#what this all means to say is. yes i love the Vast. and yes the Buried is my most feared of the fears. just cant handle it

[batsovergotham]

CHAPTER 4 PART 1

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

pairing - emperor!mark grayson x reader

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

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

a/n: I don't regret this.

You sleep on your side, facing the far wall, the soft rise and fall of your breath the only movement in the vast chamber. The sheets have slipped low on your hips, exposing the sculpted line of your back, the curve of your waist. You don’t stir when the morning light begins its slow crawl across the ceiling. But he’s already awake.

Mark lies beside you, watching.

He’s always up before you. Years of war, of responsibility, of never allowing himself the luxury of rest, old habits don’t die. Even in peace, even beside you. Especially beside you.

He doesn’t move at first. Just looks.

You’re beautiful in a way that disarms him more than any blade or battleship. A warrior born and bred, draped in the softest linens like it means nothing. The early sun paints a faint sheen of sweat on your thighs, a dewy warmth between them he can smell even from here. You smell like heat. Like sex. Like the unspoken thing coiled between you both that neither of you ever names when the day starts.

His hand moves slowly, almost absentmindedly, as if guided by instinct rather than thought. Fingers slide beneath the sheets, trailing lightly over your hip. He cups you gently from behind, just that. The soft weight of his palm against the warm swell between your legs.

And you respond. Not awake. Not conscious. But your body knows him.

Your thighs part a little, just enough.

He exhales through his nose, long and quiet, as if the sound itself might break the spell. He doesn’t move his hand. Just holds you there, in that humid, electric quiet. Your breath hitches faintly. You shift your hips, a subtle grind backward into the heat of him behind you.

He closes his eyes for a moment, jaw tight. You don’t even know what you're doing. You never do. It’s what makes this harder. It’s what makes it unbearable.

His cock stirs between his legs, swelling with slow, aching hunger. He’s already half-hard, pressed against the crease of your ass now, the pressure maddening. But he doesn’t grind into you. Not yet. His other hand reaches across the space between your neck and shoulder, fingers brushing a few strands of hair away, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat.

He leans in.

His lips touch your skin softly. A kiss, yes, but not one meant to wake you. One meant to mark.

“Still mine,” he murmurs, voice hoarse against your skin. “Even now.”

He means it. Means every word. Means it with a possessiveness he doesn’t fully understand and wouldn’t dare say aloud in the light. He knows who you are. What you are. You’re not someone to be taken. Not someone to be owned.

But still… his.

You sigh at the sound of his voice, and the muscles in your thigh twitch subtly beneath his hand. He feels the moisture between your lips, slick and unguarded, and the breath catches in his throat. You don’t wake. But your body arches back into him again, just slightly. It’s enough.

God. You don’t even know what you're giving him. Just by being like this.

And that’s the problem, isn't it?

You trust him. You always have. Even when you shouldn’t. Even when he doesn’t trust himself. You lie beside him since the day you arrived, your sharp edges dulled by sleep, all your discipline left behind on the training floors. And he sees you in a way no one else does, soft, not weak. Open. Vulnerable in a way that’s not fearsome but real.

His fingers twitch.

He could slip one in. Right now. You’re soaked for him. Just one slow push, just enough to feel you squeeze around him in your sleep, just enough to see your lips part in a gasp as your dream twists into something warmer, wetter.

But he doesn’t.

He stays there, hard and aching, hand cupping your heat, teeth gritted in restraint.

He wants to ruin you slowly, draw out every sound you don’t know how to make yet. He wants to teach you what pleasure feels like when it isn’t a distraction from war, when it’s just for you. Just for him.

But not yet.

Instead, he kisses your neck again, slower this time, dragging his lips across your skin like he’s memorizing the shape of your pulse. His fingers curl slightly against your core, not to enter, but to hold, intimately. Reverently. He grinds the length of his cock along the crease of your ass, slow and heavy, smothered in restraint.

You moan softly in your sleep, hips shifting again.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he mutters, voice thick and ruined already. “And still… you let me touch you like this…”

He spreads you with two fingers.

The motion is slow. Measured. Deliberate.

Your folds open to him, flushed and glistening, dripping onto his fingers. He parts you fully, exposes the tight wetness of your entrance, and the sticky mess already gathered between your lips. He breathes you in. He wants to sink his face there, taste every inch of your cunt until you wake gasping with your thighs shaking around his head.

His index finger presses in.

Just a little.

Your cunt gives easily, hot and slick, welcoming him with a slow clench that makes his eyes squeeze shut. He stops halfway in, breath held, just feeling the way your body grips him. The way your walls seem to pull at him, even in sleep. He eases in the rest of the way, slow and sure, until the full length of his finger is buried inside you.

You moan.

It’s soft. Shaky. A little confused.

But your body doesn’t resist.

You arch.

Your breath hitches. Your thighs tremble. And your ass presses harder into him now, grinding against the thick heat of his cock. He’s rock hard, has been since the second he touched you, and the feel of your body moving so willingly against his almost undoes him.

“Fuck…” he whispers, eyes fixed on the shape of you.

He pumps his finger in and out, shallow at first, more a teasing drag than anything else. You sigh. Not awake. But not fully asleep anymore. You’re drifting up toward awareness, slow and sweet, pulled along by the steady, hypnotic rhythm of his hand.

He adds a second finger.

The stretch makes your hips jerk.

You’re tighter than he remembered, hotter, wetter, your cunt gripping him so greedily it makes his whole body tense. His fingers curl inside you, searching, learning. He finds that sweet, tender spot on your front wall and strokes it. Gently. Again. And again.

Your moans grow louder.

Your breath comes faster.

Your thighs fall open wider.

And all the while, he stays pressed to your back, his cock sliding slowly between the slick curves of your ass, trapped but needy, leaking against your skin. He doesn’t fuck you with it. Doesn’t even grind. He just lets it hurt. Lets it ache. Every second of it is worth the way your cunt pulses around his fingers, milking him with need you don’t even understand yet.

Then, God help him, your lips part, and you breathe his name.

“...Mark…”

Barely audible. Dreamlike. But so real.

His eyes close. His hand stops. Just for a moment.

That one word undoes him more than your moans, more than your slick heat, more than the velvet squeeze of your pussy around his fingers. You said his name. And not in fear. Not in anger. Not out of duty.

You said it like you wanted him.

He presses his lips to your shoulder, shaky and slow. “I’m here,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

And then he moves again.

Two fingers deep inside you, curling and stroking in that perfect, unhurried rhythm, while his thumb slides up to circle your clit, soft, delicate spirals, never rushing, never harsh. He feels every jolt in your body, every twitch of muscle, every helpless grind of your hips as you chase the sensation.

You’re close.

He can feel it in the way your legs tense.

In the way your walls flutter.

In the way your moans go breathless and your hips push back against him harder, deeper, greedier.

“Cum for me,” he whispers. “Let yourself have it.”

You do.

Your whole body locks up, then trembles.

Your cunt spasms around his fingers, clenching tight, then tighter, then soaking wet as you come in your sleep, raw and helpless. You moan his name again, louder this time. Mark strokes you through it, fingers still deep, still curled, still rubbing your clit until your thighs tremble and your hips jerk with every aftershock.

He doesn’t stop until you slump, boneless and panting.

He withdraws slowly, watching his fingers glisten with you.

Then he kisses the nape of your neck, soft and slow.

“Still mine,” he whispers again.

And now, even in your sleep, you smile.

He can’t help himself.

Not after watching you unravel like that, slow and perfect in his hands. Not after feeling the way your cunt pulsed and clung around his fingers, soaking them with a sweetness he’s never tasted but imagines, vividly. Craving now. Burning with it.

Mark draws his hand from between your legs with aching slowness, fingers slick and trembling. He brings them to his mouth, presses them to his lips, but he doesn’t lick them. Not yet.

He wants it from you.

He shifts behind you, careful, dragging the sheets down your thighs, exposing the full heat of your body to the cool air and the gold-struck morning light. You murmur something incoherent in your sleep, hips twitching, your breath uneven.

He slides lower.

One hand brushes the back of your knee, guiding your leg up and forward, opening you for him. You shift without thinking, pliant now, thighs falling wide on either side of his chest. You’re spread. Exposed. Gleaming.

And he sees it.

The mess from last night, the wetness still dripping from your folds, drying in streaks on the insides of your thighs. His cum. Faint, but there. His eyes darken at the sight of it, something primal flaring in his chest. You’d taken all of him. He’d held back nothing.

And now?

Now he gets to worship it.

He kneels between your thighs, palms warm on your hips. And then he lowers his mouth.

No teasing. No hesitation.

Just a firm, slow lick, flat of his tongue dragging upward from the very bottom of your slit to the swollen nub of your clit. A long, hot swipe that makes you shiver, even in sleep. He licks again, slower this time, parting you gently with his thumbs, spreading your folds and exposing your messy, glistening cunt to the light and his hungry mouth.

Your thighs twitch. Your breath hitches.

He groans softly against you, the taste of you hitting him all at once, salt and silk and something uniquely yours. He laps at you again, cleaning, savoring, collecting every last trace of himself from your skin like it’s holy. He licks the inside of your thighs where it’s dried, where your scent lingers strongest. His tongue is thorough, unrelenting, slow in that way that speaks of devotion rather than indulgence.

You stir first with a twitch, just a small shiver that rolls down your spine as his tongue presses firmer between your folds. The sheets rustle as your hips shift, instinctive, your breath dragging in hard through your nose. Still half-caught in the haze of sleep, your legs fall open wider, surrendering to him before your mind catches up.

Mark doesn’t pause.

Doesn’t lift his head.

He moans into your cunt like it’s a prayer.

His palms are warm and wide on your thighs, holding you open, his thumbs dragging up the slick edges of your folds to keep you bared for his mouth. He tastes you slow, deep, and indulgent, each stroke of his tongue calculated, like he’s learning your shape one pass at a time. From the soaked heat of your entrance to the soft slick hood of your clit, he devours you.

And you… you begin to unravel.

Your lips part on a gasp, head rolling against the pillow, one arm thrown above you, the other dropping to the back of his head. Your fingers knot in his hair.

“Mark—” You say his name like a breath you’ve been holding for hours. Like it’s the only word you remember.

But still you’re not fully awake. It doesn’t matter. He’s bringing you there.

He shifts lower, dragging his tongue from your pulsing clit all the way down to your entrance and then into you. He plunges his tongue inside, hot, slick, deep, and your whole body jerks.

Your legs tremble. Your back arches. A helpless whine spills from your throat.

He groans again, the sound muffled but hungry, vibrations rolling through your core. He fucks you with his tongue now, pushing deeper, harder, in long, firm strokes. His hands tighten on your hips, holding you in place as your body squirms beneath him.

And then, he leans in even more, burying his face against you like he could live there. His nose presses into your clit with every stroke of his tongue, each motion relentless, messy, reverent. He licks up everything, your slick, the trace of his own seed from last night, the heat of your arousal still blooming from the dream he gave you.

You taste like his.

Your body shakes, wracked with sharp little tremors, your moans rising, higher now, fractured and gasping.

“F-fuck,” you pant, voice ragged. “Mark, please—don’t stop—oh Gods, don’t stop—”

You’re awake now. Fully. Writhing under him, clutching his hair, thighs clamped around his ears but still spread wide with each buck of your hips. You grind into his mouth like you need it to live, like you’ve never felt this way before, and you haven’t.

No one’s ever touched you like this. Not with hunger. Not with worship.

He fucking adores your body.

Loves how you move. How you sound. How your cunt clenches with every swipe of his tongue inside you, your juices slicking his lips and chin, soaking his face. He wants you to come again. Wants it hard. Messy. Loud.

So he shifts again, locks your hips down with his arms, one forearm over your belly, the other bracing your thigh wide as he sucks your clit into his mouth.

And that’s it.

That breaks you.

You scream, a high, sharp cry ripped from your throat as your body bows up off the bed. Your orgasm hits like a crashing wave, your cunt clenching so hard it squeezes around nothing, slick gushing onto his tongue. You sob through it, voice trembling.

“Fuck, Mark—Mark—oh fuck—!”

Your thighs quiver around his head. Your hand pulls at his hair, not to stop him, but to keep him there. He groans again, nose buried in your slit, tongue flicking over your spasming clit as you ride the high, every aftershock punched out of you in shaking moans.

When you finally collapse back to the bed, you’re wrecked.

Sweat-slicked. Glowing. Gasping.

Your chest heaves with every breath, nipples tight, your body limp but still trembling in little flinches. And he’s still licking you, slow, now. Soft. Gentle laps, like he’s soothing the sore ache he just built in you. His hands stroke your thighs. His lips kiss the insides of your knees.

Only when your fingers relax in his hair does he finally lift his head.

His mouth is wet. His jaw is wet with your slick. His eyes are dark, devastated by you.

He crawls up your body, leaving a trail of kisses, hip, navel, ribs, the underside of your breast. His weight settles between your legs, and you feel the hard, hot length of his cock press against your thigh.

You open your eyes, barely.

He sees you. And you see him.

That look in your eyes, raw, wide, undone, it almost undoes him.

“Gods…” you whisper. “You…”

He leans down and kisses you, deep and slow.

And you taste yourself on his tongue.

You moan into his mouth, hips shifting beneath him, thighs falling wide again.

And he smiles against your lips.

“I’m not done.”

He presses closer, the heat of his chest against yours grounding, anchoring. Your legs are already spread wide, slick and sensitive, still quivering from the orgasm he pulled out of you, but your body welcomes him without hesitation. You open for him again like it's instinct, like need is written into your skin now.

Mark braces above you, one hand beside your head, the other stroking gently down your cheek. His thumb brushes your lower lip, tender, then slips just inside, and your lips part to suck it softly, eyes still hazy from afterglow.

“Look at me,” he whispers.

You do.

And the second your eyes meet his, you feel it, that pull. The ache that isn’t just physical. It's deeper than the heat pooling between your thighs, heavier than the pressure of his cock throbbing against your slick entrance. It’s his need for you to feel him, really feel him, in every possible way. Not just inside you. Not just around him.

But with him.

His forehead presses to yours, breath warm, gaze locked to yours.

Then, slowly, he pushes in.

You gasp.

His cock nudges against your entrance, thick and heavy, and the stretch makes you cry out into his mouth. Not pain. Just the aching, filling, perfect kind of full. You’re soaked, he glides in easy, steady, every inch dragging against your walls like he’s claiming space he’s already touched in your dreams.

He doesn’t look away from you.

Doesn’t blink.

Eyes locked to yours, dark blue and soft, he watches every flicker of sensation move across your face, your parted lips, your wide eyes, the way your lashes flutter when he sinks deeper. He sees everything.

You wrap around him instinctively, legs around his hips, arms around his back. Pulling him in, keeping him there. Your body welcomes him like it knows him now. Like it was made to hold him just like this.

And still, he doesn’t thrust. Not yet.

He buries himself to the hilt in one slow, solid push, hips flush to yours, your cunt wrapped tight and pulsing around the thick, throbbing length of him. You both freeze there, breathing hard, your nails digging into his shoulders, your forehead pressed to his.

He kisses you.

Full. Deep. Lips soft but steady, a kiss made of everything he isn’t saying.

“I’ve got you,” he breathes against your mouth. “You’re okay.”

You nod before you even realize you're doing it. Because you are.

His voice wraps around your chest like home. It makes you moan quietly, lips brushing his, your eyes damp and wide.

He starts to move.

Not fast. Not hard.

Deep.

Long, slow strokes, hips rocking into you with the kind of patience that borders on worship. His cock drags inside you, thick and hot, every withdrawal making your walls clench, every return pressing right against that spot that makes your breath stutter in your throat.

You hold onto him, bury your face in his neck. But he lifts your chin with gentle fingers, bringing your eyes back to his.

“No hiding,” he murmurs. “Let me see you.”

You do.

Your eyes lock again as he moves inside you, fucking you in a slow, steady rhythm that sends heat building low in your belly all over again. He keeps you open, emotionally, physically,with his gaze. With his words.

“You’re doing so well,” he breathes. “Taking me so good. Just like that. That’s it.”

You whimper, eyes fluttering.

He leans down and kisses the corners of your eyes.

“You’re safe. You’re mine. I’ve got you.”

You nod, breath shaking, tears slipping free, not from pain, not even from the intensity of the pleasure, but from feeling. From being seen. From being held open in every way, and not flinching. His cock slides deeper, slower, grinding right where you need him, every thrust measured, dragging more gasps from your lips.

But still, not cumming. Not yet.

Just the heat. The build. The ache of something real blooming between your bodies.

He keeps you right on that edge, grounded in his voice, in his eyes, in the way his hands stroke your hair and cradle your hips like you’re something to be kept, not used.

“Don’t rush it,” he whispers. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The room is filled with heat, skin against skin, sweat glistening where your bodies meet, the soft creak of the metal bed frame under the rhythm he won’t let speed up. You’re wrapped around him, legs trembling at his hips, arms laced tight across his back like you’re holding on for dear life. But it’s not the force of his fucking that’s undoing you.

It’s the lack of it.

He drives into you slow, so slow, his cock dragging out nearly all the way, just the tip left in your pulsing cunt before he pushes back in with a steady, thick grind that has you gasping, shaking. Your walls flutter, clenching tight around him with every pass, desperate, soaked. You can feel yourself dripping onto the sheets beneath you.

You're right there, again. That teetering edge, the tight coil wound in your belly, high and hot and sharp. Your body starts to tense, spine arching, toes curling, the telltale moan spilling from your lips. You’re about to break.

And he knows. He feels it.

He pulls back.

Just slightly, enough that the delicious pressure eases, the rhythm falters—and you cry out, sobbing into his neck.

“Mark—please—” Your voice cracks on the plea.

He hushes you, kisses your throat.

His hand moves to your hair, cradling the back of your head gently, stroking your damp strands as if you aren’t shaking under him, as if you’re not drenched and writhing and utterly broken open from his restraint.

“You’re not ready yet,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “You can take more.”

You choke on a sob, legs tightening around him, trying to grind yourself against him, to force the friction, to chase the climax he keeps just out of reach, but he won’t let you. His hands are too strong, too steady. His grip on your hips is a command, stillness.

He thrusts again. Deep. Agonizingly slow.

Your cunt pulses around him, soaked and desperate, gripping him like you never want to let go. Your whole body shivers. Your moans have turned high and ragged, broken little cries that pour from your mouth without control, without thought.

“Fuck—Mark, please, I need it, I need to cum—please—”

He rocks into you again, his cock grinding perfectly along your inner wall, brushing your swollen clit just enough to make you gasp.

But then he stops again, right on the brink.

You sob. Shaking, trembling, hands fisting in the sheets now because you need to come and he won’t give it to you.

He kisses your throat again, slow and tender. Trails his lips down to your collarbone, whispers praise into your skin.

“You’re doing so well,” he says softly. “So good for me.”

Your hips jerk, cunt clenching around him again, involuntarily chasing the pressure, desperate for release. But he just holds you, kisses you sweetly, and waits. The ache inside you pulses sharp and hot now, every nerve lit up, every second you’re denied pushing you higher and higher without a fall.

“Mark, I—I can’t—I’m gonna—”

“No,” he says. Firm. Gentle. Absolute.

He pulls almost all the way out, just the head of his cock still seated inside you. You whine, broken and strung out, your body quivering from the denial. From the constant teasing of his heat deep inside you, only to be pulled away when you need it most.

His thumb brushes your cheek.

“You’ll cum when I say,” he murmurs. “Not before.”

You shake under him, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. Not pain. Just overload. Overstimulation and longing tangled in your belly, hot and heavy and unbearable. You’re sobbing now, truly sobbing, and he loves you for it. Not for the weakness, never that.

But for your surrender.

For the way you trust him to hold you here, strung on the edge of pleasure like a blade balanced on skin. Because you know he’ll never drop you.

He kisses you again, slow and deep, still motionless inside you. Just letting you feel him.

“I know it hurts, baby,” he whispers. “I know.”

And then, slowly, mercifully, he starts to move again. Same pace. Same depth. No faster. No release.

Just more.

And more.

And more.

You’re trembling, your whole body taut, stretched thin with tension that never gets to break. He’s still inside you, thick and pulsing and so deep, his cock moving in those same torturously slow, full strokes that push you right to the edge again and again but never quite let you fall.

You can barely breathe.

And then he shifts his weight, just slightly, his hips still rocking slow into yours, and his hand slides down between your bodies. You don’t know what he's doing at first. Your mind is too fogged, too overloaded from being held in this aching state for so long.

Then his fingers find your clit.

Two fingers, slick from your own wetness, pressing down with just enough pressure to make your whole body jerk.

You sob against his chest, thighs tightening around his waist, hands clutching helplessly at his back. His cock is still moving inside you, deep and steady, grinding right into that tender spot on every stroke—and now his fingers are moving in tight circles on your clit, slow and firm, perfectly timed to the rhythm of his thrusts.

Your mouth drops open. No sound comes out at first.

Then: “Mark—fuck, oh my gods—I can’t—”

He doesn’t stop.

His cock pushes deep again, and his fingers swirl harder, rubbing your clit with that unbearable precision that sends sparks of white-hot pleasure shooting through your stomach and into your spine. Your back arches. Your head tosses against the pillows.

You clench around him so hard he groans against your throat.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “That’s it—give it to me.”

You’re past begging now.

Your breath is ragged, eyes wide and wild, lips trembling with the effort to hold, but your body is done obeying you. His cock fills you, his fingers tease you, and your orgasm slams into you like your own body betraying itself.

You cum with a broken cry, everything inside you snapping.

Your walls clamp down around him, wet and pulsing, fluttering with helpless rhythm as your thighs shake and your back bows and your nails dig red half-moons into his shoulders. Your whole body locks around him, and you sob, loud and desperate into his chest, your voice cracked from the sheer release of it.

And still, he fucks you.

Doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow.

His cock keeps moving, thick and deliberate, pushing through the tight spasms of your cunt, fucking you through every wave of your orgasm while his fingers keep working your clit, drawing out every drop of sensation until your voice is hoarse and your body’s twitching beneath him.

You’re still crying, still shaking, still clinging to him like you might fall apart.

“Shhh,” he soothes, kissing your cheek, your ear, your temple. “I’ve got you. Just let it happen. You’re safe. You’re mine.”

His fingers finally ease, just barely, but he keeps thrusting, slow and unrelenting, letting your body feel all of it, no escape from the overstimulation, no mercy from the way his cock grinds into your still-clenching walls.

You whimper something broken against his mouth, your voice too wrecked to form words.

And Mark smiles, soft and wrecked and in awe of you.

“I’m not done,” he whispers. “And neither are you.”

You lie on your side, slick and trembling, your breath caught somewhere between exhaustion and helpless arousal. Your thighs are parted, messy with the aftermath of his last release, the inside of your pussy still swollen around the girth that refuses to leave you. His cock stays buried deep, pulsing, heavy, so deep it feels like he’s carved out a place inside you just for himself.

He pulls you into him again, and you whimper, raw, broken, already spent but unable to resist the heat of him. His chest is a wall of furnace heat against your back, every inch of him flush with your skin. His legs tangle with yours, his hand hooked firmly under your stomach, holding you in place. He’s not asking. He’s not gentle now, not anymore.

He thrusts. Just once.

You cry out, your whole body jolting forward, the air knocked out of you.

The second thrust comes harder. A slow drag out, a brutal push back in, and your fingers curl into the sheets like claws. You’re sensitive, too sensitive, each inch of movement burning through your nerves like lightning licked in oil. But he doesn’t stop.

Your gasp turns into a stuttering moan. Your cunt clutches around him greedily, despite the soreness, despite the aching fullness that hasn't faded since the first time he came in you. Your body recognizes him now, knows this shape, this pressure, this rhythm, and it wants.

“Mmm, you’re still so tight for me, sweetheart.” he murmurs against your neck. His breath is hot and wet as he presses his face to your skin. “Still pulling me in like you need me.”

You can’t speak. Words have abandoned you. All that slips from your lips is a choked, desperate sound as your hips push back into him, betraying every oath of stoicism you were raised on. Your muscles quiver from strain, your skin burns where his body touches yours, and inside…inside, you're unraveling.

