#ro's answers

[xikerriess]

is there any genre you will not write about xikers? i do not want to request something you're not comfortable with :)

the only thing I don't write is smut or any +18 content. thank you so much for asking!!! i feel like people don't do this very ofte

#xikerries #ro's answers

[ronearoundblindly]

Your Dog, His Tricks

a Steve Rogers x Avenger!Reader tale set a little over a year after losing their virginity together and based on this ask.

Summary: Injured on a mission and MIA for days, you return to a very high-strung boyfriend who can't express what he's feeling until it boils to the surface.

Warnings: arguments and smut. MINORS DNI. WC 5.4k

You don’t know when it started, this sort of competition with your boyfriend, but at some point you and Steve became a packaged deal. Unfortunately, that package was labeled: Steve Rogers and his girl. You feel nameless sometimes, and you know you are better than that; maybe you aren’t super like he is, but you are (and were since before dating) a whole-ass Avenger in your own right. You are a stellar agent. You can bring home the top prize. You can finish this shit-show of a mission all on your own.

No help.

None.

You noticed a problem after months and months of fighting with Steve—no, that sounds wrong—beside Steve. 

Okay, maybe it’s not wrong-wrong to say fighting with him because you two do have the occasional argument. Just one argument, really. One argument over and over again about you fighting beside him, why it’s fine, why he should let it go. You are as safe fighting beside him now as you were before the two of you became this set, this lop-sided partnership. He still wants to protect you from shit you are trained to protect yourself from, shit you survived just fine without him, shit like the last three days.

He’s stubborn, and so are you.

You’ve had trouble getting him to back off. The Team is a team, and Steve does great, delegating all sorts of jobs when you are one among many. As soon as it’s you and him alone? He’s…overly helpful, over-protective, and generally over-the-top fussy. He is adoring and caring and competent. Apparently, those things make him feel capable of doing everything for you. It’s sweet until it’s not. Every time you start a project—laundry, cooking, organizing shelves, or leading an actual mission—Steve waltzes in and has to finish it for you.

Because he loves you. Because he’s trying to help. Because he can.

It makes you feel as if you can’t, or, at least, as if he thinks you can’t.

“Well, buddy, you can’t have this one,” you mutter outside of HQ’s gate, gripping your side and flicking open the phone you stole a few states back.

You’ve been gone for just shy of seventy-three hours.

At first, you truly had no way to contact the Team. You were on your own a thousand miles from home, fried comms and a spent weapon. You missed the rendezvous at the safehouse because it took twenty or so hours to find a vet office with the supplies to patch yourself up, and by the time you could have reached out, that ear worm wouldn’t leave you alone.

He’ll swoop in.

He’ll save you.

You’re his girl, so you need him. You can’t handle this without him. No one will believe you did once he gets anywhere near you.

Call it adrenaline. Call it blood loss. Call it shock. You can’t give up this glory, so you told yourself you needed radio silence to keep the recovered intel secure until back on Avengers campus. You told yourself the risk of interception was too high to chance a phone call.

Now, fifty feet from the infirmary, you need to get past one more obstacle.

You know Steve would jump from a third-story window to get to you, know he would scoop you right up into his arms and carry you over the threshold, know that would mean Steve wins.

No. Not this time. This is yours. You deserve the credit. You are crossing that finish line solo.

You jab the last of the epi-pens into your good leg, letting yet more adrenaline heave through what little of your blood volume is left and call the HQ secure line from the burner.

“Friday,” you start, standing at the bus stop, a blindspot from the Avengers’ surveillance cameras because the city already monitors it, “authorization Gamma-Lima-Four-Whisky. Do not declare connection. I repeat, do not declare this connection.”

The AI welcomes you back onto the grid politely.

“Thank you.” A bubble of pain bursts in your throat. “Give them a different location for this call, ok? Tell them it’s from the nearest functional payphone.”

Friday does as you say because why wouldn’t she? It’s not as if Steve is going to pause to question where the ping is—

—and he’s already out, on the bike, pushing that engine to its acceleration limit and narrowly escaping a shoulder check from the slowly opening gates.

You sneak right past, knowing he won’t look in his rearview, not with his eye on a prize ten blocks away, and you collapse just inside the garage ramp.

You wake prone in the Regeneration Cradle after surgery to a kind, smiling nurse monitoring your progress.

It’s difficult to focus. After a few blinks, you can see her features clearly, then beyond her are just eyes.

His eyes.

Piercing blue doesn’t begin to describe the intensity of Steve’s gaze, and his silence is deafening.

Each quarter-minute he inventories the room, and he exhales. That is the sum total of what he can manage to do right now. He’s attempting to keep it together until you two are alone obviously. Steve fails at very few things in life; this is one of them. You can see the outline of his teeth through his tight cheek.

“Doc wanted me to tell you you did a great job,” the nurse states softly. “If you hadn’t packed those wounds so tight, you’d have died for sure.”

Your mouth is too dry to respond, so you flash a wry smile. No one gets the Cradle without…extensive injuries. You’ve never had the ‘pleasure,’ not even for your through-and-through last year.

Steve huffs in frustration, keeping his huge body out of the nurse’s way even when you can feel him try to astral project himself forward to hand you ice chips. Instead, you swallow cotton.

“Captain Rogers,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. chimes from above, “your motorcycle has been cited for running five red lights with a further two dozen traffic violations. Shall I claim Official Avengers’ business?”

You croak ‘no.’ He says ‘yes.’

There’s a pause. “I will ask again later.”

Who says AIs can’t throw some serious shade?

Silence descends again as the spindling print needle moves on to a different wound. You’re lucid but wobbly trying to think, a combination of the waning anesthesia and pain meds.

If frowns could kill, your boyfriend’s would devastate the entire med bay.

This is what you hoped beyond hope to avoid, but it’s also why your endgame involved going solo.

“You’re making my point for me,” you sigh, your chest hurting more after surgery than it has in the past twenty-four hours. Clearly, your nerves are back online.

“And what point was that?“ he asks sarcastically, waiting in your own stubborn silence. “You gave me a heart attack.”

“Really?” You’re playfully shocked.

“No, not really! God.” He rushes closer. “What the hell were you thinking? If you had time to send me on a wild goose chase, you could damn well have called to tell me you were alive!”

The cradle’s lights shut off, job complete.

“Language, Steve.” 

