#but that's what happens. and it happens on purpose.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

We're going on an ass kicking adventure.

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[chimerafeathers]

i really love how intensely Mirabelle reacts to act 5 Siffrin botched friendquest.

Isabeau is mostly operating out of concern and, eventually, hurt. he already knows something’s up before Siffrin gets to him. he knows something truly awful must be wrong for Siffrin to be lashing out like they are, and as soon as he can’t handle the situation anymore, he leaves and asks (with strained cheer) for time apart to cool off.

most of Bonnie’s anger comes from being upset and afraid that Siffrin would willingly put themself in danger for no reason, when that’s exactly why they’ve been so unsettled since the eye incident. they hate that Siffrin values their own life so little, they hate that they’re the cause of any pain or loss for him, and here he is, putting himself in that situation AGAIN. on purpose. it’s loud and explosive, but it’s familiar, too, being “hated” by Bonnie for this reason.

Odile pushes, and keeps pushing, until her concern overwhelms Siffrin and they strike where they know she’s most vulnerable. she gets physical, just for a moment, grabbing his collar before controlling herself and letting go. her fury shuts down into cold detachment, and she walks away.

but Mirabelle—dear, sweet, gentle, loving Mirabelle, “the most wonderful being on earth,” with her secret “ruthless side” that largely involves lightly badmouthing people behind their backs and then apologizing—slaps them. immediately.

and then COMPLETELY RENOUNCES THEIR FRIENDSHIP.

not just “we’re not friends anymore,” but “we were never friends in the first place.”

that’s!!! pretty extreme!!!!

of course, she ALSO starts by asking what’s wrong. something must have happened for him to act like this. but as soon as Siffrin brushes her off, she jumps past that line of questioning and dives headfirst into re-evaluating everything she thought she knew about them as a a person.

if he could say something like that to her and not see anything wrong with it, then she was wrong to treat him as a friend, wrong to read camaraderie into his teasing, wrong to think they must care about them all under their aloof demeanor.

that’s how Mirabelle phrases it—“I was wrong about you”—but i think that there’s a hidden layer of I was right about you, too.

she talks about the way they tease her like she had to convince herself that he was doing it in a friendly way. she says they talk like they “know better than her” like that’s a thought she’s had for a LONG time.

“Always soooo mysterious, Siffrin, always talking as if you're better than me! As if you know me!!! But you don't, Siffrin!!! You're just as lost and useless as I am!!! So stop!!! Talking!!! As if you know me!!!!!!”

none of this comes across as a new, sudden way to view Siffrin for her. it doesn’t shock or confuse her. it makes her angry, defensive, almost like she was waiting for something like this to happen at some point. the feeling of resentment, frustration, jealousy, being patronized and condescended to—this is something she’s been actively pushing down and rejecting this entire time, but they’ve given her ample reason for it all to boil to the surface. violently.

Mirabelle’s kindness is not inherent or easy. it’s a choice she’s making. she treats Siffrin warmly because she gives him the benefit of the doubt—refusing to act based on anxiety-fueled, cynical speculation, and reassuring herself that his actions are driven by care and friendship even if she can’t quite see it.

“I was wrong about you” doesn’t mean she always and without question believed them to be a fundamentally kind, caring person from the beginning—it’s that her first, colder instincts were right, and she was wrong to convince herself otherwise.

never mind that she asked what was wrong at first. she barely gives them time to speak in their own defense, to explain what they really meant by what they said. all of her suppressed doubts and frustrations are getting aired out now, now that all the trust she’d so deliberately placed in him has been betrayed. her pain feels bigger than this singular moment, so when she hurts him back, she makes sure it extends back through the entirety of their relationship for him, too.

“You're awful. You're not my friend, not my ally, not anything. You never were.”

like the others, she goes back to the clocktower and tells Siffrin not to come back until later. but there’s a finality to the way she ends this confrontation that isn’t quite there with the others. Isabeau and Odile reach their breaking point and remove themselves from the situation, asking for space to cool off but still somewhat leaving the door open for Siffrin to tell them what’s really going on at some point. Mirabelle is the only one who tries to fully cut ties—after everything else she says, her “I don’t want to see you until tonight” reads to me somewhat as “I don’t want to see you anymore unless I have to.”

I can’t wait to never see you again.

even back at the clocktower, Mirabelle doesn’t really defend Siffrin’s place in the party when Odile suggests leaving them behind out of concern for their trustworthiness on the most important day of the journey. Isabeau and Bonnie protest out of sentimentality and faith in Siffrin’s abilities and connection to them, and Mirabelle agrees, but…

“I agree, but... B-But would he even agree to come with us, still? Maybe they won't even come back tonight...”

she doesn’t say much outside of that. maybe the stutter and hesitation here are signs of regret about how things happened, but she lacks Isabeau and Bonnie’s confidence that Siffrin even wants to come back to them in the first place. she doesn’t trust that their bond was real anymore. maybe it never was in the first place, or maybe she broke whatever was there herself.

and she’s still mad when they finally catch up to Siffrin at the King! and she makes sure Siffrin knows that—after saving them, assuring him that he no longer needs to fight, that they’re all there for him. she still cares, of course she still cares—she’s still hurt, too, but they can figure that part out once there’s less world-ending stuff going on.

she’s the first to say that they all reserve the right to still be angry at Siffrin later—and that they’ve already forgiven him.

she’s also the first to say we want to stay with you, too. it’s not just you.

she was wrong! she thought they didn’t care but they care so much, it’s overwhelming, it’s world-ending.

i think she’s gonna be wallowing in guilt post-canon the moment she remembers what she said and did TO SIFFRIN and not just what Siffrin said to her. especially now that she knows Siffrin’s exact hangups, and especially especially if she figures out what Siffrin was trying to say.

they put themself through hell out of loneliness and fear that none of the others cared about him the way he cared about them, he was going insane from repetition and exhaustion and hunger and trying to keep them all safe and together, and all they did in the midst of all that was say something kind of mean to her one time (that turned out to not even be MEANT to be mean it was supposed to be HELPFUL they just SAID IT ALL WRONG) and she SLAPPED THEM? and told him that they WEREN’T FRIENDS AT ALL??? how could she!!! she should have known better!! what they said hurt a lot but still!!!

so when they eventually manage to try to talk about it, they end up almost in, like, a guilt competition.

Mirabelle apologizing for how she reacted, that she shouldn’t have yelled or hit him, that she doesn’t want to be the kind of person who acts that way out of anger and she’s sorry that she made Siffrin expect that reaction from her, she should have known better and believed in him more and they only messed up like that because they were losing their mind in a time loop but what’s HER excuse—

and Siffrin going nononono stop I deserved it—(HUH DON’T SAY THAT NO YOU DIDN’T)—and that he should never have said such awful things to her, ever, and she was under so much pressure already with the weight of the country and everyone’s lives and futures and her religion and their whole party counting on her to do this impossible task because she’s the only one who can, all this unbearable expectation and hope crushing her, and they KNEW that but they thought they could skip to the ending as though her feelings didn’t matter at all, like helping her wasn’t as important as saving a little time—

until they’re just. in tears together, apologizing for all the horrible things they did in between complimenting each other’s strength and kindness and resilience and how much they admire each other and saying that no, everything you did was completely understandable, actually, the only one who sucks here is me. which neither of them will accept coming from the other!!

they’re so similar, in ways they couldn’t really understand, before.

warm, affectionate, perfect Mirabelle, the resolute hero, a beacon of compassion and hope for all those around her, who wears her heart on her sleeve, her fear making her courage shine all the brighter—nothing like the insignificant, forgettable Siffrin, too terrified to be known, too fragile to touch, too selfish and disgusting to bear letting go.

cool, mysterious, unflappable Siffrin, the worldly traveler, as charming and silly as they are confident and skilled, who brushed off losing an eye like it was nothing, accepting the risks of this journey with barely more than a shrug—nothing like the anxious, stagnant, undeserving Mirabelle, a fraud and a nobody crumbling under the weight of a mission too important to be entrusted to someone like her, doubting herself, doubting her friends, doubting her mentor, doubting her faith, too weak and brittle to bend and change the way the world needs her to without breaking.

not worth bothering others with their problems. they should be able to handle this alone. stay positive, stay calm. breathe in, and out.

they’ll struggle with it, still—the hiding, the minimizing—but now, they understand each other a little better. they can hold each other accountable for what they leave unsaid.

it’ll get easier, eventually. they have plenty of time.

[la-patrona-magdalena]

Synopsis:

You always wanted your family to look at you, even just once. At least with a bit of the affection they gave to the portraits of your mother. Too bad that when they finally did, you were looking at the pages of a comic that showed the cruel future.

Inspired by the manhwa: no place for the Fake Princess

Warnings: English is not my first language, so I used a translator. Yandere content, neglect, abandonment, angst (?), allusions to death, original character (not the reader), allusions to torture. I try to keep the gender neutral,but in part there are mostly feminine pronouns. If any warnings are missing here, please let me know.

Disclaimer: This fanfic is for personal reading only. The use of this text for AI model training, data mining, commercial purposes, or any automated reproduction is strictly prohibited without the explicit consent of the author. Thank you.

You can read the fanfic in its original language (Spanish) on my AO3

prologue - Next chapter

Masterlist (coming soon)

Chapter one - A glimpse into the family secret

The knight of the night, the man with a thousand plans, Gotham's greatest detective, was holding his daughter, Serelith, with such tenderness and delicacy. She was crying in her arms, scared. And rightly so: Serelith had never lived through anything like this before. Her other siblings had some pity for her now, even Damian showed a hint of sympathy, probably because of the fear they all felt over what could’ve happened to her at the Joker’s hands.

Then there was the other daughter. Batman's illegitimate child, the youngest of the Waynes, no, the youngest of the Valfinsas, watching with tearful eyes from behind the bars as the family she grew up with held their blood daughter close. Leaving her alone.

The Joker just laughed, shoving the girl hard against the bars. -Hahaha! Looks like Batsy's got his favorites- he laughed louder. All the girl could do was stare through tearful eyes, praying, just once. for someone to turn around. To look at you.

-The Joker can wait. Priority is getting Serelith out of here- That’s what Dick said. The perfect big brother. Someone who, like her, had also been adopted. He handed Serelith a pill and a bottle of water. Carefully, they took Serelith away, leaving the building where the two of them had been held captive.Leaving you there. Not looking back. Not noticing you were missing.

The Joker let out a cold laugh, already getting ready to have fun with the new toy Bruce had left behind. -Don’t worry. I won’t take my eyes off you- he scoffed, looking right at you as you cried. How you wished you had gotten out of here, out of a place where no one ever looked at you.

You threw the comic across the bed, looking at it like it was the devil himself.

A few weeks ago, you'd decided to try reading comics to bond with your family. You'd once overheard Stephanie teasing Damian about reading and drawing manga, and maybe Tim might be into it too, right? After all, there are games based on comics. So, you spent your allowance on one, hoping it'd at least end with you arguing with Damian about the difference between manga and comics, or maybe Tim would recommend one based on one of his games.

You'd gone to a store after finishing your homeschooling session with Alfred, browsed a few comics, and then, suddenly, felt a strong bump against your side, right where your bag was hanging. When you looked down, you noticed three comics had fallen to the floor. You tried putting them back, but couldn’t figure out where they were supposed to go. With no other option, you looked for help from the clerk—who didn’t even bother to pay attention to you.

-Another kid trying to sneak in their hero stories? Listen, girl, you're not going to get famous just because someone randomly reads a comic drawn by a 12 years old-.

No matter how much you insisted they weren't yours, he didn't believe you. You got kicked out of the store. Great. But hey, at least you had three new comics to read for free! And not just any comics, they were about Gotham's great vigilante himself! Not exactly what you were going for, but maybe you'd get to connect with someone in your family by talking about the city's crime and its paper version.

You got back to Wayne Manor all excited, and started reading the three comics that had literally fallen from the sky.

And that's how you ended up here.

Batman: Bloodline. That was the name of the comic saga you just finished reading, the one that left a bitter taste in your mouth. At first, after reading the opening pages, you thought it was fake, a bad joke, some prankster who thought it would be hilarious to realistically draw the millionaire playboy dressed as a bat, acting as Gotham’s nocturnal hero. No wonder the shop clerk didn’t believe you. This probably wouldn’t help you get any closer to your brothers, but maybe if you showed it to Dick or Jason, they’d make fun of Bruce with you. So you kept reading.

But then all your siblings showed up, as the Robins and the Batgirls. And then you appeared. Not playing any role, not as a hero, just you. The daughter born from one of Bruce’s deepest loves, a model beautiful both inside and out, who had died just days after giving birth to you. A child who looked nothing like her mother, and even less like her father.

Everything was… eerily accurate. The mannerisms, the backstories, everyone’s personalities, they were spot on. Even the inside of the manor was a perfect match! You kept reading, uneasily, and that’s when she showed up: a girl with Bruce’s same stoic seriousness, and your mother’s same warmth. The drawing copied her features almost perfectly.

The comic was about her; Serelith. How she was found, as the original daughter. How she adapted to the family. And finally, how you and she were kidnapped by the Joker. How the family saved her. And left you behind.

You don’t want to believe it. Even if that girl crying behind the bars looked so much like you. Even if every detail lined up so perfectly. You didn’t want to believe that this family, the same one you beg and plead for even a crumb of love, forgot about you in such a horrible moment.

You hide the three comics under your pillow. You refuse to eat when Alfred calls for dinner, and you fake being asleep until the night falls.

You check the time on your phone, waiting for the right moment to come. You get up from bed and carefully make your way through the giant manor, until you’re standing in the same room where the old clock is. If it’s true, if they’re really Gotham’s vigilantes , they would notice immediately, and all of this will have been for nothing… or maybe they won’t even glance in your direction.

You didn’t see anyone for a few minutes from your hiding spot. You thought maybe they’d glanced in your direction, and were just waiting for you to leave.

Until you saw Tim, Zesti drink in hand, clear signs of sleeplessness under his eyes, dark circles, and wearing his Red Robin suit, walk up to the clock and set the time to 10:47. The same time as in the comic.

You felt your heart beating faster and faster. You wanted to cry just from seeing that time there, right in front of you. Mocking you.

You couldn’t take it anymore. You ran off, tripping over a few things along the way.

You got to your room and threw yourself into bed. You could feel the comics crinkle beneath your pillow as you laid your head down, just like your heart crumbled when you realized… that part of the comic was real. Which meant not only that you weren’t the daughter of that woman, but that all these years, and all the ones still to come, meant nothing to your family.

You feel the tears slowly forming in your eyes. You want to do something, think of a plan to avoid the day you end up in the Joker’s hands, but your mind is clouded. You try to sit up, feeling the anxiety course through your body. You need to start planning how to escape the Joker, how to live away from the Waynes. You don’t have time for whatever’s happening to you. Your trembling hand goes to search for the comics under your pillow, but it freezes when you hear someone knock on the door and then open it without waiting for an answer.

You turn to look at the entrance, finding Tim there, clearly exhausted. Your hands shift to clutch the sheets, gripping them tightly as you see Tim in his Red Robin suit standing in front of you.

Tim’s had a rough few days. He hasn’t slept well due to a case, and there’s a small crisis at Wayne Enterprises. He almost went without a shower for more than a week, he was close to breaking his own record. The lack of sleep made his instincts and everything he’s learned as a Robin falter. Even so, he insisted on going out tonight to look for clues. He got dressed and ready to leave with the others, and with a brain half-asleep, he didn’t realize something, or someone, was watching him as he was about to leave. Until he heard a noise that alerted him. By reflex, he turned to look and saw your smaller figure collide with a couch, then get up and keep running.

The sleep vanished in an instant, and on instinct, he ran after you, thinking about how he would convince you not to tell Bruce you’d seen him.

He opened the door without asking, just knocking out of courtesy, expecting to find you excited, shouting with joy at the discovery that your older brother was one of Gotham’s heroes. But instead, he saw you, breathing heavily, clutching the sheets tightly, crying.

You’ve always been sensitive, crying over the loss of your mother or because Bruce didn’t give you attention. He’d always agreed with Steph and Jason that you might be overreacting. Everyone in the family had lost someone, and it’s hard for Bruce to give more attention with so many kids and the mantle of Batman weighing on him. Even if you didn’t know the latest, you should be more patient. Besides, didn’t you have Damian keeping you company? And he was sure that at least once, you’d gone to the library with Babs…

Even though part of him thought you were exaggerating, the way you cried now, the way you trembled and avoided looking at him like he was a traitor, told him this time was different. And it made him feel something pressing inside of him.

He slowly approached the bed and sat next to you, studying you more carefully. You seemed to be on the verge of a panic attack. He tried calling your name to get your attention, but you didn’t respond.

Tim quickly thought about how to calm you down. You weren’t quite in the middle of an anxiety attack yet, so he might be able to stop it from escalating. He scanned your room, searching for something that might help him hold you steady.

…

Has your room always been this… empty? For being the daughter of a model and a millionaire, one would expect your room to be full of toys and luxuries. But it’s almost bare. There are a few things visible: misshapen cushions with exposed threads, a blanket of mismatched colors, and some decorations hanging from the shelves and walls, arranged from the ugliest to the most beautiful.

For your luck, he manages to spot a small blue plush dog on a shelf. He quickly grabs it and forces it into your smaller, more fragile hands.

– Squeeze – He orders. You obey. Your mind, at some point, kept replaying the comic's drawings, where they abandoned you, where the same person in front of you did nothing.

– Breathe with me, at least once, breathe – Tim's voice reaches your ears. By instinct, you follow, tightening the plush toy even more in your hands. The images slowly fade from your mind, what you felt could’ve been worse begins to vanish, and your tearful gaze meets a pair of blue eyes looking back at you with concern.

Tim feels a small relief inside him that you didn’t end up in a full-blown panic attack, but he's still worried about you. Why did finding out it was Red Robin cause that reaction? Why, all of a sudden, aren’t you looking at him with pleading eyes wanting attention, but instead, avoiding his gaze? The silence between you two forms slowly, becoming more noticeable, until you wipe away your tears. You summon strength to look at him and break the silence with a voice firm but trembling slightly.

–I won’t tell anyone you’re Red Robin… I promise… you can leave now – You didn’t feel like explaining to Tim that you found a comic from the future, you weren’t even sure he would believe you, or if he would listen.

He, on the other hand, was shocked. Were you kicking him out of your room? Was this your reaction to finding out he's Red Robin? Did you not care? What's wrong with you? He looked at you, still incredulous. Why were you acting like this all of a sudden? Or had you always been, and I just hadn’t paid enough attention to you? He replayed the events of the week in his mind, remembering that you once talked about going to buy comics, maybe like you tried to talk at dinner… dinner from… how long ago was that? He kept going over what he remembered, what could’ve triggered your near panic attack? Why weren’t you looking at him like before? And why, now that you did, was it with coldness and pain? Then it clicked. Maybe you heard his recent conversation with Jason? Both had mentioned what he talked about with Steph, how sometimes you cried too much and seemed exaggerated. Was that it? That was probably it, right? Maybe not the reason for your near anxiety crisis, but it was definitely why you wanted him out of your room. You didn’t want him to keep seeing you like this, did you? Well, he wasn’t the best at handling emotions, that was more Dick’s thing, but still, he couldn’t leave you emotionally constipated. They already had enough of that from Bruce, Jason, and Damian. So, he left your room, informed Bruce that he wouldn’t go out with them tonight, changed out of his suit into pajamas, and came back to your room. You looked at him confused. He didn’t blame you, he had never been close to you like this before, but now, he wanted to be. He wanted you to stop looking at him like that.

Thank God you took the opportunity when Tim left to move the comics. You couldn’t do much, just toss them under your bed. You were hoping he wouldn’t look there now that it seemed he wanted to sleep in your room. He lay next to you, and you gave him his space. You both stared at each other in silence for a few seconds, until he finally decided to break it.

–Are you okay?–

It was a simple question, short and direct, yet you just stared at the ceiling. Thinking about his question and everything else.

Some comics, from who knows where, revealed to you that this isn’t your biological family, that they’re also Gotham’s vigilantes, and that for a girl they’d known for only a few months, they abandoned you; To the daughter who, even if not by blood, had been part of the family all its life

Should you have seen it coming? Yes. Ever since you can remember, no one in this family has really worried about you, paid attention to you, or even looked at you. No parent events, no movie nights, nothing. You don’t have memories of anyone except Alfred giving you ice cream for every good grade on your tests.

