#kernel thread

[babylearners]

(via OS - Multithreading Models)

[mrdarksdare]

I'm so happy people either knew/know this or are realizing it 😭💗💗💗

[em1i2a3]

Got You (Where I Want You)

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: You walk in on Bob staring at himself in the mirror.

Warnings: Fluff, with some intimacy thrown in there for good measure, because why the hell not, right? The sweetness is cavity inducing lol

Author’s Note: Had this idea yesterday and had to put pen to paper y’all, I don’t know what the hell got into me that made me push aside my other stuff for this idea, but I liked it too much to not go absolutely bonkers on my keyboard lol…Anyways, enjoy <3

Word Count: 4,785

Subject: FINAL HR WARNING - CONDUCT REVIEW (Walker/Starr Conflict)

From: HR Officer Marshall Greene

“Agents Walker and Starr are now under internal review for insubordination, hostile communication, and repeated disregard of team mediation protocols. One more infraction and we’ll initiate temporary removal from field rotation. Val has been informed. There will be no further email warnings.”

Walker (Reply All):

“Good to know HR thinks performance under pressure is ‘hostile communication.’ No wonder no one trusts leadership anymore.”

Ava (Reply All):

“Glad we agree that nobody trusts you.”

Yelena (Reply To: Ava and Walker):

“I swear if you get us all sent to HR group therapy again we are going to leave you both at the next extraction site.”

You choked on your own laugh, face half-buried in your pillow as your tablet buzzed again. Notification after notification trickled in like popcorn kernels catching heat–erratic, chaotic, and loud as hell. The entire thread was spiralling quickly, and all you could do was watch the digital tornado unfold before your very eyes. You sat up quickly, nearly dropping the tablet in your lap as you scrolled through the influx of new messages. One leg was tucked under you, while the other bounced with that familiar blend of amusement and secondhand dread.

Ava’s spelling had deteriorated into pure adrenaline–half her words missing vowels, full of heat and fury and thinly veiled threats. Walker had officially gone full defensive, slinging phrases like “operational leadership failure” and “compromised team integrity” like he was writing a dissertation for Val.

You snorted as Yelena replied again but to everyone this time with a simple:

“You guys are literally down the hall from each other, there’s no need to continue to document the arguing, just kill each other now.”

It was definitely a full-blown HR meltdown, and it was definitely going to warrant group therapy again, but the thread was just too good to keep to yourself.

Your thumb hovered over the screen for one more second, then you grinned, tossing the tablet to the side of the bed, because you knew exactly who would enjoy this as much as you.

Bob.

He was never in these threads–more because he didn’t even think to check them anyways. He was never mentioned, never cc’d. He just floated above the chaos like a gentle cloud of soft-voiced concern. He was never involved enough to be a direct problem, but he was always tuned in enough to notice when issues were brewing. He never participated in the drama, but he loved hearing about it. Only from you, though. Only when you read it out loud with your overly expressive hand gestures and dramatic reenactments–like you were performing Shakespeare in the park…But only for him.

It was a tradition. A rhythm that only belonged to you and Bob alone, because every time a thread decided to spiral into a tailspin of arguing, you sought him out immediately.

Sometimes it was in the kitchen over cereal. Sometimes it was on the roof, sitting hip to hip with your legs dangling in the wind. Sometimes it was huddled on opposite ends of the couch with your legs draped over his lap…And sometimes–like right now–it meant running to his room like you were delivering urgent news straight from the battlefield.

You glanced down at yourself–sports bra, and underwear–and let out a low huff. Bob had seen you like this before, technically. That’s what came with the territory of shared safehouses, mission recovery stations, and walking around the compound late at night when you thought nobody else was awake. Those were different situations though.

You padded across the room and yanked open your dresser drawer, rifling through your exercise shirts until you settled on a worn black t-shirt–oversized and thinning with age. You tugged it over your head in one swift movement, letting the hem fall just past your hips, then you grabbed a pair of navy basketball shorts off the back of your desk chair and shimmied into them with a quick hop-step, tightening the strings as much as possible so they wouldn’t fall as you rushed down the hall.

You scooped the tablet back up in your arms, the screen still glowing with the madness you’d left behind.

HR Officer Marshall Greene (Reply All):

“This is a formal thread, please refrain from using inappropriate language and making unfounded comments on others performances.”

The excitement only grew, as you slapped the tablet against your thigh, and bolted into the hallway.

The compound was quiet except for the distant clack of someone’s boots echoing down from the other wing–probably Ava pacing while she types another scorched-earth reply to the recent email. Regardless, you padded forward, barefoot but quick. The hum of the overhead lights casted your shadow along the wall as you rounded the corner toward the kitchen for a quick pit stop.

The fridge gave a quiet suction-pop as you pulled it open and reached for one of the bottled iced teas Bob always hoarded–hibiscus and lemon honey, the kind he insisted was the best. You grabbed one–already cool against your palm even though you had restocked them an hour ago–and tucked it into the crook of your arm as you shut the fridge with your hip.

”What’re you? A professional basketball player?” A voice from behind you asked.

You didn’t need to turn to know it was Bucky–leaning against the wall just outside the kitchen like he’d been planted there to deliver commentary on your outfit. His arms were crossed, dog tags peeking beneath the neckline of his exercise shirt. The glint in his eyes showed unmistakable amusement as he raised a brow at what you were wearing. You didn’t slow your pace though, you just tossed him a look over your shoulder.

”Careful Barnes, comments like that are how group therapy gets scheduled.” That earned a bark of laughter from him–rough and low.

”I’ll tell HR you threatened me with that iced tea bottle,” He called out as you walked off. You raised it above your head in mock-warning without looking over at him.

”Weaponized refreshments fall under Walker and Ava’s jurisdiction. Not mine.” You heard his chuckle echo faintly behind you, but your attention was already zeroed in on the familiar stretch of hallway that led to Bob’s room.

It was quiet here. Soft, almost. The air always felt a little warmer around his end of the corridor–in heat and in emotion in general, there was less tension, less noise, it was very…Bob. use him, his stacks of books, and the faint sound of whatever playlist he decided to put on.

You didn’t knock, you never knocked.

Your fingers wrapped around the handle and turned it without ceremony, pushing the door open like it was your own room, like it was a shared space you were both too sentimental to label.

“Bob! You are not gonna believe this thread..” You said as you were stepping into the room, clicking the door shut softly behind you before turning around.

And that’s when you saw him…And he nearly jumped out of his skin.

”D-Don’t you knock?!” He stammered, jolting like you’d fired a dart into his shoulder. His hands scrambled for the shirt slung half-off his desk chair, eyes wide, and cheeks flushing crimson, “I-I could’ve been–!”

”Naked?” You offered helpfully, lifting a brow as you stepped more into the room, “I think I’ve survived worse than accidentally walking in on someone mid-change.” Your voice had trailed off a little by the time you got to the middle of the room, because it hit you then–just how good he actually looked.

He wasn’t even trying, and that was probably the worst part–because you didn’t want to see him when he was…

The golden hour light poured through the west-facing window like warm syrup, catching the faint dampness along his skin and the light brown locks that his head sported. The light turned the droplets of water that still trailed down his back into halos of shimmer. His chest was broad and high with clean muscle, sharp and thick, and a bit swollen. There were red marks stretched faintly across his collarbones and the tops of his biceps, fresh from a too-hot shower–evidence of his notoriously sensitive skin. A small pink scar marked the space just under one of his ribs, thinned out from more than a decade of bearing it.

You had always known he was strong–he had to be because of the serum–but this was not what you were expecting.

Bob was built like a cathedral. Sturdy like he’d been carved from something permanent, and yet somehow he still stood like he was embarrassed of that.

”Bob.” You started, but he was already trying to pull his shirt over his head and failing–his arms were moving like they had forgotten how sleeves worked. Then after a second of struggling, he gave up with a frustrated sigh and just pressed the cotton against his bare upper torso like a towel.

“I-It’s really nothing…” He insisted, voice strained and high with shyness, “I-I was just…Looking at something.” Your brows raised as you padded even further into the room, placing the iced tea gently on the nearest stack of books.

“Got a rash or something? I know that Sentry suit probably isn’t a pleasant experience. It’s basically painted on…Probably got chafing in all the wrong places.”

“W-What? No! I–I don’t have a rash,” He sputtered, a nervous laugh catching on the tail end of his words. You could see his ears turning red, then watched as the flush crept down his neck and beneath the top he was holding against him. You grinned, leaning against the footboard of his bed, crossing your arms over your chest.

”So what were you looking at then?”

“I-It’s nothing…I swear…” His gaze couldn’t even meet yours, it just darted everywhere but your face: the floor, the ceiling, the bottle of iced tea, his desk lamp. His throat worked as he swallowed, and he shook his head, “It was n-nothing.” You sighed and, without another word, turned and sat on the edge of his mattress, tablet still in hand as you looked around the room–deliberately taking your time, giving him space to breathe. To maybe cool down a little before you asked him the same question again.

His room was neat, but not in a sterile fashion. He had bookshelves stacked high with paperbacks and limited edition copies of stories–science fiction, poetry, philosophy, he even had a few battered field manuals, but they looked like they hadn’t even been opened. A few of the books had some sticky notes jutting out in soft yellows, greens and blues, all in varying shades. There was a well-kept ficus in the corner by the window, catching sunlight in its leaves. One of his walls held a corkboard filled with photographs of places he had been with the team, with little notes he had kept from you–handwriting scrawled on torn napkins or on the backs of receipts. His Sentry suit hung off a hook like a molded second skin, and a flannel blanket was folded with precision at the foot of the bed.

“W-What are you doing?” Bob’s voice cracked with a soft, almost wounded hesitation. You didn’t look up from the bed right away, instead dragging your thumb along the edge of the tablet as you let the silence sit. Then you finally lifted your gaze, brow raised with soft mischief.

“Waiting for you to move,” You said simply. “So I can see what you could’ve possibly been looking at so intently before I barged in.” He shifted on his feet, his toes curling against the floorboards like he was trying to plant himself there and disappear.

”Y-Y/N, I wasn’t looking at anything…” You bit the inside of your cheek, eyes dropping from his for just a second–slowly taking his body in again from the reflection of the mirror behind him, the long, broad line of his back, the way the light caught in every indentation of muscle like it was sculpted for this hour of the day and no other. Then you looked back at him.

”So why’re you hiding from me then?” You asked softly, “You’ve seen me topless before…Thought you might’ve been comfortable returning the favour.” You joked. His eyes flickered to yours, then away again, lashes fluttering like a startled heartbeat. His grip tightened on the cotton he still held over his chest, the fabric slightly damp now from where it met his skin. You set the tablet down with a quiet tap on his nightstand, fingers curling loosely at your sides as you pushed off the bed and stepped toward him. The floor creaked softly beneath your bare feet. His breath hitched–just barely audible–but you caught it. His whole body tensed, like prey too stunned to run, and yet… He didn’t back away.

“Let’s look together, hmm?” You said, voice soft, it wasn’t a command…It was more of an invitation, “Turn and look in the mirror.” Bob’s eyes darted down to yours, nervous and questioning, the light in them flickering gold just for the briefest moment.

“W-What…?”