He looks incredulous, engrossingly livid, anxious outrage contained by his one frayed thread of control left. 

“We found the intel,” he grits through a clenched jaw. “After power-washing your blood off it, everything was on the drive.”

You can’t sit up on your elbows yet, so you bite back, “good. It all worked out fine then.”

Wafting off him in thick clouds, Steve’s anger is near-flammable in the small room.

The nurse offers to step out for a second.

You say ‘yes.’ Steve barks ‘no.’

This isn’t the nurse’s first rodeo. “Alright, surgery went well. All debris and fragments removed. Your tissue is all intact now, too, but remember, this treatment doesn’t train new muscle fiber or nerve-endings.” She ignores Steve and pushes past to the other end of the table. “Rest up. Tomorrow, you can report to PT. They’ll work with you until you’re field-approved again.”

“She is not—“

“Both of you are ordered to rest,” the nurse snaps, nodding in Steve’s direction “—and make yourself useful by changing her drip when it runs out. If you can’t manage that, Captain, I will find a separate apartment or keep her here overnight.”

“No,” Steve breathes, visibly deflating. Like a scolded puppy, your boyfriend tucks his chin down, rings of grey settling beneath his dark sea eyes. It’s plain as day he hasn’t slept either.

The nurse calls for a wheelchair, and Steve dutifully helps you scoot off the table when it arrives. While he positions the IV to move in tandem, you attempt to push yourself by the huge rubber wheels and fail. Doc was not kidding about muscle weakness.

Steve says nothing.

You’re rolled back to your shared room by the grumpiest Captain America. 

He helps you dress in baggy, comfy clothes and silently reattaches the line of your drip. Not one touch is in a sexual, sensual, or even intimate way even though you are naked at some point.

You can’t remember what you expected; you’ve been so focused on completing the mission for so long. Did you want a desperate homecoming? Did you want him to grovel or worship at your feet? You think, at some point, you knew he’d push back, but you thought…maybe…he’d want you more.

Steve seems to turn his interest on and off so easily, which is great professionally but hard to read personally…or maybe you’re just struggling under the distracting hum of medication. It’s a white noise you can’t ignore, lulling you unconscious, so you can’t analyze the situation anymore. Maybe, you think, you try…but the thoughts don’t come.

He situates you on his side of the bed—to accommodate the cord and stand—and tucks himself quietly into the smallest corner of mattress that his bulk can fit on.

He falls asleep holding your hand. It’s the only place you two are connected. After nearly eighty-five hours apart, that’s still worth it. Maybe.

At some point, his hand goes limp and falls away.

Finally clear of mind, you keep watching Steve the next day. He doesn’t necessarily seem angry, and he doesn’t necessarily seem relieved either. He’s so robotic in his interactions. He won’t talk to you just at you. 

You understand why he was so standoffish last night, but you thought Steve would surely want you after that. You thought he’d start touching you again. 

You two waited so long for your first time, but after that, sex was relatively easy. Steve is an affectionate man when he’s allowed, when he’s in love, and you know he loves you.

Like the nurse said: all your tissue is fully healed. The only restrictions you have are in regards to field work, and the phantom jolts of pain—when you reach into a cabinet or take down a clothes hanger—aren’t real. 

Steve’s always an arm’s length away, just in case, meaning he is there to help you.

Always an arm’s length away.

No closer. No farther.

That afternoon you attempt to start talking about your mission, but that’s when he moves.

Steve practically sprints out the door with a half-baked excuse, so you go to physical therapy alone. You can go alone. That’s not the problem.

If you thought talking to Steve was difficult, you weren’t ready for how hard touching Steve would be.

You try to initiate even a cuddle that second night, and he jumps up claiming to have forgotten something somewhere else that he promised someone. Your boyfriend can’t lie worth beans. You don’t know why he tries.

You’re asleep before he returns.

The next night is exactly the opposite. You spend longer at the gym, slowly and painstakingly repeating every single exercise you know in order to streamline these new muscles. It’s an unholy pain in the ass, but you do it because you can—and will—get back in the field.

Even though the workout was mild, you’re awash with that runner’s high when you return to find Steve passed out already. He looks so peaceful, brow relaxed and lips gently parted. He also looks, well, good enough to eat, but you’ll start slow.

There was one time early on, before you two went all the way, that you woke him up by grinding on him in your sleep. You think now, perhaps, you can recreate that, catch him off-guard and dissipate some of this tension between you. This would be a good release. You don’t normally go this long. Obviously, Steve wouldn’t have masturbated while you were MIA and possibly dead, and every other second since has been accounted for.

He practically can’t have sex anywhere else except naked in a bed. He’s even told you, point blank, that he feels no need to touch himself since he has you. You are what he wants. That’s what he said.

Except he doesn’t wake up to your advances. He just rolls over like you’re disturbing him and softly snores.

For the first time, you wonder if you’ve really broken the two of you. How long will he be mad at you for doing your job? 

Steve rolls back over in his sleep, holding you close like nothing’s happened. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it, but it’s enough and so, so wonderful to imagine all is well.

About a week into your ‘recovery’ (which is sorta bullshit since you can do everything the same by now just with an occasional, faint twinge, no more than the strain of every workout, ever), Steve takes Sam Wilson up on his offer of 1-on-1 basketball for a while. The Team—minus you—has a raid planned in the morning, and there’s always nervous energy to burn off in anticipation.

Your boyfriend has been a nightmare grump, but no one wants to take on the hassle of convincing Steve that he’s being too Steve to Steve properly. He still won’t talk to you about anything other than the weather, food, or daily schedules.

You’re even considering taking a break from field work because this all has become too much. If Steve is gonna shut down after every dangerous mission—which is, in fact, all of them—then maybe it’s not worth the risk. You’re good, you’re great, but you aren’t super.

“Taste of his own medicine, I say,” Bucky mutters, sitting beside you on the bleachers between courts.

“Huh?” You were distracted, watching Steve and Sam squeak across the floor.

Steve sinks a perfect layup and doesn’t gloat. Do-gooder.

“He used to get so mad when I’d find him in an alley all beaten up,” Buck continues. “Thought I was being too protective. I trusted him, but he was puny and he did get sick all the time. He could take a punch, sure, but every mark took weeks to heal. Half the time, they were still yellow when some idiot landed fresh ones.”

Steve claps beneath the net, encouraging Sam, focused on not outshining anyone.

