#and you know he did. no one had ANY problems with him for the rest of the year.

[majestyeverlasting]

Hiii so happy to see you're taking requsts 🥰 could you write a small blurb or smth about Bucky dating an inexperienced reader? (Totally not projecting asgfjshk) but just imagine it's been a few weeks of dating and they've kissed and stuff but one night they're on the couch having a movie night and things get steamier than usual. I'm just imagining how he would navigate that and make his partner straddle his lap and reassure them when they get all shy - I'm unwell 🤭🥹

𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐛.𝐛

This piece contains suggestive themes

pairing bucky barnes x female reader

summary it’s movie night and you’re craving bucky’s affection. Luckily, he isn’t immune to your wandering hands. [fluff, suggestive language, wc 1.7k]

a/n it’s been too long since i’ve written for bucky, even though that’s all i did once upon a time. thank you so much for this request!

∘°∘♡∘°∘

The two of you have long settled into the night. Outside, Capitol Hill carries on just as When Harry Met Sally does on the flatscreen. If it weren’t for that and the dim lamplight, Bucky’s living room would be bathed in darkness, save for the residual lights of D.C.

A buttery scent lingers in the air, though the empty popcorn bowl now rests on the coffee table with a few kernels at the bottom. Bucky’s chest shakes with a reluctant chuckle at the current scene. You miss the next line of dialogue, but not the flex of his abs where your hand is tucked beneath his shirt to thieve his warmth.

Everything always weighs down a little heavier at night, your affection included.

It’d been a while since Bucky welcomed another person into his life. A month with you made him wish he’d met you a whole lot sooner. Maybe selfishly. As great as the movie is, all the real magic is happening off screen here with you. 

When Bucky peers over, your doe-like gaze meets his.

“Tired?” he asks. 

You shake your head no, then press a kiss to his shoulder through his black t-shirt. “Just wanted to be closer,” you admit. 

It sounds like you’re afraid you’ve annoyed him. If Bucky was bothered by how touchy you’d grown, you’re almost certain he wouldn’t say it out loud. 

“Sorry.” You offer a small smile and make a halfhearted attempt to straighten up some.

“For what?” You can hear the smile in his voice as you divert your gaze back to the TV screen, pretending you wouldn’t rather keep staring at him. 

Bucky’s eyes, as icy blue as they appear, never lose their warmth. 

Part of you thought the butterflies he stirred within you would eventually diminish, but they only multiplied with each passing day you were privileged enough to know him and be known. 

Over the years, you’d spent so much time buried in books and engrossed in love stories from the movies. Now that you had the real thing, it was better than you ever thought it would be. 

“Are you sorry for half paying attention to the movie you picked?” he teases as if his own attention hadn’t faltered the moment you slipped your hand up his shirt. “Is that it?” 

It was his presence.

You’d been ripped open and turned inside out by the magnitude of who he was—his unfailing kindness and quiet, contemplative way. Yet it felt like the opposite of dying. That raw sense of openness allowed Bucky to be a witness to your hopes, and dreams, and what made you tick. If anything, it was confirmation that you were alive and not invisible. 

Even now, it feels like he can see right through to the part of you that craves his nearness and his touch. Bucky tries not to smile, which is a problem he never had before you. 

Your mouth parts a few times. “I am paying attention,” you defend. “But you…” 

His chest warms as he quirks a brow. “Me?” 

You realize you don’t have any additional context to provide. “You.” 

Bucky chuckles, and your fingers instinctively curl into his stomach. The sensation prompts him to ease your hand from beneath his shirt to kiss the back of it, holding your gaze. The plushness of his lips and the prickly brush of his beard make tingles dance up your arm.

You tuck your head when a smile pulls at your lips. Bucky catches your chin and raises it back up. A breath later, he leans in to kiss you, lips warm like summer. He tastes like popcorn and spearmint gum. You’re helpless against the small, pleased sound that rises up your throat. You angle your body towards him for better access. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt this dizzy yet so complete. 

Without breaking the kiss, Bucky hooks an arm around your waist and pulls you over to straddle his lap. Maybe it’s the suddenness, or the way his hands move to knead your waist, but there’s a shift. You pull away with wet lips and hot cheeks. There’s a guilty attentiveness to Bucky’s gaze as desire continues to flicker between you. 

“You okay?” he asks. There’s not a single hint of annoyance or frustration. 

You’re quick to nod. “Yeah, no,” you assure, blinking a couple times and shifting self-consciously. “I-I just wasn’t expecting...”

Bucky’s gaze softens even more. “That's my fault.” His thumbs slip beneath the hem of your shirt to brush along the base of your ribcage. “I got eager.” His gruff shamelessness makes your stomach flip. 

Your eyes flick down to where your thighs are bracketed over his, and you attempt to lift up so he can’t feel the fullness of your weight. You don’t have half the boldness you’d like to in this position. Without missing a beat, Bucky encourages you back down with those strong hands, one skin and the other vibranium. You finally relax. He’s solid muscle and a beating heart beneath you, steady and wanting.

“You make me so nervous.” You admit, huffing a shaky laugh as you study his face. “My hands are shaking.”  

Bucky takes your hands in his, squeezing them firmly enough to ground you. “That makes two of us,” he reveals. Except, you can’t tell that you’ve shaken him at all.

“But I think we'll be okay,” he continues, leaning in like he's letting you in on a secret.

He’s right. You will be. 

He holds your gaze for a few seconds before he drops your hands in favor of holding your waist. This time, kisses you as if he’d never get the chance to relish something this sweet again. When his tongue runs over your lower lip, you open your mouth a little more, and he gingerly licks into it like he’s trying to get a taste. Your breath catches, and his grip tightens as his hips tilt up into yours. 

Your fingertips scratch the nape of his neck beneath his long hair, and he hums at the feeling of your nails. A shiver runs through you when his hand ventures up your shirt to brush along the underside of your breast. His touch is so featherlight and reverent that you almost don’t feel it at all. It stirs a greater want within you. This time you’re not afraid of the tug. 

Your hips swivel into him on their own accord. There’s a noticeable firmness within his pajama pants. A newfound confidence leads you to double down in a way that draws a groan up his throat. Bucky eventually shudders and stills your movements. 

“Gonna make me embarrass myself,” he breathes against your lips, thighs twitching. 

You don’t mean to chuckle, but you can’t help it. It’s an airy sound Bucky wants to bottle. Upon pulling away, he braves the herculean task of trying not to give away the fact that you’re getting to him. You’d been getting to him since the day you met. Most days, it seemed like you were the one who felt like everything was new, scary, and exciting.

That was only because he hid it better. He’d lived many lifetimes, but none of them, and no woman he’d ever met compared to this. 

At his helpless, smitten look, you giggle more, then cup his face because you don’t know what else to do with your hands. 

“You laughing at me, doll?”

You try your best to bite back a smile, “No.” 

“Mm-hm.” He turns his head to kiss your palm, gaze growing heavier. “It’s not fair for you to be this pretty. Or feel this soft.”

Bucky means it just like he means everything else he says about you. You would shower him with compliments right back if you knew where to start. 

“You’re just saying that,” you murmur. 

“M’not.” He steals a peck from your lips. “Hardly know what to do with myself when you’re around.” He presses another lazy kiss to your chin and feels himself stir in his boxers. The worst, or perhaps the best part, is that you feel him too.  

A squeak escapes you when he stands to his feet. He doesn’t waver for a second, large hands supporting the undersides of your thighs. You wrap your arms around his neck with the irrational fear of falling, but he’d never let you go. A giddy smile blooms across your face when he starts walking towards his bedroom. 

Electricity crackles beneath your skin as he sits on the foot of his bed and lays backwards. The comforter rustles beneath him. You stare down at him and his haloed hair with wide eyes. 

“C’mere,” Bucky encourages, more hopeful than he needs to be. You'd do just about anything he asks. 

You lean forward to capture his lips. He curses under his breath and, for the first time, kneads two palmfulls of your backside. Your breath catches, but you don’t break from the kiss. Not even when he pulls your hips down against his crotch.  

“Sweetheart,” he breathes. 

“Mmm?” 

“I can make you feel good,” he says, voice raspy with arousal. “Lemme make you feel good.” 

Your answer comes sooner than he’s expecting, “Okay.” 

Bucky carefully rolls you off of him so you’re the one lying on your back. Instead of bracing himself overtop of you, he stands between your legs. The swell in the front of his pajama pants makes your face flush hotter. 

“Promise me something, though.” You wait for him to continue. “You’ll tell me what you like and what you don’t.” 

He gives your knee a gentle squeeze. “Don’t gotta be shy.” 

“I promise,” you whisper.

Bucky offers an easy, lopsided smile as he lowers himself onto his knees. 

- 

Thanks for reading! All likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I promise I see them all! 

BUCKY MASTERLIST 

ALL MASTERLISTS 

[meanbossart]

I don't know if you've already answered a question like this but I wanted to know what you could tell us about the relationship between your Drow and Gale! It seems like a very funny dynamic, also Gale is my favorite together with Astarion, every time you bully him I cry, its too funny

THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN DU DROW AND GALE - NEIN, DU DROW, GALE AND ME IS... COMPLEX. A lot has been said about it but I will happily revisit the events that transpired:

If you weren't there in the early release of the game - I'm talking before the epilogue party. Before Honor Mode. Before the magic mirror - you wouldn't be aware of how weirdly "buggy" Gale's romance was. He's already insistent by default, but back then there were reports of his romance dialogues triggering despite no romance ever being initiated, or attempts at breaking up with him not really working. I was a victim of this. Except that, either through ignorance or roleplaying immersion, I sort of took it as the intended experience.

Don't get me wrong, I did technically initiate the "romance" by agreeing to let him show me a magic trick at the tiefling party(I genuinely thought it was a platonic offer) but after my burly fighter failed every check and I realized my mistake, I did end bail out of the date and made sure to no longer pursue the romantic path with him at all. This did not dissuade the man. Who proceeded to, in several occasions, jump-scare me with completely unprompted and illicit confessions about reading racy erotica and observations about how good I looked while sweaty. I would pick the rudest responses on purpose to get him to stop (he didn't) and tried to make my disinterest EXPLICITLY clear, but the man could not be convinced.

So, when DU drow and Astarion were "going steady" and Astarion, completely unbeknownst to me, brought up the "Gale problem" that I apparently had to solve before we could make things official, I was so shocked by the game's reactiveness (and how it accidentally fit into the narrative that had been woven here) that I'm pretty sure I laughed until I cried. You're right Astarion. i guess I do have to deal with the Gale problem. This was exacerbated by the fact that, when speaking to Gale after this, not only is he especially crossed about having Astarion picked over him, but I'm pretty sure one of the options you get is to disclose to him that you just didn't know that things between you were that serious. By complete accident the game had allowed me to roleplay this scenario where my character is apparently harassed by a clingy wizard desperately looking for a rebound - and he doesn't even realize what's happening - to the point where the guy he is actually pursuing has to tell him to go and fucking deal with it before he signs up for any of this mess.

After this, it just felt sort of natural to be rude and a contrarian to Gale's every idea and thought. Yes, he quit pursuing me, but DU drow would have been so fed up with him that even after the man has fixed his behavior, he's just written him off as being the worse, most desperate version of himself full-time. Naturally, Gale remained a staple in my never-changing party and their rivalry got as in-depth as DU drow's friendship with Shadowheart or romance with Astarion. It also turned him into a wizard hater and it bleeds into my own gameplay to this day.

I don't hate Gale, to be extremely clear. He's a fascinating character to me - but my interpretation of the character was very much shaped by my first experience of the game, and that was of a emotionally-starved man who, at least for a time, was prone to falling in love with the first person to ever brush against his arm. And by the time that he snapped out of this stupor he had already made a name for himself in his party as a creep and a weirdo - except that, unlike the rest of the creeps and weirdos that composed the team, he was given zero grace on the basis of... Of... Well. On the Basis of DU drow not liking him, Astarion considering him competition, and Shadowheart being Shadowheart. So he simply did not stand a chance.

Yes, he did go for the crown, in case you're wondering. I couldn't imagine why!

[aliwritex]

more stepdad!franco?? the stuff you write is just so cute!

stepdad!franco thoughts: daycare pick up

You were starting to freak out. The meeting happening in front of you seemed to be going on for hours, and it didn’t even look like it was close to ending. You knew getting up and leaving was your right but you’d definitely get in trouble, plus, the meeting was actually really important.

But Alex… You needed to pick up Alex from daycare. After thinking about it for a while you finally came up with a reasonable solution. So you excused yourself for a call.

Fran 🤍

“Hey. I just finished here. I'm about to leave for your place. I was gonna text you about the key.”

“Love, I’m kind of in a hurry but I need a big favor.” you told him and he just hummed “I’m getting held back in an important meeting and Alex’s dad is out of town for work, is there any change you could pick him up from daycare? If it’s not too much? I swear I’ll feed you a good dinner in exchange”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.”

“Oh, thank god, Franco, you’re the best. Listen I’m really in a hurry so I gotta go but I’ll text you the details. Love you, bye”

You barely even heard his own ‘bye’ before hanging up and running back into the meeting.

Minutes later Franco got a long text from you:

“You have to pick him up from room 4, I’ve already texted them about you so that should be no problem. He likes taking his time on the walk home but it is possible that he gets tired and you’ll have to carry him the rest of the way back. Back home he likes his bottle as soon as possible, just the small green one, warm milk. He’ll take that in the living room, he likes to nap there. He usually naps till dinner time but by then I’ll be home so that’s it.They usually do a diaper change before pick up time so no need to worry about that.”

“The key is under the pot”

“i got it”

Alex did indeed take his time on the walk, bent down for dry leaves, talked to every dog passing, pointed at every bug; but by the time they were reaching the house he started getting hangry.

“Fan, want milk” the kid mumbled into Franco’s neck as he carried him into the house. “Where’ mummy?”

