GG Says The Future Is Nice

Plant good things

[pollux-starsz]

what do you call it when a cryptid and a daydreamer get together? no idea but anyways,

DCA Slasher AU belongs to @wyervan! check them out!

Love your boys so much I have WAYYY too many writings in progress. An entire google document with almost 70 pages now (in fact this writing itself has 10,260 words in it. been working on it allll week LOL)

......the brainrot... its gotten me....... i need certain two serial killers to kiss me. for i am dying....

long writing under the cut!

Tangled Mornings

Kalamela’s footsteps were slow and unsteady as she trudged down the hallway toward the bathroom. Her head throbbed with the pressure of an oncoming cluster headache, and she could already feel the familiar ache building at the base of her skull. Sleep had been a distant memory; her dreams were more like fragments of anxiety that never quite pieced together. Every muscle in her body felt tight, exhausted, and she couldn’t even remember the last time she’d felt fully rested.

She reached the bathroom and flicked on the harsh fluorescent lights, wincing as they lit up the space around her. The reflection staring back at her made her groan aloud. Her hair was a tangled mess, her face pale with exhaustion, her makeup from the night before smeared in places she hadn’t even realized. The usual pep she carried was nowhere to be found—just the dull weight of a bad night’s sleep and the dull throb of her impending headache.

“Ugh. Not today,” she muttered under her breath as she dragged a brush through her hair, tugging at the knots. The brush snagged in her hair as she tried to make it look presentable. It was a losing battle from the start.

The sudden creak of floorboards outside the bathroom barely registered at first. Then, the sound of the bathroom door creaking open hit her, and she sighed. She didn’t have the energy for this today.

“Occupied!” she snapped, still bent over the sink, struggling with her hair.

Moon, however, didn’t seem to care. He didn’t even hesitate as he poked his head through the door with that lazy, nonchalant grin of his. The toothbrush was sticking out of his mouth like a defiant flag.

“Mmmph. Brushing,” he said, foam bubbling up from his mouth as if it were some sort of toothpaste rebellion.

Kalamela barely spared him a glance, though she could feel the annoyance creeping up on her. “Moon, there are other bathrooms in this house, y’know,” she said flatly, trying to wrestle the brush through another stubborn knot.

Moon shrugged casually, unfazed by her irritation. “Nah, this one’s closer.” He stepped inside, still brushing his teeth, and leaned against the doorframe as if he owned the place.

She rolled her eyes, still trying to get through the mess of hair. “Well, I’m gonna need you to back off before this bathroom becomes out of service.”

He only grinned wider, not the least bit intimidated. The bathroom space felt smaller the closer he got, and soon, he was standing behind her—just close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body. Moon was tall, towering over her easily, but instead of just lingering behind her, he made himself more present.

Before she could say anything else, he leaned down, his breath warm against her neck as he stepped closer, pressing his chest against her back. Kalamela froze as his body blocked her from moving away. His large frame loomed over her, and suddenly, the mirror in front of them wasn’t just a reflection—he was in it too, inches away from her, so close that she could feel every subtle movement.

His fingers lightly cupped her face, his thumb and fingers gently holding her jaw, as if he were inspecting her. His breath tickled her ear as he leaned even closer, his chest pressing firmly into her back, causing her heart to skip, but she refused to let him see it. His fingers were light on her skin, almost like he was teasing her, but his closeness was anything but innocent.

“You look... a little rough today, K,” Moon teased, his voice soft but laced with a hint of something more playful. “Didn’t sleep well? Maybe thinking too much?”

Kalamela blinked slowly, her eyelids heavy from exhaustion and the dull, pounding ache in her head that had been steadily building. She tried to focus on anything else but how close he was, how his body practically engulfed hers, and how his fingers were so gentle against her skin, his touch there but not demanding.

But her reaction? Nothing.

Not even a twitch of a smile. Her face remained the same—stubborn, annoyed, tired. She just stood there, blinking at the mirror, her face an unreadable mask as Moon held her face in his hands. His thumb lightly brushed over her cheek, but she couldn’t summon the energy to even roll her eyes at him.

Moon’s grin faltered just the slightest bit as he noticed her lack of reaction. He held her face a little longer, trying to gauge her response, but there was nothing. No playful smile. No sarcastic comeback. Just silence.

He let out a frustrated breath, irritated that she wasn’t playing along. She wasn’t even looking at him, her gaze still fixed on her reflection.

He stepped back slightly, but only enough to move his face into her line of sight in the mirror. His eyebrow quirked as he watched her face—still expressionless—before he finally spoke again, voice tinged with a little more exasperation.

“Damn, you really are cranky and bitchy today, huh?” His words were sharp, but there was an edge of curiosity beneath the teasing. He wasn’t used to her being this... unresponsive.

Kalamela didn’t flinch. Her eyes narrowed slightly, but the headache pounding against her skull made her even more stubborn. She wasn’t going to entertain him today. Her head throbbed with each passing second, the dull pain in her temples making it harder to even hold her eyes open, but she wasn’t going to let Moon see her weakened.

“Yeah, guess I am,” she muttered, her voice flat as she finally pulled away from the sink. The brush in her hand went down a little too hard on her hair, but she didn’t care anymore. “Could be because I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck and, oh, I don’t know... maybe because I didn’t sleep last night?”

She wasn’t angry at him, not exactly, but the combination of everything—the headache, the sleepless night, and his blatant teasing—was wearing her thin. Her patience was already stretched to its limit, and he was pushing just a little too hard.

Moon didn’t move right away, still standing behind her. His gaze lingered on her for a moment, as if he were trying to process her reaction. She wasn’t giving him the playful banter he was used to, and it was honestly a little surprising. The usual back-and-forth between them was gone, replaced by this strange, quiet tension.

The silence stretched on for a few seconds before Moon’s expression softened ever so slightly.

“Alright, alright,” he said with a sigh, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I get it. You’re in a mood.”

Kalamela didn’t respond, just focused on the reflection of herself in the mirror, feeling the weight of the headache pressing against her temples. She didn’t want to deal with anyone, least of all Moon. But despite the irritation and exhaustion, she couldn’t completely block out the fact that the tension between them felt different this time. He was too close, and she was too tired to care about the usual push-and-pull of their teasing.

When she finally stepped away from the mirror, Moon didn’t say anything else. He just watched her for a moment longer, then turned to walk out of the bathroom without another word. His footsteps echoed faintly down the hallway, leaving her in the quiet emptiness of the space.

Kalamela stood there for a moment, rubbing her temples in an attempt to dull the headache. She stared at her reflection for a while longer, feeling the weight of the morning, and Moon’s lingering presence, settle in her chest.

Kalamela moved like a ghost across the kitchen floor, slow and quiet and completely out of sync with her usual colorful energy. She stood by the toaster, arms crossed, her face blank—but it wasn’t peaceful. It was that kind of blank that buzzed with frustration just under the surface.

Sun, busy at the counter with his box of cornflakes, peeked over at her again, puzzled. Her silence was throwing him off big time. She always greeted him, always had something smart or sweet to say, even if she was exhausted. Today? Nothing. Not even a glance.

He fidgeted a little with the cereal box flap. “Kandy… y’alright?”

Before she could reply—if she even planned to—Moon strolled in, still drying his hands on the hem of his hoodie. He looked entirely too smug for how early it was.

“She’s got a headache,” Moon said, like it was the answer to a riddle. He strolled to the pantry, yanked out his Cocoa Puffs, and added with zero tact, “And she’s in one of her moods.”

Kalamela didn’t even acknowledge him. Just leaned on the counter like she was trying to melt into it, eyes squinting half-shut like the light was personally attacking her.

Sun blinked and looked between them. “Uh… moods? Like—what happened?”

Moon made a thoughtful little “hmm” noise and wandered to the fridge for milk. “Oh, not much. Just walked in on her being cranky and cute. Tried to tease it outta her. Y’know… got real close, leaned in, held her face like I was about to whisper sweet nothings in her ear or bite her neck or something.” He glanced over his shoulder at Sun, smirking. “She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just stood there like I was furniture. Staring in the mirror like I wasn’t even there.”

Sun choked on his cereal. “You what?!”

“I was tryin’ to make her laugh!” Moon defended, holding up both hands in mock innocence. “Or roll her eyes or punch me, something. But nah. I got nothing. Not even a glare.” He turned back to the bowl and poured his cereal like a man reliving a spiritual defeat. “She’s that far gone.”

Sun tilted his head, brow furrowing. “Why would you even do that?”

“’Cause I’m a menace,” Moon said flatly, then jabbed a finger toward Kalamela. “And she usually bites back. I poke, she snarls. It’s our thing. But today?” He gave Sun a pointed look. “Today she just let it happen. Didn’t even blink. That’s not normal for her.”

Kalamela finally spoke, her voice hoarse and low. “You could’ve just minded your business.”

“Oh, but that’s boring,” Moon said breezily, flopping into a chair at the table with his bowl. “I was tryna see if you still had a pulse.”

Sun glanced at her, a little more serious now. “You really don’t feel good, huh.”

She didn’t answer. Just quietly retrieved her waffles from the toaster and set them on a plate, moving with mechanical focus. The microwave buzzed in the background as she added syrup and butter without really tasting it.

Moon took a bite of his cereal, crunching obnoxiously. “Told ya. Cluster headache. She gets ‘em sometimes. Real nasty ones.”

Sun frowned. “Does she need to lie down?”

“No,” Kalamela muttered, finally sitting down with her plate. “I need to work.”

“You sure?”

She just gave a small nod and kept eating.

Moon leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “She’s stubborn. Don’t worry, she’ll be fine. Probably snarl at a customer and then feel better.”

Sun gave a soft little laugh, though his eyes lingered on her with quiet concern. “Okay… just tell me if I can help. Seriously.”

Kalamela nodded again. That was all she could manage.

Moon? He just kept munching Cocoa Puffs, like this was any other morning.

Except it wasn’t.

The door to Crystal Cove hissed shut behind Kalamela as she left for work, sunglasses perched low on her nose despite the clouds hanging stubbornly overhead. The air outside was heavy, cool but sticky, and it only worsened the dull pressure pounding behind her right eye. The headache was a beast today, tight and biting, coiling just behind her temple like it was waiting for her to falter. But bills were bills, and she had mouths to feed—Honeybun needed his favorite crunchies, and Mango had been throwing seed shrapnel around the apartment like a tiny, vengeful grenade artist.

Her rollerblades clicked down the sidewalk, fast and aggressive, every stride a little sharper than usual. She knew she looked like she’d been dragged through the wringer—hell, she felt it—but the warm buzz of her drive-in job offered a strange kind of comfort. She liked the simplicity of it. The chatter. The predictability. And the occasional teenage drama she got to eavesdrop on while balancing five milkshakes at once.

Meanwhile, across town, the arcade flickered to life like a waking creature. Neon lights lit up row after row of game cabinets, casting soft colored reflections across polished floors and plastic tokens.

Moon leaned back in his chair, casually crunching his cereal as Sun shot him a look. The tension from the bathroom scene was still hanging in the air, and Moon was just loving it.

Sun broke the silence first, shaking his head. “You’re really something else, you know that?”

Moon smirked, not even a little bit fazed. “Yup, that’s me. The one and only menace.”

Sun let out a small sigh, running a hand through his hair. “She’s got a headache, Moon. Maybe don’t poke the bear today, yeah?”

Moon just shrugged, clearly unbothered. “It’s not like I was trying to bite her neck or anything. I was just seeing if I could get a reaction out of her. You know, like we always do.”

“Yeah, well, she wasn’t in the mood for it today,” Sun shot back, now giving Moon a more pointed look. “She’s not gonna entertain you when she feels like garbage.”

“I know, I know, but I was just testing the waters!” Moon said with a lazy grin, leaning back further in his chair. “She’s usually so... interactive, you know? I lean in close, get her riled up, and we’re off to the races. But today? Today, it was like I was talking to a brick wall.”

“Could be ‘cause she’s got a massive headache and didn’t sleep,” Sun added, a little more irritated now. “So yeah, maybe cut her some slack. She’s not a punching bag.”

Moon let out a dramatic sigh, pretending to be put off. “Ugh, fine. But you know what I mean. It’s like... she was there, but she wasn’t. It was like I wasn’t even in the room with her.”

Sun shook his head, voice dry. “You really think that’s a good idea, not being in the room with her?”

Moon didn’t miss a beat. “She didn’t seem to mind,” he said, munching on his cereal. “In fact, she didn’t even look at me once. Just kept staring at the mirror, like I was some background prop.”

Sun raised an eyebrow, giving Moon a look that said, really?. “You're seriously that surprised she didn’t bite your head off?”

Moon shrugged, unbothered by the insinuation. “Hey, she usually would’ve given me something. A glare. A snarky comment. A punch to the shoulder. But nothing today. She just let me do whatever.”

Sun gave him a flat look. “Maybe she was just done with your crap.”

“Aw, c’mon, I’m fun,” Moon said, rolling his eyes but still looking smug. “She loves it when I mess with her. She just... didn’t have the energy for it today, I guess.”

Sun crossed his arms and leaned back, giving Moon a skeptical look. “Uh-huh. Sure. That’s why you always push it, huh? You’re a glutton for punishment.”

Moon grinned, completely unfazed. “What can I say? I like to live dangerously.”

Sun just rubbed his forehead in frustration. “You’re ridiculous. But whatever. I don’t think you need to keep trying to get under her skin when she’s like this. She’s already dealing with enough.”

Moon paused for a second, eyeing Sun’s more serious expression. “Yeah, alright. I get it. I’ll give her space... for now.” He took a bite of his cereal, clearly not thrilled about the whole situation but willing to let it go for the moment. “But if she snaps back at me later, I’ll know I’ve won.”

Sun rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “You’re incorrigible.”

Moon’s grin didn’t fade. “Yep, that’s me.”

Meanwhile, back at Crystal Cove...

Kalamela dragged her feet across the greasy tile floor of the drive-in, her entire body aching in ways she couldn’t quite describe. The headache was still there, a constant pulse behind her right eye, but now it was competing with the dull ache of her feet from standing too long. The shift had already been hell—and it wasn’t even halfway through.

The first thing that greeted her when she stepped behind the counter was a mountain of sticky trays and spilled soda cups, the remnants of customers who apparently thought it was funny to just leave their trash everywhere. The burger grease smeared across the counter looked like it was in there for life. The smell of fried food and spilled milkshakes was beginning to blend together in an almost suffocating fog.

A customer at the far end of the drive-in leaned out of his car window, waving like he was trying to flag down a helicopter. “Hey, you! Took you long enough! Can I get my damn order?”

