#the other .. no idea where i stand on that one

[fireinmoonshot]

darling | robert reynolds x reader,

THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR MARVEL'S THUNDERBOLTS*.

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x Reader Summary: You always call Bob darling in private... until you accidentally slip up and use the nickname in front of the rest of the Thunderbolts. Warnings: Mentions of food/drink, reader is mentioned to not be mentally ready for a relationship and has a bit of a moment at the end struggling with their thoughts/struggling mentally in general. Word Count: 1.3k A/N: Thank you all so much for the amazing response on my first Bob fic 🥹 For my second one, this was actually the first idea I had for Bob but it took a bit of workshopping to get right. I ended up being really happy with it. I love writing the Thunderbolts team dynamic. I also put a little easter egg in there for anyone that's read all my other Joaquín fics since February this year. I hope you all enjoy! 💗

Bob had been called many different things in his life. There had been a series of insults from his family and people he’d hurt during his time as an addict. Walker always called him Bobby, which he hated. Valentina called him by his full name, Robert. He had other names like Sentry and Void when he was using his powers. But none of those could ever come close to his favourite from you.

Every time he hears the word darling come from your mouth, directed at him, he thinks it might be the closest he’s ever come to true happiness. He wishes every time that he could bottle that feeling up and keep it for when the days are especially tough.

“Darling, can you pass me that book?”

“Darling, how are you doing after that mission?”

“Darling, do you need me to do anything for you?”

The only bad thing is the fact that you aren’t his. It’s a mutual decision, though, so he can’t be mad. You’ve been in mutual like for a while now. But both of you have known that entering into something serious when neither of you are mentally ready for something like that would just be foolish and end up with one or both of you being hurt. Your friendship always mattered more than the possibility of your futures together.

But the nickname still stuck and Bob was glad for that.

He never cared that it was just in private. In fact, he rather enjoyed the fact that it was just for the two of you. That, whenever he was alone with you, it was almost a guarantee that he was going to hear your voice speak that gorgeous word.

He cared for the rest of the team so deeply, but the moments when it was just you and him were his favourites. When you’d be laying together on the couch, both of you reading the same book and having to wait till you’d both finished the page before turning to the next one. When you’d be in the kitchen together, Bob washing the dishes as you plated up some kind of masterpiece for dinner. The quiet times, when everyone else was asleep and you and Bob would stay up trading memories like they were the worlds greatest secrets. 

The level of comfort he got in your presence surprised him, but he accepted it quickly.

It’s why, when you enter the room, he knows that you’re there. He relaxes almost instantly, just from sensing you getting closer. You reach out to rest a hand on his shoulder before you stop yourself, resting it on the top of the chair that he’s sitting on instead. 

There’s still a little hesitation when it comes to touch between the two of you. Both because neither of you want to cross the invisible line you’ve both drawn, but because of Bob’s powers too. He still isn’t fully in control.

“Morning, darling,” the word slips out before you can stop yourself. It’s so normal these days to refer to Bob like this, but always in private. Never in the dining room of the Watch Tower where every other member of the team is having breakfast.

Bob is none the wiser to your blunder. He gets that same starry look in his eyes as he always does when he looks up at you, standing behind him. He wants to reach out, wrap an arm around your waist and tug you onto his lap, though he wouldn’t have the confidence to do such a thing even if his powers weren’t an issue.

He always melts a little when he hears you call him darling. 

Across the room, you hear a groan.

“Oh, hell no,” Walker says, dropping the spoon back into his bowl of cereal. “You two are not doing that. Whatever is happening here, I don’t care, but we are not listening to you two call each other darling. Especially over breakfast.”

“What’s so wrong with a bit of young love?” Alexei exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air as he looks at Walker across the table. “This is good! Love heals the soul, there is nothing wrong with love!”

You frown. “Okay, who said anything about love?”

Alexei and Walker ignore you and continue to bicker.

You catch Yelena’s eye from across the room where she’s sat by the window, but she just shrugs her shoulders and goes back to staring out at the skyline.

“I would’ve thought you’d be all right with seeing affection, Walker,” Ava says, entering the room behind you. She’d obviously overheard the noise from the hallway. “You are married, even if you’re not together right now. Are you telling us you never called your wife something like that?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t make everyone else listen to me!”

Bucky, who has been watching everything the whole time from the corner of the room where he’s sitting, coffee in hand, huffs out a laugh. “You guys think this is bad? You should be glad you’ve never spent time around Joaquin Torres when he’s away from his girl.” He shakes his head and takes a sip of his coffee, not bothering to explain any further about the new Falcon. 

You take advantage of the moment of silence that Bucky has caused to attempt to fix the situation. “Okay, no more talking about love or who is and isn’t allowed to call each other nicknames. Can we just drop it? It was a slip of the tongue!”

“Only if you explain why you said it,” Walker says.

“No,” you reply, pulling out the chair next to Bob’s and sitting down in it. It’s all you offer in way of an answer to Walker and he seems to surprisingly give up on fighting you on it. 

You glance over to see that Bob is still looking at you, his eyes glistening and a small smile on his lips. The sight of it makes you smile as well. “I am never calling you that in front of the others again… even if it was just a slip of the tongue, that was mortifying.” 

Bob smiles again and nudges a drink that’s sitting in front of him over towards you – he’s prepared your favourite and had it waiting for when you arrived. You try to ignore the feeling that rises in your stomach at the small act of kindness. 

“But when it’s just us?” He inquires.

“You know it’s different then.” 

You pick up the drink and take a sip of it before leaning back in your chair. Walker and Alexei have started bickering over something else. Yelena is still looking out the window, Bucky is in the corner with his coffee and Ava is exiting the kitchen with a drink of her own. It’s a fairly mundane kind of morning for a group of people meant to be the ‘New Avengers.’

There’s a sudden feeling that rises in your chest at the thought of your new status as an Avenger. It’s uncomfortable, unwelcome. You still don’t know how you feel about it, even many months later. It should be a good thing, but then why does it fill you with dread?

Bob can see the change in your expression and he’s quick to act. He reaches over and taps the table in front of you to get your attention. You pull your eyes away from the window, where you’d been staring, and meet his eyes instead. They instantly help to calm you.

“Quiet time?” Bob asks, nodding towards the door that leads into the hallway.

It’s like a code word between the two of you. When one of you needs to get away from the others or you start to get a little too wrapped up in your head. Two words that put you instantly at ease. 

You nod and Bob wastes no time in standing up from the table. You follow him, leaving your drink in the dining room and walking out of the room with him, ignoring Walker as he calls out, asking where you’re both running off to. 

“Thank you, darling,” you mutter, once you’re just outside the room.

Bob turns to you with a small smile on his lips. “Always.”

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 Every Shade.

Boyfriend!Reid x Avoidant!reader

series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: Your perfect boyfriend says a fun fact about the standards of beauty, and suddenly his words hit you harder than they should.

Words: 6k.

Warnings & Tags: fem!bau!reader. mentions of insecurities, beauty canons, serial killers, death and the reader wearing makeup. established relationship. spencer being an inexperienced boyfriend. lack of communication but happy ending. hurt/comfort. angst?. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I can seriously think of my inexperienced boy being a foolish or careless boyfriend even without meaning to be, so enjoy this!

Spencer Reid never thought of himself as the careless type of boyfriend. In fact, before you, the very idea of being someone’s boyfriend had never seemed possible, let alone something he could do well. He had always been more comfortable with facts, numbers, and patterns. Relationships had always been a different kind of mystery to him, one he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to solve. But when you came into his life, something shifted. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt an overwhelming desire to be not just a partner, but a good one. A thoughtful one. A boyfriend who paid attention to the details.

He knew your favorite coffee order without you ever having to tell him. He knew the exact shade of blue that made your eyes sparkle in a way that made him catch his breath and the way you furrowed your brows in concentration when you were diving deep into thought. He noticed the little things, like the way your fingers gripped the edge of your sleeve when you were lost in a difficult problem or how you would laugh softly at jokes you didn’t find funny just to make others feel comfortable. Every habit, every subtle movement, every fleeting comment you made was something he absorbed like a sponge, collecting the pieces of you that made you you. And it made him feel closer to you, more connected than he ever thought was possible.

But it wasn’t just the light moments he noticed. Spencer also understood the weight of your darker days, the ones where the world seemed to shift into shades of gray, where the air held a bite that wasn’t harsh but still cut through you. He knew when the seasons teetered between autumn and winter and how those melancholic in-between days clung to your spirit. On those days, the ones where you wore your sadness like a cloak without ever saying a word, he was there. He noticed when your smile didn’t reach your eyes, when your usual energy seemed dimmed. So, without fail, he would show up with a steaming cup of hot chocolate, a soft blanket, and arms that enveloped you like a cocoon. He would be your shelter, your quiet refuge from the world, without needing any words to fill the silence.

He loved knowing you this well, loved that he could anticipate your needs before you even voiced them. It made him feel closer to you, like he had earned a place in the most hidden corners of your heart. And to Spencer, there was no better feeling in the world.

He knows you; he sees you. He does it.

That morning, in the quiet hum of your office, was one of those moments where your boyfriend’s watchful eyes made all the difference. The soft glow of your desk lamp illuminated your face, casting a warm, golden light that contrasted against the coolness of the winter air outside. Before you, your makeup bag lay open, a chaotic yet familiar spread of tools—brushes, tubes, powders—all of them scattered like tiny pieces of armor you would need for the day ahead. You were preparing for the press conference, the one where you would stand in for JJ during her maternity leave. The pressure felt immense. It wasn’t just any press conference; it was the moment you had to prove you could handle the spotlight, the cameras, and the ever-watchful public eye. The weight of one of your best friends’ trust sat heavy on your shoulders, but it was a weight you were willing to carry.

As you smoothed foundation over your skin with careful, practiced strokes, you felt the weight of Spencer’s gaze on you. It wasn’t intrusive, never demanding, just there, steady and grounding, as if his attention alone could keep you tethered. He had a way of watching you that made you feel both seen and safe, as though he was quietly committing every little detail of you to memory.

Still, you glanced up, unable to resist.

And there he was.

Leaning against the wall, arms loosely crossed, his expression was unreadable, but his eyes—those deep, knowing eyes—told you everything. He was looking at you like you were the most fascinating thing in the world, his quiet reverence sending a warm, familiar hum through your chest. It made your pulse stutter, your breath catch just slightly.

Because, oh God, how much you loved feeling his eyes on you.

You swallowed, dragging your focus back to the mirror. Focus. Get it together. You’ve got this. JJ had entrusted you with this press conference, and you weren’t about to let doubt creep in, not now.

But from the corner of your eye, you caught movement.

Derek Morgan, leaning casually against his desk, arms crossed, wearing that signature smirk of his. It wasn’t just amusement playing at the edges of his mouth; it was something more entertained, more knowing. His gaze flicked between you and Spencer, and you could practically hear the teasing remark forming before he even opened his mouth.

You sighed. Here we go.

“What?” you asked, arching a brow as you reached for your concealer. “Never seen someone put on makeup before?”

His grin only deepened. “Nah, I’ve seen plenty,” he said, raising an eyebrow as if he were admiring a work of art. “I’ve just never seen someone prepare for a press conference like they’re getting ready for a red carpet event.”

You rolled your eyes. “Some of us like to be prepared. Looking good is part of that.” You injected confidence into the words, though if you were being honest, they felt a little hollow. Today, it wasn’t just about looking good, it was about feeling in control.

And right now, with nerves curling tight in your stomach, you weren’t sure you did.

Morgan’s smirk didn’t waver. He nudged your boyfriend with his elbow, dragging him into the conversation. “Come on, kid. Tell her she doesn’t need all that makeup.”

You looked up, expecting his usual reassuring smile, that soft look he reserved for moments when he knew you were nervous or self-conscious. You could always count on him to calm your racing thoughts, to tell you that you were perfect just the way you were. The kind of reassurance that made everything feel lighter.

Instead, Spencer glanced at you with that thoughtful frown he always wore when his mind was spinning through facts. “You know…” His voice was calm, detached even, like he was about to drop some piece of knowledge that he thought might help. “It’s weird, but studies show that people tend to take you more seriously when you fit the ‘beauty standards.’ You know, like…if you’re wearing makeup or have certain features that are seen as desirable, people will listen to you more in meetings.”

The mascara brush froze mid-air.

Oh.

The words landed harder than they should have, knocking the breath from your lungs in a way that felt almost embarrassing. Because this was Spencer, your Spencer, the one who had seen you at your worst, who had kissed you sleepy and messy in the morning, who had traced your bare skin in the dim light of your bedroom.

And yet, here he was, stating facts about beauty standards like they were nothing more than statistics. Like they didn’t mean anything.

You forced out a weak laugh, trying to brush it off, trying to tell yourself that he hadn’t meant it the way it sounded. But the sting was already there, curling under your skin, settling deep in your chest. Was that how he really saw things? That your worth—your professional worth—was tied to how well you conformed to something so shallow?

That you weren’t enough without it?

You searched his face, hoping to find something, some flicker of understanding, some sign that he realized how his words had sliced right through you. But he wasn’t looking at you like a man who had just shaken your foundation. He was looking at you like a scientist reciting an interesting fact.

Like it wasn’t personal.

But God, it felt personal.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty, boy,” Derek said, messing with Reid’s hair, trying to break the tension, but the words didn’t quite hit the mark.

You tried to focus again, returning your attention to your makeup, but the weight of Spencer’s comment lingered in the air. Your hands felt unsteady as you finished applying the mascara, the brush shaking slightly with each stroke. Your voice felt tight as you responded, trying to keep it light, but your words tasted flat, like you were trying to cover up a bruise that wasn’t yet healed.

“That’s…interesting,” you said, your tone carefully neutral, though the insecurity that was now flooding through you was anything but calm.

“Yeah,” he said, still looking at you, his voice slightly absent. “And if you’re a woman, studies show that you’re more likely to be taken seriously in a professional setting if you wear makeup or—” His gaze seemed to soften, but it didn’t feel comforting. It just made you feel like there was something more he wasn’t saying. “Not that you need it, of course.”

You could feel your heart rate pick up as you tried to smile, but it didn’t feel natural. His words had drilled into you, chipping away at the small pieces of confidence you’d carefully built up this morning. The idea that your worth, in part, was tied to your appearance, to how well you matched up to some standard that was beyond your control, weighed on you like a heavy cloak. You thought about the days you’d come to work with little makeup, or none at all, when your boyfriend had seen you without the polished facade, the times when he had seen you just woken up or coming out of the shower. Did he see you as less then? Did he notice the imperfections when you were stripped of all that? Did he like you less when he saw you naked, unpolished, and unguarded? Were you enough for him in those moments? Did he still see you the same way? Or was there a shift, a moment when he realized that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t quite as perfect as the women he read about in his studies, the ones with their perfectly symmetrical faces, their natural makeup, their flawless skin?

“And, you know,” He added, still looking at you and Morgan like he couldn’t stop talking, “there’s this whole thing about how people with higher cheekbones are considered more attractive, and—”

You felt your breath catch. The fun facts about beauty standards kept coming, one after the other, each one a reminder of the ways you didn’t measure up. How the curve of your jaw wasn’t quite sharp enough, how your cheekbones weren’t as high as the models in the magazines, how you didn’t quite fit the mold your own boyfriend was talking about.

He wasn’t intentionally trying to make you feel insecure; he wasn’t even really paying attention to how you were really reacting, but somehow, his words echoed in your mind, like a chorus of doubts rising to the surface. Maybe you had been too focused on doing your makeup to feel like yourself today. Maybe you had gotten too used to hiding behind this mask to feel comfortable with who you really were underneath. Maybe you were pretty, but not pretty enough. Never enough. Never like a model.

You forced a laugh, trying to shake off the unease. “Yeah, I guess I’m just trying to keep up with all the standards, huh?” You said, your voice tight, and then quickly added, “But I’ll be fine. It’s just a conference, right?”

Something inside you was mentally begging him—pleading with him—to say something else. Something real. Something that had nothing to do with studies or statistics or the way the world decided who mattered more. Tell me I’m beautiful. Tell me none of that matters. Tell me I don’t have to measure up to a standard I’ll never fully reach.

But all he gave you was a weak smile, the kind he always gave when he thought everything was fine. He said, “You’ll do great. You always do,” as if that was enough.

But it wasn’t. Not this time.

Not when your heart was filled with doubts and insecurity, and all you really wanted was to feel seen. To feel like you were more than just the sum of your appearance.

“Thanks,” you said, the word small and insignificant, slipping from your lips like it didn’t matter at all.

Spencer didn’t notice the shift. He turned his attention back to his notes, his mind already back on its analytical track. He was already gone, lost in his thoughts, unaware of the storm that had stirred inside you.

And as you sat there, in front of the mirror, your perfectly applied makeup reflecting back at you, the weight of the silence between you grew. You had done everything right. You had made yourself look the way you were supposed to. But somehow, sitting next to the person who should have made you feel the most seen, you felt more invisible than ever.

The mask was still in place, but it didn’t feel like protection anymore. It felt like a cage.

The women’s bathroom buzzed with quiet energy, the soft murmur of conversation from the stalls, the clatter of makeup brushes on porcelain, and the steady trickle of a faucet someone had forgotten to turn off. Overhead, the fluorescent lights flickered faintly, casting everything in an unforgiving, almost surgical glare. Too bright. Too harsh. Every pore, every smudge, every slightly overfilled section of your eyebrow…ugh, why did it look so weird today?

You squinted at your reflection, lips pressed into a tight line, as if sheer force of will could stop the growing wave of insecurity curling around your ribs. Your hair was shining after so many new products, your foundation was patchy in places, and your eyeliner was untouched. You should have been focused and methodical, getting ready like you always did. Instead, your hands were unsteady, your thoughts tangled in something that had absolutely no right to be taking up this much space in your brain.

But it was.

Because Spencer Reid and his dumb fun facts had lodged themselves deep into your psyche, turning what should have been a normal morning into an existential crisis. The same babbling you used to love to hear now sounded like a nightmare. The same guy you had fallen in love with and loved to be with all day was now the one you had been avoiding looking in the face for more than three seconds.

On the counter was one of the magazines you had bought the other day, with a model looking back at you with her impossibly perfect cat eyes and flawless skin. Today you tried the same look. It hadn't worked. It looked good on her, perfect. On you? You looked like a raccoon trying to do a winged eyeliner tutorial while riding a roller coaster.

Suddenly, Emily’s voice sliced through the fog of your spiraling thoughts.

“Okay,” she said, her tone edged with concern and authority, “what the hell is going on?”

