#and how hard is it to keep a conversation going

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 35: October 2024 - Part 2

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

The first time Galahad was led out of his mother’s stall alone, Belle cried.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… quietly. The kind of tears that surprised even her — warm and sudden and absolutely uninvited.

She stood just outside the barn, arms folded over the top rail of the paddock fence, watching as the stablehand gently led Galahad toward the adjacent enclosure. The foal pranced a little, all long legs and indignation, ears flicking in every direction as he let out a confused, reedy whinny.

“God,” Belle whispered, swiping at her cheek. “This is awful.”

Behind her, Max paused with two bottles of water hand and the unmistakable look of a man deeply unsure how to proceed.

“…You okay?” he asked, cautiously.

Belle sniffled. “He’s so small.”

“He’s the size of a sofa.”

“Emotionally, Max.”

Max came to lean beside her, handing her the water. “They said it’s a gentle wean. He’s already eating hay. It’s time.”

“I know it’s time,” she said, taking a sip. “I’m not arguing with biology. I just—he’s confused. Look at him. He doesn’t know where his mum went.”

Max squinted. “He looks like he’s trying to eat his own lead rope.”

“That’s a trauma response.”

“Belle.”

She wiped at her face again. “It’s just… she was so gentle with him. Fleur nudged him whenever he got stuck. She waited for him. And now she’s just back in her stall like—like nothing’s changed.”

Fleur, from her stall, let out a soft exhale and proceeded to dunk her hay in her water bucket like a seasoned professional who had zero emotional attachment to this conversation.

Max followed Belle’s line of sight. “You think she’s heartbroken too?”

“I think she has to be.”

There was a long pause.

“Do you want me to go in there and ask her?”

Belle gave him a flat look. “You’re not funny.”

Max grinned and bumped his shoulder against hers. “A little funny.”

They stood in silence a while longer. Galahad, still pouting, eventually flopped himself dramatically into the sunniest patch of the paddock. Belle sniffled again.

“It’s stupid,” she muttered. “I know it’s normal. I know it’s healthy. I’m just—”

“Wired for attachment,” Max said gently. “And watching someone you love grow up is hard. Even if they’re a four-legged menace who tried to eat your ponytail last week.”

Belle gave a watery laugh.

Max wrapped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. “He’ll be okay.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “But I think part of me just keeps waiting to be sold too.”

Max froze for a second, then held her tighter. No teasing now. Just warmth.

“You won’t be,” he said. “Not ever.”

Belle leaned her head against him, watching as Galahad stretched out and blinked lazily at the sky.

“Okay,” she whispered. “But I’m still going to check on him every hour.”

Max pressed a kiss to her hair. “Of course you are.”

And when they turned to go back inside, Galahad lifted his head and let out the tiniest, most indignant whinny — like he knew.

Belle looked back, teary again.

Max sighed. “He’s manipulating you already.”

“I’m not even mad about it.”

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: just so you know your best friend cried today like. actual tears.

Emilie: omg what happened?? is she okay??

Max: she’s fine Galahad got weaned he got moved out of fleur’s stall apparently this is emotionally devastating

Emilie: 😭😭😭😭 OH MY GOD

Emilie: she loves that horse he’s like her softest secret

Max: he tried to eat a fence she said he was “processing loss”

Emilie: he IS have you ever been weaned?? it’s betrayal with extra hay

Max: please stop i can’t have two of you

Emilie: don’t lie you’d die without us

Max: also she looked me dead in the eye and said “i think she has to be heartbroken too” about fleur the mare who was dunking hay in her water bucket like nothing happened

Emilie: she projects, max. let her project.

Max: i think she meant herself

Emilie: oh.

Emilie: okay. gentle reminder: your wife still has a lot of little versions of herself inside. some of them are scared. some of them remember what it felt like to be left behind.

Max: i know. i told her she’d never be sold.

Emilie: you did good she trusts you even the small versions of her

Max: she’s going to check on the horse every hour

Emilie: duh have you MET her

***

Max had been up before sunrise.

Not for training. Not for the simulator. 

No.

Max had woken early for one reason: to beat every Monaco tabac owner to the punch and buy every copy of the October issue of Architectural Digest that he could find.

By 7:43 a.m., he had five.

He wanted more, but the man behind the counter at the third shop had blinked at the stack in Max’s arms and said, “Monsieur Verstappen, surely… five is enough?” Max had mumbled something about resale value and legacy and fled.

By 8:15, he had also acquired croissants (three kinds), pain au chocolat, two fresh baguettes, and a little paper-wrapped wedge of Belle’s favorite cheese from the bakery that always sold out early.

He walked into the kitchen like he was presenting her with the spoils of a victory parade.

Belle, still in her robe, blinked sleepily over her mug of tea. “What’s all this?”

Max placed the magazines on the counter like precious artifacts. "You're in Architectural Digest, schatje. That’s not a normal Tuesday."

Belle stared. “You bought five copies?”

Max shrugged, unrepentant. “One for us. One for the baby’s memory box. One for my mother. One for the factory. One just to frame. I would’ve bought more but they started asking questions. So I just ordered them online.”

She laughed—soft and stunned and already a little emotional. “You’re ridiculous.”

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’m so proud.”

And then, gentler: “You don’t just make houses beautiful. You make them live.”

Belle bit her lip and looked down, suddenly shy. “You read the article?”

Max smiled, already pulling out the jam. “Twice.”

And just like that, the kitchen felt a little fuller—with joy, with pride, with quiet, croissant-scented love.

***

ARCHITECTURAL DIGEST | October 2024 Edition

A Villa That Breathes: Inside the Thoughtful Transformation of Daniel Moreau and Jules Girault’s Provençal Refuge By Laurent Brousset | Photography by Sylvie Hohmann

Nestled on a winding hillside just beyond the edge of Monaco’s old town is a villa that feels like a held breath — slow, serene, and completely alive.

From the outside, the property gives little away: stone shutters, terracotta roof tiles, a fig tree bowing gently toward the sun. But inside, a story unfolds — of time, of tenderness, of architecture that doesn’t erase history, but cradles it.

And at the heart of that story is Belle Verstappen, interior architect and founder of Studio_B.

The Soul of a House

“When we bought it, the bones were beautiful — but tired,” says Jules Girault, who owns the home with his husband, creative executive Daniel Moreau. “We didn’t want to gut it. We wanted someone who could see what it had been and help us understand what it could be.”

Enter Belle Verstappen.

Known for her ability to design with emotional resonance rather than trends, Verstappen took on the project as her first full commission under her own name.

“I walked through the house once and knew,” she says. “This wasn’t a place that needed reinventing. It needed remembering.”

Quiet Luxury, Lived In

From the original tiled floors to the weathered beams overhead, every decision in the villa feels like it came from conversation — not just between client and designer, but between designer and space.

“I don’t like interrupting a house’s rhythm,” Verstappen explains. “I try to listen first. The textures, the light, the way a door creaks when it opens — it tells you what the house wants.”

That listening resulted in a home that whispers instead of shouts.

The plaster walls, finished in mineral-washed hues, shift color with the light. Custom shelves in the living room curve around the restored fireplace, filled with books and hand-thrown ceramics sourced from local artisans. The kitchen retains its original footprint but now hums with intentional design: a deep farmhouse sink set into hand-crafted cabinetry, limewashed walls, antique fixtures with softened patina.

Daniel, ever the aesthete, calls it “a masterclass in restraint.”

“There’s a version of this house that could’ve ended up looking like every other ‘minimalist Mediterranean’ villa,” he says. “But Belle didn’t impose a vision. She revealed one.”

The Courtyard, Reimagined

One of the home’s most striking spaces is the internal courtyard — once neglected, now transformed into what Jules calls “the soft heart of the house.”

“It’s quiet here,” he says. “Lavender, jasmine, the fig tree… it smells like memory.”

Verstappen kept the original stonework and introduced subtle landscaping: rosemary, thyme, and climbing vines that will age as gracefully as the walls themselves.

“It wasn’t about making it new,” she says. “It was about letting it grow.”

A Designer Coming Into Her Own

The villa marks a turning point for Verstappen — not just professionally, but personally.

“This was the first project I signed under my name,” she shares. “No firm. No studio initials. Just me.”

That transition wasn’t without weight.

“There’s a vulnerability in that,” she admits. “But this house gave me the courage. Jules and Daniel gave me the trust. And I think that’s what made the work stronger. It was personal — not just for them, but for me too.”

Designing for Emotion, Not Aesthetic

Verstappen’s work has been described as “emotional architecture” — a term she’s hesitant to claim, but doesn’t reject.

“I think we forget sometimes that homes aren’t just spaces. They hold grief, joy, ordinary Tuesdays,” she says. “My job is to make room for all of that — not just to make it pretty.”

Jules echoes the sentiment. “She didn’t just give us a home. She gave us a future. And somehow, it still feels like it’s always been ours.”

What’s Next?

With her studio growing and a child on the way (“I’ve learned more about fabric durability in the last six months than I thought possible,” she jokes), Verstappen’s approach remains the same: quiet, collaborative, deeply rooted in the human experience.

“Beauty is easy,” she says. “But meaning? That takes work. And it’s the kind of work I love.”

As she walks through the finished villa one last time — running her hand along the smooth curve of an old beam, checking the shadows that dance across a plastered wall — it’s clear:

This isn’t just a space someone lives in.

It’s a space that lives with them.

Photography by Sylvie Hohmann | Styling by Eloise Dervaux To see more from Belle Verstappen and Studio_B, follow @/belleverstappen and  @/studio_b on Instagram or visit studiobdesign.com

***

Instagram Stories: @/maxverstappen1

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/f1wivesunite I just read the Belle Verstappen AD piece and now I want her to design my house, my life, my nervous system.

@/archiluxe “Not reinventing, but remembering” — I would tattoo this quote from Belle Verstappen’s AD profile if I wasn’t afraid of commitment.

@/softmaxv Belle Verstappen being like “I listen to how a door creaks” and then making a whole home feel like a hug??? she’s not an interior designer she’s a poet

@/formulawags this woman said “homes hold grief, joy, ordinary Tuesdays” and I have not known peace since. (also Max is 100% her Tuesday.)

@/tinygp can we talk about how Max Verstappen’s WIFE is out here dropping AD-level wisdom while pregnant and making rustic beams look emotionally resonant??? how is this fair

@/verstappenupdates AD: “This was the first project I signed under my name.” Me, sobbing: it’s HER name. HER name. HER studio. HER work. HER life. she really said ✨liberation✨

@/archdigestgirl i am OBSESSED with belle verstappen’s design philosophy like… “it didn’t need reinventing, it needed remembering”??? i’m crying over plaster walls. over limewash. over a giraffe lamp. help.

@/monacoliving when daniel moreau said the house “smells like memory”??? belle made a COURTYARD smell like a backstory. i want to live in her mind.

@/softf1defender Max: aggressive overtakes at 300km/h Belle: emotional architecture that holds grief and joy them: married me: sobbing

@/emotionalwallpaper if belle ever opens a retreat i will walk there barefoot and sleep on a reclaimed linen pouf

@/formulaicon the fact that she signs her projects Belle Verstappen and not Isabelle Leclerc… that’s not just a name. that’s a choice. and it’s saying something loud.

@/thegridwhispers it’s Belle Verstappen in Architectural Digest, not Isabelle Leclerc, and somewhere in Monaco a family group chat is vibrating with unspoken tension

@/gridgossipqueen MAX VERSTAPPEN JUST POSTED: “She sees space the way I see corners on the track. And she never misses.” SIR??????? ARE YOU A WORLD CHAMPION OR A POET????

@/chaoticgridwives the way he tagged her work account AND her personal one the way he said “very proud of my wife” like he’s been waiting his whole life to write that the way he wrote “she never misses” and MEANT IT 😭😭😭

@/tiregirlie MAX VERSTAPPEN POSTED HIS WIFE’S AD FEATURE AND SAID: "She sees space the way I see corners on the track. And she never misses." I AM CRYING IN IKEA

@/helmetedsoftie he said: 🏁 i win races 📐 she builds homes 🍼 we made a baby 👑 and you will deal with it

@/fernvillainera “she sees space the way I see corners” that’s not a compliment that’s a wedding vow

@/formulafloof max verstappen could’ve said “nice job babe” and kept it moving instead he gave us POETRY

@/artdigesttears she didn’t even mention the Leclercs once in the article. not even in the baby joke. not once. it’s all Belle, all Studio_B. she’s not hiding. she’s just her.

@/emiliestandclub "the first project I signed under my name." and the name she used was Belle Verstappen. we’ve left the era of being overlooked. she’s not asking for a seat at the table. she’s designing the table. and the courtyard. and the backsplash.

@/maxxxmode1 Max calling her Belle wasn’t just a pet name. it became her name. and now it’s on the cover of Architectural Digest. tell me that’s not poetry.

@/sogoodithurts her name isn’t “Isabelle Leclerc” in the byline it’s not “Studio Leclerc” it’s not “Leclerc Interiors” it’s Studio_B. Belle Verstappen. she’s no one’s shadow. she is the sun.

@/jardinarchitecture the way Architectural Digest didn’t even feel the need to footnote “née Leclerc”… it’s almost like her work introduced her, not her family. wild.

@/kartingwife calling it now: the Verstappen baby grows up and thinks his mom is more famous than his dad. and honestly? fair.

@/emotionalbabywatch i don’t care what they name the baby. i care that it’s going to be loved so deeply it won’t ever question if it’s enough. and honestly? that’s the real win.

@/turn1drama this child is going to be raised in a home that smells like jasmine, has hand-carved drawer pulls, and hears I love you more times in a day than Jos Verstappen said it in a decade evolution

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: Okay. Okay. I made it to the second paragraph before crying. Not sniffling. Crying. Open-mouthed, full-body, you-did-it-you-beautiful-genius crying.

Emilie: You were always going to end up in AD. But Belle. You signed this one under your own name. You built something. You told a story. You made a house remember itself and made the whole world notice. I’m so proud I can’t even breathe.

Emilie: We are framing this article. We are putting it in the baby’s memory box. We are not normal about this. You hear me?

Belle: I’m crying now. Like. Properly.

Belle: I didn’t think anyone would actually read it, let alone feel it. I kept thinking… maybe it was too soft. Too quiet. Too much like me.

Belle: But you saw it. You always do.

Belle: Thank you for never letting me shrink. For every time you reminded me that being quiet wasn’t the same as being small. That I didn’t have to be loud to take up space.

Belle: I love you.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: UM. HELLO. EXCUSE ME.

Victoria: You absolute sneak. You’re just out here being the interior design oracle of Monaco and didn’t bother to mention that you’re in ARCHITECTURAL DIGEST??? Do you know what I was doing this morning?? Folding laundry. In sweatpants. Meanwhile, you’re making villas cry with emotion.

Victoria: That courtyard?? I nearly sobbed. That kitchen?? I want to move in and raise goats.

Victoria: You’re a masterpiece. I love you. Also I’m stealing that mineral-wash plaster idea. You can’t stop me.

Belle: I— You’re making me laugh and cry at the same time. Please stop being good at this.

Belle: I wasn’t trying to keep it secret. I just… I didn’t know if it would be worth making a fuss over.

Belle: But then I saw it. And it felt like me. Really me. And now you saying all this— It means more than I can explain.

Belle: Please steal the plaster. I’ll mix it for you myself. Love you too.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Christian Horner

Max: Did you see the AD article?

Christian: The what?

Max: Architectural Digest. Belle’s feature. It came out today. I’ll send you the link. Actually, I’ll send you the PDF. Also a printed copy. What’s your home address?

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Daniel Ricciardo

 Max: [sends picture of the courtyard from the article] Is this not the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?

Daniel: That’s definitely the most serene lavender I’ve seen this week, yes. Max, are you okay?

Max: I married an artist.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: Did you read the part about the courtyard?

Lando: Yes. You’ve sent it to me four times. I don’t even have a courtyard. ***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen

Max: Belle is in Architectural Digest. Front feature. They called her work a “masterclass in restraint.”

Jos: You’re very lucky.

Max: I know.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: have you seen belle’s AD article?

GP: Max. I read it at 7:05am. You literally sent me a copy. Physically. To my house.

Max: okay good just making sure

***

Group Chat: RBR STRATEGY & OPERATIONS

(members: Max, GP, Christian Horner, Gemma from PR, Helmut Marko, various engineers)

Max: i’m just saying if we need a new hospitality suite design i know someone. page 42. AD October. you’re welcome.

GP: Max.

Gemma: …Did you just send a PDF of your wife’s Architectural Digest spread to the team comms group?

Max: that’s her on page 42. the kitchen is beautiful. don’t say i never contribute.

Christian: She’s very talented.

Helmut: What is Architectural Digest.

Max: It’s like the Monaco Grand Prix for interior designers.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Oscar Piastri

Oscar: I know absolutely nothing about interior design. Like, genuinely. I can barely hang a picture frame. (Which you know, because you rescued my apartment) But even I know that Architectural Digest is a huge deal. And I just wanted to say — I’m really, really proud of you. That house looked like something out of a movie, but it still felt like someone lived in it. Which is… I guess that’s the whole point. Anyway. You’re amazing. That’s all.

Oscar: (Also, the kitchen made me want to learn how to cook properly. Lily said that was the most unhinged thing I’ve ever said.)

Belle: Oscar Piastri. If you keep being this nice to me I’m going to have to name a backsplash after you.

Belle: “Piastri Grey.” Unassuming, unexpectedly elegant, slightly smug when the light hits it right.

Oscar: You joke, but if you ever name anything after me, I’ll brag about it in every driver briefing until they kick me out.

Belle: Duly noted. Also, just so you know — if you and Lily ever want help redoing your kitchen, I’m one unsolicited Pinterest board away from getting involved.

Belle: You’d have to promise not to burn water though.

Oscar: Deal. But only if I get to hang one (1) badly framed motivational quote in return.

Belle: Oscar. No.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Lando Norris

​​Lando: OKAY WAIT Just read the AD feature. BELLE. HELLO???

Lando: That courtyard?? That kitchen??? That quote about doors creaking??? I didn’t know houses could be poetic. You’re a menace and I love you.

Lando: Also. Serious question. How do we feel about redoing my streaming room?

Lando: I’ll pay. I’ll bribe. I’ll cry. Name your price. Make it less “goblin tech dungeon” and more “mildly functional adult.” I deserve better lighting.

Belle: Lando. You have a racing simulator, multiple ikea bookcases filled with helmets and an apartment literally covered in fanart of yourself. Also a wall entirely dedicated to memorabilia that glows in the dark in your bedroom, according to Emilie. 

Belle: Your apartment actively resists adulthood.

Belle: But yes. I accept your bribe. I’ve already got a mood board titled “cozy chaos with HDMI ports.”

Lando: YES. That’s all I needed. Do you think I could have a drawer that hides snacks?

Belle: Already planned it. Drawer under the desk. Cooled. Lined with felt. Accommodates two cans of Monster Energy Drinks, one packet of Haribo, and your shame.

Lando: You’re a genius.

***

Pascale Leclerc hadn’t planned to read it.

She had clicked the link out of idle curiosity, the way one might glance through someone else’s holiday photos—detached, polite, with low expectations. Maybe she had expected color palettes. Fabric swatches. A few nice sentences about Belle’s “eye for detail.” Something charming and delicate and softly insignificant.

What she hadn’t expected was prose that read like poetry. Or her daughter’s name—her married name—printed in serif font beneath the words “Interior Architect and Founder.”

She hadn’t expected paragraphs that quoted Belle with a kind of reverence. Clients speaking about trust. About transformation. About homes that held memory and meaning.

She hadn’t expected that her daughter—quiet, overlooked, always fading behind the noise of her brothers—could command the shape of a space so profoundly that the world would take notice.

By the second paragraph, Pascale had sat down. By the third, she had put her glasses on properly. By the fourth, her hand was over her mouth.

"She didn’t want to reinvent it. She wanted to remember it."

"The house gave me the courage."

"Homes hold grief, joy, ordinary Tuesdays."

It was all so Belle—soft, sharp, careful. A kind of invisible mastery woven between sentences and ceiling beams.

Pascale thought back to every time she had asked, "So what do you actually do?" and winced.

Because the answer had been there all along. And Pascale had never truly listened.

She hadn't realized this was more than a job. That Belle had a signature. A philosophy. A reputation. That people sought her out not because she was Max Verstappen’s wife or Charles Leclerc’s sister—but because she was herself.

Because she could walk into a tired old house and see the soul of it. Because she could make things feel like they remembered you.

Pascale read the last paragraph three times. This isn’t just a space someone lives in. It’s a space that lives with them.

She closed the tab slowly, the image of Belle’s hand skimming along an old beam still hovering in her mind.

For the first time in years, Pascale felt like she had to relearn her daughter. Not as an extension of the family. But as a woman with her own name, her own work, and a world she had built with her bare hands.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Arthur: ok wait what is architectural digest?? is it like a newsletter for… architecture?

Charles: …it’s not a newsletter. it’s Architectural Digest, Arthur. It’s a huge deal. 

Arthur: yeah i gathered that now everyone on twitter is freaking out CONGRATS belle!! even if I don’t understand what “mineral-washed hues” are 🫡

Lorenzo: Hold on. You’re in Architectural Digest?

Charles: Wait wait wait YOU’RE IN ARCHITECTURAL DIGEST??

Belle: …yes?

Charles: As in THE Architectural Digest? As in like… that’s a big deal.

Belle: I know.

Charles: Why didn’t you TELL us??? We could’ve sent the link around. Or made a story. Or thrown confetti. Or—idk—prepared emotionally??

Arthur: again: still not sure what it is but belle looks great in those photos and the house looks rich so I assume it’s important

Pascale: I read the article. It was… It was beautiful.

Belle:  

Thanks, Maman. That means a lot.