“Your mum is gonna be a little late, mi amor. But you got me till she’s back. Is that alright?” he asked and Alex nodded. “Come show me where your bottle is then”

Franco walked straight into the kitchen and sat Alex on the counter. The boy pointed at the cupboard where Franco found the exact green bottle and poured the milk, putting it in the microwave just long enough to make it warm. By the time it was done Alex had climbed off the counter with the help of his step and was nowhere to be seen.

He called out for the child, saying his bottle was ready and looking out for him. But when he found the boy behind the living room curtains, squatting and with his face red he knew he was in trouble.

“Your mum did not warn about this” he whispered to himself. “Hey buddy, are you doing a number two? Want to go to the potty?”

“Go away!” he was quick to tell Franco when he tried opening the curtains.

“Sorry! Take your time, I’ll wait in the kitchen” he told the child.

A couple minutes later he walked into the kitchen, shorts shagging with the diaper as he reached out for Franco.

“Milk, Fan”

“Nah, mate. Gotta clean you up first” he said, already picking the child up with his hands under his arms, keeping a safe distance. Alex squirmed, protesting against Franco with all the strength in his tiny body, whining “no’s”. “Buddy, I know you’re hungry, but you stink! Let’s change that diaper then you can have your bottle.”

“I not poopy, Fanco!” he whined louder as they went up the stairs, tears filling his eyes.

“Hey, don’t need to cry, I’ll be quick. Then we can go back, have your milk and take a nap. Promise that when you wake up mummy will be here, okay?” he reassured the child as they reached his room.

Now, Franco did his best to change a squirmy, hangry child that was in desperate need of a nap. He managed the dirty one off, and the clean one on but there was no way he could get the boy to put his shorts back on.

“All done, mi amor! Now you’re clean,” he sniffed the child’s neck as he picked him up and let out an exaggerated hum making him giggle “smell good, now you can have your bottle. Next time you can tell Fran you need the potty, okay?

They both lay on the couch, Alex tucked under Franco’s arm as he handed him the bottle.

The kid looks up at him, lashes wet and face red from crying through the changing. “Hold?”

“Claro, mi amor”

“Is mummy home when Alex wake up?” he asked, teary eyed again. Franco just nodded, holding him closer and tilting the bottle into his mouth.

Just minutes later Alex was snuggled up to his side, half asleep and finishing his bottle. Franco sighed in relief as the boy drifted off and gently pulled the bottle away from him. He finally picked up his phone but there was still no text from you, so he just sent you a selfie of them on the couch.

When you finally got home the house was silent. You dropped your things by the door and peaked into the living room to check on them. They were both sleeping, Alex with his mouth open, drooling on Franco’s arm. You pulled up your phone immediately to take a picture before walking over to them.

“Thanks, baby” you whispered into his hair with a kiss.

[macalicious-fanfiction]

day 7: hammock

@kingdonmicrofic | 481/481 | rated g | ao3

The hammock had been Tanner’s idea. One of his friends had one that he had been able to use at a backyard birthday party a few months before Frank closed on the new house. So, when he was asked if there was anything special he wanted for Dad’s new place, Tanner had picked that. The problem was, when the main draw of the backyard was the pool and his children made a great case for being half fish, the thing had sat unused since Frank installed it at the start of summer.

So, it was the last place he expected Mel to be when, one evening, Frank came out from putting his kids down for the night to find her missing. He knew she wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye, but it was rare to not find her where he left her, because she was more likely to follow on his heels than anything else. There was something different about this night though. Something had drawn her away and he wanted to know what. It only took a few moments of searching before he caught sight of her. 

It was late summer, still warm, but there was a tell tale breeze that evening that spoke of autumn’s imminent arrival. It was nice out, relaxing, and from what he could see, she was enjoying herself. He thought for a moment that he would leave her be, watch from a distance so he wouldn’t disturb her, since she was afforded so few moments of peace. 

But it was like she had left a trail for him to find her: back door open, screen in place, so the ambient noise of the neighborhood leaked in. She was right there, framed like a piece of art in the window. His feet were leading him to her before the rest of him caught up. He could never stay away. He was silly to think he could. If she wasn’t following him, he was following her lead. That was just the way it was between them. One second he was in his kitchen and the next he was outside standing next to her, staring down at her, drawn to her as he would be across any distance like a magnet. 

She was nestled perfectly in the center of the hammock, swaying gently, eyes on the night sky above her through the leaves of the trees until he filled her field of vision. She smiled softly, “Hey. It’s such a nice night. I thought it was a shame to let it go to waste.”

“Mind if I join you?”

He knew it was ill advised if they wanted to keep the balance they teetered on between friends and something else. But when she nodded, he did anyway. She slid right into his arms when he climbed on, as they sank to the center together. Any excuse to hold her. 

[kleoshe]

Adding my 2 cents, I agree that cordy is definitely not a closer/better friend because they... aren't really friends. But I do think that it is safe to assume that if she did remain in sunnydale with the scoobies she WOULD HAVE become a better friend than X+W.

The fact is: she knows how to be extremely blunt

ALL THE TIME and would definitely point out BS at the hands of Xanders sexist fuelled personality and Willows (at times) selfishness. Most notably we see her do this in canon when she defends Buffy in s3 for spending the summer in LA. She would most definitely call Buffy out on shit sometimes but more importantly she would never have let Tara and Will live in the summers home rent free- (we literally see Cordelia working a job, she wouldn't let them get away without one lol), she would never have let the scoobies evict Buffy (but honestly I don't think it was in character for certain ppl who were there to have evicted her), and she wouldn't have given B half as much guilt about any of the men in her life that X, W and G did.

The best part about a potential Cordelia + Buffy friendship would be the insight that ONLY cordy could have given Buffy. They were both extremely popular girls at one point in time and it's no secret that Cordelia was very familiar with the dating game. She views guys in a totally different light than anyone else in the show (besides harmony probably). And buffys boy problems seem to be like 50% of the scooby conflicts.

(The rest of this post is what I think cordy would say to Buffy about her relationships just be warned)

Cordelia would have helped buffy get over Parker wayyy faster "suck it up Buffy! Every self respecting woman has been used by a college boy at least once! Eat a pint of ice cream, don't let him know that he hurt you, and put yourself back out there!" or so l imagine her saying.

If Xander gave Buffy his awful Riley speech in this AU, she wouldn't have been nearly as afflicted had cordy sat down with her and said something like "You shouldn't have to watch out for Riley like his mommy when you're busy taking care of Joyce, it's honestly embarrassing for him,"

and if Buffy responded something like "idk Cordelia.. it's just that... I can't afford to lose him... not after Angel... and my dad..."

she'd probably retort "if your stupid abandonment issues are the only thing that's keeping you together then I think we both know you should end it. What? Don't give me that look! You don't owe anyone any reason for a breakup, Lord knows he has like 50 red flags."

And regarding spike (because we know Cordelia isn't against vamps x humans) "Buffy you smell like sex and burgers all the time and so does spike do you really think I couldn't tell that you guys were hooking up?"

Queue buffy "what? Pshh. I could never.... Do anything with that... soulless... thing. Plus spike is spike! I wouldn't!!"

Insert Cordelia eye roll "You're being so stupid.It's so obvious he's so clearly in love with you, spike soulless still has a bajillion more emotions then Angel- and I'm kinda an Angel expert now. It's okay to be with him buffy! Jeez he literally took care of dawn the entire time you were dead!"

Occasionally someone in BtVS fandom will espouse the take that Cordelia was a better friend to Buffy than Willow or Xander were, a take I find pretty silly for reasons I'll outline later in this post. Someone even put forth this hot take on Charisma Carpenter's social media, to which she responded with what I think was an appropriate level of nonplus. But I'm less interested in debating this take (which I think, unlike the take that Tara was a better friend to Buffy than Willow or Xander were, is pretty clearly and easily not true) than I am in thinking about why this take is semi-popular especially as of late. I don't think it's just that the people who have this opinion like Cordelia; Faith is and has always been more popular than Cordelia, but you don't really see people claiming she was a better friend to Buffy than her canonical best friends were. So what gives? I've prepared two possible explanations that likely work in tandem.

Firstly there is the matter of narrative honesty. Simply put, the narrative of BtVS is more honest about Cordelia's flaws than about Willow or Xander's. I don't think the show is unaware of Willow or Xander's flaws -- they wouldn't have made Willow a villain if they didn't think she was pretty severely flawed, and I think we are not always supposed to be quite so sympathetic to Xander as some people in fandom believe (for instance, his snotty reaction to being rejected in "Prophecy Girl" is played pretty clearly as him being a jerk) -- but there are absolutely quite a few moments where it feels like the show downplays them or wants us to be on their side when they're being unpleasant. Even if we leave how they treat their love interests entirely out of the conversation and just look at their relationship with Buffy, you have instances like Willow being a jerk to Buffy in "Dead Man's Party" only for Buffy to apologize to her with no reciprocal apology, or Buffy thanking Xander for...not raping her in "Bewitched, Bothered, Bewildered" and making a big deal of what a good guy that makes him, despite his habit of frequently making sexual and sexist comments about her. Conversely, I...can't think of a single moment in BtVS where Cordelia is unpleasant -- to Buffy or otherwise -- and we are supposed to think otherwise. Correct me if I am wrong! But the show is very, very aware of how Cordelia comes across. I think this creates a dissonance in some viewers' minds because the show is very clear that Willow and Xander are Buffy's best friends, but the show is also not always honest about their flaws, which makes some viewers feel that their relationships with Buffy are wholly tainted by that dishonesty, and they see the honesty of Cordelia's portrayal in regards to Buffy as therefore being a better relationship instead of simply a better-written one.

Secondly, there is the fact that Willow and Xander objectively do worse things to Buffy than Cordelia does. Cordelia's worst crime against Buffy is being a bitch. (I don't normally condone calling women bitches but I fear Cordelia would be offended if I refrained from using her favorite word.) She's not nice. Sometimes she's mean in ways that don't really hurt Buffy at all ("the three Musketeers"), but other times she does go for a much lower blow; off the top of my head I think the worst thing she says to Buffy is the dig about her parents not being together in "Homecoming." Buffy isn't covering herself in glory in that episode either (and I would argue started their fight), but she also doesn't stoop to quite that level of throwing something very painful and personal in Cordelia's face. So, Cordelia is kind of a bitch to Buffy. Meanwhile, Xander, among other things, lies to Buffy about Willow trying to re-ensoul Angel* (*I'm a Lie apologist, but, it was uncool), has a frankly insanely cruel reaction to finding out that Buffy slept with Spike and only calms down once Spike literally tries to rape her, and throws said rape attempt in Dawn's face without Buffy's consent because he's mad that Dawn thinks Spike is cooler than he is. And Willow, among other things, tries to mess with Buffy's memories without her consent, tries to kill her, and tries to kill her sister. These are all way worse things than "being mean about Buffy's outfit" or even "being mean about Buffy's home life" (on top of the fact that Xander and Willow have their own moments of meanness as well, just as Buffy does). So I think some viewers react to this disparity between Cordelia's worst transgressions against Buffy vs. Xander and Willow's by deciding that, since Xander and Willow did worse things, they must be worse friends, and therefore Cordelia is a better friend.

But, I mean, that's not actually how friendship works, right? True, Cordelia never does anything as bad as a lot of characters on BtVS do to Buffy -- including not just Xander and Willow but also Giles, Angel, Spike, Faith, Anya, arguably even Joyce -- but that doesn't mean she and Buffy are better friends. They're not...really friends at all? They're in the same friend group, but even in S3's "Consequences" when Buffy describes Cordelia to Wesley as "a friend," Cordelia says, "Let's not exaggerate." They come to respect one another and they have affection for one another -- Cordelia is sad when Buffy dies, and I would like to believe Buffy would feel the same about Cordelia's death and that any Buffy comics that say otherwise and have her laughing about Cordelia dying horrifically should be burned in the deepest fires of hell -- but they're not, like, buddies. Sure, it would be nice if they had been, if maybe Cordelia had come back in S6 for an episode and she and Buffy could have established a real if tentative friendship, but, well, that didn't happen. But as it is, Cordelia's main emotional beat is with Xander before leaving for L.A., and once in L.A. we only ever see her reference talking to Willow out of the Scoobies. At least in AtS S1, she still views Buffy as "whiny" and overly-emotional; Buffy, in BtVS S5, sees no issue with comparing Cordelia to an evil hellgod. And sure, they have moments of near-friendship in BtVS proper, like connecting over loneliness in 1.11, or bonding over their experience towards the end of 3.05, or when Cordelia defends Buffy (...for a given value of the word "defends") in 3.02, or when Buffy tries to reach out to Cordelia in 3.09, or when Cordelia agrees to drive Buffy home in 3.12. They do have a relationship. I wouldn't even say they dislike each other.

But, while Cordelia may not have done the bad things to Buffy that Willow and Xander did, she also didn't do a lot of the good things either. She didn't comfort Buffy about Angel going evil, or follow Buffy to UC Sunnydale, or help Buffy through her mother's death, or take care of Dawn after Buffy died, or even just hang out with her a lot doing nothing. And none of those are marks against Cordelia, because, again: they're not really friends. Because friendship isn't just about not doing bad things to each other or occasionally doing nice things. If that were the case, Buffy's best friend in the whole show would have to be, like, Owen from 1.05, because he basically did nothing wrong to her and was even pretty nice. But that's clearly nonsense. She is better friends with Xander and Willow and Giles and Anya and Spike and, yes, Cordelia than she is with Owen, even though they all did worse things to her, because friendship is not the absence of treating someone badly, it is the presence of loving someone and being there for them. Thus it's not a contradiction to say that Xander and Willow at times treated Buffy worse than Cordelia ever did, and that the narrative wasn't always honest about this, but that they were also better friends to her. Really, I think the people who insist on the opposite, that Cordelia was the better friend to Buffy, are not so much misunderstanding the show -- I mean, they are to an extent, but they are also picking up on and reacting to elements that are very much present in the show -- as they are misunderstanding, fundamentally, what friendship is.

