#if you (the friend) are reading this. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. I AM CALLING YOU OUT ON PUBLIC TELEVISION!!! >:[

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 25

˗ˏˋ vanilla drips ˎˊ˗

"Sometimes the sweetest confessions come in the form of flour wars and vanilla extract kisses, when 3 AM vulnerability meets kitchen counter chemistry and you realize you've been lying to yourself about what you actually want."

next | index

✧ chapter details ✧

word count: 11.2k

content: 3am sourdough therapy sessions, flour warfare, vanilla extract as foreplay, kitchen counter confessions, raw intimacy (literally), tessa reconnaissance missions, jason date debriefs, smut, penetration, vanilla kink as always

✦ author's note ✦

Okay. Before anyone starts warming up their fingers to type “why is Y/N being such a hypocrite about Tessa,” let’s stop right there because actually? She’s not. Not even a little bit. What you’re witnessing here isn’t hypocrisy—it’s human behavior. It’s trauma logic. It’s psychological realism. And it’s honestly the most consistent Y/N has ever been.

Here’s the thing: what she has with Jungkook is sex. She’s said it, she’s acted on it, and more importantly—she believes it. Her brain doesn’t categorize him as a romantic option, not even subconsciously. So when she pushes Tessa toward him, it’s not because she’s lying to herself—it’s because, from her point of view, Jungkook deserves something good. After Mia? Yeah. He deserves a little sweetness. Tessa’s nice. That’s literally it. She’s responding with a moral instinct, not romantic jealousy. And that’s not hypocrisy—that’s compartmentalization paired with a genuine (if ill-defined) desire to see someone be treated well.

But here’s the question the chapter’s really asking: is “something good” always what someone needs?

Because Jungkook doesn’t recognize affection as safe. The boy has trained himself not to see it—thanks to a past that weaponized intimacy against him. So of course he doesn’t clock Tessa’s interest. It’s not him being stupid. It’s a trauma-informed blind spot. He’s too tuned into control dynamics to perceive sincerity when it’s offered without strings. (And let’s be real, how many of us have had our receptors miswired by the wrong person?)

That’s where the mutual curiosity comes in—both Y/N and Jungkook ask about each other’s dating lives in this chapter. Not because they’re pining or secretly in love or any of that fluff. They’re not. What they are, though, is interested. Maybe not in a romantic sense, but definitely in a human one. They’re trying to read each other. Understand each other. That’s what friends do. Or, in their case, that’s what trying to be friends looks like. They’re clumsy, they’re defensive, but they’re showing care in the only languages they know—flour fights and 3 AM bread commentary and checking if the other person is sleeping with someone else, just to make sense of the shape of things.

And Jungkook? For all his snark and dodging—he reads her this chapter. Like really reads her. He names her deflections. Calls out her need for control. Gives her permission to let go in ways no one else has. That kitchen scene isn’t romantic, it’s recognition. And that’s what makes it intimate. Not love. Not pining. But connection.

The vanilla extract moment—look, I know some of you are rolling your eyes at the "of course it's vanilla because that's Y/N's scent" metaphor, but hear me out. The fact that he was drinking it? That's not cute quirky behavior—that's concerning. It's self-medication disguised as harmless habit. For those of you who don’t know or haven’t caught up—vanilla extract is ethanol. Which means, it is alcohol. And Y/N recognizing it but choosing to transform it into something sensual instead of confronting it directly? That's her attempting to heal through intimacy rather than conversation, which is very much her emotional language at this point in the story.

Anyway. Enjoy the mess. Enjoy the tension. Enjoy Jungkook's dirty talk and Y/N's stubborn deflection and the way they're both falling without admitting it. It's about to get so much more complicated, and I am absolutely living for it.

✧ read on✧

ao3

wattpad

You're halfway to sleep when the knock comes.

Soft at first, almost hesitant, like whoever's on the other side isn't sure they should be there.

"What?" you mumble, voice thick with exhaustion.

No response.

Another knock, louder this time.

"Whatttt?" you snap, sitting up and glaring at the door.

Still no answer.

With an annoyed huff, you throw off the covers and march to the door, yanking it open—and nearly stumble into Jungkook.

He's leaning against the frame, one arm braced above his head like he's posing for a magazine cover. His hair is messy, his silver ring catching the faint light from the hallway.

You take a step back instinctively, narrowing your eyes. "What do you want? It's three in the morning."

He tilts his head toward the kitchenette, lips quirking into that infuriating half-smile. "I'm making sourdough."

You blink at him. "Sourdough?"

"Remember I told you about my Steam nickname? The baking pun?" He raises an eyebrow like he's daring you to remember.

"Huh," you say flatly, still trying to process why this man is standing outside your room at an ungodly hour talking about bread.

"Wanna see?" he asks, his grin widening.

"No," you reply immediately, crossing your arms. "Why would I want to see your midnight bread experiment?"

"Because it's cool," he says simply, as if that explains everything.

You stare at him for a long moment before sighing and stepping out of your room.

"Fine. But if this is stupid—"

"It's not stupid," he interrupts, already turning toward the kitchenette. "It's art."

"Oh my god," you mutter, following him reluctantly.

The counter is a mess of flour and bowls and what looks like a dough blob covered with a damp cloth. Jungkook gestures at it like it's a masterpiece.

"Behold," he says dramatically. "The future of bread."

You squint at it.

"It looks like a brain."

"Shows what you know about baking," he retorts, grabbing a wooden spoon and poking at the edges of the dough. "This is proofing."

"You're proofing my patience right now," you mutter, leaning against the counter.

He smirks but doesn't look up from his work. "You're just jealous because I have hobbies."

"Making bread at 3 AM isn't a hobby; it's a cry for help."

"Says the girl who reads Kafka for fun."

"It's called intellectual stimulation."

"It's called depressing bug stories."

You roll your eyes as he starts shaping the dough.

"So this is what you do when you can't sleep? Play housewife?"

"Better than doomscrolling Twitter," he shoots back without missing a beat.

"Shut up." You watch him for a moment longer before asking, "Why sourdough?"

His hands pause briefly before resuming their rhythm.

"My mom taught me how to make it when I was younger," he says quietly. "I loved it, so I picked it up quite easily. I guess it's just habit now."

There's something softer in his voice now, something almost reverent.

You don't press him for more details; it feels like enough that he shared this much.

"But I mean... why do it now?" you ask instead.

He shrugs but doesn't look up. "I told you, it helps me think."

You scoff, trying to keep the mood from dipping too far into serious territory. He finishes shaping the dough and places it on a tray before turning back to you.

"Wanna help?" he asks, holding out the wooden spoon.

"Nope," you say immediately.

"Oh come on." He wiggles the spoon enticingly. "Live a little."

"I'm living just fine without touching your weird blob bread."

"You're no fun."

He sets the spoon down with exaggerated disappointment and starts cleaning up the counter.

You watch him for another moment before grabbing the spoon and poking at the dough experimentally. It feels weirdly satisfying under your fingers—soft but firm, pliable but resistant.

Jungkook glances over and smirks again.

"See? Told you it was cool."

"Don't push it," you warn, but there's no real bite in your tone.

He chuckles softly and continues tidying up while you poke at his sourdough creation like it might reveal some hidden secrets about him—or maybe just about yourself.

And somehow, in this quiet kitchen at three in the morning, surrounded by flour and sarcasm and unexpected softness, it feels... okay.

You're still poking at the dough when Jungkook flicks a bit of flour in your direction. It lands on your arm, a tiny white puff against your skin.

"Oops," he says, not sounding sorry at all.

You narrow your eyes. "Don't start something you can't finish, Rogue."

His eyebrows shoot up at the nickname, a challenge sparking in his eyes.

"Is that a threat, Phoenix?"

"Yes it is."

You dip your fingers into the flour bag and flick it back at him, leaving a white streak across his black t-shirt.

"Oh, that's how it's gonna be?" He grins, reaching for more flour.

You back away, holding up your hands. "Don't you dare."

"What are you gonna do about it?" He advances slowly, a handful of flour cupped in his palm like a weapon.

"I'm serious, Jungkook," you warn, but you're already calculating escape routes. "I just showered."

"Should've thought about that before you started a war."

You dart around the sofa, putting it between you.

"This is childish."

"Says the girl hiding behind furniture," he counters, mirroring your movements as you circle the couch.

"I'm being smart."

"You're being a chicken."

You gasp in fake outrage. "Take that back!"

"No can do," he taunts, lunging suddenly to the left.

You shriek and bolt right, nearly slipping on the tile as you move through the narrow space between the coffee table and the couch. He's right behind you, laughing as you sprint to the other side.

"Get away from me, you monster!" you yell, but you're laughing too, the absurdity of the situation hitting you.

"Never!" he calls back, his voice pitched higher in a cartoonish villain impression. "Ueheheheh!"

You grab a throw pillow as a shield, holding it in front of you.

"I'm warning you!"

"Oh no, not the pillow," he mocks, still advancing. "Whatever shall I do?"

You swing it at him, but he dodges easily, grabbing your wrist with his flour-free hand.

Before you can react, he's smearing the flour across your cheek, touch surprisingly gentle despite the roughhousing.

"Got you," he says, voice low and triumphant.

You retaliate immediately, snatching the bag of flour from the counter and shoving your hand in.

"Fuck that, this means war!"

And so then, war begins indeed.

Flour flying everywhere, breathless laughter echoing through the apartment, furniture used as barricades and launch pads.

You leave white handprints on his shoulders when you try to push him away; he leaves them on your waist when he catches you mid-escape.

The aftermath leaves the kitchen floor looking like a disaster zone, flour coating every surface like a dusting of snow.

You're both covered in it—hair, clothes, skin—looking like ghosts in a low-budget horror movie.

"Truce?" you gasp finally, out of breath from laughing and running.

"Never surrender," he declares, lunging for you again.

You dodge, but your sock slips on the flour-covered floor, and before you fall, Jungkook grabs you, steadying you with a hand on your waist.

"Gotcha," he says again, softer this time, his face inches from yours.

You're both breathing hard, covered in flour.

His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up, a question in them.

And then—

SMACK.

His hand connects with your ass in a playful swat, leaving a perfect white handprint on your black sleep shorts.

You gasp in outrage as he dances away, cackling like a maniac.

"You did NOT just—"

"I did," he confirms, looking far too pleased with himself. "And it's a work of art, if I do say so myself."

You glance over your shoulder, trying to see the handprint.

"I'm going to kill you."

"Worth it," he declares, already backing away as you advance on him. "Totally worth it."

"You're dead, Ro," you threaten, grabbing another handful of flour. "Dead!"

He just laughs, eyes bright with mischief, not looking sorry at all.

"Come and get me then, Phoenix."

And despite yourself, despite the mess and the late hour and the flour in places flour should never be, you're laughing too, chasing him around the kitchen like you're both twelve years old instead of college students with responsibilities and complicated lives.

It's ridiculous. It's childish.

It's the most fun you've had in weeks.

Flour permeates the kitchen air like falling snowflakes.

Jungkook is now leaning against the counter, still grinning like the Cheshire cat, surveying the flour-dusted disaster.

You, for your part, are trying to brush flour off your arms, which is mostly just smearing it around.

"You know," Jungkook says, his voice laced with that fake-innocent tone he uses when he's about to say something outrageous, "all this flour… it's probably not great for your pores."

You eye him suspiciously. "And?"

"And," he continues, pushing off the counter and taking a step closer, "you should probably shower again."

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock." You gesture vaguely at your flour-coated state.

"I could help," he offers. "You know… save water. Be environmentally conscious."

You burst out laughing, a startled, disbelieving sound.

"Are you serious right now? We just had a flour war, and your first thought is how to get laid?"

"Efficiency, Nix," he says, tapping his temple. "Always thinking efficiency."

"You're deranged," you choke out between laughs. "A completely deranged, horny bitch."

He just shrugs, unbothered.

"Maybe. But think of the planet."

You're still chuckling, shaking your head at his sheer audacity, when a thought flickers through your mind, uninvited and slightly uncomfortable.

Tessa.

If he actually starts dating her, if they become a thing… this—the easy banter, the late-night flirting, the casual hookups—it would all have to stop, right? You can't exactly keep sleeping with him if he has a girlfriend.

The thought leaves a weird, vaguely metallic taste in your mouth. Not jealousy, exactly. You don't want Jungkook in that way.

But the dynamic you have, this messy, undefined thing… it's familiar.

Weirdly comfortable in its own chaotic way.

The idea of it changing, ending… it's just… weird.

You push the thought away, shaking your head again, trying to clear it. Not your problem right now.

"Yeah, I'll pass on your noble environmental efforts," you say, trying to regain control of the conversation.

You look around at the white-dusted apartment, then back at him.

"Seriously though, when did you even get home? I didn't hear you come in at all."

He leans back against the counter again, crossing his arms over his flour-streaked chest.

"A while ago. Maybe you were too busy dreaming about me to notice."

"In your dreams, Rogue." You pick a stray piece of dough off your sleeve. "I was sleeping. Like normal people do at"—you glance at the microwave clock—"three-thirty in the morning."

"Normal is boring," he counters easily. "Besides, I'm stealthy. Like a ninja. A bread-making ninja."

"A messy ninja," you correct, gesturing at the flour coating literally everything, including him. "You look like a powdered donut."

"A sexy powdered donut," he clarifies, striking a pose.

You snort. "Keep telling yourself that."

You start trying to wipe down a section of the counter with a paper towel, which mostly just creates floury streaks.

"Seriously though, you didn't make any noise. I would've heard the door."

He shrugs, grabbing another paper towel and starting to help, surprisingly.

"Maybe I'm just light on my feet. Or maybe your ears are full of wax."

"Rude."

You throw the floury paper towel at him. He dodges it effortlessly.

"Just stating facts," he says, grinning. "Maybe you should get them checked. Could be impacting your hearing. Explains why you never listen to me."

"I listen," you argue, crumpling up another paper towel. "I just usually choose to ignore you because ninety percent of what you say is bullshit."

"That feels statistically inaccurate," he muses, wiping down the handle of the fridge. He leaves a faint white handprint behind. "I'd say it's more like… eighty-two percent bullshit. The other eighteen percent is pure genius."

"Delusional," you mutter, tackling the flour patch on the floor near the sink. "Completely delusional."

He stops wiping and just watches you for a second, a thoughtful expression replacing the usual smirk.

"You really didn't hear me come in?"

"No," you say, looking up. "Why? Should I have?"

He shakes his head, the smirk returning.

"Nah. Just means my ninja skills are improving. Or you're a really heavy sleeper." He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Do you snore, Nix? Is that your dirty little secret?"

"I do not snore," you hiss, flicking water at him. "And get out of my personal space."

He laughs, easily dodging the water droplets. "Just asking!"

He resumes wiping the counter, humming softly under his breath.

You watch him for a moment, thoughts about Tessa still churning in your mind.

It's ridiculous, standing here covered in flour at nearly four in the morning, cleaning up a mess you both made, arguing about ninja skills and snoring.

But somehow, it feels… normal. Your kind of normal, anyway.

Messy, complicated, and definitely not boring.

You're on your hands and knees, attempting to wipe up a particularly stubborn patch of flour near the leg of the kitchen island, when you decide to go for it.

Operation: Tessa Reconnaissance. For the sisterhood, obviously.

And maybe a tiny bit because you're curious how this whole mess fits together.

"So," you say, keeping your voice casual as you swipe uselessly at the floor, "your friends seem… like a lot."

Jungkook snorts from where he's attempting to de-flour the coffee maker.

"Yeah, they're idiots. But they're my idiots."

"Including Library Girl?" you ask, aiming for nonchalance. "The redhead? Tessa?"

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder.

"Tessa? Yeah, she was there. Why?"

"No reason," you say quickly, maybe too quickly, focusing intently on the flour patch. "Just noticed you two talking a lot. She seems… nice."

"She is nice," he agrees easily, turning back to the coffee maker. "Super smart, too. Knows her shit about film. Like, really knows it."

Okay, good start. He acknowledges her existence and intelligence. Phase one complete.

"Yeah?" you prompt. "She mentioned you guys talked about… Park Chan-wook?"

You pronounce the name carefully, hoping you got it right based on Tessa's text.

He brightens instantly, forgetting the coffee maker entirely and turning to face you fully.

"Dude, yes! She actually got why The Handmaiden is structured the way it is. Most people just focus on the twists, but she was talking about the shifting perspectives and visual storytelling… it was cool."

His enthusiasm is genuine, almost nerdy. It's the same way he lit up talking about John Mayer's guitar playing. He's clearly impressed by her film knowledge.

"So… you like her?" you ask, trying to sound like you're just making conversation while scrubbing the floor.

"Yeah, she's cool," he says easily. "Definitely one of the few people in that class who isn't a total poser. We had this debate about Bong Joon-ho's genre blending—it was actually interesting."

He seems focused entirely on the intellectual connection. No hint of anything else.

Time for phase two: physical attraction assessment.

"She's really pretty, too," you add, still scrubbing. "Like, model pretty."

He shrugs, grabbing a damp cloth to wipe down the counter where his dough blob still sits.

"Yeah, I guess. Didn't really notice."

You stop scrubbing and look up at him incredulously. "You didn't notice? She looks like she walked off a runway and directly into that ramen shop. How could you not notice?"

He frowns slightly, like he's genuinely trying to recall her appearance beyond 'classmate'.

"I mean, she's got… hair? And a face? I don't know, Nix, I was more focused on the conversation." He seems genuinely perplexed by your insistence. "Why are you so hung up on how she looks?"

"I'm not hung up!" you retort, feeling defensive for reasons you can't quite articulate. "I just… stating facts. She's objectively attractive."

"Okay?" He draws the word out, like he doesn't understand the relevance. "Lots of people are attractive. Doesn't mean anything."

He gestures vaguely with the damp cloth.

"Are we gonna finish cleaning this up or are we analyzing the relative hotness of my classmates now?"

You huff, returning to your floor scrubbing.

Unbelievable. Either he's genuinely oblivious or he's the world's best actor.

Given his track record, oblivious seems more likely.

"Fine," you mutter. "Just making an observation."

"Well, observe the flour patch you missed by the trash can," he retorts, pointing with the cloth.

You glare at the spot, then at him.

"Bossy."

"Best one."

You crawl over to the trash can, wiping up the offending flour.

Okay, so he acknowledges she's nice, smart, shares his interests, but is apparently blind to the fact that she's a literal goddess?

Why are men so confusing?

"So," you try again, shifting tactics. "Since she's so cool and smart and into the same weird movies as you… you gonna ask her out?"

He stops wiping again, looking genuinely surprised by the question.

"Ask her out? Why would I do that?"

"Because… you like her? You just said she was cool and smart?"

Are you losing your mind? Is he actually this dense?

"Yeah, as a friend," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "We're in the same class. We talk about movies. That's… what friends do?"

"Jungkook," you say slowly, sitting back on your heels and facing him directly. "Girls like Tessa—girls who look like her and are that nice—don't usually go out of their way to talk to guys about obscure Korean directors unless they're interested."

He stares at you, blinking. Like the concept is entirely foreign.

"Wait, you think she… likes me? Like, likes likes me?"

"Is there an echo in here?" you ask dryly. "Yes, you absolute walnut. That's generally how that works."

He runs a hand through his flour-dusted hair, looking completely bewildered.

"No way. She's just… friendly. People are friendly sometimes, Nix."

"Not that friendly," you insist. "Trust me. There's friendly, and then there's 'laughing at all your jokes and touching your arm every five minutes' friendly. That's different."

He actually seems to consider this, replaying interactions in his head.

His brow furrows.

"She does laugh a lot… And she did touch my arm…" He looks back at you, still skeptical. "But maybe she's just, like, a touchy person?"

"Or maybe she wants to touch your dick," you deadpan.

He chokes on air, eyes widening.

"Dude! What the fuck?"

"Just saying! It's a possibility you seem to have completely overlooked."

He shakes his head, a disbelieving laugh escaping him.

"Nah. No way. You're messing with me."

"I'm really not," you say, suddenly feeling bad for Tessa—because this poor beautiful girl is putting in the effort, and he's completely clueless. "She basically told me she likes you."

"She told you?" Finally, he looks like oxygen is reaching his brain. "When?"

"At the party. We talked for a bit."

"And she just… announced her romantic interest in me? To my roommate? That seems weird."

"It wasn't like that! She was asking for advice! Because she was nervous!" You're practically defending her now. "She's really sweet, Rogue. And clearly into you."

He leans back against the counter again, processing this information.

He doesn't look smug or pleased, just… thoughtful.

And maybe a little overwhelmed.

"Huh," he says softly. "Never would've guessed."

He's quiet for a moment, staring down at the floury cloth in his hand.

"I mean, she is… really nice."

"So?" you prompt. "Now that you know the feeling might be mutual…?"

He sighs, dropping the cloth into the sink.

"I don't know, Nix."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

He avoids your eyes, turning on the faucet and starting to rinse the cloth with unnecessary focus.

"Dating's… complicated, you know?"

"Everything's complicated with you," you mutter.

He glances back, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before it's gone.

"Yeah, well. Maybe that's just how it is." He turns off the water, wringing out the cloth. "Besides, I'm not really… looking for anything right now."

"You're never looking for anything," you point out. "Except maybe your keys. Or a clean mug."

"Exactly," he says, attempting a grin, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Too busy looking for my keys."

There it is again. That deflection. That hint of something heavier beneath that he refuses to acknowledge.

You think about what Yoongi said, about Mia, about Jungkook needing to be careful.

Maybe he's right to be hesitant.

"Okay," you say quietly, deciding not to push it further.

You've done your recon. You have information for Tessa, even if it's not the straightforward green light she might be hoping for.

"Just… don't be a dick to her, alright? If you're not interested, fine. But she's nice. She doesn't deserve games."

He looks surprised by your defense of her.

"I wasn't planning on playing games." He hesitates, then adds, almost reluctantly, "She does seem… different. From…"

He trails off, but you know who he means.

Mia.

An awkward silence hangs between you for a moment.

Unspoken history and potential futures.

Jungkook breaks it first, clapping his hands together with forced brightness.

"Okay, enough about my potential love life," he says, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. "Let's talk yours. How was the date with Jason?"

You freeze, paper towel in hand, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation.

"What?"

He's halfway through sweeping a particularly stubborn pile of flour when he pauses, leaning on the broom handle.