Arthur: so you’re like…a fancy architect now?? do you have a business card?? I want one

Belle: Arthur. I’ve had a business card for 4 years.

Charles: You designed an entire villa and never mentioned it?? You were just… going to let us find out online??? I just read the article. Belle. It’s stunning. I’m so proud of you.

Lorenzo: Same. I’m reading it now. The courtyard?? The fireplace?? The patina on the fixtures?? You made this house feel like a memory.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Max Verstappen

Max: i might have emailed the AD article to toto wolff. with no context.

Belle: MAX.

Max: what if he wants to hire you for the new Mercedes motorhome wouldn’t that be hilarious

***

Group Chat: GRID 2024 

Members: Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz Jr., Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, George Russell, Alex Albon, Liam Lawson, Nico Hülkenberg, Lance Stroll, Fernando Alonso, Sergio Pérez, Esteban Ocon, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sargeant, Pierre Gasly, Yuki Tsunoda

Max: Guys. My wife is in Architectural Digest. As in THE Architectural Digest.

Lando: Oh we’re starting early today.

Max: PAGE 42. Go look. Read it. Appreciate it. You’ll learn something about restraint and plaster finishes.

Franco: what is architectural digestion

Oscar: Digest. It’s like Vogue for rich houses.

Yuki: Wait so like… Belle designed a house?

Max: SHE BROUGHT A VILLA BACK TO LIFE WITH EMOTIONAL ARCHITECTURE. It’s not just design. It’s art.

Pierre: Bro he’s yelling.

George: I already read it. Very elegant. Love the limestone accents.

Zhou: I want to do a collab with her. My Shanghai apartment needs help.

Esteban: I’ve never cared about tiles before but now I have opinions??

Lance: Can she do race trailers?

Liam: I still don’t get it but I support whatever is happening.

Nico H.: This is the softest I’ve ever seen Max. I’m scared.

Oscar: Update: Lily now wants Belle to design our house. We don’t have a house yet. This is your fault, Verstappen.

Max: You will all learn to appreciate plaster texture and reclaimed beams. Mark my words.

Alex: I liked the old Max better. The one who just said "understeer" and threw a wheel.

Carlos: The man is gone. We have husband era Max now.

Lando: And I, for one, welcome him.

Yuki: Can we all go live in the Provence house

Max: Get in line.

Fernando: It was great. I also liked the lavender courtyard. That woman understands serenity.

Valtteri: Does Belle do Finnish saunas? Asking for a friend.

Max: YES. AND SHE’LL SOURCE YOU THE PERFECT STONES.

Charles: I didn’t even know she did that villa. She never said a word.

Max: Because she’s not an attention seeker like the rest of us. (She also said she didn’t want to be annoying about it… so I’m being annoying for her.)

Valtteri: You’re dangerously close to mailing us print subscriptions.

Max: Funny you mention that. Check your mail.

George: OH MY GOD MAX WHY DID YOU SEND ME THREE COPIES

Lewis: Honestly? She deserves all the noise. That piece was stunning. Tell her I said the kitchen design was sublime.

Franco: am I supposed to know what any of this means

Oscar: Just say “quiet luxury” and nod a lot.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hülkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sargeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll, Valtteri Bottas, Pierre Gasly and Yuki Tsunoda)

Lando Norris: 📸 screenshot attached So this happened in the grid group chat.

Daniel: holy shit this is so much text is this about the house again

George: It’s not just a house, Daniel. It’s an emotionally restored Provencal villa.

Sebastian: Belle made limestone flooring feel like poetry. I respect it.

Yuki: You said that with your chest

Carlos: Max has officially entered his soft husband era and I’m 70% sure he’s about to start bringing copies to media day

David: I have never seen Max this sentimental. Ever. It’s unnerving.

Mark: Honestly? Good for him. Good for her. That article was great.

Nico R.: Belle made stone walls existential. I had a crisis halfway through page 44.

Alex:Max sent everybody copies Which is wild But also… I’m halfway through the article and now I want Belle to redesign my brain.

Oscar: Lily said it changed the texture of her soul

Pierre: I’m not going to lie I googled “mineral-washed plaster” at 2AM last night I think I blacked out on Etsy

Kimi: what are you all talking about

Zhou: Architecture But like. Feelings.

Esteban: Is it normal that I’m emotional about a kitchen sink

Sergio:She said “homes hold grief and joy and ordinary Tuesdays” and I started pacing

Nico H.: I read one sentence and now I want to throw out all my furniture

Yuki: You should.

Valtteri: I have never been more inspired to paint something beige in my life.

Lewis: I told her the kitchen design was sublime. I meant it. She’s a storyteller.

Sebastian: I think I want her to redesign my garden. And possibly my emotional landscape.

Daniel: so… none of you are gonna help me hang the IKEA shelves I just bought?

Oscar: Sorry mate we’re on a different level now. We only accept reclaimed oak.

Mark: I have never seen Max more smug. He sent me the article and a Google Maps link of the villa.

George: We are witnessing a man in love And honestly? It’s terrifying.

***

“You’ve had quite a big month,” Camille said softly, looking at Belle. “Would you like to talk about what it felt like, having your work recognized like that?”

Belle hesitated. Then she shrugged, arms loosely folded. “It was… good.”

Camille smiled. “You don’t sound sure.”

“It was,” Belle repeated, quieter. “It meant something.”

Charles was the one who broke the silence.

“I didn’t even know you were in Architectural Digest,” he said, not accusing — just confused. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Belle’s eyes flicked over to him. Then to Pascale, who was watching her carefully.

She inhaled slowly.

“Because,” she said, “you never took my work seriously.”

The words landed like a pin dropping in a cathedral.

“Lorenzo called it Pinterest, but expensive,” Belle said calmly, almost too calmly. “When I got my first real job offer, Arthur asked me if I was going to be installing throw pillows for a living.”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Lorenzo went very still.

“I studied Architecture at Sorbonne,” Belle continues, her voice still steady. “I studied for years. I interned, I worked for one of the best interior architecture firms Monaco has to offer. I built a studio from scratch. I made a name for myself. Quietly. Without any of you ever noticing.”

She looked at them then — really looked.

“And it was never as important as racing. Never as exciting. Never something you asked about unless it was to make fun of me for choosing beige.”

Charles looked gutted. Pascale was blinking quickly.

Lorenzo’s voice was low. “I don’t think I ever realized how much that hurt you.”

“I know,” Belle said. Not cruel — just tired. “Because I stopped trying to explain it a long time ago.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Camille gently said, “It sounds like you protected something really important to you by keeping it private. Does that feel true?”

Belle nodded.

“I didn’t tell you about the article,” she said, “because I wanted to enjoy it without wondering if anyone would roll their eyes.”

Pascale finally spoke. “I’m sorry.”

It was soft. Raw. No justification. Just the words.

Belle didn’t reply right away.

But she didn’t look away either.

“I’m sorry,” Pascale said again, voice catching just slightly. “I didn’t know it made you feel that way.”

Belle didn’t flinch, but she also didn’t soften. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap.

“You didn’t ask,” she said.

That was the part that always hurt the most.

Camille let the silence linger for a moment. It was the kind of silence that wasn’t empty—just full of everything unspoken.

Then she looked at the others.

“Charles. Arthur. Lorenzo,” she said gently. “How does it feel to hear Belle say that?”

Arthur’s shoulders hunched slightly. “I think we just… thought you liked being in the background. You never made a big deal of your work.”

“I didn’t,” Belle said. “Because when I did, no one cared. So I stopped.”

Charles looked pale.

“I think I was waiting for you to prove it was real,” he admitted. “That you were serious about it.”

“I was serious about it,” Belle said, sharper now. “From the start. You just didn’t see it because it wasn’t your definition of ambition.”

Charles opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“I didn’t think it was nothing,” Lorenzo said finally, voice low. “I just… didn’t know how big it was. And I never asked, and I should have. That’s on me.”

Pascale looked stricken. “I don’t even remember saying those things,” she murmured. “But I believe you. And I’m sorry. You deserved better from me.”

Belle swallowed hard. Her voice was quieter now.

“It wasn’t just one thing. It was everything. No one asked about my first job. Or my first client. Or when I started my studio. You didn’t come to my graduation. You forgot my birthday.” Her voice cracked. “And now I’m in Architectural Digest, and it still doesn’t feel real because I keep expecting someone to say it’s not a big deal.”

Belle inhaled slowly. The air felt thick in her chest.

She glanced down at her hands, resting in her lap. Her engagement ring glinted against her skin. Her wedding band. Quiet things. Not loud like podiums or race wins or trophies. But real.

“Max and I met in a bar. We talked about one of my colleagues frothing at the mouth at the thought of designing an apartment for him, because they had heard that he was touring a penthouse. One of those ridiculous ones with views over the harbour.”

“A few weeks later, I got the call. Max bought that penthouse. He hired the firm I worked at and he demanded that I be the only architect allowed to work on it.”

She smiled faintly at the memory.

“He said he trusted me. He only wanted me working on it. Because I was brillant.”

Her eyes lifted, landing on Charles first, then Pascale.

“He didn’t mean, like, picking throw pillows. He meant everything. Design it. Build it. Choose the floors, the fixtures. Max could have hired any firm in the world. But he gave it to me—because he saw me. He trusted me. No credentials flashed. No résumé sent. I told him I had a vision, and he believed me.”

A long pause.

“No one in this room has ever believed in me like that.”

Pascale flinched like the words hit her square in the chest.

“I’m not saying that to be cruel,” Belle said gently. “But you should know it. I studied at Sorbonne. I interned in Paris. I worked twenty-hour days for years. I built a studio from scratch. But to you, it was always—Pinterest boards. Throw pillows. Expensive taste.”

She looked toward the window now, blinking fast. “Meanwhile, I built Max and me a home. A real one. I built a studio from scratch. And now my work is on the cover of Architectural Digest. And you’re all surprised.”

Her voice cracked, just slightly.

“You say you love me. But you’ve never asked what I love. What I do. Who I’ve become.”

Camille didn’t interrupt. No one did.

Pascale was crying now. Arthur stared at the carpet. Lorenzo looked hollowed out. Charles was stock still.

“Max saw me the moment I walked into that restaurant on our first date,” Belle whispered. “Not because I was his girlfriend. Not because I was a Leclerc. Just… me. He gave me a home to build. And he moved into it. Do you know what that meant to me?”

“It is a big deal,” Camille said softly. “And Belle, your pain is valid. And you’ve carried a lot of it alone.”

There were tears in Belle’s eyes now, but she didn’t let them fall.

“I wanted you to be proud of me,” she whispered. “And you weren’t. Not until everyone else was.”

Pascale reached for a tissue. “I’m sorry.”

She’s said it before — for missed birthdays, for things that slipped through the cracks. But this time, there’s something heavier underneath it. Not just regret, but realization.

Belle didn’t speak. Not yet.

But she didn’t look away either.

Camille waited a beat, then gently shifts the focus.

“Charles,” she said, “you look like you’re holding something. Would you like to say it?”

Charles exhales like he’s been underwater.

“I just—” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I didn’t know. I think I… assumed you were happy doing your little projects, and I didn’t ask more because—”

He stopped himself. Winced.

“Because you assumed they weren’t serious,” Belle finished for him, voice still quiet.

He nodded.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly. I didn’t mean to make you feel invisible.”

“You didn’t mean to,” Belle echoed, “but you did.”

Charles flinched. “I know.”

Arthur, sitting beside him, suddenly said, “I always thought you were brilliant at it.”

Everyone turned.

Arthur shrugged, like it’s obvious. “I just didn’t say anything. Because I didn’t want to sound stupid.”

Belle blinked. “What?”

“You redesigned your entire apartment in Paris with like… two chairs and a string of lights. I remember visiting and thinking it felt like magic. Like it wasn’t just pretty — it fit you. I didn’t know how to say that.”

There’s a long silence.

Belle’s expression softened — just a little.

“I didn’t need you to say I was brilliant,” she said, “I just needed you to act like it mattered. That I mattered.”

Lorenzo finally spoke.

“You do.”

Belle gave him a long, tired look. “I’m just starting to believe that.”

Camille gently stepped in.

“I think what Belle’s saying is really important,” she said. “This isn’t about punishment or blame. It’s about being seen. About building a relationship where she doesn’t feel like she has to shrink herself just to be accepted.”

Pascale pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes glassy.

Charles swallowed. “We want that,” he says. “I want that. I want to do better.”

Arthur nodded. “Me too.”

Lorenzo, steady as ever, added, “Me too.”

Camille offered Belle a soft, anchoring look. “Would you like to start with something small? Something they could do that might feel meaningful?”

“…Ask me about my work,” Belle said. “Not to be polite. Ask because you actually want to know.”

The others nodded. Pascale quietly murmured, “We will.”

Belle exhales, slow and shaky. But she nodded.

***

It was late.

The kind of late where the world felt like it had tipped sideways, quiet and slow. Rain tapped lightly against the windows of their bedroom, and Belle was curled into the pregnancy pillow that had taken over Max’s half of the bed. Her back ached, her ankles were swollen, and their son had been practicing karate for the last half hour — but somehow, the room still felt peaceful.

Max was beside her, propped up on one elbow, reading something on his iPad that he clearly wasn’t retaining.

Belle shifted slightly. “Max?”

He glanced down immediately, setting the iPad aside. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Just… thinking.”

Max didn’t say anything, just reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, waiting. He was good at that — at knowing when she needed silence instead of answers.

Belle exhaled. “There’s a name I keep coming back to.”

His brows lifted slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I haven’t said it out loud yet. Not even to myself, really. But it’s been stuck in my head for weeks.”

Max tilted his head, gently curious. “What is it?”

She hesitated, heart thudding a little faster. “Emilian.”

There was a pause — a quiet, weighted pause — and then Max smiled. Not the bright, media-trained one. Not even the cheeky one she knew too well. Just soft. Surprised. Touched.

“My middle name,” he said.

“And Emilie,” Belle murmured. “Not on purpose. It just… happened that way. I didn’t mean to do that, I swear.”

Max’s smile grew. “You don’t have to justify it.”

“I thought I’d change my mind,” she admitted. “I kept thinking, ‘it’s too sentimental’ or ‘what if it’s weird’ or ‘what if he doesn’t like it’… but I keep circling back to it. Like orbiting. I don’t know why.”

Max leaned in and kissed the side of her forehead. “Belle. It’s a beautiful name.”

“I wasn’t trying to name him after you,” she said softly. “Or Emilie. Or anyone. I think I just… like the way it feels.”

Max ran a hand gently over the swell of her belly, feeling a fluttering kick beneath his palm. “Then maybe that’s why it’s right.”

Belle looked up at him, eyes shining. “You really don’t mind?”

He shook his head. “No. I think… I love it, actually.”

She blinked fast. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Max smiled again, then leaned down to press a kiss just above her belly button. “Hi, Emilian,” he whispered. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Belle’s breath caught. Her hand found his, resting over their son, and she nodded slowly. “Then that’s his name.”

Max looked up at her with something close to awe. “We have a name.”

“We have a baby with a name,” Belle whispered, half in disbelief.

And in the quiet, with the rain still falling and their son kicking lightly in response, Belle finally let herself feel it fully — that he was coming. That she was ready. That Emilian was already loved.

[sourkiki]

LOVE ME A ✨️Jealous hoonie✨️

ALBUM'S CONTENT: explicit mature content, established relationship, dom! 박성훈 x fem! reader, jealous! sunghoon, sunghoon's hella mean here, fingering, begging, edging 𖤐 1108... ᧔♡᧓ catalogue.

FROM PRODUCER:hye writing someone else other than riki?? how shocking!

Sunghoon is not a jealous man. 

At least, that’s what he likes to believe. You see, he has complete faith and trust in you. He has dated you long enough to know you’re not the kind of person to fool around, flirt with someone else. According to his friends, it’s hard for you to do that, even if you wanted to because Sunghoon’s always following you around, like a dog following its owner.

Wherever you go, one will be able to find him hot on your heels. Some find it cute. Some find it suffocating. You, on the other hand, find it downright amusing. 

Sunghoon is not a jealous man. But why does he feel something ugly crawling inside him as he watches from where he stood. He crossed his arms, watching with narrowed eyes and furrowed eyebrows at the sight of you engaged in a conversation with some…peasant. Someone who thought they had the chance to be with you. The thought itself was laughable, enough to make him roll his eyes. 

He had accompanied you to the party after you had pleaded with him for fifteen minutes straight. Sunghoon didn’t want to go in the first place, as he’d rather be at home, like the introvert he is. But he’s nothing more than just a man whose head over heels for you, which led him to his current situation. 

His jaw tightened as they had the audacity to lay their hand on your shoulder. You tried to politely tell them to remove their hand but they paid your words no mind. To add fuel to the fire, they even invaded your personal space, acting like he knows you when he doesn’t. Unable to take it anymore, Sunghoon pushes himself off the wall and approaches you, silently seething with rage as he gets closer. 

“Come on, we can get out of here. I don’t see that boyfriend of yours anywhere and he’s stupid to leave a pretty—” 

“Get your fucking hands off her.” 

You turned, shoulders sagging in relief to see your knight in shining armor coming to save you. Sunghoon was immediately by your side, one arm possessively wrapped around your waist, pulling you close until you’re pressed against his side. Shivers ran down your spine and heat pooled in the depth of your stomach at the fleeting sensation of him drawing circles on your skin, through the fabric of your skirt. 

Thankfully, the guy didn’t put up a fight and was quick to scurry away, with his invisible tail between his legs. Sunghoon rolled his eyes at the stranger’s cowardice and dragged you out of the venue, not giving you any chance to speak. 

“Sunghoon—”

“Don’t,” he cuts you off, and you go silent at the coldness in his voice. 

He didn’t say another word the entire ride home but you could tell he was barely holding onto himself. The silence was filled with so much tension that one could practically slice it apart with a mere butter knife. Eventually, you arrived home and the moment you stepped foot into your apartment, Sunghoon was quick to pin you against the nearest wall surface. You let out a gasp, which was cut short when he crashed his lips against yours. 

Unlike the usual ways he kissed you, which was filled with nothing but pure love and adoration, this was him taking control of you. Dominating you. You couldn’t keep up with him, your lungs screaming from the lack of oxygen but there wasn’t room for you to make your escape. You whined into his mouth when he tugged your skirt and panties down, leaving them pooling around your ankles. You cried out his name as Sunghoon pushed two fingers into your pussy without warning. 

“Fuck, you’re already dripping wet. Was it because of him?” He snarled, jealousy evident in his voice. “Was he the one who made you like this?” 

You had to break the kiss, tilting your head up, hands scrambling to find something to grip onto but the only nearest thing was a wall behind you. “N-No!” You managed to squeak out, eyes rolling up as your boyfriend easily found your sensitive spot with just his fingers alone. 

You tried to tilt your hips forward so you could feel more of his fingers but you were stopped by Sunghoon tightening his grip on your waist. It was a silent warning. A warning where you knew too well. Your boyfriend chuckled at the needy look you gave him, hoping there was some part in him where he’s still kind enough to give you what you want. Instead, he pressed his thumb down on your pussy lips, savoring the way your legs spasmed. You would’ve fallen to the ground if he didn’t catch you in the nick of time. 

“Look at you, you’re dripping all over me. Don’t even need lube with how wet you are,” he murmured, purposely saying those crude words directly into your ear, knowing the effect they have on you. 

True enough, you tightened around his fingers as you shakily exhaled, shoulders trembling. “H-Hoonie.. please…wan’ you.” 

“How do you want me, sweetheart? Use your words and tell me,” he coos, moving his fingers in a scissor like motion, opening and preparing you for what’s to come. 

You couldn’t speak, not when you were this close to cumming. In a desperate attempt, you tried to push forward. Keyword: tried. Only for Sunghoon to rip his fingers out from your pussy. It didn’t matter how hard you clenched down on him, trying to prevent him from slipping out. You let out a disappointed whine, pawing at the front of his shirt but he wasn’t fazed. He’s not falling for your pitiful act. Not this time. 

Sunghoon used his clean hand to grab your face, forcing you to look at him. A twinge of satisfaction curled around him at the sight of your current state. To him, you looked divine despite your teary, dazed eyes and swollen, bruised lips. 

“Look at you, you’re already a mess when I barely did anything,” he chuckled, leaning in to brush his lips against your neck, savoring the way you whimpered. 

You blindly reached out, hands gripping onto his shirt. “Sunghoon, p-please…touch me.” 

You heard him sharply inhaled with how delicious his name sounds from you. Just when you thought you had him, your boyfriend pulled back, ignoring your poor attempts of holding him in place. You shivered at the sight of his dark, stormy eyes. 

“This is just the beginning, princess. I hope you’re prepared and by the time we’re done, you’ll only know how to scream my name.”

tags list: @chuhees, @byshens, @hoonstqr, @doucious, @emisluvr, @riqomi, @onlyywwon, @jjung-v.

[arcanetrivia]

The thing about Discord is that just finding a server that has the conversations you're interested in can be difficult. Privately hosted email lists had this kind of problem too, that you sometimes could only even find out they existed by word of mouth, never mind join them. Sometimes you have to know a guy who knows a guy to get a hold of an invite code that hasn't expired by the time you come across it. (I get why they made the change that you couldn't make permanent ones if you weren't a Community server, but it can be frustrating sometimes.) Official servers for $THING may be listed publicly on $THING's website, but that's not the same as a by-fans-for-fans space that will probably have a much different culture and tone. There's Disboard, but not everything is on it. The central directory of a place like Yahoo Groups (whatever their other faults), being able to find communities and people that list certain interests on LiveJournal, the generally public or at least semi-public nature of a forum that can be found by a search engine... all of these supported discoverability. (And in my current primary fandom, besides the figurative "private group chat" that a Discord server is, I know there's some significant activity in literal private group chat. So unless you can somehow get admitted to a pre-existing group of friends, welp.)