[viridian-house]

remembering the time I asked my ex to please make some distance between himself & my bestie because of remarks he'd made to me about her body and his response was to get home, sit on the sofa and fold his hands, and look at me and say "since you're thinking I'm cheating on you, I can only assume this means you're projecting your own guilt onto me and you're the one cheating. I'd like to look through your phone now."

and guess who ended up being the one cheating 🥲

[addoves]

staring directly at my incoming homework assignment as i draw luke instead

[kthologue]

operation: get over your childhood crush! — gojo satoru

synopsis. in an attempt to move on from your childhood best friend—who definitely doesn’t see you the way you want—you hatch a series of plans to help you get over him. it doesn't go as planned.

contents. hurt/comfort, fluff, nerd!gojo, college au, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, unreliable narrator, miscommunication, insecurity, dorky references bc u make him go dumb and digimon inaccuracies probably

notes. i did not proofread this monster!! enjoy :P

The hum of the air conditioning fills the room as night settles in, the light from Satoru’s bedside lamp casting a soft glow over his mess of a room. You’re both sprawled out across his bed, limbs entangled like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Because, for the two of you, it is.

Satoru’s Nintendo Switch is balanced on his stomach, hands lazily tapping away as his little Digimon charges into battle on screen. You’re curled into his side, one leg hooked around his and a blanket thrown haphazardly across you both. The half-abandoned textbooks sit at the edge of the mattress, tragically ignored. Another study session: failed. Not that Satoru needed it. He passed everything with flying colors. It was more of an excuse for you to come over.

“Your room still smells like that cheap vanilla air freshener,” you mumble, nose scrunching.

“That’s because you bought it,” he replies without looking up, thumb expertly guiding his character through an attack.

“Because your room would end up stinking with sweat and whatever freaky stuff you do in here.”

“Hey!” He whines. “I shower everyday and you know it. The stink is all you. Have you ever sniffed yourself, princess?”

You swat at his stomach, and he lets out a dramatic grunt. “Rude. I brought that candle to add ambiance.”

“Ah yes,” he deadpans, “nothing like artificial sugar scent.’”

You snort, settling your head back down on his shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie soft beneath your cheek. There’s a long pause before you say, “You know, if we fail our exams, I’m blaming your Digimon addiction.”

He grins. “I’m raising digital warriors, thank you very much. And I’ve never failed an exam, don’t wound me now!”

“They look like mutant toddlers with attitude problems.”

He gasps, clutching his heart. “They’re champions, you monster.”

You laugh, letting the sound dissolve into something quieter as your fingers absentmindedly trace a pattern into the blanket. His hand rests near yours. Not holding it. Not not holding it.

His glasses are tilted again. Of course.

You reach up and straighten them with a sigh. “Honestly, you’d be lost without me.”

“Not true.” He says it reflexively, then pauses. His voice softens. “Okay, maybe. I’d probably just let them slide down until I walked into a wall.”

You smile faintly. “And there’d be no one there to patch you up.”

“Tragic,” he agrees. “Would bleed out on the floor, probably.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re so bossy,” he counters, shooting you a sideways look. 

“Admit it,” he says, voice full of faux-smugness, “you’d miss me if I died tragically and left you all alone.”

You hesitate for a second too long before mumbling, “Don’t joke about that.”

It’s quiet. The game music loops in the background as his Digimon wins the battle with a triumphant fanfare.

He doesn’t say anything.

You suddenly feel too warm under the blanket. The joke had been harmless, stupid even.

But something inside you twists, the same something that’s been unraveling lately every time he mentions another girl.

Another type. That’s not you.

“You know,” you say slowly, eyes peeling from the screen to his phone, which lights up with a notification, revealing one of his favorite gravure model’s latest issues as its wallpaper. “You could probably date any girl you wanted. Why do you partake in freak stuff like this? It’s anti-girl repellent.”

He makes a noncommittal sound. “Doubt it.”

“I don’t. You’ve got that whole genius-who-doesn’t-realize-he’s-hot thing going on.”

He glances at you, skeptical. “Is that a thing?”

“It is. Annoying, but effective. Girls love it.”

He hums, clearly amused, cheeks slightly flushed. “Well, good to know I have options.”

You try to laugh, but it catches in your throat.

You shouldn’t ask. You really shouldn’t.

But you’re lying in his bed. Wrapped up in him like you belong here. And some part of you aches to know the answer.

So you pretend it’s a joke. You tilt your head against his shoulder, voice airy, teasing. “Hey, be honest—do you think I’m cute?”

He goes still.

His hand tightens slightly on the Switch. You think you’ve pushed too far, so you try to backpedal before he can respond.

“Not like… like that,” you say quickly. “I just meant, like, in general. Compared to those girls you’re into. Say, Waka Inoue. You know, long legs, shiny hair, cute face?”

His jaw tightens.

You’re still trying to play it off. “I mean, I’m not fishing for compliments. I just—was wondering.”

He finally turns to look at you.

His gaze lingers. And for the first time all night, he’s not smiling.

You feel your breath stutter in your throat underneath his gaze.

Then he shrugs.

“…Nah.”

It slices through the air with quiet finality.

Your heart drops. You don’t let it show. Not fully. But it must flicker in your face, because he quickly looks away.

You laugh. It sounds forced.

“Yeah, that’s fair. I mean, I wasn’t expecting a yes or anything.”

He’s silent.

You shift away from him slightly, giving him space. “I should head home soon. We didn’t really get any studying done, anyway.”

“It’s late. Why don’t you stay the night?”

Usually, you’d accept his offer with a smile, but you really wanted to go home and wallow in your own self pity.

“It’s fine, I have something to do anyway,” the lie slips out of your mouth easily as you begin to pack your things.

And you miss the way he watches you—guilt in his eyes, frustration on his tongue. 

You knew it was time. Twenty years of hopeless, fruitless pining had done enough damage to your heart.

It had started the day your parents moved next door. Satoru had been the loud, obnoxious, too-pretty-for-his-own-good boy on the playground who shoved candy in your hand and asked if you wanted to be friends.

You’d been doomed since day one.

And to make things worse, you’d both gotten into Japan’s most competitive university—together. Same neighborhood. Same school. Same train route. You weren’t just stuck with him. You were haunted.

But you were young and hot. And allegedly in your prime. You couldn’t keep orbiting around a guy who still thought microwave gyoza was a food group and used your shampoo because it “smelled like you, so why not?”

You were sipping coffee with your two closest friends, and today’s topic was—unfortunately—your love life.

“Honestly, I can’t believe you’ve been stuck on Gojo for this long,” Utahime said, disgusted, as she stirred her latte like it personally offended her. “You could do so much better.”

“It was kind of cute in high school,” Shoko added “but now it’s just sad.”

You sighed, blowing on your drink. “I know, okay? It’s not like I haven’t tried. But he’s literally the only guy I’ve ever been close to. I don’t even talk to guys besides him.”

“That’s because he’s been gatekeeping you since the two of you met,” Utahime said flatly. “I swear, every time someone so much as glanced at you, he pulled that overprotective act.”

You wrinkled your nose. “That doesn’t sound like ’Toru…”

Shoko and Utahime exchanged a look. One of those knowing glances.

Utahime cleared her throat. “It doesn’t matter! What matters is you are hot. You’ve got the face, the body, the grades, the personality. You just need the confidence.”

You peeked up at her, unsure. “You really think so?”

Utahime leaned forward, smirking like she’d just won a war. “I know so. And that’s why I’ve come up with a plan.”

You narrowed your eyes. “A plan?”

She slammed her hands down on the table, eyes alight. “Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru.”

You blinked. “That’s… a long title.”

Shoko blew a slow stream of smoke. “It’s either this or pine until you die and haunt him as a love-sick ghost.”

You stared into your cup, sighing. “Fine. I’m in. What’s step one?”

Utahime grinned.

“Whatcha doing?” 

Gojo’s voice drifts lazily over your shoulder, followed by the soft rustle of his hoodie as he leans in. He’s far too close, obnoxiously so, his breath tickling your ear and his chin was nearly resting on your shoulder.

You don’t even glance up. “Studying.”

The two of you are supposed to be studying— finals loom overhead like a guillotine, but as usual, very little academic progress has been made. Mostly because your study partner is a six-foot-something genius who insists on sitting sideways in the booth, long legs tangled in yours under the table like it’s second nature.

He hums, skeptical. “Liar.”

You hum noncommittally, thumbing through the dating app Utahime suggested with vague disinterest. The guys blur together: not tall enough, too cocky, too bland, too not Satoru. One makes a joke suspiciously close to a Gojo classic, and you immediately hit unmatch with a scowl.

“Wait,” Satoru says slowly. “Are you on a dating app?!” He practically yells the last part. Half the cafe turns to glare at the source of the disruption.

You hiss under your breath, mortified, swatting at him. “Keep your voice down, idiot!”

His eyes widen dramatically, hands thrown up like you’ve stabbed him. “I leave you alone for two minutes and you’re already planning a life with someone named ‘Keita, aspiring poet and spiritual healer’? I’m wounded.”

“You weren’t supposed to read that far.”

“I’m a speed-reader,” he says with a smug grin. “It’s part of the whole ‘genius’ thing.”

Before you can argue, he snatches your phone with a level of ease that tells you this isn’t the first time he’s done something like this. He grins like he’s won a prize.

“Satoru!”

“Relax, I’m not texting anyone,” he says, fingers flying across the screen. “Just optimizing.”

Your heart drops. “What are you typing?”

“Nothing~”

You make a grab for your phone, but he effortlessly leans back, holding it above his head with those ridiculously long limbs. You glare at him from across the table, arm outstretched like a furious cat trying to swat at the moon.

“Give it back!”

“Patience.”

“Gojo Satoru—”

“Okay, okay!” he relents with a dramatic sigh, finally placing your phone face-down on the table like he’s done you a huge favor.

You snatch it up immediately, eyes scanning for damage. No weird messages. No unsolicited likes. No new matches.

“…What did you do?”

“I didn’t message anyone,” he assures, too innocent to be trusted. “I’m not that cruel.”

You narrow your eyes, suspicious.

“But,” he adds with a grin, “I didn’t know you were dating.”

“I’m not,” you mutter, clicking your phone off. “Just considering it. Trying. It’s not going well.”

“Good.”

The word comes out too fast. Too sharp. And his face doesn’t match the light tone he’s trying to play off.

You raise an eyebrow. “Good?”

He shifts, leaning back in his seat, suddenly very interested in stirring the foam in his overpriced coffee. “I mean, it’s good you’re not settling. You should be picky. Guys are the worst.”

You snort. “You are a guy.”

“Exactly. I know what we’re like.”

You smile despite yourself, rolling your eyes. “I’m sure you think you’re the exception.”

“I know I am,” he says, winking. Then he sobers slightly, eyes flickering to yours. “I’m just… looking out for you.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. You wish it was more than just him being protective in that big-brotherly, annoyingly loyal kind of way.

You take a sip of your coffee to cool your nerves. It doesn’t help. The words come out before you can stop them.

“You know with the way things are going… maybe you should just date me at this point.”

Silence.

It’s a joke. Supposed to be. But the second it leaves your lips, it tastes real.

Gojo freezes.

You panic. “I didn’t mean—like, I was just joking—”

But he turns toward you, eyes unreadable behind the fringe of snowy white hair. “Maybe I should.”

You blink.

And then, with infuriating ease, he grins.

“Anyway,” he says quickly, swiping your phone from the table again before you can stop him, “Yuto here looks like the type to ghost you after three dates and a karaoke duet. You can do better.”

You gape at him, completely thrown off, your heart slamming in your chest.

You don’t even notice what he’s done until later—until you get home and open your app to find that your bio has been changed.

Taken. Mentally married to a nerd since birth.

You want to scream.

Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru?

Yeah. Not going great.

Not at all.

You weren’t sure why you agreed to it.

Maybe it was the look in Utahime’s eyes, so determined and hopeful. Maybe it was Shoko promising she would help you find true love. Maybe it was the quiet part of you that wanted to see yourself through someone else’s eyes. Someone who wasn’t Gojo Satoru.

“Today,” Utahime had declared, curling the last strand of your hair like she was threading a spell, “is the first day of your Gojo-less future”

You laughed nervously, tugging at the hem of your skirt. It wasn’t your usual style—not the dewy makeup you weren’t used to seeing in the mirror, not the new haircut that made your eyes look almost too bright, not the blouse that left your shoulders bare in a way that made you feel strangely noticed.

But when you caught your reflection, your heart fluttered. You looked beautiful.

When you stepped onto campus, the sun was out, the wind teasing your hair. You spotted him immediately—Gojo, slouched against the wall outside your lecture hall, nose buried in his Switch as he muttered something under his breath about evolving stats and attack modifiers.

He didn’t notice you at first.

Then he looked up.

His game froze mid-battle. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, like someone had unplugged his brain.

“Wha—” he said eloquently. “Wh—what did you do.”

You blinked. “Hi to you too.”

He stared, unabashed. His glasses were slightly crooked, his ears glowing scarlet. He looked like someone had just told him Digimon was real and living in your shoes.

He blinked. “You look like… like you skipped two evolution stages overnight. Straight to Mega. Like if Angewomon fused with… I don’t know, some kind of rare, limited-release goddess-type Digimon that only spawns on a lunar eclipse.”

You blinked.

Utahime’s voice in your head: You’re hot. Unstoppable. He’s going to be speechless.

And Gojo was. But not in the way you wanted.

You tried to laugh. “So I look like a cartoon?”

“A beautiful cartoon,” he said, serious now. “Like the kind of boss character they only show for two frames because animating her costs too much.”

Your heart stuttered. It was the sort of compliment only Gojo could give: clumsy and dorky, yet brilliant in its own way.