"You know, Jason? Tall guy, glasses, probably owns more vests than actual personality traits?" He waves the broom vaguely. "The one you were all dressed up for earlier?"

"I wasn't dressed up," you protest automatically, even though you know it's a lie.

You definitely put effort into your appearance for that coffee date.

Jungkook snorts.

"Please. You were wearing makeup on a Sunday. And that green top thing that makes your—" He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. "Anyway. Spill. How'd it go with Professor Boring?"

You narrow your eyes at him.

"His name is Jason, and he's not boring. He's... mature."

"Mature," Jungkook repeats, drawing out the word like it's a foreign concept. "Right. Because that's what every college student dreams of. Maturity."

"Some of us actually want to date functioning adults," you retort.

"Functioning is overrated," he says with a grin. "But seriously, how was it? Did he dazzle you with his extensive knowledge of... what does he study again? 18th-century doorknobs?"

"Modern literature," you correct, rolling your eyes. "And it was nice."

Jungkook raises an eyebrow.

"Nice? That's it? Wow, don't oversell it or anything."

You sigh, grabbing the dustpan to help him with the flour pile.

"It was really nice, okay? He's smart, and he actually listens when I talk. We had a great conversation about female agency in Gothic novels."

"Riveting," Jungkook deadpans. "I'm sure the sexual tension was off the charts. Did you hold hands while discussing the patriarchal oppression of women in corsets?"

"You're such an ass," you mutter, but there's no real heat behind it. "Not everything has to be about sexual tension, you know."

"Doesn't have to be," he agrees, sweeping the last of the flour into the dustpan you're holding. "But it sure makes things more interesting."

And yeah, you catch him looking.

That look.

The one that says he's already decided how this ends.

One hand still loosely gripping the broom handle, the other braced against the table as he leans into it like he's posing for a fucking cologne ad.

You don't acknowledge it at first. Too proud. Too fucking annoyed by how easily he can flip the switch. One second you're arguing about Gothic literature and vests, the next—he's practically leaking testosterone across the countertop.

"I know that face," you mutter, not even looking up. "That's your 'I need to nut or I'll die' face."

He grins, unbothered. "Not wrong."

"Go jerk off in your sad little windowless cave like a normal person."

He shrugs, grabbing the bag of flour again, sifting some through his fingers with mock concentration.

"Mmm. Say it again. That mouth of yours, Pix… always so fuckin' mouthy."

You roll your eyes, but your stomach dips. "Maybe if you had more than two brain cells to rub together, I wouldn't have to talk so much."

"Yeah?" he says, ignoring the flour and stepping forward.

One stride. Two. And then he's right in front of you, eyes glinting.

"Keep runnin' that smart pretty mouth. See what happens."

You're about to fire something back—something snarky, something biting—but he grabs you.

Just yanks you forward by the waistband like it's nothing. Like you're nothing but a ragdoll he gets to toss around.

Your body stumbles into his chest and suddenly both his hands are on your ass, gripping it with filthy enthusiasm—greedy, solid handfuls of flesh through thin cotton, palms still dusty with flour. His fingers press, squeeze, spread, claim.

You gasp—too startled to bite it back.

And he fucking grins.

"See what you do to me when you act like that?"

His cock's hard against your stomach. Rock solid. Obvious. Shameless. He doesn't even try to hide it.

"God, Nix," he mutters, voice thick now. "C'mon. It's been too long."

You snort. "I sucked your winny yesterday."

He breaks—a bark of laughter, genuine and scandalized.

"Winny?" he repeats, like he can't believe you said it. "You calling my dick a preschool toy now?"

You shrug, deadpan. "Fits. Loud, annoying, kind of a drama queen."

He leans in again, dragging his mouth close, too close.

"Uh-uh, and I ate you out the day before that," he says, scornful little smile tugging at his lips like he's winning something. "So technically… still overdue."

"So?" you snap, but your voice is breathier than it should be. "That's not overdue."

"It is," he says, like it's math. "I mean actually being inside you. Kinda been craving it for a while now."

You swallow. Loud.

"Should I bend you over the kitchen table?" he murmurs. "Fuck you from behind? Bet you'd like that, huh?"

"Please," you scoff. "You'd probably knock over your sacred sourdough."

He grins, cocky and low and unbearable.

"So protective of the dough. But not my Winny?"

You slap his chest, trying not to laugh.

"Don't say it like that."

"Me? You gave it a name, so… C'mon, give my Winny some love, Pix."

You snort, and it comes out halfway between a laugh and a groan because your thighs are starting to ache with how badly you want pressure. Relief. Something.

"Counter or table?" he asks, already walking you backwards.

You hesitate. Just a second.

"…Counter."

He doesn't wait. Doesn't ask. Just grabs you and lifts like it's easy, like you weigh nothing. Drops your ass right onto the cool marble and steps between your legs—close enough your knees bracket his hips.

And his voice? His voice is low and filthy and unforgiving.

"Atta girl."

His mouth is on you before you can roll your eyes.

Hot, hungry kisses trailing up your neck—messy, unhurried, lips dragging like he wants to brand you. He bites at your jaw, just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. You tilt your head without thinking, baring your throat like a fucking offering.

And he groans—low and wrecked—like that does something to him. Like you're giving him more than skin.

His hands stay on your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft crease near your hips, holding you open while he devours.

You blink, and something catches the light near the sink.

Tiny. Brown. Familiar.

Your arm reaches past him, still off-balance on the counter. Fingers curl around it—vanilla extract.

You hold it up between two fingers, smirking.

"Why the fuck is this out?"

His head lifts just enough to glance at what you mean.

"Oh," he says, then immediately dives back in, mouthing at your collarbone like he didn't just answer you. "Nothing. Was sipping a lil bit earlier."

Your body stiffens. Barely. But he feels it.

You don't say anything for a second. You just… look at the bottle.

That rooftop moment. Yesterday. Him alone up there while the party buzzed under your feet. You didn't press then, just made a joke, let him deflect.

But it doesn't take a genius to figure out why someone drinks baking extract ethanol like it's bourbon.

You lick your lips. Keep your voice easy. Teasing.

"That why you smell like a cookie?"

He huffs a laugh against your throat. "You love it. Bet it's makin' you wet just thinking about biting into me."

He's joking. He's back to kissing.

But the bottle is still in your hand, glass warm from your skin, rolling between your fingers like it's got a heartbeat.

And okay. Fine. Maybe you're a little unhinged too.

"Wanna try something?" you ask, voice quiet, a little hoarse.

His head lifts slow. Eyes lazy. Lips wet.

He tilts his head, cock twitching against you like it heard the shift in your voice before he did.

"Yeah?" he says, grinning like he already knows he's gonna say yes no matter what it is. "What're we trying, Phoenix?"

Because you know—you know this man would let you pour hot sauce on his dick if you told him it'd turn you on.

His gaze flicks to the bottle still resting against your palm. Back to your mouth.

"Fuck, yeah," he says, voice already going gravel. "Show me."

You dab two fingers against the lip of the bottle, tilting it just enough to coat your skin in that sticky-sweet scent. Not much—just enough to cling. Your pulse, your collarbone, the hinge of your neck.

His eyes track everything. Like he's under hypnosis.

Slow drag up your wrist, down your throat. Pupils blown wide. Tongue peeking out to wet his bottom lip like it's instinct.

And then you offer it to him.

Your throat—tilted, bare. Vanilla blooming warm across your skin, seeping into heat, mixing with your scent.

You watch his jaw tick, tension wrapped in restraint.

He hesitates. Just for a breath. Not because he's unsure. But because he knows what'll happen if he starts.

His eyes drop to your hand. Then back up to your face. And then—

He grabs your wrist, rough but reverent, and slides your fingers straight into his mouth.

His tongue curls around them, sucks them clean like he's starving and this is the only sweet thing he's allowed to have.

His eyes don't leave yours for a second.

Heavy. Dark. Quietly fucking feral.

You feel it in your cunt.

That twitch—sharp and sudden—when he lets your fingers fall from his mouth with a wet pop and immediately dives back into your neck.

No warning. No mercy.

Just mouth on skin, lips dragging open over the vanilla, tongue flattening against your throat like he's licking you clean. Like you're the bottle. Like he's drunk and this is the relapse.

"Mmmfph—fuck," he groans against your neck, hot breath flooding over your skin. "You're—fuck—you're dessert, Phoenix."

He's biting now. Mouthing. Bruising.

Your head falls back against the cabinets with a dull thud and you don't care. Not even a little.

His hands are under your thighs again, yanking you closer to the edge of the counter like he's going to eat you here and now and be proud of the mess.

He doesn't stop licking your neck—just shifts slightly, mouth dragging lower, wetter, hungrier—until he can grab the flask again without even looking. He uncaps it one-handed, like he's done it a hundred times in the dark.

Because he probably has.

And then he's holding it over your chest.

"Hold still, Phoenix."

Voice low. Thick with something needy.

You barely nod before the cool drip hits your skin—fuck—a slow, deliberate trail spilling from the center of your collarbone and down, sliding between your tits, disappearing under the fabric of your tank top.

He watches it move. Doesn't blink. Bites his bottom lip like he's trying to restrain himself and failing spectacularly.

"Fuckkk," he mutters under his breath, and the way he stares?

You'd think he just watched God part the Red Sea between your tits.

But he can't see where it goes. Not really. Because of the shirt.

And that?

That's unacceptable.

So he doesn't ask. Doesn't even warn.

He just grabs the hem of your tank and yanks it up, fast and messy, until it's bunched under your armpits. The cool air hits your bare skin, but his gaze is scorching—dragging down to your breasts, then lower, following the trail of sticky syrup that's now sliding beneath.

He drops the flask without care.

Leans in.

And presses his mouth to the spot just under your breasts, where the drip ends. A hot, open-mouthed kiss. Tongue darting out to chase the taste.

He groans against your skin, like you're something forbidden and fuck, he's eating it anyway.

Then he starts licking up.

Slow. Thorough. Filthy.

Tongue dragging up the underside of your tits, between them, following the line of vanilla all the way back to your cleavage. His breath is hot and shaky, hands holding your thighs tight like he needs to anchor himself before he devours you.

"You taste like fucking heaven," he growls against your skin.

And you can barely breathe.

You lean back on your palms, spine arching subtly, thighs spreading wider across the counter—silent invitation.

His mouth twitches. Just slightly. Like he's trying to play it cool, like he's not already mentally wrecked.

Your fingers close around the vanilla bottle again.

And you tip it over your stomach.

A thin stream spills, slow and syrupy, tracing a path from just under your ribs down to your navel.

Sticky gold pooling in that soft dip, then slipping lower—toward your waistband, beneath it.

He stops.

Mid-breath.

Eyes drop.

Then drag back up to your face, slow as fucking sin.

And those eyes… those fucking eyes.

Dark like blackout curtains. Hungry. But quiet, too. Restrained. Like he's hanging onto the last thread of control and it's fraying fast.

He bites his lip again, teeth dragging over it, jaw flexing.

You raise a brow.

"Aren't you licking the vanilla off my skin, Rogue?" you say, voice steady, teasing, like your pulse isn't sprinting. "Go ahead."

He snorts through his nose—horny.

It's not even a laugh, not really. More like disbelief.

"Jesus, you're such a fucking menace."

Then he moves.

Hands at your waistband, yanking your shorts down like they've personally offended him.

There's no grace. No finesse. Just desperate, fumbling urgency, like if he doesn't get them off now he might lose it.

They hit the floor. So do your panties.

And then he drops to his knees.

Hooks your thighs over his elbows and pulls you closer to the edge of the counter, eyes level with your pussy. Eye to eye with his fucking meal, and the smirk that twitches at the edge of his mouth is so cocky it should be illegal.

But then he pauses.

Eyes catch on the fact that you're smooth. Bare.

His gaze flicks up, that same damn smirk sharpening.

"So you did plan on wishing me a happy birthday, huh?"

You groan, head thunking back against the cabinets.

"Shut up before I change my mind."

He just laughs, grabbing your thigh and yanking you closer, like that's his response.

It is.

"Thanks for the gift," he says with mock sincerity, "but like… full runway smooth? Nix. Just so you know, I like a little design."

You gape at him.

Is he serious right now?

Does he ever stop speaking?

Or think before he speaks? Like 'oh this might sound embarrassing coming from my mouth, I probably should keep it to myself.'

No. Definitely no.

"Design?"

He nods, dead serious now.

"I'm just saying. Little lightning bolt? Maybe a star? I could help you trim it next time. Get real artsy with it."

"I hate you," you mutter, scandalized and laughing, because of course this is what he's focusing on.

"I'm just saying…" he defends, grinning like a madman. "Bare's too creepy. I like texture, Phoenix. But not, like, a forest. I'm not tryna floss with it."

"God, you're disgusting," you shoot back, heat simmering low in your gut despite the absurdity.

"Disgustingly honest," he counters. "I want a little… edge. Like an angled fade. A pussy taper."

You laugh so hard your core clenches and he notices. Eyes drop. His smirk vanishes.

And just like that, he's focused again. Hands tightening around your thighs. Mouth opening. Ready to dive in.

But not before he whispers:

"Now be good and let me taste my birthday cake."

His mouth hovers. That maddening space—right there, close enough to feel his breath but not close enough to feel him.

It's hot. Each exhale fanning over your cunt like a fucking tease. You twitch, involuntary, hips tilting forward on reflex, thighs tensing around his shoulders.

"Rogue," you murmur, half-warn, half-beg.

He smirks. That slow, cocky pull of his lips that tells you he's going to drag this out just to see how long it takes before you snap.

He leans in, tongue barely peeking out like he's going to lick—

And then doesn't.

"I will actually punch you in the face," you hiss.

But he's already grabbing the bottle again.

His other hand steadies you, fingers splayed on your thigh, as he lifts the vanilla flask to eye level. Tips it slightly.

"Wait—" You grab a fistful of his hair. "Wait. Is that even safe?"

He pauses. Looks up at you, eyes wide, surprised—but not annoyed. Just… calm.

"Yeah," he says, voice casual but sincere. "This one's alcohol-based, not oil. No sugar. Won't mess with your PH or anything, I like your pussy way too much to risk it."

You roll your eyes, but okay. Fine. He's got a point.

And he's never put you in danger—annoyed, yes. Insane with frustration, absolutely.

But never unsafe.

"Okay," you mutter. "Proceed with your perversion."

"Oh, I plan to."

He uncaps it.

And the way he does it—so casually, like this is just some Wednesday night extracurricular?—makes your whole body lock up in anticipation.

He tips the bottle, lets a slow stream of vanilla drizzle from just above your navel, down the curve of your belly, heading lower.

It tickles. Warm and sticky, trailing through your folds, and your whole fucking body tenses with it.

His tongue flicks out, but this time, it's not teasing—it's the real deal.

His tongue drags up.

One long, slow stroke—base to tip—starting where your thighs twitch and ending where the vanilla's pooled.

He groans into it. Groans. Like it's crème fucking brûlée and he's been starving for a week. Like your cunt is the main course and dessert and a Michelin star.

You blink down at him, suddenly weirdly self-conscious.

Because—why the fuck is he acting like it's the best thing he's ever tasted?

It's vanilla extract and you, not caviar. Chill.

Your instinct is to kick him. Or flick his stupid forehead. Something.

But your cunt's already clenching around nothing, wetter than you want to admit.

Because—goddammit—his enthusiasm is doing something to you.

Like deeply. Shamefully. Physically.

You glance down, ready to call him dramatic. Maybe smack the back of his head.

But his eyes are closed.

And not in a performative way. Not for show.

They're hidden—lashes soaked, hair falling in messy dark strands over his brows. His whole face is fucking soft—relaxed, like he's at peace. Like this is meditation. Like your pussy is his church.

You reach down, tug his hair back just enough to uncover his face—need to see him.

Need to look.

And then—fuck. He looks up.

And he smirks. Caught you in 4K. Knew exactly what you were doing.

You want to smack him. Or yank his head down harder. Or kiss him. Or maybe scream.

It's all too much. He's too much.

But he just shifts again, mouth zeroing in now—on your clit this time. Tongue flat. Warm. Pressure steady and—fuck, fuck—

Your head slams back against the cabinet. You don't even feel it.

Because he's staring straight at you while he licks.

Intense. Sure. Smug. Like he knows. And the worst part?

He does.

You don't like eye contact. You hate eye contact.

Or—you did. Before he made it his fucking thing.

Now it's some kind of sex death ray. You're melting under it. You can't breathe under it.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his voice hoarse, lips slick with you.

"So mouthy up there…" he breathes, thumb dragging over your inner thigh. "But fuck, you're weepin' for me down here."

You choke on your own spit.

"Shut the fuck up with your cringy little sex monologue."

He snorts. Has the audacity to laugh into your cunt like it's funny.

"Uhhh? I thought we were past that whole thing where you pretend you don't like my dirty talk."

"I don't—"

He cuts you off with a slow circle of his tongue around your clit. Just once. Cruel.

"Right. That's why you got all hot when you said, 'Do you want me to ride you?'" he mimics, low and teasing. "Looked me in the eye when you said it, too. Said it just like that. Fuckin' purring, Pix."

You groan. "God, I hate you."

He grins. "No, you don't. You just hate that you like this."

Another lick.

Another smug look.

Another twitch deep in your gut.

And all you can do is glare at him—until his mouth is back on you, and then you can't even do that.

Because fuck, he picks up the pace.

Your right leg bends, heel dragging up his arm, foot planting itself on his shoulder like it belongs there. Toes curling the second his tongue swirls just right—just there. Over and over. Unrelenting.

Your whole torso arches back, spine stretched out like a bow. Head thunked against the cupboard above, hands gripping the edge of the counter so tight your knuckles go white.

And he doesn't stop.

Both his hands keep you steady, locked around your thighs, until the right one slides up—palm dragging over your skin, hot and too much. It settles right in that spot between your hip and waist. Thumb pressing into your side like an anchor.

Like he's keeping you from falling.

Like you're breakable.

You want to scream. Or sob. Or maybe just bite him for being so fucking considerate while simultaneously licking your pussy like he's trying to win a Michelin star.

You whimper. Actually whimper.

Because it's too much.

Because how the fuck does he even do that with his tongue?

It's obscene. Criminal. Feels like he's mapping you from memory now—like he's figured out every angle, every twitch, every exact combination that gets you to the edge in five minutes or less.

And—fuck—there it is.

That low hum in your belly, spiraling sharp and fast, heat pulsing outward. Nerve endings tightening. Your thighs start to close but he forces them open with a flex of his arms, tongue flattening again.

You gasp. Loud. Desperate.

Your hand flies down to his head and you yank his hair—hard.

He growls against you, frustrated, head jerking up, lips glossy and chin slick and brows scrunched like he's ready to fight.

"What," he snaps, breathless, panting. "What—what the fuck—"

You just whisper, shaky:

"Inside."

He blinks. Once. Twice.

Mouth parts. Eyes still a little wild.

"Huh?"

You meet his gaze, still breathless.

"I wanna cum with you inside me."

It short-circuits him. For real.

He pushes to stand so fast he almost stumbles. Feet trip a little. Palms slap the counter behind you as he catches himself and mutters, "Yeah—okay—fuck—gimme a second—"

But you reach out. Grab his arm. Stop him cold.

You lick your lips.

Probably look stupid. Glossy-eyed and dazed, like someone just rewired your brain through your pussy.

Whatever. You don't care.

You don't care because you can feel it now.

That ache. The need. The desperate, pulsing want for him to just get inside already. Your whole body's still twitching from his mouth and now it's fucking empty.

No thank you.

So you yank him. Hard.

Fingers curling in the loose fabric of his tee, tugging him back toward you like gravity's rewired itself around your cunt.

He lets himself be pulled. Doesn't even fight it. Just stumbles forward until he's between your legs again and then—then you're crashing his mouth to yours.

No hesitation. No buildup. No thoughts.

Just heat. Tongue. Need.

It's messy. Teeth clash. Vanilla and sweat and slick.

His hands slam to the counter beside your thighs for balance, knuckles brushing your waist as your tongue slides against his and you swallow the groan he lets out.

And yeah. You don't kiss men after they eat you out. Ever.

You've always thought it was gross, honestly. You live in your pussy. You don't need the flavor profile introduced.

But with him? Right now?

You don't even care.

You just want to taste what he tastes like. Want his spit in your mouth. Want to feel him.

So you kiss him like you mean it. Like you're not overthinking it. Like this doesn't break five of your own personal rules.

When you finally pull back, lips slick and breathing uneven, you keep your hands fisted in his shirt.

And say—quiet. Calm. "No need for condoms."

His eyes snap open.

You watch them go wide like you just told him the world's ending tomorrow and there's a free-for-all orgy scheduled at noon.

He coughs. Legit coughs. Like your spit went down the wrong pipe.

"Wait—what?"

You shrug. "I have a copper IUD. Works from minute one. I'm good."

His mouth opens, then closes again. Brain buffering.

"I mean…" he blinks. "I—I just—I didn't think you'd…"

You arch a brow.

He shakes his head a little, eyes dropping to your lips.

"No—like—I'm not complaining, I just—" His mouth staggers like he can't quite get the words out fast enough. "Are you sure?"

"I mean, you've been fucking with condoms, right?"

"Yeah. Always. Jesus. Yeah."

"And you've been getting tested?"

He gives you a look. "You think I'd be rawdogging around Brooklyn without paperwork?"

"Kind of," you mutter, just to mess with him.

"Okay, rude," he says, palm flattening on your thigh like it's involuntary. "I'm not feral. I'm—I'm… a respectful slut."

You almost laugh. Almost.

Then you say, quieter, "I haven't fucked anybody else since I fucked you."

And that? That actually makes him pause.

He blinks again. "Wait. For real?"

"Yeah. Nothing so far."

And he doesn't make it a thing. Doesn't get all soft and stupid about it.

He just takes a beat, stares at you, lips slightly parted like he's replaying it. Like the logistics are finally syncing in.

"Okay," he says. Rough. Breathless. "Yeah. Yeah, that's… okay."

You tap his chest. "Just cum outside, alright? Just in case."

He groans. Low and pained.

"Pix."

"I'm serious."

"You're killing me."

"Don't care."

"I'll pull out," he promises, fingers tightening on your skin. "But I swear to god, if you keep saying shit like that—inside, raw, no condom—I'm gonna lose it before I even get my pants off."