Kalamela didn’t even look up. “It’s right there on the tray,” she muttered under her breath, already shuffling toward the window, grabbing a rag to wipe down the sticky counter as she went. The last thing she needed was a lecture about timing from someone who probably couldn’t even see past the greasy spoon in front of him.

She handed over the bag of food with a smile that was more of a grimace, her muscles stiff from the day’s non-stop demands. The customer barely said thank you before speeding off, leaving her alone in the back again.

The lunch rush had come and gone, but it hadn’t slowed down. Her arms were sore from carrying tray after tray of food out to impatient customers. The line at the window never seemed to shorten, and no matter how fast she moved, there was always something else demanding her attention—whether it was a drink spill, a messed-up order, or another customer who was too important to wait.

Her uniform, if you could call it that, was a chaotic mix of grease stains, splashes of ketchup, and whatever else had been flung in her direction during the madness. By now, she was pretty sure her hair had been through more trauma than it could handle, the messy bun falling apart with every swing of her head. She didn’t care anymore. Nothing felt right. Nothing felt like it was going to let up anytime soon.

“Can I get a refill on my milkshake?” someone from the back booth shouted, snapping her out of her frustrated haze.

Kalamela blinked, pausing for a second. Her legs felt like they were about to give way, but she had to keep moving. The shift had to end at some point, right? She was just about to answer when another tray of food slipped from the counter, and she groaned audibly.

Why was today like this?

She grabbed the spilled fries, muttering curses under her breath as she moved to collect everything. If she had any hope of keeping her head above water today, she’d have to power through it. The constant mess. The endless stream of rude, complaining customers. The greasy air. And the annoying jingles of the drive-in's speakers blasting in the background as if they had a personal vendetta against her sanity.

As she made her way back to the window, trying her best not to look as worn out as she felt, her eyes fell on a group of teenagers parked just a few spaces away, laughing and shouting over each other. They were holding their phones up and making a big show of taking photos of their food like it was some kind of life-changing experience.

Kalamela wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but the only thing she could manage was an exhausted sigh as she slid the tray of fries through the window to a waiting customer. This was life today, apparently.

She just had to make it through a few more hours.

The sound of the bell above the door jingled, and she glanced up for the umpteenth time today. A new group of people had walked in, their loud chatter only adding to the noise that was already spinning in her brain.

Time went by and now it cycled back to the Arcade.

The final ten minutes of the shift dragged on, each second feeling heavier than the last. The usual post-busy buzz of the arcade had quieted, leaving behind the faint hum of machines and the occasional rattle of a coin sliding into a slot. Sun leaned against the soda machine, legs outstretched as he let out a long, exaggerated sigh. The day had been a grind, but it was almost over.

Moon, crouched behind the counter, was hunched over a jammed drawer, muttering curses under his breath as he twisted the screwdriver with little patience. His hoodie was rumpled, sleeves rolled up, and his focus was sharp. He had a look of pure annoyance, the kind that came from dealing with the kind of machinery that seemed to malfunction just to mess with him.

"Seriously, why do we always get stuck fixing this junk?" Moon grumbled, wrenching the drawer open again with a soft thud.

"Because we're too good for the easy jobs," Sun quipped lazily, not moving from his spot.

Moon rolled his eyes, clearly not in the mood for jokes. "Yeah, tell that to the broken drawer."

Just as Sun was about to reply, the phone rang, shrill and unexpected in the stillness of the arcade. Sun blinked in surprise; the phone wasn’t exactly a hotline for emergencies. Nobody ever called this number. He dragged himself off the soda machine, a groan escaping as he trudged over to answer.

"Superstar Arcade, Sun speaking," he answered, voice flat but polite, even though his exhaustion was starting to show.

"Hey, Sunshine," came Kalamela’s voice, a little muffled but still familiar. Sun immediately straightened up at the sound. "I’ve got a bit of a situation."

Sun raised an eyebrow, shifting the phone against his ear. "What happened?"

"My bike broke down. I’m at the old auto shop on River. I... uh, can you guys come pick me up?" She sounded more annoyed than anything, but there was a slight edge to her voice that told him it wasn’t just a minor inconvenience.

"Of course," Sun said, not skipping a beat. "Stay put. We’ll be there in ten."

"You’re the best," she said, but Sun could hear the faint sarcasm there, like it was just another minor hiccup in her day. The kind of thing you roll with when you’ve had a crap shift.

"Yeah, yeah. Hang tight," Sun replied, hanging up the phone. He turned to Moon, who had already started to move toward the door, coat in hand.

"You know where to go?" Moon asked, his tone dry but casual.

"River," Sun replied, grabbing his jacket. "Old auto shop."

"Great," Moon muttered, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Another scenic drive at night."

Sun shot him a look, more tired than annoyed. "Stop complaining. Let's go."

The door swung open with a soft creak as they stepped out into the cool evening air. Moon pulled the keys from the wall with a flourish, the jingling sound too familiar at this point. The car was parked a few spaces away, and the drive to the auto shop would take no more than ten minutes, but Sun didn’t mind. He could use the break, even if it was just a quick ride.

Moon threw himself into the driver’s seat, slinging the keys around his finger before tossing them to Sun. “You’re in charge of the music. I’m driving, but I’m not responsible for your taste.”

Sun smirked, flicking the keys between his fingers before tossing them into the ignition. “You’re lucky I’m even letting you drive.”

“Oh, I know,” Moon replied, giving a sharp look as he started the engine. “I’m basically your chauffeur.”

Sun’s eyes rolled, but he didn’t say anything else. The drive was quick, with only the sounds of the engine and the occasional murmur of Moon’s half-formed complaints filling the space between them. As they pulled up to the auto shop, Sun could see Kalamela sitting on the curb, her back slouched against the cracked pavement, motorcycle resting awkwardly beside her.

Sun threw the car into park and was out of the door before Moon could finish his sarcastic remark. “There she is,” Sun muttered, walking toward her with an exaggerated yawn.

Kalamela looked up as they approached, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Took you guys long enough," she said with a raised eyebrow, but the frustration was already gone, replaced by her usual cool demeanor.

“Had to wait for Moon to finish complaining,” Sun teased back, the weariness in his voice replaced by his usual light sarcasm.

Moon rolled his eyes from behind Sun, holding up a hand as he approached. “It’s a gift, really. You should try it sometime.”

Kalamela let out a short laugh, standing up and dusting herself off. "I swear, you two are the most dramatic pair I know."

Sun held up his hands, grinning. “What can I say? We aim to please.”

The ride back was quiet—though it wasn’t uncomfortable. Moon’s hands gripped the wheel lightly as he drove, his focus sharp and methodical, while Sun sat beside him, lazily fiddling with the radio. The road was familiar, their route worn by routine, but it felt different tonight, quieter, like the entire world was holding its breath, waiting for something. Maybe it was just the end of the shift, the lingering exhaustion in the air, but it hung there, a little heavier than usual.

Kalamela leaned against the passenger window, her forehead resting against the cool glass as the blur of city lights passed by. She had kicked off her boots earlier, now resting her feet on the floorboard, arms crossed tightly over her chest. The weight of the day pressed on her like a vice, and she didn’t care enough to hide it. The longer the drive went on, the more her frustration from earlier began to creep back in.

“So, what happened with your bike?” Sun asked, his voice breaking the silence. His words came out light, teasing even, though there was a small undertone of genuine curiosity. “You get stranded on the side of the road, or did it just decide to up and die?”

Kalamela didn’t look at him. She just stared straight ahead, her eyes narrowed as she responded, her tone sharp. “The chain snapped. Pretty much all my bad luck at once.”

“Oh, that’s it?” Sun smirked, his voice still carrying that teasing lilt. “Was hoping for a more dramatic ‘stuck on the side of the highway with no service’ kind of story.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Kalamela shot back, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m not that dramatic.”

Moon chuckled dryly from the backseat, his eyes briefly flicking to the rearview mirror. “Isn’t that your whole thing, though? Dramatic, chaotic, always in the middle of something?”

Kalamela glared at him but didn’t respond, choosing to roll her eyes instead. She could feel the tension slowly creeping back in, like it was following her home. “Sure. If you want to make my life sound like a shitty soap opera.”

“Hey, wouldn’t be much of a show without the drama,” Moon retorted casually, turning his attention back to the road as he weaved through the streets.

Kalamela didn’t feel like engaging with him further. The day had been long, and the sarcastic remarks coming from both of them only reminded her of how much she just wanted to be left alone for a bit.

Minutes passed, and soon they were pulling up in front of her house. The familiar sight of her front porch, the garden lit by the soft glow of the streetlights—everything looked still, almost like nothing had changed. Sun was the first to open the door, stretching his arms above his head with a groan. "Home sweet home," he muttered under his breath.

Moon followed suit, his steps slow but deliberate as he pulled the keys from the ignition. “Try not to wreck anything on your way inside. I’d hate to have to fix whatever mess you make.”

Kalamela, still irritated from earlier, didn’t even bother with a response. She simply opened the car door and climbed out, dragging her feet as she made her way up to the front door.

“Thanks for the ride,” she said, voice clipped, not looking at either of them as she reached for her keys. She didn’t feel like pretending she was in a good mood anymore.

“No problem. You’d do the same for us, right?” Sun replied, his tone light as he adjusted his jacket.

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered. “But not with that much enthusiasm.”

“I’m sorry, did you just insult me?” Sun’s voice had the same teasing edge as always, but it was clear he was just giving her a hard time.

Kalamela shot him a look over her shoulder, her face expressionless. “Maybe.”

“See you inside,” Sun said with a shrug, stepping back toward the sidewalk. He made his way toward the house, leaving Moon to follow her inside.

The door creaked open, and as soon as it did, she immediately tossed her bag on the couch, flopping down beside it with a dramatic groan. “God, finally,” she muttered, letting her legs sprawl out in front of her.

Moon wandered in behind her, his hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. “Tough day, huh?”

“Yeah, real tough,” she shot back, letting her body go limp as she sank deeper into the couch. “I’m really living the dream over here.”

Moon flopped down next to her, his legs splayed out in an almost identical fashion. “I can tell. You’ve got that ‘I’m done with everything’ look.”

“Gee, thanks, that’s exactly how I’m feeling,” she replied dryly, her eyes scanning the ceiling as she tried to relax.

Just then, the sound of running water could be heard in the background, and Sun poked his head back into the living room, still toweling his hair off. “I’m just gonna shower, try not to burn the place down while I’m gone.”

Moon glanced at him, his expression unamused. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll make sure she doesn’t break anything.”

Kalamela sat up slightly, her eyes flicking to Sun. “I’ll make sure I don’t break you if you don’t stop talking.”

Sun grinned before disappearing back down the hallway, leaving Moon to sink further into the couch.

For a while, there was silence, broken only by the sounds of the house settling and Sun’s voice faintly coming from the shower. Kalamela closed her eyes, the exhaustion from the day catching up with her. She wanted to sleep, to not think about the frustration she had felt earlier or the mess she’d left behind at work. But despite how much she just wanted to zone out, her mind wouldn’t shut off.

Moon, on the other hand, was unbothered, his eyes flicking toward the TV, though he didn’t pay much attention to what was on. Instead, he let the sounds of the night fill the space.

After a few more moments of quiet, he turned to her. “You know, we could’ve done something more fun tonight. Could’ve gone to get some food or something.”

“I don’t need your pity night out,” she shot back, her voice a little sharper than she intended. “I just need to sit down and not deal with any of this for five minutes.”

The ride back to the house was a bit quieter than usual, but Moon’s presence in the car was still as teasing as ever. Every time the tires hit a bump in the road, he’d jolt forward dramatically, slinging his arm over the backseat like he was trying to stretch into her space. Kalamela wasn’t in the mood to even bother telling him to knock it off, though. The exhaustion was creeping in, and she just needed to get home.

Once they reached the house, the front door creaked open with a slight groan, and the chill from the night air rushed into the house as they stepped inside. Kalamela could already feel the tension from the past hours begin to ease as she walked across the entryway, a deep sigh escaping her lips.

Moon kicked his shoes off at the door, tossing his jacket on the nearby chair. He was already making his way towards the living room, but not without sending her a teasing glance over his shoulder. “Race you to the couch,” he said, not even waiting for a response before he practically sprinted the short distance, nearly tripping on the rug as he threw himself onto the couch.

Kalamela just rolled her eyes, still standing by the door for a second as she pulled off her jacket. Her legs felt like they were made of lead, and it was all she could do to shuffle toward the couch. She sank into the cushions, letting out a long groan as she collapsed into the soft fabric. The weight of the day pressed into her bones, and all she wanted was to just… not think for a moment.

Moon was already sprawled across the couch like he owned the place, one arm hanging lazily over the backrest, and he didn’t miss the opportunity to push her button. “I wasn’t serious, y’know. You didn’t have to take the challenge literally,” he teased, his voice all too amused as he gave her a side-eye.

She shot him a look, not bothering to muster much of a response. “If you call that a race, I’m taking a nap,” she muttered, half-laying down, her legs draping over the edge of the couch. Her eyes closed for a second, her head resting against the cushion.

Moon’s smirk didn’t fade. He shifted next to her, just a little too close for comfort, though his posture remained casual. He leaned his head back and stretched his legs out, but not without brushing against her side. The shift in his body wasn’t accidental, and he definitely knew how much it would irk her. “Mm, you’re no fun when you’re tired,” he quipped, voice teasing, but the way he shifted even closer didn’t go unnoticed.

She rolled her eyes, but the smallest flicker of a smile threatened to pull at her lips. “Go away,” she muttered, but her words didn’t hold the usual bite. Instead, there was a fatigue that softened her tone, something that Moon noticed right away. His eyes flickered over to her, gauging her response, but he didn’t budge.

“Go ahead, take a nap. I’ll just be over here, stealing the blankets,” Moon continued, his voice low, but not completely sincere. He was testing the waters, seeing how much he could push without getting her to snap back at him.

Kalamela wasn’t in the mood to fight, so instead, she flopped onto her back with a groan, her hand covering her eyes. “I’m not even gonna dignify that with a response,” she sighed, her voice barely more than a murmur.

Moon didn’t take the hint, though. Instead, he reached over, his hand lightly brushing against her side. He wasn’t grabbing or holding her—no, it was just a soft touch, teasing and subtle enough that it was hard for her to ignore. She felt the warmth of his palm for a split second before he pulled his hand back, clearly just messing with her.

“Nice,” Moon commented, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “You’re definitely not as cranky as you were earlier. Is it just me, or are you finally giving in to the charm?”

