#over and over and over it comes up in the dialogue since I started The Meadow

[stillalivebydemand893]

Beg For It

18+ 🤭

Erik Campbell x fem!reader

Story: One reckless confession turns movie night into a crash course in foreplay and filthy lessons

Masterlist

“Y’know, I was on top the first time I had sex too.” You blurted it out mid-scene of Lady Bird, mouth half-full of popcorn.

The words just slipped.

Erik froze, remote in hand. The movie stuttered to a pause. He turned toward you, eyes wide like you’d confessed to burying a body in your backyard. “…Why would you-”

“I don’t know!” You shoved more popcorn into your mouth to stall. “I was feeling bold, okay? Plus, the guy was cute and I thought, hey, why not get a view from above? But it was so fucking bad.”

Erik blinked at you like he was buffering on bad WiFi. “So let me get this straight,you thought your first time was a good idea to… ride some poor guy like a mechanical bull? Who was dumb enough to agree to that? With a virgin, no less?”

You groaned and set the popcorn down. Instant regret. It sounded way worse out loud. Sure, nothing “came” that night except the Uber you ordered to take your disappointed ass home, but honestly? It was still better than the horror stories you read on Reddit.

“I didn’t tell him I was a virgin,” you shot back. “That’s usually a boner-killer, dumbass.”

Silence. His silence. The kind that made your shame curdle into full-blown embarrassment. You cursed Lady Bird for making you relive the trauma in high definition.

Finally, Erik exhaled. “No, Sweets. That’s… no. You should’ve done it with someone you cared about-”

“Oh, don’t even start.” You sat up straight, scandalized. “Like you did? At a frat party? With a cheerleader? Don’t preach to me, Kiki. You’re literally the poster boy for fuckboy starter kits.”

You snorted, grabbed the half-empty wine bottle, and stomped to the kitchen. Erik trailed after you, as always.

“Not the same,” he said, planting himself across the island from you. “I’m a dude. We don’t need foreplay. But it sucks that you think you didn’t deserve better.”

The words landed like bullets. And worse….they dragged up the memory: that night, that mattress, the blood. Top 5 Most Embarrassing Moments of All Time. You hadn’t done it to “get it over with.” You’d done it because you were mad, heartbroken, watching Erik date girls who weren’t you.

Cliché or not, falling for your best friend was brutal reality. And you’d sworn you’d never say it.

Still, something reckless bubbled up. Something sharp and stupid. “So what would you have done different?”

His head snapped up. Eyes dark, searching. Like you’d just unlocked a hidden dialogue option in his video game. Your face burned, so you backpedaled instantly. “I mean….like,if a girl told you she was a virgin. Hypothetically.”

Erik smirked, tattoos flexing as he crossed his arms. “Well, first of all-”

You burst into laughter. “Don’t be so cocky, loverboy. What are you, some kind of sex-ed guru?”

He flipped you off, half-grinning. “Fine. Guess you don’t need to hear my answer.” He started a dramatic exit, but you snagged his shirt.

“Wait, wait, wait. What do I know? I haven’t even had sex since then. Come on. Enlighten me with your great wisdom.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you wanted to slap yourself. Why would you admit that? Virginity probably respawned by now.

His jaw dropped. “Wait….you haven’t had sex since then? Jesus, how are you even alive?”

“I’m not. I’m dissociating every second of my existence.” You waved dramatically with one hand, downed the last sip of wine with the other. “Now, tell me, Obi-Wan. What’s the correct path to the… G-Force?”

Erik straightened, the smirk fading into something heavier. He leaned in. “Okay. First of all, foreplay. Dumb as hell to skip it. That’s the fun part,making out, grinding, eye contact, neck kisses,dry humping is underrated, by the way...then, when she’s-”

“Hold up.” You raised a finger. “So we’re grinding and making eye contact and making out? That’s… multitasking. Very advanced.”

He scowled, stepping closer. “You think you’re so damn funny…” He planted himself between your legs at the counter, caging you in with his arms. His chest brushed yours. His lips hovered dangerously close. “But I’m the only one here who could actually teach you something.”

“Then teach me.”

The words barely left your lips, softer than a whisper, but they hit him like a challenge. His smirk faltered,replaced with something darker, something that made your pulse kick.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for, Peach.” His voice was low, teasing, but his eyes were serious.

You tilted your head, grinning despite the heat crawling up your neck. “Don’t chicken out now. Big talk about foreplay and grinding,you can’t backpedal.”

He leaned in, so close your noses almost brushed. “Careful. I’ll make a lesson plan out of you.”

You laughed,too high, too nervous…but it cracked in the middle when he bracketed your hips with his hands, thumbs pressing into your waist. He fit himself between your thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Rule number one,” he murmured, his lips grazing the shell of your ear, “don’t talk so much.”

A shiver shot through you. “Oh my god, are you giving me homework? Should I be taking notes?”

“Smartass.” He tugged you closer, his breath hot against your skin. “Fine. Lesson one: kissing. Real kissing. None of that drunk-party-shove-your-tongue nonsense.”

Before you could fire back, his mouth was on yours. Slow. Deliberate. His lips moved like he had all the time in the world, like he’d been waiting. And you,god…you melted into it, clutching his shirt like you’d float away otherwise.

When he pulled back, you were breathless. “Holy shit.”

“Mm.” He smirked. “Not in the syllabus, but I’ll allow it.”

You swatted his shoulder, grinning despite yourself. “You’re unbearable.”

“And you’re stalling.” His hands roamed higher, fingers brushing the sides of your ribs, testing, teasing. “Lesson two. Touch. You don’t rush it. You-”

“-make eye contact while dry humping?” you interrupted, biting back laughter.

His eyes narrowed, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but you like it.”

“Unfortunately.”

His forehead rested against yours, his voice dropping. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”

You didn’t. Instead, you tugged his hair, dragging his mouth back to yours. This kiss was different,messier, hungrier. The kind of kiss that made your brain short-circuit and your thighs tighten around him without permission.

“Okay,” you panted when he finally pulled away, lips swollen, “I’ll admit… this lesson plan’s better than high school sex ed.”

“Damn right it is.” His grin was wolfish now, but softer at the edges, like he was still checking,still waiting for you to bolt.

You didn’t. Instead, you smirked right back. “So, Professor Erik… what’s lesson three?”

He leaned in again, voice dropping to a growl. “Lesson three… you don’t get to joke when my hands are under your shirt.”

His palms slid higher, fingertips grazing the curve of your ribs, brushing just under your bra. The touch was maddeningly light, like he knew exactly how to make you ache for more.

“Under my shirt already?” you whispered, tilting your chin up, teasing him. “Bold move, professor.”

“Shut up,” he muttered against your mouth, but he was smiling, the bastard. His lips caught yours again,slower this time, deeper, like he wanted you to feel every second of it. His tongue brushed yours, lazy and deliberate, and it pulled a whimper out of you before you could stop it.

That sound made him groan into your mouth, his grip on your waist tightening. He pressed closer, his hips slotting perfectly against yours. You felt him..hard, insistent,through the thin layers of clothes, and it sent a bolt of heat low in your belly.

“Erik-” you gasped when his mouth trailed from your lips down your jaw, teeth scraping the line of your throat.

“What?” he murmured against your skin, breath hot. “You wanted a lesson. I’m just thorough.” He sucked at your pulse point, hard enough to make you moan, then soothed it with his tongue.

Your hands clawed at his shoulders, pulling him closer. “You’re… a terrible teacher.”

He chuckled, lips brushing your collarbone. “Funny, you don’t sound like you want me to stop.”

“I don’t,” you admitted, voice breaking on the last word.

His hands finally cupped your breasts over your bra, thumbs brushing your nipples until they peaked under the fabric. You arched into his touch, shameless, chasing the friction.

“God, you’re sensitive,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Bet he didn’t even touch you like this, did he?”

The memory of your first time made you groan, frustrated. “Don’t bring him up now.”

“Fine,” he growled, tugging your bra down with a roughness that made your breath hitch. His mouth closed over one nipple, tongue flicking, teeth grazing. You nearly came apart right there on the kitchen island.

“Fuck, Erik-”

He hummed around you, the vibration shooting straight through your chest. When he pulled back, his lips were wet, swollen, eyes dark as sin. “Lesson four,” he said, smirking. “Always, always take your time with this part.”

“You’re evil,” you gasped, tugging his hair to drag his mouth back to yours.

“You love it.” His hand slipped lower, under the waistband of your shorts, fingers trailing just above where you were burning for him. He paused, teasing, his smirk widening when you squirmed. “Already soaked through, Sweets. All that sarcasm, and here you are begging without even saying a word.”

“Don’t-” your voice cracked, “-don’t tease.”

He kissed you again, messy and hungry this time, his free hand gripping your thigh to keep you spread around him. His fingers dipped lower, just grazing where you were throbbing, enough to make you whimper against his mouth.

“Beg properly and maybe I’ll keep going.”

“Erik…” You buried your face against his neck, your pride dissolving under the weight of need. “Please.”

“Better,” he muttered, sliding a finger over your slick folds, slow, deliberate. “See? You can learn.”

You groaned, rocking your hips against his hand, every nerve on fire. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Nah,” he whispered, kissing you so deep it stole your breath. “I’m gonna ruin you. And you’re gonna thank me for it.”

Erik’s finger circled lazily over your clit, just enough pressure to make your thighs tremble around him but nowhere near enough to satisfy. He was watching you, studying every twitch, every gasp, like you were his favorite test subject.

“God, you’re so fucking wet,” he muttered, voice low and ragged. “How long have you been sitting on the couch like this? Acting smart, mouthing off, while you’re dripping for me?”

“Don’t-” you tried to shoot him a glare, but it dissolved into a whimper when he pressed down harder, rubbing slow circles that made your back arch. “Don’t act like you weren’t dying for this too.”

His smirk was sinful. “Touché.”

Then, without warning, he slipped a finger inside you, and your head fell back with a broken moan. The stretch, the suddenness-it made your whole body jolt. He didn’t give you time to recover before adding a second, curling them just right, hitting a spot that made your vision spark.

“Holy-fuck-Erik-”

“That’s it,” he whispered, kissing down your throat as his fingers worked you open, slow and filthy. “Say my name like that again.”

You clawed at his shoulders, trying to drag him closer, trying to anchor yourself to something. He was relentless..curling, stroking, fucking you with his hand until your hips were grinding into his palm, chasing every thrust.

He bit at your earlobe, chuckling darkly. “You’re clenching around my fingers already. Haven’t even given you my cock yet and you’re losing it.”

You tried to snap back, something about him being insufferable, but all that came out was a desperate moan when his thumb pressed against your clit in perfect rhythm with his thrusts.

“So fucking pretty ,” he breathed, forehead pressed against yours, watching your face contort with every wave. “Don’t hold back, Sweets. Let me see you fall apart.”

You did. Your orgasm ripped through you, sudden and overwhelming, making you cry out against his mouth as your body shook around him. He didn’t stop-not right away. He drew it out, fucking you through it until you were gasping, trembling, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing in the room.

When he finally slowed, his fingers slid out of you, glistening. He held your gaze as he brought them to his lips, sucking them clean like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered, wide-eyed.

He grinned, smug and filthy. “Lesson five: always taste the homework.”

You smacked his chest weakly, still breathless, still trembling. “You’re such an asshole.”

“You love it,” he shot back, leaning in to kiss you again,slow, messy, with the taste of yourself still on his tongue.

His hand slid down to your shorts again, tugging at the waistband. “But don’t think the lesson’s over. That was just the warm-up.”

You laughed, shaky but buzzing with adrenaline. “Oh my god-warm-up?”

“Mm-hm.” He kissed you again, deeper, grinding his hips against you so you could feel just how hard he was. “Now we move to practicals.”

You were still catching your breath when Erik hooked his hands under your thighs and lifted you off the counter like you weighed nothing.

“Erik!” you squealed, arms flying around his neck, clinging on.

He grinned against your ear. “What? Gotta change classrooms, Peach. We’re moving this lesson somewhere with a bigger desk.”

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, half-laughing, half-melting as he carried you down the hall.

“Yeah, yeah.” He kicked open your bedroom door, shouldered it shut, and dropped you onto the bed with just enough roughness to make your heart jump. He stood over you for a second, chest heaving, tattoos flexing. And the look in his eyes,hungry, dark, like he’d been holding this back for years,made you shiver.

“Take your shirt off,” you said, surprising yourself with how steady it came out.

He smirked, tugging the hem over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. “Bossy.”

“Efficient.”

“Mm. You’ll learn.” He crawled onto the bed, slow like a predator, caging you beneath him. His mouth found yours again, hungry, messy, stealing your breath while his hands slid over your body,up your thighs, under your shirt, peeling it off with a rough tug.

The cool air hit your bare skin, but then his lips were on you, hot and wet, kissing down your sternum. He palmed your breasts again, thumbing your nipples until you arched into him, whining.

“God, look at you,” he murmured, pressing kisses lower, across your stomach. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

“Then show me,” you gasped, fingers buried in his hair.

His smirk turned downright wicked. “Gladly.”

He tugged your shorts down, slow, teasing, dragging your panties with them. You squirmed, heat flooding your cheeks, but he caught your hips in his hands, pinning you.

“Don’t hide from me, Sweets,” he said, voice low and rough. “I want all of you.”

And then his mouth was on you.

The first lick made your whole body jolt, a choked moan tearing out of you. He groaned against you, like the taste itself turned him on, and then he devoured you,slow, filthy, deliberate. His tongue circled your clit, then flattened and dragged, sending shockwaves through your core. He alternated between teasing flicks and deep, hungry sucks, never letting you catch your breath.

“Fuck-Erik,oh my god-” You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging, desperate.

He pulled back just long enough to smirk up at you, chin glistening. “Lesson six: you never, ever skip this part.”

Before you could sass him, he slid two fingers back inside you, curling them perfectly, while his mouth latched onto your clit again. You cried out, hips bucking, grinding helplessly against his face. He held you down, groaning into you, eating you like it was the only thing he’d ever wanted.

You came harder than before, thighs trembling around his head, his name spilling from your lips over and over until you were wrecked, chest heaving, body limp.

