#Saved the best message in my inbox for last

[rhyrhy]

Professor Anderson

[a/n]: I literally couldn’t get this out my head, so I had a few headcannons for a fic later, where the idea came from!, short random blurb, suggestive-ish.

Professor Anderson, who loves her job.

Professor Anderson, who is always so patient. She replies to every email, text message, and phone call because she cares deeply about her students’ success!

She’s fully aware of her own appearance, who tolerates no fraternizing from her students—no flirting, no jokes, none of it. “You are here so I can teach you, nothing more, nothing less.”

She would never even look at a student below the neckline, loves eye contact. shows respect and that you are engaged in her material.

always has someone help her when she’s trying to present because she’s so bad with computers. The type to leave the YouTube video off full screen, unable to get the sound right until someone steps in to help.

Often forgets her glasses are on the collar of her shirt or the top of her head until someone calls it out, and it’s a short laugh every time. Just a little chuckle, followed by a soft, “I swear, I’ll never learn.”

Professor Anderson had always imagined she’d be married in the next few years but was okay with her own company. A framed picture of her loving canine sat on her desk, a constant companion who was always there for her, even when no one else was.

She never specifically says “wife” or “husband,” just “partner” when asked if she’s married. Yeah, probably wasn’t straight. She never felt the need to explain herself—just content with the way things were.

Professor Anderson always signs her webmails with:

————————————————-

“Do the best you can until you know better. Then, when you know better, do better.” — Maya Angelou

Abigail Anderson

Spanish, English

XXX-X-XX

Click to schedule an appointment | Classroom Padlet

She’s just such a sweetheart! So when you accidentally sent her a selfie to her work phone, she just replied:

She didn’t think much about the interaction after. Just a mix up.

Professor Anderson did notice how you held eye contact with her, head rested on your hand as you soaked up her every word. It made her smile. you liked her class. Liked her teaching you. So she did, she smiled at you a little, then turned her attention back to the board, going over the study material. But just for a moment, a smile that she quickly masked, focusing on the next point in her notes.

She would find herself enjoying the small back-and-forth on discussion boards, especially when classmate Emily corrected yours, laughing at the response.

You were her best student. So Bright. Always prepared. Always watching her so closely, like what she said mattered. So of course she opened your latest assignment ready to grade and be done for the day. Only to be greeted with another photo of yourself—less modest than usual.

Professor Anderson, who immediately closed her laptop. Heart racing against her ribs. She stared at the screen for a second too long before it went black, the image still burned into her mind. That wasn’t meant for her. Not at all. A slip-up, clearly. An accident.

Why would you even have something like that saved on your computer? Why had it ended up in her inbox? She ran a hand over her face, fingers brushing against the frames of her glasses perched on top of her head—forgotten again. She let out a shaky exhale and removed them, setting them gently on the desk like she was setting the moment down, trying to ground herself.

————————————-

Subject: Wrong File

Dear,___

I believe you may have attached the wrong document to your last message. Please double-check and resend when you have a moment.

Best,

Professor Anderson

—————————————————

She took a deep breath, taking off her glasses. You were gorgeous, yes. But that’s simply not a line she’d cross. She’s better than temptation. She wasn’t about to risk her career, her boundaries, or her principles just for a moment of fleeting attraction.

I NEED HER TO IMPREGNATE MEEE ?!

[cherierot]

message in a bottle ✹ op81 × fem!reader

previous | next

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

genre: slow burn enemies (but actually misunderstanding) to Besties to Lovers emotional damage with a side of banter social anxiety-core. smau x irl

chapter warnings: smoking, slight hints of depression, reference to past suicide ideation, themes of unresolved trauma, emotional repression (?), jetlag, dissociation (lol), accidental hose attack + 81% chance of hypothermia, for more content warning check linked masterlist above

synopis: once, he saved your life with shaking hands and a bad autograph. now, years later, you stand in his orbit—hattie's best friend with a half-healed heart and a wrist tattoo he'll never notice. he doesn't remember you. you never forgot him. It's messy. It's slow. It's everything and nothing at all.

author notes: so so sorry for the long wait, I mean with my personal life tearing me apart, writing is cathartic to me rn, but sadly I keep breaking my laptop, it refuses to say in one piece ya'll. but good news is, I have decided to say adios to my eyesight and light in from my phone (yay?!)

chapter one : sub rosa

➔ ❝ ...𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 ❞

You smoke out the window like it’s a ritual, watching the smoke curl up and disappear, the bitter drag of it filling the hollow parts you pretend don’t exist. The sky outside is dull, that late-winter grey that makes everything feel like it’s waiting for something to happen. Your inbox is full of unread emails, half-written assignments, and one string of voice notes from Hattie, each more dramatic than the last.

"I haven’t seen you in forever. Come visit me, please, I’ll die if you don’t—"

Then laughter. That sharp, untouchable kind of laughter that sounds like it belongs to people who aren’t tired like you. People like Hattie, whose orbit has always been bright and fast and full of noise.

You didn’t say no. Mostly because you didn’t have the energy to. Mostly because staying here another week, alone in this airless flat, feels like a worse kind of drowning.

You’re three days into ignoring your coursework. Two days into skipping meals on accident. One week into letting the dirty mugs stack up on your desk like some pathetic little monument to inertia. You know exactly what Hattie would say if she saw it. You can almost hear her voice in your head now, “Get up. Do something. Put on lipstick. We’re going out.”

You stub the cigarette out against the chipped brick of the window frame and watch the ash scatter like it’s trying to leave you too.

The thing is.....you miss her.

Hattie.

Her messy bedroom floor and her bad playlist choices and her habit of making everything feel urgent and impossible and alive. It’s been months since you’ve seen her. Since she hugged you too tight and told you she hated how small your wrists felt.

So when she begged you to visit, you said yes without thinking. Without asking who else might be there. Without giving yourself time to spiral about the possibility of running into—

No. You don’t go there.

You press the thought down like you’ve learned to press down every other stupid, sentimental, self-destructive thought.

This is about Hattie. About seeing her. About pretending you’re still capable of being someone who shows up for people.

The airport is exactly how you remember it: cold, too bright, and full of people pretending they’re going somewhere important. You move through it like a ghost, sneakers sticking on cheap tile, your backpack too heavy on one shoulder.

At security, you stand barefoot on the cold floor, arms out like a crime scene silhouette, while a stranger waves a plastic wand over your body like they’re trying to find something worth keeping.

The flight itself is short. Forgettable.

You sit by the window and let your headphones play the same three songs on repeat. Eyes on the clouds, fingers restless in your lap, heart doing that stupid, aching thing where it feels both too fast and too slow at once.

By the time you land, your phone’s at 9%, and Hattie’s already sent three texts:

"Where r u??"

"Do you want me to pick you up or are you getting a cab??"

"Also slight thing forgot to tell you something but lol nvm see you soon xoxo"

Your mouth twitched slightly, suppressing a slight smile. You don't reply.

You just grab your bag, sling it over one shoulder, and step out into the thick, summer heat of a city you haven’t been back to in over a year.

Not knowing that somewhere, across town, he’s already home too.

Hattie’s already waiting at arrivals when you step out, standing on top of a metal bench like she’s trying to summon an audience. She’s waving both arms like she’s directing air traffic, wearing sunglasses too big for her face and grinning like she’s just won something.

You pause for half a second at the sight of her—because no matter how tired you are, no matter how much your body feels like a half-charged phone, she still makes you smile like muscle memory.

"Oh my god, you’re alive!" she yells, way too loud for an airport.

A few strangers turn. You duck your head and walk faster.

She meets you halfway, launching herself at you with zero warning and enough force to make your carry-on bag swing off your shoulder.

"You smell like airplane and room freshener." she says into your hair, still hugging you like she doesn’t care that you’re awkward and stiff and slow to hug back.

"You smell like bad descisions and Red Bull." you mutter.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, fake-offended.

"Rude." she paused, gripping your forearms to pull you back in for another, "but not wrong."

The car she drives now is the same one she had back in high school.

A dented, sun-faded with a temperamental stereo and a cracked dashboard she once tried to cover with pokemon stickers. The passenger seat still leans too far back from that one night she let you crash there when you didn’t want to go home.

The seatbelt lock sticks. The air conditioning rattles like it’s got lungs full of dust.

But she drives it like it’s a chariot. Like every scrape on the paint is a badge of honor.

"Still haven’t gotten that fixed?" you ask, yanking at the stubborn seatbelt until it clicks.

"Charm, babe," she says, patting the dash like it’s a living thing. "This car’s got character."

She tosses your bag into the back with zero ceremony and climbs behind the wheel like she’s racing a countdown clock. The engine groans, then catches like it always does, like it’s trying one last time not to die on her.

"I got us snacks for the drive," she announces, grabbing a half-crushed bag of chips from the floor between her feet.

"Are they edible?"

"Debatable," she grins. "But it’s the thought that counts."

You settle in, letting the seat swallow you whole. The road stretches out in front of you, dust and sun and familiar turns you haven’t taken in far too long.

Hattie talks the whole way. About her classes. Her neighbors. The dog her mom’s thinking about adopting.

You let her comforting voice fill the car like music.

While you watch the sky shift from airport grey to something just slightly gold at the edges.

░░░░░░░ ✸

The drive is longer than you remember.

Or maybe it just feels that way because every street, every stretch of cracked pavement, carries something you’ve spent years trying to forget.

The closer you get to their house, the tighter your chest pulls.

The ghost of seventeen sitting shotgun with you, chewing on memories like gum you can’t spit out.

By the time Hattie pulls into the driveway, the sky’s bruised with late afternoon sun, and the house stands there looking exactly the same. Same chipped paint near the garage. Same uneven patch of grass near the mailbox. Same front steps where you sat one night with shaking hands and lungs too full of panic to breathe properly.

You blink hard, like that’ll stop the memories from clawing their way up your throat.

It doesn’t work.

Hattie’s already out of the car, grabbing your bag like it’s nothing, yelling over her shoulder about snacks and sun and how her mom made dessert just because you’re coming.

