#fic - wrecked

[amusingghost]

just some feral (mer)kids

unapologetically inspired from @swordsmans's fic the sea makes bones of bodies because i read it (again) and my GOD man it makes me feel so many things

[errruvande]

WHAT WE DO IN THE TOILET

Pairing: Thanos (Choi Su-Bong) x Fem!Reader

Summery: what if you stumbled upon your fucking ex boyfriend in a squid game toilet?

Triggers: SMUT, oral (both receiving), fingering, a bit of a dirty talk

A/N: first squid game smut, second smut fic in almost 10 years from me 🫡 English is not my native, so please, bear with it if you find a mistake, cause I'd die from embarrassment

A/N #2: dialogue formatted like this said by Thanos in English

Word count: 4k

Once you gave yourself a word that you will never meet him again in your life. You'd been trying to support him through his, not to say the list, pretty feeble rapping career, keeping him hyped up when his new tracks didn't hit the numbers he hoped for yet again. It was before he started investing his money into the crypt. You were the first one to say that this cryptocurrency shit was definitely a scum, but Su-Bong couldn't care less to listen, he had too much fun getting the first money back, doubled in number.

"This is all scum, Su!.." you once rattled at him, seeing Su-Bong changing yet another thousands of won to that crypto shit.

"We're gonna be fucking rich can't you see, señorita???" He grabbed the multicolored cash in his hands, throwing the money up in the air like a confetti. "I'm gonna win this life, baby!"

You only rolled your eyes at him, grabbing one 5000 won bill and making your way out of the room. "I'll look at your dumb ass when you invest all of your stupid money in this and they'll fuck you up, señor."

Now, you wandered how low did he fall to appear in this fucking shit hole. How many layers of buttom did his smoked, stoned ass broke to land on that pile of cow shit. How much debts did he have now? Definitely more than you, but how much more? Though after hearing some players' debts, you thought of your own to be a mild inconvenience.

You saw his head popping out from the crowd, the tallest guy in the group, as he always has been, with his head glowing purple in the dull green room. Thanos. You only prayed for him to not notice you, cause above all else, you would not stress his pathetically comical attempts into being not only a rapper, that you've already learned to stomach, but a comedian.

You were led out of the room, up and up and up by the pink strais that looked as if it have been snatched straight out of the psych test picture. Once you were high enough, you were instructed to go though the huge, massive doors leading to the open playground.

You saw him clinging to the pretty girl immediately after all of the players entered the playground, it didn't really sting, but it tugged on something buried deep down beneath the layers of indifference you've grown throughout the last year and the half.

"Hey, señorita."

You turned your head instinctively on the word. It was your word. You didn't know why, but when Su-Bong called that random girl señorita, you felt that string snapping inside you, that definitely did sting. It stinged even more, when you saw Su-Bong getting all turned on when the girl sent him off, rolling her eyes in a sheer annoyance.

Fuck him. Fuck him. FUCK HIM

You shouldn't have felt anything. Not for him, not after all of this hardships of getting him off of your mind after you two broke up.

Somehow, the thoughts of your past relationships overstaffed your head, you were running and ceasing on autopilot while you brain suffered the memories of you and Su-Bong having the time of your lives.

You didn't register how you crossed the finish line, slithering further away from the doll through the panicking players right until you felt two big heavy palm on your shoulders. The heaviness that was too familiar, and the fingers that clawed your bones with such familiarity you haven't felt for far too long.

"Babe!" The loud shriek Su-Bong forced to come out sent shivers down your body. When you looked up at him, his face was gleaming as he was laughing and studying you head to toes. "My fucking Nebula baby is here, like damn bro we're gonna be unstoppable!"

"Don't fucking call me that..." You shook his hands off you, turning on the tips of your boots, trying to get closer to the pink soldiers standing next to the doors.

"Babe, don't you want to ask me how I've been?" Purplehead grabbed you by the wrist, motioning you to swirl back to face him once more. He bent untill he somewhat leveled to your height, his face perfectly positioned in front of yours, eyes on the same level. You hated to admit that he still was as handsome as you remembered, face so fuckable the only look at it made your stomach swirling.

"What point in asking if you're here?" You tried to maintain the annoyance, but felt your voice cracking just fairly a bit, which was enough to catch a sardonic smile on Su-Bong's face, right before the words settled in his head and his face tensed with thinking.

The metal dome covered the sunlight and the pink soldiers opened the doors, making all of the remaining players to walk back to the main room, dumbfounded. Some rat looking guy snatched Thanos from your side and walked him to their beds once you entered the room. Thank you, you thought, sighting out in relief.

From your bed you saw Su-Bong and this guy from across the room. The rat guy pointed in your direction vaguely, and Su-Bong almost punched him, you could read his expression saying "shut the fuck up, man". You spent a few more minutes staring mindlessly into Thanos' direction, not exactly registering what was going on in the room, but at once you thought that the effect of the pill he swallowed during the game wore off, the comic bravado wanished from Su-Bong's face as he stared equally mindlessly into the emptiness in front of him.

After the voting you all had a little meal prepared, it felt all too close to your heart with the school like lunch, as if they tried to put you all at ease. You saw Su-Bong starting a fight with that damn Coin man, the one you knew from Su-Bong's crypto problems, but it didn't take much time before the player 001 beat the shit out of him for interrupting the meal time.

You didn't quite recognize your own feelings seeing Su-Bong lying on the floor half dead as the man was having him in a chokehold, Thanos whimpering and squirming under him. You felt the corners of your mouth lifting in some manic rushing tide, but when the man finally stood up and you saw Su-Bong's face, corrupted with both fear and anger you suddenly felt pity for him. How miserable of you.

The night crippled in, but the slumber decided not to show you any signs of life. To be fair, you could find at least twenty more people who couldn't sleep that night, and well, you had more questions for those who could.

You jumped down from your bed and slowly walked towards the bathroom. It was when you have done all of your things and was splashing your face with the spring cold water you heard some muted grumbling over the wall.

"Fuck man, c'mon!"

You creeped out of the female toilet room, tiptoing to the male one, hearing the grumbles more clearly, as well as the slapping sounds. You opened the door only for a few inches, when you saw Thanos standing in front of the mirror with his pants lowered to his knees, trying to jerk off.

"Stupid fucking shit, just fucking work!" His low voice was on the verge of growling, he never looked as pathetic and lost as now, standing half naked, trying to bone his dick up. Having sex, or at the very least jerking off, was his second to favorite activity to relieve the stress. The first one was getting high as fuck.

"Stressful day, huh?" He jerked his head into your direction seeing you leaning on the doorframe, smile completely roasting him.

He gulped, looking at you, detecting your gaze that was focused on his slumber dick in his hand.

"My señorita, do you want to help?" The desperation and anger in his voice washed away as soon as he saw your mocking face. He he let go of his dick and took a step forward to you, shaking his legs in the air to free them from the pants. "You always knew how to get it going, my fucking love."

He wrapped his fingers around your wrists, tugging you closer untill your body was pressed fully to his, then he unclasped his palm and put one of his hands on the crook of your back, lowering it untill he was able to grab your ass cheek and squeeze it.

"Why should I?" You didn't move away, nor did you shake his hand off your ass, but you also moved your face to the side when he tried to kiss you. "There's a nice, pretty guy in that room, I'd rather fuck him."

You knew that stupid cunt had a rejection kink. The seconds you said those words you felt his dick starting hardening, pressing against your inner thigh.

Su-Bong chuckled lowly, his voice vibrating through your skin as his lips were in mere inches from your ear. "Cause you still fucking love me." He squeezed your ass harder, pressing you flat into his groin. "You know none of these suckers can outdone me in fucking, right? I'm a fucking hump legend."

Too miserably for you, he fucking was. You never met someone who fucked your better than Thanos did, especially when he was under the influence of his stupid pills. You hated it, the pills, but loved the ferocity with which he thrusted into you or eated you out untill he could feel your soul on his tounge when he was on the pills.

"C'mon, my señorita, I want you so bad, just suck my fucking dick, please."

You didn't even know why, but you gave in. Maybe because you didn't know if any of you would live to see another day, or cause you knew he had his pill again and the mere thought of what he could do to you made you shiver. Or maybe because his dick was already hard enough it could leave a bruise on your thigh if you had kept staying still like this for another minute.

You slithered your hand down between your bodies, finding his dick pressed to your leg, and carefully wrapped your fingers around it. Making just a few tugs, your ear felt arousingly hot from Su-Bong's slow breathing. When he got too comfortable with you jerking him off, you relocated your hand further down his shaft, barely touching his balls, as you lifted up on your tiptoes, brushing his ear with your lips.

"If I hear you calling other bitches señoritas, I'm gonna kill you myself." You heard him mewl pathetically into your shoulder as you squeezed your fingers around his balls, practically digging into them with your nails till Thanos hissed and digged his fingers into your ass cheek in return, surely leaving some nicely framed bruises on your skin.

"You gave this name to me," you pulled your hand with his balls in it to the side slightly, stretching the tender skin almost painfuy, winning the muffled whimper from Su-Bong, as he sucked hectically on your neck. "it's fucking mine to bear."

"Done, baby, you won't hear it." He wheezed into your shoulder bucking up his dick against your thigh. You laughed, the sound was barely a whisper tickling Su-Bong's ear, but boy did it make him shiver, biting the skin on your shoulder?

"Atta boy." You bit his earlobe and let go off his balls, hearing him growling into you as his balls got back to their rightful place.

Finally for him, your tore your body off his, feeling the stinging warmth where his fingers were nailed into your ass even after you tore his hand off it, and kneeled down, finding the eye contact with Thanos before even getting close to his dick. His eyes were reminding you of boba balls, just a huge black circles amidst the white eyeballs, he was so high on his pills it drew you crazy and made you feel wet between your legs.

"Make me cum, my señorita." Once you sat down on your knees, Thanos placed his hand on your head, sliding it down to your cheek and finally your chin, leaving the trail of goosebumps on your skin as he went.

You touched his dick with your finger, pressing it up to his belly and got closer to the shaft. Su-Bong saw your tounge swirling inside your mouth, and when you stuck it out completely soaked in saliva, he squeezed your chin with his fingers, tugging your face closer untill he felt the watery tip of your tongue touching the base of his dick and shivered, snickering lowly.

You pressed your tongue flat to his very base starting to slide your way up to the very tip of it, slowly and tormenting, hearing Thanos grunting though his teeth, his hand moving back to your nape, controlling your every move.

You were sliding up and down, rolling to the tip of your tongue and touching Thanos's dick just so lightly it sent waves of shivers down his body, and then rolling it back flat, polishing his shaft with your tongue.

"I missed that so much." Through the muffled whimpering Su-Bong almost moaned, tugging on your nape to make you lick him higher. "No one's sucking the way you do, babe, my fucking slut queen."

You couldn't still the smile forcing on your face. That one thing keeping the bond between you two - you both were each other's best fuckers. And that was such a huge problem. That wasn't something that's easy to get off your mind. Every man you had after Su-Bong was intrusively compared to him while being in you, and let's be honest, none of them had the high ground. Every time you were fucking someone, at some point your head started getting clouded. Su-Bong would have already made me cum twice.

And without wandering, you knew this sucker had the same problem having every single girl compared to you.

"You'll make me cum yes?" Thanos placed his free hand on your finger that was pressing his dick to his stomach and pulled it off, making his dick fall, bouncing up and down right next to your lips. "I'll pay you back, you won't be disappointed."

You knew you wouldn't. You were sitting on your knees, thighs squeezed together in an attempt to stop your lube running down as you looked up at Su-Bong, his wide stoned pupils studying every inch of your body, lips framed in a manic smile and purple hair catching the light of the lightbulbs sent another wave of swirling down your stomach. The things he would do to you...

You wrapped your palm around his shaft, directioning the tip of his dick into your mouth and started circling it with the tip of your tongue, barely touching it. You made a few circles clockwise, a few counterclockwise, you licked it up and down and left and right, hearing Thanos' breath became loose and rapid. While you were circling his head slowly, your hands were working up and down his shaft.

"I've dreamt about thi- fuck-..." He muttered, his hand jerked automatically, sticking you on his dick deeper. Thanos didn't give you the time to adjust, starting shoving his dick down your mouth, deep into the warm tender mouth of yours, feeling your tongue sliding flat on his shaft until he felt the tip of his dick pressing into the back of your throat, you gagging, spasming over his shaft, only making Thanos moan gutturally, watching your head bob a little with a rythm he controlled. "My fucking sweet paradise. Fu-uuck!"

You felt his precum sliding down your throat, almost tickling making your insides jolt, as you started loosing your breath. The bolt of panic shattered though your chest as you started gagging without any air in your lungs, but, at this point, your desire to finish Thanos dry made you collect yourself. You started breathing though your nose, letting him guide your head in a timing that was perfect for him. You would make him cum and he would eat you out afterwards.

You felt his finish was close enough, so you grabbed his balls again, squeezing them gently, tickling and caressing them with your fingers, feeling them hardening under your touch and his dick trembling in your mouth as Thanos let the guttural moan into the air, his dick spurting semen into your mouth, nearly choking you.

"My señorita." He took his dick out of your mouth, tilting your chin up to look up at him, wiping with his finger the mix of his own cum and your drool that was soaking through the corners of your lips. "That was so fucking hot"

The way you swallowed Thanos' seed maintaining the eye contact visibly brought shivers on him, it awakened something animalistic in him as he pulled you up by the chin untill you stood up firmly and kissed you, ravaging your mouth completely. His tongue wasn't waiting for invitation, he slide it between your lips and you opened your mouth instinctively, feeling how his tongue slid deeper into your mouth over your own. At this point, you could only whimper into his mouth, thighs pressed to each other in order to find at least a bit of satisfaction.

"Fuck!"

Your kiss was interrupted by the two voices down the hall, two male voices that were creeping closer to the toilet.

"Fuck babe!" Thanos rattled, grabbing you by your pants and tugging into the closest stall, closing the doors behind you shut. The adrenaline got into him, his pupils, thought you thought it's impossible, got even bigger, as he untied the laces on your pants and tugged I'd down, along with the panties. He bent just a bit, to be able to press his lips to the side of your face and whisper gravely, "you thought it's gonna stop me?" His hand slid down your body, forcing you to open your legs. "Fuck no."

And you felt two of his digits sliding into you roughly. He didn't give you a chance to gather your scattered thoughts together, or adjust to his fingers, when he curled them, one at a time, shoving then up your cunt.

Thanos growled softly into your ear, you didn't even grasp what was the reason of your airy moan - his fingers or his voice, vibrating though your skin, but with two people outside your stall you did your best to still your vocals, only letting the little weep escape your lips and then shutting them together in panic.

"Good fuck, good day, huh?" His voice sent goosebumps running down all over your body, making you squeeze your thighs around his hand, your hips volunteerly moving down on his fingers.