IRC as a synchronous chat platform/protocol was there for a long time alongside (and is still in some cases, even with the ascendancy of Discord), and a lot of that ephemeral stuff has been lost unless people kept logs. But we're in a situation now where pretty much all there is, is the ephemeral, be it Discord, Twitter/Bluesky/Mastodon, Facebook (seems to actively work against finding and keeping up on what you want), Instagram (somehow even worse; my beloathed). DeviantArt worked decently well for a while, but every time they messed up site changes and policies in a way that angered artists, there was an exodus (similar to the waves of exodus from LiveJournal until now it's a ghost town unless you're Russian). Pillowfort... exists... but I am skeptical it's ever going to gain critical mass, even if Tumblr does completely go under one of these days.

And Tumblr itself... is better than nothing, but of course we all know how hard it can be to find things on because a lot of the older stuff isn't even indexed; and its structure really doesn't support coherent threaded conversation; and it's a bit too-little-too-late on their introduction of LJ/DW-style communities, which people here now don't seem to want.

(Semi-aside, not to be a Fandom Old, but re: reblogging/reposting, I see how such a thing can be a boon for those who really don't want to participate even on the level of an occasional comment here and there, but fandom was doing fine without such a feature on email lists, forums, LiveJournal. People actually were pretty annoyed when LJ tried to introduce a reposting-style feature, which was pretty clunky. The site hadn't been conceived with that sort of ecosystem in mind and it was rather grafted on. Think how people keep rejecting Tumblr's attempts at a short-form video feature: "Stop trying to be X other site and just be what you are! We're here because we want what is unique about this place!")

....sorry, I think I went on a bit of a pointless ramble there 😅

imo a discord server should be like a breakout room for fandom. like the place to run your wips by your besties or discuss your otp in more detail with a few people who were insane about it on your post or organise events with a handful of trusted mutuals etc etc. if it’s where ALL the fandom activity is going to happen it will inevitably foster a cliquey environment where the fandom is divided into “those in the server” and “those who aren’t”, lurking is disincentivised if not made outright impossible, people who feel uncomfortable joining in conversations and would rather interact with fandom through reblogging etc are largely excluded because there’s no repost mechanism, and the fandom itself becomes an enclosed space so new fans are limited in how much content and meta they can access without having to make the plunge into Joining The In Group, there’s limited scope for interaction between different communities within the same fandom, god it’s just an altogether dogshit stupid idea. what if we moved all fandom activity to really massive private groupchats. STUPID

[izzih22]

Could you write one based off the song Girl Crush?

Girl Crush

Note: I tried y’all.

Paige has a girl crush.

The kind you don’t talk about.

The kind you lie to yourself about.

The kind that eats you alive, slow and soft, until you don’t know where your jealousy ends and your love begins.

She watches Azzi across the gym, the way people orbit her teammates, trainers, fans, even random girls they’ve only seen once at a team mixer. Azzi doesn’t notice the way they all look at her. She doesn’t see how they lean in too close, laugh too hard, always trying to steal a moment of her attention. But Paige does. Paige sees everything.

She sees the way Azzi tilts her head when she’s listening. The way she laughs with her whole body. The way she rests her hand on someone’s arm when she’s making a point.

Paige watches all of it, and she aches.

Not because she’s jealous of them.

Because she wants to be them.

She wants Azzi’s perfume to cling to her skin. Wants Azzi’s fingers to brush her hair back. Wants her lips. Her hoodie. Her breath against her neck at midnight when the rest of the world is quiet.

She wants the pieces of Azzi that no one else even realizes are precious.

⸻

She calls it a crush because it’s easier than the truth.

She says it’s nothing.

Best friends, that’s what they are. That’s what they’ve always been.

Except it’s a lie.

Because when Azzi calls her “Paigey” with that sleepy smile after practice, Paige’s stomach knots like it’s folding in on itself.

When Azzi falls asleep on her shoulder during film, Paige doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares at the ceiling like if she closes her eyes, the warmth will stay.

When Azzi hugs someone else just a little too long, or laughs at a joke someone else made first, Paige feels something primal in her chest. Not anger. Not hate.

Just that slow, unbearable burn of God, why not me?

⸻

It gets worse when they go out.

Bars near campus are always crowded after a win. Everyone knows UConn. Everyone knows Azzi. And everyone wants a piece of her.

Paige watches from her place against the wall, half-sipping a drink she doesn’t even like. Azzi is glowing under the cheap neon, surrounded by people who don’t know her like Paige does. People who don’t know she hums when she brushes her teeth. That she likes crime documentaries but gets too scared to finish them alone. That she falls asleep best when someone plays with her curls.

They don’t know.

But they get her laugh. They get her smile.

And Paige gets silence.

⸻

“You okay?” Ice asks beside her, nudging her with an elbow.

“Fine.”

“You’ve been staring at Azzi like you’re gonna explode.”

Paige shrugs. “She’s popular.”

“You’re obsessed.”

Paige looks down at her drink. “I know.”

Ice quiets. Then: “Does she know?”

Paige’s voice is barely audible. “No.”

⸻

She goes home alone that night.

Azzi stays late, caught in conversation with a tall girl in a backwards hat who keeps touching her arm and leaning in close.

Paige turns away before she can see the end of it. Before she breaks.

She walks home in silence. Kicks off her shoes. Collapses onto her bed and stares at the ceiling, replaying Azzi’s laugh in her head. Imagining it for her. Rewriting it.

If I wore her perfume, would you notice?

If I did my hair the way she does, would you touch it?

If I smiled at you the way they all do would you see me?

She falls asleep with Azzi’s name in her mouth and her heart aching.

⸻

The next morning, Azzi finds her at the practice facility early. No one else is there yet. Just the two of them.

“Did you leave early last night?” Azzi asks, handing her a protein bar.

Paige nods. “Got tired.”

Azzi watches her. “You didn’t text.”

“Didn’t think it mattered.”

Azzi frowns. “Why would you say that?”

Paige can’t look at her. “You looked busy.”

Azzi blinks. “You mean with that girl?”

“I don’t know,” Paige says quietly. “You laugh like that with everyone.”

The silence stretches. Paige hates herself for saying it. For letting it slip.

But Azzi doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

Just watches her.

And then—

“You have no idea, do you?” Azzi says finally, her voice low.

Paige looks up.

“I laugh like that when you make me laugh,” Azzi says. “I stay late at parties hoping you’ll come back. I sit next to you on the bus because I can’t sleep unless I’m near you.”

Paige doesn’t breathe.

Azzi steps closer.

“You think you’re the one watching me?” Azzi whispers. “Paige, I’ve been watching you for years.”

And just like that, everything cracks open.

Azzi’s hand finds her cheek.

And Paige finally kisses the girl she’s been jealous of every other person for.

The girl she wanted to smell like. To laugh like. To be like.

But maybe she didn’t need to be someone else after all.

Maybe she just needed to be hers.

[malsmind]

shut up for a second

𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘰 𝘹 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

contains ➛ ★ big dick!chris ★ size kink ★ crying ★ mentions of smoking weed ★ praising ★ dirty talk ★ slight dumbification ★ pet names ★ creampie ★

𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦!

word count: 1.3k

you don’t really know how you ended up here.

well, that’s not true. you do — you remember the smoke swirling around the living room, the low hum of music in the background, the lazy conversation that turned into lazy touches. the way chris had looked at you with that smirk, those heavy-lidded eyes that meant trouble, the slow way his fingers ran over your thigh while you passed the blunt back and forth. and now… now you’re straddling him on the couch, knees pressed into the cushions on either side of his waist, your hoodie pushed up around your ribs, your shorts long gone. he’s warm under you, hands already resting on your hips like he belongs there. like this is something you both do all the time. it’s not. not exactly.

but maybe it should be.

“you feel so fuckin’ good, baby,” he murmurs, voice already breathy, already dragging through his throat like he’s deep in it. “so tight—holy shit.”

you’re only halfway down.

your jaw clenches, breath catching in your throat. the stretch is slow and heavy, the high making it ten times worse—every nerve dialed up, every breath in your lungs tasting like smoke and tension. he’s not small. you’ve known that. you should’ve remembered that. but you’re too far in to stop now.

“chris…” you whisper, barely a warning. not sure if it’s a plea or a threat.

but he keeps going, hands tightening on your waist like he can’t help himself. “can’t believe how warm you are, shit—look at you. takin’ me so slow. bein’ so good for me.”

your eyes flutter shut, face scrunching, lips parting as you try to focus on breathing. he might be enjoying this part, but you’re hovering between pain and pleasure, trying to find the edge where one bleeds into the other. he groans again—loud, needy—and starts to say something else and nope, you’re done.

you reach out and slap your hand over his mouth.

“chris, shut up for a fuckin’ second…” you breathe, voice cracking, barely able to get the words out as your thighs tremble and you slowly, finally, sink down the rest of the way.

his eyes widen a little, but he doesn’t pull away from your touch. just grins under your hand, groaning into your palm as you bottom out on him with a soft, broken whimper. your head spins. your body goes hot all over. you stay there, not daring to move yet, just breathing, letting your body adjust. your fingers are still pressed against his cheek, your palm over his lips, and he looks so amused by all of this. he raises his brows at you, as if to say, are you done yet? you slowly pull your hand away from his mouth. roll your hips once. then again.

he groans out loud, head tipping back against the couch. “that big, huh?” he huffs a laugh, the cockiness returning full force. “needed to fuckin’ concentrate on takin’ my dick.”

you roll your eyes, leaning forward slightly, your palms flat against his chest now. “i swear to god,” you mumble, “i’ll hold your mouth shut again.”

he’s grinning up at you now, hands moving to your hips again, helping you move, slow and steady.

“ion think you will, ma,” he says, his voice smug. too smug. “not when you feel this good. not when you’re grippin’ me like that.”

you breathe out hard through your nose, trying to hold onto your pace, trying not to lose yourself in how full you feel, how good the pressure is, how he fits like you were built to take him. every roll of your hips makes your stomach flutter and your thighs tremble. he watches you like you’re a damn piece of art.

“c’mon,” he murmurs, guiding your movements, fingers pressing into your skin just right. “tell me how it feels. tell me how fuckin’ big that dick is.”

“chris—” you warn, but your voice falters, choked with need.

“nah, nah. you know you love it,” he keeps going, voice low. “look at that pussy. fuckin’ milkin’ me dry.”

you let out a broken sound, head dropping forward, forehead resting against his shoulder as your pace falters for a second. your whole body feels like it’s on fire. overstimulated and desperate and high—like every word out of his mouth is crawling under your skin in the worst, and best way.

he kisses the side of your face, grinning against your cheek. “you’re so fuckin’ pretty like this. dumb n’ needy. can’t even ride me properly, hm?”

you gasp softly, hips stuttering. “shut up—”

“you can’t even stop,” he says, voice dropping lower now. less teasing. more wrecked. “feels too good, huh? that it?”

you nod, barely. lips brushing his collarbone. you’re too far gone to argue. the way he fills you is too much. too perfect. it hurts a little still, but you love it—you live for this kind of overwhelming stretch. and he knows it. he knows what he’s doing to you. he lifts his hips a little, meeting you halfway.

“fuck, ’s so big…” you moan.

“mhmmm. there it is,” he breathes, hands tightening on you. “ride me, baby. just like that.”

you try. god, you try. your legs are shaking and your thoughts are scattered and you’re doing your best to keep going but it’s getting harder and harder to keep control.

“chris,” you whimper, voice barely there.

he kisses your jaw, still smiling. “you gonna cum?”

you nod, lips parting, breath catching.

“use me, then,” he murmurs, his voice low and hot and sweet like honey. “take what you need.”

and you do. you roll your hips faster now, harder, your thighs burning and your moans getting louder as your body takes over. chris groans under you, hands moving up your back, pulling you closer. your chest is flush against his now, your face buried in his neck, breath hitching every few seconds as the knot in your stomach coils tight and hot.

“thereee ya go,” he whispers, lips at your ear. “come on, baby. fuckin’ cum on this big dick. lemme feel it.”

his hands move to your ass, helping you grind down harder, deeper, until you’re trembling and crying out against his throat. you come hard, body curling in on itself, nails digging into his shoulders as you gasp and whimper, shaking. he holds you through it, whispering praises into your skin, voice cracking with how hard he’s trying not to lose it himself.

“that’s it… that’s it, ma… fuck—”

you don’t even realize you’re crying until he touches your cheek, brushing away the tears.

“you okay?” he asks softly, suddenly all gentle again.

you nod into his neck. “feels too good,” you mumble.

“i know,” he says. “i know, baby.”

you start moving again, slowly, almost mindlessly. still riding the high. still chasing something. he groans, hands on your hips again, letting you keep going even though your legs are weak and you’re still shaking.

“you’re insane,” he mutters. “you’re so fuckin’ perfect. can’t believe—shit—”

you feel him twitch inside you. and then his voice breaks.

“fuck, i’m gonna—”

you squeeze your eyes shut as you feel him throb, his whole body tensing underneath you. he pulls you down hard, hips jerking up once, twice—and then he groans loud into your neck, teeth sinking lightly into your skin as he comes. deep. warm. thick. you both go still.

just breathing. his arms stay around you. your head stays on his shoulder. the air is thick and quiet and buzzing with whatever just happened. a minute passes.

“i really did have to concentrate,” you mumble, half-laughing.

he laughs too, breathless. “yeah? and i made it hard?”

“you never shut up.”

“that’s crazy,” he says, grinning. “because you still came all over me.”

you smack his chest. “shut up.”

he kissed your forehead. “you love it.”

[rhaenicette]

۶ৎ EREN hasn’t said a word since you both got in the car.

it was painfully quiet—you both would agree. no one dared to speak, and to make things even worse; the aux wasn’t even on.

it all started when he took you on one of his rides—to go deliver weed to one of his new clients.

eren had a black tracksuit on, with your favourite cuban link hung around his neck. his hair was tied into a man-bun with loose pieces framing his face.

and you? you were beautiful as ever. your hair was laid and so were your edges, your skin was shiny and the one piece you had on showed all the thickness you carried.

the client was nice, for sure.

handsome? of course. his own hair was buzzed and his eyes were half-lidded—the type of look that gets you weak in the knees.

but was he—in any way—eren’s competition? hell no.

but the client did speak to you. and as did you. you both exchanged in good yet short conversation (mainly because eren ended the meeting quickly) and you found him to be interesting.

again, was he eren’s competition?

HELL no.

so why was eren mad, do you ask?

it was because of the way you smiled at the client. how you cocked your head to the side—the way he liked.

it was how you threw your head back and told the client “you too funny!” as you laughed.

eren should be the only funny man in your life.

it was how you laughed shyly every-time the man said something. (you only laughed once)

it was because you looked too fucking good. too good for his liking.

the ride home felt like years. you didn’t know how audible your sigh was when you finally saw you and eren’s home from the driveway.

eren parked outside your home so fast the brakes nearly squealed.

he got out the car swiftly, slamming his car door shut hard. he walked over to your side, opening your door without saying a word, closing it after you hopped out.

you trailed behind slow, trying to keep your expression cute.

but you loved the way he looked and acted when he was angry. how his jaw clenched and his eyes half-lidded and red. you loved poking at him, testing the waters.

you couldn’t help but clench your thighs together when you both entered your shared room.

still, eren hasn’t said a word.

he didn’t take his clothes off—he didn’t need to, they were already clean—and neither did you.

you sat on your large bed, waiting—anticipating on how this would go.

on how fucked you’d be.

and lord, did you underestimate it.

now, you’re on your stomach. your face is in your pink satin pillows and your thick and plump ass is in the air. your eyes were rolling. ass recoiling and body jerking after every nasty and rough snap of eren’s hips behind you.

that one piece you wore? eren damn near ripped it off of you (with the angry promise of him buying you 5 more)

eren’s thrusts are mean, enough to make you feel like he’s in your lungs.

he’s nasty, messy—girthy ‘n so full—you can’t even articulate proper sentences without breaking out into a pathetic whimper or moan.

his fingers dig into your plush hips and his brows are furrowed. the noises he’s making is almost pitiful.

“thought that shit was funny? smiling all in dude face like i ain’t t-there?” he’s breathless, his moans begin to come out high-pitched.

you cry out, try to shake your head, but your body jolts with every hard stroke.

“use ya words, mami.”

a broken moan slips from your lips as you attempt to speak. “i—i w-wasn’t tryna—mmph!”

“nah,” eren shook his head, nipping his bottom lip slightly. “you really hurt me, ma. thought i was the one f’you,”

you’re babbling like a bunny, “y-you are—oooh fffuck—the o-one f’me!”

eren laughs. sick and low. “yeaaahh, i know.”

you were wrecked. your pussy was wrecked. soaked, creamy, stretched wide around his thick, curved dick—he was so big, so full, he had your sappy walls hugging him like they didn’t wanna let go.

and you were taking it so good.

that heavy weight slapping your cheeks, dragging along your walls, stretching your sweet pussy so wide it left you looking pathetic.

“uhhhhnn f-fuck, ‘ren—eren wait—!” you tried to crawl forward.

but it was no use—eren grabbed your hips and slammed you back down.

“fuck you think you goin?”

now, he was deep. his mean ‘n angry head was pressing against your cervix.

“i said i was done, ma?”

you shook your head like a dumb bunny as you cried out. and you were dripping and sooo sweet eren had to control himself from nutting so quickly.

so warm. so sweet. creamy strings connected your thighs and his dick every time he pulled back.

and your tummy was bulging with every stroke. that soft brown stomach, plush and sensitive, jumped each time his hips hit home.

“o-oohh ffuckkk,” eren groaned high behind you.

his head fell back. his loosely-tied manbun growing weaker each stroke. a few long strands of hair stuck to his sweaty cheek.

“s-shit—this—hah!—fuckin’ pussy…” he moaned. “you tryna make me nut already, baby? that’s how you feel?”

you couldn’t answer. you were damn near going dumb on him. brain foggy. words were gone.

all that left your mouth were slurred moans and glistening gasps.

“uhhnn—mmf—feels sooo good, fffuck i c-can’t—i’m—”

your thick thighs were quivering. your ass was bouncing wildly with every thrust, soft and jiggly and covered in that beautiful cellulite he couldn’t get enough of. your titties were bouncing underneath you. every time he bottomed out, they pounced like they were gonna slap your own chest.

eren caught sight of that when he cocked his head—and the sight broke him.

“fffuckin’ g-gorgeous, mama—and s’aaalll f’me.” he gritted.

he pulled your hair tighter. bent over your back. “sound sooo pretty, too. y’hear yourself, ma?”

you were wailing now. back arching. arms weak. eyes glassy behind your glasses.

you were so right and so beautiful—eren already forgot what he was angry about.

“‘rennn—‘ren m’gonna—ffuck—cum again, please—c-can’t hold it, m’nutting!—”

“uh huhhh?” he moaned pathetically, snapping his hops even harder.

“do it f’me, ma—” he hissed, lips at your neck. “cum aaalll over me, baby. want this—mmh—pussy to milk me.”

and you did. white-hot pleasure took over your body. your moans grew louder as your sweet walls clenched around him.

“o-oooh shitt, ‘ren—m’nutttttingggg!”

a creamy ring formed around his shaft after many rounds. but he still wanted more. he wanted you.

eren pulled you up by your hair and bent you back against his chest.

“yeahhh,” he groaned low, mouth against your ear,

“there go my fuckin’ girl.”

ooohhh hellcat eren come play in these sheets <33

[cherie-doll]

Think about CoD guys getting knocked out on the battlefield and when they wake up, the medic they have a crush on is carrying them out of the field back to the chopper. Perhaps princess style

Does it make sense? No. Is it safe? Also no. But it is funny

bet you medic searched up and read "how to carry a girl: the most romantic methods" on wikihow and decided to use it on the battlefield

=͟͟͞♡ Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Roach, Alejandro, Rudy, Phillip Graves, Makarov, Keegan, König, Horangi, Nikto

COD Men Getting Carried Princess Style

:‹ Last thing Price remembered doing was reporting his status over radio before hearing the panicked voices of Laswell and the others. He knew he was in good hands with his teammates but he didn't expect to see your face when he woke up. He also did not expect you to be carrying him, and he hadn't even realized until he was finally able to tear his eyes away from your face and see your arms and hands around his body. He doesn't know whether to thank or curse Laswell for sending you out to pick him up.

:‹ Simon waking up in a state of confusion. Because no one has been able to carry him with this much ease, especially not in this princess style. Usually he gets the rough treatment of getting thrown over a shoulder and that's it. But you're even careful to make sure he's not being rocked too hard while you're holding him. He's far too dazed to say or do anything much so he just lets it happen. Doesn't say or ask anything as you rush to treat him, knowing you'll be too focused. Won't talk or bring it up. ever. You're both taking this to the grave.

:‹ For Johnny it's heaven, just don't let the others see him getting carried out like this it'll wound his pride. He'll be bragging about it later like: "Oh you got treated by [medic]? Ha, well I got-" and he pauses there because suddenly his face has gone red and he doesn't know if it's worth sacrificing his pride and dignity just to rub it in someone else's face that he got carried by THE hot medic everyone likes so therefore he's winning in life but at what cost??

:‹ Kyle going "funny seeing you here" as if he had casually run into you at the grocery store and not in the middle of the battlefield. This guy is trying to flirt with you and have some casual conversation while you're trying to keep his wounds from gushing blood out. You don't know whether he's already losing his mind from the injuries he got or if he's trying to distract himself from the pain because this isn't like him. But maybe him being on the verge of going out again makes him say weird things. He won't remember this after medication.