”Just…Trust me,” You whispered, inching close enough for your hand to find the edge of the shirt he was still holding to his front. You pinched the soft cotton between your fingers, “Turn and look in the mirror…And move this.” He stared at you, searching your face as if trying to find the trap. But there wasn’t one–not with you. So, with hesitantancy, he turned back toward the full-length mirror beside his bookshelf. His broad shoulders squared, his spine straightening instinctively like he expected to be judged, and slowly, he shifted the cotton away from his chest. He didn’t let it drop–he held it against his side like a safety net–but it no longer blocked his reflection.

You stepped behind him carefully, and rose up on your toes, putting your chin on his heated shoulder, eyes flickering over both his reflection and the way his skin flushed beneath you. The heat coming off his body was tangible, like the golden hour sun had been sucked up by his skin and refused to leave. His damp hair curled at the end where it had dried, and the slope of his shoulder tensed beneath your chin.

Up close like this, with nothing but the mirror before you both, it was impossible not to take him in fully–not just the parts you’d glimpsed, not just what the suit hinted at beneath all that gold-threaded armor and pressure. But this. Him.

The soft curve of his clavicle, just beginning to dry, still slightly pink from the heat of his shower. The small cluster of faded stretch marks that swept just beneath his chest, curling slightly toward the soft ridges of his ribs. They looked like pale lightning, half-silver in the light–evidence of how fast he’d grown into himself, into this body he never asked for. Another quiet mutation to accommodate the weight of what lived inside him. There were more across his lower stomach, ghosting down either side of his abdomen where the muscle swelled thicker. They branched just beside his navel and disappeared beneath the waistband of his joggers, pale and delicate, like silk run beneath sharp fingers. You wanted to trace them. God, you wanted to press your mouth to every single one.

His skin was smooth in some places, textured in others, but all of it was flushed with heat. And that light trail of hair that you’d never seen before–white blonde, so soft it nearly vanished unless you were this close–drew a path down the center of him that had you unconsciously tightening your arms just slightly where they curled behind his back.

“You definitely don’t have any rashes,” You said softly, voice light with teasing but thick with something warmer. “You’re just a handsome guy…That’s built like a house.” You gave a small shrug against him, trying to diffuse the sincerity with humor, but it still rang true. Bob’s shoulders stiffened immediately, and his reflection turned red so quickly you thought it might spread across the mirror itself.

“S-Stop it,” He muttered, ducking his head just slightly, like that might shield him from your words.

“Why?” You murmured, brows lifting gently. “It’s not like I’m lying to you.” He didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched for a second too long, and then his voice came–rougher, smaller.

“I-I don’t see it… I just see this…This person who’s not themselves anymore.” His jaw clenched a little, eyes glued to his reflection like it betrayed him. “Not like I u-used to be. Everything’s just…D-Different.” Your frown came slowly, spreading across your face with a heaviness that tugged the corners of your mouth down and softened your eyes into something deeply pained. You finally connected the dots.

He hadn’t been admiring himself in the mirror. He wasn’t checking for a rash or even trying to catch a glimpse of some half-healed wound. He was judging himself–tearing himself apart with every second he stared. Comparing himself to the man he used to be. The one he probably thought he lost the day he became more myth than man. Your heart twisted with it. That quiet kind of ache that came from loving someone too much to let them stay hurt.

“…Can I touch you?” you asked gently, voice barely above a whisper.

Bob’s eyes met yours in the mirror, startled like you’d touched a raw nerve instead of just offering kindness. His lips parted slightly, breath catching in his throat.

“O-Okay,” He said, like it was foreign–like no one had ever asked that before. You moved even closer to him, your chest now pressing against his back. You lifted your hand and just…Touched him.

Your fingertips met the warm skin of his stomach, just above the waistband of his joggers, feather-light. He inhaled sharply. Not in fear–just surprise. His stomach tensed for a second, then loosened, like his body didn’t quite know how to receive affection that came without demand. You smoothed your hand upward, tracing the soft rise and fall of his abdomen, the slope of strength beneath the surface. His skin was warm and velvety under your touch—damp in places from the shower, and soft in others from where his skin had healed from stress and strain and godhood.

“You’re so…” You breathed, thumb sweeping just beneath his ribs, “Unbelievably beautiful, Bob.” He blinked like he hadn’t heard you right. Like that word had never belonged to him.

“I mean it,” You said softly, your hand traveling up his chest now, resting briefly over his heart–feeling the beat pounding steady and strong beneath your palm. “You have no idea what you look like, do you?”

His breath shuddered. “N-Not like this…”

“Then let me tell you.”

Your voice dropped, low and tender, like a vow.

“This body,” You whispered, your fingers tracing the faint stretch marks just below his pecs, “This is a testament. To everything you’ve carried. To how hard you fought to stay here. How strong you’ve had to be. You didn’t just survive…You built this. And you built it with love. With the way you protect people. With how gently you hold things, even when you could crush them.” You leaned in, lips brushing the curve of his bare shoulder, kissing him once. Then again, higher, where the tension lived tight beneath his neck.

He shivered.

Not out of discomfort–but because he knew you meant it. Because your mouth on his skin felt more like an affirmation than anything anyone had ever said to him. His skin jumped beneath each press of your lips. Your other hand slipped around his waist, palm resting over his stomach again–feeling the subtle flex as he tried and failed to keep still.

“You’re real, Bob,” You murmured between kisses. “You’re good. You’re so good. And every inch of you–every mark, every muscle, every breath–is deserving of love.”

He made a sound then–a quiet, choked breath like he was holding something in his throat. His chest hitched slightly under your hand, and when you peeked up at his reflection, his eyes were glossed, gold flickering around the rims like he was lit from within. You tightened your arms gently, holding him from behind like a tether, your forehead pressing into the curve of his shoulder. Your lips grazed the top of his spine.

“Even if you can’t see it… I do.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full. Of breath. Of tension. Of emotion so thick it filled the space between your ribs and his.

After a few long seconds, his hand moved. Trembling at first, like he didn’t know what to do without being awkward, before lowering it to cover yours.

His palm was big, warm, and dampened with sweat, but you didn’t mind the way it felt. He held your touch in place like he didn’t want you to stop. His thumb swept softly along the edge of your hand, nervous but desperate to keep you there.

When he turned to face you, his breath hitched again. His eyes didn’t look away this time. He just stared at you like he was memorizing the moment.

You were still holding his waist. Still close enough that the warmth of him surrounded you like a sun. His hand lifted–slow, hesitant, like the moment might shatter if he moved too quickly. You didn’t breathe. Couldn’t. Not when his fingers brushed your jaw and then curled so gently against your cheek it made your eyes sting.

He held your face like it belonged in a museum among the works of art. His thumb grazed the space just beneath your eye, sweeping along your cheekbone with the softest pressure–as if he was trying to memorize the way you felt beneath his touch. Like if he just held you long enough, maybe he could believe this was real. That you were real. That someone had truly looked at him–all of him–and still wanted to stay.

Neither of you blinked.

The air shifted–thick with something golden and unspeakable, heavy in your lungs but light in your chest. Like standing on the edge of something vast and beautiful and knowing, this is the moment it all changes.

And then he leaned in.

Not in a rush. Not in some burst of passion where your teeth could possibly clash together. But slowly–like the sun melting into the sea. Like a secret unfolding, tender and certain, inevitable as gravity.

His lips met yours with gentleness you didn’t know you were starving for.

It was so soft it almost didn’t feel like a kiss at first. Just a breath of warmth, and a quiet hum of surrender blooming behind your ribs. His mouth moved against yours with cautious wonder, wanting more but keeping his thoughts under control just for this one moment–just so he could display his secret devotion to you.

The world narrowed to the press of his lips, the curl of his fingers that were still on your cheek, the faint tremble in his shoulders, and the heat of his bare skin where your hands moved now–trailing up his sides and over his back. You traced the soft slope of muscles with your palms, admiring, until your fingertips danced along the small of his back.

And that’s when he gasped.

The kiss broke as his body flinched against yours with a startled breath, a laugh hiccuping through the sound.

”I…Sorry,” He stammered, half-flushed, half-laughing, his hand falling from your cheek like he had ruined it. You grinned, still feeling your heartbeat throughout your entire body, your eyes shining.

”Don’t you dare apologize for a kiss like that,” You whispered, and before he could respond back to you–before he could shrink away or stumble over a hundred more nervous syllables–you leaned in and kissed him again.

It was just a quick one. A seal on the moment, something that could contain it. His breath hitched like he hadn’t expected it–like he still couldn’t quite believe you were touching him so freely, so warmly.

You pulled back just enough to smile against his lips and murmur, “Only you would apologize for something that sweet by the way.” Another blush lit his face instantly, rising to the tips of his ears like fire spreading across his skin. You laughed softly and pressed one last kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then you wrapped your arms around his waist and pulled him into a proper hug, letting your cheek press to his chest as he melted into your touch.

His arms folded around you slowly, his forearms curling tightly around your waist, his palms flattening against your spine, pressing your body flush to his like he wanted to make sure there was no space between you at all. You melted into the hold instinctively, sighing against his chest as the tension slid out of you like sand between fingers. Your cheek rested against the warm pillow of muscle just over his heart, and there it was–the steady galloping rhythm, thumping firm and fast beneath your ear. You closed your eyes for a moment, just breathing him in.

The scent of his shower was clinging to him and invading your senses now, there was sage, and a hint of pine, he smelled like a forest, or the wilderness–he smelled like the safest place you would ever come to know.

For a long beat, neither of you moved.

His chin dipped until it came to rest lightly on the crown of your head, a sigh escaping him–low, content, full of something that bordered on reverent. When he hummed, it was quiet and barely even a sound–just a vibration in his chest that pulsed through your cheek and down your spine like a tuning fork finding your frequency so he could slip in and be one with you. You smiled against him.

“So…” You started, voice muffled slightly by his skin, “Is there any chance you’ll start walking around shirtless more often now that I’ve thoroughly showered you with compliments?” He let out a soft, incredulous laugh–half embarrassed, half endeared–and you felt it echo all the way through your ribs. His hands tightened slightly at your back as he ducked his head a little further, his voice feathering warmly against your scalp.

“I-It’ll be u-under heavy consideration now, I think…” He mumbled, voice playful but still laced with that soft-spoken sincerity that was so uniquely his. You smirked.

“Hmm,” You hummed back, fingers curling gently against the thick muscle of his upper back before giving him a teasing squeeze. It made him jolt, just slightly–a tiny gasp of a flinch, like you’d shocked him. He barked out another laugh, and you pulled back just enough to look up at him.

“I’ll take that as a very soft yes,” You said, grinning up at him, your fingers still resting against the planes of his back. His eyes met yours–wide and dilated, but glowing now with something unguarded and bright.

“Y-Yeah,” He said shyly, a smile tugging at his lips, “I guess…I-If it’s for you, it might be okay.” He scratched nervously at the back of his neck with one hand as he looked down at you, then added sheepishly, “B-But you have to promise not to look at me like I’m a sculpture again…I-I almost combusted.” You laughed, arms still around his waist, resting your chin on his chest now so you could meet his eyes directly.

“No promises,” You whispered. “You are a sculpture. Just one that happens to blush when I compliment him.”

His face turned a glorious shade of red, and you watched the smile spread helplessly across his lips even as he tried to hide it. His hands came up again, this time cradling your jaw like it was something precious. His thumbs brushed softly against your cheeks, and he leaned in again–this time a little more sure of himself.