"Mum’s out, but she said to help yourself to snacks. Oh and if you break something, just blame me," Hattie’s said, already heading over to the house and kicking off her shoes.

You climb out slower, shoulders tight, heart heavy with nostalgia and another unknown emotion.

The air smells like summer and cut grass and something painfully familiar.

You barely get three steps toward the house when it happens.

A sharp blast of cold—sharp enough to steal your breath.

Water. Full-force. Right in the face.

You stumble back with a yelp, arms flailing, mouth open in shocked protest. Your shirt clings instantly to your skin, your shoes squelch against the driveway, and your hair drips into your eyes like the universe just slammed a bucket over your head.

It takes you two full seconds to realize what’s happening.

Another two seconds to process why.

And then—

You hear him.

"Shit-shit I'm so sorry."

You swipe water out of your eyes just in time to see him:

Oscar.

Standing a few meters away near the side of the house, holding a green garden hose like he’s just been caught committing a crime.

There’s a half-coiled mess of hose at his feet.

A patch of wet concrete where he was probably cleaning something… watering something… doing some dumb, harmless chore until you became collateral damage.

His face goes bright red.

Like full, sunburn-instantly kind of red.

He looks absolutely horrified—but also like he’s fighting the urge to laugh because the situation is objectively ridiculous.

"I—Jesus—I didn’t see you—"

He’s already fumbling to turn off the nozzle, stepping on the hose by accident, making the water spray even more before he finally gets it under control.

"I was—cleaning the patio! I didn’t—You—Wow, you’re… yeah. Properly soaked."

He scratches the back of his neck, awkward and sheepish and every bit the boy you remember, just… older now.

And The worst part, the truly stupid, gut-twisting part? Is that he dosent recognize you.

Your left hand instinctively twitches, just slightly.

Not even a flicker of recognition behind his smile.

Just that classic Oscar Piastri look of "haha oops my bad" mixed with "please someone end this social interaction immediately."

Hattie, from the porch, absolutely loses it laughing.

You stand there, dripping, heart in your throat, staring at the boy who saved your life once…

... Who also happens to be the one who just accidentally drowned you with a garden hose giving you a 'warm' welcome.

You blink at him.

Water dripping from your chin.

Your clothes sticking in all the worst places.

And for one stupid, self-destructive second, you consider saying his name.

Just to see if it lands.

Just to see if anything flickers in that clueless face of his.

But you don’t.

You’ve played this game before.

So instead, you force a breath through your lungs, swipe wet hair out of your eyes, and smile—tight and sarcastic and just a little feral at the edges.

"Cool. Love this. Really missed this climate change simulation experience," you say, gesturing down at yourself like a tragic weather report.

Oscar lets out this small, nervous laugh—too high, too boyish, like he doesn’t know where to put his hands or his eyes.

"Honestly… fair. That was—yeah. That’s on me," he says, already backing up a step like distance will make this less embarrassing for him. "Do you—uh—want a towel? Or…like… new clothes? I think Hattie’s got stuff? Or—"

"You think? Wow, very reassuring," you deadpan, but there’s no real heat in it.

Hattie’s still doubled over laughing from the porch.

"Bro I’m never letting you live this down," she wheezes at Oscar. Then, to you: "C’mon, come inside, I’ll get you something dry. You’re gonna catch a cold and it’ll be his fault, which honestly? Hilarious for me."

You follow her in.

Dripping the whole way.

Oscar stands there for a second longer, scratching the back of his neck, cheeks still pink, before finally turning back to whatever disaster project he was in the middle of.

Inside, the house is warm in that too-many-people, too-many-memories kind of way.

The air smells like whatever Hattie’s momz Nicole, was baking earlier.

There’s music playing faintly from someone’s phone speaker in another room.

Laughter from down the hall.

Normal.

Like that whole embarrassing, heart-stopping, water-soaked moment never even happened.

Hattie throws you a dry oversized hoodie and a pair of leggings, and you changed in the bathroom with your heart still racing in your throat.

You stare at yourself in the mirror for a second too long.

Hair damp and messy.

Neck flushed pink from sun and nerves.

You looked like a girl trying way too hard to look unbothered.

You roll your eyes at your reflection.

Stuff it all down.

Smile like none of this means anything at all.

When you step back out into the hallway, back into the noise, the laughter, the small talk.

You do it like you’re not drowning all over again

░░░░░░░ ✸

There’s clean laundry mixed with dirty laundry like they’re negotiating a peace treaty on the floor. Her desk’s buried under a pile of textbooks and skincare empties. Three different water bottles sit abandoned like ghosts of hydration attempts past.

You throw yourself dramatically onto her bed anyway, half-damp and still slightly cold from earlier. The oversized hoodie she gave you swallows your hands, sleeves hanging like emotional armor.

Hattie flops down next to you with all the grace of a dropped bowling ball.

"Sooo," she starts, already smiling way too wide. "How’s it feel to be back? Aside from the whole… accidental drowning thing."

You groan into her pillow. "Yeah, loving the full theme park experience. Got the welcome spray package and everything."

She laughs—loud, bright, no filter like always.

"Honestly? Worth the wait just to see your face when it hit you. Like, peak betrayal. If I’d had my phone out? I would have sent it to the group chat, they would have loved it."

You glare at her. "I hate you."

"You love me."

"Unfortunately."

You steal a gummy worm from the open bag near her nightstand like you’ve earned it.

You catch up in the lazy, sprawling way you always do.

You giving vague updates about uni that make your life sound way less lonely than it actually is.

Her complaining about the boys in her classes who look like 'sewer rats'.

She tell you about her most recent situationship—a disaster with a dude in her media studies group who thought 'boundaries' was a suggestion, not a rule.

It’s easy to fall back into this.

Like muscle memory.

Like you’re both still seventeen and none of the hard stuff ever happened.

And then, because Hattie can’t help herself, she drops it:

"Also, in case you somehow missed it... Oscar’s home for some time."

You snort.

Because obviously you knew.

"Yeah," you say casually, popping another gummy worm into your mouth. "Kinda figured when he turned the garden hose into a tactical weapon."

"God, I’m still laughing," she grins. "He’s helping Dad with the yard and stuff. I think it’s some weird post-season coping thing. Like… manual labor therapy? Or avoidance of sitting still for more than five minutes? Classic Oscar stuff."

You hum like you’re only half listening.

Even though your stomach does this stupid twist at the mention of him.

Hattie keeps going, all fond and oblivious.

"You’ll probably see him around. Just… ignore him if he’s weird. You know how he is. Social skills set to ‘buffering.’"

"Yeah," you say again, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it’s suddenly fascinating. "Not like I’m new to that."

Hattie doesn’t catch the double meaning.

Why would she?

To her, Oscar’s just her brother.

To you…

Well.

That’s a whole different story.

░░░░░░ ✹

The house is dark.

That kind of late-night stillness that feels like it’s holding its breath.

Your phone screen says 4:07 AM, glowing pale and too bright in the dark.

Jetlag sits thick and restless in your body, too tired to sleep, too wired to stay still.

You’ve already flipped the pillow over twice. The blanket feels both too much and not enough.

By 4:12, you give up.

You shuffle through the hallway, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, socks making soft sounds against the floorboards.

The air smells like dust and eucalyptus and leftover summer heat trapped in old wood.

You’re halfway to the kitchen, bleary-eyed and more ghost than person, when you catch the faintest sound of running water ahead.

The fridge door’s open. Light spills across the floor and there he is.

Back turned at first. Shoulders hunched. Hoodie hanging loose off him like he got dressed in the dark.

His hair’s a mess, flattened on one side and sticking up wildly on the other, like sleep never sat still on him for long.

You stop in the doorway.

He moves like muscle memory—grabbing a glass, filling it at the sink with slow, lazy movements.

Till he finally turns.

Eyes lift.

Land on you.

For one too-long second, he just… blinks.

Like you startled him awake. Like it takes him a full heartbeat to register you standing there in Hattie’s ridiculous borrowed hoodie, with a 'not today' and a dog in a sunglass printed in front, hair slightly damp, looking as tired as you feel.

The fridge door clicks shut behind him.

Neither of you says anything.

Just…

Something heavy and strange and unnameable sits between you.

But you don't dare look away.

That look.

The air shifts.

taglist : @karlosslanders @plastrizz @charlottes-ngvot @siennaluvshcky @cinderellawithashoe @zannete @lonelyladyghost @agaabara @utopiakys @elisaa-shelby @cdej6 @mits-vi @agaabara @wilmonyibo7 @haunteddestinykryptonite@edgyficuselastica@dollyvuu @shadowreader07

@cherierot 2025 all rights reserved

lmao first time I posted this—I forgot the tags🤡

[spanktony]

GOT HER OWN. — karina. (part one)

“𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝗶𝘁. 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗶𝗻 𝗶𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵, 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗶𝗻 𝗶𝘁.”

in which — y/n is a valorant streamer who loves trolling and chasing a spot on the top 10 valorant clutches list. when katarinabluu, a high-ranked player, takes the #1 spot, y/n throws shade during their stream—only for katarina to clap back online.

pairing ! —streamer!karina x streamer!gn!reader

genre ! — smau w a little bit of written text, enemies to lovers, comedy

warnings ! — kys/kms jokes, swearing, this is very bad 😕

featuring ! — aespa, yunjin (le sserafim), keeho (p1harmony), minji (newjeanz), and more

a/n: this isn’t a long series just a 2 part (maybe) series (part two)

it was a routine you followed every month: react to the top 10 valorant clutches of the month video, hope to see one of your clips make the cut, and play it cool if it didn’t. at this point, it was less about the recognition and more about the banter with your chat.

you weren’t the most well known valorant pro out there—your channel had a decent amount of subscribers, but it was nowhere near the top 100. you had a pretty loyal following that you had worked hard to build since your first few days on youtube and twitch.

and as the months passed, your fan base was only getting bigger.

today was no exception. you had set a stream up for your regular wednesday afternoon time slot. you were going to try and squeeze in a few rounds with a few friends before you had to get ready for your night classes.

but first, you needed to react to the new list. it had dropped the night before, and your notifications had been buzzing ever since.

your fans loved hyping you up every time these compilations came out, spamming your inbox with messages like “this has to be your month!” or “if you’re not on this list, we riot.” it was all in good fun, but deep down, you couldn’t lie—it’d be nice to finally see your name make the cut.

