#square glass filters

[hidengifs]

@Giftober 2023 Day 11: Pink ↳ Kijino Tsuyoshi | Avataro Sentai Donbrothers

And then there's me, as average as they get. Until that day...

[tokjutrips]

Castle of glass Venclslav skvér

[angelseraphines]

ೃ⁀➷ million dollar man ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ cho sang-woo x girlfriend!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header! this story takes place in an alternate ending for squid game where sang-woo wins instead of gi-hun! 🤍

˚ ༘♡ it had been over two weeks since you last heard from cho sang-woo. no calls, no texts, not even the smallest acknowledgment of your existence. the silence weighed on you, growing heavier with every passing day. sang-woo, your long-term boyfriend, the man you had imagined spending the rest of your life with, had seemingly vanished without explanation.

˚ ༘♡ he was everything you had dreamed of, handsome, intelligent, educated. in your eyes, he was near perfect. you had moved to south korea a year and a half ago. the two of you met only a month after your arrival in seoul. you were standing at a convenience store counter, struggling to buy an iced coffee before work. the cashier’s words blurred into a language barrier you couldn’t break through, leaving you flustered and embarrassed.

˚ ༘♡ then there he was. cho sang-woo, with his neatly pressed suit and square-rimmed glasses, stepping in to translate with a calm assurance that immediately put you at ease. he went further and insisted on paying for your coffee, brushing off your protests with a polite smile. “you can pay me back with your number,” he had said, his tone light but his warm gaze unwavering. you gave it to him without hesitation, your heart racing as he walked away with a casual, confident stride that lingered in your mind for days.

˚ ༘♡ what followed was akin to a fantasy. your first few dates were sweet and unassuming, dinners at cozy restaurants, walks through bustling markets, late-night phone calls that stretched into the early hours of the morning. before long, it became more than casual. he wasn’t simply a charming man in a suit, he was someone you trusted, someone you leaned on. yet, as your relationship deepened, so did the flaws.

˚ ༘♡ sang-woo treated you well in many ways. he insisted on paying for meals, even when you protested. he offered to help with rent when he noticed you were stressed about expenses. his job at joy investments afforded him a lifestyle of financial stability, one that he willingly extended to you. however, beneath his polished exterior, there was an undeniable distance.

˚ ༘♡ it started small, little things that nagged at you but seemed too insignificant to bring up. his phone was always locked, the screen flashing dark whenever you glanced at it. he would leave suddenly, without warning, offering only vague explanations that never quite satisfied your curiosity. “work,” he would say, brushing off your questions as though they were irrelevant. and no matter how many times you pressed him for the truth, he never admitted anything.

˚ ༘♡ those moments of secrecy chipped away at your trust, leaving an uneasy ache in your chest. you told yourself it was nothing, that you were overthinking. but the fights that erupted when you brought it up told a different story. his calm facade would crack, and he would grow defensive, his words sharp and cutting. “don’t you trust me?” he had asked more than once, the accusation in his tone a slap in the face.

˚ ༘♡ despite the arguments, despite the unanswered questions, you loved him. you loved the way he smoothed a hand down your back when you were upset, the way his voice softened when he called you by name. you loved the rare instances of vulnerability he let slip, the heartfelt glimpses of the man beneath the polished exterior. you loved him enough to forgive, enough to overlook the secrets that cast shadows over your relationship.

˚ ༘♡ as you sat alone in your apartment, staring at your phone with an empty inbox mocking your worry. two weeks of silence was unbearable. the man you loved, the one who had promised to protect you, had left you with nothing but questions and a ache where his presence used to be.

˚ ༘♡ the doorbell rang, cutting through the quiet of your apartment as though it were a sharp blade. it wasn’t merely unusual, it was unsettling. who would come at this hour? you glanced at the clock on the wall, its glowing numbers reminding you that it was well past midnight. your stomach churned uneasily as you stood up, your fatigue from a long shift at the café clinging to you.

˚ ༘♡ working from sunrise to sunset every day had worn you thin, but you had refused sang-woo’s offers to help you financially. he had already done so much, given so generously, and the thought of taking more was crossing a line you couldn’t bring yourself to breach. it would be an abuse of his kindness.

˚ ༘♡ the hallway was dark as you approached the door, your bare feet silent on the cool floor. you hesitated before unlocking it, your hand hovering over the latch. “hello?” you called out cautiously as you cracked it open, peering into the dimly lit corridor.

˚ ༘♡ before you could register what was happening, a hard shove sent the door crashing into you, knocking you backward. you stumbled, barely managing to catch yourself against the wall. your heart leapt into your throat as the figure who had forced their way inside quickly shut the door behind them.

˚ ༘♡ your confusion turned to disbelief as the light from your apartment fell on their face. it was sang-woo.

˚ ༘♡ his chest heaved with each labored breath, his shirt wrinkled and unbuttoned at the collar, his dress pants scuffed and slightly torn. his glasses, the ones you always teased him about for making him look too serious, were nowhere to be seen. instead, his face bore the evidence of recent hardships, bruises, faint scars, and scabbed-over cuts that marred his formerly pristine appearance. even his hands, the ones you’d grown so used to seeing holding a pen or a glass of wine, were scratched and battered.

˚ ༘♡ he looked like he had aged years in the short time he had been gone.

˚ ༘♡ “sang-woo,” you stammered, your voice unsteady with equal parts confusion and fear, “what the hell are you doing? it’s the middle of the night, and… why haven’t you been answering my calls?”

˚ ༘♡ he opened his mouth as if to respond, but the words didn’t come immediately. instead, he leaned against the door, his shoulders slumping as though the weight of the world was pressing down on him. “i…” he started, his voice hoarse and raw, but he seemed unable to finish.

˚ ༘♡ without warning, he crossed the room in a single stride and pulled you into a tight embrace. his arms wrapped around you with a desperation that felt almost suffocating, his head burying into the crook of your neck as he clung to you.

˚ ༘♡ you stood unmoving, the shock of his sudden appearance warring with the affection of his touch. part of you was relieved beyond words to have him back, while another part was angry. angry at his disappearance, at the unanswered calls and texts, at the fear and doubt he had left you to wrestle with.

˚ ༘♡ “i missed you,” he murmured against your shoulder, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it.

˚ ༘♡ his words tugged at your heart, but they weren’t enough to quell the storm of questions brewing inside you. “sang-woo,” you said, your voice softer now but still laced with frustration, “what’s going on? where have you been? what happened to you?”

˚ ༘♡ he didn’t answer right away, his grip tightening, as though the very act of holding onto you could keep him grounded. his breath was unstable, his chest rising and falling against yours in a way that betrayed the turmoil beneath his silence. the room felt oppressively quiet.

˚ ༘♡ “sang-woo!” you exclaimed, your voice sharp, desperate for clarity. the sound seemed to jolt him, his body stiffening before he reluctantly pulled back.

˚ ༘♡ his hands were shaking as he reached into his pocket, the movement clumsy and hurried. when he withdrew, he thrust a thick stack of cash into your arms, one hundred million won, neatly bound and unnervingly out of place in your modest apartment. the weight of the money startled you, as you stared at the crisp bills in disbelief.

˚ ༘♡ “listen to me,” he said, his voice shaking but steadfast. “after this, after i take care of everything, i’ll buy us a beautiful home. somewhere quiet, somewhere safe. hold onto this for now.”

˚ ༘♡ you blinked at him, your mind struggling to process the sudden shift, the money heavy in your grasp. “sang-woo,” you said, your tone rising with vexation and confusion, “where did you get this money?”

˚ ༘♡ he didn’t answer, his eyes avoiding yours, and that only fueled your frustration. “tell me!” you demanded. “where have you been? do you have any idea what I’ve been through? i thought you left me for another woman or fled the country!”

˚ ༘♡ his jaw clenched, his expression fading as guilt flashed across his face, but he said nothing.

˚ ༘♡ you pressed further, your voice strained with a mix of hurt and fury. “i talked to your mother. she said you haven’t called her in ages! i went to your work. they haven’t seen you in weeks! your friends? same thing. no one knows where you’ve been!” your hands tightened around the cash, your knuckles white as your chest heaved with the distress of your tone. “how could you do this to me? how could you leave without a word, without an explanation?”

˚ ༘♡ his silence hurt more than any words could have. he looked at you, his expression a painful mix of regret and something darker, something you couldn’t place. his lips parted as if to speak, but he hesitated, the words caught somewhere between his chest and his throat.

˚ ༘♡ “sang-woo,” you whispered, your voice trembling as tears began to sting your eyes. “please. i need to understand.”

˚ ༘♡ “i’ll tell you everything soon, i promise, sweetheart,” sang-woo murmured, his voice unsteady, as if it pained him to speak. his hand, calloused and trembling, reached out to rest gently on your cheek, his touch delicate. your heart ached as you met his gaze, those dark, exhausted eyes glistening with unshed tears. it was a look so raw, so unfamiliar.

˚ ༘♡ “you have to trust me,” he said, his tone soft but pleading. “you have to listen to me. i’ve already given you what you need to cover your expenses.” his hand lingered against your cheek for a monthly moment before falling away, his fingers curling into a fist at his side. “i have urgent legal and business matters to deal with, but once they’re resolved��� we’ll have the life we’ve dreamed of. everything we’ve talked about.”

˚ ༘♡ his lips brushed against your forehead, the kiss light but filled with a quiet desperation that made your chest tighten. “nothing could ever keep me from you,” he breathed, the words barely audible. “promise me you’ll do as i ask.”

˚ ༘♡ everything about this felt wrong, the way he avoided your questions, the haunting exhaustion in his voice, the bruises that lined his hands and face. you wanted answers. you wanted to demand he tell you everything right then and there, but the way he looked at you, so broken, so unlike the composed sang-woo you knew, kept you from saying anymore.

˚ ༘♡ uncertainty clouded your mind, nonetheless you nodded, your voice hardly above a whisper. “i promise.”

˚ ༘♡ his shoulders sagged slightly at your answer, the tension in his body loosening, though not entirely disappearing. “good,” he said softly, almost to himself. he was still nervous, his eyes darting toward the door as though expecting someone to burst through at any moment.

˚ ༘♡ “i have to go,” he said, his voice tinged with reluctance. “but i’ll come back. i swear, okay?”

˚ ༘♡ “okay,” you replied, unsure but unwilling to push him further.

˚ ༘♡ he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a fleeting, tender kiss that left you yearning for answers. then, without another word, he turned and left the apartment, closing the door behind him.

˚ ༘♡ you stood there, the silence of his absence pressing down on you, dread engulfed your thoughts. your mind churned with questions, with doubts, but one thing was certain, you were relieved, no matter how strange the circumstances of his return, to have seen sang-woo again. the agonizing ache in your chest told you that his departure had left you with far more questions than answers.

a/n: my first sang-woo fanfiction!! is it controversial for me to say i love his character and he’s my favorite one in squid game? please let me know if you have any requests! 🤍

[giuseppe-yuki]

secret admirer

1st grade teacher!max verstappen x 1st grade teacher! reader

w.c.: 1.9k

warnings: none :)

summary: a rose appears on your desk every day. who is it from??

a/n: i know it's edited but glasses max has me in a CHOKEHOLD!!!! anyways, mini fic while ya'll wait for the promised spiderman!au fic (i'm still working on it...)

mini accompaniment: good idea..?

picture credits from pinterest :)

there’s a single rose on your desk - a pretty swirl of soft pink petals that still has that faint sweet smell. 

it sits neatly on your stack of graded addition-papers, right atop aurelia's perfect-score paper. 

at first, you had thought that it was from one of you adventurous first-graders, jack or tina, who had climbed up onto the rose-bush hills and plucked a single flower to put on your desk. it wasn’t rare, of course, for your students to give you gifts. (you still had that rock that your student from a few years ago, logan, had given to you on your desk)

you had even asked your class, standing in front of all of them with the roses in hand, asking who had picked them.

they had all shared that devious look only first-graders could make, covering their giggly mouths with a hand, and refused to elaborate. 

only gabriel, or bubbles, as many called him, had raised his hand and said, ”it wasn’t us because i saw someone down the hall come in with a flower for you,” before isack, who sat next to him on the colored square carpet, slapped his glue covered hand in front of gabriel’s mouth and announced, “no, we didn’t see anything, missus teacher.”

weird. 

a white rose sits on your desk today, its pure petals almost glowing from the sunlight filtering through your window. 

you poke at it, as if it could just magically reveal who had placed it there. you even consider sniffing it really hard in a moment of desperation, as if the scent of the giver would somehow be there. 

however, the pitter-patter of sparkly flats and light-up shoes squeak through the hallway, accompanied by the loud chatter of your first grade students stop you from performing such a stupid-sounding act. 

they’re obviously not supposed to be inside where you are, sorting their coloring worksheets, but rather supposed to be outside on the play-yard with the rest of the first graders. of course, when have 1st graders ever listen to adults, anyways?

the scuffling of several pairs of shoes stop in front of your closed door. 

ollie’s voice drift through the cracks of the door first.

“you open the door,” he says in a whisper-that’s-not-so-quiet.

a second accented voice echoes through. “no you open the door, ollie, you’re the one who wanted to come here first!”

right away, you clock it as ollie’s inseparable best friend, kimi.

a third voice resonates through the classroom through the crack under the door. 

“don’t be a idiot, kimi, you both wanted to come back to the classroom.” 

doriane.

“hey! don’t be meanie, doriane, that is a bad word!”

”well, you and kimi both have cooties, anyways.”

the sound of someone bursting into tears. 

at that point, you shoot out of your chair, leaving the rose atop a quite frankly, badly colored picture of a dinosaur. 

slowly, you open your classroom door to find doriane and maya standing with their arms crossed, facing an angry-looking kimi who was holding up a bawling ollie.

”what’s going on here, guys?” you ask, crouching down to look them in the eyes. “why did you guys come back into the classroom when you guys should be out in the play-yard with your friends?”

ollie wipes the tears from his big brown eyes with the back of his hand before shooting forward, out of kimi’s grip. 

“i just wanted to tell you, that me, and maya, and kimi, and doriane were playing tag- and guess what!” 

“what,” you respond, just to appease him. 

“we heard- “ he looks around nervously- “that the teacher from room 33 down the hall called you gor- gor-“

”gor-jus!” maya interjects helpfully. 

kimi and doriane nod aggressively. 

“did he?” you respond slowly. “that’s very interesting, guys, thanks for telling me that. now go run along back to the playground, because you guys still have five minutes of recess left, okay?”

they beam, and echo you’re welcomes before scurrying back down the hall.

hmm.

a yellow rose sits on your desk this time, thornless, but with a single spiky leaf on its stem. it fits in the pot real nicely with the other two roses, even though they are different colors. 

you almost zone out looking at the flowers, before you feel a little hand grasping your shirt and pulling. 

jack stands next to you with a piece of paper and a shy smile. 

quickly snapping out of your trance, you scoot closer towards him on your wheely chair and lean forwards him. 

“hiya jack,” you say, encouraging him to speak up. “did you want to show me something?”

”yeah,” he says simply, before turning his paper around. 

it’s…something. 

“wow, that’s very nice, jack,” you respond, trying to decipher and piece together exactly what the five big pink and blue squares, two circles, and random black scribble on the side were supposed to mean. 

“it’s a car,” he states matter-of-factly. “it’s ‘cause i want to be a race-car driver when i gr-“

before he can finish his sentence, bianca runs up behind him like a secret-agent before shoving him out of the way. 

“hey, i want to show missus teacher my paper,” she snaps.

almost immediately, you leap up to catch jack before he stumbles and falls head-first into the trash can placed  next to your desk. 

“bianca,” you chastise. “we do not push, we wait our turn, okay?” 

she frowns, whispering a quick ‘sorry’ to jack. 

“that’s o-k,” jack says, smiling kindly, before walking away to show somebody his abstract shapes/car drawing. 

bianca shoves her picture in your lap the moment you sit back down.

it’s beautifully drawn, and you would definitely paste it on your “artist superstar” board in the corner of your classroom, except for the fact that there was two figures, one clearly with a rose in its hand, embracing another figure with a blue shirt and yellow-crayon colored hair. 

“that’s you,” she explains, pointing to the figure with the red rose. “and that,” she says, pointing to the mysterious other figure, “is your secret friend that likes you.” 

“oh!” you respond. 

right, okay. 

a velvet red rose shows up on your desk half-way through the next day. it’s in perfect bloom, petals opening to a perfect rounded shape. 

as pretty as it is, you almost forget about it, only because of the fact that your class was being well-behaved, unlike normal.

they actually listen as they sit quietly on their own little carpet squares, whiteboards in hand, as you begin your lesson on the three properties of matter at the front of the classroom.

it doesn’t last very long, however. you’re halfway through explaining how ice cubes can go from the solid form to the liquid form, when you start hearing whispering from the back row. 

liam, with, like, twenty goofy little lightening mcqueen stickers stuck all over his shirt, squeals in laughter as he scribbles something on his white-board, causing the kids around him to laugh. 

you sigh, setting down your own marker, before turning back around. time to confiscate whiteboards. 

“liam, please give me your white-board,” you declare as kindly as you can. 

“no!” he screeches stubbornly as he ferociously scribbles something on the board again.

you have to almost snatch the board away from his surprisingly strong grip with excess force.

on it, instead of the water droplet diagram like everyone else, he has drawn a big heart, complete with your initials, a plus sign, and a big fat MV next to it. 

what. 

gathering all the clues together from your students like you were some type of detective, you are certain you know who has been giving you the roses. there was only one person down the hall, in room 33, who always wore a blue shirt with blond-ish hair that had the initials mv. 

you stroll down the hall during recess the next day, when ollie and kimi and jack and all the little troublemakers are outside jumping rope and playing tag.

when you peer into the window of the 1st grade classroom located at the end of the hall, you spot a familiar man sitting in a swirly chair in the corner of the room. aside from you, he was one of the only other 1st grade teachers at the school. you hadn’t really talked to him much- just limited conversations in the teacher break room or quick greetings the hallways.

he’s scrunched over his desk, lamp setting his blonde hair alight into golden strands. the glasses that sit atop his nose slide down his sloped nose, which he quickly corrects by lifting his hand and pushing it back up to its correct position. 

huh. you suppose he was kind of cute. 

max, or mr. v, like all the students call him, jerks rather violently when you stick your head into the doorway his race-car themed classroom and wave a hello. the glasses he wears skew crooked, and the half-open can of redbull that he has on the corner of his desk almost goes flying onto the checkered rug that he has placed on the floor.

“oh, i’m so sorry, max, didn’t mean to scare you there!” you apologize, watching as he snatches the silver and blue can with lightning fast reflexes before shoving it haphazardly behind a stack of ungraded papers. 

“no, no, you’re okay,” he says much too quickly, fixing his glasses. “i was, just, you know, sitting around, um, here.” 

there’s a slight lisp to his voice that you hadn’t noticed before. it curls around you in a surprising yet comforting way. you kinda liked it. 

”right,” you affirm. “well, i hope you don’t mind me interrupting your, er, sitting around time, but i’ve been receiving this kind gift from a certain someone and i was wondering if you could help me find them.”

you reveal the small bouquet of multicolored flowers from behind you, tied neatly with a piece of ribbon from your supply bin. 

max’s eyes widen just a fraction behind his square-framed glasses. his cheeks flush a pretty pink. 

“oh!” he stutters out. “i-i-wouldn’t really know anything about that, um i don’t think.” 

max scratches at his neck awkwardly. 

you laugh. 

”max, i know it’s you. somehow, my 1st graders picked up on it before me, which is kind of crazy, but they kind of snitched on you.”

he turns even redder. 

“i’m sorry,” he blurts out. “i hope it’s not weird- it’s just that i think i really like you, and that my friend charles suggested i give you a gift sometime, but i keep getting caught up in the classroom but also get too scared to give you the flowers and i thought-“

“-max,” you say, cutting him off. “it’s okay, i don’t mind at all- i thought it was really sweet. i haven’t had a chance to know you very well, but i’d love to know you better. we can do my house, this weekend? i’d really like some tips on how to deal with rowdy 1st graders!”

you add in a reassuring smile.

”yes!” he snaps as soon you finish talking. “wait, sorry, i meant um, i would love to,” he quickly adds.

”great!” you beam. ”it’s a date then!”

he smiles shyly at you. 

“it’s a da-“

a sudden screech cuts off max halfway, leading the both of you to turn towards the doorway. 

somehow, ollie, kimi, doriane, and maya have snuck inside again. they stand there, wide-eyed, at the scene.

doriane points an accusing finger at you.  “ewww!!!!” she yells at the top of her lungs. “that’s disgusting! you’re going on a date with a boy! he’s gonna give you cooties!”

[matchesarelit]

Imagine If You Will...

Acting as the Frontman's PA, and having the Guard harem wrapped around your finger.

This part is:

PA Announcer

Musical Fan!reader

This will be a choose your adventure kind of thing where there will be multiple with jobs/specialties/interactions.

a/n: Hope you like Mamma Mia xoxo

Please don't hesitate to request!!

Walking a few steps behind the Frontman, peering through your silver mask and analysing the clipboard in your hands you updated your boss on the status of everything being prepared for the games.

Based on the grunts and scoffs he let out you crossed out and marked different items on the list. For a man of little words, he sure was good at communicating. After the large doors to the hall closed, you looked first to your boss then to the militia-like staff.

Handing over the checklist to the closest square, you nodded to your boss and turned to leave.

“Squares 1 through 16, Your men will be painting the halls. Squares 18 through 21, Your men will construct the bridge. Squares 22 and 23..." As you approached your office the front man's voice faded away.

There was a surprising amount of paper work for a company that strived to leave no traceable evidence, you supposed they needed to be completely aware of the crimes that the company had committed as to better cover their tracks. That being said, you would swear that the pile had grown since before breakfast.

So sitting down in your little office you pulled off your mask and began to sort through the first few files. After certain issues and unauthorised branches sprung up in the command structure of the previous year's games, you been given the tedious task of vetting all potential contestants.

The main rules were; no one with medical training, we cant have another spout of organ harvesting, no one with knowledge that could reduce or alter the difficulty of the games, aka no more glass guys, and so on and so forth for what seemed to be an unending and ever growing pile of filters.