You startled slightly, mascara wand freezing midair. When you looked up, she was leaning casually against the counter, but her eyes—dark and sharp as ever—were anything but casual. She scanned you like a crime scene: the half-done eye makeup, the tense set of your shoulders, the way your lips were pressed into a thin, nervous line. You must’ve looked like you were trying to solve an advanced math problem, not get ready for a briefing.

You cleared your throat, forcing out the lie you hoped would be enough. “Nothing.”

Emily blinked slowly, unimpressed. “Right. Because people always look like they’re about to throw up when nothing is wrong.”

Damn profilers.

From across the room, Penelope was perched dramatically on the edge of the sink, legs swinging, a swirl of floral perfume and bubblegum. She blew a perfect pink bubble, let it pop, then gave you a long, knowing look as she chewed.

“Mmmhmm,” she hummed, cocking her head. “That’s the ‘I’m having a silent breakdown but don’t want to talk about it face.”

You tried to scoff, but it came out weak. “I don’t have a face for that.”

Penelope arched an eyebrow. “Oh, honey. You absolutely do.”

“She’s right,” Emily deadpanned, crossing her arms. “It’s your second most common expression. Right after, I’m internally screaming but pretending everything’s fine.”

You let out a breath—sharp and tired—and pressed two fingers to your temple like that would somehow press the thoughts out of your head. But they didn’t go. They never really did.

“I just…” You trailed off, mascara wand still clutched in your fingers. Your eyes dropped to the cluttered counter: a foundation bottle left uncapped, brushes scattered, and a smudge of lipstick on a tissue like a failed experiment. “Do I look good?”

The silence that followed was brief but pointed. You could feel both women scan you with clinical precision: your rumpled hair, eyeliner started on one eye but not the other, and foundation patchy where you’d tried to blend too quickly. But it wasn’t just about that. They knew it. You knew it.

Emily gave a dismissive wave. “Why are you even asking? You know you look good.”

But the question still hung heavy in the air.

You set the mascara down with a quiet, deliberate click. A tiny sound, but final. “Spencer said something,” you murmured, your voice thinner than you wanted it to be. “A couple of days ago.”

Both women immediately stilled.

“About beauty standards,” you continued, eyes fixed on the magazine lying facedown on the counter, a model’s perfect eyes staring back in judgment. “He was talking about how people take you more seriously if you look a certain way. If you’re conventionally attractive. He was just rattling off facts—like he always does—but…it stuck.”

Penelope’s eyes narrowed as she popped her gum again. “Ugh, that boy and his fun facts.”

You tried to laugh, but your stomach was turning like someone had twisted it into a tight knot and pulled. The memory clung to you: his voice so casual, so neutral, dropping that stupid statistic like it meant nothing. But it hadn’t felt like nothing. Not to you.

Emily straightened. She wasn’t amused. Not even a little. “He said that to you?”

You nodded slowly. “Not to me. He was just…talking. He probably didn’t even realize what he said. But now I’m in here, halfway through my makeup, spiraling over whether my eyeliner’s straight enough to be ‘taken seriously’ by the world.”

You gestured helplessly at the mirror, at your own reflection: smeared foundation, uncertain brows, the ghost of winged eyeliner clinging to your lid. “And I know it sounds ridiculous, but I can’t stop thinking about it. Like…if I don’t pull it together, if I don’t look perfect, it’s not just that I’ll feel bad. It’s that no one will listen to me.”

Emily’s jaw tightened. “That’s bullshit,” she said flatly.

Penelope raised one hand and placed it dramatically over her chest like she’d been mortally offended. “The biggest load of bullshit.”

You let out a huff of air, something like a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah, well. My brain didn’t get the memo.”

Penelope stood up then, with unusual seriousness softening her expression. “Sweetheart, let me tell you something. You could walk into that room with mascara running down your cheeks, wearing nothing but a coffee-stained hoodie, and people would still shut up and listen when you talk. Not because of how you look. But because you’re brilliant. And terrifying. In the best possible way.”

You swallowed, feeling something tighten in your throat. “No, but—”

“No buts,” Emily cut in. “Spencer Reid might be a genius, but sometimes he forgets how real people work. Especially the ones he cares about.” Her voice softened, just slightly. “But don’t let one stupid comment rewrite everything you already know about yourself.”

That startled a real laugh out of you.

Penelope nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly! I adore that lanky little weirdo, but he says a lot of things without thinking about how they land. That doesn’t mean he sees you any differently. It just means he’s a socially awkward nerd who needs to learn when not to share his random knowledge with his girlfriend.”

You allowed yourself a deep exhale, some of the weight on your chest easing, if only a fraction. It felt like the first time all day you could breathe without feeling like you were suffocating under the pressure of everything you couldn’t say.

Emily’s voice, soft and steady, broke through the stillness. “You don’t need to prove anything to anyone,” she said, her gaze unwavering. “Not to Spencer. Not to the world. And definitely not to some arbitrary beauty standard that doesn’t know a damn thing about you.”

The calm conviction in her words settled over you like a warm blanket, soft and grounding, and Penelope added her own brand of comforting chaos. “But if finishing your makeup makes you feel good, babe, then go ahead and slay.” She flashed a wink, her smile wide and dazzling. “We’ll be right here, hyping you up, always.

You looked between them, their unwavering confidence in you, the way they stood on either side like a protective barrier between you and your own insecurities. The knots in your stomach loosened, just a little.

You finished your makeup with steadying breaths and Penelope’s steady stream of compliments in your ear like a lifeline. The eyeliner wasn’t perfect. The foundation still sat weird in that one spot near your chin. But it didn’t matter as much now. Or at least, you were trying really hard to make it not matter.

By the time you stepped out of the bathroom, the usual BAU morning chaos was in full swing, agents weaving in and out of the bullpen, papers rustling, and the echo of hurried footsteps down the hall. You fell into step behind Garcia, letting her take the lead as you clutched the folder to your chest with slightly sweaty palms.

And then you felt it. The subtle shift in the air that told you he was there before you saw him. Spencer.

He was already seated at the table, elbows propped up, flipping through the preliminary case file, his usual air of quiet concentration surrounding him. He lookedd so much like himself: cardigan slightly too big, curls falling just messy enough to look endearing, the corner of his mouth tucked between his teeth as he scanned the papers. So familiar. So impossibly distant.

You didn’t let your eyes linger.

Instead, you angled yourself toward the projector, using the task of setting up the slideshow like it required your full, undivided attention. Which it absolutely did not, but the alternative was accidentally making eye contact and seeing something in his expression you couldn’t handle. Confusion, guilt, or worse: nothing at all.

“Morning,” he said quietly. It was the tone he used when he wasn’t sure if he had permission to exist in the same space as you.

You responded too fast, your voice too sharp, too clipped. “Morning.”

There was a brief silence. You could feel his eyes on you, like a gentle tap on the shoulder you were determined to ignore.

And then, mercifully, Hotch walked in, his presence slicing through the tension. “Let’s get started,” he said, already flipping through the case file as he moved to the head of the table.

The team fell into their usual rhythm, a buzz of motion, chairs scraping back as people shifted into place. You slid into your seat at the front of the room, clicking the remote to bring up the first slide, and forced your voice into something steady, something professional.

“We’ve got three victims, all found in rural areas surrounding Baltimore. All women, ages 25 to 30, all brunette, similar build. There are signs of overkill, stab wounds well beyond what would be necessary to cause death.”

You moved through the slides with practiced precision, your voice even, your focus razor-sharp. You didn’t stumble, didn’t hesitate, and didn’t once let your gaze flicker to Spencer’s side of the table. You spoke to Hotch. To Rossi. To Emily. To Penelope and Derek. Even to the wall. Anywhere but him.

Only once did your composure crack, a tiny hiccup in your breath when you mentioned the geographic profile. It was something Spencer had taught you when you were still new, something he’d spent hours drilling into you, showing you how to see patterns in the chaos. And there it was, his head lifting ever so slightly, his mouth parting like he wanted to remind you of something. Maybe a fact you’d forgotten. Or just to remind you that he was still there, somewhere, waiting to bridge the gap between you.

You forced yourself to keep going.

When you finished, Hotch gave a brief nod. “Good work. Let’s move out in twenty.”

The team’s energy shifted, moving from the quiet tension of the briefing room to the familiar post-briefing buzz. Chairs scraped back, papers shuffled, and voices rose as people began to file out. But you stayed behind, pretending to organize the files in front of you, keeping your hands busy, keeping yourself from fleeing. The paper felt like the only thing in the room that didn’t carry the weight of unspoken words.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Spencer pause in the doorway, his silhouette outlined in the harsh fluorescent light. He lingered, hesitant, unsure.

“Hey,” he said, his voice almost tentative, like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to speak to you in this moment. “Can we—”

“I have to double-check something with Garcia,” you cut in before he could finish, your words not unkind but firm, like a wall going up between you.

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. But it was enough.

You moved past him without waiting for a reply, your heels clicking sharply against the tile, the sound too loud in the stillness of the room. Your heart hammered in your chest, the echo of his voice a distant thing you weren’t ready to face. Not yet.

Maybe never.

You didn’t see him at first. You didn’t want to. The hallway of the precinct was quiet, almost too quiet, the soft hum of fluorescent lights above and the distant murmur of voices in the bullpen nothing but a dull backdrop to your pulse, racing in your ears. You had taken the longer route on purpose, weaving through empty hallways, hoping to lose yourself in the disarray of the building. You could feel the thick weight of the morning press down on your chest: the meeting, the case, the pressure to be perfect. You just needed a moment of stillness, a second of quiet.

But fate had a funny way of ruining plans.

The moment you turned the corner, you saw him. Spencer. Standing there, just a few feet away, shoulders slightly hunched as if he were bracing himself. His posture was that familiar mix of awkwardness and intent focus, like he was trying to decide whether to speak or stay silent, but there was something different about him today. His hair was messier than usual, curls sticking out in odd directions, and his fingers were twitching by his side, nervous. Almost like he was unsure of himself.

Your stomach dropped.

You tried to keep walking, tried to push past him, but the sound of your shoes clicking against the linoleum slowed as you drew near, the silence hanging heavy.

“Hey,” he said, soft and tentative, like he was trying not to scare a wounded animal.

Your body tensed. You didn’t respond right away, hoping maybe if you didn’t acknowledge it, he’d take the hint and let you slip away again, untouched. Unspoken to. Unseen.

No such luck.

“I was hoping we could talk,” he tried again, more gently. “Just for a second.”

Your grip on the folder tightened until the edge of the paper cut into your palm. “I’m kind of busy,” you muttered, finally, still not looking at him.

“You’ve been saying that a lot.”

You exhaled slowly through your nose, half a breath, half defeat. “Maybe because I am,” you murmured, eyes flicking down to the paperwork you clutched like a shield. “The profile’s not ready, the press is waiting, and if I don’t finish the summary, Hotch is going to breathe down my neck in fifteen minutes.” The words came out sharp and mechanical, like a rehearsed excuse. But your heart wasn’t in it. Not even close.

Spencer was quiet for a moment. You could feel the weight of his stare, not sharp, not demanding. Just there. Lingering. Like gravity.

“I did something,” he said finally, his voice thin and breaking at the edges. “Didn’t I? Something that hurt you.”

Your shoulders stiffened. The chill rolled in again, slow and insidious, sinking down through the fabric of your clothes and into your bones. You wanted to say no. Wanted to pretend it didn’t matter, that you weren’t affected. But your body betrayed you. Your jaw clenched. Your breath hitched.

“It’s nothing,” you said, but it cracked on the way out, barely held together by habit.

He took a careful step closer. You felt it. The shift in the air, the static tension that danced between the inches that separated your bodies. “No, it’s not nothing,” he said softly. “Tell me what I said. What I did.”

You could hear the ache in his voice, that rare, tender vulnerability he only let you see. It scraped at you, raw and irritating, because he sounded like he cared. Because he did. And that made it worse. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t try to reason his way in with statistics or logic. He just stood there, steady and open, letting you feel every inch of his presence.

“I know something’s wrong.” Spencer said. “You didn’t sit with me on the jet. You didn’t even look at me.”

The words made you flinch, just slightly. You hadn’t expected him to notice. Or maybe you had. Maybe you wanted him to.

“I know we don’t show affection at work. That’s always been our rule,” he continued, quieter now, more broken. “But you always touch my hand. Or bump your knee into mine. You always steal a sip of my coffee, even when it’s gross. But this morning…you didn’t even look at the muffin I brought you.”

You closed your eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel the guilt clawing at your chest. He’d noticed. Every small absence. Every little shift.

Finally, you turned. Slowly. Your gaze fell to the floor in front of his shoes, worn at the edges and slightly scuffed. Just like him. And then you looked up. Just barely. Just enough to catch the way he was standing. Shoulders slightly hunched, hands limp by his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore. Like he didn’t know how to reach you.

And he didn’t.

Because part of you didn’t want to be reached.

Not yet.

“It’s just…” You swallowed. “It’s what you said the other day. When Morgan made that joke about my makeup.”

Spencer blinked, clearly trying to remember. “What did I exactly say?”

“You said people get more attention when they see someone pretty,” you said, each word carefully even, like if you didn’t control your voice, it would crack.

His brows furrowed. “I said that people tend to respond more favorably to those who fall within conventional beauty standards and that it has an unconscious effect on—”

“I know what you said,” you snapped, sharper than you meant to. The echo of your own voice in the empty hallway made your stomach twist. “You don’t have to repeat it like a textbook.”

That made him flinch, just barely, but enough.

“I didn’t mean it about you,” he said quickly. “I was just talking. I always talk too much, you know it.”

You gave a humorless laugh, turning your back to him, your arms crossed tight over your chest.

“That’s the thing, Spencer. You didn’t mean it. And you didn’t even realize how it sounded. You just threw it out there, like a fact. Like I wasn’t sitting right next to you, like I’m not already trying to compete in a world that picks apart every inch of me the second I walk into a room.”

“I didn’t think—”

“No. You didn’t.”

Your voice cracked this time, and you hated it. Hated the sting in your eyes, the tightness in your throat. You weren’t supposed to feel like this, not over something so small. But it wasn’t small. Not to you. Not when it was coming from him.

He stepped closer again, like he couldn’t help himself, and you stepped back just as fast.

“Please don’t,” you said quietly.

He froze.

“I know I’m not the only girl in the world,” you said, not looking at him. “And I’m not asking to be. But when you say things like that, even casually, it feels like I’ve already lost a race I didn’t know I was running. Like I’m not even in the frame.”

There was a long pause. Your boyfriend’s voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.

“You’ve never been out of frame. Not for me.”

You shook your head, blinking hard, trying to will away the heat behind your eyes. “I’ve spent the last two days wondering if I’d be worth more to you if I looked different.”

That hit him like a blow. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I didn’t know. I didn’t think. But please believe me when I tell you…I see you. All the time. You’re someone I—” He stopped himself, teeth catching on his bottom lip. “You’re the only person I can’t stop seeing.”

Something in your chest pulled tight, twisted cruelly.

You stared at a fixed spot on the floor. The tiles blurred a little around the edges. You didn’t know what to say to that, not when your chest felt too tight, not when your emotions were running just beneath your skin, raw and humming.

“I don’t always think before I talk,” he continued, carefully. “Sometimes I share things like facts and research like they’re harmless, like they’re neutral. But I forget that facts aren’t neutral when they land on people I care about.”

That made you glance up at him. Just for a second.

He looked like he meant it: brows drawn, hands loosely curled at his sides, eyes locked on yours with that intense kind of focus he reserved for unsolvable puzzles and people he couldn’t let go of.

“I think you’re beautiful,” he said, and there was no rush in it. No grand gesture. Just a quiet truth. “Not when you’re all put together. Not just when you wear makeup. Not just when you smile.”

You blinked. The air in the hallway seemed to still.

“I think you’re beautiful when you’re tired. When you’re pissed off. When you’re sitting at your desk covered in crime scene dust and snapping at Morgan because you haven’t eaten in twelve hours.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I think you’re beautiful even when you’re covered in blood, cursing at your vest because it rubbed your ribs raw…even if that sounds weird.”

A quiet laugh broke out of you, not a full one, but a cracked, genuine thing that caught you off guard. You shook your head, eyes misty despite yourself.

“Spencer…”

He stepped forward slowly, careful not to close the distance unless you let him. “You never needed to change anything. Not for me. Not for the world, either. But if you ever forget how amazing you are, I’ll remind you.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your throat was too tight. But your hand reached out, just barely brushing against his. Not quite holding. Just…touching.

It was enough.

His fingers closed around yours, warm and hesitant.

“Okay,” you whispered.

And for the first time in days, the storm inside you quieted, not gone, but calm. Manageable. Because he didn’t just see you. He saw through everything you tried to hide…and stayed.

Friendly reminder ❤︎ : you are beautiful and "standards" are bullshit that don't matter, even if we sometimes feel like they do.

Take care and be kind to yourself, xoxo.

[dannyketch]

A lot of the time, a well fitting, supportive bra is enough to alleviate back pain from big boobs, but there's many barriers in keeping people from them. Most people who wear bras are wearing the wrong size, and this is especially true for people who don't have easy access to try on dd+ bras, and not all bra fitters are trained to size properly. Stores here, for example, will stock, at most a DDD/F cup. So people who need a bigger cup will have to go for a bigger band size instead, and the majority of support from a bra comes from the band. If it's lose, there is very little, if any, support. DD+ bras, especially ones made from companies that specialize in DD+ sizes(and have bras that work better for those sizes), are also more expensive than their smaller cupped counterparts. You may also need to order them online or go to a specialty boutique, depending on where you live. But people will suggest breast reduction surgery for boob related back pain much more readily and easily than to first try to find a bra that actually fits and works properly, and I am speaking from personal experience and what I have seen happen to other people. There is a push to fit into the conventional sizes via surgery rather to admit that a DD cup is not actually that big and that a lot of people wear a DD bra are actually wearing something that is too small and doesn't work for them and to check if whether wearing a better fitting bra will help with their issue or not.

Here's what real D and DD cupped bras look like:

And here are G and GG bras in comparison:

Here is how cup sizes work:

Here is how to find your actual bra size(but for the full bust measurement, you can take it without a bra leaning forwards instead of while standing straight with a non padded bra that fits, both ways work tho):

Or you can try a brathatfit's more in depth calculator, but the other way works fine too.

Also for looking for cheap dd+ bras, it's good to wait for them to go on sale, buy them second hand on online market places, like ebay or poshmark, and use discount dd+ sites like (US based) brastop.

