#and when you look up at the sky what you're caring about is whether or not pluto fits into an arbitrary definition of a word?

[catreginae]

Thou Shalt Not Fall: Warriors' Favourite

Warriors finally humours Wild and answers Wild's most important question: who is his favourite Link to drink from?

They had an inn to themselves for a couple of hours before the other patrons, along with Four and Sky, returned for the evening. It was just two in the afternoon, so Warriors was asleep as usual but Time had the rest of them gathered in one of the common rooms. They were gathered around a table, with Wind and Twilight playing a card game and the others watching them.

"Hyrule, you said he can't have your blood, right?" Wild asked all of a sudden. Time looked around the room quickly but thankfully, they were alone. He would have to remind the boys to be more careful and make sure that they were alone when talking about vampires in public. Warriors trusted them and Time didn’t want him to regret it. Hyrule tensed and raised an eyebrow at Wind.

"I'm not saying why."

"I don't care about why. I care that you're not in the running."

"Running for what?" Twilight asked.

"For who he likes to drink from the most! He's had a taste of everybody he's allowed to taste," Wild answered, putting his hands on his hips. He figured this would come up again once he drank from Wild but at least they waited until he was feeling better to ask. He had to admit, he was curious though. Time didn’t think he would be his favourite but Warriors did seem to drink from some of them more than others. There was a thought process that they weren’t privy to there.

The big question was whether or not Warriors would go along and humour them. Sometimes he hated it when his vampirism was the centre of attention but other times, he didn’t seem to care too much. He had his open days and days where he didn’t want to even acknowledge it and Time didn’t know which kind of day he was having until he started glaring.

"Well, I'm dead last. Nobody else made him sick," Legend answered with a shrug. Hyrule patted him on the shoulder.

“Mine is the only one that has a discernible difference in taste.”

“It’s not just about the taste! It’s also about the experience,” Wind fired back with a pout. “I don’t think I’d win but I have my bets on Sky.”

“Sky,” Legend repeated out loud. “I can kind of see it. Sky lets him drink from his neck.”

“He’s fed from me more than once,” Twilight mumbled. “But he also got upset so...”

“You’re probably at the bottom with me. I wouldn’t put it past him to still be a little miffed about you passing out on him,” Legend said as he and Hyrule patted Twilight on the shoulder.

“We should wait for him to wake up before we get too carried away,” Time said. Warriors tended to wake up closer to five on his crash days, so Time didn’t expect to see him for a couple more hours at least. "If he hasn't come down yet, he's probably still trying to sleep."

"I'm going to go check," Wild said as he practically ran up the stairs of the inn. Time winced internally but followed him up and he got there just in time to see Wild duck as a pillow flew over his head and hit the wall. Miraculously, the pillow survived and only lost a couple of feathers. Time scooped it up and tossed it into one of the other rooms they were renting.

Wild closed the door. "He's still sleeping."

Warriors was asleep until half past four. At this point, everybody migrated upstairs to their rooms and Sky and Four were back from their shopping trip, so Time knew that Wild and Wind would probably bring up the discussion from before again. Time decided to stay with Warriors in his room until he woke up, quietly writing Malon a response to her letter.

Warriors looked rough though. Despite sleeping for well over twelve hours, he was dark under his red and yellow eyes, which made them stand out even more.

“I was worried about the others talking about drinking blood earlier today and here you are with your fangs out.”

Warriors rolled his eyes but retracted his fangs, making his eyes blue again. “I slept badly,” he grumbled. “Somehow I lost my pillow.”

“You threw it at Wild earlier. I have it another room.”

Warriors rubbed at his eyes and hummed. He didn’t seem surprised at least. “What did Wild want?”

“He can explain himself. Come along.” Warriors got out of bed, stretched, stepped into his boots, and followed Time out of the room.

Last Time checked, most of the boys were hanging out in the room that Twilight shared with Four and Wild. They had three rooms between them but sure enough, he found all seven them piled into a single room. Wild and Wind immediately perked up.

“You’re finally awake!” Wind exclaimed.

“I don’t really want to be.”

“Need some more blood or something?” Wild asked, but he didn’t even give Warriors the chance to answer. “Anyway, Warriors, we need to settle something. Who do you like to drink blood from the most? If you had to order us from most favourite to least favourite...”

“And Ravio doesn’t count!” Legend added.

“Then neither does Sidon. Just everybody in this room,” Wild added.

“This is the sort of conversation you have when I’m sleeping?” he mumbled as he found a spot on the floor to sit down. He rested his head on his knuckles. For about twenty seconds, he didn’t say anything and just glared at the floor like it woke him up instead of Wild. “Wild has the tastiest blood but Sky lets me drink from his neck...”

“I told you experience would be a factor!”

“I think drinking from the neck is slightly better than tastier blood. That’s where the blood is the warmest and flows the best... so Sky’s first, and then Wild.”

“But you bit my neck too!”

Warriors shrugged. “Sky’s neck is nice to bite.”

Wild groaned while Sky rubbed the back of the neck, his cheeks and ears turning slightly pink. “Oh, I didn’t even know I was a contender. Thanks, Warriors.”

“Oh yeah, you weren’t with us earlier today!” Wind said with a finger on his chin.

“Twilight would normally be third because I was confident in how much blood I could take from him and his wrists aren’t too bony, but then he fainted on me. So third is... hmmm. Time probably.” Well, third was a lot better than he thought he would get. “Are ties allowed?”

“Sure,” Wild said with a nod.

“Fourth is Four and Wind. I never did figure out how much blood I can drink from you guys without you passing out so I’m not entirely comfortable drinking your blood,” he said quietly, almost like he didn’t want Four and Wind to hear. They looked at each other shrugged but Warriors was too busy looking at the floor to notice.

“That just leaves me and you,” Legend mumbled, looking at Twilight. “Not surprising.”

“Twilight, you’re fifth and you know why.”

Twilight held his hands up. “Look, I’m sorry that I forgot, alright? It won’t happen again.”

“I guess I’ll give you another chance,” Warriors mumbled. “Legend, you’re last. You also know why.”

“I expected that.”

Warriors stood up and stretch again. “Where’s my pillow? I think I’m going to go back to sleep.”

“Already?” Wild asked. “At least I know I’m his currently his second favourite.”

“Wake me up again today and you’ll be last,” Warriors hissed as he walked out of the room.

Grumpy Warriors is fun to write!

[andromeda3116]

also like. they found so much stuff out there that it was like "okay, either pluto isn't a planet and we have only eight* planet-planets in the solar system, or there are an uncountably huge number of planets in our solar system, which stretches out to ???? billions of miles away and perhaps even as far as a light-year"

like rewriting the definition of "planet" to exclude pluto was by far the lesser evil, and so by the updated definition of the word, pluto simply wasn't ever a planet to begin with. we just didn't know enough about the outer solar system when we discovered it to know that our definition was inadequate

*something something planet nine??? probably exists? maybe exists? maybe just weird math in the model? absolute hair-pulling nightmare to ever actually confirm or image?? may have been a rogue planet whose own star died billions of years ago and left it still hurtling along in the interstellar void? maybe small ice giant, maybe super-earth that got flung out to the fringes of the solar system by that regina george-ass planet jupiter? something possibly beautiful hiding in the math and invisible against the far stars, or a flaw in our math that makes it all just a fool's errand?

wow pluto reclassification discourse is exhausting. here I thought doing a poll that highlights some of pluto's cool lesser known dwarf planet friends would put things in a context where it can't possibly go in that direction but nope a bunch people really do just hold a hard stance against a classification system entirely out of a sense of nostalgia

[kenyummy]

✰ 05. the ballad of a bygone blight.

✰ ꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ platonic yandere batfam / spider! reader ꒱

✰ 05. your closed-off heart.

SYNOPSIS : being spidey isn't easy. being transported into an alternate universe where you're nothing but a shadow in your house, makes sneaking around a little easier... until you find yourself the apple of their eye... kind of.

note: avoidant attachment damian is canon to me okay. it's canon to me... </3 also pretty long chap idk how many words but it's a bunch

prev. ✰ masterlist ✰ next.

The sky has fallen to an ashen black by the time you've all settled down and watched a fun game show together; so different from the ones back home.

After those hours of catching up—you've made sure to be careful with your words and not mention anything about any alternate universes. You can't—not with that lingering stare behind you, after all.

Whether they realised your avoidance of the topic or simply didn't think to bring it up—you were glad the rest of your friends never even hinted at it once, either.

Now you were back, sitting on the couch under a low, flickering light and cuddled up beside Johnny and Franklin.

"Franklin..." Your voice is low. Said boy is cooped up to your side, snoring softly as he drools onto you. You avert your gaze toward Sue and Reed. "How's his... mutation going? It's pretty rough being so strong so young."

Johnny glowers at the sight of Franklin so attached to your left arm—even though he's just as close, if not closer to you than his nephew is. If he were sunken any farther into you, he'd practically be in your lap.

Sue sighs, pressing her palm against her face with an exasperated look. "After that whole incident with Annihilus, his power has been developing so drastically, we aren't sure on what may occur next. He's so... he is so strong. We asked the Professor about it, and his only advice was for when we believe we cannot properly help him develop, to send him to his school."

Reed slinks his hand into his wives', gripping tightly. "But I don't think it'll come to that. Franklin... is a good kid. I don't believe he will ever lost control of himself, not like the Professor is afraid he will. Regardless—he's doing fine, and that was the reason we took him with us."

The mood is sunken, a little bit quieter as you rake your nails over Frankin' scalp—gently. Such a power so young—you remember the first time you were told this young boy was creating pocket universes under his bed at three. Two years later, and he's developed the abilities comparable to that of a god.

To be so incredible is a blessing—but for a child like Franklin, it can feel like a curse often times. You would know, you think solemnly, palm falling over his cheek.

Ben sinks into the dented couch, leaning back with a knee crossed over his leg. He breaks the silence with ease and that lovely Yancy Street accent, "That, and we didn't wanna let Tony babysit again."

"Oh yeah," Johnny grimaces. "Last time he was left alone with Frankie, he made him a suit and he flew all the way to the Carribean!"

You slap a hand over your mouth, turning to Johnny and laughing, "I heard about that! Didn't you nearly get sunk by Namor and his Atlanteans?"

Johnny hisses and looks to the side—the tips of his ears alighting with a flicker. You reach up and pat out the flame, brushing his hair back as he hides his face from your view.

Judging by the smug, knowing look Sue shoots her younger brother, you assume he was pretty annoyed by your pampering.

Despite this, the mood has become lighter. You aren't worried about what may happen in the future, or what could possibly go wrong with the young child beside you.

"Don't even mention him, or any bad guy—" Johnny slumps down, head reeking back dramatically. "I'm going stir-crazy not being able to get out and fight 'em."

Ben gives him a pointed look, "brows" furrowing, "Yer sounding less stir-crazy and more batshit mental. Ya gotta get out more."

"Tell that to him!" The blonde juts his thumb towards Reed, who simply averts his eyes. "He's the one who said we can't be seen in this unknown place."

"Yeah, it's a shame, isn't it?" You cross your arms. "While you're all resting here, I have to go out and fight crime all day. Lucky me."

Johnny raises his hands in defence, "Yeah, you are lucky. I'd kill to get out and get some action. I'm tired of being cooped up in here all day like the world doesn't need me."

"Don't go getting a big head, Johnny." Sue frowns. "This world has survived fine without you. I'm sure it'll live even without you, as well."

Johnny and Sue start to bicker in the traditional sibling fashion—shooting the other glares and mocks, all the while Reed seems to be deep in thought. (And as always, Ben is simply enjoying the scene in front of him).

"Actually..." Reed speaks up—catching the attention of everybody in the room with ease. "Perhaps... it could be a good thing to go public. It would give us an easy way to collect materials we need if we could go out and use our powers freely."

"... Reed? You can't be serious—" Sue blinks in shock.

Ben slams his two rocky fists together, "Hell yeah! It's been a minute since I said my favourite line—"

"—It's clobberin' time, we know." Johnny shakes his head. Ben simply shoots the matchstick a glare.

"That aside; it'll help us make that..." Reed hums, glancing at you for a moment, "That very intricate device we'd been needing to create. The last one was created by the combined nature of me, Tony, and Hank—so making it alone may provide more difficult, but absolutely not impossible. Not much tech to work with, either... this might take a while..."

Sue places a hand on her husbands shoulder, and he seems to break out of the strange mumble he reduced his voice to. "Thank you, Susan. But yes—given we collect the right resources and I have time to work on this, we should be able to remake it."

"That's great!" You smile, grin brightening. You could go home! You could actually go home! Not sure when—but soon couldn't come soon enough. "You guys can fight alongside me, and now this! This is great news!"

"Eh ... I already told you Reed was making some of that crazy tech stuff, didn't I?" Johnny shrugs, resting his head to the side. "Besides—It's Reed. Why wouldn't be tinkering with some weird invention?"

"... Thank you for the vote of confidence, Johnny." Reed murmurs, eyes falling to the side. "If we want to make something as intricate as... that, from scratch, we'll definitely need the most brilliant minds helping."

"Ah... yeah. Too bad Tony isn't here, huh? Hank, too. They'd be a real help." You smile sadly, looking to the side.

"Actually, [name], I'd rather like you to look over some of the teleporters with me. Give your opinion on what I should do with what I have."

"R... really?" You look up at him with sparkly eyes. "You really...?"

He nods, smiling. You bite down on the insides of your cheek to stop yourself from grinning madly—instead, you opt to rushing over and wrapping your arms around his neck, jumping up and down.

"Thank you! Yeah, I'd be—" You pull back, coughing with a flushed face. "I'd be totally honoured. Yeah. Um—I promise to not get any webs on them this time!"

"I'll take your word for it," Reed chuckles. Happiness practically bursts out of your chest at the recognition from the smartest man in the world.

Perhaps you were more than you gave yourself credit for—and way more than what that family gave you credit for.

You sit back down and Franklin crawls back into your lap, snoring softly. Johnny attaches himself to your side and keeps a warm arm snug around your shoulder, smiling down at you.

The warm fuzzy feeling pools down at the bottom of your stomach and each time you laugh, you feel your heart grow fonder.

You had never felt so at home in this strange place. These four—these five—this was your family, and you'd never feel otherwise.

Damien feels a tug in his chest. More than a tug, actually—it's like a rope has tied a noose around his ribs and is rattling them repeatedly.

He's biting down so hard on his lips and the inside of your cheek that blood seeps from between chapped lips. He chews them raw—not even noticing the pain.

He hadn't even realised when he pulled his katana out from its holster on his back. He hadn't realised when he gripped it so taut his knuckles turned a milky white. He hadn't even realised when his eyes zeroed in on the sight of you cuddling up with that dark-haired boy.

Allowing him close to you—clinging to your arm so pathetically and pressing his face against your stomach as if he'd done it a hundred times over and acting like you're his older sibling or something stupid like that—

Damian steadies his erratic breathing. Unscrunching his face, but he cannot seem to stop glaring daggers. Even when he makes eye contact with that man—Reed, he believes you referred to him as—he does not tear his sharp gaze away.

You stare so tenderly at the young boy (younger than Damian is. By a few years or so, most likely). You cradle his cheek in your hand with such love it makes your actual brother, your blood brother, feel sick to his stomach.

Raking your fingers through his hair like you'd never done with your siblings before. Holding him close like you wished to protect him from the world and all the horrors within it.

How could you possibly hope to protect this... Frankie, when you cannot even protect yourself? The scarring left from the bullet still lay on your shoulder, a ghostly reminder of how you became victim to the evil this city holds.

A reminder to Damian on how he must protect you now. As his duty.

In this cruel world, you have lost to it—and yet, you choose to coddle others? You choose to keep others safe and close to your heart, but never your family?

His heart is lit aflame with rage. His jaw is taut and clenched tightly—feeling his teeth grit beneath his tongue and his mind fizzle with boiling anger. He hadn't felt this irrational in so long. Not until...

He doesn't remember ever seeing you in a such a light. He doesn't remember seeing you.

But now he does—and now, he feels so much fuming ferocity. Watching you send the softest of smiles to him and allowing him to feel your soft, untainted touch.

(A touch not tainted by years of relentless crime fighting—a silky grasp that could only be given by that kind of regularity Damian had never known).

Much earlier, he had realised you were that vigilante he met so long ago. That spider-like fiend who seemed to have those never-endingly sticky webs.

This is why you'd been skipping classes so often, and why he never saw you around. That's why he hadn't seen those pitiful eyes be directed toward his two, barely there elder brothers, after each and every violent patrol.

That is why you have become so distant. So far away—Drake had described it. Damian didn't bother to listen because he didn't care enough to.

That doesn't matter. In the end, none of it matters. Not to him. It didn't change his image of you.

He hadn't known you long enough for it to shift in any way—nor had he ever tried to. Despite this, he is content. If this new version of you is all he will ever know, then so be it. This will be his you—the sincerity in your touch and the love in your eyes.

(Yet, never seen toward him).

He has little time to ponder and brood. Before he knows it—the glass door is sliding open and, on that balcony, he is no longer alone.

You hesitate for a moment before speaking. "Damian?"

He blinks. He is not used to hearing his name from your mouth in anything but a furious tone. Yet, despite this—it is anything bur the saccharine way you told that Franklin he's your favourite—

"Damian. Why did you follow me?" You demand, voice more firm than your question-like tone before.

You stand before him, arms crossed under your chest and a hard expression on your face. Stern. Like a real older sibling. He had never seen you make that kind of face before.

(For whatever odd reason, he feels small again. Like lowering his head and apologising for something he had not even done—you've never had that sort of effect before).

... And yet, despite all he's acted like in the past; in this present moment, he doesn't know what to say to you. Very uncharacteristical.

(For that Franklin, it came so easy. Like running up to you with those stupid googly eyes was the most regular thing to him. Damian doesn't believe he will ever be able to feel as normal as that).

Fortunately, he manages to scrounge up some words to say like it was a board game. "I... happened to catch you swinging here. In that ridiculous costume and to your even more ridiculous friends."

Your brow twitches in annoyance at his words. He notices it so wholly that it strikes deep into his chest. Why are you so dissatisfied with him? Why does it make him so unfathomably upset?

"One, my costume is cool. Two, my friends aren't ridiculous. Don't talk about them like that." Your tone is upset.

All these strong emotions hit him like a freight train and suddenly he doesn't know how to speak properly. Don't look at him like that. Why are you so kind to that other child, but you are so cruel toward him? It's unfair. Absolutely unfair.

He must've been quiet longer than he realised. Clutching the bottom of his cape tight into his blood-bathed grip, practically shaking. He must look so utterly pathetic for you to offer him menial pity.

(Just like you used to—except now it feels like a wave crashing against the shore, covering the burning lava stones in a cool tide).

"So, you know, then?" You glance downward at Damian after pinching your temple. He breaks his eye contact with the concrete and looks back to you. "That I'm that spider hero."

...

"Yes. After seeing your school bag webbed up, it was far too obvious."

You glance downwards once more. To the strap wrapped around his shoulder, connected to your bag. He tries to shuffle it discreetly behind him, but he knows you've spotted it when a smile crawls onto your lips.

Gritting his teeth—yet this time he does not feel that same blaring anger as before—he decides that hiding it was useless and opts to shove it into your arms roughly, before he can even think.

"The leather is crumpled. You need a new bag," He says, matter-of-factly. You grasp onto the leather with wide eyes; gaze shifting from it to him.

"... I know. It's been like this..." You aren't exactly sure on how long, exactly—but you're sure it's been... "For a while. I'm used to it."