He fucks you slow now, but hard, deep, grinding strokes that press up into your cervix. He shifts his knee between yours, forcing your legs wider, and you feel him everywhere. His hand moves, gliding up from your belly to your ribs, to your chest, and then he's cupping your breast, squeezing, rolling your nipple between calloused fingers.

“Say it,” he groans, voice strained. “Say you’re mine.”

“Y-you—” You try. You fail.

His teeth graze your neck, and he thrusts again, desperate, urgent.

“Say it.”

You sob, shuddering with need. “Yours. Mark. I’m—fuck—I’m yours.”

And something inside him breaks.

He thrusts harder, abandoning rhythm, slamming into you with desperate need. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, along with your gasps, his grunts, the sticky, obscene sounds of him fucking his cum back into you. You’re a mess, slick and stretched and used, and wanting more.

His hand slides down again, fingers splayed wide over your stomach. He holds you there, right there, right where he’s deepest, buried to the base, and he ruts into you.

“Shh, that’s it… just relax,” he murmurs into your ear, voice rough but tender as his thrusts deepen. “Let me fill you, baby. Let me make you mine.”

The words burn through you like a brand. You clench around him involuntarily, and he feels it, groans raggedly, losing control.

Your body jerks with each thrust. You’re raw, hypersensitive, every stroke shoving you closer to the edge. He reaches between your legs, fingers searching through the slick heat, finding your swollen clit. The contact makes you scream, thighs kicking reflexively, but his body cages you in place.

“You can take it,” he pants. “You were made to take it.”

He rubs tight circles as he drives into you, over and over. You’re gasping, shaking, your orgasm crashing over you so violently it feels like you're coming apart from the inside. You sob his name as your cunt clamps down, milking him.

He loses it.

“Fuck—” His hips stutter, jerk, then slam deep, deeper than before, and you feel him spasm inside you. Hot, thick ropes of cum shoot into your already-flooded pussy, and he holds you tight, locked to his body, his cock pulsing with every desperate release.

His lips are on the back of your neck, murmuring your name again and again, his voice low and hoarse and broken.

He doesn’t pull out.

He doesn’t soften.

You stay locked like that, his cock still twitching inside you, your cunt flooded and overflowing with his seed. His hand moves back to your belly, palm flat, possessive. You can feel him pressing down, like he wants to feel himself through you—feel the claim he’s just staked.

And in that silence, in that slow, pulsing aftermath, you realize you're not afraid.

You're his.

He doesn’t speak for a long time.

The only sounds are your breathing, uneven, syncopated, and the slow throb of the room’s low ambient hum, pulsing like a heartbeat beneath your bodies. Mark stays buried inside you, holding you close, the front of his body molded so tightly to your back it’s like he’s trying to disappear into you. His cock softens slowly within your heat, but he doesn’t pull away.

Not yet.

One of his hands cradles your waist, thumb brushing absent circles into your flushed skin, the other tangled gently in your hair, stroking it with a reverence that feels deeper than words. You lie still, trembling slightly, dazed in the haze of aftershocks. Your thighs are slick, your body soaked in the evidence of everything he’s given you, your cunt stretched and full, the ache between your legs humming with sore satisfaction. You’ve never been used like this. Never been held like this either.

Not by anyone.

He shifts eventually, just a breath of movement, and you feel his softened cock slip free with a thick, wet sound. The sensation is immediate, his cum spilling out in a slow, warm drip that clings to your inner thighs and oozes over the puffy lips of your swollen pussy. You jerk at the sudden emptiness, instinctively clenching down like your body isn’t willing to let him go.

Mark watches it happen.

He sits up behind you on one elbow, eyes dragging down the line of your spine, the curve of your ass, overstimulated skin between your thighs. His expression changes, not with anger, not with shame, but something deeper. Fiercer. Protective and possessive and unbearably tender all at once.

You feel his hand on your hip again, steadying you, and then the soft pads of his fingers sliding between your thighs to spread them gently apart.

You make a soft, startled sound as his fingers graze the mess between your legs. You can feel his cum dripping from your slit, thick and heavy, streaking your inner thighs with heat. Then, his fingers move lower, collecting it. Two of them slide along your folds, gathering the slickness, his breath hitching audibly when he sees how much spills from you. His cum. Inside you. 

Without a word, he presses two fingers against your opening.

You twitch at the contact, sore, tender, but you don’t stop him.

Slowly, he slides his fingers in.

You gasp, arching slightly at the stretch. His fingers are thick, strong, sliding easily through the wetness, easing deep inside your aching pussy. You can feel your body tighten around them on instinct, greedily sucking him in. He groans softly behind you, curling his body over yours again as his fingers push deeper, until his knuckles press against your entrance.

“I don’t want it to leave you yet,” he breathes against your ear. “I want it to stay. I want me to stay.”

Your heart stutters.

He curls his fingers slightly and you moan, trembling. Your hips press back against him involuntarily, and he shushes you with a gentle kiss behind your ear, his fingers moving slowly inside you, not to fuck, not to tease, but to fill. To keep you his. His cum is warm and thick around his fingers as he rocks them gently inside your stretched walls, ensuring nothing escapes.

Your pussy flutters around him again, oversensitive and needy, and you let out a broken sound that isn’t quite a word.

His hand tightens on your hip, steadying you.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “Just let me have this. Let me… take care of you.”

It breaks something in you. Not the pain of battle or loss,those you’ve learned to carry. But this... being touched with such unbearable care, with reverence, with love that doesn't ask for anything back except permission to stay close. It slips through your ribs like a blade made of warmth, and you press your forehead into the pillow to hide your face.

Mark doesn’t ask questions.

He doesn’t demand explanations.

He just stays there, his body wrapped around yours, his fingers still nestled inside you, holding his seed where it belongs. He kisses your shoulder again, then lower, his lips trailing a soft path down your spine until you’re arching again, shivering from nothing more than his breath against your skin.

His fingers remain inside you, warm and steady, nestled in the soft heat of your body like he belongs there, and maybe he does. Maybe he always has.

You feel the quiet between you stretch long and gentle, his breath brushing the back of your shoulder in a slow, rhythmic cadence. The tension in your muscles has melted into something heavy and sweet, and your lids begin to flutter, not from exhaustion exactly, but from a strange sense of safety. 

Mark doesn’t pull away. Not from your body. Not from your skin. He draws in a breath, then shifts slowly, gently withdrawing his fingers from your cunt with a soft, wet sound. The sudden emptiness makes your hips twitch, but before you can speak, before your thoughts fully gather, his hand glides up your side, wraps around your waist again, and pulls you back against him.

He kisses the base of your neck, slow and deliberate. Then higher. Another kiss. And another. A trail of soft, warm pressings from your shoulder to your throat, until his lips are at the edge of your jawline, barely brushing.

You feel him hesitate, like he's tasting the moment, unsure if he’s allowed.

You tilt your head just slightly in response.

And that’s all he needs.

He kisses you.

Soft. Unrushed. Lips pressed to yours like a secret offered in the dark. His palm cradles your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye, and he breathes you in like you’re the first moment of peace he’s ever known. The kiss deepens, but only just. There’s no urgency in it, no hunger. Just… closeness. Warmth. A desperate, aching desire to stay near.

You melt into it. Into him. Your lips part slightly, welcoming the lazy brush of his tongue, the gentle pressure of his mouth as he kisses you again, and again. It’s unhurried and consuming, like he’s committing every curve of your mouth to memory. Like he doesn’t want the taste of you to ever leave him.

Your hand drifts to his chest, fingers splaying over the steady thrum of his heart. It’s strong. Constant. Real. You never thought you’d have this. You never thought someone like him could offer something so quiet, so precious, to someone like you.

His lips finally break from yours, and he rests his forehead against your temple.

His arm tightens around your waist.

You feel his fingers trace idle patterns along the skin of your hip, the curve of your thigh, then slow… still…

Your body is heavy now, warm and used and cherished.

And when your eyes finally close, it’s not from exhaustion.

It’s peace.

You fall asleep in his arms, his lips brushing your hair, his body wrapped around you like armor made of breath and promise.

He doesn’t sleep.

He holds you.

And watches over you like you’re the last beautiful thing left in the galaxy.

✮♛ ♚✮⋆˙

The first thing you feel is warmth.

His scent is everywhere. You press your face deeper into the fabric and breathe it in. It’s clinging to your skin, too, faintly beneath the clean cotton of the sheets. The ache between your thighs pulses in sync with your breath, a dulled echo of something fierce and raw and sacred that happened not so long ago. The soreness doesn’t alarm you. It centers you. Grounds you.

You’re still here. With him.

The weight of his arm over your waist is comforting. Possessive. Not in a cruel way, just steady. Like a tether. His hand rests low on your thigh, close enough to where you’re still slick and swollen from earlier, but not pressing. Just… there. Like he couldn’t quite let go even in sleep.

You blink slowly, letting your eyes adjust. Mark is behind you, chest to your back, his breath steady against your shoulder blade. His legs are tangled with yours, one thigh tucked under yours, the other loose and sprawled. You can feel his heartbeat through your spine, a low rhythmic thrum. It's not just his warmth. It’s him. Solid. Present. Real.

And you don’t want to move. Not yet.

In Eternia, waking meant orders. Duty. Stretching your muscles in cold dawn air, wrapping your knuckles for training or combat. Here, there’s none of that. Not in this bed. Not with Mark’s skin against yours. It’s a strange silence you’ve never had before. 

Your fingers twitch against the mattress. You look down at the sheet wrapped around your front, half-peeled from your chest where he must’ve pulled it aside hours ago, baring your shoulder. His breath catches slightly. Just once. Not enough to mean he’s waking up. More like his body is responding to yours, even in sleep. His hand on your thigh shifts faintly, fingertips brushing the curve of your inner leg, just enough to make you exhale through your nose.

A memory crashes through you with heat.

The way he pressed himself against your back, thick and hard, after pulling you into that spooned position. The way his voice dropped when he whispered against your nape, something low and wanting that made your knees tremble even before he pushed back inside. The way he stayed there, slow at first, until it was all you could feel, his breath at your ear, his hand on your breast, his rhythm unrelenting until you were gasping his name into the pillow. It had made you feel exposed. Cherished. Claimed.

And afterward… he didn’t pull away.

You shift slightly now, and his arm tightens in reflex, his nose brushing your shoulder.

“…You awake?” His voice is sleep-rough. It rumbles through his chest and into your spine.

You don’t answer at first. You just press your hand gently over his forearm, fingers running over the faint scars near his wrist. Ones you hadn't noticed until last night when his shirt came off and his walls dropped with it.

“Mhm,” you murmur. “Just didn’t want to wake you.”

He hums, low in his throat. His grip softens, then slides just a little higher, palm splaying across your belly.

“You were already squirming,” he says quietly, teasing just enough to make your stomach flutter. “Figured I was dreaming something good.”

You flush. But not from shame. From the intimacy of it. Of him wanting to keep dreaming about you.

You swallow and shift to glance back at him. His hair is a mess. Dark strands falling across his forehead, cheeks slightly flushed with sleep, eyes half-lidded but soft when they meet yours. He doesn’t smile. Not fully. But his mouth curves just enough to make your heart stutter.

You don’t know what to say. You never do, after moments like this. When the intensity of what just happened threatens to settle into something softer. Something real.

So instead, you ask, “Does it… always feel like that?”

Mark’s brow ticks upward slightly. “Like what?”

You hesitate. “Like it’s not just sex.”

His fingers twitch against your stomach. He’s silent long enough that you start to regret the question, but then he exhales, shifts a little closer, and presses a kiss to your shoulder.

“No,” he says against your skin. “Not always.”

Your throat tightens. You’re not sure what to do with the answer. But your body relaxes into his instinctively.

“And now?” you ask softly.

His hand slides up your ribs, thumb stroking gently under the swell of your breast. “Now I can’t stop thinking about how I stayed inside you so long we both almost passed out.”

You gasp. Half-scandalized. Half-aroused.

“Mark.”

He chuckles against your skin. “Sorry. Just being honest.”

You can feel the way his body stirs behind you again. Not urgent. But present. Alive. You shift your hips subtly, and he groans quietly and pulls you back tighter against him.

“Don’t tempt me,” he mutters, voice low in your ear.

“You started it,” you murmur, heart thudding.

He smiles this time. Real and quiet and a little tired. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

There’s a beat of silence. Not heavy. Just… full.

Then he says, quieter now, “We’ll be close to Earth soon.”

You nod. “To see Terra?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Haven’t seen her in person in a while. She’s with Eve. They’ll both be in Chicago.”

You don’t say anything. Just let your fingers trace along the back of his hand where it rests over your stomach. You haven’t met Eve. Not yet. You don’t even know much about her, except that she’s brilliant and kind and once held this man’s heart in a way no one else could.

And yet here you are. In his bed. Wearing his warmth.

You wonder if she’ll see that when she looks at you.

You turn slightly, enough to see his eyes. They’re serious. Guarded. But underneath that, there’s something open. Something that scares him a little.

“Only if you want to,” he adds.

You look at him for a long time. Then you nod once.

“I do.”

His arm pulls you tighter again, lips brushing the back of your neck.

You don’t say anything else. Not yet. But you think you might be falling for him.

Even if you don’t know how to name it. Not yet.

You stay quiet for a while, watching the subtle shimmer of light across the metallic curve of the chamber wall, eyes unfocused, breathing in sync with his. 

You shift slightly, craning your head just enough to see his face.

He’s watching you.

Eyes half-lidded, soft with the kind of tired affection that doesn’t need words. You bring a hand to his jaw, brushing your thumb along the ridge, and he leans into your touch like he’s starving for it.

“I’m not used to this,” you whisper. “Waking up like this.”

He lifts an eyebrow, voice low and dry. “In my bed?”

You give him a look. “With someone holding me. Like they mean it.”

The teasing fades from his face. His thumb traces a circle on your stomach, slow. Careful.

“I do,” he says. Quiet but steady. “Mean it.”

You don’t say anything back. You just let your forehead rest against his.

You’re still curled into him when it starts, the sharp thunk thunk thunk of knuckles slapping against the metal door. The sound echoes once, then again, louder this time, followed by a high, breathless voice muffled by the corridor walls.

“Daaaaaad! You said we could go to Earth today! You promised! Are you awake? You said morning! It’s morning now! I checked!”

Mark groans against your back, burying his face in the crook of your neck like a man on the brink of spiritual ruin. His hand flattens instinctively over your stomach, anchoring you in place, and you bite down a laugh before it escapes fully.

“God,” he mutters into your skin. “Why did I teach him how to tell time.”

You grin, whispering back, “Because you’re a responsible father.”

“I hate that you’re right.”

The door slides open with a cheerful hiss before either of you can react.

Mark’s whole body tenses around you, eyes darting up, but it’s already too late.

“Hi!!” comes the delighted voice of Marky, practically bouncing into the room like he was fired from a cannon. “I was gonna wait outside like you said but I waited so long and I didn’t hear anything so I figured—”

He stops dead. Right in the center of the room.

You freeze. You’re only mostly covered. The sheet’s still slung across your hips, one of your shoulders bare, Mark’s arm undeniably wrapped around you from behind like you’re a puzzle piece locked in place. His hand is still warm over your waist, but it slowly begins to slide away as Mark lifts his head with all the grace of a man who’s just been shot in the face with a spotlight.

“…Marky,” Mark says, his voice strained, but controlled. “What did we talk about when my door’s closed?”

Marky’s eyes are wide, huge. He points dramatically at you, his finger quivering like he’s discovered a wild beast mid-feast.

“She’s here!!” he yells. “You brought her to sleep again??”

Your face is on fire. Instinct kicks in, you fumble with the sheet, yanking it higher to cover yourself, but it’s futile. The kid’s already seen too much.

Mark sighs, deep and long-suffering. “Okay. Okay. Time out. Don’t yell.”

“But you said—!”

“I know what I said,” he cuts in, sitting up slowly and dragging the sheet higher over the both of you like it’s a shield. His hair is an absolute disaster, sticking up in places that make him look crazy and one breath away from pleading with the stars to smite him.

You’re mortified. You’ve stared down armies with a blade in your hand and not flinched, but this? Being caught in bed, warm and undone, tangled in sheets with his son standing six feet away?

This is the first time you truly feel like you’ve fallen in battle.

“I didn’t know she was in here!” Marky shouts, turning back toward the hallway. “Auntie Ursaal! She’s here! In dad’s bed!”

There’s the sound of a sharp hffft outside the door, and then a low, familiar voice. “Yes, Marky. I heard. Now get your tiny feet out of their quarters so they can get dressed before we all die of secondhand embarrassment.”

“Wait!” Marky doesn’t leave. He squints at the both of you like he’s solving a murder case. “Were you guys slamming furniture last night?? I heard it! I thought the ship was getting attacked!”

Mark chokes on his own spit.

You want to dissolve into mist and never reform.

Marky’s still babbling. “There was like a thump-thump-thump and groaning and then you were all quiet and I thought someone died!”

Mark hides his face in both hands.

Ursaal’s voice cuts in again, a little too entertained. “Your son’s got the hearing of a Viltrumite, and absolutely none of the subtlety.”

“I’m going to fly into space,” Mark mumbles. “I’m going to find the nearest black hole and live in it.”

“I’m still here, y’know!” Marky adds proudly, not even a little ashamed. “And I still wanna go to Earth!”

You’re laughing before you can stop yourself, one hand pressed to your mouth, the other reaching for Mark’s wrist under the sheets to keep him from burying himself fully under the covers. He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes, his expression somewhere between a grimace and surrender.

“I swear he didn’t used to be this fast.”

You raise an eyebrow, biting back a smile. “Are you suggesting this is my fault?”

“I’m suggesting you make me do very stupid things that break all my parental protocols.”

You glance toward the open door, where Marky is now leaning sideways against the frame like he’s watching the best episode of a holodrama he’s not supposed to see.

“You’re not in trouble,” you say gently, because his eyes are sparkling with too much joy to scold. “But you do need to let us get dressed.”

“Okay,” he says cheerfully. “But only if I get to pick the first place we go on Earth!”

Mark groans again, pulling the pillow over his face this time. “He’s negotiating now.”

“I’m a diplomat!” Marky crows proudly. “Just like her!”

And with that, he finally bolts, a blur of limbs and delighted cackling disappearing down the hall, his laughter echoing as Ursaal grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, “You picked this life, Grayson.”

The door seals behind him with a hiss.

Silence falls again.

You turn slowly to look at Mark.

He peeks out from under the pillow, face pink, jaw clenched in embarrassment. 

“He’s a menace.” But the corners of his mouth twitch. You can tell he’s proud, no matter what. “A very loud, curious, inquisitive little menace.”

“He’s sweet,” you murmur. “Like you.”

He freezes a little. Not because he disagrees. But because you said it without teasing. Just truthfully. Like it’s obvious.

Mark leans forward and kisses your forehead, slow and lingering. His palm finds your cheek, fingers warm.

“Earth in an hour,” he says, voice quiet again. “You ready to meet the rest of the mess?”

You pause. Then nod. “As long as I get to sit next to you.”

He smiles. “Deal.”

The ramp of the Viltrumite ship unfurls with a hiss of hydraulics, and a warm, pressure-heavy wind curls into the room. You’re standing just behind Mark, close enough to feel the shift in his shoulders when Earth’s atmosphere greets him. Marky stands between you both, his expression squinting with concentration as he reaches out and grabs his father’s hand without a word.

It’s not choreographed. Just natural.

Mark squeezes back gently, and the boy settles. You hover beside them, heels just above the floor. The light outside spills golden into the corridor, hazy and thick, blinding after the sterilized clarity of space.

And then Earth comes into full view.

You don’t step forward right away. You just watch.

Blue. So much of it. Oceans that curl like muscle under the clouds, shifting in impossible patterns, catching sunlight on their backs like molten armor. There’s green too, smudges of forest, coils of land winding like vines around clustered cities. It looks alive. It looks loud. You’ve studied maps. Sat through hundreds of galactic briefings. But none of them prepared you for this view.

The curvature of it steals your breath. It's too vast to be real. Your body tenses without meaning to.

Mark glances at you sidelong, just as Marky tugs him forward. “You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod slowly. “It’s just… different.”

“Yeah,” he says. “It does that.”

You step out last, letting your feet touch down lightly on the ramp’s edge, and then the wind hits you.

Not cold. Not hot. Just moving. It tugs your hair, brushes your bare arms, slides beneath the hem of your cloak like it has questions. There's no sand in it, no ash. Just the smell of moisture and crushed greenery. And something burning in the distance, maybe fuel.

It’s overwhelming.

Marky shifts restlessly beside his father. “Can we fly now? I wanna go fast. Like fun fast.”

Mark laughs under his breath. “Alright, alright. But stay between me and—” He pauses, glancing at you. “Between me and her.”

You nod, arms crossed lightly at your chest. “I’ll keep pace.”

He lifts off with Marky clinging to one arm, already grinning, already yelling something about “first one to the clouds wins!” You rise behind them, keeping level with Mark’s shoulder as the three of you arc into the lower atmosphere, slicing cleanly through clouds. Marky screams with laughter, and it startles you at first, how free it sounds. Like a warcry without bloodshed.

Earth puts your senses on edge. There’s nothing efficient about it. No order. No shared design.

Mark must read the tension in your posture, because he veers closer mid-flight. His voice carries easily over the wind. “It’s messy, I know.”

“Messy isn’t the word I’d use,” you reply, eyes narrowing at a collection of miniature dwellings all crammed around a flickering sign. “It looks unfinished.”

Mark chuckles. “It’s very finished. That’s just how Earth is. It grows wild.”

You don’t answer. Your arms are still folded. You’re still watching everything like it’s a threat you don’t understand yet. But Mark doesn’t push. He just keeps flying, shifting his grip on Marky so the boy can stretch his arms out like wings.

He’s warm, you realize suddenly. Marky’s laughter. The way Mark keeps adjusting his flightpath to make sure you're not behind. There's nothing formal about it, nothing imperial. You’ve flown beside kings before. They never made space for you like this.

“I think I smell hot dogs,” Marky shouts over the wind. “We should eat hot dogs! Is that okay?”

Mark raises an eyebrow in your direction. “You ever had one?”

You hesitate. “What part of the animal is it?”

Mark snorts. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

The sun shifts higher as you pass over a lake, wide, glittering, stained with city runoff but still somehow beautiful. Mark angles downward, gradually slowing as skyscrapers begin to crowd the sky. Your flight formation tightens. You fall slightly behind to keep eyes on both of them.

Marky leans back in Mark’s arms and shouts, “Is Terra gonna be happy to see me?”

“She always is, bud,” Mark replies, voice softer now.

You don’t say anything. You’re still watching the buildings, the flying traffic lanes, the flicker of digital billboards that show flashing messages in languages you’re still translating.

Mark catches your silence. “We’ll land soon,” he tells you. “Eve’s place is quiet. Not like this.”

You nod. “Good. I think my ears are ringing.”

He grins. “That’s just the city saying hi.”

You roll your eyes, but part of you clings to the warmth in his voice. It’s not what you expected Earth to feel like. You thought it would be colder. Cruder. And it is, in some ways. But there’s something almost... soft underneath the noise.

As the skyline crests around you and the flight slows, Marky excitedly kicking his feet, you take one last glance over your shoulder.

The cruiser is gone. Vanished back into the clouds.

You’re on Earth now. And it feels like the ground itself is holding its breath, waiting to see what you’ll do.

The wind still hasn’t stopped whispering in your ears when your heels hit the grass.

It’s uneven beneath your feet. A little too soft. A little too damp. You land in a crouch, more out of instinct than necessity, and straighten slowly as your eyes scan the backyard, small, fenced, and cluttered with strange Earth objects. 

The townhouse itself is modest. Thin brick, vines clinging halfheartedly to the walls. The windows are edged in faded white trim and open just slightly at the top. This is nothing like Eternia. It’s messy. It’s lived in.

It’s hers.

Mark’s feet touch down beside yours, the landing smooth, practiced. Marky is in his arms, though barely, he squirms the second they’re grounded and immediately kicks off the ground with excitement. His voice is already lifting before his feet hit the lawn.

“Terra!”

