#so i very much believe that was the point

[ssentimentals]

hellloooo can u please do idol!coups x reader for sleep deprivation on cheol’s part with reader taking care of him xx

helloooo anonie, sure i can, thank you for requesting! 💜

prompt: sleep deprivation

you try not to hover. you try not to act like mother hen in fear of being annoying. you try but it's so god damn hard when seungcheol looks like a dead man standing. your boyfriend has always been a hard worker, that's one of the qualities you admire about him, but his work ethic is also your biggest worry. seungcheol is present but just barely - you are sure that he didn't hear majority of the things you said with his mind being very, very far from here, buried in new dance routines or lyrics that had to be finished. it's amazing to see how work energizes seungcheol and gives him purpose, but it's horrible to watch him crumble under pressure. slowly you reach out for his hand, giving it a light squeeze: 'cheollie, baby. you're with me?'

seungcheol blinks at your touch and it takes him few moments to sit up straighter on the seat and send you a fake smile. 'yeah, baby, sorry, i'm here. what did you say?'

god, you can't believe this man wanted to pick you up after your work. seungcheol can't be trusted with a car now, not when he can barely focus. 'i asked if yuo're sure that we should go out tonight. you look really tired, cheol.'

he stubbornly shakes his head. 'no-no, i'm good. i'm so caught up at work that we haven't seen each other much lately.'

you kind of want to strangle and kiss him at the same time. he is so good for trying to make time for you amidst his hectic workload but he is so bad for not taking care of himself properly - you sigh loudly. 'when did you sleep last time?' you ask straight to the point. thank god for traffic at this hour, so you can fully turn to your boyfriend without paying attention to the road. 'you look like a zombie, baby.' seungcheol purses his lips and you instantly understand what's the problem. 'cheollie... you can't fall asleep?'

seungcheol sags in the passenger seat, looking embarrassed and done with himself. 'yeah,' he admits quietly. 'i- it's so fucking stupid. i don't know, i'm trying everything but it's just not working.' he sighs and rubs his eyes tiredly. 'i don't think i actually slept properly in the last 4-5 days.'

this admission breaks your heart. seungcheol is running on fumes and yet despite it all, he still is here, with you, because he doesn't want you to feel neglected. without thinking you enter new address to the gps, knowing full well what can help him this time. 'instead of the restaurant, let's have a picnic,' you announce in an overly enthusiastic tone.

'at eight pm?' seungcheol asks, confused. 'i mean if that's what you want then i don't mind but-'

'that's exactly what i want.' you squeeze his hand, sending him a small smile. 'no worries, baby. we are very close.'

it doesn't happen often, but it did happen before. sleep deprivation is, unfortunately, a part of seungcheol's life as an idol and you learned hard way how to deal with it. familiar scenes of home or studio don't calm him mind down, but fresh air and water always help. you park the close as close you can to the river and roll down all windows, letting cool evening breeze in. 'alrighty,' you turn to him with a gentle smile and snatch small blanket from the backseat. 'you take this and get comfortable. i'll order us some food.'

seungcheol grabs the blanket, frowning. 'what is happening?'

'we are having a picnic in the car,' you explain, opening food delivery app. 'and you are sleeping until the food arrives, getting much needed rest.' seungcheol opens his mouth to protest and you cut him off: 'this is a date. this is our date that i want to have.'

the thing is, you don't really care about specifics of date as long as seungcheol is close. he doesn't look convinced at first, but when you start talking about your date with a quiet music on the background, he relaxes. it doesn't take him long to fall asleep - adjusted seat, warm blanket, fresh air and your hand in his do their magic. you watch quietly as his breathing slows; in sleep seungcheol doesn't look as tired. still holding his hand you adjust your own seat and lower the radio volume. seungcheol going out of his way to be with you makes you want to do the same; and if date is about you letting him finally sleep and guarding his sleep then you're not complaining, not at all.

a/n: writing this made me so soft :') pls give cheollie all the hugs and sleep he deserves!! - nini

request your own here

my other seventeen work is here

[alicentsgf]

we talk a lot about shauna losing jackie and her baby boy and yes those are major traumas. however, i think the moment that truly changed her fundamentally was butchering javi. that moment is truly symbolic of what shes sacrificed for all of the others. she let him die to save nat and then his blood was literally on her hands because no one else could handle the burden of butchering him. this is a kid she LIKED. that she had some small bond with. she had to pull her headband over her eyes because she couldnt bear to look at what she was doing. and the others just left her alone out there cutting up his body because none of them could bear to even watch it. so shauna shoulders it alone. how does the human brain even cope with that experience? especially since every single time gen brings back a kill, shauna has to butcher that animal and relive that moment in some way again and again

and whats crazy is yes shauna resorts to violence easily, shes impulsive and deeply angry, but she doesnt enjoy killing. when she threatened the carjacker her words were much more about the power she felt over him, enjoying the fear of someone who'd wronged her, than actually threatening his life. shes willing to kill for power and control, but her relationship with the actual physical act is complex. sometimes trauma can become strangely familar and soothing, maybe thats why shauna butchers the rabbit in season 1. its like a fucked up coping mechanism based in her need to feel a level of control. and it was okay in her mind, because the rabbit had wronged her, ruined her flowers. but when gen comes back from a hunt with nothing, dont you think shaunas the one who chooses which innocent duck or rabbit has to die so that everyone can eat? like why do you think she cried over the goat? It was probably the first time in her life she was handed something innocent and told, very explicitly, that she was not going to have to hurt it.

essentially what im saying is you dont have to agree with shaunas actions to see her point of view. all she does is feed them. she told them it was what jackie wanted. she told them to wait for javi to drown. each time shes shouldered the actual burden of the choice. and all whilst not even having any faith, in the wilderness or otherwise, to alleviate her guilt. pregnant and starving and she never took extra, she makes sure everyone eats to the detriment of herself, and what does she get in return? shes left alone. in pain. she lashes out at anyone who comes near her and because of it they give up on her, like she isnt what they made her. reliving her trauma every time she peels the skin off a stag. her baby is turned into a diety for a faith she doesnt even believe in. jackie and javi too. the others take her real, human losses and make them mythology, stake a claim on them before shes even had a chance to properly grieve. and ofc these are just kids in an impossible situation needing something to believe in, so you cant even rly judge them for it. but that doesnt make shaunas rage any less understandable

[tallysgreatestfan]

It also comes across much more as "neurodivergent people should not exist and especially should not see anything positive or part of their identity in their disability" than "worried about teens diagnosing themselves with something inaccurate".

Best way to explain this is to use autism as an example. It is very difficult to get an autism diagnosis if you aren't a small child anymore and/or belong to literally any minority, and even getting a diagnosis doesn't necessary mean that you get any accommodations or actually useful therapy (diagnosed at eight, if anything this harmed me rather than help me). It is also something popular media and most neurotypicals perceive as purely negative outside of absurdly unlikely savantism, with close to no accurate portrays in fiction or even nonfiction googeling it for information.

Now, of course on TikTok, or other social media, misinformation spread my autistic people themselves does exist, but the bulk of the #ActuallyAutistic movement is centered around explaining the actual lived reality of autistic people, pointing out discrimination, and treating autism not as something shameful in need to be fixed, but a part of someones identity that has both positive and negative sides.

Popular culture and even most therapies wants us to look at our mistakes, flaws and weaknesses and blame ourselves for it, the Actually Autistic movement seeks to explain where this comes from and how the way all these systems are set up makes these problems worse, or sometimes even entirely creates them.

Can you see how threatening this can be for neurotypicals who need to believe that the way their brain works is the perfect and ideal one, that the way these systems are set up is ideal instead of unfair, and that they have it easier because they are more virtuous, more determined and overall better?

Have you seen all this talk about "glamorizing" and "glorifying" of neurodiversity the moment a neurodivergent person openly talks about their reality instead of whatever dehumanizing, inaccurate cliches they think would apply and doesn't hate themselves?

I was in autism therapy for almost ten years. I learned the most basic basics about what autism is there, framed in "this is why you are wrong and worthless". I learned to understand myself better, and learned more useful and in depth things about being autistic in one year of finding the Actually Autistic tag on tumblr than these almost ten years there.

This affects not just teens, but as first OP said, teens suffer the most of it because of their restrictive life circumstances, lack of money and power and just the general dismissive attitude towards them.

Hope this is not derailing first OPs point, but I think this takes a huge part in the general publics view on this and also why this feels so necessary for so many teens even additional to the already brought up points.

it's so funny to me when i see pearl-clutching articles about how "teenagers are diagnosing themselves with mental disorders via tiktok" because like. this is not happening in a vacuum. teenagers are severely and i mean severely medically neglected. i cannot stress this enough. teenagers do not have free access to medical care. those same news outlets would be clowning on women with housewife psychosis in the 1950's.

i sometimes go pale when listening to some of what my friends have gone through in their childhoods and teenagehoods. they talk about it so nonchalantly, things that would be considered straight up torture if done to an adult, can't fathom the effect this has on children. they are on multiple anti-psychotics and several antidepressants and anxiety meds now that they are adults. medical neglect has legally and effectively disabled them. a timely diagnosis and intervention could have saved them. of course teenagers are self-diagnosing using tiktok. if your knee-jerk reaction is to scoff at the idea and dismiss it as dumb teenager shit instead of being radicalized because the best shot young people have at attaining the mental health support they need is a fucking dancing videos app, you're categorically a political enemy of the youth.

[prael]

Conciliation

ILLIT Moka x Yunah // part 2 to Punishment

words: 6,035 Masterlist

Two weeks have gone by. Two weeks since the incident in their dorm room. For Yunah, it's as though that night never happened. It was just some afterthought that had been shoved down in the deep corners of her memory, as though she would sooner forget and have Moka pretend it was nothing at all.

Moka thinks of nothing else.

She thinks about it in her classes, daydreaming when she should be practising. Rehearsals have become a stop-start procedure, with everyone turning to Moka with the same question: are you okay? She feels so pathetic. Embarrassed at herself, but still thinking, wondering, wishing, that maybe tonight might be that night; that Yunah might snap at some point and give her just a single touch.

She's thought about doing it again, just the same way, touching herself while Yunah is around. Even the mere idea has Moka wet with shame. It would work, surely, it has to work. Then Moka talks herself out of it. Doing it again, trying to instigate a reaction, she may as well just confess, beg, and plead with Yunah. Admit that she likes her. Tell her just how crazy it makes Moka when she walks around the room in only a t-shirt and panties. When she shakes her hair loose out of a ponytail, her brunette hair cascades in the moonlight, looking so soft and thick, and Moka can't get over her.

They're on their way out of the country, for another big show. Another sleepless night spent travelling. Another opportunity for Yunah to glare at Moka when she's obviously not focused or too busy stumbling through her moves. Another opportunity for her to sit there, only her and her dirty, little thoughts.

There's a slight turbulence, enough to make the sleeping Yunah move in her seat, her head rolling to the side. She looks peaceful and beautiful. That same fringe she's so particular about always ends up in her eyes, so naturally, Moka wants to reach up and push it away, but she forces herself back, that's the last thing she wants; to wake her and look suspicious.

"Not sleeping?" A voice from the other side, makes Moka tear her eyes away from Yunah and find Minju. Minju gives a curious look at Yunah before returning her gaze to Moka.

"Can't sleep," Moka confesses with a sigh.

Minju doesn't reply at first, the look she is giving, makes Moka believe she is contemplating whether she should share or not. "Me neither. Keep thinking about tomorrow."

Moka hums a vague affirmative in response. She wants to appear agreeable and that she isn't preoccupied with the thoughts of someone else.

Minju gives her a wry smirk. "What about you? You keep spacing out."

Her question strikes a chord in Moka. For some reason, she can't deny it or lie about what's been going through her head, and even when she should probably deny it, Moka still finds herself talking about her. "Have you ever liked someone who hated your guts? Like so much it physically hurts," Moka can't help the questions slipping past her lips. It's pathetic really. She should know better, and she knows she's saying too much and too openly, but it's not her fault. She just can't handle it all, not for another minute.

"Are you saying there's a guy you like?" Minju asks, which at least offers Moka the reassurance that the others haven't realised what's going on; why else would she ask that? "You know we're not allowed to date anyone, Moka."

"I know, and I'm not going to date anyone, but I can still like someone, right?"

Minju laughs. "Yeah, you can do what you like," she replies while stealing another look at the older girl across from them, sleeping. "So why does he hate your guts then?"

"Well, I—"

Yunah sighs, breaking the conversation as the pair suddenly falls quiet. They freeze like deer caught in the headlights of a car as Yunah, shifts in her seat, adjusting her position before relaxing again. There is a relief between them, letting out a heavy breath at the realisation that their friend is still very much asleep.

"Lucky her," Minju finally says, shaking her head. "I can't wait for us all to be back in our hotel rooms and having some proper sleep." Minju sighs, turning back to Moka. "You were saying?"

"Oh, it's nothing. Don't worry about it, forget I said anything," Moka rambles. She finds herself silently cursing herself. If the truth of her desires slipped and spilt out, there's no telling what kind of trouble she would be in. But Minju looks at her in a strange sort of understanding, nodding and giving her a reassuring smile.

Moka returns the sentiment and lays her head on her friend's shoulder. Her heartbeat starts to slow down, and as time passes, sleep draws in, luring her into its clutches, and at last, her eyelids flutter shut.

-

It's 4 am and they're shambling into the hotel lobby, weary, eyes burning, muscles tired, with sore shoulders and legs.

"We've booked rooms for you all. We just went with the same arrangement as the dorm," the manager explains, sending Moka's heart crashing. She and Yunah. Of course. She nods weakly and trudges to the lift alongside her members.

Yunah opens the door, and Moka follows. They haven't spoken a word to each other. The moment the hotel door is closed, and Moka drops her bag on the floor, Yunah takes off her jacket, hanging it on a hook. Moka slips her shoes off, trying her hardest not to make eye contact.

"Moka?"

Fuck. Why couldn't she just walk past without saying anything? Moka's cheeks feel hot. Why now? She glances up, and the look she receives from Yunah doesn't give anything away.

"What's gotten into you? Are you sick?" She snaps, walking right up to her. A rough hand takes hold of her chin, forcing her face up and it shocks Moka so much that it knocks her off her axis for a moment.

There she is. Again. So close. It takes a moment, or three, to figure out what she even said. Moka goes to shake her head, but with her face being held so firmly in place, it's impossible. "No, I'm fine." She swallows. "Just a little nervous."

"Why are you lying to me?"

Her face is still gripped, she's forced to keep eye contact with her and she hates it. She hates that her skin prickles as Yunah's beautiful gaze pours down.

"Whatever," Yunah says incredulously, her hand holding Moka's jaw. Moka nods as best as she can and then she's released. She misses her touch the moment Yunah's hand is gone and she's left to drop her head. "We can't have you being distracted tomorrow. Just get it together."

The older girl retreats into the bathroom, closing the door and leaving a disgruntled Moka alone. She could scream, but instead, she swallows down her frustration.

Moka undresses and slips into her shorts and tank top. She flops onto the soft covers and waits. Curses and empty wishes run through her mind; her fist tightens into a frustrated ball and her eyebrows furrow. How is she supposed to do anything like this? How can she think about anything other than her?

Soon, Yunah returns, but all Moka gets from her is silence, nothing, absolutely nothing, and yet here she is, lying and waiting. Pathetic, it's downright fucking pathetic. She takes a deep breath and lets herself turn and stare at her back. "Yunah?"

"What?"

"Why did you make me feel good?"

"You talk about that like it meant something," Yunah responds, turning her attention away from her phone. Her beautiful hair fans out against the pillow.

"Did it?"

Yunah responds with her own question, "Did you want it to?"

"Yeah."

"Sorry." She turns her attention back to her phone, effectively dismissing her and the conversation altogether.

"Please—"

"Goodnight, Moka," Yunah bites. Her tone leaves no more room for discussion. No room for questioning.

Moka clamps her mouth shut, squeezing her eyes tightly closed. What more could she say? How many ways could she plead with her before it becomes demeaning? But the silence in her room makes the ache between her thighs feel unbearable and impossible to ignore.

It's nearly an hour later when Moka gives in, dipping her hands between her legs. She rubs against the front of her shorts and shudders as she teeters on the brink of losing her senses and giving in to her desires. But the bed shifts, the sheets move, and she stops.

Yunah rolls over and she looks at Moka, as though expecting her to do something, anything. The eye contact alone has Moka feeling so small and helpless.

"Do it," Yunah whispers.

"W-what?"

"I know you want to. These past weeks you've been so distracted. I know you're always thinking of it, of what happened, what I did. I see the way you look at me."

"I... I'm sorry."

Yunah rolls her eyes. "Just do it."

"But you hate it. It makes you uncomfortable, I can't—" Yunah cuts Moka off as she moves closer, she slips her fingers past the waistband of Moka's shorts, down to the wet warmth of her cunt. "Yunah," she whimpers. Moka bites her lip to hold in the noises, but it's impossible to stay silent as Yunah runs teasing touches over her lips, threatening to slip between them.