Damian pauses, eyes narrowed and lips turned down into a sneer. He's practically offering, and yet you still deny? You pretend everything is fine and you are strong.

...

You lean down the slightest. "... Still. Thanks for considering me."

You almost can't believe you're thanking this younger brother for the bare minimum—but from what you've seen, that bare minimum isn't seen much in your household. (Especially towards you).

Despite this... you have always had a soft spot for kids. You ruffle his dark hair and he practically squawks, slapping your hands away like it burnt.

He recoils back, hissing, "Who do you think you are?! Don't patronise me!"

You chuckle and move back, brushing off your hands. He watches that action like a hawk. "... Are you going to tell them?"

"TT. About your little side hobby playing dress up?"

You want to point out how he does the exact same thing. But you don't, because you know it will lead to nothing good.

Damian sneers, turning his head to the side, "I don't care for what you do in your spare time. As long as I do not have to be there to save you every time."

"Fair enough. This can be our little secret, then." You nod. "... You can go now. I'm just going to suit up and sneak back in."

"Is that what you have been doing for the past several weeks?"

"Guilty as charged," you shrug, pressing on the necklace pendant sitting comfortably between your collarbones. "If nobody notices, then I don't think it's that big of a deal. I mean—"

He watches in fascination as the minuscule robots crawl over your body and form into the familiar Spidey suit.

You tuck your hair in as the mask forms. "—Most of them are barely home to begin with, and it's not like Bruce has spare time to be worrying about this."

... "Don't you mean father?"

You stare at him weird. "What?"

"You called father Bruce." His eyes narrow furthur.

"Oh. Right." You must've become accustomed to not saying father. Uncle Ben was the only father you'd ever had, and it wasn't like you were going around calling him that, since you know—he was your uncle. "Yeah. That's what I meant."

Damien doesn't reply this time. He throws on the hood of his costume, turning his back toward your costumed form.

You walk back inside into the dimly-lit room, engulfing those people in warm hugs you'd never spared any of them before.

He leaps off the roof and swings away into the night, face unreadable; mind consumed with little crime and more thoughts of you.

Perhaps he was... wrong about you. Less helpless, but still just as weak. And a lot more confusing. Unfair. So much confliction.

Though, he feels his chest beat strangely warm when he tousles his hair back to its regular style.

Swinging in through the window in your room and with one click on your necklace, you land flat on your heels.

Peering around, you hum at your empty, dark room and change into a pair of pyjamas.

It's been a day or two since you'd eaten here. Usually you'd go around as Spidey and picking up some takeout as you swing back home, or go to Harry's house for some dinner (since Norman had taken a strong, un-evil liking to you in this world).

But today, you'd been too wrapped up to even think about dinner. You'd missed the familiarity of Sue's warm cooking but you hadn't even thought to ask while you were there. Damn.

It's way too late to go out and get something now. Crap. You really got ahead of yourself, didn't you?

You put on your pair of fuzzy slippers, and swing open your door. It's late, so most of them should be out on patrol.

You'll probably only run into Alfred, at best. You can live with those kinds of odds.

You walk down the stairway and towards the kitchen (it took you a bit—learning the ropes of this place was harder than it looked). Your steps sluggishly drawl across the floor as you yawn.

Being Spidey sure was tiring. Post-patrol naps were always the highlight of your week, but you could never do it on an empty stomach.

As quietly as possible, you begin to rummage around in the larger-than-life fridge. Fruit, condiments, almost all ingredients than actual food.

You groan. You hate rich people. Aunt May always used to just buy a bunch of pre-cooked meals whenever she was away—you'd become so accustomed to it.

Maybe there were leftovers? ... Do rich people even keep leftovers? You slouch down at the thought.

You open a few drawers just to find a pile of spinach of all things. Then fruity flavoured drinks. Some more vegetables. Lots of vegetables. A child's waking nightmare.

"There's a pack of pizza pockets in the third drawer in the second row."

You barely even react, hand already inching for the drawer. You open it, and find it. You hum.

Your sense acts up when you hear footsteps approaching—you glance over your shoulder to see a man you have not previously met before, but have seen.

That blob of red—that figure you saw before everything went black and when a bullet was lodged in your shoulder. It was him.

A white tuft of hair in the middle of his forehead and a jaded expression. A red helmet under his arm and a pizza pocket in the other hand.

It was undoubtedly him.

"Jason..." You try your hardest to not make it sound like a question.

His expression remains unchanged. "[name]. You... your shoulder is all healed up already."

You glance at your exposed shoulder. There is barely any visibly sign of a wound ever being there. Perks to a healing factor—well, you heal. Downsides to a healing factor—people start asking questions.

"It didn't hit me too deep... and Bruce got me the best hospital stuff, too." You put the pizza pockets on a plate then stuff it into the microwave. The beep resounds in the quiet as you lean back on the counter. "Guess I got lucky."

"Didn't feel so lucky when you were bleeding out in my arms, did you?" His eyes narrow and you think you may have said the wrong thing. "What the hell were you even doing out at that hour? What the fuck were you thinking?"

Oh, I was just dropped in from another universe and switched places with Wayne-ie here. No biggie.

Yeah, no way in any of the layers in hell. Facing Galactus head on feels like a safer task than telling him that. You shake your head, trying to formulate a proper excuse.

"I was hanging out with my friends. Lost track of time."

His eyes widen at your sheer audacity to say that—then, his brows furrow and he steps forward, "Don't give me that shit. You never go out past ten. Bruce won't let you. We drilled it into your head you'd die out there. And look—you nearly did. Don't you dare sit here and lie to me, [name], because I swear to God—"

Your jaw clenches and you have to hold your hands behind your body—pressed against hard granite—to stop yourself from pushing him back.

You hiss, low and tense, "What do you know? You'd never stay long enough to find out."

You remember flipping through that diary. The words getting scratchier and the paper getting more crumpled as you went on.

"You'd never stayed longer than a few days. You'd never even looked at me even then."

As you became older, you became hateful.

"You could see Dick. You could hate Tim. And despite everything, you could bring yourself to like him. You even tolerated Damian."

But you also became sad. Increasingly so. So miserable, trapped in that newborn skin you'd never truly seemed to break out of.

"I didn't care that you killed people. I didn't care that you never stayed for long. I didn't care that you hated Bruce."

So lost, so desperate for that touch you'd received so long ago; you never really grown up, had you?

"I didn't care that you'd never stay for him. For Dick. For any of the others."

So bitter. It's no wonder you'd never talked to them. It's no wonder—

"But damn it, Jason—"

"I really thought that you could've stayed for me."

—that he's staring at you in such horror.

None of this came from your heart. This entire speech was scripted on a piece of paper—by a version of you who felt so much pain and hate for those who abandoned you so easily.

But... looking at his expression now—you think it's something he needed to hear. Something that couldn't be left unsaid any longer. All the feelings pent up in them (in you, one could say) and the words they were to afraid to speak aloud. The words you were not afraid to say.

His lips parted, eyes wide as he doesn't reply. How can he? What could he ever, possibly say?

That he was doing this for your own good? That he never wanted you to see the man he had become? To never want to sully that image of that older brother who played tag with you when you were younger?

How does he tell you about the bullet he put through the skull of the Penguin goons with smoking guns he'd found minutes after he saw you bleeding out in a dirty alleyway? He couldn't possibly tell you about that.

How could he ever tell you that this was all for you—when you were hurting so badly?

(Hurting without him? Had you missed him all these years, so terribly? The thought brings some sort of twisted satisfaction. Sick reassurance. That, despite everything, you still loved him).

How could Jason Todd ever show you that he cares without destroying everything he was before? The answer was simple to him—he can't. He thought you knew. He thought—

...

Now, everything doesn't feel so simple. His sunken eyes search all over your face in frantic motions. Your eyes are so blank, and you don't even look to be feeling anything.

Are you tired? Of this? Of him? Just what did that bullet do to you?

The beeping of the microwave catches both of your attention before he has a chance to say something he will likely regret.

You turn your head to the side, and slip away from where he had cornered you against the granite. "Pizza pocket's done."

You glance his way, and he feels pathetic. Absolutley, spectacularly pathetic. "... Want some?"

You sit in incredibly uncomfortable silence, chewing on the food. At least it was good. Familiar.

Clearly there was a lot to discuss between the both of you. ... Jason and this other you, at least.

(Or was it you, the one who was shot? You could never truly tell).

There's so much to say, so little time. Jason could never stay, and definitely not around you. All these years—this world's you thought he hated them. Despised them.

Now, his expression feels like the complete opposite. Longing.

You shove the rest of the pizza pocket into your mouth, wiping off the stray greasy cheese off the corners of your lips.

"I meant what I said earlier." You clarify, as if he needed it. "And I don't appreciate you only getting on my ass after all this time, only when something bad happens. You don't get to do that. That's not how this works."

You gesture between the two of you and his heart feels like its been stabbed with the sharpest of knives.

Then, it twists.

You were always his favourite. The sweetest. The little kid he'd once held so dearly and near his heart. Until that heart stopped and turned into the deepest black, poisoned and compromised.

How could he ever risk poisoning you, too?

He wanted to keep you safe, and somewhere, somehow—he came to the conclusion that the only way you'd br safe is if you were away from him. Kept at a distance. Staying at arm's length.

Now, he isn't sure he was ever thinking of how safe you'd be. Not when he'd seen you, light-headed and bleeding. Not when you were practically dying in his arms and he couldn't do shit except kill those stupid fucking goons; because what is he good for if not revenge?

"I miss the old days," you say. But there's a distinct lack of emotion in your voice. As if it wasn't even you who was saying this. "But to hang onto them forever—when will we ever move on?"

...

He doesn't know. He doesn't think he can. Those are the only memories he has of you. Of himself.

Jason pinches the bridge of his nose, suddenly feeling his heart pound and stomach feeling sick. This sort of uncanny, soul-consuming feeling—it only ever happened whenever he would look at you.

Eyes blurry and vision failing him, he wants to go. To run. But at the same time, he wants to keep you close. Make sure nothing will ever happen again. Make sure you never feel that pain again.

His head is going to split. He doesn't know what to do.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His hands sink into his hair, and his jaw is clenched impossibly tight.

"I just..." His voice is quieter than he wanted it to be. Shakier. Almost timid. He feels like a boy again. That same child you'd stare at so reverently. He doesn't know when he was beginning to forget that. "I just wanted to keep you safe. That's all I ever wanted."

You're almost tired of this. Pissed off. Is that all they say? Is that really all they say to tell you why they'd kept you so far away? The distance was all-consuming. You'd noticed it in the first week you lived here. You couldn't even begin to imagine that kind of "love" all your life.

"Then, you were doing it all wrong." You say, simply. It sounds like you know. Like you have experience. Like a wise old wizard who'd "seen it all before". "I'm not incapable (truly, you are not) and my life is my own. Keeping me safe isn't trying to keep everything the same, like it is as it was."

He lifts his head from his hands when your chair pushes behind you, screeching across wooden boards.

"I'm sorry you had to find me like that. But... you don't get it. You don't know..." You swallow. "You don't know enough about me now to judge whether I need protecting or not. You never did."

... You're right. He never did. He still doesn't. Jason never watched you grow up. He never got the chance to see you go through your awkward teen years. Get your first boyfriend. Scare the shit out of him. He didn't get to hang out with you and get ice-cream after school.

He never got the chance to do anything of these things. Not with you. Never with the one most dear to him, and his small, dark heart.

But that could change. Starting now, he could change. He would. He could. He will. For you.

He stares, eyes blankening. Then, they fill with something dark. A nervous shiver runs down your spine and your sense starts tingling in the back of your mind.

He speaks, low and steady. The shakiness is gone and you're not sure what went on in his head—but he sounds so sure now. So certain.

"Then, I will."

It's not a threat or a claim—but a withheld promise. The heaviness of it weighs down on you, and you aren't sure whether you should feel safe or scared.

He gets out of his chair and walks over to you. Unconsciously, you hold your breath, blood running cold as he stalks closer. That huge imposing frame that (probably) used to hold some semblance of comfort toward you; now terrified you to the bone.

His big hand rests atop your head, and ruffles your hair. "Starting now, I'll get to know you again. Then, everything can go back to normal."

... Did he even listen to a word you said?

He sends you a smile as he leaves the top of your head a tangled mess, slipping on his helmet and walking away.

You're left alone, heart pumping wildly in your chest and your brain throbbing with that buzz. Every sense and nerve on full alert—you sink down into that chair and pull your knees to your chest.

You think you may have bitten off a bit more than you can chew.

taglist: @hello-bina @cosmosluckycharms @1abi @yhin-gg @insideoutjulie @bluepanda08 @omnivirgo @vanessa-boo @dind1n @welpthisisboring @lunaetiicsaystuff @marsmabe @atanukileaf @findingjaxx @4mrplumi @bunniotomia @lostsomewhereinthegarden @bat1212 @gaychaosgremlin @bongwaterflavoredgatorade @randomlyappearingartist @cxcilla @spidermanluvr444 @cruzerforce4256 @mybones537 @xjesterxjacksx @nirvanaxx1942 @djpuppy-kittens @br33zy-blizzardz @moon0goddess @0sunnyside01 @mei-simp @redsakura101 @the-dumber-scaramouche @wizzerreblogs @lovemiss-vale @deathbynarcisstick @allycat4458 @wonmyheart @luckyangelballoon @one-piecelover @hartwyrm @horror-lover-69 @maria-trisha @4rachn3 @galaxypurplerose @duskeras @coffeeaddictxd @lithiumval @kaz-playz

taglist is closed! sorry!

[hoshifighting]

hi can i request svt’s reaction to y/n saying she hasn’t shaved down there but they go down anyways 👹👹

seventeen reaction when you're not shaved

seungcheol: "babe, the last thing on my mind right now is whether you shaved or not." he says it so casually, like you just told him the sky is blue. but inside he’s actually kinda sad you even felt the need to mention it. like, why would he care? he’s just tryna worship you, and here you are worried about some damn stubble. he’s on a mission now. a convincing one.

jeonghan: "sweetheart, do you really think that’s gonna make me stop?" thinks that the fact that you’re even bringing it up is adorable. unnecessary, but adorable. he’s about to make you forget you even had that thought in the first place.

joshua: "do you really think i give a shit?" and he says it so sweetly too, but with this little smirk like he’s personally offended that you even hesitated. inside, he’s just like, why would i, joshua hong, ever care about that? he’s about to prove to you exactly how little he cares.

junhui: "okay, and? still the prettiest thing i’ve ever seen." like, he genuinely does not understand why this is even being brought up. he’s not even thinking about it. all that’s going through his mind is that he was just trying to devour you and now you’re talking nonsense.

hoshi: "babe, i would still be down if you had a whole ass beard down there." he’s so serious. like, actually, completely unbothered. he’s just happy to be here. inside, he’s already moving on. he’s not even letting you finish that thought.

wonwoo: "that’s what you’re worried about? baby, come on." his voice is so soft but he’s looking at you, like really looking, and in his head, he’s just sighing. like, you’re here, with him, like this, and you think that even matters?

woozi: "literally don’t care. like, at all." deadpan. like you just asked if water is wet. he’s so unbothered it almost makes you feel dumb for even bringing it up. in his mind, he’s already moved on. problem solved. next?

minghao: "baby, im not a boy." he means it too. he’s not even tryna reassure you, he’s just stating facts. in his head, he’s already making a mental note to gas you up more often, ‘cause clearly, you need to be reminded.

mingyu: "okay, but do you think i’m about to stop?" he’s actually confused. like, physically unable to process why you even thought that would be an issue.

seokmin: "that’s cute, but i really don’t care." he laughs, not at you, just at the absurdity of the statement. in his head he’s making a mental note to never let you feel self-conscious around him again.

seungkwan: "do you think i’m about to write a yelp review on it? no. come here." genuinely baffled. he’s looking at you like you just said the dumbest thing ever, but in the softest, most loving way possible. inside, he’s doesn't understand why yall are even discussing this.

vernon: "cool. so anyway—" does not let you finish. immediately moves on. he could not care less.

chan: "do you really think i care about that when i’m this close to losing my mind over you? babe im like—super horny, no cap." his voice is almost desperate, because like, why are ypu stopping for this?

[mintyys-blog]

Hi minty, hope you're not to busy but could you please do for main mark and variants reaction to reader suffering from amnesia after they accidentally hurt her . Like what would their reaction be knowing they're the reason she doesn't remember them .

HEADCANONS | variants with s/o who doesn’t remember them

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST 2 | WARNINGS: violence, blood

Do not repost, translate, or rewrite my work, whether AI-generated or otherwise, without my permission. — © @mintyys-blog

MAIN MARK:

It wasn’t meant to go this far.

Mark paced the apartment like a caged animal. His fists clenched, jaw tight. The mission had gone sideways again—too many civilians caught in the crossfire, too many expectations shoved on his shoulders from Cecil, from the world, from himself.

“I’m just saying,” you said gently from the kitchen, “you don’t have to do this alone.”

“I am alone!” he snapped, spinning to face you. “No one understands what it’s like. You think you get it, but you don’t. You can’t!”

You stepped forward, unafraid. “Mark, I love you, but you are spiraling. I’m trying to help you before you lose—”

“I said shut up!” he roared, slamming his fist into the load-bearing pillar.

You both froze at the cracking sound above.

You looked up.

“Mark—”

The ceiling groaned. Then it gave. The chandelier—old, heavy, forgotten—fell faster than either of you could react. His scream echoed too late. The glass and metal hit you square in the back. You crumpled like paper.

The silence afterward was deafening. He was on his knees beside you in seconds, glass slicing his hands as he tried to move the wreckage.

You were still breathing. But your eyes fluttered, unfocused. When they finally opened fully, he grabbed your face in both hands. “Hey—hey, baby, stay with me. It’s me. I got you. You’re gonna be fine.”

“…Who are you?” Mark froze. And something in his chest just stopped.

VILTRUMITE MARK

You stood on the battlefield, torn between the bloodied rebel leader on the ground and the man you loved—hovering above like a god of war.

“Don’t do this,” you called up to him, sweat and wind whipping across your face. “He surrendered. Killing him now doesn’t prove anything.”

Mark’s eyes burned red. “You think I care about surrender? He killed dozens of my soldiers. He’s filth.”

You flew up beside him. “You’re not a killer, Mark. Not like them. Please…”

“Get out of the way.”

“No.”

He moved fast. Just a push. A flick of his arm to send you gently aside. Except nothing he did was ever gentle.

The air cracked with pressure. Your body spiraled back like a ragdoll, crashing into a sharp ridge of obsidian rock with a sound that made him sick.

He turned mid-sentence. You weren’t moving.

When he finally reached you, he saw the blood trailing from your ear, the glaze in your eyes as they blinked up at the sky.

He crouched beside you, voice hoarse. “It’s me. You’ll be fine. It’s me.”

You looked at him. And then asked, in a whisper: “Am I dying? I don’t know… who you are…” He couldn’t answer. Not because he didn’t have words—but because the pain was too loud.

MOHAWK MARK

You and Mark were tracking down a back-alley smuggler in a dirty corner of Chicago. He was wired—too much caffeine, too little sleep, muscles twitching from weeks of stress.

The moment he saw a figure leap from the shadows, he moved on instinct. His fist swung hard—too hard. You barely got his name out before the blow connected.

You slammed into the alley wall, your head cracking against the brick with a sickening sound. Your body dropped at an angle no human should bend. “No no no—shit!” Mark dropped to his knees beside you, already pulling you into his arms. “C’mon, babe. Please. Say something.”

