#( wc: 2248 )

[sobbingscripter]

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼wc. 2248🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

From a young age, you had the ability to absolutely ruin what would be a heartfelt moment.

“Mark… you’re half Viltrumite.”

“You’re half little girl too. Chicken.”

Nolan lets out a breath, blue eyes narrowing at your intrusion but he doesn’t have the heart to send you away. Not when you’re holding out a glass of orange juice, tiny hands clasped around the surface of the glass, so careful to not spill.

“So, is Mark gonna get deported?” Your tiny brows scrunch, lips tugged into a frown and Nolan snorts.

“He’s not that kind of alien.”

You think back on that conversation as you remain seated on the wooden deck, face turned towards the Sun, and you can barely make out the way Mark and Nolan’s figure stand out like sore thumbs in the endless blue.

And then, Mark’s getting too close to the ground. Too close, too fast and your heart nearly stops in your chest.

And with a flurry of dust, Mark leaves behind a crater where he hits the ground and you’re barely able to cough away the dust, hands having the sand away from your face before you watch as Nolan helps him up. Gloved hands dust the blades of grass and soil from his shoulders.

“You want a sip of my water?” You hold out your water bottle as an offer and Mark scrunches his nose, shaking his head. “I’m good.” He reassures you softly, before looking back towards Nolan and you can barely deny the fact that you’re crossing your legs over one another to relieve the tension in your thighs.

You feel like a sick freak.

A few scuffs on the backs of his arms, raven strands slightly tousled from his flight and you’re feeling every hole on your body clench. Mark looks so focused, jaw clenched as he hangs on Nolan’s every word, brows creased in concentration and you watch the way his tongue peeks out between his lips, wetting the plump bottom one and you watch the flesh pinken.

And you swallow.

But once you’re snapping out of your reverie, you’re already watching Mark curl up, clutching his chest ad your eyes widen, knees scuffing at the grass at the speed that you’re moving, kneeling at his side and rubbing his back.

“Stop coddling him.” Nolan instructs, jaw clenching at the way Mark’s body contorts, hiding his face in the soft pudginess of your belly. And your fingers card through his hair, lips tugging downwards into a concerned frown before you look up at Nolan.

“Mr Nolan, aren’t you maybe pushing him a bit too hard?”

“Are you telling me how to raise my son?” There’s a tinge of defensiveness in his voice and your lips press together in a thin line.

“No sir.” You nearly grit the words out, helping Mark to his knees instead, dusting the sand from his side, using the long sleeve of your T-shirt to wipe at the salty tears that brim at his lashline.

“I mean, I only kept a hamster with diagnosed anxiety alive for 10 years.”

“You hurt me…” Mark’s face damn near crumples, leaning against your side as he stares up at Nolan.

“I… didn’t mean to hit you that hard… I’m sorry.” Nolan helps Mark to his feet, and you dust at your knees as you come up, staring down at your soil-caked sneakers. Freshly cleaned converse, for nothing.

And Mark glances towards you, following your gaze to your feet. Scuffed sneakers and soil dusted socks.

“I’ll clean your shoes.” He reassures softly, before letting out a cough.

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆

“I don’t think you’re a loser.”

Your voice is quiet as you sit in the centre of Mark’s bed, feet tucked beneath your ass as you watch him move around his room, sock-covered feet padding across the carpet with unrest.

You try not to be a pervert.

But he looks a bit more muscular than you remember him being. Wide shoulders with the perfect amount of delves to showcase toned cords of muscle, a broad back lined with sinewy muscles and you curl your lips inward when you watch the flexing flesh shift beneath his skin. And you nearly bite your knuckles when he shrugs on a T-shirt, moving towards you and he plops down onto his bed.

His face pressed into your belly, arms limp at his sides and you let out a sigh, raking your fingers through his damp strands, feeling the way they slip from your grasp.

“I mean, I don’t think you’re any bigger of a loser than you were before you get your powers.” You correct and you feel the way his chest rumbles as he laughs, before peering up at you through his lashes.

“You’re such an asshole.” He snickers, before pressing his cheek against your diaphragm.

“I can hear your heartbeat.” Mark mumbles softly, fingertips pressing into your sides just a bit, as he tries to focus on the gentle thump.

But you’re sweating. Because now there’s pressure to calm down.

“Can you hear the shit that’s making it’s way through my colon?”

And Mark laughs loudly, dimples deepening in his cheeks and you catch a glimpse of pointy canines that glint in the dim light of the lamp on his nightstand.