You'd made it through half of the pile, removing a few of the contestants for their quote unquote leadership qualities, when an alarm chimed from your phone. Tugging forward the microphone you grabbed the notes from today's agenda, before crackling the speakers to life with the press of a button.

'It is now midday. Lunch will be available to grab under the sun for the next 90 minutes. Today's music choice is... mine and will be the entire Mamma Mia musical soundtrack followed by twenty minutes of me replaying my favourite songs.'

Pressing play on the album and turning off the microphone you opted to return to your work for the time being, only now there was the occasional humming along.

When a tapping came from your window you finally stopped, slipping your silvery mask back into place and tugging back the unnecessarily extravagant curtain you observed a single circle giving you a thumbs up.

Waving to him you stepped closer and peered to the side, down the hall stood a group grooving, and as you pressed your ear to the glass you could hear their voices singing along.

Sneaking your secure and very dumb brick of a phone out of your pocket you started to record, before noticing the circle was now waving for you to join them.

Deciding... screw it you leaned your phone against the sill and slipped out of the office to join the gaggle of guards. Only then did you notice just how loud the PA system was set to as the concrete under your feet vibrated with the music.

Dancing and singing along, the group seemed to grow as the album played on... until your boss' brash tone cracked over the system;

'Okay that's enough, go get your food.'

Oh yeah... lunch.

[artficlly]

smog & spirits: eye for an eye (series)

Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

mob!bucky x witch!reader

Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, smut, p n v, unprotected sex, table sex, light fingering, hair pulling, begging, past wounds, physical violence, angst, wound description, threats, some fluff, protective bucky, bucky barnes had issues, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 5.8k

A/N: hi!! i spent all of jan doing my 50k word challenge on the daughter of rotsál first draft, but i thought i'd take these first few days of feb to update this fic! i also released a smutty/fluffy oneshot called sweatpea you should check out! my birthday and uni is coming up soon so i'm gonna try squeeze in some more work on the daughter of rotsál draft before that and maybe one more update / another one-shot but i'll see how i go! anyway, enjoy this is a spicy one! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

taglist: @nash-dara @sebastians-love permanent taglist: @globetrotter28

main masterlist | series masterlist

The shipment warehouse was a vast, hollowed-out space. Shadows stretched long beneath the dim, hanging bulbs. The scent of aged wood, alcohol, and rust lingered in the air, the faint remnants of the whiskey that passed through here on its way to buyers. Though mostly empty, clusters of wooden crates were stacked against the far walls, some sealed, others pried open to reveal their glass cargo, bottles of dark amber liquid reflecting the weak light. Scattered metal production tables dotted the floor, their surfaces scratched and stained from years of work. These were the stations where workers packed the shipments, but now, the tables sat abandoned, save for one.

At the centre of the warehouse, in front of one of the tables, three men sat bound to chairs. Rope bit into their flesh, tight enough that their fingers were already turning an ugly shade of blue. The table before them had been repurposed for something far crueller than packaging liquor. A collection of weapons lay across its surface—blades, hammers, pliers, each one arranged with careful deliberation. 

By the main entrance, Steve and Sam stood guard, their figures solid and unmoving, you eyed them cautiously as you passed through the threshold. They didn’t quite meet your eye, and you wondered if they could hear the deafening pulse that roared in your ears. The cold night air filtered in through the open doors behind them, a scattering of ash decorating the stone floor.

Bucky entered beside you, his steps slow and deliberate. But you could feel the unspoken tension rolling off him in waves. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, his shoulders squared rigidly, his jaw tight. The walk over from the Sootline had been silent, even if you could practically feel the heat of rage radiating off him. He didn’t seem eager to talk to you, even if his gaze would occasionally flicker to you to make sure you still followed along behind him. Maybe he feared he would find judgment in your eyes because he never held them for long.

“Bucky—” You called out softly, but the gangster shied away from your touch, the fabric of his sleeve slipping through your fingers. 

He strode forward, each step heavy, his boots striking against the stone with a slow, deliberate rhythm that sent a shiver down your spine. The sound echoed through the warehouse, filling it like a countdown ticking. You knew him. You had to remind yourself of that. You knew this man—the sharp edges of his cruelty, the weight of his fury, the way violence coiled beneath his skin like a second nature. You knew him intimately; you had felt the warmth of his breath, the roughness of his hands, and the steel of his will.

And yet, in this moment, he felt distant. Unreachable.

Even if he was angry, even if he had been cold and dismissive, his rage was not aimed at you. This was because of you. Because of what happened. The thought should have been comforting, a reassurance that you were not in his path and that his wrath had a different target. And yet, the knowledge did little to ease the weight pressing against your bruised ribs; it didn’t stop the breath from hitching in your throat as you took in the scene before you.

You were safe. You knew that.

But safety did nothing to silence the unease creeping through your veins.

The Iron Rats reacted the moment Bucky neared them. Two of them shrank back, their chairs creaking as they futilely tried to recoil from him. Their eyes darted between Bucky and the weapons on the table, their breath coming in quick, ragged gasps. One of them had already begun to tremble, his lips forming silent prayers, his body betraying him as he shook against the restraints.

But the third man—the one at the end—was different. He didn’t cower, didn’t flinch. He simply stared ahead, eyes hollow, his expression unreadable. It was as if he had already accepted whatever was coming and made peace with the inevitable. 

“Barnes.” You snapped louder this time, voice clipped. The gangster paused his movements, not even turning to look back as he raised his hand, silencing you with a raise of his index finger.

“I was considerin’ if the bird needed to see this.” He finally broke his silence, voice low with a dangerous edge. “But I think she needs’a understand, don’t ya think?” 

His hand struck forward, grasping one of the cowering men’s chins, forcing his head to look in your direction. You could tell his grip was bruising, even from a distance, the skin around his thumb growing white at the pressure. “She needs’a understand what happens to dirty fuckin’ rats that come crawling into my territory.”

Bucky released the man with a sharp shove, and the Iron Rat nearly sobbed in relief, his chair rocking back violently from the force. His breath hitched, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. Bucky barely spared him a glance. Instead, he dragged his fingers down the front of his suit jacket in one broad stroke as if ridding himself of the filth he had just touched. 

Then, without looking, he reached for the table, his fingers curling around the worn handle of a butcher’s knife. The blade was thick and heavy, meant to cleave through bone as quickly as meat. As he lifted it, it scraped against the metal tabletop, the sound sharp and grating—final.

Bucky turned to you, his fingers curling around the handle, weighing it in his grip like an executioner deliberating his next stroke. His gaze pinned you in place.

“Left or right, doll?”

The question landed like a punch to the gut.

“What?” You stammered back in response.

“Left or right?” His voice was eerily steady, too casual for the brutality hanging in the air. It was as if he were asking you to pick a wine for dinner, not deciding which limb would be lost. Your throat tightened. The Iron Rats were barely breathing, one whimpering, his chair creaking under his tremors.

You forced your voice to work. “Barnes, don’t you think we’ve caused enough damage?”

You knew you'd made a mistake the second the words left your lips.

Bucky’s head snapped towards you, his jaw ticking, something dark and dangerous flickering behind his eyes. The shift in him was immediate, electric. He abandoned the bound man without hesitation, closing the space between you in a few sharp strides. Your pulse stuttered.

He was on you in seconds, looming, his presence suffocating. You turned your head instinctively as his breath fanned hot across your cheek, but there was no escaping him.

“No.”

The single word was like a hammer shattering stone.

“We ‘aven’t caused nearly enough damage after what they did.” His voice, low and venomous, left no room for argument. His free hand clenched at his side, fingers twitching with barely contained rage. “You think I’m gonna let these filthy fuckin’ rats walk away after puttin’ their hands on you? Huh? After hurtin’ you right under my fuckin’ nose?”

Your breath caught, your ribs tightening under the weight of his fury. He leant in, close enough that his lips nearly brushed your ear. His words were a vow, a sentence carved in stone when he spoke next. “You’re under my protection. Mine. You’re mine. So fuckin’ choose, doll. Left or right?”

Your stomach twisted. The Iron Rats were silent, frozen, waiting for your answer as if it were their final prayer. You swallowed.

“…Right.”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth curled, but there was no warmth in it. It was a razor-sharp thing, all teeth and no kindness. His eyes gleamed with something feverish, something manic.

“Good girl,” he purred. The praise was smooth, almost sweet, but his grip on the knife tightened, knuckles whitening around the handle. And then he turned. The Iron Rat barely had time to process what was happening before Bucky moved.

The butcher’s knife came down in a single, brutal arc.

A sickening crack filled the warehouse as steel met flesh and bone, followed by a scream so raw, so agonised, it turned your stomach. The man convulsed against his restraints, his bound arms jerking wildly, but there was nowhere to go.

Blood splattered across the metal tabletop, dark and glistening. It pooled. Dripped and painted the concrete floor beneath him. His severed hand tumbled to the ground with a dull thud, fingers twitching uselessly in the growing puddle of red.

Bucky barely spared the carnage a glance. “You touched her,” he said coldly, voice devoid of sympathy. 

“So I took your fuckin’ hand.” He tilted his head, considering the sobbing, writhing man before him. “Consider it generous that I ain’t takin’ both.”

The Iron Rat howled, his body convulsing. Tears streamed down his face, his cries dissolving into choked, incoherent pleas for mercy. Bucky wasn’t listening. He wiped the blade clean against his sleeve, smearing crimson across the dark fabric like a war trophy. Then, slowly, he turned to the second man, pointing the stained blade at him.

“Your turn.”

The second Iron Rat thrashed in his chair, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. His eyes, wild with terror, darted between Bucky and the ruined stump of the first man. Blood still poured from the wound, pooling beneath the chair, seeping into the cracks of the warehouse floor. The stench of it—sharp, metallic, raw—hung thick in the air.

“Please,” he sobbed. “Please, I—I didn’t even—”

Bucky slammed a heavy hand down on his shoulder, silencing him with a violent jolt. The Iron Rat flinched, chest heaving, tears streaming down his dirt-streaked face. Bucky turned to you again, the knife glinting under the dim warehouse lights.

“Left or right?”

Your fingers curled into your palms, nails digging deep enough to leave crescent moons in your skin, but the sting barely registered. Your mind screamed at you, an urgent, panicked voice clawing at the edges of your thoughts. Stop this. Say something. Tell him it’s enough.

But you didn’t.

Because you knew the truth now, Bucky wouldn’t listen. Any sense of cold calculation had snapped within him, as if his father himself had possessed his body. His blood was up, his fury ran red-hot and unchecked. Reason was a foreign concept to him in this moments, swallowed whole by vengeance and violence.

Your breath felt thin as you watched him, as you remembered what was left of Varlan Crey. The Rat King, so smug, so untouchable, had been brought to his knees. Felled not by magic or blades, but by the sheer, unrelenting wrath of Bucky Barnes. He had survived, maybe by the hand of a small mercy. Or maybe just dumb luck. Because you had seen it—the flicker of real, unguarded fear in Crey’s eyes. The raw understanding that, for the first time, he had stood at the very edge of death and only barely stepped back in time.

You swallowed, throat dry as dust. “Left.”

A shuddering breath left the Iron Rat, some final, pitiful sound before—

Bucky moved.

The blade came down hard.

The crack of severed bone and the wet, visceral tear of flesh split through the warehouse. The man’s scream ripped through the air, raw and broken, his body jerking violently against the chair. Blood sprayed across the table, warm and thick, dripping onto the floor. His severed hand landed with a sickening slap, fingers twitching before they went still.

Bucky tightened his grip on the man’s shoulders, keeping him from toppling the chair over as he convulsed in agony. He wiped the blade again, slow and deliberate, his gaze flicking to the last Iron Rat—the one who hadn’t made a sound.

The man met Bucky’s eyes with an eerie, empty calm.

No trembling. No pleading. Just quiet resignation.

A slight, bitter smile played at the edges of his lips as he tilted his head, gesturing to his left hand, which was secured against the arm of the chair. A soldier offering himself to the executioner.

Bucky exhaled sharply, amused. “Good choice.”

And then he brought the knife down.

The man grunted as the blade severed flesh and bone in one clean stroke, but he didn’t scream. His body twitched, stiffening against the pain, but he bit it down. His severed hand dropped onto the table this time, fingers curling inward, as if gripping something unseen. Blood seeped from the wound, a slow, steady stream.

Bucky studied him for a moment, almost impressed.

Then, satisfied, he tossed the knife onto the table with a dull clang. The first two Iron Rats were still crying, writhing, staring at their stumps like they could somehow undo what had been done. The third just slumped in his chair, pale and shaking, but silent.

“I think I should take an eye next, for even lookin’ at you. What’d you think, doll?” Exhaustion lay heavy in your bones as your eyes fluttered shut briefly. Bucky was upon you again, his gaze softer now, the fury still burning beneath the surface but tempered. He reached for you, his bloodied fingers grazing your arm in a touch that was meant to be comforting. “Eye for an eye, after all.”

“I don’t…” You stammered but leant into his touch by default. Steve and Sam had adverted their eyes, their expressions unreadable as they pressed their lips into a line. 

“I’ll choose for ya, how’s that sound, doll?” He rubbed a bloodied thumb across your cheek. You looked up at him through your lashes, hoping something in your eyes could pull him away. But his eyes settled on the faded split in your lip, and his gaze hardened. “They have to pay.”

Bucky stalked off towards the array of weapons displayed along the table once more. The knife he chose gleamed under the dim light, and Bucky tested the edge against his thumb. A single bead of red welled up but he paid it no mind. His attention was elsewhere—on the trembling man before him, the one still staring at his bleeding stump, breath hitching in raw, animalistic terror.

“Please,” the Iron Rat sobbed, voice wet, desperate. “Please, Barnes, I can’t—I—”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders like the weight of their begging was nothing more than an inconvenience. His hand was steady, practiced, as he tapped the knife tip against the man’s chin, tilting his face up.

“Didn’t fuckin’ ask for pleas,” he murmured, voice eerily even. “Left or right?”

The man shuddered violently. He turned slightly, eyes flicking to you as though you could save him as if you had any say. You swallowed, your tongue thick and useless, pinned in place by the weight of Bucky’s presence and the inevitability of what came next.

When no answer came, Bucky clicked his tongue, shaking his head.

“Left it is.” The knife sank into the man’s left eye in a swift, brutal motion. A high and raw shriek tore through the room, sending a shudder through your bones.

You flinched, but only slightly. The movement barely registered.

You had seen Bucky covered in blood before, had seen him like this before—violent, efficient, merciless. Yet you had also seen him in moments far removed from this carnage.

You had watched him bleed and had pressed your hands to his wounds to keep him from slipping away. You had felt his warmth seeping between your fingers, his breath shallow but steady as he let you take care of him. He had trusted you then, let you see him vulnerable when he could have just as easily pushed you away.

He had defended you against the Rat King, standing between you and the man who had wanted to carve you apart. If it hadn’t been for him, would you have been at the mercy of the Iron Rats? Tied to a chair like the three men before you? There had been no hesitation in him then, just like there was none now. And it was all for you.

The thought made your stomach tighten, but not in fear. Not entirely.

Bucky wiped the knife clean on the Iron Rat’s pant leg, a simple, thoughtless movement, and turned to the last man. The final Iron Rat had been silent the entire time, watching the carnage with eerie detachment. Even now, as the scent of blood thickened the air and his fallen comrades moaned and sobbed, his expression barely shifted. He only blinked, slow and deliberate, as Bucky approached.

“Ya know what I’m gonna ask,” Bucky said, voice quieter this time.

A pause.

Then, a small sigh.

“Right,” the man murmured, resigned.

Something flickered in Bucky’s expression—curiosity, maybe. Approval. He didn’t make him wait. The blade sank deep, and though the Iron Rat tensed, his breath hitching sharply, he made no sound. Blood welled, thick and dark, spilling down his cheek, but he simply slumped against the restraints, his ruined eye weeping crimson.

Bucky lingered, staring at him, head tilted slightly. Considering. Perhaps even disappointed.

Bucky only clicked his tongue before turning back to you. The shift was subtle but immediate. The hardness in his expression softened, his eyes no longer carrying the cold fury he had wielded so effortlessly moments before. His hand, still warm despite the blood smeared across his fingers, reached for you, grazing your waist.

“See, doll?” he murmured. “Now they know.”

Your breath caught.

You should have felt horror. Revulsion. But instead, as you looked at him—his jaw speckled with blood, his chest rising and falling evenly, the fire still smouldering behind his eyes—you felt something else entirely. Something that made your fingers twitch, something that made your chest tighten.

Maybe, just maybe, this was more than just lust.

You weren’t sure whether that should’ve terrified you.

But at that moment, staring up at him, your heart still pounding, you weren’t sure you cared.

—

Bucky quickly issued his orders: everyone was to leave but you. Sam and Steve moved without hesitation, grabbing a bloodied, barely conscious Iron Rat by the scruff of their necks and dragging them towards the exit. The metallic scent of blood lingered in the cold warehouse air, thick and rich, settling into your lungs with each breath.

Bucky didn’t watch them leave.

He stood with his back turned, broad shoulders taut, tension coiling through his body like a predator still primed for the kill. His suit jacket lay discarded on the blood-splattered table. The sleeves of his crisp white shirt were rolled to his elbows, the fabric marred with streaks of red. His hands—still wet with it—hung at his sides, fingers twitching slightly as if the violence hadn’t yet left his system.

You hesitated before moving, carefully stepping past the grotesque remnants of severed hands littering the floor. You focused on him instead, on the way his body seemed stretched too tight like he was waiting for another enemy to appear from the shadows.

Slowly, cautiously, you reached out, smoothing a hand over his forearm. The muscles beneath your fingers were rigid but warm, his pulse steady despite the chaos he’d unleashed.

“You showed them your hand,” you murmured, your voice soft and testing. “What will you do now?”

Your fingers traced a slow path up his arm, featherlight over the muscle, following the curve of his shoulder. When he didn’t pull away, you grew bolder, stepping around him until you stood before him. His face was speckled with blood; the scarlet splattered across his jaw and streaked along the bridge of his nose. His blue eyes, cold and unreadable just moments ago, stirred—just barely—as they settled on you.

“They needed to be taught a lesson,” he said simply, his voice still edged with the lingering embers of rage. A repetition of the words he’d spoken before.

You sighed through your nose, your hands splaying across his chest. His shirt was warm beneath your touch, the steady rise and fall of his breath grounding you. You pressed yourself flush against him, seeking—what? Comfort? Reassurance? An answer you weren’t sure you wanted?

“Yes,” you conceded, your voice quieter now, steadier. “But you’ve shown ‘em your hand.” 

Your fingers curled slightly into the fabric, gripping him, holding him there with you. “You’ve told ‘em another woman is close to you—other than your sister. One that commands enough of your attention for you to do this.”

His eyes flickered with amusement. “Ya scared, doll?”

“No.” The answer was immediate, instinctive—but the certainty of it wavered, even in your own mind. Was that really the truth? “I just want to understand why you’d expose a weakness like that.”

He snorted softly, his bloodstained hands coiling around your waist, holding you there. His grip was firm and possessive but not forceful. There was no threat in his touch, only something else, something deeper, something that made your stomach twist.

For a brief moment, you allowed yourself to hope. Maybe he would finally say something—something real. Something sweet. He always left you with vague declarations of ownership and lust.

Because he cared, he had to—right? No man would do what he had done tonight if he didn’t care. No man would make a spectacle of his violence, an open display of his wrath for the sake of a woman if she meant nothing? He had carved his rage into flesh and blood for you and left a message in the ruined bodies of those men. You mattered to him.

Didn’t you?

But when he finally spoke, his words weren’t what you wanted.

“You have your worth, spirit-raiser.”

A flicker of disappointment bloomed in your gut. You could have pulled away. Should have, maybe. But you didn’t because you needed something from him: reassurance, protection. Proof that he would stand between you and whatever enemies would inevitably come for you now that he had placed you in the centre of this war.

Perhaps tonight had been proof enough.

Conflict and confusion pressed heavily in your chest, warring with the heat between you.

Fuck Becca’s warnings.

There was something here, wasn’t there?

Your hand slid up, fingers ghosting over the rough stubble of his jaw. You cradled his face, pulling him closer. His breath was warm, tinged with the faint scent of whiskey and blood, and for a moment, you hesitated—just a moment—before pressing your lips to his.

Bucky responded instantly, like a man starved, his eager hands gripping your waist with a bruising intensity as if grounding himself in your presence. A sharp wince pricked at your ribs, but the hunger in his kiss quickly drowned it out. His lips moved against yours with fervour, rough and consuming, parting only to let his tongue sweep into your mouth, claiming and demanding. You melted into him, your body yielding beneath his, heat pooling low in your stomach as his touch ignited something primal in you.

He moved with purpose, guiding you backwards. His hands were restless, roaming up your spine, fingers slipping beneath the fabric of your blouse, searching, craving skin. The cool air kissed your exposed flesh as he fumbled with your buttons, the urgency in his touch making his movements clumsy. You gasped into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss as your own hands wandered lower, gliding down the firm planes of his chest. The taut muscle beneath his white collared shirt flexed beneath your palms, solid and unyielding.

His breath hitched slightly as you dragged your nails over the crisp fabric, feeling the faint thrum of his heartbeat beneath. You felt the shudder in his body as your fingers found the buttons of his vest, slipping them free with deliberate ease. Bucky’s hands found your breasts, moulding the soft flesh through your brassiere with a rough, needy grip, his thumbs sweeping over the peaks in slow, teasing circles. Your head tipped back, a breathy sigh escaping your lips as heat coursed through you.

The vest was discarded in a swift motion, tossed aside without care, and before you could fully react, Bucky’s strong hands lifted you effortlessly, hoisting you onto the cold metal of the production table. The chill of it sent a shiver through your body. Still, the heat between you and him was overwhelming, obliterating any thought. His body pressed between your legs, the hard line of him nestling against you through the fabric of your skirts.

His mouth devoured yours again, possessive and unrelenting, his teeth catching your bottom lip in a sharp, fleeting bite before his tongue soothed the sting. You whimpered quietly into his mouth. Clinging to him, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to earn a low groan from deep within his chest. His thumb grazed over your nipple, teasing through the lace, and your breath hitched.

