare when that non-existent tolerance was tested. Still, of course, he’d never ever think of harming you.

That’s not what worried you…

No, rather, it was the staff and any other unsuspecting visitor you feared for and how they might have the misfortune of crossing the hair-thin tripwire that triggered your brother’s cold-hearted rage.

Maids were fired every other day—often after having suffered at his hands, sometimes with limbs missing, sometimes with senses lost. None of them could ever measure up to his standards, especially when it came to you. You were to be treated like a goddess, not a child, despite that being what you both were. His sister deserved only the finest and was to be dressed to new perfection every day, hand-fed only your favorites, and never ever allowed to lift even a single finger yourself. That’s how Satoru saw it.

And if anyone were to fail to understand that, they’d meet with his swift judgment. Even being blind, you’d still see the awful glowing blue of his eyes before the screams and the sudden smell of rust all around.

You remember the first time it had happened. Your nurserymaid had insisted it was time the two of you no longer shared the same bed—said it wasn’t proper. You must have been about six years old. One second, she was there. Next, you were covered in her.

The two of you had slept in it. 

No. Satoru had slept, tucked snugly against you as if nothing was amiss. 

You had barely slept since.

You never stopped sharing a bed. You’d tried at a point to tell him how it wasn’t right, how it wasn’t something siblings should do. He’d only asked you who’d put those silly ideas in your head. And you’d been wiser not to raise the thought again, fearing for the lives he might decide were responsible.

Still, despite his lack of moral restraint, you’re older before he decides sleeping in the same bed just isn’t enough anymore.

You’d always known of the way he looked at you. You’ve felt it. Always there as a silent voyeur during your dress fittings and baths, studying you in a way a brother shouldn’t. You’d done your best to ignore that ever-present feeling of yearning coming from him in those moments he’d touch you, feeling his long slender fingers run cold over your bare skin, always insisting on giving you a helping hand, to dress and to undress, to eat, to walk. 

You’ve always known what he’s wanted.

Still, you’d thought some type of decency would hold him back from ever acting on it. 

You realize now how foolish you’d been…

As head of the Gojo clan, he makes decisions as he sees fit and announces your engagement before the entirety of its ranks and members as if it were only obvious. And under the pressure of his six eyes, no one dares even utter a gasp at the outrageous prospect. No, all they do is smile and clap while giving their blessings.

In the end, you’re the only one who objects.

“Satoru?” you ask after the assembly. Walking, or rather wandering, unsteadily on your plank shoes in the direction of his voice, hearing him talk about clan matters he’s never bothered to include you in—it’s not for you to worry about, is all he’ll ever say. Always treating you like a child despite being the same age.

“Princess!” he exclaims, rushing over to you, holding you up as if you were in danger of getting knocked over by a sudden draft. “What are you doing up? How many times have I told you, just tell the carriers where you want to go and they’ll take you there.”

You purse your lips and bite your tongue from sounding too chagrinned. Embarrassed enough already to want to cause more of a scene. Only muttering, “I can walk fine on my own–”

But Satoru isn’t convinced, nor concerned with the same matters as you, much too busy with protecting you from the terrors of standing on your own two feet. 

“You’ll exhaust yourself. Come,” he decides, dismissing the elders he'd been talking to.

You listen to them leave, lifting a hand to call them back, “No wait, but–”

But nothing. As always, Satoru doesn’t listen. Picking you up without further bickering. He lifts you off your feet and carries you away like an infant, back to the cozy den of pillows and blankets he insists you sit on during assemblies, calling it your throne despite it not being much different from your bed.

He doesn’t set you down. No, instead, he sits down with you, holding you in his lap as he gets comfortable in the plush nest.

“So, princess? Did you like my announcement?” he asks cheerfully. Already picturing you in wedding attire—so hopelessly incapacitated in the heavy layers, how you’d need his help every step of the way, even with walking down the aisle. 

“We can’t marry, Satoru…” You break his line of thought with a mumble. “You’re my brother.”

You're unable to say it with your chest—rather, you only muster enough courage to whisper it. Feeling anxious about his reaction. All he ever seems to care about is dolling you up so you can sit pretty next to him. And for so long, he hasn’t allowed anything else. You have no idea what to expect now that you’ve finally asked. 

Of course, you hope he’ll respect your words and see reason, but somehow, you doubt he’s ever really thought or cared about what you think you want—intent on making all those decisions for you.

“Silly princess,” he starts, closing the distance between the two of you by cupping your face as he so often likes doing, stroking his thumb over your bottom lip. “Who else would we marry if not each other?” 

It’s as you thought. He doesn’t understand, nor does he care to. And still, there aren’t many options other than you trying to reason with him. Despite only being brave enough to do so by mumbling, “It’s—it’s… not right...”

To that, he just hums, nose-kissing you despite how you try to duck your head away—his voice dumbifying your worry, saying “Don’t you love me, princess?”

It’s an unfair question… beside the point, and yet to him, it makes the point. Still, there’s nothing else to say but “Of course, I love you, Satoru.”

It comes out as a croak, somewhat choked in the feeling of hopelessness, all of which he just finds so endearing. Rubbing your cheek with his thumb as he watches those milky eyes of yours grow teary.

“Then who’s to say it’s wrong?” he croons, kissing your forehead as if you’re a silly child crying over silly things, and further explaining it to you just so, “We’ve belonged to each other since birth. Marriage is just to appease society's structures. It means nothing compared to what we already have and have always had.”

His other hand kneads your midriff, keeping you snug against him as if sensing how you wanted to leave. But you don’t try it. No, you barely manage to shake your head.

“I love you,” he says, but it isn’t the same way you say it. No, it’s something far more disturbing. “Sometimes, I wish we were the only two people on earth, like it was when we shared the womb together.”

You shudder, feeling his breath hit your face with your heart causing a ruckus in your chest, telling you to do something to stop what’s coming.

“I want to be close like that again. Just you and me and nothing else.”

You accept it for a moment—his lips against yours. Thinking you had no choice. But as you sit there, willing yourself to stay still, a sickness starts climbing up from the pit of your stomach, until you suddenly can’t stand it anymore. 

And with both hands pushing him away, you shriek, “Don’t!”

Prying yourself out of his embrace, you throw yourself back so fast you end up falling out of the elevated throne bed. Still, the pain in your rear barely registers as you wipe your mouth free of the spit your brother had left behind. Cringing at the stickiness, feeling nothing short of abhorred, as if it were the last thing that should ever touch your tongue.

“It’s disgusting. I won’t. I—” You’ve raised your voice now, for the first time in your life. Your brows furrow as you put all your might into the next words. “I refuse.”

And then, as if almost regretting it, you swallow thickly. Ears burning for any sign of his reaction, everything remains silent, deadly so, only disturbed by the heavy ups and downs of your own labored breath. 

Until…

“Disgusting?” he repeats.

And you don’t know why, but something about the edge in his tone makes you whimper and shuffle back. It was as if something about the very air changed, feeling heavy, crushing, all of a sudden.

“No… You don’t mean that, princess.”

You hear his steps come after you, soft first, stepping through the pillows, then light against the marble tiles, unhurried, knowing you’re not able to go anywhere. 

“You’re just reciting whispers you’ve heard,” he hisses under his breath. Then, darker, growling, “I ought to cut out everyone's tongue. That’ll teach them.”

“No–” you object, but he’s done now with listening to you. 

Shutting you up instantly with a dismissive, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head, princess. I’ll teach you too. This is how it’s meant to be.”

You kick off your plank shoes at that, struggling in your heavy dress as you twist around onto your hands and knees before getting up, holding the many fabrics in your arms as you run—only… you have no idea where. 

Anytime you’d snuck out of your room to explore the grounds, trying to map out a route you’d never dared admit was for an escape attempt, your brother had always come and collected you before you’d made it down the first hallway. And so, blinder than blind, you’re completely lost even in your own home. And the panic makes you slip on your skirt before you’ve even made it halfway down the assembly chamber, accompanied by the awful sounds of your own fumbling being echoed back as if mocking you.

You hear him sigh heavily behind you. And then his hand grips your upper arm, harshly—in a way you’ve never felt. 

It’s enough to make you yelp, starting to thrash—panic in your chest, you’re shaking your head, trying to pull yourself free by pushing him away. “Please, Satoru—please, let go–”

Before you know it, you’re pushed flat against the floor. Cushioned by your weighty dress, it’s like a soft bed, but with the way Satoru holds a hand over your mouth and forces you down, you feel as if you’re drowning.

“Keep this up, princess, and eyes won’t be the only thing you’ll be missing,” he barks. Not even giving you enough time for the freight in your chest to settle before worsening it. “Run away, and I'll take your legs. Fight me, and I’ll take your hands. Keep talking back, and I’ll take your tongue too.”

Balanced between your legs in the mess of your skirt’s many layers, bearing over you with his back hunched, he keeps you pinned as your whole body starts to quiver. 

“Is that what you want?” he questions. “Is that what it’ll take for you to behave?”

More tears flow then, in nothing short of a storm. Flooding down your cheeks, wetting the hand he’d locked over your mouth.

It brings a pang to his chest, and he realizes what he’d just said.

He peels his fingers off your lips, then cups your cheeks instead, shaking his head. 

“No, princess, I didn’t mean that—you know I didn’t. I would never hurt you—you know that—”

He kisses your forehead again, then your nose, then your lips, then your neck, where he nuzzles himself as he continues to coo at you, “Sh-shh, princess. Listen to me. Listen to your big brother. I just want to love you. Won’t you let me love you?”

You sob, shaking your head, trying to crawl out from beneath him and the tongue he has against your neck, sucking and biting at your collar with a mouthful of heated words, “Trust me, princess. I’ll take care of you. You’ll see. Just like always. And there’s never been anything wrong with that.”

♡ GOJO SATORU masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[reignpage]

The Best Kind of Remedy

Synopsis: in which your herbalist boyfriend, Geto, has just the thing to cure your ailments Warnings: smut, established relationship sex, penetrative sex, sex whilst under the influence (smoking weed), dubcon?, thigh riding, dirty talk, degradation, lots of praise, unprotected sex, creampie, handjob, brief fingering, spitting, dacryphilia, cum eating, personification of the pussay, not proofread Word Count: 3.1k

Herbalist!Geto is your boyfriend — you can always count on him to cure your ailments with a conversation, sometimes even with just a glance. He has green tea bags ready for your morning bloating, elderberry syrup for your colds, and aloe vera compress for burns, among other things.

Visits to his clinic on Friday nights are routine; you show up just as he’s closing, and he gives you a small smile when he lets you in. “Hey, was just about to text you.”

“Long day?”

Popular and well-respected, he gets customers from all over the country. They swarm to his clinic in hopes of securing a face-to-face consultation with the man himself, eating up every advice, and treasuring each prescription. He’s trustworthy, smart, observant, innovative, and so damn hot. Long hair tied at the back, broad shoulders stretching out the lab coat he wears, and smelling of something floral and earthy, you don't blame any of the girls who come in just to ogle at him.

“A little tiring but I feel energised now that you’re here.” He brushes a lock of your hair back, thumb tilting your chin up so he can get a good look at you. “You haven’t been sleeping well again?”

Herbalist!Geto shrugs off his coat, revealing a loose black shirt underneath, which rises up when he stretches out the lethargy in his bones, revealing a seductive sliver of his boxers and the sharp cut of his abs. 

“I’m exhausted but I can’t rest; I feel on edge all the time.”

He's quiet for just a second, analysing the depth of your dark circles and jittery limbs. There’s an odd glint in his eyes when he places a heavy hand on your head and says, “I might have just the thing.”

That’s how you find yourself in the backroom, sitting on his sofa next to him. He’s rolling up a joint with expert hands, sprinkling a green line across the paper, shaping it into a neat little cone. Fingers pinching the air, he rolls it back and forth, and when ready, puts it up to your lips.

“Go on, pretty girl.” A little nervous, you eye him first and he waits patiently. You lick the edge of the paper, keeping eye contact, even when brings it up to his mouth and licks exactly where you did. It’s sealed and he taps it against your lips like some kind of good luck ritual. “This is your first time, right? Well, then, you’re going to have to listen very carefully to me. Can you do that?”

You nod. 

He tuts. “Use your words, pretty.”

“I’ll listen.”

“Good girl.”

Window open, he seems at ease when he lights the spliff and takes a deep inhale, immediately slumping back into the sofa, arm thrown over the back right behind you, and legs spread so far you’re trying hard not to stare at what’s between them. “Start off with a light inhale. Just suck gently, like you’re sipping from a straw, and don’t hold it for too long. Only a second or two and then breathe out. Got it?”

Smiling, you follow his instructions. It smells earthy, like him, with a hint of something sweet. Embarrassingly, you’re coughing not even a second after you’ve inhaled — it’s dry in a way you weren’t expecting. Head falling onto his chest, his amused huff shakes you a little.

“Sorry, baby. Here, drink some water.”

Just as you’ve gulped down a whole cup of water he had prepared like he knew this would happen, you grill him about this part of him he’s been hiding. “I didn’t know you smoked weed. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Blowing a puff into the air, away from your face, he shrugs. “Always forgot. I don’t smoke too often; don’t ever want to get reliant. But I’ve been growing my own, experimenting, trying to find the best kind. I didn’t want to make you smoke anything less than perfect, after all.”

You’re leaning against his chest, too scared to reach for another puff so you settle for listening to him instead. “There are different types of weed?”

“Yeah. Different strains of weed, just like growing any kind of plant. Some people mix different things into their harvest based on preference. I’ve mixed all sorts of juices with mine. This one has a hint of strawberry — thought you might like to taste something a little more familiar.”

The air’s growing thicker and hazy. Even from one inhale, you’re already feeling more relaxed, like time’s moving slower. “Hmm, this is kinda nice. I want more but I don’t want to choke; it’s humiliating.”

Head tilting back, he pecks you on your lips, tenderly. 

“Don't be embarrassed. It's just me. Come on, I’ll blow it for you. Open for me. That’s it.” Hot air, tasting ever so slightly like strawberry and him, fills your mouth and you swallow, letting it float into your lungs. "Better?"

Nodding, you climb onto his lap, suckling on his lips, seeking more, unable to help yourself. Something is making you feel restless even though you’re slowly melting into your most relaxed self. “Sugu…I feel weird.”

Herbalist!Geto’s free hand smoothes your hair, calming you. “You’re alright, baby. I’ve got you. I had a feeling you’d get worked up.”

“The weed’s making me horny?”

A slow grin appears on his face. He tilts his head, slightly mocking, and says, “You haven’t had nearly enough to go all empty in that pretty head of yours. Look at you. You’re grinding on my thigh and you don’t even realise? That’s adorable.”

You gasp and glance down. He’s right; you’re rocking back and forth on his muscular thigh, leaving a wet trail over his cotton pants whilst your skirt pools around your hips. Senses heightened, you can’t stop, not when the friction feels so good and he’s flexing his thigh to urge you to an orgasm. 