"Okay, children's games, done" Thanos said, suddenly making your cunt uncomfortably empty, greening down on you, his body, towering high over yours squeezed the little whimper out of you which you bit down, almost bloodying your lip. "Want it?" He snickered jittery before bringing his soaked fingers to your lips, sliding them lightly on your bottom. You lips fell open as on a command, but as soon as you craned your neck forward to embrace his digits with the warm hug of your lips, Thanos yanked his hand back, his fingers in his mouth now and sucked them viciously, testing you before sliding down to his knees.

For a second, you forgot about all the people in the toilet and slammed the wall of the stall with your flat palm, trying to redirect your frustration and agony out of your mouth to your hand, while Thanos was sliding his hands up your inner thighs, spreading them without any effort. He pressed his face to your pubic area and breathed you in vigorously before sighing out.

The proximity of his face to your cunt sent a tugging pulsation through your body, making you squirm on your toes, hips bucking up. You want to face fuck him untill his mad soaked in your cum, just as in old good times.

In a second, you put your free hand on his head, fingers threading through his purple hair. You tugged on his nape, angling his head up untill his chin was on your puffed, soaking wet folds, and you moaned though the bitten down lips.

"That's so fucking beautiful." He said as he lowered his head, sliding down your folds with his chin and slurped you for the all the miserable desires you had. He eated you vigorously, the sound of him sucking your lube messy, letting his drool drip down your thighs mixed with your wetness turned you dazzlingly dizzy. Thanos was rubbing his tongue flat up and down your clit, pulling it in and out of your tight hole, your walls clenching hectically desiring something more. Something bigger that just a tongue. It wrecked your insides. It warmed up your cunt and made you even wetter, and you tugged on Thanos' hair to tear him off you just to see how wet his face was, covered in your slime.

"Fuck..." Was the only thing you could moaned out, looking at his absolutely deranged smile and his tounge framing his glossy lips. Thanos' eyes were nothing but pupils, two black buttomless holes staring back at you with manic desire, the previously dried blood on his cheek got soggy again and was smeared all over his jaw. Damn, that stupid señorita girl from before died in from of him and now you fucked your man with her blood on his face and for fuck's sake that almost turned your insides upside down.

Thanos wrapped his palms around your wrist and freed his hair from your grasp, pressing your hands to the wall on the both sides of you. "Let me finish my meal, babe."

He fell back into your cunt, licking you dry and biting you clit just enough for it to teeter on a slightly painful side, making you wriggle, your ass catching on a wooden wall of the stall.

"Su-.." You caught your breath as a heat wave slammed down at your nether regions, curling your toes and fingers as Thanos kept slurping the juices your body rewarded him with for his work. "-Bong..." His name finally left your lips as you collapsed on his face, your feet too weak to hold your body up.

You barely registered how he snickered, one sound on his lips - lust. He pressed his lips back to your folds and slurped all of your cum at once, his tongue circling around your cunt gathering the juice.

"My señorita..." Thanos put his hands under your quivering thighs as his head appeared in front of yours. He kissed you roughly, letting you taste yourself from his tongue, salty and sweet. "I told you I'll pay you back."

He sat you down on a toilet, opening the door slightly enough to check if anyone was still there. No one.

"We live another day, babe, and I shove it up your cunt." Thanos looked at you, cupping his dick in his hand and smiling like a demented junkie he was. "Let's go, you first."

You tugged on your panties and pants, action was rather challenging with your whole body still trembling from your climax, and popped your head out of the stall. The path was clear. Walking out of the stall you threw the pants Su-Bong left laying on the floor under the sinks to him and was about to left the room, when he wrapped his hand around your waist, slamming your body into his. "Please, babe, don't die, cause I'll need it again." Su-Bong murmured into your ear before leaving a wet kiss on your neck.

You trotted back to your bed, people were still mostly sleeping. Barely making your way up, climbing the ladder to your bed, you sat, knees pressed to your chest, and watched Thanos walking jauntily across the dormitory. His fucking cheeky ass would absolutely run his mouth to his new friend when he wakes up, no chances Thanos would keep his tongue behind his teeth about having the blowjob of his life.

You clenched your jaw on the thought of it, but, ugh. That would be a problem for the future you. Now, you had to fall asleep with the warm pleasure between your thighs, praying for Su-Bong's name not to slip out of your lips in a dream.

Tags: @verdantsecretgardens @wintaemoonjen

[queensunshinee]

Wreck my plans || Art Donaldson x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+) Warnings: SMUT (p in v sex, fingering), drinking, family drama, very slow burn, maybe too slow, I really don't know what's going on here

Word Count: 8.5k

Wreck my plans

Parties were never your thing. Parties are Jenny's thing. But she went away for the weekend with two friends from Harvard and didn’t even think to invite you. So Jenny can go to hell. And you can go to the party.

Luke Thompson's house is huge, and it doesn’t surprise you since you've spent two evenings a week here over the past few months trying to teach him algebra and literature. He had to repeat senior year after his complete failure last year. The party was in celebration of him finally getting his diploma and being accepted to a local college nearby.

"Little (Y/L/N)!" he shouted, spreading his arms wide, inviting you for a hug. "The only reason I managed to finish school," he added, yelling, making you roll your eyes. "You’re the only reason you managed to finish school, Luke," you said, taking a step back. "To be honest, I didn’t think you’d come," he looked around, causing you to do the same and start recognizing familiar faces from your grade and the one above you (Jenny’s). "I've never seen you at a party before." "I've been to parties. we just don’t hang out with the same people," you said as the two of you moved towards the kitchen so you could grab a drink.

The conversation continued for a few more minutes, but your attention drifted to the blond guy in the kitchen- Art Donaldson. Dressed in a pink button-down shirt and jeans, holding a red cup just like the one Luke put in your hand, drinking the same warm beer you're drinking. You hadn’t thought about him for almost a year. Your gaze wandered from him to the living room, where you saw Dave flirting with someone you couldn’t identify, and you found yourself rolling your eyes at the scene. You tried to listen to Luke for a few more moments because it felt like the polite thing to do, but you lost interest, and, like a magnet, your eyes were drawn back to Art Donaldson, who was busy looking you over from head to toe. You wonder if it made you blush or if it's just the cheap alcohol. You left the kitchen with a certain sense of saturation, looking for people you actually enjoyed being around more than Luke, who, as nice as he was, was too sociable for your taste. Tried too hard. You also try hard, mostly to stay out of everyone’s way.

You ended the evening with Chloe and Ron- ironically, friends of Jenny's, since Lia refused to come. They asked about Jenny and told you about their college experiences. Ron finished his first year at Yale, and Chloe went to a local college not far from here. Maybe it’s time to go home, as you feel like you’re suffocating and the place is closing in on you. The thought of staying close, like Chloe, to this suburb made your stomach turn. Chloe loved it, though. She didn’t see anything wrong with it. She planned her life right here. Just like this.

"Can I sit?" A familiar voice stood above you as you stared at Luke’s pool. A few people were in the far corner of it, but otherwise, the yard was empty. You shrugged without saying anything as Art sat down. He took off his shoes and folded up his jeans a bit, dipping his feet into the pool- something you hadn’t even thought to do. You looked at him for a moment as he took another sip from the drink in his hand. He’s probably the most handsome guy you know- a childish thought that’s crossed your mind since you were young, since you remember him. Blond with eyes that could make stars feel embarrassed with how they shine. There’s nothing ordinary about him. He’s exceptional. You don’t think there’s any girl your age who’s known him and hasn’t had a crush on him, at least for a moment.

"Congratulations on finishing school. I heard you’re the reason Luke can celebrate," he said casually, looking at you and causing you to turn your gaze back to the pool in a split second. "He really needs to stop telling people that," you replied, hearing him chuckle. "How was your first year in college? Stanford, right?" you asked, trying to shift the focus from yourself to him. "Yeah, tennis, you know. It’s nice. I’m supposed to choose a major next semester. My mom wants me to pick business management. I’m considering sports management," he said offhandedly, as if it weren’t too personal. As if this wasn’t the longest conversation you’d had since kindergarten. "Then you have to choose sports, of course," you said quickly. "Sorry, it’s none of my business," you added just as fast, realizing you’d stepped into his complicated relationship with his mom. "If only it were that easy, huh?" he chuckled. "To choose what I want," he added.

At that moment, Art Donaldson had no idea that what he was saying touched the deepest parts of your heart, nearly crushing it. Stroking an open wound without knowing the area was sensitive. Jenny decided at the last moment that she didn’t want to study at Yale and preferred Harvard, which meant financially you couldn’t study out of state. It would just be too much. And it surprised no one that you were the one who had to give up your dream. It surprised no one, because Jenny was the first to decide, and you received the scraps of something that might have been hers. Like wearing an old shirt, she no longer wanted. It’s never the other way around.

"Aren’t you planning to go pro?" you asked after a few seconds, trying to shake off the emotions flooding you. "I’m not sure yet, my mom really wants me to finish my degree," he explained, taking another sip. "Patrick’s really suffering on his tour. don’t tell him I told you that." He added information you hadn’t asked for. As if you were in daily contact with Patrick Zweig. As if you’d ever exchanged a word with him. You only know Jenny slept with him a few times, but it’s not something you two talk about, so whatever. "I’m going to Wesleyan," you said suddenly and looked at him; his gaze was already on you. "Damn," he smiled a half-smile, and maybe it was the first time you’d felt a certain pride since you applied there. "Jenny went to Harvard, so it’s complicated for both of us to study out of state, you know how it is," you felt the need to explain the situation, even though he hadn’t asked, and he certainly didn’t know how it is. "It’s a good school tho, I’m glad I got in," you weren’t sure who you were trying to convince, but he furrowed his brows as if he didn’t believe it, as if he had something to say about it. But he kept it to himself, and you appreciated that.

"I have to say, distancing myself from Jenny (Y/L/N) was one of the best things that’s happened to me since I left," everyone knew about Art and Jenny's relationship. They couldn’t stand each other. They competed in every possible subject. From student council to tennis. You don’t think Jenny even likes tennis. She just likes the first place. And without realizing it, you laughed, which a good sister shouldn’t do, but you felt it too. Distancing yourself from Jenny was a relief. The difference is that you’re not allowed to say that out loud, and Art Donaldson doesn’t really care. He doesn’t need to be at family dinners during holidays.

You looked at him for another second and thought this could be a good moment to kiss him. It was as if he hadn’t taken his eyes off you for a second since he sat down. You could lean in a little and press your lips to his. It’s not like you’d see him much again. You wouldn’t see him at all and in six weeks, you will move into the dorms in college. and in few years, maybe after school, he’d probably be a professional tennis player or a lawyer or the president. You think you can picture him as the president. You'd vote for him. "Well, it was nice seeing you, (Y/N)," he smiled another one of his captivating smiles. "Talk to me if you ever find yourself in California," he gave a small nod, grabbed his shoes, and walked away. Maybe one day you’ll manage to actually do something you really want to do. . . . You regretted what you did about three minutes after you politely turned down the full scholarship to Wesleyan. and accepted what they offered you at Stanford. But in your defense, it was late at night, you’d just come back from Luke’s party very tipsy, and you had no real intention of talking to Art when you got to California. You’d never seen your parents so angry. Your mom cried. Your dad said you were inconsiderate. Jenny sat on the couch, watching you with a raised eyebrow. They said they wouldn’t pay for anything, that if you made this decision, you’d have to deal with the consequences. The scholarship covered your tuition, but for housing and books, you’d have to use your savings. Two jobs you picked up over the summer and a part-time job you’d had for three years of babysitting. They didn’t speak to you for weeks. From the moment you told them, all communication between you went through Jenny.

"Tell her dinner’s ready," "Tell her to go down and buy eggs," "Tell her Uncle Barry’s coming over tonight, to act like she still cares about this family."

"They'll come around," Jenny mumbled when she climbed into your bed one of those warm August nights. "I don’t know," you answered with your eyes closed, exhausted from the day at work and the hostility you returned to at home. "I know," she concluded. In the morning, you woke up alone.

You think they’ll never forgive you. Maybe you’ll never forgive them. But you don’t know. . . . The empty bed in your dorm was beneath the window. You didn’t complain for a moment because everything could have been much worse. Jenny bought you the flight ticket to California for your birthday. You cried. You remembered that small moment when Art said he was glad to be away from her and you giggled, not defending your sister. She’s not to blame for being born first. She’s not to blame for needing more attention. Her intentions are good. That should be the only thing that matters.

You only met Billie in the evening when she came back from what she described as a date. She spoke about 50 words a minute, so it was hard to follow. She asked why you came a week late, you wanted to say that you were on time and she came early, but all you managed to get out was "work." It wasn’t a lie. You worked at a camp and an ice cream parlor all summer, trying to save as much as you could because you didn’t know how long it would take to find a job near the university. Turns out, very quickly. The diner across from the university was looking for waiters, and you showed up without experience but with a convincing smile and some recommendations from previous employers, as if anyone cared that you were great with kids. Three shifts a week, and the savings would help you keep your head above water. That’s all you need.

A week after you arrived at the dorms, Billie and Summer, your roommates, forced you to go with them to a party. And it wasn’t too hard to convince you because you weren’t at home. And sometimes, you need to remind yourself that you at home isn’t the same you who’s at Stanford. Here, no one knows you or Jenny. No one expects anything from you, no one will call you "Little (Y/L/N)." Here, you are whoever you choose to be. And that’s enough. Enough to wear almost burgundy lipstick and a tight dress, but still sneakers. After all, something of you stays the same.

Someone named Dean hit on you most of the night, and Billie told him you had a boyfriend. "Babe, anyone but Dean. I’ve been here two weeks, and he’s slept with the entire building already," she whispered in your ear, and you laughed. Someone else hit on you during the night, but you didn’t remember his name. When you lay in bed, you tried calling Jenny to tell her about your night, but she didn’t answer. And maybe that’s okay. . . . The first time you saw Art at Stanford, he was the one who actually saw you. "(Y/n)?" He lifted his sunglasses to his hair. He wore a Stanford T-shirt and pants that made you wonder if they were also Stanford coded. He had a racket bag over his shoulder. He looked confused. "Hey," you didn’t know what to say as you leaned against the only free tree you could find and tried to read one of the books from your syllabus, preparing for your first class. "Hey?" He almost chuckled as he sat down next to you, not taking his eyes off you. Like you’d disappear the second he blinked. He didn’t seem disappointed by your presence. "Shit, I was joking about California," he looked amused, still studying you. He took the book you were reading, like it was his, ran a hand over the cover. Like he knew everything he needed to know about the course just by looking at it. "Stanford was on my list, and it just felt more right," you tried to justify, to explain that it wasn’t because of him. He didn’t think it was because of him tho, not really. "How did they take it?" he asked, probably remembering details from your conversation at the party. "I don’t know, because they’re not talking to me," you said it in the same casual tone, like it didn’t bother you. "Damn," he muttered, "that bad?" he asked. "It’s whatever," you shrugged. "I’ve got to get to class, but I’ll see you around, yeah?" He stood up and walked away. You didn’t know if you’d actually see him around again, but the interaction had been nice. You think that maybe Art Donaldson won’t judge you. And that’s an interesting thought. . . . The next time you see him, you're in the middle of a shift, wearing a ridiculous apron and a ponytail that makes your hair look greasy. Needless to say, you’re embarrassed, but he doesn’t act like it’s a big deal. He says hello, which is surprising because he’s with friends, and you look, well…ridiculous. You say hello back, because you’re polite, and it’s the right thing to do. They sit down at one of the tables, and you hear his voice from a distance saying, “I know her from back home.” You think it’s a half-accurate description, because you don’t really know each other- not like he knows Patrick Zweig or Luke. Not like he knows Jenny. You also think the girl sitting next to him is very pretty. Pretty enough to hate her, but nice enough not to.