All that to say, the idea that large boobs inherently have to hurt and that there is nothing than can be done except surgery is not true for many, many people. I grew up for many years with awful back pain from wearing a bra that did nothing to actually support me, but I have now had none of those issues after actually getting a bra that fits. My largest cup size was an HH cup in UK sizing or an L cup in US sizing, so I know what I'm talking about.

Also this guy should just give the women he likes money for bras honesty. They are not cheap at regular price, and insurance does not cover them, unlike some things.

modern empath crisis of faith

[batsovergotham]

CHAPTER 1 PART 2

you agreed to spar and now you’ve basically dry humped in front of the royal guard

pairing - emperor!mark grayson x reader

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

content notice: 18+. dry humping, accidental voyeurism.

a/n: this chapter is mostly expository, other chapters will be a lot more nasty ;)

You move without hesitation. His stance opens for half a second, too wide, and you’re on him, using leverage, instinct, and sheer force of will. Your shoulder catches his, your boot hooks behind his ankle, and in one breathless twist of momentum, Emperor Mark Grayson is on his back.

He lands with a dull thud against the sparring mat, his cape crumpled beneath him, and before he can rise, you’re already there, straddling his waist, pinning him hard to the ground with one knee pressed to his ribs and the other leg braced for balance.

Your hand presses to his chest, palm-flat, stabilizing yourself. The other still holds your sword, but loosely now. The fight is over. You won. You didn’t even think. It was automatic.

And then you shift.

Just slightly.

Trying to find better balance, your weight drags across his hips, your thighs tightening unintentionally. The soft scrape of armor and fabric grinds you directly over him, your hips brushing down against his beltline as you adjust your center of gravity. It’s a fluid, mindless motion, like mounting a steed, like resetting for a throw.

You don’t notice.

Mark does.

He goes completely still beneath you, like a detonator just clicked under his spine. His breath hitches, just once, then stops entirely. His arms stay braced to his sides. He doesn’t move. Doesn't look away. But his eyes narrow, and a quiet tension creeps into his jaw. Every muscle in his body coils tight as cables.

You’re still perched over him, fingers splayed over the solid rise of his chest, sweat dripping from your temple, your thighs firmly gripping either side of his hips. You’re focused, serious, alert, completely unaware of how intimately you’ve seated yourself. How the rhythm of your body pressed into his has shifted from combat to something far more fraught.

“I think that counts as a pin,” you say, slightly breathless, frowning in concentration. “You didn’t even try to counter.”

Mark doesn’t answer.

You glance down, confusion knitting your brow. “...Are you alright?”

He blinks once. Slowly. Then exhales through his nose. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not moving.”

“Because if I do,” he mutters, voice tight, “you’re going to ask a question I won’t want to answer.”

That stops you. “What kind of question?”

Mark looks up at you now, dead-on, his blue eyes sharp, unreadable, locked on yours like they’re daring you to figure something out. But you don’t. You tilt your head, trying to read the tension in his face.

“I don’t understand,” you say honestly.

He nods once. “Yeah. I know.”

You shift again. Another small adjustment, trying to rise from him without slipping, but the motion brings your hips tight over his again, the pressure dragging slow across him as you brace yourself to stand. His jaw clenches harder. His hands twitch against the mat. Still unmoving. Still silent.

“I’m sorry,” you say, startled. “Did I–hurt you?”

“No,” he says, quick and low.

You study his face, still not fully understanding. “Is that a Viltrumite thing?”

He closes his eyes for a breath. “No. It’s a human one.”

You frown, leaning slightly back. “Should I get off?”

Mark opens his eyes, unreadable again. “Probably.”

You nod and move to dismount, carefully shifting your legs, but your heel slips on the edge of his cape, and once again your hips press down into his as you steady yourself. This time you feel it, a sudden tension, not in you, but beneath you. A hardness you weren’t expecting. Something solid, growing where you’re pressed tightest.

You freeze.

Mark doesn’t breathe.

You lift your head, wide-eyed. “Is that–” You pause. “Are you injured?”

His eyes flick to the ceiling.

“No,” he says, flat.

You blink. “Then, what is it?”

There’s a long silence.

You don’t know what you’re asking. Not really. But the question’s there, hovering like a live wire.

Mark finally looks at you again, slow and deliberate.

“You’re sitting on it.”

You stare at him blankly.

Then you really stare at him.

“Oh.”

Stillness stretches.

You glance down again, your hips still lightly settled against his. The feeling is strange, warm. Heavy. You don’t know why it feels good. But it does. Not in a sharp, electric way like battle adrenaline. It’s slower. Thicker. You can feel your pulse at the base of your throat, down your arms, between your thighs where your body rests against his. There’s something there. Something you’ve never encountered in training halls or battlefields.

“I don’t understand what I’m feeling,” you admit softly.

Mark closes his eyes for a beat. “I know.”

“I don’t want to get off yet,” you say, unsure why.

That makes his head snap back toward you.

“What?”

“I just… don’t want to move. Not yet. My body feels strange. Not bad, just–” you search for the word.

His fingers twitch against the mat. He still hasn’t touched you.

“You’re aroused,” he says bluntly.

You blink. “Is that what this is?”

“Yes.”

You study his face, your expression open, curious, completely free of shame or understanding.

“Do you feel it too?”

His jaw flexes. “Yes.”

“And it’s caused by me sitting here?”

“Yes.”

You shift again. Just a little. The pressure rolls through your core in a slow wave that makes your breath catch. Your thighs press tighter around his hips, not intentionally, and your body reacts without permission. A slow, hot pulse deep in your stomach. You like the sensation. You don’t know what to do with it. But you don’t want to stop it either.

Mark watches you. Still motionless. Still unreadable.

“I think I like it,” you murmur, surprised.

Mark exhales. “Yeah. Most people do.”

Another pause. You remain seated on him, hands now on both sides of his chest. You lean forward slightly, not on purpose, just curious, still trying to understand the feeling.

“Do we need to stop the spar?”

He speaks slowly, voice like steel wrapped in silk, “this hasn’t been a spar for the last five minutes.”

You blink. “Then what is it?”

Mark’s gaze drifts over your face, your flushed cheeks, parted lips, the way your body stays pressed down over him with growing tension neither of you is naming.

“I don’t think you want the answer to that.”

“I do,” you insist. “I want to know everything.”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t trust himself to.

You shift again.

And he groans.

Not loud. Not deliberate. Just a soft, ragged breath that slips through his teeth when your hips roll over him one more time.

You feel it vibrate up through your thighs.

You freeze. “Was that a–?”

“Yes,” he says, eyes shut.

Your lips part. You lean down again, closer, hair falling forward.

“Is this still… arousal?”

He lets out a strained breath. “Princess, get off.”

“Why?”

“Because if you stay there any longer, this is going to stop being about sparring, or diplomacy, or anything else you came here to do.”

Your heart is hammering now, but not from fear. From some strange, exciting fire in your chest that you don’t understand, but want to. Your body wants to move again. You feel the ache building inside you. Your thighs clench tighter, instinctively, like your body’s ahead of your mind.

“I feel hot,” you whisper. “Inside.”

Mark stares at the ceiling, trying not to look at you.

“You’re turned on.”

You repeat the words quietly, trying them. “Turned on.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “And if you keep grinding on me like that, if you keep learning like this, you’re going to make me do something you can’t take back.

Your hips move again. A little slower this time. A little more aware. The pressure pushes right up against that pulsing heat between your legs, and your whole body tenses. Pleasure spills through your limbs, light and unfamiliar and so good it steals your breath.

A soft sound slips from your lips, high, trembling. You don’t even realize you’re making it.

Mark’s grip on your hips tightens just slightly. His fingers curl against the fabric at your waist.

But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t look at you like a man enjoying it. He looks at you like a man watching himself walk the edge of something dangerous.

You swallow hard. “Does this happen every time two people do this?”

“No,” he says. “Not like this.”

You shift again. Testing. Trying to understand. Your hips grind slowly down, the motion sending another wave of pleasure through your stomach, coiling lower this time, deep in your core. You feel your body clench around nothing. Your chest rises in a soft gasp. You don’t mean to moan, but you do.

It’s quiet. Honest. And it makes Mark’s eyes narrow sharply.

You lean in closer, your hands braced on either side of his chest. Your hair falls forward. You can feel the heat coming off his body, the way every part of him is still coiled beneath you. You feel his arousal, hard beneath you, pulsing where you straddle him. It makes your thighs clench again.

“I don’t think I want it to stop,” you admit.

Mark’s jaw tightens. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I know it feels good.”

“That’s not enough.”

“Why not?”

His eyes flash. “Because I’m not going to be the one to take advantage of what you don’t understand.”

You stare at him, searching. “I’m not a child.”

“I never said you were.”

“But I’m not helpless.”

“No,” he agrees. “You’re dangerous.”

That lands. It’s not insult. It’s truth. And the way he says it makes your pulse stutter.

You shift again, slightly, unconsciously, and the pleasure crests so sharply your legs tremble. You inhale hard through your nose, lips parting.

“It’s too much,” you whisper.

Mark closes his eyes again, breath shaking. “You’re close.”

“To what?”

He doesn’t answer.

You move again, just a slow roll of your hips, and this time he grunts, jaw clenched, head tipping back against the mat as his fingers dig hard into your waist.

You shift your hips, slowly, carefully, but this time, it’s not to regain balance. Not to keep your center of gravity steady.

It’s because you want to feel it again.

That deep, pulsing sensation that shoots up from the pressure between your legs, the one that’s been building since you landed in his lap, confusing, intense, but not frightening. Not anymore.

You drag yourself across the hard length of him again, and the friction is delicious. Blunt and thick beneath you, his cock pushes back through the fabric of his suit and the thin barrier of your own. It’s not penetration. There’s no bare skin.

But your body doesn’t care.

The sensation makes your thighs twitch, your knees tightening at his sides. You pant softly and rock your hips again, the motion smoother this time. He’s letting you. You don’t fully understand why, but you can feel it, his restraint, his tension. The fact that his hands haven’t moved, that he’s choosing to let you stay exactly where you are.

And it makes your chest burn.

“Mark,” you murmur, unsure why you say his name, only that you need to.

His eyes are open, fixed on yours, but his jaw is locked. He doesn’t speak at first.

You grind down again, this time slower, more deliberate. The heat where your bodies meet is unbearable. You’re wet now, soaked through your underwear, and you feel the way your arousal slicks across him through the layers. You clench down instinctively. It makes the pressure even sharper, more overwhelming. Your body reacts to every drag of friction like it’s being filled.

Mark groans.

Not loud. Not even intentional. But real. His fingers flex at your hips, still resting there, still not guiding you but not letting go either.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he says under his breath, something strained in it.

You nod, honest. “I know. But it feels right.”

You rock again, your breath catching on a gasp. The motion rolls your clit against the seam of your panties, right over the thick ridge of his cock. That contact, direct and perfect, makes you tremble. You suck in a breath, nails digging lightly into the fabric over his chest.

“I wasn’t doing it on purpose…,” you whisper. “I just don’t want to stop.”

“I know,” he says again.

There’s heat in his voice now. Tight. Grounded. Like he’s holding something in his teeth, something huge, and not letting it out.

You do it again.

Your hips grind into his, slow and controlled, but it lights a fire in your stomach all the same. You feel his cock pulse beneath you, hard and solid, rubbing right through your soaked heat. The friction burns in the best way, blurring your thoughts.

He groans again. Deeper this time.

“You’re going to drive me insane,” he mutters.

You breathe harder, rocking back and forth now in steady rhythm. Your thighs ache from the tension. You feel like you’re being pulled into something bigger, something that climbs higher every time your hips move.

But neither of you lets it go too far.

He doesn’t thrust up.

You don’t lose control.

You just stay there, grinding against him slowly, hips moving in quiet, deliberate circles, chasing that cresting heat inside you without ever quite falling over the edge.

It’s not finished.

But it’s more than you’ve ever felt before.

You rest your forehead against his.

Your lips part on a breath. “Mark…”

His hands squeeze your waist, not rough, not claiming. Just there.

He nods once, exhaling through his nose, eyes closed now.

“I know.”

And still, you keep moving.

You keep grinding down onto him, hips rocking with effort and need, but it’s not working. Every pass brings you close, makes your breath catch, makes your core clench, but not enough. Never quite enough.

You pant softly, brows knitting, thighs starting to tremble, not from pleasure now, but from frustration. You want it. Your whole body is aching for it, soaking for it, pressed hard against the thick shape of him beneath you, but your angle’s off. You’re sliding over it instead of into it, dragging against the wrong curve, the wrong line. Your clit brushes too high, too shallow, and you can feel the edge of it, what’s waiting if you just could, but you can’t get there.

You grind harder, desperately chasing it, hips circling, sweat sliding down the small of your back. Your moan comes out raw, frustrated. Your hands fist in the fabric of his clothes as you try to adjust again, rutting against him like instinct has taken over, but the pressure is imprecise.

“I can’t—I can’t get it—” you gasp, voice thick with confusion and heat. “Why can’t I–?”

Mark moves.

There’s no warning. No change in his face. Just motion. Fast, fluid, efficient.

He grabs your hips with both hands, and with a low grunt, flips your body under his, reversing your positions in one clean, practiced movement. One moment you’re on top, gasping through grit teeth, chasing friction, and the next, your back hits the floor and he’s above you, between your legs, weight balanced perfectly, cock still hard beneath the fabric and exactly where it was, only now, he's in control of how it moves.

You stare up at him, wide-eyed, blinking through the haze.

His face is so close. Closer than it’s been the entire spar. His lips hover over yours but don’t touch. His eyes flick over your features like he’s memorizing them.

“Let me fix it,” he says simply. Low. Firm.

You nod.

You don’t even think. You just nod.

And he grinds forward.

The pressure hits you like a jolt, perfect, sharp, dragging his clothed cock against your soaked center in a way that makes your spine arch and your hands fly up to grab his biceps. His uniform’s seam brushes directly over your clit and the friction makes your breath punch out of your lungs.

Your voice breaks. “Oh—oh—Mark—”

He does it again. Controlled. Measured. A slow, firm thrust of his hips, rubbing his cock right against your clit in a long, deliberate drag, and you writhe beneath him.

“Breathe,” he murmurs.

“I—I am—” you gasp, voice tight.

But you’re not. Not really. You’re overwhelmed, completely, and the relief is almost too much. It’s like your body sings under the rhythm he sets, every pass of friction through your wet heat drawing the pressure tighter, higher.

Your legs lift around him on instinct, wrapping around his waist. Your hips rise to meet his. It’s not something you’ve done before. It’s just what your body needs.

He keeps moving, grinding into you through both your clothes, slow and firm and devastatingly direct. The sensation is exactly what you’d been chasing, pressure in the right spot, friction dragging perfectly over your clit, again and again. And his weight pins you down just right, heavy, warm, safe, keeping you steady as you start to come apart.

Your thighs tremble. Your hands clutch at his arms, his shoulders, not sure where to hold as the pleasure builds too fast to track.

“Mark—I—oh—” You can’t finish sentences now. Your voice breaks again on a sharp, choked cry.

You’re so wet your dress sticks to you, practically glues to your folds as he keeps grinding his cock against you, never entering, just rubbing, dragging you right up that steep edge.

Mark exhales a rough breath beside your ear. You feel the heat of it. His control is fraying, but he keeps his rhythm, hips rolling steady, pressure unrelenting.

“Right there,” he mutters, not quite a command, not quite a plea. “Stay there.”

“I can’t–”

“You can. You’re almost there.”

And you are.

You feel your body lock up, tension coiling hard in your belly, tighter than anything you’ve ever known. Your whole world shrinks to one hot, aching point where he grinds against you.

And then, you break.

It hits fast.

Violent in its sweetness.

You shatter beneath him with a gasp so sharp it punches out of you like wind through cracked glass. Your hips buck into his, thighs squeezing tight, your mouth falling open on a soundless moan. Your body locks, clenches, pulses with wave after wave of release.

Mark doesn’t stop. He keeps grinding through it, his cock dragging slowly, steadily over your clit until you whimper from the intensity, your nails digging into his arms as you shake under him.

And then finally, he stills.

You lie beneath him, gasping, trembling, every nerve in your body singing. Your suit clings to your skin, soaked through. Your muscles are molten, legs still wrapped around him, chest heaving.

He doesn’t move.

His forehead rests lightly against yours. His eyes are closed.

He hasn’t come.

You open your eyes slowly, still panting, dazed, and whisper.

“Thank you.”

Mark doesn’t answer. He just lets out a long breath against your cheek.

You’re still beneath him, arms wrapped loosely around his back, thighs locked around his waist like you’re holding him there, anchoring him to you. The aftermath of your orgasm is still buzzing through your body, every nerve trembling under your skin. You didn’t expect it to feel like this, that good. That intense. That personal.

But you’re not done.

Neither is he.

Mark doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t roll off. He stays, firm between your legs, his cock still hard and pressing into the soaked, sensitive spot between your thighs. Your bodies are still fully clothed, but the friction, the heat, is so raw, so direct, you might as well be bare.

You’re breathing hard against his neck, lips parted, cheeks flushed. The fabric of your bodice sticks to your skin. Your entire lower half feels electric, like every slow drag of him through the wet cling of your suit might set you off again. You twitch beneath him involuntarily, hips rocking.

“Still feels good,” you whisper, not really thinking.

Mark grunts, low and restrained. “Yeah.”

His hands are still on your hips, callused and warm. He flexes his grip, just slightly, and then he starts to move again. Slowly. Purposefully.

A slow grind of his hips forward. His cock, hot and thick beneath the dense fabric, presses right up against your clit in a perfect, agonizing drag. You suck in a breath and arch your back, moaning softly as the pleasure flares up all over again.

You hadn’t expected more.

But your body is ready for it.

You’re already soaking, the wet heat of your arousal completely saturating the thin layer of fabric covering your core. And he’s soaked too, you can feel the heat radiating through his suit, the slick friction building again as he starts to thrust, slow and firm.

He grinds into you, hips moving in a controlled rhythm, each drag of his cock grinding against your clit, every inch of him thick and unrelenting.

You shudder. Your fingers curl into the muscle of his shoulders, pulling him down tighter against you.

“Oh—Gods—Mark—”

You can feel the edge building again. Faster this time. It’s like your body never came down from the last one. You’re raw, hyperaware, every thrust sending a jolt through your spine.

He moves against you with perfect control, not animalistic, not frenzied, but intentional. Like he knows exactly what he's doing now. Each roll of his hips is deep, steady, and hard enough to press right through your overstimulation and stoke the fire burning in your core.