“Hmm, I treat you to my weed and you thank me by feeling good by yourself? Maybe I should start calling you my ‘selfish girl.’ You’re making me feel all lonely here.”

An apology is muttered against his lips. Clinging onto his shirt, you use him as leverage to get into a rhythm. The haze is emboldening you and the only hint of surprise that pops up on his face is a quirk of a brow when you fish out his hard cock. It’s thick and pretty — he keeps it tidy down there and the dark pink tip makes your mouth water. Leaking pearlescent drops, you use it to lubricate his length. Then, you rub up and down in time with your grinding, keen to see his lips part and his eyes go glossy. 

“Poor baby doesn’t like cumming by herself, does she? No, of course not. But you’re already making a -hah- mess on my thigh so you might want to -ngh- pick up the pace otherwise we’ll both be very disappointed, won’t we?”

Shuddering, the corner of his mouth twitches when he feels your thumb rub his slit, running it down a bit of his foreskin. Exposing more of his sensitive skin to the air, he has to take a puff to stop himself from cumming too soon. 

Herbalist!Geto’s head is thrown back, long, slender neck looking so delectable you mouth kisses all over his skin, smiling when he groans. “I thought weed was s-supposed to make you less tense, not more mean.”

He laughs and blows the smoke right into your open mouth. “That’s a lot of —tighter, baby, rub my tip too, you know just how I like it, yeah, good girl— a lot of -hah- talk from someone who always cums hard after being treated a little mean.”

True to his words, you cum all over his leg, tightening your hold on his cock subconsciously and he grunts with the sudden pressure. 

“Ah, Suguru! Fuck, so good.”

Palming your thigh, he smiles to himself when you slump on his chest. “Got a filthy mouth on you. Should wash it out, shouldn’t I?”

You’re just about to get up and lap up his length when he stops you. 

“N-no, don’t think I can wait.” Panties pushed to the side, you embrace the fingers he slides inside your sloppy pussy, stretching your gummy walls in preparation for this cock. You’re moaning, emboldened by the curling of his fingers against a spot inside that renders you breathless. “Hmm, you’re so tight. That the weed or have I not been taking care of you recently?”

A squeal leaves your lips when he withdraws those fingers without waiting for your answer and pulls you down on his leaking length all in one go. It’s almost painful, but the smoke you’ve inhaled is dulling and heightening your senses all at once — you can’t feel the pinch of the stretch but you can feel every vein, every throb, every inch of his cock filling you up completely. 

“Sugu,” you whine, “not so suddenly.”

Herbalist!Geto chuckles. “Sorry, baby. Just couldn’t -hah fuck you’re too tight- h-help myself. You know I love feeling you stretch around me.”

Tears spring to your eyes from the stretch. He throbs inside you. Once. Twice. 

“Pretty baby crying for me? Oh, you spoil me.” Fallen tears are licked up, thoroughly hydrating and fuelling his teasings. "Once you've adjusted, get to work, alright? Want you to show me how grateful you are."

Leaning back on his wide-spread thighs, you offer him a great view of your pussy lips wrapping around his girth. There’s already a light sheen of wetness coating his length and the sight is making him lightheaded. Slowly, you begin gyrating, grinding in circles so you can get used to the ache before your thighs are pushing up and down. He shoots you a wink when he senses your growing embarrassment at just how sloppy you've gotten and so quickly. 

"Hear that? Pretty pussy's saying, 'Thank you.' Polite little thing, isn't she? She needs to be rewarded, no? So go on, ride me."

Barely been touched, and loud squelches are already coming out of your pussy, reminding you of just how well-trained your body is for him. Never wanting to disappoint him, you push your limbs to set a pace you know gets you both going. His breathy moans guide you, setting tingles all over your skin. 

Your shirt is pulled up and pressed to your mouth. You bite the hem, baring your tits to his eyes. “Missed my girls — was thinking about them -ngh- all day. S-still taste as good as they look?

He’s sucking a nipple, rolling the bud around with the tip of his tongue, flicking and suckling in rapid succession. Undeterred by your bouncing, he keeps his mouth full, groaning when you grind down on his balls. "Oh, yeah, my sweet girls."

Every bounce makes you lightheaded, dazed with pleasure. 

"Should come visit me more often. Was starting to think you hate me." He teases. 

Frantically shaking your head, you say, "N-no. I was just busy."

"Too busy for me?"

"Never."

He blows yet another puff of smoke into your mouth, enjoying the breathy mutter of gratitude that you give him. "Good. I'd be devastated if I —oh, fuck, baby, ride me faster, yeah, good girl— if I couldn't see you as often as I'd -hah- like. You know you're the only thing that keeps me going, don't you?"

"Yes, Sugu —ah, yes, yes, you're so big!"

Sucking a mark in between the valley of your breasts, he gazes at his work, licking his lips and loving the salty taste of your skin. "If I didn't love your pussy as much as I love you, I might start to get jealous over h-how much you love my -ngh!- cock."

Kisses to that gooey spot inside you by his angry cockhead has your pussy growing sloppier and sloppier until a thick creamy ring forms around his base and he can’t help but thumb it and bring it up to your lips. It’s dirty, it’s filthy, obscene, and you suck it up with no hesitation, tasting both of your juices on your tongue. 

Herbalist!Geto dives forward, smothering your moans. The earthy taste of strawberries mixes in, tongues wrapping around each other as he seeks out your taste, swallowing every drop of you. He grunts. 

Swivelling your hips, you have to pull back, gasping for air and finding nothing to bring you sanity. Your pussy’s gripping onto him like it could absorb his soul into your very being and the plap plap plap of your skin smacking against his is all you can hear. 

This is unlike your usual sex — he's usually much more controlled, much cleaner in his movements, more thoughtful in his approach. Now, you're seeking out your pleasure with no care in the world, just bouncing rhythmlessly and clumsily, slipping and sliding, moaning and whining, and he's letting you. 

It seems you're not the only one affected by the weed.

A cloud of smoke rises up from his mouth, jaw hanging from just how hot and heavenly you feel around him. You suck it in, swallowing the dry air. But then he’s pulling you back into yet another kiss, that puff being exchanged back and forth like a dirty game of tennis until it’s completely gone and you’re fuelled only by the sickly sweet taste of him. 

“Your stamina’s improved, hah. Remember your first -ngh!- first time riding me? Hmm, pretty? You could hardly last more -ah fuck! don’t squeeze down on me like that- t-than a couple bounces before you were drooling on my chest and begging me to f-fuck up into you.”

Wetly smacking back down onto his lap, your clit grinds down on his pelvis, teased and tortured. 

"Always so keen to make me feel good, aren't you?"

"Yes, yes, yess! Oh, fuck, so full. I feel so full."

Herbalist!Geto hums sardonically. "Silly girl isn't even listening to me. You say you want to be praised m-more but we both know you get wetter when you're called a dirty, little slut. My dirty, little slut."

His free hand travels down your ass, giving it a tight squeeze before he lays a not-so gentle slap against it just to feel you tighten around him. 

"Say it."

SMACK!

“Ah, Suguru! I'm your dirty, l-little slut."

You gasp. You could have sworn another vein grew on his long length, teasing your walls and catching onto your greedy pleats, desperate to keep him inside. 

Thick cock worms its way inside, forcing your walls to memorise every curve and vein on its way up and back down. He’s making shallow thrusts up, striking against your g-spot with expert skill. “Missed you so much, baby. All those customers drive me crazy — none of them follow instructions as well as you do.”

Herbalist!Geto's growing closer to a damn good orgasm; he always gets more sentimental at the brink of cumming and it's why your hips don't dare stutter as you work him again and again, taking him deeper and faster.

“I’m a -hah- good girl, that’s why, Sugu.” You grin. 

He plants a sloppy kiss on your lips, enamoured by that sparkly smile. “Hmm, you are. Always such a good girl. My best girl.”

Blunt completely forgotten about and discarded somewhere, both of his hands are clutching your body close to him. One is digging into the plush of your ass, loving the ripples of the flesh with every collision of your hips to his, and the other is groping your tit.

Hips so nasty and gluttonous, it steals grunts from him, ugly, unrefined sounds that he doesn’t care if you hear. “You’re close…I can feel it. Go on, pretty. Cum all over my c-cock. Show me -hah- how much you l-love me.”

Both of your eyes are glazed over, whether from the weed or from the waves of pleasure cresting, neither of you can tell. You just fight through the ache in your joints as you bounce faster and faster on his cock, fingers rubbing against your swollen clit, sticky and slippery. Inside, you can feel his cock stiffening, growing bigger and bigger ever so slightly and you know he’s about to burst. 

Foggy, the only thing in the room you can see is his face: bead of sweat dripping down his temple, strands of hair come loose from his bun littering his forehead, and his lips are bitten pink, matching the flush on his cheeks. He's beautiful.

“Fuck, the weed’s drying my mouth out. M-make yourself useful and -hgnh!- help me out, won’t you, baby?” Like it's been wired into your brain, a fat glob drips down from your mouth and onto his awaiting tongue before you can even process the command. Just as soon as it pools into his mouth, he’s swallowing it, eyes rolling back from the taste of you.“Such a good fucking girl. You're making me lose my goddamn mind.”

You cum first. 

Clinging onto him, you whimper, clit oversensitive from the weed coursing through your veins. There’s no rhythm to his thrusts, he’s simply chasing the pulsing of your sloppy cunt, cockhead kissing that spot inside you he loves so much before his orgasm quickly follows. 

Herbalist!Geto buries his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent and painting your walls white with a flurry of hot cum. It fills your entire body, almost as if you can feel it in your lungs and when you swallow, you delude yourself into believing it's reached your throat too.

The haze still hasn’t passed — it’s making your heartbeat so damn loud and you’re just about to ask if he can hear it but he beats you to the answer by pressing a tender kiss against your pulse, murmuring, “Me too. Mine’s beating fast too.”

Neither of you takes out his cock, much too content to let it soften inside you and much too tired to care that it’s unplugging all your cum out and making an even bigger mess on his lap. 

You’re dozing off, coming down with him when he slumps back into the sofa, letting your head rest against his chest. Deeply satisfied, you mutter, “We gotta do this again.”

“The weed or the sex?” 

Herbalist!Geto’s rubbing soothing circles on your back, pulling down your shirt and keeping you close. He chuckles when he hears you say, ‘both.’

“Whatever helps you sleep, pretty. I’m always happy to be of service, even off-hours, for my favourite client but let’s keep this bonus package between us, yeah? Don't need more of those people coming in here.”

Half-asleep now, you mutter, “Just for me?”

He lays a kiss on top of your head. 

“Only you.”

[syrecjh]

─★°🦋⋆ For You, He'd Say It

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff

Lunch tasted different without you.

Not because the food changed—same bento, same spice, same everything—but because you weren’t there, waving your chopsticks at him like drumsticks and teasing, "You ever eat anything that doesn’t burn your mouth?”

He’d grunt. You’d laugh. He’d shove his leftover karaage your way and act like he didn’t care when you took it.

But today, your seat stayed empty.

You sat with Midoriya’s group across the room, laughing too loudly at a joke he didn’t hear—and didn’t care to. You didn’t even glance his way.

And Bakugo felt it.

He felt the absence like a weight pressing into his side.

Usually, you were the one who got there first. Usually, you were the one talking. Usually, he was the one pretending not to listen.

But not today.

Bakugo didn’t need to retrace what happened that morning. He already knew. During training, he’d been sharp—not in the good way. You’d offered him advice, something small, something he should’ve brushed off. Instead, he snapped. Not loud, not cruel—just clipped and cold.

You’d blinked. Nodded. Walked off.

And now, here he was, surrounded with his friends, the bakusquad yet he feel alone with food that didn’t taste like anything.

Everyone around him must’ve assumed he was sulking over a failed move or a missed target.

But this?

This wasn’t about training.

When the bell rang, he didn’t move, he stayed behind. He didn’t go with the group. He waited. Just sat there, elbows on the table, staring at a lunch that hadn’t been touched. Eventually, he stood up and stuffed his hands in his pockets, shoulders squared like he was heading into battle.

You stayed back to clean up. Slow, silent. The wrappers crinkled in your hands as you tossed them into the trash.

He walked over, stopped just a step away. Not too close. But not far enough to be mistaken.

“…You mad at me?” His voice was low, cautious.

You didn’t jump. Just glanced at him, unreadable. “What?”

“You didn’t sit with me.”

You blinked once, then shrugged. “Didn’t feel like it.”

His jaw twitched. “Tch.” He looked to the side, fingers curling in his pocket. “I know I was an ass earlier.”

You didn’t reply.

“I shouldn’t’ve snapped,” he added, quieter. “You were just tryin’ to help. I was already pissed and I took it out on you.”

Still nothing.

So he shifted, glanced at you again, and then—finally—spoke the words like they had weight.

“…I’m sorry.”

You froze. For a second, the world did too.

“…What?”

“I said I’m sorry, dammit.” His voice cracked on the edges, but not with volume—just honesty.

The breeze picked up. He tugged at his sleeve again. Something to do with his hands.

“I suck at this kinda thing,” he muttered. “You know that. But I don’t want you thinkin’ I don’t care. ‘Cause I do. I care a hell of a lot.”

That’s when your shoulders dropped. Just slightly. Like you’d been holding up a wall, and it finally gave out.

“I’m not mad,” you said quietly. “Just hurt.”

He nodded. Once. “Yeah. I get it.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder—not dramatic, not romantic. Just… real.

And it knocked the air right out of him.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe for a second.

Then he relaxed.

Just a little.

You didn’t need some big apology. Didn’t need a scene.

You just needed him to see you.

And he did.

“So…” you murmured, voice lighter, “You gonna share your side dish tomorrow, or what?”

He huffed. Almost a laugh. “Not the spicy one. That’s mine.”

And that was that.

Bakugo doesn’t apologize often.

But when he does, it’s because he means every damn word.

[wileycap]

I think we in the A:TLA fandom have missed the absolute potential of the fact that Ozai Firelord is canonically a fucking idiot. I mean the dude's straight up stupid. And I want to be very clear that this isn't a plot hole, this isn't a flaw in the show, this is a fantastic and super realistic element that honestly enhances my enjoyment of it! Dictators are often stupid and breed a culture of cronyism-over-competence. Any similarities with real world leaders, dead or alive, are coincidental yet inevitable.

What do I mean?

Well, let's take the Drill. When faced with the problem of Big Wall, Ozai's Fire Nation comes up with Big Drill. One singular Big Drill. Which, as anyone except an idiot could have predicted, immediately breaks down and accomplishes nothing. And if the Fire Nation had made it past the wall, then they would have been fighting through a narrow opening against people who can hurl long distance rocks! Which, if your face or body is vulnerable to high velocity rocks, is a bad thing for you and also for the battle.

Not to mention the resource cost of that thing! It's so insanely gigantic, it must have cost the Fire Nation the equivalent of trillions. For ONE drill. Not ten smaller drills. Just ONE drill. (Fanfic fuel: how much did Ba Sing Se profit off of stripping that drill for parts? Did they reverse engineer it? Did Long Feng keep that for himself?)