"You can't do it, can you? Not on your own, not since I've touched you." She says it so plainly that Moka can't help but agree. She knows the truth. "But you don't want to ask for my help because you know I'll just say no. So here I am, doing it for you." Yunah's finger slides between Moka's lips and runs up to her clit. It makes Moka gasp. "Think about why that is. Why would I want to help you?" she murmurs as her fingers circle the hard, little nub.

"I don't know." The words are barely audible.

"I think you do," Yunah says and then her fingers go away.

"No, don't stop."

"I know it's hard, Moka," Yunah whispers. Her fingers are back. They're running through the lips of Moka's cunt, sliding easily, making the skin slick and sensitive. Moka can hardly think as the fingers run up and down, stroking and teasing, edging closer to the opening. "But I need you to say it."

"Because," Moka chokes out. Her head is spinning, and she feels so dizzy. She can hardly form a single thought. All she knows is how good she feels, how desperate she is for those fingers. "You like making me feel good. Because you want it just as bad."

"Because I want it, Moka," Yunah whispers, pushing a single finger into Moka's tight entrance. It sinks in so deep and she moans. She's so fucking sensitive. The feeling of the finger as it enters and stretches her, the feeling as it curls inside, the way it moves slowly and deliberately, is enough to have her trembling. Yunah has to lean in and put her mouth by Moka's ear. "I can't get the fucking thought of you out of my head."

"Oh god."

The words have the desired effect and Yunah's hand moves faster, the thrusts come harder and Moka is completely helpless. Her body starts to arch, her back rises off the mattress and her chest is pulled upwards as if offering herself to the other girl. Her little chest rises, her nipples hardening under the material of her top. Yunah looks at her body and smiles. She pushes a second finger inside, her thumb begins to work her clit and Moka's hands are holding tight to the pillow behind her.

Moka doesn't care that she's moaning, or that she can't stop saying her roommate's name. All that she cares about is how her body is starting to clench, how her hips are bucking and how her legs have gone so rigid, and it's just the best feeling, the best thing that she's ever experienced in her life. Moka opens her eyes and finds Yunah staring. Her face is so close; Moka wants her closer.

She has the overwhelming desire to taste Yunah's lips, but not the strength to pull her down, so she settles for the fingers inside of her and the hand that keeps working her cunt until the orgasm comes.

Moka pulls the pillow tight around her head, muffling the sound that spills from her mouth. She feels her walls tightening around Yunah's digits, her entire body clenching and shaking, and her eyes rolling back. She's so close.

Yunah climbs over her, kneeling between her slender thighs and her fingers never leave. They're so deep. The pressure is too intense. She feels the walls inside of her start to tighten, the heat growing inside her. Moka's head turns and buries into the pillow she holds onto for dear life.

"Look at me, Moka," she coos, leaning into her. "I said look at me."

Yunah takes Moka's hand, prying it away from the pillow. Powerless to resist, Moka's arm is pushed above her head, and then the other. They're placed together, held under Yunah's grasp and Moka's head is free and forced to look at the beautiful woman on top of her, forced to see those deep brown eyes and that gorgeous hair, that pretty face with the full lips, the perfect lips, the ones Moka wishes were pressed against her. But that would be too much. Moka would never want anything more ever again. If she kisses her then it's game over, all she would ever need would be right here. Moka could never think about anyone or anything other than her, ever again.

Moka's stomach tightens, and her face contorts. She lies there helplessly as she is overcome, and the climax hits. She can't help it. She's moaning so loudly and she's clenching around Yunah's fingers. Her legs shake and her arms try to pull themselves away, to have something to cling to. But she can't move. All Moka can do is give into the pleasure. It washes over her, the sensation coursing through her body, making her toes curl.

She leaks messily onto Yunah's hand. The sounds of wetness fill her ears, the lewd, squelching noises as the fingers continue to work her pussy, fucking her through the high and prolonging the sensation until her mind blanks, her body convulses and her voice breaks into a pathetic whine. Moka's head thrashes back and forth, and she's crying, sobbing out loud.

She's left panting, chest heaving as she looks at Yunah who's smiling. That beautiful smile, the one she loves to see.

"You're so pretty when you cum, Moka." She says it most sweetly, and her eyes seem so sincere. Moka wants to kiss her more than ever, and she wants Yunah to feel good too, just like she did. But her body feels like jelly and she can barely move. So she can only lay there and try to catch her breath.

Yunah lowers, laying her head on Moka's chest, her ear pressing gently to her heart, as though listening to it. Her body still twitches and shakes and her legs remain spread with Yunah still nestled between them. Moka tries to calm herself, and she can feel Yunah's breathing slow and soften, her weight shifting on top of her.

"I'm sorry, Moka. For ignoring you, but I knew this would happen. I knew that once I gave in, I wouldn't be able to stop," she murmurs. Moka can only manage a hum in reply. She doesn't even understand what Yunah means, not really, she can barely understand her words. Yunah puts her hand on her waist and slips her own pyjama shorts over her hips and down her long legs. She kicks them off and they're left tangled up at the foot of the bed.

It's when Yunah raises her head from Moka's chest that Moka realises what's happening. Yunah slips her fingers into the waistband of her shorts, pulling them down and off of her legs and throwing them aside. Moka feels so exposed. She can't hide the fact she's blushing, that she's so nervous, that this is what she's been waiting for, what she's wanted.

Yunah pulls her own shirt over her head and throws that off the bed too, and now Moka's staring. Tight and toned. Perky. It's like she can't help but let her eyes roam. She's the most perfect girl in the world. Moka's hands reach up to her, running along the curves of Yunah's body, the smoothness of her skin. Her thumbs brush over her nipples, feeling them harden and rise.

Yunah sighs, and Moka wants to make her do that again. She wants to hear all her pretty noises, just like Yunah said she loved hearing hers. So, she sits up and her hands go around Yunah, holding onto her, bringing her closer. She's so tall. Moka's face presses into her chest and she breathes against her, feeling the heat and inhaling the sweet scent of her.

Moka is so nervous. So anxious that she will do something wrong. She has to force herself to lift her head and part her lips, to lean forward and place her mouth over the stiff, little peak on Yunah's breast. She sucks, pulling it in, feeling the way it moves, the way Yunah lets out a breath and the hand that comes up to her hair. Fingers run through her black locks, nails drag along her scalp, and Moka moves her head to the other, repeating the motion, sucking the skin, flicking her tongue over it and pulling it with her lips.

Yunah moans and the grip tightens, she holds her head, and the other arm wraps around Moka. Reassurance in the form of a touch. It tells her she's doing well, that Yunah's liking it. That's all that matters. Moka wants her to like it, she wants to please her, and she wants to know how to make her feel good. She smiles against her smooth skin, placing kisses, licks, and bites all over her. Appreciation for this girl and her beautiful, wonderful body.

Then Moka finds herself lying on her back. Yunah climbs on top of her and Moka's heart thuds hard against her chest. This is everything she's wanted.

"Don't freak out," she whispers, her breath against Moka's face.

"Never."

Yunah shifts her weight and then Moka feels it, the wet heat of Yunah's cunt against hers, and the sensation of her body on hers. Moka looks down at their bodies and can see the point of their connection, where their skin meets. The sight of it alone makes her mouth go dry, her stomach flips, and it takes all her strength to keep herself together. And then Yunah rocks her hips, grinding against Moka, her slick pussy rubbing against Moka's. The sensation of her skin moving, her wetness, it makes Moka's eyes roll back.

"Yunah..." Moka gasps, her body arching, and Yunah pushes her down.

She does it again, and again, sliding against her, pushing her hips hard. Her breathing is growing faster, and heavier, and her moans are so quiet. Sparks ignite in her lower body. The pressure, the heat. It feels so good to have Yunah against her like that.

Yunah leans down and buries her face in the crook of her neck and she kisses and nibbles at her skin there, whispering against the spot. "Why does this feel so good?"

"I don't know," Moka gasps. She's losing her breath already. She's panting and she feels so hot and dizzy, but in the best possible way.

Yunah can't hold back, she can't hide the fact that Moka makes her lose her control. This cute, petite little thing below her; with her innocent, big brown eyes, and her adorable smile, that makes Yunah want to melt, she's her weakness. Moka, who she heard so many times, night after night. Moka, who she's ignored and tried to put from her mind, but can't. And now she has her. She has her little Moka beneath her, squirming and panting and whining, and Yunah's hips can't help but rut down into her.

Yunah can't get enough of it. Moka's pussy feels so soft and warm against her own. The slick mess that grows between them, it's addicting. The sounds are even worse. She wants to make more. She wants Moka to scream.

All the confusion Yunah once felt has vanished, and in its place, a sense of belonging, a feeling that she has to do this. That she's supposed to be in this bed with Moka and no one else. She never understood it. She was scared to admit it. But now there is nothing else she could ever ask for.

Yunah takes Moka's hand, interlocking fingers and squeezing. It's reassuring, and Moka's grip on her hand is strong, it tells Yunah she's feeling the same way.

"Moka."

"Yes," Moka answers.

Yunah looks down at the younger girl. Moka's face is contorted with pleasure, her lips are parted, and she's breathing so hard. She's completely lost to her sensations, and the sight makes Yunah's heart flutter, her skin burns and her body feels weak. "Moka," she whispers again. This time Moka's eyes open, looking straight at her. Their gazes lock and their fingers squeeze. "I like you."

"I like you too." Moka's smile is the most beautiful thing Yunah has ever seen, it triggers an instinct to fuck her harder. Moka's hand snaps to Yunah's hip and holds her tightly. She's moaning louder now. She can't hide it.

The bed creaks, the headboard hitting the wall. The sheets become tangled. They're sweaty and panting, and Moka's moans grow more desperate by the second.

Yunah can't stop herself any longer. Her stomach tenses tight, her body is on the verge of breaking and she can't take much more. "Moka," she calls her name, she's saying it so desperately. "Fuck, I'm going to cum." She can't hold on. Moka feels too good. Everything about this moment is perfect. It feels so right. Yunah can feel her own pussy twitch, she's getting closer to that edge. She can hear Moka whine, she's almost there. She wants Moka to finish. She needs it. "Cum with me."

"I want it, please Yunah. Please make me cum."

Yunah grinds harder. Moka's moans are so pretty. They fill her ears and they're the only sound in the room. They're music, they're the most perfect thing she's ever heard and the best song Moka has ever sung.

Yunah feels Moka's fingers tighten on her hip as she bucks her own up to meet Yunah's thrusts, and the sensation overwhelms them both. They cling to each other, both bodies trembling as the climax washes over them. Moka cries out, and it's loud. She doesn't even try to muffle herself as she squeezes Yunah's hand, and her hips jolt against hers. Yunah's face buries itself in Moka's neck, groaning into the skin, kissing, biting and sucking as the heat consumes her and her mind blanks, the pleasure takes over.

They lay there for what feels like forever, panting, their hearts thumping in their chests, the sound filling their ears.

It's then that Yunah looks up, pulling her head away. She looks down at Moka. Moka, her Moka, staring back up at her with her big eyes. The most gorgeous girl she's ever met. Her skin is so smooth and flawless. Her little nose, her cute lips, and the black, messy hair splayed on the pillow behind her, framing her face like a painting.

"Moka."

"Yunah."

Yunah leans down, pressing their foreheads together and Moka smiles, she can feel it against her face. Their breaths mingle and their hearts are so close, and Moka is holding onto her.

"I shouldn't have," Yunah pants, "shouldn't have lied to myself. Shouldn't have tried to ignore this."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not okay." She can feel Moka's lips brushing against hers. They're so close. It's just a little movement to close the distance between them, but Moka does it. She pushes her head up, and then Yunah's lips part. She kisses her and Yunah can't help but kiss her back, her tongue slipping into her mouth. Their tongues swirl and slide. Moka moans against her lips. The sound sends shivers down her spine. And Yunah wants her. She wants her so bad.

Moka is panting when Yunah breaks the kiss.

"It's okay now," Moka whispers, her breath ghosting over her. Yunah feels so weak. She's completely helpless.

"I think we need to talk about some stuff. But not now, not right now."

"No, not now," Moka replies with a giggle, leaning up and stealing another kiss.

Yunah gives her a lazy smile, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. She rolls onto her back, lying next to Moka, their legs still half-tangled. They lie in a comfortable silence. It feels so natural and normal as if it were always supposed to happen, that they were always meant to end up here. Yunah turns and looks at her, watching Moka stare at the ceiling.

"Is it weird that I want to do it again?" Yunah asks.

"Probably," Moka answers. She looks at her, grinning, "But so do I."

-

Thirty minutes later and Yunah finds herself mounted over Moka's face.

She's on her knees, straddling the girl, and the tip of her tongue is tracing patterns against her cunt. She's writing out love letters with her tongue. Signs her name on her clit and makes her legs shake.

Yunah braces, flat-palmed against the wall and throws her head back as she cries out Moka's name, grinding her pussy against the tongue. Sensitive and overused, yet still she wants this. She has to. It's not an option at this point. She's going to ride her until she can't possibly take anymore.

There's no coming back from this. There is only this, them, this room. The whole world has fallen away. It doesn't matter.

Moka is all that matters.

The warm tongue pushes past her lips and sinks into the soft heat, tasting her from the inside. She's moaning into Yunah's cunt, sending the most beautiful vibrations against her and Yunah is so fucking sensitive. Her thighs are shaking and she feels weak, she's struggling to hold herself up, but she can't bring herself to get off her.

"Your tongue, fuck," Yunah moans. The wet tongue laps at the mess, licking up her slick. Yunah can feel Moka swallowing, gulping her down, her little noises growing louder as she feasts. She's going to cum all over that pretty face. She's going to ruin Moka's perfect features and make them shine. Yunah is so close. She can't stop herself from thrusting forward. Her pussy is aching for more, throbbing as Moka eats her. She needs this, wants this.

"Moka... I can't stop, please don't stop," Yunah pants, pushing herself back onto her. Moka grips Yunah's thighs and digs her nails into them. "Fuck!" Yunah squeals. Her hips jerk forward. It's happening. It's too much. Moka's tongue won't stop, it swirls inside of her, and Yunah's legs are trembling.

Her thighs close tight around Moka's face, trapping it between her legs and her back arches, her mouth open, her voice hoarse and broken as she cums, and the walls inside of her clench tight.

And Moka is still eating her out. Yunah can feel the hot mess dripping from her pussy. She feels so sensitive. She can barely stand it, and her body twitches and spasms, and her heart pounds so hard. Her mind blanks. She's so tired, her body aching and exhausted, but her pussy still wants more.

"Yunah," Moka calls to her, patting her thigh and bringing her back from the brink of collapse, "Yunah, I can't breathe." Her little, muffled pleas have her snapping back to reality, realising that Moka's face has gone bright red. Yunah shifts, and she watches the way the girl gasps for air.

"Fuck, Moka." Yunah climbs from her and collapses beside her, chest heaving, sweat coating her skin. "Are you alright?"

Moka doesn't respond at first. She lays there, taking a breath and then she's turning, moving and climbing onto Yunah. "More than alright."

Yunah smiles at her, a sleepy smile that makes Moka blush, and she reaches up to push her black hair from her eyes. Her pretty little eyes are half-lidded and glazed, and her cheeks are rosy and flushed. Lips wet, with Yunah's arousal, it might be the hottest thing she's ever seen. "You're so pretty."

Moka giggles, a bashful laugh as she looks away. "Stop it."

"No," Yunah whispers with a smirk that she knows Moka likes. "I won't."

She flips Moka over and the girl lands with a yelp, a surprised and adorable little sound. She takes her liberties, to kiss and to bite, to suck her skin. Yunah is marking her. Deep kisses on her neck, bites that make Moka's body flinch and writhe, and her little noises are like the prettiest melody in the world. "So pretty," she repeats. "All mine."

Yunah moves down her body, her kisses trailing and leaving little bruises. She sucks her nipples into her mouth, swirling her tongue, sucking and nibbling on the stiff peak and making Moka's body buck up. Her mouth goes to the underside of her breasts, to the flat expanse of her stomach. She sinks her teeth in and Moka is whining. Her back is arched, her head pushed back and she's gripping the sheets, and Yunah is getting closer and closer to her destination. "My pretty girl," she murmurs into the smooth skin.

"Yunah," Moka whines and Yunah looks up, finding her staring, biting her lip. Her eyes are wide and desperate, pleading.

She lifts Moka's leg and kisses the back of her thigh. The younger girl is so sensitive. Her skin shivers as Yunah's mouth moves closer to her core. "Once we're home, Moka, I want to fuck you. Like really fuck you, hard, fast. I've seen those videos. What you watch when you're on your own." Moka squeals and her face goes crimson. She covers her head with a pillow. Yunah can't help the smile as she continues, "I want to do those things with you. One of those strap-ons. You'll look so pretty taking it."