And when he kissed you again, it was with a quiet hunger. Still gentle, still sweet, but layered now with the quiet thrill of knowing that you saw him–really saw him–and loved every part you found.

[raisingarevolution]

Chicken Paella Stir-Fry with Rice, Corn and Peppers - Chicken Recipe

This Chicken Paella Stir-Fry with Rice, Corn and Peppers is a flavorful one-pan meal that comes together quickly. The combination of tender chicken, sweet corn, and vibrant bell peppers results in a delicious and filling dish that the entire family will enjoy. Made with Chicken Recipe, Parsley, Kernels Of Corn, Red Bell Pepper, Salt And Pepper, Green Bell Pepper, Chicken Breast, Smoked Paprika, Saffron Threads, Yellow Onion, Olive Oil, White Rice.

[octaneink]

Hips don't lie

Will Lenney x Reader

Summary: Will doesn't feel very confident for the match, the Reader helps him practice. Warnings: Bit of make out at the start but nothing descriptive nor sexual and its implied that the Reader knows football Notes: Based on this request, I hope you dont mind that I went in this direction! Not to sure about this one, to quoute James Acaster "Started makin it. Had a breakdown. Bon appetite." football is hard as fawk

The credits of Shaun of the Dead danced across the screen, painting the dim living room in erratic bursts of blue and grey. Empty popcorn bowls littered the coffee table, their buttery scent mingling with the sticky-sweet residue of spilt soda. Will’s laughter from the film’s final joke still lingered, but now his knee bounced restlessly, his fingers drumming a staccato rhythm on his jeans. You tilted your head, studying him—the way his gaze clung to the paused screen, avoiding yours, and the tension in his jaw sharp enough to cut glass.

“Out with it,” you said, nudging his slipper with your socked foot. The couch groaned as you leaned closer. “You’ve been jumpier than a squirrel on espresso.”

He lobbed a lone popcorn kernel at you—a weak shot, missing entirely. It skittered under the couch. “Twitchy? I’m Zen. Practically meditating.”

“Sure. And I’m the Queen,” you deadpanned, snatching the remote off his thigh. The screen froze on Simon Pegg’s blood-smeared face, mid-yell. Will’s grin faltered, and his throat bobbed as he picked at a loose thread on his hoodie sleeve. You waited, elbow propped on the sofa back, until the thread snapped.

“Simon asked me to play in the Sidemen charity match,” he blurted, voice strained with faux nonchalance.

“That’s brilliant!” You grinned, but his flinch cut you short. His knuckles whitened around the cushion.

“Last time…” He huffed a laugh, sharp and brittle. “Last time, Twitter had a field day. ‘WillNE? More like WillNOT.’ Trended for three days. Three. Days.” His imitation of the trolls was pitch-perfect, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. It flickered to the floor, where the rogue popcorn kernel glinted in the dim light. “Now they want me at Wembley. In front of—Christ, millions. What if I…” He trailed off, jaw clenching.

You shifted closer, knees brushing. The heat of his arm against yours steadied the room. “That was a year ago. It’s different now, you’ve done more in terms of overall fitness. You’re quicker now. Smarter.”

“And if I faceplant? Become a national joke?” The raw edge in his voice pricked at your chest.

“Then you’ll be the funny face plant. Memes for days.” You nudged him, earning a half-hearted eye roll. “But you won’t. Blocking’s about reading your opponent. It’s simple, I’ll teach you.”

His brow arched. “Says the klutz who trips on flat ground.”

You hurled a throw pillow. He caught it, grin widening, and the room’s tension dissolved like sugar in tea.

“Fine,” he sighed, lobbing the pillow back. “But if we’re doing this—”

You lunged, toppling him into the cushions. His laugh burst free, warm and startled, as your socks tangled and the TV’s static hum faded beneath your pulse. “—We start with jockeys,” you declared, nose inches from his.

“Tyrant,” he muttered, but the protest dissolved as his palms slid around your hips. His thumbs pressed into the hollows just above your waistband—a searing imprint through the thin fabric of your shirt. You stiffened, every nerve crackling at the contact, his calluses catching on the ribbed hem like a struck match.

His breath hitched when your knee accidentally brushed his thigh. Distract him. Keep it light. You forced a smirk, tilting your chin up. “Scared I’ll beat you?”

His grip tightened reflexively, fingers digging into the soft curve of your hipbone. A shiver skittered down your spine. “You wish,” he scoffed, but his voice had gone low, frayed at the edges. The earlier tension in his shoulders had melted, replaced by a coiled heat that made your throat dry.

“You’re doing the thing,” he said softly, his gaze dropped to your lips, then flicked back up, a flicker of mischief cutting through the shadows under his eyes.

“What thing?”

“Your nose.” His thumb brushed the slope of it, feather-light. “Scrunches when you’re scheming. Like a rabbit with a vendetta.”

You swatted his hand away, cheeks burning. “Piss off—”

He kissed you. Deep and languid, his lips parting yours with a sigh that tasted of salt and the ghost of artificial butter. Your fingers twisted into his hoodie, cotton bunching beneath your grip as the world tilted—his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth, slow and deliberate, like he was mapping a route he planned to revisit. His hands slid up your back, calloused palms skimming the ridges of your ribs through your shirt, and your breath hitched. Everywhere he touched sparked, a live wire beneath your skin, and when you bit his lower lip—just a teasing nip—he groaned, low and throaty.

Not yet, your brain hissed, even as your hips pressed closer, even as his thumbs dug into the dimples above your waistband, anchoring you against him. The static hum of the paused TV blurred into white noise, replaced by the ragged symphony of his breaths, your pulse, and the creak of the couch as he shifted to deepen the kiss. His earlier hesitance had dissolved into something reckless, hungry, as he murmured, “Christ, you’re—”

You didn’t let him finish.

When you finally broke apart, his forehead rested against yours, sweat-damp and trembling. His cheeks were flushed, pupils blown wide enough to swallow the room’s dim light, but his grin was pure mischief. “I don’t know how good a coach you can be,” he rasped, thumb brushing the smudged corner of your lip. “You’re too distracting.”

The dizzying warmth in your chest flared—a wildfire threatening to burn through your resolve. You shoved him back against the cushions, ignoring the way your traitorous hands lingered on his chest, the heat of him seeping through his hoodie. “Jokeys first,” you said, voice steadier than you felt. “First thing tomorrow.”

He flopped backward, arm slung over his eyes in mock defeat. “Cruel. Absolutely cruel.” But his laugh was bright, unburdened, “Though I trust you, teach me how to not die at Wembley.”

The pitch squatted between a dual carriageway and a Lidl car park, its chain-link fence trembling under the lash of a north-easterly wind. March in London wasn’t spring—it was winter’s spiteful encore. Frost clung to the dead grass in jagged lace, and the penalty area had become a boggy quagmire from last night’s sleet. A deflated football lay stranded near the corner flag, half-submerged in a puddle slicked with rainbow petrol.

You found Will leaning against his car, hands shoved deep into his pockets, hood pulled tight against the weather. His breath plumed in the air as he squinted at the pitch. “This is where England’s future dies, then?”

“This is where you learn a new skill,” you corrected, slinging your kit bag over the fence. The metal rattled like a cage. “Pitch is alive. Listen to it.”

He snorted. “Alive? It’s wheezing.”

You let the silence stretch, the wind filling it with the groan of distant traffic. A crisp packet skittered across the centre circle, snagging on a tuft of frost-bitten grass. Finally, he shoved off the car, muttering, “Should’ve stayed at home.”

The first touch was a disaster. Will’s boot sank into the mud, the ball squirting sideways like a bar of soap. He stumbled, arms pinwheeling, and you bit back a laugh. “Lovely pirouette. Swan Lake at Wembley, yeah?”

“Piss off,” he grumbled, but his lips twitched.

For twenty minutes, you drilled him on stance—knees bent, weight forward, stop standing like a lamppost. The wind stole his curses as he wobbled, overcorrected, and nearly face-planted. By the time his shadow began to resemble something competent, the sleet returned—needle-sharp, horizontal—and the pitch became a slurry of ice and gluey earth.

You tossed him the ball. “Eyes up.”

He stared at it like it owed him money. “Why?”

“Because”, you said, stepping close enough to see the sleet caught in his lashes, “Harry’s not your nan. He won’t care if you slip. He’ll just take the ball.”

The ball skidded, the wind howled, and the real work began.

“Eyes up, remember?” you said, tapping your temple. “Not on the ball. Not yet.”

He dragged his gaze to your face, shoulders rigid. “Their eyes lie, hips don’t. Got it.”

“Good.” You feinted left, hips closed, and he shuffled sideways—too early. The ball rolled untouched through the gap he’d left. “Trust yourself. Watch mine.”

He groaned, kicking a clump of half-frozen mud. “Thought this was supposed to be simple.”

“It is. And you’re overcomplicating it.” You repositioned him, hands firm on his shoulders. “Feet wider. Knees bent. You’re not posing for a thumbnail.

He sank into a crouch, more gargoyle than athlete. “Happy?”

“Thrilled.” You stepped back, dribbling lazily. “Next—eyes on my hips. Ignore the ball. Ignore my feet. Just… react.”

You shifted left, hips snapping open. Will mirrored, a beat too slow, his boots skidding on frost. The ball slipped past, and he cursed, the sound swallowed by the growl of a passing gritter truck.

“Again”, you ordered.

By the fifth attempt, his movements grew less wooden. On the sixth, he anticipated your pivot, cutting off the angle with a grunt of effort. The ball ricocheted off his shin guard, vanishing into a puddle.

“There!” You jabbed a finger at him. “You saw it.”

“Saw your hip do a… thing.” He wiped his nose, red from the cold. “Still don’t get how this stops, Harry.”

“It helps you think and predict others’ movements.” You reclaimed the ball, spinning it under your heel. “By Friday, we’ll talk about huddling him toward the sidelines—that’s when you break his ankles.”

Will blinked. “Huddle?”

“Using the pitch like a cage. Force him where you want him.” You gestured to the chain-link fence, its rust bleeding onto the frost. “But that stuff’s for later. Right now…” You feinted right, hoping he’d pick up that your hips were falsely screaming go left, and Will bit hard, lunging. The ball slipped through, kissing the inside netting of the goal.

“Christ,” he muttered, hands braced on his knees. “Feels like learning to walk.”

You tossed him a water bottle, your voice softening. “Day One’s about trust. Trust your mind. Trust the pitch. The rest?” You nodded to the empty stands, where a lone pigeon pecked at a discarded crisp packet. “That’s just noise.”

He straightened, squinting at the goal. “Again.”

This time, when you danced forward, he held his ground—hips square, stance wide—though his fingers flexed at his sides like he was still arguing with himself. You juked left and right, your boots hissing over the frost, but he matched every feint, forcing you toward the touchline until your heel grazed the chain-link fence. The ball died in a slush pile, and his laugh burst free—bright and buoyant, a sound that carried the weight of unspoken relief.

“There you are,” you said, toeing the ball back to centre. It left a ragged brown scar across the ice.

He caught it mid-bounce, mud streaking his gloves. “Where’d I go?”

“Into your head. Again.” You nodded to the sodden turf. “But your feet stayed here. That’s… progress.”