He kissed up your stomach, slow and wet, leaving trails until he reached your mouth again. He kissed you deep, letting you taste yourself, his cock grinding against your soaked folds through his jeans.

“Still with me?” he rasped against your lips.

“Barely,” you whispered, but you were smiling, dizzy and drunk on him. “But don’t you dare stop.”

He chuckled darkly, fumbling with his belt, pressing his forehead to yours. “Oh, trust me, Peach. Lesson seven’s the one you’ve really been waiting for.”

Erik’s belt hit the floor with a heavy clink, and you felt his cock press against you through his jeans-thick, hard, straining. He rolled his hips into you, grinding slow, and you swore sparks shot through your body.

“Feel that?” he growled against your lips, kissing you hard, teeth knocking yours. “That’s what you do to me, Sweets. Been half-hard since you opened your mouth about your first time.”

You moaned into him, grinding back, the rough denim dragging against your swollen clit, making you whimper. “You’re-fuck-you’re so cocky.”

“Mm. You’ll be cock-drunk in about five minutes.” He smirked, but his breath caught when your hand slipped down to palm him through the fabric. “Jesus.”

You squeezed, teasing, loving how his jaw clenched. “Lesson eight: don’t underestimate me.”

He grabbed your wrist, pinned it above your head, and thrust his hips into you harder, grinding his cock against your bare heat until you cried out. “Lesson eight,” he corrected, voice rough, “is that I’m the one teaching here.”

You gasped, legs trembling around him. “Then shut up and teach.”

That broke something in him. He shoved his jeans down just enough, his cock springing free,thick, flushed, the sight alone making your mouth water. He stroked himself once, twice, with a groan, spreading your wetness over the head before dragging it up and down your slit, rubbing against your clit with each pass.

“Fuck, Erik-” you writhed, hips chasing him, desperate.

“Patience, Baby,” he teased, smirk tugging at his lips even as his breathing went ragged. He rocked against you, sliding his cock between your folds, the head catching just at your entrance before slipping away again. “Gotta savor the lesson.”

You nearly screamed with frustration, nails digging into his back. “Stop teasing me-please.”

His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide. “There it is,” he rasped, lining himself up, the head pressing firmly at your slick entrance. “Proper begging.”

And then-finally-he pushed in.

Slow at first, stretching you open, inch by inch until the fullness stole your breath. Your back arched, lips parting in a broken moan as he sank deeper, filling you completely.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, his breath hot and ragged. “So tight… so fucking tight.You’re gonna ruin me.”

You clawed at him, legs wrapping tighter around his waist, pulling him in deeper. “Erik if you tease me one more time I swear to God-”

He growled low in his throat, pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back into you with a force that made the headboard thud against the wall. You cried out, nails raking his skin, pleasure tearing through you.

“That what you wanted?” he panted, snapping his hips again, harder.

“Yes-fuck-yes..”

He set a brutal rhythm then,thrusting deep, grinding at the end of every stroke so his pelvis rubbed your clit just right. Every movement wrung another moan from you, your body already trembling under him.

“Look at you,” he groaned, kissing you hard, messy, biting at your lip. “Taking my cock so good… fuck, I could watch you fall apart like this forever.”

You could barely think, barely breathe, every nerve lit on fire as he fucked you harder, deeper, grinding you into the mattress. Your moans filled the room, his name spilling from your lips like a mantra.

“Lesson nine,” he growled, lips at your ear as he drove into you, “is you’ll never forget how this feels.”

And with every thrust, you knew he was right.

Erik’s rhythm was punishing but precise, each thrust angled to grind into the spot that made your toes curl and your voice crack. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed in your room, mixing with your broken moans, his growls, and the creak of the bedframe.

“Fuck-listen to you,” he rasped, sweat dripping from his temple onto your chest as he fucked you deeper, harder. “Moaning like you’ve been starving for this.”

“I have-” the confession ripped out of you before you could stop it, your body arching, trembling under him. “Erik, I..oh my god,don’t stop, please.”

His lips crashed onto yours, devouring the words. His thrusts grew rougher, more desperate, like your begging tore away the last of his control. His cock dragged against every nerve inside you, thick and unrelenting, until you were gasping his name over and over like it was the only word you remembered.

“God, you feel insane,” he groaned against your mouth, pulling out slow just to slam back in, bottoming out so hard your breath left you in a cry. “Squeezing me so tight-fuck, Peach, I’m not gonna last if you keep moaning like this.”

“Then don’t-” your voice was wrecked, desperate, your nails carving down his slick back as your orgasm grew tighter. “Don’t hold back,please, Erik, fuck-”

His control snapped and drove into you with brutal force, each thrust grinding your clit against his pelvis. You screamed, the sound tearing raw from your throat as the orgasm ripped through you-blinding, violent, making your body convulse around him.

The way you clenched down on him dragged him over the edge. “Fuck-Peach-” he snarled, burying himself to the hilt. His cock pulsed, spilling hot and deep inside you as his whole body shuddered, his groans muffled against your shoulder.

He didn’t pull out right away. He stayed buried in you, grinding slow through the aftershocks, making you gasp and whimper from the oversensitivity while his come leaked warm and thick inside you.

When he finally stilled, both of you shaking and sweat-soaked, he lifted his head, eyes heavy but burning. He kissed you again,slower this time, desperate in a different way, his lips lingering like he couldn’t let you go.

“Lesson ten,” he whispered against your swollen mouth, “is that this… us… was always supposed to happen.”

You were too wrecked to joke back. You just clung to him, still pulsing around his cock, knowing he was right.

The room was thick with heat, your skin damp, your heart still rattling in your chest. Erik collapsed against you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his cock still buried deep inside you, pulsing with the aftershocks.

Neither of you spoke for a moment. Just ragged breathing. Just the quiet hum of what had finally broken loose.

Eventually, he shifted, pressing gentle kisses along your jaw, then your temple, then your forehead like he was mapping you in soft devotion after wrecking you raw. “You okay, Sweets?” he murmured, voice low and rough, a shadow of concern threading through the heat.

You nodded weakly, still trembling. “More than okay.”

He smiled against your skin. “Good. ’Cause I don’t think I can move yet.”

You laughed, breathless, smacking his shoulder. “You’re crushing me, dumbass.”

“Mm.” He nuzzled your neck, kissing lazily. “You like it.”

And you did. You liked his weight, his warmth, the way his breath feathered over your collarbone. You liked feeling him still inside you, heavy and thick, like he belonged there.

He eventually rolled to the side, tugging you with him, but stayed buried inside you, one big hand splayed over your belly, thumb rubbing absent circles into your skin. The intimacy of it made your chest ache.

“Never thought…” you started, then stopped, words tangling in your throat.

“Never thought what?” His voice was soft now, curious.

“That it’d be like this.”

He tilted your chin to look at him. His eyes weren’t cocky or smug anymore,they were raw. “Me neither.”

The silence stretched, heavy and loaded. Then his mouth was back on yours,gentler this time, sweet, lingering. But beneath it, hunger still simmered, hot and restless.

You felt it too. Because even as his kiss slowed, his cock twitched inside you, thick and still hardening again. Your hips shifted instinctively, and he groaned into your mouth.

“You brat,” he muttered, his forehead pressing to yours, breath shaky. “You’re already clenching around me again.”

“Not my fault,” you whispered, rocking your hips just enough to make him hiss. “You haven’t pulled out.”

“Don’t plan to.” His grip tightened on your waist, holding you still as his smirk returned, darker this time. “Round two, then?”

You grinned, kissing him quick and sharp. “Professor, I think I need… extra credit.”

His laugh was low, filthy, vibrating through your chest as he rolled you fully on top of him, his cock still buried inside you. His hands slid up your thighs, guiding you higher on his lap.

“Lesson ten?eleven ? Lost the fucking count,” he groaned, watching you with hungry eyes as you braced your hands on his chest, “is how to ride me until I forget my own name.”

Your answering smile was wicked, your hips already starting to move.

And class was far from over.

[flyingbanananas]

Overboard (Marco x Reader)

You don't remember how you got here, and when your eyes finally blink open slowly, stung by the light, you notice that you're not floating. You're falling! You're falling from the sky, and beneath you, there's the vast open ocean.

The world goes white as you hit the water.

Where's up? Where's down? Where's home? So many questions, but you don't know how to answer them. What you do know, however, is that you can do nothing but rely on the help of those kind pirates who fished you out of the sea.

_____

~ 8.000 words I Part 4/? << Previous Part

The mop handle rubs your palms raw. Salt clings to your skin, sweat beads along your back, and no matter how many times you wring out the rag or scrub at the deck, the wood still looks the same.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve passed over the same knot in the grain. Your shoulders ache, your arms throb, and the bucket water is more brown than clean.

Still, you’re not even sure if the deck is any cleaner than when you started.

Around you, the crew moves with effortless ease. Like they’ve been doing this all their lives. Ropes are hauled. Barrels are shifted. Someone’s calling for inventory from the supply hold.

“I told you we were missing three barrels of apples,” someone calls.

“You told me we were missing twelve,” another voice fires back.

“Yeah, well, I panicked!”

Everyone starts laughing. A crate slams shut with a hollow thud. The rhythmic clang of a hammer hitting metal rings near the mast, punctuated by muttering.

“You didn’t tie this down last night, did you?”

“It was fine when I left it.”

“That’s not an answer.”

You scrub harder, working through the dialogue as if the stain beneath your rag might surrender out of pity. The chatter swirls like gulls overhead—loud, circling, impossible to ignore.

A crewman strides past with a coil of rope slung over one shoulder. He nods at the workers by the mast, smirking. “Bet you ten thousand berries it falls again by sundown.”

“Bet you twenty it hits you this time,” comes the retort.

There’s a fresh burst of cackling. You pause, flex your fingers around the mop handle, then press back into the motion with a sigh.

From the rigging above, a voice echoes sounding young and reckless: “Marco said don’t touch the sails!”

“And I said I’m faster than gravity!”

A sharp bark of laughter. “Then jump, genius!”

Finally, you pause for breath, leaning against the mop like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Sweat slips down your temple, and you swipe at it with your sleeve, only to smear a salty streak across your brow.

“Hard at work, hm?”

The voice makes you groan involuntarily, not because you despise his presence but because you don’t know if you have the patience right now to deal with his antics. Still, you turn your head to face him.

Ace stands a few feet away, all bare chest and lazy grin, hands tucked behind his head like he hasn’t lifted a finger since breakfast. And he’s squinting at you like you’re the most fascinating thing on deck and not just because you’re dripping sweat and halfway to mopping yourself into an early grave.

So, you squint back at him, unimpressed. “What do you want?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “You looked like you could use saving. Thought I’d offer.”

You wipe your forehead again with the back of your arm. “From what?”

“Mop-related death,” he says seriously, then flashes a grin. “Wanna ditch this and train instead?”

You hesitate.

You do want to. Every part of you wants to ditch the chore and stretch your legs, to move and breathe and laugh again, like you did yesterday. But…

Your gaze drifts across the deck. The whole crew is still hard at work – focused, steady, and contributing to the whole endeavor. And after everything, the last thing you want is to be the one dragging behind.

So, you shake your head. “Not today.”

But Ace's grin doesn’t falter. If anything, it sharpens and your gut tells you that he isn’t taking no for an answer. However, before you can react, he reaches out and snatches the mop from your hands.

“Ace!” you shout, but he’s already moving, swinging the dripping mop over his shoulder like a sword.

“C’mon,” he teases, backing away slowly. “Take a break and live a little!”

You reach for the mop, but he twirls away with effortless ease, laughing as the water sloshes and spatters around your feet. He’s not running—not really. Just dancing around you, keeping the mop always an inch out of reach.

“Give it back,” you growl, swiping at the handle again, but he’s already shifting, light on his feet as he steps just out of reach.

He raises the mop high above your head, grin still plastered across his face like he’s thoroughly enjoying himself. “This? You want this?”

You glare up at him, your face flushed, not just from the heat anymore. Your heart pounds, but not from the brief chase. It's the way he's looking at you, smug and stupid and far too pleased with himself.

“You’re the worst,” you mutter, fingers flexing uselessly at your sides.

“Probably,” he agrees cheerfully, as if it’s a badge of honor.

Then he spins the mop dramatically, flipping it once with a flourish like he’s about to bestow knighthood. The wooden handle makes a wide arc through the air, and you don’t even have time to step back before cold water slaps your shoulder. Again.

You flinch with a sharp inhale as the salty drip trails down your arm.

Ace just chuckles.

You stare at him, blinking through strands of hair that have started sticking to your face. He’s so close now you can see the sun glinting off the sweat along his collarbone, the freckles that dot his shoulders, the sheer audacity in his eyes.

“You done?” you ask flatly.

He tilts his head, still holding the mop aloft like a trophy. “You sure you don’t want it back? You’d have to come get it.”

You don’t move. You just narrow your eyes.

For a heartbeat, the teasing slips into something quieter. He watches you, expression unreadable now, though the smile remains. Then, just as quickly, he breaks it with a wink.

You close your eyes and count to three. Mostly to stop yourself from throttling him.

Or laughing.

Maybe both.

“…You’re not getting a headache again, are you?” His voice is softer now, the teasing gone. Low and careful.

You blink up at him. The heat buzzes at your temples, and for a second, everything feels a little too bright.

Your mouth opens, but it takes a moment for the words to come. “I’m fine,” you murmur, reaching up to pinch the bridge of your nose. “Promise. Just hot. Tired.”

He, however, doesn’t answer right away.

Ace’s brow simply furrows, eye narrowing slightly as he studies you for a moment. The grin’s long gone now, replaced with something quieter and more grounded. Worry creeps into the edges of his expression, and for a moment, he doesn’t move at all.

You force a small smile, trying to cut through the weight in the air. “I’ll take a break soon, alright? I swear.”

Next, you reach out again, open palm up, calmer this time. No more games, no more back-and-forth. You’re just asking, but Ace hesitates, his fingers tightening around the mop for half a second longer than they need to.

“… Okay,” he finally says, handing it back to you with a sigh. “But if you drop, I’m blaming myself.”

You let out a quiet breath. “Ace…”

He shrugs, but the tension in his shoulders doesn’t quite leave. “Just sayin’. Don’t scare me like that.”