Yunah kisses the girl's clit and Moka's entire body flinches. A hand shoots to Yunah's hair and grabs tight, holding onto the locks. She smiles against her, teasing her pussy, her mouth kissing and sucking on the lips of her cunt. "You can do anything you want to me," Moka gasps. Yunah can't help the laugh that slips out, a laugh of amusement and happiness, and Moka is squirming.

"You're gonna have to be more specific than that." Yunah kisses the mess from her lips, and Moka lets out the cutest, most frustrated noise, her hips lifting and her back arching.

"You can use me."

Yunah stops for a second. She raises her head and finds Moka looking at her. There is a blush to her cheeks and she looks embarrassed, and maybe even a little shy, but that glint in her eye is undeniable.

Yunah lowers herself, pressing a soft kiss to Moka's inner thigh. She takes her time, making a show of it, and Moka's breathing is getting heavier, more impatient. "Yeah?" She kisses her again. "Let me bend you over?" Another kiss. "Hold your face down on the bed while I fuck you?"

"Please," Moka whines, "Yes, yes."

"What else?" Yunah's eyes flick up. Moka's chest is rising, falling, rising.

Moka whines again. She throws her head back. Her body trembles. Yunah kisses her cunt. It's a deep kiss. It has Moka's hips bucking against her lips. "You can be rough with me," she finally manages, her voice breathy.

"Rough?" Yunah's eyebrow arches. She dips her tongue past the wet entrance and laps at Moka's heat. The girl's body is writhing against her mouth and Yunah can't help the muffled giggle. She's so cute like this, so easy to tease. Moka is panting. Her face is contorted in a desperate need for more, for release.

"If you want to," she mumbles, and Yunah is so tempted to tease her further. But Yunah is just as eager. She is so desperate for more of her taste, her body, her scent.

"Maybe," she whispers against the wet lips, "maybe, I'd rather be soft with you." Yunah sinks two fingers into her tight, wet hole. Moka gasps, and then moans. Yunah's mouth latches to the little nub of her clit, sucking it and swirling her tongue. The fingers thrust into her and curl. The walls tighten and tremble. "Take my time, fuck you slowly."

Yunah starts a slow rhythm with her fingers. Moka is whimpering, moaning and trying to buck into the fingers. But Yunah is stronger. Her free hand grabs the younger girl's thigh and forces her down, keeping her still and making her accept the pace.

"Slowly," Yunah repeats, "So slow you'll think it's torture. And I won't let you cum, not for a long time, until you can't bear it anymore." She kisses the skin, kisses her pussy, and then looks at Moka who's staring. She's flushed, her eyes wide and needy, her lips parted, and her body is trembling. "Until your little body is begging for release." She pushes another finger into Moka. She can feel the tightness around her digits and the way she throbs.

"Oh fuck," Moka moans.

"Or maybe I'll fuck you hard and fast." Yunah pushes down hard on Moka's thigh, and the pace picks up, the fingers slamming in and out. The lewd, wet sounds that Moka makes are enough to drive her crazy, the sloppy, messy sounds that come with every thrust and the sight of Moka's pussy, spread wide, stretched and accepting everything she's given, it has Yunah's head spinning. She feels delirious, high off of the pleasure she can give this pretty girl. "Hard, fast. Pound your pussy and make your entire body ache. Make you scream, make you beg me to stop because you can't handle anymore."

Moka's throat strains, and her body tenses. "I can't," Moka moans and Yunah can feel her pussy twitching, clenching around the digits inside of her. So easily does she cum against Yunah's fingers, and she's crying out, loud, without restraint. She doesn't even try to hold it back, and she's so wet. Her cum is leaking out, soaking her fingers, and it's the hottest thing Yunah has ever seen. She can't take her eyes away. She can't look anywhere but the way that Moka is cumming against her fingers.

She curls her fingers a little more and moves a little faster. The flow of cum becomes stronger, and Yunah can't stop the groan that leaves her. "Fuck." Moka's body is thrashing, she's whining and whimpering, and then it sprays a little, her cum, squirting from her and soaking her hand, her arm, the sheets. It leaks and sprays, it's the hottest thing she's ever seen, and Moka's body is spasming. Her hips are bucking and the moans sound so pretty.

And then Moka goes limp, she collapses onto the mattress and pants. She's staring up at the ceiling and her body is still trembling and shaking. Cum still leaking out and staining the sheets. All she sees are stars; pretty, beautiful stars.

"I'll never get tired of seeing you do that," Yunah murmurs as she pulls her soaked hand away.

"Shut up." Moka giggles and pulls her hands to her face. She covers her blushing face. "It's so embarrassing," she mumbles into her palms.

Yunah laughs, climbing from between her legs and lying next to her. Moka turns, lying on her side. "It's not," she whispers, "it's hot." Yunah runs her hand up Moka's bare thigh. Her hand slides to her ass and gives it a gentle squeeze. "Really hot."

[diushek]

I love getting Shen Qingqiu pregnant (and it's funny that just today I've done it twice already), so... Shen Yuan who transmigrates into Shen Qingqiu, and in the midst of his medical check-up with Mu Qingfang about that whole qi deviation thing, Mu Qingfang hints that perhaps the qi deviation was due to using too much of his qi to pause his pregnancy.

Shen Qingqiu it's like: pardon??? Pregnancy?????

Sure enough, the System confirms: Shen Qingqiu's body is pregnant! And Mu Qingfang, falling into all that of a certain amnesia after the qi deviation, explains to him that he has a pregnancy in a very early stage that he never wanted to interrupt, but "the responsibilities around him, responsibilities that only grew" were too much to have a baby at that time. And he's been putting off his baby's growth with qi... for a long time.

Shen Qingqiu asks him very, very quickly how the hell he can keep doing that. No. He's not having a baby. He's just getting a new body. He just died. What the fuck. Thanks, but no thanks.

Of course, later on, with Without-a-cure, it is very difficult to continue diverting his qi to keep the baby hidden and not growing inside him. At this point, Shen Qingqiu does not terminate the pregnancy just because... Because he does not feel capable. Plus, he feels a little guilty; the original goods could have terminated that pregnancy if he had wanted to. What gave him, an impostor in a stolen body, the right to end a life that the original Shen Qingqiu was so jealously protecting? He had already taken one life. He would not take a second.

So even he does need more qi about it, and if he needs Mu Qingfang's external qi to hide it during the larger outbreaks of Without-a-cure, Shen Qingqiu decides that maybe he'll give the baby a chance to be born when he has to throw Binghe into the Abyss. The house will be empty by then, won't it? And will be sad. And painful. And he'll need a distraction.

One month before the IAC, Shen Qingqiu lets go of the qi seal and allows the baby finally to continue growing. It is strange to feel it, and even stranger to feel it grow. Mu Qingfang congratulates him on his decision, explains what symptoms he will have to deal with in the coming weeks, what tea is best to avoid, what herbs he should drink. Shen Qingqiu is tense, distant and somewhat nervous, fearing something dangerous or close to a qi deviation since he was not actively sealing the baby now. His body still has to get used to the enormous hormonal chaos that will gradually subside; Shen Qingqiu is resigned and hateful, but he simply decides that it will not be something that will keep him awake at night.

The IAC passes. The morning after Shen Qingqiu throws Binghe into the abyss is painful and filled with tears and the first signs of morning sickness. Unfortunate timing, as many other Peak Lords and Sect Leaders see him nearly faint and run off to vomit.

What Shen Qingqiu doesn't expect (or, knowing the reputation of the original Shen Qingqiu, should expect) are the rumors.

Shen Qingqiu is jealously protecting his small belly bump, hiding it before it is necessary to say it, but it is inevitable that it will be discovered. It's surprisingly less well received than he expected. His refusal to speak about what happened to Luo Binghe, his refusal to give him up for dead, his enormous sadness, her refusal to tell the identity of the baby's other father... Shen Qingqiu is hearing the rumors from his own disciples before Shang Qinghua and his spy nets of An Ding disciples bring him the news that the rumors have already spread.

Apparently, everyone believes that Shen Qingqiu was having an affair with his spoiled disciple Luo Binghe ("He even bet so much on him and his victory in the IAC!"), and when a beast killed his beloved disciple, Shen Qingqiu fell into a heartbreaking sadness from which he could only be freed by the fruit of his love that was now growing in his womb.

Sensitive, loud, chaotic. Shang Qinghua mocks him. Shen Qingqiu hits him with his fan and insults him. Living with the author is an unpleasant nuisance when Shang Qinghua confirms that he never wrote about Shen Qingqiu being pregnant, although he didn't actually write about things that later happened either. The world filling in the plot holes, he says, and Shen Qingqiu hates it.

Pregnancy is a painless process. Shen Qingqiu suffers through it like anyone else, but he has his good moments. He gets excited about the baby. Mu Qingfang confirms to him that its a boy. He lulls him to sleep when he wakes him up in the middle of the night with kicks. Even before he is born, he is already causing trouble; Shen Qingqiu finds himself loving this little boy very much and wishing, after all this time, to finally meet him.

The baby is born. If Shen Qingqiu was curious about the identity of the second father, nothing on the baby's face tells it; it is a sweet and cute baby identical to Shen Qingqiu, except for some undeniably big and beautiful eyes.

He also has his own character: he cries a lot, he only calms down in Shen Qingqiu's arms, he hates strangers coming close, he cries when someone else carries him, and enjoys when Shen Qingqiu sings to him. He is quickly loved and spoiled by the entire sect and his disciples.

Shen Qingqiu allows himself to forget that he will only have four years to live for this baby. Luo Binghe will return seeking revenge, and Shen Qingqiu does not plan to escape; as long as he allows the baby to live, and as long as Cang Qiong don't burn, he can hand himself over to Luo Binghe's revenge.

(Of course he has prepared sun-moon dew mushrooms. He's not an idiot. He also has enough legal scrolls that in case he dies, his baby will stay with Shang Qinghua and the anonymous brother Shang; Shang Qinghua will run away with his little one and they will meet in a village far away, where the "anonymous brother" lived. Shen Qingqiu would raise his son as an anonymous herbalist and they would live as simple NPCs without bothering anyone.)

Shen Qingqiu has his beloved little baby and a plan. It is a surprise to him when, one night, there is a knock on his door. His baby is just over a year and a half old, he stammers a few words, he learned the dangerous art of walking and running; so little time, so much domestic comfort, of course Shen Qingqiu does not expect disciples returning from the Endless Abyss directly to his doorstep.

Yet there he is. Luo Binghe. Luo Binghe who looks at him with an unfathomable expression, dirty in blood, with torn robes. He is unbearably handsome, tall and with a heavy black sword on his back.

Shen Qingqiu is frozen, only thinking about running away with his baby, when Luo Binghe just falls to his knees in front of him.

("Shizun, the rumors are strong, even in the Abyss. When did this horrible disciple disgrace his Shizun like this? Will Shizun be able to forgive this one for his mistakes? If the Abyss was the punishment Shizun intended for this disciple's behaviour, then this one understands. Please forgive this horrible beast for his audacity.")

Shen Qingqiu had already made peace with the rumors. He actually tried to ignore them most of the time. So, for Luo Binghe of all people to believe them ("As if there was any way to forget... that!!! It takes two to make a baby, and you and I didn't do it...!!!"), and even more so, to feel guilty about them… As if something in Luo Binghe's head made him believe that if he were to get infected by the sex pollen of some flower, he could really dishonor his Shizun like that! For that you first need to want it with this Shizun, silly boy!

Shen Qingqiu knows that he has no chance to lie to him, less in something like that. As soon as Luo Binghe finds out that his son has no Heavenly Demon blood in his veins, it will be risky and dangerous. He wants to tell him the truth. He has to tell him the truth.

... However, who can blame a man for having a little hope that everything will eventually work out? Perhaps he should show the baby first, his little offspring, to making him understand that its a harmless baby and does not deserve to suffer. But who could blame him for wanting Luo Binghe to not notice the truth and just accept it and stay as if he had never left?

... Probably the same people who might blame Shen Qingqiu when he presented his sleeping son to Luo Binghe (after letting him bathe and eat something decent), and just a caress on his baby's pale forehead with the careful claw of Luo Binghe caused a red zuiyin to appear.

What the fuck, WHAT THE FUCK?! Airplane, WHO THE FUCK DID SHEN QINGQIU HAVE AN AFFAIR WITH??! WHAT OTHER HEAVENLY DEMONS ARE THERE?! HOW FUCKING LONG HAS THAT BABY BEEN HIDING?!

...

(Somewhere beneath the mountain, Tianlang-jun sneezes. Ah. Strong-willed human cultivators of pretty faces and bad temper. They were always his weakness. One would think that someone like Tianlang-jun would learn after being abandoned by a wandering cultivator apprenticed to a demonic cultivator with a very bad reputation, but, it was not the art of love also having a broken heart?)

[loonypsychicchild]

(Another response from me to this ongoing bastardy analysises that is bound to happen as this was an issue that the show created and does not seem to be dealing with it well enough as it has no consequence or no commitment to it to explore it well enough except for when they need character to be victims to gain brownie points. )

Starting from the argument that Joffrey was not necessary and too much risk, Rhaenyra should have stopped at 2 children with Harwin aa OP wrote as a response to a comment: You must have an heir and a spare for the Iron throne and the lordship of Driftmark with Joffrey he has a shared dpare for bot of these titles. She doesn't know she will marry Daemon she has to all she can. Also you must know that they live in the medieval era and children die very young even with the noble children. So they aren't like us modern people who can say okay I have done 2 kids it is enough. And this is proved by how her two olderst heirs die in the war they could have still died to diseases before that and she named Joffrey as his heir. The heir some people call unnecessary and needlesly risky was useful, the other kids were too young to be serious heirs. Also arguing a medieval women no matter how magical and royal and well educated would have an idea of planning her pregnancies and children is ludicrous, they are not modern women even if they are thought many things women are seen as broodmares and they don't think a second time about how dangerous and unplanned a pregancy is. Most of the Targ women that say they can't take another pregnancy are still impregnated and they still die. It is not even the general medieval information to understand Westeros, it is in the books that no such thought is given. In fact these girls do not know their sexuality and don't even understand what they are supposed to do in marriage in some occurences. 

While I understand people thinking Rhaenyra acted very dangerously, it is still putting the wrong emphasis on the wrong subject. There was not such an emphasis on this in fire and blood because a clever royal who knows their power can always silence these rumors which is what Rhaenyra does in the books. However the main issue with the fandom's take on the subject comes from the source I think which for many is The House of the Dragon. Because the show gives so much modern understanding of things and modern actions to characters people start to forget these are not modern people and even the most educated of them don't have certain awareness and have reasons to believe they should act in any other way. For all we know Rhaenyra probably thought she needed to have children and she needed to have sex to have children but she did not have been thought to plan these pregnancies because back then women were simple being impregnated according to man's whim. And we must remember Rhaenyra is very young and still a teenager when she has Jace, Luke and Joffrey. She still doesn't understand the game she is playing to a full extent both in the bedroom and the courtroom. So not blaming Laenor who have not tried enough even though having non trueborn sons creates a risk for him and not blaming Harwin Strong who qould kniw better about these things and blaming Rhaenyra does not fit in the in-universe understanding of things as some like to call too. It is okay to blame all of them but no one in the fandom seems to ever mention the two mem in this equation while we have constant endless and same discussions about how Rhaenyra is at fault. And it is about one thing that could be her understandable fault as an heir and not about all of the other mistakes she has done on the show years later after becoming an heir and should be better at it. As she is still a young women who is having pregnancies back to back without much time to understand motherhood in between them is understansable for reasonable people in-universe which is why even tho they can not all men exploit their women. 

Also I simply don't think they have more than very simple understanding of genetics so much so the rumours can be shut down by the ones at power. And it does not even become any part of Rhaenyra's downfall in the books, in universr characters and houses don't have as big of a problem as greens have. It is obvious that only two times this issue is put fort it is Vaemond, Aemond and The Greens, it is just another powerplay to winanother victory in game of thrones. It does not become a victory in any of these times which is why these scenes in the show looks more like used to get an emotional reaction from the audience that an actual problem that will result into something. Also these people do not know about Valyrians and their magical looks, they are just offput about how normal these boys look in the books which has more of George's actual design of events that correlate. As he sees removing a simple rule can break how the story unfolds he does not go long ways to dramatize the events that have no result. In the understanding of Westeros who genuinely don't have any knowledge to make more of these they are just rumors. It comes from lack of understanding in genetics and Valyrian magical people to put it simply. Giving more proof to bastardy by making Valeryons black and Rhaenys not black haired (also not having Harwong Strong and Aemma Arryn's physical descriptiona but that cannot be the case for a TV show so it gets a pass) takes away from the mystery of the heriatge of the boys, which then makes Rhaenyra too stupid to be believable for an heir who has befriended most of the houses in the realm and destroyed these rumors with an iron fist, which you must agree was more capable that the show version of events put her to be. No matter if you believe that the bastardy is true in the book or not book has nuance in a way that cannot be kept in a TV format 1:1 but still a better job could have easily be done in this regard for sure by at least keeping most of the known facts from the books and let the events play out more like how George envisioned them. I think the biggest mistakes of the show comes from not believing George's vision and believing too much that they can do better which resultd in them missing a lot of nuance which gives too little world building to general audience that a lot of the takes start becoming sensless repetition that just does not add anything to the show and only show how some of these decisions do not land as the way they want them to.