Blood on your temple. You’re breathing shallow. His hand trembled as he brushed hair out of your face. You stirred—barely—and blinked up at him. Your brows drew together. “You… you look scared…”

“Yeah, well,” he whispered, trying not to cry, “I kind of just hit the person I love in the head.”

“Do I… know you?” Mark didn’t react right away. He just nodded once, slow and hollow. “You.. did.”

OMNI MARK

The strategy room was quiet, save for the low hum of satellite feeds.

You were arguing again.

“You’re talking about millions of people, Mark!”

“And I’m trying to save billions. Don’t twist this.”

“I’m not. I’m trying to save you.”

He turned too fast. Your hand was on his arm—and in a blink, he threw you. It wasn’t meant to be violent. Just a reflex. But he forgot how fragile you were. You slammed into a glass console. Shards embedded in your back, one slicing into your skull.

Time slowed.

He didn’t move for three seconds. Then everything blurred. He carried you out of the room like you weighed nothing. Blood coated his hands.

Later, when you woke up, the medics stepped back as he leaned in. “It’s me,” he said. “Mark.” You stared at him, confused. “I’m sorry. Are you… uh— who?”

For once, Mark had nothing to say. He left without a word.

PRISONER MARK

It had been months since the escape. Since you found him barely surviving in the woods, shaking, paranoid, haunted by what he’d done and what he’d become.

You let him stay. Fed him. Sat with him on the porch at night.

You thought he was healing.

But trauma doesn’t leave gently.

One night, he woke up screaming—sweat pouring down his chest, breath ragged. His vision blurred.

He saw enemies. Shadows. A phantom invader.

You entered the room, startled. “Mark?”

He lunged.

The force knocked you to the ground. His hand struck your temple hard, and your head bounced off the floorboards. Blood immediately followed.

He froze above you.

You weren’t moving.

“No no no no no—no—” he pulled you into his arms, crying now, shaking your shoulders. “It’s me—it’s me—it’s just me…”

When your eyes opened, you looked up at him. Frightened. Confused. “Who are you?” Mark didn’t scream.

He just pulled you into his chest, rocked you like a child, and whispered: “I’m the man who ruined everything.”

SINISTER MARK

He hated how easily you smiled at others.

You were the only soft thing left in his life, the only constant in the storm that was his fractured mind. And the more people you gave your warmth to, the more he felt it slipping out of his grasp.

Tonight was no different.

You’d just gotten home from work, rambling about a new coworker. A guy. A kind one, apparently.

Mark sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, eyes locked to the floor.

“He just offered to cover my shift next week,” you said, unaware. “It was sweet of him.”

“Did he touch you?”

Your voice stalled. “…What?”

“Did he touch you?” Mark repeated, lifting his gaze now, sharp and glassy with something dangerous. “Your arm. Your back. Your waist?”

You took a step back, your stomach twisting. “Why does it matter?”

“It matters,” he said, standing slowly, “because you’re mine.”

He didn’t shout. He didn’t throw a punch.

But the tension radiating from him cracked the windowpane behind him, the glass splintering from sheer pressure. The bookshelves shuddered. One of them—loaded and poorly anchored—tipped.

It happened too fast. You turned, but it was too late. The bookshelf fell with a heavy thud, slamming into your head and shoulder. You dropped like a stone. Mark blinked.

Then everything in him went cold. He was at your side in a breath, pulling debris off your limp body, hands trembling. “No. No. Baby, look at me—”

Your eyes fluttered open. Confusion. Then panic. “Get away from me!”

Mark froze. “What—?” You tried to scramble back, weak and dazed. “Who are you? Where am I?”

He stared at you for a long, broken moment. Then he stood. Turned his back. And whispered, “You were mine.”

TAG LIST: @onlybatsyy

to be added to the tag list, please specify for which variants and if you want to be tagged in smut / dark fics

[strangerstilinski]

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫

𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝟏𝟖+

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: reader with breasts and a vagina, lil bit of established-relationship domesticity, eddie being a goofball, barely-there smut at the end (0.9k)

𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚢 @strangergraphics

It's late.. Or maybe technically it's early, if the birdsong that's begun to drift through the open window is any indication. The sky is already starting to bleed from inky black to a deep blue, with purple and orange threatening to creep over the horizon any minute.

You've got a leech in the form of your boyfriend draped over your sweaty body, one of his hairy legs thrown over your own, his arm curled around your waist. His cock is still softening against your thigh, your combined spend slowly drying on your skin while your breathing re-regulates following an energetic late-night romp. His pale skin is still flushed pink in the dim lamplight of the bedroom, black ink of his tattoos seeming to stretch beyond their usual shape with the help of dark shadows.

"Soo," Eddie drawls, his voice soft when his face presses to the side of your throat. He leans back, propping himself up on an elbow so he can waggle his eyebrows playfully at you, "How many times was that? For you?"

His teeth nip at the soft flesh of your shoulder between the questions, a bid at playing up his innocence, no doubt. Because he's clearly not at all looking for a little something to boost to his ego. No way. Not your Eddie. Never.

You indulge him all the same. Giving in and playing along with his little over-dramatized bits was all just par for the course of dating him. Not that you minded in the slightest. Honestly, you found his vivacious spirit to be a special kind of intoxicating, and his dedication to it was nothing short of admirable.

You hum as your mind runs back over the last half hour or so, going back and forth with yourself on the exact number as you ponder whether at least one of those ninety second almosts counted — where you'd been clinging onto a truly earth-shattering, brain-dumbing peak that hadn't been meant to be. You debate whether it counted despite them never quite teetering over into orgasm.

Your hand strokes softly along the length Eddie's arm draped across your stomach, the hairs tickling along the pads of your fingers. After much deliberation you tell him, "Three and a half."

His outrage is immediate.

"Half?!" Eddie's voice goes high in disbelief, pushing back a little farther to give you a wide-eyed look to pair with his shock, "When was the half?" He demands, just shy of shrill. The hand on your hip kneads lovingly at the doughy flesh to soften the sheer lack of tact in his delivery.

A smile pulls at your lips at the genuine upset in his hushed tone, a small eyeroll born of nothing but fondness as you try to explain your reasoning, "Well there were a few times, at the end there-"

"No, nope." Eddie's voice only rises in volume, far too loud for the hour but he can't make himself care.

He is well and truly affronted. He can't believe he didn't notice a goddamn half-orgasm — it was horrendous. He's meant to know your body better than anyone else in the world. The thought of you settling for a half-orgasm without saying anything, of you just accepting a half because Eddie busted too quick to get you there again? Maybe he was being a bit dramatic about it all, but, no. It was not acceptable, not in his book.

He says as much.

"That's preposterous. Won't do." Eddie says matter-of-factly as he shuffles up onto his knees again in a rush

"What are you-" You're words cut off with a squeal when Eddie's clumsy sex-weakened limbs give out for a moment and he nearly collapses on top of you. Laughter pushes its way up from your chest, your fingers curling around his biceps to offer him a bit of stability as his head dips so that his nose can brush the tip of your own, "Eddumf-!"

He cuts you off with a kiss, nosing at your cheek until you go pliant underneath him and your mouth opens enough for him to stroke his tongue along your own for just a moment.

He still tastes like sex, the essence of you a little stale and lingering at the back of his mouth, but he kisses you with everything he has. His passion and excitement are as infectious as always and you're keening into the kiss before a minute has passed, your spine arching up off the mattress just a bit to bring your naked chest flush with his.

Your fingers are forced to fall a little loose on his arms when he pushes up onto his hands and shakes out his curls with dramatic flair. There's one stubborn strand sticking at the spit-slick corner of his mouth and a stupidly endearing, crazed look sparkling in his eyes as he begins to backpedal tellingly down your body. His kiss-swollen lips mark a path, kissing his way past your belly button and between your thighs. The round tip of his nose drags lightly up the length of your cunt and you can't help the way your hips jump when he catches your clit.

"Down we go-" Eddie's voice is thrown deep, a ridiculous animated thing that sounds like it's been pulled straight from the table at one of his campaigns. It's a voice that decidedly did not belong fanning out over your cunt while one of his knuckles softly parted your slick folds.

"God, Ed, if you're gonna do it just do it," You speak around a sigh as his finger collects a bit of your combined cum and he swirls it gently around your clit a few times. "I-if you get all goofy on me I'm gonn- oh."

But then his lips are wrapped around your clit and he's sucking like his life depends on it — Three and a half very quickly turns into four. And then five. And a stubborn sixth that requires a bit of coaxing, but Eddie draws it out of you with just as much enthusiasm and determination as he had with your first.

[im-not-a-ghost]

The reason why they fell so hard.

Images found on Pinterest. Each spread consists of 5 cards. The messages will be written as if it were from the POV of the person you were asking about.

Group 1

9 of pentacles, queen of swords, 9 of swords, 5 of swords, the Sun

You're so freaking addictive. Every time you push me away, I can't help but to love you more. I was just raised that way. I was taught to work hard for what I wanted. I was taught that love should be deserved and was not to be messed with. I was taught that caring was fighting. Fighting for the sake of those you love. Fighting against those you love. I know, I was not raised in the best conditions. I know, I may not know what love is. But I know that I want you. And that, neither of us can deny. I fell for you because you never let me have my ways. You call me out and push me to be better. You never need me. You never wait for me. You just are. And you are perfect. Everything about you is rock solid. I don't have to worry whether you're gonna make it out. Because I know whether I'm here or not, you'll make it to the top. You did not wait for me to be who you are and that won't change. Whether I'm around or not, you're still gonna slay. And to know that someone so strong cares about me fills me with pride and desire. You got under my skin. Even if I wanted to push you away, I couldn't. You're everything I see. All I think about. Every decision I make is tainted in your color. Your warmth has penetrated through the cracks of my walls and now I cannot help but to seek for their comfort. I was alone. I was cold. I felt scared and misunderstood. I was tired. So exhausted of having to work so hard only to be met with silence. I struggled so hard to be where I am. The road to success is lonely, I've been told. Though I knew it, I couldn't help but to hope that I would find people along the way who would be there through thick and thin. But there were none. And then you came in. And everything changed. My sky is clearer because you chased the storm. How could I not fall for you after all?

Complementary information : this person is first and foremost attracted to your mindset as proven by the fair amount of sword cards in the spread. They may be a sapio sexual. If you tend to be considered the brains of your friend group, then this is one of the reasons why this person is head over heals for you. Another thing I'm strongly picking up on is sarcasm. You may not hold your tongue in presence of this person. You may tease them a lot or downright mock them when they're being rude or acting silly. There may not be a lot of people around this person that dare talk back to them. But you do. Somehow this shows this person that you are someone they can count on. Another important factor is your independence and your abundance. If you have your own business or you are a very active person, you make your own revenue and are able to provide for yourself and your family, then this person is in awe of your success. Even more so if you happen to be popular among your peers. You leave a very good impression on this person because of how serious and dedicated you are to yourself, your work, of how straightforward and fair you can be with others. You have a very strong moral code that gets this person weak in their knees. Your generosity may also touch them deeply. If we're talking about physical aspects of you, what stands out to me is that you may look very youthful and bright compared to other people. That may be true especially if you have a style that is a stark contrast from the rest of your circle. Or at least you're very different from what this person is used to. You represent some kind of extraordinary factor in their life. For instance, if this person has always lived in one city and in this place they only see very skinny and pale people but you are a bit chubby and of a darker skin tone, you will automatically strike this person right away. This person seems to be attracted to what is different from them. You represent the unknown, adventure. That may be very electrifying to them. There may be a bit of fetichism hiding under all that attraction.

Group 2

Ace of pentacles, Wheel of fortune, Magician, 3 of cups, 2 of cups

You took my breath away. The moment I met you, I knew I had to have you. You became as essential to me as oxygen in a matter of seconds. It's not just because of your beauty, your grace, the way you talk or cary yourself. It's about how perfect our meeting was, how in a heartbeat you became the answer to all of my prayers. I didn't know I needed you until I laid eyes on you and God do I feel thankful for being able to experience this. I feel so lucky being with you. It's like you're every one of my dreams come true. You're smart, patient, kind, loving, generous. You never bring me down. You never ask of me more than I can give. You never give me more than I can chew. You're always so fair and just. You just have that magic to you that I can explain. It's like someone has casted a spell and now all I can see and think of is you. To be honest, I wouldn't mind you casting a spell on me if that meant that I got to be with you for the rest of my life. You're so fun to be around. So chill. I just feel so good with you. Our dynamic is perfect. We match like to puzzle pieces. Made for each other. I'm sure fate has a lot to do with this. You were my destiny. I'm sure of it. Our meeting was no coincidence. I mean, you came in at the perfect time and the perfect place! If that's not destiny, I don't know what is.

Note from reader : this person's energy is so sweet omg they're just in awe of you. I get a very flirty energy from them. I got the message that they were especially drawn to your lips and hips. I heard "hips don't lie" lmao They think you're their Shakira. This person likes to tease apparently. For some I'm getting that you're a witch or you're into the occult arts like tarot and such. This person may tease you about this but they have nothing against it. It's just something they find hard to believe. But when they see you they can't help but to question everything they think they know. They legit think that you put a spell on them because of that. This person is aware that you use tarot as a way to manifest. They feel intrigued by that. You intrigue them more than you will ever know. I get a lot of sexual energy coming from this person, though the cards don't show it as much. However, I'm picking up on the fact that your person may be in a third party situation. Or at least, they were when you first met. What could have contributed to their attraction for you was the fact that you represented a way out.

Group 3

The Emperor, 3 of cups, The Empress, The Lovers, Judgement

Babe, can't you tell? How could I not fall for you? My princess. My love. You are gorgeous. Gorgeous in every way, as if God himself made sure that your creation would be a success. You are wife material. You are THE woman. Everything about you makes me go crazy. I want to protect and love you with all my might. You are my equal. My other half. The Yin to my Yang. Even if I wanted to hate you, I just couldn't. We're so good together. There isn't even a need to question or doubt it. It makes perfect sense to me that we should be together. You are an absolute queen. You are fierce, strong, independant. You value yourself without bringing others down. You stay true to your word and your principles. You've never been disrespectful to any body. You've built yourself up so brilliantly. You are smart and observant. You always know what to do, what to say, when to talk and when to remain silent. You are perfectly balanced and mature. Your life and accomplishments are the solid proof of your authenticity and worthiness. You are popular, admired among your peers. I always hear such good things about you. How could I not love every part of you? How could I disregard such a gorgeous being? That would be foolish of me. To me, our love is as obvious as the sun rising each moring and the moon shining in the night sky.

Note from reader : if this person hasn't asked you out already, I think they're going to do so soon. And let me tell you, they're no joke. They want to wife you up ASAP. My appologies to gentlemen and non binary people, as the channeled message mainly mentioned women. I feel like even though the message was written this way, the general content still applies to you. If you or this person is a Taurus or an Aries, this is your sign that you picked the right group. Gemini and Scorpio could also be relevant. What this person loves the most about you is your body. I'm hearing Ed Sheeran's song in my head. This person feels a strong magnetic pull towards you that they just cannot resist no matter how hard they try. They've expressed the fact that your personality and ethic is what got them going, but I think what drew them in first were your looks. I'm especially picking up on your curves overall and your sense of fasion. You looked very balanced to this person. And very mature. From first glance they thought "this person knows what they're doing". It's like they thought you purposefully matched certain clothes together because you knew how good it made you look. And looking at you they thought that you would make a good team. After all, this person is represented as the Emperor and you are the Empress. So they may be into fashion as well. Maybe they're the kind to wear couple outfits. And when they met you they immediately pictured you together because your style matched theirs.

[le-fruit-de-la-passion]

Say my Name, As if it’s Drowning in the Tide - Jayce x Reader (Chapter 1)

Summary: But Jayce is weak. So unbelievably weak. And the voice of temptation in the back of his mind insists you will never want him the same way he does you. It’s cowardly, and it’s spineless, and it goes against everything he’s ever been taught to value. Yet none of it seems to matter when he looks at you, bare in front of him, hair wet and sticking to your skin in heavy curls like a siren in the stormy sea. He’d sell his soul if it meant having you, and in more ways than one, he is.

Pairing: Jayce x Reader Modern AU, one-sided Viktor x Reader

Word Count: 6K

Warning: Explicit

Tags: Hate Sex, Emotional Roleplay, One-sided Attraction, Grinding, Dry-Humping, Premature Ejaculation, Coming Untouched, Switch!Jayce, Rough Kissing, Biting, Shower Sex, Angst, One Bed

Notes: I love my pathetic son Jayce, so I needed to make him just a bit wetter and sadder for… reasons. This is a two-parter, because it was looking too heavy as a one-shot and the second part still needs a bit more attention. I need to stop having too many multi-chapter projects at the same time before I go insane. Anyway, enjoy ❤️!!

(Chapter 2/End)

You tap your fingers on the wooden countertop, trying to remain calm despite the growing pressure inside your skull.

“And you're sure there's not a single other room left ?” you ask with a tense smile, your teeth grinding against each other almost audibly.

The receptionist gives you yet another blank stare. She's hardly older than seventeen, probably helping out her parent's business, and clearly not paid enough to care about whether or not you stay or go.

“No, ma'am, there are no other rooms available for the duration of your stay,” she repeats robotically. It's as if you've been stuck in the same dialogue tree for half an hour with a badly programmed NPC. “We're a family-owned business, and we only have ten rooms available at once. Your reservation was for a single bedroom, not two.”

The exaggerated sound of her slowly chewing gum is driving you insane. “She's just doing her job’, you have to remind yourself. It's not her fault, you know that; plus, if there's anybody to blame, it's Jayce.

You turn towards the culprit in question, large shoulders slightly slumped and eyes escaping your glare. Pathetic.

“Seriously, Jayce?” you state in disbelief. “I asked you to do one thing for the trip.”

Jayce visibly takes offence to that, raising one stupidly large hand in objection:

“That's not fair, I was also taking care of bringing the prototype!”

“And I signed us up to the conference,” you hiss back. “I prepared our lecture. I got our bus tickets here and back. I made our itinerary for the whole three days. I even wrote down where we could go to bring back souvenirs for Sky and Viktor!”

You point an accusing finger at him, tapping it against his chest:

“The only thing I wanted you to take care of was the fucking motel. And you couldn't even do that right!”

He throws up both hands in exasperation, rolling his eyes. If there wasn't a minor in the same room, you'd have no qualms about punching him.

“Fine, alright, I messed up, what do you want me to say? ‘I'm sorry I'm such an idiot'?”

You exhale in frustration, throwing him one last resentful look before turning back to the receptionist: “Yeah, that would be a good start”, you scoff under your breath.

He makes a dramatic groan of annoyance behind you, like this entire situation isn't his fault.

The Academy barely gives you enough budget to attend two national mechanical engineering conferences a year. You had originally planned to go to this one with Viktor, specifically because of its location: nice and remote, the air fresh and relaxing, the few roads leading to the major cities surrounded by millennial trees and mountain peaks. The perfect place for a spark of romance to ignite between the two of you.

Unfortunately, Viktor had already scheduled a weekend seminar on the exact same date as the conference. Sky, your fourth and youngest lab partner, wasn't equipped enough to help you present all the complex features of the university's mechanical arm project. Only one other person could.

Jayce fucking Talis, and his magical ability to never do anything right.

“We'll just get our money back and find another place to crash,” he argues, walking up next to you to the counter, resting his weight against it; it creaks disapprovingly. “It doesn't have to be a whole thing.”