Casually, before they leave the diner, Art asks if you're going to a party someone in his dorm is throwing. You shrug in response because you hadn’t heard about it until now. “It’ll be fun, you should come,” he calls out, mentioning the building he lives in before he leaves with his friends. He didn’t have to invite you. He doesn’t have to invite you to places. You’re not his responsibility. You don’t want him to think you are. You don’t know if you’ll go. . . . When you received the email from the registrar notifying you that your account had already been paid and that there was no need for the duplicate payment you’d tried to make, you found yourself confused. When you realized your parents had paid the bill despite saying they wouldn’t, you ended up crying for two hours. It’s not fair. It’s not fair. They haven’t spoken to you in almost three months. They let you stew in guilt but are willing to pay your bills? It’s ridiculous. None of them answered when you tried to call to say thank you. You cried for another hour. 'Busy. Do you need anything?' -Jenny-

You think you need a hug. But that feels childish, so you send her an orange heart emoji. . . . You go to the party Art invited you to with Billie and Summer because, why not? You don’t mention that you got an invitation, just casually say you heard there’s a party and that it might be fun to check it out.

You decide to put on the dark lipstick again, you liked how it looked last time, and honestly, the feedback was great. This time, you stick with a thin shirt, ripped tights, and shorts- keeping it low-effort was part of the actual effort. You think it’s silly. But you look cute, so fuck it.

Art spots you before you notice him again. He comes up to you in the middle of a conversation, gently swiping the beer bottle from your hand, making you look at him as he takes a sip and hands it back. “You’re the hot guy from the posters,” Billie says shamelessly, looking straight at him. “Art,” he chuckles, introducing himself, making you roll your eyes. “Mind if I steal her for a bit?” He asks permission, which is ridiculous and funny, making you feel embarrassed as he hands you back the beer and leads you to another corner of the apartment by your other hand.

“Hey,” he says, brushing your hair back behind your ear. “Hey,” you reply with staged nonchalance. “You look good,” you add, because it’s true. The few times you’d seen him on campus, he was in Stanford sports gear. Seeing him again in a button-down and jeans felt like a privilege. “That’s what I’ve heard,” he responds, referencing Billie’s comment from a few minutes ago, taking the beer from you again. Maybe it’s over the top, sharing the same bottle. It’s relatively intimate for two people who don’t actually know each other.

One of his friends comes over and starts talking to Art about tennis, his gaze lingering on you. You wonder if Art realizes he’s standing closer to you in a slightly possessive way. That his hand is lightly brushing yours, that he keeps taking the bottle from you to drink from it, openly displaying that sense of intimacy.

“Do you want to get out of here?” You’re not sure where the courage to ask came from. Maybe it’s the tequila shots you took with Billie and Summer before heading out to the party. Maybe it’s the joint you passed between each other. But Art looks amused as he nods. You catch Summer out of the corner of your eye, giving you a thumbs-up and making exaggerated kissy faces. If Art saw her doing it, he didn’t say anything. The contrast between the noise in the building and the quiet outside surprises you. The silence between you wasn’t awkward, but you hoped he’d say something by now. He seemed to be enjoying himself too much to talk. “Want to head to the lake?” he suddenly asked, though you were already walking that way. You hadn’t actually been there yet, but you didn’t want to reveal that you didn’t know the area that well.

“Hey, give me your phone,” you said, stopping in your tracks. He stopped too, raising an eyebrow as he pulled his phone from his pocket. “So bossy,” he muttered with his signature smirk, but you entered your number and sent yourself a flower emoji so you could save his number later. When you reached the lake, it almost took your breath away. It looked like something out of a movie. You know it sounds like a cliché, but it really was like that- like an old movie, but not too old. The moon reflected off the lake, and a few people were sitting on the grass nearby. You sat on a table instead of the bench next to it. Art raised an eyebrow at the choice but shook his head like you’d done something funny.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said, looking at you as if confessing a secret. “I’m glad I’m here, too.” You knew that’s not what he wanted to hear, but he laughed anyway. He sat on the bench below you, between your legs. You felt as if you had some kind of power. Your hand automatically moved through his curls. You thought about apologizing but decided not to. “How are you?” he asked. “I’m okay, I think. How are you?” you tossed the question back at him. “Seriously, how are you?” His fingers brushed over yours, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “With your parents and everything?” he added. “I’m fine,” you replied. You didn’t want to talk about it, and he didn’t push as much as you expected. His hand squeezed yours for a moment, as if he had more to say. Instead, he nodded and stood up, starting to walk with you just behind him.

You're walking alongside the lake, wondering if this path has an end, or if you even want it to. You think you might feel those butterflies in your stomach. "Do you know my first memory of you?" he asks suddenly, and you’re surprised. Part of you doesn’t want to know. It’s probably related to Jenny. Art has so many memories of Jenny, and they’re all negative. Deep down, you hope he doesn't remember you as this girl being attached at her hip. "The day after my dad's funeral, you gave me a daisy you picked from someone’s garden." He chuckles, but it sounds bitter. You don’t remember this. You do remember, though, that for years, until you both drifted and each found your own group of friends—he called you "Daisy." You never knew why. "Oh." You don’t know what to say, so that’s what comes out a bit pathetic. "I didn’t even know it was a daisy, if the story details matter," you try to lighten things up. "I asked my grandmother," he says, and the two of you chuckle. "That’s why you called me Daisy for three years straight?" you ask. "God. Why do you remember that?" He puts a hand over his face, as if he’s embarrassed or something. "I thought maybe you didn’t know my name, and since I was Jenny’s sister, you just rolled with it." You laugh. "It suited you, Daisy," he says, and his hand moves your hair behind your ear. This isn’t the first time he’s done that, but this time he also looks at your lips. You feel like he’s looking at your soul if that's even possible.

"I really wanted to kiss you at Luke's party," you admit, because it feels like the right moment. "Oh yeah? So why didn’t you kiss me?" he asks, wetting his lower lip with his tongue. "I’ve wanted to do it since eighth grade, and then I had the chance and didn't know what to do" You look at him. His smile is still plastered across his face, and you wish he wasn’t so smug all the time. "Maybe I wanted you to kiss me at Luke's party," he says, almost ignoring what you just said. "Little Daisy, sitting by the pool alone. Maybe I approached you with intent? Maybe I was goi-" You don’t give him the satisfaction of finishing his sentence, as you crash your lips onto his like you’re possessed. His smile lingers for a few moments. His hands pull you closer to him as he presses you back against a light pole you didn’t know was behind you.

Art Donaldson is a good kisser. No one can take that from him. He’s an amazing kisser. His tongue is way too skilled. His hands have found their way under your shirt as if that’s their natural place. His lips move perfectly in sync with yours, and when you both pause to catch your breath, he presses his forehead against yours. He places small kisses on your cheek, then on your neck, and only when you lean your head back and bump into the pole do you remember that you’re in a public space. People could see you. This is not your style. "Okay, we’re good," you tap his chest lightly, making him laugh the most delightful laugh you’ve ever heard. "Is this everything you dreamed of before starting high school?" he asks, planting another small kiss on your cheek, as if he just can’t help himself or something. "I didn’t dream about kisses like this, Donaldson." You roll your eyes, thinking it’s pretty ridiculous that you’re smiling right now.

When you reach your dorm, you wonder if you should invite him in. You think he’d say yes. But you also think there’s something beautiful about leaving the night as it is- two people who used to know each other, kissing by a lake. He gives you a small kiss and takes out his phone as he turns to leave, while you head inside, unable to resist leaning against the door.

'Since eighth grade, huh?' -Unknown Number-

'Shut up.' -(Y/N)-

He replies with a flower emoji. You think the intention is daisy. Maybe you’re overthinking it. . . . You don’t expect Art to text you the next morning. You had that night together; it was great, and maybe it was exactly what you needed to get him out of your system. Maybe it was what you needed to finally move on from that endless crush on Art Donaldson. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a bit disappointed when he didn’t reach out at all, as if he’d disappeared from the face of the earth. But that’s probably fine. He doesn’t owe you anything, and you don’t owe him. You each have your own lives at Stanford. You’re trying to juggle work and studies. You’re supposed to submit a thirty-page paper after Thanksgiving, and you’ve only written three. Clearly, you have enough to keep you busy.

Your mom called a few days ago, and you cried. Because you hadn’t really talked in almost four months. She said Jenny convinced her. It’s kind of messed up, but you don’t say that. You’re just glad someone convinced her. You’ve been thinking a lot lately about how strange it is- how you never behaved outside of what was expected of you, and the one time you did, they reacted as if you’d committed a crime. You think about it even when you’re trying not to think about it. Your mom asked if you’re coming home for Thanksgiving. You said no. You wonder if it made her sad only after you hung up. . . . The next time you see Art, he’s flirting with a redhead at a Thanksgiving party Summer convinced you to attend. Honestly, you could’ve skipped this party, but Summer said she wanted the girl who invited her there. So you bit your tongue and told her you’d meet her there, because that’s what friends do.

It’s easy to tell when Art is flirting; it’s basically exaggerated hand gestures and a level of closeness he’s never tried with you. You’ve seen him in action before. You try not to stare, because it doesn’t really matter. Instead, you look for Summer, who’s on the opposite side of the room, directly in Art’s line of sight. It makes you smile, knowing he’ll see that you’re here. You’ve decided you’re going to ignore him. You made that decision when you passed by him on your way to Summer, feeling his eyes on you but not meeting his gaze.

When Summer slips away to sit with Caitlin -the girl she’s interested in- a guy you don’t recognize approaches you. He introduces himself and offers you a drink. You politely decline, you’re smarter than to accept punch from a complete stranger. He’s nice, but standing a little too close for your comfort. He leans over you, and you feel a bit trapped between him and the wall you’re leaning against. You could walk away, of course, but the whole situation feels uncomfortable. You wonder where Summer is, unable to see her in the crowd.

"Don’t you think you’re a bit too close?" Art’s voice is firm and unyielding as he positions himself next to you, raising an eyebrow at the guy. "Sorry, man, thought she was single," he says, disappearing like he was never there. Neither of you bother to correct him about the two of you not actually being together. You roll your eyes at Art and head toward the kitchen, feeling his steps following behind. You spot Summer with Caitlin on one of the couches, and she gives you a nod, signaling that she’s fine and that you’re free to leave if you want. "Hey, you didn’t go home," he says behind you, as if everything is normal. "Quite the observation, Donaldson," you say, knowing you’re being mean. But, fuck it, he deserves it. You grab a beer from the kitchen and head outside, with him trailing beside you. "You’re mad at me because I didn’t text you," he sighs, prompting you to stop and raise an eyebrow at him. "You really think you’re something special, huh?" Maybe a bit too harsh, but it’s all you’ve got right now. "I don’t think I’m anything special. I just didn’t know what to say." He sighs again as you start walking away from the building. "It was a good night. I didn’t want to ruin it, you know?" You think he sounds almost shy. His voice is softer than usual, and you remind yourself that you also labeled that night as a good one, as a nice experience you didn’t want to spoil. So maybe it’s unfair to be angry- after all, you could have reached out to him, too. But what would you have even said? The three weeks since then passed quickly, and most of the time, you didn’t think about him at all. So it’s fine. Everything’s really fine.

"It’s ok, Donaldson, I wasn’t sitting by the phone waiting for a message from you. You can let it go," you sum up, trying to sound amused and light-hearted, though it comes out a bit too bitter for your liking. "So why didn’t you go home?" he asks, changing the subject. "I’m working." You shrug. He raises an eyebrow, like someone who knows that’s not the whole truth but also understands he’s treading on thin ice right now and shouldn’t push for more. "Why didn’t you go?" you throw the question back at him, trying to show him that it’s all good. "I’ve got a match tomorrow, plus my mom doesn’t really care," he replies, and you nod, understanding a bit of what he means. You knew his mom- she always struck you as the coldest person in the world. "What are you doing at a party if you have a match tomorrow?" you ask, raising an eyebrow, wondering if it’s too harsh, because you’re trying to steer the conversation onto calmer ground. "It’s in the afternoon," he shrugs. "You don’t have to walk with me, my dorms are really close," you say after a few moments of silence. "We’re good? We're friends and you’re not mad at me anymore, right, Daisy?" he asks, nudging his shoulder against yours. You roll your eyes at the silly nickname, but you don’t find it in yourself to correct him.

"We’re good," you conclude, walking into your building, leaving him behind. . . . The next day, you decide to go to his game after your shift, only to find out that Patrick fucking Zweig is also sitting in the small crowd. Most of the students eager to see Stanford’s star in action probably love their families more and decided to go home. You sat far from Patrick, but it didn’t stop him from giving you a puzzled look as he whispered something to the girl sitting next to him, who was fully focused on Art's game. You remembered her from the diner the other day. She’s beautiful.

Art won to the applause of the crowd that stayed to watch until the end. Two hours of the ball going back and forth and sounds that were almost erotic. Whatever. You consider heading back to your dorm without saying anything just to avoid talking to Patrick. But Art smiles at you and gives a small wave, so you know there's no way to get out of at least saying hello. You need to suck it up. “Congratulations, Donaldson,” you mumble, and he gives you the smuggest smile he can find. “Little (Y/L/N), long time,” Patrick says to you with half-loudness. He doesn’t say anything bad, but you shrink a little. Trying to remember the last time someone called you that. Probably at Luke's party. Art looks at you with an apologetic look as if he knows. He probably doesn’t know. But that's okay. “How’s the tour?” you ask politely because it’s the right thing to do. “Good, good,” he says, shifting his gaze from you to Art and back to you. Like a man with a plan. “Want to have dinner with us?” he asks. In any other situation, you’d laugh, because the odds of you sitting at the same table with Patrick Zweig would be slim, especially considering his history with Jenny. “I wish, but I have a paper due in a few days, and I really have to work on it. Maybe next time,” you smile the most genuine smile you can find and quickly move away.

“Dude, you didn’t tell me Little (Y/L/N) was here,” you hear Patrick laugh. “Shut up, Patrick,” you’re almost sure you heard Art reply.