:‹ Roach passing out thinking they're gonna forget him and accidentally leave him out here without receiving medical assistance until he wakes up and it's like an angel (you) has come to save him. He's impressed that you're not letting any obstacles stop you from running at a full sprint to the chopper with him in your arms. He's even going to bring it together by wrapping his arms around your neck to make sure he doesn't fall and staying still. Honestly, he liked it a little too much, so watch out or smth idk.

:‹ Alejandro getting a jump scare when he sees you carrying him. This was the last place he expected to see you. He absolutely hates getting any kind of coddling done, especially not in front of others. Even if you try telling him that no one even noticed you carrying him out like a knight protecting their princess because everyone else was busy fighting for their survival but he won't have any of it. Would demand you put him down right then and there in the bare dirt but you simply roll your eyes and ignore him.

:‹ Rodolfo being carried like the princess he is isn't a want it's a NEED. Had he been awake and conscious when you ran out to get him, he would have tried convincing you to leave him for his safety. He'd rather have waited for another teammate to reach him rather than you endanger yourself dodging bullets just to get to him. Even when he was knocked out did he look peaceful. He'd probably just be confused as to why you're carrying him but wouldn't protest or try to get out of your arms until you set him down.

:‹ Phillip knew he could always count on his Shadows to save his hide when shit happened. And he knew the attractive medic back at the base would be more than willing to treat him. He couldn't wait to see that face of yours when he got back, oh the things he'd tell you about his latest operation (the little information he could reveal). But he wasn't expecting to wake up so close to you, or at least not like this, when he's all battered, rugged and bruised. He can already picture his Shadows snickering if they ever saw him like this and he's really hoping they're busy with their tasks instead. It's strange to you how quiet he's gotten all of a sudden until you set him down and AFTER he ensures its only the two of you he starts trying to flirt as you roll your eyes at him.

:‹ Makarov didn't think anyone would come and get him out of the mess he had created. There was so much debris and chaos around him that even he had a difficult time thinking about how to get out of this one. Just as his vision started to blur and fade away, he saw you walking towards him. He hadn't actually expected to need you to do your job as medic and treat his wounds, much less be carried as he was told later on. He isn't annoyed not even in the slightest and if anything is sort of 'touched'? that you carried him from the battlefield all bloody to the helicopter. He might have gotten an idea and request you continue doing this, but no way are you doing that again, you swear you must've pulled a muscle or something.

:‹ Keegan is cursing himself as he lies bleeding and hurt in a building that could collapse at any moment for letting his mind wander for one second and get distracted. Of course his mind just HAD to betray him and think of you just because he noticed how unusually pretty the sky was. So is it a coincidence that he wakes up to find himself in your arms? You feel his intense stare but you don't allow yourself to look down. Even as he feels rumbling around him, pain numbing his senses, and the ear-splitting sounds of war, he doesn't let it distract him enough to tear his eyes away from you and the untainted sky that served as a backdrop.

:‹ König's secret fantasy is being treated like a princess. You look at him and think a guy like him wants to be feared and demands respect. Actually, no. The only person he'd want attention from all the time if you. Not in the "I'm important pay attention to me" type of way but in a soft, intimate way in which only you would care for him. So he wakes up to the delusion of thinking you're using all your strength to carry him and he looks at you like you're his savior when in reality it's two other men helping you by supporting his legs and back.

:‹ Horangi would barely be conscious and assume its one of his teammates that is carrying him. He dislikes getting picked up by anyone other than König (despite the fact König hates going so) so he starts moving until he hears your sharp voice which jerks him awake. He thinks he must be dreaming but he couldn't mistake your voice or face for anyone else. Lowkey is into it, curls up in your arms thinking he's small enough to fit even though he's not and you're struggling. He even attempts to lay his head on your shoulder until you throw him onto a stretcher.

:‹ Nikto grunts as he feels himself getting picked up, but instead of that rough manhandling he usually gets from a fellow teammate he feels efficient hands quickly wrap around him, yet they feel so tender too. The way those hands don't pull or drag his limbs carelessly, he knows it might be delusional getting his hopes up already imagining who it could be. He decides to open his eyes and expects to be disappointed if it isn't the person he expects. But he's quite delighted to see it is you. You don't take the time to look down at him because you're too busy trying to hurry and make it back in one piece with the man in your arms to notice his lazy smile as he closes his eyes, assured you'll take good care of him.

[loveisanimaginarydagger3000]

I Don't Hate You (1)

Wanda X Reader 18+

Summary- As you were about to knock on her door you heard what sounded like a groan. You froze at the door. Did you hurt her badly in training? Was she in pain? Steve was going to kill you. Oh god you had fucked up. “Fuck Y/n, right there please,” the witch moaned and you realised. Oh.

Warnings/Tags: Smut 18+ MDNI- Enemies to Lovers?, Dom Reader, Top Reader, Praise, Sub Wanda, Masturbation, Dirty Talk, Fingering, Oral sex, Multiple Orgasms.

This is an old fic I found from my ao3 so the writing quality isn't that good, apologies but I don't have the time to improve it.

General Master List | Chapter 2

You hated her. She hated you. That was the only thing you and Wanda Maximoff could agree on. The rest of the team had no idea what happened to make you hate a certain witch so much but by the way you acted towards her they could tell it must have been something big. So here you were currently sitting in the kitchen of the Avengers compound with a scowl on your face as Wanda had just entered the room.

“Can’t you just try to be civil with her?” asked Natasha who was your best friend. The spy had been there when they rescued you from Hydra and helped you understand your abilities and control them so you couldn’t hurt anyone else. Natasha was the only person you willingly told about your past. The testing, the abuse, the torture and the stripping of your humanity really did a number on you but you managed to get through it. You had to. With an annoyed look, you turned to the redhead and met her eyes.

“I’m sorry Nat but I just don’t trust her,” you said for what felt like the millionth time. The whole team wanted you two to get along but that was quiet hard as you were both strong independent women who could be annoyingly stubborn. The spy dropped the conversation with a huff and continued to run by old mission files with you. During this you found yourself looking out for a certain brunette and you couldn’t help it. You thought it was just your paranoia acting up as that was a habit you couldn’t shake but you didn’t miss that other odd feeling you felt when looking for her.

“Y/n? Wanda? A word please,” spoke Captain America and you audibly groaned at the names called. You heard her mumbled something under her breath and you just help yourself from being a dick.

“What’s wrong darling?” you sarcastically retort.

“What do you think?” she spat out, her accent thick.

“I think your thinking about having to spend time all alone with me,” you started with a smirk and she just raised her eyebrow at you, “Trying your hardest to keep that little mind of yours from thinking about being under me.” Thanks to your abilities you heard her breath hitch and knew you had riled her up.

“As If I would want to be under you,” she growled but you could see the way her legs slowly squeezed together. You loved teasing her because it always worked and well if you were being honest you had definitely thought about her being under you. The woman was gorgeous! She had a stunning body from all her training, she could kill men twice the size of her and she never backed down from a challenge. How could you not fantasize about her? It would be like some amazing fanfic where the two people who hated each other would some reason have amazing hot sex and maybe fall in love.

“Keep telling yourself that darling,” you said. You were about to tease her even more but a firm grip on your shoulder stopped you.

“Go now,” ordered Natasha and you saluted at her in a mocking manner and walked down the hall to follow the captain and witch. You couldn’t stop yourself and your eyes wandered lower until they reached the brunettes behind. You quickly averted your gaze once you released what you were doing.

“So what’s this for Grandpa,” you joke as he leads you to the training room. You jump up onto the pile of mats to sit on while he just rolls his eyes at the nickname. You and Steve were close as you both shared the super soldier serum but yours was more enhanced.

“You and Wanda will be sparring partners from now on,” his tone serious and you just laughed.

“You think she could fight me?” your voice shocked. “Wow I’m officially hurt Captain,” for dramatics you placed your hand on your heart and acted as if he had shot you.

“Get down Y/n,” he grumbled but you listened as he was still your friend. “You are going to spar with each other and settle your differences otherwise you are both banned from missions.”

“What?” you and Wanda both asked in unison.

“You heard me,” his tone stern, “Now sort this out so we don’t have to listen to anymore arguing.” With that said he left the room and slammed the door making you laugh.

“What’s so funny?” she snapped while tying her hair up and getting in a fighting stance. You looked her up and down unconsciously before clearing your throat.

“Looks like you’ll have plenty of time to be under me darling,” you purred and launched yourself at her. She dodged a few of your punches but you noticed how she put way to much weight onto one of her legs meaning if you swiped at her other-

“Fuck,” she shouted as her back hit the mat and you climbed on top of her to pin her down. You moved her hands over her head while moving your hips to straddle hers. Your faces were inches apart and your smirk was predatory. You looked deeply into her ocean eyes and wondered has she always had such beautiful eyes? You watched as her breathing started to pick up as you moved to whisper in her ear.

“If you want to be under me just ask,” you purred. “I’m sure I could make you scream,” your tone was sultry and as you pulled back you saw her eyes dilate so much only slivers of the green were left. You chuckled at her reaction before getting of her and waiting for her to get back up. You let her make the first move this time and quickly avoided her incoming attacks. You read her movements and analysed her techniques before predicting her next moves. You knew Natasha had trained her mostly so she had learned the spy’s skills but they just weren’t as developed as hers. Once she lifted the weight on one foot you knew she was going to swing her foot at you so you moved back and caught it with your hand. You flipped her over as she was now off balanced but made sure to put a hand on her back before she hit the mat once again. You hated her but that didn’t mean you were going to purposely hurt her. You weren’t like that anymore.

“You really do like being on your back for me,” you teased as you pinned her once again.

“Shut up,” she said with her accent coming out strong. “I’m getting a drink.” You gazed at her as she drank from her water bottle. From where you were you could see the light showing off the sweat that was dripping down the column of her neck and slowly trickling its way to the valley of her breasts. The sight of her was intoxicating and you couldn’t help but stare. You managed to look away before you came off as creepy and she returned to you a few moments later.

“Ready to be beaten again?” you taunted and she just rolled her eyes before throwing a surprise punch. You were impressed but it didn’t work as you countered it and swiped her off her feet once again.

“Wow you really are falling for me,” you joked and she groaned in annoyance. The two of you continued to spar for another hour until Wanda finally called it quits as she was getting annoyed. She managed to land a few hits on you occasionally but would always end up underneath you. When she stormed out of the training room you assumed it was out of frustration as you had being egging her on for ages. However Wanda left in such a hurry as the wetness between her thighs was becoming too much.

Once in her room she quickly shed her self of her sweaty workout clothes and laid down on her bed in nothing but her underwear. She didn’t get why you hated her so much. The only reason she acted the way she did to you was because that’s how you treated her. Wanda pushed these thoughts to the back of her mind as she moved her hands along her sculpted body. Sparring with you had awoken something in her. Yeah sure she had thought about you multiple times while pleasuring herself but to actually be under you and be so close? It had her wet within seconds. Her nimble fingers found themselves teasing her nipples through the fabric of her bra before she moved to unclasp it and throw it somewhere into her room. She pictured you above her, your hands teasing her nipples as she moaned under you. Your name falling out of her lips like a prayer as you took her desperately in her bed. One of her hands moved from her breast to slip underneath the fabric of her underwear and start rubbing circles into her clit. She wondered if you would be dominating during sex as you had that cocky personality or if you were really just a brat who needed to be tamed like she was. She hoped you would take charge and make her scream like you promised. She found herself getting unbearably wet between her thighs as the coil in her stomach started to tighten. She slipped in two fingers and thrusted at a leisurely pace imagining they were your fingers and you were teasing her for being such a brat this morning. Her hips bucked every time her palm brushed her clit and soft whimpers left her lips. She didn’t even notice that she was moaning your name as she edged closer and closer to the edge.

“Y/n,” spoke a voice and you whipped your head around. It was Steve great. “Why did Wanda look so annoyed after training with you?”

“I don’t know maybe because all she did was get pinned to the floor by me? I’m sorry Cap I really am but she’s too easy to fight!” you exclaimed and he sighed in frustration.

“Then why don’t you try and help her improve!” he said and you looked at him confused.

“Isn’t that your job? Or Nat’s?” he pinched the bridge of his nose at you and huffed.

“It’s yours now ok?” he said in a serious voice and you just groaned. Why God, why? “Also you can go check on her and apologise for being so rough on her in training,” his voice left no room for arguing so you mumbled stuff under your breath before leaving to go see the witch.

“God Y/n,” she whimpered as her fingers hit her g-spot repeatedly. She was a wet mess by now and she didn’t care. The image of you pounding into her with a strap on was doing wonders for her and she was so close to coming for a second time.

As you were about to knock on her door you heard what sounded like a groan. You froze at the door. Did you hurt her badly in training? Was she in pain? Steve was going to kill you. Oh god you had fucked up. “Fuck Y/n, right there please,” the witch moaned and you realised. Oh.

Wanda curled the two fingers inside her and rubbed tight, fast circles into her clit with her other hand bringing herself right to the edge. With a final thrust she came with a guttural scream and trembled on the bed as her orgasm washed over her. She laid on the bed panting after having two of the best orgasms of her life. Who knew you turned the witch on that much.

You remained frozen at the door as you had just heard Wanda moaning your name and had just orgasmed at the thought of you. Every single ounce of confidence in you went flying out of the widow as Wanda just came thinking about you. You knew you had to see the witch otherwise Steve would definitely ban you from missions so you did the only thing you could think off- make dirty jokes while talking to her.

You knocked three times on the door before saying, “Hey Wanda, I’m sorry for going so hard on you in training I just thought you would have liked it hard and rough.” You could hear an embarrassed noise from through the door and quietly chuckled. “Anyway I can’t wait for you to come tomorrow.” Wanda groaned loudly into her pillow and dreaded training with you tomorrow.

The next day you and Wanda met for training you had decided to wear a tight fitting black t-shirt that showed off how defined your body was as well as slightly curvy. You certainly didn’t expect Wanda to turn up in tight leggings that hugged her ass perfectly and a small sports bra that made her chest look bigger. You had to control yourself as she swayed her hips towards you. There was a glint of mischief in her eyes and you could tell she was going to be a brat.

“Hey Y/n,” her tone sultry and accent thick.

“Hey Wanda,” your tone equally seductive. “Did you have fun last night?” You saw how she blushed and thought this was going to be easy.

“I did actually,” she murmured, her face inches from yours. “I did what you said I would.”

“And what was that darling?” the nickname slipping from your lips.

“Thinking of you,” her voice raspy. You raised an eyebrow at her boldness but let her carry on. “I thought of what it would be like to be under you,” she stepped closer to you and moved to a fight pose. She made sure that in the position she was in her breasts would be pushed up and it would give you a clear view of them. “To have your hands all over me,” she threw a punch and you easily dodged it but grabbed her arm and flung her over you. She landed on her back with you onto and her eyes dilated. You could see how flustered she was and how her thighs tried to squeeze together. You moved apart her legs with your hands, spreading her out for you before crawling above her and putting your knew in between her legs. A soft moan left her lips at the contact and you stopped advancing on her. It felt so wrong to have her here on the floor of the training room.

“Do you actually want this?” you asked in case she didn’t for some reason.

“Yes,” she gasped out. You pressed your lips against hers and heard her moan into the kiss. Fuck she was addicting. The taste of her lips, the sound of her whimpers, the smell of her perfume. You couldn’t get enough of her. You pulled away and saw how her eyes fluttered open, her lips chasing yours. A small peck on her lips was placed before you pulled away for good to stare at her.

“Not here darling,” you panted out on her lips. Her nose brushed yours and you so desperately wanted her now. “My room or yours?”

“Mine,” she whispered and you moved off her and pulled her up. You pulled her close to murmur into her ear.

“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” you nibbled on her ear lobe. “Go.” Swiftly she left the training room and you chuckled as she fumbled with the door.

Around five minutes later you knocked on her door after making sure no one would see you. As soon as the door opened a hand made its way to the collar of your shirt and she dragged you into her room. Wanda pressed you against the door and reattached your lips together in a hungry kiss. You groaned into her mouth as her body became flush with yours. In one motion, you switched the positions and trapped her body between you and the door.

“If you want to stop just say,” you panted out while resting your forehead against hers, “I won’t judge and will stop as soon as you want me to.” She smiled before lacing her hands through your hair and pulling you in for a bruising kiss. Your knee made its way back between her thighs and she took this as the chance to grind along it. Your hands moved from beside her head to massage her chest before pulling down the sports bra revealing her chest. She gasped as the cold air met her nipples while you just let out a low chuckle. Your fingers rolled and pinched her nipples as she sighed against your lips and grinded her core on your toned thigh.

“Please,” she whimpered as you moved your kisses to her neck. You sucked hard onto a spot on her neck where everyone could see as it and felt her buck her hips especially hard.

“Oh you like that darling?” you teased. “Do you want everyone to see your mine? To see this and think of me and you?” you bit down on another part of her neck and soothed it with your tongue before moving to her chest. Your name fell from her lips as you took a breast into your mouth and worshipped it. With a pop you let it go before moving onto the other.

“Y/n,” she whined, “Please I’m so close. I need you to,” she moaned out before you cut her off with your lips.

“Need me to what?”

“Touch me here,” she guided one of your hands to between her thighs and you instantly felt how wet she was.

“You’re so wet for me,” you growled out and she moaned at the tone of your voice. You rubbed her through the fabric of her leggings and felt her getting extremely close. “Do you want to come?” you felt her nod against your shoulder and you tsked her. “You’ve got to use your words if you want to be a good girl,” she moaned at the words. “Good girls get to come.”

“Please let me come,” she whimpered and you felt bad for what you were about to do but it would be worth it. “I’m so close,” as soon as she said that you picked her up, her legs instinctively wrapping around your toned abdomen. She whined as you placed her on the bed as she was so close to coming. Once she was on the bed you knelt by the end of it and reached for the waistband of her leggings. You looked at her in the eyes, asking the silent question, and waited for her to say yes. She nodded but you tsked again so she said, “Yes. Please!” You laughed at her neediness but continued to pull the remaining clothing off her skin. As you unveiled the soft, smooth skin of her legs you groaned quietly as she was breath-taking.

“You’re so beautiful,” you whispered while moving her legs over your shoulder. You peppered open mouthed kisses in between her thighs before leaving a few bites to leave as a reminder. “Is this what you wanted?” you murmured into her skin. “To be spread out and wanting for me?” your hot breath sent all sorts of pleasurable feelings throughout the witch and a low moan left her lips. “Desperate for my touch?” you finally gave in and took her clit into your mouth. Her hips jerked at pleasure so with one of your hands you held her hips down. The show of strength made Wanda feel even more aroused and a new gush of wetness pooled between her thighs. Your tongue licked between her folds while your free hand moved to circle her clit. You thrusted your tongue into her dripping core and felt her clench around you. Wanda was already extremely close from before so it only took a few thrusts of your tongue against her walls and a few rubs of her clit for her legs to wrap around your head. Her legs trembled as she came with a long string of moans, her back arching beautifully and chest heaving from the intensity of it. Once she had rode out the last of her aftershocks you switched your tongue with your fingers and easily slipped two into her.

“Oh fuck,” she moaned as her hips bucked as best they could under your grip. You started a fast pace of moving your digits within her while your mouth sucked and licked around your extremely sensitive clit. It took only a minute or so for the witch to cry out your name out as another orgasm washed over her. You waited once again for her to calm down and tested to see if she could handle another. You worked her up slowly this time and her hands unclenched the sheet in her hand and tangled in your hair. You made her come another time before deciding she had enough and it would be too much for another.

“Are you alright?” you whispered as you moved back above her body. She sighed out a yes before pressing her lips against yours. The brunette moaned as she tasted herself on your lips before pulling away.

“Do you want me to?” she asked breathlessly and you shook your head.

“Its ok,” you said after pressing your lips together once again, “You’re tired. Go and rest.” You moved to her bathroom to grab a towel so you could quickly wipe her down and clean her up. Once you were happy she was alright you went to grab her clothes and put them into a wash basket before passing her some comfortable clothes to wear. You heard her call your name so you turned around to look at her.

“Stay?” she had hope in her eyes and for some reason you felt like you couldn’t deny her. You crawled into the bed with her and felt her move close to cuddle you. This felt weird for you as you had never expected to do this with her but it didn’t feel wrong so you went with it. “Y/n?” you hummed in response, “Why do you hate me?

“I don’t hate you,” you admitted. It was true. You never hated Wanda you were just scared of what she thought of you. When she went into your mind all that time ago when she was with Ultron you were still a new member of the team. You hadn’t done much to remove the ‘red in your ledger’ as Natasha phrased it and you assumed she just thought you were evil. “I just thought you would see me as a monster. I pushed you away because you saw all of me and it just….scared me I guess.” She removed her head from your chest to look at you in the eyes.

“You’re not a monster Y/n. And I never thought that of you.” She pressed her lips onto yours and this time it felt different.

“I’m sorry for how I treated you,” you whispered against her lips, not meeting her eyes.

“I’m sorry too,” she cooed and you finally looked at her, “But to be honest I was just mad at you. I had a huge crush on you and you just wanted to push me away.”

“Well it’s a good thing I’m yours now,” you said and you saw her raise her eyebrow, “Well that’s if you still want me.” She answered you by kissing you passionately on the lips and pulling you closer.

“Of course I do.”

[onyxluvjiro]

PLRASE PLEASE PLEASR PLEAE PLEASE PLEASR PLEAE PLEASE PLEASR PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE MORE MAC SMUT HEADCANNONS AND MAYBE A TOUCH OF DIALOGUE THANK YOU SO MUCH UR WRITING IS PEAK 🥺🥺🥺🥺✌️✌️

shout out to @veryfruitywriting they wrote a headcannon on mac and the online underwear scene cause, it’s got me thinkin real hard, and i wanna delve down into it.

and i KNOW mac has a thing for lingerie, i know it. And their a pantie sniffer, i KNOW it.

reader is afab/has female genitalia !!