He’s been the same with everyone else but you, and the whole Team can see it. You shouldn’t be surprised someone is finally talking about it; you simply wonder how Buck drew the short straw.

“Didn’t wanna be babied,” Bucky snorts, fondly glowering at his century-long bestie, “while low and behold, he pulls that stunt with everybody, every day.” 

“Yup,” you pop, looking at the matte metal beneath your feet, knowing there’s a line between the ‘caring’ version and the ‘coddling’ version. Steve nose-dived right over that line this time.

“What he appreciated, though, was consistency.” Bucky swivels his hair around into a bun and ties it. “Punk is dedicated, and even if it was just him--the hund’ed pound soaking-wet guy whose only real talent at that point was getting back on his feet--he knew he’d fight anyway.

“Bit hypocritical to be mad at his girl for doing the same, don’t ya think?” Bucky muses, clucking his tongue.

The brunette watches you bristle slightly at the moniker. His girl. Not only is it what got you into this mess, it feels untrue based on that big, broad, cold shoulder you’ve received from the man racing back and forth in front of you.

Smiling, Bucky nudges you with his elbow. “I’m excited for you to get back on your feet,” he adds.

You’re stuck thinking about that long after Bucky jumps into the game.

It’s no surprise then that when the doctor gives you the all-clear the very next morning, you’re over the moon and ready to strike. You don’t hesitate for a second when the alarm sounds less than an hour later.

The Team needs reinforcements. Your Team needs you.

You hustle into the back of a quinjet with a dozen agents. While the others file out to where the main conflict is raging, you sneak around the perimeter to suss out the mission goal, a treasure trove of enemy tech hidden somewhere in what was thought to be an abandoned village.

Not so abandoned if it’s lighting up like the pyrotechnics show on an action film set...

The explosions rattle the ground, yet you know the Team have breached the main chamber. Those enemy forces still fighting are distracting from a retreat. The other agents can catch them just fine. Your mission is intel recovery.

To keep your approach stealthy, you don’t announce your movements over comms, and Nat doesn’t scan back down the dark hallway you wedge into as she carries out an asset. If you weren’t so far back, you never would have seen him.

An enemy agent slinks out from behind a floor-to-ceiling tapestry right in front of you. His silhouette is short and thin; he’s built for stealth, too.

Your heart thumps loud in your ears as you follow, and that bastard gets close—so close—to Steve’s turned back that the pistol’s muzzle nearly touches.

Not this time. Not a chance. None.

You land a roundhouse kick to the exposed neck above his kevlar, and that sucker goes down like a sack of potatoes.

Steve turns around at the ready, stunned silent in the middle of his instructions to Bucky who is not visible from the other side heaped boxes. The papers still smoke where evidence was burned.

You salute at big, blue eyes. 

“On your six, Cap.” 

Steve looks at you, looks down at the man, and looks back up at you…pissed. 

“What the fuck are you doing?”

What the fuck indeed…

All you did was help your team. All you did was stop Captain America from getting his head blown off. In no small fashion, all you did was save your boyfriend’s life.

“Uh, you’re welcome.”

His grip on your arm is painful as he leads you all the way back to the jet himself, shoving you into the jump seat between other returned agents and shouting for you to 'stay right there.'

Bucky announces over comms that the rest is clean up. All but the specialized document interpretation and perimeter teams are moving out. 

Steve huffs, contemplates staying on a battlefield instead of going back with you, but decides to sit across the ship in silence again, fuming, making fists over and over in his fingerless leather gloves, bitterly sniffing as loud as possible the entire flight home. He refuses to answer a single person until the jet touches down at HQ. 

“Everyone off,” he bellows, “everyone except you.” 

You can’t stop it. Your hands fly up in exaggerated annoyance automatically.

“What do you want, Steve? I got the go-ahead this morning. I’m allowed to be here.”

“Stop doing that.” He rounds on you.

“Doing what? My job?!”

Chest puffed out, feathers ruffled, cheeks hot and red, Steve peels off his cowl. “Being insubordinate.”

“You’re not my superior officer,” you hiss, “we are equals, and if you think for one second I did anything wrong out there, go ahead and report me. From where I’m standing, I did the work, got cleared for duty, helped out the team, and stopped you from being shot.”

You poke a finger to his chest for each achievement listed.

“Fine," Steve shouts, crossing his arms, "but quit acting like a selfish coward.”

Them be fightin’ words. “A what?”

“You heard me,” he all but whispers.

It’s laughable, truly laughable how bad Steve is at hiding some of those wheels from turning in his head. This isn’t about today. This is the thing he buried the past week.

You roll your eyes. “If you’re gonna throw a hissy fit every time I get a scratch—“

“THREE BULLETS IS NOT A SCRATCH.” He tries—he visibly, painfully tries—to keep his cool one last time. “You weren’t ready,” he concludes, judge, jury, and executioner all poured into one star-spangled package.

“Say’s who?” You’re stepping closer, getting in his face because this is bullshit and unfair. “Last time I checked you’re not a doctor, and you should be thanking me for saving your ass—“

“It’s not your job to save me.”

“We have the same job, Steve! We are both perfectly capable of—“

“I know that,” he barks, hot breath mingling with yours.

“Do you? Because you don’t seem to think I can handle myself.” You push weakly at his chest, taunting, like it's a game. “Maybe you need to walk it off, buddy.”

His face cracks, an avalanche unmoored from a stable mountain.

Oh shit. You’ve done it now.

“Walk it off?! WALK IT OFF?!”

Steve charges like a bull seeing red, crowding you against the far wall, his own derisive finger pointed at your heart.

“You were injured. You didn’t make contact. You went dark for days, and you could have died. Alone. In the middle of nowhere. Who knows how long it would have taken us to find you. No—“ he cups your chin in a tight pinch “—you want to talk about the job? It’s protocol to check in. It’s common courtesy to let me know you’re alive, and it’s goddamn rude to ignore your own safety.”

A dark, hazy sheen layers over his sharp gaze. “Don’t make me keep you home.”

There’s a deep line of frustration carved between his brows. His nostrils flair as he waits, daring you to refute him.

“Well—” you purse your lips in defiance “—isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black.”

Steve lets go of you, smacked away by your cutting tone.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, whatever, Rogers,” you dismiss. “We both know you don’t have the authority to bench me.”