'You wish?' -Art Donaldson- He sent it half an hour later when you were already sitting at your computer with a cup of coffee in hand.

You turned off your phone. You need to focus. . . . Art came to your work far more often than you expected. He probably tried every dish on the menu, including the pancakes with the “secret” sauce that you suspect is just chocolate mixed with overly sticky jam. He sometimes studied there or came with his friends. He talked to you but not too much, and you texted each other from time to time. Were you friends? It felt strange to think that Art Donaldson and you were friends- not because he wasn’t someone you’d want to call a friend, but because you’d finally let go of the idea of him as someone out of reach.

One day, when he walked you home, he asked why you took on a fourth shift, since you usually didn’t work Mondays. “Are you keeping tabs on me, Donaldson?” you asked with a half-smile. “Daisy,” he sighed, as if you were being ridiculous, even though he was the one who knew your schedule and which days you didn’t usually work. “I’m saving up for a ticket home for the holidays, so,” you shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “You haven’t bought a ticket yet?” he asked, looking at you with raised eyebrows. “I’m buying it myself, so it’s taking me a minute.” Your parents had made it very clear they were only paying for your dorm. You bought your own books, and you had to cover your own flights. You didn’t look at him when you said it, afraid he might judge you- even if it was silly.

He stopped and looked at you. “That’s fucked up, (Y/N).” Whenever Art said your name like that recently, you knew he was serious, and that the conversation was drifting somewhere too deep. Like the time you talked about his grandmother, or his dad. “It is what it is,” you replied, continuing to walk, hoping he would keep walking too. You didn’t want to dwell on the fact that they bought Jenny her train ticket. You didn’t want to dwell on the thought that even if it was cheaper, no one made her feel guilty for the only choice she’d ever made in her life. “I could get you a ticket,” he said, and this time, you stopped. “What the fuck?” you asked, your voice going up an octave. “I don’t need you to–” “For the miles. You can pay me back later,” he shrugged like it was no big deal. “I don’t need you to buy me a ticket. I don’t need your money, Art, let it go.” Your voice shook a little; you wondered if he heard it. “It’s not out of pity,” he said, voicing what you didn’t say. But you kept walking as if you hadn’t heard him.

“I wonder if we’ll find a spot in the library tomorrow,” you changed the subject to the first thing that popped into your head. Art didn’t say anything, but you knew it was the last thing he cared about at that moment. . . . A week before your flight, Billie cut your bangs. It’s not a cry for help, you told everyone who gave you a weird look. It’s cute. It’s fucking cute, ok? Art watched you from across the room at Patrick's party. You wondered if he'd say hello or if you'd both act like, at best, casual acquaintances- or, at worst, like you were just Jenny's little sister. You missed Lia and a few others who were fun to drink with and gossip with. You found out that Michelle was pregnant, which was a fucking scandal.

“Hey, stranger.” Art said when you walked into the kitchen. His eyes were redder than usual, and his smile was mischievous but tired. “I didn’t think you’d come,” he said, making Lia glance between the two of you. “Did you see she cut her bangs?” she asked, taking a sip from a drink you couldn’t quite identify. “It’s not a cry for help.” “It’s not a cry for help,” you both said together, but Art used a screechy voice, like he was imitating you, making Lia laugh. “She’s been yelling that at people all week,” he said to her, as if you weren’t standing right there. You considered grabbing a glass of wine and leaving them to talk alone. “Dave’s here,” Lia said suddenly, and you saw Art tense, his smile fading as if he sobered up instantly. If it weren’t for his telltale red eyes, there’d be no trace of it.

You and Dave had been together most of your last year in high school. He was the first guy you slept with, which was fine. It was just that everything felt a bit weirder whenever he was around since you broke up. It felt like you’d gone from friends to lovers to people scared of catching some incurable disease from each other if you'd even look at one another. “It’s totally fine,” you rolled your eyes, because, well, it really was fine. You hadn’t felt anything for Dave for almost a year. You regretted not knowing how he was doing or how he was handling college, but that’s life- you win some, you lose some.

“Little (Y/L/N),” Patrick Zweig’s voice grated in your ear. “Where’s (Y/L/N)?” he added quickly, probably drunker than usual, though you weren’t surprised. “Patrick,” Art muttered toward him, almost whining, like a man shocked by his best friend’s crudeness. “She’s at home, wasn’t feeling well.” You wondered if that was a convincing excuse for Jenny skipping Patrick’s party. But it was the excuse she left with you, and that’s what you’d stick to. “Well, at least we’ve got one family representative. What can you tell us about Art in California?” he asked, and you wondered why he was so desperate to put you in the spotlight. “Patrick, leave her alone,” Art’s tone was defensive, giving the guy next to him no option to dig any further. Patrick just flashed a mischievous grin and raised his hands in feigned surrender. “I like the bangs, you wear a mental breakdown well,” he chuckled and left the kitchen as chaotically as he’d entered, yelling something to Luke about beer pong. “Sorry, he’s an asshole,” Art said, sighing. You wondered when Lia had disappeared from your view. “He’s… Patrick,” you rolled your eyes. And it was true, you knew he didn’t act this way out of malice, he was just like that. “Want to get out of here?” Art asked. “Don’t you want to spend some time with your friends?” you returned the question. “I could use some air. Besides, who’s my friend here?” he shrugged. And as you both headed outside, you thought that was the saddest thing Art Donaldson had ever said to you.

"How does it feel to be home?" he asked. You want to say it’s ok, that it’s exactly what you dreamed, but it’s more like what you expected it would be. Your parents aren’t mad at you anymore, but they don’t approve of your decision either, and they remind you at every opportunity that they think you made a mistake. “It’s fine.” You shrugged. “I hate it when you say that,” he had this bitter laugh. “What?” You stopped for a moment and looked at him. “Every time you say something’s ‘fine,’ I know it’s not, and I have no idea how to get you to tell me.” He sighed, sitting down on a bench that hadn’t gotten wet from the rain that fell earlier in the afternoon.

“I’m not lying to you,” you tried to defend yourself, searching through your mind for other times you’d said something was ‘fine.’ You think he’s exaggerating. “I don’t think you’re lying. I think you don’t want to say things out loud,” he said. You think that if he weren’t a little drunk, he wouldn’t have brought up this conversation. “It’s weird, being home,” you said after a few seconds. He looked at you with wide eyes, waiting for you to say more. “I hate it when people call me ‘Little (Y/L/N).’ It feels like I don’t exist without Jenny,” you said, sharing something you hadn’t even told Lia. “I know,” Art said. “That’s why I get mad at Patrick when he calls you that.” He sighed for what felt like the hundredth time. “How did you know?” you asked, surprised by the nonchalance with which he said it. “Haven’t you figured it out yet?” he asked with a half-smile, “I just know you, Daisy.” And if you didn’t know he was drunk and tired, you’d think there was sadness in his eyes. . . . A few days later, you saw Patrick at the grocery store, which was strange in itself because you were pretty sure Patrick Zweig had assistants to go grocery shopping for him. “Little (Y/L/N),” he said, and you’re fairly sure the smile on his face was genuine; he was actually glad to run into you. “Happy Christmas,” he said, stopping in front of you, holding a carton of orange juice and what looked like a frozen pizza. “I’m Jewish,” you rolled your eyes, only making him smile more. He knew that- he could deny it all he wanted, but Patrick knew Jenny very well, and you and Jenny shared genes. You both paid quietly for your items at the checkout, and as you stepped outside, he lit a cigarette, looking at you with an expression that seemed to expect you to stop and stand with him.

“I’m really glad you’re there with him at Stanford, you know?” he said after a few puffs of smoke. “Yeah? Why?” You tried to avoid smiling at him. You didn’t think he deserved a smile; he’s a jerk. “Because he’s better when you’re around,” he said softly, with a kind of depth you hadn’t seen in him before- something that made you think you understood what Jenny saw in him, how he managed to break her heart. “At tennis?” you asked. Because that’s all Patrick cared about- tennis, girls, and maybe Art. “At everything.” He shrugged, all the depth disappearing as he began to walk away. “Happy Hanukkah, Little (Y/L/N). Say hi to your sister for me.” You could see a wink. Patrick Zweig is defiantly an asshole. . . . You and Art went together to the New Year’s party at Stanford. Billie and Summer haven’t returned yet, and you’re almost certain Art moved his flight to catch the same one as yours, but you didn’t ask him about it because you think it would make you seem too smug. And you’re not. You really aren’t. You just think that if anything had changed from the last time he asked if you two were friends, he would have told you. But he hasn’t, so…whatever.

He sat on your bed today while you did your makeup, never taking his eyes off you through the mirror. Someone watching might think you’d hypnotized him. You don’t think you saw him blink once in the fifteen minutes he stared at you. “You like what you see?” you asked with a half-smile, still looking at his reflection. “What if I do?” he shrugged, as if this ridiculous flirtation was the truest thing he’d said in ages.

You decide not to linger too hard on his hand holding yours all the way to the party. Or on the fact that he kept you close to him while talking to people you didn’t know. On the effort he put into participating in a conversation with a friend you met in one of your courses. You try not to blush when he leans in and asks if you’re planning to kiss him at midnight. He's being bold. You think he’s acting like a brat. It should bother you. It doesn’t bother you.

You kiss him at midnight. Or maybe he kisses you. You’re not exactly sure, because you’re both so wrapped up in your own bubble, ignoring the drunken students around you. Your foreheads touch, and in an instant, your lips are on his, or his are on yours. It doesn’t matter. The result is the same. Beer and gum, and something else you can’t quite identify, maybe desperation. You like the mix. Maybe you shouldn’t, but you could get used to it. “It’s not silly, right?” you ask quietly while you both catch your breath. “It’s anything but silly, Daisy,” he says with certainty. And you don’t think you’ve ever heard Art Donaldson sound so resolute.

He kisses you all over when you get to your room. You thank the holiday gods for keeping your roommates away. Your red dress finds itself on the floor much faster than you expected. He’s too good at this. You’d feel much less confident if he didn’t look at you like you held the sun in your left hand and the moon in your right. You find yourself sitting on top of him in your bra and underwear, his hands on your hips steadying you. You’ve never felt sexier than you do right now. A little voice in your head screams at you to engrave this feeling. But you silence it; it’s insecure and reminds you of Jenny, the last person you want to think about when you’re at second base with Art Donaldson.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs as his lips trail down your neck to your chest, unclasping your bra with one hand like a pro. “Shut up,” you manage to say, and he chuckles into you, as if he’s trying to bury himself within you. It's hot, stupidly hot. In a few minutes, he half-gently tosses you onto the bed, stripping down with a speed you didn’t think possible. He leans over you in boxers, and you close your eyes for a moment, knowing you have to remember this. Because he really is a work of Art. You’ve never known anyone whose name suited them more.

His lips were everywhere on your body at once, if that’s even possible, and his fingers slid in and out of you before you even realized you’d lost your underwear or when you’d started making that sound from your throat. Everything embarrassed you but also felt natural. You’ve never experienced such a range of emotions with anyone else, and the second that thought crossed your mind, you found yourself on the edge, and Art was above you, pressing soft kisses to your stomach, whispering soothing words while you caught your breath.

He entered you, and you felt like he was enveloping you from every angle, your moans blending together. You think a tear slipped down your cheek. You’re almost sure Art kissed you right where it fell. He was both gentle and rough at the same time. You don’t think that makes sense, but a lot of things tonight don’t make sense. You almost laugh at that thought but decide against it. Instead, you look at him, only to find his eyes already on yours, and he’s so beautiful, with his blond curls and that smile stretched across his face. “Fuck, Art,” you manage to mumble as you feel another orgasm building within you, you didn’t know you were capable of more than one. To be honest, even one was rare until recently. “I know, Daisy, I know,” he says in a half-strangled voice before his lips are back on yours, his hand wrapping around yours, and you think it’s incredibly intimate. You’ve never had sex like this before. You don’t think there’s any trace of your old crush left. You think it might be love. After he cleans you up with a towel he soaked with warm water, he lies beside you, and the small bed forces you to stay close. Maybe it’s Art who refuses to let go. You’re not sure why, but your legs are tangled together and your head is resting on his chest. “Are you going to break my heart again?” he asks, and you don’t know what he means because you’ve never broken anyone’s heart, least of all Art Donaldson’s. But he’s so certain in his question, he doesn’t take it back. He doesn’t correct himself. “When did I ever break your heart?” you asked. “When didn’t you?” he replies with a half-laugh. “You gave me a flower when I was eight and then didn’t talk to me for ten years,” he says quietly, like he’s sharing a secret you already knew but never understood.

It’s definitely love. You think you’re okay with that.

Hey? I don't even know what's going on but i'd like you to tell me what you think about that? that's it. Talk to me I guess.............

[tkpuke]

23 and jayvik pretty please :3

Jayce + Viktor - 23. “Yes…I mean, no!”

author’s note: okay so the plot for this was heavily inspired by @ticklish-ghost , @home-of-the-squirmle and I’s discussion on one of their posts so why not make it into a fic okay? okay cool

It was nearing midnight, the only light shining into the lab through the curtains was the moon and its luminescent stars scattered around the sky. Viktor perched an elbow on the table, leaning his cheek on his hand while reading a book that could hold answers to have them move forward with their project. They were close, but it seemed like they were met with a dead end. Scientists don’t take those lightly, so they hungrily search for other possibilities and correct their mistakes on what went wrong.

He doesn’t have a clue on his partner’s whereabouts, but he’s not going to waste time searching for him. Usually Viktor takes the extra mile and works on projects a little more than he’s suppose to. He tends to struggle with the definition of teamwork when he’s been mostly alone his entire childhood, so he has no issue working alone while Jayce heads off for other duties or sleeps at a healthy time compared to Viktor’s sleep schedule.

It was peaceful and quiet. Viktor treasures nights like these. Until something was dropped beside him, creating a loud thunk.

“Look what I made.” A voice suddenly spoke out from behind, it belonging to Jayce which made Vitkor nearly jump a foot from his chair. “Jesus Christ—Jaycewhendidyougethere-“ He looked beside him to see what was dropped, picking it up to examine. An iron knife in the perfect size to fit in your pocket, the ends in a twisted pattern to make it look a little stylish. His face doesn’t show it, but Viktor is slightly impressed. There is no interest in him for weapons, but when it’s created so clean and perfected by Jayce himself, he can’t help but be in awe.

He then puts the knife down, finally meeting Jayce’s eyes. “Another tool that will never be used for its purpose.” Clear to say Jayce has made a couple of tools, most having the same theme: sharp and dangerous. He never uses them, as Viktor stated, but Jayce always gives the ‘you never know’ excuse. In reality the man just gets bored out of his mind at times and gets these random surges of creativity to go down and make any toys his heart desires. Who wouldn’t if they had the skill to properly do so?