You’re crying out now, soft little whimpers muffled into his chest, your body rocking with his rhythm. Your hips lift to meet each thrust, grinding back against him in time, needing that friction, that pressure. It’s all instinct now. All feeling.

Mark is breathing hard above you, his jaw clenched, breath hitching through his teeth every time your bodies slide together.

And then, you feel it.

The subtle, unmistakable jerk of his hips. The way his cock starts to pulse harder against your clit. His hands grip your waist tighter. His control falters just a little, just enough for you to feel it break.

You look up at him, panting. Your voice is a whisper.

“You’re gonna–”

Mark doesn’t answer.

He just pushes down harder, grinding his cock deep into the soaked space between your legs, and then he groans, deep in his chest, rough and strangled as he spills into his suit.

You feel it.

The heat. The pulse. The way his whole body tenses and shudders above you as he finishes, cock pulsing in long, desperate surges against your slick core.

And that’s it.

You cry out as your own orgasm slams into you againth, is one harder, deeper, tearing through you like fire. Your back arches under him, thighs locking tight, your pussy clenching helplessly even with nothing inside. The rhythm of his grinding, the heat of him coming, the friction, it overwhelms you. Breaks you.

Your moan is high and raw and choked on his name.

Your fingers claw at his back as you shake through it, hips grinding frantically against his even as your muscles lock up.

It feels endless.

Like you’re both trapped at the peak, your bodies glued together by sweat and come and heat, neither of you moving, neither of you able to breathe.

When it finally fades, when the trembling slows and the burn in your muscles starts to soften, he lowers himself over you, arms braced on either side of your head.

You’re both soaked. His suit is clinging to his body, dark and glistening where he came. Your own is practically translucent from the flood between your legs.

You stare at him, dazed, flushed, stunned silent.

He’s watching you.

His expression isn’t soft.

But it’s not closed anymore, either.

You’re still beneath him, skin flushed, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Your thighs are aching from holding tight around his waist. Your dress clings to you, soaked through and stretched taut over your hips, your legs, your breasts. The scent of sweat and sex fills the air between you, hot, intimate, unmistakable.

Mark’s weight settles just barely atop you, one forearm braced beside your head, the other hand still cupping the curve of your waist. His head is bowed, close to yours, his breath ghosting over your skin as he steadies himself.

Neither of you speaks.

But you can feel something shifting between you, something fragile. The afterglow hasn’t faded yet. You still feel him there. Softening, now, against your soaked heat, but present in a way that makes your pulse stutter.

You want to say something. You don’t know what. Your throat tightens around the silence.

He feels it. He lifts his head slightly, eyes meeting yours. And for a moment, everything inside you threatens to rise, to spill. Something warm. Grateful. Maybe something more.

“Mark, I–”

The door hisses open.

The sound slashes through the quiet like a blade.

Mark’s head snaps toward it immediately. You flinch, instinctively trying to shift, but your body won’t move fast enough. You’re still spread beneath him, legs tangled with his, suit darkened with sweat and arousal. The scent of release is thick in the air.

General Kregg stands in the doorway.

He doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t blink.

His expression is hard enough to split steel, and his eyes take in the scene with one clinical sweep, his Emperor half-kneeling over a flushed, sweat-slick foreign dignitary whose thighs are still spread open around his hips. Your bodies are clearly still connected by more than politics.

Mark doesn’t rise.

He doesn’t explain.

He doesn’t apologize.

Kregg’s voice cuts into the air like cold glass.

“My Emperor.”

Nothing in his tone gives anything away. He sounds like he’s reporting for duty. If his jaw is tight, it’s barely visible. If his breath is heavier, it’s only in the subtle flare of his nostrils.

Mark exhales, slowly. Then, with that same impossible calm that makes his enemies fear him more than any weapon, he begins to move.

He pushes himself off you without a sound, lifting his body with the same control he uses in combat. His knee plants against the floor beside your hip, one arm bracing his weight as he slides away from your center.

You feel the loss of him immediately.

The wet heat between your thighs is suddenly exposed, pulsing and raw in the cool air. You try to close your legs, but they won’t quite obey, not yet. You’re trembling still. Still slick. Still open.

Mark straightens slowly, rising to his full height.

His suit is wrinkled, stained with sweat, and visibly damp along his groin. The outline of his cock is obvious even in the low light. He doesn’t try to adjust it.

You push yourself up on your elbows, hair stuck to your forehead, cheeks flushed. You feel seen, not because you’re embarrassed, but because Kregg’s gaze has no softness in it. No curiosity. Just calculation.

The silence holds.

Mark’s voice finally breaks it, steady and even.

“You’re early.”

Kregg doesn’t move. “I wasn’t aware I needed an appointment to access my own training deck.”

There’s no humor in it. No accusation. Just the truth, stated plainly.

Mark turns to face him fully now. His presence fills the space again, not physically, but in that way only he can. Authority settles across his shoulders like armor. He tilts his head slightly.

“You do now.”

Kregg doesn’t flinch. But he nods, once, curt.

“I see.”

His eyes flick to you, not to leer, not to gawk. Just to register. To document. And then they move back to Mark.

The pause hangs.

Mark takes a step forward, closing half the distance.

“Whatever you think you walked in on,” he says, low, steady, “doesn’t leave this room.”

Kregg’s jaw works once. His voice is just as controlled.

“Understood.”

A long beat passes.

Then Kregg speaks again, voice clipped. “There’s been movement on the Saturn front. We’ve intercepted a transmission from a Coalition scout.”

Mark’s nod is barely perceptible. “Give me five minutes.”

Kregg inclines his head. “Of course.”

And then he’s gone.

The door hisses closed behind him.

Silence returns.

But it’s different now.

You’re still seated on the floor, legs folded beneath you, breathing shallow. Your heart is pounding again, not from release, but from exposure. From the way the moment changed so fast.

Mark turns back toward you slowly. His face is unreadable again, stone and silence. Not angry. Not regretful.

But contained.

You look up at him, trying to read what’s behind his eyes. What was real. What was just release. What remains.

“Do you want me to go?” you ask quietly.

Mark studies you for a moment.

Then he shakes his head once.

“No,” he says. “Not yet.”

And that answer, quiet as it is, settles deeper than any declaration could.

You sit there on the cool metal of the mat, legs folded beneath you, arms wrapped around your knees, and you still feel him between your thighs.

Not physically. Not anymore.

But the ghost of him.

His weight. The drag of his hips. The way his body ground into yours with such pressure, such focus. He never lost control, he gave it, piece by piece, until it was both of you, undone.

And now that it’s over, your body still trembles with the memory of it.

Your skin is slick, flushed. Your dress clings in all the wrong places. Your thighs are sticky and tender from friction and pleasure and the aftershock of release. You keep trying to shift, subtly, like you can shake the feeling of him still pressing between your legs.

But you can’t.

Because it’s not just your body that’s wet and aching.

It’s your mind.

It’s spinning, looping, dragging you through thoughts that feel unfamiliar, like new terrain underfoot.

You glance at him, Mark. Still standing. Straight-backed. Recollected. Hands calm at his sides, breathing returned to normal.

Like he never came at all.

But you felt it. You felt him stiffen, his cock pulse against you, that deep, involuntary grunt when he spilled between your bodies. You remember how his hand stayed clenched on your hip. Not possessive. Just anchored.

And still he looks like nothing touched him.

You try to speak. But your voice won’t come. Not yet.

Because there’s too much happening inside you.

You feel... split open.

Not broken.

Just undone.

Like the tight knot of purpose that’s always held you together, battle, duty, Eternia, Swift Wind, honor, just unraveled under his weight and breath and the slow, unbearable grind of his hips into yours.

You think of Adam.

Your brother is sweet. Noble. Kind to a fault. He loves Teela in a way that looks like springtime. They laugh. They share flowers. He writes her awkward songs with too many verses. They kiss beneath trees and exchange promises no one expects them to keep.

That was always what you thought love was. Softness. Teasing. A kind of partnership built from shared stories and unspoken loyalty.

You’ve never seen them pressed together like that. Never heard the sounds you made against Mark’s mouth tear out of Teela’s throat. Never imagined that closeness could be... devouring.

That you could want something that made you grind yourself raw into someone else’s body just to get more of it.

You didn’t understand before.

Now you do.

And it terrifies you.

You shift, knees squeezing tighter together, trying to soothe the tremble in your belly. But it’s not fading.

You think of how Mark looked beneath you. Calm. Barely strained. But his cock had been so hard. So solid. Pressed up right where you needed it. And your body had taken over. You didn’t know what you were doing. You didn’t think. You just moved.

And he let you.

He could’ve stopped you. Could’ve shoved you off, or corrected you, or said something when your hips started grinding harder, more desperate.

But he just watched.

Felt you.

Met you, rhythm for rhythm.

And now?

Now you feel a gnawing ache inside. Like your body’s still waiting for something more. Even after the climax. Even after he came. Something stayed behind. An emptiness that wasn’t there before.

Your throat tightens. You finally whisper, “I don’t know what this means.”

He turns toward you, slow, composed, every inch the emperor again.

He doesn’t dismiss you.

Doesn’t soften either.

“Neither do I,” he says.

And that hits you in the chest harder than any answer could.

Because if he doesn’t know what it means, what chance do you have?

You look away. Pull your knees tighter. Your voice is quieter now.

“I thought I understood what connection looked like. I thought it was words and loyalty. Letters and shared smiles. Not... this.”

You feel his eyes on you. Not piercing. Not judging. Just present.

“I didn’t know bodies could want something before your mind even catches up,” you say, voice tighter. “It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tender. I felt like I was coming apart. Like something ripped out of me and then wrapped itself around you.”

A long silence.

“You didn’t pretend,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“You weren’t trying to manipulate me. Or seduce me. You weren’t faking a connection to gain power. That’s what people usually do around me.”

He crosses the space slowly, kneels on one knee beside you.

“And that’s why I didn’t stop you.”

You turn to face him, fully now. Your voice breaks at the edges.

“But I don’t even know what I wanted.”

Mark meets your gaze. He’s steady. Unblinking.

“You wanted,” he says.

That’s all.

The hum of the training deck fades into silence again, but your ears are still ringing.

Your thighs are sore.

Your dress is wet.

Not damp, soaked. Clinging to you in a way that feels more vulnerable now than when he was inside your space, grinding into your core. You can feel everything, the sweat, the release, your own slickness still thick between your legs. Every shift of your hips squelches faintly in the quiet. The fabric is nearly translucent at your center.

Mark’s suit is worse.

There’s a dark stain smeared across the front of him, stretching low from where you felt him pulse and spill, pressed hard against your body as he came. His cock had been trapped between layers, but even Viltrumite fabric can’t hide that. The mess. The scent. The heat of it still hanging between you.

You sit cross-legged, thighs pressed together now, trying not to think about how it’s drying sticky against your inner thighs. Or how the slick warmth keeps seeping slightly when you move.

You shift again.

It’s unbearable.

And he notices.

Mark steps forward. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just takes one look at you, your hair matted, your cheeks flushed, the soaked V of your dress, and turns toward the wall console.

“You can’t stay like that,” he says. Not cold. Not gentle. Just factual.

You blink, confused. “I–what?”

“I’m opening a washroom,” he says, voice low but gentle in a way you haven’t heard from him before.

You blink. “What?”

“You’re soaked,” he says, glancing at you. “And not just with sweat.”

The blunt honesty should make you flinch. But it doesn’t. Not from him.

Instead, it grounds you.

He taps in a quick sequence. A panel hisses open on the far wall, revealing a narrow corridor, warm light spilling out, laced with low steam. It smells clean, slightly metallic, slightly herbal. You imagine it’s the closest thing Viltrumites have to comfort.

“I’ll walk you there,” he says. “It’s private.”

You rise slowly, legs aching, and nod. “Thank you.”

You’re surprised by the sincerity in your voice.

He doesn’t wait for you to catch up. But he doesn’t rush either.

You walk beside him, his stride steady, his posture relaxed but upright, still visibly wearing the mantle of command. But when you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, you catch something flickering in his face.

A softness at the edges.

An absence of distance.

Like he’s still in the moment with you, whether he shows it or not.

And the pull in your chest, that strange magnetic thread that’s been there since the first time you stood too close, tugs again.

You reach the washroom.

He opens the door, steps just inside, then turns back to face you.

The light cuts across the sharp line of his jaw, his damp hair falling loose around his forehead, his suit still dark with your shared heat, your shared mess. He looks like war and aftermath and restraint wrapped in a man’s skin.

And something in you moves.

“Mark,” you say quietly.

He turns toward you, brows slightly drawn. “You’re alright?”

You step into the doorway, heart beating fast again, not from fear. Not from arousal.

Just from closeness.

From the unbearable feeling that something happened between you that neither of you can name yet. Something real.

You take a breath.

Then you lean in.

Your hand touches his chest lightly, just over the center. You feel his breath catch under your palm. And then, gently, unsure, you press your mouth to his.

The kiss is soft. Barely there. Not demanding.

You don’t know what you’re doing.

You only know you need to.

Mark doesn’t pull away.

For a heartbeat, he stays still.

Then his hand lifts, careful, and brushes your jaw, just once. His mouth parts slightly against yours, not deepening the kiss, not taking over. Just returning it. Quietly.

When you pull back, your eyes meet his.

You’re flushed again. Open. Unsure.

“I didn’t mean to–”

“I know,” he says softly.

And it’s not rejection.

It’s understanding.

He looks at you for another moment, then glances toward the shower, the rising steam.

Mark stands close.

Close enough to feel the heat off his body.

Close enough to remember the exact weight of him on top of you.

The kiss you gave him, hesitant, barely formed, still lingers on your lips like something half-awake. It wasn't practiced. It wasn’t a move. It was need. Real, if undefined.

And you’re not sure what happens next.

You don’t know what you want to happen next.

So you watch him.

And he watches you back.

You expect him to nod. To offer something clipped and polite and step away the way leaders do when things get too complicated.

But he doesn’t.

His gaze lingers, not on your dress, not on your curves, not on your mouth, but your face. As if he’s looking for something behind your eyes he hasn’t figured out yet.

And then, quietly, he steps forward again.

There’s no sound. No warning.

Just movement.

Your breath catches.

His hand lifts, slow, careful, calloused fingers brushing lightly along your jaw. The pad of his thumb skims the line just beneath your cheekbone. You freeze, not out of fear, but from how gentle it is. How careful. It’s the lightest touch you’ve felt from him, and somehow it burns hotter than the press of his hips ever did.

Then he leans in.

Not commanding.

Not forceful.

Just… there.

And kisses you.

Softly. Briefly.

It’s not slick. It’s not urgent. His lips just press against yours, warm and dry, like something he’s allowing himself for the first time in a long time. A question. A statement. A pause in time.

And then, just as quickly, he breaks it.

But he doesn’t step away yet. He lingers, his mouth still close, his breath soft between you.

You inhale slowly.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you whisper.

“I know,” he replies. Quiet. Honest. “That’s why I did.”

And something in your chest folds inward. A slow, warm collapse. Because he doesn’t know you. Not really. And yet... there’s something there. Something real. Something neither of you can put words to yet, but neither of you is pretending didn’t happen.

He finally pulls back, and his hand leaves your face with deliberate slowness.

“I’ll send someone to wait outside,” he says, just above a whisper.

You nod.

He turns and walks to the door, this time without the stiffness of command. Just a man leaving space for something fragile not yet spoken aloud.

The door hisses open.

He steps out.

And you’re alone.

The silence in the room is deeper now. But not empty.

You let out a slow breath and reach behind you, peeling your dress down your back. The fabric slides reluctantly over your thighs, dragging across your sore folds and flushed skin with a sticky sound. You wince, then exhale.

You step out of it fully, barefoot now on the warm alloy floor.

Naked.

Not just unclothed, but bare. Every part of you feels like it’s still buzzing with his touch, even if he isn’t here anymore.

You step into the shower.

The water hits you in a clean, hot wave, and your head tips back as the heat rushes over your face, your neck, your chest.

You close your eyes.

And you kiss him back, silently, in your mind, again.

The water pours over you, hot and full, washing down your skin in long, steady sheets. It strikes your shoulders, your collarbones, your thighs. It rinses everything away, the mess, the sweat, the slick friction between your legs. But it doesn’t touch what’s still inside you.

That kiss.

Still there.

Still burning.

You tilt your head forward, letting the stream rush down your scalp, your breath slowing as the warmth settles into your bones. And your thoughts, at last, start to move.

They drift to Eternia.

To the palace.

To the quiet hills beyond the gates where you used to spar with Adam until dusk painted the sky pink and golden. You remember how your lungs burned from running drills. How your armor always fit wrong when you first put it on. How the blade felt heavy in your hand until it didn’t.

You think of the long banquet halls, the polished stone, the tapestries. The quiet understanding that everything had meaning. Every action was symbolic. Every word had to pass through three filters before it reached someone’s ears.

And you think of men.

There weren’t many.

Not for you.

Adam, of course, your brother, shining like the sun, with Teela by his side, always. They made it look easy. A gentle kind of affection. No drama. Just touches that lingered, glances that spoke in shorthand.

You always watched them with a kind of quiet envy you never named. You were proud of your body. Proud of your power. But you never wanted. Never let your mind go there. Never imagined what it might be like to need someone else, to move with someone not because it was strategic, but because it was helpless.

Until now.

Until him.

Until Mark.

You let out a breath, forehead resting against the shower wall.

You don’t even know him, not really. You know his name. His title. The weight of him inside your body, the press of his mouth against yours, the hard, pulsing heat of him rubbing through your suit until you came. Twice. Maybe more.

But what you felt, what you’re still feeling, isn’t just attraction.

It’s pull.

Mark doesn’t flirt.

He doesn’t sweet-talk.

He barely even touches unless it means something.

And yet every time he’s looked at you, every time he’s stepped near, you’ve felt like the air changed. Like gravity bent around him. Not because he commands it, but because he doesn’t ask for it at all.

He carries himself like a star trying to collapse inward. All that power, his voice, his body, his restraint, it’s like being near something too dense to define. And it doesn’t scare you.

It calls to you.

You think of how he looked after he kissed you, just a flicker of hesitation before he pulled away. Not weakness. Not doubt. Just a crack in the armor. Just enough to show he felt it too.

And you realize, it wasn’t just a kiss.

It was acceptance.

Acknowledgment.

A choice.

He didn't need to stay after what happened. He could’ve closed off. Could’ve made it a transaction, a release, a single act dismissed and forgotten.

But he didn’t.

He saw you.

He still does.

And now, standing here under the water, bare and alone, you feel something shift deep in your chest.

Not love.

Not yet.