For a second, he lingers like he wants to say something else, but then he just nods, half-heartedly ruffles your hair, and turns to go. His steps are unhurried as he heads toward the other side of the deck, but he glances back once, just briefly, like he’s checking to make sure you’re really okay.

You, however, don’t meet his eyes at that time.

Instead, you watch him walk off until the sun catches on his shoulders and he disappears behind a stack of crates, his easy laugh mixing with the rest of the crew.

“Back to work,” you eventually announce to yourself, the bucket sloshing as you set it down. But as you dunk the mop into the water you can’t shake the feeling of Ace’s warm hands on you and the heart of his body when he’s stepping closer.

“Stop it,” You finally wipe your face again, more aggressively this time.

You return to the task. Back and forth. Back and forth. The same motion, the same rhythm. Don’t look up. Don’t think. Don’t dwell on the way Ace had looked at you like you mattered. Like he was scared for you.

But then something shifts.

That familiar prickle at the back of your neck creeps in. Not like Ace’s presence, which is always bold and burning. This one is quieter. Steady. Weighty, in a way you can't ignore.

So, you look up.

Marco’s perched up on a stack of barrels not too far away, elbows resting on his knees, wings half-unfurled for balance. His expression is unreadable—but he’s watching you. He has been for a while, you realize.

You straighten a little under his gaze, trying not to look like you’d just been chasing Ace across the deck like a flustered idiot. Marco doesn’t say anything. He just tilts his head slightly, and his eyes, calm, impossibly blue, drift to your mop.

“Fun day, yoi?” he asks, voice mild. Toneless.

You blink. It’s hard to tell if it’s a joke or just an observation.

You follow his gaze to the mop, then lift your eyes back to him. “Depends on your definition of ‘fun.’”

That earns you a soft huff from him. Barely a smile, but enough to change the shape of his mouth. He jumps down from the barrels, landing lightly, and makes his way over to you.

“You didn’t have to keep going, y’know,” he says as he stops just out of reach. “After Ace pulled that stunt.”

You tense, instinctive. “You saw that?”

He gives a slow shrug. “Kinda hard not to.”

Great.

You look away, eyes dropping to the deck. You resume mopping because it gives your hands something to do. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like the rhythm can somehow undo the heat still buzzing under your skin.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can still see him. Not leaving. Not talking. Just standing there. His arms rest loosely at his sides, his face composed, not amused, not scolding, just neutral in that unreadable Marco way.

Eventually, it stretches too long to ignore and you pause, mid-motion to glance at him again.

Marco doesn’t look away. He doesn’t even shift. He’s simply still watching you with that quiet, steady gaze that makes you feel like you’re under a microscope.

“…Is everything alright?” you ask, voice softer than before. Careful.

“Just making sure Ace’s not giving you trouble again,” he says.

You blink, caught off guard. Not by the words, but the ease of them. Like this isn’t a conversation. Like it’s just something he’s checking off a list. Like maybe he’s checked it before.

You almost laugh. “Trouble? He’s just… being Ace.”

Marco tilts his head a little, the movement small but deliberate. “That usually is the trouble, yoi.”

You snort under your breath. “You don’t trust him?”

“I trust him,” he replies simply. “Doesn’t mean I trust him to behave.”

There’s no heat in it. No edge. Just the flat, patient truth of someone who knows Ace a little too well. Who’s probably patched up the aftermath more times than he can count.

So, you lean on the mop, just slightly. The handle creaks under your weight. “You think I’m going to end up needing stitches or something?”

His lips twitch again, almost like a smile, but gone before it forms. “Everything’s possible, yoi.”

That catches you off guard. You study him, really study him this time, trying to piece together if that was just idle concern or something closer to care. But his face doesn’t give much away. Just calm, and quiet, and too hard to read when you already feel scrambled from the heat and Ace’s games.

“I’m okay,” you say finally, because it’s the only thing you can offer that feels true. “He’s not bothering me.”

Marco studies you for another beat. Long enough that it makes you wonder if he doesn’t believe your words. But then he just gives a small nod, like that settles it. No argument. No pushback.

Still, he doesn’t leave.

His presence remains—quiet, steady, like the ocean when it isn’t trying to drown you. You glance at him, uncertain, and then your voice slips out, quieter than before. “Is that really the only reason you came over?”

There’s a pause, the kind that could tip either way. Then, his lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but close. “Honestly? You looked miserable.”

You huff out a breath, startled by how blunt that is and how it doesn’t sting. Not when it’s him. And then Marco continues to speak. “You know you don’t have to do that when you hate mopping so much, right?”

For a moment you stop shaking your head and look up at him. His tone is neutral like always, but there’s something under it. Familiarity? Amusement? Care? You can’t put your finger on it just yet.

So, you tilt your chin, meeting his gaze. “This is the only thing I’m good at, remember? It was this or kitchen duty.”

The words come out sharper than you intend, edged with something one mind identifies as bitterness. However, Marco doesn’t react the way you’d expect. He doesn’t flinch or reassure you. He just watches, eyes soft and unreadable.

You turn away again, hoping the motion of the mop can distract you from the way he’s looking at you.

“Well, I told you I could show you again, yoi,” he says finally. “The knots and other things you’d need. We could always give it another shot.”

Instantly you freeze mid-motion. The mop handle even squeaks faintly in your grip as the suggestion floats there for a second too long before you glance over your shoulder. “You’re sure about that?”

Marco nods. “Yes. Why not? You’ll get the hang of it eventually.”

You release a breath, half surprised, half unsure. Your gaze drifts past him, toward the far end of the deck where a few of the crew are working the lines. You watch as ropes are thrown, caught, looped in practiced motions that seem effortless. Graceful, even.

It’s not like that for you. When you’ve tried before, the rope always slips wrong, or knots too tight, or won’t knot at all. It feels like trying to write in a language you never learned.

“I dunno…” You shift your weight. Your fingers toy with the mop handle like it might offer an answer. “I don’t want to be a bother. You’ve got a lot on your plate, and I already took up enough of your time before.”

Marco doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t roll his eyes. He just shifts his stance a little, weight easing onto one leg. The sun lights the edge of his hair, gold on gold.

“I wouldn’t offer if it was a bother,” he says, calm as ever.

You blink. It’s simple and steady like everything with Marco. He’s making the kind of offer that doesn’t come with strings and you like that about him.

So, you open your mouth to answer, but he’s already walking. Not far away just enough to look over his shoulder toward the ship’s rail where the coils are stacked neatly in rows. His gaze lingers there, then flicks back to you.

“Come find me when you’re done with the mop,” he says, voice casual. “I’ll be around.”

And just like that, he turns, walking off with the same quiet ease he always carries. He doesn’t press you to follow. He doesn’t even wait for a yes or no. Marco just gives you space to choose.

And what do you choose?

You dip the mop back into the bucket, resuming your rhythm or moving it back and forth, back and forth, but your mind isn’t all over the place anymore. Not even close. You’re already thinking about the knots, about the rope, and about what it might be like to try again.

Not because you have to, but because maybe you’d really like to.

_______________

A few hours later, your skin is sticky with dried sweat and seawater. Your shirt clings to your back, and the salty sting around your hairline makes your scalp itch. For a moment you watch the sun dipping low enough that the deck glows in a soft warm light and take it all in.

But you know you can’t put it off any longer.

So, you put the mop aside and move under deck to your room and sling a towel over your shoulder. While you walk you pass a few crewmates in the halls. One offers a cheerful “Evenin’!” and you manage a smile in return.

Eventually, you reach the door you were looking for. The only clearly labeled as “Bath/Showers – Crew Use” in peeling white letters across the wood and you pause with your hand on the handle.

You’ve used it before by now. Mostly in the mornings to wash your face and brush your teeth. Usually it’s a quick in and out, with maybe one or two other people milling around, quiet and half-asleep.

More often than not Ace joined you and you two had a nice chat before walking to get breakfast together.

But now?

Now the hallway echoes with laughter and many easy, booming voices from inside. The kind that comes when people are comfortable, relaxed, and at home in their skin and space.

You recognize some of them immediately. Thatch, unmistakable, laughing like someone told a bad joke on purpose. Vista’s voice follows, rough and low. Next a younger crewmate yelps, and water splashes loudly.

You swallow.

It’s not fear that roots you there. Not exactly. But discomfort blooms sharp in your chest as you curl your fingers tighter around the edge of the towel. And this is when it hits you, hard and sudden: You’re the only woman on this damn ship. Aside from the nurses, maybe, but they have their own quarters.

The laughter behind the door bubbles up again, louder this time. Someone whistles. Another voice tosses back a joke. It’s all harmless. Warm, even. The sound of men who trust each other.

And yet, you’re still frozen.

Because this is more than just a shower. It’s shared space. Shared vulnerability. Naked bodies. Proximity. You don’t think any of them would say anything. You don’t think they’d make it weird.

But it would be. To you, it already is.

And gods, you hate that. You hate that your comfort comes second to the architecture of a ship built for men. You hate the stupid, biting twist in your gut that tells you walking in would mean putting on an invisible armor, pretending it doesn’t matter.

You try to talk yourself into it. Just go in. Just deal with it. They won’t care. It’s not a big deal.

But it is.

Because you’d have to pretend you don’t care if someone looked too long. You’d have to swallow the discomfort and keep your eyes up, shoulders back, like it doesn’t matter that you’d feel too bare in more ways than one.

Then, out of nowhere, a hand suddenly lands gently on your shoulder and you jolt like you’ve been shocked, your breath catching in your throat. “H-Holy – !”

You spin around, the towel slipping from your shoulder in your scramble. Your heart’s pounding, chest rising too fast as your mind races through worst-case scenarios. But it’s not some crewmate blundering in behind you.

It’s Izou.

He steps back at once, palm raised in a silent apology. His voice is low, smooth as ever. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Your heart’s still trying to climb its way out of your ribs, but you nod quickly, clutching the towel against your side. His presence is steadying, in that way only Izou’s seems to be. He always feels composed. Like nothing can rattle him.

„It’s alright,“ you tell him, your voice quieter than intended but he doesn’t seem to pay it any mind.

Instead, Izou just watches you calmly and patiently. He doesn’t glance toward the door or walk past you like he’s here to bathe too. No. His gaze simply lingers on your face, then takes in your hunched shoulders, and finally flicks to the door behind you.

You don’t even need to say anything, because something shifts in his eyes like a flicker of understanding that makes your breath catch again, but for an entirely different reason.

“Ah,” he murmurs, mouth curling into a soft, wry smile. “Yeah. That part doesn’t hit you until it really hits you, huh?”

“Well, I was just…” You start, but the words trail off before they can form into anything. What could you even say that wouldn’t sound pitiful?

But Izou doesn’t push. He simply tilts his head, thoughtful. And then, gently, he gestures down the corridor with a flick of his fingers. “Come on. I’ve got something better than this.”

You blink again. “What do you mean?”

He doesn’t answer. Just turns, silk robe fluttering faintly behind him as he walks, expecting you to follow.

And somehow, you do.

You trail him down a series of quieter corridors, where the voices and footfalls of the crew fade into a distant hum. The air grows cooler here, shaded by the hull and thick beams overhead.

The whole time Izou doesn’t say much as he walks. However, somehow he doesn’t need to, because his presence alone is steadying.

And eventually, he slows in front of a modest door, and without wasting time, he opens it.

“This is my room,” he says simply, stepping aside so you can enter first.

You hesitate for just a moment before slipping inside.

The space is small, but it feels intentional like every item is placed with care. The bed’s low and neatly made, a silk robe hanging on a carved hook near the wall. There’s a small desk in the corner, lined with brushes and boxes in different shapes and sizes. Moreover, the faint smell of cherry blossoms lingers in the air, delicate and grounding.

He nods toward another door on the far side. “Bathroom’s through there.”

Curious, you cross the room and push it open, then blink, stunned.

The bathroom isn’t large by any means, but it’s real. Enclosed. Private. There’s a proper sink and counter, a mirror above it that isn’t chipped or warped. A narrow shower stall sits in the corner, tiled, clean, with bottles of perfumed soap lined neatly along the wall. A fluffy towel is already folded beside the basin.

You step back into the main room, unsure how to even begin thanking him. “Wait… this is yours?”

“Mm-hm,” he hums, already turning to a drawer by the wall. He rifles through it briefly before pulling something small from inside.

When he steps over to you, his hand opens, and he presses something cool and metallic into your palm.

A key.

“That’s for you,” he says gently. “Just in case you ever need it.”

Your fingers curl around the cool metal. “Izo, I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupts, gentle but firm. “This ship wasn’t made with women in mind, I know. But that doesn’t mean you have to suffer through every part of it.”

Then he gives you a faint smile, the corner of his mouth tugging in that elegant, half-knowing way. “I don’t mind sharing. Just knock first. I have standards, you know.”

You almost laugh, and maybe you would’ve, if your chest wasn’t already thick with emotion. You nod instead, swallowing around the knot in your throat.

“Okay,” you say, voice soft. “Thank you.”

He simply nods, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like kindness is just something he does without needing to make a show of it.

“Anytime,” he replies, already moving toward the door. “Take as long as you need.”

And then he slips out, closing the door with a quiet click behind him.

You’re left standing there, alone in the hush of his room, the sound of the sea faint beyond the walls. The towel is still slung over your shoulder, but your grip has eased.

For a long moment, you just stand there, towel clutched loosely in your fingers, the silence of the private bathroom wrapping around you like a balm. No shouting, no slamming doors, no footsteps outside. Just you.

You exhale, slow and shaky. Your eyes drift toward the sink.

A row of neatly organized items lines the counter: There’s a compact, gleaming tin of hair oil. A small wooden tray holds makeup: eyeliner, powder, a deep red lipstick that’s been used just enough to have its shape dulled.

Then you finally step into the shower, twisting the handle until steam rises and heat sinks into your bones. You let the towel fall to the floor and walk into the stream like you’re shedding more than just the day’s sweat.

The water is a blessing. It rolls down your back, over your shoulders, cleansing away everything. So, you wash slowly, hands running through your hair, lathering with Izou’s shampoo that smells like jasmine.

You wonder if he picked it himself. You wonder what else he doesn’t say out loud, and why he was so quick to offer you this space.