A flash of pink darts from behind the garden shed, and then she’s there, barreling across the grass in tiny socks and a tee two sizes too big.

“Took you long enough!”

You barely have time to register the words before Terra slams into Marky with a flying tackle. He goes down laughing, and she immediately starts trying to pin him.

“You said you’d get here this morning!”

“I said today!” Marky shrieks, squirming wildly. “And technically I didn’t lie—Dad said—hey! Stop it, I’m stronger than you now!”

“No, you’re not!”

“Am too!”

You take an unconscious step back, watching them roll in the grass. Terra’s hair is wild. Marky’s already got grass in his ear. Their voices bounce off the fence, full of squeals and accusations and the kind of shrill joy you’ve only ever seen at victory feasts, when the soldiers who make it home are drunk enough to dance.

Mark smiles. Just watches. His arms stay crossed over his chest, but you can tell, his shoulders have eased, his mouth has gone soft at the corners. He breathes in the moment like it’s something rare.

You shift closer to him, just slightly.

“She has his fight,” you say, watching Terra shove Marky off her and cackle when he yells in protest.

“And his mouth,” Mark mutters.

You glance at him, head tilted. “And yours?”

He laughs softly. “Maybe.”

You study him in profile. The way the light catches his skin. He’s not armored right now, just a dark tee, fitted at the shoulders, flight-worn pants and old shoes. There’s a scratch on his forearm. A freckle on his nose. He looks like someone who belongs here. Not a ruler. Not an emperor. Just a man watching his kid get tackled in a backyard that smells like soil and distant car exhaust.

Your gaze drifts to the fence. To the windows. Still no sign of Eve.

“Is she watching?” you ask.

Mark doesn’t look away from the kids. “Probably.”

“Is she angry?”

“No.”

You frown. “Are you sure?”

He turns to look at you then. Really looks. And something behind his eyes shifts, like he remembers, all at once, how new this is to you. How out of place you feel on this soft, fenced grass.

“She’s not angry,” he says more gently. “It’s just a lot. We haven’t been back here in months.”

You nod, but the tightness in your stomach doesn’t ease.

Marky suddenly yelps and bolts across the lawn toward you. His hair’s a mess. There’s a leaf stuck in it.

He yells your name, skidding to a stop by your leg. “Terra says she has better punches than me, but I trained on a warship. Tell her you’ve seen my form!”

Your brows lift. “You bit me when it was bathtime.”

Mark chokes on a laugh.

Marky gasps. “That was different. I was being tactical.”

“Was it?” you ask, voice dry.

Terra races up behind him, holding what looks like a foam sword from some kind of playset. She jabs it at your thigh. “She’s ours now! You can’t have her!”

Marky shrieks. “You can’t claim her! She came with us!”

You blink. Slowly. “Is this… is this a territorial dispute?”

Mark sits down in one of the lawn chairs and just drops his head into his hands.

You kneel, gently pressing a hand to each of their shoulders. “I can belong to more than one house,” you say solemnly. “Where I’m from, warriors often hold dual allegiances.”

Marky’s jaw drops. “So you can legally be mine and Terra’s at the same time?”

“That is one interpretation,” you say diplomatically.

Terra narrows her eyes. “Only if I get the sword next time.”

Marky gasps again. “That’s not fair—!”

“Enough,” Mark calls out from the chair, voice muffled. “If you two wake up the neighbors, we’re not getting ice cream later.”

That shuts them up. Sort of.

They both immediately turn their attention to the little garden fountain in the corner, deciding it needs purging, and begin scooping imaginary “invasive fish” out with a beach pail and a tennis racket.

You stand. Cross your arms again. Look at Mark.

“You really grew up on this planet?”

Mark snorts. “Hard to believe, huh?”

“I thought it would be... more dramatic.”

“Oh, trust me,” he says. “It gets dramatic.”

There’s movement at the window then. Just a flicker, curtains shifting.

Your spine straightens.

But the door doesn’t open. Not yet.

You stand there in the sun, the air warm on your back, the Earth under your boots. Mark just watches them like he’s seeing something sacred.

You don’t feel like a visitor anymore. Not quite.

The screen door creaks open with a sigh that sounds like it belongs to the house itself. Then the frame swings wide, and Eve steps out onto the porch.

She’s barefoot, her posture loose, like she’s been up for hours but hasn’t quite decided if she’s ready to be. A soft pink t-shirt hangs off one shoulder, worn thin in places, with sleeves she’s likely pushed up and let fall a dozen times this morning. Her hair is tied back in a loose bun that’s already threatening to come undone, an orange curl clinging to her cheek where steam from her coffee kisses her skin.

She leans lazily on the porch railing, clutching a mug with both hands like it’s a weapon and a shield all at once. Her eyes lock onto Mark first, unsmiling, but not cold. Just dry. Familiar.

“You’re late,” she says, voice flat as the siding behind her.

Mark, already prepared for the greeting, lifts a hand in half-hearted defense. “We had a morning.”

Eve hums into her mug and takes a long, deliberate sip. And then she sees you.

Her gaze drags across the backyard until it lands, sharp and curious. Not surprised, exactly. More like she expected to feel one thing and is quietly recalibrating to feel another. Her eyes scan the length of you, posture, sword, height, and you feel it, the way she’s studying you like something out of place in a painting she’s memorized.

But it’s not judgment. It’s not even skepticism.

It’s interest.

Her gaze lingers a beat longer than necessary. Then she lowers the mug and lifts one perfect eyebrow. “I can tell.”

The air between you tenses slightly, not hostile. Just dense.

You respond the only way you know how.

Your boots shift in the grass as you drop to one knee, head bowed, fist to your heart, the other hand resting lightly on the hilt of your sword. The old rites rise to your lips like breath.

“Lady Samantha,” you say clearly, your voice carrying with respect, “I offer gratitude for sanctuary. May your hearth remain lit, and your shields unbroken.”

There’s a pause.

Mark turns his head slightly, his mouth twitching like he’s either horrified or trying not to laugh.

Eve stares at you over the rim of her coffee, unmoving.

It takes her a moment to process what just happened. Then she sets her mug down carefully on the railing like she’s afraid one wrong move will shatter it.

“It’s... just Eve,” she says finally, brow furrowing. “You don’t have to kneel in my garden.”

You glance up, confused. “But you are the mistress of this dwelling.”

“Okay, that’s... technically true,” she says, squinting at you. “But I’m also wearing a shirt I slept in, I haven’t brushed my hair, and I’m one cartoon away from losing my mind because Terra’s been asking me if frogs can be immortal since six this morning.”

Mark coughs behind you.

You rise slowly, methodically, and stand at attention. “I understand.”

“Cool,” Eve replies, voice still tight with confusion. “Also, please don’t draw your sword in the house. The walls are thin.”

You nod. “Only in case of a surprise attack.”

“Let’s aim for zero of those,” Eve mutters, dragging her fingers through her hair, visibly unsure what to do with you.

She doesn’t move from the porch. Doesn’t step back or wave you inside. But she does keep looking at you.

And when her eyes meet yours again, there’s something softer beneath the skepticism. A small curl at the edge of her mouth. A question she doesn’t ask.

She doesn’t look away.

From the backyard, there’s a sudden screeching war cry. Terra and Marky burst into view, tumbling through the grass like rolling boulders, covered in dirt and some kind of sticky neon powder. Mark doesn’t even react. Just closes his eyes like he’s pretending he doesn’t see it.

“They’ve been like this since they met,” he says.

You observe the scene calmly. “They seem to enjoy conflict.”

“They live for it,” Mark mutters.

Terra declares the plastic sandbox a newly conquered kingdom and begins setting up an imaginary tax system. Marky immediately calls for a rebellion. Someone starts throwing pinecones.

Mark leans against the porch railing beside Eve, arms crossed. He watches the chaos with a kind of resigned fondness, a half-smile on his face. He’s relaxed now. Even in enemy territory.

You remain a step back, uncertain if you’re meant to follow. The porch is small, and you are not. Every part of you feels sharp here, your heels too loud, your sword too visible, your shoulders too square for the softness of the sunlit yard.

Eve glances down at you, mug balanced in her hands again. Her voice drops lower. “You don’t have to stand guard. It’s okay to... chill. That’s what we do here. Sometimes.”

“I was trained not to relax in unfamiliar territory.”

“Is this still unfamiliar?”

You meet her eyes, caught slightly off guard by the sincerity in her tone. “Yes.”

Her gaze flicks over your face. And then she hums softly. Like she gets it. Like she remembers what it felt like to be the outsider in someone else’s house.

She doesn’t say anything clever this time. Doesn’t deflect. Just gives you a look that lingers a little too long on your mouth before she pulls herself away from the railing and gestures toward the door.

“Well,” she says, a little lighter, “if you’re going to be stubborn about standing there, you might as well come inside and stand in the kitchen like the rest of us emotionally stunted freaks.”

You blink. “You’re inviting me to loiter.”

“I’m inviting you to eat waffles before Mark eats all the ones with peanut butter chips.”

“I do not eat all of them—” Mark starts.

Eve raises her voice as she heads for the door. “You eat around them and leave the plain ones like a raccoon with standards!”

Marky shouts from across the yard, “I want the raccoon waffles!”

You glance at Mark. He shrugs. “Welcome to Earth.”

You follow Eve inside.

The house smells like cinnamon, warm fruit, and something crisp around the edges, maybe the waffles, maybe something burning slightly in the toaster. It’s cluttered, but lived-in. No symmetry. No lines. Just color. Toys stacked in corners. Books half-open on the arm of the couch. Photos of Terra in mismatched frames. Mark’s face in a few of them, older ones. Eve in most.

She leads the way to the kitchen, her hips swaying slightly with each barefoot step, and you catch yourself watching. Noticing the curve of her neck, the soft sway of her hair. The way her shirt hangs loose across her back.

She doesn’t look back. But she knows.

You can feel it in the way her voice is lighter now. More casual. Controlled.

“So,” she says, turning halfway at the counter as she opens the fridge. “You want orange juice or are you one of those ancient battle-hardened warmaidens who only drink the blood of their enemies before noon?”

You lift your chin. “I’ve had both. I prefer juice.”

Eve looks over her shoulder and grins, teeth flashing. “Knew you had taste.”

You aren’t sure what that means. But the way she says it makes your chest tighten a little.

You stand still for a moment in the middle of the warm kitchen. Eve’s pink shirt brushing her thigh. Mark’s tired smile. The scent of butter in the air.

You’ve never been on Earth before. Never eaten waffles. Never felt a pull like this, unspoken, strange, low in your stomach and humming just under the skin.

But you’re here now.

And you don’t want to leave.

You survey the living room carefully, heels making the faintest thump against the rug as you examine the corner of the living space. A rectangular black object sits perched on a table with glowing, colorful figures flickering across its front. A box, with moving pictures.

“Is this a surveillance device?” you murmur aloud.

Eve glances over, expression unreadable. “It’s a TV.”

You don’t know what that means. But you nod as if you do.

The images on the screen are incomprehensible, bright colors, exaggerated voices, a small rodent in a helmet wielding what appears to be a hammer made of cheese. You frown. You’ve fought worse. Probably.

Your gaze lands on a nearby framed photograph. Terra, in pigtails, grinning with two missing front teeth and a chocolate smear on her chin. But what’s strange, truly strange, is that the glass is covered in stickers.

You step closer.

There’s a glittering star over her forehead. A crooked kitten face in the corner. One looks like a banana wearing sunglasses.

“Why would someone deface a royal portrait?” you ask, horrified.

Mark pokes his head out of the kitchen, a spatula in hand. “She decorated it herself. Said it needed more personality.”

You stare at the sticker-covered image. “But she’s in it.”

“Exactly.”

There’s no logic to this place. Not by your standards. Not by Eternian ones.

You start moving again, wandering toward the hallway. The walls are lined with what appear to be paper artworks, some nailed up with pushpins, others curling where tape has given out. There are crayon murals. Handprints in paint. A chart with star stickers for something called Potty Progress. You blink at it.

Marky races past you with a yell and thunders up the stairs. Terra chases him with syrup still on her fingers.

You continue forward, eyes scanning everything, until something catches your attention.

A small panel embedded in the wall.

Gray. Digital. Circular dial.

You approach slowly. It emits a soft, pulsing light. The numbers flicker.

Your fingers hover above it.

It could be a lock. Or a communications node. Or worse, an automated defense mechanism disguised as—

“Is this some sort of temperature-regulated command node?” you ask sharply, pointing to the device.

Mark appears beside you fast, eyes wide. “Don’t press that.”

You drop your hand at once. “Is it dangerous?”

“It’s the thermostat.”

You narrow your eyes. “That means nothing to me.”

“It controls the heat in the house.”

You pause. “That’s it?”

Mark rubs the back of his neck, clearly trying not to laugh. “Yes. If you hit it too many times, it starts making this horrible clicking noise and Eve loses her mind.”

Behind you, Eve calls out, “I heard that.”

Mark winces. “Sorry!”

You step away from the panel slowly, as if it might still bite.

“There’s no heating system on Eternia,” you murmur, almost to yourself. “We train our blood to regulate.”

“Yeah, well,” Mark says, nudging your elbow gently, “on Earth we’re soft. We have buttons.”

You glance at him. He’s smiling at you. Just slightly. The kind of smile that doesn’t ask anything. That waits.

And you’re not used to that. You’re used to being given orders. Measured by combat. Understood only through the rhythm of sparring blows or quiet exhaustion at the end of battle.

Mark nods toward the kitchen. “Come eat. We made enough to feed a training platoon.”

You follow.

The kitchen table is a battlefield of its own. Mismatched plates, syrup bottles, stray blueberries, a cartoonish pink fork that has TERRA written on the handle in sharpie. Terra’s already sitting cross-legged in one of the chairs, licking her fingers and staring at Marky like she’s going to steal his waffle the second he turns away.

Mark passes you a plate with two thick slices already stacked on it. One is oozing with peanut butter chips. The other smells like apples.

You take the plate.

You sit.

You eat your first bite slowly. The flavor is so sweet it stings your teeth. You chew. Swallow. Stare down at the fork in your hand like it just challenged your worldview.

Mark watches. Waiting for a reaction.

You clear your throat. “These are… unnecessarily good.”

Eve smirks into her coffee.

The table settles into a strange, warm rhythm. Marky talks with his mouth full. Terra interrupts him constantly. Eve gently nudges your arm every time the syrup bottle gets too far away from you. She doesn’t look at you when she does it. But her fingers linger a little longer each time.

You glance across the table at Mark. He’s leaning back in his chair, his eyes half-lidded, clearly savoring the calm.

After breakfast, during which you accidentally took a bite out of a napkin because you mistook it for an edible “waffle wrap,” and Marky declared you the second strongest person he knows after Godzilla, Eve finishes her coffee, sighs like she’s already regretting her choices, and waves a hand down the hall.

“Alright, come on. Let’s get you two settled before someone tries to fight with the curtain rod.”

She leads the way barefoot, pink t-shirt hitched casually at the hip, mug still in hand like she’s emotionally tethered to the caffeine. You and Mark follow. He keeps his hand lightly at your back, steering you around a cat who does not live here but insists she does.

Eve pushes open the guest room door. “This is it. Enjoy.”

You step inside. It’s... acceptable.

Small. Cozy. A little dusty in the corners. The blanket on the bed is rumpled in a way that suggests this room mostly functions as Terra’s hideout when she wants to cry dramatically for no reason.

You pause at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, eyes narrowing slightly.

Mark comes in behind you and drops an overnight bag with a soft thump.

Eve lingers in the doorway, already sipping again.

You stare at the headboard.

Then at the legs.

Then back at the headboard.

“…It’s wood,” you say flatly.

Mark exhales. “Oh no.”

You approach the bed like it’s a malfunctioning grenade. “I mean, I know what a bed is. But this—this is just wood.”

Eve raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “And that’s a problem?”

You press a hand to the headboard. It creaks. Not loudly. But it does creak.

You squint at it. “It’s just that… Mark and I are not gentle.”

Mark chokes audibly.

“I mean in general,” you add quickly. “Not just—during. I mean, yes, also during. But not exclusively.”

Mark coughs. “Thank you for clarifying.”

You knock lightly on the frame. “We’ve cracked metal railings before. Bent reinforced slats. One time, he accidentally slammed through the wall.”

“Please stop.”

You gesture to the bed again. “This wouldn’t survive a night.”

Eve walks in now, circling to your side like she’s suddenly conducting an inspection. “Really?”

You nod. “The joinery isn’t reinforced. The legs are thin. There’s no anchoring system. The way it creaks under air movement alone—”

“Okay, rude,” Mark mutters. “I didn’t install the thing.”

“I’m not blaming you,” you reply seriously. “I’m blaming the craftsmanship.”

Eve nudges the mattress with her knee, testing it. “Well. It’s survived me.”

You pause. “But were you slamming him into the headboard at full thrust velocity?”

Eve’s smirk is slow. “No. But I have done that.”

Mark sits down on the edge of the bed and immediately winces as the frame complains. “Oh my god.”

You watch the wooden legs visibly shift under his weight.

You whisper, “It’s already weakening.”

Eve’s laughing again.

“You could sleep on the floor,” Mark suggests weakly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Or hang from the ceiling like a bat.”

You look at him. “That would not solve the thrust problem.”

Eve snorts into her mug.

Mark lies back on the mattress in silent resignation. It creaks again. Louder.

You stare down at it. “It’s singing its death song.”

Eve walks to the door, still laughing. “Try not to break my guest room. I’m not filling out a homeowners insurance claim that includes the phrase ‘pelvic velocity.’”

You glance at her. “I could try to brace the frame with your ironing board.”

“Absolutely not.”

The door shuts behind her.

Mark throws a pillow over his face.

You sit beside him, arms folded, still glaring at the bed.

He peeks out. “You gonna keep frowning at it all night?”

“Yes,” you say. “Until it apologizes.”

After you and Mark drop your bag in the guest room, and after a shared moment of mutually staring at the wooden bed like it might collapse from eye contact alone, you step back into the hallway and quietly seek out Eve.

She’s in the living room, sinking into the couch with one leg tucked beneath her, half a laundry basket in her lap and the other half spilling onto the rug. She’s balancing a mug on the armrest and sorting through a pile of clothes with the kind of automatic rhythm that suggests this is her version of meditating.

You pause in the doorway. Then step forward with your shoulders squared but voice soft. “Do you need help?”

Eve looks up, surprised. “With this?”

You nod. “If you’re okay with it. I want to contribute. It’s your home. I don’t want to just take up space.”

Something flickers across her face, surprise again, maybe a little touched. “Sure. Honestly, if you want to fold laundry, I’m not gonna stop you. Be my guest.”

You kneel beside the basket, legs folded neatly beneath you. The smell of detergent is oddly calming. It’s simple work. No sword. No threat. Just warm fabric and time.

You reach for the first item, a pair of sweatpants. Soft, dark gray. No armor plates. No compression seams. You hesitate for a beat before starting to fold.

Except you don’t fold.

You roll.

It’s instinctual. Muscle memory from your barracks on Eternia. Tight, even, efficient, like a scroll being packed for a field mission. You secure it with one of the discarded hair ties you find in the basket and set the rolled sweatpants on the coffee table upright, standing like a piece of gear ready to deploy.

Eve stops folding mid-shirt. “...What are you doing?”

You blink. “Organizing.”

“That’s not organizing. That’s... war prep.”

You frown slightly. “This is how we stored uniforms in our footlockers. You roll everything tight so it doesn’t shift. Keeps the folds clean. Easy access. No risk of snag.”

Eve watches you roll a hoodie next, tightening the drawstrings into a precise coil before stacking it next to the sweatpants. “You’re folding laundry like it’s going into a weapons vault.”

You glance at her pile of loosely folded rectangles. “Is that not the point?”

Eve sets down a pair of socks and turns toward you fully. “Okay, pause. Time out. What are you trying to accomplish with that?”

You think for a moment, then hold up a tiny rolled t-shirt, one of Terra’s, printed with dancing frogs. “Structural integrity. And pride.”

She just stares at you. Then she starts to laugh.

“Okay. No, that’s—” She waves a hand in the air like she can’t finish the sentence. “That’s adorable. It’s completely unnecessary. But adorable.”

You smile, a little shy. “It’s habit. On Eternia, everything had to be ready to move. To fight. Even your spare socks.”

Eve reaches for the rolled hoodie and gives it a slow turn in her hands. “Honestly? You’d be amazing at packing for a road trip.”

“I’ve never been on one. But I could optimize for it, probably.”

She grins. “Let me guess, rolled underwear like tactical scrolls?”

“Yes. Why? Is that wrong?”

Mark walks in right then and sees the two of you cross-legged on the rug, surrounded by what looks like a battalion of tightly rolled laundry logs. He blinks once.

“...Are you rearming?”

“She’s folding laundry,” Eve says, not looking up. “Like she’s stocking an armory.”

Mark sighs and drops into a chair, rubbing his face. “Of course she is.”

You lift a rolled tank top. “Mark, your drawer layout is inefficient. Do you mind if I reorganize it?”

He groans into his hands. “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Eve looks at you, still smiling. “You’re sweet. And terrifying.”

You shrug. “I just like things to be ready. I don’t want to make a mess of your space.”

“You’re not,” Eve says gently. “You’re helping. In your own extremely militarized way.”

That makes you smile, wide and open and a little bashful. You grab another hoodie and start to roll, slower this time, adjusting your method to be more relaxed. Eve watches you, then nudges a towel your way.

“Alright. Your next mission: fold this like a normal Earth human.”

You look at the towel. Then at her. “You mean... like in squares?”

“Exactly.”

You hesitate, then try. It’s not perfect. The edges aren’t aligned. The corners puff a little. But it lays flat when you’re done. You beam.

Eve grins and raises her mug in salute. “Look at you. Casual queen.”

You snort, surprising yourself. “Don’t tell my warhorse, Spirit. He’d be so disappointed in me.”

And when Mark walks past again and mutters something about “freaking tactical socks,” you can’t help but laugh.

You’re starting to understand Earth. Not all at once. Not perfectly. But in small, human pieces.

The living room settles into a rhythm.

You can hear Terra and Marky in the other room arguing gently over who gets the last juice box, Mark’s voice cutting in to say neither, followed by Terra’s dramatic sigh.

Beside you, Eve folds with ease. Towels, tiny socks, the occasional hoodie with some kind of ketchup-based mystery stain. You’ve learned to copy her technique, soft folds, square corners, not everything rolled into Eternian combat scrolls. She notices the change, even if she doesn’t say anything.

You reach for the last item at the bottom of the basket. A small fleece blanket with pastel stars and a slightly worn edge. Terra’s, you think. It smells faintly of syrup and strawberry shampoo.

You hesitate. Then you spread it out carefully across your lap and start to fold, not with your tactical sharpness, but gently. Thumb smoothing over the hem. Edges aligned with deliberate patience. It’s an instinct you don’t question. You just want to do it right.

When you finish, you set the folded blanket neatly on the arm of the couch, placing it like something sacred.

Eve glances over.

She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t say thank you. But she doesn’t refold it either.

And for the first time, she doesn’t correct you.

That silence feels like something.

You sit back, legs folded under you now, palms resting on your knees. There’s a long pause, not awkward, but open.

You glance around the room, quietly cataloging what you've seen, windows, low ceilings, breathable air, no reinforced paneling. You tilt your head.

“…Where do you keep your weapons?” you ask, calm and casual, like someone asking where the shoes are stored.

Eve doesn’t miss a beat.

She points toward the kitchen. “Spice rack.”

You blink. “Really?”

“Yup.”

She lifts her mug and sips with perfect calm. “That one’s paprika. Dangerous stuff. Only use it in close combat.”

You study her face. She's so composed. Completely deadpan. But there’s a glint in her eye that gives her away.

Your lips twitch. “Does it burn on contact?”

“Oh yeah. Deadly in soup.”

You hum thoughtfully. “I assumed there’d be a weapons chest. Or a panic hatch. Some kind of concealed bladework.”

Eve leans her elbow on the arm of the couch, chin resting in her palm. “Sorry to disappoint. Unless you count the Nerf gun arsenal in the hallway closet. That one’s real.”

You nod solemnly. “Projectile training. Understood.”