And you might be thinking, fairly, that it was War Minister Qin who came up with the drill and you'd be right, but it's Ozai who's approving all this shit. Instead of doing the reasonable thing and asking Qin if he et the whole edible, or even the in-character thing of burning him to death, Ozai just goes... big drill. Makes sense. We should have the biggest drill, because we are the biggest nation. Drill, baby, drill. sorry

It's not the first time, either! He also approves Zhao's invasion of the North Pole, apparently just because Zhao is good at kissing ass and hates Zuko? I couldn't tell you what merits Zhao has. We do not see him lead a single successful mission. The closest he comes is Pohuai, and even then its the Yuyan archers who do most of the work. (My longstanding headcanon is that the reason we don't see the Yuyan archers again is because Zhao blamed the whole thing on them and they were disbanded. This is great fic fuel for displaced Yuyan archers just, wandering around, being elite.)

He approved a massive naval invasion of the North Pole, surrounded by and made of water and ice, inhabited by people who bend water. A nation that was, by its own choice, completely out of the war.

Every time we see Ozai doing something, it's something stupid. Like disfiguring and banishing his firstborn child in a culture that has primogeniture. And then (once he's done pissing away a massive fleet of ships) he does the logical thing and sends his only other heir to bring his first heir back - even though his first heir would have been willing to return with a simple invitation. Like he could have sent a letter saying "dear son come home miss u pick up 200 000 tons of steel qin wants 2 build a drill lol", and Zuko would have come. (Okay, he did have a valid reason for having Zuko escorted, since he thought Iroh was a traitor, but there's absolutely NO reason to risk Azula. Why not send Combustion Man? It's the luckiest stroke of luck ever that Azula is 100 times more competent than her dad.)

Of course, a dictator(-wannabe) sending his daughter on high-level diplomatic missions is pure fiction. Nobody would do that.

The best part of this is that it's entirely realistic and in-character. I could absolutely imagine Ozai purging all of his competent admirals and generals, and then promoting brownnoses like Zhao and crackpots like Qin, because they promised him glorious destinies and secret knowledge of Big Drill.

I also really, really want a scene of Zuko and Azula realizing that their father is a fucking idiot.

I would also like to note that all this stupid shit happens after Iroh leaves with Zuko. So, here's a headcanon: the only reason the Fire Nation didn't immediately implode when Ozai took the throne and purged everyone is because of Iroh. Iroh leaving with Zuko doomed Ozai. It's also a nice little drop of complexity in Iroh's character - he knew he was single-handedly keeping the Fire Nation afloat, yet he only left when Zuko did. Did he plan for Zuko to take the throne from the start? What was his plan before Aang showed up? Did he not intervene in the Agni Kai because he was afraid, or because he knew that Ozai was making a huge mistake and didn't want to interrupt? Give me chessmaster Iroh please.

[littlepaperboatyo]

I think the language of this does a good job driving home the real issue behind things like Ai use and factory farming for me, which is not so simple as Ai is bad or factory farming is bad. Both of these things are done for the sake of scale, "how do we reach as many people as we can?" and when that is your first value it drastically shifts all of your other values. Corporations care about quantity of consumers over all else.

A small language school would never consider using Ai because it would introduce many problems and solve none. Their values would be set on doing their best to serve their community and help people they know to better communicate. Introducing Ai doesn't help them make a connection with Mel's kid Alex who's having a hard time learning Spanish and also understanding why he should learn Spanish just to talk to his new stepbrother Javi. That requires being present and connecting with people, and holds the possibility of personally mattering in their lives. Instructor Aldo might be the perfect person to do it too, Alex thinks he's a pretty cool guy and he focuses not on Alex's feeling about his mom getting married but on what Alex knows about Javi. Maybe that kid is pretty cool and Alex is missing out by not being able to play with him. Maybe Aldo can enlist Javi's help and now when they're laughing together Alex is desperate to be able to understand the joke. Now Alex is understanding Spanish, and he and Javi start being able to hang out, and they're both feeling a bit better about their parents getting married.

Take away instructor Aldo, now there's an app. It's a pretty good app, and if Alex would engage with it he might start to figure out Spanish, but he's angry about his mom getting married. He doesn't engage, and he has this stepbrother he doesn't understand, and he's mad. and he's mad. and he doesn't learn Spanish. and nothing changes.

But people learn languages for many reasons and Duolingo does work for many people. And it needs to work for more people, which means that they need to do more work. Which means they need to outsource it. Which means Ai is looking like a good choice.

This is what monopolies are. Forget about business for the sake of business, there was a time before businesses existed. there was a time before money. in fact, it was about 2000 years ago. people would do things for each other because they knew each other and cared about each other. and even when money came about it existed so that people who didn't know each other could help each other and would often result in people getting to know each other. in fact this is how about every business worked up until the industrial Revolution, and even then it was still most of them. But then you get businesses that do too well, and no one competing with them. And it's not really about the lack of competition that exists in a healthy economy, it's moreso about what happens when your neighborhood store is supporting more than just your neighborhood. where do they get the supply for the demand?

they outsource it.

When you care about scale your community expands. You have to start thinking on a bigger scale which means you lose sight of the small scale. Your values change, and your values affect the values of the people you serve. They lose sight of their value just as you have. I see it every day, and I see it in myself. I work in a very busy store where I serve thousands of people a day. My boss calls it the neighborhood store. I serve thousands of people a day. I see so many faces and I do my best to block them out because it's too much. This is not uncommon, for the people in my store or plenty of other stores belonging to different companies. But it is not normal.

Yesterday people came to protest where we get our chicken. I serve thousands of people a day.

It is not possible for companies to exist at this scale and honor good values.

And it smoothes over and eradicates culture. We don't have different conversations with our language instructors. We don't have that one really strange grocer that you can have an interesting conversation with for half an hour while they're on the clock. We don't have small communities with their own values that can inspire it's own culture.

we have the global scale.

[link]

we been knew its just a nail in a coffin tbh

[fallenprophets]

I will never let you go

robert "bob" reynolds x reader

can be read as a sequel to told you I'll be waiting/hiding from the rainfall

summary: usually, he's the one having nightmares, waking you in the middle of the night with heavy breathing and anxious twitching. but this time is different. this time, you're the one plagued with memories. no use of y/n, gender neutral as always, still not proofread. no spoilers

warnings: swearing, mentions of drug addiction, mentions of a bad childhood, very brief mention of suicide?

a/n: WOAH back already? i know, it's insane. hope y'all enjoy this. i want to thank beyonce for inventing music so that i could listen to ethel cain while writing this. also thank you to my own experience with Feelings- who knew my ptsd would come in handy someday

He has nightmares often. 

Since the first night, he’s been living with me; won’t let me sleep on the couch or anything, insists that I stay with him. And who am I to deny those soft eyes, his grip on my waist or on my wrist a little too tight? 

So every night, I sleep next to him, even though the bed is almost too small. 

And almost every night, he has these nightmares. 

The first time, I thought someone had broken in. I was woken by strange sounds, and found him gone; so I pushed out of bed, tiptoed into the kitchen with the revolver I keep in the drawer next to my bed. Upon seeing him, though, I realised I was mistaken. 

It was only Bob, standing completely still in the middle of the room. His breathing was uneven; the only movement I could discern was the light rise and fall of his shoulders. 

He whirled around, eyes blown wide open and frightened. In an instant, I had dropped the revolver on the kitchen counter and almost run to him, catching him half-way as he stumbled into me. And we stayed like that, his arms so tight around me. 

He never remembers the nightmares- either that, or he’s lying to me. And I like to think that I can tell when he’s telling the truth, so I choose to believe him. All he recalls is a dark, empty, frightening feeling. Says that when he wakes up, he thinks everything is gone. Sometimes, I hear him mumble- something about a void.

But I don’t press, because I’m just happy to have him back by my side; in due time, he’ll talk to me, tell me exactly what happened between his disappearance in Malaysia and now. 

I’ve become a light sleeper, to say the least. 

But tonight, he’s not the one having the nightmare. 

Ever since the incident with the void, I’ve felt… strange. Like reliving those memories fucked me up somehow, took the box I’d created in my brain so carefully for my past and opened it. Tossed the contents all over the place, left me to pick them up with shaking hands. 

So, maybe Bob isn’t the only one having nightmares. 

Only this one is bad. It’s not like the others, which I have been able to push down, pretend that those aren’t my memories mixing with my imagination replaying freely when I sleep. This one is claustrophobic, and dark, and frightening- like something awful is reaching long fingers down my throat, clogging my veins, choking me slowly. 

I can’t claw my way out this time. Can’t kick and punch and scream- can’t even get high to pretend the walls aren’t closing in on me. 

I’m in the dream for what feels like years. The details are fuzzy around the edges, but one thing is crystal-clear: the feeling that something is missing. That I’ve lost something, somehow, and that I’m not getting it back. That I won’t even know what it is that’s gone until years later, when it’ll hit me and I’ll keel over and just- just die, and no one will notice. 

I’m still half in it when I wake up. 

I sit up all at once, gasping and choking, immediately reaching my fingers into my mouth to pull that suffocating darkness out, before it can fasten onto my lungs, where it’ll fester and rot and eventually, hopefully, kill me. The blinding panic that consumes me is overwhelmingly familiar; wrenches back memories of being a child all alone, of leaving home, of losing Bob. And the emptiness in my chest- that gaping hole of missing memories and a stolen childhood, of those few months before I checked myself into rehab when I was just drifting, barely alive.

I’m so scared, and for less than a second, I’m the only person on earth, about to be consumed and- and forgotten. 

Within moments, though, fingers wrap around my wrist, pull my hand away from my mouth. I lean over the edge of the bed, heaving and coughing and spluttering as terrified sobs tear through me, making my chest and throat burn. His hand is on my back, the other arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me against his chest. 

He begins to rock me backwards and forwards as I grab onto his arm, digging my nails in. In the back of my mind, I hope it doesn’t hurt. 

My heart races, jumping like a rabbit trapped in my ribcage. I’m still breathing heavily, but his thumb begins to draw circles between my shoulder blades. He holds both of my wrists down in one hand, like he’s worried I’ll try to claw my throat open if he lets go. The pressure is reassuring, so I don’t move to push him away. 

Eventually, I turn my head slightly. He nudges forward, his nose pressing into my cheek. I lean into him, try to breathe in his presence. 

“I’m sorry,” are the first words out of my mouth once the weight has somewhat lifted itself off my windpipes. My voice still wavers pathetically, and I clear my throat, shutting my eyes against the tears that threaten to spill. “Didn’t- didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“Hey.” His voice is so soft; the tears come all at once again, following the tear tracks already made only minutes ago. “Don’t apologise- hey.” 

His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb swiping away at the tears. He’s never been fantastic at comfort- remember when I’d have my freak outs while we were both high, he’d just squeeze my hand really tight, maybe kiss my shoulder or my neck for good measure. But now, as I feel his nose lightly graze my shoulder, the familiarity of it all is crushing. Seeking more of it, I tug my shirt down, expose the skin underneath to the cold of my room. He presses a soft, gentle kiss there, at the junction between my shoulder and my neck. There’s nothing sexual about it. We’ve never been like that- crumbling in moments of weakness, taking advantage of too many feelings at once. I think it’s why we were so good as a pair, in a way. 

Slowly, kindly, he moves up, pressing soft kisses up my neck, until he reaches my jawline. My face is still wet with tears; my skin probably tastes salty with it. I wonder if he notices. He must, because once again he brushes his thumb across my cheek, light and quick, a repeated motion. 

“Nightmare?” He asks finally, so quiet. I only nod. I can hardly remember the dream- just the aching sadness, the crushing hopelessness as I drowned. 

“I’ll be okay,” I say. My voice still shakes; I swipe at my face with the back of my hand as my lower lip starts to quiver again. 

His chin rests on my shoulder, and he draws me close. Neither of us are very good with words, and we’re used to silence; so I shuffle closer, turn my head so our noses bump. 

“Thank you,” I whisper finally. He smiles. It’s one of the prettiest things I’ve ever seen, and once again, I am overwhelmed with the warmth of having him back in my life. I reach up and push his hair away from his face, trace his features with my fingertip. My heart still hammers in my chest, and I know that eventually, I’ll have to deal with the feelings, the stifling fear and sorrow of the nightmares I’ve been having. But for now, I’m with him, and I think that’s enough. 

I close the distance and kiss him again, letting my eyes flutter shut. 

This is the second time we’ve kissed. First time was his first night here, and we haven’t talked about it. But I don’t think he regrets it, because within half a second, he’s kissing me back, hand at the nape of my neck, drawing me closer. I tangle my fingers in his hair, tilting my head back ever so slightly. He’s kissing my neck, too, gentle, comforting; carefully moving the hem of my shirt out of the way again as he presses his mouth to my shoulder, then to my collarbone, right above my unevenly beating heart. 

He rests his forehead there, like he’s listening to my pulse thunder on. I let him, resting my chin on the top of his head. 

“I missed you,” I say softly, finally. “Think- think that’s maybe what the nightmare was about. Wanting you back. Like my brain hasn’t registered you’re here.” 

His grip on me tightens. 

“I love you,” he murmurs finally- quiet, vulnerable, maybe a little pathetic. 

“I love you too,” I answer, and it’s true- has been true for years. Maybe even from the moment I met him, I knew, somehow- I was stuck with him, and that really wasn’t so bad. 

I kiss his forehead, breathe in the warmth of him. “I’ll never let you go, y’know that?” I mumble. He nods- can feel it, before he shifts to rest his head on my shoulder, occasionally pressing a kiss to the crook of my neck. 

taglist - @foreverchangingmind

[zuzu-tries-to-write]

hello! So far you have made really good post, and it made me think, what if you made one about bakugou x y/n, they JUST started making out and started this thing where after class and even the cafeteria hours they would go to the roof top and make out, and then come back to class and act like nothing ever happened. Also somtimes he would throw a paper and secretly desk her under the desk where they would meet up. 😍

Title: “Between Bells and Rooftops”

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

Genre: Romance, Secret Relationship, Slight Angst, Fluff, Heavy Tension

⸻

You didn’t plan to fall into this routine—this messy, thrilling, addictive routine. It just happened.

It started with a kiss. Just one. After class. The hallway was mostly empty, your hand brushing against Bakugou’s as you reached for the same notebook on a desk. His eyes met yours, and for once, they weren’t sharp or biting. They were heated, locked, and something in them flickered like a match.

He pulled you into the nearest broom closet like a scene out of a cliché manga, pressed you against the wall, and kissed you like he had been waiting for it for years. It was rough, clumsy, and fueled by frustration he’d probably been burying since day one. But it was also perfect.

And it didn’t stop there.

Now, it’s become a thing.

A whispered nod from across the classroom. A flicked paper note that barely makes a sound as it lands on your lap under the desk. You open it—sometimes it’s blank, sometimes it’s just three words: rooftop. 12:40. now. No signature. He doesn’t need one.