But something close to recognition.

Like maybe, somehow, whatever burns at the center of Mark Grayson’s world has started to burn in yours too.

And you're not sure you want to put it out.

The door hisses open, letting out a lazy swirl of steam behind you. You walk out, hair a bit wet, skin still warm, and wearing something totally different.

The Viltrumite uniform looks way better on you than you thought it would. Sleek. Strategic. It fits your body like a glove, white and slate gray, with sleek lines and boots that instantly improve your stance. It clings in a way that Eternian armor never did, not out of vanity, but precision. There's no space for action that doesn't have a reason behind it.

And somehow… that just feels right.

You've never experienced feeling both protected and vulnerable at the same time.

You glance down at yourself. The fabric molds tight around your chest, your waist, your thighs. Your body still has that faint ache from what went down on the floor. Out of the water. From the weight of Mark Grayson pressed against you.

Your fingertips brush your lips without meaning to.

And then you step into the corridor.

He’s waiting there.

General Kregg.

Standing with perfect stillness, arms clasped behind his back, eyes unreadable beneath that squared jaw and cropped hair. His gaze flicks up the length of you, fast, clinical, but you catch it.

He sees.

That this isn’t just a fresh uniform.

That something in you is different now.

You don’t say anything at first. You just stop in front of him and meet his eyes. You feel no fear. Only the strange quiet of shared knowledge unspoken.

“Princess,” he says, voice neutral. “Your quarters have been reset. I’ll escort you back.”

You nod. “Thank you.”

Kregg turns sharply and begins to walk, his strides precise, and you follow without hesitation. The hallway is quiet, lit in soft violet tones. You walk side by side, boots tapping in unison on the clean metallic floor. You glance at him once, his jaw is set like iron, his posture perfect.

But there's something in the silence.

Not disapproval.

Not judgment.

Just… a recognition.

He breaks it first.

“Your attire will be taken for cleansing. It was–” he pauses, just briefly “compromised.”

You feel heat rise in your cheeks. Not embarrassment, exactly. But awareness.

“Yes,” you say quietly. “It was.”

Neither of you speak for a long stretch.

And somehow, that silence says everything it needs to.

Kregg doesn’t push. Doesn’t pry.

He’s a soldier. And now, so are you, at least in appearance.

The hallway opens to a narrower wing, quieter, warmer. You recognize it now, your wing. Your assigned room aboard the Viltrumite vessel. Quarters meant for a diplomatic guest. Private. Monitored, yes, but clean and spare and untouched since you left them this morning.

You stop outside the door.

Kregg stops beside you.

The air holds.

You glance at him. “I imagine… there will be questions.”

His expression doesn’t change. “Not from me.”

You study his face. “You’re not going to report what you saw?”

Kregg meets your eyes, steady and unflinching.

“What I saw,” he says calmly, “was a sparring match. A foreign dignitary testing her strength. A moment of intensity. Then two people leaving separately.”

You stare at him. Then nod once.

Your voice softens. “Thank you.”

He inclines his head. “If you need anything, the console is open. Otherwise… rest. You’ll be called when it’s time to reconvene.”

You turn toward your door, lift your hand to the panel.

Then stop.

One last glance at him.

He stands like stone. A sentinel.

You wonder, briefly, if he was ever like Mark.

But the door hisses open before you can ask.

You step inside.

And you are alone again, still in this new suit, still warm from the shower, still tasting Mark’s mouth on yours.

But you don’t peel the uniform off yet.

You just stand there. Barefoot on the cold floor.

And breathe.

The door slides shut behind you with a soft hiss. The silence in your quarters is immediate, and in its own way, deafening.

No footsteps. No voices. No breath but your own.

You walk forward on instinct, each step deliberate, but still disoriented, like your body hasn’t caught up to the fact that you’re not on the floor anymore. Not under him. Not between thighs and heat and breath and friction.

You run a hand over the high seam of your new uniform. The fabric hugs you like a second skin. Too smooth. Too precise. It doesn’t feel like yours yet. Not quite.

You don’t sit.

You don’t speak.

You haven’t moved from where you stood when the door closed behind you.

The air in your quarters is clean, dry, just a little cooler than it should be. Your hair is still damp against you. The Viltrumite uniform hugs you tight, across your breasts, your ribs, the curves of your hips. The fabric is smooth and sterile, not a wrinkle in sight. It’s built to support strength, not comfort. And yet it feels like the only thing holding you together.

You take a breath.

Then the console pings.

A soft, chiming tone, not a warning. A call.

Personal transmission: ORIGIN – Eternia, Palace Command.

Your heart skips. Something in your chest tightens, like a string being plucked. You blink, then step toward the console, barefoot on the polished metal floor. The pads of your feet feel too soft for this ship.

You swipe your hand over the panel.

The screen flickers, then stabilizes.

Adam.

His face fills the screen like a rush of wind. Tousled hair. Soft golden lighting in the background. The outline of one of the palace towers over his shoulder. You catch the faint outline of Teela’s shape moving behind him, out of focus. He looks relaxed, his usual half-grin resting comfortably on his lips.

You can hear birds outside the window.

You forgot what birds sounded like.

“Hey,” Adam says, smiling wide. “There you are.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

“Adam,” you say quietly. “You look... sunlit.”

He laughs. “That’s because I am. It's morning here. Teela and I just finished patrolling. Thought I’d call before you got swept up in more diplomatic saber-rattling.”

Your smile is small. “It’s been... eventful.”

He leans forward, squinting at you through the projection. “You look—wait. What are you wearing?”

You glance down at yourself.

The stark white and gray of the Viltrumite uniform is sharp under the console light. A far cry from your usual Eternian silks, or the ceremonial outfit you wore on your arrival. This is something else entirely.

“Temporary replacement,” you say. “Mine was... rendered unusable.”

Adam tilts his head. “Was there a battle I didn’t hear about?”

You pause. Not quite a lie. Not quite truth.

“Something like that.”

He watches you more carefully now. His expression softens.

“You okay?”

You look back at him.

And for a moment, you’re not sure how to answer.

Because your body is still humming. Your thighs still ache. Your lips still feel the weight of that kiss. And Mark’s hand, calm, unhesitating, warm on your face, lingers in your memory like the imprint of armor that was never actually worn.

But that’s not what you say.

You say, “I think so.”

Adam nods, but his smile fades just a little. “You sound... off.”

You fold your arms, not defensive. Just grounding yourself. “It’s different here.”

His eyes flick to the side of your image. “Where are you now?”

“My quarters. Just returned.”

“You’re not scheduled to check in until morning.”

“I know.”

Adam frowns. “Then why now?”

You hesitate.

Then quietly, you say, “Because I needed something familiar.”

That silences him.

For a breath. Two.

“You’re not alone, are you?”

You blink. “I am, now.”

He catches the word. “Now?”

You close your eyes. “Adam…”

His voice softens. “Hey. I’m not prying. Just asking if I should worry.”

You shake your head. “You shouldn’t.”

He studies you for a long moment.

“Was it the Emperor?”

Your silence answers him.

Adam leans back, exhales slowly. “Okay.”

Just that. Not judgment. Not shock. Just acceptance.

And somehow that’s worse. Because it makes the knot in your throat tighten.

“You know me,” you say quietly. “I’ve never... wanted. Not like that. I’ve never had time to.”

Adam nods. “You made time now.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“You don’t always have to.”

You press your palm flat against the edge of the console. It’s cool against your skin. Grounding.

“I didn’t expect it,” you whisper.

“No one does.”

You look at him again. Your brother. The boy who grew into a man with Teela beside him. Who makes jokes over dinner and writes bad poetry and fights monsters with a smile.

“How do you live with it?” you ask.

Adam tilts his head. “With what?”

“This... feeling. This pull. This ache when they walk out of the room. This pressure in your chest like they’re still in the air you’re breathing.”

His smile returns, smaller now. More weathered.

“You don’t live with it,” he says. “You just... let it change you.”

You nod slowly.

The silence hangs between you, warm this time.

He lets you rest in it.

Then, softly, “Teela says hello. She also says she knows exactly what that face means and that I should let you go so you can think without me watching.”

You manage a breath of a laugh. “Tell her she’s still smug.”

“I’ll tell her when she wins our next duel.”

You smile. “She always does.”

Adam’s grin is boyish again. “You’re okay?”

“Not yet,” you say.

“But close,” he finishes.

You nod.

He leans forward again. “You’ll call when you need to.”

You nod again, more slowly. “I will.”

And then, before the call ends, his voice turns soft again, like he’s trying to reach you through the screen.

“Whatever you’re feeling... don’t bury it.”

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

The transmission flickers.

And then it’s gone.

You’re alone again.

But this time, it doesn’t feel like falling.

The lights dim gradually as you step away from the console. The room senses your silence and begins its quiet descent into rest mode, bathing the walls in soft, ambient violet and cooling the air just slightly, like a sigh.

You stretch your arms once, slowly, and press your palms to the small of your back. Everything still aches faintly. Not pain. Just awareness. Your body is awake in ways it’s never been before, like someone lit a fire beneath your skin and then told you to sleep.

The Viltrumite bedding is functional, sleek, neatly arranged. You brush your hand over the smooth surface of the cover, white, sterile, a little too perfect. No creases. No warmth left behind.

Unlike the floor.

Your chest tightens.

You sit on the edge of the bed and pull your legs up beneath you, still wrapped in the borrowed uniform. You haven’t taken it off yet. It fits too well. Holds you too tightly. It’s not just clothing, it’s memory now.

You lean forward, elbows on your knees, and let your thoughts drift.

They drift to Mark.

To the way he looked up at you when you had him pinned, like you’d surprised him. Like he didn’t expect to feel anything in that moment, and yet he did. You saw it, even then. That flash of something under the control.

You think of the tension in his hands when you started to move on him. Not possessive. Not indulgent. Held. As if he couldn’t believe he was letting it happen and still didn’t stop you.

You remember the weight of him above you, the sound of his breath changing when yours did. The way his hips moved, not rough, not hurried, just… right. Measured. Real. Like every motion was deliberate, but none of it was detached.

And then the kiss.

Not the one on the floor. The one after. The one in the doorway, before he left you in steam and silence. That kiss was soft. Hesitant. Almost human.

That’s what gets you now.

Not the release. Not the sweat, the moans, the ache between your legs that still hums faintly in the aftermath.

That kiss.

That hesitation.

The Emperor isn’t the kind of man who hesitates.

And yet, for that moment, he did.

You roll onto your side now, drawing your knees up, settling into the curve of the bed. The sheets are cool. Your body is still warm. The contrast makes you shiver just a little.

Your eyes drift to the ceiling.

You don’t know what he’s doing right now.

Probably reviewing reports. Or speaking to his commanders. Or sitting somewhere too big and too quiet, surrounded by people who revere him but never see him.

You saw him.

Even for a moment.

You remember the line of his jaw after he pulled away. The flicker in his gaze. The hand that stayed hovering at your cheek for just a second longer than it had to.

You press your own hand there now.

It’s still warm.

You exhale slowly.

Sleep doesn’t come easy, not with so much still moving inside you. But eventually, your breathing evens out. Your limbs grow heavier. Your thoughts dull, circling quieter now, like wind easing through trees instead of a storm.

And the last thing you feel before you drift under is the ghost of his lips on yours.

ִ ࣪✮♛ ♚✮⋆˙

taglist is OPEN. drop a comment in the replies if you wanna be tagged in future updates.

[chahnniesroom]

the way home

pairing: none (platonic ot8 & female reader)

summary: a peaceful walk home takes a turn for the worst when you notice you're being followed.

word count: 0.8k

tags/warnings: 9th member au, sasaeng/creepy fan

a/n: i am currently working on a longer fic for this collection, but i wrote this super quickly over the weekend inspired by this clip that i randomly saw on ig.

where the heart is collection | read it on ao3 | masterlist

You notice the person about halfway between the company and home. You'd decided to walk back since the weather was nice, but now regret your decision.

In general, you try not to be too paranoid when you’re out in public, after all, Seoul is a big city and there are a lot of people going to a lot of places. It's a humbling experience to worry about being spotted by a fan and then realise they just happened to be heading to the same area as you.

You walk past the man first, then notice he's behind you a couple streets later when you happen to turn around. You make a few strategic turns, bringing you back into the direction of the company, alternating between more popular streets and quieter ones. Each time you look back, he's still training behind you and you know it's no coincidence.

His pace isn't particularly fast, he's stayed about half a block behind you this whole time, and his gait is casual. Large but even steps, you would think that he's just taking an evening stroll if he didn't match you every time that you deliberately sped up or slowed down.

You feel hunted.

You call the guys immediately, blindly hitting the call button for your group chat.

“I think I'm being followed,” you say, the second the call connects. You don't even know which of the members picked up.

“Where are you?” Chan replies back, his tone urgent.

“I was walking home, but now I'm heading back to the company. I'll send my location now.”

“Do you have any details?”

“I think he's a fan. He looks young, early 20s and it seemed like he recognised me. I didn't realise until later that he had turned around and was still behind me.”

“Try to stick to a busy street,” Chan urges you. “Y/n-ah, do you think he's dangerous?”

“He doesn't seem dangerous, per se,” you say slowly. Your voice barely comes out as a whisper. “But I’m scared, oppa. I don't feel safe.”

“We're on our way,” Minho replies. You have no idea when he joined the call or who else is listening in, but you already feel a bit better knowing that they're there. “We'll be there soon and security is sending a team too.”

“Can you stay on the call until then?” you ask with a tremulous voice. “I don't want to be alone.”

“Of course.” It's Chan again. “I promise, we won't hang up until you're in our arms.”

“I'm close to the cafe we went to last week,” you tell them. “The one with the green grape ade and the sweet potato cake that I liked. I think they're still open. I'm going to go in."

“Got it,” Han confirms. “I know the place, we'll send everyone that way.”

You don't want to run or do anything that might set off the person following you. It feels like forever until you finally reach the cafe's entrance and make it in. The jingle of the bell has never seemed so welcoming.

You nod to the worker at the counter and head to a table further into the cafe. You’ve visited enough times that they don't question you since you sometimes meet up with the boys and wait until they arrive before ordering.

“I'm inside,” you update the boys. “Sitting at a table. He’s out there just- he's just standing there. Why won't he leave me alone?!”

Even though you feel significantly safer now that you're inside with other people, your heart is still racing and adrenaline has filled your body. The hand that's not holding your phone is shaking.

“It's okay if you feel scared,” Seungmin soothes you. “We're almost there. He won't bother you again.”

“Okay,” you say shakily, trying to compose yourself.

“Security is close,” Chan says. “What does this person look like? What are they wearing?”

“He's average height, slim. Wearing a baseball cap, big black jacket, baggy jeans. He's right at the window beside the door.”

“Got it,” Chan replies.

You watch, moments later as a couple of men approach the guy. They talk to him for a second before they lead him away with a firm grip on each shoulder.

The second after he disappears from your view, the members burst into the cafe, frantically scanning the room.

You stand up and meet them in the middle.

“Thank you.” Is all you can say, before you burst into tears of relief. The boys waste no time surrounding you and wrapping you in their arms murmuring reassurances, uncaring of how it must look to the cafe patrons.

where the heart is collection | read it on ao3 | masterlist

[alliwritespuck]

Afterglow [Will Smith]

𓂁 Summary: After a fight ensues between you and Will, you’re quick to learn that his anger and frustration is driven by a deep-rooted insecurity, and he just wants you to tell him that it’s alright

𓂁 Warnings: cursing, fighting

𓂁 Word count: 1.6k

﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏

The fight was inevitable. And you didn’t like that. Not one bit.

The Sharks, while not in the best position in their division, conference, or the league, a playoff spot was possible. Not by much, but if by some miracle they win the rest of their games and do well, they could clinch a playoff spot. But the chances of that happening were slim to none.

And Will.

Well, Will didn’t know how to handle all of the pressure. The pressure of only having one year of college under his belt and then signing his ELC. The pressure of performing well when he knew he could very easily be sent down to the AHL. The pressure of being compared to players he wasn’t.

Sure, he had been doing well since January, getting at least one point every game. But there was still that lingering, nagging feeling in the back of his mind.

That he wasn’t good enough.

He wasn’t Macklin. He wasn’t William. He didn’t compare. He wasn’t them, and that was his fatal flaw.

At least that was what he thought.

The door to your apartment slammed shut, the harsh sound shaking the walls. The loud thud of the hockey bag landing on the floor. The sound of shoes squeaking against the tile as he took them off. He was eerily quiet. Too quiet. And that was even worse.

“Hey, hun. How was practice?” you ask, standing over the stove, making dinner for the both of you. A simple chipotle chicken pasta, easy to make, but full of protein and carbs for him for his game tomorrow night.

“It was fine,” he says, response short and clipped. That should have been your first clue that something was off. Usually, he was talking your ear off. Mack said this, Toff did that. Delly wants to go golfing on our next break. Sharkie played a prank and we answered a question for a TikTok. You usually couldn’t get him to shut up.

“Are you okay?” you ask, testing the waters. If something was wrong, letting it fester and sit, bottled up in Will’s mind wouldn’t help.

“I’m fine, Y/N. Just drop it,” he says, finally snapping. He doesn’t continue, he just walks out of the kitchen and into the living room. You hear the TV come to life, some show playing, filling the once quiet apartment with the noises of reality TV.

As you finish dinner, you tentatively walk into the living room to tell Will.

“Will. Dinner’s ready,” you say, not saying a word more than necessary.

He walks into the kitchen again, sitting at the fixed dinner plate on the side of the island. You stand across from him, but on the other side of the kitchen, keeping your distance. You didn’t want to fight. And you knew if you ask more questions, continue to press, it would end up in a fight.

“Come sit down,” Will says. His nonchalance and easy-going tone makes you question his earlier mood. The switch was unexpected, and while it confused you, it put you more on edge than you already were.

“I’m okay over here,” you say, voice quiet. You didn’t want to push him, knowing that sometimes that could make it worse, or could make him totally spiral into a fit of anxiety.

“What, are you scared of me now?” he asks, and you’re kind of shocked. Scared, no. Careful of what to say? Yes. You haven’t seen him like this before. And you didn’t want to say the wrong thing.

“No. I’m just eating over here,” you say, pleading with whatever, whoever could hear you that he would just simmer down a little.

“Y/N, just come eat over here.”

“I’m fine over here, Will. Just eat.”

“So I’m not good enough for you to sit next to me to eat?” he asks incredulously. Now you feel you might need to say something because you had no idea where that was coming from.

“No, that’s not what I said.”

“But it’s what you meant, right?”