“I was trying not to focus on it.” He jokes with a snort, before sitting up, hands moving to rest on the fat of your thighs, exposed by the cottony fabric of your nightshorts. And Mark glances at you, sharp brown eyes drinking in the sight of you slumped against his pillow, surrounded by his comforters and the smell of him is clinging to you.

Fuck, he can smell himself on your skin and it’s a heady combination.

And it’s like silence blankets you both.

Prolonged eye contact and you can feel the way his thumb trace indiscernible patterns on the soft skin of your thighs, his gaze never wavering from where your lashes flutter, and his eyes lower. Only for a second to your lips.

He thinks it’s unfair that he’s never felt them against his and Mark doesn’t know what possesses him, but he leans in.

Moonlight forms a halo on his hair, his hands shift to your hips and your breath nearly stutter.

And much like Mark does, he pussies out.

Instead, bringing a hand up to pick at an eyelash on your cheek. You know damn well there’s no fucking eyelash. But instead, you shift back, putting a bit of distance between the two of you.

And you swallow.

“I should probably head home. It’s like, what, 10?”

Mark’s brows furrow and like a switch in your brain, your hand lifts, your thumb smoothing out the crease between his brows

“I thought you were sleeping over?”

And you need to think of a quick lie.

“While you were in the shower, I found your bottle of lotion and your elbows are still dry. So, I don’t want you to be beating your dick while I’m under the same roof as you.”

You make relatively quick work of escaping from the space between him and his bed, planting your feet on the lush carpet and you stretch your arms overhead.

Mark tries to be respectful when your shirt raises a bit, exposing the cute dimples in your lower back and he bites the inside of his cheek, jaw tensing with the action before he quips back.

“What makes you think I haven’t done it in your house?”

“What makes you think I haven’t done it in yours?”

You’re quick with your words and it’s almost shameful how sweaty they make Mark’s palms, the image engraved into his mind before he can stop it.

The way you dainty fingers would circle your clit over your panties, hopefully that pretty pastel blue panties that he caught a glimpse of when you were rifling through your drawers last week. The way your gusset would darken and he can’t deny that he’d love to hear the way you breathe his name out.

But no.

It’s not like that. He thinks. He hopes.

“You’re sick.” He grumbles under his breath, and you’re not sure if he’s talking to you, or to himself. Especially with the way the corners of his mouth tug downwards.

“Maybe.” You shrug. “Or maybe William’s jerked off in your house. We’ll never know.”

And Mark grimaces.

“Go home.” A pause. “And text me when you get there.”

“I literally live next door.”

And Mark stares at you. Blank and unreadable.

“Text me. When you. Get home.”

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆

Mark takes a nice, deep breath, boxers lowered just enough and he glances towards the ceiling, mind working overtime to conjure up one of his nightly fantasies.

But Amber’s face is muddled in his memories and Mark’s heart starts to pound nervously when your features come to view in his mind’s eye, unwelcome like an intrusive thought.

And Mark lets out an exhausted groan when he feels a bead of precum roll onto his fist.

“No.” He huffs, eyes squeezed shut as he tries his utmost hardest to picture who he wants to. “Amber. Amber. Amber.”

But he slowly softens in his grasp and Mark takes a deep breath.

“Shit.”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌻🌼🪻୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“You’re never here this early.” Mark hums, arms crossed over his chest as he watches you, arms raised over your head as you proceed to hang banners across the ceiling, William’s distracted hold on the ladder seems to be enough to keep you steady. “What’s the occasion?”

“Student body elections are coming up and I’m trying to get picked for something.” You answer. “I’m trying to incorporate crop tops into the football team’s official practice uniform.”

“God’s work.” William sighs before glancing down the hallway, a sharp intake of breath at the sight of Todd.

“Doesn’t look like Amber’s here to save you today, Grayson.” Todd’s voice causes you to tear your eyes away from the banner. Well, actually, it’s the sound of Mark being shoved against a metallic locker that makes you look.

And you let out a breath.

Reaching into your pocket, and you pull out the thick roll of duct tape, before throwing it at the back of Todd’s head. The burly hands that grasp the front of Mark’s sweater instead, move to cradle the back of his head before he glares at you.

And he shoves William out of the way, instead, grabbing the ladder and beginning to shake it.

Your fear of heights kick in rather quickly, but not as quick as Mark grabbing the back of Todd’s T-shirt, fist raised and you yelp.

“Mark, no!”

Your voice stuns him, but it’s enough for Todd’s hand to connect with Mark’s nose.

You know it doesn’t hurt, but the shock of it still makes Mark’s eyes tear up. That’s regular anatomy.

“Shit!”

And your eyes widen when you spot that tungsten and diamond skull ring on Todd’s middle finger.

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“I’m sorry for… You know, getting you punched.”