Why were they different with you? More than half of the family doesn’t share blood, yet they still love and care for each other. Couldn’t you get just a little bit of that affection? What was different?

Was it because you took the place of your mother’s true daughter? Maybe they always felt like you didn’t belong, like you weren’t what they expected.

Serelith was the original, the real one. That’s why she earned their affection. That’s why everyone else cares about her. Not even your brothers… No, not even Bruce’s adopted sons or his two biological children lied. Only you. You were the only one who entered the family through a lie you never even told.

They’re detectives. Even if they don’t say anything or investigate, their instincts probably tell them you’re not who you’re supposed to be…

And now that you’ve confirmed the comics are real, it means you’re destined to suffer at the hands of the Joker.

In the comics, he finds out about Bruce’s “beloved” daughters, the only ones in the family who aren’t vigilantes, and kidnaps both of you. The family quickly comes up with a plan to search for you… to search for her. Bruce and the others completely forget you exist, leaving you at the mercy of one of Gotham’s worst criminals.

Were you okay? …No, you weren’t. Not while you remained in this family that doesn’t really feel like yours. What you want most now is to get out of here, for the Joker to never see you as Batman’s daughter, for no one to see you at all, until you’re far from where you never belonged. Only then would you be okay. But for now…

– Yeah, I’m fine – you answered, sounding a little too calm for Tim’s liking. He just sighed beside you and turned to face the other way. He couldn’t bear to look at you. Tomorrow, he’d make sure to finish the case and the situation at Wayne Enterprises as fast as possible, so he could focus entirely on figuring out what was going on with you. – Good night – Tim said as he tried to fall asleep. – Good night – you answered, turning your back to him as well, already thinking about how you’d make a plan tomorrow to leave this place as soon as possible.

This was supposed to be posted yesterday, but I had trouble concentrating and translating it into English. I’ll try to update this fic every Friday, or at least every two weeks if time allows. If for some reason I can’t stick to the two-week schedule (which probably means I have writer’s block and won’t be writing for a while), I’ll let you know. I’ll probably update on Ao3 first because the fanfic was originally written in my native language, and I’m posting everything there in its original form, in case anyone wants to check it out. On another note, I wonder if anyone will notice that the section dividers are different, one has Batfam and Philomel images in the background, and the other is empty…

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@lettucel0ver @sirenetheblogger

[kxsagi]

HEYY I LOVED bllk characters when their gf says they'll sleep on the couch after an argument fanfic can you write about when u tell bllk boys to sleep on the couch after an argumenttttt

Feel free to ignore<3

“𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 😭”

a/n: thank you!!! post where gf! reader says she’ll sleep on the couch is here

ft. itoshi rin, isagi yoichi, itoshi sae, kaiser michael, mikage reo, nagi seishiro, shidou ryusei, bachira meguru, karasu tabito, ness alexis, otoya eita, aiku oliver

itoshi rin

"sleep on the couch." 

he just blinks. you could tell him to sleep on a battlefield and he’d still look at you with the same amount of passive aggression. 

“fine.” 

but that night? loudest passive aggressive sighs ever. every three minutes. 

you hear him dramatically shifting the blanket like he’s trying to fold a parachute. 

he keeps walking back and forth to the kitchen so you see him being miserable. 

eventually stands by the door like a sad victorian ghost until you break and call him back in. 

“i knew you’d miss me.” 

you throw a pillow at him and he smiles. 

isagi yoichi

you say it and this man is like 🧍 “... really?” 

tries to reason with you like it’s a team huddle. 

“okay i know i messed up but can we have a second half? maybe a redo? golden goal?” 

ends up quietly walking to the couch like he’s been benched. 

lays there with his arms crossed like he’s been wrongfully imprisoned. 

keeps refreshing your shared photos on his phone like it's going to heal him. 

the second you walk out for water, he gives you the biggest puppy eyes. 

you sigh and drag him back, and he’s like “thanks love, i was gonna get a cramp i swear.” 

itoshi sae

you tell him to sleep on the couch and he just shrugs. 

"kinda comfier anyway." 

oh. OH. you are fuming. 

he absolutely does it on purpose to make you more annoyed. 

but lowkey he's checking the bedroom door every five minutes to see if you'll come out. 

eventually sends you a text from the living room like: "come argue with me again. i miss your face when you're mad." 

you don’t respond. 

20 minutes later he peeks into the room, lays half of his body on the bed like a cat, and goes: “what if we… didn’t fight and made out instead?”

kaiser michael

"sleep on the couch." 

"haha. that's cute. you're joking." 

when you glare, he laughs, nervously. 

he starts walking toward the couch like he's headed to the electric chair. 

dramatically flops down, limbs splayed like a fallen protagonist. 

“i hope you're happy. you've separated a king from his throne.” 

texts you from ten feet away: "thinking of you. missing you. dying slowly. xoxo." 

at 3 AM, you wake up to find him curled up by the door like a golden retriever. 

“schatz, this floor is emotional torture. please.” 

mikage reo

he actually looks offended that you’d even suggest it. 

“me? on the couch? do you know how many beds i own?” 

but still does it with a dramatic sigh and a blanket over his head like a sulky prince. 

orders room service to the living room like he's at a hotel. 

sends you snapchats from the couch: "me, alone, heartbroken, eating soufflé." 

at 2 AM, he's in bed with you again like nothing happened. 

“sorry. i had a nightmare that you hated me. oh wait.” 

nagi seishiro

"... do i have to?" 

pouts like a child. lays on the couch with a big sigh, blanket halfway on, limbs dangling. 

sleeps for five minutes. comes back and lays next to the bed like a cat. 

mumbles something like, “if i’m close enough, it still counts, right?” 

you cave after ten minutes and pat the bed. 

he flops in without a word and wraps himself around you. 

“arguments suck. sleep is better.” 

shidou ryusei

laughs when you tell him. 

“damn, so i really pissed you off, huh? you sound kinda hot when you're angry.” 

does not go to the couch. 

instead, lays down on the floor beside the bed. 

“i’ll sleep here. like a punished puppy. see if you can resist this tragic scene.” 

at some point, starts fake-snoring obnoxiously loud on purpose. 

“babe i’m gonna get scoliosis. let me in.” 

you hit him with a pillow, but he grins. 

and ends up in the bed anyway, arms and legs wrapped around you like a koala. 

bachira meguru

gasps like you slapped him. 

“not the COUCH!! my mortal enemy!!!” 

drags himself there like he’s acting out a shakespearean tragedy. 

sends you dramatic selfies with captions like "farewell, cruel bedroom." 

makes a blanket fort and names it “meguru’s heartbreak castle.” 

sings sad songs until you peek out. 

“oh look! my favorite person! wanna join my castle of sorrow?” 

you roll your eyes but smile, and you end up under the couch fort with him, cuddled up and giggling. 

karasu tabito

you say “sleep on the couch” and he just stares at you for a second. 

then dramatically clutches his chest like “ouch. my favorite girl just assassinated me.” 

“how am i supposed to live, laugh, love in these conditions?” 

makes a whole production of walking to the couch. robe on, hood up, slippers squeaking. 

literally throws himself on it with a groan. “RIP karasu tabito, died of neglect.” 

keeps loudly fake-crying into a pillow like he’s in a telenovela until you yell at him to shut up. 

immediately perks up: “you miss me?” 

crawls back to bed and goes “thanks babe, i hated that.” 

ness alexis

freezes. short-circuits. like you just said the world’s most horrible sentence. 

“... the couch?” with puppy eyes. 

starts trying to fix things IMMEDIATELY. pulling out tea, snacks, compliments, an apology powerpoint. 

“i didn’t mean it like that. you’re always right. even when you’re wrong, you’re right.” 

but when he realizes you’re serious, he grabs a pillow and makes a little sad pile on the couch. 

“it’s okay… i deserve this…” (said in a sniffly mouse voice). 

you check on him and he’s sitting upright, staring into space like he’s been emotionally waterboarded. 

you give in after 20 minutes. he doesn’t even smirk, he just clings to you with teary eyes like “never again please.” 

otoya eita

“couch? oh baby, you’re kicking me out again? kinky.” 

you glare. he holds his hands up, backing off, still grinning. 

flops dramatically on the couch with the energy of a rom-com male lead post-breakup. 

“what are you gonna do without me over there? miss me? dream of me?” 

still manages to flirt from across the apartment. texts you: “thinking about you. and your legs. mostly your legs.” 

ends up sweet-talking his way back into bed by whispering apologies and kissing your hand like some tragic prince. 

“c’mon, i learned my lesson. also, the couch is bad for my back. and my heart.” 

aiku oliver

laughs when you tell him. “damn, you’re really mad, huh?” 

goes along with it, but not without a fight. 

“you sure you’ll be able to sleep without your personal heater slash bodyguard slash boyfriend?” 

turns the living room into a man cave. turns on soccer replays. 

but when he realizes you’re actually not coming out, he shuts everything off and just lays there in silence like a sad old man. 

eventually walks back in, shirtless, arms crossed: “look. this is stupid. i’d rather be next to you than be right.” 

and you’re like “whoa whoa since when are you mature?” 

he grins, climbs back in, and mumbles into your neck: “just for you.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[boy-interrupted98]

Meanwhile:

Chapter VII: The Pathless Path

Direction is addiction. Purpose is propaganda. The sacred lies in the step—not in where it lands.

The obsession with destination is a form of fear. It clings to outcomes, goals, measurable arrival. But the deepest truths cannot be reached. They can only be moved through. The pathless path does not lead. It accompanies.

Taoism teaches wu wei: effortless action, movement without force. Camus gives us Sisyphus, not as punishment, but as affirmation—rolling the stone without need for meaning beyond the doing. Pilgrimage in its truest form is not about the shrine. It is about being walked by the road.

To embrace the pathless is not nihilism. It is attention without control. It is reverence without grasping. Let the journey disorient. Let the wanderer remain unclaimed.

Parable:

A wanderer crosses deserts, forests, cities. People ask: “What are you seeking?” She smiles, but never answers. Years pass. One day, a child follows her, barefoot. After many miles, the child asks, “What happens if we stop?” She replies, “We’ll still be walking. Only without our feet.”

Philosophical Opposition Note (Chapter VII)

Teleological systems — for reducing existence to goals.

Rationalists — for demanding justification for motion.

Moral progressivists — for tying value to linear ascent.

Echo:

Taoists — for honoring motion without motive.

Camus — for dignifying absurd movement.

Mystics and pilgrims — for walking with no end but walking.

[cantgetworsethanthistbh]

fun thing ive never seen anyone else point out but is a neat detail:

ford is very physically incapable of watching stan leave. in all instances of stan "leaving", ford does what he can to physically look away which includes closing the curtains when stan gets kicked out

turning his back like a melancholic hero forced to push his beloved away after he tasked stan to get rid of the journal and just assuming stan listened (always thought it was weird he just. turned like this to stan after telling him to sail away until i realized what he was trying to do lmao)

when he got his big man feelings hurt by stan telling him hes no longer family after ford planned to kick him out (yes he has issues)

and my personal favorite which needs no explanation

i'd chalk it up to coincidences that he has a habit of turning his back or closing his eyes whenever this happens, but it happens too many times for it to not feel purposeful imo. call it dramatic protagonism or supression of abandonment issues, its definitely interesting how much ford cant stand to look at stan "leaving" him, especially since. you know. he's the og leaver between them 😭

[tikitakatia]

Under Watch — A. Putellas x Reader

"You´re Late"

WC: 1.4k

Summary: You’re hired to protect her but she’s reckless, untouchable, and wants nothing to do with you.

The first time you met her was in a hallway.

She’s already late. Cleats in one hand, hoodie slung low, hair still damp from the shower. She’s got that just-finished-practice glow: skin flushed, breath still a little quick, body loose in a way that says she just spent an hour tearing up the field.

She doesn’t look dangerous. But she is.

Not in the way your briefing warned about, no wild-eyed stalkers or coded threats here. Not yet. She’s dangerous in the way she moves like nothing can touch her. Like if the building crumbled around her, she’d walk out of the dust without a scratch. There’s a kind of recklessness in her that doesn’t read as careless, it reads as power.

She stops a few paces from you and looks you up and down. That’s intentional. Every part of her is practiced, the cock of her head, the slow drag of her eyes, the way she lets the silence stretch just a little too long before she speaks.

“You’re the bodyguard?” she says, unimpressed on purpose.

You nod once.

She sighs. Loud. Theatrical. “This is ridiculous.”

Another nod. Slower this time.

You don’t explain yourself. That’s not your job.

She mutters something under her breath and turns away. Her voice follows her as she walks.

“What do they think is gonna happen? I trip over a ball and need saving?”

You follow. Quietly. That part is your job.

She slouches in her seat during the security briefing like she’s doing the club a favor just by being there. One foot up on the table, twirling a pen between her fingers, face locked in that unimpressed athlete expression she wears like armor.

The head of security goes over it all again. The notes. The photos. The fact that one of them was left on her locker and no one saw who did it. Another showed up two days later. No fingerprints. Just words. Messy, threatening, graphic.

Too many people know where she trains, where she eats, where she lives. Too many eyes on her at all times. She’s high-profile. Always careful with her words. Polished. Politically correct. She knows how to play the media game and never slips, at least not publicly. But lately, someone’s been trying to push her off balance and get under her skin.

You’re not assigned to investigate. You’re there to be the barrier. The buffer. The human shield.

She doesn’t look at you once during the meeting. But she knows you’re watching.

At lunch, she sits two tables away with her teammates. Tosses her head back in a laugh that’s too loud, too staged. 

Then leans into the physio and says, “She stares too much.”

The physio glances at you. You don’t blink.

You’re not trying to intimidate her. Not consciously. But you don’t look away either. You’re paid to see everything.

She bites into an apple and smiles like she’s won something.

That evening, she tries the back gate. You don’t need cameras to know it. You already clocked her angle the second she cut out of the hallway with her phone pressed too casually to her ear.

You’re leaning against the car by the time she gets there.

She halts and doesn’t bother to hide her frustration. Instead, she frowns like a teenager caught sneaking out past curfew.

“Do you ever take breaks?” she asks.

You say nothing. Just open the passenger door and wait.

She slides in, arms crossed. No seatbelt. You don’t start the engine. You wait.

The silence stretches. Long enough for her to shift in her seat. Tap her fingers on her thigh. Glance your way once. Twice.

Twenty-three seconds, you count.

“Okay, what, is this your way of interrogating me?”

Still, you don’t respond.

She mutters under her breath, clicks her seatbelt into place.

The engine starts.

She doesn’t speak for the rest of the ride. But when she gets out, she slams the door just hard enough to make a point.

The first real conversation happens on day four.

She’s supposed to be at a press junket. You find her in the equipment room, legs swinging off a crate, scrolling her phone like she’s waiting for the universe to give her an excuse to skip it entirely.

“You’re late,” you say.

She doesn’t look up. “It’s boring.”

“You have a schedule.”

She shrugs. “So adjust it.”

You don’t move.

She lets the silence drag for a while before finally looking at you. Really looking.

“Do you ever lighten up? Pareces mi sombra.” she says the nickname slowly, as if trying to see how she likes the feel of it in her mouth.

You sigh. Not loud. Not annoyed. Just… necessary.

She grins. Slow and sharp. “That’s a yes.”

From that moment on, you’re Sombrita.

She uses it everywhere. Says it with a smirk, like it’s an inside joke only she’s in on. She teases you with it in front of the others. Whispers it under her breath as she walks past.

You don’t correct her.

She knows your coffee order by the end of the week even though you never told her. Hands it to you without fanfare one morning. Just a paper cup and a look. Like she’s waiting for something to break.

It doesn’t. Not on the outside.

She wanders into a crowd of fans, photographers and noise. You’re beside her before she realizes she’s drifted too far.

She veers off schedule. You’re at the next checkpoint without a word.

Eventually, she starts pretending you don’t exist. But narrates your presence like it’s a game.

“And here comes mi sombrita,” she says once, as you appear in a doorway.

“Silently judging my existence.”

Her teammates laugh. She watches you from the corner of her eye.

You never laugh back.

The third time she tries to ditch you, it’s raining.

She slips out a side door after training, hoodie pulled up, steps quiet. Like she’s testing you again.

You find her half a block away, hands jammed in her pockets, shoulders hunched.

You reach out, catch her arm. Gentle, but firm.

“Don’t.”

She startles, pulls back.

“Jesus. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“You’re not cleared to leave alone.”

“I’m going to get coffee.”

“Take me with you.”

She scoffs. “I’m not five.”

You hold her gaze. Calm. Unflinching.

“I know.”

Something in your tone slows her down. Makes her look at you like she’s seeing you for the first time.

She doesn’t argue again.

You’ve guarded politicians, CEOs, criminals with targets on their backs. You’ve been shot at, stalked, followed.

None of them ever looked at you like this.

Like they’re waiting for you to crack. Like they want to know what’s behind the armor.

You avoid reacting. That’s protocol.

She makes it difficult.

You’re at your usual post in the lobby when she appears beside you without a sound.

"Ever wonder if you’re the threat?" she asks, eyes fixed ahead.

You turn your head. She’s closer than she should be. Close enough to count her lashes.

“Every day,” you say.

You step back before she can respond.

For once, she doesn’t have a comeback.

Two weeks in, she pushes too far.

It’s post-match chaos. Adrenaline. She’s been fouled hard, and it shows. She barrels past you, muttering curses under her breath, knocks over a table full of water bottles. The PR team flinches.

You follow. Not too close. Just enough.

She stops. Spins on you.

“You gonna give me a time-out now?”

You don’t answer.

“Maybe call my mom? Tell her I’m being difficult?”

Still silent.

“Seriously Sombra, what’s the endgame here? You gonna follow me into the shower next?”

You cross your arms. Don’t flinch.

She storms past. “Fuck you.”

Your voice follows her. Low. Steady.

“I don’t care if you like me. I care if you stay alive.”

She stops mid-step and the hallway holds its breath.

“I don’t need saving.” She says quietly.

You say nothing.

This time, she walks away slower.

You don’t follow right away.

The next morning, she strolls into training like nothing happened. Yawns too loud. Tosses a ball toward your feet like it’s a peace offering disguised as mockery.

You pick it up. Toss it back.

No words.

She grins like she won something.

Maybe she did.

She disappears after a match. For thirty minutes, your pulse climbs by degrees. You check every room. Sweep the perimeter. Quiet panic simmering under your skin.

You find her outside. Alone on a bench. Hoodie pulled up, headphones in, eyes closed.

You sit beside her. Not close. Just there.

She doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t move.

“You’re late,” she murmurs.

You sigh.

Of course she notices.

[karl-von-moor-official]

Recently had this exact conversation with a fellow neurodivergent friend:

"But ever since I've been able to recognise my masking behaviours and been trying to mask less, I realise how..."

"How much that sucks? How much easier it is to fit in when you're masking?"

"Yes! Like, that was the whole point of masking!"

"Yeah, and even though it's exhausting, it's either that or behaving socially awkward."

"Exactly! Before I knew that I was masking, I could at least pretend everything was fine. I wanna go back!"

We both laughed at this, for some reason. Probably from the relief of being understood.

It's weird, this phenomenon, but also very obviously going to happen. If you were masking for a reason, and then you stop masking, the reason won't have gone away. You'll get people telling you how you've changed and that you're faking or being weird about getting a diagnosis.

And then, you'll have other people telling you that "you don't need to mask around me, I'm safe!" Even though those people usually mean well, it's not actually that easy. You can't just switch the mask on and off, it's so internalised.

(For example, I've come to realise that I only unmask around people when I don't have any other option anymore. When I'm so exhausted, I just have to either leave the social setting or let people see me at my lowest. Only once a person has seen me in this unmasked, burnt-out state - not by my choice, but because I couldn't hold it together any longer and they happened to be around - only then can I start to unmask on purpose in their presence. And only if they reacted in a kind manner, of course. Only once I've made the experience that they're actually safe.)