He punted the ball skyward, its arc slicing through the sleet. “Progress? I just channelled prime Maldini.”

“Maldini wept during his first tackle.” You let the ball thud into the muck, untouched. “You’re drier. Marginally.”

He barked a laugh, but his gaze flicked to the goalposts, their nets sagging under the weight of old rain. “What’s tomorrow? You making me cry?”

“Depends.” You lobbed the ball at his chest, softer this time. He caught it, his reflexes sharper now, breath steady. “Tomorrow’s about why you held your ground today. Why you didn’t lunge.”

He rolled the ball under his palm, quiet for once. The wind gnawed at the silence, carrying the distant clatter of a train on the tracks behind Lidl.

“Dinner. My place,” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Carbonara. Or the biryani you’ve been whinging about since Tuesday.”

He brightened instantly, the practised sarcasm dissolving. “Finally. I’ve been dreaming about your carbonara since the last time you made it.”

You arched a brow. “Thought you’d beg for the biryani.”

“Carbonara’s your peace offering. Biryani’s for when I actually impress you.” He lobbed the ball into the gear pile, his grin widening. “Don’t pretend you’re not smug I remembered.”

You turned toward the gate, sleet needling your neck. “Keep standing your ground like today, and I’ll even add garlic bread.”

He fell into step beside you, close enough that his sleeve brushed yours. “Bribery? What happened to discipline and professionalism?”

“You’re the one moaning about my coaching,” you said, nodding to the abandoned ball—still upright, still defiant in the mud. “Discipline’s tomorrow. Tonight’s about… recalibrating.”

He hummed, a low, contented sound you’d only ever heard after he’d nailed a drill. “Recalibrating. Sure. Just admit you like watching me suffer through your chilli flakes.”

Ahead, the crow took flight from the crossbar, its wings scattering droplets that speckled the frozen turf. You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The warmth in his voice, the ease in his stride—it was all there, simmering beneath the sleet and sarcasm.

The pitch squatted between a dual carriageway and a Lidl car park, its chain-link fence trembling under the lash of a north-easterly wind. March in London wasn’t spring—it was winter’s spiteful encore. Frost clung to the dead grass in jagged lace, and the penalty area had become a boggy quagmire from last night’s sleet. A deflated football lay stranded near the corner flag, half-submerged in a puddle slicked with rainbow petrol.

You found Will leaning against his car, hands shoved deep into his pockets, hood pulled tight against the weather. His breath plumed in the air as he squinted at the pitch. “This is where England’s future dies, then?”

“This is where you learn a new skill,” you corrected, slinging your kit bag over the fence. The metal rattled like a cage. “Pitch is alive. Listen to it.”

He snorted. “Alive? It’s wheezing.”

You let the silence stretch, the wind filling it with the groan of distant traffic. A crisp packet skittered across the centre circle, snagging on a tuft of frost-bitten grass. Finally, he shoved off the car, muttering, “Should’ve stayed at home.”

The first touch was a disaster. Will’s boot sank into the mud, the ball squirting sideways like a bar of soap. He stumbled, arms pinwheeling, and you bit back a laugh. “Lovely pirouette. Swan Lake at Wembley, yeah?”

“Piss off,” he grumbled, but his lips twitched.

For twenty minutes, you drilled him on stance—knees bent, weight forward, stop standing like a lamppost. The wind stole his curses as he wobbled, overcorrected, and nearly face-planted. By the time his shadow began to resemble something competent, the sleet returned—needle-sharp, horizontal—and the pitch became a slurry of ice and gluey earth.

You tossed him the ball. “Eyes up.”

He stared at it like it owed him money. “Why?”

“Because”, you said, stepping close enough to see the sleet caught in his lashes, “Harry’s not your nan. He won’t care if you slip. He’ll just take the ball.”

The ball skidded, the wind howled, and the real work began.

“Eyes up, remember?” you said, tapping your temple. “Not on the ball. Not yet.”

He dragged his gaze to your face, shoulders rigid. “Their eyes lie; hips don’t. Got it.”

“Good.” You feinted left, hips closed, and he shuffled sideways—too early. The ball rolled untouched through the gap he’d left. “Trust yourself. Watch mine.”

He groaned, kicking a clump of half-frozen mud. “Thought this was supposed to be simple.”

“It is. And you’re overcomplicating it.” You repositioned him, hands firm on his shoulders. “Feet wider. Knees bent. You’re not posing for a thumbnail.

He sank into a crouch, more gargoyle than athlete. “Happy?”

“Thrilled.” You stepped back, dribbling lazily. “Next—eyes on my hips. Ignore the ball. Ignore my feet. Just… react.”

You shifted left, hips snapping open. Will mirrored, a beat too slow, his boots skidding on frost. The ball slipped past, and he cursed, the sound swallowed by the growl of a passing gritter truck.

“Again”, you ordered.

By the fifth attempt, his movements grew less wooden. On the sixth, he anticipated your pivot, cutting off the angle with a grunt of effort. The ball ricocheted off his shin guard, vanishing into a puddle.

“There!” You jabbed a finger at him. “You saw it.”

“Saw your hip do a… thing.” He wiped his nose red from the cold. “Still don’t get how this stops, Harry.”

“It helps you think and predict others’ movements.” You reclaimed the ball, spinning it under your heel. “By Friday, we’ll talk about huddling him toward the sidelines—that’s when you break his ankles.”

Will blinked. “Huddle?”

“Using the pitch like a cage. Force him where you want him.” You gestured to the chain-link fence, its rust bleeding onto the frost. “But that stuff’s for later. Right now…” You feinted right, hoping he’d pick up that your hips were falsely screaming go left, and Will bit hard, lunging. The ball slipped through, kissing the inside netting of the goal.

“Christ,” he muttered, hands braced on his knees. “Feels like learning to walk.”

You tossed him a water bottle, your voice softening. “Day One’s about trust. Trust your mind. Trust the pitch. The rest?” You nodded to the empty stands, where a lone pigeon pecked at a discarded crisp packet. “That’s just noise.”

He straightened, squinting at the goal. “Again.”

This time, when you danced forward, he held his ground—hips square, stance wide—though his fingers flexed at his sides like he was still arguing with himself. You juked left and right, your boots hissing over the frost, but he matched every feint, forcing you toward the touchline until your heel grazed the chain-link fence. The ball died in a slush pile, and his laugh burst free—bright and buoyant, a sound that carried the weight of unspoken relief.

“There you are,” you said, toeing the ball back to centre. It left a ragged brown scar across the ice.

He caught it mid-bounce, mud streaking his gloves. “Where’d I go?”

“Into your head. Again.” You nodded to the sodden turf. “But your feet stayed here. That’s… progress.”

He punted the ball skyward, its arc slicing through the sleet. “Progress? I just channelled prime Maldini.”

“Maldini wept during his first tackle.” You let the ball thud into the muck, untouched. “You’re drier. Marginally.”

He barked a laugh, but his gaze flicked to the goalposts, their nets sagging under the weight of old rain. “What’s tomorrow? You making me cry?”

“Depends.” You lobbed the ball at his chest, softer this time. He caught it, his reflexes sharper now, breath steady. “Tomorrow’s about why you held your ground today. Why you didn’t lunge.”

He rolled the ball under his palm, quiet for once. The wind gnawed at the silence, carrying the distant clatter of a train on the tracks behind Lidl.

“Dinner. My place,” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Carbonara. Or the biryani you’ve been whinging about since Tuesday.”

He brightened instantly, the practised sarcasm dissolving. “Finally. I’ve been dreaming about your carbonara since the last time you made it.”

You arched a brow. “Thought you’d beg for the biryani.”

“Carbonara’s your peace offering. Biryani’s for when I actually impress you.” He lobbed the ball into the gear pile, his grin widening. “Don’t pretend you’re not smug I remembered.”

You turned toward the gate, sleet needling your neck. “Keep standing your ground like today, and I’ll even add garlic bread.”

He fell into step beside you, close enough that his sleeve brushed yours. “Bribery? What happened to ‘discipline’ and ‘professionalism’”?

“You’re the one moaning about my coaching,” you said, nodding to the abandoned ball—still upright, still defiant in the mud. “Discipline’s tomorrow. Tonight’s about… recalibrating.”

He hummed, a low, contented sound you’d only ever heard after he’d nailed a drill. “Recalibrating. Sure. Just admit you like watching me suffer through your chilli flakes.”

Ahead, the crow took flight from the crossbar, its wings scattering droplets that speckled the frozen turf. You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The warmth in his voice, the ease in his stride—it was all there, simmering beneath the sleet and sarcasm.

The wind had shifted, swapping sleet for a spiteful drizzle that seeped into collars and chewed through seams. The pitch, still a quilt of mud and dead grass, now bristled with training dummies dragged from the clubhouse storage—their sagging vinyl bodies streaked with grime, zip-tied to rusted poles like drunk sentries. Will stood in front of the goal, breath visible in the raw air, hoodie sleeves darkened to sludge-grey with rain. His shadow pooled at his feet, thin and shivering.

"Near post", you called, and fired.

The ball cut through the drizzle, a blurred comet. Will lunged, boots skidding in the same boggy corner where he’d face-planted on Day 1. The impact echoed—a dull thud—as the ball smacked his thigh, then squirted wide, carving a brown scar through the muck.

"Better", you said, "but you hesitated."

"Because last time I committed, you chipped me," he snapped, wiping his nose on a sleeve already stiff with dried mud. A fresh bruise mottled his shin, purple bleeding through the grime, a trophy from yesterday’s failed block.

You rolled another ball forward with your heel, its surface filmy with rainwater. "Exactly. Decide, don’t guess."

For an hour, it was a rhythm of grit and failure: the slap of wet leather against skin, the clatter of poles as Will collided with dummies, their hollow heads sloshing with collected rain. The hiss of breath through teeth when he overreached, his ankle twisting on a buried stone. When he charged like a man chasing a runaway umbrella, you curled the ball around him, it kissed the inside post with a smug clang. When he held back, stiff as that first-day lamppost, you drilled it into the net so hard the crossbar shuddered, rust flaking like snow.

By the end, his hoodie clung to him like a second skin, rain dripping off his jaw in a steady tap-tap-tap against his collarbone. But his eyes stayed locked on your hips even as his teeth chattered.

"Your brain’s the enemy," you said, tossing him a thermos of tea to warm his bones against the weather. "Stop thinking. Move."

He gulped it, the scent of bergamot and honey briefly overpowering the wet earth. Steam fogged his glasses, turning his eyes into smudged watercolours. "Says the person who’s done this since they could walk."

You stepped closer, close enough to see the goosebumps on his neck and the raw split in his chapped lip. "Back home", you said, "I learnt doubt gets you beat faster than any striker." You flicked the ball up, catching it mid-air, your palm stinging with the cold bite of its seams. "You’ve got instinct—trust it."

He stared at the mud caked under his nails, black crescents that no amount of scrubbing would lift. "Instinct got me a 3–0 loss last season."

"That wasn’t instinct," you said, spinning the ball on your finger until the world blurred. "That was fear. There’s a difference."

The dummies sagged under the rain, their hollow heads filling like buckets. Will spat—a sharp, defiant sound—straightened, and nodded at the goal. "Again."

This time, when you fired, he didn’t lunge. Didn’t freeze. He shifted, hips pivoting with the lazy grace of a door on a rusted hinge, and redirected the ball wide with a controlled tap of his instep. It rolled to a stop at the base of a dummy, its grin streaked with algae.