You glance up, and he doesn’t even look at you. His hands are behind his head, feet crossed on his desk like he’s bored out of his mind.

But you know better.

So you slip away during cafeteria hour, brushing off questions from your friends. “Bathroom,” you mutter. “Library.” “Need to grab a book from the dorm.” Lies, sweet and practiced.

When you step onto the rooftop, he’s already there—leaning against the railing, eyes flicking up at the sound of the door shutting behind you.

There’s no time for words.

Your back hits the wall, and he’s kissing you again like he needs to. His hands dig into your waist, and your fingers twist in the collar of his uniform. The wind up here is cool, but his body is warm, burning.

The kiss is all teeth and tongue at first, but then it slows, deepens. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your lips, the way your breath hitches, the sound you make when he sucks just under your jaw. Like you’re something he’s afraid to lose.

“Damn it,” he mutters into your skin. “Can’t focus in class ‘cause of you.”

“Then stop calling me up here,” you tease breathlessly, tugging on his tie.

He grabs your chin, forcing your gaze up to his. “You love it.”

You don’t deny it. Can’t.

Sometimes, after the kiss, you both just sit down, backs against the rooftop wall, the silence humming between you. He doesn’t say much—he’s never been one to waste words—but every so often he’ll glance over at you, cheeks a little flushed, and nudge your shoulder like he’s saying, yeah, I like this too.

Then the bell rings.

And like always, you dust yourself off, fix your collar, and head down the stairs. You walk into class one after the other, no eye contact, no shared looks. You sit two desks apart like strangers.

And yet—when you slide into your seat, something hits your ankle. A paper.

You glance around, heart skipping, and then reach down and unfold it under the desk.

This one says:

You’re mine. Don’t forget it.

There’s a tiny burn mark at the corner. He must’ve accidentally singed it with his Quirk again.

You bite your lip, folding the paper up and tucking it into your pocket. No one notices the way your smile lingers longer than usual. Not even Iida catches it—and he catches everything.

⸻

You know this thing can’t stay secret forever. Eventually, someone will follow you, or see the marks he leaves on your collarbone when he forgets how sharp his teeth are. Eventually, someone will see the way his gaze softens when you laugh in the common room.

But for now?

This rooftop, these stolen moments, these paper notes?

They’re yours. His. Yours together.

And maybe, just maybe… that’s enough.

[thirteenheavens]

Zombie Apocalypse || Kim Mingyu

Concepts and warnings: zombie universe similar to train to busan so has blood warnings etc

Notes: guys I’m so happy with this fic it took so long to finish I love concepts like this thank you so so much

You, Mingyu, and your son board the train, excited for your weekend getaway. Your son is bouncing with excitement in his seat, chattering away about all the fun things he's going to do.

"I can't wait to see the mountains, Daddy!" he says, looking out the window as the train starts to move. "And the waterfall too!" Mingyu smiles at him, ruffling his hair affectionately. "We'll see all of that and more, buddy. Mommy and I have planned the whole trip." You lean against Mingyu's shoulder, feeling content as the scenery rushes by outside. The train ride is peaceful, with the sound of your son's chatter filling the air.

As the hours pass, you start to feel a strange tension in the air. Other passengers seem unusually restless, checking their phones more often than usual. But you chalk it up to typical train anxiety and continue enjoying your family time. Suddenly, the train comes to a screeching halt, and you hear shouting and commotion outside. Your heart starts racing as people rush past your carriages, panic evident on their faces.

Mingyu stands up, his protective instincts kicking in. "Stay here with Jin-Woo," he says firmly. "I'm going to see what's going on." You grab Mingyu's arm, your eyes wide with concern. "Be careful, please. What's happening out there?"

Mingyu looks down at you, his expression serious. "I don't know yet. But I have a bad feeling about this. Just stay in our compartment and keep Jin-Woo safe." He leans down to kiss your forehead before hurrying out of the carriage, disappearing into the chaos outside. Your heart pounds in your chest as you pull Jin-Woo closer to you, wrapping your arms around him protectively.

You hear more shouts and screams from outside, and the tension in the air grows thicker. Something is definitely wrong, and you can't shake the feeling that this trip has just taken a dangerous turn. You focus all your attention on Jin-Woo, trying to keep him calm and distracted from the chaos outside.

"Hey sweetie, do you want to play a game?" you ask, forcing a smile onto your face. "We can play I Spy, or we can make up stories about the people we see." Jin-Woo looks up at you, his eyes filled with confusion and fear. "Mommy, where's Daddy?" he asks, his lower lip trembling. You pull him into your lap, holding him close as you try to think of something to say. "Daddy just had to go check on something. He'll be back soon, I promise."

As you try to comfort your son, you hear the sound of gunshots and screaming getting louder and closer. Your heart races faster as you wonder where Mingyu is and what's happening outside. You hold Jin-Woo tightly on your lap, feeling his small body trembling against you. The gunshots and screams continue, and you can hear what sounds like a stampede of people rushing past your compartment.

"Mommy, I'm scared," Jin-Woo whimpers, burying his face in your chest. You stroke his hair soothingly, trying to stay calm for his sake. "I know, baby. But I'm here with you. Nothing is going to happen to you."

Suddenly, the compartment door bursts open and a group of disheveled passengers rush in. They look frantic and wild-eyed, clearly terrified of something. One of them spots you and Jin-Woo and points a shaky finger at you. "There's still people in here!" he yells. "We have to get out!"

Your voice trembles as you speak, your fear evident in every word. "Please, we're not going anywhere. We're just trying to stay safe." The group of passengers doesn't seem to hear you or care. They start pulling at your arm, trying to drag you and Jin-Woo out of the compartment.

"You have to come with us!" one of them insists, his grip tightening painfully around your wrist. "It's not safe here!" Jin-Woo starts crying in earnest now, his small body shaking with sobs. You try to shield him with your body, feeling desperate and trapped.

You hold Jin-Woo close, rocking him back and forth as you whisper soothing words in his ear. "Shh, it's okay, baby. Mommy's got you. Just keep breathing." But the terrified passengers are getting more agitated, their panic making them irrational. One of them grabs Jin-Woo by the arm, trying to pull him away from you.

"Stop!" you scream, trying to protect your son. "Leave him alone!" Just as you're about to lose hope, Mingyu appears in the doorway, his face streaked with sweat and dirt. "Get your hands off my family!" he roars, pushing the passengers away from you and Jin-Woo.

He immediately scoops you both up in his arms, shielding you from the panicked group. "What's going on here?" he demands, his voice cold and furious. The passengers start stuttering and backing away, finally realizing that they've crossed a line. One of them points shakily at the windows.

"There are... things outside," he manages to say, his voice trembling. "Zombies." Mingyu's eyes widen in disbelief, but he quickly regains his composure. "Zombies?" he repeats, his grip on you and Jin-Woo tightening protectively. He looks around at the compartment, taking in the chaos and destruction. "We need to get out of here, now," he says firmly, starting to move towards the exit. "Stay close to me."

"Mingyu, wait," you say urgently, grabbing his arm. "What's happening out there? Are they really zombies?" Mingyu turns to you, his expression grim. "I don't know how it's possible, but it looks like the passengers are telling the truth. There are people attacking others, biting them and spreading some kind of infection."

He looks around at the panicked passengers, his jaw clenched. "We need to find a safe place to hide until we can figure out what's going on and how to stop it." Mingyu nods decisively. "Let's follow them to the last carriage," he says, leading you and Jin-Woo through the chaotic train.

The passengers are already rushing towards the last carriage, pushing and shoving to get inside. Mingyu keeps a firm grip on you and Jin-Woo, making sure you don't get separated in the crowd. As you approach the last carriage, you see a group of zombies stumbling towards you from the other end of the train. Their eyes are blank and lifeless, their mouths stained with blood.

The passengers scream in terror and pile into the last carriage, frantically trying to get the door closed. Mingyu helps them barricade the door, pushing a heavy metal cabinet against it just in time to keep the zombies out. Mingyu quickly ties his tie around the door handles, creating a makeshift lock. The sound of the zombies pounding against the door echoes through the carriage, but the barricade holds for now.

"That should keep them out for a while," he says, his voice tense. "But we need to come up with a better plan." The other passengers are huddled in a corner, their faces pale and frightened. Some are crying, others are whispering prayers under their breath.

You hold Jin-Woo close, grateful that you're all safe for now, but knowing that this is far from over. The train continues to rattle and shake as it moves towards an uncertain destination, the sound of zombies outside growing fainter but never disappearing completely. You cradle Jin-Woo in your arms, rocking him gently as he clings to you. He's exhausted and scared, but you can feel his small body starting to relax slightly now that he's safe with you and Mingyu.

Mingyu sits down beside you, wrapping his arm around both of you protectively. "We'll get through this," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I promise." Despite the chaos and danger outside, you feel a sense of comfort and security in his embrace. The other passengers whisper amongst themselves, occasionally casting worried glances in your direction.

You sit in silence, holding Jin-Woo and Mingyu, lost in your thoughts. Just a few hours ago, you were excited for this trip, full of hope and anticipation for the adventures ahead. Now, everything has changed so drastically. You can't help but wonder how this nightmare started - how normal people could suddenly turn into monsters. And what could possibly be waiting for you at the end of this train ride?

Mingyu seems to sense your unease and pulls you closer, rubbing soothing circles on your back. "Stay with me," he murmurs, his voice low and comforting. "Whatever happens, we'll face it together." The door starts rattling and shaking as the zombies outside grow more agitated. Their groans and snarls fill the air, making your skin crawl with fear.

Mingyu tenses beside you, his grip on you and Jin-Woo tightening protectively. "They're getting stronger," he says through gritted teeth. "We need to find another way out." The other passengers start panicking again, shouting and arguing over what to do next. But you know that this moment requires calmness and quick thinking, not panic.

"Mingyu," you say quietly, looking up at him. "Do you see anything we can use to reinforce the door?" Mingyu shakes his head grimly, scanning the carriage for anything useful. "There's nothing in here except broken furniture and luggage," he says, frustration evident in his voice. The banging on the door gets louder, and you can hear the metal creaking under the pressure. Jin-Woo starts whimpering again, sensing the danger.

"We're running out of time," Mingyu mutters, his eyes darting towards the emergency hatch on the ceiling. "If we don't get out of here soon..." Mingyu scoops up Jin-Woo and grabs your hand, leading you towards the emergency hatch. The other passengers are shouting and pleading with you not to leave, but you know you have no other choice.

He quickly opens the hatch, revealing a ladder leading up to the roof of the carriage. "You first," he says urgently, pushing you towards it. "I'll follow with Jin-Woo." The zombies continue their assault on the door, their growls growing louder and more desperate. Mingyu climbs up after you, holding Jin-Woo tightly against his chest.

As you reach the roof, the cold night air hits your face, and you realize that you're now trapped between two terrifying choices - stay and face certain death, or risk the unknown by running along the top of the train. You help Mingyu climb onto the roof, holding onto Jin-Woo's hand tightly. The wind whips around you as you stand on the metal surface, the ground rushing by beneath your feet.

Mingyu glances down at the zombies, who are now spilling out of the carriage below. "We need to move," he says firmly, starting to walk carefully along the top of the train. You follow him closely, trying to stay balanced while also shielding Jin-Woo from the cold and danger. The wind is deafening up here, and every jolt of the train makes your heart leap into your throat.

"Where are we going?" you shout over the noise, your voice trembling with fear. "There's nowhere to go!" Mingyu looks ahead, where you can see the train approaching a station in the distance. "We'll jump onto the platform as soon as we're close enough," he explains, his eyes scanning the tracks ahead. The wind picks up even more, making it difficult to see or hear anything. Jin-Woo clings to you tightly, his face buried in your chest as he trembles with fear.

"Can you make the jump?" Mingyu asks, his gaze fixed on you with concern. "It's going to be dangerous, but it's our only chance." Mingyu moves ahead, his movements careful and precise as he makes his way towards the edge of the train. "I'll clear the way," he calls back to you. "Stay close behind me." He takes a deep breath and leaps off the train, landing safely on the platform below. The station is eerily quiet and empty, with no sign of other passengers or staff.

"Your turn!" he shouts, holding his arms out to catch you and Jin-Woo. You lift Jin-Woo into Mingyu's arms, your heart pounding as you watch him pass him down. The train rattles and shakes beneath your feet, making it harder to maintain your balance.

"Hold on tight to Daddy," you tell Jin-Woo, your voice cracking with emotion. "I'll be right behind you." "You can do it, buddy. Just jump and I'll catch you." Mingyu calls from the platform. As Jin-Woo jumps into Mingyu's arms, you feel a surge of pride and love for both of them. Mingyu lands safely on the platform with Jin-Woo, holding him tight against his chest.

"Now it's your turn," he calls up to you, his voice steady and reassuring. You take a deep breath and back up to the other end of the train, preparing to make the leap. The gap between the train and the platform seems wider than before, and you can hear the zombies still banging on the door behind you. You jump off the train, your heart racing with adrenaline. But as you reach for the platform, your hand lands on a jagged piece of broken glass.

A sharp pain shoots through your palm as the glass slices into your skin. You cry out in pain, but manage to keep your grip on the edge of the platform. Mingyu's eyes widen in alarm as he sees the blood running down your arm. "Y-N! Are you okay?" he calls up, his voice filled with worry.

The zombies in the train car below hear your scream and start to grow more agitated, banging even harder on the door. You look down at Mingyu, trying to mask your pain and keep him from worrying even more. Blood continues to trickle down your arm, but you force yourself to stay calm.

"I'm fine," you whisper, gritting your teeth against the throbbing pain in your hand. "Just help me up." Mingyu carefully adjusts Jin-Woo in his arms and reaches up towards you, his face a mix of concern and determination. "Hold on, I've got you," he says firmly.

Mingyu helps you down from the platform, being careful not to jostle your injured hand too much. Then he grabs your other hand and starts running through the deserted train station. Jin-Woo is crying again, scared by the sight of your blood and the unfamiliar surroundings. You try to keep up with Mingyu's pace, but your hand is throbbing and you can feel the blood seeping through your clothes.

"We need to find a safe place to hide and clean up that cut," Mingyu says as you reach the exit of the station. "The city is just ahead." Mingyu freezes in his tracks, his grip on your hand tightening. "There's too many of them," he whispers, horror etched on his face as he looks out at the horde of zombies blocking the exit. They're everywhere - shuffling towards you in a grotesque mass, their eyes fixed on your small group. The car that Mingyu spotted earlier is just out of reach, a symbol of safety that seems further away with every passing second.

"What do we do?" you ask, panic rising in your chest. "We can't go back into the station, and we can't fight our way through that." Mingyu quickly muffles Jin-Woo's cries with his hand, his eyes darting back and forth between you and the zombies. "Shh, baby," he whispers urgently, his voice barely audible. "Don't make a sound." The zombies continue to approach, their groans growing louder and more insistent. You can feel the tension radiating off Mingyu as he tries to keep Jin-Woo quiet while protecting you both.