Rhaenyra reminds me of those white moms who have kids with a different race father and then refuses to acknowledge that they don’t have the same privileges as her. like she’s had so much privilege and power her whole life she can’t even see the corner she’s just backed her child, her heir into. She’s so dense that it hurts. Jace is right. ALICENT was right. Having three fucking kids with a man whose genes had proved to curb stomp yours IS an insult! Not bc bastards are evil or anything, but it’s a fucking insult to Jace, to Luke, to Joffery to drag them in a situation where they’re constantly demonized for YOUR actions and then REFUSE to own up to it even when your child is begging you with literal tears in their eyes to not take the one thing that saves him from the bullying and harassment YOU brought onto them. At this point, I’m extremely grateful the story ends with the targs in disarray bc none of those white haired fuckers deserve the throne (except for Baela and Jace, with brown hair

And to make it even worse, Jace is RIGHT. When the war is over and your brown haired, pug nosed child who looks exactly like someone NOT his legal father is named heir and you’ve taken his ONLY symbol of legitimacy away what will you do then?? Hmm?? I swear…

[thealexchen]

Why Dontnod's games feel original and inspired (and why Deck Nine's games don't)

So, I've talked at length about how Double Exposure feels much more like a corporate product than a playable piece of art entertainment [My initial thoughts on the DE trailer] [My thoughts on the early access paywall] [My thoughts on the weird marketing].

But now with the release of Lost Records, I feel like I have no choice but to confront the question: were any of Deck Nine's games truly original or inspired in any way? And honestly, I have to say no.

Objectively, I could say it's because Deck Nine literally has not produced any original IP's since their rebrand from Idol Minds in 2017. Their only narrative adventure games are all part of the LiS franchise. But even their most original game, True Colors, pretty obviously follows the first game's narrative formula (young woman with a superpower investigates a sudden disappearance/death in a small town with a dark secret, has two opposite sex love interests, learns about a twist villain, is nearly murdered, and goes through a psychological nightmare in the last episode) to a tee. But oh look, there's also a LARP!

But I believe there's more to it than that, because when I look at Dontnod's games, they are always inspired by other works. Life is Strange 1 plays very clear homage to Twin Peaks with the Pacific Northwest setting and Rachel Amber resembling Laura Palmer. Max Caulfield is named after the protagonist of The Catcher in the Rye, another novel about the fleeting innocence of childhood and superficiality of society. Life is Strange borrows tropes from Donnie Darko, Groundhog Day, The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, Stand By Me, and even Blue is The Warmest Color for its themes and plot points. Just take a look at its "Shout-out" page on TV Tropes. And the result is... something completely original, with riveting plot twists, memorable characters, and an ending that will make you cry.

This shouldn't make sense, right? You'd think this big soup of references would turn into an indistinguishable mess of cliches, but Life is Strange managed to be a synthesis of everything the writers loved and were inspired by, to become something completely new. Why? Because nobody had tried to take Twin Peaks, Donnie Darko, and The Catcher in the Rye and turn it into a video game before! And make it gay!

The point being, Dontnod consistently makes original material because they take creative risks. This is definitely not done lightly, since they still need to be a company that generates profit, but they still prioritize making art over selling out. Their stories feel inspired because they are inspired; when writers love what they're writing about, the result is a passion project that has loving, clever nods to all the works that are woven into it.

So perhaps a way to reword that first question is to then ask, "Have Deck Nine's games ever been inspired by anything?" And unfortunately, the answer is still no. Instead, they just copy what they hope will sell well. And a bland imitation for the sake of generating profit is never going to produce anything that feels original.

This takes me back to Lost Records, which is also clearly inspired by the same works: Twin Peaks, It: Chapter One, The Craft, The Blair Witch Project, The Goonies, Stand By Me. But again, no other game studio besides Dontnod has ever looked at these works and thought, "But what if it starred teenage lesbians instead?" Or, more specifically: "How do we capture the spirit of what made these media great and incorporate that into a new story for a new audience?" And those characters have so much thought and care poured into them too: while I've been disappointed that Double Exposure Max looks airbrushed to hell and back, I love that the Bloom & Rage girls have asymmetrical faces, acne, freckles, body hair, skin discoloration, and diverse body types. Double Exposure is marketed as nostalgia bait for fans, where Max is reduced to a prettied-up, polished-up, representation of nostalgia, not even her own character anymore, in a game that otherwise has no connection to the original. Her quips are reduced to "Hey! Remember our good ol', dad-joke cracking, dorky Max Caulfield??" and her grief is shoved aside for "Hey, look at that appealing new love interest! Because we knoooow y'all love your sapphic romance, right?"

By contrast, Lost Records has only been out for 10 days, but I already feel like the girls are some of the most memorable characters I've come across in gaming for the niche they fill. Swann seems like your typical Max-like dork, except she's also a movie buff and giddy about bugs, horror, and the paranormal; and has clearly been affected by her mother's fatphobic beliefs. Autumn is a level-headed leader who always stuck to her desire to help others, and her Blackness naturally informs her desire to feel valued and not cause trouble in a small, very white, conservative town. Nora intrigues me so much for going from a fun-loving rebel punk teen to a more gender-conforming, capitalist-leaning, influencer businesswoman. And Kat feels like an evolution of Chloe's cynicism, where her scrappy charm belies an almost unsettling obsession with the occult and a deep, tragic chasm of rage at having to confront her mortality far too young. They make sense. They feel carefully written, genuine, and like real people.

But most of all, Dontnod's games have never felt like products. In fact, most of their characters have historically gone against the grain of what traditionally "marketable" characters are. The first LiS took all these aforementioned stories about straight white men and chose to remix and retell it through the eyes of a young, queer, time-traveling girl instead. Tell Me Why is the first AAA game with a trans protagonist, and Tyler is voiced by a trans actor in all the language dubs. Lost Records decided that it would tell its story through four queer teenage girls, with women writers onboard, and fucking own it. As long as Dontnod keeps making games that stick to their creative integrity, I'll keep respecting their vision in whatever they decide to create next. Also, maybe I should finally watch Twin Peaks.

Thank you for reading!

[xoxochb]

“mhmmm what time is it?” your voice comes out muffled within the pillow as you roll over onto your tummy.

but percy rolls you back over onto your back and you whine. you reach out, eyes closed, until you at last feel your boyfriend beside you. you hit him with the utmost force you can muster in your current sleepy state. which isn’t much but you try.

“time, please.”

your hand slides off his chest as percy slides to the side to find the bedside clock. you leave your arm outstretched until you feel him lay back down and his cold skin is back beneath your fingertips.

“three-fourteen.” he smiles and takes your arm into both of his hands, beginning from your fingers and peppering them in light kisses.

you whine a second time. “‘s too early, perce.”

“I can’t sleep.” his mouth works its way up your wrist and beginning over the expanse your arm.

“‘course you can’t…” you inhale before sitting up alongside him, taking the blankets with you to bear the coldness over your bare skin.

you watch as his lips travel higher. you turn on your side facing him so once reached your shoulder he is allowed easier access. soon, he does. percy’s mouth falls upon your shoulder, your neck, and remaining there like a leech.

his hands rest sprawled along the skin of your back, while your own drape around his neck, twirling his hair lazily. you feel his smile between kisses. it makes your own lips turn upwards.

“percy, what’re you doing?” the smile is oh-so prominent in your voice it brings such a pink flush to your cheeks.

he finds your jaw quickly, then your chin and your cheeks and your temples and your forehead and your hairline and the bridge of your nose and the tip of it then your top lip and your bottom lip and each corner of your mouth before at last, finally connecting his lips with yours.

it’s there and gone too quickly for your liking it was at the very least ten seconds. when he pulls back you exhale.

“you’re dodging my question.”

“oh.” anyone else may have believed it was sincere ‘oh’ but you knew better. you also knew his smirk all too well. he shrugs and begins pecking your neck again. “just wanna kiss you, sweet girl. that okay with you?”

you roll your eyes. yet your smile never does falter. “it’s three in the morning— you couldn’t wait until at least six?”

percy nips at your neck. breaking your nonchalance, you giggle softly. his smirk is exchanged for a smile, to unbearably wide he’s no longer able to kiss your skin. he settles for resting his face on your shoulder instead.

“I think you know the answer to that, sweet girl.”

he was right. but you suppose it was still nice to hear his voice.

“touché.” you nod and place a tender kiss to his forehead. “do i get to go back to sleep?”

“also no.”

of course. might as well get comfortable.

you sigh and tangle your legs with his. he is cold in comparison to your warmth and you’re sure nothing has felt better. or maybe an exaggeration percy would never let you get away with saying but the point is still understood the same.

“do I at least get to go to bed early tonight?”

“I’ll think about it.”

you lightly tug at a strand of his hair. “there’s nothing to think about.”

“there is. it depends—” you can hear the smirk. “are you planning to wear that new blue dress you got the other day?”

“I was but now I’m having second thoughts.”

“pleaseeeeee wear it, you look so good in blue, sweet girl.”

you recall when you had bought it. a rare occasion when you had been able to leave camp with percy. typically mr. d did not trust the both of you together. but just this once you had gone shopping for summer clothes. percy had found the dress himself, actually.

you had allowed him to enter the changing room with you as you had tried it on. his plan from there, the sight of the pretty blue sundress on you, was to drop every social moral he owned as he dropped to his knees before you.

you told him no but promised to wear it sometime during the week. honestly, you had been dying to wear it yourself.

“I suppose I will.”

like presumed, you had not gone to bed early the following night.

༯ “love you to the moon and to saturn neptune” - seven, taylor swift, folklore.

[ceruark]

still here

[yan! sunday x gn! reader] synopsis: you’ve been waiting for the day you’d finally be free from your captor. but fate has other plans, as you keep reliving the moment of his departure. words: 5,320 cw: yandere themes: mentions of previous manipulation, abduction, obsessive & possessive behavior; implied alcoholism, brief mention of murder/stabbing a/n: i’ve had this on backlog for MONTHS i’m so glad it’s finally done. i hope it’s okay and u guys like it <3

It’s true what they say about there being light at the end of a dark, seemingly endless tunnel; when the Astral Express finally departs, it does so in a blaze, washing the dock by The Reverie in a brilliant glow and momentarily blinding you. Once your vision clears up, it’s nothing but a star shooting across the vast sky, leaving behind a warmth that lifts the weight of the world off your shoulders.

At least, that’s how it felt the first time.

You’re not sure how many times you’ve seen it leave, at this point— you lost count a while ago. There were a few times you decided to not even show up at the dock, to see if it changed anything, but to your dismay, you woke up in your apartment in Golden Hour every single time, your alarm clock blaring at seven in the morning and the calendar reading that same, dreaded day.

December 3rd.

You realized after the fifth time that you were, in no uncertain terms, stuck in a time loop. The universe seems to revel in your suffering, and it finds particular hilarity in you repeatedly having to see Sunday “for the last time.” It doesn’t matter what you change— the day always resets. You’ve seen him off with the sweet disposition you learned long ago to keep up in public spaces, and you’ve cursed him out, screamed at him, and hit him.

But none of it worked. Nothing has changed.

You sigh as Siobhan swipes your empty glass off the table and replaces it with a full one. She nods at you sympathetically, eyes gleaming with pity. In the years following your abduction, you became a regular at the Dreamjolt Holstery whenever Sunday was out on business. You drank yourself to the bottom of bottles, chasing some kind of reprieve in a place where you could actually breathe. Siobhan was always sweet to you and never ratted you out. Gallagher had been good company as well, chasing out Oak Family representatives whenever they came poking around. You miss him, at times.

You take a slow sip of your wine. The finest chardonnay Penacony has to offer slips down your throat, and a pang rips through you as it does. You had shared a bottle with Sunday on your second date, back when you believed him to be a much different man than he proved to be.

You push the glass across the table and fold your arms on top of it, laying your head down and resting your cheek against it. Your eyes blearily scan the bar, drinking in the happy couples with some bitter cocktail of desolation and envy. You watch them, the way they so tenderly hold each other and exchange whispers and sweet kisses— no fronts or guards up— and you lament it all. You curse Xipe’s name and spit on Ena’s memory for the umpteenth time. Perhaps your blasphemy is so plentiful at this point that it stands out against the countless prayers reaching the sky from Penacony’s citizens, a hideous smudge on what should be a flawless record of blind admiration.

But you never were very good at falling in line.

Movement startles you out of your stupor. You lift your head and watch as a woman donning a large black hat and draped in the finest clothing money can buy settles into the booth across from you.

You clench your jaw tightly. Lady Bonajade, the soul who so graciously saved Sunday from everything he deserves.

She meets your poisonous glare with a sickly sweet smile. “Such bitterness on what should be a joyous occasion,” she drawls. She takes the abandoned wine glass into her hand and takes a sip. “What’s the matter, darling?”

You flick your gaze back to the bar where Siobhan is wiping down the counter. “It’s not really any of your business,” you respond evenly. You know better than to entertain her. She won’t give you anything useful, anyway.

She didn’t the last time you talked to her about your predicament.

She laughs. “So distrusting, though I suppose I can’t blame you for being a product of your environment.” Your heated glare fixes on her again, and she smiles, pleased with herself. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you seem sad to see him go.”

“Then it’s a good thing you know better,” you mutter.

She hums, then lifts the glass again. She takes long sips of the wine as she scrolls idly through her phone, presumably waiting for you to crack and spill your guts.

Perhaps you would keep your wits about you under any other circumstances. Jade’s presence does not come without an ulterior motive, and anything she offers you will certainly not come free. Speaking with her means risking being trapped under someone else’s thumb when you’ve only been free from Sunday’s for a few months.

But is there any real harm in confiding in her if she won’t even remember this?

“You won’t believe me,” you say, in a voice barely above a whisper.

A small smile crosses her lips as she sets her phone down. She meets your eyes, her gaze deceptively warm. “Try me.”

You stare at the polished surface of the table for a long moment, failing to find strength in the disheveled reflection that stares back at you. “I’m stuck in a time loop.”

Jade doesn’t say anything. When you look up at her, her gaze is much sharper, but there’s clear interest in it. She gestures for you to continue.

“I don’t know how many times I’ve lived this day. No matter what I do, I wake up and it’s the third of December.” You clench your hands into fists, and they tremble where they rest on the table. “I’ve watched him leave countless times now. I’ve been kind to him when he leaves, I’ve slapped him in front of the Express crew, I’ve straight up refused to show up and I’ve left Penacony altogether. I’ve—” 

You choke on your words, remembering the sound of horrified shrieks and golden eyes gleaming with horror and heartbreak. The feeling of sinking the blade into his chest and getting his blood on your hands had been as sickening as it was liberating.

“I’ve killed him,” you whisper. “But he didn’t— he’s still here. Every day. I can’t get rid of him.” A pathetic, weak laugh leaves you as you bury your face in your hands. “Even now, I can’t get rid of him.”

Silence descends over the booth. The idle chatter and occasional laughter of other patrons breaks up the tension in the air between you and Jade. The only sign that she’s even still at the table with you is the sound of her nails clinking against the side of the wine glass as she ponders your words.

“Let’s say, for discussion’s sake, that I do believe you.” You look up, meeting her cool, calculated gaze. “Do you have any theories as to why you are stuck in a time loop?”

You frown. “If we go off cliche, I’m making a wrong decision somewhere.”

Jade nods. “Agreed. Something far bigger than us in a place beyond humanity isn’t happy with you.”

You rest your cheek against your palm. “Any suggestions? I’m all out of ideas.”

She hums. “Why don’t we start by going over what you haven’t tried? You’re—”

“A clever little thing, given my previous circumstances.” Jade’s eyes go a bit wide at your sudden interruption, completing her sentence for her. Feeling inordinately exhausted, you sigh. “We’ve had this conversation before.” You lower your gaze. “When you convinced me to kill him.”

Jade goes back to tapping the glass again. You glare at her. Maybe if she’d just let Sunday face the music and be executed like the little lamb Gopher Wood intended for him to be, you wouldn’t be in this mess. Maybe you’d be back in the Dreamflux, enjoying a quaint, more secluded life.

“Killing him did not work.”

“No,” you murmur, “it didn’t.”

“Well, then the answer seems quite clear to me.” She tilts her head to the side, causing the light to glint off her earrings. “But you may not like it very much, darling.”

Desperate, you say, “Shoot.”

The corner of her lips pull up, and she presses a finger to her lips in a shushing gesture. She stares at you expectantly.

You pull your lips back in a snarl. “You’re really not going to tell me?”

She lifts the glass one last time to her grinning lips, and polishes off the wine. “Clever little thing,” she says in sing-song.

White-hot rage burns in your veins, and red flashes behind your eyes. Too used to your actions no longer having consequences, you slam your hands onto the table, startling the patrons around you. 