You didn’t smile. Didn’t need to. The drizzle thinned just enough to gild the pitch in a silvered haze, and for a heartbeat, the goalposts didn’t sag. They waited.

"Again," he said, voice rough but steady.

You obliged.

Later, as you wrestled the waterlogged dummies into the storage shed, their vinyl limbs slapping lifelessly against the door frame, Will leaned into the threshold. His arms were crossed tight against the cold, breath curling into the damp air like cigarette smoke. “Dinner,” he said, not a question. “Your place again? Unless you’re sick of my face.”

You flung a damp towel at him, its frayed corner snapping like a whip in the wind. He caught it one-handed, the fabric unfurling with a wet slap against his chest. “Casserole”, you said. “Your pick—chicken or whatever’s in my fridge.”

He dragged the towel over his hair, mussing it into a damp tangle, but his smirk stayed intact. “Chicken, please. Because you’ll spite-season it if I don’t suffer.”

“Suffering’s extra.” You shoved the last dummy inside, its hollow head thunking against the shed wall.

He fell into step beside you, shoulders brushing as you picked through the frozen ruts toward the gate. The cold had turned the mud to jagged teeth, but he matched your pace, steady where he’d once stumbled. Ahead, a crow launched itself from the crossbar, wings battering the air, and the abandoned ball shuddered under the spray of droplets—still upright, still defiant, its scuffed hexagons glinting through the grime like a wink.

“Mud’s got better form than you did on day one,” you said, nodding to it.

He huffed, breath fogging the space between you. “Mud doesn’t have Twitter trolls.”

“Yet.”

His laugh was sharp and fleeting, but his stride never faltered.

Rain sheeted down in relentless curtains, turning the penalty box into a quagmire. The ball, waterlogged and sluggish, clung to your boot like a stubborn barnacle as you squared up to Will. His hood sagged under the weight of the downpour, plastering his hair to his forehead, but his stance was pure defiance—knees bent, fingertips grazing the mud, eyes locked on your hips like they held the secret to salvation.

"1v1," you shouted over the drumbeat of rain on the crossbar. "Stop me, you win. I score, you owe me a spa day—hot stones, cucumber eyes, the full mortification."

He barked a laugh, sharp and brittle. "Deal. But when I win, you admit my slide tackle’s better than Rio’s."

You feinted right, shoulders telegraphing a sprint, then cut left. He shifted with you, boots skidding but holding firm, herding you toward the corner flag. At the last second, you dragged the ball back with the sole of your boot, mud spraying as you slipped past his outstretched leg. The net bulged, then sagged, swallowing the ball whole.

"Again," you ordered, already rolling another ball forward with your toe.

This time, he jockeyed you like a shadow, his breath ragged but his feet alive—no more flat-footed statue, no more panic. When you tapped the ball between your legs, aiming to nutmeg him, he snapped his thighs shut like a bear trap, pinning the ball mid-spin.

"YES!" Your roar tore through the rain, fists punching the air. "That’s the Will I need! The one who bites!"

But when you spun him with a stepover—hips swivelling, boot flicking the ball over an imaginary hurdle—he overcompensated, his shin cracking against the post. The metallic clang shuddered through the goal goalframe. He crumpled, swearing, fingers clawing at his sodden jeans. "I’m useless at this! Christ, just—"

You marched toward him, boots sloshing through ankle-deep slurry. Rain needled your scalp, your shirt clinging like a second skin. Without a word, you hauled him upright, your grip iron on his bicep. "Look at me."

He didn’t. His gaze stayed fixed on the mud, jaw working like he was chewing glass.

"Look. At. Me." You waited until his eyes—wild, wounded—met yours. "You’ve blocked half my shots today. Half. Last week, I’d have danced around you like you were a traffic cone. Progress isn’t perfection—it’s persistence. It’s showing up when your knees feel like jelly and your brain's screaming, Quit!"

He wrenched free, but his voice frayed. "What if I crack during the match? What if I—"

"You won’t." You stepped into his space, close enough to see the tremor in his throat and the rainwater caught in his lashes. "I’ve seen you throw yourself in front of every ball I’ve blasted at you. Bruised ribs, skinned knees, that." You jabbed a finger at the fresh welt on his shin, purple blooming beneath the grime. "You think courage is some grand, shiny thing? It’s this. It’s getting up when every cell in your body wants to crawl into a hole. Courage doesn’t crack—it weathers."

For a heartbeat, the rain seemed to still. Then his shoulders dropped, the fight leaching out of him. He scrubbed a hand over his face, smearing mud and rainwater. "You’re a shit poet, you know that?"

"Tragic, isn’t it?" You nudged the ball toward him with your boot. "Now stop sulking. Spa day’s riding on your next tackle."

He huffed, but his stance widened, hips sinking into that feral crouch you’d drilled into him. The ball danced between you, a sodden pendulum, as the rain blurred the world beyond the eighteen-yard box.

The VIP box gleamed amber in the low March sun, its rays slanting through the stadium’s steel ribs to stripe the grass with gold. You leaned against the railing, the chill of late afternoon biting through your sleeves despite the sunlight, and watched the pitch below. Will prowled near the eighteen-yard line, breath visible in the crisp air, his red kit bright in contrast to the grass.

Simon struck first—a curling dagger toward the far post that ricocheted off the crossbar with a clang that reverberated through the murmuring crowd, the near miss hung in the air, sharp.

Move. MOVE.

Will didn’t celebrate. Didn’t pause. While Sketch was distracted, focus split between the ball and the masses, and Will drifted back, inch by inch, until his heels kissed the six-yard box line, and his shadow pooled inside the six-yard box—exactly where you’d burnt the position into his brain during those frostbitten drills.

George pounced on the rebound.

Time slowed.

The ball rocketed toward the top corner, a comet trailing turf and desperation. The keeper lunged, a split second too slow, but Will—your Will—was already airborne.

His body twisted midair, shoulders hunched, neck muscles taut as bridge cables. The impact was a loud crack—forehead meeting ball—sending the ball spiralling wide, skittering harmlessly toward the corner flag.

Will hit the grass hard, his momentum carrying him into a tight, controlled roll—shoulder to hip, one fluid whirl—before he sprang up in a single explosive motion, dry grass blades flying off his kit.

As he rose, the stadium erupted in a deafening wave of sound that shook the very foundations of Wembley. The crowd was on its feet before he even finished standing. A tidal wave of noise crashed down from the stands. Strangers hugged strangers. Scarves whirled overhead like battle flags. Behind the goal, a sea of supporters pounded the advertising boards in perfect, thunderous rhythm.

Will celebrated, looking to the sky, veins standing out in his neck as he screamed, fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white. The cameras caught every detail—the wild look in his eyes, the sweat flying from his brow, and the way his chest heaved with adrenaline and triumph.

On the pitch, teammates mobbed him, their celebrations almost violent in their intensity. Someone ruffled his sweat-drenched hair. Another player grabbed his face and screamed something unintelligible right into his ear.

Then pure, unfiltered joy exploded through you.

You were on your feet before you realised it, chair clattering backward as you vaulted up, arms already raised in triumph. A wordless scream tore from your throat—something between a battle cry and pure elation—raw and uncontainable. Your hands flew to your head, fingers tangling in your hair as you bounced on your toes, the sheer adrenaline making it impossible to stand still.

On the pitch, Will turned toward the stands, his eyes scanning the crowd. You swore he looked right at you—just for a split second—and you raised both arms higher, screaming his name like a prayer and a promise all at once. The grin that split his face then was worth every drop of sweat, every moment of frustration. It was perfect. He was perfect. And you were going to lose your voice tomorrow, but, God, it was worth it.

This is sort of a different universe from the other Will x Reader fic I made. I hope this was okay, I did it across the week, doing it in chunks, so there may be some inconsistencies. Sorry if there are. Please feel free to point them out, and I can fix them!

[christopherisfoive]

Terms and Conditions (Changbin one-shot)

Roommate AU | Changbin x Reader | Comedy + Sugesstive | College Setting

word count: 1.3 k

a/n: last one shot before the requests start coming out. also i feel so warm that so many of you actually sent me requests. I was only expecting one or two. T-T makes me so happy that you guys want more of my writing. <3

You and Changbin were never supposed to be roommates.

You were supposed to live with Mina—your quiet, soft-spoken friend from chem lab who baked banana bread and cried during Pixar movies. Not with her extremely built, extremely loud best friend who apparently thinks 3AM is a perfectly reasonable time to blast a gym playlist and deadlift in the living room.

But Mina bailed after getting into a study abroad program in Europe.

And Changbin, who “just needed a place for the semester,” slid into her spot with a duffel bag, ten tubs of protein powder, and a megawatt smile like this was some kind of blessing.

You told yourself you could handle it.

Two months later, your self-control is hanging on by a thread, and you’re convinced the universe is laughing at you.

Especially when he walks around shirtless. All. The. Time.

Now, here you are—sitting in the cramped kitchen of your shared apartment at 11:48PM, watching him absolutely obliterate a tub of protein powder like it insulted his ancestors.

"That is not one scoop," you mutter, staring as he shovels another mound into his shaker bottle.

Changbin doesn’t look up. “It’s leg day tomorrow.”

“It was leg day yesterday.”

“And?”

“And you sound like a blender when you breathe after the gym.”

He finally glances up from his protein apocalypse, one eyebrow raised. His hair is damp from a shower, sticking to his forehead. He’s shirtless, obviously, because why wouldn’t he be? And the gray sweatpants aren’t helping. You’re only human.

“You have no idea how much I hold back just to be a tolerable roommate,” he says, shaking the bottle like he’s challenging it to a fight. “I could be doing protein shots in the bathroom at 3AM. Be grateful.”

“Oh, I am. Especially when you moan while drinking it.”

“I do not moan—”

“You do. Yesterday? You drank it like it was your last request on death row.”

His mouth twitches. “Sorry I enjoy my supplements. Some of us are dedicated.”

You roll your eyes and toss a popcorn kernel at him. It bounces off his shoulder.

He picks it up. Eats it.

“You’re lucky I’m not territorial angel,” he says, mouth full. “You keep stealing my stuff.”

“I borrowed one scoop of pre-workout.”

“For what? Running your mouth?”

Your jaw drops. “Wow.”

“Wow what?” He grins. “Wanna fight about it?”

You stand. “I’ll win.”

“You’re like half my size.”

“I have rage strength.”

“You have cartoon character energy.”

You’re in each other’s faces now, barely six inches apart. You hadn’t meant to close the distance, but the smirk on his lips dared you to, and now neither of you is backing down.

His eyes flicker down—just once—to your lips.

And there it is.

That quiet shift.

The silence between a joke and a mistake.

You swallow. “This is a really bad idea.”

Changbin’s voice drops. “What is?”

“Whatever this is.”

“We’re just talking,” he says, tone too low, too easy. “Having a little midnight bonding.”

Your heart is hammering. You want to step back. You really do.

But then he leans in, just a fraction, breath warm against your cheek.

“You gonna take more of my protein powder, baby?” he murmurs.

You blink. “What the hell.”

“Sorry,” he says quickly, laughing. “Slipped out.”

“Yeah, okay. Keep it in your pants, gym boy.”