She didn’t answer immediately. The hint of his closeness was getting under her skin in a way she couldn’t ignore. But she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of showing how much it bothered her. Instead, she pressed her palms against her face, rubbing her eyes with a slight groan. “I don’t have the energy for you today,” she muttered, though her voice lacked its usual sharpness.

Moon’s grin only widened at that. “Oh, I know,” he said softly, his voice trailing off as if he was savoring the moment. He shifted again, rolling just slightly closer to her, the space between them getting smaller by the second. He could feel her tension, even if she didn’t admit it, and it seemed like he wasn’t about to let it go.

“You sure about that?” he asked, his voice barely more than a low hum, the teasing edge still present in every word. He leaned in just a little, his breath warm against her ear. “You’re getting all quiet now. Gotta admit, it’s kinda cute when you’re not biting back.”

Kalamela's breath hitched slightly as he leaned in, his presence suddenly overwhelming. She could feel the warmth of his body so close to hers, the softness of his breath sending a shiver through her that she didn’t expect. Still, she kept her eyes closed, trying to focus on anything other than the fact that he was so close, so very close.

“Don’t start with me, Moon,” she warned, but even she could hear the faint crack in her voice, betraying how close his teasing was getting to breaking her composure.

He paused for a beat, as if savoring the silence between them. Then, just when she thought he might back off, he shifted again, his hand brushing against her side once more—light, deliberate, and enough to make her skin tingle.

“Maybe I’ll just keep doing this until you crack,” he said, his voice dripping with mischief.

Kalamela’s breath hitched again, and for a moment, she couldn’t tell if it was the exhaustion catching up with her or the sudden closeness that made her heart race a little faster. Either way, she knew she couldn’t take much more of his teasing. “You’re impossible,” she muttered under her breath, not sure whether she was irritated or amused.

But Moon didn’t give her a moment to respond. Instead, he leaned in just slightly closer, the playful edge in his voice dropping lower. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Kalamela was almost halfway to drifting off when she felt it—a shift in the air, like something was about to happen. Her eyes snapped open, but she didn’t have time to react before Moon’s hands gripped her by the waist with surprising ease. Before she could even start to protest, he pulled her up from the couch, lifting her effortlessly and flipping her onto her back.

“Moon, what the hell?!” she snapped, her voice thick with annoyance. She barely had a chance to get her bearings before she was sprawled across him, her chest pressed firmly against his, legs tangled together in a way that made her heart skip just a little faster.

Moon let out a soft chuckle, his arms loosely wrapped around her, keeping her right where she was. She wasn’t going anywhere. “You’re in my space now, K. What are you gonna do about it?” he teased, his voice low and smooth, though there was an unmistakable smugness to it.

Kalamela, despite her frustration, couldn’t help but feel the heat rising in her chest. She glared down at him, her face inches away from his, but she wasn’t going to let him see how much she was struggling to keep it together. She was still tired, head aching, and his constant teasing was making her head spin. The fact that he had so easily pinned her down didn’t help either.

"Moon, you are such a pain," she growled, trying to shift her body to escape from his grip, but he only tightened his hold. It wasn’t painful, just firm enough to make it clear she wasn’t going anywhere.

He just grinned up at her, that mischievous spark still in his eyes. “Mm, I’m starting to think you like it when I’m a pain.” His thumb, almost too casually, slid across her cheek, just lightly grazing her skin. The touch was enough to make her breath catch for a second, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of reacting.

“I swear, Moon,” she muttered, grinding her teeth. “If you don’t get off me in the next five seconds, I’ll—”

He cut her off, shifting ever so slightly, and once again, his hand—strong and steady—cupped her face. His fingers brushed along her jawline, a teasingly tender touch that made her skin tingle, but there was something else in the air now. He was leaning in, his breath warm against her ear as he murmured, “You’ll what, K? You gonna yell at me some more? I’m already getting the vibe you’re too tired for that.”

Her stomach churned as she felt his closeness, the warmth of his chest against hers, but she refused to let it show. Kalamela could feel the flush creeping up her neck, but she wasn’t going to let him see how much he was getting to her. Not now. Not when she was so damn annoyed.

“I’m gonna make you regret this,” she said, voice flat, though the way she said it sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than anything else. Her hands were pressed flat against his chest, trying—unsuccessfully—to push herself away, but Moon just grinned up at her.

“You keep saying that, K,” Moon said, his voice low and teasing, but the hint of something deeper lingered behind the words. “But you never do.”

Her eyes narrowed, her grip on his chest tightening for a moment before she relaxed. “You’re really pushing your luck, you know that?” she spat, her usual sharpness still laced in the words. But the way Moon’s fingers slowly, deliberately, slid from her jaw to her neck, tracing the curve, made it hard for her to stay angry. The teasing glint in his eyes was getting to her.

The worst part? She knew it. And that made it all the more frustrating.

“I’ve got plenty of luck to push,” Moon responded, his grin widening into something more smug. “You should try it sometime. Just let go for a second. Might be nice to not be a cranky bitch all the time, huh?”

Kalamela’s face flushed, but this time, it wasn’t just from irritation. There was something else in her chest—an irritatingly strong pull toward him. But she’d never give him the satisfaction of seeing it. She shifted again, but this time, he didn’t let go. His fingers gently but firmly wrapped around the back of her head, pulling her even closer.

“Stop it,” she grumbled, but the softness in her voice was like a crack in her armor. It wasn’t as firm as it usually was. The tension between them, the closeness of their bodies, was doing things she didn’t want to admit. And Moon? He was all too aware of it.

His other hand slid down to her waist, holding her against him, and with a lazy, teasing movement, he gently rocked her just enough to make her stomach do that damn fluttery thing that she definitely didn’t want to admit to. “You want me to stop, huh? You sure? I could go all night, K.”

She exhaled sharply, exasperated. “I’m too tired for your games, Moon,” she muttered, her voice lower now, softer, even though she still tried to hold onto that tough edge. But that was the problem—she couldn’t. Not when he was this close, not when his touch was that distracting.

Moon, sensing the change in her, didn’t back off, though he did slow his teasing, just a little. His fingers brushed against her jaw again, this time with more care, as if he were genuinely interested in seeing her let go.

“Maybe you need to stop being so stubborn for once,” he murmured, his voice rich with something that felt too serious, too intimate, to be casual.

Kalamela barely managed to keep her composure. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to ignore the rapid beat of her heart. “Maybe I do,” she muttered, barely audible, her voice more vulnerable than she’d like.

But before she could say anything else, Moon shifted again, this time sliding one hand to her back, holding her there against him as he looked up at her. His voice dropped lower than before. “Well, I’ll make sure you don’t get too cranky tonight. I’ve got plenty of time to show you how I can be... charming.”

And as much as she tried to push against him, Moon’s teasing, relentless as always, was starting to break down every single wall she’d put up.

And that? That was more irritating than anything else.

Moon, clearly satisfied with the way things were going, gave her a smug grin, but it was quickly replaced by something more tired as he relaxed into her. His weight shifted, and before she could even process what was happening, he simply collapsed onto her, rolling her back onto the couch with a lazy, almost lethargic grunt.

“Moon!” Kalamela yelped, completely caught off guard by how quickly he pinned her. She barely had time to adjust before she realized he wasn’t going anywhere. Not this time. He just... flopped on top of her like he owned the place.

“Mm,” Moon hummed lazily, his head burrowing into the crook of her neck as he wrapped his arms around her, completely trapping her underneath him. “Too tired to move,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against her skin. “Feels good here, K. You’re comfy.”

Kalamela froze for a moment, then huffed in annoyance. She could feel his warmth seeping into her, his weight pressing down just enough to keep her from squirming away. But that was the thing about Moon—he didn’t care if she was irritated. If anything, it just made him more persistent.

“Moon, get off,” she grumbled, squirming slightly under him. She tried to push at his chest, but it was like trying to move a brick wall. He didn’t budge, just relaxed even more as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

“Nope,” he mumbled, clearly too tired to do anything more than lounge. “You’re comfy. Besides, you can’t get away anyway. You’re stuck with me now.”

“I swear,” Kalamela muttered, rolling her eyes, though there was a hint of a laugh in her voice despite herself. She was still pissed—her headache was pounding, and she wanted to just collapse into the couch and forget the world for a bit—but Moon had a way of making everything feel... just a little more bearable. Even if he was infuriating.

"Look, I'm not in the mood for this," she snapped, her voice sharp, though she could feel herself losing the edge. “Seriously, Moon. You’re... heavy.”

He just shrugged, his face still buried in her neck, breathing deeply like he didn’t have a care in the world. “What can I say? I’m a big guy. You’ll survive.”

Kalamela huffed again, though she was starting to realize he was right—she wasn’t going anywhere. Not with him sprawled across her like a human blanket. The weight of him wasn’t even uncomfortable, and the fact that he was just so nonchalant about it was grating.

“I’m gonna get a cramp, you know,” she said, half-exasperated, half-amused. She wasn’t sure which one of those emotions was winning right now.

Moon shifted slightly, adjusting to find a more comfortable position, but still not moving off her. His arms tightened around her waist, keeping her anchored to the couch. “You’ll be fine,” he muttered. “I’m tired. No energy for your angry little rants right now.”

“Oh, so now I’m just a ‘rant’ to you?” she quipped, raising an eyebrow, her annoyance still strong, but there was a slight playful tone slipping in. “I’m not just some angry little nuisance, you know.”

“Eh,” Moon mumbled lazily, as if the whole thing was a side note. “Rants, nuisances, whatever. You’re still stuck with me.”

He adjusted his weight again, and just when Kalamela thought he might actually move, he settled into her a little more, like he was making himself comfortable for a nap. She could feel the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest against hers as his breathing deepened.

“You’re... really heavy,” she muttered again, her voice quieter this time, the edge of annoyance slipping away as she began to realize how tired she was, too.

Moon responded with nothing more than a small grunt, as if that was all the acknowledgment she needed. His body felt warm against hers, his relaxed weight making it harder and harder to stay irritated. Despite the situation, despite her best efforts to stay annoyed, she could feel the tension in her chest slowly unraveling.

Kalamela sighed, letting her body sink into the couch beneath her. She couldn't even fight it anymore. "You're lucky I'm too tired to deal with you right now," she muttered, her words losing their sharpness as the exhaustion settled in.

“Yeah, yeah. I know,” Moon replied lazily, his voice almost a purr now. He was clearly on the edge of sleep, the weight of his tiredness suddenly becoming even more noticeable. “Next time, you’ll thank me for it.”

She gave a soft snort at that, though it was drowned out by the quiet calm that had descended over the room. He wasn’t moving. And frankly? Neither was she.

“Whatever,” she muttered again, now barely able to keep her eyes open. With Moon settled on top of her, the world outside seemed to fade away, the only sound the soft rhythm of his breathing. He wasn’t too bad to have around, even if he was stubborn, irritating, and overly touchy. In this moment, it was just... comfortable.

"Don't get used to it," she mumbled sleepily, though even she knew it was a half-hearted threat at best.

But Moon? He didn’t respond—he didn’t need to. He was already out, his breathing steady and calm against her, leaving her to do the same.

And so, with the weight of Moon’s relaxed body on hers, Kalamela couldn’t help but let herself fall into that rare moment of quiet peace. A little annoyed, still a little tired, but... alive in that strange, intimate way that only Moon seemed to manage.

And for the first time in hours, she actually didn’t mind being trapped. Not by him, at least.

The minutes ticked by in a quiet, almost peaceful way, save for the soft sound of Moon’s deep breathing. He was practically sprawled on top of her, his weight a steady pressure, but Kalamela was starting to get used to it. Maybe too used to it, actually, and she could feel herself drifting into that cozy, sleepy haze.

Then, just as her mind was about to completely shut down for the night, the sound of a door creaking open shattered the moment.

“Hey, you guys still awake?” Sun’s voice rang out from the kitchen, a little too chipper for someone who wasn’t currently being used as a human pillow.

Kalamela’s eyes snapped open, her body tensing instantly. She had just about forgotten how locked she was under Moon’s weight. With Moon’s arm lazily draped over her waist and his face still buried in her neck, it was as if she was part of the furniture at this point.

“Of course we’re awake,” she muttered under her breath, clearly not impressed with her current position.

“Hey, Moonie!” Sun called again, now heading for the kitchen. “I brought back some of that take-out we—”

Before he could finish his sentence, Kalamela gave an exasperated sigh, then, with a grunt, shoved Moon’s chest with as much force as she could muster.

“Moon,” she grumbled, “get the hell off me.”

Moon didn’t even stir at first, his arms slack and his body a dead weight on hers. But Kalamela wasn’t giving up—she planted her hands firmly on his shoulders and pushed, this time harder, gritting her teeth with effort.

Moon groaned dramatically, his eyes fluttering open for just a second, but he didn’t move. He let out a lazy sigh, completely unbothered by her attempts.

“Nope,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep. “Too comfy here, K. You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

Kalamela, thoroughly done with this nonsense, narrowed her eyes at the ceiling and, with one final effort, shoved him hard—right off the couch.

“Moon!” she snarled, practically launching him to the side with one last shove of frustration. He landed with a soft thud on the floor, looking completely unphased. He didn’t even flinch as he rolled over and stretched lazily, his arms flung wide.

“Eh,” Moon muttered from the floor, not even bothering to pick himself up right away. “Was getting too warm anyway.”

Sun, who had come in just in time to witness the entire spectacle, stood in the doorway of the kitchen with a grin plastered across his face. He leaned casually against the frame, holding a take-out container in one hand. “Well, that was... dramatic,” he teased, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

Kalamela shot him a glare, brushing herself off as she sat up on the couch. Her arms crossed over her chest in a huff, clearly not impressed by either of them.

“I’m done with both of you,” she muttered, shooting Moon a glare. “I’m just trying to relax for five minutes, and then this happens. You’re impossible.”

Moon simply chuckled from the floor, still lounging comfortably as though he had all the time in the world. “Yeah, yeah. You love it.”

Kalamela groaned, feeling the remnants of her annoyance start to dissipate in the wake of the two of them. She had spent all day dealing with cranky customers and her own headaches, and now it felt like the universe was conspiring to wear her down even more. But despite the frustration, there was something almost endearing about the way Sun and Moon were always there to be exactly that: Sun and Moon.

“Anyway,” Sun chimed in, finally moving toward the fridge to grab some leftovers, “I don’t know about you two, but I’m starving. Leftovers are looking pretty good right now.”

He pulled out a container of Chinese food, unceremoniously popping it open. “Who wants some?” he asked, looking over his shoulder with a grin.