—

You had a plan, it could go completely wrong or, perfectly right. You wanted to show off that sexy pair of panties to Mac, tease them a little bit, with how much the two of you flirt back and forth, you were sure it would go perfectly as planned.

Starting a casual conversation with mac was an easy enough task, step one of your plan, done. And as you talk, you uncross your legs, spreading them, ever so slightly, making Mac’s eyes frantically glance up and down.

You were sure their cpu was starting to overheat, a flush crossing their face, but you were far from finished. Pretending to glance back at what you were doing earlier, you “accidentally” lift your skirt further, finally revealing the red lacy fabric adorning your body.

You could hear a choked noise come from Mac, their eyes burning holes into the fabric adorning your most private parts. Your eyes dart to Mac’s face, an immediate satisfaction crossing your face as you practically see them malfunction for a moment.

It takes a second for Mac to realize that you were in fact showing off that pretty pair of panties that you had bought, on purpose, the same ones Mac had complemented you about. And now they were seeing it, on your body.

You could hear the crackle of their brain frying. They of course teased you the other day about it, but never did they think, their human would be so bold.

“Oh my goodness. I was right, they look stunning on you.”

They manage to say after a few moments of silence.

“want to see them closer?”

—

And that’s how you ended up standing in front of mac, their fingers pressed against the fabric, teasingly tracing up and down the folds of your pussy through the fabric, ever so lightly, watching your facial expressions with innate satisfaction. They pull their fingers away from the fabric for a moment, only to look at their fingers in fascination.

A string of slick, your arousal coating the tip of their fingers. They glance from you and to their fingers, back up at you, a silent ask for permission. With a nod of your head their hands wrap around your thighs, pulling you in closer.

Mac is a certified panties sniffer cause once they get a wiff of your cunt, they can’t get enough. mouth latching to the fabric resting right where your clit is, sucking on the fabric and what’s underneath.

Once they finally get their lips on you , oh it’s over for them. A new addiction started as they lap at you through the fabric, the stimulation almost too much, the combination of mac’s soft and hot tongue versus the rough fabric against your skin has you reeling. Hands tangled in their hair, keeping them there, exactly where Mac wants to be.

It’s not until you feel a cord wrap around your thighs do you really realize how deep mac is into it, and how far gone they are. You squirm, but the cord holds you in place along with Mac’s hands.

It wasn’t until your first orgasm did mac pull your panties to the side, the excuse of getting closer, to taste more slipping from their mouth as they latch back onto your clit. they bully their tongue deep into your cunt, a wire finding its way to rub against your sensitive bud.

You realize how fucked you are, but at the same time you’re just as into it as mac is, you don’t want to stop just as much as mac doesn’t either. Not until they’ve had their fill. And maybe, just maybe, mac pocketed those panties for a little while. And maybe, you let it happen.

—

Mac i am just a dog WOOF WOOF

also to the person i @ ed, if you want me to take you off/take down the post cause i wrote smth similar to your post, i will! I want everyone to be comfortable with my posts 😵‍💫😵‍💫

[tywrites]

secrets that you keep (talking in your sleep) | mateo manta

pairing: mateo manta x gn!reader

word count: 1,267

warnings: implied smut, wet dreams, dry humping

a/n: i need this blanket viscerally. hope you fellow blanket fuckers enjoy <3

part 2

It wasn’t a rare scenario to find you in. Curled up on the couch, wrapped up in your fuzzy, yellow blanket ­- the TV on a low volume in the background, playing some overdramatic reality show. The only difference, however, was that you were sleeping.

You didn’t often fall asleep on the sofa, especially after receiving the dateviators. Knowing that every object in your house was sentient honestly made you feel quite self-conscious a lot of the time. You didn’t even want to think about going to the bathroom. Sleeping on Betty was still a bit new to you but she was so chill about it that it didn’t bother you as much. But you didn’t know Koa super well yet. Sleeping on him felt a bit… awkward.

But here you were, soft snores leaving your mouth as you laid in your slumber. The most awkward part of it was that you’d left your dateviators on. They were slightly slid down your nose, but still working. Since you’d been hanging out with Mateo, you’d had them on to be able to converse with him. But now, your head was slumped on his shoulder, the soft material of his duvet jacket acting as a perfect pillow.

Mateo didn’t mind in the slightest. He actually thought it was adorable, gazing on your sweet, sleeping form with a small smile. He gently brushed the hair away from your face, his hand stilling as you shifted. He definitely didn’t want to wake you up. After a moment, you stopped moving, now cuddled into Mateo’s chest as your own rose and fell in even, relaxed breaths. He chuckled at how clingy you seemed to be in your sleep.

“Wow, mi vida,” he said softly. “Guess the inanimals really took it out of you today,”

You’d both had a pretty busy day. All of the inanimals had needed grooming, Sinclaire had dropped off a pretty hyper Sudsy, and Davi had even done his usual disappearing act again. All in all, quite a chaotic time for you both. Mateo of course was kinda used to it. But you? Not so much.

Mateo very cautiously shifted your positions, taking great care not to disturb your rest as he moved you both to a reclining position on the sofa. He propped himself up against the arm, allowing you to lie fully down on top of him, your face snuggled against his chest. Pure comfort. He sighed in content, allowing himself to enjoy this small moment of peace with you. His eyes closed and for a second, he wondered if he could afford to take a quick nap himself.

His eyes shot open as a curious noise broke through the silence.

He looked down at you, a bit confused. He swore he’d heard you speak.

He waited.

Nothing.

With a small frown, he closed his eyes.

There it was again! It was definitely coming from you. Only, it didn’t sound like words. He observed your sleeping form, silently waiting for it to happen again.

“Mmm…”

Oh.

Oh.

A flush settled on his cheeks, turning his face a rosy red. Maybe he was wrong. You couldn’t be… moaning. Right? You’d fallen silent once again, your face burying itself even deeper into his plush chest. Once in the desired position, you let out a satisfied sigh. He tried his hardest to calm his racing heartbeat. Chill, Mateo. He told himself. You’re clearly imagining things. They wouldn’t be-

“Ohh.. fuck,”

He bit his lip as you let out another moan, louder this time and slightly muffled into his chest. Yeah, he definitely wasn’t imagining this. He suddenly felt kind of creepy, as if he was completely invading your privacy. He would never, ever, under any circumstances, want to make you uncomfortable. And if you knew what he was hearing right now… Mateo felt conflicted.

The noises were becoming more frequent and you seemed to be having a very… pleasing dream. He didn’t want to wake you up… You’d been working so hard today and you really deserved the rest! But you also deserved privacy. He took a deep breath and prepared himself for the pure awkwardness that would fill the room after he woke you up.

He didn’t get that chance.

“Mm… fuck yes… Mateo please,”

He froze. Did you… did you just say his name? Blood pounded in his ears, his cheeks heating up adorably. You whined in your sleep, biting your lip subconsciously as you began to grind your hips against him, searching for any kind of stimulation you could find. All the while, you whimpered out the most erotic noises Mateo had ever heard. He couldn’t believe you were still asleep.

Mateo could barely think straight, the noises you were making going straight to his head. And… straight to somewhere else. His body ran hot when he realised just how tight his usually comfy sweatpants had gotten. His cheeks burned with embarrassment.

“Mi amor, you’re gonna be the death of me...”

He had no idea what to do. Hearing you whine his name like that… It was insanely difficult for him to hold back from waking you up to hear exactly what your dream was about. He tried to take deep, calming breaths, raking a hand through his messy locks. But then, a thought struck him. The others; his fellow objects. They could probably hear you right now. I mean, you guys were literally laying on Koa. The idea of that, of them knowing how badly you wanted him… god, it drove him crazy.

You were still going at it, practically humping his thigh at this point. He honestly couldn’t stand it any longer. If you didn’t wake up soon, he’d be giving you one hell of a wake up call.

“Mateo, I need you… please,”

Ay dios mío, the way you were begging so sweetly for him – it drove him crazy. He felt like he was ready to burst. You two had never actually… done anything before. Your relationship was sweet, romantic and caring. Not that he’d never wanted to! It was kind of an awkward thing to bring up and you both were always so busy. But knowing that you’d been dreaming about it… god, he needed you too. Badly.

He gently placed a hand on your cheek, his thumb slowly stroking it, attempting to coax you from your deep slumber. He knew you slept better when you were with him, but he’d never seen you so deep in your sleep. It didn’t take too long to wake you, your eyes slowly fluttering open, blinking in the light of the TV.

“Fuck, did I fall asleep?” you asked hoarsely, rubbing at your eyes.

He chuckled nervously. “Yeah, you did. That tired, huh?”

You smiled up at him. “Must’ve been…” You yawned, stretching your arms. “God, I had the best dream,”

His eyes widened, looking at you curiously. Did��� did you know you were talking in your sleep?

“Oh yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah, it was…” You trailed off, a subtle blush rising to your cheeks. “...good, really uh, good,”

He couldn’t hold back the knowing chuckle. “Uh huh, I could tell…”

You looked at him, confusion evident in your eyes. It was only when he purposely rolled his hips up against your own that you realised what he’d meant. The hardness pressed against you left very little to the imagination. Your mouth dropped open and your body burned all over.

“H-how… how did you…”

He smirked, cupping your chin with a soft but firm hand.

“Anyone ever tell you that you talk in your sleep?”

[runningracingdancingchasing]

She'd imagined sitting him down on the couch, maybe with some alcohol to make it all easier, imagined the lighting and how it would play on his features. But now they were in the kitchen, and the lighting was completely different, harsh and bright in comparison to her imagination. Well, that was on her. She was the one who'd started the conversation now instead of later.

Clearing her throat again, she found it hard to find her words, and even harder to look at him.

"I've been rehearsing this all day," she confessed with a little smile that didn't reach haunted eyes, toying with her own fingers while wishing she had Abraçinhos to hug. But he was in the living room, on the couch, where she'd meant to have this conversation. "But I can't seem to remember how it was going to go. Sorry if I'm about to ramble..."

Taking a deep breath, she thought through all of the myriad of rehearsals she'd gone through, then picked a place and started. Managing to look at him for a moment, she iterated, "Just know that I'm telling you this because you're my best friend and I trust you." That was very important. It was easy for Rapunzel to love. She loved her friends almost right away. But trusting people wasn't so simple. That probably had something to do with what she was about to tell him...

Okay, here we go. Just breathe and... start. "Okay, so the thing is... I can't remember anything about my past up until a few years ago," she explained softly, "and that's by design. Something... happened when I was little. I'm not sure exactly what, but I know it was traumatic. My therapist thought -- and I agree -- that if I want to function as an adult, I had to lock it all away. It was really the only way to move forward. But that's why there are things that basically everyone knows that I don't know anything about. Which is so frustrating and embarrassing, because I'm usually so smart!"

Even talking about it now, she could feel that locked closet of memories getting banged on from the inside, and her shame from not knowing how schools worked. Her focus started turning inward, a slippery slope to a bad night, even if he decided she was worth hanging onto. Without thinking, she got a glass of cold water and sat down at the table again, pressing the cool glass against her face and neck to keep herself in the here and now and with him.

"There are things I don't remember so much as feel. Echoes of a voice I can't identify or- or thinking someone's going to react negatively to something when no one with half a heart would. Sometimes... it's like a part of my brain is trying to remember the stuff I've deliberately forgotten, and the rest of my brain is trying to keep me from remembering. When that happens I just kind of... go away. Like, I'm there, physically, but my mind..." She paused to sip some water and ran her fingers idly over the place mat in front of her, taking in the texture as the cool drink soothed her throat, keeping her grounded. She surprised herself by the fact that she didn't feel like she was going to cry. Not yet. If he decided this was it, yeah, she'd spend the rest of the night crying. But not yet.

The more she thought about it, the more guilty she felt for being this way and subjecting him to her. Had she trapped him by asking him out before she told him this? But she was telling him now, and giving him an out, right? That was good of her, wasn't it? She liked him so much that she's was putting her biggest flaw right out there in the open and shining a light on it. If he couldn't handle it, well... she could just leave Rio after all.

God, she didn't want to leave Rio. Didn't want to leave him.

A sad, scared sigh escaped her. "I'm broken, Rai. I'm broken, and I don't know if I can ever be fixed all the way. I know I should have told you this before I asked you out, because you deserve to have an informed choice, to know what you're getting into, and I totally get it if... if it's too much. If it's a deal-breaker. I can be a lot as it is, and this is just... it's a lot more. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

And she really hoped he'd stay, despite it. And she was terrified he wouldn't. Her head and stomach swam unpleasantly, pizza and wine suddenly not seeming like such a good idea.

He'd busied himself washing out their wine glasses. Washing dishes was his least favourite of all chores - which he despised in general - but she'd gone through the effort to make dinner, and the least he could do was to help clean up.

He felt his shoulders tense a little as she spoke. Serious and important... Her tone and the entire vibe changed, and he tilted his head at her, a little furrow between his brows.

"Sure, girl." He set the glasses down and dried off his hands, leaning his hips back against the kitchen counter and folding his arms loosely. "What's, uh... what's up?" He deliberately kept his mind as blank as possible, refusing to jump to scary conclusions.

[linnlarsnhansn]

SKAM 10 year anniversary podcast -

English translation

NRK is celebration a decade of Skam (😭) with a nine episode podcast. You can listen here

I'm collaborating with @kosegruppie who will be posting my translations and make subtitled videos with them. Make sure to follow them here on insta for all the latest!

Below the cut you'll find the transcript of the first episode (I've skipped a few summaries, the radio hosts watching the show etc, but all cast and crew interviews are there!). Enjoy!

From 03:50 

Torkil Risan: It’s hard to measure that kind of thing, but Skam has to be Norway’s biggest tv show success. It was a small productio with low budget, had unknown actors and no traditional marketing. But the show would go on to break streaming records, set the agenda for public debate and take part in changing the language both in Norway and abroad. It would change the lives of many young people and entertain hordes of adults, and not only in Norway, no. There were people using their free time to translate the Norwegian episodes to a steadily growing international audience. Episodes were downloaded both illegally and, well only illegally really. But whatever. People all over the world were watching Skam. Skam has, up until this point, nine international adaptations, with Sram in Croatia as the latest one - it came out in October 2024. And all of this, that is the Norwegian original version, is created, written and directed by one person - Julie Andem. 

JA: It became very difficult after a while to film and keep the storylines secret, because we were recorded wherever we went. Especially the outdoor scenes. Like at Nissen there were suddenly hordes of fans from all over the world when we were supposed to film, so that made it a bit difficult.    

TR: And you can’t picture what it would become like when unknown 16 and 17 year olds get cast in a new show at NRK.

JA: Before these actors got their roles, at the last round of auditions, I had a talk with each one of them where I said: “I don’t know how big this show will become, it can become nothing, but it might become big. And if it becomes big and you become famous, you give away part of your freedom - the freedom to be anonymous to people. Today, when you’re on the bus, having a bad day, no one bothers you. But after you’ve become famous, people will walk up to you and want to talk to you and you can’t get away from that. When I call you next week and give you the role, if I do, I’ll ask if you’ve thought that over, and what you think of it - because you have to think that over now.” And I said that to each one of them before they got their parts. And then I think it was Josefine who said, we talked later about what I had said, that she thought “that lady is delusional. She’s making a small P3 show”. My talk went in one ear and out the other. 

JA: It’s hard to imagine things like this for people that haven’t experienced success like that, and what it demands of you afterwards. And the freedom you lose to be anonymous. It is a really difficult pressure and it can be challenging. We thought a lot about it throughout and one of the main reasons that we ended Skam when we did, was because of that pressure on the young actors.

TR: Is this an ongoing conversation with the cast? 

JA: I always think - there’s no one outside of it who understands what we experienced with Skam. So the best ones to talk to, always, about these things are the cast and the production team, who understand it and have the same feelings. 

TR: That Skam also changed the lives of those who created it, we’ve established. I am curious about how Julie Andem, who has no clue how big the show is going to become, created these characters?

JA: As I remember it, I did loads of research with the target group to understand what that group, girls in Norway aged 16, needed, what stories it needed. And I think my goal was to develop 10 characters who could fit into a universe about them. That’s where I started. And the plan was that all the characters would develop in a way that they could carry their own season. So all of them were developed as main characters. I created them before the seasons, before the storylines. 

TR: In September it’ll be ten years since Skam was released. It was released more like an event than a traditional tv show. Short clips could be dropped at any point during the week and people in the show posted on social media. It was Mari Magnus who was responsible for these digital updates. 

MM: All the characters, even if they don’t have open accounts on social media, have a bunch of email addresses. I have a box full of sim cards and burner phones. Everyone had a facebook account. They were private, but it was so that it would feel a little real if you searched “Isak Valtersen”.

TR: Someone else that became well known to the audience, was media professor Vilde Schanke Sundet. She saw the format as unique enough that she had to start doing research on Skam while it was still possible. 

VSS: I binged the entire first season one night. I remember laying in the cosy corner at home, watching on the ipad. I went to bed at 2:30 am and thought “now I understand what they are talking about”. I was interested in analysing it the same way researchers have been interested in analysing multimedia storytelling - how the story is built, how you make the different components, what it is NRK wants with this show, what it is trying to tell. And you become so drawn into the story that the ability to analyse goes a bit up and down through the different seasons. 

TR: What makes Skam different from other tv shows?

VSS: There’s both things that make it very different and things that are very similar. Because the dramatic curves are similar to other dramas we know of. It’s love triangles, good vs evil, the struggle to find yourself, all things similar to the high school/coming of age genre. And it’s well made, but that’s not what’s groundbreaking. The groundbreaking part is how the story is told. You're doing it real time, so if you’re following the blog it will appear very close. You never know when something is coming. It’s unpredictable, it drags people in. It’s based on the needs of the audience. They did loads of research when developing the show and it appears closer when the setting is a Norwegian high school than an American one. That makes it different and innovative. I think all the fans know they are fictional characters, but they feel much more real because we are not sitting down in front of the tv to watch, they are just there in your everyday life. It’s much more at the top of your mind than other things you watch and put behind you until the next episode is released. 

TR: The way Skam was created made it special. But that was not the most important part for Morten Hegseth. 

MH: The format has been given too much credit. It was a good format to post clips in that way, but the reason it was so good was that the content was amazing. It wasn’t the publishing strategy that made Skam an international phenomenon. 

(Skip to 13:26)

TR: Before they created Skam, the show creator Julie Andem and a few others made in depth interviews with young people in the target group. And the challenges Eva has in season 1, was pretty common with the group. 

JA: What is that life like? When you’re coming from secondary school, where you have a friend group and a familiar and safe environment and you’re thrown into a new universe. Everything is starting over and you have to find your place again. But she starts out as a girl who has become totally dependent on her boyfriend. She’s been thrown out of the friend group because of the choice she’s made to be together with her boyfriend, with Jonas, and that makes her dependent on him. 

TR: A successful way to independence is to become friends with a confident, stylish and cool new girl, like Noora. That, despite being good in Spanish, isn’t as crazy about russ as the other girls Eva start’s to hang out with - Jente-Chris, Vilde and Sana, who has concrete plans to fix a spot on a russebuss. And there you have our girl gang. Do you, the listener, think they are cool? Are they supposed to be cool?

JA: Socially, in school, they are not a cool group. That’s what the first storyline is about. The Pepsi Max gang are the cool, pretty girls and the other girls are not so cool. But I think they are very cool.

TR: What about the boys, aren’t they cooler?

JA: Yeah, they do at least have cooler references and masks. I’s more important to them to be cool. So they might be “cooler”.  

TR: To actress Lisa Teige, it was a bit like starting a new school - moving from Bergen and start working as an actor in Skam. How much of Eva is really in Lisa? 

LT: In the beginning I felt very different from Eva, because she went through very different things, I thought at that time. But things like finding friends in high school, I do identify with. I didn’t have that boyfriend drama, at least so early on. But looking back at it now, I would say I see myself in a lot of the things Skam talks about. I’ve also been in girl drama, had partner problems and the vulnerability in finding new friends. But back then, I felt the need to be like “No! I’m not going through the same things as Eva right now”. But really I did eventually go through those things. 

TR: And like Eva, Lisa did find some good friends on Nissens’s school yard. 

LT: I remember I noticed they were a few years older than me. I thought they were incredibly cool. That was my first thought “shit, these are cool people with experience”. It felt very cool to be part of that group. And I have so many good memories from the set with all the girls together. Especially because there’s a lot of humor surrounding the Vilde and Chris characters. They improvised many funny parts and we were laughing so hard on set. The dynamics of the group was really good. 

TR: But Bergen, where Lisa is from, and Oslo are two different cities and they have different accents. 

LT: Some things were difficult for me, as someone from Bergen. Like when I was supposed to say vors (pre-game) for the first time, which I had never said before and I don’t think I had ever been to one. And they said vors in the Oslo dialect and it was so difficult for me. I had to call mum and dad back home to ask how I was supposed to say the word. 

TR: Eva is also one of the characters who is making out the most in the show. And here both Lisa and actor Marlon Langeland, who plays Jonas, got thrown into the deep end from the start. 

LT: We had a workshop before filming, where we got to know each other and we played some games, as warm up. But to start kissing that person is something totally different. I remember dreading that quite a lot, because we were making out the first day of filming. 

LT: And that’s the kind of thing you dread a lot, but when you first get going it’s very mechanical in a way. You don’t think about what you’re really doing and it’s like “can you place your hand there”, “turn a bit that way” and “make the kiss a bit more intense, because it looks good on camera”. 

(skip to 27:19)

TR: Mari Magnus mentioned The penetrators, the coolest russebuss at Nissen. 

MM: Penetrators has a song, that’s on Spotify and I don’t know if it has been said before, it probably has, but *whispers* it’s Tarjei. 

TR: That’s rapping?