But the moment passed.

He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away, sunglasses slipping slightly as he muttered, “You just… you look different. That’s all.”

Different.

Not better. Not prettier.

Just different.

You swallowed. “Yeah, well. Thought I’d try something new.”

“I didn’t say it was bad,” he added quickly, but the words felt unsure. Flimsy.

“I should… use the restroom,” you mumbled, turning before he could say anything else.

In the bathroom, you stared at your reflection. Your lipstick looked too bold now. Your lashes too heavy. Despite the change, you were still painfully you— the you Gojo teased during study sessions, the one he let borrow his hoodie when it rained, the one who sat next to him during endless all-nighters. And maybe that was the problem. You weren’t like those girls on the magazines. 

What you didn’t see, what you couldn’t see, was Gojo still standing outside the lecture hall, staring after you, Switch forgotten, game over screen blinking on the screen.

He didn’t even notice.

“You good, Satoru?” Shoko asked, walking by.

He blinked. “I think I just saw my best friend… and my final boss… and my future wife… all at once.”

Shoko snorted. “You’re a dork.”

Gojo just sighed, shoulders slumping as he muttered, “I’m so doomed.”

It’s a mild Friday evening when you meet him—Kazuya, the guy from your psychology class. He’s polite, articulate, and kind of cute. The kind of guy who asks if you prefer cats or dogs before ordering his drink, and actually listens when you answer.

Utahime and Shoko had insisted you say yes. “A change of pace,” they called it. “You need a baseline. Not every guy is going to be Gojo Satoru.”

Exactly. That was the point.

You’re sipping a matcha latte and nodding along as Kazuya explains his thesis on cognitive development when a very familiar voice cuts through the air.

“Well, well, well. Fancy seeing you here.”

Your stomach drops. You look up, and sure enough—

Satoru.

In all his tall, obnoxiously eye-catching glory, wearing a white t-shirt that was inside out and a grin like he just won the lottery. He's holding a bottle of ramune and standing directly next to your table, like he’s been there the whole time.

You blink. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “Thirsty. Wanted a drink.”

“At this café? On this side of campus?”

“Yeah,” he says, tone innocent. “Weird coincidence, huh?”

Kazuya offers a polite smile. “You’re her friend, right? Gojo?”

“Oh, best friend. Lifelong. Practically her shadow.” He plops into the empty seat beside you without asking, casually tossing his ramune onto the table. “What’s your name again? Kaname?”

“…Kazuya.”

“Right, right. I always mix those up. You look like a Kaname, though. Or maybe a Yusuke.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “Satoru—”

But he’s already leaning over, squinting at the book tucked under Kazuya’s arm. “Ooh, Piaget. Bold move. Love that for you.”

Kazuya blinks. “Do you… like developmental theory?”

“I like being correct,” Gojo says with a cheeky smile. “Also, [Name] hates Piaget. She called him ‘the Freud of toddlers’ last semester.”

Kazuya turns to you in mild surprise. “Really?”

“I—I mean, yeah,” you mumble. “Sort of.”

Gojo beams. “Told you.”

Kazuya makes a valiant effort to steer the conversation back to safe, neutral ground.

“So, you mentioned you're interested in behaviorism, right?” he says, offering a gentle smile. “I thought Dr. Takeda's lecture on conditioned responses was kind of fascinating—”

“Oh, riveting,” Satoru cuts in, lounging back in his chair like he owns the café. “Nothing like bonding over Pavlov’s dogs to spark romance. Did she tell you she cried during Inside Out because the depiction of core memories was ‘psychologically resonant’? Real charmer, this one.”

You shoot Satoru a look. “I was twelve!”

Kazuya blinks, trying not to smile. “I actually thought that was pretty moving, too.”

“Wow,” Satoru deadpans. “A match made in neuroscience.”

Kazuya laughs politely and continues, undeterred. “So, uh, any research plans after graduation?”

You open your mouth to answer, but Satoru beats you to it again.

“She used to want to be a vet. Cried when she had to dissect a frog in middle school. Tragic day.”

“Is that true?” Kazuya turns to you, amused now.

“Technically, yes,” you mutter into your drink.

By the time your cup is empty, you realize you’ve laughed more at Satoru’s interjections than you have at anything Kazuya’s said. Not because Kazuya wasn’t interesting—he was. He was calm, thoughtful, well-read, and clearly trying. But next to Satoru, whose entire presence seemed impossible to ignore, Kazuya didn’t stand a chance.

Still, to his credit, Kazuya maintains a steady, if slightly strained, expression as he sets down his cup and finally says, carefully,

“So… is Gojo your boyfriend?”

The question hangs awkwardly.

You and Satoru answer at the same time.

“No,” you say quickly.

“Yes,” he says with a smile.

You both turn to stare at each other.

“I mean—no,” he corrects, waving his hands. “Just a joke. Hah. Obviously.”

Kazuya blinks. “Right.”

You can’t meet either of their eyes. Your drink is finished, your palms are damp, and the café is suddenly too warm, too small. You push back your chair and stand.

“I should go. Early lab meeting tomorrow.” It’s the weakest excuse, but neither of them calls you on it.

Kazuya stands too, polite as ever. “Thanks for meeting up. You seem like a really cool person.” He hesitates, then adds, gently, “I just think maybe you’ve already got someone.”

You freeze. You open your mouth, then close it again. There’s nothing to say.

Outside, the cold air kisses your cheeks like a reminder. It stings a little, or maybe that’s just the confusion burning in your chest.

Satoru’s already waiting for you. Of course he is. He’s leaning against the lamppost, silver hair catching in the wind. But his eyes are downcast, trained on the sidewalk.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Neither do you.

You exhale, watching your breath curl white in the air. “You didn’t have to crash it, y’know.”

“I didn’t crash,” he replies without looking at you. “I was invited.”

“By who?”

“Fate. Karma. The gods of poor decision-making.” He shrugs.

You roll your eyes, but it tugs a laugh from you anyway. Stupid, annoying, charming Gojo.

“So,” he says after a beat, nudging your arm gently with his elbow, “how’d it go?”

You glance at him. He still won’t meet your gaze. His lips are pursed like he’s holding back a hundred words and none of them are funny.

“He was nice,” you admit. Despite being rudely interrupted by the white haired idiot beside you.

“Nice is boring,” he mutters, kicking at a loose stone on the pavement.

You laugh, soft and tired. “You’re the worst.”

He finally looks at you then, lips quirking into that smug, too-knowing smile. “But you like me anyway.”

You look away, cheeks burning, heart thudding like a traitor in your chest.

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

Despite Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru failing in every imaginable way, things were starting to feel bearable.

Almost good, even.

Satoru still hovered a little too close, always with that same half-smile like he knew something you didn’t. And maybe, just maybe— his constant sabotage, the teasing, the jealousy, the way he looked at you like he was about to say something important but never did. Maybe it all meant something.

You let yourself believe it, just a little.

And that was your first mistake.

It happens quietly, without fanfare or warning. Just a throwaway line between sips of lukewarm coffee and the soft shuffle of paper. You’re both at your usual spot in the library, surrounded by open notebooks and highlighted packets, pretending to study more than you actually are.

You’re halfway through underlining a term in your psychology notes when Satoru leans back in his chair, stretches like a cat, and says far too casually:

“So, guess who asked me out?”

You hum absentmindedly. “Who?”

“Ayane.”

The name hits you like a slap.

You freeze, highlighter paused mid-sentence. “…Ayane? From the biochem track?”

“Yeah,” he says, practically glowing. “You know her, right? She's in your study group sometimes.”

You do know her. Of course you do. Everyone knows her.

She’s beautiful, with this effortless, clean kind of elegance—long legs, perfect posture, and that quiet, poised confidence that makes professors adore her and guys fall over themselves. The kind of girl who posts one blurry bookshelf photo and still racks up a thousand likes. The kind of girl Gojo always jokes about marrying.

But he’s not joking now. He’s beaming.

“She asked me out to dinner this Friday. She’s so smart, too. I didn’t even have to pretend to know what quantum entanglement was. It’s wild.” He laughs, brushing a hand through his hair. “I thought she’d never go for a guy like me, y’know?”

You force a laugh. “A guy like you?”

“Yeah. I dunno. Too much, I guess? But she said I was ‘refreshing.’” He grins. 

Your stomach sinks.

This is what you thought you wanted—for him to move on, so you could finally do the same. For Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru to succeed, for real this time.

But now that it’s happening, it feels like someone’s slowly pulling your ribs apart.

“Oh,” you manage, smiling like you’ve practiced it. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”

He doesn’t notice the way your voice cracks on happy. He just keeps talking, rambling about restaurant reservations and how she likes contemporary poetry and used to live in France. You nod in all the right places, but your thoughts are already slipping away.

Because it isn’t just that he’s going out with someone else.

It’s that he chose her.

Her with her flawless skin and quiet charm and the kind of beauty that doesn’t need to try. Her, with everything you’re not. And more than that, it’s that he made you believe you could have meant more to him, when really, he’d been searching for someone else all along.

You excuse yourself early, mumbling something about laundry.

He doesn’t follow.

You don’t cry until you’re halfway home, the cold air biting at your cheeks as your vision blurs.

For the first time in years, you don’t text him goodnight.

You don’t wait for a meme. Or a dumb joke. Or his usual, “Hey, genius. Sleep.”

You go silent.

And when he texts the next day, you don’t reply.

You skip your library meet-up. You don’t sit next to him in class. You even duck into the stairwell when you see his ridiculous white hair from across campus.

It’s not because you’re mad. It’s because you’re heartbroken.

And you can’t keep pretending it doesn’t matter—that he doesn’t matter.

You weren’t just losing your best friend.

You were losing the love of your life.

And he didn’t even notice.

It takes him three days to notice you’re gone.

Well—no. That’s a lie.

He notices immediately. The moment your usual seat in the library stays empty. When your laugh doesn’t echo in the café line. When your name doesn’t pop up on his screen at 2AM with some stupid meme captioned, “this reminded me of you, idiot.”

But he tells himself you’re busy.

Midterms, right? Stress. Coffee. You get like this sometimes, and he gets it. He really does.

So he waits. Tells himself not to be clingy.

But then Friday comes.

And he's sitting across from Ayane in some expensive, quiet restaurant where the napkins are folded like origami cranes and the water tastes filtered. She’s telling him about her research internship in Osaka, about enzymes and international grants, and all he can think is—

You’d be making fun of me right now.

You’d be kicking him under the table. Whispering some dumb pun about digimon. You’d be pulling faces every time he tried to pronounce the items on the menu. You’d be you.

Ayane is lovely.

But she doesn’t laugh when he says something stupid. She just smiles politely.

She doesn’t ask about why his glasses are always crooked (it’s so you could fix them). Doesn’t tease him for double-knotting his laces like a paranoid grandma. Doesn’t call him “Sato” like it’s some private joke only the two of you get.

He walks her home. Thanks her for a nice evening.

Then he goes to the convenience store. Alone.

And he sees your favorite snack on the shelf and buys two out of habit.

He stares at his phone the entire train ride back.

No new messages.

Just the last one you sent days ago:

“Laundry. Rain check?”

And nothing since.

He waits. Another day. Then two.

You don’t show up to class again.

You don’t like his latest meme.

You don’t comment on the Digimon pun he texted you out of desperation.

You are silent.

And Satoru Gojo—brilliant, blind-sighted, the golden boy of theoretical physics, always five steps ahead realizes, too late, that he’s been a fool.

That he didn’t just lose a study partner.

He lost the one person who knew him better than he knew himself.

The one person he couldn’t replace with rare Digimon pulls, half-solved physics equations, or overly sweet desserts.

And for the first time since he was a kid—

He’s afraid.

It’s been a little over a week.

A little over a week since Gojo Satoru has heard your voice. Since you shoved your coffee at him without asking, muttering “too sweet for me” when you really meant “I got this for you.” Since you poked fun at his stupid sock choices, or knocked your foot against his under the table like it was nothing.

And Satoru is suffering.

He's tried everything. Showed up to your house with excuses too weak to be called plans (“Hey, I brought your favorite snacks. I just... figured maybe you forgot you liked them?”). Waited outside your lecture hall until a security guard asked if he was lost. Took detours between classes hoping to catch a glimpse of your ponytail, your laugh, anything.

But you were always one step ahead.

You stopped answering his texts. Blocked him on that stupid dating app (which—ouch, even though you hadn’t used it seriously). You didn’t even show up to the library anymore. And even Shoko started looking at him with thinly veiled pity and a you really fumbled the bag look in her eyes.

Gojo Satoru is just tired.

Miserable.

So when he finally finds you—not because he’s chasing you down this time, but because he’s walking the long way home, and there you are, sitting on the old swings at the park where you first met—it knocks the wind out of him.

You don’t look surprised to see him. Just tired too.

“I figured you’d find me eventually,” you say quietly.

He swallows. His hands curl at his sides like he’s preparing for a fight.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, like it isn’t obvious. “Why?”

You look away. “You’re smart. Figure it out.”

Gojo looks down at his feet.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy and stinging. The playground is empty except for the wind dragging a soda can down the sidewalk and the faint creak of the swing chain.

Then he exhales, ragged and unsure. “Look, I can’t—I can’t take this anymore.”

You glance up.

“I can’t either.”

Hope flares too fast, too naive in his chest. His shoulders drop like he’s been holding up the world. “That’s good,” he breathes, stepping forward. “Because the silent treatment— God, I thought I was going to—”

“I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”

The words stop him cold.

“What?” he breathes.

You laugh, but it’s hollow. Like something already broken. “Don’t you get it? I can’t be friends with you and pretend that nothing’s changed. That I’m okay just being your best friend. I’ve been in love with you for years, Satoru.”

His heart stutters. You don’t stop.