“I’ll pass,” Kalamela sighed, rolling her eyes as she stood up from the couch and stretched. “I’m too tired to even think about food right now.”

Sun, unaffected by her disinterest, waved the container in her direction anyway. “More for me then!” he said cheerfully.

Moon, still sprawled on the floor, raised an eyebrow. “I’ll pass, too. But I wouldn’t mind a drink.”

Kalamela turned toward the kitchen, shooting them both a last annoyed glance before heading toward the fridge. She grabbed a bottle of water and twisted the cap open with a sigh. “You’re both exhausting,” she muttered, though there was an undeniable softness in her voice as she began to unwind.

Sun was already halfway through his leftover take-out, humming happily as he stuffed his face. “You know, I’m just happy we’re all back home. It’s been one hell of a day, huh?”

“Tell me about it,” Kalamela said with a faint smile, leaning against the kitchen counter. “I’m ready to just crash for the night.”

Moon finally got up from the floor, brushing off his hoodie and standing with a mock stretch. “Same. But... I gotta say, Star, it’s not every day I get to use you as a personal pillow. So, you’re welcome, by the way.”

Kalamela rolled her eyes again, but there was a flicker of a smile on her face despite the frustration. “Yeah, I’ll definitely thank you for that... next year.”

With that, she grabbed her water and made her way back to the living room. She was exhausted, but at least the chaos had subsided—for now.

Kalamela stayed quiet for a moment longer, her fingers tapping absently on the water bottle as she glanced over at Sun. His back was turned as he casually started picking at his leftover take-out, humming to himself. She cleared her throat with a soft cough, just enough to get his attention.

“Sun,” she said, voice more serious than playful. There was no teasing in it, just pure fatigue creeping into her tone.

Sun turned around, instantly noticing the change in her energy. "Yeah?" His expression softened slightly, the playful grin fading as he saw the exhaustion that still clung to her.

Kalamela didn’t waste time. “I need a hug. Now.”

There was no joking around with this request, no hint of sarcasm. She didn’t wait for his response before she took a step toward him, crossing the space between them with purposeful strides.

Sun’s eyes widened a little, his lips parting as if he was about to make some smart comment, but then he just sighed, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Alright, alright, come here,” he muttered. He opened his arms, his usual cheerful self coming back in full force, though a quiet concern flickered across his features.

Kalamela didn’t hesitate. She walked right into his arms, pressing her face into his chest without saying a word. She felt his arms wrap around her, and for a moment, she just stayed there—her face buried against his shirt as her fingers clenched into the fabric. The warmth of his embrace was oddly comforting, but her mind stayed sharp, focused on the exhaustion in her bones, not on the way his presence felt a little too good.

Sun pulled her in a little tighter, but she didn’t lean into it, not really. She wasn’t looking for comfort in a hug, or at least, not in the way people usually did. She needed it to end sooner than later.

She sighed, the tension in her body telling him all he needed to know about her mood. “Better?”

“Not really,” she muttered into his chest. “But it’ll do.”

There was a moment where Sun just held her, like he wasn’t sure what else to do, but he was too kind to let her go. He gently pulled back after a moment, still holding onto her as he looked down at her face. “I’m gonna take a guess—headache?”

Kalamela nodded stiffly. “You could say that,” she said flatly, trying to hide how much the pressure in her skull was making it hard to even focus. “I’ll be fine.”

Sun hesitated, clearly not convinced, but after a beat, he sighed. “Alright. I guess I’ll go back to my dinner, huh?”

“Yeah. You can do that.” She gave him a small, stiff smile before looking up at him, her hand slipping off his back. “Thanks,” she muttered, not needing to say much more. The gratitude was there, but she didn’t have the energy to express it properly.

She was just about to turn away when she caught herself for a brief second. She wasn’t sure if it was her exhaustion or just the way Sun’s presence made her feel a little bit more... grounded, but her eyes flicked over him in that quick, instinctive way that she wasn’t always aware of. She didn’t linger too long, but she noticed how his shirt fit, the way his arms were slightly flexed from carrying her into the hug.

Her eyes narrowed, but before Sun could notice, she quickly cleared her throat and walked toward the couch, keeping her posture straight. “I’ll be over here,” she said, the words blunt as she plopped down onto the couch.

There was a soft chuckle from the kitchen, and Sun called over, “You sure you’re okay? I’m not gonna carry you to bed or anything.”

“Don’t even think about it,” she snapped back immediately, her tone sharp.

Moon’s voice piped up from the other room. “Oh, don’t worry. We wouldn’t want to spoil your cranky mood with any kindness. She’s perfectly fine, right?” he said, voice dripping with mockery.

Kalamela’s head snapped in his direction, eyes narrowing with annoyance, but she didn’t feel like dealing with him. Not now. She just leaned back into the couch with a heavy sigh, rubbing her temples as she shut her eyes. “Don’t start, Moon. Please.”

A silence filled the room, broken only by the sounds of Sun continuing to chew through his food and Moon’s lazy grumbles in the background. It was enough to let her relax, just a little—at least in the sense that she didn’t have to talk.

She didn’t have to entertain anyone. She just needed a break. A moment to exist without constantly having to interact, to feel.

Finally, after what felt like a full minute of sitting in stillness, she rolled her neck to the side, a low grunt escaping her. She exhaled sharply through her nose.

"Alright, I'm done being moody. For now," she muttered under her breath.

But Sun, of course, was already heading back to his food. There was no sympathy in his expression, just his usual smile that always managed to make her feel more like a pet than a person.

The quiet in the room stretched on a little longer, but it was exactly what she needed. Just for a little while longer, she could let the rest of the world stay in its chaos, and she would just... be.

[bamsara]

Thunder and rain. Sun and Storm.

Finally got the motivation (mostly) to color some of my story planning comics for TROD AU. Have some little guys and a little lore :)

[dreamsy990]

i saw someone say nobody needs to know what a .txt file is anymore. what the fuck is the world coming to

[dreamsy990]

unironically i think we need to bring back computer labs because APPARENTLY some people WERENT taught basic computer literacy and internet safety in school

[dreamsy990]

things about computers/the internet i think kids should be formally taught in schools because theyre important to know and the amount of soon to be grown adults i know who know NOTHING about any of these is quite frankly almost all of them (and resources to learn if you dont know these things, because its never to late to get better with computers)

how to troubleshoot by yourself when you have a technical problem

what common file types are

some very basics on how to use ""developer tools"" on your computer (because i cant think of a better way to refer to them) like task manager and command prompt (and their mac equivalents, terminal and activity monitor ofc)

how to read and understand a privacy policy and what your personal data is, as well as what it being collected actually means and steps you can take to keep it private

how to understand terms of service (hey. if you have trouble with reading legalese and worry about being able to understand these policies anyways, here's a site that gives basic summaries of privacy policies and ToS)

what a cookie actually is

internet privacy and your digital footprint!! seriously i dont know why we stopped teaching people that they shouldnt be putting their entire real identity online in a world where your online actions can ruin you irl

basic safety measures like antivirus software (and why you should use it or if the built in one on windows or mac is enough for you) and backing up your computer (also a mac guide)

common keyboard shortcuts (and on mac)

as an additional note: things i think everyone should know on computers and the internet but schools may bit hesitant to teach about for whatever moral/legal standards schools pretend to operate on

vpns and adblockers! (btw for most of these where you can pay for things im purposefully not recommending any specific software but seriously just use ublock origin for an adblocker)

how to not get a virus while pirating something

what a temporary email is and when to use one

red flags that you shouldn't trust a website (and how to quickly check the security of a site)

what javascript on a website does and how to disable it to get around paywalls

[dreamsy990]

ok one last addition! if you want to take it one level higher, i think learning the very basics of at least one programming language is good for people. it makes computers less scary and it makes you feel very cool, and a lot of people get discouraged about it because it seems overly complicated and hard to learn outside a formal classroom setting, so heres some resources for learning the very basics of python (because i consider it the easiest language to learn and knowing one language will make it easier to learn others)

an online compiler so you dont need to download anything or worry about running code directly on your computer if that makes you nervous

a basic video guide to introduce you to python and walk you through beginner steps

a guide to some syntax and commands you should know (this was literally my lifeline in my first CS class)

some performance tasks to give you things to code to practice and assess yourself

[bluukive-deactivated20260523]

Acing It!

coɴтεɴт - MDNI, mentions of śex, hints to asexual reader, JJK men reassuring reader, they're all being nice, even sukuna

cнαrαcтεrѕ - Sukuna, Toji, Geto, Nanami, Gojo

an - as someone who's asexual, i kinda wrote what I wanted to hear personally and what I'd find comforting !! In no way am I speaking for what all asexuals experience ^^

[bramblebunnie]

Inspired by @rawme-price 's wonderful Ace!Soap post here

Fair warning, this hella got away from me, so It's kinda long, but I might continue it more if people like it

Thinking of an Asexual Reader on the 141 who knows the others have a Thing going on, but they don't seem all that interested in adding you, so you're more than content to sit on the sidelines, just happy to be around them. Eventually, they come out on their own terms and tell you outright that the four of them are together in a relationship, and you just blink and say "oh, okay!" and go on your way.

Nothing really changes after they tell you, but they catch you staring at them more often. At first they're nervous, wondering if you're bigoted or somehow judging them, but you're just as friendly as you always are, so they become curious.

You soak up the rough hair ruffles, the heavy handed pats on your back, the good natured arms slung around your shoulders, but don't go out of your way to initiate contact with them- you don't want to accidentally make someone uncomfortable- just putting in your earbuds when suspicious thumping starts coming from Ghost's room beside yours, or keeping your eyes above the shoulders when Gaz stops by after a shower and forgets to keep his towel clasped. They try all these little ways to tempt you, to try to draw you in, but you just never seem to get the hint!

It comes clear one night after an annoying op, when the five of you are scattered about one of the lounge rooms, sipping at drinks of choice- Price with classic whiskey, Gaz with a beer, Soap with a spiked lemonade, and Ghost with a tea that might not even have booze in it- all of you mindlessly chattering about whatever comes to mind. Ghost has his balaclava off, a rare deal, showing the mass amounts of scar tissue from years of field missions gone wrong, and you can't keep your eyes off of him.

You keep staring, then looking down at the tattered journal in your lap, then staring again, and it reminds him that oh yeah, you haven't seen his bare face yet, have you?

Somehow the topic gets onto preferences in partners- probably Soap's doing- and to no one's surprise, they all pretty much have preferences that align with at least two of their partners' features. They make a game out of it, trying to guess the others' preferences based on their own features, and you're just watching from the sideline, amused as Gaz viciously defends himself against claims of being turned on by soul-sucking blue eyes. At some point Ghost snorts, rolling his eyes as he says Soap must have a thing for ugly mutts that look like roadkill, referring to himself, but you just frown at him.

"You aren't ugly though?" You sound genuinely confused when you say it, and it reminds them that they haven't even tried to grill you about your preferences- it could finally be an in on sniffing out if you had feelings for one or all of them.

"Yeah? Ye into blokes who have that rough and rugged look?" Soap pounces first, prodding the waters, but you just shake your head.

"Oh, I'm not really into anyone.?" You say it like a question, but explain before Soap can start complaining about how that's not a real answer, "I'm ace, so... not the same kind of system you guys have," You shrug. Price raises his eyebrows and sips at his whiskey at the revelation, contemplating, and Gaz looks like several things are clicking into place now, "Wait, but that implies there Is a system" he says, confused.

You frown, waving a hand "Its.. hard to explain. You guys can look at someone and think 'Woah they're hot let's bang', or 'ew they're not my type I'm as dry as the sahara', but for me there really Is no 'hot' or 'ugly'- I mean, of course there's people who are conventionally attractive in an aesthetic sense, but otherwise everyone is just... A Person." You try to get it across as best you can, and it makes Ghost snort.

"You can't seriously be telling me that you think my mean mug is in any way nice to look at," He grunts, but you frown at him again. "Yes, you are!" You state, leaning towards him almost threateningly.

"Your hair is fuzzy like labrador fur and it's the color of wheat in the morning before the sun gets strong, your eyes are dark like reflections in a mug of coffee before the cream but turn to mahogany wood when you're relaxed and the light hits them," You fired off like he had personally offended you, listing feature after feature, "the divot in your lip gives you a snaggletooth look when you smile or smirk, your crooked nose wrinkles when you make a joke and you're waiting for someone to laugh, the scarring on your ears curls them in and gives them an elfish point, the chunk missing from your left hand's nail gives that finger a different tone when you drum them against the table, yo-"

"Jesus, you noticed all that??" Gaz spoke up, eyes wide. You remembered where you were and with whom, and you settled back in your seat, taking a sip from your glass.

"..Yeah, sorry, I got carried away- I know it's creepy," You shrugged, and Soap shook his head, scrambling up off his seat on the floor to plop down next to you.

"Creepy?? Hell naw, that was cute! Sounded like you were turnin' Ghost into some poetry or somethin!" He fired back, slinging an arm over your shoulder so you wouldn't try running.

"..What was that, anyway?" Ghost asked after regaining his words. It felt... Odd, to be described and compared to mundane occurrences without a single mention of his sex appeal or the combat capability of his bulk.

"Sorry, I just- It sounds creepy or self-absorbed, but there's really no 'ugly' to me because I kind of see everyone as characters, if that makes sense? Or art, maybe." You struggled to put it into words, fiddling with the corner of the journal in your lap, "If everyone looks the same- pretty eyes, perfect nose, straight jaw, unblemished skin- then that picture isn't going to look all that interesting, you need different features and elements to make something worth paying attention to.. so I find the whole beauty and attractiveness stuff weird, cause it just doesn't make sense to me, everyone's their own person, their own 'character', and it's not really a 80s American diner if at least One of the waitresses doesn't have a big blowout hairdo and thick mascara on, you know?"

You glanced up to try and gauge their reactions, only for Soap to bowl you over, "I only understood half of that but you're perfect the way you are! I knew you were more of an artist than you let on!" He cried exaggeratedly, trapping you in a bear hug.

"Aye, I don't quite get it, but you aren't creepy for it," Price shook his head, scratching at the bridge of his nose, "if anything it's... Flattering, knowing you see us like that," He sniffed, taking another sip of his drink.

Gaz leaned forward, "wait, so have you been drawing people?" He asked, making Ghost perk up as well, remembering the way you'd been staring at him earlier.

"The ones I find interesting, yeah- is that weird?" You ask, a bit timid about showing your drawings, only for Soap to snatch up the sketchbook.

"What's weird is you're not showin us!!" He laughed, using his bulk to shield the book as you tried to grab it back from him. He opens to a random page

a page filled completely, left to right, of drawings of the 141.