“Like hell I don’t,” he growls, grabbing your wrists and throwing your arms above your head, He weaves your hands through the cargo net behind you. The loops are tight and complicated in seconds, he’s so fast.

You can’t wriggle away.

“Let’s see how you like it.”

Steve roughly throws the zipper of your uniform down, letting the jacket hang open to show nothing but your sports bra.

“Feeling paralyzed—“ he dexterously undoes your belt “—exposed—“ your pants and underwear are yanked down to your ankles “—and afraid.” His last word thickens the air on the jet. 

How can this man launch you into unbridled lust in the space of two syllables?

Who. Fucking. Cares. How.

Steve’s fingertips teasingly glide over the swell of your breasts, brush down your belly, and tick their way in a casual walk between your legs. He retracts his touch the instant you let out a longing sigh, unable to restrain how needy you are. His fingers wander to perfectly clean and unmarked flesh…on your thigh, along one side, and a few inches below that. He’s tracing the bullet wounds he watched heal so quickly.

“Maybe I should leave you wondering how it’ll all play out?” he says absently, lost in thought, his thumb shifting to notch into the dip of your hip. “Maybe I should leave you wondering if we’ll ever—”

“Yes,” you whimper, no real idea what you’re saying. That’s not what answer you meant.

“How would you like three whole days of this feeling, huh? You think you’d fare any better than I did? Think you’d make it even five minutes?”

“Uh-uh.” Again, with no clue what you’re truly responding to, you buck your hips forward onto his long fingers.

The cords around your wrists get tighter while you struggle to set a pace. Behind you, the metal rings of the netting hit the hull with a soft clinking noise. 

“Not so fast.” Steve pulls his hand away just far enough to remove all friction. “Because three days, sweetheart, it was torture. Felt like an eternity right on the edge.”

“Please,” you beg.

One deliberate swipe of his fingers through your slick is enough to make you mewl.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Steve. Please, I need you.”

“Need me? You have an odd way of showing it, doll. You have to promise me—“ he thrusts his fingers in “—promise me you’ll never leave me.”

“I’ll never leave you,” you cry, convinced that it’s true for the sole reason: you never want to experience anything other than this Steve for as long as you live.

“You are so brave, and so…capable, and I know you can do anything, but you…can’t survive anything.” He takes excruciating pleasure in slow thrusts and teasing circles. “Promise me you won’t be so reckless. Promise, say it.”

“I promise.” Your weight sags into his ministrations, called to focus on nothing but where his hand disappears between you. “I promise I won’t be reckless.”

“That’s my girl.”

Your head falls limp against your tied arms. It sounds so good from his lips. Why did you ever doubt?

“I promise I’ll come back to you,” you manage out like a prayer.

“Yeah? That’s it. Is that what you want?”

“I promise. I promise, Steve.” You time your movements sloppily with his measured tempo. “Please, I need more.”

“I know. I know.” He’s strung out, too, listening to your pathetic whimpers after less than five minutes, exactly like he predicted.

You’re so over-wrought with desperation you can’t coordinate with his manhandling your legs apart—your knees, really, since your ankles are still caught in your pants. Instead of taking off your boots, Steve simply unzips himself and dives right into your wet, warm, and welcoming pussy.

Knowing he has a thing against anything naughty in his suits makes it sexier. You want his intensity—you’ve always been curious—and finally you have it: unhinged, untethered, super Steve Rogers. Your body makes room out of sheer joy.

“I know,” Steve coos, his face pressed to your chest as he adjusts. “Fuck, I know, honey.”

“Move, Steve.”

“No,” he says with a gentle kiss to your sternum. “You wanna come? Go ahead. You can do it all on your own. You can do anything you want, can’t ya?”

You groan in frustration.

You wanted this, an annoying voice in the muddled depths of your mind calls. You’re independent.

With a sob of both excitement and fury, your thighs weld onto that sturdy, I-beam beast. You brace your bent arms over your angled and hovering body, leveraging the cargo straps to hoist you up and down.

Your muscles burn, strained more than they were on your lone journey back to HQ.

Steve grunts and moans, the ghost of his wide spread palms beneath your back as a safety net.

“That’s it. That’s it, good girl.” 

Amidst your own noises, you can barely hear him. You’re not building to a climax, you’re falling into one at terminal velocity, flailing. Struggling to hang on and let go all at once, you do come, but it’s more of a plateau than a full release.

Steve’s unhappy and takes your ass in a bruising grip, finally pumping his thick length in and out, dragging the head of his cock across that perfect spot over and over.

“You can do better than that,” he snarls, hair wrecked and falling in his face.

Wave, undertow, and wave again, pleasures simply blend into the next. He gets handsy, keyed up and out of control, muttering “don’t you ever fucking leave me.”

You’d scold him for cursing if the air weren’t being punched from your lungs.

“Come on, sweetheart. Three for three.”

You’re almost disappointed he only wants you to come three times in payment for his days of torture. Even as a tear escapes the corner of your eye and your throat breaks in a hoarse “please,” you know you would give him more. You'd give him anything.

When you finally reach that shattering end, Steve is almost incoherently feral, one hand clamped at the back of your neck, the other anchored to the small of your back, slamming your ass to his leather-covered thighs like you are his mission.

“I promise,” you try to repeat, but you aren’t sure they sound like words.

Whether in response to you or as an errant thought, Steve’s own broken voice rattles at your sweaty neck. “You can take it,” he whispers gruffly. “You can take it.”

You’re floating by the time he comes, his hips stilling slowly. The buzz of your body now outdoes anything anesthesia or pain meds concocted.

Steve peppers your skin with lazy, light kisses until you remind him of your bound wrists, but then he’s overly apologetic and scrambling to free them.

He keeps himself inside you and maneuvers to sit with you on his lap.

You stay there for a while, your numb and sore arms folded between your chests. Steve only stops petting your shoulders to cradle your face, soft blue eyes roaming, adoring. He whispers concern that you’re okay, how are your legs, are you warm enough, you feeling good?

Yes, you think, you’ve taken care of your girl.

“I love seeing you like this,” he mumbles long after the pins and needles have abandoned their assault on your tired legs.

You tuck some silky hair behind his ear. “Like what? Fucked out?”

He’s floating too because he doesn’t chastise.

“Happy, healthy—“ he lets out a deep sigh “—home.”

“Speaking of home,” you say, inching ever so slightly higher to let him slide out of you, “wanna cuddle in bed all night and not get up until someone tries to break in the door?”