Jade doesn’t so much as flinch.

“This is all your fault.” You thrust a damning finger in her face, your frustration mounting and your voice cracking in odd places. “You should have let him die. He deserved to. He deserved to— if not for what he did to Penacony, for what he did to me.”

“How sad you feel that way.” Her calm response stokes the flames burning up what little remains of your heart. “His sister would have missed him dearly.”

A sardonic laugh tears at your throat. “I could care less about Robin. What has she ever done for me?” You grin, wild and anguished. “Maybe if he died, then she would feel even a fraction of the despair I felt everyday trapped in that damn labyrinth he called our home!”

“You’re very focused on his death, when it’s already proven to be something that won’t work out for you very well.”

“If you hadn’t interfered,” you whisper, very slowly, “I wouldn’t be in this mess. Maybe instead, it would be me making a grand getaway with the Astral Express.”

A smile crawls over her face, cold and cruel and serpent-like. She leans forward ever so slightly, her hat casting shadows over the eyes that pin you to your seat.

“There’s your answer.”

Your heart plummets. Her words are ice-cold water down your back, raising every hair on your body and sending your heart stuttering. Time slows down and everything stills, the idle chatter of the bar nothing more than white noise in your ears as you stare into the maw of the predator, the one that allowed yours to live.

The word falls from your lips, a single, broken syllable. “No.”

“Going with him is the only thing you haven’t tried.”

“Why—” Something tight coils in your throat, and you choke on it, a sob finding its way out of your throat. “Why would that be the answer?”

Why should he still be allowed to have you, after everything?

Jade’s smile softens out around the edges. If you didn’t know any better, you would say she looks almost sympathetic. “Perhaps he has not fallen from grace with the Harmony as much as he believes he has.”

Your nails pierce through the skin of your palm. You bite down on your lip until you taste blood.

“He is a boy favored by aeons,” Jade says mournfully. “It is a choice that has never been in your hands.”

Letting out a shuddering gasp, you shoot up from the table and bolt out of the bar. Patrons exclaim around you as you shoulder past them, hardly holding yourself together from breaking down right there in the bar. Somewhere behind you, Siobhan calls out for you, but you ignore her and break out into a frenzied sprint.

Your legs burn as you run, your instincts taking over your mind which has gone numb. They carry you through the secluded alleys of Golden Hour, over fences and past guards and through thorn bushes until you finally reach your destination.

Finding your way into the room you had once shared with Sunday isn’t difficult. The twisted hallways of Dewlight Pavilion have long since been burned into your memory, and you easily reach the bedroom before various Oak Family guards can reach you.

You lock the door behind you and push yourself off the wall just as people begin pounding loudly on the door and shouting. Navigating the room in a daze, you reach the nightstand on Sunday’s side of the bed and open the drawer.

The matches he would use to light prayer candles have gone untouched.

Matches in hand, you march into the bathroom and open the cabinet. Ripping the isopropyl alcohol off the shelf, you untwist the cap with your teeth and spit it out onto the pristine tile floor. Walking back into the room, you douse the bed in the bottle’s contents, saving just a bit to leave a trail from the bed to the bedroom window.

You set the empty bottle down on your vanity. Fingertips ghosting over the surface, you pause when they meet the familiar grooves of a small jewelry box Robin had brought you from her previous tour. You open it, staring down at it in disdain as the music box attached to it plays a lullaby from your childhood— yet another cherished memory tainted by the siblings. Your eyes roam the contents of the box, taking note of the empty space amongst your collection of rings. 

You shut the lid, lock it, then hurl it at the window.

The clamoring guards outside the room get louder at the sound of shattering glass. Wasting no time, you rush toward the window and sling both legs over the ledge, your back now facing the room.

Turning around, you strike a match, and drop it onto the edge of the alcohol trail.

In a singular second, the fire catches and spreads, until the canopy bed is engulfed in flames.

A sob escapes your throat, then a laugh, then a strange combination of both. The sounds mesh together and rack your body until you’re nothing more than a hysterical mess sitting above broken glass, watching the room that haunts your nightmares burn to the ground.

A yell sounds behind you. “There’s the culprit!”

A tranquilizer dart reserved for Penacony’s worst pierces your arm, and then you collapse to the floor.

Your eyes fly open at the sound of a cheery Clockie theme song blaring through your room. Your arm shoots out from beneath your comforter and slams the snooze button, silencing the chipper voice. Slowly, you turn to look at your left arm. 

There’s no pinprick of a dart on it, not a single blemish in sight.

You bury your face into your pillow and scream at the top of your lungs, allowing yourself to sob one last time. Then, you resign yourself to your fate.

You go through the motions as though you haven’t been out of practice for even a single day. You take a long, warm shower, warming the water to the point of scalding and lathering your skin until it’s red and raw. You bathe yourself with a lavender soap— his favorite scent on you.

Wrapped in only a towel, you walk into your room and approach your closet. Taking a deep breath, you kneel down and reach in the far back, grabbing onto a box and pulling it toward you.

You grimace as you pull the flaps open. Inside sits the few objects gifted to you by Sunday that you decided to save when The Family permitted you to enter Dewlight Pavilion one last time, following his arrest. Gingerly, your fingers ghost over the soft silk of a baby blue shirt. You take the shirt and unfold it, releasing a breath you didn’t realize you were holding when your gaze falls on the small object that had been tucked away into the fabric.

A sapphire gemstone carved into an oval sits on top of an ornate silver band, encased on both sides by smaller diamonds.

You slip your wedding ring onto your finger, choking back a sob as you do.

You set the silk shirt aside and stuff the box’s remaining contents into a duffel bag which you also pack with the belongings that are too important to leave abandoned in a place you’re likely to never return to. You put the silk shirt on, pairing it with a flowy pair of pants and shoes that compliment it well. You clasp a simple yet rather expensive necklace around your throat. Then, you sling the duffel bag over your shoulder and head toward your apartment’s front door.

You shut it behind you without looking back.

Every step taken toward The Reverie is one filled with dread. Your legs are as heavy as your heart, every fiber of your being working to weigh you down and ask you to resist just one last time. Certainly, there must be another way, another method you haven’t tried yet.

You do not pray to Xipe. You do not pray to a god that has forsaken you in the name of gifting their favorite child everything his heart desires. You do not pray to a god who only rebuked him when his actions affected the masses— if your cries of suffering were not enough for them to take action then, then your cries would certainly not be enough now.

All you can do is hold onto a thin string of hope within your heart that when the day draws to a close, you will wake up in your bedroom once more.

The automatic doors of the dock hiss open as you approach, revealing the scene you’ve lived countless times before. Miss Himeko stands with Mr. Yang by the entrance, going over final clearances with one of The Reverie’s hosts. Closer to the Express’s entrance, March and Stelle rifle through a large bag filled with souvenirs, arguing over which of their friends from other planets will receive which gift. Dan Heng is somewhere inside the train with the most wanted man in Penacony.

Swallowing your grief, you approach the crew’s eldest members with a pleasant smile plastered onto your face.

“Pardon the intrusion, but do you perhaps have space for one more?”

Miss Himeko and Mr. Yang turn around, the former appearing a bit more surprised to see you than the latter. She eyes you with concern, her lips pursing into a thin line as her gaze lands on the bag you’ve brought with you, and the brilliant ring sitting on the hand that holds the duffle bag’s strap.

“Ah, you—” Mr. Yang shoots a quick glance at the host, who has already moved on to tending to other vehicles departing the dock. He looks back at you with a smile. “You must be Sunday’s partner.”

You nod. “I spoke with Jade recently. I was hoping that I could join you on your travels, for the time being.” You reach down to fidget with your ring, feigning heartache. “I hope it’s not too much trouble— and that you understand.”

Mr. Yang looks over your shoulder and meets Miss Himeko’s gaze. The two share a silent conversation, one that makes you more nervous with each passing second.

There is nothing anyone can prove, but you know that Jade is aware your marriage wasn’t a happy one, even if she doesn’t know the specifics. You also know that she has shared plenty of conversations with Miss Himeko, ones that may have explored more intimate details of Sunday’s life under the guise of assessing if he should be allowed to roam the galaxy beyond Penacony’s prison. If she turns you away now, it would be yet another method of breaking the time loop that you wouldn’t be able to test.

“We have no problem accepting another passenger, and we have plenty of space to accommodate you, of course.” Mr. Yang places a gentle hand on your shoulder. “But I must ask you: are you sure this is what you want?”

You’re not sure of what you want. You haven’t been sure of what you want since you woke up in Dewlight Pavilion that fateful night, dazed and confused with Sunday at your side, apologizing profusely but insisting it was for the best.

What you want has never been your choice, and perhaps it never would be.

“I appreciate the concern, but I have had plenty of time to think about this. I feel that being with my husband is the best path forward for me right now.” You give Mr. Yang a strained yet reassuring smile. “And if I change my mind, I’d be happy to get off and have a fresh start somewhere far from here.”

Mr. Yang and Miss Himeko share one last look, then the latter turns to you with a warm smile.

“We’d be happy to have you join us. The more the merrier, as they say.” She places a gentle hand on your shoulder. Mr. Yang disappears into the train as Miss Himeko pulls you slightly closer to her.

“And if you need anything,” she whispers, “do not hesitate to let me know.”

You take in a shuddering breath, struggling to keep your perfect facade together as she pulls away from you.

“Stelle! March!” The two girls turn toward Miss Himeko as she approaches the entrance. “I need you two to clear out whatever we have stored in the guest room. We’re leaving with one more head than expected.”

The two peek around Miss Himeko, eyes lighting up with curiosity as they spot you.

“Oh! Are you Mr. Sun— er, our new passenger’s spouse?” March beams at you, looking a bit bashful at her near slip-up. “You’re so cute!”

“Ah, thank you.” You bow your head in a polite gesture. “I’m very grateful Mr. Yang and Miss Himeko have decided to let me join you all. I hope it’s not a problem for the rest of you.”

“Of course not!” March jests cheerily, “Who are we to stand in the path of true love?”

You smile at her and say nothing.

“Well then,” Miss Himeko says, saving you from needing to entertain March’s comment, “it’s about time we get going. We have a few minor stops we’d like to make before Amphoreus, but we also don’t want to hold up Miss Black Swan more than we already have.”

“Right!” March skips up the steps to the lobby car, followed by Stelle, then you and Miss Himeko. “I can’t wait to go back to Belobog! I bought this cute origami bird plushie that I think Bronya will love.”

In the lobby, a man who bears a striking resemblance to Stelle lays sprawled out on one of the couches, watching Dan Heng fiddle with something on a holographic display. A bunny dressed in a conductor’s uniform shouts about dinner plans, and a woman donning a dark veil watches you board the train with a knowing look that makes your skin crawl.

You turn to Miss Himeko, avoiding the mysterious lady’s stare. “Where can I put my things?”

“Ah, right this way,” she says, guiding you toward the ascending staircase at the back of the car. The next car over is a long hallway of doors. She leads you to the very end of it and produces a keycard from her jacket pocket. She taps it against the door and it slides open, revealing a simple room furnished with a bed, desk, and dresser. She turns to you and hands you the keycard.

“Here’s where you’ll be staying. Feel free to change it however you see fit.” 

“Thank you, Miss Himeko.” You dip your head again. “Your hospitality is greatly appreciated.”

“Oh, please, there’s no need to be so formal. Just Himeko is fine, and we’re happy to have you.” Her smile falters a bit as she takes a step back and gestures to a door across the hall and a few doors down from yours. “He’s staying in that room, if you wish to speak with him. If you’re not ready, though, take as much time as you need.”

“Of course.” You step into the room they’ve assigned to you, setting your duffle bag on the floor. As you hear her footsteps retreating, you allow your face to fall and your body to slump against the bed, burying your face in your hands.

You stay like that, long after the door makes a clicking sound and slides shut.

You miss dinner, settling for chewing your nails down to nubs as a source of protein instead.

Surely, he must know that you’re here. You figure Mr. Yang mentioned it to him when he disappeared after you confirmed your wishes to board the train, and certainly March would have brought it up over dinner. 

He knows of your presence, but he has yet to approach you.

It puts you on edge. What could he possibly be scheming this time? Certainly, after his sudden fall from grace, he’d be pouncing at the opportunity to regain some semblance of control over something so familiar— at least, that’s what you figured before boarding the train, the very thing that left you hesitant to entertain Jade’s suggestion. 

You pace around your room well into the night, working your legs tired from walking to and fro in such a cramped space for nearly two hours. When it proves to be a futile effort to quell your anxieties or wear you down into a sleepier state, you huff and grab the key to your room off the barren desk and shove it into your pocket.

It shouldn’t be a surprise that he’s making you come to him. He’s always made you do that when he feels you’ve done something wrong, and your refusal to stand with him at the recreation of the dream was likely an egregious misstep in his eyes.

The door to your room hisses open. You step out into the hallway, darkened now that the lights have been dimmed to the lowest setting. You drag your feet as you walk, prolonging your journey as you gather the last of your courage and try to figure out what you’ll say— whether you’ll face him with all the rage boiling beneath your skin, or with the perfectly crafted mask you’d grown so used to wearing before the events of the Charmony Festival. 

You raise your hand— curled into a fist— and let it hover in the air in front of the door. Sucking in a deep breath, you will your heart to slow in your chest, then you rap lightly against the door.

For a few seconds, nothing happens. They spill into each other, and the lack of response has you considering fleeing to your room when the sound of a latch releasing knocks you out of your stupor. The door hisses open, and golden eyes pierce into your own.

Sunday meets your eyes with all the burning intensity as the day he first told you he loves you. He blinks rapidly a few times, long lashes brushing against his cheeks as he does. His gaze slowly drags up and down your figure, taking you in, almost in disbelief. When he settles on meeting your gaze again, he murmurs your name lightly into the space between you two, the sweet call of it dousing the flames that have been burning since his arrest and leaving you so, so cold.

Your throat constricts. You’d forgotten how small he makes you feel— not because he’s cruel, but because his love for you is so tangible and pure despite everything he’s done.

“Sunday,” you whisper back, mournfully.

His gloved fingers twitch where they rest by his side, yet he does not reach for you. “Not that I’m displeased to see you, my love,” he asks, “but what are you doing here?”

The truth sounds as insane as it makes you feel, so you lie. “I wanted to check on you.”

Something softens in his gaze, and you feel your veins flood with disgust— whether it’s at the fact that he’s so desperate for your affection that he readily believes you, or because it’s so easy for him to break down the walls of hatred you’ve built up, you refuse to determine.

You grit your teeth, trying to dredge up some of your fury from earlier. “Don’t be misled,” you mutter, “I’m not here to pretend like everything’s fine.” You cross your arms over your chest, facing him again with a more guarded look. “If you’re traveling with the Express as a means to make up for what you’ve done, then—” You suck in a sharp breath. “Then someone you’ve wronged should be here to see if you’re really changing.”

You avert your gaze. The silence grows thick between you two, the seconds blending into long, agonizing minutes.

“I see,” he finally says, and you look back up at him. There’s something pinched in his gaze�� something a bit pained— yet he manages to look relieved. “If that’s the case, then I’m glad it’s you.” His next words come as a shock to you, causing your eyes to go wide and rendering you speechless. “I understand I have much to make for. Not just to Penacony, but to you, particularly, my dear.”

As you fall quiet, he steps toward you and delicately takes your fingers into his grasp. He brings them up to his lips and kisses the end of each one before speaking again. “I would like to earn the right to your love again,” he mumbles against them. “If you’ll allow me.”

Within you, your hatred and fondness for Sunday wage a war with each other, fighting to gain the upper hand. You shouldn’t allow him— you should have never been forced into a position where you would even have to entertain such a notion. You’ve lived this day so many times, and all it’s done is remind you of who put you in the situation, who dragged you down from the heavens with him. Each relived day left your fury festering like an open wound, as desperate for reprieve from the loop as you’d been desperate for your freedom, at a time.

And yet, there’s another part of you that was forgotten in the midst of the chaos of the time loop, one that is hopelessly enamored with him and endlessly forgiving. You will never agree with his methods or his actions, but despite everything, you still understand his viewpoint and how it drove him to this point. The hardest part about loving Sunday is knowing that every shred of pain he may cause is inflicted with only the best intentions, each wound carved into you with a tender touch and healed through a devotion that runs so deep it leaves you dizzy.

You curl your fingertips into his hold and pull yourself toward him, crossing the threshold and stumbling into his room. You crash into him and bury your face in his chest, wrapping your arms around his waist to hold yourself there. He lets out a shuddering exhale at the contact. One of his hands settles at the small of your back, and the other comes up to cradle the back of your head and gently stroke your hair.

“You better make up for all of it,” you say, voice wet with unshed tears. “You better make it worth my while.”

He hums, and you can feel it reverberate through his chest. “Of course, dove,” he whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “Nothing but the best for you.”

The next morning, you wake to the sound of the train’s low buzzing as it shoots through the cosmos. There is no alarm clock, no barren apartment walls, no calendar pinned beside your desk. There is only the feeling of Sunday’s feathers against your skin from where his face is pressed into your neck, his arms around your waist.