Mark hums softly, wincing when you press a cold cloth against his nose, clearing away the blood and he watches you carefully.

Your brows furrow in concentration, you chew at your bottom lip as you try to be as gentle as you can. And you’re just so pretty. Long lashes, big doe eyes and such soft lips, glossy with whatever smells so sickeningly sweet that it’s making his head hurt. And Mark looks up at you, one of your hands holding his chin to keep his head steady, while your hand cleans at his nose.

And his hand moves, resting on the fat of your thigh.

“You’ve got really pretty eyes…” Mark murmurs softly. “They’re like… something you’d find in nature.”

He swallows, his heart pounding when he feels the way your grip on his chin shifts, your cheeks heating up just enough for him to feel the change in your temperature.

“Uh… Thank you. You’ve got a really nice Cupid’s bow.” You respond, and damn it, you wish you didn’t.

Because your eyes glance down towards his lips without your consent, and you’re staring. And Mark can feel you staring.

But he’s staring too. Looking at your plump bottom lip, soft flesh raw bitten but so glossily inviting.

God. He hopes those aren’t the only pair of glossy lips on you.

And Mark’s fingers are digging into the flesh of your thighs, and he’s watching the sunlight dapple across your features and he thanks whoever decided on windows that face the door of the sick room.

His hand moves, and he’s about to cup the side of your face because he’s so painfully sure.

“Mark? Let’s go, buddy.”

Nolan’s intrusion makes Mark’s hand stop mid-air, his hand fisting just beside your face and he curls his lips inward, a deep pit of embarrassment and internal cringe forming in his belly and to save face, his knuckles brush against your cheek. And he makes a soft, explosion sound.

“See ya, kiddo.”

It’s affectionate and cute. But in a loser way.

Mark watches as you rise, pressing a kiss against his forehead and you smile up at Nolan, the man pressing a kiss against the crown of your head before looking at Mark.

“Uhhh.” Nolan snorts once you’re out of earshot. “Wanna tell me what that was?”

Mark cradles his head in his hands, body prickling with embarrassment and he is, in fact proved wrong about his belief that super-people don’t wanna crawl into holes.

“Just take me home, Dad.”

T🌼A🌼G🌼L🌼I🌼S🌼T

@lucky-beheaded ; @queen-of-gotham ; @coldvirginbitch ; @wittyjasontodd ; @a-n-a-n-a1 ; @dearlyya ; @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha ; @jasontoddswhitestreak ; @daydreams-and-peace ; @misstyy12 ; @fruticake ; @httpstes ; @waterflowersblog ; @glowinthedarkjellyfish ; @vm4879bb-blog ; @monaekelis ; @radlovesfics ; @allycat4458 ; @bigbodycity ; @feral010 ; @anesthesia-4rizzle ; @princesstrunkz ; @blackfox774 ; @sh1d0uryus31 ; @your-lovely-rose26 ; @slugstarzz ; @ripcolel0l ; @strawbiemilk420

[rkxsungwoon-blog]

☆ MGA5 EPISODE FOUR; JULY 18 #5008 HA SUNGWOON ; FT. JUNG EUNJI ( duos 2 ) performance: can you feel the love tonight - the lion king * starts at 0:33, music cuts out at 2:33, but sungwoon and eunji sing for a few more seconds before being stopped

it was only a matter of time, sungwoon thinks.

statistically speaking, at least one member of empty enigma was bound to get eliminated soon. they’ve entered the stage of the competition where each departure cuts deeper than the one before. talented people are being sent home week after week, and it’s the height of arrogance to consider yourself safe from elimination before the results are out. part of him is surprised they’ve lasted this long as a unit when people clearly aren’t happy about them being on the show—sungwoon has read the comments, even though he advised the rest of the band not to—but even if mnet is keeping them around for whatever reason, they’re still playing with fire.

minhyun is the first of them to get burned.

sungwoon’s eyes widen in shock as minhyun and yuqi are eliminated. he doesn’t personally agree with the previous cuts either, but these two come as a surprise, not only because of minhyun, but because yuqi had been acknowledged as one of the best by the judges the week prior. he half-rises from his seat to stalk over and—well, he wants to say something in outrage, but remembers a moment later that he’s still on camera and it probably wouldn’t tide over well.

instead, he remains seated, back ramrod straight, his hands clenched into fists as the new duos are announced for the next round. his protests are lodged in his throat as he watches the ceos, as if that in itself will help him understand their decision. it isn’t fair. minhyun is a good singer. minhyun is a fair dancer. minhyun is handsome and charming with a good personality. all things sungwoon wouldn’t say out loud to his face but believes with all his heart. minhyun doesn’t deserve this.