That knocks some of the glow off him. He drags a hand down his face. “Oh god, the poor people who have to clean this thing…”

“Let’s be honest,” you snort. “This isn’t the worst thing that’s been on you, but if it’s that big of a deal, we could go hose you down before handing our equipment in.”

He smiles, shaking his head in dismissal.

With his help, you climb off his lap and slowly shimmy up your bottoms, realizing he did truly make a mess of you both.

Steve looks down at his own lap, horrified. “Do I need to burn this?”

“That sounds like a challenge to make you filthier,” you consider, but maybe you should change into your civies before exiting the jet…

“Ya know,” Steve muses, passing over to the small locker of clothing overhead and grabbing a t-shirt and sweats, “I almost got shot in the head today, and you had three bullets fished outta you a week ago. I’m thinking we’ve earned a vacation.”

Workaholic Steve? Actively applying for time off? You’ll be damned.

“My my my, Captain Rogers…the real dirty talk begins.”

He huffs out a laugh and blushes.

“Well, I know we didn’t do anything more special than dinner for our anniversary, so…” He pulls you to his chest again, smelling of slightly musty laundry and pungent sex. “Let’s go on a fucking vacation.”

Your neck cranes to his height to see a soft smile. Oof, he’s good.

 “I missed you,” he adds like a prayer, “and you’re the badass who saved me.”

He giggles at your scrunched nose and watches you bask in that glory.

“Like I said, you’re welcome—“ you hug Steve, letting his warmth radiate through you, moving in time with his rising and falling chest “—and I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He kisses the crown of your head.

When you open the bombay doors, there’s a thermos left at the base of the ramp, a folded paper tucked beneath it. 

We should talk about how to better soundproof the jets. Brought you some refreshments. It’s hazelnut. ~Bucky

Tags: @supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jamneuromain @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @brandycranby

A/N: I sincerely give up on editing this anymore, so I hope it turned out okay 🙇🏻‍♀️

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

#shy anon #ro answers #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers smut #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers x you #old dog new tricks #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers fic #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers one shot #steve rogers x reader smut #captain america fanfiction #captain america x reader #captain america x you #captain america angst #captain america smut

[night-market-if]

Can’t believe no one has asked the classic “would you love me as a worm” question. That’s like the question! Guess I’ll take one for the team lol

Hazel: Yes. And she would make the MC a little worm house and give them little worm friends and make sure they had fresh food every day.

Belladonna: No. She would first think that the question is ridiculous and then she would explain that worms have no feelings so of course she wouldn't love the MC.

Gabriel: Yes. And he would spend every single day trying to change MC back while also giving them the most pristine little home he could. He would sing the worm MC to sleep every night as well.

Milo: Yes. But he would also lose you in a pile of other worms.

Malcolm: Would absolutely not even answer the question.

Pen: Would give MC a little scythe and make them honorary reaper of the market.

#the night market #interactive fiction #scenerios #the ro's #the things I answer for you all

[zico-if]

how would the ROs react if a very grumpy/angry MC (obv traumatised lil baby) one day like genuinely laughed

Ilya:

It's such a small little thing, yet they can't help but be completely entranced by the sound of your voice. They find themselves staring at you, stunned into a silence that doesn't break until you turn to look at them with a puzzled look and blurt out a short "what?"

It's then a gentle smile breaks across their face, wider than anything you've ever seen with a happiness twinkling in their eyes that stems just from that simple noise.

"Nothing," they reply, burning the sound of your laughter to their memory. They'd like to hear it again, if you'd let them.

Vira:

She pauses her motion, stilling her hands when she hears you laugh. She turns to look at you, tilting her head slightly to the side. "Did you...just laugh?" She questions, like she's uncertain if she heard it correctly.

"Yes?" you answer.

"Mm. I see," she says, satisfied with the answer and turns back to doing whatever it was she was doing, a faint and subtle smile gracing her lips. You don't fail to notice that her gaze seems to fall on you every now and then, as if hoping to catch you in the act of laughing.

Aurius:

Almost immediately, Aurius snaps his gaze towards the source of the sound. "You laughed," he points out, not bothering to hide the childlike smile on his face.

You blink at him. "I...did," you confirm, schooling your face back to a natural neutrality.

His smile never wavers. He looks at you as if you're a dream made reality. "It's truly a lovely sound," he confesses. "Perhaps one of my favourites." He'd never heard you laugh like that before. And oh how so euphoric it is to hear you do so.

Rhian:

When they hear you laugh, their eyes widen so much that it looks almost comical and in an instant, they'd wish that they'd been able to record that moment so they could reply it over and over. Suddenly, it becomes all that they can think of: hearing that sound again. That warm genuine laughter. "Could you do that again?" They ask.

"Hm? Do what?"

"That sound you just made. The laughter. I'd like to hear it again...please?" they ask, even adding a please to sound polite. Just once more. Even if it takes them a hundred tries to make you laugh, they only need to hear it just once more, because who would've thought that such a simple sound could bring them to their knees just like that.

#i bet you thought you'd seen the last of me ;) #zico answers #ch: vira #ch: ilya #ch: aurius #ch: rhian #ro reacts #i forgot my tags

[exilethegame]

Do you have a list of the ROs and like a description of them :( can't find it

I have one floating about somewhere, but here's an up-to-date one! :)

Vethna Mevnrael (they/them) Appearance: 5’9, skin the color of bronze with long wavy hair that’s only a few shades darker than their skin. Their eyes are a greyed-out blue-green and glow in the darkness due to magic. They wear a deep v-neck black gown with golden embroidery, an outrageous amount of rings and jewelry, and their signature wine-red lipstick. Background: Vethna hails from Vygrand-- otherwise known as the sworn rival land of your home country. Where you have been raised to resent most, if not all magic, they have been raised to thrive on it. You don't know much about them-- just that they're on the run from someone, something, powerful, and you're the only one who can protect them. That, and they have a whole lot of gold... almost as much as they have secrets.