You let out a soft sob, then will yourself back to sleep.

[amarriageoftrueminds]

The problem with all this is of course that it straight up ignores what Sebastian Stan said: that, of course, he doesn't remember them.

(And even if he weren't lying, what does 'remember' even mean in that context, to Bucky? Because it could mean remember as in memorialise or honour. Like Bucky means he intends to memorialise them all, not that he literally does recall them all. And, as Seb also pointed out, how would Bucky even know that he remembers them all, if he can't remember what he doesn't know?)

I take Seb Stan's word over whatever Spellman or whoever comes out with; he knows the character better than them and it was him playing that beat!

(I don't regard tie-in books as canon either because they're not the canon films and frankly I don't trust whoever writes those for Disney to do a competent job. (Yeah they can go in depth but they can also take things at superficial face value, without thinking -- like that line from CACW about remembering all of them, as mentioned in that book excerpt up there.) Likewise, whatever the real-life state of neuroscience is and how that would affect Bucky's brain if they were following those rules isn't relevant, IMO, because the MCU writers aren't putting that much thought into how they portray Bucky's memories! This is Markus & McFeeley and Spellman under Feige's interference. They aren't working that hard. They're not that conscientious!)

It's also treating the fact that TFATWS said Bucky remembers missions as solid canon when:

a) the people 'writing' that didn't give a shit about characterisation consistency and have been very open about the fact that they didn't even bother to watch the movies Bucky's in. 😒

So whatever their 'take' on Bucky's memories is, we can pretty definitely state that it's incorrect = most likely to be completely wrong and diametrically opposite to canon, as you'd expect from someone who doesn't even know what Bucky's canon is. (All they care about is that "he" killed people.)

Textbook example of this 'getting Bucky exactly 100% wrong': that line from Spellman there about Bucky having a piece of the Winter Soldier inside him and that means he's an awful person.

That's complete bullshit and an exact misunderstanding of what the WS is.

The WS is NOT a monster lurking inside Bucky, not even a piece, because the WS was the complete absence of Bucky's personality, of any humanity at all. As blank as an Iron Man suit.

So he's not a dark hidden Jekyll-and-Hyde piece of Bucky's psyche that was always waiting to come out, (as the show posits), like the Hulk is to Bruce. In fact, the Winter Soldier is the exact opposite of that (ie. a monster with a good man inside). He's more like an Iron Man suit that is being remotely controlled, that Bucky has been locked inside and has no control over.

The show creators have stupidly taken that one single line from CACW at face value, ignoring everything else, (I get the feeling they're Tony stans tbh), and fixated on it as 'proof' of Bucky's innate buried villainy that he needs to grovel about.

If this is the sort of rubbish they mistakenly believe to be true about Bucky, we can certainly discount whatever else they say about his memories. In fact, if it's the writers of TFATWS who said X, I can't think of a stronger argument in favour of the opposite! 😬

.

b) the events of TFATWS also happen years and years after Bucky is in the situation where he, eg. wakes up from being triggered and doesn't remember what he just did as the Winter Soldier and has to ask Sam and Steve, lied to Tony, etc.

It might be that Bucky has, since treatment in Wakanda, reacquired all his missing memories. Which sucks for him.

The state of his memory is not a monolith that has always stayed the same and has not altered: just because his memory seems to be in a certain state in TFATWS, that doesn't mean it was in the same back in CACW days.

Watsonian explanation: this shoddy characterisation from TFATWS could mean that Bucky was lying to Tony when he said he remembered the mission to kill his parents.

That could've been completely untrue at the time Bucky said it, but has since become true only because Bucky has recovered more memory -- as a result of receiving bad writing proper treatment, longer to heal, etc.

Another HUGE thing people always totally ignore about that scene in CACW:

Bucky has just watched a friggin' video tape of his mission!

I imagine that's not standard Hydra procedure, to show him tapes of his own performance!

So even if 'I remember all of them' is resigned-abuse-victim bullshit to goad Tony, it's possible Bucky has literally just seconds ago recalled the Starks for the first time ever... because Zemo just reminded him!

Oh! Another detail:

Think about the way we see the story of the Starks' murders sequentially, throughout CACW.

In fractured pieces, bit by bit.

Whose POV are those scenes supposed to be coming from?

I think it's Bucky's.

(ie. it's what Bucky can remember of that story at the moment -- ie. just being taken out of cryo, put in the chair and given a mission… but not what the mission itself was.)

And we don't see what the end of that little mystery is until Bucky himself sees the video, which completes the missing puzzle for him?

So it still seems to me that Bucky remembered the inbetween-missions things?

IE. He clearly remembers procedures.

In CATWS we see him preparing to open his mouth to have a mouth-guard put in, before he is asked to, and leaning back into the chair before it reclines. And in CACW he doesn't look surprised by anything that is happening to him while he's in the Siberian base, in the chair, etc.

So he knows what happens to him when he's back at Hydra HQ (and where HQ is) and doesn't need to be re-taught it every time.

Similarly, all the brain damage aimed at his pre-Hydra memories hasn't destroyed his ability to shoot, which Bucky acquired during WWII, not under Hydra. Bucky still has the skills he got in the chunks of memory Hydra are targeting hardest of all (ie. his personality-forming years).

As per CATWS he also speaks Russian, a language Bucky canonically is not shown having any knowledge of pre-Hydra. So skills acquired during Hydra time are also retained, despite the fact that they're damaging his brain repeatedly all the time, including wiping him of Hydra periods of time.

He's like Jason Bourne; he can do things without remembering when he learned how to!

This may be impossible in real-life brain damage terms, but I think MCU canon looks like Bucky doesn't remember missions for most of his screentime (up until TFATWS started ineptly fannying about with his backstory), but does remember the in-between missions bits necessary for the efficient handling and wiping of of the WS.

(In CATWS they treat it as risky to keep him out of cryo for too long between wipes, that he'll become erratic and start attacking technicians, as his memories start to regrow. But despite this, 'erratic' Bucky -- who is asking questions! and speaking English! -- is still retaining knowledge of being wiped and how he has to behave... even when he can't remember meeting Steve earlier on in the same week.)

Maybe it's repetition that's the key?

He remembers skills learned, and being given mission briefings, and what is done to him, over and over and over again, because that's all repetitive...

but he can't recall missions because they're one-offs? No new skills acquired?

(And his missions have no emotional impact because... the WS doesn't have emotions. Only Bucky Barnes can look back in horror.)

It's curious that Zemo tries to trigger Bucky and then command him. But Zemo isn't Hydra. He's not official. I think that's why there was that chaos in the room, when Sam and Steve got to where Zemo was and found the WS out of his cage.

I think the WS attacked Zemo once he realised this wasn't an official Hydra handler & this wasn't a proper Hydra procedure.

(Also curious that Sam and Steve have him sitting down, in restraints, which also mimics a Hydra procedure set-up. Maybe that helped Bucky's recall too? 🤔)

As you said, Bucky was able to recall what Zemo asked him about because Bucky hadn't been wiped.

Likewise, maybe he can recall fighting other WSs either because Zemo told him about them, AND/or because he was 'ordered' to remember it (if you think about it, that's a very very unusual order for someone to give him!)

And... fighting the WSs wasn't an official off-base-assassinating mission, it was standard 'training in between missions' stuff. Plus the other WSs skill set is intel the WS would need to retain about his colleagues in order to function as a team, if Hydra intended to send them out on missions together.

It's repetitious skill acquisition and mission-critical intel, so it's necessary that the WS be allowed to recall it? 🤔

Another possibility: Bucky had been KO'd just before he recounts things about the other WSs and what Zemo asked about, to Sam and Steve.

Maybe that head wound shook up his brain status quo too?

(Magical fairytale thinking: maybe it's also different because it's Steve...

He was able to break through Bucky's conditioning with the Power of Twu Wuv in CATWS, so maybe the fact that it's Steve who gave Bucky the head wound by dropping a helicopter on him that shakes loose some more marbles? 🥰)

You could posit that Bucky does usually remember all his missions and procedures, and it's the head wound (acting like a mini-wipe) that prevents him doing so immediately after waking up to Sam and Steve.... except that Bucky consistently displays this post-wipe amnesia of missions, more than once (ie. doesn't remember Nat even after years of healing... doesn't remember previous missions after wipes in the same week in CATWS, more than once, etc.)

And this is including times when he hasn't just received a head wound / been KO'd / had any other head trauma equalling or approximating a wipe before becoming WS.

IE. in CACW he fights Steve exactly as if he doesn't remember him at all, when we know that isn't the case. Once he wakes up, the WS is always a blank slate.

...That's an interesting distinction, actually:

what does Bucky remember, and what does the Winter Soldier remember?

Because, even after years of Bucky's brain healing, and even though he hasn't been 'wiped' of Steve since CATWS, once activated by Zemo ... the WS doesn't remember Steve.

But Bucky does.

Maybe that's the crucial distinction:

Bucky can recall missions, but the Winter Soldier can't?

(The WS wouldn't see missions as emotionally significant, things that stick in the memory, because he is emotionally stunted, and these people don't mean anything to him ... no more than the Nazis Bucky shot during the war. (Despite subsequent attempts to whitewash Howard (because of his Hydra connections), he and Bucky were not friends in any way in the main MCU; they're never even shown meeting!) So Steve breaks the pattern because his is the first and only time the WS has been sent after someone who actually matters to him emotionally.)

So he only recalls procedures? 🤔 And he can only recall missions, by -- much later on down the road -- becoming Bucky Barnes once again?

(I mean, the Doylist explanation here is that the writers are just shoddy and inconsistent even within the same movie. (IE. The WS being blank again in CACW to me smacks more of 'oops we forgot he's supposed to be electrocuted for that memory-wipe to happen.')

But hey, we have to work with what we've got here! 😖)

In any case, I'm sticking by what SebStan said because he's the Bucky expert: if he said Bucky specifically didn't remember the Starks, at the time he said that to Tony, then I believe him. (And if that later changed because Bucky healed, well that still doesn't contradict what SebStan said!)

“That line was an interesting moment. At the time, the choice I was making is that [Bucky] had realized there was no way he was getting out of there, and someone was gonna die, whether it was gonna be him, Steve or Tony. When he says that line, to me, it was a turning point — he was, like, ‘Okay, I know what you want me to say, and I’m just gonna say it.’ When someone comes at you over and over again, and they can’t hear you, they can’t see you’re pleading with them, you’re trying to figure out how to get through to them and they just won’t accept it, at some point you just give in, and you go, ‘that’s right, that’s what you want.’ Of course [Bucky] didn’t remember them all.” —  Sebastian Stan

[theminecraftbee]

“And this is a punishment,” Xisuma clarifies, after the shadowy figure from beyond brings it to his attention, less because Xisuma’s in charge and more because only he and Hypno still remembered the admin password, and the shadowy figure’s power requires it.

(Hypno had laughed them out of the room. Xisuma’s not sure if he ought to be offended they went to Hypno first.)

He listens closely as the shadowy figure explains again. “Oh, I mean, er, I don’t really see the problem with permit-based punishment, I guess? I’m pretty sure not doing what the government says gets you punished, and between the DMV and the courthouse, gosh, we may as well go all the way with the roleplay! I think exile seems a bit medieval, but—”

The shadowy figure makes a frustrated sound.

“Sorry, sorry, I forgot. It’s not make-believe, you’re a very real dangerous set of higher-ups from beyond. Oh, this is so fun!”

The shadows grow more frustrated. They curl around Xisuma, squeezing and tearing. They aren’t doing anything else, though, because they didn’t get the admin password from Hypno. Gosh, Xisuma now wonders if they tried anyone else. Joe has it, but he’s probably forgotten it. Doc has it, except Xisuma purposefully rotates it so actually Doc doesn’t have it right now and will have to ask again before doing something particularly server-breaking. Grian has it, but he likes to pretend he doesn’t—oh, he will laugh if they didn’t check Grian. Aren’t these fellows Grian’s?

Right. Erm. Anyway. He pats the shadowy vengeance of a god of terrible, unknowable Order on the orderly shadow squeezing him. “Sorry, I just want to make sure—so, er, you’re sending people millions of blocks out to uncharted, untouched land, at a point in the season when many people are losing steam on their current projects and starting to look for a fresh start, if not quite ready to give up on things like the TCG or minigames just yet. As a punishment?”

A long silence. A reply.

“Okay, I mean, if you’re sure, here’s the password. Don’t go losing it on me! Oh, that sounds so much fun, really. I mean, ah, terrible! It sounds very terrible. What a truly awful punishment! Gosh.”

The god of order vanishes. Xisuma looks at his hands.

“Well, I did warn them,” Xisuma says, abdicating himself of the whole problem, before he wanders off to stick some diamonds in his ender chest and find a nice cliff for some prankster-minded spirit to push him off of. Just in case they’re feeling like it. For no reason in particular.

It’s a very reasonable punishment, after all.

[thekoalapastriesbakery]

ATTENTION

formula one x male!rookie driver!reader

request: I was wondering if we could get a cute fic where a retired driver catches feelings for a new driver on the grid? Like, the retired driver is totally smitten and keeps trying to get the new driver’s attention in the cutest ways, but the new driver is kinda oblivious at first. Bonus points for some playful banter and the retired driver getting teased by his old grid friends about his obvious crush. Preferably with retired drivers like sb5, nr6, jb22, kr7, and ms5. Thanks so much, you’re the best <3

summary: it's your first year in formula one, and you've caught the eye of a world champion.

warnings: age gaps (duh), minor negative self-image (reader), one joke about reader being a "boy-toy (kimi), minor suggestive content (seb)

contains: jenson button, kimi raikkonen, + sebastian vettel

word count: 1,586 (total — 485/512/589 separately)

jenson button:

you’re way too old for him, jenson scolded himself.

you were just joining the grid for the new season. you weren’t as fresh-faced as some of the other rookies (like kimi antonelli, for example), but you were still young. way younger than jenson would ever think to go for. he couldn’t explain what about you it was that caught his eye. all he could explain was that you were an attractive guy and he just admired your driving. right?

wrong.

as the season kicked into first gear, jenson found himself interviewing you more and more. basic (well, as basic as sky got) interviews turned into banter and jenson could have even sworn that you were flirting with him on occasion. everyone noticed the way jenson lit up whenever you joined him for an interview, or how he could have that googly-eyed, smitten, puppy love-look in his eyes for you even when he was standing right next to his sworn enemy. yet, you didn’t seem to notice. you just talked to him like normal. smiled at him like normal. and jenson was convinced he’d be doomed to a life of pining.

from your perspective, you were very reticent to believe that a driver of jenson’s calibre had taken such a keen interest in you. you knew you were a good driver. you didn’t make it to formula one for no reason, after all. you weren’t surprised people would recognise that—though, that didn’t stop the proud feeling in your chest whenever someone complimented your driving. what you were surprised about, though, was that people seemed to think jenson liked you for something other than your driving capabilities. he was basically twice your age, a world champion, and a commentator. you just couldn’t see what was so appealing about yourself. it didn’t seem plausible. 

the season continued. you were having a rather impeccable rookie year, if you did say so yourself. not that you needed to. everyone else said it for you. you got closer with jenson. the hero worship faded the more you got to know him, replaced by genuine admiration. and maybe a little bit of attraction—he wasn’t your gay awakening for nothing—but he didn’t need to know that. 

years later, when you told the story, jenson piped up cheekily to say “i think i did, actually!”

the closer you got, the more smitten jenson became, and the more the other older drivers teased him for it. then one very special grill the grid episode came out. one where you were asked about your very first celebrity crush. several drivers said ‘sally’ from cars. a few others said supermodels, or disney channel actors. you, though … the interviewer had barely finished the question before you blurted out, “jenson button”. 

the clip went viral. of course it did. but it also finally gave jenson the courage to ask you out, and neither of you had looked back since.

kimi raikkonen:

kimi was known for being stoic. he’s not called the iceman for no reason. before this year, he would’ve said there were only two things in formula one that could him to smile: seb, and alcohol.

then he met you. 

he wasn’t sure how it happened, but before he knew it, he was actually looking forward to visiting the paddock. he didn’t even hate the media as much as he thought he would. especially if you’d stop by his interview to say hello—you couldn’t help it, he was one your favourite drivers ever—kimi would even find himself enjoying it. he had to filter his own name on social media with how many people started commenting about his rosy cheeks whenever you were around. 

unfortunately, he wasn’t able to filter his friends’ mouths. a night out when a few of them were all at the same race quickly turned to kimi’s puppy crush on you. plenty of teasing about kimi wanting a “boy-toy” echoed from their booth. the more time he spent in the paddock, the more he fell for you, the more he did to get your attention. he’d even put up with a lot more media attention than he wanted to. starry-eyed whenever you’re in sight, kimi had almost given up hope that you’d ever even notice his feelings, let alone return them. 