“Will, what’s wrong? I tried just dropping it but something’s wrong. You never act like this,” you say, setting your plate on the counter.

“Nothing is wrong Y/N. I’m just tired from practice. It’s been a long week,” he says, fork clashing against the plate. His anger, while not unusual, was seemingly different than any anger of his you’ve experienced before. You didn’t know how to go forward. What could you say, do, to stop him from whatever was going on with him?

“Bullshit, Will,” you say. You may not want to fight, but if he wanted to, you would.

“What the hell is your problem?” Will’s chair screeches across the floor as he stands up.

“My problem? What the hell is your problem, Will? I have felt like I’m walking on eggshells tonight because you’re in a pissy mood. Now will you tell me what is wrong?”

“No. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Oh my gosh, Will. You’re being ridiculous,” you say, eyes rolling as you turn back to your food. You’re trying to remain calm, trying to keep your anger under control. Because his anger was one thing, yours was a culmination of a million different things. It was different entirely. And that would not make things any better.

“Well then leave me if you think I’m so ridiculous!”

“It’s my apartment! But that’s not what I want! I want you to tell me what’s wrong!”

“No, you should! Go be with someone who doesn’t play like shit, who isn’t benched, who is a lot better than me!”

“I don’t want someone else, Will,” you try to say, but Will doesn’t want to hear it. He cuts you off before you can say anything more.

“Go be with someone like Mack!”

It clicks. Everything clicks. You’ve seen what people say. What people think. Saying that he isn’t Macklin and should be sent down to the AHL. That he should’ve spent another year at BC. You’ve seen all sorts of comments from nobodies that can barely understand hockey, let alone play in the NHL. You knew these things, had seen them being said. But it never occurred to you that it was affecting Will. And you felt like shit for not noticing just how deep he was in everything.

Despite this, you knew that it wasn’t true. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought. You knew Will.

You only want him, and it hurts that he’d think you didn’t.

“I don’t want Mack, I want you!” you shout, and everything goes quiet. Will’s tirade ceases, and you two are left standing there. You could hear a pin drop. It’s silent, neither of you knowing how to proceed next.

The sound of the TV still playing from the living room makes it less awkward. You shift on your feet, suddenly feeling out of place in your own apartment. This was new territory for you.

“What?” Will asks, voice broken, quiet. And your heart breaks. He believes you want someone else. That he isn’t good enough for you. That he treats you like the other guys before him. That he doesn’t deserve you.

“Why would you think I want Mack?” you ask, making hesitant steps toward him.

“Everyone says I’m not Mack.”

“But you’re not. You’re Will. And that’s just as good. That’s better than Mack. I want you, Will. And I want you for you. I don’t want someone else,” you say, finally coming to stand in front of him.

“You mean it?”

“I do. I don’t care if you’re a good hockey player or not. It’s a bonus, for sure, but that’s not why I love you. Your performance in a game doesn't determine the amount of love I have for you. The wins and losses don’t determine how much I love you. I won’t love you any less for failing, Will. You’re human. I’d be more surprised if you didn’t fail. I love you for the way you treat me, the man that you are. I don’t care what everyone else says because I get to see the Will that they don’t. The sweet, shy, absolutely loving William Smith that I get to call mine,” you say, arms looping over his shoulders. “I love you, and no hockey game, no social media critic, no other man is ever going to change that.”

As you finish your monologue, you see the tear land on his cheek. And as quickly as it fell, you wipe it off with your thumb just as quickly.

“I love you too. I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you. Please don’t yell at me, and please don’t shut me out. I’m here for everything. The ups, the downs, and the everywhere in betweens. If something’s bothering you, I want you to trust me enough to talk to me.”

“I do trust you. I don’t know what happened. I just got in my head, thinking that everyone was right. I love you. So much.”

“I love you too, Will,” you say again, moving your hands to cup his cheeks, wiping any lingering stray tears.

You look him in the eyes, his all bloodshot but swimming with a hopeful glint. You pull him closer, placing your lips softly on his. The unspoken words flow into the kiss, ones that were too vulnerable to ever be spoken, saying everything he couldn’t bare himself to speak.

You felt the desperation, the longing need, the insecurities Will held onto for what seemed to be far too long. He kissed you like his life depended on it.

And when you pull away, his eyes look a little brighter, and a small smile starts to form on his face.

“Are we okay? Tell me we're alright,” he asks, pleads quietly.

“Yeah, baby, we’re good,” you say. And you were.

It may take a while for him to be completely willing to talk to you when he feels down, but you would remain here, by his side, waiting for when he finally could.

﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏

alliwritespuck © 2025

Do not copy, translate, or repost my work as your own

[enbabe]

If you’re a usamerican and you’ve gotten this far on this post without getting your undies in a twist, think that most of this doesn’t apply to you (it does btw), and genuinely have no idea how to start unlearning some of this crap: When you come across something you are unfamiliar with, remember that you do not need to respond to it immediately. Take a step back and start doing some research by reading a wikipedia article or watching a youtube video on it. You don’t need to immediately tell people you don’t know what the subject is. Once you have a baseline about the subject in question, you MAY be able to ask more advanced questions. The Bannau Brycheiniog mentioned earlier in the post is a good example. Once you know what that is, you might be able to ask what kinds of activities one could do there. And if you end up in an IRL situation where you can’t really google stuff like that without rudely looking away from your conversation partner, just ask them EARNESTLY about the topic. A very simple “I am not familiar, what is that?” is all you need. No snarky comment, no stupid giggling. I guarantee that 9 times out of 10 the person you’re talking to will also answer earnestly as long as you are genuinely interested.

When you’ve done all of that, it’s time for the next step: Ask yourself why you have never been made to think about this before. Ask yourself why you have been made to believe that the problems you face with knowledge are unique to you as a usamerican.

Blaming your education system isn’t cute when you’re not a teenager in school anymore. Being loudly ignorant is obnoxious to the rest of the world. If you keep using this excuse over and over you become something I bet you can’t stand when other people do it: Willfully ignorant. It’s OK to make the mistake ONCE. Don’t make a habit of it.

im american and i knew that like in kindergarten so i think some of you are just stupid sorry

[brittle-doughie]

An idea I have that I must share.

Y/N Cookie, or at least a version of them, is an eons old cookie who is perceived as a wise, elderly figure in the Hollyberry Kingdom, close to Hollyberry Cookie herself.

So, Y/N is chosen to accompany Hollyberry on the trip to Beast Yeast due to their wisdom, wit, and patience. Everything goes well...until they meet Eternal Sugar Cookie.

Now, to the apparent dismay of Hollyberry, Y/N Cookie and ESC are gifting eachother pink little sugar flowers, waltzing to imaginary music, holding hands, kissing, etc., because ESC apparently decided that they are still dating, and Y/N still loves their pretty pink girlfriend.

Basically, just imagine a sweet old cookie and a giant, beautiful, and youthful god who is obsessed with said old cookie.

Well, this got angsty real quick…

“You get me and I get you!”

“Together, there’s really nothing that we can’t do!”

“I’ve got your back!”

“And I’ve got yours too!”

“Yeah, you get me and I’m pretty sure that I get you-“

“H-hang on for a second. You know Eternal Sugar Cookie, Y/N Cookie?”

You and Eternal Sugar Cookie stop your little singing moment together to answer her.

“You are correct. I had visited Beast-Yeast long ago before your time, I’d had traveled across the land until a little winged Cookie brought me to this place.”

“And Pavlova Cookie’s little trick ended up being the best one yet…since I got to meet you.”

The two of you shared a soft laugh together as your hands held firmly with hers, this triggered…a little dismay in Hollyberry Cookie.

“You…two have known each other for a long time, haven’t you?”

“Mhm~ I remember being so saddened when they had to leave, yet it was because I cared about them so much that I allowed them to leave.”

“Hehe, I can still remember the day, you even got off your cloud to beg me to stay!”

“Y/N Cookie!”

Flustered, Eternal Sugar pressed herself against you firmly to get you to stop embarrassing her. It only devolved into bouts of laughter between the two of you as Eternal Sugar hugged you tightly, with her arms around your waist.

“I guess I was just surprised that you’re willing to pick up where we left off, Eternal Sugar…”

“I’d wait another several more eons before I ever considered giving up on us. You are what makes me really, really happy….”

“Heh….so do you…..”

You were caught up in the moment with your angelic girlfriend that you just remembered Hollyberry Cookie was standing right there.

“Oh, my apologies, Hollyberry Cookie. I didn’t mean to-“

“No, it’s okay.”

Hollyberry Cookke gave you a smile of assurance, but you could just sense that it was taking all of her might to do so.

“If Eternal Sugar Cookie is who makes you feel happy and free, then I shouldn’t get in the way.”

“Hollyberry…”

Seeing you frown only made her attempt to remain cheerful even harder.

“I’ll give you two some space! I must check up on Wildberry Cookie and Raspberry Cookie to see if they’re doing alright.”

Hollyberry left with almost hurried haste. You wanted to follow after her, but Eternal Sugar held you back with her.

“She needs her space, my heavenly. Don’t worry, she’ll come around…”

“I just hope she’s ok…”

…

…

Hollyberry would be sat down in a field of flowers, facing the ground with her hands in her face as Wildberry Cookie and Raspberry Cookie had their hands on her shoulders, comforting her.

[tsunodaradio]

afterglow ⛐ 𝐈𝐇𝟔

he isn’t fighting to destroy. he’s fighting to give.

ꔮ starring: underground fighter!isack x girlfriend!reader. ꔮ word count: 2.5k. ꔮ includes: romance, hurt/comfort. alternate universe: non-f1; descriptions of a fight, blood, injuries. isack is a loverboy, reader is a softie, established relationship e.g. childhood best friends -> lovers, google translated french. title is from taylor swift's song of the same name. ꔮ commentary box: listen. listen. i know i said i would stick to the WIPs i currently have, but i've been unable to function with this idea on my mind. i fully blame @binisainz. this is a short one for now; a bit of a pulse check, i guess, to see if people like this concept/couple/verse? let me know! 🥊 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The crowd is already howling when Isack ducks through the curtains.

It smells like metal and spit back here. Concrete floor slick with old sweat, the low throb of bass rattling his teeth.

All he can think about is you. How you kissed his cheek this morning, barely awake, murmuring something about the cold creeping through the windows. How you curled back into the blanket like a cat, trusting him to go out and do what he always does.

He told you he had errands. That was technically true.

Now, the ring glares under hot lights. A blood-stained mat. Chain-link fence catching every glare like it’s daring someone to look away. The other guy is already inside—tattoos down his arms, jumping on the spot like he’s itching for pain. Isack doesn’t care. Not about the guy. Not about the noise.

He cares about the little shop off Rue de la Liberté, where he saw the secondhand necklace with the gold locket you’d probably never buy for yourself. He cares about the look you’d give him if he managed to hand it to you without a scratch on his face.

He shrugs off his jacket. Rolls his wrists. Breathes in once, steady. His coach, Christian, says something, but it all comes out muffled. His focus has tunneled. There is only the sound of your voice in his memory, bright and impossible: Promise me you won’t get hurt.

Isack apologizes in his head before stepping into the ring.

The cage door shuts with a clang that sounds like punctuation. The other guy smirks. Isack doesn’t flinch.

You’re not here. He would never make you watch, never want you to be in the audience for any of his matches. This is his world. This den of debauchery, this last resort for the desperate. 

But you’re everywhere else. In every breath Isack pulls in through his nose, trying to stay calm. In the way he keeps his stance low, remembering how you once massaged his shoulder after a bad hit. In the fury that doesn’t quite come, because he isn’t fighting to destroy.

He’s fighting to give.

The bell rings.

Fists fly. 

Somewhere in the blur of muscle and motion, he thinks of your laugh. He thinks of the way you once patched his knuckles with ointment and bandages shaped like stars. He thinks of your birthday, only four days away, and how maybe he can afford the locket. Maybe even a cake.

He takes a punch. Spits blood. Laughs.

For the first time in a long while, he has something worth bleeding for.

Isack fights like he always does. Scrappy, sharp, more heart than polish. He’s not as slick as Ollie or as ruthless as Kimi, but he’s reliable in a way people like to bet on. His jabs are fast, his footwork clean, and when he takes a hit, he doesn’t crumble. He recalibrates. Keeps going.

Tonight, he weathers two solid punches to the ribs. Another jab hooks into his jaw and sends stars skittering behind his eyes. Nonetheless, Isack comes back swinging. Left, right, then a knee when his opponent drops his guard. The other guy staggers. The crowd screams.

Isack finishes it clean. A final punch, heavy and sure. The ref pulls him back. It’s over.

His chest heaves. His mouth tastes like rust. But he’s still standing.

Backstage, Christian is already waiting.

“Nice work,” the manager says, all slick grin and fake praise. He hands Isack a rolled-up wad of euros. Lighter than usual.

Isack counts quick, frowns. “This isn’t the full cut,” he grumbles. 

Christian shrugs, too casual. “You got hit too much. Should’ve made it cleaner. Odds dipped in the third round.”

“That’s not—”

“You want the cash or not?” Christian leans in close, voice cold. “Because I can find someone else who wants it more.”

Isack’s jaw tightens. For a second, he sees himself saying no. Walking away. Then he thinks of you, the locket, your birthday.

He pockets the money.

The fluorescent lights make his bruises look worse than they are. He’ll ice the ribs when he gets home. The cut on his jaw isn’t deep. Nothing you’ll see unless he smiles too wide.

Isack walks home instead of taking the bus. It’s a ditch effort to have a bit more money to spend on you. He does mental math the entire way, computing how much he’ll need to get you everything he wants you to have. 

The apartment is peaceful when he lets himself in.

He toes off his shoes gently, careful not to make noise. The hallway is warm, dimly lit by the flicker of your favorite candle on the kitchen counter. It smells like vanilla and something soft beneath it—home, he thinks. It smells like home.

You’re curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, legs tucked underneath you. There’s a book open in your lap, but you’re not reading. The moment he steps in, you’re already looking up.

“Salut,” you say, voice soft but not accusing. “You’re late.”

Isack manages a smile. “Des petites choses à faire,” he murmurs. Little things to do.

You narrow your eyes. For a second, he thinks he’s caught. 

Instead, you shift, patting the cushion beside you. He crosses the room slowly, sitting beside you with practiced ease. Not too stiff, not too slow. He’s done this before—hidden bruises, concealed aches. You press your cheek to his shoulder, humming contentedly.

“I was thinking,” you say lightly, “for my birthday, maybe we go somewhere. Just us. Nothing big. Maybe that little town you always talk about with the old cinema and the broken carousel.”

Isack chuckles and immediately regrets it.

A sharp pain blooms across his ribs. He tries to play it off, but he tenses just slightly. Just enough.

You pull back instantly. “What was that?” you ask, eyes scanning his face. “Are you hurt?” 

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie to me, Isack.”

You’re already pushing back your blanket, rising to your feet. He doesn’t stop you when you disappear into the bathroom and return with the first aid kit. There’s a gentle fury in the way you set it down. A kind of heartbreak.

“Shirt off,” you say.

He hesitates. “It’s not that bad.”

“Shirt. Off.”

He sighs, peeling the fabric over his head. The bruise is already forming across his ribs—angry, purple, edged in red. Your eyes spark as you kneel beside him.

“Mon pauvre,” you whisper, dabbing antiseptic across the scrape on his side. He flinches slightly, but doesn’t complain.

“You always come back like this,” you go on. “And you always say you’re fine.”

He watches you work, your touch careful, your brow furrowed in concentration. The only person who’s ever looked at him like he was breakable. You sound weary, and for a moment, it sparks something like concern in him. 

Would this be the night? Would this be the evening you decide enough is enough; you can’t be with someone as battered and bruised and addicted to the thrill as Isack? 

“I just wanted to get you something nice,” he says quietly, trying not to give too much of his plans away. 

You pause.

“Mon amour,” you whisper, lifting your eyes to his. “I don’t need anything you have to bleed for.”

He says nothing. Just takes your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. “Too late, mon ange,” he says, voice rough. “You’re already everything I’d fight for.”

It had started years and years ago, in the courtyard with the cracked pavement and a broken swing.

You were nine, maybe ten. The older kids had cornered you behind the bike racks, calling you names that stuck like burrs. Isack heard them before he saw you. Your voice was tight and trying not to tremble. He didn’t say anything. 

He just ran at the tallest one, fists flying with all the messy fury of a child who couldn’t stand to see you cry.

He came home with a split lip and a sprained wrist. His mother yelled. Yours baked him cookies. You wouldn’t stop looking at him like he’d hung the moon. He never forgot that.

The fights got cleaner over the years. Less wild, more measured. He trained in secret at first, using borrowed gloves and YouTube videos on his cracked phone. He said it was for self-defense. Everyone knew better. He did it for you.

And now, he still fights.

Not for playground pride, but for rent. For groceries. For birthdays and futures you both pretend to not talk about yet.

He fights so you won’t have to.

But tonight, the bathroom door is cracked open. You’re brushing your teeth in silence; he sees the way your shoulders shake, just barely. The little sniff you try to hide behind a mouthful of foam.

He leans in the doorway, watching for a moment. You blink rapidly at your reflection, fighting tears, trying to smile like it’s nothing. It breaks him.

He steps forward without a word, wraps his arms around you from behind. His chest presses warm against your back. You freeze for a second, toothbrush paused in midair.

“Chérie,” he murmurs against your temple. “Tu pleures.” 

Darling, you’re crying. 

You shake your head.

He hums, unconvinced. “Even your shoulders look sad.”

You let out a wet, reluctant laugh, and he feels your spine soften against his chest. “Want to tell me?” he prompts.

You spit out the toothpaste, rinse, and lean both palms on the sink. “It just… got a bit heavy today,” you say, watching Isack through the mirror. “Everything. You. Money. I don’t know.”

He rests his chin on your shoulder, swaying the two of you gently. “I know. But we’ll be alright, mon ange. You and me, always.”

Your eyes meet his in the mirror. Red-rimmed but warm. He presses a kiss behind your ear. “No one gets to hurt you, not even life. Compris?” he hums. 

You nod, wiping your cheek. “Compris.”

He hugs you tighter.

In the mirror, you both look a little ridiculous. Tired and young and too soft for this world. But you also look like something solid. Something that doesn’t break.

The sheets are cool against your skin as the two of you slide into bed. You shift to make space, and Isack follows, slower, careful with the bruises he hasn’t admitted to. The bedroom is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the streetlamp outside your window. There’s something about this hour that strips everything down. Even him.

Here, he isn’t the fighter people bet on. He’s not the boy who threw punches for pride or the man who bleeds to make rent.