You rinse, breathe, and take your time.

No rush. No eyes. No voices beyond the walls.

When you finally step out, skin flushed from the heat and hair damp against your shoulders, you feel lighter. Not just cleaner—steadier. Like the weight you’ve been dragging around all day has finally slipped from your shoulders and dissolved down the drain.

You wrap the towel around yourself again and glance toward the small tray of makeup by the sink. There’s a hand mirror sitting just beside it, polished to a shine. You catch your reflection—barefaced, flushed, tired, but a little more you than you’ve felt since you stepped onto this ship.

You smile.

Just a little.

___________________

When you finally leave the bathroom, dressed and towel-drying your hair, you feel like you’ve stepped out of a different world entirely. Your skin is warm. Your body is loose. Your hair smells like jasmine and something a little sharper, like sun-soaked citrus trees.

By the time you make your way toward the dining hall, you feel...human again.

You walk in quietly, trying not to draw attention as you blend into the hum of voices and the steady clatter of cutlery. The room is already lively. Laughter bounces between walls, chairs scrape the floor, and plates clink against each other as crew members crowd around tables, talking over half-finished meals.

But no matter how many people are in a room you still spot Ace right away. He’s near the far end, animated and laughing, arms gesturing wildly mid-story. A few guys around him are already leaning in, clearly invested in whatever tall tale he’s spinning. But the second you walk in, his eyes find you.

He stands up so fast it makes the guy next to him jolt. Then he grins.

“Look at you,” he says, walking over with that loose, casual swagger that always feels a little too smooth. “Someone had a good shower.”

You snort. “You make it sound weird.”

“I mean it,” he says, stepping in close. “You look… different. Fresh. Like you finally shook off all that stress.”

You blink. “Thanks?”

Suddenly, Ace leans in a little closer, nose wrinkling like he’s sniffing the air around you. “What’s that smell?”

You open your mouth to reply, but before you can answer, Ace reaches out, slipping his fingers into the ends of your hair.

“Whoa,” he mutters. “It’s really soft…”

Instinctively you stiffen slightly, not because it’s gross or invasive, but because it’s unusual and unexpected. Moreover, Ace’s tone isn’t teasing, which makes navigating this situation even more complicated for you.

But then you hear another voice intervening, calling his name.

“Ace.” That voice cuts in sharp and dry, but not necessarily angry or mean.

Instantly, you both turn to where the voice came, locking eyes with Marco, who’s seated a few spots down, watching over the rim of his mug.

“Don’t just go around touching people’s hair without asking, yoi.”

“I wasn’t… come on, it’s not a big deal,” Ace says, already defensive. “It’s not like I meant anything by it and I don’t think she minds.”

Marco doesn’t blink. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It’s not like I was being gross either,” Ace continues to argue. “Her hair’s just really nice, alright? It smells good and it’s soft. I was appreciating it!”

Marco raises his eyebrows. “You want to appreciate something, use your words and not your hands, yoi.”

Ace lets out a frustrated noise and throws his arms in the air. “You say that like I grabbed her ass or something!”

You choke out of shock and somewhere nearby, someone drops a fork. However, Marco doesn’t even flinch. “You’re thinking about it?”

“What?! No! That’s not what I meant, man!” Ace looks like he’s about to combust. “You’re twisting it on purpose to mess with me. Stop it!”

“I’m just asking, yoi,” Marco states calmly. “You’re the one yelling.”

“I’m not yelling!”

“Sure.”

Clearly at the end of his rope here, Ace finally turns to you with pleading eyes. “Come on,” he pleads, pointing a thumb at Marco like he’s being totally unreasonable. “Tell him I didn’t do anything wrong. You know I didn’t, right?”

Now, all eyes are on you. You glance toward Marco, half-expecting him to cut in, maybe tell you not to answer, or make a pointed remark about peer pressure. But he doesn’t say a word. He just watches calmly and waits.

There is no pressure in his expression, no judgment either. Marco’s giving you space to answer on your own and somehow that makes it harder.

You shift your weight for a moment and then, finally, you say, “It’s fine… really… Ace didn’t mean anything by it and I don’t feel molested if that’s what you were thinking.”

Instantly, Ace throws his hands up like that settles the whole discussion. “Thank you!”

Marco doesn’t respond. He just goes back to his drink.

And you? You take that as your cue and slide into an open seat beside Izou, who raises an eyebrow at you but says nothing. He’s clearly amused by the whole ordeal and clearly wouldn’t mind it if the argument had gone on for a while longer.

Ace drops into the seat across from you with a dramatic huff, arms crossed like he’s just been accused of something heinous. But before Ace can stew for long, Thatch suddenly claps his hands once, loud enough to break the mood.

“Alright, ladies and gents, now that the fireworks are over, can we get back to the drinking part of this evening?” he grins, already pouring drinks like nothing happened.

He slides a full glass your way, then tops off Izou’s with a little flourish. “Let’s play a game. Loser has to tell the most embarrassing story they’ve never admitted out loud.”

Izou raises a brow. "Are we pretending Ace hasn’t already lost just by existing?"

"Oi!" Ace scowls, but there’s no heat behind it. His arms uncross, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

Thatch winks. "That’s the spirit."

You sit back a little, fingers curling around your drink, and glance around the table with an innocent smile that absolutely isn’t innocent at all not that alcohol is involved in all of this. “Do you guys know the game ‘Spin the Bottle’?”

Next to you, Izou arches a perfectly shaped brow, interest piqued. And Thatch immediately perks up too like a cat.

“Oh, that game,” Thatch grins. “We haven’t played that in ages, but why not. It could be a great way to feel young again.”

For a moment it seems like it’s decided just like that, but then Izou hums thoughtfully, swirling his drink. “Well, that depends… Are we playing the sweet version or the one that ends in terrible decisions?”

You snort into your glass. “Whichever one’s more fun.”

Then across from you, Ace narrows his eyes. “Wait, wait… isn’t that the game where the bottle picks who you have to kiss?”

“Well, it’s this or you pick truth or dare, but some people like to dare people to kiss each other,” you say, flashing him a grin. “Why do you ask? Are you scared?”

“Pfft, of a game? No,” Ace answers, leaning back and crossing his arms over his bare muscular chest. “It just seems like a weird way to hand out kisses, that’s all.”

While you and Ace talked, Thatch was already rummaging for an empty bottle and placed it in the center of the table before sitting back, satisfied. “Alright, house rules: no dodging, no haki, and if you pick either truth or dare, you commit to it.”

“So, who’s playing?” Izou asks, scanning the group, eyes sharp for anyone holding back.

You’re obviously in—after all, it was your idea. Ace sits a little straighter, clearly not about to let pride get bruised. Thatch looks ready to dive in headfirst. Then there’s Marco… still quiet, unmoving.

Finally, Marco sighs and shakes his head. “Alright, who’s first?”

Thatch winks at you. “Ladies first.”

Instantly you raise your brow, feigning surprise to some degree. “How gallant of you.”

As a response, Thatch leans back with a grin, arms spread like he’s offering you center stage. “It’s only fair. You did choose the game after all.”

Ace mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, “This is how wars start.”

Shaking your head, you reach for the bottle, giving it a quick, practiced flick of the wrist. It spins fast, the glass catching the light as it twirls, everyone at the table leaning in just a little as it begins to slow.

Soon the bottle wobbles, then comes to a stop, pointing directly at… Thatch.

He lets out a bark of laughter and thumps a fist against the table. “Oh-ho! Looks like luck’s on my side. Hit me.”

Slowly you rest your elbow on the table, chin in your hand as you begin to form the words on your tongue. “Alright then. Truth or dare?”

Thatch barely hesitates. “Dare, obviously. What kind of pirate says truth on the first round?”

Izou chuckles. “One who values their dignity.”

Thatch grins back at him. “I was looking for cowards, but yeah sure… dignity.”

As they bicker back and forth you take a moment to think, watching Thatch with squinted eyes, trying to come up with a nice dare that isn’t too boring or too out there.

Finally, you settle on an idea of yours. “Sing a song for us,” you declare, and Thatch blinks at you, caught somewhat off guard. “Bonus points if it’s romantic.”

As Thatch processes the dare the table – actually it’s just Ace – erupts into oohs and laughter.

“A love song?” Thatch groans, throwing his head back dramatically. “This is your daring request? Seriously? I thought you'd come up with something better.”

You shrug, unfazed. “It’s a good start. So, quit whining and start singing.”

For a moment Thatch looks like he’s thinking about what lyrics to choose and then it’s like a lightbulb goes on and he turns to Marco with a grin.

“No,” says Maco without missing a beat, but Thatch’s grin only widens.

“Oh, you better get ready to be whood, my friend.”

Marco sighs and sets his drink down with a soft clink. “If you start singing at me, I’m walking out, yoi.”

Instantly, groans ripple around the table.

“Oh come on,” Ace complains, slumping dramatically against the back of his chair. “We just started! Don’t be a killjoy.”

Izou lifts his glass. “At least wait until the second round before threatening to leave. You’re ruining the vibe.”

Even you glance over at Marco, unsure whether to laugh or apologize, your smile faltering just slightly. It was your dare, but Thatch dragging Marco into it was never part of the plan. You hadn’t expected the attention to shift like that and you somewhat feel guilty for it.

Thatch, either oblivious or just enjoying himself too much to care, continues to grin. “C’mon, Marco. You know you want to hear it.”

But Marco isn’t looking at Thatch. He’s looking at you, catching the flicker of guilt in your eyes, causing him to hesitate for just a second before eventually signing.

Then, without a word, he leans back and grabs his drink again. He takes three solid gulps, sets the mug down a little harder this time, and exhales through his nose.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Let’s get this over with.”

The table erupts in cheers and laughter. Ace whoops like someone just announced free booze, and Thatch claps his hands together like he’s just been granted permission to propose.

“Alright, here it comes.” Thatch clears his throat, stands with theatrical flair, and plants one foot on his chair like a man about to deliver his magnum opus. Moreover, he sweeps his arm toward Marco.

Then he starts singing.

Badly.

The melody is vague at best, the lyrics made up on the spot—something about moonlight and destiny, maybe a sea storm thrown in for drama. He belts out each line with far too much passion, one hand on his chest and the other gesturing wildly toward Marco, for extra flair.

Marco winces immediately, like the sound physically hurts. He even leans away from the performance, rubbing the side of his temple with a muttered, “This is torture.”

Ace, on the other hand, is losing it. He’s doubled over, clutching his stomach as he laughs, occasionally gasping for breath between wheezes. “Keep going! You’re doing great, mate!”

Izou chuckles behind his drink. “I don’t know whether to applaud or ask the sea to take me.”

But it doesn’t stop there. Nearby tables begin turning to look and a few people cheer Thatch on, clapping along to the made-up beat. Others groan loudly, tossing him half-hearted boos and calling for him to ‘stick to cooking’.

One older crewmate, Jozu, yells, “Your singing makes me wish for a quick death, Thatch! Please, stop.“

But Thatch beams through it all like he’s performing at a grand concert. He holds a dramatic note just a bit too long, eyes squeezed shut, arms stretched out, and then, suddenly, silence.

Because Marco has grabbed a piece of bread off the table and calmly shoved it into Thatch’s open mouth mid-note.

“Enough,” Marco says flatly but with a hint of a grin on his lips.

The whole table bursts into fresh laughter as Thatch gags slightly around the bread, muffling some protest while trying not to choke. He drops back into his seat, arms flailing a little as he chews and glares at Marco with watery eyes.

“Show’s over,” Marco mutters, taking another drink.

You’re grinning, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Thatch manages to swallow, then points at Marco with mock offense.

“You… you can’t silence art, Marco.”

“Watch me.” Marco says, casually taking another sip of his drink like nothing just happened. He sets the mug down and looks over at Thatch, expression unreadable. “Now stop whining and spin the bottle.”

Thatch, still chewing, raises a hand in surrender. “Alright, alright. No appreciation for performance these days…”

Ace snorts. “It wasn’t a performance, it was a cry for help.”

“I’ll have you know,” Thatch says, pointing a dramatic finger around the table, “the crowd loved it.”

Izou lifts a brow. “Half of them begged you to shut up.”

“Details,” Thatch says with a grin. Then he reaches forward and gives the bottle a solid spin, the glass rattling against the wood as it whirls, and everyone immediately leans in once more.

You feel the rise of anticipation settle in again as the bottle spins, unsure who it’ll land on next, just hoping it isn’t you. And as the bottle slows and wobbles it slowly ticks past each one of you… Ace… Marco… You… and then stops, pointing at Izou.

Thatch grins, immediately asking the question of all questions. “Truth or dare, pretty boy?”

Izou exhales slowly, clearly weighing his options. “Truth,” he decides, lounging back in his seat like he’s already above whatever’s coming.

Thatch taps his chin thoughtfully, then snaps his fingers. “Alright. What’s your most embarrassing story?”

Izou blinks once. Then again before he leans back even farther in his chair, crossing his legs elegantly. “There is none.”

“Booo, cop-out,” Ace says, tossing a peanut from the snack bowl at him even though it just bounces harmlessly off Izou’s shoulder.

“Come on,” Thatch whines. “There’s got to be something. Nobody’s that composed all the time.”

Izou arches a brow, completely unbothered. “I’ve trained myself to forget such things. Embarrassment is a waste of energy.”

You chuckle. “So, you’re saying you have one.”

“I’m saying you’ll never hear it.”

Suddenly Marco sets his mug down, just a little too casually. “What about the time you tripped over your own kimono and faceplanted straight into mud?”

The table goes silent for a split second and then Thatch leans in, eyes wide. “This I need to hear.”

Slowly Izou turns to him, fixing Marco with a stern look. “You really want to start this here?”

Thatch lets out a gasp, urging Marco to continue regardless of Izou’s thread. “Oh no. Please start this here.”

Marco leaned back with a smile. “Last month. In the middle of a firefight. You remember?”

Suddenly Ace’s eyes light up. “Wait, was that when you had to carry Marco off the field?”

“I did not trip,” Izou says crisply. “I lunged. There’s a difference.”

“You lunged into the mud,” Marco says. “Face-first.”

