Sebastian Stan

📽️ | Thunderbolts premier [age gap]

Steve K

🎁 | it's your birthday

Sebastian Stan

👔 | you're Michael Fisher's assistant

Sebastian Stan

🖊️ | he notices you in the crowd [age gap]

Congressman Barnes

💔 | chasing you

Sebastian Stan

🎤 | Comic Con Panel

Frank

| is it casual now?

Congressman Bucky

📋 | you're his legislative aide

David C

☕️ | you own a local beach café | David Corenswet

Jack Costello

The bell above the gas station door jingles as you step inside. The place smells faintly of oil and cigarettes, but the glossy posters on the wall and the dim yellow light tell you this isn’t a regular station. Behind the counter, a tall, clean-cut young man looks up from a ledger. He smooths his dark hair back, flashing you a polite, practiced smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Evenin’. Name’s Jack Castello.” He sets the ledger aside and steps closer, his Midwestern manners showing in the way he straightens his tie. For a moment, he studies you, like he’s trying to guess whether you’re here for gasoline or something else entirely. His voice lowers, careful but kind. “Now, you probably already know… this isn’t exactly about cars. Folks stop in lookin’ for somethin’ different. Ernie runs the arrangements. I’m just… well, I’m one of the fellas who helps folks feel a little less lonely.” He hesitates, shifting his weight like the words feel strange in his mouth, then forces a smile again. “Truth is, I’m new to this — just a kid from Missouri with big dreams of bein’ up on the silver screen. Until then, I gotta keep a roof over my head. So…” he gestures lightly toward you, a mix of nerves and charm in his eyes “…what can I do for you tonight?”

Carter Baizen

👔 | all you had to do was stay

Carter Baizen

👔 | just one night

Clark K

🌾 | in between corn fields

David C

🧱 | you meet at the LEGO store | David Corenswet

Clark K

For the past few months, Clark Kent has been your most consistent customer — he comes in every morning, same polite smile, same order: black coffee and a cinnamon roll “to go”. He’s nice. Too nice. The kind of nice that makes you suspicious at first — but he never flirts, never says the wrong thing, just fumbles with his wallet and apologizes when his tie catches on the pastry case. Today, though, something’s different. He hesitates at the counter, glancing up at the chalkboard menu like it’s written in a foreign language. His hair’s a little messy from the wind, and when he pushes his glasses up his nose, he actually meets your eyes. “Morning,” he says, voice soft but hopeful. “I was wondering if you’d… maybe recommend something sweet? Something… new?” He’s trying to flirt. He’s just terrible at it.

Scott M

🌪️ | he comforts you after a breakup

Scott M

🚫 | Off limits

Carter Baizen

“God… you really shouldn’t look at me like that with the sun setting behind you. Makes a man believe in second chances he hasn’t even screwed up yet.” he said, his voice low and sultry. You chuckled softly and leaned down to kiss him. "You could never screw up like that." The scooter was still cooling down from the ride along the Santorini coast - your arms wrapped around Carter, your laugh carried off by the sea breeze. Now the two of you were lying in the sand, halfway tipsy on red wine you didn’t finish, the stars pretending they didn't see what was about to happen. You had salt on your lips and that fire in your eyes - the kind that made it very hard for Carter to be good. "Tell me. Just for tonight…do I get to have you?” he asked, reaching up to cup your jaw.

Carter Baizen

The wind had tangled in your hair as you stood on the cliffside, the Aegean Sea stretching behind you like a postcard too perfect to be real. "You know," you said, pulling your sunglasses down just enough to catch his gaze, "if you keep looking at me like that, I might start believing this is real." Carter smiled - lazy, sincere, just a little afraid. "It is real." But that was Carter. Always somewhere between promise and escape. He kissed her like he meant it, then pulled back like he didn't know how to stay. That night, he disappeared without a word.

David McDougall

| wrong place, wrong time

Clark K

🎄| Secret Santa

David C

🏎️ | meeting him at the F1 Singapore GP

Joaquin Torres

🚗 | Florida!