He’s just your Isack. 

He curls behind you, one arm draping over your waist, his nose pressed into the crook of your neck. You can feel the tension still tucked in his shoulders, the thoughts still churning behind his silence.

You reach back, threading your fingers through his. “You’re thinking about taking another fight.”

He hesitates. Breathes in deep. “Maybe. Just—”

“No.”

You turn to face him fully, eyes shining even in the dark. “I mean it, amour. I don’t want anything for my birthday if it means watching you come home like this.”

He tries to protest, but you cut him off with a hand on his chest.

“You’re enough. Just you. In one piece.”

The silence that follows is thick. He stares at the ceiling like it might give him another way forward. But then he looks at you and sees the worry still lingering around your mouth, the exhaustion clinging to your frame. He thinks of all the times you’ve cried in the bathroom, thinks of the first aid kit that has to get restocked every couple of months. 

He sighs, presses a kiss to your forehead, decides to give you this. 

“D’accord,” he whispers. Alright. “No fight. Not for your birthday.”

You smile, triumphant and relieved all at once, and reward him with a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then another. And another. His breath catches when you kiss the tender spot along his jaw, just above the bruise.

He chuckles under his breath. “You always win,” he grumbles, trying and failing to sound upset about it. 

“Only when it matters,” you say before going in to press your lips against his. 

He pulls you close, tucks you into him like a secret, and lets his guard fall entirely. He falls asleep to you softening all of his edges. Chaste kisses, breathless giggles, gentle touches. Isack’s last thought before slipping out of consciousness is that he could live a thousand lifetimes and probably still not deserve you. 

He dreams that night.

You’re laughing in the sun, barefoot in some place he can’t name. Your arms are outstretched, your hair whipped by the wind. You call his name like it’s always meant to belong to you.

He chases after you, light-footed, weightless. The sky is a soft blue. The kind that exists only in dreams. His heart thumps, thumps, thumps in his chest the way only you can make it beat, adrenaline and fighting be damned. 

The dream shifts. 

It bleeds from the sunlight to the darkness, from the sunny outside to your shared apartment. You’re crying. Not loudly, not messily—soundless tears, falling as you stand in a crumbling kitchen with a bill in one hand and nothing in the fridge. He calls for you. You don’t hear him.

He opens the leather wallet you got him for his seventeenth birthday. It’s empty. His hands are bruised, bloodied. His knuckles won’t stop bleeding.

He cannot help you. He cannot reach you. He doesn’t deserve—

Isack wakes with a start.

The bedroom is still dark, but it feels smaller, suffocating. His heart beats in the cage of his ribs like it wants to escape. Beside him, you’re curled against his chest, breathing steady, your hand resting gently at his sternum.

He blinks up at the ceiling, jaw tight.

You don’t stir when he carefully slips out of bed. You don’t feel the draft when he shrugs on a hoodie, tugs jeans over legs that still ache. You don’t hear the pen scratch against paper as he writes, just three words:

Running errands, amour.

He places the note on the nightstand. Stares at it longer than he needs to. Then he’s gone.

The hallway is colder than he remembers. The elevator groans.

Outside, dawn bleeds into the horizon. A light wind stings his face as he pulls out his phone. Fingers hover, hesitate, then dial.

It rings once. Twice. Then:

“Christian.” 

Isack swallows hard. “Give me one more match.”

Silence.

Then, a laugh, low and knowing. “Just one?” 

“Just one. That’s it.”

“Same rules. Same cut. You in or not?”

Isack looks back up at the apartment window.

You’re up there, dreaming still. Safe—for now. Isack thinks of the locket, of cake, of the town you want to visit and the food in the refrigerator. 

He thinks of you. He’s always thinking of you. 

“I’m in,” Isack breathes.

The line goes dead. ⛐

[luvhughes43]

hey queen! so i love your writing sm and i was thinking about a blurb were reader is watching a practice and a rookie doesn’t know that she is dating quinn, so he starts flirting with her and obviously we aren’t entertaining him but he doesn’t get the hint and then quinn gets all angry and possessive. just all worked up and like really cute.

word count: 561

note: i hope you like it!! sorry it took so long😭🤍

THE rink buzzed with the energy of the upcoming season as everyone started to settle into the new routine of practices, and got to know the new coaching staff and acquainted with new teammates.

as the practice went on you sat and watched from the sidelines - the blue canucks badge dangling off your neck with the word STAFF etched onto the plastic. your dad, the new head coach of the team, had got you a badge made after you professed your newfound interest in the sport... all of which had to due with a certain messy haired player.

when your dad blows his whistle singling the end of practice, you gather your bag and head down towards the locker room where you wait for your boyfriend of a few months.

quinn, always the last to come out, was nowhere in sight when a man you recognized as one of the rookies strides confidently towards you.

he pauses, reads your badge, and leans against the wall beside you, "staff, huh? guess we'll be seeing each other often," he attempts to flirt, and you have to try not to roll your eyes.

"sorry, but i'm taken," you reply simply, tossing your hair off your shoulder as you move away from the guy.

"thats what they all say," he straightens up as well, and you dont miss the way his eyes rake down your body. "but i get it. someone as good looking as you no doubt has a boyfriend,"

"thanks?" you reply, absentmindedly twisting your badge around your finger.

"but i mean if you ever find yourself in need of a good time..." he continues, leaning towards you. "you know where to find me,"

"excuse me?" a rough voice cuts in from across the hall. you both turn to find quinn striding out of the locker room. "what do you think youre doing?" he all but barks, standing in front of you and the guy.

"shit, staffs probably off limits right?" the guy chuckles to himself as if he were an idiot, which he was, but for other reasons. "didnt know you were so strict about that typa thing huggy" the nickname rolls of his tongue sarcastically, and quinn who was so not the possessive type, started to see red.

"dont call me that," he snaps, brushing a quick hand through his tousled hair.

"get a load of this guy-" the rookie whispers to you.

"and dont talk to her either," quinn continues, and you have to fake a cough to hide your bubbling giggles. quinn was rarely possessive, there was no need for him to be, so seeing him with his eyebrows scrunched and his arms crossed was a historic sight.

"dude, relax," the rookie tries, and when quinn squints his eyes you take that as your queue to intervene.

"alright," you step in, grabbing hold of one quinns arms and intertwining one of his hands with yours. "this was fun guys, really, but we gotta go," you say, tugging on quinns hand and pulling him towards the exit.

at the sight of yours and quinns intertwined hands, the rookie realizes his mistakes. "shit," he sighs, "quinn, dude, i had no idea that this was your girl," he trails after you both.

"is my girl," quinn corrects, not breaking stride as he squeezes your hand. you were really loving this new side of him

-

-

-

[missduskdawn]

im not mad at all, honestly this whole discussion is very pointless, because you people are putting words into my mouth i never said or implied

i never said any of the things i gave examples for were constant and unchanging for the duration of time they existed

i never said that the xia dynasty was ousted instead of the qing dynasty (i honestly have no idea at all where you even got that from, because the source i cited i cited to show that chinese imperial rule ended in 1912, which it did, and that's what i originally said as well)

i said myself i was purposefully over simplifying op's point at the very start of my previous reply to you for the sake of being cheeky, and i kept being cheeky afterward as well about the wording, so i don't see what kind of gotcha you think this is when i myself purposefully dumbed down the original post for the sake of teasing you and making a joke out of it

all i did, in this entire discussion, was say

X thing existed from Y year to Z year

and then i provided sources for those claims, which again to my knowledge are reputable sources, and i believe the information is correct

if all of the sources i provided are incorrect, i also said in my previous reply to you that the joke is on me and i will look stupid, but as far as i know they're not incorrect

and the reason i pointed out several different things from human history that have spanned either close to a thousand years, or more than a thousand years, or in the cases of ancient egypt and china multiple thousands of years, and provided sources only and exclusively for their beginning and end dates, is to illustrate my belief that op's point that it's unrealistic to create a fictional empire or a fictional dynasty that spans thousands of years in a fictional setting is silly and pointlessly restrictive because it's not like it's unheard for something to exist that long even in real life, so why not in fiction?

i made only one point, and only ever cited beginning and ending years for the examples i gave

i never once got into the politics of those times, the circumstances under which things rose/fell, or how these various things changed throughout the duration of their existences in various ways, because none of that is relevant to the point i made

i will reiterate my point one final time:

X existed for Y amount of years, which is true, and i cited examples of things that lasted thousands of years, or at least one thousand if not more, so if that can exist in real life, you can also make it in fiction too, and calling doing so in fiction unrealistic unless you're a professional historian is silly (this is how the wording of the post reads to me)

this is my opinion on worldbuilding

i don't actually disagree with pretty much anyone here about anything except that one point, which was at the core of everything

i made no other historical claims except for X thing began in Y year, and ended in Z year

i agree that ancient china didn't have one single empire that lasted 4000 years, it in fact had 4000 years of imperial rule, under many dynasties and many changes, but it was all china throughout, so as a central concept of being china, it has existed 4000 years, and what's more, china was in fact officially considered one empire from the start of the qin dynasty in 221 bce, to the end of the qing dynasty in 1912, which spans 2200 years, so either way my point stands that there have been empires that have existed for multiple millennia (2 millenia is a multiple)

i agree that ancient egypt wasn't just one unbroken continuous empire for all of its existence, it was ruled by dozens of pharaohs and had major transformations throughout, but again, it was all still egypt throughout all of it, it retained the unity of that concept of being egypt, and existed from the year i wrote and gave a source for, and ended at the year i wrote and gave a source for

it was never relevant to my point to discuss exactly what historical changes happened between the years X started to exist and stopped existing

i wasn't fighting anyone on anything really

i was rude to multiple people on this post because i just get snappy sometimes but im not actually angry or anything, if i hurt someone's feelings im sorry

i honestly find it a lot of fun to debate with people online even if i often do come on really strong and sometimes get hostile with my wording

none of this is personal

i can see that OP studies history and knows a lot about it like i do, i just feel like this got so out of hand because people tacked on so many things i didnt say onto my post and started arguments out of it

pro-tip: don't ever use the sentence "thousands of years" in your worldbuilding unless you really know what a thousand years is like

[littlelamy]

            you’d spent all day cleaning the baseboards in the upstairs guest bathroom—on your knees, humming disney songs, hair tied up in one of those giant puffy scrunchies that matched your apron. the idea of putting on makeup, or heels, or trying to sit still for hours at a place that used real cloth napkins and tiny forks for god-knows-what? it made your tummy feel twisty but a little excited.

but rafe had asked; in that voice that didn’t really ask, more like a direct demand. he’d leaned against the pantry door that afternoon, arms crossed, one brow raised while you tried to reach the top shelf for a cake plate.

“you do anything tonight?”

you blinked. “me?”

“no, the other barefoot girl in the house.”

you giggled, clutching the plate. “no plans, mister rafe. just a bath and maybe folding towels. i was gonna reorganize the drawer where we keep the twisty ties—”

“stop.” his mouth twitched. “you’re coming to dinner.. wear something cute.”

“oh! um—okay! i can be cute! i mean i am cute—i’ll be cuter. where are we going? will there be breadsticks?”

“get in the car by seven,” he said, already walking off. “remember to wear heels, baby.”

and now here you are. squeezed into the passenger seat of his sleek black car, nerves curled tight in your belly like a sleepy kitten. your dress was short, pink, and so shiny. your shoes are taller than you're used to. your lipstick keeps sticking to your teeth because you picked a new gloss called 'strawberry fizz' and maybe it’s too much, but rafe had looked at you when you came down the stairs and said “fuck, you look edible,” so you didn’t dare change.

the restaurant was fancy. all soft jazz and dim lights, plates that look more like art than food. rafe’s friends are already there, guys who look like rafe but definietly weren't as cute as him. you sit beside him, hands folded in your lap, smiling sweet as sugar while they talk about things you don’t understand—hedge funds? market something?

but rafe’s hand stays on your thigh, grounding you through all this real estate nonsense. his thumb strokes gentle circles into your skin, and every time you start to drift into a cloud of fizzy nothing, he squeezes just a little. like he was saying 'stay with me, bunny.'

as you begin to dream about a furture with rafe, you hear a loud, obnoxious laugh. “wait—no fucking way.”

your head turns. the guy was sitting at the bar—a group of three, all wearing button-ups, loafers, and a big red face.—and sadly, he’s looking right at you.

you blink as he continues, “bro,” he slaps the guy next to him. “it’s her! it’s fucking her! girls of gulf coast, spring 2022! pink heels, yellow lollipop, ass for days? you know—the one in the bunny ears with whipped cream on her tits?”

your stomach drops. even rafe’s hand tenses on your leg.

you try to smile and laugh. try to pretend you didn’t hear that. but you can feel heat crawling up your neck, all the way to your ears. oh no. oh no.

you haven’t heard that name in months or seen those photos since you stuffed the sample polaroids into a shoebox and slid them under your bed. you weren’t her anymore. you were a house manager. you made jam, organized spice racks, even kissed wheezie on the forehead before school.

but he keeps talking, not reading the room.

“dude, i jerked off to that spread like every night of senior year. girls of gulf coast, man, that issue was legendary.”

the guy next to him whistles. “no shit? that her? y/n something, right?”

you stare at the linen napkin in your lap like it might swallow you whole. your hands shake as you hear one of rafe’s friends laugh, very awkward.

“damn, rafe, you didn’t tell us your girl used to be in magazines.” it’s a joke. it’s all a joke, you think to yourself. well, this joke made you want to melt through the floor.

rafe stands slowly, you could almost see steam coming out of his ears. he turns toward the bar. “come again.”

the guy blinks, grinning. “what?”

“say it one more fuckin' time.” his voice isn’t loud, but it’s sharp which make the whole table go quiet. “you wanna talk about my girl? say it again. real slow so everyone can hear your bitch ass.”

the guy scoffs. “chill, man. it’s a compliment—”

“a better compliment would be you shutting up and mind your own business instead of talkin' about my woman.” his jaw ticks, as you go to hold his arm. fingers caressing his forearm, leading to his hands.

you whisper, “rafe, it’s okay—”

he looks at you and leans close, lips brushing your ear. “you don’t ever say it’s okay for people to talk about you like that.”

“but—”

“baby,” he cups your cheek. thumb brushing the sticky corner of your mouth where your gloss smudged. “you were art..still are.” you blink up at him. “they don’t get to mock art just because they can’t touch it.”

your throat tightens before he turns back to the bar. the guy was already avoiding his eyes now, nervous laugh dying in his throat.

rafe smiles, coldly, “look at her again, and you’ll be drinking out of a straw for a year.”

then he sits, completely casual, like nothing just happened. you’re stunned, staring at him. he could feel your eyes on him making him glance over with a smirk on his face.

“you want to leave?”

you nod, fast. "please." he quickly grabs your hand.

you don’t say a word until you’re back in his car. “i didn’t want you to be mad,” you whisper.

“i’m not mad at you.” you blink, confused. “i’m mad someone thought they could say your name like it was a punchline.”

you sniffle. “it was just a phase. i needed money. and i thought it was fun. i didn’t think anyone would recognize me in the real world.”

he squeezes your hand, reassuringly. “i did.” your head snaps up. “saw the spread. remember thinking, no fucking way someone this pretty’s real. i tore that page out and kept it in my glove box for three months.”

your jaw drops. “you—what?!”

“uh-huh. told myself if i ever met her, i’d marry her.”

you blink fast. “you’re lying.”

he shrugs. “maybe..but why would i?” and then he leans over, presses a kiss to your cheek. “either way, you’re mine now. magazine girl, house manager, whatever. all mine.”

you blush so hard your knees knock. you whisper, “you really think i was pretty?”

he grins, reaching out for you. “baby..you were and are so fuckin’ gorgeous.”'

❤︎ tags below

@rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @rafedaddy01 @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl @esquivelbianca @p45510n4f4shi0n @palomavz @cokewithcameron @donaldsonsgirl @yncoded @lilbunnysfics @solaceluna @icaqttt @alphabetically-deranged @bevstofu @wintercrows @emluvsuxo @rafestoothbrush @cadhlabear @st8rkey

[thatssofruity9]

Okay, could you guys imagine if the thing that finally got Ghost and soap together wasn’t some life or death situation where they’re forced to confront their feelings but rather Price's nosey, meddling wife?

F!reader X John Price and Ghost X soap

Authors note: This has been rattling around in my noggin for months.

“Hey, John?” you murmured as the two of you cleaned the mess left behind by the boys.

“Yeah, love?” John asks glancing up at you from the pile of dishes he’s working on

“You ever notice anything about Johnny and Simon?” you ask him in an almost cautious tone, these men meant more to him than he would ever care to admit.

“Yeah, drink their weight in liquor every damn time we have them over” your husband grumbled, you wonder sometimes if he’s willfully oblivious or just a man.

“No baby, like..” you thought for a moment. How exactly do you explain queer longing to your very straight husband?

“Okay like when Simon makes a joke he immediately looks at Johnny to see if he laughed. When Johnny has a question he only asks Simon. When Kyle says something stupid they look at each other like they have their language, like me and you do.” You do your best but John is all for minding his own business, he’s a pretty unproblematic guy overall, too old to care maybe.

“Lovie, mind your business, please. They’re grown men, if they have the hots for each other they can figure it out on their own.” John rolled his eyes at you and continued working. You didn’t love that, dismissing your want to gossip but it’s very John, makes you want to strangle him. You don’t bring it up again at least not for a few months, not until Kyle’s wedding, that was a very interesting trip as far as your snooping was concerned.

The moment Kyle and his beautiful wife said their ‘I do’s’ you glanced toward your husband in his fancy tan suit, remembering how that moment felt when it was the two of you standing at that altar. You can’t help the way your eyes drift from your husband to the blonde man behind him. Simon, much like you were looking at John, was looking at Johnny.

You knew from that point on you couldn’t let it go, they’re soldiers, they don’t talk about feelings, you know this, you sleep in a bed with one every night. The idea that they might miss out on potentially the greatest thing in either one of their lives because they’re either too stubborn or too stupid to realize what’s happening meant you didn’t have a choice, you had to meddle at least a little.

It started small, sitting in Johnnys seat when the group goes to a bar so he’d have to squish into the booth next to Simon, asking Johnny and Simon to watch the house while you and John were away for the weekend. Sure Kyle usually does it but he’s so busy with his new wife can’t you guys make the time? Asking Johnny, what is wrong with Simon when there is absolutely nothing wrong with him just so Johnny will have to pay more attention to figure it out.