MM: Yes. 

TR: So they guy singing lines like “Penetrators cums on your face, the weather report says flooding, it’ll rain cum”, that Tarjei Sandvik Moe, who plays Isak. Tarjei went to Nissen himself during this time and managed to sneak in several references to actual things going on in the school. And to blur the lines between the fictional and reality was one of the show’s goals. To make the show as real as possible they had instagram accounts and could start chatting with each other on friday evenings. 

MM: It was a Friday evening and Julie was probably at work and we posted a photo on Jonas’ account, a Big Smalls reference, that he tagged Isak in. And we are logged into one account each, one on Isak’s, one on Jonas’. And we decided to have some fun in the comment section, hoping that maybe three people would see it, but that these three would have such a weird experience that they in school on Monday would say “You won’t believe what I say on instagram on Friday”. So Isak and Jonas drag Eva into it, but Eva is on a russebuss. And the audience is so cool, there are fans playing along and commenting things like “I saw you in the cafeteria today” “what did you get on your maths test?”. This is week two maybe, and those things we could do a bit more strategically at the start to get the engagement going.  

TR: It’s a bit slow in the beginning, but interest in Skam grows quite fast. So to chat as the characters on instagram becomes too difficult, there’s too many others taking part in the conversation. And some audience members were more engaged than others. One of them was Julian Dahl, who was very active in the comment section. Active enough to get mentioned in the show. 

TR: You’re living alongside these characters and sometimes that creates problems. Because Eva wants Jonas and Isak to go with her to the revy-party but they can’t. Why not?

Isak: We can’t

Jonas: Why not? 

Isak: The tickets to Kindred Fever. 

Jonas: I had totally forgotten that. 

TR: You’re excused if the name Kindred Fever doesn’t ring any bells. They had a mini hype right around the time when this was released and they happened to have a concert the same day as the revy-party. 

JA: The only reason we picked that concert was because it was Oslo that day. We just thought what band could they possibly be interested in that’s playing in Oslo that day?

TR: To make the right references is hard when you’re making a show. How do you know what 16 year old boys are saying, doing and would post? Sometimes Mari Magnus asked the actors to do it themselves. 

MM: In season one we sent Isak, Eva and Jonas out on the town with some phones and told them to make some content as if they were a friend group eating burgers in town. And they came home with loads of nice stuff we could post. 

(Skip to 33:40)

TR: I’m at your disposal - you can ask questions about the show and leave your thoughts and tips. There’s many easter eggs and symbolism in Skam that might be fun to dig deeper into if we come across it. There’s a messaging function on NRK radio. You could for example ask, like I asked Julie Andem, why is the show called Skam?

JA: We had loads of suggestions and we hung big sheets of paper at the auditions where they could write suggestions for the name of the show. And we got a lot of strange ones and Ingvild Marie Nyborg, who was on the team, came up with Skam and no one of us hated it, so that was the one. 

TR: Do you remember any of the ones you hated? 

JA: I remember “the 99:er gang”. 

TR: I’ve found some questions the fans are wondering by sneaking around in some of the many Skam online fan forums: Like, who in the Skam universe is Lisa Teige? 

LT: During the auditions I very much wanted to be Noora. Especially when I was 16 I thought Noora was super cool. But I do feel closest to Eva. I recognize myself in the insecurity and the fun parts and being someone with principles. It’s a boring answer, but it is Eva. That’s why I got to play her.  

[sixxels]

in the hush of it all ~ k.nanami

frat!nanami x reader | part 1 | part 2 (coming)

wc: 10.3k

!!disclaimers!! alcohol consumption, no smut (yet), drug consumption, violence.

summary!! you’re a freshman just trying to survive your first semester when your old friend gojo pulls you into the whirlwind of frat life. loud parties, chaotic friendships, too many red solo cups, but beneath it all, there’s him. nanami kento. not the president, not the loudest, but the one who keeps everything from falling apart. the more time you spend around the frat, the more you find yourself drawn to the quiet, grounded man who sees everything and says so little.

the house smelled like beer and sweat and someone’s fruity vape, thick with body heat and pulsing bass that made the floors vibrate. every window was cracked open but it didn’t help. it was sigma chi’s first rager of the semester and the place was already past capacity, overflowing with students who couldn’t remember half the names of the people they were dancing against. someone had brought a fog machine. someone else had thrown glow sticks into the toilet. it was that kind of night.

gojo was in the middle of it all, standing on the coffee table with his shirt unbuttoned, aviators on even though it was close to midnight. he clutched a mic that wasn’t connected to anything, belting the wrong lyrics to a throwback boy band song like it was his last dying wish. girls screamed. guys cheered. beer sloshed from raised cups. he twirled, pointed at someone in the crowd, and blew a dramatic kiss.

“give it up for your king!” he shouted.

someone from the kitchen threw a half-full seltzer at his head. it missed by an inch.

“suck my dick, gojo!”

he winked in response, too drunk to care. he lived for this. the chaos, the noise, the way the whole room bent toward him like he was the sun. frat president wasn’t a title to him—it was a lifestyle.

lounging across a recliner like he’d invented comfort itself, geto watched the madness with a drink in one hand and a girl curled up next to him, her head on his shoulder, eyes glassy. he barely moved except to sip. occasionally he’d say something low enough to make the girl laugh, or maybe blush—it was hard to tell with the lighting. he didn’t need to shout to be heard. people just leaned in when he talked, like his voice had gravity.

out back, choso stood half-shrouded in shadow, blunt between his fingers, eyes scanning the backyard like he was waiting for a sign from the universe. he barely said anything all night. a few people tried to start conversations but gave up when they realized he wasn’t going to meet them halfway. he wasn’t rude, just… somewhere else. still, when someone passed him a lighter, he nodded in thanks like it meant something.

haibara had already danced with at least four different people and hugged ten more. he was all smiles, bouncing from the living room to the hallway and back again, pausing only to yell over the music about someone’s new haircut or to refill someone’s drink with far too much rum. he had that kind of energy that made you feel like maybe this night wasn’t a mistake after all.

somewhere by the stairs, toji was leaning against the railing, all casual menace. one arm was slung around a girl’s waist, his hand on her thigh as he murmured something in her ear that made her bite her lip. he had that look like he didn’t belong here but dared you to say it. people gave him a wide berth. he liked it that way.

near the kitchen, sukuna laughed at something that wasn’t funny. he had a red cup in one hand and a smug expression that never quite left his face. he was leaned over the beer pong table, talking shit to whoever was brave—or drunk—enough to play against him.

“miss again and i’m making you do a shot off the floor,” he warned, not bothering to hide how entertained he was.

the ball missed. he didn’t even celebrate. he just smiled and walked off like he’d expected nothing less.

yuki was in the middle of the living room dancing like she was on fire, hands in her hair, eyes closed, hips moving to a rhythm entirely her own. people gave her space. she didn’t ask for it—she just took it. someone tried to grab her waist and she turned fast, flashing a look that had them apologizing without saying a word.

and then there was shiu.

he wasn’t a regular at sigma chi parties, not officially. he was from alpha gamma rho, a frat with less charm and more edge, but gojo let him through the door anyway. shiu always brought things—pills, powders, the kind of substances that didn’t come from corner stores. he wasn’t there to party. he was there to observe, to pass off baggies and collect debts. he stood near the fridge now, arms crossed, watching gojo like he was debating whether or not to start something.

then gojo opened his mouth.

“yo,” he called, mic still in hand, “someone tell our favorite pharmacist to chill with the samples tonight, yeah? we’re trying to party, not resuscitate.”

the room didn’t go quiet but it changed, subtle, like someone had sucked the air out of it. a few heads turned. shiu didn’t move at first.

then he did.

he walked forward slow, deliberate, like he was pushing through water. gojo jumped off the coffee table with a smirk.

“say that again,” shiu said, voice low.

“which part?” gojo asked, spreading his arms like a game show host. “the bit about you being a danger to society, or the part where you’re not even in the right frat?”

the punch landed before anyone could process what was happening.

gojo’s head snapped sideways and the mic flew. a few people screamed. someone knocked over a chair. haibara was yelling something. geto sat up fast. choso pushed off the railing and started moving. even yuki stopped dancing.

gojo stumbled back, wiped the blood from his lip, and smiled.

“oh, okay. we’re doing this.”

he lunged. they hit the fridge hard, dented it. bottles rattled. someone tried to step in and got elbowed. the crowd swelled, a surge of bodies pressing in, phones out, drinks forgotten. fists flew. gojo caught shiu in the ribs. shiu grabbed gojo’s collar and slammed him back. it was messy, fast, angry.

and then—

“enough.”

the voice wasn’t loud. it didn’t need to be.

people parted before they even saw him. like something cold had blown through the room and snapped everyone back into place.

nanami kento stood in the hallway, sleeves rolled to his elbows, jaw set, eyes narrowed. he wasn’t yelling. he didn’t need to. his presence alone pulled the air tighter.

he stepped through the crowd like it wasn’t even there.

“outside,” he said, looking at shiu.

shiu glared. nanami didn’t flinch.

“now.”

shiu scoffed, wiped his mouth, and walked out without a word.

nanami turned to gojo next. he didn’t ask if he was okay. he just looked at him, that same heavy look he always gave when gojo was about to do something stupid, or already had.

“you said something reckless,” nanami said. “he responded. don’t do it again.”

gojo opened his mouth, then closed it. nodded once.

nanami looked around the room. “everyone else—back to what you were doing. party’s not over.”

his voice didn’t raise, but it carried. people shifted, awkward, but they moved. the music faded back in. someone restarted the playlist. the house exhaled.

gojo sat down on the coffee table, wincing as he touched his jaw. “you’re like a fucking principal.”

“good,” nanami said. “because you’re all acting like children.”

“we have one party until we’re swarmed with new freshman and you decide to act like an idiot, gojo. it’s embarrassing.”

“you’re acting like that’s a bad thing, i’ve got a friend from high school joining our collage, she’s real cute i think even you’ll like her, nanamin!”

nanami just grunted. and with that, he turned and walked out, not to leave, but to clean up the mess. people didn’t cheer for him. they didn’t swarm. they just watched.

because everyone at sigma chi knew—gojo might’ve been the president, but nanami was the reason the frat hadn’t burned to the ground.

~

you walk into psych 101 ten minutes early, clutching your campus map like it’s going to save you from social death. the lecture hall smells like whiteboard cleaner and nervous sweat, and every seat squeaks a little too loud when you try to sit in it. you pick one near the back, close enough to see the screen but far enough to disappear if necessary.

you’re still trying to figure out if you’re in the right place when a voice behind you explodes with your name.

“no fucking way—!”

you barely have time to turn before arms are around you and your face is pressed into someone’s chest. you freeze for a second, then laugh as it clicks.

“gojo?”

“gojo,” he confirms, grinning as he pulls back to hold you at arm’s length. his sunglasses are pushed up into his white hair, and he looks like he just got off a beach in california. same dumb grin, same ridiculous energy, but somehow taller, broader, obnoxiously good-looking in a way that’s kind of unfair.

“what are you doing here?” you ask, still half-laughing, still a little breathless from the surprise.

“psych major, baby,” he says, tapping his temple. “great minds think alike. also, easy electives.”

you roll your eyes but you’re smiling. it’s been over a year since you last saw him, and somehow this reunion already feels like no time’s passed.

“you look—” he pauses, head tilting, “—way cuter than i remember. like, seriously. did college do something to you or were you just hiding the glow-up in high school?”

“shut up.”

“i’m serious. you’re hot now. i mean, you were cute before, but this is like, hot-girl cute. are you trying to kill me?”

you swat his arm and he laughs like it’s the best thing that’s happened all morning. he flops into the seat next to you, dropping his bag to the floor without looking.

“so what’s your deal?” he asks. “dorms? roommates? any campus scandals yet?”

you give him the rundown, short and vague, still unsure how to explain how weird and overwhelming everything feels when you’re only two days into your first semester. he listens with more focus than you expect, nodding, asking dumb follow-ups that make you laugh.

“you settling in okay?” he asks, serious for a beat.

“trying to.”

“then you gotta come to our party this weekend,” he says immediately, back to full volume. “we’re throwing a start-of-semester thing. big one. friday night. you’ll love it.”

you raise an eyebrow. “we?”

“oh, right,” he says, like he forgot to mention the sky is blue. “i’m the president of sigma chi now.”

“you’re a frat president?”

“hell yeah.”

you blink. “that’s… terrifying.”

“it’s empowering,” he corrects, grinning. “we’re not like, the douchebag kind of frat. we’ve got a decent crew. some of them are borderline functioning adults.”

“how did you even get voted president?”

“i’m irresistible,” he says. “plus, everyone else would’ve burned the house down.”

you snort. “and this party’s open to freshmen?”

“only the cute ones,” he says, giving you an exaggerated wink. “i’ll send you the address. dress code is: whatever makes you feel like a baddie.”

“right.”

“seriously,” he says, nudging your arm. “come. it’ll be fun. first week of college, you gotta live a little. and if you hate it, i’ll personally walk you home.”

“you swear?”

“scout’s honor.”

you hesitate for a second, then nod. “alright. i’m in.”

“yes!” he pumps his fist dramatically, earning a few confused glances from other students walking in. “you will not regret this. this party is gonna be legendary.”

you don’t know it yet, but he’s right.

just not for the reasons he thinks.

~

you didn’t think you’d be walking into your first frat party with a cigarette already behind your ear and shoko ieiri dragging you by the wrist, but here you are.

it turns out shoko had gone to your high school too, a year ahead of you, but you’d only really connected again in the dining hall on move-in day when she clocked you from across the room and called you over like no time had passed. she was older, cooler, already pre-med and apparently a regular fixture at sigma chi. it didn’t take long for her to claim you as her personal freshman project, which is how you ended up walking up the front steps of this stupidly loud, overly crowded house on a friday night with her hair tied back and her boots already scuffed.

“you look nervous,” she says, smirking as she adjusts her hoodie over a tiny crop top. “don’t be. the house is a mess but the people are fun. and if anyone tries anything weird, just look scary. works for me.” she laughs, “although, you’re face is a little to cute to look intimidating.”

you open your mouth to respond but then the door swings wide open and gojo appears like he was summoned by the sound of your heartbeat.

“there she is,” he shouts, like he’s announcing the arrival of the bride at a wedding. “shoko, and my favorite freshie! welcome to my palace.”

you laugh despite yourself as he throws an arm around your shoulders and practically pulls you inside. it’s already hot and loud, bodies moving like static electricity in every room, and the beat of the music feels like it’s trying to replace your pulse. gojo doesn’t let go. if anything, he squeezes tighter.

“this,” he says dramatically, “is our house. that’s the kitchen where my buddy shiu gets people hooked on coke.” “didn’t you get into a fight with him a few weeks ago-” “not the point! god just shut up shoko. anyways, the couch over there has seen things no man should ever see. and upstairs is strictly off-limits unless you’re crashing out or making love.”

shoko peels off almost immediately, waving you a quick goodbye as she heads toward the back porch. she’s here all the time—this is her playground. you’re still the new girl.

“c’mon,” gojo says, dragging you into the living room. “gotta introduce you to my loyal subjects.”

he says it like you’re about to meet royalty. or wild animals.

first stop was haibara, who immediately grinned and pulled you into a hug like you’d known each other for years. “she’s so cute, oh my god,” he said, beaming at gojo. “how do you know all the cute people?”

“it’s a gift,” gojo said solemnly.

next is choso, who’s sitting on the edge of the windowsill with a half-finished beer and his usual quiet intensity. he looks you up and down once, not in a creepy way, more like he’s taking mental notes.

“hey,” he says. that’s it. just hey. but there’s something warm in the way he says it, something that makes you feel seen.

geto’s lounging nearby, sipping something clear from a solo cup. he gives you a slow once-over, then tilts his head.

“interesting,” he says, mostly to himself. “you’ve got good eyes. you watch people.”

it makes you blush for some reason. he smiles at that.

“don’t let gojo talk you into any shots unless you want to wake up philosophizing with me on the roof at four a.m.” you’re not sure if it’s a threat or a promise. and then gojo’s pulling you again, voice a little louder this time, like he’s filling up space on purpose.

“alright, time for the circus animals,” he mutters, still grinning, but you feel the way his arm stiffens slightly around your shoulder.

toji and sukuna are leaned against the far wall, both watching the crowd with varying degrees of boredom and menace. toji looks like he’s waiting for a reason to ruin someone’s night. sukuna looks like he already has and wants to brag about it.

“this is toji,” gojo says carefully, “he’s sort of a drop out. and sukuna, our charming legal major. if either of them so much as breathes funny, tell me and i’ll tase them.”

“you don’t have a taser,” sukuna rolls his eyes, raising a brow.

“but i know someone who does,” gojo chirps back.

toji nods at you once, smirking. “you’re a freshman?”

you nod.

“you’re brave.”

sukuna just gives you a look, slow and amused, like he’s trying to decide whether you’re worth the trouble of messing with.

“cute,” he mutters, and gojo immediately steps between you.

“okay, bye boys,” he says, already pulling you in a different direction. “time to introduce you to the real adult in the house.”

“what, geto’s not the real adult?” you ask, trying to keep up.

“no, he’s the mysterious cult dad,” gojo says. “you’re about to meet our actual backbone.”

he leads you up the stairs, away from the music and the lights, into a much quieter hallway where a bedroom door is propped open. gojo pushes it wider with his foot.

“nanamin?” he calls. “you decent?”

you step inside and stop breathing.

nanami is crouched near the foot of gojo’s bed, tightening a screw into a broken chair like he’s personally responsible for the house’s survival. he’s wearing a fitted black tee rolled up to his biceps and beige slacks that somehow make him look even more put-together despite the disaster zone around him. his jaw is sharp, his glasses low on his nose, and there’s a furrow in his brow like he’s doing taxes instead of fixing a piece of furniture that’s probably been sat on by at least three drunk people tonight.

he doesn’t look up right away.

“if this is about the speaker system, it’s not getting fixed until monday,” he says. his voice is low and smooth and dangerously calm, like the only real adult in a room full of clowns.

gojo laughs. “nope. just wanted to introduce you to someone.”

nanami finally looks up.

and the moment your eyes meet, something shifts.

he’s—god. he’s gorgeous. like really, truly hot in the kind of way that makes your brain go quiet for a second. tall and serious and broad in a way that makes the room feel smaller. his expression is unreadable, but something in his gaze lingers on you, like he’s trying to figure you out and doesn’t quite mind the puzzle.

you feel your face heat.

“hi,” you say, a little too softly.

nanami stands slowly, brushing dust from his palms. he doesn’t smile, but he nods politely.

“welcome,” he says. “i’m nanami.”

you nod too fast. “i’m—uh—yeah. hi. i’m with gojo. i mean, not with gojo. just—he invited me. to the party.”

gojo snorts from behind you. “you’re doing great.”

nanami’s gaze flicks to him, unimpressed.

“gojo,” he says flatly, “don’t bring people upstairs.”

“yeah, yeah,” gojo waves him off. “it’s her first party. i wanted her to meet the backbone.”

you swear nanami’s mouth twitches. not a smile exactly, but close.

“you look like you’ve got your hands full,” you say, nodding to the chair.

“always,” he replies, and for a moment you both just stare at each other.

then gojo claps his hands. “alright, no time for sexual tension, we’ve got games to play.” you flush. nanami doesn’t react, just returns to the chair, calm and efficient.

but as you’re leaving the room, you glance back once and catch him watching you. not staring, just watching. and something about it makes your heart skip.

you end up in the kitchen with a half-filled red cup and gojo leaning dramatically against the fridge like it’s a photo shoot. someone’s spilled something sticky on the floor and the counter’s buried in cheap vodka, mixers, and a sad pile of warm beer, but none of that seems to faze him. he’s mid-story already, waving his cup around like it’s a prop.

“so then geto’s halfway through this speech about how the soul can’t be measured, and choso just fucking walks out mid-sentence. gone. disappeared. didn’t even take his wine.”

you laugh into your drink. it’s something fruity, probably spiked with whatever yuki brought in her flask, and it burns a little going down. the kitchen’s hot, too many bodies pushing in and out of doorways, but gojo keeps talking like he doesn’t notice the heat or the noise.

“another time,” he continues, “we had this camping trip—full frat bonding, kumbaya energy, right? and someone—i’m not saying who—forgot to pack the tent poles. we ended up sleeping under a tarp held up by beer cans and yuki’s boot. i woke up spooning sukuna.”

you choke on your drink. “oh my god.”

“worst night of my life,” he says, grinning. “his breath smells like ash and moral corruption.”

you’re smiling, but it’s distant. because even though gojo’s stories are good and the party’s still going strong, your mind keeps slipping back to upstairs. to nanami. to the way he stood when he saw you, tall and steady and focused in that unshakable kind of way that made you want to fidget. he hadn’t said much, but it didn’t matter. you’d been thinking about him nonstop since you walked away.

you turn to gojo, leaning in a little. “can i ask you something?”

he perks up immediately. “oh? getting personal?”

you roll your eyes. “serious question.”

“i’m ready.”

you hesitate, then say it. “what’s nanami’s deal?”

gojo blinks. then smirks. “ohhh. that’s what this is.”

“what?”

“the nanami effect. yeah. no, i’ve seen this before. he doesn’t even have to flirt. he just exists and people spiral.”

you try to play it cool. “i’m not spiraling.”

“you’re a little spiraling.”

you take another sip and wait.

gojo sighs dramatically. “fine. you want the story?”

you nod.

“nanami kento,” he begins, like he’s telling a ghost story. “he’s one year ahead of me. business major, minor in finance, could’ve graduated early but didn’t because he’s loyal to a fault. joined sigma chi his first year because haibara dragged him to a rush event and he got stuck with us ever since. refuses to take any official title but ends up doing all the work anyway. probably keeps the books cleaner than the school accountant.”

you listen, leaning your elbow on the counter.