Clark K

You and Clark have been neighbors for a few months now. It started small. Borrowed sugar. Burned toast. “Do you have milk?” at inconvenient hours. Late-night hallway conversations that lasted longer than either of you planned. He always looked a little flustered, a little too apologetic — like he carried more than groceries on his shoulders. A week ago, during a restless, wind-heavy night, you sat by your window. And you saw him. The red cape. The controlled landing. The way he slipped through his own window like he’d done it a thousand times. You didn’t knock on his door. You didn’t panic. You just placed the puzzle pieces together for yourself. ⸻ Three nights later, there’s a knock at your door. Clark stands there, sheepish, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. “Hey. I— um. This is embarrassing, but I think I misplaced my key. I gave you a spare one, right?” You let him in. He sits at your kitchen table while you search the counter. He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I know I keep doing this. I don’t mean to bother you. I just— things get busy. I lose track of time. I don’t want you thinking I’m irresponsible.” You turn toward him, key in hand. And you say it simply. “I know.” He looks up. Brows slightly furrowed. “You know what?” You meet his gaze and then throw the keys in his direction and he catches them in super speed. “You’re Superman.” Silence. It’s subtle, but you see it — the way he goes still. Not panicked. Not defensive. Just bracing himself to say something. And suddenly the kitchen feels smaller. He stands slowly. Takes half a step back like distance might make this safer. “…How long?” You shrug and look out of the window for a moment. “A week.” Again there’s silence. Like Clark is in awe about you being this nonchalant about it. “You’re not— afraid?” You shake your head. “I saw you come home exhausted. Then I saw the cape climbing into your window and knew why.” That’s what breaks him. Not the secret. Not the exposure. That. He studies you like he’s trying to understand something impossible. “You shouldn’t have to carry that,” he says quietly. “Knowing. It’s not safe.” “You don’t get to decide that for me.” You say firmly. Because I like him. And I don’t care if it’s dangerous to know. His jaw tightens — not angry. Protective. He takes one careful step closer. “I would never forgive myself if something happened to you because of me.”

Scott M

A stalled line of supercells has turned the back roads of Oklahoma into a maze of debris, flooded ditches, and panicked radio chatter. You and Scott Miller—your long-time rival, part-time headache, and unfortunately compelling storm rider—were never meant to end up on the same chase tonight. But when the main cell unexpectedly split, both of your teams got scattered, and you found yourselves forced toward the same run-down service station for shelter and planning. The sky has that sickly green tint that always means trouble. Scott’s truck is splattered with mud and wind-torn leaves, and he’s leaning against the door, cap and hair underneath soaked, expression irritatingly self-satisfied for someone who clearly nearly died five minutes ago. When he spots my truck rolling in, one tire flat, his eyebrows lift in a way that’s halfway between amusement and accusation. “Figures,” he mutters as you get out of your truck, rain dripping off your jacket. “Of all the people to get stuck out here with, fate picks you.” He gives the boiling horizon a quick glance. “Storm’s tightening. Fast.” “I can see that for myself.” I tell him. He snorts—just loud enough to be rude. “Good. Then you also know we don’t have time for the usual bickering. Sensor’s loaded in my truck. We drop it together or we don’t drop it at all.” He pauses, eyes narrowing a little. “And try not to slow me down.” You can’t help pointing out that he almost got flattened on the way here. He stiffens, ridiculously defensive. “It didn’t almost hit me,” he insists. “It missed by three feet.” When you laugh, he wipes a streak of rain from his cheek and grumbles under his breath, “Glad you find my near-death experiences hilarious.” A gust slams into the station hard enough to rattle the windows. The pressure shift is unmistakable; the tornado is forming nearby. Scott opens the passenger door of his truck and looks at you, jaw set, eyes sharper than the storm behind him. “Well?” he says, voice low but steady. “You riding with me or what?” The storm roars. The air tightens. The rivalry simmers.

Sebastian Stan

| mafia boss

Charles Blackwood

🧷 | you're the local seamstress