Nikke Ivante (he/him) Appearance: 6’0, pale green skin and covered in iridescent scales. Purple bags sit under his pale green eyes, which, like all mythosi, glow in the darkness. Wears smudged black kohl across his eyes. His hair is long, half shaved, and braided, mostly black with streaks of white. His tongue is forked and his sharp fangs often protrude from out past his lips. His arms are covered in tattoos of snakes winding downwards, and on his neck sit geometric tattoos. Background: Nikke has been sent to kill you or kidnap you-- you're not entirely sure which it is, and you don't intend to find out. He's crude and sarcastic and overall a brute. He doesn't seem to take his own life seriously, nonetheless yours, and you have no doubt he's going to capture you or die trying. Hell-- maybe he'll just kill you both while he's at it... you know, for fun.

Jost Ivante (she/her) (Not romanceable in demo yet) Appearance: 6’0 with pale green skin and iridescent scales. Her features are sharp and she has multiple piercings, the most notable being her bridge piercing and snake-bites. She has tattoos down her arms and on her neck in geometric patterns. Her hair is waist-length and slicked back and filled with braids and tokens, and just like her brother, is streaked with white. While she wears dark paint over her eyes, it’s done in a manner much neater than Nikke’s. Background: Jost is Nikke's identical twin sister-- and, if possible, she's twice as mean and just as rude. She's more ruthless than her brother, but she doesn't quite have the fighting power to back up her venom-laced threats and taunts. Nonetheless, she fights dirty, and if you want to beat her, you're going to have to be smart.

Amilia Von Clamile (she/her) Appearance: 5’3 with snow white skin and blood red hair that’s poorly cut and uneven, coming to her chin on one shoulder and sitting well past her collarbone on the other. Her eyes are green and her face is covered in freckles. A deep scar juts into her lip on the right side of her face and runs down her jaw and neck. Background: Amilia's a fae-- the very kind of mythosi you've been raised to fear and have spent most of your life killing. She's all smiles and nerves, but you see something else in her eyes, sometimes. Something cold. Something calculative. Everyone seems keen to turn a blind eye to her, but you know a liar when you see one... don't you?

Syfyn Javall (she/her) Appearance: 5’11 with warm toned skin that’s often burnt red, leaving splotchy tans along her body. Her eyes are a steely grey, hair blonde and cut to barely brush against her shoulders. She tries to often wear it up despite this, resulting in most of the hair falling out messily. She's covered in scars with feathers in her hair, and her pupils are slits. Her teeth are all mostly sharp. Background: Syfyn Javall, The Brazen Griffin, Second-in-Command to the Plaithian Army. She used to work beneath you once-- used to fight beside you and honor you both as a comrade and friend. You grew up together within the military. When you had nobody, you had each other. But then you betrayed her-- or maybe she betrayed you. You don't know who started what, but you do know that the blood is on both of your hands now.

Sabir Du Vaelas (he/him) Appearance: 6’1 with dark, cool toned skin, black eyes, and long black hair kept in locs. He wears expensive robes that are a deep teal and is covered head to toe in expensive silver jewelry, most of which is covered in snake symbolism. Sabir's ears are pierced in several areas, and he tends to wear silver eyeliner and highlight. Background: Sabir, otherwise known as The Silven Viper, Eye of Plaithus, used to be your charge. He's a politician-- one of the better ones, if such a thing exists. Your past together was volatile-- perhaps you were lovers, or friends, or enemies. Either way, he saved your life when you otherwise would've been put to death by the state, and you owe him thanks for that much.

Freedom (gender selectable) Appearance: 6′0 with pallid, paper-white skin and bronze eyes that appear to almost be filled with a shimmering liquid. Their hair is waist-length and black with an iridescent sheen to it, long black claws bordering on talons on their hands. They wear long, tight fitting black robes. Background: You hear its voice sometimes, when it's quiet and you're alone. You try to tune it out. You try to ignore it. It forces you to remember things. To feel things. It's within you, wiggling and writhing, waiting for the right moment to attack. At times it feels predatory. At others, its presence is comforting-- protective and doting. It'll become whatever you want it to be. It'll become whatever you need it to be.

#answered #ro intro #vethna #nikke #jost #amilia #sabir #syfyn #freedom #I have silently shrunken Amilia through the years don't worry about it...

[latinokokonoi]

zoro and luffy’s daughter has a toy transponder snail and whenever she hands it to ace, he always answers immediately

#imagine a toddler walking up to ace and saying “purupurupuru” to him #hahahaha i’m devastated :)))) #ace answers it a million times no matter how much he gets tired #hall of fame #ro speaks #one piece #one piece headcanons #one piece ace #fire fist ace #portgas d. ace #portgas d ace #ace #zolu #zolu headcanons #zoro x luffy #luffy x zoro

[l3viat8an]

Kinda just imagining bullying levi casually (like how friends do and it seems viscous to bystanders but its still friendly within the circle?) and just picking at how theres no way such a skinny meek 'kid' could ever run any militia in any substantial way 😌 game strats r one thing but surely he cant strategize in a celestial level war, hed totally choke. And then que Levi snap 🫰 full on proving he's actually capable.

Either nsfw/sfw, either way xD

This could be fun sooo many different ways oml-

Like if you’re in public and ‘bullying’ Levi he’s gonna choke up, probably stammering out that you’re right, there’s no way and he really is pathetic- that just leads to a whole self degrading rant from him…

If you do it around the other brothers they’d join in and Levi would end up red in the fact, going on about the different ways he could kill off everyone of them with a fair amount of details too it’s a little scary-

And lastly if you tease him; when it’s just the two of you in his room. You’re teasing him while playing games and he messes up something fairly simple and you win! Add that to your teasing, “Well look at that! I must be even better then I thought to beat the big bad demon admiral! Oh wait, were you actually an admiral? I never remember if that’s a joke or not.” he knows you’re just teasing. He knows you’d have done the same even if he won…..but the little gleeful smile on your face and the challenging spark in your eyes it’s…..so annoying!!! He’s a demon and you’re a human and you’re always teasing him-

He’s on top of you in the blink of an eye, pushing your body down deeper into the beanbag chair, grinning when you gasp and try to wiggle away. “If you’re really soooo much better then me….why do you look so surprised, human?” his voice is low and it sends a shiver running down your spine.

When you don’t answer or tease back right away Levi laughs, “What? Did you really think I’d let you question my rank and get away with it? Wow and you call me pathetic…..you’re actually enjoying this aren’t you?”

now the thing is he might talk and act big and bad for a few minutes- but on the inside Levi’s freaking out, he’s got you pinned underneath him??? He could do anything but he can’t until you make it clear he has permission….