You grin back. "Sounds like a you problem."

And he breathes out, frustrated and horny and fucking wrecked, and mutters—

"You're my fucking problem."

He licks his lips.

Slow. Deliberate. Like he's already tasting you again.

Then he leans in and murmurs against your cheek—

"Okay. Turn around."

You blink. "Huh?"

The corners of his mouth tug up. "Turn. Around."

"Of course you wanna change positions."

"What can I say," he shrugs, cock already visibly straining through his sweatpants. "Artist's curiosity."

Still. You do it.

He helps you down—steadying hands at your waist, guiding you like you're breakable, which, let's be honest, rude. And once your feet hit the floor, you shift, pivoting slowly to face the counter.

Elbows down. Back arched.

You stick your ass out just to be a bitch about it.

He groans. Actually fucking groans. Like it hurts him.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, hands immediately cupping your ass like it's reflex. "You're such a bitch."

You smirk into the counter. "Complaining?"

"No complaints." He huffs out a laugh. "Hands on the counter."

You glance over your shoulder. Raise a brow.

"Trust me," he says, already dragging one palm up the curve of your back.

You hum. But you do it. Flatten your hands, palms flush with the counter's edge.

Behind you, there's a shuffle.

Then that sound—the sound.

Elastic snapping as he yanks his waistband down.

You hear him shift his stance, toes lifting slightly as he lines himself up behind you. And then—

The press.

Just his tip, nudging against your entrance, and your whole body seizes, lips parting around a silent gasp as your thighs instinctively press together.

"You better not let go of that counter," he mutters low.

You don't answer.

Not out of defiance—just because your brain's gone static.

So he spanks you. Sharp and hot and immediate.

"I said something to you," he growls, palm landing hard enough to echo. "Did you hear?"

"Yeah," you breathe. "Okay."

"That's what I thought."

Then his hand drops from your ass, slides between your thighs, fingers spreading you open as he lines himself up again. Still doesn't push in.

Just rubs.

His cock slides up and down your slit, slow, deliberate strokes. Slick everywhere. Your breath stutters every time he nudges your clit on the way up.

"God, you're so fucking slippery," he mutters, almost in disbelief. "Dripping for it. I haven't even put it in yet."

You close your eyes, grip tightening on the edge of the counter.

"Your pussy's acting like it missed me," he adds, rocking his hips again, cockhead dragging lazily across your folds. "She's not even pretending."

"Maybe she has bad taste," you snap, voice shaky.

He laughs. Loud.

Then does it again—another glide, another tease, tip pausing right at your entrance just long enough for your breath to catch, then slipping away again before you can adjust.

"You're gonna lose it, huh," he murmurs. "All that smart mouth. All that sass. Gonna forget how to speak when I give you what you want?"

You grit your teeth.

He slides his tip back again, holds it there—barely inside. Just pressure.

Still not pushing in.

Still not giving it to you.

You whimper, shoulders tensing.

"Gripping the counter, Phoenix?" he asks sweetly. "Like I told you to?"

Your fingers curl tighter.

He grins.

And stays right fucking there. Not moving.

Just waiting.

Just standing there behind you like a smug little shit, cockhead resting at your entrance, hot and heavy and perfectly fucking poised—and somehow not going any further.

You shift your hips back slightly, trying to bait him.

He clicks his tongue. "Uh-uh."

"Rogue."

"Pix."

You groan. "You're so fucking annoying."

"Don't tempt me. I could stay like this all night," he says, cock dragging up through your folds again just to prove his point. "Just rub it against you until you're crying."

You scoff. "You act like that's a threat."

He leans forward, chest brushing your back, voice right at your ear.

"You'd cry so pretty."

You twist your head just enough to glare at him.

"You're actually insane."

"Says the girl bent over the counter like a porn scene," he grins, straightening back up. "All 'no condoms, fuck me raw, Rogue' like it's nothing."

You roll your eyes. "Oh, sorry. Do you not want it?"

He hums thoughtfully. "Kinda liking the view, not gonna lie."

"Oh my god."

"Seriously. You ever seen your ass from this angle? Top-tier."

"Shut the fuck up," you mutter, squeezing the counter harder. "You gonna give a Google Maps review next?"

"Might," he shrugs. "Five stars. Would fuck again."

You start to reply—some scathing, lethal retort—but you don't even get the first word out.

Because suddenly—he pushes.

All the way in.

One smooth, brutal thrust.

And you moan.

Loud. Unfiltered. Embarrassing.

Your hands slam flat on the counter like your body can't fucking handle it. The stretch, the shock of it.

You feel full. Too full.

He doesn't ease in. Doesn't give you time to adjust. Just buries himself in one go like it's his fucking right.

Then—smack.

His palm lands on your ass again, sharp and fast.

"That's more like it," he pants behind you, hand lingering after the slap. "There's my girl."

He pulls out slow.

Real slow.

Too slow.

Like he wants you to feel every inch leaving you, feel how empty you get without him. Like he's making a point.

Then—slam.

Hard. Deep. Ruthless.

You jolt forward, hands scrambling for grip as the counter rattles under your hips. A broken sound slips out of you—more instinct than choice—and behind you, he laughs.

Actually laughs.

A horny little chuckle, cock still buried deep like he didn't just rearrange your goddamn organs.

If you could twist around and kick him in the ribs, you would.

"What the fuck are you laughing at," you bite out.

He hums, smug as ever. "Sounded cute."

You glare at the spot, then at him.

"I'll show you cute—"

But you don't finish it. Because he pulls out again, and then slams back in with the same brutal force that leaves your legs trembling and your lungs gone.

What the fuck is he so cocky about?

He's the one getting it raw.

You're the one granting the privilege here. He should be grateful. You could revoke his rights real quick.

Even though… you won't.

Because there's something about it. About this.

No condom. Just skin. Just him.

It's different.

You don't know why it's hotter. Why it feels so much more intimate. You didn't think it would be. It's just cock. Just fucking. But now you feel everything—every twitch, every drag, every time he shifts his angle and catches that spot that has you choking on air.

And then he murmurs behind you, voice low—

"Does it hurt?"

You swallow. "No."

"Good," he says. Calm. Like it's logistics. "If it does, just arch your back more. Fixes the angle."

Fucking hell.

There it is, again.

How is he being considerate and a little shit at the same time?

You're not even flustered because of the sex anymore—you're flustered because he's flipping toggles like he doesn't even notice he's doing it.

You don't respond.

You can't. Because he grabs your hips and—

Slams into you again.

Not fast. Not rushed. Just one clean, devastatingly hard thrust that knocks the breath straight out of you. His grip holds you there, cock pressed deep, dragging that edge of pain into something white-hot and filthy.

"God," he mutters, breath catching. "The way you're gripping me—fuck—you like that, Nix?"

You don't answer.

Too proud. Too dazed. Too stubborn.

So he spanks you. Again.

Sharp and immediate.

"Answer me when I talk to you."

You flinch. Then growl, "Keep spanking and being demanding and I'll revoke raw rights so fucking fast—"

But he just snickers.

"Oh, will you?"

You can hear the smirk.

Then he leans over, chest brushing your back, breath hot on your ear.

"You like it when I slap my hand on your ass, Nix," he says, low and satisfied. "That's why I keep doing it."

You scoff. "You're making shit up."

He grinds into you once, slow and cruel.

"Am I?"

"Yup."

"Naaah. I've been testing."

You blink. "Testing."

"Mhm," he confirms. Another slap to your ass, gentler this time. Palming over the skin after. "And now I know."

You suck in a breath. "How would you know what turns me on?"

He huffs a laugh—mean, hot, unbothered.

"Because you always mouth off about the shit that gets you going."

Your heart stutters. He keeps going.

"Too embarrassed to just let yourself enjoy it, so you talk shit. Every single time."

"Fuck off," you hiss.

He smirks again, hands dragging your hips back slightly. "Nah. You're not fooling anyone, Pix."

"Eat shit," you bite out, but your voice betrays you—tight, breathy. Fucked.

He groans, head tilting back for a second like he can't believe how good he has it.

"You're so full of it."

You scowl over your shoulder.

He slaps your ass again. Just to punctuate it.

"This," he says, palm dragging slow over the sting he just left, "is textbook Phoenix behavior."

"Fuck's that supposed to mean?"

"What I just said. You always talk shit about what you like." He thrusts again, not deep—just enough to feel like a warning. "First it was the dirty talk. Remember?"

You roll your eyes. "Barely."

"Oh, you remember." His voice drops. "Because you called it cringey, and five minutes later you were soaking my jeans."

You grit your teeth.

"And then you rode me," he continues, like he's delivering an airtight closing argument. "Said 'do you want me to ride you?' all breathy. Like you hadn't spent days pretending you were above it."

You don't reply.

He leans in, hips pressing closer, cock buried deep and still not moving.

"And yesterday?"

You clench without meaning to.

"Yeah," he laughs softly. "Yesterday. You wouldn't even look at me when you were sucking me off. Acted all bratty and 'ugh I hate eye contact,' and now tonight you were pulling my hair back just to see my face."

You did do that.

"And now it's the spanking," he says, rocking his hips slow. "Bitching about it."

Another smack, firm and deliberate.

"But you just clenched around me. Again."

You groan into your arm. "You're fucking exhausting."

He grins against your shoulder. "You're fucking lying."

You shake your head. "You're not right."

He pulls back a little, just enough to move again. One clean stroke, all the way out and back in with a grunt.

Then—

"You're wet as fuck."

And you are. You feel it. Feel him glide. Feel the mess. Feel how your body wants him deep, no matter what your mouth says.

"You keep acting like you're not into it," he murmurs, breath hot. "Like you don't love being talked to like this. Touched like this."

"Shut up," you whimper, because you don't want to admit it. You don't want him to be right.

But he already is.

"You act like it's for me," he mutters. "Like I'm the one getting off on it."

And he is. Of course he is.

But so are you.

"You keep lying like it's gonna protect you," he says. "But your body gives you away every time."

He's still going.

Deep now.

Fast.

No hesitation, no mercy—just relentless drive, hips snapping into yours, angle brutal and right. Every time he hits bottom it knocks a broken little moan out of you. Loud. Unfiltered. Fucking real.

And still—still—he doesn't shut up.

"You've convinced yourself it's all for me. That you don't enjoy it. Can't. Won't."

Your jaw clenches.

"You can't let yourself," he continues, thrusting hard enough to slap skin. "Because you need to stay in control. Need to be good. Do it right."

His hand grips your hip tighter, pulling you back to meet every thrust. Your ass bounces off him with every slam, lewd and hot and loud.

"You need to know I like it," he says, "so you can file it under 'doing well,' and that's how you let yourself feel good."

You want to argue. You really do.

But you can't.

You're moaning too loud.

"You don't even stop to ask what you like," he growls, eyes locked on where you're joined. "But I'll tell you."

Smack.

"You like this position."

Smack.

"You like it raw. Hard. Deep."

You whimper.

"You like when I spank you," he murmurs, biting his lip, thrusts picking up even more.

"Shut up," you hiss. "Shut up, shut up—"

But it's useless.

You're already flushed down to your chest. Already arching into every thrust. Already leaking down your thighs.

Your hands grip the counter like a fucking lifeline—knuckles white, arms shaking.

He groans, hands adjusting—one on your waist, the other wrapping low across your belly to pull you into every stroke.

"It's okay, Nix," he says, voice rough but coaxing. "You don't have to say it."

He slams in harder, burying himself to the hilt, making your knees buckle on instinct.

"Just keep gripping the counter."

Your breath stutters.

"Don't let go if you like it."

You bite your lip.

"Don't say anything. Don't explain. Just grip."

You hesitate. One second. Maybe two.

And then—you do.

Fingers curl tighter around the countertop edge. You lock in. Anchor yourself.

Give it to him.

You don't say a word. But that grip? That's your answer. That's your yes.

He groans, hand dragging up your spine, palm flat between your shoulder blades like he wants to feel how it wrecked you.

"There she is," he whispers. "There's my good fucking girl."

That last comment—

There's my good fucking girl.

It does something. Snaps something in your spine. Or maybe your brain.

Because your cunt flutters around him hard, slick tightens, thighs tremble, and yeah, yeah you're closer. Closer than you should be. You were already there when he first slid in—already so worked up you could've finished in sixty seconds if he just shut the fuck up and focused.

But of course he didn't.

Of course he ran his mouth. Called you out. Read you like a book.

And now?

Now you're clenching around his cock like you're about to shatter, and he feels it.

You know he does.

Because he leans in, breath gone wrecked. Lip caught between his teeth.

"Hmm?" he pants. Thrusts harder, deeper. "What's that? You like when I call you that?"

Your jaw clenches. You want to scoff. Or deny it.

But your cunt clenches instead.

He feels it.

"Ohh fuck," he groans, like it hits his brainstem. "You do."

You turn your face into your arm, humiliated by your own goddamn response. But it's too late. He's already there—already winding it tighter.

"Let's see if you like it even more when I do this."

You blink. "What are you—"

He grabs your thigh.

Hooks it up onto the counter. Bends your leg at the knee beside your elbow, spreading you wider without warning. Opening you up. Letting him deepen.

And he does.

Slams into you again with the new angle, and fuck—it hits different. Hits deep. Your whole body pitches forward with the force, mouth open on a sharp moan you can't swallow.

Then—his hand.

His fingers find your clit. Circle it once, slow and effective.

And you whimper.

It's high-pitched. Unintended. Undignified.

You want to vanish.

But then he's right behind your ear again, voice slurred and drunk on it.

"Gonna cum for me, angel?"

Your body jolts.

Because yeah. Yeah, you are, especially now that he's got your leg hooked, your pussy stuffed, your clit being worked with just enough pressure to make you lose it.

He feels your thighs twitch.

"Do it," he breathes, cock dragging thick inside you, fingers pressing just right. "Come on, let me feel it. I'm close too. Gimme it, Pix."

And your body obeys.

It rolls over you in one hard pulse—core tightening, vision blanking, thighs squeezing in and failing to stay strong.

Your moan punches out of your chest, loud and cracked, hips grinding back into his like you need more even as you're falling apart.

"Ohhhh my god, fuck yes—fuck, yes, Nix, fuckkkk."

He keeps fucking through it. Doesn't stop. Lets your pussy spasm around him, wet and squeezing and pulling him deeper as you ride it out. You whimper, already too sensitive, hips twitching, but he's not done.

Because he's laughing now.

Not mocking. Not cruel.

Just that fucked-out little giggle he always gets when he's high on it. Like your orgasm lit him up from the inside.

"Jesus—oh my god—holy shit," he's muttering, still fucking you, little messy stutters in his rhythm now. "You feel so fucking good when you cum, I swear—fuck."

He moans again—short and desperate and real—and you feel it in the way his thrusts go uneven.

"Where—where do you want it?" he gasps. "Fuck—I'm gonna—I'm so close, where do I—"

"Ass," you croak, head low, voice barely there.

That's all he needs.

He pulls out instantly, like he's yanking a ripcord.

You whimper at the loss but then you feel his hand—fast and rough—working himself over the curve of your ass.

"Oh fuck—oh god, yeah, look at this gorgeous ass—fuckfuckfuck—"

And then he's cumming.

Thick, hot ropes spilling over your skin as he pants and jerks through it, one hand steadying himself on your back, the other stroking through every twitch of his cock like he's trying to squeeze out every drop just to paint you.

"Shit," he gasps, hips still flexing forward. "Fucking hell, Phoenix."

You don't move.

You just breathe. Still shaking. Still clenched. Still wrecked.

There's cum on your skin, sweat between your shoulder blades, and your thighs feel like they've forgotten how to exist—and somehow, you still feel good.

Too good.

And a little fucked up about how good.

But you'll deal with that later.

goal: 900 notes

if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♡'⸌⸌'♡ https://ko-fi.com/jungkoode

next | index

✧ taglist✧

@cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @jimineepaboya @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @jkrailme @rpwprpwprpwprw @mar-lo-pap @jeontae @whothefuckisthishoe @mikrokookiex @minniejim @btstrology @vialattea00 @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @dltyum @dailynnt @sashakittyct @bjoriis @hemmosfear

© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[wildflowersandvibranium]

Honey & Steel

Chapter One : The Elevator Meet

Pairing: CEO!Bucky Barnes x SingleMom!Reader

Series Summary: "A chance encounter in a broken elevator ties together the lives of a hardened , emotionally closed off CEO James Barnes and a struggling single mother balancing her daughter , her new job , healing old wounds , and building something neither of them expected , a family."

Word Count: 3k+

Content/Warnings: infidelity (not bucky) , nudity , anxiety/panic attack , mentions of single parenthood struggles and financial instability , mild profanity , mentions of emotional manipulation and betrayal in past relationship(s) , mild child separation anxiety

a/n: new series yayayay! So excited to begin this era and the love has been felt already , so tysm and i hope you enjoy this first chapter! Theres about 20 chapters I have planned right now but who knows where it will go!

I've been struggling with anxiety recently and writing really helps me get out of my own head , so seeing comments and likes and kudos , messages and all of that , makes me feel so happy and loved beyond words , so from the bottom of my heart truly thank you for making this feel like a family and community!

series masterlist coming soon... read on ao3 coming soon...

6:42 a.m. Y/N’s Apartment

The creaky run down and stuffy apartment smells faintly of that morning's , very burnt toast and faintly wafting through the air the small of a kiddie strawberry shampoo which was specifically bought and begged for because of the paw patrol characters that were on the packaging. 

Y/N was already three steps behind , out of routine , and the day had barely begun to start.

"Madelyn , where are your nice pink shoes?” Y/N called out throwing stuffies off her sweater she layed out the night before but was quickly covered in a dogpile of stuffed bears , bunnies and giraffes.

“I already have shoes on mommy!” Madelyn was sprinting around the apartment clomping about , in her butterfly rain boots.

“Baby, we don't have time for—" Y/N was really tiring to be calm but her body was running low on patients as her daughter argued.

"I don't wanna go!" Madelyn wailed from down the hallway , clutching her baby pink baby blanket like it was a plea or lifeline. Her face was scrunched up red, her pigtails crooked from the rushed hair-brushing session in the bathroom that ended in tears and a now empty bottle of detangler.

Y/N glanced at the clock above the stove as it blinked her way taunting her. 

6:43 a.m. Her interview was at 8:00 am sharp. All the way across the other side of town. In Midtown. During rush hour.

“Great” She breathed out dropping her head taking a deep inhale.

"Maddie , baby , please , Miss Helen is waiting for you next door , and Mommy really needs this job, okay?" Y/N knelt down and smoothed her daughter’s gruley hair out of her face , trying not to cry herself. 

Her heart was breaking. She wanted nothing more than to be home with her baby girl, but this was survival. This was motherhood. Well….single motherhood. 

Y/N met Madelyn's father through a mutual friend who claimed they would be “soulmates and the perfect match”.

So after a few months of dating Y/N actually began to love the guy and when she found out they were unexpectedly expecting a baby , a little girl too , she was beyond ecstatic. 

They moved in together right after the news to both be there for the baby and were both happy. 

It was now 6 months of dating and Y/N decided she wanted to do something special for the two of them before the baby made , three of them. She made reservations at their favorite Thai place downtown , bought him a very expensive watch and cologne he raved about in a magazine he showed her one night and had it all ready to surprise her love , the father of her baby.

She walked into their shared apartment , gift bags in hand and looked around the place , which was very nice thanks to his job and hers which she was very proud of getting and slowly began climbing up the chain there. 

She slowly tiptoed through the home dodging haphazardly kicked off shoes and things on the floor. When she reached their bedroom door knowing around this time he would be napping or “resting his mind and eyes” as he put it. She giggled under her breath , she loved his silly ness , loved him.

Swinging open the door, smiling brightly holding up the bags her eyes immediately filled with tears. 

In her bed , in her home , with her boyfriend. Laying a naked redhead woman sleeping…it was her boss. 

She dropped the bags suddenly, making the woman shriek and call her boyfriend's name. 

Luke came running out , towel around his waist and in shock eyes flipping from the two of them. 

“Y/N?! , you were supposed to be at the OB?!” He cursed under his breath and threw the woman's dress that was on the floor at her on the bed as she scrambled to get modest.

“I…” Y/N couldn't move , couldn't breathe couldnt believe this was happening to her and her baby. 

She put a hand over her barely there bump as her eyes burned and her feet , like concrete not letting her move an inch.

When her boss- her friend , was now dressed and running off slightly bumping into her , that's when Y/N began to sob. 

She picked up the closest thing ,  being their lamp on the bedside and threw it at Luke. He dodged it and cursed at her running out after her boss.

So that's how she and her perfect precious daughter were in the cheapest little place she could afford , behind on three months rent and in between jobs.

And.. At this very moment consoling a crying four year old and there was nothing she could do , she needed this job so badly , needed it to all work out. For her girl.

Madelyn sniffled and wiped her eyes with her pink weather sleeve. "I don't want you to go Mama."

"I know , sweetie , I know. But this job could help us get a real car , that pretend food play set you wanted and maybe even a yard. Remember , you wanted a yard for bubbles and chalk and so Flopsy could run and play?"

Madelyn glanced at their rescue bunny Flopsy sitting in her cage eating hay , she sniffled feeling conflicted. 

Eventually her little teary gaze moved back to her mom who was giving her the best half smile she could make , and she gave her a tiny nod.  Y/N exhaled loudly like she’d just run a marathon.

“Okay baby , let's grab your lunch bag and head to Miss Helens alright?” She booped her daughter's little button nose. 

“I can't forget to say bye to Flopsy!” She giggled running to the crate whispering to her rabbit as Y/N scooped up all she needed and called Maddy to follow her out the door.

Helen , the elderly neighbor , God sent , who'd babysat in emergencies before for the girls  , stood at the door in her fluffy white robe and a sympathetic look over her aged features. Y/N handed her the bag with snacks , instructions , and emergency contacts to her neighbor mouthing a quick thank you.

"I'll hopefully be back by lunchtime. I promise. Thank you so much , Helen."

"Go," Deirdre waved her off , her eyes twinkling. "Go get that job , us girls will be just fine.” 

Y/N knelt to her daughter's level and kissed her nose making her squeal and wrapped her tiny arms around her moms neck. “I love you so much my angle , i'll be right back okay” 

“Okay mommy , for the yard!” She pulled back and wiped tears that slipped past her waterline. 