“alright, chat,” you said as the stream went live, your usual intro music playing softly in the background. “you know the drill. top 10 valorant clutches of the month. place your bets now: am i finally on this one, or are we adding another ‘rigged’ tally to the scoreboard?”

username: no way they missed that icebox play last week right?

username Manifesting y/n at #1 this time!

username if you don’t make it we ride at dawn

username 💀💀💀💀💀💀💀

username they’re saving your clip for a ‘top fails’ compilation 😭

you chuckled, rolling your eyes. “hilarious. let’s just get into it, yeah?”

you pulled up the video and hit play. as the countdown began, your commentary started up right away.

clip #10 was decent, a 1v4 clutch with some clean sheriff shots. “not bad,” you admitted, nodding approvingly. “but let’s be real, chat. i’ve done better.”

clip #9 featured an insane operator flick. “okay, now that’s spicy,” you said, impressed. “still waiting for my clip, though.”

by the time it got to the top three, you hadn’t seen your name, but you weren’t surprised. “alright, here’s the moment of truth. if i’m not in the top three, i’m officially calling this list a scam.”

then, the #1 clip began to play. the name on the screen caught your eye immediately: katarinabluu.

your face froze for a second as the clip began—an ace on icebox, clean headshots, and a flick with an operator that sealed the round. it was an undeniably impressive play, but your competitive streak refused to give in.

“that’s it?” you said, pausing the video. you shrugged. “but let’s be real—if that’s #1, this list is definitely rigged.”

username who the hell is that

username y/n who???

username: HELLO??? KARINA’S GONNA SEE THIS

username not you dragging her when she’s literally better than you ☠️

username 😭😭

you leaned back in your chair, smirking at the chat’s chaos as the messages flew by faster than you could read.

“what? i’m just saying!” you said, raising your hands in mock defense. “she’s good, but if that’s the best clutch of the month, then clearly the editors need to broaden their horizons. my icebox clip was cleaner.”

the chat exploded even more.

username oh you’re done for

username: why are you here starting beef w karina i can’tttttt

username: Plz she’s gonna roast you so bad

username 100% she’s gonna watch this later and go feral

username you done fucked up 💀

you laughed at their reactions, brushing it off as just another day of trolling with your viewers.

a/n: lolll idk how i feel about this 😔

part two

[lacrimosathedark]

I need the comic book fanfic writers to be made very aware of something:

Roy Harper is the only one to EVER call Jason Todd "Jaybird".

This isn't a family name that he picked up on, or that Roy made and the family has adopted. Roy is literally the only person to call him that. Dick doesn't, Babs doesn't, Bruce doesn't, nobody but Roy does.

The others call him Jay sometimes, in old comics Jace was said a few times (which I actually like and wish people would use literally at all). Bruce has said "Jay, lad" like once and fandom adopted him calling Jason "Jaylad" but that's not horribly egregious so I tolerate it. Dick occasionally calls Jason "little wing". That's about it.

Jaybird is very specifically a Roy Harper thing.

(Honestly yall better appreciate me actually looking back in RHATO 2011 because BOY do I hate this comic. It's not only poorly written, but in my opinion, ugly as fucking sin and I need to burn my retinas now)

That is the first instance of Jason ever being called "Jaybird", and it becomes a lowkey running gag that Roy calls him that and Jason "hates" it.

And then we get this post Heroes In Crisis

This whole thing may have been poorly written because, again, Scott Lobdell sucks, but the intent is to evoke intimacy to make Roy's death hurt. Jason is supposed to have just lost his best friend and was told by Bruce Wayne whose last appearance in his life was beating the shit out of him and, oh yeah, who saved Jason? Roy Fucking Harper.

In addition to the fact that Roy only left Jason to get help for himself. He was supposed to be in rehab/therapy, somewhere safe, and he fucking died because of handwavy Speedforce shenanigans or whatever it's been retconned to now because nobody liked Heroes in Crisis. Roy was supposed to be getting better and he died ostensibly in an accident. Like if that's not the worst fucking bullshit--

This scene of Jason calling himself by what he deems a stupid nickname would mean jack shit if everyone and their goddamn cat called him "Jaybird". But it being a Roy-specific thing makes this scene distinctly about Jason being vulnerable and actively grieving. It's such a cliche trope, and a real coping mechanism, to call a deceased loved one's phone just to hear their voice in their inbox message again. He probably has no thoughts that Roy will ever hear it so this is just for him, but he's letting himself accept this dumb nickname Roy gave him now because it was Roy that gave it to him and Roy is fucking dead.

Like, in fairness it probably frustrates me more because I ship the two and parallel it with Oliver calling Dinah "pretty bird", but like...even as just a cheeky friend nickname, nothing romantic behind it, having everyone else call Jason that feels wrong. Especially his family who he still has so many issues with and, like it or not, he's closer to Roy than literally any of the Bats at this point.

This isn't the only time I've seen the fandom do this (this being giving nicknames between characters that just don't exist); Jason calling Tim "replacement" is absolutely rampant in the fandom and I hate that too because he never calls Tim that, and refers to him as such like once. I have a whole list of actual nicknames and insults these motherfuckers call each other somewhere, but maybe another time.

In short

STOP HAVING EVERYONE CALL HIM JAYBIRD.

Thank you and have a nice day. <3

[stolenviolet]

Hi everyone,

Just giving a heads up that I will be disabling ‘anonymous ask’ until further notice due to some rather…unpleasant individuals.

I have received a flood of hate messages within the last few weeks (which I believe to be just one or two people spamming) and because I want this account to remain relatively free of negativity, I don’t feel comfortable posting them nor will I be responding to them other than this post.

Thank you all for your understanding.

—

[ Also, shout out to the lovely anons who have sent me the sweetest messages. You guys are wonderful and even if I don’t respond to all of them, know that I save them in my inbox to look at whenever I’m feeling discouraged. Y’all are the best 🥹 💕]

[redroomreflections]

Hotel California | Track 20: The Countdown

Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Natasha Romanoff, frontwoman of the punk rock band Velvet Rebellion, falls hard for a woman she believes is too good for her. Their intense relationship unfolds in the chaotic world of rock 'n' roll, where they struggle to balance fame, personal demons, and their undeniable passion for each other.

W/c: 3.8k

Chapter 20/22

Masterlist | General Masterlist

Note: i hear wedding bells

Themes: love, fame, sex, drugs

Blind Item #1:

Word from the hills is that music’s hottest, chart-climbing power duo plan to make their love official this weekend at a super-secret ceremony somewhere on the California coast. Cue the flower-petal emoji avalanche.

Blind Item #2:

An ex-partner with lingering spotlight envy is privately “miffed” after learning they won’t be on the guest list, let alone in the bridal party. (Sources say the save-the-date never even hit their inbox.)

You thumbed the screen dark, jaw tight enough to make your temples throb. It was 7 a.m., three days to “I do,” and the to-do list on the kitchen island was already assault-weapon length:

final dress fitting (10 a.m.)

demo walk-through of aisle sound system (noon)

Mani and Pedi with the girls

confirm vegan entrée count for Natasha's side of the family

find out where in the multiverse Tony stashed the rings this time (bad idea)

… and then you got to add “Ignore gossip-site blind items” to the top in aggressive Sharpie.

You closed your eyes, inhaled the lavender-rosemary candle, and exhaled through pursed lips. They were just headlines, you reminded yourself. Words couldn't derail a wedding, not when the caterer, the florist, and a Fort Knox–level nondisclosure agreement were working for you. Additionally, they had the location incorrect. One of your best-kept secrets, if you did say so yourself.

Still, the pings kept coming vibration after vibration against the marble countertop. Wanda’s morning hype text. Melina’s text (“Flight lands 16:05; tell Natalia not to meet me in sweatpants.”). A calendar alert from the planner. And buried in the stack, a single message from an unknown number, almost certainly a tabloid fixer fishing for comment.

You swiped it all away and slid the phone face-down beneath a napkin like it was radioactive.

The coffeemaker hissed its last breath. You poured a mug, steeling yourself for the day. Somewhere down the hall, a door opened; Natasha’s bare feet padded across hardwood in unhurried rhythm. She appeared, hair a sunrise mess, Velvet Rebellion T-shirt hanging off one shoulder.

“Morning, future Mrs. Romanoff-Fury-Hyphen-Whatever-We-Decide,” she mumbled around a yawn. “Why do you look like you just read the apocalypse?”

“Blind items,” you said, handing over the caffeine. “Apparently the whole internet thinks we’re getting married. Also, at least one disgruntled ex is salty about not scoring an invite.”

Natasha snorted into her mug. “Which one? I’ve got, like, three.” Off your look, she amends, “Former exes. Pre-you exes. Irrelevant exes.”

You choked out a laugh despite yourself. “Pretty sure this one’s aimed at my column. Sam is blissfully unbothered. That leaves a few names I'd rather not mention."

"Let them be mad," She mumbled, putting her coffee mug down on the counter. She moved to wrap her arms around you, nuzzling her face into your neck, breathing in your scent. You melted against her. "I don't give a shit about them. The only thing I care about is marrying you."

She kissed your neck, your earlobe, the corner of your mouth. She tasted like mint toothpaste, and you sighed and leaned back into her as her hands slid over your hips.

"Babe," You said, allowing her to kiss and suck that spot right behind your ear that always made you melt, "we gotta—mmmh—don't leave marks." You warned her. She ignored you, kissing down your neck, giving a teasing nip before you reached behind you, grasping for something. "Before you get any ideas, we need to go over the checklist one more time." You shoved the clipboard between the two of you.