Eve snorts. “Don’t give them ideas.”

“I won’t. Unless provoked.”

There’s another pause. A quieter one this time.

Eve’s watching you, but not the way she did earlier. Not like she’s waiting for you to misstep. Just... watching.

You glance up. “You really don’t keep any weapons?”

Eve shrugs. “I’ve got Mark. And Marky, apparently. That kid has a mean elbow.”

You nod. “And the paprika.”

“Obviously.”

You both fall quiet again.

Then, after a moment, Eve shifts a little closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough to be near. She leans her head back against the couch and lets out a long breath.

But she doesn’t move it away either.

Mark slips out quietly with Terra, zipping up his jacket as she chatters excitedly beside him, arms swinging with each step. Something about a mailbox down the street shaped like a fish. Or possibly a fish in the mailbox. He doesn’t really clarify.

He just glances back at you in the doorway, and says, “Won’t be long.”

You nod. But the moment the door shuts, the house changes.

The silence isn’t oppressive, but it’s enough to make you shift your weight. Your chest feels too open. Your hands too empty.

You’ve bathed Marky before. You know what soap is, in a general sense. You’ve wiped space mud from his face with one hand and caught him mid-laugh before he could slip on the smooth floor. But those were more like tactical rinses. Contained. Functional.

An Earth bathroom is something else entirely.

Still, after a few minutes of pacing, you find yourself back in the hallway with your hand braced against the wall, voice quiet as you speak toward the kitchen.

“I can help with his bath. If that’s alright.”

Eve looks up from her phone, studying you from across the room.

“I thought you’d done that before.”

“I have,” you say. “But not in a room with... tile.”

She huffs out a laugh. “Yeah. Tile changes everything.”

She leads you down the hall and flicks on the light. The bathroom is small, warm with leftover steam. The ceiling is low. The floor cold beneath your socks. You pause briefly, trying to make sense of the layout. The curtain hangs like a thin shield. The mirror fogs slightly. The little pink stepstool by the sink looks like a prop from a war you’ve never fought in.

Marky is already sitting on the closed toilet lid, elbows on his knees, still half-wrapped in the same top he wore this morning. His hair’s wild from a day of playing and he’s holding a plastic shark like it’s a talisman.

He grins when he sees you. “You’re here!”

You smile. “Always.”

He hops off the seat and climbs into the tub with practiced ease, sending a cascade of water against the ceramic walls. You kneel beside it, inspecting the faucet like it might have a hidden gear system.

Eve tosses you a bottle of shampoo.

“This one smells like fake watermelon. Don’t let him eat it.”

“I won’t,” you say.

Marky: “One time I did. It wasn’t that good.”

You pour the shampoo into your palm. It’s stickier than what you’re used to. Almost... cheerful. The foam builds quickly as you run your fingers through his hair, working slowly to avoid pulling at the ends.

“Am I doing it right?” you ask, quietly.

Eve nods. “He’s not screaming, so you’re golden.”

You smile, almost to yourself.

Once he’s rinsed and clean and wrapped in a towel the size of a cape, you help him back to the couch, where he promptly flops over, half-damp and content. You kneel behind him and begin combing his hair, carefully, the way you’ve done before, but slower this time. You don’t have to hurry. There’s no ship moving. No emergency pulsing overhead. Just him. And this moment.

He talks in pieces. Loose, sleepy fragments.

“Do you think jellyfish have bones? I don’t think they should.”

You pause mid-stroke. “They don’t.”

“Good. That feels right.”

Eve walks past with folded towels and disappears into the hallway, but she glances at you once before turning, something in her expression that doesn’t quite smile, but softens.

Marky keeps going.

“I once ate four oranges in one day. And I threw up on Dad’s boots.”

You nod slowly. “That sounds brave.”

“It was. I did it on purpose.”

You comb gently through the back of his head, lifting the curls away from his neck so they won’t tug when he lays down later.

His eyes are barely open now. His breathing is slower. He’s close to sleep but still aware of your hands moving through his hair.

You think of how small he is.

How strong.

How much like Mark.

And then, you feel it.

Not a sound, but a presence.

You look up.

Mark is standing in the hallway just beyond the couch, framed by the soft light from the bathroom behind him. His jacket’s half-zipped. His hands are still in his pockets. And he’s still.

His gaze is fixed on you.

On Marky in your lap.

On the careful way your hand moves through his hair.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t interrupt.

Just stands there, like whatever he’s seeing has knocked the breath clean out of him.

You keep brushing.

Quietly. Gently.

And he keeps watching.

Something flickers in his eyes.

But you don’t know what it is yet.

✮♛ ♚✮⋆˙

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[lotus--pond]

something I very much admire about bek's characters is their ability to be upset and angry in a way that while it may make the audience upset, it is fitting for their characters and ultimately makes sense from their pov

like: (using the bound guys as examples I'm sure there were times with Ari but I did not follow her lore as closely)

Sylph was very upset with Vast after she took his magic. and he had every right to be. Because, yes, while the audience understands that there was nothing she could have done because she was poisoned and could not have fought back, Sylph doesn't and unlike the audience, Sylph was permanently stripped of such a core part of himself and not only that, but part of his safety.

If the island fell, he wouldn't have been able to do anything, if he needed to get away from something he would have been basically helpless against another avian. and in a world and situation like his where the avicane was around and being a constant danger, that's fucking terrifying. And even if someone pursuing him couldn't fly, because of how weak his legs are, he's also at a severe disadvantage.

so yeah, I love Vast and I understand why she had to do what she did, more of her thought process, background that influences her decisions, and the whole context of the relationship between her and Viviana, but Sylph does not. I also understand that what she did harmed Sylph in such an intrinsic way that even if there was no worse option, that didn't mean what she did was good. Didn't mean that she was automatically forgiven or stripped of all responsibility.

and even recently with Vesper, her being distrustful of Aura, while it is obviously not true because we have audience privileges and can see from so many characters individual POVs, makes sense for her character.

she's been shown to be distrustful and not-particularly nice when Ev isn't around. She's also refusing to believe that there isn't a way off this planet. So when Aura says that their ship got pulled in by the gravity spike not only does that sound implausible because of what they know about Rionear and Rionear ships, but its scary because that means that the forces pulling them into this planet may as well be unstoppable with their current means. (I think it was mentioned in passing by Aura that the Cassion was running on an experimental core, which is why it wasn't able to get out of the gravity spike but my memory is shit so don't quote me)

Because if a Rionear ship with a starcore couldn't outrun it, how were they going to build a ship from scratch that could? Especially when most of the people there have no idea how to even start building a ship.

and (props to that other post where I talked about this I forget the name of the person but they were bringing up a good point like this) Vesper doesn't hold high opinions of many others (with the exception of Ev) and knowing Rionear ships she assumes Rionear should be confident and secure because they have like. the fastest ships. But Aura is not confident nor secure, and that seems strange to her.

And she's not wrong that aura is hiding something, she's just wrong about what star is hiding. She thinks they have this master plan or are hiding their true personality or crashed here on purpose, when in reality star is trying to hide Navi to keep it safe.

And star believes starself to be lying, star believes star is doing this and being nice and doing favors for people to bargain for protection for star and Navi. Which also probably makes Vesper think star is lying.

was Vesper in the right to go about it the way she did? no, she was being very rude and mean. Does it make sense knowing only what she knows? yes.

in both cases, is it upsetting? yeah. we know characters on all sides of the argument and have the full context of their lives and personalities and situations. Is it simultaneously fitting character wise? yes.

idk I just think its neat

[potionwine]

#writing #this is so affirming of my own obsessive way of writing fics #that definitely causes a lot of desperation but also so much thrill #we have this thing in Finnish luomisen tuska #the agony of creation #I'm very familiar with that particular feeling #but I think you're gonna feel a bit of agony when you're passionate about what you're creating for many reasons #can you really just mellow if the need to write the story is almost a fever #you are giving pieces of yourself to your work #and sometimes that rips you apart and saves you a little

(via @raindroppoetry)

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

[drchucktingle]

Hey Dr. Tingle, I understand where you're coming from, it sucks that people are so irony-poisoned that they don't understand that your work comes from a place of true passion.

But I am wondering - are your book premises meant to be taken entirely seriously? Because I always thought that the titles and images, while not *bad*, where meant to be read with a sort of lighthearted comedy, like the titles you pick and the contrastive style of your art seems like intentionally sort of amusing in tone and rhythm? Is that correct, or completely off base? Because I do feel like that's where people get primed to read more of a joke into some of these things than maybe was intended, and I think that it's true for the people who do take the writing seriously that they find the context a little amusing, also, and I don't know if that's on or off the intended track from your perspective.

Hope that makes sense! I don't want to come across as rude or anything

yes my books premises are meant to be taken entirely seriously.

i would say tinglers fall into genre of magical realism and erotica. i do not think of them as comedy although i understand that many, if not THE VAST MAJORITY of buckaroos see them that way. that said i often lean into comedy or have funny moments throughout, but honestly that is the way of almost ALL stories. funny things happen in every genre, but that does not make all stories comedy.

to my trot, what defines something as COMEDY is intent. the goal of comedy is to make you laugh. my main goal with tinglers in NOT to make you laugh, so i do not consider them comedy.

HOWEVER it is important to keep in mind that i am not the expert on my art just because i made it. if a buckaroo laughs at tinglers they are not wrong. it is just as much their art as it is mine, and my interpretation is not the END ALL BE ALL. just because i made a piece of art does not mean i know it better than you do, or that my opinion on it is more valid.

tinglers can be whatever you want, and i am not hurt or offended if you laugh at them. that difference in perception is whats so beautiful and powerful about art.

i think a good way to look at what i do is this: i am an absurdist PHILOSOPHICALLY, but absurdism is so often associated with comedy that sometimes buckaroos who do not know about the philosophy can think they are the same thing. something being absurd does not automatically mean it is meant to be funny. my art is also joyful, and i think joy and humor can also be confused sometimes.

all that is to say, laugh all you want buckaroo. you prove love is real in your own unique way

[teambyler]

(Spoiler) Noah Schnapp is CLEARLY trying to avoid spoiling something MAJOR about Mike and Will here! (Breakdown with TIMESTAMPS)

Okay Tom Holland, Noah Schnapp lol.

I'm usually a very careful person, and so I mean it when I say that this video of Noah at a recent con is the biggest confirmation of Byler endgame we've ever gotten.

0:04: Noah's NERVOUSNESS combined with TRYING TO SUPPRESS GIDDY EXCITEMENT in the first 5 seconds. His literal first reaction to a question about how Mike and Will's relationship has evolved was "You guys can't get me in trouble! I don't wanna say anything! Spoiler..."

0:16: Mike and Will's relationship "had its ups and downs in the beginning..." In the beginning? It was never down in the beginning mah dude, not until Season 3. By "the beginning" he's contrasting everything before to NOW (Season 5)! Now, when things are FINE, and as Mike said they're "a team..."

0:24 "Mike was always super protective of Will and Will always leaned on him, and you could never really tell if it was something romantic or just a really special friendship" !!!!!!

0:33 "And as it goes on you kinda realize that Will does have... Am I allowed to say this?" Noah should know he can say Will likes Mike: Noah told the press 2 years ago that Will loves Mike. Either his mind is GLITCHING because he's afraid he'll spoil something, or he thinks that JUST TALKING about Mike and Will's history is a spoiler for some reason! =)

0:41 Cara: "Ummm.... I don't know!" She knows that "yes" would encourage him to say more and "no" would sound like they're hiding something. Noah: "I don't wanna talk about this!"

0:47 Throughout Cara's entire talk Noah is GRINNING and he's trying his best to hide it. Clearly just THINKING about Mike and Will makes this gay boy wanna giggle. It literally feels like HE is Will and someone's there talking about his relationship with his boyfriend who he can't stop thinking about.

0:58 Cara saves Noah but then beats around the bush and talks about friends growing together and apart. She says they diverge and "Mike goes on his journey" while Will remains "stuck." Then she says "...So I think in Season 5..." and Noah gives her a LOOK knowing that they have to be careful here. Then Cara talks about SOMETHING ELSE entirely, pretending she never started the sentence! She says it's "a friendship evolving" and that friends can grow apart and together, "and we'll see what happens"(!) What ELSE could this all mean but that they grow closer together after growing apart in season 3? And that Mike's "journey" was one of self-discovery? (From all the glimpses of s5 we're getting, Mike's clearly not "journeying" far from Will's side!)

1:39 Even though Noah should know better (lol), he chimes in AGAIN to say something about Mike and Will and dig another hole for Cara to dig them out of! Then he thinks better of it: "Actually I"m not gonna say anything."

In another clip from this talk, Noah says that in nearly every scene he's done on the show Finn/Mike has been there. The way he talks about it, it's clear he's reminiscing about his entire experience with the show including Season 5, where they're sharing all their scenes again. Mike and Will's relationship is important to Noah, who of course is gay.

In that same clip, Cara says it'll be easier to answer these questions when the show is over. Noah: "It's just so hard to talk about it. It's so secretive and we don't wanna get in trouble."

It's extremely clear that Noah and Cara do not want to give a MAJOR SPOILER ABOUT MIKE AND WILL.

In s5, Mike HAS to find out Will loves him because of the Painting Lie. If what results is that Mike rejects Will because he's straight, which the vast majority of the audience already assumes, would they be this secretive about it?

Of course not.

Plus, they're so careful to NOT DENY THE POSSIBILITY of Byler endgame either, which they can do EASILY. ("Will loves his straight best friend..." or "Mike's only interested in El...") That would've been a NON-STORY. They're going OUT OF THEIR WAY not to rule out Byler. AND they fully know that teasing the audience with it only for it NOT to happen would be queerbaiting.

Byler doubt? Never knew ya.

-teambyler

[m-jelly]

Deep beauty

Levi x fem reader

Canon world, married, suggestive.

When Levi met you back in the scouts, you assisted Hange and Moblit in making things for the scouts. You never engaged in battle, you simple made things and had the role of a mechaic for them. Levi had met you in your office when he needed an upgrade for his gear. At first he didn't like that there was some oil in places, but you kept it fairly clean. When he met you face to face, with your big beautiful smile and bright eyes, he fell for you.

As time went on, he'd visit you often and started to not bring his gear but food and tea instead. Eventually, he had the courage to ask you out on a date. He was incredibly nervous on the date, but you were so patient and kind. One date turned into many. The two of you shared your firsts together and after two years of being a couple you married.

You stood by Levi through everything that life threw at the two of you. He counted his blessings when you were there to hold him and help him through the pain and suffering. Not once did you judge him for the choices he made and the injuries he suffered. You stood by him and loved him so deeply.

After the war, the two of you settled down in your dream cottage. You grew plenty of food in the garden, had a few animals and made sure you had the best birdfeeders so Levi could admire the birds that reminded him of friends. Your views were perfect with the vast forest and the ocean.

You both were happy, so deeply happy.

You helped out when you could and went to events where you'd hand out food, repair building and you'd even make things for people. You helped life slowly repair itself. When you were at home, it was a house filled to the brime with deep love. You couldn't keep your hands off of eachother, but Levi would say sorry a lot more and you told him to never be sorry. You loved him.

Levi was sat in his chair as the sun shone down. He gazed at the clouds before hearing your sweet voice. He glanced down and smiled softly as you walked closer in your adorable summer dress that left little to his imagination. "You are a goddess."

You hummed a laugh. "There's that sweet talking again." You leaned over and kissed him. "You know you get lucky all the time."

"I do." He glanced down before you stood up and saw your ample cleavage. "A-Ah."

You pulled back a bit. "So, I have done some extra things to your knee and leg brace." You crouched in front of him. "Are you sure you want to try this?"

He gulped hard as he looked away to collect himself. "Yes. I want to be able to walk a little bit so when we have kids, I can help them walk or play with them."

You hummed a laugh. "Okay." You slipped his slipper off and started wiggling the brace on. "You are so cute."

Levi looked down just as you were wiggling causing your chest to jiggle. He gulped hard as he admired your clevage with a fading lovebite on. "I ah..."

You glanced up at him. "Sorry for wiggling this up. Is it hurting?"

"N-no."

You smiled softly. "What you blushing more?"

"N-nothing."

You smirked and rasied a brow. "Nothing?" You leaned up meaning your chest got closer. "You sure."

Levi's eyes widened. "I ah...you...fuck."

You reached up, held his chin and ran your thumb over his bottom lip. "Something catch your fancy?"

"You." He softly moaned before strongly blushing. He looked away and groaned. "Fucking, brat."

"That's not a nice way to speak to your wife." You teased as you strapped the brace in place. You leaned closer and kissed his knee. "I'm so nice to you." You leaned on his thighs and looked up at him through your lashes. "I'm a lovely wife."

He reached down and caressed your cheek. "You're a goddess." He eyed your chest. "I won't lie, my love, I've bee eyeing your chest."

You leaned up a bit. "I'll let you place your face there if I get a kiss."

"You know I adore kisses."

You giggled before leaning closer and kissing him. "You're so handsome. I love you, Levi."

"I love you too."

You stood up and hugged his face agaisnt your chest. You squeaked when he licked and bit you. "Biting, huh?"

He looked up at you with an adorable pout. "Maybe."

"Cute." You pulled back from him. "You can have them back after we test your brace."

He grabbed your hands and stood up carefully. "I'm up."

"Good boy."

He blushed. "You know very well what that does to me."

You giggled and helped him forward. "It's why I said it. You ready?"

He inhaled deeply. "I am cause I'm getting an amazing reward."

You laughed as you pulled him towards you. "You are." You smiled sweetly. "There we go, you're doing amazing."

Levi carefully walked towards you. "Better than before." He walked closer. "Stronger."

"Is your knee and leg supported?"

"Yeah, you're incredible." He hummed a laugh. "Only a matter of time before I'm running with our kids."

You guided him back to his chair. "Yes."

"And running after you."

You pinched his cheek. "Cheeky."

"Always." He purred. "Now, about my reward."

Tags under

@ladycheesington @levisbrat25 @nyxiieluna @li-anne @galactict3a @youre-ackermine @thebobaprincess @2moth-anon2 @cypidity @nbinairyn @bts-spnlvr12 @darkstarlight82 @emilyyyy-08 @levistealeaf @pelicanpizza @hideandgopeep @notgoodforlife @demonic-bird @searriously @dreamerofthewest @abiatackerman @minminroie

[trendywaifus]

who would let the world burn for you? cw: yandere themes, mentions of blood and dead bodies. angst. possible oocness. gn! reader.

I LET THE WORLD BURN, I LET THE WORLD BURN FOR YOU, THIS IS HOW IT ALWAYS HAS TO END.

FIREFLY/SAM would gladly let the world burn if it guarantees your safety. you’re like an ever-lasting flame they can physically cradle in their hands; you give them hope, a purpose. what makes you think they’ll purposely snuff you out for a world—the universe who didn’t dare to show not an ounce of mercy to them?

sam gently holds you in their arms, green wings resembling flames behind their back. behind them is a vast sea of angry fire—burning buildings and corpses sam doesn’t bother to look back to as they walks away from the ruined civilization. “ sam. .” you weakly whisper, the mecha looks down. if it could frown as it scans the cuts and nasty bruises littered all over your body, they would.

“ i came here for you. “ sam says, their voice soft and full of worry reserved only for you, “ it wasn’t apart of the script but i couldn’t bear to stand by and let you do everything by yourself. i feared that you could’ve. .” a familiar feminine voice blends in with sam’s low robotic one as they trailed off.

they fall silent when your shaky hand reaches out to touch sam’s “ face “, soft orange flames sizzles out from their metal slits.

I LET THE WORLD BURN, JUST TO HEAR YOU CALLING OUT MY NAME, WATCHING IT ALL GO DOWN IN FLAMES

KAFKA would let the world burn to show you what she’s willing to do for you. she wants to see the look on your face when everything is in flames because of her.

“ k-kafka. .” you mutter, backing away in fear as she saunters closer to you, stepping over dead bodies with no regard. her velvet lips stretches into a grin, teeth baring as orange flames are reflected in her eyes, making her look menacing. “ there’s no need to look so fearful, ” she drawls, stretching her arms wide as she draws nearer and nearer. “ you know i wouldn’t dream of laying a finger on my precious doll. “

you backed up against a cracked brick wall, legs trembling as she finally in arms length. “ y-y-you, wh-wh—“ kafka chuckles, placing a gloved hand on your cheek, her pinkish purple hues stares into your own. “ use your words, darling. i’m listening. “

“ wh-why? “ you choked out, (e/c) eyes filled with tears. kafka hums, placing the other hand on your cheek, now cradling your face. “ why? it’s simple, really. you may think the reason why i’m doing this is to make you suffer or something cliche straight out of a boring hero vs villain flim. hmm, it’s none of that. “

she leans closer to your face until her lips brush against yours. “ it’s an act of love. all i did was make it dramatic, isn’t it ironic? “

I SHOULD’NT HAVE FALLEN IN LOVE, LOOK AT WHAT IT MADE ME BECOME

RUAN MEI never could understand the concept of love due to her trauma and just couldn’t emotionally grasp it. but you—you made the loose ends stretch and connect and she finally gets to have a taste of what it means to love. but soon after, things began to spiral out of control—specifically her emotions. it’s now always you, you, you on her mind. it’s frustrating because it’s making her think irrational, illogical things. so, will she let the world burn for you? yes—undoubtedly so.

ruan mei winds her slender arms around your waist, guiding you into her midst. her cool breath fans against your skin as she outlines your cheekbone with her lips. and she doesn’t stop there—no, she’s moving down to the corner of your lips, jawline, neck, and then right at a certain spot where she feels your pulse. it’s slow and steady. a hand trails up your arm and eventually three fingers press against the opposite side of your neck. a blue light and a warm tingle follows suit.

“ ruan mei, you don’t have to do all of that. i’m alive. “ you sighed. ruan mei moves back a bit to peer into your eyes, she touches your cheek. “ i’m aware. “ she says softly, contrary to the glint in her eyes, a emotion that you can’t recognize—a emotion so passionate yet ominous that it sends a chill down your spine.

“ and I’ll keep it that way. “

I LET YOU GET TOO CLOSE, JUST TO WAKE UP ALONE

AND I KNOW YOU THINK YOU CAN RUN, YOU’RE SCARED TO BELIEVE THAT I’M THE ONE

BUT I CAN’T LET YOU GO

ACHERON allowed herself to get swallowed up by the waves of love—she allowed it to rush through the cracks of her heart and fill up the emptiness within. you’ve imprinted on her soul and now she’s hopelessly devoted to you. if the world must burn for you to be by her side, so be it. the world means nothing if you’re not in it.

her white tresses flows into the wind as she calmly walks towards you. her ruby eyes settled only on you as the once blue sky is ripped apart with one clean red slash and ruins scattered everywhere behind her. “ acheron. .what have you done? “ you asked in disbelief, holding onto your shattered blade. “ what needed to be done.” acheron merely replies, snatching your forearm and pulled you into her possessive embrace.

“ you didn’t need to do this and you know it! why did you fight me to stop me?! i could of saved millions of lives if it meant giving up my own. a whole civilization is gone now! people—ch-children! “ you sobbed, pushing your palms against her shoulders to escape her hold. acheron holds you tighter into her strong body and buried her nose into the side of your neck. it’s wrong, so, so wrong for her to do something so reckless—so selfish to discard innocent life for the safety of your own. but she’s gone through enough loss and suffering and the hole in her heart is full of you—her everything. if you died, she fears that she would of. .