“And I love myself too much to keep hurting for someone who doesn’t even look at me that way.” Your voice cracks, but you push through. “Do you know how humiliating it feels? To love someone so much it aches, and still feel like you’ll never be enough?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

You wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You never even thought I was cute.”

He looks like he’s been hit.

“I’ve been chasing scraps. Leftovers. Mixed signals and stupid inside jokes. I—I can’t do it anymore.”

You finally meet his eyes, and that’s when he sees it: the hurt you’ve been hiding behind every smile, every brush-off, every joke you cracked to keep the silence from swallowing you.

And for once, Gojo Satoru can’t find a single thing to say.

Not yet.

Not until he stops you from walking away.

“Where did you get an idea like that?” His cerulean eyes search yours desperately. “I-I don’t think you’re just cute, are you kidding?” he blurts, eyes wild.

“Y-you’re breathtaking! Everything I’ve dreamt of and more! That night when you asked me if I thought you were cute, I only said no because it would be a divine crime to reduce to such. All of my fantasies have been centered around you since we first met on that playground—since you tripped over your shoelaces trying to race me to the monkey bars!”

Your breath catches.

He continues, desperate now, like every second of silence might kill him.

“I love you! And not like a brother. Like—I want to marry you. Like, small wedding in Okinawa, barefoot on the beach, you wearing that soft blue dress you like. I already planned it. Our firstborn would be a daughter, with your eyes, my hair. She’d be the boss of the house.”

You gape.

“Wait—”

“I’m not done!” he says, hands thrown up. “Then we’d have twins. Boys. Chaos gremlins. One would look like my twin and the other yours, and they’d absolutely terrorize us—but their sister keeps them in check, she’s fierce like you.”

You blink. A tear slides down your cheek.

“I want to move to Kyoto,” he says, softer now. “Buy a house with a dumb little garden. Grow tomatoes we’ll never eat. Live out the rest of our lives where it’s quiet.”

You cover your mouth, stunned. “You… really thought all that out?”

“It’s easy,” he breathes, “when all I can think about is you.”

He steps closer. The wind tugs his white hair into his eyes, but he doesn’t blink.

“I go to study nonlinear quantum field theory and all I see is your face. I try to cool off and play Digimon, and even that’s ruined—my lineup is garbage now! I only keep the ones you said were cute!”

A laugh bubbles out of you, fragile and watery.

“You idiot,” you murmur.

“I am,” he nods solemnly. “I’m the world’s biggest idiot. And I’m in love with you.”

Another tear slips down. He wipes it away before you can.

“Is it too late?” he asks, voice cracking slightly. “Please tell me it’s not too late.”

You stare at him, this man, this brilliant, ridiculous boy who had held your heart long before you ever admitted it.

“It’s not too late,” you whisper.

He doesn’t speak. Just steps closer. Gently and carefully, like he's handling something sacred, he cups your cheek in his hand.

Your nose bumps his. His breath ghosts over your lips.

“I’ve been waiting to do this for years,” he whispers.

And then, finally, he kisses you.

It’s not perfect, your cheeks are still wet, his nose bumps yours again, and his hand trembles just a little, but it’s warm and sweet and soft. It tastes like home..

When he pulls away, his smile is sheepish. “So… are we still doing the whole ‘Operation: Get Over Gojo’ thing, or?”

You laugh, heart full, forehead pressed to his.

“Mission failed,” you whisper.

He grins. “Good.”

And then he kisses you again.

art by leimiruu on x!

[rozenkingdom]

It is, precisely, your duty to let them Find Out.

Honestly, if you're a kid and an adult tells you "they're just trying to get a reaction out of you :)" as a response to being told that some younger kid is tormenting you, that should count as full permission to punt that little shit. Like I would never hit a child, but if you're seven years old and a five-year-old is being a cunt at you and adults just tell you "oh they just want to find out what happens if they keep doing that", wouldn't only be fair to let them know what happens if they keep doing that?

Siblings should never be left responsible of raising each other, but if adults have decided that they are allowed to fuck around, wouldn't it only be your right - or even downright duty - to let them consequently find out?

[usertala]

my bank account is your bank account

synopsis: you didn't use his card to pay

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Zayne

He worked hard to be a cardiac surgeon just to treat your heart condition—what makes you think his money is where he draws the line? He’d just finished his second surgery today, a CABG that took 6 hours, and the first thing he sees on his phone is a text message from you.

“Hey, Zayne. Do you prefer spicy or not spicy soup? I’m at the store to buy the ingredients!”

He smiles, already imagining you waiting for him while cooking.

He replies, “Spicy is fine, I placed my card on the back of your phone. Be safe.”

Just as he placed the phone down, it beeps again from your text.

“It’s fine, I bought my card with me. And it’s just groceries, I can handle it.”

His brow furrows as he noisily types to call your phone, “I gave it to you with the intention that you’ll use it whenever you need. It doesn’t matter if it’s just groceri—”

“Okay! Okay, I’ll use it, alright? Since you insist, I’m buying these expensive lotions I’d been eyeing on.”

He sighs, “If you’re gonna buy those lotions, the least you can do is buy me those hard candy, that blueberry cheesecake we always buy, and those lollipo—”

“I’m getting you ONE pack of candies.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Caleb

This man would be crashing out if he can’t provide for you. He even gets upset when you don’t need his help in getting things from the top shelf. Here he was with a smug smile on his face while handing you his card,

“Use it whenever you need to, pips. Rest assured it won’t ever maxed out.”

That smirk was so irritating that you wanted to wipe it off his face.

“Mhm? Why do I need to? I get payed just fine! And it’s not like other people don’t pay for me.”

“Huh?”

God, that dumbfounded look was just so satisfying to see. Of course, with Caleb paying for whatever you need almost all his life, you weren’t gonna turn down his offer.

He flicks your forehead, “You don’t even need other people’s money. And they don’t treat you always! Just use mine and you can use it endlessly.”

He’s looking at you with his signature puppy eyes and you know you just lost.

Sighing, you take his card, “Fine, and I better not hear any complaints from you.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Sylus

You knew this man doesn’t care even if you spent billions of his money—he literally let you spend more than 10 million a few days after you met. It’s not like you had a problem with spending his money (you don’t); it’s just nice to tease him every now and then, even if it backfires on you most of the time.

You were in the middle of a date when you decided to mess with him.

“Sy, does it taste good?”

He hums, “It tastes quite nice. You always pick the right places, sweetie.”

You smile, “Of course! Since I’m paying, it should be worth it.”

He freezes mid-bite and places his spoon down, “Are you now? If I may say, the soup was quite salty, the pasta lacked flavor, and the tiramisu was just an abomination.”

You smack his arm, “Hey! You said it was nice!”

He smirks, “I’ll pay for it, sweetie, since it wasn’t worth it,” already reaching for his wallet.

Why do you even try?

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Rafayel

“Baby, do you think this looks nice?” You gave your phone to Rafayel so he can see the sweater that you wanted. He shrugs, “It’s cute, perfect for rainy days.” You smile, proceeding to check out the sweater, “It’s 115 dollars, it’ll be delivered by next week!” He slowly turns his head, “Next week?" “Yeah!”

He slowly walks toward you and grabs you by the shoulders, “Cutie, did you already pay for it?”

You nod, “Yeah, why? Did you want one too?”

His shoulders slumped as he dramatically flings his arm around, “What?! Since when did you pay for your things? I’m transferring that money to your card.”

You lightly punch his shoulder, “Ayel! There’s no need, I have my own money.”

He raises his eyebrow, “And? I’m still wiring you that money.”

You try to argue, but he’s already tip-tapping away on his phone.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Xavier

“Xavi, what do you want for dinner?” You climbed on the couch and laid on his lap while fumbling on your phone. He shrugs, “Anything is fine.” You poke his cheek, “I’m too lazy to cook, do you want takeout?” He ponders for a moment, “Takeout is fine, I can cook too.” He says, already standing up to head to the kitchen when you quickly sit up, “Takeout it is!”

“How much is it?” He grabs your hand to play with the sleeves of your sweater. “It’s fine, I already payed for it!” His hand stops, and he slowly looks at you. His brows furrow and his lips form into a pout, without saying anything, he smooshes your face in his hands. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what, Xavi?”

He smiles. “Don’t do that again."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

[muffinlance]

Consider: Post-canon Zuko wakes up in the body of his childhood self, the morning of That War Meeting. Would he still speak against the plans, knowing his fate? What do you think he would do differently the second time around?

"Turned away at the doors, Zuzu?"

"Shut up, Azula," her brother sulked. But sulked weirdly, after staring at her too long and too wide-eyed, not like she'd surprised him but--

But like he hadn't expected her to be there. At all.

He turned away. ...He turned back. "Hey, Lala? Do you think you could help me practice that one set?"

He didn't meet her eyes.

She narrowed hers. "Which set?"

"The one I'm bad at."

She scoffed. Pushed away from the wall she'd been leaning against. "That's all of them, Dum-Dum."

He didn't shout or stomp or yell about the nickname. His lips twitched.

"It's okay," he said. "If you're afraid you won't be a better teacher that my instructor..."

It was the most obvious manipulation ever.

Perhaps if he proved an adequate firebending student, she'd work on his courtly survival skills next. Honestly, it was good that not even Uncle Gets-Cousins-Killed had been fool enough to take Zuko into that war meeting. She could only imagine how terribly that could have gone.

"Keep up," she said, and turned her steps towards the training grounds.

He did. There, and during the katas she ran him through.

Azula kept her eyes narrowed.

"Hey," he asked, "do you know how to bend lightning yet?"

As if he could have missed it, if she'd been able to get more than sparks. "I will soon," she said.

"You will," he agreed, and flowed through his next set. The one she'd only just mastered.

Father didn't notice how weird Zuzu was being. Uncle never noticed anything. Zuko ate dinner and asked a servant for seconds and didn't stutter or flinch or lose his appetite when father asked, coolly, what he'd done with his day. Azula's shoulders tensed, because one mention of how she'd squandered her own training time teaching him--

"Azula hogged the training grounds. For hours," Zuzu scowled, exactly like a petulant thirteen year old.

Exactly like he hadn't been acting all day.

By the time Father was looking her way, Azula had her usual smirk in place. "I'm sure there would be room for both of us," she said, "you're not afraid of a little friendly fire, are you, brother?"

Zuko sulked. And ate his seconds, like he was enjoying each bite. There was something in his eyes, like a joke no one else was getting.

---

Father died that night. A heart attack. There were the faintest of burns to either side of the treacherous organ; the royal physician hypothesized that he'd grabbed at his chest, fingers burning hot in his final moments; so hot they'd only exacerbated the problem.

The royal physician would never have been brought any victims of lighting strikes. Those that occurred in the capital did not generally require a doctor in the aftermath.

Zuzu ate a hearty breakfast.

He didn't order seconds. Azula gave him points, at least, for not being tacky.

---

The sages named Iroh as regent.

They named Zuko as Fire Lord.

"No," the tiny Fire Lord in his perfectly miniaturized Fire Lord robes said, sitting at the head of his war council. "We're not doing that. And I'll be reviewing all recent battle plans, as well. What's this I hear about a division of new recruits being deployed to the front?"

He did not mention how he'd heard of the 41st Division. No one asked.

"Prince Iroh, surely--" one of the generals tried to appeal.

The young Fire Lord's regent was looking as startled as the rest of them, for a moment. Then he sipped his tea, and smiled.

"Your Fire Lord is correct, of course. A change in our leadership--a change the other nations may mistakenly view as weakness--will necessitate a change in our strategy."

"Now," said their lord, "what, exactly, is our overall objective in this war?"

War, the new Fire Lord decreed, was not an end unto itself.

---

The new Fire Lord continued to have time, to pretend to be trained by her. Azula watched him. Adjusted her footwork. Did not tolerate, and was not offered, any commentary on who was teaching who.

"What did you do with my brother?" she asked, as they flowed from one set to the next. As her hands, poised to throw fire, just so happened to be pointed his way.

He missed a step. It didn't look like an act.

"I'm, uh. Right here?"

She didn't bother to dignify that.

He didn't bother to look worried about her hands, one movement off from a true attack.

He looked around, then grabbed her sleeve, and tugged her further from any walls that may hide ears. The royal family's private training grounds were wonderfully large, and wonderfully open.

"It's me," he said. "It's still me. Just. More of me? Longer of me?"

She narrowed her eyes. A familiar expression, by this point. "Explain."

"...I found the Avatar," he said. "And this is definitely his fault, but--but I guess it started at a war meeting, when I was thirteen."

Azula listened. It was a very Dum-Dum story.

[sincerelybubbles]

oh, the humanity! || clark kent x reader

part two - weather or not

you've never been more thrilled than when clark sets you up with an exclusive interview with the superman. little do you know, superman has his own agenda - try to see if you return to work-crush clark's been quietly developing for months. the only problem? he's not nearly as smooth as he thinks he is.

pairing: clark kent x bubbly!reader

warnings: none! some romantic pining, some fluff, mutual pining. more of a cutesy set-up fit for my first superman piece :)

“Hello.” The voice is rich, deep and full of life. 

“Ohmygod,” the words tumble out of you in a rush, startled out in one breath. You barely manage to keep a hold on the laptop resting on your knees. “Oh, hi, hello! Hi Superman!”

Face hot with embarrassment, you set your laptop on the floor beside your chair so you can stand and offer your hand to the metahuman in front of you. With a smile that presents perfectly dimpled cheeks to you, Superman shakes your hand. His grasp is warm but loose. 

“Clark said you would be expecting me?” He asks, a glint of humor in his tone. You nod, retracting your hand and smoothing down the front of your shirt. 

“Yeah, yes, of course he did! Really nice of you to agree to let him set us up, by the way. I totally get wanting to keep your press sources limited so I’m honored to be trusted. He just neglected to text me a time,” you say, attempting to get your rambling on track, the last bit where you actually answer his question rushed and low; tacked on at the end like an apology. You give him your best, toothiest grin and spin to retrieve your laptop. “Where do you want to do this thing?”