[oneshot-twoshot-redshot-blueshot]

Ace in the Hole

You rolled your eyes as yet another sex scene started to play out on the television. “Jesus,” you muttered under your breath.

Dean glanced at you from the corner of his eye, a stupid smirk on his face as the couple on the screen really started getting into it. “Problem, Y/N?”

“Why does every show have to have a random sex scene in it?”

“C’mon, it’s not that bad.”

You turned toward him. “Dean, this is the third one in this episode alone.”

“You’re the freak who’s counting them.”

You huffed out a breath, slowly turning back to the screen, hoping (but not finding) that the scene would be over. “I still say it’s ridiculous.”

“Sex sells, baby.”

“Well, it shouldn’t. At least, not this much.”

Now it was Dean’s turn to roll his eyes. “Sammy, give her some smart-sounding answer as to why sex is included in so many shows.”

Sam looked up from his laptop, surprised at being brought into the conversation. He glanced from the television to you and his brother. “Uh, well… it shows the characters as human. It breaks up the monotony of the same type of scene over and over, especially in procedural and formulaic shows. It gives the audience a break from tense emotions. It–”

“Okay, enough, forget I said anything,” you mumbled, wrapping your arms around the pillow in your lap, hugging it to your chest. Thankfully, the scene on screen had changed, moving back to the actual plot.

“When did you get so uptight?” Dean asked, lifting his beer to his lips. “What’s wrong with watching some fictional characters get their jollies off?”

“For the love of Chuck, please stop talking.”

You could feel Dean’s eyes on you, studying you. It took all of your effort to keep your eyes straight ahead. “You a virgin, Y/N?”

Your head snapped toward the hunter. “What?”

“Dean,” Sam admonished.

“What? That would explain her squeamish-ness about–”

“Not a virgin, thanks,” you said, feeling your cheeks heat as you turned back to the television, wishing you’d never said anything in the first place.

“Really?” Dean asked, surprise evident in his voice. “Thought I had that one pegged. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you even hit on anyone at any of the bars we’ve gone to…”

“So sorry I don’t want to scrape the bottom of the barrel like you and your brother.”

“Oh, well, excuuuuuuse me, your majesty. But maybe if you did loosen your drawers once in a while, you wouldn’t be such a stick-up-your-ass prude.”

“Dean, enough!” Sam interjected.

Your jaw clenched as you stared at the smug shithead next to you. “Fuck you, Winchester,” you muttered, throwing the pillow at him before storming off to your room.

“I mean, if it would help!” Dean called after you. He took another swallow of his beer, eyes back on the television. “What’s her problem?”

____________________________________________________________________________

As soon as you’d gotten to your room, you immediately regretted blowing up like that. Normally, you’d let Dean’s dumbass comments roll off you like water. Deep down, you knew he didn’t mean anything by them. Toxic masculinity was one of the few things John had passed down to his son and you were working on breaking him of those thoughts, ideas. 

A soft knock on your door interrupted your pacing. You didn’t say anything, trying to decide whether or not you really wanted to talk things over with Dean right now.

“Y/N?” Sam’s voice was quiet. “You okay?”

You waited for a few seconds, steeling yourself for whatever conversation was about to happen. You opened the door, looking up into Sam’s eyes. “Fine,” you mumbled, turning back into your room.

You heard his soft footsteps following you in, the whisper of the door as he shut it behind him. “Y/N… Dean… he doesn’t mean…”

“I know, Sam. Part of me has already forgiven the bastard.”

Sam chuckled, a low sound that helped melt some of the ice you still held inside. You turned to face him, giving him a small smile.

Sam’s eyes studied you, the corner of his bottom lip gripped by his upper teeth. “Can I ask… why the blowup? I mean, usually you let Dean’s obnoxiousness slide. But today…”

“I know,” you said, voice low with shame. 

“So… was it just a bad day? He did take it a little far. Or was it… something else?” Sam shifted his weight to one leg, slight nervousness emanating from his large frame. “Not that you have to tell me, of course. I just…”

You looked up at Sam, your friend, your companion. One of the few people on this earth that you trusted wholeheartedly. And yet, you’d never shared this part with him. 

You stepped over to your desk, opening the top drawer, fishing the small object out. The metal bit into your palm as you clutched it in your fist, turning back to Sam. He cocked an eyebrow at you as you crossed to him, holding your closed fist out to him. He slowly held his own hand out, palm up, letting you drop your mystery item into his grasp. Free of the item, you dropped your eyes to the ground, afraid to see his reaction.

Sam brought the small object up, studying it. It was a small, rectangular pin with four bands of color: black, grey, white, and purple. He cleared his throat slightly– he recognized this was obviously important to you, but didn’t know exactly what it meant. “This is…”

“A pride flag,” you said quietly, looking up at him. 

“Right.” He was somewhat familiar with the concept– well, he’d at least heard the term. He knew there were many pride flags, but other than the standard rainbow one, he didn’t know what any of them represented. “And this one…”

“Asexuality.”

“Oh.” Sam nodded, racking his brain for any sort of information on that word– all he could come up with were a few species of seasponges who didn’t require a partner to reproduce. “Right. Okay.”

You let out a single, breathy chuckle, awkwardness radiating out of the tall man. “It means that I don’t… feel sexual attraction.”

“Oh.” Sam’s brain finally began to compute. “So that’s why… when Dean said…”

“There’s a whole spectrum of how we relate to sex. Some find it physically pleasing, consider themselves sex-favorable. Some of us… can’t stand it. Have an aversion to it.” You let out a breath. “And everything in between.”

“And you…”

You clicked your tongue. “Camp Aversion.” You held your hand out, Sam dropping the pin back into your palm. “Normally, I’m fine. I can handle… whatever. But sometimes…”

“I get it,” Sam said. “Sometimes… you can’t. And my brother definitely doesn’t help during those times.”

“Definitely not,” you said with a slight laugh. “And it’s not his fault. I get it– for him…”

“For him, it’s different.”

You nodded. “Exactly.” You recognized that you and Sam were having a conversation without really saying anything, but you knew he understood what you were telling him… at least on some level. “Do me a favor? Don’t… say anything to Dean.”

Sam nodded– he would take this secret to the grave if that’s what you asked him to do.

At that moment, there was another knock on the door. “Y/N?” Dean’s gruff voice called from the other side. “Can I come in?”

You slipped your pin into your pocket, glancing up at Sam. “Sure.”

The knob turned and the door swung open, revealing Dean holding two plates in one hand. On each was a generous slice of pie, leftover from the one you’d baked Dean a few days ago. His eyes found you first before darting up to his brother, doing a slight double-take at finding him in here. “So this is where you disappeared to?” he asked, stepping in, past his sibling. “Well, I didn’t bring you any pie.”

“That’s okay,” Sam said with a laugh.

Dean turned his attention to you, taking one of the plates in his free hand and holding it out. “I, uh… brought you this.”

“Thank you,” you said, carefully taking the dish. It was a small token, on the surface, but you recognized how big of a gesture this truly was for the elder Winchester.

“I’m… sorry for… whatever it was I said earlier that upset you.”

You nodded once. “And I’m sorry for how I reacted.”

Now it was Dean’s turn to nod. He glanced up at Sam before turning his attention back to you, eyes trailing over your face. “So, you wanna… come back out? We can watch something else. Maybe a…” Dean swallowed, a slight pained look crossing his face. “Disney movie. No sex in those, right?”

“Except for the deep, dark corners of the internet.”

[gayandbasic]

You’re ace!! I am also on the ace spectrum!! Please only write this if you want to but I’d love to see a bob x ace! Reader 🥺 where they’re obviously in love and basically act like a couple but they’re just wusses and haven’t confessed or anything but the reader is hurting because they think that bob and her could never work because they’re ace and they’re not into sex and it’s complicated and they’ve never shared this with him, though he knows the reader hasn’t really had any relationships. And I lovvve angst!! But then fluff don’t rip my throat out pls

Aaaah! This is so good I’m actually obsessed with Bob x ace!reader because you just know he would be the best. It’s always so refreshing to see a fellow ace that loves love. Thank you so so much for requesting this. I had such a cathartic experience writing it. I may have even cried a little haha. I hope I captured that longing and angst and that it’s what you were looking for!!

🖤🩶🤍

Bob Reynolds x Ace!reader || WC: 3K

~ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ~

It’s a complicated feeling.

Love.

That feeling that builds in your chest every time you look at the person who holds your heart. Like the world slows just a bit when your shoulders brush or you catch a smile on their face.

There are different kinds of love.

The warm and gentle, familial kind that offers safety and comfort.

The playful and loyal kind you feel for a friendship spanning years.

The protective, unspoken kind—the kind where, if that person were to disappear, your whole world would go dark.

The white-hot, burning kind that leaves you breathless and wanting. Passion and lust for each other, all hands and gasping breaths.

It’s those last two that have you up at night lately.

It’s been months since you moved into the Tower with the rest of the team. Your days have been spent training and going to debriefs, sure—but they’ve also been filled with gentle, comforting moments. That kind of peace you only feel when you’ve found a place to call home. And you know a large part of that feeling is because of one person who lives here with you.

Bob.

Sweet, playful, timid Bob.

You hadn’t expected to bond with him so quickly, to feel at ease just because he’s next to you.

The quiet mornings spent drinking coffee while the two of you watch the sunrise in comfortable silence—that’s the only way you can start your day now.

You’ve built a routine around being near him.

You’re not sure when it started. You just found yourself standing closer, brushing hands, smiling at his words. When he wasn’t there, your mood would sink—as if he held the key to your happiness.

Days spent going on grocery runs together, planning meals, then cooking for the rest of the team. Wandering bookstores or visiting cafés when the Tower felt too suffocating.

You can’t think of a day spent without him nearby.

And it’s confusing.

You’ve never really thought about the concept of romantic love. Never felt the need to explore the idea of sharing your life with someone. Never felt that hot, burning passion that leaves people tearing off clothes, hands grasping, breaths hot and staggered.

The thought of your sweaty body pressed flush to another while you lose yourself in the act of pleasing—it almost makes you uncomfortable. The need to have sex to prove love has always been one of the main reasons you never bothered with relationships.

Frankly, the idea of sex made you nauseous. Too many fluids and sensations. That kind of closeness always seemed invasive—panting and flushed against someone else.

You always thought you couldn’t have that kind of love without that desire, and you were resigned to the fact that you would be alone forever.

You didn’t mind. Not at first.

But now you lie awake, turning over the feelings you have for Bob. They’re confusing. And they hurt.

You’re scared to admit that the feeling clawing its way out of your chest is more than friendship.

It’s that suffocating need to be near him. The constant thoughts about him.

You’re in love with him.

But where does that leave you? Even if he felt the same, you can’t offer him everything a loving relationship is supposed to have. You can’t give him that primal, passionate part that people need.

So you tuck that feeling away. Lock it up.

And give up on the idea that he could ever love you just as you are.

~

You don’t mean to avoid him. Not really.

But you’ve pulled away.

Just a little.

Not enough for anyone else to notice—Bob still sits beside you on the couch during movie nights, still finds you in the kitchen for breakfast, still asks if you want to help him pick out new houseplants for the common room.

But the touches you once leaned into—shoulders brushing, knees knocking—now feel like dangerous territory. So you flinch, just barely. You duck your head, offer him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You don’t mean to. You hate it.

But it’s easier than the alternative: blurting out I’m in love with you but I can’t give you what you deserve.

Because what if he says he loves you too?

And what if he means it in the way the world defines love? What if he wants that burning, breathless thing—bodies tangled, skin on skin, need carved into the space between your ribs? You want closeness, yes. You want intimacy. But not that kind. Not the kind that makes your stomach twist with discomfort and dread. Not the kind that’s expected, inevitable, normal.

And Bob—he deserves normal for once in his damn life. Doesn’t he?

You curl tighter into yourself as the thought sinks in. It’s not fair. He’s the one who made you feel like home. He’s the one who made you laugh until you cried, who took your hand during a panic attack and held it like it was the most natural thing in the world. He’s the one who never pushed, never prodded, just… showed up. Again and again. Just Bob.

God, you love him.

But you’ve read enough books and watched enough movies to know how these stories go. You know how they end. And people like you—people who don’t want that, who feel love in other ways—don’t usually get a happy ending.

So instead, you sit across from him at the Tower kitchen table, chewing the inside of your cheek while he talks softly about new chili recipes. You try to pretend your chest doesn’t ache every time he looks at you with those soft, golden-brown eyes.

And then he stops mid-sentence. Tilts his head.

“You okay?”

You blink. “Yeah.”

His gaze lingers. Gentle, but searching. “You’ve been… different lately.”

You force a shrug. “Just tired.”

He’s quiet for a moment too long, eyes searching your face like he’s trying to piece together something that doesn’t make sense. And then—softly, like it aches to say it—he speaks.

“Did I… did I do something wrong?”

You shake your head, quick and instinctual. “No. No, Bob. It’s not—”

“Because if I said something, or crossed a line, or—God, I don’t know. I just… I miss you.” His voice cracks, and suddenly the words start to tumble out faster, less controlled. “I’ve been trying not to make it weird, but I feel it, okay? You’ve been pulling away and I didn’t know if it was me or if you were just… done. With whatever this is.”

You swallow hard.

“I thought maybe it was my fault. That I made you uncomfortable. And if I did—if I screwed this up—then I’m so sorry. I’ll stop. I’ll back off. I’ll get over it.”

Your breath catches. “Get over what?”

Bob laughs, helpless and a little self-deprecating. “The stupid crush I’ve been nursing since the day you moved in.”

Your heart breaks.

He keeps going, like he’s bracing for the end. “I didn’t mean to make it weird. I wasn’t gonna say anything, but it’s driving me crazy not knowing what I did wrong. So if it’s that—if you found out how I felt and it made you want to run—then I get it. I’ll deal with it. I’ll—”

“No.” The word rips out of you, louder than intended. You force yourself to breathe. “No, Bob. That’s not it.”

His brow creases. “Then what is it?”

You’re trembling, fingers twisting the hem of your sleeve like it might keep you from unraveling completely.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you whisper. “That’s the worst part. You did everything right. You’re… you’re sweet. And safe. And so good to me, and I’m in love with you, and it hurts like hell because—”

You stop, biting your lip, throat burning.

“Because what?” he asks, softer now.

You look away. You can’t bear to see his face when you say it.

“Because I can’t give you everything people want in a relationship. I can’t offer you that kind of closeness—that kind. I’ve never wanted it. I don’t want it. Not with anyone.”