“ forgive me, forgive me, “ acheron mutters into your skin like a prayer, “ i’m truly a coward but i’d gladly continue to be so if i can hold you in my arms like this. “

FEAR IN THEIR EYES, ASH RAINING FROM THE BLOOD ORANGE SKY, I LET EVERYONE KNOW THAT YOU’RE MINE

jingliu is letting everything burn. you’re her beloved— she would do anything for you. her blade will cut through anything and everything, even the moon itself to prove that to you.

her glowing, red feral eyes matched the color of the sky as corpses of the cloud knights laid around her like a ritual circle. jingliu looks at you and smiles lovingly in contrast to the horrific act she’s done. “ darling, come here. “ she softly commands, lifting her hand (which is stained with the blood of many!) out to you, waiting for you to take it and join her. you shake your head with terror, your body trembling. “ n-no, jingliu. th-this is madness! “

jingliu tilts her head to the side, her expression falls expressionless. then, she takes a step towards you, her hand falling limp to her side. “ this is madness you say? how laughable, my dear, “ she lets out a breathy laugh and casts you a chilling smile. “ this is hardly anything. once i annihilate the abundance in your name, only then you can speak to me about madness.”

honorable mention

I’D LET THE WORD BURN, I’D LET THE WORLD BURN FOR YOU

STELLE intentionally and unintentionally would let the world burn for you without a doubt. she’d choose you over the world, not caring about how bad it’ll make her seem. all she’s really thinking about is you and not the full consequences of her choice. and because of the astral express, things will get complicated. ultimately, you’ll be the one to give yourself up if the situation really requires you to step up. she’ll prob need to be held back.

“ we don’t have much time, i’ll go. i’ve dropped it anyways. “ you volunteered with a heavy heart, looking back at the city covered in flames. dan heng and march quickly opens their mouth to speak but stelle beats them to it, “ no, you’re not! i-if you’re going, then i’ll go with you! “ she shouts, taking your hand into hers, “ it’s just an artifact—“

“ an artifact that is needed to save this planet and it’s not like dan heng can use his powers either because he’s just going to flood everything and march you already exhausted yourself which means i have to—“

march chimes in, “ h-hold on a minute, even i think it’s a bad idea to go back in by yourself!everything is covered with smoke and ash, there’s no way you can find it on the ground somewhere and you can’t see anything! we need to call welt and himeko—“

“ okay, you call them and i’ll go find it. i know it’s a terrible plan but we’re out of options guys. stelle. please, let go of my hand and stay with dan heng and march. “

stelle stubbornly refuses, “ no. i said i’ll go with you so i am. if you think you’re going to go by yourself then you’re absolutely silly. if it was my choice, i wouldn’t let you go at all. “

your brows furrow with frustration, “ no, you’re being silly, stelle. look—we don’t have time to argue! you’re not going with me! “ without thinking, you jabbed your fist hard into her stomach, causing her to gasp and kneel over in pain. she still holds onto your hand but you hastily break free from her weakened grip. “ i have to go! dan heng! hold stelle back if she tries to follow me! give me 5 minutes tops, i’ll come back! promise! “ you dash towards the burning city, covering your nose in search of finding the lost artifact.

“ no! “ she screams horsely as she watches your figure run further and further away and eventually disappear into the sea of smoke. although in pain, stelle attempts to get back up and run after you. dan heng swiftly restrain her. “ l-let me go, dan heng! can’t you see what’s they’re doing?! it should of been me! no, not even me—the world should just burn! “ she screams at the top of her lungs, tears rolling down her cheeks.

[deconstructthesoup]

Have I already posted something like this? Yes. Am I gonna do this anyway? Also yes.

*clears throat*

Reasons why you should read the How To Train Your Dragon books if you haven't already (regardless of whether or not you're a fan of the movies)

The drawings throughout the books can range from being silly little doodles one moment to unforgettable portrayals of some of the most intense scenes in fiction you'll ever read.

Toothless is A Baby (and a bit of an asshole, but in the same way that a cat is an asshole).

Hiccup can verbally communicate with dragons, and the dragon language is canonically composed out of absolute nonsense

Fishlegs is ten times more important to the story due to being Hiccup's best friend, and he also has an incredibly lovely arc of his own.

Speaking of arcs, Hiccup's arc throughout the series is a beautiful portrayal of a misfit becoming a hero in his own way and advocating for the rejection of all of the flawed ideals that his ancestors put into place.

Seriously, this is a book series about choosing to be intelligent, imaginative, and empathetic in a society that wants you to be the opposite of all of that.

While Astrid is great, Camicazi---the character who was probably her jumping-off point, since they both have a dragon named Stormfly---is a feral gremlin of a girl who we should all aspire to be (also, as far as I can recall, there's never any hints of there being something romantic between her and Hiccup, or her and Fishlegs---it's just a great platonic friendship between the three of them, which is a win for me personally).

Alvin the fucking Treacherous. This, to me, is something that the movies absolutely should've added, because he is one of the best goddamn villains... ever. I genuinely cannot think of any other piece of media that shows the main antagonist developing side-by-side alongside the hero, becoming a worse and worse threat as the story gets darker and the stakes get higher, but my god did it rewire my mind as a kid... and for spoilers, that's all I'll say about it!

The dragon designs are the. Most. Fun. Every single kind of dragon in this series is unique, memorable, and more often than not, really hammers in the fact that "dragon" is a word that encompasses a vast number of traits---really, it just means a creature that's weird and somewhat reptillian, and these books take that concept and run. With. It.

THE LORE AND FORESHADOWING IS FUCKING LEGENDARY. If I go into any detail, I will spoil so much, but let it be known that if you're writing a story, and you want to work in foreshadowing and big reveals in both a mystery and a blink-and-you'll-miss-it fashion, these books are a masterclass in how to do it. Loose threads that you don't even know existed will be woven in right when you least expect it.

Honestly... I don't think it's too much of a stretch to compare How To Train Your Dragon to Adventure Time, because their way of storytelling is similar in all the best ways. Yes, at first, it leans more on the comedic side of things, but as you delve further into the story, it unfolds into a truly fascinating epic about growing up and what it means to be a hero... and it also gets very, very dark. I'm not exaggerating when I say that some parts of the later books gave me nightmares, and I loved every second of it.

Big fucking kaiju sea dragons with eyes that shoot lightning what more could you WANT

[ssinboo]

Say Yes to me

summary: You've been in love with Jeon Wonwoo since forever, and due to your family relations, you had hopes you'd marry him. Your only problem? he's getting engagement to someone else.

or

During his Engagement party, your childhood best friend and love of your life, Jeon Wonwoo, asks you to run away with him.

pairing: 1960s!AU - Childhood bestfriend! Wonwoo x F!Reader

word count: 10k (45~ minute read) – My longest ever!

warnings: unrequited crushes and overall foolishness, idiots in love, best friends to lovers to not lovers to lovers again, some angst?, Wonwoo is such a nerd, making out in dingy motels, unrealistic mileage for gasoline, seokmin being the sweetest

a/n: This will most certainly be my last fic of the year! So, Happy Holidays everyone! This year has been so troublesome, but I've grown so much and written a lot more, too! I'm so, so grateful for everyone I've met and everyone that's enjoyed my stuff! See you in 2024!

Had you been questioned, there would never be a concrete answer to the question of just how long you had been in love with Jeon Wonwoo. 

You’d know him forever, and maybe you loved him all along.

Your families were business partners turned friends. And there had always been talk of marriage between the children. Of course, for convenience. The Jeon’s produced top-class racing and sports cars, while your family were in the chemical business, specialising in industry paints and finishes, it was only natural to unite the two families and profit. 

Although your wealth was vast, it was nothing compared to the Jeon’s, despite always having the chance to frequent the same environments, you often found you were on different levels altogether. 

Jeon Wonwoo was the eldest son, and he carried himself as such — with all the poise and arrogance of the heir to a global conglomerate. He liked golfing and late night swims. Always took his coffee black with no sugar, and barely had anything for breakfast, preferring a hearty lunch instead. 

His younger brother, Lee Seokmin, was the result of an affair with a secretary, though that did not mean he was loved any less, no. Seokmin lacked a single mean bone in his body, he had a pure heart and a contagious laugh.  

They were by all means what people liked to call Irish Twins, born less than a year apart. And the nature of that fact only made their differences more apparent. Complete opposites they were, and that extended to how they treated you, too. 

Every summer growing up, your family would travel to the country house and you and your sister would spend the better part of the months at the club. Oh, how you loved the country club with the fun summer activities the clear chlorinated water, having a meal under the pool umbrellas and getting funny tan lines. 

But most of all, you enjoyed Jeon Wonwoo.

His family frequented the same club and every summer, you’d be practically glued to Wonwoo, even if he didn’t dare to pay you any attention.

You were only three years apart, yet he acted as if you were an immature brat. Seokmin had always been happy to play with you and your sister, though. 

More often than not, Wonwoo would lounge by the pool with a book, never daring to go in. And you would cross your arms over tile by the sides and try your damnedest to strike a conversation with him. He would ignore your every word, or worse, poke fun at your latest obsession. 

“Wonwoo, at what time where you born?” You ask, spitting out any chlorine filled water off your mouth. 

He arches an eyebrow, looking up from his book.

“What?”

“What time were you born?” You repeat, unbothered by his acidic tone.

“Why would I know that?”

“Can’t you ask your mum?” 

He rolls his eyes, “Why do you wanna know?”

“So I can see your birth chart,” You shrug, twirling a wet strand of hair around your finger. 

“The fuck is a birth chart?”

“It’s like… It’s a way to see your personality… And I can check to see if we’re compatible.”

“That’s stupid…” He rolls his eyes, again, “You’re stupid.” 

You scoff, “You won’t play along— You’re such a bore!” You yell out and dive back in the pool, leaving behind a cackling Wonwoo. 

Those hapless summer days were spent lazing by the pool with your sister and Seokmin — without a care in the world, laughing about nothing. With the isolated water-balloon fight every now and then. 

You’d grown up before you could realise it, never truly leaving behind your childish crush on Wonwoo. Even if by the age hierarchy, you had no chance of marrying him — Your sister were to marry Wonwoo and you possibly married Seokmin. 

Though you held hope, it crumbled away with every passing minute. 

But that year, your sister had the greatest early birthday present: She’d found the man she was to marry and best of all, your daddy could never say no to his girls. 

With your sister marrying the love of her life, it meant that you would marry Wonwoo, right? It was only a matter of time and you would be sworn to each other before God, your friends, and family. And your first love would blossom. 

On your 21st birthday, your father took you to work with him for the day, though you most lazed around and answered his calls. You only expected to have lunch for your birthday and a party on the weekend.

At noon, he drove to the Jeon’s factory to deliver the new paint samples. 

The workers, most of whom had watched you, your sister and the Jeon kids grow up, greet you excitedly and some even wish you happy birthday. Your father goes straight to the floor to speak to the manager.

Unexpectedly, Mr. Jeon himself shows up.

Mr. Jeon was a handsome old man a captivating smile, he was incredibly passionate about his work and adored mechanics, but he loved his sons above all — And he had great expectations for his boys. 

He greets you with a warm hug and wishes you a happy birthday before discussing business with your father. To which you busy yourself with staring at the pieces waiting for a coat of paint.

“Hey, baby, why don’t you come with us to the patio?” Your father calls and you oblige, skipping toward the two men.

The patio is where they stored their models waiting to be shipped out to agencies or sometimes, for the higher profile clients, directly to the customer. You look at the new line to be launched next winter: sleek and modern with leather seats and wooden accents on the interior. You could never criticise the Jeon’s for their taste, they knew their stuff. 

“Come here, baby,” Your father waves his hands, “What do you think of this car?” 

You study the convertible in a bright red with a cream leather interior; a classic. 

“It’s gorgeous, daddy, when are they launching it?”

“It should be out next year, but what do you think of the colour?”

“I like it,” You nod enthusiastically.

“That’s great baby, why don’t you read up on this model?” He hands you a tiny card, common in the factory, that has the model and batch number, as well as the signature from the supervisor. But just underneath the model, you see the colour name: your name.

As you look at your father, completely astonished, he just lets out a warm laugh and opens his arms for a hug.

“You named a shade after me?!” You glue yourself to him, still in shock. 

“Happy birthday, princess.” 

“Thank you, daddy, you’re the best!” 

“That’s your dad’s present, how about you open mine, now?” Mr. Jeon interjects, waving a tiny jewelry box in the air. 

You fix your hair and take it from his hand, expecting maybe a ring, or earrings. 

But you find brand new car keys.

Mouth agape, you look at him while your father can only laugh at your surprised expression.

“Why don’t you give it a spin?” Mr. Jeon encourages, rushing you toward the convertible. 

And though your father is beside himself with worry for you driving during rush hour, he settles for sitting in the passenger’s seat and doing some good old backseat driving, even though you barely make it past 30.

You drive around the block and return to the factory before your father has an anxiety attack over your driving. 

“Thank you so much, Mr. Jeon! When did you even do this?! I had no idea!”

“Wonwoo oversaw the whole thing, he’s the one you should thank,” He laughs it off, but your heart can only skip a beat at the mention of your beloved’s name. Especially thinking he was the one to take care of such a great gift.

Wonwoo loved mechanics as much as his dad, sometimes even more. He even went to a good college for it, coming back even smarter than before — and much sassier, too. He never stopped doing manual work in the factory, guaranteeing every car made was up to the Jeon standard.

And you were very biased toward his mechanic abilities, especially when he would furrow his brow, glasses perched on the very tip of his nose; he would wipe off sweat off his forehead with his grease covered arm. 

You remember to this day the last time your father came to discuss swatches and you stopped by the shop. Watching Wonwoo work on an older model with a leaky oil tank. 

He did everything himself, changed the tank perched under the car, soldering a brand new one. He also did a once over on anything else that could become a problem in the future, any filters needing change, checking wires and gears, making sure the oil was fresh. The problem came with the lights. He had such a hard time wiggling his thick arms through the machinery to reach the right spot, and you watched very intently how his triceps flexed, deep green veins bulging under his skin.

Wonwoo had gotten so frustrated he’d shed off the top part of his coveralls, sporting a white undershirt so tight you could basically tell the shape of his sweat-clad torso. Oh, how you’d hoped he never got that bulb in place.

“Come’ere,” Wonwoo calls out without further ado. 

“Why?”

“Need your help,” He mumbles under a sigh.

You rise from the barrel you were sitting on and approach the open hood. “With what?”

“Getting this fuckin’ bulb in place,” He hands you the tiny light bulb.

“Where do I need to put it?”

“See— in between this part, need to shove you hand until you reach back here in the light, then you just screw it in.”

“What if I get stuck?” 

“You won’t, you’re so petite,” He smirks.

You scoff, “Shut up.”

Leaning over the hood, you place your left hand on the chassis to steady yourself and shove your right hand in between gears and machinery, trying to find the spot he mentioned.

“I can’t find it,” You complain.

“Keep trying.”

“I am!”

“Here, deeper—“ He reaches for you, one hand on your waist and another on your arm, forcing you toward the place.

You’re way too focused on finding the damn spot for the light, that you barely notice the proximity at all. 

“Can’t find it!”

“Right, right— My right.”

“It’s the same freakin’ right, you idiot,” You hiss.

He laughs, “Fine, our right,” you groan at his stupid joke, “It should be there, try to bring it closer to you.” 

“Found it!” You squeal with a smile, screwing the bulb in its place. 

“Atta girl,” Wonwoo smiles. 

“There!” With a relieved sigh, you finally free your grease-clad hand from the machinery, slightly cringing at the black covering your fingernails — It’d be such a bother to clean it up. 

When you finally lean back, you stumble onto Wonwoo’s firm chest. Lucky for you, he catches you, steady hold at your waist. You’re finally aware of his proximity, to which he only smiles. 

Looking down at where his warm, tauntingly large hands meet your waist, you’re suddenly filled with nothing but rage. ‘

“You got grease all over my dress!” You whine, looking at the perfectly stamped print of his hand over your brand new summer dress. 

He only laughs, “Looks better this way, trust me.”

“Ugh!” You groan, stomping toward the washing area where they kept clean rugs. 

He closes the hood with a loud thump that echoes through the shop and slides into the driver’s seat. The car comes alive with a loud hum and ta-da! The headlight works. 

You are a little proud of your work, yes. But it’s not like you’ll show it.

“Do you not anything clean in here?!” You complain, eyeing the pile of grease-covered rags thrown in a corner. That had to be a fire hazard.

“What?” Wonwoo shouts over the running engine.

You huff and stomp your way back to the car, throwing open the driver’s door. “I have a formal dinner to go to,” You state, leaning over the door.

“Okay, then go.” 

Rolling your eyes, you hold back any possible insults, “Like this?” You gesture toward your otherwise perfectly fine dress. 

He holds back a little mischievous smile, “I have some clean clothes in the office.”

Wide eyes, mouth hanging agape, you stare at him dumbfound, “I hope that’s a joke, Jeon Wonwoo.” 

He laughs, genuinely. That sweet, deep, dorky laugh of his that reverberates through his chest and plunges straight into your heart. 

“Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

As much as he did tease you, Wonwoo never made short on his promises. 

“Is he around?” You ask Mr. Jeon, trying your best to suppress any expectations.

“Oh, he had some business… But he wished you a happy birthday.”

Your smile falters before your catch it, forcing the corners of your lips into a beautiful, rehearsed smile. “Let him know I’m grateful. For the wishes and for the amazing present.”

It would soon be Wonwoo’s birthday and you had been preparing for what felt like ages. You got him a really nice set of electric work tools since he complained often about how the shop’s tools were always malfunctioning. But you did feel somewhat bad about only getting him a gift relating to work on what should be a day about him. 

So you caved in and got him a gorgeous wrist watch with classy black leather straps; on the underside you had his name inscribed with a heart. — You actually hadn’t planned for the heart, but the jeweller got confused in between so many orders and it was too close to the date to have it re-done. You hoped you could play it off in a cool manner, maybe he would laugh at your story.

The party would be held the eve of his actual birthday, and you arrived at the venue with hours to spare. Your father and sister are by the entrance, speaking to Mr. Jeon, you greet them.

“Hi, Mr. Jeon! Where should I put the gifts?”

“Oh—“ Surprised, he looks at your father, “You’ve brought gifts—“ He seems… surprised? As if it were so weird to bring presents to a birthday party. “Uh— I’m not sure, let me check with my wife where you could place those.”

You father nervously sips on his champagne, avoiding your sister’s burning looks.

“You haven’t told her,” Your sister turns to your father, “Why didn’t you tell her?”

“Tell me what?” You ask.

“Honey… This isn’t Wonwoo’s birthday party…” Your father speaks very slowly, gauging for your reaction at his every word.

Eyebrows raised, you question, “What do you mean?”

“It’s an engagement party, he’s getting engaged to Suzy,” Your sister rips the band-aid off.

And you feel the air being sucked out of your lungs at once, an agonising knot pulls at your throat and your nose stings with the threat of tears. The shopping bags fall from your hands and you fight off the urge to bawl your eyes out. 

Before you actually do cry your eyes out, you rush outside.

“Baby—“ Your father calls but you just storm off, not wanting to be near anyone. 

Engaged? Engaged!

Engaged…

Wonwoo was getting fucking engaged. 

With a bitch named Suzy who had the prettiest hair you’d ever seen and knew how to talk to investors and could speak a thousand languages. And worst of all, she was the kindest, sweetest girl ever. You couldn’t even hate her!

You weren’t even allowed that! As much as you weren’t allowed a simple heads up. How hard was it to tell you beforehand “Hey, the guy you’ve loved your entirely life is getting married to some girl and you just brought lemon pies to his engagement party, thought you’d want to know.”

Maybe you should’ve taken the pies with you, at least you’d have some comfort. 

You know what, what the fuck. Why didn’t Wonwoo tell you anything?! It had been barely a couple of days since you saw each other, why couldn’t he tell you? Were you not even worthy of that? 

Like having known each other your entire lives doesn’t make you worthy of such ”wonderful” news? How hard is it to tell someone in passing that you’re getting engaged! And now, you’re supposed to smile all night and pretend like your guts aren’t festering in rage and melancholy and your blood doesn’t run cold at the mere thought of Wonwoo walking down the aisle.

Giving it a second thought, maybe it wasn’t set in stone yet. 

It’s the modern times and even back in your parents’ days, engagements were broken off all the time! He might not marry Suzy. You might have a chance. 

Maybe you could ask— no, you could plead with your father to tell Mr. Jeon to think it all over. Wonwoo is still young, it’s not time to settle down just yet. He wanted to study abroad, he talked about the automobile industry in Europe with such amaze, and if that took a little longer, maybe Suzy would get tired of waiting?

Who were you fooling? You should’ve seen it coming.

Of course, he wouldn’t have married you, what were you thinking?!

He’s the Jeon’s precious firstborn and you’re… someone who can’t even tell apart the sizing in wrenches —  To top it all off, Suzy was notably great with mechanics. 

You really wish you had those pies with you, it would make your salty tears a little sweeter.

By the time you’re done sobbing in your car, you look a hot mess with runny make-up and swollen eyes. With a sigh, you pull out your purse and muster up any cosmetics that can save you for tonight. 

You could cry all you wanted at home, but right now, you needed to look pretty and have your pictures taken.

By the time you return, the party is to start and guests are gathering at the front, your sister immediately rushes to your side.

“Are you okay?” she whispers, soft hands reaching for yours. 

Forcing out a smile, “Of course! Who do you think I am?”

By the look on her face, you know she doesn’t trust your words not one bit, but will not pry at your emotions any further. At least not for tonight, you’re sure tomorrow she will grill you about this. But for now, you put on a bright smile and greet all the guests.

From the Jeon’s, Seokmin is the third to arrive, missing only by the birthday boy himself. But he immediately greets his parents and comes to greet your family.

“Hey!” You smile, putting aside your glass of champagne so you can hug him properly.

“How you doin’?” He asks, gorgeous smile on display. 

“I’m— Well—“

“They’ve told you then—“ 

You press your lipstick coloured lips into a thin line, “Yeah,” You nod.

“Shit.”

“Yeah,” You shrug, “I’m happy, Suzy is… a—“ Nice words. Nice words. “—wonderful girl.”

Seokmin offers you a sweet smile. “Let’s hope she can handle his tantrums,” he nudges at your arm.

“Oh, please!” You laugh.

Wonwoo was known for sometimes having a bit of a short temper, not often, by any means and maybe that’s what made them so memorable. Like the one time he couldn’t finish a puzzle during game night, so he gathered all the pieces and set the ablaze in the backyard.

“Or—“ A waiter passes by with a tray full of champagne and he so kindly grabs two glasses, offering you one. “Listen to this— He gets to the church, covered in grease from head to toe.” 

You laugh at the thought. Gods, how many times has Wonwoo decided to work on an engine while wearing his most expensive outfit? His mother nearly had a fit every time he would show up dishevelled and smelling like motor oil pretending like nothing’s wrong. 

“Please,” You sip at your drink, “I bet he’s gonna be all greased up tonight.”

Seokmin laughs wholeheartedly. He was the sort of guy to never hold back a fit of giggles no matter how inappropriate it may be, and it was certainly refreshing to know someone genuinely found your company enjoyable.

“For sure, I think her parents will freak out.” 

You nod. 

Tapping at your glass, you hesitate the following words, “Guess we’ll be the ones getting married for the family, then…”

You didn’t hate Seokmin, far from it. You loved him to bits— Not like Wonwoo, of course, you believed you would never love a man like you loved Wonwoo, ever again. 

He was funny, and such a gentleman. Not to mention, handsome, too. If you weren’t hopelessly in love with his brother, he would’ve been the perfect husband of your dreams. But he did deserve better than a wife who could never give him what he deserves. 

“Sorry about that,” Seokmin comforts you and that only makes your nose sting with the threat of more tears.

“Stooop!” You whine in a shaky voice and he’s overcome with worry.

“Hey— What’s wrong—?”

“Don’t be so sweet— I’m emotional tonight—“ You laugh at your emotional state, despite the teary-eyes.

“Are you a crybaby tonight?”

You nod, fanning your eyes in the hope of drying your tears before they can wash away your makeup.

Seokmin smiles, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and you lean against his chest, fighting the urge to cry.

It’s only when you’re certain you won’t bawl your eyes out, that you respond. “It’s not that I hate you, you know I love you, but… You deserve someone that will love you like a husband.” 

He nods, “I know— But it might not be so bad, we’re friends! We’ll have sleepovers every day, and we’ll have Italian every night, we’ll watch those silly movies you like…” Seokmin lists off all the things you would do in your very platonic marriage and it doesn’t sound so bad. 

He knew exactly how you felt, he loved you, of course he did, you were so precious in his eyes, but not like a lover. 

You pull your face away from his chest to look up at him, “Are you gonna let me choose your clothes?” 