“Anywhere is fine with me.” You peer out of the side of your eye as you mull over a secluded spot you can bring him to interview him. He’s in his full regalia – blue suit, red shorts, cape. The whole ordeal. 

“I imagine privacy is the best,” you muse out loud, “but I don’t have an office – we work in a shared space.” Your tone is apologetic as you begin walking. “My apartment is near here, though, if you don’t mind.” You send him another smile, inwardly cringing as you do. You need to get your nerves out of the way. 

“If that’s where you think is best, lead the way,” he says, gesturing forward while leaning down to collect your bag. 

“Oh! You don’t have to do that, I can carry it!” You try to take the overstuffed tote from him but he simply shakes his head, knocking a curl loose onto his forehead. The way it falls, nearly brushing his eyebrow but not quiet, makes something in the back of your mind ring with familiarity. You brush it off, sure you’ve just watched too much footage of him. 

As you walk him the five minutes to your apartment, you start chatting happily, filling the silence as you always tend to do. 

“I actually had to twist Clark’s leg. He’s protective about his interviews with you, you know. I actually asked him where I should meet you, trying to figure out where would be the best to have a quiet conversation, but he wasn’t any help. Anyway, my apartment is small but it should work fine. Plus, nobody would be there to interrupt.”

“He brought up me talking to you a bit ago, actually, saying you write more humanitarian pieces? Less gossip or news, more think-pieces?” He sounds genuinely interested, large hands adjusting where they hold your bag with both hands in front of him. He looks a little silly, holding your frayed bag like that, walking around in his tall boots. The cape honest-to-god flutters behind him as he walks. 

“I do! Well, it’s what I like to do anyway. The Daily Planet doesn’t post them regularly, though, only when I have something really good to present.” You shrug, happy you get the chance to write for a living at all. “We’re turning here. Anyway, I like investigative journalism, of course, but something about writing about people, the human experience, and really just digging into a subject outside of the general norm of the news is always my favorite.”

A hand brushes your shoulder as you both cross a street and make a turn, adjusting you to walk closer to the buildings, Superman by the street. The thoughtless gesture makes that same chime of familiarity hums, running down your back to the base of your spine. It’s the sort of thing Clark does all of the time. He’s always pressing a hand to your back or shoulder to guide you along, swapping places to be closer to the road, covering corners as you pass them due to your habit of bumping them, and tugging you away from the fray of people so you don’t get trampled. 

You smile privately to yourself at the thought. Superman and Clark sharing the same simple, thoughtless, and incredibly endearing way of watching out for the people around them makes sense in a way. While Clark is just a lowly civilian like you, only in the fray of danger in the sense of offending some higher-up subject of a scandalous article, he’s always felt good in the same way the heroes do. 

You shake your head once to yourself, aware you’ve stopped talking and Superman is talking. 

“And that’s a really good thing, I think, wanting to know people for who they are beyond what they do. Sometimes the why is more important than the what, in some ways.”

“Oh, I completely agree.” You jump into your favorite article you wrote – a think piece analyzing Metropilis culture, structured by an interview with an older woman who’d lived in the city her entire life, creating a grand scope of how the city has breathed and grown like a living thing as the years passed. 

You lead him up the narrow staircase to your apartment, biting a grin at how he has to run slightly sideways to fit in the cramped hallway, and jiggle your keys in the door. “Sorry, it takes the perfect mix of jiggling the lock and bumping the door to - ah ha! - get it open.”

You talk inside, letting the hero trail behind you, ignoring how adrenaline thrums in your veins. It makes your neck warm and heavy with the pulse of blood from your rapidly beating heart. It doesn’t help whatsoever that you’re incredibly aware that he can hear how nervous you are by your heart rate, so you busy yourself with your kettle. 

“I’m making a pot of tea, if you want some. Please make yourself at home, I’ll be ready in just a minute – promise!”

Superman strolls around your small two-bedroom with an interest that makes you self-concious. You make an effort to not say the cliche it’s not much! comment, instead busing yourself with the kettle and picking a tea. You wonder if he has a preference as you pull down your favorite. 

If he does, bully for him, you need the calming relief of sipping something familiar and safe as you tackle the biggest interview you’ve ever had. 

You also repeat the mantra I love my home decor, I love my home decor over and over as he runs a finger across the books in your shelves and eyes the art on your wall. 

“Okay!” You announce, setting the electric kettle to heat and turning to open your laptop on the counter. You hold up your recording device and give it a small shake. “Make yourself comfy, I’m ready whenever you are!”

The interview goes smoothly, any small hiccups easily overcome as you settle into your favorite version of yourself – fully at ease as you slip into a sense of worn confidence as you ask your prepared questions. This is what you’re good at, what you’ve been doing for coming on ten years, your craft and passion. You love interviewing, talking to people, taking a list of initial questions and deciding on the fly where you need to dig and where you need to breeze past. The story flows easily, you catch the grooves of conversation and follow them to the trail of a story. 

The life Superman paints for you is idyllic – a rural upbringing with parents he adores and adore him, unknown biological parents who sent him to Earth to do good. A sense of responsibility – ‘If I have these powers, this ability, this purpose I was sent to Earth to fufil, and I sit by and do nothing, well, that makes me the worst kind of person, doesn’t it?’

You slowly become endeared to him as the interview progresses, a sort of comfort only gained by spending time with a truly good person. It reminds you of Clark again (a habit you regretfully admit you have, linking life to him in your mind). 

“Okay, I think I have what I need, thank you so much Superman!” You nod at him, wait a second, and turn off the recording. 

The second the formal process of the interview is over, the anxiety of sharing a space with the Superman resurfaces. You pick up your long-cold tea between two hands and send him a small smile. 

“I can find a way to send you the piece before it publishes, if you’d like. I can’t say I’ll edit for you, journalistic integrety and such, but as a thank you for your time and willingness.”

“Thank you, I’d appreciate that.”

You send him a soft smile, sip your tea, and grimace. You turn to your microwave to warm it, fingers tapping on your countertop. 

You’re trying to think of another way to politely tell him you have what you need, certain there are many other places Superman needs to be other than sitting at a barstool in your kitchen, when he speaks. 

“I am curious, though, if you don’t mind me asking.” His voice is all timber, taking on a quality you can’t quite place. It’s nearly nervous, actually, but you brush off that possibility. What could you know that would make Superman nervous?

“Oh! Of course, what’s up?”

“Are you seeing anyone?” You cough, loudly, face flooding with heat. You’ll kill yourself later for how many times you’ve blushed in front of this man, you’re sure, but you’re so bewildered.

“What?”

“No, no that came out wrong, oh gosh.”

“Sorry, Superman, not that you’re not,” you gesture wildly, “but I don’t – I’m,” you’re lost, bumbling. If Superman asks you to sleep with him, you have to say yes, right?

Isn’t it against some sort of ethics code to sleep with a subject while in process of writing about them?

Why are you second thinking the possibility of sleeping with Superman? Why are you going this way at all with your thoughts? 

“No, no, I’m sorry, that’s not the question I wanted to ask. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, sorry, you stunned me a little.” You return to heating up your tea as you ask, “What question did you want to ask, then?”

“Well, Clark. You know him well?”

“Yeah! Yeah, really good guy.” You spin on your heel to nod empathetically at him. You 100% don’t mind buttering up Clark for Superman, wholly grateful to him for getting him this interview. You’re not sure how his initial question relates to this one, though, sure he’s trying to find a seque into leaving as soon as possible.

You’re wholly and utterly confused and baffled by where this conversation has ended up, blinking rapidly at your microwave.

“You really seem to light up when you talk about him.” Superman’s head tilts, violently blue eyes piercing into you. “I noticed, earlier, anyway. I agree, he’s a good guy.”

You stand, frozen on your feet. The microwave beeps and you ignore it. After a second, your head tilts, in a mimic of his. This is where he was going, you guess. Heat floods through your body now, a full on flush head to toes. “Are you … sorry, I just. Are you trying to set me and Clark up?”

You’re confounded by the situation. Off balance, unsure if you would ever dream of this happening. You decide, no, this is far too ridiculous for you to think of, so it must be reality. More reasonable than Superman trying to sleep with you, you suppose, but still such an odd situation to end up in.

You start to giggle, watching the way Superman fidgets before crossing his arms and leaning back on his stool. The legs creak under his weight and he sends you an apologetic smile. 

“Sorry, don’t want to intrude.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” you wave him off, snickering. You retrieve your tea and sip it. “Are you thinking of starting a new career as a matchmaker, or something?”

“Or something,” he mumbles, obviously embarrassed at being caught so easily. “I imagined that would come out a little smoother, I’m sorry.”

You shake off his apology again. Your heart is pounding again, under the amusement, as another thought comes to mind. “Did, uh, did Clark ask you to ask?”

“Do you want him to have asked me to ask?”

“This is starting to feel like a really bad riddle,” you say, chewing the inside of your lip. The answer is yes, of course. The thought of Clark asking Superman to try and guage your feelings about him sends a sort of nervous thrill through your body. 

Your handsome, kind, sort-of perfect coworker turned close friend showing interest? Never would ever be a bad thing. 

“I think I have my answer. Thank you,” he says, standing and saying your name as he offers you his hand. You swear you can see a sort of pink tinge to his cheeks. “Please let Clark know when you’re done with your piece, I’m looking forward to reading it.”

“Yes! Yes, of course, thank you so so much,” you say, shaking his hand enthusiastically and bouncing from the awkwardness of the past few moments in an effort to return to trying your best to make a good impression on him. “Please let me know if you ever want to meet up again, I’m always happy to interview you.”

“How’d it go?” Clark asks, voice by your ear. You don’t even jump, used ot his attempts to sneak up on your while you write at work. 

You lift your hand, waiting for him to place something in your palm. He does, of course, and you’re pleased to see a muffin. “Oooh, you woke up earlier to go to the bakery?” You ask, excited. You take a bite and your eyes roll back. “This is perfect, thank you.”

“Yeah, of course. How’d it go with Superman, though?”

“Oh! Really, really well. Thank you for getting me the interview.”

Clark stares at you a moment. You smile, tight lipped and waiting. You raise an eyebrow slightly, prompting him to let you know why he’s staring at you like you’ve suddenly grown a second nose overnight. 

“What, that’s it? No play-by-play? No commentary about his biceps, no rant about how the article is going to go? You icing me out?”

You’re amused and tickled that he cares. “Don’t want to break any trust, you know, he can be secretive.”

“Oh, come on,” he groans, taking a step back and shaking his head. “You’re insufferable!”

“Hey, I learned from the best,” you wink, excited to be able to use his words against him. “Serves you right for all of the articles with no inside juice!”

Clark rolls his eyes. As he turns to walk back to his desk, you realize he’s not carrying breakfast for himself. Frowning, you grab a napkin from the stash in your desk, break your muffin apart, then jump up to follow him.

You set the half of the baked good on his desk before leaning up against the divider between his desk and anothers, cheek mushed against your hand. 

“It went really, really well. I think I’m going to center it around his insistence on violence-containment. It’s been ages, forever maybe, since a hero has cared about keeping damages down. Of course, they all care about civilian safety, but he’s taking it a step further. He doesn’t see a situation with any sort of casualty as a win, you know? That’s new, next level thinking, really admirable.”

Clark is watching you as you talk, eyes jumping between yours. When you’re finished with your tirade, he leans forward slightly, brushes a crumb off of your cheek, and leans back into his seat. 

“That’s really good, I’m happy it went well.” He’s so sincere that your heart feels a little swollen. You don’t deserve his friendship. 

“It ended really weird though, I think Superman wants to play matchmaker or something,” you blurt out, unable to stop yourself. 

Clark’s eyes sparkle behind his glasses and he reaches up to ruffle his curls as he laughs, shaking his head. “And now you’re back to teasing. Go, shoo, I have actual work to do.”

“I’m not lying!” You say, unable to keep a serious face as Clark laughs. His guffaw is impossible to ignore and you end up giggling with him. You do meander back to your desk, though.

“Sure thing, sure thing.”

You settle back at your desk, taking another bite of your muffin and sighing happily. You sit for a moment, listening to the chatter of the office and the clicking of keyboards. After a few minutes you scooch your chair back to watch Clark, observing how he bends over his desk, legs too long to fit in his chair and suit jacket just this side of too big. 

Something in you warms, the same warmth you’d felt all night, at the idea of him talking about you to anyone, nonetheless Superman. 

Perhaps it’s time to act on this silly crush. The flirting you send his way is returned, friendly enough in nature but, when paired with the daily treats for breakfast and the way his hand tends to linger on your waist when he passes … maybe somethings there. 

You roll back closer to your desk, pressing a few buttons aimlessly on your laptop as you mull it over. Something in you is scared to act on your feelings, of course, but a bigger part is excited about what could be to really ignore the prompting. Okay, Superman, you think, I’ll give it a shot.

please consider reblogging if you enjoyed!! reblogs keep my work alive :)

also, I don't usually add authors notes, but I am a little nervous about writing for a new character - it's been so long !!! - so feedback is greatly appreciated!! requests for clark, thoughts, ideas, etc., are all welcome!! and hopefully I fall into his voice more naturally the more I read and write. I'm so beyond excited about him, though <3

[thebubblesareevil]

Mistaken identity

We’ve all seen Danny getting mistaken for a bat. But what about a bat being mistaken for a Fenton.

When Danny took responsibility for Dan the first thing they did was get him a human form that wasn’t his corpse. Between vlad, clockwork, and his parents they managed to get him a new body that had him looking more alive than ever.

He was a bit tanner than expected, but they figured that came from Danny’s ghostly side.

When it came time for Danny to go to Gotham for school, he refused to leave Dan behind. Instead, using the funds he got from the ghost kings treasury and child support from Vlad, Danny got them a studio apartment close to campus.

His parents outfitted the apartment with all the latest security, of course.