The world beyond this moment ceased to exist. There was only Bucky—his touch, his breath, his desire pressed into your skin like a brand. And you welcomed it. Welcomed him.

You could already feel the hard length of him, pressing insistently against your inner thigh through the layers of fabric. His heat was unmistakable, searing even through the barrier of clothing, and a shiver rolled through you. The anticipation was unbearable. You reached for his belt, fingers nimble and eager—

But Bucky chuckled, low and deep, knocking your hands away with an easy flick of his wrist. His pupils were blown wide, dark pools of hunger that drank you in as you leant back on your elbows, your body sprawled out before him. His lips were swollen, slick with the mingled taste of you both, his breath warm against your skin. Your chest heaved, one breast exposed where he had tugged it free from your brassiere, the cool air sending a shiver through you.

“Greedy, ain’t ya?” he murmured, voice thick with amusement, but his touch was anything but teasing. His hand slid beneath the heavy fabric of your skirt, fingers dragging up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You barely had time to process the sensation before he grabbed the delicate waistband of your tap pants and tore them down your legs, the lace rasping against your skin as he wrenched them past your ankles and boots.

The discarded scrap of fabric landed somewhere on the warehouse floor, forgotten. His hands were already on you again, possessive, insatiable. You let out a low groan, head falling back as he trailed a digit through your wet slit, humming in delight as he found you already dripping with desire. “Don’t need an arousal potion for this, do we?”

You ignored his quip, instead wrapping your legs around his waist. He chuckled at you, rewarding your eagerness by pressing one of his digits into your cunt. You clenched around him with a whimper, hips rocking as you internally begged for more friction. 

“Let me hear your noises, doll.” Bucky commanded, his spare hand trailing up your thigh. You whined softly, bucking your hips once more in a silent plea. The gangster smirked down at you, pressing a second digit into you as you squirmed beneath him. 

“Please, Bucky.” You mewled, pulling him closer with the legs hooked around his back. He obliged, slowly pumping his fingers in and out. You could hear the squelching of your wetness, your body shuddering with impatience at the leisurely pace. 

“You want more?” He purred, teasing you with a quick flick of your clit with his thumb. You clenched around him involuntarily, a breathy gasp leaving your mouth as pleasure rocked up your spine, a new wave of electricity flooding your gut. 

You pushed yourself up, hands grasping his broad shoulders, fingers digging into the firm muscle beneath his shirt as you pulled your bodies flush. The heat of him seeped into you, intoxicating, overwhelming. Your mouth found the column of his throat, breath hitching as you pressed open-mouthed kisses to his exposed skin. His pulse thrummed beneath your lips, quick and heavy, and you traced it with your tongue, savouring the salt of his skin.

Bucky let out a sharp exhale as you dragged your mouth along his adam’s apple, teeth grazing over the sensitive flesh before sucking a bruise into his neck. His grip on your thigh tightened, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, but you didn’t care. You wanted them. You wanted him to brand himself into your skin the way he had branded himself into your mind.

“Please,” you breathed against his ear, voice hushed, desperate. Your tongue flicked along the shell, teasing, before you nipped at his earlobe, letting your teeth catch just enough to make him groan. “I need you inside me.”

The words sent a shudder through him, a growl vibrating deep in his chest. “Turn around, bend over the table. Now.”

Your head tilted, temple resting against the firm plane of his shoulder as you gazed up at him, your breath uneven. His fingers twitched inside you, a steady rhythm still building, each pump igniting a slow, unbearable heat in your core. A sharp gasp left your lips as pleasure twisted through you, your body tensing in response.

“My ribs—” you managed to gasp, wincing as the dull ache reminded you of your bruises.

Bucky stilled for a moment, a flicker of something soft crossing his face, a rare moment of tenderness blooming between the two of you. His breath was warm against your cheek as he considered your words, his free hand smoothing over your hip as though grounding you.

“You’ll be fine,” he murmured, low and reassuring, though the husk of his voice betrayed his restraint. “I’ll try to be gentle.”

Gentle. A rare promise from a man like him.

Then, just as quickly as he had stilled, he withdrew. A wet heat lingered in the absence of his fingers, and you shuddered, your walls clenching around nothing. A soft whimper escaped before you could stop it, your body betraying the ache of emptiness. You unhooked your legs from around his waist, knees wobbling as you moved, turning yourself around atop the table.

The cold metal kissed your stomach as you laid your front flat against it, one breast still bare from where he had pulled the fabric away. A shuddering breath left you, anticipation thick in your veins as you braced yourself against the surface, your hips lining up with the edge.

Behind you, you heard the sharp metallic clink of his belt buckle, followed by the slow rasp of leather sliding free. The head of his cock pressed against your slick opening, teasing but not quite entering. You whined into the table as his large hands stroked up the back of your thighs, gripping the flesh. 

“So wet,” he muttered. His voice was thick with hunger as he pushed your skirts up, bunching the fabric around your waist, leaving you utterly exposed to him. His hands trailed down, calloused palms smoothing over the curve of your ass before he spread you open, admiring the slick evidence of your need. “So good for me, huh, doll?”

A desperate whimper left you, your body shivering under his touch. You pressed your folded forearms beneath your chest, arching your back in an attempt to save your bruised ribs from the unforgiving metal table.

Then, at last, he pressed into you.

A gasp tore from your throat, your body instinctively tensing as he stretched you open. The intrusion was thick and slow, overwhelming at first, your cunt clenching down against the pressure of him. Your teeth sank into the flesh of your thumb, muffling the choked moan that threatened to spill free. Bucky cursed under his breath, withdrawing just enough before easing back in, working you open with slow, deliberate strokes.

“Ya like this, don’t ya?” His voice was low and strained, his grip tightening on your hips as he pinned you in place. The firm drag of him inside you sent sparks of heat flooding through your veins. “Like me claimin’ you? Like knowin’ I’d fuckin’ tear through them bastards just to keep ya safe?”

A broken moan left you, your body trembling against the metal. Your fingers curled into fists, nails biting into your palms as he set a steady rhythm, each thrust pressing you further against the table. The slick, filthy sounds of your bodies moving together filled the empty warehouse, the echo of skin meeting skin mixing with your ragged breaths.

Bucky groaned, his hands wrapping around your hips as he rocked into you harder, deeper, pulling you back onto him with every thrust. Your mind swam, the bruising grip of his fingers the only thing tethering you to reality.

“Tell me, doll.” His voice was rough, a demand wrapped in silk and sin. His hips snapped forward, driving into you so deep it left you gasping. “Tell me how much you want this.”

“Please—” The word came out in a small, needy sob, your voice trembling as pleasure coiled tight in your belly.

Bucky growled, a deep, guttural sound. One of his hands abandoned your waist, sliding up the length of your back before tangling in your hair. His fingers twisted into the strands, yanking your head back with a sharp tug. A strangled moan burst from your lips, your back arching instinctively. Your nails scraped against the metal table, searching for purchase as he fucked into you harder, faster.

The steady, brutal rhythm of his hips grew relentless. Each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure up your spine. A filthy symphony of desperate moans, ragged breathing, and the wet, obscene sounds of him driving into you echoed. Bucky groaned, the sound low and primal as he chased his release. His grip on your hip was vice-like, anchoring you in place as he pounded into you without mercy. You could only hope Sam and Steve weren’t lingering nearby to hear the sinful chorus of your pleasure.

A sharp cry tore from your throat as your body tensed, pleasure spiking hot and fast through your veins. Your legs trembled beneath you, knees nearly buckling as your orgasm coiled, threatening to snap.

Then he tugged your hair again, the sting mingling with the pleasure in a dizzying rush, and you came undone.

Your cunt clenched around his cock, a strangled moan ripping from your lips as your body spasmed beneath him. Stars burst behind your eyelids, pleasure flooding through you in rolling waves. Wetness dripped down your inner thighs, evidence of your release slicking his length as he fucked you through the aftershocks.

Bucky let out a deep, shuddering moan, his hips stuttering as he followed you into bliss. His grip on you tightened, his cock pulsing as he spilt inside you, filling you with hot, thick ropes of cum. He kept thrusting, his movements growing erratic, chasing the last remnants of pleasure as he wrung out every drop of ecstasy.

His fingers slowly uncurled from your hair, his grip loosening as the tension drained from his body. You collapsed against the table, breathless and spent. You lay motionless beneath him, allowing him to use you as he rode out the final waves of his release, his heavy breaths mingling with yours.

Gods, you were going to need to take an anti-pregnancy potion after this.

PART EIGHT

[ehlihr]

listening to early bastille a flannel appears on me as well as square rayban esque glasses and my hair parts aggressively to the side and i have a chunky knit beanie on and im 13 and theres a desaturated filter on me and the dark colours are all tinted blue

[clownfettis]

Happy late birthday spm, this is my love letter to this damn game asdhdjgk

Screenshots from here and source here

Notes and easter eggs list below

Mario and Luigi's usernames are the only one that use _

Timpani and Blumiere are the only username that use -

Luvbi's name is "The Pure of Heart" in elizabeth English

For Jaydes, Asphodel Meadows is one of the greek mythology afterlife, specifically the one the underwhere is based on

Merlon's numbers are because there's canonicaly multiple Merlon, so they're seperating each others' accounts with numbers. The number are spm's release date

Tiptron was brave enough to publicly take the username "Tippi" because it's not like Timpani"s gonna use it again. So she pretty much went "it's free real estate"

Peach is keeping her names serious due to her status. Bowser does not care lmao

Blumiere's mouth and eye are blue like how when he was defeated, rather than when he was hateful and corrupted

Timpani's hair band mimics butterfly antennas, her colours are from me putting a sepia filter on her pixl form

Mimi is wearing her post game outfit. The form she shape-shifted into is also important and related to her backstory, though I'm not sharing that just yet : 3c

Nassy's design is based on Swoops, which is what i hc she was before she ate Bleck's dreams, and transformed into a Swoop/Human/Tribe of darkness mix from Bleck's dreams of Timpani, in the hope on getting him to love her if she looked more similar to them. Her eye colour is from the square effect when she uses her mind control power. She's not wearing her glasses due to it being postgame, and thus the start of her development into accepting herself and hiding away less, they're not reading glasses but sunglasses due to being sensitive to light (and also hiding some of her face and facial expressions)

Peach and O'Chunks know how to cook/bake, so they're the one commenting on how she made it/how Peach couldn't replicate it despite being a master baker

Luvbi, Grambi and Jaydes are here because, if the witches have tv, then they must also have internet access, and it is canon in my post game that they keep up with what the gang is up to online, since it's not everyday they meet people that can come and go from the afterlife and who they owe their life to. Though obviously it would be from myspace rather than tiktok since they have 2007 technology. Jaydes and Grambi wouldn't post or comment anything, but Luvbi is actively making friends. Also the idea of god himself coming to your comment section to go "what the hell" at your cooking skills is too funny

Nassy is in Saffron's kitchen and wearing an appron designed like hers, since the post game shows she lives in Flopside now. I decided on Sweet Smile rather than Hot Fraun because i thought Dyllis' temperament might scare away Nassy since she's never cooked before, and Saffron would be more supportive

And, well, you saw one of her first attempts GSXGDHI Do not let her in da kitchen

She clearly got the role of secretary just because of how attached she was to Bleck and wanted to be useful. But the whole point is that's she's living for someone else (him), while also trying to be someone else (timpani)

So her not being the "perfect girlfriend" is important to me

Bad at encouragement, bad at team spirit, bad at cooking, bad at comforting, bad at advice

Just, take the cliche of the nurturing perfect mom-friend, and make it the opposite

She's trying to get on Timpani's level, when she doesn't even really want to or enjoy any of this new persona she'd need to use. Because she's not Timpani, and faking who you are to get someone to date you is such a bad move that will crash in the long run

ALSO ALSO TIPTRON SAYING SHE'S ALSO TIPPI, YET TIMPANI REPLIED WITH SASS AND SARCASM, WHILE SHE MADE A JOKE CONNECTED TO ANALYTICAL KNOWLEDGE

TIPTRON IS MORE ANALYTICAL PIXL THAN SASSY TIMPANI

@ooftale @jester--addict get yall's butts over here fqhdhfjf

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Rumor Has It

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.6k

Warnings: minor angst

Summary: Your boyfriend is a well-known street racer who will never back down from a challenge. When someone new comes to town challenging him, he’ll do anything to come out on top… and that includes giving you up.

Square Filled: street racing (2023) for @spnaubingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

x

Harry straps on his racing gloves as you’re watching him from your spot on the bed. He spent the last two hours getting ready for what will be a disaster waiting to happen. Your boyfriend is known for his love of cars. There is a group of guys that pick a spot in every city and race their precious cars. It’s illegal as shit and nearly gets someone arrested every time they do it, but there is no stopping him.

He quickly climbed the ranks of being one of the fastest yet riskiest racers this town has ever known, and now there aren’t many who want to go up against him. These days, he races with friends in a friendly game rather than for money. Not this race. This race is different. Someone new came into town last week and has been passing rumors to everyone.

Rumor has it that this man is a beast. Rumor has it that no one has lost against him. Rumor has it that someone like Harry is child’s play compared to the men he’s been up against. The racers always pick a desolate part of town to race in knowing there won’t be anyone on the road to block them, but not this man. He’s known to race in the open with other cars on the road.

Not once has he crashed and not once has he been caught. His name has been filtered through every town he’s been in, and it managed to reach all the way to your small town in the middle of nowhere. Of course, as soon as Harry found out that he was coming to town, he had to challenge him to a race. There is something Harry wants, and he’s going to make sure he gets it after he wins this race.

Harry’s good but he’s not Dean Winchester good.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” you ask. “Do you not realize who you’re going up against?”

“I’ve been preparing for this all week. I can do it.”

“You’re either going to lose or get caught. The police have been cracking down on these races lately.”

Harry turns and glares at you through his shaded glasses.

“The only one who is going to get caught is Dean. I don’t need you worrying about me. I’ll be fine.”

Normally, you never go to these races because you don’t like them. In one race, someone crashed into a pole and lost his life. It was cold outside and he slipped on a patch of black ice. Ever since that, you’ve been asking Harry not to race. Still, he won’t listen to you. Lately, he’s been dismissing your every thought. He’s been more distant since Dean got to town, and you tell yourself it’s because of the race. Dean will leave soon and he’ll go back to being yours.

Why is it that when you think about that, you become empty inside?

Harry is a good boyfriend but he’s not the best. He’d choose racing over you any day. Why do you stay with him, then? Maybe being in a relationship with him is better than being alone. If you think that, you shouldn’t be in a relationship. What else are you going to do? You moved to this town for Harry so your entire family is on the west coast.

You can’t go back to them no matter how much you’re hurting here.

The only reason you’re going to this one is because of Dean. You can’t help but be intrigued by the mystery surrounding the man. You’ve heard he’s a ladies’ man and oozes sex appeal. Guess you won’t know until you see him, huh?

You and Harry leave for the race that’s happening on the outskirts of town. There is a guy who runs in Harry’s circle whose father is the chief of police. He knows he won’t be sticking his nose in their business tonight because of some case they’ve been working on for weeks, so this race should be free of police. There is already a crowd forming when you get there, and an even bigger following since Dean is here.

Harry’s prized race car is a 1987 Chevy Monte Carlo SS that he only uses whenever he’s racing. She hasn’t let him down since, but you think that’s all going to change. Dean’s prized possession is a 1967 Chevy Impala that Harry has always wanted. It’s one of his dream cars. The fact that Dean has one and is flaunting it here pisses Harry off.

Harry leaves your side and approaches Dean with the intent to trash-talk him. The crowd forms around the two men, and you stand on a few rocks to get a better view of Dean. His back is turned to you but from what you can see, he is a beastof a man. Tall, muscular, and not at all fazed by Harry’s attempt to shake him down.

“Is this supposed to make me fear you?” Dean chuckles.

“No, but you better watch your back, Winchester,” Dean smirks but he doesn’t say anything. “Care to make this interesting?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“A bet on who wins. If you’re not scared, that is.”

“Do I look like the kind of man who gets scared?”

The crowd whispers to each other at his comment, and Harry glares at him. You push past the crowd to get to the inner circle where you have a full view of Dean. Damn, he looks even better from the front. Sharp jaw, short hair, and bright green eyes. Harry might be threatening him but there is a mischievous glint in Dean’s eyes.

“Alright, Winchester. If I win,” Harry looks around the crowd and smirks, “I get your Impala.”

The crowd gasps and chatter picks up. There is no way Dean will ever give up his precious car, so most think he will back out on this deal. Dean knows he’s going to win but it’s amusing to play Harry’s game. His eyes scan the crowd and they land on you, and you freeze from the intensity of his gaze. There’s something… primal… with the way he’s looking at you. Like you’re his prey but you know he won’t hurt you if he catches you.

“Okay,” he draws his gaze back to Harry, “if you win, you get my car.” Again, the crowd gasps. “If I win,” he looks at you with a smirk, “I get your girl.”

“Fine, yes, she’s yours. Take her.”

You gasp at the audacity your boyfriend has for just giving you away like you’re property or something to own. Someone blows a whistle and the crowd disperses to the side since the race is starting. People push past you but you seem to be rooted where you stand. You can’t take your eyes off Harry.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” You look at Dean who winks. “I don’t lose.”

You find your footing and step back to the sides where everyone else is. Harry and Dean get in their cars and start them up. Harry revs his engine loudly to show off but Dean stays calm. He doesn’t win races by being cocky. The race is twenty miles long, and there are people every couple of miles to track their progress who will then report back to the announcer so he can inform the crowd what’s going on.

The person who whistled whistles again and they’re off. Dean and Harry take off down the road, the crowd cheering for both of them. Half think Dean is going to win while the other half cheers for Harry. Harry passes the fifth mile first with Dean right behind him, but Dean passes the tenth mile first. They’re neck and neck with one passing the other constantly. Once they reach ten miles, they have to turn around and come back, so that’s what they’re doing now.

You bite your thumbnail nervously as you wait for someone to come around the corner. Do you want Harry to win? Absolutely not. You can’t stand the idea of him getting his way after he pulled that shit with you. Do you want Dean to win? Maybe? Maybe he’s the reason you’re looking to end things with Harry. He’s the courage you never knew you had.

The entire crowd falls silent when they hear the rumble of an engine approaching. Five seconds later, the sleek black Impala comes racing around the corner, picking up a shit ton of dust. The crowd erupts in cheers knowing Dean is going to win this race. Harry is less than half a mile behind him but it’s too late. Dean crosses the finish line and screeches to a stop. He hops out of the car and stalks over to you.

Harry’s scar screeches to a halt right next to Dean’s car, and he gets out with an angry red face. Dean grabs your waist and pulls you in, kissing you deeply. He slides his hand into your hair and holds your head steady so he can control every aspect of the kiss. To say you’re surprised is an understatement. He’s a great kisser, better than Harry, and you’re wondering if he’s like this in the bedroom.

“Call me when you break up with him,” he says when he pulls away. “You might be my good luck charm.”

“Okay,” you whisper.

He walks toward the crowd and accepts his victory while Harry hangs behind with his close friends. You touch your lower lip and watch Dean reap the rewards. Yeah, Harry’s gone. He’s no one compared to the great Dean Winchester.

x

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[batsovergotham]

Chapter 8 Part 1: Two Lines, One Choice

"You will remember nothing about the specifics of why you're there. But what you will have--which nobody can take from you, ever--is who you are. That will never change--try to hang onto it. It will see you through."

Main!Mark Grayson x Psychic! Reader

warnings: depression, manipulation, vomit, pregnancy, mark is stressed, mentions of abortion

w/c: 8.9k

a/n: just wanted to say a huge thank you for 200 followers in a week… like. what?? i genuinely wasn’t expecting this kind of love and support, and it means so much to me. it’s made me feel so much more confident about sharing work i’ve kept private (and honestly hidden away) since 2019. stories i thought no one would care about, characters i wasn’t sure anyone would connect with, now i get to share them with you. and that’s everything. also small heads up! i ended up cutting a large chunk from this chapter because it flowed better without it. the story felt stronger with the change, thank you so much for understanding, and thank you for reading, for commenting, for being here. i appreciate you more than you know <3

Mark smashes into stone like a body flung from orbit.

There’s no elegance to it. No superhero landing. Just a crash, flesh against unyielding marble, forceful enough to shatter the surface and send tremors ringing throughout the square. He groans, flops onto his side, and coughs up blood, hands clawing at the earth as he forces himself upright.

He squints up into the light.

The sky is golden. Clean. The air hums with something soft and artificial, like it’s been filtered a thousand times over. He doesn’t recognize the building surrounding him at first, but the longer he stares, the more his stomach twists.

This is Viltrum.

Or... was.

Because it’s not a ruin.

It’s lovely.

Glass and chrome arcologies reach toward the skies. Sunlight dances across skyrails and floating walkways. The buildings breathe with light. And the people, Viltrumites in robes, not armor, float past above like this is just another morning in a utopia.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Mark mutters. “What the hell is this place?”

Then he turns, and sees the statue.

He stops breathing.

It’s you.

Your face etched in marble, arms behind your back, chin tilted up, eyes chiseled to appear like they’re peering into something larger than this planet. The detail is excellent. Too perfect. This isn’t a symbol. This is a memory. A memorial.

The plaque stops him cold.

Beloved. Dedicated by Emperor Markus Grayson, in eternal memory.

“No,” Mark murmurs. “No, no, what the hell…what the fuck is this-?”

"You landed harder than I expected."

Mark turns, instinct already pumping his limbs with adrenaline.

And there he is.

Himself.

Older. Bigger. Sharper around the eyes. Shoulders wider. Taller by inches. His posture isn’t slouched as Mark’s tends to be when he’s tired, it’s straight, military. Imposing. His uniform is custom, crimson and a customary Viltrumite fluffed coat, streamlined for a physique that’s seen too many conflicts and refuses to come apart.

Not garish. Not even that decorative.

Just… final.

Mark looks, breathing quickly.

“What the hell is this?” he demands. “Where am I? Who are you?”

The Emperor lifts a brow. “You already know.”

“No,” Mark snaps. “No, I don’t. I was just standing next to her, and now I’m here, in some, weird, utopian Viltrum remake where apparently I run the place and she’s dead?! So how about you start explaining before I break that statue in half.”