"We need to find another way out," he murmurs, his eyes scanning the area desperately. "There has to be something we're missing." The toy clatters against the concrete, echoing loudly in the tense silence. The zombies turn their heads towards the noise, their attention drawn to your group. Mingyu curses under his breath, his heart racing as he sees the zombies starting to shuffle towards you more quickly. "Damn it," he mutters, pulling you and Jin-Woo closer to him. "We have to move - now!"

Jin-Woo starts to cry again, this time louder and more desperately. You can see the fear and helplessness in Mingyu's eyes as he tries to keep you both safe while keeping the zombies from getting too close. You and Mingyu sprint away from the zombies, holding Jin-Woo tightly between you. The undead creatures are gaining on you, their movements quickening as they pick up speed.

"There's a warehouse up ahead!" Mingyu shouts, pointing to a large building in the distance. "We can hide in there!"

The warehouse doors are heavy, but Mingyu starts banging on them frantically, yelling for someone to open up. "Please! Let us in!" he screams, his voice raw with desperation. Mingyu groans trying to open it a little bit only managing to open it a small amount. You rush inside the warehouse, pulling Jin-Woo in with you. The door creaks as Mingyu tries to squeeze through, but he's too broad to fit.

"I can't get through!" he yells, panic in his voice as the zombies get closer. "You have to lock it behind you!" You look back at him through the crack in the door, tears streaming down your face. "No! I won't leave you!" you cry, your heart breaking at the thought of being separated.

Mingyu's eyes are filled with tears as he struggles against the door. "I can't... I can't make it fit," he chokes out, his body pressed against the door frame. The zombies are just outside, their hands clawing at the door as they try to force their way in. You can see the fear and pain in Mingyu's eyes as he realizes this might be the last time he sees you and Jin-Woo.

"Please, just go," he begs, his voice breaking. "Take care of our son and stay alive." You scream and sob, unable to control your emotions as you cling to Jin-Woo. The zombies' growls grow louder as they press harder against the door, their decaying hands almost touching Mingyu's face. Mingyu tries to force himself through the gap one last time, his muscles straining against the metal frame. "I love you," he whispers, his voice filled with heartbreak and determination. "Never forget that."

You can see tears streaming down his face as he accepts his fate, knowing that he won't be able to protect you and Jin-Woo any longer. You watch helplessly as the zombies drag Mingyu away from the door, his body struggling against their grip. He looks back at you one last time, his eyes full of love and pain.

Then he screams - a raw, anguished sound that echoes through the warehouse. You cover Jin-Woo's ears as the zombies tear into him, his cries growing weaker with each passing moment. The warehouse falls silent, except for the sound of Jin-Woo's sobs and your own heart breaking into a million pieces. You collapse to the ground, holding your son tightly as you mourn the loss of his father and your own broken heart.

You sit on the cold warehouse floor, your body numb and your mind reeling from what you just witnessed. Jin-Woo cries against your chest, his tiny body trembling with fear and grief. Time seems to stand still as you hold him, your own tears flowing silently down your cheeks. The reality of Mingyu's death settles over you like a heavy blanket, suffocating you with its weight.

You rock back and forth slowly, trying to comfort both yourself and Jin-Woo as you struggle to process the horrific events that have just unfolded. As you sit there, memories of happier times flood your mind. Memories of your wedding day - Mingyu smiling at you as he slid the ring onto your finger, the joy on his face as you became husband and wife.

Then there are memories of giving birth to Jin-Woo, the way Mingyu held your hand through the pain, the look of awe and wonder on his face as he first held his son. These memories mix with the present, creating a bittersweet agony that tears at your heart. You hold Jin-Woo closer, feeling both the love you have for him and the gaping hole left by Mingyu's absence.

Jin-Woo's small voice breaks through your thoughts, and he looks up at you with hopeful eyes. "Maybe Daddy will come back?" he whispers, his voice shaking. Your heart aches at his innocent words, and you want to tell him that it's impossible, that you both saw what happened. But you can't bring yourself to shatter his hopes completely.

"Maybe," you whisper back, trying to keep your voice steady. "Maybe he'll find a way."

[orellazalonia]

In Every Form, You Still Saw Me

Summary: As a shapeshifter, you often shift into someone else for missions, laughs, or what others want. However, you start shifting to make one man who sees you for you, smile. You learn how he yearns for the true you no matter how scary it feels to be yourself. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to shapeshift. Sort of pining for each other.

Word Count: 3.8k+

A/N: It’s so fun writing for Readers with different abilities. I wonder which power I could try next. Also, I think this is the longest work I’ve done yet. If you liked “The Way He Notices”, you might like this!

You weren’t born with your powers. You woke up with them after a freak accident during your childhood. It had left you comatose for three days and with no control over your own face when you came to.

You could shapeshift, but it wasn’t pretty at first. Reflexive transformations, triggered by emotion or proximity. Someone made you laugh? You morphed into them. Someone yelled at you? You wore their angry face. It was chaos until you finally got a hold of them.

When you first joined the team, Tony Stark dubbed you "Copycat" until you threatened to turn into Pepper and start signing contracts in her name. The nickname didn’t stick after that.

But Bucky? He always called you by your name. Even when you shifted. Even when your skin wasn’t yours and your voice belonged to someone else. He never flinched, never made a joke, never looked away in discomfort like the others sometimes did.

Maybe that’s what started it.

That quiet, steady way he treated you like you were solid. Real. Like you weren’t just some flickering mirage of other people’s identities.

Over time, you and Bucky fell into a rhythm. He was blunt; you were sarcastic. He grunted; you rolled your eyes. He brooded in corners; you shapeshifted into Steve just to annoy him. At some point, it stopped being just teasing. Or maybe it didn’t, but the way he started looking at you changed.

Or maybe you changed. Maybe you stopped shifting just to play around. You were careful though, of course. Always careful. He didn’t like surprises, didn’t like people messing with his head, and you knew how close your powers came to crossing that line. But you started shifting because you wanted to know what might make him smile.

There was something different about Bucky’s smile. It wasn’t the wide, toothy grin you saw from Sam or the sarcastic half-smirk you got from Tony. No, Bucky’s smile was the kind that crept up on you. A slight tug of his lips, something quiet, almost like a secret. It was the smile of a man who didn’t trust easily, who didn’t share his joy unless he was sure it was real. But when it came, when you made him laugh, genuinely, there was something almost intoxicating about it.

You didn’t understand why at first. Maybe it was the way he’d become so guarded, so emotionally distant after all that had happened to him. You saw him in ways the others didn’t: the small furrows in his brow when his mind wandered to the past, the way his eyes would harden when people mentioned Hydra, or how his posture would stiffen when someone still called him "The Winter Soldier" behind his back. Because, he’d become more than just a soldier, more than the guy with the metal arm. He was a man who was constantly carrying the weight of the past on his shoulders.

But when you made him smile… it was like the weight lifted, even just for a second. It was a flicker of hope, an acknowledgment that underneath it all, Bucky Barnes still had the ability to feel something real.

And you didn’t mind being the one who brought that out.

It started as harmless fun. A playful game. You’d shift into Sam, mock his attempts at being a "serious" soldier, exaggerating his speech, his hand gestures. You’d throw in the occasional “You good, Buck?” just to hear Bucky’s exasperated sigh. The first time it worked, Bucky had grunted, shaking his head in mock annoyance, but then that little smile crept across his face.

“Alright, alright, I get it. You think you’re funny,” He had muttered, crossing his arms over his chest, but the tension in his shoulders had loosened.

It was enough. It was always enough for you to want to do it again, to see that smile once more, to know that maybe, just maybe, you were the one who could make him feel light, even if it was for just a moment.

Then there was another day you shifted into Natasha, just to show off a little during sparring. You were better than you gave yourself credit for, and Bucky never failed to push you to improve. But this time, you took it up a notch. You copied her form, her speed, the way she moved with deadly precision, and you could see it in Bucky’s eyes as he watched. It was a sense of admiration mixed with surprise. And if you were being honest with yourself, a hint of something deeper.

"You're really trying to piss her off, huh?" He had joked as you took a jab at him, mirroring Natasha’s infamous fighting style.

You paused, lowering your stance, your eyes shifting back to yourself for a just second. The rush of power you felt from the change, the way you could tap into anyone’s skill, anyone’s identity, it was like you were borrowing their strengths. But when Bucky’s eyes softened, when he gave that little chuckle, you felt something else, something that wasn’t about power at all.

Quite frankly, you never really thought about your powers in the same way the others did. To most of the team, shapeshifting was just another tool in the arsenal. It was useful for infiltration, misdirection, and the occasional prank. But to you, it was something far more personal. More fragile. Every time you morphed into someone, deep down, you felt a part of yourself slip away. A mask over your real face, a shield to hide behind, a way to slip through the cracks unnoticed. You'd never been sure of who you were without the transformation, until you realized how real it felt to see Bucky’s reactions when you did.

You realized over time there was something in his eyes when you morphed back to your own face briefly, something that you couldn’t quite place. You were used to being invisible or someone else, used to people ignoring you or pretending you weren’t there when you didn’t fit their expectations. But Bucky didn’t do that. He just… watched. Like he was studying you, trying to figure out the hidden parts of you that you kept locked away.

It felt almost safe in a strange way. Some would say creepy, but you knew him better than that. It was an odd realization. With Bucky, you didn’t feel like you were performing. Because truly, when you shapeshifted into someone else, it was no longer about escaping yourself or following orders. It was about finding a way to connect with him.

You didn’t mind looking silly in front of him. Actually, you kind of liked it. There was something about making him laugh that made your chest flutter, like you were finally being seen for something more than your powers, more than a stranger in someone else’s skin. You weren’t playing a role, you were just… you. And Bucky smiled.

But there were times when it hit you hard. When you realized you were holding on to those smiles like they were the only thing that kept you grounded. And it terrified you. Because making Bucky smile felt like your own fragile version of normal. But what if you lost that? What if one day, he saw through you? Would you be able to stand, knowing you weren’t just the shapeshifter who made him laugh, but the person behind the masks?

You tried to focus on the feelings, the lightness you got when you saw Bucky react. You used your powers to make him smile, forget about his troubles, because in those moments, you could forget about hiding. And maybe that was enough for now.

The trouble was, you knew it couldn’t stay like this. Sooner or later, you'd have to show him the real you, all of you, without a mask, without someone else’s form to hide behind. And when that day came, you weren’t sure whether he’d still smile.

But for now, you'd keep shifting. Keep playing the game. Because as long as Bucky looked at you with those eyes so curious, attentive, and just a little bit warmer than usual; it felt like you were finally getting a glimpse of the real you too.

Until then, he’ll continue to think this is just a game. And you will continue to pretend that it didn’t hurt to hide behind other people’s faces.

—

The lounge was quiet, the way it always became after midnight. Most of the team had long gone to their quarters, the lights dimmed to a soft amber. Outside the tower windows, New York glittered in silence. Alive, but far away.

Bucky sat on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, the other cradling a glass of water. He looked tired, in that way he always did after missions where too many things exploded and too many people screamed. He wasn’t injured, at least not on the outside, but he hadn’t said much since coming back.

You had a habit of finding him during moments like these. You padded in barefoot, wearing the appearance of someone else. You’d slipped into it earlier out of habit, mostly to annoy Sam in the elevator. But when Bucky’s tired eyes met yours across the room, the faint lift of his brow said he wasn’t in the mood.

“You gonna sit, or keep pretending to be someone else?” He asked, voice low and dry.

You sighed, letting whoever’s frame, it didn’t matter, melt away. Muscles shifted, bones cracked softly beneath your skin as you returned to your natural form. One you rarely wore when anyone else was around. You always thought of it as your “in-between” face. Not as striking as Wanda, not as symmetrical as Steve. Just… you.

Bucky’s eyes stayed on you for a moment longer than usual.

You walked over, dropping onto the cushion beside him and pulling your legs up beneath you.

He didn’t say anything. Just handed you an extra water bottle from the coffee table. You took it, your fingers brushing his metal ones briefly.

“Rough mission?” You asked, softly.

He gave a faint nod. “Yeah. But I’m used to it.”

You looked at him sidelong. “Still. I get it. I had to shift into some sleazy arms dealer in front of a bunch of actual criminals. I swear one of them winked at me.”

He huffed a short laugh, the sound sharp and unexpected. “Bet he regretted that.”

“I may have broken his nose with a champagne bottle. In heels.”

He gave you a look. “You’re way too comfortable wearing other people’s faces.”

“Comes with the job.” You gave a weak smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Besides… nobody wants to see mine anyway.”

The words slipped out too fast, too quiet. You hadn’t meant to say them.

Bucky went still.

You immediately tried to cover it up. To deflect, twist, joke, anything at all. So, you shifted again.

But this time… it wasn’t Natasha, Steve, Sam, or anyone else on the team.

It was you. The true you.

The version of yourself that was curled up in bed at 2 a.m. The version that existed without expectation. The one who watched Bucky when he wasn’t looking and imagined what it would feel like to hold his hand, just once.

And with that form came your voice, your real voice.

“You know…I care for you, Bucky,” It said, trembling, unsure. “More than I should. I like you.”

There was a pause. Too long. Too exposed. You started to shift again, panic rising, ready to bury the moment beneath another borrowed face, another safe joke.

But his hand caught yours.

“You always do that,” He said quietly.

Your breath caught. “Do what?”

“Hide when it’s really you.”

The world slowed. Your skin flickered, unstable for a second, but he squeezed your hand gently, grounding you.

“I don’t want Natasha. Or Steve. Or anybody else,” He said. “I want you. The real you. Even if you’re scared, because I like you too.”

Your breath hitched, you couldn’t look at him at first. Could barely breathe. But when you did, really looked, you didn’t see pity. Or regret. Or fear.

You saw recognition. Love. Unexpected and unconditional warmth as he smiled.

“Besides,” Bucky added, softer now, “If I have to keep watching you flirt with me using Sam’s face, I might actually throw myself off the roof.”

You laughed, startled, and leaned into him without thinking.

This time, you didn’t shift. The room was quieter now, save for the soft hum of the city below. You sat close to Bucky on the couch, the space between you barely noticeable. His warmth radiated against your side, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a grounding presence in the stillness of the night. You hadn’t noticed how tense you’d been until the tension was gone.

His hand was still wrapped around yours, loosely, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he held on too tightly. You couldn’t blame him; you’d spent so long hiding behind someone else, never fully revealing all of yourself to anyone.

“I’ve been waiting for you to do that for a while you know,” Bucky said, his voice low and casual, as if he was talking about the weather. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, and the simple gesture made your heart stutter in your chest.

You raised an eyebrow, trying to play it cool despite the warmth flooding your face. “Waiting for me to… what?”

“To stop pretending. To stop hiding behind someone else’s face.”

A small, uncomfortable laugh slipped from you, but you didn’t pull away. “Guess I’m not good at being me.”