if it had to be someone from empty enigma, it should’ve been him.

he feels obsolete here; daniel is their representative, the undisputed face of the band. woojin is slowly rising every week, kenta has the talent and charm and has somehow already befriended everyone in the competition. minhyun is the total package, the perfect idol already. all four of them are brightly shining stars. meanwhile, sungwoon is coasting, not good or bad enough to stand out. he’s a member of the ensemble, but is all this worth it for a background bit part?

more than that, he’s done this once before. minhyun hasn’t. doesn’t it make more sense for him to go home and for minhyun to forge ahead? it’s not self-doubt that makes him question what he’s doing here but sheer frustration. does sungwoon deserve to be in this competition, to survive up until this point? absolutely; he’s never doubted the fact that he belongs on stage. but should he be here? that’s a different question altogether.

he wishes he could give this seat to minhyun, wishes he could say, hey, the stage is yours and you don’t have to say goodbye yet. but the judges say as much for him when they indicate that there’s a shot at redemption for the eliminated contestants. sungwoon desperately tries not to get his hopes up for minhyun. anything can happen, after all, but that can work in their favour as much as it can against it. squeezing his eyes shut, sungwoon offers up a silent prayer. please let minhyun come back; he needs to be here.

(the nagging voice in the back of his mind asks, do you?)

-

sungwoon’s partner for the next episode is eunji.

dread settles in his stomach for a different reason than previously. while he didn’t know jaemin at all, eunji is too familiar. they’re neighbours and, in his mind, friends. he likes eunji as a person and admires her as a performer; her stages have been some of sungwoon’s favorites so far. honestly, he should be elated at being given the chance to perform with her. together, they can deliver something special.

and yet—he doesn’t know where they stand. the empty enigma reveal fucked up a lot of things. granted, sungwoon never interacted with eunji as squall, never lied about the band because it was never a topic of conversation to begin with. most of her ire seems to be reserved for daniel (for reasons sungwoon doesn’t know and doesn’t want to know), but sungwoon is nervous none the less, apologies poised to spill from his lips the moment eunji arrives at the band’s practice space for their first practice together.

they don’t turn out to be necessary, though sungwoon gives them anyway. a lie by omission is still a lie, and eunji deserves better from him. still, he’s relieved to put the awkwardness behind them and gives her his first unabashedly happy smile of the competition, knowing they’ll pull off a great stage. he doesn’t pry into her issues with daniel, but does promise to tell daniel to steer clear of the practice space until filming on thursday. it’s probably better for the both of them to put all their focus into the upcoming performance, anyway, and daniel is a naturally distracting presence.

song selection takes precedence shortly after their talk. eunji’s a powerhouse singer and dancer from what he’s observed so far. on the other hand, sungwoon gives her a wry smile and tells her that asking him to dance is a crime against humanity. sure, he feels like he’s improved a lot from last year, but he’d still look like a sack of potatoes next to eunji; she’s at such a high level that he would only bring her down. so a vocal performance it is, and sungwoon’s content with that, though he’s eager to show a more dynamic image this time around. after a ballad and an acoustic arrangement, he wants to do something exciting.

however, if there’s anything sungwoon learned from last week’s performance, it’s the art of compromise. he wants this stage to be one both he and eunji can take pride in, so he listens to her desires and soft nos and tries to meet somewhere in the middle: showtunes. musicals aren’t something sungwoon is all that familiar with. he remembers going to one on the university campus, maybe, but it was badly acted and sung. their numbers are certainly dynamic and entertaining in the right hands though, so he’s willing to give it a shot.

they settle on summer lovin’ from grease at first—an iconic classic even sungwoon is familiar with. danny zuko is a role squall could play with his eyes closed, but sungwoon is reluctant to channel him fully in front of eunji. out of embarrassment, yeah, but latent guilt as well, perhaps a smidge of this is a part of me i don’t want you to see? he remains mostly sungwoon instead, and maybe that’s why both he and eunji can’t hold in their laughter while rehearsing. summer lovin’ had me a blast—

“it’s because i’m too handsome, right?” sungwoon says in mock despair. “you’re afraid you might fall in love for real… i get it. you need to laugh to save yourself.” admittedly, there’s something about the number as a whole that strikes sungwoon as hilarious, the whole boy meets girl in the most contrived way part. he thinks he can act pretty well, but perhaps caging squall kills any momentum he could’ve had. sacrifices and compromises, though.