The Emperor steps closer. Slowly.

And the size disparity becomes glaring.

He dwarfs Mark, not like Omni-Man did, not with brutality, but with quiet. Gravity. Like he carries things Mark hasn’t even dreamed yet.

“You’re here because Angstrom sent you,” he adds calmly.

Mark blinks. “Angstrom?”

The Emperor nods once. “He pulled you out of your world. Ripped a hole through the seams and put you in mine.”

Mark’s jaw tightens. “Why?”

“Because I let him.”

Mark glances at him, face growing pale. “You what?”

“He needed to manipulate her,” the Emperor says, voice low, like saying your name out loud would hurt. “He wanted to awaken her full power. Grief is a powerful tool. Losing you… he thought it would be the final trigger.”

Mark’s breath hitches. “He told you to kill me-?”

“I told him I would.”

The quiet pierces the conversation like a gunshot.

Mark’s voice cracks. “You’re insane.”

“I lied,” the Emperor adds simply. “He believed me.”

“Why?!”

The Emperor exhales through his nostrils, jaw tense. “Because I needed to see you. And I needed her to be left alone for a time. To see what it’s like when she doesn’t lose everything.”

Mark’s fists are shaking now. “You used her? And me? Just to, what? Look at the past like some sad ghost?”

“I used Angstrom,” the Emperor adds. “And I didn’t bring you here to hurt you. I brought you here to talk.”

“Talk,” Mark fires back. “You brought me to a version of my girlfriend’s grave to talk?!”

The Emperor doesn’t move.

“You don’t get it,” he replies finally. “She died for me. Saving me. She always did that. I told her to remain behind. She didn’t. She never did. And after she bled out, I thought maybe I might still produce something from what she left behind.”

He nods toward the city.

“This was her dream. Peace. Unity. An end to blood. She devoted all for it. And when I sensed Angstrom was about to go after her again, I said what I had to. To protect her. To allow her space to breathe. Even if it meant sending you here.”

Mark steps ahead. The burning in his chest is white-hot now.

“You think this is protection? You think this is peace? You created a tomb and turned her into a fucking statue!”

“She deserved to be remembered,” the Emperor declares.

“She deserves to be held,” Mark yells. “To be alive.”

Silence descends again. Thick. Ugly.

The Emperor speaks first, gentler now. “She was everything. You know that. And you still have her.”

Mark glares at him.

“You said you wanted to talk. So say it.”

The Emperor glances at him. And now, there’s something cracked in his voice.

“Don’t let her die.”

Mark says nothing.

“Don’t make her carry it all alone,” the Emperor continues. “Don’t let Angstrom consume you. Don’t forget what she’s worth.”

Mark’s voice is hoarse. “I never did.”

“Then hold onto her. Tighter than I did.”

Mark turns approaches the monument one final time. At your eyes. Carved. Cold. Staring into nothing.

And he swears to himself, right there.

He’s getting back to you.

He’s not going to let your narrative finish in stone.

Mark walks.

Not because he wants to.

Because if he stays there another second starring up at that statue of you, he’s gonna punch his fist through it.

He doesn't want to think about your face set in stone like you're already gone. Doesn't want to memorize how your eyes seem looking into nothing. He wants you. Alive. Breathing. Making jokes. Getting ticked off at the way he leaves the toothpaste lid off.

So he walks.

His shoes hit the slick stone with a dull echo that seems too pristine. Too empty.

The metropolis stretches out around him like a sci-fi fever dream. Shining towers. Floating monorails. Not a particle of filth in sight. And people, Viltrumites, sure, but they aren’t screaming, or training, or even talking loud enough for him to understand what the hell they’re saying.

It’s silent.

Too quiet.

Everything is nice. Polished. Hollow.

“This place is creepy,” Mark mutters. “Like if a museum and a dictatorship had a baby.”

The Emperor walks beside him without a word.

Mark glances over. He’s still getting acclimated to how enormous this guy is. Same face. Same voice. But the body? Bulked out. Battle-tested. Every movement is crisp and efficient, like he doesn’t waste energy on anything.

Mark frowns. “Do people even live here? Or is that just where you put your trophies?”

“They live here,” the Emperor answers. “They’re safe. Stable. Unified.”

Mark snorts. “Cool. Sounds boring as hell.”

“They’re not suffering.”

“They’re not living, either,” Mark fires back. “I’ve seen funeral homes with more personality.”

The Emperor doesn’t argue.

Which upsets Mark more.

“You built all this after she died?” he says, voice harsher now.

“I finished what we started,” the Emperor adds.

“Yeah, well, she’s not here.”

“I know.”

Mark’s mouth twists. “You keep saying that like it’s just a thing that happened. Like, ‘oops, lost the love of my life, time to create Space Seattle.’”

The Emperor eventually stops strolling.

Mark almost barrels into him, but catches himself.

“I didn’t build this because I moved on,” the Emperor adds. “I built it because I didn’t.”

Mark squints at him. “That supposed to be deep?”

The Emperor glances around the plaza, at the clean metal seats no one’s sitting on, at the trees placed in precise rows but aren’t offering anybody shade. “She believed in this place. In making it better. Not simply different. She wanted the blood to represent something.”

Mark scoffs. “Yeah, sure. I know her. She wants a better world. But not like this. Not a sanitized version where people act like smiling robots.”

“She wanted peace.”

“She wanted freedom.” Mark motions about furiously. “This doesn’t feel like peace. It seems like jail with nicer lighting.”

He’s feeling hot beneath the collar now. He can feel his skin humming. Not from fury, exactly, but from exasperation. That gnawing, gut-deep wrongness that’s been developing since he opened his eyes in this place.

“And by the way,” Mark continues, moving into the Emperor’s area, “you still haven’t answered the question. What the hell is this? Why am I here?”

“I told you.”

“Yeah? You told me Angstrom did it. But not why. Not how.”

The Emperor meets his gaze. Calm. Steady.

“Angstrom needed leverage over her,” he claims. “To push her. To coax her into unleashing the full range of her power.”

Mark’s blood runs cold.

“Leverage,” he echoes. “He thinks I’m leverage?”

“Yes.”

Mark’s chuckle is piercing and unpleasant. “Wow. So you let him take me out of my life, out of her life, so he could screw with her head? Are you out of your mind?”

“I told him I’d kill you.”

Mark blinks. “Excuse me?”

“I told him if he dropped you here, I’d destroy you. Make it real. Make it hurt. He believed me.”

Mark stares.

And suddenly his voice turns flat. “But you didn’t.”

“No.”

Mark turns aside for half a second. Just enough to think. Then he swings back around and strikes the Emperor in the chest.

Hard.

It doesn’t budge him.

Mark’s voice is trembling now. “You think this is some kind of lesson? You wanted to see me? For what? To have a moment of closure? Get one last glimpse of her through me?”

“I wanted to talk.”

“Well you suck at it!” Mark erupts.

His voice booms through the plaza.

The Emperor doesn’t flinch.

Mark exhales. Tries to breathe through the agony in his chest.

“She’s alone,” he says. “Back home. Right now. Probably thinking I’m dead. And you…you let that happen.”

The Emperor is silent for a beat.

“She’ll survive. She’s stronger than you realize.”

“I know how strong she is,” Mark growls. “That’s why I want to be there. Not to fix her. Just to stand beside her. You think being left behind makes someone stronger? No. It just makes them angry.”

His voice sinks. The fight in it falters.

“She’s not supposed to be a martyr.”

“I didn’t want her to be,” the Emperor continues. “But I made one.”

Mark shakes his head. “That’s not gonna be me. I’m gonna get back. I’m gonna hold her and tell her I didn’t leave on purpose. And I’m not gonna let her turn into some statue people bow to out of guilt.”

He starts walking again.

Faster this time.

And behind him, the Emperor finally speaks low, soft, almost human.

“Good,” he says. “Then don’t be me.”

Mark doesn’t answer.

But in his breast, he repeats it like a vow:

I won’t be.

Mark doesn’t slow down.

He can feel the Emperor following him, silent footfalls against the too-perfect asphalt, but he doesn’t glance back. He simply continues walking. Faster than before. Muscles tight. Jaw set.

Because if he doesn’t, he’s going to do something reckless. He already punched himself once today. And it didn’t help.

“Mark,” the Emperor says.

Mark doesn’t answer.

“Stop.”

“Why?” he snaps. “So you can tell me more about how noble this little abduction was?”

“I didn’t do it to hurt you.”

“You did it anyway.”

The words echo off the empty steel and glass surrounding them, loud enough that a few onlookers halt and turn. But they don’t come closer. Of course not. This is the Emperor's city. People don’t interrupt the man who made a kingdom out of pain.

Mark spins around swiftly. “What, you thought if I left for a bit she’d finally unlock some final form?”

“Yes,” the Emperor answers without hesitation.

Mark falters.

He wasn’t expecting the reality to strike that swiftly. Or that hard.

The Emperor’s voice is steady, too steady. “She’s been holding back. Your Ace. Mine did too, at first. She held reality in her hands, and she wouldn’t touch it. Not really. Not unless it was life or death. But you can’t live like that forever. Not with strength like hers.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Mark snaps. “I’ve seen what she can do. I’ve felt it.”

“You’ve felt pieces,” the Emperor corrects. “Controlled fragments. She’s been reining herself in because she’s frightened of harming others. Of harming you.”

Mark’s eyes narrow. “And you thought removing me was the solution.”

“I remember what it was like,” the Emperor adds. “The look on her face when I got too close and she lost control. How she begged me to leave, to stay away, so she didn’t become the thing she was raised to fear. And I didn’t listen. I stayed. I kept getting hurt. So she kept holding back.”

Mark breathes hard, chest rising and falling.

“I didn’t realize until it was too late,” the Emperor adds. “Until she started cracking. Because she had this power screaming inside her, and no outlet. And then when it finally came loose… it killed people. It almost killed me. And it ruined her. Not physically. Psychologically. She didn’t forgive herself. Ever.”

Mark swallows heavily.

He understands how close you’ve gotten to that edge. Knows what it looks like when your powers ripple out in a panic and warp everything around you. When you make the universe skip like a scratched record. When you blink and structures disappear. When you wake up weeping, blood on your face and no knowledge how it got there.

“She needs to ground herself,” the Emperor replies. “She needs to stop suppressing it and learn to feel it, let it breathe, before it eats her alive. She needs quiet. Time. Space.”

Mark’s voice is harsh now. “She needs me.”

“No,” the Emperor says. “She loves you. But she doesn’t need you to keep making her smaller.”

That strikes like a punch.

Mark flinches. His fists flex, but he doesn’t swing again. He doesn’t have to. That one landed clean.

“I’m not trying to make her smaller,” Mark mutters. “I just want her safe.”

“And what is she when she’s safe?” the Emperor asks. “What does she become when she’s protected instead of trusted?”

Mark doesn’t answer.

Because he’s thinking of all the times he’s pulled you back. Not out of fear. Out of instinct. When you went too close to losing yourself in a battle. When your eyes started shining that too-bright, too-wild hue. When you yelled and the walls shook and he stroked your shoulder like that would be enough to bring you back.

And maybe it was. Maybe it did.

But maybe it also stopped anything from unlocking.

The Emperor walks forward. Not threatening. Just near.

“She needs to know she can survive without you. That she can own this power, not just use it when the GDA says go.”

Mark grinds his teeth. “And what if she doesn’t?”

“She will,” the Emperor replies. “She has to.”

Mark laughs, bitter and silent. “You don’t even know her.”

“I was you,” the Emperor adds, eyes keen. “I knew her better than anyone.”

Mark turns away again, but not to go. He gaze out at the city. At the glass and gold and steel trying to be serenity.

“She doesn’t even know where I am,” he says.

“She’ll feel it,” the Emperor answers. “If she’s anything like mine, she’ll feel that shift. That silence. She’ll sense you absent like a limb.”

“That’s supposed to comfort me?”

“No,” the Emperor says. “It’s supposed to remind you that she’s going to survive it. She’s going to grieve you. And then she’s going to rise.”

Mark’s shoulders stiffen. He doesn’t talk for a long time.

Then, ultimately, voice calm but firm. “I want her to be strong. I do. But not alone.”

The Emperor exhales, and for the first time, it’s wobbly. “So did I.”

They stand there a little longer. Two variations of the same man. One younger, angrier, still grieving from the loss he hasn't had to live through yet.

And the other, older, bigger, slower, standing among the rubble of a dream he sought to save by making it into a monument.

Mark shuts his eyes.

And somewhere, across the multiverse, he hopes to God you can feel it.

That he’s still battling his way back to you.

Even if you need to stand without him now.

The breeze changes across the plaza, brushing over the smooth glass streets like breath through a tomb. Mark’s still standing there, arms folded, jaw tense, peering out at a world he doesn’t know yet nonetheless helped make.

He hasn’t spoken anything in minutes.

The stillness is becoming thicker.

The Emperor doesn’t fill it right away. He waits, like he’s used to waiting. Like quiet doesn’t bother him anymore. Like he’s lived long enough that patience becomes muscle memory.

When he eventually speaks, it’s low. Measured.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

Mark doesn’t look at him. “You’d have to.”

“You think this place is wrong. That it’s too clean. Too cold.”

Mark shrugs one shoulder. “Am I wrong?”

The Emperor doesn’t answer right away. His voice doesn’t sharpen, doesn’t defend. Just softens, like someone easing a door open that doesn’t want to squeak.

“It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Not at first. When we won, when the last of the old Viltrumites fell, I thought we’d burn it all. Start from scratch. Let the galaxy rebuild without us.”

Mark glances at him. “What stopped you?”

The Emperor’s eyes flick to the statue.

“She did.”

“She made me see the value in it,” he continues. “Not the conquest. Not the blood. But the structure. The possibility. Viltrum was made on order. Discipline. Unyielding intent. All of it twisted, sure. But what if you could peel the rot and maintain the foundation?”

Mark snorts. “What, authoritarianism with a fresh coat of paint?”

“No,” the Emperor responds quietly. “Stability. Without shackles. Power with restraint. We retained the architecture. The training. The interstellar paths. But the empire? That’s gone.”

“Doesn’t look gone to me,” Mark mutters, motioning to the metropolis surrounding them.

The Emperor raises his chin, eyes steady. “Because we’re using what worked.”

Mark lifts an eyebrow. “And what didn’t?”

“Gone,” he says. “Forced breeding. Blood trials. Forced conquest. The fixation with power. All of it.”

Mark huffs. “That easy, huh?”

“No. God, no,” the Emperor says, and for once, the mask cracks, just slightly. “It nearly broke us. There were rebellions. From within and without. But I made a choice. She made me pick. If we were going to construct something worth retaining, it had to be earned.”

Mark eventually turns completely toward him. “So what is this, then? A democracy with extra biceps?”

The Emperor huffs something like a chuckle. “It’s a hybrid. Think of it as... a steward system. Viltrumite power, human adaptability. Worlds rule themselves. We safeguard the building. Enforce laws that preserve peace amongst systems. No more occupation. No more forced integration.”

Mark crosses his arms. “And people actually... go along with that?”

“They do now,” the Emperor adds. “Because when they call, we show up. We stop conquests. We redirect resources. We keep kids fed. We stop wars before they start.”

Mark’s silent for a second.

“You sound like Cecil.”

“No,” the Emperor says. “I sound like someone who learned to do the job better than him.”

Mark’s eyes narrow. “And you think this is the answer? Taking Viltrumite beliefs and developing a better body around it?”

The Emperor nods slowly. “It was either that... or let it all burn and hope something stronger rose from the ashes. But I’ve seen too many ashes. This…” he gestures around, “is something I can manage. Something she believed in.”

Mark peers at the sky. Twin suns overhead. No clouds. No dirt. No randomness.

Just order.

“Yeah,” he says. “But do you like it?”

The Emperor blinks.

Mark turns to him again, sharper now. “Do you like living here? You talk about how this world works, how it keeps everyone fed and safe but do you feel anything when you walk through it? Do you breathe easier? Laugh harder? Sleep better at night?”

The Emperor doesn’t talk.

He simply seems... weary.

“She died for this,” the older man replies finally. “And if I can keep it standing, if I can make it worth the cost, then maybe it wasn’t for nothing.”

Mark’s voice is low. “You didn’t answer the question.”

The Emperor’s gaze dips to the street. His shoulders rise slightly with a breath.

“No,” he says. “I don’t like it. But I need it.”

Mark exhales gently.

And for a minute, he doesn’t say anything.

Because he’s starting to notice it now, the cracks underneath the shine. The way the Emperor doesn’t look at anybody else. The way his voice lowers every time he mentions your name. The way this immaculate city doesn’t feel like hope.

It feels like a promise.

One created out of pain and kept together by remorse.

Mark steps ahead again, slower now.

Behind him, the Emperor’s voice follows soft, but sure.

“She didn’t die to make me a god. She died to make me better.”

Mark shuts his eyes.

And then, so quietly he nearly doesn’t hear himself.

“I’m not gonna let that happen to her.”

The Emperor doesn’t stop him.

He just lets him go.

The city descends downward into a garden sector, though garden feels like the wrong term for it.

Mark continues the trail on autopilot, not even knowing why he’s still going. There’s no dirt here. No grass stains. Just symmetrical areas of manufactured flora and clear water streams running through mathematically flawless pathways. Every tree is pruned to a standard height. Every flower blooms exactly the same hue of crimson.

It’s lovely.

It’s smothering.

He stops walking when he hears it.

Footsteps. Light ones. Fast. Like someone running, really running, with no thought for etiquette or symmetry or planned stillness.

A little body barrels around the corner, a whirl of rich navy and light gold.

Mark flinches, reflexively seeking to stabilize whoever’s charging him.

Then the child pauses. Just short of crashing with him.

A boy.

Maybe six. Seven tops. Not tall for his age but wiry, strong-looking, eyes sharp as a sword. He’s breathing hard from racing, sweat slicked around his forehead. And when he peers up at Mark, it’s not perplexity in his expression.

It’s recognition.

Like he knows precisely who he’s staring at.

“…Dad?” the child asks, voice thin.

Mark’s heart skips a beat.

He doesn’t know what to say.

Doesn’t know how to move.

Because the youngster is gazing up at him like he’s destined to be here. Like this version of him, the younger, leaner, scruffier Mark, isn’t out of place at all.

But he is.

He’s not the father of this boy.

He shouldn’t be here.

And before Mark can say anything, another voice cuts through the space between them deeper, firmer.

“Hey. Easy.”

The boy turns.

The Emperor arrives from the opposite side of the garden, his armor glinting in the sunshine, yet the weight behind his eyes lightened just a touch. His steps are even. Unhurried.

Mark’s still frozen.

The Emperor walks by him and softly rests a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“This isn’t him,” he replies, gently. “Not me. Not yours. But he’s… someone close.”

The child stares back at Mark. Blinks. His shoulders twitch like he wants to ask more, but doesn’t. There’s constraint in him. A lot for someone so young. Too much.

Mark finally finds his voice.

“You have a kid,” he adds, dumbly.

The Emperor only nods.

There’s no pride in it. No smugness. No sorrow, either. Just truth.

Mark’s voice hardens. “She was the mother, wasn’t she.”

Another nod.

Mark glances aside, eyes blazing. He doesn’t weep. He doesn’t. But something about seeing that boy, that little boy with eyes like his and a trace of your smile, it’s too much.

He laughs, once. But it’s not humorous. It’s hollow. “So what, you raised him alone?”

“Yes.”

“How long has it been?”

The Emperor hesitates. “Six years since she died.”

Mark turns aside, running a palm down his face.

“Jesus.”

The boy is still observing him.

And Mark can’t stop glancing at him now either. Not really. The likeness is remarkable. Not flawless, not a copy but real. Something that makes his chest throb in areas he didn’t even realize were tender.

“You named him after anyone?” he says suddenly.

The Emperor glances down. “No.”

Mark lifts an eyebrow. “No legacy name? No callback?”

“She didn’t want that. She said he should be his own person.”

Mark swallows.

God, he can hear you saying that.

“I wasn’t ready,” the Emperor admits after a pause. “I thought building this world would be enough. But it wasn’t. And when I held him, I thought I’d lose it. Because she didn’t get to see him grow. She didn’t get to name him. She didn’t get any of it.”

Mark’s hands tighten.

“I should’ve died in her place,” the Emperor adds.

Mark says nothing.

Not because he disagrees.

Because he knows the emotion.

The small child stares between them like he understands more than he should. But he doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t say anything. He simply softly reaches out and takes his father’s hand.

And for the first time, Mark watches the Emperor actually fail.

Not with words. With his eyes.

They sink down, away from the sun. Away from everything.

“His name’s Cael,” the Emperor adds at last. “She liked it. Said it meant sky.”

Mark breaths in slow.

And lets it rest in his lungs, heavy.

Then, eventually, he kneels down. Meets the boy’s gaze.

“You’re lucky,” he says. “To have had her. Even for a short while.”

Cael nods. Quietly. “I miss her. But I don’t cry anymore.”

Mark nearly smiles. “That’s okay. Crying doesn’t make you weak.”

“I know,” the child says. “But Dad doesn’t cry either.”

Mark glances up.

The Emperor doesn’t meet his eyes.

He stands again.

Mark feels exhausted.

And so damned ready to go back to you.

Mark watches the child gazing up at him, unblinking.

Small hands at his sides, chest still rising quickly from running, but his eyes don’t waver. Not afraid. Not quite curious in the way most youngsters are. There’s something sharper behind them, something knowing. Like he’s trying to read him.

And Mark?

Mark’s simply trying not to stress out.

“Cael,” the Emperor murmurs quietly. “You remember what I told you about the multiverse?”

The boy nods. “You said there’s other worlds. With other versions of us.”

“That’s right.”

The Emperor motions at Mark. “This is one of them.”

Cael tilts his head. “You look like Dad. But you walk like me.”

Mark blinks. “Like… you?”

Cael shrugs. “You don’t walk like a king.”

Mark chokes on a laugh.

The Emperor doesn’t respond, but there’s the smallest quiver at the corner of his mouth. Just a flicker. Gone as soon as it arrived.