"But," she pouted, "what if I wanna check you off?"

You shook your head, a small laugh leaving you. "I'm serious, babe. We have the final cake tasting, and the flower delivery, and the officiant."

"Okay, okay," She grumbled, taking the clipboard, her other arm still slung around your waist. You softened because she had that effect and let her steal a second kiss before shoving the clipboard into her free hand.

“Love you,” you sighed, “but if you don’t start on page one, page ten is never happening.”

Natasha scanned the list. “Rings. Right. I’ll shake down Stark.” She taps the blank next to sound check. “Band’s covered. Go conquer the dress fitting; meet me at the venue after lunch.”

Another buzz rattled the countertop. Neither of you looked this time.

"If we don't get started now, we'll never finish." You said as she lowered the clipboard to kiss you again.

"Then let's finish already." She grinned.

"When you bat those pretty lashes I can't say no," You pouted.

"That's the plan," she hummed.

Natasha’s lips were just brushing yours again when the doorbell chimed one polite ding-dong, followed by a distinctly British voice you both recognized from countless video calls:

"Hello? I let myself in with the key code," Yelena called from the foyer. Her footsteps got closer and closer leaving you barely any time to react as she entered the kitchen.

Yelena Belova appeared in the doorway wheeling a floral carry-on and clutching a stack of colour-coded folders. A Cambridge-blue scarf was knotted around her neck, windswept blonde hair in a low bun, and AirPods still in.

She stopped, took in the half-hug-half-kiss you and Natasha were frozen in and raised one brow.

“So,” she announced, accent now more Oxbridge than American, “I fly across the Atlantic, sprint through Sky Harbor, and the first thing I witness is my sister half-dressed and behind schedule. Delightful.”

Natasha groaned. “Lena, the wedding isn’t for two days. Lecture me tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Yelena checked her watch theatrically. “We’ve already lost forty-six minutes according to the itinerary Wanda emailed me.” She waved a folder. “Colour-coded by hour. I highlighted where you’re statistically likely to panic.”

You blinked, then laughed. “Hi, I'm Y/N. Bride. Nice to finally meet in person.”

Yelena’s expression melted into warmth. She stepped forward, offered a quick, surprisingly sincere hug. “Lovely to meet you, future sister. You look way hotter in person. Way to go."

You snorted as Natasha shot her a death glare. "Thanks?"

"And you," Yelena said, rounding on her sister. "It's a good thing I'm here."

"Yeah, yeah," Natasha said. "You can yell at me after I find the rings."

"Remind me again why you've decided to marry my sister?" Yelena questioned with narrowed e eyes.

"My charming good looks and ability to sweep her off her feet."

"Nah that's not it," Yelena shook her head.

"I'd say the sex," You shrugged which made Yelena gag.

"I think I might throw up," She said, her nose wrinkled.

"Then don't ask questions you don't wanna hear the answer to."

"Fair point."

"Anyway," Natasha drawled, "it's gonna be a minute until the band gets here, and you and I are gonna need some sister time." She gave Yelena a look. "Will you be okay here until the last dress fitting?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine." You smiled. "You two have fun."

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," Yelena yelled after you, and Natasha dragged her away with a warning glare.

******

"Y/n is great," Yelena said as soon as the two were out of earshot.

"She's the best," Natasha nodded, "I love her, and I'm so happy that she said yes."

"Well," Yelena smiled, "you're my sister and she's the love of your life, of course, I'm going to support you two. And she seems like the perfect balance to your craziness. Plus, she's uber-rich. I mean, look at this place? If this is the rental, I want to see her real house."

Natasha laughed.

"And she has a kid, right? I've seen the three of you on all the tabloids," Yelena said. "It's sickening how sweet you are."

"I've always wanted a family," Natasha sighed. "Isabella is ten."

"You're not scared?" Yelena asked brows furrowed.

"Not at all," Nat replied. "Y/N is so wonderful with her. And she's amazing. I couldn't wait to spend the rest of my life with the two of them.

Yelena was quiet for a moment.

"What's up?" Natasha asked, "You're being quiet. Which is unusual for you."

"I know what I'm supposed to say," Yelena muttered, "and I'm happy for you. Do you think you're moving a bit fast? I mean you've only been together what? A year? I know lesbians move fast but not you."

"I don't care about a timeline," Natasha said, shaking her head. "And you saying that shows more of a reason why I'm so serious."

Yelena lifted her hands in surrender. “ Hey, judgment-free zone. I just don’t want you sprinting and then finding out the track is slippery, you know?”

Natasha reached across the space between them and covered Yelena’s fidgeting fingers. “ Lena, everything in my life has felt like sprinting. With Y/N, it finally feels like pacing myself. When Isabella laughs at my terrible jokes, when Y/N falls asleep on my shoulder in the tour bus—those aren’t rush decisions. They’re…the whole point.”

Yelena searched her sister’s face, looking for the stubborn spark that usually signaled a Natasha Romanoff impulse mission. Instead, she found something softer. Settled.

“Okay, Red,” she sighed, squeezing Natasha’s hand back. “But promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“If it ever stops feeling safe. If the world gets too loud for the three of you, you call me. I don’t care if I’m in Cambridge or on the moon. Family is family.”

Natasha’s eyes glossed over. “Deal. But you’ll probably have to share bunk-bed space with a ten-year-old who owns forty-seven Squishmallows.”

Yelena cracked a grin. “Consider it training for aunt duty. I’ll smuggle British chocolate and teach her really offensive accents.”

“Absolutely not,” Natasha laughed, swatting her arm, then pulled her into a full hug, forehead to forehead. “ Thank you, malyshka.”

“Anytime, big sis. Now,” Yelena sniffed, straightening, “where’s that checklist? I believe you still need vows printed, a cake tasted, and according to my covert intel, exactly one emergency bottle of tequila for pre-ceremony nerves.”

Natasha grabbed the clipboard with a mock salute. “Captain Belova, lead the way.”

*******

There was nothing like the shared laughter of sisterhood. You lounged in an overstuffed armchair, feet propped on a satin stool for a pedicure, while Preston, your go-to masseuse, whom you’d flown in for the weekend, worked the tension from your shoulders. Through a blur of chuckles, you scanned the room: every seat was filled by the women who mattered most, all receiving the same royal treatment.

Monica, maid of honor, naturally held court with a dramatic recap of yesterday’s dress fitting, her jokes landing so hard that your older sister, Shauna, nearly snorted her mimosa. Stacy, best friend from forever ago, laughed loudest. Your mom sat serenely beneath a warm towel wrap, while Isabella and her partner-in-chaos, Lenny, perched at a low table, comparing polish colors. When you’d said the wedding would be small, this was what you meant: no entourage, no influencer “plus-ones,” just family, laughter, and enough self-care stations to make a spa jealous. You thought about how happy you were in the moment and wanted to keep it bottled up forever.

Monica, perched on the chaise with foil wraps on every fingertip, was mid-story.

“—so the seamstress goes, ‘Ma’am, the zipper will not survive your upper body strength.’ ” She flexed theatrically, making even Preston let out a laugh. “I told her, ‘Sweetheart, this is natural. The dress will adapt.’”

Stacy wheezed, nearly sloshing her mimosa. “Mo, you’re about to outshine the bride just by breathing too hard.”

You arched a perfectly manicured brow. “And that’s exactly why you’re in sage green and not ivory.”

“Oop!” Monica clutched her pearls; the room erupted again.

Across from you, Isabella and Lenny dipped cotton swabs into bowls of warm water, pretending to be junior manicurists. Each time Isabella pressed lotion into your mother’s hands, her expression softened into the kind of smile you hadn’t seen since holiday mornings when you were ten.

“Mama,” Isabella whispered, leaning across the ottoman, “can we have sparkles on one nail? It’s a statement piece.”

Your heart did a flip. “Only if Grandma gets the matching glitter.”

Debra lifted her chin, regal. “For my granddaughter? Pass the glitter, baby.”

Your mom's nails were barely dry before Monica slipped right back into maid-of-honor mode.

“So,” she purred, spinning her the liquid in her glass like it held state secrets, “have we finalized the other itinerary yet. You know the honeymoon one? Because I have… accessories on standby.”

Stacy’s eyes lit up. “Wait, did the swing make it through TSA last time? Because if we’re talking Maldives, I know a discreet shipping service—”

Shauna cracked up, chiming in, “Y’all better leave room for at least a day of sightseeing before you quarantine yourselves in whatever love-shack villa you booked.”

You cleared your throat, jerking your chin toward the low table. Isabella and Lenny were still within glitter-tossing distance, ears wide open.

“Ladies,” you warned lightly, “tiny humans are present. Let’s save the equipment inventory for later, yeah?”

Monica winked, raising her glass. Stacy raised hers too. Shauna and your mom laughed.

The pedicurist tapped the tops of your feet, indicating you should switch places, and you slid off the chair to swap. When you returned, a fresh cucumber-infused eye-mask ready, Monica leaned in conspiratorially.

You braced yourself.

She was a brilliant publicist, a masterful negotiator, and your dearest friend, but when it came to her idea of a perfect wedding, the only word you could use was overboard.

Which is how she wound up in a green bridesmaid dress instead of an ivory bridal gown.

Which is how a custom-made swing ended up on a private beach in Fiji last year.

Which is why, when the conversation turned to the honeymoon, you knew the exact word coming next.

You weren't disappointed.

“Soooooo,” She smirked, sliding her sunglasses down her nose like she was about to break insider-trading news. “How many days before you two finally emerge from the honeymoon suite? Because I’ve located an ocean-front villa in Seychelles with room service, blackout drapes, and furniture that’s let’s just say structurally… versatile.”

Stacy nearly choked on her cucumber water.

Shauna applauded. “Can the furniture sign an NDA?”

“Monica,” you warned, flicking a toe at her calf. You tipped your head toward the junior spa technicians now painstakingly choosing glitter top-coats. “Tiny impressionable ears.”