Viktor’s eyes started to register that Jayce is full on shirtless right in front of him, muscles exposed and pumped to its core from all the wielding. It never really dawned on him how strong of a guy Jayce is, feeling a bit fragile and small the more he compared his own build to him. How easy it could be for Jayce to effortlessly pin him. How he could take away Viktor’s right to squirm by simply sitting on his waist. How he could be picked up with one singular arm by Jayce with zero sweat.

Jayce caught on to his more than five second stare. Viktor noticed.

He took attention to the soot covered all over Jayce’s upper body, taking that as an explanation of his longing stare. “You’re dirty. Here, sit.” Viktor nudged his head over to a nearby chair, heading over to grab a cloth that will soon be damped with water and soap. “Oh, thank you. You really don’t have to.” Jayce chuckles all flustered in appreciation by Viktor’s care, taking the seat anyway. Viktor comes back, starting to dab the cloth on his shoulders while he works his way down. “Hmph, I’ve seen you sleep before in this state. Least I can do is help you get cleaned up.”

“Hey, I get too exhausted sometimes!” Jayce replies defensively, but gives a soft smile at the end. He grabs the knife he created earlier, fingers feeling around it. “You have to admit, this one looks a bit cooler than the others I have made.” Viktor nods in somewhat agreement, now focusing on the upper chest to clean off. “You can keep it, if you want to of course.”

Viktor shakes his head, not meeting Jayce’s eyes while conversing. “There’s no need for me to have it, but thank you for your…kind offer.”

“You’re keeping it.” Jayce responds back with, putting it on top of the open book Vitkor was previously reading so he won’t forget to take it with him. The other only sighs, being aware it’s a losing battle to argue with Jayce when he’s so set on gifting someone something they’ve never asked for. It’s one of the man’s many love languages: giving gifts.

His hand started moving down more, getting near his upper ribs. A quick shift of change in Jayce’s demeanor, beginning to have trouble sitting still like before and biting down his lip hard. Viktor catches on. Of course he did when he begin to rub the cloth against his body more gently, hoping it sent a ticklish shockwave. Revenge was right in front of him from all the times Viktor was ruthlessly, in his opinion, tickled silly by Jayce who never shot down an opening opportunity to do so. Little to Jayce’s knowledge, Viktor has been seeking out opportunities himself to get back. The whole idea of touch is just a subject he awkwardly moves around in, never having someone so playful and lovingly touchy like Jayce in his life.

With the way Jayce was squirming and huffing air out of his nose to suppress the giggles forming in his throat, it fueled newfound confidence in Viktor’s actions. He took it a step further, pretending a spot of soot around Jayce’s ribs was giving him difficulty to rub off, so he pressed his fingers deeper while curling them a little.

Not expecting the firmer touch along with feeling nails through the cloth gliding around his ribs freely, a surprised gasp slips out. Small giggles came right after, instinctively grabbing ahold of Viktor’s wrist. Viktor raises a brow, feigning confusion. “Sorry, does this tickle?”

“Yes…I mean, no!” Jayce got too distracted from the ticklish grazes that the question failed to register on time for him to think of an answer that may save his dignity. Viktor nudges Jayce’s firm grip off of his wrist, and he hesitantly does so. His partner looks up, doing incredibly well on not cracking a smile to foil his true intentions. “Yes? No? Which one is it?”

Jayce finds Viktor’s calmness to a newfound discovery nerve-racking, wishing he could read his mind right then and there. This is the first time Viktor has ever tried to tickle Jayce, but the poor man truly believes it was done on accident. He’s been so use to Viktor taking his ticklish onslaughts like a champ and never immediately attacking back, or even days later. Jayce had his own assumption that Viktor would never live up fully to his playfulness and do so much as tickle him back. The guy doesn’t even complete Jayce’s friendly hugs most of the time by wrapping his own arms around him, just kind of standing there until he pulls away.

So that’s why Jayce is sitting here, staring into Viktor’s questioning eyes, not knowing exactly on how to respond. He decides to lie, feeling like there’s no use in telling the truth if Viktor won’t indulge a little more.

“Um, just a little. Felt weird mostly.” He so badly does a terrible job of convincing. He releases a quiet held back sigh, not knowing if it was out of relief or disappointment when Viktor continued on cleaning after not questioning him a bit more. Viktor created a pattern, dragging the cloth and his fingers across Jayce’s skin that wasn’t ticklish at all. Then in the middle of doing so, he would press more firmly and curl his fingers again just enough for his nails to graze.

Jayce is terrible at holding in his giggles, making weird ‘kcchh!’ noises and sometimes letting a couple out for a few seconds but in a whisper tone as if Viktor isn’t right in front of him to hear them all. “You’re giggling a lot for someone who claims to just be a little ticklish.” Viktor nonchalantly states, placing a hand on top of Jayce’s shoulder to keep him steady. Jayce was about to do another failed attempt of denying until that pattern Viktor was doing met down around his stomach.

Jayce snorts, instantly slapping a hand to cover his mouth in shock as Viktor pauses his movements. His mouth twitches upward for a split second, almost smiling from Jayce’s flushed cheeks. “Oh, so it does tickle.”

“Viktor, wait—“

“You lied to me?”

“Nononono, it’s just that—“

“No need to explain yourself, Jayce. I’ll be careful.” You’d have to be dumb to not practically hear the smile in Viktor’s tone. Both of them, and if anyone else were to be in that room, would very much know that Victor won’t be ‘careful’. Viktor kept up that god forsaken pattern again, but this time letting it tickle Jayce more frequently than it cleaning.

He observed Jayce’s reactions, testing out different areas around his stomach and what brought out a louder reaction than the other. Fingers curling to the middle of his stomach earned him a full boisterous laugh. Nearing his belly button made him receive laughs that shot an octave higher with an occasional whistle coming from the gap of his two front teeth. Cleaning over his belly button made Jayce snort again, a noise Viktor was seeking out for.

Jayce’s rambunctious laugh got Viktor stuck in a trance. How it’s so loud it can be heard from all over Piltover. Jayce’s high pitch snorts coming out only when Viktor tickles somewhere particularly more sensitive. His eyes being closed shut, a random push to Viktor’s face as if it’ll tone down the ticklish sensations. Viktor now understands Jayce completely. He doesn’t want to stop the fun and hearing the flow of his laugh, everything so mesmerizing and ridiculously childish. Viktor could do this all day. 

Two hands grab Viktor’s wrists while a leg kicked out when he dragged the cloth over his belly button again, shaking his head. “Hohold on plehehease!”

Viktor scoffed. “Stop being a baby. I’m not doing anything.” But it was clear as day everything was now being done with purpose. Hands still holding onto Viktor’s wrists, Jayce takes the granted time to catch his breath. “Hehehe…ohohokay, I am one hundred percent sure I’m clean now.”

Viktor tsked, watching him take in air like he ran a marathon. “I think you might be more ticklish than me, Jayce. Isn’t that something?” Jayce abruptly stares at him, peeved. “Ohoho, is that what you think? Let’s put it to the test then.”

Viktor is now the one grabbing at Jayce’s wrists, pushing with all his might out of reach. “No, Jayce! Stop!” Jayce manages to skitter across Viktor’s side, earning him a squeak that he’s terribly embarrassed of. Jayce relishes it.

“What are you, a mouse?” He teases, letting Viktor push his hands away so he can feel like he’s having the upper hand ever so often just to play fair. Viktor stops his attempts of fighting back, shooting a glare but meanwhile grinning. “At least I don’t snort like a pig.”

Viktor just sealed his own coffin shut. “Oh, is that how you want to play?” Jayce gets up from his spot, startling Viktor. He picks him up with ease, showing no effect of Viktor’s shoves and shouts to be put down at once. Jayce lays him down on the couch softly, a location Viktor is all too familiar with by how frequent Jayce pins him down and tickles him mercilessly whenever Viktor, in Jayce’s words, deserves it.

Jayce does not attack right away, taking the time out of pure entertainment to watch him struggle a bit as if by some miracle today is the day Viktor manages to escape Jayce’s evil clutches.

He’s already giggling. “Jahayce, I am telling you now. Do not.” He manages to sit up a bit, hoping to level with Jayce more and seem convincingly threatening when his cold glare meets his eyes.

Jayce’s hands started slowly moving downwards.

“I now know where you’re most ticklish. I promise you, I will not be gentle when my next chance comes if you dare to do this.”

A leap of excitement was felt in Jayce’s heart at those words, causing him to smile and shrug before drilling into Viktor’s hips.

“I can live with that.”

[allyricas]

i went from purposefully filtering any omegaverse stuff to...thinking up scenarios about omegaverse steddie wtf these two have control of my brain ratatouille style and instead of cooking, they make me daydream and then write silly ideas about them all the time.

anyways season 3 au where getting tortured causes steve to present as an omega but it's like the worst timing ever! thank god recently presented alpha eddie munson is around to step in. make it omegaverse fated mates protective eddie... all the good shit.

i keep imagining eddie, a guy that would absolutely would run away from danger 99 percent of the time, fighting against interdimensional monsters and billy hargrove because um, no one is going to fucking touch steve because that is his omega.

and of course, the whole time steve can barely restrain himself from crawling all over eddie. steve has never wanted someone so badly... poor eddie's fighting his urges but ...he can smell steve, smell how much steve wants him.

the second everything settles down and steve is medically cleared, he carries him away and takes care of him, tends to his wounds, helps him clean up and feeds him. then of course, they make sweet love and never leave each other's side again basically.

[holyghostin]

"...out of the damp earth and into the sun."

little drawing dedicated to the flawless fic by @mrghostrat and @chernozemm. if you haven't read it already and/or seen the beautiful artwork, find it here. 🤧

[amazingmsme]

Last Call for Mercy

AN: the much anticipated 600 strike fic is FINALLY here! I think we’ve all been dying to see Poseidon get his ass handed to him with some good ol’ fashioned tickle torture, & I’m here to deliver! That art by you know who (too scared to mention them in this fic) was such perfect inspiration for this fic! Grab a snack & settle in, ‘cause it’s kinda long (just over 4k)

Warning that it’s a little more intense & mean than my usual fics, but it’s Poseidon & he deserves it lmao. Kinda suggestive, but nothing more than that. (I will forever be inspired by the manwhore au) other than that, enjoy Poseidon getting what he deserves!

The wind whipped and howled, waves crashing against jagged rocks. The spray of the sea reached high, filling the air with the taste of salt. Dark clouds rolled in, quickly blocking the sun as rain poured from the sky.

Odysseus stood before Poseidon, calculating his next move. The God lay sprawled across the rocks, bruises and small cuts littering his skin from their previous fight. He looked smug, almost proud.

Odysseus couldn't keep this up forever, and he didn't want to. He was tired of fighting just to survive; it was all he'd known for the past 20 years. He was tired. So, so tired...

He had hoped Poseidon would be too. That when offered a truce: a final chance to leave the past behind, that he would take it. Of course, he could never be so lucky, nor Poseidon so reasonable.

He looked at his island one last time, coming to a decision.

"You're going to call off that storm." He spoke in a dead, flat tone. One that struck fear in the hearts of many and commanded respect.

Poseidon's triumphant smirk stretched further across his face, twisting his features with sadistic glee.

"Or what? You can't kill me," he taunted. Odysseus slowly shifted his gaze back onto him.

"Exactly."

Odysseus stalked closer, like a lone wolf closing in on a kill. Poseidon's grin faltered once he realized Odysseus was still coming towards him.

"Wait-" his eyes darted to where his trident now rested at the soldier's feet. "Wait!"

And then Odysseus smirked.

"Oh no. By the time I'm through with you, you're gonna wish I stabbed you instead," he said matter of factly.

Poseidon sneered, lurching forward threateningly. "What?"

But before he could say another word, the King of Ithica was straddling his hips, shoving his back against the rocks. He blinked in shock, at a complete loss for words.

"Cruelty comes in all shapes and sizes," Odysseus said, cracking his knuckles for emphasis. "Even ones you don't expect," he went on to crack his neck, rolling his shoulders just to drag out the anticipation.

Poseidon could've thrown him off, but he was curious where the mortal was going with this.

"Do your worst."

"I intend to."

Poseidon would swear he only screamed so loud because he was caught off guard. I mean, really, who in their right mind would try and tickle a God at a time like this? Who would even think of that?

Odysseus of Ithica, that's who. Because of course he would.

Odysseus dug into his sides, scribbling over bare skin made slick from the rain. Poseidon reacted immediately, folding in on himself with a bark of laughter as he scrambled to shove the offending hands away.

"Whahahat do you thihink you're dohohoing?" he demanded, growling through his laughter. Odysseus snorted in amusement, pinching up and down his sides.

"Thought it would be obvious," he taunted, flashing a sadistic grin. Poseidon managed to roll his eyes in annoyance, prompting Odysseus to claw at his stomach.

"Y-you ahaharrogant bastahard! I ohohorder you to-"

"Yeah, I'm gonna stop you right there," he cut him off. "You're not the one in control anymore. I am."

Poseidon leveled him with a harsh glare, determined to prove him wrong. "Like hehehell you ahare!"

Odysseus shrugged, sporting a sly, malicious grin. "Agree to disagree."

Poseidon's annoyed scoffed morphed into a snort as he kneaded his lower stomach, right above his waistline. His eyes flew wide open in embarrassment, and he slapped a hand over his mouth to muffle the sounds escaping.

"That was a fun noise," he goaded, wiggling a finger in his bellybutton. "Let's hear it again, shall we?" Poseidon shook his head, ready to throw him into the ocean, but much to his dismay, a shrill screech pierced the air instead.

"Close, but I think it was more like this!" Odysseus demonstrated by squeezing his hips. Poseidon bucked and screamed through hysterical laughter. He tried his best to block the offending hands, but the King of Ithica was annoyingly fast for a mortal.

"Ohoho just shut up ahahalready!" he growled in response. That bastard had the gall to chuckle at him.

"Why should I?"

"I-I'll kihihill you!" But the force of his laughter severely negated the threat.

"Not a very convincing argument there, giggles."

"What dihihid you just cahall mehehe?" Poseidon growled through growing hysterics.

"Giggles!" he repeated proudly. To prove his point, he reached up to flutter against Poseidon's fin-like ears.

"Ihihi do nohohot giggle!" he denied through a particularly bubbly bout of giggles.

"Pft, yeah, keep telling yourself that, it won't make it true," he continued to taunt. Poseidon managed to roll his eyes. "Ihif you dohohon’t just shut up-!" he sassed, cutting himself off with a gasp. Odysseus arched a brow and began kneading his hips. He threw his head back in hysterics, bucking like a wild horse.

"Oh yeah? You’ll what?" Odysseus growled threateningly, trailing off. Poseidon sneered and reeled back, ready to slap him, to grab his hands, to throw him off, to do anything to stop what was happening. And then Odysseus grabbed his wrist and pinned his arm above his head.