Mark crouches, elbows on his knees, trying not to loom over the boy. “Well. I’m obviously not a king.”

Cael narrows his gaze. “You’re… skinnier.”

Mark rolls his eyes. “Wow. Thanks.”

“But your hair’s better,” Cael says after a second, like it’s vital to be fair.

Mark’s lips twitches. “Yeah, I’ve been trying a new thing where I don’t slick it back like a space senator.”

“I heard that,” the Emperor adds, utterly deadpan.

Cael laughs. It’s light, unfiltered. The first actual sound of life Mark’s heard since arrival in this too-clean world.

It smacks him straight in the chest.

“You always this observant?” Mark asks him.

Cael shrugs. “Dad says I’m nosy.”

“I said curious,” the Emperor corrects softly.

“Same thing,” Cael responds, brushing it aside. Then, asks Mark, “What’s your world like?”

The question shouldn’t make Mark pause.

But it does.

Because the pictures that come pouring back aren’t easy ones. Cities still shattered by conquest. The GDA throws everything it has at damage control. Cecil lying too much. Rex shouting too loud. His mom sobbing too much.

You, with blood on your face and your hands shaking after a fight. Holding his shirt so tight like it was the only thing holding you rooted.

Mark swallows.

“It’s... a mess,” he admits finally. “But it’s real.”

Cael nods, like that makes sense. “Do you have her?”

The words hit like a blow to the stomach.

“Yeah,” Mark breathes. “Yeah, I do.”

“She make you crazy too?” Cael smiles.

Mark huffs out a hearty chuckle. “All the time.”

Cael smiles wide this time. A gap where one of his front teeth must’ve fallen out not long ago. He’s only a child. A sharp one, definitely. But a child.

Mark stares back at the Emperor.

“You raise him alone all this time?”

The elder man nods once. “No one else I’d trust. And no one else he’d let close.”

Mark lets out a slow breath. “Damn.”

The Emperor observes him intently. “I tried to make it enough. But there’s a difference between keeping someone alive and helping them live.”

Cael doesn’t say anything. But he shifts closer to Mark. Just a bit. Like gravity’s drawing him there.

Mark doesn’t move.

“I missed you once,” Cael adds quietly. “Last year. I had a dream you came back. Not you-you. Him-you. But you were younger. Like now.”

Mark’s throat tightens.

“And you said I was strong,” the child says. “Even without her.”

Mark doesn’t trust himself to talk.

Not with that aching growing below his ribs. Not with that small face staring up at him like he’s already someone that counts.

“I’m sorry she’s not here,” Mark replies finally. Quiet. Honest. “I’m sorry you had to grow up missing her.”

Cael shrugs. “Dad shows me videos sometimes. And I remember her smell. Not the way she talked, but... the way it felt when she touched my head.”

Mark stares down. “Yeah. That sounds like her.”

“She used to press her forehead to mine,” Cael says, suddenly melancholy. “Said it was how she knew what I was dreaming.”

Mark grins.

“You ever lie to her about your dreams?” he says.

Cael grins again. “All the time.”

Mark chuckles. “Me too.”

The garden goes still again.

Not the deep quiet from before. This one’s quieter. Warmer, somehow.

The Emperor eventually speaks. “He’s stronger than me. Than you. She made sure of that.”

Mark stares at him, and there’s no envy in the expression. Just... understanding.

“I believe it,” Mark says.

Cael frowns slightly. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

Mark’s silent for a second. Then he nods. “Eventually. I’ve got someone waiting for me. She probably thinks I’m dead. I need to hurry back before she makes it true.”

Cael’s smile fades. He nods, almost grown-up in the way he analyzes it.

Mark stares at him.

The Emperor watches his son, something unreadable flashing behind his eyes.

Then, to Mark. “He reminds me of her more every day.”

Mark grins slightly. “She’d be proud.”

“She wouldn’t want this,” the Emperor adds gently. “The city. The marble. The war monuments. She’d want-”

He cuts himself off.

Mark finishes it. “a kid with dirty hands and skinned knees and too many questions.”

They’re silent again.

Mark glances at Cael. “You ever go flying?”

The boy’s eyes light up. “Not far. Dad thinks I’m not old enough to break orbit alone.”

Mark smirks. “Wanna cheat a little?”

Cael stares at his dad.

The Emperor offers the tiniest nod.

And suddenly the youngster turns, beaming broadly, and takes Mark’s hand.

And for a second, for just a breath of a second, it doesn’t matter whose version of him this is. Doesn’t matter how hefty the crown is or how clean the city’s been washed.

It’s just Mark, carrying a fragment of something that should’ve never been left behind.

The boy’s hand is small in Mark’s. Not weak, but rather something strong in his hold. Something certain. As young as he is, Cael already understands how to ground himself even now. Already understands how to remain stable in the sort of environment that robs individuals like him time to be children.

Mark’s heart is still beating. Not steady, but slower now. Not exactly. Though the adrenaline is dissipating, something else is growing under his skin.

Something calm.

Something frightening.

He lifts off the ground gently, allowing the child acclimate to the difference in gravity. Cael clutches on tighter, laughing as they fly higher above the perfect garden sector, spotless streets and peaceful symmetry dwindling beneath them.

“You ever gone this high?” Mark inquires.

Cael shakes his head, hair blowing in the breeze. “Dad doesn’t like when I go too fast.”

Mark smirks. “I’m not your dad.”

“I know.”

The child grins like he’s just gotten away with something major.

And Mark feels it strike all at once, that moment. That aching. Because this is the kid you never got to raise. The life he never got to see you hold. And he’s here. Living. Breathing. Half of you. Half of him.

He should loathe this.

But he can’t.

Because the kid is yours.

And suddenly, without wanting to, without even comprehending why, Mark’s mind starts calculating.

“How old are you?” he asks.

Cael glances sideways at him. “Six and a half.”

Mark blinks.

His stomach twists.

Six and a half.

He glances down at the Emperor, still observing from the ground, arms crossed carelessly, no emotion on his face.

Mark lands.

He’s isn’t aware he’s doing it at first.

He’s simply standing there, gazing at the kid, his kid, who’s still grasping a silly little rock like it’s treasure.

And suddenly the numbers start lining up in his thoughts. Quietly. One after another.

Cael is six and a half.

The Emperor stated it happened soon after the war.

Which means…

“Oh, no,” Mark exclaims out loud. He blinks. “Oh, no.”

He takes a step back, like that might undo it.

The Emperor doesn’t say anything. He’s simply watching.

Mark’s hands fly up. “Hold on. Wait. Wait. That means, six years, plus, like… if she was already a few days along...”

He gaze down at the youngster again.

“Oh my god.”

“What?” Cael asks, absolutely unconcerned.

Mark points at him. “You’re alive.”

Cael frowns. “I know?”

“No, I mean, you’re already alive. Like, your whole deal…” Mark flaps one hand wildly in the kid’s general direction “has already started back home. I just-”

He stops talking.

He remembers.

His brain goes there immediately.

That night.

Debbie’s house. His childhood room. The silence. The way you crawled into bed with him like the world had finally stopped spinning for two seconds. Your naked shoulder on his chest.

He’d kissed you. Slowly.

He recalls the exact moment, because for the first time in forever, neither of you were bleeding. You were simply together.

And that’s when it happened.

“Oh shit,” Mark exclaims.

He turns to the Emperor. “Are you serious?!”

The Emperor only nods.

Mark grips the back of his head with both hands. “She’s pregnant. Right now.”

“About a week in, if the timelines are similar,” the Emperor responds.

Mark glances at him like he just said water isn’t wet. “Dude. I’m twenty. I’ve had a savings account for, like, three months. I don’t even know how to fold a sheet.”

The Emperor shrugs. “You learn.”

“You learn?!”

Mark’s voice cracks.

“You just, what? Figure it out after you accidentally create a whole person?!”

“Yes.”

Mark paces a few steps away, then back. His mouth opens, then shuts. Opens again.

“I can’t believe this,” he mutters. “I was worried about buying her coffee too many times in one week. I thought that made me clingy. And now she’s carrying a human being and I’m not even in the same dimension.”

Cael’s still watching. Calm. Like this is a completely natural reaction.

Mark turns to him. “Do you know how completely insane this is?”

Cael shrugs. “Not really. I’m six.”

Mark blinks. “Right. Okay. Great.”

He stares at the Emperor again. “Does she know? Back in my world?”

The Emperor’s face darkens somewhat. “Not yet.”

Mark moans. “She’s gonna lose it.”

“She’ll handle it.”

Mark snaps, “You keep saying that like it’s comforting, and it’s not!”

The Emperor doesn’t answer.

Mark presses his hands to his face and communicates through his palms. “I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready to be a dad. I still eat gas station sandwiches because I forget to buy groceries.”

“Doesn’t matter,” the Emperor says. “He’s coming anyway.”

Mark peeks at Cael through his fingers.

The kid’s crouched down, sticking a stick into a tiny stream that flows through the garden. Innocent. Focused. Ridiculously cool for someone who just met a different version of his dad from six years ago.

Mark drops his hands. “How the hell is he this calm?”

“He’s like his mother.”

Mark swallows hard.

“Did she ever get to hold him?” he wonders. His voice is silent now. No more sarcasm. Just that cracked thing in his chest that’s beginning to feel more the longer he stays here.

The Emperor hesitates. “No.”

Mark shuts his eyes. The air changes. Feels heavier.

“She found out in the medbay,” the Emperor replies. “She smiled. Said she was glad. And then she…” He stops. Looks down. “She was gone two days later.”

Mark takes in a breath through his teeth.

“I’m not letting that happen,” he adds.

The Emperor doesn’t argue.

“I won’t,” Mark says again. “I don’t care what Angstrom’s doing. I don’t care what fracture I’m stuck in. I’m getting back. I’m going be there when she finds out. And I’m gonna sort this out like a goddamn grownup, even if I suck at it.”

He points at Cael. “Because that kid? He deserves more than a statue. He deserves to know her.”

The Emperor finally meets his gaze. “Then go home.”

“Working on it,” Mark mutters.

There’s a pause.

Then Cael goes back over, stick still in hand, like he’s thinking about presenting it as a second gift.

Mark kneels again. Slower this time.

“Hey,” he says. “You know what I was doing six years ago?”

Cael shakes his head.

“Crying in the shower because I couldn’t pass physics. You believe that?”

Cael shrugs. “I don’t know what physics is.”

Mark laughs. It’s feeble, but real.

“Good. Keep it that way.”

Cael holds out the stick. “You can have this too.”

Mark takes it earnestly. “Wow. Two-for-two. You’re gonna be a good gift-giver one day.”

“I know,” Cael responds.

Mark tucks the stick behind his ear. Because why not. He’s already unraveling in front of his future kid, might as well lean in.

Then he stands.

Looks to the Emperor.

“I mean it. I’m getting out. If you have any type of signal, anything, tell her I’m okay.”

“I already did,” the Emperor says. “You’ll feel it. When the occasion comes.”

Mark nods.

Then, after a second. “Hey.”

The Emperor glances up.

“Thanks for not being a huge asshole,” Mark says. “I honestly expected... worse.”

“You were worse,” the Emperor adds, dry.

Mark lifts an eyebrow. “Okay. Rude.”

He turns, tugging lightly on Cael’s sleeve.

“Come on,” he says. “You said you wanted to fly again, right?”

Cael smiles. “Only if we go fast.”

Mark smirks. “Fast is all I’ve got, kid.”

And with that, he launches off into the sky, not to run, but to move. To remember what it feels like to have momentum. To chase something again.

Because this time, he knows exactly what he’s coming home to.

And who’s already waiting.

Mark hovers just a few feet from the ground, Cael balanced delicately in his arms. The child is light. Like you. fast to chuckle, fast to go silent again. Hair ruffled by wind, arms out like wings as they circle the garden section in slow, deliberate circles.

But Mark’s not actually flying.

Not the way he typically would be. Not fast. Not reckless.

He’s stalling.

Because the second he lands down again, the second his boots strike the earth and the trip stops, the quiet will be waiting.

The quiet of not knowing how to get back.

Cael is grinning. “You’re better at landing than Dad.”

Mark snorts. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“He already knows.”

Mark eases them to the ground. The boy hops down with a small grunt and immediately starts collecting up stones like souvenirs.

Mark doesn’t move. He stands there, arms crossed now, peering up at the sky.

Twin suns. No clouds.

No answers.

The Emperor’s voice penetrates the silence behind him. Calm. Controlled.

“You feel it yet?”

Mark doesn’t turn around. “What?”

“The shift. The tether. Anything pulling.”

“No.” Mark’s jaw tightens. “Not yet.”

The Emperor walks closer. Not too near. But enough.

“I didn’t think you would.”

Mark grinds his teeth. “So what, I’m just stuck here? Floating about your lovely future until Angstrom chooses to rip another hole?”

“Yes.”

Mark exhales sharply through his nostrils. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The Emperor is calm.

Mark turns around to face him. “You’re telling me I’m supposed to just hang out here? Knowing she’s back there thinking I abandoned her? While she’s carrying our-” He cuts off. Hands on his hips. Voice falling. “While she’s pregnant, and I’m just, not there.”

“You’re not gone,” the Emperor responds.

“She doesn’t know that.”

“She will.”

Mark’s eyes flare. “You said that already.”

“It’s still true.”

Mark turns away again. Hands sliding down his face.

“I can’t do this,” he mutters. “I can’t just wait.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

Mark whips back around, voice fierce. “I always have a choice. I’ve fought Viltrumites, fought my dad, flung myself into buildings. And now I’m just meant to sit still?”

The Emperor’s tone doesn’t shift. “Yes.”

Mark paces. Like the action might keep him sane. “I should’ve known. I felt something that night. Not only with her. I didn’t even think about it at the moment, but she looked at me like…”

He trails off.

Like you’d already chosen. Like some part of you had given in, completely.

He pushes the heel of his hand to his temple.

“I should be with her.”

The Emperor nods. “You will be.”

Mark’s voice cracks, finally. “When?”

Silence.

Cael glances up from his pebble pile. “You’re loud,” he remarks, not unkindly.

Mark lets out a breath that’s half a chuckle and half just breath.

“Yeah,” he says. “I get that a lot.”

He crouches again, elbow resting on one knee, without actually looking at anything.

“I should be home,” he replies gently. “I should be next to her when she starts feeling sick in the morning. I should be there to stress about names. I should be in the room when she finds out and thinks, ‘shit, what now?’”

He pauses.

“Not here. Not like this.”

The Emperor stands still. Watching him. He doesn’t bring comfort. Doesn’t lie. He just lets Mark say it.

Cael moves closer, silently slipping another pebble into Mark’s fingers.

“I miss her too,” he replies gently. “Even though I don’t remember her all the way.”

Mark seals his palm around the rock without looking. His throat’s too tight.

“I bet she would’ve made breakfast bad,” Cael says. “Like... burned toast. But with the nice type of butter.”

Mark grins a little. “Yeah. She probably would’ve.”

The Emperor moves closer, voice quieter now.

“I waited too long to tell her. About the baby. About how afraid I was. I kept hoping there’d be more time. That after the war, after the next mission, after we rebuilt…”

He doesn’t finish.

Mark stares up at him, jaw gritted.

“I’m not gonna wait,” he says. “The second I feel that pull, I’m gone.”

“I know.”

“You’d better not try to stop me.”

“I won’t.”

Mark stands.

He feels taller now. Not older. Not stronger.

Just... heavier.

Everything in him is pushing for something he can’t attain yet.

But he will.

Because you’re still there.

And this time, he won’t be late.

The sun’s still hanging in the sky as they leave the garden.

Mark didn’t think he’d go with them, back to that vast, dazzling, impossible palace on the hill. He imagined he’d break off, fly somewhere alone, scream into a mountain or smash a tree till his hands bled or whatever. That’s more his style.

But instead, he walks.

Cael goes between them, a stick in one hand, the other still gripping a pebble like he hasn’t decided which is more important yet. Probably won’t for a while. Maybe he never will.

The palace looms ahead of them. It’s clean. Like everything else here. Too symmetrical. Too polished. Big columns, lengthy halls, subtle glows of energy illuminating the path. The walls vibrate slightly like everything’s alive, like even the building understands how to be silent.

Mark doesn’t talk for a time. He just walks.

Eventually, the youngster breaks off to rush ahead, vanishing down a hallway, his laughter booming behind him.

And Mark’s alone again.

Well, alone with himself.

The Emperor guides him to a lengthy corridor on the higher floor. A room with no guards, no cameras. Just a vista. A huge, open window that spreads golden light across the floor. The stars are starting to peak over the horizon.

“You built this,” Mark adds after a time. “The whole thing.”

The Emperor nods. “With her. At first.”

Mark lets out a breath and collapses onto one of the long couches near the window. It’s soft. Expensive. Looks like something he’d be too afraid to sit on at a relative’s house.

He slouches anyhow.

The Emperor stays standing.

Mark talks without glancing at him. “I don’t think I can do this.”

Silence.

“What makes you say that?”

Mark scoffs. “You serious?”

He motions vaguely toward the horizon. “I’m twenty. I’m from a planet that’s barely keeping it together. Half my friends are traumatized. The GDA lies for a living. My mom is just barely healing from my dad being a walking betrayal. And now…now, my girlfriend’s pregnant. Probably afraid. Probably sick. Probably waiting for me to come home. And I’m not there.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t have a plan. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m not ready to be a dad. I don’t even know if she’s going to want to keep it. And the idea that she could go through any of it alone makes me want to set the entire world on fire.”

The Emperor nods slowly. “I felt that too.”

Mark snorts. “Good to know that doesn’t go away.”

“It doesn’t. But it changes.”

Mark glances up. “Yeah?”

“You stop thinking about whether you’re ready. You start thinking about how you show up anyway.”

Mark shakes his head. “I don’t even know if she’s gonna tell me. I mean, she will. I think. Probably. She tells me everything. But this? That’s huge. And I’m not there to help her decide what it means.”

The Emperor moves to the far end of the chamber. He leans on the edge of the window frame, observing the stars.

“You’ll be there for what matters. If you keep pushing.”

Mark leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m scared, man. I’ve fought monsters the size of buildings. I’ve been thrown into orbit. I’ve nearly died a dozen times. But this, her, this kid, this is the thing that actually makes me feel like I can’t breathe.”

“You think she’s not scared?”

Mark nods. “I know she is.”

“Good. Then you’re on the same page.”

Mark huffs out a faint chuckle.

There’s a beat of quiet. Not cold. Just the type that comes with someone who’s already lived what you’re attempting to name.

Mark rubs his eyes. “How’d you do it? After she died?”

The Emperor doesn't answer immediately away.

“I didn't," he says finally. “Not for a while.”

Mark waits.

“I went through the motions. Built this place. Raised our son. Made peace with the other systems. Pretended I was the type of man she imagined I could be.”

“Pretended,” Mark repeats.

The Emperor nods. “Until one day, I wasn’t pretending anymore.”

“And the kid?”

“Saved me. Even when I didn’t realize I needed it.”

Mark lets that rest for a minute.

“I don’t want to be like you,” he adds.

“I know.”

“I don’t mean that as an insult.”

“It isn’t.”

Mark sighs. “I just… I want her to know she’s not alone. That she doesn’t have to be strong all the time. That I’ll carry it with her. Whatever she chooses. Even if she’s scared. Even if she doesn’t know yet.”

The Emperor turns to him.

“Then tell her,” he says. “Even from here. Think it. Say it. Say it now. She might not hear it the way you want. But she’ll feel it.”

Mark swallows. “You believe that?”

“I’ve lived it.”

Mark settles back against the couch. The couches slump around him.

He gaze up at the ceiling, the soothing blue lights shimmering overhead. And he shuts his eyes.

He pictures you. Right now.

Maybe you’re sitting on your bed. Legs curled beneath you, a palm resting absently on your stomach, not knowing why you’re so exhausted. Maybe you’re brushing your teeth, pausing to scowl at the sickness rising in your throat. Maybe you’re simply lying there, looking at the ceiling, wondering why the silence feels wrong.

Mark thinks it. Says it beneath his breath.

‘I didn’t leave you.’

‘I didn’t walk away.’

‘I’m coming home.’

Somehow. Some way. He’ll get back to you.

And when he does?

He’ll be better than he was.

Not ready.

But there.

The palace is silent, but for the faint hum of electricity pouring through the walls.

Mark’s sitting on one of the large, luxurious couches, his legs extended out in front of him, hands dangling at his sides. He’s too exhausted to stand, too tired to do anything other than ponder. It’s not that he’s lazy, he’s simply worn out by the sheer weight of everything, knowing that you’re pregnant, the fact that he’s stuck here, and the fact that he’s still not really sure how to feel about any of it.

The Emperor stands across the room, arms clasped behind his back, calm as always.

Mark doesn’t look at him.

He can’t.

The silence between them lingers for longer than it really should. And Mark isn’t sure if it’s the stillness or the sheer weight of everything falling down on him, but he eventually breaks it.

“So, uh, you said Oliver’s here.”

“Yes.”

Mark massages his temples, the tiredness starting to crawl into his bones. “Yeah, I- I figured that out. What I mean is... What’s he like? I know you’ve been parenting him.”

The Emperor doesn’t flinch. He’s already anticipating this.

“He’s not a child anymore.”

Mark’s heart skips a beat.

“What do you mean?” he says, rising up, his voice shaking. “What does that even mean? I-I left him behind when he was still a kid. He’s what, five? Six?”

“No,” the Emperor says. “He’s fully grown.”

Mark stares at him. “What?”

“He’s around twenty. Physically.”

Mark blinks. He could’ve sworn his heart simply stopped beating. “Wait. What?”

The Emperor’s voice is steady. “He aged quickly due to his Thraxan DNA. It’s the same with all their type. They progress from infancy to adulthood in only a few years.”

Mark glances at him, the perplexity flowing over him like a wave.

“He’s not a kid?” Mark repeats, his voice small. “He’s... what, twenty?”

“Twenty. Nearly twenty-one, if you count the days. He’s physically mature today, but his aging will slow dramatically in the future years. He won’t age at a human rate.”

Mark takes a hesitant step back. “Wait, wait so... you’re telling me...”