You force yourself to meet his eyes. “I’m ace. Asexual. I don’t want sex. And I know that’s something most people need, and I’ve made peace with that. But I never expected to fall in love, and now that I have, it just… it feels cruel. To want you and know I can’t give you everything you deserve.”

You expect silence. Or pity. Or a soft, understanding smile that means goodbye.

But all Bob does is stare at you—open, stunned, and soft in the way only he can be. He takes a breath, eyes wide.

And then, barely above a whisper:

“…That’s what you’ve been afraid of?”

His voice is so quiet, so stunned, you can’t tell if it’s disbelief or confusion or something worse. You can’t read his face. He’s just… staring at you.

And that’s somehow worse than anger. Worse than rejection.

You feel yourself shrinking inward, shame curling tight around your ribs like a vice. You knew this was coming—you knew—and still the ache of it cleaves right through you.

You force a shaky breath, eyes fixed on your hands so you don’t have to see him walk away.

“I get it if you need time. Or if this changes things. I just—” You break off. Swallow hard. “I just needed you to know why I pulled away. It wasn’t because I didn’t feel something. I did. I do.”

Still, he doesn’t speak.

You finally look up.

He hasn’t moved.

His mouth is parted slightly, like he wants to say something but the words got caught somewhere in his chest. His brow is furrowed, his hands gripping the edge of the table like they’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, throat tight. “I should’ve never let it get this far. I should’ve known better.”

He blinks at that, something flickering behind his eyes, but it’s gone too fast to name.

And then you add, voice barely audible, “It would’ve been easier if I didn’t love you.”

His shoulders jerk like he’s been struck. But still, he says nothing.

So you do what you always do when it hurts too much to stay: you stand.

Slowly. Carefully. Like moving too fast might break whatever this is beyond repair.

“I should go.”

You’re halfway to the door before he finally speaks.

“Wait.”

It’s just one word, and it hits you square in the spine.

You stop. But you don’t turn around. Can’t.

Another beat of silence. Then:

“You love me.”

It’s not a question. Just… wonder. Disbelief. Maybe a little broken, like the words don’t feel real in his mouth.

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “Yeah.”

A pause.

“You thought I’d leave. Because you’re ace.”

Your voice is barely there. “Not leave. Just… not want this.”

“Why wouldn’t I want this?” The question bursts out of him, raw and cracking with emotion. “You think I only want you if I can sleep with you?”

You flinch at the edge in his voice, even though it’s not anger. It’s something sharper. Something hurt.

“No, I just—” Your breath catches. “I’ve seen what people expect. What they need. And I’m not that. I’m not—enough.”

Now you turn, because you have to. Because the silence behind you is suddenly too loud.

He’s standing now too. Still gripping the table like he’s afraid of what’ll come out if he lets go.

His eyes are glassy. And when he speaks again, his voice cracks.

“You’ve always been enough.”

The room feels like it’s holding its breath.

“I didn’t say anything because I thought you didn’t feel the same,” he says, voice trembling. “But I was happy just being near you. Being yours in whatever way you’d let me. I didn’t need anything else.”

You stare at him, heart in your throat.

And you’re crying too now. You can feel it—hot and silent and unstoppable, tears sliding down your cheeks before you can even think to stop them.

“A messy pair, it looks like,” you sniffle, voice thick with emotion. You drag your sleeve across your face and look up at him, really look—searching his expression for any sign that this isn’t real. That maybe he’s just being kind. That he’s going to realize later this isn’t enough.

But all you find is that same gentle care. That familiar worry for your well-being. That quiet, unmistakable want—not the kind that burns, but the kind that stays. The kind that holds.

You take a step toward him. Then another. And another, until your arms are wrapped around his middle and his are circling your shoulders like he’s afraid if he doesn’t hold tight enough, you’ll vanish.

He presses his cheek to your hair, exhaling like he’s finally breathing again.

“This… this is okay?” you whisper into the space between you. Your voice trembles. “You still want this?”

You feel him nod first. Then his hand finds the back of your head, fingers weaving gently into your hair as he murmurs against your temple, soft and steady:

“It’s more than okay. I want everything you have to offer. Just you. As you are.”

You close your eyes. Let yourself feel the warmth of his body against yours. The safety in his arms. The steadiness in his voice.

But you need to check, “I’ve never been in an actual normal relationship. I don’t know how to make it right..” voice small.

“I don’t want some perfect idea of a relationship—I want you. However you come. However you love.” His hand rubbing slow grounding circles on your back as he speaks.

“If something’s ever too much, or if something doesn’t feel right,” he continues, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, “you tell me. We work through it. Together.”

Your chest tightens, not from fear this time, but from relief so full it almost hurts. You nod, lips trembling.

“I want to be close,” you whisper. “I just… I need it to be slow. And on my terms. I don’t always have the words right away, but I’ll try.”

“I never fell for you because of what you could give me. I fell because you’re you.” He looks down at you making sure you see how sincere he is.

“If I get to spend my life just loving you the way you want to be loved… that’s the best future I could ask for.” Bob says quietly.

You lean your forehead against his, both of you damp-cheeked and quiet, sharing breath.

Then he smiles—crooked and warm, with just a hint of nervous laughter. “This is probably the worst time to say it, but… do you still want to help me repot the monstera?”

You let out a watery laugh, and something in your chest finally, finally unclenches.

“Only if you don’t drop the soil all over the carpet this time.”

“No promises.”

And just like that, the world starts to stitch itself back together—slowly, gently, one soft moment at a time.

~

You always thought love had to look a certain way.

Lust. Fireworks. Desire burning under skin, mouths pressed together in desperate need. That was what everyone seemed to chase. That was what people wrote poems about, what characters clung to in the stories you never saw yourself in.

And for a long time, you thought that meant love wasn’t for you. That you were a puzzle piece no one would ever quite fit with. That maybe what you had to give just wasn’t enough.

But then came Bob. With his awkward smiles and oversized hoodies and gentle eyes that held galaxies of patience. With his hands that never reached until you offered. With the kind of love that didn’t ask you to change or contort or become anything other than what you are.

It’s different. What the two of you have.

But not lacking.

Not half of something.

Not less.

It’s quiet hands brushing in the hallway. Shared meals and bad jokes and early mornings where you say everything without a single word. It’s building trust one heartbeat at a time. It’s safety. And laughter. And presence.

And it’s love. True, real, full-bodied love.

Not in spite of your boundaries, but because of them. Because you were brave enough to speak, and he was kind enough to listen. Because you laid yourself bare and he stayed.

Because you chose each other, knowing exactly what you were choosing.

This is your kind of love. Powerful not because it shouts the loudest, but because it never asks you to shrink.

And as he reaches for your hand again—fingers intertwining with yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world—you realize you were never missing anything.

You just hadn’t found him yet.

[dragonnarrative-writes]

I've started watching the shorts on Daniel Buyeske's youtube channel (mixed acro/cheer/impressive stunts) and, to be quite honest with you... I can see Soap doing that while on leave.

Lifting weights? Nah, he'd rather lift other human beings one-handed.

He absolutely would love that, NonBon!

Soap started with crossfit on leave because he gets plenty of standard gym time on base and he wants to try something new. And it's fun! Especially when the parkour enthusiasts show up and start challenging him.

"I used to do gymnastics," one of the guys says. "You're in pretty good shape, you should check out the acro gym."

He is not a natural! He thought he was great at stabilizing his core at the other gym, but people wiggle more than free weights. That's fine though, because he adores his instructor and the man's wife who grins like a maniac and lets him toss her around. Any time he says, "Can we try...?" she's already warming up, chattering and excited.

And if, at the end of the night, Johnny goes home with his instructors to practice some more intimate lifts and tumbles...

[brownisposts]

Spencer x Boho!Blk! OC

Summary: this is just my imagination of I hope the next love interest for our fav nerd (but probs won’t happen) also how I think they’d meet

A/N - Now I have two vers, this is a bit more wholesome but short. Imma just post the simple one but lemme know if yall wanna hear the other vers

I see her as like a brown skin-dark skin boho, maximalist, baddie and she wears like clunky loud gold jewelry to go with his dark academia minimalism kinda style, I can see them both like swapping or sharing oversized sweaters, I SO see her buy him silver rings at like a local market or something. Imagine her like earthy greens with his like academic brown (I’m js saying shit 😭) but she’d compliment his apartment so well. I also want her to be a bit on the spectrum as well (biased asf).

But one aspect that I find to be a bit important is I want her to be a hoodoo practitioner or maybe like a rootworker, cuz I think it would be interesting as Spencer has always been a science first type of person which is why he doesn’t really believe in gods or spirits, so it would be like a funny irony type of thing that a man such as Spencer who we know to always have a logical reasoning behind something is dating this woman who thinks that there are somethings that you can’t always explain with stats (of course it would be tasteful and hopefully not like the classic stereotype that is usually depicted of hoodoo black women).

I have an episode in mind of her giving him like a protection totem and him being a good bf (he’s a good man Savannah 😠) while he’s hesitant he takes the totem, before going to work and it’s a bit of a shoot out and he gets hit RIGHT WHERE THE TOTEM IS. Then afterwards he just stops questioning her concerns or her practice.

I’m not sure whether or not if she has locs or just her natural hair (big or small) to compliment his like curls/his hair idk what yall think.

How they met

If CM manages to get Derek and Savannah back for like 1 episode, I can only imagine that like school probably just ended and Spencer has said goodbye to his students and submitted their final grades. So he’s just sitting at home with nothing to do and he gets a call from Derek to stop by the house and he’s just expecting it to be the two of them and Savannah and the kids, but it’s a full blown cookout (trust he is the only yt man invited) and it’s not like it’s really surprising to Spencer since literally everyone knows him by name. He finds Derek and asks why’d he invite him and Derek just tells him that he just wanted to help him get out of the house and celebrate him being a professor.

And out the corner of his eye he sees her and it takes him a bit to go up to her and say something because he’s not sure how Derek may feel about it (it creates tension ok, knowing Derek he probs won’t gaf 😭). So he’s just trying to get the courage to go up to her and he talks to Derek and likely asks if it’s ok for him to pursue his cousin, Derek gives him the ok and some advice and as he goes to talk to her, Savannah after hearing everything and goes “he does know that’s not actually your cousin right?” and it’s a lil joke. But Spencer gets over his nerves and talks to her and they talk for a while just about interests and stuff, he finds out that she likes a lot of stuff he does like certain blk philosophers and Toni Morrison. Then he asks her on a date and she says yes (🥹).

Bonus:

On their first date they go to a bookstore and buy each other books they think the other likes and go to a jazz bar and listen to the music while they read. And when they talk about each others picks they talk for like hours until they have to leave.

[lennadanvers]

His Home

Johnny Soap MacTavish x Ace!Reader

A/N: I'm a day late to Ace Week, but I really wanted to post this. I'd love to see more ace representation in fanfiction, so I'm doing my part. Plus, this kind of relationship has always been my favorite- there's something about undefined love that makes it perfect. I really like this one, so much that I wrote it while studying for my History exam. I hope you love it too, happy belated Ace Week!

Ghost is the first one to ask about it.

About you.

It’s late, you went to bed an hour ago, and Johnny offered him a beer. They’re looking at the empty front yard, a normal street in a normal neighborhood- a rare sight for soldiers of their kind. The food you and Soap made for the occasion sits warm in their bellies. The air smells of quiet and night.

Simon has known Johnny for a long time- and he has known him well. He didn’t know about this, though. He heard about you, of course. The first time Soap wasn’t sure if he’d make it back home, it was your name he mumbled. Instructions were clear: his dog tags were for you to receive. Along with everything else in his barracks. Ae dinnae care aboot all the rules. Ye gotta take me home tae ‘er.

Ghost knew you weren’t married- he would have seen it in his sergeant’s paperwork. He decided you were his girlfriend, then.

Until someone flirted with Johnny at a bar, and he happily told them he was single. Single. It didn’t lead anywhere, anyway; he came back to base with the rest of the team that night. Maybe he didn’t have a bird at home anymore, thought Simon.

But then there was the roommate. Soap was always talking about the roommate, how she would always leave hairs in the shower, how the laundry detergent smelled like flowers back home. It was said with fondness, the kind of affectionate jab one develops with family or very close friends. Ghost supposed you might be a childhood friend, then. Someone who had always been in Johnny’s life.

Come the end of their last mission, he had nowhere to stay at. His apartment was waiting for him, of course, but it was as empty and cold as any hotel room. His sergeant invited him home- tae meet ma girl. His girl. That was not a relationship status- no friend, no sister or girlfriend. Just girl, his girl.

He had to say yes.

Then there were you. Johnny’s age, bright eyes full of affection when you saw him. Small, soft hands ruffling the mohawk, saying it was getting out of hand. Nodding when he asked for another trim, bonnie, aye?

You hugged him around the neck, face under his chin. Ghost feared you would suffocate his sergeant. But Johnny’s face was pink, relaxed for the first time since before the mission. His arms were at your back, hands rounding your waist- they were used to that place. His nose deep in your hair- Simon felt like he was overstepping, like he wasn’t meant to see that. No one was.

Until you gave a step back- soft smile, soft eyes, soft Johnny- and welcomed him to your home. You called him L.T., like you knew him. Simon suspected you did. You didn’t try to shake his hand or- God forbid- hug him hello. You didn’t even risk a step into his personal space. He didn’t think it was out of fear- you didn’t blink twice at the black surgical mask. You just smiled and gave him a tour of the house.

That was another thing, the house. Tiny and tidy, cozy. Ghost didn’t have much experience with homes, but that’s what it looked like to him. A place lived in, well loved. A place with a past. Even more intriguing, a place with a future. By the way you talked, he gathered you weren’t renting. This place was owned. Something for the long run.

When you got to the hallway, though, you pointed to the last door. That’s my room! You can knock if you need anything, I’m a pretty light sleeper. Then to the one before that: That’s Johnny’s. Then the guest bedroom and the bathroom.

So you don’t sleep together.

Which would have been an answer to his curiosity, if it weren’t for the kitchen. After he left his stuff- a half-empty duffel bag- in the guest room, Simon went back to the small but charming space that is- all in one- your kitchen, living room and dining room. He was still in his soldier headspace, which means his steps were quiet. When he stepped into the kitchen, neither you nor Soap noticed him there.

You were laughing, hand on his bicep, eyes closed. Johnny was smiling. His shoulders down, his face soft. He grabbed your hand and brought you closer in a weird hug. You swayed together, and Simon almost heard the music you were dancing to. It went on for a while. Johnny went to grab a knife and you’d already placed the cutting board in front of him. You grabbed the oven mitt and he opened the oven.