“I'm sorry sir,” the teen flatly interjects, still smacking the gum between her brace-clad teeth. Squish, squish. “But we require cancellations to be made 24 hours prior to the reservation. We cannot reimburse you as per the politics you have agreed to on our website.”

You'd probably get more interactive answers from a chatbot. Jayce kneads the lines on his forehead, his practiced megawatt smile starting to crack from fatigue. The girl stares at him with neither sympathy nor sadness; she brings her lips together to form a small pink bubble, letting it burst after a few seconds. Pop.

“Okay, you know what,” Jayce sighs in defeat, “I'll pay for our rooms somewhere else. It's on me. As an apology.”

This would be an excellent time to not subtly sneak in a remark on how he's always using his parent's money to get himself out of the messes he's created, but the teen speaks up again before you get a chance to:

“Sir,” she adds with her irritatingly nasal voice. “You should know the only other motel in the area only accepts new reservations until 9 pm.”

She nods pointedly towards an old grandfather clock on the wall, and the two of you look at it in sync: it's 9:06.

Now you're genuinely hesitating between strangling her or Jayce.

“You really know how to make a guy feel better, huh?” Jayce attempts with a weak laugh, the plastic smile crumbling a little further.

She only gives him a vacant gaze.

Your legs are aching from the long ride in the overcrowded bus, and the arduous walk to the motel with half the disassembled prototype on your back. You've been dreaming of laying down on a bed for the last three hours, and even if another inn was open nearby, you doubt you'd have the will to carry everything there.

“I don't care anymore,” you sigh, massaging the side of your temple to relieve some of the built-up tension. “I'm exhausted, and we need to rest if we want to be any good tomorrow morning. We'll just figure it out upstairs.”

Jayce makes a non-committal sound of agreement; if you had more energy, you'd angrily ask him if he has any better ideas he'd like to share. But you don't, so you just focus back on the unexcited receptionist. Ironically enough, the letters on her cropped shirt spell ‘GOOD VIBES ONLY’.

“We'll take the room,” you conclude, worn out.

The teen barely blinks as she inputs something into her old computer, the vintage monitor buzzing unpleasantly before she hands you two scratched keycards mechanically.

“Room 207. We hope you’ll enjoy your stay at Grizzly Country Motel,” she deadpans.

You mumble a thank you, but she either doesn't hear or chooses to ignore it in favour of going back to her cell phone, like your entire interaction had been nothing more than chasing away a couple of flies.

Jayce at least has the decency to grab both your luggage and his before you both head towards the stairs; if he’s got all those muscles, he might as well put them to use. You feel a pang of annoyance at how easily he carries the bags that you struggled to hold the entire day.

“Don't you think it's weird when they say ‘we’?” he mumbles pensively as you go up the stairway. “It's like everyone who works at a hotel is in a hivemind.”

You can't even find the will to look back and glare at him.

“No, Talis, I was actually thinking about how I'd fix all the problems you've created,” you reply drily.

You reach the second floor, knees buckling. Room 201, 202, 203…

“You'll just take half the bed and I'll take the other half,” Jayce pipes up from behind you, grunting as he pulls the last bag up. “We'll put a pillow in the middle. It'll be like nothing even happened.”

Oh, to be in the mind of Jayce Talis, where the universe is so fucking simple and accountability is a myth.

You hate how he always has an answer for everything, like it’s all so easy for him. You've fought hard to reach this point — to earn your place in the Academy, to be seen as a true scientist, breaking through barriers in a field where women remain the minority. It’s taken blood, sweat, and tears, years of effort that people like Viktor and Sky understand and respect.

Room 204, 205, 206…

But for Jayce Talis, it’s all sunshine, rainbows, and candy-colored skies. His family owns one of the largest metallurgy companies in the country, and has stocks invested in some of the biggest steel producers on the globe. He’s never had to work a single day in his life to put himself through school, never had to sacrifice anything for his dreams. You don’t think there’s a single thing he’s ever actually had to put effort in: he barely studies and still aces all his classes, hardly puts any care into his appearance, yet always looks like he’s out of the cover of the Times’ 50 Most Desirable Men. It’s infuriating to an unspeakable degree.

Room 207.

You tap one of the keycards on the handle, letting out a small sigh of relief when the mechanism beeps joyfully. Today hasn't been ideal, but at least, you're only a few feet away from a soft, comfortable bed.

You open the door, walking in with little decorum. It's small and bare, as you expected: a single window dulled by years of exposure, a box TV taken straight from the nineties, a dingy light fixture barely illuminating a greyed-out wallpaper of a forest scene, and…

“Talis,” you pause. He almost bumps into your back, fumbling with the bags in his arms.

“What?” he asks in confusion, peering over your shoulder. “Oh,” he simply says when he sees the issue.

“Talis,” you repeat slowly, trying to maintain your tone even, despite how badly you want to scream. “This is a single bed.”

Indeed, not only is there only one bed, it's evidently sized for a single person. It's ridiculously tiny. It doesn't take a genius to see that with someone of Jayce's stature, you'd have to practically sleep on top of him if you wanted to share the bed.

“Wait, I swear I asked for doubles for both of us-” he protests immediately.

“It's fine,” you cut him off, despite it being the exact opposite. The headache is getting worse, and you don't feel like arguing with him any more than you already have. “I'll take the bed tonight, and you take the floor, and we alternate tomorrow.”

Jayce puts all the bags down on the carpeted floor, visibly dejected.

“Again, I'm really sorry about this,” he mumbles, and even though you can tell it's genuine, it doesn't make you feel any better. Every ambigious prejudice you might have had against him has just confirmed itself: he’s a spoiled mama’s boy, who isn’t able to navigate the real world alone, and who’ll simply cry when he messes up things for everyone else.

“Whatever,” you grumble, sitting tiredly on the edge of the puny bed that groans painfully under your weight; it doesn't even have the decency to be comfortable. “Just means I'll have to take care of everything if we ever do symposium together again.”

He looks like a scolded puppy, unmoving, eyes avoidant, his large frame blocking the doorway. Jayce is extremely talented at making people pity him, with his huge citrine eyes and perfectly rosy cheeks. It almost makes you hesitate before adding the next words, but bitterness takes the upper hand: “This is the kind of mistake Viktor never makes.”

He doesn't reply.

You can tell that hurt him just as much as you intended with the way his body slightly curves inwards, his fits visibly clenching inside his pockets. Well, good. He's old and smart enough to know actions have consequences. He's supposed to be your partner, not a child you're babysitting.

“I'm…gonna go take a shower,” he hesitantly adds after a few tense seconds. “I'm still sweaty from the bus ride. Is that… okay with you?”

You shrug with disinterest; you know you’re just being petty now, but thinking of everything that could have been, had it been Viktor on this trip and not him, is leaving a sour taste in your mouth.

“Fine by me. I'll take mine right after.”

He waits a moment, like he's expecting you to add something else; maybe extend the olive branch. When you don't provide, he sighs, making his way to the bathroom door and closing it behind him.

You let your body fall back on the mattress with a heavy ‘oomph’. It's not as uncomfortable as it first seemed; it's firm, but the covers are soft, and the single pillow feels nicely fluffed. A couple might actually be pretty cozy in this bed, one body on top of the other, their libs entangled lovingly. It could have been you and Viktor.

Viktor.

Viktor, and his honey-coloured eyes. Viktor, and his teasing smile that makes your heart skip a beat. Viktor, and the way his long fingers twirl in his chestnut hair when he's focused, the way he absentmindedly licks his bottom lip when he's lost in thought. Viktor, and-

“Hey, um,” Jayce's booming voice from the other room interrupts your reverie. “C'mere for a sec?”

You groan loudly, squeezing your eyes shut. Maybe if you pretend he isn't there, he'll disappear all on his own.

“No, seriously,” he insists.

No luck. You get up lethargically, cursing the man under your breath.

“Left side with the red is hot, right side with the blue is cold, Talis,” you ironize. You open the door to the bathroom to see him standing in front of the shower door, thankfully still fully clothed. “Do you need help opening the shampoo bottle, too?”

He glares back at you in annoyance:

“Fuck off. Look.”

He nods towards a paper sign you hadn't noticed tapped on the glass panel, amateurishly plastified with a clear file folder.

[PLEASE DO NOT USE THE SHOWER MORE THAN ONCE A DAY. 10 MINUTES OF HOT WATER PER ROOM]

Well, you were wrong. Jayce Talis isn't just a forgetful idiot with bad luck.

He's a fucking curse.

“The room and the bed, I could forgive,” you start, fuming. But the shower?!”

“How was I supposed to know?!” he yells back melodramatically. “You told me to find something cheap to not go over budget!”

You shove him in frustration, only getting more annoyed when it doesn't make his stupidly huge body move a single inch:

“I didn't mean you should book a fucking dumpster!”

A loud, pointed knock echoing from beyond the bathroom wall silences you both.

Delightful. The neighbours can hear everything.

You move a step away from Jayce, the width of the bathroom not allowing much in terms of distancing.

“Sorry,” you mumble under your breath. You aren’t, but it's that or getting kicked out of the only open motel in miles for a noise complaint. “Yelling isn't gonna lead us anywhere. You can take five minutes, and I'll take the other five. It's gonna be short, but that's probably the best we can do.”

He at least has the decency to look appreciative, sheepishly scratching the back of his neck.

“I can give you the whole ten minutes, to apologize. This is my fault,” he admits. It’s always like this with him, as if his never-ending self-pity cleanses him of any possible wrongdoing. You despise that.

“And have you stink up the whole place smelling like a football locker room? No way,” you scrunch up your nose. Just by sharing a workspace with him, you know Jayce has the hygiene skills of a teenage boy who thinks Axe body spray and cologne make sweat magically vanish; the sheer power of the unholy combination would keep you awake all night.

“Or…” Jayce trails on for a few uncharacteristically long seconds. He's usually more the type to say things before reflecting on them, but he's pinching his lips tightly, clearly hesitant about what he's going to add next. “…We could share the shower?”

You look at him with an expression frozen between incomprehension and disgust: “What?”

“I mean, it's big enough for two people to stand without touching,” he quickly justifies, raising his hands innocently. “I could take the flexible hose, and you'd just go under the showerhead. That way we'd both get ten minutes!”

He's using the overly excited voice he takes on whenever he's giving someone his sales pitch for a new, stupid idea he's had. It might work wonders on most, but you know better than to fall for it.

“So you're that desperate to see me naked?” you sneer.

“I'm trying to be helpful here!” he complains.

If you're being honest, it's not that bad of an idea. The shower is small in width, but it's quite long, making it a very viable option for two people to use at once. If you manoeuver everything right, it'll almost be like you're taking a long, nice ten-minute shower on your own.

“Fine,” you capitulate, making sure to enunciate the word painfully slowly so he knows you're not doing it out of the kindness of your heart. “But if you tell anyone this happened, especially Viktor, I'm cutting off your balls and using them to-”

“Yeah, got it, wouldn't want Viktor to think you like me,” he taunts mockingly, puckering his lips in a false kiss at the other man's name.

It's the first time you've agreed to an idea from Jayce, and you're already regretting it.

“Just shut up and get in the fucking shower,” you spit out, going back to the main room without sparing him another look. “Face the wall and call me when you're done. There’s no reason for this to be weird.”

—

He’s hard.

Very obviously and undeniably hard.

Jayce has been splashing his face with cold water for the last few minutes, to no avail. He's tried every technique he can possibly think of: running in place, breathing exercises, imagining his abuelita naked, nothing is working.

The only thing he can visualize is your body, completely bare in that shower, only a few inches away from his. The water pouring down from your hair to your shoulders, to your breasts, and then alongside the curves of your thighs, and your ass-

“Shut up,” he mumbles to himself in the empty bathroom.

It's not a secret to anyone that Jayce likes you. Neither is it a secret that you're utterly uninterested and only have eyes for Viktor, except perhaps for Viktor himself. It's kind of unfair how two-thirds of Viktor's lab partners are in love with him. He'd be lying if he said he didn't get it, and that his eyes never lingered on that little mole above Viktor's lip for longer than they should have. But damn it, he wants you. He wants you to want him. Is that such an unfair thing to ask for?

You've got so much fight, so much fire in you, and he gets dizzy off the smouldering look in your eyes whenever you disagree with him. And disagree, you do: he wants to use lithium batteries, you want to use sodium. He wants to focus on reducing energy intake for the prototype, you want to focus on adding new components to it. He offers to order pizza for the group after a long day of work, you'll hear of nothing but sushi.

It drives him insane, but less in a way that makes him despise you, and more in one that makes him angrily rub his cock raw every night at the thought of that angry pout on your lips.

“-ayce! You alive in there?” comes your voice from the other room. He groans in frustration. This is a spectacular disaster in the making, and he's sitting front and center for it.

He's made his own bed and now he has to lie in it.

“You can come in!” he yells back with a noticeable crack in his voice. Not a great start.

His heart skips a beat when he hears the door creak open and close. The rustling of clothes being taken off one by one, the sound of pants dropping on the tile floor, and the unmistakable click of a bra being unhooked.

The door to the shower slides, and he feels you enter the confined space. It's ridiculous how close you are to him; he can smell the sweat off your skin, the faded scent of your perfume. His cock gives a small twitch and he glares down at it in betrayal. ‘Not now!’

You don't say a word as you turn on the faucet, the old plumbing in the walls hissing slightly before water starts to pour down on the both of you. He's not usually one for the cold, but it's refreshing, washing away the feeling of stickiness on his skin. He hums under his breath in delight; maybe it'll actually just be an awkward but relaxing shower, in the end.

The temperature rises slowly but surely, from cool to tepid, tepid to lukewarm, and then… it stops. He waits a few more seconds, throwing a discreet glance behind him to find you haven't fully turned the faucet on the hot side.

“Could you… put it warmer?” he asks, clearing his throat.

“It's plenty warm enough as is,” you reply flatly.

Now you're lying just to go against him; it's barely any warmer than if he was bathing outside in the lake.

“Why would you even fight for the hot water if you're not gonna use it?” he mumbles.

You moan dramatically in complaint: “Fine, princess, I'll bump it up.”

He sees your hand reach for the faucet, grab it… and bring it less than a centimetre closer to the warm side.

“Seriously?” he asks in disbelief.

“Yeah, seriously, now start washing your greasy hair before there's no hot water left at all,” you scold him, like he's nothing more than a snivelling toddler, and not a man twice your size.

Alright, enough is enough.

“What are you-” you protest at his sudden movement, his bicep pressing up against your shoulder.

“I'm turning the hot water on so I don't die in here,” he snaps back, trying to get a feel for the faucet while still looking away from you for the sake of modesty.

“Absolutely not, stay on your side!” you admonish him angrily. You attempt to push him back, pointedly refusing to look in his direction as you blindly slap his arm away. “Wait, Jayce-”

It happens too fast for either of you to figure out what's happening. One minute you're back to back, a respectable distance from one another, and the next you've both slipped, his arms boxing you into the narrow side of the shower with your legs bumping together.

Your eyes are locked into his for a few long, painful seconds. Neither of you are moving. You're trapped in a precarious game of jenga, where you can't even see which parts can safely be removed without you collapsing on each other.

“Whatever you do,” you exhale slowly. “Don't look down.”

You visibly regret your words as soon as you say them; you must have forgotten it’s Jayce you’re talking to.

He immediately looks down.

You put an arm up over your chest with an indignant yelp, and he quickly defends himself:

“Why would you tell me to not look down? That's like saying ‘Don't think of an elephant’!”

You're staying silent, your lips into a tight line, but he's certain you're thinking of an elephant right now. He smiles boastfully and you shoot him a deadly glare, before looking away to the side. It's the first time he's ever seen that awkward little blush on your cheeks without the conversation being about Viktor. That's a win in his book.

“It's fine,” you repeat once more like a broken record, and it’s definitely more meant to reassure yourself than to keep up a pleasant conversation with him. “I'll just… squish back against the wall while you close your eyes, and I'll direct you back to the other side. No problem.”

You sound less convinced than he's ever heard you before. He must have succeeded in turning the faucet to the side during the whole debacle, because the water has grown noticeably warmer, clouds of steam starting to form in the air. The atmosphere inside the shower is shifting ever so slightly.

He doesn't want to move.

He doesn't want to close his eyes.

The colour of your cheeks has grown darker from the heat, your lips slightly parted around every audible respiration.

“Would you wanna stay like this… if it was with Viktor?” he asks breathlessly.

You look back at him with genuine confusion, and he's honestly just as surprised as you are.

“What?”

“I…” It's getting harder to think. All his blood is rushing south, leaving him dangerously light-headed. What is he saying? “I… asked if you'd stay like this if it wasn't me in the shower. If it was Viktor.”

Your frown deepens. Your eyebrows always do this cute little thing where one furrows just slightly more than the other, but he's never gotten to observe it from this close. He lets his thoughts travel into dangerous territory. Do you wear that same expression when you're on your knees, sucking some other guy off? Would you look like that for Viktor?

“I don't see how that's relevant,” you retort harshly, but your gaze is elusive. You can't hide from him, not when his face is merely inches away from yours.

“Humor me,” he requests again.

“Fine, yeah, I would! Are you happy now?” you snap, eyes locking back into his with fiery resentment.

You're embarrassed.

He's never seen you rattled like this before. The energy in the shower is electric, now, coursing through his veins like a drug. ‘There will never be another moment like this’, the voice in the back of his head provides, syrupy sweet. It’s without a doubt the worst idea he’s ever had in his life, but he can’t stop the words from pouring out of his mouth.

“I could show you what he's into,” he almost whispers, the deafening sound of water hitting the ceramic flooring almost too loud for him to hear himself.

He knows that you've heard him with the way your eyes widen, your breath hitching in your throat.

“I mean, guys, we talk,” he explains, the words now coming out of him like the rambles of a madman. He’s in too deep to back out: it’s sink or swim. “About the stuff we like, the stuff we dream about. I could tell you what he's told me, and you can practice. On me.”

An eternity passes before you speak again, mouth just barely agape. But you're not yelling at him. You're not slapping him in the face. In fact, you're not even frowning; the expression you’re wearing is oddly vulnerable and open, like you're seeing him in a different light than you ever have before.

“You're fucking gross, Talis,” you breathe out slowly. “You really think I'm that easy?”

This*,* whatever this is, is so fragile he’s scared of shattering it by being too loud. Like he’s talking to a wild animal.

“I don't,” he promises in a low voice. “But I think you're smart, and dedicated, and you wouldn't let an opportunity to know something so personal about Viktor pass you by.”

The steam has fully blurred the glass panels around the both of you, and it feels like you're inside one of those snow globes Jayce's mother used to bring back for him from her travels when he was a kid. It's weirdly ethereal, warm and cold, frozen out of any known space and time. He’s never heard you stay silent this long, and the anticipation makes his throat burn.

“Fine,” you finally say. “But if you tell anyone-”

“Yeah I know, you'll cut my balls off,” he lets out with a small laugh, slightly delirious. He's half convinced he's dreaming. “Are we good?”

You nod without a word, shifting your head to the side slightly to avoid his gaze. He hesitantly brings a hand to your chin, holding it like you're made of glass. You don't recoil at his touch, so he gently presses it upwards, making you look at him again.

“Viktor likes it when people kiss him softly,” he smiles shyly, his heart beating as loudly in his chest as it did for his very first kiss. It’s like he’s watching a movie, like none of it is truly real. He closes the gap between the two of you slowly, waiting for you to pull away; but you don't. Your lips meet his, and it's everything he could have ever wanted.