Everything was going great, all expect for one thing…

People in amity park accepted Dan and adapted almost immediately, having gotten used to the many quirks of ghosts long ago. Gotham….was a bit less understanding.

Luckily for him, unlucky for the rest of Gotham, the police there were incredibly corrupt and easy to bribe anytime he had to bail Dan out or, in the case of that one Karen that decided to give Dan shit for painting his nails, bail himself out of any trouble they came across.

Danny did his best to spend plenty of time with Dan, even when he was exhausted, he refused to ignore his little brother.

So after going through hell during finals week, Danny decided to take Dan to the zoo. Danny did his best to keep an eye on Dan, he really did! He had only sat down for a moment, just to rest his eyes, next thing he knew though he could hear someone yelling about violent kids.

Danny immediately jumped to his brother’s aid.

“I’m sorry,” Danny started as he interrupted the screeching woman. “Is there a problem here?”

Dan tried to speak up but the woman wouldn’t let him.

“This brat pushed me out of the way while I was looking at the exhibit and then spewed profanities at me!” She howled.

Danny flinched at the offensive noise on his sensitive hearing.

“No offense mam, but somehow I highly doubt that. My brother may not have the best manners, but he sure as hell wouldn’t push someone for no reason.” He couldn’t comment about the language, Dan knew more curse words in more languages that this woman could speak thanks to ghost speech, and he used every one of them.

“You little brat! How dare-“

“Of course, if you feel that strongly about it, we could always ask to see the cameras.” Danny suggested with a smirk. “I for one would LOVE to see what they have to show us.”

The woman paled before turning away in a huff. “I don’t have time to deal with annoying brats like you.” She said before turning away.

Danny’s eye twitched, “Good, because I don’t have time to deal with an entitled bitch like you.” Danny replied, ignoring the woman’s offended screech.

“C’mon Dan, let’s go get a snack and go see the penguins.”

——

Damien was thoroughly confused by what was going on. This was not how he was expecting this day to go.

He had snuck out of the Manor earlier, desperate to get away from his families judging eyes. The night before, he had encountered a smuggling ring, and after seeing the state the animals were in, he didn’t hold back against the traffickers. It was only because of his training with father that they hadn’t died.

His father called it overkill, he called it Justice.

After what he saw the previous night he decided to spend the afternoon at the zoo and bask in the presence of the animals, knowing that they were all well cared for.

And then the annoying shrew decided to ruin his day. He was ready to verbally eviscerate her when a large man stepped in. One that decided to claim him as his brother.

The man grabbed him by the hand after chewing out the woman and walked him over to the penguin exhibit, only stopping to pick up snow cones.

“I could have handled her on my own.” Damian said, before taking a bite of his treat, “you didn’t need to lie.”

Damian took a good look at the man before him, he had basically collapsed onto the bench when they stopped, the bags under his eyes made drake look well rested.

“What are you talking about?” The man asked before releasing a massive yawn. “I didn’t lie. Believe it or not, you’ve improved a lot since you came home to us. Sure, I could see you pushing someone out of the way a few years ago, but now?”

The man grabbed him by the arm, tugging him into a hug. Damien was too stunned to push back as the man gave him the most comforting, caring hug he had ever had.

“We’re all so proud of you Dan, you’ve come a really long way.”

Damien suddenly felt a pit form in his stomach as realization struck.

He carefully extricated himself from the hug.

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding, my name is not Dan.” Damian explained, pulling down the hood on his hoodie.

The man looked at him confused before rubbing his eyes. Taking a second look, his eyes went wide.

“Fuck.” He then proceeded to pull out his wallet. “Do I have enough to bribe a cop?”

Damian frowned, “why exactly would you be bribing the police?”

“Because I apparently just kidnapped a kid.” The man shrugged. “My names Danny by the way.” He said before sluggishly getting up from his seat. “Let’s go see if we can find your parents and my brother.”

“My father is not aware of my current location.”

Danny paused, giving Damian a long look before nodding, “We’ll if your gonna sneak out, at least you went someplace educational.”

Damian looked at him confused as the man stretched.

“Well then, let’s go find Dan and get something to eat before we get you home. I’m sure your father is worried sick.”

Danny then grabbed Damian by the hand and started to lead them back the way they came. The crowds parting at the sight of the large man.

“I do not need an escort, I am more than capable of returning home on my own.”

“That may be so,” the man started. “But I wouldn’t be able to get any sleep tonight if I didn’t make sure you got home safe. You wouldn’t want me to be deprived of sleep, would you?”

Damian considered the statement. The man was clearly on the brink of collapse. “Very well.” He nodded.

The approached the tiger exhibit to pure chaos as the animal handlers tried to retrieve a boy from the tiger cage. Danny sighed before Damian could try to sneak away and jump into action.

“And here I thought I wouldn’t have to bribe anyone today.” Before he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted “DAN FENTON! IF YOU DONT GET OUT HERE IN THE NEXT 2 MINUTES, ILL TELL JAZZ!!”

The zoo keepers nearly panicked as the boy immediately jumped up, completely ignoring the tigers and climbed out to join his brother.

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Ring of Rage? More Like Ring of Engage

The thing is, Tim didn't mean to put it on. He was just kind of playing with it to keep his hands busy while he was thinking about the recent murder case. GCPD had their hands full with the serial robbers that didn't rank high enough to catch Batman's attention, and Tim never had a problem with helping the police if he had time.

And the ring was a perfect fidget toy, if he is being honest. Small and plain enough not to distract him, but the round stone in the middle was loosely attached, making it able to spin inside the frame. Which is what he did, again and again, like those fidget spinners.

Of course, he was just destined to drop it sooner or later. And then, when he reached under the table to pick it up, his finger caught inside the ring, and, well.

The ring was now firmly on his finger.

The problem was that he couldn't take it off.

It wasn't stuck, at least not in the general sense of it - Tim could easily spin it around, and it wasn't tight. But it wasn't loose either, and as soon as he tried to move it past the knuckle, the ring heavily disagreed, almost like shrinking down and absolutely refusing to be detached.

Barbara suggested soap, which didn't work. Dick tried for a more mechanical approach, first with pliers and then with a laser, which the ring resisted with no effort. Cass, who was actually the one who brought the damned thing into the Cave after one of her adventures in Hong Kong, just smiled and shrugged, which was of no help either. Damian offered to cut the finger off, which probably would have helped, but Tim rather liked all his limbs attached.

Bruce called Constantine. The magician took one look at the ring, barked a humorless laugh, and pat Tim on the shoulder sympathetically.

"Congrats, mate," he said, a wry smile on his lips, "I hope you file for divorce."

Although, while all the rest of the Bats and Birds devolved into fits of hysterical laughter (Steph), indignant sputtering (Damian), and cries of outrage (everyone else sans Alfred, who was pointedly unimpressed), Tim couldn't even bring himself to be surprised. Really, his life had been a shitshow since he was around ten. It's not like he didn't expect himself to be accidentally married to some otherworldly magical creature by this point.

The worst part - worse than the actual engagement, that is - was that Constantine couldn't exactly tell them who the spouse was.

What he did say was that the Ring belonged to the King of Infinite Realms, Keeper of Unseen Worlds, and Eyes of Universe. But those were only titles, and, as John Constantine begrudgingly admitted, there has been a change in the management recently, so no one really knew what the new almighty monarch looked like or what they were, much less their whereabouts.

"You can't blame me for not being keen to find out, though," John said, wincing, "The last one was a bloody tyrant, and the Realms operate under the right of conquest rule."

At least, the mage assured them that since the being had not yet come to collect their shiny new spouse, they might never show up at all. The Ring has been lost for ages after all, so maybe the King didn't even remember having one. Or, the previous King didn't, and the new one didn't know about or didn't care.

The first week after the incident, they spent anxiously researching and worrying. Bruce even went as far as making Tim wear a tracker at all times, which was not great, but he did appreciate the gesture. Kind of.

After the first month with no sign of any changes, the worry started to abate. In half a year, most of the family stopped trying to keep an eye on Tim at all times lest he suddenly disappeared. Two years later, even Tim himself treated the Ring as a natural part of his daily life. The stone inside was still a great fidget toy, engagement or not.

Three years, one month, and five days after Tim first put the Ring on his finger, when the world was falling apart and breaking in front of him and there was not a single thing he could do to stop it anymore, Tim pressed his lips to the cold, dark strip of unknown metal on his finger.

"Whoever you are, I don't even care, please," he whispered in a useless prayer, his voice hoarse and his throat dry, "please, help."

And the world came to a stop with a short, amused chuckle.

"Oh, I thought you'd never ask."

[part 2 ->]

[teddybeartoji]

going to the beach with toji and kids for the first time ever. it's only the beginning of your relationship, it's all kind of new – toji doesn't know what's about to hit him. sure, he's seen you with megumi and tsumiki before, but this? this is something else.

not only is his heart doing flips at the sight of the big smiles and the loud bursts of laughter you're managing to pull out of his kids, you're also wearing a fucking bikini. he hasn't seen this much of you before – the furthest you've gone during the late hours of the nights are steamy, handsy makeouts. he did take your shirt off the last time he had you below him but then you were interrupted by the little spiky haired boy, sniffling about a bad dream. after grabbing a blanket to cover you up, toji rested his forehead against your warm skin, grumbling something under his breath before looking up at you with soft eyes. you weren't mad – quite the opposite; you ruffled his hair and cradled his face, a gentle smile splayed on your lips. you pressed a haste kiss to his nose and then ushered him off of you, whispering something about his adorable son. toji scoffed. and smiled to himself.

the bikini. is killing him. he doesn't know what to do with himself. the scene playing in front of him is heart-warming and he should only be thinking about that, but how can he? the material is barely covering anything and you just look so... fucking good.

sitting in the shade, toji let's his head loll back, his eyes closing as he rests his hand over his face with a groan. he can't do it anymore. he's doing brain exercises to not pop the hardest boner of his life and you are not making it any easier when you keep giving him the prettiest smiles. you're happy, the kids are happy – everything should be good, but no – here he is, suffering because his parter looks fucking amazing. the fact that this is even a problem is mind-baffling to him. he is a strong man, no person is going to get to him just by being beauti—

"could you pass me the water, please?"

you're out to get him, he's sure of it.

toji peeks from under his hand and he's immediately blinded by a devil in disguise. the sun shines from behind you like a halo and the grin on your lips reaches behind your ears. sweat coats your skin and it makes toji's mouth salivate. what the fuck are you doing to him? hands on your hips, you stare down at your boyfriend and you give him another second to collect himself before quirking up a brow.

"toji?" you sound like a siren, you're pulling him in with your silky smooth tone. "the water, please?"

the corners of your eyes crinkle as you smile and toji has never moved faster in his entire life. "right."

he reaches for the bottle in the cooler beside him and gives it to you while making sure to look at you in the eyes and nowhere else. it's unbelievably hard – especially when the water starts trickling from the corners of your mouth and down your neck. toji gulps before turning to look at his kids instead. gumi's brows are furrowed as he's building his sandcastle while miki is busy building hers. toji cracks a grin.

"they're so– fucking cute." you whisper when you curse, a playful smile on your lips as you gush about the kids.

you love them so much already and you're glad that they seem to be liking you a lot too. that makes toji very happy; when the kids ask about you when they haven't seen you in a few days, when you do the same – he knows you really might be the one. it's a big thing to say, to even think, but he can't help it. it simply seems... right.

the water bottle hangs in front of his face and he's pulled away from his thoughts again. he goes to grab it and when he does, your free hand reaches out to him. warm finger wrap around his wrist and he melts at the soft, gentle touch. "come play with us."

a groan bubbles from his throat but it couldn't be any further from an annoyed one – you're sweet and you're excited, you're pretty and you're patient; you always welcome him and the kids with open arms and a bright smile. she would've loved you.

he throws the bottle aside and wraps his own hand around your own. "ya wanna play or the kids wanna play?"

his raspy voice and the stupidly handsome smirk he gives you make butterflies bloom and dance in your stomach. he makes you giddy, he makes you happy.

"i wanna play." you tug at him. "and the kids wanna play."

he can't say no to his little blessings and he can't say no to you. maybe running around will help clear his mind from the mischievious thoughts in his head. he doubts it, but he's needs to try.

in one swift move, he pulls your hand to his mouth while pretending to bite you and his eyes fucking twinkle when he sees your cute surprised expression and hears your little gasp. there's a moment, a second of the most comfortable silence before the corners of your lips twitch and you yank away from his hold, booking it towards gumi and miki with a loud cackle as toji pushes off the chair and takes off after you with fast steps.

your cheeks hurt from laughing as you watch toji catch megumi; he lifts gumi up with just one hand while tsumiki tries to poke her dad in the ribs in order for him to let boy go. when he finally lets the kids go... you feel his eyes on you. adrenaline pumps in your veins and you feel like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. you can't stop grinning. he can't either. a pair of arms wrap around your middle and your feet are being lifted up above the ground before you can even react.

while the kids are doubled over, running and stumbling over their own feet, toji growls in your ear. "gotcha."

you will take the next step today. no snotty kid of his will cockblock him again – they will be tired from the day and you will be all his to take care of. he'll show you his appreciation for being so good to him and the kids, for being so kind. and so... fucking hot.

he presses a kiss to your jaw but cringes when gumi and miki dramatically scream 'ew' at him. you feel him getting even warmer, his cheeks heating up and you try to save him by shooing the kids with a laugh. toji is grateful. he's happy that you're here.

[mickyschumacher]

hey could u give us something with the reader wearing body glitter and max and reader kinda are lowkey or uk fwb just fucking in secret and he is kinda in love but doesn't wanna ruin it

but then they go to a party and like she is wearing body glitter uk those glitter sprays and he finds her so irresistible and has to uk get a quickie and then when they come back he is covered in glitter and thats how ppl find out

u could also make it Charles's sister or something

[YOU'RE SO GOLDEN!]