“That Oliver reached full maturity before he was even two,” the Emperor finishes. “His accelerated growth is the result of his Thraxan genetics.”

Mark runs a hand through his hair, glancing down at the floor. His thoughts are running quicker than he can keep up with them.

“Two years,” he mutters beneath his breath. “Two years... and he’s already grown up.”

The Emperor nods, his countenance opaque. “Yes. He’s not the kid you remember.”

Mark exhales, a dry laugh leaving him. “God. That’s absurd. Back home, he’s hardly walking. He’s still stumbling over his own shoes.”

“I thought I’d have time,” Mark continues, his voice low. “Time to figure out how to be a brother. Time to... be there. To teach him stuff. To be there.”

The Emperor glances at him, his words soft. “You will be. When you go back.”

Mark looks over his shoulder, catching the Emperor’s gaze. “How do you know?”

“Because you’re his brother. And that’s a relationship that doesn’t go away.”

Mark lets the words settle.

His brother. The child he used to hold on his shoulders. The one who couldn’t speak a word without laughing.

Now, here he’s a full-grown man. And Mark hasn’t seen him since he was barely able to walk.

“I don’t know if I’ll get back in time,” Mark adds, his voice softer now. “I don’t know how I can be there for him... for Cael... for her... if I don’t even know how to get home.”

“You will,” the Emperor responds, steady. “Because when the time comes, you’ll know. You won’t have a choice. It’ll be too strong to ignore.”

He’ll have to catch up. Somehow.

He has to.

Because for everything this world possesses, for all it took from him, Oliver is still his brother.

[gloomweed]

Not Alone

(Eddie Munson/Reader Comfort One-Shot)

Summary: After a traumatic incident, you seek out the comfort of your crush best friend Eddie in the late evening.

Author's Note: I wrote this as a means to cope with my own recent traumatic experience involving my alcoholic father, so this is pretty self-indulgent comfort fic; however, I left the details pretty vague so hopefully it can relate to most others. Pretty much anyone with a shitty home life. Also, reader is referred to as a girl, but no pronouns are used for the reader and physical characteristics aren't mentioned. wc: ~2.8k tw: reader has an alcoholic father (implied), otherwise this a fluffy comfort one-shot.

Eddie’s dreamless sleep was interrupted by the sound of gentle rapping at the door. At first he thought he was hearing things, but when the sound repeated he rolled out of bed with a groan. He glances at the clock on his night stand that reads 12:23 am in bright red lights. Not bothering to put on a shirt, he rubbed the crust from his eyes as he stumbled towards the living room. Who the hell is knocking at this time of night? Peeking through the peep-hole, his eyes widen at the sight of you. Your hair was disheveled, like you had been running your hands through it, and the way you held your arms made you seem so small and fragile. Completely unlike yourself on any normal day.

The old screen door squeaks as he opens it, but underneath that sound, Eddie could hear you sniffling. Without the filter of the dirty glass covering the peep-hole, he could see that your eyes were red and puffy. The light from the porch lamp caught on the tear streaks running down your cheeks, making it look like gold. “Sorry, Eddie. I know you were probably sleeping, but-”

From the moment he spots you, it's clear to Eddie that you're in some kind of trouble. It puts him on edge, becoming hyper vigilant for your sake. He cuts you off as he ushers you inside with a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Don’t worry about that, just get in here.” He's been around the block before, so he knows to make sure you aren't being followed by some lurking creep looking to prey on a vulnerable girl. He keeps an eye out as you enter, looking for any signs of immediate danger. From what he can tell, the rest of the trailer park is asleep. With no cars or people passing by, he follows you indoors, locking the deadbolt behind him. 

Inside, you stand in the entryway for a moment, unsure what to do with yourself now that you're here. After locking the door, Eddie sees you standing there frozen. With a faraway look in your glassy eyes, you looked like you were lost in thought. His gaze doesn't leave your sad face as he gently takes hold of your hand, swiping his calloused thumb over your knuckles in an attempt to bring you back to the present moment. When you finally look him in the eyes, he smiles in what he hopes is in a comforting way. It’s okay. You’re here now. I’m here for you. You manage a tight lip smile of your own, grateful you have such a good friend.

He jerks his head in the direction of the couch, and you accept with a nod. Eddie leaves for a moment to grab the roll of toilet paper from the bathroom. When he holds it out to you, he explains. “We don’t have any real tissues, so this is the best I can offer.” As you take it from him, he cringes with embarrassment. “Sorry.”

You shake your head. “Don’t be. Thank you.” Taking a few squares off the roll, you wipe your face and blow your nose. 

Eddie takes a seat beside you, looking worried. He runs his sweaty hands over his pant legs, feeling unsure of how he should help you. “So, uh… Do you want to talk about it, or is this more like a ‘no questions asked’ situation?”

There is a silent pause as you gather your thoughts, unsure yourself of what you want. You take a deep breath and release it slowly, refocusing yourself on the reason you decided to make an impromptu visit to your friend so late at night. “It’s my dad.” Eddie nods, aware that you have what some might call a ‘complicated relationship’ with your dad. Personally, he prefers to call it ‘your dad is an asshole, but you don’t have the means to move out of your parent’s place just yet, so you’re forced to just grin and bear it until you can.’ You fiddle with the crumpled toilet paper in your lap, frowning. “It got bad. He was yelling and screaming and breaking things.” The furrow of your brow made it seem like you were about to cry again. 

“You don’t have to get into it if you don’t want to. I mean, look who you’re talking to. If there’s anyone who understands having a shitty dad, it’s me.” Eddie smirks as he confidently puts his hand on his chest. It’s enough to make you smile in appreciation of his understanding. “So what I’m hearing is you need to stay here for a few days?”

Eddie’s offer makes your heart skip and the moment it's out there, you're shaking your head. “Just for the night would be plenty. You don’t have to let me stay at all if you’re busy-” 

He shakes his head with a smile, amused by the thought of him being too busy for you. “Nah, it’s no trouble. You know I like having you around.” He winks playfully knowing it would make you laugh. And it does, albeit just barely. It’s really more a snuff of breath exhaled out of your nose, but Eddie will take what he can get. “Besides, makes Wayne happy seeing I have actual friends instead of, you know, buyers.” After you nod in understanding, he points towards the back where his bedroom is. “You can take my room, while I take the ol’ reliable here.” He pats the cushion he's sitting on with a lopsided smile.

Knowing you, Eddie is already expecting an argument about it's his bed, he should be the one to sleep on it, but he could never have that, especially with his uncle's midwestern ideals. Eddie knows Wayne would chew him out if he lets a guest sleep on the couch. When you stay at the Munson's, you sleep on the one and only bed in the house. That's how Wayne was raised, and what was consequently drilled into Eddie's skull when he moved in. While he prepared this rebuttal in his head, your protest never came. 

Eddie looks to see you biting your lip as you look at your feet. He watches you patiently as you work up the nerve to say what you want to say. “Would it be okay if we share the bed?” Eddie almost can't stop himself from grinning, but he manages to keep in his screaming thoughts at the prospect of sharing his bed with a pretty girl like you. On the outside, Eddie does his best to play it cool, but you must have seen his eyes go wide in excitement and took it the wrong way. Waving your hands dismissively, you do your best to remedy the awkward silence. “You don’t have to! I know it’s a weird request, it's just…” Your eyes dim again as you feel the embarrassment creep up your neck. “I don’t want to sleep alone tonight.”

Seeing you so emotionally beaten down and afraid makes Eddie feel a kind of sadness he hasn’t felt since he was a kid. Before he became more cynical and realized most people deserve what they have coming for them. But he knows you; your kindness and generosity. There’s a feeling of something heavy sitting in the pit of his stomach and Eddie knows for certain you don’t deserve to feel like this, no matter what the situation could possibly be. The sadness quickly evolves into rage when he remembers this is something your own father did. He may not know all the details, but he knows fathers aren't supposed to leave their children feeling like this. Like a burden. 

Seeing as being around an angry person is probably the last thing you need, Eddie pushes his feelings to the back of his mind for when he might need it. Like the next time he sees your dad’s car sitting in the liquor store parking lot, for example. A crudely spray-painted penis on that dirtbag’s car might be the thing to put a real smile on your face. Even the thought that Eddie would go to jail if he got caught wasn’t enough to deter him. If it’s in the name of giving you the justice you undoubtedly deserve, he’d do it. This town already sees him as a criminal, so it wouldn’t make a difference to him either way. Why not do something bad for someone so good?

He says your name softly to get you to look at him through tear-heavy lashes. Eddie’s unwavering intense gaze is enough to make your hair stand up on end and your throat tighten. He subconsciously tilts his head at the sight of your sad face. “Whatever you need, I’ll do it. Alright?” All you can manage is a nod in response, not trusting your own voice. You only hope he can feel your gratitude through it. “Welp,” he stands up from the couch pushing off of his knees. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”

You follow Eddie to his room where he begins to shake out the blanket he left resting haphazardly on his bed. He motions for you to lie down while he does so. Once you’ve settled on the side closest to the wall, the blanket flutters out one last time to lay mostly flat over you. Eddie quickly settles in bed next to you, doing his best to leave a respectable distance between you both. “Is this okay?” he asks once you’re both settled.

Clutching the blanket that smells overwhelmingly like Eddie, you bury yourself deeper into the pillow under your head. There is a small smile adorning your face as you get comfortable. “Yes. Thank you.” 

Eddie quickly sits up to turn off the lights and for a moment the warm glow from his bedside lamp casts a fitting halo around his mop of messy dark curls. There is a quiet ‘click’ as the room becomes dark and you can hear him shuffle back down under the covers. Eventually, he lets out one last sigh saying, “Sweet dreams,” before relaxing next to you.

His gentle breathing is not enough to get you to fall asleep. Hours after Eddie began his soft snoring, you're still running through the night's events. Where did you go wrong? What could you have done differently? What's wrong with you?

These questions circle through your head to the point you begin to feel a pressing headache at the front of your mind. It was like a brewing storm, with dark clouds and impending rain. No matter how you think of it, you still feel in the wrong somehow. It was something you did to set your dad off. You deserve to be screamed at. The tight prickly feeling creeps up your neck as you do your best to cry quietly. You don't want to wake Eddie up. He's already helped you so much, you don't want to bother him again. You face away from him, towards the wall, foolishly hoping that little distance would protect him from your breakdown.

Unfortunately, the need to breathe and a runny nose is a noisy combination. Eddie blinks once, twice, before realizing that it's you making that pitiful sound. It's a lot of sniffling and quiet whimpers. When he turns and sees you curled up into yourself with shaking breaths, he feels a little panicked. He sits up and places a hand on your shoulder, rubbing gentle circles there. “Hey, hey, hey,” he coos. “It's okay. You're gonna be okay.” Eddie keeps his voice soft, trying to calm you down, but as the words leave his mouth he can't help but frown at them. Telling someone that they are going to be fine later is not really going to help them now, but it's all Eddie has to offer. 

Voice too broken to respond, all you can do is shake your head. Being seen so vulnerable by the boy you like makes you all the more upset. A few stray tears is one thing, but being damn near hysterical with leaking snot is another. If you thought leaving his room would do any good, you might have tried to make a break for it. Instead, you shut your eyes tight, hoping he wouldn’t push you into talking about it, or worse, push you to look at him. 

Seeing as his words of encouragement are falling on ears too sad to believe him, Eddie feels useless. He hates seeing you like this. He wishes he could take it all away and bear it himself. With his last attempt to console you, Eddie steadies his mind in case of your impending rejection. 

The gentle hands on your sides make your breath catch in surprise. They pull you by the waist to rest a little closer before holding you in a loose hug. Is Eddie Munson cuddling you right now? His body heat radiates off of him in a comforting aura, soothing your tensed shoulders. The genuine surprise is enough to make you forget why you were crying, if only for a moment. The origin of his quiet voice makes you realize that pressure on your shoulder is where he is resting his head. He speaks into your shoulder blade, hiding his blushing face there. “I know I can’t make it better, but that’s not gonna stop me from trying.”

The sorrow in his voice is unmistakable, as if he was the one to make you cry. You feel a distant pang of guilt that Eddie feels the need to fix it for you. You don’t want him to worry about you, despite the little voice in your head telling you otherwise. You can’t deny that a part of you enjoys the way you feel loved when he shows his care for you, but you don’t want it at the expense of becoming a burden he feels obligated to bear. However, seeing as you can't form the words to tell him so, you're forced to let it go and just enjoy the feeling of Eddie enveloping you while you release the rest of your pent-up emotions.

Eddie is somewhat perplexed that you aren’t telling him off or pushing him away, but relishes the feeling of you in his arms nonetheless. He breathes in the scent of your laundry detergent, the one that he only associates with you. The little brushing of arms makes him realize how soft you are. It’s the kind of softness that reminds him of his childhood teddy bear. Something precious and sweet. 

He holds you for a while, being there for you as you cry. There are times he feels like he’s about to doze off, but Eddie wills himself to stay awake. Until he’s sure you’re alright, he can't sleep. When your shaking eventually lessens and your breathing has steadied to the same rhythm of his own, he feels you begin to shuffle in his arms. Eddie takes a small movement away, trying his best to give you your space back should you want it. You turn to face him, tears now dried, and stare into his glittering dark brown eyes. You aren’t sure what words you can say that will convey the gratitude you hold for him. The appreciation. The wholehearted love.

With how long you stare, Eddie struggles to read your expression, and can’t help but smile nervously. Is this the part where you tell him to never do that again? “You always make it better.” Your quiet voice is a little hoarse from your crying, but he manages to hear it anyway. It makes his face go warm with pride and his smile all the more genuine. Your eyes trail over Eddie as you do your best to commit the image to memory. As you appreciate every freckle and crease and dimple, your chest swells with adoration for the lovable boy before you. The feeling is all consuming and before you realize it, you lean into the little space separating you from him and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

When you pull away, you see the shock on Eddie's face. His eyes are wide, his lips parted in awe. The seconds feel like minutes when he doesn't make any kind of response. Blood rushes to your face from embarrassment. You must have overstepped his boundaries! What were you thinking?!  “Sorry. I shouldn't ha-” 

Eddie cuts you off with a kiss of his own, his lips pushing into yours with a touch more force. Heart hammering in your chest, your eyes slip closed as you kiss him back. When he feels you begin to move your lips against his, Eddie can't help but smile into it. His breath fans across your cupid's bow as he sighs in satisfaction. Arms reaching for each other beneath the blanket, your hands slide over his bare chest before settling on his shoulders. One of his hands rests on your waist while the other delicately cups your face. Mouths separating with a click, both of you panting, you wonder if Eddie can tell you're blushing as you stare. His grin is all teeth and dimples as he gazes back with adoration in his eyes. “Don't be. You have no idea how long I wanted to do that.”

[angelseraphines]

ೃ⁀➷ lolita ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ professor!cho sang-woo x student!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header!

˚ ༘♡ you had never intended for everything to end up so terribly wrong.

˚ ༘♡ waking up in a stranger’s bed, tangled in a heap of disheveled silken sheets, the faint scent of unfamiliar cologne clinging to the room, you tried to piece together the night before. your best friend and roommate had dragged you out to a bar, insisting it was the perfect way to unwind before the chaos of the winter semester began. the memory was hazy at best, a blur of dim lights, laughter, and the taste of something sweet and burning on your tongue. but the details of the previous night? they evaded you, leaving behind a hollow, uneasy feeling at the hands of your recklessness.

˚ ༘♡ your body ached as you sat up, the strap of your ivory undershirt slipping off your shoulder, and your long hair falling in untamed waves around your face. you rubbed at your eyes, trying to shake off the grogginess. as your vision cleared, you noticed him, an older man standing at his dresser, his actions brisk and precise. his broad shoulders were hunched slightly as he buttoned a crisp, ironed shirt, the glint of square-rimmed glasses catching the morning light. he didn’t look at you immediately, but the tension in his posture was unmistakable.

˚ ༘♡ when he finally turned, his face bore an expression of thinly veiled frustration, a deep sigh escaping him as his eyes met yours.

˚ ༘♡ “good morning, sir,” you murmured, your voice raspy from sleep and the dryness in your throat. you adjusted your strap absentmindedly and glanced around the room, unfamiliar and impersonal. “do you know where i left my phone?”

˚ ༘♡ he moved quickly, striding over to the nightstand and retrieving your phone without a word. his hand was steady as he held it out to you, but there was something about the set of his jaw that made you feel as though your presence was an inconvenience.

˚ ༘♡ “here,” he said curtly, his voice composed yet devoid of warmth. “i’ll cover your taxi fare and give you some cash for breakfast.” he reached into his wallet, pulling out a few bills. “i have to leave for work soon, so i think it’d be best if you were on your way.”

˚ ༘♡ his words, though polite enough, carried a clear sense of urgency, as if he was eager to put the events of the night behind him. you nodded slowly, clutching your phone to your chest as you tried to suppress the creeping embarrassment crawling up your spine.

˚ ༘♡ “of course,” you said softly, your voice quiet as the creeping shame settled in your chest. you climbed out of his bed with hurried, clumsy footsteps, pulling on your clothes and avoiding his gaze entirely. as you fumbled to straighten yourself out, you pulled out your phone to text your friend, your thumbs shaky as you tried to gather some explanation, anything that could shed light on how the night had unraveled so disastrously.

˚ ༘♡ you didn’t linger. without another glance at him or a word of goodbye, you left the room as quickly and quietly as you could. outside, the morning chill bit at your skin, but you ignored it, clutching the crisp bills he had handed you. with his money, you flagged a taxi and gave the driver directions back to your dormitory, sinking into the backseat with your mind clouded by shame and confusion.

˚ ༘♡ the ride felt endless, each turn of the wheel dragging you farther away from the faceless stranger’s home and closer to the reality you’d have to face. you were a foreign exchange student at seoul national university, studying korean language and literature. this was your second semester, and you’d come to south korea brimming with excitement about immersing yourself in its culture and language. yet here you were, starting this term with a hangover, an unfamiliar bed behind you, and a hazy recollection of the previous night.

˚ ༘♡ back in the dormitory, you dressed unhurriedly, slipping into a pale linen dress and fastening the delicate buckles of your black mary-janes. as you tried to piece together fragments of memory, your phone buzzed with a message from your friend, who had left for an early morning study session. she was quick to explain, filling in gaps you could barely grasp.

˚ ༘♡ “while i was chatting with some guy, you ended up talking to his friend,” her text read. “he was quieter, kind of cold, but professional-looking. anyway, i guess neither of you can handle your liquor because the two of you got drunk way too fast. you left before i could even say anything.”

˚ ༘♡ you frowned at the screen, your lips pressing into a tight line as you typed out a vague response. when she asked you for details about the man, you shrugged it off, offering a clipped and noncommittal reply.

˚ ༘♡ later, as the two of you walked across campus toward the business administration building for your first class, she brought it up again. “whatever,” she said with a casual wave of her hand. “he was handsome though, right? i remember that much. very professional-looking.”

˚ ༘♡ you hesitated before nodding. “he was,” you admitted, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “but he didn’t seem too thrilled when i woke up. he looked… mortified.” you handed her a steaming hot latte you had picked up earlier, using the last of the money the man had given you for breakfast.

˚ ༘♡ “maybe he was married,” you continued, taking a sip of your own coffee. “or had a girlfriend. i don’t know. he probably just didn’t want anyone to know i was there.”

˚ ༘♡ she scoffed, rolling her eyes. “oh, forget it. at least you loosened up for once. you’re always so tense, so involved in your studies and so pious. it’s good to see you let go a little.”

˚ ༘♡ her words made you feel exposed, but you chose not to respond, instead focusing on the path ahead. as you neared the classroom for your financial accounting course, a class you dreaded but had to take to fulfill your arithmetic requirement, you pulled out your schedule for confirmation.

˚ ༘♡ your stomach sank at the sight of the name, professor cho sang-woo. he was notorious on campus, a man whose strictness in academics was matched only by his sharp critiques and grueling expectations. while you’d never met him personally, you’d heard enough horror stories to know that he had been your last choice for this class, but the other professor’s class had reached maximum occupancy, and so you were left with no other option.

˚ ༘♡ grimacing, you folded the schedule back into your leather bag, bracing yourself for what you already suspected would be an exhausting semester.

˚ ༘♡ your friend peeked through the narrow glass pane of the classroom door, her eyes widening as she turned back to you, her usual delighted expression replaced by sheer disbelief. her lips parted, but for a second, no sound came out. after a nerve-wracking minute, she managed to whisper, “oh my gosh.”

˚ ༘♡ “what?” you asked, your voice tinged with concern.

˚ ༘♡ she glanced back at the classroom and then at you, her voice dropping further as she leaned closer. “the professor… professor cho,” she stammered, her words stumbling over one another as if she couldn’t believe them herself. “he’s the guy. the guy you left the bar with last night.”

˚ ༘♡ you went still, staring at her in stunned silence. the idea seemed absurd, impossible even. “you’re joking,” you said, though the disbelief in your voice betrayed you.

˚ ༘♡ “i’m not.” her tone was insistent, her wide eyes locked onto yours.

˚ ༘♡ despite yourself, you leaned forward, inching toward the door. your heart pounded as you peered through the window, your eyes scanning the front of the lecture hall. and there he was. the same man you had woken up next to that morning, now seated at his desk, meticulously organizing his papers. his suit jacket was perfectly pressed, his square-rimmed spectacles, perched on the bridge of his nose as he prepared for the lecture.

˚ ༘♡ you stepped back quickly, your breath catching in your throat. “i don’t…” you started, struggling to form a coherent sentence. “i don’t know what to do. but we need this class. it’s a requirement, and… he probably doesn’t even remember me.”

˚ ༘♡ your friend didn’t look convinced, her lips pressing into a thin line as she studied you. but with a reluctant expression, she followed you inside.

˚ ༘♡ the lecture hall was magnificent and grand, rows of seats sloping down toward the front where professor cho stood at the podium. the two of you slipped into seats near the middle, hoping to blend into the hoarde of students. you tried to subdue your racing thoughts, convincing yourself that his focus would be on the lecture and not on you.

˚ ༘♡ as class began, he launched into the syllabus, his tone formal and precise. his expectations were, as you had feared, exacting to the following, no late work, no make-up exams, attendance mandatory without exception, or be at risk of failing. his voice was even, without much emotion, as though he were discussing a business transaction rather than a college course.