Isabella didn’t look up from applying lotion to Lenny’s hands but sighed, long-suffering. “I’m ten, not two. I know what a honeymoon is.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, straight face. “And you also know that ‘honeymoon talk’ is adult-zone only.”

Isabella nodded solemnly. “So… that means we get the rest of the chips in the minibar while you talk code?”

Debra laughed. “Look at these future negotiators.”

Monica raised both palms in surrender. “Fine, fine. No details.” She turned to Debra with exaggerated innocence. “Mrs. Fury, I was merely recommending ergonomic seating for reading on the beach.”

Debra arched a brow, caught your eye, and sipped her mimosa. “Mmm-hmm. Just remember: sunscreen goes everywhere.”

“See?” Monica crowed. “She's on my side practicalities first!”

You groaned, then grinned, feeling Preston’s hands work a knot from your shoulder. “Practicality noted. Now, new topic: first-dance suggestions. Beyoncé and Stevie Wonder are tied.”

Isabella perked up. “Beyoncé. Definitely Beyoncé.”

Shauna cued up her phone. “Stevie’s a vibe, though.”

“And there,” you said, laying the eye mask in place and settling back as laughter rippled again, “is a conversation even the under-12 delegation can vote on.”

Monica clinked her glass gently against yours. “Touché, bride-boss. Honeymoon logistics tabled until post-bedtime.”

“Good,” you muttered, a smile tugging despite yourself. “Because I’m pretty sure my mother just threatened me with SPF-50 in places SPF-50 should never see.”

Debra winked over her flute. “A mother’s job is never done, darling.”

******

The arrival curb at Sky Harbor was smooth sailing compared to LAX. Natasha parallel parked into a spot with expert precision, turning on the hazards and checking her rearview mirror every ten seconds for airport security. Yelena sat with her feet on the dashboard, drumming up some tune she had in her head, as they tried to spot their mother.

"She's probably got ten thousand bags," Yelena said as the minutes passed. "What do you think is her favorite thing to do when she travels?"

"Knit or something else old people do," Natasha shrugged with a snort.

"I give her two minutes before she audits the cleanliness of this car,” Yelena replied. “Five bucks says first words will be about ‘crumbs’.”

Natasha smirked. “I’m not taking that bet. I vacuumed yesterday and somehow the Cheeto dust re-spawned.”

The sliding doors hissed open and there was Melina with a slim carry-on in one hand, garment bag in the other, posture straight enough to shame royalty. She clocked the illegally parked SUV, the hazard lights, and the sisters arguing about snack residue, and issued a silent, pursed-lip sigh that Natasha could feel through the windshield.

“Look alive,” Natasha muttered, jumping out. Yelena yanked her feet off the dash and exited the car too.

Melina reached the curb just as security began its slow prowl down the lane. “Natalia.” She kissed her eldest daughter’s cheek, then gave Yelena a once-over. “Feet on floor, not dashboard. Car interiors are not ottomans.”

Yelena’s smile went full cherub. “Hi, Mama. Missed you too.”

They popped the hatch, pitched Melina’s luggage inside, and scrambled back to their seats. Natasha eased into traffic signal on, perfect merge, saintly.

Melina sighed again.

She checked her watch, a vintage Rolex from 1958, and glanced over the center console at Natasha. Her gaze narrowed, and she said in a carefully modulated voice, "We will not be late. This is not a race."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Yes, mama."

Yelena stifled a grin.

"Where's my new daughter in law?" Melina asked. "She should be here."

"Y/n and a few of her friends had a spa day," Natasha answered, glancing at the road signs, trying to determine which exit she needed to take. "But we are seeing them in about an hour. We're having a bonfire."

"Ah," Melina nodded. "Good. That is very good. And how are you, Natalia? Are you excited?"

Natasha smiled. "I'm the most excited I've ever been. I love her so much. She makes me really happy."

"Good," Melina said again.

"Are you nervous, Red?" Yelena asked, reaching from the back seat to prod her sister.

"Not at all," Natasha replied, shaking her head. "It's just a formality. I already consider her my wife."

"That's sweet," Yelena hummed. "Never thought we'd see the day with you so in love."

"Yeah, yeah," Natasha drawled.

She couldn't wait for the bonfire.

****

The bonfire was a hit. Low lanterns ringed the grass, music floated from a Bluetooth speaker blasting Stevie Wonder, because the Beyoncé-vs-Stevie debate was still unresolved, and the slight breeze carried the sugar-sweet smell of toasted marshmallows. Your guest list tonight was exactly fourteen. An intimate night with family and friends that had you excited for the weekend to come. You emerged from the rental house, balancing a tray of fresh drinks. Natasha met you halfway, slid the tray onto a side table, and without warning curled an arm around your waist, tugging you down so you landed sideways across her lap.

“Nat,” you hissed, half-laughing, half-mortified, “parents are present.”

“Already checked,” she murmured against your ear, her grin warm against your hair. “Dad Fury just raised an eyebrow rating my technique; Mom Romanoff is pretending she’s not amused. We’re good.”

You rolled your eyes but settled, back pressed to her chest, heartbeat syncing with the low thump of the music.

Across the fire, Isabella pirouetted, marshmallow sword held aloft. “Victory! S’more number three, incoming.”

"We should give her a sugar curfew," you whispered, watching your daughter bounce toward the s'more supplies once again.

"We could," Nat replied, "but then we'd have to hear her whine about it and I don't think anyone's ready for that."

"Good point," You chuckled.

Natasha nosed a kiss behind your ear.

You sighed, sinking into her arms.

Yelena, marshmallow in hand, called across the flames. “Hey, future sister you make Red unbearably sappy. I approve.”

You blew her a kiss. “Wait till tomorrow when she cries at the walkthrough.”

“I don’t cry,” Natasha protested into your neck.

“Uh-huh,” Monica chimed in, “and the ocean isn’t wet.”

Natasha stuck out her tongue.

"Well, I love you, sappy," You said, grinning. "You've always made me soft, and I'm so lucky to have found you."

Natasha hummed. "I've always wanted a family, and Isabella is a great kid. And you are so great with her, Y/N. Thank you for letting me be a part of the life you've built."

"Mom, scoot over, you're hogging her." Isabella playfully rolled her eyes as she smooshed herself into your cuddling session.

"Oof, hi sweetie," You laughed, making room for her to sit.

Natasha squeezed the two of you tight, dropping a kiss on top of your head.

"Ugh," Yelena muttered.

"What?" Melina frowned.

"You're gonna make me barf," Yelena scrunched up her face.

"No, I quite like this," Melina began to take out her phone. "In fact let me get a picture."

"Mama," Natasha shook her head, "I look terrible."

"You look like a woman in love," Melina snapped the picture and then another one. "Smile. I will show the grandbabies someday."

"Grandbabies?" You chuckled.

"If the universe works in my favor, yes," Melina nodded.

"I want a sibling," Isabella announced, popping a marshmallow into her mouth. "Natasha already promised I could name it."

"You did, huh?" You asked eyeing Natasha.

"I didn't promise anything," Natasha shrugged. "I said I would talk to you. Negotiations are still… pending.”

"Maybe one day," You said lowly.

Isabella folded her arms, mock-serious. “I have a shortlist. ‘Storm’ if it’s a girl. ‘Rocket’ if it’s a boy.”

Around the circle, soft chuckles. You raised an eyebrow at Natasha a silent 'you started this' and she lifted both hands, guilty but smitten.

“Right now, I’m still memorizing how this ring looks on her finger.” You raised Natasha's hand. Everyone around you whistled and whooped. Natasha’s free hand drifted over your stomach in a feather-light caress, half joke, half unconscious promise, and she pressed a kiss to your temple. The fire threw halos across her lashes; her whisper was for you alone.

"One thing at a time."

"You're right," You nodded, looking over at the love of your life, the ring shining in the low light. "We have all the time in the world."

"Damn straight," Natasha replied, kissing you on the lips this time.

"Gross," Yelena gagged.

"Get used to it," Natasha teased, "you're stuck with us forever."

"I think it's nice," Isabella beamed.

"Me too," Melina agreed.

"Alright, alright," Debra waved a hand. "Let's keep this party going."

You grinned, looking at everyone around the bonfire. This was the best start to a wedding weekend. You couldn't wait to spend the rest of your life with these people.

"I agree," You smiled.

[bokumonoexchange]

Sign-ups are open!!

Information and guidelines are contained within the form. Please read them and the questions carefully.

The form is almost identical to the Summer 2024 exchange form, except for the "themes/genres/topics" section is also now a space for you to provide headcanons you feel may pertain to your requests.

Notes: If you ghosted during the Summer 2024 exchange (did not complete your piece and did not notify me of need for extension/drop-out), you will not be eligible for this exchange, but will be eligible for future exchanges. I'm running a 2-strikes-and-you're-out policy on this.

Also, I will try my best to differ match-ups from the previous exchange but I can not promise that. Changing your preferred games to create/receive for would likely result in a different match-up, but you're by no means required to do so! (If you want to see what you signed up for last time, I have them all saved and can send you a copy of your Summer 2024 sign-up form!)

SIGN-UPS CLOSE 9PM CENTRAL TIME FEBRUARY 22ND. Any questions or concerns, please message or inbox me. Thank you!

[linderosse]

You don't have to respond to this but I hope you know I think you're very cool <3

I want to eat your art.

Thank you so much!

I am actually gonna respond to this one— I want to appreciate the folks who have sent me kind words and haven’t minded the fact that I can’t respond to all of them :).

I’m (strangely enough) a social butterfly while talking, but take ages to formulate answers over text. So if you want to chat more, stop by my streams— especially on Mondays when I stream artwork! If the question is too long, I might refer you back to the inbox here. But at least that way I won’t forget it!

Otherwise, know that while I may not have responded yet, I do read pretty much every comment, tag, and question, and will do my best to eventually respond to as many as I can. I’ve gotten through a few, but I still have over 100 messages in my inbox at the moment, and I’m always accepting more. There are some comments I’ve been saving for years until I have the time to draw the very cool idea suggested within.