#can ya tell which idea was my favorite :) #also ignore my rambling I really shouldn’t answer shit while I’m high but fuck it- #obey me! #obey me levi #obey me levi x reader #obey me suggestive #ro rambles #levi <333 #om! #obmswd

[just-an-enby-lemon]

Azu: In your opinion what's the heigh of stupidity?

Zolf: OY, HAMID, HOW TALL WAS BERTIE?

#rqg #rusty quill gaming #hamid stops mid indignant sound cause he though Zolf was picking a fight #ro send a i don't actually know but whatever it was it seems like a solid answer

[bacchanal-if]

How would the ROs react to MC who very rarely speaks, if at all? And then, down the line, just soft occasional whispers while they're in a romance?

Fox:

The MC doesn't need to speak in order for them to understand. Every time they hear the MC speak feels as though a blessing was bestowed upon them. The urge to kiss the MC is strong.

Rabbit:

They are more than comfortable with the silence, but hearing the MC speak to them fills them with indescribable joy, to know that they feel safe enough to share that with them.

Butterfly:

They don't know how to react to this tbh, and it makes them question if they're doing things right all the more. Then, their heart can barely take hearing the MC speak to them. The delight makes them want to hold and kiss the MC.

The Uninvited Guest:

It doesn't bother them at all! When the MC does talk, they like that the MC feels comfortable enough to do so. They would kindly encourage it.

Edith/Edward:

They take it in stride, though they do wish the MC would talk more so they could know what they're thinking. They are touched, and they genuinely smile and wrap their arm around the MC's waist, leaning their ear close to fully appreciate it.

Tamsin/Thomas:

They are used to it and so would know how to communicate effectively with the MC by reading their face and body. Hearing the MC talk would make them feel complete again.

#answered #ro: all #reactions #fluff

[intertexts]

like yesterday i saw some artist on twt going "yeah id love to get into csp but its such an intimidating ui.... it feels so hard to learn..." & then like half the notes on swimz's gradient map blending modes post r like "yeah i probably Have them i think but idk how to use them"... is this true. take my hand it takes like three clicks to apply a gradient map we can live in this beautiful world together......

#csp my bestfriend my babygirl.... even my siblings gf was like damn ros we need 2 call sometime bc i really cant figure out how 2 get comfy #in csp like. >: ( ?? u r a professional artist!! i do silly shit!!! recently... #anyway. is this true. do u use csp is it confusing. open call for answers im so curious #txt

[limerenceif]

what movie genre/character trope are the ROs most known for before their upcoming romance film?

inbox: open

ohh! good question

A is mostly known for romance, mysteries, and musicals.

This will be C's first movie in general, but they're very well known for their horror, psychological, and thriller/melodrama shows (think of mike flanagan).

And K is the type of actor you see in the most random productions ever where you're like 'wait... is that who i think it is?' but their most popular genres are comdey, action, and they love to work with indie companies that have absolutely no budget

#RO questions #limerence if #K can get offered a check of about 5 dollars and a role on some backwater kids show and still be happy as a clam #mobile answered #queue bcuz i answered this at like 4am #curious anon

[xikerriess]

HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY !! exams have me swamped rn so i never saw :(( but i hope you had a great day <3

- ☀

THANK U SOOO MUCHHH <33333

sameeeeeee. i started my exams last week and I don't have time to do anything these days :")

#xikerries #ro's answers #-☀️

[ronearoundblindly]

For your Valentine's ask game: #7 Jake Jensen x reader, idk why but it seems fitting 😂

Shut Up, Jensen, one of my Valentine's Fics for 2024!

Oh, this poor, poor, awkward perv. He's pervy until there's a naked lady around and then 😳 "...when I was four, I shoved pennies up my nose..." Seriously, boi, shut up!

Warnings for spice, i.e. a setup to smutty times, but mostly suggestive. MINORS DNI, just to be safe. There's plenty for you to read on my Light Masterlist, but this one is not for you! WC 1042

You’ve always had a soft spot for nerds, and now, that’s translating to a damp spot on your fanciest panties you wore for this date.

Jake Jensen goofy-grinned his way through the entire evening, making you almost snort a tequila sunrise through your nose, and he never let up. The humor made you comfortable. It’s endearing to see his nervousness right on his graphic-T sleeve as opposed to being ‘manly’ and aloof.

It’s so, so refreshing to hear someone say, “I’m having a great time,” “I don’t want the night to end,” and know deep down in your bones that they mean “spending this time with you has made me happy” instead of “I’ve done enough to get laid now, right?”

Unsurprisingly, it does mean Jake’s done enough to get laid.

You give him your address so he could park his Jeep outside your building. There are parking meters, but tomorrow is Sunday when they’re free. No big deal. You left the bar (which was after the restaurant, which was after the coffee shop) a minute or two before in order to meet him at one of the open spots and walk him in. He can’t meet you at your door because there is a locked gate to your courtyard, and then a keypad for your building, and then about three corridors to navigate. It’s just easier to show him the way.

You can hear that fucking car coming a mile away.

Jake smiles and waves as he parallel parks—with extreme precision, you note—then hops out, gesturing to the meter questioningly.

“Don’t worry about it,” you shrug, jumping to the edge of the curb before he steps up so you can use the height for a kiss on his cheek.

It’s adorable how flustered he gets at just that tiny bit of affection. Though it’s dark, it’s obvious he blushes ferociously, rubbing at the back of his cropped, short hair, racing to gather his thoughts.

“Did you know there are almost three hundred ways to make change for a dollar? Two hundred ninety-three to be ex—woah—“

You grab his hand to lead him inside.

At the gate, you have to pause for the magnetic lock.

“I’m surprised those things even take change anymore,” Jake muses quietly, courteous for the neighbors’ sake, “because physical money only makes up 8% today’s currency…in the whole world.” He slides past the thick steel grating. “Thank you, digital banking.”

He follows behind you in the maze of concrete paths to the next entry.

“People leave like half a million dollars worth of loose change at airport security. That’s a little shocking,” he whispers when you motion for him to take a left, “think you’d splurge for some decent toilet paper with that kind of dough, or maybe some more cup holders in those row-seats? They could, I don’t know, offset the cost of making pennies. Shit cost two cents. Is worth one. Wild…

“Meanwhile, a dime has 118 ridges on the rim of the smallest circumference.”

Doesn’t even matter what he’s saying, the more his plump pink lips move, the more insanely turned on you get. You have to crowd him through your own doorway before you start stripping in the middle of the hall.