Seokmin sighs. You hated his questionable fashion since forever and in only very rare occasions did he accept your input, any other time and he assaulted your spirit with clashing patterns and silly shoes.

“Fine—!” 

You smile brightly, properly comforted. 

Before you can tease him any further, you spot Wonwoo entering the venue. Although he is immediately swarmed with congratulatory words, his shy nature makes it so his only response is always an awkward smile. 

He immediately spots you among the crowd.

You breathe in. In that moment, despite knowing he was sworn to another, that did not stop your heart from fluttering at the sight of him, his broad shoulders and the crooked tie he clearly put on a rush.

“Congrats, bro!” Seokmin is the first one to greet him, not letting go of your shoulder but instead pulling Wonwoo into a semi-hug. 

“Seokmin…” Wonwoo eyes his brother and then you, and then his brother again.

“Congrats, Nonu,” You smile, letting go of Seokmin’s comfort to reach for a hug. 

Wonwoo smiles, letting you cling onto his neck, your citric perfume seeping into his clothes and body. 

Oh, how his warmth could never compare to another. How you craved his affection like no other. 

“Thanks— Uh, did you bring me anything?” He asks in a teasing tone.

“Ey— Nonu!” Seokmin scolds his brother. 

“How did you know I brought you something?” You giggle, pulling away from the hug. 

Wonwoo shrugs. 

You reach for his crooked tie, straightening it to the best of your abilities. “I brought it earlier, but I think your mum took it to the back room,” You explain, focused on the tie.

He, however is focused on your concentrated face, parted red lips and furrowed brows. The proximity that lets him almost feel your chest pressed against his, as if extending the hug. 

“However, you, mister, have to greet your guests!” You scold, setting his tie in place.

Seokmin joins in, once again throwing his arm around your shoulder. “That’s right, mum already gave me an earful about how late you were— And I got here on time!” 

“Yeah— Yeah— You’re right,” Wonwoo nods.

“Liquid courage?” You offer your half-drunk glass of champagne and he downs it in one go.

You and Seokmin goof around a little more and gossip about certain guests behind their backs. Dinner is served and you all sit down to eat, Seokmin insists you sit beside him, which just so happens to also be next to Wonwoo. And you thank him for indulging you one last time.

Wonwoo is mostly quiet, but you were used to him not being rather fond of public parties, especially when all of the attention is on him. On his other side, sits Suzy, the blushing bride-to-be. She tries to make conversation with Wonwoo, though most of it falls flat, he only ever gives her monosyllabic answers and rarely contributes to discussions. 

That is until Mr. and Mrs. Jeon stand up, tapping forks to their glasses to call for everyone’s attention. The room quiets down instantly. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending our little gathering tonight,” Mr Jeon greets the guests. “We have some wonderful news we would like to share with you all.” 

“My beautiful son, how proud I am of you,” He adds, “Every day I am  amazed at your intellect. Often, I question just where did you get those smarts!”

Everyone laughs.

“You have grown into a fine man, and I can’t take credit for any of it. You are the most mature, talented, and intelligent boy and you did it all by yourself— ”

You can watch how Wonwoo’s eyes gloss over with tears. 

“I’m growing old, you know. And every father wants the guarantee that his children will be taken care of… That’s why I’m so relieved and happy to announce that my worries will soon be gone—“ He laughs but his son’s smile falters, “I’d like to announce the engagement of my son, Wonwoo, to this beautiful young lady named Suzanne. Welcome to the family, Suzy.” 

He raises his glass and soon, the room fills with uproar. Everyone claps and you join in, smiling toward Mr. Jeon and Suzy. She stands up, thanking everyone and raising her own glass.

But Wonwoo doesn’t move. 

“Nonu?” You whisper. 

In his ears all that can be heard is muffled screams of joy and the incessant acute ringing. He closes his fists so tight that his blunt nails almost break through skin, he doesn’t look at you, but it’s so clear something is wrong.

You and Seokmin exchange glances. 

Before you can call for him again, he stands up at once, the chair falling behind him with a loud bang that silences the room in an instant. In large and rushed strides, Wonwoo leaves for the patio. 

You stand up and follow him. 

“Wonwoo!” You call out, almost tripping over your party heels. 

He stands in the yard, hand gripping at his gelled hair while the other fights with his tie, pulling at the suffocating fabric until it slides down.

The yard is decorated with a gorgeous fountain, sound of running water somewhat soothing in this moment.

“Nonu, what’s wrong?” You whisper, a hand reaching for his heaving shoulder.

“What wrong?!” He yells back, shoving your hand away, “Did you not fuckin’ hear ‘em?!” 

You step back and his gaze somewhat softens, realising he just pushed you.

“You didn’t know…” You whisper to yourself, epiphany hitting you like a punch to the gut. How could Mr. Jeon do this?! Throw this on him without any previous warning?!

“You— You knew?” His voice is shaky, laced with the sharp sting of betrayal.

“I found it out myself tonight when I got here— I— I thought you knew! I thought you agreed to it!” You argue. 

“How— How can you think I would agree to marry someone—“ His words trail off in the night breeze, never to be finished. 

“Then— What will you do?”

“I don’t know!” 

You bite at your nails, finding a concrete surface to sit on and ponder. 

“I must leave—“ He speaks out, “Run away with me—“

“What?!” you stand up.

“Let’s leave, drive somewhere— Wherever! I can’t stay a moment longer in this place.” 

Oh, what a dilemma it was.

Abandon an engagement party with the groom-to-be, leaving behind furious parents and confused guests. And part of you knew that, despite your family’s closeness and no matter how much your father claimed you were all very close like family, driving off in the middle of the night with a committed man was a blow to any respectable, single, young ladies.

What a dilemma it could’ve been if you weren’t so enamoured with this man you would beck at any given call of his.

“I’ll get my bag and tell your parents you want to stay out here for a couple of minutes,” You announce and he nods.

As you walk back into the venue, all eyes are on you.

“He’s got the wedding jitters, everyone, not to worry. Wonwoo will return after he’s had a bit of fresh air,” You announce with a smile and all guests return to their previous activities.

But Mr. Jeon immediately corners you.

“What is he thinking?!” He half-yells, half-whispers.

“He’s just nervous, it’s a big bit of news…” You lie through your teeth, “I think a little heads up would’ve helped, you know he doesn’t do well with surprises.”

The man sighs, “He wouldn’t ever agree to it. I’ve offered him countless girls to marry and he never accepts any of them.“ Mr. Jeon looks at you and then sighs. “Do me a favour, convince him to come back, will you?”

“Yes, sir,” You nod and head off into the back rooms.

Unbeknown to you, Seokmin is on your trail and he waits until you are in the back lounge, gathering your bags and jacket to close the door and corner you.

“What the hell happened?”

You jump at the sudden intrusion, “You scared me!” You whisper.

“Sorry,” He whispers back.

“He didn’t know!”

“What?!” He says in a normal tone, soon realising just how loud that was. 

“What I said, I think your dad set up a trap… He knows Wonwoo won’t go against his word.”

“Shit. What are we gonna do?”

“He wants to run away,” You announce.

Seokmin looks at you, and then at the purse hanging from your should and the jacket in your hands. 

“And you’re coming with him?”

“I can’t leave him alone, not tonight.”

“And where are you going?”

“I don’t know,” 

“And when are you coming back?”

“I don’t know.”

“You are coming back, right?”

“I have no idea, Seokmin,” You realise, but the prospect doesn’t scare you as badly.

He scratches at his head. “Leave through the kitchen, I’ll hold off my dad. Make sure to give me a call once you guys are… I don’t know— Just give a call, will you?” 

You nod, pulling him into a hug.

Doing as he instructed, you pass through the kitchen staff and rush through the backdoor, unseen by the guests. Wonwoo is sitting on a concrete bench, his head between his hands.

“Ready?” You call out.

Wonwoo looks up, nodding before he rises to his height. You offer him a comforting smile and reach for his hand. 

Once you get hold of his hand, you bolt across the yard toward the parking lot. He almost stumbles over his lanky legs, but catches up rather fast. You throw your stuff on the backseat and enter your car, Wonwoo decides to jump over the door. 

You laugh at his antics with a shake of your head. 

Once your heels are discarded, you start the engine and drive off, leaving behind that dreaded engagement party. Wonwoo busies himself with shedding his formal wear, throwing his tie on the floor and removing his blazer. 

In any other occasion, this could’ve been such a lovely late-night drive, just the two of you in your beloved car, night breeze caressing your faces with her ice-cold kisses, cruising through deserted roads, barely a soul in sight except for the night owls.

And you might allow yourself to enjoy this moment.

The silence isn’t a bother, no, Wonwoo was always a man of comfortable silences to you, but this once, you’re worried about goes on in that busy mind of his.

“You alright?” You ask, looking away from the road to steal a glance or two at him.

“Yeah,” He replies.

“Truly?”

“No,” He scoffs at his own lie. “But I’ll be.”

You nod. 

You drive out of town and on the interstate roads for ages until Wonwoo finally speaks up. You’re completely engulfed in darkness except for your headlights.

“We should stop soon and have a rest.”

“Okay,” You nod, “Any preferences?”

“Anywhere.” 

And so you tell him to keep his eyes peeled open when a sign on the road says there should be a motel in the next couple KM. It doesn’t take too long before you’re pulling into the parking lot of a roadside motel, much of a far-cry from your expensive hotels and luxury living. 

You check in at the front desk with an old man who seems very unhappy with his life, he short of throws the keys your way. 

The room is… surprisingly nice, given the circumstances of the ambience. Only problem is the, although quite large, singular bed. You exchange glances.

“Shit,” Wonwoo curses, “I’m gonna 

“You wanna get hit?” You joke, “He’s minutes away from killing us over this room. We can just share the bed.”

He looks at you with wide eyes. “I’ll sleep in the tub.”

Oh, he certainly seems to hate the idea of sharing a bed with you, huh.

“Nonu, please, it’s late and we’re both tired. It will be just like when we were kids,” You explain, setting aside your stuff.

Wonwoo nods, sitting on the strangely comfortable bed.

“You think they have robes?” You ask, looking around.

“Wouldn’t bet on it.” 

“Oh, I’d kill to get out of this dress,” You whine, running to the bathroom to check for anything you could wear instead of your dress. 

He just bites at his lips, watching you pace from side to side in that tiny bedroom. 

That’s when you remember your forgotten shopping bags sitting in the trunk! Your compulsive shopping habits just saved you from a very uncomfortable night’s sleep, how convenient!

“I think I have some clothes in my car,” You announce, grabbing the keys and heading toward the door.

“Wait, you’re going by yourself? let me go with you.”

“I don’t wanna lock the door, though,” You whine.

He sighs, “Stay here, I’ll go.” 

You jump, “Thank you, Nonu!”

While Wonwoo rummages through your trunk and pulls out the surprising large amount of shopping bags, you shed off your clothes and head toward the bathroom, dying to get some hot water on your body, put on your new PJs and doze off. 

When he returns however, he is greeted by a sight any other man would die to see. You’ve left a trail of clothes from the bed toward the bathroom door. Starting on your pretty dress, splayed out over tiled-floor, and then your tights and then your underwear, matching, too— 

He clears his throat. “I’m back!” 

But you probably don’t hear him through the running shower, so he just sets down the bags and avoid the sight of your clothes. He decides to turn on the tiny TV and browse through any late night re-runs. You take only a couple of minutes in your shower.

“Nonu?” You ask from the bathroom.

“Yeah?” He turns down the TV.

“Did you find the clothes?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you bring me something to wear?” Wonwoo gulps. 

“Uh— Which one?”

“There should be a light blue bag and a pink one.” 

“Okay—“ He stands up and searches for the aforementioned colours. 

Wonwoo heads to the bathroom door and leans against the wall, facing away from the door. He knocks once. You open the door and shove your arm through, reaching for the bags.

“Thank youu!” 

He returns to the boring TV. Though all he could think about was the sight of your wet supple skin, knowing you were bare with only a thin sheet of plywood separating you. 

You leave the bathroom smelling of cheap soap and fresh into your brand new nightgown. It is tentatively short with an almost see-through round of lace over the hems. In your defence, you weren’t planning on showing this nightgown to anyone anytime soon. 

Sitting on the bed, you look around the room, not noticing how Wonwoo’s eyes don’t really meet yours or how red his ears seem to burn.

“Aren’t you gonna shower?” You ask.

“Feels a bit redundant to shower and get back into my dirty clothes.” 

“I think I might have something for you, if you don’t want to sleep in a suit,” You pry.

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow, “I’m listening.”

“But you can’t judge! I bought this for my dad because you know he deals very poorly with the heat— And he never buys himself anything!” You’re explaining yourself in advance because you remember very well what you bought.

Silky boxer shorts and a tank top, which your father loved to sleep in on stuffy summer nights but you doubted would be Wonwoo’s first choice of wear, ever.

He haggles with his own mind; give into the silky boxer shorts or sleep in the most uncomfortable outfit ever. With a tired sigh, Wonwoo accepts his fate and grabs the bag. 

You smile as he stomps toward the bathroom with a defeated frown.

By the time he returns, you’ve cleaned up your trail of clothes and made yourself very comfortable in the bed. You turn your head to face him.

God, he could make a potato sack look good. 

“How’s the fit?” You pull your eyes away before you look for too long. 

Wonwoo shrugs, “I’ve had worse.”

You laugh.

He coyly joins you in bed, keeping a large gap between your bodies, settling on top of the covers while you’re under their warmth. 

“Ain’t you cold?” You ask, fidgeting with the TV remote. 

Wonwoo shakes his head, leaning back into the headboard. With a pout, you cross the figurative bridge between the two of you and reach for him. He doesn’t shy away from your touch but it visibly confused.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, hands hovering in the air, far away from your exposed back.

“I’m sorry your birthday party sucked,” You murmur against his chest, Wonwoo smiles softly, letting his hands rest on you.

“It didn’t suck in its entirety,” he says, palms slightly tapping at your back, “it was fun running away with you.”

You giggle at his comment, heart fluttering at its meaning, “What are we going to do? About the engagement, I mean…”

“We?” He raises an eyebrow.

You pull away from him.

“Well— You dragged me into this!” You slap at his chest and he lets out a boisterous laugh that almost manages to pull the corners of your from into a smile.

“I know, I’m taking the piss out of you,” He extends his arms, pulling you back to your previous position, resuming the soft caresses he leaves on your arms. “I don’t know— This is the first time I’ve ever gone against my father.”

You sigh. “Don’t you wanna marry Suzy?”

There’s a pause and oh, you’re begging, wishing to hear the words you want most.

“Fuck no!” Wonwoo exclaims and you fail to hide your excitement.

“She is pretty,” You throw the bait, to pry at his true feelings.

“So is your sister, should I just marry any pretty girl?”

You raise from your position, eyebrows furrowed into a deep frown. Wonwoo looks at you, completely clueless to his words and its consequences.

“What the hell?!” 

“What?” 

Kicking off the covers in a flurry, you kneel on the bed, staring at him dead in the eyes.  “You have the hots for my sister!”

It’s Wonwoo’s turn to get angry, “What?! No— You’re twisting my words—“

“I’m twisting your words?! You just said you think my sister is pretty!” 

“Because she is!”

You jaw drops, you can’t believe he is doubling down. “Wow,” you shake your head. 

“What’s wrong with saying that?”

You shrug, turning away from him and crossing your arms. “I don’t know, why don’t you just go an marry my sister, then.”

Only then, does this thick-headed man you love so much realise he has been complimenting other girls without so much as telling you a single nice word — the bare minimum. He sighs and offers you a soft smile, shifting in the bed until he is near you again.

“I don’t want to marry your sister. I think she is pretty, but she’s not the prettiest sister, you are.” He waits for your reaction.

Hook, line and sinker. 

You turn around immediately, a hint of smile playing in your pretty lips. 

That’s enough for him to break into a wide smile, opening his arms to welcome you back into his warmth. You crash into his chest, wrapping yourself around his torso. 

He groans, falling back into the mattress but not letting go of you.

Minutes pass before you speak again. “It’s past midnight…” You whisper.

“It’s well past midnight… Why?”

You shift upwards until your faces are only inches apart, breath tickling his lips, your beautiful eyes gleaming under dim motel lighting. “Happy birthday,” You whisper between smiles, “Make a wish.” 

Wonwoo breathes in, eyes scanning your face, “There’s one thing I want…” 

“What is it?” 

If he said it out loud, he might’ve lost all courage to do so. 

So he just does it, Wonwoo leans forward until his lips meet yours in a chaste kiss. 

It probably lasted a couple of seconds, but those seconds felt like a lifetime when you were finally kissing the man you’ve loved for god knows how long. There’s a spark of electricity that burns bright from the moment your lips touch and travels through your body, blood boiling in excitement, shyness, and pure love. 

When the kiss ends, Wonwoo studies your face, watching for any sign of discomfort. Which is even more worrying when you’re standing there, froze solid with an empty stare.

But thankfully, before he can say anything, you throw caution into the wind. 

You pull him into a kiss. Throwing every sense of morale and shame you had out the damn window. He was a man sworn to another, for Pete's sake! But here you here, crashing your lips into his perfect, soft ones. 

Wonwoo lets out a quiet groan, almost inaudible, but you hear it, oh yes, you do. And it runs straight through your chest and down to your core. 

Although the sensible, rational part of your brain tells you to quit kissing him at once and just apologise, the other 99% of your brain, who’s been in love with him since forever, wants nothing of the sort. And you might have listened to the not-so-rational part of you, because you just deepened the kiss, shifting your weight until you’re partially on top of him.

Your lips move against him, shyly exploring this kiss, engraving every moment into your memory. 

Yet he reciprocates. His warm hands finds your waist, holding you flush against his torso, heartbeats thumping completely in-sync. You wrap your arms around his neck and he takes the chance to pull you deeper into those dangerous lips of his. His tongue finds its way into your mouth, licking and twirling against yours, hot and eager. 

He dips his head, one hand reaches to tangle into your hair and manoeuvre you around, allowing himself complete freedom to explore every bit of your mouth. 

Wonwoo kisses like no other. Not that you had too much of a repertoire to compare him to. 

But he consumes your lips with an unbound hunger, nothing similar to the calm and collected Wonwoo you knew, no. He’s hungry, messy, and very clumsy, clashing teeth one too many times, letting saliva drip down your chins and struggling to move with you on top of him.

When you part the kiss, you lay there breathless, gazing into his ridiculously beautiful beady eyes and long eyelashes, his handsome sharp nose and the most kissable lips you’ll ever see.

 It was breathtaking, mind-blowing and nothing like you’ve ever felt before. Your heart beats so fast you feel as if you might pass out at any moment but you’d die before you give up experiencing that again.

“What was that?” He whispers and his breath tickle your kiss-swollen lips. 

“Your birthday gift,” You bite at your lower lip. “Did you like it?”

Wonwoo smiles, breathless and half-lidded and your heart damn near bursts. “I did. Did you?”

You nod.

He nods. “Wanna do it again?”

You nod and he gives you that stupidly handsome smile of his.

And once again, you’re attached at the lips. This once, nothing like before, which you though impossible. It’s so much more desperate and it burns, it boils your blood in absolute desire. It leaves you light-headed, it wipes away your cognitive thoughts and leaves behind a foggy cloud of barely strung-together words that only translate into wanting more. More of him. 

You sigh into the kiss and he drinks it all up, he consumes everything you give him with erratic hands and eager tongue. 

Wonwoo leaves your lips and you whine with a breathless sigh of his name, almost chipping at any resolve he had left. But he nips at your neck nonetheless, warm, wet tongue trailing along your skin, making you twitch in his arms with the most delectable little ‘yips’ of surprise. 

He bites, feral and determined; determined to make his claim, to leave behind his mark on your body, to indulge in carnal pleasure without a prospect of tomorrow, letting everything else be a construct beyond these motel walls, away from where you laid. Away from this reality where he had you in his hands and you moaned his name with a soft smile.

Practically tearing your nightgown, he pulls the silky fabric just enough until your tits spill out of its confine. Wonwoo sighs at the sight, fingers trailing the contour of your boobs, raising goosebumps along sensitive skin. His eyes are burning in adoration, the most depraved glaze of hunger hidden behind sheer excitement. 

He dives in, hands kneading at the flesh, squishing soft skin. 

Slender fingers caress your aereolas, running fingernails along your nipples in curiosity, watching you squirm and bite at your lips as your nipples begin to perk up. 

And when you thought he was done, Wonwoo attaches his mouth to your nipple, sloppily running his tongue around it before he sucks. He makes sure to let his teeth graze, just to watch you jump.

All while his other hand makes work of your unattended boob, your attention is so thinly divided between his teasing fingers and his hot tongue and the sweetest, most satisfied groans that erupt from his throat. 

Your face burns and you bite at the back of your hand, shoving down every stubborn moan that tries to make it past; but he won’t have that, no. Wonwoo reaches for your arms, pinning them above your head without so much as pulling away from your tits. 

Mindlessly, you’ve been rocking back and forth against him, chasing a gut feeling you’re unsure of but desire more than anything ever. And without realising, you’ve been teasing him just as much as he has you, which is clear by the volume contained by his shorts. 

He wishes he could ravish your breasts all night, but any more of your squirming and he will come undone without so much as a touch from you. 

Wonwoo pulls away, hands once against finding your waist as he pulls you back to his chest.

“You know what comes next, don’t you?” He whispers against your lips, half-lidded, lust-filled eyes gazing so deep into your own. 

“I— I’ve never done it before,” You confess.

And something stirs within him, to know he is your first, the first and only man to every touch you this way, to trace his lips over your gorgeous body, to settle inside of you. 

Wonwoo smiles and kisses your nose, “I don’t care… But only if you don’t care that I haven’t either.”

You’re surprised, to say the least. 

Kissing in between smiles, you raise to your knees, letting him tug at the hem of shorts just enough to free his cock. 

It’s nothing like you’ve seen before and unlike the illustrations you remember from school. It’s red and veiny and it glistens with pre-cum under the dim lighting.

But it’s a part of him and you can’t help that your belly stirs at the sight of him stroking himself. 

When you reach for the hem of your nightgown, his hands stop you.

“Keep it on—“ He whispers.

“Why?”

“We’ve got all night to take it off,” He runs his tongue through his top teeth with a side smirk and you almost smack him up the head for being such a little shit.

As he asked so kindly, you bunch up your nightgown around your waist, hips circling around his warmth, meanwhile he’s playing with the flesh of your love handles, kneading and running his fingers over your skin. 

“Ready?”

You nod. He raises your hips and lets you control the pace, you feed in his cock, centimetre by centimetre, feeling it’s girth tear at your walls with an unimaginable sting, it burns hot and heavy in your hands.  

Crashing onto his chest, you cry out a pained yelp.

Wonwoo run his fingers over your back, kissing the top of your head, his eyebrows are bunched up, face painted with worry.  “We can stop— Let’s stop—“

“No!” you raise your head and he can see the tiny droplets bundling around your eyelashes, “Just gimme a minute!”

So you sit there, his cock half-in, pulsing angry red and throbbing under the  tease of warmth and tightness. Especially when you look so breathtakingly gorgeous, he gulps, leaning back against the headboard, urging his mind to be strong. 

It takes you minutes to get used to it, to slowly let the size settle until your muscles are well and accustomed to it and then you start it all over again, feeding the remaining inches until he’s bottomed out. 

And oh heavens, how utterly full and hot you felt. Despite the stinging pain, part of you wants to chase the pleasure, clenching in sheer hunger. 

Wonwoo stares up at you, looking for any signs of discomfort but he is met with the most enticing, beautiful, and tempting creature he’s ever laid his eyes upon. Your eyes are glassy with tears, but you’ve got a determined look on your face with a hint of a smirk that sends shivers down his spine and up his cock. 

“Shit,” He curses out with a smile, leaning back and rutting into your hips only to watch your eyebrows furrow and your mouth gape, a moan threatening to escape. “Ready to move, pretty girl?”

You breathe out, “Yeah.”

Steadying yourself against his chest, you raise your hips, feeling his absence leave you upsettingly empty until you let your body crash back down, his cock impaling you with its warmth once again. You rock against him, shallowly, though the motion is unbearably teasing, even for you. 