I’ve been rather busy these last few months, and I can’t update things as fast as I’d like. Still, I’m very close to finishing Interlude 1. I’ve done all the planning, sketches, drawing, and coloring— it’s just the shading and lighting for the last few pages left.

It’s hard to find time to draw after my full time job and life responsibilities. But I love drawing, and getting to see my work when it’s finished, as well as hearing everyone’s reactions and theories.

In short, thanks for all the support, and for the patience. Stay tuned for more LoZ/LU/Wis/tactics stuff. I’m extremely excited to continue to draw and write all the content I have planned.

If all goes well, Echo’s story should be out soon :).

Masterpost

[rockybloo]

People message me in my inbox asking if I will share my NSFW alt if they share their age or they just ask if I'll ever name drop it and honestly, at this point, I most likely never will because of how much if a hassle it is to check through accounts following me to age verify, especially bc of the high risk of liars ESPECIALLY if they go on anon.

I have 18+ in bio and my pinned explains I don't want minors interacting with me but that shit only does so much.

It's why I just resort to Bluesky being my last beacon of a truly adult sfw account because I can skim through my follow list so easily (it's also incredibly smaller than my Tumblr following)

Best I can do at that point is just mature mark my work and rambles and save the extra lewd stuff for my other platforms (Do not ask for them bc I don't trust ANY of y'all but my moots)

Maybe one day when I get bored, I'll go on a banning spree on here but I'm so busy these days that scrolling down a follower list, like a bouncer, on my decade old Tumblr blog just ain't an appealing use of my time

[hayatiayad]

This is gonna be my last post about that Violet girl.

Yes. I send her death threats. Obv the most problematic to do. I'm fully self-conscious so you don't have to rub it in my face and go to my ask inbox saying "Omg Hayati you're so bad.." "Omg Hayati, how could you" yada yada yada

Like I'm already loathing on myself enough so save your energy. Any more asks in ANY of my blogs about Violet is instantly deleted.

Hate me all you want, that's not my problem. I am what I am, what happened has happened. The world keeps spinning or whatever that phrase is. Obv I'm trynna be better even if what I did was completely the opposite cuz I know damn well it's not who I want to be yet smh I let it happen.

And also a small note to that one random user saying I'm trynna paint myself as the hero, no. Absolutely fucking not. I know damn well what I did ain't right and is FAR from a hero. Even if it seems like I'm trynna clean my name with how I say things, I'm honestly saying things from MY perspective.

And to that one user I forgot but I remember saying things like "I'm getting praised for it". That's also a small issue I noticed, and ofc I'm NOT encouraging my audience to be like me, hence I put like small notes saying "don't copy me", or "don't try to be like this", or "this is problematic" and etc. I never asked for the praise, and I kept my intentions crystal clear. (1) I fucking hate Violet, and (2) I don't regret expressing my thoughts to her and everyone, even if it's clearly toxic af. If some people/user had asked how I'm doing or if they still supported me, I let them be. I wouldn't encourage them to do the same shit I did, so if they chose to support me otherwise, then that's their choice, but it doesn't mean they're as problematic and sick as me.

Everything is my choice. And I'm just gonna say it before yall say I'm crazy and shit. Yes, I'm both insensitive to bitches and sensitive to others, so pretty much I'm constantly lying how this whole drama isn't affecting me inside. Like duh, no shit, I'm fucking human so ofc what I did also surprised me. I have no idea how to control myself sometimes, and before y'all say shit like "should've block her" or "should've ignore her", my curious ass got myself triggered so it just happened. Some of yall saying it's a big deal, which I totally get, but just to let you know I don't do that kinda shit if I never had a reason to. Yes, I could've block her, but obv my emotions got the best of me and did smth terrible.

That doesn't excuse what I did though. Ofc.

So to all those people who felt upset and disappointed for what I did, I'm sorry you feel that way. But then again, I don't honestly regret doing it even if it was a spur of moment. I'm not apologising for what I did, but I am sorry you had to see what's the rest of me like.

Now it's up to you if you'll still stay after what happened (as your choice), or leave me for good (also as your choice). And to those people whom I befriended and also got close with, but now chooses to distance me, worry no more because even as how problematic I could get, I also understand that they lost trust in me and all that, so I also don't feel much guilt about it. (I'm sad, yes, but not that sad.)

That's all, and hope this message reaches to those who had also heard the Violet Drama. Don't expect this to stop me from posting content though. After all, I had this account to share my art & content and not intentionally stick to the whole drama thing. Ciao.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Blind Offer 4

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, manipulation, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: After a leak causes you to evacuate your apartment, your landlord offers a vacant unit that’s too good to be true. (short!plus!reader)

Character: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Lloyd Hansen, and August Walker

Note: Monday was like a punch in the face. This is one of my Corrupt-A-Wish requests but I won’t reveal which one right away because it’ll be part of the plot!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you like I love turning intended one shots into series. Take care. 💖

It’s not often you manage to sleep in. It’s a true feat for you to wake up after nine on your days off and not lay wakeless and frustrated at six in the morning. Despite this, you feel less than rejuvenated. In fact, you’re exhausted as you sit up and rub your eyes with the heels of your hand.

Dizziness follows you from the bed as you stumble to the bathroom. After letting out the pressure in your bladder, you rinse your face with cold water in an attempt to chase away the dregs of fatigue. You grumble and leave your reflection in the dark.

You snatch up your phone and head downstairs. You flip through your notifs, including a message from your landlord. You’re not entirely surprised by the good night. He seems to struggle with his social filter and timing. Sending you sweet dreams after midnight isn’t exactly sauve.

Whatever. He’s a bit strange but he could’ve lied and charged you for the washer. He could’ve even made you pay for a hotel. As odd as this whole arrangement has become, your complaints can’t outweigh the trouble saved.

You set up the coffee machine to brew and turn to lean in the crook of the counter, enamoured with your phone. You know it’s bad to just sit there staring at a screen at first light but you’re slightly disoriented. You feel like you have to do something to keep from thinking too much.

The coffee is a bit strong. You choke it down as you bring up your inbox. Maybe you should check in about the apartment. Today would be perfect to get back to normal. You have a stretch of five days coming up and you would rather not be scrambling to pack up on a work night.

You bring up Steve’s chat and ignore his last text; ‘sweet dreams, sweetheart ✨’. That’s better left unacknowledged. 

‘Hey, wondering what it’s looking like at my apartment. When do you think it’ll be ready?’

You hit send and stare into the depth of your coffee. The taste isn’t what you’re used to. You like a lighter roast over the smoky dark flavour. You force it down for the much-needed dose of caffeine and rinse the cup. You pause and stare at the dish rack. It’s empty.

You set your glass inside and reach to open the cupboard above. All the dishes are neatly stacked. The plate you used last night set with the rest. The pans are away and the cutlery too. You swore you left them to dry.

You shake off the ripple of unease. Your phone buzzes and you look down at the incoming call. He can’t just text?

You answer it, clearing your throat before you croak out a hello.

“Hey, uh, sorry I haven’t updated you. Been pretty busy,” Steve jumps right in. You can hear activity on his end of the line, “it’s not looking like this will be done today.”

“Oh, really?” You sigh, “well, okay. Thanks for letting me know–”

“Rogers–” Someone calls from his end and he quickly shushes them.

“Yeah, it’s turning out to be a bigger issue than I thought but if you need anything at all, let me know.”

“Of course, thanks. Um, I’ll let you go. You sound pretty busy.”

“Just a lit–”

The line cuts off. You pull the phone away from your cheek and look at the screen. The timer is paused and the call moves to your history. You’re sure if there’s anything important, Steve will call you back.

You bring up the tab viewer and clear away all the windows. You open a new app and stare at the logo, waiting for it to load. It doesn’t. You close out and try again. Hmm. You pull down the menu and check the wifi; connected without internet. Really?

You notice the bars at the top of your phone are gone too, a circle with a line blink over them. No service either. What the hell? A tower might be out. You put your phone screen down and leave it in the kitchen. You’ll give it twenty and hope it’s back up once you’re dressed.

Upstairs, you dig out an outfit to lounge around in and start on your daily routine. Brush your teeth, cleanse, moisturise, the very basics that make you feel human. Usually, the process renews you but today, everything is a task. You feel and look drawn.

You pull on your lavender sweat and plain white tank. You go back downstairs and retrieve your phone. Still no signal. That means you have to entertain yourself. Or… maybe you can find a coffee shop with a functioning hotspot. You could use something sweet after the bitter dark roast.

You pull on your sneakers and slide your phone into your purse. You jingle the keys as you approach the door. You tend to use the doorcode, it’s just easier, but just in case the wifi is messing with the system. You flip the latch back then grab the handle and twist.

The door doesn’t budge. You try again, yanking harder. You use both hands, pulling on it until you’re out of breath. What the fuck? Are you locked in?

You go to the small box mounted beside the door and check the screen. Armed and secured. Okay? You punch in the code Steve sent you but the thing just beeps at you five times and shows ‘incorrect passcode’. You try again, making sure you punch it in slowly so you don’t get any numbers backwards. The same incessant beeping sounds.

“Ugh!” You cross your arms and step back. You can’t even call Steve to tell him.

You fish out your phone and raise it above you. You walk through each room, trying to find a signal. Nothing. You sniff and try to disconnect and reconnect to the wifi. It doesn’t work. You don’t even know where the router is to reset it.

Panic starts to crawl its way up your body. This is so strange. You’re trapped here, alone, isolated. On your day off, too.

You put your purse down and your phone and go to the window in the front room. Try to push it open but it won’t move. The clasp does nothing to free it and your distress begins to build. What is going on?

You lean forward and look outside, hoping you might chance on an elusive neighbour or a passerby. Nothing. The street is just as empty as usual. 

What do you do? Just sit and wait? You’re at a loss.

You stagger back and fall heavily onto the couch, holding your head in your hands. Something isn’t right, you can feel it, but your mind nips at your intuition. It’s nothing. These things happen. Bad luck comes in threes; broken washer, shitty encounters, and now, you’re cut off from the world. 