you really had no idea that when you joined formula one, you’d catch the eye of kimi raikkonen of all people. you’d grown up watching kimi race and how he behaved with the media. of course you knew that the way kimi acted with you was different. you just assumed that he was different with everyone off camera. but a few conversations with your fellow rookies quickly proved that assumption incorrect. so you started asking around. none of the other younger drivers knew kimi all that well, which then pushed you into something a bit more daunting—asking the older drivers. lewis hamilton and fernando alonso. both perfectly nice guys, but both multiple world champions. asking them if kimi raikkonen was being weirdly nice to you felt silly and downright awkward. 

lucky for you, you’d already asked charles and lance, who were … not the best at keeping secrets. 

one race later you had two championship-winning drivers telling you that, yeah, the iceman had an embarrassingly big crush on you. not exactly news you expected on a race weekend. the race went by in a blur of overtakes and instructions. it wasn’t your best performance, but it wasn’t bad either. for hours after you went to bed that night you were tossing and turning. 

you had no idea how you got to where you were. standing in front of kimi’s hotel room door in sweatpants and a t-shirt you didn’t remember packing, you were half-sure you’d regret it in the morning. but then he opened the door. you had only partly explained what lewis and fernando had told you before kimi lurched forward to kiss you. 

it was certainly safe to say you didn’t regret going to see him.

sebastian vettel:

seb may have been retired, but he still kept up with formula one. and a season with no less than seven rookies … that was something he needed to see. 

he never intended to fall for you. you were way too young for him! and you were just starting in formula one. sebastian didn’t want to distract you from that. you deserved a good start to what he (and everyone else) was sure would be a very long career in the pinnacle of motorsport. he just couldn’t help himself from trying to get your attention, no matter how much jenson, kimi, mark, lewis, fernando, and even charles teased him for it. he had it on good authority—also known as your teammate in formula two who was all too eager to have someone to complain about your late night escapades to—that you were at the very least bisexual, so he started subtly trying to shoot his shot. 

except you were far too oblivious. even though seb wasn’t being nearly as subtle as he thought he was, you didn’t even consider that he would be flirting with you. he was a four-time world champion! you were a rookie! in your mind, there was no version of reality where he’d actually be into you. despite what the other drivers seemed to think. you were friendly with sebastian, and even occasionally flirty, but to you it was just harmlessly flirting with your celebrity/childhood crush. sebastian didn’t need to know that some of his podiums in the early 2010s made you realise certain things about yourself …

as the season progressed, so did seb’s desperation. his flirting attempts escalated from subtle and sweet compliments to just about as intense as they were when he was in his red bull and ferrari days. he’d lost count of how many times one of the older drivers had sent him tweets or memes about him reviving his “feral twink era”. they weren’t exactly wrong, either—with the way seb acted around you, it would’ve been a fair assumption that he had returned to his early 2010s chaotic gay tactics. he was making comments about how you looked when you were drowned in champagne after your first podium, making suggestive and borderline explicit jokes with you, batting his eyelashes at you … everything.

it all culminated in the final race of the season. after twenty-three races, the vibe in the paddock very much reminded you of the last day of school. everyone was tired and ready for a holiday. jetlag got to everyone eventually, no matter how used to traveling they were. and, apparently, the last thing on the agenda was a game of telephone between the drivers to tell you that sebastian had actually been flirting with you all season. by the time the rumour got to you, it was a little distorted, but the core of the message was still clear enough: you needed to talk to seb. 

he was torn between embarrassment and just continuing with his over-the-top attempts to get your attention. he’d forgotten how fun it was to be a little feral every now and then. eventually, though, seb decided that he didn’t want to risk pushing you away. he explained his feelings with a lot of clarifiers that he didn’t want to pressure you at all. he rambled so much that you just gave in and kissed him to stop him. it wasn’t exactly the relationship you expected to have with one of your favourite drivers, but … well, you weren’t complaining.

©thekoalapastriesbakery :: please do not copy or rewrite my work on any platform !!

author's note: enjoy early-mid twenties!2025 rookie!reader, because i do <3 (nico not included because i don’t really think i’d write him well)

comments + reblogs appreciated!

taglist: @raizelchrysanderoctavius @crispysoup318 @op-81-lvr-reblogs @ncrsbrg @spoonfulofmilo @justaf1girl @widow-cevans

[spiderb00bs]

- REACH ME

Tara Carpenter x reader 

“Maybe Tara wanted to be more than your friend” 

Genre – smut    Warnings – mentions distant parents 

(request) 

Now playing – What You Need, by The Weeknd

Tara Carpenter was never very open about how she felt. She struggled with her emotions, most of the time keeping everything to herself until she couldn't take it anymore and exploded. She knew it was a bad thing to do, something that would only harm herself, but she still couldn't act any other way.   

Any feeling, anger, sadness, sometimes even happiness, Tara kept inside her, even if her heart was on the verge of exploding. Even though Tara had been doing this since she was practically a child, she still couldn't hide certain feelings from her friends. Which meant that everyone knew about Tara's huge crush on you.   

You and Tara were complicated to say the least, always flirting with each other, holding hands around the campus, kissing at some frat parties, you've certainly lost potential people who were interested in the two of you because they thought you and Tara were dating. All this just so that at the end of the day, you and Tara could raise the flag of friendship and make everyone around you want to kick your asses.  

Your friends had had enough. Holy shit! Sam had had enough. All they wanted most was to see you finally admit your feelings for each other, and believe me, they tried everything. Double dates with Anika and Mindy, going out bowling as a couple with Chad and Liv, Ethan and Bailey even tried flirting with both of you to see if you'd get any reaction, but Bailey just got scared of Tara's stares and Ethan backed off because he was sure he'd get punched by you if he stayed by Tara's side for one more second. Amber even locked you in the bathroom once! But that only earned her screams and more screams.   

At some point, everyone was convinced that you might have to figure it out on your own. They didn't know when, they didn't know where, and they certainly had no idea how close it was to happening. Which brings us to the present moment.  

You and Tara always liked to do everything together, and with a big test coming up, you and the Carpenter girl decided it would be a good idea to study together. Your house wasn't noisy, you're sure your brother would stay at his girlfriend's for many days, and your parents were never home, preferring work to spending any time with the family they decided to build themselves.   

Walking to your room - where you and Tara were studying - you carried two glasses of lemonade. Summer was coming and the cold drink seemed perfect to quench your thirst.   

“Man, this is really good.” You said, taking a sip of the liquid in the glass after handing Tara's glass to her.   

Convinced by your tone, Tara brought the glass to her lips, her eyes widening slightly when she saw that you were right. “Wow, you really know how to make something.” Tara says, mocking you.   

“Hey! Of course I know, who the hell do you think I am?”  

Practically throwing yourself into your chair, you felt yourself going slightly backwards in a jolt. Momentarily forgetting that the wheelchair would move if you threw yourself onto it. The sudden movement caused the glass to tip slightly, causing much of the liquid to splash onto your white shirt.   

“Oh, fuck!” Getting up quickly, you heard Tara laughing, glancing at the girl in time to catch her looking at you with a funny face.   

“ Dude, you're such a loser.” Laughing even harder at the scowl on your face, Tara turned around in her wheelchair, following you with her eyes as you walked towards your closet, pulling at your shirt to remove it from your body.   

“Yeah, very funny. Suck my dick, Carpenter."   

Tara knew you meant it in another way, but seeing your muscly back and catching a glimpse of your abdomen and the muscles in your arms made Tara wish you had meant it in the way she was thinking.   

Who could blame her? You were always Tara's ideal type, from the first day she saw you she knew she'd have a fucking crush on you. You were tall, strong, beautiful, had a style to envy, you were polite and funny at the same time. You were everything Tara had always asked the heavens for. But she was afraid, afraid of ruining the friendship you had created over all these years. So she kept accepting the crumbs you gave her, because that was better than losing you completely.   

You and Tara had made out before, but it never went beyond that. Tara knew you had a nice body, and she was even more sure now. With your closet doors open, Tara could see you perfectly well, innocently looking for another shirt, totally oblivious to the hungry gaze the younger Carpenter had in your direction.   

“You know, it's not a bad idea.” Frowning at what Tara had said, you continued looking for a clean, stylish shirt to wear, oblivious to Carpenter's movement around your room.  

“What?” you asked, genuinely confused when a strangely nervous Tara approached you.   

“It wouldn't be a bad idea for me to suck your dick.” In disbelief, you looked at Tara with slightly wide eyes.   

You'd never even talked about sex, let alone considered it. “You're kidding, right?”   

“Why? Do you think you can't handle me?” Tara asked, her fingers gripping the belt loops of your pants, pulling you closer and making you slightly nervous.  

“I can handle it. Can you handle it, Carpenter?” You said, pulling the shorter girl closer by the waist.   

God, you loved Tara's waist, it was so small in your hands, it made you feel so big.   

“Why don't you come and find out...”   

In all the talk, that was more than enough to make you move forward, kissing Tara's lips with desire. Your hands squeezed the girl's slender waist and Tara's sighs were like music to your ears. Her lips tasted like strawberries from the lipstick, and the kiss had a slight aftertaste of the lemonade you were drinking a few minutes ago.   

You couldn't believe it, Tara was simply the most beautiful girl you'd ever seen, and here you were, about to have sex with her. You were nervous, but you had to get over it. You wanted it to be good for Tara, as much as you knew it would be for you.  

Tara gasps as you lift her off the floor, wrapping her legs around your waist, Tara noticing that you were holding her with just one arm, while the other groped the walls, looking for the way out, as you were too busy kissing Tara's neck to lift your head. Finally emerging from the closet, you walk over to the bed, carefully tossing Tara onto it before climbing on top of her.   

“Fuck, you're so hot, Tara.” Lowering your kisses to her breasts, you tugged at the hem of Carpenter's shirt in a silent request to take it off.   

“ Fuck, Yn. Do whatever you want to me!” With a smile on your face, you pulled Tara's shirt off, your fingers quickly going up and opening the clasp of the girl's bra.   

“God, you're so beautiful, Tara.” Hearing your words, the Carpenter girl's body shivered, making her let out a moan as you massaged her breasts - now free of the fabric -.   

“Do you like it?” Looking at you in bewilderment, Tara saw you laugh a little. “Do you like it when I compliment you, Tara?”   

Tara moaned, confirming what you wanted to know.   

“Do you like it when I say you're being a good girl for me?” Tara moaned awkwardly as you took her nipple in your mouth, sucking slowly without giving the girl a chance to respond to your teasing.   

Taking advantage of Tara's distraction in the fog, you unbuttoned the girl's pants, pulling the garment off her body, seeing the damp stain forming on her panties.   

“Fuck, are you already wet?” You teased, leaving a kiss on Tara's clit under the fabric of her underwear, only for the Carpenter girl to let out a loud moan.   

“You do that to me.” Tara said, pulling your hair closer to her intimacy. “Please fuck me.”  

You smiled, knowing that you were making the most of this moment. Even as you felt your cock growing in your pants, you decided that you wanted to make the most of that moment.   

Removing Tara's panties, you gave her pussy an experimental lick, collecting all the juices that flowed from it. “Uhmm, you're delicious, Tara.” Hearing Tara moan, you continued your work.   

Grabbing the brunette's legs, you gained more access to her intimacy, sucking her clit and making the woman squirm in your arms. “Please, Yn. I need more.”  

Looking at the woman, you could see Tara's watery eyes, those eyes that seemed to beg for your pity, those eyes that made you want to torture her even more with pleasure. But at that moment, those eyes made you give in.  

Standing up, you unbuttoned your pants, making Tara lean on her elbows so she wouldn't miss a second of the show. When Tara saw the bulge in your underwear, her mouth was already dry, she had imagined how big you were, even felt it a few times when she was sitting on your lap at parties, but she never thought she would see it up close.   

Seeing Tara look at you as if you were a piece of meat, you let out a snort, reaching out to grab a condom from the drawer of your bedside table. “Drooling too much?”  

“Shut up.” Tara said, the smile on her lips letting you know she was enjoying the moment. “I think you talk too much.”   

Looking at Tara with a raised eyebrow, you watched the girl kneel on the bed, reaching up only to take the condom from your hand, settling back on the bed with a predatory look on her face. “You don't know what you're talking about...”  

“Come here and show me.” Overcome by desire, you took off your underwear, making your cock jump free and hit your abs.   

Climbing onto the bed, you made your way between Tara's legs, kissing the Carpenter girl as soon as you had the chance. You gasped into the kiss as soon as you felt Tara's hand reach your cock, feeling her pump a few times, you spread kisses across her neck, distracting yourself while the younger Carpenter put the condom on you.   

Moving up from her neck to Tara's jaw, you pulled away from her slightly, looking into her brown eyes. “Are you sure you want to do this?”   

Rolling her eyes, Tara put a sarcastic smile on her face. “Why? Don't you think you can handle it?”   

Getting onto your knees properly, you watched Tara lie back comfortably on your pillows. “I just want to make sure you're comfortable with it, Tara.”   

Seeing that you were serious, the Carpenter girl stretched out her arm, her hand resting on your waist, only for her to shake her head, as if finally realizing that you wanted a sincere answer from her.   

“Of course I do.” Sitting up properly on the bed, Tara's hand reached for the back of your neck, pulling you until your forehead was resting against hers. “I've never wanted anything as much as I want this, Yn.”  

Seeing you nod, Tara smiled, pulling you into a kiss and making you lie on top of her. One of your hands was on her waist, while the other guided your cock to her wet pussy.  

Carefully, you slid the head of your cock into Tara, making the woman moan into the kiss. “Fuck, you're so big!”   

“You like that, pretty girl?” Tara moaned at the nickname, ecstatic as you sank into her inch by inch.   

“Fuck, I love it.” Taking your hand in hers, she looked up at you, almost as if asking your permission.   

With your cock all impaled inside Tara, you took both her hands, intertwining them with yours and placing them on top of her head. Your thrusts began at a slow pace, but increased in line with Tara's desperate pleas.   

The brunette underneath you was ecstatic, she was loving it, you were even better than Tara had imagined. You could make the hard feel soft, and the fast feel loving, you could make Tara feel two ways at the same time. She had never had sex with someone who made her feel loved and dirty at the same time.   

The words and compliments you whispered to her made Tara's stomach churn with pleasure, your big, sturdy form on top of her gave her the feeling of protection and imposingness that she used to hate with guys out there. But Tara knew you weren't a guy, and you weren't even close to being a jerk like them either.  

You managed to be gentle and loving amidst the brutality of your thrusts, you managed to leave Tara wanting more, you were making the brunette see stars. And it was only when Tara felt that no forming that she let out a loud moan, which was quickly muffled by your lips on hers.   

You knew Tara was coming, when you pulled away from the kiss, you saw her eyes roll back, her hands squeezing yours as it became harder and harder to move inside her. Slowing your thrusts, you followed Tara all the way up her, still hitting her g-spot as you chased your own orgasm.  

Kissing Tara's forehead, you thrust a few more times, seeing tears of pleasure in the woman's eyes. Grunting, you pulled your cock out of Tara, masturbating quickly and watching the jets of your come fill the condom.   

“Fuck...” Taking off the condom, you went to the bathroom, disposing of it in the trash and getting back into bed as quickly as possible, worried that Tara would think it meant nothing to you.   

Lying next to the brunette, you could see the smile on her face. Crawling closer to her, you left a kiss on the younger Carpenter's cheek, making her look at you with heartfelt eyes.   

“Was it good for you?” you asked, still worried that you hadn't satisfied the woman.   

“Are you kidding?” Tara asked, settling down on your bare chest. “It was the best fuck of my life.” She said laughing.   

Smiling, you looked at Tara, the words stuck in your throat. “Did that... mean anything? Or like, are we just friends who fuck?” You asked, laughing nervously.   

“Yn, I never wanted to be just your friend.” Tara said, leaning in and kissing your lips.   

A feeling of relief ran through your body. Finally, you had the girl you'd always wanted, and you were going to do everything to make her happy. 

hey guys, I hope you're well.

I'm very happy to be posting here today, I hope I'll be able to post some short requests and some thoughts that you send as well.

did you see the oscars? honestly, i'm very happy that “i'm still here” won an award. And although I was rooting for Fernanda until the last minute, I'm also very happy for Mikey. And I want to say that this profile does not support ANY kind of hate or misogyny towards Mikey.

Mikey is a kind and loving soul, and she's just doing her job. So I want to make it clear that I don't support any kind of hate.

anyway, that's it. drink water, stay safe

xoxo, spider.