summer lovin’ gets trashed when they come to the conclusion that they can’t keep a straight face throughout their performance and the search for another song continues. at some point, sungwoon and eunji end up talking about the lion king remake and whether they’ll be watching it and—it’s a musical, with an iconic duet right there. can you feel the love tonight all but falls into their laps. it’s funny that the song itself is a lot more romantic than summer lovin’ could ever hope to be, but sungwoon is confident they can pull it off if they take it seriously enough.

the different style of singing throws him off initially, but sungwoon adjusts to it easily enough. the theatricality suits him, and eunji is a fun partner to play off. they look and sound good together, in his opinion. most of their rehearsals go off without a hitch, and for once, sungwoon feels positive heading into thursday’s filming. his throat is in good condition, he’s been watching the lion king non stop for the past week, and he knows the song like the back of his hand. even if he hasn’t solved the question of whether or not he should still be here, sungwoon is still going to give the performance of his life. he owes it to eunji, and to the people who’ve been supporting him till now.

(other distractions can wait).

-

he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to being separated from the rest of the band. sungwoon tries to catch a few of their eyes when he arrives, but they seem understandably busy, possibly anxious. the building never gets any less intimidating, nor does the sight of the judges seated above the rest cease to faze him. there’s an added heaviness in the air tonight when he thinks about the eliminated duos of last week. no doubt everyone, including himself, is curious to find out who survived for a second shot at the competition. he still hopes it’s minhyun. if the universe it fair, it will be minhyun.

unlike last time, he and eunji will be performing near the end, which leaves a lot of duos to get through before it’s their turn onstage. sungwoon is muted, watching the performances with controlled interest. he cheers for his friends, of course; woojin’s performance is exciting, and kenta is a joy to watch as always. daniel and hyojin’s creativity and synergy leave him impressed. it’s obvious they’ve been working hard to show the best sides of themselves, and looking at their dedication, he doesn’t understand how people can question their intentions for being here. maybe he cheers extra hard out of spite, whether consciously or unconsciously.

when it’s their turn to take the stage, he turns to eunji and whispers, “good luck! just remember,” and here he grins, a mischievous glint in his eye as he croons, “summer lovin’, had me a blast.” sungwoon fails to hold back his laughter as he faces the ceos and bows before making their introductions—they decided to introduce themselves as simba and nala, though eunji did manage to talk sungwoon out of ending his introduction with a growl (probably for the better).

their performance isn’t as flashy as some of the others; it’s stripped down and bare. seated on two stools, they face each other for the duration of the song. everything else falls away from the first notes of their backing track. his brows furrow momentarily—it sounds a little different than usual?—but his expression smooths over a second later, figuring he must be imagining it. the song itself is beautiful, equal parts romantic and nostalgic. his pronunciation is flawless, their harmonies and ad libs weaving into the instrumental perfectly. they’re able to pour enough emotion into their voices and their expressions to sell the song to the audience—

and neither of them laugh. that’s a bonus.

sungwoon is beginning to enjoy himself. there’s an ease to singing with eunji. he trusts her to match where he’s going and feeds off the energy he’s giving back. the corners of his lips begin to curve up in a smile when it happens. the music stops. sungwoon’s head tilts, but when eunji powers through, he follows. malfunctions happen all the time, after all, and a true professional would finish the song, right? but his mouth snaps shut rather abruptly when he hears one of the ceos call for them to stop. confusion colors his face as he turns to hear hyunbin tersely  informing them they’ve gone over their allotted two minutes.

oh.

oh.

understanding is slow dawning. sungwoon clumsily bows and apologies, a flush crawling up his neck. he’s eager to follow eunji off the stage and out of the spotlight, humiliation nipping at his heels. there’s only one explanation for their flub, and it’s one he wishes he’d come to figure out sooner—they’ve been practicing with the wrong cut of the song all week. god. how could they fail to follow the basic fucking instructions of the show? 

by all rights, they’re seasoned performers. they should’ve taken care of this right at the beginning. they should’ve never made the mistake in the first place, not at this stage of the competition. his hands shake; he curls them into fists and avoids looking at the rest of empty enigma, letting out a shaky breath as they take their seats instead. “it’s not your fault,” he tells eunji hoarsely. it’s mine. “we’ll be fine,” he adds. they both know it’s a lie, of course, but he doesn’t want to vocalize the truth. 

how could this happen? was he not paying enough attention? did he get complacent? did a part of him just cease to care and sabotage himself on purpose? the fact that sungwoon can’t find the answer makes him want to yell in frustration. he knows he’s better than this, and yet... maybe this just drives it home: he shouldn’t be here. it doesn’t matter what he wants or doesn’t want: he’s apparently incapable of the simplest of things. 

(but eunji should be here, and in this moment, sungwoon feels like he’s nothing but a force of destruction).