You’re through the worst, right?

🖤

You doze off in the tedium of your new wireless existence. You don’t realise until you come too, face down on the leather couch with an arm hanging down to the floor. You bend your elbow and push yourself up, a pang sparking across your lower back from the stiff cushions. You look around, searching for your bearings.

You lean forward and take your phone. It’s been almost two hours since the world shut you out. The service bar is still blinking and the wireless is still disconnected. Goddamn it!

You climb to your feet and shake your head, trying to free yourself from the cobwebs. You’re hungry. You should eat. It’ll give you something to do.

You take out the prepackaged salad in a plastic container. You should eat it before it starts to wilt. You pop the lid off and add the little packets of nuts and cranberries, then drizzle over the dressing. You stir around the leaves, coating them with the oily vinaigrette.

You eat slowly, staring at the fridge and the touchscreen set into it. Fancy fridge. Fancy everything in this place. You almost miss the simplicity of your rattling fridge and leaky washer.

You get about halfway through the salad and give up on the dry kale. Not enough dressing in the world can make that good. You close up the container and put it back in the fridge.

You trail back up the hall to the entryway. You grab the handle again, wrench as you pull on it with all your might. You plant your feet and grunt, fighting to pull it from the frame. You stop and flip the latch, thinking maybe you accidentally locked it. Nope, still stuck.

“It’s not going to open,” a voice echoes from the high ceilings.

You spin and press your back to the door, looking around frantically for the intruder. You don’t know that voice. There’s no one there. Oh god, are you going crazy?

“What the fuck is going on?” You ask aloud, cringing as you realise that is definitely insane. You’re talking to a house.

“I said, it won’t open,” the deep timbre comes again. You gulp.

“Wh- where are you? What– Who–” you sputter, confused at what’s going on. You push away from the door and spin, searching for a shadow or ghost. Whatever it is that’s possessed this place.

“I can see you but you can’t see me,” the narrator says.

You still and turn back to face the security box. Still armed and secured. You pivot slowly, searching the walls and the corners.

Even if you found the cameras, what would you do?”

You squeak and clap your hands together. Okay, this is fucked up. This has to be a nightmare. You close your eyes and bow your head, willing yourself to wake up.

“Rogers is right. You’re a nervous one.”

You pop your head up and stare at the ceiling, “what are you talking about? What is going on?”

The voice laughs. You shake your head as you sink your nails into the back of your hands, clenching them tight. Your heart pounds behind your ears, spinning your head.

“Steve? You know Steve?” You ask desperately.

“Doll, you can ask all the questions you want. You give answers, I don’t.”

You whimper, eyes wetting in horror. This can’t be real. It can’t be. Whatever this is, Steve will come and let you out. Whoever this creep is who hacked his system if just fucking with you.

“Shut up,” you snap, “you… you weirdo. What the fuck?”

“You got a filthy mouth,” he rebukes, “lady’s shouldn’t talk like that.”

You reel and stammer. You scoff and pull your hands apart, trying to steady yourself, “fuck you, dude. Men shouldn’t be doing whatever the fuck it is you’re doing. Spying on me, or whatever.”

There’s a click and silence. You wait for a response. Nothing. You spin again, searching. “Hello?”

Your voice reverberates around you. No answer. Just the still, stolid silence of the house.

A low whir underlines the quiet and you face the door again. The narrow windows along either side begin to disappear. You can’t believe your eyes. Black barriers descend over the glass and block out the sun.

You rush into the front room, finding the same thing on the wide bay window. You rush over but can’t stop it, recoiling before the barrier can crush you. Shit, shit, shit. 

“What is happening?” You holler as you face the open room.

Again, you’re left with your own question. You don’t get it. Is this a joke? Wait, what if this isn’t Steve’s place? You were always told not to trust a landlord…

🖤

You pace and pace until your legs give out. You're weak and wilted. Your mind as addled as your body. You don't get it!

You cry out, begging for an answer; what's happening? Who is this bodiless voice? What do they want from you?

Is this what it's like to snap? To enter psychosis? It can't be real yet you don't think you could machinate such a fantastical terror on your own.

You lay in a heap on the floor, waiting for whatever comes next. It's all you can do. Your fingers are bruised and scraped from clawing at the door and windows. Your eyes are swollen from the flow of tears that rises without permission only to recede to a pulsing anger that makes your skull throb.

You hear a jingle. Digital and bubbly. You pop up and reach for your phone. You keep it on vibrate but you never know. No change. No service.

You huff. What the fuck was that? You clasp your phone tight and wobble to your feet. You walk between the couch and the low coffee table, following the jingle as it sounds again.

You enter the kitchen and find the screen of the Amazon Echo flashing at you from the counter. Where it once displayed the time and weather, you see a blaring font. You get closer and lean in to read it.

'Go to your room. Put the dress on.'

You blink. Huh? What dress? You don't wear dresses. You shake your head and stand straight, looking up at the ceiling.

The device chimes again. You read the new message. 'Do it.'

You sigh. What the hell is this dystopian fever dream?

The screen clears, a new message; 'bad girl, your disobedience has been noted.'

Your chest knots. You don't like the sound of that. It's both frightening and enraging.

You tap the screen. Maybe you can access something through there. Maybe get the wifi working. It does the respond to your touch, it changes again.

'Turn around.'

You retract your hand and stand stalk straight. Eyes wide. You quiver as you slowly shift around. You shield yourself, expecting someone to be waiting for you.

You only find the small flatscreen mounted in the corner of the kitchen lit up. The TV screen plays the very scene you stand in. You get closer, lowering your arm as the figure on the screen does the same. The angle is high, you follow it up to the corner.

You take as step back and glance again at the smart screen on the counter. You jump as music erupts from it, a song you know, that you heard recently. 

'The world is a vampire Sent to drain Secret destroyers Hold you up to the flames And what do I get for my pain? Betrayed desires And a piece of the game'

Another message blips up on the screen. You near, hugging yourself as you read it.

'Last chance.'

You shudder and nearly swallow your tongue. You should be defiant. Be strong and stand your ground. You're utterly terrified. Is it Steve? Did he do this?

You turn solemnly away, accepting defeat. You enter the front room and almost in a trance, traipse up the stairs and down the hall. You stop in the doorway of the bedroom. You gasp.

There's a dress on your bed. It wasn't there before. You've never seen it. The red checker pattern, the wrap cut. It's old fashioned in a way. 

The music wafts up louder from the first floor. You spin back to the empty hallway. Someone else was here… are they still there?

[mikkaeus]

i was composing an email to one of the drs i was on placement with last year asking them to be a reference because so far this year's placements have been a wash (i only spent like 3 weeks with this guy and not that much time together with him but he was supperrr nice whcih is why i thought of asking him)

but i hadnt decided on whether to send it now or send it after seeing how this block goes but i clicked the save button on the draft in outlook whcih ive never done before but apparently that send sthe fucking email? i literally hadn't even finalised my message or added a "best regards"

and then im going welp i guess we'll just see what he says because i cant really send a follow up email to be like sorry didnt mean to send that i want to change my wording and add a best regards and then i see a new message in my inbox and im like whoof the message must've boucned or something but no he's replied to me in two minutes flat at 7PM on a Sunday saying he's happy to be a reference

[benrey-did-nothing-wrong]

hello user benrey did nothing wrong

can i have tips on how to write benrey as a character speech wise?? he's just so unpredictable and i really struggle to convey him when im writing stuff... thank yew :)

ok so this is a loaded question and I'll do my best. thank you for choosing me tumblr user benrey-did-nothing-wrong! I hope you send this message to multiple authors who have an open inbox though, and if not:

i also will ask other authors to please put their two cents in! I'm not really an authority on benreyisms.

I try to be a bit of a Benrey language purist about 80% of the time and then the last 20% I go crazy.

So as writers we have a tendency to project our own slang and humor onto our characters. I'm no different. I try to always have a precedent for that behavior though. I'll start off with what I tend to avoid using liberally and save for quick punches.

Pog: Benrey doesn't actually seem to care much about streaming, unlike Gordon. He's more of a 2005-2014 era fellow. I have him say pog once specifically because my beta reader choked on his saliva reading "Pogaccino". Pog doesn't seem to really be in his vocabulary. Instead, replace this with NICE or COOL! He says both of these things quite a bit.

Cringe: Another thing that isn't really in his vocabulary, oddly enough. Cringe seems to be too light of an insult for him. He likes to go for the throat. I do use this term for him though as I tend to write him slightly less mean than he is in canon. "That's so cringe" would probably be "Oh you think that-you think that's cool? Idiot?"

He's not very eloquent. He'll dumb conversations down to like, a 3rd grade speaking level. His vocabulary is extraordinarily plain. The spiciest shit he says is Youtube Yownloader. Try to keep the words he uses at minimal syllables. This is something important i don't see a lot of people bring up. Of course he can use bigger words! But he tends to avoid that.

A lot of people write him a slurring a lot of his words, and this just really isn't the case. He's fairly articulate in my opinion. Lots of "M not human" and not "I'm not human". Even though he articulates fairly decently.

Do NOT have him be very perceptive. Benrey seems to be operating on a Baaulp with no oranges brain level. He doesn't tend to notice things unless they're obvious, and if he does he extrapolates something bizarre out of it (hole in the skull = donut, locker = box, etc.) And once again this ties back into him having a limited vocabulary.

Sony references! Read up on some PS3 era references and games. I'd even go as far as to suggest reading gaming magazines. To get in the Benrey mindset you really need to start living like you're Poargu. (Scorpy) A lot of people tend to make him a Nintendo fanboy but he seems to hold Nintendo in a low esteem compared to Sony (extrapolation from his monologue).

He is NOT nice, even when he is nice he isn't nice. He'll tend to show it by action and not words. Although (Gir or Holly) pulling the trigger during the gargantua fight is what killed it, in lore, Benrey kills the Gargantua with his Song of Death to protect everyone. and then he immediately says "IT PEED!!!! =D". Benrey cannot show verbal affection very well and it also is demonstrated in his catcalling and harassment of Gordon. Which yes, this is what it is. Catcalling and Harassment.