Bucky’s eyes softened as he turned to face you more fully. There was no teasing in his gaze now, no sharp edge to his words. “You’re not the only one, you know,” He said quietly, as if sharing a secret. “I’ve spent more than half my life pretending to be something I’m not. Something I hate. But I’m not that guy anymore.” His voice dropped an octave, almost a whisper. “And you don’t have to be anyone else around me, either.”

You blinked at him, your breath catching in your throat. There was something so raw, so real in his voice. The same kind of vulnerability you had been hiding for so long. You found yourself leaning a little closer, drawn in by the strength of his words, the sincerity of his presence.

“Then… why’d you wait for me?” You had to ask, voice barely above a whisper. “I mean, I—" You hesitated, unsure how to express what had been swirling in your chest for so long. "I’ve never exactly made it easy for you to see the real me.”

Bucky’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though his eyes remained serious. “Maybe I’m stubborn, maybe I looked forward to your jokes,” He said, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate path over your hand. “Or maybe I saw the real you long before you did.”

You let out a shaky breath, feeling a surge of warmth in your chest. “I…” You stop yourself, swallowing the lump in your throat. You didn’t know how to say the words you’d been bottling up for so long. How do you tell someone that, for the first time in your life, you were willing to be seen? That you weren’t afraid of him looking too closely?

Bucky squeezed your hand gently, as if he understood the inner turmoil you were going through. He could probably see it on your expression, your face. “You don’t have to explain. Not to me.”

He leaned forward just slightly, his face a little too close for comfort, but you didn’t pull back. Instead, you held your breath, waiting for the next moment. Wondering if you were about to fall into some quiet oblivion or if you’d be able to navigate this fragile space between you and him.

His gaze dropped to your lips for a split second, then back to your eyes. “Can I kiss you?” He asked with a sense of nervousness that could be seen as cute; his voice barely more than a murmur.

You nodded, heart pounding in your chest. “Please.”

And then, for the first time in your life, you accepted the idea of letting yourself be seen. Not as anyone else nor what others want of you, but as you. Just you.

Bucky’s lips brushed against yours softly, hesitantly, as if testing the waters. But the kiss deepened almost immediately, the tension between you melting away. His hand cupped the back of your head, pulling you in closer, and you didn’t fight it. You didn’t want to fight it.

It was just the two of you now. The past, the masks, the fears—all of it felt so far away. It was just Bucky, and it was just you.

When the kiss finally broke, your foreheads rested together, both of you breathless, sharing the same space in a way that felt simple and true.

“I’ve been waiting for you too,” You admitted, your voice shaky with the emotions flooding you.

Bucky’s chuckle was low and soft. “I figured as much.” He gave your hand another gentle squeeze before pulling you into his side, his arm wrapped around you like he’d been doing it for years.

“You know,” He said after a beat, voice muffled as his chin rested on your head, “I think you’ll get used to being yourself more often. It just takes time.”

You nodded, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart against yours. For the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel the need to hide.

And in that quiet, peaceful moment, you realized that maybe being seen wasn’t so scary after all.

Bonus:

It was a typical debriefing in the common area, probably weeks later. You and Bucky were sitting side by side on one of the couches, trying to maintain the illusion of a professional team meeting. The problem? You couldn’t stop smiling.

You were sitting closer than usual, your legs brushing under the table. A soft, knowing look passed between you and Bucky whenever your eyes met. Neither of you were saying anything out loud, but there was a certain… tension in the air.

Steve, who was in the middle of explaining the next mission’s details, glanced over at you and Bucky. Something was off, and Steve had a knack for noticing subtle changes.

“You two okay?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. “You’re acting… weird.”

Bucky looked up, his usual serious expression never faltering. “What do you mean ‘weird’?” He replied, though his tone was a little too defensive.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Steve’s eyes narrowed, a mischievous glint appearing. “You two seem… a little too comfortable.” He leaned forward. “You’re not…” he motioned vaguely with his hands, “…you know, getting close or anything?”

You felt a flush creeping up your neck and quickly busied yourself with your water bottle. But Bucky, ever the stoic, didn’t flinch.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Cap,” Bucky said, shrugging nonchalantly. “We’re just here for the mission.”

You, however, were a little less composed. You cleared your throat. “Yeah, we’re just… listening.” You floundered for words.

Steve raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, and then his eyes flicked to Clint, who had been watching the exchange with far too much interest.

Clint, ever the instigator, grinned widely. “Uh-huh. Sure. Whatever you say.” He turned to Sam, who was pretending to be absorbed in his phone but was clearly eavesdropping. “Hey, Sam, did you notice how Bucky's been looking at her lately?” He clearly gestured to you.

Sam smirked, lowering his phone just enough to catch your eye. “Oh, I’ve noticed. Definitely noticed.”

"Whoa, whoa," You said quickly, leaning back in your seat, but Clint wasn’t letting up.

“Nope, nope. I definitely saw that look. The one where he actually smiles when no one else is looking. Bucky smiling. We’re all witnesses to this. He’s gone soft,” Clint teased, turning to Steve with an exaggerated gasp. “This wasn't what I expected from the brooding sergeant. A romantic at heart? Who knew?”

You buried your face in your hands, trying not to laugh despite the embarrassment spreading across your face.

“Clint, shut up,” Bucky muttered, but he couldn’t help the faintest hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Does that mean we should start calling you ‘Casanova’ from now on?” Sam quipped, leaning back with a satisfied smirk.

“Guys, stop,” You blurted, though your voice cracked, betraying the calm act. “We’re not-“

“Well, it sounds like you two are,” Clint interrupted. “You’re over there being all cute and whispering to each other like you’re plotting to steal all of Tony’s suits.” He turned to Bucky with a grin. “Bucky, are you sure she’s not just in it for the tech? You know, she could get into the suits and—”

“Clint,” Bucky growled, his face flushed. You could see the gears turning in his head, trying to keep his cool. You knew this was far from over, and you weren’t sure whether to laugh or hide in a closet.

“Well, this is awkward,” Tony’s voice rang out suddenly, cutting through the banter. He had appeared in the doorway, completely unaware of what had been happening. “What did I miss?”

“We were just talking about Bucky’s secret love life,” Clint said with a gleam in his eye. “I have all the details, Tony. Want the rundown?”

Tony raised an eyebrow, eyes flicking to you and Bucky, then back to Clint. “Oh, so this is happening now, huh?”

You groaned and stood up quickly, holding your hands out in surrender. “Okay, okay. You got us. We’re together. Happy?”

Bucky just leaned back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, trying to look unfazed but failing miserably as the team erupted in teasing applause.

“Finally,” Steve said with a relieved sigh. “I was starting to think I’d have to play matchmaker.”

Sam slapped Bucky on the back. “About time you stopped brooding and did something about it.”

You shot Bucky a look, and he smirked, shrugging helplessly. “I guess I couldn’t keep it a secret forever.”

Tony clapped his hands together, a playful glint in his eye. “Alright, now that we’ve got the romantic drama out of the way, anyone want to help me with this new project? I need someone who doesn't spend their time making out in the common room.”

You felt your face heat up, but Bucky just chuckled, leaning back against the couch, looking much more at ease than he had in weeks.

And you? You might have been embarrassed, but you couldn’t help but smile. There was something oddly comforting or satisfying about the team finding out. Maybe it was because you knew you didn’t have to hide anymore. You didn’t have to hide your love for the man who loves you more than anything or anyone you could become. And that, in itself, was worth all the teasing.

[ptej1980]

Social Media perception and Real life

The moments…the likes …the narratives they want you to see and then there is the spaces in between like @fiamat12 describes so well

SM can manipulate any one’s perception of what is or what can be.

Looking at our faves and the adjacents you can see how the media has been used to really misrepresent or direct a certain way of thinking.

Let’s begin with the Jakola zombies….

The tabloids started it…a sub fandom ran with it…so it snowballed from there. So now anything Nic posts or Jake posts they are trying to link them together or launch them. Tabloids are doing the same even with something as simple as wishing someone happy birthday.

Jake and his friends try posting subtle hints to fandoms correcting the narrative. Even as early as yesterday….but they still do not get it.

I think it will have to be a billboard or flashing neon sign for them to get it. 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈

Nic is very chronically online as she has mentioned more than once or twice so she can be very strategic with her likes and shares and what she does. We see what she wants us to see. She will like a post, just long enough for us to see it, and then unlike it.

Luke I believe is a lurker. He is not often online unless he has to be. This is why it is super weird that he has liked every single post of 🐜 Not his usual MO, it is an obligation of sorts.

🐜 has definitely used SM to manipulate the GA and troll the fandom. From in style Polaroids, red bags, pasta videos, gelato ( not in Rome), all trying to insinuate she was in the same place and time with Luke when it was debunked that it was not possible.

If we think about how many times we have seen a picture of Nic drop somewhere at a party or place and then there is a fan sighting of Luke. Or the reverse happens. Misdirection they are great at that.

Even over the last few days…we knew Nic was in Miami, Yerin and Simone was in the US. 🇺🇸. Then we got some posts from Luke’s stylist team Liz and Holly about being in NY, as well as BOSS.

So for the last 24 hours the fandom have been clowning fully invested and distracted looking for Lukola and signs that the Adjacents may be in NY for the Met Gala. Jakola’s were even drilling down the time frequency of him posting even if it was about Gay icons and poets from the NY times. To the Jakola’s it was because he was with Nic and on their way to NY lol.

This is all part of the master plan we were looking over there while Lukola were living it up in Miami (IMO) and then on there way back to BAFTAs.

I am sure that we will see more random likes posts ect but just remember it is what we do not see is the important stuff. We have been lucky to get a glimpse of the authentic connection because our two faves are magnets, a complete set. So when in the same room there is no hiding it.

The below was real it was a real authentic connection.

Fake news - Jake kissed Nicola

Or In reality can you check my teeth or how is my make up.

All will reveal itself in good time. Just do not worry too much about the SM….have fun with it of course but just understand everything can be manipulated with a click of a button.

[regretismyconstantcompanion]

Albus listened carefully to Harry's words, a deep sadness settling over him like an old cloak. He paused for a moment, his hand resting on the fence, staring out at the fields.

“I didn’t expect you to return,” Albus said softly, as though to himself, but loud enough for Harry to hear. He took a slow breath, glancing at Harry before turning his gaze back to the creatures he was tending. “I thought, perhaps, you would find some comfort in the life you had before.” He shook his head, almost imperceptibly. "I was wrong, clearly. You’re still here, standing in front of me, despite everything." There was a brief, almost imperceptible flicker of a smile on his face, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. The truth settled between them like a shadow.

“I didn’t burn your things.” he continued, his voice distant, the burden of the years catching up to him in a way Harry might not have expected. “I thought... maybe it wouldn’t matter. Maybe you’d leave. Maybe I’d be left to this... This exile, this solitude I’ve earned for my mistakes.” He sighed heavily, the weight of regret pulling at his shoulders.He didn't understand why the boy was so determined to stay, when clearly he had a life to return home to. When Harry spoke of Aberforth, Albus gave a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh. He turned and leaned on the fence, eyes on the grazing animals rather than Harry. “My brother is…not fond of strangers. Or of anyone, really. Especially those who speak of me as you do.” A pause, then more gently: “He’s been burned too often to tolerate much hope.” Albus paused, lost in thought for a few moments before he continued. “Aberforth… he hasn’t forgiven me. Not for what happened. Not for anything. And I don’t blame him. He’s the only family I have left, Harry, and I failed him just as I failed so many others.” The words were low, tinged with the rawness of an old wound that hadn’t healed. "He has every right to be angry with me. But it doesn’t make it easier to know that... that I’ve lost him." Albus voice cracked ever so slightly, and he paused to steady himself, his gaze briefly dropping to the ground. Not that he and Aberforth had ever salvaged their relationship but they had been on speaking terms, even worked together in this war against Grindelwald. But since he had lost, his brother was one of the many sacrifices and casualties he'd had to make, to protect him.

He swallowed hard and cleared his throat, pushing away the vulnerability. “As for the job, Harry… you’re free to stay. If you wish. But this world is not the one you know. It’s not one where things can be fixed simply by desire. And I’m not sure I can be fixed. Not anymore. You might think you can save me. But I’m not sure I can be saved."

Albus’ voice softened as he finished, and he finally met Harrys eyes. “I’ve lived in regret for far too long, Harry. I don’t know if I deserve saving. But if you do choose to stay… please, don’t think you can change what’s already been done.”

Albus Dumbledore was sitting on the couch, staring into the fireplace that was across from him. The crackling of the flames was the only sound breaking the silence in the cottage that was nestled in the Scottish Highlands. It was isolated, miles away from even the nearest village. He had chosen it for that very reason, desperate for solitude even if it wasn't something that had been forced upon him. He had lost the duel against Grindelwald. He had known that had always been a possibility. There were equals after all and had known each other painfully well. They had spent that summer duelling, friendly but pushing each others boundaries. They had grown and changed and become more powerful but their tendencies had lingered. The fight had lasted well over an hour but in the end, Gellert had just gotten the better of him and managed to disarm him and send him flying backwards. His only minor consolation was the fight had left them both panting and injured. But it had been clear who the winner was. There was no backing out of the agreement they had made. His time in Nurmengard had been brief. A chance to recover from the duel before Gellert gave him an ultimatum. He could remain free if he agreed to leave Hogwarts and retreat from the Wizarding World. Albus had already known he would leave the school, for certainly he had lost that right when he had failed his students and the Wizarding World as a whole. He had agreed, knowing Gellert wasn't giving him a choice and not agreeing would result in either his death or being imprisoned in Nurmengard forever or the deaths of those he cared about. And so here he was, over a year after the duel. Staring into the fire, sitting beside a cup of tea that had long gone cold. Books had been removed from the overflowing bookshelves, scattered around the room. Some had been read, some he hadn't even yet opened. Plain parchment piled up on the desk. Few knew where he was and so letters came rarely. He had picked some of the fruit and vegetables he grew in a small garden he tended to. Perhaps he would make some jams and chutneys if he could find the strength and motivation. It came sometimes, mixed in with the heavy weight of despair that seemed to fill his waking hours. He had failed. He had let down the wizarding world and now he banished just beyond the world he loved so much. He knew what was happening there, of course. He did his best to learn of Gellerts ongoing plans and rise to power. Without him there, there was nothing to stop him. He knew the few Ministries that still existed moved against him but it wouldn't take much for them to fall. Everything would be lost then and Albus knew he was powerless to stop it. @johamfated

[annaswrites00]

We Probably Shouldn't - Kimi Antonelli

Kimi Antonelli x Rory Bearman (OC)

(3.9k)

Chapter Seven

Chapter Six, Chapter Five, Chapter Four, Chapter Three, Chapter Two, Chapter One

Summary - Kimi and Ollie’s sister start something they probably shouldn’t…

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The hotel room was quiet except for the faint hum of the minibar fridge and the distant hush of traffic down below. Rory sat cross-legged on the bed, her laptop open but untouched, the glow of the screen casting soft blue shadows against her skin. The adrenaline of the day had finally drained, leaving behind an ache in her shoulders and something else she didn’t have the energy to name.