You two are the perfect machine, always knowing where the other is going next. The smiles never falter. For the first time in years, Simon feels like he’s in a home. It’s confusing and startling. How come Soap has this waiting for him? How is he even able to go on deployment, knowing he might not have the chance to dance around you in the kitchen again?

The thought sparks memories. Soap’s sketchbook, a gleaming eye peeking from the page. His tactical jacket, jasmine perfume as they march through a field. A hair tie in the keychain. Gunpowder hands buying a bracelet in a faraway country. Making flower crowns while waiting for the target to show up. Dodging bullets with blue fevered eyes. Take me home tae ‘er.

He cleared his throat, and you handled him the plates to set on the table.

After dinner, you said goodnight. Johnny kissed your cheek; I left some beers in the fridge. Another kiss on the forehead. You waved at Simon, sweet and tired. Soap’s eyes followed you through the hallway.

Out in the cool night air, Simon asks.

“Tha’ ‘er?”

Soap flinches in his seat. The bottle in his hand twinkles under the stars. Doesn’t seem willing to reply. Maybe he doesn’t know how.

“The one from yer drawings?”

The nod is soft.

“Aye.”

Interrogation is an art. Ghost knows many ways to get information out of people. None of them work better on his sergeant than silence. The man has a need to fill empty spaces.

So he waits until Johnny takes the bait.

“A’v always known her.”

Another silence. Simon doesn’t need to ask the question out loud.

“We arenae datin. She isnae ma girlfriend. Or wife,” Jhonny’s voice is warm and liquid. “She's the love o ma life.”

Curiosity bubbles again. How does this life fit with the man out in the field? How come a cozy little house is home to a demolition expert?

“How’s tha’ work?”

Soap’s shoulders tighten, preparing for a defensive stance.

“She doesnae want sex.”

That’s not quite an answer, so Simon waits. Johnny’s back relaxes slowly, as if relieved by the lack of a reaction.

“But ‘a dinnae care aboot all that stuff. She's here whan ‘a come home, an she takes care o’ me. A tak care o’ her. Thare's nothin more than that.”

Nothing more he could ask for. Nothing more he’d ever want. His eyes glow blue, melting ice in the night. Ghost wonders, surprised, how he never saw it. How he didn’t realize.

After that, he doesn’t ask any more questions. There’s nothing else he’d need to know, really. When the bottles are empty and the air a little too cold, they retreat to their rooms.

The next morning, Simon stays in bed a little longer than usual. He listens to your soft steps in the hallway, the little knock on the door and Johnny’s raspy laugh. He hears the sheets and the whispers, the way he tells you stories about their last deployement- some true (only the lighter ones), the rest made up, with a handsome, Scottish hero. He pictures you tucked in Johnny’s side, his hand in your hair, easy smiles lighting up the room. And he understands. Once again, his sergeant’s words sound in his head.

A dinnae care aboot the rules. She’s ma girl, L.T.

[lennadanvers]

Sometimes love is home and a person, and sometimes love is not what they show you in movies.

[hyperfixiation-station]

Simon and reader who are both ace.

Who show love through back scratches and forehead kisses. Who sits with ankles interlocked when you watch TV. You wipe the eyeblack from his masks when he gets back from missions. He bring you back fossils and cool rocks. You sleep in separate beds in the summer, because you need things as cold as they can get and he runs like a furnace. In the winter, you're curled up against his chest, soaking in his warmth.

It throws Soao off when he finds out Ghost has never had sex with you. He pounds his birdie into the ground whenever he goes on leave. Ghost just shakes his head. Thats not you, not your relationship.

You run a bath when he gets home, wash his hair until his blond locks are the water runs clear, kneel next to the tub and gently scratch his scalp with your newly manicured nails. He cooks you dinner, always steak and potatoes the first night he gets back.

Your relationship maybe be different, yes. But it is no less fulfilling. You love Simon, and Simon loves you. He don't need sex to prove that.

A/N: for reference i am asexual, so this is based off my own experience. I do not speak for all asexuals as its a spectrum!!

[necrobunni]

as a black person i've started to expect everything to be x black reader since that's all I read and it's crazy. oh i blushed, damn it must be winter i guess. blonde hair, okay i got me a bussdown I guess. it's so fucking hilarious.

[fallen-w1ngs]

About the the germaphobe ask: I’m sorry I didn’t mean to confuse you! 😭 I forgot to put that it was a request for the Thunderbolts crew

ITS ALL GOOD 🩵 !!! sorry for not getting to ya till just now :'3

'' GERMAPHOBE ,,

|| pairings : (individual) the new avengerz + germaphobe!reader

|| warnings : none !

|| if some of these seem ooc it's cz idk how to write them, im sorry 💔 also, thw characters are written in alphabetical order

ALEXEI SHOSTAKOV :

|| Alexei is, surprisingly, one of the most understanding ones in the group when you bring up doing a deep clean. Being stuck in a Russian prison for god knows how long, he knows how it's like to live in less than ideal living situations.

|| Does this make him the cleanest person to live with? Not by a long shot. But, when you speak up about how you don't do well with the messiness, he tries more to make less of a mess. He will also lift any heavy object you need him to too get into the nooks and crannies.

|| In my head, when you bring up the idea of deep cleaning, this is what he says: "Deep clean? Oh! Yes, yes! I mean, the mess adds personality, and it's not as bad as Russian prison, but I will help! Because we are team!"

AVA STARR:

|| She's the most quiet one to help you out, part of me actually thinks she'd start cleaning even before you bring up the deep cleaning idea. Ava, just doing her thing, would notice how your nose would scrunch up at the pile of rubbish Alexei would leave around. Or how you'd avoid touching the empty soda cans, dirtied napkins, and empty bowls that would be left over from a night of team bonding.

|| When you do bring up the idea, she gives a solid nod and starts going to work with it. Utilizing her phasing ability to look into smaller spaces and see if it's absolutely disgusting or up to your standards.

|| Her response to the idea: "Oh, yeah sure. Walker is disgusting to live around, so I see why you'd want to do a deep clean- maybe we could contact Val to hire some people to help out?"

ROBERT "BOB" REYNOLDS:

|| Lowkey, he's a germaphobe too. Though he doesn't have as much motivation as you do to do full on deep cleans, but he hates leaving things out to stay dirty. Dishes, laundry, bedrooms. While ya'll are out on missions, he stays back at the Watchtower and cleans up some parts of the tower he notices. As well as makes everyones bed, no peaking or snooping of course.

|| When you ask him to do a deep clean together while the rest of the team are out for some work, he is ecstatic. He's never really gotten chances to do deep cleans or lived in the cleanest enviroment, so even the idea of cleaning alongside you, making the Watchtower a clean home for the team? Dude, he's already grabbing the mop and gloves.

|| His response when given the idea: "Wait really? I'd love to! It has been getting pretty messy lately.. I'd love to do a deep clean with you! W-We could put some of the music you like on the speakers.!"

JAMES "BUCKY" BARNES:

|| Bucky doesn't care that much for messes, of course he'd rather not live in a dumpster, but he's used to the small messes. Not tidy living room, bedroom with a few articles of clothing sprawled on the floor. That sort of stuff, he thinks it makes the Watchtower seem more lived in. In the 30s, of course, he was chastised by his ma to not have a messy room so it was a habit to clean up, but again, he doesn't mind the mess.

|| When you brought up the idea of doing a deep clean in passing, not directed to him, the freetime he found he went out to the store and bought the cleaning supplies.. Though it was hard with how many options there were, back in his day it was either bar soap or nothing.

|| When you brought up the idea, he didn't say anything, he just gave a small nod and went to work. Very much still in that soldier mentailty to finish the job. Later on while cleaning, he'd say something like: "I never really got the chance to do this before.. Before and after.." He paused, giving a small shrug. "This was fun. We should do this again."

JOHN WALKER:

|| I'm not saying he's ignorant, but he doesn't really get why you're a germaphobe. It's just a bit of messes, but then again, he does understand why you absolutely hate messes. Having been on multiple tours in the army as well as having a kid, messes are.. Well, they're not pleasant.

|| When you did bring it up to him, he was skeptical and asked "Why not just get Val to hire a team?" And you said you wanted to do it as well as spend some time with him. That's what got him.

|| While you guys cleaned, if you were in seperate rooms he'd use comms, he'd ramble on and on about his life. Which was interesting!! He didn't talk much about his achievements or wins as much as you'd expect, no, he talked more about his family and Lemar and Lemar's family. He did cry a little when he talked about his ex-wife and his son, but you were there to help him out. All in all, deep cleaning with Walker turned into a therapy session lowkey.

YELENA BELOVA:

|| Yelena was trained in the Red Room to be a perfect widow and assassin, of course she noticed how you squirmed a bit when finding a pile of trash that the team had decided to forget about. Instead of you going to her to bring the idea of deep cleaning the tower, she brought it to you. Thinking that it'd be something good for you.

|| When she brought the idea up, she already bought out the cleaning aisle at the local superstore... That's half joking. She watched as your eyes lit up with excitement and you both got to work real quickly.

|| While you were cleaning, she'd talk about how this team is a bunch of slobs like the pigs her mother raised, she talked about how Natasha would've hated how the Watchtower looked now and how she would've helped redecorate. It was a lot of talking about Natasha and her childhood, before the Red Room. By the end of cleaning, she said in a softer tone "You deserve to feel comfortable too, sorry it's hard to live with us," Of course, the last bit was more of a sarcastic joke. "Anyways, I have a bunch of ideas for next time we do this!" And she'd talk about how shit some of the products they used were.

|| SO SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG TO WRITE THIS 🙏🙏🙏 PLEASE FORGIVE ME 😞

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

I Keep Thinking About Astarion Being Ace!Tav's Guard Dog

Based on some of my conversations with @any59 and @leighsartworks216. The brainrot is so real you guys.

Astarion x Ace!Tav Masterlist

Astarion spent 200 years just trying to keep himself alive, but in truth having no say in the matter, one way or another

He gains his freedom and he does whatever he can do with his limited power to keep himself safe

And then he starts to fall for Tav, and all of that desperate need to survive gets transferred onto them

Just six months of happy memories with them is able to counter weight 200 years of torture and despair, how can he be expected to let that light be snuffed out

So, he keeps a protective arm around their waist, all but growling when an unwanted party gets to close

Tav goes down in battle and Astarion stands over their body daggers and thoughts bloody

Somebody insults his love and he bares his teeth daring them to say another word

Tav has made it more than clear they're not interested in using him for his body as so many others have done, but how else is he supposed to show his devotion

Maybe he can do this instead, use his body to protect them, to be that safe place for Tav the way they are for him

What's a little more blood on his hands if it keeps theirs clean

Some part of Tav knows he's going a little too far sometimes, holding just a little too tightly to the point he leaves marks, but they're not about to stop him

They spent so long feeling like they needed to justify their existence that to have somebody be willing to love and protect them just for being is everything and because they know they leave claw marks of their own

[ladycupcakes]

haiiii do you think you can make headcanons for Patrick Bateman x neurodivergent s/o who likes horror movies a lot?? tyy ^^

ahhh tysm for the request!! this idea was SO fun to play with—patrick + a neurodivergent s/o who’s super into horror? yeah, it practically wrote itself lol i hope you like how it turned out 🖤🧠🔪

Summary: He tries to scare you by showing you horror films. You love horror movies and he can't help but feel more obsessed with you

Tags: Patrick Bateman x Reader, Patrick Bateman headcanons

Warnings: Mentions of sex (non-explicit), Mentions of murder, Blood & gore, Horror and thriller themes, Graphic violence (described through film references), Romanticization of violent behavior (fictional only)

This is fictional. Don’t romanticize this stuff in real life. Viewer discretion advised.

Word count: 1k

Requests here

The “refined” movie night that backfires instantly:

Patrick invites you over for what he calls a “refined movie night.” He’s thinking wine, minimal lighting, pretentious conversation, and psychological control.

But the movie selection? Brutal. Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Psycho, Maniac, that one banned French film he insists is “underrated.”

His plan is simple: you get scared, he gets to play the calm, protective type. He shapes the tone. He controls the narrative. You melt into his arms. He's in control of the situation.

Except you don’t scream. You lean forward with fascination, practically glowing. You're not usually this focused on things.

“God, that’s such a good practical effect,” you murmur while someone gets disemboweled.

He’s sitting next to you in a pristine Valentino suit, gripping his wine glass like it just insulted his skincare routine.

“You like this stuff?” — He can’t process it:

You turn to him, smiling, eyes wide like a kid in a candy store: “Oh my god, thank you for picking this! I love horror.”

He blinks. “You do?”

He wasn’t expecting this. People don’t derail his plans. They follow the script. And now he’s… interested? Confused? Slightly turned on?

Testing your limits (and losing every time):

He recalibrates. Next time, he picks worse. Obscure, underground, ethically questionable horror. The kind of movies that make grown men walk out of theaters.

You? You show up with snacks and a notepad. You’re taking notes. You pause to point out camera angles and obscure references.

Patrick sits there, realizing he can’t shock you. Not the way he wanted to. Not at all.

And it bothers him. But also? He might be obsessed.

Infodump wars. You always win:

You start rambling mid-movie about the use of color theory in Argento films, trauma cycles in slasher narratives, and how 2000s gore was shaped by post-9/11 nihilism.

Your hands move fast when you talk. Your thoughts go faster. You bounce from one film to the next like you’re solving a bloody puzzle.

Patrick tries to pull a signature Bateman move: one of his cold, calculated, vaguely academic film rants.

But before he gets a word out, you go, “Did you know the original ending was cut by the studio for being too bleak?”

He did. Obviously. But the fact that you did? He’s genuinely shaken. Your head is usually everywhere and anywhere at once, what's got into you?

You can’t mansplain horror to an horror brain:

He starts getting visibly irritated every time you finish his sentences or one-up his trivia.

You’re not trying to compete—you’re just excited. But he’s used to being the smartest, the most composed, the one who knows everything. You're always the one who doesn't know, who listens to him. He must be the one on top.

And now you’re sitting there eating popcorn out of the bowl he didn’t want to share, talking about the use of Catholic guilt in The Exorcist, while he rethinks his entire personality.

For the first time in years, Patrick feels like someone’s ahead of him.

It’s a threat. It’s intoxicating.

“That’s a spinal hit.” — The casual overshare:

Halfway through a particularly nasty film, he starts describing a stabbing scene in chilling detail.

“You see how the body slumps forward after the third stab? That’s a spinal hit. Total collapse. Blood flow slows dramatically. It’s surprisingly quiet.”

You pause.

“Patrick?”