˚ ༘♡ for a while, you thought you’d gotten away with it. the size of the class worked in your favor, and he seemed too absorbed in his material to notice you. but then, his dark gaze drifted across the room, and his eyes landed on you.

˚ ༘♡ the shift in his expression was brief, so short-lived you almost doubted you’d seen it. but it was there. a faint, vanishing gleam of recognition, chased quickly by something else, disbelief, maybe even alarm. his composure returned almost instantly, and he turned his attention back to his notes, continuing as if nothing had happened.

˚ ༘♡ your stomach churned. he remembered. of course he recalled what had occurred hours earlier. but what now? you sat in misery, your pen resting limply in your hand as his voice droned on. beside you, your friend cast you a worried glance, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet her eyes. all you could do was sit there, heart pounding, pretending everything was fine when, deep down, you knew this semester had just become far more troublesome than you ever anticipated.

˚ ༘♡ when the class finally ended, most students filed out of the lecture hall, their chatter filling the air as they moved toward the exits. you had hoped to quietly follow, blending into the crowd, but just as you reached for your bag, professor cho’s voice cut through the noise, strained and undeniable. he called your name.

˚ ༘♡ your heart sank. there was no way to avoid this.

˚ ༘♡ your friend halted as she began to step away, casting you a worried glance over her shoulder. “i’ll wait for you outside,” she whispered, her voice filled with concern.

˚ ༘♡ with a slow, unwilling nod, you made your way down the steep steps toward the front of the room, each movement careful as you fought to keep your expression neutral. “professor cho,” you greeted dryly, your voice alludingt the sliver of the apprehension brewing inside you.

˚ ༘♡ he stood behind his desk, removing his glasses and placing them carefully atop a stack of papers. his face was as impassive as ever, but there was something in the way he cleared his throat that hinted at his discomfort.

˚ ༘♡ “i’m sure you understand how inappropriate this situation is,” he began, his tone clipped and formal. “given what… transpired between us, it is entirely unprofessional for you to remain in my course. neither of us could have predicted this arrangement, but the fact remains, it’s unacceptable. you need to speak with your counselor and drop this class.”

˚ ༘♡ his words hit you like a shock, and your mouth fell open slightly. “but you’re the only professor with openings for this course!” you protested, the panic in your voice rising despite your attempt to remain calm.

˚ ༘♡ he ran a hand through his neatly combed dark hair, his frustration evident in the rigidness of his motions. “i understand that, but i’m afraid you’ll have to wait until the next semester. it’s the only solution.”

˚ ༘♡ your frustration boiled over, and you shook your head, refusing to back down. “if i wait, i won’t graduate on time. how is this fair? we’re both equally responsible for what happened, so why should i be the one to pay the price?”

˚ ༘♡ his expression softened slightly, though his tone remained steady. “what do you want me to say?” he asked, almost resigned. “it’s unprofessional, plain and simple. no matter how we look at it, this arrangement isn’t appropriate.”

˚ ༘♡ you squared your shoulders, your voice sharpening with indignation. “you must have known something was wrong, or else why did you look so terrifed when you saw me wake up this morning?”

˚ ༘♡ his jaw clenched, and he rubbed his temple as if the thought of that realization pained him. “because i realized i’m twice your age,” he snapped, his voice filled with exasperation. “and now i find out you’re my student on top of that. don’t you see how disturbing this is? you must drop the course, or else my esteemed standing at this university is threatened.”

˚ ༘♡ crossing your arms, you stood your ground. “i’m not going to ruin my academic career just to make you feel better about your choices, professor,” you said firmly. “i’m staying in this class. i don’t expect any special treatment, and i’m willing to forget everything that happened. we can both move on, like adults.”

˚ ༘♡ he stared at you for a long moment, his expression obscure. the silence between you was nearly unbearable, but you refused to concede. finally, he exhaled sharply, relenting. “if you’re comfortable with that arrangement, then… very well.”

˚ ༘♡ a small smile tugged at the corners of your rosy lips, and you nodded. “thank you, professor. i’ll see you tomorrow.”

˚ ༘♡ he gave a slight nod, his gaze dropping to the papers on his desk as you turned to leave. your steps quickened as you exited the lecture hall, your mind racing with everything that had just unfolded.

˚ ༘♡ outside the classroom doors, your friend was waiting, her expression filled with a mix of interest and impatience. “well? what happened?” she asked, falling into step beside you as the two of you walked down the hallway.

˚ ༘♡ you hesitated, glancing back over your shoulder before turning forward again. “i’ll tell you later,” you said, though your mind was still reeling. no matter how much you tried to convince yourself it was behind you, you knew this was only the beginning of something complicated.

a/n: let me know your thoughts or if you have anymore requests! 🤍

[childrenofcain-if]

Hello beautiful Author!! I hope u are doing well! So basically I am a religious follower of your blog and uuugghh!!! This story is so beautifully crafted like the script the writing style the plot even the characters seem larger than life. Honestly u have my tremendous respect and admiration.... Also I am totally in love with cedric!! angsty adorable and hot. So since today is my birthday I decided to treat myself to a snippet ... Can u please write a fluff scene where in the future after marriage yk after C achieved his dream how would M!C react to find out that F!MC is pregnant. What kind of dad would he be and how would he handle the news especially if it's a girl. (PS: I love you okay? U rock!!! ❤❤😘)

the morning started like most mornings did in your household. the sunlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of your manhattan penthouse, muted by the heavy curtains cédric insisted on keeping drawn just enough to keep the room from feeling exposed.

he was already in the kitchen when you woke up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose as he frowned at his ipad.

it was a weekday, which meant cédric was doing what cédric did best: handling things.

the man could command a room full of board members or negotiate a multi-billion-dollar deal, but he always took his mornings slow, like it was his personal rebellion against the world which demanded his attention. the smell of coffee hung thick in the air, and you could hear him muttering under his breath—half in french, half in english—as he skimmed over some report.

he looked up when he heard your footsteps. the cold glint in his pale green eyes softened the way they always did when he saw you.

“good morning, mon amour,” he said, setting the ipad down as if the numbers and charts weren’t important anymore.

you smiled at him, but there was a nervous flutter in your chest that didn’t quite dissipate.

“good morning,” you greeted back, making your way to the counter. “we need to talk.”

his brow furrowed, just slightly, in that way that meant his mind was already cataloging possible scenarios. you wondered if he was running through a mental checklist: a problem at work, an overdue bill, a delayed package. he was always looking for answers before you even finished your question.

“what’s wrong?” he asked, voice low and calm, but his hand twitched where it rested on the counter.

you hesitated, suddenly unsure how to say it. for someone who had spent years speaking in boardrooms and drafting persuasive arguments, the words felt clumsy in your throat.

“there’s nothing wrong, per se,” you began, and you saw the tension in his shoulders ease—just a fraction. “it’s just... i’m pregnant.”

the silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. it was like the air had stilled, waiting for his reaction.

cédric blinked. once, twice. then he stepped back, leaning against the counter as if the weight of your words had hit him square in the chest. his mouth opened, then closed again. he looked—if you hadn’t known him better—younger. like a boy caught off guard, unsure of whether he was allowed to feel what he was feeling.

“you’re...?” he started, and then he stopped himself. his hand went to his hair, brushing the dark brown strands back, a nervous habit he’d never managed to shake. “you’re sure?”

you nodded, suddenly shy. “i took three tests. all positive. i was going to wait until we were both home later tonight, but—”

“no, no, now is perfect,” he interrupted, his voice sharper than he intended, like he was scolding you for even considering keeping it from him. he shook his head, and you could see the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “mon dieu.”

cédric laughed then, a sound so rare and so unguarded it made your chest ache. it was a laugh of disbelief, of joy, of sheer and unrestrained emotion. he crossed the kitchen in two long strides and pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly you could feel his heart pounding against your ribs.

“je t’aime,” he murmured into your hair. “je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime.”

you clung to him, laughing through the tears that had started spilling down your cheeks.

***

cédric’s reaction to the pregnancy didn’t end that morning. over the next few weeks, he threw himself into preparing for the baby with the same intensity he brought to his work. he was meticulous, obsessive even, researching everything from cribs to car seats. he vetoed three potential pediatricians before you’d even had a chance to meet them, insisting that only the best would do.

but it wasn’t just about the logistics. cédric was unexpectedly tender, in a way that made your heart twist. he read parenting books in bed at night, one hand on your growing belly as he absently stroked his thumb over the fabric of your pajamas. he brought you tea without being asked, stocked the pantry with your favorite snacks, and refused to let you carry anything heavier than a shopping bag.

when you found out the baby was a girl, it felt like the world completely shifted for him.

“it’s a girl,” you had informed him, holding the ultrasound picture out to him.

he took it from your hands carefully, as if it were made of glass, and stared at it for a long moment. his expression was unreadable, but you could see the way his fingers trembled, just slightly.

“a daughter,” he said, the words thick in his throat. “our daughter.”

you nodded with a small smile, watching him carefully. “how do you feel about that?”

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he set the picture down on the table and turned to you, his eyes burning with an intensity that made you shiver.

“i’m going to protect her,” cédric said, his voice low and fierce. “from everything. from everyone. she’ll never have to wonder if she’s loved. she’ll never have to fight for what’s hers.”

“i can already see it,” you teased gently, trying to lighten the mood. “you’ll be the dad who scares off all her partners.”

“damn right i will,” he said, his smile returning. “she’s going to know her worth. and if anyone tries to undermine that—” he didn’t finish the sentence, but the murderous look in his eyes said enough.

you leaned forward, cupping his cheek and drawing him back to you. “she’ll know her worth because of you,” you said softly. “because of how much you’ll love her.”

“and her mother,” he added, his voice barely above a whisper.

he kissed you then, slow and lingering, and when he pulled back, his hands settled gently over your stomach.

you reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly. “she’s going to be so lucky to have you.”

cédric shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “no,” he said softly, his gaze dropping to your belly. “i’m the lucky one.”

***

as the months went on, cédric proved himself to be everything you’d hoped for and more. he was attentive to a fault, sometimes to the point of driving you mad with his insistence on helping you. ehen the baby kicked for the first time, he was right there, his hand pressed against your stomach, his eyes wide with wonder.

when your due date finally arrived, he was the calmest one in the delivery room. he held your hand through every contraction (even when you almost broke his bones), whispered words of encouragement in your ear, and refused to leave your side, even when the nurses told him to give you space.

and when your daughter was finally born, cédric was the first to hold her, much to your father’s exasperation. he cradled her tiny, wrinkled body in his arms, his expression soft and awestruck.

“she’s perfect,” he whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks.

you smiled, exhausted but deliriously happy. “she has your eyes.”

“and a head full of your hair,” he said, his voice breaking.

in that moment, you knew without a doubt that he would be the kind of father who would move mountains for his daughter. he would be firm but fair, protective but not overbearing, and endlessly devoted to her happiness.

as he rocked her gently, humming a lullaby under his breath, you realized that this—your little family—was everything you’d ever wanted. and as much as you knew about how cédric wasn’t very good at expressing his emotions, it was clear as day right now that nothing would ever compare to the love he had for the two of you.

[nylqnder]

FIRST SNOWFALL JAMIE DRYSDALE

— event masterlist !

pairing: fem!reader x jamie drysdale

summary: after moving to philadelphia, you get your first snowy christmas, so jamie takes you outside to fully introduce you to snow.

warnings: descriptions of reader being from socal

wc: 1.14k

notes: fic 9 of my christmas event! as i'm writing this, we still have not gotten snow where i live... (UPDATE: it snowed literally a day after i wrote this🤐)

The morning light filtered through the slats of the blinds, casting a faint glow on the beige walls of the bedroom you now shared with Jamie in Philadelphia. The hum of the heating system was the only sound, a soft reminder of the cold winter that was approaching outside. You shuffled out of bed, your toes curling against the chill of the hardwood floor as you padded toward the window. Pulling the blinds aside, you froze.

The world beyond the glass was transformed. Snow blanketed every surface, turning the familiar street into a pristine, untouched wonderland. The cars parked along the curb were reduced to lumpy, formless mounds. The branches of the bare trees sagged under the weight of the thick white layer. It was mesmerizing, and your lips parted in awe.

“Jamie,” you called, your voice rising with excitement. “Jamie, wake up!”

From the bed, a groggy groan emerged as he stirred, his head popping up from the pillow, his dark hair sticking up in every direction. “What is it?” His voice was rough with sleep.

“It snowed,” you said, the words tumbling out in disbelief. “I mean, like, really snowed. The whole world’s… white.”

Jamie swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing at his eyes as he joined you at the window. His eyes, still heavy with sleep, widened slightly as he took in your expression, the kind of wide-eyed wonder that was rare in adults. “You’ve never seen snow before?” he asked, a slow grin spreading across his face.

You shook your head, still staring out. “No. Not like this. I mean, it’s Southern California. The closest I’ve gotten is fake snow at Disneyland.”

His laugh was soft, a low rumble that made your chest warm despite the chilly air in the room. “Well, get dressed. Layers,” he added, pointing a finger at you. “We’re going outside.”

“Right now?” You turned to him, incredulous.

“Right now,” he confirmed, already heading to the closet. “Can’t have you missing out on your first real snow day.”

The process of layering up was comical in itself. Jamie had to pause several times to explain what counted as "real winter gear" and why a hoodie wouldn’t cut it. By the time you were ready, you felt like the younger brother in A Christmas Story, your movements stiff under the weight of layers upon layers of fabric.

“Perfect,” Jamie declared, tugging on a beanie and some gloves. He was significantly less bundled up, but being born in Toronto, he was used to the snow and the cold. “Let’s go.”

The cold hit you first. The air was crisp, almost biting, as you stepped out onto the porch. Your breath puffed out in little clouds, and you could feel the chill settling into your nose and cheeks. But the sight of the snow up close — how it sparkled like a field of tiny diamonds — was enough to keep you from retreating back inside.

Jamie didn’t wait. He was already scooping up a handful of snow, testing its texture in his gloved hands. “It’s good packing snow,” he said, turning to you with a wicked grin. “Perfect for snowballs.”

“Snowballs?” you echoed, but before you could react, a soft projectile hit you square in the shoulder.

You gasped, your hands flying up in mock outrage. “Oh, you’re so going to regret that.”

What followed was a flurry of laughter and snow, as the two of you lobbed hastily-formed snowballs at each other. You squealed every time one hit its mark, the cold seeping through your jacket, but you couldn’t stop grinning. Eventually, a truce was called, and you both flopped onto the snow-covered lawn, where you attempted your first snow angel. The act of lying back in the cold, damp snow felt bizarre at first, the cold seeping through your sweatpants. Jamie was at your side, moving his arms and legs with exaggerated enthusiasm, and his laughter echoed, rich and full, when your own “angel” turned out crooked and uneven.

“So,” Jamie starts once you’ve both stood back up. “What are your final thoughts on snow?”

You glance around at the winter wonderland that consumed the tight-knight community in Philadelphia that you’d grown to call home. “I didn’t know it would be so pretty,” you say softly. “And so cold.”

Jamie smirked, shaking snow out of his hair. “Well, yeah. It’s snow,” he teased.

You roll your eyes at him, but the shivering that’s started to creep in undercuts your comeback. Jamie notices immediately, his brow furrowing. “You’re freezing,” he says, already on his feet. “Do you want to go back inside?”

You hesitate, glancing at the snowy expanse once more, reluctant to leave. But when another shiver racks your frame, you nod. “Yeah, let’s head in.”

Inside, the warmth hits you like a balm. Jamie turns on the fireplace while you peel off your damp layers, wrapping yourself in a plush blanket. By the time he joins you on the couch, the flames are dancing in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room.

Jamie hands you a steaming mug of hot chocolate, complete with a mountain of mini marshmallows on top. “Here,” he says, plopping down beside you and tucking his legs underneath him. “This’ll warm you up.”

You take the mug gratefully, letting the warmth seep into your fingers as you hold it close. The first sip is heavenly, rich and sweet, and you let out a satisfied hum. The warmth of the room and Jamie’s easy presence wrap around you like a cocoon. Outside, the snow still falls softly, blanketing the world in a peaceful silence. It feels like the kind of day meant for slowing down, savoring the little things.

You take another sip of your hot chocolate and glance at Jamie. “You know what would make this even better?”

“What’s that?” he asks, turning his head toward you.

“A Christmas movie,” you suggest, grinning.

Jamie raises an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh, I see. You’ve got snow outside, a fire going, and now you want the full Hallmark experience?”

“Exactly,” you reply, laughing. “And you can’t say no. It’s my first snowy Christmas, after all.”

He rolls his eyes in mock defeat but reaches for the remote. “Fine. But I’m picking the movie.”

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously. “Nothing boring or depressing, Jamie. It has to be a classic.”

He scrolls through the streaming options, the soft clicks of the remote filling the cozy silence. “Home Alone? It’s funny, Christmassy, and has a ton of snow.”

You agree, Jamie clicking play. As the opening notes of the movie fill the room, Jamie drapes an arm across the back of the couch, his fingers brushing your shoulder. You lean into him, the warmth of his touch and the crackling fire melting away the lingering chill.

[cosmiccrushes]

A Choice Made

Lucanis x Rook || 2k words

Summary: Lucanis finds Rook drowning her sorrows at the bottom of a bottle as she struggles to come to terms with the consequences of her choice to help Minrathous or Treviso

i'm also on ao3 <3

***

Lucanis plops the heavy pot of stew down in the center of the dining table. His team filters in around him, like clockwork. Meal times in the Lighthouse have become an easy routine for them all. Bowls clatter, dishes are passed around, and finally Lucanis takes his own seat. Observing the group, Lucanis registers that one head of curls is missing. 

“Where's Rook?” He asks the group at large. 

Some glance at Rook's empty chair, several of them shrug. 

It's Bellara who speaks up. “I found a note earlier. Rook said she was going out for a drink.” 

Lucanis’ brow furrows with concern. “Alone?” 

Bellara lifts a shoulder. “I guess. The note didn't say, but we're all here aren't we?” She looks around the table at their companions. 

“I don’t like this.” Davrin's mouth is set in a hard line. The Grey Warden, always the pragmatic protector. “None of us should be going off alone, but especially Rook. The Gods must have a massive target on her back.” 

Lucanis is in very strong agreement. “Did the note say where she was going for drinks?” He directs his question at Bellara. Bellara shakes her head, her smile tight and apologetic. 

Lucanis’ chair scrapes back from the table as he stands. “I will go find her.” 

Emmrich’s hand flutters on top of the table in agitation. “But how? She could’ve gone anywhere.” 

Lucanis’ gaze briefly locks with Neve’s. “She could’ve. But she didn’t.” Neve responds with the smallest nod of her head. A shared, silent knowledge passing between them of how Rook has struggled since Minrathous. Since Neve began rejoining the group- at least for meals. 

Davrin stands as well. “I’ll accompany you.” 

“No,” Lucanis says, too sharp. Davrin raises an eyebrow at him. “I know where she’ll be and I don’t think she’ll be all that grateful for company.”

Davrin squints at him, one fist flexing. Then relents, drops back into his chair, pulling a steaming bowl of stew towards him. “All right. But at least tell us where you’re going in case you don’t come back.” 

Lucanis looks to Neve again. She stares impassively at the food in front of her. “Dock Town,” Lucnais answers Davrin’s request.   

***

The streets of Dock Town glint with Venatori steel. The cultists prowl everywhere. Lucanis’ stomach twists as he passes through a square, Shadow Dragons swing from ropes. This could have been Treviso. That could have been Rook. He quickens his pace. 

The Cobbled Swan’s warmth spills onto the street as he approaches. Music and conversation rise up to greet him. He weaves his way through the tavern, shouldering past drunken patrons who get in his way. His eyes peeled for red hair. He finds her. Tucked into a corner, pint glasses fanned out around her. She rests her head on folded arms atop the wooden table, her back to him. Tension releases that Lucanis did not even realize his body was holding.

“Rook?” He eases into a seat beside her, briefly thinking of a time they sat just like this, sharing a cup of coffee in a different city.

She turns her head towards him, not lifting it from her arms. “Luc,” she says in greeting. The smell of whiskey hangs heavy on her breath. 

Lucanis glances at all the empty flagons. “How much have you had?” 

A noncommittal gesture moves through her shoulders. “A few.” 

Lucanis itches to reach out and snatch the half full cup in front of her away. But it’s not his place to tell her what to do- or how to nurse her grief. “Have you eaten anything?” 

“Ever in my life? Sure.” He inclines his head at her sardonic tone. She sighs. “No, Lucanis. I haven’t eaten anything tonight.” 

“This won’t fix anything, you know,” Lucanis says softly. 

“Really?” Rook looks at him with mock surprise. “And here I thought I’d cracked the code to curing bad decisions!” 

“It’s dangerous to be out on your own.” Rook rolls her eyes at him and he grits his teeth. “What was your plan? Get so drunk you couldn’t find your way back to the eluvian? Stumble your way into a Venatori trap?” He can’t keep the anger from coloring his words. 

Rook finally picks her head up off the table. “My plan?” Her words slur. “Oh, my plan was most certainly to drown my woes in booze and then-” Her signature mischievous smirk. “I thought I’d see about stumbling my way into that handsome bartender’s bed.” She points over her shoulder at a man pouring drinks for patrons. “I thought that sounded like a far more enjoyable trip to make. And not even a single Venatori involved.” 

Lucanis’ throat squeezes. He feels Spite’s jeering laughter skittering across his mind. If Rook wanted to distract herself, relieve her pain with pleasure- that was her choice. Lucanis didn’t get a say in who she took to bed.

Yet he couldn’t hold his tongue- or his jealousy- enough not to say, “If you need a distraction, I could help.” 

She smiles coyly at him. “Are you offering your bed, Luc?” Mierda. The intimate way she shortened his name shot straight through him. A familiar, frustrating yearning. Spite laughed harder. No. No, Lucanis was not offering that. Could not offer that. 

“I was thinking more along the lines of a game of Wicked Grace. Or perhaps a friendly duel.”

She huffs. “Your plan would involve swords. I think mine is better.” 