You weren’t being malicious you were just trying to push them together, John was mostly unaware, although he occasionally gave you a look, specifically the time you asked Johnny if he thought ‘Simon’s haircut looked good’ (it did)

It eventually got a little more pushy. Not pushy in the sense that you were being mean or even trying to push them into something they didn’t want, because they want it. It’s just you knew soldiers, you knew these boys. They are dumbasses.

“Hey Simon?” you asked one Sunday afternoon. Simon had come over to watch some game with John, not unusual, although it is unusual for him to not have Johnny with him. This was your moment, John had gone to the bathroom so you wouldn’t have to hear “Stop being nosy, love!” You can just continue with your plan.

“Mm?” The quiet man asked you turning his head from the Telly to look at you. He’s not uninterested so much as he’s just quiet, you have known him for long enough to know that.

“How long have you and Johnny been dating?” You asked, you knew they weren’t dating. All part of the plan, all part of the plan.

“What?” He looked confused, you know him, maybe not as well as your husband but you know him. He can’t hide his facial expressions for anything, it’s probably best he wears a mask on the field.

“What?” You give the same facial expression as if trying to understand where his obvious confusion is coming from.

“We’re not dating, why did you think we were dating?” Simons interrogates you, it’s so rare that he says so many words you almost feel a little guilty.

“Oh, I’m sorry I just assumed.” Your tone is light, an honest mistake Simon, so sorry for the inconvenience.

“Why? Why did you assume that?” For the first time all the time you’ve known him he seems flustered.

“Oh, I just… you guys live together, always touching, talking quietly to yourselves, it’s just exactly like me and John. I just assumed dating, shouldn’t have.”

Your statement is made with kindness and a smile but one day you’ll tell him how you conned him into being in love.

“We’re not” Simon stated leaving no room for your argument. There was a long stretch of silence before he spoke again.

“Do you think he thinks we’re dating?” Well you didn’t expect that question, Johnny lacked common sense sometimes but he’s not stupid, no you did not believe he thinks they’re together.

“Yeah probably, I would.” LIES, one day you’ll have to confess to this but not today.

He left not too long after that conversation, and you kind of felt like you may have messed something up. But you shouldn’t doubt yourself, you know this, you’re like a wizard in the art of getting in other people’s business. Your self-doubt is as squashed the minute Johnnys' silly little contact photo popped onto your phone. A phone call, you answer.

“Hello?” You barely have time to start speaking before Johnny starts in. Poor guy.

“Si just texted me and said he talked to you bout somethin’ and it made him ‘realize some things’ that hell’s that about?” Rambling is funny on him, he’s always so calm and collected, now this is where you kinda hesitated, do you tell the truth or do you stir the pot? You settle on stirring the pot. For the greater good of course.

You ended up telling Johnny everything you and Simon spoke about, leaving nothing out, you simply just finished off your little story with a

“Who knows maybe it made him think hard enough he’s going to tell you how he feels.”

Johnny stays silent for a long moment on the other end of the line, mulling it over probably.

“So Si has the hots for me aye?”

You wish he could’ve seen your eye roll but you’re sure he heard your sigh.

“Just a hunch” you add maybe you could get him to make a move, he’s probably easier to work on than Simon anyway.

“Aye, good hunch, lass.” You are acutely aware that your husband still in fact doesn’t know you’re trying to convince his soldiers to break “no fraternizing” rules. But he will only be annoyed until he sees his mates so happy.

Your phone call with Johnny doesn’t last much longer. You feel like a Disney villain for a couple of minutes but then John put on his reading glasses so you kinda got a little distracted and ‘forgot’ to mention to him that you were psychologically manipulating his best friends for their good. You let fate do its thing now, you pushed enough.

Weeks maybe even months go by, and you haven’t seen the group in a bit, you and John are off in the kitchen making drinks while Kyle and his new wife make googly eyes at each other in your living room.

When Johnny and Simon finally decide to grace the group with their presence, you see it immediately, holding hands, nothing is different except for that. You and John rejoin the group at some point, talking and laughing like always, they don’t mention it, you don’t ask and neither does anyone else. But everyone knew something had changed, thank the gods.

You’re poor dumb husband looks at his two best friends after a while, once the food was mostly gone and the drinks had been flowing. He looks at them and then back to you before ducking down and whispering in your ear.

“Love? I know That’s your handiwork.” yeah NO SHIT, John. But they look so happy.

Horrifyingly years later once the whole story had been recounted they told that story at their wedding, which was, yes embarrassing but the thought that you helped bring these two beautiful souls together eased that pretty quickly.

[tokoyan]

Hi, I would like to make a request with Gotak. I was thinking of one where Gotak buys his girlfriend a gift, could be a necklace or a book she's been eyeing for a while. I think of the girlfriend as someone who has a similar personality like Juntae

- Anything for you

pairing: go hyutak x reader

Warning: none

Word count: 1,193

a/n: omg yes i love this request!! he acts so nonchalant but its so cute seeing him get all shy and stuff. anyways i really enjoyed writing this 💘

gif credits: @slytherinshua

School had ended, and both you and Gotak were walking back home—well, more like he was walking you home before heading to his own place. As usual, he did most of the talking, excitedly rambling about his hobbies while you listened with a soft smile.

“And that’s when I suddenly went behind him and threw the ball—and it just went in!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms up to mimic the moment. His animated storytelling made you laugh.

“That’s really cool,” you said quietly, still listening to him talk as you both strolled past familiar shops.

But today, something new caught your eye—a shop that hadn't been there before. It had a soft, doll-like vibe with pastel colors and cute accessories on display. You came to a sudden stop without realizing it. Gotak kept walking, still caught up in his story, until he noticed you were no longer beside him. He turned and looked back.

“Why are you just standing there?” he asked, confused, before following your gaze to the store.

You hadn’t even noticed him staring at you. Your eyes were still fixed on the display window full of glittering trinkets and charm-like accessories.

Gotak walked back and stood in front of you, hands in his pockets. “Are you just gonna stare, or…?” he said, snapping you out of your daze.

“Oh—uhm, no, sorry,” you mumbled, quickly starting to walk again.

“You sure you don’t want to go in there? I don’t mind,” he called after you.

“No, it’s fine,” you replied without stopping, so he jogged to catch up. But as he glanced back at the store one last time, an idea started forming in his mind—he didn’t say anything, though, and you both continued walking.

---

The next day, you had after-school practice, so Gotak was walking home with Baku instead. The two were goofing around as usual when they passed the same shop. Gotak abruptly stopped in front of it.

Baku raised an eyebrow. “Damn, didn’t know you were into pastel hearts and sparkly bows,” he teased.

“Shut up,” Gotak muttered, shooting him a glare as he walked into the store. Baku laughed and followed behind.

Inside, they were met with fairy lights, soft music, and an explosion of cute decor. Baku looked around with wide eyes. “Okay, but seriously, what are we doing here?”

Gotak scanned the shelves. “What do you think Y/N would like?”

“Why are you asking me? Isn’t she your girlfriend?” Baku laughed as he picked up a fluffy keychain.

Eventually, Gotak found the bracelet display from the day before. Not quite sure which you'd like, he picked two—one pink, one purple.

“You think she’ll like these?” he asked.

“If I was a girl, I’d dump you on the spot for that,” Baku joked. Gotak slapped his arm.

“Says the guy with no girlfriend,” he muttered and walked to the cashier.

“Hey, that one actually hurt!” Baku said with a fake pout, trailing behind.

---

Two days later, you sat alone in your seat during lunch, staring out the window at a group of students playing football. You didn’t notice Gotak and Baku approaching until they were already pulling up chairs.

“Heyyy, Y/N,” Baku grinned, flopping into the seat next to you. Gotak sat across from you, letting out a nervous sigh.

“Okay, so… Y/N—”

“C’mon, Gotak, you can’t get shy now. Just say it!” Baku interrupted.

“Fine, fine…” Gotak opened his bag, unzipped it, and pulled out a small paper bag with a cute label. You blinked in surprise. “I saw you looking at the accessories in that new shop the other day… so I thought…”

He slid the bag across the table and looked away, clearly flustered. “It cost me a shit ton… but anything for you.”

“Oh my—Gotak, you really didn’t have to—”

“No, he really wanted to,” Baku said, looking at you seriously.

You smiled wide as you opened the bag and found a soft velvet box inside. Your eyes widened slightly.

“Don’t be shy, open it! It’s not like he’s proposing or anything,” Baku teased.

“Baku, I swear—shut up,” Gotak muttered, shooting him a glare.

You opened the box slowly and found two delicate bracelets inside—one pink, one purple.

They were beautiful.

“Gotak… thank you,” you said, smiling at him genuinely.

“Y-you’re welcome,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

“But…” you said softly, picking up the purple bracelet. You reached for his hand and gently put it on him. “I think it’d be cute if we matched.”

Then you leaned forward, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before sitting back down.

Gotak froze, staring at you in shock. His face turned bright red—he looked like a tomato.

Baku burst into laughter. “Oh man, he’s blushing!”

Even if Gotak finds it hard to express himself sometimes, it’s clear he really cares about you.

And sure, you get shy too—but he loves that about you.

At the end of the day, he thinks you’re perfect.

And to him, that’s all that matters.

[brookghaib-blog]

The ghost I left behind (preview)

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x reader

Summary: Y/N and Bob had a life before he disappear, full of love, hope, and a lot of chaos, but they managed each other, she was the only one who truly could make him avoid the void inside his mind. How could he turn his only light into a shadow in his mind ?

Note: I have this idea in mind I want to share it, it's still to be writen and planned but I will provide this and watch yall feedback. I had this idea when reading the content on the tag, and I'm bored with all being smut and more smut (which it's fine, but enjoy a story). Feel free to comment and message me with your opinions :) I also had this idea because sentry has a whole wife in the comics, so I'm giving him one.

Chapter I

--

The Void pulsed around them, breathing shadows. Echoes. Regrets.

“Where are we?” Ghost asked, her voice uneasy.

The warped blackness twisted, then rippled—and suddenly, they weren’t in the darkness anymore.

They were standing inside a small, dimly lit apartment. Peeling paint, an open window letting in the summer air. A cheap fan spun lazily in the corner. A couch with cigarette burns. And two people in the center of the room.

One of them was Bob.

The other was her.

Y/N.

She stood barefoot in an oversized t-shirt, mascara streaked down her cheeks. Her hands were shaking.

“You lied to me again, Bobby!” she screamed, holding up a small baggie in trembling fingers. “You told me you were clean!”

“I was! I am—I—” Bob stammered, his eyes darting, wild. “I just—one time, I swear. I needed to feel normal again, Y/N. Just for one night.”

She laughed, a horrible sound—broken, gutted. “You don’t get to call this normal! You said you wanted to get better! That you wanted to be here for us—”

He froze. "Us?"

She pressed a hand to her stomach. Her voice cracked like glass.

“I’m pregnant, Bobby.”

Dead silence.

Even the fan stopped.

Bob’s memory-self blinked. Stepped backward as if the words physically struck him. “No,” he whispered. “No, you—Y/N, why would you do this to me—”

“Do this to you?” she whispered, eyes wide. “It’s a baby, Bobby. Not a punishment.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t move.

“I believed in you,” she choked. “I thought I could help you. But you keep choosing the drugs. You keep choosing to disappear, and now..” Her voice broke entirely. “Now I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

She turned her back to him. And then, the memory flickered like a dying film reel—and stopped.

They were back in the Void.

Bob sank to his knees.

“That’s her,” he whispered, voice like gravel. “That’s Y/N.”

The others stared in stunned silence. Even Bucky didn’t speak.

“I left her. I left everything,” Bob said, clutching his head. “I thought—God, I thought I’d never get clean. I was barely holding myself together, and she—she had so much hope. I didn’t want to drag her down with me.”

He looked up. Eyes rimmed with red. A storm behind them.

“She was the only good thing in my life. And I left her alone. With our child. Because I was afraid.”

No one moved.

“I thought I was protecting her, how could a drug addict be a great boyfriend and a better father,” he said. “But really…I just broke her heart.”

And then the Void pulsed again—quieter this time. Like it was listening.

To be continued...

[prometheus-rewound]

Uh oh you flew to close to my hyper fixation now I have to talk about it XD

(tldr: It’s really important to analyze queer mythic figures in their historical context. That being said, the fact that Dionysus has face this level of scrutiny regarding his gender and sexuality may suggest that the ways Dionysus was being depicted/worshipped could have been queer in the contemporary context.)

I think historical context when discussing figures like Dionysus is super important and really fun. You’re so right that there’s so much conflation of actual Dionysian/Orphic practices with later Christian writings that were meant to trivialize Dionysian myth. Even way older than that actually, the Athenian state did not like the cult of Dionysos bc it wasn’t registered with the government (and bc it empowered women but that’s a whole other story). I need to look into this epithet In particular though— I’ve not seen it a ton in actual sources older than the Byzantine period. I’d love for you to send me some sources to look at though.

—

I’d actually argue though that you lay out some really solid evidence for Dionysus actually being a queer figure at the time of his worship.

I would agree in saying he’s not trans, or even gay. Those are modern terms created in a western, 19th/20th century context. However, queerness is an academic term that denotes expressions of gender and sexuality that break the norms of a specific culture. (I’ll reblog this with some good articles when I get the second)

A lot of the derogatory language, that actually references real practices surrounding Dionysus, I think actually is more evidence of him being queer in the context. As long as those derogatory statements can be traced back to contemporary portrayals obv.

It’s 100% true that being in mlm relationships was not inherently queer (also this depended on the time and area.). In Athens, it wasn’t queer to be in a sexual mentorship. Being in an equal mlm relationship than would be queer. This is where you usually see the whole ‘bottom is derogatory’ language. It’s a very Athenian thing lol. This though was different than Thebes, in which sexual relationships between men on equal standing was not queer if done in the context of warfare. (I’m making generalizations obv and these things are very Classical period specific).

But like you point out, male figures depicted as playing the younger, feminine, or more bluntly “bottom” role in the relationship were commonly mocked (especially in late-classical Athens in particular, and later).

This though is queer. Dionysus is performing a gender presentation that is out of the norm (because in this case sexuality does connote a separate gender presentation. The two are tied. A modern example would be like how Butch is a specific gender presentation that also implies the person’s sexuality). Even when this is depicted in comedy etc if it’s in a contemporary time all depictions are adding the to cultural idea of a queer Dionysus.

I would (and have lol) argued that there are a lot of Greek figures that actually are queer because in context they are breaking gender norms that we today don’t notice. Big examples are any man who swears off women and/or marriage. This often leads to their downfall due to them breaking these norms— and then implying that that specific presentation of masculinity is wrong and likely a queer presentation. Further more, a lot of older myths that depict queer relationships (that may not have been seen as queer at the time of their origin) often get reinterpreted as being deviant later on when norms have changed, or being reimagined to fit the new norms. This is all actually one of my favorite topics actually but I’ll hold back for now.

—

I think though that part of your argument seems to be that there isn’t a ton of evidence of Dionysus having gender play as apart of his worship irregardless of the cultural acceptance (I may have interpreted you wrong, I can’t tell if you meant the epithet specifically or w/ Dionysos’ gender-queerness overall).

For one thing, almost every cult (OG Dionysian cult, Orphic practices, Eleusinian, etc) that worshipped him was super secretive so we as archeologists are particularly screwed regarding that. However, from what we do know, there is a decent amount of evidence for this being the case. Like not that Dionysus was “trans”— he wasn’t a person or even worshipped like he was a person with a specific identity (i.e hero cults). Like he’s a concept— greek gods were NOT treated as anthropomorphic deities like some other pagan pantheons despite how modern depictions describe them (this is also a way more complicated topic)

However, him having a some-what fluid gender is pretty well documented. I mean the Bacchae (Euripides) characterizes him as an effeminate and with a man (Pentheus) lusting after him. Pentheus id mocked for cross dressing though so make of that what you will. I’ve seen a decent amount of articles arguing that the Bacchae is based on actual rituals but you know Euripides is a silly guy XD. That play is definitely all about breaking gender roles but it’s hard to know if it wasn’t just Euripides commenting on stuff. He’s pretty much the oldest concrete depiction of Dionysus like that besides the Homeric Hymns which I’ll talk about.

It’s honestly really hard to find older sources about Dionysus at all ya know, mystery cults. The story that comes up the most is the one w/ Dionysus being disguised as an effeminate young man.

The earliest example of Dionysus being depicted as somewhat androgynous (I mean the adj not the epithet) is in Homeric Hymn 7. It could be older than the Bacchae actually but Euripides goes really in detail lol. Ovid (much later but still contemporary with Orphic worship) goes super into detail about how girlish Dionysos was in this story ha ha but that’s bc it’s a retelling of the Bacchae and gender is a big theme there like I mentioned.

There is also the story of Dionysos being raised as a girl. The earliest mention of that is from Apollodorus I think from the late Hellenistic period.

However, in art, there is a big swing after the Bacchae of Dionysus being depicted as androgynous and young. There seems to be some thought that Euripides was the cause of this but it’s kind of a chicken and egg scenario.

It’s very likely that the oral storytelling of these myths are obviously far older but it is true it’s hard to know how much it was influenced by that late Classical shift towards effeminate Dionysus. There is Archaic pottery of Dionysus turning pirates into dolphins, however he’s depicted as already revealing himself and at this point is depicted as a bearded man.

More generally, from what I’ve seen the more androgynous depiction of Dionysus really gets popular in the late classical period. I do think though even before this Dionysus is depicted as being primarily worshipped by or at least surrounded by women, which I think hints to a non-standard relationship to gender especially in a patriarchal society (though the extreme gender norms was really an Athenian thing specifically, so take that with a grain of salt).

Overall I think reconsidering how queerness applies to ancient culture is super fun! I’d love to know other people’s thoughts.

I have been seeing some posts for Dionysos Androgynos popping up lately with lovely prayers and offerings ! this is wonderful, but it makes me want to clarify something. His epithet Androgynos is not related to gender identity as we know it now nor was it used in worship denoting queerness. I have seen people talking about this epithet being worshiped but there isn't much tangible evidence for that (that I know of).

it generally means "man-woman" and it refers to the position a man takes during sex—"both taking and receiving penetration during sex". being a man who was in the woman's role during sex wasn't a flex back then, they were seen as naive and lesser than the older man on top. I've seen suggestions that this epithet (along with "chickpea Dionysos") may have been used more derogatorily.

Dionysos is a wonderfully queer deity in the modern age, but we have to remember Ancient Greece is an entirely different culture and ideas. we can't directly exchange values with a culture 2,000 years removed from us. It's totally fine to reclaim this epithet, but claiming it is historically a trans epithet is incorrect.