There was a knock.

Not loud. Two sharp taps, then silence. Her heart beat once, hard. Then she stood, barefoot on the carpet, and padded across the room.

When she opened the door, Kimi stood there.

He looked like he hadn’t slept either—hair a little messy, hoodie half-zipped, still wearing the team sweatpants that bunched a little at his ankles.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” she answered. She stepped aside. “Come in.”

He hesitated for a moment, eyes flicking past her shoulder like he was gauging the room, then walked in slowly. She shut the door behind him, pressing her hand to the cool wood for a second longer than necessary. When she turned around, Kimi was standing near the window, hands in his pockets, eyes on the skyline.

She didn’t say anything. Just walked back to the bed and sat down, legs tucked under her. Kimi followed after a second, sitting beside her, careful not to touch, not yet. The silence between them wasn’t awkward. Just waiting.

“You okay?” he asked eventually.

Rory exhaled. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“Yeah,” he echoed. “Same.”

She nudged her laptop closed and reached for her camera, still resting on the bedside table. The strap coiled neatly around the lens like a sleeping snake.

“Wanna see all the shots?” she asked.

Kimi nodded, leaning forward. His arm brushed hers, light enough to pretend it didn’t happen.

Rory flicked through the photos slowly, letting the screen show them frame by frame—the pit lane chaos, the blur of cars, Oscar’s grin behind his visor, the way the sun caught on chrome and fireproofs. Kimi was quiet as he looked, every so often letting out a soft sound, half-laugh, half-hum of appreciation.

She stopped on one of him.

Not him - his car, rounding one of the sharper turns. A blur of black.

“Wow,” he murmured. “I’ve wondered what I look like from outside of the car.”

“Alluring,” she whispered back.

Their eyes met.

Something settled between them in the quiet. Not heavy, but thick enough to notice. Kimi’s hand shifted on the duvet. Their knees brushed. Their shoulders bumped as they moved closer to one another, whether they noticed it or not.

“I-,” Kimi started.

Then—

A knock.

This time louder. More sure.

“Rory? You in?”

Ollie.

Rory’s eyes widened. Kimi stood in a second, silent, fast. He looked around like he was calculating.

“Bathroom,” she whispered, already moving.

Kimi didn’t argue. Slipped in and closed the door just as she opened the main one.

Ollie stood in the hall, laptop tucked under one arm, an energy drink in the other. He looked like he had just changed—hair still damp from a shower, shoulders tense.

“Hey,” Rory said, keeping her voice level.

“Figured you’d be up. I’ve got the travel stuff for tomorrow. Figured it’d be easier to go through now.”

“Sure,” she said, stepping back. “Come in.”

She kept her body angled slightly, subtly blocking the bathroom door. Kimi stayed quiet.

Ollie dropped onto the bed and flipped open his laptop. “Okay, so we are leaving for the airport at seven.”

Rory nodded, glancing—quickly—toward the door. “Right.”

Ollie rambled through times, layovers, hotel check-ins. Rory pretended to take notes on her phone, heart knocking at her ribs like it wanted out.

Fifteen minutes.

Then he stood, closed the laptop, stretched with a groan. “Alright. I’ll let you sleep.”

“Thanks,” Rory said, managing a smile.

He kissed her forehead absently. “Night, Ror.”

She locked the door after him, waited until the sound of his footsteps faded down the hall, then turned.

The bathroom door opened.

Kimi stepped out slowly, blinking against the soft light. His hair was mussed where he’d run his hands through it. For a second, he looked like he wasn’t sure if the world outside the bathroom was still real.

Then his eyes found hers.

“You alright?” she asked, voice low.

He nodded once. “Yeah.” A pause. “Glad he didn’t need to use the bathroom.”

She laughed quietly. “That would’ve been hard to explain.”

He gave a faint smile, but didn’t move. Stayed where he was. The tension hadn’t broken with Ollie’s visit — if anything, it had thickened, crystallized. They both felt it. In the way her fingers curled against her palm. In the way his shoulders rose with a slower breath.

He took a step closer.

And then another.

She didn’t move.

“I thought he’d never leave,” he murmured.

Her lips quirked, nervous. “He usually doesn’t. Not when he’s in planner mode.”

Kimi nodded slowly, eyes never leaving hers. Then he stopped in front of her — just close enough to feel the heat rising from her skin.

Neither of them said anything.

He reached up, gently tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. His fingers trailed after, down to the curve of her jaw. Light, almost not touching.

Her breath hitched.

“I should go,” he said.

But he didn’t move.

“Do you want to?” she asked before she could stop herself.

His eyes searched hers.

“No.”

Silence.

Then his hand slid to the back of her neck. And finally, finally, he leaned in.

The kiss was soft at first — like they were still checking the temperature of it, testing whether it was safe. But then her hands found his chest, curled into the fabric of his hoodie, and everything sharpened.

He kissed her like he’d been thinking about it all night.

One hand anchored at her waist, pulling her in. The other cupped her cheek, tilting her just so. His lips were warm, sure. She answered without hesitation — leaning in, pressing close, letting herself feel all of it. The rush, the weight, the warmth.

She could taste the end of the night on his breath. Something sweet, maybe mint. His nose brushed hers. Her fingers curled tighter into his hoodie like she didn’t want to let him go.

She wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that. Seconds, minutes — it didn’t matter. The kiss slowed eventually, turned soft again. But neither of them pulled away.

His forehead touched hers.

“Rory.”

Her name sounded different on his tongue now — lower, gentler. Like a secret.

“Yeah?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her, like he was still grounding himself.

“I’ve wanted to do that since Melbourne.”

Her heart flipped.

She let out a breathy laugh. “Took you long enough.”

His smile deepened — a little crooked, a little breathless — and he leaned in again, this time without hesitation.

The kiss picked up where it had left off, but it wasn’t soft anymore. It was warmer now, hungrier. Like something had finally broken open.

Her back found the edge of the dresser as he pressed closer, hands settling at her hips. One of hers slid up the line of his chest, fingertips tracing over the zipper on his hoodie, and the other curled around the back of his neck.

He made a soft sound against her lips — low, like it slipped out without meaning to.

She felt it in her stomach.

His mouth moved with more intention now, and hers answered instinctively. Every brush, every pull of his lips had weight behind it — like he’d been waiting too long and didn’t want to waste a second more. She kissed him like she meant it. Like she needed him to know.

And he did.

His hands tightened slightly at her waist, thumbs slipping beneath the hem of her tank—her skin flinched at the contact, not because it startled her, but because it lit her nerves on fire. The touch was careful. Testing. His fingertips were warm where they brushed her skin.

She didn’t stop him.

Instead, she pulled him even closer, the dresser pressing into her back now as he stepped between her legs. He moved one of his hands to her thigh and tapped lightly, signaling her to jump up. He wrapped his hands under her thighs and settled her onto the dresser. The kiss deepened again—slower but heavier—as if the two of them were falling into something and didn’t know how to climb back out.

Kimi pulled back just enough to breathe, their foreheads brushing.

His voice was low. “This okay?”

Rory nodded, heart in her throat. “Yeah.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed her again — slower this time, like he wanted to memorize the shape of her mouth. His hand lifted, fingers sliding through her hair at the base of her neck, and she tilted her head for him instinctively, giving in. Her fingers slid under his hoodie, skimming over bare skin where his shirt had ridden up. He shivered a little, but didn’t pull away.

She didn’t know how long they stayed like that — caught between heartbeats, between breaths, neither of them willing to stop.

But eventually, the intensity began to soften. Not because it faded, but because it settled. Like they’d reached something unspoken and didn’t need to prove it anymore.

Kimi’s kisses grew gentler again, slow presses of his lips to hers. His hand came up to cradle her face, his thumb brushing just beneath her cheekbone.

She pulled back just far enough to see his eyes.

They were dark now, but clear. Grounded.

“Still glad you stayed?” she whispered, voice rough.

He exhaled a laugh, nose brushing hers. “More than glad.”

She smiled. Her hands slid down to his sides, anchoring herself there.

Neither of them spoke for a minute. Just paused there, breathing each other in.

Eventually, he rested his forehead against hers again.

“I should still go,” he said, even quieter now.

“You keep saying that.”

“I keep not wanting to.”

She swallowed. “Then don’t.”

He smiled again, but this time it was sadder. Tired. The kind of tired that didn’t come from lack of sleep.

“If I don’t, I’m not gonna sleep at all. And neither will you, you have to be up early.” he murmured.

She didn’t argue.

He stepped back slowly, like it physically cost him to pull away. His hands lingered on her hips for a second longer before dropping.

She hopped off of the dresser. 

She watched him fix his jacket, fix his hair with one half-hearted rake of his fingers.

At the door, he turned back.

“Rory?”

“Yeah?”

His eyes met hers. They were softer than she’d ever seen them. “Don’t delete that photo.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

He was moving before either of them realized. His hands were quick on her waist, his mouth on her -everywhere- her mouth, neck, her chest. She pulled him back up by his neck. Kissing him once more, slow and sure. 

He laughed before kissing her forehead, “Couldn't leave without one more.” 

He moved towards the door.

“See you in Bahrain," he asked.

"Of course."

He gave her one last look — full of something she couldn’t name — and then slipped out the door.

This time, she didn’t move right away. Just stood there, fingers pressed to her lips, heart slowly trying to find its way back into her chest.

Then she turned back to the bed, picked up the camera again.

And stared at the photo for a long, long time.

Her cheeks were still warm.

So was her smile.

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Rory woke up tangled in the sheets, blinking against the soft light leaking in through the curtains.

For a second, she didn’t move.

The room was quiet. Still. Her body felt heavy with sleep, but her mind—her mind was already reaching backwards.

To last night.

To him.

She let her eyes close again, just for a moment, letting the memory of Kimi fill the space behind her eyelids. His mouth. His hands. The way he’d looked at her like he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to leave.

She hadn’t dreamt it. She could still feel the echo of his kiss on her lips. The warmth of his touch lingered like a secret under her skin.

When she finally sat up, the hotel room felt a little colder without him in it.

She glanced toward the camera on the bedside table. The screen was still on — the photo was still there. The one of him, in the car, caught in a rare flurry of movement.

She didn’t let herself stare at it again.

Instead, she slid out of bed, pulled on a hoodie, and started to pack.

ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧

Ollie was already in the lobby when she got there, fresh-faced and chipper in that annoying little-brother way that made her want to throw her coffee at him. He waved when he saw her, phone in one hand, suitcase handle in the other.

“You good?” he asked, like she wasn’t running twenty minutes late.

“Yeah,” she said, rubbing a hand over her eyes. “Didn’t sleep much.”

“Same. Travel day energy,” he said, completely misreading it. 

She nodded, too quickly. 

She felt something stuck in her throat, clumsy and dishonest. Nothing about her felt cool. She still felt warm all over, heat curling low in her belly every time she thought about how Kimi looked at her before he left.

They stepped out into the morning sun, the quiet hum of city traffic surrounding them as they waited for their car.

Ollie was talking about logistics — next stop, who they’d be meeting, what time the briefings were, where their parents would be meeting them. She caught about half of it, her mind still back in the quiet of her hotel room, Kimi’s voice in her ear, his breath catching against her skin.

The ride to the airport was smooth, uneventful. She sat by the window, phone in hand, thumb ghosting over her messages.

Nothing from him yet.

Not that she was expecting anything.

Not really.

Except she kind of was.

She opened her camera roll again, heart tapping out an unsteady beat as she scrolled past the paddock shots, the podium celebrations, and stopped — again — on a new photo. One she took while going through pictures on her bed.

Kimi, sitting on the edge of her bed, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, watching her with a softness that felt like it didn’t belong to the real world.

She stared at it for too long.

Beside her, Ollie leaned over. She moved quickly, switching the photo to one of a Haas pit stop. 

“That’s a nice one.”

Rory’s thumb darted up, closing the screen. “Yeah.”

“You’re being weird,” he said.

She shot him a look. “You’re annoying.”

He grinned, unbothered. “Always.”

ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧

At the gate, she pulled her hoodie tighter around her shoulders, earphones in, letting the buzz of her playlist fade into the background.

She didn’t know what this was. What it meant. Whether last night was a moment or the start of something more. She wasn’t even sure if he’d want to talk about it again, or if they'd both silently agree to let it live in that single, quiet pocket of time.

But she knew how it had felt.

That wasn’t nothing.

Her phone buzzed in her lap. Once. Then again.

Kimi Antonelli Did you sleep?

Rory stared at the message. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a few seconds longer than they needed to. Then:

Rory

Barely. You?

The reply came quicker than she expected.

Kimi Antonelli

Didn’t want to leave.

Something flipped in her chest. A quiet, impossible kind of warmth, like the words were stitched straight into her skin.

Rory

Then why did you?

There was a pause this time. She could almost picture him reading it, thumb paused above the screen, trying to find the right thing to say.

Kimi Antonelli

Didn’t want to make it harder. Though if I stayed, I wouldn’t leave at all.

Her breath caught. She pulled her knees up to her chest in the stiff plastic airport chair, the buzz of boarding announcements a distant hum in her ears.

Rory

You make it sound like that would’ve been a bad thing.

The dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.

Kimi Antonelli It wouldn’t have been bad. Just dangerous.

That made her stomach twist. Not in a bad way. Just—too much, all at once.

She swallowed, thumb tracing the edge of her phone as if she could ground herself in the feeling.

Rory

Do you regret it?

This time, the pause was longer. A minute, maybe more.

Then:

Kimi Antonelli

No. Do you?

Rory

No.

She didn’t know what else to say, so she didn’t say anything. Just leaned back in her chair, letting that one word settle between them.

No.

She didn’t regret it at all.

Her screen dimmed. She tapped it again, just to keep the conversation alive.

A few seconds later, another message came through.

Kimi Antonelli

I keep thinking about the way you looked at me. After.

Rory smiled, pressing the side of her phone to her cheek.

Rory

Like what?

Kimi Antonelli Like you were trying to memorize my face.

She closed her eyes.

That’s exactly what she had been doing.

Rory

I was.

Her flight was boarding now. Ollie waved at her from the other side of the gate, already halfway down the ramp.

Kimi Antonelli Text me when you land.

Rory

Okay. Try not to forget about me before I do.

Kimi Antonelli

Rory. That’s not possible.

The words followed her as she stepped onto the plane. She found her seat, buckled in, and turned her phone on airplane mode with one last glance.

She stared out the window as the plane taxied, her heart still full of something she hadn’t quite named yet.

Not love. Not yet.

But it was something. Something big. Something that wasn’t going to go away easily.

And for now, that was enough.

ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧

Thanks for reading!!!!

ʚ🧸ɞ˚ ʚ🧸ɞ˚

[sharksfrommars]

asylum Ford Drabble, for your pleasure.

Dipper and Mabel’s first night in Gravity Falls.

What is up with Grunkle Ford?