Wonwoo lets out an obscene, strained moan, fingernails digging into your waist, but you’re too focused on rocking your hips to notice. How he wants nothing but to piston his hips into your pussy like there is no tomorrow, he relishes in the feeling of your warmth, tight and gummy around his throbbing member. 

And he finds you might be just as insatiable as he is, especially when you’ve found yourself a steady pace, bouncing up and down, and his name pours out of your lips in such a beautiful manner. Though he can’t just let you have all the control, can he?

“Oh—“ You yip, “Feels so— Good—“ Still unsure of your thought, you explore the feeling, rolling your hips, feeling him stretch your wider, fill your insides and leave you full like you’ve never felt before. 

His hips meet yours half way, chasing your cunt every time you leave and pounding into you when you come back down, filling the room with guttural groans and the lewd sound of skin against skin. 

You run your fingers under his shirt, feeling bare, warm skin, the softness of his flesh against your hands, the definition of his pecs and the way his nipples peek through the fabric. Wonwoo groans at the way your manicured nails scratch at his chest, gathering momentum as you bounce yourself on top of him. 

He notices you’ve started moving faster, practically fucking yourself stupid on his cock and he would tease you halfway through tomorrow if he didn’t find himself in such a similar predicament. His pupils are blown wide, eyebrows furrowed across his brow, pretty lips hanging agape. You’re so utterly perfect and you were all his. 

“Tell me how you feel, baby,” He whispers, slowing down for a second. 

You sigh, nuzzling against his neck, “So good— I can’t even describe it—“ Your words are so airy and mindless, you’ve been consumed by the pleasure he gives you.

He catches the sight of the white rim that pools around his member, a mix of your juices, but it’s gone, sheathed inside you before he can admire it. There’s a poisoning thought that flashes in his mind, a fleeting, tempting picture. Of planting his seed in your womb, watching your grow full with child, his child. How absolutely breathtaking you would look, round cheeks and gorgeous smile, pretty fingers caressing your bump. And he would taint your taut stomach with his cum, watching it drip over your skin.

Wonwoo bites his lips so hard it breaks skin, throwing his head back, willing his mind somewhere else, anything else lest he come undone right then and there. 

Stomach tingling with indescribable pleasure, you lean forward, moaning incessantly, unable to contain your ecstasy. He supports your body, wrapping strong arms around your torso, firm hands planted on your hips, taking over the moving so you can lay still and let the buzz consume your body with its electric touch.

It’s a feeling you’ve never felt before, and it crashes over your body in a colossal wave, building up from the pit of your stomach; sending tingles rushing through your boiling blood. 

You raise your head, eyes meeting his and it seems he is familiar with this pleasure. His left hand meets your face, caressing your cheek, yet holding you still so he can gaze, he can watch you come undone around him. 

Wonwoo watches, unblinking, how your eyebrows furry, your eyes are glossy with tears that cling to your pretty lashes, your lips sit in an enticing pout. Yet you part them, letting out increasingly louder cries of his name. 

And you clench around him like there is no tomorrow, egging him on. He thrusts up into you, riding out your orgasm and chasing his over the edge. 

He crashes his lips into yours, savouring your hazy kiss, your tired sighs and it doesn’t take long before he’s spurting hot white strings into you, it trickles down him and stains the silk fabric of his boxers. 

Soon, he stills all movement except for heavy breathing and the soothing circles he runs over your exposed back. 

He kisses your hair. “How do you feel?”

“Good,” You breathe out, “Tired. But good.” 

His chest shakes with a soft chuckle, he runs slender fingers along your hairline, fixing any hairs that cling to sweaty skin. “Me too.” 

“It felt amazing,” You smile, raising your head to face him. “I’ve never felt anything like it.”

Wonwoo hums. 

“I’m glad it was you, Nonu,” You hid your face against his neck in embarrassment at your own mushy words, but Wonwoo feels their extent, hiding the blush of his cheeks. 

It doesn’t take long before the post-orgasm haze lulls you into sleep. 

And you slept like never before. 

The following morning, Wonwoo wakes up to an empty bed. He panics for a second or two, scrambling to look for your belongings, only to find everything is still there.

Calm, he washes himself up and gets dressed to leave. Finally having a moment to digest the previous night’s events. 

He had made up his mind, he would confront his father. His future was his to decide on. 

Looking for you, Wonwoo reaches the foyer, only to see you leaning against the wall, attached to the payphone. When your eyes meet his, you immediately say your goodbyes, ending the call.

“Who did you call?” Wonwoo crosses his strong arms against his chest and you try to ignore the sight of his muscly forearms peeking from the folded sleeves.

You don’t like his tone. “Seokmin.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why did you call him?”

“I promised I would,” You shrug. 

Wonwoo can’t believe you would call Seokmin out of everyone, especially after you were glued to him last night at the party. “Why him?”

“He’s worried about you, you stupid— Stupid—“ You choke out on any mean names, simply stomping away from him. 

Why was Wonwoo being so mean so early in the morning? You thought after the amazing night you spent together things would change between you.   Stomping your way back to your room, you grumble under your breath.

While you’re folding your clothes, Wonwoo comes back. 

“I’ll talk to my father,” He announces. 

Before you can say anything about that, he continues. “We’ll get married— You and I, I mean— ” He clears his throat, “Will you marry me?”

Like a deer in headlights, you’re frozen, staring at him big-eyed with a dopey smile on your lips. 

“You’ll marry me?” You question, just in case you’ve tricked yourself into hearing the words you’ve wanted most. 

“Yes. And I— I’ll take full responsibility—“

You smile crashes into the ground. “You want to marry me out of… Responsibility?!” The words choke you on their way out. 

Wonwoo furrows his eyebrows, not understanding why you would be upset. “Do you not want to?”

“No, I don’t want to fucking marry you!” Not like that.

His face falls and he assumes a much scarier look on his face. “What would you rather marry Seokmin, then?”

And in your fury, you blurt out “Yes! Yes, I would rather marry him!”

You realise your rejection hurt him, you do. But you’re so blindsided by your anger you can’t bring yourself to care, not when he sees you as a responsibility. 

Wonwoo is suddenly not so angry, but indifferent. You watch his expression go away, replaced by one much scarier, in your opinion; nothing. A plain poker face. 

“Gather your things and go to the car.”

It’s all he says before he leaves the room. 

The ride back is the most nerve-racking hours you’ve ever experienced. Wonwoo is silent, even you huff and puff under your breath, angrily chewing on your breakfast of vending machine snacks. 

Though he says one phrase as you reach the city. “Leave me here.” 

And that’s the last you saw of him for over a month. 

Your previous anger dries up, turning into sadness. Then you’re furious. And heartbroken until you’ve accepted your reality. You’ve ruined your friendship and lost the love of your life.

It takes your sister plucking you out of bed for you to finally leave your bedroom in weeks. 

She was the first and only person you’ve told about the night spent with Wonwoo. Your parents were absolutely furious that you’d do something so dangerous, though relieved at your safety, they weren’t easy on their words. 

“He’s not doing well, you know,” You sister says. 

You humph. 

“I’m serious. Daddy said he’s clumsy, keeps messing up his work. I think you should go and see him.”

Closing your eyes, you let out a worrisome sigh. You still cared way too much to hear those news and not do something about it. 

So you dress up in whatever you can find and drive to his shop, building up a speech on your way there and practising every scenario. You just hoped everything could go back to the way it was. 

He’s working on an old model, hunched over the hood in his light blue coveralls, stains of grease from head to toe. 

“Knock knock,” You announced your presence, fidgeting with the hem of your dress, looking forward to meeting his eyes as much as you dread to. 

Wonwoo immediately recognises your voice, turning around to meet your eyes. 

And he looks just as wrecked as you felt. Deep-set eye bags and a tired gaze. Yet he still smiles just as handsomely. 

“Hey,” He greets. 

“Busy?”

“No! No,” Wonwoo scrambles, placing the wrench down removing his gloves. 

“Can we talk?”

“Yeah, I actually— I wanted to talk to you, too.”

It’s somewhat relieving as well at it’s worrying to hear him say that, it could be an apology as well as an insult or something of the sort. 

“We should— We should go to my office, someone might come in—“

“Yeah— We should.” You nod.

You walk into his office, one you’ve visited and killed time in quite often. But coming here after everything feels so crushing, all this distance between you. 

“Go ahead—“

“You first—“

You both say at the same time and that seems to ease the stubborn awkwardness pooling in the air. You laugh. 

“How about we say it together?” 

“On 3?”

“1”

“2”

“3”

Breathing in, you say the words that come to your mind from the bottom of your heart. 

“I want to marry you.”

“I love you.”

“What?!” 

“What?!” Once again, you both say it at the same time.

“You want to marry me?” He breaks into a wide smile.

“And you love me?” The words feel so alien to you, you can barely believe your ears, you feel the tips of your fingers shake in excitement, your heart pounds so strongly against your rib cage you can almost hear the thumping.

Jeon Wonwoo just said he loves you.

“I— Are you sure you want to marry me? You said you didn’t want to!”

“Yes. Well— I’ve loved you since forever! So when you said you wanted to marry me just out of responsibility— I was heartbroken! It’s like you were forced into doing it!”

“I didn’t want to marry you out of responsibility! I’ve been planning to marry you since the beginning—“

You choke, “You what?!”

Wonwoo sighs, “I never wanted to marry your sister and she was well aware of that… We were blessed that she found her husband and when everything went well, I thought— I hoped that it’d mean we’d be the ones to be wed.”

Processing every word, you almost feel dizzy. “But you said you’d take responsibility!” 

“For roping you into running away from my party.” 

“Oh.” You’re beyond embarrassed for assuming and above all, for getting so angry you didn’t even let him explain himself. 

“I should’ve been clearer,” He admits.

“No— I should’ve talked to you.”

Wonwoo smiles. “Thank you.”

With tiny tears threatening to fall, you can only confirm what you want to know the most. 

“You love me?”

“Always,” He smiles.

Wonwoo seems to remember something, he raises his finger in a “wait” motion and leans over his desk, reaching for the top drawer. It’s only when you catch a peek of the velvet box that you almost keel over.

Gulping, he gathers his courage.

In his grease-stained coveralls that smells of expensive cologne and lavender cleaning supplies, Jeon Wonwoo gets down on one knee, nervously looking up at your with his stupidly gorgeous beady eyes and an expectant smile.

“Will you marry me?”

And in your least presentable dress, the one he’d ruined with grease stains and an unruly hairdo, you respond with the biggest smile:

“Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Had you been questioned, there would be an answer to just how long you will love Jeon Wonwoo.

You’ll love him forever. 

[traumasurvivors]

I am finally putting together a FAQ for easy access for people new to my blog since a lot of these posts I think are helpful are buried. Some of these links link to posts on my blog, but some link to my personal website. My website is not monetized in any way, so there should be no ads or anything intrusive.

About Coping

How can I make a self-care box?

Here's some instructions I wrote!

How can I make a safe space?

Here are some ideas!

What are some ways I can ground myself?

Here is an article with a bunch of examples, but there are so many more that aren't listed here!

I'm struggling with trauma around the holidays and/or a traumaversary.

Here's an article I wrote on trauma around the holidays!

Here's an article I wrote with advice for traumaversaries.

General Trauma FAQ

Do I have to forgive them in order to heal?

The short answer is "no." What everyone needs differs. While someone may need to forgive as a part of their healing journey, this isn't necessarily true for everyone. Here's a post I wrote about this.

What about myself? Should I forgive myself?

That's up to you. For some of us, healing is realizing we never needed forgiveness all along. And for others, it can mean that we can't get to a place where we feel we did nothing wrong, and therefore, forgiving ourselves is the best way to move forward. Here's an article I wrote on self-forgiveness.

What is trauma bonding?

This term is often used in a colloquial sense when two people who have suffered trauma bond together over their trauma. This article talks about the technical definition and is about how someone going through trauma forms an emotional bond with the one who is traumatizing or abusing them.

Was it bad enough?

The short answer is yes. But you can read a longer blog post for why here.

I'm struggling with anger after trauma.

That's a really valid way to feel. Here is some more info on it.

What is hypersexuality and/or sex repulsion?

See this article here.

What is Trauma Imposter Syndrome?

This is when a survivor invalidates themselves by saying something like “my trauma isn’t so bad, other people have it worse than me.” Here's my post on it.

How do I talk about my trauma?

First, remember that you do not have to talk about anything you don't want to. But if you do, here are some tips I have.

How do I listen to someone talk about their trauma?

The first thing I want you to remember, when someone tells you that they want to talk to you about their trauma, is that their needs do not negate your own needs. Here's my post on it.

Is Healing Linear?

No. Healing is a rollercoaster. Here's a post on it.

About Abuse and Specific Forms of Trauma

What are some different types of abuse?

Physical abuse, emotional abuse, sexual abuse, financial abuse, cultural abuse. You can read more about these here.

What is Medical Trauma?

It is a vast term that includes many different things, mostly linked to major emotional distress that occurs as a result of hospital stays, illness, or treatment (so yes, therapy trauma is valid.) You can see my longer article here.

What is Parentification?

Parentification is a form of abuse where a child is forced to take on the role of a parent. You can see my longer article here.

Why do I love and/or miss my abuser?

Nothing is wrong with you if you love and/or miss your abuser. There are any number of reasons why you could be feeling this way, and I will share some examples with you. You can see my article on this here!

Other

Are they trying to manipulate me?

While there isn't a clear cut guide, some of the points in this article might help you in getting more information about one of your relationships.

What is consent?

Consent is a freely-given yes. See this post here.

How can I be prepared for sex?

See this post here.

I also wrote this article that covers the same points as the first post, but focuses from a trauma perspective. A lot of the info is the same.

Why is it important to validate my feelings?

See this post here.

I'm struggling with self-harm/What is self-harm?

Here's a post on this.

[vekreng]

Tech - Totally Not Crushing

prompt: "...something with tech and an awkward reader maybe they admit feelings for each other or they are caught being cute by the rest of the batch and they tease them?.." pairing: Tech x Reader words: 2.2k requested: yes!

You didn’t know if you wanted to scream for the sake of screaming or if you wanted to throw yourself in front of some wild beast.

It had been an absolute age since you met the Batch, and him. The individual members were all striking in their own way, but none stood out more to you than Tech.

Your throat buzzed with an idle hum as you watched him tinker on the Marauder. He wasn’t as physically strong as his other brothers, no, but his intellect was unmatched. He could see patterns in nature and people that were indecipherable to most, pointing out what was about to happen before even Hunter could pick it up at times. His mind stored a vast wealth of knowledge on just about everything you could name and then some. He lacked subtlety in only the most adorable way. His round, soft eyes looked gentler still through the amber lenses of his goggles. He checked on you after every mission or trip, asked for your assistance on just about every task.

Time and time again you tried to confess, and time and time again the words died on your tongue. You tried when you were paired up alone on a mission, when you two had to sneak through a palace, when you two were the only ones awake one night in hyperspace. It was always so perfect, except for… for what? Why could you never tell him? Nerves, maybe? Perhaps the way his eyes locked with yours caused you to instantly short circuit and forget everything you ever knew. Yeah. That was definitely it. A very logical explanation. 

Your eyes followed the fluid movement of his hands, his skillful fingers practically dancing through the ship’s wires as he teased out minor bugs in favor of much larger ones that he will try to convince Hunter are actually improvements.

God, you loved him.

If only you could just say it.

“Staring is only going to put him off, you know,” a voice drawled from behind. You whipped around in a panic, only to see Crosshair grinning your way. “Pretty sure you don’t want that.”

“Cross!” You scolded, pinching the bridge of your nose. God, of course it had to be him. “Give a bit of warning next time, maybe?”

“I’m a sniper. It’s quite literally my job to not give any warning.” He pushed himself off the door frame he was leaning on and made his way to your side, leaning down ever so slightly to be more level with you while you both watched Tech work. “What’s your goal here? Memorize every aspect of what he looks like so you can dream about him at night? Or are you going to say something like a normal person?”

“You’re such an ass,” you grumbled, glaring at the ground. “You have no idea how hard this is for me. What if he rejects me? We all live on one very tiny ship, I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle that tension! Or what if I do tell him and he just doesn’t get what I’m saying and I have to spend ages trying to get more and more blunt and obvious about it. Do you really expect me to live out the rest of my life reliving that moment forever?”

“And what if you tell him and he says he feels the same way?” Crosshair argued back. “Talk to him or leave him alone. You make me want to throw up every time I see how lovesick you are over him.”

“I can’t, Crosshair! I freeze up every time I try!” 

The sniper spun you around to face him. “In this line of work, freezing up could mean death for you and your teammates. You take action when it’s needed; I’ve seen you do it. What’s so different about this? Get it together, walk over there, and tell him how you really feel, before you don’t get to tell him at all.”

You could only blink at him.

------

Hunter peeked around the edge of the Marauder briefly to watch you and Crosshair fighting before turning back to Tech. “You’re going to have to face them eventually, you know.”

“I do not understand your meaning. I face them every day.” Tech soldered a broken wire together, tugging lightly on one end to ensure the connection was strong. “Your statement is baseless.”

“You’re misinterpreting my words on purpose,” Hunter pointed out as he waved to Wrecker. The strongest of them all brought over a massive crate of spare parts and started handing bits of them to Tech. “I’ve seen how you are. Somehow, you’ve mastered the art of having as much interaction with them as possible while also avoiding them.”

“I do not avoid anyone.”

Hunter barked out a laugh. “Oh, really? Then why do you only take piloting shifts when theirs isn’t right before or after yours, or run off into only known safe markets and leave us all behind?” He passed a spanner to his brother. “But when we’re in unfamiliar territory, you refuse to leave their side unless one of us is already sticking with them, and even then you try to weasel your way in. Face it, Tech. We all know you’ve got a bit of a crush on them.”

Tech maneuvered to the underside of the ship, his face a light sheen of red. “Ensuring the safety of a teammate is not evidence of a crush, Hunter. I am merely showing caution in hostile territory.”

“I think the only person who doesn’t know that you’re in love is them,” Wrecker butted in, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to where you and Crosshair were squabbling. Hunter glanced over to see that Crosshair had put you in a headlock and refused to release you until you cried uncle. “You’re not really good at hidin’ it, to be honest.”

Tech huffed. “As I keep telling you both, I—”

Hunter suddenly called out your name, cutting Tech off. “We need to get a few more supplies before we take off. Can you help Tech finish things up here while we head to the stalls?”

Crosshair kicked your leg when you opened your mouth. “Yeah, we can’t trust you to get actual essentials. Besides, you probably know as much about the Marauder as Tech does by this point.”

Before you could protest, the three brothers vanished into the shadows of the docking station.

You gulped. Crosshair’s words looped in your head.

It had to happen at some point, you suppose.

Slowly, you walked to where Tech was gathering up his tools. “I thought you had more work to do?”

“I do,” Tech replied, not looking up from his task, “but the remaining repairs are inside the ship.”

Great, you thought as you followed, all alone and in a confined space. What could possibly go wrong?

------

You were pretty sure that you were going to implode if you spent another minute helping Tech in the cockpit. 

Somehow the man was far too close and much too far away at the same time. You inched nearer and he pulled back. You gave him space and he closed in. Every time you opened your mouth to speak he would unknowingly interrupt with some sort of commentary or delegation, and when you closed it he looked at you expectantly for a comment. Ugh, it was infuriating. Just speak already! Tell him you love him!

You took a deep breath. Alright, this time, for sure. No more backing out. You can do this. It’s just three words. You’ve got this.

You steadied the rickety stepladder that Tech insisted on using to reach a panel in the ceiling. A few safety lights had gone out and Hunter was worried that it was an indication of something bad despite the protests of his sibling.

This was it.

Another breath. “Hey, uh, Tech?”

Tech hummed. His head was completely buried in the darkness of the ship’s interior system.

You squeezed your eyes shut to muster up all the courage you possibly could. “Look, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you, for… a while now. And I was hoping that, since everyone else is gone, we could talk— HOLY—”

Tech shouted in surprise as the ancient stepladder finally gave out from underfoot, his flailing limbs knocking the both of you over, crashing hard enough into the floor for you both to see stars briefly.

“That hurt,” you muttered as you forced your eyes back open. It took a second for them to focus, but once they did, you realized with a start that you were looking into Tech’s.

Which were mere inches away from yours.

Because he had also fallen.

Conveniently, you cushioned his fall.

Oh no.

Tech’s mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again, and closed again. Even in your horror you couldn’t help but think that he looked an awful lot like a fish.

“I apologize,” he finally spluttered, scrambling off of you and sitting against the wall. “I, it was not my intention to, I mean, that is….” He hesitated. “I’m sorry. Are you injured?”

You slowly sat up, rubbing a hand over the shoulder that hit the ground first. “A little sore, but I’ll be okay. What about you?”

Tech carefully tilted his head back and forth. “Nothing is broken. My fall was successfully broken, albeit accidentally.” He looked back at you, his goggles askew and one lens fractured. “I should have calculated the risks of using that ladder more thoroughly. My carelessness resulted in your harm; I will grab the bacta patches. Remain here.”

“Tech, wait!”

He paused when your hand landed unexpectedly on his upper arm, staring blankly at it before focusing on you. “Yes?”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “Your… oh, just hold still for a second.” You reached up and removed his goggles, peering at the right lens. The crack didn’t stretch fully across, but the glass was compromised nonetheless and would need a replacement. “They’ll work for now, but I really hope you have a repair kit somewhere for these. Or a whole separate pair.” Carefully, you pulled the bent frame edges back into place before refitting them to his face. “How’s that?”

Tech let out a small puff, the air surprisingly cold against your hot skin.

Wait. Hot?

Oh, you were much closer than you previously thought. Oh. Oh no.

 “Thank you.” Your name escaped Tech’s lips in a whisper.

“Yeah,” you breathed, your head reeling from the proximity between you two. Or the fall and subsequent head injury. “Any time.”

The silence that followed felt like a lifetime, but a clock proved it to be only a few seconds.

“...Tech,” you said slowly, shifting uncomfortably in your seat. The timing felt so off, so wrong, so inappropriate somehow, but you already let too many ‘proper’ opportunities slip by. You couldn’t take the chance again. “Look, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while now. I wanted to tell you that I’m—”

“I love you!” Tech blurted out, grimacing right after for cutting you off.

Now it was your turn to make an impression of a fish.

“I’m… I’ve loved you for some time now. I love your smile, I love the crinkle by your eyes when you squint, I love how you look when you’re lost in thought. I love your laugh, your kindness, the way you look after my brothers just as we do to you. I love the effort you put into helping in any way you can, and how you show grace when someone makes a mistake. I know you’re leaving, but I had to tell you.”

Your finger tapped an uncertain rhythm on the floor of the Marauder, your brain running a thousand miles per second. Tech loved you back? And he thought you were leaving? “Why do you think I’m going away?”

“Echo has gone to work with Captain Rex once more; it was only logical that your recent shift in behavior and desire to express something important indicated you felt similarly,” Tech explained. “Was that… not accurate?”

You couldn’t help but laugh and oh, the sound was so sweet to your own ears. It was a mixture of pure joy and relief. “No, Tech, it wasn’t that. I just wanted to let you know that I love you too.” Your hand found his, your foreheads gently knocking together. “I love how serious you are, how studious you can be, how attentive you are to the world around you. I love how you ask me to explain social mannerisms in exchange for a personalized research dive on whatever I want. I love watching you be confident and skillful in your work, and I love when you let me convince you to relax and let someone else take over. I love you, Tech, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“That makes two of us, then,” Tech smiled. “Though I think any further discussion should be put on hold until we get a bacta patch on your shoulder.”

A snort escaped your nose. “I’ll allow a distraction just this once, so long as you promise to help me out with it.”

“Naturally.”

[theoneandonlylobster]

My Big Damn Ashes of the Academy Thoughts

Okay so honestly I just need to take this panel by panel because frankly my overall impression of the comic is that everyone got replaced Invasion of the Body Snatchers style with people that look the same as they do and have the same name, but have zero idea of the backgrounds or motivations of said characters, and so they were just making shit up as they went along. Like, I write fanfic, I read fanfic. I have, in general, a pretty high regard for fanfic. And of course one of the more common Dangerous Ladies childhood type fics is how did they meet, why are these three very different individuals friends, etc etc.