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that masking isn't necessarily always bad, or rather you needn't feel bad for it, it doesn't make you a liar or a fraud, unmasking isn't easy, hating yourself for unmasking isn't healthy but also kinda normal, because unmasking often comes with a bit of an identity crisis, and talking to other neurodivergent people about these problems? HELPS LOADS! Just being understood in that struggle is so relieving. That's why I wanted to share the conversation. You're not alone. <3

My doctor and therapist: now with this autism + ADHD diagnosis you need to learn to unmask because masking all the time will make you burn out again and feel like shit

Other people: well it's just interesting how after getting the diagnosis you suddenly start behaving like that I mean I'm not saying you're faking it's just funny how you suddenly cannot be normal like you were before

[chimerafeathers]

you know what i think Mirabelle deserves to get a little fucked up freaky in how she processes learning about Siffrin’s loops post-canon. for fun. as a treat

thinking about this line in particular and stretching out the implications like taffy

this is a more romanticized, cutesy facet of her interests but she’s still framing Siffrin’s situation through storytelling. so like. What If.

i mean. this woman loves horror and gore and monsters and horrible things happening to innocent people. IN FICTION. in fiction!!! obviously!!!! and it’s beyond terrible that something even remotely close to any of that happened to her real friend in real life!!

BUT.

maybe. maybe sometimes, if the conditions are right, she gets a little too wrapped up in her imagination about the bloody, awful poetry of it all. maybe Siffrin tells a joke that's a little too dark and gory for anyone else, borderline or full-on Concerning, but she latches onto it without thinking about the Implications and plays along with increasing gruesomeness because FINALLYYYYY someone will play with her in the Horror Space (like Isabeau does in the romance space!!) and then. OOPS. the implications!!!! and she has to recalibrate out of Fun With Fiction mode into Oh No, My Friend Underwent A Horrifying Ordeal mode.

but being able to joke about things, even the awful things, is...kind of comforting, to Siffrin. makes them feel less like they're being babied and pitied and more like what happened was something...normal, almost? something that doesn't have to feel like the end of the world all over again every time it's mentioned, at least. so he tries to reassure her, and Odile and Isabeau have to go “actually can you PLEASE not joke about dying horribly it’s freaking us out and also might not be the Best for you? mentally???”

maybe Mirabelle will get a little Too Into trying to weave meaning and symbolism into the scant details that Siffrin gradually reveals, like she’s trying to finish the orange poem all over again, or eagerly meddling with the romantic reunion of the two actual people in the House with undelivered bonding earrings, writing their story for them without their input.

it’s easier to justify the tragedy of it all when it has a purpose, isn’t it? finding the beauty in the darkness, the love powerful enough to end the world. romanticizing the horrors until her friend can talk about them without shutting down.

and she feels guilty about hearing something and immediately thinking “ohhhhhhh this is JUST like Blorbo From My Novels,” because she should treat Siffrin’s situation with the gravity and care he deserves!! they’re a real person, not a character who exists for entertainment, to represent the ~themes~ of some story.

but if she admits as much…maybe Siffrin is safe to admit that he had started seeing the rest of them as actors, endlessly reciting their lines. maybe that’s just how people process things sometimes, grasping for metaphors when unfiltered reality gets to be too much. maybe it’s okay to talk about that part of it all, too.

[district-thirteen-intern]

Katniss Everdeen says Peeta wanted kids. I say Katniss Everdeen is a dirty little liar who spent three books projecting baby fever onto the softest man alive while denying it so hard she almost gaslit herself.

And because I'm tired of arguing that Peeta didn't force Katniss to have kids, here's my probable version of what went down:

baby fever, but make it apocalyptic — everlark

it starts when delly has a baby

and katniss gets to hold it and it squeaks

her uterus literally tingles

cue immediate panic

she hands it back like it burned her

and then she immediately goes outside to shoot at squirrels until the feeling goes away

except—

(it doesn't really go away)

the next two weeks are a torture

"not everyone deserves to be a parent"

"what if they cry a lot"

"what if they're angry like me"

"what if they're allergic to bread"

"what if our child hates me"

"what if our child hates peeta"

no

no one can hate peeta

"but what if—"

it's exhausting

she steers clear of delly and her spawn the next few days

it doesn't work

her nightmares take a strange turn

she sees herself carrying a baby through the woods as she hunts

the baby giggles

another baby sits on the kitchen counter

with peeta's eyes and peeta's face

in matching aprons as peeta

and ugh—

she almost misses the mutts

anyway, she reorganizes the pantry

alphabetizes the herbs

knits something she insists is a herb pouch

but it's suspiciously baby-sized

eventually, it gets too much

and peeta is not helping

he's holding delly's baby when she visits him at the bakery

the baby is laughing

well, fuck

her whole resolve crumbles

he's making bread

she blurts, "your forearms are nice"

"thanks?"

"mm, they would be good for carrying things"

peeta raises a brow

"heavy things— like... sacks"

"sacks."

"or— like, baskets."

katniss is embarassed

peeta is visibly confused

and haymitch—

haymitch is dying of laughter

"did you know babies can't see color for weeks?"

"katniss."

"i just wanted to share a fact."

"katniss."

"it didn't mean anything. shut up."

and then she starts knitting a tiny hat

“is that for delly’s baby?”

"no."

"a friend’s baby?”

"no.”

"...katniss.”

peeta has suspicions

and they're confirmed when he finds her journal open to a page

titled: NAMES FOR HYPOTHETICAL BABY

Ember

Rue Rue ❤

Bread Jr.

NOT GALE

it ends like this—

Peeta, eventually: “Do you want to have ki—”

“YES”

“i didn’t even finish the word”

"i mean... i will if I have to, if you want too much... i mean i want to if you want to, i mean— because i love you so much."

“are you sure?”

“are you sure?”

"uh huh”

oh.

katniss blinks

"wait— that's it?"

"katniss, i've been waiting for you to stop glitching long enough to bring it up.”

she punches his arm

he laughs

haymitch starts prepping a baby-proof survival kit

no one dares ask what's in it

nine months later—

the baby is just as beautiful as she imagined

good thing peeta convinced her to have babies, really

i know it's exaggerated for comedy purposes but this is really not that far from the course of events i imagine happened— katniss is an expert at gaslighting herself after all— and I hope you liked it.

please don't forget to like, comment, and reblog if you liked it. and lmk if you'd be interested in being added to a tag list.

[cozycottagetarot]

Where You Bloom Bold

Links: Reading Masterlist | Ko-Fi | Personal Readings - open

About This Reading:

This reading is a sample from my latest offering on Patreon and marks the beginning of a new chapter over on my new blog, The Enchanted Chapter (@theenchantedchapter). Cozy Cottage Tarot isn’t going anywhere! I’ll still reblog new readings here, but from now on, all new posts will go up first on the new blog.

I’d love for you to follow along and step into this next dreamy chapter with me 🦋

Elle x

The focus is on where in your life you are currently playing small. The full version includes how you can begin to change that and how or where it will help you bloom.

Just so you know, I read tarot and oracle cards using their literal meanings, card imagery and intuition. These readings are primarily meant for entertainment purposes. The contents of this reading are not meant to act as or replace professional advice of any kind. Please only take what resonates and use it to reflect if you feel called to.

Decks Used: White Numen Tarot, The Citadel Oracle, The Deadly Apothecary Oracles, Seasons of The Witch Lammas Oracle

How to Choose A Group:

Take a deep breath or ground yourself in whatever way works best. Whatever option you feel most drawn to is your group. If you feel drawn to multiple groups, that’s okay too.

Read the section that belongs to your chosen group/s and remember to take only what resonates.

🌿 Roots & Reckoning

I did ramble a bit since you were my first group 😅

Where you’re currently playing small…

Cards: ten of wands, six of swords, page of swords, the captain, the champion, the puppeteer

It seems like you’re on a journey of moving from one chapter of your life into a new one. This transition has been one you’ve been waiting for for a long time. There are all sorts of emotions attached to it, good and bad, but the issue isn’t that these emotions exist; it’s that they are heavy. They are heavy, and you’ve become so entangled in them that you might not even be able to recognise where you begin and these feelings end. But you’re at a point in your life where, as you move into this next chapter, you have to put these feelings down. I think this is something you’ve been working hard towards. You’ve stepped up and become someone who could navigate all the hardships that life threw at you, one after the other. Help might have been limited or nonexistent during these times.

You’re moving from being burdened to being full of joy, excitement and happiness. You’ve got all these new ideas of what good/positive things can happen for you in the future. You’re finally getting the chance to explore who you are unfiltered and what way of expressing yourself feels right.

So, how does this tie into how you’re playing small?

When you were navigating these responsibilities, struggles, whatever you choose to call them, you were on your own to carry them, but you weren’t alone. You carried these weights alone because there was no one to lean on, or you felt like you couldn’t. The specific cause of it had to do with your relationship with working with others. Maybe others didn’t acknowledge how much effort you were putting in. Maybe you didn’t ask for help. Maybe you did, but no one came to your aid.

Despite this, you worked towards an achievement of some kind. An achievement that allowed you to move from one chapter to the next. However, it feels like you’re holding yourself back and playing small in terms of how you celebrate this win and embrace the next part of your story with open arms.

You’re not giving yourself the full credit you deserve for not only this win, but how hard you’ve worked to get there. It feels like you’re trying to downplay it.  It’s like you’re afraid of what people will have to say if you embrace this next chapter boldly. Like you feel the need to apologise for evolving as a human, for finding happiness. There’s nothing to apologise for. This is your win. You can have gratitude for any help you received, and you can feel resentment toward the fact that you may not have received any. But release any feelings and obligations.

If you like this sample and you want to read the full reading, you can access it through my Patreon here. ✨

🍯 Thorns & Honey

Where you’re currently playing small…

Cards: the magician, ace of swords, queen of wands, the patron, the thief, the diviner

Honey, you are magic in all the best ways possible, but it’s like you refuse to let it be. You’ve either had or are on the cusp of having some kind of mental breakthrough, and it feels like this could be regarding something that has the potential to be big. The ideas won’t stop coming, and it’s almost like everything is finally falling into place. But the thing about having these ideas is that simply holding on to them in your head isn’t enough. You have to be willing to actually see them grow and bloom in the world outside your head.

I think you’re every bit capable of seeing this idea manifest in your reality, and I think that you know you’re capable of it too. The problem is it’s almost like you’re afraid of your own power. You’re familiar with the idea of “with great power comes great responsibility”, and the responsibility of it is what is getting to you. This could be because you don’t feel ready, you don’t know how to start, or maybe you’re worried that if you try to assert yourself as an authority or someone capable of executing your idea that you will be being dishonest in some way. You’re not, and you won’t.

You have this vibrant, magnetic energy around you. Your ability to create and be creative is at a high for you right now. However, you’re playing small by not having the (full) confidence and belief in yourself. Maybe you have a fear of being seen, or you’re afraid of success and the attention and demand that would follow, so you play small in an attempt to stay in what is familiar.

I think that you’re leaving things to divine timing and intervention. But you haven’t done enough work yet to say what happens next is out of your hands. This breakthrough is your opportunity that you must grab onto with both hands before you claim to let fate do the work. You have to start paving your way. I’ve been pondering how ‘the patron’ ties into this. Originally, I was going to say this idea could have to do with you starting some type of endeavour that involves mentoring or coaching others on a certain topic. If that resonates with you, then by all means, take it as a confirmation. But what I really think this card is trying to highlight is that you’re playing small by telling yourself you need more experience. Once you have more experience, then you’ll be ready to go to the next phase… but you have everything you need to bloom right now.

If you like this sample and you want to read the full reading, you can access it through my Patreon here. ✨

🌹 Roses & Rust

You’re my more straightforward group so keep in mind that the messages are a bit shorter because you’re mainly doing what you need to be doing.

Where you’re currently playing small…

Cards: four of cups, the hermit, seven of swords, the dancer, the muse, the catalyst, the sentinel

I don't feel like you're playing small, but I do feel like you're standing still. You strike me as someone who likes to make sure you can navigate your internal and external world as swiftly and seamlessly as possible. Because of that, it feels like right now, you're more focused on reflecting, trying to map out the pros and cons of what paths and opportunities are available to you at the moment.

There is a possibility that you're afraid of ruffling feathers, and if that's the case, then I feel like that's where you're playing small. You're denying yourself the opportunity — and the right — to fully explore your options on your own terms, without worrying about what other people have to say or think about it.

The energy here feels very muted. It's as if the cards are pointing towards a disconnection from yourself, and that’s what’s coming through now. You're usually someone who's more optimistic — a lover, a romantic of life in general, not just of people. But for some reason, you’re keeping yourself closed off in your external world, and as a result, it’s creating stagnancy internally too.

You're playing small by not embracing your inner dreamer — that lively, vibrant spirit that lives within you. You have to free yourself of this, because it is time for you to change. Something in your life is ready to shift.

By not making any moves, by closing yourself off, you’re actually stopping the very changes you might be hoping for from happening. It’s time for you to shake things up on purpose. Let change be your intention, not something that happens to you.

Rather than change pulling you away from the things you want or are working towards, it might just be the thing that brings you even closer to them.

Maybe you’ve experienced some kind of betrayal recently, possibly in the last few months — and that’s what’s caused this shutdown. If you’ve been searching for inner guidance and it’s felt absent, that could be a strong reason why.

If you like this sample and you want to read the full reading, you can access it through my Patreon here. ✨

[the-bi-fangirl-biatch]

more headcanons for then that i just *cannot* stop thinking about, and I encourage you to add on!

Bob will always check on them during missions or press ops in very different ways to each person (potential for a 5 times + 1 fic ofc). either voice mails, texts through different platforms, letters (Bucky especially appreciates them), photos of what new meal prep they're gonna come home to. Very domestic, like a spouse waiting for their partner to come home from the war.

And another thing, I think Bob would get really into stationery. He'd bullet journal as one of his techniques to cope with what's happened. Yelena would say she has absolutely no time to do that, but then spend hours at his desk, poking and prodding at his newly delivered stationery. "What’s this do?" "That's a rolling stamp to make borders. See? It's pretty and really easy." "Can I try?" She fumbles it at first, but once she aligns it right, she refuses to stop. All his extra paper has rolls of the stamp. She writes Nat's name with it, then hers, then Bob's, then the teams'. It makes them both feel better to create and organize things rather than destroy them.

Ava will unironically wear Alexei's merch. At first she found it annoying, like 'come on man how many ideas do you have?' And then it turns into 'oh shit, how many ideas do you have?' Alexei would run things by the team and when they roll their eyes at the new product, he'd say, "But Ava used it! See, useful!" She defends herself by insisting that, "It was already there! One less thing to think about so we can focus on more important missions." "Are you using the AvengerZ plate and utensil set?" ".....No"

John still cannot shake his military habits, no matter how hard he tries, and everyone surprisingly connects with him through them one way or another. He wakes up at the asscrack of dawn to jog, and somehow Bucky's there, too, tying his sneakers about to go out. They have a race. Don't ask either of them who wins, or they get grumpy (they both got distracted and ran into trees/ran into a fountain and both got wet). Yelena cannot be assed to heat up the (amazingly made) mac and cheese that Bob stocked up for them, so she eats it straight out of the tupperware. John's hungry too and, well, he's used to roughing it up with little to no supplies in the field, so he eats the cold pasta beside her. He catches Ava rolling her clothes quickly after a load of laundry and shows her how to roll them more efficiently, even doing the little tucking to keep the folds together. An don't get me started on him and Alexei testing their strength with arm wrestling. They've broken many a table with that.

He's also probably great at organization. You don't become a tactical leader for nothing! He and Bob would have an intricate shared Excel sheet of what the tower needs. Neither of them know how to use Excel the best, though, so they both try random formulas and see which works best. They refuse to google, thinking 'it can't be that hard!' Basically two dumb bitches telling each other exactlyyyyy while the entire column has an error.

Bucky and Ava absolutely debate about the most useless things. Like, not in the 'strategic mission planning' type that he and Yelena usually do (although Ava's got a say in strategy too). More like non controversial things, like if cereal was a soup, or if hotdogs are a sandwich, or if you should put water on the toothbrush before or after toothpaste. They get extremely heated about it, and Bucky enjoys the lighthearted discussions amidst the seriousness. John (like the asshole he is) will purposely say something so unhinged just to throw them both off. "I don't put it on my toothbrush—I squeeze it directly into my mouth." And boom, they have a common enemy. Punches have been thrown over this.

They take home magnets of every country/city/state/etc they visit for the tower's fridge. Doesn't matter if it's tacky or loud, they *have* to collect them. Alexei particularly likes the ones that double as bottle openers.

Bucky is banned from the kitchen. He tries to cook with Bob once, and even his mild temper is snapped with endless eye rolls and yelps from sauces being flung around. He's also not allowed to use the dishwasher there (something about cross contamination), so he just sneaks out and does it in the middle of the night. One time, Yelena caught him waiting for it with the Tired Grandpa™️ pose and they get into a staring contest. Then she slowly adds one of her knives to it and they both wait and see if it gets clean. (It does.)

They all bond over hair. They're mostly assassins, operatives, military, experiments, or wayward people, so of course, they know how to cut their own hair. But to let another person get close to you with something sharp? That kind of trust takes longer to build. They start with sharing hairties, always having an extra on their wrist in case someone needed one. Then, they get hair products on Valentina's dime. There's always a new package waiting for them. Another curl cream or hair mask. Then, they abuse the hair appliances that were bought for them like straighteners, blowdriers, and curlers. Then slowly, cutting each other's hair.

YES the Thunderbolts have a fantastic team as family dynamic, yes they are living in Avengers tower, yes history is repeating itself and 2012 tower fics are so back. BUT!

instead of "Alexei eating poptarts" or "Yelena in the vents", we must come up with new headcanons and make history

Bob always does normal domestic chores, often getting in the way of important missions and spy business. "All I'm saying is Bucky is our best sniper" "It would be a much quieter assassination if I just slipped into the condo and cut his—" "Hey sorry guys, anyone have laundry? I'm doing a load"

Yelena and her guinea pig always eat meals together at the dining table. Everyone has their Chinese food or barbeque, meanwhile the rodent is loudly munching on a salad right beside them

Bucky is the mom and always keeps them on track. "Ava you have a dentist appointment in the morning, and bring Bob so they can add him to the insurance. Lena how was therapy? Alexei, I said no vodka until dinner"

Alexei is always coming up with new promotional ideas for the team. Cartoon tv show, cereal, toothpaste flavour...every day he thinks he's come up with the next big thing. Whenever they actually get put into production (Wheaties) he collects and saves it, and won't let anyone use a different product. (He threw out Yelena's frosted flakes and it took both Bucky and John to get her to stop attacking him)

Ava likes to phase and sneak attack her teammates at random. She claims it's for training but really she just thinks it's funny hearing them scream

John gets blamed for everything, even if it isn't his fault. Especially if it isn't his fault: "who ate the last bagel?" "John." "Where's my hair straightener?" "John had it." "Whose turn is it to unload the dishwasher?" "Johnnnn"

[ttjisung]

IS THIS LOVE l. haechan

→ in which haechan wants nothing more than to be with you and have you in every way, even if you're too shy to admit it too

bestfriend!haechan x inexperienced bestfriend!fem!reader (wc: 4.7k)

cw: smut! mdni pls :3 unprotected sex, oral + masturbation (f! receiving), happy ending yayayayayay :D

It was getting harder and harder for Donghyuck to act like he wasn’t affected by you. At first, it was the times where he’d have to bite his lip to stop himself from saying anything weird when you wore a revealing bikini to the beach. Then, it was at his apartment when you’d innocently eat your ice cream, licking the melted treat that dripped onto your hand. You simply shrugged in confusion when he stood up in panic, rushing to the bathroom with no explanation. 

Donghyuck was getting tired of it, truthfully. Having to hide his emotions when you were so clueless to every hint he’d drop.

Showering you in compliments, “You look so good in that shirt, baby.” To which you’d smile shyly and let out a small thank you Hyuck. He knew you weren’t doing it on purpose, but it still continued to bother him more and more. 

What was worse was that he wasn’t the only one infatuated with you. He could tell by the hunger in Jaemin’s eye when the male would hug you for longer than he should’ve. The way Jeno would try his hardest to avert his eyes when your small skirt would ride up your thigh slightly, which he’d always fail. Donghyuck knew he had no control over any of these things because you were all best friends, and that’s all you were. It didn’t stop him from rolling his eyes and sulking for the rest of the hangout though. 