“That's right , bye baby” 

7:58 a.m. Barnes Medical Prosthetics Co. Lobby

Y/N barreled through the sleek intimating lobby of the towering glass building that housed inside “Barnes Medical Prosthetics Co.” Her cream blouse stuck to her back from the sprint down 6th Avenue after a crazy man tried to get too close to her on the subway making her ditch that plan , and her heels which she plans on returning right after this interview had become two little medieval torture devices. 

She made it to the elevator and hit the elevator button with the up arrow five times , as if that would make it arrive faster.

She checked the time on her phone waiting , and as soon as she did she hadn't heard the loud ding that sounded and now only saw the doors slowly shutting.

"Hold the door, please!" she shouted , breathless tucking her phone away again gripping her paper resume and coffee cup.

A tall man in a navy almost obsidian suit turned her way at her voice and hastily and caught the door with one hand. 

He looked like something off a GQ or Men's Health magazine cover. He had a perfectly kept and trimmed beard , hair swept back like it never dared move without permission the lavish product he had layered in making it do so , and those sharp blue eyes that flicked to her figure with curiosity.

"Thanks," she huffed , stepping inside and pressing the 32nd floor.

The doors slid closed , the man gave her a polite nod and the loft began to ascend. She was cursing the machine to go faster as she was a minute late now and then the elevator groaned.

A came to a shaky abrupt stop.

Y/N blinked in disbelief and fear , looking at the buttons pressed 32 again. Nothing. 

She hit the emergency call , and of course no answer. Panic began to bubble in her chest and belly.

"Oh no. No, no, no," Her palms were instantly sweaty as she tried to wipe them on her sweater and her stomach churned.

The man beside her didn’t flinch , he was standing still and tall , unmoved by the halt on the lift. “It's been getting stuck between floors recently. Usually it resets in a few minutes."

Y/N's breath came faster as she tried to nod to his words and closed her eyes. She pressed a hand to her chest feeling the constant and hard thump that pulsed and picked up with each moment she was stuck in here. "I can't be stuck. I have an interview. I need this job." She slid down the wall in a full anxiety headspace.

He crouched down slowly. "Woah , hey. It's okay. Just breathe."

She shook her head , sliding down the wall , her legs didn���t trust her to stand anymore , her knees jello-like and useless. 

She kept her hand on her chest trying to slow her breathing and all she could think of between harsh fast breaths was her kid.

"This morning was already a disaster…” Breath in …”My daughter didn’t want to let me go, and I barely made it here.” Breath out “...And now I’m going to miss the interview for the one job that could actually change our lives…and…and."

She covered her face pressing her palms to her eyes , she refused to cry in front of this handsome well put together stranger. "God , I'm so sorry I ramble when I'm nervous. I'm sorry."

"It's alright. I don't mind," he said gently , placing a hand on her shoulder. "Tell me about your daughter , she seems to help when you talk about her.”

Y/N hesitated. But his voice was calm , and something and some reason in his presence she felt safe.

"Madelyn. Her name is Madelyn. She's four. Funny as hell , but too stubborn for her little body. She's obsessed with pink and bunnies and sparkles. She’s all I have. Her dad….It's just the two of us."

The handsome man nodded , his face unreadable but not harsh. "Sounds like she's lucky to have you."

“I'm the lucky one, I-”

Her phone buzzed. Helen.

She glanced at the man as if asking permission and he sank down fully sitting by her nodding , she answered the phone of course expecting the worst.

But it wasn’t Miss Helen on the other end.

"Hi Mommy," came the tiny voice beaming with joy and love.

Y/N's entire demeanor softened in an instant as she left out a shaky exhale she didn't know she was holding so tightly. "Hi , baby. Are you being good for Miss Helen?"

"Mmhmm , I miss youuuu." Her little voice was blaring through the speakers , loud enough for Y/N to slightly wince and for the man next to her to hear the high pitched sound.

"I miss you too , honey. But guess what? Mommy's going to do her interview so lightning fast and then I’ll be home before you know it , okay? Be good for miss Helen and we can have a sleepover in my bed tonight okay?"

"Okay Mommy. I love yousss."

"I love you more my baby , bye honey."

She hung up , blinking back tears , and realized the man had been silent through the whole thing but listening carefully.

"That was Madelyn ," She wiped her eyes.

He nodded and took out his handkerchief and gave it to her. "She sounds adorable."

Y/N exhaled slowly, smiling , accepting the cloth and dabbing her wet eyes letting out a watery laugh. "Sorry. Again. I’m nervous and stuck in an elevator with a stranger and my life is imploding in front of you , so of course I’m running my mouth and now my daughter-."

"You haven't even told me your name yet , so can’t be that bad ," he said with a smile.

"Y/N."

He hesitated saying her name in his head. "Bucky."

Before she could respond , the elevator jolted and whirred to life, suddenly spooking both of them.

"Oh thank God," she gasped , scrambling to her feet , Bucky's hand shot out in case she needed balance but she managed upright and wiped the wrinkles out of her pants.

They reached the 32nd floor , and the doors opened widely with a perfect ding. Y/N rushed out grabbing her things , calling out without looking behind her, "Bye , Bucky! Thanks for listening!"

8:12 a.m. 32nd Floor of Barnes Medical Prosthetics Co.

"Miss Y/L/N?" a sandy blonde man in a navy polo stood outside a sleek glass office. Was everyone who worked here a model and built like a superhero? She wondered.

"Y-Yes! I am so sorry. The elevator—"

He waved it off. "It happens , quite alright , I'm Steve Rogers , I'm conducting the interview today as the position will be right under me."

She nodded , trying to compose herself. He nodded his head silently saying to follow him and she did , right on his heels.

Just as they turned to enter the office where he said the interview will be held , a familiar voice boomed behind them.

"Morning , Steve."

Y/N froze and spun slowly afraid to meet the eyes of the man she just one , had a panic attack in front of and two , she told her life story too before even knowing his name.

Except he wasn’t just Bucky from the elevator.

He was James Buchanan Barnes, CEO of Barnes Medical Prosthetics Co.

She turned red from hairline to collarbone.

“Well what a lucky day for you , Ms. Y/L/N this is James Barnes our Ceo and sadly my best friend for many years.” Steve smiled, gesturing to Bucky.

Bucky snorted at Steve's words as he met her eyes with a soft look giving her a slight smile and a nod before turning and walking away.

She wanted to melt into the floor and never come up again. But Steve acted like it was normal. As if the CEO randomly showing up to say good morning to the newest maybe hired girl , like it was no big deal.

Y/N shook her head and focused again and sat down , cheeks still warm as she spoke up. "I didn’t realize—"

"Don’t worry about it," Steve said kindly. “Ready to begin”

She nodded and slid over her resume , and somehow , she found her footing. 

“My name is Y/N-”

After the interview ended and Steve escorted her out she peeked a slight glance at the large sleek double doored office next door with the plaque “James Barnes CEO” scripted on the door. It was empty , the door wide open , and she couldn't tell if she was slightly disappointed or relieved.

9:47 p.m. Y/N’s Apartment

"Okay angel , bath time is over," Y/N laughed , as Madelyn splashed holding her rubber ducks and toys giggling.

Y/N got her snuggled and wrapped in a warm fluffy unicorn towel and then changed into the softest of jammies.

Their move they started was long forgotten as Madeylns slow sleep filled breaths filled the bedroom and Y/N taken in the serene moment rubbing soothing circles on her daughters back as she breathed in the peace.

That peace was very short lived as her phone rang loudly.

She cursed under her breath and scrambled to silence the intrusion making Madelyn whimper in her dream state and stir. 

When she finally got a hold of the device she saw it was an Unknown number , clicking answer.

"Hello?"

"Hi , is this Y/N Y/L/N?"

"Yes this is her."

"I'm sorry to call this late but this is Steve Rogers from Barnes Medical Prosthetics. Just wanted to say congratulations, we'd like to offer you the position."

Y/N nearly dropped the phone and her heart sped rapidly.

"Really?"

"Really. Welcome to the team Y/N we expect you to be available by Monday of next week , will that work for you?."

“Y-Yes absolutely thank you so much , see you Monday sir.” Ending the call.

Madelyn looked up with glassy sleepy eyes clutching her moms collar with tiny fists. "Mommy?"

Y/N smiled, kissing her daughter's head whispering into her hair "Mommy got the job baby."

And for the first time in a long time , things started to feel like they might be okay.

10:18 p.m. 32nd floor of Barnes Medical Prosthetics Co.

Bucky sauntered into his best friend's office slowly , one hand was wrapped in his suit jacket and the other holding a crystal glass of whiskey. 

“You made the call?” He leaned against the door frame eyebrow raising as he took a long sip of the amber liquid.

“Yeah jerk ,  I did…You gonna tell me exactly why you were so adamant on it being her?”

Bucky gave a half shrug and began putting his jacket back on. “She's gonna do great here.” Was all he gave his friend with a salute and a goodnight as he walked out the room.

What Steve didn't see was the grin his friend and boss had plastered across his face.

-end

If you want to be added/removed to series tag list message me or comment <3 (sometimes it can get lost in comments but im trying my best!)

Comments , Reblogs , Likes and Requests are always loved!

(although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience)

They let me know that you are enjoying what I'm publishing and gives me motivation to write more and more! :33

[ilovolderman]

Caught on Camera

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Sam drags you and Bucky to stakeout duty and tries to expose your secret relationship.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, mild language

A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". it doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13. thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

You knew this stakeout was doomed from the moment Sam brought a whiteboard.

Not a mini dry-erase board. Not a tablet with a stylus. An actual, full-sized, collapsible, wheeled whiteboard.

Bucky stared at it. “Why does that have string on it?”

Sam clicked a marker with the flair of someone about to unravel a conspiracy or get tackled mid-presentation. “Because it’s time,” he said ominously, “to connect the dots.”

You closed your eyes. “Oh no.”

“Don’t ‘oh no’ me. You two have been weird. And I—your trusted friend and field partner—will get to the bottom of it.”

“You think we’re Hydra sleeper agents?” you asked, mostly just to gauge the level of chaos today.

Sam didn’t hesitate. “Worse. You’re dating.”

Bucky blinked. “That’s your worst-case scenario?”

“You’re Bucky,” Sam said. “She’s… tolerable. It’s unnatural.”

You and Bucky exchanged a glance. He did that little eye-squint he thought was subtle. It wasn’t.

You cleared your throat. “We’re in a surveillance van. On a mission. Maybe focus on that?”

Sam threw an arm toward the monitor bank. “Nothing’s moved in two hours except a suspicious delivery guy who turned out to be carrying vegan muffins. Vegan muffins, Barnes.”

“That’s not illegal,” Bucky muttered.

“It should be,” Sam said grimly.

Natasha’s voice crackled over comms. “I’m stationed outside the north stairwell. The target is inactive. You’ve got time to argue about snacks and feelings or whatever this is.”

Sam pointed a marker at the speaker like she’d just validated his entire existence. “Thank you, Natasha.”

You sighed. “Can we please do anything else? Read a book? Pretend we’re asleep? Watch literally anything besides—what even is this?” You pointed to the whiteboard.

Sam turned it so you could see. In neat but slightly chaotic handwriting were phrases like:

“Elevator Incident?”

“Two coffee mugs — ONE MORNING?”

“Barnes: suddenly moisturized??”

“Y/N’s tactical vest adjusted @ 0800 by WHO?”

Bucky pointed at that last one. “That was self-care, not seduction.”

“Tell that to the helmet cam footage,” Sam muttered.

You groaned and slumped back into your seat. “Why do you even care so much?”

“Because,” Sam said, turning slowly, dramatically, “if I am the last to know… I’m bringing slide transitions to the roast.”

You opened your mouth to protest—but Bucky leaned forward, elbows on knees, and said, “Fine. You want proof? Real proof?”

Your heart jumped. Bucky, what are you doing.

Sam straightened like a bloodhound that’d just caught a scent. “Go on.”

“Okay,” Bucky said calmly, “when I got out of cryo in Wakanda, I was emotionally closed-off, unstable, and could barely sleep.”

“Yeah. We know. That’s not new.”

“Well,” Bucky continued, “guess who taught me mindfulness, made me journal, and introduced me to oat milk?”

Your eyebrows lifted. This was true… but it was also your cover story for sneaking into his room every night. As in, yes, I taught him mindfulness, and also how to sneak a second pillow into your bed without anyone noticing.

Sam blinked. “...You’re saying she therapized you?”

Bucky nodded.

Sam opened his mouth, then paused. “You do seem weirdly well-adjusted.”

“Exactly,” Bucky said.

You chimed in. “I’m basically a wellness program in combat boots.”

Sam rubbed his temples. “I’m too tired for this. You’re either dating or you’ve joined a cult. Either way, I hate it.”

Just then, the van monitor beeped. Movement.

Natasha’s voice buzzed back in. “Eyes up. We’ve got two incoming—unmarked car pulling into the garage. Heads down, stay sharp.”

You all ducked slightly. Silence fell.

And then—buzz. A second beep. Sam’s phone.

He glanced at it, then frowned. “Weird. I just got a Venmo request from Natasha. ‘$12 — for emotional labor.’”

You smothered a laugh. Bucky cleared his throat and looked very interested in a gum wrapper on the floor.

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Okay. That’s it.”

He stood and whipped around the whiteboard. “Forget the dots. Time for the web.” He pulled back the curtain on the second side of the board.

It was a complete red-string conspiracy map. Photocopies of you and Bucky in seemingly mundane situations: walking down a hallway, sparring, looking slightly too happy in a debriefing. In one, you were handing him a protein bar.

Underneath it read: "The Protein Pact?"

You just said, “That’s a very organized delusion.”

“Thank you,” Sam said proudly.

Natasha’s voice crackled again. “FYI, the suspects are exiting the vehicle. And also, you guys are being recorded right now. There’s a camera in the corner of the van.”

Everyone whipped around.

There was a camera in the corner.

Sam screamed.

“WHO PUT THAT THERE?”

“Security,” Natasha said casually. “Fury installed them after the incident with the karaoke machine and the flamethrower.”

“That was ONE time,” Sam shouted.

Bucky turned to you and murmured, “I bet she’s saving the footage for leverage.”

“She’s definitely building a blackmail folder,” you replied.

Sam pointed wildly between you both. “WHISPERING. SECRET WHISPERING.”

You reached for your comm. “Nat. Can you confirm that whispering is suspicious?”

Natasha replied smoothly, “Only if it’s romantic. Otherwise, it’s standard spycraft.”

Sam looked like he was about to cry.

Bucky stood, walked over, and patted Sam on the shoulder. “Listen, man. If we were dating—which we’re not—it wouldn’t be your business.”

Sam looked up at him, eyes wide. “But I’d be right.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you’re just tired. And alone. In a van. With string.”

Sam collapsed onto the floor dramatically. “Fine. Keep your lies. But I’m putting this in the mission report.”

“No one reads those,” Natasha said.

“I DO!” Sam yelled.

Outside, the target was already being cuffed. Natasha waved casually at the building’s security camera. Mission: complete.

Inside, Bucky took your hand under the table—quick, quiet, and hidden from the whiteboard of doom.

You smiled.

Sam didn’t see.

He was too busy sketching his next whiteboard masterpiece: “Trust No One: Except Maybe Nat. (Still Investigating.)”

As soon as Sam stomped down the ramp and out of the van—still muttering about “betrayal” and “at least Tony would’ve let me interrogate the toaster”—you and Bucky just… sat there.

In the silence.

Watching the whiteboard sway slightly from his exit.

After a beat, Bucky reached over and gently nudged one of the red strings off a pushpin.

“That’s better,” he said.

You snorted. “I’m honestly shocked he didn’t have a slideshow with animations.”

“Oh, he did. He just couldn’t figure out how to get the HDMI to work.”

You turned toward him on the small bench seat, tucking one leg under yourself. The van’s interior lights buzzed faintly, casting a soft, warm glow across Bucky’s face. He looked calm now. Not mission-mode Bucky, not suspiciously-neutral Bucky. Just… yours.

“Think he’ll ever stop suspecting?” you asked, voice low.

He tilted his head slightly, thinking. “Doubt it. But I think Nat officially joined the conspiracy, so we’ve bought ourselves time.”

You smiled. “Good. I like our secret.”

“Me too.” He paused. “But I wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t a secret someday.”

You looked at him, really looked. There was that little furrow in his brow again—the one that showed up when he was being sincere and slightly terrified about it.

Your heart did a slow, quiet somersault.

“I wouldn’t either,” you said gently. “But for now... this is kind of fun.”

Bucky smiled—that real smile. The soft one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made your stomach flip. The one Sam claimed was statistically impossible without “emotional compromise.”

Without a word, he reached behind him, grabbed the emergency blanket from the supply bin, and draped it over both your shoulders. Then he leaned into you, shoulder against yours, warm and solid.

“You cold?” he asked, even though you weren’t shivering.

“No,” you said. “But I’ll allow the dramatic gesture.”

He nudged your foot with his. “You always allow my dramatic gestures.”

“Because they come with blanket rights.”

He chuckled, then reached over and laced his fingers through yours beneath the blanket. His metal thumb gently brushed along your knuckles in a slow, grounding rhythm. It made your chest ache—in the good, heart-melting way.

For a while, neither of you said anything. The van was quiet. Peaceful. The outside world was just a blur through tinted windows. Inside, it was warm, and calm, and yours.

Then Bucky said, very seriously, “We should keep one of Sam’s whiteboards.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“For our future apartment. I’ll write ‘Reasons I Like You’ on it.”

You grinned. “Oh yeah? What’s reason number one?”

He squeezed your hand. “This.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder, feeling his breath shift as he leaned gently into you too.

“Number two?” you mumbled.

He kissed the top of your head, soft and quick and secret.

“Still working on the list,” he whispered.

You smiled against his arm.

The emergency blanket was still around your shoulders when you remembered.

You sat up straight, eyes widening. “Wait.”

Bucky blinked at you. “What?”

You slowly turned your head toward the corner of the van.

The camera stared back. Silent. Judgy. Still recording.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, horror dawning. “The blanket moment. The hand-holding. The forehead kiss.”

Bucky followed your gaze, then visibly winced. “Right. Fury’s spy cam.”

You both froze in place like kids caught stealing cookies on a security feed.

You buried your face in your hands. “We’re toast. Fury is going to give us the dad talk.”

“I’m not afraid of Fury,” Bucky said automatically. Then he paused. “Okay, maybe a little. But I’m more afraid of Natasha.”

As if summoned, Natasha’s voice crackled over comms again. “Just to confirm—yes, the camera caught all of that. And yes, I’m saving it for your engagement slideshow.”

Bucky groaned and dropped his forehead to your shoulder. “We’re gonna die.”

You laughed. “She has footage, Bucky. We are so compromised.”

“Maybe if we act super professional now, she’ll delete it,” he said, sitting up straighter and clearing his throat. “Agent Barnes, commencing protocol alpha. Tactical—uh—tactical recon blanket deployment successful.”

You snorted. “Copy that. Agent Y/N initiating hand-holding for… morale support.”

Natasha’s voice came through again, deadpan. “Truly inspiring. I’ll put it in your performance review.”

You made a face at the camera. “You better at least edit in music. I want violins if this goes public.”

“Please,” Natasha said. “You’re getting a slow piano montage and a ‘Mission: Love Possible’ title card.”

Bucky made a strangled noise somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “We should’ve stayed emotionally repressed.”

You nudged his side gently. “You say that, but you’re the one who initiated the blanket cuddle.”

He squinted. “That’s slander.”

“Camera says otherwise.”

Bucky turned to the lens like he was negotiating with a supervillain. “Nat. Come on. Can’t you just pretend you didn’t see that?”

There was a pause.

Then: screenshot sound.

Both of you groaned.

“Okay,” you muttered. “New mission. Break into Natasha’s room and delete the footage.”

“Impossible,” Bucky said. “She probably has laser traps.”

Natasha’s voice chirped one last time. “Correct. And a pressure-sensitive chocolate drawer. Touch it, and I release the singing drones.”

You blinked. “The what?”

“Don’t ask,” Bucky said immediately.

After a beat of quiet dread, you both looked back at each other—and just started laughing. That quiet, ridiculous kind of laugh you only get when you’re this in love and this caught.

Bucky shook his head, reaching for your hand again. “You know what? Fine. Let her record it. Let Fury analyze it. Let SHIELD make it into a training video called ‘Advanced Emotional Espionage.’ I don’t care.”

You smiled. “Wow. That’s bold.”

“Besides,” he added, leaning in, voice low and smug, “if we’re already being filmed—”

“Don’t,” you warned, laughing as you held up a finger. “We are not making out in front of the security camera.”

He grinned. “What if it’s just a dramatic hug? For morale.”

“Morale my ass,” you said, but you still let him pull you in.

You sat there together—arms wrapped tight, blanket still draped around your shoulders, faces half-hidden from the camera’s angle.

And as the monitor quietly beeped with another “all clear” signal, Bucky whispered in your ear:

“Reason number two: You always let me have the last muffin.”

You laughed softly and tucked your head under his chin.

“Reason number three?” you asked.

He kissed your temple. “You make this feel easy.”

And from her position on the roof, Natasha took one last photo—then switched off the comm and muttered to herself, “God, they’re disgusting.”

Then she smiled.

And added the file to a folder on her encrypted drive labeled: ‘BLACKMAIL or BEST MAN SPEECH’ — TBD.

taglist: @svtbpbts @cupids-mf-arrow @whitewolfluvr @cece2608 @yehfitoormera @yesiamthatwierd@poodleofstardust @poodleofstardust @homeless-clown @kitasownworld @loversrocktvgirl2 @herejustforbuckybarnes @stormy-stardust @fallen-w1ngs @winchestert101 @f4d3d-st4rs @ultravioletter @xamapolax @theendofthematerialgworl @doilooklikeagiveafrack @fablehaven-rulez @theproblemisthatimnotfictional @winter107soldier@softpia @shakysif @lucyysthings @unadulteratedpastazonkpeach @surebutwhy @tmb510 @kaiari @totallynotabuckybarnessimp @quinquinquincy @tellybearryyyy @roxyym@starstruckfirecat @theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction @oliviaohanessian1 @arignipanja574 @creat0r-cat @katheriner1999 @kaiari@authoressskr @antisocialfiore @f-1-girlies-blog @ifilwtmfc @darkrock3t @navs-bhat @ravenswritingroom @lunawitchbitchraven@elfypineapple @smellybad @niceskyler @avengemepercy @crowleythesexydemon @bumblebeebutter @cjand10 @avivarougestan @parkers-gal

@coffelover13 @13c13 @samcortlandlivesinmyheart @pandcbarnes @rosieyama @iminyourceiling @lori19 @94namkooksworld @1000shipsnh @hughjackmanadict @ficmeiguess @beigesthatic @barnes70stark @rosylnsworld @rrosiitas @simp4f1 @vieenr0se @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @iminyourceiling @coolestavenger13 @butnotmontana

[vaporwavegothicstudio]

EDIT: OP HAS MADE IT VERY CLEAR THAT THEY WERE JOKING, I am proud of the analysis but THEY WERE JOKING.