Izou exhales through his nose. “Because you,” he points at Marco with his glass, “were standing there like a ghost in broad daylight, bullets flying around you, zoning out like it was a morning stroll.”

“I was conserving energy,” Marco deadpans.

“I had to drag him out under my arm,” Izou continues, ignoring him. “Mud everywhere, my kimono ruined, and this bird-brain had the audacity to ask if I ‘had it handled.’”

You burst out laughing. Ace smacks the table. Thatch is already wiping tears from his eyes.

“Well did you?” Marco asks, clearly enjoying this. “You carried me like a sack of potatoes.”

“I was this close to dropping you in a ditch,” Izou mutters. But there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth now, just barely betraying the smile he’s trying to suppress.

“And yet,” Marco says, smug, “you didn’t.”

“I regret it every day.”

The laughter around the table is so loud that even the nearby crew at other tables glance over, curious and grinning. Izou sighs, takes a long sip, and waves his hand.

“Spin the bottle, someone. Before I have to relive more of my battlefield babysitting career.”

Ace spins the bottle for Izou while he downs a long sip of his drink, still mumbling about being dragged through the mud figuratively and literally.

Meanwhile, the bottle spins… one… twice… picks up speed with a satisfying rattle against the wood. Soon everyone leans in again, curious who’ll be next.

And then it slows… slows… slows… until the neck points directly at you.

Instantly, Izou’s mood shifts. His expression goes from mildly annoyed to dangerously amused, and his eyes practically sparkle under the lantern light. Whatever exhaustion he’d been feigning is gone now, replaced with something far more devilish.

He locks eyes with you, lips curving into a sly smile. “Well, well,” he purrs. “Truth or dare, darling?”

You narrow your eyes, pretending to think, already sensing you’re doomed either way. Something about the way Izou is waiting, already prepared, tells you he’s got something up his tailored sleeve no matter what you say.

Still… if you're going down, might as well make it interesting.

You meet his gaze and smile. “Dare.”

Izou leans forward, resting his elbow against the table and propping his chin up with the back of his hand. He studies you like a performer sizing up the stage.

“Oh, brave,” he murmurs. “I admire that.”

Then he sits up, eyes glinting. “Alright. I dare you… to sit in Marco’s lap for the next two rounds.”

You blink. “What?”

Thatch lets out a low whistle. “Now that’s how you play the game.”

Marco, for his part, doesn’t react right away. He just lifts his drink, takes a slow sip, and watches you over the rim of his glass. His face is unreadable as ever, but something about the way he doesn’t look away makes your stomach twist.

“I mean…” You say cautiously, glancing at Izou.

He smiles sweetly, too pleased with himself. “You said dare.”

You look back at Marco. He doesn’t speak, not at first. He just tips his head slightly toward the empty space in his lap and says, casual as you please, “It’s up to you. I don’t bite.”

His comment somehow makes it worse, because it’s not like he’s flirting, but the way he’s watching you, patiently, quietly, like he’s waiting for you to decide… that makes your heart do something annoying in your chest.

Ace is watching too. Less subtle about it. His usual grin is tighter than normal, eyes narrowed slightly, like he doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or interrupt.

“I hate all of you,” you mutter under your breath, mostly for show, as you finally take the step forward.

You lower yourself carefully into Marco’s lap acting like it’s no big deal, but you’re landing a little too far forward at first. Still, you try to act like this is fine, but after a while your thighs tense and muscles lock, trying to keep some distance, but your back’s too straight.

So, you shift back just a little. Then pause. Still not quite right. You shift again. Then again.

Marco hasn’t said anything yet, but you can feel his body beneath you. The way his chest rises behind you, slow and steady. The way his legs don’t move, like he’s just letting you figure it out. Which somehow only makes it worse.

You shift a little more. Closer now and your breath stutters.

That… definitely wasn’t his leg.

A beat of stillness. Then heat floods your cheeks as you try to adjust your weight again, heart hammering in your chest. You’re not sure if you’re trying to avoid contact or if the effort to not press closer is making things worse.

Either way, you move again, nervous laughter threatening to bobble up as you try to mask your discomfort.

Then his hand lands on your thigh.

Firm. Warm. Heavy.

“Quit squirming,” Marco murmurs, voice low and calm, but something in the way he says it makes your pulse jump.

Your entire body stills. His fingers rest against your leg like they’ve always belonged there, but that single touch burns like a brand, urging you to turn your head slightly, trying to catch his expression, but he’s not looking at you.

Marco’s looking past you, apparently listening to the conversation between Thatch, Izou, and Ace while the game seemingly pauses, taking a slow sip of his drink, expression unreadable. He looks relaxed even, but you feel the subtle shift in him… the subtle twitch of his finger, the tension in the air that wasn’t there before.

“I… sorry,” you whisper, though you’re not sure what exactly you’re apologizing for. The squirming? The accidental brush? The fact that you’re seated in his lap, every inch of you hyperaware of every inch of him?

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, eyes moving to lock onto you for a moment before staring forward again.

You breathe. One deep long breath. Then you decide it’s finally time to take matters into your own hands and continue the game so that the two rounds can end as fast as possible.

So, your hand reaches forward, shaky but quick, and grabs the bottle in the center of the circle. You spin it quickly, needing something – anything – to pull your mind away from the way Marco still hasn’t moved his hand.

And then the bottle slows again, slower… and slower until it eventually stops, pointing at its next victim: Ace.

Instantly, Ace flashes a grin your way, but there’s something different about it this time. A hint of tension behind his smile. His gaze lingers on you a beat longer than usual but you can’t explain why.

“Dare,” he simply says, before you can even ask your question.

“Dare?” You echo, blinking at him, caught off guard, hoping to buy some time.

“Yes,” Ace confirms with a nod. “Dare me to do something.”

“Okay,” you breathe, searching your thoughts for a dare – something clever or bold, but your mind is frustratingly blank, still focusing on the warmth of Marco behind you instead. You’re still hyperaware of how his hand rests lightly on top of your thigh and the way your heart keeps stuttering in your chest.

And then you feel him lean in.

Marco’s lips barely graze the shell of your ear as he whispers, “Dare him to have a drink with Pops.”

The low murmur makes your breath hitch, and you turn your head, slow and cautious, until your eyes meet his. The space between you narrows, so narrow that your noses nearly touch.

“Why?” you ask, voice quiet, like you’re afraid to break whatever this is.

Marco holds your gaze. There’s the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his lips, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Moreover, his tone stays soft as his eyes flicker down to your mouth for a moment before returning to your eyes.

“Just do it,” he says. “Trust me.”

You huff a tiny breath, more flustered than annoyed. “You’re being cryptic.”

“I know, yoi” he replies, voice full of something quiet and teasing and unreadable all at once. “Just go with it. Just this once.”

You hesitate, still watching him. His gaze is steady, and his expression is still soft, like he’s not pushing you, just gently asking you to follow where he’s leading. And you might have. You might’ve whispered your agreement right then, if not for…

“Are you two done whispering sweet nothings?” Thatch calls across the circle, grinning like he’s just caught you both making out. “Some of us are still playing the game, y’know.”

Heat rushes to your cheek and you sit up a little straighter in Marco’s lap, but he only chuckles, the sound quiet in your ear.

“Go on,” Marco nudges you, his voice still low enough for only you to hear.

So, you clear your throat and finally look toward Ace. “I dare you… to have a drink with Whitebeard.”

Ace raises an eyebrow, then breaks into a grin. “Really? That’s it? Done.”

Next Ace starts to push back his chair, clearly ready to march off to fulfill the dare. And as he walks off, the whole table watches him, you included.

After a few more steps Ace finally approaches Whitebeard with a confident grin, the massive figure seated like a mountain surrounded by a few of his sons and a couple of nurses, checking over charts and muttering about rest.

Moreover, at his side sits an enormous sake dish, so large it looks more like a shallow basin than a cup, crafted to match Whitebeard’s size. And as Ace kneels in front of Whitebeard, he raises a brow.

“Sup, Pops,” Ace says with a wide grin.

The old man lets out a rumbling laugh. “What a way to greet me. What brings you here, son?”

Ace shrugs like it’s nothing. “Got dared to drink with you.”

Whitebeard leans back slightly, one massive hand resting on his knee. His sharp eyes drift past Ace, briefly locking with Marco across the deck, who hasn’t bothered to hide the way he’s watching.

Then his gaze shifts again.

To you.

And lingers.

The corner of his mouth twitches, the barest hint of a knowing smirk beneath the mustache. “You’re playing a game over there?” he asks, eyes still fixed on you for one beat too long before turning back to Ace.

Ace nods, completely unfazed. “Yeah. Truth or dare.”

Whitebeard huffs, shaking his head with something like fond amusement. “That old thing? Didn’t think you brats still bothered with it.”

“Gets interesting when certain people get bold,” Ace replies, trying (and failing) to sound casual. But he’s grinning again as he adds, “Figured you wouldn’t mind sharing a drink with your favorite.”

Whitebeard lets out a slow chuckle. “Favorite, huh? I’ll let Marco know you’re feeling competitive tonight.”

That earns a snort from Marco all the way at the table, and a flicker of something in his expression as he shifts beneath you.

Whitebeard gestures with a nod. “Go on then. Pour.”

Ace takes up the ladle and fills one of the oversized cups, hands steady. He offers it with both hands, respectful despite the cocky tilt of his grin.

Whitebeard accepts it just as properly, one massive hand supporting the bottom of the cup, the other lifting it with surprising grace. Then he raises it slightly in a silent toast and downs it in one long go.

Ace waits, respectful until the last drop is swallowed. Only when Whitebeard lowers the cup does he reach to pour one for himself. He holds it up with both hands, inspecting it for a moment.

“This thing’s half my size,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else, but Whitebeard hears and chuckles low in his chest.

Ace glances up, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “If I drown in this, tell the crew I went out like a legend.”

A few of the nearby commanders laugh. One of the nurses rolls her eyes. Whitebeard just raises a brow, clearly entertained.

Without further delay, Ace lifts the massive dish and takes a long, dramatic pull—his throat working as he drinks, shoulders squaring to handle the sheer volume. Some of it spills, trailing down his chin, but he doesn't stop until he’s drained nearly the whole thing.

He exhales sharply after, setting the dish down with a satisfied thunk and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Not bad.”

Whitebeard eyes him with something like amusement. “And here I thought you were just showing off for the table.”

Ace grins. “Was I subtle?”

Whitebeard’s grin stretches beneath his mustache. “About as subtle as our newest addition staring at you the whole time, like you’d drop dead any second.”

Ace blinks at that, the grin still on his face but frozen. Then, like a delayed reaction, he glances over his shoulder toward the table where you sit, still tucked awkwardly in Marco’s lap.

Your eyes widen instinctively when you realize both men are looking your way.

Ace’s grin slowly reforms, softer this time, with the kind of warmth that sneaks in through the cracks of his usual bravado. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just watches you for a second longer than necessary.

Suddenly, Whitebeard snorts, clearly pleased, and waves his son off with one massive hand. “Go on. You’ve fulfilled your dare.”

With a nod, Ace turns and starts making his way back toward the table, still wiping the last trace of sake from his mouth with the back of his hand. You try not to squirm under his approaching gaze, but it’s impossible not to feel the way your heart kicks up again.

“Whitebeard is good sports,” you murmur as Ace returns to the table, just loud enough for Marco to hear. “I mean, anyone else would’ve sent Ace away probably. Told him to stop interrupting.”

Marco’s brow lifts, slow and deliberate. “He would never do that,” he says. “Especially not to Ace.”

You tilt your head, curious. “Why? Just because Ace is the commander of the second division?”

He exhales a soft laugh, shaking his head. “No. Because Ace tried to kill Pops. Repeatedly.”

You blink. “What?”

Marco doesn’t even flinch.

Your whole body shifts before you can stop yourself, turning toward him so fast that your knees bracket his thighs, your balance barely steady, You’re practically straddling him now, but the surprise has overridden the awkwardness.

“What do you mean tried to kill him?!” you whisper-shout, eyes wide, not noticing how Ace takes his seat at the table looking around clearly questioning what’s between you two.

Marco, completely unfazed by the fact that you're suddenly in his lap with your face inches from his, lifts his drink and hums thoughtfully. “Tried a few times. Ambushed him. Attacked with full intent. Of course, he never stood a chance.”

Your hands grip his shoulders before you even realize it. “And that ended with sake and cheers?”

“Pops let him,” Marco explains calmly. “Let him burn out that fire. He didn’t fight back—he endured it. And when Ace finally collapsed, exhausted and angry and confused, Pops offered him a place here. Called him son. That was that.”

You just stare. Then your mouth opens, ready to fire off a dozen questions about how any of that makes sense, when Izou’s voice cuts in, loud and clear.

“Listen, if you two need a room, just say so, alright?”

Your brain short-circuits and you snap back to the present like someone dumped a bucket of cold water over your head. The warmth of Marco’s thighs under yours, the way your knees are practically hugging his hips, your hands still clutching his shoulders like you meant to climb him…

It all hits you at once.

Heat rushes to your face. “I… what?! No, I wasn’t… he said…”

Marco, cool as ever, takes a slow sip of his drink, eyes unreadable. “No room needed, yoi,” he says smoothly, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s thoroughly enjoying watching you unravel now that you’ve relaxed.

You throw up your hands. “That’s enough! Two rounds are done.”

With a hurried scramble, you slide off his lap and drop into the chair beside him, snatching the nearest mug and draining it in one desperate gulp. After all that, you definitely needed it.

[thesharktanksdriver]

"Wow! New update from the Devil May Love? Series!" I said with joy, little did I know I will got shot 50 times later./j

Ough but like that chapter was so good I'm in knee right now, the note stick on the rocket launcher left by Lady and the little inside joke they were reminded of. The fact they still remember really show how much Lady meant to Honeypie as well : (( and the scene with Dante as well. Don't get me started oughhhhh........