Little by little, he stopped inviting the others around, insisting he wanted to spend time with you the most because you were his closest friend. You’d simply smile at the affection and nod your head eagerly, making a twinge of pride pulse in his chest knowing you hung out with him the most. 

– “Hi Hyuck.” You greeted the male, hugging his side before slipping into his familiar apartment. It was a Saturday night and with nothing better to do, he had invited you to stay over. “Hi baby, how are you?” He greeted you back, placing his hand on the small of your back as he guided you to his room. You didn’t even flinch at the contact, so used to his touchy behavior. “I’m good… A little stressed though actually.” He could tell by the furrow in your eyebrow that something was frustrating you. Fighting off every urge to tell you he could find a way to help you destress, he frowned at your words. 

You fell back onto his bed, huffing and closing your eyes. “What’s wrong?” Donghyuck inquired as he sat next to you, hoping it was something minimal. God forbid you’re ever truly upset, he’d turn the world around trying to make you happier. “I got a D on my Psych test… I’m so confused because I studied so hard for it.” He fought off the small smile on his face at your pouty face, you were just so cute it was hard to resist pinching your cheeks. “Don’t stress about it, doll. If it happens again I’ll help you study-” “But Hyuck… You got an F last time.” He rolled his eyes, scoffing and looking away playfully which pulled a small laugh from you. He grinned, happy to know you were feeling at least somewhat better because of his antics. 

“Let me take your mind off of it baby.” His words had a certain tone surrounding them, somewhat sultry and with a clear hidden meaning, and you sat up happily, nodding your head. Somewhat shocked by your reaction, Donghyuck wondered if it was finally time to do what he had always dreamt of, yet his hopes were crushed when you jumped off the bed and rushed onto his gaming chair. “Let’s play Minecraft!” He groaned internally at your obliviousness, sighing before following after you and agreeing.

After hours of mining while you built the cutest house for the both of you – and ignored his countless jokes about putting your beds together – you both got tired of the game, settling back onto his bed in favor of talking about random things.

“I’m not sure why but it was kind of awkward between Chenle and Jeno last time we hung out.” Donghyuck snorted at your words, “Well duh, Jeno fucked Chenle’s little fling without knowing.” Your eyebrows furrowed deeply at his words in shock, not expecting that reason. “That’s so mean though, why would he?” You asked, not believing that Jeno would do something like that. “It’s just how guys are sometimes, controlled by their dicks y’know?” Donghyuck didn’t miss the way your eyes looked down timidly at his words. 

He never held back from being vulgar around you, yet your reactions to his words never changed. You always seemed to be a bit pure, to put it lightly. Flinching when he’d talk about sex in general, as if you knew nothing about it when he knew you did. You had to, he was so sure of it seeing as you’d had a few boyfriends here and there.

“Do you… Would you ever… You know…” “What? Fuck a friend’s girlfriend?” You nodded at his interruption, feeling too awkward to say it out loud which made him chuckle lightly. 

He swore up and down that it was frustrating talking to you when you’d act so reserved, but a part of it was endearing to him. It’s not like he wasn’t into women who knew what they wanted, in fact that’s normally what he went for, but something about the way you’d turn bright red and refuse to even say the word fuck made him more attracted. It wasn’t the challenging aspect that had him going crazy, simply the contrast between the cute way you’d act and the filthy way he wanted to have his way with you. 

“Nah, recently I’ve not really been into that stuff anyway.” Lies. “Oh… That’s good cause me neither honestly.” Your eyes lit up as you related to his dishonest words. If only you knew how perverted his thoughts were, plagued with the vision of you. 

The conversation strayed to another topic quickly, thanks to your insistence on moving on, when you yawned lightly. He could tell you were tired, your eyelids heavy and your voice a little muffled. Donghyuck had to fight back a smile as you tried your best to converse with him when it was clear that you were minutes away from passing out. “Let’s get ready and go to sleep, baby.” You blushed, being caught red-handed in your attempt to hide your fatigue, yet you had to fight off butterflies fluttering in your stomach at his observant behavior. He always knew how you felt, and always did his best to make you happy.

You nodded at his words, putting all your energy into standing up and stumbling into his bathroom to brush your teeth. He stood up behind you, placing a hand on your waist nonchalantly to help you carry yourself out of his room. 

Once you both stood in the bathroom, you felt a bit more awake. Maybe it was the strong minty scent of the toothpaste, or maybe it was the way Donghyuck still hadn’t let go of your waist, holding you from behind and placing his head on your shoulder to watch you through the mirror. The scene was a bit domestic, a little fantasy that he’d play every time you’d stay over, wanting to believe one day you’d be so close that this would become a nightly routine. 

You blushed at his intense gaze, not once leaving you, even as you insisted he had to brush his teeth and do skincare too. He obliged, nodding his head yet continuing to stand behind you. “C’mon Hyuck,” you passed him his toothbrush, yet he simply nudged his head into your neck further. You didn’t notice the way he lightly inhaled your scent before moving his head back, opening his mouth to bare you his teeth. “You do it.” He responded mumbly, holding eye contact with you through the mirror. 

Huffing yet obliging, you turned around, now met face to face with him a little bit too close for comfort. You tried to step back, yet he followed you until your back was pressed against the bathroom counter. Rolling your eyes at his antics, you brought the toothbrush up to his teeth, slowly brushing them until he moved away for a split second, spitting the toothpaste into the sink. 

You thought you both were finally done, getting ready to put the brush down yet he shook his head, opening his mouth once more when he returned to his position in front of you, sticking his tongue out. “Ewww Hyuck, you do that part yourself.” You giggled, and he giggled too, running after you with his mouth still open as you ran away into his bedroom. 

When Donghyuck finally caught up to you, you were close enough to his bed that he simply rushed at you, pushing you onto the mattress and falling on top of you. You laughed a bit more, the smile on your face making him do the same, yet the atmosphere began to change the longer he hovered over you on the bed. His teasing smile shifted into something different, more desperate and longing, and for the first time in a while, you actually caught it. 

He chose to lean into you slightly, pushing his body onto yours yet you squirmed away at the contact, suddenly awkward with the tension that had arisen. “Let’s watch something!” You interrupted, moving under him until you were at his side. You chose to ignore the annoyed huff that he released as he begrudgingly moved until he was laying on his back next to you. 

Nodding, Donghyuck picked up the remote on his nightstand, turning his TV on and putting a random movie on. You became immersed in the film, watching with wide eyes yet his were locked on you – your face, your cute pajamas, the way your chest rose lightly every time you’d breathe. He was getting tired of waiting.

He knew you could feel it too, the way you looked at him when he was on top of you was enough of an indicator that you needed him too. Maybe not to the same extent as he did, but there had to be a shared feeling. If not, then you wouldn’t be laying next to him looking so pretty in your tiny sleep dress.

After the movie ended, you were tired again. He still wasn’t, being able to spend hours looking at you. 

You turned over, your eyes dazed and your mouth open as you yawned. “Hyuck, are you sleepy?” Your drowsy voice was so sweet, pulling him out of any frustration he was feeling earlier on when you rejected his advances. “Mmm, kinda. Not really though.” You frowned at his response, not wanting to sleep if it meant he’d have to stay up alone. “I’ll stay up with you.” You announced, sitting up as if that would make the fatigue go away. 

He laughed at your antics, sitting up too. “Don’t worry baby, you can sleep.” “Not if you won’t though.” He hummed, deep in thought before looking back at you. The bright screen of the television was the only thing lighting the room up, glowing on you. You looked so pretty and he couldn’t fight it anymore.

“Actually… There’s something we could do that would make us both sleepy.” Donghyuck’s words were hesitant, fearing you’d sense what he was hinting at and immediately decline, yet you didn’t, lighting up instead and urging him to go on. 

“I… Well you know how earlier I said I haven’t really been into those… things lately?” You appeared to be in thought, reminiscing your old conversation and what he was referring to. The blush that overtook your face was enough to indicate that you finally remembered. You nodded slightly, looking anywhere but him. 

“Umm, well sometimes, when I want to sleep, it helps to… Y’know,” he gauged your reaction, seeing you nod with the same look on your face, “Just like… touch myself a little bit.” The way your breath hitched in your throat didn’t go unnoticed, and he squinted his eyes in fear that he had finally crossed a boundary he didn’t know existed and you would leave, yet you simply nodded again. “It-it makes sense. I mean, I don’t really do that but like… I could understand why-” You began to ramble, easing his worries and replacing them with a small chuckle as he listened to you try to defend him.

“You don’t think I’m perverted?” “Hyuck, I never would. Well maybe if you were like really creepy but you’re a normal amount…” He laughed again at your choice of words, and when you finally realized you had unconsciously called him a bit creepy, you began to spew out apologies, insisting it’s not what you meant. “I just- I mean like, like I see worse and like-” Your words were cut off when Donghyuck finally found the courage to lean in, pressing his lips to yours. 

Your eyes were wide open in shock, contrasting his that were shut closed, his hands finding your waist and pulling you closer into him. It took you a while to react, not expecting him to actually kiss you, yet once the initial surprise surpassed you, you shyly kissed him back. 

You could feel his lips curl into a smile at your reciprocation, his hands now fully digging into your hips. His actions were much more passionate than yours, licking your lips and biting them sore while you tried your best to keep up with his pace. Finally he pulled away for a second to breathe, “Baby, have you…” He tried to find a way to ask his question without embarrassing you, “have you ever kissed someone before?” His caution was no use as you curled into yourself, your lips trembling slightly at the painfully accurate accusation. “No… I’m sorry, I- my ex always wanted to but it didn’t feel right and-” He cut you off once more, continuing to smile into the kiss. This time he moved one of his hands to the back of your head, pushing you into him while the other went under your chin, pressing your cheeks lightly to encourage you to move more comfortably against his mouth.

It was safe to say Donghyuck was overjoyed when he found out you hadn’t kissed anyone, meaning you probably hadn’t gone further either. It wasn’t an issue of your virginity, the male being progressive enough to not ever care about something like that. The appeal was more so in the fact that you were trying your best to match his actions although you were inexperienced yourself. It was cute to see you as desperate as him, after years of doubting you felt even close to the same as he did. 

Your eagerness shined through the way you hesitantly bit his lip too, causing him to moan into your mouth, a noise you hadn’t heard before yet really liked for some reason. The butterflies in your stomach fluttered harder, an ache further below forming as he whined when you finally opened your mouth, allowing his tongue to slip past and tangle with your own.

Although you had never done this with anyone else, you found out quickly that you really enjoyed the feeling of kissing someone. Maybe it was the safety you felt in his arms, or maybe it was the way his hand behind your head grazed down until he was holding onto your thigh tenderly.

Donghyuck’s grip on your thigh grew as his tongue moved around yours, lapping at the shared saliva that dripped down your lip. Before either of you knew, not letting your mouths disconnect, both his hands wrapped around your legs, pulling you until you were straddling him. The new position made you whine, feeling his erection growing harder through the flimsy fabric of his sweatpants. His hands pushed you against him, mouth abusing yours as he thrusted up into you messily. 

Having not been on someone’s lap before in a sexual context, the unfamiliar feeling was worsening the ache you felt in your core. You pulled away, biting your lip to shield your frustration as you looked below to where you were hovering over him. He gripped your hips, pulling you down until you were fully planted on him, your embarrassment taking over and making you look away. Donghyuck chased after you, not wanting to end the kiss, yet he was interrupted by one of your hands that shyly inched towards the front of your panties. You weren’t sure why, but the pain was getting worse the more you kissed and the only relief you felt was when your fingers would graze your covered slit.

Convinced he was in a wet dream or a weird fantasy of his, he groaned at your actions. “Fuck, baby. Does it hurt there?” You nodded, small tears catching on your cheeks as the feeling continued to intensify. One of his hands slipped from your hips, enveloping yours and moving it back to your position as you tried to flinch away from the contact.

He leaned back on his headboard, allowing for a better view as his hand guided your own against your clothed cunt. “You ever touch yourself like this?” You shook your head, “Answer with words, baby.” “Umm… No… I tried but, it never feels good.” You were clearly embarrassed, yet not enough to pull your hand away as he pushed three of your fingers down, holding onto your ring and middle finger and pressing down against your clit. 

You jolted when he began to move your fingers, circling them against the fabric. The feeling was a lot better when he guided you, pulling out whines and noises you never knew you could make. “‘Gonna feel so much better without,” his hand let go of yours, slipping under the band of your panties and pulling them up until they snapped back onto your skin, “these in the way.” His breath was ragged, his length now almost fully hard as you nodded at his words. 

Noting how you agreed yet did nothing to follow his advice, he chose to do so himself, one arm on your waist holding you up as the other pulled them off agonizingly slowly until you were bare under your nightgown. He whined loudly at the view of your bare cunt sitting on top of his pants, your wet arousal leaking and leaving a small stain. He’s sure he’d be unable to wash it off after, probably framing the clothing on his wall instead.

Your eyes were shut closed, your head falling onto his shoulder as he got ahold of your fingers again, moving them against your clit. The feeling was more intense now with no barrier, and you’d shiver and cry out occasionally when the cold ring he wore would graze against your cunt as he’d move your digits to relieve your pain. 

Donghyuck couldn’t hold back anymore, a particularly loud moan from you forcing him to let go of your hand and carry your body until you were under him instead. He moved back after placing your lying body on his bed, his lower body now hovering off of his bed as he watched you through his messy bangs. “Baby, I… I know it might be embarrassing but… Can I watch you touch yourself?” The question made you squint your eyes – he was right, it was embarrassing. 

“But I don’t know how-” “It’s okay, just do what I taught you, okay? Start here,” he lightly grazed your clit with his hand, “and circle it a bit.” You sat up slightly so you were on your knees, hesitantly inching your hand under your dress. Your other hand hooked onto the edge of it, pulling the fabric up and displaying your bare self to him, making him muffle a moan.

“Fuck, your little pussy is so cute, baby. Please… Touch it. Just how Hyuck taught you.” You nodded, flinching when your fingers finally found the bundle of nerves, moving back and forth. His gaze was so intense, barely even blinking out of fear that he’d miss any second of this. 

Without realizing, he began to grind against the mattress as your actions grew more confident. Both your moans echoed through the room as your hand moved over your dress to squeeze your chest. The way your nipples hardened made Donghyuck wish he was the one touching you instead, yet the sight of you falling apart as you groped yourself, your fingers on your clit moving down until they were caressing your slit, was more than enough for him to get off. 

You let out a loud whine when your finger finally fit itself into your hole, clenching harshly at the feeling of the intrusion. You had never done this before, yet for some reason it felt so good. Donghyuck was getting closer by the second, crying out when he saw you finger yourself. He shook his head, deciding he had to be inside of you soon or he’d cum in his pants like a frustrated teenager. 

You gasped in shock when you felt two hands grabbing your waist, pushing you down onto the mattress before he dived in, tongue covering your slit and lapping up the arousal you had let out. Two of his long fingers replaced yours, thrusting in and out at a more calculated rhythm than yourself. Your fingers, still coated in your own fluids, gripped onto his hair, “Hyuck… ‘So good, it’s so good…” You were babbling random praises at this point, too lost on the feeling of him sucking your clit into his mouth. He nodded in response, whimpering into you, the vibration of the noise adding to your pleasure.

His tongue strayed down to your slit, almost close enough to meet his fingers sloppily pistoning into you, his nose now rubbing your clit. “Your pussy tastes so good, fuck, could eat it forever.” His vulgar words made you blush, biting your lip harder as your hands pulled on the strands of his dark hair. 

A particular thrust of his fingers, matched with the coldness of the ring inside of you and the grinding of his nose on your cunt was enough to make you reach your high, letting out a whine at the unfamiliar feeling of your own orgasm. Your body felt hot, your vision white and your core pulsing as Donghyuck continued his actions. He only stopped when you began to cry out from the overstimulation, licking all of your arousal before finally letting you go. 

You were exhausted, your chest rising up slowly as you breathed in heavily, coming down from the feeling. Donghyuck gave you no time to rest though, as he quickly moved up until he was over you again, catching your lips with his, slipping his tongue in again.

You could taste yourself on him as he pushed himself eagerly on top of you, one of his elbows holding himself up as his other arm reached down to push off his pants. His bare cock sprung out as he kicked the pants off completely, straining against his stomach as he desperately pushed your dress off your head. You complied as much as you could, holding your arms up so he could take the fabric off in one go. His shirt was next, leaving you both bare. 

You looked down at his length, suddenly feeling anxious. He was heavy, the tip red and leaking precum. If his two fingers were enough to stretch you out almost painfully, you wondered how he’d be able to fit his large size inside of you. 

Sensing your anxiety, he drew comforting circles onto your hips. “I’ll go slow, baby. I promise.” You nodded, closing your eyes and letting him kiss you again to distract you from the pain as he eased himself in. He groaned into your mouth at the feeling of your tight walls clenching on him, slowly pushing in inch by inch until he bottomed out. The feeling of his pelvis rubbing against your clit made you clench harder, the friction helping with the pain of the unfamiliar intrusion. 

His beginning thrusts were shallow, helping you get used to his size. His free hand moved up until it met your chest, gripping one of your boobs eagerly. Pulling away from the kiss, he sighed in pleasure as the steady rhythm grew stronger. “Need to feel your pretty tits in my mouth, please…” Your shyness was long gone as you were eager to agree, if the way your cunt tightened around his cock said anything. He smiled widely before placing kisses all the way down your collarbone, matching the pace with the jolts of his hips. 

Once Donghyuck’s mouth found your boobs, he enveloped the one left alone by his hand, running his tongue over your nipple and humming at the feeling. He grew more desperate by the second, moving his hips faster as he became dazed by everything happening. 

Your small moans matching his thrusts encouraged him to continue, making him alternate between slow and shallow ones, and long and deeper ones. As he moved in and out of you, the pain died out, still there but barely noticeable as you became engulfed in a desire to cum again.

Donghyuck mirrored your desperation, moaning against your sweaty skin, finding himself getting closer and closer. Your hand reached down to play with your clit, just how he taught you, adding more and more satisfaction. He felt pride swell in his chest when he noticed what you were doing. It took one particular thrust, matched with your own fingers rubbing against you and his tongue biting down on your nipple to make you cum. 

The feeling was more extreme this time, added with the force of his cock filling you so deep, as you finally let go. Your toes curled, your hands letting go of his hair to find his back, scratching along his skin as you tried to flee from the overwhelming feeling. He didn’t let you get away so easily though, releasing your nipple he was playing with to hold onto your hips, grounding you against the bed as he continued to push into you, searching for his own release.

You could feel every vein running up his length as your eyes shut closed, digging your nails deeper into his back. The pain he felt mixed with the pleasure of your tight cunt finally made him reach his high too, cumming inside of you with a loud whimper of your name. 

He continued to rut his dick into you, not wanting to stop feeling the intense thrill of your body. Overstimulating both himself and you at the same time, he only stopped once he began to cry from the mixed pain. 

You both stayed in the same position for a minute, catching your breath before he finally pulled out, his cum spilling out from you and staining his sheets. It was then that the insecurities began to plague Donghyuck’s mind. Sure, you were obviously into everything that had played out, but what if you decided you didn’t want to be close with him anymore? What if things become awkward after, and you wouldn’t spend the night anymore? 

Looking at you with worry in his eyes, he felt at peace when your hands moved from his back to cup his cheeks endearingly, pulling him down into another more gentle kiss. He hummed happily, holding you close. The position was intimate, hugging each other, your naked bodies shifting against each other. 

You broke the silence after, sighing contently before looking directly into his eyes, “I… I’m still tired, Hyuck.” He laughed, rolling off onto his side and moving his arm so it’d tuck itself under your waist. “Go to sleep, baby. I’ll clean you up.” 