In the context of the time, the twist is that it's not gay. If you know anything about the way the Victorians talked about homosexuality, it's pretty clear that Utterson thinks Jekyll is protecting Hyde because Hyde is Jekyll's kept boy.

RLS makes a point of mentioning that Hyde has a key, that Jekyll left everything to Hyde in his will, that Hyde takes great pains to come in and out through the lab and not be seen by the servants, and that Hyde is young while Jekyll is in sedate middle age. To a Victorian reader, this has a very definite colour: Jekyll is in love with this mysterious Hyde boy, they're secretly fucking, and Hyde is planning to kill Jekyll for his money. Read this passage:

... there sprang up and grew apace in the lawyer’s mind a singularly strong, almost an inordinate, curiosity to behold the features of the real Mr. Hyde. If he could but once set eyes on him, he thought the mystery would lighten and perhaps roll altogether away, as was the habit of mysterious things when well examined. He might see a reason for his friend’s strange preference or bondage (call it which you please) and even for the startling clause of the will.

And when Jekyll reads Hyde's letter out to Utterson:

The lawyer liked this letter well enough; it put a better colour on the intimacy than he had looked for; and he blamed himself for some of his past suspicions.

Utterson thinks they're fucking, and when Jekyll has his Very Public Breakup (TM) with Hyde, he's relieved.

Also, from Jekyll's letter:

The pleasures which I made haste to seek in my disguise were, as I have said, undignified; I would scarce use a harder term. But in the hands of Edward Hyde, they soon began to turn toward the monstrous. When I would come back from these excursions, I was often plunged into a kind of wonder at my vicarious depravity.

Also-also, in the original story, Hyde isn't actually murdering women on screen. It's implied that he's committed more murders than we see, but his main on-screen crimes are a) beating a child and b) murdering an MP. (Who is. Definitively male.) The "Hyde is a serial killer who beats women!" thing is an invention of cinema. They need a way to show the depths of Hyde's depravity and to convey the amount of repressed sexuality the story's got, so...

Like. Jekyll and Hyde is a story with a very obvious gay reading. It's kind of a homophobic story, but when has that stopped us gays from making it our own? It is very much a story about repression, self-denial, becoming the darker side of yourself despite society telling you to be Good, and I can't think of something that'd resonate with most of us more than that.

[darlingdream1010]

A lot of people play with the idea of the Justice League summoning Danny as a ghost/ghost king/ghost prince, thinking he’s Pariah Dark. That’s all fun and good, and the guilty pleasure of reading their surprise is always fun, but surely they wouldn’t be so outdated about it?

Danny’s friend is Tucker—a tech geek—who’s to say he won’t hook his friend up with a phone line for Intergalactic Kingly (technically Princely, but King sounds better) Duties? In fact, why wait for the Justice League to call him? It’s not like they know the Realms have got a new system yet, and Danny ought to give them some free help the first few times, just to clear a bit of the old bad air between them.

Let’s say a few of the members have got them selves in a bind with a certain ancient artifact that’s cursed with ectoplasm. All it takes is one confused question—

“Wait, the things cursed with whatsit now?” Captain Marvel asked, leaning close to try and get a better look.

Zatanna held up a hand, warning him away. “Ectoplasm. Don’t get close, we’re certain it’s got similarities to Lazarus water, but we don’t fully understand it.”

He frowned, holding the artifact farther away from himself. “That doesn’t bode well for me.”

Zatanna sighed. “Let me call John over, I think we need to summon—“

And with that, the requirement of “Ectoplasm” and “Summon” being spoken was fulfilled, and the landline phone rang.

Naturally, they were a bit confused at first, as they distinctly remembered not having a landline phone on their station in the middle of space. However, never fear, because all it takes is a healthy bit of communication and customer service.

“Hi! You wanted to summon something to deal with ectoplasm?” A cheery voice said when Zatanna picked up the phone.

“Ye—“

“Fantastic! I’ll be there in a jiffy,” the voice said. They seemed almost at a desperate level of enthusiasm, as if they were relieved someone needed them.

Captain Marvel glanced between the ancient sword his hands were glued to and the phone. “Did they say they were coming here?”

“I did!” A voice announced, surprising both of them. They both immediately took defensive positions, fully launching attacks at Danny—

“And just like that, I was there to help! See?” Danny said jovially, swiping away a stray bit of blood from when the two had attacked him. “Easy and fast, without the hassle of a ritual!” Danny finished his pitch just in time for the sword to let out an ominous roar as it unstuck itself from Captain Marvel’s hands.

“You’ve made this worse!” Zatanna accused, lunging for the sword.

“Wait! I’m not done!” Danny cried, waving his hands for her to not approach.

The sword immediately locked onto her, glowing green and launching itself toward her. Danny just managed to grab onto it and turn them both intangible, passing right through the magician.

He glared at the sword. “You’re not making me look good right now,” he whispered. The sword shook in his hands agitatedly, swaying its point toward Zatanna. “No,” Danny scolded. “Bad dog. Go back to the Zone, now.”

The sassy sword whacked him in the forehead. Danny stuck his tongue out at it. The sword glowed a bright, iridescent green before disappearing completely.

He sagged. “Oh thank the Ancients.”

Dusting off his hands, he turned back to the other two and smiled. “So? Five stars? Four stars? I’ll take a three-point-five…”

With no response, Danny’s face drooped, black eyebrows furrowing. “Shit…that bad?”

Captain Marvel shared a glance with Zatanna and scratched his neck sheepishly. “We…probably won’t be needing your help again, dude. We’ll just get the Ghost King. Um, thanks though…”

The lady looked even less friendly. Her expression read: “we don’t know you, don’t show up uninvited.”

Danny sighed, opened a portal, and—after sparing them one final, sorrowful glance because he couldn’t help it—stepped back into the Ghost Zone.

The familiar sight of Long Now greeted him. Clockwork was there to meet him, offering him a cup of tea.

“While I am not experienced in such endeavors, I have heard many humans also experience a rough first day on the job,” he said.

Danny groaned, shedding his human form. “You know what? Screw this ‘revamp the summoning’ thing. Next time, I’ll just let them summon me, thinking they’ll get Pariah.”

Clockwork smiled, a mysterious knowing glint in his eyes. “Now wouldn’t that be a funny idea?”

[iizora]

Hi! Can I ask for a Reader x Rumi where here Reader is a Solo Artist like IU and have known the girls way before the movie started.

The reader and Rumi have been rivals since their Trainee days (but what it really is, is Rumi and Reader having a crush on each other and not knowing how to deal with it and being in denial when Zoey and Mira point it out) so when the rivalry with the saja boys happens the reader is jealous and goes to the signing event to sort of kinda but not really ask Rumi if she's replacing her with the pretty boy which sort of develops into her confessing to Rumi indirectly when Rumi asks if she's jealous or something. (Inspired by ruruumin's mira x reader true rivals)

Denial is a river in Egypt

I didn't read the fic because I am scared that if I do I'll doubt my writing ability and then I'll never get it done because it might not be up to your standards. I hope you liked this

Another one of your performances was ruined due to demons. the concert didn't go too smoothly causing it to end early so you could probably despos of them.

it's going to cause major backlash but you'd rather that then ask huntrix for help. Rumi would never let you hear the end of it despite being trainees together in the past, your relationship with her was never good.

She was too bossy and held you back from what felt like your true potential. The freedom you got from singing on stage like a bird in the endless sky was everything.

Leaving was still hard moving away from your teacher and friends no matter how much you hated a person those memories still stung and hurt your wings on stage never fully lifting off the ground.

You often visited, arrange meetings, and etc. each time you did though the mood would get a bit weird with you and rumi face heating up from the close proximity in the car ride bickering like a married couple all the time.

But sometimes you wonderd what it would be like to stand next to her for old times sake flying together instead of being apart. was the voice in your head really telling you that Rumi was really as bad as you thought she was or is something in your heart preventing you from thinking it.

Phone buzzing for the third time in a row not needing to know who it is answering the call heart beating at the sound of Celine's voice on the other line "reader you let another demon attack happen during a concert. I've tried to be patient with you but this solo rebellion of yours needs to end sooner or later" she hissed voice cutting your chest like a knife but she was right you couldn't do this on your own as much as you hated to admit you needed them... Needed rumi.

"Am sorry celine it won't happen again."

"It better not... Reader I know I might sound harsh but please come to me if something is wrong" her voice sounded worried but it quickly cut off by the harsh deep from your phone ending the call looking out at the Honmoon. Even apart the your joint efforts made it glow brighter than ever you were so close to making it gold so close to proving to yourself that you don't really need them as much as you think you do, but you knew that was a lie to.

The next day your made a decision you're going to check up on huntrix just out of curiosity heading towards there agency and up the elevator to their room with determination maybe they were also somewhat struggling.

To your embarrassment they seemed fine.. A little to fine the kind of fine that makes you suspicious, then just to be proven wrong, but you're actually right kind of fine! And you're gonna figure out what's going on. The whole time you and Rumi were down each other's necks trying to push out answers.

"They are totally trying to flirt" Zoey chuckled in the background of your bickering making Mira snort out laughing. "Zoey!" Your heads snapped in sync to where they were laughing right when booby entered with some bad news not even minding that you're here. "Aha! There is something" you grinned to yourself as bobby showed the saja boys new hit single wiping them off the charts you could laugh if it wasn't so pathetic.

"Zoey control those shoulders" the two girls yelled in frustration but in her defense it was kinda catchy. You took your leave but made sure rumi saw the massive smirk on your face as you did at the arrival of saja boys.

Looking back on that moment you never wanted to slap yourself in the face more at the arrogance. you didn't think the saja boys would have been such a threat to you and your pride but rumi does is go after them. Why? I mean where they close? A ex lover in the group maybe? And why would you care out of all people what rumi does with her time.

If there was something going on she would have told you not because of your closeness or anything but just to rub the fact she's in a relationship before you. And the signing event was the perfect way to make sure she couldn't avoid you.

5:pm was the time you woke up none of your staff was here so you could slip away undetected and wait till they open. 12:30 am the doors started to open seeing rumi made your heart skip a beat your view of her face was thankfully blocked so she couldn't see your face or the hint of blush. "Bring a chair for the saja boys" you heard bobby's voice head slowly looking up in front of you to see them.

Blood boiling with anger caused careless action to reveal yourself to the crowd causing some of your fans at the signing to cheer "quick bring a chair" booby instructed smirking as you took your seat next to rumi satisfied that she wouldn't be alone with that jerk.

"What are you doing here" she gritted her teeth trying to look happy for the fans you couldn't help but keep your sly smile "just wanted to check up on my favorite singer. It's such a coincidence I was just walking by and here you were" fluttering your eyes at her. she just muttered liar before turning her face away to you and towards the dark haired Sana boy counseling the blush that was over powering her makeup.

Just the thought of her facing him was irritating "Rumi look at me" pulling her hand away from her face tangling it into your's locking eyes "why do you care about him so much" voice laced with jealousy "that's none of your business" returning your eye contact the look of irritation plastered on her face. "What do you mean its none of my business were supposed to be friends rumi"

"Don't say that. Were not and will never be" tone harsh but fair you've never put in an effort to be friends "Rumi... Please just tell me that you aren't replacing me with them. That's all I want to know then I'll get out of your enormous hair" your was heart shattered you just needed that reinsurance to leave. Breaking eye contact at her silence then the following chuckles using her hand to lift your chin up "don't tell me your jealous" her teasing tone made you blush "am not!" Sound much louder than the whisper talk you were using "no one could replace you" hand leaving your chin wrapping itself into yours so you couldn't leave her side.

The whole time you were there she had a tight grip on your arm and the biggest smile any of her fans have ever seen it made you completely forget about the same boys because you were just so irreplaceable to her.

[itstheghostofmypast]

Lovers of Losers

Corporate AU Choi San x (F)Reader

Summary: Choi San's inability to ignore his colleague, Park Seonghwa, sometimes bothered his fiancée. Oh well, fate just knew how to intervene.

Genre: Fluff

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2.5K

Est.Read Time: 12 min

Networks: @k-labels

Banner: @cafekitsune

A/N: AN OVERLY DUE ANNOUNCEMENT- I met @edenesth - AKA we're basically in the same place now and I am so glad to have been able to make this come true- ITS COOL AF WHEN U MEET UR ONLINE FRIENDS IN REAL LIFE- AND YES THIS FIC IS 29748 CENTURIES LATE.

“And then he added the ‘in case you didn't know’, like okay?” Narrating, the man shoved a dumpling in his mouth, pouting at the memory, but still humming at the taste of his mother's cooking, enjoying a pleasant home-cooked meal. Leaning over the table, he grabbed his mother’s hand and sighed, “I missed you.”

The older woman squeezed her son's hand and gave him a soft smile, about to respond when he gasped and turned to face his father again, “Did I tell you how Park Seonghwa called me a country boy- well, not directly, but he did!”

She watched her son narrate another story about his colleague, her smile morphing into a straight line, glancing at the young woman beside her son, who gave her future mother-in-law a knowing smile, “What can I say, I'm just his fiancé, Park Seonghwa is his actual wife.”

The table broke out in silence as he turned to look at you, while you were busy avoiding the eyes of everyone at the table, only sputtering when he nudged your side, grumbling, “Why would you say something so disgusting ?”

“What?” placing your chopsticks down you faced him, motioning towards the table, “Ever since you've come back you've been talking about him and-” you turned to face his parents, “Even at night! When we're on call,  out of the forty-five minutes we spend talking, he talks about Park Seonghwa for almost forty minutes!”

His mother chuckled at her son's antics while his father shook his head in disapproval, eying him down as he whined and bumped his shoulder with yours, “She's joking.”

“Let me get my phone.”

“YAH!”

The table broke out in laughter, his parents watching their grown man-child, hold down his fiancé who was asking his sister to get her purse for ‘proof’. It had been a while since the Choi household had been this full, something his parents dearly missed.

.

In the middle of the night, he lay there cozy and warm on his bed, in his childhood bedroom, his head on your lap, looking up at you with a gaze so tender that you would giggle every time you’d make eye contact. 

“You seem all chipper.” He sighed, feeling her fingers brush through his tamed locks, setting them free as her fingers gently twisted and tugged at the silky dark strands, causing him to close his eyes at the affection. 

“Ahh…that's because I finally have Mr.Choi’s undivided attention.”

“You always have my undivided attention.”

“Unless Park Seonghwa is around.” You pinched his nose and watched him scrunch it in response, frowning at you for a moment before turning to his side, rubbing his cheek against your thigh, glad you were wearing your fluffy pajamas. They were so soft and smelled so nice. 

“You should rest well while you're here.” You mumbled, your fingers caressing his soft cheek before your fingers combed through his hair once more, pushing the loose strands out of his face, gently trying to lull him to sleep. The last thing you felt was him letting out a deep sigh, before relaxing against you touch. 

His eyes snapped open at the loss of contact, lazily glancing up at the woman whose face was illuminated by a blue light- was she smiling!? who was she talking to -at- he glanced at the wall clock, squinting at it- okay he couldn't read it but he was sure it was late.

“What are you doing?”

“Hmm?”

“I said,” he sat up and frowned at your lack of reaction, you didn't even look at how your big mountainous man was sitting there with his arms crossed and pouting- lowkey looking more cute than threatening, but let's not go there, “What are you doing?” 

San moved closer to take a peek at your phone only for you to turn to your side and hide the screen, “My friend, silly!”

“Your friend?” His eyebrows touched his hairline, “You have a handful of friends, including myself, and I know that all of them are asleep at -” He glanced at the digital alarm clock and gasped, “TWO IN THE MORNING!”

“SHHH! Your parents are asleep!” you slapped his shoulder, hard enough for him to whine and pull back, rubbing the aching spot as he watched you lock your phone and place it on the side table before snuggling into the blankets, “Goodnight, Sannie.”

He lay there next to you in the darkness, trying to not think about it. If she didn't want to tell him right now, he was not going to pester her, he wasn't going to ask, he wasn't going to think about it all night-

“Is it a he?”

“It's a she.”

“A WOMAN!?”

“I genuinely don't know how to react to that Choi San,” you huffed before turning to your side and snuggling into the pillow, “Now go to sleep.”

A woman, okay, so a friend, that's nice, it was nice to see she was making friends. She wasn't very good at making friends before, so it's a good thing, he'll ask her how they met in the morning-

“Colleague?”

“Online friend actually- HEY!”

The rustling of the sheets was nothing compared to how the poor bed creaked when he leaped onto her side to snatch her phone, “ARE YOU BEING CATFISHED!? THE INTERNET IS A DANGEROUS PLACE!”

He began to lecture you when you snatched your phone back and turned on the lamp, sitting up, staring at the idiot sitting on his knees, twiddling his thumbs, “I just wanna know if you're safe-”

“That's bold coming from someone who called 119 for my phone number.”

“Now why would you bring that up?” He whined, before huffing, “I was a kid!” He went on after that, talking about the dangers of talking to strangers online, which she couldn't register because she had fallen asleep to the sound of his voice. Also, it was his fault for giving a very serious monologue whilst laying on his back, allowing her to snuggle into his side, basking in his warmth and safety.

.

Unfortunately, the next morning the man was stuck to his fiancé like glue, even choosing to follow you into the washroom in the morning, only to end up running away when you threw a toilet roll at him, “LEAVE ME ALONE!”

The man had been looming around you during breakfast as well, in a way that his family found odd as well. Choi San was an affectionate man, and as much as his father had tried, he too knew that his son was a bit more sensitive and expressive than he was, which is why it isn't unusual for him to be following his fiancé around. What was unusual was how he was very quietly doing so; no playful banter, no teasing, no clinging onto her.

San sat next to you as you read through her emails, only moving closer a bit when your free hand searched for his, gently lacing his fingers with hers. He knew you worked hard; it's not like he didn't, but you had your own business, running a family-owned bookstore wasn't easy, especially when it came to keeping it up to date with the current tastes of the kids these days. He'd seen how she was investing in new kinds of literature; she had even dragged him along when she began to stock up manga for a new section. So, technically, he wasn't upset because of her new friend; it was just his natural fear of online friends. 

“Sannie?” You tugged at his hand gently, closing the laptop lid with the other one before turning to smile at your fiancé, who looked lost in thought. 

“Hmm?”

“Can you take me to Seoul with you this week?”

Your question caught him off guard, causing him to squeeze your hand in response before mumbling, “You need more books? I can send them, if you want. Or something else? What do you need?” You could only sigh at his ever giving antics, one thing about Choi San was a given, he'd go above and beyond for people, well most people, if it was Park Seonghwa, she's sure that all he'd give him was rat poison.

“No, I want to go meet my friend,” you giggled, pulling your phone out and showing him a picture, “This is Eve, we actually met online, we have similar interests, especially Demon Slayer, I told her I had a few volumes ordered and she was super excited, so I thought I'd gift them to her.”

He smiled at his little, clueless lover, “Oh, sweety, you're being catfished, there's no way someone so pretty would be into reading fanfiction about animated men.”

“I'm going to beat you bloody, Choi.”

“Would you like the window seat?”

“That's what I thought.”

.

Park Seonghwa. Park Seonghwa. PARK BLOODY SEONGHWA. 

When San had said, “A bus ride will be so much fun!”, he had said as he booked the tickets, as he had helped you onto the bus, as he had let you take the window seat, and as soon as the bus had started moving- but God, if there was someone you would actually be jealous of, it would be Park Seonghwa, this man spoke about that man more than HIS OWN FIANCE.

You glanced at the man who was now telling you about how Park Seonghwa once had the last free cupcake during the annual breakfast, even though he KNEW that San was reaching for it.

“And then he just grabbed it-” “Oh look, we’re about to stop for lunch, how about you get us something nice to eat!”

San nodded before looking at your expressions, “You sure you’re ready to meet your friend? You look a bit upset.” Taking a deep breath, you tried to think of a decent way to phrase your words, you had no intentions of hurting him, nor did you want him to think that his feelings were invalid- he was very much entitled to ranting to you, pouring out his heart to you but- “I’m jealous of Park Seonghwa.” Let’s just say the moment those words slipped past her lips, Choi San’s rich laughter shook the entire bus, loud enough to wake up the sleeping children on the bus, causing a whole scene if you could imagine it.

.

“I said I’m sorry!” he whined, trying to catch up to you, trying NOT to laugh when he heard you ranted about how your own fiancé was so obsessed with Park Seonghwa. They were supposed to meet up with her ‘friend’- well, she was, Choi San still somewhat believed that she was being scammed, but he didn’t have the heart to tell her, especially when he glanced at her, sitting next to him all giddy as she showed him the text, “She’s bringing her boyfriend along too!”

Boyfriend? Okay, she was definitely being scammed; this was not a safe situation- that’s exactly why he had decided to come along. “Sannie, you think she’ll like the gift-” “Dove, I think we should g-” You looked away as soon as someone called out your name, a smile spreading across your face as you went to greet your online friend, waving at her as she walked closer to your table, “Eve! Hello! I’m so glad to have finally met you!” You walked back to the table with Eve beside you, gesturing towards your fiancé, “Eve, this is Choi San, my fiancé.”

EXTREMELY RELIEVED, San stood up and bowed to greet her, giving the friend his signature Duke of North smile. “Hello! I’ve heard so much about you, San!” Eve smiled before taking a seat across from you, “Ah- I’m sorry I brought my boyfriend along, he still thinks you are catfishing me because ‘why would someone like that read fanfics?” You sighed and shook your head in understanding, “Don’t worry, that’s why” You patted San’s shoulder, “He’s here too.” Eve giggled at the way the man was blushing, fumbling with his words before he suddenly stood up, “I-I’ll go check up on our order!”