“he hates parties,” gojo continues. “he thinks we’re all disasters—which, to be fair, we are. but he’s the first one to show up when someone gets too drunk or breaks something. doesn’t drink much himself. always sober drives. he has this whole system for rotating house chores. made us take a first aid course last year.”

you blink. “that’s… kind of amazing.”

“right? he’s like our reluctant dad. grumpy, hot, emotionally repressed dad. but he’d probably throw hands for any one of us. and we’d do the same.”

you try not to smile too obviously.

gojo watches you for a second, then softens. “he gets a bad rep for being uptight, but nanamin’s solid. smart, grounded, hates chaos, which means he basically hates everything i stand for—but he’s still here. still cleaning up our messes. still putting chairs back together at frat parties. he won’t admit it, but he loves us. and we love him.”

you glance down at your drink, heart thudding for no good reason. the party keeps moving around you—people laughing, doors opening, music shifting from one beat to the next—but it all feels like background noise now.

the only thing you could think about for the rest of the blurry night was the handsome man upstairs.

it’s been a few weeks since that first party, and somehow, without meaning to, you’ve started spending more time at the sigma chi house than your own dorm.

it didn’t happen all at once. it started with gojo dragging you out on thursday nights to “pregames that accidentally become full-blown benders,” and shoko insisting you come with her to smoke on the roof because “the stars hit different when you’re slightly dissociating.” you told yourself it was temporary. just something fun to balance out classes and stress and the weird fog of your first semester.

but now you know where the spare key is hidden behind the loose porch plank. you know which kitchen drawer has clean-ish forks and which ones are secretly hiding weed. you know that choso only ever drinks red wine and always brings a second glass when he sees you coming down the stairs, that haibara likes to practice his bartending skills on you and insists you rate every single one on a scale from one to “brain-melting perfection,” and that geto only really opens up when you sit on the arm of the couch and let him talk without pushing.

they’ve all made space for you in different ways.

yuki texts you at odd hours with articles she thinks you’ll love and invites you to “rage at the patriarchy” nights, which sometimes end with political debates and sometimes end with you both doing karaoke into hairbrushes in her bathtub. sukuna acts like he’s annoyed by your presence, but you’ve caught him defending you more than once when someone new gets too bold. he talks shit to your face but glares at anyone else who tries. toji is… complicated. he flirts when he’s bored, disappears for days, and shows up with a bruised knuckle and a knowing smirk that you try not to read too much into. he once handed you a stolen energy drink without saying anything, then walked away.

and gojo—gojo is still the sun. chaotic and loud and everywhere at once, but always watching, always making sure you’re okay. he calls you kid, even though he knows you hate it, and loops his arm around your shoulders every time someone new walks through the door like you’re his personal favorite. you kind of are.

it’s strange how easily it all happened. how these people went from names in passing to something heavier. something close to home.

and then there’s nanami.

you don’t see him as much as the others—he’s always working, always fixing something, always disappearing upstairs with a clipboard or a drill or a list of things no one else remembers to do—but when you do, it sticks. he doesn’t linger at parties, but he shows up when it matters. you’ve seen him wrap geto’s ankle after he slipped off the roof, lecture sukuna in a tone that makes even him shut up, and carry haibara to bed after he drank too much during a power hour gone wrong.

he always nods when he sees you. always says your name like it tastes familiar. sometimes, when the house is quiet and he thinks no one’s watching, you catch him looking at you—just for a second. just long enough to wonder what he’s thinking.

you haven’t gotten the chance to talk to him much. not really. but each time you do, it gets easier. a little softer. a little less formal.

he asked you once if you were sleeping enough.

you told him no.

he said, “that tracks,” then handed you a bottle of water and told you to go to bed.

you haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

the house feels less like a frat and more like a constellation of moments now. early morning walks home with gojo’s hoodie over your dress. half-finished games of cards with choso at the kitchen table. shoko stealing your earrings and promising to return them, then never does. music that rattles the windows. laughter that lives in the walls.

you’re not just a guest anymore.

you belong.

you were knocked out of your thoughts as a strong breeze of sweet smoke invaded your nostrils, brining you back to your place on the sunken frat couch on a lazy week-day evening.

shoko was the one who asked you to come over, she’d texted in the middle of your lecture. something about wanting a psych perspective on a project she was too hungover to finish on her own. she told you to meet her at the house around six. it’s past seven now and you haven’t heard from her since.

you’d only been sitting in the living room for a few minutes when gojo found you, dropping onto the couch beside you like he’d been looking for you all day.

“you alone?”

you nodded. “shoko said she needed help. psych stuff. but she’s not here.”

he sighed, dramatic and exaggerated. “typical. that woman would ghost her own funeral.”

you laughed, because it was true, and he grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“i was about to run out and grab some food anyway,” he said, pushing off the couch. “we’re overdue for our weekly ‘gojo feeds you questionable chinese and you pretend to enjoy it’ moment.”

you smirked. “you mean the moment where you order for five people and then act surprised when i can’t eat half of it?”

“exactly,” he said, already grabbing his wallet from the front table. “here, just hang in my room while i’m gone. nobody’ll bother you.”

you hesitated, but he was already halfway to the front door.

“gojo—”

“you know where it is. top of the stairs, first door on the right. make yourself at home, kid.”

and then he was gone, leaving the door swinging behind him and the house just a little quieter without his voice bouncing off every wall.

you make your way upstairs slowly, still checking your phone out of habit even though you know shoko’s not going to text. her read receipts are off and her priorities are probably in someone’s lap by now. it’s fine. you’re not mad. just mildly abandoned.

gojo’s room smells like bergamot and some kind of cologne you can’t name. the lights are off, but enough streetlight bleeds in through the half-open blinds to make the space glow soft gold. it’s surprisingly clean for a frat room. the bed’s made, clothes are piled in a basket instead of on the floor, and the walls are covered in posters from every terrible movie you can think of.

you sit at the edge of the bed and let your eyes wander. there’s a shelf lined with trophies—old debate wins, theater competitions, a high school “most charismatic” plaque that has a lipstick print smeared across the corner. you wonder how many of these he actually remembers winning.

your fingers graze one of the little plastic statues. you’re not really the kind of person who snoops, but something about the room feels like it’s waiting to be understood. like it’s saying something loud without speaking.

you don’t hear the knock at first. it’s soft, almost polite.

then it comes again. a little firmer this time.

you straighten up.

“uh—yeah?” you call out.

the door creaks open.

and then there he is.

nanami.

he fills the doorway like a painting—tall and broad and somehow made of straight lines and sharp angles. his shirt is tucked in like always, sleeves rolled just past his elbows, revealing strong forearms and a watch that looks too expensive to be sitting inside a house that smells vaguely like weed and beer. his hair’s a little tousled, like he’s been running errands or fixing something again, and his expression is careful in a way that makes your pulse skip.

he blinks when he sees you.

“oh,” he says. “i thought—i was looking for gojo.”

you scramble to sit up a little straighter. “he ran out to get food. chinese.”

nanami nods once, eyes flicking around the room like he’s checking for something else before landing back on you.

“he said i could wait in here,” you offer quickly. “i wasn’t, like, snooping. i’m just—waiting for him to come back.”

“i didn’t assume anything,” he says, voice low and even. “sorry to interrupt. i was going to ask him about the new lock on the front door.”

you pause. then, because the air between you suddenly feels heavier, you add, “you can wait here too. if you want. i mean. if you’re not in a rush.”

he looks at you for a long moment.

“if you’re sure.”

you nod. “yeah. of course.”

he steps inside and closes the door gently behind him. the lock clicks with a sound that feels much louder than it is.

he doesn’t sit immediately. just stands near the bookshelf, hands in his pockets, gaze drifting across the room like he’s seeing it for the first time.

“you’re close with gojo,” he says eventually.

you blink at the shift in subject. “we knew each other in high school. he kind of adopted me when i got here.”

he hums. not a judgment, just a sound of acknowledgment. he glances at the posters on the wall and his mouth twitches, the closest thing you’ve seen to a smile from him.

“his taste hasn’t changed.”

“is that a good thing?”

“it’s… consistent.”

you smile, and for some reason that makes him look back at you.

you expect him to sit on the edge of the chair or lean against the wall, something distant and polite. but instead he walks over and takes the other side of the bed, leaving just enough space between you that it feels intentional.

he doesn’t speak for a moment.

you feel the heat of him even without touching. it’s ridiculous how solid he feels just by existing. like he brings gravity with him.

“you’re here often now,” he says, voice quieter this time.

you nod, fingers twisting in your lap. “i guess so. everyone’s been… really nice. i didn’t expect that.”

he watches you carefully. “this place isn’t always easy. it’s loud. messy. exhausting.”

you laugh. “yeah. that’s one way to put it.”

“but i’m glad they’ve been kind to you.”

you glance at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone.

“they care about you,” he continues. “gojo especially.”

“i care about them too,” you say. then softer, “and you.”

the words slip out before you can stop them.

his head turns slightly. just enough to look at you fully now.

you hold your breath.

he doesn’t react right away. doesn’t smile. doesn’t look away either. just watches you, gaze steady and unreadable.

“you don’t know me very well,” he says finally.

“maybe not,” you admit. “but i see how you are. with everyone. you don’t have to say a lot for people to feel it.”

he shifts slightly, the mattress dipping beneath him.

“they think i’m cold,” he says. “strict. too serious.”

“you are serious,” you say. “but not cold. not really.”

nanami doesn’t respond right away.

he tilts his head slightly like he’s trying to decide what to do with your words, eyes drifting somewhere over your shoulder for a second. the light from gojo’s lava lamp washes his face in warm orange, casting slow shadows along his jaw. there’s a quiet stillness to him when he thinks, like the world softens around him just enough to let him be alone in it.

he finally looks back at you.

“can i ask you something personal?”

you blink. “uh. yeah. sure.”

his voice stays even, but there’s something unfamiliar in it. something careful. “are you and gojo… involved?”

your heart kicks. “what?”

he watches your reaction, and you can tell he’s not trying to accuse you of anything, just trying to understand. he waits, patient, unreadable.

you shake your head quickly, heat rising to your cheeks. “oh. no. no, we’re not—like that.”

his brow furrows slightly. “i see.”

“he’s just—” you pause, unsure how to phrase it. “he’s a good friend. we knew each other in high school. that’s all.”

nanami nods once, slowly.

“sorry,” you say, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. “that was kind of sudden.”

“i didn’t mean to be rude,” he says. “gojo just talks about you often. i assumed.”

“he talks about me?”

nanami’s mouth pulls into a vague expression, somewhere between amusement and curiosity. “frequently. your name comes up almost every time i see him. i figured there was more between you.”

you laugh, a little awkward. “that’s definitely just gojo being gojo.”

he doesn’t answer right away. there’s a beat of silence that feels a little too loud, so you scramble for something to say, anything that shifts the air back into safer territory.

your eyes catch on his wrist.

“your watch,” you say quickly. “it’s nice.”

he blinks, glances down like he forgot he was wearing it.

and then, to your surprise, his entire face softens. it’s subtle—barely a shift in his eyes, the slightest curve of his mouth—but it’s the closest thing to open affection you’ve seen on him so far.

“thank you,” he says, voice just a little lighter. “it’s a grand seiko. sbgw231. hand-wound.”

you blink. “that sounds fancy.”

he huffs out the ghost of a laugh. “it is. a little. i bought it as a gift to myself after my internship ended.”

“how much was it?” you ask, teasing, half-expecting him to dodge the question.

“thirty-five hundred,” he says plainly, then glances at you like he’s waiting for you to react.

your eyes widen. “damn.”

“i saved for it,” he adds, like he has to defend it. “i like having one thing that works perfectly every time.”

you smile, watching the way he lifts his wrist slightly, like he can’t help but admire it. like maybe he doesn’t talk about it often.

“it’s beautiful,” you say, and you mean it. “you can tell it matters to you.”

“it does,” he says simply.

“you’re adorable when you talk about it,” you say before you can stop yourself.

his head tilts slightly.

you freeze.

“i mean,” you start to backtrack, “not adorable, like—i mean, just, it’s nice. seeing you light up about something.”

nanami blinks once, like you caught him off guard.

then, so quietly you almost miss it, he says, “thank you.”

you look at him and feel something shift again, something small but certain, like maybe this is the beginning of something real. not loud. not dramatic. just warm and slow and maybe a little bit dangerous in the way it makes your stomach flip.

he adjusts his sleeve. the second hand on his watch ticks in even, quiet rhythm.

and you wonder—what else does he love like that? what other pieces of his life does he keep tucked away until someone asks, until someone cares enough to notice?

you want to be that person.

even if just for a little while.

the two of you spoke for ages, apparently getting chinese took an hour, because now the two of you had been talking about school life for ages and gojo hadn’t been back.

you’re both sitting on the bed now, cross-legged, facing each other, the conversation having drifted from casual stories to something slower, more meaningful. nanami’s clipboard is long forgotten on the floor, and your legs are only just barely not touching.

“so,” you say, tilting your head slightly. “business admin, right?”

he nods. “with a minor in finance.”

“that makes sense,” you murmur. “you’re so… precise.”

he smiles faintly. “i try to be. someone has to balance out the chaos.”

“but you could’ve graduated by now, couldn’t you?”

he pauses, looking down at his hands. “yes. technically, i had enough credits a semester ago.”

you blink. “then why are you still here?”

he’s quiet for a second too long. you watch the way his jaw tenses, the way his fingers rest lightly against his knee, thoughtful.

“gojo and haibara,” he says finally. “they weren’t ready for me to leave.”

your breath catches a little.

“haibara’s still figuring out his major,” he continues. “and gojo… i worry what he’d do without someone pulling him back down to earth now and then.”

you smile softly. “that’s really sweet.”

he looks at you. “it’s not just for them. i’ve grown attached to this place. to the people in it. it’s not always easy, but…”

you wait.

“i don’t want to leave anything half-finished.”

you exhale, heart full and aching. “you’re so loyal.”

his brows raise slightly at your tone.

“no, really,” you say, inching a little closer without thinking. “that kind of loyalty—it’s rare. especially here, where everything’s so temporary. people flake all the time. switch majors. drop out. hook up and ghost. but you… you stay.”

he doesn’t speak right away. the expression on his face is unreadable, a slow flicker of something vulnerable, something raw.

“i don’t know how to be anything else,” he says eventually.

“it’s a good thing to be.”

his eyes lock with yours.

you feel it immediately—the shift. the thickening of the air between you. the sudden awareness of how close your knees are. how long he’s been watching you. how quiet it’s gotten, like the house itself is holding its breath.

he leans forward a little, just enough to make you feel it in your chest.

“you’re different,” he says, voice low.

“how so?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

“you see things,” he says. “you notice people. not just the surface. the small details.”

your heart is thudding.

“maybe i’m just paying attention to you,” you say.

his eyes flick to your mouth. your breath catches. and for a second—just one beautiful second—it feels like the world has narrowed down to this room, this moment, this almost.

he shifts closer, just a fraction, his voice softer than ever.

“you shouldn’t say things like that.”

“why?”

“because i’ll believe you.”

“maybe i want you to.”

his gaze drops, lingering on the edge of your cheekbone, the line of your jaw. you feel the heat rise, feel the invisible pull between you tighten, your bodies angling closer like gravity’s in on the secret.

his hand moves, just slightly, like he’s about to reach for you.

and then—

the door swings open with a dramatic thud and a familiar voice calls out, “your savior has arrived! bearing dumplings and a very confused uber driver!”

you jolt back like you’ve been shocked, eyes wide.

nanami clears his throat and shifts away just as gojo steps fully into the room, bags of food swinging in both hands, sunglasses somehow still perched on his face despite it being pitch dark outside.

“wow,” gojo says, stopping mid-step. “am i interrupting something?”

“no,” nanami says immediately, voice neutral but slightly strained. “just talking.”

you can feel the blush crawling up your neck, your ears burning. “we were waiting for you.”

“aw,” gojo says, tossing the bags onto his dresser with a grin. “adorable.”

nanami stands, smoothing down his sleeves. “i’ll leave you two to eat.”

gojo flops onto the bed without a hint of shame. “stay, kento. i got enough dumplings to cause a coma.”

“some other time,” nanami says, already heading for the door.

he glances back at you just once, a look that holds something unfinished, something almost.

you offer him a small, flustered smile.

he nods, then disappears down the hall, leaving behind the quiet thump of your heart catching up to itself.

gojo tears into a container like he didn’t just ruin the most intimate moment of your life.

“so,” he says with his mouth full. “what’d i miss?”

~

the bass rattles through the floor, shaking the soles of your feet with every beat. lights flicker red, then blue, then a blinding white that cuts across the living room like lightning. the house is packed wall to wall, bodies moving in slow motion and sharp rhythm all at once. you’ve been here for maybe an hour, and you’ve already lost track of how many people you’ve bumped into, laughed with, brushed past.

gojo gives you teasing eyes from across the room, he had been like that ever since you told him all about your moment with nanami last week.

choso’s in front of you, half-dancing, half-swaying, a red solo cup dangling from his fingers, eyes a little glassy but soft. he’s got that usual look—low-lidded and unreadable—but every so often, he grins at something you say and it feels like a little secret passed between you.

“you’re getting better at this,” he says, nodding toward the way your hips move in time with the music.

you laugh, throwing your arms up. “maybe i just needed the right teacher.”

“flatterer.”

you twirl in place and he catches your hand to steady you, his rings cold against your skin. it’s easy with him, no pressure, no edge, just the comforting buzz of good company and cheap beer. you’re flushed from the heat and the noise, your head light, your body buzzing.

but then, as the crowd shifts and someone elbows choso in passing, he mutters something and disappears in the direction of the kitchen, promising to be back with water.

and you’re left alone.

not for long.

you’re still dancing, still lost in the music when someone behind you steps too close. closer than they should. at first you think it’s just the crush of bodies around you, but then hands settle on your waist, firm and unwelcome.

you stiffen.

you turn your head slightly, trying to see him. tall. unfamiliar. older than most people here. his hair’s slicked back like he’s trying too hard and he’s wearing a jacket that looks expensive but reeks like the bottom of a solo cup. his breath hits your cheek, sour and sticky with whatever he’s been drinking, and he grins like he knows you. like he owns you.

“you’re too pretty to be dancing alone,” he says, voice low and slurred, leaning in closer, way too close.

you shift your weight, take a half-step to the side, but his hand finds your waist before you can pull away, fingers pressing too tight into your skin.

you laugh awkwardly, trying to play it off. “hey—i’m good, thanks.”

his grip tightens, anchoring you to him like he didn’t hear a word.

“come on,” he says, and his voice drops lower, rougher. “don’t be shy.”

you glance around, but the crowd is a blur of movement and noise, no familiar faces, no choso—he’s nowhere.

you try again, firmer this time. “seriously, let go.”

his free hand brushes against your side, knuckles grazing beneath the hem of your shirt.

your stomach twists.

“don’t be like that,” he says, smile fading into something sourer, uglier. “you’ve been dancing all night like you wanted attention.”

your heart jumps. “what the hell—”

“just relax,” he says, and suddenly his other arm snakes around your waist, dragging you in, chest to chest. “i’ll take care of you.”

you panic.

“get off me,” you snap, pushing at his chest, trying to twist away, but he’s stronger than you expect and now your back hits something hard—a wall, or maybe just the crush of people—and the bass is thudding through your ribs and you can barely breathe.

he leans down again, mouth near your ear, voice low and smug. “playing hard to get isn’t cute, sweetheart.”

you shove at him harder, panic edging into your voice. “get. the fuck. off me.”

he doesn’t move.

your hands are shaking now, and your throat’s closing in and the music feels too loud, too distorted, like the whole room is underwater and nobody’s paying attention. your eyes sting, and you don’t know if it’s fear or anger or both.

and then—

he’s gone.

ripped away from you like a rag doll, shoved back with such force he stumbles into the wall, knocking over two other people and a lamp that crashes to the floor.

you spin around and see nanami.

but not the composed version. not the quiet calm you’ve grown used to.

this version of him is wild.

his shoulders are tense, fists clenched at his sides, eyes blazing with something you’ve never seen before. rage, pure and simple. the kind that simmers just beneath the surface and then boils over all at once.

“what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he growls, stepping toward the guy, who’s still dazed.

“whoa, man, chill—”

“don’t fucking touch her,” nanami snaps, grabbing the front of the guy’s shirt and shoving him back again, harder this time. “you don’t touch anyone like that.”

people are watching now. you hear gojo chucking to himself from the sidelines while geto slaps a hand over his annoying friend’s mouth. the music’s still blasting, but a bubble of silence has formed around them, drinks paused mid-air, dancers stilled mid-step.

you’ve never seen nanami like this. never seen his control slip. never heard him raise his voice, let alone curse like that. it’s terrifying and… something else.

“i didn’t do anything, jesus! she was dancing like a whore anyway!”

that was the wrong thing to say.

nanami punches him.

just once.

just enough.

the guy stumbles back again, lip split, hand cradling his jaw.

“get out,” nanami says, voice low and dangerous. “now.” the guy doesn’t argue. he scrambles up and disappears into the crowd, probably bleeding, definitely terrified.

nanami’s chest is heaving, jaw clenched so tight you can see the tension in the muscles there. he runs a hand through his hair, turning away from the crowd, from the gaping stares, and then his eyes find yours.

you’re still frozen, heart thudding. your skin feels hot where that guy touched you, but not in a good way. it’s like something oily and wrong is clinging to you.

nanami steps closer.

“are you okay?” his voice is low again. gentler.

you nod slowly, swallowing hard. “yeah. just… yeah.”

he exhales, like that’s all he needed to hear. but his hands are still balled into fists, his eyes still too wild.