You peel your blouse off the instant your keys clatter onto the dinette table. You spin around to grab him by the screen-printed emblem of his t-shirt.

“There are 1.4 billion $2 bills in circulation.”

He gives a little oof sound when his back hits one of your bedroom walls, and there’s a barely audible whimper as your hands snake up under soft, well-worn fabric.

Holy shit, is this boy cut!

Your thumbs actually catch on the deep ridge of his Adonis belt. Dimes got nothing on you, Jake Jensen…

His breathing has changed significantly. “Did you know they—“ he gasps and swallows “—still make those?”

Ok, why is it hotter when he’s not even trying?

“Fun fact: if you went to Zimbabwe, guess which currency you’d…use?” The neckline of his shirt has to pop over his glasses before he fixes them. “The U.S. Dollar. Seriously! Same damn mon—EH.”

His belt buckle is tricky to navigate from this angle and in the very low light of your bedside lamp. You give up on his pants to unzip your skirt at the hip and let it fall.

Jake stands perfectly still with his hands half-raised.

“You’re…really fucking pretty—sorry—really pret—sexy, not that I—but beautiful. You’re really—”

He sucks in a breath as you step within inches of him again, reaching up to carefully pull his glasses over his ears and place them by the lamp.

“Fuck…”

Your index finger tucks into the elastic of his boxers where they peek out above the belt.

“Yeah, so I’ve been—I’m—I don’t have a—what I’m trying to say is—“ he squeezes his eyes shut and wiggles his fingers higher in the air, searching for the right thought “—the most commonly printed bill is actually the one-hundr—“

“Jake,” you interrupt, gently smoothing your hands over his thick shoulders. He is so ripped, what the hell? You guess there are nerds and then there are nerds, wow…

“Do you want to continue?”

He nods super fast, eyes growing wide in panic.

“Good.”

You smash your lips to his, hauling him down and you up by the sturdy tower of muscle he is.

“Condoms are in the drawer,” you mutter between breaths.

He lets out a high, choked whine before clamping his huge, warm hands to your waist, melting into you and your touch.

You coax the both of you toward the bed, swatting at his belt as a signal for him to help, and he does, though he’s not the greatest multitasker. He huffs and smirks, breaking the kiss so he can unlatch, unbutton, and unzip.

Then he looks up at you. 

“So you like movies…?”

You cup his jaw in your hand and pinch, a gentle peck on his lips as encouragement to focus. “Less talking, more fucking, Jensen.”

He opens his mouth, clearly running through a series of replies, but thinks better of it and  pushes down his pants and boxers all at once.

Lloyd Hansen and a kiss on a place of insecurity ⬅️ ➡️ Steve Rogers and a kiss on a scar

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @spectre-posts @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @peyton--warren Y'all getting sick of me yet???

#jake jensen fanfiction #jake jensen x reader #jake jensen x you #jake jensen x y/n #jake jensen smut #jake jensen fluff #ro answers #valentine's day fanfic #valentine's day prompts

[nineblooddances-if]

What's their snuggling position? big spoon? little spoon? A knife?

THE COMMANDER'S SLEEPING POSITIONS

COMMANDER AAPO I LIBERTAS 

Zen Style

Not right away, he's def making you sleep on the floor. He's also not a cuddler.

── ⋅ ⋅ ✶ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ⋅ ⋅ ✶ ⋅ ⋅ ──

COMMANDER ANIL/AIDEN II LUXURIA 

Spooning.

Anil: The Big Spoon MC: The Litte Spoon If you're a still sleeper, shes holding you just cause. If you move around, she's holding you to keep you still.

── ⋅ ⋅ ✶ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ⋅ ⋅ ✶ ⋅ ⋅ ──

COMMANDER ALICE III GULA 

Entwined.

She's a big cuddler.

── ⋅ ⋅ ✶ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ⋅ ⋅ ✶ ⋅ ⋅ ──

COMMANDER ERIC/EDWARD IV AVARITIA  

Loosey Tethered. (Loose spoon)

He's not a big cuddler, nor does he sleep

── ⋅ ⋅ ✶ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ⋅ ⋅ ✶ ⋅ ⋅ ──

COMMANDER LOUIS V IRA  

Starts Back-to-Back transitions into a Honeymoon Hug

── ⋅ ⋅ ✶ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ⋅ ⋅ ✶ ⋅ ⋅ ──

COMMANDER GABRIEL VI MENDAX 

Leg Hug

He sleeps directly on her back.

── ⋅ ⋅ ✶ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ⋅ ⋅ ✶ ⋅ ⋅ ── 

COMMANDER DAMEION VII VIOLENTI 

The Crab or Starfish

He moves around and can't sleep still.

── ⋅ ⋅ ✶ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ⋅ ⋅ ✶ ⋅ ⋅ ──

COMMANDER LUCY OR LUCIUS VIII FICTUS 

The Pursuit.

They want to act all cool and relaxed.

── ⋅ ⋅ ✶ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ⋅ ⋅ ✶ ⋅ ⋅ ──

COMMANDER TRENT IX PRODITIO 

Face to Face.

He likes looking at you but grows far too hot to cuddle.

#ro questions #ro rambles #romanceable options #asks n' answers #interactive fics #interactive fiction #nine blood dances if #twine interactive fiction #dating game #if game #interactive fic characters

[coeluvr]

So I read through chapter 2 (haven't had time for 3 yet!), and one of my favorite choices is telling Vincent to shut up with tears in MC's eyes. I know it's a smaller choice, but I LOVE a crybaby MC who disguises themselves as a hard ass. I don't see options like this often in IF, so it was just 🤌

MC overhearing people talking shit: "psh doesn't bother me. Assholes can get fucked."

Also MC: cries into their pillow later that night 🥺

MC in public: fuck everyone 😐😒🤬

MC alone: they called me a demon 😔😭💔

I have a soft spot for crybaby MCs, they're just so baby 😔

#coe answers #coaaf if: mc #that won't stop me from ruining their life I'm the toxic RO that likes seeing them cry /j #ceres alnazar

[doodle-do-wop]

Draw Ro perhaps?

YES

Ro + small zoom in. Y'all can thank @frizzle-mcshizzle for making Ro an amethyst orge

#kotlc #kotlc art #kotlc fanart #ro kotlc #Romhilda Kotlc #asked and answered #yes her hair is pierced #shes a rock