You taste of rainwater and cherry chapstick. You’re soft in the way described by jazzy love songs, smooth and electric, a puzzle piece that just feels so unbelievably right. He wants to wrap his arms around you, hold you so tight this never has to come to an end, leave marks on your skin no shower could ever get rid of.

But he doesn't. He can't.

This is a fantasy that’s only animated by mutual gain. It’s not the climax of a romance film where the hero finally gets to kiss the heroine under the rain.

But God, does he want to pretend it is.

You pull away first, and he doesn't miss it: the millisecond where your eyes open and you look at him like he's the one you want to be kissing. The almost imperceptible moment where you're still imagining you're kissing Viktor and not him, where your irises shine brightly with so much happiness and love.

But it's already gone, like it never even happened, and you quickly wipe your lips with the back of your hand. You’re not in a beautiful London street amid a gentle downpour with your soulmate: you’re in a cramped shower in a motel, with a guy you don’t even vaguely care for.

“You should shave your stubble. It's annoying,” you mumble.

‘Viktor doesn't have one’, the sentence heavily implies. It stings, but he's not about to back off just from that either. Not when he's been given a chance like this.

“Viktor also likes it when kissing is a bit of a fight,” he adds, sounding much too eager and desperate for his own liking. “Biting, tugging hair, that kind of stuff.”

It's not a lie, per se; he's only ever seen Viktor kiss someone once, when they were undergrads. It was an end-of-semester party, and Viktor had had way too many vodka red bulls for a man of his stature and health. Jayce had found him on a couch, limbs entangled with a stranger who seemed equally as drunk, and absolutely devouring their face off.

Viktor had asked him to never let him near caffeinated cocktails again the next morning.

You look slightly skeptical, analyzing him for any signs of deception; it looks as though you find none, because you're the one who initiates this time, and there you are, the fiery woman he's fallen head over heels for.

You're going to war on him, sinking your teeth into his bottom lip, savagely shoving your tongue in his mouth, one hand entangled in the hair at the back of his head while the other ferociously holds his throat in place, nails digging into his heartbeat. He responds eagerly, letting you mistreat him, encouraging you with muffled groans.

It hurts, and he wants it to never end. He can taste blood in his mouth, the metallic tinge making him dizzy, and he's so hard he could cum if you just touched his dick with a finger. He whines pathetically when you break the kiss for air, disoriented, a strand of saliva connecting you both still.

“A-aouch,” he can only manage to say jokingly.

You lean back against the tile wall, slightly breathless; you wipe away drops of red on your lip, smudging them down towards your chin, the look of a feral animal in your pupils. He feels his already rock-hard cock twitch. Hot.

“This is about what Viktor likes, not what you like. Toughen up, Talis,” you spit back.

Before he has time to formulate a reply, you're back on him, and now he's incapable of stopping himself from humping your thigh like an animal. You don't refuse him or push him away, even mercifully angelling your hip to the side to give him easier access. There's nothing but you, all over him, inside of him, tearing him apart and putting him back together. It's absolutely pathetic, and he knows it, but he can feel his release arriving in the pit of his stomach. He's wanted this for so long, there's just no way to delay it anymore.

It only takes a few more seconds before his orgasm hits him hard, the wave of pleasure making his whole body still as a plank, while you're still sucking harshly the vein on the side of his neck. He cries out once, broken and wanton, barely recognizing the sound of his own voice.

He comes down from the high in time to see the last of his cum painting your hip white before it gets washed away with the water. You detach yourself from him unceremoniously, putting some distance between your bodies with a frown.

“Did you just…?”

There's no room for pretending here. He's just had one of the most mind-blowing orgasms of his life from nothing but a fucking kiss from you. It's like he's a teenager all over again, face redder than a tomato and eyes escaping yours guiltily.

“You came. You came by just making out with me,” you repeat, visibly caught halfway between incredulity and mockery.

“I just haven't gotten laid in a while, that's it!” he justifies vehemently. He needs to change the topic quickly, or you’ll never let him live this down. “I'm always busy at the lab doing the paperwork you always skip out on!”

That thankfully seems to take your attention away from his premature accident; he's never been so grateful for your short temper.

“Seriously? You’re going to bring that up right now?” you bark, shoving him in the chest angrily.

He can still turn this around. He might not have much control over his first release, today ridiculously so, but he's been blessed with excellent stamina and a very short recovery period. Jayce is good at selling himself with speeches, and even though you're usually immune to anything that comes out of his mouth, he's willing to cheat this once and use the one chink in your armour he knows about.

“Do you want to know what Viktor likes or not? Because I haven't told you anything about what he wants in bed,” he tempts you in a tone of indifference.

Your silence speaks volumes; he's got you again. Yes, it's incredibly manipulative, and when this is over he's going to spend hours turning over in his bed and despising himself. He’s always believed in doing things the fair way, the right way, and that one day he’d manage to lower your defences and etch a place into your heart all of his own merits.

But Jayce is weak. So unbelievably weak. And the voice of temptation in the back of his mind insists you will never want him the same way he does you. It’s cowardly, and it’s spineless, and it goes against everything he’s ever been taught to value. Yet none of it seems to matter when he looks at you, bare in front of him, hair wet and sticking to your skin in heavy curls like a siren in the stormy sea. He’d sell his soul if it meant having you, and in more ways than one, he is.

What kind of man does that make him?

That’s a thought he’ll just have to keep for later.

Taglist Darlings: @soniiyi , @mischievous-piltovan, @urfavlarry , @luv-urself-first, @girlidkthinkofsmth , @starflesh-moth

[alloftheimaginesblog]

first love {e.m}

plot: you were eddie's first love and you never forget your first love.

character: eddie munson x reader

Everyone knew about you. A day never passed without Eddie mentioning you and your name whether it be a passing "(y/n) loved that" or a more in depth conversation about you or a memory but Eddie always spoke about you. You and Eddie were high school sweethearts. You'd been friends for years and everyone thought that you'd eventually end up together and they were right.

Eddie was your first. First boyfriend, first kiss, first love. You were the same for him and everybody knew it.

The way Eddie spoke about you made everyone smile. He spoke so highly of you, always complimenting you and telling the craziest stories. The two of you were the perfect couple; the 'it' couple as they say. The pair of you together were free, no cares in the world and just happy. God, the two of you were just so damn happy.

"Well, where is she?" Dustin asked with that toothy grin after Eddie had finished telling him a story about the time you and him broke into the school and ended up catching two teachers making out, "You're always talking about her but where is she?"

Eddie's face fell and it was in that moment that Dustin knew he'd fucked up.

Around the room, everyone who knew the truth's eyes widened and stared at Dustin then Eddie then Dustin. Eddie's eyes glazed over face unreadable as Dustin frowned and looked around the room, "What?" He asked, "Did I say something I shouldn't have? I was only asking where (y/n) is, you all look like you've seen a ghost- Oh."

With a horror filled expression, Dustin turned to Eddie and his suspicion was confirmed, "Oh fuck," Dustin whispered, "Eddie, I'm so- fuck, man, I didn't know- I'm so sorry-"

Eddie shook his head, swallowing hard and forcing a quick smile, "It's fine." He stood and cleared his throat, "I just need to get some air."

The room was dead silent until Eddie left and then Steve whacked Dustin on the arm, "Dude!"

"Why did none of you freaking tell me his girlfriend is dead?!" Dustin hissed to Nancy and Steve, "You- You made me look like an idiot! Fuck!"

Outside, Eddie was on the hood of his car, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket along with a lighter to light it up. He looked up to the darkening sky as he took a puff and closed his eyes. He liked to imagine you up there with all the legends, partying and singing away, just waiting until it was his turn to come and then you'd party for all eternity with each other. It had been almost two years since he lost you and there wasn't a moment where he didn't think about you. Every single decision Eddie made, every thought he had... it was all connected to you. Eddie had bought his new van based on what he thought you'd say about it. Eddie wore the outfits you bought him or at least modelled himself in similar items of clothing to ones he knew that you liked. You were gone but you truly lived on in Eddie Munson's day to day life.

It was a few minutes later when Eddie was pressing the cigarette into the grass under his boot that Dustin came out, "Hey, kid," Eddie said, glancing over his shoulder at him, "Come, sit."

Dustin awkwardly sat beside Eddie on the hood of the car, he was shit scared and Eddie could tell, "Dude, I'm so-"

"S'alright," Eddie said with a half smile.

"No, Eddie, seriously, I didn't-"

"Dustin," Eddie's voice was louder but he wasn't angry, he was calm. This was probably the calmest Eddie had ever been now that Dustin was thinking about it, "It's alright."

Dustin nodded and released a long breath allowing his shoulders to sag. He was silent for a few seconds before he said it anyway, "I didn't know... I'm really sorry."

The older boy dug around in his pocket before he pulled out two things; a photo and his lighter. He handed them both to Dustin, "There's my girl." The smile on Eddie's face when he looked at your picture said it all, "That's (y/n) and that lighter was (y/n)'s. She carved our initials into it, see?" Dustin flipped the lighter and sure enough, yours and Eddie's initials were carved onto the black metal, "I carry those everywhere I go... so that she's always with me."

"Can- Can I ask what happened?" Dustin handed the picture and lighter back to Eddie.

Eddie shrugged, "I lost her, that's the long and short of it all. Got hit by a drunk driver one night when we were stopped at a red light. She was gone instantly. I..." Eddie sucked in breath and released it, "Sometimes I wish I'd gone that night too." Dustin didn't speak, he just let Eddie talk, "She hadn't wanted to go out, she wanted to stay in but I wanted more beer. Had I not wanted it-"

"It's not your fault, Eddie."

Eddie nodded, staring down at his photo of you, "Would you believe me if I said it makes it easier if I blame me? No use blaming the other driver, he died that night in hospital. He's dead, can't blame a dead man but I can blame me... and if I blame me, it means that I can be better; I can better myself for her, for (y/n)."

"What was she like?" Eddie spoke about you that much that Dustin already had a pretty good idea of what you were like but he wanted to hear it from Eddie in this heartbreakingly raw moment.

Eddie's face stretched into a wide smile, "Henderson, you would've loved her. She was fiery, didn't take anyone's shit. She was funny, could make friends just like that. She loved D&D, she was the one that coined the name Hellfire Club. She was... She would've done great things. She would've loved you."

The pair smiled at one another before Eddie's eyes returned to the sky, "S'alright, Henderson. You didn't know, don't feel bad about it."

Dustin nodded, realising that was Eddie ending the conversation, "You coming back in?" He jumped from the hood of the car and looked expectantly at the older boy.

"In a minute," Eddie sighed, "just gonna chat to my girl for a minute."

"Say hi to her from me."

"Will do."

Dustin gave him a small smile before walking back inside. Eddie's eyes closed as he looked up, "I wish you could meet them all, pretty eyes, Henderson especially. I think he would've loved you almost as much as I do... Ah well, I better go back in. Don't want them thinking I've gone all soft, eh?" He opened his eyes and looked at your picture once more before pressing a gentle kiss to it, "I love you."

[golden-cherry]

deal - cl16 (21/?)

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.

Chapter Summary: The truth comes under purple skies.

Warnings: angst, but mostly tooth rotting fluff because you deserve it

Word Count: 3.4k

series masterlist

previous part

A/N: a little late happy birthday to me! sorry for the wait. I love you.

Although you keep your eyes closed, you know that it is still dark outside.

The air in the room is cool against your face, while your tired body is kept comfortably warm under the heavy comforter. It is just as warm against the free, uncovered parts of your body as Charles' soft skin.

His arm is wrapped around your middle, his fingers are tightly intertwined with yours and his thumb strokes gentle circles over your hand. A tender, loving gesture that you're not sure whether it's meant to calm your nerves or his own. 

You haven't changed your positions in bed since you fell asleep pressed tightly together a few hours ago. Charles's chest is still pressed against your back and if you were to focus on it, you could certainly feel his heart beating hard and steady. But you don't. Your thoughts revolve around breathing as normally as possible so that it still looks like you're asleep. 

You don't want to be awake. 

Being awake would involve thinking, and you definitely don't want to think about the last few days. You don't want to think about how Charles told you that you would jump into bed with Lando at the next opportunity. You don't want to think about Raphael coming to your front door last night and calling you a whore. And you don't want to be reminded that Charles jumped to your side and defended you without so much as batting an eye.

All you want right now is to lie here, in his strong arms, wrapped in his scent and warmth. Deep down, you know you can't be angry with him. Lando's words flit through your head again and again about how you both want to protect each other, and even though you've only known each other for a few days, you can tell Charles so well that it's exactly this part of him that makes him who he is.

But you still don't know why he treated you like that.

You breathe in deeply, take in his scent - a mixture of sandalwood, peppermint and a smell that you can only describe as Charles - and press your face into the soft pillow. Although you had been furious with him, you had missed his closeness over the last few days. 

The thumb that has been tenderly drawing figures on your hand pauses.

"I'm sorry." Charles' voice is little more than a whisper against your shoulder blade. As his warm breath brushes over you, your muscles tighten. "No apology in this world can make up for what I did to you. I betrayed your trust, hurt you, and left you thinking I didn't care about you." When you don't answer him, he continues. "I am so incredibly sorry. And I won't ask for your forgiveness or kindness, because I don't deserve it. I don't deserve you. And I'm sorry I couldn't be better for you."

Your heart beats so fast against your ribcage that you fear it will break your bones and jump out of your chest. His touch feels like your skin is burning. When you open your eyes, you see purple clouds in the morning sky through the window. 

Carefully, you turn in his arms, whereupon his embrace loosens a little, but his arm remains on your hip. His eyes are closed, as if he doesn't dare to look into your face. His eyebrows are furrowed and there are a few wrinkles between them that you would love to smooth out with your fingers.

You decide to run your fingers over his bare shoulders. His muscles twitch under your fingertips. "Why did you do it?" Charles remains silent, so you tentatively place your hand against his cheek. You feel his stubble scratch your skin as he exhales deeply, as if he hasn't taken a decent breath in a long time.

He opens his eyes and there is an anxious gleam in the otherwise beautiful green. His gaze searches yours as he nuzzles his face against your hand. "I was jealous."

Jealous?

A small glimmer of hope flares up inside you. Maybe everything you've experienced together - the viewpoint, your movie night, the bookstore, the tiramisu - is based on something other than friendship. On something more. Maybe there was more to every conversation, every look and every smile than just the friendship you nailed down to protect your heart. Maybe you were just talking past each other the whole time. Maybe –

"I was jealous of how well you got on with Lando. I thought that if you got to know each other better and became more than just friends, then we wouldn't be friends anymore. I thought -" He pauses for a moment. "I couldn't bear it if I lost you because of your relationship."

You try to suppress the punch in the pit of your stomach and swallow the frog in your throat. "You hurt me and pushed me away because you didn't want to get hurt yourself?" Your heart breaks a little for him. You finally smooth out the wrinkles between his eyebrows with your thumb. His arm wraps around you tighter and presses you together. His fingers stroke your back and goose bumps spread across your body. 

That's exactly what Lando said. That Charles pushes the people he cares about away to protect himself. Something you can well understand, after all, you were planning to do the same to him. Only not so drastically. 

But Lando also told you something else about the Monegasque. "But that's not all, is it?" An image flickers in your mind's eye of Raphael holding out his hand to introduce himself to Charles. "You didn't just want to protect yourself. Or am I wrong, Charles Leclerc?"

As you say his name, a shiver jerks through his body, as if he's suddenly cold, and his hand freezes against your spine. "You're not." His tone is cooler, more distant than it was a few moments ago, and the tension in the room is palpable despite the purple clouds and morning calm as you place your hand on his bare chest. His heart is beating fast and strong.

"I - I think we both rushed into this friendship far too quickly." You try to put as much warmth into your whisper as you can, even though deep down your heart has caught quite a tear. "We've known each other for five days. And so much has happened in that time that takes some friends years. Our trust in each other went from zero to one hundred." You run your finger over his collarbone, your gaze following him.

Panting, he sucks air into his lungs at your touch. "What do you suggest?"

You purse your lips. "Maybe - maybe we should get to know each other better first. Get to know each other properly so that this doesn't happen again. So that our living together is easier."

Charles tightens his grip around your middle, his legs tangle with yours. "Living together? Does that mean you're staying with me?"

You nod slightly, but grab your arm with your hand to pull away from him. Something flits across his face, but as quickly as it came, it's gone again as you place his hand between your faces on the pillows. "But maybe a little distance will do us good. So we don't mess this up."

His fingers interlace with yours. "I'll do everything I can to make this work."

"That makes two of us," you smile, missing his touch on your body. You miss the warmth pulsing through your veins under your skin. But it's the right thing to do. At least that's what you try to tell yourself. You take a deep breath. "I - I'm unemployed, by the way." You look down at your hands. "I was fired from this magazine before we met. I'm looking for a new job so that I can continue to live in Monaco, because my savings won't last forever. That's why I'm so grateful to you for standing up for me with Joris. About the rent. I can't thank you enough for that."

"But you don't have to," he replies quietly. "Friends help each other. They're there for each other. I can understand why you didn't tell me. Nobody likes to talk about the fact that they've recently lost their job." 

"Thank you," you whisper back. You feel a weight fall from your shoulders. You suddenly find it easier to breathe. But now it's something else that's plaguing your thoughts.

And no one but Charles can give you the answer. "Can you please explain to me what happened yesterday? With - with Raphael?"

The Monegasque briefly lets go of your hand so that he can play with your fingers. He doesn't look at you. "Do you remember the night we watched Cars together?"

You nod. How could you forget that night? The wine, the movie, the flirting that apparently wasn't flirting. Ouch. 

"We talked about Formula One and how you used to watch it with your grandfather when Michael Schuhmacher drove for Ferrari." His gaze is literally glued to your fingers. "When we first met, I told you that my work had something to do with cars, and I wasn't lying."

You raise an eyebrow in confusion. If he's a mechanic or engineer for one of the racing teams, that woiuld explain why he has to travel so much for work. "Is that where all the cool photos on your phone come from? Because you fly across the globe with Formula 1 to work on the cars?"

Your flatmate purses his lips. "I don't work on the cars. I - I drive them." He licks his lips once. "I'm a Formula One driver for Scuderia Ferrari."

"Don't fuck with me," you reply, wanting to pull your fingers out of his grasp. But he holds on to them and when he lifts his gaze and looks you in the eyes, you know he's telling the truth. And his confession makes you see the last few days from a different perspective. 

The conversation between Charles and Joris, shortly after he suddenly appeared in the apartment, pops up in your mind. "When we met, that night - you were on the phone with Joris. You said something about headlines."

He nods slightly. "A few weeks ago, the season ended and Annika and I broke up. I stayed away from here as long as I could because I didn't want to be confronted with it. And when I got to my apartment for emergencies, there you were. With a valid tenancy agreement. I couldn't just throw you out the door. You could have gone public and then it would have made the headlines. Something like "Charles Leclerc throws poor woman out of rented apartment". It was a risk I couldn't take." He furrows his eyebrows again, but this time you hold back.

"You have a nutritionist."

Again he nods. "For the races, I have to follow a strict diet to make the car go faster. Unfortunately, pasta and thick sandwiches aren't part of it, so please don't tell him." 

Fragments of the last few days appear one after the other in your mind's eye, which you try to sort out and work through. "The bistro you went to after the bookshop had already closed, hadn't it?"

"Yes. But when do you ever have a Formula One driver on your doorstep who needs two sandwiches?" He shrugs. "One photo and we've had our dinner."

You lick your tongue over your lips and you don't miss the way Charles' eyes twitch to your mouth. "We went everywhere in my car. Why?"