You watched your moron run away before shaking your head when Eve cackled, “But we haven’t even ordered yet!”

“I really do like them dumb.” You smiled before pushing the manga towards her, “I got you a gift!”

San could hear the two of you laugh, but as the clown he was, he was too afraid to go back just yet, too afraid to have left a bad impression on your friend, one you seemed to really like- he noticed the way your eyes lit up every time you laughed at something she’d say, you were actually enjoying and he didn't want to ruin it- “Choi San?”

Oh no, why of all places did he have to be here. San turned with a scowl, staring at the uncannily handsome man, who was dressed in soft pastels, had he cut his hair?- okay, he gets why you were so worried about him and Park Seonghwa.

“Park Seonghwa.” “What are you doing here?” Seonghwa asked casually, stuffing his hands in his pockets, “Thought we went back home for the weekend.” “I did. Had to come back because I wanted to show my finances around.” “Oh? Childhood crush? You guys from the same town?” He asked, before mumbling, “Cute.” With a scoff, San walked away, not interested in his insults or his ego-centric remarks, CHiLDhOoD CrUSh. With a frown, he sat down next to you, grateful that you and Eve were very busy yapping about and eating- yes, he did take long enough for you to scan and order, you had even ordered for him and Eve for her boyfriend to notice his sour mood. He tried to shake it off when he felt you lace your fingers with his out of habit, still talking to Eve, causing him to smile at his food, before he looked up at the man who had pulled a chair beside Eve. “Ah, guys, this is my boyfriend, Park Seonghwa!” Eve smiled, placing her hand on her boyfriend’s shoulder and looking at the two, who went dead silent, confused. She glanced at them then looked at her boyfriend, who was staring right at your fiancé. “This is Park Seonghwa?” “Yes.” “I have every reason to be jealous.” “No, you do not-” “Don’t talk about me like I ain’t here Choi.” Seonghwa cut him off before glancing at you and sighing, “I’m Park Seonghwa, Eve’s told me a lot about you, it’s nice to finally meet you.” You gave him a small smile and nodded before looking at Eve and clearing your throat, “Well, boys, might as well bring the lady in the loop.” Eve looked at you before Seonghwa, who mumbled, “This is Choi San, the guy I told you about.” Eve gasped before letting out a cackle, “Wait, you’re the guy he has imaginary beef with?!” You nodded as you picked up your glass, “Mhmmm….I’m glad Seonghwa’s in a relationship, part of me was worried he’d steal my man.” “GOD NO!” “EW!” The two women watched their men gag and whine and complain, only to give each other a look and continue eating, knowing that this was probably the start of something new- a nice, long, friendship, one where a Choi and Park had to set aside their pettiness and realise that deep down, their bromance, did in fact often scare their significant others. Either way, they had to make it work, ‘a good man keeps his woman happy.’ As said by Choi San when he had declared a truce with Park Seonghwa, the two dudes standing there wearing aprons in Eve’s kitchen, too self-absorbed to notice the cookies their lovely ‘women’ had told them to watch over, were in fact, burning- were they in trouble? Yes. Were they going to work together and blame the oven setting? Definitely- teamwork makes the dream work!

.

[bagelsenjoyer14]

The Nice and Accurate Script Book: Episode Two "The Book"

Hey everyone I offically finished the second episode of the script book and I've collected everything that I found funny or would like to comment on. This episode had a lot of interesting moments so buckle up!

Also, if you would like to see my first post about episode one then you can do so here

Sandalphon cannonically going by it/itself pronouns?!?!

Crowley being relatable once again

Okay this part was really interesting and I almost wish they had kept this threat in the final production. Crowley being tortured by Hell (whether physically or mentally) is alluded to very often but simultaneously brushed to the side. I think that Crowley having threats from Hell like potential torture adds a lot more layers to Crowley's desperation to save Earth as well as adds to his character and the way he lives his life. (I could honestly go on a whole rant about this but I'll save it for a later date)

Crowley mentions his fall often in the show and how he "didn't actually fall" and I really really hope that they either show his fall in season three the movie or go more in depth to it. I could also write a whole essay on his fall but I am genuinely curious if he means he didn't actual fall in the physical sense (sauntering vaguely downwards) or if he means it more mentally/emotionally (saying that he isn't as evil as angels who actually fell and didn't intend to turn his back on God for simply asking questions).

Just wanted to include this scene because it's one of my all time favorites

Azirephale being Aziraphale

Also once of my favorite scenes as I've personally experienced this. (I was playing the Velvet Underground and my friend thought it was The Beach Boys)

I love reading all his silly one-liners

Okay this is honestly hilarious and I wish they included this. Also Crowley's first instinct is to lick it!?!?

Anathema being an Ipad kid

I fear this is how all my first drafts sound

Aziraphale being himself part 2

I'm honestly devestated WE WERE ROBBED!!!

And lastly, Crowley cannonically calling Aziraphale "dude". I'm not exaggerating this is the highlight of my life. Like just picture Crowley calling him dude for the first time and Aziraphales confusion????

I hope this was fun guys so far I'm really enjoying reading through this! I plan to read the third episode sometime today, let me know what you guys think

[sfwregressionfanfictions]

Aaron Hotchner X Little! Fem! Reader: Danger Close to Home Pt.1 

Summary: Littles have been going missing, and hotch ends up breaking his rule against meeting online strangers. (This can be any season, also I imagine the reader working as a baker) WC: 2k

TW: Mentions of childhood trauma/abuse, cursing, murder, torture, and Criminal Minds Level Gore/Violence. IF YOU ARE TOO LITTLE TO WATCH CRIMINAL MINDS, YOU ARE TOO LITTLE FOR THIS.

Aaron Hotchner was always careful online, tried to not get sucked into online conversations, communities, and even friendships. There was one community that he was unable to avoid, it drew him in like a siren’s song. He kept going back to age regression boards and community pages.

He didn’t mean to care so much about this community he found himself a part of, however, he found that he wanted to care for someone as defenseless and tiny as the littles he met. He was always meant to protect others, whether it's from unsubs or from a little nightmare. He became attached to this web page about 4 years ago, since then he slowly started engaging with the community.

The progression was slow; first, He replied to a few posts and threads. Second, he posted something of his own. Third, there were a few DMs and genuine conversations. He didn’t mean to become attached to one little in particular. 

Hotch became the online caregiver for a little, who happened to live only over the border in Maryland. Only 1-3 hours away, they didn't share location or super personal information. Hotch was paranoid about sharing personal information and made sure his baby was using proper safety precautions online. 

Aaron’s phone buzzed in his pocket as he was splayed on his couch. With a huff, he answered the call. Once the phone was connected, he heard the small voice of his baby; “Aaron…?”

“Baby? Hi, how was your day, little lady?” Hotch said into the phone, whispering as if she was lying with him.

“Hi, I… I am okay. I wanted to ask you something…” She mumbled, their voice cracking. She was worried.

“Okay, what is your question?” He said quickly, she needed help. 

“You know how we have rules about stranger danger, and no oversharing on the internet?” She asked, only receiving a hum of agreement, “Well, I have a few friends and they don’t have anyone to take care of them, and sometimes they overshare, and what happens then?”

“Baby, you can help tell them about the importance of being mindful of social media presence and the information they share.” He said, glad that she was so worried for her virtual friends and the fact she remembered about their oversharing rules.

“Well, I tried to, but they stopped replying. I think they are mad at me.” (Y/N) replied, huffing as she climbed into bed.

“They are probably just busy or upset at the moment. I am sure they aren’t mad at you,” He said, sitting up from the couch. “Baby, are you getting ready for bed?” 

“Yes papa,” She says, grabbing her stuffy.

“Did you brush your teeth?” a confirmation. 

“Did you lock your door?” a confirmation.

“Do you have your PJs on?” a confirmation. 

“Do you want me to read you a story?” He asked, only to receive a hum. She was asleep by the time he said ‘once upon a time’.

Hotch hummed in contentment as he hung up. He had to get ready for bed. Or so he thought, JJ was calling. A case. 

His head turned towards the clock. 9:37 PM. Less than 3 hours since he left work. 

“Hotchner.” He answers. Dry, like he had to be during cases.

“There have been 3 missing persons in the last 3 weeks in Maryland, most recently reported 10 hours ago. No bodies found yet.” JJ said, “All were characterized as having (describe you but generic enough to apply widely).”

“I’ll call the team, prepare the cars.” Hotch was annoyed already.

The team only took 30 minutes to get to the station and loaded up. Garcia was in her cave in 15 minutes. The drive was an hour. It was past 11 pm when they arrived to the station, only evening shift cops were there. 

Spencer was quick to pin up pictures. Hotch and JJ spoke to the police that were there. Emily and Derek called Garcia to find connections. For being past 11pm, everyone was rejuvenated as if they got their full 8 hours. 

“Chocolate thunder, I hate to break the party up, however, all 3 missing people are connected by the same online social website usage.” Penelope stated. “They all seem to be from an Age Regression social board.”

Hotchner came to a full stop, turning to the computer. His eyebrow quirked. This was a cue for Penelope or anyone to share. 

 However, Spencer was quick to share some facts, “Age Regression is a form of therapy used primarily in cases of trauma at a young age. This has actually been widely seen historically, one prominent case was Angelica Hamilton after the trauma of losing her brother, her father, and becoming sickly.”

When Reid stops to take a breath, Derek breaks in, “Okay so what is it exactly?”

“These are adults, who revert to earlier stages of their development to try to protect themself from whatever trauma or stressors they have.” Spencer said, no judgement, just a fact.

“Okay, Garcia, what information can you find about the website and about their usage?” Hotch asked, he was whispering to himself to control his microexpressions and behavior.

“I can find everything, just give me more time to search through everything they have said and done.” She said, hanging up to get hacking. 

“Okay, It is almost 1 AM, let's get a few hours of rest so we can go talk to the friend” Hotch said, luckily the hotel was almost right near the precinct. They walked 5 minutes to the hotel and split for the night. 

Hotchner typed and deleted a message multiple times to his little lady. He finally made a choice and sent it.

Aaron: Hey my little lady, I know I said don't share personal information, but I am in Maryland for work. I need you to promise me you won’t talk to anyone new online. I would like you to not post for a bit either if possible. I need you to be safe.

He knew it was too much, and he shouldn't have sent it. He couldn't help himself though. With it sent, he slept a little easier than he did before. 

The next morning, the work began. They had pulled the missing girl's most recent posts and messages. They all posted their regular content, with no change and no overly detailed information.

Only one conversation stood out to them, a conversation between the 3rd victim and an online friend on the website. The message read: I am so excited to meet him, he gives daddy! I think he wants to be my CG, like its not a question of if but a question of when!

“I need you to search for a message between her and the man she was meeting and see if he is connected to the other victims.” Hotch stated, he was going to put this piece of shit in jail for a long time. This case was relying on Garcia and her ability to hunt them down via hacking.

“There have been no messages in the past few weeks on the website about meeting up. I am running an algorithm to search for any matching messages, like names, numbers, from the same IP address, or even small matches. I will find him, just give me 5 minutes.” With that Garcia was gone, she was more determined than ever. 

Hotch wasn’t one to partake in personal communication, however, this case was different. He knew (Y/N) replied to his message this morning but he ran to get to work. He was set on saving every little like her without a daddy to save them. 

(Y/N): Daddy? What is happening? What do you mean? 

(Y/N): You are scaring me

Aaron: I didn’t mean to scare you. I shouldn't tell you any of this, but remember how daddy travels a lot for work so sometimes calling can be hard? I work as an FBI agent and there is a bad guy in maryland. I don’t know if its even close to you but they are all littles so I’m a little shaken up.

The response took a little time, as it was now the middle of a work day. Morgan and Prentiss was sent to talk to the friends of the missing people, only to come back around 3pm. Hotchner found himself glancing between his phone and the board, until (Y/N) flashed across his screen.

(Y/N): Aaron…

(Y/N): What do I do? How do I stay safe?

Aaron: I don’t know, but you need to not talk to strangers and not post. I need you to be sure to lock the door and be sure to have your phone by your bed. Be sure to lock your windows too. Don’t go out late alone and remember stranger danger. 

(Y/N): I’m scared

(Y/N): I don't wanna be alone! 

Aaron: Do you trust me?

(Y/N): Yes.

Aaron: After work, I want you to come stay at my hotel with me. I have a spare bed and can be sure of your safety. [Address]

(Y/N): Daddy, I work 5 minutes from that hotel

With that Hotchner was locked into the exam. Garcia found a matching message with different numbers, all were tracked and all were burners. These Littles were taken by the same person. The team was locked into the case until sundown only finding other littles that received the same message. This led to contacting all contacted littles, including (Y/N). 

Hotch was trying to stay calm, hide how angry he was. Morgan could tell though, not sure why this case was hitting so hard until 5pm hit and (Y/N) came into the station with baked goods. Morgan saw the look on his boss's face.

“I was called about missing people… I never texted the number I was sent, but I wanted to help, cause… cause what if one of my friends did…” (Y/N)’s voice cracked as she dropped the baked goods on the table.

“(Y/N), would you like to sit down and tell us what you might know about some users on [website name]?” Hotchner said gently, pulling out one of the chairs. 

“Um yes sir, i'll tell you everything I know.” (Y/N) knew she wasn’t on trial, but all the questions were wearing her down. She wanted to cry as she realized she was following or mutual with all 3. 

Out of earshot, Morgan, JJ, and Prentiss stood staring at their stern boss and this Little. Hotch was rubbing circles on her back, just as he would a child. He was gentle, soft, and almost smiling as (Y/N) explained her connection and friendships with each missing person.

“I didn’t know Hotch was so open minded…?” Morgan said to the ladies.

“Hotch reeks of ‘daddy’ so I guess it comes natural to him.” Emily replied.

“It seems more than a first time interaction right?” JJ says.

“JJ is on to something, look how open Hotch is,” Emily said.

“Look at how she is staring at him and leaking into him for comfort as if she knows he’s safe.” Morgan adds. 

“Oh, there will be questions on the drive home.” Emily snarked.

“Have you ever noticed Reid sometimes exhibits behaviors similar to her?” Morgan said.

The team zoned back into the interaction in front of them, Hotch was placing his suit jacket around her shaking body. Garcia pops up shortly after the information was sent to her.

“I FOUND THE BASTARD!” Penelope says loudly to the unprepared room. Hotchner’s face turned stern, hands covering (Y/N)’s ears. 

“Garcia.” Hotch said.

“OH- I’m sorry, sir. And little one.” Garcia said, “All information leads back to a Jason Smith at (address). Being sent to your devices.”

“Everyone load into the SUVs, (Y/N) will stay with Officer Laher,” Hotchner said as they raced out of the precinct. (Y/N) sat picking their nails at the sight of the man who cared for her rushing towards danger.

[writingsinashes]

I honestly have no idea what it is that I've done to someone here, but it's very clear someone has a problem with me and doesn't seem to understand that this isn't fucking high school.

I'm done playing this game with you.

The difference between you and me is that I'm about 99% positive I know who keeps falsely reporting me, sending me all this hate, looking for me and for no reason that is fucking logical, thinks that they're winning- the difference is I'm not going to let you win by calling you out.

There's no chance in hell that this happened literally about a week after I tried to reach out and support this person when they needed it.

I have so many things I want to say, but I'm not a petty person, and I think someone just wants attention. It's not coming from me anymore. I'm done.

I'm going to post this and have it queued to be reposted for a while because there are so many people here that I genuinely care about, with whom I sincerely want to continue writing.

People who understand that I'm doing what I can to just breathe at the moment, there are people here that I know care about the fact that I'm trying in every way possible to not be in this much pain, and understand that life happens.

I don't regret a single thing, because over the past ten years, I've met many amazing people who have been there with me through some of the most difficult times.

I wouldn't have ended up living with my best friend if it weren't for this hobby and website. I wouldn't be where I am today without these people, and if you're reading this, you know who you are.

I won't tag a single person because I don't want anyone to be targeted by the person who's very clearly dedicated to making sure that I have no voice.

I have a fucking voice.

You're not going to hurt any of the people I care for and am friends with, whom I've met through this hobby.

I started writing this post with the intention of giving up and walking away but this far into this update and notification I've come to realize that if I give up writing what I love then I'm the one hurting myself and I don't do that shit anymore.

So no, I'm not giving up RPing. I'm simply moving and interacting with people who are genuine, understanding, and caring- people I know are my friends here.

I can't see messages here on Tumblr, but I can see that I keep getting DMs. If you're trying to reach me or want to reach me, please send me a message on Discord.

I sincerely hope that I matter to the people that matter to me.

As I mentioned, I'm moving and making some changes, but I'll continue writing and role-playing.

The only thing I'm going to do differently is do it privately, following the people who like this post as well as the people that I'll follow on the new blog.

I've had muses on Tumblr for over a decade. They're not going away, and neither am I. So to recap, this blog is going to be posting this Sah update on a queue.

You can reach out to me on Discord (JustCallMeSah).

I'm moving, and if you'd like to write with me or even just stay in touch and be a part of the worlds we have/can make, please like this post so I can follow you on my new account.

I'll be following from that blog once it's set up, so even if we haven't interacted yet, don't let this stop you from liking this post, so we can, if that makes sense?

I don't know how to end this long ass post other than by saying that I very, very, very much hope to hear from you guys and that I'm on Discord- message me there for the link and I'm going to follow everyone as soon as I'm established.

I also hope that whoever is responsible for this receives help with their issues. I know that things in life aren't going as planned, and despite the hatred that person may harbor towards me, I wish you the best because no one deserves to carry that much anger without some help.

But don't let this whole PSA (basically) make you believe that I'm giving up and letting you win at whatever it is you're trying to accomplish, because that's not what's happening or what's going to happen.

So, yeah. See you guys on the flipside, hopefully.

Love, Sah.

[dungeon-brat]

Chapter 8: A New Path Offered - Order & Longing | Severus Snape x OC

Go to who? Elodie was not normally one to eavesdrop, yet she found herself lingering for a moment too long outside the Headmaster’s office after overhearing his order to Professor Snape. Who were the hooded figures that they were running from, and why was he being sought out? Hell, it wouldn’t be completely wrong for her to say she was involved now, so she felt she had at least some right to know.

“I know,” came Snape’s muffled reply from the other side of the door. “He’s growing impatient.”

There was a shared silence between them before Dumbledore spoke. “Then you must go. But be wary, there is more on the line this time around.”

Elodie crinkled her brow in concentration as she leaned toward the door to hear Snape’s next words. He spoke an octave lower and his words spilled from his mouth slower than they did before, giving away his apparent irritation with the Headmaster.

“‘More…on the line?’… And how, might I ask, would you define…’more’?” There was obvious underlying resentment in his question.

“You know what I mean, Severus,” Dumbledore remarked. “The boy is in danger, therefore our school…the faculty, the students—“

“Wait,” Snape halted him suddenly.

Another brief silence followed, then a vexing, low-pitched buzz filled her ears, making her recoil from the door. They were aware she was listening in on their conversation. Dumbledore must have cast a charm on his office to prevent any further eavesdropping. She quickly turned and rushed down the stone spiral staircase, not planning on slowing down until she arrived at the staff corridor.

She felt eyes on her from the portraits that hung the walls as she made her way to her quarters. Merlin, were they nosy. It was late, but not that late. She supposed, however, she could call herself nosy as well. But for good reason, she decided. When she reached her door, she flicked her wand at the lock with one last glance down the hall, and entered.

When she stepped into her room, she quickly realized that she had not one feathered friend waiting for her arrival, but two. Perched upon the window sill sat a familiar great horned owl with an envelope tied to its ankle.

“Oswell!” Elodie exclaimed, hurrying to the owl and nearly running into the leather sofa on her way to the window. “What do you have for me, buddy?”

Oswell lifted his foot to allow her to detach the envelope, and greeted her with a hoot. She patted his head gently and fetched a treat from a jar to give him as thank you.

As she rounded the sofa and took a seat on its edge, she slid her thumb under the seal of the envelope to open the letter. But before pulling out the neatly folded piece of parchment, she turned the envelope over one last time to inspect the name scrawled in two capital letters on its front.

EL

She smiled to herself as she took out the letter and began to read the message from her father.

Hey, kid. Thought I’d check in to see how your first week went. Fail any students yet? Make any teacher friends?

Your mother insists you come visit soon (already? I know). Between me and you, I think she is fixing to convince you to move back to France…Things are heating up a bit at work, I am sure you’re hearing your fair share of rumors and speculation from the students. There are a lot of unknowns right now. All I ask is that you are careful, please.

Sending lots of love and hope to see you soon,

Dad

Alright, now that’s weird. Elodie sat still in her seat and reread her father’s words a second time to let them sink in before getting up from the sofa. She paced the floor a few minutes, brow furrowed, before spilling the details of her night to Toots, who sat on his perch listening to every word.

“You don’t think the rumors could be true, do you, Toots?” she asked, though she already knew based on what she had heard tonight that the odds were pretty high. “I mean, say they are… what would that mean for us being here?” She paced around her quarters, kicking around a dirty sock as she voiced her thoughts to Toots, “…and what does that have to do with what happened tonight?…and Professor Snape? Ah hell, what have we gotten into?”

She slumped into her chair at the kitchen table, looking down at the letter on its surface with her head in her hands as these new thoughts circulated in her mind. She thought about the hooded figures in the alleyway, and how they said Snape had been seen leaving the pub with her. How though he seemed outwardly composed during the escape, she knew she caught a fleeting glimpse of fear in his eyes as they drew near their hiding spot. What did they want from him?

Just then, a loud slam of a heavy door broke her from her thoughts. She sat up straight and still as she listened for another sound from the hall. Nothing.

Then something. A sudden, piercing clash rang out—a violent symphony of metal striking glass, followed by the unmistakable, echoing shatter as objects crashed against unforgiving stone. She stood up sharply from her seat and went for the door. Creaking it open slightly, just enough to peek into the hall to see that no one was there, she waited for something, anything, to happen so she could pinpoint where the noise had come from.