They locked eyes and Poseidon shook his head, frantically tugging at his arm. How the hell was he so strong? He was a mortal for crying out loud! So what the fuck was going on? Then again, he supposed he wasn't putting up much of a fight, the way he was cackling and flopping around like a fish out of water.

The irony was not lost on him.

It didn't take long for Odysseus to wrestle his other arm into place. He held down both of Poseidon's wrists as he reached off to the side.

He had grabbed Poseidon's own trident, holding it high above him so the light could glint off of it perfectly. Each prong was sharpened to a point, and aimed right at him.

"Hold still, yeah? Unless you want to get stabbed," Odysseus chuckled at his own joke. Poseidon remained speechless as his brain struggled to catch up with itself. He heard a loud metal shing followed by the sound of crumbling rock, and suddenly he could move his arms.

He couldn't move his arms!

He tugged and yanked frantically, but his trident held firm. Each wrist rested in the space between prongs, but there wasn't enough room to slip free.

"That's more like it," Odysseus examined his handiwork, making sure the trident wouldn't budge.

"Are you out of your mind! Let me go!" His entire body grew tense when he felt hands rest atop his ribcage.

"You're a God, it shouldn't be that hard to escape if you really want to," he noted in a condescending tone. Poseidon glared up at him, arms straining as he tugged futilely.

"Just what are you implying?" he hissed through clenched teeth. Odysseus grinned wider.

"Oh I'm not implying anything." He curled his fingers ever so slightly, just barely pressing into the skin. Poseidon gasped and arched his back, desperately fighting off a growing smile.

"You insolehent prihihihick! Stohohop thihis at once!" he demanded through deep hysterics as Odysseus clawed at his ribs.

"That depends. You gonna call off that storm?" Odysseus asked, wiggling his fingers faster as he spoke, making it impossible for Poseidon to answer.

He shook his head and choked out, "N-nehehever!" Odysseus shrugged, not an ounce of sympathy to be found.

"In that case, I guess I'll never stop."

"You thihihink this ihis funny?" he sounded significantly less threatening than he had hoped.

"Hilarious, actually," Odysseus deadpanned, scribbling between each rib, inching closer to his gills with each passing second. Poseidon's laughter rose in pitch, and he struggled with renewed intensity. Odysseus smirked down at him.

"Aw, what's the matter? Is this a bad spot?" he asked, running his thumbs along his bottom gill.

Poseidon snorted, arms straining where they were pinned. His cheeks were flushed, long dark hair fanned out around him like rolling waves.

"Noho, please! Not there!" he begged, a forced grin splitting his face in two as he spoke.

"Oh, have you changed your mind?" Odysseus asked, cocking his head innocently. But his hands hovered above Poseidon's gills, wiggling just above the skin.

He sucked in a breath, leaning as far away as he could. "No-" he barely choked out the single word before he was lost to bubbly hysterics. Odysseus traced along the edge of each gill slowly, watching his reactions with a close eye.

Poseidon snorted and squirmed from side to side, lips twitching into a giddy, nervous smile.

"In that case, I think I'll stay right here." Poseidon's eyes widened in something akin to fear.

"Wait, don't!" he protested, arching his back with a giggly snort when Odysseus traced along both sides. He only had to use one finger to get him squirming and choking back laughter. Poseidon bit his lip, but sputtering giggles and shrieks still managed to slip out. "Stohohop!"

"Don't stop? Wasn't planning to, but whatever you say! Gotta give the God what he wants," Odysseus taunted. Poseidon shook his head, a blush quickly spreading across his cheeks.

"You knohohow dahamn well thahahat's not what I meheheant!" he argued. His laughter was uncharacteristically high pitched as he teased his gills, and Odysseus was eager to see what other noises this spot would produce.

"Mmm, actually, I don't," Odysseus corrected with a casual shrug and a shit eating grin. He jumped to the next gill, wiggling a finger just barely underneath the edge. Poseidon snorted and gasped, arching his back as he clenched his jaw. And yet, his laughter persisted.

It was much more shrill than what Odysseus was expecting, but he supposed that was because of where he was targeting. He made sure to be careful around the gills, keeping his touch light and fluttery. You'd think the lighter tickling was worse from the way he was acting. Odysseus considered the thought, watching the way the God writhed and giggled beneath him.

"Come on, it can't be that bad. I'm barely even touching you!" he noted smugly, ghosting his fingertips along his ribs and gills. Poseidon threw his head back and let out a wheezing laugh.

"Ihit's fucking ahahawful!" he screamed, sounding less angry than he intended, and more desperate than he cared to admit. But as humiliating and degrading as this all was, there was a small part of him that was grateful he wasn't enduring real torture. If the King of Ithica was crazy enough to pull a stunt like this, then there's no telling what he's capable of.

He would count his blessings where he could.

He was pulled from his spiraling thoughts when he heard Odysseus chuckle. "That's over dramatic, don't you agree?" he asked, tracing the rim of his gills at an agonizingly slow rate.

"Nooo!" Poseidon denied, but Odysseus was unsure if he was answering the question, or protesting as the tickling began to speed up. He twisted side to side, unable to dislodge the hands exploring his ribs. He snorted and kicked frantically when a finger hesitantly wiggled underneath a gill.

"FUCK, dohohon't you dahare! I will kihihill you!" Poseidon threatened through breathless snickers. Odysseus cocked his head, sporting a sinister smirk.

He leaned down, invading the God's personal space until their noses were almost touching. "I don't think you will." Poseidon sneered up at him until it was forcibly replaced by a bright smile.

"You cocky little-" his words were cut off by a squeal that gave way to breathless cackles. Poseidon thrashed and tugged on his arms, but his trident held firm against the rocks. Odysseus fluttered his fingers on the inside of the gills, just barely reaching in.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Odysseus taunted, cupping an ear with one hand.

"NOHOHOT THEHERE! PLEHEHEASE!" he begged, snorting and wheezing in between bouts of hysterics.

"Wow, you do have manners," Odysseus feigned surprise. He decided to cut him some slack and switch to a new spot. After all, this was pretty fun, and Odysseus didn't want him to tap out too soon. He was thoroughly enjoying every second of his well earned revenge... And the power trip he got from it wasn't half bad either.

Poseidon cackled and swore under his breath as he continued teasing the inside of his gills. His laughter began to sound as though he were screaming underwater, frantic giggles gurgling in the back of his throat as he tried to shove them back down. Odysseus had never heard such a laugh, and took it as a sign to slow down.

"You’re starting to sound a little desperate there, so I guess you deserve a break. Besides, we still have other places to explore..." he trailed off as he rested his hands on his biceps. He lightly pressed into the flesh, watching carefully as Poseidon's breath hitched. He drug his hands down until he reached his bare pits.

"There is no we," he snapped through clenched teeth.

"I don't know, I'd say we're pretty close," he said, just to get under Poseidon's skin. It seemed to work, as he scoffed and glared up at him. "What do you think?" he prompted, cocking his head to the side.

"I thihink you're fucking crahahazy," Poseidon answered as his lingering chuckles faded. Odysseus seemed to soften at those words, placing a hand over his heart as they locked eyes.

"Aw, that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

Poseidon rolled his eyes. "Of course you'd take that as a compliment."

"Y'know, I liked you a lot better when you can barely speak," Odysseus snarked. He didn't give the God a chance to answer before he dug back in, clawing at his exposed pits. Poseidon practically screamed, thrashing around on the rocks as he tugged and twisted his arms in a futile attempt to free himself.

"That's more like it!" Odysseus cheered, raking blunt nails down the center of his hollows. He snorted and cursed at the sharp ticklish sensation.

"Nohoho ihit's nohohot!" he argued. Odysseus arched a brow.

"You just like arguing for the sake of it, don't you?" he asked, not afraid to call him out.

"Ohoho lihike you dohohon't!" Poseidon taunted back through his giggles.

"Yeah, but you're a God. Aren't you supposed to be above shit like that?" he reasoned.

"Absolutely not!" he growled in frustration. Who was he to tell him how a God should act?

"Oh, sorry, my mistake," Odysseus faked an apology, not once slowing his movements.

"Quit beheheing such aha smart ahahass!" Poseidon demanded. He continued to thrash and kick about, the sea surrounding them churning and sloshing. The choppy waves rose and fell in time with Poseidon's bellowing voice.

"No thanks, I'm good," he shot back smugly. "Now listen up, I got a question for you." When Poseidon didn't answer, he drilled his thumbs in the center of his pits, drawing devastatingly ticklish circles.

"Whahahat?" he cried out, frustration and desperation mingling. Why couldn't this mortal just shut his fucking mouth for five minutes?

Odysseus leaned in with a sadistic grin as he asked, "So, how does it feel to be helpless?" The question caught Poseidon off guard, nearly choking on his own laughter. "How's it feel knowing you can't escape?"

"Thahat's m-mighty presumptuous ohohof you," he challenged, even as he fought off his mirth.

Odysseus snapped his head down to look at him, eyes wide in shock as a bewildered smile tugged at his lips. "Wait, can you escape?" he asked, genuinely curious now. He'd seen Poseidon move around as if he were water, and for all he knew, maybe he was. Yet his body felt solid and firm beneath his touch.

Odysseus just might be hallucinating, because he could swear Poseidon blushed at the question.

"Ehehenough! You dohohon't thihink I'm tryihihing?" he snapped defensively, tugging on his trapped arms with renewed effort. The truth of the matter was, Poseidon technically could escape if he really tried. But using his powers to slip away so easily just felt wrong. He was a God for crying out loud, he should be able to free himself with his strength alone! And at this point, he was determined to do so.

Odysseus studied him before answering. "I think you could try a little harder," he goaded, skittering his nails over the tense muscles of his arms. Poseidon's voice jumped in pitch, bordering on shrill.

"Ohoho whahat do you knohow ahahanyways?" he challenged through breathless snickers. It was meant as a rhetorical question, really. So why then, did Odysseus feel the need to answer?

"I know you're pretty damn ticklish for a God," he shot back, relishing in the way Poseidon glared at him; cheeks flushed and mouth agape in shock.

"Excuse me?" he choked out, struggling to keep his laughter contained. Even in his delirious state, he had to admire the sheer audacity.

"You're excused," Odysseus chuckled at his own joke, smirking at the way Poseidon rolled his eyes.

"You're really not ahas funny as you thihihink," he managed to complain with minimal chuckles.

Odysseus looked down at him, tilting his head to the side with mock innocence. "Really? Then why're you laughing?" He punctuated the question by fluttering his fingers behind his ears.

Poseidon shook his head, scrunching his neck as real, honest to the Gods giggles spilled past his lips.

"Oops, my mistake. Why are you giggling?" Odysseus "corrected" himself, sporting a sly grin.

"Ihihi aham nohohot!" he insisted, despite the bubbly laughter lacing his words.

"Denial looks good on you," he quipped back, tracing along the edges of his ear fins. Poseidon's eyes flew wide open as a dark blush spread across his cheeks.

"Ihihit does nohohot!" he argued, trying his best to sound intimidating. Apparently it didn't work as intended, seeing as Odysseus was cooing at him.

"Sure, keep telling yourself that," he goaded, gently pinching his ear, just to hear him shriek. Poseidon flinched away from the touch with a snort.

"Aw, you must be really ticklish here," he added with amusement. Poseidon shook his head frantically, bubbly giggles gurgling in the back of his throat. Odysseus now realized that his laughter just sounded like that. How cute.

"Nohoho! S-stohohop!" he pleaded. The light, teasing touch was downright maddening, and he couldn't take the relentless teasing.

"No thanks, I'm good," Odysseus casually shrugged him off. He scratched blunt nails against the thin skin of his fins, drawing out the most endearing snickers.

"Why you little- wait, dohohon't!" he protested when he saw a mischievous smirk flash across the mortal's face. But there was nothing he could do to stop him when hands latched onto his hips. He bucked like a wild horse, head thrown back as booming cackles escaped him.

"Don't what?"

"Your stupid trihihicks won't work ohon mehehe!" he yelled, thrashing from side to side in an attempt to dislodge the torturous hands squeezing his hips.

Odysseus heaved a sigh and shrugged, "Oh well, it was worth a shot." He moved down to knead his thighs, flinching at the scream that filled the air. He pulled back to cover his ears, allowing Poseidon a moment to catch his breath.

"Oho fuck you, I'm not being that loud!" he snapped defensively. Odysseus opened his mouth to answer, but before he could speak, the sky lit up with a web of lighting as thunder roared overhead. Poseidon gawked up at the sky, a dark blue blush spreading across his cheeks as Odysseus doubled over in laughter.

"I think your brother would beg to differ!" he cheered mockingly, poking all over his belly. Poseidon snorted and curled in on himself, but no matter how much he struggled, he couldn't escape the unbearable feeling of fingers on his skin.

"Just shut thehe fuck up! I'll kihihill both of you!" he threatened. Odysseus rolled his eyes as another clap of thunder sounded above, mocking him. This couldn't possibly get any worse.

"I really don't think you could kill anyone right now," he taunted, squeezing down his thighs until he got to his knees, and a loud snort slipped out. He stayed there for a few agonizing seconds before turning around, straddling his legs. And that could only mean one thing.

"Wait! Nohoho!" he shrieked as Odysseus scraped his blunt nails down his soles. He scrunched his feet and kicked as much as he could, but his legs were pinned fairly well, and he was weak from laughter.

"Aw, you have webbing between your toes! That's honestly pretty adorable," he taunted with a fond smile.

"Wha- no it's not!" Poseidon sputtered, fighting off a blush and doing a rather poor job. "I live in the water, what the fuck did you expect?"

"Y’know what? I don't like your tone," Odysseus said, scribbling along his arches. He let out a giggly yelp, jerking beneath the touch.

"Ohoho fuck you! Just lehehet me gohoho!"

"I'll stop whenever you want, just call off the storm!" he insisted in a snide, taunting tone.

"I-I cahahan't!" Poseidon lied as he desperately tried to think of any other way out of the mess he'd gotten himself into.

"We'll see about that," Odysseus called his bluff, glaring down at him with playful malice. He held down his ankles and grabbed his toes, stretching them back. He began furiously scribbling the webbing between his toes, and the reaction was immediate.

Poseidon kicked his trapped legs, scrunching his toes as much as he could. Bubbly giggles and shrieks escaped him as Odysseus continued to rub the thin webbing. His nose was scrunched adorably as he snorted and shook his head frantically.

"Stohohop!" he pleaded once more, but Odysseus wasn't so eager to let him off the hook. At least, not yet.

"You didn't stop when I begged you, so why should I?" he justified the prolonged cruelty.

"Behehecause I fucking sahahay sohoho!" he ordered in between helpless snickers.

That was the last straw. Poseidon was going to cave, one way or another; Odysseus would make sure of it.

He spun around suddenly, vengeance flashing in his eyes. "You still think you're in control?" he challenged, digging into his gills without warning. Poseidon was caught off guard by the change of spots, screaming and wheezing through hysterics.