You smiled, nodding your head before closing your eyes. True to his words, Donghyuck stood up, going to grab a small wet towel and rid you of any sticky fluid left. Once he finally finished, he moved your body onto the side of the bed that didn’t have ruined sheets, slotting himself right next to you and falling asleep too.

a/n: inspired because i saw haechan live again and he looked so good ^_^ i hope u all enjoy

[writerslittlelibrary]

Come with us...

masterlist

summary: ever since escaping the Red Room, you’ve been on the run. what happens when an annoying red-head from the past comes back into your life, accompanied by the one girl you were never able to outsmart…?

pairing: Natasha & Yelena x teen reader

warnings: guns, fighting, cursing

genre: fluff, angst

words: 1596

a/n: thunderbolts got into my head… I’m entirely back in my Black Widow era

You do not have my permission to repost, copy or translate my work

 |——————————— ⴵ ———————————|

The door nearly rattled off the hinges when you slammed it shut. The beat down ‘apartment’ you were staying in was barely holding on. The wallpaper was peeling, every time it rained the kitchen got wet, and there were multiple unexplainable stains in the bathroom.

It wasn’t perfect, but at least it was safe.

You escaped the Red Room close to a year ago, and you’ve never been more free than you are now. Sure, you occasionally have to move to avoid detection, and Dreykov has sent more than a few dozen widows after you, but still. For the first time in your life, your choices are your own.

You used to never even consider escaping. The Red Room was your home. You had a place, a purpose. Everything was the way it was supposed to be.

Then she came along. 

Natasha Romanoff. Dreykov’s pride and joy. The best assassin the Red Room had seen in years. Of course, that was before you came along. 

Dreykov wanted Natasha to train you. He wanted you to shadow her, pick up her traits. He put you two in a separate room, away from the dormitories. You didn’t need to be your own person, you just needed to be the perfect copy of her. 

And you hated her for it.

You were strong. You were quick. You were immensely skilled for your age, yet he felt the need to compare you to her. You were perfect the way you were, but he didn’t see it that way.

And, despite your absolute disgust, her mannerisms did rub off on you. 

You became more efficient in your fighting, pushing your body to its limits every single day while Natasha pushed you even further. You were getting stronger, and Dreykov loved it. 

But then, suddenly, she started talking about escaping. 

You don’t know when she changed, but she did. Suddenly, all she could talk about was getting away. Running from Dreykov and leaving the Red Room behind. 

You couldn’t believe what she was saying. 

She was talking about treason. Actual treason, and you couldn’t just stand there and let it happen. 

You didn’t want to, but you did.

You went to Dreykov, desperate for his approval and needy for his praise. You ratted her out. 

Dreykov believed you immediately, and praise you got. Natasha was taken, punished severely, probably. You didn’t see her again after that, but you heard the rumours that she had undergone the graduation ceremony shortly after you snitched on her.

Now, looking back, you realised she got the right idea back then. 

After your own graduation ceremony, you completed a total of twelve missions before you went on the run yourself. 

Natasha Romanoff was one of the only two girls from the Red Room you would never forget. 

There was another. A girl you were put with when you were thirteen. A blonde, who was labeled the best child assassin. 

You, of course, loathed her even more than you did Natasha. You were the best child assassin. You had been for years and years on end. You had the highest successful kill count under ten, and you had more successful missions than any of the other girls in the history of the Red Room. You were the best, so why was this stupid blonde girl claiming she was?

You fought her, of course. A lot.

Every time you spotted her in a hallway, you’d lure her out. You’d throw insults her way, talking about her time on a mission in Ohio. You knew it hurt her. Good. Every time it would result in a fight, that you’d win, and every time the blonde girl would be punished. 

What good is an assassin that can be tempted to a fight by a mere handful of words?

You last saw her during a mission in Hungary. You two were sent to retrieve a vial that was some sort of antidote to something. You didn’t know what. You didn’t ask. 

You went on the mission with Belova, but when you returned, she wasn’t there. 

You didn’t ask. 

That was nearly a year and a half ago. You later found out that most of the widows were under a special serum. Mind control. Belova had been under it too. When you two were sent to retrieve the antidote from a rogue widow, that had been the antidote against the mind control. 

You didn’t know why Dreykov hadn’t put you under the mind control, when he had clearly used it on Belova and the other widows.

You didn’t feel like sticking around to wait and have it used on you. 

So you ran.

Currently, you were in Sweden. A wonderful country, with the best perk, that it had a lot of nature. It would be easy to kill someone in the woods, and no one would ever find the body. 

You figured Dreykov and his widows would have a hard time finding you here. 

You were staying in a trailer, one that that pisshat told you would be an apartment. Apparently he gave the apartment in Budapest to someone else already. Why the hell were you paying him when he continued to do such a shitty job?

You kicked off your shoes, throwing your bag on the worn down couch while you walked, or rather stepped, into the kitchen. 

The trailer truly wasn’t large enough to walk in. 

The moment you turned on the faucet, you stilled. A floorboard creaked behind you. Someone was here. 

Slowly, you reached for your gun, letting the water run and pretending to be busy. They didn’t know you were aware of their presence yet. 

You held your gun in front of you, hiding it from whoever stood behind you. 

Then, another step. Another creak. 

You whipped around, hitting the person behind you. They were holding a gun. You hit it from her hands. 

You were able to see a mere blur of red before a person slammed into you from behind. Fuck. There were two of them. 

You whirled around, kicking the girl behind you.

Double fuck. Two girls. They must be widows here to take you back. 

You raised your gun, ready to shoot at them, before you realised who the girl in front of you was. 

Fucking Belova.

You turned around, facing the redhead. 

Natasha fucking Romanoff. 

She raised her hand, spraying something in your face, making your eyes sting. 

“What the fuck!” you yelled. “I just got this jacket!”

Natasha frowned. Belova chuckled humourlessly. 

“You aren’t under mind control…?” Natasha asked. 

“Of course you aren’t,” Belova said from behind you. 

You scoffed. “Yeah, well, unlike you, I was actually important.”

“Now, what the fuck are you two doing here?! And how do you even know each other?” you added after taking a breath.

This time, Natasha frowned. 

“You know Yelena?” 

You turned to Belova, catching her scowl. “I didn’t know you were named Yelena. But of course I know. The girl with the temper,” you smirked. 

Yelena scoffed. 

“I didn’t have a temper. You were just a bitch.” 

You shrugged. “Potato potato.” 

“You were the girl always picking fights?” Natasha concluded, to which you nod. 

“Yeah, points to sherlock.”

Then you smirked, the puzzle pieces finally all falling into place. 

You pointed at Yelena, then at Natasha. “She was the girl with you on the Ohio mission. The reason you always got so pissed and started hitting me.”

The moment you said it, Yelena’s face contorted into anger. 

“You shut your mouth over that. You were the one always picking fights with me.”

You shrugged. “I was just trying to make you resilient. You always lost your temper far too quickly.” 

“Okay, stop it,” Natasha said, stopping you and Yelena from arguing. “This isn’t going to do anything right now. Why are you here, and why aren’t you under mind control?” 

“And why are you living in this dump? Surely there are better places available,” Yelena added. 

You sighed. “I’m not a disposable widow, hence no mind control. And about a year ago I figured I was done with killing, so I ran. And the reason that I’m living in this dump is cause Mason gave my apartment to some other bitch.”

“The apartment in Budapest?” Natasha asks. 

“Uh, yeah,” you confirm, confused as to why she knows it.

“The other bitch who got that apartment was me,” Yelena reveals, to which you just shrug. 

“Statement still stands.” 

“Well, you became a raging bitch over the years.”

“I was always a bitch, Yelena.”

“Okay!” Natasha intervenes, putting her hand on your shoulder. 

“You should come with us.”

“To do what?” you ask, frowning. 

“Free the other widows from the mind control. The Red Room is gone.” Natasha says.

Your eyes widen. 

“How did that happen?” 

“We took it down, and now we’re trying to free all the widows still under his control,” Yelena adds. 

“And you want me to come with you?” you ask. Natasha nods. 

“Dreykov is gone, meaning you can start living your own life again. And somewhere other than this dump.” 

You mull her offer over for a bit, considering your realistic options. You look around the trailer, knowing you are most likely to get black mold poisoning if you stay here. You don’t have any money, you don’t have any purpose. You have nothing. 

You shrug. “Sure, why not. I’ve got nothing better to do.”

Natasha smiles, while Yelena just scoffs. 

“I’m still riding shotgun,” she states, grabbing her gun from the floor that she’d dropped when you kicked her.

Permanent tags: @marvelnatasha12346 @lesbionion @papimapileon @darkstar225 @saraaahsstuff @marvelwomenarehot0 @screechcat @iheartjohansson @tia-thesimp @swaqcenix @karmasgxrl @marvel-lous3000 @l1kepeps1cvla @lorsstar1st @superlegend216 @ravensinthedaylight @liloandstitchstan

[batsovergotham]

CHAPTER 4 PART 2

he touched your back and now you’re in love maybe??

pairing - emperor!mark grayson x reader

summary - you were supposed to form an alliance. instead you slept with him three days in and now you have no idea what’s happening.

content notice: 18+. SMUT (unprotected sex, consensual somnophilia, fingering, cum-eating, cunnilingus, edging, overstimulation, slight breeding kink, threesome, face-sitting, blowjobs)

a/n: I don't regret this.

The house has finally settled. The low rumble of city traffic outside is constant, but it feels far away, like the sound of a world you’re not fully part of yet.

Inside, Marky and Terra are sprawled across the kitchen table, elbows deep in an artistic warzone. Crayons are scattered in what you think is a tactical formation. Terra is singing under her breath, something vaguely threatening about a cat army. Marky is drawing what appears to be a three-headed dragon piloting a submarine. He’s humming while he does it.

Mark leans against the fridge nearby, arms crossed loosely, watching them like it’s the only thing that matters. There’s a softness to him when he’s like this, unguarded. Easy. The edge of command melts away. He doesn’t notice when Eve quietly slips out the back door, her mug in hand.

But you do.

You wait a moment, unsure if you’re meant to follow. Then your feet move before you can think better of it. You step around Terra’s army of stickers and thread your way through the house until you find the door she left open just a crack.

You push it open gently and step onto the balcony.

Eve stands near the railing, her mug cradled in both hands now, eyes on the street below. The breeze brushes her hair against her cheek. She’s wearing a worn-in long-sleeved shirt now, the sleeves pulled down over her hands, her shoulders relaxed in a way you haven’t seen before.

You step beside her. Quiet. Careful.

She doesn’t turn to look at you. But she doesn’t move away either.

The city glows below, dim, buzzing, alive. Streetlights blink on one by one in slow succession, casting long shadows across the sidewalks. A bus lumbers through an intersection. A neon sign two blocks away flickers and steadies. The world doesn’t stop moving. But here, on this second-story balcony, it feels like it’s holding its breath with you.

You don’t speak.

Neither does she.

Not at first.

It’s not tense. It’s just... fragile.

Not like glass, but like skin healing over something deep. The kind of quiet that only comes when nothing needs to be said for the meaning to be understood.

“I used to come out here at night,” Eve says eventually, voice soft. “After Terra went to bed. After the dishes. After pretending I was fine.”

You glance at her, but her eyes are still on the street.

“I’d just stand here and try not to cry too loud,” she continues. “Didn’t want her to hear.”

You nod, slowly. “That makes sense.”

“Didn’t work.” She laughs quietly, but it doesn’t carry bitterness. Just memory. “She always knew. Even before she could talk. Kids are like that. They feel it in the air.”

You rest your hands on the railing, mimicking her posture. The metal is cold beneath your palms.

“I never had a balcony,” you say after a moment. “Eternian structures don’t really include spaces like this.”

“No?”

“No. Nothing without a purpose. Height was for watchtowers. Walls were for defense. Open air was a liability.” You look out at the horizon, where the city hums like a living thing. “This feels... vulnerable.”

“It is,” Eve says. “That’s kind of the point.”

You take a breath. Let it out slowly. “I don’t hate it.”

She glances at you, the corner of her mouth twitching.

There’s a moment then, a long one, where she just looks at you. Her gaze moves slowly across your face, pausing at the line of your mouth, the curve of your jaw, the way your shoulders stay squared even when you’re trying to relax.

And something shifts.

It’s not spoken. Not acknowledged. But it’s felt.

The air between you hums with something low and quiet. Her body turns ever so slightly toward you, not enough to be overt, but enough that her warmth brushes against your side when the wind pulls your cloak just an inch closer to her.

You stay still.

Not frozen.

Just aware.

You’ve stood next to people in command halls and on the edge of battlefields. You’ve known proximity that meant strategy, protection, threat.

This isn’t that.

This is... curiosity.

Recognition.

And something neither of you are naming.

Eve tilts her head a little, watching your profile now. You meet her gaze for only a breath, and in that moment, something passes between you that has nothing to do with rivalry.

She finds you beautiful. She doesn’t say it. But she doesn’t have to.

It’s in the way her eyes linger, not possessive. Not sizing you up. Just noticing. Openly. Boldly. Like she’s giving you permission to notice her too.

You don’t look away.

Behind the glass of the sliding door, Mark stands in the kitchen, unnoticed by either of you until he moves, just slightly. Enough to catch your eye.

He’s watching.

He’s not glaring. Not frowning. Not tense.

He’s just... there.

Watching the two of you silhouetted against the city light, quiet and close and not at odds.

His eyes meet Eve’s through the glass.

She doesn’t flinch.

She doesn’t look away.

They hold each other’s gaze for a second, just one.

Then she looks back at you.

And so does he.

No one speaks.

No one interrupts.

Because there’s no jealousy here.

Just understanding.

The city’s still glowing when Eve finally pushes herself upright and murmurs, “I should put the kids down.”

You nod, stepping back from the railing. “I’ll help—”

She shakes her head gently. “No, you’ve done plenty. Marky’s already halfway asleep on a marker. I’ve got it.”

Her tone isn’t dismissive, it’s soft. Something close to gratitude, even if she doesn’t put a name to it.

She disappears inside, sliding the door shut behind her with a faint click.

You linger a moment longer on the balcony. Just breathing. Letting the cool air settle into your lungs. 

When you step inside, the lights have dimmed. The chaos of crayons and sticker sheets has been cleared. You hear Eve’s voice down the hall, low and soothing, followed by Terra’s distinct insistence that she needs her stuffed dinosaur to “keep watch” from the window.

Mark’s waiting near the living room doorway, shoulder against the frame. His eyes flick up when you enter. He doesn’t smile right away. Just watches you, like he’s still working out what it means to see you in this space, not just as a warrior or an envoy, but as someone here at the end of the day.

“She’ll be in there a while,” he says quietly. “Terra’s big on bedtime negotiations.”

You nod. “Marky’s already asleep?”

He nods back. “Out cold. Didn’t even finish his story about the rocket platypus.”

You smile, soft and automatic. “I hope it had a good ending.”

“I’m sure he’ll finish it tomorrow.”

You’re standing close now. Not by design, but by gravity.

Neither of you says let’s go to bed, but the shape of the night is leading there anyway.

You turn toward the hallway, and he follows. Your steps are light, quiet, both of you instinctively keeping your voices low out of respect for the hush in the house. When you reach the guest room, you push the door open gently.

The room is dim, the streetlight outside casting golden lines across the sheets. The wooden bed still groans faintly under the weight of its existence. You look at it and shake your head, amused but resigned.

“You really trust this thing?”

Mark lets out a breath of a laugh behind you. “Not even a little.”

Still, you step inside.

He closes the door behind you with a soft click.

There’s no ceremony to what comes next. Just quiet movement. He slips off his jacket, then sits on the edge of the bed to tug off his socks. His shirt rides up slightly with the motion, revealing a line of bare skin just above his waistband.

Your heart stutters, but not from desire. From something quieter. Something more settled. Like the moment you set down your sword after a long march.

When you’ve changed into something softer, loose sleepwear borrowed from your own bag, you slide under the covers first. Mark moves more slowly, testing the bed with a skeptical glance before joining you.

It creaks.

Loudly.

You both pause.

Then he says, “If this thing collapses in the night, we deny everything.”

“Agreed.”

You’re lying side by side. Close, but not touching. Not yet.

The air between you hums, but not with tension. With familiarity. With the strange comfort of shared silence.

Mark shifts slightly, turning to his side to face you. His voice is quiet. “You okay?”

You nod. “I think I like it here.”

“You mean Earth?”

“No,” you say, meeting his eyes. “This house. This night. You.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just breathes in. Out.

Then, finally, “Me too.”

He reaches for your hand beneath the blanket. Doesn’t take it. Just brushes his fingers against yours like a question.

You answer by lacing your fingers with his.

And for a while, you both just lie there.

His breath is warm and steady behind your ear, each exhale a slow, measured pulse against your skin. The guest room is still, quiet except for the rhythmic ticking of the old clock on the dresser and the low creak of the mattress beneath the shared weight of your bodies. The blanket is twisted around your legs, forgotten. You're both too hot beneath it now.

Mark’s chest is flush to your back, a solid wall of heat, the smooth skin of his torso brushing your spine every time he breathes. His arm is draped around your waist, heavy but comforting, fingers spread just enough to feel the curve of your stomach. You shift, just slightly, your ass pressing back into his thigh, and freeze.

He’s already hard.

That slow press against your backside is unmistakable. Thick, firm, and resting right where he knows you can feel it. His breath falters, catches on the inhale.

His lips are so close you can feel the words as much as you hear them. That heat blooms low in your belly, your thighs instinctively pressing together. Your mouth parts, but for a moment you can't speak.

He doesn’t move fast. Not yet. His hand glides up beneath your shirt, slow, deliberate, dragging over bare skin until his palm settles flat across your stomach. It’s broad and warm, the pads of his fingers curling just enough to hold you there. Not possessive. Not forceful. Just there. Solid. Unmoving. You feel the press of his thumb brushing lazy arcs against your skin, each stroke a warm tease that makes your breath catch.

“We don’t have to,” he murmurs, the words more breath than sound now. But he doesn’t pull back. His cock pulses against your ass, unmistakably eager.

“I want to,” you say, and this time your voice doesn’t tremble.

His fingers flex against your stomach, then slide downward with intent. The waistband of your sleep shorts gives easily under his touch, the soft cotton tugged slowly down over your hips, exposing skin inch by inch until they’re bunched around your thighs. He doesn’t rush. He moves like he’s savoring every second, his breath heavier now, jaw grazing your shoulder as he shifts closer.

You feel the first touch of his fingers where you need him most, just a light drag down your folds, testing. He exhales hard against your neck when he finds you soaked. His fingers glide through your slick heat, teasing the edges, never quite where you want him. A groan vibrates in his chest, low and barely restrained.

“Fuck, you’re soaked for me,” he whispers. “How long’ve you been like this?”

You can’t answer. Your body arches instinctively, hips rolling backward into the cradle of his lap. His cock grinds up against you, hot and insistent, even through the thin fabric of his boxers. You can feel the outline of him, the thickness, the way it twitches as you move. His hand tightens on your waist again, guiding you slowly, dragging your ass against him in a rhythm he controls.

You moan without meaning to, and it sends something sharp through him, his fingers dip lower, finally slipping between your folds, parting you. One fingertip circles your clit, maddeningly light.

“That feel good?” he breathes.

You nod, breathless, and he presses his mouth to your shoulder, biting down just enough to make you gasp. His cock is rock-hard against your ass now, and there’s nothing casual left in the way he holds you. His hand moves with purpose, two fingers sliding through your wetness, spreading it over your clit, then slipping just barely inside. He groans.

“You’re so fucking warm… you’re dripping. Jesus.”

He pushes your panties aside, the elastic dragging across your soaked skin with a slick little snap, and the heat of him settles fully against your bare core. His fingers are steady, practiced, he doesn’t rush. Just dips one in at first, slow and deliberate, feeling how tight you are, how your walls flutter and clench around the first intruder.

You moan into his mouth, thighs spreading wider on instinct, your knee hitching over his as your body opens up for him.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, breaking the kiss to speak against your lips. “Good girl.”

The words melt through you like honey poured over a flame. Your breath catches, chest rising beneath your shirt, nipples tight and aching as your body responds to that voice, that praise, as much as to the slow, rhythmic motion of his finger now sliding in and out of your slick, clutching heat.

He adds another.

Your back arches into him with a sharp gasp, your pussy stretching around the new intrusion. He fills you perfectly, the pads of his fingers curling up to press into that tender, hidden place inside you with each gentle thrust. His thumb brushes your clit, once, twice, and then stays there, circling in time with the steady, wet glide of his fingers.