“Can’t promise anything if you keep staring at me like that.”

“I’m not staring.”

“You’re absolutely staring.”

There’s another beat of silence.

Your voice comes out quieter. “You’re not as annoying when you’re quiet like this.”

He tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. “You’re not as mean when your voice goes all soft like that.”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

It’s only a second.

But it lingers.

You finally clear your throat. “Goodnight, Changbin.”

You turn and walk off—quick, firm steps, refusing to let him see your expression.

You don’t see the smile tugging at his lips.

Or the way he whispers, “Yeah. Night, baby,” under his breath.

It’s 1:30AM, and you’re standing in the kitchen, hunting for something to snack on—because why not eat half your weight in chips when you're trying to avoid sleep?

The silence between you and Changbin has been stretched thin ever since your brief moment in the living room. It’s not that you’re avoiding each other—well, maybe you are—but it's mostly because you know if either of you opens your mouth, you're gonna say something ridiculous.

“Found them,” you mutter to yourself as you pull open a cupboard.

Suddenly, Changbin appears next to you, and you don’t even notice until your elbow accidentally jabs into his ribs.

“Ow—what the hell?” Changbin huffs, taking a step back, but in the process, his foot hits the trash can, sending it tumbling across the floor.

You panic. “No!” You scramble forward to catch it, but you’re too late—your hand shoots out, and in a clumsy attempt to steady yourself, you slam into him.

Changbin stumbles back, and you’re completely off balance now. His body collides with yours, and suddenly, your face is inches from his. Your hands fly to his chest, but he’s already got his arms around you to keep you from falling flat on your face.

And then—like the universe just decided to mess with you both—your lips land right on his.

It’s a full kiss. Not a light peck, not a brush of lips—no, you accidentally full-on kiss Changbin like it’s something you’ve been doing for years.

You freeze.

Changbin freezes.

The moment drags out for way too long, and you’re both too stunned to move.

You pull back first, but not before you notice the way his lips look swollen and the breath he’s holding in.

“Uh…” you clear your throat. “Sorry. That was—”

“Yeah, it was,” he says quickly, his voice rougher than usual.

“I didn’t mean to—”

He cuts you off with a smirk.

“Didn’t mean to kiss me like that?”

You roll your eyes. “I didn’t mean to kiss you at all, okay?”

He grins wider. “Mhm. I’m pretty sure that’s the second time you’ve said that.”

“I swear to god—”

“You’re so cute when you’re flustered,” he adds, watching you closely as you try to compose yourself. He leans closer, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Now, I’m curious, Y/N. What’s it feel like?”

You blink. “What’s what feel like?”

“Kissing me.”

Your face goes hot.

“You’re unbelievable,” you say, flustered and trying to get back to your bag of chips.

“Come on. You can’t just kiss me and not talk about it.” He steps in front of you, blocking the pantry. “You can’t get away with that.”

You shove at his chest lightly, but Changbin stays right there, a little too close for comfort.

“I wasn’t kissing you on purpose,” you protest, crossing your arms defensively.

Changbin grins, leaning in even closer, his voice dropping lower. “Really? Because it seemed pretty intentional to me. What’s it like to kiss someone this handsome?”

You’re about to smack him, but instead, you breathe out an exasperated laugh.

“I hate you sometimes.”

He smirks. “I know you don’t. You wouldn’t have kissed me if you did.”

You glare at him, trying to hide your smile, but it's impossible.

“You know,” he continues, eyes gleaming, “I think this whole ‘not being in a relationship’ thing is getting old.”

You narrow your eyes. “We live together. We’re basically in a relationship.”

“Hmm.” He raises an eyebrow. “So, when are you gonna kiss me again? Accidentally, of course.”

You groan. “I didn’t—”

He steps back, clearly satisfied. “Yeah, sure. Keep denying it.”

You walk past him to grab your chips, and Changbin calls after you.

“You know,” he says casually, “I’m just gonna say it. I think we should kiss again, but on purpose this time.”

You flip him off without turning around.

[jasperblion]

“Berkut…?” Hopeless happiness wavers again when Alm is faced with more hesitation from his cousin. “You’re…scaring me.”

Scared. Frightened. That’s the only way he can explain how he feels as he faces the mix of fury and fright on his kin. As he listens to what Berkut interprets as “You do,” only to be met with…lies. Not all of them are lies, made clear by the past of Zofian vs Rigelian. But the rest of it sounds far from the truth. Especially that last part with-

“Witch wife?!” He instinctively swipes one hand back with rage. “Don’t you ever call Celica by that aga-” Alm’s anger seeps through temporarily, only for the touch of salt onto his chin to serve as spiritual mediator. 

No, that’s not right. Berkut was not present for when Celica temporarily became the Fell God’s servant. He’d have no way of knowing… And if anything, the one with a witch-betrothed would be…him.

“Your ring. You told me…it was a memento of your mother,” Alm reaches his refrained hand toward the ring box, finally deciding enough was enough. It was his turn. “And I had it because…you gave it to me after our struggle. Back in Duma Temple.”

Suddenly, the surrounding party essences meant to invoke smells of roses and chocolates instead reek of burnt oil and melting bone. It's a smell he never wanted to whiff again, hence why he locked the portal gates immediately after coronation.

“You gave me no choice but to fight. You…you gave up everything you loved, under the guise of retaking the throne…my throne.”

It’s still not enough. He hasn’t recalled it all. If he really has recalled everything, then… Oh gods.

“You…”

How do you put it?

“You…you’re…”

How do you put it.

“You’re…supposed to be…"

Alm's hand rescinds. It's too late to hold it in now.

"...dead.”

when the rain starts to fall

[levispersonalslave]

Sorry friend if I'm annoying you. But, I had an idea for Valentine's Day.

Husband Levi Ackerman x wife reader

It's Valentine's Day and Levi is on a business trip and wouldn't arrive until a week later. But what his wife doesn't know is that it was all part of his plan.

She is sitting on the couch alone eating popcorn and watching a cheesy romantic movie. The doorbell rings and when she opens it, Levi is there with red flowers and a heart-shaped chocolate box filled with cherry liqueur, her favorite.

Levi surprised her this time because he had ordered dinner to be delivered to the house.

What's more, on the trip he was on, he bought several liquid soap capsules for them to try. It would be a romantic night between them in the bathtub.

Don’t be in a rush to write and take your time.

If you don't like it, please ignore it. And if the same person is making another request, please ignore it.

If you like it and want to change it, feel free to do it your way.

Good week to you. ❤️🌹

HI DEARR you are never EVER annoying me, EVER. This idea is the CUTESTTT

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐋’𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐮𝐧 𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞 !

Husband!Levi Ackerman × Wife!Reader, Modern Au, wc 0.7k, Sweet fluff (ˊᗜˋ*)

The apartment feels emptier without him.

With him away on business—not due back for another week—you settle into the hush of your solitude, curled up on the couch with a bowl of popcorn balanced in your lap. The television hums softly, flickering shadows stretching and retreating across the walls as a romantic movie plays out before you.

You sigh, absently tossing a kernel into your mouth just as the on-screen couple embraces beneath the rain. Their kiss is slow, cinematic, and laced with a kind of longing that feels far too grand to be real. How cliché.

And yet. . .

The thought lingers, unbidden.

The sudden chime of the doorbell breaks through the hush, startling in its contrast. You hesitate, setting the bowl aside. Brows knitting in mild confusion, you pad toward the door. Who could possibly be visiting at this hour?

As you pull the door open, the breath catches in your throat.

The night clings to him in silken threads, his suit dusted with cold, his presence unmistakable even against the soft glow of street lamps. A bouquet of velvety red roses rests in one hand, their scent rich, intoxicating. In the other, a heart-shaped box of cherry liqueur chocolates—your favorite. But it’s his eyes that hold you still, dark and intent, warm with something deeper.

“Did you miss me, my love?” His voice is low, edged with quiet amusement, but there is something else beneath it. Something softer, meant only for you.

You blink, momentarily lost. “Levi. . . what’s all this? And what on Earth are you doing here?”

He steps forward, closing the space between you as if it were the easiest thing in the world, and presses a kiss to your forehead—unhurried, reverent. The scent of him—cologne laced with the crisp whisper of winter air—wraps around you, grounding you in a way nothing else can.

“Surprising you,” he murmurs simply.

And then, as though the moment itself conspires with him, the doorbell rings again. You startle, glancing past his shoulder to find a delivery driver standing there, arms full of neatly packed bags.

He exhales a quiet chuckle at your expression, his lips curving. “Dinner,” he explains, handing the driver a tip before turning back to you. His gaze glints with something knowing, something warm. Something entirely him.

“I thought you deserved something special tonight.”

Dinner unfolds in slow, indulgent moments.

The table is set with care, the flickering glow of candlelight turning the space golden. Steam rises from the delicate spread of dishes—saffron-scented risotto, pan-seared scallops draped in butter, warm bread with a crisp crust that crackles as he breaks a piece in half and offers it to you with a knowing smile. The scent of roasted garlic and fresh herbs lingers in the air, mingling with the faint traces of his cologne each time he leans in, his fingers grazing yours as he pours the wine.

Conversation flows as easily as the laughter between sips of deep red merlot. You tell him about the quiet of the week without him, how the apartment felt bigger, colder—though you don’t quite say lonelier. He listens the way he always does, dark eyes intent and absorbing the details as though each word carries weight.

At one point, his thumb brushes the corner of your lips, wiping away a stray crumb. He doesn’t move away immediately. Neither do you.

There is only the warmth of his presence, the richness of the food, and the quiet certainty that you belong here, with him.

Later, when the last of the dishes have been cleared and the remnants of dinner exist only in lingering flavors on your tongue, he takes your hand, guiding you toward the bedroom with an effortless familiarity. From his suitcase, he pulls out a small bag.

“I picked these up while I was away.” His voice is hushed, almost conspiratorial, as he reveals several delicate glass capsules, each filled with shimmering liquid soap in different scents. Lavender, rose, sandalwood. . .

“I thought we could try them together.”

His fingers brush against yours as he hands you one, lingering just long enough to send warmth unfurling beneath your skin. You glance up at him, your heart swelling, a quiet joy pressing against your ribs.

“You really planned all of this?”

His lips quirk, his dark eyes gleaming as he leans in, his breath ghosting against your lips.

“Did you really think I’d let you spend Valentine’s alone?”

⊱ 𝑇𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ⊰ @the-traveling-poet , @pinkberryfox , 𝑑𝑚 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑎𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑑 ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭

ᵎ!ᵎ 𝑑𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑏𝑦 @/cottoncandybtchfck, @/roseschoices, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 [𝑢𝑛𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤𝑛] ᵎ!ᵎ

[isagrimorie]

It’s always frustrating whenever the BAU tackles a case where either the victimology or UnSub has similarities to Prentiss’s background/upbringing but the writers rarely use it to give insights on Prentiss or have Prentiss’s background provide some insights into a case.

As an example, The Performer is an episode featuring Gavin Rossdale as a rockstar whose kayfabe was being a Vampire ala Lestat but fake.

The show could have dove a little into the goth community, a community Emily Prentiss used to be a part of. Did they do that? Unfortunately, no, they hung a lantern on it. The writers had Penelope tease Emily about how she used to dress Goth. Even though, Emily still dressed like one but corporate style.