"NOHOHO! Y-YOU MOHOHONSTER!" he wailed at the top of his lungs. He arched his back, struggling to free himself. He threw his head back in frustration, cackles flowing freely from his smiling mouth.

Odysseus scoffed at the insult and rolled his eyes. "A tickle monster, maybe," he agreed with a snide chuckle. "But didn't you say that ruthlessness is mercy upon our-"

"Ahalrihihight! Plehehease!" he begged, finally admitting defeat. As much as it pains him to say it, he just couldn’t take any more.

Odysseus wore a satisfied grin as he stared down at him. He leaned in to whisper in his ear, “Now was that so hard?” Poseidon rolled his eyes, a fading blush still dusting his cheeks.

“Incredibly so,” he deadpanned. With a heavy sigh and a wave of his trapped hand, the raging ocean calmed. “There you go, you crazy bastard,” he huffed, sounding almost fond.

“Thank you, that’s all I wanted,” Odysseus said, releasing the tension in his shoulders as he stared at the distant shore. “No hard feelings?” he asked, holding his hand out in a show of truce, forgetting for a moment that the God’s hands were still trapped.

In his deliriously giddy state, Poseidon had forgotten he was supposed to be trapped as he begrudgingly shook the mortal’s hand. He shifted form and slipped past the metal prongs on his trident, flowing into his full height as he stood on the rocks.

Odysseus was frozen in shock, looking between Poseidon and his trident.

“So you could get out the whole time?”

Poseidon’s smirk dropped as he realized the mistake he made. “Wait-” he tried to backtrack.

“And you were just letting it happen!” Odysseus added with a mocking smile, taking one last opportunity to tease him.

“Watch it, I can bring back the storm whenever I like!” he threatened, but it wasn’t nearly as scary as it should’ve been. “But I wasn’t going to resort to cheating in order to beat you,” he justified. Odysseus snorted in amusement, arching a brow skeptically.

“Cheating?” he repeated, making Poseidon scoff and drench him with a wave from behind. “Hey!”

“Using my powers to escape so easily would’ve just been cowardly and unfair,” he justified, because that’s totally the only reason…

“Yeah, cause you looked so brave giggling yourself silly,” Odysseus couldn’t help but taunt, enjoying the choked sputtering the comment earned.

“Whatever, it was getting loose. I would’ve broke free any second.”

“Oh? Is that why you tapped out?” he goaded further, still riding high off of the power trip. Poseidon weighed his options, but decided it wasn’t worth it.

“You’ve wasted enough of my time already. You’re lucky I have places to be,” he said, turning towards the water without another word.

“See ya later,” Odysseus called after him with a small wave. Poseidon froze in his tracks, looking back over his shoulder to glare at him.

“No you won’t,” he corrected harshly, flashing a small grin his way before melting into the waves, leaving Odysseus alone.

“Yeah I will,” he said to himself, smiling out at the calm sea.

[orbofrommyshows]

Something that I'm forever going to find funny about Turbo is the fact that he is (or at least was at the time of taking over Sugar Rush) very clearly an amateur programmer. The code box he made is just filled with disorganized spaghetti and I would be absolutely shocked if he documented anything lmao, so I keep imagining the utter hell of a time he'd had with it whenever he had to make a bug fix or something, because there's no way in hell that code didn't come with an entire dump truck worth of problems. Like, something in it breaks so he has to go back in and do the debugging to find out what went wrong and he's just combing through it going:

"wait what does that function do?"

"I should have picked better variable names, this thing is damn near unreadable."

"what kind of idiot wrote this- wait it's me… I'm the idiot…"

"okay I think I fixed the problem, let's see- I have created five new and interesting problems…"

[umgeorge]

george russell does an admirable job of not strangling toto during fp1, italy - august 30, 2024

[the-obnoxious-sibling]

Shanks—Buggy blinked, not believing what he was seeing—pouted.  “Can’t I get a kiss goodbye?” If someone had told him even yesterday that Shanks would become such a baby the second he was shown the smallest bit of affection… “You know what?  Fine.”  A delighted expression bloomed on Shanks’ face as Buggy walked back to his side.  Buggy smiled, laid a loud, wet kiss dead-center on his forehead, and pulled back to watch his face crumple.

@midydoof is as much of a menace as buggy himself. how am i supposed to go about my daily life while this art exists??

this part has had a few lines of new dialogue added to one scene; i realized as i was doing my edits that i’d dropped the ball on one of the topics of conversation buggy wanted to discuss in an earlier chapter, and this was a tidy way to take care of that loose end.

for any new readers: this is part seven of eight of the long, post-marineford part of this shanks/buggy series! this part is about fifty-five hundred words, and sees us through the usual morning after problems that come with people like shanks (captain of the ship, sap) and buggy (clown, idiot).

[anna-scribbles]

what a shame, i can see it all now that we’re through

- firearm by lizzy mcalpine

(chapter 5 of call it even is making me feel bonkers insane. thank u @sha-nwa)

[janumun]

God, you guys have no idea what this hug has done for me. It has watered my crops, cleared my acne, jumped me in my bed while I slumbered unaware, took me by the throat, body slammed me against the wall and fucked up my insides like Sylus’ big, thick, un-lubed cock. But that’s alright because I love the pain.

Sylus fuc/kers, you can bet good money I am working on another Sylus fic, smut ofcourse, based on this card for the good of my heart, soul and 🐱 ✍🏽✍🏽

The fic is now out and it can be found here ♥️

[peaches2217]