Honeypie think they're unworthy and thought that Dante save them because they're just nothing special and stuff... this idiot....... I wanna just tell them that they are so loved by many people, and it also show that the scar left by their parents is there, Lady is right maybe we should plot revenge against Honeypie parents/j

AND also the line "he's experienced someone forcing something on him without asking" arghhh Dante 😭, just that remember that scene from the novel and how much stuff he has gone through. Honeypie is literally his light and I'm going to go insane thinking about this

Chapter 5 got me so insane I have to like doodles them immediately putting aside the other doodles I have drawn + the other two Honeypies design I just seen because oh my god theyre so cute (affection)

Ganymede and Honeypie dynamic driven me insane and I was so ill when he protected Honeypie... they could be trauma buddy,,,

And the fact he was named Ganymede is interesting, as from what I google, Ganymede from the mythology was abducted by gods to serve as Zeus cup-bearer. I wonder if it has something to do with it, intended or not. It's a bit hard to design the weapon as I'm not a weapon person myself, but I hope I did it justice. It's sad that he unfortunately couldn't speak (imagine the dialogue,,,,), but his spirit will still protect them regardless

"We need to kill Mundus" he kill not only Ganymede AND also him... This scene also had me on chokehold. To think the one who bought back the joy of poetic would appear in front of Honeypie and his brother, only for him to got taken away AGAIN. I'm ripping my hair, yelling and shitting tear

This is getting a bit too long, apologise in advance. But thank you for the meal!! 🙏 It's going to live in my mind rent free once again

Me: wow time to write new devil may love? Chapters *proceeds to write 11,000 word of sadness and suffering* lololol. I’m glad everyone is enjoying the chapter! I was really debating how good it was when I posted it and was still upset I had to split it since i hit the bullet limit on tumblr of 1000. The next chapter should hopefully be up in a few days to compensate and finish dmc1.

Despite lady not being in dmc1 I wanted to still find little ways of including her to compensate. It’s kinda sad she isn’t in much of the games :( it means I don’t have much to work on with her compared to Dante. But I hope to make up for that with either oneshots or making the moments with her significant which technically does make sense considering she knew Honeypie the longest.

Teehee that scene was so fun to write, especially since technically Dante kissed honey to give them air but they’re spiralling and over analyzing. I thought it would be a good scene to show how they definitely do have some feelings towards Dante (and I’ll write more scenes for others as well when the time comes) but they excuse it away and still don’t quite even get their own feelings for him yet since love is so foreign to them. Dante might join lady in revenge against their parents when he finds out how they process shit and think they’re not deserving of love.

I’m glad people have caught onto that line referencing potential abuse Dante faced. I haven’t had the opportunity to read the books besides watching lore videos of people summarizing it but a personal headcanon/theory of mine is that Dante has faced some form of harassment when he was younger after the house burned down. He was a kid wandering for a good part of his early teen and childhood so it’s easy to assume that someone probably took some form of advantage over that. Not to mention the one scene in the anime of that rich trafficker dude attempting to grope him. Dante understands what it’s like to feel like something was forced onto him and even if he kissed Honeypie to save them and to give them air theres nothing more worse than that feeling of powerlessness it cause which made him freak out cause he never wanted that for honey and even moreso by his own hand. He was kinda mortified that he was potentially like all the people who forced stuff onto him without his consent and did it to the one person he loves. What he doesn’t get however is Honeypie just interpret it as “he made a logical choice and saved me, it was fine with me. Now time to shove mushy feelings deep into my chest ” lol

The Griffon/ganymede scene was the hardest by part for me to write mostly because I wanted it to seem reasonable as to why Griffon, Mundus’s apparently most loyal commander would betray him. In the dmc2 novel with barrel in the alternate timeline he’s apart of nelo Angelo’s rebellion so it’s safe to say that Griffon did have the potential reasoning to betray Mundus but the real difficultly was explaining why. And I went with the fact that Mundus treats his underlings like shit and like pawns despite their deep loyalty to him. I kinda tried to make it a abusive relationship where the abuser finds someone with low confidence or self esteem, builds them up and makes them feel as if they owe them for doing that, treats them ok for awhile and then tears them down whilst remaining the victim of what they did for them to keep them under their thumb. Which kinda paralleled with Honeypie’s home life and thus made them understanding towards Griffon because they get it. Griffon on the other hand was initially jealous of Honeypie’s dynamic with Dante because he treated them good and trusted them unlike how Mundus treated Griffon until he realized that if Mundus was treating him that way, then maybe he was never good in the first place.

The name of Ganymede was actually very much intentional on my part! In the story Zeus kidnaps Ganymede from Troy to make him his cupbearer and it’s a very much not consensual relationship on Ganymede’s end. Zeus kidnapped him via turning into an eagle Ganymede had taken in (I could be wrong about this part so take it with a grain of salt) and then kidnapped him after gaining his trust. I used the name Ganymede for Griffon for this reason due to Mundus’s design looking like a statue of Zeus + his electric powers and the similarity to the abusive dynamic. Zeus kidnapped Ganymede whilst Mundus took in Griffon via charisma but in the end both Griffon and Ganymede became trapped by an abusive authority with no escape and had to serve with udder loyalty under that person who took advantage of them. Honeypie thought up the name because of those similarity’s but also because they wanted Ganymede to have a happier ending, if Ganymede in the tale couldn’t fight back against Zeus then maybe the new one could. Another reason I gave Griffon a new name is for the fact of continuity for Griffon in dmc5, Honeypie isn’t stupid so they’d notice how there are two demon birds named griffon With the same abilities and would be suspicious so I came up with the idea they just didn’t ever learn Ganymede/griffon true name because they gave him a new name. Plus we only really learn the demon commanders names due to the case files, they don’t tell Dante their name in their introductions so it’s a win win for me.

Btw your design of the devil arm is basically spot on, it’s kinda crazy. And omg the drawing of Honeypie with the feather?!? Sjksksiajaksosjaokwieowjsjsj your art is scrumptious.

Your art of nelo Angelo/Vergil is squeezing my heart. That scene was also hard to write because in game Dante just brushes off nelo angelo taking off the helmet and realizes it’s Vergil with the necklace. I had to use the nelo Gilver explanation to excuse away the lack of reaction as him thinking Vergil was another clone lol. But I think that makes it even sadder when Honeypie was the first to notice because Dante didn’t want to think that nelo Angelo was actually Vergil all along. I really wanted to reference back to Vergil in dmc3 in this part with the poetry, the lines Honeypie recites is actually the first lines Vergil recites back in devils may love 1, he says the lines Honeypie originally said in that one as well as a parallel.

No worries for this being long! I like long asks cause I get to go into detail about my concepts or behind the scenes stuff for my writing. 🫶

(Me because I get to yap about my concerts and ideas)

[lucabicono]

I literally didn't put it together until just now but... Does anyone else think it's a bit weird how closely Ragatha, Caine, and Jax's arcs are to one another?

Let's look at what we've been shown so far:

We know Ragatha has insecurities around other people hating her — likely due to growing up in an abusive household. So, she puts on an act of trying to come across as positive and friendly and reliable, someone who other people can come to when they need help, even to her own detriment, because she believes that otherwise, she's useless to them. And, if she's outlived her usefulness, they might not like her anymore.

Jax is more or less her opposite in execution: outwardly cruel, dismissive, and abusive. He says it himself, "I'm the one who causes pain for fun" — which, in my opinion, is just him projecting what he believes his "true" archetype to be. To others, he tries to project that he's "the funny one", when deep down, he sees himself as "the cruel one", and so does what he does to live up to that expectation he has of himself. Why he does this is unclear, whether it's because of a past experience with Ribbit, or growing up in an abusive environment as well (as hinted by his upset look following Ragatha's accidental trauma dump in episode 5), or maybe a combination, I can't really say.

But that's where they both have something in common: they both think so little of themselves that they believe that they can't truly be "good". And, I believe, that they both do want others to like them. With Ragatha it's obvious,she directly verbalizes it, but with Jax I feel it's a bit more complicated, where he wants to be liked, but he's internalized his own self-assigned archetype to the point he no longer believes he deserves to be liked, no matter how much he insists to others that he's "the funny one".

And, if it's not obvious, I think Caine's arc may wind up being a reflection of this same internal conflict.

In the original parable, Cain killed Abel in a fit of jealousy over Abel having earned God's favor. While I'm not sure if Caine has already killed his counterpart at this point of the show (though, it's looking more and more likely as time goes on), it's very obvious that themes of jealousy and wanting to be favored by others is a key part of Caine as a character.

He gets upset and denies it when people imply they don't like his adventures. He becomes paranoid when the troupe wind up enjoying the suggestion box adventures over his. He repeatedly has these instances of blowing up whenever Zooble dismisses his efforts and ideas. He begins glitching whenever he's confronted with even the slightest possibility that people just don't like him.

I always thought that Pomni seeing the shadows of Ragatha, Jax, and Caine in her nightmare at the start of episode 2 was simply due to them being the only three she'd interacted with at length on her first day, but I'm beginning to think that it was actually a subtle bit of foreshadowing, hinting at how closely the individual arcs of these three in particular are to one another. And the conclusions I'm drawing are grim, if I'm being honest.

Ragatha has already at least partially worked through her issues thanks to help from Kinger, and I assume Pomni is going to play an integral part in Jax's redemption, assuming he goes through any. But so far, the closest thing Caine has is the Moon, and considering she's already had her two lines of dialogue, and just how dismissive he's been of her since the start, I doubt she'll be much of a comfort for him going forward. Even if he can't abstract the same way humans can, the potential fallout of him crashing out the way Jax did in episode 6 could be... Well, in a word, apocalyptic.

Anyway, just my two cents. What do y'all think?

[arolesbianism]

Thinking abt Sif Odile duo looping au again and I wanna be able to plot everything out more coherently but act 5 eternally looms overhead and boy I do not wanna look up

[modern-inheritance]

Some rambled dialogue I didn’t want to forget for a future short/story/interaction:

[galacticlamps]

actually ascension needs its own post since that's the one with the most details to speculate over and im starved for soho talk so i will talk to myself if need be

First the cover again, because I kinda can't get over it:

my only thing is that I had been hoping we might get Lizbeth on a cover again since she's never been on one of the boxsets before, despite being the 2nd person credited on all 4 of them (even if that's just alphabetical, still, she's the only one of the four main characters who never makes the cover)

But letting that go...

I know we already kinda knew the brief for this one but damn I didn't expect it to go quite this hard. Maybe that's just because the Parasite & Ashenden covers were (comparatively) similarish to each other and I was so pleased with Unbegotten's, and then got so used to it as the placeholder for Ascension while they kept postponing it, I wasn't expecting anything this colorful or detailed or with what I can't help but register as Fun New Outfits even though these are still like, pretty damn basic as far as costumes go. Still, it's a different vibe from everyone in suits and trenchcoats on every cover, technically. (Oh the woes of being an audio fan such that two characters owning sweaters actually does qualify as new information)

On top of just being visually delightful though, I know we knew religion was gonna be a fairly big part of this one, but I didn't actually expect to get quite this much of it - though I'm glad of it for a number of reasons. The BF twitter already made the ineffable joke so I don't have to, but also yeah I did very much spend all of season 2 episode 4 of good omens half convinced Samuel Barnett & Dervla Kirwan were about to pop up around any given corner (if you will go around being gay supernatural and horrible at your messy bureaucratic jobs in midcentury soho then I'm sorry, this is where my brain's gonna go) - so, fuel to that fire. But in terms of actual important things, at least one of my Soho wishes looks to be being granted because we have a Rev Edward Folgate on the cast list, which must mean we're finally meeting Norton's father, even if his mother & brother don't appear (which they could, technically, I've definitely seen BF not list all the doublings on their cast tabs before). Religion, domesticity, and the nuclear family are all things that absolutely fascinate me when it comes to Norton's character, so getting any amount of story involving his father & his church is something I've been actively hoping for for a long time now.

(I will say I'm a tiny bit bummed Saffron Coomber isn't on the cast list to play Mia again, but I kinda figured she wasn't going to be since Greg Austin's Armitage, who's making his first recurring appearance after originating in Unbegotten, was listed ever since the boxset was announced - presumably if she was also returning, that would've been handled in the same way. But since Unbegotten ended with Lizbeth and Mia going on a date, I still held out hope. Who knows though, maybe things did go well for them and Lizbeth just has a better work/life balance than Norton so she can date someone without them getting dragged into every scifi plot. I know that's not a very common accomplishment for any Torchwood agent, but a gal can hope)

At this point I know I'm completely in the realm of speculation & even wishful thinking, but I'm really really hoping we get some more clues as to Norton's overall timeline in this one, and I have a feeling that even if there's nothing as direct as dates given, the events of a plot like this one are going to heavily influence my personal interpretation of it.

To say that life & death are major themes for the soho crew feels wildly reductive, but even by Torchwood's standards and taking into account its origins as a piece of media with Jack Harkness & his newfound immortality at the heart of it, the living/dead status of this bunch has always been fantastically up in the air to me. Obviously Ghost Mission introduced Norton as kind of a ghost before revealing more obvious ghostly characters later on to which the title might have been referring, but his being from the past did beg the question of his survival into Torchwood's present era all the same, which Outbreak later alludes to much more directly, and his habit of showing up via hologram in multiple stories only further obfuscates any certainty we might have about where & when he definitely can be said to be alive and well. Then you've got Lizbeth and Gideon both being effectively 'brought back to life' via paradoxes that prevented them ever having died in the first place. Again, they are very very far from being the only Torcwhood characters this happens to (for a sprawling EU, it's really rather impressive how often & in how many different ways Torchwood as a whole manages to circle back to being about like. chaotic undead queers at the end of every day. though I suppose that consistency is part of why I keep falling in love with its different iterations again and again). That's without even getting into the question of Norton's dubious fate in God Among Us - and I say dubious because I know some people take that to be his ultimate death, but I personally think that reading something as vague as that as having any kind of finality rather goes against the spirit of this whole world/series, not just because I want him to live. (There are obviously other ways to make him survive/reappear, but I don't see this as a River Song scenario where we can safely assume one of his earlier-released adventures had to happen at the end of his personal timeline). But wherever God Among Us falls for him, he does very much meet God in it - or at least, a god, since the sentinel in Unbegotten is also described as a god of sorts, and even if he doesn't ultimately have the status of the god Jacqueline King is playing there, Unbegotten is still full to bursting with ghosts/undead/came back wrong/echo characters to continue underscoring that life/afterlife theme.