After about a minute of silence, the door to Professor Snape’s quarters burst open with a sudden force, and he strode back out into the corridor. He slammed it shut behind him and slumped back against the wood, as if the strength had drained from his limbs and he needed its support. His head tipped back, exposing a face tight with strain, eyes hollow, and his brow slick with sweat. He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. She watched from the crack in her door as his chest rose and fell in deep, measured breaths in what looked to be an effort to calm himself. Suddenly she felt like an intruder in this moment. It was apparent to her that he was fighting some emotional battle, and she did not feel she should be witness to it any longer. But before she could retreat back into her quarters, Snape tilted his head in her direction, his eyes trailing to where she stood in her doorway. She jumped as their eyes met, and he straightened quickly upon realizing he was being observed, breaking eye contact and whirled in the opposite direction. He stood still, his shoulders tensed for a moment as if preparing to confront her for spying, but instead began to storm down the corridor with wide strides, his robes billowing behind him in a shadowy wake.

Elodie quickly shut her door and locked it behind her. That was enough for one night, she thought to herself. She needed a hot shower and to crawl into bed. Tomorrow she would speak to the Headmaster and hopefully she would get the answers she wanted.

But Dumbledore did not send for her the next day. Not during her free period, not during lunch as she sat anxiously picking at her sandwich, and now she sat at the High Table overlooking the long tables of students eating dinner as the Headmaster’s chair sat empty.

“Where’s Dumbledore?” she asked Professor McGonagall in between bites of her meal, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

McGonagall swallowed a bite of her food and shrugged, “He had a few meetings to attend, is what I was told.”

Snape sat silently as he usually did during meals, however Elodie noticed that his gaze slid sideways upon her asking about Dumbledore’s whereabouts.

“Mm,” she grunted mid chew with a nod. She wondered when he would be back. He couldn’t stay away from Hogwarts too long, she supposed. She was becoming antsy, and had too many unanswered questions to be okay with just moving on from the events of night before.

Minerva looked up from her plate toward the Great Hall’s entrance and her expression hardened.

“Oh goody,” said Elodie when she realized who she was looking at. Umbridge decided to make a late appearance to dinner. “I sure hope she comes bearing news that my temporary position has been revoked by the Ministry,” she said sarcastically.

McGonagall chuckled. “Doubtful, my dear. What the boys did to her was hardly your fault. Besides…”she paused, “I hear Pomona has been considering retirement. I wouldn’t be surprised if Dumbledore offers you a permanent position.”

Elodie raised her brows, “Really? I thought she may have hinted at it in the letter she sent me over the summer, but I couldn’t be sure.” She stabbed another spud with her fork. “That would be great.”

Dolores Umbridge waddled her way up the few steps and around the High Table to sit at her spot next to Elodie. She wore the same fake, tight-lipped smile she always did, and now Elodie was sure it was fake, because she had no doubt Dolores despised the fact that she had to sit next to her every meal. She plopped into her chair, clearing her throat and carefully placing her napkin across her lap. But she did not take a single bite of her food. Instead, she sat and watched over the students with a vigilant gaze for the entirety of the meal, waiting for an opportunity to correct behavior or make yet another unnecessary speech.

“Well, I’m finished,” Elodie announced, scooting her chair back from the table to stand. At the same time, Professor Snape stood up from his chair. She looked up at him, and him seemingly not interested in walking with her again only nodded to the two of them, silently excusing himself to leave the Great Hall ahead of her. She wished McGonagall a good evening after a moment to give him leeway before heading out of the room behind him.

When she reached the corridor, she began her walk toward the staff quarters. She should write back to her father tonight, she thought.

Or…she paused as she realized Snape was no longer ahead of her down the hall. That meant he was most likely headed for the dungeons. Who said that Dumbledore was the only one who could give her answers? Elodie pivoted in the direction of the dungeon stairwell and began her descent into their depths after Professor Snape.

No surprise to her, the dungeons after sunset were ten times more eerie than they were during the day. She found herself slowing her pace and second guessing her trip into the chilled darkness as she walked the narrow corridor. When she reached the Potions classroom entrance, she peered into its emptiness in hopes of finding Snape there. When she only saw an unoccupied desk, it occurred to her that he must have a separate office nearby. Glancing down the hall, she noticed a worn wooden door lit dimly by lantern light and slowly made her way toward it.

Elodie paused outside the door and listened for any movement from the other side. She did not hear anything, but lifted a closed fist to knock.

“Come in,” drawled the low, familiar voice before her knuckles could touch the door’s surface. How he managed to be aware of her presence from behind a closed door was beyond her. She grasped its iron handle and pushed the heavy door open.

Professor Snape sat at his desk blanketed in candlelight, quill in hand, grading what looked to be a stack of essays. She watched him make various marks upon the parchment’s surface before turning it over and grabbing another from the pile. He was a tough grader, she gathered from the scribbling she saw on the completed stack.

She stood in the doorway still, unsure where she should go from there. She didn’t exactly prepare to be in Snape’s office tonight.

He glanced up from his grading between strands of oily black hair, his mouth forming a hard line when he realized she was waiting for his direction. “Are you going to come in, or are you just here to gawk at me?” he prodded.

“No, no. Sorry, sir I—“ she pulled the heavy door shut behind her and stepped further into his cluttered office. She scanned the dusty titles and bottles lining the shelves that surrounded his large round desk before resting her hands on the back of a leather chair that sat opposite him. He did not pause nor look up from his grading at her. “I just wanted to check in…to see how you were doing after last night.”

That made him pause, however. “You expect me to believe that you are here to check on my…wellbeing?” he questioned, his tone caught somewhere between disbelief and suspicion.

She grimaced and replied, “…Yes?” She wasn’t being very convincing.

He finished grading another essay, adding it to the finished pile and gestured to the chair in front of her. “Sit. And tell me why you are really in my office at this hour,” he ordered with clear disinterest.

She did as he said, pulling the chair out and taking a seat on its dust-settled cushion. It appeared he didn’t get many visitors in the dungeon.

“Well?” he said with a sigh. “Get on with it.”

She shifted in the chair and began to pick at her fingernails under the table. “Who were those cloaked figures that were looking for you last night?” she asked hesitantly.

Snape looked up from the parchment and placed his quill on the desk. He crossed his hands over the essay and analyzed her with his gaze. “That, I cannot share. However, I assure you that you are in no danger.”

Without thought she asked, “But are you in danger?”

His eyes dropped to his hands and he considered something before replying. “No. Anything else?”

Fine. He didn’t want to open up to her. She understood, but he wasn’t pushing her away just yet. “Has he returned?”

His face remained unchanged, bored. “You’re going to need to be more specific,” he said dully, picking lint off the sleeve of his robes.

Elodie huffed and leaned back in the chair, crossing her arms. This man was insufferable. “Voldemort. Is he back?” she asked again.

He sighed and stood from his seat, turning to face the shelves behind him. He did not scan their contents, he only looked down as he answered after a moment of silence. “That is a great possibility, yes.”

Elodie wasn’t stupid. He knew something and was hiding it. “Why won’t you tell me?” she challenged him. “I was there last night. I know something is up.”

Snape spun around, slamming his hands down on the surface of his desk, and leaned toward her. She did not flinch. Her eyes hardened as his did when they met hers. “Because it is none. of your. business,” he snapped.

“You’ve made that clear. And why is it ‘not my business’? Am I not allowed to be concerned about the safety of the students? I’m a professor too.”

“A temporary professor,” he retorted, rounding the table to loom over her as she looked up at him with disbelief, “A temporary professor that is more focused on inserting herself into other’s business than the education of her students.”

Elodie pushed back from the desk and stood to match his level. “Has it not occurred to you,” she began, “that this is now my business, because you dragged me into it?” she said, pushing her pointer finger into his hard, bony chest.

He looked down at her finger in disbelief and grabbed her wrist in a sudden, tight grasp. “Because you approached me at Three Broomsticks,” he shot back as he threw her hand away from him.

She crossed her arms and raised her brows at him. He definitely wasn’t used to people arguing back. “You’re really somethin’, ya know that?” she remarked. He scowled at her. “Fine. If you want to say it’s my fault, then it’s my fault. But you and I both know that isn’t true. The point is, if he really is back, I want to know what I can do.”

He raised a brow at her, “What you can…do?”

“Yeah, I mean—“

A light knock at the door cut off the rest of Elodie’s sentence, then the door creaked open slowly without invitation. “Mind if I interrupt?” came Dumbledore’s question from the other side, his old hand peeking around its edge.

“You have impeccable timing, Headmaster,” said Professor Snape as Dumbledore entered the room. “I was just assuring Miss Greenbriar that there is nothing to worry about after last night’s—“

Elodie cut him off, “Yes, your words have been so…comforting,” she said sarcastically.

Dumbledore glanced quizzically between the two of them, then clasped his hands in front of him. “While I’d like to agree with you, Severus, right now I would say that is unfortunately not the case.” Elodie shot a look at Snape and at the same time he shot a look at the Headmaster. “Besides, Elodie is right. She was quite literally dragged into last night’s situation. It would only be fair to fill her in on some details.”

The Headmaster began to pace the room in thought, scanning the contents of Snape’s shelves before turning to face the two of them again. “There will be a meeting on Saturday with the Order to discuss some new information regarding Voldemort’s return.” Elodie’s eyes widened at the confirmation she was looking for. “Severus, you will take Miss Greenbriar with you if she so wishes to attend. There she will hopefully get her answers.”

“You can’t be serious,” Snape protested, not even trying to hide his opposition to the idea.

“The Order?” questioned Elodie.

Dumbledore leaned back onto Professor Snape’s desk, ignoring his snide remark. “Yes, the Order of the Phoenix.”

Professor Snape grumbled to himself as he sat back down in his chair and put pressure on his temples. Whatever the Order was, he was making her want to go even more just by objecting to her being there.

“The Order of the Phoenix is not an army, nor a rebellion in the traditional sense,” said Dumbledore. “It is a small group of witches and wizards I have gathered—some gifted, all courageous—united by a single, unshakable purpose: to stand against Voldemort and all that he represents. If you truly wish to ‘do’ something, right there is your answer. I have no doubt that your mind would be of good use in our efforts.”

She paused a moment, chewing her lip while she considered his offer. She wasn’t sure if she really had any qualities that would be useful to this ‘Order.’ “And if I decide after the meeting that I don’t want to be a part of the Order? What happens then?”

Professor Snape groaned again, louder this time in response to her uncertainty. “See, Headmaster. She doesn’t have it in her.”

“Severus, please,” warned Dumbledore with a raised hand. “This is not a path that I would ever force upon another,” he said to Elodie. “Joining the Order must be a choice, freely made. But if you do choose it as your path, know this: you will not walk it alone.”

[tofics]

I finally made time to listen to this and I am so glad I did. Let's dive straight in, shall we?

This was my very first time hearing your voice, and I feel the need to point out what a pleasant voice you have, Alex! And I do mean this in the most sincere way, coming from someone who can be very very picky about what voices to listen to. I know this wasn't the point of the podcast, but I had to let you know :)

I took notes while listening, so I'll just be going through them and kind of sort them into something more tangible as I go.

It was awesome getting to hear so many "behind the scene" thoughts from you about your writing. There were a couple of small things you mentioned that I wanted to comment on just for the fun of it:

Something that draws you to a fanfiction is if characters are canonically written. It's funny you should say that, because your characters are some of the most in-tune-with-canon characters that I have ever read. I've mostly consumed your Dean stories, and even in an AU setting (I'm looking at you, Smoke Eater) he is 100% Dean as seen on the show. As far as fanfiction goes, that puts yours on a pedestal imo.

You considered doing something with Dean and Yellowstone for the Jacklesverse Bingo. (insert gif of me hysterically crying and hyperventilating) I've only just started watching Yellowstone this year and I am obsessed. I think you would have fried all my synapses if you had gone down that road, in the best way possible 😁

Hearing you talk about your friends on Tumblr and knowing you've included me in that group felt so so special! I'm so proud to be able to call you my friend on here. 🥹🫶🏼

But now! On to the actual topic of the episode :)

First of all, I found it very interesting that despite your own heritage, you grew up with a white reader in mind. Just goes to show how predominantly a white person is and has been the main character in so much of media that that's what your brain defaulted to.

I also thought your discussion about what makes an OC an OC and where a reader insert stops being a reader insert suuuper interesting. Because that's a genuine question! Where does a blank slate stop being a blank slate, and how much character do you have to give to the reader role in a reader insert fic for the story still to work, right? I loved to hear your take on it, especially where you said that writing reader inserts is basically like writing OCs without giving them a name. - I had never thought about it that way!

But of course, you're right. Because a reader that is an active participant in a story can't be a completely blank slate. They have to be assigned certain traits, not necessarily body-wise but character wise - if you're doing more than a drabble, imo. For there to be dialogue and a story that feels full, that feels alive, the reader has to have some sort of character to be a character.

Which brings me to my next point: projectability is always a thing of perspective and the ability to put yourself into someone's shoes. As far as fanfiction goes, the reader insert genre tries to make that as easy as possible by offering a mostly blank slate (that is very often white-coded, unfortunately, but that's not the point I'm trying to make in this paragraph). I have seen people complain more than once about the character!reader being unrelatable because of certain character traits and/or backstories that were assigned to them, and I wonder: people, where has your media literacy gone? Do they not teach to adapt to a person's perspective via literature in schools anymore? Must all media cater exactly to your every taste, down to each very nuance?

And I write all of this distinctively separating characteristic traits from body traits. I am not at all talking about the lack of ethnic representation within the x reader genre.

I love how you give personality to your reader characters, Alex. Especially when it comes to your own representation. You said in the podcast that you were worried about how the traits you assigned to your reader in the Midnight Espresso-verse would be received by your audience and that you received great feedback. I want to reiterate that by saying how despite myself not having the same background as you, I could absolutely relate to the plus-size aspect of the reader, as well as her love for cooking. You said it so beautifully in the podcast, that this version of the reader is one that came from the intent of Dean having a (Latino) girlfriend that nurtured him in the same way he nurtures the people around him, and I fully 100% could relate to that as well :)

Which might be my very complicated and long way of saying: Please do not worry about how much the reader can adapt to the traits you're giving to the character!reader. If most character!readers have been predominantly white for the longest time and so so many people that where not white made it work, then so can we white folks when we are given a reader that does not fit all of "our" typical criteria.

It made me very happy to hear that you're seeing more and more diversity within the SPN fandom these days. I've spent most of my time in the PPCU fandom this past year and all across it, but specifically in the Joel Miller fandom, there have been too many racist instances. It's great to hear that it's going better in other fandoms!

Which brings me to my next point - the anon request you got that led you to writing Unravel Me 👀 Wow. I haven't read it yet. It was on my TBR list anyway, but hearing you talk about how it came to be and how much thought you put into it (understandably so) it's now an absolute must-read for me. (Sort of unrelated but still related: I've seen your playlist covers for the story, and - wow??? A masterpiece??? Visually, I mean?! The EFFORT. I'll be speaking about this in a second, but I needed to mention it now in case I forget! Gorgeous!)

Another point that had me thinking a lot was the question about how much of an immigrant's identity should be kept and how much should be adapted to the country they've moved to also captivated me. I know US politics in regards to immigrants are ""problematic"" atm to say the least, and it's been a widely discussed topic over here in Germany for years now as well, especially with the heavy influx of immigrants over the past years. I can't imagine how complicated it must be, figuring out a sense of self that both fits to where you live and still keeps the core parts of who you are and were before coming to said country.

I want to wrap this up by saying how incredibly impressed I am every single time I hear/read about how you prep for your stories. I think you are by far the most in-depth fanfiction writer that I know. You put so much research into it, and not just for The Honorable Choice, but everything you put out. I'm struggling to find the correct words to properly express how admiring I find it, especially for a story like The Honorable Choice where you take on the perspective of someone of a different ethnic background than you.

You are an inspiration, Alex. Truly.

Thank you for welcoming me into the writing space when I came back. Thank you for answering every question I had, and thank you for the work you put into all of your stories.

To you, to your talent, your inspiration and work ethic, and to many more stories to come! 🩵

Racial & Ethnic Representation in Fanfiction

[🎙️ Podcast Interview]

Hey, friends! Sandra and Kasey, the lovely hosts of @idlingintheimpalapodcast — the podcast for all things SPN and fanfiction — invited me back on the pod for an interview on a topic that's very close to my heart…

With @rubyvhs, we talked about the fun moments and challenges about reading and writing fanfiction that represents specific racial and ethnic cultures, being bicultural/multicultural, the immigrant experience, and much more.

I offered my own experience as a Latina POC writing in the fandom space, specifically Supernatural and The Boys (and adjacent Jackles fandoms).

Check it out here: ⤵️

Interview Timestamps –

(Plus fic recs, SPN writer/reader shoutouts, and more! Links to all the fics we mentioned are at each time stamp.)

2:54 – When did you start writing fanfiction, and when did you join SPN fandom?

⟡ You can check out my first author interview with Sandra and Kasey over here. We chatted about Dean Winchester and Jensen Ackles’ early roles, the best and worst seasons of SPN, the joys and pains of writing Soldier Boy, and much, much more. For all the timestamps of key moments, fic recs, and SPN writer shoutouts, see this post (you'll find the link to the video there too).

6:18 – What is your ethnic, racial, and cultural background? (And how me and Sandra bond over “food and family” ties between Hispanics/Latinos and Italians.)

13:05 – The immigrant experience in America, what you take with you from the “Motherland,” the struggles of bicultural identity, my personal experience being a second-generation child of an immigrant family, and Sandra’s experience as a first-generation child of Italian immigrants.

16:58 – What do you look for when you’re reading fanfiction? (Canon-compliant, AU, romance, etc.) Does the length of a story matter?

19:52 – Bonus: The merits of drabble writing vs. long-fic writing.

25:54 – Have you ever actively searched for fanfiction that represented your ethnicity? (Whenever I do, it’s like finding gold.) Plus, the challenge of writing reader characters, the “gray area” of writing reader characters like OCs.

32:38 – The inherent “bias” of reading and writing reader characters as White. The concept of diversity being “cool” in popular media, TV shows, and movies is still pretty new.

36:36 – Why I started writing reader characters that might have a specific body type, race, and/or ethnicity.

Examples:

⟡ Midnight Espresso – Dean Winchester x Plus-size Latina!Reader

⟡ If I Stay – Dean Winchester x Plus-size!Reader

⟡ 10 ‘Til Midnight – Professor!Dean Winchester x Plus-size Grad Student!Reader

⟡ Unravel Me – Soldier Boy x Afro-Latina!Reader

⟡ The Honorable Choice & Outlander – Cowboy!Dean Winchester x OFC

40:14 – The fun challenges: like giving Dean a partner who takes care of him as much as he takes care of others in Midnight Espresso.

45:28 – The BIG challenges: like writing Soldier Boy being himself with a “person of color” (POC) in this new series, Unravel Me. What even is a POC? Where do you start with Soldier Boy, the Sandra-proclaimed “bowl of fishhooks?"

51:38 – Is there ever an element of fear when you publicly post a story that represents your culture, which is something very personal to you? What happens when you get haters in the comments?

1:05:33 – When and how did you begin to break out of the “ingrained biases” in your writing? (AKA: Always assuming my own characters are White.)

1:08:04 – When did you decide to explore writing plus-size!readers?

1:13:20 – What has your experience been in writing a race/culture outside of your personal experience? The Honorable Choice and Outlander, a western AU where Dean Winchester falls in love with a Native American Lakota Indian. (Shoutout to @jacklesversebingo!)

Plus, the ethical responsibility to “do no harm” when you represent different cultures, and answering question of not only can I write this, but should I write this?

1:32:42 – What advice would you give a writer interested in writing about a culture outside of their own that they don’t have first-hand knowledge of? How can a writer avoid cultural appropriation if their goal is cultural appreciation? How important is a sensitivity reader/beta reader for this effort?

1:40:35 – Final thoughts on diversity and representation of culture in fanfiction, whether it’s your own or someone else’s:

“Write what you know. Write what you can research. Write what you’re interested in. Remember that words have power, so be careful how you use them.”

1:45:30 – Sandra and Kasey’s outro: The importance of representation and diversity in fandom.

I hope you enjoy the ride!~ 💜

💗💗💗 Shoutouts to some of my beautiful friends and lovely readers who've supported my attempts to explore ethnic and cultural diversity in my writing:

@luci-in-trenchcoats @lamentationsofalonelypotato @waynes-multiverse @rizlowwritessortof @roseblue373

@tofics @deanwinchesterswitch @deanbrainrotwritings @deansbbyx @waywardlatina

@supernotnatural2005 @wayward-dreamer @spnwoman @waywardxwords @mostlymarvelgirl

@chevroletdean (shoutout to your 500 follower fic challenge at around 19:52 😘) @siampie @bettystonewell @wvffles

@iprobablyshipit91 @my-stories-vault @littlesoulshine @thatonewriter15 @jessjad

@deans-spinster-witch @winchestergirl2 @kazsrm67 @chernayawidow @jackles010378

@jollyhunter @leigh70 @foxyjwls007 @beakaleak32 @alwaystiredandconfused

[crimsonender]

Ok but what she’s saying in that post is not “I want to have sex with kids”, it’s “kids (and specifically teenagers) often experience sexual feelings and telling them they are broken, wrong, or amoral for it only makes them feel guilt that leaves lasting and damaging impressions on their psyche”. Like I can understand how you might misconstrue it to be the first, but it’s a really far stretch, and considering that you haven’t provided any evidence that she’s, like, made advances on a minor I’m inclined to believe that that’s your only evidence for claiming she’s a pedophile. Which is, in fact, pedo-jacketing a trans woman.

And, like, I’m saying this as one of the many people on this website who believes she’s wrong about a lot of things! But this is not one of them, it’s a super reasonable stance.

Because that's. Not how pedophiles talk. That is not the the thought patterns typical to pedophiles.

Pedophiles, in almost all cases, will remove agency for themselves in the language they use.

Pedophiles, in almost all cases, will frame their sexuality to be a positive, healthy, good thing for children to experience.

I am an educator. I have hundreds of training hours under my belt on how to talk to kids, including about their sexual health. I have facilitated workshops and programs about sexual health for teens. This is not how you speak to young people about sex. This is how you groom children to encourage them to have a sexual relationship with you. And she's doing it openly on her blog that everyone can read.