“Yes?”

“How do you… know that?”

He doesn’t blink. Just shrugs and goes,

“Read it in a book.”

You’re impressed. “That’s so cool, you’re like… a forensic genius or something.”

“Or something,” he murmurs, sipping his wine like he didn’t just give away a murder method. Jeez, you were too clueless for your own good.

He starts leaving you gifts (that aren’t really gifts):

He begins “accidentally” leaving ultra-rare horror DVDs and violent concept art around his apartment.

“Found this in a shop. It’s out of print. You can borrow it,” he says casually, even though it’s obviously meant for you.

Sketches of gore scenes appear in his drawers. Pages from fake “scripts” with disturbingly real detail. Blood-smeared storyboards from “unreleased” projects.

“This artist is rising fast,” he says. “Don’t show it to anyone else.”

It’s his own work. Maybe even real crime scenes, stylized as horror fiction.

You think it’s the coolest thing ever. He can’t believe you’re not running.

Jealous of fictional killers:

One night you casually say, “Okay but Hannibal Lecter is like… lowkey hot.”

Patrick goes still. "Is he.”

“Yeah! I mean, he’s cultured, articulate, unpredictable. The way he kills—”

His jaw clenches. You don’t notice.

That night he tells you a “story from a novel” about a man who murdered his coworker, cleaned the crime scene, and no one ever found the body.

You’re blown away. “That sounds better than most thrillers I’ve read.”

He smiles, tight-lipped. You just praised his real-life kill as if it were fiction. He’s never felt this validated. That was the biggest turn on he has ever had.

That night he fucked you dumb.

Domestic, but deranged:

The longer this continues, the softer he gets—in his own weird way.

He lets you fall asleep on his couch during movie marathons. Doesn’t even move you. Just lowers the volume and watches you breathe. So cute. Not knowing he had a dead corpse in his fridge.

He reschedules a murder one night because you asked to watch Hereditary again.

When you’re over, he makes sure the fridge is locked. The knives are hidden. Just in case.

He starts thinking about you when he walks past crime scenes. Wonders what you’d say about the blood pattern. About the artistry.

He feels something that might be... respect? Admiration? Affection? Obsession

Whatever it is, it’s terrifying. And he likes it.

He lets you win (which means a lot):

Patrick Bateman does not let people win. But with you, he bites his tongue. Often.

You go on tangents about obscure slasher lore and he doesn’t interrupt. He just watches, amused, borderline awestruck.

You misquote a director once and he almost corrects you—then stops. Smiles slightly. At least you weren't better all the time.

You make him feel like part of something. A shared obsession. Even if you don’t know the full extent of his.

“You’re worse than me.”:

One night, you pass out halfway through a brutal indie horror. You're curled up against him, half a blanket on, limbs everywhere.

The screen glows red from a massacre scene. He looks down at you.

You look peaceful. Safe. Completely unaware of how close you are to a real monster.

“Christ,” he whispers, brushing a lock of hair from your face.

“What's going on in that little head of yours. You're worse than me.”

And for the first time in his life, he says it with something like love.

[ladycupcakes]

hiii same anon who requested patrick bateman x neurodivergent s/o!! do u think u can try sum headcanons for patrick (yet again) with an asexual (specifically sex repulsed) s/o?? u dont have to if you want this totally isnt self indulgent wdym /j

thank you sm for this request, i had way too much fun with it honestly 🫣 the dynamic got a bit dark, a bit tender, a bit confusing (just like patrick's brain) — but it was such an interesting angle to explore. hope you enjoy these!! 🖤 also — self-indulgent?? babe that’s the point. keep them coming /pos

Summary: Patrick starts dating you for the aesthetic — beautiful, composed, easy to show off. But your quiet defiance of his expectations, your disinterest in sex, and the way you actually listen to him begin to unravel something deeper (and much more dangerous) in him. It's not just about control anymore.

Tags: Patrick Bateman x Reader, Fem!Reader, Asexual!Reader, Patrick Bateman headcanons

Warnings: Mentions of sex (non-explicit), Sexual frustration, Asexuality (sex-repulsed reader), Internalized anger, Emotional repression, Mentions of masturbation, Mentions of murder, Psychological manipulation, Romanticization of obsessive behavior (fictional only)

This is fictional. Don't romanticize this stuff in real life. Viewer discretion advised.

Word count: 1.6k

A/N: btw, i wrote this as patrick x fem!reader since it felt more fitting considering the movie + how he behaves in canon — but feel free to read it however you want, the dynamic stays the same 💅

Requests here

“Perfect girlfriend” material — but something he can’t pin down:

Patrick starts dating you because you’re ideal: Clean. Attractive. Polished enough to walk into any restaurant on his arm without making him look ridiculous.

You’re quiet. Composed. Predictable. You fit. You’re safe.

But it doesn’t take long for something to feel... off.

You don’t smile at the right moments. You don’t try to charm his friends. You ask strange questions — precise, thoughtful, out of place at rooftop cocktail parties. You listen more than you speak.

It fucks with him.

Most women perform. You observe. And worse — you observe him. Sometimes you tilt your head when he talks, like you're dissecting his sentences. Like you’re cataloguing something. Testing him.

He tells himself he doesn't care. But he finds himself replaying conversations with you. Watching you more closely than he should.

You were supposed to be an accessory. Now you’re starting to feel like a variable. And Patrick Bateman hates variables.

The “perfect” night — with a goal in mind:

Patrick doesn’t believe in romance. But he knows how to perform it.

Dinner at an exclusive place. Wine he barely tastes. A perfectly calculated smile across the table. Everything choreographed.

He holds the door open. Pays the bill. Laughs at your jokes. The whole “boyfriend of the year” act — all just steps toward the bedroom.

You look incredible. You’re quiet. Composed. Beautiful. Why wouldn’t he want to fuck you?

He gets you back to the penthouse. Lighting set low. Music playing at the right volume. He hands you a drink and kisses your neck, already imagining what you’ll look like stripped down.

And then: “I’m really tired. Can we not?” You say it softly. Calmly. Like you’re asking to skip dessert. Like this wasn’t the moment.

It fucks with him again.

You don’t flinch. You don’t explain. You just set a boundary — clean, quiet, absolute.

He freezes. Only for a second.

Then the smile returns. Soft. Charming. Mechanical.

“Of course.”

He kisses your temple like it doesn’t bother him. Like he’s fine. Like he’s not raging underneath.

He doesn’t show it. But inside? Something cracks.

Trying to convince himself — and failing:

After that night, Patrick tells himself it wasn’t his fault. He’s flawless. If anything, she is the one who’s off.

So he brushes it aside. Blames her mood, the timing, something outside of himself.

He tries again. And again. Each time, the answer stays the same — a quiet, unyielding no. No anger. No explanations. Just a firm boundary.

It unsettles him. Gnaws at his confidence. Breaks the neat image he’s built around himself.

He becomes colder. More distant. His once effortless charm turns hollow, his smiles sharper, colder.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he wonders silently. He masks the frustration, but it simmers beneath the surface.

Some nights, he contemplates escape. Flashy parties. Women who want him without questions. Prostitutes to fill the void.

But he never goes. Instead, he locks himself in the bathroom, shuts the door tight, and relieves the tension alone. The act is mechanical. Empty. Frustrating.

He hates that. But it’s the only way he can handle the growing disconnect.

The breaking point — and the question he can’t avoid:

A month in, Patrick’s patience is gone. He wonders — every day — why he hasn’t just gone to a prostitute already. It would be easier. Cleaner. No questions. No boundaries.

But something keeps him tethered. The tension — the silent rejection — it’s not just in their relationship. It’s bleeding into everything.

His murders become more frequent. More violent. Bloodier. It’s like he’s trying to vent the frustration he can’t put into words.

He barely sleeps. He barely thinks straight. And then, one night — after weeks of silent suffering — it all collapses.

He sits across from you, eyes dark and unguarded. The mask slips. “What’s wrong with you?”

But inside, he’s asking himself, too. Am I the problem? Is it me? Why won’t she want me?

The question haunts him. The doubt eats at him. He’s lost control. And he hates it.

The explanation — and his cold compromise:

You finally tell him. You don’t want to, but you have to.

You explain it gently. Slowly. Your voice is calm, but your chest feels tight.

You tell him you’re asexual. Not just disinterested — repulsed by sex. It’s not a phase. It’s not about him.

You care about him. Deeply. You love him, even. But you’ll never want that. Not with anyone. Not even him.

He stares at you. Blank. Too quiet. Too still. So you keep going —

You say you understand if that’s not something he can live with. You say you won’t hold it against him if he decides to leave. You even say you’d get it. Your voice cracks just a little when you say that.

For a long moment, he says nothing. Just that empty, unreadable face.

Then: “I’m not leaving.” His tone is flat. Icy. Final.

You want to believe it means something. You try to. But what you don’t hear — what he doesn’t say — is louder.

Inside, Patrick’s already weighing the optics. Ditching his girlfriend after six weeks? Bad look. People talk. Paul Allen would talk. So he says, “We’ll talk more later.”

And as he reaches for his coat: “I have to return some videotapes.”

No more performance — just the raw version of him:

Something shifts after your conversation.It clicks in his head: You’re not going to sleep with him. Ever.

So why bother with the charade? No more fancy restaurants. No more flowers. No more effort.

The “boyfriend” mask peels back, piece by piece. He stops trying to impress you. He doesn’t have to.

At first, it means long silences. A lot of mutual ignoring. He works out. You read. He listens to music. You scroll through weird forums.

But somehow, you start finding little overlaps. Horror movies. Old records. The finer points of murder weaponry (in fiction — mostly). You don’t flinch when Leatherface shows up on screen. You don’t ask him to tone down his rants about business cards or Huey Lewis. You just let him be.

And that… unnerves him. He doesn’t feel the need to seduce or manipulate you. You’re just there. Quiet. Calm. Odd.

He tells himself you’re just a background noise. A hobby. A strange little companion. But something about that starts to feel dangerous. Because for once, he’s not pretending. And he’s not sure what that means.

Real connection — and the night it gets too quiet in his head:

You listen to him. Not just nod and smile — you actually listen. You ask about his job, and mean it. You let him ramble about mergers, the market, the lies he tells people. You don’t interrupt. You don’t perform interest. You just are interested.

It’s… unsettling. No one does that. Not did Evelyn. Not Paul. Not even Courtney when she’s drugged into a fake smile.

At first, he files you under: hot friend. Weirdly perceptive. Good taste in movies. Doesn’t care about labels or image.

You’re not like the others. But not in a cliché way — you’re just there, and you see him. Worse: you understand parts of him no one else even notices.

Some nights, he doesn’t bother going back to his own apartment. He sleeps in your bed. Fully clothed. Facing the ceiling.

You both talk until 2 a.m. Sometimes about music. Sometimes about death. Sometimes about nothing.

And then — one night — something happens. He wakes up next to you. No dreams. No urges. He didn’t spend the night picturing your blood on his hands. Or your mouth on him. Or your breath choking out under his grip.

Just… quiet. It startles him. It bothers him. He lays there in the dark, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Trying to figure out when you stopped being something to consume and became something else entirely.

And he hates not knowing what that “something else” is.

The shift: when outside stops mattering

He used to thrive on events. Dinners. Openings. Award nights. Not for the experience — for the audience.

His girlfriends were props. Well-dressed trophies to prove he was better. Hotter girlfriend = higher status.

But with you? The shine wears off faster. He still brings you around at first. Watches people stare, listens to them whisper. It should be satisfying. But all he feels is boredom.

He cuts nights short. Starts skipping events altogether. No big declarations — he just doesn’t want to go. He tells himself it’s the venue. The crowd. The food.

But the truth? He’s started to like being inside more. At home. With you.

In sweats. With bad lighting. Watching disturbing films and dissecting them like weirdos. With no pressure to impress or be "Patrick Bateman".

For once, he doesn’t feel like a mask. And that should scare him — but instead, it calms him.

The thought he can’t get rid of:

It comes to him in the middle of a completely ordinary night. You’re both on the couch. You’ve got your legs draped over his lap, you’re eating some awful snack food and talking about dreams.

And then it hits him.

He doesn’t want to fuck you right now. He doesn’t want to kill you. He doesn’t want to leave.

He just wants to be here.

It doesn’t feel normal. He’s not used to stillness. No goal, no endgame. Just... this strange, clean hunger to stay close.

So his brain — his sick, rotting, calculating brain — tries to label it. Tries to dissect it.

Is this dependency? Is it obsession? Is it emotional rot?

Or — God forbid — Is this love?

He doesn’t say it. He can’t. The word alone feels filthy.

But something in him clicks, uncomfortably. Like a machine realigning.

And that night, when he goes to sleep next to you — he doesn’t fantasize about your blood. He doesn’t get hard. He doesn’t want anything from you.

He just wants you to still be there when he wakes up.

[seeminglydark]

How do I read about the punk and the cheerleader? The pic I saw of them passing notes was too cute!

ahaha oh god, where do i start, Carrie and Sully are my hyperfixation couple so uhhh theres a lot. Pretty much all the art on this blog is of them at some stage in their lives.

Fyi: my comics are all lgbtq+, supernatural/horror, found family, finding self, and there's angst and some heavy subjects but all with hopeful outcomes. I'll focus on their teen years for this post since that's what the detention piece is of. So lets seee. You can look at the tag '#the punk and the cheerleader' for more art of their teen years here on tumblr!

Here's a couple of character sheets from when they were teens

They star in my comic (cartoony horror) Prom Night which you can read for free here on Ko-fi

and here's a list of the mini comics I've made of them.

First kiss! (canon), sketch only

Schoolyard flirtin’ (canon), sketch only

Unidentified Flying Objects part 1 (canon, queer vibes)

Unidentified Flying Objects part 2 (canon, queer vibes)

The Punk and the Cheerleader (canon)

Tokens of affection (canon)

Not exactly a comic, but a round up of their teenage years right up until they lose eachother (canon/angst)

annd if you enjoy all of that, you can read my comic Seemingly Dark where they are side characters later in the story, as adults. Or read my comic Mil-Liminal which is about them specifically as adults in their 20's after reconnecting. Both can be found on Tapas or Webtoon. Annnnd finally you can listen to the Mil-Liminal Podcast where ever you get audio fiction, which is run by the 'cheerleader' after the punk has left their life and focuses on spooky stuff, finding identity and coming of age. ANNND I'm coming out with a new book in June called Creaky about the punk's trying to rebuild his life after everything falls apart. There's a cat in it <3

Phew that was a lot. Thank you for the ask!

-RJ

readin' him their fave book <3