"You've seen my car." He's referring to the fancy Ferrari in the parking garage. "With its stripes, it's not exactly inconspicuous. Especially since everyone knows the car is mine." He runs his thumb over the side of your index finger. "As soon as the car rolls down the street, everyone knows it's me. And everyone takes photos of it. I couldn't risk you getting caught up in all this because of a stupid car. And especially not because you couldn't choose it until now. Your sweet tin can was the only way we could get around the city together without attracting attention."

You clench your jaw. "The meetings in Italy. What about it?"

"The headquarters are there, in Maranello. Before the winter break, the team wanted to get together again and discuss what went wrong this season and what we can improve."

"And you could just leave like that?" you ask him.

He shakes his head. "Not really. But in my opinion, there wasn't much to talk about either. The season was a throwaway." He shrugs his shoulders. "I was actually a little relieved when Lando called and asked me to go home."

So you were right. The Brit did call Charles. "And what did he say?" 

"Exactly what I needed to hear." He smiles slightly. "He threw a lot of swear words at me and made it clear that I'd be the stupidest idiot in the world if I screwed up this friendship."

You don't know what to do with this information. The fact that Lando called Charles and made a slug out of him doesn't bother you much, because the Monegasque needed the push. But there's also something about the fact that Charles didn't come up with the idea of straightening things out himself. That one of his friends had to step in for you first so that he would get off his butt and stand up for this friendship. That Lando -

"What about Lando? And Pierre? And Kika? Are they part of Formula One too?"

Charles purses his lips into a thin line. "Lando and Pierre are also drivers. Kika is a model."

Bile rises in your gullet as you release your hand from his and turn onto your back, closing your eyes. Everyone knew, they even work in the same field, and no one thought to let you in on it. The whole thing could have gone down the drain. People could have recognized you both, taken photos of you and spread the word. 

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I -" Charles exhales. "I was just scared."

"Scared? Of what?"

"My job - my name - brings a lot with it. A lot of good things, like seeing the world, getting to know cultures and not having to worry about things like money. But there are also negative things, like a lot of pressure, fake friends, no privacy." He also turns onto his back. "I don't want you to choose something you don't want because of my name. I thought - I thought if we stayed in our little bubble, our little world, that - I don't know. It was just nice to have someone as a friend who wanted to be friends with me because I'm Charles. And not because I'm Charles Leclerc."

You have to smile. "Actually, I'm only friends with you so that I can live with you and save on rent."

"Haha."

You clasp your hands behind your head. "I can understand, I think. That you have to be careful who you surround yourself with. And that there are a lot of people who only use you because you're you. It sounds very lonely."

Charles snorts softly. "It can definitely be lonely."

"Then let me assure you that I don't want to be friends with you because of your money or your name." 

"But?"

"Do you really need reasons?"

"It certainly wouldn't hurt my ego," you can practically hear his grin. 

"All right," you reply. "I want to be friends with you because you're kind and considerate of your friends' feelings. Because you trusted me with your favorite place, even though you didn't know me. Because you introduced me to your friends because you thought it was inevitable anyway if our friendship strengthened." You take a deep breath and exhale. "I want to be friends with you because you're funny and make me laugh. Because you have a big heart. Because -" 

A feeling bubbles up inside you. You've felt it before - the day after your movie night, when you were reviewing the evening. In the not entirely innocent dream you had about Charles. And when you shared the bed after the bookshop.

It's warm, like a warm blanket, strong like a good hug and bright like Charles' eyes when the sun shines on his face. Charles is not just your roommate. Or your friend. Charles is so much more. Charles is your home.

Before you can complete the sentence, the Monegasque interrupts you. "That's good. That's good enough for me, thank you." He smiles. "It's nice to have you as a friend. Even if I don't deserve it, the way I've treated you."

"Mm-hmm." 

"Maybe you should sleep on it one more night and then decide if you really want it. There's so much more that comes with a friendship with me." When you yawn, he has to laugh. "You see? Maybe you're not even able to think straight right now. And then I push you into a friendship that you don't even want."

"I'm sure," you reply tiredly and you notice how your eyes get heavier. 

"But -"

Before he can finish his sentence, you reach for his hand and interlace his fingers with yours. You try to ignore the fact that this makes your heart beat faster. "I'm sure of it. Believe me." 

When you gently squeeze his fingers twice, he replies with the same gesture. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Then it's a good thing you don't have to find out," you smile and as you yawn again, Charles pulls you closer to him. Like a magnet, you slide across the bed towards him, unable to resist as your face finds its place against the crook of his neck. 

He lets go of your hand, but only to wrap his arm around you. His hand rests on the bare skin of your hip, while his other hand pulls your leg over him so that you're half lying on top of him. You are enveloped by him, fully and completely, and as you place your hand on his bare chest, you feel his heartbeat under your fingertips. 

You try to convince yourself that it's not beating for you, but as you snuggle even closer to him and your lips touch the soft skin on his neck, you feel it skip a beat. But maybe you're just imagining it. 

"I'll be better from now on," he whispers and tentatively presses a kiss to your forehead. Goosebumps spread all over your body, but not because you're cold like he thinks, which is why his arm presses you even tighter against him. "I don't want there to be another moment when you doubt how important you are to me, mon amour."

"You can teach me a little French," you reply. "Then you can hide less from me if I speak your mother tongue too," you joke. 

Charles feels your smile on his neck and he is glad that you can't see the blush on his face. 

"Anything you want. I'll go to the other side of the world for you if I have to."

"But not until tomorrow, all right?" You gently caress his chest with your fingertips and Charles draws in a sharp breath. "Now it's time to sleep. And don't you dare steal my blanket in the night."

Charles would love to pull you on top of him, kiss you and promise you that you're safe with him and that he won't let anything happen to you. But he holds back, just lets his fingers dance over your skin. 

He promises in the purple morning light. "Deal."

next part

[teddybeartoji]

rin doesn't know what to do when you're crying. it hurts, his whole chest hurts and he just wants to make it stop. he kneels beside you as you sob into your pillow and he's just... he really doesn't know; nothing feels right – his words don't seem good enough, he knows they'll come out a bit too gruff and he isn't sure whether the hand he has on the small of your back is helping either.

he doesn't want to leave, that much he does know.

he watches the tears fall one right after the other, he listens to you weep and his fingers curl up in the material of your hoodie. he hates this, he hates it so much. he just wants to make it better, and so he decides to go for it.

leaning forward, he presses his lips against your cheek.

(salty, wet. he thinks about the ocean.)

he kisses the hurt away, he tastes it on the tip of his tongue but remains unfazed, unbothered by the bitterness of it. all he cares about is you.

he's so gentle and he's so warm and you don't know what to do with all of that. he stays there against you for a moment and you wonder whether he feels weird now, that maybe he regrets it, but then he does it again.

and again and again.

soft lips brush against your skin, and slowly but surely, you step back onto the shore. you feel the sand between your toes, you feel the breeze in your hair; the cold water still nips at your heels but he's there and with an outsteched hand, he welcomes you back.

you twist in your spot on the bed and snake your hands behind his neck and rin doesn't waste a second in pushing himself off the floor so he can climb on top of you. he doesn't pull away from you for even a moment, he refuses to do it – kiss after kiss, he tries to soak up everything you're letting out and he's doing so without a problem.

you hiccup and he presses his lips against the corner of your mouth.

it's almost suffocatingly sweet, it's a tender type of love.

his cologne fills your head, his affection your heart. he doesn't even know it, but he's everywhere. he's doing more than he realizes and you're just so grateful; to have this beautiful boy give you his all, even though he's unsure and maybe a bit afraid – it's a blessing, it's something special. it's a gentle little thing in the palms of your hands.

his eyes are closed but he senses it, his reward. his lifeline. your lips curl up, just a little, but they do, and when you move to cradle his face and guide him so you can finally look at him, he sees it in your eyes, too.

the relief, the growing glimmer of happiness.

"pretty."

the sound of your laughter sends a shiver down his spine; he stares at you like you're the one who hung the stars in the sky, like you're the one commanding the sun and the moon – like you're the everything in his world.

(you are.)

"that's– that's what you have to say right now?"

he knows you're teasing him.

now, this does feel right.

his teal eyes flick down to your lips and he lets out a quiet hum. an innocent one, something stemming from pure adoration. he likes it when you smile, he likes it when you laugh. he likes it when you tease him, he likes it when you... are happy.

this is all that matters – you're under him and you're not crying anymore, you're holding him and he's holding you. his heart stammers in his chest but he's grown used to that, he's grown to like it.

it skips a beat and he knows it will all be okay.

[arxiwon]

Husband!Jungwon – What It's Like Being Married to Him ᯓꨄ︎˚˖ ࣪

🧵 Thread Start ⬇️

1️⃣ Waking Up Together

Husband!Jungwon wakes up before you most days, and instead of getting out of bed, he just watches you sleep with the softest smile. When you finally stir, he presses a lazy kiss to your forehead. “Good morning, love,” he murmurs, his voice still raspy from sleep.

2️⃣ Cooking Breakfast

Husband!Jungwon insists on making you breakfast, even if he’s half-asleep while flipping pancakes. Sometimes he messes up and pouts until you come help him. “I was trying to surprise you,” he grumbles, wrapping his arms around your waist.

3️⃣ Being Overprotective

Husband!Jungwon doesn’t like you overworking yourself. The second he sees you stressed, he’s pulling you into his lap and rubbing your back. “Enough work. Your husband is right here,” he whispers, nuzzling into your neck.

4️⃣ The Way He Looks at You

Husband!Jungwon is the type to stare at you like you hung the stars in the sky. Whether you’re dressed up or just wearing his oversized hoodie, his eyes never stop shining. When you catch him, he just grins. “Can’t help it. You’re my wife.”

5️⃣ Playful Arguments

“Jungwon, give me the remote.”

“No.”

“Jungwon.”

“I’m your husband. That means I make the decisions.”

“Oh really?”

“…Fine, take it.” (He just wanted to tease you.)

6️⃣ Taking Care of You When You’re Sick

He’s by your side the entire time, tucking you in, making you soup, and even singing softly to help you sleep. “I don’t care if I get sick too,” he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “That just means we can be miserable together.”

7️⃣ Subtle Jealousy

If another guy even looks at you for too long, Jungwon just raises an eyebrow, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Do you need something?” he asks the guy with a polite but firm smile. (Later, he sulks until you kiss him and remind him he's the only one for you.)

8️⃣ Sweet Little Notes

Leaves sticky notes everywhere with things like:

"Don't forget to eat today. Love you!"

"Your husband says you're the prettiest."

"If you see this, come kiss me."

9️⃣ Late-Night Conversations

Lying in bed, facing each other, just talking about everything—your dreams, your fears, your favorite memories. He traces lazy circles on your skin and listens intently. “You’re my home,” he whispers before kissing your forehead.

🔟 Forever & Always

Husband!Jungwon isn’t just your husband—he’s your best friend, your biggest supporter, your home. And every single day, he makes sure you know just how much he loves you.

Would you say yes to Husband!Jungwon? 🥰💍

[jimpagne]

Why is it that some of the biggest fujoshis are homophobes?

Sigh. Let me rant for a bit...

I know this is not exactly my "normal" type of content, but if we're being honest, what even is my type of content?

I cannot believe that we are less than six months away from all of the BTS members discharge dates, and we still have solos and delusional toxic shippers denying the fact that Jimin and Jungkook enlisted together. This is no longer an argument of "what ship is real" but now simply a concerning display of absolute insanity at this point.

Jimin and Jungkook could say the sky is blue and these people would scream at them that it's purple. Just because they can.

Is it really that crazy to admit that they went together? That they made the conscious decision to go through the program together? A program of which they have confirmed that they (yes they, as in BOTH Jimin and Jungkook, let me remind you--) used to enlist in both verbal and written forms? If not multiple times?

It doesn't matter if you think they're dating or friends or enemies or whatever. The REALITY is they enlisted together. They're currently together right now. On the same base. In the same unit.

What is so fucking hard to admit about that?

Even among the crowd of people who (bitterly) accept that they went together is a type of discussion I find to be insane as someone who is personally part of the LGBTQIA+ community.

What they talk about is blatant fetishization and internalized homophobia.

The thing is, I don't really care if you think Jikook is dating or not, I'm not saying that they are, and in fact, it's actually not even entirely relevant at this point. But you have certain shippers crashing out in inboxes and on twitter -- NON KOREAN PEOPLE, MIND YOU -- going on and on about how it's impossible that Jimin and Jungkook could be dating AND choose to enlist together.

"The South Korean military criminalizes homosexuality! They can't be gay if they go together! I mean, how can they even have sex! They can't be in a relationship if they can't have sex!"

In my opinion, as a queer person, I think it's incredibly disgusting when certain people chop up queer relationships to nothing but sex.

Like, what the fuck does that even mean?

This type of rhetoric tells me that these people do not view gay relationships as being on par with straight ones. Do you think gay people need a daily sexual encounter to enjoy spending time with their partners? That's really fucking weird. Really, really fucking weird.

This type of mindset is why homophobia is so rampant; homophobes seem to view gay people as being inherently more sexual than them because they can't possibly imagine a scenario where gay people aren't constantly horny or sex starved creatures looking for their next meal.

Surprise, you don't need sex for a relationship to thrive, especially if you're in a environment where it could put you in danger.

Whether you ship the members or not, this type of thinking is harmful to the queer community and also insulting to the many queer soldiers who are forced, and let me repeat that, FORCED to enlist in South Korea with partners waiting for them on the side.

Like god forbid gay men enlist with their partners.

Respectfully and not respectfully -- FUCK. YOU.

[radioactiverats]

Mentor Starscream x seeker!reader (6/?)

Not gonna lie, kind of a vent TvT

Seeker!reader has a bad day. Some depressing thoughts, but comfort at the end because *spongebob gif* I NEED ITTTT

Unfair.

The war is fragging unfair.

Rolling over on the berth to face the wall, you curl in on yourself.

You know it’s childish, but you don’t care.

You were meant to be at training half a joor ago. Not training with Starscream. If it was, you might have been stirred by a fraction more purpose, more motivation, enough to drag yourself up and into the skies like nothing was the matter. However, this was solo training. Drills that you’d learned and were supposed to practice daily. Starscream doesn’t usually check whether or not you've been doing them - his optics are keen enough to detect whether or not you’ve been practicing at your weekly sessions.

So it’s a surprise when he bursts into his habsuite - you check your internal chronometer - in the middle of the day, clearly on the hunt for you.

You don't need to turn around to know that he's furious. “What the scrap do you think you’re doing?” Starscream hisses. "This is a war, you know. We don't have time to be lazing about!"

Like you need to be reminded.

However, the rage in his voice becomes increasingly venomous as he stalks angrily towards you. "You know better than everyone else that trust is scarcely found aboard this ship. You know I cannot spend every joor of the solar cycle watching you. Can I not even entrust you with this one simple thing?"

Okay, that hurts. That really hurts, and it's even worse because you know how stressed he is. What happened to not being a burden? It's not like you're unaware of the precious trust Starscream has in you. You don't want to add to his ever-growing list of troubles, but it seems that the universe won't allow you a moment of weakness in peace. Had you ruined that trust between you all in the span of one afternoon?

Sluggishly heaving your frame up, it takes you a while to get to your pedes. Self-loathing weighs you down, heaviness in every step as you berate yourself for essentially rolling over and giving up, even if just for half a solar cycle. Starscream certainly had no such luxury.

"Sorry, sir. I'll go now."

"Don't come back until you can execute it with your optics closed," Starscream growls. He doesn't leave, though, watching you trudge past him with your wings down. You don't look at him on your way out, but he can see that your optics are dim. The defeated slump of your shoulders doesn't sit right with him, and his wings prickle with irritation, optics narrowing when it's clear that you have no intention to say anything. Hadn't he told you not to shut him out?

The wind whistles through the long grass as you trudge across the open plain to your launch pad - a glorified dirt circle burned into the Terran earth from countless precision landings, but you liked it. It was a physical symbol of the innumerable hours you'd poured into training. Well, that didn't mean anything anymore, did it?

Ordinarily, you liked days like this - it felt like the wind was calling to you, urging you to spread your wings and soar. The whistling musicality of the winds also reminded you of your native Vosian - there was something nice about windy days, to feel the lyrical tones wrap around your frame, brushing playfully over your plates and you would shutter your optics and remember home. However, you're unable to find pleasure in it today.

Where you were overwhelmingly numb earlier, a burning despair overtakes you as you take flight. The first set of maneuvers has your altmode screaming through the sky without having warmed your engines first - even as they sputter, working frantically under the weight of your despair, you push yourself even harder. Greater speed, sharper turns. Your pedes slam into the earth with a cacophonous boom at the end of the first circuit, chassis heaving at the sudden burst of exertion. But it's not enough.

Two circuits turns into five, ten, fifty, a hundred… and it’s the one hundredth and fiftieth circuit which forces you to stop your self-inflicted punishment, because you more or less crash land to the ground, all sense of precision lost. There’s no point in trying to stay upright - to your dismay, you realise that your wings are so sore, the right one more than the left, that the unevenness of the strain is tipping you off balance and rendering you unable to walk properly. In your second, shameful surrender today, you allow yourself to collapse to the ground, laying spread-eagled and woozily shuttering your optics against the flare of warnings on your HUD.

You lie on the grass until the burnt orange dusk, awash with purple and pink hues, fades away into darkness. One thing you’ll never tire of, though, is the view of the stars offered by the Terran planet on clear nights. The stars have been your constant during your time on Earth, distant but reliable in their presence. Like someone you know, you think. Absently, you’re wondering if Cybertron is visible from Earth when the sound of dry grass crunching underfoot reaches your audials. Those steps can only belong to one bot, you think, and right on cue, your star appears above you, an unreadable expression on his faceplate.

“A hundred and fifty drills, sir," You mumble tiredly.

For some reason, the expression on Starscream's faceplate morphs abruptly into displeasure. Even more surprising is the way he ex-vents and settles heavily beside you on your landing pad.

For a moment, you both look up at the stars.

"When was the last time we talked about something other than training?" Starscream says.

There's an underlying note of exhaustion in the rasp of his voice.

"I don't know, sir."

"Exactly!" Starscream growls, exhaustion abruptly forgotten in favour of agitation. Feeling the sharp spike of distress in his EM field, you wonder why you're worth so much emotion. Sure, you want to be closer to him. You really look up to Starscream, but as much as it hurts that he purposely keeps you at arms length, it hurts more because you understand why he has to keep his distance. This unexpected display of emotion catches you off guard. Silence falls over you both, and you wonder if it's worth apologizing for how he found you.

"I was weak today," You mumble. "It... it won't happen again." Your timid words are quickly lost to the suffocating silence, stolen away on the winds. Little do you know that it's taking everything in Starscream not to rage outwardly at the skies, at Primus himself for allowing this to happen to you. What he'd feared was coming true - even a spark that shone as bright as yours could not wholly avoid being tainted by vicious Decepticon values when you were exposed to them day in, day out.

He'd forbidden himself from lingering on the thought, but it now bursts unbidden into his processor - you should have been able to grow up in Vos, happy and free. No civil war, not even war with the Quintessons, even if it meant you would never have met. As long as it meant you would have lived a long and happy life. The strength of one over another? He'd been disgusted when so many of his fellow seekers had promptly abandoned their values to impulsively throw themselves behind a leader clearly lacking in experience. Seekers were social creatures - true strength was found in unity, but that was a concept that Megatron simply would not and could not begin to understand.