You bite your lip, trying to stay quiet, but it’s not enough. Your moan slips out, helpless and needy.

He moves fast.

His hand leaves your waist and slides up, warm and sure, until it covers your mouth. His palm is rough, callused, and he presses just enough to silence you, not harsh, but guiding. You feel a breathy laugh against your back as he leans close again, his cock still pressed to your ass, rock hard and twitching with every whimper you try to stifle.

“Shh… quiet,” he murmurs into your ear, “Or we’ll wake Eve.”

The reminder slams into your brain like a jolt of lightning. Eve’s asleep down the hall. The door’s barely cracked. The house is dead quiet. You’re soaking his fingers, your panties stretched to the side, his cock hot and ready behind you, and you’re not allowed to make a sound.

Your thighs quiver as he starts to fuck you harder with his fingers, still careful, still slow, but deeper now. Purposeful. Intentional. His thumb works tight little circles over your clit, the pressure maddening, never quite enough, never letting you get used to it. Your breath comes in fast, hot bursts through your nose as your moans are muffled by his palm, your body shaking under his touch.

“Feel that?” he whispers. “How wet you are? How good you grip my fingers?”

You nod furiously, the whimper caught in your throat, eyes fluttering shut as you press back against his hand, his cock, everything.

“You’re so fucking perfect like this,” he breathes, letting his teeth graze the edge of your ear. 

You clench around his fingers, a wave of pleasure crashing up through your belly like a rising tide. Your hips roll against his hand now, chasing every thrust, grinding your clit into his thumb, your breath breaking against his palm.

He feels it, the way your body tenses, how close you are, and his pace slows, cruel and calculated. Just enough to hold you there, right at the edge.

“You want to cum for me?” he asks. “You want to soak my hand and make a mess?”

You nod again, frantic, your breath loud in his hand, your body a live wire straining for release.

Suddenly, the doorknob clicks.

You freeze, every muscle in your body snapping tight, breath caught mid-gasp beneath the firm pressure of Mark’s palm. But his fingers don’t stop. They stay buried inside you, still curling slow and deep, knuckles soaked, thumb drawing maddening circles over your clit even as the air in the room goes electric.

The door creaks open.

Eve stands in the doorway.

Your heart pounds so loud you swear it shakes the bedframe. Your thighs clamp instinctively around Mark’s hand, and you try to squirm away, panic, shame, arousal all crashing together in one white-hot jolt. But Mark just presses his chest harder to your back, still calm, still moving inside you like the door hadn’t opened at all.

Eve leans against the frame. There’s no shock on her face. No anger. No gasp of scandal.

Just a slow blink, a subtle tilt of her head, and those green eyes locked straight between your legs, right where Mark’s hand disappears beneath your panties, the wet sounds of his fingers still sliding in and out echoing in the sudden silence.

“You two really couldn’t wait, huh?”

Her voice is smooth. Cool. Almost amused.

Mark doesn’t flinch. He keeps fucking you with those slow, steady thrusts, like her presence changes nothing.

“We didn’t think you’d be up,” he says, calm, casual, his fingers thrusting deep as if to emphasize the point. You choke on a whimper behind his hand.

You make a desperate grab for the blanket tangled at your knees, fingers shaking as you try to pull it over your bared thighs, over the obscene display of your parted legs and Mark’s hand knuckle-deep between them.

But Eve moves before you can hide.

She crosses the room in a few slow strides, bends down, and pushes the blanket right back off with a firm flick of her wrist. Her fingers brush your thigh, soft and cool compared to Mark’s relentless heat.

“No need to stop now,” she says, and you feel her gaze crawl up your body like a touch. “You’re already putting on a show.”

She unbuttons her top.

Each click of a button is deafening in the quiet.

One.

Two.

Three.

The silky fabric slips open, revealing the swell of her breasts, a black lace bra hugging her curves like a secret you weren’t meant to see. Her skin glows faintly in the low light, collarbones sharp, mouth curling into something slow and knowing.

“Look at you,” Eve murmurs, brushing your hair back, tucking it behind your ear like she’s soothing a nervous pet. “You’re trembling, but your hips haven’t stopped moving, have they?”

They haven’t.

You’re grinding down on Mark’s fingers, chasing each thrust, clit aching under the slick rhythm of his thumb. Her eyes drink in the sight of you, the mess between your thighs, the way your breath trembles as you try to hold still and fail again and again.

Eve reaches behind her to unclasp her bra. Her breasts spill free, soft and full, nipples already pebbled tight in the cool air.

“Let me help,” she says, and climbs onto the bed.

Mark’s grip is firm but reverent as he shifts you onto your back, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. You’re spread open for them now, legs parted, skin flushed, slick already shining in the low light like you’ve been waiting for this all night. The blanket’s gone. Nothing to hide you. Nothing between you and the hunger in their eyes.

He kneels beside you, his hand resting heavy on your thigh, thumb stroking the trembling muscle, grounding you. His cock hangs thick between his legs, flushed and twitching, every pulse of blood through it visible, throbbing. But it’s Eve who moves first.

She doesn’t speak, doesn’t smirk. She just slides onto the bed like a shadow, her bare chest rising and falling with anticipation. Her hair falls forward as she lowers herself between your legs, her fingers brushing your knees, coaxing them wider.

You feel her breath first, warm, damp, hovering over your cunt.

Then her mouth meets you.

One slow, filthy lick, dragging up the entire length of your folds, tongue flat and wide, savoring every drop of wetness Mark left behind. You whimper, hips jumping, but her hands are already there, pinning your thighs open, pressing you to the mattress.

“Hold still,” she says, voice low, lips brushing your clit as she speaks. “Let me taste all of it.”

She laps at you again, more focused now, tongue swirling tight over your clit before flicking faster, then dipping low to press into your entrance, collecting your slick before dragging it back up, coating your entire cunt in spit and arousal.

Above you, Mark leans in. His breath brushes your cheek, and then his hand finds yours, shaking, and guides it to his cock. It throbs in your palm, hot and heavy and hard. You wrap your fingers around him instinctively, and he groans at the first slow stroke, his hips twitching forward into your touch.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Stroke me just like that.”

Eve moans against your pussy, the sound vibrating through your clit, her tongue never stopping. Two fingers slide inside you, spreading your slick walls open with a practiced curl that hits deep, right where you need it. She fucks you slow and filthy, matching the rhythm of her tongue to the thrust of her fingers, coaxing your body higher, tighter, your moans rising in helpless stutters.

Mark shifts now, one knee beside your head, then the other, his cock brushing your lips, your cheek, thick and leaking. He looks down at you with his pupils blown wide.

“Open,” he says, voice low.

You do.

He slides into your mouth inch by inch, groaning as your lips stretch around him. The taste of him hits instantly, salt, heat, skin. You suck him slow, tongue swirling around the head, then flattening along the shaft as you take more, deeper. His hand slides into your hair, guiding you, thumb stroking your cheek.

“Fuck,” he growls, hips starting to roll. “Just like that. So perfect.”

Eve’s fingers thrust deeper inside you, curling just right, dragging against that sweet spot again and again while her tongue flicks relentlessly over your clit. She moans into you like she’s getting off just from the taste. Your thighs tremble, hips rocking up into her mouth, down into her hand, your body no longer under your control.

Mark fucks your mouth with slow, steady thrusts, not rough, but full, like he wants you to feel every thick inch of him sliding across your tongue. Every moan you make around his cock only drives him harder. You gag slightly when he hits the back of your throat, and he growls in response, holding you there for a beat before pulling back, letting your tongue swirl around the tip again, drool slipping from the corner of your lips.

The sounds are obscene, wet, hungry, gasping. Eve slurping between your legs, fingers squelching with every thrust. Mark groaning above you, praising you between clenched teeth as your mouth works over him. You’re pinned in place, overwhelmed from both ends, stretched open and filled.

You try to speak, to say how close you are, but you can’t. Your mouth’s full. Your voice is swallowed around Mark’s cock.

You choke slightly, breath hitching, eyes stinging, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth. But you don’t stop.

Below, Eve’s tongue doesn’t let up. She’s working your clit with a precision that borders on cruel, the flat of her tongue dragging across the bundle of nerves again and again in tight, wet circles, never letting the pressure ease. Her fingers slide deeper, twisting, spreading you open like she wants to feel every flutter of your walls as they clench helplessly around her.

You’re soaked, utterly, completely soaked. Slick coats her hand, your thighs, the sheets beneath you. The mess is audible, every thrust of her fingers met with that slick, wet sound of your cunt gushing for more.

“Fuck, she’s dripping,” Eve murmurs, voice muffled against your pussy, her nose buried deep, lips gliding over your folds with every stroke of her tongue. “She’s making a mess all over my hand.”

Mark’s cock pushes deeper into your mouth again, and he groans through gritted teeth.

“She loves this,” he says, voice low and sharp as he rocks forward, slow and gentle. “Don’t you, sweetheart?”

You try to nod. Your throat’s full. Your lips are stretched wide. His cock presses deep and stays, choking you slightly, your eyes watering as the pressure builds. You gag, drool spilling down your chin, dripping onto your chest, soaking the collar of your shirt. But still, you try to nod.

Still, you obey.

Your body’s a trembling wreck, hips bucking up into Eve’s mouth, fingers curled tight into the sheets, legs twitching as another orgasm builds right on the edge of the last. Mark’s hips move with punishing control now, each thrust measured, savoring the slick heat of your throat. His hand strokes your hair, then fists it, holding you still as he fucks your face with slow, unrelenting pressure.

You choke again. More spit. More drool. But your tongue never stops moving, lapping along the underside of his cock, licking the tip when he pulls back, swallowing around him every time he sinks in.

“Look at her,” Eve breathes, lifting her face just enough to speak, her fingers still thrusting in and out of you. “She’s shaking. She’s not gonna last.”

Mark chuckles, breathing heavier. “She’s perfect like this. She’ll take it.”

His grip tightens in your hair as his thrusts grow shallow, sharper, his cock thickening against your tongue, pulsing hard. The taste of him changes, that first sharp salt blooming on your palate, and his voice, wrecked and low, spills from above you in a broken groan.

“Fuck. Gonna cum… all over that pretty face—don’t stop.”

You can’t.

Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t stop. Eve’s tongue is relentless, her mouth slick and hot against your clit, fingers pumping hard inside you, scissoring now, spreading you wide open as your slick gushes down her wrist, soaking the sheets. Your thighs clamp around her head as your body bucks once, twice, every nerve unraveling, pressure tightening like a scream wound into your spine—

Then Mark pulls out, his cock wet with spit and twitching in his fist. He strokes once, twice, and the first hot spurt hits your cheek.

You gasp around a sobbing breath as his cum paints your face in thick, white lines, across your lips, your chin, the bridge of your nose. His hand grips your hair, holding you still, his voice wrecked.

“Take it. Fucking take it. Look how pretty you are with my cum all over your face.”

And that’s it.

Your entire body locks up as Eve moans into your cunt, lips wrapped around your clit, tongue flicking wildly. Her fingers curl just right, and your orgasm shivers through you. You cry out, back arching high off the bed, your mouth falling open to catch one last spurt of Mark’s cum on your tongue.

Your pussy clenches down hard on Eve’s fingers, soaking her hand, slick pouring out of you in a hot gush as you cum, loud, shuddering, utterly overwhelmed. The heat rolls through you in waves, your vision flashing white, toes curling, thighs shaking uncontrollably.

Eve doesn’t stop. She slows, but she keeps licking, riding the aftershocks, humming softly against your cunt like she wants to wring every last tremor out of you.

Mark strokes your hair now, gentler, watching his release drip from your chin onto your chest. His cock twitches one last time, half-hard and still leaking.

Your thighs are still twitching, sticky with arousal, your breath shallow, your chest rising and falling as if your lungs are trying to catch up with what just happened. Eve pulls back from between your legs, her lips slick and shining, chin coated in your wetness, strands of hair stuck to the sweat on her face. She licks her lips, slow and deliberate, tasting you like the aftermath of a feast. Her eyes burn with lust and satisfaction, but she’s not finished. Not even close.

She moves with feline grace, slow, predatory, each motion exaggerated like she wants you to see every inch of her body shift and ripple with power. Her thighs flex as she crawls up the length of your body, leaving a trail of heat in her wake, the muscles in her abdomen tightening with each movement. Her hand slides up your chest, nails dragging just enough to make you arch, sensitive nerves alight from the earlier teasing.

Then she straddles your face.

Her cunt hovers just above your mouth, dripping, swollen, flushed dark and trembling. Her inner thighs gleam with your juices and her own, the scent of sex thick in the air. You open your mouth instinctively, but she doesn’t let you have it yet. She holds there for a breath, two, her hand gripping the headboard, her other hand grabbing your hair tight, keeping you still.

“You’re not done,” she whispers, voice silky, her hips already starting to lower. 

Then her full weight sinks down. The heat of her pussy smothers your mouth, clit grinding against your lips as her thighs close in, sealing you inside her. Your nose presses into her, buried. The world disappears under her. There’s only the wet sound of her grinding cunt and the muffled pulse of your heartbeat between your ears.

You can’t breathe.

You don’t want to.

Her hips roll, slow and controlled at first, then faster, desperate. She moans as your tongue works her over, flicking and flattening against her clit, tasting the tangy flood of slick pouring from her. She rides your face without mercy, clit grinding against your nose and upper lip, forcing you to adapt, to take her how she wants it. She’s using you. Fully. Every movement shouts ownership.

And just as you think the pressure is reaching its peak, Mark steps in.

You don’t see him, but you feel him, his rough hands on your thighs, spreading you open again. His fingers plunge into you with zero warning, thick and fast, two at first then a third curling up to hook that spot inside you that makes your whole body jolt. Your moan is swallowed into Eve’s cunt, your hips trying to buck up even as she pins your head down.

“Look at you…” Mark mumbles from between your thighs. His voice is thick with need. “You like this, huh?”

You try to answer, but there’s no space for sound. Only the slick, smothering pressure of Eve’s cunt, and Mark’s relentless fingers plunging deep inside you. His thumb circles your clit, rubbing hard and fast, contrasting the way his fingers curl in deep, dragging along your walls, sending pulses of blinding pleasure through your core. You’re trembling, eyes rolled back, brain floating.

He’s stroking himself too, you can hear it. The wet slap of his fist around his cock, the sharp inhale as he watches your body twist and writhe. You’re trapped between them, nowhere to run. Eve rides your face, gasping, moaning, grinding harder as she gets closer. Her nails rake across your scalp, yanking your hair tighter.

“Stay there,” she pants, clit throbbing against your tongue. “You’re not getting up. Not until I cum all over your mouth.”

Mark fucks you harder in time with her rhythm, the slick sound of his fingers inside you obscene, his other hand slapping your inner thigh hard enough to leave a mark. Your pussy clamps down around him, helpless and close, each nerve screaming.

Eve is shaking above you, breath hitching, sweat dripping down her body to land on your chest. Her thighs twitch and lock as her moans rise in pitch, sharp and guttural, no longer graceful. She’s close, so close, and you can feel her clit throb against your tongue, feel the way her hips stutter, her body losing control.

Mark watches you shake beneath Eve, your arms limp at your sides, fingers twitching against the sheets, your entire body caught in a tide of overstimulation. You’re not speaking anymore. You can't. Your mouth is buried in Eve’s slick heat, her cunt smothering your every attempt to breathe. 

You feel the weight of Mark settle over your legs, his knees pressing into the mattress outside your thighs. You feel his cock, a thick, heavy slap against your wet folds, hot and hard and already leaking.

“Fucking beautiful,” he mutters, breathless, palms sliding up the backs of your thighs. He grabs hold, fingers digging in deep, thumbs spreading you open. You hear him spit, then feel the warm splash of it between your folds, mixing with your slick. His tip presses against your entrance.

Then he pushes in.

You gasp, but it’s swallowed. Eve grinds down, reclaiming your mouth, her hips rolling as her clit finds your nose again. She moans above you, but you barely register it, your cunt is stretching, stuffed, filled to the hilt in a single brutal thrust. Mark’s cock drives deep, splitting you open, so thick you can feel every ridge, every vein dragging along your slick walls. He bottoms out with a groan, holding himself there, twitching inside you.

“You’re tight,” he grunts. “So fucking wet. Fuck.”

You squirm, overwhelmed, your body pinned at both ends, Eve’s weight on your face, Mark’s cock pounding into your pussy. You can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t even scream. You’re being fucked and used, stuffed and smothered, every inch of you burning with pleasure that borders on pain.

Mark doesn't wait.

He pulls back, then slams in hard. Again. His pace brutal from the start, relentless, deep enough to punch moans out of you, silent, swallowed ones, muffled against Eve’s soaked cunt. Your breath comes in ragged bursts between her thrusts. Sometimes not at all. Your lungs burn, and so does your pussy.

The sound is obscene, wet slaps of skin, the slick squelch of Mark’s cock plunging into your soaked core, Eve’s gasps above you, your muffled cries. The bed shakes beneath all three of you.

Eve rides slower now, savoring, watching the way your body twitches. Her fingers slide into your hair again, stroking almost sweetly. “Poor thing,” she coos, looking down, her breath warm on your forehead. 

Mark’s fingers dig deeper into your hips, holding you steady as he fucks into you harder. You hear the slap of his hips against your ass, and your body jolts forward with every stroke, only to be caught and smothered again by Eve’s soaking cunt grinding into your mouth.

You’re trembling, completely lost. Slick dripping down your thighs, stretched wide, filled to the brim. Every nerve in your body screams, every pulse a demand. You don’t know where the next orgasm is coming from, your cunt, your clit, your mouth, your lungs, but it’s coming fast, crashing through your limbs like electricity.

“Fuck, look at her,” Mark groans, breath ragged, his thrusts getting faster. “She’s shaking.”

Eve moans in agreement, grinding down harder. “She’s going to cum like this,” she whispers, biting her lip.

And you do.

Your body tenses, shaking under them, mouth flooding with Eve’s slick as she rocks into your nose and clit one final time. Your pussy clamps around Mark’s cock, fluttering tight, soaking him with your release. You scream into her cunt, the sound barely a whisper beneath her weight, lost in the wet heat and pressure.

Mark doesn’t stop. He groans, cock pulsing inside you, thrusts becoming erratic. His hands slam your hips back to meet each brutal stroke. You’re too sensitive, too full, too everything.

Eve doesn’t lift off you.

If anything, she pushes harder, hips rolling with a wild, stuttering rhythm, thighs trembling against your cheeks, her cunt soaking your mouth as she rides the wave building deep in her core. Her breath comes in jagged gasps above you, one hand clenching in your hair, the other gripping the headboard so tight her knuckles whiten. You feel every twitch of her muscles, every spasm in her thighs as she grinds herself down on your tongue, chasing it, chasing the edge—

Then she breaks.

A sharp cry bursts from her throat, and her legs lock around your head, trapping you in. Her pussy gushes, flooding your mouth with her slick as her orgasm crashes through her. She moans loud, guttural, hips jerking forward in messy, desperate thrusts. You can’t breathe. Can’t move. She’s completely seated on your face, thighs squeezing, cunt grinding, her whole body convulsing above you.

Your lungs scream for air. Your tongue keeps moving, twitching, lapping, drinking her in as the pressure in your own core spirals beyond control. You’re already at the brink, every thrust from Mark's cock pulling you tighter, deeper, stretched and trembling, your body vibrating on the edge of a scream.

Mark pistons into you, relentless, brutal, splitting you wide open. You’re not even sure your body can take it, already spent, already unraveling, but he doesn’t stop. His cock fucks deep into your spasming cunt, every thrust grinding against that aching, overfucked spot inside you, making your whole body jolt.

Your clit pulses, untouched, overworked, and the sensation breaks something in you. Tears spill down your cheeks, your hands gripping the sheets like a lifeline. Your voice is gone, choked out by Eve’s cunt riding your face through her aftershocks. Her moans soften to breathy whimpers, her hips twitching as she trembles atop you, riding every last ripple of her orgasm until she slumps forward, barely able to keep upright.

But Mark keeps fucking you.

“Gonna fill you up again,” he mumbles to himself, slamming into you with reckless force. “Fuck this pussy’s perfect when it’s cumming.”