In the episode, Pleasure is My Business. The UnSub grew up around wealth and privilege and then used sex work to lure her victims.

We discover in Lauren that Prentiss was in a similar enough situation re: Operation Valhalla.

Ala The Americans show, Prentiss used intimacy to get close to Ian Doyle.

Emily Prentiss became Lauren Reynolds because she matched Doyle’s type.

I know the writers had a vague idea of Prentiss’ past only that the writers had breadcrumbs pointing to a rich, mysterious past. They don’t have a crystal ball, but the privileged background could have been a jumping off point for a discussion, an insight to the UnSub’s thoughts.

In the season 16 episode, Orpheus Wrecks, the writers could have again used that case as a way to get more insight into Prentiss’ hidden personal life. As a Politician’s kid, and a somewhat savvy political operator herself, Prentiss would have been as familiar, if more, to the DC wonk space as Bailey was.

Prentiss would also be familiar with the Beltway Elite app even if she didn’t use it herself.

(As a former Spook, the idea of having an app like that in her phone would give Prentiss OpSec paranoia. She would not want her photo distributed everywhere. Being on Politico was enough of a headache for her tbh).

I know Prentiss’ whole thing is she wanted to distance herself from her mother’s political life but she would still have friends and would have known more people as she climbed up the ladder in the FBI.

Other shows like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Elementary, and Person of Interest almost always use a kernel of similarity/parallelism in their various cases of the week as a jumping-off point to tell a richer story about their characters.

Criminal Minds does but selectively.

This is what makes the show frustrating. You can always tell when the show could have threaded the Case/Monster of the Week and connected the case to one of the characters.

Morgan and JJ also needed more exploration. The only one the writers they consistently use this with is Reid.

To the writer’s credit they have vaguely gestured at Emily’s mysterious past— setting up Emily’s existential crisis about her morality in the face of what she’s done while she worked for CIA and JTF-12.

But then the show goes several episodes mentioning the problem, an arc villain, and it’s frustrating!

(I sometimes lowkey wish some Whedon trained writers joined Criminal Minds to establish a good character-to-case ratio. Like, Jane Espenson. Or someone from Person of Interest writers room joining the Evolution writers team. The idea of Denise Thé writing for the CM ladies makes me yearn because delicious character development + inventive messed up twists. Erica Messer does a good job showrunning— a different job altogether than just writing for the show. But also— I yearn! Think about a POI caliber writer in a CM writers room! It would be so good to have, IMO. Not that PoI was entirely perfect either, I have my frustrations too!)

——

Chris Mundy seemed interested in delving into the internal lives of the characters, especially Emily’s. Demonology was really important for our understanding of Emily Prentiss.

Her guilt, her low-key self-loathing— the way she runs from the people she loves because she thinks she’s not worth it. The way she can conform to be anyone to fit into a situation and not stand out.

Her casual regard for sex as a tool to help her get accepted. All things that were helpful for Prentiss when she became a spy.

As Michael Westen from Burn Notice said: “People with happy families don’t become spies. A bad childhood is the perfect background for covert ops.”

TLDR— It’s just frustrating because they’re always nearly at the cusp of a great character driven procedural but then almost always back off from giving us really good food.

[sgiandubh]

Hi Sgian,

I hope you’re doing right. Do you know if this is true?

https://x.com/beefraser/status/1920128387319738878?s=46

Dear Workshop Anon,

You mean, this?

[Source: https://x.com/beefraser/status/1920128387319738878?s=46]

You will probably hate me for this, but my firm answer is I do not know if this is true. Meaning, I have no factual data it is so and I have no factual data to support the contrary.

Translation: 'Rumors that C. is doing workshop with S'.

Now, that phrase does not make any sense in English, does it? And I had to read the comment thread, in order to begin fathoming that people were mentioning both (failed and successful) Everest related movie projects, the recent marathons, etc.

The correct phrase would be: 'Rumors that C is doing workout with S'.

By definition, rumors are expansions of a kernel of truth (e.g.: C and S need to workout, both for their roles and to remain fit), to which a hefty dose of wishful thinking is added (e.g.: C and S actually do workout together on a regular basis). While this is plausible, there is no circumstantial evidence, as of yet: all we have are deductions and conjectures. In my book, it is not enough. And the vocabulary imprecision is pointing me to a naive, heartfelt fanfic premise, rather than a solid tip.

Needless to say, I have more than an ample share of receipts at my disposal to never doubt the couple. I do not need this to keep calm and carry on.

[cozy-sims]

Linux update! (And a few Nvidia tips)

After a dreadful day of trying to make this work, I'm reporting that The Sims 2 finally works on my new Linux system! 😭❤️ Admittedly I have made my own life harder setting this up, but the most important thing I've learned from this experience and thought it might worth sharing:

Before you try to install TS2 on your Linux, make sure that you have your graphics card's driver updated!

When I first installed The Sims 2 on Linux it was incredibly laggy and choppy, because the default Nouveau driver didn't work well enough with my Nvidia card. After I installed the Nvidia driver from the built in driver manager, the game just straightup crashed.

Then I had to find out that Mint's driver manager couldn't install the newest driver for my card (RTX 3070), and even when installed, it didn't work. 😂

So if you have an Nvidia card and struggling or planning to install Linux in the future, below the cut are a few useful tips that I've discovered in the depths of the Internet:

Check what driver the official Nvidia site recommends for your GPU. - I did this and it showed driver version 570.

2. I think this is optional, but open your terminal and type the cmd: sudo apt update - this will trigger Linux to update its driver list.

3. Open Driver Manager, and see if the recommended driver (570 in my case is available). For me it was not available, only the 550, this was my issue.

3.1. If you can see your required driver, awesome, install it from the driver manager and skip to step 5. 3.2. If not, you have to use this PPA. -> Meaning you have to open your terminal and enter the following commands (when I list multiple commands to run, first type the first one, press enter, then type the next one, press enter etc.): sudo add-apt-repository ppa:graphics-drivers/ ppa sudo apt update You can also find installation guide on the link above, but it's basically this. 4. Now you have to restart your system, and repeat Step 3. of this list. The newest driver should show up in your Driver Manager now, install it.

5. After installing, open your terminal and type the following command: inxi -G -> this will allow us to check if the driver works properly. Shock, it did not for me :D When working properly, it should look like this:

Display: x11 server: X.Org v: 21.1.11 with: Xwayland v: 23.2.6 driver: X: loaded: nvidia gpu: nvidia,nvidia-nvswitch resolution: 1:1920x1080~60Hz 2: 1920x1080~60Hz When not working, it looks like this: Example 1: Display: x11 server: X.Org v: 21.1.11 with: Xwayland v: 23.2.6 driver: X: loaded: nouveau unloaded: fbdev,modesetting,vesa failed: nvidia

6. This is the thread that helped me fix this problem. You have to scroll down to the Nvidia Graphics troubleshooting tips.

7. I had to add this "kernel boot parameter": nvidia_drm.fbdev=1 into the system. On this link you can see how to add it either temporarily or "permanently" (meaning you don't have to add it every time you start your system, but it is removable).

To add it permanently, you have to type the following commands into your terminal:

sudo nano /etc/default/grub GRUB_CMDLINE_LINUX_DEFAULT="quiet splash nvidia_drm.fbdev=1" sudo update-grub

8. After you added it, reboot your system, and when it starts again, check if the parameter is there with the command: cat /proc/cmdline

9. If it's there, run the inxi -G command again, and see if it looks like it should.

10. If not, you might have to update the Kernel version of your Linux, which you can do in the Update Manager/View/Linux Kernels menu. I had to update mine from 6.8 to 6.11.

After all this you should be good to install the game, I made my life so much harder than it was necessarily so I hope my research on how to deal with an Nvidia Graphics card with Sims 2 on Linux is helpful to some of you. 😂

[chronicowboy]

i NEED my brain to slow down on the ideas. i currently have 2 novels in progress and a third idea i really want to get started on. a major project, a sitcom and several hundred short stories i want to write for my masters. another tv series i really want to start. and now i'm thinking about eddie moving to texas before he buys a house and buck asks to buy his because it's the only place that's ever felt like home and he's good at haunting, he knows he's good at haunting, and he says you know just in case. just in case a year or so down the line chris decides he wants to come back to LA you guys will have somewhere to come home to. or when chris goes off to college, you could come back, eddie. you don't have to stay there when he's gone. please come back. and eddie is so grateful. so eddie moves and buck breaks his lease and the 118 help him move into eddie's house with worried eyes and poorly held back reservations about the whole situation, but buck is smiling. voice of a man hanging on by a thread, this is what i want guys i'm absolutely certain :D. anyway chimney suggests putting all of buck's spare crap in christopher's room for now and buck snaps and slams the door shut and doesn't let anyone in there. a week of haunting and he comes into the firehouse and still feels like a ghost and bobby finds him on the roof and buck says this is mistake isn't it? i shouldn't have. it's abby all over again. but it's the only place that's ever felt like home, bobby. but home isn't there. home's so far away. i love them. i love them so much. the house is so empty. i'm so alone. and bobby offers to let him stay at his until he can find a new place but buck still has this little kernel of blind hope that his boys will come back so he has to stay. he has to. and then one day on the way home from work he passes an animal shelter and he goes in not expecting anything but then he finds this scruffy adorable little dog looking up at him with so much hope in his desperate little eyes and buck is gone. and the shelter person tells him that they might be soulmates because this little guy was a first responder's dog but their partner brought it in when they died in a fire. and buck takes him home immediately and falls in love with him immediately and things get just a bit brighter. and the dog keeps sniffing at christopher's door until buck finally lets him inside and sits in the middle of christopher's bare room telling this little dog how much he'd love chris. how much chris would love him. cut to: eddie walking through the front door about a month or so later. eddie? hey buck. w-what are you doing here? well, turns out you were right, all i had to do was talk to him. what, um, does that mean exactly? means we're coming home, um, who is this? and eddie falls in love with the dog immediately too but he also falls a little deeper in love with buck and his endless well of loving in the centre of his chest and he says: i was honest with chris. about absolutely everything. and he's wrapping up his life over there whilst i. well, he said he'd only come back home for good on one condition. if i told you the truth that i told him. so, here goes. i love you, evan buckley. i'm in love with you. every bit of you. your eyes, your birthmark, your impulsive dog adopting, your heart, you.

[bambamramfan]

Community Building Secrets

A couple weeks ago the SSC reddit had a discussion "If people want a community so much why aren't we creating it?" I found it really odd since it comes from a place of "here is why community building doesn't happen" and you can tell that in the tone of the comments.

But obviously communities are being made, every day. (There is a secondary problem which is that all communities have some problems - drama, eventual collapse, inequitable burdens, exclusivity, cults of personality, problematic members, etc - but they do EXIST, and presumably people want them despite knowing that problems of some form are likely if not inevitable.) It would be like a reddit thread on "why does no one date" despite, you know, a lot of people dating out there.

So a more legit question would be "why are our community efforts not succeeding? What is the difference between our efforts and the communities that are made."

I don't have nearly all the answers to all their questions, but reading it and thinking on the topic let me crystalize some thoughts I've had for a long time. Thoughts that are very important about how communities start, and how they go forward. I'll put them below the fold.

The Golden and Iron Laws of Communities

The Golden Law of Communities is that you need something shiny to start the kernel of any community. It is nominally the thing the community is "about", but even when it's not explicitly that, it's still the hook that gets people interested.