You have nothing to be ashamed of, he wanted to tell you, you've been doing remarkably well without a social group, without a trine, when your only option is me - he wanted to laugh bitterly at that. You hadn't voiced a word of complaint, sure, but you hadn't been given a choice in whether or not to stay by his side, and the thought twisted unpleasantly through his spark.

The unpleasant feeling only coils tighter around him when he ex-vents tiredly and catches your flinch in your wings - clearly expecting to be berated once again. He feels like he's losing you. Mid-solar cycle, when you looked so resigned with your lot. Had he tried to keep the fight in you alive? On reflection, you'd grown more withdrawn recently. It felt increasingly like a losing battle to keep all of you here, keep your spark untainted by war.

He refuses to believe that it's impossible.

"Come here," Starscream says instead, patting the ground in front of him. "Back to me."

Like you could ever ignore what he commanded of you, despite your exhaustion. Slowly but determinedly, you drag yourself across the long grass to him. Starscream waits in silence, uncharacteristically patient, optics tracking the shaky grip of your servos in the soil, the grimace of pain that flashes across your faceplate.

When you finally manage to arrange yourself in a seated position in front of him, he takes stock of your wings with a critical optic and suffice to say, he does not like what he sees. You've really pushed it too far this time. Plates strung tight, mechanisms locked up with all the tension, wings hanging unevenly at the joints due to imbalanced use - no wonder you couldn't make it back to base. He'll have to be stricter with your posture next time - a pained whine of static escapes your vocaliser even as he keeps his touch feather-light, tracing gently under your ailerons where the mechanisms are most strained. It doesn’t help that your plates feel tender as well, underlying mesh strained to its limits. “Bear with it just a while,” Starscream murmurs, starting to knead with purpose - you gasp and shudder as he digs his fingers in between your wing joints to alleviate their stiffness, firm but not punishing.

“I taught you better than this," He scolds, but the rumble of his voice is low, pitched at a tone intended to soothe. “Training is a privilege, not a punishment. How are you going to progress if you treat your frame so carelessly, hm?”

Starscream is clearly in no mood to elaborate on his display of frustration, so it's back to familiar ground for you both. You'll take it - it's an olive branch that you're grateful for. "Won't happen again, sir," You mumble, wincing as he digs into a particularly sore area.

"Damn right," Starscream growls. "I won't be so lenient next time. Understand?"

You suppose some things don't change, like Starscream's inability to show concern without disguising it under ten layers of empty threats.

Still, olive branch.

"Yes, sir."

Previous / Next

[ch6sos]

more nanami headcanons (but as your bf !!!)

a/n: hey everyone! thank you for all the support on my last headcanon post. i never really expected it to go far, but somehow it did. it was my first time ever posting a "fic" you know? i was cringing the entire time but it was worth it, for you guys :) since it did well, here is some more!

i used third person by the way so you're referred to as his partner. tried to make this as gender neutral as possible cuz i love you guys

cw: slight suggestiveness (ooooh... but it's not extreme you sillies)

Extreme gentleman. He respects their wishes all the time. If they want space, he will give it to them. He will give them whatever they ask for.

Pays on the first date. He forbids their significant other from doing anything. He will pay because he wants to. He truly wants to, not because he feels obligated to.

Would be kind of shy about doing anything at first, especially Teen!Nanami. Even after a long period of dating, he would always ask before showing affection because he does not know if they feel comfortable or okay with it.

"May I please hold your hand? Are you okay with that?

"...We've been dating for a month."

"I know, but, I must ask, you know? In case it makes you uncomfortable.”

When he (as well as they) grow comfortable, the affection begins to become more "intense." Not intense, but he does it more frequently. He holds their hand more, gives more kisses, more hugs...

He would give the best hugs. He is a cuddle machine. He appears to hate them, but does he truly? Exactly. No, he does not. He loves them so much. He wishes he could give up his job to spend the entire day cuddling with his partner.

"Stay close to me, please."

"I don't plan on moving."

"Good. I wish life were like this every day." He hums, squeezing them gently.

Kisses with him are never short; even if he is late. He never leaves his significant other hanging. He craves and desires to kiss them. He enjoys giving his partner a passionate kiss, drawing them near to his chest, and placing his hand behind their head, leaving a memory of the kiss that is warm, tender, and unforgettable.

Genuinely feels like he could share his emotions with his significant other. Yeah, he is still serious, because it's who he is. He was raised in a family surrounded by serious people. Though, throughout the relationship, he learns how to express his emotions better. He feels like he genuinely could reveal all the emotions he has stored in him already around his significant other. If he's feeling upset, he would genuinely express that to them. If something ticked him off, he would sit down and talk to his partner about it.

Despite all of that, he still is more of a listener than a rambler. He prefers putting others first before him, and that also goes for who gets to talk. He enjoys looking at their partner with a loving gaze, as they talk nonsense. Whether it is about the new show they picked up, their day, or the latest gossip, he loves listening.

He would write love letters. I do not care if you find that corny. He is corny. He will write love letters. Nanami is romantic. I don't care what anyone says he is a romance god who does not get to show it off as much. He loves writing lengthy letters, showing the love he has for his partner. Describes their personality and how much he cherishes them, how much he thinks they're beautiful, and how he thinks that they are the stars in the night sky that stand out.

Playing with his partner's hair is (one of) his favorite ways to show affection. If they have long hair, he loves to try styling it and ruffling it. If they have type 4 coily hair, he starts learning how to take care of it so he can try protective hairstyles on them.

Another thing is lazy Sundays. He loves Sundays. Even though he has to go to stupid work the next day. The sensation of them being in his arms when he wakes up, his arms encircling their bodies firmly, the sheets covering them. He enjoys gently leaning in to kiss their shoulders, the top of their head, and the back of their neck. When they began to stir, he pulled them closer— not wanting to get out of bed. All he wants is to spend Sunday morning in bed with his lovely partner.

Gets flushed at compliments, but it is not as obvious. When their significant other says he is handsome, he smiles softly and thanks them, but on the inside, he is freaking out.

Cooks breakfast in bed for them. Always. He loves getting up just to make his significant other the tastiest breakfast ever; it is his specialty. He prepares a warm beverage and some fruit-flavored crepes topped with Nutella and whipped cream.

Before meeting them, Nanami was kind of an insomniac. He would not sleep; hence why he has dark circles. But after meeting them, he started sleeping more. Despite everything, he continues to get up before his partner to prepare breakfast for them.

Not only that but when he was stressed, he would drink his sorrows away rather than confide in someone. Since the fan book claims that he enjoys drinking, I think that, unfortunately, one of his coping mechanisms is doing exactly that. However, since meeting them, he has kept everything under control. He learned to express himself more freely and genuinely strives to avoid suppressing his emotions.

Bro is a simp. His mouth drops when he sees his partner dressed. His jaw falls to the floor. He is stuttering a bit too. I know he is supposed to be calm and collected but he would NOT be calm and collected around his significant other, people. He would go feral and be a simp for them.

He says I love you first. It was quite unexpected and seemed to come out of nowhere. He just blurted it out without waiting for the perfect moment or anything else. It was probably a simple morning, cuddling with him on the bed as usual, looking at each other fondly, and he said, "You know how much I adore you, right?"

When he realizes what he is saying, his eyes widen slightly, but then crinkle up when they tell him they love him as well.

He will do whatever his partner says. They could be 5'2 or around his height; he is a certified simp who immediately attends to their partner's needs.

Even if that includes forcibly doing silly TikTok trends. He pretends to hate it but he doesn't. He is a munch or whatever Ice Spice said.

He enjoys nuzzling his partner. Guys, I do not care. This man is a bundle of love wrapped up in a stoic-looking man. He enjoys sneaking up behind them, entrapping them in his arms, and nuzzling their neck and the top of their head. Wherever he wants, whenever he wants. And he utters sweet nothings. And leaves tiny, delicate kisses. He also wraps his arms around their waist.

He sometimes becomes overwhelmed, so he requires his own space. However, he does not simply distance himself from his partner. He properly expresses that sometimes he needs his own space. He still adores them but also needs some space. He does not want to cause conflict or misunderstanding because he is not that type of person.

Will be there for them when they are sick, even if they believe they look disgusting. He does not care; he believes they are the most beautiful sight he has ever seen in his entire life (which was cut short) (sorry, I am still coping). He will be there to care for them whether they are throwing up, crying, or whatever.

He cooks for them, he gives them medicine, he cuddles them even though he knows he may get sick...

And he does. Every single time. And he acts like a baby too.

Adorable tall, strong man Nanami acts like a baby when he's sick. He needs to be looked after completely. He starts off coughing (like a grandfather or a father). So his cough is obnoxious and loud, and he frowns. He then looks up at his partner, his expression reminiscent of a puppy who has been denied treats. It is an adorable sight. It's a turnaround from his usual chill demeanor. He then spends the entire day in bed, despite his attempts to do his routine tasks like cleaning and cooking for them, which they forbid. And he pouts about it like a big baby.

"Please let me take care of you. You took care of me, so now it's my turn."

"No, you're sick, Kento."

"That doesn't matter." He frowns.

“You always take care of me anyway.”

“But it is my honor to take care of you, my love.”

and then they end up having seven mental breakdowns

If they bring home a stray one day, he is reluctant on taking it but you know damn well he'd be like one of those dads that is hesitant about taking it at first but then ends up cuddling it the next day and then begging for them to not take it to the shelter.

Genuine sweetheart. Holds the door for their significant other, makes arrangements for them when they can not find the time, prepares meals for them, and if they come from a different culture, he starts to learn about it, particularly if they are involved in it.

...This guy is in no way aggressive. I have seen people mischaracterize him as a dominant "daddy" or whatever because he is serious, and Mappa blessed us with the hair-pulling scene. That scene was primarily caused by rage at Haruta's thoughtless harm to those around him and the fact that the man was going against two young girls. He would never act in such a way toward their partner, particularly when they were in bed. He is more of a gentle lover and is afraid of going too far.

Needs are needs, so if they ask, he will comply with some hesitation. He never seemed to get into it, so he tells them that.

That does not mean he is not into some stuff. Bro be praising. He praises hella and talks them through it.

"My love, doing so well for me."

"So beautiful, so gorgeous, all sprawled out for me like this."

“You’re mine. Until the end of time, angel.”

“God. My love, my everything. You drive me wild, you know that?”

“Eyes on me, sweetheart. Want to see how breathtaking you are from here.” All in his deep, ragged and needy voice.

that made me cringe

help I'm crying at the cringe so sorry

His favorite dates with them involve going to a restaurant. Nanami knows some hidden gems, so he enjoys taking them to restaurants where they can eat delicious food. Being a food enthusiast, it goes without saying that he is aware of the good and bad places to go. Because of Nanami's exquisite taste, they have never had to worry about their food.

As I previously stated, he prefers traditional nicknames such as sweetheart, my love, darling, angel, and beloved. I do not see him calling his significant other "baby," "baby girl," or whatever; I believe he finds it cringe-worthy. This is self-indulgent oops.

Sings softly to them while they are sleeping. He sings a song while they are sleeping because he is too ashamed of his singing. His vocals are not bad; he is just shy. (Little did he know, they had several recordings of him singing in secret...)

He will sacrifice his blanket in bed just to wrap it around his partner if they're cold. Bro would give them 90004868787893 pillows, and 8 blankets if they said they were cold.

He exaggerates things. And when I say he exaggerates, I mean he goes to great lengths to win his partner over. If they enter a new niche, he buys *everything*. On date nights, he gives them large bouquets if they like that, and he treats them as if they were royalty.

"You didn't need to get me this entire figure collection from *series*... I feel so bad."

"Well, do not worry, I enjoy buying these things for you. I see how happy you are, and it immediately warms my heart.”

Arguments with him are not bad. He truly never gets upset to the point of yelling because that is not who he is—he is not a guy who yells and he does not want to cause trauma to people in general. Again, though, he seems composed, and it might be frightening. But he then does something right away that causes his partner to instantly give in. Bro could just breathe and they're like "OKAY" and yeah. I understand. I would fold so hard bro.

His love languages include quality time and acts of service. He loves spending every single second with his partner and is immediately angry at the world when he has to work overtime and can not have more time with them. He enjoys taking them on dates or simply staying at home on lazy days. He loves spending time with them. Furthermore, he expresses his love by doing things for his partner, such as assisting them with their work (if he could), giving them massages when they are stressed, cooking for them all the time, washing their dishes even when they beg him not to, eating the olives off of their plate if there are any... He is the king of acts of service.

He is not good at taking pictures. His large thumb keeps covering the lens, so they have to force him to take the pictures repeatedly. Despite this, he never becomes irritated because he gets butterflies just watching his partner pose in their gorgeous clothes.

Speaking of photos, he already had an Instagram account beforehand. (As much as he hates to admit it, Gojo is sometimes the one who takes the aesthetic photos on his page.) He was not active, but he has a few posts on it, but as soon as they got a partner, oh lord Jesus. Bro will post on his Instagram story every single second.

Even though this happens, he prefers to make his relationship private. Private but known, you know? He wants the world to know that he is lucky enough to date them, but still not reveal information or talk about his relationship to anyone. So he would take those private but not secret type relationship photos.

Captions are always complimenting them and are extremely poetic. He's just that guy.

"saw a breathtaking sight. the beach is also there."

“every aspect of you captivates me, body and soul.”

"we are all floating around with the stars and the universe, and it somehow led me to you."

cringes again

Off-topic but not, Nanami would NEVER, and I mean... NEVER, go for his student if he was a professor, even if their relationship is legal. I can't stand it when people do that. He understands that there's a power dynamic behind it and it's low-key creepy how much people enjoy it.

Along with stepcest. Why do so many of you like stepcest? Nanami is not touching any of his family members. I'm scared to say this and this is probably hella controversial for this app but he's not touching anyone even if they're not technically related.

Age gap too. He would not date someone extremely younger than him. He is not going to be 40 and dating a 19-year-old. I just can't see it.

Other than that, he does not have any preferences when it comes to appearance. He has turn-offs, but not in terms of appearance. He could care less about what someone looks like.

In terms of personality, he dislikes negative people. He despises that. He would feel guilty if he became involved with someone unconcerned about the world. He also dislikes immaturity and pettiness.

He prefers people who bring positivity into his life, you know? Someone much more outgoing than he is, but still a mature person with whom he could relate. The more extroverted they are the more they bring out of him. As long as they're not so overwhelming to him.

Even so, he simply enjoys people for their kindness and consideration. How willing they are, how passionate and motivated they are. He simply wants someone who is driven by their goals.

Texts them dad memes he found on Facebook.

“Look at it, it’s funny.”

“...lol”

“You laughed at least a little bit right?

“...No?”

“Okay. I apologize :(“

LAUGH AT HIS FACEBOOK MEMES PLEASE. THEY ARE NOT THAT BAD PLEASE.

When he met their family, he appeared calm and collected, but he was nervous. He was fidgety on the way to their house, something he had only ever done in high school. He experiences anxiety about whether he would be accepted by them or whether he would be good enough.

“Wow, I have never seen you this fidgety before.”

"I apologize. It’s just… What your family might think worries me. I am not sure if I will meet their expectations. I simply want to let them know how much I genuinely adore you for who you are and how much I want to be yours forever."

And they are like ??? because this man is perfect? He is the dream man anyone could ever ask for.

Do not take this man mini golfing bro he sucks ass… I know you guys think just because he is partly white he will immediately be good at golf but no. He sucks ass.

He would be protective, but not excessively so. He is devoted to his partner and will intervene quickly if someone upsets them, intimidating them with his composed demeanor.

"I advise you to distance yourself from them before I regretfully have to take action, okay? We wouldn’t want that, right?” Dumbledore says, calmly. While puffing out his chest. And mewing. And mogging. Whatever that means.

Okay fine, he will watch Jersey Shore, The Real Housewives, Love & Hip-Hop, etc with them. Pretends to hate it but he is invested.

Imagine just going to the bedroom and just seeing him in his reading glasses, sitting up against the headboard, immersed in the book in front of him. The only thing he has on is a simple white tee that does justice to his figure and pajama pants.

Yup feral.

Tries to get into the things their partner likes just so he can understand when they yap about certain things. He just wants them to talk about everything to him. He finds it adorable.

Allows their partner to give him a skincare treatment. He then begins to do it himself. Well, he would only use one product—a cleanser. That being said, he started using toner, serum, and other skincare products. And, yes, he allows them to put ridiculously cute facemasks on his face. And the cute little star pimple patches.

Do not take that man ice skating or rollerblading either. He would be so hesitant on going because he sucks at it. He just goes because his significant other told him to. He fell immediately.

“This sucks.”

“Stop sulking and hold my hand.”

“...You don’t even need to ask.” He says, all giddy.

Please show him the love and care he deserves.

When he works out he will flex on them on purpose. He thinks it is all funny to be all yummy. It is NOT funny.

Yup, he does push-ups while they’re underneath, each time he goes down he gives them a peck.

Yeah so imagine that with him in his compression shirt and shorts…

I could read your mind, people. You are not slick.

This man will not let his significant other have insecurities. He is the type to leave notes all over the bathroom, and every mirror, with encouraging words. Praising their looks and more. Plus he shows in…other ways (wink) how much he appreciates how beautiful he thinks they are.

If they are unhappy, he will truly be devastated. He is miserable when he sees them upset, so he does everything in his power to cheer them up. Whether that’s cooking something for them, taking care of them, trying to make them laugh, getting them something from the store, or sitting down and talking to them about their problems, he needs to make them feel happy.

When he drives, he would not put his hand on his partner’s thigh. He would much rather grab their hand, and put it on his lap, as he listens to them hum along to the radio. He purposely moves the mirror slightly toward them, just so he can see how pretty they are through the mirror. He also looks at them with a slight smile at every stop-light, occasionally leaving small pecks on their face.

Does not mind if they steal his clothes. Go on then silly. He could care less. He thinks it’s cute as hell.

Would teach them how to do things. For example, he will teach them to play an instrument if they do not already, especially if he knows how. He looks like a lovesick fool as he watches them replicate what he did. Unable to resist the urge, he kisses them without reason.

“What was that for?”

"I could not hold back. You are very tempting."

“Is that a good thing?”

“Yes. You are everything I think about and want."

Butterflies all around people.

His only red flag is that sometimes he may prioritize work over his relationship. He unfortunately gets into the stress of work and begins to grind more at work. Call him out and he gets back into his senses.

Buys more storage space for his Samsung S24 Ultra to retrieve more pictures of them. His camera roll is nearly full. Just because of his significant other, his camera roll increased from roughly 150 images to over 13,000 images.

When he comes home from work, he immediately collapses on the couch or their shared bed, on top of them. He then looks like a sleepy puppy.

“Someone’s tired.”

“I hate overtime.”

“I know you do. I cooked something for you.”

“I could have just cooked for the both of us…”

“But I knew you’d come all tired from work. So no.”

“That doesn't matter, you know? I love taking care of you. Just to see that pretty smile on your face.” He pouts, once again.

He ends up making it up to them. You can interpret that however you want.

As soon as this man sees them in formal attire (or in general) it is OVER. His jaw is on the bottom of the earth, his eyes are slightly widened, a blush on his face.

“I have no words. God, I don't know how someone could get even more impossibly perfect, yet here you are, darling. No matter how many times I see you, you still manage to take my breath away.”

yup heart attack

Prepare for so many compliments daily. He talks like a true romance book. None of that Colleen Hoover stuff.