“i didn’t mean to—” he starts, then stops. “i shouldn’t have gone that far.”

“no,” you say quietly. “thank you.”

he looks at you for a long second.

and you realize this wasn’t just rage. it was fear too. he’d been scared. for you.

“let’s get you some air,” he says, already leading you away from the noise, away from the flashing lights and spilled drinks and rubbernecking strangers.

you follow him, your fingers brushing his for just a second. and even with your heart racing and your body still trembling, it’s the safest you’ve felt all night.

you don’t say anything as nanami leads you through the crowd, his hand resting carefully at the small of your back, not possessive, just steady. grounding. people part for him without needing to be asked, like even in his silence, they know better than to get in his way.

the patio door creaks open and the sudden rush of night air hits your skin like relief. it’s cooler out here, quieter too, the throb of music now just a dull vibration behind glass. a few people are huddled near the railing with cigarettes and beers, but they don’t pay you any attention.

nanami walks you to the far end of the deck where it’s darker, more private, the only light spilling from the house behind you. he exhales hard, tilts his head back, closes his eyes for a second like he’s trying to force the anger out of his chest.

you watch him quietly. even now, even with his shirt slightly wrinkled and his hands flexing at his sides, he’s beautiful. too much so. broad and golden under the patio lights, jaw still tense, eyes flicking open and scanning you like he’s checking for damage again.

“i’m sorry,” he says.

you blink. “what?”

he looks at you, really looks at you, and you feel your breath catch.

“i shouldn’t have lost it like that,” he says, voice low. “you didn’t need to see that side of me.”

you wrap your arms around yourself. “he wouldn’t stop.”

“that’s not an excuse,” he says. “i should’ve handled it better.”

you shake your head. “nanami, he wouldn’t let me go.”

his gaze softens at the sound of his name in your voice. “i know. i saw.”

you pause, eyes searching his face. “but why did it make you that angry?”

he’s silent for a moment.

the wind picks up, brushing through your hair. the muffled sound of someone laughing echoes from inside, distant, out of place compared to the quiet tension on the porch.

nanami looks down, then out toward the trees beyond the backyard. his hands are at his sides again, twitching once like he’s still not fully calm.

“i don’t usually get involved like that,” he says finally. “i’ve seen worse happen at these parties. i’ve stopped things before, but never like that.”

you wait, heart beating a little faster.

he breathes out through his nose, glances at you. “it scared me.”

you blink. “scared you?”

“how fast i reacted,” he says. “how angry i got. i’m… not used to feeling that way. especially not over someone i barely know.”

his eyes hold yours and the air goes still between you.

“but i don’t think it’s fair to say i barely know you anymore.”

your pulse stutters.

he takes a step closer. “i’ve been paying attention.”

you swallow, the sound loud in your throat. “to what?”

his voice is low. careful.

“to the way you carry yourself. how you watch people. how you never ask for attention, but always seem to hold it. how gojo lights up when you walk into a room. how you laugh when you think no one’s listening. how you talk to shoko like you’re already part of the family.”

you don’t breathe.

“and the way you look at me when you think i’m not looking,” he adds.

your cheeks go hot. “i—”

he shakes his head. “you don’t have to say anything. i just wanted you to know. that’s why i reacted the way i did. because i’ve been feeling… something. for a while now. and seeing someone put their hands on you like that—”

he cuts himself off, jaw tightening again.

you step toward him, slowly, like approaching something that could break or burn if you move too fast.

“i’ve been thinking about you too,” you say, barely above a whisper.

his eyes flick up to meet yours.

“i haven’t known what to do with it,” you admit. “but it’s there.”

something in his shoulders eases. not completely, but enough.

he nods once, then looks down, like he’s still trying to rein himself back in. like your words shook him more than the fight did.

his hands are still tucked in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched like he’s unsure what to do now that it’s all out in the open.

“i’m… not very good at this kind of thing,” he says after a beat, voice quieter now. “emotions. talking about them. having them.”

you smile softly. “you’re doing okay.”

he huffs, but it’s not quite a laugh. more like disbelief at himself. “i’ve never really been in a serious relationship. not one that mattered.”

you raise your brows. “wait—were you already thinking about something serious?”

he looks up sharply and you burst into quiet laughter.

he blinks, then sighs like you’ve caught him in the middle of a thought he wasn’t ready to admit out loud.

“i didn’t mean to say it like that,” he mutters.

“no,” you say, still smiling. “it’s cute.”

he groans under his breath, shaking his head, but there’s color rising to his cheeks now. he glances at you again, more boyish than you’ve ever seen him.

“you’re laughing at me,” he says.

“only a little.”

“i don’t blame you,” he murmurs. “you make me say things i normally wouldn’t.”

“that’s a good thing, right?”

he nods slowly. “i think so.”

you step closer again, the cold forgotten. the music is a distant heartbeat behind the glass. it feels like you’re the only two people left in the world, like the party has dissolved around the edges and left only this small, glowing center where everything feels quiet and right.

he watches you like he’s memorizing something. like he’s not sure this moment is real.

then his hand moves, deliberate and slow, and you barely breathe as his fingers brush your cheek. he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch warm and careful, almost reverent.

you look up at him.

he’s already looking at you.

his voice is soft when he speaks. “can i?”

you nod before you can think too hard about it.

his hand lingers at your jaw, thumb ghosting along your skin, and then he leans in, closing the last few inches like he’s finally letting himself want something.

and when his lips touch yours, it’s gentle at first—hesitant, almost questioning.

then you lean in too.

and the hesitation fades.

his other hand finds your waist, grounding and steady, and your fingers tangle in the front of his shirt, holding him close like you’ve been waiting to do it forever.

it’s not fireworks, not at first.

it’s warm.

slow.

like breathing out after holding it in too long.

and when he finally pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you smiling a little, breath catching between heartbeats, you know it’s the kind of kiss you’ll remember even when everything else feels blurry.

“definitely not good at this,” he says under his breath.

“you’re better than you think,” you whisper.

he kisses you again. this time, it’s just because he wants to.

his mouth meets yours with more certainty now, like something has clicked inside him, something he’s finally letting go of. you sigh into it, your fingers tightening where they grip his shirt, and he moves closer, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body even with the night air curling sharp around you both.

his hand trails from your waist to the small of your back, firm and steady, pressing you gently into him. your chest brushes his, your hips almost aligned, and your whole body feels like it’s been set alight.

the next kiss is deeper.

your lips part, and his tongue slides against yours—slow, warm, deliberate. your breath catches, fingers curling into the fabric at his collar, and he groans quietly into your mouth like he wasn’t expecting this, like it’s unraveling him just as much as it’s unraveling you.

his other hand finds your jaw again, thumb grazing just under your cheekbone as he tilts your head, guiding the kiss with more hunger now. you lean into it, dizzy from how good it feels, how right it is, the cool night air clashing with the heat blooming beneath your skin.

your hands move too. you let them roam, one sliding up to cup the back of his neck, the other slipping beneath the hem of his shirt where his skin is warm and taut. he shudders when you touch him there, like the contact lights something deeper.

his mouth leaves yours for a second, just long enough to catch his breath, to kiss the corner of your mouth, then lower, the edge of your jaw, just under your ear. it sends a shiver down your spine.

you exhale his name, barely audible.

his grip tightens.

then he kisses you again, hungrier now, like he’s done pretending he doesn’t want more. your tongues slide together, the kiss deepening until your knees feel weak and you have to press your body into his just to stay standing.

the porch is cold, but you don’t feel it.

not with his hands on you, not with his mouth claiming yours again and again, each kiss more desperate than the last.

not with the way he’s breathing like he can’t get enough of you.

and you don’t want him to stop.

your bodies are pressed together now, breath mingling, hands sliding over fabric and skin like neither of you want to stop.

but then, nanami slows.

his mouth lingers at the corner of yours, his breathing uneven. his hands settle, one at your waist, the other still cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek gently.

“wait,” he murmurs against your skin.

you blink up at him, dazed, lips parted.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes serious now, more grounded. “are you sober?”

you hesitate. “a little.”

he searches your face carefully, his brows drawing together in concern. “how much have you had?”

you pause again, trying to do the math. “just a few drinks. i’m not drunk, just buzzed. i promise.”

he’s quiet for a beat, like he’s checking your words against the way you’re standing, the steadiness in your voice, your eyes. he nods slowly, but doesn’t move just yet.

“do you really want this?” he asks.

you blink. “what?”

“this,” he says gently, nodding between you. “i want to be sure. i need to know it’s what you want and not just the party or the mood or me being… here.”

you feel something warm unfurl in your chest.

because he’s right there, lips kiss-bruised and hands still trembling slightly, and still—he’s thinking about you first. always.

you smile softly, leaning in just enough to let your forehead rest against his. “i really want this.”

he exhales like he’s been holding that breath for minutes.

then you tilt your head and kiss him again.

his smile curves against your mouth, and you feel his hands come alive once more, just as careful, just as hungry, but now with the unspoken weight of something deeper, something that says this isn’t just a kiss and this isn’t just tonight.

this is the beginning of something that matters.

part two when i'm on holiday after the weekend chat i promise 🥀

[peasack]

I love your work!!! I was wondering if you'd write a teen!reader headcanon for them struggling with mental health, needing help with homework, coming out or getting bullied please? I especially love how you write Ava (she's my favourite character) and you manage to nail the Alexis voice

Absolutely adore this request.

I chose to write about the mental health, since I all of them (obviously) know how to deal with that. But I'll definitely put the other suggestions on my list!

Thunderbolts x Gn!Teen!Reader

✦ Thunderbolts Mental Health Support Headcanons ✦

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✦ Ava Starr

The quiet protector. Ava’s not the type to talk circles around you or push you to open up. Instead, she watches. She notices the changes in your behaviorthe silence, the distance, the fake smiles and instead of asking a million questions, she simply shows up. She’ll quietly sit next to you, maybe reading or scrolling on her phone, just so you know she’s there without overwhelming you.

Understands isolation deeply. After everything with her phasing, Ava knows what it’s like to feel broken, like you're a burden, like no one could possibly understand. So when you isolate, she doesn’t take it personally. She just leaves a small trail for you to follow when you’re ready a text, a post-it note, a granola bar on your desk. Tiny signs that say you’re not forgotten.

Soft but firm boundaries. If you try to shut her out completely or brush her off with a fake “I’m fine,” Ava will tilt her head at you with this deadpan look and go, “Try again.” Not mean, not angry. Just “I see through you. You’re not fine. But I’ll wait for you to be ready.” She never lets you disappear completely.

Takes you on quiet, low-pressure ‘missions.’ She’ll invite you on drives, walks, or errands that sound boring but feel safe. “Come with me to pick up supplies. No talking necessary.” It’s her way of offering you company without forcing conversation. These small moments help you reconnect to the world without overwhelming you.

Gentle about scars and history. When she finds out about your past or your scars, she doesn’t freak out. She doesn’t lecture. She just softly says, “You’ve survived a lot. You don’t have to survive it alone anymore.” And that’s it. She holds it like a secret you entrusted her with.

Fiercely protective in her own silent way. If anyone triggers you, bullies you, or drags you down—Ava will quietly, ruthlessly remove that threat from your life. No one knows how, but that person suddenly just leaves you alone. Ava doesn’t need credit or thanks. She just protects you. Always.

✦ Alexei Shostakov

Not the best with words, but man does he show up. Alexei might not always know what to say, but he makes sure you know you’re not alone. He’ll randomly sit with you, bring you snacks, or drag you into the living room to watch terrible old Soviet movies with him, just to keep you company.

Overcompensates with physical comfort. He’s big on hugs and ruffling your hair, and you get the sense he’s constantly making sure you’re still there, still safe. He’s the kind of guy who will pat your back so hard you almost fall over—but you feel a little better afterward.

Terrible at hiding his concern. He’ll blurt out things like, "You are not allowed to disappear, okay? I will find you. I will find whoever made you sad. I will crush them like beetle."

Secretly keeps an eye on your routines. He notices if you’re skipping meals, missing sleep, or isolating. He’s not subtle—he’ll straight up drag you out of bed and be like, “We are going for silly little walk. It is non-negotiable.”

Panics when you cry. He immediately calls for backup (usually Yelena) like he’s reporting a code red. But he stays. Always. Even when he’s unsure what to do, he refuses to leave your side.

✦ Yelena Belova

The calm-in-a-storm type. When you’re spiraling, Yelena doesn’t flinch. She sits next to you, quietly, like, "Okay. We are sad now. I will be sad with you." She doesn’t try to fix you. She just holds space.

Violently protective of your mental space. If someone at school or even in the team says something that hurts you, she’s on it like a hawk. “Tell me who. I just want to talk.” (She does not just want to talk.)

Talks about her own issues openly. She’ll casually drop lines like, "Yeah, I have bad days too. I usually throw knives to feel better." She tries to normalize it so you never feel broken.

Pulls you into little missions or tasks when you isolate. "Come help me spy on Alexei. It will be fun." It’s her way of reconnecting you with the world.

Terrible with cheesy comfort phrases. Instead, you get blunt affection. "You are not allowed to give up. You are my family. You do not get to leave me. I will be annoying forever, so you must stay to suffer me."

✦ Bucky Barnes

The king of quiet understanding. He never pushes. Never demands you explain. Just sits next to you, offers a cup of tea, and sometimes just says, "I’ve been there. You don’t have to talk, but I get it."

Not great with open emotional convos but will listen all night if you need. He doesn’t always know what advice to give, but he will nod along, let you ramble, and toss in dry little jokes to keep you grounded.

Gives you space but always checks in. Leaves little notes on your door like "I’m making food. You better eat." Or sends you a text: "Still breathing? Cool. Come hang when you’re ready."

Gets quietly, intensely protective if anyone makes you feel worse. He won’t make a scene but will 100% have a quiet, terrifying “chat” with the person responsible.

Teaches you small things to help. Like how to box when you’re angry, or how to breathe when you’re spiraling. He’s the type to hand you coping tools instead of empty comfort.

✦ Bob Reynolds

So, so soft about it. Bob is super emotionally tuned in and probably notices you’re struggling before you say anything. He gets this gentle, concerned tone like, "Hey, kid… you doing okay?"

Overthinks and worries a lot. He’s scared of saying the wrong thing or making you worse, but he wants to help. He’ll sit with you, make you tea, or put on your favorite show just to be near you.

Big on distraction days. He’ll offer to play games, watch movies, even sit and listen to music together, anything to help you breathe and not be stuck in your head.

Sassy comfort. Once you’re closer, he’ll throw in playful sass to make you smile when you’re down. "Look, you’re stuck with me now. Can’t get rid of me. I’m like emotional gum on your shoe."

If you cry in front of him, he crumbles. He holds you so carefully like you might break, and his voice drops to the softest whisper like, "Hey… hey, you’re safe. I’ve got you, okay? I’ve got you.”

✦ John Walker

Awkward but fiercely loyal. John’s not super in touch with his own emotions, but the moment he sees you’re struggling, he’s locked in. He just… doesn’t always know how to handle it. "You, uh, wanna… I dunno. Wanna hit something? Or get ice cream? Or whatever helps?"

Overprepares. Starts reading up on mental health resources, making checklists in his phone like "Things To Help The Kid When They're Sad" because he genuinely wants to be good at this.

Dad-mode activated. He’ll randomly show up with snacks, your favorite drink, or movie nights without making a big deal out of it. If you try to thank him, he waves it off like, "Don’t worry about it, kid. It’s what I’m here for."

Gets super angry at anyone who hurts you. Like, full-on clenched fists, ready-to-throw-down angry. But he channels it quietly—he just gets very, very protective from a distance.

Awkward comfort, but real. Might pat your back stiffly and mutter, "Look… I might not always get it. But I care about you, okay? You’re family. You’re my kid now. Deal with it."

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Hope this was alright, it's a little more detailed on Ava’s part since, of course, the request was for her.

If you guys have more requests please leave them in my inbox! <3

[mortal-ethos]

The first time I started figuring out my gender, I felt very fluid, but due to the rise in transmed ideology and being a kid in an oppressive household and society, I tried so hard to be a man. I thought I had to be a man, and I felt like shit because I constantly was questioning myself, constantly insecure, I did everything I was "supposed" to do and be as a "man" both by the standards I grew up with, and the modern standards I had begun to see and still continue to see amongst "progressive" circles (which was doing everything by myself and taking abuse from my partners because the idea of men standing up for themselves or taking a single second to themselves is pushed as abuse and laziness, so I just. Did everything. And took all of it).

I was the handy man, I Mended the garments, I cooked every meal, I cleaned the house and did the dishes, I was the only one working, I put aside any issues or emotions I had for every person/partner, I was constantly told anytime I showed emotion that I was scary or that I was wrong, that I wasn't allowed to feel the way I felt, that I made problems all the time out of nothing, so I stopped and when I would keep my emotions down during conversations I was told I wasn't talking like a real person, any time I tried to talk about mental health issues I was made fun of so I stopped, any time I had a need I was degraded for wanting something so I stopped expressing a desire for closeness and emotional connection while being told that I needed to talk about my problems more even though they were constantly ignored, I was my partners' wallet, I couldn't have my own interests and always had to engage others with theirs while mine were judged and belittled, not even getting into how much pressure there was on me to "look" like a man. I did fucking everything I could until I broke.

I used to think if I just was a Good Man, if I just did everything asked of me, everything I was told, if I did everything right, if I was only ever gentle and kind and vulnerable, I would be happy. The pain would go away, I could be myself, and I could make everyone else happy. I could show what a Good Man was, I could be better. And I tried so hard. But I broke. I wasn't a good man. I couldn't do it. I broke down wondering what was wrong with me. Why was it no matter what I did, it wasn't enough. I would never be gentle enough, kind enough, skilled enough, strong enough, communicative enough, stoic enough, happy enough, rich enough, I would never be enough. So I gave up and I asked myself, who was I trying to be enough for? For people that don't know me? For people that don't care about me? For people that would never understand me anyway? Why was I never happy, even when I did everything asked of me... Why was no one ever happy with me?

Why was I STILL NOT MAN ENOUGH.

So I said fuck it. Who am I being a man for. My gender shouldn't feel like a fault in my personhood. And I let myself sit with it for a while. I asked myself, why do I still connect with my womanhood, with the lesbian community, with girlhood, why is this feminine rage still inside me intricately entwined with my masculine transness? Why, when I talk about women's issues, why do I have to choke down saying "we" and "us?" Why, when I feel like a man, is it strongest when I'm helping the ones that I love? What about those days I feel like neither, the days I feel more connected to the moss beneath my feet, to the shadows of tree branches, to the smell of rain, to the sound of boots on pavement, to the metallic taste of blood, to the ones that wear masks? What about those days I feel like I don't want to decide, I don't want to settle on one thing, where I feel like the planets in orbit, all circling each other simultaneously, each rotating themselves? The days where I see myself on this earth as intimately woven into the fabric of existence, when I experience creation and make myself into a new person for that moment, a new color unseen, a new emotion unfelt, a new breath never shared?

I'm not a man, or not just a man. I'm not just a woman, I'm not just non-binary. I tried fitting my experiences, my existences, into one singular label. Into the label that was supposed to be right, the one that was easy, the one everyone else is. I felt like my gender queer experiences were a gender failing, a pathetic flailing attempt at transness. I wasn't man enough, but I had to be because... I thought that was my only option.

Anyone thinking being non-binary, being gender fluid, being agender, bigender, gender queer, is all just part of the process of eventually settling into a binary identity is so, so wrong. I am not lost or confused. I didn't lose myself, my transness, my queerness, in the fluidity. I found my way back home.

when nonbinary people discover they are actually transgender binary, i wish them all the best, but i cannot STAND when they dismiss their previous identity as illegitimate. sure, maybe it wasnt you, but nonbinary is still real and valid.

i remember when a nonbinary content creator i really resonated with came out as a trans man instead, he started saying that nonbinary is "only a stepping stone to being the opposite binary!!" and that its "just a pipeline effect and nothing solid :)" i had recently separated from my long term partner due to identity related reasons and i was feeling insecure, finding community online. i questioned myself for months then, forcing the idea of being binary onto myself in what was admittedly an ocd spiral. its not his fault but i feel if you make queer content you kinda owe it to your audience to not spread false and harmful narratives about it

this is exorsexism.

i've seen it time and time again that previously-nonbinary content creators come out as binary trans and suddenly become really exorsexist in their stance, behaviour, language. this stuff never hurts their following though and nonbinary people who point this out usually end up being accused of transmisia and "being too sensitive". meanwhile people act like our genders are time bombs.

[samah-2]

Daughter:

Mama... I’m hungry. My stomach hurts... We haven’t eaten for 3 days 💔💔💔

Me:

I know, my love... I know. But there’s nothing left in the house... no bread, no oil, not even clean water.😓😓😓

Daughter :

Then why don’t we go get aid? Our neighbor went yesterday to bring rice!🫣🫣

Me:

He didn’t come back, sweetheart! He was targeted! He left walking and came back a martyr...😞😞😞

Everyone who went this morning... half of them never returned.😭😭😭

Daughter:

So if you go... You might die too?😥😥😥

Me:

We shouldn't lose any of us ... I can’t bury a piece of my heart💔💔

Oh God... where do I go with my children? How do I feed them? What should I do?! 😭😭

I’m a mother, ya Allah... a mother who can’t feed her kids...😞😞😞

How do I keep living while watching their eyes slowly die in front of me every day?💔💔💔

Daughter:

Mama... my stomach hurts... but I’m not mad... just let me sleep in your arms🥹🥹

Me:

Come here, my love... My arms are empty of bread... but full of fear and love❤️❤️❤️

Forgive me, my baby...😭😭

This is our daily conversation with my children 💔💔

If you would like to help my children, the donation link is here👇

7# Verified By @bilal-sala7✅