You’re sobbing now, pleasure too sharp, too much, and still he doesn’t stop. Your pussy gushes around him, soaked and stretched, every thrust pushing slick out around his cock, down your thighs, pooling under your hips. Your body is shaking, mind gone, breath still ragged as you try to suck air past Eve’s wet folds, your face slick and shining with her release.

And just when you think you’ve gone as far as you can go, Mark slams in deep and stays there, grinding, groaning, his cock pulsing as he cums hard inside you again. Thick, hot, flooding you with another load that spills back out around him almost instantly. He ruts in tiny motions, milking it, fucking it deeper while your cunt twitches around him, clenching and sucking at his cock even after it starts to soften.

Eve finally shifts, only just enough to let you breathe. You gasp, dragging air in through your nose, mouth still sealed to her swollen, oversensitive pussy. She doesn’t get off. She just watches you from above, eyes dark and satisfied, breath slowing.

Mark leans forward over you, panting, sweat dripping from his chest onto your spine. His cock twitches, still buried in your cunt.

Your body jerks with every aftershock. You’re full, stuffed, flooded, used. Your mouth aches, jaw sore, lips raw. Your pussy pulses in time with your heartbeat, stretched around Mark’s cock, leaking his cum. Eve lays next you, stroking your hair. You’re limp between them, breath catching, body humming with bruises, slick, heat.

Mark groans as he pulls out, a wet squelch breaking through the thick, heated air of the room. His cock drags slow from your spasming cunt, the stretch lingering until the very tip slips free, leaving you gaping, open, empty, and pulsing. A thick spill of cum pours out of you, white and sticky, coating your inner thighs and soaking into the sheets below. You twitch, overstimulated, your muscles trembling, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat and something animal.

Before you can fully register the emptiness, Eve is already moving.

You moan, barely, and then freeze again as you feel her fingers press between your thighs.

“Mmm… no,” she murmurs, voice low, sultry, and commanding. “That’s not leaving you yet.”

Two fingers, slick and sure, plunge into your used pussy, deep and deliberate. You gasp, spine arching weakly, as Eve fucks Mark’s cum right back inside you. It’s messy, obscene, the wet slap of her fingers stirring his seed deeper into your fluttering walls, mixing with your own release. She curls her fingers up, slow and possessive, scooping what tries to escape and forcing it back into the quivering heat of your cunt.

Mark strokes your thigh, his hand firm, sliding up along the muscle still twitching from your orgasm. He watches, fascinated, cock still half-hard and gleaming with your slick, eyes locked between your legs.

You can’t move.

Your mouth opens in a soft cry as Eve starts rubbing your clit again, slow circles, perfectly placed, no pressure wasted. Her other hand never stops working your pussy, two fingers deep, pumping in and out with the lazy rhythm of someone completely in control. She’s not teasing. She’s patient. Precise. Knowing exactly how far she can push you before you shatter again.

You’re crying, moaning, shaking all over. Your body tries to close, thighs twitching, but Eve keeps you wide, spreading you open with her body between your legs, her fingers splitting you deeper, keeping you exposed and full.

“There you go,” she coos, voice soft and sweet. “Such a good little thing. You’re gonna give us one more, aren’t you?”

Mark leans in, brushing his lips over your ear. “You’ve got another in you,” he murmurs. “I can feel it. You’re clenching so fucking tight.”

Your vision blurs, white edges, stars blooming behind your eyelids. Your mouth moves but nothing comes out, just little gasps, half-broken cries as Eve rubs your clit with slow, patient pressure. Her fingers stay deep, knuckles wet, twisting just right inside you. Every motion sends another bolt through your core, your body no longer reacting in words, only sound.

And then it breaks.

You cum with a final, sharp burst, your entire body curling inward, limbs locking as your pussy clamps around Eve’s fingers, desperate to hold them in. Your mouth opens wide in a silent scream, tears rolling down your flushed cheeks. It’s too much, every nerve blinding, muscles spasming out of control, pleasure ripping through you like lightning tearing down your spine.

Eve doesn’t stop. She fucks you through it, riding out your orgasm with practiced grace, her fingers relentless, dragging every drop from your body until your strength gives out completely.

You collapse.

Limbs slack. Chest heaving. Pussy gaping, wet, pulsing around the soft slide of Eve’s fingers as she finally slows. She eases them out with a wet, dragging motion, your mixed cum clinging in thick strings between her knuckles and your swollen folds. She watches it stretch, admires it. Then she leans in and presses a kiss to your thigh, soft and intimate.

Mark’s hands stroke down your side, grounding you, warm and firm. “You did good,” he says, voice low with praise. 

And you just lie there, wrecked, trembling, leaking, completely undone. The room hums with the afterglow, thick and heavy with sweat and cum and the slow rhythm of your breathing.

Eve leans down and kisses your mouth, wet, deep, tasting herself on your tongue. Her fingers withdraw slow, soaked, glistening with the mix of everything you’ve given.

She looks at you then. Really looks. Eyes half-lidded, the afterglow still burning in her cheeks. She smiles, low and crooked, and tucks a strand of damp hair behind her ear.

She rises, her weight lifting from the bed, leaving your body bare and cold without hers to press into. The air kisses your soaked skin, the wet heat of her absence sinking in like a bruise. You watch, helpless and boneless, as she walks, naked, unhurried, to where her clothes lay scattered like dropped intentions across the floor.

She bends, picks up her shirt, and slips it over her head. The fabric clings to her thighs, still slick from riding your face. Her legs shine with the memory of it.

At the door, she pauses, fingers curled around the knob. Her head tilts just enough to cast a look over her shoulder. Hair tangled. Lips kiss-bitten. A red bloom fading across her throat.

“Sleep if you can,” she says, softer now. “You’ll be sore.”

She opens the door with a soft click. Light spills in from the hallway, carving her in silhouette, a fading fever dream.

Then she steps out.

The latch catches behind her. The door shuts quiet.

And she’s gone.

But her scent stays. Heavy. Floral. Salt-sweet with sex. The room still aches with her, soaked into the sheets, your skin, the inside of your thighs. You breathe her in with every ragged exhale, chest rising against the pillow she’d leaned on, her imprint still warm beside you.

You only feel the silence she leaves behind, thick, humming with everything she wrung out of you. Her scent still clings to your mouth, your cheeks, the insides of your thighs, and you lie there ruined, blinking slowly at the ceiling, every inch of your body buzzing, raw, wet, filled and emptied all at once. Your pussy pulses weakly, still twitching from being used so hard, and your breath shakes when you try to inhale.

Then Mark’s arms come around you.

He moves slow. Careful. He doesn’t say a word as he slides in beside you, pulling your boneless, trembling body into his chest. The warmth of him is jarring at first, you’re so oversensitive, every brush of skin like a jolt, but he wraps you in it, one arm under your shoulders, the other drawing a blanket up over the sticky mess of your body. You shiver once, and he holds you tighter, presses a kiss to your temple.

You sink into it.

His chest rises and falls behind you, steady and safe, anchoring. One hand strokes your hair, slow and rhythmic, fingertips sliding through the tangles left by Eve’s grip.

You finally speak, voice hoarse, barely audible.

“That was…”

His hand pauses. “Too much?”

You shake your head, just barely.

“No. Not too much. Just—” you pause, searching for the word. “New.”

His chest rumbles with a low sound, almost a chuckle. “Yeah. It was.”

You stare at the wall for a moment, eyes unfocused. “I’ve never been with anyone else,” you say, quiet. “Only you.”

He goes still behind you. Not tense. Just quiet. His fingers keep stroking your hair.

“I know,” he says. There’s no judgment in his voice. Just understanding. He breathes in, deep, then exhales slowly against your neck. “You did amazing.”

A warmth rises in your chest that has nothing to do with sex. You lean into him, your back fitting to his chest like you were made to be held this way. “I liked it,” you whisper.

He nods, lips brushing your hairline. “I know you did.”

You feel him smile against your skin, his fingers drifting down to trace the curve of your arm, the dip of your hip beneath the blanket. His touch is tender now, no edge, no hunger. Just the grounding warmth of the man who knows every part of you, even the ones you hadn’t given until tonight.

“You’re okay?” he asks softly.

You nod, eyelids heavy. “I am now.”

He kisses your temple again, lets his hand rest on your stomach, holding you close, and you sigh, deep, loose, full.

The scent of sweat and slick and something sweeter lingers in the air, fading with the heat between your thighs. The room is dim, quiet now, safe. You burrow into the curve of his arms, and your last thought before you drift is that you never thought something so filthy could leave you feeling so completely… kept.

You fall asleep wrapped in him.

Still a little sore. Still sticky. Still full.

But safe.

Wanted.

His.

The house is still dark when you wake.

Your eyes open slowly to the quiet of a pre-dawn world, no alarms, no call to arms. Just breath and warmth and the faintest weight of a blanket resting on your skin. The air smells like sleep and something vaguely familiar, Mark’s scent, embedded now into the sheets. Into you.

His arm is still slung across your waist, fingers curled loosely where they rested hours ago. The steadiness of him at your back, the slow rhythm of his breath against your shoulder, it’s grounding. It's real.

But you’ve never been able to stay still for long.

You shift carefully, easing your body from under the blanket. His arm falls against the mattress without protest. Mark doesn’t wake, just lets out a low, wordless sigh and turns into the warm space you left behind.

You tug on one of his shirts from the edge of the bed, something cotton, worn at the collar, clinging slightly to your shape. It smells like him. You don’t know if he meant to leave it there for you. But you wear it anyway.

The house is quiet in a way you’re not used to. Not Eternian quiet. That quiet was rigid, ceremonial. This is... lived in. Full of texture. Pipes rattle somewhere inside the walls. Something hums beneath your feet, maybe a heating system, maybe some unseen energy source native to this strange little house. The refrigerator lets out a low, lazy buzz like it’s dreaming.

You walk barefoot down the hall. The floorboards shift beneath your weight, not built to absorb it the way command ships are. It makes you feel larger. More present. More here.

When you round the corner into the living room, you stop.

Marky and Terra are already awake, draped across the couch like two foxes in a den. Marky has one leg kicked up on a cushion, his eyes locked on the screen like it holds the secrets of the universe. Terra is chewing cereal dry from a plastic cup, legs swinging off the side of the couch like she might launch at any moment.

The television flashes with chaotic, blinding light. Cartoons. The images move so quickly you can’t follow them, colors that shouldn’t exist, characters morphing shape mid-sentence, something with twelve eyes and a fire sword turning into a vehicle and then back into a man.

Your body tenses. Your eyes narrow.

“…Are these visions of war?” you ask quietly, unable to look away.

Marky doesn’t blink. “It’s a show!”

You take another step forward, scanning the screen like you’re waiting for it to issue a kill order.

“That one turns into a truck,” Marky adds helpfully.

You stare at the pixelated chaos. A robot with wings just screamed something about destiny before launching a laser into a mountain.

“Why is there a child with a jetpack fighting alongside a lizard general?” you whisper.

Terra shrugs, not looking away. “He’s brave.”

There’s a long silence.

“I don’t understand,” you murmur.

“You’re not supposed to,” Terra says, casually tossing a piece of cereal into her mouth. “It’s a cartoon.”

You sit on the edge of the armrest, watching in horrified fascination as the truck-man transforms again into something called a “justice fortress.”

“This seems inefficient.”

Marky finally glances up at you. “You’re weird,” he says, without any judgment. Then grins. “I like you!”

Terra nods solemnly beside him. “Me too.”

You smile, small but real. “Thanks.”

They scoot over instinctively. You don’t ask. You just sink down between them, still wearing Mark’s shirt, still watching the screen like it might explode, still trying to make sense of the Earth morning rituals.

You leave the kids behind when the commercials start.

Marky is still monologuing about the lore of a villain named Megatron, while Terra tries to draw mustaches on the screen with a marker she definitely stole from yesterday’s art time. You excuse yourself quietly and they barely notice, too enthralled by robots screaming about honor and laser codes.

The hallway is dim and warm with morning light. You pad barefoot to the kitchen, the sleeves of Mark’s shirt hanging a little long past your wrists, the hem brushing your upper thighs. It smells like him, clean and familiar, still edged faintly with sweat and sex.

You press your palm once to the frame of the kitchen door before you enter. Not for balance. Just to steady yourself.

Inside, Eve’s already moving. She’s dressed the way she always seems to be when she’s comfortable, long sleep shorts and an old hoodie pulled halfway off one shoulder, hair tied in a bun that’s somehow both effortless and intentional. She’s flipping something in a pan one-handed, sipping coffee with the other.

She doesn’t look up when she hears you.

But she does smile.

"Morning," she says, lazy and low. Her voice is still scratchy from sleep.

You nod as you ease into a chair. “Good morning.”

There’s a plate already waiting for you. And on it, still steaming, a single Pop-Tart.

Bright blue frosting. Rainbow sprinkles. It glistens in the morning light like something sentient. It smells... artificial. You eye it like it might start vibrating.

You glance up at her slowly. “Is this for me?”

She shrugs. “Consider it part of your cultural immersion.”

You squint at it. “Is it food?”

“Debatable.”

You look down again. The pastry radiates a quiet menace.

“What is the blue paste?” you ask, honestly trying to understand. “Is it medicinal?”

That gets a full laugh out of her. Eve turns to face you, leaning back against the counter, coffee mug tucked against her ribs. “It’s sugar. Just eat it.”

You pick it up delicately, like a landmine. “It looks chemically unstable.”

“It probably is. But hey, you’ll live forever now. Or you’ll die immediately. Either way, breakfast.”

You take a small bite. The texture is... confusing. The pastry crumbles instantly, but the inside is molten, gooey, and far too sweet. It’s like someone weaponized fruit and then handed it to a child.

You chew slowly. Swallow. Blink.

“I can feel my blood revolting.”

Eve grins. “Yeah, that’s the frosting kicking in. You’ll adjust.”

You take another cautious bite. “This doesn’t taste like food.”

“It tastes like parental fatigue,” she says. 

You glance at her, then gesture vaguely toward the hallway. “Marky says the truck is the hero. But it also has missiles?”

“He’s watched five seasons. Don’t question his truths.”

You shake your head, slowly setting the Pop-Tart back down like it might reanimate.

Eve crosses the room and refills her mug. Her movements are smooth, casual, but there’s a flicker of something else in her expression now. She leans back against the counter again and eyes you over the rim.

“You always wear his clothes after?”

You glance down at the shirt you’re in, Mark’s, soft and stretched at the collar. You’re suddenly aware of the marks along your thighs, the faint ache in your core, the memory of her mouth between your legs only hours ago.

You look back up at her. “I didn’t think about it.”

Eve tilts her head slightly, mouth curling just at the edge. “No judgment. You look good in him.”

You pause. “In his shirt, or—?”

She lifts a brow. “Yes.”

Heat blooms low in your stomach, but you keep your expression steady. She doesn’t leer. She doesn’t push. But there’s a knowing in her eyes. A reminder.

Of what you let happen last night.

Of how it felt to be held down and touched by both of them at once, her mouth on your chest, his hands buried between your legs. Her laugh against your skin, his breath catching when you moaned his name.

You shift slightly in the chair, suddenly aware of the way the shirt sticks to your thighs.

Eve watches. Doesn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, lightly, “You okay?”

You nod. “Just… adjusting.”

She hums. “Yeah. I remember that.”

You rest your arms on the table, fingers tracing the edge of the plate. “Does it always feel like this?”

Eve’s eyes soften. “Only when it’s real.”

You don’t answer. But you think you know what she means.

The refrigerator hums quietly behind you. Somewhere in the hallway, a cartoon character lets out a scream of joy or war, it’s hard to tell.

Eve pushes a new mug of coffee toward you.

You take it without hesitation this time.

The mug is warm in your hands when Mark enters.

You hear him before you see him, floorboards shifting under his weight, the creak of the hallway door easing open, a soft yawn half-muffled into his arm. Then the quiet scuff of bare feet on tile. He moves like a man still shedding the last layers of sleep, blinking against the morning light that’s begun to spill across the kitchen in gold lines.

He’s dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants, both clearly old, both clearly too small now. The hoodie pulls tight across his chest and upper arms, sleeves riding up just past his wrists. The sweatpants are low on his hips, barely clinging to the sharp lines there. The waistband’s loose, like it gave up years ago. The whole outfit makes him look younger and somehow broader at the same time, like all that strength he’s carrying doesn’t know how to fit inside domestic softness.

His eyes are half-lidded. His black hair is still a little damp from a shower. His presence, as always, fills the room the moment he walks in.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does Eve.

He yawns again, lifting an arm to stretch, then makes a low sound in the back of his throat. His eyes scan the kitchen once, still catching up to the day, and then land on you.

And soften.

Without a word, he crosses the room, leans down behind your chair, and presses a kiss to your temple.

Gentle.

Unthinking.

Like it’s a habit.

Like it’s something he’s done before, or wants to do again.

You freeze.

Not from fear. Not from shame. But from the way your body instantly reacts, something inside you going taut, breath catching somewhere in your chest. Your hand stills around the mug. Your pulse thuds in your ears.

He doesn’t notice at first. He’s already moving toward the fridge, rubbing his face like he’s trying to stay awake.

You sit there, stunned.

Eve watches.

You feel her watching.

But she doesn’t comment.

She just takes another sip of her coffee, then glances down at the plate in front of you, the Pop-Tart, mostly eaten now. 

“She lived,” Eve says casually, like nothing at all happened.

Mark turns his head, half-curious. “Lived what?”

“Her first Earth breakfast.”

“Oh. You gave her a Pop-Tart?”

“She survived it. Barely.”

Mark pulls open the fridge. “She survive you?”

Eve hums, slow and sly. “She did better than with you.”

You blink. The heat in your face now is undeniable. It creeps down your neck, settles deep in your chest. Your legs shift beneath the table again and the hoodie, his hoodie, suddenly feels too warm on your body.

Mark finally glances back at you, toast now clamped between his teeth, a carton of juice in one hand. He freezes when he sees your expression.

His brow furrows.

“You okay?”

You clear your throat. “Yes. Just—wasn’t expecting that.”

“The toast?”

“The kiss.”

He pauses mid-chew.

Then swallows.

“Oh.”

You look down at the table. Your fingers tighten slightly around the mug.

“It’s not a complaint,” you add quickly. “It just... surprised me.”

Mark is quiet for a second. Then he nods. “I’ll warn you next time.”

Eve smirks behind her mug. “Very romantic.”

Mark shoots her a look over the juice carton, but there’s no heat in it. Just that same tired, fond exasperation you’ve seen pass between them a dozen times already this morning.

You look at him again, barefoot, in clothes that don’t quite fit, sipping juice and smiling like it’s the easiest thing in the world to kiss you good morning.

And something in your chest shifts again.

Soft.

Unfamiliar.

Like maybe this, sugar-filled breakfasts and morning kisses and watching cartoons with children who don’t understand boundaries, could be your life, if you let it.

Mark leans against the counter, half-awake, sipping orange juice straight from the carton while Eve glares at him over her coffee.

“Use a glass, barbarian.”

“I am the glass,” Mark mumbles, eyes still puffy from sleep.

You sit at the table between them, bare legs tucked under you, still in Mark’s hoodie from last night. It falls low on your thighs and smells like skin, like sleep, like him. 

Beyond the kitchen, you can hear Terra and Marky still engrossed in their morning cartoon ritual, some sort of animated chaos involving screaming vehicles and morally questionable sea creatures. You’re trying to focus on breakfast, but a sudden explosion from the TV makes you glance toward the living room archway.

And that’s when it happens.

The cartoon cuts to commercial.

The screen floods with light, soft, sun-warmed light, and a montage plays, waves crashing, children running barefoot across sand, a long pier with glowing lights strung overhead. Vendors laughing. Churros. Something sparkling.

Then a cartoon octopus appears wearing sunglasses and spinning a beach ball on one tentacle.

You blink. Slowly. “What… is that?”

Mark follows your gaze briefly, then shrugs. “Ad for the pier.”

You tilt your head. “Is that where the sea lives on Earth?”

Eve snorts into her coffee.

Mark smirks. “Yeah. That’s one way to put it.”

You frown slightly, still watching the light flash through the hallway from the screen. “It looked peaceful. And chaotic. And… edible?”