[urhandsmypockets]

you’re acting as if caitlyn manipulated vi into being with her when thats not true at all. caitlyn did so much for vi and never expected anything in return and it’s so evident throughout the show. also, comparing a real life thing that happens where a woman is stripped of her culture and heritage to two characters that actually are far from that is insane.

vi getting “colonised” is an extremely strange way to put it. you’re insinuating in the first two paragraphs that caitlyn seduced her, took her away from her home, and then left her with nothing when that isn’t true at all. caitlyn never tried to indicate that she believed vi “wasn’t like the other zaunites”, she never had any negative opinions about zaunites at all (shown VERY clearly in season 1 and even parts of season 2). her treatment of zaunites was due to her rage towards jinx, and you can say about how she used the grey to — basically — gas the gangs, but if you look closely you could very well see that the people featured in that were silco’s goons, the same ones that attacked vi when she was younger. she never hated zaunites: she hated silco and his crew. she also began to hate jinx for… idk… kidnapping her when she’s naked, psychologically torturing her and then going on to kill her mother (even if it was unintentional, cait didn’t know that). you say that cait “fully [expected] her to step away from her people” which once again is incorrect. cait didn’t expect anything of her and vi never stepped away from her people.

the quote, “even going against her own ideals by becoming part of the people [enforcers] who killed her parents” is linked in with the point i made earlier that vi never stepped away from her people. vi became an enforcer because of the part at the start of season 1 when she saw the zaunite in the enforcer uniform, right when they were about to attack. she couldn’t get there in time, due to being stopped by other enforcers at the barrier, so obviously this would’ve made her think “would i have been able to stop it if i was wearing a uniform?” — she wanted to become an enforcer because she wanted to help. she wanted to make sure the world was safer for both communities. also may i remind you that cait NEVER tried to force vi to become an enforcer — obviously she was upset at first but she hadnt done anything until vi had agreed to it.

you say that “caitlyn never had to change her mind about zaun the way vi changed her mind about piltover, and remained oblivious to her own privilege and her family's legacy on zaun” and honestly i have no words for this myself. you have gone outright to just take this character at no more than face value and have seem to completely forgotten the character she has been always throughout the show. caitlyn never had to change her mind about zaun cuz her mind about it had never changed in the first place; she always cared for zaunites and even when she was the “dictator fascist” everyone makes her out to be she was still disagreeing with ambessa and suspicious of her intentions. caitlyn has ALWAYS had known “her own privilege and her family’s legacy on zaun” she literally argues with her mother about it in season 1?? she had also worked as basically our equivalent to someone who gives out parking tickets because she wanted to actually earn her job??

“it's just that the sacrifices vi has made for cait, on her identity and on a moral level, has been completely one-sided.” is also, again, not true. caitlyn has made sacrifices for vi aswell. with what i had said about what jinx had done to her, she forgave jinx and made all the guards leave the cells so vi could easily leave with jinx, knowing fully well she would never see her again (“do you think i needed all the guards at the hexgates?”). she literally gave up her anger and resentment towards jinx after what she had done because of vi (go back to when caitlyn and jinx were talking just before vi comes along). this also links back with what you said about her being … “colonised” … cait never expected vi to forgive her for what she’d done, she literally said to vi she “saw someone” to push her away since she didn’t believe she could be forgiven. she does all this for vi and she expects nothing from her in return, it was vi’s choice to forgive her and vi’s choice to kiss her in the cell.

i completely disagree with your point here. i feel like you’ve taken their characters at face value and not tried to delve deeper into their motives and thoughts and feelings. i’m not trying to hate on you, but i just feel like going as far as to say vi was “colonised” is just… extremely weird to me.

vi got colonised tbh. it gives me that feeling when a rich white old man gets with a young SEA lady, brings her to britain and she only gets to see her family through facetime, and that's also the only time she speaks her native language because her man refuses to learn it

cait basically erased vi's identity as a zaunite. she loved vi in spite of that, instead of as a part of her. like how she told vi that she's not like the other zaunites, and saying 'i thought you were one of us' fully expecting her to step away from her people.

vi's been assimilated into piltover, even going against her own ideals by becoming part of the people (enforcers) who killed her parents, who were responsible for executing the systematic oppression of zaun. yet caitlyn's never assimilated into zaun, never even stepping foot into zaun beyond the first caitvi meeting and later when she was gassing the citizens. the show ended with vi living with caitlyn in the top 1% of piltover; no mutual exchange of culture. caitlyn never had to change her mind about zaun the way vi changed her mind about piltover, and remained oblivious to her own privilege and her family's legacy on zaun.

it's just that the sacrifices vi has made for cait, on her identity and on a moral level, has been completely one-sided. this, the imbalanced power dynamic and caitlyn's subtle prejudice against zaun (*) have never been acknowledged in the show. so for them to get back together and have their happy ending without some sort of introspective reflection feels. very uncomfortable. feels like cognitive dissonance.

(*) i say subtle because other than the warcrimes moment, cait often voices her opposition to extreme measures against zaun. however, she supports 'no extreme measures' and 'they are people too' as normative ideas, not really having the ability to recognise the violation of these ideas when it's in front of her and especially not when she's the one violating them. there's constantly an undercurrent of subconscious prejudice in her attitude towards zaunites, and just, a real lack of understanding

[whumpsoda]

Hear me out, villain that hypnotizes hero who’s main schtick is being a detective/smart into losing all access to any IQ points

cw: brainwashing, pet whump

“You look very cute all tied up.” Villain waltzed about the shadow of their lair, concealing their slicked back hair and signature smile that smooshed their red flushed cheeks. A stomach churning display of a twisted mind.

“Cut the shit, Villain.” Hero spat, restraints holding them tight in place, not a single opening for escape. Villain was much too experienced for that. “What do you want with me?” Their voice was shaky and cracking, an aspect they couldn’t manage to conceal.

Villain’s high heeled boots click clacked into the light of a single bulb, slightly yellow and dim. “Don’t play dumb, silly Hero. You know what I want.” Dancing about the room, they made a point to be as touchy feely as they pleased. “I’m sure you know all about me.” Their hand lingered at Hero’s forehead, almost as if they were dipping into their skin, snaking around and picking through their brain, freezing it in place-

“S- stop-!” Hero shrieked, cracking through the quick fuzz of their mind.

“Hey, don’t be scared.” Villain cooed, almost paternal, sliding a palm down their enemy’s face to cup at their chin. “I’m just doing what you asked, getting straight to the fun part.”

“Not-,” As much as they could - which wasn’t a lot - Hero warily shook off their caress. “Stop, please.” 

Villain was unpredictable. Their power was versatile, their imagination endless. So many other rescued Heroes had come back irreversibly changed, completely different, they’d seen it themself. Were they destined to the same fate?

“Don’t worry, Hero.” With a chuckle, Villain cupped Hero’s face in between their hands, tapping their own forehead to that of their enemy’s. “You won’t feel a thing.”

Hero wriggled about, only tightening the leather straps. “No! N- no! No, no, please!” They begged, doing their very best to ward off the tingle inching forth from the back of their mind.

“Shhh, dear, calm yourself. You’ll feel all nice and sweet in a moment.”

Sucking in a gasp, a switch in Hero’s brain switched the instant Villain’s fingers caved into their temples, pausing them in place.

Hero couldn’t think.

Twisting and turning, moulding their foe’s mind, Villain moved in circular, tender motions about Hero’s skin. Ever so carefully they allowed their calming energy to flow through their hands and into Hero’s brain, soothing them into momentary docility.

Hero’s lips hung open, drool dripping and soaking into their attire like a faucet. Bliss concealed their terror by tenfold, blurring their senses to a background tingle.

With a soft, song like hum, Villain carved through their patient’s mind with ease. Picking and prodding with their power, they modeled them to perfection in a mere minute.

As fast as their power overcame, it washed gone.

“Isn’t that better?” Stepping back, as if to admire their work, Villain studied Hero’s quivering lip and fearful gaze. Hero’s breath went shaky, wriggling their best in confusion. “Hey now, there’s nothing to be afraid of, don’t even worry. I know you’re all confused, but I’m only here to help, okay?”

Tears clouded Hero’s gaze as they flailed and begged to their captor with intelligentless eyes. “Nngh…!”

“Well we can’t have that, can we?” Villain pouted, closing in on their delectable looking prey.

With the flick of the wrist they curled their hand into the Hero’s locks, scratching gently at their scalp. Hero’s worry was gone in only a second, relaxing with idiocy. “Oh how cute! You’re like a little puppy.” Villain giggled, as Hero’s foot began bouncing with pleasured excitement, eyes rolling till barely anything but the whites showed.

“I can’t believe I finally got my hands on you,” they started, continuing with their finger’s venture about Hero’s hair, speaking words they were no longer smart enough to understand, “this is a delightful day, isn’t it? We’ll have to see if your teammates feel the same now, won’t we?”

[lelengerine]

pairing. zhong chenle x reader

synopsis. you became chenle’s academic rival because it was the only way to make him notice you. it was supposed to be harmless—just a little friendly competition, a fleeting thrill of being seen, but when you overhear his friends saying you’re nowhere near his type, you realize you’ve might’ve been playing a losing game from the beginning.

tags. highschool au, academic rivals to lovers, mutual pining, a splash of angst but mainly fluff, one cuss word, plot is a lil stupid but it's MY kinda stupid, she/her prns are used for reader!

wc. 1.6k words

notes. it has been a while... again... anyways.... i hope you're all doing well 😁 likes, reblogs, and feedback are very much welcome!

꒰ m.list ꒱

it all begins with a single test.

a perfect score, a name at the top of the list. not his. yours.

chenle doesn’t look at you often—not outside of necessity, not beyond the casual acknowledgment of two students who happen to sit near each other. you were just another body in the classroom, another hand raised during discussions, another mark on the ranking board.

yet, that changes the moment you manage to surpass him.

“that was sheer luck,” he says when he sees your score, as if the idea of you outperforming him was absurd, as if there was no possible universe in which you could be his equal, but that was what it took for him to notice you, to know you.

so you do it again. and again. and again—until your name and his become inseparable, linked by competition, by late-night study sessions and quiet acknowledgments of each other’s efforts; until it becomes expected that when scores are announced, yours will be the first name he looks for.

and at some point, the rivalry stops being just a game to you because you like the way his brow furrows when he barely edges you out. you like the sharp wit in his teasing, the way he leans back in his chair and smirks whenever he catches you staring. you like the quiet satisfaction in his voice when he tells you, “next time, i’m winning.”

you like him.

not in any serious way—just the tiniest bit. a trivial little crush. nothing that would ever mean anything.

at least, that’s what you tell minjeong.

“you’re actually insane,” she says one afternoon, watching you scribble furiously in your notebook.

you don’t even look up. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

minjeong kicks at your chair leg. “oh, please. you started a whole academic rivalry just to get chenle to notice you.”

you blink innocently. “and?”

“and that’s the most unhinged thing i’ve ever heard!” she gestures wildly. “like, do you even hear yourself? you willingly turned your crush into your competition just so he’d acknowledge your existence?”

you sigh, finally looking up. “it’s not that deep.”

minjeong gives you a look. “it is exactly that deep. you could’ve just flirted with him like a normal person.”

you scoff. “i am flirting. just… academically.”

“i call bullshit!”

“it’s working, isn’t it?” you tap your pen against your notebook. “before this, he didn’t even properly know my name. now, he’s the one finding me to compare exam results.”

minjeong groans, dropping her forehead onto the desk. “i can’t believe i’m friends with someone this delusional.”

you grin. “you love me.”

she lifts her head just enough to glare at you. “i tolerate you.”

and maybe she has a point—maybe it’s ridiculous, maybe it’s a little (very) pathetic, but in the end, what does it matter? it’s just a harmless game. a fleeting thrill.

it’s not like you actually expect anything to come of it.

right?

ʚɞ

it was all an accident.

you didn’t mean to overhear jaemin and jisung talking in the cafeteria, but the moment your name slips into the conversation, your brain snags onto it like a hook.

jaemin sighs, voice quieter than usual. “i feel kind of bad for her.”

jisung, chewing absentmindedly, glances up. “why?”

jaemin nudges his tray with his fork, brows drawn together. “i mean… it’s obvious, isn’t it? she’s been competing with him like crazy, but…” he pauses, choosing his words carefully. “i don’t think she realizes that chenle doesn’t usually—” he exhales. “he’s never really looked at anyone that way before.”

jisung frowns slightly. “you think she likes him?”

jaemin gives him a pointed look. “come on, you don’t?”

jisung hesitates, then sighs. “yeah. but it’s not like it’s completely hopeless. i mean, he respects her now, you know? it’s not nothing.”

jaemin leans back in his seat, thoughtful. “yeah, but respect and interest aren’t the same thing.” his voice drops, softer, like he almost doesn’t want to say it. “and if he was interested in someone… it probably wouldn’t be her.”

jisung’s expression hardens. “not because she’s not good enough, right?”

“no, of course not,” jaemin says quickly. “it’s just—you know how he is. he likes people who challenge him, but he also looks up to experience. he’s always been drawn to older people, people who’ve done more, seen more.” he sighs. “if he ever did like someone, it’d probably be someone like that.”

jisung drums his fingers against the table, lips pressing together. “i mean… who would wanna date their rival anyways? that sounds a bit exhausting.”

jaemin huffs a quiet laugh. “yeah, exactly.” then, after a beat, his voice softens again. “i just don’t want her to get her hopes up.”

your stomach twists.

and just like that, the air shifts because suddenly, everything that once felt light, fleeting, manageable—your silly little crush, your harmless rivalry—becomes something heavier. something that leaves a pit in your stomach, pressing down with the weight of every joke, every glance, every moment you thought maybe.

there was never a chance. not even the slightest possibility.

and you were stupid to ever think otherwise.

ʚɞ

you don’t talk about it.

not to minjeong when she nudges your elbow during class, whispering about the way chenle has glanced at your direction three times in a row already when it’s only the first period. not to your friends when they ask why you don’t seem to argue with him as much anymore.

and certainly not to chenle himself.

you tell yourself you’re getting over it, that it doesn’t matter.

you stop challenging him for the sake of it. you stop lingering on the way he says your name. you stop waiting for him to look at you first. you let yourself lose—because what’s the point of competing for something you were never going to win?

“what’s with you lately?”

chenle’s voice cuts through the quiet hum of the nearly empty classroom. you don’t look up from your notebook, feigning disinterest as you continue underlining a phrase you’ve already marked twice.

“with me?” you ask, barely sparing him a glance. “nothing’s wrong.”

he scoffs, shifting his weight against the desk. “you haven’t tried to beat me in anything all week.”

the accusation is laced with something you can’t quite place—curiosity, maybe. or frustration. maybe both. but it doesn’t matter, none of it does.

you shrug, keeping your expression neutral. “maybe i just don’t care anymore.”

a pause. too long, too heavy. you feel the weight of his stare pressing into you, waiting for something—for you to crack, to admit to something you shouldn’t.

then, his voice comes quieter, but sharper. “you expect me to believe that?”

you tap your pen against the desk, the rhythm steady, controlled. “i don’t expect anything from you.”

and there it is. the truth, laid out between you like an open wound.

chenle exhales, tilting his head, his gaze never wavering. “so that’s it?”

you force yourself to nod, as if it’s that simple. as if your stomach doesn’t still twist every time he looks at you.

another pause. then—

“so it has nothing to do with my ideal type being someone older or whatever?”

your fingers stiffen around your pen.

the air shifts, charged and suffocating. for the first time since he walked into the room, you hesitate. your body betrays you before your mind can catch up—shoulders tensing, breath hitching, the smallest flicker of your eyes meeting his before you can stop yourself.

chenle sees it all.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, voice clipped, turning back to your notes.

he doesn’t let up. “jisung and jaemin,” he hints, like he’s been waiting for this, like he already knows you heard them. “that’s why you’ve been acting weird.”

you grip the edge of the page, trying to keep your hands steady. “it’s really not.” 

his gaze burns into you, unrelenting. “right,” he murmurs. “so it wouldn’t… i don’t know… bother you if i said they were wrong?”

your heart stumbles.

wrong?

the word unravels in your mind, the possibilities spinning out of control before you can stop them.

they were… wrong?

wrong about what? that you never had a chance? that he would never look at you that way? that you were playing a losing game from the start?

or—

that maybe, just maybe, you had never been losing at all.

your throat feels tight. you grip your pen harder, grounding yourself in something, anything other than trying to figure out the meaning behind his words. you tell yourself not to ask. not to hope.

“no,” you mutter instead. “it doesn’t matter.”

chenle exhales, a quiet huff of amusement, as if he can see right through you. “it does matter, though.”

his voice is lower now, softer, careful, and you hate the way it makes your pulse stutter.

“cause you’re the same age as me.”

the words settle between you, deceptively simple, but you can feel the intention behind them, the unspoken meaning in the way he says them—like he’s handing you a puzzle piece, daring you to put it together.

slowly, reluctantly, you look up.

chenle is already watching you, waiting. his expression is unreadable, but there’s something beneath it—something pleased, something almost satisfied. like he’s just solved a problem that’s been bothering him for a while.

like he’s just confirmed something he always suspected.

a slow, knowing smile tugs at his lips. “so?” he murmurs. “still want to pretend you don’t care?”

and suddenly, it clicks.

the teasing, the competition, the way his eyes would always flick to your scores first. the way he’d smirk whenever you challenged him, like he was waiting for it. the way he never let you win too easily, but never let himself lose without a fight.

the way he always met you where you were, like he had been waiting for you to catch up.

it seems you weren’t the only one playing a game.