"Hey kids! Sneak into adult spaces! I'm a good person to share your sexual desires with!" Is pedo shit!!!

How can you not see this???

And she fucking sexually exploited kids. ALREADY. this isn't a hypothetical it happened she knowingly did it and admitted to it! Not just accidental yoinky sploinky on call she sent a kid porn and encouraged them to share it with their friends!!! Knowing! She knew!!! And she's trying to get it to happen again! Openly!!!! On tumblr dot com!!!!

And this fucker and her dumbass cis baby friend is who you fuckin stake your identity on! What is happening????

[aqtdeco]

my hand was the one you reached for

joaquin torres x reader

content warnings: minors DNI. 18+ themes, sex, anything related to. Blood/ injuries, use of guns, knives, drug use, gang themes. (I’ll update as I write !)

I am a first timer :) so please be nice, read, or don’t read. :D

Series master list

Next part

Part l

She hated this life, really. The galas, the face smiles, the knowing what happened behind closed doors when her father took a group of men into his office. He had tried to shield her from it all since she was young, her mother taught her to turn a blind eye to the violence she heard, the blood stains on her father’s cufflinks as he touched her cheek.

Regardless; she loved her family fiercely. Ever since her 18th birthday had been invaded by a rival, new organisation that had moved into her father’s territory, he protected her with his life. He gave her everything, whatever it was to live her life however she wanted. Gym memberships, parties, shopping, she asked and she got, quite simply. What she never got was choice over who she dated, her father didn’t trust her in that respect.

After a dinner with her father’s right hand man’s son, she had to let her hair down. Once it hit 10pm, she slipped into the car she called.

“Thank you,” politely to her driver, who nodded as they drove to the destination. A party held in an old warehouse outside of Brooklyn, just what she needed to cool off. Once arriving, Kara, her closest friend ran over to the car.

“What took you so long?” Kara smiled as she greeted her. She got out the car, giggling.

“Beauty sleep, power napped before, duh-“ she said like it was obvious, as they skipped the queue and got in. The music was pumping, sweaty body grinding against each other; and neon lights blasting over the room. She was in her element. “I’m gonna get us some drinks!” She shouts over the music to Kara, who nods absentmindedly while talking to her boyfriend. She nods, walking to the bar, leaning against it, smiling at the bartender (an old friend), who was handling another customer. As she waits, she feels a presence next to her, no. She smells a presence, because it’s this cedar wood, musky smell that she can’t ignore. She looks to the side, he’s already smirking at her.

“What?” She blinks, raising an eyebrow.

“Admiring the view,” the tanned stranger comments, tilting his head. She scoffs, laughing, but can’t escape his deep brown eyes that follow hers.

“Are you with anyone?” She looks around, behind him, around him. He motions with his head to the corner.

“Bachelor party,” he replies, “Let me get you a drink?”

She tilts her head, smiling, stepping closer, unable to resist the undeniable pull he had.

“I don’t even know your name,” she laughs, raising eyebrows.

“Should’ve just asked, cariño.” The nickname almost drips off of his tongue, and she swallows. “Joaquin.” He then holds his hand out, she takes it, but he brings her hand to kiss it. She can’t ignore the way her stomach erupts, cheeks heating up. She replies with her name, and just like that, he’s ordering her a rum and coke. “Are you alone?” He teases back, lightly.

“My friend— is occupied,” huffs, motioning to Kara, in a booth on top of her boyfriend. Joaquin raises his eyebrows, tilting his head.

“Room for some company?” Joaquin asks, sipping his drink, she mirrors him, the cool liquid running down her throat. His eyes, his words, she was magnetised. Which didn’t happen often. She nods in agreement, moving closer.

“Thank you for the drink,” she assures, eyes on his, and he stares right back.

“It’s nothing,” he waves off, smiling. “Pretty girl like you deserves it, and way more.” She can’t help the blush that paints her cheeks.

“Quite the charmer, aren’t you?” She tilts her head.

“Only to the beautiful ones,” he says, watching as she swallows the drink. “You wanna dance, cariño?”

“You can dance?” She laughs, and he laughs as well. For a moment she’s in their own world they’ve created. His tanned hand lightly traces over her waist.

“I’m Mexican, so.” Joaquin replies cheekily, and she giggles lightly, nodding, taking his hand as he guides her to the sweaty dance floor. Once the song changes, he guides her arms around his neck, their hips moving together like it was almost, meant to be. Growing hot, she swallows, almost closing her eyes at the contact.

“You’re from here?” She asks over the music, and he shakes his head.

“Miami,” he says, his hand tightening down to her hips. “Moved here recently though,”

She tried to concentrate on forming words, but his hands expertly guiding her hips makes her almost stammer.

“Why— why the move?”

He notices, well, of course he does but he doesn’t comment on it. Just smiles.

“New job,” he shrugs, “fancied a change, and thank god,”

“Thank god?” She mumbles, her head resting on his, lulled. He takes the opportunity to kiss just below her ear.

“Thank god, because you’re here.” He whispers into her ear, smooth like honey, leaving her practically melting in his arms.

“I— I should probably go—“ she pulls back, back to reality. The disappointment floats over his expression.

“If that’s what you want?” Joaquin’s reply is soft, soft enough for her to shake her head.

“I— I don’t-“

“How about we get some air?” Joaquin suggests, and she nods, letting him guide her by her lower back to an alley, next to the warehouse. Joaquin places his hand on the wall next to her, carefully not too close. “You okay?”

She swallows, nodding. He’s making this very difficult. “I’m fine, just—“ she lets out a nervous laugh.

“I can back off,” Joaquin assures, but she shakes her head immediately.

“No! No—“ a bit too fast. “No I don’t want you to, I just— I haven’t spoken to a guy, like this, in a while,”

He nods, understanding, ever so gently tucks her hair behind her ear.

“You look gorgeous,” he says almost like it’s a fact. “Red suits you,” he motions to the crimson dress she has on, suddenly it matches her cheeks.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, and the air becomes thicker, charged.

“Can I kiss you, baby?” He asks, titling his head, and she nods immediately, bringing him in by his shirt and attaching her lips to his. His hands trail down to her hips, squeezing as their lips meld together perfectly, his tongue gently stroking hers. Her hand goes to the nape of his neck, pulling the hairs there, and he deepens the kiss. He groans, breaking away.

“Why did you—“

“Wanna do this right,” he sighs, smiling down at her, “I’m not just trying to get in your pants here,”

Oh. That was a surprise, most guys she met only really led her to a one night stand.

“But dios mío,” he sucks in a breath, “you’re irresistible,”

“I wouldn’t oppose it,” she shrugs, smiling up at him, hand still playing with his curls at his nape. He blinks, eyes wide.

“We won’t do anything you aren’t comfortable with,” Joaquin assures, kissing her cheek, and she nods.

“Just take me home Hm?” She teases, and he laughs heartily.

“Gladly.”

—

Joaquin’s apartment is big.

“What did you say you did again?” She calls, as he flips off his shoes. He rushes to take her coat.

“Work at my dad’s firm,” he lets out, sheepish. He lets her walk in before him, watching her look around. “He relocated, so I said, fuck it, why not?”

She nods in reply, then turns to him.

“I see,” she nods, and he motions to the bedroom, up some stairs. His room has a boyish, but sleek tone, with sports memorabilia, that she doesn’t doubt is from Miami, and a large window overlooking the city. He steps behind her, tracing her arms.

“Have I said you look gorgeous?”

“You have, actually.” She laughs, and turns, melting into his touch.

“We don’t have to do anything—“ she stops Joaquin with a kiss, hands in his hair. As their lips tangle deliciously, he pushes her lightly to lay on his bed.

“I don’t wanna go all the way,” she says breathlessly, “you have to earn that,” He nods into her kiss, then kisses down her neck, making a small noise emit from her throat.

“Can I touch you, cariño?”

She nods quickly, and his hands gently pull up her dress, making quick work of it and looking over her.

“Dios mío,” he whispers, hand tracing over her breasts, down her stomach. “So lovely,”

She lets out a whimper, quite embarrassingly she’s wet already, but she can’t help it. He notices, smirk widening.

“Need help with that?” He asks, as his hand reaches her soaked underwear, slowly palming her. “Tell me what you want,”

“I— fuck,” she mumbles into his neck, and he tuts.

“C’mon baby, let me know Hm?” His words cut through her, and she murmurs, desperate.

“Make me come—“ with that, that’s all he need, because his hand is inside her underwear, ministrations slow. She gasp, head going back, and he watches, in awe.

“So sexy—“ he explains as he expertly guides his fingers over her clit, “— saw you when you walked in, knew I had to talk to you at least, any man is lucky just to speak to you,”

She lets out a loud moan at his words, and a whine as one finger enters her.

“Tell me it’s good for you Hm?”

“S’good, really good,” she manages, and he brings her in for another kiss, which is messy, wet, because she can’t even concentrate when two fingers are inside of her and his thumb is on her clit. “M’ gonna come—“

“Come for me cariño, v’e got you baby,” he says, hushed as his thumb moves faster, feeling her body arch under his. She nods, hands tightening on his tan biceps and letting out a breathless whimper, coming all over his hand. He draws his hand out carefully, then brings his fingers to his mouth. Her cheeks redden, breathing shallow as she watches him. He smiles, that easy, charming smile she melts under. “Bed time?”

She nods, slightly dazed, and he laughs, helping her up.

“I have a ton of shirts you can change into..” he trails off, opening the drawer and pulling out a Miami football team jersey. He gently places it over her head and down onto her. “Look good,”

She regains some semblance of energy, crawling back into the bed.

“Thank you,”

“Don’t mention it,” he waves off, before changing himself. Soon he’s joining her in bed. “I hope this is okay,”

“This is okay,” she smiles at his gentle tone, snuggling into his chest. He smiles, pleased, as he strokes his hand down her back.

“I meant it,” he speaks, kissing her forehead. “I wanna do this properly, you get that right?”

She nods, nuzzling into his neck, butterflies swarming her belly.

—

In the morning, she slowly blinks to wake up, secured by strong, tan arms around her torso. Turning around, he yawns, nuzzling into her hair.

“Please tell me you’ll give me your number,” he mumbles sleepily, kissing her head.

Giggling, she keeps her reply short. “If you’re lucky.” He doesn’t move, just squeezes her tighter.

“I like my odds,” he mumbles, and pulls her in even closer, and she thinks, she could get used to this. Normal, safe, and comfortable.

—

That week, she can’t concentrate on anything, really. Takes her cat to get her fur cut, meets with Kara to go shopping, gets her nails done, the usual, but it’s all overshadowed by the tan man she can’t get out of her head.

She’s sitting at the table after dinner, eyes glued to her phone as they exchange messages.

j: please tell me you’ve had the hot dogs on starr st

me: I don’t happen to be familiar

j: what

j: actually that’s good news

me: because…?

j: that’s where I’ll take you this Saturday

me: and what if I’m not free?

j: I’ll take you this Saturday.

she can’t hide the grin on her face as they talk, while her father is rambling to his mother at the table.

“More of my men keep having issues with them,” her father complains, shooting his whiskey. “Goddamn outsiders, can’t stay out of my city.”

Her mother nods, listening, like she always does.

“If they knew better, they’d stop,” her father explains, “If they won’t back off, we’ll have to drive the Torres family out one way or the other,”

She was blushing down at her phone for a while now, and her father briskly noted it.

“Who’s that?” Her father lets a gruff out, hand on his empty whiskey glass. She looks up, blinks and pockets her phone.

“Just Kara, we’re just deciding what to do Saturday,” she lies easily, and he believes her, because he loves her. She takes a last strawberry that was on the table, and pops it in her mouth. “I’m gonna head to bed, night dad, night mom,”

They nod as she leaves, and as soon as she’s in her bed, her fingers go back to messaging the one boy that itched his way into her head.

[suchawrathfullamb]

reconstructing the poorly constructed female characters in nbc hannibal. by lamb. do yours, too, I'd love to read it.

alana bloom: the unspoken annoyance of this character is that the protagonists like her, yet the writing fails to show the audience why (probably because the author assumed her appearance was enough reason given she's the most conventionally attractive woman on the show and it's not a coincidence she was chosen as "the girlfriend"). so make her likable and interesting ffs. what would attract will graham and hannibal lecter? not an average person, for sure.

so let's have her more quiet, mysterious, intriguing, give her strange and vague lines, make her seem like she knows more than she lets on.

I'd introduce her as a someone who is interested in profiling Will and does consider it, without fluff about wanting to be his friend. "yes, I would profile him...but I don't want to. seems like that would cost me more than I'm willing to pay. so thanks, but no thanks."

make her weary of him, not with the pathetic savior complex. it's the contradiction again...she's supposed to be smart, but the writing fails her, making her look stupid and clueless. so make her fucking smart. make her attracted to will but aware that there's something boiling beneath the surface. "you're hot but you freak me the fuck out."

some weird murderer of the week is being analyzed and she says "yeah I know all about that", hinting at her mysterious life and past. maybe she had a psycho for a father, maybe she was married to some crazy person.

make her useful to abigail, not the generic psychologist the poor girl could never truly open up to. "you only know love through the cold steel of a knife. be careful what abuse you confuse with care." make her a little bit more realistic? what sabe woman wouldn't question a middle aged man's fixation on adopting a 19 year old? idgaf if he was your fucking mentor or whatever girl, as a psychiatrist that's absurd behavior that she never even once asked H what was up or warned Abigail to be less open. "I know him, but he's a man and you are a girl, and that's honestly a bit inappropriate so please think about your choices." give the girl an actual option. "you don't need to spend the night at a man's house, a man you barely know, stay with me if you hate the hospital so much". cause like...why bother crying about her death on the car if you didn't try to help?

when she comes to will, make her less hesitant. have her own her attraction. "I'm gonna have sex with you but I can't date you". he would literally be like yes girl, ideal, thanks lol. why can't she fuck the guy she is attracted to without all this fluff? give her more emotional agency and autonomy. she could fuck him without it meaning anything, ffs she's a grown ass woman.

maybe he gets weird during sex and she's like damn I'm kinda into it. make her self aware (as a fucking psychiatrist) of her own crap. make her turned on by it, willing to explore it with agenct!! because they do that in canon but make her look like a clueless idiot which is contradictory.

also. her being "the female character who loses her emotional control" is so annoying and boring. she doesn't need to yell to showcase emotional reaction and sensitivity. "you are all so selfish and self centered you don't care about anything other than personal victory". call them out.

when will goes to prison, drop the savior complex ffs. "i knew there was something going on with him but fuck why am I even more attracted now that it's gotten worse?" make her fucking face her own fucked up patterns, they're supposed to like her for a reason right?

also. she should've suggested a threesome lol (an actual, intentional one). oh come on, she should've. stop playing the naive woman.

when she decided to date hannibal she should've at least been like. maybe if I get closer I can actually gather evidence to decide what I believe. maybe I'm smart enough to know not to trust men. maybe I have basic instincts and know that I should always keep my eyes open. maybe there's a reason this mf fits the profile.

and my god, if the point was to say "hannibal's soo good he manipulated even this smart woman", it failed dramatically because the writing does not depict her as smart. quite the opposite.

so make her weary, make her suspicious, make her follow him, snoop around his house, ask pertinent questions, have the idea of learning how to shoot on her own. if she's that smart.

and when all hell breaks loose make her smart enough to not go to his goddamn house alone??? or make her angry at least, give us a good fucking reason to get her there by herself. a moment of realization setting in and anger boiling up and she thinks of abigail, and she goes because fuck everything and everyone.

then idk man, make her actually attracted and interested in margot lol.

tagging moots in case they want to rant/hop in/get creative.

@charleemoon @patchouii @honeygrahambitch and whoever wants to.

[achromatophoric]

Achromatophore (n.)

[ak-ruh-mat-uh-fawr]

from Greek prefix a- “not” + Latinized form of Greek khrōma “color” + Greek phoros “bearing, bearer”

literal : bearing no color

: pigment cell expressing no hue : bearing only black, gray, or white

: derived from chromatophore, “pigment cell in an animal”

: the owner of this blog who was born in the 80’s and writes short, (hopefully) humorous Wenclair drabbles

also : achromatophoric (adj.), “of or relating to achromatophore”

🔽 Inconsequentional Information 🔽

[Warnings: Contains mention of racism, harassment, non-graphic detail of injuries, and some mature themes related to lifestyle. It’s also L O N G.]

Hi. 👋 I’m aware that my handle is a mouthful, so feel free to use “Achro” [ak-ruh]. The name stems from my love of cephalopods 🐙 (and their astounding color-changing abilities) and the fact that, despite efforts to introduce colors, I am most comfortable wearing (and drawing in) black and white.

This blog is where I post Wenclair short fics (in the format of Incorrect Quotes) almost daily since 6/14/24. I like to imagine that they’re funny, and I hope you think so too.

‼️Warning‼️ The rest of this is long and exceedingly personal, so please feel free to find better ways to enjoy your time. Like reading a fanfic and leaving the author a comment.

What the heck are you?

I’m AMAB, born in the 80’s. I’ve come to identify as demimale, but that’s me settling until I have the mental energy and capacity to focus on myself again. I still experience periodic bouts of gender dysphoria and in general feel like my masculinity is something I wish I could shed.

My exact age is not explicitly stated because I am afraid of age discrimination. Growing up as a minority (Asian) with androgynous/effeminate features in a conservative town meant I’ve already experienced discrimination.

For an entire year of high school, I was “harmlessly” terrorized every day when walking home from the bus stop. Just a car full of boys from my suburb making a game of not hitting the minority kid with their car door as they sped by.

The rev of an engine. Boy laughter closing in at speed. Adrenaline. Fear. And the slam of the car door shutting moments before impact. Sometimes with a few beats to spare. Sometimes with nearly none.

Cue resigned relief.

I have been called by slurs. I’ve had gum in my hair, my shoes pissed on, my family mailbox filled with shaving foam and my front door both stink and smoke bombed. In middle school, I was even stoned after getting off the bus to walk home, but I’m not sure if that was racism at the time. The perpetrator did grow up to be a raging bigot, so maybe?

It wasn’t too bad. Just a small scar on the back of my head. I tried to crawl home immediately after and made it down the sidewalk and halfway across the road into a cul-de-sac before a friend returned with an adult. I like to imagine the reactions of the kids waiting for the bus the next morning. Head wounds bleed, so I had inadvertently left a red trail the entire way.

The stain lasted a week. California sun baked it in.

It improved after high school, except for a brief period in college in the South. The worst of that wasn’t directed specifically at me. A Chinese exchange student was shot in the back of the head at around 11pm, in a safe part of town, while on a pay phone calling his parents. It was a hate crime, but the news glossed over that.

So, yeah. Discrimination sucks. I’ve been called slurs for race and people’s assumptions about both my sexuality and gender. I’ve been terrorized, injured, degraded, touched, and made to feel very afraid. And you know what? I’m a lucky one! I wasn’t AFAB, even if I feel I should’ve been.

There. That’s why I fear age discrimination. It’s not hard to figure out my age, but I wasn’t about to welcome discrimination. Before starting this blog, I already saw unfair treatment of 30+ year old authors and fans. I was the target of two online predators in my teens, so I can certainly relate to why people are protective.

So after a year of posting with no complaints outside of a handful of trolls, I thought that maybe, just maybe, people didn’t care about my age. That the fandom focused on the non-canon ship of a young queer couple—from a show with themes of learned acceptance and fighting bigotry, based on a character originally played by an actress very close to my age—appreciated my brain rot for what I intended it to be:

Short snippets to help people laugh because omgwtf, things are SO not funny in the world right now.

To my delighted relief (and which kind people have been reminding me of), I am largely successful. The discrimination still does hurt for more reasons than I’ve explained here, but that’s okay. I’ve gotten through it before, and this time, there’s people out there who are nice enough to offer support. 👋😌

Uh. That’s it? What about—

Oh. Shoot. The stuff I haven’t covered. Um. I’m demisexual, lately bordering on asexual. I’ve been happily married for 12 years now to a historically RAGING LESBIAN who made an exception for androgynous little me (and possibly toxic werewolf biker dudes, judging from her reading list 🫢).

Our friends remark that we’re an odd match. Before age sank its teeth, she was aggressively sexual, while I wasn’t. At kink parties she’s the enthusiastic participant, while I’m the chatty pretty ace-ish person in the corner, cracking silly comments and killing boners. At a party themed 70’s Porn Industry Awards, my wife won “Causes Most Fear Boners” while I ended up with “2nd Best Asian”. 😑

We shouldn’t work, but we do, and that’s largely because our humor and silliness mesh. Yay me!

My household includes at least 1 Achromatophore, 1 awesome wife, 2 roommates (married), 2 dogs, 1 turtle, several frogs, 1 large constrictor, numerous assorted fish, sea anemones, and assorted marine and land arthropods. There were also 2 cats, but they’ve passed on.

Cool. So… Wenclair?

I love the fanon! I enjoyed Wednesday the show, but outside of Ortega’s performance and the aesthetic styling, I wasn’t too impressed. What doomed me to my fate was when, after finishing the final episode at the end of 2022, I asked my wife the fateful question.

Me: Do you think anyone else felt the chemistry between Wednesday and Enid?

Her: Prolly.

So I checked AO3 the same night, sorted by kudos, and have been reading Wenclair fanfics ever since. And to be honest, I’m more of a fan of the Wenclair fanon than I am the show. The hundreds upon hundreds of fics have helped me to process so many different things that I had been ignoring.

It gave me the opportunity to experience what life could have been like were I born differently, through characters I found familiar and comforting, and set largely in the same timeframe as when I was at my most miserable. It’s been a safe place for me, and I’m thankful for it.

Fast forward a year. I started leaving comments. An author befriended me. They encouraged me to write. And… so I did. Every day. Twice a day. Sometimes more. I had never written for others to read, so it was all scary at first, but now? Now it’s amazing.

I’ve been writing because it makes me happy. It reminds me that I can still be creative even after the pain in my hands made me largely give up sculpting and drawing. It helps me to cope when things get difficult. It helps me to share my joy when things are better.

This absurd blog has allowed me, an exhausted dork and often reclusive hermit (fuck you Pandemic), to slowly begin making connections again, and to share my brand of inanity with others who enjoy the same fandom.

There! That’s it for now. Maybe I’ll add more later, but I am so behind on work and omg omg I have a work call in like 15 mi—