His fingers twitch against the table. If he has to watch her walk out of here with someone else…

Selfish, so selfish, Spite hums. 

Lucanis does his best to ignore the demon. 

Won’t take what you want…won’t let her have what she’d like. 

Lucanis looks away. Shut up, demon. 

Spite is delighted. Let me talk to her! I could help her. I could give her the distraction she seeks.

Lucanis brings a fist down, rattling the drinkware and startling Rook, who looks at him with the most sober eyes he’s seen from her tonight. 

“Forgive me.” 

“Spite?” She asks knowingly.  

“I have it handled.” 

She nods, eyes already skating back to the bartender. 

Lucanis braces himself. “You deserve a night off, Rook. And you deserve whatever joy you can find.” He nods towards the bartender, “If that’s it, then take it.” The words are ash in his mouth. “But eventually, you need to talk about what happened. You cannot avoid it- and Neve- forever.” 

“Talk about what happened…” Rook says faintly, staring at the bartender for so long that Lucanis thinks her decision for the night has already been made. Then she says, in a tone so miserable he has to stop himself from reaching out to take her hand, “What happened is that I made a choice. And that choice cost people, my people, their lives.”

She takes an angry swill from her mug. Lucanis is silent. It seems a dam on her words has broken and they pour out of her now. “I chose not to go to my own people, Luc. How could I do that? Neve is never going to forgive me- and why should she? I betrayed the Shadow Dragons trust.”

Slow and patient, Lucanis nods. “You chose to come with me to save Treviso. Innocent people lived because of you.” 

“And what of the innocent people of Minrathous who did not live? What of my fellow Shadow Dragons, slain by the Venatori?” 

Lucanis suspects this is not a rhetorical question as her eyes bore into him. That she seeks an absolution no one can give her. “You had to make an impossible choice-” A distressed shake of her head. “So- why did you make the one you did, Rook?”

He can see the tears she is fighting hard to hold back. “I thought they would win,” she whispers. Lucanis cannot stop himself from reaching out now, cupping his hand around hers where it rests on the table. She looks down at their joined hands. “I didn’t think for one second the Shadow Dragons would fall. I didn’t think-” She looks back up at him, a rare softness to her that Lucanis aches to wrap up and protect. 

“I know,” Lucanis squeezes her hand, silent permission to say what she needs to say. 

“I thought I could do more good in Treviso, prevent more deaths. The Shadow Dragons, they are accustomed to moving as one, coordinating. But the Crows,” She watches him, something of an apology in her eyes. “The Crows operate alone in the shadows so often.” Another squeeze of his hand around hers. “I feared they wouldn’t stand a chance trying to protect the citizens and fight off a dragon.” 

“Rook,” Lucanis dips his head to hold her gaze. “It is not a crime to have faith in your people. To help those you think will need it most.” 

A tear finally breaches the rim of her eye. Lucanis sweeps it away with his thumb. Immediately dropping his hand away to join his other clasped around hers. 

“But I was wrong,” her voice hardens. “The Shadow Dragons did fall. And I wasn’t there.” She pulls her hand away from his, draining the rest of her cup. She wipes the back of her hand across her mouth and sways in her seat. 

“An impossible choice, with irreversible consequences,” Lucanis offers solemnly. “But we will rebuild and retake Minrathous.” It’s a contract he speaks between them. 

“We?” The single word on her lips sends a thrill through Lucanis. 

“You chose to help my people. I will repay that debt to yours.” Lucanis vows. 

She focuses on him, reaches out a finger to tap his chest. “You would do that?” 

“You are not alone, Rook.” 

Sadness bends the curve of her mouth. “It feels like it sometimes. Everyone is looking to me to make decisions. The team. Varric. I feel like I’m one footstep away from leading everyone off of a cliff.” 

“If you are the one leading, I would gladly go over the ledge.” Lucanis bites down on his tongue, afraid he’s revealed too much in his desire to provide her comfort. Worth it when the sound of laughter falls from her lips. “I only mean to say,” Lucanis goes on. “That you are a good leader, Rook. And all good leaders must make the best of impossible choices.” 

“Thank you, Lucanis.” She smiles. “Well then,” She stands abruptly on wobbling feet. Lucanis rises beside her, anxiety coursing through him that she’s decided to proposition the bartender after all, that this is farewell for the evening. 

She takes a step, stumbling. “Oh!” In her drunken surprise, she throws out a hand to steady herself against his chest as she trips. He moves with an assassin’s instinct, wrapping an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him. Her hand presses flat against his heart, which he’s sure must be racing.

“Are you sure you don’t have any bad decisions in you tonight?” There’s a challenge in her eyes.  

Mierda. He releases her, steps back, his hand lingering at her waist. “You’re drunk,” he says gently. 

“And you’re possessed by a demon. We all have our issues.” 

He fights down a smile, unwilling to encourage her. Drops his forehead to hers, his restraint slipping for just a moment. But he lets go of her waist, motioning to the tavern’s exit. “Can I interest you in an evening stroll instead?”

“Will it end with Venatori filth on the end of my blade? Surely that’s one bad decision you can allow.” 

Her words still slush together and an unsteadiness vibrates her frame. A vision of her facing off against Venatori cultists in a darkened alley, reflexes slowed from drink floods through him. “When it comes to you, they’re all bad decisions,” he replies gruffly, turning to lead them from the bar. 

She matches his stride on shaky legs, grips his bicep as she ducks under a server hoisting a drink laden tray over their heads. Mutters a curse when she staggers against him, the liquor in her blood proving to greatly impair her agility. Lucanis sighs, wrapping an arm back around her, tucking her in against his side as he pushes through the crowded bar. She closes her fingers around a fistful of his jacket, her knuckles pressing into his abdomen. When they cross the threshold to the street outside, she does not let go. Neither does he. 

They walk, pressed together, all the way back to the eluvian. 

[airandyeah]

Animals (Alpha!Sukuna X Alpha!Toji X Omega!Reader) Pt.6

My Masterlist Series Masterlist Warnings: Obvious A/B/O dynamics, suggestive comments or actions, just generally Minors DNI-just in case. This will be similar to Pink Pony Club and Sins, where I just mark every chapter as 18+ This also has the general warning of Toji and Sukuna both honestly being menaces.

Your eyes fluttered open, the morning light filtering in through the curtains, casting soft golden streaks across the unfamiliar ceiling. A slight throbbing echoed in your skull, the remnants of last night’s drinks making themselves known as you stirred against the surprisingly soft sheets.

Panic came first—where were you? Your heart kicked up, and your body tensed as you sat up abruptly, looking around the room with wide eyes. It was simple, neatly kept, but not yours. Shit.

And then, like a dam breaking, the memories rushed in.

The drinks. The laughter. Toji’s knowing smirk. Sukuna’s sharp eyes watching you closely. Their teasing words and the heat of their presence pressing in from either side. The feeling of strong arms supporting you when the alcohol finally got the best of you. The murmured reassurances that they wouldn’t cross any lines.

Your hands flew to your body, patting down your clothes. T-shirt? Still on. Jeans? Still buttoned. Shoes? Kicked off neatly at the side of the bed. A slow exhale left your lips. They actually didn’t do anything.

The house was quiet.

No heavy footsteps. No low murmurs of conversation. No teasing voices calling you a lightweight for barely keeping up last night.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed, bare feet meeting the wooden floor, cool against your skin. A quick glance around the room confirmed what you already suspected—it was the guest room, a space barely lived in but still thoughtfully prepared. A folded blanket rested on the edge of the bed, and a glass of water had been left on the nightstand.

They had taken care of you. And they were nowhere in sight.

A part of you was relieved. Another part? Frustrated. You weren’t sure which part annoyed you more.

You pushed yourself up, body slightly sluggish, but functioning. If they were gone, that meant you could slip out without dealing with whatever smug remarks they’d surely throw your way for staying the night.

Still… you couldn’t shake the odd feeling settling in your chest.

They hadn’t taken advantage. They hadn’t hovered. They had simply let you sleep, made sure you were okay, and left you alone.

And somehow, that made you even more uneasy.

With a deep breath, you squared your shoulders and stepped toward the door. Time to figure out what the hell came next.

The moment you stepped out of the guest room, the scent of sizzling food hit your nose—eggs, bacon, something rich and buttery. You blinked, the scene before you not at all what you expected.

Sukuna, of all people, was standing at the stove, quietly focused as he moved a pan over the flame, the muscles in his back flexing beneath his fitted shirt. He looked… calm, almost domestic, though the sharpness of his tattoos and the natural smugness in his expression kept him from ever looking too soft.

Meanwhile, Toji was sprawled on the sofa, a book in one hand, his other arm draped lazily over the back of the couch. He didn’t even glance up when you entered the room, though you knew damn well he’d noticed.

The sight was oddly peaceful.

It made you hesitate.

You were supposed to be sneaking out, slipping away before they had the chance to start their usual teasing. Instead, you stood there like an idiot, watching them exist so normally—not as the cocky alphas who pushed your buttons, but just… two men in their own home.

Then, of course, Sukuna ruined the moment.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” he drawled, glancing over his shoulder, his lips twitching up. “Figured you’d be out cold longer after the way you conked out last night.”

Toji let out a huff of amusement, still not looking up from his book. “Lightweight.”

And there it was.

Your lips pressed into a thin line as you crossed your arms. “I’m not a lightweight,” you muttered, but it lacked real bite. You shifted awkwardly, suddenly hyperaware of the fact that you’d woken up in their home, in their guest room, with them cooking you breakfast.

Sukuna turned fully then, raising a brow as he leaned back against the counter. “Sure you’re not,” he mused, eyeing you up and down before smirking. “Hope you like your eggs runny.”

Before you could snap back, Toji finally closed his book, stretching out like a lazy cat. “You eatin’ or you stormin’ off?” he asked, gaze finally meeting yours.

You wanted to say storming off. You really did.

But your stomach betrayed you with a well-timed growl, and both men grinned.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Toji chuckled, tossing his book onto the coffee table. “Sit your ass down, Omega.”

Your hands clenched into fists at the casual way he called you that, but you didn’t argue. Instead, you muttered a curse under your breath and shuffled toward the table, trying to ignore the way your pulse skipped when Sukuna set a plate in front of you, all smug satisfaction.

You were definitely in trouble with these two.

It was almost eerie how well-mannered they were. You sat at the table, half-expecting one of them to throw a piece of food or crack some crude joke about last night, but it never came. Instead, they ate quietly, using their knives and forks for everything but the bacon and toast, their movements unhurried, refined even.

No loud tones, no teasing remarks—just the occasional clink of silverware against plates and the low murmur of a few exchanged words about the food and the juice.

You took a slow sip of your drink, eyes flicking between them as if waiting for the act to drop.

Sukuna caught your gaze first, raising a brow as he speared a piece of egg onto his fork. “What?”

You hesitated, glancing over at Toji, but he was focused on his food, calmly cutting into his breakfast with an ease that didn’t match the sharp, wolfish aura he usually carried.

“This is weird,” you finally admitted, setting your cup down. “You two—eating like this.”

Toji scoffed but didn’t look up. “What, you think we eat like animals?”

“Yes,” you answered flatly.

Sukuna let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Gotta keep some mystery, sweetheart. Can’t have you knowing everything about us just yet.”

That shouldn’t have sent a flicker of something hot down your spine, but it did. You ignored it, choosing instead to focus on your plate.

It was only after a few more bites that you realized something else—this was nice. The quiet. The lack of tension.

But that only meant one thing.

They were waiting.

And you weren’t sure if that made you more nervous or excited.

Toji leaned back in his chair, fork idly twirling between his fingers as he finally looked up at you. “Look, for however obnoxious we are out there,” he gestured vaguely toward the door, “we don’t spend all our time acting like overgrown pups.”

You narrowed your eyes, skeptical. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Sukuna snorted, still focused on his food. “Just ‘cause we like getting under your skin doesn’t mean we’re idiots. We live here—we keep it clean, we cook, we act like actual adults.”

Toji smirked. “Shocking, huh?”

Honestly? A little. You hadn’t expected them to be complete slobs, but part of you had imagined their cabin to be more of a bachelor’s den—messy, chaotic, full of empty liquor bottles and a lingering scent of trouble. Instead, it was… lived-in, warm even.

“You’re telling me you two don’t wrestle in the living room over the last beer?” you challenged, crossing your arms.

Sukuna gave you a lazy grin. “Nah. We buy enough for both of us.”

Toji chuckled, shaking his head before turning his gaze back to you. “Surprised?”

You glanced around at the clean space, at the well-kept kitchen, at the way they sat—calm, easy, like this wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for them.

Maybe you were.

But you wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of admitting it.

“…A little,” you muttered, stabbing your fork into your food.

Sukuna huffed a laugh. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’re still plenty bad when we wanna be.” ~~~ The moment you stepped into your bedroom, you knew something was wrong. The air felt damp, thick with the scent of moisture and wood rot. Then, you heard it—soft but steady.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Your stomach sank. Your eyes snapped to the ceiling, where a dark, water-stained patch had spread across the wood. A small puddle had already formed on the floor near your bed.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," you muttered, stepping closer.

A quick touch to the wall near the damage told you everything you needed to know—swollen wood, damp to the touch. This wasn’t new. You just hadn’t noticed until now.

Fantastic.

Frustration bubbled up as you yanked your phone from your pocket. No way you could stay in here with this mess. But where the hell were you supposed to go?

You scrolled through your contacts, your thumb hovering over the one name you refused to acknowledge.

No. Absolutely not.

You would rather sleep in your damn car than—

The deep rumble of an engine outside made your head snap up.

They hadn’t left yet.

Cursing under your breath, you bolted for the door and threw it open just as Toji and Sukuna were about to pull away. You waved them down, your pride taking a brutal hit as both trucks came to a slow stop.

Sukuna leaned out of the driver’s side window, his smirk already in place. "Miss us already, sweetheart?"

You exhaled sharply, crossing your arms. "I have a problem," you admitted through gritted teeth. "And I need a place to stay."

Sukuna’s brows shot up, and Toji let out a low chuckle from the passenger seat.

"You literally just left our guest room, and you already wanna come back?" Sukuna teased, resting his chin in his palm. "Didn’t think you’d miss us this quick, sweetheart."

You exhaled sharply, rolling your eyes. "Shut up and get out of the damn truck."

That got their attention. Exchanging glances, they stepped out, curiosity flickering in their eyes as you turned and motioned for them to follow.

The second they stepped inside and saw the spreading water damage, their smirks faded.

"Damn," Toji muttered, stepping closer to inspect the ceiling. He pressed his palm to the damp wall and gave a low whistle. "This isn’t just some small leak—you’ve got real water damage here."

Sukuna crossed his arms, eyes sweeping over the room before landing on you. "And I’m guessing you don’t have a backup place to crash?"

You crossed your arms right back, shifting uncomfortably. "Would I have stopped you two if I did?"

His grin returned, slow and sharp. "Guess not."

Toji sighed, shaking his head. "Looks like you’re coming back with us, then."

You wanted to argue, but the steady drip, drip, drip of water behind you killed any protest before it could leave your lips.

This was going to be a long stay.

You moved quickly, tossing clothes into a bag, grabbing your laptop, a few framed photos, and whatever else you deemed important. It wasn’t like you had much choice—staying here wasn’t an option with the water creeping its way through your bedroom.

Toji leaned against the doorway, watching with a raised brow. "You pack like you're never coming back."

You shot him a look. "Maybe I’m just being prepared."

Sukuna snorted from behind him. "For what? Moving in permanently?"

You ignored them, zipping up your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. "Just helping myself to a little peace of mind. Not that it’s any of your business."

Toji smirked. "If you're staying under our roof, it kinda is, sweetheart."

Rolling your eyes, you brushed past them, heading for the door. "Let's just go."

They exchanged glances before following you out, Sukuna chuckling under his breath.

This was going to be interesting, to say the least. ~~~ When you got back to the cabin, Sukuna and Toji wasted no time showing you around.

First, they took you through Sukuna’s room—a minimalist space with sleek furniture and a dark, almost imposing vibe. Black sheets, dark wood, and an odd collection of antique knives on the wall gave it a mysterious, almost intimidating feel.

Toji’s room was next—completely different. It had a more laid-back, comfortable vibe, with a leather chair in the corner and a few scattered books. His bed was big, the sheets a deep shade of green that matched his quiet, practical style. He tossed a glance over his shoulder as you took in the room. "Don't get any ideas," he warned with a grin.

Then they led you down the hallway to the guest room, which you had stayed in the night before.

"This’ll be yours for now," Toji said, giving you a little nudge. "At least until your place’s fixed."

You bit your lip, not sure how to feel about being here. It was temporary, you told yourself, but something about it felt different.

They moved on to show you the laundry room, then the living room and kitchen. The layout was surprisingly nice—spacious, with a big stone fireplace and a cozy couch that looked perfect for lounging. The kitchen had a rustic feel, with wooden counters and shelves lined with mason jars of spices and canned goods. It wasn’t luxurious, but it had a charm.

You knew, however, that this place was going to be the last place you’d want to get too comfortable in, especially with them. They were a constant reminder of how things never quite went the way you expected, and being here felt like playing with fire.

After showing you everything, Sukuna raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. "You good with the guest room? No complaints yet?"

You shot him a look. "It’s fine. Let’s just get this over with."

Toji laughed softly, glancing at Sukuna. "Guess we know how to treat our guest, huh?"

You could tell they were enjoying this a little too much. You couldn’t help but complain as they showed you around. The cabin was nice enough, but there was something about it that felt too much. Too masculine, too... Alpha. The whole place reeked of it—the heavy scent of their dominance in the air, like it was just a part of the furniture itself.

Everywhere you went, it was suffocating. The air felt thick, and you could almost taste the assertiveness, the intensity. The slight musk of them clung to the walls, the furniture, the very floorboards beneath your feet. Even the sheets in the guest room smelled faintly of them, as if their presence had saturated the very space.

You wrinkled your nose, pretending not to notice how your body instinctively responded to their scent. The faint pulse of heat that flared in your chest was something you desperately tried to ignore. It wasn’t fair—this was your space for now, not theirs.

"Does the whole place always smell like this?" You blurted out, unable to hold back.

Sukuna glanced at Toji, both of them looking almost amused at your discomfort. Toji smirked, leaning against the doorframe of the living room. "It’s our cabin. What’d you expect?"

You let out a frustrated breath, eyeing the rustic furniture and the big, open spaces. "Could you... maybe air it out a little?"

They both laughed. Sukuna gave you a slow, teasing grin. "You’re the one who decided to stay here, sweetheart."

You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to keep yourself from reacting to the low hum of their laughter. "It’s just a lot, that’s all," you muttered, more to yourself than to them.

Toji’s expression softened a little, but he didn’t back down. "We’ll get used to it. Just try not to let it get to you too much."

Easy for him to say. With the way your body was reacting, it was easier said than done.

Sukuna, always the one to push boundaries, grinned as he leaned against the doorway. “You think this place smells bad now? Wait until it’s close to rut time. You won’t be able to get away from it.”

His comment hung in the air, and for a moment, you could feel the heat rising in your cheeks. The thought of them... that close to their rut, the intensity of their scent overwhelming the whole cabin, sent an involuntary shiver down your spine.

You couldn’t help but snap.

“Shut up,” you muttered, slamming the door in their faces. The sound of it echoing in the small hallway made you flinch a little, but it was better than facing them and letting your body betray you any further.

You heard their chuckles from the other side, and a part of you knew they were enjoying the irritation they’d caused. But it didn’t matter. You could hear them, muffled, talking between themselves. They’d probably make fun of you for it later, but for now, you needed space. You needed peace—away from the stench of them, away from the heat they dragged with them.

Leaning against the door, you sighed heavily, trying to steady your breath. The last thing you needed was to feel this exposed. You needed to regain control, but every time they got too close, it felt like you were slipping. ~~~ Later that night, when everything was still and quiet, you found yourself lying in bed, the sheets tangled around you. The cabin was unnervingly silent, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards or the soft murmur of the wind outside. You tried to push the thoughts of them away, but they lingered like an uninvited guest, making it hard to relax.

Then you heard it.

The low murmur of voices, drifting from the living room. It wasn’t loud, just a quiet conversation, but the cabin’s layout made it easy to pick up on the faintest sounds. You tried to ignore it, but your curiosity got the better of you.

You shifted in the bed, pressing your ear to the wall, straining to hear what they were saying. It wasn’t intentional; it was just the overwhelming need to understand what was happening around you, to make sense of all the tension between you and them.

“Did you see the way she looked at you earlier?” Toji’s voice was soft, but you could hear the amusement in it.

“Yeah, like she wanted to rip our heads off,” Sukuna responded, and you could almost hear the smirk in his voice. “But she’s got that spark. I told you, she’s not like the others.”

You felt your chest tighten. Were they really... talking about you? You felt a mix of unease and something else—something you weren’t quite ready to admit to yourself.

“To be fair, she’s stubborn as hell,” Toji continued. “She won’t give in easily, but... I don’t know. I like the challenge. And she’s different.”

Sukuna chuckled, a sound that was more predatory than playful. “You’re right. It’s gonna be fun breaking through that wall of hers.”

You flinched at his words, your heart thudding painfully in your chest. "Breaking through" your walls? What did that even mean? Was this all some kind of game to them? Were they really just going to push and push until you were cornered? The thought sent a cold shiver through you.

"She’ll come around," Toji said, his tone thoughtful, almost gentle. "She’s just not used to people wanting her like this. She's not used to being wanted, period."

There was a pause. You could almost feel the weight of their words hanging in the air, the tension building between them.

“Yeah,” Sukuna finally replied, quieter now. “But that’s gonna change. We’ll make sure of it.”

The conversation drifted off after that, and you couldn’t bring yourself to keep listening. Your mind was racing, a mix of confusion and frustration churning in your stomach. They liked you. Both of them did, in their own way. It was clear in how they spoke, the way their voices dropped when they admitted it, but something about it felt... wrong. Was it really you they liked, or was it the challenge of getting you to give in to them?

You pulled the covers over your head, trying to block out their voices, but the words lingered in your mind, refusing to let you sleep. It wasn’t just the weight of what they said—it was the realization that you had no idea what to do with any of it.

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