Eve sets her mug down and leans against the island, arms folded. “You’ve never been to the beach?”

“Not like that. Not with... food stands. Children. Laughter.”

Mark’s brow furrows. “What kind of beaches did you have?”

You glance at him. “Cliffs. Salt. Wind strong enough to peel the skin from your teeth.”

Mark blinks. Eve raises both brows.

You pause. “It was a training site.”

“Obviously,” Mark mutters.

Eve grins. “Well. That settles it.”

You glance at her. “Settles what?”

She’s already pushing off the counter, heading to the hallway. “Beach day.”

Mark blinks. “Wait, what?”

“Come on. They’re kids. You’re grumpy. She’s never had a funnel cake. It’s happening.”

Mark frowns. “I just woke up.”

“You can sleep on the sand.”

You tilt your head. “Is it soft?”

“Not really,” Eve admits. “But it’s warm. And it gets everywhere. And you can throw it at people you like.”

You consider that for a moment. “That sounds perfect.”

Mark makes a strangled noise into his juice.

Eve is already halfway to the hallway, calling out to the kids. “Hey, who wants to go to the pier?!”

Screaming ensues. Violent, joyous screaming.

Mark stares at you. “This is your fault.”

You raise an eyebrow. “All I did was ask a question.”

“You asked it like a challenge.”

You don’t deny it.

And he doesn’t really sound mad.

In minutes, the kitchen is chaos, bags being assembled, water bottles shoved into coolers, sunscreen dug out of drawers, towels tossed like weapons across furniture. Eve moves like a general in the field, giving orders and ignoring pushback.

You’re halfway through trying to determine which article of borrowed clothing is considered “appropriate” for Earth beachwear when Mark brushes past you at the table, bare arm grazing yours.

He leans close and murmurs, “You’re really okay with this?”

You glance at him. At the soft shadows under his eyes. The hoodie tugged too tight across his chest. The mark on his neck that wasn’t there yesterday.

You nod. “I want to see the ocean.”

He exhales. Smiles. “Then I guess we’d better pack snacks.”

You all descend from the sky in a loose, informal formation, like a flock that never agreed on a leader. Eve leads, sleek and sure in her casual clothes, hair pulled up beneath a pink cap. Mark follows close behind her, one arm around Terra’s waist as she kicks excitedly midair, the other adjusting his hoodie where it’s fluttering in the wind. You come in last, carrying Marky, who insists on holding his arms out like wings and screaming, “I’M THE FASTEST DUCK ALIVE!”

You descend onto the pier like it’s enemy territory, uneven wind, scattered civilians, high probability of sticky fingers and airborne seagulls.

Eve touches down first, light as a feather in her pink jacket and black boots, hair pulled back back to keep it from tangling in the wind. She lands with the kind of practiced ease that says she’s done this before. Probably more than once. Mark follows just behind, one arm tucked around Terra’s middle, the other curled to shield them both from the wind. He lowers them to the boards with a soft thump, Terra already wiggling to be let go before her boots hit the planks.

You’re the last to land, carrying Marky under one arm like a particularly excited satchel. He’s buzzing with energy, kicking his feet midair and pretending to pilot the descent. The second your boots make contact with the sun-warmed wood of the pier, he shouts, “TOUCHDOWN!” and throws both fists upward.

You let him down carefully. He immediately bolts toward a nearby churro stand.

“Marky, no—!” Mark calls after him, already too late.

The pier hums with movement. Beneath your boots, the wooden slats groan and shift with every step, creaking with age and salt. Colorful string lights line the handrails, even though it’s still daytime. There’s music playing from somewhere, bouncy, obnoxious, catchy in a way that makes you want to stomp it out, and the smell of fried batter and too-sweet syrup hangs thick in the air. A popcorn machine whistles. A seagull screams overhead. Someone’s baby is crying nearby with the fury of a minor god.

You scan the scene with cautious awe. There’s a ride in the distance, some sort of spinning metal wheel with seats attached to long arms, flinging shrieking humans through the air like it’s meant to separate bones from organs.

You blink.

You point.

“…You’re telling me children pay to be thrown in circles?”

Eve doesn’t even glance up from tying Terra’s hoodie around her waist. “Yup.”

Mark steps beside you, watching the same ride with an expression somewhere between nostalgia and nausea. “And some adults. If they’ve got a death wish or a coupon.”

You frown. “And this is considered enjoyable?”

Eve straightens and smirks. “It’s a rite of passage. Screaming until your soul leaves your body builds character.”

You look again. The ride whips around on its axis, a blur of metal and human-shaped blur. Someone lets out a noise that could be delight or pain, it’s impossible to tell.

You glance between them, squinting. “I once trained blindfolded while balancing on a floating meteor in low gravity. This seems less dignified.”

Mark crosses his arms, fighting a grin. “You scared?”

You narrow your eyes. “Absolutely not.”

“Then let’s go.”

The ride is called The Cyclone.

It should be called The Regret Machine.

You and Eve are strapped into a seat together, two-person pod, industrial-strength shoulder harnesses, and the operator who definitely looks like he failed a background check. He hits the start button without warning, and the machine launches forward with a screech and a burst of compressed air.

You’re slammed into your seat as the machine begins to spin. Slowly at first, manageable. Then faster. Then sideways. Then it tilts on a hidden axis and launches you through a dizzying loop.

Your stomach flips.

Your brain rattles.

You shout, loud and startled. “I WAS NOT BRIEFED ON THIS—”

Eve laughs so hard she nearly chokes. “NOW you get it!”

“This is absurd!”

“This is America!”

You have no idea which direction is up, only that Eve is screaming with delight and your hand is definitely braced against her thigh for stabilization. The wind whips through your hair, your vision blurs, and your teeth clack with every jolt.

You don’t throw up.

But when it ends, and the ride finally shudders to a stop, you’re not entirely confident you still have bones.

You stumble out onto the wooden slats with the grace of someone who’s been punched by gravity itself. Mark is already at the rail with the kids.

“You definitely screamed,” he says.

“I did not,” you grit out.

Marky claps like you just won a medal. “That was so cool! You went upside down!”

Terra squints at you, licking pink sugar off her fingers. “You looked like you were gonna pass out but in a cool way.”

Mark holds out a bottle of water. “Proud of you.”

You take it. You chug.

Eve finally steps off the platform, fixing her hair and smirking. “You did grab my thigh.”

You glare at her, flushed. “I needed something solid. You were available.”

Mark whistles. “You two wanna be alone or—?”

“Shut up,” you mutter.

But you don’t let go of the water bottle. Or the smile threatening your mouth.

You swear the pier tilts under your feet.

But you keep your back straight, jaw firm, gait measured. If anything, you double down on poise, moving through the milling crowd like a soldier in foreign terrain. The sun glints off every surface, the ocean crashes beneath the wooden boards in rhythmic bursts, and you can still feel the echo of the ride in your legs.

“You good?” Eve asks, walking backward ahead of you, her arms loose around Marky’s towel-draped shoulders. “You’re doing the ‘I’m fine but I’m not fine’ walk.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” you reply, voice clipped but steady. “My equilibrium is simply renegotiating with gravity.”

Mark mutters from behind you, “Very normal. Very human.”

But your focus has already shifted.

Terra appears beside you, tugging lightly at the edge of your borrowed shirt with a conspiratorial expression. Her fingers are sticky with cotton candy residue, her cheeks flushed from the wind, and there’s a look in her eyes like she’s planning something bold.

She doesn’t say it out loud. She doesn’t have to.

You tilt your chin in the direction of a glowing white-and-pink stand down the pier, its large sign blinking ICE CREAM in oversized letters above a glitter-painted whale.

You offer your hand without ceremony. “Shall we?”

Terra grins. “Absolutely.”

You leave the others behind, walking together in a measured procession. Two warriors on a sacred errand. The boards creak under your boots and her sneakers in uneven rhythm, but you stay in step.

The man behind the counter is sunburned and half-asleep. You stare at the menu like it’s a battlefield map. Terra scans it faster, finger jabbing toward her choice before you’ve even finished reading the word sherbet.

“Chocolate chip cookie dough,” she says. “Waffle cone. No rainbow bits.”

You look down at her. “You’ve done this before.”

“This isn’t my first rodeo.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

She smirks. “It means I know how to get what I want.”

You nod once. “I’ll have the same.”

When the cones are finally handed over, precariously stacked, dipped in chocolate, glistening with potential failure, you take yours with solemnity. Terra cradles hers like it’s made of glass.

You walk a few paces down the pier, side by side again, holding your cones upright like torches. You take your first lick. It’s… cold. Unreasonably cold. Your teeth ache on contact. The sugar is immediate, intrusive. There are chunks of cookie dough suspended in the ice like weaponized nostalgia.

You frown slightly. “This is an absurd food.”

Terra nods, taking a slow bite. “But it’s powerful.”

You chew your spoonful. “I feel like I’ve been emotionally attacked by dessert.”

She grins, proud. “That’s the point.”

You continue your march toward the shaded part of the pier, the two of you walking with regal intensity, cones held aloft, small children darting around your feet like minnows. The seagulls circle. The wind tugs at Terra’s ponytail.

Then, disaster.

Without warning, her foot catches the edge of a crooked plank. Just a fraction of a misstep. Her sneaker stumbles half an inch. And her cone, her beautiful, carefully curated, honor-protected cone, tilts.

Time slows.

You see the moment her eyes widen.

The ice cream falls.

Hits the pier with a horrible splat.

The scoop rolls once. Twice. Then collapses in a tragic pile near the edge of a discarded napkin.

You both stare at it.

Terra’s lower lip trembles.

You blink. “...We have suffered a loss.”

She doesn’t speak.

She just stares at the mess. Eyes wide. Chest rising faster.

Then, in a voice so quiet you almost miss it.“It was perfect.”

You crouch next to her, still holding your own cone, now suddenly irrelevant in the shadow of this catastrophe.

“Terra,” you say softly. “We can get another.”

Her fists curl at her sides. Her face scrunches. Her throat tightens, and you can already see the tears building, small, silent, furious.

You stay kneeling. Silent. Waiting.

You look at her.

Then the cone.

Then back at her.

You rise without a word. Slowly. Deliberately.

The air seems to shift.

From the distance, the squeal of seagulls and carnival music fades under the hum of resolve. You lift your hand to your side, fingers flexing once, and your blade answers.

It appears in a flash of soft light and low resonance, slapping into your palm with a satisfying weight.

A nearby family gasps audibly. A churro vendor drops his tongs.

The sword gleams in the sun. You don’t raise it. You don’t need to.

You turn with purpose, as you stride toward the ice cream stand like an executioner walking toward a royal decree.

Terra stares after you, stunned.

At the stand, the vendor is mid-scoop, chatting with a tourist in a bucket hat, when your shadow falls over the counter. He looks up. Sees the sword.

Freezes.

“…Oh,” he says, voice breaking. “Oh God—is that a real sword?!”

You plant your feet evenly. Your voice is calm. Controlled. Absolutely unamused.

“The child mourns,” you declare.

He blinks. “What?”

“She mourns because of you.”

He stares at the blade. “Oh my god are you—are you serious—?”

“She selected your product with trust. You presented it—” your hand gestures to the side like this is a formal hearing, “without adequate reinforcement. No napkins. It was structurally unsound. It failed in transit. You failed her.”

“Ma’am, I—uh—” His hands lift like you’ve got him at gunpoint. “I can—I can just make her another one—!”

“I will require,” you continue, voice sharpened with gravity, “a replacement. Chocolate chip cookie dough. Waffle cone. No rainbow bits. Large.”

He reaches for a cone with a shaking hand. “Got it. No rainbows. Large. Please don’t smite me.”

“And this time,” you add, stepping forward, “you will provide a napkin.”

The vendor scrambles behind the glass. The scoop slips from his grip once and clatters to the floor. You don’t flinch. He finally, tremblingly, hands over a cone stacked as tall as a skyscraper. Napkins wrapped tightly around the base like it’s a sacred artifact.

You examine it once. Nod.

Sheathing your blade with a flick of your wrist, the weapon dissolves into light, vanishing like mist at sunrise. The crowd exhales. You pivot, regal as any royal envoy, and walk back toward Terra without breaking pace.

She’s still frozen in place, arms stiff at her sides, watching you with the wide-eyed awe of someone witnessing a myth come to life.

You kneel again.

Offer the cone with both hands.

Her voice is a whisper. “Did you threaten him?”

“I instructed him,” you say, calm. “Firmly.”

She takes the cone like it’s made of glass. “You’re so cool.”

“I protect what is mine.”

She leans into your side, pressing her forehead to your arm for a heartbeat, then pulls back and bites the new scoop with quiet ferocity.

Behind you, the vendor collapses into his stool, whispering, “I’m gonna put in my two weeks.”

Mark, Marky, and Eve arrive ten seconds later.

“Okay. Why do I feel like I missed something horrifying?”

Eve, already eyeing the re-wrapped cone, snorts. “Did you draw your sword?”

“She drew her sword?” Mark hisses. “You can’t do that at a pier, babe!”

“The child was wronged,” you say plainly.

Mark stares. “You threatened a man with sprinkles on his apron.”

Terra licks her cone proudly. “It worked.”

Eve hands you a napkin for your hand. “You’re unbelievable.”

You glance at the clean cone, now perfectly balanced in Terra’s grip.

And allow yourself a small, satisfied smile.

“Yes,” you say. “I am.”

✮♛ ♚✮⋆˙

The sun has long since set.

Eve’s house is quiet now, lit only by the warm golden lamps in the living room and the soft, artificial glow of a cartoon playing low in the background. Marky and Terra are curled up on the couch, limbs tangled under a fleece blanket, half-asleep. There’s a half-eaten bowl of popcorn on the coffee table. Someone’s forgotten a towel on the floor.

You’re in the kitchen, standing barefoot near the sink in borrowed clothes again, Eve’s this time. The adrenaline has worn off. The soreness has crept in. You’re rinsing your hands in the sink when it happens.

The house is still.

Dinner was loud. Marky talked for twenty minutes straight about penguins before falling asleep with his face in your side. Terra passed out halfway through brushing her teeth. Eve herded them off to bed like the seasoned tactician she is, and you stayed behind to help with the dishes while Mark disappeared to call Adam about an upcoming visit to Eternia.

You’re standing at the kitchen sink when it happens.

The front door opens. Not dramatically. Not kicked in. Just opens.

Mark’s mom stands in the doorway, keys still in her hand.

She’s dressed for the day she didn’t expect to have, jeans, a blouse wrinkled from the seatbelt, hair in a loose bun, eyes sharp and already full.

Mark walks into the room from the hallway and stops cold.

Debbie doesn’t speak at first.

She just looks at him. The kind of look that breaks through months of silence, guilt, and all the stubborn love in the world.

“You’re back,” she says, flat but not unkind.

Mark swallows. “Yeah.”

“I figured,” she says. “Eve didn’t tell me, but her neighbor’s niece posted a picture. You were holding cotton candy with Terra and trying not to smile.”

You blink. That tracks.

Mark steps forward. “Mom—”

But she’s already walking, arms stiff at her sides, until she closes the distance and pulls him into a hug that’s part relief, part reprimand, part don’t you dare ever do this again.

He holds her like he’s still seventeen.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he mumbles into her shoulder.

“You always know how,” she says. “You just didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be.”

They stand like that for a long moment, and you quietly step back into the kitchen to give them space. You rinse your hands under the tap. You don’t have to listen to hear the emotion in both of them.

Eventually they sit at the table. Mark leans forward, elbows braced, eyes down. Debbie watches him the way only a mother can, searching, steady, fierce.

You stay nearby, quiet, folding a dish towel. There’s no need to speak. She knows who you are. And even if she didn’t, she’d know by the way her son looks at you.

Debbie keeps her voice low.

“How long are you here?”

Mark exhales. “Just today.”

“With her?”

He nods. “With her. And Marky.”

She doesn’t say anything for a second. 

“You should have told me sooner.”

“I know.”

“I would’ve cooked.”

Debbie glances at you.

Then at him.

Then says, quieter: “I missed you.”

Mark swallows hard. “I missed you, too.”

They don’t hug again. But something settles between them. Not closure. Just presence. Just the choice to show up anyway.

Later, after Debbie claims the couch for herself and Eve shoos you off with a knowing smirk, you find Mark in the guest room, already stripped down to sweats and a soft black t-shirt, sitting on the bed with his feet still on the floor.

He looks up when you come in.

“You okay?” you ask, closing the door behind you.

He nods. “Better now.”

You don’t ask what that means. You just cross the room, slow, and sit beside him. He rests his forehead to your shoulder for a second before moving to the pillows.

You both get under the blanket without words.

He slides in behind you, his chest to your back, one arm draped over your waist. His hand finds yours beneath the sheets and just stays there. You let your eyes close.

“Thanks for today,” he says quietly.

You don’t open your eyes. “You’re welcome.”

“She missed him.”

“She misses you.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long time.

“You think I can be good at this? With her. With him. With you.”

You turn in the dark to face him.

“You already are.”

His eyes meet yours. And in them, for once, there’s no fear. Just something soft. Something that might be love. Something that already is.

He kisses your forehead once.

Then your nose.

Then your lips, barely a brush.

And then he pulls you close again, his arm locked around your waist like it’s instinct.

Neither of you speaks again.

You fall asleep like that.

Wrapped around each other.

Not on a throne. Not in battle.

Just in a room that smells like sleep and second chances.

✮♛ ♚✮⋆˙

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[galwednesday]

How Ruth E. Carter Resurrected 1930s Southern Style for Sinners

Stack’s suit had three little buttons down the front. It had a 1920s cut, and knowing they were coming from Chicago, we figured they likely had custom suits done. His character is very self-conscious and [plans] every little detail; on his pants, the pockets are slanted, he’s got the collar bar, the tie bar, the cuff links—he’s got everything. I remember flying back to L.A. to look for things because in New Orleans, some things you can find, some you can’t. I wanted to find Stack’s hat, and I walked into this hat shop on Melrose, and there was this red hat that ended up being perfect. I’ve worked with a lot of hat aficionados, and I know you can’t just throw your hat around or leave it anywhere, so we had these leather cases made just to hold his hat because it had to stay perfect the whole time. Smoke is less conscious. He doesn’t have a tie, he represents the everyman, and his suit was a little more boxy, a little bigger, and a little less tailored because he’s hiding all kinds of stuff; he’s got two guns, he’s got a knife. His look reminds me of Don Cheadle in Devil in a Blue Dress. He’ll take you down in a second. I loved his blue hat too because it was made of denim and was meant to represent workwear. We really did this movie so fast; there are little things that if I could just take a magic paintbrush and be at the theater and tell the projectionist [to change, I’d be like], “Hold on! Can you pause right here? I have to add a little bit of age to the hat!” But I love the juxtaposition of the red and blue [tones] with Smoke and Stack. That was Ryan’s idea.

And then in comes Mary! Mary had left her community; she married a wealthy man, [but now] she’s getting on the train to go back after her mother’s funeral, and she’s in her little knit dress. She doesn’t even look like she belongs. She’s like a ghost from another planet or another stratosphere, and that was the intention with her look. She’s not a part of the struggle and the strife that is the Mississippi Delta; like Smoke and Stack, she’s made another life for herself. We meet her in this pale, pale, pale color, and she’s wearing the same dress when she goes to the juke, and that was on purpose. I wanted for her to seem ghostly because of what happens to her later on and all of the blood that eventually gets onto the silk. It was very intentional.

It’s unexpected because we knew we were making a horror picture, but I never focused on the horror part. I focused on the Mississippi Delta and the blues and the sharecroppers and the migration and all of that. I had to remind myself, “Oh, they’re gonna bloody this one up!” When one of my team members said, “You know we’re gonna have to make 10 of these [pieces]?” I would say, “Oops! Sorry, guys. I was just focusing so much on the story of it all.” The response to it all is what I wanted it to be; I wanted people to see the Mississippi Delta, and I wanted them to see the story of the blues. Now that it’s rolling out and people are seeing this is more than just a horror film and that it has all of these layers—we made it with the intention of having those layers. There was a story within a story within a story.

How Ruth E. Carter Resurrected 1930s Southern Style for Sinners, Harpers Bazaar, April 24, 2025