And this was not even approaching the worst, crappiest, least coherent of that type of fiction I've read over the last nearly two decades.

Ashes of the Academy is a giant nothing burger comic, a fart in an elevator you're trapped with until you can make your escape.

So, without further ado, let's begin:

So right here on the second page of the comic, and the first page with dialogue, we have Ursa letting us know that, apparently, contrary to what we know, the Academy made Azula a bad person. Not her parents, definitely definitely not Ursa. You got that? It was all the Academy's fault. And we will continue beating that ostrich horse the entire rest of the comic, make no mistake!

Ah yes, Ursa, noted Not Ever An Imperialist At All, Not Even Once, Nuh-Uh.

Skipping several pages that would be me saying these two things multiple times...

Credit where credit is due, I like these two panels. I like this tiny glimpse into the friendship of Kiyi and Lihua or whatever here. One, because I imagine this is more like how Azula probably actually was, based on what we see in Zuko Alone. And two, that means Kiyi is unconsciously mirroring her sister and I like that interpretation of her character. It seems that Hicks does too, on a subconscious level. Look at that devious little look on her face! Little shit. Yeah, you cause a ruckus! Adorable.

I'd be lying if I said this didn't get a chuckle out of me. Is Katara on Zuko's Ministry of Education? Lol wtf. Still funny though.

More Kiyi being a little shit that I can get behind. This time in a Little Miss Know-It-All superiority complex sense that I'm sure would get real old real fast for anyone around her.

I've pointed this out on another post but Kiyi isn't a princess? Wtf? Come on, Hicks. Like it's not hard to figure this shit out. I think giving her a character trait of literally running to her big brother the Firelord anytime she feels slighted is pretty good, but of course it's never explored, because that's not a heroic trait and Kiyi has to be a hero for some reason unlike that irredeemable monster Azula who was born bad.

So nice of you to ask her first Zuko! Fuck's sake! Being Firelord has really gotten to this boy's head, like I know he has absolute power and all that shit but damn, if I was Mai, I would be wanting to get back with him less after this, not more, regardless of whether or not I liked the job in the end. Fucking consent, bro! (Previous page has him telling the headmistress she'll do it.) Unfortunately, this is actually not ooc for what we've seen of Zuko, honestly, imo. Mai, you can do so much better. Like, I ship Maiko. I love their dynamic etc etc. But girl. Respect yourself. This boy is NOT it at this point.

This is our continuing indication that they'll be rewriting the past in this comic, and we'd all better get on board. Zuko certainly thinks Azula treated him badly and has a very, "Zuko did nothing wrong!" approach to it all, but Mai was there for the vast majority of it, witnessed it with her own two eyes, so she would not react to that sentence with, "True." She just wouldn't. At least not the Mai we know. So let the assassination of Mai’s character commence!

Like, was this comic so half-assed nobody could be bothered to look up the spelling of Ukano's name? Yes. Yes it was.

Can I be made to believe Ukano said this to Mai when she was smol? Absolutely, yes. He's portrayed as a social climber and willing to utilize basically any route he can access to gain clout and influence. That's a man who is not above using his daughter in this way. I think it's somewhat implied by Mai’s dialogue in The Beach, even. Dude was a shitty father, Caldera was rife with them. Do I believe for one second Mai became friends with Azula because of this counsel? Absolutely not. The Mai we know thinks for herself 100% of the time, it's basically her thing.

Oh, cool, there's a 10 image per post limit. Well. I'll keep going in reblogs and indicate when I'm done. Bear with me, friends.

[melodic-haze]

I have kind of Ruan Mei brainrot rn… imagine Ruan Mei running a test on you but reader is a girl w penis I hope you know what you mean and well, the reader gets hard from the little touches Ruan Mei gives… okie I’m leaving the rest of the job for you 🫡

-🐿️

☆ — DEMO TRACK: sub!Ruan Mei x dom!gp!Reader

☆ — TYPE: NSFW

☆ — CONTENT WARNINGS: Fem reader with a dick ☺️, consensual use of aphrodisiacs, semi-public sex

☆ — NOTES: Oh my god a post?!?!? From ME?!?!?!?!?!?!?!? Anyway may this bless my rolls please HALLELUJAH

So really it probably would've started off as 🤷‍♀️ a favour 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️ yk, just some harmless (lied) tests she wanted to do and you just happened to be in the right (wrong) place at the right (wrong) time. She wanted to test how one would react to certain stimuli, especially when it comes to more........"medicated" states

For the sake of my peace of mind you've probably both already talked about it before in the past anyway at one point, with her getting curious about chemicals and what it could do to one's libido ever since she started dating you 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️ though she doesn't necessarily say when she'd ever do it lol

"Y/N, there you are."

You hear familiar heels click amidst the station floor, the sound now distinct enough to separate from all the ambience in the Station—the pace was languid yet decisive, soft yet forceful.. and so very her.

"Ruan Mei," you tore your gaze from the vast sea of stars to smile at her, "you need something?"

She shakes her head, stepping into place right next to you, "No, I do not. I simply thought to.. find you, is all."

"Taking a break from your research just to see me? Wow, did Herta do something or..?"

"No, she hasn't. Though I do admit that I had an ulterior motive for my actions," she says before holding out a small plate that you hadn't realised were there until now. "I had a new recipe I wanted you to try."

You picked one of the two lotus cakes up to inspect it in all its golden brown glory, "Trying to change up your recipes? They're already good enough, though."

"I had a new ingredient or two that I wanted to try using for such delicacies. It makes for a nice experiment."

"That so?" You raise it to your mouth, "Well, I trust that whatever you make is--"

Wait.

"--did you say 'experiment'?"

"Yes, I did. Why do you ask?"

You lightly furrowed your eyebrows in suspicion as you lowered the pastry from your lips, "Ruan Mei."

"Hm?"

"..I'm not going to ask what, exactly, you used. But could you at least tell me if this is gonna hurt me one way or another? Maybe have another moment of 'unexplained' amnesia?"

The scientist shook her head, though her expression doesn't slip from that ever-so-present mask of indifference, "I made sure that the effects don't harm you in any way."

"So there are side-effects to this."

"I never had the intention of lying to you."

"I love you, I really do, but you're very evasive with very important details like that."

"Because you simply don't ask."

"Yeah, well, I'm not your labrat," you say as you take a bite of the pastry anyway, "I'm your girlfriend. ..Though whatever you put in this, it's really sweet. Could you maybe make a drug-free version of whatever this is?"

The smallest of smiles graced her lips as you chewed and savoured her creation, and you just can't help but melt on the inside at the sight as she swipes off some stray crumbs from the corner of your lips with a thumb. She licks said crumbs off her digit (and your eyes widened the slightest bit) before responding, "I'll be sure to look for such an alternative."

"You better. You know I like whatever you create."

"I do."

"Even if it involves getting spiked for your own curiosity."

She leans in to press a gentle kiss on your cheek, "I appreciate the constant indulgence. Truly."

And as she ghosts her fingers down your arm before they snake over to hold your hand, you can't help but notice that you're just a touch bit more sensitive than you were a few moments ago.

Or maybe it's because it was your lover doing the touching.

Yeah. Maybe that's it.

...

"Hey, babe."

"Hm?"

"Why did you make two of them? Usually it'd only take one for it to hit me."

"In case we need another one."

"..Uh huh."

She doesn't just leave you, which is a wonder but also kinda not? Cuz she's observing you, not because she's affectionate 🤷‍♀️ sorry gangalicious she needs her baby steps towards understanding love in her own way 🫶🫶🫶 personally I'd be patient with her always (she's so me)

So the both of you are just chatting about whatever, like she asks you about how your day's been and then you ask her about how hers was. With you, while still a bit cryptic, she's much more of an open book to you than to anyone else, so you can just freely ask her whatever as you both take a stroll around Herta's Space Station and enjoy each other's company (I'd ask about the cats personally they're my babies :()

But then you start getting a bit......feverish, let's say. Just a tad bit hot under the collar 😊😊 which gets you to wonder like. Did Herta turn up the heat??? Like it was fine before, and why would she ever even need to mess with the temp settings when all that's here are her dolls?????? And why didn't your beloved seem unaffected??????¿????????

It's when she starts to give you touches here and there—her 'casual' handholding, naturally drifting close to you, clinging onto your arm—and noticing details you'd never have ever thought about in usual times that you think that Perhaps There Is Something Going On Here. And THEN you realise What Exactly Is Wrong when you feel that tension (and tent) centred at the bottom half of your body 😜

She's WELL-AWARE of it too, with the way her eyes drift down and her free hand going from resting on your stomach to moving to your lower abdomen.......before stopping 🫶 which gets on your Nerves to the point where all caution's thrown in the wind, your mind nothing more than a lustful haze (lol) and your only priority being to beat this heat......and your meat too, but really that's kinda obvious

It's as if she knew too!!! The moment you find some empty spare room, propriety be damned, she locks you both in IMMEDIATELY before putting the small dish to the table on the side (and you could've sworn you heard her breathe out "finally", though your braincells lost their way amongst the stars or something so you didn't know OR care) and walking back to you. At least until, yk, you grip the fabric of her clothes and slam her to the wall before THEN slamming your lips to hers 🤷‍♀️

She's surprised at your brazen forcefulness at first (who the heck wouldn't be ngl even you'd be surprised somewhere in your basically melted brain) but then she immediately relaxes. Hell, maybe there were remnants of whatever chemicals she put into the cake and she's having a taste for herself, bc she gets more daring by the second as her hands roam around your body and squeeze at your tits and her nails cling onto your biceps as she pulls you in deeper

Coincinentally just like how her nails dig deep into your back as you plow into her senselessly 😄 technique be DAMNED man bouta call yourself a carnivore bc GOD you're hungry for that meat HAHAHAHA (if not you then me I'm hungry for her thanks)

You could just barely register your lover's whines and pleas for you to slow down, but you couldn't care less as you hammered your length into her hot cunt over and over again.

And really, why would you slow down? This is what she wanted, isn't it? Having you fuck her like some simple-minded animal in heat with your only instinct being to fill your lovely little scientist up with your cum until its dripping out of her abused hole... This was her end-goal, so who was she to tell you to slow down?

It was better to lose yourselves in the moment.

..Even when you could hear quiet murmurs on the other side of the door. You could just barely make out what the voices are discussing—they had wondered why there were faint sounds of impact beyond the walls.

You've never seen Ruan Mei in such a state of panic before, with her eyes widening in concern as she pushes through her breathless state and keeps telling you to "stop" and that "it's too much" and "they'll hear of our experiment" (is that what we're calling it now?). Unfortunately for her, however, such words fall on deaf ears; especially when her body language says otherwise, with her limbs refusing to let go of you and her left heel dropping to the floor with a clack that is easily drowned out by the sounds of your explicit duet.

"W-We need to be qui-- mmnf..!"

One of your hands had reached out to the remaining cake before stuffing it in your lover's mouth, "If you wanna be.. ahhh.. quiet so-- ffffucking badly, then have something to c-chew on-- ohmygods, A-Ruan, you feel so good..!"

Her hips buck up in response to you using her true name, her eyes rolling to the back of her head as she lets out a particularly loud yet muffled moan. You actually slow down this time, though you make up for the speed by plunging in as deep as you can as she eats her own creation—even you were able to recognise that her choking on something other than your dick would be one hell of a bad idea, and whatever effects that cake had on you was going to hit her rather quickly anyway.

You don't help the rising heat beneath you either, even when you've slowed down; your head bends down to play with her soft tits, tongue licking and mouth sucking as if something was going to ever miraculously come from it. You are a woman-- no, a bitch starved.

And from the feel of your partner's desperate grinding movements on your hard cock, from the looks of your pretty little scientist's pupils being blown, from the fact that her, from the fact that you've managed to reduce your Genius' brain to some sort of needy mush—the same state that you're in—you're pretty sure that she is the same state as you are right now.

Really, who cares about the people outside?

Let them know of your shared depravity with each other.

It stands to reason that neither of you finish for. A long time. Who knew that sharing the effects of two potently-crafted aphrodisiacs would make you two fuck like rabbits? 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️ you're there for HOURS, doing whatever you two can manage to do—every position, whatever kinks you two have managed to discover yourselves (plus some new ones you hadn't even realised you were interested in until now, go figure)......hell, even when you sit there to catch your breath, you're still inside her 😭

You Are both at least Slightly aware that you're making a huge mess and you're probably gonna be so fucked AND fucked out by like idk tomorrow. Did you have the capacity to care? No not really, but Herta's possible wrath about dirtying up her Station like this was more than enough to have you both think that MAYBE you should take this to one of yous' quarters (though really it's a 50/50 but either way she'll still ridicule you somehow tbh)

So she cleans you up, crouching down and shamelessly sucks you off like a cheap whore—her enthusiasm and fervency is a CLEAR contrast to her usual lethargy and stoicism. Your shared cum drips to the floor as she did so, though not for long when she stands up and puts her panties back in place. Are they ruined to all hell???? Well yes but she won't really need it at your place so it's not like it matters

Once you've got yourself and the room cleaned up (that's a stretch I'm ngl but you get ⭐️ a gold star for trying), you quickly leave as soon as possible. It's both bc neither of you are far from done with your 'experiment' AND bc you two are such messes. Like you could be a mess on the daily, who knows, but Ruan Mei NEVER has a hair out of place and now she looks So Very Dishevelled My God

But again, none of that matters once you both get into your room and continue for round........who knows

But after you both inevitably end up passing out and the effects wear off? Lol she wasn't joking about how it won't do anything negative to you—the both of you remember precisely Everything you've done

"So."

"Mm?"

"At the end of the day," you spoke, voice raspy from the sleep and the overexhertion from the day before, "what was that research even for?"

She snuggles into your embrace—a rare moment of tenderness between the two of you—as she thinks on her words, "..Sexual potential?"

"..Could you elaborate?"

"..Not right now, my apologies," her voice is in the same state as yours, and you couldn't help but laugh.

"I figured."

Whatever research it was, it turned out to be Very Good Research 🫶

It also helps that she kept the recipe AND found a non-drugged alternative. Win win!!!!!

[genderqueerdykes]

when i call myself a lesbian and state that i am not (just) a woman, i am not insisting we must replace the current definition of lesbian, but expand it. when i say i'm a lesbian, i mean that i am attracted to and want to be in community spaces with queer women, yes, but i also want other people to be a part of this space as well, because their experiences are identical or near identical to those that queer women face, and/or they are attracted to those women.

i'm not saying that women who are attracted to women only and not in the wrong for saying that's what they mean by lesbianism means to them. there will be many people with that belief and its fine, but when they start to say that no one else can have their own lesbian experience that doesn't line up with theirs perfectly is when there's an issue. even 2 cisgender lesbians can have wildly different takes on what lesbianism means to them.

many lesbians are butchphobic. many lesbians are biphobic. many lesbians will not date or sleep with a queer woman who has dated and/or slept with men or people with penises. many lesbians reject butches who are also men. many lesbians in general reject trans women and other trans lesbians. that doesn't mean that they are 100% correct about lesbianism on the whole... that's just what they've defined it as, for themselves.

my definition of lesbianism includes all dykes. i'm attracted to people who identify as lesbians, dykes, sapphics,, intersex dykes, lesboys, transfem dykes, trans lesbians, lesbian trans women, boydykes, mtf butches, guydykes, butches, femmes, bi/pan/mspec lesbians, transmasc & ftm dykes, male lesbians, bisexual lesbians, multigender dykes, genderfluid sapphics, non binary dykes anyone who identifies as a lesbian sapphic and or dyke. yes i am also attracted to queer women in general, but i am mostly attracted to other lesbians, sapphics and dykes, because there is a culture that is present in these identities that are unique, which is why these terms exist to begin with. we have a nebulous shared experience that spans across many individual identities.

trans men are treated like butch dykes and lesbians regardless of how they identify. theyre bullied out of womanhood. intersex women and people receive this treatment throughout our lifetimes. transmascs, transfems, trans women and queer women in general get treated this way as well. any woman and/or femme who is even remotely gender non conforming gets hit with dyke and lesbian and butch and all kinds of slurs and insults. a lot of people relate to this experience. we're all judged for the same traits, people don't know our AGABs and our identities. many of us share exact experiences despite totally different individual experiences

lesbianism is broad. it's not narrow. it encompasses many forms of transness, from transmasculinity, transfemininity, transneutrality, bigenderism, multigenderism, two spirit, genderqueer, genderfluid, non binary, gender non conforming and many other identities. it's not simply cis woman loving cis woman. or cis woman loving non binary person, which is even worse- conflating non binary people with being women. this definition of lesbianism could not be more transphobic of it tried.

the rejection of butches who are Too Butch only makes this worse, but we can change this by allowing people who have these experiences to express themselves and engage in lesbian, dyke and sapphic spaces. our community is so vast and varied. we have unique experiences from all over the queer community that intersect with lesbianism and dyke identities. we have to celebrate and include these things and expand what we currently know about lesbianism- not replace anything, but build upon the history that came before us, and the people who are coming out as lesbians, sapphics, and dykes today.

[dmbakura]

i still think the devil may cry fandom's vast oversimplification of the themes in devil may cry (regarding human "good" vs demon "evil") are amplifying some very bad faith criticisms of the netflix adaptation. as well as some weird moral essentialism i just really don't vibe with. this is long and kinda messy but whatever.

i see people mostly take issue with this scene in which lady and white rabbit have their confrontation and lady says this:

this, to me, does not go against the themes of the game at all. it's not some cynical attack on "humanity". contextually, this is a sorely needed moment of reflection on lady's part, where she's able to connect with white rabbit and realizes that their ruthlessness is a shared trait. she's speaking about herself here. lady considers herself the antithesis of a demon, yet she realizes how terrible she's been acting and that they're Not So Different. she's a flawed human being and this is an explicit, textual acknowledgment of that.

i really take issue with the idea that devil may cry has ever been about coddling and portraying humans as innately good. most major villains in the dmc games are human, statistically. every single dmc game except the first 1 has an over-arcing human villain at the center of the conflict. sanctus is a religious cult leader. agnus is an unethical mad scientist. arius is a CEO. arkham is a wife killer. these are all very human evils. demon villains like mundus and argosax tend to embody more stereotypically villainous evils, but the human villains are much more nuanced and varied in their approach, which in some respects makes them a lot more dangerous.

but you might say "well they're evil because they throw away their humanity, as dante even calls out. these tears are a gift only humans have" and to which i say, so? these are conscious choices these villains made to get where they are. yes, thematically their decision to throw away good traits like compassion and empathy led them on the path to evil, and dante himself equates these traits with humanity, but dante is also biased against his demon half and has an entire arc about being wary of that part of himself until he's finally able to accept it, which is how he awakens his sin devil trigger in 5 (mirroring vergil's rejection/ultimate acceptance of his human half.)

idk man. just feels yucky seeing all of this "well demons have always been an Evil Race in devil may cry" when no, it's always been more complex than that and pretending otherwise is a massive disservice to this series. there is no hard moral dichotomy in dmc. sparda disproves this from the very opening scene from the very first game. he was one of the most powerful demons in hell, who fell in love with humanity and decided to turn against his own kind. even if demons in a general sense tend to be "evil" (mundus seems to be a particular outlier in how evil they are honestly, hating humanity to an almost comical extent), they're shown to be completely capable of good, just as on the flip side, humans are capable of being evil. again, it's about choice, what you do with the power given to you, choosing to protect what's important or throwing away everything. these are not immutable traits of humans or demons, as that would mean characters like sparda, trish, arkham, sanctus, lucia, bradley, baul, modeus, etc would not exist.

there's maybe an argument to be made about dmc netflix's explicit use of politics and whether this is appropriate or not, but i don't think it's a bad thing it decided to really dig in on the nuances of humanity. i think the choice to make white rabbit a human villain who in a sense "throws away his heart" makes him thematically consistent with devil may cry's ethos, as ive mentioned in my other post about him. i view him akin to a character like vergil, who straddles the line between human and demon, and doesn't really fit into either "demon overlord" or "overambitious human sociopath" like the other series villains. more variety is good actually.

[stillbornfrost]

Hello! So I messaged you to ask you about what you're open to writing about and i was wondering if you could write a cookie run kingdom fic but specifically i was wondering if you could write headcanons for Yandere Ancients? I really like the way you write your stuff!!

HELLO YES HI!!

I absolutely take requests and omg thank you so much for the kind words!!! You're feeding my writer ego and I am EATING. Also yes, I do write for Cookie Run Kingdom and Yandere Ancients??? Say less. I’ve got you. Buckle in!

Yandere CRK Ancients x Reader Headcanons

Pure Vanilla Cookie

He looks like the safest choice, doesn’t he? All so soft voice, warm smiles, gentle healing hands. But that’s the danger—he never raises his voice. He lowers it.

The kind of yandere who thinks he’s saving you from the world, and maybe even from yourself.

If you get sick or injured, even slightly, he takes it as a “sign” that you shouldn’t be out and about without him.

“You don’t have to suffer anymore. I’ll take care of everything, my dear.”

Gaslights you with a smile. Says things like “Oh, I never said that,” or “You must be exhausted. Maybe you just imagined it?”

You’ll find the castle staff has stopped speaking to you. They avoid eye contact.

You want freedom? He gives you a “garden” to wander in—an enchanted dome you’ll never get past. But oh, he visits daily with fresh pastries and love-drunk eyes.

Hollyberry Cookie

She doesn’t mean to scare you—but she absolutely does. Loud affection, bear hugs that crack ribs, and the way she throws a punch at anyone who dares to stand too close.

Brags about you constantly. Literally introduces you to people as “my little berry tart.”

You tried to leave once. She cried. Then smashed a stone pillar with her bare hands.

“Don’t do that to me again. You’re mine. You belong with me!”

Has absolutely tackled you mid-escape and then sobbed into your clothes while holding you like a lifeline.

You get everything you want—except freedom. She can’t handle the idea of losing you.

Loves you so hard it’s smothering. You’re surrounded by feasts, music, laughter... and invisible guards who are all under strict orders to never let you leave her sight.

Dark Cacao Cookie

The most chilling part? He’s calm. He never yells. He just speaks in low, cold tones that freeze the blood in your frosting.

Keeps you in the highest room of his kingdom. Says it’s to keep you “above the dangers of the world.”

“It is my duty to protect what I cherish.”

Doesn’t understand why you’d want to leave. Of course you belong here. With him. Always.

He watches from the shadows—personally and through his warriors. You might feel alone, but you never are.

He lets you think you have a choice. That you could walk out. But when you try, the snow thickens, the blizzards howl louder, and suddenly you realize... the mountains are alive, and they answer to him.

There’s a terrible kind of tenderness in how he brushes frost from your hair and says, “The world cannot have you. You are... mine to keep.”

Golden Cheese Cookie

She’s a queen in every sense, and in her mind? You’re her favorite treasure. The crown jewel. Her possession.

She gives you everything. Gold-threaded robes, diamond-studded accessories, meals fit for deities.

“What more could you want? You have me.”

Throws banquets in your honor. Has bards write songs about your beauty and “devotion.”

If you ever try to assert independence, she laughs like it’s a joke... until her eyes go sharp.

"Why would you ever leave the one who gave you everything?"

Anyone who gets too close to you is quietly removed. Publicly discredited. Exiled. You notice the disappearances after a while.

The palace is vast and golden—but feels like a glittering tomb. She’s always watching. Always smiling. Always yours.

White Lily Cookie

Pre-transformation Lily is delicate, poetic, and painfully obsessed.

“We’re two halves of a dream. You understand me, don’t you? You have to.”

Writes long, rambling letters to you—even when you’re just in the next room.

As Dark Enchantress? That obsession turns cosmic. She’ll bend reality for you. Break kingdoms for you. Burn the world and offer you the ashes like a bouquet.

“You’re the only one I spared. That means something. That means everything.”

She convinces you that the rest of the world hates you. That only she can love you completely.

Every time you resist, her mask of calm cracks a little. Her rage is like a storm contained in a teacup—one wrong move and the porcelain shatters.

You’re not her prisoner. You’re her chosen god. And she will not let you fall into anyone else’s hands. Ever.