So all things considered, even allowing for the fact that we know Norton's twin hobbies are lying about himself and abusing time travel to suit his own ends/ever-shifting alliances, I find it difficult to believe we could get through a whole 6-part boxset about religion & death without something providing some kind of compelling evidence about where this adventure fits in among his other run-ins with apocalypses and gods and ghosts and dead-but-still-here characters/creatures, so I'm very much looking forward to any further exploration on that front.

And lastly, and least intellectually, I really want to know what the hell 20th-century Torchwood's obsession with Reginalds is. Reading through the cast list, I had to do two separate doubletakes over the character 'Sir Reginald Peebles' - firstly, because I had Reginald Rigsby on the brain, this being Soho (and the other Troughton brother being so active on BF's releases for this same month) - and secondly, because reading this in conjunction with the announcement for the July monthly adventure in which the new main Torchwood guy of the 20s is apparently called Sir Reginald Dellafield, there was a brief moment where I took that monthly release to be a tie-in with Ascension. I don't expect it to be, but damn. was it really so popular a name?

anyways, catch me thinking about those stained glass windows for the next couple months I guess (and knowing Torchwood Soho, for a long long time after it comes out as well lol)

[pyrriax]

so maybe ive actually had a lot more thoughts in my head than i give myself credit for. ive been having fun just writing Everything down, even stuff that i know probably won't go anywhere in the end. i'm writing it down because Maybe one day i'll just dump a bunch of my plot bunnies in a document/post and let people have at them.

so far there are twelve footnotes on my document for today, almost all of them are relating to inspiration and things that've never been written down but are integral to several AUs and worlds, along with elaboration that would've broken the flow of the actual written portion.

[readingwriter92]

I found a small like. Detective ass rectangular notebook recently and I’ve left it on my desk and somehow it’s become my book for jotting down quick ideas (since for reasons that are less interesting my usual notebook is buried under things / inconvient)

And like. It’s good bc I’ve been jotting down fic ideas or. Loose bits for scenes for lanbewtst but like. Also some of it makes zero sense out of context

Some are well written, just short blurb about thing and some are sequences of events in a scene written:

[observe bag]

[Dazai comes out]

[ huff]

[neverendingford]

.

[oscpstri]

second date | piastri

piastri x fem interviewer!reader, 1.06k

you loved it the first time so he's back for more. welcome back to chicken shop date! where you take the world's hottest stars on the most awkward dates. today's reoccurring menu consists of the same crisp chicken tenders, the same greasy fries, and a now-comfortable oscar piastri.

INCLUDES: fast-paced dialogue, many cuts, not a full-block thing, funny car jokes (please laugh), they don't really eat, osco is now finally biting back, this one is longer i promise, reader is a ferrari fan, ferrari slander teehee, the team not the drivers, obviously

NOTE: inspired by chicken shop date by amelia dimoldenberg! you guys loved the first one and i definitely felt it was too short, so i made another because why not

PART ONE: CHICKEN SHOP DATE

( masterlist | more OP81 )

"You're back," you start, blinking at the man in front of you. The air still smelled like grease and chicken and the table you sat at months ago stayed the same. The only difference was the fact that Oscar Piastri no longer sat at the edge of his chair in regret. Instead, he sat up and looked at you with a cheeky grin, hands already finding their way to his drink. "Ready for this second date?"

Oscar lets out a breathy chuckle, looking down at his lap to hide the smile. "Not really."

You smile wider at this, nibbling at a fry. "Good."

"So how's life been since the last date?"

Oscar clears his throat at the question, raising his eyebrows in thought before looking back up at you. "Good, actually."

"I heard you're leading the championship now," you say, raising both eyebrows with a grin. "Some could say I'm your good luck charm."

Oscar only smiles at this, shaking his head in disbelief before picking up a tender. "They'd be liars."

You narrow your eyes at the Aussie, accusingly pointing a fry towards him. "You're lying."

"Do you have any pre-race rituals?"

Oscar looks up at you from his box, a thinking frown appearing on his face. "Not really."

You stop chewing, blinking in confusion. "So I haven't changed your life... at all?"

"Not positively."

You look at him with pursed lips, a comedic silence coming between the both of you.

"Good to know."

"Do you usually eat here?" Oscar asks, eyeing the food you were eating.

You wipe your mouth with a napkin, swallowing your food before looking back at him. "No. Why? That good?"

"No," Oscar shakes his head, "That bad."

You choke on your food, looking around at the empty shop. "You can't just say that."

"I didn't mean the food."

Oscar tilts his head with a teasing grin. Meanwhile, you give him a blank stare.

"Funny."

"I saw you're a big Ferrari fan." Oscar directs the conversation. You glance at him, impressed.

"How'd you know that?"

"Instagram." He shrugs as he says it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"How's the Tifosi experience?"

You blink at him. "My head hurts just thinking about it."

Oscar laughs at this. You only blankly stare at him in return, throwing a half-eaten fry in his direction.

"You're part of the headache. Stupid McLarens."

"You won F2 and F3. You think you'll win F1?"

Oscar sets down his drink, pursing his lips. "Definitely."

You purse your lips as well, tilting your head sarcastically. "You think you'll do that with your current team?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Oscar blinks in confusion. You only raise two eyebrows at him like he knows exactly what you mean, taking a bite out of the tender you were holding.

"Check the stats."

"The stats are fine?"

"Why did you come back?"

Oscar shrugs. "Part of my contract."

You stare at him with cold eyes. He only stares back like he was serious about his reply.

"That wasn't part of the script."

"I don't think any of this is part of any script."

"How many likes for you to do this again with me."

Oscar leans back in thought, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks up at the ceiling as he ponders upon an answer. You raise an eyebrow at his antics.

"Honestly... no amount of likes will make me do this again."

Your smile drops at this, staring at the F1 driver deadpan. "Are you serious?"

A grin appears on Oscar's face, "No."

"Have you ever considered switching to Alpine?"

You couldn't tell, but you swear you saw Oscar's eye twitch a little at the mention of his lower formula team.

"Why would I do that?"

You shrug, "For the funsies."

A beat of silence washes over the both of you.

"Have you ever considered switching to McLaren?" Oscar quips.

You smile at his rebuttal, "Only if it comes with a signed Oscar Piastri hat."

The driver nods once before sticking his hand out across the table. You take it and shake his hand, nodding in sync.

"It's a deal."

"Your PR team must love you. You typically stay out of trouble."

Oscar nods at this, glancing over to behind the camera where a handful of his team stood. "Yeah, they tend to sleep well."

You hum at this. "Maybe it's out of sheer boredom."

"You're manager is a former Red Bull menace. You give 'nervous intern at the media day' vibes."

Oscar furrows his eyebrows at this, not knowing whether to be offended or amused.

"I prefer the term calm."

You tilt your head at this, pursing your lips.

"You're a LinkedIn post. Mark's a gossip headline."

"Do you often publicly reject job offers?"

Oscar immediately knew what you were talking about, a breathy chuckle escaping his mouth.

"That was... complicated."

"Right. You rejected them like they were an ex texting at 2 AM."

"Do you ever miss the days when you were a highly rated junior instead of a highly judged rookie?"

Oscar takes a sip at this, blinking in confusion. "That's dark."

"It's the truth."

"You know," you start, taking a bite out of a fry. "I love your mom."

Oscar raises his eyebrows like he wasn't surprised. "Most people do."

"Like, if I had to choose between dating you or getting a Christmas card from Nicole... I'd choose the card."

Oscar clicks his tongue at this, leaning back in his seat. "Yeah, I would too."

"Everyday you prove to be the least favorite Piastri."

Oscar looks at you with a deadpan look. "Very original."

"You definitely aren't the original I'll tell you that much."

"Rate this date out of 10. Be honest."

Oscar sits quietly for a beat, munching on his fries as he thinks about the question. You sit there with a small smile, expecting the best from the man in front of you.

"Well, the food is an 8. You're... definitely present."

Your smile falters. "Still rude."

[meadowfics]

nsfw alphabet

namgyu x afab!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI! smut. vulgar dialogue. switch!namgyu, powerbottom!namgyu.

there is only one season three spoiler

aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

honestly, namgyu didn't even know 'aftercare' was a thing until he started dating you.

"fuck do you mean, 'aftercare'.. isn't sex caring itself?"

however, this mf is a simp and became the king of aftercare after a year into the relationship.

it was a new learning experience.

he mainly gives back and feet massages.

a blunt and a bottle of water from him helps too.

body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

namgyu's favorite body part, on himself, is his hands.

those fingers are so long.

he knows how to use those fingers as well.

namgyu's favorite body part of yours is your boobs.

he is a boob guy 100%

whenever you're laying down together, one of his hands are inside of your shirt.

he appreciates you walking around your home with only a lace bra on as well.

"my eyes are up here, namgyu."

"well your boobs are down there, y/n."

whenever you're riding his dick, he goes crazy when your boobs are bouncing in his face.

its a game to him whenever he chases your nipples with his tongue.

cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

he is a cum eaterrrr

sorry.

namgyu is obsessed with the sweet taste of your pussy.

in the morning, he will drive out three orgasms from you on his tongue.

"well that was my breakfast"

namgyu will tease.

dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

during the fourth game, the maze game, namgyu wanted to bend you over and fuck you right in one of those rooms.

the mix of homicide and drugs put him in the most horny mood possible.

"just the tip, I promise, please y/n?"

he moans into your ear, fondling your boobs through your red vest as he attempts to pull your pants down.

"what if somebody walks in--"

"then they'll know that you're getting your insides rearranged by me, and will stay away from you."

experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

namgyu is experienced with kissing and giving head.

when it came to actual 'p in v' sex, he never did it much before you since it was only hookups.

he had 3 bodies (max.) before he met you.

he knows your body more than you know yourself.

namgyu makes it a priority to know what you enjoy.

favorite position (this goes without saying)

if he is the dominant one, he puts you on all fours.

this gives him the control that he craves so much.

however, when he is in a submissive mood, he loves when you ride him.

goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

when he is on drugs, he is the goofiest mf alive.

he will not stop laughing while groaning, talking about how good you're doing for him while assuming everything is a game.

for example, he will count how many times you bounce on his cock from the time he enters you until you cum.

the last time, you only bounced on his cock 18 times before cumming.

hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

there are moments where namgyu doesn't give a fuck about grooming.

he goes at least a month without trimming at times.

the carpet color matches to drapes.

intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

namgyu is so romantic when it comes to 'make-up' sex.

he always begs for your forgiveness, giving you the sweetest compliments as he slowly fucks into the sweet spots over and over again.

he is the king of compliments.

however, don't expect rose petals on the bed and stuff like that.

jack off (masturbation headcanon)

namgyu hasn't jacked off much since he met you.

why jack off when he has your good and wet pussy for him to have?

kink (one or more of their kinks)

temperature play. come on, he would LOVE using an ice cube to overstimulate you.

imagine he's eating your pussy while using the ice cube in his mouth to heighten the nerves in your body.

exhibitionism.

namgyu loves the idea of fucking you while being seen.

he wants everyone to know that he is the only person who knows your body.

orgasm control and edging.

he loves when you edge him, not giving him what he wants until he earns it.

namgyu loves delaying your orgasms too, punishing you if you cum without his permission.

location (favorite places to do the do)

namgyu loves the hallway outside of your apartment.

it is so close to privacy, yet so far.

one time, he bent you over the door outside of your apartment since the both of you were so impatient.

motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

you being fully naked.

mf can't even shower with you without wanting to have sex with you.

he has control, don't worry.

however, that rock-hard penis through his pants tells another tale.

no (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

no food and sex together

like none of that whip cream & fruit roll up on his dick type of stuff.

he just doesn't see the hype about it.

namgyu's closest definition of 'food' he will bring into the bedroom is an ice cube.

oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

60% giving, 40% receiving

he prefers when you ride his face.

namgyu loves pushing orgasms out of you with his tongue.

pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

slow, and rough.

he needs you to memorize all of him down to the vein.

quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

namgyu loves them.

he doesn't have much of an opinion on them.

the only thing he hates about quickies is the lack of foreplay.

risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

off the drugs, absolutely not.

on drugs, he can't see the consequences in risks.

stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

namgyu's stamina is peak when he is on drugs.

five rounds at the most.

off the drugs, he will go to three rounds before tapping out.

toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

namgyu loves that 'rose thing' you use on yourself.

(a rose toy lol)

he begged to let him use it on you when you first bought it.

it was the first time you might have squirted with him... maybe... if you wanted that to happen of course!

unfair (how much they like to tease)

namgyu is king at being unfair.

until it happens to him.

volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

namgyu WHIMPERS

nobody can't convince me otherwise.

he makes all the noises possible.

moans, groan, whimpers, whines.

once he cried when you were playing with his balls.

it felt that good to him.

wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

you and namgyu love hooking up somewhere where you shouldn't be.

for example, club pentagon.

it is a struggle to stay quiet even though loud music is blasting.

especially when people are so close by.

the thrill of getting caught gets namgyu so excited, he bites back his whimpers.

x-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

skinny boys got them long (according to science.)

six inches on hard.

he is a grower.

namgyu's body is slim, but he is stronger than he looks.

the bathroom fight scene in season two is proof.

yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

too high

especially on drugs.

sometimes he expects you to call off work just to have sex with him all day.

you did, but nobody's judging you!

zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

that mf is knocked out.

pussy put his ass to sleep!

masterlist

lol

[imstillalexcomic]

On Transgender Day of Visibility, I got a message from Fran (@crazygnomenclature of Tiff and Eve) who was over the moon having just learned that a comic artist she’s a fan of was trans.  The artist’s name didn’t come up at first, but when Fran said it was Dana Simpson, I was like, “Oh, DC Simpson, I know her!  She made Ozy and Millie.”

I hadn’t kept up with her work in recent years, but back in high school (graduated HS in 2006 for a frame of reference), Dana was a god to me.  Ozy and Millie was one of the webcomics in my usuals and I absolutely loved everything about it. 

There was one storyline in particular that really stays with me today, when their school puts on a play… but not just any play, they put on… “The Story of Caulk”.

I mean, first off, that’s absolutely hilarious and I still giggle when I think about it.  As an adult, I’ve caulked three bathtubs.  I like to think that being introduced to caulk as a teenager prepared me for sealant based home maintenance later in life. 