It could be "we have the word of God and this is how to avoid Hell." It could be "we are all descended from this sacred bloodline." It could be "Sharon hosts dinners and her husband is an executive chef so they are amazing." It could be "this famous blogger is part of the community and you'll get to meet them." It could be "we talk about and run alternative theater." It could be "there are lots of sexy young people and who knows what might happen." It could be drugs, going to water parks, arguing about charities, talking about politics, a favorite scifi author, watching black and white movies, speedrunning videogames, a particularly charismatic founder of the group, or any damn thing.

But you can't just say "hey everyone, let's have weekly dinners and help each other babysit or play boardgames, because community is nice." You have to advertise (even if just by word of mouth) a short idea that motivates people to want to get in on that.

Got that? Can you admit that dark truth? Okay we can move onto the second law.

The Iron Law of Communities is that the thing the community is about doesn't matter.

Two seconds after you have enough people in your group to begin enjoying themselves, someone will ask if they can invite their friend "who is totally cool but aren't really into X" where X is the thing in the Golden Law. Or someone will invite the people in the community to a completely generic event that has nothing to do with X - because they're cool people and you're enjoying hanging out.

And that's... fine? Like you might say yes or no to the request, but either way it will start happening, and your group will do the same things and have the same type of people and same discussions as every other group. Your identity that separates you from other people will dissolve away slowly. (In very official institutions, this will take the form of adjacent informal activities.) Congratulations, you have now made a Community with the potlucks and babysitting share-schedules and networking and incestuous dating drama.

There are of course, communities that fight against the Iron Law harder than others, but it just doesn't really matter. They're just as likely to wither and die as any community eventually, and if they had admitted those adjacent people that wouldn't hasten that day. Most of the communities you see have plenty of "members who don't care about X, are just here for the people/stuff."

If everyone was coming to the events just to see some famous blogger or sparkling charismatic leader, they would soon find out they get very little face time with that person, but there are other people around, and they're fun, and they'll start coming back for those other people and the group activities.

There's a running joke that no matter WHAT your Discord server is about, eventually they'll make a #politics channel, then an #nsfw channel, then a #nsfw-hardcore channel, etc etc. And that's where most of the chatter will take place in, eventually.

[victoriadallonfan]

Contessa Respect Thread (Complete)

I initially completed Contessa's Respect Thread all the way back in the ancient year of 2015. Discord was barely being utilized, the IIRC was active, Wildbow was traumatizing me with Twig eye-horror, and I was far less ugly.

It was about time I updated the information and add new stuff from Ward onto it.

Contessa is probably one of the most misunderstood characters Wildbow has written, which is saying something when Taylor, Amy, and Vic are right there.

I think people get so obsessed with her power that they don't notice the ramifications and weaknesses this power gives her as a human being.

She's a Joan of Arc, the voice guiding her on the holy path, but to slay God instead of serve It. Much like Joan, she's isolated, alone, never really getting to grow up.

Not in the sense that she's unintelligent, but that she's never needed to come to terms with her own personal trauma or issues (especially her Mother Issues: the fact that she is the one who gave DM the name 'Doctor Mother' and would constantly seek out her advice + watch over her in her sleep + be too nervous to voice her concerns...).

Not even getting into how she couldn't allow herself to grieve for Number Man and Alexandria, whom she shared close relations with.

Much like Joan, Contessa is ultimately destroyed for following her path, but that kernel of Fortuna - the child who wanted to protect her family and the world - ultimately can be roused to fight her own power (in another way, fighting a new God) and aid humanity one last time.

I do think it's a shame that WB only gave her a few days to be free of her power, and that it could have maybe been expanded on, but I like the tragedy of her story and how Teacher represents many of the consequences of her actions.

I don't think there'd be any real interesting fights for her, but rather interesting scenarios.

How would Contessa deal with being on a Culture ship, where she no longer needs to do anything to live a peaceful life?

How would Contessa deal with being in the Otherverse of Pact and Pale, where Higher Powers roam about and humanity as a whole is under sway of their pacts (see what I did there?)

I think Contessa and Shazam would be the most interesting personal interaction: 2 children given god-like powers and burdens (by accident and by choice), and both of them dealing with that burden in different ways.

[see-arcane]

“You know,” Dracula hums by the fireplace, the flames a shade dimmer than his own eyes. “I do believe I am becoming paranoid in my old age. Yet I keep my things in such precarious order, all things where they must be.” A log pops. His eyes flash. “Where they should be. And so I have noticed that my own bedroom was disturbed during the day.”

“Oh?” Voice level, Jonathan. Voice steady, Jonathan. Surprise. Concern. “How so? I was under the impression the door was locked.”

“So it was. And yet, I can tell something was...” His nails drum on the mantel, the click of claws, “...different. Meddled with somehow.”

Something between foolishness, sleeplessness, and a smoldering kernel of ire sparks in Jonathan’s chest. Its embers travel up to his tongue.

“Nothing was stolen, I hope. I admit I had a mild scare some time ago, when I realized I couldn’t find certain things in my luggage. Only it occurred to me that your servants must have already taken them away to clean and hold aside for my departure.” A smile so easy it borders on suicidal curls on his face. It feels like a rictus. Maybe it will see him dead right then. “The people here are the most discreet I’ve ever encountered.”

Dracula raises a snowy brow.

“That they are. As discreet as spiders minding their web.” Then, a sudden swerve out of the growing cloud. He oozes mirth. “Have you seen any here, my friend? Spiders?”

“None.” He hadn’t. Dust, motheaten holes, but no spiders.

“That is because of my people as well. More, it is the work of local aid.” His grin has too many teeth. “The bats quite love them. Whenever I or my servants come across a spider indoors, we save it for them. All those that would dare to come crawling along the outer walls?” He snaps his fingers. “They are eaten before they can spin their first thread. It is a most lucrative exchange.”

Jonathan fights not to swallow, not to acknowledge the cold twisting in his stomach.

“I’m certain.”

“A hypothetical question for you. Which would you rather be, my friend? Of the two, I mean.” Dracula’s hand is on him again, itself a titanic white spider. Cold and immovable from his shoulder. It squeezes just short of bruising. “A spider or a bat?”

“I wouldn’t know, Count. Neither is the best choice."

“No?”

The hand is tighter.

“No.” Under the table, Jonathan crosses his fingers. “The best choice is a cat.”

The grip lightens and amusement sketches a change in the Count’s expression.

“Why a cat?”

“They can get away with much more,” Jonathan’s traitor tongue flies. He bites it. “If only for the fact of their comparative harmlessness as they serve their masters as they entertain and accompany. This, while it provides a more handy service in hunting pests of all sorts, be it spider and bat or beetle and rat. In exchange for doing the dual work of tending to the home and being pleasant and defenseless, the more powerful keeper ensures they’re housed and,” he gulps down glass, hot coals, acid, “and loved. A cat can only do so much, but it does just enough.”

Dracula shakes his head.

“Enough to get themselves in trouble, perhaps. No, my friend, if we must leave the smaller creatures behind, I must say a wolf is the better choice. He eats all in his path and has no master at all.” The cold hand gives another squeeze, the nails dimpling cloth and skin...then relaxes. Strokes. “But cats have their place as well. If kept in their proper place...”

The night goes on in this way for endless hours. And still Jonathan’s fingers are crossed out of sight. He has a fondness for cats. Even for spiders. He appreciates all creatures who take it upon themselves to hunt and cull those things that infest or take lives by little bites. But more than either, he has always had a fondness and fealty to dogs.

As the moon drags itself slowly across the sky, he imagines he hears their barking and baying meeting the wild cry of the wolves, and shepherd teeth sinking deep into bloodthirsty throats.

[bayesic-bitch]

Old-school planning vs new-school learning is a false dichotomy

I wanted to follow up on this discussion I was having with @metamatar, because this was getting from the original point and justified its own thread. In particular, I want to dig into this point

rule based planners, old school search and control still outperform learning in many domains with guarantees because end to end learning is fragile and dependent on training distribution. Lydia Kavraki's lab recently did SIMD vectorisation to RRT based search and saw like a several hundred times magnitude jump for performance on robot arms – suddenly severely hurting the case for doing end to end learning if you can do requerying in ms. It needs no signal except robot start, goal configuration and collisions. Meanwhile RL in my lab needs retraining and swings wildly in performance when using a slightly different end effector.

In general, the more I learn about machine learning and robotics, the less I believe that the dichotomies we learn early on actually hold up to close scrutiny. Early on we learn about how support vector machines are non-parametric kernel methods, while neural nets are parametric methods that update their parameters by gradient descent. And this is true, until you realize that kernel methods can be made more efficient by making them parametric, and large neural networks generalize because they approximate non-parametric kernel methods with stationary parameters. Early on we learn that model-based RL learns a model that it uses for planning, while model free methods just learn the policy. Except that it's possible to learn what future states a policy will visit and use this to plan without learning an explicit transition function, using the TD learning update normally used in model-free RL. And similar ideas by the same authors are the current state-of-the-art in offline RL and imitation learning for manipulation Is this model-free? model-based? Both? Neither? does it matter?

In my physics education, one thing that came up a lot is duality, the idea that there are typically two or more equivalent representations of a problem. One based on forces, newtonian dynamics, etc, and one as a minimization* problem. You can find the path that light will take by knowing that the incoming angle is always the same as the outgoing angle, or you can use the fact that light always follows the fastest* path between two points.

I'd like to argue that there's a similar but underappreciated analog in AI research. Almost all problems come down to optimization. And in this regard, there are two things that matter -- what you're trying to optimize, and how you're trying to optimize it. And different methods that optimize approximately the same objective see approximately similar performance, unless one is much better than the other at doing that optimization. A lot of classical planners can be seen as approximately performing optimization on a specific objective.

Let me take a specific example: MCTS and policy optimization. You can show that the Upper Confidence Bound algorithm used by MCTS is approximately equal to regularized policy optimization. You can choose to guide the tree search with UCB (a classical bandit algorithm) or policy optimization (a reinforcement learning algorithm), but the choice doesn't matter much because they're optimizing basically the same thing. Similarly, you can add a state occupancy measure regularization to MCTS. If you do, MCTS reduces to RRT in the case with no rewards. And if you do this, then the state-regularized MCTS searches much more like a sampling-based motion planner instead of like the traditional UCB-based MCTS planner. What matters is really the objective that the planner was trying to optimize, not the specific way it was trying to optimize it.

For robotics, the punchline is that I don't think it's really the distinction of new RL method vs old planner that matters. RL methods that attempt to optimize the same objective as the planner will perform similarly to the planner. RL methods that attempt to optimize different objectives will perform differently from each other, and planners that attempt to optimize different objectives will perform differently from each other. So I'd argue that the brittleness and unpredictability of RL in your lab isn't because it's RL persay, but because standard RL algorithms don't have long-horizon exploration term in their loss functions that would make them behave similarly to RRT. If we find a way to minimize the state occupancy measure loss described in the above paper other theory papers, I think we'll see the same performance and stability as RRT, but for a much more general set of problems. This is one of the big breakthroughs I'm expecting to see in the next 10 years in RL.

*okay yes technically not always minimization, the physical path can can also be an inflection point or local maxima, but cmon, we still call it the Principle of Least Action.