Guided Brooding

AO3 Link!

~~~

“Uno! Due! Tre! Quattro! Uno! Due! Tre! Quattro!”

The words ticked back and forth like a metronome in Mario’s head, changing in pace with each new song, but always relatively consistent in its rhythm. Inevitably a stray thought or a stumble would make him lose track, but then Luigi would call out the counts once more until he was (more or less) back in rhythm. That was probably his only saving grace, if he was being honest with himself.

Uno. Due. Tre. Quattro. Shoulders. Square. Spine. Straight. Don’t. Step on. Luigi’s. Feet. Uno. Due. Tre. Quattro.

“Okay! Ready for Phase Two?”

Luigi’s sudden interjection broke Mario’s concentration, and immediately he stumbled and trampled his younger twin’s foot (which made Incident #58, if he was keeping count correctly), yet Luigi didn’t flinch. He guided them both to a standstill, some conspiratorial twinkle in his eye.

“Phase Two?” Mario was almost afraid to ask. No, scratch that— he was afraid.

His brother immediately justified his fears. “Spin me.”

“What—”

“Spin spin!”

With that, Luigi lifted his left arm and Mario’s right, stooping to fit beneath their linked hands as he turned on the balls of his feet. Mario was forced to stand on his toes and thrust the entire right side of his body as high as possible just to keep from losing his grip, and even then, he barely succeeded. He was milliseconds from tipping too far left and faceplanting into the hardwood when it mercifully ended.

“With room to spare!” Luigi cheered on the other side. “See? You’ve got this down!”

Mario stared him down as he resettled on his feet. Luigi, in his defense, had the foresight to wear heels for this impromptu practice. But the tallest shoes he could keep his balance in still only put him at 5’8, a paltry number next to Peach’s 6’1 in her usual modest heels and 6’3 in her finest ballroom attire (read: the heels she would most likely wear during the real deal).

Mario, all 5’1 of him, did not in fact have this down.

The final notes of a mid-tempo song faded into needle chatter. Another record played all the way through. Another testament to his own failure.

As soon as Luigi let go, Mario found himself numbly shuffling towards their couch, pushed against the wall some hours earlier to give the brothers more room to practice. Not that this stopped them from colliding with the cushions or stubbing their toes against the wooden legs. The elder brother paid no mind to his twin rummaging through their music collection and casting suggestions in his direction. 

“...but since it’s kinda jazzy it might be harder to keep up with, but that could also give us a chance to practice, like, syncopation! And maybe that would…” But what did it matter? The next record would serve the same purpose as the first two: background music to accompany his downfall.

Mario plopped his backend onto the overstuffed cushions with the same grace he’d displayed dancing with his brother (which was to say, none). His legs were tired. His calves burned and his thighs tingled from overexertion. Since when did his restless legs get tired? He leaned over the back of the couch and stared up at the slats in the ceiling, as if they might crack open and bring forth some divine revelation that would make this whole mess make sense.

“...Mario? Hey, you okay, bro?”

Mario, burdened with two left feet and a heart that just had to yearn for the unattainable, was not in fact okay. 

He thought he’d known what to expect when he accepted his new role as Peach’s personal guard. She warned upfront that it would be dull and unexciting most of the time, standing through long-winded meetings and sitting through lectures about the inner workings of the Kingdom’s government. It all paled in comparison to the promise that he could spend more time at her side, and even better, the promise that he could serve her and protect her whenever she needed him.

He hadn’t really considered the social aspects of the role until that afternoon. He’d been just as excited for next week’s royal soiree as Peach was. Since he was required to hover nearby wherever his Princess went, he could easily swoop in and save her should any particularly chatty guests monopolize her time — they’d invented hand signs and covert exchanges and everything, which they practiced and perfected over tea cakes and laughter — but what had excited Peach most…

“I’ll finally get a dance out of you yet!” She’d dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a cloth napkin, her smile naïve yet mischievous. “It would be rude for my own guard to refuse any of my requests, after all.”

And she was right. Time after time she badgered him for a dance when he attended her parties as a mere guest. Time after time he informed her that dancing with him was a disastrous idea. It was a game, a playful ongoing back-and-forth, never a serious request, surely not. But now…

She was serious. Oh, stars, she was serious.

“I’m doomed,” Mario groaned at last.

Luigi groaned right back at him, mirroring his tone almost perfectly, and Mario might have been annoyed if he wasn’t also a bit impressed. The clack clack clack of high heels against hardwood tracked across the room, then the couch dipped beside him.

“C’mon,” Luigi said, nudging his shoulder against Mario’s. “Big feelings. Let’s talk ‘em out. You won’t feel better until you do.”

Mario huffed. Feelings. Feelings were supposed to be joyful and colorful and make life more vibrant. Feelings like this served no purpose other than to dampen that color. Life was too short to waste, too beautiful to squander, and sitting around wallowing in his own misery only squandered it further. 

Wallowing with a loved one gets it over with a lot faster, Luigi was always reminding him. And Luigi, who was never one to suffer in silence, was admittedly more of an expert on the topic than Mario was, so who was he to question that wisdom?

He sighed heavily. Might as well.

“I’m gonna screw it all up, Weegee.”

“No you’re not.”

“I’ll look like an idiot. Or worse, I’ll— I’ll make her look like an idiot!”

“You know she won’t let that happen.”

“But it’s not her job to keep me from messing up! I’m the one that’s— it’s my job to—”

“It’s not a job, it’s dancing. A couple mistakes here and there won’t bother her, you know that!”

“Well, no, but…”

Mario clenched his jaw.

He could almost see it, like an image in light projected on the panels above his head. Dancing with Peach. She would guide his steps with patience and grace. He would hold her slender hand safely in his own and hang on her every instruction, and every time he tripped or stepped on her foot, she would giggle, correct him, and lead him back into a steady rhythm.

A smile tugged at his lips. Learning to dance in the haven of her private garden, the rustle of leaves in lieu of music, away from prying eyes…

But it couldn’t happen like that. No, he couldn’t waste their first dance forcing her to teach him. She deserved better. She deserved a competent dancing partner. One who could match her expertise with confidence, who she could trust to fall into step with her right away… who wouldn’t falter even when the whole nation’s eyes were on them…

Mario sat back up just so he could hunch forward, resting his elbows on his knees, threading his fingers through his hair. “I can’t mess this up.” It came out far weaker than he’d hoped. He really was pathetic.

While he sulked, Luigi patted his back and hummed, the drawn-out sort of Hrmmmmm that told Mario his answer wasn’t good enough. “Why not?”

You know why! seemed the most obvious response. Not that he could actually say as much; Luigi would make him say it out loud anyway, and he preferred to avoid invoking that impossible desire by name whenever he could, so he scrambled for an answer with fewer sharp edges.

“Because she’s…” Beautiful. Graceful. Intelligent. Artistic. Astonishing. Literally perfect. Long overdue for an entire religion revolving around her. “She’s a princess,” he eventually settled on.

“And you’re her best friend, yeah?” Luigi’s hand stilled for a moment, then he switched to rubbing circles into his brother’s back. “Look, I-I know this is important to you. But if you’re not ready, you’re not ready! Just tell her! You know she won’t make you do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

Heat rushed through Mario’s body. He couldn’t even assemble an Absolutely Not before Luigi cut back in: “Compromises, remember? You can’t always let your pride win. I guarantee ya, promise her a dance next time, and she’ll be over the moon.”

Though he hated to entertain the thought, Mario knew he was right. He grumbled in displeasure as he mulled over the notion. Peach had never commanded him to dance. Though she’d presented it as an order of sorts, he did know she wouldn’t force him into it. It was merely a suggestion, one he was perfectly free to refuse.

…Just like his place as her guard, come to think of it.

“The motion for your appointment passed Parliament unanimously,” Peach told him that day, her hands clasped in front of her and her eyes unable to select a focal point. “But please understand that you’re under no obligation to accept! It’s… unfair, asking so much of you, given how much you’ve already done. Those are my thoughts, anyway.”

Mario never intended to refuse the offer, but initially, he was apprehensive. He was plenty strong, and he had rescued her from abduction once already, and he would do everything in his power to help her. But how much power did he actually possess? Was it enough to keep her safe? Was it enough to live up to whatever expectations were laid upon him, not just by Peach, but by her government? By its people? “Bodyguard to a Princess” wasn’t a program his vocational school had offered.

But one good look at said Princess overrode his doubts. Her fingers drumming against her knuckles, the small smile she kept forcing into something more neutral, her gaze shifting between her gloved hands and the surrounding shrubbery and, eventually, Mario’s face— growing up with an autistic twin taught Mario to be extra attentive to nonverbal cues. Peach’s offer was every bit as much for her sake as it was for his and for her Parliament’s.

In her words, she expressed reluctance, but in her body language, she gave her true thoughts away. And in her eyes, sparkling turquoise in the morning sunlight, he found his answer.

Her eyes had sparkled just as brilliantly today, discussing a prospective dance with her dearest friend and devoted guard. He wouldn’t be the one to extinguish her spark.

You can’t always let your pride win.

What a silly thing to say to Super Mario, Hero of the Mushroom Kingdom, Bodyguard to its Princess. Of course his pride would always triumph. That was kind of his schtick, wasn’t it?

“Okay, enough internal monologuing.” The weight on Mario’s back was lifted, and Luigi’s hand relocated to his head, tousling his curls playfully. “You gonna talk this through with me? Or am I gonna have to drag it outta ya?”

Another rush of heat overtook him, but this time, there was no indignation. This was the heat of renewed purpose. Lifting his face, the warm lights of their living room filled Mario’s vision once more, and suddenly the empty floor before him called to him with a pull he refused to ignore.

His muscles protested as he stood, but he paid them no mind. Every obstacle could be conquered with enough determination. He’d fail as many times as he needed to so he could succeed, just once, just for her.

“Hey— external!” Luigi cried after him. “External monologue! Don’t leave me in the dark, bro!”

Mario grinned as he closed the gap between himself and the record player. “You’re right,” he called over his shoulder. “I’m not gonna screw it up.”

The clack clack clack of block heels followed him once more. “And why’s that?”

“Because I haven’t let her down yet.” He pulled the first record his hands touched out of its case and set it into place. “And I’m not gonna start now!”

“And why’s that, huh?”

“Because…” A bright, jazzy instrumental filled the air, and Mario waved his hands with a flourish, grasping for words other than the ones Luigi was goading him to say. “Because I don’t know when to quit, I guess!”

“And why’s that? ”

“Stelle santo—”

He found Luigi waiting for him at the center of the room, his arms folded, his right hip jutting outward, his high-heeled left foot tapping in expectation. The smirk he fixed Mario with was far too devious for his liking.

“Well, if my beloved baby bro is any indication,” he shot back, mirroring Luigi’s folded-armed stance and meeting him where he stood, “then I guess being annoyingly hard-headed just runs in the family.”

Luigi’s smirk wavered. “Baby bro?”

Mario huffed, if only to keep his own mask from slipping. “I was already around when you were a baby. That counts.”

“You were a baby when I was a baby.”

“Well I still have twenty minutes on you, so at one point I was literally twenty times your age. Doesn’t get much more baby than that, yeah?”

Their competitive stares held strong a few seconds more, then they faltered, their make-believe tension powerless against the lively music. Both brothers clasped each other by the arms and chuckled, and just like that, Mario’s earlier angst was gone.

And these sorts of feelings he was all too happy to let himself feel.

“Thank you.” Mario pulled in closer to clasp Luigi’s shoulder. “For… being so stubborn.”

The corners of Luigi’s eyes crinkled as he mirrored the motion, clasping Mario’s opposite shoulder. “Guided brooding. That’s all it is.”

“And that’s all I need, I guess.” Mario soaked in the contentment a moment longer, then he let his arm fall to Luigi’s waist, releasing his opposite arm to take his hand. “C’mon. We’re losing moonlight.”

Luigi nodded firmly. “Way ahead of ya.”

Maybe Mario’s newfound drive didn’t grant him lighter feet or better coordination, but his heart felt so much lighter. He was able to laugh and joke with his brother when he made mistakes and celebrate each minor victory with sincerity. Nothing miraculous, maybe, but he could certainly work with it. And each time he fell out of sync, Luigi was right there to guide him back in.

“Uno! Due! Tre! Quattro! Uno! Due! Tre! Quattro! Uno! Due! Tre!”

[mrsackermannx]

chef!sukuna who’s still lower in the rank than he wants to be, but so close to being a sous. tonight is his night to do the night’s special dish, finally. he earned this. he knew that if the head chef just let him, he could create the best dish ever served at this damn place.

so, he does just that.

he’s immediately scolded, the dish uses too many ingredients, the head says. too much to prepare. too ambitious. even though he used all of the left over ingredients from the menu’s usuals. 0% waste, 0% additional cost.

sukuna curses, taking a deeper drag of his cigarette. “make sure no table gets that shit,” he hears, with his fists clenching at his sides. ill go to the gym after this, he thinks, yeah, punch the fuck out of that bag.

it turns out that only table 8 has the dish, your table. the server messed up and now they’re crying in the back to the porter because they’ve been fired on the spot. “i told you not to fucking take it! have you never done expo-“

sukuna stalks calmly to the shaking waiter, “show me table eight-“ he sighs, levelling the head chef with a glare, sukuna was much larger, much stronger than him, difference in rank or not. he stood down, stalking down the other side of the kitchen with a huff. “ignore him, i wanna see who’s eating my dish, come on, let’s go.”

a reassuring pat to the shoulder from sukuna was almost enough to make him cry even more. sukuna kind of hated everyone.

“just there, chef. the couple, bedside the pillar on the left…its um…her, chef.” he grins, watching how transfixed the normally gruff man is, “your girl heh heh.”

“shut up,” he says, but he smiles a little.

he watches you, sat opposite some guy you hardly look interested in, you’re beautiful, the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, as always, his eyes are drawn to you, no other woman could compare.

he watches you slice through his dish, the fork at your lips, as soon as it reaches your mouth you make a noise of such rapture, a sudden quiet falls upon the floor of the restaurant.

it’s almost weird how heat rushes low at the sight and the sound, he can’t remember the last time anyone else fired him up like this. he never took himself to have any kind of food fetish, either. yet watching you eat his dishes always seems to be an erotic exchange he never anticipates.

“oh…him? think they’re married?”

“i don’t think so.”

that man seems to hiss at you, eyes on his watch, barely touching his dish. “i wanted pizza downtown, god.”

you shake your hand in dismissal, shoving another forkful in your mouth. “i wanted this, i always want this.”

sukuna let’s out a breathy fuck, and the server practically faints.

no one was immune to sukuna’s charm, then, it seemed.

“oh, fuck, table 7 saw me. fuck, chef ive already been fire-“

“go and give them a reason not to fire you. go, go to your table kid, it’s still yours, right?”

the table beside you seems to have called him over, asking for the same dish you seem to believe has came from heaven, telling anybody who asks.

sukuna can’t help but enjoy the lively affair, as the restaurant manager tries to explain over and over to more and more tables that the chef special has been cancelled. oh, how he loved this little bit of chaos.

“why?” your voice clatters through the cacophony like a piece of silverware on crockery. “this dish is phenomenal, the best ive ever eaten here and in this city, in this country-“

“miss-“

“taste it! can you not taste the hard work? the thought? its the best thing ive ever eaten. the chef who made this has impeccable taste and talent.”

your laughter rings through the place at your partners embarrassment. sukuna is about to pry himself away and head back into the kitchen, leaning on the side of the bar and then…your eyes meet, another forkful is waiting before those glossed lips. another sweet sound of joy rings through the air.

now you see him, huh?

your smile is sweeter than agave, “it’s you.”

your words are lost on everyone around you, but to sukuna he hears them as if you whispered them right against his ear.

sukuna was a tall, broad, and unquestionably handsome man, unmissable out of his chef whites, invisible in them, somehow. obscured by the ambient lighting of the restaurant.

you near him, like a moth to a flame, a sensual air to the way your hips flick toward him. “you-“

the head chef storms through to the restaurant floor, the door slamming you both into the corresponding wall. his large arms wrap around you, his hand cups the back of your head.

he slowly retracts his hand, and your chest rises as you resist the urge to press your cheekbone into his palm, “are you okay?”

his voice is deep and addicting, dark and dripping down your throat.

you’re beaming at him, like he’s an angel, like he’s somebody you already adore. he gifts you a lover’s laugh, “you seem to be the only satisfied person in the building tonight.”

“seems like you’ve satisfied me sir.” you wink, still letting his aura press you into the wall, he cages you in with his arms.

“oh?”

“last thursday. that soup, you made it, didn’t you…?”

“sukuna,” he answers for you, “maybe.”

“seafood special last month?”

“yes, and your name?”

for some reason he’s out of breath, you’re so close, so fancy in your silk dress, clad in jewellery that sparkles even under these dimmed lights. “reader, you…you’re a genius.”

“so you came to thank me personally?” he leans closer, swiping sauce from the corner of your lip. it lingers on his thumb, his eyes chase yours as he licks it. “how sweet of you.”

[starrforge]

Some >q> Nsfw comic im working on my patreon //COUGHS https://www.patreon.com/Starrforge

[qinchez]

━ .ᐟ₊⊹ PAIRING: myth/dragon sylus, x female mc ( mc’s name is surina ).

━ .ᐟ₊⊹ SUMMARY: tidbits of conversation have an immediate effect on sylus, making him reminiscent his earlier days with his beloved.

━ .ᐟ₊⊹ GENRE: very myth focused. heavy angst. no comfort.

━ .ᐟ₊⊹ NOTES: i started writing only recently and english isn’t my first language so take this with a grain of salt. quotes mentioned are not mine but canonically in the game.

“i made it while you were getting your marshmallows. i didn’t have a lot of time, so the final product is rough around the edges …. are you satisfied with it, my beloved?”

ruby eyes facing iridescent ones. warmth being spread along one’s face and through their hearts, the source of heat not caused from the bonfire but the blossoming feelings exchanged between them both.

“yes … i am.”

it seems that she liked the flower crown he made for her. good. it made him happy that she did, but little did she know that wasn’t the first time she was given one from him.

she had forgotten, all memories of him gone, and it hurt more than expected. he didn’t blame her per say, but having to act as if she was a stranger, as if she wasn’t the one he loves, the one he longed for after waiting for so long to meet her hurt.

glimpses and flashbacks of were all he had of their doomed past.

surina was the sole reason for his humanity. the girl who named him. sylus, the ruthless, decisive, cruel, and merciless leader of onychinus, named by his beloved. even after his death and even without her remembering anything, he still chooses to go by said name. kindly welcoming the remaining fragments of her instead of nothing at all. the feeling of her being a part of his life is something that he has always longed, sometimes even, begged for.

she had taught him to be human. having such a profound effect on sylus. she was the one who gave him a purpose and a sense of humanity, these no longer welcome fragments still remaining a part of him, accepting whatever parts of her remain. her influence on him so deep that he chose to continue living under the name she had given him. her lasting impact on him was so significant that sometimes he yearned for her to be there, even in just some small capacity.

he had always clutched onto his humanity, in his own words, mistakingly believing he was a normal person. growing up and thinking he was one and trying to bend his identity into something he is not, refusing to come to terms with the fact that he is not human anymore, but a monster instead. he was scared. not only was his appearance changing, but his entire view of himself. who is he? who has he become? the very way he saw himself was now tainted.

her love acted like a balm over his injuries. as if she’s wiping away the blood from injuries caused by his own self. the act is so tender, a stark reminder of the way she viewed him, the way he wished to be viewed. like her equal, her companionship, and her love. he would love to simply exist as the man she loves.

accepting his identity as a monster also meant the fact that he always had a soft spot for animals. dragons have long been depicted as mythical monsters with powers and a fearsome presence. they are creatures of legend that inspire fear and awe in those who hear their name, always associated with destruction and chaos, yet symbolizing creation along with destruction. sylus had always been aware of this perception, sometimes even choosing to bask in it all. after all, he is strong, fearsome, and capable of unleashing destruction. although sometimes, that perception couldn’t be more different than what he is or wanted to be. people often thought of dragons as cursed animals. ones that should be locked away and are incapable of any love and affection, not knowing that said deemed impossible human love would be the cause of this dragon’s demise. a creature that is always perceived incapable of harboring such emotions, and an animal that could never be human, falling utterly in love. a love that made him thought he could live as a human too, and one that couldn’t last long.

a dragon’s curse that consists of killing his beloved. one that the two fated lovers … two star-crossed lovers whose fates and souls are entwined, could not escape, no matter how much they tried. no matter how many tears were shed and no matter their relentless efforts, it would always be futile. doomed by the narrative, the two lovers’ unwavering fight against their fate will never suffice. fate will continuously plunge the two lovers into the abyss as was written. the blood-red greatsword constantly reappearing, longing to be thrust into the dragon’s ruby like chest.

his heart, gleaming and vulnerable always seemed to beckon the blade. as if it was begged to be destroyed, as if his death was the key to some greater truth. she, his lover, was doomed to forever be his arch-nemesis. continuously finding herself the unwilling hand of fate, and the wielder of the cursed sword.

“….. you must press on. because if you don’t … there’s no going back.”

no matter how much she tried, how much she strained her own body to stop it all, it’s as if her body had a mind of its own, refusing to be controlled by her. agonizing screams pierced the abyss yet fell upon deaf ears. and to make matters worse, he was the one further plunging the sword further into his own chest. she knows him well enough to recognize that this is his last act of rebellion against their predestined fate, and a final laugh in the face of the curse, ending it on his own terms.

her hands and body were trembling, every gasp of pain from him resulting in a guttural sob escaping from her, tearing through the void. she could feel his pain and she wishes she can make this stop somehow, but all her attempts were futile, the curse merely mocking her for even trying to defy it. his ruby eyes, always the most gentle with her, were still filled with love and warmth but they now shimmered with a bittersweet resolve — a sight that broke her even more. the eyes that she adores, ones that always shone with an outwardly brilliance, that could put even the shiniest of gem stones to shame, were now getting dimmed as life was seeping from them.

he was bound to this blade, his soul burning with it. their sacred love now destroyed, and the stars weeped for them over and over. stars that have always shone so brightly were now dimmed with sorrow, mourning the tragedy of their love. every flicker of their light seemed to carry the grief of love once shared, an eternal lament to a love that couldn’t defy its cruel destiny.

the sword that was now pulsing, was ready to engulf him whole. he was slipping away between her fingers, the love of her life, dissolving into fragments, every shard carrying a piece of his soul, along with her own. even the stars that were weeping, their light flickering out one by one, the pain and suffering exhibited being enough to fully extinguish their light. it was as if the stars were paying tribute to the grief and agony that transpired.

she embraced him with all the strength she could muster, arms fully wrapped around his body, begging to anchor him to this world, to her. he was her other half, their souls and hearts bound forever. fingers were now desperately clinging onto him, as if to etch her love into his very being, and whispered pleas were being uttered.

“stay. please … please stay. don’t leave me, not like this, not again …” her voice was breaking, carrying the weight of their agony and the weight of a thousand lifetimes of loss.

she didn’t know who she was praying and begging to, but it didn’t matter. she would pray to every god that existed and kneel before every god and beg and beg and beg, if it meant she can have him next to her. she would scream her desperation to the heavens if she had to, move mountains, and commit every sin known to mankind if it meant he would not leave her side. she would beg until her knees buckled and her body gave up on her, knees bleeding from the ground’s cruel embrace, just so they can live the simplest of lives together. she wishes she could rewrite the stars and undo their doomed fates, no longer wanting anything else from the world, except his presence, because a world where he does not exist was one she could not endure.

she pressed her forehead against his chest, feeling his erratic heartbeat of his heart — possibly for the very last time. the heart he gave to her without a second thought as it was hers since the beginning of time. he was merely returning it back to it’s rightful owner. with the last of his strength gathered, he kisses her forehead and whispers a goodbye, his eyes brimming with tears and love for her. her body shook, wracked with sobs that echoed the depth of her anguish as she listened to his heart as it stopped beating. as he slipped away, she was left with her own self, and an incurable tear in her heart. after all, no matter how much she longed for it, her love alone would never be enough to defy the cruel narrative that bound them.