But that plotline also had some poignant messaging regarding gender and how kids interact with each other, and has massive value beyond its comedy.

And that’s kind of what Dana Simpson was for me back in high school.  I’m not sure that I can find what she said at the time (or if it even is still online at all anymore), but I recall reading something she said about her comics being a way to create conversations about more serious issues that are otherwise difficult to get started.  I believe she said that comics were a way to open a dialogue by slipping these issues “under the radar”.

Now, it’s been twenty years since then so I miiiiiiight be misattributing that, but I’m almost certain it was Dana who said it.

She got me thinking about a lot of things.  It would still be about four or five years until I started my first comic strip, Corpse Run, but her work was a major part of the reason why I wanted to be a comic artist.

When she came out as transgender, she got me thinking more.

I knew I was queer, I knew I was questioning my gender, I knew that being transgender was a thing… but until she came out, there was no one in my sphere of life in any capacity that actually was trans. 

Her coming out made me realize that this was a kind of self acceptance and love that I could practice.  It took another decade and a half to eventually begin my transition, but without Dana, I’m not sure I ever get to where I’m at now.

She had that big an impact on me, and I’m forever grateful.

As a note on the second panel in this comic, there are many more folks that I’ve met and befriended in these last few months, and in the event you aren’t shown in that panel, I don’t want anyone to think that I don’t know, love, and appreciate you all.  These are drawings that I already had on hand, PLEASE FORGIVE ME!!

Folks in the second panel:

@maddiee-line - @kaylasartwork - @bubbleverseart - @lynnsenpai - @lariumbreon - @pennymations - @deadeyedfae - @haarlow - @cholerascum - @welldrawnfish - @paintedbytosia @biblicallyaccuratemoth - @crazygnomenclature (represented by Tiff and Eve)

[fxrheisenn]

Andrus Laansalu talked about making Disco Elysium at EKA (Estonian Academy of Arts)

"Initially, the church wasn't a focal point. There were certain characters that needed to visit this location, and I asked, "Seriously, what do we have in our church?" The others replied, "Nothing at all. Our church is completely bare—just a wheel, really. It's quite basic."

That's when I decided to unleash my creativity in the design. For example, they chose to install a glass structure at the top of the church to create a reflective surface. It was like placing an optical clock up there. Therefore, one of the most crucial aspects of designing the church was ensuring the lighting was just right to create the desired atmosphere."

"Let me show you an example of Baroque architecture, which is rich in detail. We're also designing the interior of the church based on large cathedrals. However, the foundation you use might not yield the expected results, because the church itself doesn't require such intricate details. Sometimes, it's about simplifying the design."

"I used Articy for the initial scriptwriting of Disco Elysium. The image only represents a tiny fraction of the text and choice variables involved. This system was also the reason I eventually abandoned the project after a year of outlining the script and shifted my focus to becoming a sound designer. My mind struggled to keep up with the dynamic graphic rules, but fortunately, a more talented writer took over afterward."

"In terms of sound design, it's essential to develop different layers to bring out the charm of the church as a cohesive space. Although this represents only a small portion of the overall design, each layer actually requires a significant amount of time to compose the whole....... Whenever there's a shift or a change due to the dialogue itself, you need to adjust the background sounds. Each time you modify the details in the dialogue, I have to refine the background audio, ensuring that these elements build upon each other like an intricate layer of work."

"It's funny how many scenes involve characters getting smacked in the face. My job was to recreate those, so I locked myself in the bathroom with a recorder and hit my forehead until it turned red.

As a sound designer, I really dig those unsettling, drill-like sounds. So, I mixed in creepy lectures, metal scraping, moans, and cries of pain—because I just love that stuff! (laughs)

Players will be moving through all kinds of areas, so it's super important to make the sound transitions feel natural, trying to create a more immersive vibe in certain spaces.

With all the scenes featuring big cranes, you can hear them from far away, and I wanted to capture that eerie ringing in your ears. That's going to be a thing throughout most of the game. I've found ways to really mess with players while they're playing!"

"I've come across a lot of old objects (like phones and radios) that I needed to perfectly replicate the sounds. I started to become a bit of a hoarder, buying up different models of old phones whenever I found one to add to my collection. The sound effects I can simulate from them are really impressive."

"Some of the devices don't actually exist in real life—just a mix of architecture and tech. When I need to create sound effects, I first look for something similar that exists in our world, then I try to simulate what the sound and appearance of that thing might have been like a century ago.

Towards the end of the game, there's a character carrying a fuel canister. We needed the sound of the canister, so we dug one up from our garage—it had been sitting there since it was five! I realized this would make the sound perfect. So, it had been there for 50 years, and after 40 years, it finally found its purpose.

In some places, I needed unique sound waves, and recreating them was a real headache until one day I happened to walk by a swimming pool and stumbled upon an old wartime torpedo. You can rotate the torpedo's probe, and it slowly rises up, like a proud zombie head. The sounds it made were exactly what I needed!"

🙋How did you manage to get funding?

"Well, since we're in Estonia, you just need to know a wealthy person. You don't need five people—just two who can network, hang out together, and convince them to keep investing! (laughs) Back then, we constantly ran out of money and would tell them, 'Oops, looks like we spent it all! Can you invest a bit more?' That's how we made it through!"

🙋How did you all come together to make the game?

"Luck. It usually doesn't happen this way, and that's the key difference. It has to be. If not, you couldn't create a game of this scale - well, I mean in terms of budget. But creatively, Estonia definitely has writers and artists who can pull it off. With such a small population, there are a lot of quirky folks who are good friends. We were really lucky, though - lots of fortunate circumstances came together. It brought the right people together, allowing those talented fools to collaborate with us. They had experience but hadn't tackled projects of this magnitude before. So yeah, luck is pretty important!"

Lecture experience shared by 白兔YIYANG SUN on 小红书, reposted & translated by me with her permission.

[physalian]

How To Make Your Writing Less Stiff 5

Movement

Dredging this back up from way back.

Make sure your characters move, but not too much during heavy dialogue scenes. E.g. two characters sitting and talking—do humans just stare at each other with their arms lifeless and bodies utterly motionless during conversation? No? Then neither should your characters. Make them…

Gesture

Wave

Frown

Laugh

Cross their legs/their arms

Shift around to get comfortable

Pound the table

Roll their eyes

Point

Shrug

Touch their face/their hair

Wring their hands

Pick at their nails

Yawn

Stretch

Sniff/sniffle

Tap their fingers/drum

Bounce their feet

Doodle

Fiddle with buttons or jewelry

Scratch an itch

Touch their weapons/gadgets/phones

Check the time

Get up and sit back down

Move from chair to tabletop

The list goes on.

Bonus points if these are tics that serve to develop your character, like a nervous fiddler, or if one moves a lot and the other doesn’t—what does that say about the both of them? This is where “show don’t tell” really comes into play.

As in, you could say “he’s nervous” or you could show, “He fidgets, constantly glancing at the clock as sweat beads at his temples.”

This site is full of discourse on telling vs showing so I’ll leave it at that.

Epithets

In the Sci-fi WIP that shall never see the light of day, I had a flashback arc for one male character and his relationship with another male character. On top of that, the flashback character was a nameless narrator for Reasons.

Enter the problem: How would you keep track of two male characters, one who you can't name, and the other who does have a name, but you can’t oversaturate the narrative with it? I did a few things.

Nameless Narrator (written in 3rd person limited POV) was the only narrator for the flashback arc. I never switched to the boyfriend’s POV.

Boyfriend had only a couple epithets that could only apply to him, and halfway through their relationship, NN went from describing him as “the other prisoner” to “his cellmate” to “his partner” (which was also a double entendre). NN also switched from using BF’s full name to a nickname both in narration and dialogue.

BF had a title for NN that he used exclusively in dialogue, since BF couldn’t use his given name and NN hadn’t picked a new one for himself.

Every time the subject of the narrative switched, I started a new paragraph so “he” never described either character ambiguously mid-paragraph.

Is this an extreme example? Absolutely, but I pulled it off according to my betas.

The point of all this is this: Epithets shouldn’t just exist to substitute an overused name. Epithets de-personalize the subject if you use them incorrectly. If your narrator is thinking of their lover and describing that person without their name, then the trait they pick to focus on should be something equally important to them. In contrast, if you want to drive home how little a narrator thinks of somebody, using depersonalizing epithets helps sell that disrespect.

Fanfic tends to be the most egregious with soulless epithets like "the black-haired boy" that tell the reader absolutely nothing about how the narrator feels about that black-haired boy, espeically if they're doing so during a highly-emotional moment.

As in, NN and BF had one implied sex scene. Had I said “the other prisoner” that would have completely ruined the mood. He’s so much more than “the other prisoner” at that point in the story. “His partner,” since they were both a combat team and romantically involved, encompassed their entire relationship.

The epithet also changed depending on what mood or how hopeless NN saw their situation. He’d wax and wane over how close he believed them to be for Reasons. NN was a very reserved character who kept BF at a distance, afraid to go “all in” because he knew there was a high chance of BF not surviving this campaign. So NN never used “his lover”.

All to say, epithets carried the subtext of that flashback arc, when I had a character who would not talk about his feelings. I could show you the progression of their relationship through how the epithets changed.

I could show you whenever NN was being a big fat liar about his feelings when he said he's not in love, but his narration gave him away. I could show you the exact moment their relationship shifted from comrades to something more when NN switched mid-paragraph from "his cellmate" to "his partner" and when he took up BF's nickame exclusively in the same scene.

I do the same thing in Eternal Night when Elias, my protagonist, stops referring to Dorian as "it" and "the vampire" instead of his name the moment they collide with a much more dangerous vampire, so jarringly that Elias notices in his own narration—the point of it being so explicit is that this degredation isn't automatic, it's something he has to conciously do, when everyone else in his clan wouldn't think twice about dehumanizing them.

—

Any literary device should be used with intent if you want those layers in your work. The curtains are rarely just blue. Whether it’s a simile with a deliberate comparison or an epithet with deliberate connotations, your readers will pick up on the subtext, I promise.

[kyri45]

A final letter

Hello Everyone!

The queue is paused and everything is scheduled, which means we are ready for the finale!

I know that, in the end, this was just a silly side project for me, with everything else going on in my life. But for this occasion, I wanted to drop some words here and hope they make sense.

I started watching LMK only because a friend told me there was a "Sonadow-coded" ship. I ended up consuming the entire thing in one sitting on July 10th, 2024. At the time, I was still recovering from a bike accident that had left me with a broken right forearm—unable to draw for a little over a month. (I did try drawing with my left finger, but it wasn't exactly fun.)

Not only that, but it was summer, and I couldn’t enjoy the season or practice my main sport, windsurfing. To say I was feeling the blues is an understatement. I remember being in physical pain just from not being able to draw my sillies. But then, watching LMK did something to my brain chemistry that my little undiagnosed autistic self had never experienced before. It hit so hard that I’ve been physically unable to rewatch the show SINCE that very first day. (And y’all still call me the CEO of this fandom. Bro, I just work here.)

A lot of you have asked what inspired me to start this comic or to draw LMK fan art in the first place. While my usual answer is, "I saw Shadowpeach and thought MK could be their lovechild, given his appearance," the moment that actually started it all was THIS ONE—

(I HAD TO REWATCH THIS SCENE TO MAKE THE GIF AND IT HURT ME ON A MOLECOLAR LEVEL)

I have… a thing for characters who discover their entire identity was something else all along. It consumes my thoughts, my dreams, my every waking moment. I live for identity crises, for characters who thought they knew who they were, only to be forced to rediscover themselves, their existence, and their place in the world. If you give me a story where a character has to go through that, I will like it—regardless of how bad the rest of the story is.

Pair that with loads of trauma, daddy issues, the pressure of a legacy, and world-ending stakes, and congrats! Now I’m obsessed, and I will not stop thinking about it for the rest of my days!

At first, my brain just wanted to release some of that energy with a small, four-panel post about the monkeys discovering that MK was technically their kid.

That was supposed to be it.

But since I never seem to learn my lesson, it didn’t stay like that. Because once I started drawing, I just... continued.

And

I

never

stopped.

A lot of you have also asked how I found the motivation to draw so much, to never take a break. Well, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it one last time: I am my number one fan. No matter how much you laughed, cried, screamed, or went feral over this story, I did all of that and more. Because I got to think about the chapters months before they released. I got to daydream about them. I got to watch them come to life—first through sketches, then line art, then dialogue. And finally, I got to witness your reactions and see the incredible creations you made, inspired by my story.

So yeah, in a way, it was almost an addiction. A good addiction. Because, for the first time in my life, I actually understood what loving art means.

I’ve been drawing for ten years, working professionally for five, but I never loved art before. I just liked it because I happened to be good at it. But creating this comic made me understand why artists say, "Oh, I’ve loved drawing since I was a child!" This was the first time I allowed myself to create purely for my own enjoyment. Something I hadn’t had the privilege to do for a long time.

Other than making me feel even more single than I already was, this story somehow also helped me a little with my own family relationships. So yeah. Crazy how the gay monkeys changed my life.

Of course, I never could have predicted how much traction my AU would gain. Man, y’all were really starving to latch onto something this silly. /j

But yeah—thank you. Thank you for sticking around until the end, for having the patience and trust to follow the story even when I made you rage with angst and cliffhangers. (The statement in my bio still stands: I am not responsible for any physical or emotional damage my art has caused.)

I’m absolutely shit at thanking people, or at writing, or at talking in general, honestly. I’m the furthest thing from being good with words, so I hope the final chapter will be enough to show you my gratitude.

Through this story, I met so many wonderful, talented people. I watched as fans across different platforms found each other through memes and fanart of the AU. I saw artists start their own AUs inspired by mine, growing their own communities. I witnessed an explosion of creativity and collaboration through our takeovers. And I laughed along with you all.

And yeah—at its core, this story has always been about love. Whether it’s platonic, sibling, parental, romantic, or whatever the hell Mac and Wukong had going on for millennia.

At its heart, it’s a story about family.

And maybe, in the end… the real family wasn’t just the one in the comic, but the one we’ve found together along the way. 💛

See you all at the finale.

Love you all, freaks /affectionate

Jade