Talks about his partner like a true gentleman. He's not like those types of guys who just talk about their significant other as if they're his property. No. He talks about them as if they are an art piece.

Overall, he just loves his partner so, so much. He expresses it in a variety of ways, from taking care of them—to telling them every single second of the day. In his own words,

"Your presence in my life is like a breath of fresh air, keeping my heart full and content. I love you more than anyone could ever fathom, and I promise you, you have my heart for eternity."

i love him </3 NANMINPLEAEE BE RELALRHABADHDJSKDHSNEB

[bunji-enthusiast]

Bunji

Since you did Rocket Raccoon reader its only fair you do Groot reader

𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚃𝚛𝚎𝚎

Groot!reader

Summary || a walking tree, with a living consciousness. They’re not sure how this could get any weirder.

Note // you know what—you’re so right.

Eve Wilkins

You are drawn to kindness. No matter how wild the galaxy gets, you have an instinct for recognizing genuine goodness—it's part of what made you trust Peter, care for Rocket, and sacrifice yourself for the Guardians. You don’t speak much, but your empathy runs deep. You'd probably give a flower to a child before realizing you were in the middle of a fight.

You love light. Bioluminescent spores aren’t just functional—they’re comforting. When you're anxious or want to calm your friends, you let them glow like little stars. It’s your way of creating peace when words aren’t enough.

You don’t try to be funny, but you are. You’ll misinterpret plans, accidentally grab the wrong explosive root, or stubbornly insist on drinking from public fountains. You think you're being sneaky, but everyone sees you—and somehow, that makes you even more lovable.

When you love someone, you don’t hesitate. Whether it’s standing between them and danger, growing your body around them, or tearing through a hallway with ruthless fury, you show your love through action. You don’t need to say it. I am Groot says everything.

You don’t talk much, and Eve doesn’t need you to. She learns to understand your tone when you say "I am Groot"—the subtle differences in pitch, the context, the energy. She’s one of the few who never asks, “What does that mean?” because she’s already got it.

You two make the most beautiful things together. She’ll craft a structure, and you’ll reinforce it with vines and roots. You’re the foundation, she’s the design. Neither of you says “good job”—you just give each other that look, the kind that says, “This is good. We did this together.”

When Eve gets overwhelmed, she doesn’t always want to talk. Sometimes she finds you and just sits beside you, her head resting against your shoulder or one of your branches. Your presence alone grounds her—your steady breathing, the warmth of your body, the soft rustling of your leaves. You don’t fix her problems, you just exist with her. And that’s exactly what she needs.

You love lighting up around her. Not in a flashy way—just soft, glowing spores when the sky is dark or when she looks a little tired. She smiles every time, like it’s a private little lightshow. She once told you it felt like the universe was hugging her. You remembered that.

Eve is used to fixing things now. That’s the curse of someone who can rewrite reality. But you… you take your time. You grow things slowly. You make her wait, make her breathe. When she’s feeling restless, you’ll just plant your feet, spread your arms wide, and start growing something beside her. She’ll sigh—but then sit down and watch. By the end of it, she’s calm again.

After battle, when you’ve been scorched or cracked, she quietly kneels next to you and mends what she can with her powers—smoothing rough edges, restoring broken pieces, careful not to overstep your own regenerative abilities. You always pat her on the head after. She pretends to be annoyed, but you know she loves it.

You give her little gifts—flowers, twisted branches in interesting shapes, bioluminescent moss. She transmutates them into little ornaments and hangs them around her room or on her cape. She never throws any of them away.

Both of you have felt "different"—you, a living tree with a voice no one understands; her, a girl made in a lab with powers too big for the world. There’s a quiet bond in that. Neither of you talks about it, but when you’re together, you don’t feel quite so alone.

Whether it’s the way you side-eye Rocket’s chaos or the time you wore one of her capes and tried to strike a superhero pose (snapping a ceiling light in the process), Eve always ends up laughing around you. It’s rare, and it’s real.

You’re both incredibly powerful, but you use your strength differently—she with precision, you with emotion. If someone hurt Eve, you’d go full hallway-vine-mode. If someone tried to cage or control you, she’d rewrite the atoms of their cell into stardust. All without saying a word.

The clearing was quiet, except for the gentle hum of wind brushing through the trees. Most of those trees were normal. Except one.

You stood still, rooted in the soft earth, arms stretched to the sky like you were soaking in every drop of sunlight. You didn’t move much—just swayed a little in the breeze. Peaceful.

Eve sat cross-legged a few feet away, tracing a lazy spiral into the dirt with her fingertip. She wasn’t in costume today. Just jeans, a hoodie, and bare feet planted in the grass like she was trying to feel something real.

“You know,” she said softly, “it’s weird. I spend so much time trying to change the world, and then I sit here with you and… it’s like the world is already okay.”

"I am Groot," you replied.

Eve smiled faintly. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

She leaned back and looked up at you. The sunlight filtering through your leafy canopy cast patterns across her face. She could’ve reshaped the whole forest if she wanted to—added flowers, made the trees taller, restructured the soil. But she didn’t. Because you were here, and you were enough.

With a flick of her hand, she made a tiny swirl of pink energy spin above her palm. You watched it with interest, leaning down just a little. She noticed your gaze and chuckled.

“Wanna see something cool?” she asked.

You tilted your head. "I am Groot."

Taking that as a yes, she guided the energy into the air. It shimmered, then bent and formed into the shape of a small, glowing tree. She floated it gently into your hand.

You stared at it for a moment. Then slowly, a thin branch extended from your arm and curled around it protectively. You absorbed it into your chest—just a little—and when you pulled back, a cluster of tiny pink flowers had bloomed in your bark.

Eve blinked. “You… you kept it?”

"I am Groot," you said with a shrug, as if to say: Of course.

She laid back fully now, arms folded behind her head. “You’re kind of the best, you know that?”

You let out a low, creaking hum—almost a laugh. And then, from your fingertips, tiny glowing spores began to drift down like slow-falling snowflakes. They sparkled in the air, warm and gentle.

Eve closed her eyes beneath them, smiling.

In a world full of chaos, she didn’t need answers here. She had roots. She had light. She had a friend.

And that was enough.

Rex Sloan

You didn’t like Rex at first. You didn’t understand half the things he said, and the other half sounded like insults. But he kept coming back, throwing snacks at you and calling you “Tree-bro.” Eventually, you stopped trying to strangle him with vines every time he popped up.

You’re Rex’s anchor in combat. You, with your unflinching calm and monstrous strength, help ground Rex when he’s losing it mid-fight. He’ll be hurling exploding bolts like a maniac, and you just gently sweep a hallway of enemies clean with a vine whip, leaving him muttering, “Showoff. But like, in a cool way.”

Rex tries to teach you sarcasm. Every now and then, Rex tries to teach you how to be sarcastic—tone, timing, and everything. It usually ends with you just deadpanning “I am Groot” at him, but somehow it lands perfectly and he bursts out laughing every time.

You love his energy drinks. You once sipped one of Rex’s many obnoxiously flavored energy drinks. Now you keep stealing them. You’ll plop down next to him with a “GRRRroot” and snatch his can, sipping it like it’s the finest nectar in the galaxy. Rex pretends to complain but always brings a second one.

He carved your name on his new cybernetic wrist. After his brush with death, Rex got sentimental in the weirdest way. On the inside of his new cybernetic wrist, he etched “Groot” as a reminder of who had his back during one of the worst battles of his life. He won’t admit it to you, though. Just says it came “pre-scratched.”

You once built him a vine hammock mid-mission. You caught Rex collapsing after a long battle and without a word, extended a few vines and crafted him a hammock right there in the middle of the ruins. He called it “tree magic” and still brags about it to anyone who’ll listen.

You are his moral compass. As much of a loudmouth as Rex is, he listens when you get serious—even if it’s just a solemn “I am Groot”. Somehow, you manage to say a lot with those three words. You keep him from slipping back into his old, toxic ways.

You don’t understand his flirting. At all. When Rex tries to flirt with anyone in front of you, you always tilt your head and ask “I am Groot?” in the most confused tone imaginable. It flusters him every time. You’re the ultimate wingman by accident.

He gives you cool nicknames. “Big Bark Energy,” “Branch Bae,” “Sir Grootington,” “The Verdant Venom”—Rex insists on calling you some absurd new nickname every week. You tolerate it. Barely. Okay, you do like “Big Bark Energy.”

He saved one of your twigs. After a rough mission where you lost a bit of yourself, Rex found one of your broken twigs on the battlefield and pocketed it. He keeps it on a chain now, tucked in his jacket. Says it’s “for luck,” but it’s really because he can’t imagine doing this whole hero thing without you anymore.

The wreckage still smoked behind you. The city—well, what was left of it—groaned under its own weight, buildings half-split like paper, sirens blaring in the distance. Rex stood with one hand on his hip, the other gently cradling his aching cybernetic wrist, which sparked every so often.

“Hell of a day,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

You stood beside him, not saying anything at first. The wind caught in your leaves. You glanced at him, then at the sky, which had turned the color of burnt metal.

“I am Groot,” you said, quietly.

Rex huffed out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Yeah. Bet it is better than last time. At least this time I didn’t get impaled or lit on fire.”

“I am Groot.”

He looked over at you, grinning despite the blood drying in his hair. “Okay, fair. You did get set on fire.”

You shrugged your bark shoulders and dropped a single leaf into his hand. Rex looked down at it like it was gold. He tucked it into the lining of his jacket, where you knew he kept the twig from last time. No ceremony. Just… respect.

After a moment, he said, “You know, you’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like a joke. Even when I’m being one.”

You tilted your head. Your eyes, warm and soft, blinked slow.

“I am Groot.”

He didn’t ask for a translation. He just nodded.

Then you reached down with a gentle vine and flicked the back of his head.

“OW—what the hell was that for?!”

You grinned.

“I am Groot.”

Rex shook his head, chuckling as the two of you walked away from the smoking crater that used to be a shopping mall. “Yeah, yeah. I do talk too much. Shut up.”

You didn’t.

Not for a long time.

Debbie Grayson

You started showing up after Mark’s worst days. You didn’t say much—just quietly appeared outside Debbie’s porch, a tall silhouette framed by the stars, holding a flower in your hand. She’d open the door, sigh, and let you in. It became a routine. Her house always smelled like tea and tiredness.

You don’t talk. She appreciates that. You say “I am Groot,” and she nods like you’ve told her something profound. Maybe you have. Debbie never presses you to explain. She likes that you’re just there. A calming presence made of bark, leaves, and strange alien understanding.

You once grew her an entire vine garden on her balcony. After she said she missed her old garden (Nolan had accidentally destroyed it mid-landing), you returned the next day and grew her a tangle of roses, sunflowers, and alien blossoms that sparkled at night. “I am Groot,” you said. She cried. You stayed.

You’re weirdly good with Oliver. Debbie doesn’t know why, but her space-baby son absolutely loves you. He climbs on you like a jungle gym, giggles when you sprout glowing spores for him to chase, and insists you're his “tree-uncle.” Debbie’s just glad someone can tire him out.

You bring her tea leaves from alien worlds. You’ve been to galaxies she’ll never see—but you bring little gifts. You gently drop glowing leaves or fragrant buds in her hand and watch as she carefully brews them into something soothing. “I don’t know how this works,” she says, sipping. “But you’ve got excellent taste.”

She stitched you a little scarf. Chicago winters were brutal. You were fine, obviously, being mostly wood—but Debbie insisted. “Even trees deserve to be warm,” she said, wrapping a wool scarf around your neck. You still wear it when you visit. It’s green and has a tiny embroidered “G.”

You let her rant. A lot. Debbie has seen too much, lost too much. Sometimes she needs to yell at someone, vent her pain, her anger, her grief. You stand there, still and patient, as she paces her kitchen and talks about Nolan, Mark, expectations, fears. You listen. You always listen.

You’re her emergency contact. She put your name down once—just to be funny. “In case I get hit by a car, I want to know you’ll drop a tree on someone’s head.” You didn’t quite get the joke. You just gave a serious nod and said, “I am Groot.”

You helped her repair the roof. After a storm wrecked part of her house, you climbed up there without asking and just… grew a living trellis to support the damage. Now there are vines growing between shingles and flowers peeking out of the gutters. Debbie calls it her “treehouse upgrade.”

She doesn’t see you as a pet. She sees you as family. You’re strange. You barely speak. You’re from another world. But so is half her life now. And in a world full of violence and betrayal, you’re one of the only constants who show up—with tea, flowers, and the calm of a forest.

The house was quiet. Not sad quiet—just that rare, peaceful kind. The kind Debbie hadn’t really known in months. Maybe years.

She sat at the kitchen table, elbows resting on wood worn smooth by time, holding a mug of gently steaming tea. It smelled like honey and something unfamiliar—one of the glowing leaves you’d left her on the windowsill the other night.

The screen door creaked open.

She didn’t flinch.

You ducked under the doorway, careful as always not to break the frame. A few blossoms bloomed from your shoulder, trailing soft gold dust as you stepped into the light.

“I was wondering if you’d show up,” she said, voice low. “Mark’s out. So’s Oliver. Just me tonight.”

“I am Groot,” you replied, moving slowly to the floor beside her table like a great oak settling into the earth. You didn’t take chairs. You were a chair, kind of. Once, Oliver used you as one. He still does.

Debbie smiled, eyes tired but warm. She pushed the other mug across the table toward you.

“You can’t actually drink this, can you?”

You paused. Then, gently, your hand unfolded into a small flower. It dipped toward the cup and brushed the steam.

You leaned back.

“I am Groot.”

“That’s what I thought,” she said, laughing softly.

There was a beat of silence—long, but not uncomfortable. The kind that lives between old friends, where no words are needed. Outside, snow had started to fall, dotting the windows like stars.

She looked over at you, voice softer than before. “I used to think Nolan was my anchor. My whole life was wrapped around him. Turns out... I’m stronger without him.”

You turned your gaze toward her. She couldn’t really read you—not like Mark or Eve or Cecil could—but she always felt like you heard her.

She sipped her tea again, savoring it.

“This blend?” she murmured. “Groot, it’s perfect.”

“I am Groot.”

“You always say that when I compliment you.”

“I am Groot.”

She chuckled. “Okay, okay. Not gonna argue with a walking tree. Again.”

The clock ticked. The snow kept falling. Somewhere down the hall, a family photo tilted slightly on the wall, and Debbie didn’t get up to fix it. She just sat there, sipping tea across from a gentle, mossy giant, her kitchen warm with quiet gratitude.

And for the first time in a long time... she didn’t feel alone.

Allen The Alien

You first met by punching each other through three moons and a minor gas planet. It was a misunderstanding. Classic intergalactic mix-up. Allen thought you were a Viltrumite mutant experiment. You thought he was a weird orange bounty hunter after Rocket. It ended in a tie, mutual respect, and a fist bump that made a comet veer off course.

You don’t need words, and he talks enough for both of you. “I am Groot,” you say. Allen nods way too enthusiastically. “Right?! That’s exactly what I was thinking, man!” He fills the silence with his signature ramble—stories about his training, the Coalition, the latest disaster he barely survived. You just listen. Patient, amused. He's good noise.

You once grew a tree on Allen. During a long flight, Allen fell asleep mid-space-drift. You, bored and mildly curious, planted a tiny seedling on his shoulder plate. It sprouted. He woke up and cried tears of joy. “It’s BEAUTIFUL. Groot. I’m a garden now.”

Allen insists on calling you “my big leafy bro.” He says it with pride. You’re the one he drags along when he's got a suicide mission. “Groot’s got my back,” he tells the Coalition confidently. They don’t understand. You do. And you always show up when he needs you—quiet, towering, unstoppable.

You helped him with rehab after his near-death transformation. While Allen trained to adjust to his new strength, you stayed nearby. Your regenerative abilities let him spar without holding back. You took hits that cratered mountains and kept coming. Sometimes, he’d collapse afterward, laughing breathlessly. “You never fall over. Not once. You're like… my bark-covered rock.”

You two have a favorite asteroid bar. It’s floating in the edge of unclaimed space. The drinks are weird, and the gravity’s inconsistent, but Allen loves it. You don’t drink, but the owner gives you compost tea. Allen always tells the story of how you arm-wrestled a six-limbed warlord and won by blinking.

He taught you how to play space poker. You always win. You never bluff. You just stare. No one can read you. Allen lives for it. “That’s my guy! You see that? I am Groot, baby!”

You saved his life by wrapping him in vines and dragging him out of an exploding satellite station. He was unconscious, bleeding, and the place was falling apart. You didn’t hesitate. You wrapped him in your arms and shielded him from the blast. When he woke up, cradled in a cocoon of your bark and leaves, he called you a "space angel."

He gave you his backup Coalition communicator. “Just in case,” he said, pushing it into your hand. “If I’m ever in real trouble, I want you on the other end. You don’t ask questions. You handle things.”

You said, “I am Groot.”

He saluted like it was a vow.

You two are chaos together, but good chaos. When you're on a mission, it’s like a tree and a tank joined forces. He punches through starships; you tear through walls with vines and glowing spores. Between his dramatic commentary and your unstoppable calm, people never know what hit them.

Somewhere between Sector 5-Lu and the Outer Rim of the Darlune Cluster, your ship was… stuck.

Allen swore it was just a “minor navigational delay,” which in Coalition-speak apparently meant ten to twelve hours of drifting with no entertainment except your own brain.

So he did what any emotionally resilient, painfully bored Unopan would do.

He hit the karaoke switch.

The lights dimmed. The console screen lit up with a glittery font that read “StarScreamz!™ Deep Space Karaoke Lounge” and started playing an upbeat synth-heavy tune that vibrated the floor.

Allen turned to you, arms thrown wide, voice dramatic:

“Groot. Buddy. Bark beast of legend. I hope you’re ready to share your soul with the stars.”

You blinked. One flower bloomed gently on your shoulder in response.

“I am Groot.”

He grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

Allen’s first pick was a Coalition classic: “Fly Me Through That Supernova (You Took My Gravity With You).” He sang it terribly. Passionately, but terribly.

He twirled. He added finger guns. He hit a note so high a bolt came loose from the ceiling.

You just watched from the co-pilot’s chair, arms crossed, vines twitching slightly with the bassline.

Then, it happened. The instrumental version of “I Will Survive” began to play.

Allen turned to you with a twinkle in his massive eye. “Your turn.”

You stared.

“…I am Groot.”

“Oh, you are singing, my man. You’ve got the roots of rhythm. The bark of a star.”

You sighed. Slowly stood up. Walked to the mic. Picked it up in one hand like it was a twig.

And then—“I am Groot.”

You sang it.

You didn’t need lyrics. Didn’t need verses. Just “I am Groot,” over and over—varying tone, melody, intensity. Somehow… it worked. You even hit a key change. The vines on your arms started swaying in rhythm. You bloomed bioluminescent petals mid-chorus.

Allen’s jaw dropped.

“Holy asteroid clusters,” he whispered. “You’re… amazing.”

You struck a final pose, leaves glittering in the low light.

“I. Am. Groot.”

Silence.

And then, thunderous applause—courtesy of Allen slamming his hands together like cymbals.

“You win. Karaoke. Forever.”

You returned to your seat, one flower falling gently from your shoulder and drifting through the air.

“I am Groot.”

“You are,” Allen said, chest still heaving from laughter. “You really, really are.”

The ship was still stranded, the stars still unmoving outside the viewport.

But now the cabin echoed with music, wild laughter, and the faintest trail of glowing petals as two cosmic misfits passed the time—with harmony, hilarity, and a mic that may or may not have short-circuited from your last solo.