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: max should stay away from you if he knows what's best for him. but he can't help it. you just... sparkle. or in which you forget to rub off the evidence of max's love.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: 18+ (minors dni), fluff, fwb/forbidden love themes, max is down bad for the reader, light praise kink, oral sex/eating out, p in v, unprotected sex (protect yourselves pls), cumming inside, mutual orgasms, orgasm denial kinda, poor humour imo, happy ending! // poorly proof-read ♡︎

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: max verstappen x leclerc!fem!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2.8k+

𝐀/𝐍: the ideas you lot have.... chef's kiss truly 💋 hope you like this one as much as i enjoyed writing it. also my first max fic... can you believe it? there's more coming dw! - ngl i kept thinking about edward cullen - "this is the skin of a killer, bella" 🫣

🏎️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | ⚽️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

Max knew it was a mistake coming here. He should've said no. His partying days had been over for a while now. He spent more time in his room streaming than he did outside. He especially knew it was a mistake because he knew you'd be there.

Charles never went anywhere without you. Wherever he was, you were.

Maybe that's why Max had gone to Lando's party. Because he knew Charles had said yes. Which meant you had said yes.

It was never supposed to happen. It was a one time thing. You were drunk. He was drunk. You didn't remember much of the night. Max had just won his fourth championship in Vegas. And that definitely warranted some partying in Monaco.

There were strobe lights. Martin Garrix was DJing. It was hot and humid. Somehow you had found your lips on Max's. The rest of the night was self-explanatory.

You had woke up the next morning, slightly distraught because Charles would only be first in the line of brothers that would kill you. And while Max peacefully slept in the morning, you took the walk of shame back to your apartment.

The problem was that neither of you could forget the time you spent together. Even though you had drunk one too many that night, you could remember every moment in his bed vividly. Max could still hear your laughs in the emptiness of his apartment. And when he closed his eyes every night before bed, he could see you on top of him.

Max was the one who had suggested the whole thing. Friends with benefits. He said it'd be good for some pleasure for the both of you. Because sex definitely isn't intimate or anything.

But Max was struggling to draw the line. He was feeling things he shouldn't. Concerned when you were sick. Excited for your texts. Small moments reminded him of you when he walked around. You were the first thing he thought about he got in the car and the last when he got out.

More. He craved more than the moments after where you talked for hours before you left. He wanted to wake up to you. He wanted you to pick outfits in front of him and let him pretend which one he liked until you were both back in bed, laughing and moaning.

Fuck. If he knew anything, he was falling in love with you with every passing day.

That's why he should've said no to this party. But, either to his greatest pleasure or his greatest misery, he could never say no to you

That's why Max had made some rules coming here:

No looking at you for more than thirty seconds (because Charles would know instantly).

No touching you. At all. This was non-negotiable.

One conversation. That's all he would allow himself. Because if he talked to you any longer, he wouldn't be able to stop himself.

But those rules seem to fly out the window the instant you had walked in next to Charles. Max could've sworn he was watching it in slow motion.

It was still light out, sun only beginning to set. By the way you and your entourage was dressed, you had clearly been swimming. Your sheer black dress did the bare minimum to cover up your bikini underneath. Even worse was the cut out near your chest, holding the two sides of the dress together with a small metal circle, teasing him.

But that wasn't the worse thing. Nor was it the way your hair fanned across your body, set up as if God had done it himself. Nor was it your signature perfume wafting in the air already.

It was the glitter.

That stupid fucking body glitter.

It sparkled and shimmered on your skin. Your bare legs could make the light dance around you. Your arms held all the command, moving the shine and twinkles with each stride as you walked. And your collarbone – God, your collarbone. Glittering in such a way that he was sure he just wanted to lick you clean.

You were positively glowing in the sunset

You had him hooked. Fixated. And almost on his knees.

Max had already broken rule number one. Fuck the rest.

He tried to wait patiently. Watching you converse with a few people for the first ten minutes. But as you glimmered more from afar, his patience wore thin and his restraint was beginning to break.

Max sent you a text. Plain and Simple. Bathroom. Now.

He didn't wait for you to read it and look at him. Max knew you'd come. Because a bit like him, you also had trouble saying no.

Five minutes. That's how long it took for you to come to the bathroom. He would've argued that was five minutes too long.

You raised a brow, folding your arms, keeping your amusement at bay as Max neared you with a few strides, locking the bathroom door.

"Took you long enough," Max mumbled, leaning back to get a better view of you. His eyes glazed over the specks of glitter rubbed into your skin as he spoke. "What were you doing? Talking their ears off?"

You tilted your head to the side, eyes narrowed playfully. "I was enjoying it. Too bad someone was giving 'fuck me' eyes from across the room. You're basically begging for Charles to find out," you huffed quietly.

"Begging?" Max queried, brows raised in slight surprise. He smirked slowly, hands reaching out to brush over your collarbone, fingers grazing your neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps across your shimmering skin. "The only person who's going to be begging is you when I'm done with you. Driving me crazy looking like this," he sighed out.

You shivered at his touch, breath caught at his words. You blinked, cheeks flushing. "It's just body glitter," you murmured quietly, teeth sinking into your lips as you watched him bend down, on his knees while he looked up at you.

"Maybe," Max shrugged, hands creeping up your legs, preventing you from clenching your thighs like you had been the moment you walked in here. "But you look so pretty," he confessed.

Your lips parted. His words sounded far from the Max you knew a couple months ago. This was... soft. Like he couldn't control his brain.

He peered at you, lips and cheek grazing the side of your thigh, edging closer and closer to the heat – fabric of your dress brushing his skin. "Let me taste you," he pleaded. "I need you so bad."

He wasn't lying. The bulge in his jeans was so strained, you almost could've sworn it was painful. You wondered what he had been doing for past five minutes. What he had been thinking about to get this hard.

"Everyone's outside," you reminded quietly, not directly saying no. And by 'everyone' you mainly meant Charles.

"They won't know. The music is too loud. I promise," Max reassured, patiently waiting for your answer, small kisses pressed on the inside of your thigh. His touch was tantalising.

You swallowed thickly, nodding. You only just trust your voice. "Okay," you agreed. "But we have to be quick. Ten minutes tops."

You were in the bathroom for Christ's sake. But any minute longer, Charles might have a search party going. God forbid his little sister was getting a good dicking down. (Max's words, not yours.)

You could feel his grin on the side of your thigh and it made you shudder. Max hummed with satisfaction. "Let's prepare you then."

You held your breath as his hands moved, riding your dress up past your thighs, bunching up at your waist while your black bikini bottoms stared at Max at eye level. He sighed, "Fuck me." The fabric was stuck to your folds, darker where damp.

"So wet," he laughed softly, the sound teasing as he pulled down the fabric, letting it pool your legs. He breathed in, the smell of your arousal only fuelling his hunger. His hands grasped your thighs tighter, spreading them further to watch your slick shine the same way your skin did.

Max gave you no warning like he usually did. He was already so far gone with his desires. He leaned his head in, tongue darting out to take one long stripe of your wet folds, grinning when your body jerked to his touch. "Taste so sweet, schat," he praised before delving into your pussy.

You could only whimper, your hand clamped over your mouth. His fingers clamped deeper into your thighs, pulling you closer while his tongue darted into every crevice and fold. Your other hand fell to his shoulder, bracing your self and grasping at the way his defined nose knocked at your clit.

Your head fell back to the bathroom door, hips grinding up into his tongue as if it was second nature. Your eyes fluttered shut, breathing stuttering while your chest rose and fell. Fuck, it felt so good

Max could see it faintly through his peripheral. Your arousal covering the sides of your thigh, mixing with your body glitter to create a whole new unique shine that solely comprised of you. He could only grunt against your cunt, the sound reverberating through your body.

The clench of your pussy told Max everything he needed to know.

He parted from your folds, silencing your quiet whines with his wet lips, shining with glitter and arousal as he kissed you. Your hand found the buckle of his pants, quickly prodding to take them off.

Max's body lurched upon the feel of your hand on his cock. "Fucking hell," he cussed into your neck, eyes rolling slightly.

"Five minutes," you rasped in his ear, fingers grazing his tip for leaving his cock hanging from his pants, aching and twitching for more of your touch.

Max swallowed, nodding furiously. His one hand travelled to your thigh, hooking it closer to his body while the other laid flat on the bathroom door, steadying himself. His hips aligned with yours, his pulsing cock teasing your entrance, covered in your arousal.

A reverent guttural moan spilled from his lips as he pushed his hips up into you, cock welcoming the warmth of your pussy, balls flushed against you once he fully bottomed out. "Holy fuck," you barely whispered, his hips beginning to rut against you.

Your glimmering skin stuck against one another while Max brought his lips to yours, consuming all the loud moans threatening to scape with his sloppy kisses. He pushed his cock further into you, feeling his balls slap against you, making the most obscene sounds known to man echo in the bathroom.

He looked down at you, feeling his cock pulse at the fucked out expression that teetered on your face. You could barely breathe with all the air escaping your lungs as the familiar white light edged near you. Max grinned against your lips. "You going to come for me? With all those people outside? You keep warning me about Charles but I think you secretly enjoy this, schat. You just can't get enough of me."

Your fingers on his shoulder tightened, stomach churning while your jaw fell open. "Fuck!" you gasped, any sounds from your mouth turning silent as stars covered your vision, body convulsing as the waves of your orgasm rolled over you one after another.

"That's it," Max coaxed, hips snapping faster into you. "Did so well for me. Clenching so tightly," he grunted, eyes falling to the cream ring around his cock. Christ.

"Come for me, Max," you encouraged, holding his jaw so he looked back at you. "Fill me up," you breathed, body tightening when you felt his fingers rub your clit. The pleasure was beginning to build up fast.

Max swallowed, unable to look away as he felt your orgasm vibrate around his cock as you clenched around him. A high-pitched stuttered groan fell from his lips, hips stuttering against you.

The both of you moaned as his hot white cum spilled into your walls. Your folds clamped around him, milking every last drop. Your head fell against the bathroom door with an exhausted sigh, chest heaving as he pulled out gently after a few minutes had passed.

"Thank you." You breathed out slowly, giving a small smile as Max pulled your bikini bottoms back up, not missing the way his blown pupils were stuck on the way his cum spilled out of your and onto the wet fabric.

Max cleared his throat, nodding in acknowledgement.

You shuffled down your dress, patting down the material so you looked somewhat presentable. You looked over at the mirror before turning to Max. "I'll leave first," you murmured, barely giving him a glance over as you often did so you didn't overthink. You turned to unlock the door.

Max blinked, failing to ignore the clench of his heart. You were reminding him what you were. Friends with benefits. That's all you were.

The air felt cold on your heated skin. The thrum of chatter and music filled your ears as you weaved through the small crowds of people, finding Charles and Alexandra talking to Lando.

"What I'd miss?" You queried, looping your arm through Alexandra's.

Lando kindly grinned at you. "A trip to Ibiza. If you're down," he shrugged.

Charles nodded. "Lando hired a yacht. Although we should probably ask Max to deal with it since he owns so many," he huffed, head twisting to spot the Dutch driver. "Max!" He flagged down.

Max pressed his lips, avoiding your gaze as he greeted your brother and Lando.

"Where have you been? We were just talking about some– what's that?" Charles paused, brows furrowing as he peered at Max oddly.

"What's what?" Max retorted.

Charles dipped his head, blue eyes examining the last bits of sun on Max's skin. "Is that glitter?" He asked out of sheer curiosity.

Your face fell, growing instantly hot at your brother's words. You could feel Max's body still while Charles followed the way Alexandra and Lando's eyes travelled to you and your glittering skin.

Fuck.

Charles snapped his eyes to Max, brows raised in disbelief. "Max... for the love of God, tell me you're not having..." he breathed in slowly like he was afraid to say it. "...sex with my sister."

Max took a step closer to you, covering you with his body like he was going to protect you. Why on earth would he do that?

You gave Charles a pointed look. "W-We're adults, Charles," you reminded, seemingly confirming it yourself with a shaky breath.

"Merde," Charles cursed, shaking his head. You could see Alexandra squeeze his hand gently, trying to calm and comfort him. You gave her a grateful smile, still a bit terrified of your brother.

Charles kept looking at Max, keeping his position as older brother up before being his friend. "So you're dating then?" He queried as if it was the only obvious answer.

The question felt loud. The silence even louder.

Charles would kill the both of you if he found out were just friends with benefits. But the truth was... it wasn't really like that anymore. There was something more. But neither of you had been brave enough to admit it.

That is... yet.

Max turned to you, blue eyes softening slightly. He grabbed your hand with his. His voice was low and quiet, leaving only you to hear him. "I don't really want to just be 'friends,'" he admitted with a tight scared smile.

You blinked at his admission, taking time to register his words. Finally a soft smile graced your face. You felt impossibly warm and complete. You squeezed his hand. "Neither," you whispered back.

Max tried to tone down his grin as much as he could as he turned to Charles and sucked in a sharp breath. "We're dating," he confirmed.

Lando raised a brow. "You mean as of now. You're dating as of now. How long have you been fucking?"

"Lando!" You hissed, glaring at him, unable to even look at Charles or Max.

Charles breathed in slowly, a barely sane smile on his face. He rubbed his temples gently. "I'm going to ignore that," he mumbled, gesturing to Lando before turning to your now boyfriend. "Well, welcome to the family," he sighed out, grabbing Max's shoulder. He leaned in further, the threat quiet in his ear but visible for all of you to see. "Hurt her and I swear to God you'll crash on track."

Max swallowed thickly. He gave a firm nod. "Duly noted."

"Great!" Charles chirped, leaning back with a feigned smile that only told you that you were in for it when you got home.

Oh Jesus.

You tugged Max closer to you. "I think we should enjoy what freedom we both have left for the day."

Max nodded idly. "Sounds like a good idea."

© 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐘𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