Grandpa Shermie had told Dipper and Mabel that Grunkle Ford sometimes had delusions. They knew Ford had a sickness in his brain, one that made his sense of reality shaky. That’s why he lived with Grandpa Shermie, why he had to take special pills every day. It explained why grunkle Ford was a little… odd.

Ford always told the kids stories, about all sorts of strange and wonderful things. Monsters lurking in the deep forests of Oregon, beasts that live in the sea and sky. fairies, gnomes, demons and ghosts, Ford had stories about them all. Most of all, he told them the story of the town he lived in, back in the 70s. Gravity falls was a town built at the heart of all things bizarre. It attracted the freaks and the weirdos like a magnet. It was choc full of cryptids and beasts and alien life forms, if you believed Grunkle Ford.

Dipper wasn’t sure. On one hand, every one knew that Grunkle Ford wasn’t in the best mental state. They all remembered the incident at thanksgiving 2009. Or that time in the restaurant last year. Actually, there was a long list of incidents that proved Ford wasn’t of sound mind.

But some part of Dipper believed it anyway, because it seemed to make the feelings of magic and mystery he so often felt just a little less crazy. He wanted to find proof, one day. Undeniable proof of something Strange and Abnormal. He wanted that magic to be real, wanted his Grunkle to not be thatinsane.

When the twins found out that they would be going to gravity falls that summer, they were excited. They were finally going the town that Grunkle Ford always talked about! Dipper was convinced he’d find something that would prove the existence of the paranormal to his sceptical grandfather. Mabel was just excited to meet new people, and spend time with her brother. It was going to be the summer of a lifetime.

The shack they were staying in was run down, and barely standing. There were 3 people to welcome them when they entered. At the front, a man in his 20s, with a cap and a tool belt. He introduced himself as Soos Ramirez. Shermie had spoken to him on the phone, and hired him over the summer to fix up the shack. 

“I’ll be honest, son. This is a lot worse than I was expecting.” Said Shermie. Soos grinned

“Oh yeah dude. Local teens are always breaking into this place, tryna find the flayed ghost. Don’t worry though dudes. We, like, totally got it to living standards dudes. My Abuelita even cleaned the place!”

The old woman next to Soos nodded. She looked exactly like him, except an old woman. She seemed to be vacuuming the grass.

“House is very dirty.” she said, “I clean.”

Soos turned around and pointed the last person. A gangly teenage girl, with long red hair. She happened to be the prettiest girl Dipper had ever seen. She was on her phone, not paying attention.

“That dude over there is Wendy! She’s my assistant, so you’ll probably see her around.”

“Sup” said Wendy, not even looking up from her phone. 

Soos took the pines on a tour through the house. It was clean, and seemed stable enough. Really it was much better than it looked from the outside. There was still work to be done, but mostly cosmetic stuff. The kids called shotgun on the attic room, even though the roof wasn’t yet tiled, still bare insulation foam and support beams. Shermie sighed and agreed, so long as they wait for the roof to be finished. Soos put it on the top of his list.

Ford had disappeared at some point during the grand tour. Shermie went to look for him, letting the kids get settled in one of the lower rooms. 

“Do you think this place is really haunted?!” Dipper whispered to Mabel. It was an exciting prospect, that he might get to see a real life ghost. Just like in Ghost Harrassers.

“I mean this place sure is spooky enough!” Said Mabel, “I just hope it’s a hot ghost. Preferably a tweenage heartthrob, who can’t pass on until he finds the girl of his dreams.”

Dipper rolled his eyes. “A ghost isn’t going to want to date you, Mabel. It’s probably going to suck out your soul of something. They do that.”

“I guess I’ll just have to settle for a hot vampire then.” 

“Oh this place is definitely haunted.” Said a voice from the shadows. It was Wendy, leaning casually against the wall. Dipper jumped up, excited.

“You’ve seen a ghost!? What was it like!?!”

Wendy smiled.

“You know an old cultist scientist used to live here, a long time ago. He did all sorts of cruel experiments on people, turned them into monsters. People say he even went as far as to eat them. They say the souls of those he killed still walk these halls. 

“There are all sorts of Ghosts, but none stronger than the Flayed Man. He was skinned alive. The scientist kept him alive as long as possible, just so he could tear the flesh from each limb. When the flayed ghost finally died, he came back as a wraith, bringing vengeance to everyone who has ever stayed here…”

Dipper and Mabel were enraptured with Wendy’s story. Dipper started blabbering excitedly to Wendy about his you can track ghosts. Suddenly, it was like they had known each other forever, as they talked and laughed.

Dipper made it his mission to capture the Flayed Man, and to talk to him. He enlisted Mabel to help. Together, the mystery twins could crack the mysteries gravity falls. 

That first night in gravity falls was quiet. Except for the low hum of machinery from far below the ground.

[klarolinexluv]

No matter who you ship her with, the other is always down bad for Lily Evans because they don’t take lightly to someone messing with her.

James Potter? Well that’s self explanatory. He’d do anything she asked, anything. Nothing is too big or small. You wrong Lily and James is looking over her shoulder with the biggest grin, the kind of grin that is terrifying to see because rage is burning in his eyes. You’ll know he is planning something but you will never know what until it’s too late.

Regulus Black? Would kill for her, without question, without hesitation. He would go to any lengths, any means necessary to protect and love her. You say something remotely negative against her, (like whispering she has weird hair or something) and you will find yourself in a world of trouble. The rumours that come out about you will be unstoppable and so believable. You wouldn’t even know who started them but Lily knows.

Barty Crouch Jr? Would also kill for her but would deny he ever did it to everyone including her. Barty is so unhinged in how he looks after what he perceives to be his and Lily is no different. Think Regulus but without any restrictions/restraint (because Reg never goes too far, Barty crosses that line gleefully).

Evan Rosier? You said something he didn’t like about Lily? Damn, I hope your aunt recovers from that horrible poison she’s suffering from. Your best friend is ill? How worrisome, here give them this cookie. Nothing bad will happen, promise. Oh, you’re struggling in a class? That’s too bad, here have this potion, it helps with focus… no there aren’t any side effects, don’t worry about it.

Pandora Lovegood? You don’t see her coming until it’s too late. She will tear anyone a new one simply for looking at Lily wrong. You don’t even think that she will do anything, she’s so nice and sweet and suddenly you are hanging from your ankles outside the great hall with no way down, you’ve been there all night.

Mary MacDonald? You will never escape her glare. EVER. You slight Lily once and Mary will hold a grudge for all eternity. She will constantly bring up things that embarrass you casually into conversation and act like that was a normal topic to talk about. She’ll basically make your life an uncomfortable mess until she grows bored of playing with you. She will never forget what you did and she will randomly start up again later just because she can.

Narcissa Black? You will never step foot outside your house ever again. Your reputation would never recover. You’d be the laughing stock of society. People will stop talking when you approach them. You’re social life would be so awkward to nonexistant. And Narcissa will catch your eye and smirk so cruelly, you’ll quickly leave without second thought.

Marlene McKinnon? She is constantly around you for some reason. Constantly lurking. She offers to be your partner in class and has a glare so strong that nobody argues. She is constantly making snide remarks to your face about you. Little things that will get on your nerves. Marlene makes your life unbearable and then when it gets to a point where you are going to break, she’s suddenly gone. You are left on the edge of your seat waiting for the other shoe to drop. She’ll pop up every so often just to keep you on edge.

Dorcas Meadows? She isn’t afraid to use her beaters bat. It’s not that she carries it around her all the time but it definitely feels like it. She never makes the threat, not verbally anyway. But she’ll stare you down with her bat in her hands, swinging it or just playing with it to make the unsaid obvious. Once on Dorcas’ shit list, it is very hard to leave it.

Remus Lupin? He is the type to sit back and wait. Let you make the mistake of insulting Lily and then he will watch as your life falls apart. You worked for hours on an essay but now it’s missing? Oh and it’s due tomorrow and it’s like the biggest paper for your grade? How awful. He’ll make you think you are losing your mind, constantly moving or taking your things without you noticing and putting them somewhere else. He’s pulling Lily to his chest and glaring so coldly over her shoulder, most if not everyone will be scared off.

Sirius Black? He will prank you. Without mercy. And you will know he is pranking you because he is always there when it happens. Itching powder in your clothes. Dungbombs in your bag. Hexing your shoe laces together. Sticking charm on your seat. Everything. He will hold a grudge for the rest of his life, you wrong the people he calls his own, especially Lily and you will never know peace again. Sirius would also go to extreme lengths to make Lily feel protected and loved.

[lizardho]

I also REALLY wanna emphasize that part of the reason our stories are so weird and funny and whatever is because babs and I were tenaciously curious about EVERYTHING and we got REALLY into what we liked. And we got really into storytelling because we love stories, because stories are part of our upbringing and our cowboy heritage, and because they make more sense than real life. And one day I made the mistake (I say this jokingly because it’s actually a really good memory now) of telling my dad that I wanted to learn to write my stories. My dad, who had worked 12-hour swing shifts at the E.R. for my entire life up to that point, felt sad that his job had limited his time with us, and he put his whole pussy into making me a writer. He spent two weeks spending every spare second of his day looking into how to be a better writer. And one day, two or three weeks after I had told him that, he comes to me and tells me that he’s going to support my dream of being an author. And he tasked me with writing a LOT of stuff. Any story I made up, any thought or opinion I had, he asked me to write it down and then he gave me feedback on it. The same thing, or something similar at least, happened to Babs, fwiw.

This is the source of many of my happiest, best memories with my parents, and this was also REALLY annoying as a kid. I’d wanna tell my dad about the story I just made up with my l’il lego guys or whatever and he’d be like “write it down and I’ll give you feedback on your story in 2-3 business days” and like, sometimes I just wanted to yap (Again, looking back on it I have good memories of writing for my dad). But the thing my dad had learned by studying this for us was that the way to get better at writing was to write a LOT, to get a LOT of feedback on our writing, and to be aware of the important elements of a story. Because of this, me and babs have become gifted writers. We wrote a lot, we got lots of feedback, we studied our favorite authors, we studied the tips and tricks of the people who mattered in our lives, and we can fucking WRITE now.

So when we verbalize the little things we did in our lives, part of why it’s fun and funny is because we’re genetic freaks, and we’re not normal, and that makes our lives unusual too. A lot of the shit we did didn’t come naturally which meant we had to make conscious decisions, which in turn are easier to remember.

Another part of why it’s fun is because our dad helped us become excellent writers, and that means we can express ourselves well in writing (in-person is a totally different experience). And it’s always nice to read stuff from people who can express themselves well.

And the last reason it’s fun to read our stuff is because we were raised by a loving nerd-cowboy and a loving feminist supermom, both of whom are neurodiverse in some way. This meant we were almost always safe to share our thoughts and feelings because our parents were genuinely curious about our inner lives and feelings, and they were able to understand how our inner worlds were different from other people’s. It also meant that we were very loved and appreciated, which meant there was always at least one point in our day and one place in our life where we could safely engage in deep self-reflection and analysis. This was helpful for us in being able to uncover the little stories in our lives and really let them sink in. A lot of why we’re good writers is practice and hard work, and also a lot of it is a privilege we received not out of merit (it’s not like we deserved great parents and other people deserved crappy parents, we just kinda ended up with good parents) but out of blind luck and love.

To make this all succinct, many of our stories come from us being able to fully live in our own lives. We didn’t go out of our way to seek excitement - we actually were pretty serious homebodies so we often went out of our way to avoid it. Instead, we found ways to find the magic in the small silly things that happen in life, and finding the magic in simple, mundane, every day stuff makes it easier to add magic into it on purpose too. And if you do that enough it takes you to some strange places. I know both @inbabylontheywept and I have made decisions or done or said things that were unnecessarily complicated or kinda “going out of our way” just because we knew it would make the story of our lives a bit more entertaining or magical. Recognizing that you are living in a story can help you find your own stories. Finding the things that matter to you can help you do this too. And finding your stories can, in turn, make your life as enchanting and silly and bewildering and crazy as our lives have been. It’s an active skill to develop. It requires a willingness to see yourself as a character at times. It requires practice and time. It requires a willingness to make things silly for the plot. And it requires some unspecified amount of autism. But it IS doable, and it can make life more interesting.

How is your life so interesting

Normally, I just kind of laugh this question off, but I've been asked enough times I'm gonna take an honest stab at it.

So, the first thing worth considering is whether the story itself is all that interesting, or whether I am just a good storyteller. My most popular story is about cutting a lot of worms and half, and crying, and then being comforted by my mom. That's not a terribly uncommon or hard to imagine event. A lot of my stories more about the telling than the substance.

There are also some stories that are weird, but they're weird in ways that I also find, like, relateably weird? It might just be that I knew a lot of athletes in college, but I don't think eating raw eggs is that weird. Eating 15 in one go is, but I was roommates with a guy that ate like, three for breakfast, three in his in-class protein shake, and another three at dinner. That guy was attending ASU on a gymnast scholarship, but also, he genuinely ate 5 dozen eggs a week. That seems much more normal than eating 15 in one day.

To say nothing of eating raw onion. Tons of people eat raw onions. It baffles the non-onion eaters, but it's a super common thing. Especially in Mexico.

Some of the stories happen because I am better at noticing story-worthy events than most people. I can't tell you how many times I've been in public, and seen someone do some weirdass thing, and then had to nudge my wife and to get her to watch it too.

If I had to point to the parts of my life that are truly, genuinely, bafflingly weird, they would be my dating stories, and. I dunno. My general thermonuclear dumbass event posts. And I can break down why those two are interesting pretty simply:

I was unbelievably bad at dating. The majority of the time, that just meant that there was a few minutes of stilted small talk and never get a call back. But the thing is, Mormon culture strongly encourages dating as like, a social-practice thing, and I was very motivated to get good at it, so I just kept trying and trying and I think I went on at least 200 first dates before meeting my wife. I genuinely believe that if anyone went on 200 first dates, they would get some pretty incredible bad date stories too. Especially if they had autism. I know I write well, and I can sound very charming here, but it took me a very, very long to get decent social skills. I am just a disturbingly persistent learner.

I am very convincing. This is helpful when I am interacting with other people, because it can do things like, convince them to let me into their secret facility, or convince them to not vote Republican again, or to save at least put the company match into their retirement accounts. But when I'm just debating something with myself, my convincingness works against me: I am very good at tricking myself into believing that bad ideas are, somehow, actually good. This is part of why I have so much sympathy for the right wing lunatics that I work with. Every time I meet a crazy person I go, ah, but for the grace of God, go I. Anyway, this does an unfortunate thing where my excellent verbal skills drive my poor decisions, which results in the very odd combination of welll written, articulate stories about someone being A Fucking Idiot. Like the condom bomber story. I think this is also why most of the lawyers that I meet are insane in their personal lives.

Anyway, those are my theories! I'm gonna tag @lizardho because we mostly had the same childhood, but she has a better grasp on what normal people look like than me, and perhaps she'll have her own theories on the weirdness of our lives.