He actually doesn't say 'Dude' as much as I remembered him saying it. He's more of a "Bro" and "Man" guy.

He only BBBBB's underwater or spitting out bullets he ate! A lot of folks make this a regular part of his vocabulary but it really isn't. I try to use it sparingly.

Ok for stuff I do:

Most important to Benrey's patterns I think it's his way of being sort of a tease, and may implement video game references into this. "Butterfingers" "Chicken Hat (MSGV reference)" "Clumsy Boy" "Gordon Feetman", and "Baby".

He's very concerned about people breaking rules but doesn't seem to understand most rules of law. He knows stealing is wrong. He seems to be ambivalent to death, and views it as an inconvenience or something funny rather than, you know, the end.

"Wow." and "Woahhh". Common exclamations of wonder.

"Please" and "Sir" are used more often than you'd think

He points out the OBVIOUS. This is in addition to him not being perceptive. He will see something and describe it as he sees it without anything interesting to add on.

When he doesn't want to have an argument or hear Gordon yapping he'll default to "MYAHMYAHNYAHBLEAAGH". Total manchild.

He sometimes mixes words up. "Psychics and Physics", "Electrolytes and Electronics".

He likes being funny in his own Benrey way. If something makes Gordon laugh he'll do it. A lot.

On top of that, he's into corny jokes too (See: Mine not yours)

"Yo"

Makes references to his favorite video games. He seems to like Heavenly Sword, MAG, Metal Gear, Call of Duty, Team Fortress 2, Tekken, and GTA games. And even more. He's really a certified Sony and PC gamer. He loves the PS3 a lot. I've never seen him reference the Vita to my knowledge.

He's okay with horny talk and he thinks it's funny. If he hears something out of pocket he is HERE for it. (See: THE SUIT INCIDENT)

If he fucks up he tends to brush it off as not being his fault. A guy who is a sore fucking loser. If Gordon beats him in something he'll probably just say "I won!" anyways.

He has a fundamental misunderstanding about everything. The reason why the Not a Game AU sheltered lab rat shit works so well is because Scorpy just makes it seem like Benrey has never seen anything before in his entire life. Everything is a new and novel experience but he's pretending he knows what he is doing and can be very confidently wrong. Either that or he's REALLY fucking funny and the bit is being confidently wrong.

he is full of contradictions. He will act like something minor is killing and hurting him SOOOOO bad, but he just spits out bullets peppered into him. With Gordon, he shows a lot of aggression and adulation. He really just seems to do whatever he thinks would be funnier or more annoying.

He's a shithead brother IMO. he's got that shithead dudebro energy.

Watch a scorpy stream and take notes if he says anything that makes you giggle. i pepper a few scorpyisms here and there to add authenticity.

Unpredictability is a part of it. sometimes you just need to close your eyes and let yourself get possessed by the demons

go crazy, go stupid! Have fun! Life's a party! dont listen to ANYTHING I've said and just write him however you life!

[qrzrrae]

CONFESSION WALL || MATTHEW STURNIOLO

Pairing: Popular!Matt , normalgirl!oc

Caution!: This is PURELY fiction. Made for my and others entertainment. If you don't like, don't read x! Also, no Y/N here! Js using random name :')

Authors note: THIS IS MY FIRST FIC YALL. DONT JUDGE PLZZZ 🥹🥲 also no smut C's idk how to write that shit I ACCIDENTALLY POSTED THIS THE FIRSF TIME AND I WASNT DONE YET BUTBHEREEE (part 2 in da making)

It was another normal day at Somerville high, at least for the other students. They don't know that me, I, Scarlette Genevieve Adams, A normal schoolgirl, runs the twitter account where all the juciest secrets are voluntarily put out by other students; The Somerville High Confession wall

Okay okay, if you don't know how this works is well basically, students will DM me their secrets or confessions and I'll post it, anonymously, of course.

The day was tiring. The only time I was motivated to do my work was when I was in physics class. Okay, first, I love science, and next, My crush, Matthew Bernard Sturniolo, sat next to me! I knew I had no chance at all with him, since he was the campus crush and I was like nothing, but I still loved him. Soon, physics class came, finally!! I packed up my stuff and bolted to the lab. I sat down on my desk, next to Matt. He gave me a sweet smile as I sat down, which I returned back to him.

Wait... Did he just fucking smile at me? I realized what he did and soon my face heated up as I started blushing. "Are you okay? You seem a little red there." He chuckled, facing my way. "Oh sure yeah!" I said, quickly hiding my face with a book. He was making me blush even more! "Alright, sureee." He smirked leaning back into his chair and waited for the professor. He looked so hot slouched down on the chair like that..

Finally, the class ended. It felt like we were trapped in there forever. I grabbed my bag and went straight for the door, which was hard enough since my seat was at the back. "Damn. These people are like fucking animals" Matt chuckled peeking over someone's shoulder to see if the line was getting any shorter. "Right? Like I wish I sat in the front." I reply with a chuckle. "You don't wanna sit with me in the back?" Matt said facing towards me while tilting his head slightly. "N-no! I do it's just I wanna be in the front so I could y'know.. Get out faster.." I said nervously. His head tilting made me go crazy. He nodded as the people in the room started to decrease and we were the last ones in the room.

"Alrighty, bye Scar. See ya!" Matt shouted as he waved and ran off. Finally. I can go home and check my new confessions! Checking my twitter DMS were the best parts of my day. Being the owner of the school's confession wall, I knew everything about everyone.

I opened my laptop and quickly opened twitter. 2 new messages. I clicked on my inbox and chose the first message I saw.

Oh of course. To Matthew Sturniolo, my man! I didn't want to be rude so I replied.

Done. I noticed Matt was very active when it came to replying to his admirers. But I was happy when he kept saying "no" to them, it seemed like he was saving his heart for someone, and I thought it was me.

MATT POV

I sighed dramatically as I opened my door to my room. I threw my bag down on the floor. I took my phone out of my bag and kicked my shoes off and laid down on the bed. I opened twitter and saw a new post from the Somerville confession wall account.

Another post, about me, again. I clicked on the post and saw a random girl confess to me. I loved all the attention but it was too much! Everyday, I see letters in my locker and 100 girls confess to me using twitter. I liked, wait no, I loved someone already and I need people to know that.

I hover hesitantly over the message button but I finally brought myself to click it.

I was scrolling through tiktok when I got a message request on twitter, I clicked on the notification and was shocked. Matthew Sturniolo messaged me, to confess? To who?

Oh my fucking word. HE JUST CONFESSED TO ME! TO ME?!?

I jaw slacked open as I read his message. I was shaking so bad.

[snail-day]

snail i feel so sorry for you love😭😭 i also have a flip 6 and the best recommendation i can give is liquid glass on the screen! have no scratches or damadges even though i drop the phone oftenly!

had almost the same situation (but in different font ahaha) with the design project i've been doing. that was a logobook for the company and i was finishing the last page of it, and adobe illustrator just closed lmao and even though it automatically saved my work i got so anxious that i ACCIDENTLY tapped on declining of recovery of that work😭 so all ten pages of work on logo and brand were lost

had to take a deep breath and time to calm down cause i was so angry at myself and felt so lost and on the edge of tears BUT HEAR ME OUT!!!! i remade the work and it turned out so much better than the first try! so i believe in such situations the only thing you can do is to think of it as about making your work even better than before! giving you all thw smoochies all the cuddles and hugs!🫶

❄️

OKAY! PHONE UPDATE TIME!

So my husband and I went to my phone carrier and I was like, “It’s broken :(”

The guy raised a brow, opened it, shut it, restarted it, grabbed a stack of sticky notes and went: “Here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna call this number in like 24 hours and file a claim. Don’t worry, these phones have been having this problem.” Slides sticky note across the counter all secret agent style Then goes, “The guy on the phone will give you a location. You’ll go to said place. They’ll fix it. After that, if you want to switch phones, I’ll pretend I’ve never seen you before in my entire life and we’ll just do a trade-in.”

Kinda sketch if you ask me??? 😭

But my husband was like, “Sounds good, let’s get In-N-Out :3” So hopefully I’ll have a working phone again in like 2-ish days 🤞 Thank goodness I have tomorrow off because I need my phone for work to get through security and stuff ;(

I’m gonna look into the liquid glass thing too, but it sounds like this is just a common issue? I think the hinge makes the screen think it’s still closed, so the LED function just gives up entirely.

ALSO, I’M SO SORRY ABOUT YOUR LOGO 😭 I know it was amazing. Was it something for a class or part of your job? Either way I bet that made your tummy drop straight to the floor. THOUGH IM SURE THE NEW ONE LOOKS ALL FLAWLESS. Because you're like super duper amazing.

GIVING YOU ALLLLL THE SMOOCHIES 💋💋 your little inbox message actually made me feel so much better :( I saw it right before my screen went totally black, so I was like okay, logging in the second I get home to reply!!

[bokumonoexchange]

1 Week Left!

(This is copy/pasted from the initial post made on February 1st.)

Information and guidelines are contained within the form. Please read them and the questions carefully.

The form is almost identical to the Summer 2024 exchange form, except for the "themes/genres/topics" section is also now a space for you to provide headcanons you feel may pertain to your requests.

Notes: If you ghosted during the Summer 2024 exchange (did not complete your piece and did not notify me of need for extension/drop-out), you will not be eligible for this exchange, but will be eligible for future exchanges. I'm running a 2-strikes-and-you're-out policy on this.

Also, I will try my best to differ match-ups from the previous exchange but I can not promise that. Changing your preferred games to create/receive for would likely result in a different match-up, but you're by no means required to do so! (If you want to see what you signed up for last time, I have them all saved and can send you a copy of your Summer 2024 sign-up form!)

SIGN-UPS CLOSE 9PM CENTRAL TIME FEBRUARY 22ND. Any questions or concerns, please message or inbox me. Thank you!